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wordsofwhimsy · 17 days ago

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❀ꗥ～𝐁𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭, 𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐆𝐫𝐚𝐲𝐬𝐨𝐧 ～ꗥ❀

❀ꗥ～ Part Seven ～ꗥ❀

Pairing: Main!Mark Grayson x Southern Belle!Reader

Warnings: None

Tags: Fluff, slice-of-life, domestic country vibes

Word Count: 3,209

Synopsis: You & Mark are about to set off on a road trip to your hometown in Georgia, and Mark’s about to get a crash course in southern living. The real challenge though? Meeting your family.

a/n: this chapter got a bit long but there was a lot i wanted to do with it – it’s also my FAVORITE so faaar

read part six ❀ꗥ～Here! ～ꗥ❀

The week before the trip, you were practically glowing.

Mark couldn’t even finish a sentence without you interrupting with something like, “Oh! Did I tell you my mama has a peach tree in the backyard now?” or “Wait till you try Daddy’s smoked brisket—he’s been workin’ on that recipe since before I was born.”

He swore you hadn’t stopped smiling in three days.

You were packing early, too—which Mark found both adorable and mildly terrifying. Every time he came over, you had a new duffel bag half-zipped on your bed. You kept saying things like, “Should I bring my cowboy boots or my church boots?” and “Do you think your lil’ superhero suit’s wrinkle-resistant, baby? ’Cause I got the iron out.”

He was happy just listening. You talked about your brothers like they were a trio of rowdy golden retrievers, about your Meemaw’s cast iron skillet like it was a national treasure, and about your mama and daddy with a kind of love that made Mark ache a little.

“You really think they’re gonna like me?” he asked one night, trying not to sound nervous.

You’d blinked at him like he’d asked if water was wet. “Sugar, you carried a busted water heater outta Meemaw’s crawl space and didn’t even mess up your shirt. They’re gonna adore you.”

—

The sun had barely crested over the rooftops when Mark showed up at your place, backpack slung over one shoulder, a hopeful smile on his face.

“You ready?” he asked, bouncing slightly on his heels. “I figured we could take off by nine—be there by lunch if we fly.”

You didn’t even look up from where you were strapping down the world’s most over-packed cooler in the bed of your pickup.

“We are takin’ off by nine,” you said sweetly. “In my truck.”

Mark paused. “...Wait. We’re not flying?”

You stood up, dusted your hands off, and opened the driver’s side door like the conversation was over.

It hit him slowly. A memory montage in his brain: you sidestepping the subject every time he offered to take you flying… how you suddenly “remembered errands” when he mentioned rooftop views… how your voice got a little too light whenever he said, “Wanna try something cool?”

He blinked. “Hold on. You’re scared of flying.”

You paused mid-sit, one brow arching over your sunglasses.

“I’m not scared of nothin’ sweetheart,” you said, pulling the door shut. “I just prefer transportation where my feet stay firmly on the ground—just like God intended.”

Mark snorted. “So... you’re telling me you’ll hand-feed a goat, slap a copperhead off the porch with a broom, and throw me a wrench from the roof of a barn—but you draw the line at a little air travel?”

You didn’t respond, just gave him a look.

Then the engine roared to life.

“Wait—are you serious?”

You put the truck in gear.

Mark took a step forward. “Babe.”

The tires rolled.

“Babe?!”

You rolled down the window. “I got a seat warm and ready, darlin’. You can either get in or get to joggin’.”

Mark hesitated for one tragic second.

You were already rolling toward the road, and now he had no choice but to run and all but launch himself into the passenger seat, backpack bouncing off his shoulder.

You barely glanced at him as you adjusted the mirror.

“Good choice, sugar.”

He leaned his head back against the seat with exaggerated breathlessness.

“I can’t believe I just got hijacked by a woman who won’t get on an airplane but owns a tire iron named Lucille.”

You reached over and turned the radio dial.

“Buckle up, baby. You’re in my airspace now.”

—

The road trip was an adventure in itself.

Every time you stopped for gas, Mark had to learn a little more about southern road-trip culture. Boiled peanuts were first. His face when he tried them? Priceless.

“...So these are beans. Just... wet beans,” he’d said, eyebrows raised as he chewed through the first batch.

“Uh-huh,” you replied, casually popping a handful in your mouth. “You ain’t a true southerner 'til you’ve had a bag of boiled peanuts and a sweet tea. You’ll get used to ‘em.”

Mark’s response was just a grimace, but he kept eating.

Next stop: barbecue. Of course, because no one goes to the south without trying proper BBQ.

The tiny hole-in-the-wall diner was legendary, and Mark had learned one important lesson: don’t try to compete with southern food. He made the mistake of ordering a side of fries with his pulled pork sandwich, and the waitress side-eyed him so hard he almost felt like he was in an old western standoff.

"You don’t need fries with that, sugar,” she said, placing an extra side of cornbread in front of him.

He never questioned it again.

Somewhere past the Alabama line, the sky had turned into a soft hue of amber-pink. You had one hand on the wheel, the other lazily tapping to the beat of the crackling country radio. The hum of the tires on pavement was steady, soothing—and then, there it was.

A familiar little guitar twang floated through the speakers.

You perked up instantly. “Oh my stars, babe—it’s you!”

Mark, halfway through unwrapping a MoonPie, blinked. “Wait, what?”

You gave him a look like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “You’re the stranger with the big iron on his hip!”

Mark blinked, laughing under his breath. “That makes zero sense.”

“Sure it does,” you said, eyes still on the road as you started to hum along. “Only instead of a shooter, you’ve got fists.” You glanced sideways at him, voice dropping just a touch. “Big. Iron. Fists.”

Mark’s ears turned red instantly.

You smirked, tilting your head just slightly. “I’m just sayin’… a man with hands like that?” Your voice was syrup-slow now, just soft enough to ruin him. “I wonder what else those big irons can do.”

Mark straight up choked on air.

He turned toward the window, jaw clenched, trying to reset his whole internal system.

“Okay—nope, nope,” he muttered. “We are driving. Public roads. Laws. Sanity.”

You just smiled, innocent as pie, tapping the steering wheel. “Mhm. Eyes on the road, baby. We got states to cross.”

Mark sank down into the seat, dragging a hand down his face.

—

The sun was just starting to dip below the tree line, that perfect golden hour haze settling over the world as your truck rolled past the weathered “Welcome to Georgia” sign.

Mark was reclined in the passenger seat, a bag of pork rinds half-eaten in his lap, and the windows were down just enough to let in the soft evening breeze.

And right on cue—as if the state itself had been waiting—the radio crackled, and Ray Charles’s voice slid in smooth as honey.

🎶 “Georgia… Georgia…” 🎶

You gasped softly, smiling like a kid on Christmas morning.

“Oh my lord, they knew,” you whispered, hand lifting off the wheel like you were praising the radio gods. “They knew we were comin’ home.”

Mark laughed, watching you with that same look he’d worn for the past three states—utterly helpless.

“I feel like I should salute or something,” he murmured.

You nodded solemnly. “Just put your hand over your heart and think about fried chicken. That usually works.”

As the chorus swelled, your voice joined in—not loud, not performative—just soft, like the words had lived in your chest your whole life. Mark listened, barely breathing, and yep—there it was. That twist in his chest.

Every mile brought more pine trees, more wraparound porches, more soft red clay kicked up by old trucks and tractors and summer wind. And then finally—you pulled up the long gravel drive to your family home.

The porch light was on, casting a warm glow over a big old farmhouse with a weathered roof, rocking chairs, and flower boxes blooming bright as July.

And standing dead center in the doorway was your daddy.

Tall. Silent. Holding a .22 like it was just another part of his outfit.

Mark froze halfway out of the truck.

“...Is that—?”

“Yep,” you said, already slamming your door shut. “That’s Daddy.”

Mark blinked. “Does every member of your family answer the door with a gun?”

You shrugged. “You’re the one who keeps showin’ up on porches with bruises. It raises questions.”

He swallowed, slowly stepping around the truck like a man walking into a saloon showdown.

“Evening, sir,” he offered, voice polite.

Your daddy didn’t blink. “Name?”

“Mark Grayson.”

Silence. A long, slow scan from head to toe.

“Occupation?”

You coughed behind your hand. “He’s... uh... real strong.”

Another beat.

Then finally—Daddy lowered the gun.

“Strong, huh?” he said gruffly, then turned and walked back inside without another word.

Mark exhaled. “Okay. Cool. That’s fine. Totally normal.”

You looped your arm through his, grinning up at him. “Welcome to Georgia, sugar.”

The screen door creaked open before you could even make it up the steps, and there she was—Mama.

Hair up in hot rollers, apron on, flour dusted on one cheek, and a casserole dish somehow already in her hand.

“Well look what the cat dragged in!” she called. “My baby girl and her mystery man!”

You barely got up the steps before you were swept into a hug that smelled like cornbread and Chanel No. 5. She kissed both your cheeks, then held you at arm’s length, giving you a once-over.

“You eatin’ enough? You look thin.”

“I’m fine, Mama.”

She waved that off and turned her gaze to Mark—and Lord have mercy, that woman could scan a soul. Her smile never wavered, but her eyes? Sharp as Meemaw’s sewing shears.

“And you must be Mark.” She stepped closer, still holding that casserole like it was loaded. “I’ve heard plenty about you.”

Mark smiled, sweet and a little nervous. “All good things, I hope.”

She leaned in, patted his cheek, and said, way too gently, “We’ll see.”

Then she swept past, calling over her shoulder, “Y’all come in and wash up. Supper’s almost ready.”

He turned to you, eyes wide. “...She terrifies me.”

You grinned. “Oh, honey. That was her bein’ polite.”

The screen door hadn’t even shut behind you when the thunder of boots hit the hallway.

Three of them.

Your brothers.

Built like linebackers, all flannel and worn jeans and big grins that didn’t quite hide the fact they were absolutely sizing Mark up like he was about to be thrown into a ring.

The oldest, Jesse, clapped Mark on the back hard enough that might’ve dislocate something in the average man. “So you’re the one who’s ‘real strong,’ huh?”

Mark coughed. “I—uh, yeah. I guess.”

The middle one, Beau, grinned. “What’s your max bench, son?”

The youngest, Caleb—sweetest face, meanest grip—smirked. “Bet I could take you.”

Mark blinked. “...Take me?”

“Wrestlin’,” Jesse said cheerfully, already rolling his sleeves up. “Out back. After supper.”

Beau nodded. “It’s tradition.”

Mark turned to you with the slow horror of a man realizing he might be about to fight three generations of corn-fed chaos.

“...Do I have to?”

You were already biting back laughter. “Well sugar, it’d be rude to say no.

—

Dinner smelled like heaven dipped in butter and baptized in bacon grease.

The table was packed. Casseroles, cornbread, sweet tea in mason jars the size of your head, bowls of mac and cheese that looked legally golden, fried okra stacked like tiny crunchy monuments, and a pecan pie cooling on the counter like it knew it was the finale.

Mark was trying his best to keep up. He was polite, he was charming, and he said “ma’am” so many times Mama actually started to smile for real.

He thought—for one shining second—that maybe he was in the clear.

You bumped your knee against his under the table and whispered, “You’re doin’ great, sugar.”

He leaned close. “I think your mama likes me now.”

You gave a small, noncommittal hum.

He blinked. “What?”

Before you could answer, Jesse leaned back in his chair, wiped his mouth, and said, “So, Mark…”

Oh no.

Here it comes.

“You ever wrestled a hog?”

Mark froze, fork halfway to his mouth. “I—no?”

Beau grinned. “Good. Wrestlin’ us should be a breeze, then.”

Mark’s fork dropped to his plate.

“Wait, you guys were serious?”

The chairs scraped back. Jesse was already rolling his sleeves up again. Beau was cracking his knuckles. Caleb was taking off his flannel like this was Friday Night Smackdown: Backyard Edition.

You just sipped your tea, absolutely zero help. “I did say it’d be rude to say no.”

Mark turned to Mama in desperation. “Ma’am? Is this… normal?”

She didn’t even look up from her sweet potato casserole. “Just don’t bleed on the gardenias, dear.”

The sun had long since dipped below the horizon, leaving only the silver hush of moonlight and the warm, golden glow of the porch light to spill across the yard. Crickets chirped their nighttime chorus, the rope swing creaked slow in the breeze, and three full-grown men stretched like they were about to enter a pay-per-view main event.

You leaned against the porch railing, arms crossed and smiling like it was a front-row ticket to the best show this side of the Mason-Dixon. Mark stood in the middle of the yard, looking real concerned for a man who regularly fought intergalactic warlords.

“So this is happening,” he said slowly, glancing between your brothers.

“Oh, it’s happening,” Jesse confirmed, already tossing his cap to the ground.

“No cheap shots, no runnin’, and no weird city kung-fu,” Beau said, rolling up his sleeves. “Just a good ol’ southern-style throwdown.”

Mark blinked. “City kung-fu?”

“You know what I mean,” Caleb added, nodding like that clarified anything. “No yoga nonsense. No pressure point magic. You go down, you stay down.”

Mark looked up at the porch where you stood, very much not helping, grinning.

You just shrugged. “Play nice, sugar.”

Mark sighed and looked back to the brothers. “What’s the win condition?”

“You tap,” Caleb grinned, cracking his knuckles. “Or cry. We ain’t picky.”

You gave Mark an innocent smile. “Told you dinner was just the warm-up.”

Before he could reply, Jesse lunged.

Mark barely dodged, skidding backward in the dirt. “Okay. Okay, we’re doing this!”

Beau came next—broad, fast, and aiming to grapple. Mark sidestepped again, trying not to accidentally dislocate anything, and that’s when Caleb came in low, arms wrapping around his middle like a linebacker with something to prove.

They went down hard.

You let out a gleeful little cheer. “Get ‘em, baby!”

From the ground, Mark shouted, “I’m trying!”

He rolled, kicked off the dirt, and spun out of Caleb’s hold like he’d done this a thousand times. And he had. Just never while holding back this much.

He couldn’t hit hard. Couldn’t fly. Couldn’t suplex Jesse into orbit no matter how tempting it was.

But what he could do?

Use every ounce of technique drilled into him by Cecil’s trainers, by Nolan, by muscle memory and pure, stubborn will.

A quick twist of the hips—Caleb was down. Jesse came from the right—Mark ducked, grabbed, and pinned. Beau tried to tackle him from behind—Mark dropped to the ground, rolled forward, and flipped him like a pancake at Sunday brunch.

The yard went quiet.

Mark stood panting, grass-stained and wild-eyed, hair a sweaty mess, moonlight silvering the sweat on his skin.

You tilted your head, eyes shining. “Well hot damn,” you said, slow and syrupy, “the stranger with the big iron fists delivers.”

Mark looked up at you, dazed, like maybe he was hallucinating the whole thing.

“That was hotter than church with no A/C,” you added, fanning yourself with your hand.

Mark mouthed help me.

And then—WHAM—Caleb launched himself one last time, and Mark caught him mid-air. One-handed.

Set him down like a toddler. Patted his shoulder.

Total silence.

Then Jesse, flat on his back, wheezed, “This man’s made of steel.”

“Boy just caught me like a sack of mulch,” Caleb mumbled, from the ground.

Beau shrugged, picking grass out of his hair. “Hell. Fair and square.”

You clapped politely from the porch. “Good hustle, boys.”

Mark staggered toward you, the scent of sweat and churned-up dirt clinging to him like battlefield glory.

Mama met him at the screen door, holding a plate in one hand and a dish towel in the other. She gave him a long look, then handed over the plate—loaded with leftovers.

“You earned your seat at the table, son.”

Mark blinked. “...Thank you, ma’am.”

“Don’t make me regret it.”

As you held the door open and Mark stepped inside, you leaned close, all smiles. “C’mon, baby. I’ll patch you up.”

Mark looked at you like a man reborn.

—

Mark wiped the sweat from his brow, glancing over at you. His heart gave a little jump when you looked right back.

Your smile was soft, but he could see the mischief still dancing in your eyes. “That all you got, sugar?”

He gave you a half-smirk, rolling his shoulders as if to say, no big deal. "Just a warm-up."

You shook your head with a small laugh, stepping closer to him. He could feel the heat of your hand on his arm as you reached up, your fingers brushing his jaw—gently, tenderly. His breathing went still as your lips met the bruise on his cheek, soft as silk.

The world around him blurred as you kissed each tiny little scuff and bruise with that special tenderness that only you could give. He was absolutely done for, and he knew it.

When you pulled back, he was breathless—and not from the fight.

You cocked your head, letting your hands rest on his chest. “You’re lucky you’re made of steel sugar, them boys have been known to break an arm or too,” you said teasingly.

“I’m lucky to have you,” he muttered, still stunned by your care, your touch, your everything.

You hummed a sweet sound, brushing a finger over his lips. “You look like you could use a drink.”

Mark managed a crooked grin. “I think I’m good for now... unless you’ve got something with a little more kick than sweet tea?”

You raised an eyebrow, the corner of your mouth curling into that mischievous smile that had been driving him wild all day. “Oh, I’ve got somethin’,” you purred. “But you ain’t ready for it yet.”

Mark chuckled, though he wasn’t so sure anymore. If you kept looking at him like that, he might just be ready for whatever you wanted to throw his way.

“Careful, darlin’,” you said, slow with heavy lids. “If you keep makin’ eyes like that, we might end up gettin’ in trouble.”

“Already in trouble,�� Mark muttered, his heart pounding in his chest. “Think I’ve been in trouble since the moment I met you.”

You leaned in, your lips brushing against his ear just enough to send a shiver down his spine. “Well then,” you whispered, the words lingering in the quiet space, “guess we better get real good at bein’ in trouble.”

read part eight ❀ꗥ～Here! ～ꗥ❀

#invincible fanfic #invincible x reader #mark grayson x reader #mark grayson fanfic #invincible #mark grayson

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trensu · 2 years ago

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Steve had always wanted to be a skilled fighter. The schools that churned out the best fighters all happened to be schools for holy warriors. It was possible that Steve maybe sort of lied a little (with the help of his friends Robin and Dustin) to get into this school by claiming he was full to the brim of religious fervor but hadn’t decided who to pledge his sword to yet. It shouldn’t have worked, if he were honest with himself, but by some stroke of luck it did, and he finished his training as one of the top combatants.

The issue now was that he had to pick a god whose crest to carry. There were all sorts of gods. Gods of water, gods of air, gods of agriculture, war gods, cat gods, plant gods...the list was endless. And while Steve was one of the best fighters around, he was most definitely not one of the best researchers. Thankfully Dustin and Robin were very clever and knew where to find details about the many gods in existence.

“So what kind of god do you want to follow? Maybe we can start there,” Robin asked.

“Uh…a good one?”

“You’re no help at all, you know that?” Dustin grumbled.

They suggested a local god known as Carver who stood for righteousness, but Steve turned that down. It didn't feel like a good fit. They suggested a love god by the name of Chrissy, who valued love of all kinds, romantic, platonic, familial...Steve had been tempted, very tempted, because Steve had always carried an excess of love in his heart. Robin had vetoed that one stating that Steve was already too reckless with his love and she wouldn't stand by and watch him break his own heart over and over again.

Dustin suggested a god of knowledge, Clarke, who blessed and guided those with curiosity, imagination, and a knack for invention. Steve shot that one down immediately. He was never one to be overly imaginative or curious; he preferred to deal with concrete things. Out of their quickly dwindling list, Robin reluctantly suggested Hargrove, a war god favored by a nearby kingdom, but if Carver was ill-fitting, then Hargrove was outright repellent to Steve.

"C'mon, Steve, you gotta pick someone!" Dustin huffed in frustration.

Robin thunked her head against the table in the library where they were looking up deities. She was obviously at her wit's end too. Steve, however, just dug his heels in with a particularly stubborn scowl.

"I can't just pick anyone!" Steve said. "If I'm going to pledge my sword to someone, it has to be someone...someone good. Someone that, I don't know, someone I can believe in, even when--no especially when things go wrong. That’s the whole point!"

"Yeah, I get that," Robin sighed, a mix of fond and annoyed, "but this is the eighth book we've gone through and the only one left here is called the King of Darkness which is hardly going to--huh."

Robin paused mid-rant to look at the page more closely. Steve and Dustin both huddled around her to peek into the book as well. Dustin also made a sound of curiosity.

"That's weird," Dustin said.

"Right?" Robin asked enthusiastically.

"What? What's weird?" Steve didn't get what caught their attention.

"This god only has a couple of sentences," Dustin explained, "And they don't really make sense. Something about dark creatures and the undeserving? The grammar and structure is all weird though."

"It looks like a half-assed translation," Robin added with a nod. "We should find the original text."

"Yeah! And if we can make a better translation, we could get it added to the next edition and they'd have to put our names on the book," Dustin said excitedly. Robin's eyes lit up at the thought and they both rushed off to the stacks to track down any original sources.

"Guys! Guys, what about my..."

The librarian hushed Steve, irritated. Steve groaned in defeat.

"...godly choices. Yeah, fine," Steve slumped back on his seat. "I need to find non-nerd friends."

Two days later, Robin and Dustin finished translating a slim, dusty book. They were nearly vibrating in their seats as Steve reviewed their notes on what they found. Dustin gripped his arm and gave him a shake.

"So? What do you think?" he asked excitedly.

Robin slung her arm across Steve's shoulders. With more tenderness than Steve expected, she said, "I know it doesn't seem like it, he doesn't really fit with your whole style, but it could work."

"Yeah," Steve said with a hopeful smile. "Yeah, this feels right."

It took longer than Steve would've liked, but eventually he managed to track down a small, crumbling shrine. It was an alcove carved near the entrance--no more than a crack in the stone really--of a cave at the edge of a lush forest. He almost missed it, it was so drowned in overgrown crawling vines and weeds. It bore a modest statue, no bigger than Steve, standing atop an equally modest plinth. There was a spot that obviously held a plaque once, but it must’ve been dug out by thieves at some point.

The sight of it made something in Steve's chest twinge; a strange pang of melancholy at seeing a god so forgotten and abandoned. It surprised him as he had never been particularly religious, but there was just something about this one that drew him in.

It was the middle of the day, so Steve quickly made camp and took advantage of the light to begin clearing the shrine. He started where the plaque had been, scrubbing off the dirt and moss that had filled the indentation. He knew a good smith; he could commission a new plaque to be made. After that, he weeded the immediate area around the plinth where worshipers would typically lay their offerings and pray.

By the time he finished that, it was late afternoon and he decided that was good enough for today. He had to eat and get a few hours of sleep so he could be alert once night fell. When he curled up on his bedroll, he couldn't help the grin that spread on his face. He was going to offer himself to his god tonight, and with any luck, his god would accept him.

He woke to a multitude of high pitched squeaks and the sound of many, many flapping wings. The sun had just fully set, and the stars that could be seen through the canopy burned brightly. Steve took his time to fasten on his armor and scabbard properly, and fixed his hair so not a strand was out of place. He took a few deep breaths to calm an unexpected bout of nerves before going to the shrine and kneeling.

His god had no official prayers. Or rather, the prayers for his god were forgotten. Robin and Dustin did their best to find anything prayer-like but it had been in vain. They suspected that most of the god's holy items and lore were purposely lost. Lacking that, Steve decided it was best that he introduce himself.

"Um, hi," he started and immediately winced. "Sorry. I'm not used to...this. I couldn't find any of your…holy words? Prayers? The right ways to speak to you, I guess.

"I'm Steve. Steve Harrington. I'm a fighter. I finished my training a few weeks back. I was the top of my cohort when it came to combat. I'm good with my sword and I know how to take a hit. I can turn just about anything into a weapon if it's needed."

Here Steve paused for a moment, straining to hear but there was nothing other than the typical sounds of a night out in the woods. Steve took a breath and plowed forward.

"I want to be more than a fighter, though. I don't want to just wave a sword around for nothing. I want it to...to matter. So I spent a lot of time trying to decide who to wield my sword for. It took me a while, but I found you. I want to be your shield and sword, if you'll have me."

Steve stopped again to listen. Nothing. Robin warned him this might happen. Gods didn't always accept warriors who offered themselves to them, and forgotten gods weren't always reachable. It was fine, though; he’d try again tomorrow night. Steve turned in just before dawn, eager for night again.

Steve worked on clearing the vines tangled around the statue's legs and feet. He yanked out the thick, scraggly vines, and carefully picked apart the prickling thorny ones. There was a particular gnarl of vines that didn't seem like they had a stranglehold on his god's statue. They were healthy and strong, and the way they curled and grew looked more like a caress than an invasion. He decided to leave those on, though he gently rearranged them while removing the more invasive vines so they looked more decorative.

When night arrived with the sound of squeaks and wings, Steve went to kneel at the shrine. He introduced himself again, gave the same spiel as the night before. Still he heard nothing. He scratched the back of his neck in mild insecurity.

“I guess I should tell you I didn’t find you on my own. My friends Robin and Dustin helped me. They’re way smarter than me, you know? Total nerds. I can swing a sword like nothing, but books and research? Yeah, that never works out for me, so they helped me look up all sorts of gods.

“There’s a lot of them. Way more than I thought. Dustin and Robin both recommended me ones or vetoed others. They were getting frustrated with me because I kept rejecting the ones they gave me.

“Then Robin found you. Kind of by accident, to be honest. But she did her research thing and I knew that I wanted to carry your symbol. It took me forever to find this shrine. Robin said this was probably the only shrine you had left, so I had to find it.

“Dustin kept saying it was on the other side of the forest, but obviously he was wrong. Not that he’ll ever admit it, the little shit, but whatever. I’m sorry your shrine was abandoned like this, but I promise I’ll fix it up. I’m good with my hands, I can do it.”

There was no response to his admittedly disorganized ramble. It was fine, he told himself. He needed to be patient. He’d come back the next night.

–

Around the statue’s waist there was another tangled mess of vines, except these vines had died and rotted to dark sludge. There was fungus growing on it, and it reeked. It was gross. Steve scrubbed at it for hours because the rot had stained the stone. He was able to get rid of the rot and most of the stains before going to catch a few hours of sleep in the afternoon.

Night fell and Steve was kneeling for the third time. He repeated most of what he said the previous two nights. There was still no response. He thought maybe he was pushing too hard. He’d never been the super talkative type anyway. He could share the quiet night with his god, if that was what his god wanted.

A few hours passed when he was startled out of his near meditative state by the sound of snapping twigs. He leapt to his feet, hand on his scabbard. Someone–a man by the look of it–stumbled out of the woods. He was pale and dark haired, dressed in ragged clothes that were probably awful even when they were new. He looked like a vagabond.

