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5sospenguinqueen · 5 months ago

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Feels Like Sabotage | Charles Leclerc x Red Bull! Reader

Summary: The Grid have decided that this is the season to see who can injure Yn the most. (Not intentionally, they all feel terrible about it). Fed up of seeing his girlfriend injured, Charles decides to enact revenge.

Pairing: Platonic! Grid x reader. Charles Leclerc x Reader (slight)

Warnings: swearing, slight injury

Word count: 3.3k

F1 Masterlist

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#1 Lando Norris

Cheers thundered throughout the track, vibrating through the floor and buzzing into the bodies of the podium winners. Max Verstappen stood in the middle, arms raised high as he bared his Grand Prix trophy to the roaring crowd. Another successful race, another win under his belt. The Dutch anthem was still ringing in his ears, and his smile widened as he turned to his left, finding his teammate beaming with her P3 trophy in hand. A double podium for Red Bull and another step closer to the Constructors Championship.

Jumping down from the P2 podium, Lando raced over to his friends, eager to share in their victories. He threw his arms around Max and Yn, dragging them both into a hug and shouting congratulations into their ears. Disentangling herself from the papaya racer, Yn turned to face the crowd, eyes scanning for a dark-haired Ferrari racer. Dimples deepening as he made eye contact with her, Charles blew his girlfriend a celebratory kiss. Unimpressed that Yn was distracted and not listening to his overjoyed shouts, Lando waved his arms about in front of her, hoping to garner her attention. Miscalculating his movements, his face morphed from delight to terror. Around them, cameras caught the moment that Yn’s face morphed from heart eyes to pain as the trophy came into contact with her skull.

“Oh, fuck! Yn, I am so sorry! Oh, no. That was so hard.”

Recoiling from the McLaren driver, her free hand came up to nurse the red mark forming on her forehead. Lando chased after her, apologies spilling from his mouth. Yn beat him back with her elbow.

“Did you just hit me with your trophy?” Yn asked in shock. “I didn’t even beat you.”

“I didn’t mean to. I was waving it about and…”

“And they say F1 drivers are coordinated,” chuckled Max, walking over to his teammate to inspect the damage done to her skull. He winced jokingly, fingers prodding the dark bruise forming. “Oh, dear, you have a bump.”

“Your protective P instincts are kicking in.” She teased, jerking back as pain lanced down the side of her face. “You going to put a Disney princess sticker on it next?”

Max laughed, the melodic sound breaking through the ringing in her ears. “No, no. I will save those for Lando after Charles runs him off the track.”

The three winners glanced down at the aforementioned Ferrari driver, although Lando quickly looked away. Fury blazed in his blue eyes at the dark mark on her forehead.

Sighing deeply, Yn placed the bag of ice (long since melted into water) on the table in her driver’s room. Post-podium interviews were always draining but it seemed to drag more so today. Although that might have partly been due to the pounding headache and the dull ache behind her eyes. After the disaster on the podium, the journalists had focused less on their momentous success and more on the injury she had sustained at the hands of Lando Norris.

The internet had already turned their moment into a meme, laughing at the incident, but the journalists decided to take a different route, complaining that Lando had done it deliberately. Fielding those questions was always soul-destroying, especially when they liked to twist whatever you said. Three short knocks sounded at her door, and it clicked open before she could turn from the mirror.

“Mon amour.” Charles’ head poked between the gap before wincing slightly at the look on her face. “Does it hurt? I can’t believe Lando hit you.”

“He’s like an excitable toddler.”

Charles pulled her into his arms, glancing down at his bruised girlfriend. “You look like an œuf.”

“Saying it in French doesn’t make it any less insulting, Charles.”

“You are the most beautiful egg I have ever seen,” he grinned, pressing a kiss to the wound Lando had left.

#2 Daniel Ricciardo

Sweat ran down the back of Yn’s neck as she gripped the steering wheel harder, flying through turn six. She tapped the brake slightly as the back of a Ferrari came closer, slowing down.

“What is he doing?”

“Leclerc seems to be having an issue.”

“No shit. He fucking slowed right down.”

“Overtake when you can.”

“Tell me how to do my job, why don’t you?”

Pushing the car forward, she inched past the Ferrari as they approached the next turn. Her teeth clenched tightly together as he faded from view, running right alongside her. She felt sweat run down her cheek as her heart pounded in her chest and tried to focus on her breathing. She could do this. Just a little more.

“Fantastic job,” her engineer praised. “P5 now.”

Glancing in the mirror, she startled at the sight of Charles skidding off the track and onto the gravel, coming to a stop just before the barrier.

“Is he okay?”

“Gearbox malfunction. Leclerc is fine and out of the car. Car behind is Ricciardo, two seconds.”

“Okay.”

Relieved that Charles was fine, Yn returned her attention back to the track, doing her best to keep the McLaren behind her.

“Defend. He’s going to try and overtake.”

Turning the corner, Yn kept on the inside, yanking the wheel in order to achieve the tight turn. Despite pulling left, she felt the car veer off to the right, ignoring her command as she slammed her foot down on the brake. Her body snapped forward as the car came to a sudden stop, smacking into the foam barrier. The plastic coating with Pirelli splashed across it broke, landing atop her head.

“You okay?”

“What the fuck was that?!”

“Ricciardo made contact.”

“No shit. He fucking shunted me into the wall!”

“Obviously we’re going to have to retire the car.”

The cameras honed in on the Red Bull racer as she pulled herself out of the car. The crowd sighed in relief, pleased that she was alright but recoiled as she turned, violently kicking part of the plastic barrier. “Fuck!”

Storming over to the McLaren garage, Yn called out for the other driver forced to DNF. Behind them, the race was continuing, only another ten laps left to determine who would find their way onto the podium. And Yn wasn’t one of them.

“What the fuck was that! Do you know how to drive?”

“Me? You turned into me!”

“Don’t give me that shit! I was ahead of you, I was doing my turn first! You fucking clipped my wheel because you didn’t leave enough space and you want to blame me.”

Flashes of light went off around them, capturing the furious racer as she yelled at the sheepish Australian.

“I am sorry but coming in here to yell at me won’t put you back in the race.”

“No, it won’t because my car is fucked! Learn to fucking drive next time.”

“A pleasure talking to you as always, LN.”

“Suck my dick!” She yelled back, ignoring the numerous journalists smirking to themselves over their next juicy headline.

Debriefed and dismissed for the evening, Yn dragged her weary body out of the Red Bull motorhome. Despite having been cleared by medical, she was covered in bruises and looking forward to a night off.

“Fancy seeing you here.” Charles teased, taking his hand out of his pockets and holding it out for her. Lacing her fingers through his, Yn’s broke out in a smile when he pulled her closer.

“You didn’t have to wait for me.”

“What sort of boyfriend would I be if I didn’t drive you back to the hotel after your accident.”

“But, my car-”

“Will be dropped off later. I’ve already sorted it, mon ange.”

“You take such good care of me.”

Charles bent down, lips tracing her ear. “It does not end here. What do you say we take a bath when we get back?”

Yn laughed, leaning into him as his breath tickled her neck. Before she could answer, the pair of them were out of the paddock and assaulted by the media.

“Yn. Yn. How are things between you and Daniel after your argument today? Things looked to be quite heated.”

“Daniel and I will be fine. We haven’t spoken since our argument but it’s very hard to remain mad at someone like Daniel.”

“Charles, do you feel the same way? After all, it was your girlfriend he crashed into.”

“Obviously there was a bit of anger at seeing someone you care about crash. Um, but Yn is a driver much like anyone else. These things happen. If she forgives him then that is all that matters.”

The two drivers excuses themselves, walking past the rest of the media without stopping. Charles’ arm wrapped around her waist, holding her close. A muscle in his jaw ticked and he was relieved when they entered the safety of his car.

“You handled that very well.”

“Could you tell I was furious?”

“No. You were very diplomatic.”

“Just another name to add to my list of people to hit with my car.”

“Char, you can’t say things like that,” giggled Yn.

“Only to you.”

#3 Lewis Hamilton

Waving at the crowd, Yn made her way across the paddock, eager for the day ahead. Another Sunday, another race, another chance at the podium. Stopping every now and then to take pictures with fans, Yn chatted animatedly with her PR manager as they discussed her upcoming media obligations. Unlike her teammate, she was much more amiable towards media appearances but only enjoyed the ones that didn’t feel more like a conference.

“Beep beep,” a British voice called out behind her, alerting the two women clad in Red Bull polos that he was approaching. “Good morning, lovely ladies.”

He pulled up alongside them, foot slipping off the brake. Instead of coming to a stop, he felt the scooter roll over a bump in the end. Jumping off the two-wheeled contraption, he winced as his on-track rival hopped around clutching her left foot.

“I am so sorry. I didn’t realise your foot was right there.”

“Why can’t you walk like everyone else?” She grumbled, wincing at the throbbing sensation when she put her foot flat on the ground.

“Because it’s slower?” He offered weakly, looping her arm around his shoulders and helping her hop the remaining feet towards the Red Bull garage.

Interested in the laces of her shoes, Yn shuffled in her seat. The top half of her racing suit had been discarded, tied around her waist, but when she sat down the sleeves had created an uncomfortable mound. P4 had been a helpful finish for the battle for Constructors but she couldn't help the disappointment at her finish. Lando, noticing her movements, asked if she was still in pain. One of the journalists called her name, preventing her from answering.

“We noticed you limping earlier when you got out of the car. Was that in relation to the videos of Lewis helping you into the Red Bull garage earlier?”

Lewis shifted awkwardly in his seat, offering the young woman another apologetic smile.

“Uh, yes. Unfortunately, earlier today, Lewis ran over my foot with his scooter. I have some lovely bruising to show for it.”

“Do you blame Lewis? Do you think that was what stopped you from achieving P1? Perhaps it was deliberate.”

“Both Lewis and Toto made their way down to the Red Bull garage to apologise personally. It absolutely wasn’t sabotage. I just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Unfortunately, yes, my boot was tied looser than usual, and putting pressure on my foot was painful in terms of braking. However, the onus is on me in terms of my performance. I don’t feel like I gave it my best today, and Max is very fast,” she finished with a laugh, earning scattered laughter from the room.

A buzz sounded in her pocket and she discreetly slipped her phone from it, checking the notification. The little race car next to the name had her smiling.

Charles: You. Me. Celebration later? I’ll find the greasiest food

Yn: I miss you. This conference sucks

Charles: No, you miss being in the podium conference. Don’t lie to me x

Yn: That too

#4 Max Verstappen

“And that, ladies and gentlemen, is another perfect 1-2 for Red Bull! I imagine it’s smiles all around in their garage.”

The Dutch anthem was still ringing in her ears when the 2nd place trophy was placed in her hands. Grin plastered across her face, Yn raised her trophy high in the air, relishing in the roar of her team, watching down below. Once Charles’ trophy had been securely handed over, and the presenters had scurried off the stage to safety, Max lunged forward for the large champagne bottle. Shaking it profusely, he popped the cork and aimed at his teammate.

Not even having time to reach for her own bottle, Yn was waterboarded by the bubbly liquid. Spluttering violently, she clapped her hands over her face, trying to ward off the onslaught of champagne. It was up her nose, down her throat and, most painfully, burning her right eye.

“Max, you bastard,” she hissed, stumbling towards the edge of the stage where her engineer was waiting with a damp towel. Pressing it tight against her eye, she grumbled to herself about the dangers of champagne.

“Oh, bebe, not another injury.” Charles murmured, glancing at her bloodshot eye. Champagne rolled off the tip of his hat, flicking the tip of her nose.

Max bounded over next, laughing in elation at his win. He apologised at the sight of her eye but it felt a tad insincere when he followed it with, “They should call you the driver’s champion of non-race related injuries.”

“More like the champion of idiotic work colleagues.”

“Don’t be like that. You love me really.” Max pulled her in for a headlock, wet arms wrapping around her head. Yn stomped on his foot when another drop of champagne rolled into her stinging eye.

Fiddling with the cord of her microphone, Yn’s high from achieving P2 faded with each passing moment. Winning a podium was euphoric until she remembered it entailed a ninety minutes press-conference afterwards. Ignoring how badly she wanted food, Yn leaned over, whispering to Max, who looked as equally bored as she.

Charles’ hand slipped from her thigh as she moved, and he shook his head with a smile when he caught her gossiping. Her teammate grinned at whatever she said before the pair of them heard her name being called. Snapping to attention, Yn pulled away from Max and sat upright in her chair.

“Apologies but would you mind repeating the question?” Yn asked sheepishly.

“Following your recent accidents at the hands of your fellow racers, there’s rumours flying around that the male members of the Grid are opposed to your presence on the track. Care to comment?”

Yn leant forward towards her mic. “I must admit I’m starting to believe these rumours,” she let out a small laugh, informing everyone she was joking. “No, no. In all seriousness, I do seem to be getting attacked an awful lot by my fellow racers this season - uh, most recently was being blinded by Max after the podium - but I don’t believe there is any animosity behind it. They’ve all been very apologetic. I’m just unfortunate.”

“Mon amour maladroite,” whispered Charles but the microphone picked it up regardless.

Fake frowning at him, she reiterated for the crowd. “There’s a lot of love between me and the rest of the drivers so these are all just inCHIdents.”

Charles looked at her in shock, offended by her mockery. “Hey!” He whined. “I’m the only person not trying to sabotage you.”

Yn pressed an apologetic kiss to his cheek and the cameras lapped up the rare glimpse of affection between the two during a race weekend.

Charles' Revenge

A race in Monaco meant that the majority of drivers were able to spend the week beforehand at home. Padding across the living room barefoot, Yn made her way towards the kitchen. Wrapping her arms around Charles’ waist, she pressed a kiss between his shoulder blades. He turned in her arms, beaming down at her in his oversized hoodie. After her racing suit, this look was his favourite.

“Thank you for helping me with this, handsome.”

“Help you? It was my idea, mon coeur. Especially because you would not let me run them off the track.”

“Because that is…” she prompted.

“Dangerous,” he finished with a pout.

The doorbell alerted them to the arrival of their first dinner guest, and she smirked to herself before flitting over to the door. Max stood there nervously, a bouquet of flowers in hand. She stepped aside to let him in, and thanked him when he handed the large flower bunch to her.

“To apologise for blinding you, and to thank you for dinner.”

“That’s very sweet of you, Max,” she inhaled the sweet fragrance of the flowers, almost feeling bad for deceiving him. He probably deserved this the least but her boyfriend needed a way to release his anger. “I’m going to put them in some water. Charles is in the main room with some sport thingy on the television. Gin and tonic?”

“Just one.” He nodded, placing his discarded shoes on the rack before sloping off in search of the brunette driver.

Hands clasped, Charles and Yn placed dishes of pasta in front of Lando, Daniel, Lewis and Max, smiling when they thanked them. Yn was well-known for her cooking throughout the paddock, often cooking sweet treats in the week and bringing them in for the Grid to share. Having a birthday on a racing weekend was a much coveted holiday because it meant a homemade cake from the Red Bull racer.

