#this came to me in a vision after seeing a cursed image

[historiaxvanserra]

In Hades I Am With You | Chapter One

Pairing: Azriel x Hewn!city reader

Word Count: 3.8k

Summary: With rising tensions across the sea causing unrest in the capital, the two warring factions of the Night Court must come to terms.

Reader is the ill-fated daughter of a cruel Lord of Night; plagued with prophetic dreams and cursed with rare, arcane gifts. Azriel is the stoic spymaster; forged from violence, lethal and honed to a fatal sharpness. The pair find themselves bound to one another through sacred oaths. For better or worse.

Tags: Forced proximity, strangers to lovers, Night Court lore, Priestess reader, discussions of SA and abuse, discussions of sex work, criticism of misogyny, sexism, and general abuse in all its forms, eventual smut, slight corruption kink, reader is incredibly romantic and horny.

Please let me know what you think. This chapter and readers powers are heavily inspired by Poppy from From Blood and Ash.

I was born on a night like this, I think. 

Storm-streaked, he had once called me. If only he could see me now; standing at the foothills of the mountain, wind-beaten and with the acrid taste of seafret on my lips. When I was a girl my father had told me that I came into the world the way the Old Gods had. Born from the merciless, blue-green depths of the sea. 

To be beautiful and cruel, and fearless.

Now fear is all I know.

The streets of the great mountain city are plagued by a feverish summer storm and, at the fatal peal of thunder I cast my eyes skyward. A terrible dread coils in the pit of my stomach. 

The visions come with the storm; fleeting images of an unforgiving tempest as it ravages all in its wake. The dark figure of a man, who whispers my name like a prayer. 

The God of plagues and prophecy.

Death had first come to me in a dream. Haunting and prophetic. Shrouded in seraphic blue light. 

Heat swells beneath the surface of the hydrangea clouds and the dark waters of the Sidra turn violent. Ivory seafoam coils and contorts violently like the tendrils of some grotesque sea-snake. I think of an old story my father had told me once. A human princess from the continent. She had been beautiful once. Until some dark, deathless God had lay claim to her. A monstrous thing. Rising from the depths of her watery tomb to lay waste to the men who had hurt her. Thrashing and writhing as the waves crested over the port of this wretched city. 

The crack of forked, white lightning against the darkening horizon breaks my reverie and Scylla nestles into my side with a bruising force. I smooth a hand flat on her muzzle. Her lustrous dark mane feels soft under my tender touch and she exhales a hot breath that rises like steam in the wet heat of the Summer storm. 

“Calm, Scylla.” I whisper tenderly to the mare I had taken to mount. My lips graze her dappled coat along her muzzle and I welcome the earthy fetor as it fills my senses. 

“Gentle, girl.” I reaffirm, patting the mount affectionately as I tie the reins to the crumbling statue of some prince long dead. 

“I’ll be back soon.” I promise. My voice wavers with another rumble of thunder. 

When I was a girl, my father had told me to count the moments between the cacophony of thunder and the flash of white lightning to work out how many leagues away it might be. 

At this moment I know that I am standing in the eye of the storm. 

Scylla watches warily as my figure disappears into the darkness of the lower city. I still hear her in the distance long after I am gone. Cloistered in the darkness of the city’s narrow alleys I remove the onyx veil that shrouds my features. I bury it in the folds of the plain, grey cloak I had stolen from Leda. 

I weave through the long, winding streets. I observe the world in flashes of cruel light and sound that permeates the suffocating darkness that saturates the lower city. I hear the echo of it in the lurid shouts of merchants, and the vulgar songs of sailors, coming home from the docks at the mouth of the Sidra. I listen to them all; as they beg, barter and brawl in the filthy streets. The fetor of decay lingers in the air like festering fruit flesh in the feverish heat of the slums. Throngs of beggar children chase the merchant's carts as they roll through the putrid pools of waste upon the wet, cobbled stone. Though, I only catch fleeting glimpses of them each time the cruel, seraphic light cuts through the blanket of the dark. 

As I pass through the Streets of Silk, I hear the bawdy rhymes of the painted whores as they call out into the night like a siren song; all sultry-eyed and dressed in lace that billows in the wretched breeze like the tendrils of a monstrous chimera. Fated to lure wayward sailors to their watery tombs. 

It is then, as the city bells toll their mournful song, that I reach my destination. 

The building stands as one of the last unsanctioned pleasure halls in the city; its weary slate facade is cut from the same dark stone as the mountain that oppresses the city. Its neglected roof tiles gleam in the pallid silver faelights like moonlight on the murky-green depths of the Sidra. Above the door, I observe the pillory that bears the establishment's name. The Jade Pearl, painted in varying gaudy shades of green and gold. 

The pleasure hall on the outer banks of the mountain city is alive with sordid activity. The whores in their fine silks twirl and dance in merry rings like water nymphs, and the serving girls sing sultry harmonies like siren songs, as they fill up the cups of patrons with sticky, honeyed mead. The high-arching melody of lyres and harps cut through the cacophony of carnal sounds; the officious laughter of Darkbringers, the vulgar curses and honeyed words, whispered into the skin of wind-beaten sailors and fat merchants. 

I traverse the narrow corridors that run like veins into the heart of the tavern. Its dark antechamber is bathed in shadow and dying fireglow that casts the word in a pallid light. The emerald bar curves around the hall in the shape of a crescent moon and the tables dapple the room like stars. 

“What a pretty creature you are, Mistress.” A beautiful wraith compliments, tugging and the long sleeves of my stolen robes. With tender touches and whispers the wraith works the buttons of my robes until I am left in the thin champagne shift I had worn beneath my cloak. 

She’s a slender looking creature, with pale blue eyes that look almost silver in the dying light of the hearth. Her long, white hair is braided over her shoulder like the tendril of some mythical siren. 

Dangerous and inviting. 

“Whatever you desire, be it wine or women, I will procure for you tonight,” She purrs, her voice low and sultry as she looks at me with those pale eyes. She’s dressed in the gauzy, silk robes of a whore. The garment flows like water over the curve of her hip and with a deep slit in its middle that exposes the graceful swell of her breasts beneath. And through her guise of beauty and seduction, I see the chains that bind her.

As I am bound. To this court. To the mountain that we call home.

“A drink would be nice,” I acquiesce, sliding a gold coin across the polished surface of the bar, “If it’s not too much trouble.”

“It is no trouble at all, mistress- but this far too much coin.” The wraith begins to untether the cracked leather coin purse from her hip. She begins to exchange the gold for smaller coins of silver and bronze, counting them in her open palm. 

“Please - keep it -- I’ve no use for such things anyway.” I command, nodding towards the coin in her hand. The wraith shakes her head and tries to protest but a call from the brutish looking owner draws the girl's attention away from me. I look up from my spot, across the painted emerald surface of the bar, to the games table. A voice, thick with mirth and malice, beckons my attention. 

“There are rumors amongst the legion that the High Lord will return to Court by the moon's turn.” The cruel laugh of a Darkbringer draws my interest as they sit around an emerald table. Crimson cards and dice litter the surface of the table and in its center a collection of coins. The male at the head of the table is dressed in his court robes; a dark overcoat with silver embroidery along the collars and cuffs. The others have abandoned their stifling robes in lieu of casual black tunics and pants. It is only through the tendrils of dark that shroud them in shadow that I know what they are.

These men are members of The Night Court’s legion of Darkbringers; and servants of the High Lord’s Steward. The larger of the three, unsheathes his dagger and places it atop the pile of coins in lieu of money. 

A reminder of their lethal potential. 

A vein of dark power that speaks to a coming vision plagues me in those spaces between the seconds. Untethered and adrift in the ether I allow my fragile mind to wander. I see a lake from which the dead rise like a devastating tempest. I see a King atop a dias, and a throne of splintered bone. And, through the blanket of the dark, I see the gleam of Illyrian Steel and age worn bone. 

Then, that tenuous connection to the Otherworld is severed. 

“The commander of the city watch says that tensions in the lower city are rising.” The deep timbre of the Darkbringer rouses me from thought again.

“I heard that the Lord Protector plans to broker an alliance with the Death Lord himself,”

“ if only to free himself of Rhysand’s leash.” 

“--bring him and that bitch of his to heel morelike.” The youngest of the three smiles malevolently.

“Enough of that, boys, we’re in the presence of a Lady.” The leader implies dangerously and at once, three heads incline in my direction. There are no Ladies allowed in this part of the city. The females of this forsaken city are bound to the Moonstone Palace. Forced to our knees in deference to our male oppressors. The only women that still dwell in the lower city are whores and exiles. Of which I am neither. 

Something dark and terrible roils in the pit of my stomach as the male approaches. I pull the hood of the austere, grey cloak to veil my face in shadows. The pale eyes of the Darkbringer meet mine through the din and his smile curls around the sharpness of his teeth.

The cold, amethyst hilt of a dagger kisses the tender flesh of my thigh beneath the many lawyers of dark fabric and I am reminded of my own lethal potential. The dagger had been passed from my grandsire some years ago. Made and forged from the ancient power that dwells beneath the mountain that we call home. The dagger itself had been set in a hilt of dark wood, trimmed with silver and precious gems; amethyst, sapphire and onyx. Its blade was fashioned of Illyrian steel and honed to a fatal sharpness.

“What a pretty little bird, she is.” He taunts as he approaches, his manner imposing and vindictive as he takes my chin roughly between his fingers. 

“I am no Lady, Ser.” I swallow thickly. It is true, of course. I am no Lady of the Night Court. I had been a babe when they found me. The cursed daughter to a cruel lord and some terrified nymph. 

My mother died giving me life and left me at the ruined Temple of Beara, the Mistress of Storms, deep in the foothills of the mountain. In the hopes that the Priestesses would shelter me from the cruelty of this court. After the temple fell I was brought before the Lords of Night and given to the Temple of Astarion on account of my rare and ancient gift. 

“Then perhaps you might regale my friends and I with the tale of how a pretty thing like you ends up here.” The Darkbringer replies, sliding a coin across the table. His gaze drops to the rings that adorn my hands; fine rings of onyx and amethyst, mined from the wretched bowels of the mountain that I have come to call home. The mark of my good breeding. 

“I assure you Ser, I am no whore either.” I chastise, sliding my hand beneath the folds of my cloak. The lust that pools in his eyes is a dreadful thing. Lecherous and heinous. Though I take comfort in the knowledge that my true identity is concealed. 

As the Pythia of the Night Court a dark veil typically obscures my features from the view of men; save from my eyes, which are heavily darkened with kohl and pigments of sapphire and amethyst that hail from the mines of Illyria. The veil protects me as much as it oppresses me. For if male like this knew of the power I possess, they would seek to control it, to covet that power until I were a vessel of their ill intent. That is why I was given to the Temple as a child. Why my estranged father and the Steward of the Night Court seek to make me their weapon. I know then that if I am discovered I will suffer for it. The kind of suffering that only exists here, in the rotting depths of Hewn City.

“No, I see that now.” Devilment darkens his pale gaze and the cut of amethyst shines in his dark eyes, he releases me from his bruising grip with a dark laugh. 

“Curious little thing.” One of the men whispers. 

“This is not the place for a gentle creature like you, Lady” He whispers, his pointed finger ghosts the cut of onyx on my hand,  “luckily for you I am feeling quite merciful.” 

“I am not as gentle as I look, Ser.” I warn. The three Darkbringers laugh cruelly. I turn to leave when a firm hand closes around my wrist and twists me so I am held in the Darkbringers bruising embrace. His lips drag a tortuous line along the side of my jaw. 

“Now, now little bird,” He coos mockingly against the shell of my ear as I struggle violently against him, “flighty little thing.” 

Bile rises in my throat as the Darkbringer’s companions laugh and fingers dig into the knife at my thigh, unsheathing it in a moment and pressing it against the male's pale throat. Unshed tears line my eyes like flecks of silver starlight as his hands still on my waist. 

“That is what you call mercy?” I laugh bitterly at the man, his eyes hardening as the Illyrian steel blade glints in the dim light. 

“Let go of her, Aeres.” The eldest of the three orders and the Darkbringer unhands me at once.

“Now fly back to your cage, little bird.” The elder male nods towards the rear exit beyond the bar. 

On uncertain feet I Traverse the narrow aisle of the tavern I find myself adrift amongst the dancing tide of patrons. A throng of women, clad in gauzy robes and underthings, twist and contort like columns of technicolor seafoam. The cruel laughter from the dance floor pulls me deeper into the wretched heart of the pleasure house. Lurid whistles and a series of vulgar gestures rouse my attention. A female; dressed in spider silk and lace coils around a portly merchant at the games table. She slips into his lap with a serpentine grace. I watch as the merchant’s weathered hand traces the line of her throat to the swell of her breasts. Smacking his hand away, the woman laughs, it is a beautiful, false thing that glitters in the pallid light.

“Well, girl I hope you fuck better than you play cards.” The merchant complains, laying down his deck of crimson cards. The female curls a painted hand around the cuffs of his tunic and whispers into his ear and the merchant's mouth curves into a lurid smile. One thick hand draws down her stomach, the other brushes the flesh of her thigh, slipping under the folds of her robe between her legs --

Oh.

I avert my eyes at the scene as a blush kisses its way along my neck and chest at the intimacy of it. The merchant rises from his seat at the table, taking the female slender hand in his. The whispered words they exchange are too low for me to hear but her answering smile is enough to know it was something wicked. The female rises leads the merchant towards the sleeping chambers beyond the emerald curtains. 

I watch as the merchant's shadowy figure is swallowed by the darkness as the curtain is drawn. My attention lingers far after they are gone, leaving only the smell of salt and jasmine in their wake. 

I am overcome with a strange, prophetic awareness.; dreams of shadowed light and a bleeding star, scarred hands that track the constellations as they reign over the black tapestry of the sky.

The high-arching symphony of strings and lyres blossoms in the feverish heat of the tavern. The soft melody of the lyres seems to echo off of the high, domed ceiling, as the heavy beat of a drum joins the cacophony of sound. It’s a hypnotizing, deeply sensual beat, that is unlike anything I have ever heard. 

Primal and carnal. 

I find myself adrift in the sway of the dancing sea. Slowly, I make my way along the length of the bar, reaching out to touch the gauzy jade curtains, parting them slowly --

“I don’t think you want to go in there, Mistress.” The lilting voice of the wraith warns. 

“Why not?” I ask curiously, lowering my hand from the curtain. The wraith laughs prettily, her cerulean eyes glinting in the dying light of the fire. 

“Some don’t appreciate an audience, Sweet girl.” 

“An audience?” I ask. 

Through the darkness of the antechamber, I see the silhouettes of the whores and their patrons, writhing and undulating with the beat of the drum. The music is punctuated by panting breaths and lilting moans, and the vulgar sound of men as they find their pleasure. 

“Oh.” The wraith laughs again, her painted lips curl into a wicked smile.

“Is it your first time here, Priestess?” The wraith leans in, the rich tenor of her voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper. Fear coils in my stomach and my grip on the emerald surface of the bar tightens. 

“I’m no priestess.” I try to emulate her melodious laughter and my eyes narrow in faux concern. 

“You needn't lie to me, Pythia. Your secret's safe with me.” Her words resound in my head and realization dawns. She’s daemati. 

“That type of secret is not safe with anyone.”

“What could I gain from exposing it to anyone? I wish you no ill will.” She returns. 

“You’d earn the Lord Protector's favor, of that I am certain --.” 

The wraith's face twists into a grimace and her sapphire stare hardens to a cold, wicked thing. “I have no need for that viper’s favour.” The venom laced in her voice speaks to the malice she holds for this place, its patrons and the cruel light of Hewn City. Many within the court resent the way in which we live, clinging to the slivers of power we are allowed, cowering in the darkness of the mountain. 

Things are changing as of late, war looms ever closer and whispers of dissent from the continent bring about unrest in the people. Many turn to the High Lord and his Lady for liberation from the dying vestiges and brutal traditions of this court. For many years I myself have lived in servitude and isolation, serving Keir, The Lord Protector and Steward of the ancient mountain city. 

As his coveted oracle; a conduit for his own power.

A cruel wind cuts through the heat of the pleasure hall as the doors open to announce an influx of new patrons. Three men, dressed in court robes enter through the archway, each shaded in shadows and dark wisps of power. My heart hammers thunderously in my chest as the men enter the heart of the establishment. 

“A flagon of wine and some dice, Arik.” The Darkbringer announces to the man behind the bar. My face pales from where I stand. These men are of my personal guard; formidable and unwaveringly loyal to my keeper. 

These men, these good men, are sworn to a monster, and they must do monstrous things to survive here. 

As we all must. 

I veil my face with the hood of my stolen cloak, tucking my hair into the collar so that it is concealed from view, and my face obscured almost entirely. If they were to discover me they would be duty bound to drag me back to the Moonstone Palace and throw me down atop the emerald dias for Keir and my father to punish as they see fit. 

I take another tentative look across the room and observe the men crowded around the game table with women hanging off them, like a swarm of beautiful and merciless harpies. 

“That one’s usual girl looks like you--” The wraith whispers to me, casting her own gaze to Ares who stands alone near the fire rather forlorn for a male in the middle of a brothel.  

“She’s busy with her favorite client upstairs. Perhaps you might retrieve her and make your escape.” Slowly, I turn to the wraith who takes my hand gently and leads me along the length of the bar. 

“You will find Aelle on the second floor -- take sanctuary there. I’ll come for you when your friends are occupied.” 

I hold her hand fondly and press a gold coin into her palm. 

“Thank you.” I say. She presses a chaste kiss to my cheek and ushers me up the stairs. 

As I ascend the steps of the pleasure hall, I slip a hand between the folds of my cloak, fingers ghosting the hilt of the dagger strapped to my thigh once more. 

The upper levels of the house are painted a deep emerald color and the flickering fae lights saturate the long, narrow corridors in onyx wisps of shadow. The room at the end of the corridor is stepped in near darkness, veins of indigo and navy that obscure everything in a shroud of blue-darkness. The mantle is hung with half-burned candles and a garland of foxglove and jasmine. The antique furniture looks as though it has been carved from the black wood of ash trees and the armchairs in front of the dying hearth are embroidered with dark floral motifs and silver threads. 

I draw in a sharp breath and the scent of pine and night-blooming florals shrouds me in its winter kiss. 

A flash of seraphic light illuminates the room and a deep voice, shaded in nightshade calls out from the blue-darkness.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” 

[mangostarjam]

knot happening (part one) — bnha, alpha!bakugou katsuki x f!reader, aged up characters, established relationship, a/b/o dynamics, use of "brat" and "pipsqueak" as pet names, smut in the second part (coming soon), omegaverse!au for the spring fever collab run by @lorelune ! 1.2k words

your new company has some... interesting policies for employee heat cycles. you do your best to find a loophole.

"I can't do it."

"The hell d'ya mean, you can't do it?"

You give your Pro Hero boyfriend and resident alpha A Look. Bakugou Katsuki has the grace to shut his mouth, but he rolls his eyes and drapes a heavy arm over your shoulders, yanking you into him on the faded yellow couch you picked out together years ago.

"This is my first heat at this new job, and it's just... embarrassing. Do you know what they do, Katsuki?"

He raises a sharp blonde eyebrow in invitation.

"They..." your voice drops with horror, "they announce it to the whole company."

"Hah?" Katsuki sits up a little, strong thighs flexing beneath his gym shorts. He came in on the tail end of your mental breakdown, finding you pacing in the living room of your apartment with your hands tugging incessantly on your borrowed shirt. "What the fuck?"

"I know," you wail, "it's ridiculous! The president sends out a company wide email explaining your absence, and the HR team sends you a care basket, and the Sales team sets up a pre-heat drinking party! Do you know what's in the care basket, Katsuki?"

"Do I wanna know?"

"It's filled with sex toys, babe! SEX TOYS! From my company! They're branded!"

A spark lights up in Katsuki's otherwise vaguely concerned expression. "Don't they know you're mated?"

"Yes, of course, that was in my file," you wave him off, still seeing horror images of company branded sex toys floating in your mental vision. "I heard from Sasaki in Accounting that the toys are for when your mate needs a break. Y'know, from fucking."

Katsuki's derisive snort is loud and breaks you out of your personal hellhole. "What kinda fuckin' alpha needs a break when their mate needs 'em?"

"Well, not every alpha is a big strong Pro Hero like you," you point out, poking him on one annoyingly firm bicep. The familiar scent of caramel and smoke fills your nose. "And actually, maybe I should ask if they've got any onaholes for when you're the one in heat. Last time I needed another two days to recover."

"Hah?! There's no fucking way I'll use one of those!"

You peer up at your boyfriend reproachfully. "I like being able to walk, Katsuki."

"You don't need to fuckin' walk if I'm carryin' you everywhere, brat."

"Hmm, we'll see," you say. Katsuki's red eyes flash as you tap your bottom lip with your finger thoughtfully. "There's gotta be a way for me to take a week off work without telling them I'm going into heat."

"There's no way you'll be able to avoid it," Katsuki rumbles, leaning forward to catch your finger with his teeth. He nips at it lightly before leaning down more to capture your lips in a sweet kiss. That, more than anything, finally makes your anxiety simmer down. "You always smell so fucking good before it starts. Everyone's gonna notice."

"You're the only one who can do anything about it, though, so you'll have to keep it in your pants or quit picking me up after work."

"Not happening," Katsuki presses another kiss along your hairline and noses into the strands, sniffing deeply. It tickles, and you laugh, trying halfheartedly to shove him off of you. "What else do they give in these care packages?"

"Actually, besides the super cursed sex toys, they include really good snacks and electrolyte drinks to keep your energy up," you say, "and I'm really glad my company is so open about it all, but it's just so embarrassing!"

Katsuki hums, letting you vent out your worries. You look really pretty like this, dressed in one of his shirts and a pair of pajama shorts, some soft cotton thing that barely covers your perfect ass. He pulls your legs onto his lap and you flop backwards on the couch, moving on from your minor breakdown to sharing a funny story that happened to one of your new coworkers the other day. He had missed hearing about it then, stuck on overtime for a patrol, so he basks in your attention now as the two of you laze around on the couch.

The afternoon passes into evening. It's a rare lazy Monday together — your new job lets you have three day weekends in exchange for slightly longer work days, and Katsuki's patrol schedule happened to line up this week. You're digging into a pint of ice cream after polishing off a plate of his delicious (but spicy) curry and rice when it comes up again.

"What're you gonna do about your heat?"

"Well, I was thinking," you slide your spoon into the thick cream and wave it at him, "I'll still need to use my authorized heat cycle time off, since I want to save my vacation and comp time for real uses, so there's no avoiding the company finding out..."

Katsuki raises an eyebrow and accepts the spoonful of ice cream you're dangling in his face. His tongue pokes out to chase a bit of cream lingering on the edge of his lip and he grins, sharp, at the way your eyes track the movement. "But...?"

You have a feeling Katsuki hasn't fully thought through the horrors of corporate sponsored pleasure items, but you have, and the thought of everyone at your new company knowing you'll be getting fucked within an inch of your life makes you want to shrivel up and die. All companies have policies in place to protect time off for heat cycles, as society couldn't function otherwise, but this is the first place you've worked where impending heat cycles are declared company-wide. Normally it's just marked as time off.

"But they don't have to find out until after it starts, right? So as long as I can get through the pre-heat stuff without anyone noticing, I can avoid the cursed care package and company-wide email!"

"Ain't happening," Katsuki says flatly.

"We've been mated for sooo long now, babe," your gaze flicks up to meet his and you pout. Your boyfriend outright snorts when you start batting your eyelashes at him. "Surely you can resist the pre-heat symptoms this one time? I swear I'll get over my company's shenanigans once I see it happen to a few other people. It's really great how supportive they are, but I need some time, that's all."

"Your heat is in like. Two weeks," Katsuki says.

You pout up at him some more.

"During your last heat cycle we broke the mattress frame when I missed your first few pre-heat days."

"Yeah, but that was because you had that mission that went long," you say. If you could just... convince him... "C'mon, babe, this will be different! You're such a strong, powerful alpha — resisting me will be a piece of cake! Unless..." you pause and scoop another bite of ice cream into your mouth, "you're too weak to resist me."

"Are you callin' me weak?" Katsuki narrows his eyes. You wave your spoon casually and shrug.

"I mean... all you've gotta do is ignore my pre-heat. I'm just an itty bitty omega..."

Getting into a staring match with Pro Hero Dynamight is not on anyone's Top Ten Good Ideas list, but you match your boyfriend's red glare steadily.

"Alright, pipsqueak, you're on," Katsuki scoffs. "We'll see who's beggin' for who by the time your heat rolls around."

part two

[novaursa]

A Lion's Folly (the fool)

- Summary: A story where a lion falls for the eldest daughter of Lord Eddard Stark, you.

