#this turned out so long and yet contains almost nothing from my first attempt at answering this question. god i hope any of this made sense | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

mrsdarkandyandere7 · 2 months ago

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Christmas Bells

Pairing: Dark Katsuki Bakugo x (female) Reader

▶ This is a yandere/dark work and it may contain triggering content so please READ THE WARNINGS before. Do not read if minor.

More at Masterlist

SUMMARY: It’s your first Christmas with Bakugo and he makes sure it’s memorable.

WARNINGS: Kidnapped reader; Implied Noncon/Abuse; Minor violence.

AN: Please, reblog and give me feedback 😊 Merry Christmas!

There’s a knock on the bathroom door, your name being called less than a moment later.

“One minute!”

Suffocating back the sobs that insist on freeing themselves, your fingers desperately reach to wipe away the warm, sad tears that refuse to stop. You sniff, grabbing a nearby towel to wipe the gross snot that clings to your nose.

Looking in the mirror for a quick check turns out to be a mistake. Deep under eyes circles, runny nose, red puffy eyes - you look awful.

Even more when you compare your ugly crying face with the red and yellow soft cotton Christmas pajamas you’ve been coerced into wearing, the one Bakugo is matching.

Couple pajamas, he had grumbled when giving you the box. Because it’s your first ever Christmas together and he wants it to be memorable. Special.

Special for him yet a nightmare for you.

The last couple days have been hell. Bakugo’s been unbearable to deal with, having taken a week off of the hero duty just so he can spend quality time with you. You fervently wish he hadn’t.

Every moment spent by his side makes you uneasy and anxious, constantly walking on egg-shells as you await for the bomb that Bakugo is to set off.

Truth be told, you don’t want to spend time with him. You simply want nothing to do with him. He has a special way to become abhorrently overwhelming.

Forced to play house with a delusional Pro-Hero isn’t what you want.

You don’t want to wake bunched up in the suffocating embrace of his arms as his thick cock forces itself inside you.

You don’t want to set up the Christmas tree with him, pretending to care every time he asks you where do you want each fucking shiny ornament to be.

You don’t want him to kiss you like you’re his everything - like you’re a happy loving couple that has just assembled their first Christmas tree together.

You don’t want to play the role of a diligent girlfriend that peels off vegetables, sets up the dining table and washes the dishes and yet you do all of these tasks, knowing otherwise you’ll receive nothing but a nasty backhand and a speech on being a ungrateful brat, something that will sour both of your moods for the rest of the day.

You don’t want to-

There’s a harder knock on the door.

“Hey, you died in there or what?”

Tilting your face up, your eyes lock into the ceiling at the same time as you take in a deep breath that does little to calm your nerves. You’re so tired, so fucking exhausted. Can’t even spend five fucking minutes without the asshole hunting you down.

Knowing you have less than 60 seconds till Bakugo gets angry or worried enough to break down the bathroom door, something you’d like to avoid given it’s the only door in the apartment that has a lock, you reluctantly drag your feet to the door.

Bakugo pushes the door forward as soon as you turn the lock open, entering the bathroom as he takes a good look at you, fixing his glare at your red eyes, still moist from your latest crying session.

“What took you so damn long?” his question resembles an accusation, and you don’t miss the way his eyes dart around the bathroom, looking for whatever proof of an imaginary escape plan or so.

“Nothing, was just washing my hands.” you lie, offering a placating smile. Bakugo nods, although distrust is still evident in his face but if there’s one thing you’ve learned is that suspicion is like a second nature to him.

Perhaps you deserve it but now, after almost 7 months after your last failed escape attempt, you’d think you’d been able to earn some trust.

“C’mon, let’s go.”

His hand reaches for yours, hot and firm as he always is, and you follow his lead as he takes you back to the living room. Confusion rattles your mind and you look up at Bakugo as he makes you settle on the couch by his side.

“Hum…” you hesitate, lips parting as the blonde man lays his heavy arm across your shoulders, pulling you closer to him, “...I thought-”

“Huh?” he doesn’t bother looking at you, busy fumbling with the TV’s remote control. He skips movie after movie till he finally settles at one of the Home Alone movies. A Christmas classic, you think.

“I mean, isn’t it past bedtime?” A glance towards the digital watch on the wall reveals it’s five minutes till bedtime. Surprising and shocking at the same time, as never once did he let you - or him - to stay up till this late. “I thought the curfew was nine thirty?”

“Will you shut up and just watch the damn movie?” he snaps. You seal your lips tight after that, face immediately whipped to the front to stare at the cinematic 34-foot TV although you pay little attention to it.

Awkward silence reigns as you watch the movie.

Nostalgia hits you hard as the movie carries on, your mind wandering through old dusty memories. You as a child, watching this exact movie curled in between your parents, laughing your ass off at the on-screen shenanigans. Simpler and happier times.

A dull pain stabs your heart at the thought of your family. How are they coping with the fact that their daughter went missing so many months ago, not even a single clue to her case.

A part of you wonders how Christmas is going to be celebrated back in your home country, if your mom is planning to leave a sock for you in the fireplace, as she always has or if your dad is finally gonna buy that gift you had not to subtly begged for Christmas all those months ago…

Your nails dig deep into the back of your hand, a microscopic attempt to keep the tears from spilling as your eyes begin to burn. You can’t fucking cry - you reprimand yourself - if you cry, Bakugo is gonna be upset. If Bakugo gets upset, then you’ll have to deal with the consequences. And you don’t want that.

“It’s Christmas.” his deep voice breaks out the silence, so random and unexpected you’re not even sure he said anything. He keeps his face straight forward, locked into the screen, even as you’re under the impression that he’s paying as much attention to the movie as you are.

Bakugo sighs, finally looking at you and you don’t like how his red eyes pierce right through you, leaving you helpless and naked under his gaze. Like he can read every single emotion that boils inside you.

“It’s Christmas.” he repeats, voice softening. “First Christmas together, I mean.”

“Yeah.” you stiffly reply.

“Besides, we gotta wait till midnight so you can open your gifts.” he adds, pointing a finger towards the lit up Christmas tree, where some packages wrapped in red paper lay by its base.

A side of you feels curious about them, but another part warns you that nothing good ever comes with Bakugo. When did he ever give you something that is free of restrictions?

“I didn’t get you anything.”

“Huh?”

“I don’t have a gift for you.” you explain.

It’s a silly statement, although evident. You spend all day caged in his heavily-secured apartment with no way of leaving, no matter how much you’ve asked for it, and the few online shopping you’re allowed to do is on Bakugo’s laptop with the blonde man hunched over your shoulder, eagle-eyes following every purchase of yours.

Bakugo shrugs off his broad shoulders, seemingly unbothered.

Lacking the strength to further keep up with the pointless conversation you leave it at that. After a few minutes, the film fails to maintain your interest and soon you start drifting into a calm slumber, eyes drowsily slipping closed and barely aware of when Bakugo re-positions you so that your head lays onto the comfortable muscle of his bicep.

Just a small nap, you sleepily think…

“Hey, wake the hell up.”

There’s an annoying tug at your arm.

“Wake up, it’s time.”

“Hm?”

Opening your eyes proves to be a difficult task with your eyelids awfully heavy. You yawn, sleep coating your features.

Bakugo is no longer sitting by your side, but is bent in front of you, occupying all of your vision field.

“It’s Christmas, already.”

That certainly catches your attention, hands pushing against the couch to leverage you into a standing position.

“Oh.”

The clock marks exactly midnight and you stare at it, empty-minded. For a moment, you believe none of this is real, that you’ve imagined everything.

Any moment now, your family is going to start cheering and hugging you, felicitations and merry christmas’s being thrown around while everyone exchanges their gifts.

Instead, reality hits you like a brick thrown to your face in the form of Bakugo’s squeezing hug, your face being pressed against his toned chest.

“C’mon, let’s open your gifts.” he drags you to the tree, sitting on the wooden floor with his legs crossed as he pulls you into his lap, heavy arms immediately caging you in.

“Start with that one.” Bakugo nudges a box with a rectangular shape to your way.

It’s a bit heavy but as soon as your fingers reach for it, you immediately figure out it’s a book.

As you unwrap the paper from the book, Bakugo squirms and pushes you a bit backwards, so your back meets his brawny chest.

The cover of the book shows him - well, Dynamight portrayed in a comic artstyle.

“Dynamight’s Explosive Adventures”

“It’s a comic book. Part of the new merch.” he slowly says. "Hasn't been released yet, and I warned the jerk editor that it can’t be published until my girl gives it her approval.”

You are surprised to learn how much Bakugo cared about your approval and opinion. A pleasant surprise and warmth rises to your cheeks.

“That’s… really sweet.” you comment as Bakugo gives your neck a small peck.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” he brushes it off, “Just make sure to read that quickly.”

“Okay.” you almost sing the word out. You hesitate for a moment. “Thanks.”

The atmosphere feels strangely lighter, happier. It’s silly to feel like this when it’s something so small, so insignificant.

Still, you can’t stop the little smile that tugs the corners of your lips as you open the remaining presents: a shiny golden hand bracelet that Katsuki immediately fastens it down your wrist, a lip oil collection that you vaguely remember being on your wishlist.

All of them are just nice presents and you wonder if you were being a bit too dramatic about it earlier.

Reaching for the last one, Bakugo practically throws the small box into your hands, his chin resting heavily on your shoulder, his breathing obnoxiously heavy in your ears but you don’t dare to complain.

His arms tighten around your waist for a moment and you wonder if he’s nervous about this one.

You receive your answer soon enough, heart dropping to your stomach as soon as you open the velvet black box, revealing an elegant ring inside.

A diamond encrusted ring band, to be exact. A engagement ring.

No.

Oh God, please no.

All of your jovial carefree behavior vanishes into thin air as Bakugo takes the ring out of the box, slipping it onto your annular finger and you wince when he pushes it down with a brutish strength until the overly small ring finally sits at the base of your finger.

“Mrs. Katsuki Bakugo.” you can practically hear a satisfied grin behind those words.

That's all it takes for the dam that's inside your eyes to burst into miserable pitiful tears. From behind you, Bakugo growls - all traces of relaxation now gone - replaced by anger as he violently tugs your arm behind, forcing your body to face him.

“No. No fucking tears.” his tone is harsh, and he takes it upon himself to swipe his big thumbs against your cheeks, cleaning up the endless fountain of water that your eyes have become.

Your hands weakly attempt to push him away, never meeting success in putting distance between your bodies as he immediately clutches your wrists.

“I…Bakugo, I don’t want to-”

His lips capture your wobbling ones into a fervent, boiling kiss. His palm is large enough to cover the back of your head, stopping you from pulling away from the kiss. You’re trapped under his powerful strength, as you always have. You’re so stupid for fooling yourself into something that was never the reality.

He kisses you with all of his ravenous, destructive passion until you’re nothing more than a limp body, until all signs of pathetic rebellion have left your body but not your mind. Your throat dries when his burning lips move to suck little spots on the sensitive skin of your neck, too many sharp teeth involved.

Your whole body itching to squirm away from him but somehow you manage to stay as immobile as a statue. You can only cry your eyes out. You’re weak, you’re pathetic, you’re-

“You asked ‘bout my gift, right?” his voice booms in your ear and you yelp as Bakugo pushes you down to the floor, crawling on top of you like the dangerous predator he is. His calloused hands already reaching for your pajama pants.

“You can fucking give it to me in nine months.”

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damneddamsy · 4 months ago

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second sight | cregan stark x oc (part iv)

a/n: MDNI, rated 18+ ! soooo today on your weekly dose of Stark fluff, Kook Claere and Simp Cregan attempt to move their love language from acts of service to, ahem, physical touch.

The journey back to Winterfell had been quiet, the cold edge of the North still riddling them as they left the Wall behind. The vast, forlorn stretch of backvelds seemed to reflect their silence. Cregan had said nothing thereafter, allowing Claere her space to regain composure. He knew better than to provoke his wistful wife—knew that whatever mysteries she brought from beyond the Wall were hers to bear until she was prepared to unburden herself to him. And so, he let her stew in her mind's eye, his gaze wavering on her occasionally, wishing to trot his horse by her side, as she stared out the road.

He could tell she sensed his worried scrutiny, the implicit queries that clung to the air between them like her silver dragon that soared overhead. Nevertheless, he refrained. If the icy unknown beyond had terrorised her, he wouldn't be the one to pick apart the pieces. Not yet.

By the time they stopped at a small, weather-beaten inn along the Kingsroad, dusk had settled over the land, the last golden traces of daylight waning into the horizon. Inside, the air was warmer, thick with the smell of bubbling broth and firewood, but neither of them seemed inclined to feast as compared to the rest of their party. The weariness of the road remained, though Cregan suspected something graver ate at his wife.

He found her later, seated on the floor near the long, narrow window, her gaze turned skyward. The room was dim, the half-moon and stars luminous through the glass, and she sat in silence, as though the world beyond the window held more comfort than the inn’s fire. Wordlessly, he joined her side, his motions unimposing, as though he didn’t want to disturb the calm that had settled over her.

Claere didn’t acknowledge him at first, lost in whatever thoughts churned beneath that placid exterior of hers. But after a long stretch of silence, she spoke, her voice soft, almost hesitant.

"Ask me," she murmured, still looking at the stars. "You must have a thousand."

Cregan only smiled, his lips curving into a small, teasing grin. "You can keep your secrets."

He could be patient. Whatever haunted her would come out in time, as all things did. Let her hold onto them, for now.

Her indigo eyes flickered at him briefly, and for a moment, reassurance passed over her features. "I saw nothing," she echoed from before. "Nothing clear. Nothing I wanted."

He tilted his head. "What did you want?"

"Proof of my sanity," she muttered. Her gaze paused on the stars, her voice low, almost conspiratorial. “Proof that I haven’t slipped into madness… or that it won’t contain me yet.”

Cregan’s teasing grin faded, his expression hardening with understanding.

“Madness comes for us all in time. Wears many disguises, but you'll feel it," he said his voice a quiet rumble. "And you're still here. That’s proof enough for me.”

She huffed lightly, not quite convinced, but something in her softened at his words. The silence that followed was thick, not with tension but with the soft comfort of shared understanding. He made space for her, and it made her want to draw closer. So she did. She shifted to him, ever so slightly, her shoulder brushing his.

After a while, she leaned in closer, her voice no louder than a whisper as she raised her hand toward the glass pane, pointing out a faint cluster of stars.

“That one,” she said. her voice quiet, “I’ve always adored it. I call it drūmā—‘the dream.’”

"Drūmā," he managed a murmur.

He turned his head to the sky, but he was hardly glimpsing at the stars. All he could see or think was her—the way her lips curved around the word, the sweet reverence in her tone as if that distant constellation held some deep, unstated meaning. Cregan felt a swell of emotion rise in his chest. She was this beautiful secret wrapped in fire and caution, a valiant princess who had crossed the Wall on dragonback and yet still found splendour in the stars.

His heart leapt to his throat as he moved scarcely, offering her the comfort of his shoulder. Claere accepted it, fitting herself into the curve of his arm, her head resting back into the burrow near his collar, her gaze still fixed on the night sky.

Then she traced an invisible path in the air, drawing with the stars. "And there. They remind me of a dragon falling asleep. Sōvīr zaldrīzes."

Cregan, however, was watching her—studying every line of her flawless face, every swift flit of her eyes as they tracked the stars. She possessed every fibre of his being. She had him entirely.

Deaf to restraint, his hand moved to her face, fingers brushing over her cheek. “And what do you call this?” he asked, almost a rumble in the stillness.

Claere blinked, a little surprised at the question. "Mēre," she answered softly, her Valyrian slipping from her lips like melodies.

He let his forefinger graze the length of her bent nose, his eyes never leaving her face. “And this?”

“Lāmas.”

Two fingers hovered over the fullness of her lips, his breath catching as her violet gaze veered to meet his, the anticipation between them taut as a drawn bowstring.

"And these?" he asked, the words a bare whisper.

“Lēda,” she answered, voice fainter now, nearly breathless.

A lopsided smile curled on his lips. "And what do you say when you want to kiss them so desperately?"

She swallowed hard; unguarded, unspeaking.

Cregan didn’t hesitate, he had waited too long for this. He leaned in, slowly, delicately, until his lips brushed hers. The kiss was gentle, glorifying—as if he feared shattering the moment if he pushed too quickly. His palm, calloused from years of wielding weaponry and enduring the ironhearted North, cradled her face with unexpected tenderness, his thumb brushing over her cheekbone. When he pulled back, it was with both relief and strain that he searched her face for any sign that he had overstepped.

But Claere didn’t pull away. Rather, with a spontaneous boldness that startled even her, she lifted her hand to his, slender fingers soft yet confident as they wrapped around his wrist, holding him close, bringing it to her fluttering lips. Her touch was gentle, wavering at first as if testing the warmth of his skin.

But when she leaned in again, kissing him back, her grip tightened—not out of force, but need. Her soft moan speared right into his tongue, robbing him of his breath. The pads of her fingers squeezed into his hand, her other palm lain against his chest, feeling the sporadic beat of his heart beneath the thin layer of tunic. She could've reached right in and crumbled it to dust, he would've gladly let her.

This time, it was she who deepened the kiss, her lips crashing his with a fervour that sent a tremble down his spine. Her fingers slid up from his chest to his jaw, stroking at the hair that brushed his shoulder, tracing the line of his powerful neck, her touch both curious and loving. It wasn’t hurried, but it was deliberate—every brush of her fingers, every urge of her lips, drawing him further into her as if she was memorising him through touch alone. Cregan could do nothing but follow, lost in the sensation of her, the heat of her skin against his.

When they finally pulled apart, they stayed close, foreheads relaxed together, sharing the same breath and heartbeat. And in the peace, the quiet between them now felt different—more familiar, more certain. It wasn’t simply a kiss. It was an oath.

His fingers threaded through her hair, lightly scratching at her scalp, drawing her closer.

"Did you like it?" she asked, her voice a fragile whisper, almost unsure. Her violet eyes flickered between his, searching for something.

He grinned, the warmth of it softening the usual harshness of his features, though his grey eyes owned their intensity, locked on her as if she might vanish in the next breath.

"Aye, more than I can say," he rasped, his voice roughened with affection and awe. His thumb now brushed at her red lips, studying the little divots there. "I'd like to do it more often."

“You would?” she murmured, her breath ghosting over his hand.

Cregan’s grip tightened on her, his thumb moving from her lips to her jaw, tracing the line of her face with a gentleness that belied his strength. "If you'd allow it, I'd spend every breath seeking more."

A hint of a smile stretched across her face, her eyes flickering between his with something like wonder. “I’ve never shared much."

He tilted his head slightly, studying her at that moment—the way her features softened in the dim light, the way her presence, quiet and strange as it was, had become something he cherished.

"I will spend my time earning them." He brushed his lips against hers, with a newfound ease that urged him to stroke her thighs and waist, striking his fingertips with lightning bolts.

"One kiss at a time," he vowed.

The return to Winterfell was far from triumphant. There were no banners raised, no songs sung. The people did not look upon Claere with admiration or awe; instead, they continued to whisper behind closed doors and cast nervous glances in her direction. Word had spread of her crossing beyond the Wall, and in the minds of many, it had become a tale twisted by fear. How had she returned when so many before her had been lost? What had she seen? Why did she refuse to speak of it?

Still, Claere persisted. It was unlike her to make do with her quiet resolve in such matters. Especially those he knew would never concern her. She walked through the kitchens, speaking softly to the cooks, inquiring about the meals being prepared, offering a recipe she had learned in Dragonstone.

"No, my lady. That is not the way here," one of the kitchenmaids would murmur, polite but dismissive.

Claere’s attempts to suggest improvements to the weaving of the tapestries were met with similar disinterest. "We’ve always done it this way, my lady," they would say.

She was there, present in her part, yet treated her as light as the wind. She was seen, but never truly heard.

What stung more, though, was how the mothers kept their children away. The same little ones who once flocked to her side, wide-eyed and eager for tales of her homeland, were now kept at a distance by protective hands. She had shared stories of Dragonstone, of King’s Landing, of tasting exotic Tyroshi fruits and scouting for dragon eggs in the wilds. The children had adored her for it—had laughed and clung to her skirts, fascinated by Luna, the gentle beast who towered over them, but never harmed a soul.

Claere knelt in the courtyard with her harp on her thigh, and a small group of children gathered around her. Their eyes were wide with wonder as she described the hatching of a dragon’s egg, her songful voice painting pictures for them. One of the littlest girls, with a shock of red hair, reached out timidly, wanting to touch the dragon bone pendant that hung from Claere’s neck.

Just before the girl's fingers could graze it, a sharp voice called out from across the yard. "Ellys, no!"

The child froze, her hand dropping back to her side as her mother hurried forward, her eyes darting nervously between a stoic Claere and her daughter.

"It’s time we go, love," the woman said quickly, scooping the girl up into her arms. "Let's not bother Lady Stark any longer."

The girl whimpered, still looking at Claere. "But I want to hear what happened to the pink egg!"

Her mother cast a wary glance at Claere, voice low but trembling as she clutched her child. "We’ve heard enough stories."

Then, she turned and hurried away, whispering something under her breath to another woman nearby.

From a distance, Cregan observed this, his jaw tightening. He could see Claere’s smile falter slightly as the children were excused and led away one by one, their innocent excitement replaced by a quiet, uncertain look over their shoulders. He said nothing, though it tore at him. He couldn't. These were mothers, protectors of their own, and in the North, no lord could command a mother’s fears away. Not even the gods themselves.

Later that evening, as they sat together in the Great Hall for supper, Cregan caught her drifting gaze while sliding a few more slices of honeycakes onto her plate. Claere began to pick them apart with her fingers, reducing the golden pastry into small, crumbled pieces.

"Your heart shines brighter than a few whispers," Cregan said gently, his voice meant to pull her back from her inner thoughts. "They’ll see that, in time. You need to give them that chance."

Her fingers paused, holding a tiny morsel. "Yes," she said flatly, "but time isn't always kind."

Cregan's eyes softened, seeing through the mask she wore. He leaned closer, brushing his hand along the back of her head in a gesture meant to comfort, to encourage.

"Don’t give up on them, Claere. You’re their lady, and the North is not easily won, but it can be won."

Claere’s expression barely shifted, her lips twitching into a faint, thin smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. She pushed the crumb between her lips carefully.

"It does not bother me," she muttered, almost too quickly. "I have come to understand the way things are here."

He frowned slightly, knowing her well enough to sense what was left unsaid. "You may not show it, but you don’t have to carry this load alone. I am here."

She gave a small, tight nod, her voice quieter now. "I’m not giving up. But if they can’t see me, perhaps I wasn’t meant to be seen."

Cregan’s chest tightened at her words, but he stayed silent, only watching her, his hand resting protectively against her neck as she turned her gaze down, once again retreating into herself.

So Claere, ever watchful, stepped aside. She ceased trying to win the adults’ favour, knowing now that every attempt was met with indifference. Instead, she continued to watch. Like a ghost in her own home, she floated through the halls, spending hours in the glass gardens she had devised, silently overseeing their construction. Once, she had imagined them filled with life—blue roses blooming in defiance of the North’s frost—but now, they seemed as far away as everything else she touched.

It frustrated Cregan. It wasn’t enough that Claere tried, that she performed her duties with respect and vigilance. His people had judged her the moment she returned from beyond the Wall, and no amount of goodwill could shift that perception.

But it wasn’t the whispers or isolation that stirred at Cregan; it was how the distance between Claere and his people widened, even as her subtle feelings for him deepened. He was the one thing in Winterfell that did not change, that didn’t turn cold. And though she felt more and more like a foreigner in the keep, with Cregan, she had found her home.

Claere had always marvelled at Cregan’s patience—the way he tempered the demands of leadership with calm strength. But there was something else now, something more primal in her admiration, as her attention faltered on him from the castle balcony. The training yard below was alive with the sounds of clashing steel and gruff commands, yet her gaze was drawn only to him.

He cruised with effortless power, his sword sinuating around his fingertips, his broad shoulders and thick arms bared to the cold as he sparred with his men. The North had sculpted him into its image—formidable, headstrong, every inch of him hardened by years of combat and the harsh winter winds. His skin, sunkissed, stretched over taut muscles, and his stance, solid as the very stones of Winterfell, left no question that this man was the embodiment of ancient Stark blood.

