#thread: the price of loyalty

[making-dough]

The Price of Loyalty

♠ - She knew this fight was a bad idea by the time they started it. Maybe it was the way her spear was jumping around in her hands, in a way oddly reminiscent of that encounter in the library. Or, maybe, it was the way this ghost was staring at them that just creeped her out. Either way, she wanted to take whatever curse this thing had to offer and just get on with it.

But, nope. That cheeky little mage just had to rush in and try to fight the damned thing. "Uh, wait, hang on!", Farina paused to stare disbelievingly at the reckless mage for just a second before ultimately deciding that she was going to live up to the Ilian reputation. Never betray an employer, even if the employer is supposedly suicidal. White wings spur outwards as she ordered her mount to spur onwards in an attempt to reach her reckless ally and pull him back to safety but really, in such a cramped corridor, what was she but a big target. Green arrows spread outwards from the ghost's hands and pierces through her body in numerous places, sending her crashing into a nearby wall and staining her mount blood red.

What? Did she expect any other ending? Killed in a death trap that she had no part in triggering in the first place? Story of her life, really. Somewhere in the distance, she could hear a boy screaming her name. Why bother. When it came down to it, she was nothing. A pawn bought and sold for gold.

And what else was a pawn than something you could throw away. Speaking of gold, she had saved up so many and she had been more than prepared enough to have made the arrangements beforehand. Even if she were to simply disappear in a place like this, everything after would have been satisfied. Now, the only thing she needed to do was smile weakly and close her eyes, buried under her faithful mount that was to act as her funeral shroud.

As for the outside, perhaps this boy could clear this maze in her place and bring them word of what happened, though, honestly she doubted it, especially if his approach to danger was like that. So now, she really only just had one regret. "Sorry...Fi...Flo...Guess I ain't coming home...."

And then the rest was silence.

[oceantornadoo]

price’s secret wife…just some comfort and fluff tbh

john heard a small knock, then the sound of his door being opened slowly, as if not to disturb. he tried to quell the adrenaline rush in his body, the need to tackle an incoming threat. it could only be one person, the one person he kept his door unlocked for.

there you were, his old oversized tshirt and boxers serving as your pajamas. you only wore them when you needed comfort, and when you were off duty. you were the one concerned with how it would look to the other soldiers on base, a female officer wearing her coworker’s name on the back of her shirt. if only they knew it was your legal name too. you perched comfortably on his bed, too tired to properly acknowledge him. he turned off his desk light, abandoning his paperwork in favor of his wife. his first and only priority. john sat next to you, spreading his thighs to make his lap bigger as he left his hands at his sides. he knew you like the back of his hand, knew you needed to sit in silence sometimes. you drained your social battery all day, giving out orders and dealing with subordinates. john was your rock, your lighthouse in the sea of duty. you leaned your head on his shoulder, the top of it scratching his beard. he leaned his on top of yours, taking your calloused hand into his own. he traced the lines of your palm slowly, pressing slightly to massage it. you hummed and he placed a kiss on your head, glad you were warming up out of your trance. “john…” you whispered, tucking your chin. “love?” he was a bit worried now. you still hadn’t looked at him.

your hand left his in favor of his shoulder as you turned your body to straddle him, your favorite seat in the world. you crossed your legs around him as you tucked your head into his neck, your hands exploring the taut muscles of his back. “hi baby.” you said into his neck, placing a kiss into the juncture of his neck, where his beard met smooth skin. his hands finally settled on your waist, massaging the skin there. “rough day?” you nuzzled further into him, giving him small nods as you tried to disappear into your husband and his comforting touch, “lost our target. set us back 3 months.” he hummed thoughtfully, his right hand leaving your waist as he threaded his fingers into your hair. his thumbs pressed against your scalp as you let out a small moan, becoming putty in his hands.

“‘s not your fault.”

“i know. still feels like it.”

“i know.”

the silence was comfortable, a warm blanket on a rainy day. your husband was a strong man, always strong for his task force, for the duty required of him. he hid it well, disarming with his muttonchops and fatherly nature, but there was stone under him, a fortress. with you, though, he was just a man with his wife. selfishly indulgent and unselfishly caring, open in only places you could reach.

“when are we retiring? getting that cottage where we always talked about.” he let out a small chuckle, kissing the crown of your head as he maneuvered to tuck you both in bed for the night. “whenever you want. you’re the one who keeps holding out.” he slipped you both under the covers. powerful arms able to keep you around him as he moved the blankets out of your way. “i know. seems like there’s always another mission. always another need to save the world.” his closeness wore you down, honesty running out of you like a faucet.

“what about our world? where we’re just husband and wife?” you hummed thoughtfully. john price was a man of duty, of loyalty, but at the end of the day, he had a man’s wants and needs. all he needed was you, safe, with him. “soon, baby. soon.” you weren’t lying. the next mission was your last. you needed him to yourself too much to pretend anymore. john was laying down now, your leg thrown over his legs as you spread your arms on his chest. “i love you.” you said into the darkness, eyes already closing at the comforting scent of his sheet detergent. “love you to the stars, sweetheart.” john price found elusive, peaceful sleep, comforted by your touch again.

—

are there two captains on the same base? i don’t care!

my first time writing price…tried to show his maturity without giving grandpa lol

[bunnyreaper]

you and john debate your baby's team allegience. (18+/mdni, suggestive themes, liverpool fan john price. written for/inspired by @a-very-bored-blogger)

your face lights up with excitement as soon as the webpage on your phone loads, yet immediately, you hear a groan from behind you--john's grip on your waist tightening. 

"absolutely not, love." 

"c'mon, it's adorable." you coo, zooming in on the football team's baby kit and practically shoving it in your husband's face over your shoulder.

you don't even need to turn to see the way his nose wrinkles in disgust, his brows furrow with disdain. despite his clear objections, he presses a quick kiss to your cheek and then your neck, as if trying to dissuade you. "if she's getting any kit it's a liverpool one, end of story." 

his hands begin to roam, up to your shoulders, massaging at the stress that's accumulated there after all the time spent looking after your 6-month-old. 

you hum, trying to imagine your little girl in john's teams colours. "i'm not sure if red would suit her as much as black and white." you tease, knowing full well such insistence is going to wind john up. little gets him worked up as much as his football and his loyalty to his team.

"darling." he says sincerely, before spinning your stool around to face him. he presses himself in between the space of your legs, a serious, solemn look in his eyes. "been thinking about this since i was a boy myself. i had a liverpool shirt, she's having a liverpool shirt." 

you hold his gaze, deciding on whether to push or let him have this one. you knew deep down that if you wanted to, you could pull the "I just carried your child for 9 months, and have been sleepless for the last 6 while you spent 3 of them on the other side of the world" card, but you also knew that this was something important to john, more important than it was to you.

"fine." you smile sweetly, locking the phone and reaching behind you to set it on the counter, before you reach up to thread your fingers round the back of john's neck. "ill make you a deal."

"what's that?" his eyebrow quirks, a smirk tugging at his lips--he loved his ingenious wife and her deals.

"she gets the liverpool shirt, and this weekend when she's at your mums, we get started on our little newcastle fan." 

john is on you in an instant, dick pressed against your core as hungry lips attack your neck. "no reason we have to wait til the weekend, love. might as well get started now." 

[rosemorningstar]

Alright so

Boethiah “the font of inspiration” who calls upon mortals to leave their mark upon the world no matter the form.

Hircine “who is half the conscience of men” meaning the half of mortal minds that follows instinct and the drive for survival.

Malacath “who speaks all languages sideways” meaning he is a universal entity whose name and purpose has become distorted over time. Alternatively, he twists words to inspire rage.

Mehrunes Dagon “whose mistress is the blazing sun” meaning he was created by and serves the will of the Magna Ge who brought him forth.

Sheogorath “the comforter of men” meaning he who facilitates dissociation or a break from reality; taking mortals away from the pains of the world via madness. It’s a comfort to be free of reality but the side effects vary.

Molag Bal “whose breath is most foul” meaning the commands he speaks upon the mortal realm are palpable yet undesirable; a domineering root of suffering.

Namira “whose works works endure forever” meaning her design for existence is inescapable and inevitable aka entropy and decay.

Mephala “who threads the needle with the hair of wives” meaning she manipulates the bonds of loyalty to her ends.

Clavicus Vile “who always answers” meaning he’ll make a deal with anyone but the terms won’t necessarily be fair.

Nocturnal “whose touch is mink” meaning her blessing is soft, concealing, and expensive to attain.

Peryite “who’s foundation is falling rock” meaning his power is based in the same forces that move erosion and the passage of time. Incremental but nonetheless potent.

Azura “the rim of all holes” meaning her power is what facilitates transformation and dramatic change on a singular level. The movement of an object or being to dramatically different circumstances. A goddess of exodus and transmutation.

Meridia “who contains the plenum” meaning her sphere is one of wholeness and abundance. Something she offers at a high price.

Hermaeus Mora “who holds the paper to the light” meaning he reveals the hidden truths beneath the surface.

Sanguine “who tastes the shaven fruit” meaning he consumes mortals at their most vulnerable; when they’re inebriated or at the height of their pleasure.

Vaermina “weaver of the panoply” meaning she designs mortal delusions; the fantastical fears we react upon in reality.

[thebenjiblackwoodexpress]

Devil's Snare Part. 10

Aemond Targaryen x Reader

Description: Following Blood and Cheese, Aemond's wife is beset by nightmares, which only his presence can soothe. Y/N fears that her anxieties and trauma will make it difficult for her husband to love her as he did. Aemond reassures her that loving her is the easiest thing he has ever done.

Features Aemond having the conversation I think he should have been allowed to have with Helaena following B&C in the show, and being a loving uncle to Jahaera.

Previous part Dividers by @zaldritzosrose

Writer's note: Sorry if the last part was too angsty and if I diverged too far from the fluffy tone of this story. I have put myself in fanfic jail 😬. This part leans on the fluffier side, so hopefully that makes up for it and rest assured they'll get a happy ending.

Warnings: depictions of ptsd, panic attacks and nightmares, mostly hurt/comfort and fluff. Some sexual content but no smut. Canon divergent. Female reader.

Aemond entered his sister's quarters with a heavy heart, his head downturned. He was almost surprised she'd admitted him at all. It pained him to observe the despair that was plain to see on her face as she clutched at a silken shroud embroidered intricately by her hand.

He spoke as softly as he could, feeling he needed to treat her as delicately as possible, his own voice thick with emotion.

"Sister. I wanted to check on you...and to apologise. Though I know there is no apology I could give that would be sufficient for my part in your suffering."

Helaenas expression looked distant, as if she were looking through him rather than at him.

"Was it worth it? Enacting your vengeance against Lucerys. Was it worth the price?"

There was no anger in her voice, but her question struck Aemond like a blow just the same.

"No, sweet sister. It was not. I loved my nephew dearly and despise myself for my part in his loss. If I could take it back I would."

Helaena nodded, though she would not look at him now. Perhaps she could not bear to.

"I forgive you." Aemond gawped at her, unable to believe that was possible. He knew his sister did not much like to be touched, so although he wished to embrace her, he refrained. Instead, he raised his hand to trace the golden threads of a dragon she'd embroidered.

"This is for my son." His heart clenched at the love evident in her voice. A mother's love.

"It is beautiful, sister."

After leaving Helaena's chambers, Aemond headed for the council chamber, which he knew would soon be in session. The tension was palpable as he entered and he noted a strange expression he couldn't place on his mother's features as she held out a piece of parchment. A letter he could see as he came closer.

"Who is the missive from, mother?"

Whoever it was from, it had clearly had a profound effect on the council who were bickering over each other.

"Rhaenyra. She sent a raven to denounce the murder of Jahaerys. According to the princess, it is the work of Daemon acting on his own. She claims he pursues his own claim now at Harrenhal."

Aemond raised an eyebrow. That had been the last thing he'd been expecting.

"And do you think she speaks true?"

"It is difficult for me to be sure when I cannot see the truth or the lie in her eyes."

Aemond nodded simply. The events of the previous night had turned everything he thought he had known on its head, including this war. Before, he had been resigned to fighting for Aegon's claim out of loyalty to his family. Now, when he saw the true price of this internecine conflict, he wished only to resolve it as quickly and with as little bloodshed as possible. If his sister had not sent the assassins, and she was insistent that the Red Keep should know this, then perhaps there was still hope for peace between them...

Several days passed before Y/N felt able to leave Aemond's chambers, being the only place she could feel any sense of security. But it was not long before Y/N felt compelled to go to Helaena, to comfort her friend who was more like a sister. From then on, Y/N would venture out only to take her meals with Helaena and Aemond, always wishing to be installed in Aemond's chambers before night fell, when the nightmares would set in. She would often wake in the night, sweat causing her hair to stick to the nape of her neck, and tears streaking her cheeks. But Aemond was always there to hold her and soothe her cries, to tell her that she was safe and no one would harm her again. She found comfort in his arms and in his words, though she could not fully believe them.

Even in the daylight hours, Y/N felt that she was standing on a precipice from which she could fall at any moment. The slightest thing could cause her to relive the horror of Jahaerys' death; a loud noise, the presence of someone unexpected in the chambers she shared with Aemond. Even the colour red sent visions swimming before her eyes.

Breakfasting with Aemond in the morning room overlooking the garden, Y/N had felt a rare moment of calm and tranquility. The sun was shining brightly in the sky, casting the garden in a soft glow and warming Y/N's skin pleasantly. Helaena did not feel up to joining them, and Y/N had just determined to check in on the princess before a handmaiden carried in a tray of berry tarts, placing them before her. And all Y/N could focus on was the red juices of the berries oozing out of the pastry, dark enough to resemble blood. Then she could not see the pastries at all, just images of gore she could not shake though she shut her eyes tightly and began to take deep breaths which quickly turned frantic. Warm hands suddenly gripped hers, and her eyes snapped open to the sight of Aemond kneeling before her, staring intently into her face with deepest concern. Following the direction of her eyeline as she once again focused on the berry tarts, she heard him order the handmaiden to remove them, though it felt as if she were trying to hear him through water. Turning back towards her, Aemond gently took hold of her elbows to pull her up and guide her from the room, out into the garden. Now that she could no longer see the suspicious red substance, Y/N felt her mind begin to calm, aided by the fresh and fragrant air of the garden.

"You are safe, my love. Can you hear the birdsong? Smell the perfume of the rose bush? You are in the garden with me. See?"

Plucking a pink rose from a nearby bushel, Aemond tenderly tucked it in her hair by her ear, before stroking his knuckles along her cheekbone.

As the soft petals tickled Y/N's ear, grounding her, she felt the tension release from her taut muscles, which had been poised to bolt. Though embarrassment quickly replaced fear at causing such a scene over an innocent plate of pastries. Glancing back at the morning room from where they'd come, she caught the eye of a handmaiden, eyes wide in shock at her reaction. Y/N quickly turned away and buried her face in Aemond's chest.

In an effort to keep her mind preoccupied and to avoid spiralling so publicly again, Y/N filled her days with embroidering dresses and garments for Jahaera that she thought might please Helaena, picking and unpicking her stitching until she was satisfied. She had always had a talent for needlepoint, and the precision required kept her mind focused. Aemond quickly took note of her habits and would wordlessly bring her new fabrics in the most elegant and luxurious materials, along with thread in every colour. She particularly delighted in a silver thread that appeared metallic when it caught the light. Y/N had smiled to find one of Aemond's own eye patches, the strap untethered, strewn across his desk in an effort to look like it had been carelessly thrown aside. Y/N had a keen suspicion that he'd left it for her to mend, just as she'd mended his eyepatch and presented it to him when they'd first met. It had been his preference to wear the one she'd mended ever since. It had pleased her to mend it for him, a welcome distraction, ensuring that the stitches were so close together it hardly looked like it had needed mending in the first place. Her heart was warmed to see Aemond wearing the same eyepatch the very next day.