- Pairing: stark!reader/Jaime Lannister

- Note: Keep in mind how canon events have been altered to suit the narrative of this story.

- Rating: Explicit 18+ (blood, gore, violence)

- Previous part: absolution

- Next part: to mend

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @butterflygxril

Jaime woke to the scent of rot and the sharp sting of something cold against his arm. His eyelids felt impossibly heavy, and for a moment, he thought he was still dreaming. The blurred edges of reality came into focus slowly—a damp, dimly lit chamber, the air thick with the coppery tang of blood and the faint, acrid odor of burning herbs.

“Ah, you’re awake,” a voice drawled, soft and unhurried.

Jaime turned his head slightly, the motion sending a dull ache through his skull. His vision sharpened enough to make out a gaunt figure seated beside him. The man’s pale face was framed by thinning hair, his dark eyes gleaming with something that might have been curiosity—or amusement.

“Who…?” Jaime’s voice cracked, his throat dry and raw.

“Qyburn,” the man said smoothly, dipping a cloth into a bowl of murky water. “Former maester of the Citadel. Now… a man of many talents.”

Jaime tried to push himself upright, but a agonizing pain in his arm forced him back down. He glanced to the side and saw his stump, the bandages now clean and tightly wrapped. The sight sent a wave of nausea rolling through him, but he gritted his teeth and forced himself to stay still.

“Don’t strain yourself,” Qyburn said, dabbing at Jaime’s forehead with the damp cloth. “You’ve been fevered for days. It’s a miracle you’re alive, truly.”

Jaime let out a bitter laugh, his voice rasping. “A miracle, is it? You’ll forgive me if I don’t feel particularly blessed.”

Qyburn’s lips twitched into a faint smile. “You’ve been through quite the ordeal. Fever dreams often bring… interesting revelations.”

Jaime frowned, his mind still sluggish. “What are you talking about?”

“You were whispering,” Qyburn said, his tone almost teasing. “Quite a lot, actually. Names, mostly.”

Jaime’s chest tightened, and he looked away, his jaw clenching. “Cersei,” he muttered. “It was her name, wasn’t it?”

Qyburn chuckled softly, the sound low and knowing. “Once or twice, yes. But mostly, it was another name. A Stark name.”

Jaime’s head snapped toward him, his heart thudding painfully in his chest. “What?”

“Oh, yes,” Qyburn said, his dark eyes gleaming. “You spoke of her often. Y/N Stark. Quite fondly, I might add. Almost as if…” He trailed off, letting the implication hang in the air.

Jaime’s throat tightened, his mind racing to recall anything he might have said. He cursed his fever-addled state, his vulnerability. “What do you want, Qyburn?” he snapped, his voice sharper now.

“Only to help,” Qyburn replied smoothly, though his amusement was clear. “Your secret is safe with me, Ser Jaime. For now, at least.”

Jaime glared at him, but the effort only made his head pound. He sank back against the rough cot, his breaths shallow as he tried to piece together his fractured thoughts.

“What about her?” he asked after a moment, his voice quieter now. “The Stark girl. And the wench.”

Qyburn’s smile faded slightly, his expression becoming more serious. “They’re safe for now. Lord Bolton seems to value them as much as he does you, though for different reasons.”

Jaime’s jaw tightened. “What does he want with Y/N?”

“Ah, that is the question, isn’t it?” Qyburn said, his tone almost cheerful. “He watches her closely, speaks little but observes everything. It seems he’s… intrigued by her. Perhaps he sees an opportunity. Or perhaps he simply enjoys the thought of holding a Stark under his roof.”

Jaime’s chest burned with anger, his mind conjuring images of Roose Bolton’s cold, calculating stare. “If he touches her—”

“You’re in no position to make threats, Ser Jaime,” Qyburn interrupted, his voice cutting but calm. “Your health is precarious, to say the least. And you’ll be of no use to anyone if you don’t recover.”

Jaime clenched his fist, his frustration simmering just beneath the surface. “What do you care about my recovery?”

“I’m a healer,” Qyburn said simply, though the glint in his eyes suggested there was far more to it. “And I find you fascinating. Besides, Lord Bolton has ordered you to be kept alive. For now.”

Jaime let out a shaky breath, his thoughts a tangled mess. The mention of your name, the faint memory of your voice cutting through his fevered dreams—it unsettled him in ways he couldn’t fully understand.

“I don’t need your pity, Qyburn,” he muttered, his voice low.

“Pity?” Qyburn replied with a faint chuckle. “No, Ser Jaime. What I offer is far more valuable than pity. I offer survival. Whether you choose to accept it is up to you.”

Jaime closed his eyes, the weight of his exhaustion pressing down on him like a stone. As Qyburn continued his ministrations, Jaime’s thoughts drifted back to you—to the defiance in your eyes, the sharp edge in your voice.

He didn’t know why you haunted him, why your presence lingered in his mind even now. But as sleep threatened to claim him once more, one thing became painfully clear: you were the only thing keeping him tethered to the world.

And that terrified him more than anything else.

The dining hall of Harrenhal was as cold and lifeless as the rest of the cursed castle. The long table, illuminated by flickering torches and a pair of sputtering candelabras, was laden with a sparse spread of bread, meat, and wine. Jaime stepped into the room, his steps faltering slightly as his fever-weakened body struggled to keep pace with the image of control he so desperately clung to.

The first thing he noticed was you.

You sat near the head of the table, your back straight, your expression as irked. The dress they’d forced you into—dark blue velvet with silver accents—was beautiful, but it was clear from the tension in your shoulders and the glare you aimed at Roose Bolton that you would rather be anywhere else. Your hair, usually windblown and wild from travel, was neatly arranged, though it did little to soften the fiery defiance in your eyes.

Brienne sat beside you, her broad shoulders hunched awkwardly in a plain dress that did her no favors. The indignation in her expression was clear, though she kept her mouth shut, her hands gripping the edge of the table as if to ground herself.

And then there was Roose.

The Lord of the Dreadfort sat at the head of the table, his pale face calm and unreadable, his eyes flicking to Jaime as he entered. He gestured to an empty seat across from you, his tone as smooth as ever. “Ser Jaime. Please, join us.”

Jaime forced a smirk, though his stomach churned. He moved to the indicated seat, lowering himself carefully into the chair and resting his good arm on the table. “Quite the gathering,” he said dryly, his gaze flicking between the three of you. “To what do I owe the honor?”

Roose poured himself a glass of wine, his movements deliberate. “Consider it a farewell, of sorts,” he said.

Jaime’s brow furrowed slightly. “Farewell?”

“Yes,” Roose replied, his tone calm and measured. “You’ll be leaving us soon. I’ve arranged for you to be escorted back to King’s Landing. Along with your… companion.” His eyes shifted briefly to Brienne, who stiffened in her seat.

Jaime raised an eyebrow, his smirk widening faintly. “How generous of you, my lord. I assume you’ll be sending me off with a full parade as well?”

Roose ignored the jab, his gaze steady. “I understand the value of a Lannister. Your safe return to your father will smooth tensions and ensure certain… understandings remain intact.”

Jaime’s smirk faltered as his gaze flicked to you. “And what about her?” he asked, his voice quieter now.

Roose’s lips curled into the faintest hint of a smile, though there was no warmth in it. “Lady Y/N will remain here. She’ll be returning to the North with me.”

Your glare intensified, but Roose didn’t seem to notice—or care.

“To the North?” Jaime repeated, his tone steady. “For what purpose?”

Roose took a sip of his wine, his pale eyes gleaming. “A purpose that benefits both of us. I am in need of a wife, and a Stark carries a name that commands respect.”

The room fell silent, the weight of his words settling like a stone. Brienne’s knuckles whitened as her grip on the table tightened, her jaw clenching. You, however, leaned forward slightly, your voice cutting through the tension like a knife.

“You think I’d marry you?” you hissed, your eyes blazing. “After everything you’ve done?”

Roose met your gaze with unnerving calm. “You’ll find that defiance does little to change the inevitabilities of war, my lady. Your brother’s position weakens every day, and alliances must be forged to ensure survival.”

“I would rather die,” you snapped, your voice trembling with fury.

“Let us hope it doesn’t come to that,” Roose replied smoothly, his tone unbothered.

Jaime’s fingers curled into a fist beneath the table, his chest tightening as he watched the exchange. The thought of you trapped in Roose Bolton’s cold, calculating grasp sent a surge of anger through him that he hadn’t felt in years.

“This is madness,” Jaime said, his voice low but firm. “You’ll have a rebellion on your hands if you force this. Robb Stark will never allow it.”

Roose turned his gaze to Jaime, his smile faint but chilling. “The Young Wolf will have little say in the matter. He is far from here, and my reach grows longer every day.”

Jaime gritted his teeth, his mind racing. “You’re playing a dangerous game, Bolton. Even Tywin wouldn’t—”

“Your father understands the value of pragmatism,” Roose interrupted, his tone calm but cutting. “And so do I.”

The table fell silent once more, the animosity thick and suffocating. Jaime’s gaze flicked back to you, noting the way your hands trembled slightly as they rested in your lap. Despite your defiance, the weight of the situation was pressing down on you, and it was clear you were fighting to keep control.

Jaime felt a pang of something he couldn’t name—something that twisted in his chest as he looked at you.

He couldn’t let this happen. Not to you.

But for now, he forced himself to remain silent, his mind churning with the beginnings of a plan. He would find a way to stop this. He had to.

The faint clinking of cutlery against plates was the only sound, an overwhelming contrast to the unspoken storm swirling around the table. Jaime’s left hand trembled slightly as he reached for his goblet, the fever still gnawing at him and his arm aching from the crude bandages. The awkwardness of eating with one hand only deepened his discomfort, but he refused to show weakness.

You, seated across from him, noticed.

He saw the flicker of something in your eyes—hesitation, perhaps, or pity. He hated the thought of the latter but couldn’t look away as you finally set down your knife and leaned forward slightly.

“Here,” you said softly, your voice sharp but steady.

Before Jaime could protest, you reached across the table and steadied his goblet, guiding it to his lips. The act was mechanical, devoid of warmth, but it was help nonetheless. Jaime hesitated, his pride battling against the practicality of the moment. He allowed it, tilting his head slightly to drink, though his jaw tightened at the faintest hint of humiliation.

“Don’t get used to it,” you muttered, withdrawing your hand and returning to your meal.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Jaime replied, his voice low but tinged with bitterness.

Roose Bolton, seated at the head of the table, observed the exchange with an unsettling calm. His pale eyes moved between the two of you, his expression unreadable, though the faint curl of his lips suggested amusement.

“You make an interesting pair,” Roose remarked, breaking the silence.

Jaime raised an eyebrow, his smirk faint but present. “A pair of what, my lord? Prisoners? Or pawns?”

Roose ignored the jab, his gaze settling on you. “Lady Stark,” he said smoothly, “you will remain here in Harrenhal tonight. Tomorrow, we will begin our journey north.”

Your fork clattered against your plate as you froze, your shoulders stiffening. Jaime’s own chest tightened at the words, and he set his goblet down with a deliberate motion.

“And what of me?” Jaime asked, his voice quieter now but no less biting.

“You will leave for King’s Landing,” Roose said calmly, sipping from his goblet. “As I mentioned, you and your companion will be escorted to your father. It is the… practical choice.”

Jaime leaned forward slightly, his sharp gaze locked on Roose. “And I suppose you think Tywin will overlook the fact that your man sawed off my hand?”

Roose tilted his head, his smile faint. “Your father is a pragmatic man. He will be displeased, of course, but his displeasure will be tempered by the fact that you are alive.”

Jaime clenched his jaw, his mind racing as he fought to find the right angle. “If you want to keep Tywin placated, then send her with me,” he said, nodding toward you. “A Stark at his side will soften the blow of your… oversight.”

Your head snapped toward Jaime, your eyes narrowing. “I’m not a bargaining chip, Lannister.”

Jaime ignored you, his focus entirely on Roose. “Think about it,” he continued. “A gesture of goodwill to the Lannisters. A sign that you’re willing to smooth over any… misunderstandings.”

Roose leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled under his chin. “An intriguing suggestion,” he said softly, his tone devoid of any real emotion. “But ultimately unnecessary.”

Jaime’s smirk faltered. “Unnecessary?”

“Yes,” Roose replied, his voice calm but cold. “I do not need Tywin Lannister’s forgiveness, nor do I seek his favor. My position is secure, and the Young Wolf has far more pressing concerns than the fate of his sister.”

Jaime’s frustration simmered beneath the surface, his fist clenching against the table. “You’re playing with fire, Bolton.”

Roose’s eyes flicked to Jaime’s stump, his smile faint but pointed. “Perhaps. But I’ve always been careful with my flint.”

The conversation ended abruptly, the weight of Roose’s words settling over the table like a heavy cloak. You stared down at your plate, your jaw tight, while Brienne shifted uncomfortably beside you, her hands fidgeting in her lap.

Jaime leaned back in his chair, his chest tight with anger and frustration. He had played his hand, and Roose Bolton had dismissed it without a second thought.

As the meal dragged on, Jaime’s thoughts circled back to you—your defiance, your fire, and the way you had steadied his hand despite everything. He hated how much he admired it, how much he felt it.

And as the night deepened and the shadows grew long, Jaime knew one thing for certain: Roose Bolton might hold the upper hand now, but Jaime would find a way to tip the scales. For you. For himself. For survival.

The morning air was damp and heavy as Jaime stood in the shadow of Harrenhal’s crumbling walls, the weight of the castle’s ominous presence pressing down on him. The small party that would escort him and Brienne to King’s Landing was gathered nearby—half a dozen men, armed but disheveled, and Qyburn, who was busy fussing with supplies loaded onto a mule.

Jaime adjusted the sling supporting his maimed arm, the motion sending a sudden jolt of pain through his shoulder. His face remained impassive, though his mind churned with frustration. His gaze kept drifting back to the keep where he knew you were being held, your defiance the only thing keeping you from crumbling under Roose Bolton’s calculated cruelty.

He hated that he couldn’t get the image of you out of his head—the fire in your eyes, the strength in your voice. And now, the thought of leaving you behind with Bolton gnawed at him like a festering wound.

Brienne stood beside him, her expression a mixture of unease and determination. She had been quiet since the announcement of their departure, her eyes darting toward the keep as often as Jaime’s.

As Qyburn fussed over the mule, Jaime leaned closer to Brienne, his voice a low whisper. “We can’t leave her here.”

Brienne stiffened, her blue eyes narrowing as she turned to him. “What are you talking about?”

“You know exactly what I’m talking about,” Jaime said, his tone sharper now. “The Stark girl. We can’t leave her with Bolton.”

Brienne’s jaw tightened, her gaze flicking to the keep again. “It’s not our decision to make,” she said, though there was a hint of hesitation in her voice.

“Since when do you care about decisions?” Jaime shot back, his voice low but biting. “You care about what’s right. And leaving her here isn’t right.”

Brienne’s lips pressed into a thin line, her fists clenching at her sides. “Even if I agree with you, how do you propose we take her with us? Roose Bolton isn’t exactly accommodating.”

Jaime smirked faintly, though the expression didn’t reach his eyes. “I haven’t figured that part out yet.”

Brienne’s expression hardened. “You’re a fool.”

“Maybe,” Jaime admitted, his gaze drifting back to the keep. “But I’m also right.”

Brienne sighed heavily, her shoulders sagging slightly. “You’re asking for a miracle, Lannister.”

“I’m asking for a chance,” Jaime countered. “She doesn’t belong here. And if we leave her behind…” He trailed off, the weight of his words hanging heavily between them.

Brienne didn’t respond immediately, her gaze thoughtful as she watched the keep. Finally, she muttered, “I’ll see what I can do.”

Jaime nodded, relief mingling with the ever-present ache in his chest. “Good. Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned about you, Brienne, it’s that you’re not one to walk away from a fight.”

Brienne’s glare returned, though she said nothing, her focus shifting back to the task at hand.

As the small party prepared to depart, Jaime couldn’t help but glance toward the keep one last time, his thoughts consumed by you. He didn’t know how, but he would find a way to bring you with them. Because leaving you behind with Roose Bolton wasn’t an option—not for him.

Not anymore.

The chill of Harrenhal’s damp stone walls seeped into your bones as you sat by the narrow window of your chamber, staring out at the overcast sky. You had been restless all night, the thought of Roose Bolton’s quiet threats lingering in your mind. The faint sound of footsteps echoed through the hallway outside, growing louder until the heavy wooden door creaked open.

Roose Bolton stepped inside, his pale face as unreadable as ever, his eyes gleaming with calm calculation. Behind him, a servant hovered nervously, carrying a folded dress draped over their arm.

“Lady Stark,” Roose said smoothly, his voice as cold and biting as a winter wind. “I trust you’ve rested well.”

You turned to face him, your expression hard. “I doubt anyone rests well in this place.”

His lips twitched into the faintest of smiles, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Perhaps the North will offer you more comfort. We leave in a few hours. I suggest you prepare yourself.”

You stiffened, your hands curling into fists at your sides. “You expect me to go willingly?”

Roose stepped further into the room, his movements unhurried. “Willingness is irrelevant,” he said, his tone maddeningly calm. “You are a Stark, and your presence in the North will serve a purpose. Whether you cooperate or not is of little consequence to me.”

The servant stepped forward, holding out the dress—a modest gown in muted greys and reds, clearly chosen to reflect Bolton’s house colors more than your own.

Your jaw clenched as you stared at it, your anger bubbling beneath the surface. “You think dressing me in your colors will make me your pawn?”

Roose tilted his head slightly, his expression as impassive as ever. “You misunderstand, my lady. This is not about control. It is about practicality. The North is harsh, and its people respect tradition. A Stark by my side will strengthen my position and ensure stability in uncertain times.”

Your glare intensified, your voice low and seething. “You’re using me to betray my brother. Do you honestly think I’ll help you?”

Roose’s gaze didn’t waver, his calm demeanor unshaken by your fury. “Help or hinder, it makes little difference. Your presence is all that is required. The rest will fall into place.”

You turned away, your hands gripping the edge of the window ledge as you tried to steady your breathing. The thought of being paraded through the North as some sort of prize, a tool in Bolton’s schemes, made your skin crawl.

“Is there anything else, my lord?” you asked coldly, refusing to meet his gaze.

Roose lingered for a moment before stepping closer, his voice dropping to a quieter tone. “I understand your anger, Lady Stark. But anger will not change the course of events. It would be wise to accept your new reality.”

You turned to face him then, your eyes blazing with defiance. “The North remembers,” you said through gritted teeth. “And so will I.”

Roose studied you for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Finally, he nodded to the servant, who placed the dress on the bed before retreating from the room.

“We leave in two hours,” Roose said, his tone returning to its usual calm. “Do not keep me waiting.”

With that, he turned and left, the door creaking shut behind him.

You stood in the silent room, your chest heaving with frustration and fear. The dress lay on the bed like a symbol of your captivity, its muted colors mocking you.

But as the minutes ticked by, your mind began to race, searching for any way to delay, to escape, to fight back. You wouldn’t go quietly. You couldn’t.

Not while there was still a chance—however slim—to turn the tide.

The sound of shouting and clanging steel echoed through the halls of Harrenhal, jolting you from your tense pacing. The din seemed to come from the courtyard, loud and chaotic, as if the very air was charged with impending violence. You rushed to the narrow window of your chamber, peering down at the scene below.

A skirmish had broken out. Men in mismatched armor clashed with swords and axes, their movements wild and desperate. At the center of the fray, you spotted Brienne, her towering frame unmistakable as she wielded her sword with brutal efficiency. Her strikes were measured, powerful, and unrelenting, forcing Roose’s guards into disarray.

Your heart raced, your mind struggling to make sense of the chaos. Then, amidst the tangle of bodies, you spotted Jaime. He was moving with purpose, slipping through the melee with a deftness that belied his injured state.

He’s coming for me, you realized, your breath catching.

The courtyard was a cacophony of shouts and clashing steel, the air thick with dust and blood. Jaime ducked under a wild swing from one of Roose’s guards, his good hand gripping the hilt of a borrowed sword. The weight of the weapon felt foreign, unbalanced, but he pushed forward, his focus clear.

Behind him, Brienne was a force of nature, her blade carving a path through their enemies. She had started the brawl without hesitation, her roar of defiance startling even the most hardened of Bolton’s men.

“Go!” she had shouted at Jaime, her voice cutting through the chaos. “Find her!”

Jaime hadn’t needed to be told twice. The plan was simple, reckless, and brilliant in its execution. Brienne would hold their attention, giving him the chance to reach you before Roose could react.

His chest heaved as he dodged another blow, his feet pounding against the uneven stones as he broke free from the skirmish. The keep loomed ahead, its shadowed entrance a beacon amidst the chaos.

She’s there. She has to be.

The door to your chamber burst open, two of Roose’s guards rushing inside with weapons drawn. “Stay where you are!” one of them barked, his voice rough and commanding.

Your heart raced as you backed toward the window, your mind working frantically. The shouts from the courtyard were growing louder, and the guards were clearly distracted.

Now or never.

Before they could react, you lunged for the small table near the bed, grabbing the heavy ceramic pitcher and hurling it at the nearest guard. The pitcher shattered against his helmet with a deafening crack, sending him stumbling backward.

The second guard cursed, moving toward you with his sword raised. You ducked under his swing, your hands finding the edge of the wooden chair nearby. With all your strength, you swung it at him, the impact sending him reeling.

The first guard recovered quickly, but before he could grab you, you bolted for the door. Your bare feet slapped against the cold stone as you sprinted down the corridor, your breath coming in ragged gasps.

The halls of Harrenhal were eerily quiet compared to the chaos outside. Jaime’s steps echoed off the stone walls as he moved deeper into the keep, his focus narrowing with every turn.

He heard the sound of running footsteps before he saw you.

You rounded the corner suddenly, your hair disheveled, your face flushed with effort. Your eyes locked onto his, widening in surprise before narrowing in determination.

“Lannister,” you breathed, your tone equal parts relief and suspicion.

“Stark,” he replied, his smirk faint despite the urgency of the moment. “Miss me?”

Before you could respond, shouts erupted from behind you. The guards were in pursuit, their heavy boots pounding against the stone.

Jaime’s smirk faded as he stepped forward, his sword raised. “Get behind me,” he said, his voice low but commanding.

For once, you didn’t argue.

The first guard rounded the corner, his blade glowing eerily in the torchlight. Jaime met him head-on, his good hand steady despite the weight of the sword. The clash of steel echoed through the hall as Jaime parried the guard’s strike, his movements calculated and precise.

“Go!” Jaime barked over his shoulder, his voice sharp. “Find Brienne and get to the courtyard!”

You hesitated, your gaze flicking between him and the approaching guards.

“Now!” Jaime snapped, his tone leaving no room for argument.

You turned and ran, your bare feet slapping against the cold stone as you disappeared down the corridor. Jaime watched you go, a strange mix of relief and frustration tightening in his chest.

“Stay alive, Stark,” he muttered under his breath, turning back to the fight.

The guards pressed forward, but Jaime’s resolve didn’t waver. He would buy you the time you needed, no matter the cost.

The clash of steel and the shouts of men echoed louder as you navigated the winding corridors of Harrenhal. The stone walls, cold and oppressive, seemed to press in on you as you ran, your breath coming in ragged gasps. Every step carried you closer to the courtyard, where the sounds of battle raged—a cacophony of chaos and defiance.

You rounded a corner and nearly collided with Brienne. She was bloodied but unbroken, her blade clutched tightly in her hand, her blue eyes blazing with determination.

“Lady Stark!” she exclaimed, relief flickering across her face.

“Brienne!” you gasped, your chest heaving. “We need to get out of here. Now.”

Brienne’s gaze darted to the corridor behind you, where the faint sound of boots echoed ominously. “Where’s Jaime?”

You hesitated, your jaw tightening as you pushed away the flicker of concern gnawing at you. “He’s buying us time. Roose can’t kill him. Not without facing Tywin’s wrath.”

Brienne frowned, her grip tightening on her sword. “And you trust him to hold them off?”

“I trust him to survive,” you replied sharply, though the admission left a bitter taste in your mouth. “But we can’t stay here. He told me to find you and get to the courtyard.”

Brienne nodded, her focus shifting. “Then we’ll need horses. Follow me.”

The courtyard was chaos. Bodies littered the uneven stones, and the air was thick with the acrid smell of blood and sweat. Roose’s men were scattered, their movements disorganized as they tried to contain the skirmish. Brienne led the way, her massive frame cutting through the crowd like a force of nature. You stayed close behind, your heart pounding as you scanned the chaos for any sign of Jaime—or the horses.

“There,” Brienne said, pointing toward the stables. A small group of horses stood tethered near the gate, their eyes wide with fear, their hooves stamping against the ground.