Cregan had become a gentle giant of the North, the spitting image of his forebears, a regal wolf among his men. And Claere was suddenly, inexplicably lured to it—the rawness, the sheer force of his presence. She had never truly admired this side of him before, having always been more attuned to his compassion, his unfailing patience.

But now, she found herself watching him as she never had, from the eyes of a spellbound girl. Her lips parted for air, her hand curling around the cold stone of the balcony, and for a brief moment, she was lost in the sight of him. Her husband, she thought. Remarkable.

He caught her. His grey eyes flicked up, meeting hers, and though he had pretended not to notice at first, a flicker of amusement crossed his face.

With a playful grin, he raised his hand and beckoned her with a single finger.

She felt her heart skip, heat rushing to her face. Shaking her head quickly, she broke the gaze, ducking away as if she’d been caught in some intimate moment, her mind reeling from the sudden rush of feeling. She liked the excitement, the pulsations—whatever it was—a lot.

Claere had been standing so still, so intently focused on Cregan, that when she finally turned to leave, she nearly collided with a nearby servant. She staggered back, her hand brushing against the woman’s arm.

"My apologies," she murmured, eyes downcast as she quickly regained her footing. The servant, wide-eyed and unsure of how to respond, merely dipped her head, and Claere hurried off, her cheeks burning as she escaped into the corridors, her heart still racing.

Down in the yard, Cregan caught the whole exchange. He watched as she retreated, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"Got her good, my lord," one of his men said with a grin, leaning on his sword. "Thought she might’ve fallen right into you this time."

Cregan’s own smile was barely contained. “She’s no doe to be startled into my arms."

"A dragon, my lady is," one of them laughed.

“Yet it seems she has taken more than a few looks at her huntsman,” another chimed in, and the others chuckled.

Cregan shook his head, though the light in his eyes betrayed his delight.

"She’s got a mind of her own," he said, turning back to the practice, though his thoughts were still on her. He pointed his sword at his men. "More stubborn than any of you lads."

As they went back to training, the conversation shifted, and for a while, Cregan focused on the clang of swords and the weight of his shield. But when Claere crossed his mind again—her shy retreat, the way she had tried to disappear after that small, flustered moment—he couldn’t help but feel ten pounds lighter. The way she was beginning to see him differently was a triumph in itself. A sweet adoration that bloomed outside of auguries and omens.

As the sun began to set, his men’s teasing returned in full force.

“Mark my words,” one of the older guards called out as they packed up for the day. “It’s about time Winterfell welcomes another Stark. A summer child, heh?"

Cregan wiped the sweat from his brow, smirking as he sheathed his sword. “When it happens, I’ll let you pour the first ale—if you can still lift the barrel.”

Subsequently, as he stood before his small council, the rising tension returned. The air in the room was thick with unease, the flickering torchlight casting long shadows over the stone walls. Every mention of the dragon princess seemed to knot their nerves tighter. They were still wary, questioning what Claere had seen beyond the Wall. While she had spoken of it to Cregan in private, with words that rang true to him, the men around the table were not as easily convinced.

“What does it mean for the North, my lord?” one of the men snapped, his voice laced with accusation rather than fear. “She flew beyond the Wall, into lands none return from. Not even crows. She’s not like us. Who knows what kind of darkness she brought back?”

Murmurs of agreement rippled through the small council, emboldened by the man’s sharp tone. Another voice, colder and crueller, chimed in. “We’ve heard the whispers, my lord. Bloodmagic, hexes—things no Northerner should meddle with. What if she’s hiding something? What if her silence masks the real threat?”

The room stirred with growing boldness, the men exchanging conspiratorial glances as if they had forgotten whose hall they were in. One of them leaned forward, his eyes narrow and calculating.

“The people are afraid, and fear breeds rebellion. The longer you keep her here, the more they’ll question your judgment. Is that the kind of lord you want to be remembered as? One who brought a Valyrian sorceress into Winterfell?"

Their words were sharp as blades, probing, testing his resolve, as if daring him to falter.

He did. Cregan’s patience snapped. He rose to his full height, his shadow stretching long across the room as his eyes darkened like storm clouds brewing overhead. The council fell silent immediately, the weight of his authority pressing down on them. His voice, low and controlled, carried the kind of steel that had made men follow him into battle without hesitation.

“I will make myself clear once and for all. Claere saw nothing,” Cregan said, his words cold and unyielding. His gaze swept over the table, landing on each man in turn. “Nothing but ice and desolation. There is no curse on my wife. She flew beyond the Wall and returned for one reason: to feed her dragon. And that dragon now sleeps outside our walls, not as a harbinger of doom, but as her loyal steed."

The men shifted uncomfortably in their seats, but none dared to meet his gaze. His presence commanded the room, the force of his conviction quelling any further protest. Still, one of the older lords, his voice a murmur barely above a whisper, tried to speak again.

“My lord, we mean no disrespect, but if—”

Cregan’s hand slammed down onto the table, cutting the man off. The sound echoed through the chamber like a thunderclap.

“Enough! I've had it all!" His voice was as sharp as the Valyrian blade at his hip. “Another word of dissent against Lady Stark’s sound mind, and I swear it upon the old gods and the new—heads will roll.”

A deadly silence followed his words. The men around the table bowed their heads in submission, their once-nervous glances now replaced by wide-eyed fear. They knew Cregan well enough to understand that his threats were never idle.

He straightened back up. “Claere Stark is of this house, of this land. She is your lady. You will treat her as such. If any of you think otherwise, say it now and face me.”

None spoke.

"Fair choice. Then it is decided."

He dismissed the council and as they hurried out of the hall, their whispers stilled in their throats. Yet, even as they left, Cregan stood alone by the fire, his jaw clenched. For all his power, for all his belief in Claere, a shadow of doubt clung to the edge of his mind. She had shared little of her journey beyond the Wall, and though he trusted her with his very life, the silence that followed her return weighed heavier than he dared to admit. Something remained hidden beneath her quiet resolve. Something he could not yet see.

Later, in the hush of their chambers, the flicker of firelight danced across the stone walls. Claere sat by the hearth, pricked fingers deftly stitching the embroidery she had been labouring on for weeks. It was still sloppy work, as Cregan loved to tease her about. He lay with his head in her lap, watching her more than the flames.

These evenings had become their tacit routine—a time of shared silence that he had come to treasure. The peace wrapped around him, soothing the doubts that lingered, though they rarely exchanged words. In these quiet moments, he felt most at ease, their closeness needing no explanation.

Tonight, however, the silence felt different. Claere's hands paused in their careful craft, her gaze dipping as if gathering her thoughts. The fire crackled softly, but it seemed distant, overpowered by the tension in the room.

“Are you burdened by me before your council?” she asked, her words hesitant, hedging.

Her fingers stilled on the embroidery, resting just above Cregan’s brow where his head lay on her lap.

Cregan’s brows furrowed, his eyes searching her face. He understood what she was trying to say—her isolation, her distance from the little ones, their fear. It was finally getting to her, as it did to every person despairing in silence.

But he only shook his head, a soft smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

“Claere, I’ve carried steel, fire, and the weight of a thousand dead Starks on my shoulders, but you?” His thumb traced the side of her leg, playful and reassuring. "Your heft is that of a feather compared to all that."

Her eyes met his, doubt still lingering in their violet depths. "I hear them talk to you. Endlessly."

He snickered. "Well, you should join next time."

She pursed her lips, dismissive.

He rubbed her knee beneath his cheek, voice lowering. “Let them talk. Their empty words mean nothing when they’re blind to the truth. What matters is what you've done despite it all. Tending to the hold, hunting... the glass gardens. Their opinions change nothing.”

She opened her mouth to protest again, but before she could, he suddenly pounced, tackling her to the ground with a fluid grace that left her breathless. His arms wrapped around her waist as they tumbled, her startled gasp filling the room before it veered to their soft, unrestrained laughter.

"Cregan!" she managed, trying to push him off with little strength behind her effort, her hands half-heartedly pressing against his chest.

“You thought I didn't notice?” he teased, hovering over her with ease, his broad frame casting a shadow. His smile was wide, mischievous, as though he held a secret she had yet to discover.

“You’ve been watching me train, princess. And rather intently, might I add. Devouring me with those enchanting eyes.”

Claere’s cheeks warmed at his words, the colour blooming faintly against her pale skin. It was an expression he loved—a rare slip of emotion that made her otherwise cool demeanour seem fragile.

“I have not—”

“Little liar,” he chuckled, lowering his head toward hers, close enough that his breath ghosted over her lips. “I caught you staring more than once. You’re not as subtle as you think.”

She tried to avert her eyes, but his hand came up, cupping her jaw in his roughened palm, guiding her gaze back to him. Her protests died on her tongue, replaced by uncertainty. The playful glint in his eyes softened, a deeper warmth replacing it. He was in no rush now, not when her heart raced beneath him, not when the space between them grew thinner by the second.

Her breath hitched, and her usual blankness seemed to melt away, giving way to the bare bones of Claere—joy, tension, the edges of a smile twitching at her lips.

“I was simply appreciating the view,” she mumbled, her eyes darting away.

“The view, is it?” Cregan’s grin widened, mischief in his tone. “And here I thought your attention was elsewhere.”

She huffed, trying to maintain her composure. “I’m capable of admiring more than one thing at a time.”

He arched a brow. “Though somehow, I think it wasn’t my swordsmanship that had you swooning. Something under my plates? Or perhaps... my breeches?”

He leaned in closer, his lips hovering just above hers. Their laughter had long died out, the air between them thickening with tension, but it was the kind that felt like a promise waiting to be fulfilled.

He could feel her heartbeat quicken, her breath coming in soft, shallow puffs, and it was all he needed. His voice dwindled to a near-whisper, his thumb brushing the corner of her mouth with deliberate slowness.

“Say my name again.”

Her violet eyes flitted up to his from staring at his lips. "Why?"

"I'd like to hear it from your mouth."

She breathed out, "Cregan."

He needed no more invitations. He closed the gap, crushing his lips to the ones that were spoken for in his name, with the care that gainsaid his size like she was a glass doll he wanted to protect. But the kiss carried more than just tenderness—it was a slow burn of the long-awaited as if he had been waiting for this moment for years. And in that kiss, he felt her response, moving her lips with his to mimic him, graceless but sweet in her own way.

As they pulled apart, her eyes fluttered open, dazed and unhesitant. She blinked up at him, lips slightly parted, and though she didn’t say a word, he could see the answer written in her expression—a soft, implicit permission.

It wasn’t long before Cregan had pulled the heavy furs from the bed, laying them out on the stone floor to make a makeshift bed. His coarse hands stretched toward her in an invitation that was far gentler than anything he had ever given her before.

Though Claere hesitated, bringing her hand to her chest, a shadow of reluctance crossing her face. “My Lord, I—"

"No, I want none of that. Speak like my wife." He abraded at her courtesy rather than anything.

"Cregan," she corrected quietly. "I don’t want to be a young mother."

An invisible fist gripped his throat. He hadn’t expected her to voice such a fear, although some of him understood. He didn’t need to hear more to know that the idea of maternity, of the expectations it carried with it, terrified her in a way she would not easily admit.

Looking at her now, so frail in her admission, he realized that what he wanted most wasn’t bound by obligation or lineage. He didn’t need heirs or any responsibilities others might want to place on them. It was her. He wanted her. Just her.

"Nor I, a young father," he shared in a rumble of breath, stretching his arms further for her.

"Until then we'll simply be us," he promised.

It was all the assurance she needed. Bearing a relieved grin, she placed her hand in his, letting him pull her into the warmth of the furs.

Claere sat on her heels, back to him, and piled her thick silver braid over a shoulder. Cregan, much obliged, opened her bodice and petticoats one by one while she sat motionless, staring into the flames. He caressed the lune of her spine, his entire hand spread over the span, her skin burning under his touch, unmarred, smooth, seeming like silk stretched over glass.

She glanced at him, uncertainly gliding off her sleeves, now bare-skinned and impassive. As if prompted by the strings of a puppeteer, she slid away from her dresses and laid back on the furs, shutting her eyes. It fell far from what Cregan had envisioned, his wife lain for him like awaiting a death knell.

Rather, he raised a quizzical brow at her. "What are you doing?"

Claere opened her eyes, startled by the question. "Isn't this what you wanted?" Almost like she was trying to puzzle him out, calm and detached. "You can... take me now. I know what is expected of me. My maidenhead is unsullied."

Cregan blinked, utterly taken aback, and then a soft chuckle escaped him, one he didn’t intend but couldn’t help.

"Take you," he repeated to himself, incredulous. His grin widened, full of humour and fondness. "What do you think this is?"

Instinctively, her hands went to cover her breasts. Her brows furrowed, confusion spreading across her features as she squinted at him, her cheeks flushing faintly.

"Is this not what happens between a husband and wife?" she asked, her voice no longer carrying the confidence she had tried to summon.

He sighed, pulling her hands away from her chest, gentle but firm. There was warmth in his gaze, despite the humour. He threaded his fingers through hers.

"Aye," he said softly, "but not like this. You’re not spoils of war, Claere. I am no king to conquer you. Or your enemy to face."

Her shoulders, once tense, unwound as she looked up at him, understanding him.

"No," she agreed.

With a tender smile, Cregan reached out and brushed a strand of hair from her eyes. His hand moved down to her cheek, cupping it gently, and he looked her in the eye.

"I will have you in love, or I will not have you at all."

And so it went—their night of perfect pleasure, ruptured only by their awkwardness about what followed next. Platitudes fled replaced by yearning, Cregan ripping at his padded tunics and eager to bring her onto his lap until the distance was insignificant. She went all too gladly, bestraddling him, and he guided her hands from his waist to his neck.

Claere followed his lead with a tentative curiosity, her body flush against his chest. But he didn’t rush her—didn’t demand. Instead, he reached for her hands, gently guiding them from his thighs, where they’d instinctively gone, up toward his neck.

His fingers wrapped softly around hers, urging her to trace the roughness of his stubble and the solid strength of his shoulders. To the lines on his chiselled chest and the bow of his lips.

“Here,” he whispered. “I want your touch, all of you.”

Her breath hitched as her fingertips brushed over the nape of his neck, hesitant but trusting. He guided her the rest of the way, showing her the places that made him shiver beneath her touch, the places he wanted her to claim as her own.

He gently closed her warm hand over his hardness, her eyes flitting up to his, confused.

Their foreheads pressed together as he sighed, his eyes half-lidded, savouring the feeling of her palm around his length. It was a distinct kind of familiarity—intimate in a way that felt more sacred than godly vows. In a trail of white-hot kisses up her neck and claiming her lips once more, he adjusted her over his lap, until she was centred right over him.

Their eyes met—he melted, burned, raged, all but perfection until mending and finding the right symphony. At that moment, no one could've loved someone the way he was loving her.

In a single movement, she plunged down, perhaps some inherent impulse, and he buried himself deep inside her. Deeper, until every fragment of space in that heat between her legs was swelled with him. Her face strained as she welcomed him, and a rasping cry muffled into his neck.

"I have you," he reassured breathily, past the stars that roiled behind his eyes, holding her at her head and waist. "I have you now."

She nodded hard against his shoulder.

"Move for me, my love," he urged.

It wasn’t possession in the slightest, not when they made those noises, not when they collided like that; especially her, like she had mounted her dragon and taken to the skies. No, this was release. This was frustration that needed to end. This was her coming undone before him, subject to sensations like she was untethered from the world itself, weightless in a way she never knew she could be. The wrath of fire and the patience of ice found a way to coexist between them. They simply were fire and ice.

Cregan's hands slid up her sides, panting in husky grunts, rough nails digging into the smooth skin on her back, anchoring her deeper into him. He revelled in the way she responded, the way her lips parted for a breathless gasp, her fingers twisted in his hair, and how his name fell from her lips like a prayer. He bore her unravelling braid like a pearly rope around his wrist, tugging her back to grant him access to her throat. Sweet and sweeter, like nectar. He expected smoke and soot when he kissed her skin.

Every gentle rock of her saintly hips sent a shiver down his spine, her breath growing shallow, her violet eyes fluttering closed as though the world had fallen to ash around them. Here, in the bare intimacy, Claere was simply herself, vulnerable and powerful all at once.

For once, there was no restraint, no hesitation. She wasn’t holding anything back, and neither was he.

“Look at me,” he whispered, voice rough and ragged, needing to see her, to meet her gaze as the distance between them disappeared entirely.

Her eyes fluttered open, heady with lust but shining with something more—conviction, maybe, or something even deeper, something he knew they both sensed but hadn’t quite named.

At this moment, they weren't simply lord and lady, wolfblood and dragonblood—they were something else, elsewhere entirely. Bound not by titles, but by the intensity that had grown between them since the first time they met. She was his match, his equal, and he swore he would follow her to the ends of the earth if only to touch her like this again.

It was as though every wall she'd ever built came crumbling down. She didn’t resist it—couldn’t, really—because with him, there was no need to hold on. The pace became feverish, rushing quicker, desperate to chase that high. Her breaths came faster, and her heart raced, but none of it felt overwhelming. She let herself fall apart for him in a sharp, trembling cry, clutching him tight.

He smothered his gruff groan and expletive into her shoulder, getting a mouthful of her hot skin, conscious of the consequences through the dizzying drop, and gently pulled her off him to empty his spend into his breeches. The waves of pleasure ravaged him, he could hear the blood coursing in his ears as he embraced her to him with an arm, coiled taut yet loosened soft, all at once.

They came down together, back to their continent, back to Winterfell, back by the fire, as a tangle of limbs over the fuzzy down, slick in sweat and gasps. Claere’s arms stayed wrapped around Cregan’s neck, her breath still coming in soft, dreamy puffs against his skin. She pressed her cheek to his shoulder, not easing her grip, as if reluctant to let go of the warmth they shared.

Cregan’s tough hand continued its slow, soothing path up and down her back, tracing the soft ridges of her spine and the delicate curve of her ribs. He kissed her jaw, her temple, the spot just below her ear.

“Claere,” he murmured against her skin, his breath warm, “I could stay like this forever.”

Again, his words went by unheard. It so happened that he got used to it, that sometimes she just refused to leave her head.

As they lay in the warmth of the furs, the world beyond nothing but a memory, Claere’s fingers moved dreamily through the air, tracing invisible lines as if drawing constellations on the weathering ceiling. There was a faraway look in her eyes, as though her thoughts had taken flight somewhere beyond the stone walls of the keep.

Cregan’s eyes followed the gentle dance of her fingers, the way her hand swayed back and forth, almost in a trance, lost in some quiet reverie. He could feel the soft rise and fall of her breath against his chest, each exhale like a whisper of the wind, and yet her mind seemed elsewhere, reaching toward a distant idea.

“Do you ever wish we could just… fly away?” she asked softly, her voice drifting like her fingers, her words delicate.

Her eyes remained on the imperceptible path she was tracing, not daring to look at him just yet. Cregan felt a small tug at his heart, the way she asked not with fear but with the consequence of hope, a dreamer trying to keep her visions alive in a world that so often crushed them.

He let out a soft chuckle, his hand coming up to catch hers mid-air, stopping the slow, swaying motion of her fingers. He grasped it gently, his thumb brushing the back of it in calming strokes.

“Fly away?” he echoed, a teasing smile curving his lips as he pressed a kiss to her knuckles. “With Luna or..." his voice dipped lower, "have I replaced her as your favourite mount to ride?"

A small, breathless laugh escaped her. "The wolf in the North indeed."

He bit at the skin of her jaw and pulled. "I strive to please, princess."

“Not leave for long. For a while,” she murmured, as though speaking of some impossible place, a dream she couldn’t quite grasp.

Cregan’s brow softened, his thumb tracing small circles on the back of her hand. He understood that yearning in her voice—the wish to escape Winterfell, the duties, the judgment—but he couldn’t help but grin at her. Sometimes, he'd think the same.

“Well then,” he said with a playful glint in his eye, “perhaps one day I’ll steal you away to Dornish warmth. Summer beneath a blood orange orchard. But I’m not sure the wolves would forgive me for that.”

Her lips quirked, a soft smile touching her face, though her eyes remained far off, still seeing that distant place. For a girl who owned a dragon, she ought to be well-travelled. Dorne must've been one of the many places she must've flown to.

Cregan leaned in, his forehead resting on hers, their breaths mingling.

“Tonight, I believe you belong right here,” he whispered, his voice low and affectionate.

Her fingers, no longer suspended in the air, curled around his, the trance broken but the dream still lingering in her gaze. She shifted closer, her bare skin brushing against his, her head resting on his chest, the far-off look in her eyes slowly fading.

"Yes," she eventually said, soft and certain. "Here is good."

Cregan kissed the top of her head, his lips brushing the silken strands of her hair, and as she nestled deeper into his embrace, he whispered. “Always here.”

She traced wistful, circuitous patterns on his chest, a fleeting touch that soothed the storm inside him. The words were unnecessary now. He knew, and so did she. The quiet between them was no longer a vacuum—it was full, full of everything understood, a second sight they both shared, woven between heartbeats and breaths.

Outside, the winds of winter howled, but within, they had found their haven. Now, that was enough.

still a little to come, I promise! hope you felt luuuuurv!

question of the day for those of you still here: what song reminds you the most of claere? what song reminds you most of cregan & claere?

taglist: @pearldaisy , @thatkindofgurl , @theadharablack , @cherryheairt , @lv7867 , @cosmosnkaz , @beingalive1 , @piper570 , @tigolebittiez

thank you all so much for your support and comments! it's what drives me to write these days <3

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sentientcave · 3 months ago

Text

Masquerade

You've come to this masquerade ball to finally dispatch the man you've wanted dead for nearly ten years, but he's always ruining your plans, one way or another.

Contains: 2nd POV OC (sorry about all the blushing), werewolf MMC (sadly he doesn't do any fun werewolfy things he's just a guy with sharp teeth here), vague fantasy setting, murder attempts/reminiscence of murder attempts, a long and storied history only alluded to, what do you do when your bitter enemy turns out to be a silly little guy who just wants you to love him?, oral sex (w receiving), P in V sex, this spawned a whole ass novel and it's so so different but this lowkey holds up.

See end for Notes

~10k words - NSFW - 18+ MDNI

“My, don’t you look exquisite,” a voice purrs in your ear.

You freeze in place, glad that the mask hides the colour that springs to your cheeks. You feel like a naughty child caught with your hand in the cookie jar, an unwelcome guest at his masquerade. You thought you could escape notice, slip through the crowd of finely dressed nobles and plunge your knife into his chest at last. But he had managed to find you first. You weren’t ready. You hadn’t been to the garden to pick up your hidden cache of weapons, you had nothing but your silver hair-stick to dispatch him with.

His heavy hands land on your shoulders. “Don’t muss up your pretty hairstyle just yet, darling,” he whispers in your ear, his voice rasping like sandpaper. It’s as if he can read your thoughts. Or perhaps, after all these years, you’re simply predictable. “There will be plenty of time for that later.”

You flinch at the cold press of his mask against your bare shoulder. You shouldn’t have disguised yourself as a guest. You feel defenceless, wrapped in silk and sheer chiffon, a neat little morsel delivered straight into the wolf’s jaws. He could shift in a second and shred you into little pieces, like he had threatened to do so many times before. You try to still your frightened, thumping heart, and pull away, turning to face him at last. “I’m afraid I’m not sure what you mean,” you say, because it’s worth a try at least, but he’s laughing before you can even finish, the smiling mouth of his gold wolf mask mocking you. His yellow eyes glitter from it’s depths, watching you.

“Oh darling, I would recognize you anywhere. I hoped you would be unable to resist my invitation.”

“Your invitation?”

“Yes, dearest. All of this was for you. I knew you could not resist the chance to get so close to me again.”

“To kill you,” you remind him hoarsely.

He chuckles and takes your hand. “Perhaps. For now, a dance, I should think. You haven’t danced all night.”

You dig in your heels, trying to resist his insistent pull, but he simply wraps an arm around your waist and tugs you closer. “I don’t dance,” you tell him sharply. “Let go of me.”

“You’re a liar,” he replies, spinning you into place, one hand on your lower back, pinning you against his chest, and the other still clasped around your wrist, sliding up to engulf your hand. He simply tugs you along with him as he moves, sweeping you along to the music, holding you so unbearably close. He could lift you off your feet with ease, if he chose to, and you don’t have enough power to resist. His scent clouds your mind, cedar soap and clean, animal musk, one of many hints of the wolf that dog him even in his human shape. “You forget, I knew you in your past life. Or have you forgotten that I once sat in your father’s halls? I have seen you dance.”