While the days had grown easier as Y/N had found ways to distract herself and took comfort in the company of Helaena and little Jahaera, Y/N still found herself beset by nightmares that she could not seem to shake.

Y/N awoke from yet another nightmare with a start, panting heavily and looking around frantically trying to make out her surroundings. "It's alright, your alright. It was only a dream." The familiar tenor of Aemond's voice pulled her from the brink of her terror and she became fully aware of his hands stroking her face softly, as he whispered words of comfort to her. Pressing her face into his shoulder, she breathed in his scent, at once comforting and familiar, as he gathered her into his arms.

"Do you wish to tell me..."

"No" Y/N interrupted quickly. She did not wish to speak of the horrors that plagued her at night. If she voiced them, they would only feel more real.

Aemond wordlessly stroked her hair as she lay on his chest, but after a few moments she murmured against him "I'm sorry."

Aemond gently pulled her away from him so he could see her face.

"Whatever could you have to apologise for? You have done nothing wrong, my love."

Y/N rolled away from him, staring up at the ceiling. She felt the bed shift as Aemond shifted onto his side to face her, pressing a hand to her cheek to direct her gaze to him.

"Please tell me, my darling. I cannot help you if you won't speak to me."

Y/n let her eyes flutter closed, finding it difficult to put words to what she was feeling under Aemond's perpetually direct stare. The warmth of his hand against her cheek gave her the strength to continue.

"I can't seem to shake my fear, it is constant and haunts my steps no matter how I fill my days. And at night the shadows and silence conspire together to grant me nightmares every time I close my eyes. I cannot but feel I must be a burden to you now, always having to comfort me and wake to me screaming. What was it this time?"

At the feel of Aemond's lips on her forehead she opened her eyes, distressed to see her husband's own despair reflected in his eye.

"My name. You just kept shouting for me."

Y/N groaned in embarrassment, hiding her face in her hands, though Aemond only prised them away, holding them to his heart so she couldn't hide from him again.

"You have no reason to be embarrassed. I mostly dream of you anyway so I'm certain I say your name in my sleep often enough."

His mouth quirked up in the ghost of a smile, but Y/N couldn't find it within herself to laugh, overwhelmed by her exhaustion and feelings of shame. Aemond's face fell at her expression, though it was quickly replaced by a look of determination.

"I won't allow you to reprimand yourself for something entirely out of your control. And if you must bear hardship, I would bear it with you. You could never be a burden to me. Loving you is not a hardship, it is the easiest thing I have ever done."

Y/N rolled fully onto her side to face Aemond, shuffling closer to him.

"I don't know how long it will take for me to feel OK again, to not jolt in terror every time someone enters the room. I doubt this is what you imagined for yourself when you fell in love."

Aemond placed a hand against her waist, his expression suddenly very serious.

"Listen to me now. My whole life before you had been filled with darkness, a shadow cast over me ever since my eye was taken. But suddenly, there was you, unexpectedly, miraculously, a guiding light. It was not quite love at first sight. But you sparked my curiosity, which then grew into a quiet admiration as you saw me as a someone who could be good, who could be a protector. You were so shy, so timid, I remember you could barely speak to me at first. Yet you were so kind, so thoughtful...and then you blushed. I saw it and I knew I wanted to see it for the rest of my life. Before I knew it you had sunk so deep into my bones, into my very soul, you became essential to me, inspiring a love so fierce it is more than love. I believe that you were always meant to be mine, and I yours. We simply had to find one another."

Y/N blinked away the tears that had welled up as Aemond spoke, his words like a balm for her soul. Cupping her hands on either side of his face, she pressed their foreheads together.

"I cannot make great speeches or declarations of love. Nothing to compare with such beautiful words. But I can tell you that there has always been good in you Aemond, perhaps more than most for it is there in spite of the all the pain and grief you have had to carry with you. When I feared a tyrant you were gentle and patient. When you saw my distressed at a mere spider, you did not hesitate to step in even though you were a prince and I only a handmaiden. It might have seemed only a small act of kindness to you but from that moment onwards I saw the goodness in you and I loved you for it. My heart is so full of love for you that I think I had better call it yours than mine." 

Aemond pulled away enough so that he could place a tender kiss upon her brow, cupping the back of her head and pulling her back to rest against his chest.

"I love you, my heart. Never doubt it again."

Y/N nuzzled her face contentedly into Aemond's shoulder. "I will not." While Y/N didn't think that her nightmares would suddenly dissappear, she had hope that in time they would. And until they did, she knew Aemond would always be there to pull her from them and calm her fears.

Aemond began to stroke his fingers through her hair, untangling the mess she'd inadvertently created with her tossing and turning. It was soothing and under his gentle touch she felt her eyes turning heavy. Aemond's voice sounded distant as her tiredness overcame her.

"Sleep, little one. I'll take up my sword and fend off the bad dreams should they come again." She smiled at her husband's playful jest, having missed such light-hearted interactions between them, then quickly succumbed to sleep.

Y/N looked up from the dress she'd been adding lace cuffs to at Jahaera's request as Aemond entered their chambers, an energy and excitement lighting his features she had not seen for what felt like an eternity.

"I have a gift for you, my darling. I do not know that you will like it but I hope you will."

Intrigued and feeling a spark of excitement to match her husband's, Y/N rose to meet Aemond, where he was setting a long and thin metal box on a side table. Coming to stand by him, she looked over his shoulder curiously, though the box gave nothing away.

"What is it?"

Aemond smiled softly at her, motioning towards the box.

"Take a look."

Y/n stepped forward to trail her fingers over the box, carefully removing the lid to find an ornate dagger with an opalescent handle that appeared to be shaped like a dragon. She gazed in awe at the eye of the dragon, which was inlaid with a small glittering sapphire.

The blade was undoubtedly beautiful, but she wasn't entirely sure what Aemond intended her to do with it. Her confusion must have shown on her face, for Aemond quickly took up the blade, balancing it on one hand and then twirling it between his fingers so fast she almost lost sight of it.

"This dagger is light, almost weightless and easily handled. I do not ever intend to leave you unprotected again, but I had hoped it might make you feel safer when I cannot be with you. The sapphire is cut from the same one I bear, so you can always feel that I am with you in some way." He seemed suddenly sheepish, younger somehow, as if worried he'd overstepped or that she did not like his gift.

Y/N quickly moved to assuage his concern, smiling brightly up at him.

"It's beautiful, Aemond. Will you show me how to use it?"

Aemond gifted her with a broad smile of his own at the positive reaction to his gift.

"Of course, my love. Though be careful, the blade is sharp."

Moving around her so he was positioned behind her, he took hold of her hand to carefully position the dagger in hers. Shifting closer so she could feel his breath against her cheek, he placed his hand over the top of hers.

"You grip the handle like this and weild it like so..."

He brought her hand up in several different arcs that Y/N found difficult to follow as she was more focused on his proximity and his arm around her, findjng herself simply looking at him over her shoulder. Aemond seemed to notice her distraction, averting his gaze from the dagger to her face, more specifically her lips. He loosened his grip, stroking her hand and the length of her arm. Y/N felt that each day was becoming easier for her, her nightmares becoming less frequent and she almost felt as if she had returned to her past self. But she had noticed that while Aemond was most attentive to her, always supportive and more than willing to comfort her in her darker moments, his touches were always chaste and he no longer looked at her with the same desire he once had. But the way he was looking at her now, she thought he might crave her touch as she much as she did his, and she slowly tilted her head to brush her lips against his. A loud knock interrupted her train of thought and she shrieked as her grip loosened and she dropped the dagger. Aemond quickly dove to catch it before she could accidentally stab herself, turning to the young squire opening the door with a stormy look, teeth gritted in annoyance.

"What?"

"The king requests your presence, my Prince." The squire shuffled about nervously under Aemond's glare. Turning back to her, Aemond brought her hand to his lips before following the boy from the room. Y/N couldn't help but feel a little deflated.

Y/N had read the same page at least thrice, as she kept peeking over the top to stare at her husband as he removed his tunic and shirt to prepare for bed. She felt her cheeks blaze as he caught her gaze, never fully having lost her natural shyness. Aemond only looked concerned, hurrying over to her to press a hand to her forehead as if checking for a fever. "Are you well, my love? You look a little flushed." Y/N only sighed in frustration, standing and placing her book on a table so Aemond's arm dropped back to his side, a look of hurt crossing his features.

"Do you not want me to touch you?"

"Not like that." Y/N murmured barely above a whisper. Though of course he heard her all the same, his eyebrows pulling together in confusion

"I don't understand."

And before she could stop them, words came tumbling out. All of her fears and her anxieties spilling forth as if they could no longer be contained.

"Like you need to fix me. You only touch me to check my temperature or hold me when I wake in the night from my nightmares. You never kiss me anymore, and you act as if the slightest touch will break me. Do you not want me anymore? In the way a husband desires his wife."

Aemond's eye was wide, his mouth parted open in surprise at her outburst, which almost made her feel ashamed. But she could no longer keep her feelings secret to spare his. He took a step towards her, then another, approaching her slowly, carefully.

"I did not know that my advances would be welcome. Not after all that has happened, all I have done and all of the pain I have caused you. Do not mistake my caution for a lack of desire."

Coming to a stop in front of her, Aemond cupped her face between his hands. And then she saw it. The glint of longing in his eye that matched her own.

"It was torture thinking you would never forgive me, never love me again. And when you did I was terrified one mistep would cause you to change your mind or that it would distress you. I was thinking of you and you alone, my dearest love." And after a moment of silence, he smiled down at her, a tinge of vulnerability visible that had too oft been concealed with a marked guardedness. "Of course I want you."

"I want you too." Y/N sighed, a shudder going through her as Aemond began to trace his fingers up her arm, painfully slowly, his touch feather light.

"Good".

And then he was kissing her wildly, fervently, everywhere he could reach. Her jaw, her throat, her collarbone, continuously returning to her lips, all the while gently pushing them backwards towards the bed. When she felt the backs of her knees hit the frame, he pressed her down onto the sheets before climbing on top of her, mindful of his weight. Y/n gasped as he pressed his lips to the top of her breasts at the neckline of her dress, all the while reaching a hand down to drag her skirt up to her hips. his touch wasn't soft now but almost frantic, his kisses harder each time as he pressed his lips to hers with a fierce intensity. He whispered quickly to her in high valyrian, and she had a vague notion that he was calling her beautiful, telling her that he loved her.

Pulling away suddenly, their heavy breaths mingling together under their proximity, Aemond looked into her eyes with a strange mixture of seriousness and need. "How much do you like this dress? I can be careful if you wish it." By the way his fingers were trailing over the fabric, as if he were itching to remove the last few layers that separated them, Y/N already knew Aemond's preference.

"It's not one of my favourites."

Aemond needed no more encouragement, gripping the fabric bunched up at her waist in both hands he ripped it clean in half, the sound making Y/N blush as he pushed the torn remnants aside to leave her in just her slip and corset.

"I will have another made for you that you prefer."

Y/N giggled, pulling the the eye patch from her husband's face as Aemond returned his lips to trail down her throat, hitching one of her legs around his torso and trailing his hand up the sensitive skin on the back of her thigh.

"I will hold you to it." Y/N teased, running her hands through Aemond's hair and down his back as he hummed appreciatively.

Aemond paused for a moment, his face buried in the crook of her neck and his voice came out in a whisper.

"I love you."

Y/N wrapped her arms around Aemond's neck, holding him to her and stroking his hair. "And I love you "

Aemond raised his head to mould their lips together again, Y/N arching into him to deepen the kiss, feeling that no more words were necessary. They belonged with one another and if Y/N could wish for anything it was that they would never be parted again. 

Y/N felt her heart swell at the sight of her husband playing with his niece Jahaera. Helaena seemed unconcerned as Aemond threw her daughter up into the air, the little girl giggling in delight, and caught her up in his arms, only continuing to work on her beetle embroidery.

"Time for bed little niece. The hour grows late."

Jahaera pouted stubbornly, causing Aemond's lips to quirk up in amusement.

"I'm not tired. I don't want to sleep."

"Before long only the owls will still be awake. You must go to sleep now little love. Unless I'm wrong and you are an owl I've mistaken for my niece?"

Jahaera laughed at her uncle, though she allowed him to scoop her up and carry her over to her cot.

As Y/N watched Aemond's affectionate interactions with Jahaera, she thought he would make a loving father one day. She hoped he'd agree as judging by the lateness of her blood that month she might have to test her theory sooner rather than later.

@zoetje2004 @jjkysnk @ieieibhibu8 @skymoonandstardust @truly-abysmal

@idonotknowenglish @leonesimp @hyacinthesiss @nanawaffles @callsigncrushx

@bitchyfestivalbouquet @void21 @sapphiresandferrari @pinkykats-place @misspinkonmars

@ateliefloresdaprimavera @superintenseart   @youknownothingjohnwatson @lportes-22 @sakurachan-9

[thewickedjazzy]

⌞𝐖𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐦𝐞 𝐨𝐟𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐰⌝

Part I : 𝙒𝙞𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙚𝙙 𝙉𝙖𝙧𝙘𝙞𝙨𝙨𝙪𝙨

Pairings: Chuuya x mafia boss fem!reader

Warnings: angst, fluff, mention of death, mention of other dimensions (could trigger derealization), please let me know if I forgot any Xx.

Author's note: Hey fellas!! Hope you enjoy my story ahead. Note: It consists of 3 parts. I've been toying with the idea of this story for a while now and honestly I am very satisfied with how it turned out!!

P.s: it's written in a 3rd person perspective.

Word count: 5.7k

In the deepest recesses of the human heart, there exists a haunting paradox: the insatiable thirst for power clashes with the equally profound yearning for connection. These two opposing forces, entwined yet in constant conflict, shaped the existence of a mafia boss who ruled Yokohama's shadowed underworld. Her life was a testament to this struggle—a legacy of power forged in the crucible of blood and betrayal, passed down as both a gift and a curse. Power was her birthright, a mantle she wore with unyielding resolve, yet its weight was a burden she bore in solitude, isolated by the very force that defined her.

At her side, Chuuya Nakahara stood as her most loyal confidant, a kindred spirit shaped by his own battles and scars. In the murky depths of their world, where loyalty was a currency as rare as it was valuable, their bond was forged in the fires of mutual understanding. Yet even with Chuuya's unwavering support, she knew that true power came at a steep price—a cost paid in loneliness and the silent suffering that accompanied her every decision. The shadow of her legacy loomed large, casting its darkness over every connection she sought to make until all that remained was the cold, unyielding pursuit of control.

Chuuya understood this truth with a clarity that bordered on despair. His unwavering loyalty was not merely a matter of duty; it was rooted in a deep, unspoken love that lay buried within the shadows of his heart. This love, a secret he guarded fiercely, was both his greatest strength and his inevitable downfall—a double-edged sword that he could never wield openly.

She, the one who controlled the very fabric of the underworld with her formidable ability, the "Malevolent Marionette," held the power to command not just armies, but the delicate balance between life and death itself. With a mere thought, she could pull the strings of fate, bending the wills of others to her own, yet this power, so absolute in its reach, left her isolated in a world where love was both a weakness and a danger. Chuuya, in his silence, bore witness to her lonely reign, knowing that his love for her could never be spoken, for to do so would unravel the delicate threads that bound their lives together.

In the dimly lit office of the mafia headquarters, the mafia boss was going through some paperwork as usual, on the top floor of the headquarters, her gaze fixed on the writings and patterns of the file she was holding, broke the silence first.

"Chuuya..." she said softly, her voice carrying a weight of unvoiced thoughts, "Do you ever wonder if the price we pay for control is worth it?"

Chuuya, leaning against the edge of the desk, met her eyes with a mixture of solemnity and affection. "Every day," he replied, his voice low but steady.

"But even in this world of shadows, it's your strength that keeps us going. Without it, we'd all be lost."

A fleeting smile touched her lips, but it was a rare moment of vulnerability.