Watching as each of them took a big mouthful, she watched them all grimace in disgust when they swallowed. Taking a sip of wine before speaking, she informed them of the true reason behind their meal. “I lied to you. I didn’t cook dinner for you this evening.”

The four of them turned to face the devious Ferrari driver looking innocently at them, horror plastered across their faces. “Charles did.”

Friday - Practice

“Four F1 drivers are reportedly suffering from food poisoning. Perhaps a racing dinner gone wrong? They’re still set to race on Sunday, just two days from now, but images of them have emerged from today’s free practice, and the four look particularly under the weather.”

Seated opposite her Team Principal, Yn fiddled with her fingers as Christian berated her. Shame crept up the back of her neck and for the fifth time that day, she wished Charles was with her. Hands perched on his hips, Christian stared down at her, waiting for an explanation.

“I didn’t think they’d be ill for this long?” She defended weakly. “I just thought they’d suffer through a gross meal and that would be the end of it. I bought pizza afterwards!”

“You let them eat Charles’ food! What did you think would happen? The boy can’t cook.”

“Oops…?”

Christian sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You could’ve at least left Max out of it.”

“He blinded me!”

“And I’d do it again!” Max groaned, clutching his stomach. Sweat beaded his forehead despite the cool compress resting atop it.

“The alternative was Charles pushing you off the track,” she shot back.

“He’d have to catch me first,” argued Max.

The two drivers broke out into good-natured bickering, voices raising as they got more heated. Sighing yet again, the Red Bull principal sank into his chair and muttered to himself, “I’m working with children.”

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A/N: I'm not sure what this is (laugh) I apologise but writing fics isn't my strong suit. I should probably stick to smau's lol

On that note, requests for F1 smau's are open. You can see who I write for on my masterlist :)

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tteotlma · 5 months ago

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Panic and Proximity

-- Trapped with Logan in a safe room, your biggest weakness reveals itself.

(Wolverine/Reader) 1.7kw

a/n: it's been like six years since i posted a fic.. smth short and sweet

TW: anxiety, panic attack, mentions of vomit, close spaces, forced proximity(?), CLAUSTROPHOBIA, tight spaces

"Bobby!" you yell over the deafening roar. You dig your heels into the dirt, pivoting to run towards your friend. A Sentinel has Bobby pinned, ice against ice. Suddenly, the ground opens beneath him, swallowing him whole. Your heart leaps into your throat, but in the next instant, the sky above the massive monster splits open. Bobby drops out, ready to swing full throttle.

You glance back to see Kitty sprinting towards you, Logan not far behind.

"No, run!" she screams, grabbing your arm as you both dash into the building.

"But Bobby—" you start, turning to look back at your friend. He seems to be holding his own, but for how long?

"It's okay, he's coming," Kitty pants as she phases you through industrial shelving.

Logan's gruff voice surprises you. "How do you know?"

"Because I'm gonna get him," Kitty replies, pulling you deeper into the building. "I just need to make sure you guys are safe first."

"And how are you gonna do that?" you ask, breathless. Your feet pound the floor in rhythm with theirs, legs aching. Only the adrenaline coursing through your veins keeps you going.

"This way," Kitty hisses, yanking you towards a narrow corridor. The building's layout becomes a maze of twisting hallways and locked doors. Alarms blare, red emergency lights casting eerie shadows.

Logan sniffs the air. "We've got company. Multiple hostiles, closing in fast."

"There's a safe room," Kitty says, her voice strained. "It's small, but it'll have to do."

Your stomach tightens at the word 'small'. "How small are we talking?"

She doesn't answer, instead phasing through another wall, pulling you along. You emerge into a dim, cluttered storage area. At the far end, a heavy metal door stands ajar.

"In there. Now!" Logan growls, glancing behind you.

The thundering footsteps of your pursuers grow louder. Your heart races as you approach the door, catching a glimpse of the cramped space beyond. It's barely larger than a closet.

Kitty pushes you forward. "You don't have a choice. Get in!"

You hesitate, your breath catching in your throat. The walls seem to close in already, even from outside. But the sound of gunfire erupting behind you slowly convinces you to enter, but not fast enough. Kitty grabs both you and Logan and before you can protest, she phases you through the thick steel door.

“Don’t go anywhere.” Kitty demands before she walks through the other side of the closet just as quickly as she put you in here.

A small “no” escapes your lips as you reach out to touch the walls. You try to find any crevice to show your not completely shut off from everything but its no use, it’s too dark and from what your fingers can feel there’s nothing. The steel is stainless, and smooth.

“Fuck,” you whisper, suddenly becoming too aware of your heart beating in your chest, and you suddenly feel lightheaded. You try and catch your breath but you can’t, you try and breathe but your lungs cant open enough as it hits you, your world shrinks to the size of a coffin. You try to take a deep breath, but you keep coming short.

"You okay?" Kitty whispers, her voice too close in the blackness.

You want to answer, to say you're fine, but the words stick in your throat. The walls are too close, the air too thin. You're trapped, and panic begins to claw its way up from your chest.

You try to soothe yourself, eyes squeezed shut, desperately imagining a vast field. Hoping to enhance the illusion, you peel your hands from the walls. Suddenly, a loud boom shakes the room, steel groaning around you. Logan tenses beside you, a stark reminder that danger still lurks beyond your confined space.

Your breathing becomes more erratic. Sweat beads on your forehead as the small space seems to shrink even further. Your fingers tingle, and a wave of nausea hits you.

"It's okay, it's okay," you mutter, but the words sound hollow even to your own ears. You take a step back, trying to escape the wall, only to collide with Logan's chest. He finally notices your distress.

"Hey, you alright?" He shifts, touching you lightly. You flinch away instinctively.

"Sorry," you pant. "Would now be a bad time to tell you I'm claustrophobic?" You attempt a chuckle, hands fumbling to steady yourself. Eyes clenched shut, you feel saliva pooling in your mouth. "I think I'm gonna barf," you whisper.

"Hey, hey!" Logan turns you around to face him. "Look at me." You briefly open your eyes, making out only his shadowy form, hunched over. You quickly shut them again.

"Are you hunching over because the ceiling's too short?" you ask, still dizzy. Your fingertips find his chest, feeling the rise and fall of his solid torso. He shifts, followed by a soft thud.

"No," he says.

"You're lying." You clench your hand, pressing your fist against his stomach. The rhythm of his breathing slowly anchors you, pulling you back to reality.

"Maybe, but that's not important," he says, his voice closer than before. You feel him shift, moving nearer.

Your fist sinks deeper into the muscle of his stomach as his heavy hands rest on your shoulders, grounding you.

"Why are you just saying something now?" he asks, his voice uncharacteristically soft.

"I-it never seemed to matter," your voice shakes, your other hand wrapping around his forearm for support. "Until now." You feel tears forming in your eyes. "I-I'm sorry."

"Oh," you hear him breathe out softly. "Oh, Y/N." He sighs, a mix of concern and understanding in his tone.

Suddenly, his arms envelop you, cradling your head against his chest. The gesture, though meant to comfort, unfortunately intensifies your panic. Your breath hitches as the feeling of being trapped increases, despite the warmth of his embrace. You try to pull away but his arms don’t budge.

Your breathing becomes more rapid against Logan's chest. The warmth of his embrace, meant to comfort, instead fuels your panic. "I can't—" you gasp, your fingers clawing at his shirt. "It's too tight, too close."

He cuts you off, shushing you.

“Yes, you can.” He reassures you, his hand stroking your head.

"Listen to me," Logan says firmly, his gruff voice softening with an unexpected gentleness. "We're gonna try something. Focus on my voice and breathe with me. Can you do that?"

You manage a small nod against his chest, your forehead pressed against the rough fabric of his shirt. Logan must feel the slight movement because he shifts, adjusting his stance to better support you.

"Good," he murmurs, the word rumbling through his chest. "Now, feel my breathing. Try to match it."

Logan takes a deep, deliberate breath. You feel his chest expand against you, the steady rise and fall a stark contrast to your own erratic gasps. He holds you close, one hand splayed across your back, the other cradling the nape of your neck. His calloused fingers are surprisingly gentle, grounding you in the moment.

"In through your nose," he instructs, his voice low and measured. You struggle to comply, your breath hitching. "That's it," he encourages. "Now hold it for a moment."

You feel the pause in his chest's movement, a moment of stillness in the chaotic swirl of your thoughts.

"Now out through your mouth," Logan continues, his own exhale warm against the top of your head. "Slow and steady."

As you attempt to follow his lead, you become acutely aware of other sensations: the faint scent of cigar smoke clinging to Logan's shirt, the steady thud of his heartbeat against your ear, the warmth of his body contrasting with the cool metal walls surrounding you.

"Again," Logan says softly. "In... hold... and out. You're doing great, kid."

Gradually, your breathing begins to sync with his. The vice-like grip of panic on your chest starts to loosen, ever so slightly. In this small, dark space, Logan's presence becomes an anchor, a point of focus beyond the suffocating walls.

"That's it," he murmurs, a note of approval in his voice. "Just keep breathing with me. We'll get through this together."

You nod, one hundred percent sure that if you were to talk right now, it wouldn't be heard. Closing your eyes, you lean more of your weight against Logan. You take in his scent—a mix of cigar smoke, leather, and something uniquely him—his warmth seeping into you, his solid presence anchoring you in the moment. You melt into him, relishing the feel of his muscular body against yours.

In this intimate moment, your mind drifts to all the times you've admired Logan from afar. He's always been the ruggedly handsome mentor, the forbidden fruit that made your heart race during training sessions. You've caught his lingering glances, felt the electricity when his hand corrected your stance, noticed how his eyes seemed to soften when they landed on you.

There's always been something there, simmering beneath the surface. An unspoken connection, a tension that neither of you dared to acknowledge. You've told yourself it was just a silly crush, that Logan saw you as nothing more than a student. But the gentleness in his touch now, the care in his voice—it speaks of something deeper.

This moment, trapped in this tiny space, feels like a test of your limits. The boundaries between mentor and student, between longing and reality, seem to blur. Your racing heart isn't just from claustrophobia anymore, and you're certain Logan can feel it.

But now isn't the time for these thoughts. The danger lurking outside this safe room, the mission at hand—it all comes rushing back. You know you should pull away, regain your composure, focus on the task at hand. Yet, for just a few more seconds, you allow yourself to stay in Logan's embrace, drawing strength from him in more ways than one.

As your breathing finally steadies, you reluctantly begin to pull back, ready to face whatever comes next. But not before you catch a glimpse of something in Logan's eyes—concern, certainly, but also a flicker of something else. Something that makes your breath catch for an entirely different reason, you realize you're still pressed against Logan's chest. You step back slightly, looking up at him in the dim light.

"I... Thank you, Logan. I don't know what I would've done if..."

He cuts you off with a gentle squeeze of your shoulder. "We all have our demons, kid. The trick is not letting them win." His voice drops lower, almost a whisper. "You did good."

The moment is interrupted by another distant explosion, reminding you both of the pressing danger.

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roaringxthunder · 3 months ago

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@reservedcloud

He walked down the walk with a rather relaxed stride, carrying his clipboard of what seemed like blank parchment. Things were finally starting to calm down after dealing with the Quincy invasion, the shinigami they could save were now on the road to recovery. He walked up and knocked on the captain's office door.

"Kotetsu-Taichou, it's 3rd seat Yoko. I have the reports from infirmary, If I may talk to you about some of the higher ranking officers who were in the majority of the fighting." He said as he watched things around him through his reiatsu vision. It was something that most people didn't understand, but it helped with his job as a medic now.

#thunder's roar -- ic #working days- seireitei #reservedcloud #Gentle Cloud of Healing - Isane Kotetsu #//thanks for the follow

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wildfrau · 1 year ago

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"What sort of trouble are you up to now, hm?"

"I'm not. If you're worried or some shit."

She gave the Captain a wary look before resting a hand on her hip.

"Look, I'm not one of the ..Liaisons or whatever. If you're looking for Bambi you'll have to call one of them."

#loyaltypunished #[In Roaring Thunder - IC]#[Answered]#If you're here for Skirts. she's out for the evening

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rowdyluv · 7 months ago

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Say Yes - qh43

Summary: Quinn’s girlfriend attends the Hughes Bowl at Rogers Arena. She’s overtly in love with him (kind of annoying tbh) Quinn surprises her after the game.

Warnings: fluff, obsessy gf, eyes don’t leave bf, use of y/n, oc?

Word Count: 2.35k

Notes: I chose a random name for readers best friend. Ahem split second appearance of other nhler with bff. May or may not have successfully? wrote something.

In the hustling and bustling heart of Vancouver, nestled between the towering skyscrapers and the gentle caress of the Pacific sea breeze, stood the mighty Rogers Arena. Its gleaming exterior reflected the city's vibrant energy, a beacon of excitement that drew in locals and tourists alike. The chilly winter evening had descended, casting a soft glow upon the cobblestone streets, as the anticipation for the night's event grew palpable.

The Hughes Bowl also known as the Vancouver Canucks versus the New Jersey Devils

Inside the arena, the air was electric. The mouthwatering scent of popcorn and nachos mingled with the faint aroma of fresh lemonade and the mixture of alcohol in some areas. The thunderous roar of the crowd grew louder with every passing second, echoing through the vast space like a crescendo of anticipation.

Y/N and Mia, perched in the first row by the glass barrier, were surrounded by a sea of blue and green jerseys. A few red and black jerseys sprinkled in the mix. Guests in attendance dressed out were the die-hard fans, their eyes glued to the rink, where the players currently skated about in a blur of motion, warming up for the night’s showdown between the Canucks and the Devils.

When the lights had dimmed and both national anthems for Canada and the United States had a chance to play, a collective chorus of cheers fell over the stadium.

The spotlights that once bathed the ice in a soft multicolored glow lifted replaced with the bright white, and the players took their positions.

Quinn, was the center of y/n’s attention, his eyes focused and intense. He looked over at Y/N and Mia, flashing a quick smile that sent her heart racing. The puck dropped, and the game was underway.

Throughout the first period, Y/N did all she could to try and memorize every move Quinn made. An attempt to hold on to his years in the league for when they’re long over. His stick-handling was mesmerizing, a dance of precision and power that left the opposition scrambling. Whenever he checked one of his brothers, she held onto a strange mix of pride and protectiveness that swelled within her. She knew that behind the smiles and jovial rivalry, they were all fighting for the same thing: victory.

Leaning over to Mia, she whispered excitedly, "Did you see that? He totally outplayed them both! Jack and Luke!" Each time she spoke, her voice grew a little louder, the excitement spilling over like a fizzy drink. Mia, ever the supportive best friend, nodded and cheered along, even though she wasn't as versed in the nuances of the game. Y/N's eyes never left the ice when her love was on for a shift, captivated by the grace and strength of the man she loved.