It was so long ago now, another life, before he was only the wolf to you, and before you were the thorn in his paw, that you almost had forgotten. You had hardly given him a second thought at first, he was just another visiting knight, here one day and gone the next, handsome, but beyond the concerns of the girl you once were. “You failed to make an impression,” you tell him sharply, although it’s not true. You do remember his yellow eyes watching you one night, though he never asked you to to dance. He never spoke to you at all.

Not until after. He saved you, of course, from the bloodbath, because he had claimed you. He hadn’t so much as said a word to you before he burst into your bedchamber, monstrous jaws dripping with your fathers blood, yellow eyes wild. You still remembered beating him back with the fire-place’s iron poker, and jamming the tip into his chest before you ran for your life.

“I knew you were mine from the first,” he continues. He seems frighteningly aware of your thoughts, as if his own version of the memory is playing out behind his own eyes. “My lioness, avenging her wicked father with a poker. I still bear your mark, just above my heart.” He presses your entwined hands to his chest for a moment. “I’m certain you remember that, at least.”

“Unfortunately.”

“The only unfortunate part,” he says patiently. “Is that I did not take you as my mate that night.”

His words lance through you like lightning, burning everything in their path. Your knees nearly buckle, and if he were not holding you so securely, you would sink to the floor in a useless puddle of silk. How dare he make you weak, after everything he’s done to you? But anger gives you strength, reinforces your spine with steel, and you wrench away, glaring at him, wishing you could set him ablaze with your eyes.

The music falters. You look up, at the musicians gallery, then around the room. Everyone watches, pretending not to, jewelled masks concealing furtive eyes and whispered words. Your own mask feels insufficient, lightweight and flimsy under the wolf’s eyes when your eyes return to him. He takes your arm, his grip tight, but not bruising, and guides you out of the ballroom, into the cold night air. The dark gardens are just a little too far for you to jump down from the wide stone balcony, and there are no stairs leading down. If you jump, you’d probably break your leg, and then you’d be helpless.

“What do you think of our home?” he asks. “Have you snooped around yet, my darling? Planned all your exits and hidden away your weapons and armour? I made sure you’d have plenty of opportunity. I know how you love to prepare.”

“I’m surprised you haven’t found them already.”

“I have been busy with other preparations,” he says mildly. “But I thought I smelled something of you in the corridor by the library.”

You flinch, only confirming that you had in fact been there, hiding your leather armour inside a large vase. “Preparations for what?”

“Your homecoming. The king has made it clear that it’s time to reign you in, or he will have someone else deal with you.” He pulls the mask off at last, setting the golden wolf on the balcony. Sweat glimmers at his temples, catching light from the ballroom behind them. He offers you a wry smile, his sharp white teeth flashing. “I’ve been too lenient with you.”

“Lenient?” you ask, incredulous. “I’ve been trying to kill you.”

“Those who attempt such things do not usually live long,” he reminds you. “I don’t often show mercy. I’ve allowed you to live free, in the hopes that you would come to me willingly, in time. Now it seems I can no longer afford to continue our little game. You will stay with me, or someone else will be sent to arrest or kill you.”

You press your palms into the smooth railing, wishing desperately that you could absorb the cool, dependable steadiness of stone through your skin. You look at him for a moment while he stares out over the dark gardens, his yellow eyes tracking movement you can’t see.

He’s always dressed in black, like a man in mourning, his black curls cropped short around his slightly pointed ears, beard neatly trimmed. He wears little jewellery for a man of his station, just the yellow-gold signet ring with it’s heavy, dark blue sapphire on his finger, and the gleam of jet buttons down the front of his tunic. You were more used to seeing him in his armour. The heavy black plate suits his brutality better than black-embroidered silk.

Silk offers no protection, no shield over his wicked black heart.

You pull the hairpin from your own neatly arranged curls and move fast, striking at his chest, but he catches your hand easily, his amber eyes meeting your fury with amusement. “You just can’t help yourself, can you?” he asks. “Stubborn creature.”

He plucks the pin from your hand and spins you around, pushing you into the railing with the oppressive weight of his presence. Your protests are weak and hardly noticed, but you fall silent when you feel the rough pads of his fingertips on the back of your neck. He gathers your hair up and pins it back in place, not as neatly as you had done earlier, but sufficiently.

“What are you doing?” you ask numbly.

He turns you around, still standing far too close. You stare forward, at the point where his skin meets the collar of his tunic, your eyes glued to his pulse. You wish for teeth as sharp as his own, so you could tear out his throat. His fingers curl under your chin, nudging your face up, forcing you to look him in the eye again. “Just returning your pin,” he says, smirking. “Why do you seem so flustered, darling?”

“Why don’t you just kill me?” you ask. Your hand lifts up to knock his away, but you touch him instead, fingertips ghosting over his knuckles. You know he’s capable of crushing you with hardly a thought. You’ve spent the last ten years learning all you could about him, hunting him down again and again and again with a single-minded determination. He likely could have killed you a thousand times over, if you’d been just a little less careful, or he a little less eager to capture you instead. He should have killed you. You don’t know how to stop anymore, you don’t know how to let go of the terrible anger that burns you up every time you think of him. You want him to suffer, to lose everything, to hurt the way he hurt you. “I’ll never stop.”

There is a flicker of sadness in his eyes, and it pings against your heart uncomfortably. “I never could,” he says, all traces of his smirking, superior air gone. His thumb strokes along your jaw. “I begged the king for your life. Your father may have been a traitor, but you were an innocent girl, and I do not enjoy killing innocents.”

“I’m not innocent anymore.”

“No, I suppose not. But you’ve committed no crimes that I cannot forgive.”

“I don’t want your forgiveness.” Your voice is hardly more than a hoarse whisper. You want to shout, but his hand on your skin seems to leech all the power out of you.

“You have it regardless,” he whispers back, low and intimate as a lover. He touches his forehead to your mask, his eyes boring into yours, twin suns scorching everything in their path. “And someday I will earn yours.”

“Never,” you hiss. You return to your senses and push his hands away, shoving hard against his chest. “I hate you. I’ll always hate you.”

He tugs your mask off and tosses it to the side, tired of pretense. “If you hate me so much, why does your heart beat like that?”

“I’m afraid of you,” you snap.

He laughs harshly. “No you’re not. You’ve never been afraid of anything, my darling. It is one of the things I love best about you.” He leans in closer, the tip of his nose just brushing yours. You can feel his breath on your skin, the sharp smells of whiskey and mint setting your nerves on edge. For a moment, you think he’s going to kiss you, and you freeze, heart pounding, face turned towards him, waiting for the axe to fall.

But he withdraws instead, leaving you to face the consequence of unrealized want. His words prick at you like the point of a sword. Love. As if he would know the first thing about it. As if he knew you.

But he does know you, you realize with a start. He made you. His actions had set you on your path, and his choice not to kill you, each time that he should have, had created the determined, single-minded, furious woman that you had become. The carefree girl who you had been was long gone, dead the first time the wolf’s jaws closed around your throat. It burns you to think that he’d shown you mercy all along, that you had escaped capture or death by his leave, rather than by your own cunning and skill.

His eyes remain on your face, reading your thoughts like you’re a book laying open, waiting for him to happen by and discover all your secrets. “You have become worthy of me,” he continues ardently, pressing your hand to his chest again, anchoring it with both of his own. “I would have kept you like a bird in a cage if I’d taken you then. A pretty thing to amuse me and adorn my halls. But you are no trophy, my love. You will not survive in captivity. Even now, with the king’s sword hanging over your head, I will not force you to stay.”

“Is this some sort of trick?”

“I used to wonder the same thing. A cruel trick of fate, that my mate would hate me so fiercely.”

“You killed my father,” you hiss at him. You yank your hand away, desperately stoking the anger that has kept him at bay all these years. Each time he calls you mate and darling and love your resolve quakes, and you have no sword in your hand to make him regret it, like you usually would.

“He was a traitor. I had orders.”

“And what comfort will that be when your orders are to kill me?” you ask, sneering up at him. “What will you do when your orders are explicit and undeniable, and you are to kill me on sight?”

“I’ll never see you again.”

You aren’t sure what you expected, exactly, but it always trips you up when he speaks plainly. “What’s that supposed to mean?” you snap.

“What do you think it means?” He hurls the words back at you, his anger lighting from your own. “It means I would pluck my own eyes out before I’d kill you. If the king ordered me to hunt you down I’d stay one step behind you until we reached the very ends of the earth. If he came outside this very moment and told me to snap your neck—” He shudders, shaking his head like a dog shakes off the rain, and when he looks back at you the anger is gone, hidden away again behind his steely resolve. “Loyalty only goes so far. He knows not to make an order I cannot follow. If he truly wants you dead, he’ll ask another.” He glances over his shoulder, keen yellow eyes fixing on a point somewhere inside. “I hope it does not come to even that.”

“But why?”

He lets go of your shoulders and turns around, stalks a few feet away, and turns again, pushing both of his hands through his hair in frustration. Because I love you!” he snarls. “You had me the first day you tried to run me through. Oh I wanted you from the first moment I laid eyes on you, beautiful thing that you are, but it was the first moment that you tried to cut my heart out that I knew there could be no other. You have no idea what it’s like, to love such a stubborn, foolish, bitch of a woman? Do you understand what it will do to me, when you leave? But I have never been able to keep you by force.”

“But you let me go,” you say numbly. “You said—”

“Let you go?” He laughs, striding back towards you. “Oh my love, you misunderstand. Just because I couldn’t kill you does not mean I didn’t try to keep you. But you have slipped every chain I’ve placed upon you. I’ve never pulled my punches. I would not disrespect you so.”

“You called it a game—”

He inclines his head towards you. “I did. Perhaps I should not have. But it was easier to think of it as a game. A test of my own worthiness. I admit, I have always looked forward to your attempts on my life. It’s good, I think, for a man to be beaten once in a while, to keep him sharp. Otherwise he forgets to be vigilant.” He sighs, touching the edge of an old, silvery scar on your shoulder, brushing a loose strand of your hair out of the way. “Besides. We’ve both made our marks upon the other.”

“I’ve gotten you more times than you have me,” you say, lifting your chin imperiously. “Two or three times I really thought I’d finished you off.”

“Are you so certain of that?”

You think about it. “Yes.”

“Care to make a wager, dearest? If you’ve left more marks on me than I on you, you may ask anything of me.”

You draw in a steady breath. “And if I lose?”

He grins. “Not so confident now, are you? I only want what is freely given, so you needn’t worry. You can name your own penalty.”

“How magnanimous.”

“I can be,” he says. “Now, shall we inspect each other here, or would you prefer somewhere more private?”

The thought of being alone with the wolf makes you shiver, but it’s not revulsion that you feel, it’s something far worse. The dark, cold balcony seems a world away from the golden ballroom with all it’s legions of beautiful, elegant guests, but it’s only panes of glass that separates you from them, hazy from condensation, opaque enough that you doubt anyone can see through them. It makes no material difference, in the end, but it’s winter, and the cold seeps through your dress easily, your skin only warm where he touches you. “Ah, yes,” you say nervously. “Perhaps somewhere more private.”

“And warmer,” he adds. “As stunning as you look, I do not believe you are dressed for the weather.”

As if on cue, a snowflake descends from the dark sky. You reach out your hand, catching it against your palm. A moment later, the sky is thick with snow, fat, fluffy flakes catching the light and turning the world white. You look back at him. He looks softer, somehow, with that little dusting of snow catching in his thick curls, melting flakes glittering like diamonds on his shoulders. For the first time, you’re struck by how young he looks. He was a man grown at your first meeting, and you had always thought of him as much older, but you know now that he couldn’t be ten years your senior. You suspect it’s much less than that.

It changes something in your perception of him. Softens him.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” he asks, stepping in close again. Although you’ve hardly moved an inch since you came out to the balcony, he’s full of restless energy, moving away and back again like he’s tethered to you by some invisible string. He tilts his head to the side, his keen predator eyes practically glowing in the soft light.

You were glad your face was already flushed from the cold. “I was just thinking. You look so…” You trail off, thinking of the best way to phrase it.

“Handsome?” he suggested. “Strong? Irresistible?” He wiggles his thick black eyebrows, grinning wickedly, making you laugh despite yourself.

“I was going to say young, actually,” you say. “I was wondering what sort of boy you were.”

He holds a hand out to you. “I’m sure there’s a portrait somewhere, if you’re curious. Now come along, pet, I don’t want you catching a cold out here. I do have a wager to win.”

You hesitate. All the ancient, bitter anger and sadness wars with something new in your chest. It’s been so long since you wanted anything more than vengeance. Ages since the last time you felt deep, aching want for someone’s hands on you, if you ever even had. The obsession between you, at least, was mutual, and you had traded the excitement of romance for the thrill of the hunt, the clash of your sword against the wolf’s. His taunting sounded better than flowery poetry to your ears, and you could not help but seek him out every time the loneliness of your new life became too much to bear. He had been your focus, your centre, your reason for existing for so long that you can no longer deny what this is.

Love is not always kind. Between the two of you, it’s become a desperate, wretched thing, living on scraps of attention and hungry looks traded in battle.

His fingers close around yours, and you realize that you’ve reached out and taken the offered hand. You look at him, and he’s smiling in a way you haven’t seen before, half-hitched up on one side, almost shy.

He twines his fingers through yours and leads you back through the ballroom, slipping around the edges of the crowd like the wolf he is. No one seems to pay either of you any mind, although you feel curiously bare without your mask, as visible as a hare in a field to the eyes of a hawk. But your hunter is holding your hand, his thumb stroking over yours soothingly, like he can sense your unease.

Despite that small reassurance, you’re grateful when you step into a nearly empty corridor. A few well-dressed servants carrying trays bustle between the ballroom and the kitchens at the far end, but your wolf leads you the other way, through a few hallways littered with decorative items and portraits of long-dead nobles with eyes that seemed to follow you. You had been there only a few days earlier, but it looks different now. Perhaps it’s that you aren’t on constant guard for the wolf. He’s already here, holding your hand, pretending that he’s not watching you, just as you pretend to look at the portraits and statues and expensive looking vases you pass by, stealing glances at him only when you think you can get away with it.

The silence between you is almost comfortable, both of you too caught up in your individual tumble of thoughts to put anything to words. It’s impossible to tell what he’s thinking. You wonder if he feels like he’s won already, but there’s none of his usual taunting or his infuriatingly handsome smirk. He looks serious, black brows lowered in a sort of pensiveness that you’ve never seen from him. Of course, you had only once gone so long in his company without attacking him physically, and you had been tied to a chair, at the time.

“Do you remember, a few years ago, the hunting lodge just above Lake Pym?” he asks.

You laugh. “I was just thinking about it. Why?”

He stops in front of a door and leans against the frame. “Do you think you’ll be able to go as long without trying to stab me this time around?”

“That depends on whether or not you tie me up again,” you quip back.

“Don’t say such things,” he warns you, opening the door and holding it open, letting go of your hand for the first time in ages. Your fingers feel cold without his touch. “You’ll give me ideas.”

“You’ve made far too many confessions tonight for me to believe that you didn’t already have ideas,” you tease. Funny how easily that comes, like you’re old friends and not enemies. A tidy little fire burns in the stone fireplace, with a cozy arrangement of rugs and furs laid out before it. A low table sits ready, carrying wine and glasses and a few plates of the sort of interesting finger-foods that they had been serving in the ballroom. Raising your eyebrows, you look back over your shoulder at him. He hadn’t spoken to anyone on the way in, which meant that it had been all prearranged.

He closes the door behind himself and leans against it, grinning sheepishly. “I live in hope.”

The room - his room- is neat, a big bed with four posts carved like small trees, green-velvet curtains tied back neatly, is the first sign that he might actually like colour. You imagined him always in sombre black and white, dark hair, white teeth, dressed like the reaper and often so employed. But perhaps he isn’t as stark as you’d always thought. His furniture is solid and well-made of warm-toned wood, and the bookshelves that flank the fireplace are stuffed with books, the odd space cleared out for knick-knacks and trophies. You had never considered that he might like to read. It isn’t something that has ever come up before.

The wolf sits down on the furs and nudges a black lump by the fire. The shape uncurls into the biggest, fattest, blackest cat you’ve ever seen and pads over to you, sniffing your skirts suspiciously.

“You have a cat?” you ask, because it seems unlike the picture you’ve built up of him over the years. Another thing you missed. You had been so focused on him as an enemy that you had hardly stopped to consider him as a man. You sit, and the cat drapes itself across your lap, purring already in anticipation of a good scratch.

“I don’t have a cat,” he corrects you loftily. “Smudge is the matriarch of a proud line of excellent mousers, and she is a valued member of the household. One cannot own a cat, I have learned. One co-habituates with cats.” He leans over and gives the cat a little scratch under the chin, his knuckles just barely brushing your knee as he withdraws. “She isn’t usually very friendly, but she must recognize a fellow assassin when she sees one.”

“I’m not much of an assassin, I’m afraid she’d be terribly disappointed in me. I’ve failed to kill my only target, and I have been at it for quite some time.” You give the cat a scratch behind the ears. “I’m sure her record is much more impressive.”

He frowns and looked at you in a funny way. “Have you never taken a life?”

“I’ve tried very hard to avoid it. You’re the only person I ever wanted dead, and I— I wanted to be better than you. I wanted my hands to stay clean, so I could beat you and still keep my sense of…” You look down at the purring black puddle of fur in your lap rather than at the wolf. “Oh I don’t know. Righteousness, I suppose.”

“So sweet that you wanted me to be your first,” he teases.

You know he means first kill, but you turn pink anyway, and there is no cold wind to blame for your rosy cheeks this time. There were many firsts that you had missed out on, in your bid for vengeance. “Perhaps I still do,” you snap, not thinking about the double meaning until after the words have left your mouth. You scramble to clarify. “My first kill— Not— Ugh.” He begins to laugh, and you cover your face with both hands, wishing the floor would open up beneath you and swallow you whole. “Stop laughing!” Your voice is muffled by your hands, but there is no way that his keen wolf’s ears don’t hear you perfectly. “That’s not what I meant!”

He snorts. “I know, pet. It’s a bit late for that, I should think.”

You peek at him between your fingers, and his eyebrows shoot up.

“Darling.” He leans over and gently takes hold of your wrists, prying your hands away. He is mercifully no longer laughing, but the look in his eyes only makes your face burn hotter. “Please don’t tell me that you’ve never taken a lover.”

“There was never a good time,” you manage to squeak out. It was half true. There had been offers, and moments when you’d been sorely tempted to share someone’s bed for the night, but the few fumbling kisses you’d shared with young men had failed to thrill you the way that crossing swords with the wolf did.

He sits back with a groan. “You’re always throwing wrenches into my plans.”

“How on earth could that have anything to do with your plans?” you ask hotly.

“Darling, don’t be so naive. My plans were obviously to seduce you into my bed so I could out-perform every man who had ever touched you, forcing you to admit to yourself that we belong together. But I suppose that would have been too easy.”

“Too easy!”

“I would never imply that you would be easily seduced, my love, only that I am fairly confident that you would have a harder time denying what we are if I were to employ my considerable athletic ability with the task of making you come undone.” He smiles ruefully. “But seduction isn’t fair if you’re a virgin. I’ll have to win your heart the old fashioned way.”

“The old fashioned way?” You stare at him, incredulous. “What, you’re going to court me?”

“I’m certainly going to try,” he says, turning toward the table to pour you a glass of wine. “It’s the long road, but you’ll find I’m usually more than willing to take the scenic route.”

“You’re insane,” you say weakly, accepting the offered glass. “You must be.”

“Must I be? Like you said, I’ve made far too many confessions tonight, you must know that I do not mean this as some passing fancy. I think it would be a waste to continue this bloody crusade of yours. For both of us. I confess my bias in the matter, as I rather enjoy living.” He shrugs, looking at you over the rim of his own glass. “Do you? Has your life been all you wished for, these past ten years? You’ve forgone comfort, education, friends, romance, children— Do you want none of those things?”

“Of course I do—”

“Then take them. Everything you want is yours if you stay.” He takes a sip of wine and winces, face screwing up like a child tasting something bitter. “Ugh, I hate wine.”

“I know. I was wondering if you were going to drink from that glass you’ve been waving around.”

“I just wanted to indicate that it wasn’t poisoned.” He sets the glass to the side, still grimacing. “Just in case you were wondering if I was still trying to trick you.”

“It had crossed my mind.”

“Perish the thought, my love.” He stretches out in front of the fire, propped up on one elbow. “I’ve laid down my arms. If you must end this once and for all to free yourself, so be it. But I do think my alternative is better.”

You set your wine to the side as well and reach back to pull the silver hair-stick from your curls. You consider it, for a moment, pressing the point into your fingertip, not quite hard enough to draw blood. He watches with an inscrutable expression, making no move to disarm you. The cat slips out of your lap and stretches, moving off into the shadows again, either unaware or uncaring of the danger to her house mate. Or perhaps she’s simply more aware than you that there is no longer any danger.

You reach out and place the make-shift weapon on the rug in front of him.

The crackle of the fire is the only sound for a long moment. The wolf was rarely rendered speechless— getting him to shut up was usually the more difficult task. But he simply looks at you, like you’ve performed a miracle in front of his very eyes.

You slide one of the plates of food off the table and set it on the floor between you, something to hopefully distract his attention a little. You pick up one of the little triangle pastries and take a bite, catching crumbs with your other hand. You eat two more, realizing that you haven’t eaten in hours, and wait for him to break the silence.

He sighs and rolls onto his back, tucking both hands under his head. Firelight dances over his skin, burnishing his features like well-polished bronze. Although you have known him a long time, you’ve never studied him like this, while his eyes are closed and his usual grin is smoothed out into a peaceful smile. He looks noble, like a hero from the epics you used to read as a girl, more like you remembered from the days before everything changed.

“You’re staring,” he says without cracking an eye.

“How would you know? You haven’t opened your eyes in ages.”

“And how would you know that, if you haven’t been staring?”

He has you there. “Alright, fine. I suppose I was. I was just thinking about… about before.”

He opens his eyes. “How long? We do have a rather storied history, don’t we, love? I myself have been thinking of Lake Pym.”

You smirk. “I bet you have. I had a feeling you were rather enjoying yourself.”

“I was. It would have been more fun if you were a more willing guest, or if I at least didn’t have to keep you tied to a chair the whole time.”

“You wouldn’t even let me feed myself,” you lament, though you can’t help the traitorous note of amusement in your voice. “It was terribly humiliating.”

“Revisionist drivel!” he snarls playfully. “I did untie you so you could feed yourself, and you tried to stab me. You forced my hand.”

You blink. “I suppose I did.”

He leans closer. “I suspected you just wanted me to take care of you. You were too proud to ask me for what you wanted, so you forced the situation. And snapped at my fingers the whole time like an absolute menace.” He holds up his right hand and displays a white mark around the first knuckle of his thumb. “That’s one, by the way.”

“I only bit you because you stuck your finger in my mouth,” you reminded him.

“Ah, I suppose I did get a bit carried away, didn’t I? There was just this moment when I touched your lip…” He reaches out as if he wants to repeat the remembered gesture, perhaps hoping for a better outcome, but he hesitates, dropping his hand. You almost wish he hadn’t. “Are you still too proud, my love?”

“Yes,” you whisper.

He senses your weakness. The way the answer drips with doubt like blood from a wound. “Will you let me kiss you?” He moves closer, anticipating your answer before it leaves your lips.

Your breath catches in your throat. “Yes.”

At long last, he closes the distance between you, hands cradling each side of your face. He just barely brushes his lips against yours, and holds you back when you try to chase him, his familiar wolfish smile lighting up his face. “Not so fast, my darling. You’ll have to ask nicely, if you want a proper kiss.” He unbuttons the cuff of his black shirt only a moment later, his eyes dropping away from yours for a moment, and then rolls up his sleeves. “Two and three, respectively,” he says, pointing out two more scars along his forearms. They were both from similar situations. Two times that you had disarmed him and made him bleed for it. You reach out and touch the silvery marks, feeling the smooth gap in his arm hair and the fully repaired muscle underneath the flawed skin. “You’re a better swordsman than I,” he says, reaching up to unlace the top of his tunic. “I might have had the edge of experience, at the beginning, but you quickly caught up to me, didn’t you? It was a good thing you were so scrupled about killing people other than me, or I’d have lost far too many good men to your blade.”

