#unnecessary blisters

[wetslug]

bought aesthetic new stompin boots and first time wearing them i realize my heels rub

[mariasont]

hi hi hi!!! i know you’re working on the bau sleepover buttttt i was wondering if you could write a aaron hotchner x reader fic where like what happened to garcia, reader gets shot and she’s in hospital and they don’t know if she gonna be okay and stuff. her and hotch have this mutual pining for each other and when she gets shot he kinda spirals. after being released, hotch takes her to her apartment and stays with her until they catch him and stuff. i know this is really long, thank you!!!

Some Profiler You Are - A.H

a/n: hi hi hi thank you so so sooo much for requesting <3 i kind of took this a more fluffy route and focused more on the recovery so let me know if you like it :)

masterlist

‧₊˚ ✩°｡⋆♡ ⋆˙⟡♡ ⋆˙⟡♡⋆｡°✩˚₊‧

pairings: aaron hotchner x fem!reader

warnings: reader was shot, comfort, angst like a teensy bit, fluff, changing of bandages, kinda shitty ending per usual

wc: 2k

"Do you want to sit down?"

No, you really didn't. After spending the last six hours in a state of near-motionlessness, sprawled across various surfaces, the last thing you wanted was to do was sit down. Your legs had taken on the consistency of overcooked noodles, so you made the grave mistake of misreading the quiet of the house as Hotch's absence, a mistake punctuated by the garage door's sudden rumble.

You should have known better than to assume he would leave you alone for even a second. Now, you were face to face, his scrutinizing eyes boring into yours, arms crossed across his wide chest. He was in a casual zip-up--a rarity that you never imagined him wearing before practically moving in with him. But you really did enjoy this relaxed side of him, he wore it exceptionally well.

Taking work off was a concept you knew was foreign him, yet here he was, not at his desk, hovering over you like a concerned parent. The entire office, yourself included, gaped at him as if he had sprouted a different head when he told them. His next move was even crazier--he insisted you stay with him while you recovered.

You protested. A lot. Shocker. But he wouldn't take no for an answer. Again, Shocker.

You winced as you stepped forward, your hands automatically gravitating to the bandage that spanned around your thigh.

"You can't baby me forever, Hotch," you murmured, though your conviction wavered under the dull throb in your leg.

You braced yourself against the counter, trying to mask the discomfort you were sure was etched all over your face.

Filling the shoes of the communications liaison for the FBI post-JJ's shift to profiling, you signed up for a life of managing the media narrative, being the conduit between local and federal levels, and choosing the cases. You provided assistance in ways that aren't glaringly obvious.

What you didn't sign up for is getting shot.

The movies, the stories, even the firsthand accounts from coworkers--none of it could brace you for the raw, blistering pain of a gunshot wound. It fucking hurt. And the recovery? It was a different kind of torture, and you'd even argue that it was worse.

"It's not babying, it's common sense," Hotch countered.

He was frustrated. You had that effect. He stepped closer, his hand dragging down his face. "You took a bullet. It's still in your leg. It's perfectly rational for me to want to prevent any unnecessary strain on you."

"Feels dramatic," you shrugged, but he was right, like always.

Your grip on the counter tightened, knuckles growing white as you struggled to keep the pain under wraps. His brows lifted in response.

"I'm fine, really, Hotch. I hate this. You're probably dying to get back to work--don't let me be the reason you don't. Despite popular belief, I'm quite capable of fending for myself."

"I'm aware," he said, his attention briefly shifting to your bandaged leg. You were wearing shorts, a choice that felt less than appropriate, but practicality trumped formality under these circumstances. "Work will survive without me. I'm not sure I can say the same about you."

Your laughter was short-lived, swiftly turning into a stifled grimace as your footing slipped. Hotch's reflexes were quick, his hands steadying you--one against your ribs, the other just shy above the hem of your shorts.

"Point in case."

"Poking fun at a wounded woman? Shame on you, Hotch," you chided, your lower lip jutting out in a pout. His eyes darted to it momentarily.

He didn't move, his hands staying put, stirring a gentle, jelly-like feeling inside of you.

This was an odd sort of comfort, the kind you're not supposed to feel with your boss. You shouldn't be talking to him like this, shouldn't be in his kitchen, and certainly, his hands shouldn't be where they were. But the ache in your heart didn't seem to care about shoulds and shouldn'ts.

Hotch's presence was hard to ignore. He was reducing the space with every word.

"You're hardly acting like a wounded woman," he pointed out. "You should be in bed."

You tilted your head, sliding onto the barstool to carve some much-needed space between you. The scent of his cologne was intoxicating, and you needed distance to gather your wits before you did something that HR would definitely not look kindly upon.

The action was a mistake, a fact that became painfully clear as the feeling of something stabbing into your leg took hold. You tried to muster a smile, but you were sure it came across as a snarl. The last thing you wanted was to inflate Hotch's ego by showing that maybe, just maybe, he was right.

"Shit."

You followed his line of sight, landing on the fresh red seeping through the bandage and staining your shorts. Oh. That's not great. Don't think you can fool him with this one.

Hotch didn't hesitate, his response outpacing your own surge of panic, which was incredibly fast, because you were panicking and frankly not that great with blood. His hands were on your skin, easing the hem of your shorts upward to lay bare the wound you had stupidly  underestimated.

You're never going on a date again.

I mean, the only reason you even went was to get your boss of your mind. Since the first day, you'd been hopelessly drawn to him--how could you not be?

But there are a couple factors to consider.

Firstly, he was your boss, and the whole notion of a coercive relationship dynamic seemed problematic.

Secondly, there's the age difference; it had never been an issue for you--perhaps a reflection of your daddy issues--but you knew it would raise some eyebrows.

And thirdly, he didn't even like you back. That was, of course, the biggest issue. If not for this, the other concerns could definitely be overlooked. 

Before this whole incident, he barely acknowledged you beyond was professionally required of him. You knew you hadn't been part of the team long enough to bond--though you weren't sure Hotch did bond in the usual sense, but the point was made.

You were fairly sure you hadn't made much of an impression on him.

"Hold still." That was a tall order, considering it hurt more than a mother fucker.

You found yourself glaring at him--not that he was to blame, but you needed to anchor your frustration on something, or someone. Unknowingly, your grip had latched on the fabric of his zip-up, but he seemed unfazed. He grabbed a clean cloth from the drawer, pressing it against the wound, only furthering the colorful vocabulary going on in your head.

"Fuck, Hotch."

You didn't make a habit of cursing in front of your superior, but the sharp sting forced tears to the brink, your body going rigid as you snapped your eyes shut. 

His other hand found its way to your uninjured thigh, giving it a firm squeeze--a clear attempt to divert your attention. It worked for a second. "I'm sorry, just keep this pressed here, okay?"

He motioned toward the cloth, and you complied, too drained to consider otherwise. Your brows knitted, and you bit into your lip until you tasted something metallicy, your mind desperately racing trying to think of anything other than the blood flowing freely from your thigh.

"Where are you going?" You knew how panicked you sounded as he turned away, stepping towards a cabinet. 

He rummaged briefly before holding up a first aid kit. Catching the brief alarm in your face, he quickly returned to your side, his hand finding the crook of your neck as you instinctively clutched at his shirt once again.

"If you dare say I told you so, I swear, Hotch, fists will fly," you ground out through clenched teeth.

He laughed, and now that did distract you, your eyes zeroing in on his perfect teeth. It was a rare display, and it only served to aggravate you further. Of course he had perfect teeth.

"I didn't say anything."

"I could feel you thinking it," you said, your voice rough as you willed the moisture in your eyes not to fall. "Maybe I should be a profiler."

"Definitely."

"Sarcasm doesn't suit you." You were lying. Everything suited him. He stepped back, and you reluctantly peered at the wound, only to find a neatly sutured leg. "Where did you learn to do that?"

"In this job, you learn to be handy with more than just a gun.”

You’d love to know what else he’s handy with.

He pulled your leg up to rest on his as he took a seat on the opposite stool.

Your body was buzzing, from the closeness, from his hands on you, and also from the pain, but you were trying to ignore that. He grabs a new bandage from the counter, hands trailing up your thigh so slowly you thought you might pass out. He was so gentle. There was no other word for it.

"How's it feel?"

You paused. Eyes fully locked on his precise movements as he wrapped you up. You were closer than you realized, practically sharing the same breath.

"Fine."

"Yeah?"

You nodded, and he finished up his task, his hand lightly patting your thigh to show he was done. You didn't move your leg from his lap, and he didn't move his hand.

"I couldn't sleep for three days."

"What?" Your brows were furrowed, your focus sharpening on his face as the words left his lips.

"When I found out you had been shot." He cleared his throat, his thumb making gentle rotations on your calf. "I couldn't close my eyes without seeing red for days. I wanted to kill the son of a bitch who did that to you. I almost did."

You weren't sure how to process this information, or why he was telling you. "You and me both."

"I'm serious." And you could tell he was, his eyes narrowing slightly as his hand firmly encircled around your leg. You felt a lump in your throat form as heat rose from your neck to your ears. "Do you know what that was like? I felt like my heart stopped."

"Why?"

"Why?" It was more a scoff than a word. He blew out a breath, his fingers pinching into the space between his eyebrows. "Is it not obvious?"

Your heart was beating a lot faster. You wanted to say something, anything but your throat was dry and every time you opened your mouth you found it snapping shut.

Hotch's expression softened ever so slightly, his voice low and bouncing off the walls as he spoke. "Because I'm in love with you."

Your breath stalled, as if every ounce of oxygen had been vacuumed from your lungs. The air felt heavy, almost tangible.