"And yet, even with all the power we wield, it feels as though we’re trapped in a cage of our own making," she murmured.

Their conversation, delicate and laden with the gravity of their shared existence, was abruptly interrupted by a piercing alarm that sliced through the air like a knife. The blaring sound was a sharp reminder of the perpetual danger they faced.

“Alert: Intruder detected,” the automated voice declared with relentless efficiency.

"Ugh, give me a break," the mafia boss muttered, rolling her eyes as the alarm blared incessantly through the headquarters.

The shrill sound grated on her nerves, but it was more of an annoyance than a cause for concern.

She leaned back in her chair, her fingers tapping rhythmically on the armrest as she considered the situation.

Chuuya, already halfway to the door, paused and glanced back at her.

"You really think they’ll get anywhere near us?"

She gave a small, dismissive shake of her head. "They won’t make it past the third floor, let alone reach us up here. But it’s still a nuisance."

Chuuya smirked, his confidence in her words evident.

"I'll handle it quickly, then."

With that, he turned and strode out of the room, the door closing softly behind him. Left alone, the boss exhaled, her eyes drifting to the window where the city sprawled beneath her like a living, breathing entity.

The layers of protection she had built around herself—both physical and emotional—were nearly impenetrable. No one had ever made it to the top floor, where she and Chuuya resided. And no one ever would.

She pushed herself up from the chair, moving to a hidden compartment in the wall.

She pressed a button, and the hidden compartment slid open with a soft hiss, revealing a sleek monitor embedded within.

As she activated the screen, a grid of camera feeds flickered to life, offering her a bird’s-eye view of the entire headquarters. She wasn’t one to micromanage her subordinates—she trusted them, especially Chuuya—but the instinct to keep an eye on things, especially when it involved him, was something she couldn’t quite shake.

Her eyes scanned the feeds, taking in the chaotic scenes unfolding below. The intruders, a small but highly trained group, had made it farther than most. The lower floors were a warzone, with her men locked in fierce combat, but it was clear that they were holding their ground. For now.

She switched to the third-floor feed, her gaze sharpening as she saw Chuuya enter the fray. He moved with lethal precision, a blur of motion as he tore through the intruders with the ease of someone born to fight not using his gravity manipulation ability just yet.

Despite her earlier confidence, a sliver of unease crept into her mind as she watched him. These intruders were no amateurs; they were too coordinated, too familiar with the layout of the headquarters. Her finger hovered over the intercom button, but she hesitated. Chuuya didn’t need her guidance—he was more than capable of handling the situation. Yet, the feeling persisted, gnawing at her as she watched him confront a particularly skilled opponent, their clash sending shockwaves through the walls.

Suddenly, something on one of the other camera feeds caught her attention. A figure, moving with uncanny stealth, had bypassed the bulk of the defenses and was making their way up the emergency stairwell—a route rarely used and known only to a select few. Her heart skipped a beat as she realized the intruder was heading straight for the top floor.

“Damn it,” she muttered under her breath, quickly switching the camera view to track the figure’s progress. Whoever this was, they were dangerous—calculated, and possibly someone with inside knowledge.

Without wasting another second, she hit the intercom button, her voice steady but urgent.

"Chuuya, we’ve got a problem. There’s someone headed for the top floor, and they’re taking the emergency stairs."

Chuuya’s voice crackled through the speaker, laced with irritation.

"You sure it’s not just another grunt?"

"No," she replied, her tone leaving no room for doubt.

"This one’s different. They know exactly where they’re going."

There was a brief pause on the other end, then a sharp intake of breath.

"I’m on my way. Don’t do anything reckless."

She smirked at his concern but didn’t argue. "Hurry," was all she said before ending the call.

Her smirk faded as she watched the intruder move with calculated precision through the stairwell, each step deliberate and unhurried. Whoever this was, they were no ordinary assassin. They were heading straight for her, bypassing the usual layers of defense as if they knew exactly where to find her.

Her fingers itched to grab her weapon, but something told her this encounter would require more than brute force.

She had an ability—one she rarely used, because it was as dangerous as it was powerful. But this was different. This intruder was different.

She closed the compartment and stepped away from the monitor, moving to sit on a nearby desk near the door, her senses on high alert.

Every second stretched into an eternity as she waited, listening for the faintest sound of approaching footsteps. Then, just as she had predicted, they stopped right outside her door.

The handle turned slowly, and she felt her heartbeat quicken, her muscles tensing in anticipation. The door opened with an almost deliberate slowness, and the intruder stepped inside—a tall figure cloaked in black, their face hidden beneath a dark hood. They paused, surveying the room as if searching for something, before their gaze finally settled on her and for a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath. But instead of striking, the figure remained still, as if weighing their options.

She didn’t wait for them to speak. “You’ve got five seconds to tell me why you’re here before I kill you,” she said, her voice sharp and commanding, yet calm, with an underlying edge that promised she would follow through.

The intruder lifted their hands slightly, a gesture of surrender, though there was a calculated caution in the movement. “I’m not here to fight,” they said, their voice muffled by the hood. “I’m here to deliver a message.”

She narrowed her eyes, distrust gnawing at her. “A message?” she echoed. “From who?”

The intruder took a cautious step forward, reaching into their coat. She tensed, ready to strike, but they slowly pulled out a small, sealed envelope instead of a weapon. They held it out to her, and she got up from the desk as she eyed it warily before snatching it from their hand, tearing it open with a swift, practised motion.

Inside was a single sheet of paper, the handwriting elegant but unfamiliar. Her eyes scanned the words quickly, her breath catching as she read the message. It was simple, yet devastating:

" 𝘐 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘴𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳. 𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘴, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘧𝘶𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘶𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘳𝘵𝘢𝘪𝘯. 𝘐𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘦𝘦𝘬 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘳𝘦𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘯, 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘦—𝘢𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘦. 𝘙𝘦𝘧𝘭𝘦𝘤𝘵 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴—𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘴𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘦𝘭𝘢𝘺, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘢𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘵𝘴. 𝘐 𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘪𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘪𝘤𝘦. "

At the bottom of the note was a name—one that sent a cold chill down her spine. Her stepfather. The man who had been a shadowy figure in her life, part of a past she had tried to bury. But he wasn’t buried—he was back, and he had her sister.

The intruder watched her carefully, reading the shift in her expression. “He told me to give you that,” they said, their voice low. “And to tell you that this is just the beginning. If you don’t do as he says… your sister will suffer.”

Her hands tightened around the paper, crumpling it slightly as she fought to keep her emotions in check. She couldn’t let the intruder see how deeply this cut, couldn’t afford to show any weakness.

“Why should I believe you?” she asked, her tone cold. “How do I know this isn’t some trick?”

“You don’t,” the intruder replied, their voice devoid of emotion. “But you know who he is. You know what he’s capable of. And you know he’s not bluffing.”

She hated how true those words were. She looked at the intruder, her eyes narrowing in calculation. “What’s your role in this?” she demanded. “Why are you helping him?”

The intruder hesitated, then finally pulled back the hood, revealing a face lined with weariness and resolve. “I’m just a messenger. But I know what he wants. He’s not just after you—he’s after Chuuya.”

Her heart skipped a beat. “Chuuya? What does he want with him?”

The intruder shook their head. “That’s all I know. My job was to deliver the message and make sure you understood the stakes. What you do next is up to you.”

She stared at the intruder for a long moment, her mind racing. This was no ordinary threat. It was personal, and it was a game she would have to play carefully. Her sister’s life was on the line, and now, Chuuya’s safety was in jeopardy as well.

Finally, she stepped back, allowing the intruder to leave. “Get out before Chuuya gets here” she ordered, her voice icy. “And tell your boss that if he harms her, I’ll burn his entire world to the ground.”

The intruder hesitated, their eyes flicking towards the door as if they were weighing their options. But the cold determination in her voice left no room for argument. With a slight nod, they pulled the hood back over their head, turning to leave the room as quietly as they had entered. The door clicked shut behind them, leaving her alone once more.

As the silence settled back into the room, she let out a slow breath, the weight of the situation pressing down on her. Her sister—her only remaining family—was in the hands of a man she had long thought buried in her past. A man whose very existence she had tried to forget, yet he had resurfaced like a ghost from a nightmare, bringing with him a threat that was as personal as it was terrifying.

After a few seconds the door opened once again as Chuuya stepped into the room, his presence like a force of nature that filled the space. His eyes immediately went to her, scanning her for any sign of hurt.

“What the hell just happened?” Chuuya’s tone was sharp, cutting through the tension that still hung in the air.

She turned to face him, her expression carefully composed, though the turmoil inside her was anything but. “It’s handled,” she replied, her voice calm and controlled, a stark contrast to the storm brewing within her. “The intruder was just a messenger.”

Chuuya’s eyes narrowed. He knew her too well to be fooled by her calm exterior. “And what was the message?” he asked, his voice laced with suspicion. He took a step closer, his gaze locked onto hers, searching for the truth she was trying to hide.

For a moment, she hesitated. The urge to tell him everything—to let him in on the danger that now threatened them both—was strong. But she couldn’t. Chuuya was too important, too precious to her, to risk him being dragged into this mess. Her stepfather was a dangerous man, someone who thrived on manipulation and deceit. If Chuuya knew he was a target, he would rush headlong into the fray, putting himself at risk for her sake. She couldn’t allow that.

She forced a small smile, one that didn’t reach her eyes. “It’s nothing we can’t handle,” she said, trying to sound reassuring. “Just someone trying to stir up trouble. But I’ll take care of it.”

Chuuya’s frown deepened. “Don’t give me that crap,” he snapped, his frustration bubbling to the surface. “You’re not telling me something. What’s going on?”

She exhaled slowly, knowing she had to give him something to keep him from pressing further. “It’s about my sister,” she admitted, her voice softening. “She’s been taken, and they want me to come for her. Alone.”

The truth in her words wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t the whole story either. Chuuya’s expression shifted from suspicion to anger, his fists clenching at his sides. “Taken? By who?” His voice was low, dangerous, the fury in his eyes barely contained.

“A man from my past,” she said vaguely, refusing to give him the details that would send him charging into danger. “Someone I thought I’d left behind. But he’s come back, and he’s using her to get to me.”

Chuuya’s jaw tightened, his eyes burning with determination. “Then we’ll find him,” he growled. “We’ll get her back, and we’ll make him pay for this."

She shook her head, placing a hand on his arm to stop him. “No, Chuuya. This is something I have to handle alone. It’s too dangerous, and I can’t let you get involved.”

His eyes flashed with anger. “Like hell I’m staying out of this. You’re not facing this bastard by yourself.”

Her grip on his arm tightened, her voice firm. “You have to trust me, Chuuya. I need you to stay close, but out of sight. Let me deal with him. I promise, I’ll bring her back.”

He stared at her, his expression a mix of frustration and concern. He wanted to argue, to demand that she let him fight by her side, but something in her eyes—something resolute and unyielding—stopped him. With a frustrated sigh, he finally nodded, though his reluctance was clear.

“Fine,” he agreed, his voice begrudging. “But I’m not letting you out of my sight. The moment I think you’re in danger, I’m coming in, whether you like it or not.”

She allowed herself a small, genuine smile this time, grateful for his stubborn loyalty. “I wouldn’t expect anything less,” she replied, her voice softening.

Chuuya’s anger seemed to dissipate slightly, replaced by a deep, unspoken concern. He stepped closer, his eyes locking onto hers. “Just promise me you’ll be careful,” he said, his voice low and earnest. “I can’t lose you.”

Her heart tightened at his words, and she nodded, her voice barely above a whisper. “I promise.”

For a moment, they stood there, the weight of unspoken emotions hanging between them. She wanted to reach out, to tell him how much his presence meant to her, how much she relied on him, how much she cared about him not because of his ability but rather because of who he is. But there were too many walls between them, too much left unsaid. So instead, she simply held his gaze, letting the silence speak for them both.

The distance between them felt palpable, an invisible barrier made up of all the things they hadn’t yet confessed, of all the emotions they kept locked away for the sake of their precarious world.

He reached out, hesitating for a moment before finally placing a hand on her shoulder. The touch was light, almost tentative, as if he was afraid to overstep the boundaries they’d both carefully constructed. “You know,” he began, his voice softer than she’d ever heard it, “you don’t always have to carry everything on your own. I’m here, not just as your right hand, but… for whatever you need.”

His words hung in the air between them, laced with meaning that went beyond the professional bond they shared. She looked up at him, her breath catching slightly at the sincerity in his eyes. It would be so easy to lean into that touch, to allow herself the comfort of his presence, but the walls she had built around her heart held firm. She had spent so long keeping everyone at a distance, even him, that it felt impossible to let go now.

“Chuuya…” she started, her voice wavering, “you don’t understand how much this means to me. But it’s precisely because I care about you that I can’t afford to let you in too close. The world we inhabit is fraught with dangers—dangers that neither of us can escape unscathed.”

His hand moved from her shoulder to take hers gently, the gesture tender yet firm, as though he was determined to bridge the distance between them, however insurmountable it seemed. “Do you think I’m blind to that?” he replied, a trace of frustration colouring his words, though it was softened by a plea—one that echoed the vulnerability he rarely allowed himself to show. “We’ve faced every challenge together until now. I’m not asking you to tear down all your defenses—just to let me in, if only a little. We are stronger when we stand together, aren’t we?”

She turned away slightly, her gaze drifting toward the window where the city sprawled beneath them, a living testament to the power and control she wielded. But even as she looked out over the empire she had built, there was an emptiness, a hollow ache that power could not fill. She had sacrificed so much to be where she was—her freedom, her innocence, her very humanity. And yet, here was Chuuya, offering her something she had long forgotten how to grasp: connection.

"Chuuya," she said, her voice barely audible, as if she were speaking more to herself than to him. "In our world, everything is a transaction. Loyalty, trust, and even love—they all come at a price. I’ve always believed that the cost was too high. That to let anyone in was to invite ruin."

He didn’t respond immediately, allowing the silence to stretch between them, heavy with the weight of their shared history. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet, almost contemplative. "Maybe that’s true," he admitted, "but maybe the price of keeping everyone out is even higher. We think we’re protecting ourselves by building these walls by staying distant, but all we’re doing is trapping ourselves in a cage of our own making as you always refer to it."

She smiles and nods. He was right... of course, he was right, yet she couldn't help but stay in that cage.

The night draped over Yokohama like a shroud, its darkness suffused with the ominous weight of impending tragedy. The air was thick with the scent of rain and the distant echo of sirens—harbingers of chaos that had become all too familiar. In the heart of this city, where shadows wove their own intricate dance, a final confrontation was brewing.

She had indeed managed to save her sister, wresting her from the clutches of the man who had once been a silent specter in her past. Her stepfather—whose dark presence had loomed over her life like a persistent nightmare—stood before her now, his power radiating like a malignant force that threatened to engulf everything she held dear. His ability to subsume other powers was a fearsome weapon, a black hole of dominion that threatened to consume all in its path.

The battle that ensued was a tempest of ferocity and desperation. She fought with the strength of a woman who had everything to lose, her every move fueled by a fierce, protective love for her sister. But as the confrontation dragged on, it became clear that her stepfather's power was overwhelming—an abyss that threatened to swallow her whole.

In a final, desperate bid to secure her sister’s safety, she made the agonizing decision to invoke the full potential of her "Malevolent Marionette" ability. The room was filled with a sombre silence as she whispered the usual incantation, her voice trembling with the weight of her resolve.

The master puppet, an intricate symbol of her ability, materialized in the center of the room—a dark, foreboding figure that seemed to pulse with an ancient, dangerous energy.

Her connection to the puppet was immediate and intense. The energy surging through her was both exhilarating and terrifying. The puppet’s power was immense, a dark purple tide that surged through her veins, promising the ability to reshape the world itself if she so wished. But the cost was steep—five minutes of devastation, followed by her own inevitable demise if the puppet was not destroyed.

