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thedarkestrivernymph · 5 months ago

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Soft Yandere! Clan Leader x Wife!Reader

warnings: self-hatred, insecure! reader, nudity, only brief mentions of nsfw themes

genre: fluff, comfort

You felt hot, flashing pain trickle down your throat to settle in the depth of your chest—lungs aching from the strain, face nearly purple as you held a bated breath, eyes squeezed shut, trying your best to avoid his gaze.

“I am sorry—” your voice was all but a meek squeak. “—I know this wasn't what you were expecting.” nimble fingers curled and tugged at your robes, keeping them positioned in front of you bare state—as you couldn't help but bow your head in utter shame, feeling the weight of your imperfections bear down on you.

The man hovering above your kneeling form remained silent, opting for assessing and scrutinizing you with the sharp whiplash of his gaze alone.

“I know—you're unhappy about this—my family will repay the trinkets your clan gifted us so graciously. Just please don't act rash and revoke the marriage—” you couldn't even finish uttering the words wobbling from your quivering lips before a sob ripped free from your throat and you just had to bury your face into the silkiness of your robes.

There was a sigh, then a long pause as you wailed, bashfully, scrambling to try and hide as much of your figure as possible, feeling slimy and dirty, hideous even, to have thrown yourself at the head of one of the biggest clan’s like a loose woman—as if you held your legs open for just anybody.

“Calm your nerves.” his voice was gruff, tinged with exasperation, as the rough pads of his fingers brushed over your forehead to trace your hairline and find a rhythmic pattern petting your crown. “I will do no such thing, my bride, can't you even look at me?” he was kind, much too kind towards something as filthy as you were.

“I cannot—” you rasped between laboured breaths and high-pitched mewls muffled by your bloated bottom lip; bitten raw.

“You're upset. Why are you so saddened? What has caused you anguish? You're my wife—you do not need to lower your gaze in shame.” he whispered tentatively and before you knew it, he had peeled away the annoying piece of fabric obscuring your adorable sniffling face from him. “Do not cry. Our families expect of us to lay together—but if you fear it this much, we can wait. I can wait, my wife, why won't you calm?” chiffon, something akin to a gentle breeze caressing you—that’s what his voice was like, lulling you into a daze; sweet candy to lure you out of your hiding.

So, finally, scraping together all the courage you had, you raised your gaze to meet his, immediately regretting it, as the gentleness in his, so misdirected at something as ugly as you were, made you burst out into another fit of hysterics. “No, no, no. You're—you’re just too nice. Throwing myself at you like a whore—you deserve better. A refined lady. That's what you need and our clans expect—but I am no such thing. I—I am hideous, please, stop looking at me with such kindness. I apologise, husband, I am ruining the first night and I can't just stop and—”

“Breathe” you felt your cheek press into a chest and finally the furrow between your brows eased as you let something almost primal escape you, breaking down all too horribly until your head throbbed in an ache and your nose was stuffy and runny—and while you unleashed your inner demons, he was petting you, cooing at you, reminding you to stay grounded.

“My wife—” he chirped once it was over and you exhausted your capacity to cry any further, sinking into the soft covers of your martial bed like a heavy sack of sand, “I am blessed to be yours.” you felt him interlace his thick fingers with yours, brushing over the back of your hand subtly yet affectionately, as the moon filtered through the curtains to lay strips of silver across you both.

“Can you even imagine how much I yearned for this very moment? To claim that you're mine, not just in spirit—with our two clans permanently intertwined? Since the day you passed by me at the market all my waking moments have been filled with longing for you. So how could you ever call the woman I love all these distasteful names?” he chased away all the bad thoughts as your numbed body laid against his, arms so powerful you were sure they could've squeezed you to death if he was lying, but it didn't seem so—not him, not the most perfect man you knew, the one you were certain deserved better than you.

“You're silent, my wife.” he paused. “It seems your husband lacks the ability to truly convince you of his feelings.” he pressed a kiss to your crown, sighing softly while scooping you closer to his warmth. "Do not fret. We have our entire lives left. If you cannot trust me yet, then I will teach you how—I will convince you of my earnest feelings, even if it takes a lifetime. Because—” he pressed a kiss to your forehead this time, staring down at your bare form beneath the covers, cuddled up in his arms, with tears smeared across your cheeks so beautifully. “ask and I would even bring down the moon for you.”

#soft yandere #yandere story #male yandere x reader #male x reader #yandere #yandere stories #yandere x reader #yandere x you #original character #original characters #cw: nudity #fluff #comfort #insecure reader

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inktopuck · 4 months ago

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juno | quinn hughes social media au (pt.7)

pt.6

_quinnhughes

Liked by elblue6, yournamehughes and others

_quinnhughes mornings at home

colecaufield HOW IS SHE THIS BIG ALREADY

yournamehughes we give her fertilizer and water

l_hughes06 when quinn finally let you be the small spoon @yournamehughes

yournamehughes he chose rock instead of scissors

l_hughes06 classic quinn L

jackhughes how did you even get this picture

yournamelastname luke is staying in the guest bedroom and thought it would be cute to wake us up by jumping on our bed and getting this

jackhughes luke are you fucking 4

l_hughes06 i'm a 9 on a good day

matthew_tkachuk that bedhead is giving me baby fever

trevorzegras real, might have to start procreating too

_quinnhughes please don't

yournamehughes

Liked by _quinnhughes, jackhughes and others

yournamehughes the hughes pout lives on

colecaufield genetics really got her good

jackhughes y/n please let me babysit please

yournamehughes why don't you ask your brother???

jackhughes he has a vendetta against me and you're the cool one

_quinnhughes you said she looked like a rat when she was born

yournamehughes in all fairness newborns do look like rats, quinn

_quinnhughes not ours!!!!

eliaspettersson this is the face he pulls when he gets to practice because he just wants to be with her 24/7

yournamehughes my heart 😭

trevorzegras the side eye has been mastered as well

jackhughes

Liked by elblue6, nicohischier and others

jackhughes WOOOOOOOOOOO #bellytime

yournamehughes PLEASE go slow and PLEASE be careful or i swear to god i will hunt you down and remove your hair follicle by follicle

jackhughes leave my hair out of this

trevorzegras meowwww momma bear get him

_quinnhughes dude bears do not say meow what did they teach you in kindergarten

l_hughes06 those sunglasses are hideous

jackhughes you're only saying that because i beat you to buying them

l_hughes06 false, they're fugly

jackhughes you're fugly

alexturcotte didn't you use to drive cole around like this

colecaufield oh my god we get it i'm small move on

yournamehughes

Liked by _quinnhughes, l_hughes06 and others

yournamehughes so it starts 😮‍💨 #hockeymom

_quinnhughes i love her so much

elblue06 little bit of a full circle moment ❤️

yournamehughes i am so glad she had you to teach her how to skate ❤️

elblue6 are you kidding me? i wasn't about to let my boys take the wheel on that, have you seen how much they fall on the ice 😫

jackhughes mom what the fuck 😭😭

elblue6 don't swear at me young man

jackhughes sorry mom

l_hughes06 tell her her godfather is very proud of her

bboeser belly is coming in today? YAY

_quinnhughes you're never this excited to see me

bboeser you're not a cute kid

eliaspettersson AHHHH BELLS!!! i got swedish candy in my stall

_quinnhughes no candy before dinner

eliaspettersson shut up old man

canucks we can't wait to see Isabel crush the old guys! #bellytime

pt.8

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lilac-witch · 1 year ago

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Aesthete - Azriel x reader

masterlist

Summary: Azriel hates his hands, Y/n loves them. Meaning: "one having or affecting sensitivity to the beautiful, especially art" Word Count: 389 Warnings: None

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"I love your hands."

Azriel's eyes moved from the book in his hands to the female sitting across from him. She wasn't looking at him, her eyes focused solely on her own book.

Moments passed, and Azriel remained silent, unable to find the correct words to say. It was as though the air had been ripped from his lungs.

Y/n lifted her head to find him staring at her, his hazel eyes wide with shock and mouth slightly ajar.

"What's that look for?" Y/n asked with a grin, slowly shutting the book in her hands.

Azriel's jaw bobbed, but no words left his mouth.

"Cat got your tongue Az?"

"You said you loved my hands..."

Azriel felt as though he was a toddler, repeating the words he heard others saying. But the concept that this female could even stand to look at his hands, let alone love them, had him feeling at odds with himself.

He watched as Y/n tilted her head to the side, nose scrunched in confusion.

"Why wouldn't I love your hands?"

"They're hideous. They aren't soft like yours, and the scars..."

"I love your hands, Azriel, because they represent your strength. They represent the male who survived hate and anguish, and overcame all the challenges thrown his way."

Azriel felt water line his eyes, the tears threatening to fall down his cheeks as his mate continued.

"I love your hands because they bring me joy. Your hands hold the flowers you bring me whenever you return home from a mission. It's your hands that wipe away my tears when I'm sad. It's your hands that mine seek underneath the table during family dinners."