You stared at him, heart skipping a beat.

"That's not funny," you said. It wasn't. You weren't in the mood for jokes, and your brain couldn't comprehend he might be telling the truth. "You...you don't even notice me."

He shook his head. "I notice everything about you." His thumb stilled on your calf. "I'm your boss," he said, as if that explained everything. "There are rules, protocols. I couldn't...I still shouldn't..."

The confession stripped the room of its warmth, leaving a raw aching silence in its wake. You searched his face.

"When you got shot," he continued, "I realized that if I lost you, I'd regret not telling you how I feel for the rest of my life."

"Hotch, I..."

He leaned closer, causing your words to catch in your throat. His hand moved from your leg to your face. You were speechless, the world narrowing down to the man in front of you, to his eyes, the warmth of his hands.

"Say something."

"Are you kidding me?" Your heart was pounding like it was trying to escape from your chest. "I've been in love with you since I started. How could you not see that?"

He looked taken aback, as if your words were the last thing he expected. "Well—,"

But you didn't let him finish. "Some profiler you are."

You were practically climbing into his lap, hands framing his face, pulling your lips to his.

He chuckled against your lips, the sound vibrating through you. "Easy," he murmured, "don't make me fix that bandage again."

You laugh, the sound muffled by his mouth. He tasted like cinnamon and coffee. "Shut up, Hotch."

taglist: @hotchhner @khxna

[luveline]

Hi there! I hope your day’s been going well :)

Could you maybe write something with Spencer where Reader faints? Feel free to ignore this if you’re not up for it!!

thank u for ur request! fem!reader, 1.6k

"It's so hot," you say, startled. The lobby of the hotel had been blissfully air-conditioned. The difference hits you immediately. 

"Don't worry about blazers or professional attire," Hotch says, though he quickly amends, "within reason."

You take off your jacket and follow the herd of the BAU into the black SUVs. The SUVs are even hotter than the outdoors, blistering ovens of heat that have you feeling nauseous instantaneously. Spencer rubs your arm with the back of his hand swiftly —it's a friendly touch to say he's here, but it's quick to prevent any unnecessary added heat. 

It's August in Texas, 107 degrees Fahrenheit. Emily smells distinctly of sunscreen from the front passenger seat. Derek, behind the wheel, looks hot around the collar. Spencer looks as though he wishes he'd had a haircut before he came, chin length curls tucked tight behind his ears. 

Despite this, none of them complain beyond the general whine every now and then. You try very hard to shut up and focus on the case with them, but as the day goes on, bumping you from hot car to hot crime scene (with all inclusive smells of gore!), you feel wobbly on your feet. 

"Spence?" you ask, sitting in a hard-backed chair in the police precinct. 

"Yeah?" He doesn't look away from the geographical profile he's building. You're supposed to be helping, but your notes are half-hearted, likely useless. "What?" 

"Do you have any water?" 

He pushes a pin into the left of the map and grabs a ruler. "No, sorry. There's a staff room by the bullpen, the secretary said to help ourselves. Actually, she said to 'go ham.'"

"Okay. I'll be right back. And I'll be more helpful." 

"You're plenty helpful," he murmurs, leaning down to follow the line of his rules with a pencil. 

You don't feel helpful, you feel awful. Head heavy, eyes aching, every step sends a jolt through your teeth and jaw, your skull like a mashed potato. You know you're a poor sight with sweat wetting your hair and a crawling sensation between your legs and the fabric of your pants. 

Letting yourself into the staff room, you're unsurprised to find a bone dry water cooler and a crate of water bottles with only one remaining. Spencer needs a drink too, and he has a thing about germs. You frown at the water bottle as though that might duplicate it, but when it doesn't, you're forced to take it and put it under your arm. You look around for a mug to at least have some tap water no matter how ill-advised that may be. They're all dirtied in the sink and on tables. Fuck. 

Spencer is super, super lovely to you. You wonder sometimes if he might ask you out, or at least want to, but most of the time you're sure it's just a little extra friendliness because he knows how it feels to be the youngest on the team, how patronised or lonely it gets. And the weight of trying to prove yourself every mission, it's almost as heavy as your head. 

"Hey," Spencer says as you open the conference room door. "I think I've worked something out. Could you call Garcia for me? I've got dry-erase marker on my hands." 

"Got this for you," you say, offering him the bottle. He takes it without looking. 

"Thanks. Are you feeling any better? I know you can be sensitive to the heat." 

"Maybe we can get portable fans on the FBI budget next year," you say wistfully, pushing a chair in at the table. You lean on it to grab the phone in the middle of a sea of papers and cases and jackets, black spots popping up in your vision. "My head's rushing." 

"Hey, guys," Emily says, sounding strangely chipper as she and Hotch trudge in. Her hair is in a tight ponytail away from her face. 

You try to greet them and end up hanging your head. 

"Y/N," Spencer chokes, alarmed.

You slump forward over the chair, desperate to keep your footing and failing. Your shin knocks into the chair and your hands grasp at the top of it, but you can't hold yourself up any longer, knocking your face into the chair as you collapse. A cheap tent in a strong breeze, you fall with little more than a weak sigh. 

You're hurting a lot when you come to, blinking like your lashes have been brushed with glue. The lights have been turned off, and a blissful chill soaks your hairline. Someone presses a water bottle to your lips and lifts your head. You drink half the contents in three gulps and get laid down again with the utmost care. 

"She's coming around," Hotch says. 

Your neck aches propped over a leg. Two deft hands hold your head still. 

"Don't move too much," Spencer says, his voice odd. You blink as his face moves into view upside down. "An EMT is on the way, okay? You passed out." 

You can't find your voice. Spencer strokes your cheek with his thumb, says, "Hey, can you hear me? Let's hear your voice. Talk to me." 

"You don't sound like yourself," you say hoarsely, each word tenuous. You wince at the bruising heat that radiates from your nose with each word. 

"I'm worried about you," Spencer admits. "It makes it hard to stay objective." 

"No, you sound funny." 

"I'm worried," he repeats. His smile is strained. 

"She's okay," Hotch says. 

You realise Emily's got your hand in hers when she squeezes it. "Have you had anything to drink today?" she asks you, fondly incredulous. 

"No, she hasn't, and I didn't say anything about it. I'm an idiot. I'm so sorry, Y/N," Spencer says. 

"Y/N's responsible for her own preservation, Reid. And it's been a tough case, with the heat. Let's not blame anyone for anything." You press your chin to your chest to see Hotch's anxious frown. "We will be having a discussion about this later." 

You turn your face into Spencer's thigh. "Oh." 

"Don't close your eyes," Hotch says. He employs a firm, boss-like tone that has you rushing to follow orders. "You hit your head." 

"I don't feel well," you complain, wanting to close your eyes.

"Considering your behaviour," Spencer says, one of his hands trailing down your face, neck, and collar, where he rests it genially, "you likely have a mild to moderate concussion. And you're dehydrated, so you'll be feeling the effects more severely."

"Why haven't you been drinking?" Emily asks. 

"I just…" You blink sluggishly. "I don't know… We don't take anything that isn't coffee with us places and…" You lean your cheek into Spencer's hand, not quite connecting that it's his hand, or that you're laying on the precinct floor. "They only had one bottle in the staff room." 

"Why didn't you drink it?" Spencer asks softly. 

"I knew you hadn't had anything to drink, either." 

"We could've shared," he says, sounding genuinely confused. 

"You don't like sharing stuff like that. Germs." 

Spencer's voice is barely above a whisper, "I wouldn't care about your germs, Y/N. They're your germs." 

You don't have time to ask him what he means, but you've ample time to think about it on loop when the EMT arrives. He props you up, checking you over thoroughly, shining a light in your eyes and deeming you concussed.

"You don't have to see a doctor," the EMT advises. "But we're happy to take you to the hospital if that's what you want." 

"Yes," Spencer says, as you say, "No." 

Spencer puts a hand on your shoulder blade. It is an extremely forward move on his part, so unlike him that you recognise how odd it is despite your foggy mind. "She should go." 

"She fainted, Spencer," Emily says. 

"Exactly! So she should go to the hospital and–"

"I didn't break anything," you say, waving a shaky hand at the small but concerned crowd of people you've attracted. 

"Luckily," the EMT says. "Drink plenty of water and take it easy. Don't be afraid to call again if you feel worse." 

Hotch walks the EMT out, needing to take a phone call. Emily goes with him, promising to return with a dry shirt for you to wear now that yours has been soaked at the collar by the water they'd been cooling you down with while you were unconscious. 

Spencer settles practically knee to knee with you in two of the uncomfortable chairs, his assessing gaze frankly perturbing. 

"You'd share germs with me?" you ask. 

Spencer's hand leaps across the gap to yours where it rests on your knee. His eyes, brown and sweet, have all the light of a blinding smile as his lips quirk into something more sheepish. "If it stopped you from fainting, yeah. And even if it didn't, I'd be stupid to care about germs when I…" 

You breathe out slowly. "When you what?" 

"Well," he says, looking down at your hands. "I guess I just wouldn't mind your germs, that's all." 

If he's saying what you think he's saying, he's doing it in the most Spencer Reid way possible. Concussed, your charisma fails you. You've no wit to tease him with. 

You fold your hand around his. "Thanks for catching me," you say gently. 

He squeezes your fingers clumsily. "You're welcome. But it was actually mostly Emily." 