Steve stepped in front of the shrine, protectively. The stranger grinned at him and Steve could already tell he was not going to enjoy the conversation that was about to happen.

“Who are you and what are you doing here?” Steve asked firmly, cutting the man off before he could speak. The smile only grew wider.

“I could ask you the same thing, sir,” the man said, adopting the annoyed huff of a wealthy lord. Steve scowled.

“I asked first.”

“I asked second!”

“You didn’t ask me anything,” Steve responded, somewhat smug. The man paused and then snorted a laugh.

“Yeah, okay.” He raised his hands in mock surrender. “You got me.”

“So?”

“So what?”

“What are you doing here? Who are you?” Steve repeated shortly. The teasing grin was back, and Steve felt his scowl deepen.

“Nothing and no one, m’lord,” the man bows mockingly.

“I’m not a lord.”

“Huh. Could’ve fooled me. You’re certainly as demanding as any lord I’ve ever met.”

“Oh fuck you,” Steve snapped. “I’m a holy warrior.”

The man laughed at him outright.

“Well that doesn’t sound very holy warrior-ish. Are your type allowed to swear?”

Steve grinded his teeth and decided it was not worth it to continue this conversation for much longer.

“Look, if you’re here to steal, I’ve got nothing on me.”

“That’s exactly what someone with something to steal would say.”

“Well, I don’t! I’m on a pilgrimage and I don’t want to spill blood on holy ground. So.” Steve wrapped a hand around the hilt of his sword. “Leave. Please.”

“Holy ground? Here?” the man barks out a laugh. “Don’t you know what this place is?”

“Yes,” Steve says shortly, placing himself more firmly between the shrine and the man. “Please leave. There shouldn’t be violence done here.”

“Oh, it’s far too late for that. This place used to belong to the King of Darkness. It’s said he was so evil that nothing grew here until he was run out and defeated by the god of righteousness. You know the one. Really plays up the holier than thou thing by making his hair all gold and glowy? Gotta say, you could give him a run for his money though.”

“You’re wrong.”

“No really! Your hair is great. Way better than Carver, even with the glowy thing.”

“Not that!” Steve said in frustration. This guy really liked the sound of his own voice and Steve was starting to get a headache. It was near dawn and all he wanted was to spend the last hour or so in the quiet night with his god.

“So you agree your hair is better than a god’s?” The man tsks at him. “That’s pretty blasphemous. Are you sure you’re a holy warrior?”

“No! I mean, yes. Wait,” Steve growls at his own bumbling. “No, I’m not better than any god. But I am a holy warrior. Kind of.”

“Kind of.”

“Look, I’m working on it so I need you to leave. You’ve insulted him enough already.”

“Your god is the King of Dark–”

“Call him that again, and I will draw my sword,” Steve said, voice steely. “He’s the Lord of Night, and I won’t let you insult him at his own shrine.”

The man goes quiet for the first time since he showed up. He looked almost surprised, his mocking grin gone. His eyes flicked over to the dilapidated statue and then back at Steve.

“Lord of Night doesn’t sound much different than what I called him,” the man said lightly.

“Well, it is,” Steve told him. “Now, will you please leave?”

The man stared at him for a moment before shrugging. “Yeah, alright.” And then he left as suddenly as he had arrived.

The tension that had built up in Steve’s shoulders drained away. He went back to kneel in front of the shrine again when he noticed the barest hint of sunrise on the horizon. He cursed under his breath then was hit with a wave of embarrassment at cursing in front of the shrine and the whole situation that had transpired.

“I’m sorry about that,” Steve said, abashed. “It won’t happen again, I promise.”

–

It happened again.

now with an additional snippet here and here

ps: i do not do those reader tag list things. if you'd like to keep up with my stuff, follow my writing tag: trensu tells stories

#trensu tells stories #stranger things #steddie #steve harrington #robin buckley #dustin henderson #eddie munson #i don't even know what to call this #it's an idea i'm playing with but i don't know how well it works #if you're curious about the setting so am i!#if you figure it out do me a favor and tell me what it is #i have more written but it's not done #i'm hoping to post it as a oneshot on ao3 when i finish it #IF i finish it #we'll see i guess #ETA #came up with a title/tag for this #stasis in darkness

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jihyoruri · 11 months ago

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❚ ❚ ❚ ❚ ❚ ❚ ❚ ❚ YN TROLLING CHAEWON FOR FIVE MINUTES 876k views

↳warnings richgirl!yn, chaewon trying to not lunge at yn, posting this to lighten the mood before it gets serious ( the last clip most definitely does not lighten the mood sorry…)

➩ CLIP #1 PLAYING… 📼

chaewon shifted uncomfortably in the hot room as she adjusted the strap of her tank top, she tried her best to focus on the live but the humidity of the room was getting unbearable and it was getting her irritated.

to be honest she couldn’t blame her being irritated completely on the heat of the room, the human bank account that sat beside her was also a big reason to her being irritated.

chaewon doesn’t understand why their managers thought it was a good idea to put them together for a live, it was like they didn’t even care about her feelings.

“it’s so hot,” she said to herself but loud enough for the girl who was sat beside her to hear who turned to chaewon and flashed the older girl a teasing smile.

“did you say yn is so hot?” yn asked before laughing at chaewon shocked face, she hated yn’s laugh it sounded like every rich person laugh, it her want to scratch her ears off.

“NO-” she tries to defend herself but it’s cut off my yn.

“thanks for compliment, but I don’t have any money to give you right now.” she says playfully hitting chaewon’s shoulder, while the comments laugh.

“you’re crazy.”

➩ CLIP #2 PLAYING… 📼

yn and yizhuo laughed uncontrollably as they sat on the floor together comfortably while talking to to ning’s live on instagram.

fans were completely convinced that they were on something with the way they’ve been acting to chaotically the whole live and what yn did next completely proved their point.

“I’m gonna call zuha.” yn says to live as yizhuo rested her head on yn’s shoulder.

but unluckily instead of kazuha, yn accidentally taps on chaewon’s name instead.

the call was answered was answered on the first ring and both ning and yn flinched at the sound of the persons voice.

“what do you want.” it sounded more like a demand more than a question, the chat laughs immediately realizing who it was on the call, their always up for a banter between yn and chaewon.

“zuha?” yn says confused looking at ning who looks back at her just as confused, while the chat is now seriously concerned on if their heads are in the right places, “you sound so different.”

there’s silence and the sound of static fills the live before chaewon decides to talk again, “yn are you being serious?”

“woah zuha you sound like chaewon.” yn says in amazement before looking at ning who nods her head rapidly, “tell her she needs to get into voice acting.” she adds.

“ning said you should get into voice acting,” yn giggled out, “she’s so right, you should.”

there’s another staticky silence before the sound of the disconnect tone fills the room.

➩ CLIP #3 PLAYING… 📼

yn stood between kazuha and chaewon as she adjusted her school like uniform making sure the pin of her family’s crest of her uniform jacket was upright, it made her stand out the most out of the girls.

she was too distracted that she didn’t even take in the men talking to her until chaewon harshly nudged her, she snapped her head up immediately, “huh?”

she scrunched her face up slightly when all the men in the room that sat at desks also wearing school uniforms laughed, “she really is a rich girl, they’re always air heads!” one says making everyone in the room laugh including the girls except for kazuha who jokingly pooked yns side.

“we were talking about school and we wanted to ask how your school experience was, but your head was in the clouds.” one of them says after everyone calms down form their laughs at the joke that yn didn’t find that funny.

“ohhhh.” she says staring at them, making them all laugh again, “what?”

“so how was your school experience!” one asks laughing, “we really have to spell things out for her huh, did you go to school?” he jokes making everyone in the room laugh again.

kazuha looks at yn who side eyes chaewon who’s laughing a bit too hard along with the rest of the girls, “yn went to the biggest private school in korea.” she cuts in making all the men in the rooom ahhhhhh and reallyyyyyy.

yn nods her head and smiles, “yeah I really enjoyed my time there.”

“did you take the school bus.”

“school bus?” she asks giving them a confused look causing everyone to laugh again, “my driver dropped me off if that counts.”

“so you’ve never been on a school bus.” chaewon cuts in making the men laugh again, and yn is starting to think that’s the only think they can do, “you had a personal driver?”

“you didn’t?”

“no.”

“oh. that sucks.”

the room was now filled with laughter at yns words

chaewon narrowed her eyes at yn’s cat like ones, “she has very slick mouth huh?” she says turning back to the interviewers, “don’t know what to do with her.”

#richgirl!yn #lesserafim #lesserafim x reader #chaewon #chaewon x reader #kim chaewon #kim chaewon x reader #chaewon le sserafim #girl group imagines

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poppyflower-22 · 10 months ago

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Nothing To Worry About?

Summary: Benjicot confronts you on your past relationship with Aegon.

Warnings: Incest (as usual) This is a modern au. Small talk of virginity. Mention of still birth.

Side note: Spelling and grammar mistakes. This could be a part 2 to lifetime if you like.

To love someone is to love all of them. No matter there flaws. No matter what they do.

You had seen you mother love your father's. She had loved your step father Harwin Strong. And she had loved your father Daemon.

While the rest of your family was complicated you had always known and seen what love was and how it should be received and given.

While Harwin wasn't your father, he treated you like his daughter. He showed loved to you like a father should do.

It was how you had known that what you felt for Benjicot Blackwood was love. You had known because your mother had spoken of how that's what she felt for your fathers.

It had made you feel like you had butterfly's in in your stomach. And you had never felt like this, you could feel like this forever.

“Is he good to you?” Jace asked his sister. You turned to your brother and smiled.

“Yeah.” You looked back over at Benjicot, who was playing with Aegon, your younger brother.

You felt a hand on your arm. “I’m happy for you, sister.” Jace whispered, kissing the side of your forehead.

Jace was happy that his friend was good to you. He was always going to look out for you but more so after the whole Aegon thing.

You sighed and walked over to Ben. Benji smiled up at you as you bent down on your knees.

“Hey buddy.” You greeted your younger brother. Your brother smiled at you before going back to playing with his toy dragons.

“Aegon!” Rhaenyra called, making young Aegon run over to his mother.

“Come on.” You said as you took Benji’s hand and walked up to your bedroom.

Benji squeezed your hand as you both walked past the living room where your uncles were. Aegon, your uncle smirked at Benji, knowing it would get on his nerves.

“I bloody hate him.” Benji mumbled. As he lay on her bed. He lay on his side. He had his hand on his chin as he watched you.

Your orange cat, Maple, jumped on the bed and snuggled up to Benji. He pat her making her purr.

You sat at your vanity and took off your earrings and jewellery, but your promise ring Benji had given you.

“Just ignore him.” You mumbled back, not wanting to talk about Aegon.

“Well it’s hard to when he’s here all the time.” He shot back.

You signed. “You know mother and Alicent are being friendly again, and Aegon just tags along.”

Ben groaned and dropped his head onto her soft fluffy pillows, Maple not moving as she was a deep sleeper. You smiled at your boyfriend before walking over to join him on the bed. Maple purred as you moved her softly so you could cuddle your boyfriend.

Benji smiled, letting you cuddle closer to him. He put his hand around your waist. You kissed his neck as you were put to sleep by your boyfriend.

Even him just there made you fall asleep.

Benji was cresting your back as he heard you breathing get steady, meaning you were asleep. He carefully got out of your arms and put the stuffed weighted dragon toy in your arms.

He stepped out to your balcony that was connected to your room and lit his cigarette.

As he looked out the mountains that were literally in your back, he thought of you.

The first time he ever saw you was in that book shop. He knew who you were. How could he not? You were the most beautiful person he had ever seen. And you were a Targaryen.

You had giggled at him when he stumbled over his words. He was nervous to talk to you, but he got over that as you both started seeing each other.

His first had been you, his first kiss, the person that took it. He was even more drawn to you after that. He tried his best to love and cherish you with his whole heart.

He loved you too much to ever let you go. He thinks if you ever got away that he would simply die. Sounds dramatic, but his soul was yours.

And it was a plus your family approved of him.

Daemon had been harder to get the approval of. You were his little girl. And any boy wasn’t going to be good enough for you. But he liked Benji, he could protect you.

Jace was already sort of friends with him. They played football together. But they came closer after Benji started dating you. Jace was like Daemon, protective, but Jace knew you were safe with him.

Rhaenyra was the one person Benji had been he most nervous about meeting. You loved your mother with all your heart. You were her only girl. After your little sister Visneya died a still birth, your mother had been even more protective of you.

But the moment you told her about Benji, she knew that without even meeting the boy, he was the one for you. That he treated you like you were the only girl on the earth. And for that, Rhaenyra had treated Benji like another one of her sons.

Your door being open pulled him away from his thoughts of you. He turned his head to see who it was, he thought it would be your mother or brother but it was Aegon.

Benji sat up more on the rail at the sight of your uncle. He didn't like him. From just the way he used to treat girls in school and college. And also that you and Aegon use to have a close relationship.

You always hesitated in telling him anything about your time with Aegon when you were younger, but Benji had guessed what could have happened.

"What are you doing?" Benji snapped at the boy making Aegon snap his head over to him.

Aegon smirked and walked his way to the doorway of the balcony. "Just checking up on my niece."

"Well, she's fine." Benji grumbled and put his cigarette out on the rail before jumping off the rail to put it in the ashtray that sat on the small table.

Aegon shugged and crossed his arms, "She's my niece. We are close." He smirked at the black haired boy. Aegon watched as he clenched his jaw in anger. "We are so close. I would say closer than people think." He taunted the boy.

Benji clenched his fist before he took a step and got right in Aegons face, making him gulp at the glint in Beni's eyes. "You were close. Were. You're not close anymore. She has me. She doesn't need you. She comes to me with her problems, not you." Benji spat.

He walked over to you and sat down on the edge and moved some of your white hair out of your face.

Aegon’s smirk drooped. Yes, you and him were close. More close than anyone in the family. But after a while, when he had left for his first year in community college, you had distanced yourself from him. And before he knew it, you were bringing your new boyfriend home.

He glanced at the way Benjicot moved your hair softly away from your face. He used to do that with you. He taught you everything you knew.

Aegon walked angrily towards your bedroom door before he left he turned to Benji and said something that would hopefully make him angry, "Hey Benji, did she take you to her favourite place in Rome Did you take the nighttime walk where the violin players always play?" Aegon asked with a smirk before he left the room.

He left a confused and hurt Benji and a sleeping unaware girl.

The dinner was uncomfortable. You had tried to talk to Benji, but all he had done was tell you dinner was ready.

You don't know what had happened since you had fallen asleep. You had tried to hold his hand, but he shook that of as well.

He was sat between your brother and you. Helena sat next to you. Aegon sat across from him,

You had decided that if your boyfriend was going to be a dick to you for no reason, then you would talk to your sweet aunt.

Benji had tried to listen to Jace talk about his trip to Paris with his girlfriend Sarah Snow. But all he could think about was you.

When you had asked him if he wanted to go to Rome for a few days, he had jumped at the opportunity. You had been on many small trips together, but Rome was a place you loved.

And knowing that Aegon had been there and done exactly what you two did didn't sit right with him. Maybe it was jealously. But he just didn't like it.

"They had this amazing butterfly room there. You would love it Hel, we have to go, one day." You gushed to your aunt.

"Of course. Butterflies are just so beautiful. Anymore insects there?" Helena asked, interested in the other bugs you could have seen.

Aegon, laughing quietly and looking at you, made Benji snap.

"If you excuse us." Benji said to Jace, who nodded and watched as he stood up and took your hand. "We need to talk." He simply said.

You let him pull you away. Confused. "What's going on? Ever since I woke up, you have been acting weird." You huffed as he closed the sliding doors to the back yard.

Benji scoffed at you. "That fucking craven cunt." He spat making your eye widened in surprise.

"Wow, wow, wow." You rushed out in order for him to stop before he said anything else. "You need to actually tell me what's wrong. Not curse words. Words." You advised him.

Now, that's what he loved about you. You could stop him, calm him down before he went on and on, and worked himself up. But he was already worked up.

"Aegon!" He yelled at her, making her step back in surprise. "He basically told me that you both went to Rome together and that doesn't make me upset, no what makes me upset is that not only did we do what you and him did, you lied to me about it. All I want is honesty from you." He explained to you.

You sighed. You closed your eyes and pinched your nose. "Fucking Aegon." You cursed. He could always ruin something. "Look." You began taking his hand in yours. "What me and Aegon had was a long time ago. Yes we went to Rome together and did what we did. But did you ever stop and think why?" She asked him with a head tilt.

When he shook his head softly, you smiled sweetly at him. "It was because I wanted to replace that memory that I have with him with you. You are the one that I love. Not him."

You took a breath for the next words may be hard for him to hear. "I wish all my firsts had been with you."

Benji narrowed his eyes and, with a clenched jaw, looked away. He didn't pull away. Seeing this, you grabbed his face in your hands and brought his face back towards you.

"But I know I have many other first with you." You smiled up at him. You dragged your hands down his arms again. "Our first home, our first pet together, our first child..." You trailed off with a nervous smile. He smiled lightly at you, knowing you were right.

He had a bunch of first with you yet to come.

Benji sighned and leaned his forehead on yours. They stood there for a few monets. Just in the silence.

"I'm such an idiot." He whispered you with a small laugh.

You shook your head with a giggle. You put your hands on his cheeks, making him look at you in your unique purple blue eyes. "It's normal for you to feel thease things. I'm sorry for not telling you what really happened between us. And I will, but maybe when we go back to yours." You told him with a smile. You crest his cheek.

Benji leaned in and placed a soft kiss on your lips. You melted into the kiss. Benji wrapped his arms around your waist as yours went into his hair and pulled it, making his groan.

You parted and smiled at eachother.

"You were jealous. " You giggled at the blush of embarrassment on his face. He hated being jealous.

"I was not." He grumbled into your neck, making you giggle more. Benji smiled at your giggles. "I love you so much." He sighed in your neck.

You smiled, racking your hands over his hair. "I love you as well, Benji. So much." You whispered into his ear and placed a soft kiss there.

Even if Aegon was always going to be in your life, at least Benji had the resurgence of knowing he was yours and you were his.

You were from a complicated family. A family that was broken from the death of your grandmother. But you had each other to hold.

I am thinking of making this a little small series. I was bored and listening to music.

#benjicot blackwood x reader #benjicot x reader #house of the dragon #house of the dragon x reader #house of the dragon modern au #bloody ben x reader #rhaenyra targaryen x daughter reader #aegon targaryen x reader #benjicot blackwood x y/n #benjicot blackwood x you #jace velaryon #aegon x reader #aegon x y/n #benjicot blackwood fanfic #benjicot blackwood x targaryen reader #daemon targaryen x reader #davos blackwood x you #davos blackwood x reader

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dranosh-haran-of-paleoworld · 7 months ago

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Okay, this is my first time doing this, but I need to say this, to the people who claim Sasuke's a bad clan leader, or that Fugaku and Mikoto would've accepted his relationship with Sakura had the clan survived, you're all idiots and I am not sorry for saying that.

I don't watch or read Boruto as I don't consider anything past chapter 695 as canon, but I'm still going to get this out of the way first. Sasuke never wanted to marry that bitch Sakura, he never wanted a kid with her or whatever. This man is the victim of a state-sanctioned genocide, torture, and humiliation at hands of his own brother whom he loved dearly and admired, and it was all done on orders of the state after decades of systemic segregation, oppression, prejudice, and discrimination. Sasuke was forced to relive the massacre over a million times in the Tsukuyomi and went through this twice once when he was 7 and again when he was 12 or 13, with the latter experience putting him in a coma following Itachi breaking his wrist and ribs, and this nearly killed him had Tsunade not helped him (literally the ONLY good thing she did in the series). If anyone here in the real world experienced this, they'd either be dead or in some kind of mental hospital. The point is that they would be mentally destroyed, and they'd barely be able to function in society. Regular depression already fucks people up as is, and Sasuke went something no one should ever have to go through and it's a miracle he's still able to function as is.

Sasuke also repeatedly to Sakura to fuck off and leave him alone. That bitch repeatedly pestered and harassed him for years, emotionally wearing him down until he agreed to hump and dump her ass once. This bitch emotionally abused this poor guy, so it's no surprise he not only didn't want shit to do with her or her sithspawn of a daughter. This guy wasn't emotionally or mentally stable after what Itachi did to him at 7, and he hasn't been since. Hell, it's said in one of the databooks that Sasuke originally wanted a normal life with family and friends, but Itachi ruined it with his torture sessions. Those of you shitting on Sasuke for not being a good clan leader for not communicating with Sakura or Sarada or something, don't use your heads, those two dumbasses aren't even Uchiha.

Now, onto the other part of my argument, neither Fugaku nor Mikoto would've accepted Sakura being in a potential partner for Sasuke had the Uchiha survived, however, before I start this portion let me admit that this will be hard for me to properly articulate and so I apologize in advance so with that said let's get into this.

Putting aside how shitty and lackluster of an individual Sakura herself is, she also offers or brings nothing to the table.

As other people have so beautifully said before, the Uchiha are one of the oldest and strongest clans in the series. Their lineage goes back thousands of years, dating back to the time of Hagoromo, who himself was considered a myth by the public in the present. Because of this, there's a great deal of prestige, honor, pride, and recognition that comes with their bloodlines' age. Not only that, but the Uchiha are more distinct and well-known than any other clan in the series. The Uchiha are the ONLY clan to possess distinctly potent and voluminous chakra, and because of this, they're only ones who possess and wield one of the most powerful and coveted kekkei genkai in the series the sharingan. This stems from them being the ONLY clan to have inherited the potent chakra and dojutsu of the Shinju.

The Uchiha have their own clan specific culture, mores, values, beliefs, and traditions strictly unique to themselves, for example, the clans' crest can only be worn by the members of the clan who've demonstrated mastery over their signature fireball katon jutsu and as Fugaku says to Sasuke it represents the will of those with fans who manipulate fire, use or mastery over this jutsu also makes that Uchiha a fully fledged member of the clan.

The Uchiha were known and feared throughout the world for their strength, prowess, and renown as a battle clan, so much so that other villages had rules when facing off against them. Every time someone saw or confronted Sasuke, they always brought up his lineage with reverence and fear. Two Kumo shinobi saw him and Taka carrying Bee away, and while they considered rescuing Bee, they immediately changed their minds upon seeing the Uchiha crest on Sasuke's back and instead reported to Ae about what happened. A whole crowd of wealthy patrons showed up at the Chunin Exams to see the last Uchiha battle it out, and that's why Sasuke wasn't disqualified for showing up late to his battle with Gaara during the Exams. During the Warring States Period, the Uchiha were virtually unstoppable with only the Senju due to their jutsu variety and their chieftain the freak Hashirama Senju rivaling them.

Taking all of this into account, there's no reason for a distinguished clan/bloodline like the Uchiha to take an outsider like Sakura into their midst and spoil the bloodline. Bloodline purity is a thing in the real world and persists to this very day. It's actually considered to be a huge transgression for members of distinguished clans, families, and lines to bring outsiders in and spoil their bloodlines by marrying them to the point that they're cast out and probably disowned to the highest caliber for doing it.

I wanna briefly talk about Sakura herself and explain why neither Fugaku, Mikoto, or the rest of the clan wouldn't have accepted her into their midst.

As a shinobi, Sakura is a complete nobody. She has no feats, strengths, capabilities, skills, or whatever that her remotely capable.

Her chakra reserves ridiculously tiny, she can't even handle a trickle of biju chakra. Her skillset is a complete copy pasta of Tsunade's, her skills as a medical nin are surpassed by those of Tsunade, Hashirama, Kabuto and even Sasuke during the time he had Orochimaru's white snake abilities in his system and even after he lost that, as Sasuke's self-taught himself to funnel raiton through his body to avoid mortal injury which he's done during his battles against Deidara, Bee, and Danzo. Sakura hasn't improved on, reinvented, or created her own jutsus. Her super strength is just an extension of her byakugo. She's got no talent for genjutsu or handling vast amounts of chakra. Her speed and agility feats are nonexistent, and her intelligence feats are lackluster too.

Sakura also doesn't come from a distinguished clan or bloodline. Neither she nor her parents are civilians. Let me take this time to clarify that the hidden villages house NO civilians within their midst, the hidden villages are MILITARY powers, everyone within them are soldiers, it would be antithetical for these villages to house civilian populations within them as the civilians contribute nothing to the overall prosperity and function of the village as again these are military powers within the countries. Sakura and her parents are from a smaller or minor clan within the series.

Sakura also doesn't train or take her training seriously. Sasuke points this out to her in canon during the earliest chapters of the Chunin Exams arc, and Sakura still did jackshit about it, only finally taking her training seriously after Sasuke left Konoha for good and defected to Orochimaru. And since the Uchiha again are a battle clan and the most elite clan in canon, someone like Sakura ain't being allowed within a hundred feet of them.

As an individual, Sakura, as I said above, is very lackluster and shitty. This girl has petty self-esteem issues. She knows she's lacking in various departments and tries to compensate for this by latching onto others like a leech and using them for her self-worth, Ino was originally this before Sasuke unwittingly came along. She's very shallow and vain, too.

She knows absolutely nothing about Sasuke from minor things like whether or not he wore glasses, to serious things like him being an orphan, which is ridiculous since everyone else at the academy knew these details before they were made genins. She doesn't question or try to understand Sasuke or his motivations.

She's an asshole to pretty much anyone and everyone around her whenever Sasuke's not around in canon, including other women.

She broke off her years' worth of friendship with Ino over a boy who didn't know she existed and wanted nothing to do with her. She's also made numerous attempts to downgrade and put Ino down, despite the fact that Ino was the first person to treat her with kindness, helped her with her bullies, and was the first person to validate her. Ino was also the one to try and mend and patch up their relationship. Hell, Sakura wanted Sai to call Ino ugly and was pissed when he didn't.

During the War Arc, she disrespected Tsunade, her own mentor who turned her from a nobody to a decently capable medical shinobi.

She taped a picture of her in her thirties over a picture of Karin with Sasuke and spreads rumors to Sarada about other women, like Ino trying to take Sasuke away from her.

She frequently insults and assaults Naruto, and it isn't comedy relief as she does this even after he saves her or treats her nicely. She assaulted Sai for calling her ugly despite the poor guy being a slave and Sakura name calling Naruto on a regular basis. She also attacked Konohamaru before calling her an ugly bitch (which was based on his part lol). She was also pissy about his and Naruto's sexy jutsus only to act like a fan girl when he showed her hot naked dudes, like Sasuke. So she's a hypocrite.