But between you and the horses were several of Roose’s men, their weapons drawn as they moved to intercept you.

“Lady Stark,” one of them barked, his voice strained but commanding. “Stop this madness and return to the keep!”

You glared at him, your fists clenching. “You think Roose will let you lay a hand on me?” you snapped, your voice cutting through the noise. “He needs me alive and untouched. Or do you want to explain to him why his prize is damaged?”

The man hesitated, his grip on his sword faltering as he glanced at his comrades. They exchanged uneasy looks, their resolve wavering.

Brienne took advantage of their hesitation, stepping forward with her sword raised. “If you won’t stand aside, I’ll carve a path through you,” she growled, her voice low and deadly.

The men flinched, their fear palpable. They weren’t cowards, but the weight of their orders—and the presence of a Stark—stayed their hands.

“Move,” you demanded, your tone icy.

They parted reluctantly, their faces grim as they allowed you to pass.

Brienne untethered two horses swiftly, her movements efficient despite the chaos surrounding you. She helped you mount the first one, her grip firm as she steadied the skittish animal.

“Ride hard and don’t stop,” she said, her voice urgent.

“What about you?” you asked, your eyes narrowing.

“I’ll be right behind you,” Brienne replied, swinging herself onto the second horse with practiced ease.

You hesitated for a heartbeat, your gaze flicking back toward the keep. The thought of leaving Jaime behind gnawed at you, much to your irritation. He could handle himself, you told yourself. Roose wouldn’t dare kill him—Tywin’s wrath would be too great.

But the image of him standing alone against Roose’s men, his smirk hiding the pain you knew he felt, refused to leave your mind.

“Lady Stark!” Brienne’s sharp voice jolted you back to reality. “Go!”

You dug your heels into the horse’s sides, and it bolted forward, its hooves pounding against the stone as you raced toward the open gate. Brienne followed close behind, her sword raised as she deflected a half-hearted attempt to stop her.

Shouts erupted as Roose’s men realized what was happening, but none dared fire an arrow or strike a blow. The fear of Roose’s wrath—and the consequences of harming you—stayed their hands.

As you passed through the gates and into the open fields beyond, a wave of relief washed over you. The wind whipped through your hair, the cold air biting at your skin, but you didn’t stop.

“Keep going!” Brienne shouted from behind you, her voice cutting through the roar of blood in your ears.

You urged the horse onward, your thoughts a whirlwind of anger, fear, and frustration. You couldn’t shake the image of Jaime from your mind, his half-smirk and sharp tongue hiding the torment beneath.

Damn him, you thought bitterly. Damn him for making me care.

But even as you cursed him, you couldn’t deny the flicker of hope that burned in your chest. He was still alive. He had to be.

And if you had anything to say about it, you wouldn’t let Roose Bolton have the last word.

Jaime stood in the center of the room, his posture deliberately casual despite the two guards gripping his arms tightly. His body ached from the scuffle in the courtyard, and the dull throb of his maimed arm reminded him of just how precarious his situation was.

Roose Bolton sat behind a plain wooden table, his pale, cold eyes fixed on Jaime with an intensity that could freeze blood. The silence stretched, heavy and oppressive, as Roose tapped a single finger against the tabletop.

Finally, he spoke, his voice calm but laced with venom. “Do you know what you’ve done, Kingslayer?”

Jaime smirked faintly, though it lacked his usual bravado. “I’d like to think I’ve done a great many things, my lord. You’ll have to be more specific.”

Roose’s lips pressed into a thin line, his gaze narrowing. “The Stark girl,” he said quietly, the words carrying more weight than the volume suggested. “She’s gone. Escaped. Along with your… friend, the wench.”

Jaime feigned a look of surprise, his smirk deepening. “Really? Well, good for them. I hear the Riverlands are lovely this time of year.”

The guards tightened their grip on him, but Jaime didn’t flinch.

“Don’t play games with me,” Roose snapped, his calm demeanor cracking for the first time. “You knew. You helped them, didn’t you?”

Jaime tilted his head, his smirk fading into something colder. “What if I did?” he asked, his voice low and steady. “Would you flay me here and now? Because I’d do it again, Bolton. A hundred times over.”

The room fell deathly silent. Roose leaned back in his chair, his eyes gleaming with something unreadable—anger, perhaps, or calculation.

“You’re pathetic,” Roose said finally, his voice dripping with disdain. “You’ve risked everything for what? A Stark girl who despises you? A knight who would sooner gut you than thank you? Do you think this makes you noble? Redeemed?”

Jaime met his gaze evenly, his jaw tightening. “I think,” he said slowly, “that it makes me something more than you’ll ever be.”

The room grew colder as Roose’s expression hardened. He rose slowly from his chair, his movements deliberate as he stepped closer to Jaime.

“You’ve cost me dearly,” Roose said, his voice quieter now but no less dangerous. “The Stark girl was to be my bride. Her name would have solidified my hold in the North, ensured stability in a time of chaos. And now, thanks to you, that is no longer possible.”

Jaime raised an eyebrow, feigning nonchalance. “Tragic,” he said dryly.

Roose’s hand twitched, his fingers curling briefly into a fist before he stepped back. “I should flay you alive,” he said coldly. “Peel your skin from your flesh and hang you from the gates of Harrenhal as a warning to any fool who dares cross me.”

The guards stiffened, their grips tightening on Jaime’s arms.

“But,” Roose continued, his voice regaining its unsettling calm, “you’re worth more to me alive than dead. For now.”

He turned abruptly, gesturing to the guards. “Escort him to the capital at once,” he ordered, his tone brisk. “I want him out of my sight before I change my mind.”

As the guards moved to drag Jaime toward the door, Roose called out one final time. “And deliver a message to your father.”

Jaime stopped, glancing over his shoulder with a raised brow. “A message?”

Roose’s eyes gleamed with cold amusement. “Tell him that our deal regarding the Twins is off. The loss of my bride—your doing—means I owe him nothing.”

Jaime’s stomach sank, though he kept his face impassive. The significance of Roose’s words was not lost on him. Tywin had brokered a delicate alliance with House Frey, and Roose had been a critical part of that arrangement. If Roose withdrew his support, it could unravel everything.

“Anything else?” Jaime asked, his smirk returning faintly despite the tension in the room.

Roose’s lips twitched into the barest hint of a smile. “Only that I hope you enjoy what’s left of your journey, Kingslayer. I suspect it will be… enlightening.”

The guards hauled Jaime away, their boots echoing against the stone as they dragged him through the corridor. Despite the looming consequences of Roose’s words, Jaime felt a faint flicker of satisfaction.

He had done what he set out to do.

You were free.

And Jaime Lannister felt as though he had won.

[snowysosturn]

Allies or Affiliates? - Chris Sturniolo Part 22

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 Part 13 Part 14 Part 15 Part 16 Part 17 Part 18 Part 19 Part 20 Part 21 Part 22 Part 23 Part 24 Part 25 Part 26 Part 27 Part 28 Part 29 Finale

Pairing : Y/n x dealer!Chris Sturniolo

Summary : Law student Y/n’s life takes a turn when she reconnects with Chris, her brief teenage flame who is now a dealer for a dangerous Boston drug gang. As their bond reignites, Y/n is drawn into Chris’s tumultuous world, where rival gangs clash and loyalty is everything. Balancing her love for Chris with her own ambitions, can their connection survive the chaos that threatens to pull them apart?

Warnings : MDNI, angst, cursing, grief, sadness

I woke up in the late afternoon hours after a restless night of crying. My eyes were swollen and heavy, my body weak and exhausted. I hadn’t eaten since the news broke, and even the thought of food made me feel sick. My stomach growled in protest, but I didn’t care. Hunger was the least of my worries.

I had kept myself locked in my room all night, ignoring the calls and messages that had poured in. Willow had left several voicemails, her voice cracking as she begged me to let her in. I couldn't face her, or anyone, for that matter. I didn’t want comfort or questions. I didn’t want to feel anything at all.

But as the afternoon became the evening, I knew I had to eat. My body felt too weak to keep ignoring its needs, no matter how hollow I felt inside. Something quick and easy, I thought. Just enough to at least one of the aches in my body.

Dragging myself out of bed, clutching Ralph tightly in my arms. The house was eerily quiet as I shuffled down the hallway toward the kitchen, every step heavier than the last.

When I opened the kitchen door, my eyes immediately landed on the chicken sitting on the counter. It was still there, untouched since I abandoned it the moment I thought Nate was dead. 

The sight of it, something so simple, sent me spiraling all over again.

My knees buckled, and I gripped the edge of the counter to steady myself. Tears streamed down my face as the memories of that night flooded back. Chris teasing me about the chicken. The kiss he gave me before he left. The stupid little flick of the fairy lights that had made me smile.

And now he was gone.

I clutched Ralph tighter, holding him against my chest as if he could somehow shield me from the pain. My sobs came hard and fast, shaking my whole body. The room spun, and I sank to the cold tile floor, my back pressed against the cabinets.

I cried until I couldn’t anymore, my tears leaving streaks on my face and my throat raw from the effort. The chicken sat there, mocking me, a reminder of what could’ve been.

I don’t know how long I sat there on the floor, staring at nothing. Time seemed irrelevant, just like everything else.

I pulled my knees to my chest, burying my face in Ralph’s fur. “Why, Chris?” I whispered, my voice breaking. “Why did you leave me?”

The silence was deafening, broken only by the sound of my shallow breaths.

I didn’t know how to keep going. How to live with this empty ache where Chris used to be.

All I wanted was to see his face again, so I pulled my phone from my pocket, my fingers trembling as I unlocked the screen. My thumb hovered over the camera roll before I finally opened it. Scrolling through the photos, I stopped on one I’d taken of Chris just days ago.

He was holding Ralph, with that playful grin on his face. The image felt so vivid, so full of life, it made my heart ache. I stared at it, my eyes tracing every detail, the curve of his smile, the sparkle in his eyes, the way his hair fell perfectly without him even trying. How could someone so alive be gone?

Tears blurred my vision, but I wiped them away, determined not to spiral again. I needed to do something, anything, to distract myself.

An idea came to me, something simple but meaningful. I decided to make a little setup in my room for Chris, a small space just for him.

I walked to the office next to the dining room, where we kept the printer and all the other little odds and ends my mom liked to hoard. Connecting my phone to the printer, I selected the photo of Chris and Ralph. The printer whirred to life, and within moments, the picture slid out, warm and vivid.

I picked it up carefully, holding it as though it were something fragile. The photo felt so real, like I could reach out and touch him through it.

Mom loved having photos around the house, so I knew there were bound to be some spare frames tucked away somewhere. I rummaged through a drawer in the office and found a small, simple silver frame. It wasn’t fancy, but it would do.

I slipped the photo into the frame, smoothing it out to make sure it sat perfectly. Staring at it again, I felt a bittersweet pang in my chest. “Perfect” I whispered, my voice breaking just slightly.

With the frame in hand, I walked back to my room. I placed it on my bedside table, positioning it so I could see it the moment I woke up. Ralph sat beside it, a silent reminder of one of the last happy moments Chris and I shared.

It wasn’t much, but it felt like a piece of him was here with me, even if just in spirit. I sat on the edge of my bed, staring at the photo for what felt like hours, lost in the memory of the man who had somehow managed to leave such a deep imprint on my heart.

The space was nice, but it still felt like it needed more life. The framed photo of Chris and Ralph on my bedside table was sweet, but the area seemed too plain, too empty for something that meant so much. My eyes flicked to the wall behind it, and an idea crossed my mind.

Fairy lights.

I immediately thought about the ones hanging in the treehouse, how Chris always flicked them on and off in that odd little pattern of his. They would look perfect here, draped on the wall behind the photo and Ralph, giving the space a warm, comforting glow.

But as quickly as the idea came, I shook my head. I didn’t want to touch those lights. That was how Chris left them, his little quirk preserved exactly the way he’d done it. Moving them felt wrong, like I’d be erasing a piece of him.

I sat on the edge of my bed, conflicted, staring at the framed photo as though it would offer me an answer.

“No” I whispered to myself. “The lights stay where they are.”

It felt silly, but those lights in the treehouse meant more to me now than they ever had before. They weren’t just decorations, they were a memory, a connection to Chris and the moments we shared.

Instead, I decided I’d find another way to make the space feel more alive. Maybe I could add a small plant or a candle, something soft and comforting. For now, though, I let the simplicity of the photo and Ralph keep me company. It wasn’t perfect, but it was enough.

And that was enough effort from me today. I crawled back into bed, my room once again cloaked in darkness. The weather outside had taken a turn, with heavy rain and howling winds rattling the windows. The eerie atmosphere should have unsettled me, but oddly, it was a little comforting. Maybe a distraction was what I needed.

I grabbed my phone and opened Netflix, scrolling until I landed on Gilmore Girls. It was familiar and safe, exactly what I needed to escape my thoughts. Two episodes passed in a blur, but my mind still refused to quiet. Desperate for more distraction, I switched over to YouTube, hoping an ASMR video might help me fall asleep.

I prefer listening to ASMR with headphones, so I reluctantly got out of bed, trying to feel my way through the pitch black room. The wind outside battered the windows, and a chill seeped through the cracks, sending shivers down my spine.

Then it happened.

That familiar glow on, off, on, off flickered through my window again. My breath hitched as I froze in place. It wasn’t possible. My heart pounded in my chest as I turned toward the faint light. 

“No” I whispered, shaking my head as my pulse quickened. “Not again.”

I froze, staring at the flicker of light. My chest tightened as my mind spun in circles, refusing to make sense of it.

“All I wanted was a distraction” I muttered, my voice trembling. “And all I’m getting is reminders,” 

Tears prickled at the corners of my eyes as frustration and sorrow consumed me. “I need to take the batteries out” I muttered, my voice shaky. “I can’t keep torturing myself like this.”

Grabbing my phone for light, I stumbled toward the balcony door, my heart pounding with every step. I shoved it open, and the icy rain instantly soaked through my clothes. The wind whipped against me as I stepped outside, teeth chattering from more than just the cold.

And then I saw him.

Chris.

Standing in the treehouse, drenched from the rain, illuminated by the soft, flickering glow of the fairy lights. His hands gripped the railing, his face shadowed but unmistakably his.

The world stopped.

My knees buckled, and I collapsed onto the wet balcony floor, unable to breathe. My phone slipped from my hand and clattered to the ground as I stared, my vision blurred by tears.

“Chris?” I whispered, the word barely escaping my trembling lips.

He didn’t move, but his eyes, those familiar eyes, locked onto mine. They were haunted, filled with something unspoken that only made my heart ache more.

“This isn’t real” I choked out, my voice raw. “You’re not real.”

Chris climbed over the balcony, his movements careful but swift, like he was racing against my spiraling emotions. The moment his feet hit the floor, he was in front of me, dropping to his knees and pull me into his arms before I could think to protest. His warmth engulfed me, the familiar scent of him cutting through the storm in my chest. I froze in his embrace, my mind screaming to pull away, but my body betraying me, leaning into the solace I’d craved for what felt like an eternity.

Realistically, I didn’t know whether to feel relief or anger. My heart raced, caught in a brutal tug of war between the two. Relief because he was here, alive, standing in front of me when I thought I’d lost him forever. Anger because he let me believe otherwise, let me break into pieces and drown in the darkest depths of grief.

My hands shook as I tried to steady myself, gripping the edge of the balcony for support to get myself back to my feet. The storm raged around us, lightning cracking in the distance, illuminating his soaked figure in brief, harsh flashes. He looked like a ghost, haunted, tired, but undeniably alive.

“You..” My voice cracked as I tried to speak, but it came out as a whisper. “You’re alive?”

Chris nodded slowly, taking a cautious step forward, his hands raised slightly as if approaching a wounded animal.

“I can explain.” he said, his voice low but steady, though his eyes betrayed the turmoil within.

I stumbled to my feet, my body swaying as a fresh wave of disbelief hit me. “Explain?” I shouted, the storm swallowing my words as I stared at him, my chest heaving. “Explain what, Chris? That you let me think you were dead? That you-”

My voice broke, and I clenched my fists, nails biting into my palms as I tried to hold myself together.

“Please, Y/n” Chris begged, his voice low and steady, though the weight of his plea made my chest tighten. “We can explain.”

“We?” I asked sharply, my voice cutting through the sound of the storm outside.

Chris turned his head in the direction of the front of my house, his eyes narrowing slightly as if searching for the right words. My heart raced, sensing something I wasn’t going to like.

“Yeah” he said, his voice quieter now, almost reluctant. He shifted his gaze to the driveway below.

I followed his line of sight, and my breath caught in my throat. Standing there, drenched from the rain, was Nate. He was standing in front of his car, hands in pockets, staring directly at us with an expression that was impossible to read.

My mind reeled as the pieces began to fall into place. 

He was in on this too?

a/n: sorry for any tears that were shed

taglist: @mattybearnard @sturn-33 @ncm9696 @yourfavsturniologirl @crazy4jewel @sodakid1234 @stupendoustreewinner @lovealwayssturniolos @matthewsturniolosss @m4ttsmunch @loveexxx @ilusa @starkeyszn @wonnieeluvvr @dylnblue @valxrieq @maggot3647 @cigarettecemetary @ribread03 @chrisstvrns @bandasaruswrx @noplaceissafeanymore @amexiass @witchofthehour @mattssgf @jetaimevous @v33angel @ivysturnss @urmom69lol @ashlishes @watercolorskyy @sturnioloshottiekay @amelia-sturniolo3 @imjusthereforthesturniolosmut @pvssychicken @alizestvrnss @lvrsturniolo @bernardsbunny @spaghetti835928383 @marrykisskilled @sturnsxplr-25 @bxtchboy69 @vickytaa @anikaistg @matts-girlfriend @lvrsturniolo @sophand4n4 @ilovepurpledragons @mattsside @riasturns @sturnslutz @chrisstxrnsaxe

[chem1cali]

THE GHOST OF YOU

masterlist

ghost!theodore nott x slytherin!reader

synopsis: returning to hogwarts after the war without your lover was the greatest pain you'd ever felt, but maybe he wasn't as gone as you thought...

warnings: HEAVY angst, some fluff but it's very sad fluff, definitely mostly angst, mentions of death and murder, references to suicidal thoughts

word count: 1.9k

a/n: this one broke my heart to write, yall. like ACTUALLY broke my heart. i'm considering making it a series, maybe with a slightly happier part two, so let me know if you'd be interested or if you have any ghost!theo ideas for me!

It was strange how subdued the halls of Hogwarts were. Just a year ago, the castle was swarming with chattering and giggling students, and now the few people you walked past had their mouths shut and their heads bowed. The war had that effect on everyone.

It had been a few days since the start of your eighth year, and each day seemed more heartbreaking than the one prior. Out of your slytherin friends, only Blaise had chosen to join you for the optional eighth year to make up for the chaos that was your seventh. You were thankful for his presence and support, but with each passing day, your heart grew heavier, and the desire to leave grew stronger.

Every room, every courtyard, every classroom, sent you spiralling through memories of him.

Theodore Nott. Your best friend since you were children, your confidante, and more recently, your boyfriend.

And also the boy who had stepped in front of a killing curse to save your life. Guilt swarmed through your gut as flashbacks of that day assaulted your mind.

“Y/N!” A familiar voice called behind you. Standing a few feet away from you, Bellatrix Lestrange cackled, her mouth twisted in a terrifying grin.

“Itty bitty Notty boy.” She crooned. “Come to save his little damsel in distress.”

“Stay out of this, Theo.” you warned, your hand shaking as it gripped tightly onto your wand. “I’ve got this.”

Bellatrix kept her own wand trained on you, just as yours was on her. It was a standoff, each of you waiting for that momentary lapse in concentration to strike. From the corner of your eye, you could see Theo moving closer, and you glanced away from Bellatrix to look at him, just for a moment.

That moment cost you, and Bellatrix took full advantage of your brief distraction.

“Avada Kedavra!” She called, and a green light erupted from the tip of her wand. You stood in shock for what felt like years, before a sudden force knocked you to the ground so hard that your vision blurred.

This was it. You thought blearily. This was death.

But death didn't come. Your vision cleared, and you became vaguely aware of Bellatrix’s laughing growing further and further away. You looked up from your prone position to see her shadow disappearing down the hall. How were you still alive?

You glanced around, before noticing a still figure on the floor. Your heart dropped.

“No.” You whispered, horror flooding you as you scrambled to the body on the floor. “No no no!”

You pulled on his shoulder to tip him onto his back, and a choked sob left your mouth. “Theo!” You gasped, shaking him with both hands. “Wake up! Wake up, damnit!”

But his body was still… unmoving.

A sob wracked through you, and you fell against a nearby column as the image seared itself into your mind. It was the stuff of nightmares, and it was your living hell. Every night, you woke screaming, with the sight of Theo’s lifeless body engrained in your mind.

“Y/N?” Blaine's deep baritone came from behind you. “Hey, it's okay. You’re okay.”

His hands brushed over your shoulders in an attempt to soothe you. After a few minutes, you choked back your tears and straightened your shoulders.

“I’m fine.” You said, your voice still shaking.

Blaise peered at you, his eyes betraying his concern. “Are you sure? You know the Ministry has set up counselling for those affected by the war, maybe you should-”

“I said I’m fine.” You protested, shrugging off his hold. “I just need to get some supper and go to bed.”

Blaise sighed, obviously disapproving of your claim, but smart enough not to push you further.

“Okay.” He conceded, wrapping his arm back around your shoulders. “Let's get you some food.”

You leaned into his warmth and let him lead you to the great hall. The once packed tables were now silent and sparse, the few remaining students choosing to sit in silence while they picked at their food.

You took a seat at your usual spot, spooning pumpkin soup into your bowl and swirling it around distractedly. A flash of brown curls to your left sent your spoon clattering into the bowl, and your head whipped so fast you swore you nearly gave yourself whiplash.

Only an empty seat greeted you, and tears filled your eyes. You could have sworn, just for a second, that he had been beside you.

You ate as quickly as you could, the food tasting like ash in your mouth, ignoring Blaise's concerned looks as you shovelled mouthful after mouthful into your mouth.

“I’m going to bed.” You mumbled, once your bowl was emptied.

“Do you want me to walk you down?” Blaise questioned, his own meal half-finished.

You shook your head. “No. I… I need to be alone.”

He stared at you for a moment, seeming to deliberate.

“Okay.” He said finally. “Be safe, I’ll see you tomorrow morning, yeah?”

You nodded, lifting your hand in a half-hearted wave as you stood up from your seat.

The walk down to the dungeons was quiet, the only sound being your echoing footsteps through the halls. The common room was empty when you finally stepped through the threshold, the flickering fire the only semblance of life in the area.

You didn't pause, walking to the hall that held your dorm room. You shrugged off your robes the second you walked through the door, distracting yourself with putting away various pieces of clutter that littered your floor.

On your bedside table, a picture frame caught your eye. It was an image of you and Theo that he had gotten you for your birthday last year, enchanted to portray a moving scene of you leaping into his arms. You picked up the frame, smiling sadly at the photo. You would give anything to be in his arms again.

“We looked so happy there, didn't we?”

The frame fell to the floor, the glass covering shattering as you froze, your heart thundering wildly in your chest.

“Shit, tesoro. I’m so sorry, I didn't mean to scare you.”

You spun around, and there he was. Your throat dried up, and all you could do was stare.

“Theo?” You breathed, barely able to comprehend what was happening. His soft, brown curls fell over his forehead as he tilted his head, a tentative smile on his face. He was wearing the same outfit as the day that he…

You leapt forward, your eyes squeezing shut as you reached to pull him into your arms.

Only for your fingers to close around air. You stumbled, opening your eyes as you spun around in confusion.

He was still there, but the faint smile had turned to a frown. You reached for his hand, unsure of what was happening, only for your fingers to drift straight through his skin.

You blinked, really focusing on him, and it was then you noticed that he didn't seem to be all there. His outline was slightly blurred against the backdrop of your room, and he seemed to be somewhat transparent.

“What…” you breathed. “What is happening? Am I going insane?”

Theo smiled sadly, shaking his head. “Not insane, baby. I’ve been trying to reach you since you came back.”

“You're here?” You sniffle. “You’re really here? I could've sworn I watched you…” You couldn't finish the sentence.

“You did.” He confirmed, and your heart broke all over again. You really were going insane, conjuring up images of your lost love just to cope with the pain.

“But I’m still here, really here, I swear.” He continued, fidgeting with his fingers. “Just… not alive.”

You shook your head. “I don't… I don't understand.”

He pulled the collar of his shirt down to reveal a black burn mark on his upper chest. “This is where the curse hit me, it seems that my ghost has preserved the exact way my body was when I died.”