[laccakes]

something about katsuki bakugou secretly loving to shower his pretty girlfriend with needed princess treatment is so precious.

leaving the prom’s party venue after a memorable night of mingling with fellow ua students and dancing with friends left your blisters forming blisters.

you walked alongside bakugou on the streetlight lit sidewalk, intertwined hands swinging as you guys walked. bakugou was too exhausted to protest the unnecessary childish movement. or maybe the sight of your smile and the melody of your soft laughs at his comments on the night captivated him into a trance he so desperately did not want to break free of. 

“hold on, kats.” you spoke in a whisper, reaching to adjust the heel on your foot. “my feet are killing me.”

bakugou rolled his sharp ruby eyes at your complaint. those same eyes that always seem to soften whenever he’d look at you. so, he’s been told countless times by kirishima and kaminari. 

“told you not to wear ‘em.” the blonde remarked, holding your hand as you continued fixing your hellish heels. “actually, your dumbass encouraged it.” 

bakugou smirked down at you, blond brows furrowing. his eyebrow piercing glistening in the warm hue of the streetlight. there was something about you picking up on his way of speaking that made his heart flutter the tiniest bit. the cruder the better he’d argue.

“who the hell are you calling a dumbass, dumbass?”

“you, asshole.” this whole trying to adjust your heels thing wasn’t working. next best thing, take those bitches off.

you huffed defeated, “lemme just take ‘em off.”

“c’mere.” bakugou spoke low and gravely, gesturing for you to put your foot on his thigh as he gently slipped the hellish heels off your feet. you held onto his broad shoulder in an attempt to steady yourself. when he finished, bakugou held your heels in his hand, fingers hooking the straps.

then with ease he hoisted you up on his shoulder with the other hand. his ring littered hand resting pretty on your waist, keeping you secure in place.

"don't need you whinin' bout pebbles and shit scratchin' your feet." bakugou huffed.

all this just to get to his car is kinda crazy.

[skzstannie]

"Just Breathe"

SKZ -> Minho x GN!reader

genre: exes to ??, hurt/comfort, angsty wc: ~1,200 cw: brief descriptions of a panic attack, reader has claustrophobia but it's not directly mentioned

summary: After a nasty breakup, you're hoping to never see Minho again. However, when your stuck in an uncomfortable situation, Minho is right by your side yet again.

A/N: Well hello again! It's been forever, so I thank you for being so patient. School has been stressful as ever (I'm actually procrastinating as I write this), but I wanted to get something out to you guys even if it's short and kinda shitty (but oh well). I have a few requests, and once school eases up, I'll get right on them! Just want to make sure they're good quality.

Not proofread (oops)

Happy Scrolling! | Masterlist

"What I wouldn't give to live in a different apartment complex right now," you sigh, standing as you wait for the elevator.

The elevators have had a vendetta against you all week, and you've been trying to not let it get to you, but after waiting for the fifth minute with no luck, your patience starts to run a little thin.

Taking the stairs is always an option, however, you live on the 15th floor, and 30 flights of stairs is certainly not for the weak. You would know, as yesterday you took the alternative route. It left you a sweaty mess with sore limbs and blisters on the back of your heels, something you're not looking to experience on the daily.

Finally, the elevator dings, signaling it's arrival, and you pick your bag up from the floor. A load of people step out the elevator, explaining why it took so long to arrive. You step in, turning to press your floor. The doors begin to close, but a hand sticks itself in to the gap before they close all the way. Your eyes narrow at the person before they're even in your view, upset that you're once again behind held up.

All you want is to go upstairs and lay on your couch to take a nap.

What sliver of patience you had left in you quickly diminishes once you see who has stopped the elevator.

Lee freaking Minho, your ex. Things didn't exactly end well between the two of you. There were multiple accusations of cheating going around about the both of you, and neither of you were putting enough trust in the other person. He thought he was the one to end it, and you thought you were the one to end it- so things didn't end on a very concise note. Not that you were complaining; after the blowout fight you two had, you were hoping to never see him again. This was unlikely though, as he lived in the same apartment complex as you.

His eyes widen upon seeing your agitated stance, and he scoffs when you roll your eyes. You hope for a moment he'll just turn around and walk out upon seeing you, but your heat drops when he doesn't. In fact, he has the audacity to even ask you to press his floor.

"17, please," he smirks at you, sarcasm dripping from his tongue.

"What, you can't reach over there yourself?"

"No can do sweetheart, you know I'm not one for unnecessary movements," he snaps back, leaning back against the cool elevator wall.

You scowl at him before relenting, reaching over to press his floor for him.

It's silent for a moment, and you relish in the peace of not having to hear him run his mouth. All good things must come to an end, unfortunately.

"You know, if you keep scowling like that it might stick forever," he comments, crossing his arms over his chest. You once might've fawned at the way his shirt tightens around his chest and arms, but the only emotion you feel now is annoyance.

"I'm sure you know from experience, right?" you shoot back, keeping your head facing forward as to not give him any satisfaction.

Just try to ignore him.

You can see out of your periphery how he rolls his eyes, pulling his phone out of his back pocket to busy himself.

You breath a little easier upon seeing he's going to leave you alone now, and you bring yourself to watch the different floors pass as the elevator goes up.

You watch as you hit floor 10, then suddenly the elevator jerks to a stop. You stumble a bit, not expecting the jolt. The number disappears, and the elevator, once lit with the overhead light, turns pitch black.

Your breathing immediately picks up, and you crouch on the floor to try and ground yourself.

"Y/N?" Minho says, his voice shaky and apprehensive.

"Shut up," you tell him, focusing on trying not to hyperventilate.

"It'll be fine," he says, trying to reassure both you and him, "I'll just press the emergency button, and hopefully they'll have it up and running again soon."

You don't respond. You bring your hands up into your hair, subconsciously tugging at the strands roughly. You squeeze your eyes tightly, anything to distract from the panic bubbling up through your chest.

You feel a hand rest gently on your back, but you immediately push it away. as if it's burned you. Minho's brought out his flashlight from his phone, illuminating the elevator in a soft glow.

"Don't touch me," you rasp out, falling back onto your bottom. You bring your knees up to your chest, burying your head between them.

"You need to calm down, you're going to give yourself a panic attack."

While you'd love to scream at him, tell him that he's not allowed to comfort you anymore. That he's not allowed to tell you what to anymore. That he had his chance to be a good boyfriend, but he threw it away.

You wish you could tell him all those things. Scream in his face, tell him how badly he'd hurt you. He'd hurt you bot only by accusing you of cheating on him, but also with hanging out with your ex-best friend, someone he knew had hurt you very badly in the past, enough for you to cut all ties with her.

While this is what you wanted to do, you know your body needed something different.

Throughout your relationship, Minho was your rock. Through thick and thin, he'd always been there for you. Every accomplishment, every set back. Every celebration, and, in turn, every panic attack. Unfortunately, the latter happened more frequently than you'd like to admit, and he'd gotten quite good over the years at comforting you through them.

So, deciding to listen to what you knew your body needed, you gave in.

"Please just hold me," it came out as a whisper, but Minho had no problem hearing you over the silence encompassing the elevator.

While you were having your own internal battle, Minho was also contemplating his options.

He knew if he held you, if he comforted you, all those emotions he'd suppressed for the last few months would resurface. He'd worked so hard to get his life back on track, all for you to inadvertently ask him to throw it all away.

In his heart, he knew what he needed to do. It was the just the two of you in this elevator, and he'd be a monster to tell you no, especially since he knew what would happen if he did.

So, with that, he quickly dropped down onto the floor. He wrapped his strong arms around you, and immediately you felt the panic begin to subside. It was amazing what this presence could do to your fragile mind in times like these; it never failed to amaze you.

You leaned your head against his chest, taking slow and deliberate breaths to try and slow your heartrate down.

"That's it. You're ok, we'll get out of here. Just breathe." He let his arms tighten around you, and he realizes just how much he missed having you in his arms. How natural it felt for him to comfort you in this way.

"I'll get you out of here."

[ghoulsbounty]

From a Previous Life (Pt 3)

Cooper Howard (The Ghoul) x Preg!Reader

Summary: You rush to the Ghoul's aid, but find that hospitality doesn't come cheap in the wasteland.

Warnings: Emotional hurt/comfort, pregnancy, talk of cannibalism, mention of child loss, canon-typical violence, blood, angst, grief, yearning, rejection.

Word Count: 8.8K

A/N: This is late! I'm sorry this wasn't finished last week, but it took me a while to get the ending to a place where I was happy with it. Part 4 coming up next! I'd love to know what you think 💌

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

In the weeks that followed, a palpable tension thickened the air, suffusing every moment with a sense of unease. The Ghoul, ever cautious and seemingly intent on minimizing any unnecessary interaction, forwent sleep altogether. Instead, he adopted the role of a silent sentinel, perched upon whatever seating deemed acceptable as he watched over the entryways of your temporary shelters. There he would remain, a solitary figure in the dim moonlight filtering through shattered windows, his hat pulled low over his ghoulish features, shrouding them in shadow.

As you lay awake, restless and watchful, your gaze was repeatedly drawn to him, silently pleading for him to abandon his post and join you in the refuge of your shared space. Still, he remained steadfast, his bed beside you still empty and unused by your departure the following morning.

During the days, you travelled in silence under the relentless glare of the blistering sun, each step bringing you closer to your elusive destination. You would pause occasionally, your keen eyes scanning the barren landscape for any sign of abandoned treasures that could be sold for a fine price. Each discovery was accompanied by a hopeful glance towards your companion, a silent plea for approval. More often than not, his response was a grunt or a dismissive shrug, leaving you to carry the weight of your excitement and disappointment alone.