“You’re just trying to flatter me.”

“Is it working?” He pulls the tunic and shirt off in one go, baring his chest. There are a few scars there that you could not claim, and two that you can, although your eyes are drawn to one in particular. The ugly, uneven star right next to his heart, where you had run him through with the iron poker on the night of the wolf. “This one is my favourite,” he tells you, pressing one of your hands to the scar. “The first time you tried to kill me. Jon had to half-heal me himself, or I wouldn’t have made it to a proper healer in time. It’s partially why there’s such a scar. He’s always been terrible at the more subtle magics, but if you want something blown up, Jon’s your man.”

You laughed. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Make sure you also note, in that treacherous little mind of yours, that he will not employ his considerable magical gift with the task of making me explode. He is still rather fond of me, even after all these years.”

“It is good, I think, to have a king that is so well-versed in the art of restraint,” you say mildly.

“Oh yes, I imagine it is.”

“So is it really just the five scars?” you ask. “That’s all?” Despite the truce the two of you had settled into, you felt strangely disappointed that your obsession with killing him over the last decade had resulted in only a handful of scars. It all felt like a waste. You try to console yourself with the knowledge that he heals more rapidly than most men. The scars you have left are despite that.

“There’s one more, on my thigh, but I imagine you probably don’t want me to take my pants off.”

You do want him to take his pants off. “Yes, that’s very thoughtful of you,” you say instead. “I suppose you’ve won, anyway. I have a lot more than six scars from you.” You had expected that his life as a warrior would have marked him more significantly. You’re covered in scars, faded and fresh alike, and there is no getting around the fact that you feel like you’ve stitched yourself up so often that you look as worn down as your oldest, ugliest shirt.

The disappointment in his eyes is gone so quickly that you aren’t entirely sure you hadn’t imagined it. “Well, I suppose I’ll have to take your word for it, won’t I?”

“You’re just trying to get me out of my dress,” you say hotly.

“Obviously. You look very lovely in it, of course, but I have been hoping for the chance to peel it off of you.”

You shake your head. “I think you’ll be a bit disappointed.”

“Never. What would possibly deter me at this point, darling? If stabbing me through the heart didn’t erode my affections, what could?”

“Oh I don’t know,” you say thoughtfully. “I could have scales, or a tail—”

“I have a tail,” he reminds you. “And I’m quite positive that you’re human, so I’m not worried about scales. Or strange birth-marks or stretch-marks or scars, either, by the way.”

You take a deep breath and stand up, turning your back to him. “It would help if you could undo all these buttons for me,” you say, sweeping your hair in front of your shoulder. “There are so many of them.”

He jumps to his feet and scrambles to help. A few buttons plink to the floor, torn free in his haste. “I’ll have it fixed,” he says hastily. “And I’ll buy you new gowns. As many as you can stand.”

You glance over your shoulder, nervous laughter stilling on your tongue when you see the look in his eyes. You turn forward again, sliding your arms through the sleeves and shimmying the gown to he floor. He gives you a hand to steady yourself as you step free. “I— I don’t want— I won’t stay.”

He hums in response, gathering up the gown and laying it over the back of a chair.

“I won’t,” you repeat yourself, as if the words will sound convincing the second time. They don’t.

“I already told you, darling, I won’t make you stay. It’s up to you.”

He draws you back to your seats in front of the fire, and you offer him your arms. You’re riddled with fine scars, most of them faint, little nicks from his blade. His hands slide up to your shoulder and gently tug the capped sleeve of your chemise to the side, baring the imprint of his jaws. His thumb runs across the marks, his other hand landing on your knee.

“I wondered if I’d bitten you that night.” He moves closer, his tongue moving over his sharp canines as he sighs. His fingers trail down your arm as his touch drops away. “You never turned, so I wasn’t sure.”

“It doesn’t always take,” you say, using his shoulder to help you back up to your feet. “I think it depends on the moon. New moon, that night. If you were any other wolf you never would have shifted.”

“I suppose that makes sense.” He settles back on his heels, looking up at you. “I can’t say I’ve thought about why some bites take and some don’t. I’m not as observant as you, my love.”

Laughable, when his senses are many times greater than your own. It’s not his observations that are the problem, it’s the connecting cause and effect, thinking about consequence for more than a moment. He’s faced so few consequences in his life that it doesn’t come naturally to him. You, on the other hand, are a mess of consequence, action and reaction measured and weighed, failures poured over until you can see every mistake you’ve made, follow the tracks to how things could have been, if you’d done it all just a little differently.

You pull your skirt up so you can untie the ribbon that holds up your stocking, and he slides it down to your ankle. “This one’s only indirectly your fault,” you say, angling your leg so he can see the trail of pocked scars that wrap around your knee and up your thigh. “When I jumped down that ravine. Scraped myself up on the rocks.”

He tuts, hands reaching for these scars too. It’s just an excuse to touch you, certainly, but you make no move to stop him. You just hold your skirt up, giving him unfettered access to your skin. His amber eyes flick up to your face, and he leans forward, pressing his lips to your knee.

There’s no halting the soft “Oh” that falls from your lips, but he would have heard even the softest catch of breath. There’s no hiding from him, and it terrifies you, leaves you so unsteady.

His eyes flutter shut for a moment, his exhale warm against your skin. “You shouldn’t show me any more,” he tells you. “I find myself wanting to kiss every inch of skin you show me, and I worry that you won’t stop me if I try.”

You sink back to his level and pull your stocking back up, tying the ribbon around your thigh again. “Would that be so bad?”

He groans and lays back on the furs, hands neatly folded on his stomach. “I am trying to be a good man for you, darling. You deserve more than I can give in one night. I need at least a few weeks to make you fall hopelessly in love with me before I can do anything that would tempt me to take you to bed.”

You run your palm over his stomach, feeling the soft pelt of hair over his warm skin, letting your curiosity guide your fingertips. You feel the expansion and contraction of muscle as he breathes in and out, tucking one hand under his head so he can watch you more easily, his eyes barely open.

You have to admit, he is handsome, especially relaxed like this. Only a few short hours ago you would have found the idea of him kissing any part of you abhorrent, but now you find yourself similarly compelled. You take his hand and kiss his knuckles, the tips of his fingers, the palm of his hand.

“Come here, you little minx,” he growls, trying to pull you down on top of him. You pull back, and he lets go, still worried about pushing you when you’ve made so many overtures in such a short time.

You had expected him to hold on tightly, however, and overbalance, tipping over the other way with an inelegant little squeak. He laughs as he sits up, and you do too as he helps you back upright. He lays back again, and there’s no resistance when he takes you with him this time. He tucks you into his side, and you look down at him, chin propped on your hand.

“I rescind my earlier statement,” he says.

“Which one?”

“You don’t have to ask nicely for a kiss, darling. I worry that you’re too prideful to admit that you might like one, but if you can steal one whenever the mood strikes you, I might be lucky enough to receive a few impulsive ones that your good sense isn’t fast enough to stop.”

You huff. “Is this your way of asking for another?”

“It’s my way of asking for as many as you might want to give me,” he says. “There is, of course, a standing offer of anything you might like that is within my power to supply. I think it prudent to remind you.”

He’s a ridiculous kind of man. You’d always thought his tendency toward verbosity was just him grandstanding, but now you see it for what it really is. He wants to be understood by you so desperately that each sentence becomes overwrought, less clear for his efforts to imbue each word with meaning. Your own tendency toward blunt, inelegant language is an almost laughable counter. You say little, and hide everything you can, and he reads you plainly. He speaks like a poet, puts everything out in the open, and you misunderstand him on purpose.

Perhaps that’s why you didn’t see this for what it is a long time ago. If you were not so determined to make an enemy of him, perhaps you would have noticed the softness in his eyes, the way he looks at you as though you’re the sunrise and set, like you’re the moon and all the stars in the sky.

You kiss him, before he can open his mouth to speak again. There’s nothing lacklustre about the way your lips slide over his, the way your breath mingles, the way he makes little noises of satisfaction, unable to be quiet even with his tongue flicking over your top lip, encouraging you to open up for him. Angling your head to keep your noses from smushing together, you oblige, letting him lick into your mouth, his arms circling you, holding you tight against his body.

You can't put a name to the feeling that sparks between you, but it's the thing that's been missing from every kiss you've had before.

The heat, the need of it all burns away all that remains of your carefully maintained resolve. He loves you, fool that he is, and you're not sure you could survive without him now. Is that what love is? To mourn even the thought of their absence from you, to cling tightly and never let go? To sink into each other until you're one, two halves of the same whole?

He kisses you until you're breathless, lips swollen from the tug of his sharp teeth, jaw curiously sore from moving in a new way. You pull back first, braced on one arm as you look down on him. He's beautiful, more than human, wild-eyed and fey, but solid and warm beneath you in a way only a man could be. His imperfections make him dearer to you, not just the marks you've drawn on his skin, but the gap between his two front teeth, the way one brow arches a little more than the other, giving him that permanently skeptical look that had always made you feel he was making fun of you. The crooked smile, the notch in one ear.

You know his face more intimately than your own, but you still want to look at him, especially through this new lens.

“I don’t think I want to wait,” you admit. You’ve waited long enough, haven’t you?

“Are you certain?” he asks.

“I don’t see what difference it makes, really.”

“It makes a great deal of difference. I’ve taken enough from you, I don’t want you to regret it.” He gazes up at you, tracing along your jaw with careful touch.

Your heart races rabbit-quick in your chest, and although you're the one looking down at him, you feel pinned in place by the wolf's eyes alone. "Then make sure I don't," you say softly. "I can even promise not to make another attempt on your life until the morning."

"Darling…"

"Please. I don't know how I'll feel tomorrow, but tonight I think I want your hands on me."

"You think?" His fingers catch around the back of your neck, as though he's waiting for some cue before he pulls you back into his arms.

“I know.”

He pulls you down for another kiss, rolling the two of you so his big body stretches over yours, your underskirts bunching up as he slots his thick thigh between yours, pressing against your core. He holds most of his weight off of you, but you’re still trapped beneath him. For the first time in a long while, there is no panic, no desire to fight furiously for freedom. You feel quite content where you are, especially when his thigh flexes, rubbing against you firmly, sending a shower of sparks through your belly. You gasp against his mouth, your hands skimming down his sides gingerly. When he does it again, you dig your fingers into the muscle of his back reflexively, murmuring apologies as his lips leave yours and slide down your bared throat.

“Don’t,” he growls against your pulse, dragging his tongue roughly over your skin. “Don’t apologize. You won’t hurt me.”

His teeth graze the slope of your shoulder, finding the older scar from his lupine jaws. You let out a shuddering gasp when he bites down lightly, not even hard enough to leave a mark. There’s a part of you that wants him to leave a mark, a bruise if not something more permanent, but you’re not sure you’ll be able to convince him out of gentleness tonight.

He kisses down your chest, grinning up at you when he reaches the top edge of your corset. “You are still wearing far too much clothing, my love. Come here.” He stands in a smooth movement, and you’re untethered without the weight of his body against yours, but only for a moment. He helps you to your feet and leads you to the bed, taking a seat on the edge and pulling you between his knees, turning you so he can loosen the laces of your corset.

You shed the garment as soon as you’re able, as well as the extra petticoats. Your chemise is thin, loose material, obscuring little, but you leave it on while you sit beside the wolf, toeing your heeled slippers off and nudging them under the bed and out of the way. Hands folded, you wait, heart beating like a drum. You feel so strange, almost outside your own body, watching him unlace his boots and tug them off impatiently.

He stands to strip off his trousers, and you quickly avert your gaze, looking down at your hands rather than see him in his fully undressed state. You have a rough idea of what you’d find, you’ve been in the public baths more than a few times, and even doing your best to be respectful, it’s hard not to see something. But seeing something in a setting where everyone is minding their own business is a lot different than seeing something up close, especially when you might be expected to do more than just look.

“We don’t have to do this, love,” he says, kneeling in front of you, clasping his hands around yours. Your eyes fly back up, landing on his face. His chuckle makes your cheeks burn. “If you’re nervous—”

“No,” you say quickly. “I want to. I’m just— I hate not knowing what I’m supposed to do.”

“I wouldn’t worry about that darling. It’s your first time, I should think the responsibility rests on my shoulders. All you have to do is tell me when you like something and when you don’t.” He leans forward, forcing your thighs apart to accommodate the bulk of him, and kisses you, all sweetness. “And if you want to stop, we stop. Anything more than that can wait at least until the second or third time.”

It sounds so simple, put like that.

“Besides,” he adds, giving you a wicked grin as his hands move to your hips, the movement rucking your chemise up further on your thighs. “You’ve always been a quick study.”

Well, he’s right about that. His lips find your throat again, pressing languid kisses down your chest until he reaches the edge of your chemise. His eyes flick upwards, seeking permission before he goes further. You untie the simple knot with one hand, the other petting through his soft curls.

He noses aside the thin fabric to find your nipple, latching on with a contented hum. The act sends tremors down into your core, intensifying as his tongue flicks across. You pull in a shuddering breath, and your exhale becomes a whimper when his teeth nip at you, his other hand coming up to grope at your other breast, his touch warm and appreciative before his grip slides down to your hips and he tugs you to the edge of the mattress.

He pulls away from your breast and kisses you properly again. “Do you want more?” he asks. “Can I taste your pretty cunt, darling?”

The desire in his words sends a shiver down your spine. You nod, and he sits back on his heels and kisses all the way up your thigh, although he pauses and pulls back to your other knee, kissing his way up again, this time sinking his teeth into your inner thigh, not hard enough to really hurt, just enough to make you jolt, your pearl begging for any kind of friction. When he passes over your cunt to mouth at your other thigh, you whine, shifting even closer to the edge of the bed. You can feel your cunt dripping, the air strangely cool on your wet skin.

A pair of mischievous eyes glance up at you. He’s doing this on purpose. He started all of this, and now he has the gall to tease you. Glaring in response, you grip him by the hair and pull him in, determined to put his clever mouth to better use than smirking and biting you when you need him elsewhere.

To his credit, he makes no complaint and does what he’s directed, slipping his tongue between your folds, lapping up the slick arousal. His big hands push your thighs up so he can get a better angle, and he kisses your cunt with as much passion as he did your lips, if not more.

The feeling is electric. His mouth scorches, sets you alight in ways you’d never imagined, the occasional scrape of his too sharp teeth against you thrilling. It’s too good, has you fighting his grip even as your fingers are still tightly wound into his hair, holding him close. It’s too much, but if he stopped it would be so much worse.

If he minds your writhing, he doesn’t show it. You can’t help the sounds he pulls from you, but he’s louder, as though this is more for himself than for you. He groans when your hips buck against his mouth, pants when he lifts himself away enough to breathe, his amber eyes gleaming, fixed on your face, except the few times they flutter closed, just for a moment, savouring your taste.

His nose nudges your pearl as his tongue presses inside you. You grip him so tightly to your core, your hips shaking so hard that you’re surprised you don’t break his nose. The hot, molten cataclysm that’s been pooling somewhere behind your belly button overtakes you, sweeping you away, limbs seized, unable to out-swim the current. You can’t see past the stars in your eyes even after your legs relax and you force your hand to unclasp his hair, finger by finger, so you can lay back on the mattress, breathing hard.

He crawls up onto the bed and pulls you toward the centre, a self-satisfied grin on his face. His cock presses into your thigh, insistent for attention, the tip peeking out and leaking against your thigh. He ruts against you when he kisses you again, his close-cropped beard soaked with your arousal. You can taste yourself on his tongue, tangy and bitter-sweet.

You lay twined together, forehead pressed against his as you both catch your breath. One hand gently brushes up and down your spine, the other pulling your leg up over his hip. “How was that?” he asked.

There may not be words for what you feel. Maybe there are, but they’re beyond you right now, washed away with all the resistance in your body. You settle on nice, which makes him laugh.

“Only nice, hm? I suppose I’ll have to work harder.”

“Better than nice,” you assure him. “I— I liked it a lot.” It’s still insufficient, so you kiss him again, hoping he won’t ask any more questions.

He does, after a long moment. “Are you ready for more?”

“There’s more?” you ask. “Or— for you? Do you want me to—”

“No, there’s no need for you to do a thing, love. The next part is for both of us.” He rolls onto his back, taking you with him effortlessly. He reaches past you with one hand while he kisses you sweetly, tongue pushing into your mouth at the same moment you feel his cock slot against your entrance. He pushes in gently, halting when he meets resistance, fucking shallowly into you until you relax enough to let him bury himself deeper into your body.

You tuck your face down against his chest, focusing on the feeling of his cock stretching your cunt, so deep inside you that his presses against your womb. He tries to keep himself still, but his hips buck slightly, tearing a groan from your chest. There’s no stopping the way your cunt squeezes down on him in response, nor the way your hips grind against him. He makes a choked sound, breathing out shakily when you push yourself up to look at him.

The angle change nearly has you collapsing back down, but he takes pity on you and flips you both so he can take the lead. “Hello, pretty thing,” he says, giving you another kiss and a firm grind into you before he starts moving his hips, slowly working himself in and out of your cunt, lips settling against your ear so he could tell you how well you’re taking him, how good you feel around his cock.

Any ability to respond is quickly fucked out of you, your breath punched out with every deep thrust, your world shrinking down to a handful of sensations: his lips on your ear, the weight of his body and the delicious drag of his cock against your inner walls.

He works his hand between you to rub at your pearl, the heel of his hand pressing down on your lower belly. The thought that he can feel himself inside you with your hand is one of the last fully formed ones that cross your mind, because he growls and picks up the pace, unrelenting until you’re shaking and babbling and clinging so tightly to him that you’re certain you’ll leave permanent marks.

He drags you up another precipice and throws you over, his forehead pressed to yours, watching your face as you shake and cry out. He ruts into you, and you can feel him fill your cunt, his cock twitching, rooted firmly inside you. He doesn’t pull away, just throws himself onto his back, holding you tight to his chest.

His heart beats like a drum under your ear, slowing gradually as he catches his breath. His cock slips free, and you stiffen slightly as his spend leaks from your swollen cunt, spilling onto his belly. He pops his head up as soon as you tense, and huffs out a laugh, kissing the tip of your nose.

“Sex can be a bit messy. Come on, love. Let’s get cleaned up.”

Your legs wobble when you try to stand, but he happily slides a supportive arm around your waist, leading you into the adjoining tap room. Once you’re both cleaned up, he coaxes you out of your sweat-soaked chemise and wraps you in one of his shirts and you both sit back down in front of the fire.

You pick up your abandoned wine glass, holding it with both hands as you eye the wolf. He looks content, satiated, like he’s had his fill of you. There’s a little tremor of unease that settles in your belly. Now that the chase is over, will he still want you? Do you still want him to want you? At the beginning of the evening you had been determined to kill him, and now…

He looks back at you through half-closed eyes, and unfurls his arm. “You’re too far away,” he tells you, voice a warm purr. “And you’re thinking too much.”

It’s still unfair, how easily he reads you. An open book, pages left open for him to flip through at his leisure. Despite your trepidation, you walk forward on your knees and sit against him, knees tucked under his arm. His fingertips trail up your thigh, over your knee, down your calf, and back, over and over, as he waits for you to speak.

“What happens now?” you ask at last. “Do we go our separate ways?”

Hurt flashes across his face before he can hide it behind a neutral mask. “If that’s what you want.” His fingers continue retreading their path while silence builds between the two of you. At last, he pulls in a fortifying breath. “Is that what you want?”

There’s raw desire in his eyes, not tempered in the least by your coupling. He offers you everything so easily that it feels like it must be a trick, but he wouldn’t work so hard to hide his feelings if he didn’t care for you, if this were a trap. If you stay, it has to be your choice, not made because of his own want for you to remain by his side.

The anger that kept you warm in all your years out in the cold is gone. Killing him won’t bring your family back from the grave, it would just place another soul in one. The desire for revenge truly burned out a long while ago, and you couldn’t admit that only embers remained. It was why you were so desperate to end it tonight, to close the chapter and look forward to something new.

It’s so like your wolf to ruin your plans. This time, you’re not sure you mind.

“I’d like to stay,” you say at last.

He’s on you so fast that you drop your wine glass, spilling red over the furs. It’s hard to stop laughing enough to kiss him back, trying to point out the mess to him. He growls something about not giving a damn as he gives up trying to kiss you through your smile, and presses his lips to your pulse instead.

In the end, with all the history between the two of you, what’s one more mess?

It's been almost five years since I started writing this short story, and I had fully expected not to finish it. I was caught up in the story in the peripherals, the potential history between Cat and Valter. This scene no longer fits in the overall narrative, even if there are still threads of it that remain unchanged, so I feel like it's safe to share. I'm working on the third draft of The Night of the Wolf, sorting out the mess of my second draft (so many changes it might as well be a second first draft) and I think there's a very real possibility that I can actually finish it, and that's in no small way thanks to all of you. I have been writing for a long time, but it's only been in the past year that I've shared my work with anyone, and it's been a really lovely experience. Thank you for reading my silly fanfictions, thank you for reading this, and I hope to share more bits of original work going forward, if there's any interest. (But don't worry, I'm still gonna finish the fanfictions. I show no signs of stopping yet)

C. T. Cutter

(Also, special thanks to my best human person @dragonnarrative-writes for making me finish this and being so so kind to me about my work and encouraging me always. I am bad at accepting compliments but I appreciate them all the same)

Image Credits: 1 - 2 ~ Dividers by @/cafekitsune

#Cave Writing #original works #enemies to lovers but in a you can't hate someone without also loving them way #in a “I keep my nemesis' picture in a locket around my neck” way #Night of the Wolf #OC: Cat #OC: Valter #This is the sort of work that can happen when you dare to ask the question “What if Rahul Kohli was a hot werewolf?”#This is pretty much my one year writing and posting fanfiction-aversary! How time flies #I've written more this year than the previous 4 combined and it's been so much fun #And I've learned a lot #especially about putting myself out there #Writing other works definitely stretches a different muscle but fanfiction helps with dialogue and characters and writing sex lmao #I have sooooo many stories that stop right before a sex scene because I used to be so bad at writing it #But now? I'm all over it #Anyway these tags are not helpful to anyone I am just dithering to delay posting at this point #It's written in second POV because I was in the monster romance circles before the COD circles and it's popular there too #but I was never brave enough to post anything anyway lmao #Thanks for helping me be brave!#monster romance #but only kind of because when werewolves aren't actively shifted they're just some guy #He spends a lot more time being wolfy in the actual novel

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yezznn · 3 months ago

Text

{10:47pm}

pairings: idol!yeonjun x gn!reader

wc: ≈740 words

genre: angst, implied strangers to lovers, lovers to exes, right person wrong time (?) trope.

warnings: lame attempt of angst, self destructive relationship, yj kinda plays the victim, one (1) curse word.

not proofread / check out my masterlist

The city was cloaked in the heavy embrace of night, the distant hum of traffic blending with the steady drizzle that fell from the sky. You sat in the corner of your once-shared apartment, the flickering light from a lone lamp— the one you bought on your first anniversary, casting eerie shadows on the walls. The room, once filled with laughter and love, now felt like a tomb of broken dreams and shattered promises.

More under the cut!

Yeonjun stood by the window, staring out into the rain-soaked streets, his silhouette a stark contrast against the glass. His shoulders were tense, his posture rigid. The silence was suffocating, filled with unspoken words and unresolved pain, but in retrospect, it’s been like this for a while, so long that you can barely remember anything but this.

“How did we get here?” Your voice was a whisper, barely audible over the patter of rain against the window. Hugging your knees to your chest while trying to contain the storm of emotions swirling inside you.

Yeonjun didn’t even turn to face you— coward. “I don’t know,” he replied, his voice hollow, devoid of the warmth it once held. “I really don’t know.”

Your heart ached at his indifference. You had been so in love, so certain that nothing could come between you. But now, standing on the edge of a precipice, you can’t recognize the person he has become. Or maybe it’s yourself you can’t recognize, months have passed since the last time you felt at ease.

“Is this it, then? Are we really ending things like this?” You scoffed, trying to ignore the nauseous feeling. You hated how desperate you sounded, how broken.