The minutes ticked by like a slow, relentless drumbeat, each second a harbinger of doom. She fought valiantly, her power a raging inferno that lashed out at her stepfather, but he remained an insurmountable force, his power too great to be overcome. Her breath came in ragged gasps, each exhalation a reminder of the ticking clock that governed her fate.

Chuuya stood at the edge of the shadows, his heart pounding with a frantic rhythm that mirrored the chaotic storm raging within him. He had been waiting for what felt like an eternity, his every muscle tense with a blend of fear and frustration. The stakes had been too high, and he knew that his absence, though well-intentioned, was a gamble with dire consequences. The reality of their world was unforgiving, and he could sense the weight of his decisions settling heavily upon him.

As he watched the building, a sudden flicker of purple neon light cut through the darkness, casting an eerie glow over the structure. The light pulsed rhythmically, a harbinger of something both powerful and dangerous. His blood ran cold as he realized the significance of the display. It was a sign—a signal that she had invoked the full potential of her "Malevolent Marionette" ability —the very ability they had always relied on him to control, to destroy.

The realization hit him like a punch to the gut, and his heart raced with a desperate urgency.

The purple lights, casting long, twisted shadows, illuminated the building’s facade like a harbinger of doom. Chuuya could see from afar her silhouette, framed against the intense glow. Her movements were determined, each gesture a testament to the raw, untamed power she wielded.

Without a moment's hesitation, he sprinted toward the building, his every step fueled by a mixture of fear and determination. The forest trees blurred past him as he raced towards the source of the light, his mind a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions. Each heartbeat seemed to echo with the dread of what he might find.

The building loomed ahead, its once-sturdy facade now a chaotic wreckage. Debris littered the ground, and the air was thick with the acrid scent of smoke and destruction. Chuuya burst through the entrance, his senses assaulted by the aftermath of the battle. The interior was a scene of devastation, the walls scorched and twisted from the unleashed power.He pushed forward, navigating through the wreckage with a sense of grim determination. His eyes scanned the ruinous landscape, searching for any sign of her. The purple neon light was now fading, its power waning as the last vestiges of the ritual played out. His heart sank as he approached the center of the chaos, where the battle had reached its climax.

There, amidst the debris and ruin, he found her. She stood amidst the wreckage, her form silhouetted against the dying glow of the purple light. Her stepfather lay defeated at her feet, the battle won but at an unimaginable cost. Her eyes, once filled with the fierce resolve of a warrior, now bore the hollow emptiness of someone who had sacrificed everything.

Chuuya's breath caught in his throat as he approached her, his mind struggling to process the sight before him. She had succeeded in her mission, but the power of the "Malevolent Marionette" had taken its toll. The puppet, a manifestation of her ability, had exacted a price that was painfully clear. She had unleashed a force of destruction that could only be contained by her own life force, and now, as the ritual’s effects began to consume her, it was clear that the cost was far greater than he had ever imagined.

Her gaze met his, a mixture of relief and sorrow in her eyes. "Chuuya..." she whispered, her voice barely audible over the crackling remnants of the power that had once surged through the building. There was a finality to her tone, an acceptance of the fate that had been sealed by her own choices.

His heart ached as he moved to her side, reaching out in a futile attempt to bridge the gap that had grown between them. He had wanted to protect her, to shield her from the worst of their world, but in doing so, he had failed her in the most crucial moment. The realization hit him with a crushing weight—his absence had led to a loss he could never fully comprehend.

As she fell to the ground, her strength waning, he held her in his arms, the enormity of the situation crashing down around him. The world they had fought to protect was now a stark reminder of the cost of their choices, the price of power and love interwoven in a tapestry of tragedy. The light of the neon glow faded, leaving only the echoes of their struggle and the heavy silence of a world forever changed.

In that moment, Chuuya held her close, his tears mingling with the dust and debris that surrounded them.

“Y/N, hold on… You can do this. You’ve got to hang on... I will destroy the puppet. Where is it?” His voice was ragged, strained by the relentless tide of his grief, an anguished plea that seemed to reach out into the void.

She looked at him with eyes growing dim, her strength ebbing away like a fading tide. She reaches out, placing her hand softly on his right cheek. "It’s too late now, Chuuya," she said, her voice a fragile whisper. "Please, take care of my sister and the mafia... I leave everything to you." Her words, though soft, carried the finality of a conclusion drawn long before, as the life drained from her. Her hand hit the ground lifelessly.

" I didn't even have the chance to kiss you. To tell you how much I loved you. Don't leave me alone in this cruel world! " He buries his face into the crook of her lifeless neck sobbing and holding her close.

Chuuya's heart shattered as he clung to her, his voice breaking with anguished regret. "I didn’t even get the chance to hold you in my arms, to wake up to you by my side, to tell you how deeply I loved you. Don’t leave me... please..." His sobs wracking his body, a poignant lament for a love left unspoken and a future now lost.

"You lied to me... you promised me that you'd take care of yourself... please...Y/N..." His plea hung in the air, a raw cry against the encroaching silence of her fading life.

The love they had fought to maintain, the connection they had both yearned for—it had all came to an end. As the life drained from her, he could only hold onto the bittersweet memory of what they had shared, knowing that their story had ended in a way he could never have anticipated.

Days passed, each one marked by the hollow ache of Chuuya’s grief. The world continued its indifferent march, but for him, time seemed to stand still in the wake of her loss. He took on the mantle of the mafia boss, a role he had never imagined he would assume, and every decision he made was imbued with the weight of her absence. Her sister was safe, and the organization continued to function, but the emptiness within him remained a chasm that no amount of power or responsibility could fill.

Each night, the office became a sanctuary of despair. Subordinates whispered among themselves, noting the sound of Chuuya’s sobs echoing through the walls. The man who had once been a pillar of strength and resolve was now a figure haunted by his own sorrow, his once-unshakable confidence replaced by a profound and unrelenting grief. The weight of leadership was no solace, only a reminder of the price he had paid.

Every evening, after the office was empty and the city below was cloaked in darkness, Chuuya would make his way to her grave. It was a ritual born of both reverence and desperation—a desperate need to keep her memory alive, to bridge the gap between the living and the dead. There, in the quiet of the cemetery, he would sit beside her grave, speaking to her as if she could hear him.

He would recount the events of his day, the decisions he had made, the struggles he faced as the new head of the mafia. His words were a mixture of mundane details and heartfelt confessions, a dialogue with the shadows of the past.

"Today, we had another power struggle," he would say softly, his voice trembling as he knelt by her grave. "I managed to keep things under control, but it’s never the same without you. I find myself longing for your guidance, for your presence... I’m lost without you."

With each visit, his words became a testament to the depth of his love and the void she had left. The cemetery, once a place of finality, became a space where he could grapple with his grief, where the echoes of their shared past offered a semblance of comfort in the midst of his pain.

And so, Chuuya continued his vigil, bound by the promise he had made and the love that remained unspoken but ever-present. His heart, though heavy and broken, remained steadfast in its devotion to the woman who had been his greatest challenge and his deepest love.

Then came a day like no other. The world trembled as a force beyond comprehension began to assert its presence. A powerful opponent, whose ability was as arcane as it was formidable, had managed to tear through the fabric of reality itself. This adversary wielded a piece of the reality book, a relic of unimaginable power capable of opening gateways between dimensions. As the fabric of their universe rippled and shifted, a rift emerged, a slit in the world that shimmered with an eerie, otherworldly light.

Chuuya stood on the precipice of disbelief in a scattered forest, his heart pounding as the dimensions collided. The air crackled with energy, and he could feel the weight of something monumental happening. His gaze was drawn to the rift, which grew wider, revealing glimpses of another universe beyond—a place of stark contrasts and unfamiliar landscapes.

And then, through the growing breach, he saw her.

There she was, a vision that defied all logic and reason. She stood amidst the chaotic light, her form illuminated by the strange, shimmering energy of the other universe. She looked different, her appearance altered by the peculiarities of the alternate realm, yet it was unmistakably her. Her presence was a beacon in the tumultuous void, a sight that sent a shudder through Chuuya’s very soul.

For a moment, the world around him seemed to cease its relentless march. Time itself appeared to hold its breath as he gazed at her, his emotions a tempest of disbelief, hope, and an unspoken yearning. He reached out, his fingers trembling as if he could touch the fabric of reality and pull her through.

Her eyes met his, and in that fleeting, impossible moment, there was recognition—a silent communication that transcended the barriers of space and dimension. Her expression was one of both sorrow and solace, a reflection of the love and loss that had bound them together in life and now, impossibly, in death.

The sudden, disorienting realization that had hit them both was almost too much to comprehend. Standing at the edge of the rift, they locked eyes, their shared astonishment mirroring each other’s disbelief.

"Boss...?" they both said in unison, their voices echoing in the charged air of the fractured reality. The word was spoken with a mixture of reverence and confusion, as if the title held a gravity that transcended their own worlds.

A/N : Hope you enjoyed it, fellas! Let me know if I shall continue? I'm very excited to finish writing part 2!!!

➵Want more of Chuuya Nakahara ?

[novaursa]

I can’t get this idea out of my head and thought you’d be the right person to come to 😅I have this idea of reader being a targ/velaryon with a dragon. She is betrothed to a lord/prince/king who she has fallen in love with, but she is betrayed by them. maybe they wanted to steal readers dragon for themselves and only pretended to love them to gain the advantage of having a dragon.

I’ll let you decide how the ending is, if reader goes full on mad Targaryen or sorts it another way

Fire and Salt

- Summary: Euron pays the price of fire for his ambitions.

- Paring: targ!reader/Euron Greyjoy

- Note: The reader is the twin sister of Daenerys, and is bonded with Rhaegel.

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround

- A/N: I had to switch this to ASOIAF universe, because this man is only one I can think of who would play with his life like that. 🤣

The marriage had been a spectacle of fire and shadow, a union born of necessity and ambition. The Iron Islands’ winds, sharp and cold, whipped against your face as you stood beside Euron Greyjoy on the deck of the Silence. The sea roared beneath you, and in the distance, your dragon, Rhaegal, circled the skies, a green shadow against the storm-darkened clouds. You glanced at Euron, his smile like a blade glinting in the sun, his hand tightening around yours in a possessive grip.

“Your sister is pleased, I hope,” he murmured, his voice a purr of satisfaction. “Our marriage seals her alliance with the Ironborn. And I gain the most beautiful dragon rider in the world.” He leaned closer, his breath warm against your ear. “Tell me, my wife, do you find our arrangement to your liking?”

You tilted your head, meeting his gaze. There was something wild in his eyes, a madness that both repelled and fascinated you. “The arrangement suits Daenerys,” you replied, your voice steady. “And it suits me well enough.”

Euron chuckled, his fingers brushing the hilt of his axe as if testing its edge. “Well enough?” he echoed, his grin widening. “I think I can do better than that.” He gestured expansively to the Ironborn gathered below, their cheers a cacophony of loyalty and ferocity. “See, my love, they scream your name now as they scream mine. We are one, you and I. Rhaegal is mine as much as he is yours.”

Your dragon’s roar split the sky, and the cheers of the Ironborn faltered, their faces turning upward with awe and fear. You felt the heat of Rhaegal’s presence, the bond between you thrumming like a living thing. He was yours, and only yours, despite Euron’s delusions.

“You will never command him,” you said softly, a warning threaded through your words. “Rhaegal answers to no one but me.”

Euron’s eyes narrowed, the charm in his expression hardening to something more dangerous. “We shall see,” he said, his voice low and cold. “We shall see.”

The days that followed were filled with uneasy peace. You played your part as the dutiful wife, attending to your duties, speaking with the captains, and even sharing Euron’s bed. He was a tempest, a force of nature, and while you despised his arrogance and cruelty, there was something else there, something darker and more complex. You found yourself drawn to him, to the storm that raged within him.

But Euron had his own plans. You sensed it in his whispers to his priests, in the way his gaze lingered on you when he thought you weren’t watching. And then, one night, it happened.

He called you to the deck, the moon high and full above the sea, the air thick with salt and the promise of violence. The crew watched in silence as Euron stood beside the massive iron chains that held Rhaegal, your dragon’s bronze eyes glowing like distant stars in the dark.

“I have gifts, my love,” Euron announced, his voice carrying across the ship. “Gifts for you and for your dragon.” He gestured to the men at his side, who dragged forward a writhing, terrified figure. A priest of the Drowned God, his face twisted in fear and pain.

You stepped forward, your heart pounding. “Euron, what are you doing?”

“Making a bond, Y/N,” he said, his voice almost gentle. “Between myself and your beast. Blood magic, they say. The blood of a priest, the blood of the sea. It will bind Rhaegal to me, and to us.”

Rhaegal growled, his teeth bared, smoke curling from his nostrils. You felt his rage, his defiance. He was not some beast to be tamed. He was fire and fury, and he was yours.

“Stop this madness,” you said, your voice shaking with anger. “You will die if you try.”

Euron laughed, a wild, reckless sound. “Die? No, my love. I will become a god.”

He raised the axe, and the priest screamed. But before he could strike, Rhaegal lunged forward, breaking the chains as if they were threads of silk. His jaws closed around Euron’s arm, and the Ironborn lord cried out in shock and pain.

“Mercy!” he screamed, his face twisted in agony as Rhaegal’s teeth sank deeper, tearing through flesh and bone. “Mercy, Y/N, please!”

You stood still, your heart a stone in your chest. This man had sought to use you, to control you and your dragon. He had thought he could bind fire to his will, that he could take what was yours.

Rhaegal’s orange-yellow flames erupted, engulfing Euron in a blazing inferno. His screams echoed across the sea, and the Ironborn watched in horrified silence as their king burned. You watched, your face impassive, as the flames consumed him, as his body crumbled to ash.

When the fire died, there was nothing left of Euron Greyjoy but a blackened smear on the deck. The crew stared at you, their eyes wide with fear and awe. You turned to Rhaegal, your hand resting gently on his scaled neck. He rumbled, his breath hot against your skin, and you felt his anger recede, replaced by a fierce, unbreakable bond.

“Burn it all,” you commanded softly, your voice carrying in the stillness. “Burn the Silence. Burn every ship.”

Rhaegal roared, his wings spreading wide as he took to the sky. His flames rained down upon the fleet, yellow fire licking across the decks, devouring sails and masts. The screams of the Ironborn rose as the ships burned, the sea boiling with heat and fury.

You watched from the deck of the Silence, your face lit by the flames. This was the end of Euron Greyjoy’s ambitions, the end of his dreams of conquest and power. He had tried to bind you, to use you, and he had paid the price.

When the last ship sank beneath the waves, the fire hissing as it met the water, you turned away. Rhaegal descended, landing beside you with a thud that shook the deck. You mounted him, your hand resting on his neck as he spread his wings.

“Fly,” you whispered, your voice barely audible over the roar of the flames. “Take us home.”

Rhaegal launched into the air, the wind whipping around you as you rose above the burning fleet, above the wreckage of Euron’s ambitions. Below, the sea churned, the flames reflecting in its dark depths like a vision of hell.

You looked back once, at the ruins of the Ironborn fleet, at the shattered dreams of the man who had thought he could control you. And then you turned your gaze forward, to the horizon, to the future that awaited you.

You had come for power, for vengeance, and for love. You had found one, tasted another, and destroyed the last. But you were a Targaryen, and you would not be used. Not by Euron, not by anyone.

The sea stretched out before you, vast and unending, and you felt a thrill of freedom, of power, as Rhaegal soared higher, his wings beating against the sky.

You were fire, and blood, and vengeance. And the world would know your name.

[lullabyes22-blog]

Snippet - Locked Out - Forward but Never Forget/XOXO

Silco goes a step too far.

Forward but Never Forget/XOXO

Tip Jar

"Silco?"

"Hm?"

"Have you considered—" She stops, "—what Vi's death will do to Jinx?"

"I have."

"And? If you can't control her emotions, you won't be able to control the consequences."

"Jinx is resilient." Silco threads a cufflink through one sleeve, then the other. "She'll survive."