Midway through the second period, Quinn scored a breathtaking goal through the goalie’s 5-hole. He spun around, stick in the air, as the crowd erupted in a cacophony of cheers. Y/N's face lit up brighter than the goal lamp as she jumped to her feet, slapping the glass in exhilaration. Quinn skated to where she was sitting behind the glass. He blew her a kiss and yelled to her, “that was for you babygirl.” She turned to Mia, her eyes sparkling with pure joy, "I knew he was just as bad as you are!" Mia giggled, pulling her best friend in to a hug, the sound of their laughter lost in the deafening applause.

The game continued, each play more intense than the last. The tension grew as the score remained close, neither team willing to concede an inch of the ice. With every check, every pass, and every shot on net, Y/N felt her heart pound harder in her chest. Her eyes never left Quinn, not even when his brothers had the puck. It was as if she could feel his every move, his every breath. Her cheers grew louder, her hands slapping the glass more vigorously, leaving behind a smudge of her palm print like a silent applause.

In the third period, the game reached a fever pitch. The crowd was on the edge of their seats, a symphony of hope and nerves. The Devils had managed to tie the game, and the Canucks were desperate to pull ahead. The air was thick with the scent of sweat and the metallic tang of fear. With minutes to go, Quinn stole the puck from his youngest brother, breaking away on a two-on-one. The arena held its collective breath as he streaked down the ice, the sound of his skates slicing through the frozen surface like a knife through butter.

Y/N's eyes were glued to him, her heart racing in her chest. The play unfolded before her in slow motion, every second stretching into an eternity. Quinn passed the puck to his teammate, who whipped it back to him with the grace of a ballet dancer. The goalie saw it coming, but it was too late. Quinn's shot was a rocket, flying straight into the top corner of the net. The arena erupted into a frenzy of cheers and the sound of thousands of hands clapping together in unison. The goal lamp flashed red, the buzzer sounded, Quinn’s media tape looped on the scoreboard. His teammates rushed him for a celebration. Y/n was watching in awe of her man. Mia was watching her best friend in happy wonder.

Mia nudged her, "Looks like you got yourself a star player!" she said, her voice barely audible over the din. Y/N nodded, her smile so wide it hurt. She felt like she was floating, the adrenaline from the goal still pulsing through her veins. The final buzzer sounded, signaling the end of the game. The score was 3-2 in favor of the Canucks. The arena echoed with the chant of "Quinn! Quinn! Quinn!" She could see the pure elation on his face as he skated over to her, the grin stretching from ear to ear. He tapped the glass, his eyes gleaming with excitement.

Quinn had the last scoring game puck in his hand. He had already wrote on it and brought it straight to her, he pointed up towards the top of the barrier and then to her, a silent message he was tossing it to her. With a flick of his wrist, he flung it over, sending it soaring through the air. Time seemed to slow as it spun, a perfect arc of twisting team logos and black against the vibrant backdrop of the cheering crowd. Y/N's hand shot up, her palm open and ready to receive it. The puck smacked into her palm with a satisfying thud, the residual ice shavings from the game still clinging to it.

The crowd's roar grew even louder as they noticed the gesture, the cameras flashing from the stands and the Jumbotron spotlighted on her, capturing her disbelief and pure happiness. She clutched the puck to her chest, feeling its coldness against her skin, a stark contrast to the warmth flooding her cheeks. The moment was surreal, a memory she knew she'd cherish forever. She mouthed a silent "thank you" to Quinn, who was already being dragged away by his teammates for an impromptu interview.

As the players filed off the ice, the tension in the arena didn't dissipate. Instead, it transformed into a buzz of excitement and congratulations. Y/N watched Quinn closely, her eyes tracing his every move as he was interviewed, his voice steady and humble despite the victory. He talked about teamwork and the importance of family, never failing to mention his brothers and their shared love for the sport. Her heart bursting with pride as she heard him speak, his words resonating with the audience.

Finally, the moment came. The Zamboni glided onto the ice, smoothing out the battleground where Quinn had just claimed victory. He skated over to the bench, his gaze seeking hers through the throngs of people. She waved, the puck still clutched in her hand, a symbol of his triumph. He pointed at her, then at the locker room, signaling for her to wait for him. The crowd began to disperse, the blue and green jerseys forming rivers of humanity that flowed through the arena's exits.

Y/N and Mia remained in their seats before heading down to wait outside of the locker room, the excitement still coursing through them like an electric current. They chatted animatedly about the game, replaying Quinn's heroics in their minds, their voices a mix of disbelief and pride. As the last of the fans trickled out, the arena staff started prepare for the post-game cleanup.

The doors to the locker room finally swung open, and the players began to emerge, their faces flushed from exertion and their eyes gleaming with the adrenaline of victory. Quinn spotted Y/N immediately, his grin growing even wider when he saw the puck in her hand. His strides to her were urgent and quick, the sound of his skates, that were hanging off the side of his bag, clanking against one another echoing through the now-quiet corridor. He was dressed back in his game day suit, no tie, but perfectly put together.

Y/N looked up at him, her confusion palpable. "Why aren't you in your comfy clothes?" she questioned, gesturing to his suit.

Quinn chuckled, the sound rumbling deep in his chest. "I had to make an impression, didn't I?" He leaned down, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "Besides, I had a surprise for you."

Y/N turned the puck over in her hand, her eyes widening as she read the message scrawled in black sharpie. "Best game of my life," it read, "make it better by saying yes." Her cheeks flushed, and she looked up at him, her eyes filling with unshed tears as he’s down on one knee. "Quinn, this is..."

"It’s crazy, yes but I couldn't wait. You're it for me, you're everything. And after that game, playing against my brothers, I just know this is right." His voice was earnest, his gaze unwavering as he pulled out a small velvet box. “Yes I know in front of the locker room isn’t ideal, but I just had the best game I’ve had in months, I finally beat my brothers. You’re the girl of my dreams and I can’t hold onto this any longer because I’m afraid the yahoos behind you will let it out while they’re here. So baby, please will you marry me?” Quinn asks tears of love in his eyes.

Y/N felt as if the world had stopped spinning. She looked down at the box in his hand, her heart racing like a bullet train. She assumed this was coming later on in life, but she never expected it to happen here, in the lower interior of the arena she had watched him play in so many times before. An indescribable warmth spread through her, expansive spread across her from her toes to her fingertips. She looked into his eyes, her voice shaking with raw emotion, "Yes, Quinn. Yes, I'll marry you."

The words hung in the air, suspended for a moment before reality crashed back in. The locker room doors opened wider, and his remaining teammates spilled out, cheering and clapping. They had been waiting for this moment, and now it was here. Quinn slipped the ring onto her finger, the diamond sparkling under the harsh fluorescent lights. It fit perfectly, as if it had been made just for her. She couldn't help but admire it, the way it caught the light and danced across her skin. Y/n turned to Jack and Luke to greet the brothers she was unaware were there until Quinn said something, but instead was met by Jim and Ellen.

“You’ll officially be our daughter!” Ellen saps pulling y/n into a hug.

“Can’t wait to have another female Hughesy!” Jim laughed with her, ruffling up her hair.

Y/n’s eyes are misty with happy tears. She hadn’t seen this coming like this at all, she had thought maybe it would happen in a year or two but not now.

It doesn’t matter the timing, Quinn is forever hers and she’s forever his.

“Quinn, This, here. It’s perfect.” She says, her voice full of wonder and love. “I wouldn’t want it any other way. So it is ideal. Don’t worry about what it looks like.”

Quinn broke away from Elias and Brock’s playful teasing, his smile growing as he wrapped her in a warm embrace. The cheers of his teammates and the small gathering of family erupting once more, but all Y/N could hear was the steady beat of his heart against her chest. He leaned down, cupping her face in his hands, and kissed her.

It was a kiss filled with the passion of a thousand suns, the promise of a lifetime together, and the sweetness of a love that had only grown stronger with each passing day. His lips were gentle yet firm, a declaration of his love and commitment. Hers responded eagerly, her arms snaking around his neck, the coldness of the ice forgotten in the heat of the moment.

Mia had been standing off to the side watching her best friend happily. As the couple kissed she muttered to what she thought was just herself “I’m so painfully single.”

“You and me both. Hi, name is Nico. Captain of the New Jersey Devils.”

#cay writes #quinn hughes #qh43 #quinn hughes fluff #quinn hughes x reader #quinn hughes x y/n #quinn hughes x you #hockey fic #quinn hughes fanfiction #quinn hughes imagine #quinn hughes one shot #quinn hughes x fem!reader #⭑.ᐟ nucks ‘n pucks #please be nice - like & reblog ♡︎

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0bticeo · 6 months ago

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aemond targaryen | you owe a debt

summary:

you grit your teeth.

you’re a long way from dragonstone. with you plummeting towards the ground, leaving aemond above, you’ve bought yourself a few precious seconds ー not enough. far from enough. your dragon is the fastest alive, yes. with you alone on his back, he could outrun vaghar. but there’s two of you, a storm is raging and aemond is catching up.

you still.

he’s there.

wc. 1.6k

tw. unreseolved sexual tension, niece!reader (targcest), mild description of blood and gore, hubris, fix-it fic set in season one epsiode ten.

the rain is cold on your face, like tiny pinpricks of ice piercing your skin. raging wind blowing through your ears, you hear your dragon roar above the thunder. the force of it spreads through your bones. eyes half closed against the storm, fists clenched on the handles of your saddle, you curse.

sending your younger brother alone, what was your mother thinking?

he wants revenge. an eye for an eyeーa fair price. he could’ve asked for lucerys’ life. ( he must’ve been itching to do it, to draw his sword, sharp blade slicing your brother’s throat. to watch the blood pour out, spilling on the round hall’s floors.)

you see it, then. the dark mass before you, coming in closer and closer with each beat of your dragon’s wings. vaghar, largest, oldest dragon in the world. a massive, battle-hardened beast, with wrath etched in every inch of her being, begging to be unleashed, held tight behind her master’s iron will. (you think you hear him begging her to stop. )

high valyrian rolls off your tongue, scraping against your throat in a bark.

faster.

visegar obliges, wings spread out against the storm. your breath hitches with how fast you’re going, strands of hair clinging to your face like you do to your reigns.

you’re close enough to see arrax now, as small and young and terrified as his rider.

close enough to hear aemond’s laughter. close enough to hear his tauntsー you owe a debt, boy . vaghar opens her gaping mouth, fangs gleaming under the pouring rainー

this will start a war. this will have your brother dying, torn up to pieces.

you will not let him die.

when you strike, it’s from below. lightning-fast, a blur of black scales, snatching your brother inches away from vaghar’s gaping maw. you feel her heated breath on your skin, the putrid scent of it – how many were left to rot there?

you meet your uncle’s eye and he recognises you.

you see it in how that mouth of his twists in a grin, tongue licking his lips in a slow drag. in how his eye traces your frame, sharpening upon noticing your stance.

“and what do you hope to do with that blade of yours?” there’s a flash of amusement in that coy grin of his. “surely, you can do better, niece .”

and he knows you can. he’s seen you in the training yard, wielding your mighty bow. he’s seen you grasping arrow after arrow, pulling them out of your quiver in an inhumanely fast gesture. he’s seen you hit target after target. he’s seen you run out of arrows and switch to the sword at your side, calling out for a sparring partner.

(he’d been the one stepping forward, lip curling in that coy grin of his.)

now, your mouth is drying.

you’ve left your bow and arrows behind in your haste to get there. at this range, the sword is useless.

you snarl, poison-laced words ready to strike because you yourself can’tー

your brother is screaming.

you look down and see arrax falling. with him, your brother. both of them, tumbling to the ground, spiralling down. arrax, almost torn in half, holding it together in a gory mess of viscera and torn up bones, wings beating erratically in a desperate attempt at stopping his fall. there’s so much red.

plunge.

plunge towards the ground at break-neck speed, visegar’s wings folding by his sides, almost brushing your arms. your shoulders are set ablaze. from the sheer strength it takes you to remain on your dragon’s back, or from your uncle’s heated gaze, you do not know.

soon you’re within arm’s reach. one look at arrax tells you trying to save them both is hopeless.

“lucerys!”

he doesn’t look at you. he can’t, not with the wind roaring at his ears, not with arrax’s pain merging with his pure terror, not with the sea and its devouring waves below, they’re pulling him in, he’s going to dieー

you grab your brother’s arm and pull , high valyrian leaving your tongue in a bark.

“visegar, up! ”

and so he obliges, your faithful dragon, leaving his brethren to crash in the hungry waves beneath. for a split second, you remain like that. floating in a never-ending storm, with your brother clinging to you, legs hanging in the void, hands in a vice grip around his flesh because you must not let him fall .

so you pull and pull , muscles begging for you to stop, praying to gods old and new that your strength doesn’t fail you, that your uncle doesn’t catch up, not now .

then he’s on your saddle, and you press him against you, arms surrounding him, firmly pressing his hands on the saddle’s pommel for purchase. you do not let him see arrax’s fall. he’s safe. for now.

you grit your teeth.

you still.

he’s there.

right behind you, hot on your tail. you do not need to turn to see the wide grin etched on his pale features. you hear it in the low baritone of his voice, in the venom of his words.

give up, niece.

and you can only weigh the odds. you cannot fight him. not with your brother there, clinging to your forearm tighter than one would to a lifeline. not with this storm. not without your prized weapons. you’re bound to lose, and he knows it.

you feel lucerys shift, looking up at you. oh, brave, brave boy with terror in his eyes.

“it’s me he wants.” he gulps. “if you hand me over to him, you might get awayー”

you bite your lip.

each beat of dragon wing drives you closer to dragonstone. you can get there. you have to. it’s not just a matter of ensuring your brother’s safety ー or yours for that matters. it’s that should the both of you die here by aemond’s hand, war would break out.

greens and blacks have daggers held at each other’s throats. the slightest mishap will draw blood. you will not let your death be the reason a fragile, relative peace is broken.

but you can’t kill aemond either, can you?

“niece.”

your attention snaps back to him. you find him already watching, hungry gaze never leaving you. he’s waiting, this wretched, cunning beast of a man. waiting for your move.

your dragon is the fastest alive, yes. with you alone on his back, he could outrun vaghar. but there’s two of you on his back and a raging storm against his wings.

but if there was only one rider…

you don’t have a choice.

beneath you, visegar rises to attention. does he feel it, your fear? does he feel it, your unyielding resolve?

your hand closes around your brother’s shoulder, gently squeezing it.