Yeonjun finally turned to look at you, his eyes filled with a mixture of anger and sorrow. “You know my career is important for me,” he said, his voice tinged with bitterness. “How selfish do you have to be to make me choose between my dream and you?”

Tears welled up in your eyes, but you blinked them back, refusing to let them fall. “I didn’t—” you started, voice trembling. “I never wanted you to choose, but I’m so fucking unhappy. You’re never here anymore.”

His expression softened for a moment, but then the hardness returned. “And you think it’s easy for me? That I’m not exhausted?” he said. “I gave up my whole youth for this, ___. I can’t go around wasting my time in distractions.”

Well, ouch. The words hung in the air, heavy and final. You knew he was right. And you had become a twisted version of what you once were, love poisoned by insecurity, unmet expectations and lack of communication. But knowing it didn’t make it hurt any less. After a while, you broke the silence, just to make this moment last.

“Do you remember the first time we met?” Your voice barely a whisper. “You were so offended that we didn’t serve ramen at the restaurant.”

A sad smile tugged at the corner of Yeonjun’s lips. “Yeah, I remember. And then the next week you added it to the menu.”

You laughed softly, the sound tinged with sadness, thinking of the way he’d stop by your parent’s restaurant every week after that, a little hiding spot in his almost non existent free time. “And now look at us. We’ve come so far, only to end up like this.”

Yeonjun took a deep breath, the weight of their shared past pressing down on him. “Maybe... maybe it’s for the best,” he said, though his voice lacked conviction. “Maybe we need to focus on what really matters again, get our lives back on track.” What really matters.

The thought of a life without him was unbearable, yet the thought of continuing this toxic dance was equally painful. What felt like a daydream soon turned into a nightmare, the promises he couldn’t keep of balancing his career and your relationship, the forgotten birthdays, missed calls and the cold shoulder you’d give him out of spite. It was self-destructive.

But oh, the good days. Your first month together lingered in your mind for longer than you wanted it to. When it was all about stolen kisses, passionate touches and getting to know each other.

“I wish things would’ve ended different,” he continued, glistening gaze with unshed tears drifting to a picture of the two of you hung up on the wall.

“I wish things never ended.” You replied with a sad chuckle. “It feels like you don’t care.”

He sat in silence, ignoring your statement, the rain a constant backdrop to your unraveling. There were no more words left to say, no more apologies or promises that could mend the fractures in your hearts. All that remained was the painful acceptance that sometimes love wasn’t enough.

Yeonjun moved toward the door, the finality of his actions like a knife to your heart. He paused for a moment, his hand on the doorknob. “Take care of yourself,” he said softly, his voice filled with a sorrow that matched your own.

“I love you,” you replied, your voice barely a whisper as you didn’t expect an answer.

And with that, he was gone, leaving you alone in the dimly lit apartment, the echo of his presence lingering in the shadows. The weight of your goodbye crashed down on you as his steps became inaudible, the possibility of never seeing who you thought was the love of your life again being more than you could handle.

In the quiet of the night, surrounded by memories of what once was, you allowed herself to grieve. Your love had been beautiful and passionate, but it had also been destructive and painful. And now, as you faced the prospect of a future without him, you knew that healing would take time.

And maybe, just maybe, you would look back and remember not the pain, but the moments of love and laughter that had once defined what you had.

A/N: this is my first time writing omg 🥴. English is not my first language so I’m sorry for any mistakes, I don’t know if I could express the feeling I wanted to but I’m really content w this work!

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fazedlight · 3 months ago

Text

Kara Danvers vs. The Carolina Reaper

It’s not that Siobhan was catty.

It’s that she fucking hated Kara Danvers.

The sickeningly-bubbly cheerful little blonde was anathema to her. She had a career to be building, yet somehow this random ditz had the ear of Cat Grant.

The idea came to her when she saw Kara picking the jalapeños off her salad. She doesn’t like spice, Siobhan thought to herself, as she scoured the internet for the perfect plan that night. She practically cackled as she ordered the hottest sauce available on the planet - an impressive Carolina Reaper sauce.

Let it all burn, she thought.

---

It was easy enough to sneak in the sauce.

First thing in the morning, Siobhan asked Cat Grant what she wanted for lunch that day. “You surprise me,” Cat said, her voice pleased. “Continue to be proactive, and you’ll do very well here, Siobhan. I’ll take a salad - I don’t care what type, as long as it has a cheeseburger on it.”

“Of course, Ms. Grant,” Siobhan said.

As Siobhan strolled out of the office, she spotted Kara looking up at her - confused, perhaps a bit jealous. Almost as though she had heard Siobhan’s conversation… but that was, of course, impossible. “Ms. Grant wants burgers for lunch,” Siobhan said sweetly, “Would you like me to get you anything?”

Kara blinked back in confusion. “Sure,” she replied, reaching for her wallet, “Just a cheeseburger. No, two cheeseburgers.”

Siobhan waved her off. “It’s on me,” she replied.

“Aww, thanks Siobhan.”

Siobhan grinned as she turned away. Two cheeseburgers, and she keeps that figure?, Siobhan thought jealously. She totally deserves this.

Hours later, when Siobhan finally got the burgers, she carefully placed two dollaps of hot sauce on Kara’s tomatoes. From the instructions, Siobhan knew that would be more than enough to cause the blonde agony. Maybe she’ll even cry, she thought delightedly.

But as she sat back down, watching Kara take her first bite, there was… nothing. No response, no screaming. Kara’s brow furrowed briefly at the taste, and she even pulled out the tomato she had partially bitten into, then she carried on.

Siobhan grit her teeth.

---

I just didn’t use enough last time, Siobhan thought, that’s all.

The next day, she offered to get Cat some Chinese food for lunch. Everyone knew that Kara Danvers was a certified potsticker addict.

Siobhan carefully took the container of potsticker sauce, mixing in a generous pour of the reaper sauce. This’ll do it, Siobhan thought, as she dropped off the potstickers and sauce on Kara’s desk. “The Chinese place accidentally gave me an extra order,” she said breezily, “I guess you can have it.”

“Wow, thanks Siobhan!” Kara replied.

Siobhan shuffled over to her desk again, just as Kara dipped the first potsticker into the sauce, and popped it in her mouth. And again, the blonde’s brow furrowed. This is it, Siobhan thought.

But Kara swallowed the potsticker, eyeing the sauce curiously, before reaching for a second potsticker - which she popped into her mouth without sauce.

“Something wrong?” Siobhan asked furiously.

“Nah, I think they just messed up the sauce,” Kara replied.

---

Her final attempt.

A desperate attempt.

Siobhan emptied half of what remained in the bottle into a tomato soup she had gotten from the store. This has got to work, she thought, as she walked up to Kara’s desk. “Hey,” Siobhan said casually, “I made some of my family's soup recipe last night, but I have too much. Do you want some?”

“Oh,” Kara said, glancing up confusedly - but taking the container and plastic spoon. “That’s sweet, Siobhan, thank you. Gosh, you’ve been so nice to me lately.”

Siobhan smiled demurely, and stepped away to take a seat at her desk, watching Kara out of the corner of her eye.

The blonde took a spoonful in her mouth, and her brow crinkled in response. This is it, Siobhan thought, she’s going to suffer now.

But Kara swallowed without incident. She merely set her spoon down, with a quizzical look at the bowl. Oh, what the fuck, Siobhan thought.

“KIERA!” Cat shouted from inside the office.

Siobhan watched as the blonde shot up, shuffling away to answer the call. Siobhan stewed in her anger, glaring at the bowl as though she could set it on fire. This bottle must be fake, she thought, taking it out of her purse to test it on herself. She tilted the bottle to her lips, in fury and resignation. Fucking internet scammers.

In the seconds afterwards, Siobhan collapsed to the floor, writhing in agony from the few drops that had passed her lips. What the hell, what the hell, what the hell- she thought, as Kara Danvers and Cat Grant raced to see what’s wrong.

Siobhan knew full well that spice was capsaicin activating human pain cells. And now she knew her bottle of Carolina Reaper sauce was, in fact, the real deal. But she couldn't have known that her annoying blonde coworker was a famed kryptonian…

Who only tasted something oddly bitter.

#kryptonian biology #crackfic #kara danvers #siobhan smythe #supergirl #supergirl cw #mel writes ficlets

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emswritingsstuff · 27 days ago

Note

Hiii!! can u write a rosita angst >.< i love your fics btw!!:))

Let it Happen (Rosita Espinosa x Reader)

warnings/ notes: reader death, walker bite, y'all know where this is going. i woke up and chose violence sorry y'all. i'll make it up to my rosita fans out there. also this is barely proofread sorry

WC: 1.3k

It stung like a bitch, it made you wonder how you didn’t notice it sooner.

Was it adrenaline? Was your mind focused on something else? You didn’t know.

The blood had even soaked through your shirt, fuck. You wished you had noticed it sooner. But it wasn’t even like you could’ve done to help your case in the first place.

The bite was on your side, almost to your hip. Couldn’t even amputate if you tried. Not to mention, the infection sure as hell is in your blood now.

Holding back tears that were almost out of your control, you quietly made your way out to the living room of the home you shared with Rosita. You couldn’t even speak, words threatening to come out but just couldn’t.

Your mind was racing, a million thoughts going through your head. Ones like, how could you let this happen? How didn’t you notice? So many questions with such little time to get answers.

You just managed to stand near Rosita, body trembling. You were sure it was visible as when she looked at you, a panicked expression was painted onto her face.

“Baby, what’s wrong?” she spoke softly, swiftly getting up to look at you. Rosita checked over you, just looking fast. All you could do was look at her, the words “I’m bit” not being able to leave your mouth. Right as she finished her once over, she made eye contact with you. Just shaking your head with a “no” you lifted up your shirt for her to see.

The deep walker bite. Or death sentence.

The color draining from her face was almost instant, like she had seen a ghost. And maybe she had.

“No. No, this can’t be happening. No.” The anger in her voice was not at you, but just a reaction out of fear. “How? When?” But once again, no words could come out. It was like someone had taken out your vocal cords.

Rosita was trying to think of a solution, one to make sure you lived. But there was nothing either you or her could do. The clock is ticking, and it’s for sure ticking way too fast for you. And her.

Suddenly, the world froze and you finally broke. Falling down in anguish, the dam in your eyes breaking as well.

An overwhelming sense of doom washed over your whole body, this was the end and you didn’t know what to do. Rosita was doing the best she could to comfort you, trying to hold back her own emotions to help you figure out yours. She couldn’t hide the expression on her face though, she was feeling almost the same amount of anguish as you.

It felt amazing to cry all the emotions out, but it was only to be followed up with an empty feeling.

You just sat on the ground, staring off. Rosita sat with you, attempting to hold you close. Or hold you as much as you’d let her.

After a long, almost uncomfortable silence, you spoke. “I have a little while longer. The fever hasn’t set in yet,” your voice was soft, but out enough to get Rosita to dart her head to look at you.

“What do you want to do?” Rosita’s question rang in your head. What did you want to do? You weren’t quite sure, but something you did know was that you wanted to be with Rosita. You wanted her to be there when you went. And you sure as hell wanted her to be the one to not let you turn.

“Let it happen.” You had sounded so defeated, your fight meant nothing now. Rosita could barely contain herself, but she had to stay strong for you. She couldn’t begin to imagine how you were feeling.

“Do you want any-” you were fast to cut her off. “No,” you just wanted her around. No one else. You didn’t want this to be such a big deal, which to Rosita it was. But it was all your choice, and she had to respect it no matter what. “Act like it didn’t happen. I want to feel a little normal when I go. Please?” You sounded desperate. Rosita could just tearfully nod. She stood up and wiped her red eyes, brushing her hands on her pants as she looked at you.

Forcing a smile on her face, she asked you one simple question. “What do you want for dinner?” So simple, yet just what you wanted to have your mind on right now.

Things that evening had managed to feel a decent bit normal. Rosita had made you dinner and the both of you ate together, reminiscing on the old times. Not to be sad, but think about the good memories you had. The both of you cleaned the kitchen together, and that's when the fever started.

In an instant, full body chills engulfed your body. It felt like you were on fire, but also freezing to death. It wasn't bad yet, low grade if you wanted to be technical. But you could surely feel it.

Rosita wasn’t aware of the fever starting, you didn’t know if you could even tell her. But there wasn’t any hiding for much longer.

A sudden feeling of dizziness hits you, the kind you get when you stand up too fast. “I think I’m going to lay down,” Rosita’s permanent smile faded after you spoke. She knew what was next, and she didn’t like what was going to happen.

The process of the fever setting in took forever, and it was long and painful. You couldn’t remember the last time you had felt this sick. All you felt was tired, you wanted to sleep. But you couldn’t let yourself do that, not yet at least. Needing to stay a little while longer, at least for Rosita.

She sat beside you on the bed. She protested at first, wanting you to have the full bed but you declined. Just wanting her to be as close as possible to you. Your head rested on her shoulder, occasional kisses on your forehead would be planted by her anytime you even seemed remotely uncomfortable.

For the first time in what felt like forever you broke the silence. “Remember when we first met?” With your throat being dry, your words sounded rough. But Rosita smiled fondly, thinking about the memory you had just triggered in her head. “I was a bitch to you,” the memory turned into a fond one. Going from complete strangers to frenemies to lovers, it was a stereotypical teenage love story but you didn’t care. It was perfect, you both were perfect.

“I always fall for people that don’t like me. And this time I’m glad I did,” you laughed dryly. With losing strength you couldn’t raise your head, but you could feel Rosita shaking and the squeeze of her hand on yours. Her sobs could be heard, they were quiet but noticeable.

“Please, don’t go,” she could barely make out the words as she continued to bawl, the never ending tears staining her face.

Time was running out, you both knew it. And with that, Rosita moved you so that you could lay on your side looking at her. She laid on her side next to you, holding you. Doing her best to make this process as painless as possible.

Weakly, you raised up your hand to her face, using your thumb to clean off some tears as best as you could. Your hand rested on her cheek, slowly rubbing it.

“I love you Rosita, I’ll see you on the other side.” This was it, time was up. The clock has stopped ticking.

“I love you too (Y/N). I’ll love you forever” And with that, you closed your eyes. Letting yourself rest for good.

#rosita espinosa #rosita espinosa x reader #the walking dead x reader #the walking dead #x reader #fanfic #angst #big oof #sorry guys

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skyloftian-nutcase · 8 months ago

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Lovelies, y'all voted which of my OC Links you wanted to hug most, and Shadow won, so guess what, Shadow gets a nice writing snippet :)

(Oh boy guys, I had such a good time writing this, partly because of the soundtrack I listened to. It was "Descent into Gloom's Lair" for the first half and then "Phase 5 Construct Factory")

This had to be it. He could sense the warmth of the magic, could hear the sword’s humming voice, could almost understand its whispers.

Link crept further into the canyon crevice, hands almost burning as they brushed against gloom. That never used to hurt. It was always cold.

He felt nearly giddy at the sensation. He reached his hand forward to grab it, one final piece, one last sliver of hope to add to his prayers and efforts. His finger snagged the sharp end, making it bleed, but the steel glowed blue regardless.

Sacred blue from a sacred sword. Link knew nothing of this blade, only that it contained light magic. Just as the dagger he’d used all that time ago had.

Please be enough. Please be enough.

Link felt his entire body trembling in anticipation and anxiety. If he tried this and it failed, it would give his entire plan away. But he’d never felt so certain, had never heard the sword’s magic so clearly. He’d scoured the entirety of the Depths, and this was the last shred of light he could find.

The pieces all fit together. The only thing that was missing was the base of the sword and its hilt. How such a blade could be so long—it was practically a claymore, but it held such little weight to it. Yet it held so much power. It felt… it felt familiar, it felt comforting.

He saw it sometimes, in his dreams. A blade shattered under Ganondorf’s power, only to be built anew in golden light. But there was no golden light here. Only the cool steely blue. Yet it was warmer than the sun, and he felt it seep into his skin, into his muscles and bone, snipping away at the cold tendrils that dug into him like needles.

Slowly, Link pulled off the bandages around his forehead.

This was it. This was his last prayer, his final attempt. He closed his eyes, feeling the icy cold vice grip Ganondorf had on him, centered in the malicious mark on his forehead. The sacred blade hummed in anticipation, nearly a growl, baring its metaphorical teeth. Its pieces slid together as he placed them on the floor, making him gasp a little. Thin, purple light, nearly like sacred thread, held the pieces together as they reverberated in unison.

He felt pain twinge in his forehead, and he sensed Ganondorf’s dark magic nearby. He’d been out of the demon king’s sight for too long. He could tell the man was growing nervous, worried. He was running out of time.

Fear pulled at him all of a sudden, sharp and horrifying and paralyzing. What if it wasn’t enough? What if it wasn’t enough?

Link took a trembling breath, pulling out a katana Ganondorf had gifted him. Then he pulled out a war hammer that he’d been gifted by one of the fallen soldiers.

It was now or never.

He brought the hammer down fiercely, channeling all his fear into it, turning it to something productive. With each clang he felt his heart rate grow ever faster. Holding the katana steady took all of his determination, and each blow reverberated up his shoulder. It felt like two different parts of him at war, one side ferociously fighting to be released while the other clung to its prison, petrified.

What if this isn’t enough? He’ll never let me go after this; he’ll use his power to control me forever!

But what if it was enough? If he hesitated, he’d never get this chance again, and the end result would be the same.

But we have a status quo. This is working.

But it wouldn’t last!

Clang!

The katana shook under his grip.

Clang!

The gloom spawn was getting closer.

I just want him back. I just want him back!

He was never getting the Ganondorf he knew back.

Clang!

He was sweating now. Tears mixed with the sweat, a sweet and salty flavor in his mouth.

Clang!

The katana snapped, its blade giving way, its hilt remaining intact. He stared at it a moment, his breath caught in his chest, his body frozen. The sacred blade hummed louder. He could hear the shrill, shuddering sounds of the gloom spawn nearby.

Slowly, Link knelt on the ground, reaching for the blade. As he drew it closer to the hilt of the katana, the same strange, effervescent purple thread seemed to lock it into place with the hilt. Link stared at it a moment in wonder and awe, and it bolstered his resolve and hope.

This… this might actually work.

It would. It had to.

His forehead was beginning to hurt more and more. Icy cold darkness pulled at it. The blade’s sounds pulsed closer together, seeming nearly frantic.

Link turned the blade towards himself, hesitating a moment, breathing shakily, feeling the world around him stop.

If this was his last moment… then so be it.

He thrust it quickly, sharply, with every ounce of strength he had, aiming for his forehead.

His world exploded into agony. Time seemed to slow as he screamed, as white-hot energy ripped through his entire being, unraveling him. Images ran through his mind, memories scrambling around as if he were living his last moments.

Ganondorf’s face, stricken with horror as he laid in his arms dying. His own pain, heart breaking, body screaming from the wound.

Hemisi’s smile as they danced at a party in the castlte. His body retching as he tossed her ashes into the flames.

Coldness claiming him in eternal slumber as he fell down the stairs. Coldness dragging him back as Ganondorf ripped him from its embrace.

Nabooru holding him and Hemisi when they went to war. Nabooru’s scream as he was tossed down the stairs after stabbing Ganondorf.

Goddess, make it stop! It wasn’t as if he hadn’t experienced death before, why was this so utterly painful?!

He registered that his screaming had stopped, that he was suddenly laying on his side, that the world was spinning but most certainly in the present once more. Warm liquid lazily slipped down his forehead, pooling at his temple. He gasped, sitting upright as adrenaline slammed into him, as he heard the gloom spawn, as he saw it rapidly approaching.

Run, RUN!

Link’s body came to life, and he ran as hard and fast as possibly could. He didn’t dare look back, dead set on finding someplace that the spawn couldn’t reach. He knew this region fairly well by now, looking to his right and leaping on to the cliffside, hastily pulling himself upward. The gloom hands reached, but their claws could barely ghost against his ankles, leaving him breathless but somewhat relieved. He climbed higher and higher, feeling his body tremble and ache and protest considering everything that had just happened, but he finally made it to the top.

Collapsing, Link panted for air, completely and utterly drained. He felt like he’d been carrying a heavy load for his entire life and it had finally been lifted. He didn’t even know how to describe how he felt. The sacred blade was warm beside him, tucked into his belt, and he settled his hand on it like a lifeline.

It had worked. It had worked!

He laughed. He laughed until he was breathless, he cried.

But he knew he couldn’t stay here long. Ganondorf knew where he was now, and he knew he couldn’t control him.

It was a hunt now.

Link took a few more seconds to catch his breath before sitting up once more. He couldn’t see the bottom of the cliff with as dark as it was, but he could still catch wisps of dark magic, could hear the gloom spawn hissing in protest, remaining in its place so Ganondorf could track it.

He spat off the edge of the cliff, a sneer pulling at his lips, and made his way farther uphill. He knew there was an abandoned mine up ahead, and he knew there were Yiga there. But the Yiga were essentially harmless to him; he’d beaten up enough of them prior to escaping Ganondorf’s shackles to know that much.

Rushing ahead, Link noticed there were brighter splotches in new areas. More lightroots, probably. He blinked against it, trying to adjust to the change, when something caught his eye and made him stop dead in his tracks.

Was that… was that a…

Link stared.

That was a dragon.

A dragon floated in front of him, glowing beautifully blue, a chill steadily spreading through the air as it growled, its rumbling voice vibrating through Link’s chest.

How—he’d never—what—

It was beautiful.

But—but—

What was a dragon even doing down here?! They didn’t dwell in the Depths, they—

It had to have gotten here somehow.

Hope burned in his chest, along with excitement and indescribable joy. He knew how to get out of here.

Link charged ahead, leaping off the cliff, and landed directly on the mythical creature.

His hands and feet screamed at the icy contact, entire body immediately racking with shivers, but he clung to the crystalline spines on its blessed back regardless, laughing as he his teeth chattered. His muscles were so exhausted from everything that he nearly stopped shivering after a few minutes, watching his fingers and toes turn purplish blue.

He didn’t care.

The Depths looked so different from up here. He could make out the plant life, see scattered ruins. It almost looked like how it used to, when it had been far more alive and protected by lightroots.

Link gasped a little as his entire body shook with a shudder in response to the cold, and he nearly lost his grip on the creature’s spine. He couldn’t feel his feet anymore.

Come on, sacred sister… please… get me out of here.

The icy creature roared again, her entire body reverberating the sound. Her back started to arch, and Link nearly lost his footing as his world tipped. He reached for any kind of purchase, hanging off the dragon’s spiny icelike crystals, praying he could still hold on.

But she was tipping upward. That had to mean—that had to mean—

They were getting out of here. She was getting him out of here.

Link climbed as best he could to stand atop the scale, nearly falling before catching himself. And he saw light. He saw the sky.

Link’s face, freezing as it was, thawed a moment as tears spilled over his cheeks. Snowflakes suddenly appeared, getting caught in his hair and his lashes, and a sharp wind tore through him as sunlight blasted through, reflecting off snow covered fields. There were trees everywhere, decorated in the sparkling splendor of winter’s kiss, and Link gasped as the dragon started to straighten out. He could no longer feel his hands, couldn’t grip anything, and he fell.

He fell, the air screaming all around him, crashing through layer after layer of freedom as the chasm grew ever closer.

It felt like a nightmare, like the chasm was the maw of a demonic dragon, like Ganondorf was reaching up from hell just to drag him back down.

Link felt panic squeeze him as if a gloom hand had already gotten a hold of him, but he flipped his body around to try and redirect the wind and his course so he could at least land in the snow. He’d rather die than go back down there.

He was probably going to die either way once he hit the ground. But at least this way he’d die on the surface, buried in snow, never to be found by that man again.

He couldn’t… Ganondorf couldn’t bring him back again, could he?

There was no way he’d gotten this far just to—

Something sounded in the air, strange, different from the wind, whistling but in a sharp, repeated pattern. Link looked around wildly, in a panic, wondering if somehow the demon king had caught up to him, when something slammed into him.

“Hold on to me!” he heard, and his heart nearly stopped from the absolute shock of it. He turned as best he could, trying to see who in the world this even was, wrapping his arms around the person as the air below them suddenly pushed them upward sharply. It slowed his momentum instantly, but far too much for his tired and frozen arms to handle, and he quickly slipped out from under the person. He gasped, too tired to fight it or move, and he saw the figure above him let go of whatever parasailing device they had, diving towards him and grabbing him, twisting both of them so he was on top of the other when they hit the snow.