"And forgive you?"

"I'm all she has." 

Unspoken: All she'll ever have.

Sevika takes the glass of vodka, and slugs it back. Then she sets it down with a hard clink. Her expression flattens itself. He knows that look too. It's the look that says she's about to bare her throat to him, and she'll take his head off if he dares to go for it. He's struck by the threads of silver that've begun to glint in her pitch-black hair, and the crinkles at the corners of her eyes. Numberless days of combat, closeness, counsel, sewn together in a single thread: one that binds him to the past, and keeps the future in his crosshairs.

And yet she has not changed. Not at the core. Thirteen years of loyalty, heaps of bodies, and a steady acceptance of every fatality in between.

This time, he understands, the acceptance may not be as steadfast. 

"If Nandi showed up again," Sevika says. "Right now, right here, alive as the day she died, I'd have two reactions. One: I'd be so goddamn happy I'd break down crying. And two: I'd gut anyone who tried to put a hand on her again. I'd do it for her. I'd do it for me. Because it's taken me this long to get over it. It's taken me this long to even imagine a future without her in it."

Silco's scarred features are etched in the neon-striped gloom. The rest is shadow. Preternaturally still.

"I know you," Sevika goes on. "I know you'll never forget what Vander did to you. What it cost you. I know that, after all these years, you've built up a rage like nothing I've ever seen.  But what if he came back?  Would you still go through with it? Would you still want him dead?"

Silco says nothing.

He thinks of Vander as he'd seen him last: a hulk of spoiling meat. He thinks of Vander before the drowning: a blurred silhouette in red riverwater. He thinks of Vander on the Day of Ash: a behemoth in a backdrop of flames. He summons the memories up with tenderness and no hatred, even as he knows that if Vander were to resurrect now, try to threaten Jinx, he'd stab him ten times over. Wouldn't stop until the man was a corpse.

Again.

That's what the rage says. But the residue of man says: No, and no. It's a truth buried deep. Too deep to be excavated. So he leaves it alone, beneath the layers of sediment. Beneath the body of a dead man, and the promise of a better world

One Silco will carve out with his own bloodstained hands.

Crossing the room, Silco pauses at the door. The knob is bracingly cold against his palm. 

"Dead is dead," he states. "It's the living who incur the cost." 

And he'll make sure Vi pays hers.

Stock, lock, and barrel.

In the background, Sevika's stare burns into his skull. But her mouth stays shut. He leaves her like that: the woman who'd watched the dark swallow him whole, and chosen to stay beside him as the shadows lengthened. So long as it meant a city shining bright. So long as it meant home.

Now she's paying her own price: an empty flat, an empty bed, a dead man's silhouette. And a monster who'll never, ever fill any of them.

Huskily, she says. "Watch yourself."

"You know me," Silco answers.

"I do."

The words pass with a grim intensity, like a vow.

Or a renunciation.

Shutting the door behind him, Silco hears a moment's silence. Then hollow click of the deadbolt sliding home.

And he wonders, with a sudden twinge like a blade between the ribs, if Sevika has locked herself in.

Or locked him out for good.

[youryurigoddess]

The stuff dreams are made of, or the interesting case of Anthony J. Crowley

We’ve talked a bit about Crowley’s trauma and his way of reclaiming the narrative in the past, but it’s time for some deep dive into the story he’s trying to tell. A story that meanders through the fabric of time and space, slightly changing with the human fashion trends, but slowly and surely bringing the demon closer to a certain angel like the red thread of fate.

1793

Some stories start in a garden, some even Before the Beginning, but this one starts with an Arrangement. Or, to be precise, a little bit after that.

See, most of the iterations of Crowley we saw throughout the history until then didn’t delve too deep into human cultural tropes. If anything, they were the inspirations behind more or less prominent biblical figures, maybe some nameless villains matching his demonic provenance and role assigned to him by his employers.

But in the hustle and bustle of the revolutionary Paris, Crowley emerges as a prototype of the Scarlet Pimpernel — a chivalrous Englishman who rescues aristocrats before they are sent to the guillotine. Stan Lee famously called him “the first character who could be called a superhero”.

Sir Percy Blakeney, the main character of the novel and the West End play under the same title, leads a double life. Appearing as nothing more than a wealthy fop, in reality he’s a formidable swordsman, a quick-thinking master of disguise and an escape artist. Even his own wife, Marguerite, has no idea.

Unfortunately Marguerite is being blackmailed with her brother’s life to find and expose the wanted Pimpernel. She regrets betraying her husband the moment she's forced to do it and spends the rest of the plot working to save him. She does, they make up, and return together to England.

In Aziraphale and Crowley’s case there was just a short stop for crêpes. But what seems to be an inspiration of a specific scene might as well come up later in the wider perspective of the show, so keep in mind those fragments of the musical’s libretto:

We all are caught in the middle

of one long treacherous riddle.

Can I trust you?

Should you trust me too?...

We shamble on through this hell

taking on more secrets to sell

'til there comes a day

when we sell our souls away.

We seek him here, we seek him there,

Those Frenchies seek him everywhere!

Is he in heaven? Is he in hell?

Where is that damn elusive Pimpernel!

1941

The London Blitz is when we see a full-fledged iteration of the superhero Crowley performing dashing and heroic deeds under the literal cover of darkness and air bomb smoke. In a bespoke double-breasted suit and a fedora — still free from the unfortunate modern connotations from the internet culture — he’s clearly channeling Humphrey Bogart as a private investigator Sam Spade in The Maltese Falcon (1941) now.

It all starts with a woman and a simple plan gone wrong: Spade’s partner is shot dead, just like the man he was supposed to be tailing upon the request of a mysterious Miss Wonderly. And when a very soft-looking, sweet-scented man named Joel Cairo appears in his office willing to pay a hefty price for a "black figure of a bird", Spade starts not only a new job, but also his own quest for truth.

On the surface, The Maltese Falcon ends happily: the killer gets caught, and the hero winds up with the Falcon. But Spade's victory is completely hollow. The Falcon itself, originally meant as a symbol of loyalty, transforms into a symbol of a corrupting, futile, and self-destructive greed that makes people betray their own loyalties.

The treasure is just a worthless forgery and he’s fallen in love with the criminal — one of the first femmes fatales on screen. Despite his feelings for her and a kiss, Spade gives her up and submits the statuette as evidence, describing it as "the stuff that dreams are made of".

Remember the eagle lectern? The eagle was believed to be flying highest in the sky and therefore closest to heaven, symbolizing the carrying of the word of God to the four corners of the world. Aziraphale in the 1941 church scene is the closest to Heaven we’ve seen him on Earth. Just look at him: dressed in a smart, well-fitted coat with peaked lapels, symbolizing his Heavenly allegiance, and doing good this time not as a work assignment, but of his own accord. Being the closest to Heaven means the furthest and most unattainable for a demon like Crowley.

The Maltese Falcon is a metaphor for unattainability — things out of reach to desire and fight for, although never truly possess. It’s “the stuff that dreams are made of”. But Crowley secured the original — made of gold and encrusted with jewels, but hiding its real value under black enamel — eerily reminiscent of the demon himself and the unending kindness behind his inappropriately tight black clothing.

Quoting Michael Ralph — the production mastermind behind Good Omens — from the S01E04 “Saturday Morning Funtime” DVD commentary, “We wanted to tip our hat to the Maltese Falcon as being a precious object that no-one thought really exists but it does”. So we can safely assume that Crowley can and will achieve his dream in the future.

1967

Do you know what else happens in 1941 in Scotland? Ian Fleming, a British naval intelligence agent, meets with the famous occultist Aleister Crowley and asks him to lead the interrogation of newly imprisoned Rudolf Hess — a leading member of the Nazi Party in Nazi Germany appointed Deputy Führer — given the two men’s shared enthusiasm for the occult.

This meeting has a significant impact on Fleming’s work as a writer; Aleister Crowley becomes the inspiration for his first villain Le Chiffre and creates a blueprint for most of the James Bond’s franchise ever since 1953, the publication date of the novel Casino Royale.

Meanwhile our Anthony J. Crowley believes in himself not being the villain he’s usually and sometimes forcefully painted as, but a superhero in disguise. The character of James Bond in particular inspires him so much that he buys petrol to get the limited You Only Live Twice (1967) window decals for his Bentley, dons his own tactical turtleneck, and sets off to organize a heist like no other. Sean Connery style.

Like a typical superhero, Crowley’s once again both saved and betrayed by his love interest. Aziraphale leaves him with a thermos of Holy Water, a faint smile, and a hope that they’ll soon match their speeds to meet halfway at the Ritz. The cancelled heist is not an ending, but a promise of a new beginning. And the fact that UK decriminalizes homosexual acts in the very same year is more than telling in this regard.

2019

An exceptional situation calls for exceptional solutions, and what’s more important than the impending Apocalypse? Demon Crowley does his best to put the arsenal of his 20th century film inspirations to good use.

"Ask yourself, do you feel lucky?" Crowley drawls, clearly imitating (although slightly misquoting) the titular Dirty Harry (1971). He’s hoping to be menacing and making the point of being the one on the right side of the law and history.

Some situations require more than quoting action heroes is not everything though. He knows what to do:

A jeep was heading purposefully towards the gate, and it looked as though it was crowded with people who were about to shout questions and fire guns and not worry about which order they did this in.

[Crowley] brightened up. This was more what you might call his area of competence.

He took his hands out of his pockets and he raised them like Bruce Lee and then he smiled like Lee Van Cleef.

'Ah,' he said, 'here comes transport.'

When in doubt, Crowley acts. He transforms into a combination of a stoic martial arts phenomenon and a sardonic, menacing character. His smile alone — even on Aziraphale’s angelic face, as seen in one of the final cut scenes — seems to be enough to ward off evil spirits, angels, and humans alike.

But we all know that even as breathtaking performances as those can’t protect anyone from the cogs of the Heavenly machine and its plans.

2023

No wonder that Crowley’s tactical turtleneck comes back in style after mere four years of retirement with a self-introduction “Former Demon, hated by Heaven, loathed by Hell. How will our hero cope?”. Something has changed during this time; he’s more mature now, not playing pretend by hiding behind the usual veneer of sarcasm and movie quotes anymore. Finally comfortable with the fact that this is his own story and there’s no need to become anyone else than himself.

The bookshop fire and the Heavenly trial still seem to haunt the demon in a way that makes him realize what all humans know: that every hero is his own biggest enemy. His ultimate dream might effortlessly change into his greatest nightmare any moment now, and the only thing he can do about it is hover in a two-minute distance from the epicenter of his feelings. But Crowley has no time to work on it when a new mission appears, to protect his angel from Gabriel and the combined powers of Heaven and Hell. Even if this — rather ostentatiously — is the last thing he wants to think about at the moment.

Crowley tries to plan ahead, while his story slowly warps into a different genre due to Aziraphale’s interruptions. He eventually changes back into his usual Henley shirt after agreeing to swap places and guarding the bookshop while the angel is off to Edinburgh, collecting more clues. Did he finish his personal quest off-screen? Did he just give up on it in the whirlwind of matchmaking shenanigans? Remains to be seen.

In the S2 finale our master of disguise in yet another turtleneck proves that he can successfully infiltrate even the universe’s back office. We don’t know where he drives off in the end, but one thing is certain — he’s got a plan. And a world (and his dream) to save, like a superhero he is.

[fairymousse]

Why we thought the Eclipse was a big deal, and what it might be instead

I don't want to call people out, or ruin any fun, but looking back, the Eclipse that everyone was theorising about seems so obvious to me, that I'm feeling like I must be missing something. Because, I feel that the DLC gave us the exact confirmation I needed to be satisfied with it.

First up, I fully thought the Eclipse would be a big deal going in, because it seemed so important, especially with all the Godwyn theories going around. When I found the Death Knight, I was excited especially because of one small thing :

That halo, to me, looked so much like the eclipse symbol, I thought that's what it had to be, to tie up a loose thread from the base game. But it wasn't. The description of it reads:

The decayed golden wheel that adorns it represents their unbroken loyalty to Godwyn, he who became Prince of Death.

Which drew a connection in my head, but the Death Knight Armour confirmed it.

These knights, once Godwyn's personal guard, quested to find their transfigured master's cadaver surrogate—for the coming age of the Duskborn.

The sigil on the helmet was the Cursemark of Death, or the Mending Rune of the Death Price. But I instantly thought of the Eclipse. So, that got me thinking…

The Eclipse is probably just the Age of The Duskborn, right?

Like the signs are all there. The eclipse is “the protective star of the soulless demigods”, and The Age of the Duskborn is about integrating Death into the current Order. Eclipses seem to cause an artificial dusk, of sorts. Castle Sol is surrounded by Those who Live in Death, Tibia Mariners and Deathbirds, all of whom are linked to Death, and the Age of Duskborn particularly.

But then theirs the issue of Godwyn himself. The point of the Eclipse was to bring him back to life, but it failed. Well, then I remembered some obscure Fia dialogue:

"I will soon lay with Godwyn. And it will surely stir within me the new life of the golden prince, and first Dead of the demigods, as the rune of Those Who Live in Death. Please, do one thing for me. Brandish this child, my rune, and take for yourself the throne. Stay the persecution of Those Who Live in Death.”

So, yeah. Godwyn’s life is restored in the Age of the Duskborn. And that feels, well, satisfying, but also obvious. The big revelation here is that Miquella wanted to restore Godwyn’s soul, with some iteration of the Age of the Duskborn, but it failed. Maybe he didn’t have the two cursemarks, maybe it was to do with it not having a rune. But, the important thing is that the Eclipse never worked. And, I feel as if, there should be more here. But, then again, why?

A lot of the theories about the Eclipse came in the context of awaiting the DLC, where we were all looking for any stray plot thread, looking for anything of importance. We found one, and wanted it to be more. And that is actually what is so good about the theory community. We sometimes do just miss the forest for the trees.

If there’s something I missed, feel free to let me know, more than happy to be corrected.

[snowangie]

snow on the beach.

a finnick odair x fem!oc series

summary : in the heart of the capitol's glittering deception, Giselle Snow, granddaughter of president coriolanus snow, conceals her true emotions while working to undermine the hunger games. sent to district 4 after the 74th Games, she grapples with forbidden love for district 4's Finnick Odair. Snow on the beach is weird but fucking beautiful – Giselle is the snow, Finnick is the beach, an unexpected yet perfect harmony in the delicate ballet of their existence. As the quarter quell unfolds, panem becomes a battleground for love and rebellion, and Giselle faces a choice that will alter destinies and unravel the threads of her past.

warnings: swearing, smut, violence, mentions of death, mentions of torture, mentions of sex trafficking, weapons, trauma, mental illnesses

genre: angst, romance, forbidden love, violence, hurt/comfort

chapters: 1-flecks of lights , 2-life is emotionally abusive , 3-time cant stop me quite like u did

author’s note: i alrdy have six other chapters abt to be published real soon. the timeline will start from post thg and pre catching fire to the catching fire and the mockingjay pt 1 & 2 ! the story will get more interesting in the coming chapters i promise and i hope u enjoy reading :)

chapter 1 : flecks of lights.

The grandiose chamber of President Snow's office in the heart of the Capitol was adorned with opulence that mirrored the power he held over Panem. Giselle Snow, granddaughter to the president, entered the room with a careful blend of poise and trepidation. The air was laden with an unspoken tension as she approached the imposing figure behind the intricately carved desk.

President Snow, seated in a high-backed chair, regarded her with a scrutinizing gaze. “My lovely... Giselle,” he said with an air of authority. “Sit.” His tone allowed no room for objection.

Giselle took a seat across from her grandfather, her posture straight and composed. “You summoned me, Grandfather,” she said, her eyes meeting his with a mixture of deference and curiosity.

He leaned back, fingers steepled. “The districts are proving to be more troublesome than anticipated, especially after that girl, Katniss Everdeen, became a symbol of rebellion. We need to ensure our control, and I have a task for you.”

