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atlaswav · 4 months ago

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CATACLYSMIC ☾

INFO: 5252 words..... dr ratio x fem! reader SYNOPSIS: You hate him, of that you're certain. You hate the man behind the alabaster figurehead, and you want to see him unravelled, but you don't know exactly what you do to him. WARNINGS: um alcohol and one kiss. also some swearing but mostly fine AUTHOR'S NOTE: rising from the grave to bring to you this thing i found this in my drafts from who knows how long when I was obsessed with this man (still am). someone help. i can no longer write this much for one fic. what was i on.

Veritas Ratio made it no secret that he despised those who lived in ignorance. He openly shunned those who were stupid enough to turn their eyes from knowledge – they’d be beggars in due time. They didn’t know how the world was governed, and ignorant fools would play victim to fate’s cruel touch.

With this philosophy of his, you often wondered whether or not his ivory figurehead would soon burst with the tumultuous storm of the man’s self importance. You wondered what would lie underneath. Surely, the divine makers would’ve allowed balance in his creation – surely, his face was horribly disfigured in exchange for such otherworldly intelligence.

He was both delightfully astute and horrendously ill mannered at once. Brighter than your entire class combined – your entire university combined, no doubt – but his pretentiousness was overflowing, and you believed he was in dire need of being put in his place.

Arrogant and pretentious were two of the words that came to mind when someone mentioned Dr. Ratio, and you were sure you weren’t the only one who refused to worship his word like the gospel. In turn, he seemed to despise your very existence, as if you were merely a faded annotation in the footnotes of an ancient epic. Vandalising a work of art. A moustache on the Mona Lisa. Circe in the Odyssey, if she’d welcomed sailors with open arms, allowing them to degrade her as they would a common concubine, not a descendant of the gods.

Yet instead of sharing the witch’s beguiling, seductive nature, you only shared her mortal voice. Thin, reedy, quiet, compared to the booming voices of gods. The voice of Veritas Ratio. Your achievements could only pale in comparison to his, and it took everything within you to clap politely as he received his third – fourth? (you weren’t intent on keeping track) – diploma.

God you hated that man. You’d muttered as much under your breath countless times.

“Dr. Ratio is fine. No need to worship me.” he’d once corrected. But the attempt at humour was lost on you as your classmates began to laugh. The divine makers likely brought him into existence just to spite you. Oftentimes, you fought your urges to hurl the nearest textbook at his caricature head and watch the plaster crack, fall to the floor, and reveal his disfigured face.

Not that you’d seen it before – lingered around him enough to see it disappear.

His scorn held no favourites, and certainly not when it came to you. He’d openly dragged your work through the dirt a couple of times before, and it was only a matter of time before he did it again. His words were scalding, leaving burns across your thin skin and leaving your mouth tasting of ash. Your voice, faint and human, fell quiet at his ‘gospel’.

If it weren’t obvious, the hatred was mutual. He’d never admit it outright – he was far beyond these meaningless, trivial things such as immature hatred – but you felt his scathing glare in your soul, even through that perturbing headpiece, and that was enough.

“Have you found it?”

You turn around, meeting the cold, blank, unseeing gaze of his caricature head behind you. It was disconcerting to say the very least, but no one else had asked him about it, so you never pushed him further. None wanted to invoke his wrath, no matter what circumstance. It was a miracle neither of you had exploded at each other yet, but you suspected that he’d gladly put aside any type of loathing he harboured for you so that this project would get done faster.

You were happy to oblige as he took the lead. A free credit was a free credit. But you did have your limits.

“Nope. The text is ancient. I doubt this library has it.”

“Nonsense.” he clicked his tongue, glancing to the side. “I’m asking the professor. Go work on your part.”

Patience is a virtue, as you keep reminding yourself.

“Sure. Let me know if you find anything.” you say instead of the retort that sits on your tongue. False niceties and biting, underhanded remarks. This charade was entertaining, at the very least.

How did everyone love him? There had to be people like you who shared your dislike towards that conceited scholar. With a long suffering groan, you took a seat at one of the plethora of tables in the university’s library, clicked your pen and began to write.

Maybe the reason he despised you so was because of your ideas, arguably the opposite of his own way of thinking. Where his twisted logic, rearranged rationality and pulled apart natural reasoning to formulate new material, you cut and stitched the work of others together to create your own emulations. (Frankenstein's monster. Was that a cliche? For Ratio, it probably was.)

He’d likely scrap what you’d written as soon as he returned, but that didn’t stop you from trying to spite him anyway. You hoped your readings wouldn’t go to waste as you recorded your findings, then started to draft an outline for your project.

The scratch of paper became white nose, your hand struggling to keep up with the pace of your mind – was it even worth it? He’d likely call it worthless, snatch it from you and throw it into the recycling bin, then start writing his own outline. It only angered you further as you frowned at the page, wondering how he’d approach the project.

The thump of a heavy tome on the wooden desk snapped you out of your sombre thoughts.

“Here.” Ratio took a seat at the chair opposite of yours, brushing the dust off the thick text, leafing through its yellowed pages. “I told you they’d have it. You just need to search better.”

You offer him a tight smile. “Noted.” More false niceties, more flat remarks.

Then the figurehead disappears in a blink, and you nearly drop your pen. He barely pays you any mind as he runs a hand through his hair, flipping through the text. You’d heard the rumours of the handsome face beneath the statue, but you’d never have imagined him to be so disgustingly perfect.

Statuesque.

His deep violet locks looked unbelievably soft. His crimson eyes showed laser focus as he scanned the text in front of him, ignoring you completely as he noted something down. After a brief silence where you skim over your outline and he presumably attempts to decipher the undeniably unreadable and ancient text which you were opposed to reading in the first place, he turns to you with a sigh. “What did you do while I was gone?”

“I wrote an outline.” you hand the papers to him begrudgingly, fidgeting with the pen in your hand. You don’t meet his gaze, afraid that his calculating gaze might see too far into your soul.

“This?” his distaste seeps through his tone. You don’t need to look at his face to know that he’s frowning.

You say nothing as he skims through your work, twirling your pen between your fingers.

“...It’s not the worst thing I've ever read.”

Your eyebrows shoot up.

“It’s not good, either.”

You scowl at him.

“I can salvage it.” he nonchalantly throws it back onto the table, returning to the text at hand.

You want to shove his grotesquely perfect face into the book. He really was put on this earth to spite you.

“Don’t just sit there. Go look for texts on criticism of our stance.”

You don’t know how you’re going to find the patience to survive this project. If anything, it irked you further to find that there wasn’t some monstrosity hidden behind that figurehead. In everything he did, he seemed to be inventing new ways to get on your nerves. However, unbeknownst to you, Veritas Ratio held you higher than you gave yourself credit for. He believed your ideas to be invigorating. Refreshing, almost. A welcome reprieve from the same reiterated, chewed, swallowed and regurgitated approaches that your other classmates had.

You weren’t like the rest of the mindless, studying machines at the university. You could be brilliant, and it annoyed him that you didn’t know this. He’d admitted as much to himself before, but he’d never tell you. But it was still not good enough for his standards – far better than what the imbeciles in your class could’ve come up with – but still far behind him. Or so he kept telling himself.

Days passed by without a word from either of you. You were content to write your part in the solitude of your dorm, and he seemed perfectly content mulling over whatever he’d found in that indecipherable ancient text. By the time you’d nearly finished your part, he decided to meet with you once again to share your findings.

His definition of deciding to meet with you meant simply cornering you after class and asking you to follow him.

You started to protest, but he’d already turned and briskly walked out of the classroom, so you groaned and followed after him, winding up in the library again. This time, in a secluded corner with the late afternoon sun pouring through the window, illuminating the small table and workspace with a warm glow.

You wondered how he wasn’t winded after trekking across the entire campus. You certainly were. His muscled build suggested that a mere leisurely walk couldn’t possibly have tired him out. What did he eat? Was he what Nietzsche had in mind when he wrote of the Superman?

“What are you doing? Sit.” he gestures to the seat across from him, and you sink into the armchair, taking out your papers. His headpiece disappears once again, and your breath catches in your throat.

His hair cast a faint shadow across his face, and his eyes seemed to glow. As you leaned in closer, you realised there was a thin ring of gold around his pupils.

“Are you done with your part?” he demands, breaking you out of your trance.

You silently hand over your drafts, watching his eyes flit across your paper. His eyebrows furrow slightly, eyes narrowing, but he remains quiet. Were his eyelashes always this long? They created an indistinct shadow on his cheeks. His skin was pale, fair. Not the sickly kind of pale you thought he’d be. Did he exercise? You wouldn’t be surprised, with all your classmates always fawning over his broad, strong chest and narrower waist.

Was it your imagination, or were his cheeks slightly flushed? It might have been the light.

“It’s deplorable.”

Your heart sinks in your chest as you sit back against the armchair.

“Your ideas are rudimentary. Have you been reading at all?” he sighs, holding his head in his hand. “No matter. I can fix it. I don’t need you to do anything anymore. You can go.”

You stay seated in shock, unable to move. You’ve heard the anecdotes of people crying over being scolded by him, but was he always this harsh?

“You know it’s a group project, right?” you begin before your better judgement can decide against it, “My work is just as important as yours, it doesn’t matter if you think my work is ‘deplorable’. I’m in the same class, I take the same course, I learn the same things as you do, you don’t get to look down on me no matter how stupidly smart you are.”

He raises an eyebrow, unamused. “Why not?”

“Take that stick out of your ass, Veritas Ratio. Get off your high horse.” you snatch your papers out of his hands and take your leave, ignoring his calls of your name.

Were you dramatic? Yes, but not without reason. Given Ratio’s reputation for prioritising academics over everything else, you suspected that it wouldn’t take long for him to find you, either.

You were so wrong.

More days passed with no contact. He didn’t seem to be affected by your dramatics, and never once batted an eye in your direction unless necessary. It seemed your hypothesis of him inventing new ways to get on your nerves was on the track of being proved correct. But if you didn’t do something within the next few days, you trusted him to turn in the project without your name on the paper, resulting in a zero.

He was just as stubborn as you, and though you were nothing compared to him in actuality, you were so close to grabbing his face and forcing him to look at you for who you were.

Seemingly, even in the battle of wits, he seemed to emerge victorious.

“Ratio.”

He barely glances up, engrossed in his writing. “What?”

“Are you done with the project?” Biting the bullet stings your teeth and left a bitter taste on your tongue.

“No. Not yet. Why? You’re finally going to help?”

“Are you going to stop looking down at me?”

The library is nearly empty. The sun is barely a sliver on the horizon, and the voices of students float down the corridor beyond the grand stacks of books, yet you’re here. Why do you bother? Are you really that desperate for his validation?

“Are you going to keep writing such reprehensible work?”

You glare at him. “Guess not.” you turn on your heel.

“You’re absolutely infuriating.” he sighs, leaning back in the armchair. “You’re not aware of what you can do, are you?”

You glare at him. Your chest stings.

He looks at you, then. Truly. His complexion relaxes, and he rubs his temples. “Sit. Let’s go through your part.”

“Why?”

“I mulled it over. Your part is brilliant.”

Your eyes widen.

“But your expression and research is appalling. Have you learned how to write academically at all?”

You’d never simultaneously wanted to slap and kiss a man at once until today. “What happened to getting off your high horse?”

“I got off it. Now sit and listen, I won’t repeat myself.”

You supposed that was the closest to an apology he’d ever give you, so you sat. It pained you, but you did. Besides, he had called you brilliant – your part – but still, you couldn’t force the smile from your face as you listened to his instruction.

“Your ideas in your introduction are well formed, but from there, it all goes downhill. You have to reorder your logic for it to make sense, and we will be deducted points if you don’t elaborate on the principles of your concept first.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “So how would you do it?”

“For one, I’d restart completely and get straight to the point.”

You sigh exasperatedly. “Show me, then, if you’re so good.”

His eyes narrow at you, but he says nothing as he motions for you to come closer.

The librarian was likely too scared to kick either of you out after closing time. Your arguments were heard by all of your neighbouring desks, and whenever there was a break in conversation, it seemed as if everyone held their breath. There was pin drop silence except for the two of you – but neither of you realised it.

He was blunt, and had no idea what you were thinking, but perhaps this is what entrapped him.

You, on the other hand, couldn’t stop thinking about how he had called your ideas brilliant.

You quickly learn how good of a teacher he is. Maybe it’s his forced patience or once-in-a-millenium genuine praise that spurs your decision, but you find yourself so willing to prove yourself, and he finds himself willing to help.

Maybe this wasn’t so bad.

“Just fix it, stop arguing with me. I’m right.”

“Why? Do you know every single thing about our topic?”

“No, but I have four degrees and more experience than you.”

“Jackass.”

“Change it.”

You grumbled another insult under your breath, yawning as you scribbled out the section you wrote and began to reword your thoughts. The sudden quietude was jarring, and as you looked around, you realised the overhead lights were off, the only source of light from the lamps illuminating the desks.

“Is everyone gone?” you ask, sitting up straight and stretching.

“Who cares? Finish up, then we can head back.”

“Fuck you, give me a break. I don’t write at the pace of a robot.”

“Then learn.”

“Fuck you too Veritas Ratio.”

“Expand your vocabulary while you’re at it.”

“Why are you so intent on irritating me?”

“You get irritated easily. Not my problem.”

“If you know I get irritated easily, why do you keep provoking me then? Do you want me to hate you more?”

He seems to pause. Minisculely, almost unnoticeable had your gaze not been trained on him for the past few hours. He had a habit of pausing and furrowing his brows when you said something slightly out of line.

“Just finish the paper. You talk too much.”

You sigh and get back to work as he leafs through his own research.

Amicable silence passes. The night is alive outside, gleaming and glistening with the touch of benevolent gods and whispers of long gone wishes – pearls stitched by fate’s knowing hands.

“I’m done.”

“Show me.”

You pass the paper to him as you watch his expression carefully.

Crimson eyes flit across your work, gold ringed irises flickering in the scarce light. If you could capture the way the light reflected in his eyes in a jar, you think wishfully that you’d stare at it forever; Until the light died out, or it decided to escape the ephemeral glass confines.

But you’d never admit it out loud. It was wishful. If Veritas Ratio could read minds, he would undoubtedly reprimand you.

He clears his throat, and you snap to attention, swatting away your fantasies of stealing and bottling evasive light.

“It’s good.”

You wait for him to speak further, but he says nothing. “Just good?”

“Well, by my standards, no, but for you, it’s good.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“I mean,” he leans on the table, forearms flexing. “That you’re finally starting to live up to your potential.”

“Huh?”

He blinks. “What do you mean?”

“What potential?”

He shakes his head absently, almost in disbelief. Forget light, you’d barter with the lady of fate to let you preserve this moment in a frame so that you could glimpse this expression forever. You’d never seen him so dumbfounded and awed at once – you doubt anyone ever has. He’d always been a man of knowing, and whatever he didn’t know, he would find out. Nothing was ever a “maybe,” or a “probably,” it was always absolute. It had to be absolute in his philosophy.

You happened to be the one exception.

“You’re not aware of the potential you have?”

“You think I have potential?”

“Aeons,” he murmurs under his breath, before standing and gathering his belongings. “I’m going to bed. See you in class tomorrow. We’ll finish up then.”

He leaves before you have the chance to question him, but as you slump back in your armchair, you can’t help but smile.

Potential was as close as you’d ever get to a compliment from Veritas.

—

The lady of fortune and lady Themis looked him in the eyes and saw their mortal emanator at his birth. He’d never been certain what he was made for, but he never let it burden him. Things like these weren’t made for him to ponder, that was up to the dreamers and inventors.

He was a being of logic. A doctor of calculations and reason, and everyone knew him as such.

But he simply couldn’t figure out what it was about you – your naive gaze or that pout that absently curved your lips – that had your words and scent and eyes lingering in his mind like a vengeful phantom.

You were the being of all chaos and irrationality, but you were so bright. Unhoned, rough and unhewn. A gemstone shining with impurities but shining still, casting a beautiful mosaic cast across the ground with indecipherable shapes and patterns.

It was deplorable. He hated you for being on his mind, and hated you even more for your wasted potential. He hated how you stared, how his cheeks would redden from the intensity of your gaze, and how he’d have to pretend he was unfazed, because he couldn’t afford any distractions.

You were the being of his undoing, he was sure. You were brought into existence to spite him, to bring an unaccounted variable into the equation of his being, and present a causality dilemma for all he was.

He wanted you gone, but he wanted you closer all at once.

He hated it.

It wasn’t common for him to sleep in either, so when he woke five minutes before class was supposed to start, he cursed you with all the spite in his heart and rushed to class, clutching papers from the night before, still imbued with traces of your lingering fragrance. Just how long had you pored over those papers for your smell to latch to them? It should be impossible. Fate was clearly against him.

Fate brought you back together as he entered the brimming lecture hall, and the only vacant seat was the one next to you.

“Did you get the papers in order?” you asked, glancing at his dishevelled state. The Dr Ratio you knew was never dishevelled, but this was the closest you’d ever seen him to it.

“Yes. Just write your name on your bits and sign the sign off sheet and it’s complete.”

You take the paper from him, scrawling your name across your work, then handing it back.

With your project finally submitted, you could breathe easy again – never endure his biting remarks and criticism again.

But as the class progressed, you realised you were in trouble.

The professor was merciless. He flicked through the presentation on the new topic with haste, rushing through new concepts, formulae and calculations with record speeds. You’d nudged Ratio, whispering for help, but he rolled his eyes and kept his stare attentively on the presentation.

You wanted to slap him.

Was he tolerating you because of the project? Was he going back to cold stares and dismissive glances?

You wouldn’t allow it. Not when you were so close to discovering the man behind the alabaster figurehead. As soon as the professor signalled the end of the lecture, a collective sigh was released from the class.

You turned to Ratio, and he was already staring at you.

“What was it you wanted to say?”

“Tutor me please.”

He raised a brow. “Why?”

“Because you’re smart.”

“Pick someone else, then. I don’t see why I should.”

“You asshole, I’ll buy you lunch if you tutor me.”

He frowns at you as he begins to leave. You trail after him. “Please?”

He sighs deeply. Like a man burdened with the weight of his own world on his shoulders. Byron’s brooding, romantic hero, in his melodramatic glory. “Fine. Stop annoying me.”

You smile. “Thanks. Meet you at your dorm after dinner?”

He sighs again. “ Don’t be late or I'll lock the door and go to bed.”

He watched the seconds tick by in agonising motion – a man awaiting his sentence, but also his reprieve. Is this what his classmates felt before they took tests? It certainly seemed like it. Relief was on the horizon, and yet great suffering was imminent. He’d never known the feeling until now.

But as they say, the harder the rain, the sweeter the sun, and he wasn’t about to relinquish his quest to decipher you.

It seemed mutual as he paced in front of his front door, having eaten dinner at the cafeteria early to mentally prepare himself.

When your knock finally sounded at his door, he sighed, checked his watch, then reluctantly opened the door.

You were a picture to behold.

Hair slightly damp from a shower, drowning in loose, oversized clothing. It was all painfully domestic to see you walk through his doorway, scanning his living space. In the back of his mind, he thought it felt right, but he shook his head.

You were messing with him again.

Two could play that game.

“Take a seat.” He pulled out a stool from his kitchen island. “Want a drink?”

“What, like alcohol?” you huffed.

“Are you an alcoholic?”

“Only if you want me to be.” you shrug, setting down your notes on the bench.

He sighs exasperatedly, already berating himself for agreeing to this. He never agreed to tutor anyone. Why were you the exception? You shouldn’t be.

His hypothesis: you were trying to get something out of him. A way to cheat the class, his academic favour, something hedonistic, even. It seemed plausible enough, but you listened intently as he explained the concepts the professor spoke of in the lecture, asking questions and actively engaging with his explanation.

It didn’t seem like there was any ulterior motive. So why was he letting you break his rules and defy his nature?

“God, why didn't the prof explain it during that lesson? Everyone struggled.”

“You’re not smart enough to understand his concise methods, then.” he huffed.

“You’re too smart.”

“You’re not smart enough.”

“Smart ass,”

“Get back to work. You did that question wrong, by the way.”

You groaned. “Where?”

He was so caught up in your quarrels that he didn’t notice the time grinding away at the pestle. It was nearly midnight when you’d finally caught up with that day’s classwork, and he sighed in relief.

“You understand?”

“Yes. You don’t have to worry now.”

“I won’t. Now get out.”

“No drink?” you frowned, pretending to sulk at his expense. He simply stared at you, getting up from his stool and walking to the fridge.

Remarkably, he pulled out two beers.

“Don’t speak. If you do, I'll regret allowing you over again.”

A smile befell your lips. “I’m not saying anything.”

“I don’t like the look on your face.”

“Wipe it off then.”

A frown. His new hypothesis: you were trying to seduce him for better grades, more tutoring sessions, or for his own downfall.