And she doesn't care about her own parents, and actually disrespected them, Naruto's parents, and Sasuke's as well. She tried in canon to invalidate the importance and love Sasuke had for his parents and clan, and that's tremendously disrespectful. Hell, in Boruto, she repeatedly chased after Sasuke despite being pregnant with Sarada putting her at risk, discarded the umbilical cord, which is a serious taboo, wrecked her house when Sarada asked her a simple question or two about her father, Karin frequently sends Sarada gifts instead of Sakura.

The Uchiha as a whole care deeply about one another and all within their clan, and someone like Sakura, who's again vain, shallow, petty, selfish, disrespectful, and ignorant would NEVER be considered fit to join them.

Let's play a little game of What if? Because this is something I've thought about for a while.

Following Sasuke's successful usage and mastery of the Uchiha fireball katon in front of Fugaku who himself chooses to make Sasuke his heir, Hiruzen decided to not only personally meet with and apologize to Fugaku and the Uchiha for the false accusations and punishment over the 9-Tails attack, but he also grants the clan the rights and positions of power that they deserved from the beginning, even stepping down as hokage and letting Fugaku become hokage then and there, but Fugaku maintains his decision on Sasuke being the next clan head. If this scenario took place, there's no way in Hell Sakura's going to be anywhere near Sasuke. He would've been even more untouchable for her than he already was in canon. Sasuke was already very clan oriented and duty bound in canon. He was fervently loyal and devoted to his clan and cared deeply about what they and his family thought of him, outsiders be damned. Fugaku isn't allowing any of his children, especially his heir, to marry an outsider like Sakura. The Uchiha clan in its entirety wouldn't have accepted this either. There's no way they would've accepted their future chieftain marrying a non-Uchiha, and if they did accept it, they would've accepted someone of equal standing or prestige as them. Fugaku and Mikoto would've arranged a marriage for Sasuke, and he wouldn't have objected to that. After all, Sasuke was pulling out all the stops in canon to make his father happy, and he was already extremely close with Mikoto and was well liked and respected by the rest of the clan so marrying someone his parents picked out for him is something Sasuke's definitely doing.

Let's also not forget that Sasuke's extraordinary on all fronts, in terms of beauty, skill, strength, talent, and prodigiousness, all of this, and his chakra volume and potency are through the fucking roof even the standards of his own clan. Sasuke's Sharingan is the most powerful and potent within the series since or after Indra’s which is insane as only Indra inherited his fathers chakra.

Orochimaru and Obito both knew and explicitly stated that Sasuke's Sharingan and chakra were more powerful than Itachi's. In canon, Sasuke was supposed to be THE vessel for Orochimaru, the last one he'd EVER need. Obito's entire Infinite Tsukuyomi plan hinged on utilizing Sasuke at EMS and connecting him to the Gedo Statue, something Nagato, Konan, Zetsu, and no doubt Kisame knew all to well. Kabuto knew this, too, and he himself had his own plans for Sasuke. He blackmailed and helped Obito fight a war for Sasuke, and that war was fought to see who between them could get to Sasuke first. Everyone wanted Sasuke for one reason or another, either for his looks (Sasuke's the most good-looking character in the series), his talents and skills, and abilities everything. Madara, Tobirama, Orochimaru, Obito, Zetsu, Gai, Jiraiya, Cee, Darui, Bee, Mei, Hagoromo, Kurama, Karin, Jugo, Suigetsu, Kabuto, Kakashi, Hiruzen, Neji, Tenten, Deidara, Nagato, Konan, Kisame, and Fugaku (when Sasuke performed their clans rite of passage jutsu at the age of 6 only a week after being shown it once) all of them to varying degrees were aware and dumbstruck by Sasuke's gifts and many of them wanted him.

Sasuke's skills with the sharingan, chakra, and Ninjutsu are beyond profound. He's genetically capable of awakening the EMS and the most unique rinnegan in Shinobi history.

In this alternate timeline, Sasuke's going to be trained to hell and back by not only Fugaku and everyone who he deems fit to train him. As he grows and matures Sasuke's parents and clan, ARE going to take notice of all of these aspects and gifts of his, and they're going to be especially picky about who his bride would be, as the next head of the Uchiha clan especially one like Sasuke with his looks, skills, talents, wealth, and prestige can't and won't marry just anyone especially without the consent of his parents and clan.

In this scenario, Sasuke's future wife would either be another Uchiha (the most logical conclusion) or someone else from another distinguished clan or bloodline. I see people mentioning Ino and Karin on this topic since their love for Sasuke while still being in part because of his beauty is still way more genuine than Sakura's. Karin was saved a few times by Sasuke, and he ultimately was the one who allowed to take control over her own future. She knew and understood Sasuke the most, and her relationship with Sasuke is the most erotic in canon.

Ino's love for Sasuke was described as tender by her father, and it was never about herself but how he brought her joy.

Frankly I don't object to either of them being with Sasuke, although I would like someone to help me understand how Ino from a bloodline perspective would be a good match for Sasuke as Karin is an Uzumaki and her clan has been around as long as the Uchiha so I can see why Fugaku and Mikoto would've accepted her as a future daughter-in-law, but Ino I feel like I'm missing something else or I'm just over thinking it in regards to her. Ino and Karin are also better individuals than Sakura and capable shinobi, their skills, abilities, and lives having nothing to do with Sasuke and instead being completely independent of him. Neither of them were pushy and respected Sasuke's boundaries to a better degree than Sakura.

This was a long-winded post, I know, but essentially, Sakura ain't ever hooking up with Sasuke at all, Fugaku and Mikoto ain't letting her anywhere near him.

Before I close this off, I want to ask anyone who reads this. Who else do you think Fugaku and Mikoto would've accepted as Sasuke's bride in the little what if I put above? Let me say I'm not a shipper, and like others, I find the Naruto fandom's obsession with shipping to be incredibly stupid and annoying. I am staunchly in the Pro Uchiha, Sasuke, Madara, Indra, Fugaku, and Mikoto camp, the Uchiha its members and lore, as well as the real world myths and lore used by Kishimoto to create them all capture me. But admittedly, I do agree with some people who agree that Karin and Ino would've been better partners, and that really had me thinking about who else Fugaku and the rest of the clan would've saw as fit to marry Sasuke and join the clan, so yeah I'm curious to know your thoughts and opinions on this topic as well, however, I do not agree with the Sasuke x Hinata ship, I want to shoot that down quickly, that shit ain't happening.

But again, this is a very long first post of mine on Tumblr, so yeah, thanks for reading.

#pro sasuke uchiha #pro fugaku uchiha #pro fugaku #pro uchiha #pro uchiha clan #anti sakura #anti sakura haruno #anti sakura fandom #sasukarin #inosasu #sasuino #karinsasu

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enflixx · 1 month ago

Text

rush week - jake sim

summary: You choose UCLA over the future you once planned with your high school boyfriend. And now you're ready for something new even if you’re not sure what that is yet. But between a wild Rush Week party, a flirty basketball player named Jake, and late-night walks that turn into something more, you start to realize that letting go might lead you exactly where you're meant to be.

genre: fluff, fraternities

warning(s): small kiss near the end

word count: 6062

You always knew you were going to UCLA.

It was your first choice, your dream. You’d written your PIQ’s from a coffee shop window during the rain, imagining yourself rushing through Bruin Walk with a hot latte in hand and a tote bag full of potential. You saw yourself laying out on Janss Steps, sitting in Kerckhoff Coffee House between classes, pulling all-nighters in Powell Library with the kind of friends who became family. Even participating in the famous UCLA undie run. You belonged here.

But for a while, you almost gave it all up.

Jayden, your ex high school boyfriend of nearly three years, got into the University of Rochester. You were supposed to follow him. You told yourself you’d make it work. That maybe the snow wouldn’t bother you. That maybe love was worth putting your own dreams on hold.

But somewhere between his vague career goals and your growing resentment for cold weather, you realized he wasn’t someone you could build a future with. Not if that future meant giving up your own.

So you broke up with him before graduation. You cried in your car, he called you selfish, and then… you let go.

And now, here you are. Standing on the ninth floor of Rieber Terrace, boxes in hand, and heart racing with possibility.

“UCLA, baby!” Olivia cheers, holding a fuzzy pink pillow above her head like it’s a trophy.

Your best friend was bright, bold, and fiercely loyal. She claimed the bed by the window and already hung up her decorative fairy lights before you even finished unpacking your first box.

You laugh as you drop your suitcase on the floor. “You realize we’re gonna be sweating bullets in ten minutes, right?”

“Worth it.” She twirls like a chaotic welcome committee. “We did it. No Rochester. No regrets. UCLA only.”

A knock hits your open dorm door, followed by a familiar voice.

“You guys decent?”

It’s Jay, Olivia’s on-and-off boyfriend since her first campus tour last year. He’s a junior built like he played every high school sport at once, and has that older frat boy charm that’s both charming and intimidating. He has a duffle bag slung over one shoulder and a Sigma Nu cap on backwards.

“Jay!” Olivia lights up and jumps into his arms. “You came!”

“I said I’d help you move in, didn’t I?” He kisses her cheek, then nods at you. “Hey, nice to see you here.”

“Yeah, good thing I'm not miles away at Rochester,,” you replied.

“Bruin blue looks good on you.” Jay flashes a grin, eyes trailing from your worn-in Adidas to the scrunchie on your wrist like he’s taking in your whole freshman vibe. He sets down the duffle bag he brought with a soft thud. “You girls got plans for tonight?”

“Unpacking and blasting Sabrina,” Olivia teases, tossing another decorative pillow onto her bed.

“Wrong answer.” He digs into the side pocket of his bag and tosses her a sleek gold card, its edges embossed with the Sigma Nu crest. The lettering glints in the afternoon light like it was made for VIPs. “Rush week kickoff. Big party at our house. You’re both invited.”

Olivia practically squeals. “You’re letting freshmen in?”

“Special guests,” Jay says, winking like he’s doing you both a favor. Then he leans against the doorframe, looking especially pleased with himself. “Plus… someone’s gotta meet Jake.”

You blink. “Jake?”

“Jake Sim,” he says casually, like the name should mean something to you. “Point guard. My one and only best friend.”

You exchange a glance with Olivia, but Jay’s eyes stay on you, and something about his tone makes your stomach twist.

“He’s kind of a legend around here,” Jay adds, voice dipped in something just shy of awe. “Runs the court like it’s stitched into his DNA. Frat royalty. He’s picky as hell about the parties he shows up to, but he’ll for sure be at this one.”

“What, like campus-famous?” you ask, skeptical.

Jay chuckles, pushing off the doorframe. “Let’s just say girls know who he is. Professors know who he is. Hell, even the security guards nod when he walks by.”

You raise an eyebrow and scoff. “Sounds like a lot of ego.”

Jay just grins. “Nah. That’s the thing he doesn’t need ego. He’s just Jake. You’ll see.”

And with that, he’s gone, leaving behind the gold invitation, the faint scent of cologne, and a new name lingering in your mind like a dare.

Jake Sim.

You don’t know him yet.

But apparently… everyone else already does.

By the time you’re getting ready, the sun’s gone down and your nerves are creeping up.

You stand in front of the mirror, tugging the hem of your jean mini skirt and adjusting the white tube top that hugs your body just right. Your hair is curled in soft beach waves and your lip gloss is shiny enough to catch the dorm lights. Olivia leans in beside you, applying her lashes with her steady, trained hand.

“You look so cute girl.” She says as she looks over.

“You always say that.”

“Because it’s always true.” She caps the glue and turns to you, lashes fluttering dramatically. “Listen. I know you’ve been all closed off since Jayden and what not. But this is college. You’re allowed to flirt. To have fun, especially how you treated your senior summer”

You give her a skeptical look.

“And don’t roll your eyes about Jake,” she adds, grinning. “I know what you’re thinking.”

“That he’s probably a player who sleeps in basketball jerseys and wouldn’t remember a girl’s name if it was tattooed on his arm?”

“Exactly.” She smirks, stepping into her nude heels. Her green satin mini dress catches the light, hugging her curves like it was made for a night like this. “Which is why you need to talk to him. You’re too in your head.”

You don’t answer, but deep down… maybe she has a point.

You slip into your platform boots, swipe one last coat of gloss, and spray some perfume at the base of your neck. The music from another dorm echoes faintly through the walls, guess someone’s already pregaming and it hits you all at once that this is your life now. UCLA. Westwood. Nights out with no curfew and no one waiting on the other end of a phone.

By 9:15, you're both heading down the elevator, giddy and glowing, your arms linked like it’s a homecoming dance. The air is warm and golden, the city buzzing even as the sun dips below the horizon.

“Sigma Nu’s like, a ten-minute walk,” Olivia says, scrolling through her phone. “Right on Gayley. We’ll hear it before we even see it.”

The sidewalks are alive with other students dressed up and headed in the same direction, laughter spilling into the air like music. You pass neon scooters tipped against streetlights, clusters of partygoers sharing disposable vapes and energy drinks. You feel a slow, humming thrill start to build in your chest.

When you reach Gayley Avenue, the street is already a scene with cars inching past with their windows down, music thumping from every direction, and the unmistakable glow of a college party in full swing just up ahead.

“Yup,” Olivia says, pointing at the white house with columns wrapped in twinkle lights. “There it is.”

The Sigma Nu house.

There are people flooding the front lawn, red solo cups in hand, a fake velvet rope barely holding the chaos at bay. Someone’s standing on the porch with a megaphone, trying to rally the crowd, and above it all, you spot the signature gold crest of the fraternity shining against the night sky.

“Okay,” Olivia says, giving your hand a squeeze. “This is it. Night one of UCLA.”

And with that, you both step into the buzz of it all heart pounding, breath held, walking straight into something that feels a lot like the beginning of everything.

You barely make it through the front hall before Jay spots you both.

“Ladies!” He grins, pulling Olivia into a quick kiss and nodding toward the back. “Come say hi to the guys.”

You trail behind them, catching glimpses of Greek letters on jerseys, someone shotgunning 2 seltzers on the kitchen counter, and a couple making out under a Sigma Nu banner like it’s a scene from a teen movie.

Jay wraps an arm around Olivia’s waist and says something about upstairs shots, then turns to you. “You good?”

You nod. “Yeah, I’ll wander.”

And you do, but out of the crowded hallway and into the kitchen, which is quieter but still buzzing.

You’re reaching for a drink when someone steps beside you.

“Water?” a mysterious voice says. “Smart move.”

You glance over and there he is.

Jake.

You recognize him immediately. Tall. Lean muscle under a vintage Lakers tee. A backwards UCLA cap over dark hair, low on his forehead. His eyes are sharp but amused, and his smile is wide, like he’s never had to try hard for attention.

“I wasn’t sure the kitchen was still part of the party,” you say.

“It’s where the real ones hide.” He bumps his shoulder lightly into yours. “I’m Jake.”

You give him your name, surprised when he repeats it back like he means to remember it.

“Jay’s been talking about you,” he says, sipping his drink. “Said you’re Olivia’s best friend. Smart. Cutthroat. UCLA top choice?”

You blink. “He said all that?”

Jake shrugs, leaning casually against the counter. “He left out the part about you being gorgeous.”

You raise a brow. “Smooth.”

“Hey, I try.” He grins and shrugs, then nods toward the living room. “Wanna go out there?”

You hesitate at first, but the music is good and his smile is infectious. So you follow him.

You dance. Not the awkward kind, but the good kind. The kind that feels like laughing. Like swaying and spinning and singing half the lyrics wrong. Jake never gets too close, never pushes it, but he pays attention. He notices when you stumble slightly, when you laugh too hard, when you mouth the lyrics to a 2000s throwback.

It’s... not what you expected.

You're mid-spin when your phone buzzes.

Olivia [10:06 PM]: Staying w Jay tonight. You good?

You stare at the message, the blue glow from your phone lighting your face in the dim living room. The text doesn’t surprise you, but it still surprises you a little. You slip the phone into your mini bag, trying not to overthink it.

Jake notices the shift in your energy immediately as he’s been dancing with you long enough to know when your mood flickers. His hands rest gently on your waist, steady like he’s done this a hundred times before, but not in a way that makes you feel like just another girl.

“You good?” he asks, leaning in so only you can hear him over the music.

You nod, brushing a strand of hair out of your lip gloss. “Yeah Liv ditched me for her boyfriend… again. Classic.”

Jake huffs a small laugh, eyes glinting and looking around. “Ruthless. You wanna go somewhere else?”

You glance around. The party’s still packed with the lights strung between trees, the bass rattling the air, couples swaying close, some dancing like they’ve known each other forever. But even with the crowd, it kind of feels like it’s just you and him.

“I mean… not yet,” you say honestly. “My feet are killing me though.”

“Say less.” He gently pulls back, nodding toward the house. “C’mon. Let’s grab a drink, and take five.”

You follow him inside, weaving through clusters of people until you’re tucked in the kitchen, where the noise fades just enough for conversation. He pours you a Sprite without asking hands it over without the pressure.

You raise a brow. “Didn’t take you for a mind reader.”

“I clocked you weren’t drinking earlier,” he says with a lazy smile. “Didn’t wanna assume.”

“Look at you. Respectful and observant?”

Jake grins, leaning back against the counter next to you. “Don’t ruin my reputation. I’m supposed to be the cocky one.”

You laugh into your cup. He’s not what you expected at all. For someone whose name gets tossed around like he’s a campus legend, Jake Sim is… chill. Easy. Not trying too hard to be anything.

“So…” he says after a moment. “Why UCLA?”

You pause, surprised by the question. “Honestly? It was my dream school. I almost didn’t end up here though.”

His brows lift. “Wait, why?”

“I was supposed to follow my ex to the University of Rochester,” you say, kind of embarrassed. “I thought I owed it to him. We were together for years. But it didn’t feel right. I kept picturing myself there and it felt… wrong. Like I’d be living his life, not mine.”

Jake’s quiet for a second, then nods. “That’s tough but respect for choosing yourself.”

You shrug. “Kinda felt like I was blowing up my whole life. But yeah I think I’m for sure where I’m supposed to be.”

He’s looking at you in this thoughtful way that makes your skin buzz. “You are.”

You blink, heart jumping just a little. “What about you? Why UCLA?”

He chuckles. “Basketball, obviously. But also—" he pauses, scratching the back of his neck, “—LAs my home. I wanted to stay close. Didn’t think I’d like it this much though.”

The two of you linger there for a while longer, sipping drinks, talking about dumb orientation stuff, professors you’re both nervous about, the weird flex of having to buy scantrons in 2025. It’s easy. Comfortable. The kind of conversation you didn’t know you needed.

Eventually, you glance at the time and sigh. “Okay, now I should probably head back.”

Jake straightens up. “Want me to walk you?”

You give him a look. “You don’t have to.”

He tilts his head, a crooked smile displayed across his face. “I know I don’t. But I want to.”

And that shuts you right up.

He grabs his jacket off the couch before you leave, draping it over your shoulders without asking. It smells good, a little like his cologne, and weirdly clean.

The walk back is slow. Quiet. The party fades behind you, replaced by crickets and the hum of the city around campus. He asks about your major, your schedule, whether or not you’re scared of 8 a.m. lectures. You ask about his team, how often they travel, whether the pressure ever gets to him.

“Sometimes,” he admits. “But it’s worth it. I love it too much.”

When you reach your dorm, neither of you moves right away. He shoves his hands into his pockets and looks at you like he’s trying to memorize this version of the night.

“Thanks for walking me,” you say, soft.

“Thanks for dancing,” he says back, equally soft.

You smile, pulling the jacket tighter. “Night, Jake.”

“Night.” He pauses, like he might say something else but just gives you a nod instead.

You head upstairs alone, your heart weirdly light. You don’t know if this means anything, or if it was just a one-night spark, but for the first time in a long time you’re not thinking about Jayden. Or Rochester. Or what you left behind.

All you’re thinking about… is right now.

And maybe just maybe Jake Sim.

It’s been a week since the Sigma Nu party, but your mind keeps pulling pieces of it back. The glint of string lights. Jake’s jacket draped over your shoulders. The way his voice dipped when he asked if he could walk you home, like he was trying not to make it a big deal.

You haven’t seen him since. You figured you probably wouldn’t. That night felt like a bubble, one of those weird college moments that starts and ends in a haze of music and too much Sprite.

But now it’s Thursday afternoon, and you’re making your way to Bio 5A with a textbook in one hand, Starbucks in the other just trying to stay awake long enough to survive your professor’s ramble about cell theory. The halls in the science building are buzzing, students rushing in and out of rooms, phones glued to their hands.

You’re scrolling through your Canvas notifications when you hear someone call your name.

“Hey.”

You glance up and there he is, leaning against the wall like he owns it—backpack slung over one shoulder, curls a little messier than you remember, in an oversized UCLA hoodie and basketball shorts. Jake Sim.

You blink. “Oh hey.”

He flashes that same lazy, lopsided grin. “Didn’t think I’d see you around the STEM kids.”

You laugh. “Bio lecture. Unfortunately.”

“Ohh I see.” He pushes off the wall, falling into step beside you like it’s nothing. “How’s week two treating you?”

“Chaos,” you say. “I already missed an assignment and had a full-on meltdown over my laundry card not working.”

Jake snorts. “Haha. The true freshman experience.”

You narrow your eyes playfully. “What about you? Where’re you headed?”

“Practice.” He tilts his head toward the gym across campus. “We’ve got a game tomorrow. First home game of the season.”

“Oh yeah?” You pause. “Big deal?”

He shrugs like it’s not, but the flicker in his eyes says otherwise. “Kind of.”

You adjust your grip on your textbook, nerves buzzing for no real reason. “Well, good luck. Not that you need it or whatever.”

Jake stops walking, and you do too right in front of the lecture hall doors. His eyes settle on you like he’s figuring something out.

“You know you should come.”

You blink. “To the game?”

“Yeah.” His smile turns soft. “It’d be cool to see you there.”

There’s a long beat where you think maybe he didn’t mean it like that. But then he gives you a little nod, like it’s sealed.

“Tomorrow night. I’ll leave your tickets with Jayl.”

Your brain short-circuits for half a second. “Oh. Okay. Yeah, sure.”

“Cool.” He flashes you one last grin, then jogs backward a few steps before turning down the hallway. “Later, Bio Girl!”

You walk into lecture five seconds later than you should, cheeks warm. You slide into a seat near the middle and open your laptop, but your focus is shot.

The professor launches into a rant about organelles and cellular respiration, but all you can think about is him, in that hoodie, grinning at you like the offer was just for you. Like tomorrow night might actually mean something.

And you hate to admit it, but... part of you really hopes it does.

The stadium is packed. And the whole place hums with energy with students crammed into the bleachers, gold and blue foam fingers waving, someone with a painted chest chanting “UCLA” like their life depends on it.

You’re in the second row, sandwiched next to Olivia and Jay, who somehow managed to snag prime seats. Olivia’s already cheering, bouncing on her toes. Jay, meanwhile, is practically vibrating, yelling out plays like he’s the coach.

“Let’s gooo, Jake!” he hollers when the players run onto the court for warmups.

Your eyes scan the lineup, and then there he is.

Jake Sim. Number 5. Point guard. UCLA stitched in gold across his chest.

He’s bouncing a ball between his hands, focused, all sharp edges and muscle and clean movement. There’s no sign of the laid-back guy who walked you home that night. On the court, he’s laser precision, locked in. It's... kind of insane to watch.

Jay claps his hands and looks over to you. “You’re about to see why every girl on campus suddenly loves basketball.”

“I’m just here for the student-athlete academic excellence,” you deadpan.

He smirks. “Yeah yeah, okay.”

The game kicks off, and Jake is everywhere, fast breaks, no-look passes, pulling up from the three-point line like it's nothing. The crowd loses it every time he scores. And yeah, okay, you’ll admit it, you’re losing it too. He looks so in his element, it’s impossible not to get swept up.

By the time the buzzer sounds, UCLA’s up by 12, and the whole arena erupts.

You’re lost in the rhythm of it when, out of nowhere, Jake glances up at the stands. His eyes lock onto yours from across the court. You freeze, then catch the subtle wave of his hand he’s signaling for you, then to the locker room.

Your heart skips, and you’re not sure whether you should feel excited or nervous, so you do both. You glance over at Olivia, who’s bouncing on her feet, her eyes glued to the game.

“Olivia,” you lean in, trying to keep your voice steady. “Jake… wants me to meet him by the locker room.”

Olivia blinks, looking confused at first before her eyes widen. “Wait, what?”

“I know, it’s weird,” you shrug, trying to keep your cool. “But he waved at me and pointed, so…”

Jay turns around just then, catching the tail end of the conversation. He grins, an eyebrow raised. “You should go, then. We’ll catch up with you later. You’re not gonna leave him hanging after that, right?”

You bite your lip, still feeling like this whole situation is just too surreal. “Uh, sure. But could you two walk me there?”

Olivia smirks, knowing exactly what’s going on. “Of course. Wouldn’t let you wander around alone, especially not with him.” She winks. “Go get ‘em, girl.”

Jay pulls olivia’s arm. “Come on, we’ll head down to the player’s lounge, let her do her thing.”

You give a nervous laugh, feeling the weight of their teasing, but it doesn’t matter because the butterflies in your stomach are making it hard to focus.

The three of you make your way through the crowd, navigating the bleachers and sidestepping excited fans heading toward the exits. When you finally get to the lower level of Pauley Pavilion, Jay waves at a security guard, who gives you all a nod and lets you through a small side door into a hallway.

The atmosphere changes instantly quieter here, with the occasional sound of sneakers squeaking on the gym floor and faint echoing cheers in the distance. Olivia stays close, though you can feel the air between you and her buzzing with curiosity.

“You okay?” she asks softly.

“Yeah, just… nervous.”

Jay rolls his eyes, but there's a hint of amusement in his voice. “What, you’ve talked to him once, and now you’re acting like it’s your first date?”

You roll your eyes at him. “Shut up.”

You follow them through the crowd, down the concrete tunnels of the stadium, heart thudding for a whole different reason now. Jay gives a little nod to a security guard, who lets you all through to a hallway lined with trophy cases and championship banners.

“This is where you wait,” Jay tells you with a grin, nudging your arm. “Don’t pass out when he takes his shirt off.”

You roll your eyes, planting yourself near the wall. Jay and Olivia keep walking further down toward the players’ lounge, giving you space.

Minutes pass. You try not to stare too hard at the double doors across from you until they swing open.

Jake steps out, still towel-drying his hair. His face is flushed, skin glowing, an everyday tee shirt clinging to his chest. He’s got his jersey in one hand, gym bag slung over the other shoulder.