You shook your head in disbelief. “Ghost?” You breathe. “You’re… you're a ghost?”

He nodded. “Yeah. It's been difficult trying to push through the veil to get to you, I’ve tried so many times. I got close earlier tonight at dinner, but it slipped away from me so quickly.” he frowned. “Even now, I can feel it starting to slip.”

Disappointment and joy battled ferociously in your mind. “You’re really dead, then?” Your voice cracked.

He nodded. “I am.”

Without knowing exactly how, or why, anger took over you, and words spewed out before you could stop them. “Why the fuck did you jump in front of me, Theo?” You exclaimed.

He held his hands up. “You were going to die, cara mia. I couldn't stand there and do nothing!”

You wished you could touch him. You wished you could punch him, hit him, hug him… kiss him.

You just wished you could feel his skin against yours again.

“I can’t do this.” You cried, tears streaming down your cheeks. “I can't do this without you.”

“You can.” Theo said firmly. “And you will. And I’ll be here as much as I can to help you get through it, I swear.”

You stared at him through your tear-blurred vision. The urge to be in his arms was overwhelming, and it was a bittersweet kind of torture being able to see him and speak to him, but never touch him. You walked around him, shaking, and fell onto your bed, drawing your knees up to your chest. He moved after you, taking a seat beside you. You glanced at him, confused.

“How are you sitting on my bed?” You asked softly. “If you're a ghost?”

“I’m not, really.” He replied. “I’m kind of… hovering myself just above your bed to make it look like I’m sitting. I can’t feel your bed, or you, or anything really.”

The desperate sadness in his voice made your eyes fill with tears again. “I’m so sorry.” You whispered. “It's my fault you're dead. God, I’m so beyond sorry.”

He shook his head vehemently. “It’s not your fault, never your fault, tesoro. I made my choice, and I chose to sacrifice myself so that the person I love most would be able to live their life.”

“I don't want to live without you.” You admit quietly, looking down at your hands.

“Don’t say that.” The harshness in his voice made you blink and look up at him. His face was twisted into an anguished, almost terrified expression. “Promise me you won't ever say that again. I need you to live, Y/N. For me, please.”

You nodded, even if you didn't truly believe it, anything to get that tortured expression off his face. He relaxed a little, and flickered in and out of view.

“Shit.” He cursed. “I’m fading out. The veil is pushing me back, I can’t stay for much longer.”

You jolted, panic filling you. “No, wait! You can't leave me, not again, Theo!”

He flickered again, this time his form was barely visible as he faded more and more with each passing second.

“I’m sorry.” Even his voice had faded, becoming muffled. “But I will be back. I swear to you. I’ll keep coming back for you, as long as you need me.”

“I'll always need you!” You sobbed, your fingers desperately clenching around the air where his hand should be.

His smile was barely visible. “I love you, Y/N, never forget that.”

“I love you too.” You weeped. “Please stay.”

But with a final flicker, he was finally gone from view.

And you were alone again.

[pars-ley]

Title: I still want you (part one)

Pairing: Jimin x female reader

Summary: Legend has it that there's a being of nightmares residing in a dark castle deep within the woods. But...what if the man who roams those halls is not the monster he's made out to be?

Genre: fantasy au / cursed jimin / strangers to lovers / fated lovers / angst / fluff

Rating: 18+ (sfw) (part two will have smut)

Warnings: mentions and descriptions of demons / description of murdered character (not main character) / talk of curses and spells / really insecure Jimin / 

Word count: 7.3k

Banner: @caelesjjk is the G.O.A.T for this perfect banner 

Moodboard: Me

Beta: @anyamaris @colormepurplex2 @heathfritillary thank you so much for all of your help, suggestions and endless cheers for this!!!

Authors notes: for @ksmutsociety ’s ‘the velvet vault’ event with the prompt dark academia. Inspired by “the truth untold” song, mixed with Beauty and the Beast meets Tim Burton. The poem at the end was written by the wonderful @colormepurplex2 thank you so much.

My playlist:

The truth untold - BTS

Who - Jimin

Not by the moon - Got 7

Dopamine - Jackson Wang

Like crazy - Jimin

Scene one

Hearing tales about this infamous garden is one thing, but seeing it before you, that is something else entirely. 

Your eyes must be deceiving you, for such beauty couldn't exist in just one place; especially within this dark, cruel town. 

People here have long given up on happiness, love, even decency. With more magical creatures being discovered and invading the town, some wreaking havoc and others spreading fear like wildfire, a lot of people feel trapped here. 

You, being one of them. 

Living a life constantly looking over your shoulder is not ideal but it is something you have come to accept. Especially after the death of your mother, which has shaped you into a much more vigilant adult.

One evening, she didn't make it home before the darkness blanketed the sky, your mind raced throughout the night, until first light peeked through the trees and illuminated your answers.

Her lifeless body strung up in the centre of town, by those demonic, soulless beings, hung for everyone to view and gawk at. The image still haunts you almost four summers on and so does the comprehension behind her death.

Your mother had been a powerful enchantress, having regular visions that, more often than not, came true. She could charm objects with magic to bring a variety of privileges; protection, love, knowledge, luck, anything to help ease the wickedness of the world. She made potions from the plants that grew on our windowsill, all medicinal and all made with heartfelt care. 

All of this made her more capable of protecting herself than anyone in this town and yet, she still ended up dead. 

Her dagger, laced with a protection spell, had still been tied tightly to her thigh, not even an attempt to be taken out of the harness. Had she even had the chance to try? 

You had removed it from her lifeless body and kept it close to you ever since. 

You did not know what she had been doing in the woods, or what kept her out so late on that fateful day, but you knew that whatever it was, surely involved magic. If she pushed herself too hard with spells, she lost too much energy and wasn't able to use more if needed. 

The questions around her death have plagued you ever since. 

Here in the garden, however, you feel an odd sense of peace, something you haven't felt in a long time. However reckless it may be for you to enter, you slowly open the unlocked gate. The loud creaking of the hinges makes you pause, frozen in panic while you scan your surroundings. Your hand moves to your mother's dagger that now resides hidden under your skirt, tied to your outer thigh with a makeshift holster.

When nothing moves or makes a sound in return, you slide yourself in through the small gap and step onto the stone pathway.

The smell hits you like an ocean breeze; intoxicating fragrances swirl around you, trapping you in a cage of flowers. One that you would gladly lock yourself into.

Your feet seem to move of their own accord as you stroll through the abundance of colourful flowers, softly skating your fingers along velvet petals with a ghostly touch.

As you walk, a little basket full of berries in hand, you realise how much lighter you felt, as if you were lifted on a floating cloud, carrying you along in the wind. Your aching heart felt calmed; soothed just by being in here. 

The variation of flowers is unlike anything you'd seen, every colour you could think of in so many shapes and sizes it is hard to fathom them all. But it’s the white rose bush in the centre of the garden that catches your eye and draws you in further. As you had given in and succumbed to the temptation, trespassing onto the grounds of the large, ornate castle your town spoke about frequently. The fear and the guilt, however, had left you as soon as you entered. 

In closing the distance between you and the rose bush, you also edge much closer to the tall, round tower that stands alongside it. Surrounded by a wildflower floral blanket and yet, the dark, unwelcome castle looks out of place in all this beauty, and a shiver cascades through you. 

Unsure if your mind is playing tricks, you glance up at the windows, searching for any sign of the eyes you can suddenly feel upon you. Every part of the castle seems thick with shadows, empty and un-lived in. But you have heard many rumours of the man within. A twisted man who stays hidden away inside, so grotesque and sinister he hides from the world. Many stories shrouded in mystery, kept the village alight with curiosity, but all of them had the same message. 

Stay away from the castle.

Maybe you are a fool for coming here, although searching for the reality from the tales was not your initial intention, but admittedly, you are surprised by your surroundings. It’s as if two different worlds coexist within the outer walls.

A garden so beautiful it wouldn't be unbelievable to see cherubs and angels holding hands and dancing around the shrubs, but with the backdrop of a dark, secret dwelling housing an angry beast.

Seeing no movement or signs of life in the many windows, you continue on your venture.

Your footsteps make no sound as you tiptoe carefully across the grass to the roses.

Such a simple flower but your unmatched favourite.

White roses remind you of your mother, a delicate, breathtaking woman who stood out everywhere she went, but with a natural, understated beauty. 

Leaning down to deeply inhale the familiar scent, the promise of satin petals on your fingertips grew too much as you reached out to touch one. Your fingers glide like silk along the curled edges, tiny dew drops still inside from the morning's breath.

What you wouldn't give to just have one of these roses in your pitiful garden, but it would be too out of place and unbelonging. Much like yourself in this garden.

Placing your basket on the ground beside you and kneeling down to the bush, you want nothing more than to crawl inside its stemmed cage and stay there. 

The sounds of birds chirping echo around you, as the orange afternoon sun breaks through the clouds, glowing and warming your skin slightly. Angling your face up to it and enjoying the feeling on your skin, you sit humming peacefully to yourself.

The sudden sound of a gasp from above silences you. Your eyes fly open and your head snaps up sharply to an open window on the first floor of the tower.

You manage to catch a glimpse of someone before they retreat out of sight and back into the shadow. You bolt upright to stand, frozen in place. Your eyes remain fixed in the same spot, looking for any sign of movement. The ability to call out is swallowed by fear in your throat, and so you stay silent and unmoving for what feels like an eternity before half a face peers out at you from behind the window frame. 

There were many tales of the grotesque character that resides within these walls, but no mention of a man so breathtaking he could be a fairytale prince. 

Perfect skin that glows in the peachy sunlight and smooth, plump lips that could make the beautiful roses in front of you envious beyond measure. The one visible dark eye, a hidden jewel in a cave of wonders, widens briefly as he meets your gaze before quickly retreating back into concealment.

"Hello?" you call out softly, finding your voice but not wanting to startle him further. "I'm sorry for intruding, but your garden is so beautiful I had to see it for myself.”

Silence.

Worrying you've made a grave mistake, you're about to turn away and leave for fear that your presence is not welcome, when a shy and yet alluring voice sounds; echoing around you.

"Please, stay and enjoy it."

Turning back up to the window, your eyes find his half-form, noticing his ivory knuckles as he clings to the window frame as if forcing himself in place.

“Thank you.” You nod and sit on the grass once again, your skirt billowing out around you. Your eyes remain stuck on his statuesque stance.

“I had no idea anyone actually lived here,” you say into the thick silence, your voice echoing across the empty grounds.

The one eye of his that you can see darts around at the woodland area beyond the walls before returning to you. Not even a whisper of a response, and so, you continue to try to find out more.

"Are you alone?" you ask, eyes roving around the castle windows once again, waiting for the beast you've heard so much about to appear.

He nods. “I've been here for many years.” He finally speaks up, but with wavering hesitance you can hear as his voice trembles.

Your brow furrows as you try to piece together this puzzle in your mind. 

What could this man have done to warrant such hostile tales being told about him, or is it simply because he hides himself away that the townsfolk fear him?

He doesn't look much older than you, if he had ventured into your town you would remember him. You can't help your curiosity. “Why have I never seen you?” you question innocently.

You're not certain, but it seems as if he grimaces, shrugging into the shadows for a brief moment. “I don't really venture out much.”

How lonely he must be. Alone, in such a vast castle, hiding himself away, what a sad existence.

You are in no position to talk about anyone else's existence, as you're not exactly jumping for joy about yours, either.

Shrugging those thoughts away, you realise how impolite you're being, especially after breaking into someone else's garden and you introduce yourself.

His cheek reddens as he stammers out, “I-I’m Jimin, P-park Jimin.” 

Unable to help the smile that stretches across your mouth from this endearing, timid man, you reply, “It's nice to meet you, Jimin.”

A furious blush spreads to his hairline and down his neck, a sight that not only intrigues you but warms your chest, too. Your gaze stays locked on the sight until you see his eye drift out, looking over at the expanse beyond the castle.

“The sun sets, you should not be out in the woods during darkness.”

His warning is apt and true, you know that better than anyone. Since the world of magic had taken over, nighttime is when the most demonic creatures come out to do their bidding.

Glancing back towards the gate, you know you should leave, your head screams at you to go, but something else pulls you to stay.

Almost as if he senses your hesitancy, he asks, "Will you come back again?”

A strange tightness pulls across your chest, a feeling you've never experienced before. "Would you like me to?"

"Yes," he responds, nodding eagerly, and with that one-word answer, your mind is made up.

“I can return tomorrow?” you suggest bravely, hoping you're not overstepping his boundaries, but pleasantly discover the opposite, with a half smile so breathtaking you're almost blinded.

“Tomorrow it is, then,” he says simply, unable to hide the excitement in his voice. 

A distant cackle snatches your attention away, a stark contrast to the sound of his melodic voice. You collect your basket and whisk yourself away, out of the garden and into the dusky woods, leaving just as quietly as you entered and running home as fast as you could before nightfall envelopes you. 

Before all the monsters come out to play with the mere mortals, unable to resist their sadistic and seductive ways.

That night, you lie in bed, listening to the havoc created outside around you but unable to stop thinking of Jimin.

Seeming so meek and sweet you wonder what he's doing there all alone. Why do the village tales only ever speak of a monster who hides within the castle and not angels who could be guarding it?

He seems so desperate for company and yet, so afraid at the same time. Questions race in your mind, unable to silence them as you wonder about his story.

Who is he? Why is he in that castle all alone and hiding from the world?

You’re consumed with him until sleep takes over, and instead of the usual terror that frequently haunts your dreams, you are visited by the beautiful man in the dark tower.

Scene two

The following day, before the noon sun reaches its highest peak in the sky, you begin the journey to the castle in the woods. 

Your feet seem to move of their own accord, faster than usual, with nothing but the image of the mysterious man from the tower in your mind.

The gate creaks open as you push through it, and your eyes go straight to the tower window. 

You're met with only darkness. 

Stepping quietly into the garden, you make your way to the rose bush, bringing you directly in sight of the window. That's when you notice them. 

A bunch of five white roses, tied together with a pale pink ribbon, lay on the grass in front of the bush, the stems perfectly trimmed and now beautifully symmetrical. Gently, you skate your fingers lightly over the petals. 

“Do you like them?” a soft voice sounds from above.

Your mouth pulls into a smile upon hearing his gentle tone echo around you, comforting you in an unfamiliar embrace. Although, he'd conquered your waking and sleeping thoughts since your meeting yesterday, you had not done his angelic voice justice in your mind.

You turn to greet him. “I do. Are they for me?”

Half peering out at you like before, he nods, his left cheek glowing pinkly in the sunshine.

“Thank you. I will cherish having a part of your beautiful garden in my home.”

He beams at your words and hides even more of his face further behind the wall. “They will protect you from evil.” 

Glancing down at the flowers in your hand, you notice nothing out of the ordinary and wonder what he could possibly mean. “How so?”

“M-magic,” he whispers, although even that seems to echo into the silence around you.

A bird flies out of a tree nearby, squeaking loudly, and you both look over to it. The atmosphere seems to change by the mere mention of the word. Magic. Most folks tend to stay well away from anything involving that. It wasn't easily accessible or cheap to purchase, which leads you to wonder how this could be possible. 

“Are you a sorcerer?” you ask, pondering the idea.

He laughs, “Unfortunately not. I was given some seeds bewitched with a spell from an enchantress. No evil can enter this garden or my home while these flowers grow here.”

Mulling that over, you stroke the petals of the flowers in your hand, feeling an odd sense of nostalgia. His words are like a blast into your past, making you miss your mother’s magic, something that, unfortunately, does not come as naturally to you. 

So, as long as you have these, you will be safe from the evil that roams in the dark blanket of night. Relief fills you, alongside a hope you thought was lost long ago. 

“Thank you, this is a very kind gift.” Smiling up at him, you set the flowers back down on the ground. “Speaking of gifts, I also have one for you.” Squatting down to your basket, you lift the handkerchief off to reveal the fresh loaf of bread, the mouth-watering smell hits you, but you ignore it. “I baked this loaf for you this morning; it's still warm.”

He stares down at you, still half hiding but trying to get a better view into the basket. “F-for me?”

You nod. “Would you like me to bring it to the door?”

The silence stretches on, as his eyes bounce around the garden, looking everywhere but at you. Instantly, you panic that you've made him uncomfortable, worrying your bottom lip with your teeth and quickly, you interject, “I could just leave it in the doorway, and you can collect it when you like.”

Waiting for what feels like an eternity for a response, your feet welded awkwardly to the ground, until you hear him let out a heavy sigh. “N-no, wait by the door, I'll just be a moment,” he replies quietly, as he whisks himself away back into the shadows of the tower.

Heading in the direction of the large main doors into the castle, walking slowly along the pathway through the garden, your heart beats hard within your chest, the sound echoing in your ears, and possibly loud enough to be heard on these grounds.

Slowly, you ascend the steps and wait in the large arched doorway. The wooden doors are old and carved with grotesque faces. Leaning closer, they look to have been carved crudely and without care, seemingly having been placed out of anger or fear instead.

The sound of the wood creaking makes you jump, as the door opens just enough for you to place your basket through it. An elegant hand comes out to greet you and as you place the basket handle in it, your fingertips graze his. A vision hits.

A scene playing out before your eyes.

Images flash quickly in your mind. All of you and him. A hooded Jimin. 

At first, they start off with smiles and light touches before evolving into passionate nights and warm embraces. A heat cascades through your body that you've never experienced, your face feeling aflame under his hesitant, one-eyed gaze.

“Is everything ok?” he asks, concern etched in his furrowed brow. 

Swallowing hard, you nod. “I'm fine.”

You do not wish to tell this stranger about your own powers of clairvoyance. If the wrong person knew, you would be punished and left outside at night for the demons. Besides, you need to determine the meaning behind this vision first, unlike any other you've had before, they are very rarely about you.

“Thank you,” he whispers, snapping you out of your thoughts as he begins to withdraw.

“Wait,” you say urgently, “won't you come and walk with me? It's a beautiful day, and I would love a tour of the garden.”

Your eyes search the dark gap in the opening, but are unable to find anything.

“I can't.” His voice is barely audible.

“I would like it very much, if you would join me,” you ask again gently, but not wanting to push or make him uncomfortable.

“No, you wouldn't, not when you see me.” The sadness in his voice makes your chest tight.

“Jimin, I don't care what you look like,” you stress, “I do, however, want to enjoy your garden, it would be a shame if I can't have the person who created such a paradise show it to me.”

You're met with only silence until you hear a long, sad sigh from inside. “I'm sorry, I can't. Please enjoy it, I need to return to my tower.”

Before you have a chance to respond, the door is closed, and you're left longing to get to know the man who could be your future.

Scene three

Several sunsets pass, each day involving a visit to Jimin’s garden where you spend your time sitting in the floral atmosphere, letting the calmness wash over you and enjoying the sun on your face. 

He stays up in his tower, watching, while the two of you speak endlessly. Exchanging tales of your childhoods, memories you’d long forgotten coming to the forefront of your mind and escaping past your lips. 

You explain your love of drawing, anything you see beauty in, which nowadays isn’t much, so you drew your memories and your mother. 

He expresses his love of poetry, often reading by the fire every night before bed, sometimes writing his own. Whenever there’s silence it is never uncomfortable, just more time to sit and enjoy each other's company.

You discover he’s an author, having written many stories of his own. He gifted you three of his books to read after you had begged to know his writing; embarrassing him and turning his cheeks pink until he agreed.

His way with words is like nothing you have known before. Every sentence enters through you and embeds itself in your soul. Every word is a caress to your heart, feeling his poetic prose touch places inside you never knew existed. 

It inspires you. 

Before you can process the thought, you reach for your last bit of charcoal and let all your emotions illustrate the page, continuing on until the morning.

As soon as the sun appears over the hill beyond the view from your window, you get ready and leave, bringing your picture rolled up and tied with the same pale pink ribbon that bound your magic, undying roses.

You can’t wait to gift him a piece of your art, and if you were honest, a piece of your heart. No feeling could describe the way your entire body felt fit to burst, with the way this man made you feel. Your heart previously only beating out of necessity rather than desire. Skipping through the gate to your usual spot, you call out, “Jimin!” 

Your heart pounds wildly inside you in a rhythm that is a personalised symphony just for him. You wait only a moment before he appears, smiling out at you.

“Someone is up bright and early today,” he remarks joyfully.

Seeing him, you’re always taken aback by how your memories have not done him justice at all, especially in the bright first light of morning, his flawless skin illuminated gold from the rising sun.

“I have not yet been to bed.” You laugh.

Worry creases his brow. “Whyever not? Is everything alright?”

Holding your hands up to calm his concerns, you add, “Everything’s fine, better than fine, actually.” Your feet begin to pace in circles around the white rose bush. “When I finished your books I-”

“You finished all of them? Already?” he interrupts, bewildered.

Nodding, you continue on, “How could I not? Jimin, they’re beautiful.” 

His entire face reddens before he shields it with his hood, the sight makes you flustered in a way that surprises you. Making your own skin feel hot, even on this chilly morning.

Clearing your throat and swallowing to try and ease the tightness you feel, you pull your scroll out of your basket and hold it up to him. “Now, it is my turn to give something that lasts longer than a loaf of bread.”

He peeks out from his hood, eyes widening with curiosity.

“Can I?” you ask, pointing to the main wooden doors.

He hesitates briefly. “Give me a moment.”

Rushing to the entrance, almost tripping up the steps in your impatience, you wait, fiddling with your skirt nervously. When the heavy door creaks open, your heart deafens your ears, the erratic beating the only sound you can hear momentarily. You place the scroll through the gap in the doorway and watch as his slender hand comes out to take it gently from yours, his half-face appearing from the shadows.

He pulls the bowed ribbon and you watch as it falls silently to the ground. When he unrolls your parchment your eyes remain fixed to him, observing his reaction. Watching as his apprehension turns to astonishment has your heart singing with relief. His fingers reach out, kissing the paper briefly. He stutters, then stops, words disappearing into the thin air, the breeze carrying them away. 

His cheeks turn scarlet again and you watch as his eyes take in the close proximity of the two of you sketched out on the paper. Inspired by the many emotions that have been building a slow crescendo inside you for the past few weeks of being in his company. You let a story of your own play out on the page, one full of hope.

The two of you; surrounded by fragrant blooms with his tower far in the distance. Your hands entwined, with your eyes on him as he looks out of the page, hood up covering half his face in shadow.

“I-it’s beautiful,” he whispers, eyes not wavering from the picture clasped tightly in his grip. “You are very talented.”

It seems to be your turn to blush now, as you glance away shyly, mumbling a thank you. 

“I will frame this and hang it in my bedroom, so I can look at it every day.”

This makes your heart soar. 

“Jimin?” you speak up hesitantly, not wanting to spoil his mood or ruin the moment but unable to restrain from asking again. 

He meets your eyes then, “Yes?”

“Will you please accompany me in the garden today?”

His brow furrows, expression pained as he looks back down at the picture and returns his gaze to your face. Just when hope starts to fade, he sighs and nods. “Just a moment.”

Your heart jumps gleefully, rattling your chest like a caged animal desperate to escape and be reunited with its owner.

The door closes for a few minutes and, just when you think he's changed his mind, disappointment seeping in, it opens again.

Hesitantly, he steps out. His hood is pulled up over his head, as he’s focused solely on the ground, casting his whole face in darkness. You are desperate to see him, his pillowy lips and crescent moon eyes.

Slowly, you reach out and entwine your hand with his, slotting perfectly together. He stills briefly before squeezing yours in return. That confirmation is all you need. Closing the small amount of space between you and cupping half of his face, you whisper, “Look at me.”

Reluctantly, he does so. You’re surprised to see his visible eye watery with tears, almost brimming over the edge, and your heart breaks. Unable to stop yourself, you wrap him in your arms and hold him tightly, cradling him close to your body. His scent swirls around you, taking over your senses and replacing the floral scent of the garden; fresh, clean and woody. Alluring in the most intense way. 

His arms wind around your waist hesitantly, and when you feel him relax in your embrace, you, too, feel the swell of emotion inside. While he had not yet spoken of what had happened to him in the past, you were hoping that one day he would trust you enough to tell you his story. Who knows, today might be the day of many firsts for you both.

Scene four

Walking hand in hand, followed with sounds of the chirping birds surrounding you through Jimin’s garden, is something you didn’t realise how much you craved, until you were doing it. 

Having his hand in yours feels like a dream, after so long of waiting for this bridge between you to be crossed; unable to keep the smile off your face as you tread carefully through the grounds.

It wasn’t until this day you realised you had seen only a part of this estate. Jimin leads you through a walkway enclosed with tall rose bushes, surrounding you in a floral cage. 

“Did you make this yourself?” you ask, admiring the wicker trellis.

He nods shyly, glancing slightly across at you. 