He had truly reverted back to the aloof and distant man he had been before that fleeting moment of connection shared around the crackling fire—the night he had gifted you the Pip-Boy. It had felt like a heavy reminder of the vast divide between you, a symbol of the distance that must remain for your child's safety.

The internal struggle waged within you relentlessly, tearing at the fabric of your resolve as you walked alongside him. On one hand, the instinct to protect your child, to prioritize their safety above all else, pulsed through your veins like a guiding light. But on the other hand, an undeniable longing stirred within you, a selfish desire to throw caution to the wind and reach out for him, to seek the comfort of the companionship you had felt briefly.

You remembered the warmth of his arms briefly wrapped around you, the intimacy of talking freely together like you had done that night by the fire. The memory tugged at your heartstrings, igniting a fierce longing that threatened to overwhelm your senses. And despite your best efforts to bridge the conversational gap, to break through the walls he had erected around himself, he remained stubbornly distant.

The silence between you grew more pronounced with each passing day, a distinct barrier that seemed to stretch endlessly between you. You couldn't help but feel a sense of resignation settle over you. Some divides were simply too vast to bridge, and perhaps, you thought with a heavy heart, yours and the Ghoul's were among them.

It wasn't until one particularly hot mid-afternoon as you battled against a relentless radscorpion that had sprung at you from beneath an overturned refrigerator in that evenings shelter, the Ghoul's patience reached its limit. With a single, precise shot from his magnum, he dispatched the giant arachnid before turning to you with a sour expression.

"Outside," his voice commanded, firm and unwavering.

You followed behind him obediently, watching in silence as he collected the empty Nuka-Cola bottles scattered on the porch and lined them up along the railing. Once satisfied with his work, he turned to you and nodded, signalling you to follow him. Together, you descended the steps and moved further away until you reached a spot that provided a clear shot at the makeshift targets.

You eyed him cautiously, uncertainty gnawing at the edges of your resolve as you waited for his next instruction. But when his gaze settled expectantly on the gun holstered at your hip, you knew what you were to do. With quick hands, you fumbled to unholster the weapon, your fingers closing around its familiar grip as you prepared to face the challenge that lay ahead.

Despite the sweltering heat and the sweat that trickled down your brow, you squared your shoulders and raised your weapon, determined to prove yourself to the Ghoul—to show him that you were capable of holding your own beside him. And as you took aim at the makeshift targets, a sense of determination surged through you. Today, you vowed, would be the day you proved yourself worthy of his respect.

Pulling back the hammer, you let out a shaky breath as you pinched the trigger. The shot rang out, reverberating through your body like a thunderclap as you felt the recoil jolt through your arms. Taking a step back to steady yourself, you lowered the gun and peered ahead at the targets, your heart sinking as you realized that all five bottles remained stubbornly intact, mocking you from their perch.

A sense of annoyance bubbled up inside you, mingling with the disappointment that weighed heavy in the pit of your stomach. You heard the Ghoul sigh from his spot to your right, where he leaned against a a utility pole with his arms crossed.

"Again," he said, his voice carrying a hint of exasperation. "And keep your eyes open this time."

His words jolted you out of your reverie, pulling you back to the present moment with a sharp clarity. Despite the simmering frustration within you, you nodded in acknowledgment, steeling yourself for another attempt with the gun raised.

"Feet further apart," he instructed, his tone firm and authoritative. Taking a deep breath, you squared your shoulders and adjusted your stance, grit crunching beneath your boot. You heard him tut, then suddenly felt him beside you. His heavy boot kicked at the inside of your own, widening your stance even further. His gloved hands pressed against your shoulder with a firm tap, guiding you into position before withdrawing just as quickly. "Again."

As the Ghoul moved back to his post, you steadied the gun out before you, pushing down the giddiness that surged through you like a current. It was an unexpected sensation, sparked by the lingering heat left behind by his brief touch—the first physical contact he had initiated since your embrace around the fire. You took aim at the first bottle, and with the memory of his guidance in your mind, you pulled the trigger.

The shot rang out, its echo reverberating through the desolate wasteland. A split second later, the sharp noise of the bottle smashing reached your ears, the shattered pieces scattering across the ground like sparkling jewels.

"Yes!" you exclaimed triumphantly, a surge of adrenaline coursing through your veins as you raised your arms above your head in victory. Turning to your mentor with a wide grin, you hoped for words of praise, but you were instead met with a stoic nod of approval, his expression unreadable as he regarded you with a steady gaze. Disappointment panged in your chest, a fleeting moment of deflation amidst the rush of triumph.

"Four more, then you can celebrate," he gestured towards the remaining targets and you eyed him with defeat as your arms dropped to your side.

Eyebrows furrowed in determination, you rolled you neck as you prepared yourself. A brief glimmer of pride flickered in his eyes as he watched you turn back towards your targets with a raised weapon.

"Four more, then you cook dinner," you countered and he laughed quietly, a short huff of air out his nose that was barely perceptible.

As the afternoon wore on, you focused all your concentration on the task at hand, determined to prove yourself capable not just to the Ghoul but to yourself. With each bullet that flew past its target, the Ghoul's sighs of irritation echoed in the stifling air.

He had retreated to the scant shade offered by a nearby fence, his slumped posture a testament to the oppressive heat that hung heavy in the air. From his vantage point, he observed your progress with a stoic demeanour, offering little in the way of encouragement as you struggled to find your mark. Still, you refused to be deterred by his silence, channelling your frustration and determination into each shot. With each miss, you adjusted your stance, honing your focus. Finally, the satisfying sound of shattering glass filled the air as the last bottle exploded into a thousand pieces, scattering across the ground.

Pride swelled within you as you looked down at your gun, a tool that had once seemed so foreign and intimidating. In that moment, a sense of awe washed over you as you realized just how far you had come from the life you had once known. The image of yourself as a wife, a homemaker, seemed like a distant memory, a remnant of a time before the world had been plunged into chaos. 

As you stood there, gun in hand, dirt under your nails, and a sense of purpose burning within your soul, you couldn't help but wonder how absurd your former self would find this scene. The thought of her reaction brought a smile to your lips, a bittersweet reminder of the person you had once been, and the person you were becoming.

A slow clap from behind you drew your attention, and you turned to see your partner walking towards you, his lips pulled into a wry smile. "Well, as long as no one moves, you might just cut it."

Despite his teasing, you welcomed the familiar banter, a reminder of the rapport that had developed between you before it's abrupt end. With a smile, you looked him over, a wave of gratitude washing over you. "Thank you, for this," you said, gesturing with the gun towards the broken glass. "I feel like The Man From Deadhorse."

With a playful grin, you raised your gun towards the Ghoul, a glint of mischief in your eyes. "I hope you like the taste of lead, you commie son of a bitch."

The sudden shift in atmosphere caught you off guard, the playful jest dying on your lips as the Ghoul's demeanour transformed with alarming speed. Before you could react, he closed the distance between you with swift, purposeful strides, his grisly features contorted with rage.

In the blink of an eye, he knocked the gun from your hand, the dull thud as it buried into the sand was loud in the tense quiet. Your heart pounded in your chest as you watched in stunned silence, your wide eyes snapping back to him when he seized your arms in a vice-like grip.

"You don't play like that, you hear?" he scolded, his voice low and harsh, the intensity of his gaze drilling into you like a laser. His leather-clad fingers dug into your flesh, leaving behind faint impressions as he held you firmly in place.

With a shaky nod, you swallowed hard, your voice barely a whisper as you replied, "I hear you." The tension hung thick in the air between you. "It was from a movie, I didn't mean nothing by it."

As he regarded you, the intensity of his grip slowly eased, his features softening marginally as he released you from his grasp. Though his anger still simmered beneath the surface, there was a hint of remorse in his eyes, a silent apology for his outburst. "This ain't no movie, darlin'."

"I know that," you said wistfully.

"Then act like it," he grunted, a wheezing cough escaping him before turning away. "Let's get moving," he muttered, his voice tinged with resignation as he retrieved the gun from the sand and handed it back to you.

You holstered your gun, a sense of caution settling over you as you eyed him warily, your footsteps echoing softly against the gravel path as you followed him back to your shelter. He stopped abruptly a few steps ahead, his posture rigid as he doubled over, sputtering into his closed fist.

Instinctively, you moved toward him, concern etched into your features, but you halted in your tracks at the sight of his outstretched hand. "Get back," he rasped, his voice strained, a clear warning in his tone.

You watched with growing unease as he struggled to regain his composure, each laboured breath sounding like a heavy weight upon his chest. The deep, chest-rattling wheeze that emanated from him sent a shiver down your spine, but despite the urge to rush to his aid, you knew better than to defy his command. With a reluctant step backward, you maintained a cautious distance, your eyes never leaving him as you waited anxiously for the bout of coughing to pass.

The coughing had started a few days prior, coming sporadically but with increasing frequency, especially when the Ghoul worked himself up. At first, you had dismissed it as the inevitable toll of his years spent wandering through dust and dirt, but as the days passed and you witnessed the panic in his eyes one evening while he counted his stock of liquid-filled vials, you knew it was something more. The sight of his trembling hands, the frantic glint in his tired eyes, sent a chill down your spine,

You didn't fully understand the significance of the vials, only that they were his medicine—but for what ailment, you couldn't be certain. You had assumed it was for pain, a necessary relief for someone who had endured the relentless exposure to radiation for so long. You knew better than to ask him about it directly. Even in moments of calm, when the worry over his dwindling supply wasn't etched into his furrowed brow, you knew that prying into something so personal would be met with resistance.