“Hey,” he says, smile blooming as soon as he sees you.

You smile back, feeling weirdly shy. “Hey. Good game.”

“You watched?”

“Obviously,” you say, stepping into stride beside him as he starts walking toward the exit. “You know Jay screamed your name so many times I think he lost his voice.”

Jake laughs, a low sound that makes your stomach flip. “Sounds like him.”

You glance at him. “You were amazing. Like… actually. I was kind of blown away.”

He glances over at you, eyes warm. “Thanks. Means more coming from you.”

The walk is quiet for a second. Not awkward just comfortable. The buzz of the game still lingers in the air.

When you reach the stadium parking lot, he unlocks a sleek black car and opens the passenger door for you.

“Wow,” you tease, sliding in. “Fancy rides and post-game invites. You’re really pulling out the charm.”

“Only for you,” he shoots back, smirking as he rounds the front and gets in.

The drive back to campus is short, but it’s easy. You can still feel the energy of the game buzzing in your veins, and the quiet hum of the car’s engine almost feels like it matches the rhythm of your thoughts. Jake is relaxed behind the wheel, his hands loosely gripping the steering wheel as he navigates the streets.

“So,” you start, trying to break the silence, “I think I might just be a basketball fan now.”

Jake laughs, glancing over at you for a second, his eyes soft but amused. “Glad I could make a convert out of you.”

You grin. “You were like… on fire. All those three-pointers or something?”

“Had to, or Coach would’ve killed me,” he says with a wink. “Nah, but seriously, the team was on point tonight. Felt good playing.”

“You mean you were on point,” you tease, nudging him lightly with your elbow. “The rest of the team was just lucky to have you.”

Jake chuckles, but then a familiar song starts blaring from the car’s speakers, and it’s like an immediate shift in energy. It’s a classic Justin Bieber’s “baby”—the kind of throwback song you never expect to hear on a night like this.

Jake’s eyes light up as he turns the volume up, grinning. “Oh hell yeah. This takes me back.”

You laugh and quickly join in, both of you singing along terribly, but with full enthusiasm to the cheesy verses. Jake’s voice cracks in places, and you can’t help but giggle, your nerves settling as you belt out the lyrics in the car.

By the time the song finishes, you’re both breathing a little harder, still laughing, and clearly more relaxed than you’ve been all night.

“Okay, okay, I’ll admit, I’m a little bit of a legend when it comes to this song,” Jake teases, wiping his forehead dramatically.

You laugh, rolling your eyes. “Sure, keep telling yourself that.”

He just grins, and before you can say anything else, the next song kicks in—Britney Spears’ “Toxic.” You both groan in mock horror, but Jake immediately starts singing along, doing the full Britney falsetto.

You join in, and suddenly the whole car is alive with the sound of 2000s pop. The music is loud enough that you both get lost in it, completely ignoring how ridiculous you sound. When the chorus hits, Jake spins the wheel with exaggerated gestures, “I’m addicted to youuu, don’t you know that you’re toxic?!”

You throw your head back, laughing so hard you almost can’t catch your breath. “You are so extra,” you tease, trying to recover your voice.

“You know you love it,” Jake shoots back, eyes twinkling as he holds the note, getting louder just to mess with you.

Before long, you’re both shouting along to the next song, Shakira’s “Hips Don’t Lie.” You and Jake start doing the most ridiculous dance moves from your seats, pretending to shimmy and shake to the beat, even though you’re both clearly off-beat.

“Okay, but like seriously could I pull off the belly dancing moves in public?” Jake says between laughs.

“Only if you want to get mobbed by girls,” you reply, giggling.

Jake flashes you a smirk. “Not the worst thing that could happen.”

You roll your eyes, but deep down, you can’t help the smile that tugs at your lips. This is what you didn’t expect from the guy you’d seen from a distance, the guy everyone seemed to know. But here he is, singing Britney and Shakira like he doesn’t have a care in the world.

After a few more songs, the energy starts to slow. You’ve both burned through all the 2000s hits you can remember and have settled into a more comfortable silence, the kind that doesn’t feel awkward, but instead just calm.

You glance out the window, watching the familiar streets of campus pass by. You’re not ready for the ride to end, but you know it’s coming soon.

“Thanks for inviting me,” you say quietly, still holding his jersey in your lap. “I needed this. Tonight. All of it.”

Jake looks over at you, his expression softening. “I’m glad you came. Seriously.”

The car pulls into the parking lot outside your dorm, and you realize you really don’t want the night to end. But you know it has to. You need to get back to your dorm, and he has to get some rest for tomorrow’s practice.

Jake parks the car, but neither of you makes a move to get out immediately. The radio plays low, some random song you can’t quite place. It feels comfortable.

“I don’t want to go,” you admit, barely above a whisper.

Jake glances at you, his smile turning into something a little more genuine, \“I don’t either.”

You let out a soft laugh, feeling a flutter in your chest. “But we kinda have to, huh?”

“Yeah,” he says, but the reluctance in his voice is obvious. He glances down at the jersey in your hands. “Take it. I know I have a bunch of them, but this one’s special. Really.”

You nod, folding it carefully, still warm from the game. “I will. Thanks.”

Jake takes a deep breath, then opens his door, and you do the same. As you get out, you hold the jersey a little tighter against your chest, reluctant to let it go.

Before you close the door, Jake calls out. “Hey, wait. Promise me you’ll wear it sometime.”

You laugh, blinking in surprise. “Are you serious? In public?”

“Yeah. Why not?” He shrugs, still leaning against the car. “I’ve got a ton of them. But this one, you should keep.”

You bite your lip, feeling the weight of it in your hands. “Alright. I’ll wear it. For you, Jake.”

He gives you that crooked grin of his. “Good. I’ll be expecting you to wear it to the next game.”

You grin back, feeling lighter than you have all night. “It’s a deal.”

You open the door slowly, still not ready to break whatever this is, but knowing you kind of have to.

“Night, Jake.”

“Night, Bio Girl.”

You close the door with a soft click and start walking back to the dorm, the jersey pressed tight to your side. You glance over your shoulder one last time to see him already getting in the elevator, giving you one final wave before the doors close.

You take a deep breath as you make your way inside, the warmth of the jersey against your side a reminder of the night. A reminder of Jake.

The next morning, sunlight filters through the blinds, soft and golden, warming the skin of your bare arms where they peek out from under the comforter. You stretch, blink slowly, and roll over toward the edge of your bed with your eyes landing on Jake’s jersey, still draped over your desk chair.

You smile, sitting up and grabbing it. It’s wrinkled now, the “UCLA” letters slightly folded, but still smells faintly of detergent and something boyish, maybe sweat, but in a good way.

You shake it out, and something small flutters to the floor.

It’s a sticky note. You pick it up, brow furrowing, and read the messy scrawl written across the back:

Jake – XXX-XXX-XXXX (only text if you liked the game )

You snort, rolling your eyes. Cocky. But the butterflies still show up anyway.

You [10:26]: I liked the jersey better than the game tbh.

Jake [10:26]: bold start.

You [10:27]: bold handwriting.

Jake [10:27]:I take offense.

You [10:28]: you should. it’s worse than my bio notes.

Jake [10:28]:wanna tell me that to my face over coffee?

read

You meet outside the Starbucks already spotting Jake leaning against the brick wall, hoodie thrown over his head, sweatpants and beat-up Nikes completing the “effortless athlete” look. His phone’s in one hand, but he’s already smiling when you approach.

“You’re early,” he says.

“You’re wearing slippers in public.”

“They’re sneakers,” he protests, then looks down. “Okay, fine. Maybe slippers.”

You laugh, falling into step beside him as the line inside creeps forward. Jake taps the glass, studying the pastries like it’s a museum exhibit.

“You look like a caramel person,” he says suddenly.

You glance up at him. “And you look like someone who drinks black coffee and lectures people about it.”

He gasps. “I’m offended.”

“You should be.”

When it’s your turn to order, you tell the barista who was tall, broad-shouldered, and clearly too confident, that you’ll have an iced caramel latte. He writes your name on the cup, eyes lingering just a beat too long.

Jake doesn’t notice until you get your drink and there’s something else scrawled under your name.

“Text me sometime :)” with a phone number.

Right there. On your cup.

Jake freezes when he sees it, mid-sip of his own cold brew.

“Wow,” he says, blinking. “Okay. Damn. Starbucks just giving out boyfriends now?”

He turns to face the barista, “She’s good,” he says coldly, taking both drinks and your hand.“She already has someone’s number.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Jealous?”

“Territorial,” he mutters, then leans in. “And maybe a little jealous.”

You grin into your straw.

You walk around campus after your lectures, neither of you really in a rush. The sun’s out, glinting off windows and warming your shoulders as you stroll past Royce, then down toward the sculpture garden. It’s calm. Almost too calm, for how fast your heart’s going.

Jake’s walking close, his fingers brushing yours sometimes. And even though you’re talking about stupid things like how vanilla tastes better than caramel or whether the 2000s were peak music you can feel the shift in the air.

He looks at you when you laugh. Not like a friend. Not like someone who just wants to flirt for the day.

Like someone who sees you. And likes what he sees.

You’re halfway down the steps when the conversation slows. The campus hum fades into the background. You look over at him.

And that’s when it happens.

No warning. No awkward setup.

Just silence… then lips.

His mouth finds yours like it’s instinct. Soft and steady. Like he’s been waiting for the right second. Your hand curls around his hoodie, grounding yourself, and his fingers ghost the side of your jaw, gentle but sure.

When you finally pull back, neither of you says anything for a moment.

Then Jake lets out a slow breath, eyes still on yours. “Been wanting to do that since the party,” he murmurs.

You bite your bottom lip, heart thudding. “Took you long enough.”

He grins

The walk back to your dorm was filled with laughter and smiles. But this time, you don’t head inside right away. You linger outside the door, and he does too.

“I had a good time today,” you say, voice soft.

Jake shifts his weight, hands deep in his hoodie pocket. “Me too.”

The silence that settles between you is quieter now. Calmer.

Then he says it.

“That kiss…” he trails off, eyes locking with yours. “That wasn’t just fun for me.”

Your breath hitches.

“I don’t wanna wonder where we stand,” he adds. “Or sit back while random dudes write their number on your cup. I like you. And I wanna be the only one kissing you.”

You blink, cheeks warm but not from the sun.

“Then don’t worry,” you whisper. “You are.”

His smile spreads, slow and real.

“Cool,” he says. “And by the way I’m really not trying to share you with Mr. Starbucks.”

You laugh, pulling open the dorm door.

“Night, Jake.”

“Night, Bio Girl.”

As you step inside, jersey still folded neatly over your arm, you realize something strange.

You’re not thinking about Jayden. Or Rochester. Or all the things you left behind.

You’re thinking about caramel lattes and crooked handwriting. About slow walks and quiet kisses.

You’re thinking about Jake.

And it feels good.

Like you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.

#enflixx #enhypen #enha #enhypen jake #jake sim #enhypen imagines #enha imagines #enhypen x reader #enha x reader #enhypen fluff

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sp0o0kylights · 1 year ago

Text

Steve’s mother was the black sheep of her family.

Stella hated the snow, and the isolation of the small town she grew up in. Hated the bright colors, and sheer friendliness of the neighbors. How everyone was always involved in each other’s business, at all times--and how getting involved meant sharing.

Giving up your time for the greater good.

‘We’re one big family!’ Her father had told her, and hadn’t understood why she found the concept utterly revolting.

Just like she couldn’t understand why they never agreed with her ideas. Things would run so much more smoothly with more rules, better regulations. They didn’t need to rely on magic when they had spreadsheets.

Who cared if some people were upset? If some of the workers where put out of jobs, or “hurt” by her changes?

That was how evolution worked.

The strongest survived, and the business world demanded only the strongest of leaders.

She didn’t regret leaving.

Didn’t look behind her for a second, all too happy to go to college and find herself a rich man to make miserable.

Even had a child, though they were never her favorite things. Her Steven of course, would be so much different from the children she’d grown up among or the ones she helped oversee for her father's work.

He wouldn’t cry. He wouldn’t shriek or scream or make demands of busy adults. Steven would know his place, and he would stay in it until he had grown into a reasonable adult.

No unrealistic expectations, not from her son.

And absolutely, 100%, no magic.

(Unfortunately for Stella Harrington and her relationship with her son, magic does not obey the whims of one person.

Particularly not that kind of magic, one far older than Stella could comprehend.)

See: Steve knew where he came from. Would never say it of course, outright refused to put a name to it.

Knew better, even when he was young, than to speak it aloud.

Though his mother had long abandoned any powers given to her, Steve was still born with his. When lonely, he often found he could wander into a different kind of woods.

One absolutely covered in snow.

Steve should have been cold in those woods, but he never was, not even the first time he stumbled into them at the tender age of seven.

These trees never scared him. Not like the ones in his backyard sometimes did.

The whole place felt rather welcoming in a way his own house had never been, and as Steve had stumbled along following the faint glow of lights, he found himself feeling more relaxed.

Happy.

Even at seven, Steve was smart enough to know he needed to turn back, after a while. That his mother would be furious with him if he caused her to miss the meeting she needed to go to.

That he had a responsibility to be where she put him.

He hadn’t crested the hill yet. Hadn’t quite figured out where the glow was coming from, when he realized he needed to go home--but his trip wasn’t wasted.

A baby reindeer distracted him.

It peeked around a tree, and upon seeing him, came dashing his way.

Steve should be scared, would have been scared, but something in him told him this creature was his friend. He held out his hands and greeted it as such.

He was right.

A few more little reindeer came up over the hill, running around him, and together he played what felt like a game as he walked back in the direction he thought his house lay.

Said his goodbyes when the snow started to wane and made promises to return.

Found, sadly, that he wouldn’t get another chance too for almost a full year. He was too busy, signed up for multiple sports, handed over to tutors and taught life skills by a parade of nannies, none of whom ever stayed for long.

He dreamed of the snow.

The gentle way the woods felt.

It was what made him tell the lie that let him go back.

Steve was eight by then, and smart to how his parents and nannies worked. That some of them overlapped their stays when his parents went away.

So it was easy to tell Mary that she could go.

That it was okay, really. Carla had just called, she was on her way.

Just like it was easy to tell Carla that his parents' plans had changed. Let her know she wasn’t needed after all.

What harm would it do if he was alone for a night? His father kept telling him he was a big boy. Soon he’d be on his own anyway.

The snow found him faster this time, when he went for his walk in the woods.

Delighted, Steve kept an eye out for the reindeer, fingers skittering across tree bark as he looked around, once again tracking the soft glow that came up over the hill.

It was a long walk to that light, but Steve didn’t mind.

Not until he heard the crying.

“Hello?” Steve called, voice prim and proper as always. It was a little high--Tommy teased him endlessly about it, but he had been assured it would deepen.

The crying didn’t stop, but things got quiet for a moment, in the way that happens when someone was trying hard not to be found.

(Steve knew exactly how that felt, not wanting to be found. Wanting to cry for a moment, without someone telling you to toughen up, be a man, ‘God Steven you’re too old for all this--’)

“It’s okay!” Steve rushed out, trying to locate where the muffled sounds were coming from before they ran away. “I won’t tell anyone, I promise!”

Which is right about when he almost tripped over the other kid.

He was hunched against a tree, knees drawn into his chest with brown hair hanging into his eyes. His clothes were a odd--a little like how his teacher had made Steve dress when they’d done a play about the middle ages.

“Who’re you?” The boy asked defensively, wiping his nose with his sleeve.

“I’m Steve.” He said, before kneeling down himself. “Did you get hurt?”

“No.” The boy sniffled. After a moment he added; “M’ Eddie.”

His eyes were large, and reminded Steve of a puppy he once saw. All cute and round and shiny.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you before.” The boy said and it wasn’t an accusation, but it wasn’t friendly.

“I’m not from around here.” Steve told him. “At least, I don’t think I am.”

It was kind of hard to know, given Steve wasn’t sure where here was, exactly--and absolutely knew better than to ask his parents.

“Well then you should go home.” The boy sniffled again.

Steve wasn't put off by it. Tommy had been a lot meaner than this after all, when they'd first met.

Given their parents made them play together anyways, Steve felt he he could get this kid to like him too.

"I'm gonna, later. I'm looking for something right now though--you wanna come?"

Which he felt was a pretty nice offer. Might distract Eddie from whatever was bothering him.

(Steve liked distractions, when he was upset. It made it a lot easier to swallow down the bad feelings.)

“You shouldn’t hang around me.” Eddie said suddenly. His nose was as red as his eyes, and he refused to look Steve in the eye as he hunched further into himself. “I’m bad.”

“You’re not bad.” Steve told him.

He got a glare for it.

“How would you know?”

“I dunno.” Steve stopped, brows furrowing in thought. “I just--kinda do. I always have.”

Which was true. Steve was awfully good at identifying who was good and who was bad, from adults to his fellow classmates. It had gotten him in trouble before his mother had sat him down, and told him he just had a good business sense.

That he needed to keep to himself who was good and who was bad, especially the adults, because it wasn’t his place to say such things.

(‘But it’ll serve you well in the future.’ His mother told him, tucking an errant strand of hair back behind his ear. ‘Particularly for business deals.’)

“Well you’re wrong then, because I was born bad.” Eddie scoffed, arms crossing over his chest. “Everyone says so!”

It was dramatic as hell, and Steve couldn’t help the giggle that escaped him.

“I’m sorry!” He said immediately, when Eddie’s face flushed angrily. “I’m sorry it’s just--you look kinda silly.”

He mimed Eddie’s stance for a moment, including a dramatic little huff of breath. It unbalanced him, and Steve ended up dropping on his butt, which made him to laugh even louder.

“No one who does that can be bad.” He said finally, through the giggles.

“That’s--stupid. You’re stupid.” Eddie said, except he was clearly trying to hide his own laugh at Steve’s antics.

“I’m not stupid--and you’re not bad. I promise.” Steve said, before reaching out a hand, one pinkie extended. “I’ll swear on it.”

“What’re you doing?” Eddie asked him, but he didn’t sound sad now. More curious.

Curious Steve knew, was a lot better than sad.

“You wrap your pinkie finger with mine. Then it’s a pinkie swear, which is like--unbreakable!”

That’s what Carol had told him at least, and so far it had held true. Steve figured it must work doubly so, in a place like this.

Cautiously, Eddie reached out, entwining his pinkie with Steve’s. Like any minute Steve would snatch his hand back, and tell him it was all a joke.

Instead, Steve bobbed their hands up and down once, before letting go and asking; “Do you wanna go find that light with me? I wanna see what it is.”

He pointed up the hill, toward the glow that had haunted his dreams.”

“Oh that’s boring.“ Eddie told him, but he had a grin on his face that felt infectious. “It’s just the town. I’ll show you something way better!”

“Yeah?” Steve asked, and let Eddie snatch his wrist, launching to his feet and bringing Steve with him.

In doing so his hair blew, revealing that he had pointed ears.

Steve stared at them in awe as Eddie tugged him further into the trees, until they burst into a clearing filled with gingerbread houses. They ranged from teeny tiny, to large enough that Steve and Eddie could walk in them, and it wasn’t long before the two started a game of tag, broken only by laughter.

In retrospect, this was his downfall.

Because the little gingerbread houses were really cool, and Eddie was a lot of fun. It was easy to play with him--like the two of them had been made for each other.

Steve had never connected like this with a person before. Never had so much fun with someone before.

Not even with Tommy and Carol, his very best friends.

Eddie seemed to feel the same way, and not even an hour into meeting him, Steve knew he would remember this for the rest of his life.

Remember Eddie.

Steve ended up losing track of time. Stayed so long that his lie was discovered.

The person who came looking for him wasn’t his parents, but looked weirdly like his mom--if his mom were a boy.

He introduced himself as Steve’s Uncle Nick after he called the two boys to him, hands on his hips in a way Steve kind of wanted to mimic.

Steve knew it to be true, in the same way he knew how to find the forest, and if someone was good or bad. A feeling inside him he could tap into, warm and fuzzy in a way that, should he ever be pressed, he might admit to feeling like magic.

“Now how did you get here?” Uncle Nick asked him, like Steve's presence was a surprising little puzzle.

Knowing better than to lie, sensing that his Uncle would be able to tell if he did anyways, Steve told him the truth.

It got him exactly what he expected, which was an upset adult.

Unlike his mom or dad however, his Uncle didn’t yell at him, or grab Steve’s hand in a punishing grip. No nails dug into his skin, no harsh words were hissed. Uncle Nick simply pinched the tip of his nose, before giving a sigh that shook his massive frame.

“Your mom is going to be very upset.” He said finally.

Like Steve didn't know.

“I just wanted to see the lights.”

“The lights--oh.” Uncle Nick glanced over his shoulder. “Could you see them from your house?”

Steve shook his head.

“No but I could feel them.”

Like a pulse in his chest. A compass, or--a guide.

“He says he can tell who's naughty or nice.” Eddie chimed in, oddly quiet for how loud he had been. “He says I’m good.”

This was said as a challenge, and Steve eyed his new friend out of the corner of his eye. He’d never dared speak to an adult like that, and was both a little in awe of Eddie doing it, and afraid for him.

Something his Uncle seemed to sense.

“Edward, go home.” He said, firm but kind. Not like how Steve's mom was when she was mad, or his dad when he had a bad day at work.“I’ll come talk to you later. Come on Steve, let me walk you back. I best explain this in person.”

Then he took Steve’s hand in his, while Steve called out a goodbye to Eddie over his shoulder.

“You’ll come back and visit, right!?” Eddie yelled back.

Steve shouted an affirmative, even knowing it wasn’t likely he’d be allowed.

(Wished with all his heart, that he'd be allowed.)

“Eddie is really good, you know.” Steve said once he no longer could see his new friend, because it felt important to tell his Uncle that. Necessary, for some reason.

“I know.” Uncle Nick replied gently. “But let’s not worry about him right now, okay?”

“Okay.”

Then they were back in Steve’s woods, the ones that were sometimes unfriendly. In his backyard, and up to the door, and even from here Steve could hear his mother and father screaming at each other, in a tone that made his stomach curl.

“Come on kiddo. Time to face the music.” Uncle Nick told him, and Steve found he really didn’t want to let go of his Uncle’s hand.

He did though.

He was a big boy, and well trained. He didn’t flinch from his parents. Didn’t disobey when his mother demanded he tell her exactly how he got to the fun place, with all the snow--and listened further still when she demanded Uncle Nick take it out of him.

Take what Steve didn’t know--not until his Uncle lost the argument.

Reached into Steve’s chest and did something to him, something that killed that warm and fuzzy thing that had always lived inside Steve.

He cried harder than he ever had before that night. Cried and begged for Uncle Nick to put it back, that he was sorry and he wouldn’t ever use it again if they just let him keep it.

(He promised, he promised, he promised-!)

Sank to his knees and told his parents that it hurt.

They didn't listen, and they didn't put it back.

His father told him to get up off the floor, and then pulled him up when Steve found he couldn’t.

Hauled him to his room, even as his Uncle warned his mother that he couldn’t get rid of it. That he could only suppress it, the same way she suppressed hers, but those words didn’t really matter to Steve just then.

Not when he was hurting, and tired, and found himself wishing for his new friend.

(His mother told him he’d feel better in time.

Steve never did.)

xXx

The hole in Steve’s chest had never filled.

It kept him up at night. The yearning for something just out of reach, tormenting him with a feeling of being hollow.

He didn’t know how his mother could stand it.

Steve stopped fussing about it though--or rather, he stopped the first time his father had slapped him over his complaining.

“Enough, Steven! You’re perfectly fine. Now start acting like it, for fucks sake!” He’d roared, and shocked as he was, Steve had still done what he’d been taught to do.

Toughed it out. Sucked it up. Got over it.

Dumped his entire life into basketball and swimming and other parent-approved activities, even if he felt empty.

He was eight, then ten, then fourteen and soon Steve wasn’t healed, but he'd adjusted.

Got aloof to the pain as his popularity skyrocketed, and his parents left him on his own while they chased the almighty dollar.

(Secretly, Steve tried to fill the void in his heart with parties and people, alcohol and even the occasional drug, though most just left him feeling worse than before.

It was perhaps how he ended up acting as he did.

Turning from the sweet boy who was always helping others, to someone who was fast with their insults. Popularity was a sharks game, and though he refused to participate in the bullying his friends enjoyed, he made sure everyone knew who the biggest fish in the pond was.

Because the hole was always there, in the back of his mind. The thing inside him that was missing, that made him crave the snow, and the lights, and the boy with pointy ears.

He might be able to force himself to forget about all of that, if only the hole in his heart would allow him.)

xXx

Five days before his fifteenth birthday, some random guy showed up in Steve’s yard.

This wasn’t unusual--Steve invited a lot of people over.

Tommy and Carol both had a standing invitation to use his pool and Steve often used it to curry favor with the upperclassmen--but even underwater, Steve didn’t recognize the teenager leaning over to watch him swim.

Plus it was a little weird for someone to pop up on a Sunday.

Refusing to be intimidated, Steve surfaced right under the guy, head whipping up to make sure he splashed him in the face.

Laughed as the other guy sputtered.

“Can I help you man?” Steve drawled, hooking his arms on the lip of the pool.

“I’m looking for someone. Steve Harrington?” The guy told him, glaring as he wiped water off his face.

His hair just touched his shoulders, in that awkward stage of growing out that made him look like a pageboy.

Steve tucked that little observation away for later, in case he needed it.

“Congratulations, you found me.” He said, eyeing him over.

Black jeans with holes in the knees, wallet chain and a black shirt with a faded logo of some band Steve had never heard of proudly displayed. A checkered plaid shirt topped the whole outfit, with a red guitar pick dangling around his neck from a chain.

Like the guy thought he was some kind of rockstar, and not in bumfuck Indiana.

Steve raised an eyebrow.

“Though I think you’re in the wrong place. The audition for the new town jester is being held at the high school.”

He got a frown, like the guy knew he was being insulted but didn’t quite want to believe it. “I’m not here for an audition.”

“You sure? Cause you’re definitely dressed the part.”

“Okay, you are definitely not Steve.” He said, arms crossing his chest. He had a ring on each hand, catching the light as he clutched at his arms. “Steve wasn’t this much of a dick.”

Which wasn’t the first time Steve had been called out for his behavior--but it had never been by the people he was supposed to care about.

Those people, the people his parents liked?

They loved it.

“Times change.” Steve told the stranger. Kept his tone light and playful, the way that always made girls giggle at him and guy’s listen.

Well the ones he wasn’t making fun of, anyways.