You are in your element here. The days spent with him are your brightest and most enjoyed, but when the walkway ends the sight that greets you has your mouth hanging open in shock. 

“Jimin,” you gasp, “this is beautiful.”

Your eyes scour your surroundings. A beautiful pond covered with lily pads and pink water lilies, is encircled by large rocks and such a variety of vibrant flowers a rainbow would be envious of the colours.

“Shall we dip our feet?” you ask, childlike excitement evident on the wide-eyed look you give him. He smiles, unable to stop, but you can sense his slight hesitation. Pulling his arm, you lead him to the edge of the water where you slip off your shoes. Sitting on the stone ledge, you gently pull him down to you. Obeying your request, he timidly joins. The water is cold as you dip your toes and as you look down into it, you’re surprised by how clean it looks; able to see right down to the bottom and the fish residing there.

“You must be in this garden all the time?” you ask, stroking his hand with your thumb.

“I used to, before…” He stops himself, and you can feel him tense beside you, turning his head away slightly.

“Hey, it’s ok. You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to.”

A frustrated breath leaves him, his head hanging in defeat. “I do want to. I want to tell you everything,” he admits, “but I must confess, I’m not used to being around other people.”

That much you had gathered, but hearing it breaks your heart just the same.

“And,” he continues, “I have never been as close to anyone as I am with you.” He glances at you then, attempting to gauge your reaction.

Smiling, your cheeks warm from such an admission, you toy with the words you should use to respond. “I’m glad to hear that, Jimin. I can assure you, the way you feel is very much reciprocated.”

He scoffs, and the sound confuses you as you attempt to find his eyes within the darkness of the hood, but to no avail. His head hangs low. “I think you underestimate my words.”

Frowning, you grasp at what he could mean by this, and panic sets in, thinking you may have the wrong idea about the direction your relationship is heading.

“I don’t expect you to mirror my feelings and believe me, you are under no obligation to keep coming here, I do not want your pity.”

Your eyebrows shoot up. “Jimin, I do not pity you. I’m here because I want to be.”

He finally meets your eyes, desperately searching yours. “Really?”

Taking his hand and placing it on your chest and over your pounding heart, you say, “I have never known anyone like you. Someone so…” You search for the right wording, wishing you were capable of his prose, “fascinating. You are truly an enigma to me that I'm more than happy to keep trying to figure out.”

He looks out at the water, the sunlight highlighting the pink glow of his cheeks. 

“I come here because I want to spend time with you. I wake up and look forward to seeing you everyday and I will continue to come here until you are bored of my company and turn me away,” you add teasingly, but a real fear lies underneath somewhere. You silence it by looking at your hand still wrapped with his.

He laughs, “You will never have to worry about that, I could never tire of your company, you mean far too much to me.”

Your chest tightens with an emotion you cannot hide as you lean your head on his shoulder. He moves taut under your action, but quicker than you could imagine, he softens under your touch and leans his head atop of yours. You sit there for what feels like hours, talking and basking in the warmth of the late afternoon sun until the skin of your feet turns pruned and your stomach grumbles, breaking another comfortable silence. It is only when a demonic screech echoes from the woods outside of the walls, do you realise the time. 

Jumping up, water splashing as you do, you look at the setting sun and gasp. “Oh, no.”

The darkness has begun and you will not have enough time to make it home. Images of your mother’s lifeless form haunt your mind briefly before you force them away.

Jimin is up and at your side in a flash, arm cradling your shoulders. “It's ok. You're safe here,” he says gently, rubbing one of your arms with his thumb. The action soothes you and brings you comfort. “Come, you can stay with me tonight, I have many rooms.”

You relax slightly in his embrace and find yourself sinking into the crook under his arm, relishing in the close contact you've been craving. He pulls you closer, a firm grip around you and pins you to his side. 

Your arm ventures under his cloak and winds around his waist, holding yourself against him.

Glancing up, he's already smiling down at you and you can't stop the blush that heats your entire face.

You both head back towards the castle, you nestled against him as the darkness slowly envelopes you. When you head up the stone steps to the castle, nerves turn in your stomach, the realisation of spending the night in his home dawning on you. 

Watching the doors close, shutting out the night and the chaotic noise from outside, you sigh to yourself, feeling surprisingly at home with his warmth and presence by your side.

Scene five

The tour of the castle is long but riveting. So many rooms to explore, and he shows you every single one. Pointing out various art pieces handed down from his parents, endless novels in the library, and even an old dungeon below, unused and dusty.

He discloses that his father had died when he was little, too young to remember him, but that he has a portrait of him in his mother's bedroom he often looks at. His mother had passed away when he was fifteen, after becoming ill during a harsh winter and grew too weak to recover. He has been alone ever since. Your heart aches for him. To have been alone since then must have been truly isolating, but you could relate to him in more ways than you care to admit.

You share your story of your beautiful mother, enchanting to everyone who knew her, who had been killed by the demons just after your 18th birthday. A father who you have never known and, as far as you had been told, had never been in the picture. All you knew about him was that he was a sailor and from what your mother expressed, was more in love with the sea than her. 

You learnt not to ask questions about him as it only made her sad and distant.

Your shared experience with loss and loneliness cements your bond further as he shows you the room you could sleep in, adjacent to his.

“You will be safe here. I will be right across the hall if you need me at all.” His thumb strokes the back of your hand as your fingers stay entwined the entire route through the castle.

“Jimin?” you interject.

He looks over at you, hood still pulled over, casting half his face in shadow.

“Will you take this off?” you ask, fingering the soft velvet of his cloak.

He stares at you but his eyes soon turn distant as a frown furrows deep in his brow, a scene playing out in his mind that you are not privy to. “I cannot let you see,” he whispers.

You turn him to face you, cupping his visible cheek in your hand. “I promise you, Jimin, it will not change how I feel about you.”

He laughs sadly, “It will.”

“Park Jimin, are you calling me shallow?” raising an eyebrow, you challenge him.

He simply shakes his head. “I'm a monster. You shouldn't even be wasting your time here with me.”

“You could never be a monster, your soul is far too pure and good.” 

Slowly leaning up on your tiptoes, you place a chaste kiss against his cheek. “Please, don't hide from me anymore,” you beg.

His eye widens from the touch of your lips and he can't help but turn towards you, focused on your mouth. When his hand comes up to stroke your hair, you lean into his touch and before you know it, your lips are connected. Heat races through you, making your limbs move without thought, hands sliding inside his hood and around the nape of his neck, pulling him closer to you.

His arm winds around your waist as he moans into the kiss, desire and love vibrating through you. His soft, pillowy lips mould to yours, moving with fierce determination as your back suddenly meets the doorframe of your bedroom. His hands slide up your spine, pinning you against him. You luxuriate at the feeling of the strong muscles of his body pressed against you.

Wrapped up in his scent, with the feeling of his mouth on yours and his hands embracing you so tightly, your bosom grows with the love your heart has housed for him, still expanding tightly inside you.

You pull away slightly only to gasp for air, and that's when you notice his fallen hood. His body stills when your eyes connect and you see the panic in them, but before he can move, you grab his hands and entwine your fingers with his.

“I hope you are planning on kissing me again, because I don't plan on moving just yet?”

He doesn't respond, but his gaze drifts to your lips and you can see the conflict in his eyes, between running away and giving into temptation.

Detangling your fingers from his, you cup his face with both hands, your thumb strokes the puckered skin on one side of his face. The scars appear like burns, covering one side of him, marring one eye so bad he could barely see out of it. Your fingers go to his thin hair on that side, patches of it missing beneath your fingertips, he looks down and away from you but you steer him back.

“This doesn't change anything, Jimin. You're still the most beautiful man I've encountered.” 

His eyes flit from each of yours, tears brimming the edges, searching for truth within them.

“I would like you to kiss me again,” you say, your voice thick with want, “please.”

Leaning in slowly, he surrenders to your request, pressing his mouth against you once more.

Scene six

When your desire subsides somewhat and your head clears, the two of you manage to part from each other, your growling stomach interrupting the shy silence.

“Shall we eat?” he asks, before taking your hand and leading you down to the kitchen. 

Sitting at the table, you watch in awe as he prepares fresh tomato soup to go with the second loaf you had given him yesterday on your visit. All vegetables grown in his garden and picked by him.

You eat together in silence, exchanging flirtatious and sometimes shy smiles. When your stomachs are full, with night truly closed in, he lights a fire in the drawing room, closes the curtains, and beckons you to join him on the fur rug. 

Watching him in the orange light of the fire, you feel overwhelmed with need. The need to be close to him, the need to take care of him and protect him, even the need to claim him, something you have never felt before. 

“Will you read to me?” you ask, as you join him.

“If that is what you wish of me, then of course.” He grins, and you get lost in it for a moment. The way his two front teeth slightly overlap, his eyes narrowing and his cheeks rounding, everything about him draws you further into the opening blossom of love. 

“May I lay on you?” you ask, pointing to his lap.

He stares at you hesitantly for a moment, before nodding and moving his hands out of your way.

Positioning yourself comfortably on the rug, you lay your head on his legs, feeling the way he tenses slightly from the action but soon relaxes under you.

His hand lingers by your hair indecisively before he pushes any apprehension away and plays with the strands loosely between his fingers. “What would you like me to read?” his voice whispers pleasantly above the crackling firewood. 

“Something you've written.”

“Would you like to hear the poem I wrote for you?”

Your heart soars, hammering wildly in your chest. “You wrote something for me?”

“Hmm-mm.”

You nod frantically, nerves suddenly drying your mouth and rendering you speechless.

He clears his throat quietly and starts,

“In the quiet din of morning's light,

You creep silent and curious into my domain,

An alluring spectre; a breathtaking sight,

Welcomed like that first sweet kiss of spring rain.

The roses bend to catch your gaze,

And the dainty lilies stretch in quiet grace,

As if the garden, in silent praise,

Seeks to beholden the awe of your face.

Your fingers brush the leaves so light,

A touch that makes the greenery hum,

Like a velvety kiss of soft delight,

Or warmth from the day to come.

You pause to take in your fill,

Ivy curling in lazy spirals at your feet,

And for a moment, time stands still,

Even the songbirds pause their larking for a beat.

I watch you, quiet like a shade,

As you explore the blooms beyond my window,

Careless and free, with no mind paid,

Like a beacon of light against unrelenting shadow.

With every glance, you draw me near,

But still I keep my secret held tight,

Afraid you’ll flee if you could hear,

The pain that shapes my heart at night.

Yet in your eyes, I see a spark,

A light that calls to me, calm and clear,

A love that could find me in the dark,

And chase away my most crippling fear.

I wear this pain, my broken mask,

Staying hidden within my castle walls,

But it's in your warmth and light that I wish to bask,

A blue flower in your garden; no longer a ghost of these hallowed halls.”

A wet trail down your cheek spills onto his trousers, a swell of emotion that you could no longer contain. His angelic voice quoting such beautiful prose from memory creates a whirlwind of feelings inside you. Seeing yourself through his eyes and hearing his feelings, so raw and open, moves you in ways you could never have imagined. 

You feel beautiful and emboldened. 

Sitting up, your eyes meet. He smiles sweetly when he sees your tears and gently wipes them away with his thumb. Pressing your lips to his, the inability to stand the distance between you any longer overwhelms you. 

As he holds you in his arms and you lose yourself in the kiss. A vision snaps behind your eyes, removing you from the moment entirely. Unlike the first one, full of love and happiness, this one freezes the blood in your veins and stops it cold as you take in every detail of the horror behind your eyes.

Fire wilts the flowers in the garden, petals curling and turning to ash. Orange light blinding and thick smoke choking, tightening your heaving chest. Demons running rampant through the grounds as you wander unsteadily to find him. And when you do, everything else around you ceases to exist, as your heart splits inside you.

Jimin's lifeless body, upturned and suspended from the tower.

[minyoongisnewthing]

No longer you | myg (one shot)

Pairing: king!yoongi and seer/prophet! reader

Genre: mad king! Yoongi AU, angst, dark fantasy, hurt/no comfort.

content warning: blood/gore, violence, character death, mentions of poisoning, murder/execution, war themes, mental health decline, betrayal, angst/heavy angst, grief.

Word count: 2.4K roughly

Authors notes: I have had this idea in my head once I heard the song no longer you from Epic the musical, and it wouldn’t leave me alone a look at what made the mad king, mad. Full credit for the spark of inspiration goes to the writer of it Jorge Rivera-Herrans. I also wanted an excuse to look into the character of mad king yoongi and practice my fantasy and angst writing. This is also a thank you piece for everyone that helped me reach a milestone I never thought I would 1000 likes on my work so thank all once again from the bottom of my heart. You helped reignite a love of writing in me. As always comments are always welcome!

The day you had both feared and expected had finally arrived.

After a year ravaged by war, the king—Min Yoongi himself—had sent for you. His royal seer, his trusted prophet. No doubt, he sought guidance to turn the tide of this merciless battle. Yet deep within your heart, a cold certainty settled—this was a lost cause. Your gut whispered the same cruel truth.

You were led through the camp, the distant clangs of war fading behind you as you approached the king’s tent. A dread nestled in your chest, twisting tighter with every step. You had seen this moment play out countless times in your mind, in your dreams—each ending bleaker than the last.

Beyond the heavy blue canvas, there he was.

King Min Yoongi.

His long blonde hair was tied back neatly, strands catching the flicker of lantern light. He wore delicate black robes that contrasted sharply against the dust and grime of war, his lean frame calm but burdened. Despite the exhaustion etched beneath his eyes, his face was beautiful, friendly even unmarked by battle—a cruel irony with what you knew. Around him stood his inner circle, the few he trusted most in this world.

“There she is,” his voice was reverent, almost light, as he gestured to the seat before him. “Sit, please.”

You bowed your head once, lips dry. “Your Highness.”

“Let us skip the formalities, Y/N. You know why I’ve summoned you.”

Your gaze dropped to the ground before meeting his again. “My king,” you began cautiously, “I must remind you the Gods are fickle. They smile on you one day and curse your name the next.”

“Sounds just like some women,” one of his younger generals joked from the corner, prompting a ripple of laughter that was quickly hushed by stern looks.

Tentatively, you reached out and took the king’s hand. Your fingers brushed the coarse skin, tracing the lines of his palm. The air shifted—your vision blurred at the edges, a familiar white cloud creeping over your sight.

You allowed it to consume you, closing your eyes as a voice rose from deep within you—no longer entirely your own but mingled with something ancient, otherworldly.

“My king, there is indeed a world where I help you return home… but it is not one I know.”

“What?” came the startled voice of the king, stepping away as he tried to shake your hand free. But your grip tightened, unwavering.

A swirling image appeared behind your closed lids.

Two figures danced beneath a twinkling night sky — lovers entwined in a timeless embrace. You recognized them immediately.

A younger Yoongi, barely in his twenties, his hair shorter, lighter. And the woman with him, the palace whispered of his favour towards her, a beautiful woman whose life had been cruelly cut short by poison, and jealous hands.

“I see a song… a past romance,” you croaked, voice trembling.

The clouds shifted, darkening, morphing into the faces of his council murmuring behind his back. Words of incompetence, questions of his strategy. Voices demanding blood, plotting his downfall. Calling him soft hearted, too fast and ready with words, not a sword.

A plan set in motion—a deadly betrayal.

The figure of General Seokjin emerged from the haze, stepping forward with a shadowed intent, offering to deal the blow “a mercy, a quick end” the disjointed voice whispered in your ear. 

“I see portrayals of betrayal and a brother’s final stand,” you lamented, your eyes flickering toward the general, who remained still but watchful, jaw clenched.

Your vision twisted, showing a bloodied and battered Yoongi on the battlefield—exhausted and alone. His final breath trembling from his lips, meant to look like an accident, but you knew better.

“I see you on the brink of death,” you whispered. “I see you draw your final breath.”

The vision shifted again, revealing what might come if he chose to heed your warning.

A man arriving home alone. A deep scar running down his face, a slight limp marking his gait. The joy in his heart, once bright and fierce, now frozen into an unyielding and deep ice. A survivor—but no longer the king you knew.

Tears blurred your eyes as you spoke, voice breaking.

“I see a man who makes it home alive… but it’s no longer you.”

“No. This can’t be,” Yoongi’s voice cracked with desperation. His gaze darted around the tent, then landed hard on you.

“We have suffered and fought on this cursed field for a year,” he spat, fury rising. “And you tell me our efforts amount to nothing?”

He tried once again to pull his hand from yours, but you held firm, unwilling to let go.

The visions pressed on.

“I see your palace covered in red—blood and faces of those who long believed you dead.”

You saw her then—his queen.

Once a bright, flourishing flower of the court, now a wilted shadow, consumed by sorrow and fear.

A woman haunted not by ghosts but the past, by the man she once knew. The man she once loved.

A man who returned from war battle-mad and cruel heated.

Your voice trembled as you spoke the truth.

“I see your wife… with a man who is haunting… a man with a trail… of bodies...”

Yoongi’s fist slammed down upon the wooden table, breaking your vision’s grip with a harsh demand.

“WHO?” he thundered.

You flinched but said nothing more, tongue frozen.

But your eyes begged him to understand—It was him. The man he would become that would haunt her, haunt the palace halls, haunt his court, his subjects.

The visions spun once more, relentless.

And then, just as suddenly as it came, the cloud lifted.

You were yourself again.

The weight of your visions settled between you like a suffocating fog—thick, inescapable, choking. You could still see them, flickering just behind your eyes. The blood. The betrayal. The final breath of a king.

And then, his voice cut through it like a blade.

“You speak of treason—of my death!” Yoongi thundered, rising to his feet. “I should have your head on a spike.”

The words struck you like a blow, but it wasn’t the threat that rattled you. It was the fire in his eyes—cold, furious, and decisive. A king staring down fate and choosing defiance. Survival.

“My lord—” one of his generals began cautiously, stepping forward.

“Enough.” Yoongi’s voice cracked like a whip. “Everyone. Leave. Now.”

The tent emptied swiftly, boots scuffing the ground, murmurs silenced by fear. None dared question him. Only you remained, frozen to the spot, the echo of his rage reverberating in your bones.

As the final flap of the tent fell shut, he turned to you—slowly, deliberately. The man who had once spoken to you with fondness now looked at you as if you were the blade pressed to his throat.

“Names,” he said, his voice low, trembling with urgency. “I need names.”

“My king,” you whispered, pleading. “Please—”

“Do not take me for a fool, Y/N!” he barked. “We both know how detailed the gift the Gods granted you is. Every cursed vision, every whispered secret—you saw them. All of them.”

Your shoulders slumped beneath the weight of his demand. You had hoped to spare him this. But there was no shielding him now. His gaze was too sharp, his resolve already carved into stone.

“I did not want to say it,” you said quietly. “I prayed it would change. That something might shift.”

He stared at you, waiting.

“It was Seokjin,” you confessed. The name left your mouth like ash. “He stands at the heart of it.”

The look that passed over Yoongi’s face hollowed you out. Not rage. Not disbelief. But something quieter, crueler in its heartbreak.

Betrayal.

His lips parted slightly, as if struggling to take in air. His eyes, always sharp and calculating, went distant for a moment—as though he had been stabbed and hadn’t yet realized he was bleeding.

He didn’t speak again.

He didn’t need to.

With a short wave of his hand, you were dismissed. No words. No threats. Just the sharp flick of fingers and a pointed look toward the entrance to his personal tent.

You bowed and left, your footsteps quiet in the gathering dark. Every nerve in your body buzzed with dread. The storm had been seeded—and it would break before the night was done.

Later that evening, the air turned electric. You could feel it in your bones. Taste it on your tongue. The sky churned overhead, clouds swollen with thunder they never released. The camp sat in brittle silence.

Then came the screams.

First a single voice—shattered and raw.

Then another.

And another.

The fires rose next, golden and ravenous, devouring tents and shadows alike. Panic crackled through the air. You did not run. You sat, back straight, knees tucked beneath you, eyes brimming not with fear… but sorrow.

You wept—not for yourself.

But for him.

For the man who had once sat before you in moonlight coloured robes, asking you gently what the stars had to say. For the king who had once loved poetry more than politics. For the soul who now drowned in blood to stay alive.

The tent flaps ripped open with a violent gust of wind.

And there he stood.

But not the man you’d known.

His blonde hair was loose and wild, no longer tied with the courtly care of before. His face was streaked with blood, a gash carved into his face, still fresh and bleeding. His black robes were torn at the shoulder, scorched and stained with ash. But it was his eyes that broke you.

Cold.

Steel.

Unforgiving.

They were the eyes of a man who had made a choice. And paid the price.

He stepped into the tent without a word, his presence suffocating, his silence worse than any scream. You rose slowly, the firelight casting flickering shadows across the space between you.

“My king—” you began.

He raised a hand. It wasn’t a threat. Just an end.

“Don’t,” he said quietly, his voice hoarse. “Not tonight.”

You nodded, tears spilling silently down your cheeks.

Because tonight, a king had lived.

But the man you had known… had died.

He gathered his belongings with haste, eyes wide and unblinking, hands shaking though he tried to steady them. Blood stained his knuckles—some of it his own, most of it not. You stood motionless as he threw open the heavy chest at the foot of his cot, rifling through documents, rings of office, and war plans as if they mattered now.

When he finally looked up at you, his gaze was sharp—burning.

“You know the deal struck,” he said. Not a question. A demand.

You nodded slowly. You had known the moment he’d ordered his generals’ heads taken in the dead of night. A secret pact, made between warring kings under cover of darkness. A trade of land and coin for quiet mercenaries, blood bought in bulk. The size of Yoongi’s kingdom no longer mattered to him the moment that name—Seokjin—had left your lips.

The only thing he wanted now was purity in his court. Loyalty forged not through love, but fear.

“You will help me rid my court of them,” he said, voice cracked, eyes glassy. “All of them. Every last one who dares think they can cross me.”

“Your Majesty…” you tried gently, stepping toward him. “Yoongi, please—”

But your voice fell flat, drowned in the roar of fire and the screams still echoing in the night. He grabbed your arm, the force of it bruising, and yanked you out of the tent. Heat and ash slapped your face, the scent of burning wood and flesh curling in your nostrils.

You stumbled over bodies and blackened cloth, the remnants of his camp. He pushed you forward, toward the waiting horse, its flanks damp with sweat and nostrils flaring. You tried to resist, but there was no point. He threw you onto the saddle before climbing up behind you, his arms a cage around your body.

You weren’t at his side.

You were in his grasp.

And you knew—Fate had dictated this. You were the seer. The voice of the Gods. You had spoken of the death of the king, and now you were bound to witness every consequence.

In the days that followed, blood ran like rainwater in the gutters of the capital.

You returned not in triumph, but under the cloak of silence. Yoongi kept you close—closer than his advisors, closer than his queen. He would not eat unless you sat beside him. He would not sleep unless you were in the adjoining chamber, within reach should another whisper come in the night.

Every dusk, he gathered names.

Every dawn, you watched heads roll.

In the grand courtyard, he passed sentence after sentence, his voice echoing off the stone like a death bell. His blade never wavered. Not once. Noblemen, knights, servants, scribes—anyone who had laughed too loudly behind his back, or spoken too slowly in counsel. He looked to you before each execution, seeking not your approval, but your confirmation, but it mattered little when paranoia gripped him.

“Was it them?” he would ask. “Were they in the vision?”

And you, helpless and hollow, could only answer with silence. Sometimes, he took it as assent. Other times, he took it as guilt.

You bore witness.

You held the queen—once a radiant figure of elegance—now reduced to a ghost. Her hands trembled with each morning bell, her eyes sunken, her voice barely a whisper. She wept into your shoulder as her husband, the man who had once danced with her beneath starlit balconies, turned their garden into a graveyard.

Even light itself seemed to abandon the kingdom. The sun grew pale behind thick clouds. The halls of the palace chilled with each passing day, tapestries torn down and banners scorched, as if joy were something to be scrubbed out completely.

Yoongi sat on his throne like a man carved of obsidian—unmoving, unfeeling.

But still, he kept you close.

As if your presence could keep the last shred of humanity in him alive, keep him alive a little longer.

You weren’t just his seer anymore.

You were his tether.

And that chain grew heavier with each passing breath, and as history would come to remember him as the mad king it was here deep in sorrow and tragedy you stayed, with silent hope his poets soul would one day return home too.

[thatdeadaquarius]

Okay so-- i was reading some sagau posts and came across this one where the reader was an army vet and my brain just Did Its Thing--

So now I'm here to inflict this on to you--

Would guns be considered as catalysts. And would they only do Phys Damage.

