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peachdues · 2 months

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THE SWEET, FAR THING — NSFW TEASER

Knight!Kyojuro x Princess!Reader • Royal AU

A/N: surprise! It’s been so long since I’ve posted any Kyojuro content, and this fic has been my quiet project since originally teased. I love royal AUs, and I love a good forbidden love story.

Enjoy a first look at some of the spicy, smutty goodness to come in The Sweet, Far Thing. But be warned: these two blue ball the living daylights out of each other for several chapters. This fic will be one of the first breaks in my usual pattern of letting characters bone the first chapter.

You can read the prologue and find links to the other teasers HERE

CW: MDNI • explicit sexual content • grinding • lots and lots of sexual tension • Kyojuro’s got self control but it’s rapidly fraying • Reader’s a bit of a brat

shoutout to @tearmint for letting me flood their DMs with this

The scroll of containing the young Lord Agatsuma’s flowery prose lies forgotten on the floor, hidden beneath the layers of Kyojuro’s discarded uniform. Across the polished wood floor, you’ve been hoisted by your Knight into a distant corner of your room, your legs wrapped firmly around his bare waist.

The great roaring fire in your hearth bathes the dark room in an orange glow. Its flickering brilliance, however, seems dull in comparison to the flames in Kyojuro’s eyes as he grinds his bare member harder against your drenched sex.

He grunts as he ruts his hips into yours, mimicking the movements you’re so desperate for him to make while he’s buried inside you. He leans forward and catches your lips in a bruising kiss. Another thrust, and the thick, leaking head of his cock nearly snags at your entrance.

You gasp into his mouth just as he moans into yours. For one, foolish moment, you hope he will cast caution into the flames where it belongs and finally make his claim on you.

But Kyojuro’s self-restraint will forever be the bane of your existence, for he twists swiftly out of reach, the blunt head of his cock instead shoving into the crease of your thigh. He breaks your kiss with a ragged pant, though he resumes his desperate, jolting rut.

Your nails bite into the thick, corded muscles of his shoulders as Kyojuro’s length passes through your wetness again, though slower than before. There is a shadow of a smirk on his lips as he studies you, brow furrowed, your mouth pulled into a faint pout as you buck into him.

You will catch him; you will take him into your body, and then you will be his. He just needs to stay still —

“My Flame,” Kyojuro leans in and nips the soft spot beneath your ear in warning. “Stop.”

“Please,” you try and guide him back to your entrance, your fingers fisting in his hair to force his obedience.

Kyojuro seals his moan against your throat as your nails graze his scalp, but he stills your efforts by pressing you harder into the wall. The solid weight of him only flames the ache of your longing.

He pulls his face away from your neck. Despite the flush of his cheeks, his eyes remain sharp. “I cannot have you. You know this.”

“You can,” you insist with a demanding roll of your hips. “I command it.”

You try once more to maneuver your way back to him, to coax his thick, turgid length right where you need him most, but Kyojuro tenses. Slowly, he unsticks himself from where he’d pressed you solidly to the wall, shifting his arms out from under your legs, returning your feet gently back to the floor.

“If that is your command, your Highness, then you will have to send me back to the barracks for punishment. For I cannot obey.”

Kyojuro tries to turn away, but you catch his forearm, your fingers digging insistently into its thick muscle.

“Why?” And his heart strains at the plea in your tone. “Why must you continue to deny me? I would give you all of me, if you’d only allow it.”

Kyojuro guides you back into his arms, his lips pressed to your forehead until his mark is seared into your skin, before pulling away. He brushes a knuckle across your cheek. “Can this not be enough? Is it not enough that I risk your ruin — never mind my own head — so that we might be close like this? Are you so unsatisfied?”

You jerk away from him, swatting his hand from your face. “Yes. Because I have told you I care not about any pompous lord or prince of a distant land. I want you. Completely.” You know you are doing yourself no favors by acting like the spoilt, petulant princess you’d always tried so very hard not to be, but Kyojuro’s rejection strikes at some soft, unguarded part of you, and you are too easily bruised. “Yet you continue to only give me half of you.”

Kyojuro bristles, eyes narrowed. “I have lain with you in every sense of the word —“

“Except for how I desire you most,” you finish, cool, so as not to let the bitterness of your disappointment show. “You have had my body in every other way, yet this is where you draw the line?”

Kyojuro’s shoulders are rigid as he snatches his tunic from the foot of your bed. “Do not trivialize yourself for the sake of your argument. You know as well as I that the kingdom’s viability rests entirely on your marriage prospects.”

You storm to his side, still as nude as the day you were born, your loose hair spilling down your bare breasts. You plant your hands on either side of his face and twist, forcing him to meet your stare head-on. “I would marry you. I will march before my father this moment and declare I will have no other.”

You press your body against his, every soft, unblemished curve of you molding perfectly with the solidness of him. Though his limbs are rigid with restraint, he cannot stop himself from cradling your face between his palms.

A muscle in his jaw feathers. “Princess —“

“I dream of you inside me,” you breathe against his lips. Kyojuro’s fingers curl into your cheeks, and his breath turning ragged. “Every night, I dream of it; of how you might lay me back against the bed and make me yours. How you would feel, sheathed within me.”

“Y/N,” his desperate plea is little more than a gasp of air; a whimper for mercy you will not give.

You dig deeper into the wound you’ve opened. “I dream of you putting your claim in me.” You stretch tall on your toes, pressing your lips just below the notch in his throat. “I would carry your child for all the kingdom and those beyond to see. I dream of it so fervently that I am aching when I awake.”

You tease up the length of his neck, kissing his chin once, twice, before settling on his mouth. He indulges you with a soft, pleading moan. His tongue brushes your bottom lip right before you break away.

“You desire me; that much is clear.” Your fingers trail down his torso, finding your proof where it stands taut against his abdomen. “Do you not dream the same?”

Of course he did.

It is his most dangerous, most treasured fantasy. One he’d held even long before he ever began training to be a knight, back when he’d been young and foolish and dreamed of marrying not the Princess of his beloved kingdom, but his dear childhood friend. The girl he trailed after during her family’s lavish feasts, stealing away with her under tables to watch revelers drink and dance and sparkle the way all adults seem to, when one is young. And as he laughed as you would sneak a small hand out from beneath the table’s cover to tickle some lord or lady’s ankle and startle them, he imagined one day whisking you out onto the dance floor. He, in some handsome, smart finery he’d seen the other young lords wear; you, resplendent in the finest of gowns, a crown of jewels sat atop your head.

It is all he has ever wanted; to have you, openly. His love and devotion to you a display that did not have to be concealed in the shadowy corners of your chambers.

But he’d always known it could never come to pass. It was why he’d been able to hold back, even when you were as you are now, bare before him, demanding he lay you out on your bed and claim you for good.

Your thumb strokes his cheek. “Will you continue to deny me? When you swore an oath to serve me?”

You were not his to possess; to love. You belonged to the kingdom and its people. Your people.

Not him. Never him.

You know his answer before he speaks it; can see it in the way his eyes lift to yours, pained yet resigned. Kyojuro withdraws reluctantly, his hands dropping to your wrists before stepping away from you entirely.

“I serve the kingdom.”

He doesn’t need to clarify. Not you.

Kyojuro would rather swallow his own sword than raise a hand to you; you know that. Yet his words are an ugly, vicious slap and you recoil all the same.

The sharp bite of your nails into your palms is all that helps you keep your voice steady, even as embarrassment warms your cheeks.

“If that is your answer,” you swallow once, and force your chin high. “Resume your post then, Sir Rengoku. You’re not needed here.”

He makes as though to say something more, to protest, fight back, do anything that might prove someone in this castle cares for you, not merely what you represent. But even Kyojuro, kind, sweet, loyal Kyojuro cannot elevate you above his own duties. He cannot be fully yours.

Instead, his hand balls at his side. “As you wish, your Highness.”

You’ve put your back to him now, too prideful to allow him to see the silly tears burning in your eyes under the sting of his rejection. Even as your fingers find your dressing robe, the material sliding silkily over your shoulders as you conceal your bare body from sight, you can imagine the curt nod of his head; the ease with which he slips back into his mask as Captain of your guard.

A small, childish part of you longs to lob one of the small pillows decorating your bed right at his head. You opt instead, however, to stare into the fire burning merrily in your lavish hearth.

You try not to linger too long on the way the flames dance like his hair in the wind; how its warmth caressing your face feels dangerously close to his hands; his lips.

Behind you, Kyojuro silently gathers his own abandoned attire. Your ears are painfully tuned into every snap of leather, every shift of metals as he completes his metamorphosis with careful precision.

He cannot help but hesitate as he dresses, silently willing you to face him, to say something — anything — but the only sound that passes between you are the ones of him preparing to leave. Again.

Resigned, he makes his final adjustments to his uniform, his armor, and then slips quietly to your chamber door. He chances one, last hopeful glance back at where you stand before the hearth before pulling the door shut.

You do not turn around.

#demon slayer #kimetsu no yaiba #kyojuro rengoku #kny #rengoku kyojuro #kny x reader #kny fanfic #kny rengoku #kny kyojuro #kyojuro x reader #rengoku x reader #kny smut #demon slayer smut #rengoku smut #kyojuro smut

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chvoswxtch · 8 months

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an adjustment

pairing: frank castle x fem!reader

summary: adjusting to a new normal with frank presents a few challenges, including one you thought you had put to rest.

warnings: swearing, lil angst, frank's voice (yes that needs a warning)

word count: 2.6k

a/n: a certain someone is making a cameo that will have a bigger role in the next chapter, but y'all know I love to tease. ;) as always, feedback is welcomed/appreciated!

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As much as the two of you wanted to stay in the cozy little bubble that existed in his cabin, reality had come knocking. Madani informed you that your place was no longer an active crime scene decorated in bodies, bullets, and blood, and Billy needed Frank for a new assignment. Some guy running for Senator had a lot of controversial opinions that pissed a bunch of people off and apparently warranted 24/7 security, and Anvil was at the top of his list for protection. Since Frank was the best at what he did, unfortunately he was at the top of that list too. Adjusting to a new normal had been…well…just that; an adjustment.

A difficult, confusing, thought consuming adjustment.

For over half of the past year, Frank had been by your side. You started and ended every single day with him. The sudden absence of his presence was jarring, and you still found yourself immediately confused when you glanced up from your computer screen to tell him something only to realize he wasn’t there. Frank didn’t always talk a whole lot, but your office suddenly felt so much more quiet and empty without him. And despite a full blown security system installed by him on your behalf, it was hard for you to feel safe in your own home with the lingering scars of what had happened etched into the walls beneath a layer of new paint.

Frank called you at least once every day, just to hear your voice, but between both of your complicated schedules, time was not in your favor. You had spent the past three weeks adapting to Frank’s vacancy, but found yourself spiraling anytime you were left alone with your own thoughts. What if this was over before it had even really started? What if it wasn't anything anyway? There hadn’t been a moment for you and Frank to sit down and actually talk about what your relationship was since the cabin. You know what it meant to you, and you knew what you wanted it to mean to him, but you wanted to hear what it meant to him from his own mouth.

A part of you felt childish for wanting to bring it up. What were you supposed to do? Send him a text saying “are you my boyfriend, check yes or no”? Another part of you felt valid in needing reassurance. It was reasonable to want to establish a relationship with someone you were dating. But were you and Frank dating? He hadn’t technically asked you out on an actual date, but he had risked his life to save yours on several occasions. That had to count for something. You hadn’t dated anyone seriously since Steven, and Frank was not only a widower, but also your former bodyguard, so the normal rules of dating felt like they had been completely thrown out the window.

A knock at the door abruptly pulled you out of your chaotically indecisive inner monologue, and you saw a guy that appeared to be fresh out of high school standing in the doorway of your office.

“You Y/N Y/L/N?”

“Uh yeah, that’s me. How can I help you?”

The kid took a few steps forward into your office and practically shoved a sealed brown envelope in your face. He looked bored and annoyed, as if you were somehow inconveniencing him because he had to deliver something to you. It made you want to make a snide comment about how your name was clearly listed outside your office door and ask how the hell he managed to graduate without the ability to read.

“This is for you.”

Reaching for the envelope, your brows pinched together as you turned it over. There was nothing written on the front of it, no address, no name, not even a stamp.

“What is it?”

“I don’t know, lady. I’m just the messenger. Open it and find out.”

Before you could reply with a smartass comment, the kid had already walked out of your office, leaving you alone with the mysterious brown envelope. Clenching your jaw, you refrained from chasing him down the hall and asking who the hell raised him. Letting out a deep exhale through your nose, you had to remind yourself that you were a grown woman that would face charges for decking a teenager, even if he was legal and a complete dick.

“Asshole.”

Muttering under your breath, you pinched the aluminum prongs together on the seal, flipping the top of the envelope open to reach inside and pull out a stack of documents. When you turned them over, five big bold letters instantly caught your attention.

LETTER OF INTENT TO SUE.

During your time as a journalist, people had threatened to sue you over stories several times. It came with the territory. The first time you had gotten a letter like this, you nearly had a complete meltdown. Ben had found it far more amusing than you did, leaning back in his chair with a smug grin on his face while sipping at his coffee and chuckling.

“Ah, I remember my first lawsuit letter. You get used to ‘em. You can either frame that one or forward that to the uh legal department. It’s in the blue recycling bin outside.”

And he had been right. People had tried to sue the paper, and you specifically, several times over the course of your career, but nothing ever actually went anywhere. You normally wouldn’t have thought twice about it, and you were about to toss it into the trash bin on the floor next to your desk when your eyes skimmed over who sent the letter, and your blood instantly began to sizzle.

“You have got to be fucking kidding me.”

Steven fucking Price.

Gritting your teeth harshly, you narrowed your eyes as you read over the first paragraph on the page.

This letter of intent to sue shall hereby be considered formal notice that STEVEN PRICE intends to file a lawsuit against you if you do not comply with the settlement demands set out in this letter.

The storm of anger brewing inside you had your hands shaking violently, and you were clutching onto the paper in your hands so tightly that your fingernails had left indents in the crinkled sides that were held captive in your vice grip. When Homeland took him away in custody, you thought that was the last you would ever have to deal with him or see him until the trial. But here he was, still making demands of you, from federal prison.

Frank’s gruff voice sounded on the other end of the line after one ring before you even realized you had called him.

“He’s fucking suing me.”

“What? Who?”

“Steven.”

There was a brief shuffling noise on the other end of the line, and you faintly heard Frank mutter an “excuse me” before his deep baritone sounded once again in your ear.

“The hell you mean he’s suin’ you?”

“Some kid came and dropped off an envelope, who was a real dick by the way, and then I opened it and saw it’s a letter of intent to sue. I didn’t think anything of it at first because I get these all the time, but then I saw his fucking name.”

“Suin’ you for what though?”

Tossing the documents onto your desk, you began to pace back and forth in your office as you ran your hand through the roots of your hair in pure frustration.

“I don’t fucking know, a load of bullshit? I didn’t even read what his ‘demands’ were. He can’t…he can’t do that, right? I didn’t do anything.”

Pausing for a second, your hysterical rant subsided momentarily as one possible reason for a lawsuit popped into your head.

“I mean…I did punch him in the face. But he’s going to sue me for that? There’s no fucking way. Putting it on public record that a girl half his size punched him? His ego couldn’t handle it.”

“You did break his nose.”

“He fucking deserved it, I should’ve broken more.”