Giselle inclined her head, a silent acknowledgment of her readiness to fulfill any duty bestowed upon her.

“You're to leave the Capitol,” President Snow continued, his gaze piercing. "Head to District 4. Keep an eye on the situation there. We need loyalty, not rebellion."

Understanding the gravity of the assignment, Giselle nodded. “Of course, Grandfather. I will ensure District 4 remains in line.”

His lips curled into a semblance of a smile, though his eyes remained cold. “You'll do more than that, Giselle. You'll show them who holds the power. Be a presence they can't ignore.”

Giselle's brow furrowed slightly. “I understand the need for authority, Grandfather, but isn't there a risk of inciting further unrest if I'm too forceful?”

President Snow's expression hardened. “You underestimate the importance of control, my dear. A firm hand is required to maintain order. You'll leave tomorrow. Ensure District 4 understands the price of disobedience.”

As Giselle left the president's office, the weight of her new assignment settled on her shoulders. Little did she know, this journey to District 4 would alter the course of her life in ways she never could have anticipated. The Capitol's gleaming façade hid secrets, and Giselle, bound by duty, embarked on a path that would challenge her allegiance and reshape her understanding of the world she was born into.

The nightfall brought a quiet stillness to the Capitol, but within the luxurious walls of the Snow's residence, the atmosphere was anything but tranquil. Giselle stood by the window, her gaze fixed on the neon-lit skyline, a stark contrast to the darkened Districts she was about to enter. A single thought echoed in her mind - her departure for District 4.

She turned around from the window to a big mirror across her bedroom. In the mirror's gaze, Giselle Snow emerges, a vision painted in the hues of winter’s embrace—like the quiet elegance of snow, her every movement a subtle cascade of crystalline grace. Her porcelain skin, as pale as freshly fallen snow, conceals a myriad of emotions beneath a facade of composure. Blue eyes, reminiscent of the frigid depths, mirror the legacy she inherits from President Snow. Raven tendrils cascade like delicate snowflakes, framing a countenance that masks both strength and vulnerability. Giselle, standing at a gentle petite height, embodies the quiet power of a snow-covered landscape, where the surface serenity belies the tumultuous currents beneath.

As dawn painted the sky with hues of rose and gold, Giselle prepared for her journey. The Capitol, a city of excess and indulgence, presented a facade of perpetual celebration. Yet, beneath it, Giselle felt a sense of isolation. The grand parties, the extravagant fashion, the Capitol's obsession with appearances – all seemed distant, detached from the reality she was about to confront.

Descending the grand staircase of the Presidential office, Giselle observed Capitol citizens engaged in their daily routines. Perfectly coiffed and adorned in extravagant attire, they moved with an air of detached elegance. She exchanged polite nods and practiced smiles, concealing the underlying tension that accompanied her impending departure.

In the bustling streets, hovercrafts glided overhead, carrying with them the distant echoes of Capitol chatter. “Love really is a wonderful thing, isn’t it ? Look at the District 12 victors.” Giselle caught fragments of conversations discussing the recent Hunger Games, a macabre spectacle ingrained in Capitol culture. Her gaze lingered on the lavish advertisements depicting this year’s victors and their glory.

As she made her way to the Capitol's central hub, Giselle couldn't escape the feeling of being a pawn in a grand, calculated game. The Capitol, with its towering architecture and ostentatious displays of wealth, seemed like a gilded cage, and Giselle, despite her privileged status, yearned for something more.

Amid the swirl of Capitol life, Giselle pondered the stark contrast between her existence and the struggles faced by those in the Districts. The Capitol's obliviousness to the suffering of its subjects weighed heavily on her conscience. She questioned the morality of her grandfather's orders, grappling with the realization that her actions would directly impact lives beyond the opulence of the Capitol.

As her hovercraft lifted off, carrying her towards District 4, Giselle cast a final gaze upon the Capitol skyline. The dichotomy between the sparkling facade and the dark reality beneath became a poignant metaphor for the life she was leaving behind. Little did she know that her journey into the heart of Panem would unravel secrets, challenge loyalties, and ignite a spark of compassion that could alter the course of the Hunger Games.

On a crisp morning, Giselle found herself in the heart of District 4, standing outside a weathered building that served as a makeshift shelter for the elderly. Inside, a sense of community prevailed, but the challenges of age and limited resources weighed heavily on the occupants. Giselle, armed with a basket of provisions, stepped forward to lend a helping hand.

“Good morning, Alice,” she greeted, her tone warm and genuine.

The elderly woman, initially wary of the Capitol emissary, now greeted Giselle with a genuine smile. “Good morning, dear. You've been a blessing to us.”

As Giselle distributed essentials and engaged in conversations with the elderly residents, she felt a profound connection forming. The Capitol's representative had become a familiar face, not as a symbol of oppression but as someone who genuinely cared.

Amidst the camaraderie, a flashback flickered in Giselle's mind – a scene from her arrival in District 4. The initial reception had been marked by hesitancy and fear. The residents had seen her as an extension of President Snow's authority, an unwelcome reminder of Capitol oppression. Their guarded glances and whispered conversations had painted her arrival with skepticism.

Now, as she moved among them with empathy and compassion, Giselle recalled the gradual shift in perception. The people of District 4 had witnessed her dedication to easing their burdens, and the once-fearful gazes had transformed into looks of gratitude.

In the flashback, a moment stood out – a conversation with an elderly fisherman named Mr. O'Brien. “We don't trust your kind,” he had grumbled at the outset.

Giselle had responded with a soft-spoken determination. “Give me a chance to prove that I'm not here to perpetuate the Capitol's cruelty.”

Back in the present, Mr. O'Brien, now seated in the shelter, smiled at Giselle as she handed him a blanket. The warmth in his eyes spoke of acceptance earned through actions, not mere words.

The contrast between Giselle's arrival and the present scene was palpable – a transformation of fear into trust, of skepticism into gratitude. As she continued her efforts to assist the elderly in District 4, Giselle found purpose in bridging the gap between the Capitol and its districts, one compassionate act at a time.

Upon her arrival in District 4 a month ago, Giselle was ushered into a modest gathering hall where the victors of the district had assembled. Their eyes, seasoned by hardship and the harsh realities of the Hunger Games, bore a mix of curiosity and wariness as she entered. Among them, Finnick Odair stood out, an enigmatic figure with an air of both charm and caution.

Finnick, a living embodiment of allure and strength, possesses a sculpted physique that seems chiseled by the ocean's waves. His sea-green eyes mirrors the depth of the waters he hails from, and his sun-kissed hair carries whispers of the sandy shores. The 65th Hunger Games victor reminded Giselle of the beach, its warmth and unpredictability. The sand yields beneath his every step, mirroring the enigmatic allure that draws others in. His presence drawing the tide of emotions in an unpredictable rhythm with his exuding charisma.

Giselle felt the weight of their collective gaze as she approached, her every step echoing in the hushed room. The victors, each carrying the visible and invisible scars of their past tribulations, eyed her with a mixture of skepticism and guarded interest.

Finnick, his sea-green eyes piercing, regarded her with a cool detachment. She sensed an unspoken challenge in his gaze, a silent invitation to prove herself beyond her Capitol lineage.

One of the older victors, Mags, stepped forward, her weathered face etched with both resilience and kindness. “Welcome to District 4,” she said, her voice, thick with an accent that can hardly be understood, but a comforting contrast to the tension in the room. “We've been through a lot, and we hope you understand our apprehension.”

Giselle nodded, acknowledging the validity of their wariness. “I'm here to understand, to learn, and to help in any way I can.”

Finnick, leaning against a pillar with an air of nonchalance, finally spoke, his words laced with skepticism. “You're here to help yeah? That's a first.”

Giselle met his gaze with a steady determination. “I didn't choose the circumstances of my birth, but I can choose how I navigate them. Let me prove that not everyone from the Capitol is your enemy.”

The other victors exchanged glances, the room filled with an uneasy silence. It was Annie Cresta, another victor with a haunted expression, who broke the tension. “We've heard promises before. Actions speak louder than words.”

Over the following days, Giselle worked tirelessly to fulfill those promises. She attended to the needs of the district, engaged in conversations with the victors, and gradually earned their trust through her genuine efforts to understand their struggles.

The low hum of conversation and the rhythmic clinking of utensils created a subdued ambiance during the communal dinner in District 4. Giselle, a newcomer to this close-knit community of victors, moved through the room with a measured grace, keenly aware of the mixed reactions to her presence. Finnick, surrounded by fellow victors, couldn't help but watch her, his initial hostility giving way to a guarded curiosity.

Giselle, though aware of the scrutiny, maintained her composed facade. Her poise unfaltering. Finnick's eyes followed her every move, the dim lighting casting shadows on his usually sharp features. There was a weariness about him that matched the weight of their shared experiences. Mags, ever perceptive, nudged Finnick with a subtle smile, as if to say, “Give her a chance.”

As Giselle took a seat at the table, the tension lingered. The conversations around them continued, a mixture of stories from past victories and the haunting memories of the arena. Finnick's initial hostility began to wane, replaced by a flicker of curiosity. Giselle, sensing the shift, decided to break the ice.

“Hello, everyone,” she said, her voice carrying a mix of confidence and vulnerability. “I know I'm not what you expected, but I'm here to navigate this journey with you. Let's make the most of it, shall we?”

As the dinner continued, the atmosphere shifted subtly. Finnick’s hostility waned, replaced by a flicker of curiosity that mirrored Giselle’s guarded demeanor. The room, filled with the stories of past victories and lingering traumas, bore witness to a quiet turning point.

Their eyes met across the room, an electric charge passing between them, almost like some flecks of lights. It was as if the air crackled with unspoken tension, a silent understanding passing between them. In that fleeting connection, Finnick glimpsed something beyond the Capitol walls Giselle wore—a vulnerability, perhaps, or a shared acknowledgment of the fact that they were bound together by the challenges of the Games. The road to trust might be uncertain, but that initial exchange marked the beginning of a connection that held the promise of unexpected alliances in the days to come.

The coastal air in District 4 carried a sense of tranquility, a stark contrast to the undercurrent of tension within the district. Giselle, engrossed in helping a group of children repair a makeshift shelter, looked up as the oppressive presence of a Peacemaker leader, Captain Rawlins, loomed over her.

Rawlins, his uniform adorned with Capitol insignias, exuded hostility as he approached. “Giselle Snow,” he sneered, emphasizing her last name with disdain. “I've been hearing reports about your... tenderness toward these people. You forget your purpose here.”

Giselle, undeterred, straightened but maintained her composure. “My purpose is to ensure order and cooperation, not to crush the spirit of those who have already endured so much.”

Rawlins, a symbol of Capitol authority, leaned in with a menacing glare. “Your grandfather didn't send you here to coddle them. They need to fear the Capitol, not embrace it.”

As the confrontation unfolded, Finnick, who had been observing from a distance, couldn't ignore the palpable tension. His piercing gaze remained fixed on Giselle, his expression unreadable.

Giselle met Rawlins' hostility with measured defiance. “I believe in understanding before control. Fear only begets rebellion.”

Rawlins, unrelenting, hissed, “You'll do well to remember your place, Snow. This is not the Capitol. This is District 4, and they are not your equals. Next time you might not just be getting a verbal reminder.”

The Peacemaker leader retreated with a parting glare, leaving Giselle surrounded by a heavy silence. The onlookers, District 4 residents and victors alike, exchanged uneasy glances, aware of the delicate balance between the Capitol's emissary and the authority they represented.

Finnick, having witnessed the confrontation, approached Giselle with a softened expression. His sea-green eyes, once filled with skepticism, now held a glimmer of understanding. “ I guess, even the President’s granddaughter isn’t free.”

Giselle, her resolve unbroken, met his gaze. “No, Finnick. I'm not here to perpetuate the Capitol's cruelty. I’m not just Snow’s granddaughter. What Snow is and what I am is two different things. I want to make a difference. A good one.”

In that moment, the unspoken connection between them deepened. Finnick, seeing beyond the Capitol's facade, recognized Giselle's genuine intentions. The hostility of Rawlins had not only exposed the oppressive nature of the Capitol but had also illuminated the stark contrast between Giselle's compassion and the brutality she represented. As the whispers of dissent lingered in the air, Giselle and Finnick share a subtle nod of mutual understanding.

The day was overcast in District 4, the sky reflecting the somber mood that often lingered in the coastal district. Giselle, having spent the morning assisting in a community project, found herself near the docks where Finnick was overseeing a fishing expedition. The rhythmic sound of the waves crashing against the boats provided a backdrop to their conversation.

Finnick, usually stoic, allowed a rare vulnerability to surface. “Victors are supposed to be living in luxury, but I feel like a prisoner. Funny how I thought I would be free from everything when I won the games.”

Giselle, leaning against a dock post, looked at him with understanding. “Luxury can be its own form of confinement. Expectations, demands... it's a different kind of Hunger Games.”

He sighed, the weight of his past victories evident in his eyes. “They think they own us because we won. They parade us like trophies.”

Giselle nodded, recognizing the shared burden of being a pawn in the Capitol's game. “I never asked for this life either. Born into a system that expects me to follow its rules.”

As the conversation continued, they found solace in each other's shared experiences. Finnick spoke of the exploitation he endured, the Capitol's twisted expectations, and the toll it took on his sense of self. Giselle, in turn, shared her struggles with the oppressive nature of her lineage and the conflict she felt between duty and compassion.

Amidst the backdrop of creaking boats and the distant calls of seagulls, Giselle placed a reassuring hand on Finnick's arm. “You're not alone, Finnick. We're both prisoners of a system that values power over humanity.”

He looked at her, a mixture of surprise and gratitude in his eyes.

She smiled at him, the connection between them deepening. “Maybe it's time we redefine what's expected. We can be more than the roles they assigned us.”

As the day unfolded, Giselle and Finnick found comfort in each other's presence. Their budding friendship serving as a source of emotional support in a world that sought to define them by their pasts. They became each other’s flecks of lights in their own darkness. In this shared vulnerability, they discover a connection that transcends the Capitol's expectations, laying the foundation for a bond that will evolve into something deeper.

The evening was draped in hues of orange and purple as Giselle stood by the edge of the district, gazing out at the sea. Finnick joined her, and in the quiet solitude, the weight of their shared experiences hung in the air.

Finnick, usually guarded, allowed a moment of vulnerability. "I've never talked about this with anyone. The Hunger Games, the Capitol's demands... it changes you."

Giselle nodded, understanding the depth of his pain. "They exploit your victories, but they don't see the scars they leave behind. Victors are expected to be symbols, not people."

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a warm glow on the water, Giselle found herself sharing her own struggles. "I grew up in the Capitol, surrounded by extravagance. But the more I saw, the more I realized how empty it all is."

Finnick looked at her, his sea-green eyes reflecting a mix of empathy and shared pain. "I thought you were just another Capitol puppet, but you're different. I can't figure you out."

Giselle chuckled, a bittersweet expression on her face. "Maybe that's because I'm trying to figure myself out too. I don't want to be a pawn in their game. I want to change things, even if it's just a little."

In the quiet admission of their vulnerabilities, a subtle shift occurred. Their friendship evolved into a connection forged in shared pain and a mutual desire for change.

As the waves rhythmically caressed the shore, Giselle sought solace in the quiet companionship of Finnick. With a gentle touch, she rested her head on his strong shoulders, finding comfort in the shared silence that echoed the unspoken complexities of their lives. "Beyond these roles, Finnick, we are survivors. And perhaps, in that truth, we will find something that transcends it all."

Finnick, usually guarded, allowed a hint of gratitude to soften his features. "Maybe you're right, Giselle. Maybe we can be more than the Capitol's expectations."

In that moment, against the backdrop of the fading sunlight and the persistent sound of the sea, Giselle and Finnick found solace in the shared understanding that they were not defined solely by the Capitol's cruel narrative. The breakdown of walls, the admission of vulnerabilities, became the foundation for a connection that held the promise of mutual growth and perhaps, even love.