“whatever happens, fly home and do not stop .”

visegar moves. faster than all-mighty vaghar can see, faster than aemond can see, spiking above them both.

your brother is screaming.

you’re falling.

you’re falling, and there’s nothing to stop you. the gaping mouth of the sea will swallow you and leave nothing behind. you wonder if you’ll die upon hitting the water, bones shattering with the impact. you wonder if you’ll drown, if the fall doesn’t kill you. you wonder if you’ll taste arrax’s blood.

you’re falling, and everything blurs before your eyes, storm grey and rain and a blue so dark it’s almost black. there’s lightning streaking the sky above, waves crashing down below ー and you do not know what’s up and what’s down anymore. the wind is merciless, splitting your ears with its force.

you’re falling, limbs spread out, gasping for air, and it feels like thousands and thousands of hands are pressing down on your heart and you can’t breathe ー

you think the wind roars your name. you think you see a great, black void coming from above, like the meteors the maesters weaved tales about for your entertainment.

you feel as though you’re floating. you’re flying without a dragon. does that make you a god? you think you’re laughing.

you’re falling and it’s a gamble .

you’ve seen aemond’s stare. felt it burn like dragon fire on your skin, felt its pull down to your core as you fired arrow after arrow in the training yard. you’ve seen his signature half-smile widen just a tad bit as your swords clashed, felt the heat radiating off him as you pulled him closer, close enough for your dagger to brush against his jaw.

(close enough to see his eye dart to your lips, pupil dilating for a brief second. close enough to feel his warm breath on your cheek. close enough to feel the lean muscles of his chest beneath the black leather of his clothes. close enough for him to bend down, lips brushing your ear in a low voice that left you with a hollow ache and clenching thighs.

“surely, you can do better, niece.”)

you intrigue him, at the very least.

so when he comes, when he catches you mid-fall and cradles you against the warmth of him, with your name on his lips and what surely cannot be fear but is, you cannot help but smile.

your grin flashes, as sharp as your blade.

“is that better, uncle?”

#obticeo writes #aemond targaryen x y/n #aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen x reader #hotd x reader #hotd x y/n #hotd x you #house of the dragon x reader #house of the dragon x y/n #house of the dragon x you #aemond targaryen #house of the dragon #aemond one eye #aemond oneshot #(no this isn't the smutshot the poll is about)

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metranart · 7 months ago

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"(Y/N), you've been in there for over forty minutes," you heard Gojo state from the other side of the door, "and the shadow under the door tells me that you're still in this world," the chuckle from Geto furrowed your eyebrows, "—maybe you should let us give you a hand."

ft. Gojo & Geto x reader, All sorcerer's x reader, Toji x reader. Isekai where you are transported into jjk universe and your way back to your world is cumming.... poor little, shy reader.

JJK Men X Reader (Isekai Shameless smut teaser)

It had been a hard day at the office, your work was sometimes too boring and tedious, and although at twenty-something you should be going out since it was Friday night, you preferred to ignore the text messages from your friends and go back to relax in your apartment with a nice bubble bath, your favorite anime, Jujutsu Kaisen, a pint of your favorite ice-cream and a bottle of delicious wine.

The sky roared in the distance with the threat of a storm, and the smell of rain invaded your nostrils, it tended to be so relaxing to sleep with the sound of the rain around you. Every second that passed your evening got better and better.

Taking your favorite bath salts, you opened the bathroom window to place a scented candle in the rim. Your apartment was not a big deal, but you adored it, it had the right spaces and somehow always made you feel as if all the rooms were connected. Allowing you to take a bubble bath and watch TV from the living room at the same time.

Wrapping yourself in a soft towel, you took a large rubber toy – your sister’s latest Christmas gift– and danced into the living room taking the remote, the pint of ice-cream and a spoon and an expensive glass from the kitchen along with a freshly open bottle of red wine. You carefully placed all on the small table by the tub and shed from the towel immersing your leg in the water to test the temperature –perfect– diving fully, enjoyed the heat on your skin for a few minutes before opening your eyes and set to play a Jujutsu Kaisen episode.

Taking the remote, lazily began to switch between the episodes, season one was great but season two had a charm that you couldn’t deny. You had loved it, it had made your eyes drip more than once, Gojo and Geto were your favorites, and Toji and Nanami... Ugh! It was unfortunate that many of these had died in the series and that was why in your mind you imagined it differently.

In your mind it was a utopia. Geto didn't die or turn evil but instead became a teacher along with Gojo. Toji did not die but made a truce with the Zenin Clan to take care of Megumi. Nanami didn't die— NO ONE died! Even so, the rest of the story remained the same and that's how you liked to imagine it.

Playing one random episode, you returned your attention to the ice cream and wine, the storm was already here. Thunders interrupted the peace from time to time and droplets of rain hit the window harmonically, the voices of Gojo and Geto coming from the TV helped your imagination fly, and your hand went for your rubber friend.

Your fingers slid under the hot, bubbling water until they reached your warm center where they delved between your folds and began to caress, your ears paying special attention to Gojo and Geto’s voices as slowly started to pump, in and out, it wasn’t enough and your rubber friend joined the party, slipping inside you with a single thrust. Thunder interrupting from time to time, as your imagination did its trick.

Slowly, your moans began to gain volume, but still were drowned out by the storm around you. Perfect, that way you wouldn’t have to worry about the neighbors. You accelerated enthusiastically, and your thumb pressed over your clit. Fuck! You were close, and closer and closer…. And suddenly Gojo was laughing, and that bubbly sound makes it for you. Now, you were coming, hard and glorious. The excitement making you lose your balance, as a loud and magnificently, thunder roared and sparked the night sky, at the same time, your frame spasmed while cumming.

Your body submerged under the hot water, and you felt as if were sinking into the sea, the water covered you completely for a moment too long and the need for oxygen catapulted you out, grabbing frantically to the edge of the tub, gasping and heaving, in a combination of post-orgasm and suffocation. Hanging from the porcelain, unable to refocus your eyes, you were still seeing white, stars behind your eyelids when you heard Suguru Geto's voice again.

“Satoru, why did you call me if you had a girl in the bathtub, you perv?”

You didn't remember those dialogues, what episode were you watching?

“A girl in the bathtub?” Now you heard Satoru Gojo's voice reply in confusion, “I think I’ll know if I had a girl in the tub—”

A flash of lightning interrupted his sassy comeback and finally your eyes focused again, your center continued to palpitate in pleasure and for a moment, you thought you were in a wet dream, because Satoru Gojo and Suguru Geto were standing in front of you—In person! In the flesh! Were you dreaming? Had you drowned and this was heaven?

“……Hello, t-there….” Gojo spelled, dumbfounded, mouth hanging open “…. pretty girl….in my tub?” he drawled, like trying to make sense to the vision in front, “—not that I’m complaining but….” He took a few, slow steps closer and you could only stare, “….h-how? - how did you get in here?”

You couldn't believe your eyes, how could this be!? You looked around and noticed that you weren't in your apartment. This wasn't your tub, nothing was familiar, except for the storm outside.

“—So, you didn't invite her?” Geto asked an astonished Satoru, who shook his head before spelled, “—if I had invited her…. I assure you. YOU wouldn't be here.”

Geto snickered a little under his breath, his eyes never straying from you, analyzing you in detail while bikering about the current event, Gojo’s gaze followed his example.

Neither of them looked relaxed as they would have you believe, both seemed tense, fists clenched, pupils dilated, breathing accelerated, eyes unable to focus on anything other than you….

“—Then let's ask her,” Satoru ranted, interrupting the discussion and taking a couple of measured steps towards you, crouched down to be at eye level, you hugged your naked body, and he softened his tone before asking. “Who sent you here? The higher-ups? a clan? some sect?”

Gojo was waiting for your answer, and you had no idea what to say, how could you explain to them that they were the characters of an anime series. While they were arguing you did some thinking, and the only thing that came to your mind was the possibility of having been transported to the Jujutsu Kaisen world, maybe something related to the storm… or something like that?! You had no idea, but this certainly wasn't your world—… but it wasn't the normal anime timeline either… Suguru should be Kenjaku, right?

“…. Kenjaku?” You tried, looking at Suguru and he raised a thin eyebrow. Gojo glanced at him over his shoulder and the black-haired shook his head at him.

“Kenjaku?” Satoru repeated, quizzically. “Who is Kenjaku, darling? Is he the one who sent you?” his hand landed on the rim of the bathtub, ��or… is he the one you are running from?”

Fuck! This was a problem, not only had you changed worlds, but you had changed to a Jujutsu Kaisen timeline that you couldn't even predict. This was freaking canon; this couldn't be happening—

“Hey, calm down, everything’s fine. We are not going to hurt you.” Gojo reassured, taking his hand away from the rim of the bathtub to raise both hands in mock surrender wearing a soft, lingering grin on his lips.

Your distress must have shown on your features and Gojo softened his voice even more, “why don't you start by telling us your name,” he smiled warmly this time, and your heart skipped a beat, “…. shit—you are damn cute…” he found himself whispering under his breath, and coming to his senses, added louder. “I-I'm sure it's a pretty name.”

Geto stared down at his best friend for a long moment and out of the blue, left the bathroom, and the two were left alone.

Satoru Gojo's blue eyes were no joke, they were piercing, enthralling and so unbelievable pretty, that you had to force yourself out of the trance to reply.

“…….. (Y/N).”

“(Y/N),” he tasted how your name rolled down his tongue and grinned even wider, “I knew it would be a beautiful name…. so fitting—”

“—Let’s get you out of there, shall we?”

Geto returned quicker than anticipated, with a large towel hanging from his arm, and instead of offering it to you, he stepped closer, stopping in front of the tub next to Satoru where waited for you to come out. Your gazes crossing for a long, greedy second before he turned around.

“Come on, we won't look...” he asserted and giving Satoru a little kick for him to get up, “turn around, Toru, so she can get out.”

Satoru stood and then spined on his heels, both facing the other way while Geto held the towel for you to wrap yourself in. The sound of water rattling and drops splashing on the floor let them know that you had trusted them. You wrapped yourself in the soft, warm material and it was when you tried to pull it further that you noticed that Suguru wasn’t planning on letting go, but instead, turned around, your eyes met his chest from the height difference and in a very unexpected motion, the sorcerer collected you in his arms, bridal style.

"I heated the towel in the dryer," he informed you as he walked out of the bathroom followed by the white-haired prodigy, "-I didn't want you to get cold."

You muttered a weak. “T-Thanks,” and you reduced to let him carry you out.

Satoru raised both eyebrows— Going to such trouble for a stranger, Suguru was kind but... was he that kind?

Something was odd. It wasn't just your sudden naked appearance in his bathtub, but also that cozy feeling that had his heart beating a thousand per second, his hands sweating, his stare strapped to you, cheeks warm as if in a fever, skin crawling due to the mere sound of your voice, and that unsettling and equally mesmerizing, thrill.

Satoru Gojo was experiencing a strange and unusual pang of possessiveness that forced him to—

"Dress in one of my shirts," he demanded, in a high-pitched tone, "It’ll surely dwarf you-...since you're so small-"

"Pocket size..." Geto noted, still holding you against his broad chest. The bathroom where you appeared was connected to Satoru’s bedroom, so the bed was the best place to set you…. nevertheless, that didn’t follow through. Suguru Geto had sat on the bed but had not released you, instead had placed you on his lap like a child being dried by his devoted mother.

“I don't want you to get sick,” he claimed when notice you staring, “so I might as well do it.” He claimed with a soft grin, using the extra-large towel to dry you thoroughly.

The grin on his lips felt terribly engrossed like if charmed, sending a festival of goosebumps all over your vulnerable, naked form. You had to look away, and he chuckled. Satoru quickly searched through his drawers to hand you a white t-shirt, “Here! Try this one."

Hesitantly accepting the shirt, your cheeks filled with blood when you noticed that the two of them just wouldn’t quit looking at you.

"I can do it myself," you announced.

"I bet so... but I'm afraid we can't leave you alone," Geto assured, and Gojo seconded him, "we'll turn around to give you some privacy, but we can't leave the room."

You nodded with some reluctance and Geto slipped out from under you to stand next to Satoru and turn his back to you.

After a moment, they both heard the wet towel fall to the floor and the shiver that ran through them was inevitable— what the hell was wrong with them?! why were you so damn irresistible.... they only needed to share one look, for their bestie telepathy to work and quickly realize, both were feeling the same pull.

Satoru peeked to the side a little and Suguru immediately held him by the jaw with a firm grip. "...Don't even think about it, Toru."

The white haired merely shrugged amused, and waited for you to finish.

Satoru's shirt was indeed huge on you, covering up to the middle of your thighs. The rain had stopped and now the moon shone big in the starry sky. You looked out the window and were surprised by how similar both worlds were.

"—How am I going to get back home?"

"Where is home?"

Satoru's voice so close startled you and he was quick to apologize with a chuckle. He walked backward never losing you from his sight and carelessly drop on a nearby couch. Geto soberly sat on the bed, and both flanked you, the only exit a door that you had no idea where it would take you. You sighed heavily.

"This is not my world," you announced firmly, and they both listened attentively, you spinned on your heels to face them, hugging your body. "I know it sounds crazy, but this is not my universe," maybe you were going to leave out the fact that they were characters from an anime, "I belong to another universe where there are no curses, no cursed energy, no sorcerers-"

"-But you still know every term of this world..." Satoru intervened. "Better said 'Secret terms'," Geto added, "-how do you know what cursed energy or curses are?" he inquired, shifting his weight to rest his elbows on his knees, "...... not even a civilian of this world knows that, only those trained in the Jujutsu world."

You felt a lump in your throat. “I-I…. your world is…… a fairytale in mine….” Dammit! that was the best way you could explain it, in so little time. Both sorcerers shared a look. “I know everything about you guys. Even the most intimate details, I mean—”

“How old am I?” Satoru questioned.

“28.”

"When is my birthday?"

"December 7th."

“And Suguru’s?”

“27 years old, his birthday is February 3, you both went to Tokyo Metropolitan Curse Technical School with Shoko Leiri, Nanami Kento and Yu Haibara,” With each piece of information you released, their skepticism decreased, either you were telling the truth, or you were the best trained spy in history. “Your teacher and current Headmaster is called Masamichi Yaga. You have a sweet tooth, Satoru and Suguru prefers Zaru Soba, Satoru hates alcohol—”

“Okay…” It was Geto who interrupted you, “Let's say that-…let's say we believe you.” He did not seem very convinced of his statement but still continued, “…. I assume your goal is to return to your world?”

He asked and Satoru pursed his lips.

"Would be ideal."

The conversation continued for a few hours, and the excitement of being in the presence of Satoru Gojo and Suguru Geto slowly dissipated as you realized that you were trapped in a world where curses ate people or killed them mercilessly. This world had its pros and cons and without cursed energy, the cons outweighed… unless-

“—How do you know if you have cursed energy?”

You were curled up, hugging your legs to your chest while resting against the headboard of the bed, Gojo was lying lengthwise at the end and Geto pacing side to side.

“Do you see curses?” Gojo questioned and you shrugged.

“We can test it out when we take you to the school,” Suguru advised, “so we'll know for sure.”

“Sounds good…. Well, does anyone have any progress on the plan to return me to my world?”

They both pouted their lips and Satoru began to ramble about various ideas, some comical, some too complicated but all really aimed to make you laugh and relax.