“People do too.”

He rearranged himself, planting both palms flat against the concrete, bouncing once to build energy before rocketing out of the water.

Stood, and watched with interest as the new guy’s eyes raked over his naked torso, before his whole face flushed red.

How he looked away, like he suddenly couldn’t bare to look at Steve.

“You shouldn't have changed that much.” He muttered, but Steve already had his number.

"Why were you looking for me anyway?” Steve asked as he went and grabbed a towel. Wrapped it around his waist, but kept his upper body shirtless.

Idly scratched at his hip and watched as the guy acted like Steve had practically stripped naked in front of him.

Weirdly enjoyed the little spark it gave him, to watch this guy appear so affected by his bare chest.

Defensive, the stranger bit out; “We were friends. I haven’t seen him in a long time, I was just checking up on him.”

That made Steve pause.

Really look over the guy standing before him.

The fidgeting, the blushing, the way he avoided Steve’s gaze.

He opened his mouth, an odd urge to draw this out guiding him when the hole in his chest pulsed.

Like a convulsion, a miniature seizure that took Steve entirely by surprise.

It had been a long time since it had done that, long enough to throw Steve off his game.

Make him feel unsafe, unmoored.

Abandoned.

“Yeah?” He wheezed, before covering himself and the flood of wrong/want/need with a harsh cough. “Well now I know you’re definitely barking up the wrong tree. I’d never be friends with a fucking queer.”

At that, the guy’s mouth dropped open, head whipping around to stare at Steve in shock.

"Don’t deny it, I can tell. You’re practically drooling over there.” Steve smiled with all his teeth, even as he struggled to keep his breath even. “It’s disgusting.”

“You know what, fuck you. I thought you were different and you’re not.” The stranger spat, with far more venom than Steve was prepared for. “You’re the same as all the rest.”

He scoffed, before whirling on his heel, middle finger high in the air as he stormed off into the woods.

“Have fun with your sad, beige fucking life!” He yelled, voice a little choked up.

“I will!” Steve yelled back at him, oddly heated.

Rubbed his chest when he was gone, before sitting down to try and figure out what the hell just happened--and why the hell his chest hurt so much.

xXx

Steve’s life remained completely and painfully normal--until Nancy Wheeler.

Nancy and her smile, Nancy and her reminder of what it felt like to be loved.

She didn’t fill the void inside him, but what she did came close.

Felt similar.

Steve found he’d do anything for her, looking at life once again through the lens he had back when he was seven.

It was great.

Better than great--it was the best he’d ever been.

Then Barb went missing.

Shit hit the fan so fast that in retrospect, Steve still doesn’t understand it. There was Jonathan and his camera, with the background of his missing little brother. Tommy and his insults, grabbing Steve up by the collar. Nancy being weird, Nancy ducking him to hang out with the guy who took photographs of them having sex.

Steve's brain tracks it all in little snapshots. The way he realized that maybe Nancy was right--he was way more of an asshole than he thought. How he decided to clean the theater, and then apologize to Jonathan.

(Creepy shit or not, Jonathan’s brother was gone. Steve had never had a brother, but he understood how it felt when something important was taken from you.

How it made you act after.)

There was a shift inside him. Not coming from the void, but from how Steve dealt with it.

And then there was a fucking monster coming out of the ceiling.

This is how Steve learns the magic he once had wasn’t special. That it’s not the only supernatural thing that exists in the world.

Only unlike the snow and gingerbread house and boy with pointed ears and an Uncle that looked a hell of a lot like Santa Clause, this version came with evil government laboratories, the Upside Down and his girlfriend holding a gun.

It was kind of a lot, really.

Particularly because his parents weren’t home.

(They still came home of course, but it wasn’t with the same frequency as it used to be.

The business trips went from once a month, to every other week, to long stretches of away periods. Long enough that Steve spoke to them over the phone more than he did in person, and knew more about business mergers than he ever cared too.

Also his fathers love life, courtesy of his drunk mother.)

Steve didn’t exactly handle it well.

Doesn’t think any of them handled it well, really, even if Nancy blamed him for trying to pretend he was okay. But right as their relationship blew up in Steve’s face, shit started happening again.

Flickering lights and freaky monsters. A group of kids Steve found himself in charge of, who were doing their level best to commit suicide.

(“We’re helping El and Will, idiot!” Mike Wheeler protested in the back of Billy Hargrove’s Camaro when Steve brought up that this was not what being benched meant, and Steve let him have that one given the way the world was spinning.

God that asshole hit like a train.)

Another snapshot, full of fear and fury, and things were over once again.

Steve was telling Nancy it was okay. She could go with Jonathan, that he could tell it was what she wanted.

It hurt him to do it, but he wasn’t going to be like his own parents.

Realized with a weird amount of clarity, that he wanted to be the very opposite of his parents.

Late in the night, feeling every ache and pain in his body but knowing everyone was safe, Steve finally started the long trek home.

He didn’t have his car (he hoped that was still at the Byers place) and he didn’t have his keys (no clue where those went but he was praying it wasn’t in the freaky tunnels) and was well into the middle of his walk when his chest started acting weird. Really weird.

Steve ignored it.

He kept ignoring it, focused on getting back to his bed, and his bed alone.

(Maybe he had been thinking more than that. About how the last time he had truly been happy wasn’t with Nancy, but with Eddie. That he’d give anything to go play in the gingerbread houses again.

Maybe he was even thinking of how warm his Uncle had been, the way he was so gentle when he held Steve’s hand.

How he’d argued against Steve’s parents, when no one else ever did.

It was probably just the head injury.)

Unfortunately--or fortunately, depending on who you asked later--the weird feeling didn't stop.

It grew and grew, until it felt like something was breaking out of him.

Like a cough you’d long suppressed that crawled forcefully up and out of your throat, it both hurt and felt amazing, a pang echoing out through his very core--

Then suddenly there was snow on the trees and Steve was stumbling into a teenager with fluffy hair.

“Sorry.” He muttered, right before he went down on his knees.

“What the hell---” Fluffy haired guy said, spinning around and looking at Steve like he was a ghost. “Oh shit, are you okay!?”

“I’m fine.” Steve lied, even as he gave in and laid down.

Man, this snow was nice.

Comfy and soft, and cold on his face.

There was a string of curses coming from above him, and Steve made the effort to twist his head so he could watch fluffy hair kneel frantically next to him.

“ What happened!? How did you get here!?”

“S’long story man.” Steve slurred, feeling bad and looking worse. His head fucking hurt.

“Don’t suppose there’s a guy named Eddie around? He has uh,” Steve fumbled, hands trying to point to his ears. “Pointed. You know.”

He gestured to his own ear again.

(Figured he might as well ask, given all the snow.)

The Fluffy Hair pulled said hair back at that, revealing his very own pointy ear. “Dude you’re in the North Pole, all us elves have pointy ears.”

The North Pole.

The words Steve had only ever dared to think, and never said out loud.

“Cool.” He said instead, not really feeling like he was inside his own body.

“Just--stay there, okay? My name's Gareth I’m gonna go get someone.” Gareth the elf (an elf, wasn’t that a trip. Did that mean Eddie was also an elf?) said, hands hovering awkwardly in the air, before he darted off, out of Steve’s sight.

“Can you get Eddie?” The question came out in a whine, the hurt in Steve’s chest overtaken by the pain in his head.

He didn’t get an answer.

Which was okay, he thought.

He didn’t really need one.

He had the snow, and the woods that weren’t straight out of a fucking nightmare, and, he could just sleep right here…

“Steve!”

He blinked, and found he must have passed out.

“There you are. Stay with me.” A blurry face was saying. A couple more blinks brought it into focus, and Steve knew this person, even if he couldn't put a name to a face.

The hair was longer, and there were more rings on his fingers, ones Steve could both see and feel as a hand ran along the back of his head.

Worried doe eyes met Steve's own, and just through the curtain of curls, he caught the outline of a pointed ear.

“Ed--ie?” He croaked, unsure.

“Yeah Stevie, it's me. You're okay, we brought you back to my place. Gareth is getting help.”

He was trying to sound reassuring but he mostly just sounded worried.

Not that Steve cared, because he finally figured out why older Eddie was familiar.

“Oh.” He managed, the words feeling like he had to push out. “It was you. By the--pool.”

“What?”

It felt like eons ago. The weird guy, asking after him. Back when Steve had been doing anything he could to fill the void his magic had left behind, and turned into a raging shithead as a result.

“M sorry.” Steve slurred, voice cracking in its honesty. “I was--asshole. M'sorry.”

The look Eddie gave him was wild. Like he couldn’t believe Steve was here, and definitely couldn’t believe Steve was apologizing.

Which was fair. Until last year Steve wouldn’t have ever apologized, to anyone, ever.

“Yeah you were, but we can talk about it later. Right now I just need you to stay awake.” Eddie said instead. It was gentle, a lot more gentle than Steve felt he deserved.

It made him want to explain, more than anything, what had happened.

“I was tryin to fix…the hole. Inside.” Steve needed Eddie to understand. Needed it more than breathing, just then.

“I know, big boy.” Eddie soothed, and his hands were back in Steve’s hair.

It felt nice.

“S’not an excuse, promise it's not. I was hurt--hurting, and--I was mean.” Steve continued. It was getting harder to think, the world swimming in and out of focus, but this was important.

Perhaps the most important thing he’d done in a long time, sans saving the kids from the demodogs.

“It’s okay, Stevie. I didn’t get it back then but I understand better now and…”

He might have said something more. Steve thinks he was, but then Eddie was shaking him harshly, and Steve realized he might have tried to pass back out.

“Come on Stevie, sweetheart, you can’t sleep right now. You have to stay awake for me, okay? Steve?”

Steve tried to shake his head and hissed when he found out how much that hurt. Breathed in and out through the pain, before his brain connected back to what he’d been trying to say.

“Not jus’ to you.” He panted. “Wasn’t mean just to you.”

That was important too. That Eddie knew he hadn't been targeted. That Steve was a dick to pretty much anyone he came across.

“I know. I've uh, been watching you, from here."

“Yeah?”

“We have this giant globe. Like a crystal ball, but it’s set deep into the floor so you can only really see half of it. It can also connect to snow globes, and it can let you see places. Watch people.”

Eddie’s voice was soothing, the deep timber of it echoing through Steve’s chest. Belatedly he realized his head was in Eddie’s lap.

That felt nice too.

“I was real mad at you but the Bossman--uh, your Uncle, he kinda showed me you once or twice and then I started watching you myself. Sorry I know that’s weird--”

“Least you didn’t take pictures.” Steve wheezed and then tried to grin because that was very much supposed to be a joke.

(He definitely had felt more put together when he dropped the kids off in Billy's Camaro--so what the hell was happening? Had the shock worn off? Adrenaline?

Fuck maybe he should have just driven Billy’s stupid car back to his house, instead of leaving it at Max's house.

Asshole deserved to not know where his car was anyway.)

Then suddenly there was a lot of noise and light and fuck did that all make his head hurt. Hands went all over him, people barking orders, and a girl Steve was pretty sure was his age was peering at him.

“Steve?” She asked, but it sounded distant. Echoey and unclear.

“I can’t keep him awake!”

That from Eddie, who sounded much clearer, if not utterly panicked.

“It’s okay, I’ve got him.” The girl said, tight but professional in a way that typically belonged to someone used to medical emergencies. “You can let him go now.”

“Are you kidding me, Buckley you’re an apprentice medmage-!”

Steve frowned at that, but found something was drifting over him. A weight, like an invisible blanket pressed down gently, and he had a second to recognize that this too, was some kind of magic before sleep tried to take him.

He fought it for a moment as a thought occurred.

One last thing he needed to say.

“You’re still good. Eddie. You’ve always been--”

The magic took him away.

xXx

It smelled like cinnamon.

Cinnamon and sharp hints of peppermint, the kind that tickled at Steve’s nose as he slowly rose back into consciousness.

Steve winced as he sat up, head itching like ants were crawling all over it. Idly he tried to scratch at his forehead and found himself touching a thick bandage, at about the same time his body seemed to catch on that he was awake.

It reminded him that he had had a hell of a night in the form of an onslaught of aches and pains.

His fingers traced the edge of the bandage as he took in the cheerful red walls surrounding him. The room was the exact kind of kitschy his mom hated, little twirls of white here and there making the place look like the inside of a candy cane.

The center piece was the full size window, taller than Steve was and twice as wide. Fat, fluffy flakes of snow drifted lazily outside it, some sticking to the window panes as they floated on by.

It was a little like being knocked out and waking up in the Wonka factory, but given all the shit that he had been through the past twenty four hours, Steve didn’t mind it.

Snow was infinitely preferable to the weird ash that came out of the Upside Down.

As if sensing he was awake, the door opposite the window swung open. A tray came through, positively stacked with a stupid amount of pancakes and oozing with maple syrup, the type Steve could smell.

“I,” Eddie announced, head just visible above the good, “had a very embarrassing meltdown when they tried to take you away from me. So suck it up Harrington, because you’re stuck with me now.”

Steve stared at him, mildly concerned he was a hallucination.

“I brought you pancakes.” Eddie added, pausing as he approached the bed like he hadn’t actually thought through to this point.

“I see that.” Steve said, just to fill the sudden, awkward silence. “There’s…kinda a lot there, man.”

So much so it was threatening to escape the confines of the tray and drip down onto the carpet.

“You play sports things don’t you?” Eddie defended, making the executive decision to put the tray down on the bed. “Kinda thought you’d need like, a lot, especially if you're healing."

Steve snorted, but didn’t bother to hide the smile that crept onto his face.

Even if it hurt.

Dragged his gaze from the pile of pancakes now laid before him, to the man fidgeting awkwardly by his bedside.

Realized belatedly, that Eddie hadn’t changed much.

Not since Steve had last seen him, though he never in his life would have thought one of Santa’s elves would wear so much black.

(Frankly Eddie looked just like every other teenage metalhead Steve had ever met, sans the pointed ears. One of which was now pierced and had little metal hoops threaded through it.)

Eddie realized Steve was looking, and bashfully twist a strand of his hair in front of his face.

It was cute.

It made him look cute.

“You might as well sit and help me with this, it’s way too much.” Steve told him.

Which was the truth--Eddie had brought him a shit load of pancakes and Steve wasn’t exactly sure he could chew all that well right now, considering his left cheek was so puffed out it felt like a chipmunks.

Didn’t want to turn down a gift though--or rather, turn down a gift from Eddie.

Who he absolutely still needed to apologize properly too.

“I guess I should start off with a thank you.” Steve began, as Eddie dropped onto the bed. “I think you might have saved my life, though I swear I wasn’t doing that bad off before I got here.”

“Robin said the shock wore off.” Eddie told him. He didn’t wait for Steve to dig in, grabbing a pancake and rolling it up like a sausage before stabbing one end in syrup. “She also said you had a hell of a concussion, two cracked ribs and a literal boatload of scratches,”

Which sounded about right, considering.

“Still though.” Steve frowned, looking at his hands. “I mostly just fought off Billy, the demodogs never got me.”

Something he was incredibly thankful for, given the sheer amount of teeth.

“I think you’re downplaying your injuries here, handsome, you gave Robin a hell of a fright. She cursed in four languages." Eddie talked fast, just like the little boy Steve remembered him as.

It made him grin.

“Handsome, huh?” Steve teased, and regretted it the second it slipped out of his mouth.

He hadn’t meant to call attention to it. Not just yet anyway. Wanted to work his way up to his apology and then the things he had kind of realized on his walk home (and possibly before that, though he thinks he might have…repressed it.)

Given the way Eddie froze, Steve figures he’s got about two seconds to talk himself out of it, before Eddie rightfully shut him out.

“I like it. The nicknames.” He said, which is also not what he intended to come out of his mouth and God he was really blowing this, wasn’t he?

“Steve,” Eddie started, sounding a little strangled and nope, no, he was going to fix this dammit!

“I’m sorry.” He said honestly. “I know I was an ass when you came to check up on me, and I know I said some terrible things to you. I regret it. I regret it a lot, and I shouldn’t have treated you like that.”

“You weren't wrong.” Eddie cut in, twirling a ring on his finger, eyes firmly on it. “I am gay. I am flamingly gay. And I understand if after today, you don't want me here.”

Which apparently answered the question about whether or not elves gave a shit about such things.

(Or maybe they did, and it was humans who cared, and Eddie was giving him an out for it.

Steve figured he’d ask later.

After he had finished groveling.)

“I want you here.” He said, as seriously as he’d ever said anything. “I think the real question is why you would want to help me?”

It was the one thing that didn’t add up. Why Eddie had been so nice, when he’d shown up.

Sure it was one thing to be a good citizen or whatever, help out a guy who was passed out on the ground, but Eddie hadn’t just gotten help.

He’d stroked Steve’s hair. He’d kept him awake.

Hell he called Steve sweetheart.

And now he was here again, right by Steve's bedside, checking up on him.

You didn’t do that for the guy who was a downright douchebag too you, even if it had been a few years.

Eddie bit his lip, before he chanced a look back at Steve, up through his bangs. “Because you said I was good Steve. You were the first person who ever said I was good.”

Quieter he added “And because we were friends once.”

“I'd like to still be friends.”

“Even if I'm gay?”

Steve took a deep breath, and let out a truth that he’d maybe been ignoring for almost as long as he’d tried to forget about the hole in his heart.

“Cards on the table Eddie, I’m not sure I’m not gay Or whatever both is."

He'd heard the word once from Chrissy, but hadn't cared to remember it.

(Regretted that a little bit.)

He got a mighty frown in response.

“Don’t do that. Don’t--joke, like that.”

“It’s not a joke.” Steve said slowly, feeling the words as he spoke them. “I think this is part of the stuff I always just--ignored. Didn’t want to deal with it, because my--”

Steve couldn’t bring himself to say magic, and so, aborted the sentence entirely. “I couldn’t deal. So everything connected to this place, to the rest of my family, to you, I just pushed aside. Pretended it didn’t exist.”

Pretended that he was normal.

Just like his parents wanted.

Then he’d met Nancy.

Realized what he felt about her, he’d always felt about Eddie. That the way she looked at Jonathan wasn’t the way she looked at him--and even then, in the love he had for her, Steve hadn’t looked at her like that either.

Steve had been attracted to her for her yes--but initially, maybe, because she’d looked a little like someone else.

Admitted to himself that he the reason he could clock Eddie so fast back when he was fourteen, wasn't because he was that good at reading people, but because he recognized what it looked like to get caught checking out a guy.

“But I could never forget about you.” Steve added because well. “I’ve never been able to forget about you.”

He’d already said cards on the table, hadn’t he?

Might as well reveal his whole hand.

“You were the last thing I thought of, when I was trying to get home. I wasn’t thinking about my house, or my parents. I was thinking about you. I’ve never been able to come back here, not after Uncle Nick,” He cut himself off again, frustrated that he couldn’t just fucking it, but made himself take a breath.

Continue.

“--but I could, last night. I could get to you.”

Technically he’d gotten to Gareth, who Steve probably also owed a thank you too, but hey, beggars can’t be choosers.

Gareth had found Eddie anyway, in the end.

“I absolutely get if you want nothing to do with that, considering I think I’m just now accepting this about myself but. I wanted you to know. You’re important to me, Eddie. You always have been.”

It was weird--Steve should have felt laid bare. Vulnerable now that he’d laid out all these things he’d suppressed, that he thought taken away alongside his magic.

Instead he felt lighter than air.

Like the weight had finally been lifted and he could breathe deep once again.

For a long moment no one said anything and Steve figured this was it, he’d gone too far, when Eddie darted in, pressing a quick kiss to Steve’s cheek.

He pulled away just as fast. Wide eyes searched Steve’s face, as though expecting Steve to change his mind.

If anything, it just solidified it.

Steve reached out slowly, gently grabbing on of Eddie’s hands. Brought it up to his mouth and kissed the back of it, while maintaining eye contact.

Enjoyed the way Eddie’s face went bright red.

“You’re important to me too.” He managed, voice awed. “You’ve always been important to me. Stevie.”

Finally feeling like he knew where he belonged, Steve grinned back.

xXx

Bonus

“When I said let him sleep Munson, I didn’t mean with you!” Someone screeched a few hours later, jolting Steve awake.

“He was awake when I came in!” Eddie protested, shoving himself up onto his elbows when the women from yesterday--Robin, Steve thought her name was--stormed in. “We fell asleep together after Robbie, I swear!”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Hi.” Steve said with a little wave, before the two of them could screech some more. “I’m Steve.”

“I know, Dingus.” Robin told him, eyes narrowed in fury. “You’re a member of the Clause family, everyone knows who you are.”

“Oh.” Steve said, though it felt less cool and more weird that someone had finally said it out loud.

That he, Steven Harrington, had an Uncle, and that Uncle was Santa Clause.

‘Dustin is gonna freak.’

“I’m sure Mega-Idiotson here hasn’t told you, but I’m the medmage that saw you last night. Or kinda--see I’m an apprentice medmage, but my teacher was kinda out with the Boss seeing someone a town over and time was tight and we couldn’t exactly wait--”

“Breath, Buckley. In,” Eddie teased, before demonstrating a deep breath on himself, hand sweeping into his chest before he loudly exhaled. “and out.”

“Shut up, Eddie, I’m working up to something here!”

“What is it?” Steve said, feeling like if he didn’t interject Robin would take a while to get to the point.

“I might have accidentally undid whatever was on your magic?” Robin rushed out, so fast Steve nearly didn’t catch it. “Like I can tell that’s the Boss’s magic, and that he did--whatever that was, but I couldn't figure out how to heal you with it there and it was kinda already leaking out so I just--took it off?”

Steve gaped at her.

“You fixed me?” He managed after a moment, hand darting out to squeeze at one of Eddie’s.

“Um. Yes?” Robin cautioned, like she wasn’t exactly sure that’s what she did.

“Oh my god. Oh my god!” Steve laughed, then felt absolutely stupid for not checking in with himself.

Because Robin was right.

The hole was gone--and his magic was back.

How had he not noticed that his magic was back!?

“Eddie, Eddie she’s right--I have it back!”

He turned in bed, dropping Eddie’s hand so he could cup his face and kiss him instead.

“Okay, I don’t need to see this--” Robin complained, but Steve didn’t care.

Could only laugh delighted into Eddie’s mouth, before Eddie deepened the kiss.

(“Guys seriously I am still right here! Can’t you at least wait until I’m gone!?”

“No. Now get out Robin, you’re ruining my moment!”

“It’s okay, Eds. I’ll give you as many moments as you want.”

“Ew, ew, ew-!” )

This whole ass thing on A03 if you'd rather read it there!

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razorblade180 · 4 days ago

Text

A Musical Memory

Weiss*reading*

knock knock knock

Weiss:It’s opened.

Jaune:*walks in* Hey Weiss.

Weiss:!? Jaune? *stands up* H-Hi! Are you okay? Is there a meeting going on or…

Jaune:No, it’s been pretty quiet the last couple of hours. I just haven’t gotten the chance to tell you happy birthday.

Weiss:Oh! Right, I don’t know how that slipped past me.

Jaune:Has no one told you?

Weiss:They have. Ruby did her best to make my type of coffee. It was a whole thing; I probably have to brush twice as hard to get all the sugar. Hehe, I guess I sorta put the rest of the day behind me.

Jaune:Yeah. We’ve definitely been busy one way or another. But I’m relearning the importance of taking a moment in. On that note… * pulls out gift*

Weiss:You bought me something!? Aw, you didn’t have to do that. Thank you. *takes it*

Jaune:You haven’t even opened it yet.

Weiss: Call me an optimist. We need some of that these days.

She unwrapped a small rectangular box and opened it. Inside was something she had long since forgotten; it was pendant in the shape of her family crest, but the complex sigils inside were replaced with a single music note.

Weiss:A Snow Note. This is from my first major recital. They came with albums. Jaune, how did you-

Jaune:Was walking around the market today. Plenty of people have been selling and praising things they took before leaving Atlas. My family has actually been to a few of your performances so I recognized it right away. Thought it would be a shame if it didn’t end up with someone who really appreciates-

The smallest tap on the cool metal brought his attention back to Weiss’s eyes and the tears that flowed like a river. Not even she had realized at first that she was crying until she noticed the boy’s worried expression. Her hand brushed across her face to reveal the reason for his silence. Weiss sat back down on the edge of her bed, frantically rubbing the tears away. It didn’t take long at all for Jaune to sit by her.

Weiss:I’m fine! Totally fine! Wow that… hehe, really snuck up on me! I’m sorry.

Jaune:Nothing to apologize for. If you wanna talk, I’m here for you. If that’s okay?

Weiss:It just kinda hit me how long it’s been since I’ve been on a stage; me standing front and center. Ready to sing my heart out. Don’t get wrong, there was a lot of functions and recitals that I wouldn’t greatest. My father sure planned a lot to save face. If there was one thing that was genuine though, it was the music. Hours of singing and lights before crisp air outside of a coffee shop for another well done performance.

Jaune:You were drinking coffee that young?

Weiss:Back then it was hot chocolate. Extra syrup. Wasn’t really good for the vocal cords, but Klein always made sure it made it in my cup. Siiigh *frowns* It’s ironic really. I spent so long running away, now every day I miss that frigid air; those plowed roads that made walls tall enough to duck for cover in a snowball fight. Can’t believe it’s all gone….

Jaune:….Alright. I’ve decided. I’ll help you rebuild.

Weiss:What?

Jaune:Yeah. Eventually when this is all over, people are gonna rebuild their lives as best as possible. That includes the kingdoms. Never really thought about what I should do when the fighting is over. Now I do.

Weiss:You choose to help rebuild a kingdom you’re not even from?

Jaune:Yeah! I mean you’re probably going to help Vale along with your home. It’ll be a perfect use of my time. Someone has to help plan and organize job priorities as well as task management. And I just so happen to have decades of experience. *grins*

Weiss:You- pfft, hahaha. Yeah, I suppose you do.

Jaune:*grinning* It’s a perfect use of my skills! Brick by brick. Day by day! We’ll build a better place meant for Atlas and Mantle locals! That includes a nice big stage the day it’s finally completed where you can welcome everyone back home. I’m talking spotlights and ribbons; people watching the girl that helped saved the world with her own two hands pick up the pieces, and redefine her name sing like an angel while dancing to beat. Big smiles everywhere followed by clapping as everyone thinks, “Wow, she really can do it all.”

Weiss:*blushing*Is…that what you think of me?

Jaune:…Umm, yeah. I think you’re pretty amazing. *red* A gift that keeps on giving.