Days turned into weeks, and the connection between Giselle and Finnick deepened, unspoken emotions weaving through their shared moments. One evening, they found themselves on the same stretch of beach where they had first shared their vulnerabilities.

As they walked along the shoreline, the air thick with unspoken sentiments, Giselle broke the silence. "There's something about this place that feels different when you're here."

Finnick smiled, his gaze lingering on the horizon. "Maybe it's the freedom from the Capitol's expectations, even if just for a moment."

Giselle nodded, a subtle understanding passing between them. They had become each other's refuge in a world that demanded so much and gave so little.

Amidst the soft sounds of the waves, they sat on a weathered piece of driftwood, and Finnick's fingers traced absent patterns in the sand. “You know,” he began, his voice softer than usual, “I never expected to find... comfort in someone like you.”

Giselle looked at him, a mixture of curiosity and warmth in her eyes. “Comfort?”

Finnick hesitated, his sea-green eyes meeting hers. “Yeah. I mean, you get it. The struggle, the weight of it all. It's... comforting.”

She giggled, the sound carrying a tinge of vulnerability. “I never thought I'd find someone who understands this side of me. It's a relief, really.”

As the conversation flowed, the air seemed charged with an energy neither of them could fully comprehend. It was a dance of words, subtle glances, and shared silences, all painting a picture of something more profound than mere friendship.

In the days that followed, their connection grew more pronounced. Each shared glance and lingering touch weaving a tapestry of connection between Finnick Odair and Giselle Snow. In the quiet embrace of District 4's soft evening glow, their growing bond took center stage.

Under the subtle luminescence of district lights, Finnick's thoughtful eyes met Giselle's, and he spoke words that hung in the air like an unspoken promise. "You're changing me, Giselle Snow. And I'm not sure if I want it to stop."

Giselle, bathed in the gentle radiance of the night, met his gaze with a mixture of vulnerability and resolve. Her lips curved into a soft smile, a response that carried the weight of unspoken understanding.

"Maybe change is what we both need," she whispered, her words a delicate echo in the quiet night. The soft sounds of their shared laughter lingered, a melody that spoke of the intricacies of their evolving connection. In that moment, beneath the district lights, Finnick and Giselle found solace in the uncharted territories of change and the magnetic pull drawing them closer. The lines between friendship and something more blurred, evolving into a connection that surpassed the constraints of their predetermined roles.

One evening, Giselle and Finnick found themselves on the outskirts of District 4, away from the prying eyes of the Capitol and the curious gazes of the district's residents. The moon cast a gentle glow upon the landscape as they stood on a secluded stretch of beach.

The air was filled with a tangible tension, an unspoken understanding that their connection was evolving into something more profound. Giselle, looking out at the vast expanse of the sea, couldn't shake the feeling that they were standing at the edge of a precipice.

Finnick, usually composed, seemed to be wrestling with his own thoughts. As he looked at Giselle, a shared silence unfolded between them. In that unexpected moment of intimacy, their eyes met, and a connection deeper than words was forged.

Without a word, Finnick reached out, his fingers gently brushing against Giselle's hand. It was a subtle touch, a gesture laden with unspoken sentiments. In that brief contact, the weight of their shared experiences, struggles, and unexplored emotions seemed to converge.

Giselle, her heart echoing the rhythm of the waves, looked at him with a mixture of vulnerability and understanding. The touch lingered for a moment longer than necessary, a silent acknowledgment of the bond that was growing between them.

As they continued their quiet stroll along the shoreline, a shared secret hung in the air. Finnick, breaking the silence, spoke softly. "There's something about the sea at night. It makes everything feel... honest."

Giselle nodded, the moonlight casting a glow on her features. "Maybe that's why we find ourselves here, away from the facades and expectations."

In the midst of the tumultuous waters of Panem, Giselle and Finnick discovered that unexpected moments of intimacy held a transformative power. Whether it was a shared glance, a fleeting touch, or the exchange of unspoken truths, these moments deepened their connection, creating a bridge between two souls navigating the complexities of their world.

As they continued to walk along the beach, the sea whispering its secrets to the night, Giselle and Finnick found solace in the unexpected intimacies that wove their connection into a tapestry of shared moments and unexplored emotions. Neither both of them fully realized the depth of their emotions, but the unspoken understanding between them spoke volumes, paving the way for a love that was quietly blooming amidst the complexities of their world.

[jovialmoonprincess]

AU: Journey to Redemption (Part 7)

Loving him was Red

Coriolanus Snow x Fem!reader 

First Part. / The Winter Ball / Champagne Problems / Frost and Thorns / The Storm Within / In Silence, We Crumble / Loving him was Red

Summary: Y/N meets the mysterious woman again and ends up accepting a proposal from Coryo.

Warning(s): None, enemy to lovers, back in time, destiny, Snow being in love, Snow being Snow, possible grammar and spelling mistakes

Y/N was so hurried that, upon getting off the train, she barely noticed the mysterious woman waiting for her at the station.

"Y/N," the woman called, and she recognized her instantly.

"Sorry?" The woman's appearance, deeply engraved in her mind, evoked recent memories.

"How are you?"

"I have so many questions," Y/N said as she approached the woman, somewhat desperate. This month had been the most confusing of her life.

"I know, dear. Come with me." The woman guided Y/N to the quieter part of the station. "You can ask."

They sat close. Y/N wanted to know many things: the woman's name, if she was from the future or the present, what her future would be like, among others.

"Am I doing something right? Has anything really changed?" She didn't know if the woman could know that, but it was the question that tormented her the most. And it didn't seem like the woman would stay for long.

"Y/N, everything has changed since the moment we first saw each other." The vague answer didn't please Y/N. The woman noticed the girl's confused expression and added, "Everything I showed you happened over and over again. I know it by heart." The woman spoke as if it were something tiresome for her to repeat.

"Coriolanus wins the Games. He's intelligent and cunning. But the real game begins when he is sent to District 12 as a Peacekeeper. He tries to create a new life, a new image, but the past cannot be erased." The vision of Coriolanus shooting the birds resurfaced in Y/N's mind. She remained silent, allowing the woman to continue.

"He gets involved with Lucy Gray. A romance that seems destined, but things fall apart when Lucy discovers Coriolanus's role in the death of Sejanus Plinth, her best friend. Unknowingly, he sealed Sejanus's fate by denouncing him to the Capitol."

Y/N swallowed hard, feeling the weight of betrayal and tragedy. "He… he betrays his own friend?"

The woman nodded with regret. "Coriolanus's past haunts him, and Sejanus's shadow hangs over him. Lucy Gray, discovering the truth, can't overcome the betrayal. Their relationship crumbles, leaving Coriolanus with the weight of his choices."

Y/N was immersed in dark thoughts. "This is horrible. He condemned his own friend to death?"

"The line between ally and enemy, loyalty and betrayal, is thin in the Hunger Games and in the Capitol. Coriolanus, in his quest for survival, will pay a high price. But you, Y/N, have a role to play in all of this." Y/N's eyes widened in surprise.

The woman smiled enigmatically. "The future is woven by many threads, and each choice, each action, creates a new plot. You have the power to change things, to influence events. The question is: what will you do with this information?" Y/N felt a knot forming in her stomach. Faced with a crossroads, she understood that the choices she made would shape not only the destiny of Coriolanus Snow but also her own.

"I…" she murmured, "I don't know."

The woman reached out, gently touching Y/N's shoulder. "The answers will unfold at the right moment. Keep in mind that life is not just a dichotomy between black and white; it moves in shades of gray, where true choices manifest. Trust your intuition and strengthen yourself. When the boy is close, you will need to take a firm stand, without concessions. Treat him as the antagonist that destiny will turn him into. Don't tolerate his selfish actions, but also avoid closing the doors to the possibility of understanding. Find the balance between assertiveness and discernment, as it is in that space that true influences will shape the course of events."

Y/N involuntarily closed her eyes, and when she opened them, the woman was no longer there. Leaving Y/N alone with her reflections and the weight of the revelations she carried. The destiny, now, was more intertwined than ever, and Y/N felt the urgency to make decisions that could alter the course of events.

She then thought about what the woman said, about what ended Coryo and Lucy Gray's relationship. If she could prevent Coriolanus from betraying Sejanus, that could change everything. However, she wondered how she could achieve such a feat. She wouldn't have the possibility to follow him to the District after the Games. She needed to find a way to influence him before, to the point where, in addition to questioning the idea, he would choose not to betray Sejanus.

------------------------

Y/N woke up in her bed as usual, the events lingering in her mind like an enigmatic dream. She got up, changed her clothes, and noticed her nightstand. There was a glass of water with the two roses she had taken from the boy. She followed her morning routine and hurried out of her apartment towards the block of classrooms.

After class, she went straight to the study room, where she found only a blond boy sitting at one of the tables. She thought about leaving as quickly as possible, but he was already standing, calling her.

"Y/N!" The blond exclaimed, interrupting her.

Y/N didn't need to talk to him now; she wanted some time to think. Besides, she had slept very poorly that night.

"I need to talk to you." Oh, now he wanted to talk? A wave of nervousness washed over the girl. Did each of his calls demand an immediate response, as if ignoring them could unleash disastrous consequences? Her patience was about to run out, but if there was a chance to help the boy, it would be on her terms, staying true to herself. She decided to ignore the calls.

Coriolanus was faster, grabbing her arm, making her turn involuntarily. For a moment, she forgot that one step of the boy was equivalent to three of hers.

"I wanted to apologize," he said, like an orphaned puppy in a pet shop wanting to be adopted. Too bad because Y/N didn't believe.

"Do you think words fix everything, don't you? You can hit someone, then just do your tricks, flip your hair, and it's over?" She gestured while venting. "I don't believe in any word that comes out of your mouth, Coriolanus. You lie. You deceive. How can you? Talking about the districts, criticizing their way of dealing with grief." She seemed genuinely hurt by this.

"I know, I know, and I've reflected a lot on it since that day. I was wrong."

"There should be a District 14 just for people like you, shallow and soulless." Y/N's voice was full of provocation. "You and Clemensia can be mayor and first lady there, what do you think?" The boy just laughed. Wouldn't the Capitol be that place?

"How did you know? I'm here in person to invite you to be my first lady." The boy approached dangerously with a smile on his face.

"Well, I refuse. We don't make a beautiful couple," the girl teased. This made the boy approach even more, placing a hand on her waist and pulling her closer.

"Unfortunately, I have to disagree with you," he replied quietly, his voice raspier than usual, staring at her rosy lips without disguising it. Y/N's breath was already uneven.

"Sorry for my harsh words. I don't expect you to forgive me immediately, but I ask you to pay more attention to my actions from now on. Because it will be through them that I will redeem myself."

"Let's see," the girl replied. Now it was the boy's turn to put a rose behind her ear. Another one for his collection of roses in her apartment. One thing caught her attention: the rose in her hair was red. Could she see it in her peripheral vision?

"Red?" Snow's roses were always white. Y/N raised an eyebrow, surprised by Coriolanus's gesture. There was something different in the boy's expression, a sincerity she had never seen before. Perhaps, just perhaps, he was trying to change.

"I thought it would suit you better," he said. She really wanted to believe that the boy had gone up to the rooftop and chosen a special rose to give to the girl. But it was very hard to believe. What color would he give to Lucy Gray? The girl stepped back suddenly. "I wanted it to be different this time," Coriolanus admitted, his serious gaze meeting hers. "Snow's roses are white, but… I thought maybe it was time to change."

Y/N raised an eyebrow, surprised by the explanation. Coriolanus Snow, the boy she knew, was defying family traditions. Was this a genuine sign of change?

"Coryo, I know you had just come from the arena. It was very difficult. But you didn't lie. You said something that was really inside you. And that's what scares me the most." Coryo didn't know how to respond; he wanted her to believe him. He wanted to retort, speak, shout, anything that would make the girl stay there, but Y/N had already moved away and continued toward the exit.

Coriolanus watched Y/N walk away, feeling the weight of her words and the complexity of the emotions the girl carried. A sudden impulse made him follow her, determined to defy expectations. "Wait, Y/N," he called, "I know words alone don't change the past, but I'm willing to prove that actions speak louder. Accept this: one night, where I can show you that I'm not just empty words."

He seemed really desperate.

"Okay," was all the girl said.

"Saturday night, I'll pick you up at 7 pm."

_______________________

Sorry for the delay, these days have been very busy for me. I had a huge creative block. This chapter is more for contextualization but the next one will have a lot of emotion and fluff <3

Taglist: @shari-berri @h-l-vlovesvintage @tea-bobba @daenerysqueenofhearts @commanderfreethatdust @glxzillx @write-from-the-heart @ireallydontcareanymorebrooo @junipercloud03 @larissareadings @qardasngan

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[l0velylecter]

If your requests are open... could you write headcanons of the cod boys with a fem s/o who loves flowers? Like everything she owns is a floral print, she grows her own flower garden, she usually wears long flowy floral print skirts, etc. Do you think they would ever surprise her with flowers? Or do that cliche but lovely thing where a man will pick a wildflower and put it in the women's hair. 💓 Sometimes I feel a little silly over how much I love flowers, I let out a little gasp ever time i see them. 💐

— the cod : mw ii men + s/o who loves flowers ! characters : simon ‘ghost’ riley, john ‘soap’ mactavish, alejandro vargas, captain john price, phillip graves, kyle ‘gaz’ garrick, rodolfo parra fandom : call of duty modern warfare ii tags : f!reader rating :  g for general , sfw!

01 | Knowing how lonely and anxious you get when he leaves for missions, Price decided to build you a garden, knowing it would take your mind off worrying. And it worked: by summer, the whole backyard was in full bloom, a reflection of Price's love and your devotion, seen in every petal. The sight of napping by one of the chairs with a book open by your lap or trousers stained with dirt from being knee-deep in a cluster of bellflowers, cottage pinks, and delphiniums is always something that Price looks forward to when he gets home. 

02 | When you told Soap how much you loved flowers, he went above and beyond to show you he remembers. You'd open the door to greet him home — and he'd have a bouquet in his hand, hoping that the pattern of roses, thistles, and bluebells would distract you from the broken nose he got on duty ( you still scolded him.) " Flower delivery for my bonnie lass !" He'd announce playfully, never failing to make you smile each time. And whenever you show him your new skirt or blouse, he'd be ready with a compliment, telling you dreamily how the floral pattern matches your eyes.