Azriel could only attempt to not gape at his mate, at the comforting words that left her perfect mouth.

"I love your hands because there isn't a part of you that I don't love," she finished, pushing herself up from her chair.

Azriel tracked her movements around the table, shifting his sitting position to accommodate her weight as she sat in his lap.

Her hands took his in her own, thumbs rubbing gently over his scars before she lifted his hands to her mouth, placing soft kisses upon the skin.

Her eyes met his, blazing with love and admiration, and in that moment, Azriel had never loved her more.

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Hi everyone! I hope you enjoyed this post. It's the first of many to come. Please feel free to send me requests and post comments :) Also, please bear with me. I'm a full-time student so there may be times where posting isn't so consistent. But anyway, until next time ;)

#azriel #acotar #shadowsinger x reader #azriel x reader #azriel x you #azriel shadowsinger

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reignpage · 9 days ago

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Dear Haibara,

I have good news and bad news. Both pertains to the success of many late nights spent at the library, lunches filled not with sustenance but rather with the 'ass-kissing,' as you call it, of professors and previous researchers alike, and, of course, the many hours embarrassingly passed by play-acting with me as a presenter and you as the unfortunate audience to my madness.

The latter is sad terrible news. Devastating, in fact.

You will have to find someone else whose homework you can copy, someone who will take you to your astral chess matches, and will begrudgingly bear witness to your attempts to find a partner soulmate among the female half living on St. E's hallowed grounds. Please hold your tears. Really. Spare me.

Do reply to my letter as soon as you're possible, I'd like to see you in person before I leave on Monday. I know you love to stay at home for as long as you can because of your mother's terrific cooking, and of course, also because of the shocking level of pampering you receive at your age, but I'd like to treat you to lunch. Consider it a small token of my appreciation for all your help.

Truly, I could not have achieved this without you.

Looking forward to hearing from you.

Yours,

P.s be careful of the owls. They do not seem overly fond of students for reasons beyond me. One such owl, grey and rather hideous looking, bit me. I shall read as many books as I can before leaving to find a way to communicate my regretfulness at whatever I may have done to offend it so.

#The Call of Atlantis #divider by @enchanthings-a

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novaursa · 6 days ago

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Love your stories! I had a request.

Could you please do a Euron/YN story? I'm thinking maybe Y/N could be a captive aboard the Silence.

Another request: please make this story as unhinged and dark as possible. I know that's your specialty.

She Who Sleeps Beneath

- Summary: Euron believes he captured a god, but the truth is, you are something far more terrible.

- Pairing: reader/Euron Greyjoy

- Rating: Explicit 18+ (all flags are up for this one)

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

- A/N: You let me off the leash and I went rabid.

The deck of Silence reeked of blood, salt, and madness. You hung there like a fallen angel—if angels ever came from the black abysses beneath the world—naked and slick with brine, eyes too wide, too still, too ancient for the form they now wore. A girl, they thought. A girl no older than fifteen summers, skin like cold wax, hair clinging to your shoulders in tendrils like kelp. But you were no girl. No thing so simple. You watched them with that eerie stillness, as if you could already see the meat peeling from their bones.

Euron Greyjoy stood over you, barefoot on the red-slick planks, his lips parted in something between a grin and a religious trance. His good eye blazed with sea-glass hunger. The other, the black one, was a void, a maw, an open mouth with no throat. His robes were stained with salt and old gore, his teeth sharp from too many dreams of gnawing on the divine. You smelled it on him—madness, rot, old blood, and something older, something deeper.

He had hunted you for ten years.

Ten years of storms and slaughter, of necromancers flayed on his deck for answers, of sailors thrown screaming into the sea with bells tied to their ankles so he could hear the deep sing back. Ten years chasing whispers, wet footprints on stone, sightings of a girl in glassy waters, ships swallowed whole in perfect silence.

And now you were here. Lashed in chains made from weirwood roots and black iron, soaked in oils scoured from drowned priests and unborn calves. Your eyes blinked once. Slowly. He shuddered.

“She’s mine,” Euron whispered, turning to his crew with arms spread wide. “Do you hear it? Do you feel it?” He laughed, a hideous, choking sound. “She’s the womb of gods! The mother of tides and ruin. I will crawl inside her and be reborn. I will tear sons from her belly that will drink the stars dry.”

The crew didn’t answer. Most didn’t dare meet your gaze. One of the thralls muttered a prayer before Euron silenced him with a knife through the throat.

“They don’t understand,” he crooned, dropping to his knees before you. He cupped your face like you were something delicate, a relic pulled from a drowned city. “But I do. I’ve seen you in my dreams. You walked through the weeping tunnels beneath the world. You tore kings in half with your teeth. You laid with leviathans, and birthed monsters that swallowed continents.” His breath was foul, his words reverent.

You said nothing. Your lips were blue, faintly cracked, and you blinked again.

Inside, you imagined the taste of his tongue.

You imagined how he would scream when you split his ribs open and wore his lungs like wings. You had done it before. Long ago, in a different form, before the world remembered sunlight. Your mind slithered through time like a serpent through ruins, tasting his flesh already. He thought he’d won. But you knew better. You’d let him find you. You’d let him drag you aboard this rotting ark, because now you were close.

Close enough to smell the iron in his blood.

“I’ll fill her with god-seed,” Euron declared, rising now, arms shaking with the strength of his madness. “Every night. Every tide. Until her belly swells and bursts with children. They will climb from her screaming like stormspawn. They’ll walk on water. They’ll tear down the gods of men.”

One of his lieutenants—Qarlen, you remembered, a thick-necked man with red boils on his arms—spoke then, voice unsure. “She don’t look like she can bear no babes, Captain. She looks like a child.”

Euron turned slowly. “Do you question me?” His voice was quiet, terrifying.

Qarlen took a step back. “No, Captain. Just… she ain’t natural.”

“Exactly,” Euron whispered. “That’s the point.” He turned back to you and pressed his forehead to yours, trembling. “You’re not of this world. You’re from the dark before time. You’re the end of all things. You’re mine.”

Your eyes flicked down to his throat. You knew where his arteries pulsed. You fantasized about puncturing them with your nails. Or your teeth. Or the ridged mandibles that slumbered beneath your tongue. For now, you waited. Let him think you weak. Let him feel victorious.

Let him feed you.

He kissed your forehead. You barely felt it.

“I’ll keep you beneath,” he said. “In the hold. Where the bones sing. And when the moon’s high, I’ll come down and pray. I’ll anoint your belly with blood and salt. You’ll give me a kingdom of horrors, won’t you, my love?”

You smiled. Just barely.

One day, you would eat him alive. You would peel his skin and wear it long enough to whisper madness into every ear that had ever heard his name. You would sing his death-song in a voice of knives and drown this ship in his screams.

But for now, you closed your eyes and let him dream.

The hold of Silence was a womb of black and brine, thick with the reek of mildew, blood, and the slow rot of things too long kept in the dark. No torch burned there. Only the phosphorescent glow of barnacles smeared across old hull planks, casting a sickly, pulsing light that seemed to breathe. You lay upon a slab of driftwood and rusted chains, cold as stone, your skin still glistening with sea-slick and salt.

Above you loomed Euron.

He was shirtless, glistening with sweat, eye wild and unblinking, and every breath he took shuddered like a man possessed. His voice was a rasp, thick with reverence and lust.

“You’ll remember this,” he whispered, as if speaking to a goddess. “You’ll carry me inside you, the way the sea carries the bones of drowned kings. You were made for this.”

You didn’t answer. You watched him with those still, glassy eyes—empty of resistance, of emotion, of anything resembling fear. It pleased him.

He tore what little covered you and pressed himself to your cool flesh, trembling with desire and terror. You were pliant beneath him, as silent as the dead, your breath shallow, body unmoving save for the gentle rise and fall of your chest. He didn’t notice the way your pupils dilated—long, vertical slits slicing through the black of your eyes like cracks in reality. He didn't see how your mouth twitched, just slightly, as if remembering how to split wide.

His hands roamed your skin as he whispered profanities and prayers in the same breath, groaning your name—though he did not know it. He called you Womb of the Abyss, Bride of Leviathans, Mother of the Next World.

And then it was done.

Euron collapsed atop you, breath ragged, lips pressed against your neck as he muttered a lullaby you did not understand. “You are mine. You are mine. My queen of horrors. My whore of the deep. My vessel…”

You did not move.

Until you did.

Something shifted beneath your flesh.

Your hands—small and pale—snapped shut around his wrists with a strength that no child should possess. He tensed, startled, but before his mouth could form a question, your head turned toward him. Slowly. Inhumanly. Your lips peeled back in something that could not be called a smile.

There were too many teeth.

The skin on your face rippled, peeled, tore—and something inside unfurled.

Euron screamed.