“Drink and leave.”

“If you say so.” you take the chilled bottle and drink. He watches your throat move, and he thinks of himself as pathetic as he drinks as well, wincing at the bitterness.

“Do you live by yourself?” you ask, head propped onto your hand.

“I do.”

“Are you lonely or something?”

“No, people are irritating.” Like you.

“What a ray of sunshine you are.” You’re not much better.

“I don’t have to put up with any idiocy.”

“If you say so.”

Quiet passes as beer fizzes in the bottles, golden liquid sloshing at the sides of the glass.

One thing you learn that night is that Veritas Ratio, the famed multiple time valedictorian of your university, is an extreme lightweight. His cheeks become red quicker than you can finish your bottle, and he starts to grumble nonsense under his breath.

“You’re really smart, you know?” he suddenly says after mumbling something about quantum physics.

“What was that?”

“You’re really smart. Really smart. Impressive.”

“Really?”

“Yes, you idiot, how many times do I have to repeat myself?” he leans on the bench, not entirely aware of his surroundings as he does so. He squints at the ground.

He’s a cute drunk, you realise begrudgingly.

“Thanks, Veritas. You’re smart too.”

“I know.” he drinks from his bottle again, swirling the dregs. “But I can’t figure you out.”

“Hm?”

“Why are you acting like this?”

“Like what?”

“Do you hate me?”

You hesitate for a moment. “Yes.”

“Then why are you like this?”

Your eyebrows raise.

“You’re making me irrational. I can’t figure it out.”

“...Sorry?”

“You should be. You know, I was nearly late to class today because of you. You kept me awake.”

“Really?”

“I couldn’t stop thinking. Thoughts. And things.”

You laugh at his predicament, draining your beer and gathering your things. Trying to leave before he said anything that could turn the encounter south.

“Wait. Don’t go.” he slams his palm onto your notes, determination in his eyes.

“I need to go to bed.” you say as if scolding a child.

“I need to figure you out. You’re still an enigma to me. The anomaly of my behaviour. Is this your intention?”

“What are you talking about? You’re drunk.”

“I can think. I can move. I can see fine. I’m not drunk. Answer me.”

“Maybe I'm just so mesmerising to you.” you joke, but his brows furrowed in thought.

“Maybe.” he retracts his hand from your notes, and you stow them away into your bag, slinging it onto your shoulder before he can do anything else.

As you’re halfway to the door, he pushes you against the wall.

You never realised how tall he was until then. How much of a height difference you had, or how muscular he was. He had to have worked out on a daily basis. The pungent smell of alcohol lingered on his breath, and his cheeks were tainted with deep red as he searched your gaze.

You decide he’s officially lost his mind, but who were you to complain?

“Are you mesmerising?” he whispers, eyes trailing down your face, examining and analysing, his hand tracing down your body with those slender scholar’s hands.

“You tell me.”

Then he grabs your face and mashes your lips together. The kiss is rough, biting and rushed. You freeze for a sliver of a second before returning it, letting him decide your allure with his own devices.

He pulls away almost too fast, lips kiss bitten, breath fast.

“You’re a siren.”

“Am I?”

“You’re going to ruin me.”

“What a weak man you are, if it only takes one woman to ruin you.”

“I hate you.”

“Really?”

“I hate it because I’d probably let you.”

“Are you a masochist?”

“Not in my right mind. I’ll wake up and regret everything, but it’ll all be the same, fundamentally.”

“So what’s your conclusion?”

He still has you pushed against the wall, caged within himself. “You were put into this world to bring about my destruction.”

“How? Why?”

“You’re my opposite. Brash, naive, carefree.”

“Are you normally this analytical of people?”

“No, which supports my point.”

“I see. So you’re going to let me ruin your image?”

“No. I hate you for it.”

“Let me go then.”

He wordlessly steps away, and you stumble to the door.

“So what are we?” you ask, turned away from him. You can’t see the way he drinks in your visage like a starving man, and the small, sober part of him is grateful for it.

“Polar opposites.”

“I mean who am I to you?”

He’s silent for a while, so you turn back to him to find him leaning on the wall, gazing into space.

“Veritas?”

“You’re my undoing. A catalyst, maybe, for my downfall. But there must be balance, right? So what are you?”

“What am I?”

“I don’t know.”

You knew then that he was beyond reason. Was this what you did to him? You took some sadistic pride in seeing a man such as himself reduced to a mumbling, questioning, incoherent mess. You were somewhat pleased with the effect you had on him., but you could never let him know this.

He crumpled to the floor, back to the wall, clutching his head in his hands. “I’ll figure you out.”

“Sure you will. Goodnight, Veritas.”

“Night.”

Your smile was brighter than the morning as you left his apartment, embracing the night’s welcoming chill.

written by @atlaswav , published 15th of July 2024

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knavesflames · 2 months ago

Note

hi el :) imagine arle getting frustrated w reader and grabs her by the throat, harder than she intended to, but then reader enjoys it

mhm I think that could be fun

something something hands something something fingering

Yeah gotta be about the hands I just know you love hands so much

Hello >:) I do love her hands you’re so correct about that. I spent today writing this and at some point I just brain rotted completely and zoned out for a bit but!! Here you go. If she doesn’t do this to me, I will burn the world down <3 /j feel free to have an emoji if you’d like✨

Word count: 2119

Content: reader likes fingers, bratty reader, fem!reader, fingering, asphyxiation (consensual obviously), fingers in mouth, hand over mouth.. you know.

A/N: I tried without using the red colour for Arlecchino. I used it only so I could differentiate between reader and her, but I’m unsure if you guys enjoy it or not. Let me know<3

Nsft utc!

Her hands were the first thing that drew you to her, if you’re honest with yourself. You remember hearing the way her nails drummed against the surface of the counter as she waited for her coffee (double espresso. That’s it. Nothing else). The sound annoyed you, and you remember the way your eyes scanned for the perpetrator so you could politely ask them to stop. You never said anything.

Your eyes had locked onto her hands and you were admiring scrutinising each centimetre of skin. Blackened, though they were, they were slender, and her fingers were long. Even without the nails that looked like they’d scratch out an eye with ease, they were elegant, fitting for a woman of her stature.

Now of course, Arlecchino was no fool. She was plenty aware of what you were staring at, no matter how much you were trying to hide it. She found it endearing, really. How quickly you focused on them, how your breathing got just a little deeper. She liked it, and she liked you. Not just because of this, of course, she’d had her eye on you for a while, but the fact you’d made it clear that you liked her too.. A woman like her gets what she wants, especially when what she wants, wants her.

A relationship quickly formed. It seemed you both fit together quite nicely, despite her cold, closed off nature. It was quite a sweet relationship, apart from the fact that you could be a total brat when she needs it the least. How many punishments would she have to give before you learned? Or, perhaps, you quite liked them. Especially when she used her hands and her fingers.

From the way you watched her fist the base of her favourite strap, to the way you mewled when her fingers curled inside of you, you were both very very much aware of the fact that it was her hands that were the thing that got you off more than anything else. You were both very very much aware that she used that to her advantage.

One day, she was lucky enough to work from home. A rare occurrence, but one she treasures. She does not have to don the suit she wears in public, she can give her feet a much needed rest from the stilettos she refuses to leave the house without. Instead, her outfit is.. almost casual. It’s a nice change, you think. She looks like husband material. You’d never say that. Instead, you decide today is the perfect time to annoy her until you get what you want! Of course you do, you’re just a little slut for her and her hands :(

Your arm snakes over her chest as you stand behind her, your words drawn out and pleading. “Peruere,” you whine, “take a break.”

“I cannot. You know this.” Comes the firm reply. You know this, but you can’t bring yourself to care. It makes you more determined, though. Arlecchino should have known. Your fingers fumble with the buttons of her loose shirt, and your lips kiss the shell of her ear. Arlecchino sighs, her eyes raising from the paper that sits on her desk. Her hand gently slaps your own away, and her voice comes out just a little sharper.

“No. Not right now. Do not be a brat.” It’s a warning, a warning you don’t listen to. “Peruere, I’m wearing the set you like.” Her jaw feathers at that. She’s unsure if it’s the image you’ve set in her mind or the way you say her name, her real name. It’s her weakness, but currently, you’re frustrating her. Beyond belief. And the second you moan into her ear, a fake, airy moan, she loses any control she had.

She spins her chair around, stands up, and pushes you against the nearest wall. Her hands wrap around your throat, and she does not squeeze, but she could. She has. You pretend you don’t like it, but she knows, from experience, the way that your underwear is practically unwearable after thirty seconds. You get so wet for her and she loves it. Her fingers twitch and her thumb strokes your windpipe, just to see the reaction it elicits from you.

“Do you enjoy breathing?” She murmurs, her voice low and soft, a contrast to the way she just slammed you against the wall. When you only smile widely in response, her grip tightens, just enough for you to lose your breath. “Not so much, then.” Arlecchino has a tendency to muse to herself when she renders you incapable of speaking. She does it purely to mock you, to remind you of the fact that she is the one in control, no matter how bratty you can get. When you attempt to reply, and the only thing you can manage is a strangled whisper of her name, full of want, she tightens until your breath stops. She waits, timing the seconds in her head until she knows your vision blurs just a little before her grip relents.

She watches as you gasp for breath and moan at the rush of oxygen, your eyes glassy. (She wouldn’t do it if you didn’t like it, but she vividly remembers the time you asked for it. You tap thrice if it’s too much). “Not so talkative now, are you?”

When you catch your breath enough to speak, she realises your few seconds of breathlessness was not enough. “Perhaps I don’t want to talk.” Your smirk is infuriating, infuriating enough that she scoffs.

“Wanted my full attention, did you?” (Sorry I couldn’t help myself putting her voiceline in there). You shrug, pretending like you really don’t care at all, but when her hand travels down from your throat, nails grazing your perked up nipple that begs to be freed from the restraints of your bra, she knows that your words are complete bullshit.

“You’re a liar. I dislike liars. I can only assume you’re dripping for me, like you usually are.” Arlecchino hisses. She’s annoyed, you can tell that much, because she knows the work she was supposed to do today is forgotten. It always is when you act like this. Her hand leaves your nipple, trailing down your stomach until her nails dip into the waistband of your underwear. You’re lucky enough that she’s filed three of them, just for the days she decides that she doesn’t want you to clench around her strap, but instead, she wants to feel the way her fingers pull orgasm after orgasm out of you until you can’t form any words.

When her digits graze your folds and she feels how wet you are without even properly sliding her fingers into your slit, she huffs, her words full of arrogance. “You’re fucking soaked. Over some choking? You’re a good little slut aren’t you?”

You’re already melting at her words alone. The tone of her voice, the way she says such dirty words so softly. It almost makes you think she’ll give you mercy. She will not, not now. She notes the way your breathing, now that you’ve caught your breath, has sped in anticipation. Her digits graze over your sensitive skin, touching everywhere but the one place you need it the most. Her intention is to make you beg, you’ve realised, but you’re adamant that you won’t.

When she realises her current tactic won’t work, she lets her finger give a single tap to your aching, puffy clit. It’s enough for a jolt of pleasure to shoot through your body, your lips parting in a small gasp. She taps again, and once more before she rests her finger there, and doesn’t move it. She watches with amusement as you clumsily grind your hips in an attempt to get friction and sensation, her finger only moving away any time you get even the slightest chance.

“I didn’t say you could do that, did I? Are you really so mindlessly needy that you disobey me?” Her voice only serves to make you more desperate, and your arm shoots out. Your hand grips her wrist in an attempt to keep her finger where you’d like it, and for now, she abides. Arlecchino allows you to chase the pleasure for only a few moments before she shifts her hand, two of her beautiful blackened digits line up against your entrance.

“Are you going to be a good girl, hm?” A dangerous whisper right against your cheek. At this point, you might just be out of your mind with desperation, so you agree. Your head moves frantically in a nod, a quiet whimper of ‘yes, I promise, please.’ With that, she pushes them in without much difficulty (thanks to the fact you’re convinced you’ve never been this wet). The Knave is so agonisingly slow with it in the best way possible, sliding her fingers in inch by inch until you take her to the knuckle. Usually, she coos, and tells you just how well you’re taking it. Not today.

Instead, she begins her assault, curling her fingers and immediately reaching THAT spot. The woman is quick, and the second you open your mouth to groan, you feel the same two fingers on her other hand push into your mouth and press down on your tongue. You whine in response, but her reply is a cold chuckle, her voice so mockingly sweet. “We have neighbours. Do you want them to hear how badly you’ve been misbehaving?”

You do. You so badly do. You so badly want people to see just how much she can make you fall apart. Alas, you shake your head, and just to irritate her (turn her on) even more, you let your tongue swirl around her fingers the way you’ve done with her strap so many times. You suck on them hungrily, your moans and mewls of pleasure muffled. “Oh, you are a good little whore for me, aren’t you? So obsessed with my fingers you’ve chosen to suck on them while I finger fuck you into silence.”

With each curl of her fingers and rub of her thumb on your stiff clit that just begs for attention, you’re getting to the edge VERY quickly. She knows it, she can tell when you clench around them and your walls pulsate. When your legs tremble and you can barely keep yourself against the wall. When each squelch of her fingers pumping in and out of you has your eyes fucking rolling into your head, and you can no longer focus on anything and you can barely remember your name.

Usually, on nights where she decides to be loving, she’ll slow herself down during your orgasm, to prolong it, to let the pleasure hit you for longer. Today though, she speeds up and moves her fingers harder, so hard, in fact, that tears are once again welling in your eyes, that you’ve begun essentially deepthroating her fingers and gagging on them (she loves it! She adores when the very thing that has you cumming also has you struggling like a little slut, her slut <3).

You tap thrice on her wrist when it gets too much, and she takes her fingers from your mouth quickly, opting to instead clamp her hand firmly around your mouth to shut you up instead. When you cry out as your orgasm hits you, she can only raise a single eyebrow. You did not ask for permission, and she has told you that brats ask for permission. “Peruere,” you moan shakily from behind her palm as you slowly come down from it, but the look in her eyes makes yours widen.

Her fingers slide out of you with a soft squishing sound, and the dark finger pads glisten with the evidence of what she’s done to you. Arlecchino coaxes your jaw open, and she places her fingers into your mouth again, though, softly this time.

“Clean them.” She demands, and you do, groaning at the taste of it and the way she stares right at you. When she’s satisfied, she retracts them, leaving you whimpering at the loss of them. You are spent, and your legs feel like they’re about to give way. Your panties are so wet that you know you’re going to have to put them straight into the washing machine, and the thought of it makes you shiver. You lift yourself off of the wall, your legs trembling, only for her to push you right back.

“No. I did not say we were done. You interrupted my work hours, so I will not be finished with you until my work hours are over. We have about five hours.” Aww, such a shame, isn’t it?

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 7 months ago

Text

1968 [Chapter 5: Artemis, Goddess Of The Hunt]

Series Summary: Aemond is embroiled in a fierce battle to secure the Democratic Party nomination and defeat his archnemesis, Richard Nixon, in the presidential election. You are his wife of two years and wholeheartedly indoctrinated into the Targaryen political dynasty. But you have an archnemesis of your own: Aemond’s chronically delinquent brother Aegon.

Series Warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, character deaths, New Jersey, age-gap relationships, drinking, smoking, drugs, pregnancy and childbirth, kids with weird Greek names, historical topics including war and discrimination, math.

Word Count: 6.6k

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“So you smoked grass in college,” Aegon says, pondering you with glazed eyes as he slurps his cherry-flavored Mr. Misty. You’re in Biloxi, Mississippi where Aemond is making speeches and meeting with locals to commemorate the first summer of the beaches being desegregated after a decade of peaceful protests and violent white supremacist backlash. Route 90 runs right along the sand dunes. If you walked out of this Dairy Queen, you could look south and see the Gulf of Mexico, placid dark ripples gleaming with moonshine. “And swore, and had a boyfriend, and presumably, what, did shots? Skipped class on occasion?”

“Yeah,” you admit, smiling sheepishly, remembering. You stretch out your fingers. “I chewed gum, I talked during mass. And I loved black nail polish. The nuns would beat my knuckles with rulers, I always had bruises. I wore these flowing skirts down to my ankles and knee-high boots. My hair was a mess, long and blowing around everywhere. My friends and I would do each other’s makeup, silver glitter and purple shadow, pencil on a ridiculous amount of eyeliner and then smudge it out. If you saw a photo you wouldn’t recognize me.”

Aegon takes a drag on his Lucky Strike cigarette, weightless smoke and the tired yellowish haze of florescent lights. Buffalo Springfield’s For What It’s Worth is playing from the Zenith radio on the counter by the cash register. “I’d recognize you.”

“I used to skip this one class all the time. The professor was a demon. I could do the math, but not the way he wanted me to. Right solution, wrong steps, I don’t know. I learned it differently in high school, and I couldn’t figure out the formula he wanted me to use. So he’d mark everything a zero even if my answer was correct. I couldn’t stand that bastard. Then the nuns kept catching me sunbathing on the quad when I was supposed to be in Matrices and Vector Spaces. I racked up so many demerits they were going to revoke my weekend pass, and then I wouldn’t be able to go into the city with my friends. So I stole the demerit book and burned it up on the stove in my dorm. Almost set the whole building on fire.”

Aegon is laughing. “You did not. Not you, not perfect ever-obedient Miss America!”

“I did. I really did.” You sip your own Mr. Misty, lemon-lime. Across the restaurant, Criston and Fosco are eating banana splits—dripping chocolate syrup and melted ice cream all over their table—and passionately debating who is going to end up in the World Series; Criston favors the Cardinals and the Orioles, Fosco says the Red Sox and the Cubs. The rest of the Targaryen family is back at the hotel watching news coverage of the Republican National Convention, something you can only stomach so much of, Otto’s cynical commentary, Aemond’s remaining eye fixed fiercely on the screen as he nips at an Old Fashioned. “I was wild back then.”

“And you gave it all up to be Aemond’s first lady.”

You think back to where it started: palm trees, salt water, alligators in drainage ditches. “My father grew up in a shack outside of Tallahassee. No electricity, no running water, he dropped out of school in eighth grade to help take care of his siblings when his mom died. They moved south to live with their aunt in Tampa, and my father wound up in Tarpon Springs working as a sea sponge diver.”

Aegon’s eyebrows rise, like he thinks you’re teasing him. “Sea sponges…?”

“I’m serious! It paid better than picking oranges or sweeping up in a factory. It’s dangerous. You have to wear this heavy rubber suit and walk around on the ocean floor, sometimes 50 feet or more below the surface.”

“What do people do with sea sponges?”

“Oh right, you would be unfamiliar. You’re supposed to clean yourself with them, like a loofah. Soap? Water? Ringing any bells?”

He chuckles and rolls his eyes. “You’re a very mean person. Aren’t you supposed to be setting an example for the merciful wives and daughters of this great nation?”

“Painters and potters buy sponges too. And some women use them as contraceptives. You can soak them in lemon juice and then shove them up there and it kills sperm.”

“I suddenly have great appreciation for the sea sponge industry. God bless the sea sponges.”

“So my father spent a few years diving, and he fell in love with a girl who worked at one of the shops he sold sponges to. That was my mother. They got married when he had absolutely nothing, and by their fifth anniversary he had his own fleet of boats, a gift shop, and a processing and shipping facility, all of which they owned jointly. They just opened the Spongeorama Sponge Factory this past April, a cute little tourist trap. But my point is that they were partners from the start. My father listens to my mother, and she works alongside him, and it was never like what I’ve seen from my friends’ parents: dad at the office 80 hours a week, mom at home strung out on Valium, just these…deeply separate, cold planets locked in orbit but never touching each other. I knew I didn’t want that. I wanted a husband who was building something I could be a part of. I wanted a man who respected me.”

Aegon watches you as he lights a fresh cigarette, not saying what you imagine he wants to: And how is that working out? He puffs on his Lucky Strike a few times and then offers it to you. You aren’t supposed to smoke, not even tobacco—it’s not ladylike, it’s masculine, it’s subversive—but you take it and hold it between your index and middle fingers, inhaling an ashy bitterness that blood learns to crave. The bracelets on your wrist jangle, thin silver chains that match the diamonds in your ears. Your dress is mint green, your hair in your signature Brigitte Bardot-inspired updo. Aegon is wearing a black t-shirt with The Who stamped across the front. When you pass the cigarette back to him, Aegon asks: “What music did you listen to? The Stones, The Animals?”

“Yeah. And Hendrix, The Kinks, Aretha Franklin…”

“Phil Ochs?”

“I love him. He’s got a song about Mississippi, you know.”

“Oh, I’m aware. It’s one of my favorites.”

“And I’m currently getting a little obsessed with Loretta Lynn. She’s so angry!”

“She’s sanctimonious, that’s what she is. Always bitching about men.”