The Ghoul staggered back to the shelter and you followed behind him with growing concern, your heart pounding in your chest. You watched in silence as he grasped the stair rails for support, his normally steady gait now faltering. It was a sight you had never witnessed before—him weakened and vulnerable—and fear shot through you like a bolt of lightning, unwelcome thoughts of what this could mean racing through your mind.

You quickly put the invasive thoughts aside, hurrying to join him inside where you found him hunched over his saddlebag. His movements were frenzied as he loaded a vial into the inhaler that distributed the medicine. With a deep, shaky breath, he puffed the inhaler, the sound echoing loudly in the confined space. Minutes stretched into eternity as he fought to regain control of his breathing, his chest heaving with each ragged inhale.

You held your breath in anticipation, watching as his chest heaved and then settled, but your frown deepened when a groan escaped him. He threw himself back against the wall, his movements laboured and unsteady. His arms hung limp at his sides, the inhaler discarded and forgotten on the ground beside him. His hat slipped from his head, tumbling to the dirtied tiles below, leaving his bald head glistening with perspiration, the droplets of sweat trickling down his tired face.

It was a sobering sight, one that filled you with a sense of helplessness as you stood before him, unsure of what to do to alleviate his suffering.

"Told you to stay away," he breathed, his voice weary as he met your gaze, exhaustion evident in his eyes. "I'm fine," he muttered, though the strain in his voice betrayed his words. "Just need to close my eyes."

As his eyes fluttered shut, you moved to his saddlebag with haste, your heart pounding in your chest as you searched desperately for another vial to bring him back to you. But as your trembling hands sifted through the contents, your heart sank like a stone—empty. He had been rationing his vials for days now, telling you there was a place up ahead to get more, but that you weren't to come with him. Another one of his solo trips.

With a sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach, you realized that he was going nowhere in this condition. His shallow breathing reduced you to panic as you fumbled at the inside of his heavy duster, your hands shaking with urgency. Ignoring the incessant clicking of the dosimeter, you pulled out a weathered map that he had drawn up at the beginning of your journey, showing you just how far you had to go until you'd find the haven and the stops that you'd make between.

Your gaze swept over the roughly sketched lines and symbols, tracing the route ahead with a growing sense of urgency. Finally, your eyes landed on a cluster of squares topped with triangles, situated close to the location you recognized as your shelter on the map. Beside them, a lone letter "V" was scrawled, signalling the area designated for his next collection of vials. The distance seemed manageable, just a half-day's journey at most—perhaps even less if you pushed yourself.

The prospect of venturing out alone was daunting, yet despite the risk of leaving him vulnerable, of being scolded for leaving upon your return, you knew there was no alternative. He relied on those vials, and you relied on him.

With a heavy heart, you removed his gun from its holster, carefully positioning his gloved hand around its grip before settling it on his lap. Adjusting his hat back on his head to shroud his closed eyes, you hoped that any passing traveller might be deterred by the implication of a formidable foe awaiting their approach.

Taking a deep breath, you glanced back at your companion one last time, the weight of your decision settling heavily upon you. With a silent prayer for his safety, you asked him to wish you luck before turning away and setting off towards your new destination, determined to retrieve the vials and save the Ghoul.

The two-story house stood large and imposing before you, the sun beginning to dip below the horizon casting long shadows across the grounds. Its faded white paint was peeling, revealing the weather-beaten wood beneath, and its roof sagged precariously as if it could collapse at any moment. The yard, overgrown with tall grass and weeds, was littered with the carcasses of rusty, broken-down vehicles and an assortment of discarded debris, each piece a story of neglect and abandonment.

Stepping onto the sprawling porch, the creak of the wooden boards seemed to echo through the still air as you steadied your nerves. You rapped your knuckles against the front door that hung slightly ajar. 

"Whaddya want?" a disgruntled voice hollered from inside, and you stepped back as the door was torn open to reveal a man, his greying hair unkempt and greasy, clinging to his weathered face that was etched with deep lines and one large, pink scar from eye to jaw. "Well, what is it?"

Clearing your throat to dispel the tension, you attempted a friendly smile as you greeted him. "Hello, I'm hoping you can help me," you began, holding the unfolded map up to show him. With a pointed finger, you indicated the spot marked by the Ghoul with a "V." "I'm looking for vials, is this where I can get them?"

He peered closer to the map, beady eyes squinting as he considered it. With a dirty hand, he rubbed at the white stubble of his chin as he hummed, his gaze flicking over you quickly before straightening. "Vials, you say? You're in luck," he gave you a toothy smile, displaying his blackened teeth.

Despite the turn in your stomach, you breathed a sigh of relief. Tucking the map away in the side of your bag, you smiled gratefully. "You have no idea how glad I am to hear you say that," you laughed.

"Well, don't dilly-dally on my porch all night, girl," he said, ushering you inside.

Stepping into the dimly lit home, you were hit by the musty scent of decay and mould. The house was cluttered, filled with stacks of old newspapers, broken furniture, and various knickknacks. The man led you through a narrow hallway into a small room that served as both a living space and a workshop. A cluttered table sat against one wall, covered in tools, scraps of metal, and various mechanical parts.

"Sit," he ordered, pointing to a rickety chair near the table. "I'll see what I got."

You sat down cautiously, the chair creaking under your weight. The man rummaged through a pile of junk on a nearby shelf, muttering to himself as he searched. After a few tense moments, he produced a small wooden box and placed it on the table in front of you.

"Here they are," he said, his tone gruff. "How many you need?"

You glanced at box, your heart pounding with a mix of relief and anxiety. "I need as many as you can spare. How much for all of them?"

The man scratched his head, considering your request. "Caps, or trade?" he asked, eyeing your bag.

"I have caps," you replied, reaching into your bag and pulling out a small pouch. You poured the caps onto the table, counting them quickly. "Is this enough?"

He scooped up the caps, weighing them in his hand before shaking his head. "Not hardly," he said, pocketing them as he stared down at you expectantly. You quickly fumbled in your bag, trying to find something to offer. "How about that there contraption?"

Your eyes followed his to the Pip-Boy on your wrist. What would the Ghoul say if you returned without it? He had insisted you keep it on, gifting it to you as a means of gaining some semblance of control that you desperately wanted. Granted it had recently become an unwanted reminder that loneliness would be your only companion until you met your baby, but he wouldn't want you to trade it. Yet he wasn't here, and you were in desperate need of those vials.

"Please, anything else," you pleaded, one last ditch attempt at negotiation as you rifled through the contents of your bag. "I have scrap, copper, toothpaste, you can even have my gun," you continued, listing your items in a desperate ramble before throwing your gun onto the table beside you. 

The man's narrow gaze swept over the array of items you had laid out, his expression a mask of disdain. Without hesitation, he seized your bag and upended its contents onto the worn tabletop. With a rough hand, he sifted through the items, emitting grunts of disapproval as he scrutinized each one.

"No, no good," he muttered, crossing his arms in a gesture of finality. "That thing's worth more than all that junk combined." His lip curled in distaste as he indicated the Pip-Boy resting on your wrist. "It's the gadget or no deal."

Desperation gnawed at you. You needed those vials; the Ghoul's life depended on it. Leaving empty-handed wasn't an option. Fighting back tears, you took a deep breath and looked up at the man, striving to keep your voice steady. "Fine, it's a deal," you conceded, fingers trembling as you unclasped the precious device from your wrist, placing it reluctantly into his filthy palms.

His cracked lips curled into a predatory grin as he regarded his newfound treasure. With a casual shove, he pushed the box of vials across the table towards you. Eagerly, you reached for it, anticipation tingling in your fingertips. But as you pried open the lid, hope turned to bitter disappointment at the sight within.

"There are only three vials here," you stated, disbelief colouring your voice. "We agreed on the Pip-Boy for everything you've got."

A mirthless chuckle escaped the man's throat as he he leaned back against the table, a smug gleam in his eyes. "There it is," he declared, gesturing towards the meagre contents of the box in your hands. "Lesson learned, darlin'. Always check the goods before sealing the deal."

Your cheeks flushed with embarrassment and frustration, cursing yourself inwardly for falling prey to such a blatant deception. Anger surged within you, fuelled by both the injustice of the situation and the man's smug satisfaction.

"That's not fair!" Your voice rose, laced with indignation, drawing a startled expression from the man across the table.

"Now listen here, you little-"

"What's all this hoo-ha about?" a woman's voice interrupted him as she entered the room. She was about the same age as the man, greying and wrinkled, but whereas his face was stern, hers warmed when she saw you. Her hands went to the apron tied around her thin waist, wiping at the dirty fabric as she spoke. "Well, who do we have here?"

The man released an exasperated sigh, his patience wearing thin. "Just a fool not knowing when a deal is done," he muttered, flinging your empty bag in your direction. "Collect your shit and hit the road."

Before you could react, her hand shot out with startling speed, connecting with the back of his head with a resounding smack. He recoiled, irritation contorting his features as he rubbed the offended spot.

"Goddamn, woman!" he exclaimed, shooting her a venomous glare. "She got the chems, I held up my end of the bargain."

Her eyebrows arched inquisitively as she scrutinized you. "And what might someone like you want with those?"

"My friend, he's unwell," you explained, rising from your seat to begin to deposit your items back in the bag. 

"So, he sent you to fetch them," she deduced.

You nodded, choosing your words carefully as you gauged the situation. Despite her apparent kindness, you sensed it wise to withhold certain details of your predicament. "Something along those lines," you replied cautiously, then pointed to the three vials. "I just hoped there were more."

"There are more," she said firmly, her tone leaving no room for argument as she delivered a swift reprimand to the man beside her. "Edwin, why are you lying to this poor girl?"