Frank’s deep chuckle of amusement sounded from the other end of the line, and it instantly made you forget what you were so pissed about for a brief moment.

“I ain’t disagreein’ with you there. Look, take a deep breath, sweetheart. Can you do that for me?”

Letting out a deep exhale through your nose, you closed your eyes for a moment and enjoyed the soft tone of Frank’s rough voice as you followed his gentle instruction. With your eyes closed, it was almost like he was there with you. Once Frank could hear your breathing even out a bit on the other end of the line, he spoke in a delicately low tone that had your toes curling in your shoes.

“Attagirl. Send me the letter and I’ll talk to Madani ‘bout it, yeah?”

“I don’t even have a lawyer-”

“Don’t worry ‘bout that right now, alright? Just take another deep breath, relax, and let me handle it.”

“You’re always handling things.”

“That’s kinda my job, baby.”

One little pet name and you were blushing like a schoolgirl with her first crush. Thankfully Frank wasn’t in your office at that moment to see the intense heat in your cheeks and the goofy smile splitting your lips. He would’ve definitely had a field day teasing you about it.

“You’re pretty good at your job. Maybe a little too good. If you were kinda sucky at it, everyone wouldn’t want you so bad.”

“The only one I want bad is you.”

A fluttering feeling erupted in your lower belly at those words, coupled with the way his voice had dropped an impossible octave lower, and you found yourself clutching at the edge of your desk to keep your knees from giving out right from under you. If Frank was here, you would’ve gladly let him bend you over it.

Clearing your throat, you attempted to change the subject before you got too worked up.

“How’s the new guy?”

Grabbing the iced coffee sitting on your desk, you held it against the heated skin of your neck. Droplets of the cool condensation slowly cascaded down your flesh, causing you to shiver while trying to balance your internal temperature.

“Not as pretty as you.”

Letting out a soft snort, you rolled your eyes and leaned back against the edge of your desk.

“Well I would hope not.”

Frank chuckled deeply again, and you could clearly picture the look on his face in your mind; an expression of playful exasperation with a faint smirk on the edge of his soft lips.

“He’s more of a pain in the ass than you. Didn’t think that was possible.”

“You’re really great at this whole flirting thing, you know that?”

The dry sarcasm in your voice didn’t go unnoticed by Frank, and it tore a deeper laugh from low within his chest that made you grin.

“Hey, I been outta practice for a while. Gimme a break.”

“Speaking of flirting, how’s Billy?”

“He’s uh…he’s good.”

Something about Frank’s tone suddenly seemed off, and you wanted to ask him about it, but there was a faint rustling on the other end of the line, like Frank was pressing the speaker against his chest, and you could barely make out his muffled voice speaking to someone. When he lifted his phone back to his ear, you caught the end of a deep sigh.

“Listen I uh…I gotta go, sweetheart.”

“Yeah, me too.”

That was a lie. You didn’t have anything pressing deadlines at the moment. You would’ve stayed on the phone for the rest of the day with Frank if you could’ve, maybe convinced him to sneak away and come see you. He was still in New York, luckily, but anywhere that wasn’t right next to you was still too far.

“Send me the letter. I’ll talk to Madani and take care of it, alright?”

“Okay. I…thank you.”

“You ain’t gotta thank me.”

“You keep saying that, but then you keep giving me reasons to. So, we can have this argument until eventually you give up I guess.”

Frank chuckled deeply once more, and you could picture him in your mind shaking his head with a light grin. He sounded normal again, but you made a mental note to ask him about what was really going on when you spoke to him next.

“Same time tomorrow then, yeah?”

»»———　　———««

According to Madani, Steven didn’t have a case, and you technically had nothing to worry about. However, you were admittedly curious about what the hell he wanted, and Frank had said that if you did want to go talk to Steven, he would go with you. Actually, he respectfully insisted that you not see Steven without him present, and while you didn’t want to see Steven at all, you did want to see Frank.

You suffered through almost three years with Steven. You could suffer another five minutes if it meant you got to spend time with Frank.

It wasn’t your first time visiting a prison. A few years ago when you were still working with Ben, he had been interviewing a death row inmate that had been declaring innocence for fifteen years, and Ben had managed to prove that the evidence for his case had been tampered with and that the man had been telling the truth the entire time. Despite how daunting it felt to be in a place that kept violent people caged like animals, you felt safe with Ben then, much like you did with Frank now.

Currently, you were pacing back and forth down the hallway in pure irritation.

“What is taking so long?”

Frank had his arms crossed over his chest as he leaned against the wall outside of the meeting room that was typically reserved for inmates and their lawyers. The guard had said he would bring Steven in shortly, but that was twenty minutes ago. Since Frank had met you at the prison, and due to all the prying eyes, you hadn’t had a private moment to do more than smile at him when he arrived. It was the first time you were able to see him in person in three and a half weeks, and he somehow looked even more attractive than he ever had, and you were being forced to endure an interaction with your ex, who tried to have you killed, just to get Frank alone.

It was torture.

“Told ‘em we’re waitin’ on your lawyer.”

Pausing mid-step, you glanced over at Frank with a look of complete puzzlement.

“I don’t have a lawyer, I told you that.”

As Frank turned his head to look at you, he suddenly lifted his gaze to stare directly above your head as someone behind you caught his eye. He stood up straight and uncrossed his arms as he gestured with his chin in the direction behind you.

“You do now.”

With your brows knit in threads of confusion towards the center of your forehead, a light tapping sound behind you caused your ears to perk up, and you turned your head to find the source of the noise and Frank’s attention.

“Miss Y/L/N, my name is Matthew Murdock. I’m your attorney.”

tags: @thyme-in-a-bubble @day-dreaming-goddess @messymissy @itwasthereaminuteago @strawberry1042 @queenofthenoobs @wanda2themax @xcastawayherosx @avengerstower-houseplant @stevenknightmarc @ponyosmom35 @babygal-babygal @wellwwhynot @oldermenaremyreligion @combustiblemeow @tired-night-owl @fairykiss32 @danzer8705 @calkissed @fxckahs-blog @lemon-world1 @polskiperson @imperihoe @v4leoftears @harperdoodle @spideyvibez @joalslibrary @cherry-berry-ollie @sorrowfulfragmentation @kdogreads @sumo-b98 @blackhawkfanatic @gloryekaterina @whistle1whistle @starbritestarlite @callmebrooklynbabes @hallway5 @scarletfvckingwitch @bifuriouslatina @soupyspence @fireeyes-on-teller-dixon-grimes @wonwoosthetic @linguist-breakaribecca @nerdytreeflower @mrs-bellingham @smhnxdiii @s3riou2 @slavic-empress

#frank castle #frank castle x you #frank castle x y/n #frank castle x reader #frank castle x female reader #frank castle x fem!reader #frank castle x f!reader #frank castle fic #frank castle series #the bodyguard series #bodyguard!frank castle fic #bodyguard!frank castle series #bodyguard!frank castle x reader #the punisher #the punisher fic #the punisher series

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blindmagdalena · 9 months

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Guilty Pleasures ( chapter two )

18+ 3.8k homelander x plus size f!reader. workplace harassment, stalking, voyeurism, masturbation, lite humiliation kink, lite somnophilia, breaking & entering, petty theft, sublander flavored. nebulously takes place post s1. part 2/4. AO3 link. | Chapter Directory

Homelander is the most powerful man in the world, and all he wants is to be yours.

After spending the majority of your evening and the following morning anticipating being fired, walking into work the next day feels like traversing a thinly frozen lake, each step webbing out in precarious cracks.

Clearly you’re not the only one who thinks so: you clock a handful of surprised looks from coworkers who’d attended the meeting and took note of the tension between you and Vought’s golden boy.

Maybe they’d taken bets on whether or not you’d be coming in this morning.

There’s no sign of Homelander on your way in. Not that you were expecting him–yesterday was the first time you actually saw him in person–but you still find yourself on the lookout. It’s hard to say whether you’re anticipating or dreading him. Part of you is still expecting to open your door and find a letter on your desk politely informing you that they’ve determined you aren’t a good “culture fit” for the company, and that your probation has been terminated.

After all, who in their right mind would take your side over Homelander’s?

You push open your office door, and sure enough, there is a letter waiting for you, but not in the way you expected. You stand in the doorway, staring in quiet incomprehension. The envelope, crisp and bright white, is propped up in a bed of rich red roses sitting in a pretty vase upon your desk. You glance behind you before you step inside, closing the door behind you, and approach the desk cautiously. You pluck the paper out of the bouquet, taking a moment to smell the flowers–they smell as good as they look–before you carefully rip open the envelope, tearing the small american flag sticker that sealed it.

Inside, there’s only one word on the folded piece of paper, scrawled in surprisingly elegant handwriting.

Truce?

You can’t help the incredulous little bark of laughter you give at that. It’s not even an apology. It’s a demand that he expects a gratuitous bundle of flowers will help you swallow, like taking medicine with a spoonful of sugar.

“You’re ridiculous,” you say quietly to the letter, setting it down on your desk. You give the roses one last sniff, testing one of the soft petals between your fingers. You wonder if what you said actually got through to him.

Homelander has no real reason to smooth things over with you: you’re no one. He’s posed no risk to himself by coming after you. He could no doubt have you fired by complaining that your marketing tactics don’t align with his brand. It’s hard to imagine Vought denies him much.

Yet he is apparently negotiating peace. It’s not nearly enough, but it is a start.

Or maybe it’s just more than you expected.

You sit, idly tapping the letter against your desk. You’d be lying to yourself if you said you didn’t still think him handsome. Homelander wasn’t the first man to ogle your tits while you gave a presentation, but he was certainly the first to fluster you like that when he did. His sly smile had made you want to slap him, but there was a questionable little part of you that thought about kissing it better afterwards.

Taking in a steadying breath, you slip the letter into your desk drawer and adjust the flowers to the side, admiring them a moment before you pull out your laptop.

If Homelander can behave himself enough to let you do your job without public humiliation, you can afford a truce. You don’t need to forgive or condone him to be civil, or even to continue having your own private fantasies. A little guilty pleasure now and again never hurt anyone.

You can’t know that Homelander is observing you throughout this internal conversation, watching through several layers of steel and concrete, his parted lips curving into a slow smile as you accept his offering. You can’t know that you haven’t just acknowledged a truce, but an invitation.

No, you can’t possibly know what’s to come.

Two days later, you diligently change the water that the roses in your office sit in. They’re doing well, the crimson buds having unfurled into a splay of velvety petals. You pinch one between your thumb and forefinger and stroke it absently. Homelander has continued to be a scarcity, but that doesn’t mean you haven’t seen him. Quite the opposite: you spend most of your working hours either looking at or thinking about his face to the point where it’s starting to follow you home each day.

That’s what you tell yourself when you think of him outside of work hours, anyways.

It’s been long enough now that you wonder if the flowers were the end of it. He was simply covering his ass with a half hearted gesture that slightly resembled an apology so that you could both comfortably drop the subject. That was entirely fine by you so long as he actually did improve his behavior.

A familiarly brisk knock at your door catapults your heart up against the cage of your ribs like a spooked hare. It’s the exact same beat, you’re sure of it. You stay quiet, half expecting to be barged in upon, but when nothing happens, you move from your desk and open the door yourself, intentionally blocking it with your body.

Sure enough, Homelander stands tall on the other side. He flashes his signature smile while your eyes narrow suspiciously. “Can I help you?”

“I think I’m the one who can help you,” he says brightly, that spread of teeth downright wolfish. He lifts a handful of papers that have been stapled at the corner, gesturing for you to take it.

Still wary, you take them from him and shift, wedging your foot to keep the door firmly in place while you flip through the pages. Your brows furrow as you recognize chunks of your own presentation. Understanding dawns when you realize that he’s annotated them.

“You read my presentation,” you say, unable to mask your surprise.

“Obviously. It’s my image on the line, right? Got some notes for you, but I have to say: y’mostly nailed it,” he says, reaching out to rest a gloved hand on the doorway.

“Mostly?” You echo, quirking an eyebrow at him as you look up from the pages.

“Yeah, mostly. Again, I have some minor notes,” he says, wiggling his other hand in a vague gesture. “But I figure I owe you praise on a job mostly well done.”

You’ve got to be kidding me.

Crossing your arms, you abandon your stern foothold on the door in order to shift your weight, your incredulity showing in every inch of your body language. “What you owe me is an apology.”

Homelander’s grin softens into a smile that’s no less challenging. “Looks to me like you’ve already been enjoying my apology,” he says, leaning slightly to gaze past you, to the bundle of roses sitting prettily on your desk.

You briefly glance over your shoulder, but your expression remains impassive. Unimpressed. “That? That isn’t an apology. An apology would include the words I’m sorry.”

He scoffs a dismissive laugh, swaying back to look away, but you persist.

“I’m serious,” you say, luring his ocean blue gaze back to yours. “I want you to say to me ‘I’m sorry for the way I behaved during your presentation. It won’t happen again.’ “

The two of you hold each other’s gaze with all the magnitude of two gunmen in a duel, hands steady over your proverbial pistols.

To your surprise, Homelander does not fire back. He raises a dainty white flag.

“I’m sorry for the way I behaved during your presentation,” he says, words slow and measured. You watch his tongue flash over his bottom lip, wetting it attractively. You fight to not let your eyes linger on it. “It won’t happen again.”

You swallow, suddenly finding thought and speech an impossible task. You weren’t prepared for such raw, ready obedience from him, nor the intensity in his gaze that follows it. He reminds you of a charmed snake–docile so long as he is transfixed.

“Good,” you say, the word half a sigh. Homelander’s lips part and he breathes in like he’s caught wind of something particularly delicious smelling. “I accept your apology, and I appreciate that you took the time to do this,” you say, gesturing with the documents in your hand. “I’ll go over them and get back to you.”

He reaches out, bracing his hand on your office door. You half expect him to push it open, but he merely holds it there. “We could go over them together,” he suggests slyly.

“No,” you say, clearly disarming him. He looks as though he’s forgotten the meaning of the word. “I’m in the middle of another project at the moment.”

The leather of his gloves creaks faintly in your ear as he flexes his grip on the edge of the door. While what you’ve said is true, it’s also serving as a test. Words and flowers are pretty things, but only actions always speak the truth.

“At the moment,” he repeats, gears visibly turning in his eyes. “So… Later?” He extrapolates, displaying an uncharacteristic tentativeness alongside his obvious displeasure at the taste of rejection. You even see a glimmer of hope in the mess of his expression..

He did pass the test. You suppose you can reward him for that.

“Another time,” you say, giving your door an exploratory push. He relents, his hands sliding down the length of it before falling away as he takes a half-step back. “How about tomorrow on my lunch break? 1:00 o'clock sharp.”

He splits into a smile that looks more genuine than any of his you’ve seen before. “Aaalrighty-roo. Sounds gooood to meeeee,” he says, drawing out his vowels more the closer he gets to actually having to leave. At your silent, amused stare, he claps his gloved hands together with a muffled thump! and takes a few more steps backwards. “Yooooou’ll see me… tomorrow.”

Your smile pinches along with your brows. What a strange way to phrase it. “See you then,” you say, watching as his face is eclipsed by your closing door. You wait a beat and then let out a thin thread of breath from your pursed lips, resting your weight on the door.

Looking down at the papers in your hand, you push off from the door and head to your desk, flipping through them.