“Six kids and an alcoholic husband will do that to someone.”

Aegon winces, and then you realize what you’ve said. Loretta Lynn sounds a lot like Mimi. He finishes his Mr. Misty and then fidgets restlessly with his white cardboard cup, spinning it around by the straw. You feel bad, though you shouldn’t. You wouldn’t have a month ago.

“Aegon,” you say gently, and he reluctantly looks up at you, sunburned cheeks, blonde hair shagging over his eyes. “Why do you ignore your children? They’re interesting, they’re fun. Violeta invited me to help her make cakes with her Easy-Bake Oven last week. And Cosmo…he’s so clever. But it’s like he doesn’t know who you are. He might actually think Fosco’s his dad.”

Aegon takes one last drag off his cigarette and discards the end of it in his Mr. Misty cup. Now he’s fiddling with it again, avoiding your gaze. “I don’t have much to offer them.”

“I think you do.”

“No you don’t.”

“I do,” you insist. “You can be kind of nice sometimes.”

He frowns, staring out the window. You know he can’t see anything but darkness and streetlights. “I should have been the one to go to Vietnam. If somebody had to get shot at so Aemond could be president, I was the right choice. No one would miss me. No one would mourn me. Daeron didn’t deserve that. But I was too old, so Otto and my father got him to enlist. Now he’s in the jungle and my mother has nightmares about Western Union telegrams. If I was the son over there, I think she’d sleep easier.”

I’m glad you’re still here, you think. Instead you say: “Your children need you.”

“No they don’t. Between me and Mimi, they’re better off as orphans. Helaena and Fosco can be their parents. Maybe they’ll have a fighting chance.”

The glass door opens, and a man walks into the Dairy Queen with his two sons scampering behind him, all with sandy flip flops and carrying fishing rods. The dad is at least six feet tall and brawny, and wearing a Wallace For President baseball cap. You and Aegon both notice it, then share an amused, disparaging glance. You mouth: Imbecile bigot. The man continues to the cash register and orders two chocolate shakes and a root beer float. At their own table, Criston is mopping up melted ice cream with napkins and telling Fosco to stop being such a pig.

“Me?!” Fosco says. “You are the pig, that spot there is your ice cream, do not blame your failings on poor Fosco. I have already let you drag me to this terrible state and never once complained about the fried food or the mosquitos. And that thing out there is not a real beach. The water is still and brown, brown!”

“For once in your life, pretend you have a work ethic and help me clean up the table.”

“You are being very anti-immigrant right now, do you know that?”

Aegon begins singing, ostensibly to himself. “Here’s to the state of Mississippi, for underneath her borders, the devil draws no lines.”

“Aegon, no,” you whisper, petrified. You know this song. You know where he’s going.

He’s beaming as he continues: “If you drag her muddy rivers, nameless bodies you will find.”

Now the man in the Wallace hat is looking at Aegon. His sons are happily gulping down their chocolate shakes. Criston and Fosco, still bickering, haven’t noticed yet.

“Oh, the fat trees of the forest have hid a thousand crimes.”

“Aegon, don’t,” you plead quietly. “He’ll murder you.”

“The calendar is lyin’ when it reads the present time.”

“Hey,” calls the man in the Wallace For President hat. “You got a problem, boy?”

Aegon drums his palms on the tabletop as he sings, loudly now: “Oh, here’s to the land you’ve torn out the heart of, Mississippi find yourself another country to be part of!”

In seconds, the man has crossed the room, grabbed Aegon by the collar of his t-shirt, yanked him out of his chair and struck him across the face: closed fist, lethal intent, the sick wet sound of bones on flesh. Aegon’s nose gushes, his lip splits open, but he isn’t flinching away, he isn’t afraid. He’s yowling like a rabid animal and clawing, kicking, swinging at the giant who’s ensnared him. You are screaming as you leap to your feet, your chair falling over and clattering on the floor behind you. The man’s sons are hooting joyously. “Git him, Paw!” one of them shouts.

“Criston?!” you shriek, but he and Fosco are already here, tugging at the man’s massive arms and beating on his back, trying to untangle him from Aegon.

“Stop!” Criston roars. “You don’t want to hurt him! He’s a Targaryen!”

“A Targaryen, huh?” the man says as he steps away, wiping the blood from his knuckles on his tattered white t-shirt, stained with fish guts. “All the better. I wish that bullet they put in Aemond woulda been just another inch to the left. Directly through the aorta.”

Aegon lunges at the man again, hissing, fists swinging. Fosco yanks him back.

“Are you gonna call someone or not?!” Criston snaps at the girl behind the cash register, but she only gives him a steely glare in return. This is Wallace country. There’s a reason why it took four years after the Civil Rights Act of 1964 to finally desegregate the beaches.

“We should go,” you tell Criston softly.

“Yes, we will leave now,” Fosco says, hauling Aegon towards the front door. Then, to the cashier: “Thank you for the ice cream, but it was not very good. If you are ever in Italy, try the gelato. You will learn so much.”

“I can’t wait ‘til November,” the man gloats, ominous, threatening. His sons are standing tall and proud beside him. “When Aemond loses, you can all cart your asses back to Europe. We don’t want you here. America ain’t for people like you.”

“It literally is,” you say, unable to stop yourself. “It’s on the Statue of Liberty.”

“Yeah, where do you think your ancestors came from?!” Aegon yells at the man. “Are you a Seminole, pal? I didn’t think so—!” Fosco and Criston lug him through the doorway before more punches can be thrown.

Outside—under stars and streetlights and a full moon—Aegon burst out laughing. This is when he feels alive; this is when the blood in his veins turns to wave and riptides. You didn’t think to grab napkins from the table, so you wipe the blood off his face with your bare hand, assessing the damage. He’ll be fine; swollen and sore, but fine.

“You’re insane, you know that?” you say. “You could have been killed.”

Aegon pats your cheek twice and grins, blood on his teeth. “The world would keep spinning, little Io.” Then he starts walking back towards the White House Hotel.

~~~~~~~~~~

When the four of you arrive at your suite, Aemond, Otto, Ludwika, and Alicent are still gathered around the television. The nannies have taken the children to bed. Helaena is reading The Bell Jar in an armchair in the corner of the room. Mimi is passed out on the couch, several empty glasses on the coffee table. ABC is showing a clip they recorded earlier today of Ludwika travelling with Aemond’s retinue after he made an impassioned speech condemning the lack of recognition of the evils of slavery at Beauvoir, the historic home of former Confederate president Jefferson Davis. The reporter is asking Ludwika what she thinks makes Aemond a better presidential candidate than Eugene McCarthy, as McCarthy shares many of the same policy positions and has an additional 15 years of political experience.

“This McCarthy is not a real man,” Ludwika responds, her face stony and mistrustful. “He reminds me of the communists back in my country. Did you know he met with Che Guevara in New York City a few years ago? Why would he do such a thing?”

Now, Otto turns to her in this hotel room. “I love you.”

Ludwika takes a sip of her martini. “I want another Gucci bag.”

“Yes, yes. Tomorrow, my dear.”

“What happened to you?” Aemond asks his brother, half-exasperated and half-concerned. Criston has fetched a washcloth from the bathroom for Aegon to hold against his bleeding lip and nose. Aemond is still wearing his blue suit from a long day of campaigning, but he’s taken out his eye and put on his eyepatch. His gaze flicks from Aegon’s face to the blood still coating your left hand. On the couch, Mimi’s bare foot twitches but she doesn’t wake up.

“There was a Wallace supporter at the Dairy Queen,” you say. “Aegon felt inspired to defend you.”

Aemond chuckles. “Did you win?” he asks Aegon.

“I would have if the guy wasn’t two of me.”

On the television screen, Richard Nixon is accepting his party’s nomination for president at the Republican National Convention in Miami, Florida.

“He’s a buffoon,” Otto sneers. “So awkward and undignified. Look at him sweating! Look at those ridiculous jowls! And he comes from nothing. His family is trash.”

“Americans love a rags to riches story,” you say. And then, somewhat randomly: “He loves his wife. He proposed to Pat on their very first date, and she said no. So he drove her to dates with other men for years until she finally reconsidered. He said it was love at first sight. He’s never had a mistress. And jowls or no jowls, his family adores him.”

Aegon turns to you, still clutching the washcloth against his face. “Really?”

You nod. “That’s the sort of thing the women talk about.”

There’s a knock at the door. You all look at each other, confounded; no one has ordered room service, no one is expecting any visitors, and the nannies have keys in the event of an emergency. Fosco is closest to the door, so he opens it. A man in uniform is standing there with a golden Western Union telegram in his hands. Alicent screams and collapses. Criston bolts to her.

“It’s okay,” you say. “He’s not dead. Whatever happened, Daeron’s not dead.”

Otto crinkles his brow at you. “How do you know?”

“Because if he was killed, there would be a priest here too.” They always send a priest when the boy is dead. Aegon glances at you, eyes wet and fearful.

“Ma’am,” the soldier—a major you see now, spotting the golden oak leaves—says to Alicent as he removes his cap. “I regret to inform you that your son Daeron was missing in action for several weeks, and we’ve just received confirmation that he’s being held as a prisoner of war in Hỏa Lò Prison.”

“He’s in the Hanoi Hilton?!” Otto exclaims. “Oh, fuck those people and their swamp, how did Kennedy ever think we had something to gain from getting tangled up in that mess?”

“But he’s alive?” Aemond says. “He’s unharmed?”

“Yes sir,” the captain replies. “It is our understanding that he is in good condition. The North Vietnamese are aware that he is a very valuable prisoner, like Admiral McCain’s son John. He’ll be used in negotiations. He is of far more use to them alive than dead.”

“So we can get Daeron back,” Aegon says. “I mean, we have to be able to, right? Aemond’s running for president, he’ll probably win in November, we have millions of dollars, we can spring one man out of some third-world jail, right?”

The captain continues: “Tomorrow when your family returns to New Jersey, the Joint Chiefs of Staff will be there to discuss next steps with you. I’m afraid I’m only authorized to give you the news as it was relayed to me.” He entrusts the telegram to Otto, who rapidly opens it and stares down at the mechanical typewriter words.

“I have to pray,” Alicent says suddenly. “Helaena, will you pray with me? There’s a Greek church down the road. Holy Trinity, I think it’s called.”

Obediently, Helaena joins her mother and follows her to the doorway. Criston leaves with them. Otto gives his new wife a harsh, meaningful stare. Ludwika, an ardent yet covert atheist, sighs irritably. “Wait. I want to pray too,” she says, and vanishes with them into the hall.

As the captain departs, Mimi sits up on the couch, blinking, groggy. “What? What happened?”

“Go with Alicent,” Otto tells her. “She’s headed downstairs.”

“What? Why…?”

“Just go!” he barks.

Mimi staggers to her feet and hobbles out of the hotel room, her sundress—patterned with forget-me-nots—billowing around her. The only people left are Otto, Aemond, Fosco, Aegon, and you. The fact that you are the sole woman permitted to remain here feels intentional.

After a moment, Otto speaks. “You know, John McCain has famously refused to be released from the Hanoi Hilton until all the men imprisoned before him have been freed. He doesn’t want special treatment. And that’s a very noble thing to do, don’t you think? It has endeared him and the McCains to the public.”

Aemond and Otto are looking at each other, communicating in a silent language not of letters or accents but colors: red ambition, green hunger, grey impassionate morality. Fosco is observing them uneasily. Aemond says at last: “Daeron wants to help this family.”

“You’re not going to try to get him out.” Aegon realizes.

Aemond turns to him, businesslike, vague distant sympathy. “It’s only until November.”

“No, you know people!” Aegon explodes. “You pick up the phone, you call in every favor, you get him out of there now! You have no idea if he has another three months, you don’t know what kind of shape he’s in! They could be dislocating his arms or chopping off his fingers right now, they could be starving him, they could be beating him, you can’t just leave him there!”

“It’s not your decision. It could have been, had you accepted your role as the eldest son. But you didn’t. So it’s my job to handle these things. You don’t get to hate me for making choices you were too cowardly too take responsibility for.”

“But Daeron could die,” Aegon says, his voice going brittle.

“Any of us could die. We’re in a very dangerous line of work. Greatness killed Lincoln, Garfield, McKinley, Huey Long, Medgar Evers, John F. Kennedy, Malcolm X, Vernon Dahmer, Martin Luther King Jr., does that mean we should all give up the fight? Of course not. The work isn’t finished. We have to keep going.”

“Will you stop pretending this is about America?! This is about you wanting to be president, and everything you’ve ever done has been in pursuit of that trophy, and you keep shoving new people into the line of fire and it’s not right!”

“Aegon,” Otto says calmly. “It’s unlikely we’d be able to get him out before the election anyway. Negotiations take time. But if Aemond wins in November, he’ll be in a very advantageous position. The North Vietnamese aren’t stupid. They wouldn’t kill the brother of a U.S. president. They don’t want their vile little corner of the world flattened by nukes.”

“Still, it feels so wrong to leave a brother in peril,” Fosco says. “It is unnatural. Of course Aegon will be upset. We could at least see what a deal to get Daeron released would entail, maybe his arrival home would be a good headline—”

“And who the fuck asked you?” Otto demands, and Fosco goes quiet.

“Okay, then tell Mom,” Aegon says to Aemond. “Tell her you’re going to pretend Daeron made some self-sacrificial vow not to come home until all the other POWs can too. Tell her you’re going to let him get tortured for a few months before you take this seriously.”

Aemond replies cooly: “Why would you want to upset her? She can’t change it. You’ll only make her suffering worse.”

“What do you think?” Otto asks you, and you know that he isn’t seeking counsel. He’s summoning you like a dog to perform a trick, like an actor to recite a line. He’s waiting for you to say that it’s a smart strategy, because it is. He’s waiting for you to bend to Aemond’s will as your station requires you to, as moons are bound to their planets.

“I think it’s wrong,” you murmur; and Aemond is thunderstruck by your treason.

Without another word, you walk into the bathroom, turn on the sink, and gaze down at Aegon’s blood on your palm. For some reason, it’s very difficult to bring yourself to wash it away.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s mid-August now, the world painted in goldenrod yellow and sky blue. The Democratic National Convention is in two weeks. You and Aemond are posing on the beach at Asteria, surrounded by an adoring gaggle of journalists who are snapping photographs and jotting down quotes on their notepads. You’re sitting demurely on a sand dune, you’re building sandcastles with the children you borrowed from Aegon and Helaena, you’re flying kites, you’re gazing confidently into the sunlit horizon where a glorious new age is surely dawning.

“Mr. Targaryen, what is it that makes your partnership so successful?” a journalist asks as flashbulbs pulse like lightning. “What do you think is the most crucial characteristic to have in a wife?”

Aemond doesn’t need to consider this before he answers. He always has his compliment picked out. “Loyalty,” your husband says. “Not just to me or to the Targaryen family, but to our shared cause. This year has been indescribably difficult for me and my wife. I announced my candidacy, we embarked on a strenuous national campaign that we’re currently only halfway through, I barely survived a brutal assassination attempt in May, in July we lost our first child to hyaline membrane disease after he was born six weeks prematurely, and at the beginning of this month we learned that my youngest brother Daeron was taken by the North Vietnamese as a prisoner of war. To find the strength not just to get out of bed in the morning, not just to be there for me and this family in our personal lives, but to tirelessly traverse the country with me inspiring Americans to believe in a better future…it’s absolutely remarkable. I’m in awe of her. And when she is the first lady of the United States, she will continue to amaze us all with her unwavering faith and dedication.”

There are whistles and cheers and strobing flashbulbs. You smile—elegant, soft, practiced—as Aemond rests a hand firmly on your waist. You lean into him, feeling out-of-place, bewildered that you’ve ever slept with him, full of dull panic that soon you’ll have to again.

“How about you, Mrs. Targaryen?” another reporter asks. “Same question, essentially. What is the trait that you most admire in your husband?”

And in the cascading clicks of photographs being captured, your mind goes entirely blank. You can think of so many other people—Aegon, Ari, Alicent, Daeron, Fosco, Cosmo—but not Aemond. It’s like you’ve blocked him out somehow, like he’s a sketch you erased. But you can’t hesitate. You can’t let the uncertainty read on your face. You begin speaking without knowing where you’re going, something that is rare for you. “Aemond is the most tenacious person I’ve ever met. When he has a goal in mind, nothing can stop him.” You pause, and there are a few awkward chuckles from the journalists. You swiftly recover. “He never stops learning. He always knows the right thing to do or say. And what he wants more than anything is to serve the American people. Aemond won’t disappoint you. He’s not capable of it. He will do whatever it takes to make this country more prosperous, more peaceful, and more free.”

There are applause and gracious thank yous, but Aemond gives you a look—just for a second, just long enough that you can catch it—that warns you to get it together. Fifteen minutes later, he and the flock of reporters are headed to one of the guest houses to conduct a long-form interview. This will be the bulk of the article; you will appear in one or two photos, you will supply a few quotes. The rest of the story is Aemond. You are an accessory, like a belt or a bracelet. He’s the person who picks you out of a drawer each morning and wears you until you go out of fashion.

Released from your obligations, you return to the main house and disappear into your upstairs bathroom. You are there for fifteen minutes and emerge rattled, routed. You pace aimlessly around your bedroom for a while, then try again; still no luck. You go back outside and stare blankly at the ocean, wondering what you’re going to do. Down on the beach, Fosco is teaching the kids how to yo-yo. Ludwika is sunbathing in a bikini.

“What’s wrong with you?”

You whirl to see Aegon, popping a Valium into his mouth and washing it down with a splash of straight rum from a coffee mug. “Huh? Nothing. I’m great.”

“No, something’s wrong. You look lost. You look like me.”

You gaze out over the ocean again, chewing your lower lip.

Aegon snickers, fascinated, sensing a scandal. “What did you do?”

Your eyes drift to him. “You can’t make fun of me.”

“Okay. I won’t.”

There is a long, heavy lull before you answer. When you speak, it’s all in a rush, like you can’t unburden yourself of the words fast enough. “I put a tampon in and I can’t get it out.”

Aegon immediately breaks his promise and cackles. “You did what?!” Then he tries to be serious. “Wait. Sorry. Uh, really?”

You’re on the verge of tears. “I’ve been bleeding since I had the baby, and I hate using tampons, I almost never do, but Aemond wanted me to wear this dress for the photoshoot and it’s super gauzy and from certain angles I felt like I could see the pad bulge when I checked in the mirror, so I put a tampon in for the first time in probably a year. I’m not even supposed to be using them for another few weeks because my uterus isn’t healed all the way or whatever. And now I can’t get it out and it’s been in there for like six hours and I’m scared I’m going to get an infection and die in the most pointless, humiliating way imaginable.”

“Okay, calm down, calm down,” Aegon says. “There’s no string?”

“No, I’ve checked multiple times. It must be a defective one and they forgot to put a string in it at the factory and I didn’t notice, or the string somehow got tucked under it, I don’t know, but I can’t get it out, it’s like…the angle isn’t right. I can just barely feel it with my fingertips, but I can’t grab it. I’m going to have to go to the hospital to get it taken out, but I’m scared word will spread and journalists will show up to get photos when I leave and then everyone will be asking me why I was at the emergency room to begin with and I’m going to have to make up something and…and…” You can’t talk anymore. There are other reasons why you don’t want to go to the hospital. You haven’t stepped foot in one since Ari died; the thought makes you feel like you are looking down to see blood on your thighs all over again, like you’ll never have enough air in your lungs.

“Did you bleed through it? Because that should help it slide out easier.”

“I don’t know,” you moan miserably. “I mean, I guess I did, because there was blood when I checked a few minutes ago. I had to stuff my underwear with toilet paper.”

“Why didn’t you just tell Aemond you couldn’t wear this dress?”

You give him an impatient glance. “I’m tired of having the same conversation.” When do you think you’ll be done bleeding? When do you think it’ll be time to start trying again?

Aegon sighs. “Do you want me to get it out for you?”

“Please stop. I’m really panicking here.”

“I’m not joking.”

You stare at him. “You can’t be serious.”

“I have fished many objects out of many orifices, you cannot shock me. I am unshockable.”

“I’d rather walk down to the sand right now and strangle myself with Fosco’s yo-yo.”

“Okay. So who are you gonna ask to drive you to the hospital?”

You hesitate.

“I’d offer to do it,” Aegon says, grinning, holding up his mug. “But I’m in no condition to drive.”

“But you are in the proper condition to extract a rogue tampon, huh?”

“Two minutes tops. That’s a guarantee. My personal best is fifteen seconds. And that was for a lost condom, much trickier to locate than a tampon.”

Perhaps paradoxically, the more you consider his offer, the more tempting it seems. No complicated trip and cover story? Over in just a few minutes? “If you ever tell anyone about this, I will never forgive you. I will hate you forever.”

Aegon taunts: “I thought you already hated me.”

You aren’t sure what you feel for him, but it’s certainly not hate. Not anymore. “Where would we do it?”

“In my office. And by that I mean my basement.”

“Your filthy, disease-ridden basement? On your shag carpet full of crabs?”

“You’re in luck,” he jokes. “My crab exterminator service just came by yesterday.”

You exhale in a low, despairing groan.

“Hey, would you rather do it on the dining room table? I’m game. Your choice.”

You watch the seagulls swooping in the afternoon air, the banners of sailboats on the glittering water. “Okay. The basement.”

You walk with Aegon to the house and—after ensuring that no one is around to notice—sneak with him down the creaking basement steps, the door locked behind you. Aegon is darting around; he sets a small trashcan by the carpet and tosses you two towels, then goes to wash his hands in his tiny bathroom, not nearly enough room for someone to stretch out across the linoleum floor.

You’re surveying the scene nervously. “I don’t want to get blood all over your stuff.”

“You’re the cleanest thing that’s ever been on that carpet. Lie down.”

You place one towel on the green shag carpet, then whisk off your panties, discard the bloody knot of toilet paper in the trashcan, and pull the skirt of your dress up around your waist so it’s out of the way. Then you sit down and drape the second towel over your thighs so you’re hidden from him, like you’re about to be examined by a doctor. Your heart is thumping, but you don’t exactly feel like you want to stop. It’s more exhilarating than fear, you think; it is forbidden, it is shameful, it is a microscopic betrayal of Aemond that he’ll never know about.

Aegon moseys out of the bathroom, flicking drops of water from his hands. He wears one of his usual counterculture uniforms: a frayed green army jacket with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, khaki shorts, tan moccasins. He kicks them off before he kneels on the shag carpet. He checks the clock on the wall. “2:07. I promised two minutes max. Let’s see how I do. Ready?”

You rest the back of your head on your linked hands, raise your knees, take a deep and unsteady breath. “Ready.”

But he can see that you’re shaking. “Hey,” Aegon says kindly, pressing his hand down on the towel so you’re covered. “Do you want me to go to the hospital with you? I’ll try to distract people. I’ll pretend I’m having a seizure or something.”

“No, I’m okay,” you insist. “I just want it out. I want this over with.”

“Got it.” And then he begins. He stares at the wall to his left, not looking at you, navigating by feel. You feel the pressure of two fingers, a stretching that is not entirely unpleasant. He’s warm and careful, strangely unobtrusive. Still, you suck in a breath and shift on the carpet. “Shh, shh, shh,” Aegon whispers, skimming his other hand up and down the inside of your thigh, and shiver like you’ve never felt before rolls backwards up the length of your spine. “Relax. You alright?”

“Fine. Totally fine.”

“Oh yeah, it’s definitely in there,” Aegon says. His brow is creased with comprehension. “No string…you’re right, it must either be tangled up somehow or it never had one to begin with. Maybe you accidentally inserted it upside down.”

“Now you insult my intelligence. As if I’m not embarrassed enough.”

“I should have put on a record to set the mood. What gets you going, Marvin Gaye? Elvis?”

“The seductive voice of Richard Milhous Nixon. Maybe you can get him on the phone.”

Aegon laughs hysterically. His fingertips push the tampon against your cervix and you yelp. “Sorry, sorry, my mistake,” Aegon says. There are beads of sweat on his forehead, on his temples; now his eyes are squeezed shut. “I’m gonna try to wiggle it out…”

As he works, there are sensations you can’t quite explain: a very slow-building indistinct desire, a loosening, a readying, a drop in your belly when you think about the fact that he’s the one touching you. Then he happens to press in just the right spot and there is a sudden pang of real pleasure—craving, aching, a deep red flare of previously unfathomable temptation—and you instinctively reach for him. Your hand meets his forearm, and for the first time since he started Aegon looks at your face, alarmed, afraid that he’s hurt you again. But once your eyes meet you’re both trapped there, and you can’t pretend you’re not, his fingers still inside you, his pulse racing, a rivulet of sweat snaking down the side of his face, his eyes an opaque murky blue like water you’re desperate to claw your way into. You know what you want to tell him, but the words are impossible. Don’t stop. Come closer.

Aegon clears his throat, forces himself to look away, and at last dislodges the tampon. It appears dark and bloody in his grasp. “No string,” he confirms, holding it up and turning it so you can see. “Factory reject.”

“Just like you.”

He glances at the clock. “2:09. I delivered precisely what was promised.” He chucks the tampon into the trashcan and then grins as he helps pull you upright with his clean hand. “So do you like to cuddle afterwards, or…?”

You’re giggling, covering your flushed face. “Shut up.”

“Personally, I enjoy being ridden into the ground and then called a good boy.”

“Go away.” You nod to where he disposed of the tampon and say before stopping to think: “You’re not going to keep that under your ashtray too?”

Aegon freezes and blinks at you. He smiles slowly, cautiously. “No, I think that would be a little unorthodox, even for me.” He pitches you a clean washcloth from the bathroom closet. “That should get you upstairs.”

“Thanks.” You shove it between your legs and rise to your feet, smoothing the skirt of your dress. “I owe you something. I’m not sure what, but I’ll figure it out.”

“Hey,” Aegon says, and waits for you to turn to him. “Maybe I’m not that bad.”

“Maybe,” you agree thoughtfully.

Just before you hurry upstairs, you steal a glimpse of Aegon in the bathroom, the door kicked only half-closed. He has turned on the water, but he’s not using it yet. Aegon is staring down at the blood on his hand, half-dried scarlet impermanent ink.