The impact was still hard, but not nearly as horrible as it could have been without that significant slowing. Link gasped for air nonetheless, stretched far beyond what his body could handle, numb and so cold it froze his bones.

He vaguely felt the person underneath him moving, and he opened his eyes as best he could, glancing down. Blue eyes looked back at him, framed in a somehow strangely familiar face.

“I’ve never seen anyone else ride a dragon,” the young man commented, expression perplexed. “Who—”

The man cut himself off, recognition shining in his eyes, in the way his brow shot upward, in the way his mouth opened even more with a small gasp.

And then it hit Link.

This… this was Rauru’s knight.

#writing #hero of shadow #totk #tears of the kingdom link #totk link #:)

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destinysbounty · 1 year ago

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Huh. I just dug up an old fan-theory i came up with back when i was like 15. And while its definitely way too weak to hold up against any real scrutiny, it at the very least makes for some mildly interesting fanfic fodder so i thought id share it with the greater fandom hivemind.

(Dont come at me about the holes in this theory btw, i was practically a baby when i came up with this and it was one of my first attempts at theory-crafting. Trust me, ive come a long way since then)

Anyway, the theory goes like this:

While in the lighthouse, Dr. Julien builds a replica of his son. But try as he might to get it to turn on, it never actually works. Whatever special spark brought the first Zane to life is inexplicably absent from this one. So he locks it away in his basement, and never gives it the light of day again. This is the reason Dr. Julien never told Zane about Echo, or brought him with them - because at the time, Echo wasnt even functional. Wouldnt even turn on. Was nothing more than a lifeless shell collecting rust in the basement.

So how, then, did Echo become sentient by season 6? Great question! But uhh heres where the theory kinda starts to go off the rails. So buckle up, folks.

Basically the theory goes that when Zane died at the end of s3, his soul still lingered in Ninjago. And his disembodied spirit eventually found itself drawn to a vessel that was similar to the one he'd lost - one his father had built yet long abandoned. But his new body lacked the memory storage contained within his old one, and his resurrection effectively gave him almost complete amnesia. All he could remember was his name and his purpose (to protect those who cannot protect themselves).

Meanwhile, when Titanium Zane says hes a replica, hes actually completely right about that. Some fragments of his code left behind from his visit to the Digiverse gained sentience and inherited Zane's elemental power, creating the Zane we know and love today.

But the original Zane, the one that died fighting the Overlord, actually ended up becoming Echo Zane. Which then would have explained why Zane had so many holes in his memories after being resurrected, and why his sixth sense became much less active as well - he was only made from fragments of the real Zane's code, after all.

Now, as the big smart grownup i am today, i can look back at this theory my baby self had crafted and poke about a million holes into it. But...idk, i always feel nostalgic about this theory in spite of all that. Not just bc it was one of my first fan theories ever, but also bc it would have such fascinating narrative implications if true.

Like, the idea of Mr. E being Echo? Well, if we apply that to the concept of Echo being the Original Zane, then his hatred for Current Zane takes on a whole new dimension. It also gives me a lot of emotions about the whole Ice Emperor situation, as well as Zane's apparent discomfort towards his own statue.

And what kind of position does that put the rest of the gang in? If they had to choose between saving one or the other - the Zane who died for you, or the Zane who lives for you - which one would they choose? Could they choose? How long do you have to love a replica before it starts to feel more authentic than the original? And in that case, who becomes the 'real' zane? The one you love, or the one you lost?

Again. This theory has more holes in it than the Titanic. Cut me some slack, i was an idiot child and also a novice at making theories. But giving credit where its due, i do think it at least raises some interesting concepts. And Ive always casually wondered what would happen if it turned out to be true.

Like i said. Fanfic fodder.

#god i wouldve made that theory...what? almost seven years ago? damnnnnn #wow im so old #ninjago #destiny post

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swordheld · 2 years ago

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i believe we all are unspectacular, though

this feeling - it's yours, through and through. your experience is yours and you have earned every emotion you hold on to. in writing this, i don't mean to try to explain away how you're feeling; i only want to attempt to show you the inverse, the hidden light that shadows beyond every darkness.

sometimes there are moments where it all becomes too much and we fall into it, that long dark, and it takes us from ourselves, from some part of us that lives close to whatever we hold to the light of things. the hard part of this was never finding that awe, that spectacular beauty, but keeping it close enough to guide us out of the dark. it slips so easy through our fingers.

when that becomes so big it swallows all else: what if you think of the softest thing? of similarity, and kindness, and how it seems to be rooted down to the marrow of us.

we have existed for so long, so little. we are like giants, on our pebble of a celestial grain of sand. our lives are short and memories far shorter. and yet look at all that we do with it: look at how far it goes - each shining piece.

how could it be just unspectacular? couldn't it always, always have the possibility for more? i implore you to read through ada limón's full piece that this is pulled from, titled dead stars:

Out here, there’s a bowing even the trees are doing. Winter’s icy hand at the back of all of us. Black bark, slick yellow leaves, a kind of stillness that feels so mute it’s almost in another year. I am a hearth of spiders these days: a nest of trying. We point out the stars that make Orion as we take out the trash, the rolling containers a song of suburban thunder. It’s almost romantic as we adjust the waxy blue recycling bin until you say, Man, we should really learn some new constellations. And it’s true. We keep forgetting about Antlia, Centaurus, Draco, Lacerta, Hydra, Lyra, Lynx. But mostly we’re forgetting we’re dead stars too, my mouth is full of dust and I wish to reclaim the rising— to lean in the spotlight of streetlight with you, toward what’s larger within us, toward how we were born. Look, we are not unspectacular things. We’ve come this far, survived this much. What would happen if we decided to survive more? To love harder? What if we stood up with our synapses and flesh and said, No. No, to the rising tides. Stood for the many mute mouths of the sea, of the land? What would happen if we used our bodies to bargain for the safety of others, for earth, if we declared a clean night, if we stopped being terrified, if we launched our demands into the sky, made ourselves so big people could point to us with the arrows they make in their minds, rolling their trash bins out, after all of this is over?

poetry is lovely for so many reasons, but a personal favourite is that it can mean different things to different readers. this one, to me, means there is more here. as in: you are not the first, you are not alone in this ache, this heavy weight of life. the ground has shook with dance since before our feet, the wind has carried stories beyond our voice. it says there has been more here.

and that, in turn, says everything without so many words, doesn't it?

we try, and try, and give everything we have. we have been doing it since before language, since before breath. it is a history that says i need you to know that i tried. that i made it out, into the light of things.

nothing lasts forever. there is no such thing as permanence. everything washes away. there is rot and things collapse, forests fall, seasons change, and time moves on. but the same time – there is no such thing as separation. we are not exempt. we all share this changing.

yes, loving the world is difficult. finding pieces of living, of being alive, that make it worth living is one of the most difficult of searches, but it's one of the most rewarding, as well as the only things truly worth anything. you need to find things to keep going for. you need to recognize your own spectacular things specific to you, because who else is going to do it?

there is something strong in teaching yourself to hone that perspective. to hold everything else in rays of scattered sunlight through canopies - momentary joys so profound: a violin melody, art that breaks you alive, poetry you want to hold behind your teeth, the smell of cinnamon bread in the oven, because at the end of it: wouldn’t you want hope? wouldn’t you choose hope?

and poems like this, they ask: if you could, even just once more, dare to dream, dream anything, dream it all, each and every piece of light that could await you - wouldn't you?

and wouldn't you? wouldn't you.

#q&a.#birdsong.#digs myself out of a months long inspiration depression to try and write both of us something of a path out.#you've finally made it out into the sun. haven't we?#it's been a while since this has been in my inbox. i hope you're well & that things are easier these days.#lately i have been thinking of things like this: right now; right here? it won't last for any longer than we are in it.#time will pass on regardless. and so the question at the end of it (of everything) is just this: time will move on without us –#will we go on with it?

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imtrashraccoon · 1 year ago

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Funny enough we had mac and cheese for dinner the day I wrote this. No, it wasn't my idea and it was the boxed kind. Homemade is so good though...

@owl-bones

First Day, Previous Day, & Next Day.

Bad Sansuary: Killer - Heavy

Word Count: 1,860

You were attempting to get some lunch made when Killer showed up again. Moving around on crutches was still rather difficult but you were craving something cheesy. So you were trying your best to balance on your crutches and still do meal prep.

"hey..." he muttered in a low voice as he pulled out a chair and sat down at the kitchen table.

"Hey yourself," you responded and continued what you were doing, barely sparing him a glance.

It wasn't a very nice way to greet a guest but you didn't like how he tended to just teleport into your home without notice. No, you weren't being hypocritical just because you were okay with Dust doing the same thing. At least he hadn't played a stupid prank that had resulted in a hospital visit!

Weirdly, Killer didn't make any effort to retort and when the silence grew too uncomfortable, you turned to properly look at him.

He seemed...fidgety and yet, kind of lethargic. The black ooze that seemed to perpetually drip down his cheekbones from his eye sockets seemed to have increased too. He also seemed to have slight dark circles underneath his eye sockets for once and the glowing red target that floated above his sternum seemed almost distorted and fuzzy.

Apparently, even Killer had bad days it seemed. You couldn't be sure if he tended to act detached like Dust or more reactive like Axe though. Hopefully, he was the quiet type, but you didn't like the chances of that being the case, considering how volatile he was normally.

So, you chose to ignore him, at least for the time being anyways. You really didn't need to know what was bothering him today as it couldn't be good if it affected him this much. Instead, you decided to make homemade mac and cheese to satisfy your cravings. It took a bit more work than the boxed stuff, but you could add as much cheese as you wanted to this way.

You had just started grating the cheese when something tiny bit the back of your head. Looking down at the floor, you spotted a stray toothpick and when you bent down to pick it up, another one hit your back.

Casting a stern look at Killer, you discovered that he had somehow gotten ahold of the container of toothpicks that you normally kept by the stove, despite seemingly not getting up. He stared passively back before sliding another one out of the container and flicking it, with surprising accuracy, so that it hit your chest this time.

You gave him a patient smile. "Can you...not do that? It's annoying and I'm going to eventually step on one, which might hurt."

He said nothing and just stared at you. Then, he went back to flicking toothpicks at you as if you hadn't said anything at all. Almost like a toddler testing what the limits of your patience were.

You rolled your eyes and turned back to the counter. He was apparently in a bratty mood and so you were determined to ignore his antics. He would get bored eventually and stop once you didn't give him the satisfaction of a reaction.

Once the cheese was granted, you got the milk out of the fridge and went to get a few spices, like salt and pepper, out of the cupboard. You'd just managed to reach one of them when it slid out of your grasp. Maybe you'd grabbed it wrong?

You tried again and got the pepper container this time. However, when you went to grab the salt container, the same thing happened. It was now somehow even further back in your cupboard than you could properly reach.

Heaving a long-suffering sigh and counting to ten, you did your best not to get mad. It would only give him what he wanted after all if you did.

You could do this.

Leaning your crutches against the counter, you balanced on your left foot for a second before jumping up. Your fingers closed around the salt and you grinned in satisfaction.

Unfortunately, you lost your balance when you landed and tried to grab onto the counter to catch yourself.

Strong but boney hands suddenly wrapped around your back, stopping your fall.

Killer's face was then the only thing in your field of vision and your face grew hot as you realized how close he was.

Your tongue felt heavy and your body was paralyzed. You couldn't move no matter how much you wanted to and even if you could, you likely wouldn't be able to stand up without stepping on your bad ankle.

He held you for a few moments before helping you regain your balance again. Once you'd grabbed your crutches and weren't in danger of falling over, he returned to his spot at the table.

He hadn't said a word the entire time. How unlike him...

You took a steadying breath and ran a hand down your face. That had been really embarrassing. If he hadn't acted so quickly, you would've had a nasty fall and possibly injured yourself worse.

You glanced up and instantly made eye contact with him. He seemed to have gone back to staring at you, which was just peachy. What was it with skeletons and staring anyways?

"What's got you in such a funk today, Killer?" you finally asked.

His permanent smile was already tight but the corners pulled up more at your question. "you know, you just reminded me of this weirdo that i know. he's a walking neon sign and stupidly tall... now that's funky!" His tone of voice sounded happy but you could tell he was forcing it.

You frowned that he'd completely ignored your question and hobbled over to the table. Sitting down across from him, you leaned your crutches up against the wooden surface before steepling your hands on the table.

"Killer...are you okay?" you tried again.

He waved you off. "it's fine cute-cake... get it? cause you're really cute and it's a piece of cake to make you mad?"

"Ugh..." You hated that your heart did a little flip at the stupid pun disguised as yet another flirtatious comment. "Come on! Killer, stop deflecting and tell me what's going on," you grumbled.

He opened his mouth to say something else but you reached across the table and pointed a finger in his face. "No. You've been pestering me to pay attention to you, so now I am. What are you dying to tell me?"

"guess you got me...dead to rights..." he muttered.

You leaned back in your chair and crossed your arms. "Ha. I'd give you more than a pity laugh but I'm serious here." When he smiled slightly more, you quickly added, "No, don't say that actually I'm cute or an angel. I'm not joking..."

He sighed and hung his skull in defeat. "you're no fun, angel face..." he muttered. He drummed his phalanges on the table for a moment before clenching his fists. "i'm just having a bad day... kind of itching to get some exp too..."

"Ah. I wondered if that could be the case." You pursed your lips thoughtfully and added, "Dust acted similarly when he was having a rough day, you know?"

Killer gave you a curious look and tilted his skull. "i don't get it..." he muttered. "i don't like any humans, you know?"

Rather than give you time to answer, he kept muttering. "...i once met a human who manipulated me and eventually forced me to kill everyone i ever knew...over, and over, and over again... it got to the point where i acted on my own without any prodding...and it happened over and over... until they got bored and left... they abandoned me after everything i did..."

The longer he talked, the more unnerving he became. You were familiar with info dumping death spirals by now, but it still sent shivers down your spine at how hollow his voice sounded compared to how he normally acted. You didn't like Fake-happy Killer but you especially didn't like Deathly-serious Killer either.

Without really thinking, you reached across the table again and this time, you placed your right hand on his left. You didn't say anything yet and just sat there listening to him.

The gesture seemed to shock him out of his ramblings and he looked down at your joined hands. When you didn't pull away, he caught your gaze again and studied you intently.

"why aren't you...upset...? i just told you why i'm this messed up..." His face hardened and he abruptly stood up, pulling his hand away roughly. "don't just look at me like that! get mad! call me a freak! say something! anything..."

He collapsed back into the chair, that had somehow not fallen over, and clutched his skull in despair. Then, in a small voice, he muttered, "forget it. i don't need your pity..."

"Hey."

You waited until he shifted and looked up at you before speaking again. "This explains why you act similarly to Axe and Dust..." you commented with a wry smile.

He stared at you with a mixture of disbelief and shock. He looked down at his hands and then back up to you. "what's that supposed to mean...?"

You took one of his hands in your own and gave it a small squeeze. "I shouldn't compare you to them I guess. You're similar in that you've been through awful circumstances and managed to come out the other side alive, but in doing so, you had to change. Maybe you think it was for the worse but I'm not focusing on that part right now. There's plenty different about you compared to the others, but it doesn't change the fact that you're still hurting and I can't stand seeing you like that."

You turned his hand over and examined it, although you couldn't really see his palm because of his fingerless gloves. Running the fingers of your other hand over his own, you hummed softly.

"I can't condone what you do for work but I can see you aren't completely irredeemable. You've been awful to me and yet you also tried to fix things when you went too far. Now, correct me if I'm wrong, but you haven't actively threatened to harm me since we first met either."

Killer was silent for a little while and he seemed to be pondering what you'd said.

You sighed and looked away from him. "Look, I still don't really like you... But, despite everything, I can't bring myself to hate you, especially after what you just told me..."

He made a quiet clicking sound with his non-existent tongue. "interesting..." he muttered. He ran a thumb over your fingers in a thoughtful way.

"no wonder they both like you..." He curled his phalanges around your hand and brought it up to his teeth.

From the smirk on his face, you just knew he was being flirtatious. This was confirmed when he pressed a slow skeleton kiss against your knuckles.

"you're even cuter when you're red in the face like that, angel~"

Scratch that, you hated him all over again!

#badsansuary #raccoons drabbles #undertale #killertale #something new #killer sans x reader #killer sans #reader #female reader #have some empathy dear #oneshot

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substantial-exposure · 1 year ago

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Codes

Link to Part 2 ||

Summary: Crosshair meets a Jedi that catches his eye. Too bad he fucked up his first impression. Was it his poor attempts to show off? Was it her self righteous attitude? Or is all this just because he thinks she's pretty? Whatever it was, things started off on the wrong foot and now he's trying to fix it.

Warnings: 18+ (MDNI) Things get a little steamy by the end of the chapter. Canon level violence and Crosshair being mean to a girl he likes.

Wc: 3.2k!!

(A/N): This is a Crosshair x Oc fic! My first time writing for him so I'm a little nervous but I'm really loving how this turned out! This is a little bit enemies to lovers but 🤫

Dasibri Taraay was a Jedi Knight of great renown. She'd been stationed across the Galaxy all throughout the clone wars. It was a never ending battle. She'd frequent many planets, offering aid whenever it was called of her without any hesitation. Granted she would of preferred to be back at the temple, not living in a state of constant war zones like she was now.

She found herself in a small barren room, fit to be her bedroom for the duration of her stay on Dantooine. Being the only female around on base didn't bother her much, up until it came time to call it a night. Nothing sounded worse than spending the night in the barracks with the clone troopers.

While yes, she was very fond of them. And yes, she was quite friendly with some of them, it didn't mean that she was content with staying with them. Just as Master Windu had his own room, so did she.

Dasibri didn't care for spacious rooms and lush decorations. The room was bare, containing nothing but a small dresser and a bed. It was more than she would of even asked for. She'd of been more than content with a cot in the hallway. But this would do nicely. There was a single window that had shown with the moonlight.

Her stay on Dantooine wasn't over yet, that much she knew. As a matter of fact, Dasibri was certain she'd be staying quite a while longer. After the long day she'd had she thought it best to meditate before bed. To ready herself for rest and whatnot.

She was hovering only a mere few inches off the ground, deep in her own personal thoughts. She was trying to expel the emotions of the day, rid of the ones she wasn't proud of: Except that was when a loud knock sounded at her door. Despite the late hour, they knocked with a harrowing insistence. With a roll of her eyes, her feet hit the ground and she dropped from her meditation space. Dasibri went to answer the door. Before she even made it halfway across the room, she used the force to unlock it and send the door open.

She almost wished she hadn't.

Standing in her doorway was a clone, atleast she thought. He looked different from the others. His hair was cut short silver, and his facial markings weren't any she'd ever seen before. Dare she say it. He was quite handsome. Then she gazed down and saw the helmet he was holding in his hands.

Oh.

It was Crosshair. That very same clone from earlier that day. The longer she looked the more sense it made. The marking on his helmet matched his tattoo. Not to mention the look on his face seemed to make a lot more sense. This was the one who was starting to make a home under her skin. He made her crawl with agitation. And he was getting very good at it.

"Crosshair." The Jedi stated. She took a deep breath, she approached the door and looked up to him. "Who do I have to thank for sending you here?" She said, sarcasm nipping in her tone. Granted, it was a lot harder now that she could see his face, see his eyes staring into hers.

The clone spoke up, his stance rigid and he hid his nerves well. "I thought it would be best to check up on you after rounds. Make sure I didn't rough you up too much" He said to her. He looked down at her, eyes raking over her body. She looked different than she had hours ago, her hair was down and still slightly damp, she wore different robes, and her face was clean and free of any dirt or soot. And she certainly didn't seem as uptight as she did before. "I wanted to see how you were holding up.. after earlier." He confessed.

Dasibri was quickly reminded of the mornings and the rest of the days happenings on the field. A shower had certainly helped to ease the ache in her body but remembering the event caused a phantom pain.

-Earlier that morning-

Debris and dirt filled the air as explosions sparked across the battlefield. Dasibri raised her arm to cover her eyes, she tried not to breathe it all in. Things weren't looking too good, which made sense, it was exactly why they called in reinforcements. Except, they hadn't only just called her in.

Dasibri had surely never heard of the clones that she was meant to accompany before. She hadn't know a thing about them up until her debrief when she was already on world and they were standing in the room with her. The experimental Clone Unit 99 had left her feeling uneasy. Dasibri liked things concise and particular. A troop such as this did little to comfort her. Introductions had been brief, there was barely even a plan by the end of it. She stared over the battlefield. Watching as droids and troopers went against each other, a voice came up behind her, loudly in fact.

Arc Trooper Echo, a solider she'd met and fought alongside many moons ago, yelled across the field. Commanding the attention of everyone in earshot and on his communications to boot. "Couple of rogue Clankers! Incoming!" Echo called in warning. He certainly didn't go unheard. In fact, everyone acted accordingly.

Quickly, almost simultaneously as Dasibri ignited her saber, Wrecker drew his machete, Hunter his gun, and Crosshair lifted his rifle. Everyone took their stances, ready for the war that lied ahead of them. The group stood in a tight formation, each within an arms reach of eachother.

Dasibri eyed the situation with precision, focusing on the incoming droids. Up until a cool low baritone reverberated in her ear.

"Relax. I'll handle this." Crosshair called out. He effortlessly raised up his rifle and with a heavy thud, he unceremoniously dropped it onto the Jedis shoulder. Groaning at the initial impact and weight that was dropped onto her shoulder, she shifted. It weighed her down, pulled her shoulder lower. Before she could fully complain Crosshair began to shush her. "Quiet. Hold still" he grumbled. He looked down the scope and rather gingerly fired several shots.

Each one making contact and destroying every droid he had shot at with a perfect accuracy.

Dasibri almost immediately shoved the rifle off her shoulder. He removed his finger from over the trigger just in time. She let gravity take it. "You got quite an eye there" the Jedi said watching as Crosshair quickly lunged to grab his weapon. His hands wrapped around the scope of the gun, holding it tightly. He turned to stare at her, aggravated with her already. She certainly didn't sound impressed. The recoil had felt unbearable. It had wracked through her entire body.

Crosshair looked her up and down. As if he hadn't cared to finally notice her till now. As if he didn't just use her as his own personal rifle rest. An arrogant chuckle left him. " of course I do." He sneered. He watched her through the slit in his visor and looked over her face. Her grey eyes studied him. The way they narrowed at him almost felt like a challenge. One he would certainly try and live up to.

She rolled her shoulder and winced. An ache traveled down her back. "Do something like that again and I'm gonna start forgetting whose side you're on." She threatened. She grimaced as she moved her arm and held her lightsaber tightly. Her gaze shifted to stare intently at his helmet, the markings, the scratches, she took a particular interest in staring into the visor.

Crosshair leaned onto his rifle. Letting it support nearly his entire body weight as he leaned forward, hovering over the Jedi to shoot her a response. He knew that she couldn't see through his visor and see his eyes, but it was like she saw right through him anyway. Through his very psyche. His voice projected from his helmet. "Noted." He finally said.

Dasibri took a single deep breath before she walked away from him. From them all. As a Jedi Knight of her skill, she prided herself on her ability to keep her own peace. She carried grace and serenity in her very step. And for some reason, since the moment she laid eyes on this clone, she was agitated. Before she even had a reason too, she didn't like him. And he certainly wasn't helping his case.

This team of clones was unbearable. To her at least. They were arrogant. Who cares if they had a one hundred percent success rate? So did she. In all of her years in the order, Dasibri had never not delivered. These clones thought that they could do whatever they wanted.

Not on her watch.

Dasibri was well aware that her head should of been in the field. She should of been planning her strategies. And yet instead she was fuming over this sharpshooting clone and his team of equally weird defects. They were enhanced, and they were cocky. It was a combination she didn't like.

She looked to the other side of the battle field. Her own troopers were on their way to a certain victory. But she could see the cracks in their formations, in the back of her mind she could see exactly how they could lose. She rushed to their aid, desperate to assist and guide them to get another win. As her saber extended from the hilt she ran into the battle.

It had been a near full day that the battle raged on. Hours upon hours of mindless fighting. The sun had set long ago and and it was almost impossible to see any of the enemy droids coming.