03 | You weren't surprised at how good Gaz was with plants, nurturing and gentle by nature: his softer traits tend to get overlooked because of his profession. But when he's home with you, helping you change the pot of your carnations, you can't help but melt at how gentle he's being. He's growing into a bigger mother hen than you when it comes to your flowers— " I think we should take the lads ( the pot of blue and purple lobelias) out for some sun, love." Making the best of his time home, the two of you would often garden and go hiking together, stopping by the trails to pick some violets on the way home. 04 | It's obvious from the beginning that Alejandro is a roses man. Romantic and down-right chivalrous, he always comes home with a bouquet of them: a cluster of classic, deep, red petals between his fingers. The colonel loves how sweet they smell on you, buying you attar oil from the market so you can thread it through your hair or pour some into the bath when you're both unwinding against the warm water. Infatuated with how beautiful roses look on you, Alejandro decided to gift you a simple, golden necklace with a rose pendant hanging from it. And you're more than happy to show it off around your neck. 05 | Too shy to approach you, Rodolfo started leaving flowers instead. He'd place the simple banquet of sunflowers in your office, always waiting from afar to watch you carry it back home from base with a smile on your lips. Eventually, he was caught and had to come clean. You were far from angry — if anything, you were in love. Even when you start dating, he still brings home sunflowers, a symbol of faith, loyalty, and adoration. His face burned when you decided to tuck one behind your ear. Plus, Rodolfo finds it endearing how you gasp every time he comes home with fresh flowers as if he hasn't been doing it forever now, chest physically aching from how cute you looked. 06 | When he's around you, Graves turns into a big softie. It's almost hilarious how quickly he switches from a lean, mean commander to a man who would re-paint your entire room with flowers just because you love them so much. You'd pick him up at the airport, and he'd be the one bringing a bouquet — " What kind of man doesn't bring home flowers for his girl, hm?" And on the mornings when you'd wake up, and he'd already be gone, having to fly for D.C. on an emergency call, you'd see a vase of white tulips and pink carnations resting above the dining table. A silent yet beautiful way for him to say he's sorry, (and how can you not forgive him when he still finds time to give your flowers, no matter how busy he gets?) 06 | You know that Ghost is not the one for grand romantic gestures, understanding that he's reserved and somewhat hesitant when loving you. Because of this, reassurance is often hard to get from Simon. You would have expected communication to be nonexistent when he's a man of few words, but if anything, it's always constant: proven by the different flowers he'd get for you, knowing that it is a language you can both understand. After arguments, he'd say sorry by leaving white orchids by your bedside table. While 'I love yous' were expressed through red-white carnations and peonies. And with Simon, it's about paying attention to the little things, like when he walks up to you out of the blue, silent yet gentle as he tucks a chrysanthemum behind your ear. He'd stand there and admire you, hands still resting under your chin, " Fucking hell... you're beautiful, you know that?" From then on, you've been hard at work in your little garden, knowing that with it, you've made him a home to come back to.

a/n : so sorry for the late response anon, university has been kicking my ass, but thank you for requesting ! when i tell you i had so much fun writing this (i’m such a sucker for pure gentle fluff), what a creative and lovely request, i can already tell you’re wonderful by just this. i hope you enjoy it !! <3 

[wobster109]

Dr. Ratio and Aventurine would have ✨sparkling✨ chemistry

First things first: are they in love? As of Penacony 2.0, no.

(But the potential is there.)

To begin with, what sort of person is our esteemed doctor? Lots of people online say that he'd be angry with someone like March, but in my opinion I can't see it being true. She's no genius, and he probably finds it tiresome to try to teach someone who's just not getting it. But that's an impersonal sort of irritation. She wasn't born a genius, and he wouldn't do something so pointless as to begrudge someone their birth. He wouldn't dislike her for who she is or what she stands for.

I believe that he reserves his scorn for geniuses who fritter away their genius. People like Ruan Mei who have the intellect, and spend it creating cat cakes and Scaracabaz while caring about no one. To some degree, Herta and her Simulated Universe too, researching the Aeons while showing complete disinterest in the humans aboard her space station.

Look at his own research: solving a planet's energy crisis! Curing a previously incurable illness! Teaching! It's all very noblesse oblige of him: a life of service, despite his insufferable attitude.

Aventurine is clearly brilliant, what with having won a gamble against Fate. One does not simply get lucky against Fate—you must engineer your hand to outwit Fate itself. (Those of us who play Genshin—we saw how hard Focalors had to work for it!) Knowing who he is, who he was, where he's come from, and what he's made himself into, Ratio understands that nothing Aventurine does is ever frivolous. It's all deadly serious, and deadly. The foundation for respect is there.

But at the same time, all that gambling and social schmoozing? The risk, reward, and hanging by a thread? It probably baffles our blunt, direct Dr. Ratio. It's completely foreign to him, a way of thinking that he'd never choose and cannot fathom. I imagine they'd be at odds with each other.

So, you've got begrudging respect and a hint of fascination.

All it takes is one breathless, death-defying adventure together to make it kindle.

The more tenuous direction is the other way around: would Aventurine even take notice of Dr. Ratio? Sure, the man's beautiful as a statue with an intellect to match, but Aventurine's surrounded by powerful IPC officials. Probably a bunch of brilliant minds too. Aventurine's a man of many so-called "frrriends" and no friends—perhaps, to him, Ratio is just another useful, but ultimately disposable, tool.

Or perhaps not. There are a few traits that might endear our Doctor to a world-weary gambler.

Sincerity - Ratio is blunt, direct, and cannot be bribed. What he says is what you get. Might be a nice change of pace for Aventurine, who's more used to the kind of conversations he has with Himiko, where they dance around each other and their meanings are implied.

Stability - Aventurine's had to fight for everything he has, including his life. What if he's offered a place to stay (he's already crashing in Ratio's hotel room after giving his own to Trailblazer), or perhaps whatever price of his freedom paid. Perhaps simply the promise of a dependable ally. Would he turn into a puppy, roll over and offer up his loyalty?

Noblesse Oblige - This is a bit of a stretch, but the IPC doesn't really take on projects for the sake of doing good. Ratio's entire modus operandi seems to be for the betterment of all peoples. It's as foreign to Aventurine as social schmoozing is for Ratio. Perhaps Aventurine finds it fascinating, interesting, or even a bit noble.

This is all speculation, but. . . part of me believes that HSR wouldn't make them roommates of happenstance for nothing.

In closing, I leave you with this bizarre consumable—what could it mean? Only time will tell.

[silli---lilli]

Part 1 - Blind Soap and Wounded Ghost/Soulmates

I'm making twitter vote in a 'Choose Your Own Adventure' style thread :) This was part one, part two will be up soon based on their choices.

Johnny has been temporarily blinded, Ghost had a private room to deal with his wounds until Soap gets moved in. Ghost has the mark of a soulmate appear.

TW: Injury, depression

With his face uncovered, Ghost didn’t feel like a ghost at all. He felt like a weak, ugly man. He hated that when the nurses and doctors met his eyes, they could see his crooked nose and scarred lips and the face he so badly wanted to bury. He’d always hated it, it looked like his father’s, it reminded him of all he’d lost and he felt that the name of everyone he’d let down, the declarations of all his crimes were painted on his skin. His mask was his power, a chance to prove who he was and what he was capable of in spite of his face.

Ghost had laid in the empty hospital room for…longer than he cared to remember. He was capable of nothing. He’d failed the mission Price had sent him to do. The man had been to visit him several times, he always looked tired and strained. Carrying Ghost’s weight.

The nurses that came in were quiet and respectful, he guessed because he was terrifying and cold, and he had little motivation to be much else. The room he was in was what they called “semi-private”, split into two by a thin curtain but by some blessing from the gods, he’d been alone since he got there. He was in a quiet wing, his deep, dark, massive, never ending thoughts were rarely interrupted.

He’d been there for two weeks already, one unconscious. He was that way when his team found him after being dragged from a vehicle accident and tortured.

They were treating him for a head wound, internal bleeding, various broken bones, and an infection in one of his many lacerations that almost killed him. All of it hurt, and none as badly as letting his team down. He had always worked alone, mission by mission, but it wasn’t ‘alone’ like this. Alone, working, he didn’t have to think about anything but the task at hand. Now, he thought only of tasks he may never do again.

He was able to move about a bit on his own, and sometimes he traveled to the window, only to find the city view gave him no comfort at all and the light hurt his eyes. He had a few more weeks of treatment and inpatient rehab if the doctors were correct and he was already wondering just how hard that concrete might hurt from a height like that.

He was contemplating it again one night, knowing he carried either too much cowardice or too much loyalty to let himself jump. It never truly got dark in a hospital, and despite there being little action in his little corner of it, it was never truly quiet either. His pain usually made him exhausted, the meds made him sleep, but that night he was awake to hear them bring someone else in.

Ghost sat up, silent, as they wheeled a dark headed man through the door. He was obviously conscious but silent and his head was wrapped in a white bandage. It was over his eyes and a pang of pity hit Ghost in the chest. He hated nearly everything his eyes saw, but giving it up would be horrifying.

On her way out, one of the nurses he’d grown used to gave him a small smile. “Looks like you got yourself a roommate after all.”

She didn’t stay long enough to tell Ghost the man’s name, or why he was there, or for how long, she took one look at his dead stare and left. The man didn’t bother introducing himself and Ghost watched him try and get comfortable, completely unashamed, knowing he wouldn’t have a clue.

He felt doomed, spiraling now that the one saving grace of his predicament had been taken from him. But he lay still anyway and eventually slept. The doctor came in the next morning, making him sit on the edge of his bed and move his feet. His reflexes weren’t back, his fever kept fluctuating, his body was betraying him.

The doctor seemed more optimistic than he felt, though, and Ghost quickly escaped to the shower once he was gone. He avoided looking in the mirror as best he could, knowing he would need a shave soon and putting it off. He didn’t know why it would matter.

When he came back out, his back aching, he stood in the doorway of their shared space and stared at the other man. His ‘roommate’, the nurse had called him. He had never had one by choice and he supposed he never would. His head was turned toward the window, but his eyes were still covered.

“I can still hear ya, if that’s what you’re wondering.” He said, surprising Simon and never turning. He had a deep Scottish accent, and Simon felt his face flush. He’d been caught.

“Noted.” His voice sounded rough, as it should, he’d barely used it.

The other man’s face never changed. Simon sat in his bed for a while but the presence of another human gave him the innate sense that he shouldn’t be idle. He didn’t have much else to do and he found himself flipping through a book laying on the table near his head. He didn’t see any of the words, though. He was distracted by how his roommate’s head turned to listen to him.

Eventually he got up and went back in the bathroom. He hadn’t really needed to, but his skin felt too tight and wrong shaped. Maybe it was having his space invaded, maybe it was seeing someone suffering worse than he was, but he was on edge, he couldn’t get his heart rate down, and he had a new, throbbing ache in the back of his right arm.

He had thought it was paranoia so he decided to use the mirror for once. Gingerly slipping out of the plain white t-shirt he wore, he turned and looked at the skin on the back of his arm. For all the jagged, discolored scarring on his body, that space had been fairly clear. It was no longer.

Vertigo gripped him, he thought, though he would later realize it was shock and he swallowed what little was left in his stomach lest his cellmate learn of his weakness. There was a new scar there, it looked fairly fresh, a ragged circle, deep, hard to heal. A bullet hole. And a mark.

A mark Simon Riley had both known he didn’t deserve and prayed he never acquired. To be marked with another person’s scar, to feel their pain, it was a tie he couldn’t sever even if he cut the whole arm off. His soulmate was out there somewhere, suffering, and he had to know so against his will and wishes.

It was a horrible system, it gave them no way to find each other except by the physical marking. Quickly, attempting to make no sound, he searched his body for other marks he may not have noticed. None appeared but there was time yet. And he didn’t want the want it instilled in him. He didn’t want to be connected to anyone else, even by choice, but especially not by fate.

He walked back out, strolling back to his bed like nothing had happened even though the surprise and horror of the realization made his eyes burn. The other man turned slightly toward him but said nothing. Their meal was brought a bit later and Simon watched the man eat, judging the extent of his injuries. His hands seemed fine, and clearly his hearing was.

“So what are you in for?” That Scottish lilt caught Ghost off guard again and he turned quickly with a frown the man would unfortunately not see.

“Not interested in chatting.”

The man just nodded, a slight smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. “The nurse said that might be true. She also told me you’re a soldier. Suppose that makes two of us.”

Simon didn’t answer, going back to his flavorless meal. He’d eaten slop for most of his life but he’d kill for a real breakfast or a cake with his tea.

“My name’s John.”

Simon stared ahead at the wall. He knew it was a peace offering of sorts, but he was anonymous to the man and he planned to stay that way.

“Ghost.”

The dark headed man nodded and went on with his meal without speaking. Simon had horrible nightmares that night but they woke him in a choked, cold sweat, as usual and for some reason his first thought was hope that he hadn’t woken the other man. He turned slowly to find him still sleeping.

He was unsure why but he didn’t want the other man to know how weak and ugly he was, even if he couldn’t see him.

A doctor came in the next morning to visit John. Simon was respectfully still and quiet but he listened in like a rude schoolboy.

The man had been caught in crossfire, taken a few bullets to his chest plate and taken a bad fall, hitting his head and resulting in complete blindness that they hoped was temporary. His other injuries were superficial, including two broken ribs and a sprained wrist that Simon had noticed was wrapped when they brought him in.

They uncovered his face to take a look at his eyes and then he was gawking, losing his discrepancy entirely. He wanted to know what he looked like, he wanted to know if his blindness was legit. All he saw was a handsome, younger man with incredible blue eyes that refused to follow the prompts of the doctor before him.

They discussed for a moment whether there was a need to cover them back up and deciding the light in the room wouldn’t be an issue, they left them. There was some hope he would begin to pick up on light and motion and they wanted to let the muscles work. He looked serious and he was humorous and respectful in his answers.

But Simon watched his eyes turn down and stare blankly at his lap when they left, he sat still a long time, his hands fidgeting with the edge of his blanket. Simon wondered why he was alone so suddenly that he nearly said it out loud. Even he had Price by his side here and there, John looked like someone who should have a mother or a wife or some buddies dropping in.

And yet, the next two days, no one came, and that awful, forlorn look never left his face. He didn’t know Simon had stared at it long enough to get tired of it, to be annoyed by it and wish it gone.

“Busted lung, sepsis, amongst a few other things.” John jumped visibly and turned toward Simon’s voice.

“What?” Now his voice was rough, too, he certainly hadn’t kept it warm in the days since he’d been there.

“You asked what I was in for.”

John’s face was incredulous, he didn’t bother hiding his wide eyes as he turned further toward ghost. The question had come days ago and John hadn’t heard his voice since he asked it. He chuckled, closing his eyes.

“Alright, then.”

“I’d offer you something to read, but I don’t share well.” Ghost said, in that same deadpan tone.

John chuckled again, relaxing back into his pillows. “Thought you said you don’t want to chat.”

“I don’t.”

“You were on a mission, then.”

Simon suddenly didn’t want to look at him. He couldn’t be seen but it was too personal, questions like that. He didn’t know why he spoke in the first place, and now he owed the man an answer. The scar at the back of his arm ached egregiously, the pain medication seeming not to help which made sense considering it was not his pain. He gripped it with his other hand absentmindedly. He needed the distraction terribly.

“Vehicle accident.”

Johnny nodded, choosing not to pry. “I fell.”

“I heard.”

The nurse brought their food again, and they were quiet until later that evening. Ghost had been lying there, wallowing in confusion and heavy guilt. He’d failed his team, his mission, his soul, which he had pretended was dead, was now someone else’s burden and he’d never been more sorry in his life. No one deserved it. His fingers kept gently playing at the mark he could only see in the mirror he loathed.

“I apologize for taking up half your space.” Simon startled at the low voice, and hated himself for it. “They said there is a window. If you wanted to come and look out, you could. I don’t mind.”

He stared at the ceiling. “Not much to see.” He clenched his eyes shut then, guilty for that, too. He shouldn’t take the concrete sight for granted. “Sorry.”

John smiled, Simon heard it in his voice. “The Ghost feels remorse.”

Simon took a deep breath. “You have no idea.”

[lilia-calderu]

I'm Lilia Calderu, a sorceress with a deep connection to the mystic arts and ancient magic. I come from a long line of practitioners, where spells and incantations were passed down like family heirlooms. I’ve spent my life mastering the arcane, bending reality to my will, and protecting the balance between realms. I’m known for my vast knowledge of spellcraft, specializing in enchantments and the manipulation of mystical forces.

Though my magic is formidable, I’ve never lost sight of the responsibility that comes with such power. I’ve lived through many eras, watched civilizations rise and fall, and seen the cost of misused magic. My focus has always been to use my abilities wisely, acting as both protector and guide to those seeking to learn from me.

While I may appear distant to those who don’t know me, my solitude comes from a place of vigilance. There are forces always looking to disrupt the natural order, and it’s my duty to guard against them. I prefer to operate from the shadows, keeping a close watch on the mystical threads of the universe, intervening only when necessary.

In my journey, I’ve encountered many heroes and villains alike, but my loyalty is to the craft and the preservation of magical harmony. There is always a price to be paid in magic, and I’ve paid mine many times over. But for the sake of keeping the world in balance, I’ll continue to bear that burden, because few others can—or will.