Edwin, still nursing a sore spot on his head from her earlier blow, shot her a disgruntled look. "Can't a man try and make a profit in this economy?"

Ignoring his protest, she turned her attention back to you, a friendly smile gracing her features. "My husband will whip up as many vials as you need, don't you fret," she assured, her reassurance a comforting balm to your frayed nerves. Casting a disapproving glance at Edwin as he started to object once more, she added, "And to make amends for his rudeness, I'll whip you up a plate."

You breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank you so much, but I really must hurry these back to my friend," you insisted.

"Of course you must," she affirmed, her eyes crinkled at the corners as she smiled again. "Edwin will go fetch you some from the cellar. We can't keep such valuable stock out in the open, you understand." Her explanation was delivered with a nod of assurance, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Edwin grumbled, leaving the room presumably to fetch the vials.

"Why don't you and me wait for him in the dinin' room," she suggested, her voice carrying a hint of Southern charm from the old world. "You ain't tasted nothin' till you tried my brahmin roast." 

Your protests dissolved into silence as she gently guided you into the room from whence she appeared. A grand wooden dining table commanded the centre of the space, its unpolished surface bearing the scars of time and use. Two weathered candelabras sat empty upon the worn tabletop framing an intricately designed vase that stood proudly in the centre, its once-vibrant bouquet now reduced to a collection of decaying flowers, a red hue faded to a sombre brown. Despite its faded grandeur, there was a certain charm to the room, a nostalgic reminder of simpler times.

Memories of your past life flooded your mind. You remembered the stressful joy of hosting gatherings, the meticulous attention to detail as you fretted over the correct placement of place mats and whether the centrepiece was in keeping with the latest trends from the home magazines you avidly read. Glenn, ever the laid-back husband, would often be found nestled in his recliner, savouring a glass of whiskey as the radio drowned out your worries. He only intervened when you were on the verge of tears, calling for Patti to come and mend his frantic wife.

As you took in the scene before you, a pang of nostalgia tugged at your heartstrings, a bittersweet reminder of a life left behind in the wake of the bombs. In this dilapidated dining room, this family had somehow managed to create a semblance of normalcy amongst the disorder. You only hoped to do the same for your own child.

"I'll have Junior walk you back to your friend," she announced, her voice carrying a gentle authority as she guided you to a seat amidst the array of mismatched chairs. "He's a good boy, you won't come into any trouble out there with him by your side." 

With a tender smile, she disappeared through a swinging door, leaving you to ponder her offer in the dimly lit room. However, your contemplation was interrupted by an unpleasant odour that wafted through the doorway, assaulting your senses with its acrid essence. The stench caused your stomach to churn uneasily, and you couldn't help but wrinkle your nose in distaste.

As she returned with two steaming plates balanced delicately in her hands, the offensive smell accompanied her, its presence overwhelming. Recoiling slightly, you fought to suppress the urge to gag and wondered how the woman wasn't doing the same.

Setting one plate down before you with practiced grace, she deftly produced a worn napkin from her apron, gently draping it across your lap with an air of hospitality. Expressing your gratitude, you watched warily as she took her seat opposite you, her eyes bright with anticipation.

Since your escape from the vault, you hadn't consumed anything that hadn't been prepared by your own hands or originated from a tin can. While her gesture was undoubtedly kind, you couldn't shake the apprehension that gnawed at you, fuelled by the putrid scent emanating from the meat on your plate.

You hesitantly prodded at the dish, watching as the jellied fat quivered around the thick bone it encased. A wave of revulsion washed over you, and opting instead to sample a carrot, you found it had been thoroughly drenched in the juices and carried the same off-putting aroma as the dubious meat.

Swallowing heavily, you mustered an encouraging smile for the woman across from you as she observed your reaction, her gaze expectant. Despite the foul taste in your mouth, you smiled in appreciation, hoping that it was enough to mask your unease. 

"It's delicious," you fibbed, delicately patting the corners of your mouth with the napkin. You eyed the door you had entered through. "Will your husband be joining us soon?"

You didn't want to push, but the urgency of your situation weighed heavily on your mind. Every moment spent away from the Ghoul felt like an eternity, and the thought of his deteriorating condition filled you with a sense of dread. You could have left with those three vials, but what guarantee did you have that they would be enough?

You knew nothing about his condition, nor did you possess the knowledge to provide any meaningful assistance. All you could do was return with as many vials as you could carry, hoping that the sheer quantity would be enough to appease him and alleviate any resentment he might harbour towards you for leaving.

"It's a big cellar," she offered in explanation, her tone carrying a hint of apology for her husband's delay. A heavy sigh escaped her lips, her gaze unwaveringly fixed on you. "Gets a mite lonesome in this old house."

You offered her a sympathetic smile, sensing a shared understanding of loneliness in her words. "And Junior, is he your son?" you asked.

"One of 'em," she replied with a wistful smile, her gaze drifting momentarily into the distance. "The only one left. Tall as a redwood and about as sharp as one too, bless his heart." There was a fondness in her tone, a mother's unconditional love for her child evident in every word. "But us mothers, we love 'em all the same, don't we?" she added with a gentle chuckle, her eyes flicking to your pregnant belly before returning to meet yours with a glimmer of joy.

Your eyes widened in astonishment at her revelation, and a surge of vulnerability and protectiveness welled within you, prompting your hands to instinctively cradle your bump. You had grown noticeably, your pregnancy now too pronounced to conceal any longer, compelling you to discard your vault suit in favour of garments salvaged from an old dresser. Amidst the solitude of your journey with the Ghoul, encounters with others had been rare, limited to a handful of oblivious traders who had failed to notice your condition. This unexpected revelation felt like a breach of privacy, like divulging a secret that had been shared exclusively between you and your companion.

"Of course," you replied cautiously, sensing the weight of her words.

"I'd move mountains for my boy, just to ensure he's fed and breathing. In this world, that's about all a mother can aspire to," she murmured, eyes glistening with the threat of tears. "It's a pitiful state when a mother can't even provide that much for her own kin."

Your heart constricted with anguish, fears surging to the forefront as you contemplated the prospect of being unable to provide even the most basic necessities for your unborn child. The notion of welcoming a helpless infant into a world of scarcity and violence filled you with terror. You had been hesitant to confront the reality of impending motherhood, unsure of how you would navigate the responsibilities that lay ahead. Despite clinging to the hope that sanctuary awaited you at the haven, you couldn't shake the nagging doubt that lingered in the recesses of your mind.

As you looked into her sad eyes, a pang of empathy tugged at your heartstrings. This poor woman had endured unimaginable loss, yet here she was, seemingly trying to cling to a semblance of normality by creating a home for her remaining family in the wasteland.  It was a fragile existence, one that could be snatched away at any moment, and as her resilience struck a chord within you, you wondered: Could this be your future as well? The thought lingered in the depths of your mind, weighing heavy on your chest. 

"Don't feel sorry for me, darlin', I got my time with my boys," she assured you, reaching across the table to rest her hand gently on yours. 

You smiled sadly as you regarded her. "I can't even imagine what you've been through," you admitted, your voice laced with genuine sympathy.

"No, I suppose you can't," she replied softly, her hand withdrawing from yours as she settled back in her chair. There was a moment of quiet contemplation before she spoke again, her words carrying the weight of hard-earned wisdom. "I've come to realize in this world that it's not about what's been done to us, but what we are willing to do."

You nodded in agreement. You had been thrust into this harsh reality, subjected to the horrors of the vaults and the betrayal of those who promised salvation. Yet, despite the trials and tribulations you had faced, you had fought tooth and nail to survive, to carve out a place for yourself in this dangerous new world. And now, with the imminent arrival of your child, that determination burned even brighter within you.

"Are you willing to do anything for your baby?" she asked, her voice soft yet resolute. Without hesitation, you nodded, unwavering resolve in your eyes.

Her gaze dropped to the table momentarily, lost in thought, before lifting once more to meet yours. "So am I," she declared softly, an edge in her voice that belied her gentle demeanour.

With a swift motion, she brought her index and middle finger to her lips, emitting a sharp whistle that pierced through the stillness of the old house. Your brows furrowed, trying to make sense of her action before Edwin shuffled into the room, trailed by a looming figure whose long hair obscured the majority of his face. "Christ, Mag, I thought we'd be waiting all night," the older man grumbled. "Junior, grab the girl."

You turned your gaze back to Mag, the panic rising within you like a tidal wave, but as your eyes searched for reassurance in hers, you found only avoidance. Her gaze remained fixed on the table, refusing to meet yours, her expression inscrutable.

Junior closed the distance with two swift strides, his towering frame engulfing you as he efficiently yanked you from your seat, flinging you onto your back on the table with a brutal force that stole the air from your lungs. The table's decorations rattled to the ground, mingling with the scattered food in a cacophonous crash.

As Mag's now stern voice echoed through the room, a cold shiver ran down your spine. "Don't leave any marks, Junior," she scolded, authority in her tone. Her son nodded in obedience.

Your hands trembled as you instinctively reached for your holster, only to curse under your breath when you found it empty. The realization hit you like a sledgehammer— you had handed your gun to Edwin during the negotiations, a decision that now seemed foolish in hindsight. Defenceless, vulnerable, and at the mercy of forces beyond your control. Like a cruel nightmare, you were back where you had started. 

"Can't sell meat that's all bruised up," Mag's words lingered in the air as she left the room and your eyes widened in terror as the door swung to a shut. You scrambled to rise from the table, but Junior pushed you back down, though this time with less force. 

"Please, you don't have to do this," you begged, tears welling in your eyes.