“—I seriously doubt that is even legal in any world.” You chuckled and the white-haired grinned pleased while lying on his back, loving the bubbly sound of your cute laugh.

Suguru gave him a playful smack to then sat on the edge of the bed. “Cursed energy leaks from the human body, accumulates, and ferments over time until a cursed spirit manifests.” He explained like a teacher. “This is only the case with non-sorcerers, as sorcerers we are trained to control and channel our cursed energy into jujutsu. Cursed energy becoming our primary power source.”

“Meaning?” Satoru pressed in a bored tone.

“Something akin to the creation of a curse could have happened on her plane," he mused, "...some intense feeling coming from her could have catapulted it... you mentioned that you were taking a bubble bath before being transported here," Suguru held his chin, "maybe you were doing something else while taking the bath?" he wondered, glancing at you from the rim of his shoulder. "Perhaps, something enticing?"

“…Nothing out of the ordinary just a relaxing bath in the tub, with a glass of wine and—”

You stopped your story at once and they both looked at you strangely.

“If you hide information from us, we will not be able to help you.” Suguru stressed, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Whatever it is, we won't judge you,” Satoru insisted, “…we're just trying to help you.”

You bit your lip, not wanting to confess that you had been masturbating while listening to their voices from the episode on TV. This was information you would prefer to keep till your dying day.

“N-Nothing, I was just bathing…. I don’t know what else I could be doing-….”

“Masturbating?” Satoru clarified and your face turned beat red.

“We found your…. toy,” Geto confessed, scratching the back of his head, awkwardly. “It was at the bottom of the tub. It seems that dildos are an element that our two worlds share.”

You wanted the earth to open up and swallow you whole, you hid your heated face behind your hands, and could hear their dissimulated chuckles before a stream of encouraging comments began, but no matter how hard they tried, were only making you feel more embarrassed.

"It's nothing to be ashamed of, (Y/N)." Gojo kept going, "a lot of girls can't reach orgasm with just their fingers..." Suguru face-palmed but Gojo ignored him, "it takes a special technique, long thick fingers," you curled up further into yourself feeling awfully dizzy, "your little fingers can’t reach the right places,” he pointed out and smashing his closed fist on his palm enthusiastically, beamed, “unless you massage the clit exclusively, that way-"

You heard Gojo choke on his next words and thanks to your position couldn't see Geto smothering him with a pillow as he shot daggers through his eyes. "Thank you for the extensive and highly unnecessary explanation, Satoru-"

Satoru and Suguru began to quarrel like when they were young.

"Unnecessary?” Gojo gasped, feigning be offended, “—I was getting to the point before you interrupted me, Suguru,” he complained, “I think that might be our way to go” quickly added, ".... orgasm is a strong sensation which the body and mind can easily confuse with the feeling of euphoria, if we recreate the event maybe we can return her to her world."

OH MY! Could this be a dream!? You pinch your arm, but nothing happened.

There was a dead silence that prolonged and eventually you peeked through your fingers. They were both looking at you, waiting.

Capturing a lock of hair between your fingers, nervously twirled it to then gulp some spit and a so needed mouthful of air, before saying with burning cheeks. "It-It's worth a try."

No matter how hard you tried, the toy that had traveled with you from another universe refused to start, and you found yourself in the painful need to use your fingers. Satoru had not been wrong in his verdict, it was true that you could not reach orgasm just using your fingers... you were too impatient to hunt for the sensation, too inexperienced to know where to touch exactly and immensely shy to ever ask for some external help that would aid you in your homework. So, there you were, locked in Satoru Gojo's bathroom, playing the strings but not getting the glorious notes.

Knock! Knock! knock!

It was the third time they interrupted you.

You flung open the door and to your surprise, Gojo didn't even flinch. Almost as if he had been anxiously waiting for you to give up on your efforts and beg for his support.

"-Are you suggesting that I let two strangers jack me off in order to return to my world?"

Those were the last words you thought you would ever say.

Geto hid an amused smirk behind his hand, but Satoru was more brazen, and his smirk didn't shy away.

“We're not strangers, (Y/N),” Satoru said very confidently, gently putting a strand of your hair behind your ear, “you know us better than we know ourselves, don't she, Geto?”

"I had already forgotten how much I like Zaru Soba," Geto commented from his spot on the bed, broad back leaning against the headboard as he munched away an instant Zaru soba soup that he found in Satoru's pantry "-I am immensely grateful to you for reminding me, pretty."

"See," Gojo bit down a laugh that would surely only help to get you madder, "we're not strangers, besides it's not like you have any other options, do ya?"

You pouted your lips and your brow wrinkled, to what Satoru's invasive thumb quickly smooth it out gently, sliding motion that felt way too lovingly as it went up and down your skin. His face now inches from yours.

"Let us help you," his minty breath caressed the tip of your nose, and you felt a shiver run down your spine, "you didn't appear in my bathtub by accident," maybe it had something to do with the fact that you were masturbating while listening to their voices but that was classified information that they would only get out of you with torture, "...as we see it, we are in charge of you until we can return you to your world," Satoru straightened up and wrapping your wrist in his big palm began to guide you towards the bed until the back of your calves bumped with the mattress, "-so, our mission is to help you in any way possible."

There was something extremely captivating in the sweetly way in which he was looking at you, and glancing at Geto, you recognized this same warmness reflected in his raven eyes. Would it be possible for them to find you attractive? Or to find you as irresistible as you found them…

"Will you allow us to take care of you, little one?"

*READ THE 9000 WORD COMISSION IN MY PATREON. (Includes lots of smut content and NSFW art from scenes of the fic. Plus, lot of JJK NSFW content)

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writeriguess · 14 days ago

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The Quiet Storm // Katsuki x fem!reader

author's note: another comfort fic <3

The air was thick with smoke and the acrid tang of burning metal. Explosions echoed in the distance, but you were too focused on the enemy in front of you to care about anything else. Katsuki Bakugo was a few meters to your left, palms sparking and lips curled into a familiar snarl as he sized up the group of villains blocking your path.

"You keeping up, or what?" he barked over his shoulder, crimson eyes flicking toward you for the briefest second.

You smirked, raising your fists. "Don't get cocky, Dynamight. I'm not the one who's been holding back."

His laugh was sharp and brief, more of a scoff. "As if! Watch and learn, princess."

Without waiting for a response, Katsuki launched forward, palms blasting him through the air as he closed the distance to the nearest villain. You moved in tandem, feet pounding against the concrete as you targeted the opponent on the right.

The fight was chaos—an orchestra of shouts, quirk flashes, and the steady rhythm of your heartbeat in your ears. You dodged a burst of ice, countering with a well-timed uppercut that left the villain sprawling. Beside you, Katsuki was relentless, explosions lighting up the battlefield as he dispatched his targets with brutal efficiency.

"Hey!" he shouted, jerking his head toward a trio of villains regrouping further down the alley. "You take left, I'll cover the rest."

"Got it!"

You veered left, engaging a tall villain with a quirk that seemed to amplify sound waves. The noise was deafening, but you powered through, using your agility to weave past his attacks before delivering a decisive blow. The moment he dropped, you turned to see Katsuki finishing off the last of his targets with a thunderous explosion.

"Done already?" you teased, jogging over to him.

"Of course I am," he shot back, his expression a mix of pride and irritation. "What, you thought I'd let some weak-ass extras slow me down?"

You opened your mouth to respond, but the sound of approaching footsteps made you both tense. Turning toward the source, you caught sight of a shadowy figure emerging from the smoke, their presence radiating danger.

"Stay sharp," Katsuki muttered, stepping in front of you without a second thought.

"Like I need you to protect me," you replied, though you felt a flicker of warmth at his instinctive action.

The figure stopped a few paces away, their lips curling into a sinister smile. "Well, well. Dynamight and his little sidekick. This should be fun."

You exchanged a glance with Katsuki, his eyes burning with determination. "Sidekick?" he growled. "You're dead."

The fight shifted in an instant. The villain moved faster than you anticipated, closing the distance and slamming you against the wall with enough force to knock the breath out of your lungs. Pain radiated through your back as you crumpled to the ground, your legs refusing to respond.

You tried to push yourself up, but your body betrayed you. A wave of panic surged through you as you realized you couldn't move your legs.

"Shit," you muttered under your breath, your hands trembling as you tried to drag yourself away from the approaching figure.

"Hey!" Katsuki's voice cut through the chaos like a whip. The second he saw you on the ground, his eyes narrowed dangerously, and his explosive rage ignited. "Get your damn hands off her!"

The villain barely had time to react before Katsuki launched himself forward, his palms detonating with a deafening roar. The force of the explosion sent the enemy flying, slamming them into a crumbling wall with a sickening thud.

Katsuki didn’t stop. He didn’t even glance back at you as he relentlessly advanced, blasting the villain again and again until they were completely incapacitated. Smoke and rubble filled the air, the battlefield eerily quiet as the last explosion echoed into the distance.

When he finally turned around, his face was a mixture of fury and worry. "You okay?" he barked, crouching beside you. His hands hovered over you for a second before he hesitantly rested one on your shoulder.

"I—" You gritted your teeth, your voice trembling. "I can’t move my legs, Katsuki."

His eyes widened briefly before narrowing again, his jaw tightening. "What the hell are you talking about?"

You gestured weakly to your legs. "I don’t know what they did, but I can’t feel them. I think—" Your voice cracked. "I think they hit my spine."

For a moment, Katsuki just stared at you, the realization sinking in. Then, with a surprising gentleness, he slipped an arm under your shoulders and another under your knees, carefully lifting you into his arms.

"Don’t you dare freakin’ cry," he muttered, his voice gruff but oddly soft. "You’re gonna be fine, got it? We’ll get you outta here, and Recovery Girl’ll fix you up."

"Katsuki..." you started, but he cut you off with a glare.

"Shut up. Save your strength. You’re not dying on me, you hear?"

Despite the situation, you managed a weak laugh. "I don’t think not moving my legs means I’m dying."

"Don’t care," he snapped, adjusting his grip on you as he started moving. "You’re not allowed to give up. Not now, not ever. You’re tougher than this."

As the two of you left the battlefield behind, the sound of distant sirens growing closer, you clung to his words like a lifeline. For all his explosive temper and harsh words, Katsuki had a way of making you feel like you could survive anything—even this.

The stark white walls of the hospital room felt oppressive, each sterile surface a harsh reminder of the situation you were in. You lay in the hospital bed, blankets pulled up to your waist, hands clenched into tight fists atop them. The doctor’s words were still ringing in your ears, louder than the quiet hum of the machines around you.

"The injury to your spine is significant," he had said, his voice measured but heavy with caution. "We’re going to do everything we can, but there’s a possibility... there’s a possibility you may not walk again."

You’d barely been able to nod as he continued, his expression softening. "I’ll also be informing your school about your condition. You’ll be signed off hero duty temporarily... though the decision may be permanent, depending on your recovery."

The door clicked shut behind him, and the silence that followed was unbearable. Your thoughts filled the void almost instantly, spiraling out of control.

What if I can’t walk again? What if I can’t fight anymore? What if I can’t be a hero?

The images in your head came unbidden: your classmates excelling in their training, while you watched from the sidelines. Pitying looks from teachers, friends, and strangers. Worst of all, Katsuki turning his back on you because you couldn’t keep up with him anymore.

The thought hit you like a punch to the gut, leaving you breathless. You barely noticed the burning sensation in your eyes until a tear slipped down your cheek.

"Stop it."

The sharpness in Katsuki’s voice cut through the haze, dragging you back to reality. He was sitting in the chair beside your bed, elbows on his knees, hands clasped tightly. His crimson eyes burned into yours, filled with something you couldn’t quite place—anger, frustration, and... concern?

"Stop what?" you muttered, your voice barely above a whisper.

"That look," he snapped, leaning closer. "Like it’s over. Like you’re some kinda useless extra now."

You scowled, your frustration bubbling to the surface. "Easy for you to say, Katsuki! You’re not the one who might never walk again. You don’t know what it feels like to have everything you’ve worked for ripped away in one fight!"

His jaw tightened, and for a moment, he said nothing. Then, in a low, growling voice, he replied, "You think I don’t care? You think I’d just stand here if I didn’t give a damn about what happens to you?"

Your heart skipped a beat at the intensity of his words. "I—" You swallowed hard, trying to steady your voice. "I don’t know, okay? I don’t know anything anymore. I’m scared, Katsuki. What if I can’t be a hero anymore? What if I’m just... nothing?"

Katsuki shot to his feet, the chair screeching against the floor as he glared down at you, his expression a mix of anger and something softer—something raw. "You’re not nothing, dammit!"

His voice rang out in the small room, and for a moment, you could only stare at him, wide-eyed.

"You’re one of the strongest people I know," he continued, his voice rough but steady. "Stronger than half those idiots at school, stronger than me sometimes. You don’t just give up because shit gets hard!"

The sincerity in his voice was like a punch to the chest, leaving you breathless for an entirely different reason.

"Why do you care so much?" you asked, your voice trembling.

For a moment, Katsuki froze, his crimson eyes widening slightly before narrowing again. "Because..." he started, but the words seemed to catch in his throat. He ran a hand through his hair, turning his gaze away from you.

"Because what?" you pressed, your heart pounding.

He clenched his fists at his sides, his teeth gritting audibly. "Just... shut up, alright?!"

You flinched at his outburst, but before you could say anything, he stepped closer, his expression fierce. "Look," he muttered, his voice quieter now, "I don’t care what the hell that doctor said. You’re not giving up. Not now, not ever. You’re gonna fight through this, and I’ll..." He hesitated, his gaze softening slightly. "I’ll make damn sure you don’t do it alone."

Tears welled up in your eyes again, but this time, they weren’t from fear or frustration. There was something in Katsuki’s tone, in the way he was looking at you, that made you feel like you weren’t completely lost.

"You mean that?" you asked, your voice barely audible.

He scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest. "Tch. Don’t make me say it again, idiot."

Despite everything, a weak laugh escaped your lips. "You’re such an ass."

"And you’re a pain in mine," he shot back, but there was no heat in his words. Instead, he moved to sit back down, his chair scraping softly against the floor.

The two of you sat in silence for a while, the weight of the situation still hanging in the air, but something had shifted. Katsuki’s presence was steady, grounding, and for the first time since waking up in the hospital, you felt like you could breathe again.

You didn’t know what the future held, but as long as Katsuki was by your side, you felt like you could face it.

#bakugou katsuki x reader #katsuki bakugou x reader #katsuki x reader #bakugou x y/n #bakugou x you #bakugou x reader #bnha x reader #mha x reader #x reader #bakugo x reader #bakugo x you #bakugo x y/n #bnha #mha #mha fanfiction #my hero academia #boku no hero academia

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wildfrau · 1 year ago

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@soulwrought from Here.

Oh boy.

The manic laughter from the woman has her almost certain that As nodt would be a fan of this one, and she sighs very quietly to herself as she noticed the woman's dispatching of a hollow. Sub-Menos. But still, it seemed the Jailer was being rather cagey wasn't he?