It was a wet, helpless sound, sharp with panic and disbelief. He tried to pull back, but your body had opened like a blooming flower, your limbs lengthening, black carapace gleaming beneath tearing flesh. Bone cracked as your arms split at the elbows, long fingers stretching into jagged claws. Your chest split down the middle with a sickening wet pop, revealing a slick, chitinous maw, and your tongue uncoiled like a whip of muscle and hooks.

“You were inside me,” you said, but the voice was not yours. It was before you. A thousand voices murmured beneath it—dripping, wet, writhing things. “Now I will be inside you.”

He tried to scream again, but your tongue lashed around his throat and pulled him down.

You bit into his face first.

The eye—the real one—popped between your jaws. The black one, the void, you sucked from the socket like marrow from a bone. He thrashed, blood spilling in great pulsing waves, staining the planks with steaming crimson. You tore his chest open next, ribs cracking like splintering ice. His heart was a hot, twitching thing between your teeth.

He died gurgling your name.

You chewed.

When it was over, what remained of Euron Greyjoy was a mess of bone and pulp strewn across the floor of his own ship, dragged into a rough spiral by your claws—a mark left by your kind long ago, older than speech, older than gods. You stood in the wreck of your human skin, the shape of you now monstrous—taller, lithe, slick with mucous and blood. Your body gleamed with armored plates and sinew. Four eyes blinked across your face. The mandibles twitched.

And you breathed.

Climbing the steps, you emerged into the moonlight, glistening and grotesque.

The crew froze. Every man on deck stared at you. Some dropped to their knees in horror, others backed away until they fell overboard. None moved to stop you.

You walked through them without fear. Their terror was thick, savory, and you basked in it. A few dared to speak your name, to whisper of monsters and old stories, but no one followed as you reached the edge of the deck.

You looked back once. The wind blew through your hair—what little remained of it—and your jaw distended with a hiss that silenced every mouth.

Then you leapt.

You hit the water without a sound, and the sea accepted you like a mother reclaiming her child.

And Silence was truly silent at last.

#game of thrones #asoiaf #fire and blood #a song of ice and fire #house of the dragon #got #got/asoiaf #asoiaf x reader #got x reader #got x you #got x y/n #house greyjoy #euron greyjoy #euron x reader #euron x you #euron x y/n #x reader

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getonite · 1 year ago

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YOU KNOW I LOOK TOO GOOD TO NOT BE HIDEOUS!

( synop. the voice inside of dazai's head swallows him whole ) contains. 1.8k+ wc — gn!reader ; dazai angst, hurt/comfort, best friends to lovers ( hinted ), dazai gets a hug, alcoholism, drunk!dazai, pre-ada but post-pm, mention of vomit, dazai has a panic attack + cries, implied sh scars. ( the author is back on their torturing dazai bit ; this song literally belongs to him, okay. kinda pt2 to my prev dazai fic. )

"Dazai . . . "

"Dazai."

"OSAMU!"

Dazai twitches, awakened by the familiar sound of a yelling voice. "Huh?" his voice slurs as he sits up slowly, his body clearly in pain. You sniff, groaning the thick smell of alcohol stuck in his clothes. "Don't yell, hangover . . . " he grumbles. "Or maybe I'm still drunk."

"Get up," you say firmly, looking down at his slumped body resting against the wall.

He must've been downing drinks last night, though, at least not to the point where he couldn't figure his way home. Though, it seems he couldn't get into the house as his keys are resting in his hand and he's sitting onto the concrete next to the door.

"Huh? Wha—What, I'm getting- huh?"

You sigh and loop your arm underneath his, carefully pulling him inside of the house. You carefully grab the keys and set them on the rack near the door. Dazai let's out a drunken giggle as you pat him down, making sure that everything he left with is still with him.

"You are so fucking irresponsible," you hiss, tugging Oda's coat off of his lanky body. After forcing him to sit down, you walk to the kitchen to get him a much needed glass of water.

"Oh, coooome on," he hiccups, "You love me though.

An exasperated sigh leaves your lips, "Your lucky no one found you black out drunk like that and stole your shit. Or worse, killed you." You emphasize your woods, setting the cup ( you don't trust him with a glass ) of water in front of him. "Or have you forgotten, you just left the Port Mafia?"

Dazai sucks his teeth, rolling his eyes at your statement.

After months of hiding, you'd think he'd get it. Maybe that he'd follow suit of you. Stay low, stay quiet, and say lawful. Apparently not. He can't even stay clean.

There's a thought of wanting to punch him, maybe it'll knock some sense into him you think. Taking a deep breath, you bend down, slipping off his shoes and putting them next to the door. "Drink your water, please," you grunt," I'll run you a bath."

"Mhm~!" Dazai sings. He's been mumbling and humming tunes, kicking his feet as you attempt to clean him up.

After a couple of minutes, you walk down the hallway toward him, "Alright, c'mon!" Dazai giggles, hurriedly getting up from his seat. Though you see the scene happen in slow motion. As if he had low iron ( which he probably does ), the blood rushed down towards his feet and he immediately stumbles, hanging onto the table as he tries to gain his bearings.

"Osam—" you pause when you see his puffed cheeks. You sigh and dash for the small trashcan in the bathroom and hold it below his mouth. And a second later, you hear the gross sound of vomit.

You rub his back, waiting for him to finish before you even attempt to bring him to the bathroom. You almost gag as you bring him carefully to the bathroom and strip his clothes, unraveling his bandages as well.

A wave of both guilt and disappointment passes through you as you see him flop into the filled bathtub. He's thin. New scars have appeared a top the old and ( incorrectly ) healed ones. He's too pale, his hair is back to the state it was when he first appeared, and he reeks of the bar. Even after your efforts, it seems as if you can't get him out of this slump. "Osamu . . . "

Dazai lifts his head, silently responding to your voice. All of the mumbling, sound effects, and humming are stopped as you carefully clean his skin.

"What is going on with you?" There's a deep frown on your face as you inspect his forearm. "No matter how much I try, you only clean yourself up when I make you."

"I work, you sit in a bar, come home and plop yourself on the couch without a fucking word," you hiss. Dazai flinches, though your not sure if it's your voice, or your movements. Regardless, a sense of guilt floods you and you take a deep breath.

"What is it?" You pause and look at him, "I know you're still recovering from Oda, I understand grief. But you refuse to talk about it and then drown yourself in alcohol, no matter what I do."

There's attempt to keep your voice calm and level, though he can hear it. The underlying emotions of annoyance, worry, and disbelief.

His eyes are downcast, focused on the water covering his lower half. They're dazed, pupils dilating as they stay focused on the one spot. "Osamu?" You frown, eyes flickering to study his face. Your face falls when you hear the quiet sound of his breathing.

His chest shakes as he breathing increases, his jaw shaking in an attempt to say words.

"Oh . . . Osamu," you mumble as tears swell in his eyes, rolling down his cheeks and onto the arms resting in his lap. His arm flinches at the sting of the salty tear to the cuts on them.

You carefully get into the bathtub fully clothed behind him. He feels the warmth of your skin touch his as you carefully grab onto him, holding him close with pressure on his chest from your arms. "You're alright, I promise. It's okay," you whisper. His trembling hands touch your arms.

The silent tears continue to fall, the sound of the drops hitting the water, and his ragged breathing fill the air.

"Hey," you whisper, "Can you do something for me? The bathroom is kind of bland, but can you point out 5 things you see?" Dazai gulps, your voice sounding distant despite how you're hugged to him. Nevertheless, his eyes dart around the room, he attempts to find something to grab onto to.

His jaw ticks, "The- The shampoo," he croaks. You nod with a small smile growing on your face, "Good. It's okay, try to breathe," your hand rests against his chest, feeling his rapid heartbeat. "Tell me some more . . . "

Dazai sniffs, chest stuttering rapidly, "Your— s-s- sweatpants." His grip tightens on your arm as more tears slide down his face. "That's it, can you give me another one?"

"The," he gulps, "Clock."

"Come on, you got it. Can you give me another one?"

His lips tremble, teeth clacking together in an uncomfortable pace. He sucks in a breath, vision fuzzy as he focuses on your voice. "Uhh, the toilet," he whimpers, glossy tears clouding his view before they spill. You nod, "Good job, one more."

Dazai squeezes his eyes shut before blinking, to search for something else. "Soap, the soap."

You help him attempt to breathe, "Good. Now breath, just feel the way my chest is moving."

For the next few minutes, you talk him through the 5-4-3-2-1 method until he's relaxed in your hold. The water has gone cold, and the uncomfortable feeling of wet clothes cling to your skin. "How about . . . " you start, "I clean you up, then we judge what to do hm? You just— you need a good bath and some food."

Dazai nods silently. He's not entirely in the room. His eyes are unfocused as he feels your careful hands gliding along his skin, though everything feels muffled to him, the room beginning to blur once more before your hand slightly pulls him from his disassociate state.