"She's not for selling, she's for eating," Edwin interjected callously, disregarding your pleas as he seized your ankles. Junior seized your wrists in an iron grip and pinned them above your head, stretching you out before them. 

"Says who, you old coot?" Mag challenged, reappearing with a hefty butcher knife gripped firmly in her hand. The awful smell filled the room again, and you felt bile rise in your throat.

"Says me, the one who got her inside in the first place," he retorted, grunting as you struggled against his grip. "Besides, I'm sick of that rancid meat. He's been festering in there for weeks." He nodded toward the door where the putrid smell was emitting from.

His words sent a chill down your spine as you glanced at the mess of food scattered across the floor. Your eyes honed in on the repulsive meat that now lay splayed on the grubby carpet amongst the ceramic shards of the plates. Brahmin meat, she had told you, but now you realized it was another poor soul who had crossed this family's path.

Perhaps you were naïve to not consider the act of cannibalism in this dire new reality, but your mind reeled at the images of teeth ripping through bloody flesh.

"Please, why are you doing this?" you cried, tears hot on your cheeks as panic consumed you, each futile struggle met with unyielding strength from Edwin and Junior. Mag moved to your side.

"We've had this conversation, darlin', you know why," Mag whispered, her face looming mere inches from yours. The warmth that once suffused her features had now drained away, replaced by a chilling resolve as she gazed down at you. "Motherhood demands sacrifice, and this is the sacrifice I'm willing to make."

Her gaze shifted to your belly, assessing it before turning to address the old man. "We'll keep her for meat and sell the babe for a hefty sum," she declared, eliciting a triumphant whoop from him. As her hand tenderly caressed your sweat-dampened hair, a shiver ran down your spine at the realization of your fate. "I want you to know that I mean you no ill will," she murmured, her voice a soothing contrast to the horror of her words. "But my boy has to eat."

The gentle touch of her hand offered little comfort as you recoiled from her touch. When you shook your head in a futile attempt to rid yourself of her grasp, she stepped back, her voice hardening once more.

"I wish I could promise this won't hurt, but there's only one way this baby's comin' out," she stated matter-of-factly, her words ringing with finality as the weight of your impending ordeal settled like lead in the pit of your stomach.

As the blade hovered menacingly above you, your mind raced with desperate thoughts. You couldn't shake the image of the Ghoul alone, abandoned where you'd left him while you embarked on this ill-fated rescue mission. What if he awoke to find you gone, vanished without a trace? Would he think you'd left him, angry over what had transpired between you both? Or perhaps that you'd waited until his weakest moment to finally run from him. The mere notion tore at your heartstrings.

You needed him to know the truth, to understand that your departure was in aide to help him not abandon him. You couldn't die knowing that he may think so badly of you, even though you weren't sure why it mattered so much. He'd been difficult and stubborn, scolded you and made you cry, but there was a yearning that you felt for him beyond your own understanding. With every fibre of your being, you silently pleaded for a chance to return to his side, to make things right and ensure that he could never doubt your devotion.

But you were trapped, with nowhere to run and no escape from the horrors unfolding before you. The full stretch of your body left your bare stomach uncomfortably exposed to the imminent danger. The cold, unforgiving blade of the knife traced a path across the swell of your belly, its touch sending shivers of dread coursing through your veins. Though the first cut was not deep, the sting of pain accompanied by the trickle of blood down your side served as a grim reminder of the perilous situation you had walked yourself and your unborn child into.

Since escaping the clutches of the vault, you hadn't dared to picture your future, quickly learning that the dangers of the wasteland were capable of shattering your reality with ruthless brutality from one moment to the next. Yet, amidst the chaos and uncertainty, one thing had remained constant: your unwavering determination to protect and nurture the life growing within you.

From the moment you heard the doctor confirm your pregnancy, a flicker of hope ignited within you. Despite the deceit of your husband, the looming threat of war, and every obstacle that stood in your path, you had clung to the unwavering belief that you were destined for motherhood. It was a truth that resonated deep within your heart, but you felt it slowly being swallowed by the hollow ache of despair and regret.

With a heavy heart weighing down every fibre of your being, you closed your eyes, bracing yourself for what was to come. In that harrowing moment, a chilling realization swept over you like a tidal wave: if you were to remain conscious through these next moments, you would meet your baby. You were so far from carrying to full-term, but why would Mag go to such lengths unless she was confident that your baby would survive. Afterall, a living baby must be worth a fortune in the wasteland. A commodity, as the Ghoul had described you. 

Then, the thought pierced your soul: your baby would enter the world alone, without you, unaware of what transpired or why you weren't there beside them. Growing up to think that their mother never loved them. You couldn't let it happen.

With your last shred of resolve shattered, a primal scream tore from your throat.

A distant crash from another room shattered the tense atmosphere, bringing the woman's relentless pursuit with the knife to an abrupt halt. All three members of the family turned their heads towards the doorway, their eyes widening in shock as it was obliterated before them. A deafening cacophony of splintering wood filled the air as a single bullet burst through, sending wooden fragments flying in all directions.

Instinctively, you turned your head away, seeking whatever meagre protection you could get. In the midst of the commotion, Edwin's agonized holler pierced the air, his body recoiling as the bullet sliced through his neck. With a forceful impact, he was thrown back against the kitchen doorway, his form crumpling to the ground with a heavy thud that reverberated throughout the room.

Junior's anguished wails pierced your eardrums. Despite his distress, his vice-like grip remained unyielding, keeping you firmly in place even as he grappled with the shock of his father's demise.

Meanwhile, Mag offered only a fleeting acknowledgment to the lifeless form of her husband before her attention snapped back to the now-open doorway. There, a figure emerged, a silhouette framed by the shattered remnants of the entrance. With each step, the sound of spurred boots rang out like a beacon of hope.

As the Ghoul's hulking frame filled the doorway, a wave of relief washed over you. He appeared worlds apart from the unconscious man you had left behind in search of aid, and as you took in his daunting appearance, you noticed the inhaler clutched in his hand, an almost empty vial inserted inside. 

Locking eyes with him across the room, you watched as his weary gaze swept over the scene before him: you, splayed out and held down on the table, a small cut marring your belly, tears streaking your face.

In that fleeting moment, his expression darkened with a silent fury. With swift and merciless precision, he raised his magnum, his aim unwavering as he first targeted Junior. In an instant, the sound of gunfire shot through the room, a single slug piercing through Junior's skull, extinguishing his cries in a heartbeat.

Mag's horrified gaze barely had time to register the terror before her own fate was sealed. She turned to the Ghoul with venom in her eyes. "Coop—"

With ruthless efficiency, another bullet tore through her chest, sending her crumpling to the floor beside her fallen son. In the span of mere seconds, the room fell almost silent, the only sound being the Ghoul's heavy breaths as he surveyed the aftermath of his swift justice.

A low groan echoed across the room, drawing the Ghoul's attention to the source of the sound. Without hesitation, he fired off two more shots into Edwin's chest, putting an end to his suffering. As the final ring of gunfire faded, the Ghoul lowered his gun, his gaze fixated on you once more. His eyes, dark and brooding, seemed to bore into your very soul, leaving you feeling exposed and vulnerable in their intense scrutiny.

With trembling hands, you pushed yourself up to sit on the table, the weight of so many emotions swirling within you like a windstorm raging inside your chest. Fear, relief, guilt, and gratitude warred for dominance, each vying for your attention as you struggled to make sense of the harrowing ordeal that had unfolded before you. In that moment of uncertainty, you found yourself paralyzed by indecision, unsure of how to proceed as you watched the Ghoul, awaiting his instruction.

Slowly, almost hesitantly, he holstered his gun and tucked the inhaler back inside his coat, the look of anguish etched upon his scarred face. With a silent understanding passing between you, he beckoned you to him with a curl of his fingers, a wordless invitation for comfort that you never thought possible from him. Your body moved on instinct, propelled forward by a force beyond conscious thought, as you leaped from the table and into the safety of his waiting arms. In that moment, all pretence of strength crumbled away, leaving you clinging to him with a desperation that bordered on frantic.

You held onto him so tightly that you could almost feel the air being squeezed from your lungs. As his muscular arms enveloped you and your unborn child, a floodgate of emotion burst open within you, unleashing an outburst of tears that wracked your body with their intensity.

"I never left you," you whispered through each sob, your voice hoarse from screaming, the words spilling out in a plea for understanding. "I swear, I was coming back."

His touch was tender as he stroked your hair, his breath warm against your ear as he comforted your trembling form. "Nobody would blame you if you hadn't," he murmured softly, then cleared his throat. "I told you, you weren't to come here."

"I had to save you," you insisted, your voice shaking but resolute.

"Sure did a fine job," he said, glancing around the room at the carnage. "Looked like you had everything under control."

His teasing stung, and you pulled away from him, hurt flashing in your eyes as you stood your ground. "You were unconscious. If I hadn't come, you would have—" your voice cracked, unable to finish the thought.

"I'm still here, aren't I?" he interrupted, irritation thick in his voice. "Good thing too, because I wasn't aware just how dumb you could be."

"I didn't know if you'd make it," you shot back, your voice a raw blend of frustration and fear. "I had to do something, I couldn't lose you."

For a brief moment, his eyes softened, a flicker of understanding passing between you. But it was quickly replaced by steely conviction. He pointed a gloved finger at your belly, his tone firm yet edged with concern. "I shouldn't be your concern right now."

You cradled your bump protectively, looking up at him with glistening eyes. "And yet here we are."