~~~~~~~~~~

Hi, it’s me again. I’m in solitary confinement. There’s a guy in the cell next to mine; we talk to each other with a modified version of Morse code. Tap tap tap on the wall, he taps back, etcetera etcetera, you get the idea. You’re not going to believe this, but he says his name is John McCain. Well, actually, he told me his name is Jobm McCbin, but I think that’s because I translated the taps wrong. I might be in the Hanoi Hilton, but at least they have me in the VIP section! Hahaha.

Every few hours the guards show up to do a very impressive magic trick: they wave their batons like wands, I turn black and blue. Sometimes one of my teeth even disappears. Isn’t that something? Houdini would love it. There’s a rat that I’m making friends with. I give her nibbles of my stale bread, she gives me someone to talk to. She’s good company. I’ve named her Tessarion.

Allow me to make something absolutely fucking clear.

I would very much like to be rescued.

#aegon ii targaryen #aegon targaryen #aegon targaryen ii #aegon ii #aegon targaryen x reader #aegon x reader #aegon x y/n #aegon x you #aegon ii x y/n #aegon ii x reader #aegon ii x you #aegon targaryen x you

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kinokoshoujoart · 6 months ago

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CORRECT TAGS‼️‼️‼️‼️ @rn0na-lizard you are so so so correct….. my favorite ‘Normal Girl’ in hmds…….i almost never see anyone talk about these aspects of her let alone also love her for them as they should.

i feel like Leona/ DS lumina gets mischaracterized super often which is understandable bc out of all the DS candidates leona is the least like her ancestor (who i also love, for different reasons).

in AWL lumina was the only kid in the valley for a very long time, but many of the DS residents have lived in the valley their whole lives. while lumina had accepted her role as a proper young heiress by chapter 3 of AWL— and when DS begins Leona already at this point of her life— lumina still had a lingering sense of uncertainty and angst and loneliness and doubt, and unresolved worries about her parents. absolutely none of this is present with leona

in this world leona starts with Lumina’s 22 year old appearance, she’s just rich as hell and living her best life (as she deserves), she’s unabashedly shallow, puts herself first always, speaks so politely and affably yet she can be so casually cruel in the most genuine cute way and out of touch with reality and and i fucking love her and i’d die for her. my beloved girlboss girlkeep girlypop

more iconic Leona Moments

when muu/muffy asks for beauty advice leona’s recommendation is “this brand of mail order beauty cream is simply divine! and it was quite inexpensive too, just 100,000 G 🥰” everyone else looks uncomfortable and muu is like “you’re as frivolous as always….”

aside from the 3 who take literally half your money (Witch💖, moi, and thomas) leona and panama (romana) take the most money from you if they carry you home when you faint. just a couple of girl bosses holding on to their girlpire (btw shout out to sebastian, the only resident in the entire valley who carries you home for free)

neither panama nor leona attend the harvest festival, they send sebastian there by himself to test the food first lmao (if you poison it like the witch they’re harboring on their property requires you to do, sebastian is just like “i can’t serve this to Mistress Panama…”)

once again sebastian attacks mukumuku for her sake, this time not to make her a paintbrush but she told him to get her the best slippers and this was apparently the easiest way. sebastian gets fucking mauled btw

leona has hands down the best romance route in hmds. all her scenes are incredible but god the slow burn friends to lovers with your DVD player….

in her purple heart event she shows up at your house because she heard you have a DVD player, asks you to show her how it works, and then just leaves after she’s done playing with it

in her yellow heart event she has sebastian fetch van so she can buy a DVD player for herself but van’s like “i’m so sorry …. Pete… bought the last one….”

leona is so unable to stomach the idea of other people having things she doesn’t that she starts to cry and the only way to placate her is to tell her she can go to your house anytime she wants just so she can use your DVD player. that’s not a setup to a budding romance that’s her final heart event

it’s the most incredible romance arc in the world like girl you have infinite money you can just. buy a DVD player somewhere else?? “i want to watch DVDs at my house just like you!” leona you have three entire bedrooms

“rich girl love interest who has everything except love, win her heart by having genuine conversation with her”: done to death, tired, i don’t have time for that

“rich girl love interest who has everything except a fucking DVD player, win her heart by giving her expensive stuff and ‘relax tea’ and access to your DVD player”: audacious, intriguing, never been done before, innovative

if you deny her god-given right to access your DVD player she is like “Is that so……………Just let me be alone for a little bit.” incredible tragedy i understand. take as much time as you need to grieve darling

oh but her first heart event asks you to pick a side in an argument she’s having with panama and the correct answer is to say “sebastian is the one who’s wrong” (sebastian has said nothing wrong this whole time and yet both of them have just been yelling at him to shut up)

and her blue heart event is “help me find this heirloom necklace… boohoo…” and when you find it she’s like “perfect! now grandma won’t get mad at me. hmm, you seem pretty dependable…♡” augh she’s way too good at this…….!!! i’ll do anything for you!

when you propose she says “of course, i always dreamed of having a romance and a wedding♡” and says nothing abt how she feels about you <3

also if you marry her, once a week she goes to hang out at her ex love interest’s place for 6 hours straight and comes home saying “whew… i had so much fun that i must have lost track of time… i’ll hurry on home”

if you marry another girl she starts flirting with you like “I’m so envious of your wife, having such a fine husband… Pete.” (or whatever your name is)

i’ve become obsessed with her and romeo’s horrible trainwreck soap opera marriage since replaying cute in jp… it’s SO… i have so much to say about them that it should be its own post but i’ll just give the cliffnotes

shotgun wedding vibes. romeo is surprised by his own wedding. they’re childhood friends but he himself has never considered marrying her. her words to him at their wedding are “Make me happy♡” (command)

she understandably can’t stand his terrible table manners or his clothes or anything about him (except that she wants to watch him surf and have his child. but he instead walks in circles all day. coward) and he’s both really good at accidentally stepping on landmines and just ever so slightly majorly terrified of her after marriage (“but surely her angry outbursts are just her way of showing love hahahahaha” you’re going to die. she’s going to kill you). the only positive things they say about their marriage are extremely shallow. they can’t communicate with each other because romeo always says the Dumbest Shit obliviously and leona always responds by cutting him out of her life forever!!!!!! (for 5 seconds) while he has no idea what happened

they are both so melodramatic and they both just do nothing except make each other worse and run away from each other and push each other away but they can’t escape each other. neither of them ever has to grow or change if they marry each other because an elderly overworked man is sustaining both of their existences and neither of them can take care of themselves and i love them your honor

also romeo’s first crush as a kid was apparently her mom, and if leona falls for YOU she flirts by mentioning that sebastian says you look like the spitting image of her dead father. dear fucking god

they’re the epitome of “You're both just enabling each other's mental illnesses. You're both perfect for each other. Never change. Just never involve anybody else in what you've got going on.”

romeo really does feel like her stupid lackey. like the karen to her regina. they even had this dynamic in the games they played as kids… she was the Harvest Goddess and he was Servant A/Minion A (they might still be playing this game as adults…he calls her lady/mistress sometimes after marriage…)

btw leona’s best friend (wife) marivia is also just as… there’s an event where they just gossip about all the mineral town ppl and marivia says ann would win a gluttony contest and they both giggle

there’s also an event where marivia casually walks into Witch’s hut and just interviews her so she can write her into a novel. witch is left completely drained by this exchange. leona and marivia both are so chill about the horrible cruel villainess living in leona’s shed who wants the town poisoned and rewards you for killing animals and hurting yourself and is putting curses on everyone (and they’re right. she’s never done anything wrong in her life)

#i also feel like leona and marivia summoned Witch (just girlypop things summoning hot evil ladies from hell)#i’m a marivia x leona x witch truther. the evidence is out there. evil yuri triad (real)#i also love to believe that witch is fucking with all the rival couples in the valley but ESPECIALLY romeo x leona #since she’s petty about her crush (leona) choosing the village idiot of all people #she can’t affect gustafa and nami because gustafa is like a garden gnome type that wards away evil #leona would make coquette edits of phantom skye/steiner #man i really have a lot of overlapping ships but i just like thinking about everyone together in some way #marivia was interviewing witch for a girls love leona x witch sequel in that series she wrote that has the main character based on leona #(this was revealed to me in a dream)#bokumono #harvest moon ds #hmds #harvest moon #story of seasons #hmds leona #hmds lumina #i’m sorry for going ham about your tags i promise i’m normal #^_−☆#hmds cute #i feel like everyone collectively forgot what hmds was like which is understandable because it’s a fever dream #or maybe we misremembered it from our childhoods #but replaying the girl and boy versions in english and japanese has really refreshed my views on the characters #i have so much to say about everyone mostly the rival couples #love the dysfunction and bad vibes in this game #poisoned water supply type of townsfolk #girls hour (meet up in the mines to beat each other up and slaughter various animals and humanoids to eat)#it’s such an evil game #haunted by natsume malware ghosts

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oleworm · 4 months ago

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🔥 aegon ii

I'm going to talk about the show version only because I tried to read Fire and Blood and I didn't much care for it. I'm going to speculate that George published it because of pressure to get the last two ASOIAF books out and that's why it reads like the notes you write before the actual story. Moving on.

Surprisingly I have a lot to say about Aegon II, especially comparing what he actually does and how it is presented by the narrative vs. what Rhaenyra does and how it is presented by the narrative. I am aware that TGC was fighting to develop Aegon's character beyond being a rapist and a drunkard, so that already shows a bias by the writers. I don't know if you agree, but when I watched the series I thought that the audience is meant to find him foolish and ineffectual. He supports measures that alleviate the burden on the smallfolk and that's seen as bad--we can't do that, Aegon, we've got a war going on, they're going to have to get used to austerity. Let's ignore that, geographically, the blockade doesn't make sense because they should be able to bring in supplies by land, ha. OK! Maybe he doesn't have all the logistical details, but the principle was correct, if he is to govern these people he is also responsible for them--only, this is considered to be too naïve of a view. But I don't know, it could be giving the writers too much credit to assume they were trying to make a contrast between the ideal of a king, that is, the fiction that is sold to the people so that they accept his authority, vs. what a king actually does, which is funnel state resources to cement his political power and that of his kin-group.

Then he goes out on his dragon and gets burned to a crisp--we're supposed to think that he's emotional and stupid, but he sets Sunfyre on Meleys when he sees that she's burning the soldiers and no one on their side is doing anything about it. If anything, Criston and Aemond's plan was to let Rhaenys think it would be easy, let her kill a bunch of people before they bring out Vhagar. It was an impulsive decision to come in the first place, but it cannot be denied that he risks his own life in trying to protect them. It was significant to me that when Sunfyre was wounded it flapped its wings as to not to crush the soldiers that were running away in fear, and later Vhagar tramples them to death like they're nothing, the same way that Daemon and Caraxes did in earlier episodes.

I don't know what the show is trying to say in writing them the way they do. It is very inconsistent. Here you have Aegon, who threw in his lot with his people and exposed himself to many of the same dangers, even if it wasn't the most effective way, but that is supposed to be a bad thing because he is a ridiculous person? And you have Rhaenyra, who is queen because she said so, who starves her people and sends weapons of war while sitting comfortably in Dragonstone. In real life it would not be like that, we have different laws, but in their world outside of Dorne there is no precedent for a daughter passing over a legitimate son. It's like, in-universe Rhaenyra has the odds stacked against her for being a woman, but in real life we are supposed to root for her for that very same reason, and it has very little to do with either of their actions.

I read your reply to my ask and I agree that they should have kept that part about him abusing women that have no recourse, it adds complexity to his character that a lot of people don't like!

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secreteviltwin · 6 months ago

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I haven't seen bridgerton, (outside of like clips) but I am actually curious about your opinion on eloise. Everyone reduces her to a not like other girls and annoying and privelidged but personally from the clips I've seen she does makes valid points (maybe awkwardly so and a little condescending but I just can't help but roll my eyes at the people who hate her because it always seems to come from such shallow...choice feminist lense) i have plans to watch it (mostly BECAUSE of the Eloise clips ive seen ngl) but I wanted to see your opinion on her as it seems you have a different take on her compared to what I've seen.

absolutely i will take the bait i love talking about my opinions. eloise is there to discredit feminism so you can turn your brain off and enjoy the show

eloise is my favourite character she says exactly what im thinking and she's right about everything. the "marriage mart" IS demeaning. the rules and norms of polite society ARE ridiculous. she IS being restricted and oppressed because of her sex - principally she is denied education when ALL her brothers are college educated

maybe i relate more than most because i also know what it's like to have a mother who is constantly on your ass about finding a man and getting married and how it's the highest form of happiness a woman can achieve

but eloise's feminism is put there for you to mock and roll your eyes at. the script wants you to see her as annoying judgmental and hypocritical. they frame her against daphne: isn't daphne so admirable for being so pragmatic? she doesn't complain like eloise, she plays the game even though she knows it's not fair. why can't eloise shut up and appreciate she's not the only one suffering? why can't she be happy for her sister's success with romance?

they frame her against theo: how dare eloise be concerned with her own experiences oppression and not prioritize the plight of the poor? she doesn't know anything about real suffering, she just victimizes herself because she's bored and narcissistic. if she REALLY had any conviction in her beliefs she would burn her life down to make a point.

they frame her against penelope: how insensitive and bullish she is for forcing her friend to agree with her radical politics (even though penelope never says shit to eloise that implies she doesn't agree). see how penelope can be smart and entrepreneurial AND appreciate romance? why can't eloise do the same? she's just bitter and lazy when compared to the TRUE feminist: a woman who can walk both worlds. see how feminism doesn't have to come with an annoying antisocial distain for romance? see how eloise is complaining about nothing actually and everything is fine for women because she could just shut up and make money by writing?

annoying? - i don't find women speaking up about their oppression whiny but the writers obviously want you to

judgmental? - all of her judgements are correct. "why can't she understand other women want different things ☹️" choice feminism indeed

hypocritical? - it's not hypocritical to acknowledge and complain about the ways you're being hurt without testing the limits of your chains, being oppressed is not a moral fault. dignity and freedom are not actually things eloise should have to earn, they are owed to all women regardless of action. and she IS doing something: she's avoiding marriage, she's reading as much as she can, she's writing a novel, she's TALKING and facing social consequences for refusing to conform

you ever notice how eloise is the only character ever condemned for being wealthy even though all the other characters in the show are also wealthy? and she doesn't even have her own money - it's her brother's money

eloise is, consciously or unconsciously, a message to young outspoken women to shut up and assimilate and be happy for patriarchal conforming women. it's just a phase, it's silly, you'll grow out of it and find a man

she also reinforces the perspectives of women who want to disagree with her: the penelopes and daphnes and violets of real life. women who want to make decisions about romance and femininity while feeling superior and not like a vapid antifeminist. they've secretly known all this time they're more practical and intelligent and happier than those miserable radicals, and now they can happily hate eloise in the open

most importantly she's there to sell the lie of the bridgerton fantasy. the bridgerton setting is unromantic and uncomfortable for exactly the reasons eloise proports, for women to be able to enjoy the show they need to be able to banish the eloise in the back of their thoughts and the easiest way to do that is to set up a character to embody those ideas and discredit her. oh you've noticed how this premise is suffocating and nightmarish? good now that we've acknowledged that let's move on with the steamy romance

the writers said how do we frame perfectly reasonable normal feminist ideas so that women feel comfortable disagreeing. eloise is a feminist but her character is antifeminist

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ravenwitch45 · 1 year ago

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What if fem s/o invited Blitzo over for dinner to meet their dysfunctional family? S/o doesn't have a lot respect for their dad because he isn't emotionally plugged in as he doesn't get it and he made everything chaotic for them along with the mom who is the victim when they were growing up which is why they have self esteem issues along with having poor taste in men as they had 2 broken relationships.

https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=eXUulrxde9A&pp=ygUccGltJ3MgZmFtaWx5IHNtaWxpbmcgZnJpZW5kcw%3D%3D

Oh lord, well this sounds fun, I'm a bit unsure what you meant with a few parts but I'll try my best to do the whole "Blitz meet his S/Os dysfunctional family" Schtick. He's dealt with plenty before after all.