Well what can you expect from someone whose job is more or less useless until things actually got roaring?

"Coulda swore J had a ... different number two. But I guess I don't necessarily check in on him very often." She conceded.

She'd have to ask Kirge about this whole hollow thing.

"Figured I'd come see how things were going. What with us gettin pretty close to Superbowl Time and all that." In reference to when the declaration of War would be dispensed to the Soul Society.

"But if you're ....occupied I can just roll by some other time."

#soulwrought #[In Roaring Thunder - IC]#-looks at the diced up hollow-#I see you guys' recruitments are going well #Glad to see his Majesty's desire to utilize arrancar strength issssssssssssssssss going well

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roaringxthunder · 1 year ago

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He chuckled at her statement, taking another long drag. He knew most higher ranked shinigami did tend to keep their reiatsu levels in check. Whether that was to hide from others or to keep their subordinates safe was dictated by situation. He was appreciative of her conscious effort to not reblind him, but he had to deal with multiple people who either didn't know how to suppress or didn't care to.

He let out the breath of smoke as he mulled over what she had asked. He honestly couldn't care less what she did away from him, as long as she didn't drag him into it. Especially if it was a hairbrained idea like a certain 'strawberry' as he'd heard him called.

"I assure you, dealing with Kurosaki and Kenpachi-taichou on a regular basis has made things a little easier to manage in regards to the amount of reiatsu." He spoke as he looked over towards the smaller figure. "The more you suppress, the denser it looks to me. Cut loose, and I can still see the blurry version. The amount released doesn't normally bother me too much. Especially when I spar with people of my station and higher among the Gotei. Plus, all I need to describe you is to bring Chi out for a very detailed description."

"Oh... Hmm..." Well, perhaps this was actually vaguely awkward. If he could tell that kind of thing by her 'casual and regular normal person' level of reiatsu emission she only kept up as a courtesy to others to avoid her presence being incredibly disconcerting, what all else could he tell?

She and Kūkaku were quite... uninhibited... as newlyweds and although that didn't (yet) extend to full reiatsu releases—neither of them were all that keen on everybody within the same horizon knowing what they were up to with all the subtlety of a strategic nuke going off—she was pretty sure there'd be evidence in terms of reiatsu. Namely, either her wife's curling off of her, or intermixed with and tinging her own—or both.

It hadn't been an issue yet, given the peacetime conditions and all; nobody was investigating that hard, and probably only that silly stray Grimmjow was attuned and uncouth—as well as bold!—enough to comment on it, if he did notice. But perhaps someone always looking at reiatsu might see it...

"If that's the case, guess I better stay set to 'barely there'. Wouldn't want to temporarily blind you all over again from the Matrix Code of inner beauty. Maybe don't investigate too closely either though; you might notice things you can't unnotice. Anyway, I take it her energy becomes her?"

#thunder's roar -- ic #seireitei life -- bleach #midnightactual #black cat of mischief yoruichi shihouin

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novaursa · 2 months ago

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Legacy (cold winds)

- Summary: Tywin was the man who saved you from Robert's wrath. He was also the man who doomed you.

- Pairing: targ!reader/Tywin Lannister

- Note: The canon timeline is altered to fit the narrative of the story.

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Previous part: winter is coming

- Next part: the march

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

The cold stretched endlessly in all directions, an oppressive blanket of darkness broken only by faint whispers of light. Snow swirled in the air, glittering like shards of glass, and the ground beneath you was hard, frozen, unyielding. The world was quiet—too quiet. You took a step forward, your breath misting before you in the bitter chill.

The horizon loomed with a storm, black as night, and from it came a sound that chilled your blood: the shriek of wights, the groaning of the dead, and the steady thrum of them. The Others.

You shivered, though not from the cold. As you looked around, shadowy figures began to appear—half-formed memories or specters of the past. Faces you knew, faces you loved, flickering like distant stars. And then, standing amidst the snow, his silver hair flowing like a banner in the wind, you saw him.

"Rhaegar," you whispered.

Your elder brother turned toward you, his face calm and untroubled, as though the storm did not rage around him. His indigo eyes softened as they met yours, and he held out a hand. “You are afraid,” he said quietly, his voice soothing, like a harp string vibrating through the cold air.

You swallowed hard, your throat tight. “Is it true? The Long Night? Is this what’s coming?”

Rhaegar nodded once, solemn and knowing. “It is coming, sister. The darkness. The fire and ice that will clash.” His voice carried the weight of prophecy, of something inevitable. “But you will not face it alone.”

Your brow furrowed as you looked at him, your breath ragged. “How? How can I stop it?”

Rhaegar said nothing for a long moment. Then his gaze flicked past you, toward something in the distance. You turned your head slowly and saw a figure emerging through the swirling snow—a man grown, tall and broad-shouldered, with silver-gold hair and deep violet eyes flecked with green. He stood proudly in armor that gleamed faintly with red and gold, his expression unreadable as he looked back at you.

“Damon,” you breathed, recognizing your son, though his features were blurred, shadowed by the mist. He was older, perhaps a man of ten-and-seven, but there was something regal, something powerful about him.

The storm roared louder, a cry of wights and shadow descending. Damon turned toward it, his hand reaching for something at his side. A sword—a blade of black glass and shimmering steel—appeared in his grip, and as he lifted it, light radiated from the weapon, breaking through the gloom.

“Protect him,” Rhaegar’s voice came, soft but firm. “He is the flame in the dark. He is your legacy.”

Tears stung your eyes as you looked back at your brother. “I don’t know how,” you whispered, your voice trembling.

“You will,” Rhaegar said gently, stepping toward you and placing his hand on your cheek. His touch was warm, a stark contrast to the freezing world around you. “You are stronger than you know, Y/N.”

The storm surged closer, the shadows rising like a tidal wave, and you felt a surge of panic. “Rhaegar—”

“Wake up.”

The storm cracked like thunder, and suddenly, everything went black.

You gasped awake, your chest heaving as you sat bolt upright. Your entire body was trembling, your skin slick with sweat despite the cold air around you. For a moment, you could still see the storm, hear the cry of wights, feel Rhaegar’s hand on your cheek. But it was gone—fading like a dream.

“Y/N!” Arya’s voice broke through your haze. The girl was crouched at your side, her face pale and wide-eyed, her hands gripping your arm. “You’re awake—you’re awake!” she said quickly, as though to reassure herself.

You blinked, trying to steady your breathing. “Arya?” Your voice was hoarse, raw. “What happened?”

Arya let out a shaky breath. “You were… shouting. Thrashing around. You woke me up, and I thought—” She cut herself off, her expression a mix of fear and relief. “Are you alright?”

You took a deep breath, rubbing your hands over your face. “It was a dream. Just a dream.”

Arya sat back on her heels, studying you warily. “You don’t look like it was just a dream.”

You looked at her, considering whether to explain, but the vision was still too raw, too real. “It’s nothing you need to worry about.”

Arya scowled at you, the sharpness of her gaze reminiscent of her father’s. “Don’t lie to me. You’re sweating like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Your lips twitched faintly at her stubbornness, though your heart still raced. “I saw my brother. Rhaegar.”

Arya’s frown deepened. “The one they said started the war?”

“Yes,” you replied softly, your mind still lingering on his face, so calm amidst the chaos. “He spoke to me. And I saw my son… older. A man.”

Arya’s expression softened slightly. “Damon?”

You nodded, glancing toward the sleeping bundle in the corner of the room. “He was strong, Arya. Stronger than I’ve ever seen. But…” You swallowed, the words catching in your throat. “The world around him was dark—so dark.”

Arya glanced over at Damon, her face conflicted. “What does it mean?”

You shook your head, forcing yourself to calm. “I don’t know yet.” You exhaled, letting the tension in your shoulders ease. “But I will find out.”

Arya shifted closer to you, her voice quieter now. “Do you think it has something to do with the dragon? With Viserion?”

“Maybe,” you admitted. “Viserion brought me here for a reason. Everything that’s happened—everything I’ve seen—it’s leading somewhere.”

Arya was silent for a moment, then nodded firmly. “We’ll figure it out. You’ll figure it out.”

You managed a faint smile, reaching over to squeeze her hand. “You sound like Jon.”

Arya looked away at that, her expression tightening. “I miss him,” she admitted quietly. “If he’s alive, we’ll find him.”

“We will,” you promised, though the weight of the dream still lingered in your heart like a shadow.

You lay back down as Arya settled beside you, her watchful gaze never leaving you. The vision of the Long Night, the storm of ice and darkness, and the sight of Damon with his sword burned in your mind like a brand. You didn’t yet know what it meant, but you would not ignore it. Rhaegar’s voice still echoed in your ears: “He is the flame in the dark.”

And you would protect that flame—no matter what it cost.

The sun was low on the horizon when the gates of Casterly Rock swung open. The distant sound of hooves clattering on stone echoed through the courtyard as Ser Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer, rode into his ancestral home. He sat tall in the saddle, his golden hair catching the waning light like a banner. At his side, his polished sword gleamed, though his right arm hung noticeably light and empty where his hand once was.

Soldiers paused to glance at him as he passed, whispers rippling through the ranks. Jaime paid them little mind, his sharp gaze fixed on the looming doors ahead as he dismounted. He handed the reins to a stable boy, who stumbled over himself as he took the stallion.

“Where is my lord father?” Jaime asked curtly.

One of the guards stepped forward. “In the great hall, Ser Jaime.”

Without another word, Jaime strode forward, his boots clicking purposefully against the stone floors of the Rock. The weight of the fortress, the history of his family, felt heavier here than it had ever been. His return was no triumphant homecoming; instead, it was shadowed by the unease of rumors that had reached King’s Landing. Whispers of dragons and magic beneath the Rock.

He found Tywin Lannister seated at the long table in the great hall, a candlelit map stretched before him. Papers and ledgers were scattered alongside goblets of wine. Tywin looked up as Jaime entered, his pale green eyes narrowing ever so slightly. His expression, as always, was unreadable.

“Jaime,” Tywin said with little warmth. “I expected you sooner.”

“Then you’ve been waiting for me,” Jaime replied, his tone carrying its usual flippancy. “Rumors tend to travel faster than I do these days, father.” He stopped at the edge of the table, his left hand resting on his belt. “I came to see for myself.”

Tywin’s brow furrowed faintly. “See what?”

“The dragon,” Jaime said bluntly. “Or whatever it is the smallfolk are whispering about.”

The hall fell into a brief silence, the crackle of the fire filling the void. Tywin didn’t flinch, nor did he look away. “And what do you make of it?” he asked, his voice cold, testing.

Jaime tilted his head, giving his father a hard look. “I didn’t believe it at first. Thought it was nothing more than bard’s nonsense. But the stories... they’re too many to ignore. A cream-and-gold beast seen circling above the Riverlands, and now people whisper it lives beneath the Rock. Tell me, is it true?”

Tywin sat back in his chair, steepling his fingers as he regarded his son. “What difference would it make if it were true?”

“It makes a great deal of difference,” Jaime shot back. “You’ve built your entire life on power, on order. Now the world is whispering that a dragon—a Targaryen’s dragon—is under your feet. That your wife is missing and has vanished on its back. And you’re sitting here pretending all is as it should be.”

Tywin’s eyes narrowed at the edge in Jaime’s tone, though his composure didn’t break. “Control your tongue.”

Jaime huffed a humorless laugh. “I’m not one of your bannermen, Father. I came here to know the truth. Is there a dragon, yes or no?”

For a long moment, Tywin said nothing. The firelight danced across his sharp features, shadows deepening the lines on his face. Finally, he spoke, his voice low and measured.

“Yes.”

Jaime froze, his flippant demeanor faltering just slightly as the word hung heavy in the air. He blinked, as though trying to reconcile what he’d just heard. “There really is a dragon.”

“There is,” Tywin confirmed, his tone matter-of-fact. “And my wife, your stepmother, rides it.”

Jaime paced a few steps away, running his hand through his golden hair, clearly unsettled. “Gods, what’s happened to us? First you marry a Targaryen, now we’re harboring dragons?”

Tywin’s gaze sharpened. “Mind your words. This is not a cause for jest.”

Jaime turned back to him, his expression serious. “You’re harboring something the realm will fear. The North is lost in snow, and now you’ve got a beast the size of a warship lurking beneath your feet. Do you even know where she’s gone? Your precious Targaryen wife?”

Tywin’s lips pressed into a thin line. “She will return.”

Jaime raised a brow, mockery lingering in his tone. “Will she? You don’t sound convinced.”

“I am,” Tywin snapped, his voice low but filled with steel. “Do not mistake my silence for uncertainty.”

The two men stared at each other, the tension in the air palpable. Finally, Jaime broke the silence, shaking his head with a tired sigh. “I hope you’re right. For your sake. For the boy’s sake.”

At the mention of Damon, Tywin’s expression softened a fraction, though his demeanor remained composed. “This is about more than whispers and rumors, Jaime. This is about legacy.”

Jaime’s expression darkened. “Legacy. Always legacy.” He met his father��s gaze with a flicker of bitterness. “Tell me something, Father. Do you trust her? Your silver-haired bride?”

Tywin stared at him for a long moment. “I trust her to understand the weight of what’s at stake.”

Jaime said nothing, his silence speaking volumes as he turned and strode toward the door. Before leaving, he paused, glancing back over his shoulder. “I hope your faith isn’t misplaced, Father. Because if you’re wrong... you’re bringing fire and blood back to this world.”

And with that, he disappeared into the shadows of the corridor, leaving Tywin alone with his thoughts. The faint crackle of the fire was the only sound that remained as Tywin stared at the maps on the table. Jaime’s words lingered in the air like smoke.

Fire and blood.

The old words of House Targaryen echoed in his mind, and for the first time in years, Tywin felt the weight of uncertainty press against his chest. He closed his eyes for a brief moment, his face carved in stone.

Wherever Y/N was, she carried with her something that could change the world. And now, Tywin had no choice but to continue to wait.

The evening air around the Brotherhood’s camp crackled with an uneasy calm. Smoke curled lazily from the firepit, curling into the canopy of the gnarled oaks above. You sat beside Arya, the rough edge of the log biting into your legs as you watched Gendry hammering a new contraption together—a crude saddle meant for Viserion. The boy worked diligently, his face glistening with sweat despite the chill in the air. The other men of the Brotherhood murmured around him, either offering advice or casting wary glances toward the clearing where Viserion rested.

The dragon’s golden-cream scales glimmered faintly in the low light, her hulking form a shadow in the growing dusk. Though she had settled for now, every flick of her tail sent ripples of unease through the men. A Targaryen’s dragon, beneath the stars of the Riverlands. It was a sight that had no place in this world—yet here it was.

“Almost done,” Gendry grunted, wiping his brow with the back of his arm. “This will hold better than your cloak ever could.”