Such a strange man, you think, carrying the notes to your desk. You set them down next to the vase of roses and try not to think too much about the unconscious smile your lips keep settling into for the rest of the day.

Homelander’s got you hook, line and sinker. He’s certain of it. He lingers on the other side of your door just long enough to watch you through it while you settle, a charmed smile set on your lips. He can already imagine how those lips would feel against his own, how they’d taste. He swallows thickly and looks around before he departs, already plotting his next move.

The two of you have a date tomorrow, and in order to be at the top of his game, he’s going to have to do a little additional research. Knowing your work was a good first step. The next one will be learning about you.

Following you home is the easy part. It ultimately feels chivalrous to do so once he realizes you walk home even at this time of year, when the sun sets long before the work day ends. He drifts above you, cocking his head curiously. No wonder you walk. The streets are packed as tightly as sardine cans, and your apartment garage isn’t much better. The claustrophobia of it all serves as a stark contrast to the openness of Vought tower.

The interior of your apartment provides an even sharper juxtaposition to his penthouse. It’s tidy, but the comparatively low ceilings and minimal floor space still make it look cramped. Somehow, you simultaneously have too much and yet not much at all, the confinement of a downtown apartment making what minimal affects you do own seem crowded together.

That only becomes more apparent once he’s inside, slipped in through your balcony after sleep has taken you. Why would you bother to lock your balcony when you live on the 8th floor? It works out perfectly for him.

In all fairness, your living room feels cozier once he’s standing in the center of it. Your walls are lined with an assortment of art pieces and photographs, and the shelves are well stocked with books and knick-knacks. You have a decent film collection displayed on your media console, and he can’t help but snoop through it, bending at the waist, examining through the rows. He cocks his head.

Odd. You’d think an employee of Vought would have at least a few VCU films. He runs his index finger along the spines, slightly adjusting them flush as he goes. Pursing his lips, he straightens up and looks at the closed cabinets on either side. The left one yields an untidy assortment of electronic odds and ends, cords and the like. Nothing of much interest other than an indication that while you like to keep up appearances, you aren’t quite as together as you’d like people to think.

It’s on the right side, however, he finds what he’s really looking for.

“Bingo,” he whispers, smiling to himself as he scopes out your little hidden collection of Vought hero flicks. Specifically, his films. He’s less interested in the handful of others you own (Queen Maeve: Her Majesty, Black Noir: Insurrection, Lamplighter: The Bright World, etc) and more so in the fact that you have nearly his entire catalog tucked away.

Nearly. You’re missing his eighteen part miniseries, Homelander: Brightest Night.

At least that gives him something to gift you.

Closing the cabinet, he meanders about the rest of your apartment. You have some plants in varying states of decay, with only a few cacti looking to be in decent shape. Either your work keeps you too busy to properly mind them, or you just like the idea of them more than the reality. It tells him that you’re looking–and failing–to fill a void in your life. You want to feel less alone in your home, you want to nurture something. You just haven’t found the right something yet.

Striding into your kitchen, arms folded behind his back, he peers through the cheap wood veneer of your fiberboard cupboards, unveiling an unusually broad assortment of mugs. There doesn’t seem to be any particular theme: holidays, locales, characters, and a menagerie of patterns.

He hums softly, pivoting out of the kitchen and down the hall, his steps preternaturally light. He listens for the beat of your heart as he draws near, tunes it in alongside the shallow cadence of your breath. Deep asleep. Good.

The walls are lined with pictures of you and others. Friends or family, he can’t say, but you look to have an abundance of both. He rarely sees himself in photos that aren’t promotional material. He pauses to straighten a picture frame, and finds himself so viciously jealous of the man sharing the frame with you–his lips pressed to your cheek, your laughing smile so genuine he can nearly hear it–that he almost knocks it to the ground.

Running his tongue along his teeth, he continues on.

Your bedroom door is open. He slips in silently, pausing just through the doorway. Your bed's a queen, too big for just you. You’re sprawled comfortably amidst pillows, limbs splayed in just such a way that he can easily imagine fitting himself in the empty spaces between them. He can smell the lingering burn of the candle you’d lit when you got home. He picks it up off your dresser, reading the label: Cup ‘o Joe.

Eugh. He never cared for coffee, and the artificial sweetness surrounding the note is cloying. Your perfume, on the other hand, he doesn’t mind. He notices the bottle alongside a few other of your things and puts the candle down in favor of that, popping the cap off. The smell hits him before he sprays it: vanilla first, then amber and something more woodsy. It’s less impressive by itself than it had been on you.

Still, it’s yours. You chose it for yourself.

Slipping off one of his gloves, he lightly sprays into the inside of it before he sets the bottle back down, recapping it. It won’t be the same, but he’s driven by the compulsion to spirit away any little pieces of you that he can. Just enough to satiate himself until he can have you properly.

That’s when he sees your blouse from today in a careless heap at the top of your laundry basket next to your dresser. Licking his lips, he tests the feel of the garment between his bare fingers. He’s always been sensitive to fabrics, and while the blend of this one is fairly cheap, it’s been worn and washed enough that it’s soft against his skin. He grabs a handful of it and lifts it to his mouth, brushing it along his lips, under his nose, and he deeply inhales your lingering scent mixing with the fresh pump of perfume.

He bites back a moan, screwing his eyes shut. His cock gives a dull little throb. Fuck, the spell you’ve cast on him makes him ache just for the smell of you, makes him salivate. He swallows it back, letting out a rough little breath as he reluctantly puts the shirt back down. Under it, he spies a little flash of something black and lacy. His stomach clenches, and he’s reaching for it before he can stop himself, fishing the black panties out of the heap and twisting the fabric between his fingers.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

He can’t afford to overindulge. He won’t be able to control himself if he does, but he also can’t bring himself to put the little slip of fabric back down. He imagines he can almost taste where your sweet cunt had been pressed to it. Christ, he’s practically drooling. Out of sheer impulse, he yanks down the zipper of his pants with a quiet hiss of metal against metal and hastily pushes your underwear into his cup, biting down hard on his lip. He grinds once against his hand, savoring the feel of the fabric against his cock.

He’ll enjoy them far more than you’ll miss them.

Zipping himself back up, he carefully pulls open your top dresser drawer. He curiously pushes the contents around, mindful not to overly disturb, and his knuckles bump something solid. He shifts one of your bras–another near painful pang of arousal at the reminder of your breasts–aside and finds, to his delight, what any good marketing department would describe as “a large purple massage wand.”

A vibrator. He chews his bottom lip briefly, turning it over in his grip. An exciting find on all fronts. It’s smooth and decently hefty, good quality. You deserve even better. You might be capable of indulging yourself with this, but he could make you scream. You’ll never need a silly little toy again. Not when you have him.

Homelander moves to put it back in the drawer, but–

“Fuck!” He hisses when the button catches on his finger, and suddenly the damn thing is buzzing.

Shut up, shut up, shut up, he chants mentally, jabbing at the buttons in an attempt to silence it, but pressing the same ones only makes the accursed device louder. In a frantic move, he grips the neck and squeezes. There’s a soft crunch beneath the silicone, and as abruptly as it had begun, the buzzing ends. His heart is thudding heavily in his chest. He listens to the silence, to you.

He looks over his shoulder. No movement. Your breaths remain shallow.

Christ.

So much for leaving no trace. He slips the busted toy back amidst your underthings and snatches his glove off of your dresser, tucking it under his arm. He hones his attention on you as he approaches your bed, assuring himself that you really are still asleep. He stands there for a while, admiring the part of your lips and the haphazard splay of your pajamas and where they cling to your body.

No bra.

His bare hand flexes. Being so close is too much of a temptation. He wets his lips with a quick slide of his tongue and bends down. He ghosts his fingers just over your cheek, not quite daring to touch. He can smell the faint remnants of your toothpaste on your breath, your shampoo, and beneath it all, you. It's intoxicating, it's…

Your brows furrow slightly in your sleep and you make a soft noise, interrupting his thoughts. He wonders if you’re dreaming–dreaming of him, perhaps. He’d like to think so. He’d like to think that you’re just as affected by him wanting you as he is, and that’s the real reason you invited him to lunch. He saw it in your eyes when he echoed your words, the thrill that went through you. He could have gone to his knees for you in that moment and had you in giving himself to you.

Desperate for just a taste, he kisses ever so gently between your brows, his own breaths matching the cadence of yours. Divine. You're divine. So effortlessly perfect and so aware of your own power. How could he not want every part of you?

He means to leave it there, to walk away with nothing but the slight salt of your brow on his lips, but the pull is too great. He's greedy, drunk on the smell and the taste of you, on the feel of your panties pressed up against his cock, and he can't stop himself from sampling your lips against his.

It’s the barest hint of touch, and yet the contact lances electricity through him like he’s been struck by a bolt of lightning. Your lips are soft, soft, soft. He knew they would be. Everything about you is so fucking soft. It takes everything in him to pull away, standing back to his full height.

He's aching, yearning so intensely he could rip the covers away and take you just like this, shake you awake, declare himself and have you. Would you scream, or would you have that same look of affronted understanding of him? You see him in a way few are ever brave–or stupid–enough to dare.

Not yet.

He won’t spoil the game. He agreed to play by your terms. As far as you’re concerned, he’ll do precisely that. You’ll be none the wiser in regards to his little reconnaissance mission–anything could have happened to your vibrator–and the two of you can play your little game as if you stand on equal footing.

Sucking in a silent breath, Homelander leaves alone, but not empty handed.

He’ll make very good use of his little trophy tonight.

( chapter three )

#i have no self control ENJOYYYYY #praise me it's shocking i finished this so quickly #although it's not really finished bc i'm stretching it into 3 parts but #couldn't help myself i needed him to be a little weirdo #next chapter is already started tho and shouldn't take long!#ALSO I MADE THIS GIF #i'm so happy lol #my writing #homelander x reader #homelander x you #homelander fanfiction #homelander #plus size reader

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srgntjamesbuckybarnes · 4 months

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Hearts Entangled

Summary: With the declining rate of omegas, alphas have become desperate, and betas are fighting back. In the midst of war, Y/N and her brother get separated and Y/N finds herself in trouble.

Rating: Mature

Pairing: Alpha Bucky x Omega Reader x Alpha Steve

Warnings: Violence mentioned, Blood

Word Count: 2.6k

A/N: Not beta’d. First time writing in the first person, but it suits the storytelling better this time around. What POV do you guys like best? Should I change the POV? Do I know where this is going? Absolutely not but let's go! Enjoy this from the vault.

Series Masterlist

Chapter 1

The world slows when you’re dying. The mind struggles to grasp anything tangible. Staring up at the blur of blue and white, I knew I was slipping away, fading into nothing, just like my mother. Bitten by an alpha, she changed, presented as an alpha herself. My father put her down before she could turn feral. That sent Basil into a frenzy. He nearly killed our father. He would have if I wasn’t in the room. It didn’t matter if alphas and betas were at war. It didn’t matter if our mother was the enemy; to us, she was just mom.

Basil might have aided the humans in the war if it hadn’t been for our mother’s murder. His need for vengeance was too great. Omegas are a rarity nowadays. The news is a montage of horror, always reporting on how many alphas turned humans. Omegas were already a dying species, but with the war, so were the alphas. My brother feared if I was bitten, that our father would murder me as well. Basil always joked that I was like mom, stubborn. Maybe I should have listened to him when he told me to stay home. Maybe if I hadn’t gone searching for him when he didn’t come home last night, my hand wouldn’t be sticky with my own blood.

A hiss followed by a low whine escaped my lips as my hand pressed into the wound on my side. I had to get home. What if Basil returned after I left? He would never know what happened to me; no one would. Well, no one except the guy who shot me.

SNAP.

My head rolled to the side, peering through the trees. Details were a blur, but I was able to make out blotches of color. I squinted my eyes, dirt and rocks stabbing my cheek, reminding me I wasn’t dead yet. My chest heaved as the trees danced before me.

SNAP.

This time the noise was closer. Whatever was coming to finish me off didn’t care about being caught. It wasn’t like I could defend myself if I tried. I hoped it was just an animal or somehow my brother had magically found me; the sane part of my brain screamed that it was the person who shot me.

It was none of the above.

A warm hand settled on my shoulder. I could feel the heat seep through the sleeve of my crimson-stained t-shirt. Blinking slowly at the person crouched beside me, I wanted to speak, but my lips weren't moving. His were. Whatever he was saying, I couldn't make out. I was too stunned to attempt to read his lips, but I knew he was non-threatening. If he wanted to kill me, he wouldn’t-

A shrill scream reverberated through the woods.

My chest burned from the inside out, and I knew that scream came from me. With slow movements, I gazed down at my stomach. One of the stranger’s hands sealed over my own. The other held my chin, blood coating both of his hands. I tried to follow the pink of his lips, to make sense of anything he was saying. I strained to focus on the yellow of his hair or the blue orbs observing my every move. In the end, my eyes flapped shut.

Searing pain dashed up my right arm drowning out any other pain. Just as quickly as it emerged, it evaporated. Suddenly my lungs were flooded with oxygen, my breath livelier than before. Fresh linen suffocated my nostrils. Had I died? The lids of my eyes tremored before springing open. For the first time, I could see him clearly. His slicked-back yellow hair paled into champagne. His slightly overgrown beard was several shades darker. His nostrils flared.

“Omega,” the man purred.

My eyes latched on his piercing stare. Amid his blue eyes were flecks of green. He was gorgeous. I was the first to break eye contact, my focus glued to my arm. Teeth marks tattooed on the inside of my wrist. Panic invaded all of my senses. Basil’s worst fears were coming true right before my eyes.

“You were dying-” the man trailed off. “It won't scar.”

“You expect me to thank you?” I snarled.

He shook his head, running his dry, blood-stained fingers through his hair. “I wasn’t trying to turn you. I was trying to lure the betas away. You got mixed in the crossfire.”

I wanted to ask if he had been the one to shoot me, but from what I could tell, he wasn’t carrying a gun. His back straightened as he scanned the trees. I didn’t see anything, but his body language turned alert. Danger was approaching.

“What’s your name?”

He stared down at me for a moment before responding, “Steve. Steve Rogers. You?”

I stretched my scarlet hand towards him. “Y/N L/N. Thank you.”

Steve paused with a raised eyebrow, gently shaking my hand. “We have to go. You’ve lost a lot of blood.” He didn’t wait for an answer; Steve thrust my hands back against the hole in my side. “Keep pressure on the wound.” Then he was hoisting me up. Once again, my world was spinning. My head relaxed against his collarbone. The scent of fresh linen was more prominent but far from unpleasant. My muscles went limp, too relaxed to hold onto the man carrying me. Steve tensed, his grip tightening around my back and legs. A deep rumble ricocheted beneath my head, but I couldn’t make out what Steve said. How much blood did I lose? A drop of liquid sprinted from my scalp to the collar of my t-shirt. With a shaky hand, I wiped the fluid from my forehead. It was clear. Was I sweating? My palm lazily rested against Steve’s chest in an attempt to ground myself. I would have retracted my hand had I been stronger. The heat radiating from his chest was scorching. It was then that I realized I was burning up. His name was on the tip of my tongue. I wasn’t sure what I would say, but I hoped he would somehow understand. I never got to find out. His name never left my lips. My eyelids grew heavy, welcoming the darkness.