Blitzo gets invited by his Fem S/O for dinner with her dysfunctional parents.

He has very awkward feelings on biological family. His own crashed and burned, Got a front row seat to Moxxie's thing with his Dad, and even remembers how dismissive Paimon's treatment of Stolas a little bit. Not to mention Loona's abandoned her or at least left her alone and he's ready to kill em if he ever meets them but that's all beside the point.

Point is he has a jaded view on famlies. So when you invite him he makes a off handed remark, saying he hopes your parents were good ones, he cares about you after all, and when you awkwardly chuckle and stammer at an answer that care turns to concern. "Babe? They weren't... you know, abusive right?"He asks again only stiffening you more.

He never asked about your parents, he keeps his own past and family under wraps so he gives you the same courtesy, if you wanted to tell him that's your choice and sees no reason to push for answers. But the idea that you had anything like he did makes his stomach squirm.

Eventually you explain that while they... weren't perfect, they still tried, especially your mom despite everything and that you'd like him to meet them. He agrees wanting to make a good impression if you've already discussed it with them and the date is set.

You both dress nice, and nervously knock on the door, him putting an arm around you which you hold and your mother answers, seeming to be a very tired but nice and welcoming woman who eagerly welcomes you and Blitz. Saying she's happy to meet him, and that you've told her so much about him

"All good things I hope?"Blitzo jokes but your mother assures that it's been nothing but praise, saying she's glad her daughter found such a great man that loves her so. Blitzo, always loving praise reciprocates the politeness, overall a pleasant meeting.

Your father on the other hand isn't seen or heard until dinner (Which is quite a large meal for one woman to make alone btw)But he comes down once it's done and almost immediately the alarm bells are ringing.

Your father just looks so done with everything and doesn't even smile upon seeing you or his wife, just asking blunty "So this is your new boyfriend?"To you and Blitz, and the look he gives makes chills shoot up Blitz's back.

Still he's still awkwardly polite, same as you oddly enough. Answering basic questions with your mother occasionally chiming in as you eat. It's a awkward dinner, but not unpleasant, most light small talk is mainly between you, Blitz and your mother. Your father rarely asking a question or mumbling in response to whatever you are talking about but then... it happens...

"So what do you do... Blitzo right?"Your father asks, Blitzo composing himself real quick before answering, correcting him on the O before stating the truth, that's he's an assassin who kills people sinners want dead in the living world. While your mother finds that very intresting and impressive, but before she can even finish her sentence her husband interjects with a loud sigh.

"So another daredevil, why am I not surprised?"He asks with a very annoyed tone, earning a glare from you as your mother frowns and Blitz is just unsure what's going on, as your father and you go back and forth with your mother trying and failing to mediate

"He's not a daredevil, he runs an entire busisness for satans sake!"

"Oh he might get more money then most, but still, you just can't keep yourself away from the dangerous ones can you?"

"Blitz isn't dangerous, he's my boyfriend! A very good one, he treats me right, he makes me happy!"

"Well clearly danger finds him, it's clear on his face, how long before he almost get's you killed like the others?"

That's enough for Blitz to shoot up from his seat, declaring he'd never put his S/O in danger and that he'll protect you no matter what, to which your father just replies "They all said that." and before he replies he hears whimpering and turns to you, seeing tears in your eyes as you clutch your arm tightly

"I-I learned from the last times... Blitz is different..."You get out inbetween sniffling and your father just sighs as his wife get's after him, while Blitz holds you close, kissing you on the forehead.

Eventually he interrupts your parents fighting to say your leaving, complimenting the food but certainly not the company as he escorts you out, you staying silent the whole way to the car, him setting you in the passenger seat next to him, and you drive off, him spotting your mother watching from the window, she seemed nice, and deserving of more then her husband but your his priority right now, with you resting your head on his shoulder, still snifling as he drives home.

He's not gonna ask even though he's curious, he just wants you to feel good again, he wants to see your smile, he didn't expect you to have pain like that, but maybe you being so kind despite that makes him love you more he thinks as he wraps his tail around your waist.

When you get home you've already fallen asleep so he carries you to bed, getting you out of your shoes as he kicks off his boots and removes his jacket and joins you. Hoping holding you close makes your dreams stray from remaking tonight, as his often do about his own awful nights. Either way he makes sure your safe the best he can.

Whew! Not sure If I've ever done a full hurt comfort thing before as X Reader but I enjoyed it! One of my longer ones too XP Hope you enjoyed!

#ask reply #helluva boss #blitzo #blitzo x reader #helluva boss x reader #x reader #tw toxic parents #tw toxic family

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everlastingdreams · 11 months ago

Text

The Weeping Monk x Reader : Born In The Dawn Chapter 21

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Story Summary: Locked inside a dark room in a dungeon, kept alive only for your power, you believed you’d never see the daylight again. That is until the Weeping Monk finds his way down and steals you from your captors. It is the beginning of a journey that leads you through hardship and newfound hope, but nothing is assured in a world that is changing for the Fey. The magic that runs in your veins is drawing out the worst the world has to offer, does it include the man who pulled you from the dark?

Chapter Title: The Court Of Dawn

Notes: Gonna play the crinch this year I guess?

Warnings: Grief. Violence. Torture. Sexual Assault. Rape Threat. Gore. Enemies To Lovers. Pining. Trauma. Flagellation. Manipulation. Strong Language. Blood. Gore?. Misogyny. PTSD. Spicy and smut parts. Slight redemption arc.

Other warnings: Jealousy. Forbidden Love. Romance. Slow-burn…

Word count of this fic: +190K

Chapter: 21/ It’s a secret.

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The path to climb the hill came to an end. First you brought the horses to the stables that were located outside the curtain walls that surrounded the fort, then walked up to the large gate.

Those on the curtain walls, who watched over the grounds surrounding it, must have recognized you. A familiar voice was calling out your name in pure joy moments alter.

Your cousin darted under the raised portcullis to run to you, he must have seen you approach from his window.

You ran up to meet him half-way. “Ciro!”

Ciro crashed into your arms as you dropped down to your knees, overwhelmed by the reunion.

“You’re back!” He had his arms tightly around you.

You leaned back to look at him. “I’ve missed you! Gods, you’ve grown so much!”

Matthew was right, Ciro was almost as tall as Squirrel.

And the first thing Ciro noticed next was Squirrel.

You got up from the ground and introduced your cousin to the others while gesturing to them. “Ciro, this is Lancelot and Squirrel.”

Politely Ciro offered a hand to Squirrel to shake.

Squirrel blurted out, “You’re short.”

Lancelot nudged the boy’s arm to scold him for it. “Be polite.”

Squirrel gave an apologetic look at Ciro and did shake his hand.

Ciro was quite interested in Squirrel, “Is that your knife?”

He pointed at the knife Squirrel had gotten from you and Squirrel nodded.

“Whoa.” Ciro sounded impressed.

The children began a full conversation on knives, bows and swords.

And you decided to let them continue while you all headed to the fort. Passing the courtyard, you noticed men in armor that you didn’t recognize.

Matthew stopped right outside the door of the fort that would lead into the entrance hall. “I would love to walk with you further, but you know your father isn’t very keen on me and I don’t want to make it worse.”

It was better if there weren’t many around when your father got into a foul mood, “It’s fine. I know how he is. Maybe I’ll see you later?

The Sky Man liked that prospect. “I would love that.”

You almost couldn’t believe how different he looked at you now, in a way he had not done before you had left home.

Before he walked away, he took hold of your hand and kissed your knuckles.

You were flabbergasted while watching him walk away.

“He kissed me…”

Lancelot corrected it, sounding a bit irritated. “He kissed your hand.”

Ciro whispered something to Squirrel and it caused them both to giggle.

You glared a little at the Ash Man. “Well, he’s never done it before.”

“Not with you.” It slipped from him.

Regret followed instantly when he realized how it could come across.

Ouch…

“Thank you, for rubbing that in.” You quietly hissed and bumped into his arm while heading to the door.

Squirrel shook his head, disappointed once again at the Ash Man’s poor communication skills when it came to you.

It was true, Matthew was the flirtatious kind and until now, you had not been on the receiving end of it.

Still, Lancelot knew it was a sensitive thing for you and then responded like this…

As you walked into the building and through the entrance hall, Squirrel said something to Lancelot that you couldn’t hear.

You got halfway through the hall when your wrist was caught by the Ash Man.

“What?” You almost snapped it at him.

The otherwise brave man’s courage fled away, “I was discourteous. Forgive me.”

You barely managed to hide how upsetting it was to be reminded that Matthew had ignored you for so long until now.

The Ash Man could tell that you were more hurt than angry, he lowered his voice so the boys would not hear. “I do not want you to be hurt by someone, who had so long to see the person that you are, and was still foolish enough to reject you. I only question his motives for his flattery now.”

Was that it? Was he just looking out for you?

It also sounded like he was complimenting your character and it made you feel better, “You can be quite sweet if you’re not being a boor, you know that?”

He did not even hear the insult after seeing that small smile grow on your lips.

Squirrel’s eyes darted between you and the Ash Man a couple of times.

Ciro took an audible breath, a habit of his when nervous, and it made you look around to see what had caused it.

There, at the end of the hall stood your mother Mirena. It was like time had stopped, she had not aged a day.

“Mother…” Your voice had no strength in it.

Her heels hit the tiles and grew louder in your ears the closer she got.

Your whole body felt like it had frozen solid as a rock.

“Y/n…” A tear began to roll down her cheek when she was only a few steps away.

Mirena wrapped her arms around you in a loving embrace.

“I thought I had lost you forever.” She was crying tears of joy.

The embrace wrung your own tears out, it had been so long…

“I’m sorry.” You tried to muffle your own sobs into her shoulder. “I’m so sorry.”

She leaned back and cradled your face in her hands. “All that matters is that you’re home with us again.”

Your heart hurt to hear it. “He said I would never be welcomed back-”

Mirena would not hear of it. “Your father can be a boor sometimes, but your absence broke his heart even if he won’t admit to it.”

“But…” You began.

She interrupted your doubts. “He only said it because he was so afraid of losing you that he had used the threat to try and get the idea of leaving out off your head. He never thought you would be as stubborn as he was, none of us did.”

Mirena kept brushing your cheeks with her hands, as if you were an apparition, “Where did you go, my Little Moon?”

You did not want to tell her off your imprisonment, it would only hurt her.

“I helped our people. Like the Hidden asked of me.” You felt some pride over following what your heart believed was right.

She shared that pride in here eyes, then glanced over at the ones you had brought, “I believe introductions are in order. Who did you bring along?”

She let go off you and you introduced them to her.

“This is Lancelot and Squirrel.” You whispered to her. “Squirrel’s real name is Percival, but he likes to be called ‘Squirrel’.”

Mirena went up to the boy first and lovingly put a finger under his chin, “You are precious. Are you Sky Folk?”

Squirrel’s cheeks turned pink at the compliment. “Yes.”

Then her eyes went to Lancelot, “Are you Fey, Lancelot?”

Lancelot was polite. “I am.”

“What kind?” She inquired.

His eyes went to yours, clearly asking what would be best to say.

“Ash Folk.” You answered for him.

Her eyes went wide and she looked at you incredulous. “The Ash Folk have been gone for centuries.”

You found it quite amusing to hear how she wanted to scold you for telling the truth. “Mother, he is.”

She stared at him a little and kindly asked, “Is that why you wear the veil?”

He slowly nodded. “The mark of my people, I have tainted it with my actions. Therefore I must hide them.”

Mirena was never afraid to chase the truth and she lifted her hands up to touch the veil, “May I?”

You held your breath but gave a little nod when Lancelot looked your way.

He reached up and removed the veil for her.

Mirena had taken a few steps back and took hold of your arm to move you behind her. “Ciro, come here!”

Even when a sword was at your side, she still put herself between you and what she assumed was ‘danger’.

Ciro stayed at Squirrels side, not understanding what was happening.

You put a hand on Mirena’s arm. “Mother, please. I know what you think, but Lancelot will not hurt us.”

“That’s the Weeping Monk!” She said with fear struck eyes.

You could see the Ash Man’s sorrowful response to the title. “He was. And then he saved me and Squirrel. He fought for us, mother. We’d be dead without him.”

She repeated in disbelief, “He fought for you?”

You left out the part where he had been the one to capture you in the first place, it would not help you now. “Squirrel and I were held captive by paladins. Lancelot fought and killed Trinity Guards to save us, he helped me when I got bitten by a wolf.”

Her fear for him vanished when she heard it, “You got bitten by a wolf?!”

Of course that would distracted her.

You pleaded with her to be open minded towards the Ash Man. “On our way here, yes. Please, mother, Lancelot is a good man. Father Carden stole a Fey child from our people and forced him to become what we so feared. Don’t let the Church win, the Ash Folk is not a legend, they are real. He is real, he is here, with us and for us.”

Mirena narrowed her eyes at him, “Why did you bring him here?”

You told her the truth. “He wanted to know for certain that this place is safe for Squirrel and I.”

She seemed surprised that he cared for such a thing. “Helio will not be happy with his presence.”

That was something you both agreed on. “Father will have to bring it up with the Hidden then. The old gods refused to let me leave him to die and as it turns out, I believe he is the summoner of the Ash Folk.”

Mirena looked Lancelot in the eye, “You hear the Hidden?”

“Sadly.” He deadpanned, then quickly said. “I do.”

Her expression changed. “Gods, he is as happy with it as you are.”

Well, she wasn’t wrong about that. Neither of you were stoked to be chosen as summoners.

Mirena looked at him for a moment longer, “Are you certain you wish for your father to find out who you’ve brought here?”

You went to stand beside the Ash Man. “Lancelot insists on meeting you both. We’d like for Squirrel to have a safe place to stay.”

“I’ll get to live in a castle?” Squirrel asked excitedly.

Ciro seemed rather excited with the possibility too, “Can he, aunt Mirena?”

Mirena answered honestly. “We will have to see what your uncle says about this, Ciro.”

She sighed a little, then beckoned for you to walk with her. “Things have changed since you left, Little Moon. Your father has been knighting others in who he sees potential.”

That wasn’t something you had expected. “But he has forsaken knighthood.”

Mirena explained what had caused the change. “He changed when you left. Your strong will and determination to help the Fey must have inspired him to do the same in his own way.”

“Why is he knighting others?” You questioned his motivation behind it.

She opened a door for you. “We need knights if we want to keep the growing population under control. More and more Fey find their way here, there has to be rules and order or we risk chaos.”

You concluded. “A kingdom without a king.”

She spoke of it a little lighthearted. “But with a Knight Commander who rules as one.” She stopped at the door that led into what had once been the great hall of the Dawn court. “He’s in here, talking to some of the knights. Let me talk to him first?”

Ah, yes. Mirena had often offered to talk to your father first to take on the first wave of his angry responses. It had been so since childhood when you misbehaved.

“Thank you.” You smiled when she touched your arm, and held your breath when she walked into the room alone.

Ciro shared a grimace, knowing how his uncle could respond to news such as this, “Do you think he’ll be very angry?”

It was to be expected, considering this time you did not bring a wild animal home, but the former Weeping Monk…

And just like with those wild animals you brought home as a child, you also would prefer to keep the Ash Man around, even if you were too proud to admit it to him yet.

A voice like thunder came from past the door, followed by multiple other ones who did not sound happy.

Ciro tugged at your arm, “Will aunt Mirena be alright?”

Your father wasn’t an easy man, but he’d never put a hand on your mother, and she was perfectly capable to face the storm that was his mood.

“She’s alright, Ciro. Nothing my father says can send her running.” You reassured him.

Squirrel had planted his ear and hands against the door to listen in, but there were too many voices inside to eavesdrop.

Lancelot seemed as concerned as Ciro was upon hearing the anger in your father’s voice.

You reassured him as well. “You once called me a combative woman.”

The Ash Man bit his tongue, recalling that he had indeed called you such.

“Guess were I inherited that from…” You smirked.

Squirrel heard the soft voice of Mirena in the thunder of voices, never once did she raise hers, and it was still strong enough to silence the storm for a moment each time. When the boy heard her heels getting closer to the door, he quickly went to stand behind Lancelot with Ciro.

Mirena opened the door for you to enter. “I told him you are here, and who is with you.”

The sympathetic look she send Lancelot said it all.

She took you by the arm and guided you inside, Lancelot took hold of Squirrel’s shoulder to keep him near.

Your father, Helio, was conversing with a group of Feys, the whole room fell silent when you entered.

Mirena held onto your arm a little longer, sensing the tenseness in it. “Don’t be afraid. Go to him.”

You could only nodded and forced your feet to walk forward.

All of them were armed with a suit and wearing armor, as if it was back in the days of the Dawn king. They must be the knights Mirena had spoken off, and all were watching Lancelot like a hawk, all but Helio.

“Father.” You greeted him and felt your courage threaten to leave you.

He was his usual stern self. “We hear nothing of you for months, and now you return like nothing has happened.”

You had left without their knowledge that day, it had been cowardly but it was the only way to ensure he would not have prevented it.

And yet you were still to prideful to admit it had been so. “You told me not to return if I left.”

The knights looked at him, curious to see how their Knight Commander would react to it.

Helio came closer. “Of course I told you that! I thought it would get the idea out of your head!”

His thundering voice made your eyes snap to the floor.

You still stood behind your motivation for leaving. “It didn’t! I wasn’t going to stay here while I could be out there saving people! The Hidden was telling me to save them and they haunted my dreams until I left! Wasn’t that what you wanted? For me to serve the Hidden?!”

The rant ignited his anger. “I wanted my daughter home and safe! To hell with what the old gods want with you!”

The room fell eerily silent.

Before you had left, they had wanted you to accepted the Hidden’s offer as summoner. But now it seemed like your father had not expected that it would mean losing his child to it.

It confused you. “But you were so angry and disappointed when I refused to become a summoner.”

He stopped right in front of you. “I thought becoming a summoner would give you the power to always be safe. Tell me, now that you have followed their will, were you safe?”

You wanted to take a step back as you felt your eyes start to sting.

All you could do was shake your head slightly, giving him his answer.

Even he knew that if you refused to speak, it must have been something terrible. “I have put too much pressure on you…”

He finally realized the mistake he had made back then, the one your mother had tried to warn him for a thousand times.

“I survived.” You brought out.

Helio put a hand to your shoulder. “Surviving is not living. I want my daughter to live, whether she is a summoner or not.”

Mirena stepped forward. “Dear, tell her she is welcome here.”

He gave a nod and looked at you. “Always.”

A weight fell from your shoulders now that you were welcomed home again.

Helio looked over your shoulder. “I cannot say the same for one of the guests you have brought along.”

You didn’t have to think long to know who he was talking about.

He moved past you and approached Squirrel first, considering he and Ciro stood close-by next to Mirena now, while Lancelot stayed at a safe distance.

Helio came close to Squirrel, “What is your name, young one?”

The young Fey knight held his head high. “Squirrel.”

It caused a frown on your father’s face, “Is that the name you were given?”

Squirrel was visibly thinking for a second, then said. “My real name is Percival.”

It was a rare occurrence for the boy to be open about his real name, perhaps he had grown to like it after it being used by Lancelot.

Helio looked at the knife that sat across Squirrel’s chest, “Where are your parents, Percival?”

It took the boy a moment to reply. “Dead.”

Helio shared a look with Mirena.

You told him why you had brought the boy here. “Lancelot and I wanted to find a place where Squirrel can be safe.”

Your father looked towards Lancelot for a second, it was not a nice look…

Mirena went to stand behind Squirrel and held his shoulders, “He is welcome here, is he not, Helio?”

He agreed on the statement. “The boy may stay.”

The joy in you was short lived, because your father approached Lancelot and drew his sword.

The knights in the room discreetly put their hands near their swords as well.

Surprisingly, Lancelot kept his hand away from his sword, often he would rest it there but now he must have known that it was a bad idea to do so.

You feared what your father would do and hurried to Lancelot’s side before your father got close.

Helio sure did not like to see how quick you were to run to his aid, he addressed him directly. “You… I should kill you were you stand!”

Mirena kept the children at a distance in case it got out off control.

You stepped in front of the Ash Man like a shield when your father took a threatening step closer, and felt the Ash Man put a hand on your waist.