Weiss:Ah, I see. I’m happy you think so highly of me. *puts pendant away*

Jaune:Not wearing it?

Weiss:I’d be beyond furious with myself if something happened to it. I want it in perfect condition, so I’ll wear it on stage when the day comes. Though if that’s the goal, I should start singing again. I’m sorely out of practice. It’s actually embarrassing. You’d also need to brush up on guitar most likely.

Jaune:Me!?

Weiss:Yes you! A grand stage gets lonely. Plus it’s also your achievement. Celebrating together would only be right. I recall your skills being pretty good all things considered.

Jaune:Is that so? Huh… didn’t realize you heard them so well through the slammed door.

Weiss:Okay, we didn’t have to bring that up! *grins* Way to kill a mood.

Jaune:Really? You’re smiling again.

Weiss:…You’re so ridiculous.

The both of them shared a light hearted smile and laugh. Any reason for tears felt forgotten. As the laughter faded, they found themselves closer than before. Not only emotionally, but physically; how long have their hands been touching?

Something told Weiss to lean closer ever so slightly, watching for a response.

Her heart started sinking when Jaune didn’t move. Heat rose to her face and she began to retreat, only to notice a sadness grow in his as she did. All it took was a subtle flinch forward by him for Weiss to take the plunge. She leaned in again, stopping at nothing until warm, anxious lips gently pressed against hers. Time itself seemed to stop for this moment, capturing it for the rest of their lives until Weiss slowly leaned back again to see his face match her. Was his hand shaking, or was it hers? Weiss had no clue, but her heart was definitely pounding. Suddenly she couldn’t look him in the eyes. Instead she stared at the hand she held.

Weiss:I…I know things are very weird and crazy and… a lot right now. There’s so much to do all the time but I really need you to know I uh, I really like who we are. What we’re trying to be as people. Having these talks about anything and everything, they make everything easy to carry. You make everything easier to carry. This doesn’t have to go anywhere if you don’t want but…I’m not going to pretend I don’t feel something wonderful.

Jaune:…Every night I spent alone, there wasn’t a moment that went by where I didn’t miss you all. That being said, every time I thought of your smile and how I probably wouldn’t see it again, the ache in my chest grew worse. Weiss, I like who we are too and our talks. I like…us.

Butterflies. That’s all she could feel as she raised her head to see the same fear in his eyes that was in her heart. Weiss’s lips quivered between smiling and crying again as her eyes watered. All the same, she leaned in again. This time his arms wrapped around her torso and her jewel while her hands cradled Jaune’s face. For the first time in a while, loneliness didn’t feel so overwhelming. How could it with someone close enough feel all of you; to hold all of you down to your soul. Both of them knew this was only a step into a direction they wanted and not the solution. Still, this moment…

It was a gift Weiss was dead set on keeping. And who knows? Maybe one day, it’ll be her first love song.

#rwby #weiss schnee #jaune arc #rwby whiteknight

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winxanity-ii · 3 months ago

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⌜Godly Things | Chapter 30 Chapter 30 | bloodstained amusement⌟

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The remainder of the night passed in a blur of lights, laughter, and the lingering warmth of celebration.

The festival had seamlessly transitioned into the grand feast, where long tables stretched across the open-air courtyard, heavy with platters of roasted meats, steaming vegetables, fragrant loaves of bread, and golden honeyed pastries that made your mouth water. Wine flowed freely, filling goblets to the brim, and the sound of music and clinking cups blended into the hum of conversation.

Before the feast had officially begun, Penelope had caught you off guard—snatched was the more accurate term—and pulled you away before you could protest. Within moments, you found yourself ushered into one of the grand chambers, surrounded by a flurry of attendants at the queen's command.

"Absolutely not!" she had huffed, waving a dismissive hand when you weakly tried to insist that you were fine as you were. "Tonight, you are not a servant, nor are you an entertainer. You are Ithaca's Divine Liaison, and you will look the part."

And with that, you were stuffed into a breathtaking gown—a stunning fusion of both Ithaca and Bronte's colors, woven in deep ocean blues, forest greens, and streaks of rich gold. Delicate embroidery lined the sleeves and bodice, tiny patterns resembling olive branches and laurels intertwined with Brontean crests.

To complete the look, Penelope personally placed the flower crown from the tournament atop your head, adjusting it with a proud smile. "There," she said, stepping back to admire her work. "Now, one final thing."

You barely had time to blink before she gently took your lyre from your hands.

"Ah—wait, but—"

She tsked, shaking her head. "No playing tonight. I forbid it."

"Queen Penelope—"

"Ah-ah." She waggled a playful finger before handing the lyre to Eurycleia to put back in your room. "Tonight, you're going to enjoy yourself. No performances, no duties—just eat, drink, and be merry." Then, with a mischievous wink, she looped her arm through yours and led you straight to the heart of the feast.

And now, hours later, you sat comfortably at one of the large tables near the food, deep in conversation with Lysandra and Asta. The two Brontean women had been regaling you with stories of their homeland—particularly about a certain individual who, much to your surprise, Andreia hated with a passion.

"Wait, wait, wait," you gasped, eyes wide. "She couldn't touch her? And yet, her status was below Andreia's?" You leaned in, utterly intrigued.

Lysandra nodded, a smirk tugging at her lips. "Mhm. Despite the princess' rank, her family has ties with many royal elites and even a goddess; that's something even she can't challenge."

Asta grinned, swirling the wine in her cup. "Drives her insane. You should see the way she clenches her jaw whenever they're in the same room."

You couldn't help but let out a low whistle. "Gods, I almost feel bad for her."

Asta snorted. "Don't. She's got enough power as it is."

Lysandra leaned in conspiratorially. "Besides, watching her lose her cool? Hilarious."

The three of you dissolved into laughter, the rich energy of the feast wrapping around you like a warm embrace. The air smelled of spiced meats and fresh herbs, the flickering lanterns casting a golden glow over the merriment.

Laughter echoed throughout the courtyard, goblets clinked together in celebratory toasts, and the steady hum of conversation filled the space, a chorus of voices from both Ithacans and Bronteans alike.

Then, a voice rang through the courtyard.

"Lords and ladies, honored guests—"

The announcer's voice carried effortlessly over the crowd, cutting through the celebratory din. "The time has come for the final dance of the evening, a tradition that marks the close of our first Cultural Exchange Festival."

A ripple of excitement passed through the courtyard. Conversations hushed into eager murmurs, eyes glancing across tables, searching.

You barely had a moment to process the shift in atmosphere before you felt the weight of dozens—if not hundreds—of gazes settling on you.

Your pulse quickened.

From the corners of your vision, you could see nobles whispering behind their hands, servants exchanging wide-eyed looks, and a few of the younger Ithacan girls practically bouncing in their seats, giddy anticipation lighting up their faces.

The final dance.

Your heart thudded, the implications sinking in.

Instinctively, your eyes darted across the courtyard. Telemachus.

He was already moving.

The prince weaved through the gathered crowd with measured steps, his pace unhurried, yet deliberate. The candlelight reflected off his golden skin, his features cast in a mixture of warmth and shadow. He had changed into something more formal for the feast—an Ithacan blue chiton, fastened at the shoulder with a polished bronze brooch, a golden sash tied at his waist.

Even after the brutal tournament, the exhaustion that should have weighed on him was nowhere to be found; instead, he walked with a steady, quiet confidence that sent a shiver down your spine.

Your nerves should have been wild. But maybe it was the wine in your stomach, or the lingering warmth from the feast, but your usual anxiety was oddly... muted. A soft thrumming, not overwhelming—just a steady awareness of the moment unfolding before you.

The space around you seemed to shrink, everything fading into a distant blur except for the prince drawing closer.

Then, he was in front of you.

The courtyard fell into silence. A hush so absolute you could hear the gentle crackling of the torches.

Telemachus held out a hand, his movements slow, deliberate. Then, he bowed slightly, the gesture formal but not stiff. When he spoke, his voice was soft—meant only for you.

"May I have this dance?"

For a moment, you just stared.

The weight of the night—the tournament, the favor, the significance of this moment—pressed against your chest. There was something unreadable in his eyes, something both certain and hesitant at once.

A sharp nudge to your side made you jolt.

"Go," Asta whispered harshly, barely moving her lips.

Snapping out of your daze, you scrambled to your feet, almost knocking your goblet over in your haste. You barely noticed Lysandra muffling a laugh beside Asta, your entire focus zeroed in on the prince before you.

Your fingers trembled as you reached forward.

Then, warmth.

Telemachus' palm was rough with calluses, but his grip was steady—firm, but gentle—as he closed his fingers around yours.

The hush broke.

Gasps. Soft, delighted whispers. A few hushed giggles from across the tables, no doubt from the same group of girls who had been watching you two all evening.

But you didn't look at them.

You only looked at him.

Somewhere, around you, there was movement—people shifting, adjusting in their seats, the murmur of voices carrying in the warm evening air. You knew there were eyes on you, dozens upon dozens, watching as the prince of Ithaca led you forward, but you couldn't feel any of it.

Not the cool night breeze against your skin.

Not the stone beneath your feet as he guided you effortlessly toward the center of the courtyard.

Not the weight of the festival or the knowledge that this dance—this moment—was steeped in more meaning than you had time to process.

Your entire focus had narrowed to the warmth of his hand wrapped around yours, the steady presence of him beside you, leading without hesitation.

Then, before you could stop yourself, the words slipped out.

"I'm—" You let out a nervous, breathless laugh, glancing down for a moment. "I'm not really familiar with these kinds of dances. Just... fair warning in case I step on you."

Telemachus huffed, amusement flickering across his face.

"No worries," he murmured, voice low and sure. "I got you."

And then, before your stomach could settle from the way those words sent a shiver down your spine, he moved.

His hand found your waist.

The touch was careful, yet firm—an anchoring weight that pulled you closer, just enough that the space between you all but vanished. Close enough that the tips of your noses barely grazed. Close enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath against your cheek.

Your stomach flipped.

A soft intake of breath passed your lips, but before you could dwell on the sensation, the music began.

Telemachus stepped first, a guiding motion—his hand in yours shifting, leading, encouraging. His other hand remained at your waist, warm and steady, grounding you as he moved with a patience you hadn't expected.

He didn't care about matching the tempo.

He didn't care about showing off, or about precision, or about how the dance might look to those watching.

All he cared about was making sure you could follow.

And sure enough, the musicians caught on.

The rhythm softened, adjusting, slowing, the strings and lyres bending to match the careful, unhurried steps of the two of you.

Soon enough, others began to join.

At first, it was only a few couples—hesitant, watching the way you and Telemachus moved, as if seeking permission. Then, slowly, more and more pairs stepped onto the makeshift dance floor, drawn in by the softened rhythm, by the way the music curved around the two of you like a whispered invitation.

A circle of movement formed around you both, the other dancers weaving through the space with practiced ease, swirling in graceful arcs. And yet, despite being surrounded, it still felt as though you and Telemachus were the center of it all.

The world narrowed, framed only by the flickering glow of lanterns above, by the warm press of his hand in yours.

Then, after a moment, he cleared his throat.

"You look very..." He hesitated, fingers briefly tightening against your waist. His voice was quieter when he finally found the words. "Beautiful."

The compliment was simple, but something about the way he said it—the quiet sincerity of it, the weight it carried—made warmth flood your chest. You cleared your throat, trying not to stumble over your next words.

"T-Thank you," you murmured, your voice softer than you intended. "The queen thought it was best I... start looking the part."

You gestured vaguely to your dress, the way the fabric flowed around you, the colors carefully chosen to reflect your new station. It was elegant, regal even, a clear shift from the simple attire you were used to. It still felt strange, wearing something that demanded attention.

Telemachus tilted his head slightly, as if considering that. Then, with a small, crooked smile, he said, "It suits you."

Your stomach flipped.

Awkwardly, and before you could stop yourself, you tacked on, "You look very handsome, as well."

The moment the words left your lips, you felt heat creep up your own neck.

Telemachus blinked. Then, to your surprise, a slow, pleased smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. His grip on your waist adjusted slightly, his posture straightening just a bit, as though your words had physically lifted him.

A faint pink dusted the tips of his ears.

Not wanting to combust on the spot, you scrambled to fill the silence. "I never knew a kingdom could be so different from Ithaca," you said, voice a little too quick, too eager to shift the focus from whatever this was. "Bronte... it's unlike anything I expected."

Telemachus exhaled, as if relieved by the topic shift. He nodded, the movement making his curls shift under the lantern light. "It is different. In ways both good and bad." His tone was thoughtful. "Their strength is something to admire, but their ambition... it's sharp."

You hummed, remembering the tournament, the sheer ferocity of Sthenelos. Even the festival, for all its grandeur, had underlying tensions beneath the surface.

Telemachus sighed, his hand subtly tightening on yours before loosening again. "Hopefully, this will placate things for a while. Or at the very least..." He hesitated, then muttered, almost to himself, "...get marriage off of Lady Andreia's mind."

Your stomach dropped.

Oh. That.

For a moment, you had forgotten about the political undercurrents of all this—the lingering expectation that the princess of Bronte was still vying for his hand.

Telemachus seemed oblivious to your internal turmoil, continuing with a quiet grumble. "I've been listening to my mother—haven't outright denied her—but I've been trying to make it obvious that I'm not interested." He let out a frustrated breath. "And yet, she still lingers."

You considered his words carefully, trying to pick the right response. Then, tentatively, you suggested, "Maybe you should just... tell her."

His gaze flickered to yours, brows furrowing slightly.

"I mean," you continued, choosing your words with care, "not outright rejecting her in a way that could insult her or Bronte—but being clear about your feelings." You hesitated. "Maybe even frame it as something that benefits both kingdoms. Like the festival. It's already proven there are other ways to strengthen the bond between Ithaca and Bronte without marriage."

Telemachus was quiet for a moment, mulling over your words. Then, slowly, his shoulders relaxed. His lips curved into something softer, more grateful. "That... might actually work."

He squeezed your hand briefly, then let out a small chuckle. "Thank you, ____."

You barely had time to react to the warmth spreading through your chest before the music began to fade, signaling the end of the dance. Around you, partners bowed and curtsied, stepping apart in smooth, practiced motions.

Telemachus dropped into a graceful bow before you.

Swallowing against the sudden tightness in your throat, you curtsied in return, mirroring the elegant ritual.

But as you rose, something shifted.

At first, it was barely noticeable—a subtle drag in the air, like the hush of a held breath.

The laughter that had once filled the space so effortlessly now felt distant, stretching unnaturally at the edges.

Your breath caught as you glanced around.

The dancers slowed—not in a natural way, but like something unseen was pressing down on them, dragging their movements into sluggish, unnatural hesitations.

The lanterns flickered, their glow dimming in uneven pulses, shadows creeping longer, stretching unnaturally across the stone.

Then, your gaze snapped to Telemachus.

His bow was incomplete, his head just beginning to lift, his curls shifting as though caught in a breeze that no longer moved; his movements no different from the others—caught in the same slowing effect, oblivious.

His eyes didn't dart around, didn't widen in realization. He didn't see it.

He didn't feel it.

Something was wrong.

You began walking, your gaze darted around, searching for an explanation; you were careful not to touch anyone, fear that you'd end up like them.

But before panic could fully take root, a figure moved—unaffected by the strange sluggishness gripping the room. They wove effortlessly between the suspended dancers, stepping lightly over the elongated shadows. Your eyes locked onto the figure as they approached, the dim torchlight glinting off polished bronze.

A woman.

No, not just a woman.

Her presence was undeniable, both regal and composed, yet carrying the weight of something beyond mortal comprehension. The steady clink of her sandals against the marble floor resonated like the beat of a war drum, controlled yet filled with purpose. Her armor gleamed in the dim light, not ostentatious but practical, its polished surface etched with intricate patterns that seemed to shift like living inscriptions. A long, pale blue chiton draped beneath it, flowing with an elegance that softened the otherwise martial presence she exuded.

And then, her eyes.

Storm-gray, sharp as the edge of a whetted blade, unwavering as they locked onto yours. They were old, impossibly so, filled with a wisdom that stretched beyond the reaches of time. And yet, they did not bear the aloofness of an indifferent deity. There was something in her gaze—something keen, measured. Evaluating.

A pulse of understanding settled in your chest, pressing down like the weight of a shield. You had never seen her before, not like this. Not in any vision, nor in any temple offering. But you knew.

Athena.

The Goddess of Wisdom and War moved toward you with the poise of a queen stepping into her court, her very presence shifting the air around her. There was no need for grand gestures, no need for ethereal glows or divine proclamations. She simply was, and that was enough to command every ounce of attention.

Time itself bowed in her presence.

As she closed the remaining distance between you, you felt your breath stutter in your chest. Not out of fear, but because this was real. The festival, the feast, the grand hall filled with nobles and warriors alike—it all seemed secondary now. Distant.

She was here.

And she had come for you.

As Athena stopped just before you, the weight of her scrutiny settled over you, and for a fleeting moment, you felt as though you were standing at the precipice of something far greater than yourself.

She regarded you thoughtfully, her expression unreadable. And then, finally, she spoke.

"You have caught the attention of many. Both in Olympus and in the mortal realm."

Her words sent a ripple down your spine, a feeling akin to the moment before a storm breaks—heavy. You swallowed hard, but she continued before you could find your voice.

"Apollo saw to it that your ode to the Olympians was displayed before all in Olympus," she revealed, tilting her head ever so slightly as if gauging your reaction. "With the help of Iris, the song echoed through the halls of the gods."

Your breath caught.

Apollo had... what?

The very idea sent a sharp wave of heat through your chest, your mind scrambling to picture it—your voice, your offering, carried beyond the mortal world, presented before the very beings you had honored. The thought was dizzying. Overwhelming.

And yet, Athena merely observed you, the edges of her expression betraying nothing.

"How are you taking all of this?" she asked then, her tone shifting slightly, a curious lilt threading through the words. "The favor of Apollo... the affections of a prince."

It took nearly all your willpower not to break into a stuttering mess because this was the second god to confirm Telemachus’ feelings for you. First Aphrodite, and now Athena herself.

Your heart lurched in your chest, thoughts racing. It was one thing to suspect, to wonder in quiet moments if Telemachus truly cared for you in that way, but it was another entirely to hear a goddess speak of it with certainty—as if it were already written into the fabric of fate itself.

You cleared your throat, willing your voice to remain steady despite the whirlwind of emotions tightening in your chest. "I... I'm taking it day by day," you admitted. "I know that rushing into something just because it makes me feel happy, or good, or wanted—" You stopped, inhaling sharply before continuing, "—it could cause more trouble than it's worth. I’m just trying to be careful. To be... wise."

There was a long silence, save for the faint, slowed echo of distant laughter and music twisting through the air like a ghostly melody. Athena studied you with something unreadable, as if weighing your words against her own knowledge of the world.

Then, she nodded once, approvingly. "Smart girl."

The praise was simple, but hearing it from her—the goddess of wisdom herself—made something warm settle in your chest, steadying your nerves just a little.

But then, her expression shifted. Her gaze turned sharp, her words weaving through the slow-motion ambiance around you, slicing through the moment like a well-honed blade.

"The threads of fate are pulling tighter around you. Have you felt the weight of their weave?"

You stiffened.

A shiver ran down your spine, unbidden. The slow-moving world around you suddenly felt heavier, as if something unseen was pressing in, coiling around you like an unseen force.

Before you could respond, a loud voice rumbled across the space, shattering the stillness like a war drum.

"Oh, c'mon, Athena—" The voice, deep and rasping like smoldering embers, carried a mocking edge, curling around each word with slow, deliberate amusement. "Boring the poor thing to death before I even get the chance to have a little fun?"

Your head whipped around just in time to see a hulking, hooded figure seated at one of the long banquet tables. He had been moving just as slowly as the rest of the world before—his arm halfway raised, a massive goblet of wine frozen inches from his lips—but now, as he gulped down the rest of his drink in one long, steady drag, time around him caught up in an instant.

The goblet slammed onto the table with a deep, reverberating thud, rattling the nearby plates and cutlery. The figure pushed up from his seat, and immediately, your stomach dropped.

Because he just kept unfurling.

Rising.

Larger.

Taller.

By the time he straightened to his full height, his massive shoulders stretched as if to shake off the sluggishness of mortal time. You caught a glimpse of heavy, scarred forearms wrapped in golden cuffs before the figure reached up, grasped the edge of his cloak, and tossed it back.

The hood fell away, revealing a mane of deep crimson hair, untamed and wild, cascading in thick waves down his broad back. His face—sharp, cut like a blade—was all brutal handsomeness, his jaw lined with the ghost of a beard, his skin kissed by battle and sunlight alike.

And then, he turned to you.

His molten-gold eyes locked onto yours, and a slow, wolfish grin curled at the edge of his mouth, flashing a set of teeth just a little too sharp. It was the kind of grin a predator wore when it knew the prey had nowhere to run.

You barely swallowed back a yelp.

He tilted his head, watching you with a dangerous sort of interest before exhaling sharply through his nose. "Well, aren't you just a pretty little thing?" His voice dropped into something lower, rougher—his amusement practically dripping from each word. "Apollo always did have an eye for beauty."

Your breath hitched at the insinuation, but before you could even form a response, Athena let out a long, measured sigh.

"Hello, Ares." Her tone was flat, unimpressed.

She tapped her spear lightly against the floor, watching him with the air of someone dealing with an unruly animal. "I thought you'd be busy throwing yourself into whatever war is currently suiting your fancy."

Ares barked a laugh, the sound rough, unrestrained. "Oh, you wound me, sister. I take one evening—one—away from the battlefield, and suddenly I'm not allowed a bit of entertainment?"

Athena rolled her eyes, adjusting the grip on her spear. "Somehow, I doubt your definition of 'entertainment' aligns with anything civilized."

"Depends on who you ask." Ares' grin widened, his gaze flickering back to you with that same sharp, predatory amusement. "Besides," he continued, his voice dripping with mock innocence, "how could I possibly pass up the sight of such a grand union between two mighty kingdoms?" He spread his arms out lazily, as if to encompass the entire frozen feast. "Ithaca and Bronte—so much history between you two." His golden eyes glinted with something darker. "Wonderful, bloody wars throughout the years. What a shame to see all that... passion go to waste."

As he spoke, the ground trembled ever so slightly beneath your feet, like the very earth itself bristled at his presence. It wasn't enough to make you stumble, but it was there—subtle, insistent, a whisper of power just beneath the surface. You fought to keep your composure as he moved closer, his every step measured yet effortless, a beast at ease in a den full of sheep.

The closer he got, the heavier the air became. Then, suddenly, Ares slouched forward slightly, bringing himself level with you, his towering frame somehow even more intimidating now that he chose to close the space between you. His gaze raked over you with the casual appraisal of a warrior sizing up a new weapon.

A large, calloused hand reached forward without hesitation, fingers flicking one of the petals woven into your crown. A single soft plnk echoed as he released it, the flower bouncing lightly back into place. His grin deepened at the sight, something rough yet almost teasing curling at the edges of his mouth.

"I heard your little ode to Olympus. Apollo's pride could be seen from the skies. Practically preening like a songbird over his favored little muse." His gaze darkened, more piercing now, scrutinizing. "But I wonder..."

Before you could blink, his smirk sharpened, and he leaned in just a fraction closer—close enough that you could see a prominent battle scar slashing across the bridge of his nose, stark against his ruggedly handsome features. The faint scent of iron and smoke clung to him like a second cloak.

"What would it take for a song to be written for me?"

The words were low, almost coaxing, dragging over your skin like the edge of a dulled blade. His large hand reached out again, this time cradling your chin—rough, yet strangely intimate. His thumb grazed the corner of your mouth in an absentminded stroke, his dark-lidded eyes locked onto yours with a fierce intensity; expectant, waiting.

Your throat went dry.

Ares was not a gentle god. His touch was not soft, nor reverent, nor pleading. It was possession before permission, like he was simply curious what it might feel like to hold you in his hands.

The intimacy of it made something in your chest lurch—not quite fear, but something deeper, something more primal, an ancient instinct that whispered of predators and prey. You willed your pulse to steady, to not betray the way your body seemed to understand something your mind refused to name.

His grin stretched lopsided, one canine tooth more pronounced than the others, giving him the look of something half-wild, barely tamed. "A kingdom fallen in bloodshed? A battlefield piled high with the glory of the slain?" His grin was all teeth, unsettling yet charismatic.

"Or perhaps," he continued, his voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper, "it would take something a little more personal?" His eyes glinted with a wild, untamed light. "A city toppled and named in your honor, bathed in the blood of your enemies? Does the thought thrill you, little conqueror?"

Your stomach clenched so hard it nearly hurt.

Not in revulsion. Not in fear.

In something that scared you more.

You barely managed to stammer something—anything—to find a polite way out of this situation, your mind scrambling for an escape. But before you could form a coherent thought, a sharp, clipped voice cut through the space like a blade.

"I don't think Aphrodite would be too pleased with your interest." Athena stood firm, her storm-gray eyes unwavering as she regarded her brother with cool detachment.

Ares' teeth bared in an exaggerated, sarcastic grin as he let out a slow breath through his nose. "Ah, Dite won't care too much," he mused, waving a lazy hand. "She's already got her hands full with enough lovesick fools." But despite the ease in his tone, you noticed it—the barely perceptible shift in his face as he let you go, the way he suddenly seemed less in your space.

Not much, but enough.

And you—your pulse still hammering against your ribs—weren't sure if you should be relieved or even more on edge. The space between the two gods felt heavy—like a taut rope straining between them, frayed and ready to snap.

Desperate to break the rising tension, you stammered, "Why—why is everything still like this?" You cast another wary glance around, your voice wavering slightly as you took in the frozen revelry. "Is— are one of you controlling time?"

Ares let out a bark of laughter, throwing his head back. "Hades, no,"

You turned to Athena, who regarded you with mild amusement, the barest quirk of her lips betraying her enjoyment of your curiosity. "Not time," she corrected smoothly, shifting her weight onto her spear, "but perception."

Your brows furrowed. "Perception?"

Athena inclined her head. "I have slowed their minds, not time itself." She gestured around the festival with a small tilt of her chin. "Their thoughts, their reactions, their movements—they all process the world in slow motion. But you," her piercing gaze found yours again, "are untouched, thus unaffected."

A ripple of awe ran through you. You turned, watching as the world dragged itself along in eerie suspension, dancers caught mid-spin like figures in a dream, the hum of music drawn out into something hollow and otherworldly.

"That's..." You swallowed. "That's incredible."