Me reading this ask:

😶 😐 🤨 🧐 🧐 😰 🥲 😭😭😭 💀

STOP YOU'VE INFLICTED ME WITH PSYCHOLOGICAL DMG FROM THIS ASK 😭

(Also srry took so long to respond, when i didnt realize how short this was/was just sitting over here 😓)

^ For the sake of gun imagery being a lot/maybe staff might hate me for it,

we'll put this gay shit instead (i almost mispelled to "gay shot" lmao)

☆

Sun: Army Veteran Reader, Gender neutral Reader (you/they/them)

Orbit: SHORT Headcanons

Stars: everybody bc i think itd be funny

Comets & Meteors: Content Warnings: gun stuff, mild violence, mild cursing & Trigger Warnings: Gun fun everywhere

THIS ASK HAS ME GIGGLING TO MYSELF LIKE A MANIAC

You're out here having a whole gun they let you take for off-base

And u ofc have a license so u can conceal carry

(idk how non-american gun laws work, but tbh ours are so fucked idk how they work here either, just that an army guy i knew once could have his gun when he got back home)

And ofc ur just paranoid enough (more like it just makes u feel safe)

That when u get yoinked into a portal to a silly little brightly colored gacha game fantasy world, the gun comes with 💀

Id like to add in my silly little "ur in a video game, so video game rules" AU version of genshin so:

The only other gun (ish) wielder (Mika) has unlimited bolts

Sooo I'd think your gun would be the same jfc lol

NO BC YOUD SCARE THE ACTUAL SHIT OUT OF EVERYONE IN UR VICINITY IN A BATTLE

BC GUNSHOTS ARE A DIFFERENT TYPE OF LOUD

When u first stumble into abyss monsters/hostile creatures of the realm, u nearly scare off a Lawlachurl bc every shot's like thunder to these bitches😭

So not only the monsters but the vision holders think u fucking summoned lightning

OMG THE BULLETS ARE SO FAST THEYD PROBABLY NOT SEE IT

ESP BC DISTRACTED BY GUNSHOT LOUDNESS

SO U AIM THIS LITTLE BLACK CROSSBOW (???) AND THINGS JUST DIE (OR GET RIDDLED WITH HOLES) WITH NO CLEAR ARROW STICKING OUT

STOPP- you're becoming a witchy god or smth to all of Teyvat bc it just looks like hella high level magic atp to them LMAOOO

Rumors of you get out of hand and say u just point or snap ur fingers and things get wounded/just die on the spot 💀

Oh another difference between Teyvatians seeing ur gun vs. crossbow (what they know)

Is that guns are wayyyy more destructive

Like an arrow would get shot but it'd bounce off of things like rock or wood or metal, maybe dent a little depending on how close

But a bullet goes thru that shit so easy, and leaves a whole little explosion behind, once again depending on range

(I once saw a Mythbusters episode? of them proving bullets would definitely go thru car doors, like movies lied to u, this is why drive-bys acc work like for gangs)

Lmao, the image of you in like full armor with a Teyvat made automatic gun after showing it to blacksmiths

Makes u just more convincing as a god, esp bc military training

(Ppl like Gorou and Kokomi begging for military tactics/training ur world has done)

...

....Ok.

I'll address it.

But only so u dont think im stupid later.

Yes, the Fatui have guns.

No, this not the same as having a glock LMAO

End of story.

(Also, urs runs on bullets, whereas the Fatui rely on magic/delusions to power theirs, plus they dont seem as fast or destructive as urs, more "explosions aimed at you" than real bullets)

Which,,, u leave the managing of ppl copying ur gun to ppl like the Qixing or smth, but make sure to give them advice on good gun laws if teyvat accidentally revolutionizes bc of ur advanced gun that anybody can wield (non-vision users)

Thats the best ive got abt that

Oh, also enjoy being praised as a War god now.

:)

☆

... dammit i had smth i was gonna tell u guys-

Uh what tf was it, it was important

OH

Next post is the Eldritch God Oneshot! Look out for it :) !!

☆

Safe Travels Kid,

💀♒️

♡the beloveds♡

@karmawonders / @0rah-s / @randomnatics / @glxssynarvi / @nexylaza / @genshin-impacts-me / @wholesomey-artist / @thedevioussmirk / @the-dumber-scaramouche / @chocogi / @fallen-starr / @areaderofbooks

If you wanna join a taglist, DM me what for! "Pspspsss, please tag me for [All SAGAU posts, Only SAGAU Language AUs, diff fandom, etc.]!"

(If you ever wanna drop, just DM me! "No more taglists/[specifically this AU/fandom] please!")

[novaursa]

The North Remembers Her

- Summary: He captured you, but you will not allow him to break you.

- Pairing: stark!reader/Ramsay Bolton

- Rating: Explicit 18+ (for blood, gore and death, Ramsay is also a warning just being him)

- Next part: the vow

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

The wind bites like a blade against your skin as you urge your horse forward through the frost-covered woods. The North is yours—truly yours—and it will not bend to those who wear the flayed man. For days now, you’ve disrupted their efforts to snuff out resistance. Small raids, ambushes, stolen supplies—enough to keep the Bolton forces on edge and struggling to bring stability to a North that hates them.

And they should hate them. Your father’s face comes to mind: the steady grey eyes, the quiet honor in his voice. You cling to that image. To his memory. You are your father’s daughter, after all. A Stark of Winterfell.

But you miscalculated tonight. You see it now.

The flames of the Bolton camp lick angrily at the sky, their outline growing distant as you flee. You’d struck quick, torching their stores, and your band had been triumphant—until they weren’t. Until the Bastard of Bolton’s men came roaring through the woods, too swift, too many.

You glance over your shoulder. The forest is thick, snow falling heavily, but you hear the sounds of pursuit: pounding hooves, snapping branches.

“They’re close,” your man, Aedric, growls from beside you. He’s always been steady—stalwart like the pines you ride through. He’s your shield and sword in these dark days, sworn to follow you wherever you go. “Ride hard, my lady.”

My lady.

You hate that. You don’t feel like a lady. Not anymore.

Before you can answer, an arrow whistles past your face, close enough to graze your cheek. It cuts a cold line into your skin. Your horse rears in fright, and you nearly lose your hold. Aedric curses and wheels his mount.

“They have archers!” you hiss, your heart hammering like thunder.

And then you see him—emerging from the trees like a shadow—Ramsay Snow. Or Ramsay Bolton now, you suppose. He sits atop a dark horse, a twisted smirk curled on his lips. He is smaller than you expected beneath his furs, but there’s something hungry in his eyes that makes your stomach turn.

“Run, Stark,” he calls mockingly, his voice carrying clear over the din of the chase. “It’ll make this so much more fun.”

Aedric spurs his horse toward Ramsay, blade in hand. “Go!” he shouts back at you.

“No!” you cry, knowing his intent too late.

He charges, but Ramsay’s men surge forward first, surrounding him. You turn your mount, heart sinking. You see Aedric swing, cleaving one of them from the saddle—but there are too many.

Ramsay watches the slaughter with cold amusement as his men pull Aedric from his horse. You scream as you hear the dull thud of a blow landing, followed by Aedric’s yell—one of defiance and agony.

“Aedric!” your voice cracks.

You urge your horse forward, but something whistles again—a rope—snagging tight around your torso. You’re yanked from the saddle, hitting the ground hard. The air rushes from your lungs. You scramble to rise, but rough hands grab you, hauling you to your knees. Your vision swims.

When you lift your head, it’s just in time to see the final blow. Ramsay steps down from his horse, blade in hand, and approaches Aedric’s broken form.

“You tried so hard, didn’t you?” Ramsay muses softly, crouching beside him. “Loyal dog. Just like a good little wolf.”

Aedric spits blood at his boots. “You’ll die,” he rasps. “Your house will fall, bastard.”

Ramsay grins, eyes alight. “You’ve mistaken me for someone who cares.”

And with one quick motion, he plunges his dagger into Aedric’s throat.

You scream, thrashing in the grip of the soldiers holding you. You don’t stop until they’re forced to strike you hard across the face to silence you.

Ramsay stands and turns to you then, his smirk widening. Blood speckles his gloves and drips slowly from the blade in his hand. He walks toward you with deliberate ease, as if savoring the moment.

“Stubborn little wolf,” he purrs, crouching before you. His gloved fingers grasp your chin, forcing your face upward so he can look into your eyes. “I’ve been hunting you for days. Did you think your little games would last forever?”

“Get your hands off me,” you snarl, glaring defiantly.

Ramsay’s grip tightens. His eyes gleam with something dangerous. “Oh, you’ll learn manners soon enough.” He releases your face with a shove, and you almost fall backward.

“You killed him,” you whisper, choking on the words. “Aedric…”

“Was a bore,” Ramsay interjects dismissively, rising to his feet. “But you? You’re far more interesting. A Stark—running about like a common thief, setting fire to my men’s food. Adorable, really.”

“I’ll see you dead for this,” you hiss through clenched teeth.

Ramsay tilts his head, amusement flickering across his face. “How fierce you are. I wonder—” He steps closer, looming over you. “—how long will that fire last once I take you to Dreadfort?”

You freeze. The words hit you harder than a blow.

“You’ll find the North won’t kneel to your kind,” you spit, trying to hide the fear that gnaws at you.

Ramsay chuckles. “Your kind. My dear—your kind belongs to me now. Everything you are will belong to me.”

He snaps his fingers, and the soldiers wrench you to your feet. Your arms are bound behind your back. You struggle as they tie a length of rope to your wrists, securing you to a horse. Ramsay mounts his own steed, looking down at you with mock pity.

“Careful, little wolf,” he calls as the men tug you forward, forcing you to walk as they ride. “If you stumble, I won’t stop to wait.”

You bite your lip until it bleeds. You do not cry. You will not give him that.

Instead, you look ahead to the dark horizon, to Winterfell—your home—now corrupted. You’ll endure. You must. The North remembers, and you will make Ramsay Bolton regret ever crossing paths with you.

For your father.

For Aedric.

For every soul he’s ever harmed.

And for yourself.

The journey to the Dreadfort is long and bitter, the icy winds gnawing through your torn furs as if eager to flay you themselves. Your wrists ache from the ropes, chafed raw beneath the iron grip of the Bolton soldiers. Snow crunches beneath your boots with each forced step, and every mile feels heavier as the Bastard of Bolton rides ahead, watching you like a hawk watches its prey.

Ramsay Bolton.

You don’t look at him. You won’t give him the satisfaction. Instead, your thoughts turn inward, to her—your direwolf. Somewhere out in the snow-covered woods, your loyal companion roams free. You picture her as she was the last time you saw her: a blur of grey and white, her eyes bright with feral intelligence. She was your shadow, your fiercest protector.

“Your wolf’s out there, isn’t she?” Ramsay’s voice cuts through the silence like a jagged blade.

You don’t answer, keeping your gaze fixed on the snow-covered road ahead.

Ramsay makes a low sound of mock disappointment. “So stubborn. It’s almost admirable.” He pulls his horse closer to you, the beast’s breath misting in the cold air as he looks down at you with a lazy smirk. “We’ve been hearing stories, you know. Wolves attacking my men. Tents torn apart. Horses spooked and left bleeding in the snow. Sounds familiar, doesn’t it?”

Still, you say nothing.

He tilts his head, his voice softening to a poisonous whisper. “Tell me, little wolf—what’s her name? Hmm? Does she listen when you call her? Or do you keep her like a secret, just for yourself?”

“She’s smarter than you,” you finally bite out, unable to hold your tongue any longer.

Ramsay’s smile widens. He seems delighted by your defiance. “Oh, I don’t doubt it. Smarter than most of my men, too, it seems. But clever beasts can still be caught. And when I catch her…” He pauses for effect, watching your face carefully. “…I think I’ll make her howl for you before I flay her.”

Your blood goes cold. You snap your head up to glare at him, teeth bared. “Touch her and I’ll tear your throat out.”

Ramsay bursts into laughter, the sound sharp and cruel. “There’s the fire! You remind me of a cornered fox. Snapping and snarling, even when the hounds have you.” He leans closer, the reins held loosely in his hands. “But what will you do when the hounds close in, Stark? When they drag her down? Because they will.”

You keep your gaze steady, refusing to flinch. “She won’t be caught.”

“She will.” His tone is confident, mocking. “They always are. They’re predictable that way, animals. And when I catch her, I’ll make a cloak of her pelt. Maybe I’ll wear it when I take you to Winterfell.”

“You’ll wear your own skin before you wear hers.”

Ramsay’s amusement falters just slightly, his lips twitching as if he wants to sneer. He doesn’t. Instead, his expression smooths over into something calmer. Colder. More dangerous.

“You know,” he says softly, “my hounds don’t eat wolves. Too much fight in them.” His pale blue eyes lock with yours, unblinking. “But I wonder… would she eat you?”

You want to lunge for him, to strike him, to wipe that smug smile from his face. But the ropes dig into your wrists, and the soldiers pull you roughly forward again, forcing you to stumble.

Hours pass before the distant silhouette of the Dreadfort rises from the gloom. Its tall walls loom like dark shadows against the bleak sky. The sigil of House Bolton—the flayed man—flutters high above the gates, crimson against white. You force yourself not to look at it. The dread creeps into your chest anyway.

Ramsay dismounts as the gates creak open, his furs and leathers immaculate despite the journey. He moves with unsettling energy, gesturing for his men to drag you forward. You stumble as they push you through the muddy courtyard. The smell here is sharp and rancid—blood, rot, and smoke. You hear the muffled cries of prisoners carried on the wind, punctuated by the howling of hounds.

Lord Roose Bolton awaits you on the steps.

His face is pale and expressionless, as though carved from stone. The Lord of the Dreadfort regards you with his colorless eyes, unreadable in their scrutiny.

“Father,” Ramsay calls as he strides forward, gesturing toward you as if presenting a gift. “The last of the Starks. And quite a troublesome one at that.”

Roose’s gaze shifts to you, slow and deliberate. He says nothing at first, his face betraying no emotion. “You’ve been causing my men problems,” he finally states, his voice quiet, even.

“You’re not my lord,” you say defiantly, meeting his gaze. “And you took land that is not yours to have.”

Roose’s lips twitch faintly—a ghost of a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “That much is clear.” He turns to Ramsay. “Where did you find her?”

“Burning supplies,” Ramsay answers with a grin. “Her and a loyal little knight. He was less amusing. I dealt with him.”

Roose gives his son a sharp glance. “Careless. You should have taken him alive. The North won’t be won with Stark blood alone.”

Ramsay’s smile doesn’t falter, but his eyes flicker with something… dark. He doesn’t answer, instead turning back to you. “The direwolf is still out there,” he offers. “Her pet. Roaming free, tearing at our men.”

Roose raises an eyebrow, his gaze sharpening on you. “Is this true?”

You press your lips together, saying nothing.

Roose studies you for a long moment before looking at his son. “You will keep her alive. For now.”

Ramsay’s face falls just slightly. “And what of her wolf?”

Roose steps closer to you, his expression cold and calculating. “The wolf will be hunted. And when it is found, it will die.”

You don’t let your face betray you. You keep your chin high, though your stomach twists into knots.

She’ll escape. She must.

Ramsay watches your silence with growing amusement. As the soldiers drag you toward the keep, he calls after you, his voice laced with dark delight.

“She’ll howl for you soon, Stark. I can’t wait to see if you howl back.”

The hall of the Dreadfort is as cold as the stone that forms its walls. Candles flicker weakly against the oppressive dark, their flames struggling to push back the shadows clinging to every corner. There’s no warmth here, no comfort. Only the sharp smell of roasted meat and the heavy silence that hangs between the occupants of the long dining table.

You sit at one end, your wrists finally free of bindings, but the freedom means little. You’re surrounded. Ramsay sits directly across from you, his sharp grin flashing whenever your eyes happen to meet his. Beside him is Reek—Theon Greyjoy as you once knew him, though this version of him is no more than a shell of the boy who grew up with you in Winterfell.

You don’t know what’s worse: the way he refuses to meet your gaze or the way part of you still hates him for his betrayal.

At the head of the table sits Lord Roose Bolton, stoic and calm, his eyes pale and unreadable. To his right, Lady Walda picks at her food. She is rotund and pink-cheeked, her smile small but earnest, as if she doesn’t understand the wolves that surround her. Or perhaps she simply doesn’t care.

The scrape of a knife against a plate grates at your ears. Ramsay smirks as he slices into his meat, holding the bite aloft on his fork.

“You’re eating so little, my lady,” he drawls, his voice sweet and taunting. “Surely you must be hungry after a week in our fine hospitality.”

You don’t answer, your gaze fixed on your untouched plate. The food smells fine enough—roasted venison, bread, and boiled greens—but you can’t bring yourself to lift a finger. The air itself seems poisoned, and each bite feels like it might choke you.

Ramsay laughs under his breath. “Such manners. Would you rather I feed you myself?”

“Enough,” Roose says softly. The word is barely louder than the crackle of the hearth, but Ramsay straightens immediately, though the grin doesn’t leave his face.

Roose sets his fork down with deliberate care, turning his pale gaze toward you. “You’ve caused much disruption since the war, Lady Stark,” he begins, his voice smooth and low, betraying nothing. “But you are a daughter of Winterfell. That gives you… value.”

You stiffen at his words, fingers curling tightly in your lap. “I’m of no value to you.”

Roose ignores your defiance. “My bannermen require stability. With the North in chaos, alliances must be secured. My initial plan was for Ramsay to wed Sansa Stark, but I see now that would not be wise.”

Your breath stills. You feel Ramsay’s eyes burning into you even before Roose says the words that steal the air from your lungs.

“You will marry Ramsay.”

The words echo in your ears like a death knell. You stare at Roose, disbelief and fury flooding your chest. For a long, painful moment, all you can hear is the low hum of the fire and the clink of Lady Walda’s fork as she awkwardly sets it down.

“No,” you say, your voice shaking. “I’ll never—”

“You will,” Roose interrupts coolly, his gaze sharpening. “A Stark under this roof lends legitimacy to my rule. Your presence will quell some resistance. For the good of the North, this is how it must be.”

You lurch to your feet, the chair scraping against the stone floor, but Ramsay is quicker. He stands, slamming his palm against the table, his laughter sharp and grating.

“Did you hear that, Father?” he mocks. “She refuses me. How rude.”

“I will never marry him,” you say again, louder this time. Your voice shakes, but you force steel into it. “You can kill me first.”

Ramsay’s grin widens as he rounds the table, approaching you. “Oh, come now, little wolf. You’d be such a pretty bride. Don’t you want to wear white? Isn’t that the Stark way?” He leans closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. “I’ll even let you choose the color of the cloak for the bedding ceremony.”

Before you can answer—or strike him—Roose speaks again, cutting through the moment like a blade.

“Sit down.”

His voice is cold and calm, but it carries an unspoken threat. Slowly, you sink back into your seat, though your heart hammers violently in your chest. Ramsay lingers by your side for a moment longer, letting the weight of his presence suffocate you, before retreating with a smirk.

“This is for the good of the North,” Roose says again, his tone measured. “You may not see it now, but in time—”

“You think the North will accept this?” you cut in, glaring at him. “You think they’ll kneel to the flayed man because I’m paraded as your son’s bride? You don’t understand the North at all.”

Roose raises a pale brow, his expression unreadable. “The North remembers, yes. But memory fades when bellies go empty and fields are burned. Stability is survival. You are a means to that end.”

You feel the weight of Ramsay’s gaze on you again, watching your every breath, every flinch. You refuse to look at him. Instead, your eyes land on Reek, slouched in his seat at Ramsay’s side. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t move. He stares at the table, thin and ragged, as if his very presence is an apology.

Your chest burns as you look at him—Theon Greyjoy. The boy you trusted, the boy who betrayed your family, who took your home and destroyed everything you loved. Hatred bubbles up like bile in your throat, but beneath it is something else: pity.

He feels your gaze, because he shifts slightly, his hands trembling where they rest on his lap. He doesn’t meet your eyes. He won’t.

“You can’t even look at me, can you?” you say softly, the words escaping before you can stop them.

Ramsay’s head snaps toward Reek, his grin widening as though your words have given him fresh amusement. “Look at her,” he orders, his tone mocking and sharp.

Theon flinches, his sunken eyes darting up to you briefly, hollow and ashamed. Then his gaze drops again, staring at the empty plate in front of him like a whipped dog.

��Good boy,” Ramsay croons, clapping him hard on the shoulder. Theon shudders at the touch but doesn’t react otherwise.

You turn away, disgust curling in your stomach as Ramsay resumes his seat.

“This is your choice, Lady Stark,” Roose says evenly. “You can resist all you like, but it will change nothing. The wedding will happen.”

You look at Roose Bolton—Lord of the Dreadfort, murderer of your brother, betrayer of the North—and feel a hatred so deep it makes your blood run cold. Then you look at Ramsay, his smirk carved into his pale face, as though he’s already won.

But they haven’t.

Not yet.

The North remembers. And so do you.

[chericherilvr]

cheri hi it’s me again 🥹 and this time can i kindly (and desperately) request something fluffy about seeun failing to cover his blush when you hold his hand? that silly cute image you mentioned in the tags and almost made me sob? it will heal something in me istg ❤️‍🩹

thank you soso much in advance and take your time!! 🫶🏼

to hope for love - seeun x reader

summary: three times bf!seeun simped for you on camera + one time he simped off camera w/c: 1,5k warnings: cursing, fluff, possible grammar mistakes of past/present tenses a/n: this was HEAVILY inspired by our convo, so I hope you enjoy it and that I delivered !! thank you so much for the ask loveee,, btw I am never writing something long in past tense again, I committed at the start and then I hated every second of it so I went to present mode by 3rd time (too much for someone who writes in first person most of the time too)

that one time on the main xikers' channel.

Being an idol and dating is hard. There's no other way to go around it. No way of sugar coating it. The lack of private time is hard on its own already—an to add a whole another person into the equation…

It doesn't stop them from trying tho.

Sometimes the easiest way around is by dating another idol. Others by going full incognito. And I am sure as hell one or two idols are in a weird e-dating discord daddy x kitten scheme—but that's for another day.

You and Seeun had your ways. And you both were just so lucky for the environment that he works in. The guys were supportive; especially Junmin, who set the two of you together. And Minjae that made sure you both could still be a couple with the company. They all tease you, joke around, (make Seeun do favours with a threat to tell the public) yet they all make sure to glare off at any noisy staff member, and even time when they go outside so you can come over to be just you two.

Luck doesn't hide the glances outside of frame tho. Just like how one time during "What's That boX?!"

"Grab the prettiest person and make them do a runway." Read Seeun, who immediately smirked.

Today you had come to their latest comeback MV's recording session. It was always amazing seeing them all work—especially Seeun. The behind the scenes world is just, breathtaking. All of it enchanted by cameras, impressive crew who made it all possible, and just the creative vision of so many people putting in their work—safe to say, your favourite part of the whole idol boyfriend gag.

Currently, you were watching the guys film their content. Enjoying the banter, the weird challenges. Someone just had to fish a blue duck out of a bowl? Forget about that, this, is the best part of the idol boyfriend ordeal. Then came Seeun, who read his prompt. And then he looked up and your eyes met.

You could see it in his eyes. They screamed so loud. Oh how he wanted to just reach behind the camera and just—pick you up and drag you with his over-confident smile "this is the prettiest person here!"

But he couldn't.

Instead he looked with a lovesick expression, walked over to where you were, and grabbed Yujun—who was waiting for his turn next to you.

(the shippers had a field day when Seeun winked at who they thought was Yujun… sorry to break their bubble)

//

the time a tiktok challenge almost got leaked

It took about seven tries to get it perfect. It was a hard choreography at the end of the day. But yet something looked off—so you tried again. The music sounds menacingly—almost hunting you down to ace it. And then it goes.

놀란 거야 혹시?

There's a time only a dancer knows: The time forward. A time in which, ironically to the song, you don't breathe. It's the first thing said as advice before going on stage "enjoy it, because this time the song will go by so quick you can barely process it." and it's always true.

In a blink of an eye you go from the fast-paced choreography to free-styling an outro to Sumin's rap. With a smile at the end, you stopped recording.

It is only after a couple days later you get to show Seeun the video at all.

"I got a surprise for you~" Your voice sung when you remembered the video. "Here, watch watch!!"

Seeun tilted his head when you shoved your phone at him. He looked at you and, at your enthusiastic nods, he clicked play. And then he was down from the second he recognized what was happening.

His eyes still sparkle to this day whenever he remembers. Not only was it the first time he had seen you dance—to an actual song instead of the random victory jiggles—but that was his song, his dance, you were dancing to. He re-watched that video like a million times before turning back to you.

"Baby you're crying!" Your eyes widened, hurrying to hold his face and wipe his tears off. "Did I do that bad?"

He shook his head hurriedly.

"You are just-I just. I… I love you so much"

"Scared me there for a second. I love you too baby."

"Do the challenge with me?"