The next time I opened my eyes, I was blinded. A string of recessed lights hovered above me. Harsh blue lights beat down on my skin, reminding me of how my skin burned. I felt drenched, but this time, I was cool. Sinking my palms into the surface beneath me, I realized I was lying on a mattress. Sitting upright, something slipped from my arms. Reaching over the side of the bed, I hissed, pain radiating from my side.

“Take it easy,” a thick Russian accent uttered. “You don't want to tear stitches.”

With a hand over my stitches, I scanned the room for the voice. When I came up empty, I panted, rolling myself onto my back.

“Where am I?”

I jumped as a raven-haired woman suddenly appeared crouched beside the bed. Her piercing blue eyes were cold, unlike the man who saved me. Steve. Where was Steve?

“Medical wing,” the woman answered, plucking a damp cloth from the floor and dropping it on my arm. “Keep this on. It will stop fever.”

I blinked at the woman as she examined my wrist. She was tall and slender. Her jaw was as sharp as a razor, a stark contrast to her soft plump lips. Taking a deep breath, I was met with lavender. It was soothing yet sweet.

“You’re an omega?”

She hummed, dropping my hand a bit harsher than necessary.

“Who are you? Where’s Steve?” I croaked.

Her sharp eyes stared down at me with a lifted brow. She didn’t seem to want to be here anymore than I did.

“You talk a lot, no?”

Fuck this. I have to go home. I need to find Basil. Sitting up ignoring my groans of pain, I began yanking all of the damp rags from my skin. It’s not like they could keep me here. The corners of the woman's lips twitched as she folded her arms across her chest and stepped back. She wasn’t going to stop me. Swinging my legs over the side of the bed, my bare feet hit the black tile. A cramp shot through my abdomen, strong enough to bring me to my knees had I not been holding onto the bed. Sweat began to bead along my forehead. I was lightheaded. Not again.

Before I could faint, an arm swooped around my back, guiding me onto the bed. Once again, I was draped in rags.

“You’re a stubborn little omega.” I would have snapped had it not been for the smile in the woman's tone. It reminded me of every time my brother had called me stubborn. In a way, it was soothing. “I’m Carla.” She paused, eyeing the shut door. “You don’t want to see that mutt right now. You’re in heat. Happens when you present.”

“But Steve-”

“Is mutt like rest of alphas around an omega, especially one in heat.” There was a bite in Carla’s tone. “If you want to leave, I won't stop you but trust me when I say you are better off here. Omegas are difficult to come by and you are already weak from gunshot. You’ll be claimed second you step out that door.”

My head reeled from all of the information. I wasn’t oblivious to the alpha and omega lifestyles, but I never intended to partake in it. My eyes flickered to the mating gland along her neck. Sensing my stare, she flipped her long hair over her shoulder, concealing her gland. It was too late.

“You haven’t been claimed.”

The look in Carla’s eyes was murderous, her words a warning, “Mind your business, omega. You are patient, not me. I am helping you, not other way around. Remember that.”

I did. For the next week, while I was trapped in a delirious state, I relied on Carla. She was the only person to visit me in the medical room. It had been her delivering food or redressing my bandages. I began to crave her presence, but we rarely spoke. The observation I had made had struck a chord, a weak spot. Every time Carla entered the room, she appeared more on edge than the day before. I contemplated apologizing for bringing up what appeared to be a sore subject for her, but she didn’t seem like the type to dwell on something like that.

When my heat was finally over, Carla left the door unlocked. Her speechless way of allowing visitors or letting me wander. I opted for the latter. After several twists and turns, I discovered a door leading outside. Careful not to pull my stitches, I sprinted out the door. After being trapped in a room for a week, I was desperate to feel the sun on my skin again. Standing in an open field, I spun around taking in everything. A few feet away was a forest. Was it the one I had been dying in? How far was I from home?

“Hey, you’re up.” A shoulder bumped into my own. “How are you feeling?”

Fresh linen.

A smile crept onto my lips, my neck craning up to Steve. “Well, I’m alive.”

Steve nodded. “I can see that.”

“Thank you again, for saving me. I would have died out there if you hadn’t found me.”

Steve shook his head, his thumbs peeking from the pockets of his slacks. “You almost died because of me. That bullet was meant for me.”

Turning back to the line of trees, I shrugged off his last statement. I needed to focus on the positive. I was alive. It didn’t stop my curiosity from slipping into the front of my brain. “When you found me, you said you were drawing humans away.”

The man nodded, running a hand through his sandy blonde hair. “A friend of mine, Bucky, went missing. I was out searching for him when I came across you.”

Steve stood there with a far-off look in his eyes. I hadn't missed the sadness that crossed his face. His eyes searched the horizon with a sense of urgency as if the person or object he was searching for was the most important thing in the world.

“Your friend,” I paused, side-eyeing him, “did you find him?”

Steve shook his head, his eyes still trained on the forest. “Your arrival hasn’t exactly permitted me to travel.” The tips of his ears dusted a shade of pink.

I blushed at the idea of sending a man like Steve Rogers into a rut. Surely, he was mated.

“Sorry for leaving you with Carla. We don't have many omegas here. I can't imagine she was cordial the entire time.”

Remembering Carla’s comment, I gently rested a hand on Steve’s bicep. My hand dwarfed in comparison to the muscle beneath my hand. Steve’s head snapped in my direction.

“Omegas are rare, but she isn’t mated,” I pointed out.

Peaking over his shoulder toward the door, Steve released a deep exhale. “Her true mate rejected their bond. By the time she had found him, he already had a family. Didn’t want to break up the only family his pups knew.”

My hand slipped from his bicep as guilt washed over me. My head drooped to stare at the ground. Had I known, I wouldn’t have said anything to her about being unclaimed. It was a personal topic. Suddenly, a feather-light touch seized my chin, dragging my head upwards. My eyes locked on Steve’s deep blue orbs instantly.

“Don’t worry, she found another mate. One who wants her. My friend Bucky.”

“The one who is missing,” I asked, but I already knew the answer. No wonder Carla was on edge. Her mate was missing. Yet, I couldn’t help but think back to her smooth mating gland. Her mate had yet to claim her.

Steve nodded.

Subconsciously, I ran a hand along my mating gland. “And where is your mate?”

Steve released my chin as if I had burned him. His gaze returned to the trees. I should have learned my lesson from Carla. I should have minded my business, but I needed to know.

“My true mate,” Steve began, surprising me. I didn’t think he would answer. I followed his line of sight, giving him a sense of privacy, but my ears remained open. Steve continued, “was Peggy. She tried to put an end to the war. She’s dead now.”

There it was. I had once again managed to put my foot in my mouth. “I'm sorry.” I didn’t know what else to say. I hadn’t known the pain of losing a true mate, but I knew love and I knew loss. It couldn’t be much different.

The atmosphere grew still as Steve lapsed into a prolonged silence. The only sound was the rustling of the leaves in the light breeze. His face turned skyward, allowing his long eyelashes to kiss his high cheekbones for a split second. Then his hand intertwined with mine, pulling me down to sit beside him in the grass.

“What were you doing in the woods when I found you?”

I had to bite my tongue from saying I was dying. It wasn’t appropriate after he opened up about his true mate. He was trying to change the subject, so I was honest. I pressed my chin to my chest, plucking at the grass beside me. “I was looking for my brother. I have to find him.”

A painful smile graced Steve’s lips. “I guess we're both looking for someone.”

While the statement was innocent, there was a longing in the way he said it. We both needed a mate.

“Yeah, I guess we are,” I whispered.

Next Chapter

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mokulule · 11 months

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Almanac - Chapter 2

So ya'll have given me some amazing and lovely comments on A Man has Needs (which I'm delighted was so well-received), and I had a really shitty day so I wanted to upload something. Sadly don't have energy to write, but this was already done so here ya go. Ship: Dead on Main First | Masterlist

Chapter 2 - September 25th, Uranus at Opposition

Jason awoke slowly. He felt groggy and worn like he’d gone a round with Bane and, now that he thought about it, maybe also Black Canary; his ears of all things hurt for some reason. Groaning he pushed himself up, taking in the green and black bedspread… this wasn’t his bed. He looked around; bare stone walls with a strange almost purplish tint - no windows he could leave out of.

What happened yesterday? There had been something… an emergency? Shit. He rubbed his brow hoping against hope to relieve the sharp headache there. What kind of truck hit him? Come on brain, work.

Bruce.

Bruce had called him. He breathed slowly through his nose. Urgh, his brain was like a tangled ball of yarn that had been left to the mercies of a cat. Slowly he picked at the treads, trying to untangle them. Dick had been there, and Tim and Damian. And Superman? Why was Jason on a league mission? Jason wouldn’t have joined them unless the world was-

Oh, the world had been ending.

There was an invasion and John bloody Constantine and a ritual- and Jason was a small bit of supernatural insurance but that didn’t matter because-

Because!

His head throbbed sharply and he curled up on the bed with a whimper. Shit. Why? Okay, no remembering right now. He slowly unfolded and squinted at the room, there were two doors. One by the head side of the bed, which seemed the least likely to lead outside and one opposite. He confirmed the first door to be a bathroom, which left the other to lead- He opened the door into a windowless hallway. Looking left and right he didn’t see an end either way.

The hallways had the same purple tinted stone walls as the room. It was lit by green torches, but somehow they didn’t cast green light. Instead the light that hit Jason was more blueish. He decided not to think about that and moved on.

He walked hallway after hallway. The only change was the tapestries. Since they were the only thing that changed he couldn’t help but look at them. There was a man, large and armored with a flaming crown and his hand raised with something shining from it. Jason went down some stairs and another hallway had a tapestry with the same character directing an army of skeletons and other creatures fleeing from them. This theme continued through many hallways. World upon world, the king and his army conquering all on a backdrop of Lazarus green. Then finally something changed, seven robed figures stood over the fallen king.

Jason then stood in front of a winding stairwell: Up or down?

He looked down; there was something down there…

Dazed, he took a step down, before he shook his head and walked up. He had to get out. Walking down in a building he didn’t know what floor he was on was just asking to be trapped in some sort of basement, and he’d already walked down one staircase already, when the only other option had been to backtrack.

A sarcophagus was opened and the King released. In the next hallway someone in a black and white mech suit was fighting the king and Jason blinked at the sudden genre shift. He hadn’t expected that from the tapestry story.

The next one had several people pushing the sarcophagus closed again presumably to seal the king, but one figure especially niggled at Jason’s brain - the small one, the black and white one. He was familiar. He walked faster, urgency pressing him to find the next tapestry, he rounded a corner and there!

There were two tapestries on either side of a door. The first tapestry had a purple robed figure crowning a kneeling black and white figure in front of a crowd. Several were recognizable from the previous tapestry. But Jason didn’t look at that picture long he was drawn to the last tapestry; the one who only showed the new king:

Human skin tone, compared to all the light greens and blues. Snow white hair. Crown hovering over his head, and on the index finger on his right hand where it was folded over his chest was a green ring with a skull crest. The backdrop was a nebula of colors and only on the edges were the Lazarus green. The king’s eyes were closed, but Jason knew they were green.

He knew.

And as a key turning in a lock Jason remembered. He bent over holding his head with a groan. The invasion. The ghost king. His sacrifice, which apparently meant he was to do nothing for the rest of his life. Screw that! What was the ghost king gonna do? Un-save the world? Jason didn’t think so. He needed to get out. He very carefully avoided thinking of the risk of his brains melting out his ears if he angered the king again.

The door. Jason’s eyes snapped to it. It looked completely innocuous. He had been lead here for a reason. Fight or flight? Fight his body screamed at him. His chest rose and fell, his heart picked up speed in anticipation and he reached for the brass handle. His hand closed around it, it was cold and solid in his grip. He exhaled slowly out his nose counting down.

He burst into the room, hands on hidden knives, ready for anything! Then he froze.

This was the room he woke up in. There was that rumpled spot on the bedsheets from where he’d slept. He grabbed his head, there had been no tapestries in the hall he stepped out in, he was sure. No he was not gonna let this get to him he had to find a way out. He stepped out into the hallway through the still open door; the tapestries were gone.

He walked the opposite direction this time, but only five turns in he stood in front of the open door again. Shaking his head he kept walking, there had to be a way out. There were less tapestries now, but every now and then there’d be a tapestry of the King sans crown fighting someone. It seemed to be some of the more prominent people that had been at the coronation and then there were some others; a large plant creature, a person that looked part tornado, someone who looked like the night sky itself.

The message was clear: give up. See all the ones who has been defeated. What do you think, you can do?

Jason punched the wall next to the most recent tapestry.

“Let me out, you bastard!” he snarled.

Predictably there was no answer, but a small part of Jason had still hoped something would happen. His shoulders dropped.

A familiar door materialized in the corner of his eyes. He turned his head to better see and yup, that was the door alright. He sighed.

“Fuck you.” But Jason was tired. He didn’t know how long he’d walked the hallways. He opened the door and walked the few steps that took him to the bed collapsing on top of it, in the spot he’d made earlier. He couldn’t be bothered to go under the covers.

Oo o oO

They say doing the same thing over and over again expecting a different result is a sign of insanity. Tim would probably argue something about scientific methods and statistics in return, but Tim wasn’t here, just Jason.

So here’s what Jason knew:

He’d sacrificed his life to the Ghost King to save the world. The Ghost King had no interest in Jason and had just dropped him in a never used room like one of those gifts you really don’t want but can’t refuse. Oh, and the castle was magical and delighted in showing him right back to his room every time he left it.

Leaving the room was pointless. Jason knew it was pointless. But Jason couldn’t just stay in this room, hence the repeated insanity, but at least out in the hallways some things changed, even if he always ended up where he started.

He didn’t know how long he’d been there. He’d lost count of how many times he’d slept. It was pointless anyway, he didn’t know if he could even count sleeps as days anyway. He was locked in a battle of wills with a fucking castle.

“For a magical castle, you’re boring, you know that?” He spoke to the ceiling. It didn’t even have any enchanted furniture or household items to talk with.

Jason wasn’t sure quite when he’d started feeling hungry, only that it shouldn’t have taken that long. Water came out of the tap in the bathroom, so at least he wasn’t thirsting. After the hunger came the lethargy. He was sleeping more and his forays out into the hallways were shorter.

The world was a hefty price to pay and maybe Jason’s suffering was just a part of his toll, but Jason would have taken being a servant or slave over this. At least then he’d have something to do. There’d be a focus, something to fight. He wouldn’t just lie here with nothing better to do but insult the walls.

If you liked this, consider commenting in the replies or tags, I hold every lovely comment dear to my heart and it's great motivation. If you want notifications for this story you can subscribe at the masterlist

#Almanac #dp x dc #dead on main #summonings have consequences #Jason thinks this magical castle sucks #Castle holds a grudge as you will find out later

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lev1hei1chou · 1 year

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Why i believe Gojo could come back

This chapter left us in a devastated state and was absolutely uncalled for, but I personally believe this isnt the end of the strongest sorcerer. There are several reasons as to why (These are just opinions, I could be wrong in certain areas AND personal feelings might make an occassional appearance.)

LEAKS:

This whole panel was obviously made for a reason. And we dont see gojo making a decision. Considering the fact that this is literally THE Gojo Satoru, he's more likely to choose north since there's numerous things left as plot holes. We'll get to that.