He was ready to pull you out of harm’s way if needed be.

The Dawn Man’s eyes spewed fire in his direction, much like yours once had.

“Kill him and you will never see me again!” You meant every word of the threat.

Helio saw the hand of the enemy on his daughter and his eyes darkened. “Just because you are Ash Folk, does not mean you are one of us! The village below would love to get their hands on the one responsible for having to flee their homes!”

He had expected the ill-response and yet it still cut into him far worse than a blade ever could.

“Father, he saved Squirrel and I! He killed Trinity Guards-” You tried to reason.

Helio was furious. “You are protecting the Weeping Monk!”

You stood your ground. “The Hidden forced me to save him! They want him to live!”

He would not hear of it. “He is as bad as the Reaper is!”

You snapped back at him. “He is nothing like the Reaper! I met the Reaper and Lancelot risked his neck to keep me out of the Reaper’s hands!”

Silence fell so sudden that it felt uncomfortable.

“What did you say?” Helio asked in disbelief.

Your mother looked close to tears.

Maybe it was time to explain what had happened. “I was kept at a paladin camp that was under the command of Father Carden, the paladins did not even know that Lancelot was Fey. Only Father Carden knew because he stole Lancelot from the Fey as a child to raise him into a weapon against our kind. One day, the Reaper came and used a knife to cut my skin to see if I was Dawn Folk. Lancelot stepped between us.”

“The Reaper knows of your existence…” Helio took a step back. “He’ll hunt you.”

Mirena held the children closer while processing the news.

You hated to think of it. “Lancelot is nothing like him.”

Helio thought for a moment, then came to the harsh conclusion. “We cannot trust him. If he goes back to the Church… he knows too much.”

He gave the sudden command to the knights. “Seize him!”

“What? NO!” You refused to step aside when they got closer. “Father, please!”

Two of the knights pulled you away while the others surrounded Lancelot.

He wasn’t even fighting them… as if he accepted his fate.

Helio told the Ash Man of his judgment. “You will live out your days in darkness down in the dungeon. Where you will not be able to harm another soul ever again.”

“Father!” You snapped and tried to elbow a knight in the chest.

Helio would hear no excuses. “Be glad I do not give him to the village!”

You were ready to object again.

Lancelot stopped you from doing so and presented himself as willing to obey the chosen punishment, “It is alright, y/n. You and Percival are safe, that is all that matters.”

Squirrel broke free from Mirena and ran over to Lancelot, too fast for the knights to stop him, the boy flung his arms around the Ash Man’s waist.

Only then, when a knight wanted to grab the boy and pull him away, Lancelot drew his sword to keep the knight at a distance.

Helio held up his hand and prevented the other knights from attacking.

Lancelot did appreciate the chance he was given, he pried the arms of the boy from around him and knelt down, holding the boy by the shoulders. “Do not fear, Percival. Look after y/n, look after yourself.”

Squirrel had tears in his eyes whilst nodding.

The knights confiscated his swords and weapons before taking the Ash Man to the dungeons.

You were still pleading with your stern father when they walked past you with him.

This wasn’t how it was meant to go, he was supposed to have his freedom as you had yours, not damned to the same fate you had once been trapped in.

He could so easily fight them off, none here had the same level of skill. Why wasn’t he? Why was he agreeing to this?!

“Lancelot…” You didn’t know what to say anymore.

His eyes met yours, it was as if he just knew how distressed you were and therefore kept calm himself.

Once they had escorted him out of the great hall, the knights finally released you.

You didn’t know what to do anymore. “He doesn’t deserve this!”

Helio’s mind was set, and Mirena knew that this was the only way to prevent the Ash Man from being killed.

Squirrel stayed close to Ciro, clearly shaken by the situation.

Mirena came closer to touch your arm. “Little Moon-”

“No!” You walked away from your parents and out of the room.

You hated how the two knights still followed you out, probably correctly assuming that you would try to help Lancelot.

Some other Feys that lived in the castle walked by and were clearly curious to see what was going on.

Mirena walked out of the room and into the hallways as well, she approached you when seeing how distraught you were.

She tried to offer comfort.“I know you are angry, Little Moon. But in the dungeons he will be safe from those who seek vengeance.”

You could tell there was more to it. “You don’t trust him either. You and father, you think he will go back to the Church.”

Mirena tried to reason. “We cannot take risks, you must understand this.”

You turned to face away from her.

“Give it time.” She gently said.

At least your father had not killed him…

Mirena sighed softly. “Your old room is still as it was, go and have some rest. And don’t worry about young Squirrel, I shall let him share a room with Ciro, your cousin seems to like him already.”

You nodded and walked away from her, heading down the familiars paths that led to the room where you had spend many a night.

Upon entering, you saw that nothing about it had changed. The bed was made and all was still in place. Books were stacked on the nightstand, your clothes were still in the closet.

Even the doll your mother had made you once was still sitting on the pillows, but not quite where you had left it. Had she held it in her hands when she thought you would never return?

And you weren’t going to return, not until after you learned that Squirrel needed a safe place to call home.

You sat down on your bed and held the doll in your hands, it was exactly how the Fey made their toys.

Old branches for arms and legs, straw for hair and a cloth body filled with tiny pieces of straw.

A knock on your door pulled you from your thoughts. “Yes?”

Mirena walked into your room, holding a book in her hands that she offered to you. “I thought you might want to read this.”

You plucked the book from her hands and put it down next to you without looking at it.

She sighed, then gestured to the doll in your hands. “You loved that one more than all the others.”

You put the doll down next, still too angry to hold a conversation.

Another sigh fell from her and she decided it was better to leave you alone for a while.

After you took off your satchel and placed it on the ground beside your feet, you did pick up the book your mother had given you.

Disinterested, you skimmed through the pages until some words pulled you into the story it had to offer.

Fey Fire… Ash Folk…

It told of the Feys who were killed first when the war began, murdered because they were born with the ability to create and bring forth Fey Fire at will.

With the extinguishing of the Ash Folk, the Fey fire disappeared from the lands and took most of the magic along with it.

Father Carden had not chosen Lancelot just for his ability to smell out his own kind, but because he must have known of the power the Ash Folk held within. How many books held this legendary tale? Had the priest been in the possession of one?

There were things Lancelot had not told you, or perhaps he was not aware of it himself.