And how could you say no to him? When he looked at you almost pleadingly.

Now Seeun lies on his bed, legs kicking as he was re-watching your video together—that ends with him giving you an unprompted kiss.

Ding.

He checks his phone.

"Hey hey hey hey hey hey hey!! SEEUN COME HEREEEEE!!! Manager is asking us for that video we took like a couple days ago, you have it?!?!?"

Seeun rolls his eyes at Yechan. How dare he stop his simping hours? He tries to dismiss him as fast as he can and just send the video.

"Now leave me alone"

Ding.

"AYYO I said our video! Not whatever this ew cute couple thing is. Now send me the video and 30€ or I post it on our socials!!"

//

that one time in a vlog

Seeun always liked filming the little vlogs. They were fun and easy—since he doesn't have to edit them. Sometimes they DID get in the way tho. Like today. Today it was meant to be a cute date. One of the first times you both went on a date outside at that. But then Hyunwoo got sick. And so he had to fill in for his turn in vlogging.

You both decided to just film some parts of the date. Maybe even push the "Seeun goes on a date with roady" kind of deal.

It worked like fire.

Seeun swears he has never been more himself like in this vlog. He constantly flirts with "the camera."

"Have I said you look beautiful today?"

And just chuckles at your blushing face—who is filming everything. He also likes to do something called "boyfriend check" which is just him at random doing something "boyfriend coded" He takes of his hoodie when it's a bit chill and gives it to roady—although the hoodie never comes back. He reaches behind the camera and does an obnoxious kissing sound—although his gaze changes and his lips look ever so slightly shinier.

"So babe," he calls to you looking dead centre at the camera. "When are you going to flirt back? I am starting to feel a one-sided relationship over here." Seeun awaits for an answer, just like he has each time he speaks to the vlog. But this time it feels different. His eyes look up at yours for a split of a second, as if challenging you. As if daring you to say something, to do something while the camera is rolling.

You don't take the bait. Instead you go and grab his hand, interviewing your fingers together. Seeun's eyes widen, as if you had told him right and there you were an alien. He tries to catch his composure and ends up looking to the side. The camera catches his ears redden.

"Thought you said I should be more bold?" You tease him.

"I-I said roady should be more bold!" He defends himself. "You are a danger already as you are, don't go around doing this."

"Or what?"

He covers the lenses with his other hand and kisses you.

//

that one time he re-watches your clips constantly

Now, while the "date with Roady" was a hit. Feeding into delusions, as well as fans joking about the poor staff member who had to suffer Seeun like that. His favourite clip never got posted. For the better in hindsight.

He constantly re-watches it all. The whole vlog, the cute challenges, the deleted footage. It's his favourite past-time, especially now, while he is on tour. He has memorized it all by now. As if it was a script he memorized the soft ways of your language. The way you both interact. The way you both love.

Now dating while being an idol is hard. It truly is. And, sometimes, it is not worth it. The other nine members can't help but worry about Seeun a lot. But it's in times like this that Seeun is the most himself. They see the way he smiles. The way his whole body language changes. They see it in the way they know when he's talking or watching you. It is at times like this that they hold onto hope. They hope no one will break it. They hope the best for the both of you. Sometimes even dreaming for a love so pure it can brake though the impossible. They hope for love.

[jasmines-library]

Double Trouble

⛤⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽⛧☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅⛤

WHUMPTOBER DAY ELEVEN: Prompt: Seeing Double

MASTERLIST WHUMPTOBER 2024

⛤⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽⛧☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅⛤

To say you weren’t in the greatest stay would be an understatement. The hunt had been extremely rough and you had been tossed around like a ragdoll until you were beaten and bloody. You were fighting a coven of witches. All brutal and nasty in their own way, and damn near impossible to actually get rid of in one go. You had just managed to dust one of them and you were raising your gun to take a shot at a second one when something collided with your back.

It was cold and cut through you like a knife, gripping at your heart. It hurt, and you cried out, dropping to your knees. One of them had managed to land a spell on you. Clutching at your chest, you had squeezed your eyes shut, trying to block out the room around you. You could still hear the commotion from the other room where your brothers were occupied with their own bundles of trouble.

The pain seemed to subside after a moment or too; but when you opened your eyes to stand up again, you were met with dizziness and a wave of nausea. Your vision swam and doubled before you, making it impossible to see straight.

You could see Sam approach in the doorway, but to your eyes his figure morphed in and out of two version of himself. When he saw you on the floor he dropped down infront of you, calling for Dean with a shout.

“Hey—“ the non-vision of Sam tapped at your face “what’s going on? Are you alright?”

“….spell…..”

“What? What happened?”

“Can’t see…….two of you….” You mumbled, trying to focus so that the two images would merge into one. But they just wouldn’t.

“Shit.” Sam cursed. Then Dean arrived, his silhouette also split in two. “She’s been cursed! What do we do?!” Sam said desperately.

“Hey. Focus on us, kid. You gotta try and stay focused.” Dean urged you when your mind started to wander. “We need to try and find the witch who hexed you. Can you remember what they looked like? Where they went.?”

Deans words tried to spark some recognition in your mind. But you couldn’t remember seeing the witches face because the attack had come from behind. But as you dwelled on it longer, you began to recall who else was in the room with you at the time. Raising one arm in what you though was the right direction, you pointed them towards the doorway.

Dean was up in a second, dashing though the house to try and kill the witch before they got away to end the curse over you quicker. Meanwhile Dean stayed infront of you, whispering reassuring words and trying to get you to focus.

There was the sound of a gunshot, followed by a scream from somewhere within the house. And then slowly the two figures of Dean merged into one. You blinked, readjusting as the nausea vanished. Sam came skidding back into the room with a hopeful look on his face.

“….you alright?”

You blinked. “Yeah…..thank you.”

Dean helped you up gently, patting you on the back supportively as you re-gained your bearings.

“I hate witches.” You grumbled.

“I can’t blame you” Dean said.

“Yeah. Remind me to never come to one of these again.” You huffed.

“You say that every time.” Dean couldn’t help but smirk. “And yet here you are.

⛤⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽⛧☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅⛤

<- DAY TEN. DAY TWELVE ->

⛤⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽⛧☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅⛤

TAGS:

@hearts4robs @kingshitonly @alicedawitchbish @hell-o-kittys @azure-drag0ness @harleycao @thewhispersofthewaves @batfamsstuff @xxrougefangxx @rosecentury @noisymutantherelol @killxz @rhiodes @inlovewhithafairytale @that-wannabe-vangoghgurl @canthavetoomuchchaos

⛤⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽⛧☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅⛤

[thestarswillguide]

𝐀𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐯𝐨𝐬 — 𝐈𝐦𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐨𝐧𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬

Summary: Just some headcanons of what exactly was going through Aaravos's head during and after his imprisonment

Content/Warnings: Possibly OOC Aaravos (since it's my first time writing for a character), angst (him being depressed and angry (◞‸ ◟) ), Avizandum & Zubeia mention, Claudia & Viren mention, some sweet/hopeful parts here and there ₊˚⊹♡ (wc: 1.1k)

A/N: AHHH this is my first time writing!! (seriously I've never written headcanons or a oneshot or anything oof-) I honestly think these hcs are bad and I'm not sure they're really accurate or if I did this right, but I enjoyed writing them nonetheless 🥲. I had to keep stopping myself from thinking too hard as I imagined myself as him, and sort of just relax my mind and type whatever thoughts came to me, which is what I assume most writers do lol. Anyway, I hope this is up to par 😅. Don't be afraid to send requests and/or interact with me! ☺️✨ (tdp masterlist)

Divider/Gif Credit: @/cyberangel-graphics & @/firefly-graphics | Gif was made by me <3

✧ Aaravos is so relieved to be out of his prison.

✧ Honestly, the council having killed his daughter had already damaged his mental health enough. Being trapped alone in what appeared to be the same place he'd raised her in didn’t help his state at all...

✧ Don’t think he didn’t try to learn about what he was confined in. He examined every part and every oddity, sifting through all his knowledge to figure out the who, what, where, when, why, and how.

✧ I guarantee that not long after he was imprisoned, he attempted at least once to use his Star powers to escape. It was honestly aggravating to go from being a powerful being who could teleport anywhere in the universe to a captive, either halted by the prison or ending up in a different part of it (I’m not even going to mention him trying the portal-).

✧ You'd think because he's lived for so incredibly long that time would go by in the blink of an eye for him, but NOPE, he keeps track—he always does. And being imprisoned made that time feel torturous. To spend centuries without anyone to talk to? Heavens, he was so lonely that it got to the point where he started murmuring to himself...

✧ He would think a lot about his plans; how he’d get out and what he would do once he did. He was sure that the dark mages out there were getting stronger, and knew they’d be even more useful to him than before if one were to ever take the mirror somehow.

✧ The only way he could relax, even just a little bit, was by reading or thinking about Leola, moments spent gazing out of the window or at different parts of the house with a nostalgic smile on his face as memories from long, long ago blurred into his vision...as if time hadn’t passed at all... But that smile would soon disappear as those images faded away, his mind returning to why she wasn’t there with him.

✧ Whenever Avizandum watched him, Aaravos would either ignore him, give him a full-on death glare, or a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. Many times, he’d leave the room just to spite him. Oh, why wouldn’t the dragon just drop dead?

✧ Even though patience is one of his greatest strengths, that certainly didn't keep him from being very upset about his predicament. Sometimes he’d look like he was in a trance, lost in his thoughts as all the rage and hurt he harbored made him want to curse and destroy all he bore ill will toward. But behind all that anger...he’s just so old and miserable from all the suffering he’s known and been through. Deep down, he aches for peace...

✧ It was a pleasant surprise however (if he didn't expect it that is) when the mirror brightened again and revealed a human. Aaravos didn’t allow himself to get too eager though (he definitely saw Viren; he’d be great at poker I swear 😂). Those scenes of him walking around the room seemingly without noticing Viren were just him assessing the human, waiting to see if he would be the right vessel he needed.

✧ The mortal staying showed him just how curious he was, and it was perfect. He was pleased because finally, he had a chance. An opportunity to be released. To continue his work and get around this exasperating obstacle.

✧ It was truly gratifying to see the world outside again and move about in it in apparition form. He’d used the caterpillar spell or ones like it before with those in Elarion, secretly whispering into their ear y’know?

✧ His playfulness and carefree smiles are pretty much a mask, a facade...but even though he’s severely depressed underneath, that’s still a part of his personality; it just takes the right person to genuinely bring it out...

✧ Which ended up being Claudia. Even before he was released, he was somewhat fond of her. She was willing to do anything necessary to help Viren, and when working to resurrect him, she often gave Aaravos's unsettling instructions a quirky/amusing remark. It made him feel some sort of way...

✧ At the beginning of season 4, that expression on his face as he was first looking around Zubeia's lair? Yeah, he was peeved. He hated being back there. That’s one of the reasons why he broke the mirror: one, because he was confident enough in the vessels he had to be his ONLY means of escape; and two, because he refused to be watched by a dragon for one more second.

✧ It’s obvious that he likes insects. If the caterpillar had been with him for the past few centuries, that’d have been his only friend. 🐛❤️

✧ As we all know, Aaravos tells half-truths, and although he meant what he said to Claudia about Viren being a great man and everything, it’s sad to say that it’s likely he knows he’s the cause of her father’s death. He had to conceal the truth though, else he would’ve risked losing the only one who would willingly free him.

✧ It was always the same inside his prison; there was no weather, no times of day (which makes it even more remarkable how he kept track of time imo, but he is a Startouch elf so... 🤷🏽‍♀️), nothing. So when he was finally released, everything felt...intense. He seemed calm but his senses weren’t, and he had to get used to all of it again. At some moments he would suddenly close his eyes (esp when the sun first came up omg), looking like he was just having a moment with his thoughts when really he was trying to deal with the bothersome sensations.

✧ And an arrow to the neck? Explosions hitting his body and eyes? Dragons beating him up? Getting bitten by the dragon and then BLOWING UP? I’m telling you, he took it like an absolute champ after having spent three centuries in a tranquil environment!

✧ But all of that doesn’t matter to Aaravos, because his plan had gone exactly how he wanted it to go, and now, he might just have one more reason to live. Losing Leola made him feel empty, devoid of happiness...but Claudia, she gave him the bit of solace his heart had desperately needed for the past few millennia. She had become his only light; his only light in the dark world he felt tormented being in.

✧ So even now, as he waits in the heavens for his return to finish what he started, his decision remains: to not let that light get put out.

𝘓𝘪𝘬𝘦, 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘥/𝘰𝘳 𝘳𝘦𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘨 = 𝘢 𝘴𝘮𝘰𝘰𝘤𝘩 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘮𝘦 😚🩷

[the-raven-lady]

a gift for @men-want-me-fish-fear-me !! it told me about its mpreg AU and got me thinking about the complications that would have for someone like Konrad

this one's a bit heavy on body image issues so please be in a good state of mind for this!!

please read the warnings!!

Character: Konrad Curze

Song Inspiration: Real Men - Mitski [YouTube] [Spotify] "Real men don't need other people / And real men suck it in / Real men don't flinch or bleed in public / Oh, I think I'm a real man."

Warnings: mpreg, pregnancy symptoms, self image issues, self-inflicted gore, lamenting dark realities, implication of potential non-con, mentions of infanticide

Word Count: 643

Konrad groaned as the weight shift nearly threw him off balance and crashing into the stones below. Had the nausea not been enough? Blackened nails and coarse fingertips drag over the sensitive flesh of his aching abdomen, the skin taut against the growing life beneath. The Night Haunter loathed his natural urges. Being bound to a biological clock beyond his control was one of the many gifts of his father that he would rather have ripped out long ago.

As if he hadn’t already tried. 

It was easy enough for him to sink his clawed finger tips deep into the putrid skin of his belly. The iron tang of blood spilled had only served to spur him on, ripping and tearing and pulling as the offending organ until it was nothing but fleshy pink viscera on the floor. How miserable it had been when it had not even taken a week for the gland to revive itself. The regenerative nature of primarch biology seemed to leave him no choice in the matter.

Righting himself on his perch, Konrad elected to take a break from his prowling to calm the waves of nausea washing over him. He would never get used to it. A zing of electricity shot up from his tailbone when he sat against the stone ledge, drawing a gasp from him, then several curses. He gently rubs the base of his spine to soothe the ache.

Konrad felt delicate. Every little action that he would normally perform without effort could prove to be too much on his pregnant body. Perhaps he would be fine with it if he chose when the urges to breed took him, but his genealogy couldn’t even grant him that. Throne save the next helpless serf that wandered in his path when it kicked in, for Konrad knew their chances of survival were slim at best. This was a part of his father’s great vision? Bouncing on the cock of passers-by then birthing sons into a legion of murders and scum? It infuriated the primarch to no end. His only saving grace was that he never seemed to inflate to the size of his expecting brothers, remaining more gaunt and lithe.

Perhaps if he were Guilliman or Fulgrim, he could try to find an ounce of pride in bringing a new life into the world. Maybe then, he would see a purpose to all of the lost meals, cramping, and searing pain of the birthing process. Maybe then he wouldn’t hate the changes to his body, losing the ability to bend and contort as he wished. Maybe then he would want to hold the boys as they came out and coo at them as his brothers did.

His legion would never be grateful for the effort he put in for them. He would spare all of his blood children the mercy of ever having to integrate into the Night Lords with a quick snap to the neck if they weren’t always taken from him so quickly. Darling of his brothers to chain him down each and every time he neared emergence after they discovered the fates of the first several cycles. Fulgrim had been mortified hearing about how Konrad had disposed of the newborns like waste.

The Imperial Palace was always quiet at this time of night, nobles and Astartes alike turning in by this hour. Only Custodians remained, silent watchers they were (at least they could mind their own business), and his brothers would rarely come to check in on him. Konrad let out a weary sigh and tucked his legs the best he could against his swollen belly, protecting the fetus within. Emotions threatened to boil over in his chest, and Konrad Curze had to choke back a tired sob.

Things would be much easier if he didn’t still love each of his sons anyway.

[poisonlove]

Broken | j.o

this one-shot is very special as it belongs to an alternative Harry Potter universe.

I walked through the corridors of Hogwarts, tears streaming down my cheeks, my breath uneven, and my chest aching. My vision was blurred by the tears, and audible sobs escaped my lips. I just wanted to get out of that cursed place.

Still, I could vividly recall the image of her eyes widening in surprise, and that hurt so much.

Flashback:

With a smile on my face, I entered through the portrait of the Fat Lady, arriving in the Gryffindor common room. I had just finished Quidditch practice and had achieved excellent results. All I wanted to do now was to fall asleep in the arms of my girlfriend, Hermione. I smiled just at the thought of her name. I hurriedly climbed the stairs and walked toward my destination. When I reached our shared room, I noticed the door was slightly ajar. "That's strange... Hermione never leaves the door open." Instinctively, I reached for my wand and cautiously entered, ready to confront anyone who had entered without permission. I slowly closed the door behind me, and strange noises came from inside. The sounds grew louder and clearer. "What on earth is this?" I opened the door, and my world crumbled before my eyes. My body temperature plummeted, and I could hear the sound of my heart breaking into a thousand pieces. I still couldn't believe what I was seeing. Hermione was kissing Ron. The brunette had her arms around Ron's neck, pulling the redhead closer to her, their lips locked in a passionate kiss. My fingers loosened their grip on the wand, and it fell to the floor, drawing the attention of the two lovers. Hermione's eyes widened as she saw my tear-filled eyes, and she quickly pushed Ron away, covering herself hurriedly. "Love, it's not what it looks like." End of Flashback:

I stopped and realized I was standing in front of the Ravenclaw house. Unconsciously, I had arrived at Jenna Ortega's house, my best friend.

I wiped my eyes with my sleeve and bit my lip, trying to contain the hiccup that threatened to escape. I took a step forward and slipped through the door, which was opened by a student leaving at that moment.

I made my way toward the rooms, stopping abruptly when I heard noises coming from a corner of the Common Room.

Laughter could be heard in the distance near the sofas.

I headed toward the sound of laughter and spotted Jenna's characteristic raven-black hair in the distance. The young Ravenclaw was laughing, probably at some lousy jokes from Enid. My attention focused on Jenna's profile: her delicately upturned nose, her brown eyes shining as they turned toward her friends, and her heart-shaped lips forming a shy smile. I watched as a dimple formed on her cheek each time she raised the corners of her lips.

With subtlety, the raven-haired girl turned in my direction.

As soon as her eyes met mine, I couldn't hold back the tears, and I burst into tears. The warm smile on Jenna's face quickly faded, replaced by a look of deep concern. Without a second thought, Jenna got up from the couch and quickly walked toward me, leaving her friends and Enid somewhat incredulous.

My hands were trembling, and sobs escaped uncontrollably from my mouth.

Two arms wrapped around my waist, and I immediately returned the hug, crying into Jenna's neck. After what felt like endless seconds, Jenna broke the embrace and gently cupped my cheeks, wiping away the remaining tears with her thumbs. Brown eyes looked into mine with concern.

"What happened?" she asked timidly, taking my hands and stroking them to calm me. "Her... her... her..." I stammered, and she smiled at me, trying to reassure me. "Hermione," I finally said, and new tears welled up in my eyes. Jenna interlocked our fingers and quickly walked to her room, seeking privacy.

She was a prefect, so she had her own room.

We entered her room and walked over to her bed, sitting down on it. "What happened? Did you two have a fight?" Jenna asked absentmindedly, playing with my hands.

I stared intently at our intertwined hands, focusing on the gentle touch of my best friend. Jenna's nails traced slowly across the palm of my hand, as if trying to comfort me. A knot formed in my throat, and a soft hiccup escaped my lips. Tears welled up in my eyes.

"She... she..." I took a breath. "She cheated on me," I whispered the last part.

Jenna's eyes widened in surprise, and a flash of anger mixed in her dark irises. She clenched her jaw, and her knuckles turned white from the tight grip of her hands. "She what?" she whispered, utterly infuriated. "After practice, I went back to the room, and I found her with Ron," I said, feeling a pang in my chest."Am I not enough?" I asked with a broken tone, causing more tears to roll down my cheeks.

Her gaze softened.

"No, no, no, you're amazing," Jenna took my cheeks and made me look into her eyes, smiling at me. "You're beautiful, smart, and incredibly amazing... anyone would be lucky to have you... it's not your fault she didn't know how to appreciate you," she said, her eyes closing slightly after the last sentence, still angry at what Granger had done. The pressure in her jaw faded, and she looked at me with tenderness.

I'm not sure if it was because of my vulnerability and hurt at that moment, but I gently moved my face closer to hers and kissed her softly, a completely unexpected kiss. Jenna was stiff to the touch, totally taken aback by my action. I decided to pull away slowly, thinking that maybe I had made a mistake, but then, a gentle hand landed on the nape of my neck, pulling me toward her face, uniting us again in a passionate kiss.The raven-haired girl melted under my lips, and she started moving her lips softly, with a gentle and unhurried rhythm. My hands moved along her waist, slowly caressing her exposed skin. A smile formed on Jenna's lips as we continued kissing, and without realizing it, I smiled too. When I felt her tongue brushing against my lower lip, seeking a deeper kiss, I opened my eyes wide and quickly pulled away from her.

What did I do?

"I... oh my God, I'm sorry," I got up from the bed, looking ashamed at Jenna.

The raven-haired girl had trouble breathing, her cheeks were flushed, and her lips were slightly parted as she tried to calm her heavy breathing. Her hair was disheveled, and her eyes had a very different gleam from the usual. She forced a weak smile and got up from the bed.

"It was a mistake... I'm sorry," I admitted, looking at her with guilt. Jenna shook her head slowly, taking my hand. I felt terribly like shit when I saw her eyes glistening.

A single tear rolled down her cheek.

"Y/N..." she whispered, caressing my hand. My eyes looked at her lips.

It's not fair... I just broke up with Hermione... I don't want to hurt Jenna.

"Jenna... it was something I didn't think through... it was spontaneous... I was hurt... angry..." I confessed, and I saw her eyes fill with tears. She blinked back the tears, clenching her jaw and breaking the contact between our hands.

"I'm sorry..." I added, moving closer.

"Y/N/N... you don't need to apologize," Jenna swallowed nervously, closing her eyes at the touch of my hand on her cheek. "I liked it," she said, her eyes closing slightly, still blushing, her lips partially open, trying to calm her heavy breathing.

"I am in love with you" Jenna confessed with a sigh.

I leaned forward and gave her a tender kiss on the forehead. Then, I stepped back, looking at her with a mix of emotions and confusion, trying to decipher my feelings and which path to take next.

For a long time, I wrestled internally with my feelings for Hermione and Jenna. I often tried to convince myself that Jenna was just a good friend and that my feelings for her were confusing. However, in the fifth year, everything changed when I saw her with another guy. At that moment, I felt a burning fire in my stomach and an uncontrollable wave of jealousy that made me realize there was something deeper.

I felt scared by those feelings. I didn't want to jeopardize our friendship, so I chose to bury my emotions and give Hermione a chance. I developed genuine feelings for the golden girl and fell in love with her, but deep down, I knew it would be challenging to leave behind my first love, especially when she was my best friend.I loved Hermione, but my feelings for Jenna still lingered, always present in my heart.

"Jen... it's just... not the right time," I looked at her, and I saw the shine in her eyes. I noticed she was clenching her jaw tightly, struggling not to break down in front of me.

"Can we discuss it another time?" I suggested, and she nodded slowly, accepting my proposal.I approached the door and opened the handle, stepping out of her room with a broken heart and many doubts.

(...)

I had just left my Arithmancy class, carrying the book under my arm with the intention of heading towards Jenna's room. For the past two weeks, I had been avoiding her, needing space and time to reflect on everything. However, I had to admit that I missed her a lot and was ready to address the topic I had been dreading.

The memory of the kiss kept replaying in my mind, even invading my dreams with the brown eyes of the dark-haired girl. Let's just say that while I hadn't seen her in person all this time, Ortega had been psychologically tormenting me.

I couldn't help but smile unconsciously.

My smile was immediately replaced by a look of disgust and sadness when I saw Granger walking towards me in the distance. Just by looking into her eyes, my heart broke even more. Her unmistakable hazel eyes were filled with tears.

"Y/N... I've been looking for you... we need to talk," she said, clenching her jaw, a single tear rolling down her cheek. She reached out and took my hand, gently holding my fingers. As if I had touched fire, I withdrew my hand and took a step back, shaking my head slowly.

"Don't touch me," I whispered with a broken voice. After days of crying, I had finally calmed down, but seeing Granger made a lump form in my throat. I didn't want to cry in front of the golden girl; I didn't want to show weakness.