Ares let out a sharp exhale, arms crossing over his broad chest. "If I had that trick, do you know how many wars I could fight in a day?" His golden eyes gleamed, and you could practically see the chaos brewing in his mind, already playing out what he could do with such an ability.

Athena, unimpressed, arched a brow. "Yes, well, I suppose you'd enjoy that." Her tone was dry, clipped. "But unfortunately for you, it does not belong to your domain."

Ares shrugged, unbothered. "Wouldn't want it anyway. Takes the fun out of it.” His lips stretched into a wolfish grin, something dark sparking in his molten gaze. "Half the thrill is in seeing it happen real time—the fear, the shock—watching a man know he's going to die, and still being too slow to stop it." His fingers flexed at his sides, as if recalling the feeling of a spear piercing through armor.

A shiver crawled up your spine, but you forced yourself to stay still, to hold your ground. Your heartbeat pulsed loudly in your ears, yet you refused to let him see the way his words made your stomach twist.

Athena exhaled through her nose, unimpressed. "And that is why it does not belong to you."

Ares let out a scoff, rolling his broad shoulders as if shaking off her words like dust from a battlefield. "And yet, my champion was the one standing tall until the very end," he mused, his voice a rough purr, thick with the satisfaction of battle. His molten-gold eyes gleamed as he turned back to Athena, a smirk playing at his lips. "Sthenelos fought like a true warrior—unyielding, powerful. He took the boy's best and kept coming."

Athena's expression remained unreadable, but there was a sharpness to her gaze, a subtle shift that hinted at the silent war between them. "Brute strength alone does not make a victor, Ares," she countered smoothly. "Sthenelos relied on power, but Telemachus adapted. He thought, he adjusted, he survived. That is what makes a warrior." Her voice remained calm, but there was an undeniable steel beneath it.

Ares clicked his tongue, his expression darkening. "Surviving isn't winning, owl," he shot back, stepping forward, his sheer presence causing the air between them to thrum with tension. "Surviving is scraping by. It's enduring, not conquering. Tell me—did your precious boy dominate that fight, or did he claw his way to victory by the skin of his teeth?"

Athena's grip on her spear tightened fractionally, her lips pressing into a thin line. "A true warrior knows when to strike and when to endure. A true warrior knows that persistence is often the key to victory. Telemachus may not have had the raw might of your champion, but he had something far greater—ingenuity." Her voice carried the weight of centuries of wisdom, unwavering and absolute. "And if you cannot see the worth in that, then you are still the fool you have always been."

Ares' smirk widened, but it didn't reach his eyes. There was an unspoken challenge in the way he tilted his head, the flicker of amusement not enough to hide the barely-contained storm brewing behind his gaze. "You always did like the clever ones," he murmured, voice dripping with something that felt almost like mockery. "Shame cleverness alone doesn't win wars."

Athena raised a brow. "Tell that to Odysseus."

The tension crackled like a storm about to break, and for a moment, you swore you felt the air shift, as if the very world braced itself for their clashing wills. You stood frozen between them, a mere mortal in the wake of two gods locked in an eternal contest of strategy versus might.

Ares held her gaze for a beat too long.

Then, he scoffed, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off an invisible weight. "Tch. Strategy's just the fancy word for fighting without the guts to do it yourself," he muttered, the words meant to sting—meant to convince himself more than anyone else.

His expression flickered—just for a breath, just for a second—but then the wolfish smirk returned, and whatever lay beneath was locked away once more.

"Doesn't matter," he said, voice almost too casual as he turned away. "We both know who they pray to when the real battle begins."

But he didn't leave immediately.

Instead, he let the words settle, let them sink in, his back still turned. His presence still pressed against the space he'd occupied, as if war itself refused to be dismissed so easily.

Then, with a slow exhale—one that sounded almost like a laugh but carried no real amusement—he finally strode off, each step measured, deliberate. The weight of him didn’t fade so much as it reluctantly withdrew, like a predator retreating—not out of surrender, but out of patience.

The thud of his boots echoed long after he was gone.

And the laughter he left behind—low, sharp—coiled through the air like the last crackle of a dying ember, refusing to fully extinguish.

Athena exhaled through her nose, watching him go with an air of mild exasperation before shaking her head. "Brute," she muttered, barely above a whisper, before turning her sharp gaze back to you.

Her expression softened—if only slightly. "Be mindful of your choices," she said, her voice lower now, more deliberate. There are forces at play greater than you realize, and attention from the gods is not always a gift." She studied you for a moment longer, as if weighing whether to say more, before she finally took a step back.

But this time, instead of immediately speaking, she extended a hand—not in invitation, but in quiet command.

You barely had a moment to react before a force, subtle yet undeniable, guided you. It wasn't a shove, nor a tug, but something gentler—like the shifting of the tide pulling you toward shore. Without realizing it, you were moving, your feet carrying you back toward where you'd been standing just before Telemachus had asked for your hand in the dance.

The world around you remained unchanged, the slowed-down movement of the revelers still unfolding as though wrapped in thickened air. Yet, with each step, you felt the moment slipping from the grasp of the divine, like sand trickling between your fingers.

Athena's presence was still at your side, silent, until you reached the very spot you had left. It was only then that she finally spoke.

"Consider what it means to be favored..." she said, her voice low, deliberate. "And beware, for such favor is often double-edged."

Her storm-gray eyes locked onto yours, the weight of her words settling in your chest like an anchor. The warning hung heavy in the air, far more than mere words—it felt like a thread being woven into your fate, a thread you had no choice but to carry.

She studied you a moment longer, and you had the distinct feeling that she was waiting. Waiting to see if you would ask, if you would push for more. But whether it was out of caution, reverence, or simply the sheer inability to form a coherent thought under her gaze, you said nothing.

And so, with a final look, she took a step back.

And just like that, the spell lifted.

The world around you slowly returned to its previous rhythm, as if the moment had been nothing but a fevered dream.

The music resumed its gentle cadence, the final notes of the melody rippling through the courtyard as the musicians, looking subtly shaken, finished their performance. Dancers continued their steps, though there was a slight hesitation in their movements, as if their bodies were catching up to lost time. The guests blinked, murmuring among themselves, their voices hushed with a confusion none of them could quite place.

You turned sharply, expecting to still see Athena standing before you, but she was gone.

Yet, despite her absence, the air remained thick, charged with an electric tension, as though the space she had occupied was still weighted by something divine.

You almost believed that you had been the only one to experience the strange encounter. That somehow, the gods had folded time just for you, allowing their words to pass unnoticed by the mortal realm.

But the looks on people's faces told you otherwise.

All around, guests exchanged bewildered glances, eyes darting across the space as if trying to pin down what had just transpired. Some rubbed their arms, others subtly adjusted their postures, as though shaking off an unseen force.

And then, there were those who subconsciously—perhaps even unknowingly—let their gazes drift toward you.

A prickle ran down your spine.

It was subtle—just fleeting glances, uncertainty flickering behind their eyes before they turned away—but it was enough to make your stomach knot. Whatever had happened, whatever the gods had done, their presence had left an undeniable imprint on the air, warping the atmosphere in a way that even the oblivious could feel. And now, you were the center of it.

A hand suddenly brushed against your arm. "Are you alright?"

You startled at the voice, your heart stammering in your chest. Telemachus stood beside you now, brows furrowed, concern laced in his voice. He was studying you carefully, his keen eyes flicking over your face, searching for signs of distress.

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to nod. "I'm... fine."

Your voice was steady enough, but even you weren't convinced by it.

Telemachus didn't look fully reassured, but after a beat, he exhaled and nodded, offering you his arm. "Come on," he said, his voice gentler now. "Let's go eat. My mother is expecting us."

You hesitated, your thoughts still spinning, but after a moment, you let him guide you away from the dance floor, through the maze of tables and lantern-lit pathways.

The feast continued in full swing, but as you walked, you couldn’t stop the way your mind churned, replaying Athena’s words over and over in your head.

"Consider what it means to be favored... And beware, for such favor is often double-edged."

You clenched your jaw slightly, barely registering the sounds of laughter and the clinking of goblets around you. Her words were a warning, clear as day. But of what? The future? The gods? Yourself?

And then, there was Ares.

You shivered just thinking about him.

Unlike Athena, whose presence, while overwhelming, still carried a certain measured grace, Ares had been something entirely different.

He had been a storm barely leashed, a beast waiting for an excuse to bare its fangs. He was war incarnate, everything ruthless and primal, brimming with a power so untamed you could still feel it crawling beneath your skin.

And he had looked at you. Not through you, not past you. At you.

You hated to imagine what it would be like to stand on the receiving end of his ire—his full, unfiltered wrath.

Swallowing hard, you forced yourself to shake off the thought as you arrived at the royal table, greeted by Penelope's warm smile. She gestured for you to sit, immediately launching into cheerful conversation, her enthusiasm a stark contrast to the weight pressing down on your shoulders.

But even as you ate, your mind refused to quiet.

Because no matter how much you tried to ignore it, you knew that something had shifted tonight.

And whatever it was, you had no choice but to face it.

A/N: lolo don't mind me, i'm just indluging in ares (whose inspired by my sis's (k-nayee) interpertation in her book 'warrior'; something about redheads just do it for me q(≧▽≦q)

Tag List: nerds4life246 ace-spades-1 uniquetravelerone alassal thesimppotato11 jackintheboxs-world kahlan170 akiqvq matchaabread danishland uselessmoonlight apad-ravya suckerforblondies jolixtreesunn dreamtheatre woncloudie byzantiumhollow kisskisskys b4ts1e sarcasticbitchsblog trashcannotbealive

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bellrose · 8 months ago

Text

A Kindness

Summary: Your brother has been lost to the flames at Rook’s Rest and the anxious whispers of the Court do not give any consolation. However, the words of a knight in green do. How you wish you could give him a kindness in return.

Gwayne Hightower x female reader

Warnings: Angst. Loss of a family member. Descriptions of injuries by dragon fire

Word count: 2.615

The host had returned to Kings Landing with a fanfare akin to a funeral march.

The flies buzzing like bees amongst the rotten flesh of Meleys a song for the dead. Vhagar had been there on the battlefield, the King himself fallen from the sky, and the hope you held close to your heart and in prayer had been a child’s dream.

Your brother isn’t among the men climbing stiffly from their horses. Nor the men carrying the banners with their ragged edges, specks of rusty brown marring the King’s crest. He won’t drink with his fellow brothers in arms, revelling together in their victory until the cups double in their quantity. He will never smile again. A crooked smile, for he had lost a tooth during a tourney right before attaining knighthood.

No, he will never return.

You’d known when Father received the raven and his hands shook to hold the message. The sight of Meleys’ severed head being paraded through the streets a finality. It is an omen, the folks whispered to themselves. For who dares to slay such a formidable creature? Your brother laid rotting like the mighty beast and the hapless mass of fallen soldiers. Overlooked by Sisters guiding them through their final hour, if they were lucky that is.

The dead don’t speak. They wait to be reunited with their families. Or to be lost in a field.

Nameless. Forgotten.

Turned black like coal at the bottom of the hearth they’d whisper. Faces molten into an eternal scream they'd hush behind fans flapping away the noon sun. I heard they fed the remains of those poor boys to one of those beasts, for the sheep had fled. How awful!

There are others who share your grief, who barely leave the Sept or gorge themselves on any rumour that might bring reprieve. The Ladies of the Court give you their pity, their condolences, though it is half-hearted and they refuse to look upon you truly. You do not blame them.

Rumours cannot explain the seven hells that had opened up on those grounds, and with the King’s condition a barely kept secret, they grow less sensical by the day.

Father would know, for he wakes up with a tome in his hand and an age old tale on his tongue. Surely he must know the truth? You wish he would speak to you, but he has thrown himself into his duties and refuses to receive you in his small chambers.

Ladies smile demurely and sip politely on sweet reds. They don’t scream. There are no more tears to cry. You’ve exhausted your grief to the point your eyes feel dry and brittle. Like parchment, and you wonder how long it will take until you, too, shall crumble underneath the dragon’s might.

“Lady Waye says the Queen has shadows underneath her eyes as deep as the night,” Edeva murmurs to your right, low enough that only your ears catch it. “That her whispering has returned tenfold.”

“I think her Queen’s Ladies in waiting should put their grave concerns into action instead of turning to gossiping,” you bite, a bit louder than intended, only it gets lost in the clamour of tinkling glasses and a bard playing the lute.

Edeva has been your companion, a good friend to turn to in the halls of the Keep, and you feel ashamed for pushing her aside. She tries to distract you by pointing out the dish full of lush summer fruits being set upon the table by a servant. However, the sight of their ripe, glossy skins makes you nauseous.

Without announcing your leave, you slide past the gowns and grapes further into the Keep. You have no destination in mind, other than it has to be anywhere but here.

The stairs blur beneath your heavy skirt. Every breath locked high in your throat. You turn a corner, another, the colourful tapestries twirling in your periphery. The stories they tell a mockery. A servant leaps out of your way. Another step of stairs, and then - the sound you keep hidden escapes into a shocked huff when you collide against something solid.

A hand grabs your wrist to steady you, warm through the dark brocade.

It does not take long to recognize who stands before you. The tower spewing flames engraved on the leather doublet telling enough. His ruddy hair brings forth the invitation to a dance, that same hand guiding you over gleaming stone to the cacophony of a summer ball away in the past. Father telling another tale of a tourney. That dreadful day when the Stranger took Queen Aemma and her newborn son, when Prince Daemon drove him to the ground on his black steed.

You will never claim to know him well. Only a flash of red and green through the years when your paths crossed before taking residence in the Red Keep. Like so many faces he is out of your reach, a familiarity, but not an acquaintance.

Ser Gwayne Hightower's face does not bear any scars of Daemon’s lance. These are the nicks and scratches of a different battle.

He had been there. He had stood on the field where your brother met his grisly demise.

“Apologies Ser,” you whisper, voice cracking around the syllables. You retract your hand and slowly bow your head and knees in curtsy.

“The apologies are all mine, my Lady. The halls of the Keep are mighty. I fear my feet get lost in their splendour,” he says, the hint of a smile on his face a tad tight-lipped.

The steps of the seat of the Hightowers can be more daunting, and the structure itself grander than the Red Keep could ever be. You feel there is more to the white lie, a contempt.

There is a horror hidden in the ashes stubbornly clinging to the grooves and fibres of his clothing. His face has been scrubbed clean on the road, but the dirt of travel still sticks in his hairline, a little smudge behind his ear. You imagine you can smell it, even if leather and the natural musk of men try to hide it so. The stench of dragon fire; of burnt flesh and desperation, of loss - and if you cannot smell it you can see it in his eyes.

Gwayne does not possess the doe brown of the Dowager Queen. His eyes shine brighter. Like the precious gems Lady Nelda likes to wear around her neck whenever the occasion arises. On another day they would have been inquisitive. A bit haughty. Now they are exhausted. Duller. Something unsettling swirling in those depths. You are hit with a different kind of familiarity, one of understanding.

“My Lady,” he bows.

The moment is gone. Gwayne averts his gaze to a point further down the hallway and you wish he would look upon you again.

The knight in green has taken but a few steps before you find your voice.

“My brother... Ser, I-”

He halts. The expression on his face is a mystery, though his shoulders stiffen.

“Was he in the company at Rook’s Rest?" he asks lowly.

Your nails bite in the palm of your hands. “Yes. He was.”

Gwayne turns back around. A scrutiny in those dimmed gems when they rove from your balled fists to your face, and you cannot start to guess what he finds there. The despair bottling inside overflows into a torrent.

“The men- They say dragon fire melts the flesh like wax. Turns the bones to dust, to scatter in the storm. That there is nothing left of their prey but soil to grow our gardens.” Something changes in his stance, the dullness receding and it encourages you even more. “Is that what is left of my brother? Dust? We cannot bury what is lost on the wind.”

“I do not know, my Lady.” Gwayne takes another step forward. “I do not know of the fate of your brother. I wish I could give you that amenity, to ease your mind.”

“Does it ease your mind, Ser?” you ask, aware how your tone is rising in pitch. Shrill. “To have witnessed the dragons dance and live to tell the tale?”

And how dare you pose such a question? When it is loud and clear he has witnessed the unspeakable that the fiery beasts left in their wake? But he is here, standing, breathing, and he sees.

“I wish it were that easy,” he answers, wavering before he rightens his shoulders, clenching his jaw. “We need to be brave, my Lady. Be brave for your brother. Be brave and find it on your own, as I cannot give you the solace you seek.”

“It is not solace that I seek. I-”

He cuts you off. “You want answers. You want an elaborate summation of his gruesome faith, is that it?”

Gwayne takes another step forward, closer now, and you have to lift up your chin to follow. At first you believe it is rage that meets you, anger at your accusation. It is helplessness instead.

“Many good men died at the foredoor of Rook’s Rest. The dragons tear off each other’s limbs in the clouds, trampling them all underneath their feet and breath. What folly…”

He drifts off, his attention now on one of the many tapestries adorning the walls. A wry chuckle bursts from his lips. “It seems the many days on the road have disrupted my manners.”

“I fear there is no propriety in grief Ser,” you confess quietly.

Gwayne tilts his head sideways, considering your words, before he smiles once more. A real one this time, still edged in a shared sorrow, but it’s warmer.

“I guess not.”

“I do not know what I seek.”

“Then stop seeking.” His eyes find yours again, and his next words are spoken earnestly, kindly. “Do not tarnish what is the memory of your sibling, my Lady. He would have wished to be remembered whole, for then he cannot be lost to the winds.”

Gwayne grabs your right hand, unfolding the balled fist. His thumb stroking over the indents your nails left behind and turning the palm downward. His lips are warm when they touch your skin, lingering for a moment too long.

“A good day, my Lady.”

“Good day, Ser.”

You watch him go. Steady steps carrying him down the hallway. His words mulling over in your mind and for the first time in the past moon, ever since your brother left the Keep, you feel a peace.

The stone steps underneath the soles of your shoes are still a bit damp, the ground forth uneven where hoofs have trampled and disturbed the earth.

There’s a flurry of activity in the yard. Green with golden dragons on shields and banners, knights gleaming like silver coins rolling on a hardwood table. For a fleeting moment, you expect to see another face, one with a crooked smile who belongs only in your dreams now.

And then you see him.

Dressed in his armour bounding towards his horse, as if he cannot wait long enough to leave. As if Kings Landing is worse than what awaits outside its seven gates. Perhaps it was, or he would rather not delay the inevitable. And what is that? A quick death? No.

Ser Gwayne offered you a kindness with his understanding, and you wish to understand him in return. To offer something steady in a world that is tilting on its axis the longer the war continues.

Deep in the pocket between the fabrics of your skirt, your hand grasps the hidden piece of cloth. The stitches tickle your skin. It steadies you, dousing the nervous thoughts that have been following you all morning.

It’s not a handkerchief. Not in the traditional sense. You found it among the garments in the chest of your quarters. Dark green, almost blue, and the moment you touched it, an idea would not leave you alone.

The needle still feels clumsy at times between your finger tips, as you were never the patient pupil your mother had wished you to be and rather spent your time learning the harp, but the flowers they bore are delicate. Pretty. Refined. White petals with a core of deep orange; the colour of the sun peeking over the horizon. Your Septa would have been proud. Though, she would admonish the purpose behind it.

A kindness. Be brave.

It is that sentiment that moves you forward, past the guards standing sentry near the stairs and interweaving through the crowd filling the yard. His destrier, standing out with its magnificent armour, shining on the morrow, is in the hands of a squire. Gwayne does not see you coming, too busy speaking to the boy. Voice short and clipped.

“Ser Gwayne?”

The squire bows and runs off. Gwayne watches him go for a quick second before his gaze lands on your form. There’s surprise in the way his brows raise, the corner of his mouth turning up just so.

“My Lady,” he says, loosely gripping the reins of his horse. The destrier noses the pauldron at his shoulder. “How may I help you?”

Promise me to return all these men to their families, to come back, but that would be too much to ask and too forward, as if bestowing him with your needlework isn’t daunting enough.

“I sincerely regret not thanking you properly for what you said to me that day,” you state politely.

His head tilts down in understanding. The sun catches the red in his hair like honey. “Your regrets are misplaced. You do not need to thank me.”

“You misunderstand me Ser, I do.” Bolder now, you fish out the embroidered cloth from the hidden place of your dress. “You will be in my prayers, but please take this as a token of good fortune.”

He accepts the cloth mutely, brows rising further and gloved fingers studying the wreath of flowers you stitched along the edges. For a moment you fear the gift is too unbefitting after all, that the warmth that you had felt besides the kiss upon your hand a figment of your imagination. That he will reject it.

He’s quick to crush those doubts, but not quick enough to halt the blush of regret that is slowly blooming on your nape.

“I will cherish this gesture my Lady,” he says, eyes glittering. “But do not trouble yourself with concerns on my behalf, there are much more important matters to ponder.”

“This I cannot promise you Ser,” you answer honestly. “I’ll be awaiting your return.”

“That sight alone might make me forget the pungency these streets carry,” Gwayne parries, a hint of smugness that is purely in jest, and studies the cloth again. “White Lelas... They grow near Goldengrove, do they not?”

“Yes. My late mother used to put them in my crib when I was a mere babe, as my father tells me.” You think of the washed white stone of your grandfathers’ Keep and tall grasses holding a vast array of flowers. Too many to count. “I barely remember what they smell like, but I always thought they were quite charming.”

“Quite indeed,” Gwayne hums, though he is not looking at the cloth anymore. He turns towards his horse, looping it around a buckle on the saddle in a strong knot. The fabric will sway against his leg with every step the steed took. It will be with him when he confronts the enemies of the Crown.

A memory, a constant.

“I hope the day will be upon us soon my Lady,” he says and the kiss on the back of your hand is a farewell.

For now.

Did I purposefully mirror the phrasing of “turned to dust” from Cole's we're-all-going-to die-anyway spiel for possible parallels and continuation purposes? Why, yes. Maybe. It was never my intention to write this anyway but the brainrot is real. Damn you, Freddie!

Thank you for reading

#gwayne hightower #gwayne hightower x reader #gwayne x reader #hotd fic #hotd #house of the dragon #rose's fics

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boomgun · 2 months ago

Text

Facades

Gonna cut to the chase here (this is brought to you by sleep deprivation).

We all know about the Claude Acting Silly conversation. Sometimes fandom flanderizes Claude's propensity for pranks, but other parts of the fandom think it is all a machiavellian ruse to make people underestimate him. However, we literally have a line from Claude elaborating that he acts the way he does because it helps calm people down. That line, "grin and bear it," haunts me. That Claude has to bury the panic because it keeps other people from panicking. In other words, Claude is not an inherently silly person, Claude is not putting on an elaborate act; Claude cracks jokes and plays pranks because he believes it is his civic fucking duty as the Duke of Leicester to insert some levity into the lives of his followers.

And yes, Claude is not the only one like this.

Dimitri is an angry person, deep down. Dimitri came to Garreg Mach for revenge, Dimitri went to a battlefield at age 14 for revenge, Dimitri is likely delaying his own coronation because I do not think Dimitri planned to ever take the crown; Dimitri wanted to violently murder whoever killed his family and friends in Garreg Mach and then just go to jail. Dimitri was close, he was right on Thales's ass with the donation records! The kindness and gentleness is Dimitri trying to suppress the voices. But, it's not just that is it? Dimitri says that he wants to be like Rodrigue, the kind of man who can "save a soul" by offering his hand. Dimitri's kindness is the one thing tethering him to his role as King and his obligation to his people. Dimitri does not think he is worthy to be King because of his acts of cruelty, kindness is such a high value to him that he believes a lack of it delegitimizes him! Dimitri is kind because of the obligations put upon him as King, but it is an obligation he fully believes in!

Edelgard, you know she was going to come up. Edelgard is associated with fire, the colour red, and love; Edelgard is probably the most emotional of the three lords in the core of her being. Paradoxically, Edelgard frames arguments on the grounds of logic and practicality. Edelgard often cites the practical weakness of the Crest system (consider her Devil's Advocate of Miklan, or appeals to the strength of people to rise above their stations), instead of the suffering it causes (only recognizing these things when other characters bring up their own pains to her, such as Lysithea or Bernadetta). Yet, Edelgard is not motivated by the weakness of the system, but by the emotional scar of the cruelty it can inflict. Edelgard is emotional, her core drive is an emotional response to the point that she is the most unyielding and stubborn of the bunch (you ALWAYS have to kill her in every route). When Edelgard speaks of her coldness, she speaks of it as a mantle she must take up as leader, Edelgard believes that leaders should be cold and detached despite how much she feels, feels, and feels again. However! Again, it is a principle Edelgard sees as one worth striving. I feel like a lot of people do not dig into that line in her B support (or was it A support) with Byleth; that Hubert spurs Edelgard to work harder and "worst of all, he's always right so I cannot disagree." Consider how Sylvain and Ferdinand (initially) do not put a lot of stock into Hubert's wisdom. Edelgard, on the other hand, does. Edelgard literally says that she often finds Hubert to be correct. Why? Edelgard likely values Hubert's ability to be fully and completely detached and logical. The amount of faith and autonomy Edelgard grants Hubert (an aspect of their relationship also worth thinking about, Hubert goes behind Edelgard because he has implicit permission to do so, they trust each other a lot) is evidence as to how much she genuinely values and strives to be the hard-nosed and clear-headed observer of events. Edelgard is most certainly not an inherent voice of reason, but she most certainly dedicates her full being to it because that is what an Emperor is supposed to be and she must be the best she can be to validate the lives of her lost family.

Also, yes, the other two retainers are relevant to this as well!

We already covered Hubert, how Edelgard's regard for him betrays how she does think being Logical And Detached is important, so we can skip him.

It is no coincidence that Claude, who thinks a leader has to project an image of being relaxed and upbeat, thinks the perfect lieutenant is someone who is genuinely lazy and wishes she was somewhere else. Hilda does not pretend, she genuinely is nonchalant and silly, she wishes she was at the club right now but oh well she can spare an hour or two of her day to crack skulls before going back to the day spa. Hilda is a hilariously Not Deep character here, she's the ";p" emoji made into a pink anime girl. So it is really easy to see how Hilda fits into Claude's ideal as a leader who is nonchalant. Claude grins and bears it, Hilda genuinely grins because she would hate to bear anything.

Dedue is the truest knight here. End of discussion. Strong, kind, always offering a hand. Dimitri says that the two of them saved each other, which rings similar to how Dimitri describes his ideal in Rodrigue as someone who can save another. The last thing I could call Dedue is cruel, despite his own capacity for violence (which comes with the territory, this is a Fire Emblem game, no one here really resolves a conflict without smashing a few faces in). Dimitri struggles to bury his traumatic anger with kindness, while Dedue simply does it better (I like to think there is a similar anger in Dedue, it's how he understands Dimitri so well).