You pull him from the tub, drying him off, cleaning his arms and legs, wrapping his wounds in bandages, and cutting his hair again. ( Making sure he brushes his teeth )

No matter how many times he attempts to tune in on your voice, he can't do it. Nor can he focus on anything. His hands don't feel like his hands. The table doesn't feel like it's familiar texture. The room doesn't smell right. He doesn't sink into the seat correctly. And the chopsticks send tingles through his hand. None of it feels real.

He feels your warm hand touching the back of his neck. "Breathe," you whisper, "Touch it again. Hold it and breathe, it'll feel right."

His world is fuzzy, except the static quiets when you touch him. He slowly eats, the entire time with you keeping a warm hand on him.

Dazai starts to wake up as you carry him to the bed, pulling him into your embrace. There's silence throughout the room, not a sound unleashed to part the quiet atmosphere. Well, until you speak. "Osamu . . . " you whisper, fingers dancing in his head of curls as you carefully think of what to say. "I love you."

The man's eyes widen at your soft words. "No matter which way you choose to interpret that. I do."

"Which is why I have this urge to take care of you. It's what drives to clean up your empty bottles and canned food. And it drives to wonder what can I do to help you?"

Dazai gulps, his fingers entangled in the fabric of your new shirt.

"Your two years of hiding are almost over," you whisper, "Im selfish, you've known that since we were kids. So please, just promise me something. I don't need your thoughts, your feelings, nothing. Just two words."

"Hm?" Dazai looks up at you, having a feeling as to what you'll say.

"I'll sound cringe," you roll your eyes with a faint smile on your face, "but—promise me you'll tell me when you feel like your falling again. Doesn't matter how much I have to do it, I'll pick you back up. Cut your hair, change your bandages, whatever. I just—I hate seeing you like that. You just have to tell me."

Dazai remains silent, simply laying against you.

"I sorry," he whispers. You sigh, "Don't say sorry, just promise. I said I'd protect you when we were little, I mean that, even if you are older than me ( by a year ). I just need you to promise."

"I promise," he whispers.

You smile and mess with the small hairs on the back of his neck. "Good."

A faint smile appears on Dazai's face, one you can't see of course. "Well, first order of buisness," you speak. Dazai frowns, looking up at you.

"You're banned from all bars."

"Hey!" Dazai shrieks, shooting up to look down at you.

"You throw up on me, I'll kill you," you say firmly.

"Thought you were supposed to protect me," Dazai frowns, with a teasing verse.

"I can knock some sense into you."

"Asshole."

"Mhm," you hum, pulling him back on top of you, making sure he's comfortable beneath the sheets. "Also . . . " He mumbles.

"You love me?"

A couple of months later, you walk with Dazai to the four-story building of your workplace. Before the man can even open his mouth as you walk through the door, "Do not flirt with her."

Dazai whines as you drag him upstairs and to a door that reads 'Armed Detective Agency.'

A hum leaves your lips as you walk in, lugging Dazai along by his collar. Your eyes drift to a grey-haired man in traditional Japanese clothing, a green haori draped over his kimono.

You throw Dazai forward, walking to the side of him.

"President, this is the one I was talking about."

the ending was kind of ass. i think i lost the concept a bit lol. i hope you appreciate this a little. reblogs r appreciated!!

#( mission ) — o. dazai #bsd x reader #gn reader #x gn reader #bsd fluff #bsd angst #dazai x reader #dazai x gn reader #dazai fluff #dazai angst #anime x reader #bsd dazai #bungo stray dogs #bungo stray dogs x reader

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starryylies · 1 year ago

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Simon with reader who’s insecure about her acne

‘ve been insecure about mine lately so :(

Insecure! Reader, lots of self deprecation, angst If you squint, lots of comfort, Simon is the best :)

Me looking at girls with Me getting angry cuz Clear skin: (っ◞‸◟c). it’s not fair: -`д´-

“S not fair ‘S not fair ‘S not fair!!! I’m so tired why do I have to break out again, ‘ve been good and ‘m even taking the meds it’s not fairrrrrr.”

You were yelling at yourself while looking in the bathroom mirror. Having acne was such a pain in the ass.

Every girl around you was gorgeous with perfect skin and even the girls with acne looked so beautiful compared to you but no you didn’t, in your eyes you looked hideous..

you were so tired of the self-deprecation, you just wanted it to stop but your mind took control and you jus’ couldn’t help but let that faucet open leading to your eyes pooling with tears as they dropped down with the weight of your insecurity.

You were already drowning deep inside your own thoughts that you didn’t hear the bathroom door open with your boyfriend Simon riley stepping in with a look of worry and urgency on his face.

Looking at you crying ripped his heart to shreds, he quickly made his way closer to you.

“Love please talk to me what’s happened?”

he is in a panicked state trying to figure out what made you so upset, he cant bear to see you in such a sad state.

“Baby stop crying please”, he pulls you closer wrapping you in his big burly arms as his body heat transfers to you giving you a sense of comfort that nobody can provide better than him.

“Ssi m I ugly? ‘Cuz I feel so icky and gross I hate it I hate it I hate my skin. I fucking hate it I wanna rip it off ‘m feeling so fucking shitty”, you cry out in arms.

Simon is taken aback by your statement, does he not make you feel like the most beautiful woman alive? Why’d you think you’re ugly? Youre the most attractive woman he’s laid eyes on.

Simon wraps you closer now using his left hand to tilt your chin up gently so he can have a good look at you.

“Si don’t!”

You protest trying to stop him from looking at your face, you feel so ashamed and conscious by letting him see you in such a vulnerable and sorry state

plus you don’t want him to see the reddish bumps protruding out on your skin.

“m not letting you hide your beautiful face from me love he mutters.”

“How could ya even think that. Youre the most beautiful fuckin’ woman alive in this entire fuckin planet, How could you think of ‘nythin less than that for yourself.”

“But my damn acne, it’s so gross, how d’you still like me.. ‘m not pretty”

Simon gives out a scoff in disbelief, “ya think acne will make me find you any less beautiful? Is that what ya think of me? Love your acne doesn’t matter.”

“No woman compares to you love how can you fuckin’ say that, you’re the most stunnin’ girl I know love he says in a hushed tone with his right hand rubbing your back.”

“Fuckin’ hell I get it all the time too and you still like me all the same ‘ight?”

You sniffle out, “ofcourse si but it’s different-“

Simon cuts you off, “No it’s not, you’re just thinkin’ a lot with that pretty lil’ head of yours love.”

“Love, stop thinkin’ so much, ‘m not finding ya any less beautiful just because of some stupid pimples” he gruffs out.

“Thank you si, thank you for sayin that”, you whisper out.

“I love you si” you mutter under your breath clinging closer to him, resting your head on his chest.

Simon pulls your head closer to his chest,

“nytime and love ya more sweetheart.”

＊┈┈┈┈＊┈┈┈┈＊┈┈┈┈＊

(Ps: And sorry if this fic came out bad it’s my first time writing a whole thing, I’m sorry and it was rushed since I wrote it while crying.)

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fucktheepilogues · 2 months ago

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I HATE THE EPILOGUES

IT SHOULDNT HAVE AFFECTED PESTERQUEST

The epilogues piss me off!!! I was having a lovely time playing pesterquest and enjoying the route of my most swagtacular spectactical top dawg DIRK STRIDER when suddenly i saw the most atrocious, infuiriating thing iv'e ever laid my sorry eyes upon - ult dirk. I just about killed myself on the spot out of pure, unbridled rage. I punched my monitor impulsively, shooting my fist straight through the screen and out the other side. After a few bucks spend purchasing a new monitor, I sat down to write this blog.

The creator of pesterquest made an absolutely enraging decision by thinking it was any way ok to mention the epilogues in pesterquest. There was no reason to and the game would have been spectacular without it. I am convinced they have some kind of incredibly hateful bias against Dirk Strider, because why else would they tarnish his perfectly acceptable route with their shitty self insert and ult dirk? Spite is the only reason I cant thing of. Disgusting.

They just couldnt bear to make an enjoyable game, and thus decided to thrust their stupid fucking ocs into it for no damn reason. If I wanted to see hiveswap characters, I would play hiveswap. If I wanted to think about the epilogues, I would look them up and read them, or even better, go on AO3 and find the most horrible, disgusting and mischaracterized fic imaginable, and get just the same amount of enjoyment.

No other route had such a grotesquely oversized and unwanted intrusion as Dirks. It is as if they want everyone who is semi attached to the character to end their own life, the urge to do such a direct side effect of his pesterquest route. I DONT WANT TO SEE ULT DIRK EVER AGAIN!!!! THERE WAS NO REASON TO ADD HIM I HATE IT I HATE IT I HATE IT!!!!! FUCKIKKIKKKLKLKKK N*HIM>!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! If you at all enjoy his appearance in pesterquest dont talk to me, unless it is to apologize for being alive and have the most disgusting, immoral, and entirely incorrect opinions to ever exist. I have no respect for you.