The shine of a green lightsaber illuminated the area around the Jedi. She kept herself centered, even as her muscles ached and her body drained, she kept going. She couldn't see any droids around her, she held her blade out ahead of her. Dasibri moved in circles. She couldn't see them, but maker could she feel them. She could sense them, hear the ticking of their insides and the metal that made them. Rather tired and wanting this to end, she reached out with the force.

The four droids rose into the air, hovering feet off the ground and came raising straight towards her. As she raised her saber to strike, each droid had been blown back a few feet, all before her lightsaber even touched them. She stared dumbfounded.

Before she should think, before she could even blink, blaster fire whizzed past her face. Effectively hitting one of droids heads and sending it directly into another. It was a near instant display, the shot made contact, it flung the debris into another droid, and they both combusted. Dasibri heaved out a breath as the fire was all that was left to illuminate the field.

She looked back to where the blaster shots had come from. High atop his perch, laid Crosshair. His rifle in hand as he looked through his scope, looking for any more droids below him. He couldn't see anything.

It was finally over.

But that felt like it was so long ago. It had only been a mere few hours since the battle finally came to an end. Now, Crosshair stood in the doorway of her makeshift bedroom, staring her down. He had walked into the room, completely unwelcome. He stood silently. Not sure what else to really say. He just stared, watching the water droplets fall from the girls dark hair.

He fished a toothpick out from his case on his belt. His words came out soft, much softer than he intended. "You put on a good show out there. Pretty good, for a Knight" He hummed. He watched the way her eyes narrowed slightly. "Are you alright? Seems you took a lot of damage today" he asked her, closing the door behind him.

Dasibri looked at the now closed door, making a mental note of it. She looked up at him her eyes looking over his face, still getting used to seeing him without the helmet. "I'm alright. A little sore. But nothing a good nights rest won't fix." She said with a solid nod. She kept her eyes fixed on him, still looking over his tattoo, his eyes, and how he kept that toothpick in between his almost snarled lips.

Crosshair inhaled deeply as he stood in the room. It was rather stuffy and the air was saturated with the smell of a Jedi's incense. He could just see the end of it burning out along the windowsill. "That's good. Don't think I'd ever hear the end of it otherwise." He grumbled. His eyes cast down and immediately took notice of the small smile that pulled on the girls face.

He found himself rather sheepish after that. Not that she'd ever know. His stare remained the same.

Dasibri looked around the room and took a long awkward breath. "So... are you and your friends sneaking out or turning it in for the night?" She asked arching a brow. Antics like this weren't too common but they did happen. And these clones seemed just the type.

"Is that of any interest to you?" He asked, his eyebrow raised. What would she care if 99 went off world or even a town over. He stepped closer, looking down at her. Her eyes looked different, no longer were they as hard as durasteel, with the perfect color to match . They were softer and yet dare he to say it, tired. The longer he looked the more his mind wandered. He had to keep his sarcastic words and inappropriate responses at bay. But he wouldn't end up keeping them to himself.

She stared up at him, not sure how to respond. The mischievous glint in his eyes, gave off an impression she couldn't quite follow. Dasibri was well aware of what could happen come morning. But the way his jaw set as he bit onto that stupid little twig. She wasn't sure if she was blushing. "If it was?" She finally spoke. She was trying to be as vague as possible for the sake of deniability should this turn out unfavorably.

Maybe he was reading things the wrong way. But Crosshair made up his mind. He tossed the toothpick to the ground with one hand, and with the other pulled the Jedi Knight closer. Crosshair shifted his weight and leaned down. "You know" he shared trying to hide his excitement. "I always wanted to ruin a Jedi" his poker face fell and a smirk was all that was left. Nothing but his arrogance and his want. It might have been the most attractive thing Dasibri had ever seen. He was so forward... and his change of tone shocked her. The way his voice dropped was whole other variable she didn't have the time to even process.

The Jedi looked up at him. She hadn't felt intimidated by a clone like this in a long time. Granted these circumstances were... different. The feeling of his hand against her neck accompanied with the near scowl on his face as he leaned down to look her right in the eyes.

"Ruin? I don't think you'd quite know just what to do with me." Dasibri said slyly. She could see the shift in his eyes, watching his jaw clench. Those eyes, though... Dasibri had met a lot of clones, but none like him. The way he looked at her was strange. His stare was intense, but the longer they seemed to keep the banter going she could see his eyes softening. See his pupils grow wider. The barrier between them was breaking down. Being torn apart with their words and their own bare hands. She could of jumped his bones right then.

He scowled, and a cold chuckle left him. This girl had no idea what she was starting with him. Cross looked down at her, taking a deep breath. Her grey eyes drew him in further. "I'll tell you now.." he started, stepping closer. He was making sure his intentions were crystal clear. "I've never let a poor girl go unsatisfied." He stated simply. "Something tells me girls like you dont get around too much." He told her with a smile. It was downright sinister.

"Something tells me you haven't met a lot of girls like me" she quipped. Dasibri was part of the top bracket of Jedi Knights, there weren't many like her to start with. Most Jedi chose celibacy in fear of creating romantic attachments. However, Dasibri had never had such problems. She didn't suffer from such afflictions. Not yet anyhow. "You sure like to talk though" She laughed pulling from him a bit. She was still trapped in his grip.

That pulled a laugh out of him. Crosshair was many things, talkative wasn't one of them. "I can do other things besides talk" he hummed. His armored and gloved hand reached out and moved her hair behind her shoulder, his eyes narrowed in on the skin of her neck. His gaze traveled further down until her skin was covered by the fabric of her robes. He was still checking her for a bruise. His fingers pulled at the taught fabric, ruining the tight precision of her appearance as he tugged. "No bruise?" He asked her. His eyes slowly raked over the skin.

It all felt so wrong. The action alone had her turning scarlet. Dasibri was practically holding her breath as he started to mess with her robes. All of her tabards and tunics were secured thoroughly, just as they always were. But once he started to mess with that... it felt scandalous. It was like he was defacing her image, her entire religion. She would never admit just how wet it was making her.

"No." Dasibri scoffed as she remembered the incident. She grabbed the collar of her beige tunic and pulled it back to cover her shoulder. But the damage was already done, because as she tugged the robes over her shoulder, the displaced fabric left a generous gap over her chest.

Crosshair let out a low whistle as he looked down. "Do you want me to keep doing the dance?" He asked leaning down close. Eye to eye. He could see the girl study the marking around his eye. "Or can't I just get you out of these now?" He asked reaching towards her utility belt. Without breaking eye contact, he pressed the center button and opened it.

Releasing a breath it felt like she held for an eternity. Dasibri leaned forward, capturing his lips with hers. Cross almost stumbled, not shocked but taken aback by the force of it. All bets were off once their lips connected. Almost immediately his hands made it to her waist, unwrapping her obi that was snuggly wrapped around her stomach. After that, the rest of her robes fell with general ease. All that was left was the loose binding around her chest.

His eyes trailed to her shoulder again, silently checking once again for a mark. It was a quick moment. Less than a few seconds later he began to take off his armor. His helmet had been long abandoned after he entered the room. Each heavy piece of wear was discarded and thrown carelessly to the floor. Down to his under armor, Cross pulled away from the Jedi to pull his shirt over his head.

It was her turn to gawk and stare.

"Enjoying the show?" Cross drawled out as he dropped the black fabric to the floor. Not that he required a confidence boost, but watching and being able to see her stare at him was quite nice. That same smirk from earlier returned to his face as he grabbed ahold of her cheek and pulled her in closer for yet another hungry kiss.

Ahhhh this is the first Bad Batch thing I've actually posted! Hope you guys like! There might be a part two coming soon if I have some spare time! Thank you for reading 🫶🏻

#bad batch #crosshair #tbb crosshair #the bad batch #clone trooper crosshair #Star Wars #Star Wars fic #Star Wars oc #Jedi oc #Dasibri Taraay #the bad batch smut #crosshair smut

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neopuff · 5 months ago

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title: demand me nothing chapter 1: the green-eyed monster word count: ~5043 ships/characters: holiday/bishop, holiday/six summary: Rebecca Holiday meets a strange, charming man named John Bishop. ao3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/58777651

Another symposium, another speech, another few hundred thousand dollars raised for Providence to continue working towards their as-of-yet unexplained cure. The questions were piling up faster than she or White Knight could answer them and Holiday was under strict orders to be as vague as possible until Rex was ready to be seen by the world.

It was exhausting, honestly. And she hated that it was exhausting, since the work Six was doing (monitoring and training Rex and Bobo) was certainly much more exhausting. Nevertheless, she wished she was back at HQ with them.

"Is it true?"

The sudden question surprised her, and Holiday turned her head to find a tall, dark-haired man pulling out the chair next to her. He looked vaguely familiar - she'd noticed him in the crowd during her speech, she was pretty sure. She almost didn’t notice him, his features and outfit weren’t exactly unique at an event like this. But he was very good-looking.

Broad shoulders, sharp jaw, clean hands, and a deep, gravelly voice that sent shivers down her spine. He reminded her a little bit of Six, though Holiday was going to ignore that thought and just focus on the handsome man paying attention to her instead.

"I'm sorry?" she responded, having forgotten what he asked in the first place.

"What you said in your speech. About Providence's new cure." The man sat down and smiled at her. "Is it true?"

Holiday smiled back, though she didn't really want to. "Of course it is. The future of Providence is containing and curing. No more killing."

"Well, that's wonderful to hear," he answered, sounding genuinely interested. "Killing EVOs always seemed like such a waste to me." He held out a hand. "Special Agent John Bishop, EPF."

"EPF…?" Holiday wracked her brain for a moment. "Earth Protection Force? What are you doing at an event like this?"

"Although we've acknowledged that the nanite threat doesn't appear to be alien in origin, we're still allocating resources to help contain EVO-related threats wherever we have active agents," Bishop answered quickly, like he'd practiced his lines before he arrived. "Protecting the Earth is a shared goal for everyone here, after all."

She smiled at that, meaning it this time. Providence didn't have any sort of formal relationship with the EPF, so Holiday briefly wondered if he was going to attempt to initiate some sort of business deal with her. It wouldn't be the first nor the last time it'd happened, but she'd give him the same line she gave everyone else: that's White Knight's department.

Instead, he smiled back at her, then turned around to motion towards a nearby waiter. After getting two glasses of champagne from the young man, Bishop placed one in front of her and one in front of himself. “How long have you been Chief Research Officer, Dr. Holiday?”

“Not long.” Holiday stared at the champagne, thinking about how Six would tell her not to drink it if he was with her. Too bad he wasn’t, then. “Just a few months.”

“I remember meeting Dr. Fell a few times,” Bishop added, taking a sip from his drink. “He wasn’t quite as nice to talk to.”

She let out a shaky laugh, turning away from him, unsure of how to take the compliment. It sounded a bit like flirting, but she was still figuring out the differences between genuine flirting and let’s-do-business-together flirting. She was pretty sure that was regular flirting. “Yes, well…he was never very good with other people.”

He chuckled. “That’s an understatement if I’ve ever heard one. So you worked with Dr. Fell, I take it?”

“For over three years,” she answered sourly, knowing she had no reason to hide her disdain. “I worked as his assistant, despite my PhD in biomechanical engineering which he sorely lacked.”

That specific piece of knowledge seemed to catch Bishop’s attention, and he leaned forward onto the table. “Biomechanical engineering is very specific. What made you choose that field?”

Holiday paused for a moment, soaking in the idea that a man might actually have some interest in her as a scientist rather than just another potential sexual conquest. She didn’t know Agent Bishop, nor did she have any reason to think he wasn’t trying to get in her pants, but at the very least…he was taking his time to get there. So she decided she’d go along with his questions for as long as it took to get to something else. “That was my second PhD, actually. Between mechanical engineering and nanotechnology.”

He took another sip of his drink. “It’s almost like you knew what was coming.”

She shook her head, though he wasn’t the first person to comment on the coincidence. “If I could see the future, I’d have done more to stop this from ever happening in the first place,” she responded dryly, though her voice wavered as if she had found some way to blame herself for the world’s (and Beverly’s) situation.

“We all would’ve,” Bishop suggested, staring down into his flute. “I’ve watched more of my men die in the past few months than in the last five years. It’s a bloodbath out there.”

Holiday sighed miserably.

“Good thing we’ve got scientists like you to work on fixing things,” he added, holding his drink out towards her.

She glanced at his glass, then down at her own, and finally grabbed it and clinked it against his. Holiday took a long sip and decided that she was going to be optimistic and choose to enjoy their conversation. “We’re doing what we can. I’m sure the scientists at EPF are working on their own ideas.”

Bishop smirked almost deviously. “There’s always projects in the works. Nothing I could talk about, I’m sorry to say.” He took another sip, then put down his finished glass. “Though I’m jealous Providence got you first, we could use someone like you at the EPF.”

“I’m sure you say that to all the scientists,” she answered half-jokingly, surprised to see another two champagne flutes placed in front of them. Still on her first, she put it down for a moment and studied the look on Agent Bishop’s face. “Really, though, Providence is the best place for me right now. I’m not sure I have the right experience for the EPF.”

There was a small part of her that wanted to comment on the EPF’s reputation - their obsession with saving the world from alien threats was seen as a huge waste of money by many people in the scientific community. Holiday would count herself among those people, if she was being honest. Though alien life wasn’t unthinkable, there were much more present and active threats that those resources could be used for.

Knowing that he was helping with EVOs was nice to hear. There was at least one sensible man working at the EPF.

“Oh, you’d be surprised,” Bishop answered, leaning onto the table a bit more into Holiday’s space. “Your paper on the potential applications of human cloning was surprisingly open-minded, considering the obvious ethical ramifications.”

She chuckled. “That’s such an old pa…wait. Sorry, um…” Holiday paused to think about his words, then before she could stop herself, she blurted out, “you’ve actually read my work?” She stared at him and wished she didn’t feel as embarrassed as she did. It was just strange. This man was definitely not a scientist.

Bishop raised an eyebrow at her reaction. “Of course. I’d heard you were speaking here tonight and wanted to learn a bit about you first.” He took another long sip of his champagne. “There was one paper about the composition of the human body, but taking into account our nanites and how we’ve changed internally…that one was very interesting.”

“A-and newer, too,” Holiday added, still feeling a little shocked. World-famous scientist or not, the idea that someone would put that much effort into learning about her was throwing her for a loop. “I apologize for being so shocked, it’s just that, um…the men who want to talk about my work usually aren’t…” The words fell flat on her tongue when she realized that she didn’t really know what Special Agent meant at the EPF. Maybe he was a scientist.

“…so muscular? Handsome? Charming?” he finished for her, smirking cockily.

Her cheeks turned red and she reached for her champagne, finishing off the first one and going straight for the second. “I, uh-”

“I may not be a scientist, but that doesn’t mean I can’t stay up-to-date on the latest trends,” Bishop added, freeing her from her embarrassment. “It’s not every day that a man gets to read about his body’s current elemental composition from a beautiful scientist like yourself.”

The blush on her cheeks darkened at that. There was no room for doubt about his flirting anymore, and she felt more nervous than she should’ve. Years of celibacy followed by months of whatever the hell was going on between her and Six had left her feeling…dry. Holiday couldn’t remember the last time she was hit on by a man she was actually interested in. It was a very, very nice change of pace. “Um…thank you.”

Their conversation continued for a while, long enough for Holiday to completely lose track of time. If she was being honest with herself, she didn’t really care. Why couldn’t she have a flirty conversation with a good-looking man? She had no friends anymore. All her socializing was with a stoic, impersonal coworker and their grabby pubescent ward. And her sister, of course, was completely incapacitated. She could take a moment to enjoy herself, even if it was just one evening.

He had a lot of interest in her work, especially in her work with cloning technology. Holiday had a feeling she wouldn’t appreciate the reasons behind his interest in cloning, considering all she knew about the EPF, but at that particular moment, she was just happy to have someone to talk to that didn’t make her uncomfortable.

After a significant amount of time and about five interruptions from other scientists looking to ask her a quick question, their conversation died down enough for Bishop to check his watch and adjust his sunglasses.

"Look, Doctor…" Bishop said, putting his champagne flute down. "I don't want to presume anything, but this-" he continued, writing something on the back of a napkin, "…is my room number. I think we could enjoy one another's company tonight, if you're interested."

Holiday's cheeks flared even redder than they already were from the alcohol. She glanced down at the room number - 2903 - and cursed her brain for immediately memorizing it. She couldn't even pretend to forget.

Bishop slid the paper closer to her and smiled. "I'm closing out for the evening, so if you decide to join me…I'll be waiting."

Without another word, he stood up and walked away, leaving Holiday with quite the conundrum.

She couldn't remember the last time she'd been propositioned by someone she was actually attracted to. And not only was he attractive, he was intelligent and worldly and genuinely interested in her work. He didn't dismiss her even once during their hours-long conversation, and if it was all just a plot to get her to sleep with him? Then it was a damn good one.

Holiday stared at that room number for another few minutes and sipped at her champagne. She took a long, long sip.

"Holiday."

Her eyes widened as Six's voice crackled on the comm in her ear. They'd agreed to only use it in case of an emergency, so her heart immediately started to race. She pressed on the center of the comm. "What's going on? Is Rex alright?"

"He's fine," Six answered quickly. "Just a cut on his arm."

She frowned. "Should I come back?"

Her so-called partner let out an agitated sigh that made Holiday want to strangle him. "It's nothing. I'm telling you now so you don't overreact when you see it tomorrow."

Six was a difficult man. As much as she really liked him sometimes, he also frequently pissed her off in ways that came across as very purposeful. Treating her concerns about their ward as overreactions was annoying her and reminding her of how often he dismissed her feelings like that. "Alright, fine. I'll try not to overreact, then."

He didn't respond and Holiday frowned deeper, squeezing the champagne glass between her fingers. She was out of the office, technically off-duty, with a tempting offer from a very handsome and charming man. There didn't seem to be any reason not to do it. Certainly Six wasn’t a reason not to do it, especially not at that moment.

Still, the thought of going to Agent Bishop's hotel room made her very nervous. So she continued drinking her champagne. And then drank some water to balance it out.

But shamefully, those two glasses of champagne turned into three, then those three drinks turned into four, and then before she knew what was happening, Dr. Rebecca Holiday found herself standing in front of Room 2903.

She'd never done something like this. Even in college, she just stuck to one or two boyfriends when she’d had time for them. The idea of a one-night stand with a handsome stranger was making her heart race and her face heat up. It was a bad decision. It was a terrible idea. It was going to have consequences. It was-

She knocked on the door gently, almost hoping he wouldn't hear it.

Less than a second later, the door opened wide, and Holiday was greeted by the sight of Agent John Bishop standing there in only a thin pair of black boxers.

She gulped and quickly moved her eyesight to his face, though that was hardly any less enticing. He was staring at her half-lidded, with an expectant smirk like she was the room service he'd been patiently waiting for.

"Hello, Dr. Holiday."

She tugged some hair behind her ear. "Um…you can, um, call me Rebecca. If you want."

His smirk grew. "Alright then, Rebecca." Bishop moved to the side and bowed slightly, inviting her inside. "Feel free to call me John."

Six didn't used to be such a busy man. He used to be able to come and go as he pleased, without the judgemental, watchful eye of White Knight keeping track of his every move. So with his busy schedule and his rush to get Rex trained and ready for action, he decided not to accompany Dr. Holiday to her latest event in Houston.

He assigned a capable soldier to drop her off and scan the area for any threats, which Callan did without a single complaint. Six also decided, however, that he'd relieve Callan of duty for their trip home, allowing the man to visit some family nearby before coming back to headquarters.

It was 7:16 a.m. when Six entered the hotel, satisfied that nothing bad had happened in the ten seconds between Callan leaving and his arrival. Holiday didn't answer her comm when he pinged her, but it wasn't unusual for her to sleep in after these types of events, so he decided not to fault her and just headed up the elevator towards her room.

On Six's request, she'd been placed in Room 222. It was far enough from the elevators for a threat heading towards her door to be noticed and had a large tree outside the window in case she needed to escape. And, of course, they had eyes on the tree all day and night just in case someone tried to get to her room by climbing it.

Six arrived at her door and instinctively straightened his tie before knocking once.

No response.

He knocked again. "Holiday?"

There was once again no response, so Six decided to enter the room and hope she wasn't changing and somehow didn't hear him. He used the key card that Callan gave him and opened the door slowly.

"Holiday? Are you awake?"

Light was pouring into the room through the windows and Six could very clearly see that she was not only not awake, she was not in the room at all. Judging from her perfectly-made bed, she'd not been in her room anytime during the night.

Six quickly pinged her comm again. "Dr. Holiday, respond. Where are you? Dr. Holiday?"

He waited a second before reaching out to Captain Callan, who was about to get his ass handed to him. "Callan, where the hell is Holiday?"

"She went into the elevator around 9:45 last night, sir!"

Six frowned. "And did you follow to make sure she got to her room?"

There was an awkward pause. "Ah…no, sir. She specifically asked me to stay in the lobby."

Six scowled at that. What the hell was Holiday thinking? If Callan made her uncomfortable, she'd had plenty of opportunities to let him know so he could assign someone else to the job. "She's not in her room. Stay on guard in case I need you to come back."

"Yes, sir!"

Deciding that pinging her communicator was a lost cause, Six pulled out his cell phone and attempted to contact her the old fashioned way. It rang five times before he got an answer.

"Mm…hello?"

"Dr. Holiday." He felt immensely relieved, but also immensely pissed off. "I'm here to pick you up. Where are you?"

"Huh? Uh…oh! Oh, God, it's after 7 already?"

"Who’s that?"

"I'm so sorry, Six, it was a long night. I'm in my room, just give me twenty minutes to get ready and I'll be right downstairs."

"…half-hour, instead…"

"Thirty minutes, at the most."

She hung up after that, and Six frowned deeply. He heard a man speaking in the background, albeit very softly, and he was unhappy about what he heard. Curious and angry that she'd lied to him so poorly, Six opened an app on his phone that allowed him to track Providence-issue communicators and clicked on Holiday's badge number. He didn’t want to do this, he didn’t enjoy invading her privacy so blatantly. But he was annoyed with her.

And it seemed she was somewhere above him.

Unable to fight the desire to make sure she knew that he knew that she'd lied to him, Six followed the signal up to the twenty-ninth floor, and suddenly found himself in front of Room 2903. He knocked on the door impatiently.

The door opened wide a moment later, and Six was suddenly face-to-face with a mostly naked man. He had a small towel around his waist and what looked almost like a lipstick stain on his neck.

"Can I help you?" the man asked unhappily.

Six matched his energy with a frown of his own. "Is Dr. Holiday here?"

The man smirked and glanced between Six and the bathroom next to him. "She's in the shower."

Of course she was. Six's frown deepened at the realization that he was going to have to stand by and wait for her while she had shower sex with this unknown man. "Can you let her know I'm waiting?"

"Sure," the man answered, shutting the door in Six's face.

Six was fairly confident that man wasn't going to tell Holiday anything and he leaned against the wall across the hallway. He was very, very unhappy.

Holiday felt a little bad.

She felt bad that she'd slept with a man she barely knew. She also felt bad that she was completely lying to herself and didn't feel bad at all about sleeping with him. But it was unprofessional of her, she couldn't deny that. She didn't come to scientific symposiums to meet guys, she was supposed to spread the new Providence gospel and leave.

Drinking too much with a handsome man was not part of that agenda. Sleeping with him was not part of that agenda. And then having another go in the shower when she was in a rush was definitely not part of that agenda.

It was difficult to make herself leave, though. They were very compatible. And she hadn't been compatible with anyone in a long time.

Holiday finally stepped out of the shower - hair unwashed but otherwise clean - and quickly grabbed a towel before John could start with her again. He was insatiable in a way that she found enticing instead of annoying and she didn't exactly know what to do about that.

"It's still early," he said, stepping out of the shower and locking eyes with her in the mirror.

"Not for me." Holiday turned away from his gaze and exited the bathroom, making a quick beeline for her clothes from the previous night. "My day usually starts between 6:30 and 7:00."

He leaned against the bathroom door frame, shamelessly nude. "Sounds like you work too hard."

Holiday scoffed and shook her head as she pulled her dress on. "That's an understatement if I've ever heard one.”

Bishop stepped closer and took one of her hands in his. "Why not take a day off? I can take you back to Providence later."

She stared down at their hands, then pulled hers out of his grasp. "I appreciate the sentiment, but my work is important. I need to be there." She didn't need to explain all the details of her sisterly hostage situation, hoping John would get her point and give up.