I swallowed hard and lifted my chin, looking at her with detachment. "Please... we need to talk," she repeated, slightly hurt after my rejection. I clenched the book and walked forward, lightly bumping her shoulder with mine. "We have nothing to discuss."

Before I could walk away, a hand grabbed my wrist.

"Please... it was a mistake... I love you," Hermione said with a tone so sweet and wounded that I almost believed it.

Almost.

"How long?" I asked, clenching my jaw. "How long have you been cheating on me?" At this point, we were face to face, our breaths mingling. Her grip faltered, and she averted her gaze. "How long, Hermione?" I demanded, getting angrier, raising my voice.

"Two months," she confessed in a whisper, moving closer.

I pulled my hand away, looking at her with a mocking smile. "Six months of a relationship, and you cheated for two..." I shook my head in disappointment and disgust. "Goodbye, Hermione, don't look for me anymore," I told her coldly, and her eyes filled with tears.

She threw herself into my arms, preventing me from walking. I stiffened at the contact.

"Hermione... let me go," I said, my voice firm.

She broke the hug and looked at me with wounded eyes. I averted my gaze, trying not to fall into her trap.

"We need to talk," she whispered again.

"Haven't you understood, Granger?" someone intervened. I turned toward the voice and found two brown eyes. Jenna Ortega was looking at Hermione with anger.

"Mind your own business, Ortega," Hermione said venomously.

"Jenna..." I whispered.

Jenna locked her eyes with mine, showing a mix of hurt and happiness at seeing me. She gave me a weak smile.

The two girls glared at each other, their jaws clenched, restraining themselves from drawing their wands and hexing each other.

"Hermione... I don't want you to hurt each other... so I ask you to leave," I said, feeling a pang in my chest. Hermione looked at me with sadness for a split second, then took a step back and shook her head as she walked away from my sight.

It was just Jenna and me.

I approached the Ravenclaw, strangely nervous and with a racing heart. My palms were sweaty, and my legs trembled slightly. I was having the reaction of a teenager with her first love. I took a deep breath and looked at Jenna, who observed me curiously.

"Jenna, I..." I whispered, then took another breath. "To be honest, I've always felt something for you," I confessed, looking impassively at the dark-haired girl.

Jenna gave me a big smile.

"In these two weeks, I've thought a lot about you... and also about Hermione... I... I managed not to cry in front of her, you know," she took my hands, caressing them slowly. "I feel guilty for avoiding you," I admitted, and she shook her head, letting go of my hand and placing hers on my cheek.

"You needed space," she said, caressing my cheek, and I leaned into her touch.

Suddenly, her gaze became more serious, and she stood on tiptoe, bringing her face closer to mine. My heart was pounding, nervous about the proximity. Jenna's mouth was inches from mine, her warm breath brushing against my lips. She wrapped her hands around my neck and looked deeply into my eyes, searching for any sign of rejection that she didn't find. Then, she brought her face even closer to mine, and our lips brushed.

I swallowed hard, making Jenna smile.

"I'm not ready for a relationship... I... I'm scared," I confessed in a whisper, barely parting my lips from hers. Jenna's hand moved gently on my cheek, while the other wrapped determinedly around my neck. Instinctively, I placed my hands around her waist, making it easier for our contact due to the noticeable height difference between us.

"I'll take care of you," she whispered in response, closing the gap between our lips with tenderness. Our lips met in a soft and passionate kiss, sealing our complicated connection with affection and silent promises.

"Miss L/n! Ortega!" A sharp voice reprimanded with disapproval.

We immediately pulled away, my cheeks reddening quickly as we saw Professor McGonagall in front of us, with a stern expression that hinted at a touch of amusement.

"Uh... Professor McGonagall, we were just..." I stammered, trying to find an appropriate explanation as Jenna and I looked at each other in embarrassment.

Professor McGonagall observed us with a stern gaze before letting out a small smile. "Well, Miss Y/n, Miss Ortega, I hope your... conversation was interesting. Now, please, continue with your school activities in a proper manner."

We both apologized immediately, trying to redeem ourselves for our brief moment of affection in the halls of Hogwarts. With flushed faces, we nodded to Professor McGonagall and hurried to resume our school activities, aware that we had briefly interrupted the school's routine with our fleeting moment of passion.

I'm still broken... but I have faith that I can heal.

***

"Don't you think you're being unfair to Jenna?" I glanced at Enid out of the corner of my eye, raising my eyebrows in confusion at her question. "What do you mean?" I asked with perplexity, looking into the blue eyes of my Hufflepuff friend. "They've been at this for a month now," she murmured in a hushed tone near my ear, not wanting to draw curious glances.

After the kiss I shared with Jenna, I decided to give it a chance. With a lump in my throat, I proposed that we take things slow, without putting labels on what we had. The brunette made a face, but with sparkling eyes, she asked if kisses were included, to which I replied affirmatively, but only in private.

"She deserves something better... I'm just a wounded girl, afraid of relationships," I sighed in frustration, clenching my jaw and exhaling loudly through my nose.

"Jenna loves you," Enid gave me a reassuring smile and gently embraced me, wrapping one hand around my neck. "You love her too, right?" She asked curiously, and I nodded, glancing at her from the corner of my eye. "Then give her a chance... make it official," she urged me, and I sighed, seriously considering her words.

"And... what about Hermione?" Enid murmured, and I sighed in dismay. "We're still friends... well, not like before, but we've talked," I bit my lower lip and crossed my legs to find a more comfortable position. I rested my head against the tree behind me. "After a few days, we talked, and... we resolved it, at least I think," I whispered, and Enid looked at me curiously.

"Does Jenna know?" she asked, and I nodded distractedly. "Yes, she didn't take it very well... but when I told her I just wanted to be friends with Hermione because she was in love with Ron, she agreed... though not entirely convinced," I affirmed, then played with my fingers, reflecting on the events.

My eyes turned towards Jenna, who was meanwhile playing with her friends. With a lump in my throat, I watched as her coal-colored eyes met mine, looking at me as if I were the most beautiful artwork she had ever seen in her life.

Xavier took advantage of Jenna's distraction to throw a ball directly at her face. I unconsciously stood up and, with a smile, headed in her direction, trying to figure out if she was okay. I looked closely at her as I approached, concerned about her well-being after the impact of the ball.

"Sorry, Jen," Xavier mumbled weakly, looking at Jenna with concern as he picked up the ball. "Don't worry, keep playing," Jenna said, rubbing her head to relieve the pain and squinting from the hit.

"Are you okay?" I whispered when I reached the dark-haired girl, and her eyes roamed over my figure, smiling in affirmation. "Come on, get up," I extended my hand and invited her to take it to help her stand up. "Volleyball is a terrible game for Muggles," she murmured weakly, watching the rest of her friends play the game I had suggested they try. "Sorry, Jen, I read it in a book in the Muggle section, and it seemed fun," I confessed with a small smile.

Her fingers delicately touched mine, caressing me tenderly and without ulterior motives. Our gazes met, and I gave her a nervous smile, examining her face and every detail that composed it. Jenna bit her lower lip slightly, lost in thought and with her gaze fixed on a corner of my face, specifically my lips. I ran my tongue over my upper lip, suddenly feeling the dryness in my throat.

Our faces, as if they were magnets, drew closer to each other.

"Are you okay?" I murmured in a whisper near her lips as I leaned toward her face, pressing my lips against her forehead, kissing the bruised spot. Jenna let out a sigh of relief when she felt my lips descend and land on the tip of her nose and then on her cheeks, stopping especially on the right one, which still bore the mark of the ball.

"In reality..." she murmured, releasing her fingers from mine, placing her hand on my shoulder and intertwining her fingers around my neck, absentmindedly playing with the hairs that stood on end due to our recent proximity. "It hurts here..." her lips curved into a smile when her free hand rested on them.

Jenna's neck was tilted upwards, her eyes searching mine with longing.

"Then I'll have to help you," I murmured with a playful smile, catching Jenna by surprise as she didn't expect that response. I leaned even closer, and our lips met in a sweet kiss, feeling the sigh of relief that Jenna released upon contact with me.

My hand rested on her side, pushing Jenna closer to my body during the kiss, needing more contact. A soft moan escaped from her lips, and a fiery heat ignited in the pit of my stomach upon hearing that sound, feeling utterly satisfied to be the cause of her pleasure. Jenna pressed her body closer to mine, and our lips moved urgently against each other, her mischievous hands tangled in my hair, desiring to feel the sensation between her fingers.

The need for oxygen was immediately felt, and after seconds that seemed endless, we broke the contact between our lips, breathing heavily. Immediately, a smile spread across Jenna's lips, and I, unconsciously, did the same, resting my forehead against hers.

"Wow," she murmured, then chuckled softly, leaning forward and resting her head on my neck.

I smiled as I watched Jenna and her friends who continued playing, also noticing that our Hufflepuff friend had joined them.

I sighed contentedly at the warmth of Jenna's arms around my waist. "What does this mean?" Jenna murmured distractedly, her lips brushing my skin.

A shiver ran through my body at her gesture, and I sighed deeply, suppressing the moan that threatened to escape from my lips.

"I think it's time to make it official," I exclaimed, and Jenna Ortega quickly pulled away from my arms. I looked at her in confusion at her reaction, and I was alarmed to see tears welling up in her eyes.

"Is everything okay?" I asked with concern, and the ravenclaw nodded slowly, a smile on her lips.

"It's... wonderful," she smiled sincerely and absentmindedly played with my tie. "So... can I tell my friends? Even now?" she asked, not stopping her gaze from wandering over my tie, pausing at the emblem printed on my chest.

I nodded with a warm smile, touched by the tenderness of my now official girlfriend. Jenna's joy was so contagious that I felt like my heart was about to burst with happiness. Her eyes sparkled with excitement, and I couldn't help but be infected by her enthusiasm.

Jenna started jumping in place, her arms around me, radiating happiness and excitement. She hugged me tightly. "What you said earlier... it's true, right?" she asked with a trembling voice. I looked at her with a gentle smile. "Yes, it's absolutely true," I replied with a tender kiss.

Our lips parted with a soft sound, and Jenna smiled sweetly.

"Are we girlfriends?" she asked in a soft voice, her smile lighting up her face. Her eyes searched mine for confirmation.

Tenderness filled the air as I caressed her cheek and replied, "Yes, we're officially girlfriends." Jenna let out a sigh of happiness and hugged me tighter, sealing our new relationship with a sweet kiss.

Jenna pulled away and looked at me with a smile. "I'm going to tell my friends, Girlfriend," she said quickly with a triumphant smile. Her enthusiasm and happiness were contagious, and I couldn't help but smile as I watched her run towards her friends who were still playing volleyball.

"Guys! GUYS! I HAVE A GIRLFRIEND! I HAVE A GIRLFRIEND!" Jenna shouted with excitement, and her friends smiled at her cuteness and joy. It was a moment of happiness and celebration shared by all.

As I watched Jenna and her friends, I couldn't help but think about how sometimes, even when you're afraid, love pushes you to take risks. Although there was still uncertainty on the horizon, I knew we were willing to face any challenges together because what we had was special and worth every moment.

Author: Guys… seriously, please… I put in a lot of effort to write, and I would really appreciate some comments from you… I'm not asking for much.

[multifandomfix]

Plague Of The Paramour — Anthony Bridgerton

Summary: You let yourself be seduced by Anthony, and with your reputation at stake, after your tryst, you make sure to steer clear of him. But Anthony Bridgerton is not an easy man to avoid.

Word Count: 589

Warnings: Fem!Reader, some angst, implied past sexual content

Any time the ton was brought together for an event, you made sure to avoid Anthony like the plague. Even catching a glimpse of him from across the way would bring to mind the images of that ill fated night you spent under his thrall.

Of course, Anthony wasn’t entirely to blame. He may have initiated your seduction, but you were no fool. You’d allowed yourself to be seduced, knowing full well what the consequences of such a thing could be. And now, you were regretting it.

The night in question was not the part you regretted, rather it was the implications it made towards your character and your chances to be wed. You understood that Anthony had not done what he’d done in preparation to make an honest woman of you. No, he’d only done what he always did, make a game out of women’s affections.

It seemed that tonight, despite the efforts made on your part, Anthony was always there, in the corners of your vision, as if he were deliberately trying to get your attention. Well, if that were the case, you surely weren’t about to make it easy for him.

In a valiant attempt to dodge the eldest Bridgerton, you filled up your dance card, leaving you precious little time to be alone during the evening, therefore giving him the smallest possible chance to steal you away. You didn’t want to speak to him. Hell, you didn’t even want to see him.

As the night progressed, you were sure your ingenuity had succeeded. Yet, when it came to the last dance of the night, your planned partner was conspicuously absent. As you searched the room for the man, it was Anthony who caught your eye, making his way towards you through the crowd. You silently cursed to yourself, knowing that running from him would only cause a scene, and that was something you definitely didn’t need.

“Lord Bridgerton,” you greeted as gracefully as you could manage.

“You are a difficult one to track down,” Anthony replied, a little out of breath from his relentless pursuit of you. “I’ve wished to speak with you all night.”

“How unfortunate that we haven’t crossed paths then,” you said, though you’d hardly meant it.

“Unfortunate indeed. I had something I wanted to ask of you.”

“If it’s a repeat performance, then you ought to look elsewhere,” you informed him. “I am not the type to make the same mistake twice.”

Your words appeared to have wounded him like a blade, as it took quite a bit of fortitude for him not to recoil at the venom in your voice. He doubted himself for a moment, but ultimately decided to continue. “I assure you that was not the question I’d intended. And though I do not have the utmost confidence in your answer, I shall ask you anyway, here and now. Will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

The question had truly shocked you and had stopped some of the action in the room from the nearest bystanders. They, and Anthony, awaited your answer. Certainly he couldn’t mean— Had you been found out? You looked in his eyes, desperately searching for the answer to your unspoken questions.

Anthony only looked back with pure adoration, something you hadn’t expected from him. That night may have been an error in judgement, but that didn’t mean there were no feelings between you. His question tonight clarified that much. And so, determining his feelings were earnest, you knew your answer. “Yes.”

For anon

Forever Tag: @baubeautyandthegeek, @ghostsunderstoodmysoul, @immyowndefender, @valencethefriendlychangeling, @crimsonwidow666, @rebelbossheart, @thedailyspiritualist, @orangeisnttheonlyfruit, @woman-simp, @aperol-with-izzy, @leonoralessoem, @ellepossum69, @lakita-fisher, @nclgsticore, @ayanthegreat28, @analuw, @luvlesavyy, @malfoyfeed, @aliciabrower, @bitchr-mkay, @sparrowspixie

Anthony Bridgerton: @retvenkos, @ladyrooster39, @riveranddoctorsong123, @theamazingworldofcarol, @esposamultifandom, @elorasfandomsandocs, @littlsstuff, @freyathehuntress, @m-rae23, @floresferae, @onlinecemetery, @bigbluegiants, @edit-me-prettyplease, @angelmenace, @foxherder, @bestfriend491, @astrogrande

[georgeweasleyslostearhq]

REQUEST: So a girl named y/n is Steve’s best friend. But they are very attracted to each other. Steve once dreamed that he and Y/N had sex. So one evening, Steve comes to watch a movie at Y/N, they talk about the dream and then…the smut part. @safinkd

SHOW ME, STEVE

Steve woke up in sweat and out of breath, his mind filling with the imagine of you, and him, naked on his bed doing things that best friends shouldn't do

he sat up, leaning on one arm as he ran his other hand though his hair.

he looked down at his pants and cursed under his breath

"fuck"

he got up and groggily walked to his bedroom to clean himself

he didn't know why his unconscious state would come up with something so... freaky, especially with you.

Steve has had his fair share of wet dreams before, but it's never revolved around you, and it has never been that graphic before, it was almost as if it was a memory

he went back to his bed and looked at the clock that sat on his nightstand

6:39am it read

he shook his head at the time and groaned.

the image of you in his head was something he couldn't shake off, it was imprinted on his mind and it had no intention of leaving anytime soon

of course he's thought about it, there's no way that in the 14 years of knowing you, he was bound to think about it sooner or later

-

Steve heard the phone ring from downstairs and since his parents weren't home, he had to get it

he took his time going down the stairs and into the livingroom

he walked to the phone that hung on the wall and picked it up

"hi, harringto-" he stared grumpily, sick of saying the same thing over and over again when he picks up the phone

"steve!" he heard your voice

"who is this?" he joked, knowing you hate it when he does it

"oh shut up, Steve" he could practically hear the eyeroll "just checking in to see if we're still on for tonight"

Steve's mouth went dry, he had totally forgot about his plans with you to go to your house that night

how could he face you with the image of you both in his bed running in his mind, still not leaving

"Steve? you there?" you questioned

"yeah, yeah, I'm still coming over tonight" he spoke up after clearing his throat

"ok, good- and please, for the love of god pick a good movie, Steve. I'm sorry, but I don't know if I can handle watching vision quest again" you sighed

it was an understatement to say Steve liked the movie vision quest, he took you to see it in the theatre when it came out not too long ago and every time he would come over to watch a movie at yours he would rent out that movie that you've gotten sick of it

"so I rent out vision quest?" he asked, wanting to annoy you

"Steve i swear to god if you bring Vision quest again I'm not letting you into my house" you huffed

"you will"

"no I won't"

"you will but whatever, I gotta go now, I need to get ready for work" Steve argued

"alright, bye, have a terrible day" you yawned

"bye"

-

Steve knocked on your door, a copy of back to the future in the bag full of your favourite candies

you opened the door slightly, peeking your head out, glaring at him warily

"what movie did you rent?" you asked dully, not letting him in until you had an answer

"vision quest" Steve lied with a smirk on his face

you continued glaring at him "seriously?"

"no, back to the future" he replied, taking it out of the bag and showing it to you

"ok, I don't have a problem with that" you smiled, opening the door and letting him in

he looked at what you were wearing and almost flinched when he saw almost the exact outfit you were wearing in his dream

"c'mon, I'm hungry" you groaned, grabbing his arm before pulling him in, shutting the door behind him

you ran to your room as he chased you up.

you went to the phone on your table and looked at the list of numbers named with restaurants next to the digits

"pizza, chinese, what do you want?" you asked as he sat down on your bed

"pizza sounds good" Steve shrugged

you ordered the pizza and flopped onto the bed next to him, not noticing the way he tensed up

"how was your day?" you asked casually, sitting up and getting comfy in your bed next to him

"it was fine, work was boring" Steve took a deep breath, rubbing his hands on his jeans

it was boring, he barely got anything done and was distracted by you, even if you were there, you stayed in his mind the whole day, never leaving

"no hot girls in groups coming in to flirt with you?" you questioned, tilting your head

there was a few girls that tried to get his number by he paid them no attention, ignoring them completely, letting Robin take care of them, they seemed more her type anyway, even if she didn't care either

"I'll get the movie going" he said, getting the movie and putting it into the tv, getting the remote and putting it on while you waited for the pizza

around 10 minutes into the film you heard a faint buzz from the front door.

you ran down stairs with money your parents gave you and paid for it

you got back to your room and put the pizza on the bed

"dig in, Harrington" you grinned before crawling into your bed again, getting close to Steve as he took the first slice, the movie still playing as he didn't unpause it.

Steve looked over at you at some point in the movie and stared as you watched the movie, eating your favourite snacks he brought

"Y/n?" he spoke up making you raise your eyebrows, your eyes still on the film

"yeah?" you whispered

"do you ever have weird dreams?" he asked curiously

"depends on what you classify as weird" you took another slice of pizza

"about me" he hesitated

you looked at him with a tilted head, not quite following what he was saying

"Steve, what do you mean?" you smiled, confused by his words

"have you ever had a-" he paused, closing his eyes tightly "a sex dream?"

you sat next to him, stunned and frozen

"uhm- well uh- not that I remember, why? have you?" you answered

"what if I did?" Steve took a deep breath

Steve was never nervous around girls, especially you. but he didn't know what to think, he's never reacted to a wet dream like this before, but then again, it's never been about you, it made him confused and awkward around you.

you shrugged "I guess it's a normal thing to happen"

"yeah" Steve nodded vigorously, watching as you smiled tightly, going back to watching the movie

Steve shifted as your thigh brushed against his

"what if- what if it was about you?" he blurted out

your head whipped in his direction with wide eyes

"did you have a sex dream about me, Steve?" you wondered nervously

"yes"

it stayed silent for a bit, you just staring at him while he fiddled with his fingers under the blanket

you let out a light laugh as you found the situation funny

"what did we do?" you asked

Steve grew confused at your reaction but then all of the nervousness washed away did you like the idea of it?

"wouldn't you want to know?" he chuckled lowly

you sat up straight and turned to him

"I would actually, or would you prefer to show me?" Steve noticed you biting your lip slightly, you did like the idea of it

"really?" he moved back slightly, getting a good look at you

you slowly nodded your head, leaning towards him

"show me what we did, Steve" you mumbled, getting closer and closer

he leaned in and waited to make sure it was ok

you nodded again and he kissed your lips gently. he felt you kiss back and he smiled against your lips

he laid you down and put you in the middle of the bed, the kiss deepening as he held your cheek

he took his other hand and held your waist, his hand going up your shirt just a little and rubbed your skin with his thumb

he moved down to kiss your jaw and made his way down to your neck, letting it bruise as he sucked on the delicate skin of your sweet spot

he heard your breath hitch as you closed your eyes

soon enough, he had your shirt off as was staring at your chest, admiring the way they looked through your light baby pink laced bra

"where'd you get this?" he questioned, playing with the strap, pulling on it and letting it go, hearing the clap noise it made when it hit your soft skin

"Victoria's Secret" you sighed in content, looking up at him with soft eyes

"I don't think there's gonna be any secrets to tell after I take this off" Steve smirked

"well by this rate you're getting nothing, you're taking your sweet ass time" you teased

"is there something wrong with admiring the view? I'm just taking you all in"

"I thought I'm the one supposed to do that with you?" you smirked playfully, laughing at the face he made when he realised what you meant

he reached behind your back and unclipped it, letting it pop off.

he slid it up your arms and took a deep breath when he looked at your exposed chest

he took both of his thumbs, running them over both of the nipple

he leaned down and took one in his mouth, swirling his tongue around the bud while holding the other, giving your tit squeezes and pinches

you stopped him and took his shirt off, throwing it on the floor, not caring where it ended up

he smiled at you before kissing you down your stomach getting to the top of your jeans

he looked up at you from your torso and silently asked for approval

you bit your lip and nodded your head, watching as he unbuttoned your jeans, unzipped them and slid them off, chucking them off from the rest of your clothes

Steve felt himself become hard at the sight of your panties that matched the bra that was abandoned only a few moments ago

he gripped onto your leg and lifted it up before kissing on the inner thigh, getting closer and closer to your clothes heat with each kiss

you stopped him again and told him to get off his pants, he leaned up and rushed to get them off, he pulled them down and shook them off before going back to you

"hurry up" you whined "show me, Steve. show me what we did, Please"

that was all Steve needed to hear before he slipped your panties down, slowly, making you whine more

he felt his mouth water as the sigh of your fully bare body in front of him, desperate for his touch

he lifted his hand up and reached to touch it, looking at you to make sure you were ok

his index finger ran along your folds, that had grown wet at some point in the process of getting your clothes off

"steve" you sighed lightly

he sat up and took his boxers off, letting them go wherever

he leaned down and leveled with you, giving you a kiss, letting his head fall to your shoulder before he pushed himself in

you let out a painful moan- painful because of how long it took, how desperate you were

"you ok?" he asked

"perfect"

he started moving in and out, watching the way your eyebrows would furrow and how your mouth would open, the noises you made sounding exactly how they did in his dream

his pace quickened and he held your hand that started to harshly dig into his back

"oh, Steve. fucking hell" you moaned, arching your back as he hit all the right places

he felt you tug at his hair and pulled it back, making him look up at the ceiling

he wasn't a very vocal guy when it came to sex, but he couldn't help but groan and grunt at the feeling of him inside you

he never thought he would be in your room, both naked and pleasing each other, it was something that he would often find himself thinking about, but he never thought it would ever actually happen

"steve" he heard you moan quietly before you let out a squeal of surprise when he reached down at began to rub your clit

"yeah?" he replied, out of breath as he thrusted deep inside you, feeling every part of you

"I-" you paused, the feeling becoming too much "I'm gonna- I'm gonna"

"you can do it" Steve encouraged, feeling himself grow to the point of an orgasm as well

a few more deep thrust, it began to get sloppy and you let out a load, long moan as you squirmed in your spot, only staying still from his hand that held your hip

he held it in as he let you finish before pulling out, letting himself finish on his hand

"is that all we did?" you asked, trying to calm yourself and catch your breath

"that wasn't even the beginning"

-------------------------------

if you couldn't tell by the shit writing, I don't really enjoy writing smut because I'm shit in that area of writing