Here in this page, he mentions that Toji should've cut his head off to actually kill him. In the leaks, whats cut off is his upper body but not the head! I still can't quite wrap my head around RCT but lets say he's not able to heal himself. You know who can and who would? Yuta and Shoko

Now moving on

"Gojo then bids farewell to everyone." If hes truly gone then why would he be bidding farewell to the fallen comrades? If he's dead then isn't he supposed to stay in the afterlife with them?

Pretty self explanatory

What if Kashimo is going in to distract Sukuna while Shoko and Yuta can heal Gojo?

Now think about this. Gojo is gone, Shoko doesnt fight and who are all left? A bunch of sorcerers who are literally under 20, need guidance and we havent really seen any panel where they actually plan how they're going to go about in the whole battle. Gojo isnt a want, hes a NEED, a NECESSITY.

Remember, Toji who was dead long ago pretty much appeared out of nowhere in Shibuya Arc LMAO so- yes

WHAT IS THIS EVEN SUPPOSED TO MEAN

Theres no way Gojo would be left sealed for 3 whole years, brought him back just to kill him off in the most disrespectful way possible.

Besides, things that Gojo wanted to do haven't happened yet.

He wanted to tell megumi about his father

He wanted to see his students surpass the strongest sorcerer, aka him

He wanted to get rid of the higher ups

He wanted to properly mourn suguru (for which kenjaku has to be defeated but oh well)

He wanted to save Megumi

How'd we know what Gojo said here.

On to the other aspects of why killing off Gojo was a bad idea. We barely ever saw what happened to him, and an off screen death to the so called strongest sorcerer is just senseless. Gojo is a fan favourite. People started watching the show for Gojo (myself included) and there's a high possibility of multiple people dropping the manga since he isn't even there anymore.

The ending could take a turn for the worse considering the fact that Sukuna is just overpowered and Kenjaku hasn't done anything as of now. Unless there's some heavy plot armor I dont think the students even stand a chance against Sukuna and Kenjaku. Both outcomes- the students and others emerging as victors or sukuna emerging as a victor could make the ending absolutely terrible and this might as well top AOT for being the manga with the most disliked ending.

Gojo Satoru is the mentor for multiple; for Yuji, Nobara, Megumi, Yuta, Maki, Panda, Toge and the third years and its necessary for them to have someone to teach them. It is one of Satoru's wishes to see his students surpass him, which can happen only when he's there since there's nobody else who is actually capable of teaching them and leading them into the world as actual graduated sorcerers.

So Gojo dying will make the manga take a turn for the worse. Killing him off in the middle makes absolutely no sense and is just plain bad writing. People are prolly gonna kill me for this but lets admit the truth. Hyping this battle, building up tension just to finish him off screen is NOT good writing.

Anyways. There is factual proof of Gojo potentially making a return. Maybe at a cost, like him losing his power, losing his "strongest" title or anything else. He may not even be the same anymore but honestly as long as he's back, I'm fine.

It happened previously, and could happen again.

Satoru Gojo may not be the strongest and the honoured one, but may be reborn as a newer version of himself after getting humbled. Lotuses, as mentioned above symbolise rebirth, which is why i believe this is not the end.

A small bit of advice for gojo fans: Go watch haikyuu or highschool babysitters as a form of self care <3

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dawnbreakersgaze · 7 months

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Shut the fuuuuuck up

I've long suspected that Mt Eternal is where the Tower of Thorns rests (or what is left of it anyway) due to several factors- the biggest being how chapter 8 ends with Zayne on Mt Eternal either sealing or clearing (interacting in some way at least) with something frozen or buried in the ice and snow there.

However, last night I was doing some rereading, and this afternoon a very specific thing caught my attention.

That is DEFINITELY the exact same mountain peak. I grew up in the Teton mountain range in the Rockies, my stupid little lizard brain recognizes peak patterns before anything else lol.

Maybe I'm super late to the party and everyone else already knows exactly what it is Zayne is doing here, but this makes me feel like he's finally remembering who he is now, and he's trying to either gain access to the tower (for abilities? A prophecy? The staff?) Or he's bound and determined to not let whatever is in there out again if it's trying to reclaim him.

"Remains shackled to time" is also especially troubling when you consider the vines of thorns and chains that literally bound him, and the verse from his myth:

"Astra gifted one of his eyes to the Foreseer. By walking the winding path of time did the Foreseer understand its passing. This is the power of a god” -Philos: Tome of the Foreseer.

The eye of Astra quite literally shackled him to time. While he was boundless in the sense of existing outside of time, he was more constrained than anyone bound to death.

Idk there is a lot to dissect but I need time to piece it all together. I just needed to get this out before I imploded.

#kay's mumbles #love and deepspace #love & deepspace #zayne love and deepspace #zayne #li shen #lads #l&ds #love and deep space #love and deepspace zayne #my brain is mush from lack of sleep but i have so many theories now #I'll rewrite this when i recover from being how i am rn

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9w1ft · 11 months

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Interested to hear your interpretation on Suburban Legends

first off the song and beat sounds so similar to mastermind and gold rush. particularly mastermind. listen to the opening seconds back to back! she sings through a lot of it similarly in my opinion

and it has some of the similar mechanics of mastermind in that it leads you to believe the song is going one way but then pulls a switcheroo on you at the end and the swell in the music aids that at the end which makes it a really sweet and emotional listening experience. i’ll get to that in a second.

i think at the beginning of taylor knowing or being aware of karlie (so like, your kitchen or mine times), this was very much the situation. karlie is in her peripheral vision (on her radar) but just as taylor described in gold rush, karlie seemed like something utterly unattainable. in lover as well we get the line “i’m highly suspicious that everyone who sees you wants you” and i think this fits with this description of karlie.

i didn’t come here to make friends echoes their entire conceit of mastermind, and a lot of the kaylor discography that uses the word ‘friend’ — another way to say “i don’t want you like a best friend” etc

also this is a sort of throwaway point but “i didn’t come here to make friends” was a 2000’s reality tv phrase that came into popularity via the show America’s Next Top Model. it was iconic and soon every competitive reality tv show under the sun had contestants saying it.. but it’s origins are from a show about models! of which karlie is one.

more importantly, the “you kiss me in a way that’s gonna screw me up forever” is like the follow up to the gold rush “eyes like sinking ships on waters so inviting i almost jump in” language. it’s cruel summer’s “snuck in through the garden gate every night that summer just to seal my fate” because falling in love with karlie lead to taylor wanting her complications too

mismatched star signs works because fire signs traditionally match best with air signs. also visually, stars mismatched fits in with mastermind’s “the planets and the fates and all the stars aligned” — things that weren’t in alignment coming into alignment.

there’s a bunch of story page chapter stuff throughout taylor’s discography, some of which makes its way into kaylor but i’d probably write for way too long so i’m just gonna skip over that for now

this part might be a bit tricky but i sort of blame it on many kaylors not talking that much about really early kaylor possibilities out of (a sort of unearned) respect and the one way street principle of staying in our lane but the idea of taylor saying “i know that when you told me we’d get back together and kissed me that you remember[ed] we were born to be national treasures” isn’t that too wild of a statement if you imagine them as maybe briefly connecting or talking at some point before taylor made her plans to make karlie hers. indeed, we know their paths crossed several times before they were first connected at the 2013 vs fashion show.

*for posterity, i included the apple music lyrics as the genius lyrics appear to be worded partially incorrectly

this is the part of the song which i just think is so beautifully done. in particular i love the “you don’t knock anymore” of it all

at first it sounds like she’s saying karlie doesn’t knock anymore because she come around anymore, or this idea of there having been a breakup or a period of not being together or something sad, which is matched by the tone of how she sings it for the first time. the waves crashing to the shore feels like a storm.

but at the end of the repetition her voice becomes more upbeat and it dawns on you, you’re like, oh wait karlie doesn’t knock anymore because she doesn’t need to knock anymore, she has a key! (“is that your key in the door?” anyone?)

and suddenly the waves meeting the shore is a pleasant image of unification and happiness. she closes with the thought “you don’t knock anymore and i always knew it” which makes it feel a bit more like mastermind’s “you knew the entire time, and now you’re mine” — always knowing they would get together, taylor always knowing karlie was the one. “and my life had been ruined” is sung in a sort of sweet resignation, one that i find throughout a lot of kaylor music, the idea that she knows its complicated but that its what she chose.

so yeah! that’s why suburban legends is a kaylor song to me 😌

#kaylor

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metalomagnetic · 3 months

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Hei, I love your IRITB and Canis major so much. I keep going back to it.

Since V seemed to be okay with lending Sirius to have a child, how did he feel when Sirius give him the letter about Albus and Gellert and openly admired Grindelwald? And when the Vampire drunk from Sirius? Really I just want to see possessive Voldemort ;)

Also by the end, Voldemort got angry simply when Sirius wasn't home. How would he actually react if he had let Sirius marry and Sirius had a child? (Let's pretend he didn't murder Harry)

Here's a small part that didn't make it into the last chapter of Canis Major (I had to cut about 10k words):

This wasn't one of my brightest ideas, Voldemort considers, when all the vampires in the room stare at Sirius.

It's not just the usual admiration Sirius gets; there's something predatory in their eyes that sets Voldemort on edge. It makes his fingers reach for his wand.

He has to remind himself nothing will happen to Sirius; in fact, he's quite certain Sirius will enjoy it greatly. It's why he volunteered him for it, after all.

Yet even that bothers him. As the woman stalks closer to Sirius, and Sirius' pupils dilate when facing her, Voldemort is bothered, tendrils of anger licking at his brain.

Apparently, it's one thing to know Sirius is whoring around, and quite another to witness it.

He can't stand the way he looks at her, with arousal, the same way he looks at Voldemort, when they're in private.

It infuriates him. The amusement from before, when Sirius was all offended to be offered as a 'snack', withers and dies. He wants to murder the woman.

Rodolphus coughs, and Voldemort snaps out of it, only to realise he'd taken a step forward, and that he's holding his wand.

Get it together, he tells himself, just as Rodolphus sends him a pointed look.

The next few moments are uncomfortable bordering on unbearable. When she bites into Sirius, his Sirius, Voldemort envisions several ways to obliterate her.

He doesn't need vampires on his side that much, does he?

You do, a more rational side of his informs him.

No, I really don't.

"Enough," he orders, after just a few seconds.

She doesn't stop, and he raises his wand-

Nathaniel orders her to stop, and she does.

Voldemort is seething, something ugly and raw twisting inside him when he sees the fang marks on Sirius' throat- a throat that belongs to Voldemort.

And then he has to endure seeing Sirius feeding from the pest, a blissful look in his eyes, between lazy blinks.

It's especially infuriating, because Voldemort cannot feed him this way. This is not something he can offer to Sirius, and he feels lesser because of it. It's all illogical, mad, and it only serves to stoke his anger further.

Finally, it stops.

"How do vampires get erections?"

It's such a Sirius thing to ask, curious, reckless, lustful thing that he is. It would have made Voldemort laugh, but the tension in the room is high, all the vampires are aroused, and Voldemort wants to kill them all.

Nathaniel glides closer to Sirius. "I would be happy to explain."

Voldemort places himself between them. "The deal is sealed," he says, pointing to the door. "You will hear from me soon."

"You'll be able to find me for the next hours," the woman whispers to Sirius. "My blood will lead you to me-"

"Out," Voldemort orders, at the end of his patience.

Horrible images assault him, of Sirius and her naked, in some bed, bodies interwind.

It has never happened before- even when he knew Sirius was out with a woman or another, Voldemort did not think of it, did not care too much, because those women are nothing compared to him, insignificant entertainments that can only hold Sirius' attention for a moment.

But now he imagines it, and it makes him want to destroy something; preferably the vampire woman.

He calms, slightly, once he's alone with Sirius, back home. He's still irritated, because Sirius is hard, and it wasn't caused by Voldemort, but he can keep his anger in check.

And then he makes sure to redirect Sirius' lust, to make it about Voldemort.

As they fuck, Voldemort plans ways to kill the vampire.

When Sirius leaves, close to dawn, Voldemort goes on the hunt.

He brings back a bracelet the woman wore, an ancient thing, now splattered with blood and ashes.

He puts it away in a box, with a smile.

Only then he can sleep in peace.

------

As for your last question, Voldemort *thinks* he will be alright with a marriage, but he won't be. Deep down, even he knows he won't be able to share Sirius, but he doesn't think about it too much, in typical Voldemort fashion. In his delusion, he pretended that Sirius would only have a wife for a night or two, get her pregnant and then she'll just disappear; that the baby wouldn't change Sirius. It's beyond delusional, of course. Marriages don't work quite like that, and neither do children.

#possessive Voldemort #it runs in the blood #sirius/voldemort #sirius having the time of his life #Voldemort dying inside #as always Voldemort did this to himself

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cafeinthemoon · 4 months

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It's a Fire - Chapter I

Chapter 1

Wordcount 3,5k

Title Retired Hashira

Fandom Kimetsu no Yaiba / Demon Slayer

Symbols ⭕ ➕ 🖤

Warnings: arranged marriage; age gap; mentions of increasing in criminality and poverty; grieving; non diagnosed depression (the condition wasn't properly understood by the time this story is settled)

Tagging ? (If you want to be tagged in any of my stories, just leave a comment on this chapter or send an ask or a message)

N.A.: So Kimetsu no Yaiba returned and I'm taking the opportunity to finally start posting this story that has been in my list of ideas for several months!

A while ago I made a poll where I included the option of writing a fic with the Rengoku family, and it was this one I was talking about. I know there are other stories I need to work on already, but let me tell you that this very fic just saved me from a creative block, which was caused by what I suspect to be the beginning of a burnout (I'm about to go on vacation and I just can't take it anymore, but I don't want to discuss this rn).

A few words about the ff itself: It's a slow burn, arranged marriage story between reader, who's 27/28 yo, which makes her closer to myself who's a bit older than this, and Shinjuro Rengoku, who's struggling with the same problems we see in canon, but somehow accepts her as his wife: she was the daughter of old acquaintances of his, so the marital contract is sealed to allegedly honor the friendship between the families. However, things are way more complicated in reality.

Of course, because of the things we see in the original media, such as violence, alcoholism and etc., I need to make it clear that my personal opinions on these subjects may diverge from what I'm putting in this story (due to personal family experiences), and each chapter will carry the necessary warnings. Also if you notice similarities with Beauty and the Beast, know that it isn't just a coincidence haha Finally, the title is a song by Portishead, which didn't influence my writing but its lyrics somehow fit this plot 🌹

I hope you have a good time reading this ❤

“You walk a lonely road

Oh, how far you are from home”

(Enya, May it Be)

That fate didn’t care about your preferences and desires, you knew well.

You wished you had your mother with you for long years, and that your relationship grew stronger as you spent your time together, dedicating yourselves to the art of the sword, but most of her time and energy were directed to her work as a member of the Demon Slayer Corps, and it was like this until the day you received a messenger from Ubuyashiki-sama to inform you about her death: she didn’t fall to the Oni, but couldn’t resist the injuries from a battle against a group of them.

You also wished your father, after losing the woman he claimed to love, stood up to his remaining family, that is, himself and you, and took reasonable measures to protect his territory and the people who lived in it, but he preferred to lock himself in his office and ignore the demands outside it, firing half of the house’s servants for the sake of saving money and willing to leave the property to the dust and the insects, not seeing this happening thanks to you, who took the task of maintaining everything by yourself, even doing some of the physical work.