One thing was certain, you would not let the Ash Man wither in the dungeons for the rest of his days, even if it meant that your father would never forgive you for what you were about to do.

~~~♡~~~♡~~~◇~~~♡~~~♡~~~

You waited until after midnight and refused all invitations to have a meal. Your mother had made one more attempt before evening to better the situation by informing you that Squirrel now shared a room with Ciro. It was good that the boys got along well, Ciro was always quick to be impressed by others and Squirrel’s fearless attitude surely helped.

Squirrel was safe, but there was someone else who needed help now.

Your old hairpins were still in the drawer with the comb, you took them with you when leaving the room.

One knight had fallen asleep against the wall at the end of the hallway, and most others in the castle were asleep as well.

You were raised here, this fort held no secrets for you and it wasn’t hard to get to the dungeons without being noticed by the knights.

They weren’t as experienced yet, and one of their mistakes was leaving the door to the dungeon locked but unguarded.

A smartly folded hairpin made quick work of the lock on the door.

The narrow steps down to the dungeon reminded you of the one you had escaped from.

You pushed the thought away and continued your way down.

The darkness in the dungeon was suffocating and filled you with the same dread you had experienced back then. The thought that your father was putting Lancelot through the same torment was horrible.

You went back up the steps and took a torch off of the wall to light the way.

This dungeon had no rooms, only cells with iron bars.

You were still searching for him when you heard your name be called.

“Y/n?”

Following the direction from which it came, you found the Ash Man in the very last cell.

Your scent had filled the air and alerted him to your presence long before he had heard your footsteps.

You put the torch in the holder beside the cell he was in, it still offered very little light in the heavy darkness.

He was standing near the iron bars that kept him prisoner. “I would have thought that you would prefer to avoid a place such as this.”

He wasn’t wrong about that…

You took hold of a bar and gave it a pull to test it’s strength, it did not budge at all.

It confused you still why he had just surrendered to this.“Why didn’t you fight your way out?”

His hand curled around the iron bar just above your own. “This is your home. And if I were to fight my way out of this place, it would only prove that I cannot solve a problem without bloodshed.”

You tried to ignore how close his hand was to yours and that he had deliberately placed it there. “Don’t get holy on me now, Ash Man. You don’t fool me into believing that you suddenly are against using a sword.”

His smirk now was timid as he offered the other reason for not acting against the punishment he was receiving. “Here you can always find me.”

Your grip on the bar tightened, and you found yourself unable to look him in the eyes whilst he so clearly wished for it.

You got the hairpin from the waistband of your trousers where you had hidden it and put your attention on the padlock of the cell door.

He did not move, “What are you doing?”

“Getting you out of here.” You began to pry into the lock with the lockpick.

There was no time for him to talk the idea out of your head, you proved to be quite skilled in lock picking and popped it open without a problem.

You pulled the cell door open and made a small arrogant bow whilst gesturing for him to step out.

And he did step out, sly smirk playing on his lips as he tsked. “What will your father say about this?”

You shrugged your shoulders. “Well, he wouldn’t be surprised.”

He almost seemed proud of your misbehavior, “Where are my swords?”

That was a good question. “I think they might have locked them in one of these cells too. I doubt they want to use weapons that carry the symbols of the Church.”

He hummed pensively.

“Sorry…” You said upon realizing how it might have come across.

“No need.” He said, then plucked the torch from the wall again and took hold of your arm to keep you near and in the light with him.

The closer you got to the stairs, the quieter you got. You found the swords in the very first cell and began to pick the lock.

This padlock wasn’t as easy as the other one, it had a little rust to make things worse.

Lancelot held the torch close so you could see better, he whispered to you, “I can leave this place on my own, you do not have to stay and help, it will only bring you trouble. Leave the hairpin with me and if I were to be caught, I will take the blame. They do not have to know you were here.”

You frowned and turned your head a little, noticing how close he was to you, “Are you planning on getting caught?”

That stern tone made him frown too. “No, I-”

You ignored the chance he was giving you. “Good… be quiet then.”

A scoff fell from him, still he could not hide that smile in the darkness. “As you wish.”

At this point you had gotten nervous and fumbled with the lock, him standing by and

watching it happen wasn’t helping at all.

When it finally opened, it almost fell to the ground and he caught it before the metal hitting the tiles could wake the whole fort up.

He put the padlock on the ground and went into the cell to fetch his swords, then hurried out again after sheathing them in their scabbards.

“My horse?” He asked hopeful.

“Goliath should still be in the stables.” You gestured for him to follow.

Together you made your way up the steps and he put the torch back where it had came from, it would only draw unwanted attention now.

Sneaking through the fort was actually easier with him, his heightened sense of smell alerted him to the presences of others far quicker.

Climbing out a window was the safest way to leave the building, he went first and helped you down the small height from it as well.

At the stables, he held onto Goliath’s reins.

“Percival?” He quietly inquired.

You understood he was worried. “He’s now sharing a room with my cousin.”

Lancelot gave a slow nod, his eyes suddenly distant. “He’s safe…”

It sounded more like he was convincing himself of it. The Ash Man had grown attached to the boy, as you had.

“He is.” You gently touched his arm. “I’ll stay home for a while, to make sure he doesn’t get himself into too much trouble.”

Something told him that you were staying home because your heart had missed it.

After giving his arm a squeeze, you let go. “Come. I will walk with you and get you past the village.”

He took a few steps, then stopped. “Veil…”

You helped search for the sheet he had ruined to make the previous one and cut another long piece from it.

He held out his hand for it, believing you would hand it to him.

Instead you stepped closer and bravely put the veil on his face yourself.

You adjusted it until it sat right, your voice broke a little. “I wish it didn’t have to be this way.”

It felt too much to say, especially when seeing his expression change.

You turned and slowly walked out of the stables, waiting for him to follow.

It had halted him for a moment.

Finally he led Goliath out of the stables with him and stopped by your side.

By now you had gotten more control over your emotions and even jested, “Maybe in time, we could have been friends. If you weren’t so insufferable.”

He was quick to return the jest. “Likewise.”

You rolled your eyes at him when seeing how pleased he looked with himself now.

“Could have been?” Lancelot asked almost timidly.

It was the hope in his eyes that helped you admit to it. “I think I should tell you that I do have begun to see you as a friend.”

That confession must have taken quite something.

Lancelot glanced at the few small spots of light still coming from the village down below. “Ah, getting me out of that cell was not just pity.”

“Oaf.” You sighed with a smile. “Come on, let’s get you away from here before my father tosses us both in the dungeon.”

You began to walk away and bit back a smile at how fast he was to join your side again to walk beside you.

The village down below was mostly asleep, some candlelight still illuminated the houses inside, it was quite a charming sight to see at night.

And it felt a lot safer to guide the former monk through the village now. He even put his cloak over his swords more to hide them from sight.

“Are you… going to be alright?” You worried for his future. “I uhm… I wanted to give you these.”

You rummaged through the pocket of your vest and handed him the coins you still had after stealing them from that lord.

He was looking at the coins in his hand, taking a bit long to reply. “Thank you for them. And I will have to find my way. I thought you would be relieved to be rid of me now.”

Ugh, it was so obvious that he was fishing for you to stroke his ego and tell him that you couldn’t live without him, it was written all over his face.

You kept a neutral face, “Who says I’m not?”

It had sounded so monotone and genuine that it made him look at your face to see if it was true.

It took a few seconds of silent alarm before he narrowed his eyes at you.

He said it half between his teeth, voicing his annoyance over your wit, “I wish I did not care for you, then you would not be able to pull these tricks on me.”

A smile curved your lips, then fell away slightly.

There was a pleasant tingling going up your neck that was caused by his words.

“I feel no relief.” You scrambled together the courage to admit it. “And I don’t want our last moments together to be sad ones.”

His fingers fidgeted with reins. “Neither do I.”

It was an answer to both of your admissions.

He stopped walking and mounted Goliath without a warning.

You blinked up at him confused. “What-”

The Ash Man, with a lopsided grin, reached his hand down for you to take. “Come here.”

It took another second for your feet to move and your hand to take hold of his.

He had you planted safely in front of him on the horse a moment later. “Do you trust me?”

You didn’t dare to look behind you. “Sometimes.”

A scoff and chuckle fell, light as air. “If you do, close your eyes.”

For a second, you did not know where to place your hands and then rested them in your lap to hide your fidgeting. “Why?”

Always so stubborn…

He was grinning ear to ear, “Unless you are frightened?”

Your head whipped around to glare at him, with a mighty eye roll you turned again and shut your eyes. “Fine.”

You felt him move, first the cool breeze of wind touched the back of your neck, the difference with his warm breath then closing in was indescribable.

Never did you think he would spur Goliath on to gallop.

The sudden change of pace had your back falling into his chest and a curse flying out of your mouth.

Goliath could fool one into believing he was not one for speed, but gods this horse could run faster than the wind and you were holding on for dear life.

It must not have been longer than a few minutes and by the time he slowed down, you were out of the village and past the guarding Feys in the trees. Like a whirlwind had picked you up and placed the three of you in that forest.

You sat frozen for a moment while your heart tried to find it’s normal rhythm again that it left behind back at the village.

He was clearly waiting for a reaction, you just knew it.

Your thoughts collected itself and reminded you of the way you were seated against him, instantly you sat upright.

“We were going to reach this place before dawn, you know?” You broke the silence.

“Not at the pace you were walking.” The smug oaf said.

“I’m getting down from this horse.” You told him and put it into action right after.

Not even his hand on your arm could stop you from doing so.

You looked up at him and saw the smirk, “You do realize I will have to walk back home now after you took me further away from it than necessary?”

That slightly bitter tone was amusing.

“Already?” The smirk faltered.

It saddened you to see it vanish. “I should let you go before anyone finds out you’re missing.”

He got down from the horse and stepped closer to you. “I do not want this to be the last time I see you or the boy.”

You gave it a moment of thought. “On the second day of winter, we could meet here. I would bring Squirrel.”

Winter felt so far off now…

The small smile did not reach his eyes. “I shall be here.”

You held out your hand and saw him frown in confusion.

He hesitated, not once but twice, before taking your hand in his.

You shook it amicably and actually let out a silly laugh because of how awkward it felt to say goodbye like this. “Sorry… I don’t do farewells…”

His grip got a bit firmer. “This is no farewell.” He gave your hand a small squeeze. “Until we meet again.”

He let go off your hand and visibly struggled to step away.

You could not blame him, as you felt the same struggle.

It was an idea that got into your head right there on the spot to step closer and put your hands on his arms, using them to keep your balance while putting your lips to his cheek.

Quick and light, like the wings of a butterfly touching his skin.

Without looking back, or at his face to see his response, you walked past him and back to the fort you called home.

After a few minutes of slowly walking, your heavy heart made it difficult for your legs to carry on home.

Why was it so hard to part with the Ash Man? It had been the plan all along.

A plan made when you couldn’t stand him…

Looking back, he was long since out of your sight, swallowed by the forest and the night.

The sound of a branch snapping echoed through the forest.

The dense forest made it impossible to see if someone was hiding among the trees. It was The Hidden that began to sound restless in your ears that alarmed you.

With a hand on your sword, you continued your path.

You were being followed, you just felt it.

It was the first time in your life where you had been frightened in this forest so close to home.

Another sound made you turn on your heels, heart beating violently in your ears.

All you felt next was being struck by something against the side of your head, after that all was dark.

Taglist:

@ourlazydetectivekitten @the-great-adventures-of-me @linkpk88 @fxrchxldws @elenaoftheturks @slytherlight @beananacake @crystallizedtime @moonlightaura03 @angrygardendeer @have-aheart @5am-cigarette @arcanenature @thewinterskywalker @notyourwildestdream @coloursforyourportrait @koressecretidentity @nike90 @n1ghtlux @rachlovesactors @luckyzipperscissorsbat @morena-doing-stuff @the-fangirl-diaries @gipsydanger17 @heavenly1927 @phantasmalbeiing @labyrinthonmymind @asarcastic-thiamstan @rainyv-skies @kissingandromeda @stclairesplace @katjusja @isla-bell-blog @beebeerockknot

Please let me know if you want to be added or removed from the taglist of this story.

#the weeping monk #lancelot #weeping monk #cursed netflix #weeping monk x reader #cursed #lancelot x reader #weeping monk x you #cursed lancelot #the weeping monk x reader #daniel sharman character #Daniel Sharman

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kaidoslastbraincell · 1 year ago

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request from @kazenomegaminowanpisu

you're the sweetest person on the planet when it comes to katsuki bakugo...too bad that doesn't extend to the other women trying to get with him

Readers quirk: chemical burn-your body secretes ethanol which you can ignite to produce flames invisible to the naked eye (only you can see them unless it's dark where they're visible to everyone)

pairings: bakugo x fem!reader (3rd years)

genre: fluff i guess?

recommended song: I.F.L.Y by Bazzi

_____________________________________

It was no secret that you and Katsuki Bakugo were a couple. He made it painfully obvious when he treated you like the most precious thing on the planet. But that was only towards you. You were sweet in general, to pretty much everyone, but you were sweetest to him.

You never had to worry much about other girls hitting on him. His aggressive nature usually fended them off all on its own. And you never garnered much attention from the guys... That was until you won the UA sports festival in your third year. While Katsuki pouted over his loss for a while, he was undoubtedly proud. His girlfriend was one of the strongest. And now the whole world knew it too. Boys would bother you now; cornering you at your locker or delaying your short walks between classes. You'd try to be polite about it, entertain their questions until they bordered on invasive. And even before you got the chance to be more harsh, the ash blonde would appear behind you. "Everything okay here, angel?" There's the softness only for you. Then his searing glare turns on the extras who dare even look at his woman. They scurry away immediately. Nobody wants to be on Katsuki's bad side (if they aren't already).

It was another regular day. Your muscles ached from hero training and the long week of work studies. You were chatting with Izuku and Todoroki by your locker, the two offering to wait with you until Katsuki arrived. Eventually you heard the distinctive stomps of your boyfriend, followed by a whiney voice of a girl you didn't recognise. Every muscle in your body tensed. Who was this girl acting so familiarly with him? You were friends with all of his friends...having been adopted into the bakusquad not long into your first year. They stopped a short distance away from you when he turned to her suddenly, preparing to give her a piece of his mind. The girl stepped further into his bubble...the space only you were allowed to occupy...and grabbed his hand.

"y/n-chan...are you okay?" Izuku murmured softly.

You hummed in response, turning to the boys with an overly-sweet smile: "I'll be right back."

You reached them in seconds, a hand grabbing the other girl's wrist hard enough to bruise. And when Katsuki felt you right beside him, he breathed a sigh of relief.

"Everything okay here, Kat?" you asked softly, your glare never leaving the girl before you.

"No," he growled, "this nobody won't leave me the fuck alone."

Your eyes narrowed further while the girl matched your stare, a smirk tugging at her lips.

"Aw come on Katsuki," she purred, "I just wanna get to know you better."

Your grip on her wrist tightened some more until you saw her wince, the palm of your hand heating up.

"He said no."

"You're not the boss of him," she huffed.

"You're right. I'm not. But I am his girlfriend and you're making MY boyfriend uncomfortable."

Katsuki could feel your body heat rising and he smirked, taking a step closer to you.

"What are you gonna do about it huh?" she hissed.

"I'm assuming you were in the sports festival? And if not, you at least watched it hm?"

The girl nodded, brow furrowing in confusion.

"Then I'm assuming you know what my quirk is..."

"Chemical burn?"

"Ding ding! Correct! Then you should know that my quirk is very temperamental and reliant on my emotions...and right know...you're pissing me off."

Flames only you could see flickered around your fingers and shoulders, the heat against her skin causing her to yelp and release Katsuki's wrist. Your grip didn't relent though.

"Bitch! You're burning me!" she screeched.

You deadpanned.

"Oh...I am? I didn't notice."

You threw her arm away from your boyfriend and she stormed off. Turning to the blonde beside you, a sweet smile lit up your features.

"I've got your back baby, don't you worry," you winked before walking back towards your two friends.

"God I fucking love her..."

#myposts #kaidoslastbraincell #Mha #My hero academia #mha x reader #bakugo katsuki #katsuki bakugo #Bakugo x reader #Mha fluff

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anxiousdino · 2 years ago

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Your eyes aren’t rivers there to weep, but a place for crows to rest their feet

Cross posted on AO3 by the same name!

Almost a year ago Bowser kidnapped Peach for the last time. Exactly 11 months and 13 days ago, the two rulers signed a peace treaty. And, in a week there is a party. Unsurprisingly the Mushroom Kingdom decided to celebrate the anniversary in their typical fashion; a huge event. Stalls and fair games will be placed along paths near the palace for those wishing to escape a crowded dance within the castle. Koopas and mushroom people alike are invited to the festivities.

This is where we find Luigi; finishing a snack stall for one of the locals. Without receiving any thanks he leaves to help another vendor only to be stopped by his ex-enemy. He wishes he could deny the small yelp from being startled. Bowser chuckles at the plumber before greeting him boisterously. The sentiment is returned, albeit much quieter but just as joyful. Witnessing the display of Luigi’s unsuspecting strength the Koopa King teases him, claiming that he’ll be giving him a run for his coins soon. Across the shy plumber’s face spreads a maroon from the complement. To hide it, Luigi bows with a flourish of his hat and plays into the joke.

Being friends with Luigi came easier and more natural than with his twin considering that the two barely knew each other. He and Mario had a sour history that made the reconciliation feel less political and more like children being forced to apologise after a fight on the playground. While the princess found it quite amusing, the men did not. Then came apologising to ‘the green one’. As half assed as the apology was, he was forgiven much quicker than with his actual nemesis. In fact, Luigi had invited him to ‘hang out’ or something which baffled Bowser to no end. Yet he still agreed and caved into the timid smile.

During the week the two barely separate while helping for preparations, swapping jokes and deep conversations as they have been the whole year.

Rambles of his garden follow the pair down the path to the Mario Bros’ house, and as they get closer the human grabs the koopa’s hand. His excitement renders him oblivious to his company’s stunned reaction to the simple gesture. There is a small garden laid before the front door, it had been a project in Luigi’s spare time. Bowser notes that the stars in the shorter man’s eyes tell him that it’s his pride and joy far more than his words were currently trying to. It’s impossible for him to resist joining in on the plumber’s mirth. Teasing remarks are comfortably traded while Luigi shows Bowser his humble flower beds before moving to sit on the lawn.

The conversation begins to sway between topics like the grass blades do in the breeze, the larger of the two softly watches a flower crown being weaved by his unlikely friend. He’s so caught up in the rustle of Luigi’s hair and the sun lighting up his eyes to match the sky above that it takes him a second to realise the crown is being placed on his head.

“There! A king-a needs his crown, bello come sempre amore mio,” his face burns as he corrects himself, “amico mio.”

Still dazed from his sedated hour in the cosy sun with the fantastic view, he doesn’t question the plumber’s gibberish like he normally does. Instead he thanks the world that whatever it was made the man prettily flustered.

“Then where’s yours?”

At first, Luigi falters, his smile dims and his body freezes. Quickly enough though, his face goes from pink to maroon and picks up his hat to hide behind it. Some of the Italian curses make it past the fabric to the koopa’s ears. The same koopa heartily laughs as the hat is swatted against his arm.

“Mama Mía, Bowser! You can’t just-a say those things!”

“Even if it makes you smile this much? Bit contradictory there Green Bean.”

“Bruto, bruto assoluto. You’re a brute, I hope you know that.” Wait, Luigi knows that grin-

“Yeah, you love it though.” He does.

Royals and citizens in fancy outfits pack the ballroom but Luigi pays no mind to them. Koopalings terrorising (pranking) them is much more entertaining. They aren’t quite who he wants to see but the fondness hugging him nearly makes him forget about who he was looking for. When he does find the person, everything fades away. Bowser stands there, talking to Kamek, in a black suit with a deep green shirt unbuttoned at the top. It makes Luigi want to undo a few of his own just to be able to breathe a little.

“Stop ogling him and ask him to dance.”

“Waah! Don’t-a sneak up on me like-a that, Daisy!”

“Never. Besides, I said ‘hello’ at least twice. Ask him to dance.”

Luigi groans, knowing she’s not going drop it. They make a deal; he will if she buys him a drink for confidence first. Daisy quirks a brow at him downing it considering he’s never been a big drinker. True to his word, he hands his best friend his glass, bids her a ‘fuck you’ and strides up to Bowser.

Even from the slight distance she can tell her friend is getting worked up with anxiety. Where Bowser stands it’s even worse, he just smirks while the smaller man stuttered through the request. To Luigi’s further dismay the taller of them pretends to have to think it over.

Bowser leads, mostly out of convenience with their sizes, his claw more than covering Luigi’s waist. Due to their heights Luigi holds on to the koopa’s bicep rather than his shoulder and they clasp their other hands together, albeit a little awkwardly. After a few moments of getting in the rhythm they begin to feel more comfortable, naturally gravitating closer. By the end of the song they are firmly pressed together head to chest with Luigi having his eyes closed and trusting Bowser to guide them both. A flourish of instruments boldly finish the music before starting the next slow dance. The king doesn’t notice. He can’t notice anything other than how Luigi looks up at him like that and before either even realise they both start leaning in.

Right as they’re about to meet in the middle Luigi pulls back. Fiery eyes snap open to meet icy ones. Neither move away.

“Y’alright, Greenie?” Had he read this wrong? The plumber shakes his head and looks down.

“I, I can’t-a do this,” he meets Bowser’s gaze again, “I really want to but I can’t.”

Confusion mixes with the koopa’s concern as the words register. A million reasons brew in his mind, but Luigi isn’t shallow enough for any of them to make sense. He tests it anyway, a small puff of smoke from his nostrils accompanies the question.

“Cause of what I am? Who I am?” It’s more tentative than angry. “No! N-nothing like-a that!”

“Mario? He still got a problem with me?” His small chuckle quickly gets cut off by the shorter man leaving his arms.

“Bowser. I can’t-a do this because I can’t be a back up. I grew up as-a everyone’s second choice, fine, I’ve accepted it. But you? I can’t-a put myself through that.” Tears crack his voice but don’t fall.

“Back up? Greenie-no-Luigi, you’re not second. I want you.”

“Because you can’t-a have her. We both-a know you’re only settling for me because a treaty stops you having her.” Seeing Bowser’s face twist so painfully gave a tear permission to fall. The anger in the king’s eyes throws him off.

“D’ya really think that little of me?” People notice his voice raise and curiously eavesdrop. Not realising the situation Luigi immediately fires back.

“Of course not! I think that little of myself!”

Cheerful ballroom music has never sounded so somber than it does now, in an otherwise silent hall. Bowser himself flinches back from the outburst while stares drown the two of them. It isn’t until Mario touches his shoulder that the situation hits the younger twin.

“Fratello? You good, Weegi?” Before he finishes asking, his brother is bolting out of room. All the former foes can do is look at each other in concern as Peach gets the party running again.

One slightly awkward explanation later has Bowser pacing and Mario stunned.

“You-a kissed my brother?”

“Tried to. That’s what you’re focusing on?”

Mario nods uncomfortably, “right, scusi. I knew he had self-esteem issues but I thought he was getting better, not worse. Did I-a do this to him? I try to help but-“ A snort cuts him off.

“Look, we don’t get on but ’m not stupid. You’re a good brother, I’ve seen it.”

Being reassured, by Bowser no less, halts the spiral Mario begun going down. A few seconds pass before the plumber fiercely catches the koopa’s gaze and asks if Luigi was right. Suddenly the stare was mutual.

“Fuck no! I got over Peach a long time ago, I only kidnapped her for political reasons after a while.”

“And my brother?”

“I really have to say it?” The Italian’s glare hardened, “okay, yes! I like him!”

“What are we? Ten? Like him, really?”

“Fuck you. I don’t do this feelings shit, ‘s new for me. You really wanna hear your arch-nemesis admit he’s in love with your little brother?”

Without hesitation, “if it makes him happy then yes. I do.”

“An’ you thought you were a bad brother. Alright short stack, I love your little brother. Now, whose gonna talk to him?”

Muffled sobs are interrupted by the door opening and light intruding into the darkened room. Around Luigi’s neck dangles a tie, crumpled and loose as if clawed at by a criminal trying to escape his noose. The tie sways with the man’s head snapping up, eyes glazed with a petrified sheen. Soft steps thud against the carpet cautiously in an attempt to not mess up again.

“Hey, Greenie.” With the way Luigi still stares shell-shocked it was almost as if Bowser hadn’t spoken at all. “‘M I good to sit?”

Sinking the plumber further into the bed is the mattress dipping under the king’s weight. Said king watches as Luigi crawls into himself as if he was the one with a shell to retreat in. It would amuse him had it not been so shattering. Nothing has ever bothered him more than not being able to hold the smaller man and protect him from anything able to induce this state. Nothing has ever terrified him more than remembering he induced this. He pushed too far and too fast, possibly ruining the friendship let alone the prospect of something more. A king shouldn’t grovel. A king as prideful as the King of Koopas shouldn’t grovel. Yet he goes to anyway.

“I’m sorry,” huh?

Heavy sobs begin to break through Luigi again, “I’m sorry, mi dispiace tanto!” A king shouldn’t grovel, and neither should someone the king deems more worthy of the title than himself. He shifts a little before pulling Luigi close. He shakes in Bowser’s embrace, letting out the stress from the past half an hour. Words of comfort become louder than crying as sobs dissolve into sniffles. Neither realise that the human ended up in the koopa’s lap and is completely enveloped by his friend.

Gravelly reassurances rumble from Bowser's chest helping to calm his friend who had stopped apologising in between sobs. Unbeknownst to the other, they both blamed themselves and believed they had fucked up whatever they had going on. And now that Luigi had settled, Bowser intended to fix it. It was based on being a replacement right? Easy!

“I've not liked Peach in a long time, Greenie. Political interest, definitely. Romantic interest? How could I when got to know you?” The Koopa's confident cadence almost made the plumber look up at him. Almost.

“But why? I’m-a the second choice, second place, good old forgettable player two.” A couple of tears re-wet his face. One lands on Bowser’s thigh, alerting him of the melancholic change. He shifts in a way so Luigi is facing him and gently lifts his head so that their eyes meet.

“I’m gonna kill whoever fed you that crap. Look, my kids love ya’, Kamek loves ya’. And as for me? Even in her best gown and makeup, Peach wouldn’t look half as stunnin’ as you do right now. I love ya’.”

Doubt still wracks his mind, it will probably always do so, but the way Bowser looks at him quiets the storm. There’s no hint of friendly teasing, no malice, no doubt or question. Luigi has never felt so seen, or utterly adored.

It shocks Bowser when Luigi surges up to kiss him. Eyes wide and eyebrows shot up to his horns. He recovers quickly enough to reciprocate without the other beginning to doubt himself further. Small hands gently hold his maw in response to him cradling the brown locks, clawed digits threading through the strands. They pull apart to allow Luigi to breathe, he’ll never tire of Bowser looking at him like that.

“Be with me?”

“‘Kinda question is that?”

“Weege! Grazie a Dio, stai bene? Cosa è successo con Bowser?” Mario practically leaps to hug his fratello.

“Sì. Mi sento meglio ora, scusa per aver rovinato la festa. Mi ha aiutato a calmarmi e abbiamo risolto alcune cose.” Luigi internally groans at the grin on his older twin’s face.

“Voi due insieme ora? Ti sei già baciato?”

“The hell are you two saying? You alright Greenie, ya’ look like you’re gonna do another runner.”

Admittedly Bowser’s not far off, the green twin is almost as red as his counterpart’s clothes. All he seems able to do is tell his brother to shut up while he hides his face in his hands. Bowser doesn’t like how Mario’s mischievous look is now turned to him.

“Did you-a try to or succeed this-a time?”

“Can it, short stack! We’re together now or whatever.”

Despite the exhausted words, he glances at his partner with affection and goes to hold him. Luigi accepts the hug, explaining to his brother that yes, they’re together.

“How good was he?”

“MARIO!”

#bowuigi #bowser #bowser x luigi #luigi #luigi x bowser #fanfic #mario bros

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art-ocational · 4 months ago

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Someone asked me about the bit where I said that my OC, Yellow, used to be human, so I wrote a little bit of an explanation as a short in-univeres one-shot story. I figured I'd post it here, just in case anybody else was curious.