The retainers are really straightforward characters in a lot of ways, uncomplicated but at the same time deeply fascinating with how they show what each lord values in a lieutenant and thus what they value in leadership and their identities as leaders.

What I am trying to say is that all three of them are putting on facades, are committing to a bit, but the line is blurry. Each genuinely thinks the facade they uphold is something important and forms a core of who they are as characters.

This could be why people call 3 Houses "Persona Emblem" because- yeah- a game called Persona has a lot to say about what people project as themselves and who they are really deep down. Claude, Dimitri and Edelgard would fit in too well.

#fire emblem three houses #claude von riegan #dimitri alexandre blaiddyd #edelgard von hresvelg #hubert von vestra #hilda valentine goneril #dedue molinaro

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neosero · 9 months ago

Note

Can I please request a part two to [01:15], were the reader ignores them afterward the fights/never death experience and when the characters try to talk to them the reader just ignores them and walks away and the characters feels a little guilty, I'm invested in what will happen next. Probably a lot of angst but maybe some fluff at the end

[ 12:30am ]

and yet, you still resist

collection | gods, the all powerful - #genshin

↳ [ 01:15pm ] and sometimes you have to remind yourself they're gods |

↳ pt. ii [ fontaine version ] |

↳ [ 12:30am ] and yet, you still resist |

wc | 5.3k total

noteworthy warnings | gn!reader; dark themes; kinda starts at a random moment of time sorry lol, stalking ( venti ); implied-kidnapping, forced-intamacy ( zhongli & neuvillette ); reader gets makeup put on them but still nothing specific to gender, also i do not know a thing about makeup lol ( neuvillette )

a/n | SORRY THIS TOOK FIVE MONTHS this one is for you anon! kinda forgot about the fluff but still i hope you like the follow up!! this is an extentsion of the linked fics above. though it isn't required it would be best to read that for a clear picture on the character dynamics

( extended author’s note at the end!!! )

THE ANEMO ARCHON Lord Barbatos | wc. 2k+

"So patchy, what's your story?"

The firewood tumbles in on itself within the pit. Ember sparks fly high, dancing between you and the other soldiers that crowd around the flame. It does little to combat the chilling air of Dragonspine, but it does provide enough of a haven for your group to forgo the mission to sit in idle company.

Chatter is loud amongst the knights and you would think this some caravan camping out over a reconnaissance party. You have a thought to hush the group as to not alert your targets, but with three days of just constant snow and no other signs of life you hold your tongue for their sanity.

“Hey! I asked you a question.”

The cold has been a lot better against your bandages than you had first thought. The old wounds from the incident haven’t completely healed, but the breeze feels like a gentle cold wrap around the warm ache of your body. Albeit not the best place for it, you feel more relaxed than you have for a while.

“Do you have a problem with me or something?!”

The once boisterous ensemble goes silent as all eyes turn to the quarrel. A soldier you don’t bother even trying to recognize has suddenly stepped up to your face. It's obvious he is new to the ranks; his armour is still freshly polished and not a dent in sight. You can catch the edgings of a family crest on the hilt of the sword he reaches for at his side.

A spoiled child of wealth. He'll probably last two more days before he turns back.

"Ignore him. Recruits are always ill-mannered to their seniors their first time out.” A man — Druig, the captain of your team — grabs the boy by the neck of his armour, dragging him back to his stool before he causes anymore of a scene. This brings back the laughter of the knights and the boy sits arms crossed with cheeks tinted pink.

"Though you could humor him." Druig boasts again, loud and obviously falling victim to the jug of wine in his hands. He offers you some carelessly, the liquid spilling over the rim and staining the pure snow red. You raise a hand in rejection and he happily takes another swig for himself. "Hell, all the lads could use a fine tale!"

Another cheer into the night. Druig has been determined to get you to open up since you took the commission. Although you can see the logic behind it — as your employer he deserves to know some part background — it never occurred to you as something that should be this importance. But with three days of begging and now several pairs of eyes awaiting the tale, there is really no escaping the memory.

You sigh deeply, already regretting the decision. You squat to the fire.

"It was the wind. Strongest I had ever seen."

The image is so clear in your head; the ache is still so painful in your bones that it's difficult to forget.

That fear is so easy to remember.

"An Eye of the Storm. The Eye of the Storm. An elemental lifeform so powerful it could be at level with an Archon. It raised the ground. It shook the trees bare. I didn't stand a chance."

Your voice falters as the face of Lord Barbatos flashes within the flames. His crazed smile reopens closed wounds and suddenly your skin feels itchy all over again.

The existence of Gods in the mortal realm hangs a heavy shadow over Teyvat. Stormterror's Rampage, the presumed death of the Geo Archon, the being that is Inazuma's Shogun; they are what mere humans cannot equal or challenge in any possible regard. And yet we still choose to worship the unknown.

"The Archons must have blessed you to survive that."

It's laughable really; how they can have so much faith in a being who spends most of their time drunk in a tavern while the rest of the world begs for their fortune.

"We live in a world where people can control the elements like magic and beasts can grow taller than trees- taller than mountains. My life is no blessing from a God and it never will be." You spit with a fire.

The impious statement shocks the soldiers still. With the Archon being held in such a religious light in Mondstadt, your behavior naturally rouses anger. The emotion slowly seeps through most of the men who no doubt have been within the Knights for sometime and upheld the Archon's image. It's obvious you've stained what little welcome you had within the group.

There is no reaction when you stand or when you begin to turn off into the cold of Dragonspine you wave over your shoulder, "I'll get more wood for the fire."

You walk past angry men unapologetically. The boy from earlier spits at your feet as you march by but it doesn't deter you in the slightest. Their beliefs aren't yours to taint in this moment and with direct orders from the Acting Grand Master you refrain from overstepping.

You travel far enough through the snow that the flames from the camp cannot be seen through the blizzard fog. With enough space to hear your own thoughts again, you can finally be at peace with the mountain. The snowflakes fall around you in clusters. Pinecones tumble from rustling trees with silent thuds into the layered snow. Small critters scurry around foraging for their next meals.

You breathe into your hands for warmth. While you are out you might forage yourself. There won't be much firewood to find in this area. The blizzard has dampened much of the fallen twigs and searching for dry wood is like looking for a needle within a haystack. Still you kneel to the floor to keep yourself busy and keep a clear head.

A boar's grunt catches your attention. Just over a shrub you can catch sight of the native beast's shaking fur. It's back is turned to you and it seems to be trying to scare something hidden in the bush ahead. Of course you cannot see anything noteworthy in the bush, yet you do not doubt the animal's senses.

Without warning it barrel's head first at the plant. You expected a few things: a rabbit, a weasel, a few clustered crystalflies, another boar even. With having taken a commission that was far from civilization — far from him — anything else should have been what came out of that bush. Instead it was a man.

He falls to the ground with a yelp, the weight of the boar's charge having kicked up snow in its wake. Your first instinct should have been to question the strange man's presence in such a place like this, but your apprentice training kicks in before you can think it through. You approach him to help.

He is covered in snow from head to toe, and when you bring him up most of it falls. You are about to tell him off, the whole knightly script just at the edge of your tongue as you rub off more snow. It was odd the way he stood beside you at an angle like he was trying to hide something. Just as you move to speak you do catch the edge of what he is hiding. You can’t forgot its shape even if you wanted to.

It was a lyre. Your fingers still at his sides. Slowly you look to the man’s face and those bright green eyes meet your gaze head on.

This was no man but a God. The Anemo Archon: Lord Barbatos.

You jump back hastily, nearly tripping over your own feet to get away. Venti brushes the remaining snow off his body with no urgency and stands upright like this was some casual meet. "Long time no see."

He takes a step forward and on reflex you draw your sword. He holds up his hands in surrender but you won't take any chance... not this time. Your whole body visibly shakes, your hands break out in cold sweats and breaths are labored. Why is he here? What possibly could have brought him to the one place you had been sure he wouldn't be?

"You look good." He speaks after a short silence and you scuff to the trees. "What the fuck are you doing here!"

It isn't a question, you demand an answer. You grip the sword with two hands to steady yourself.

"You haven't been home for a while so I got worried. I never got the chance to apologize to you and it feels like you're avoiding me." He pouts like some concerned friend. Your eyes constantly flicker from his own ones to the lyre at his side. How far could you get if you make a run for it? "And the guild said you were taking more out field commissions so I..."

"You what?" Venti doesn't answer quick enough, instead taking a cautious step forward which makes you move to widen the distance. "I've been... following your scent through the wind."

You feel gross all over, like you need to scrub the skin off your bones in order to erase whatever scent he is talking about. He's been tracking you... hunting you... stalking you by smell.

"How long?"

"I know how weird this may sound but-"

"How long have you been here!"

His hands drop to his sides and he casts his gaze to the distance, a habit you hate spikes up old memories. "Two days." He admits regrettably.

Oh god. He's been watching you from the start, maybe even before you reached the mountain.

"But I was just coming to apologize. I was waiting for the right time and you looked so happy that I jus-"

Your throat has run dry and the freezing temperatures aren't helping the situation at hand. Your voice cuts in sharp with what little courage you have left, "Listen — and I'll only say this once."

"I want nothing to do with you ever again. Okay! Go sniff out that Honorary Knight or something just... stay away from me."

His face contorts from one of deep sorrow to one of pain. Just like that day. It takes a few beats, a few moments of false hope that you broke him enough to make a run for it. He laughs to himself dimly and you feel your strength waning. Your hope is crushed with his next words.

"I think you should let the wind carry you a bit longer, unless you wish to fall into the storm once again."

The lyre shifts a deep crimson faster than you can blink and that weighted fear returns tenfold. The blizzard grows in ferocity. Various rocks, wood and helpless animals are picked up with the wind and flung out in various directions. You can barely keep your own footing now and he hasn't even begun his song.

His hands raise, ready to start his torture. All you can think of is the end. Preparing yourself for those wretched noises. But all you hear is... silence.

"What the hell happened to you?" You nearly jump out of your skin. Druig comes from behind a tree, puzzled.

You turn to where Barbatos stood only moments ago but only see a tuft of falling snow gliding in the air. Your eyes shift frantically throughout the open space from the tops of trees to the distant expanse of the now tame snowy night. There is no blood on the snow, no signs of a storm, not even the outline of footprints.

Nothing.

"I saw... it was... uhm... " Your heavy breathing cuts your sentence short and you know you must look crazy to the captain. He was here. He was right here and yet. You're still shaken, the thump of your heartbeat not only in your muscles but also your fingers and your head. What just happened?

Druig stands waiting for some sort of answer and you blurt your first thought. "It was a boar."

"Well, it must have been some boar, huh?" He doesn't question your lie and you bet it on the wine. You nod to him trying your best to look as calm as possible. "Anyway, we'll be going deeper into the mountain. I'd... understand if you didn't want to continue."

"No! I'll stay, I have to see this through." You admit to get your mind on track. The man laughs heartily with a smack to your shoulder. The pain is searing but it grounds you to the moment. Druig leads you back to camp. He does most of the talking, while you try to calm yourself down unsuccessfully. Barbatos had followed you here, has been following you and probably still is. You're all too aware of every little rustle in the wind, every possible shake and stir in the air. This obsession will be your undoing.

The faint strum of a lyre follows your every step. Whether it's the tune of a bard's promise or an Archon's wraith sends a chill over your entire body.

THE GEO ARCHON Rex Lapis | wc. 1.2k+

For three thousand years you’ve been at the side of the Geo Archon Rex Lapis following the events of the Archon War.

For the first thousand years you thought you could fight him. After having dragged you back from the rubble of your home, he chained you to the foot of his throne. You thrashed, clawed, screamed and bled to get free. Any food offered you tossed, whenever he’d try to touch you you’d bear your teeth like an animal, and every single day you pulled at that chain. But days turned to month and month to years and years drained you until you couldn't fight anymore.

He breaks the chains when you got too weak run from his touch. Morax fed you by hand, held your chin to make you chew, he kept you close at all times and when you pushed he’d pull back harder. He nursed you till your strength returned and even when you got strong enough to run he never let you get far. He’d make the earth swallow you whole and spit you right back at his side where he made you think you belong.

For the next thousand years you had thought you could beg. Time brought upon something you never saw coming for the Geo Archon: change. When you met some four thousand years ago, he was ruthless. He massacred thousands and leveled the earth whenever he saw it fit, but he was different then. He had begun to changed.

His touch is gentle, his tone less demanding and his stare was more human. With as long as he had lived and seeing as so many of his treasured friends die, the reality of being the strongest — of being immortal — has finally set in. You had thought this change would help free you but your pleas were always met with this same look of sadness. Morax would tell you every single time, almost apologetic: you cannot leave.

You didn’t believe him, you never did and still don’t. It's only on the night you decided to run that you understand his sadness. You make it to the bridge of the Harbor, the one thing that you separated you from the rest of the world. The yaksha, the only one still living, didn’t chase you. The earth did not move to block your path. Freedom is so close. You ran across the bridge under the belief it would be all over like waking from a bad dream.

You should've known better. As soon as your foot crossed the end you were forced back. The pulse of it stunned you and almost left you winded when you fell to the floor. You were sure you weren’t followed. When you stood with a lot more cautiously, nothing seems out of the ordinary until you caught sight of it in the moonlight.

It was a barrier. Morax’s contract to you. A barricade that surrounded the entire Harbor to keep the all evil out, and you in.

You ran around the whole port, and that barrier was there to meet you head on. You even tried your luck out at sea, you had swam for the distant boat but all there was to greet you was bars to your prison. When you seam back to shore soggy and exhausted, Morax was there to greet you. He looked down at you with sad eyes and all you can hear were those words.

You cannot leave. You screamed and cursed his name till your voice broke that night.

And now, three thousand years later, you're left here.

“Please leave it all to the Wangsheng Funeral Parlor and we’ll see to their gentle passing.”

You bow to the grieving family as they make their way to the exit. Your movements are robotic; you bend deeper than you should and smile too cheerful for having just discussed the ceremonial process of their approaching burial. Playing human hasn't come easy for you…

“You’ve improved.”

…And neither has your hatred for the archon who imprisoned you. Well archon no more.

Morax has died, now replaced by this… Zhongli. His renounce of his divine position was a long time coming, you had seen it first hand. He lives his days posing as a mortal, the god that captured you is gone but you still cannot forgive him. You will not forget what he did to you.

You ignore what he said and move past him to the Director. You offer her your goodbyes and leave the building without sparing him a glance. His gaze follows you with that sadness he's always had. It's been decades since you found out about the barrier and ever since then he’s missed the sound of your voice. He couldn’t care what you said; you could promise to kill him or even expose his truth but all he would care for is the fact that you addressed him.

You walk for a long while. You go through the plaza, by the markets and down past the docks. You stop at a shoreline just off the docks — it's the farthest place you can go from the Harbor that grants you that little sense of freedom. You go there most nights to watch the sun set. Most nights you're alone, left to bask in your own thoughts of the past and what would have been. Some nights, like tonight, Zhongli joins you just before the sun has completely gone. He doesn’t speak to you because he knows you won’t answer. He just stands right by your side until you’ve had your fill and left for home. Tonight is different though, because this time he speaks and you aren’t prepared for it.

“My dear gemstone… I’m sorry for what I’ve done.”

In the distant past you aren’t sure what those words would have done to you. You would have probably gone insane, trapped in the thought of how someone can feel sorry and still do the things they did. A part of you thinks you would have killed him. Your powers still work although not as strong as they used to be without a human’s faith. You could have made a crystal from your tears so sharp it would have ended it all for you. You wouldn’t have succeeded but you would have kept fighting. You should have kept fighting.

Now three thousand years later, with the spirit of the god who caged you long gone, you aren’t sure what to do.

Oh. Your body thinks it best to cry.

Your shoulders shake with sobs. Your tears flow down your face in rivers of silver and break off into fragile droplets of diamonds.

Zhongli brings his hand up slowly, placing it gently on your shoulder opposite to him. He is still for a long moment waiting for you to break away from him. You don’t; you’ve lost your will to fight. It’s slow and careful the way he pulls you into his chest, like you’ll shatter the moment he envelops you completely. He holds you close while your soft cries mix in with the sounds of the waves draping the sand…

… and for the first time in a long time, you don’t try to leave his side.

THE HYDRO SOVEREIGN Nuevillette | wc. 2.1k+

"That one doesn't match the theme at all."

"How would you know you haven't even seen the flyer!"

"The flyers are everywhere. I can't miss them even if I wanted to!"

The three Melusine continue to argue amongst themselves over which eyeshadow to throw onto your face next. You have to bite your cheek to stop yourself from yelling to the archons above. This gala cannot be so important that it would warrant a criminal to attend dressed to the nines instead of behind bars.

Eight years. Eight long years since you've moved to the proclaimed nation of Justice, and seven of those years have been spent as a registered criminal under the watchful gaze of the judge who enforced your sentence: Neuvillette.

Being forced to live every moment with that man has become your hell. He insists that you accompany him on his every whim. Your there for his important office meeting, his court cases, his unusual habit of water tasting by the pier and his evening routine dinners at restaurants.

It is all done with you right by his side like a lap dog…and it's humiliating.

This isn't the relationship that should be shared between law enforcement and a criminal, but it seems you are the only person in all of Fontaine to give a damn.

The public sees your relationship as they do everything else here: entertainment.

The Judge and His Criminal: A Match Made at Trial.

News articles and tabloids headline with the two of you every other week. Each one just so happens to catch you both in some sort of intimate spotlight that couldn't be any farther from the truth, but it isn't like Neuvillette fights against them. Various citizens have sent you handwritten letters questioning about your relationship, paparazzi tackle you with questions and request for personal interviews as if you're some celebrity, he even has your parents under the impression that the rumors are true.

Your hands clench at your sides with the thought, dull nails digging into the inside of your palms. God how you wish it would end.

The chatter between the Melusines comes to a halt as the double doors are opened. You had thought it was a blessing sent from above, but the clatter of heeled boots makes you go stiff.

"Monsieur Neuvillette!" The Melusine cheer, happy to see him as they scurry over to his side excitedly. You remain in your seat. They talk up to him, the bickering you had thought reached its vote returning with a vengeance. They each still insist on different colors for you to wear like it is life or death. The closed eye smile he offers in return shows he finds their little disagreement more amusing than as serious as they do themselves. He listens to every opinion nonetheless, taking in everything they all have to say with interest.

Then his eyes shift over to you.

"Don't worry. I'll take over."

You scoff, uncaring that everyone else in the room can hear you. The Melusine look to you and then back to Nuevillette who continues to smile down at them as if nothing is wrong. They nod to him one by one, then they wave to you goodbye before skipping out of the doors to leave you both alone in silence. You pick up the tea cup at your side, watching the liquid swirl around in the fine glass.

"The Melusine tell me you are not well. Might I know what troubles you?"

Neuvillette takes the seat in front of you once the room is clear and the doors shut, speaking to you with his normal neutral tone. He removes the tea from your hands just as you go to drink it, placing the cup back on the table. He continues where they have left off, grasping the brushes delicately as he brings them close to your eyes. It's soft the way he applies the eyeshadows, treating the brushes as if they aren't the finest material imported from Inazuma and would harm you if he applied too much pressure.

You don't bother to answer him, opting to look past him at the open window. Your silence doesn't bother him as much as it once did. You've long since given up your begging to be set free and now have chosen to go non-verbal in his presence after the first few years of your...parol.

He picks up a thinner pen once he believes he's done with shadow. Its an eyeliner pen.

"Don't move."

He prompts not that you have moved a muscle in this seat for the last thirty minutes, reluctantly sitting in wait for his arrival. Like an obedient dog.

One hand holds your chin tenderly, the other just barely touching the space above your eye. The Melusine had spent a great amount of time perfecting your look for this event and it would be a shame for him to ruin it.

You clearly do not share that same concern.

Just as he presses a bit harder into your skin to draw a line you jerk away. He is startled of course and draws the pen back but the damage is already done — a crooked line of black smeared from your eyebrow across your forehead. It isn't as bad as it may seem, just a quick makeup wipe away really but still Neuvillette looks dejected with the mess.

A smirk graces your lips at his expression. You might look like a fool from what you can see from the mirrors but you couldn't care less in this moment. "Shall we go."

You speak to yourself and rise in a new found spirit. You grab your coat from behind your chair and catch the sight of clouds outside the window in the corner of your eye. You expected the storm clouds, maybe even a tickle of rain - never did you expect the rumble of thunder.

Before you get the chance to pass Neuvillette, he grasps your forearm. The tenderness in his touch long since drowned, and for once you wince in his hold.

"A shame."

It's unexpected, his sudden turn. You're launched back into your seat, the force tipping over the desk beside you and pain running through your shoulders. There is a protest on your tongue, your first thought to tell him off if it wasn't for the dark glow in his eyes.

"I had thought you would grow complacent as time went on. But I've grown tired of your tantrums and this will be the last." The dragon speaks.

He is back on you in a quick second. Neuvillette's hand envelopes your mouth forcing your gaze to the side in a harsh grip. You cannot move, he crowds around you in the seat and shoves you deeper into the cushion. Your hands grip his own, trying to pry him off to no avail. He has you at his mercy yet again.

With your head turned directly into the mirrors at the vanity you watch in horror at what he does. He brings his other gloved hand to his lips, tongue darting out to wet the material with spit. He then brings the finger to your face starting to wipe away your mess.

You attempt to inch away, fighting with all your might to dodge his touch but that only causes him to push you further into the seat. The pain in your shoulders spikes again but his hand prevents your scream. Your hands thrash out determined to keep fighting as long as you can, but you can only do so much against the might of a dragon recently empowered.

Your spasmodic fighting is loud; you knock over another table spilling your tea cup, you swipe the makeup palettes onto the ground in a vocal clatter, something else falls you can't see and it shatters. You want someone to hear now, to burst through those doors and see just what a monster their highly praised Judge really is.

As the wrestling gets more aggressive, you know the people outside the office find it harder to ignore. Some turn their heads after hearing the various items hit the floor, but that is all. You want to have hope that they would hear your distress and come to your aid. Although, deep in your heart you know it won't ever happen. For what is your daily torment is their newest line of gossip.

The ones who look to the doors grow hot and red at the sudden sinful thoughts that flash through their heads. Others play at continuing their original tasks, a faint gossip starting through the masses as they openly say what they think is happening behind office doors. The last few of them actually do keep their noses deep within their files, acting as if this was a normal everyday thing as it has come to be.

When you finally burst open the double doors, they all go back to work hurriedly. Anger seethes from your being as you look throughout the office. Books are raised to cover faces, backs turn away to continue meaningless conversation, various fingers start toying with clothes to pick at lent. They don't care about you, and the quiet snickers of those few workers who don't care about being discreet stir up a sour feeling in you.

You hold back on lashing out at them, it would do nothing but make you look crazier than they already suspect. Instead you straighten your back and make haste to the doors.

As soon as you leave the building that suffocating weight is off your shoulders. The sky has cleared off with only faint remains of clouds. You take a deep breath of the fresh air, to calm yourself. Years upon years of being caged and you're finally free to think alone...wait.

You are alone.

Alone as you can be standing outside, but still alone. The gardes have not noticed you, and the streets are mostly barren thanks to the gala. You can escape. If you run now and hide off outside of the city they won't be able to find you in time. It's a chance chance to take, but you can't care now as your legs carry on their accord. Freedom is right in arms reach and won't miss the chance to take it...but nothing is ever that easy.

A man blocks your path before you can take another step. He is clad in a run of the mill tux, all black. His tie is strung out haphazardly and with the man's sleeves rolled up you can catch sight of the various bandages around both his arms and hands. A disheartened sigh leaves your lips.

Wriothesley scoffs himself, "what you aren't happy to see me?"

In truth, no. Trying to escape now would be asking for a greater punishment. No one can escape the wrath of the Duke and with his close relationship with Neuvillette it isn't worth asking for a cover up either. You put on your best smile, hands raising up his chest to fix the tie around his neck. "Just wish the day would go by faster."

His eyes never leave your own, even when your hands leave his body. The tie is perfectly in place now, though you both know he'll have taken it off by the time you get to the venue.

"You look good." He says suddenly and you pause. The compliment is genuine, the clothes you wear are personally tailored for you and fit snug yet freely enough for you to move without constraint. Wriothesley thinks the color suits you well and the details are a great addition from Liyue. You smile at him again, this one a lot more genuine and he can definitely tell with the way your face wrinkles.

You want to thank him, should have thanked him. But the sound of heels catches your attention over all else and the words crawl right back down your throat. "Shall we go." Neuvillette's hand clamps around your wrist like a handcuff, voice curt. It has been a while since the Duke has seen the man this displeased or you this upset. Wriothesley looks down at the Iudex's gloved hands. He can catch sight of teeth marks in the leather material and a bit of smudged powder along the print of his thumb.

"Is everything alright? I’d hate to get between-"

"Everything is as it should be." Neuvillette interrupts quickly, stare stone cold.

Wriothesley makes no comment against it, at least not here anyway.

All he does is nod, leading you all to the awaiting personal chariot. Neuvillette moves his arm, firmly locking your forearm on his own. You thrash a bit, although it takes one pinch to your skin to stop you from causing another scene.

To the public, you are living the life of royalty. But you know nothing has changed, you remain a prisoner chained to Nuevillette... and he isn't afraid to pull back on the leash when you show signs of bearing your teeth.

pre-note | got completely swamped with college work and now summer work is completely beating my ass ( currently neglecting it as i finish this ) so deepest apologies for the late response!!!!!

extended a/n | my first ever anon i feel so famous now! had a blast revisiting this idea and building more into their personalities, thanks so much for the ask!! i sadly had to exclude a few characters from this :/ they wouldn’t have fit this particular scene as they wouldn't tolerate behavior like this in as healthy of a way as the ones above i hope that’s okay! also ik you asked for a bit of fluff and the only one who really got that was zhongli — only because out of all the characters he is the only one i can see changing from his old way of handling the reader if that makes sense!! if you have anymore thought do not be afraid to send an ask ( promise to complete them in a more timely manner next time around T-T )

#neuvillete x reader #venti x reader #zhongli x reader #genshin x gender neutral reader #genshin impact x gender neutral reader #genshin impact x male reader #genshin x reader #genshin x male reader #genshin imagines #[ gem’s timestamps — ⌚️ ]#also if anyone else wants to send an ask about anything the box will always be open

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