Fortunately, he relented, giving her a weak shrug. "If you insist," he said, then walked to the other side of the bed and handed her the communicator she'd left on the bedside table.

Holiday took it from him, embarrassed. It was another reminder that she'd mixed her professional life with something very unprofessional, and though she didn't anticipate getting in trouble (or dealing with any professional consequences, really), she didn't like the reminder that she'd done something she shouldn't have.

They chatted idly as she finished getting ready, then kissed one last time as she headed out the door. It was an extended kiss, longer than she'd expected - and Holiday's body was halfway into the hallway when he finally let her go.

"Bye," she mumbled half-heartedly as he shut the door.

Holiday turned to the left so she could walk to the elevator when she was suddenly struck by a sight so humiliating and awful and terrible and anxiety-inducing that it could only have been conjured up by her own nightmares. Certainly what she was seeing couldn't have been real, because it was so comically timed and embarrassing that no deity would allow her to suffer such a tremendously agonizing fate.

Agent Six was leaning against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, and staring directly at her.

She pinched herself subtly before speaking, needing to make sure she was awake before subjecting herself to the horror she'd encountered. "I-I, um…Six. How did you…?" She paused, realizing the question was stupid. He was Six. That was all the how she'd ever need. "What are you doing here?"

He stood up straight and moved his hands to his pockets. "Your friend was supposed to tell you I was waiting."

Her cheeks turned bright red at the realization that he'd been there long enough to have spoken to John, which meant Six was standing out in the hallway since before they got in the shower. She could feel sweat forming on the back of her neck. "Ah…um. He didn't. Sorry."

She started walking towards the elevator. Maybe Six wouldn't say anything and they could pretend nothing happened and move past the situation without any acknowledgement whatsoever.

"I'm sure he was plenty distracted," Six responded coolly as he caught up to her.

Holiday frowned, still blushing, unable to find an appropriate retort to that comment. Six didn't exactly sound jealous, which would've been nice but not very Six-ish behavior. He did sound judgemental, which was more expected but much less welcome.

"I guess he was," she answered, pressing the down button.

They stood next to each other very awkwardly as the elevator moved from 13 to 14 to 15, then sat there for a few moments. It was going to be a bit of a wait, that was for sure. Holiday didn't really want to stand around waiting with Agent Six, especially not when he knew what she was up to for the past fifteen minutes.

Since getting to know him a little better, she'd tried to flirt with him a bit. Tried to make it clear that she had an interest. But Six never returned the favor or reacted. So it wasn't like he had any room to tell her who she could or couldn't sleep with. She was an adult and she could do what she wanted.

Her mind repeated that sentence over and over again in preparation of Six making another comment, but he stayed completely silent as the elevator came and took them to her floor. He stayed silent as they walked to her room. And he stayed silent as she grabbed some clothes, went to the bathroom to change, then reemerged and packed up her stuff as quickly as possible.

Somehow his silence was just as agitating as any comment. She almost wanted to yell at him for it, despite knowing that she had no reason to be mad.

He was the one who waited outside John's hotel room, knowing full-well what was happening inside.

Holiday's face was in a permanent state of blush. She couldn't fight the embarrassment of her situation. She knew that the only way to move past it was to ignore it but goddamn was it hard not to think about it.

They got to the jet and started back towards headquarters. Still nothing from him. Until someone (presumably Callan) said something to him over his comm, and Six responded that he'd found her in a different room.

Humiliating.

Was it normal for an adult woman to be so embarrassed by sex? Holiday started to wonder if she was overthinking things. Maybe Six wasn't saying anything else because he truly did not care about that, he was just mad that she'd lied and kept him waiting. That wouldn't be unreasonable.

Needing something to focus her mind on that wasn't the terribly awkward situation with Agent Six, Holiday started going through her purse. Maybe she'd find a pack of mints she could read the ingredients label off of. Or maybe she could look at her cell phone and see if her mom had tried to reach out anytime recently.

Immediately when she opened up her purse, she was greeted by a small, meticulously-placed business card sitting on top of her other stuff. It was very simple, just black text on a white background, and said: AGENT JOHN BISHOP, EARTH PROTECTION FORCE.

It also included his email, work phone number, and job title. Holiday was both surprised and embarrassed to discover that he didn't just work for the EPF, he was in charge of it.

She flipped the card over to the back and found that he'd scribbled another phone number there, likely his personal number. Holiday felt her face get hot again and quickly put the card back in her purse.

She wasn't going to call him. But maybe she'd send a text.

Maybe.

Six didn't understand Holiday.

Maybe he just didn't understand women at all.

She'd been Chief Research Officer of Providence Labs for a few months and he'd learned a lot about her in that time. He'd learned about her sister's situation, and her relationship with other members of her family, and he learned that she wasn't great with kids so they had to slowly figure out the best way to take care of Rex. She worked constantly, drank too much coffee, barely slept, and wore her hair up all the time because she "didn't have enough time to wash it."

But overall…she was professional. Even with White Knight, a man that she clearly, truly hated - she was professional. And Six expected that level of professionalism to extend to all Providence-related activities.

Never in a million years had he expected her to fool around with a strange man while at an important symposium. She was supposed to be promoting Providence and gathering more support, and instead she was…well.

He didn't really want to think too much about what she was doing. She was an adult and could make her own decisions. But she was also in the public eye, represented their organization, and was an easy target for a lot of bad people that didn't like Providence.

So obviously, when Six had stopped at the front desk to check Holiday out of her room, he also threatened the employee there until she revealed the name of the man staying in Room 2903.

John Bishop. Earth Protection Force.

Six wasn't familiar with the man, but he knew the EPF and was not a fan. They stirred the public into even more of a frenzy when the Nanite Event first happened - telling everyone that the mutations were caused by alien technology having made its way into our atmosphere. Providence was still fighting those rumors, even four years later, and Six wasn't happy about it.

Neither was Holiday, last time he checked. But he supposed she was more forgiving than he would've thought.

Six didn't plan on telling Knight what happened - didn't plan on telling anyone, if he could help it - but he'd need to keep an eye on the EPF to make sure Holiday hadn't willingly put herself in a dangerous situation.

She seemed fine, but in his line of work, Six knew perfectly well that looks could be deceiving. And the EPF wasn't an innocent, simple organization. They had influence and they had weapons and Six didn't want to see Holiday get hurt.

He stared at her from across the plane, frowning deeply. She was looking at a business card she'd gotten out of her purse, and Six could clearly see it was from Bishop.

There was a light blush on her cheeks. Normally he would've found that charming on her, but at the moment, he was too annoyed to feel anything else.

Hopefully, he wouldn't have to interact with Agent Bishop again.

#generator rex #tmnt 2003 #agent john bishop #rebecca holiday #agent six #bisholiday #holix #carrofics

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honey-katsu · 8 months ago

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spirit summoning success - ao3

Summary:

After Wei Wuxian's death, Lan Zhan tries to get in contact with his soul. After years of trying and failing, Lan Zhan is just about to give up. But something unusual happens. OR If Lan Zhan had managed to summon and talk to Wei Wuxian’s soul during the years Wei Wuxian was dead.

Warning: mild desciptions of depression and substance abuse in the first paragraph

note before we begin: i am chickenKatsu on ao3. I do not give anyone the right to repost my work to another platform unless I’m asked then properly credited. Please support me on ao3 and ko-fi if you like it!

How long has it been? Lan Zhan had lost track of time. He had counted, for a while, the days as they bled into months, and then years. But they all blurred together. His grief overpowered his senses. Sometimes he couldn't tell what was real anymore. All the wine he had been consuming lately definitely didn’t help.

However, Lan Zhan remembered one thing for certain. Every night, he retreated to the back mountain. There, it was quiet, away from the pressures of the clan. The only sounds were those of the occasional breeze and the rabbits munching on grass. It was the best spot for Lan Zhan to think. There, he could focus on communicating with the spirits of the deceased in an attempt to summon a specific soul. The lonely nights, the desperate tune, the raw fingers. Those were clear memories. And tonight was no exception.

Yet again, he was trying to summon the correct soul. His fingers were numb. His mind was weary. His heart was tired of hoping his target would make an appearance. As the sun began to rise, and the rabbits began to stir, Lan Zhan managed to play one final song. It was the song he had created in the cave on Dusk-Creek Mountain. He still had not named it, for no name he could think of was fitting. And since then, he had not shared that song with anyone else.

Lost in thought, Lan Zhan didn't notice the air stir. The summoned souls grew restless, their melodies jumbled and tangled. The rabbits scampered away, shivering in the nearby bushes.

A glowing hand slowly reached out for his own as he played the last notes. It hovered gently above his fingers when he stopped. Anxiety made his vision swim. He squinted at his hands, trying to rationalize away this rising hope. It didn’t work. No soul had ever been summoned with his song before. It wasn’t composed in Qin Language; it wasn’t meant for Inquiry. He feared the soul was not who he was looking for, but who else could it possibly be? Who else knew of their secret song? Apprehension seized his lungs, and his breath caught in his throat as he chanced a glance up.

It was him. Wei Wuxian. Wei Ying. Wei Ying was in front of him. After so long, here he was. Here he was, shrouded in the blue light of the deceased. His face was expressionless, eyes empty. He held no traces of the person Lan Zhan had known before.

“Wei Ying…” he tried, voice scratchy from days of disuse.

Cold, ghostly fingers brushed his cheek. A small smile graced Wei Ying’s face, but he said nothing.

Quickly, Lan Zhan turned to his guqin, trying to stay composed and proper when playing the Qin Language. His hands trembled, making this task difficult. Who are you?

You know who, came the slow, teasing reply. Lan Zhan almost laughed with relief. That was every Wei Ying-like of him. All sorts of emotions welled up inside him. He frowned, trying to contain it all.

Lan Zhan, don’t cry.

Lan Zhan blinked, swiping at his eyes. Oh, so he was crying. Why? Was it the relief? The frustration? The longing? He wasn’t sure, but it was nice. He hadn’t shed a single tear since Wei Ying had passed. His brother had been worried at his lack of emotion. His uncle had been upset with his lack of motivation to cultivate. His juniors had been confused when he stopped showing up for training and night hunts. No one had really cared for what he was feeling, except for maybe Lan Xichen. They just wanted their perfect, prim-and-proper Hanguang-jun, one of the Twin Jades of Gusu, back.

And Lan Zhan had grown tired of their persistence and glares and obvious hints that he needed to pull himself together already. But he couldn’t. Not until he had a chance to talk to Wei Ying’s spirit. Now he finally, finally, finally, finally, finally, got the chance.

I have so many questions, he played with a small sniffle.

I know. I’m sorry.

What for? You had nothing left and every reason to leave.

I did have something. I had you. So I’m sorry.

He didn't respond to that, unsure of how to make his intentions clear. After a moment, Lan Zhan broke the silence. I missed you, he confessed. I was planning on joining you tonight.

I know. That’s why I came, he said with a grim smile. Airy hands cupped his face, and although they couldn’t touch each other, Lan Zhan complied with a tilt of his head. I don’t want you to die. I couldn’t stand it if you did. But listen to me, Lan Zhan. I think I’ll have a chance to come back to you.

Lan Zhan stayed silent. There were too many questions he wanted to ask. Instead, Wei Ying took his que to go on. I’ve been feeling someone else trying to summon me with demonic cultivation. I don’t know anything beyond that, or if I’ll ever come back. Still, will you wait for me?

“Of course,” he whispered immediately. Even though he forgot to use Qin Language, Wei Ying understood.

Thank you, my love. Swiftly, he pressed a chilly kiss to his lips.

Lan Zhan stared with wide eyes, mouth agape. Wei Ying silently laughed, the guqin unable to pick up the joyful noise. His ghostly eyes teared up and he held himself as if all this laughter hurt his stomach. It was either Wei Ying’s joy or it was the sunlight that made him feel so warm and fuzzy inside. Definitely not the kiss. He wanted this moment to last forever. But Lan Zhan blinked. And Wei Ying was gone.

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jawritter · 2 years ago

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Something About Fate...

Chapter 4

Summary: Y/N has been homeless and living on the streets of Dallas, Texas since the start of Covid. Until one day, a handsome, green eyes strange notices her and turns her whole world upside down.

Warning: Change, even good change, can be scary, and even a little hard...

Pairing: Jensen Ackles x Reader (eventually).

Word Count: 2k

A/N: This series is completely unbeta’d, so all mistakes are mine! This series will contain mature content eventually, and therefore is unsuitable for persons under 18 years of age! Anyone under the age of 18 will be blocked for my blog! Thanks so much for reading! I hope you all enjoy this series!

Main Masterlist Series Masterlist

Y/N and Jensen had been trapped in the hotel room in Dallas for three days and three nights. In that time period, Y/N had learned a few things about the mysterious actor. First, he didn’t act like any rich guy she’d EVER encountered, whether that be while she was still living on the street, or while she was a working-class citizen.

He was mostly a quiet person, but somehow, it seemed easy to just BE with the man, and not feel the need to be pressured into a conversation. He was perfectly content to sit next to her on the bed or couch, and just watch whatever was on TV.

TV. That was a whole new topic all together. Having been living on the streets for so long, and only seeing any form of news or goings on in the world around her from the passing magazine stand, or outdoor advertisement, she didn’t realize just HOW behind on things as she was, but more on that later.

When they were talking, he was the tentative, focused, and open person she’d ever met. Which shocked the hell out of her.

She didn’t realize this about herself either, but she had forgotten how to converse with people. She forgot how to hold a casual conversation with someone. She had no idea how that had happened, but it had. It took a lot of silent, long stretches of Jensen probing her a little to attempt to get to know her, but finally, she figured it out, and when she did, it took an immense effort on her part to actively not shut down every time Jensen asked her a question. She had to almost convince herself it was okay to talk to him, and that he wasn’t out to hurt her, like so many other had been in the past before she could get herself to open up to him, but she was glad she, because she like the person she found herself with, even if she still didn’t really recognize herself yet. She really had lost herself along the way…

Jensen was also very patient with her; something she’d ever experienced with ANY man, rich and famous or not. Never once did he get irritated with her. Even when he had to press her a little to figure out if she was hungry, or to convince her to allow him to pay for food. He didn’t get irritated when he ordered her a cell phone, and handed it to her, only to quickly learn she knew nothing about phones anymore, and he had to basically teach her how to use one. He never complained when she had to learn how to work the keycard for the room, or maybe spent too much time in the bath. He never even raised his voice at her, not once.

She’d only spent three years on the street, but trying to take a step back into society, she felt like she’d been out for decades. So much had changed in just three years it wasn’t even funny. She felt like she’d never catch up, and never be normal again. If there was really such a thing as ‘normal’ anyway. Jensen said there wasn’t. He was probably the most understanding person she’d ever met in her life.

She couldn’t for the life of her understand how the man was still single, though, he did tell her that he was married at one point, and had three kids with the woman, but they had just grown apart in the latter part of their marriage, and they were better as co parents than an actual married couple. It made her wonder if there were some things Jensen was hiding, some issues or flaws she was too blindsided by the things going on around her to see, but so far, he’d given no hint to anything being gravely wrong.

“Have you ever flown before?” Jensen questioned, bringing her out of her head with a slight jump when he spoke as he zipped the bag of clothing up in front of him, and placed it onto the floor next to the bed.

They were getting ready to fly out to California in a few hours, which would give her a little glimpse of his life outside of this room, and that made her incredibly nervous.

“I have, but it’s been years,” she admitted. “Somewhere around the age of ten I think, and I don’t really remember it.”

Jensen nodded as he looked at the clock on the bedside table. It was barely four in the morning, and they were already about to head down to the Uber that was going to take them to the airport. She was no idiot. She’d heard him talking to his friends, and they were flying out so early to spare her the gawking fans asking questions as to who she was, and why she was flying with Jensen, when he usually flew alone.

She wanted to confront him, ask him why, if he was ashamed of her or something, but she didn't. She kept her peace. For one, she was lucky he didn’t just fuck her like she thought he was going to, slit her throat, and throw her in a dumpster to rot somewhere. So she wasn’t going to question his methods right now.

“It will be fine,” Jensen continued as he tossed not only his bag over his shoulder, but also the small bag of things that Felicia had collected for her and brought to the room. Literally, all she owned right now to her name, fit in a gym bag. The sad part about this was it was already more than she’d had in years. “It’s a super early flight, and it’s first class. I wouldn’t be surprised if we are the only ones in first class this morning, we can probably catch some sleep before we land.”

Y/N nodded, knowing damn good and well sleep wasn’t something that was going to happen for her. Maybe him, but not her. She wasn’t even nervous about flying until he brought it up… damn him.

“Will your friends be flying with us?” she questioned as she followed him down the completely vacant hallway, and to the elevator that would take them downstairs.

“Na, Jared’s just going back to Austin, so he and Clif are just gonna drive, and Felicia has a later flight out to New York. Something about a project she has to get ready for, but honestly I was so tired when she was talking to me about it I wasn’t really listening,” he revealed with a chuckle as they stepped inside the elevator, and the large metal doors close behind them, leaving behind the kinda, sorta HOME she’d known for the last three day, in well, three years…

“Once we get to LA and get to the Air B&B, we can go shopping for a few things you're gonna need to actually do the job I’ve got you hired for; a laptop, pick up your iPad, things like that. I’m not filming or anything, but I wanted to spend some time In LA before we have to gear up for the next con.”

Jensen continued to ramble about LA as they made their way through the mostly empty lobby towards the black SUV that awaited the pair outside that would take them to the airport, and Y/N’s heart seemed to pick up speed as a heavy weight settled in her chest.

This was real… This was happening…

She’d never not left Dallas since she was a child. She never imagined herself living anywhere else. Now, he’s about to literally take her away from the only place she’d ever known, drag her all the way to LA, then once they were done there to Rome, then Toronto, then finally, when all that was done, possible New Mexico if they get renewed for a fourth season, before they could finally go back to Texas. Only God knew what would come up between them. It was surreal…

“Hey,” Jensen said, taking her hand in his own and pulling her out of the sudden fog she’d fallen into, and back to reality where he stood in front of her with the car door open, waiting for her to slide inside. “You okay?”

Y/N nodded as her eyes suddenly started to sting, but she shoved it down, WAY down, and when he fell asleep on the plane, she’d cry then. She’d mourn the future she thought she’d have, that clearly she never was meant to have here in Dallas. She’d mourn the life she should have had, but now had to leave behind. She’d mourn it, and she’d leave it right there in the air, miles and miles above the past she was leaving behind.

Not all of her memories from Dallas were bad ones, there were some good mixed in there too, but not enough to hold her here, not enough to make her stay. There had been plenty of warning from the Universe that it was time to move on. Some sort of higher power had sent Jensen her way that fateful day, or she was certain she would have frozen to death. This is the path she was meant to take, but that didn’t make things any less hard, or scary for that matter.

Jensen watched her closely as she slid herself into the backseat, and took a deep breath as she watched him close the door with a tightlipped smile on his face. It was almost as if he knew how hard this was for her, but wouldn’t say anything out loud, not that she even wanted him too. Some things, even though you have someone sitting right next to you, you just have to walk through all by yourself.

“Hey, if you need some time, if this feels like we’re moving around way too fast, just tell me. I can move some things around and give us more downtime. I don’t mind. I want you to be okay, that’s my main concern,” Jensen offered as the Uber driver took off towards the airport, and Y/N watched out of the frosty window at the dim light of the morning as it stretched it’s arms just over the top of tall buildings, still casting their own light over the streets of Dallas, the streets that she’d once called home.

“No, it’s okay,” she assured him, not even taking her eyes off of the window as the familiar sights rolled by. Like the park she’d slept on the benches of so many nights, or the little sandwich shop she’d met Jensen at. All these familiar things, and yet, they all seemed so far away now. To which she was grateful, even if she was a little dumb struck in the moment. “I’ll be okay.”

Jensen reached over the small space between the pair of them, grabbing her hand in his to catch her attention away from the past that was now zooming by her so fast she could only see a cold blur, to focus on the more important future that was sitting right next to her.

She’d be a liar if she said her heart didn’t skip a beat every time he touched her in any way, and that was dangerous. Very, very dangerous. She couldn’t go catching feelings and fucking this up, she just couldn’t let herself do it.

“It’s gonna get easier, I promise,” Jensen said, and she could only nod at him, and look down at the floorboard, a lump the size of Texas suddenly invading her throat and cutting off her ability to speak.

“I got something for you while you were asleep this morning,” Jensen offered, letting go of her hand to reach into his pocket and she stared back at him in confusion.

“While I was asleep? We’ve been up since 4AM! Did you sleep at all?!” she questioned, and he chuckled as he pulled a small, silver set of keys from his pocket. One looked like a house key, and the other was very clearly a car key.

“Na, not really, I guess I don’t sleep much anymore. But that’s not important,” he blew her off, as she examined the small set of keys in her hand. “One of those is the key to our house in Austin, where you will be staying with me, and the other is to one of the cars in the garage that you can use. No sense in being stuck at home while we’re there if you want to get out because you have to wait for me to get home to go somewhere.”

“Jensen!” She breathed, looking back up at him in utter shock as the car pulled up to the airport.

“Hey, I don’t want an argument about it,” he teased, clearly amused at the shocked look on her face. “If you’re gonna be my assistant, then you’re gonna have to be able to get around for me sometimes, and besides, I want you to have some independence.”

“But… Jensen… I don’t even have a driver’s license anymore! It’s been three years since I’ve driven! What if I can’t even drive anymore?”

“Hey, it’s okay,” he assured her for what seemed like a thousand times that morning. “It’s just like riding a bike. Not something you tend to forget how to do, and I can fix the license thing once we get back to Austin. You’re gonna be fine sweetheart, just trust me.”

Y/N swallowed hard and followed suit as Jensen made to step out of the car at the airport, and began to retrieve their bags from the back of the SUV.

She did trust him, she didn’t understand why, but she did. That didn’t mean she trusted herself though, that was the problem.

Forever:

@britnwinchester

@samanddeaninatrenchcoat

@wittysunflower

@demongirl1996

@as-lost-as-sams-shoe

@jensenslady79

@spnwoman

@stoneyggirl2

@unabashed-lover-of-fictional-men

@stixnstripesworld

@fullwattpadmusictree

@nancymcl

@christycreature

@whiskey-infused-dreams

@supernatural79impala

@deandreamernp

@forgetthisbull

@miraclesoflove

@slamminmine

@deanwanddamons

@rvgrsbrns

@chevyharvelle

@i-love-superhero-movies

@lyss-dw79

@magssteenkamp

@lemondropirwin

@squirrelnotsam

@hobby27

@spnbaby-67

@mrsjenniferwinchester

@defenderrosetyler

@thecreatiivecorner

@vicmc624

@busy-bee-angel-misska

@justanotherwinchester

@brilovesdeanwinchester

@idksupernatural

@lyarr24

@emoryhemsworth

@dean-winchesters-gardian-angel

@flamencodiva

@itmejado

@thoughts-and-funnies

@teresa-67

@hearteyes-j2

@peaches007

@bobbie3939

@vulgar-library

@writercole

@fairlyspnfanfic

@sexyvixen7

@spngi

@b3autyfuldisast3r

@donnaintx

@maliburenee

@the-family-business67

@agirlwithdemonblood

@captainsoldiergirl

@twinkleinadiamondsky

Jensen and Dean’s Babes

@deans-baby-momma

@impalaslytherin

@perpetualabsurdity

@msmarvelouswinchester

@akshi8278

@love-jackles

@irmcpar

@pink-sparkly-witch

@deans-spinster-witchs-favorites

@herstarburststories

@mimaria420

@deanwinchesterswitch

@charred-angelwings

@pascal-rascal424

@myloversgone

@fortheloveof-jackles

@eevvvaa

@bts-spnlvr12

@jxackles

@lassie-bird

@samsgirl93

@shawnie74

@kaz11283

@mlovesstories

@ladysparks78

@sarahgracej

SAF tag list

@itsdesiree86

@evilunicorns4minions

@jesllianaquilesrolonsworld

@thefemalestorywriter

@tapedeck-hearts

@tristanrosspada-ackles

@southerngal96

@mavisiceroo

#sometihng about fate #jensen ackles #real person fiction #rpf #jensen ackles x reader #jensen ackles x you #jensen ackles x y/n #jensen x reader #jensen x you #jensen x y/n #x reader inserts #jawritter

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