There were, in fact, many other things you wished for, but didn’t have the chance to see them coming true. One of those other things were continuing to live in the house you grew up in, and using your education to dedicate your life to a career of your choice, though your options seemed limited by your sex. But even this was taken from you when, on an ordinary day, you saw your father leaving his office in the company of a man you’ve never seen in your life. You wanted to question him about this strange visit, but you didn’t have to: your father came to your chambers later, and without measuring his tone or giving you time to process such news, explained the meeting’s main subject.

– I’ve recently contacted an old acquaintance of mine, someone who was also known by your mother – he started – And explained our situation here.

You knew what he was talking about: after your mother passed away, your lands’ protection has been neglected, and appearances of demons have been reported more often by your servants and the people who live in the villages near. No one dared leaving their houses at night, and the local economy were deeply affected by this, since part of the basic work used to be done in this period of the day; this led to an increase in poverty and criminality. You, on your part, weren’t immune to these difficulties despite growing up in a privileged family.

Your father addressing this situation to you, however, was something new, and you exposed this impression to him.

– Things are getting harder for everyone here, that’s true – you agreed – But why are you discussing this with me now?

– Because I asked this acquaintance for help, and he answered me – he took slow steps toward your window, half opened by that time; he closed it with firm hands, but without making much noise – The thing is that, at the same time our lands are now dangerous to people, specially to young women like you, it’s time for you to take the next big step in your personal life, daughter. After all, you’re almost twenty-eight.

You frowned.

Next big step? What is he talking about?…

Your father might have noticed your confusion, because he soon clarified his words… and you wished he never did it.

– I’m talking about marriage, y/n – he spat – You declined the last two proposals, and I respect your reasons for that, but this time the circumstances aren’t in our favor. This man who visited me earlier is a messenger from the Rengoku House, and he brought me a positive answer from their head: I offered your hand and a good dowry in exchange for your protection, and in respect to your mother, who worked for the same cause as him, Shinjuro Rengoku accepted you as his wife. You’re leaving the house this week.

You were speechless. You tried to stand up and show a sign of protest, but your legs didn’t obey you; you opened your mouth to say something, but no word left it. You knew your father have been struggling, but you could never suppose he was becoming insane – arranging a marriage for you without your consent? Other men used to do this to their daughters, but the man who married your mother would never… But, apparently, he was no longer this man.

Maybe he was expecting some disagreement, but seeing your silence made him frown.

– Don’t you have anything to say about this?

You finally seemed to wake up. You gave him a dead glare, murmuring your response.

– And what do you expect a woman to say after being sold and sent away from her own house out of nowhere? – you moved your head to the side, irony leaking from the gesture – Thank you?

Your father clenched his jaw.

– I certainly don’t expect your gratitude – his voice was lower now – I know this isn’t the future you wanted for yourself, and I didn’t want things to be like this either, but…

– Why marriage, father? – your tongue was released, interrupting his thread of thoughts like a storm – I could stay temporarily with them, work for them, anything! But marrying someone I’ve never met?! Don’t you remember that I’ve declined the other proposals after at least seeing the faces of those men?

– You’ll meet him on the wedding day, and you’ll have all the time of the world to know anything there is to know about him – his tone was louder again, as his patience was running low – Besides, Shinjuro is an old friend of mine. I give you my word that he’s a decent man, besides being a formidable warrior. He was married to a respectable woman once, and built a good family with her. I trust him, and so did your mother. No problems should be expected from his part, so the same must be expected from you.

Shinjuro. It was only the second time you’ve heard that name from your father’s mouth, and you didn’t know what to think. In fact, you’ve learned from your mother that among the Demon Slayer Corps there was an elite group known as the Hashira, and one of them was Shinjuro, the Hashira of the Flames. He was the current head of the Rengoku family, but personal struggles – including the death of his wife – forced him to a retirement despite his capacity as a warrior, so that his eldest son, Kyojuro, took his place. However, you also heard that this young man was dead, so it was impossible to tell how things were going for his family members now. And that was the environment your father was willing to throw you into, even spending money in the process.

You sighed.

– Father, when was the last time you’ve met this man? I don’t remember you talking about him – you crossed your arms – I’m only familiar with his name thanks to mother, but now you’re telling me that he’s an old friend of yours. How old is he, exactly?

– Not as old as me, of course – his reply came with a mixture of embarrassment and indignation – I can’t believe that, of all the things involved in this arrangement, this is what concerns you more!

You scoffed.

– I’m not that futile, but if he’s old enough to have a son capable of replacing him in the battlefield, I think I have the right to be concerned! – you took a step toward him – If I have no choice, I want to know exactly where I’m getting into. Can’t you even make such a small concession to me, father?

No, he couldn’t, and you soon realized that.

Your father decided the conversation was over. He returned to the room’s door and opened it.

– It is decided, already – and, with a sort of sadness in his eyes – I’m doing what I think it’s best for my daughter. I only wanted her to trust me, at least for once.

You swallowed the lump in your throat.

– I wanted this too, father. But you’re making it too difficult for your daughter.

He stared at you for a moment, then left without any word.

***

Things really happened the way you feared, in the path your father stated they would follow. He said that, but until the end he kept acting like he had no control over the flow of events, in a frail attempt to soothe his own conscience that only served to unnerve you, and not even seeing the disappointment in his daughter’s eyes each time he looked at you was enough for him to leave this pretense aside. Had he no shame anymore?

During that fateful week, you avoided his company, leaving the burden of communication to the remaining servants and only speaking to him when utterly necessary. What was left for you to talk about when, as he said, everything was decided, and when you had nothing but sadness for him — for him, the adversities he’s been through and for the way he chose to behave in face of them? It was useless to argue on this, and whether you liked it or not, you had little time to put everything in order and couldn’t have the luxury of wasting it: would it be worthy to cause a delay in the arrangements under the risk of leaving a bad impression in your future spouse, even when he was someone you’ve never saw before?

You sighed at the thought.

And, as if I hadn’t enough things to worry about, I still have to consider this.

In fact, you didn’t want to take much stuff from that house with you at the same time you didn’t want to cause any difficulties to the servants, who have already seen their load increase the last months, so you were quick to select essential items and packing them with the help of a maid, from your clothes to the gifts brought by your mother, and instruct her about what to do with the other things: some of them you gave to her, knowing that she had a daughter who was younger than you and who’d appreciate your charity, and the others, such as the furniture, should be sent to the villagers, for you wanted your things to be with people who would make good use of them instead of letting them rot in a place to where you’d never come back.

Among all of this, the last object you packed was the only thing you made a point about carrying by yourself, and the only thing you didn’t trust anyone to pack but yourself: the sword of your mother, which was sent to your house by Ubuyashiki-sama and now belonged to you. Your mother has been teaching you lessons since you were a teenager, but she hasn’t lived long enough to see if you were going to develop your own Breath; well, until that day you haven’t, but you’ve never stopped practicing even under your father’s disapproval. You didn’t know what you would find once you stepped into your husband’s house, but you wouldn’t want to depend on his protection on everything; besides, having a wife who knew how to wield a sword must be an advantage, right?

The train of thoughts, feelings and concerns was such that you were robbed from sleep the night before the ceremony. You knew women who had their marriages arranged as well, but you never got to talk to them about it; you had no idea of how you were supposed to feel, or how you were supposed to see the whole thing. How one should feel when they saw themselves trapped in a situation from which they couldn’t get out? Without having answers, you just relied on the feeling that seemed reasonable to you, that is, utter fear.

The next morning came silent and inexorable, just as the ones before it, and you saw yourself leaving your bed and taking care of your duties without putting your thoughts on them. It was only your body working by itself, saving your soul from the burden of being conscious, or perhaps you were just accepting your fate after a night of tears and rage.

Having dismissed the maid’s help, you bathed and dressed alone, and left the house where the most important moments of your life took place without one last look. To be fair, your eyes were so sore and tired that they barely registered the appearance of the weather while you walked to the carriage, but you guessed it was a warm, sunny day, though not enough for you to get sweaty. Your father was already in the carriage’s interior; you took the seat beside him with no signs of acknowledging his presence.

The coachman shook the reins and yelled something to the horse, and the crack of the wooden wheels was heard as the vehicle moved along the road.

***

The ceremony took place in a building in the city of (…), near your father’s property, which served as the head office of a group of law professionals, including the man responsible for your marital contract.

You wouldn’t call it a ceremony, really: it was more of a sequence of bureaucratic procedures than a social event with the purpose of uniting two families; a mere formality to allow you to move to a man’s house without ruining your reputation. It was quick, direct and cold like a financial operation, and the people involved seemed to make sure it looked like this.

Your father led you to a sequence of stairs and then through a narrow corridor, until he stopped in front of a door and opened it, entering the room and inciting you to follow him. You did it, and found out you weren’t the first to arrive: the officiant was already in his position, behind a table upon which you saw an open book; at its right, there was a small inkwell and a feather; around him, two officers which function you couldn’t guess and couldn’t care about. And, finally, in front of the table and observing your arrival with a stern glare, the man who was about to become your husband.

Whatever you were expecting to see, Shinjuro was nothing like you might have imagined, except for the fact that he was younger than you supposed – and, indeed, younger than your father – and stole the attentions among all those men despite the quiet, composed manners. Well, he would do it in any place he’d step in, for his appearance was extravagant, to say the least: on his severe face he carried a pair of orange eyes under two thick, black eyebrows, a wild trait that made you think of a lion; framing his expression and matching his eyes, he had thick, blond hair that decreased to red on its edges, spreading over his shoulders. And, as if his looks weren’t enough to draw the whole room’s attention, he was dressed in sober, dark clothing, more like someone attending a western funeral than a wedding.

As you walked to the center of the room, led by your father, and took the spot beside Shinjuro, you felt your skin burning in discomfort under his merciless eyes. You breathed deep and, when he nodded to acknowledge you two, you made an effort to greet him, as well as the other men.

I knew he wasn’t the same person my father claimed to know. He stated that he was good and trustful, but everything in this man screams danger. What kind of hell I’m getting into…

The officiant announced the beginning of the ceremony, and you turned to him in silence. After a few, composed words to the new couple, he gave you both clear instructions on where to sign your names, and you did as he said, Shinjuro first, then you; you glanced at his hand offering you the feather and took it in a second, taking care your hand didn’t touch his. You tried not to think of your gestures as you wetted its tip on the ink, but a tremble reached your wrist the instant you approached the feather from the paper.

So… That’s it. I write my name in a book and enter a path from where I can’t go back.

The realization was too much to bear and time was passing, so you bit your inner cheek to prevent your mind to entertain the thought and scribbled your name at once. When you moved the feather away and put it back on the inkwell, your hand acted by itself, and your arm gone numb once you recoiled it to your side.

Your mouth was dry, and a hole seemed to have taken the place of your heart. You barely noticed when the officiant and the other witnesses analyzed your signatures and approved them, bringing the ceremony to an end. You refused to believe all of that was real until the man announced you were free to go, and both Shinjuro and you turned away, preparing to leave. He didn’t bat an eye at you while doing so.

The head of the Rengoku family stopped to exchange some words with your father. You were close enough to hear the conversation, but didn’t want to pay attention; you just wanted to leave this place, even though you weren’t going to a familiar one after it.

You only understood their conversation was over when you heard your father’s voice calling your name. You turned to him and your stomach curled in disgust when you saw the pleading smile on his face, the only thing that reminded you of home and now a sign of everything you lost. You’ve never felt so alone.

Later, you’d try to remember his exact words for you at that moment, but you’d find yourself unable to do it. Maybe it was a formal wish of good luck or something. The only thing you remembered was your reaction: you stared at him for a few seconds, then, without a word, you turned your face away, walking toward the door. You knew your husband was observing, but his approval was the least of your preoccupations now.

***

Little was recalled by you from the travel to the Rengoku house, except that it was silent, even calm period. The only abnormality was caused by you: unlike your other belongings, who were sent in another vehicle ahead under the supervision of a servant, you decided you were going to carried your sword with you in the carriage, to everyone’s surprise and your father’s discontentment.

That occasion was also when Shinjuro spoke to you for the first time.

— Why are you doing this?

The question, made when you were already in the carriage, was direct but not devoid of politeness, so you granted him an honest answer.

— This sword once belonged to my mother, and now it is mine. If my father had his way, I’d never carry it with me, but I refuse to leave it behind — and, glancing at him, — I couldn’t risk him checking my things and subtracting it from them without my consent.

Shinjuro only murmured an “I see” in response, and the conversation died there.

You were beside the carriage’s window and might have slept to the warmth of the sun and the constant noise of the wheels in movement, but you weren’t sure if you did. As your body was now avoiding visible reactions, your spirit was suppressing the emotional rush for your own good, since no advantage would come from a breakdown in the middle of the road, right in front of your new spouse who, just like you, didn’t seem all pleased with the whole thing: sure, he didn’t show visible discontentment whether with your appearance or your manners, but you’ve been dealing with middle aged men for too long to sense when they were seeing something they didn’t find appropriate; and, in the present case, it was clear to you that Shinjuro already formed his opinion: to him, you were a stubborn, spoiled brat who didn’t have her way and was decided to make it everyone else’s problem. Yes, the idea of acting like that wandered through your mind for a while, but you thought you were better than this, and opted for a balance between bitterness and decency, not wearing plain clothing and displaying rude manners, but also not being extravagant in anything; still, you couldn’t convince the man of your good nature, and he let it clear with the inquiring about the sword, so now you completely gave up on seeking his favor.

You were just waiting for the travel to end.

Chapter 2

#kimetsu no yaiba #demon slayer #kny fanfic #kimetsu no yaiba fanfic #demon slayer fanfic #kny x reader #kimetsu no yaiba x reader #demon slayer x reader #kimetsu no yaiba rengoku #kny rengoku #shinjuro rengoku #rengoku shinjuro #shinjuro x reader #shinjuro rengoku x reader #rengoku shinjuro x reader

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exitpursuedbyavulcan · 1 month

Text

The Silver Dragon (15)

The Garden

For the first time in the long years she’s been on Dragonstone, Princess Rhaenyra asks for Arianwyn to join her for a walk in the gardens.

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x OC (Daemon and Rhea's daughter)

Warnings: none

Series Masterlist - Previous Chapter - Next Chapter

The morning air was cool, heralding winter’s coming before too long. But Arianwyn did not mind; it was quite warm on Emrys’ back. Indeed, the fire within him was so intense that even with the chill in the air and the wind whipping around her, Arianwyn’s brow was still dotted with sweat.

As always, she was loathe to bring Emrys back to solid ground. But Daemon’s threats still rang in her ears whenever she glanced westward to King’s Landing. So, she landed again in the courtyard of Dragonstone and watched with an aching heart as he was guided back to the Dragonmont.

While Arianwyn loved flying, she was decidedly less fond of her riding leathers, especially when the thick garments trapped the dampness of her sweat against her skin. So as long as she had to remain on the ground, she was eager to return to her tower to change into something more comfortable and read Aemond’s newest letter.

When Arianwyn emerged from the dressing room in a deliciously soft gown of gray silk, Brynna was waiting for her in the solar with paper in her hands.

“Today’s message from Prince Aemond, my Lady,” Brynna said, holding out an envelope sealed with deep green wax and pressed with his seal – a silhouette of Vhagar. She fumbled nervously with a small fold of parchment before handing it over. “And a note came for you – from Princess Rhaenyra.”

Arianwyn’s hands froze in the middle of tearing open Aemond’s letter. Rhaenyra sent her a message? Though her mind raced, she could not think of why. Curiosity thoroughly piqued, she took the note from Brynna and unfolded it.