I have busted several keyboards typing this, because my fingers are fueled by FURY. Luckily, I have a sizable stack of replacement keyboards to feed my rant. The epilogues fucking suck. I cannot emphasize this enough. They are shit and I hate them, and did I mention they fucking SUCK?? They suck fat, hairy, slimy BALLS!!!!!!!

Anyways, if anyone know of a pesterquest rewrite in which it is *just* homestuck and does not feature hideous, irrelevant and maddening characters which are not from the original material, please let me know, because I would love to consume such media.

#epilogues #homestuck #homestuck beyond canon #homestuck epilogues #homestuck fandom #hs epilogues #hate blog #hatred #i fucking hate the epilogues #the epilogues suck #if you think the epilogues are good your opinion is wrong #im right and youre wrong #i hate you #pissed off #go fuck yourself #epilogues dni #god i am so furious

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wondersinwaynemanor · 1 year ago

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they really think Damian and Lian were just in Damian's room to color and draw and play with Titus whenever they visit the Manor, but no. i mean sure, yes, at first it was like that.

not until Lian said, "Daddy, JayJay, Dami is helping me to be cool." and then she tried to kick the air, and she extended her arm as if to punch the air.

Roy and Jason exchanged looks.

at the Manor the next weekend, Jason pulls Damian outside his own room and leave Lian to color on the bed.

Damian, crosses his arms: You better not be wasting my time, Todd and Harper. What is this about?

Roy: Damian, what have you been teaching Lian?

Damian:

Jason: Don't give us that look, Brat. It doesn't work on me.

Damian, rolls his eyes: Tt. Nothing too complicated. Plus, she's meant to be trained to protect herself. When will you begin with the basics? When she's in the face of danger? I thought you imbeciles were knowledgeable.

Roy: We will be there to protect her. And we will choose when and how.

Jason: And in case you forgot, Brat, she's still six.

Damian, unimpressed: Oh, please. I was slowly introduced to weapons at her age. And look how skilled I came to be.

Jason, snorts: You mean skilled at being a brat?

Damian: You're a whole nuisance, Todd.

Lian, interrupts their conversation, running to where they are outside the room and shows the drawing she made to the three of them: Look, Daddy, JayJay and Dami, I drew myself as Robin.

Dick, who just pops out of nowhere behind them: Aww. As the first Robin, I say you would look so badass, Pumpkin.

Roy, whispers: Dick, don't encourage her.

Jason starts to push Dick, but that just gives Dick the chance to grab his arm and pull him for a bear hug. Jason wiggles his way out of it.

Roy, smiles and touches one of Lian's pigtails: What a beautiful drawing, Princess.

Jason, smiles softly at her: Good job, Princess.

Lian beams at them before going back inside the room.

Damian: At least she didn't draw herself as the Red Hood with that hideous helmet. She's even smarter than you, Todd.

Jason: Oh, you little sh-

Jason starts to charge for his little brother, but thankfully, Roy and Dick hold him back. Damian gives a light smirk, which reminds them of Bruce's, and follows Lian back inside the room.

Later that day

Jason: I hate to agree to the demon brat, but he's right. We have to teach her some basics at least.

Roy: Let's take one step at a time, kay, Jaybird? She just learned additions and subtractions.

Jason: When the time is right, of course. But for now-

Roy: - we will make sure that your brother doesn't teach anything too-

Jason: - demonic or bratty. I'll make sure of it.

Roy just rolls his eyes fondly at his boyfriend.

#everyone calm until damian and lian teams up #please jason and roy finishing each other's sentences #batfamily incorrect quotes #incorrect batfamily quotes #dc incorrect quotes #incorrect dc quotes #incorrect dc #batfamily headcanons #jayroy headcanons #jayroy #dad jason todd #jason todd #roy harper #damian wayne #dick grayson #lian harper #dc universe

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funniestbitchinfaerun · 2 months ago

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Scent of Serenity: A Halsin/Kestrel MacDuff short

for this sweet and suggestive moment between our beloved husbear and my tav Kestrel, we have the Halsinners community to thank...anyway we all know that bears have great senses of smell, yes? And we have all considered the romantic possibilities of this??

(rated pg-13, references to. ahem. self-pleasure)

----

Kestrel sneezed, loudly, and with enough force the sides of the tent shivered. Beside her, a large, warm figure stirred from rest and sat upright.

“My love?” Halsin reached over and brushed back a few errant locks of hair from her forehead. “Are you feeling ill?”

She shook her head. “I doubt it. The air in Rivington isn’t very nice, that’s all. Have you got a handkerchief?”

“There should be one in the satchel with my healing supplies. You will tell me if you notice any fever or pain, won’t you?”

“Yes, sir,” Kestrel said teasingly. She wriggled out from under the blanket and dug into the aforementioned satchel, her hand fastening around a ball of fabric.

What she pulled out wasn’t a handkerchief. Rather, it was a sleeveless tunic of thin white linen, replete with perspiration stains and a few mismatched patches. Seeing it, Kestrel gave a laugh of surprise.

“Is this my undershirt?” she said. “I thought Astarion had thrown it out for being too hideous. Why is it in your tent?”

To her great surprise, he ducked his head, looking abashed. “I had forgotten that was still here,” he admitted. “I’m afraid I borrowed it from the laundry basket, during a…moment of weakness.”

“Oh?” Kestrel raised an eyebrow. “What moment of weakness was that, exactly? I’d like all the details, please.”

Halsin sighed. “Very well, but I should warn you, it was not exactly gentlemanly behavior on my part.”

“If this is a long story, then I had better get comfortable.” She gently dropped onto his lap and rested her head against his chest. “There now, perfect. Carry on!”

“As you wish.” With one hand gently stroking her hair, he went on. “When we first made camp in the shadowlands, I was in something of a state, to put it mildly. That place contained many painful memories. I feared I might sink into despair and be no use in our fight against Ketheric Thorm.”

“You poor thing.”

“Ah, you may not be so sympathetic by the end of this story. You see, this may be some residual ursine instinct, but I’ve always found your scent soothing. From the moment we met.”

Kestrel lifted one arm and sniffed herself suspiciously. “Really? What exactly do I smell like to you?”

“It’s difficult to put into words, outside of wildshape. You smell like–the essence of you. Warm and steady and loving.”

“Oh.” She sighed with pleasure and snuggled closer against him. “You always say such lovely things.”

“I speak nothing but the truth. Our first night in the shadowlands, I was so consumed with misery that I was tempted to slip into your tent, take you in my arms, and spend the whole night breathing you in.”

“I would have let you,” Kestrel said passionately. “I would have done anything to cheer you up.”

“That I can believe. You have always been very accommodating.” He kissed the top of her head. “But I couldn’t yet give you the love and attention you deserved, not with my mind so clouded.”

“And so you stole my undershirt.”

“And so I stole your undershirt,” he agreed. “I won’t blame you for thinking me a fool, or worse. Believe me, I am not proud of my behavior.”

“Well, you certainly shouldn’t be ashamed,” Kestrel returned. “We’d dragged you back to the place all your worst memories came from. I’m just glad I could help in some small way.” She picked up the shirt and examined it again. “So these stains around the hem, they’re from…”

Halsin gave her a wry smile. “I did warn you, this is not a story about me behaving like a gentleman. Are you horrified, my beautiful bird?”

“That would be a bit hypocritical of me, wouldn’t it? Considering all the things I did to soothe myself when I was desperately longing for you. Remind me to tell you all about them sometime. For now, though…” With some difficulty, she pulled herself upright and straddled his hips. “You don’t need any of my clothes to smell me, love. I’m right here.”

#kestrel macduff #halsin #my writing #halsin x tav #bg3 fanfiction

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stabbyfoxandrew · 17 days ago

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can we get some vampdrew please 🥰

WIP Wednesday (3/12) | Vampire Andrew AU (Part 227)

"Listen to me," Andrew demands, slamming Neil up against the wall, the very same way he'd done Kevin months ago. Those brown contacts are so hideous up close, but Neil's eyes widen. "I am a vampire. And you are trouble." Andrew says while Neil tries to pull Andrew's hands off him. "But I will keep you safe from anything chasing you as long as you don't cause me any problems. Do you understand, yes or no?"

Neil finally gives up, but his hands remain wrapped around Andrew's wrists. He huffs a breath. "You're really fucking crazy, aren't you—"

The door opens at that exact moment, cutting Neil off. They both turn to see Aaron and Nicky on their way in with a few bags of groceries. They both freeze up and for a moment it's just five men all staring at each other.

"Oh, fuck. Sorry." Nicky says with a grimace. "Didn't know you were... Uh..."

"Fuck's sake, don't kill him." Aaron huffs out. He's definitely pissed— hooray— but he merely reaches to shut the door as he and Nicky step backwards into the hallway. Andrew shrugs at his twin and slides Neil back down the wall to set him on his feet, he doesn't take his hands off him though. Not yet.