Arya glanced up from where she sat beside you, still running a cloth over Needle in a near-ritualistic motion. “About time,” she said, though her tone was more impatient than critical. She turned to you with her sharp grey eyes. “When are you going to leave, Y/N? You have a dragon. You can just fly to the Wall. Burn the Others before they come.”

You sighed, staring into the fire as the flames flickered and danced. “It’s not that simple, Arya.”

“It is!” she snapped, stubborn as always. “You could end it before it starts. That’s what dragons do, isn’t it? Burn things?”

“Not everything can be burned,” a deep voice said. Beric Dondarrion emerged from the shadows, his scarred face catching the firelight. “Dragons may have conquered men, but they are not the answer to all battles.”

Arya scowled. “Why not? She has the power. She should use it.”

Beric sat on the log across from you, his one good eye pinning you with a knowing look. “The Wall is not merely ice and stone, girl. There is magic there—old magic. Queen Alysanne once tried to fly her Silverwing beyond it, and the beast turned back every time. It refused.”

Arya looked incredulous. “A dragon refused?”

You nodded faintly, your voice soft but firm. “Dragons know things we don’t, Arya. They feel the pull of the world. The Wall… it holds something back. A force greater than fire alone.”

Beric tilted his head, still watching you. “And yet, you’ve seen beyond it, haven’t you?”

You stiffened slightly, the memory of the Long Night flashing in your mind—the cold, the screams, the endless dark. “I’ve seen glimpses. Shadows and fire. But if I tell anyone…” You shook your head, bitter laughter escaping your lips. “No one would listen. They would call me mad, just as they called my father.”

Arya bristled at that. “You’re not mad, Y/N. You’re not like him.”

“Not yet,” you muttered darkly. The fire cast shadows across your face, making the thought seem heavier. “But to the world, the name ‘Targaryen’ is enough to sow doubt.”

Arya turned to Beric and Thoros, frustration clear in her voice. “Then she has to make Tywin listen. Everyone listens to him.”

You couldn’t help but laugh at that—sharp and humorless. “Tywin Lannister believes what he sees and nothing more. I would sooner teach a fish to march across Westeros than convince him of my dreams.”

Thoros chuckled from where he sat, swirling his cup of wine. “If you give up before you start, you’ll never know what can be done, my lady.”

Beric leaned forward, his tone more serious. “You underestimate yourself, Y/N. You are the blood of dragons, and fire runs through your veins. That is no accident.”

You stared at him, feeling the weight of his words press against your chest. “And what does that matter if no one will believe me? The North will freeze, the dead will rise, and the realm will fight itself to the end.”

“Then you must make them see,” Beric said simply. “You are stronger than doubt. Stronger than them.”

Arya tugged on your sleeve suddenly, her voice quieter. “You’re going back, aren’t you? To him.”

You glanced down at her, her grey eyes so much like Jon’s it made your heart ache. “I have to, Arya,” you murmured. “I can’t stay here forever. My son is waiting for me.”

Arya turned her face away, the flickering firelight catching the glint of tears she stubbornly refused to let fall. “It’s not fair. You just got here.”

You reached over and brushed her hair back from her face, forcing a faint smile. “I’ll come back. I promise.”

“You’d better,” Arya muttered, her voice wavering just slightly. “You always keep your promises.”

For a long while, the camp fell silent except for the crackling of the fire and the occasional deep rumble of Viserion in the clearing. The men were settling down for the night, but you remained seated on the log, watching the embers glow. Beric’s words echoed in your head: You are stronger than doubt. Stronger than them.

You looked toward Viserion’s looming silhouette, her massive wings tucked neatly at her sides. A creature of power and fire, waiting—like you—for what was to come.

The attack came with no warning. The Brotherhood camp, peaceful under the canopy of ancient oaks, was suddenly filled with the thunder of hooves, the screams of men, and the clash of steel. Shadows moved in the darkness—soldiers, brigands, or perhaps both—ambushing the camp with ruthless precision. Brotherhood men scrambled for their weapons, hastily drawing blades and bows as enemies flooded in, cutting down tents and scattering supplies.

Arya stood frozen for half a heartbeat as chaos erupted around her. “Gendry!” she yelled, spotting him near the fire. He swung his hammer with all the strength of a blacksmith, but he was outnumbered.

“Get back!” Gendry shouted at her, teeth gritted as he swung his weapon into an attacker’s chest. “Run, Arya! Now!”

Arya grabbed Needle, its familiar weight grounding her as her instincts kicked in. She darted through the melee, slipping between bodies and swinging her blade at anyone who came too close. The air was thick with the copper tang of blood and the acrid smell of smoke. Men shouted, some calling orders, others screaming their last breaths.

From a distance, Beric Dondarrion and Thoros of Myr fought side by side, flames licking from Beric’s sword as it cut through the darkness like a beacon. “Hold the line!” Beric roared, his voice carrying above the din. “They’re breaking—stand your ground!”

But Arya knew the Brotherhood was outnumbered. This wasn’t a simple skirmish; it was a slaughter.

And then, just as the night seemed ready to consume them, the air itself split open with a sound unlike any other—a thunderous, bone-deep shriek that rattled the earth. The attackers faltered, their eyes snapping upward, faces going pale with terror.

“Dragon!” someone screamed, pointing toward the sky.

Arya turned just in time to see Viserion.

The dragon descended like a storm from the heavens. You were seated firmly on her back, your cloak streaming behind you, and the firelight reflected in your violet eyes. You were a vision of fury—a dragonrider born from fire and blood.

“Y/N!” Arya shouted, her voice lost in the growing roar of wings.

Viserion swooped low, and the air erupted in a wall of fire. It burst from her jaws, a torrent of golden flame that consumed everything in its path. The ambushers screamed in terror as the dragonfire crashed into the earth, engulfing men, horses, and trees alike. The flames roared hungrily, crackling with an otherworldly heat as they turned the night into day.

Thoros had stopped in his tracks, standing amidst the swirling smoke and cinders. His face was illuminated by the firelight, eyes wide and unblinking as he stared at the divine force unleashed before him. “It’s the fire of the gods,” he murmured, voice trembling. “By R’hllor…”

Beric grabbed Thoros by the arm, shaking him from his stupor. “Move! We need to regroup!”

But Thoros stood frozen, watching as the golden flames licked the earth clean of their enemies. He looked like a man glimpsing prophecy in its rawest form.

Above the battlefield, you guided Viserion higher into the sky, your heart pounding in your chest as the dragon’s mighty wings beat against the air. The fire below died out in scattered embers, leaving blackened earth and smoldering ash in its wake. You dared to look back one last time.

On the ground, you saw Arya. She stood apart from the others, her face tilted upward as she watched you rise into the night sky. Even from this distance, you could see the grief etched into her young face—grief and awe. She raised a hand as if to wave, though she knew you couldn’t see her clearly.

For a brief moment, guilt clawed at your chest. You had promised to stay. Promised to come back for her. But you couldn’t wait any longer. Damon needed you. Tywin needed to know what was coming.

“Goodbye, Arya,” you whispered into the wind.

Viserion shrieked again, the sound splitting the sky like a blade. Arya flinched but didn’t look away, her grey eyes locked onto you until you disappeared into the horizon, swallowed by the black night.

On the ground, the Brotherhood began to gather what remained of their camp. Thoros still stood amidst the ash, staring into the dying embers with awe. Beric came up beside him, his face shadowed with worry.

“She’s gone,” Beric muttered, glancing toward the sky. “Back to her world.”

Thoros did not look away from the flame. “She rides with fire. It is her path.”

Arya said nothing as she turned from the smoldering field, Needle still clutched in her hand. She felt cold despite the heat of the fires that had raged moments ago. She hadn’t called out to you as you flew away; there was no point.

She swallowed hard, blinking rapidly as her fists clenched at her sides. “She’ll come back,” Arya said, more to herself than anyone else. “She promised.”

But as the cold night air settled over the ruined camp, Arya wondered if promises could survive dragons, war, and the dark future that loomed over them all.

Tywin Lannister sat at the head of the war table, his expression as carved and unreadable as ever. Lords, captains, and advisors filled the chamber, gathered for yet another council—reports of the Riverlands unrest, whispers of winter pressing further south, and rumors still murmured from the North. Jaime Lannister stood to the side, arms crossed as he leaned against a column with his usual air of irritation.

“Riverlords refuse to cooperate, my lord,” Kevan reported. “Our garrisons hold for now, but morale is strained. The men—”

The words were cut short by an earth-shaking roar.

Every head in the room turned sharply, stunned into silence. It was not the sound of a man or a beast of this world, but something ancient and terrible—a sound that rattled stone and made hearts clench with primal fear.

“What in Seven Hells was that?” Jaime’s voice broke the silence, though he pushed himself away from the column as though ready to fight.

Another roar followed, louder this time, echoing off the walls of the great castle, sending a cascade of dust from the ceiling beams. Tywin’s eyes narrowed as he rose from his seat. “Out. Everyone. Now.”

Lords and soldiers scrambled in confusion, shoving back chairs and bolting for the door as the roar sounded again. The ground quaked faintly beneath their feet.

Kevan stepped to Tywin’s side, his face pale. “Could it be…?”

“It is,” Tywin said sharply, his voice betraying no fear, only simmering frustration. “Jaime, with me.”

Jaime drew himself up, his face contorted with disbelief, though there was a flicker of awe buried beneath it. “A dragon?”

Tywin shot him a hard look. “Move.”

Together they strode out of the chamber, flanked by guards and advisors who whispered nervously among themselves. The halls of Casterly Rock were alive with commotion—maids screamed and darted for shelter, while soldiers rushed to man the walls, their swords and spears rattling in their hands.

The massive double doors leading to the courtyard were already open, and Tywin stepped out into the light. The moment he did, he came to a halt, and every man around him froze.

Viserion loomed above the castle.

The she-dragon descended from the heavens like a herald of the gods, her scales blazing against the sun. Her wings beat the air with force that sent banners whipping and sent men staggering back. Horses reared in terror, their panicked shrieks mingling with the booming sound of the dragon’s wings.

“Hold your ground!” Tywin barked, his voice sharp and commanding. Soldiers faltered but steadied themselves, their weapons shaking as they watched the beast circle once more.

The dragon shrieked—a sound that struck deep into the hearts of every man present—before she tucked her wings and swooped low. Jaime swore under his breath as the dragon descended, massive claws kicking up dust and stone as she landed in the center of the courtyard with a reverberating thud.

Everything fell silent.

The dust began to settle, and Tywin’s gaze remained fixed on the dragon, whose molten gold eyes surveyed the gathered men like they were little more than ants. Then, from the creature’s back, you appeared—your violet eyes sharp, your silver hair wild from the wind, your cloak stained from weeks of travel. You held your back straight, regal, even as your hands pressed carefully against Viserion’s scales.

The courtyard gaped.

“Seven bloody Hells,” Jaime muttered, taking a step back. “It’s true.”

Tywin’s gaze didn’t waver as you swung yourself down, landing firmly on the ground. You winced briefly as your boots hit the stone, the wounds from your earlier ride still tender, but you said nothing. Viserion shifted behind you, her massive head hovering just above your shoulder as she let out a low, guttural growl.

The men around you shuffled nervously, swords halfway drawn but held steady under Tywin’s iron glare.

“Stay where you are,” Tywin commanded, his voice cutting through the tension. He moved forward slowly, his steps deliberate as his piercing green eyes fixed on you. “Y/N.”

You stood your ground, chin lifted, though the exhaustion in your limbs weighed heavy. “Lord Husband,” you said smoothly, though your voice carried the faint edge of someone who had not rested in days. “I trust I haven’t caused too much of a commotion.”

Tywin stopped a few paces from you, his sharp gaze flickering between you and the dragon behind you. “Where have you been?” His voice was low, deadly calm.

You hesitated, feeling the dozens of eyes on you—guards, knights, lords, servants—all waiting, hanging on your words. “Where I was meant to go,” you said cryptically. “The High Heart.”

Tywin’s expression tightened. “You vanished without word, left your son behind, and now return astride a dragon. What exactly am I to make of this?”

Jaime stepped closer to Tywin’s side, his one hand resting on the pommel of his sword, though he made no move to draw it. “You’ve caused quite the stir, Lady Y/N. What in the world possessed you to—?”

“I did what needed to be done,” you interrupted sharply, your eyes snapping to Jaime before turning back to Tywin. “And I have returned to fulfill what must come next.”

Tywin studied you for a long moment, his gaze as cold and calculating as ever. “The men are frightened. The people will talk.”

“Let them talk,” you said evenly, stepping forward. “They will talk of dragons. And they will listen when we speak.”

There was silence for a beat as Tywin considered you, his expression unreadable. Behind you, Viserion let out another low rumble, her tail curling protectively along the ground.

Finally, Tywin straightened, his face carved into stone. “You will explain everything. Inside.”

You inclined your head. “As you wish.”

Tywin turned sharply, barking orders to his guards. “Clear the courtyard! Stabilize the horses—send word that all is well.”

Jaime lingered for a moment longer, his face a mixture of awe and disbelief as he looked at you. “I always thought the stories were exaggerated. I see now they weren’t.”

You met his gaze, unflinching. “The world is far stranger than any story, Ser Jaime.”

With that, you turned and began to follow Tywin back into Casterly Rock. Behind you, Viserion watched silently, her golden eyes fixed on the retreating men as if daring them to make a move. The courtyard began to empty, the air still thick with the smell of smoke and the lingering echoes of chaos.

As you walked past Tywin’s side, his voice dropped low enough for only you to hear. “You have much to answer for.”

“And much to show you,” you replied quietly.

For the first time in years, Tywin Lannister felt the weight of something greater than power itself pressing against his mind—something he could not control. A dragon had returned to Casterly Rock, and the world, he knew, would never be the same.

The great halls of Casterly Rock echoed faintly as Tywin Lannister led you through the winding stone corridors. The heavy doors to the courtyard had slammed shut behind the both of you, sealing away the chaos and whispers. Tywin’s steps were brisk, his presence imposing even in silence. You kept pace, though the weight of exhaustion pulled at your limbs with every step.

Guards and servants lingered against the walls, their eyes flicking nervously toward you before darting away. No doubt the sight of you astride Viserion was now spreading like wildfire through the castle. A Targaryen wife, returned on dragonback—it was the sort of story that men would turn into legend.

Tywin said nothing until you reached the door to the nursery. He pushed it open with a firm hand, the soft glow of candlelight spilling into the corridor. “In here,” he commanded, his voice low but resolute.

You stepped inside the nursery, the air immediately warmer and more comforting than the cavernous halls. The faint sound of a baby’s soft coos greeted your ears, pulling a gentle smile to your lips. Damon, now around seven moons old, sat upright in his crib, propped by cushions to keep him steady. His silver-gold hair caught the candlelight like spun silk as his chubby fingers clumsily gripped a small wooden lion. He turned his head as you entered, his wide violet eyes blinking with innocent curiosity.