Lady Arianwyn, As soon as you are able, meet me in the Chamber of the Painted Table. The weather is pleasant today, and I thought we could take a walk. Princess Rhaenyra

In all the time she had been at Dragonstone, Arianwyn had never been asked to meet with her stepmother. So what reason could Rhaenyra possibly have to call for her now?

Arianwyn refolded the note and looked to Brynna, waiting impatiently to find out what Rhaenyra had said. “She wants me to join her for a walk.”

She was sure Brynna’s look of confusion was mirrored on her own face, but the lady’s maid quickly composed herself, nodded, and stepped back into the dressing room. “Right. You’ll need a cloak,” she muttered, almost to herself. “The wind will give you a chill.”

Once dressed to Brynna’s standards, Arianwyn made her way out of her tower toward the Chamber of the Painted Table. She had been able to find her way through the castle without guards for several years, though Daemon still insisted she be escorted by at least one of his men whenever she left her apartments. Which, in turn, prompted her guards to double that number from their own ranks so they would never be outnumbered.

Unfortunately for her – and Sers Adrew and Ruban – Jace was just leaving the Chamber of the Painted Table when they arrived.

“Dear sister, what an unexpected delight!” A smug grin split his face, and Arianwyn wanted nothing more than to slap him. Her guards wanted to do even more. Their hands drifted closer to their weapons – not a threat, just a reminder. One that Jace wholly ignored. “It’s so rare to see you outside of your tower.”

She faced him, not missing the gleam in his eyes as she did. He seemed to love nothing more than tormenting her. At least when they were alone, she could snipe back at him without fearing her father or endure Baela and Luke’s giggling. Over the years, she found that it was quite a delight watching Jace squirm. “Believe me, cousin, I would much prefer to be in my tower, but your mother has summoned me.”

Jace’s sneer at the word ‘cousin’ faded when Arianqyn mentioned Rhaenyra. His eyes narrowed, and he glanced over his shoulder at the door behind him. “My mother wants to see you?”

“She does. She sent a note.”

“Do you know why?”

“Why do you care?”

“Just curious.” He shrugged, looking up at the stone ceiling in an attempt at nonchalance that did little to fool Arianwyn. When he finally faced her, he had apparently regained his confidence and mirth. He smirked, stepping closer and dipping his chin – ever since he grew taller than her, he relished looking down at her. “Is there something wrong with my interest in my favorite sister?”

Gods, she wished she could tell Ser Ruban to stop holding back and shut Jace up for good. But with one of Daemon’s most loyal guards just behind her and Rhaenyra herself on the other side of the door Jace was currently blocking, it would only result in Ruban’s death. Perhaps the death of all her guards.

So, Arianwyn straightened and met Jace’s dark gaze. “I am not your sister. You are nothing more than a distant cousin and the son of my father’s third wife.”

Jace did not blanche. He did not frown, or bear his teeth, or snarl in any way.

He smiled.

Arinwyn had not been afraid of him since he first pulled the knife from his sleeve all those years ago on Driftmark. She was now.

“Enjoy your conversation with my mother,” he crooned as he stalked away. “I’ll see you at dinner.”

The hall fell quiet as Arianwyn stood in front of the grand wooden doors that led to the Chamber of the Painted Table. It was intricately carved with fearsome depictions of Balerion, Vhagar, and Meraxes in the Conquest. Taking a deep breath, she focused on the carving of Vhagar, imagining that the rider atop her was not the warrior Queen Visenya but Aemond.

What would he say if he were here? He would most likely encourage her to ignore Jace the same way she did each night at dinner. It had been his strategy in their childhood when Jace, Luker, and Aegon mocked him. ‘Don’t let them see that it gets to you, and they’ll lose interest,’ he once told her when she asked why he didn’t fight back.

But they never lost interest. Not until Luke stole Aemond’s eye.

Aegon, at least, apologized – to Aemond, and to her. It took him a year after Driftmark, but one day, a second raven came to Dragonstone, bearing the seal of a golden dragon.

“I really wasn’t trying to hurt you two. I just thought we were having fun, that I was being a good brother/cousin. I’m an idiot, I guess. So, I’m sorry. If you were still here, I’d do something to show you how sorry I am. With Aemond, I came to the training yard one morning and let him beat the shit out of me. He seemed to enjoy it, maybe a little too much. But he deserved it, or I did, or whatever. It was earned. Is there anything I can do to make it up to you? I could… I don’t know, read a book you think that I’d dislike? Or send you something? You know I’m not good at ideas, so just… let me know. As long as it won’t kill me, I’ll do it. I promise, Aria.”

After the beating, Aemond accepted the apology, and Arianwyn accepted it, too.

Neither Jace, nor Luke, nor Baela had apologized. They had not even made any efforts to grow closer to her.

If they would not be friendly, then neither would Arianwyn. She would do her best to wound them as they wounded her and hope Aemond would not be disappointed in her.

“Ignore him, my Lady.” Ser Adrew whispered. Lost in her thoughts, she had not noticed him step closer. “He’s not even worth the effort to think about. Pretend he’s a buzzing fly you can squash under your shoe. He’d make a very satisfying crunch, I think.”

Arianwyn smiled. Adrew always made her smile. And he was right.

She looked again at the carving of Vhagar and the image of Aemond astride her that her mind conjured. Though she still missed him to the point of despair, the thought of him calmed her racing heart and gave her the strength to stand straight and proud as she finally signaled for the doors to be opened.

She was surprised to find the grand room nearly empty, the Princess and her constant retinue of guards the only occupants. Rhaenyra stood at the side of the Painted Table, in a position that, were the massive map real, would place her on Driftmark.

When she saw her stepdaughter descending the stairs, Rhaenyra gave the girl a pleasant smile, though it did not quite reach her eyes. With a wave of her hand, she dismissed Ser Lorent Marbrand, her sworn Kingsguard, from their conversation and moved to greet Arianwyn. “Thank you for coming so swiftly,” she said, gesturing for the girl to rise from her curtsy. “I thought it a fine day for a walk in the gardens, don’t you agree?”

Stunned by the casual way the Princess addressed her, Arianwyn gave a hesitant smile and nodded. That was all the affirmation Rhaenyra needed before she began climbing back up the stairs. Arianwyn dutifully followed, her hands clasped and her head bowed.

The walk to the gardens was silent, save for the clanking of armor which always accompanied their guards. Arianwyn was desperate to know why she had been summoned, but protocol demanded that she allow Rhaenyra, her stepmother and presumptive heir to the throne, to speak first.

It wasn’t until they arrived at the gardens, the one place on the island where Maesters had been able to coax anything beyond grass to grow, that the Princess finally broke the silence.

“How was Emrys this morning?” she asked, fumbling over the pronunciation of the dragon’s name.

Arianwyn had to bite her tongue to prevent herself from correcting her stepmother. “He is well,” she replied curtly. But Rhaenyra stared at her as if expecting more, so she continued, “He very much enjoys flying when the wind is strong, so his mood was quite high today.”

Rhaenyra grinned, “Syrax was the same way when she was young.” She laid a hand over her swollen belly, “I regret that I have not been able to ride recently, but Daemon is quite protective when I am in such a state.”

The slight feeling of ease that Arianwyn had begun to feel was at once extinguished at the mention of her father. If only he had felt the same protectiveness for Rhea.

Sensing she had made an error, Rhaenyra moved quickly to try and break the tension. She cleared her throat, “The Dragonkeepers tell me you have been immensely helpful to Rhaena in her training with Morning.”

Indeed, for more than a year, Arianwyn had spent most mornings in the training yard with her younger sister and the hatchling. The still small creature, with scales the lovely soft pink of a sunset, had hatched from the clutch Syrax laid during Rhaenyra’s last pregnancy.

Arianwyn had nearly wept when she first saw Morning coiled around Rhaena’s neck. She had not seen a person so overwhelmed with joy since she watched Aemond claim Vhagar for the first time. Watching Rhaena bond with her dragon helped to fill the missing piece of her that still regretted not being there to see Aemond do the same.

“Rhaena is a naturally gifted dragonrider,” Arianwyn told the Princess. “I assure you, my help is entirely unnecessary.”

Rhaenyra laughed, “You would not know it by how she speaks of you. It is good you can be a sister to her, with Baela on Driftmark with Rhaenys.”

“You flatter me, Your Royal Highness,” Arianwyn replied, bowing her head slightly.

The two continued to wander through the garden, exchanging formal pleasantries and shallow conversation for nearly an hour. By the time they finally reached the far wall of the massive park and the vista overlooking the sea below, Arianwyn was so overcome with the monotony that she could no longer maintain her demure façade.

“Princess, may I speak freely?” She asked, her voice harder than it had been throughout the afternoon.

Rhaenyra blinked, surprised at the change in her tone. “Of course you may.”

“Why am I here?”

The Princess’ kind face immediately fell into passivity, and she let out an uncomfortable laugh. “I am afraid I do not understand what you are asking.”

Arianwyn steeled herself, looking at her stepmother directly as she spoke. “You and I have lived under the same roof for most of my life. For six years now, I have lived in your castle as your stepdaughter. And yet, you have said more to me just this afternoon than you have in all the past nineteen years. Why?”

Rhaenyra’s eyes narrowed, though her voice remained friendly – but only just. “Do you think it wrong for a woman to desire to spend time with her family?”

“I think it strange when that desire appears so suddenly after almost two decades of neglect.”

The Princess sighed heavily, turning to face the sea. “That is why I wanted to tell you myself –we will leave for King’s Landing at dawn. You will fly with us on Emrys.”

Arianwyn felt as though her heart might never beat again. She had dreamed of returning home for so long, but now that the prospect was before her, she struggled to trust that it was real.

“Truly?” she asked, her desperation revealed by the trembling of her voice.

“Truly,” Rhaenyra replied. She reached forward to take her stepdaughter’s hand. “Lord Corlys is gravely ill, and his brother is seizing the opportunity to formally contest Lucerys’ claim to Driftmark. We shall go to the capital as a family, united, to refute him.”

Arianwyn looked up into the Princess’s violet eyes, struggling to believe she could ever be any part of her family – the family she shared with Daemon. But Rhaenyra’s gaze held genuine hope, perhaps even affection. Before she knew it, Arianwyn was clutching her stepmother’s hand.

“I am sorry for the way I have treated you,” Rhaenyra said, rubbing her thumb over the back of Arianwyn’s hand. “I know I cannot change the past or make up for the time we have missed, but I need you to understand. Will you listen to what I have to say?”

With a smile, Arianwyn nodded.

Rhaenyra continued, “I have loved Daemon all my life, since before I can even remember. When you were first brought to the capital, I was a heartbroken girl, younger than you are now. Daemon had just wed Laena and flown across the Narrow Sea, and I was left in the Red Keep in a marriage that was weeks old and already a failure.”

Arianwyn recognized the look on Rhaenyra’s face. She had often seen it in the mirror—the helpless look of one stranded in a prison beyond their control. Just as Arianwyn had not chosen to live on Dragonstone, Rhaenyra had not chosen her husband.

“Seeing you, the beautiful silver-haired daughter of the man I loved, was torture for me,” Rhaenyra confessed with guilt in her eyes. “I knew it was not your fault, but every time I saw you, I was reminded of the life I could not have – the fairy tale I always dreamed of.” Her words echoed similar feelings in Arianwyn’s own heart.

“It was easier for me to avoid you entirely than endure those horrible feelings,” Rhaenyra said as she raised her hand to Arianwyn’s cheek. “I am so sorry that my behavior has cost you your family all these years.”

At that, Arianwyn’s brows furrowed. She had been alone, surely, but she had not been denied her family. Ser Gerold still wrote to her frequently, as did Aemond. Alicent and Helaena had as well; even Aegon had sent a few ravens over the years. Her family was far from her, yes. But she had never been denied their existence.

Rhaenyra grimaced, “I know your relationship with your father has been strained. And how he treated your mother was…” she trailed off, frowning, “regrettable.”

She continued her plea, but Arianwyn did not hear it. She had seen the look on Rhaenyra’s face when she mentioned Rhea – the pity, the disgust, and even the hint of fear.

Now, all Arianwyn could hear was the rushing of blood in her ears and two words echoing through her mind like thundering bells:

She knows.

It did not matter how she knew. Whether she deduced it or was told by Daemon himself was insignificant. Rhaenyra knew what he had done to Rhea. And still, she loved him. She remained married to him. She carried his child. Still, she would make him King.

What kind of person loved such a monster?

Arianwyn tore herself away from her stepmother, royal protocol forgotten and damned. Her heart, which had only begun to warm to the woman, froze over again. No, she would neverbe a part of this family.

As she stormed out of the garden, deaf to the calls of Rhaenyra and her guards, Arianwyn made a solemn vow:

She would return to King’s Landing, her home, and her truefamily. And once there, she would gladly die before allowing herself to be taken again.

#aemond #aemond fanfic #aemond targaryen imagine #aemond targaryen fanfic #aemond targaryen #aemond one eye #aemond imagine #prince aemond #aemond x oc #house of the dragon aemond #house of the dragon #hotd #hotd aemond #aemond fic #hotd fanfic #aemond xf!oc #aemond x original female character #aemond x original character #the silver dragon

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perkypeony · 3 months

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Gojo-sensei x new student reader

You had always seen strange creatures since you were born. At five, your parents revealed a family secret—you were a sorcerer, a rare trait in your country. Despite their lack of cursed techniques, they discovered that you had one. They taught you hand-to-hand combat and how to wield tools imbued with cursed energy.

At fifteen, you were attending a boarding school. One day, during your English class, a man with white hair and sunglasses knocked on your classroom door. A hint of Japanese laced his voice.

"Excuse me," he said, his voice smooth yet authoritative. "I'm looking for y/n."

You blinked, staring at him. Your heart skipped a beat. You recognized him immediately from a picture your dad had shown you. "Gojo Satoru..." you whispered in awe. Why did the strongest sorcerer of the modern era want to meet you? Were your parents okay?

"Yes, yes, it's me," he said with a playful smirk, clearly used to this kind of reaction. "Now, y/n, we need to talk. I've handled all the documents. You're coming with me to Tokyo today."

"Wait, what?!" you exclaimed, your heart racing. "But... my friends, my parents—"

"Say your goodbyes quickly," he urged, his tone still light but firm. "We've got a flight to catch."

As you stood there in shock, your classmates began to murmur among themselves. Your best friend leaned over and whispered, "Who is that? He’s so...handsome!"

You flushed slightly, realizing how surreal this must seem to everyone. "He's...uh, a family friend," you said, trying to keep your voice steady. "He's here to take me to Tokyo."

Your bestie's eyes widened. "Tokyo? That's amazing! But...why so sudden?"

"It's complicated," you replied, forcing a smile. "I'll explain later, I promise."

"Do my parents know about this?" you asked Gojo, still trying to process everything.

"Of course," he nodded. "Now, hurry up."

As you gathered your belongings, your friends crowded around you, firing off questions.

"Are you really leaving?" one asked.

"What's Tokyo like?" another chimed in.

"Are you going to be okay?" your bestie asked, their concern evident.

"I'll be fine," you assured them, though your heart was heavy. "I'll keep in touch, I promise."

You and Gojo stopped by your home first. Your parents had already packed your things. They looked apologetic.