"Andrew is a vampire," Kevin finally spits out. Andrew watches Neil flick his gaze behind him and Kevin clears his throat to continue. "He's faster and stronger than anyone I've ever met. That's why I know he can keep me safe from the mas— The Moriyamas. We can prove it."

"Oh? How?"

Andrew adjusts his grip on Neil and lifts him, up, up, up as far as his arms will reach. Once Neil is dangling several feet off the ground he turns to throw Neil at the couch. The human bounces off the cushions and nearly hits his head on the coffee table. Kevin doesn't like that, but Andrew ignores him as Neil gets his bearings and moves to stand back up. He turns a look on Andrew and scoffs.

"That doesn't mean shit. You're built. I've seen what you can lift in the gym and I'm nowhere near that. If you couldn't throw me, it would be pretty pathetic."

Andrew exhales and runs his hand over his face. What else does Neil expect him to do? Sure, he could run a couple laps around the room but that would look really fucking stupid. He could just show Neil his fangs, of course. But having been met with Neil's bullshit already, he would probably claim they were plastic.

'How do we prove it? It's not like we can take him downstairs and make him watch you flip over Seth's car.' Kevin thinks from where Andrew had left him. Ah. Of course.

"Kevin," Andrew points from Kevin to the couch. "It's Saturday. Get over here."

Kevin's eyes widen. 'We've never done it in front of anyone before! I can't. I don't... Uh, I—'

"I know, I know. But it'll be alright. Neil won't judge," Andrew says, but Kevin Day has the audacity to look sheepish at the idea. As if he's just invited Neil to watch them have sex when actually it's the equivalent of Andrew having a sandwich. A delicious, horny, sandwich.

'Were you planning this? Is that why you didn't drink before we left Columbia?' Kevin thinks accusingly. 'You could've told me so I could try to prepare...'

#kevin just: but! andrew!#kandreil #aftg #Vampire Andrew AU #WIP Wednesday #🕊️#answered #anon

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polutrope · 3 months ago

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Very happy birthdays to you and Melesta! Wishing you both health and joy and freedom.

Would love a little scene between Finduilas and Turgon, in Valinor, "after." If you feel so moved.

🧡

Turgon and Finduilas, reembodied. Rated G, 1100 words. By @polutrope and @melestasflight. On AO3.

“Sorontië, Numentië, Asartië,” Turgon mutters to himself, looking from street corner to street corner, placing names upon the grid of Tirion. Strange that he, who built a city in its image, now finds the grandeur and pulse of Tirion too much to bear. Perhaps it is only the freshness of his renewed body, but everything is so dazzling here, too clean, and the reflected light off all the marble and painted glass hurts his eyes.

As his gaze travels between stalls, carriages, and ornate facades, they land upon one nearby who had until now escaped his notice for how still they stood amidst the city’s perpetual movement.

“Findaráto?” he says, half to himself, because he knows that hair, that peculiar shade of gold as if a bloom of Laurelin has just burst open. But no, he has seen Finrod since he returned — this figure is slight, delicate, as Finrod was in his youth. Not as he is now, in his second life, a warrior reborn as their people’s crown prince.

The body turns and the face that greets him is both alike to Finrod’s and distinctly not. A deep frown adorns her fair features. “How many more in this city will take me for my uncle?”

“I am sorry, lady,” Turgon says, nodding in greeting — and it is only when he lifts his chin and looks at her that her words fully settle in his mind. “Your… uncle?”

Her frown deepens and she looks as if she is ready to throw yet another accusation at him, but she is interrupted by a jewelry seller thrusting an elaborate hair ornament practically into her face.

“Would the lady Finduilas like to try this piece instead?” The seller is almost shouting in her excitement. “It is our latest, created by Lúletinwë.” When Finduilas does not react, the seller adds, sympathetically: “Tirion’s most famous designer of this century.”

Finduilas — Turgon knows the name. Could it be? Finduilas of Nargothrond, Orodreth’s daughter, Finrod’s most beloved niece? Finduilas now glares at the jewelry seller, the exasperation written upon her face.

Turgon cannot blame her. He looks from her face to the ornament: it is like a malformed octopus made of gems, lined with the most ostentatiously enormous, poorly cut, and ill-matched ruby and emerald crystals Turgon has ever seen.

“Return that hideous clump of rock to the bowels of the earth where it belongs!” Turgon blurts, physically recoiling. He shudders. “Better yet, cast it into the Void.”

The jewelry seller’s eyes widen in shock, her jaw dropping. Turgon winces; his mouth has run away with him, again. He considers apologizing, taking back the offense, when a thunder of laughter sounds at his side. Finduilas is roaring, doubled over, and then she grabs Turgon’s forearm to steady herself.

“Oh, that’s the best insult I have yet heard in this new life,” Finduilas says when she regains control of herself. “You, lord, curse as well as the very uncle you just mistook me for, when he loses his famed calm.” Then she turns to the seller, whose face has now hardened like baked clay: “We shall not be requiring your assistance further, lady. I thank you.”

Finduilas leads him away, sliding her hand into the bend of his elbow. Turgon glances over his shoulder for one last look at the jewel-seller: she still glares after them, and this prompts a laugh to leap from his throat.

“It is good to meet you, Finduilas,” he says. “I did not know you were…” It has not become easy, yet, knowing how to speak of having been dead.

“Yes, I am. Returned to life.” Finduilas smiles gently as she turns to him, her earlier frown replaced by mirth. “The pleasure is all mine and please excuse my impatience; I am yet new to this business of living again. May I know your name, also, oh saviour from the terrors of Tirion’s fashion?”

“Oh, yes, I am sorry, I–” Turgon feels the heat in his cheeks, knows that he is making a fool of himself. He feels a child, sometimes, who has to learn the simplest things all over, such as how to place words together… what to call himself. What does he call himself, to this child of Beleriand, reborn in Aman, who never knew him as anything but — what did she know him as? How did Finrod speak to her of him? What did she think of him, the distant King of the Noldor who stayed ensconced in his mountain valley while Nargothrond fell to ruin?

He settles for the name he carried for nigh five centuries. “I am Turgon." Finduilas’ brows arch: in surprise, joy, or fear, Turgon cannot tell, and he hastens to add: “But you may call me uncle, if you wish.”

Finduilas does not seem to share his doubts, the ruin of her fair city so far away that she barely remembers it. “The famed Turgon!” she cries heartily. “My uncle has barely spoken of anything else since your return. At last I meet you!” Then, Finduilas tosses herself into his embrace, arms tightening around his ribs. The top of her hair tickles Turgon’s cheek; she is of Idril’s height, almost to the inch. Turgon holds her against himself. It is the most at home he has felt since returning – strange as that may seem, embracing a kinswoman he never knew in his previous life. But there is something about Finduilas being both new and familiar that sets him at ease.

They pull apart, still smiling, and Turgon says: “If you are still looking for some adornment, I have just remembered a florist where my daughter – long ago – often went to pick out an assortment of exotic flowers brought up from the south. She would arrange them in a wreath herself.” Finduilas’ face brightens at what she hears and Turgon summons the courage to offer his help. “If you would like, I will take you there, for it is not easy to find.”

Passingly, he wonders if the shop is still there at all, but does not speak this thought aloud.

“Lead the way!” Finduilas agrees with a grin more golden than her fair tresses.

Turgon takes her hand, recalling the weight of his young daughter’s hand as he once led her through this crowded marketplace. He guides Finduilas from the bright bustle, towards the secluded, peaceful neighbourhood on the southern slope of Túna where he remembers a quaint little flower shop, down a narrow lane. As they walk in comfortable silence, warmth, as sweet as honeyed tea, fills his chest.

He has made his first friend in this new Tirion.

Birthday Prompts

#finduilas #turgon #polu and melesta's birthday bash #valinor #post-canon

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eruherdiriel · 1 year ago

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Something I've been thinking a lot about lately is how Jon knows what it's like to be burned. With his hand, he doesn't feel it in the moment but that's probably adrenaline more than anything else.

"You do not look well. How is your hand?" "Healing." Jon flexed his bandaged fingers to show him. He had burned himself more badly than he knew throwing the flaming drapes, and his right hand was swathed in silk halfway to the elbow. At the time he'd felt nothing; the agony had come after. His cracked red skin oozed fluid, and fearsome blood blisters rose between his fingers, big as roaches. "The maester says I'll have scars, but otherwise the hand should be as good as it was before." "A scarred hand is nothing. On the Wall, you'll be wearing gloves often as not." It was not the thought of scars that troubled Jon; it was the rest of it. Maester Aemon had given him milk of the poppy, yet even so, the pain had been hideous. At first it had felt as if his hand were still aflame, burning day and night. Only plunging it into basins of snow and shaved ice gave any relief at all. Jon thanked the gods that no one but Ghost saw him writhing on his bed, whimpering from the pain.