It was a calm night, just like all nights so far had been. The campfire crackled softy, sparks landing on wet wood, heat stealing away the water until it too would burn. The fire didn’t really need more wood, but Yellow kept adding small sticks anyway. He liked the soft crackling. After spending so much time with Red, it was comforting. This place was nice, this world was peaceful. It had long nights and short days, there was always rain at dawn, and the dew that laid itself down at dusk was thick enough that everything got just as wet as during the dawn showers. The family had lingered here longer than they needed to, but it was always best to move slower when traveling with outsiders, less chance of getting separated that way. Yellow had asked Red a few days ago if anything was wrong when he had seen his brother smiling sadly at the pre-dawn light. It was almost a longing expression. Red had simply said that the place had reminded him of home. They had many homes, across many worlds, many safehouses and bases and places with people who cared about them, but Red wasn’t talking about any of those. In the soft rain of sunrise, as his brother let himself get thoroughly soaked, there was really only one place he could have been talking about. The home he grew up in. Yellow had heard him and Greed and Blue talk about the place, about the family they used to have, before everything. Yellow had just put his hand on his brother’s shoulder and watched the sunrise with him. None of the family had that sort of home anymore. They always said they didn’t need it, they had each other and that was enough. And that was true, most of the time, but in the soft and quiet moments, especially if you were alone, memories always seemed to seep in, just like the evening dew. That was how this whole place felt. Calm, peaceful, and absolutely soaked in memories. It was a waypoint between here and there.

Perhaps that is why, when one of their traveling companions asked about his past, he answered, the memories already heavy on his mind. Anyway, these travelers had just lost everything. Their home had been destroyed in the war, and this place likely wouldn’t do them any good, making them remember everything they had so recently lost. It was hard enough for Yellow, who had lost everything so long ago. They had said they heard he used to be something else, a wingless creature. They had yet to enter a world not ruled by the winged, and so he told them of humans. Him and his siblings showed them their alternate forms. The travelers thought they seemed tiny and very squishable, but conceded that the idea of thumbs was rather appealing. Yellow warned them not to underestimate any species they may meet just because they looked smaller or weaker. Yew told them of his home, of trains and cars, of planes, how the wingless had conquered the skies. He told them of spaceships and faraway planets that they had sent probes to investigate. Then they asked what happened, why wasn’t he with his people who made such things? The answer was painfully simple, his people were gone. The world he grew up in was gone, one of the war’s earliest causalities. They understood, they had just lost everything too. They expressed their sorrow, and he did the same for their loss. That’s the polite thing to do, even if there is very little words alone can do to heal such deep wounds.

Then one of the children asked something else. How was it then, if he grew up in a world with humans, that he was a winged one?

“Well,” Yellow said, “There were also winged in our world, although we didn’t call them that.”

They deduced that he must have been winged all along and they misunderstood. But no, Yellow corrected them that had understood, but he traded away his human self for scales and wings long ago. That the winged had a very special ability, to transform others into one of them, to give them the gift of the sky, but it is not simple, and it is not easy. It is a process that changes your very soul. You have to be willing to give up everything you are, everything you care about. You have to want to change with your whole heart, and after his world was taken, Yellow had agreed to these conditions easily. He didn’t have anything left to give up, it was just him. Agreeing was almost too easy, the desire for revenge so strong. That burning drive had cooled a long time ago now. Now he had his new family, he had people he cared about, a new life, he just wasn’t human anymore, his other form a memory of who he once was.

“But don’t you still want revenge? To kill the ones who took it all away?” the visitors asked, and Yellow paused. After a moment staring into the fire, he broke a twig off of the log he was sitting on, tossing it into the fire.

“Not really.”, was the quiet answer he gave. He told them about how over time, as he met more people, the desire for revenge, to kill the enemy, morphed into a desire to protect the ones he cared about, to shelter who he could, to prepare those that would be fighting, to act as any good leader should. Revenge could only get you so far until it left you feeling hollow and empty.

“Which is why,” he told them, with the tone of a promise, “I will make sure you make it through this alive.”

And with the weight his words seemed to carry, they believed him.

#artists on tumblr #writing #writers on tumblr #yellow

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sukimas · 1 year ago

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mostly i think the "consider the material conditions and incentives" polemic of marxism is essentially the most correct anyone can ever be about anything, politically, except it seems that the majority of modern marxists don't really take that to heart besides when it supports their argument. material conditions dictate that any state type becomes mob rule (in the sense of both the common people and the mafia) at the extremes, material conditions dictate that you can't create any sort of dictatorship of the proletariat without it being overtaken by bad actors unless you and all your descendants are mind-readers.

government control is generally a balancing act and generally speaking the more control your government has the less responsive it becomes to incentives besides perpetuating itself. in a vacuum (being the only country on earth) this can be perhaps reasonably aligned with the incentives of the people. in a world which is not like this, it is always not. and of course if this government makes a mistake, it will be slow to realize and right itself, because it doesn't have incentives to respond to.

this isn't to say that libertarianism is correct, of course- it doesn't give people any insulation from their own and others' mistakes- but i think ultimately any unshackling of control of the government from the people at large (whether through representative democracy- yes, like the US- or through banning of allegedly dangerous political parties, or through anything else) bears significant dangers. of course, yes, people are stupid, and it's the natural human inclination to protect them from harm. that's why we want an alternative to capitalism in the first place, isn't it? and yet at the same time, if we don't actually pay attention to the facts on the ground, the incentives we create, and what is realistic with the goals we have and the world we have to create them from, we'll just end up causing more harm in the end.

of course you probably don't want this lecture from a market socialist with socially libertarian sympathies who believes that centralized economies are probably going to fall on their asses in the best of cases. but hey. i also think that short-term profiteering is going to burn the world in front of me while i can only watch. so you know.

#politics #long post #i guess

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aclaywrites · 11 months ago

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I have no idea what the definition of PC would have been in the early 80s. I first heard it in college in the early 90s when small town conservatives complained that it was taking over the world (aka why am I not allowed to say faggot or refer to black men as ‘boy’ ). As far as I can tell, the definition of politically correct means ‘thinks using demeaning speech and stereotypes is wrong’ which —news flash— it is. I have no idea how this became such a topic of discussion and debate, or why it even needs a phrase of its own. Bigot is already there in the language, as are the more specific terms like racist or homophobe. It seems like a journalistic phrase, something to put a safe distance between yourself and actually calling someone out on their behavior.

What would ‘we’ have considered politically correct back in the day? In the ‘40s ‘we’ were putting Japanese-Americans into internment camps, in the 50s ‘we’ sterilized people with learning disabilities and put autistic kids into asylums. In the 60s entire neighborhoods burned so that ‘we’ could keep black and gay people in their place. Last night I watched Mean Girls from 2004 and they unironically used the r word to mock people they didn’t like.

I guess the definition of PC constantly changes and adapts to cover the depth and breadth of whatever one needs to absolve themselves of guilt. It’s a sanitary enough non-phrase that can be held up like armor to deflect criticism without then having to put much real work and thought behind it.

#lesbian queries #lesbian query of the day #lesbian #lesbian history #herstory #gay shit #dykes to watch out for #gay #gay history #politically correct #racism #homophobia #words words words

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noteveryoneis · 2 years ago

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i built a home (for you; for me) aka Avatrice as Hogwarts teacher part 2

I'm alive. Barely, but hey, what else is new? If you want to read this on ao3, the title is the same.

Also, I wanted to tell you guys about the lovely art @hamusammich has made on twitter based on the first part. It made me go feral with happiness, not gonna lie

Specifically, this is the thread, go check out their account!:

Anyways. I don't speak portuguese so feel free to correct my mistakes. I wrote this while agressively listening to Little Girls by Cameron Diaz, it's an actual bop.

I have no idea what this is.

...

Thisisn'tthelastparteitherbye!

Beatrice walks into the room and knows immediately that this is going to be a long night.

The lights are bright and cold and white and it hurts right behind her eyes. People are talking, fake smiles plastered on their faces, chin raised with their sufficient expression like they know that their family's blood is as pure as water. Everything reeks of money and gold and dark magic and Beatrice already feels nauseous. The dress her mother chose for her is itchy and she feels like a child who played with their mother's makeup, and she wants to run and to hide and to burn that dress and let the ashes smear her face.

Bernard is gripping her arm so tight she can see spots of white slowly fading away in her flesh when he lets go. 'Behave,' he says, but he doesn't say it like Beatrice used to when Melanie was drunk and trying to kiss her in front of everyone with giggles.

She feels their parents cold gaze on her when they enter the room but Beatrice doesn't have the strenght to fake a smile on her face. She settles for looking around in silence, nodding politely when someone greets her.

Beatrice is nineteen years old, and she already feels like she has ruined her own life. She's trapped. Everything in her screams to run away, that this is wrong, terribly and profoundly wrong.

She knows why they're here, but she doesn't understand how her presence is required.

They're in America, and they're here for business. Magical business, faith business, deciding-of-the-faith-of-the-world business.

There has been rumors of a girl. A girl that fought Dark forces before she could even drink (legally), that dueled with dark wizards before she even had her first period, that has powers no one has ever heard of. The Young family has been sent as high-placed guests, but really they're just here to make sure this isn't another Harry Potter situation.

Harry Potter has saved the world, but a lot of people think that there would be no saving needed if it wasn't for him — Beatrice's family, mainly. The British Ministry of Magic would rather be caught dead than dealing with another Harry Potter. 'The New Areala', they whisper in the corridors of the Ministry, because that's what people in America call her, comparing her to another brazilian witch that shook the magical world's core a long time ago. Beatrice wonder what it would feel like to have their own name whispered instead, and not just 'Areala' or 'the Young girl'.

A boy with the word 'Pure-Blood' written on the wrinkles of his face tries to talk to her and Beatrice does what she does best: she avoids. She retreats by the table and watches as bubbles of champagne rise to the air.

A soft hand lands on her arm and she jumps a little, but it's a girl, tall and with the face of a model, that looks like she could be anywhere but here. 'Here, honey,' she says, shoving what seems like a glass of Firewhisky in her hand and her voice is deep and calm and Beatrice doesn't shy away. 'You look like you need it.'

And then she's gone, the clicking of her heels echoing in Beatrice's head and she doesn't ask why she's even here, she who could do way better than that.

She looks at the contents of her glass, hesitates. She's never drunk alcohol, no matter how many times Melanie tried to get her to. She didn't want to end up like her, she couldn't let her guard down and anyways, they needed someone to take care of Melanie when she was like this.

Before she can even realize what she's doing, she's tilting her head back and drowning the whiskey. Her throat burns and her eyes water and she coughs into her fist.

A hand grabs her arm violently and Beatrice's eyes are too blurry to see but she knows who it is. 'What are you doing?' Bernard stabs into her heart.

Beatrice doesn't know what to answer, she just wants him to let go of her, her arms already hurt from earlier and he's just putting more finger-shaped bruises on top of the others.

Suddenly, he is hit from the side and lets go of her and Beatrice takes a step away.

"Desculpe!" A girl says, bringing a hand to her mouth and then onto Bernard's arm, squeezing apologetically, and Beatrice sees the tip of her wand in her sleeve, and there is a big stain of whatever was in her glass on Bernard's immaculate shirt. "Sinto muito! Eu não tinha visto você, estava muito ocupado com a batida do seu—"

"Alright, alright, I don't care," Bernard huffs in annoyance before turning to Beatrice. "You, don't move."

That's all she is now. A 'you', not a little sister who needs his help.

He walks away, probably going to wash his shirt, and the girl puts her glass back on the table.

Beatrice feels a hand slip into hers.

"Come one," the girl says.

She doesn't have time to ask how she can speak English, that the girl is pulling her away, grazing the wall until she finds a window and opens it, jumping into the night. Beatrice looks at the distance between the edge of the window and the ground — There's a terrace so it's not that big — and back to the room where her parents are talking to a man with gray hair and glasses, then onto the girl who beckons her to follow, a smile on her face.

Beatrice swings her legs outside, drapes her dress over her arm and lets herself fall on the terrace. The girl laughs, leading her to the stone stairs, and sits on a step and Beatrice sits next to her, keeping a reasonable distance between them.

It's chilly out there but the Firewhisky coursing through Beatrice's veins keeps her warm, almost too warm. She's burning up.

The girl next to her is young, probably a little younger than Beatrice herself. She's wearing a strange dress that sparkles into the night and dips into her chest, exposing her neck and her collarbone. Her hair is messy, untidy, so much that Beatrice thinks it might be a conscious choice, but her face is one of an angel, with dark doe eyes that hold all that is good in this world.

"Oh uh... Hey, is this yours?" The girl asks, fumbling with her words and her hands, voice leaking with a delicious accent that Beatrice cannot place, before reaching into her sleeve and extricating a wand that Beatrice recognizes as hers from her sleeve.

Bernard took it that morning.

"Yes I... How did you—" Beatrice says finally, reaching out to take it back, and it feels like she can breathe a little better.

"The guy that was with you. He already had his wand pocking out of his pocket, pretty sure he only needs one."

Beatrice cradles her wand to her chest, like a child that she has lost.

"Thank you," she whispers into the night, and the girl smiles, and suddenly it's not night anymore. It's summer and the world is bright and warm and full of noise.

"No problem. No offense, but he seems like a douche."

Beatrice can't stop herself fast enough from letting out a snort of laughter. She quiets down immediately, retreating back onto herself. The girl's smile turns upside down in a grimace.

"Sorry. I put my foot in my mouth again, like you English say. I'm Ava," she says, and she presents her hand towards her.

Beatrice hesitates, she's not supposed to talk to people unless she's being watched closely by a family member. Yet, she reaches out into the sun and puts her palm into Ava's.

She doesn't believe in love at first sight. Melanie had told her that French people talk about 'coup de foudre', like love is a thunderbolt that hits unexpectedly and mercilessly. She doesn't believe in that either.

And yet, when Ava smiles as she squeezes her hands, Beatrice feels like she's being pulled under the sun too.

"Beatrice."

Ava wiggles from where she's seated, and Beatrice realizes that the girl is always moving (eyes, hands, shoulders and feet and hips).

"So, you come here often?"

Beatrice doesn't even have time to react that the girl is already burying her face in her hands, mumbling something like 'Porra JC, sua vadia estúpida', before looking back up.

"Sorry. Chanel says I always lose my ability to act human around pretty girls and I keep proving her right."

Pretty girl?

Beatrice's brain screams and jumps against the walls of her skull and she wants to bolt into the night and never look back.

"Have you been hit with a Babbling Curse?" Is all that comes out of her mouth.

Ava pauses for a second, then she laughs, and a shiver runs along Beatrice's uncovered spine.

"Nah, sorry, this is just my default setting. Uh... Wait a second."

She vaguely turns around to give herself some privacy, but Beatrice still sees her reach into her cleavage and hold out a folded napkin containing something, and when Ava unwraps it, she's presented with a small pumpkin pasty.

"Uh... Peace offering?"

Beatrice looks at the food in front of her, wondering when Ava is going to laugh and explain that this is just a well imagined joke ('But from who?' Beatrice wants to ask.) but she doesn't, looking at Beatrice with a lopsided smile and Beatrice gives in.

"Won't you go hungry?" She asks, and Ava smirks, like she knows every secret in the world.

"English," she says, and the nickname makes the hair on the back of Beatrice's neck stand up as Ava reaches once more into her cleavage and Beatrice looks away, quick quick quick, "I've got two boobs."

Beatrice turns back to her and Ava is holding two pumpkin pasties wrapped in napkins, giving her her mischevious grin, and Beatrice can't help it, she laughs. She laughs as she hasn't in weeks, months, years. She laughs because she's outside with a girl she doesn't know, hiding from her family that would kill her for just doing that, and that the girl is the strangest and most beautiful thing that happened to her in the last few months.

She laughs and she takes the extended pasty in her hand and Ava grins as she thanks her.

Ava keeps talking and Beatrice keeps listening, and it's like they both feat in each other's space, like the world around them adjusted itself to let them be in each other's presence.

Ava tells her about her childhood and the stains on the ceiling that looked like David Bowie (Beatrice has no idea of who that is but Ava laughs and therefore so does she). She tells her about the orphanage she was in, skipping quickly to a brighter time. She tells her how she was paralyzed for most of her life but that one day, she woke up in the middle of the night needing a glass of water and simply got up to get it. She only realized what was happening when she got to the sink, and promptly fainted. The nuns found her the next morning right as 'Professor Vincent' showed up to take her to Castelobruxo ('Thank God he did,' Ava says, licking pumpkin from her fingers. 'I was living with nuns. Don't think the whole Jesus thing would have stuck with me.')

She tells her about the golden rock that was Castelobruxo and how she became friends with the Caipora and raised Hell with her other friends. How they would fly to the top of the castle and have picnics and yell their sorrows into the wind. How they raised each other, because nobody else was doing it for them. She tells her that she used to play Quidditch and asks if Beatrice has ever played, and Beatrice barely whispers that she hasn't flown in a while.

Ava paints colors in front of Beatrice and lights up the sun into the night and Beatrice just watches, quiet and peaceful, for once.

Ava unclips her shoes and leaves them on the stone of the stairs as she rises, waving her hand as she explains that her friends followed her right into the world and its dangers. 'But really,' she says, laughing like it doesn't matter, like it's funny, 'they just came for the food.'

She doesn't realize how much time has passed until she feels something fall on her shoulder and roll down her back — cold and wet and fluid. There is rain slowly starting to pour over them, and Beatrice freezes, because she can already feel her mother's palm hitting her face when she'll find out she has ruined the dress she forced her to wear. She needs to find shelter before things get worse, before the world ends and Beatrice falls right back into Hell.

But Ava laughs, spreads her arms out and spins, her strange dress flowing around her.

"Rain!" She yells into the night. "Fucking rain!"

Beatrice doesn't even think about chastising her for her language, she just smiles as Ava whirls around the terrace, standing on her tip-toes, light and airy and wild. She watches and she wishes she were that free.

Then Ava twirls back to her, extends her hands.

"Come on!"

Beatrice's senses come back to her and she shakes her head.

"I don't dance."

"Everyone can dance, trust me, I was paralyzed for most of my life."

Beatrice purses her lips.

"Mother says it's unproper."

'For women to dance together,' she wants to add, but doesn't find the strength in herself to do so. She is an adult woman and yet she sounds like a child.

Ava pretends to look around, her hand shielding her eyes.

"I don't see her there."

And so Beatrice takes her outstretched hands in hers, kicks off her heels and laughs as Ava spins them around, light on her toes. Ava lets go of one of her hands, taking a few steps back to bow respectfully to her, bringing Beatrice hand to her lips to leave a feather-like kiss on her knuckles.

"Milady," she says, rising up with a teasing smile and Beatrice burns bright red even through the cold rain. "Will you do me the honor of granting me this dance?"

"Stop it," Beatrice hisses back, and Ava laughs.

She puts a hand on Beatrice's shoulder, leading hers onto her shoulder and keeping her other hand in hers, arms to the side. And they begin to dance. There is rhythm, no rules or custom, they just trip on each other's feet, laugh and stumble as they catch themselves to each other. Ava takes her hand off Beatrice's waist and makes her twirl while holding her arm out over her, and Beatrice just melts.

She forgot the taste of her own smile on her lips.

When Ava trips and swears and throws her arms around Beatrice shoulders, latching herself onto her body to keep herself upwards, she doesn't push her away. She blames the alcohol still in her system as she wraps an arm around her waist, laughing.

It's as she looks into Ava's doe eyes that the world explodes once again.

Because there are flakes of snow in her eyelashes and as Beatrice reaches out to take them off, she realizes that snow if falling onto them.

It’s June.

She shivers into the cold, watching as Ava's face looses her smile and her eyebrows knit together.

"Is it always this cold this time of the year?" She asks stupidly.

Ava looks at her with a nervous look in her eyes.

"English. This is New York. Not Washington."

Beatrice's teeth are clattering together now as Ava looks around and she feels her stomach drop, for some reason.

"Fuck," Ava says. "We gotta get you back inside."

She drags Beatrice to the glass door, trying to turn the handle and then muttering spells when it doesn't open.

"Fuck," Ava repeats. "Fuck. This is not good."

"Ava," Beatrice says.

"JC!" Ava yells, pounding her fist on the door. "JC, you fucker, open!"

"Ava."

"JC! Zori, Randall, Chanel! Need some help here!"

"Ava."

Finally, Ava turns to her and Beatrice raises a shaking hand to point a finger towards the park.

Figures covered in black are floating over them, riding the waves of freezing cold that is settling into their bones, dark capes drifting behind them.

"Fuck!" Ava says. "Fuck!"

Beatrice is frozen on the spot by both cold and fear as Ava grabs her by the arm and literally throws her behind her, placing herself in between the dementor and Beatrice as she raises her wand.

"Expecto Patronum!"

A ball of silver light shoots from her wand and barrels into the chest of the first dementor that flies away with a low shriek.

"Expecto Patronum!" Ava yells again as another takes its place, still trapping Beatrice in between her own body and the wall.

The light misses the dementor this time and Beatrice reaches out to put a hand on her back, muttering her name under her breath.

Ava stills for a second with Beatrice's hand between her shoulder blade, stuttering.

Ava is so warm the ice melts off of Beatrice's fingertips.

And so Beatrice finds the strength to raise her wand with a shaky hand and mutter the words: "Expecto Patronum."

A silver cat jumps from the stream of light and chases after the dementor, but Beatrice is too busy trying not to freeze to death to feel ashamed — 'It should have been a dragon, an Abraxan or at the very least a snake, not some ridiculous cat.'

The cat jumps gracefully around them, warding of the dementors as Ava gasps, looking at it with wonder and amazement in her eyes. It only lasts for a few seconds. One moment Beatrice is gathering all her energy into the spell, grasping for happy memories that she cannot find —the girl she's laughing with doesn't have Melanie's face anymore and she doesn't understand why —, the next she's falling, Ava calling her name in panic as she tries to catch her.

The floor is freezing cold under her bare back, and Beatrice can't even appreciate the sight of Ava looking over her, her name on her lips, as the dementors close in.

"Shit, fuck, shit!" Ava yells. "Stay with me, Beatrice, stay with me!"

She's terrified and she wants to cry, but her tears just turn into ice behind the barrier of her eyes. Ava puts a knee to the ground, next to her waist, and grips Beatrice's hand in hers, the other holding out her wand to the air as the dementor start circling over them.

"Please don't freak out," she whispers for Beatrice, before looking up at the sky. "Expecto Patronum!"

Light shoots out from her wand, flying up and charging towards the dementors.

It's a Thestral. Beatrice knows because she was the only twelve year old to scream and run and hide in her prefect's robe when she made her way back to the castle that second year. Because she's been drawing them inside her minds since that moment, remembering every angle of their skeletic forms. Because she's one with the Thestral and they are one with her and she has wished too many times to be one of them.

Ava screams as she holds out her wand in the air, directing the silver Thestral to chase after the dementors, still squeezing Beatrice's hand.

She's glowing, enveloped in a golden haze and Beatrice can only look, amazed and astonished as Ava yells her rage into the night and doesn't stop before all of the Dementors are gone. Only then does she falter and almost fall on Beatrice, blowing out an exhausted breath.

"I'm sorry," she whispers against Beatrice's cheek. "They were here for me."

A cry echoes around them and a boy falls from the first floor's window, followed by a few other young men and women.

"Help is on the way, dear!" He yells, raising his wand as they make their way to Ava and Beatrice has the feeling the phrase has a meaning she can't decipher.

"Ava!" Another says, dropping to his knees beside them. "Are you okay?"

"Stop fretting over her, pretty boy, she can take care of herself," someone says, and Beatrice recognizes the girl that gave her the Firewhisky.

"JC, about time," Ava groans, helping Beatrice sit up.

"The doors were locked from the inside, there was nothing we could do," the boy says, and he has dark hair and dark eyes that look over Ava, searching for wounds, before falling on Beatrice. "Hi. Do we know you?"

"Nah, look at her," another girl says. "She's from the Englishs."

"Zori, seriously," the girl with the model face says.

"What were you guys doing?" Ava says, a hand ghosting over Beatrice's hair, as if she is blindly trying to find injuries.

"Well," JC says, "we saw the stunt you pulled to get the girl out of here — impressive, by the way, I feel like a proud mama duck — and we thought you deserved a break with a pretty girl."

"The pretty girl would like to get up now, please," Beatrice says, and surprises herself at how firm her voice sounds, even after almost fainting because of Dementors.

Ava chuckles at JC's surprised face and they all rise to their feet, helping each others. Ava's knees almost give up under her and Beatrice and JC both reach out to help her at the same time — she hears the other boy (Randall?) sneering from a few steps away.

"What's going on here?!"

Beatrice feels a terrifying shiver going up her spine as wizards and witches exit the building onto the terrace to observe the disaster of melted ice left by the Dementors, her family all but charging towards them.

Ava must feel the waves of fright emanating from her as she steps up, and when she staggers, Beatrice lets JC catch her without moving a single finger.

"It was me, ma'am," she says, and all eyes turn on her. "Dementors came for us."

"Are you sure?" A man asks, and Beatrice recognizes the man with the graying beard and round glasses that was talking to her parents.

"Professor Vincent," Ava breathes out in relief. "Yes sir, Dementors just straight up spawned in the park and tried to suck out our souls or something."

"You need a soul for that," Randall chips in, and the tall girl (Chanel, Beatrice thinks) smacks him in the back of the head.

Professor Vincent shakes his head and Beatrice's heart thrums in her ears because she realizes Ava has no reason to be here and yet she is, yet she just told her her whole life story and Beatrice still didn't connect the dots.

"Ava Silva," he says, "you always find a way to get yourself in trouble."

Ava giggles.

"More like trouble finds me, sir."

"Ava Silva," Beatrice's mother repeats. "As in 'The New Areala'?"

Beatrice's stomach drops and she tightens her grip against her wand as Ava's face breaks for a second, showing an annoyed expression, before quickly hiding behind a polite smile.

"In the flesh, ma'am," she says.

"Ava," Professor Vincent says, frowning like Ava really shouldn't be calling her 'ma'am', "this Mr. and Mrs. Young from England, as well as their son and well— I believe you already met their daughter."

All eyes turn to Beatrice in her ridiculous dress, still drenched from head to toes with icy water, and she wants to dig a hole in the ground and bury herself here. Ava sends her a surprised look and they both think the same thing 'Well played, you got me here', before turning back to Beatrice's parents.

"Oh, right! Thank God your daughter was here, I would have been either frozen to death or turned into a soulless corpse if it wasn't for her!"

They all know it's a lie, but nobody is going to refute 'Areala''s words, after all. Her father frowns.

"But Beatrice doesn't have her—" He starts as Bernards pats his blazer to find her wand that Beatrice is tightly gripping, but her mother stops him, an iron hand on his arm.

"Oh. I found it on the ground," Ava says. "It must have fallen from her... Dress?"

Again, nobody believes it, but Ava's lies are too big to fight against.

"Alright, well, we better go. Let's go, Beatrice," she hisses at her daughter, and Beatrice hesitates for a quarter of a second.

Ava and her friends are all looking at her. 'Please,' she wants to scream. 'Please get me out of their claws. I won't survive this.'

"Beatrice," her father repeats, and Beatrice puts her weapons down.

She walks up to them, eyes lowered to the ground not to see the look of pity on Ava's face and to blink away the tears that threaten to spill.

She feels warmth on her skin as she passes in front of Ava, but it's gone the next step.

She does get slapped for ruining the dress and embarassing the family and smelling faintly of alcohol and she gets sent to her room like a disobeying child. She cries as she takes off her dress, but smiles when she finds a tiny piece of napkin tucked into her sleeve, with a little smiley face drawn on it.

#avatrice as hogwarts teacher #avatrice #ava x beatrice #ava silva #sister beatrice #warrior nun #save warrior nun #harry potter au #hogwarts au

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