"Mom, Dad, why didn’t you tell me?" you asked, feeling a mix of betrayal and curiosity.

"We're sorry, y/n," your mom said, tears welling in her eyes. "We wanted to tell you, but we know you would refuse if it meant leaving your friends and us."

"We can’t teach you much about your cursed technique," your dad explained. "Gojo Satoru is here to take you to Tokyo Jujutsu High. It's the best place for you to learn and grow."

You felt a pang of sadness about leaving them, but the excitement of starting a new chapter in a foreign country took over. Your parents accompanied you to the airport, and you hugged them tightly, bidding them goodbye.

On the plane, you couldn't help but steal glances at Gojo. You had seen pictures of him before, but they didn't do him justice. He was even more impressive in person, and you found yourself struggling to keep your excitement in check.

"Aren't you going to ask for my autograph?" he teased, noticing your frequent glances.

You blushed furiously. "I-I didn't want to bother you..."

Gojo laughed. "Don't worry, y/n. We've got plenty of time to get to know each other."

A few months later, you found yourself in Shibuya, exorcising cursed spirits. Several sorcerers were already down and Gojo Satoru had been sealed. Let's just hope you will survive.

#jujutsu kaisen #jjk x reader #gojo satoru #satoru gojo #gojo satoru x reader #gojo x reader #jjk fluff #jjk angst

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escelia · 2 years

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Happy Valentine's Day, everyone! Here's part 3 (or chapter 4) of my fic Not So Normal. After this installment, I'm planning on uploading the series to ao3 as well as Tumblr so stay tuned for that link to drop!

Prologue | Part 1 | Part 2 | Masterpost

Not So Normal pt3

TW: vague, brief descriptions/mentions of violence, vivisection, and panic attacks

It had been a total accident. His parents were supposed to be halfway to a science convention by then. When Danny floated through the floor and into the kitchen he hadn't expected his mothe- he hadn't expected Maddie to be there. He should have expected the gun in his face a moment later, but definitely not the hole she'd put in his chest before he'd even gotten a word out. It happened so fast. The shouting and shooting, the thermos…

He'd come to on the exam table in the lab, wrists bound, bright light in his face. He could barely make out the figures just beyond it, though he knew exactly who they were. He'd begged and screamed and cried, anything to get them to listen. Jack had gotten Maddie to take a breath and listen for a moment as Danny tried to get it through to them that he was their son!

"I'm Danny, it's me! I'm still me! Please, mom, you've gotta believe me!"

They believed him. He never thought that would make it worse. They became curious in a way they weren't before. Less angry about the dastardly spook they thought had been impersonating their son and more eager to tear into the science experiment they believed legally belonged to them. They called him an abomination that was no longer human and gripped their scalpels with cruel excitement on their faces. He remembered screaming for hours.

Only Clockwork would be able to say how long he'd been like that. All Danny had known was that he was tired and weak, his throat was dry and his entire body ached. He'd been in human form for the whole thing, and though it was much more painful that way, it kept them from getting to his core. He would only ever be grateful for that.

Eventually it was Jazz that had released him. Jack and Maddie had stepped out for dinner believing his restraints would hold his weakened body. They'd been right, he couldn't have escaped on his own, but Jazz had snuck down to the basement right after they'd left and shoved him through the portal, telling him not to come back, it wasn't safe, but to contact her when he knew he was okay. She'd locked the portal's blast door behind him. There, drifting in the vast green of the Realms, he cried and cried until he felt himself fall through a natural portal.

He'd dropped into a dirty alley with a painful thud and couldn't suppress the cry of pain as rocks and dirt pressed into his wounds.

"Oh my god, are you okay?" He'd heard a man call. Gentle but firm hands helped him sit up, his own hands busy keeping his chest closed and smearing the blood and dirt that already covered him. The man gasped in horror as Danny begged for help.

Turns out the man that found him was none other than Bruce Wayne. He was alright as far as billionaires went; far more sane than Vlad at the very least. When Bruce asked what happened all he could get out was that his parents hurt him and he never wanted to go back there. Bruce had decided then and there that he would keep Danny. They'd taken pictures of the damage for court, thinking they would need to build a solid case since Danny was healing up well. He even called in a few favors with his lawyers. The Fentons, though, oh they helped plenty.

"Dr's Fenton, how do you plead?"

"Guilty! That thing is a monster! It belongs to us! That's our experiment! It's fooled you all! You'll see, just wait!"

Several of the officers around the courtroom had to restrain them as Maddie screamed and flailed. Jack was fuming. But much more docile than his wife. The pictures and testimonies had been enough to prove them guilty of child abuse and neglect, but their outburst all but sealed their fate as unsuitable parents. That day, Danny found a new place to call home, and a new family he was ready to die for.

~~•○•~~

Today was the day! Er- night! Tonight was the night! Danny was finally going out on patrol with the bat clan officially. After the events at the warehouse and his family finally learning about his past as Fenton and Phantom, Bruce has asked Danny if he was interested in patrolling with them. Damian had vouched for Danny, doling out thinly veiled compliments about his fighting prowess. Bruce decidedly kept that info to himself. The enthusiasm with which Danny responded had Bruce regretting asking, but it was clear that Danny had been itching to get out there and fight some crime.

Due to his experience, he'd been paired with Nightwing for the night. Dick had cheered at finally getting some one on one time with Danny, pulling him in for the kind of suffocating hug only an older sibling could provide. They had an absolute blast that night. Dick would show off, doing fun, dangerous looking flips off of buildings before firing his grappling hook at the last minute. And Danny could keep up, even as he swung through the air. It made Dick cackle in delight. Quietly of course, they were very stealthy, thank you! (Dick had to be shushed over the coms several times, and Danny was able to keep his laughter to a quiet snicker.)

They'd been on a roll with Danny being able to cover so much ground from so high up. In just the first few hours they'd stopped at least three muggings, recovered a stolen car, and prevented a bank robbery before it had even begun. Hearing his father commend him for a job well done over the coms made him glow with pride. He'd never had so much fun on patrol before. It made his core vibrate with glee.

"Danny, are you… purring?" Dick asked. He heard the others gasp over the coms.

"No! No, now way, I'm absolutely not purring! What gave you that idea?"

"He purrs?" Tim guffawed over the line, and Steph began to giggle uncontrollably.

"Absolutely not!"

"I've found he purrs when he's incredibly happy or content, just like a cat," Damian explained. He could hear the smirk in his voice.

"Aaawwwwwww! I'm happy spending time with you too, baby ghost!" Danny was smothered with another hug.

"Betrayed. By my baby brother! I cannot believe this."

"Settle down everyone! We're still on the clock," came the gruff, authoritative voice of Batman.

Sobering up from the moment, Danny and Dick went back to patrolling. It was starting to get quiet in their area, the others reporting incidents in their own sections of the city. It gave them time to grab a snack before something new popped up.

"You seem to be enjoying yourself," Nightwing began, taking a bite of his granola bar.

"I am," Danny replied. His snack of choice was a pack of fruit snacks. "Patrolling in my old haunt was exhausting. It was just me and my two friends out there most nights. Fight after fight after fight… I have a sense that lets me detect the presence of other ghosts, and it seemed to go off nonstop there. I was lucky if I got eight hours of sleep in a week, let alone a night." He paused to pop a few snacks in his mouth. Dick was quietly attentive, munching on his granola bar.

"Here, I know I've got someone to watch my back. And it helps that humans are much easier to handle non-violently than ghosts."

"I'm glad you like it here, Phantom," Nightwing said with a smile, using his codename. Danny smiled back, getting ready to toss a few fruit snacks into his mouth but stopping short when a chill unfurled on his chest. He gasped, dropping his snacks. Seemed like their break was over.

"What's wrong?" Nightwing asked alert now, eyes flicking around the area to perceive the threat.

"Get behind me."

"What?"

"Just do it! You're not equipped to fight ghosts!"

At the word ghost, the coms erupted in chaos. Danny shouted at them to stay clear, he could handle it just fine, it was probably a small fry anyways. Dick followed his directions, getting behind Danny but not cowering. No, his big brother was covering his back. Sure enough, about a minute later, three large glowing vultures rose over the edge of the rooftop.

"Awe great, it's the birds with the hats! What do you want?"

"Good evening to you, too, King Phantom," one of them snickered. Danny just scowled.

"Plasmius sent us to, and I quote, 'knock some sense inta ya.'" another one said, making air quotations with the tips of his wings.

"I'll have you know I've got a thermos here with your names on it and no access to a portal. How does an extended stay in Soupland sound?" Danny waved his thermos threateningly at them, a sarcastic smile on his face.

"How does taking your little friend here hostage sound?" The last one threatened, perching his claws on Dick's shoulders. Faster than Dick could blink, Danny had spun around, ice shooting out to freeze the two other two birds, thermos pointed like a gun, while clawed fingers wrapped around the third one's neck. The bird squawked in fear.

Frost swirled dangerously around his aura, and Dick swallowed nervously in the face of its intensity. Danny's eyes were glowing a furious, toxic green, and even though the glare wasn't directed at him, he could feel its anger. Dick had seen him like this at the warehouse, sure. But now, this close, Dick truly understood the sheer power that Danny possessed, the majesty that was this eldritch creature in front of him. Somehow, all he felt in his presence was safe.

Danny growled at the ghost clutching at Nightwing, squeezing until the talons loosened.

"Why did Vlad send you?" He questioned. Absently, Dick thought he reminded him of Bruce in interrogation mode.

"He's mad some other guy adopted you or something, the same usual psycho spiel!"

"What's he planning!"

"I don't know! He was going on about how you're supposed to be his son and was throwing things. He wanted us to come rough up you and your new family. He's real mad, but that's all we know, I swear!"

It was silent for a moment while Danny absorbed the information. He regarded the vulture with cold eyes but didn't release him. He should have known Vlad would try something like this. His adoption wasn't super public but it wasn't like it was a secret either, so he'd been bound to find out. Most ghosts respected him too much as King now to threaten anyone Danny considered family, but Vlad always had his ways. He'd have to take care of it without getting the others involved.

Making up his mind, he hit the button on his thermos, sucking up the frozen ghosts and the ice along with it before swinging it around and shoving the end on the last one's beak, trapping him too. Dick sagged in relief once they were gone and Danny made a fuss about checking his shoulders to make sure he wasn't injured.

"Phantom, what was that about!" Bruce's voice was strained over the coms, likely because he didn't know what to do or how to help. Damn, Danny had forgotten that the others could hear them. At the time it had been a brilliant idea; Danny infusing the coms with ectoplasm meant that not only could Danny use them without causing interference, but they were now some of the most secure lines of communication on earth. There went his plan to keep his family out of it.

"Just some unfinished business," Danny replied, trying to sound unbothered. "The hostiles have been apprehended, and there are no injuries. We're good to continue patrolling."

Dick eyed him skeptically.

"Absolutely not. Turn in for the night you two, we'll debrief at the end of patrol," was Batman's stern order.

"No way, more are bound to show up-"

"Which is why you'll need to teach us how to fight them. We'll need you level headed for that, Phantom. Head back to the cave. We'll talk later."

Danny pouted. He could be level headed and still finish patrol! He could! At least that's what he told himself while he clenched his fists to stop them from shaking. Dick put a comforting hand on his shoulder. It was cold.

"Why don't we have Agent A make us some hot chocolate and we'll tuck in for a movie while we wait for the others," he suggested. The ghost searched his brother's face, seeing concern even underneath his domino.

"Fine," Danny conceded. "But I get to pick the movie."

By the time the others had gotten back to the manor Danny was curled up on the couch, chilly toes tucked underneath his brother's thigh and hands curled around a warm mug while the credits for James Cameron's Avatar rolled on the TV. Damian reached over the back of the couch and gave Danny's shoulder a squeeze, pulling him from his post hot coco daze. They had a meeting to get started.

~~•○•~~

As everyone settled around the meeting table in the cave, Damian made a beeline to the seat next to Danny. He would never admit to anyone that he'd been jealous that Danny had been sent out with Richard. Logically, he knew there was no real reason for Brother to come with Father and himself. He wasn't getting dethroned as Robin, and he had enough experience that Father could trust Danny out with a patrol partner. Still, he'd wanted to be there for his first experience patrolling as a member of the family. After the events of the evening, he wished even more he'd been there.

He'd heard of this Vlad before, and never in a good light, though he knew nothing more than that Danny did not like him. It was clear he'd been a source of great stress before he had come to them. Damian was frustrated that he couldn't be there to put their assailants in their place. It looked as though Danny had never mentioned Vlad to anyone else. Damian didn't know if he was proud or concerned by that. Instead of voicing his thoughts on the matter, he leaned in close to Danny's ear to whisper.

"Are you sure we're not blood related?" Damian asked with a smirk.

"What?" Danny whispered back, confused.

"When you were questioning the, what were they, birds? You sounded like Father." Danny turned to blink at him, trying to process the comment. "It is a compliment, Danny."

"Oh!"

"What are you two whispering about?" Tim asked from across the table. He'd leaned one hand onto the table with the other on his hip like an amused mother who'd caught her children conspiring.

"It's none of your concern, Drake." Danny chuckled and shrugged at him, miming zipping his lips shut.

"Alright, mission report, Phantom," Bruce interrupted, approaching the table and throwing a folder down. "What was tonight about?" Danny took a deep breath to keep himself calm.

"An old thorn in my side. The vulture ghosts were sent by a guy who used to bother me back in Amity Park. Had this crazy idea that if he killed my family, he could have me all to himself as some little heir to his evil empire. Seems he heard about my adoption."

Bruce frowned deep at that. So he was a threat to be concerned about. Good thing he'd done some research on ghost weapons then. He tapped the folder.

"If he'll be sending more ghosts to attack us, then we need to know how to fight them. I've taken the liberty of doing some research on weaponry. DalvCo is willing-"

"Absolutely not!" Danny stopped him short. Bruce barely stopped himself from groaning. It had been a long night, and now was not the time to be argumentative.

"We need weapons. This isn't up for discussion."

"That wasn't a request, Bruce. As High King of the Infinite Realms, I forbid my family from doing business with DalvCo and, subsequently, Vlad 'Plasmius' Masters, who owns it." Bruce's face contorted with understanding after his words. The others were quick to catch on. He heard Dick grumble about how the name wasn't even clever, and it made Danny smirk.

"Besides," Danny continued, a sly grin overtaking his face. His teeth were a little too sharp in his mouth. "I have a much better plan. Tim, how do you feel about mad science?"

Tim's eyes gleamed, and his grin, teeth less sharp and far more human, matched Danny's.

"You can build weapons?" Damian guessed next to him. Danny glowed with pride.

"Of course I can, I'm Daniel Fenton-Wayne, after all!"

~~•○•~~

Meanwhile, in Soupland

"I told you we shoulda just told him what was up, then got outta there."

"How was I supposed to know he was gonna ice you two?"

"Oh, please, the ice was tame. He souped us! He said he doesn't have access to a portal and he souped us!"

"That's what we get for threatening someone close to our King."

"Exactly, we shouldn'ta done that. We're too old for this!"

"I may be old, but I'm not deaf. Stop shouting in my ear, loud mouth!"

"Well, then get your wing outta my face, flabby feathers!"

"In case you haven't noticed, IT'S FROZEN!"

"We coulda been on a tropical southern island by now if it weren't for that Plasmius jerk pitting us against Phantom."

"Yeah!"

"Yeeaah!"

"We should work for the King from now on."

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