-AGOT, Jon VIII

And then there's the scene of his wound getting cauterized. Which, yeah, he's otherwise injured and just escaped the wildlings, experiencing a lot of physical pain and internal turmoil, etc., etc. Still:

Maester Aemon sniffed Jon's wound again. Then he put the bloody cloth back in the basin and said, "Donal, the hot knife, if you please. I shall need you to hold him still." I will not scream, Jon told himself when he saw the blade glowing red hot. But he broke that vow as well. Donal Noye held him down, while Clydas helped guide the maester's hand. Jon did not move, except to pound his fist against the table, again and again and again. The pain was so huge he felt small and weak and helpless inside it, a child whimpering in the dark. Ygritte, he thought, when the stench of burning flesh was in his nose and his own shriek echoing in her ears. Ygritte, I had to. For half a heartbeat the agony started to ebb. But then the iron touched him once again, and he fainted.

-ASOS, Jon VI

This doesn't even touch on how he feels about the R'hollor crew and stories of people intentionally being burned. Whether he's there when King's Landing burns or hears about it, he will be able to empathize with the people of the city. There will be survivors, some with burns like on his hand and some with way worse. There won't be enough milk of the poppy for everyone. There will be men, women, children, soldiers, civilians, and old people burned and screaming in pain. Before KL burns, Jon will have heard about the other places DT has been as well. They're not gonna be pals.

But there will be conflict in his interactions with DT. Jon fiddles with his hands when he's conflicted or distressed:

Jon's breath misted the air. If I lie to him, he'll know. He looked Mance Rayder in the eyes, opened and closed his burned hand. "I wear the cloak you gave me, Your Grace."

-ASOS, Jon II

Lots of examples from AGOT, when his hand is still freshly burned and in more pain:

"Grief and noise," Mormont grumbled. "That's all they're good for, ravens. Why I put up with that pestilential bird … if there was news of Lord Eddard, don't you think I would have sent for you? Bastard or no, you're still his blood. The message concerned Ser Barristan Selmy. It seems he's been removed from the Kingsguard. They gave his place to that black dog Clegane, and now Selmy's wanted for treason. The fools sent some watchmen to seize him, but he slew two of them and escaped." Mormont snorted, leaving no doubt of his view of men who'd send gold cloaks against a knight as renowed as Barristan the Bold. "We have white shadows in the woods and unquiet dead stalking our halls, and a boy sits the Iron Throne," he said in disgust. The raven laughed shrilly. "Boy, boy, boy, boy." Ser Barristan had been the Old Bear's best hope, Jon remembered; if he had fallen, what chance was there that Mormont's letter would be heeded? He curled his hand into a fist. Pain shot through his burned fingers. "What of my sisters?"

-AGOT, Jon VIII

When Jon had been Bran's age, he had dreamed of doing great deeds, as boys always did. The details of his feats changed with every dreaming, but quite often he imagined saving his father's life. Afterward Lord Eddard would declare that Jon had proved himself a true Stark, and place Ice in his hand. Even then he had known it was only a child's folly; no bastard could ever hope to wield a father's sword. Even the memory shamed him. What kind of man stole his own brother's birthright? I have no right to this, he thought, no more than to Ice. He twitched his burned fingers, feeling a throb of pain deep under the skin. "My lord, you honor me, but—"

-AGOT, Jon VIII

Jon raised the hood of his heavy cloak and gave the horse her head. Castle Black was silent and still as he rode out, with Ghost racing at his side. Men watched from the Wall behind him, he knew, but their eyes were turned north, not south. No one would see him go, no one but Sam Tarly, struggling back to his feet in the dust of the old stables. He hoped Sam hadn't hurt himself, falling like that. He was so heavy and so ungainly, it would be just like him to break a wrist or twist his ankle getting out of the way. "I warned him," Jon said aloud. "It was nothing to do with him, anyway." He flexed his burned hand as he rode, opening and closing the scarred fingers. They still pained him, but it felt good to have the wrappings off.

-AGOT, Jon IX

Not until he was well beyond the village did Jon slow again. By then both he and the mare were damp with sweat. He dismounted, shivering, his burned hand aching. A bank of melting snow lay under the trees, bright in the moonlight, water trickling off to form small shallow pools. Jon squatted and brought his hands together, cupping the runoff between his fingers. The snowmelt was icy cold. He drank, and splashed some on his face, until his cheeks tingled. His fingers were throbbing worse than they had in days, and his head was pounding too. I am doing the right thing, he told himself, so why do I feel so bad?

-AGOT, Jon IX

#jon snow #tw burns #idk how to trigger tag this #nor do i know what this is or what i'm doing

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jadewolf22 · 9 months ago

Text

Shoot An Arrow Through My Heart Pt.1

Fem!OC (Adriella Selmy) x Brienne of Tarth

Series Warnings: Men being disgusting, abusive siblings, gore, death, violence, angst, mentions of murder, mentions of parent deaths, slander towards women, fighting, harsh language, smut, fluff, hurt/comfort, ect... (Let me know if I missed any!!!)

A/n: This fic mixes scene from the show and book but follows the same timeline. Character ages are from the show. I have no clear vision for this story so try to bear with me here. Not sure how long this series will become; might just keep going until I get board of it.

A/n: I started this at like 11 at night and finished it around 6:30 in the morning so I apologize if it's a little shitty and has a lot of mistakes...

Word Count: 2,568

Brienne didn't know what it was that had drawn her to the archery range in the dead of night. Perhaps it was the temptation of solace from the men and their japes and whores, or the offer of peace from her own troubled mind. Whatever it had been was forgotten when she heard the sharp 'twang' of a bowstring snapping back into place and the muffled 'thud' of an arrow finding its mark. She had half a mind to turn around and retreat back to her tent but her curiosity got the better of her, for she had never encountered another person here at this time of night. She came within sight of the targets, fully expecting to be met with the sight of a man, only to be surprised when it was a woman she found holding the bow. The woman was clad in black clothing, with long and rich red hair that spilled down her back like a waterfall of blood. She was taller than the average woman, though not near as tall as Brienne, with a strong and lean physique. Brienne watched in awe as the woman nocked her next arrow and drew back the string, releasing it with a soft 'zip' as the arrow cut through the air, finding its mark in the heart of the target; a perfect shot.

"Impressive," Brienne spoke before she could control her tongue.

The woman jumped a meter off the ground, practically throwing the bow from her as she turned, eyes widening at the sight of Brienne, narrow pools of iron shadowed with fear. This was a look Brienne had come to know quite well. Her large, manly figure was usually met with such gazes of horror from both women and men alike with her broad and coarse features, horse-like teeth that were nearly too big for her plump, chapped lips, and thin hair the color of dirty straw. Compared to the woman across from her, Brienne thought herself hideous. Though they were almost the same age—Brienne being maybe a year or two older—the woman's face looked incredibly young. It was pale and heart-shaped, dotted lightly with freckles and scars. Her body was leaner and much stronger than a normal woman's but still feminine, with curvy hips and breasts the size of apples. Brienne had seen this woman around the camp before, but always dressed in a woman's garb with her hair done up in some sort of intricate braid, never in leather trousers and a hooded tunic adorned with an armored corset around her waist and hair cascading freely down her back.

"I—Lady Brienne... Forgive me, I... I know I should not be here," the woman stampered, her voice silky and meek with worry, "Please, excuse me. I... I'll leave you to it—"

Now this is a curious reaction; Brienne thought. The woman did not appear to be afraid of Brienne herself, but rather the fact that Brienne had caught her. The poor woman acted as if she'd been caught stealing, not shooting an arrow at a target.

"Do not leave on my account." Brienne said, placing a gentle yet nervous hand on the woman's shoulder as she went to leave, "I had no intention of using the range. And please, do call me Brienne. My title has no use here."

The woman nodded gracefully in a way that resembled a half curtsy, muttering, "Thank you." as she went to retrieve the bow she'd thrown.

"I don't recall ever being told your name," Brienne spoke casually, watching the woman nock another arrow. She paused, tucking her lip between her teeth before lowering the bow.

"Adriella, if it please you." she answered softly, turning to face Brienne and looking her dead in the eye, something Brienne was not used to "Adriella Selmy. Niece of Ser Barristan Selmy."

Barristan the Bold?! Brienne couldn't help but be awestruck. She had, somehow, found herself in the presence of the kin of the most famous Lord Commander in all of Westerosi history... 'crack' 'thud' The sound of another arrow finding its mark drew Brienne from her thoughts, awestruck again when she found that the second arrow had split the first in two before sinking even deeper into the target.

"Who taught you to shoot like that?" Brienne questioned, looking back and forth between Adriella and the target.