Tywin’s demeanor softened, ever so slightly, as he moved to stand beside the crib. He regarded his son—his heir—with quiet pride, though his face remained as composed as ever.

“You should not have been gone so long,” Tywin said finally, breaking the silence. “He missed you.”

You moved to the crib, running your fingers gently over Damon’s soft cheek. He cooed, his small hand reaching for yours, and you smiled faintly. “And I missed him,” you said softly, the ache of separation lingering in your voice. “Every day.”

Tywin regarded you closely, his sharp eyes studying your face as you continued to watch your son. “Where did you go, Y/N? What madness compelled you to leave?”

You didn’t look at him, your voice steady as you replied. “To the High Heart, as I told you. Something… someone called me there.”

“Who?” Tywin’s question cut through the air like a blade.

You finally turned to meet his gaze, your violet eyes unwavering. “A voice from my dreams. From my bloodline, perhaps. I do not yet fully understand it myself.”

Tywin’s jaw tightened, his skepticism plain to see. “Dreams. Whispers. That is what you risked everything for?”

“I risked everything to protect this,” you said sharply, gesturing toward Damon. “To protect him. To protect you. You may not believe me, Tywin, but you will listen.”

Tywin’s expression darkened, but there was no retort. He simply watched you, as though weighing the truth of your words.

Damon let out another soft sound, his small hand wrapping around your finger as he grinned toothlessly, oblivious to the tension in the room. For a moment, the heaviness between you and Tywin eased, replaced by the quiet hum of the nursery and the warmth of your son’s presence.

“He looks stronger,” you murmured, brushing Damon’s silver-gold hair back gently. “You’ve cared for him well.”

Tywin’s gaze softened, though his voice remained steady. “He is my son. My heir. I would not allow harm to come to him.”

You looked up at Tywin, the flickering candlelight casting shadows across his sharp features. “Then trust me when I say that harm is coming. You don’t have to believe my words, but the signs are already here. The winds from the North grow colder. The Wall grows restless. The world will burn or freeze, Tywin. I have seen it.”

Tywin’s lips pressed into a thin line, his frustration barely concealed. “I cannot build armies on whispers and shadows, Y/N.”

“Then what will you do when shadows turn into an army of the dead?” you challenged, your voice quiet but firm. “What will you do when the Wall is not enough? When this castle—your precious Rock—is nothing more than rubble beneath snow and ice?”

Tywin stared at you, his jaw set, his silence betraying the faintest crack in his certainty. He was not a man given to imagination, to prophecies or legends—but you could see the flicker of doubt in his gaze.

Before he could answer, his eyes darted lower, a flicker of something sharper—concern or curiosity—crossing his face. “What is this?”

You frowned, following his gaze as he reached toward your side, where the hem of your gown hung uneven. Tywin gently caught your wrist and turned your arm to examine the faint red lines beneath the fabric, some scabbed, others only just beginning to heal.

“They’re nothing,” you said quickly, trying to pull your arm free, but his grip tightened, careful but unyielding.

“Nothing?” Tywin’s tone turned cold, his pale green eyes snapping to yours. “These are not ‘nothing.’ How did this happen?”

You hesitated, knowing Tywin would not relent until you answered. “The scales,” you admitted quietly, looking away. “Viserion’s scales cut me when I rode her. It’s my fault for not being prepared.”

Tywin exhaled through his nose, the faintest trace of irritation in his expression. “And you didn’t think to tend to this?”

“It is nothing,” you repeated stubbornly, pulling your arm back as you met his gaze once more. “I’ve had worse.”

“Worse or not, it is reckless,” Tywin said curtly, his eyes narrowing. “You do not risk yourself like this—not when your son needs you.”

“I did what I had to,” you replied softly, but firmly. “And I will do it again if it means keeping him safe.”

Tywin said nothing, but his gaze lingered on you for a long moment. It was not anger you saw in his eyes, nor disappointment, but something else—something harder to name. It was as though he were seeing you anew, taking the measure of the woman before him, one who rode dragons and spoke of nightmares made real.

Finally, he straightened, his composure settling back into place. “The maester will see to those wounds.”

You almost laughed. “I’ll manage.”

“You will see him,” Tywin repeated, his tone leaving no room for argument. He turned back to the crib, brushing his fingertips over Damon’s small blanket with unexpected gentleness. “For his sake.”

You sighed, relenting. “Very well.”

There was silence for a moment, the flicker of the candlelight throwing your shadows across the nursery walls. Tywin’s presence, as always, filled the room—but this time it was less oppressive, softer, as though something unspoken lingered between you both.

“Rest,” he said finally, his voice quieter. “There will be much to discuss tomorrow.”

And with that, Tywin Lannister turned and left the room, his steps fading down the corridor. You sat down carefully beside Damon’s crib, exhaling deeply as the weight of your journey and the future yet to come pressed against your shoulders.

You ran your fingers gently over Damon’s tiny hand as he sat, his wide eyes now starting to flutter closed, exhaustion overtaking him. “For you, my son. Always for you,” you whispered softly.

You stood by the window, watching the ocean waves crash against the cliffs far below Casterly Rock. The air was crisp and salty, carrying a faint chill that clung to your skin. Damon cooed softly in his crib behind you, watched carefully by the ever-diligent nursemaid, who hummed a lullaby under her breath.

You were half lost in thought when a knock came at the door.

“Enter,” you called, turning away from the window.

The door opened, and Jaime Lannister stepped inside, his gilded armor glinting faintly in the light. His single hand, as always, rested against the pommel of his sword, but his posture was far from threatening. There was something unusual in his expression—hesitation, perhaps, or curiosity—as he regarded you with his piercing green eyes.

“Ser Jaime,” you greeted, arching a brow. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Jaime tilted his head slightly, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Pleasure? I doubt my presence here is that pleasant.”

“True,” you replied smoothly, turning fully to face him. “We’ve never truly spoken, despite… circumstances.”

Jaime glanced at the nursemaid and nodded toward the door. “Leave us.”

The woman looked to you for confirmation. You nodded, and she gathered her things, retreating with a bow. When the door clicked shut behind her, Jaime’s smile faltered. He looked uncertain now, his gaze flickering briefly to Damon in his crib before settling back on you.

“I suppose that’s true,” Jaime said finally, crossing his arms. “It’s strange, isn’t it? You’ve been in this family for long now, and yet we’re little more than strangers.”

“Perhaps we preferred it that way,” you remarked, folding your hands before you. “What is it you wanted to say, Ser Jaime?”

Jaime seemed to weigh his words carefully, a rare sight for him. He paced a few steps, looking down at the ornate rug beneath his feet before stopping abruptly. “I came to speak of… the past.”

You felt the tension in your shoulders stiffen. “Be specific.”

“The day I killed your father.”

The words hung in the air like a blade suspended by a thread. Your breath stilled, but your face remained composed, years of royal upbringing keeping your emotions hidden. “I do not wish to speak of that day.”

“You think I do?” Jaime retorted, his voice edged with bitterness. “That day—what happened—will follow me to my grave. Kingslayer, Oathbreaker—call me what you will. But I need you to understand something.”

“I understand everything already. You want forgiveness of a daughter, an absolution for your soul,” you replied, your voice steady but quiet. “I can't give you that and I don’t want to remember the man you killed. I want to remember the man who once cared for me as a little girl.”

Jaime blinked, caught off guard. “Your father?”

“Yes,” you said softly, your gaze distant. “Before the madness. Before the fire. I want to remember the man who lifted me onto his knee and promised I would always be safe. The man who placed a crown of flowers on my head and called me his little princess. That is the memory I choose to keep.”

Jaime’s expression shifted, his usual wit and sarcasm subdued. “You were lucky to know him that way,” he muttered, his voice quieter now. “By the end, there was no man left in him.”

You looked away, your jaw tightening. “And I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

There was silence for a long moment. Jaime let out a slow breath, and when you finally turned back to face him, you saw something resembling regret in his eyes. Perhaps not for what he did, but for the weight it left on you.

“You’re here because of Cersei,” you said, breaking the quiet. “That’s why you came. She sent you to see if the rumors were true.”

Jaime’s lips twitched into something between a smirk and a grimace. “She’s worried about a dragon, yes. But she’s even more worried about you.”

“And what will you tell her?” you asked, your voice carrying an edge of challenge.

Jaime shrugged one shoulder, though the movement was deliberate. “The truth. You’ve returned. You brought a dragon with you. I’m sure she’ll make of it what she will.”

“Do not underestimate her,” you said sharply. “She sees enemies everywhere, even in those closest to her. I’ve no doubt she will see me as no different.”

Jaime’s smirk faded completely. “Cersei isn’t always wrong about enemies.”

You tilted your head slightly, your violet eyes narrowing. “And what am I, Ser Jaime? A threat? A sister? A rival? Or perhaps something else entirely?”

Jaime hesitated, then let out a dry chuckle. “You’re Tywin’s wife. And now, the mother of his heir. That is more dangerous to Cersei than anything else in this world.”

You didn’t reply, but your gaze didn’t waver either. There was truth in Jaime’s words—a truth you already knew. Cersei’s resentment toward you ran deeper than mere rivalry; it was a matter of power, of legacy, of bloodlines that neither of you could control.

Jaime turned slightly toward Damon’s crib, watching the infant as he grasped at his small blanket. “He’s… a handsome boy. Strong.”

“He will need to be,” you replied softly. “The world he will inherit will be cruel.”

Jaime turned back to you, a flicker of something unreadable passing through his eyes. “Cersei believes this child threatens her. You threaten her.”

“And do you?” you asked, searching his face. “Do you see me as a threat too?”

Jaime was quiet for a moment, then shook his head. “No. I see you as someone who survived.”

You met his gaze, understanding more in that moment than you had in all the months of knowing him. Jaime Lannister was a man shaped by the world he fought in, much like you—a survivor of choices, fate, and fire.

“Tell your sister whatever you wish,” you said finally, turning back to Damon’s crib. “But remember this, Jaime: no matter what Cersei fears, I will protect my son.”

Jaime nodded faintly, as though he expected no less. “I’ll leave you to it then. I imagine we’ll see each other again soon.”

He turned on his heel and strode toward the door, pausing only for a moment. “For what it’s worth,” he added quietly, “the world would have been better if your father had stayed the man you remembered.”

You didn’t respond, but as the door closed behind him, you sat beside Damon’s crib, brushing a gentle hand over his silver-gold hair. You whispered softly, “The world would have been better still if none of this had come to pass.”

Tywin Lannister sat in his private solar at Casterly Rock, his gaze fixed on the crackling hearth before him as he waited. The quiet within the chamber was unusual, tense. He’d dismissed the usual guards and servants, wanting no distractions as he considered the days that had unfolded since your return. There was too much chaos, too many uncertainties—dragons, rumors, and now your wounds.

The sound of the door creaking open broke his thoughts, and Maester Aldren, an older man with a gaunt face and pale blue eyes, entered the room. He carried a leather-bound satchel and walked with a slightly uneven gait, his chain of office clinking softly against his robes.

“You summoned me, my lord?” Aldren said with a slight bow, his tone hushed with a nervous undercurrent.

Tywin turned his sharp gaze to him and gestured to the seat across from his desk. “Sit. Tell me what you have found regarding my wife.”

Maester Aldren settled himself with care, his satchel resting across his lap. “I examined Lady Y/N as you requested, my lord. The wounds she bears are… peculiar.”

Tywin’s brows narrowed. “How so?”

“They are not the wounds of war,” Aldren replied carefully. “Shallow cuts, some scabbed and others still raw, caused by the dragon’s scales, I suspect. What is concerning, however, is that they are not healing as quickly as one might expect. The dragon’s hide is sharper than any blade, it seems, and its presence may carry an unnatural effect.”

“Unnatural,” Tywin repeated sharply, the word tasting foul on his tongue. “Is it poison?”

“No,” Aldren said quickly, shaking his head. “The flesh is clean of any venom or festering. But I believe prolonged exposure to the creature—riding it as she has done—takes its toll. The cuts are many, and she requires rest. Your lady wife is resilient, my lord, but even she has limits.”

Tywin leaned back in his chair, his hands folding before him on the desk as he considered this. The words lingered in the air, and a long silence followed as Aldren waited for Tywin’s response.

Finally, Tywin spoke. “She will not stop. She has made it clear. If she continues to ride, she will need a saddle designed to protect her.”

Aldren blinked, visibly startled. “A saddle… for a dragon?”

“Yes,” Tywin said curtly, his voice brooking no argument. “And not some crude contraption patched together by peasants. A proper saddle. A Targaryen woman who rides a dragon will not be seen injured and bleeding like some common fool.”

Aldren hesitated, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “My lord, the knowledge you seek is scarce. What little we know of dragons—of their saddles, their riders—comes from the days of House Targaryen. The lore, the records… they were lost. Burned.”

Tywin’s gaze sharpened, his voice dropping dangerously low. “What do you mean, burned?”

“After Robert’s Rebellion,” Aldren explained cautiously, “King Robert ordered all written works concerning dragons destroyed in King’s Landing. The Citadel still holds fragments of knowledge, my lord, but much has been lost to time.”

Tywin exhaled sharply, his displeasure evident in the slight tightening of his jaw. “Foolish. Destroying knowledge does not destroy the truth. Send word to the Citadel. Whatever remains, I want it sent here immediately.”

“I will write to the Archmaesters at once, my lord,” Aldren said, bowing his head. “Though I must warn you, the Citadel has little love for dragons or the Targaryens. They may be reluctant to part with such knowledge.”

Tywin’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “The Citadel serves the realm, and I serve the realm. If they require convincing, I will see to it personally.”

“Yes, my lord,” Aldren replied quickly, bowing his head again to avoid Tywin’s piercing gaze. “And Lady Y/N?”

“She is to rest,” Tywin commanded firmly. “Do whatever is needed to see her well. But ensure she understands that this must not happen again. If she rides, she does so prepared.”

Aldren stood slowly, clutching his satchel. “Of course, my lord. I will prepare the necessary remedies and make inquiries at the Citadel.”

Tywin waved him away. “Go.”

Aldren bowed deeply and exited the room, the door shutting softly behind him. For a moment, Tywin sat still, the only sound the faint crackle of the fire. His fingers tapped against the desk in thought.

A saddle for a dragon… the very idea gnawed at him. He loathed how quickly the world had turned. He had spent decades carving order out of chaos, reshaping the realm to his will. Yet here he was, a dragon sleeping beneath his house, a dragon-rider wife whose blood carried the fire of old Valyria.

And somewhere deep within him, a quiet voice whispered that this fire could not be tamed.

He rose slowly, walking to the window and looking out across the horizon. The sun sat low, its light spilling over the cliffs like molten gold. Tywin’s face remained hard, his thoughts locked away.

“Knowledge is power,” he muttered to himself. “And I will have it.”

The roar of the distant sea rose up to meet him, but in his mind, he heard the cry of a dragon—ancient and unstoppable, and a herald of something he could not yet name.

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