"My uncle," Adriella answered softly, her voice laden with sadness and longing, "After my parents died my brother and I were put into the care of our uncle. We lived in a house just outside of Kingslanding with a retired wetnurse and he would visit whenever he could. He taught both my brother and I how to fight and wield weapons of our choosing, though my brother always felt it unfair as I was a woman and he a man... Something I believe you and I have in common?"

"Indeed," Brienne agreed, knowing all too well how it felt to be a woman learning a "mans" craft, "Who is your brother?"

"Cain Selmy," Adriella replied, that silky voice suddenly harsh with indignation. Clearly there was little love between her and her brother, "Ser Loras's new squire..."

She scoffed, nocking back another arrow and letting it fly, splitting the second arrow right down the shaft. She had yet to miss by even a fraction of an inch, a fact that both intrigued and rightfully terrified Brienne.

"You should participate in the archery contest tomorrow morning," Brienne declared as Adriella went to nock another arrow, "You skills would be unmatched."

Adriella stiffened as if Brienne has just proposed the most horrendous idea in the world, nibbling on the inside of her lip as she lowered the bow again, staring sadly at the target before her.

"I can't," she whispered, so quiet Brienne almost didn't hear it, "Even if the king and other lords would permit me, my brother—"

"Adriella!!"

Both women jumped as a cold, gritty voice rang out through the otherwise quiet night, turning towards the camp as a man stormed towards the range. He was younger than Brienne by about five years or so and was a good head and a half shorter. His body was square and stocky with a harsh, square face accentuated by a dark stubble, a red button nose and muddy brown eyes that were red around the rims. His dirt brown hair was curly and matted and shone with grease as if he had not bathed in days, and his tunic and trousers were stained with wine and soup. He walked straight to Adriella, ignoring Brienne completely as he tore the bow from his sisters hands, tossing it into the dirt.

"What have I told you about coming out here?!" he growled, grabbing Adriella's forearm in a vice-like grip that was sure to leave bruises if he held on for much longer.

"Please Cain, I'm sorry." she whimpered, trying to wiggle out of her brothers grasp. The earlier fire in her was gone, replaced by a fear that made Brienne's heart clench, "I got board. I'm sorry. It won't happen again—"

"Damn right it won't!" Cain roared, yanking her arm harshly. Adriella cried out in pain, the sound stirring something in Brienne that she had never felt before.

"Release her." Brienne commanded in a voice that she did not recognize as her own.

Cain whipped around, still holding Adriella's arm tightly. His eyes widened at the realization that they were not alone and he quickly released his sister, bowing courteously before Brienne as he muttered out her title as well as a weak apology. But Brienne paid his actions no mind, looking past him towards Adriella and mouthing 'Are you alright?'. She nodded, rubbing her arm where Cain's fingers had dug into her skin which, although it pained Brienne to see, satisfied her for the time.

"Go back to your food and whores," Brienne instructed Cain, looking down on the man like he was nothing but shit on her boot. She had half a mind to correct him for calling her by her title, yet, she almost liked the way he said it with such fear, "Leave your sister be."

"I... Yes, my Lady. Apologies, my Lady." Cain stuttered, hurrying off like a mutt with his tail between his legs.

"Are you sure you're alright?" Brienne asked once Cain was out of earshot.

"You didn't have to do that," was all Adriella said, suddenly refusing to meet Brienne's gaze, an embarrassed flush in her cheeks, "I've been dealing with him on my own for years now. I didn't need your help—"

"Why do you allow him to control you like that?" Brienne couldn't help but ask. To her, Adriella looked more than capable of putting her brother in his place, yet she had made no attempt to do anything of the sort, "He's clearly a spineless craven; why do you let him hold such power over you?"

"Because it's all I've ever known." Adriella sighed, picking the bow up out of the dirt. Brienne could sense the hesitation in Adriella yet, for some reason that Brienne could not fathom, she felt safe enough with her to share this story, "My uncle never saw him do it, and he made he hide the bruises whenever our uncle was home... The only power he has over me is the fear he put there... And I hate him for it..." Adriella smirked suddenly, and it was a cold and murderous thing, "That's part of the reason my aim is so true. I picture it's him that I'm putting my arrow through. The image gives me the motivation to not miss."

Brienne shivered at the confession, her earlier bravery gone as suddenly as it came. Adriella was clearly ruthless, dangerous even, yet something about her intrigued Brienne. Perhaps it was the fact that they were both female warriors, or because she was Ser Barristan's niece, or maybe something else entirely; Brienne did not know. All she knew is that she found herself being drawn to Adriella, wanting to know what lie behind those eyes of iron and that prominent wall she'd built but was struggling to maintain.

The two ended up talking for most of the night, finding a solace in each other's company that neither of them had felt in a long time. It continued on into the next day, and the day after that and suddenly—having only known each other not even three days—the two felt close as sisters. They were inseparable, save for when Brienne needed to attend to Renly, but hen she had finished she could always find Adriella waiting at the archery range.

That's where Adriella was now, working on her off-handed shooting while she waited for Brienne to finish acting squire to Renly, a task that was well beneath the blonde woman, in Adriella's opinion. She had just let lose another arrow when all hell seemed to break lose. Shouts and screams radiated from the camp and Adriella took off, bow still in hand and sheath at her back, fearing an attack was upon them. She rushed into the chose only to be met with shouts that the king and two other had been slaughtered. Brienne; Adriella thought in a panic. Brienne had been with the king... She ran towards the kings tent as if her own life was on the line, rushing inside to be met with a gruesome sight. The floor of the tent was red with blood. King Renly lay on his back, staring up blankly, blood oozing from a wound through his heart. Around him lay two of his Kingsguard, Emmon Cuy with his yellow cloak dyed a deep crimson and Robar Royce, the red of his cloak matching the blood coating his armor and the floor around him. There was no sign of Brienne, a fact that both eased and petrified Adriella. Where was she if not with Renly?

Adriella spent the remainder of the night searching the camp for her, to no avail. She refused to think that Brienne had been taken or worse, killed, and when morning came she dragged herself away from her search to join the others in breaking their fast. Adriella stumbled into the mess tent, her eyes red-rimmed and weary, and grabbed a piece of bread and some weak ale, her stomach too knotted with worry to eat much more. She found a seat in the corner of the tent, away from the noise and the whispers, and tried to gather her thoughts. Where had Brienne gone? Surely she would not have left if she had heard that Renly had been killed...

"Well, well, look who's finally up," a mocking voice drawled. Adriella looked up to see Cain sauntering towards her, a cruel smirk on his face.

"Go away, Cain," she muttered, tearing off a piece of bread and forcing herself to chew.

"Can't a brother have breakfast with his dear sister?" he questioned, sitting down across from her without waiting for an invitation. "Especially on such an interesting morning."

"I'm in no mood for your games," she warned, glaring at him. Ever since that first night with Brienne, Adriella had begun to push back against her brother, taking back that power he'd stolen so long ago.

"Oh, this isn't a game, Adriella," Cain assured, leaning in closer and dropping his voice down to a whisper. "Haven't you heard the news about last night?"

Adriella's heart skipped a beat. "What are you talking about?"

Cain's grin widened. "It seems your dear friend, Brienne, was the one who killed Renly. Stabbed him in the back, they say. Quite literally."

"That's a lie!!" Adriella snapped, her voice trembling with anger. "Brienne would never—!"

"Believe what you want," Cain interrupted, his tone mocking. "But everyone is saying it. Apparently, she fled with Lady Stark after the murder. Some say Lady Stark paid Brienne to do it. No one's seen her since."

Adriella shook her head, refusing to accept it. "You're wrong. Brienne didn't kill Renly. She wouldn't—Not for money—"

Cain laughed, a harsh, grating sound. "Keep telling yourself that if it makes you feel better. But it won't change the fact that Brienne is gone, and everyone thinks she's a murderer."

Adriella glared at him, her hands clenched tightly. "Get away from me, Cain."

With a final sneer, Cain stood up and sauntered off, leaving Adriella alone with her thoughts. It's wasn't just the fact that Brienne wouldn't kill Renly, Adriella truly didn't think Brienne could kill Renly; she loved the man too much. There had to be another explanation... Someone else must have done it—maybe one of his own Kingsguard... Yes. They killed Renly and then... and then they killed her too, to cover it up and make it look like she was the traitor

No, Adriella thought, I will not jump to such conclusions. If they say she is ridding with Lady Stark I must see for myself. They cannot be too far ahead.

So she rose abruptly, marching to her tent and packing her rucksack. Swiping a bow and sheath of arrows from the armory as well as several small knives before pocketing what money she and her brother had brought with her, mounting her horse, and ridding off towards Riverrun, praying to the old gods and the new that the allegations and her own terrified thoughts where false, and Brienne was innocent and safely in Riverrun.

#gwendoline christie #gwendolineuniverse #larissa weems #jane murdstone #jan stevens #miranda hilmarson #captain phasma #lady jane #game of thrones #brienne of tarth #Brienne x oc #brienne the beauty

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