He was silent for a moment, his hand dropping back to his side as he regarded you with a mix of frustration and helplessness. "What am I going to do with you?" he muttered, more to himself than to you.

You didn't answer him. Instead, you moved back into his chest, seeking the comfort you'd felt moments before. His arms wrapped around you instinctively, the tension in his muscles softening as he held you close.

"This can't keep happening," he said after moments of silence passed between you, his words hammering at your heart. You couldn't tell if he was referring to the intimacy of your embrace or your reckless brush with death once again. Regardless, you tightened your grip on him.

"Just a little longer," you whispered, your voice barely audible. He sighed in resignation as he gently disentangled your arms from his waist, pushing you back to look into your eyes. His hand slipped into the pocket of his coat, and he retrieved the device that would sever any remaining physical connection between you.

You had barely had time to enjoy the unbridled freedom of those moments in his embrace, the silence broken only by the rhythmic beating of his heart against your cheek rather than the disturbing clicking. But now, as your eyes fell on the Pip-Boy, you realized you weren't ready to relinquish that freedom, despite the protection it promised.

"I told you not to take it off," he chided. When you started to explain yourself, he cut you off. "I don't care, just put it back on."

You shook your head, your eyes locking with his, defiance met with disappointment. "Don't make me do it," he pleaded earnestly, his voice softening, laden with a desperation you hadn't heard from him before.

"I have a choice, and so do you," you told him, your voice steady but your heart pounding.

He smiled sadly, a bittersweet expression that deepened the ache in your chest. "I wish that were true," he replied, pulling your hand gently and fastening the Pip-Boy around your wrist. The device closed with a sickening clink, severing the fragile connection between you. You held his gaze, chin high, though you wanted to curl into yourself.

"I wonder if it really is me you're protecting with this thing," you said, your voice trembling with rage and sorrow, your hand still enclosed in his as the clicking commenced. "I'm not so sure anymore."

His gaze dropped as he took a deep breath, bracing himself before looking back at you with a rueful smile. "Me neither, vaultie," he admitted, his voice a whisper of regret. He dropped your hand and turned to leave the room. "Maybe it's better that way."

He disappeared through the open doorway, leaving you alone with the heavy silence and the cold weight of the Pip-Boy on your wrist. The freedom of touch you had tasted moments ago now felt like a distant memory, replaced by the stark reality that, regardless of anything else, the Ghoul was determined to keep you at a distance. 

Taglist: @cheshirecat484 @lothiriel9 @ancientbeing10 @sillysimping @maeplaysbass @moon-trash1507 @spookyoat @rebelmarylou @writtenbyhollywood

[topzsun]

SOMEONE TO YOU

── ♡ MARCH

you and march come to a conclusion about each other. neither of you are happy.

It’s a damn shame the most good-looking men have the foulest of personalities, you reflect under the blistering heat of the summer sun. You attempt to find shade under the protruding roof ledge of the Blacksmith’s Shop, however, it does little to soothe and your thoughts are immediately overtaken by ‘what the hell is taking March so long to deliver you your upgraded sword?’. When the man in question flings open the door, promised weapon in hand and his permanent scowl on his lips, he unknowingly continues to prove you right.

Despite your antagonistic relationship with him, you’d be a fool to say March was unattractive. Strong build with biceps worth ogling over, flaming red hair and eyes the colour of the murky night, he had caught your eye almost immediately when you arrived in Mistria.

Then he opened his mouth and it all went downhill from there.

Despite an entire season since your arrival, March has yet to warm up to you and it's obvious with his pointed remarks and resting frown whenever you are in his vicinity. You return the attitude in kind, because being the bigger person is a foreign concept to you. Hence, a silent agreement has been reached to keep conversation to a minimum to prevent an unnecessary, heated back and forth.

To your surprise, March breaks the silence first, much to your displeasure.

“How many times are you gonna keep damaging it?” His tone is flat, but he keeps his hand out-stretched for you to take your order, which you all but snatch away.

“It’s the mines,” You refute, “Do you expect me to fight with sticks and stones?”

The tension dissipates when you catch March staring wordlessly, rather than busying himself with coming up with a response. Confused, you follow his line of vision to find his focus on the scarring littering the length of your bare arm, the wounds still relatively fresh. Thanks to magical advances in medicine, a quick trip to Valen’s clinic would make the scarring disappear with the bat of an eye. However, childishly you have been rationing your visits to the local doctor since last time she had made a passing quip about her seeing your face more than anyone else in town, paired with a heavy stare. You don’t think she meant any harm, but a visceral part of you can’t stand the idea of someone being disappointed in you. Hence, you’ve been stuck licking your wounds till it felt like an acceptable amount of time has passed since your last visit.

The sound of somebody clicking their tongue startles you, and before you can get a word in, March has already turned on his heel and went back inside. You stand frozen in your spot, wondering what you must have said that caused him enough offence to storm away. You contemplate leaving or apologising, but the door again opens and he stomps back out, something clenched in his hand.

“Here,” He mutters, as if reluctant, and in his open palm you find a tube of soothing gel and a roll of bandages.

“What’s it for?” You ask hesitantly and he looks at you as if you’ve just told him the sky is green.

“Your abrasions are getting red and swollen,” He snaps impatiently and shoves the items your way. “You’ll cause more trouble for Doctor Valen if you catch an infection.”

While his wording would be enough to get a rise out of you, you are still bewildered and oddly touched by his attentiveness, taking the items from his hand gingerly. Before you can finish your “thank you”, the man has already closed the door on you, with only the heatwaves as your witness to this encounter.

Something has shifted in March, and you feel like you are the only one who has noticed.

“Don’t you think there is something different about him these days?” You question and Ryis puts down his hammer long enough to consider your question. You would have felt bad for interrupting his work, but you think you’ve become good enough friends with the carpenter to press for his time occasionally.

“Not really?” Ryis admits with a flippant shrug and heaves another slab of wood onto his workbench. “He seems fine.”

“It’s not like I’m saying he’s acting worse,” You are on the defensive immediately, pursing your lips. “Just… different.”

He spares a minute to stare at you, and you can tell he’s still not understanding the difference between March from the beginning of spring and March halfway through fall.

“Okay, well, give me an example then,” He offers. You open your mouth and then close it, words failing you as you mimic a fish out of water. Despite him waiting patiently, you feel your face heat up in embarrassment that you had no explanation to offer Ryis other than determined certainty. He is one of the kindest people you know, but even he can’t bite back the amused smile that graces his lips as you fruitlessly attempt to explain your thoughts.

“Don’t laugh!” You bark which only makes him laugh louder. “There is definitely something strange going on. I just don’t know how to put it into words!”

Upon your behest, Ryis does his best to calm down, and while he can’t hide his amusement he does spare you a reassuring smile.

“If it helps, I’ll keep an eye out the next time I see him,” His proposal relaxes your shoulders and relieves your recent anxieties as you spare a few words of gratitude. Aside from his brother, the person March is closest to in this town is Ryis and if his best friend can’t notice the shift, then nobody can.

“But if I’m being honest…” The carpenter trails off as he fixes you a curious look, though he shows hesitation about what he says next. “I think the person who’s been acting different is you.”

You gape at him, taken aback by the sudden shift of accusation.

“What do you mean?”

He packs up his tools, making his way to the shop's front door as he gives you a teasing backward glance.

“Well, you’ve been staring a lot at him lately. Somebody would easily think you’d have a… crush on him?”

Cleverly planned, Ryis quickly shuts the door behind him before he can hear you squawking indignantly. Confusion, disbelief and annoyance creep over you on your long walk back home to the farm, passing by March conversing with Reina beside the water fountain. Upon noticing your presence, Reina offers a large smile and a friendly wave which you try your best to return despite your dejected mood. March, upon noticing the girl’s distraction, looks up. Just when you think he’d tactfully ignore you, he takes you by surprise when he tilts his head in your direction in acknowledgment. You felt your heart squeeze in its cage.

Ryis wins, again.

March did not like looking back on the past. His motto resides in moving forward and discarding weaknesses, but that doesn’t stop the tendrils of his early years from creeping around him when he’s at his most susceptible, begging to be acknowledged by him. It felt like a child pleading for attention.

Olric is older than him, but not by much. Distant family members liked to exaggerate the age difference to make March feel less guilty that his brother, who still had baby fat on his face, was now his sole guardian after the death of their parents because nobody else wanted to take on the burden of looking after an aggrieved child. He can still recite the calligraphy scrawled on the banner of the funeral home, the wails and sobbing of grieving friends and family muffled by planked walls. He had grown tired from the noise, and having to look at the monochrome portraits of his parents smiling into the frame, and opted to let the proceedings continue while he sat in the hallway. It was this kind of distance where he felt most comfortable. He touches his forehead to his knees, legs pressed against his chest as he nurses the signs of an incoming headache. He wanted to sleep so badly.

He only lifts his head when he hears the rapid pattering of footsteps against the wood floor and a frantic call of his name from a familiar voice. He turns and almost feels his heart sink when he catches glimpses of his father’s dark hair and eyes, until he realises it’s Olric. His white button-up is untucked and unironed, his clumsily tied necktie held together by some higher power, and his blazer rests on his arms rather than on his figure. His brother had always been a sloppy dresser, something his mother used to chide him for, but when he sees Olric’s eyes swollen and red, he says nothing.

He had to travel from the other side of the Capital from where he was apprenticing for the funeral, so not many aside from their grandmother could click their tongues over Olric’s late arrival. March is led back inside by the gentle grip of his brother’s hand on his shoulder, and it feels warm. Olric doesn’t move his hand even when people make their rounds to the brothers with their condolences, and empty promises to write if they ever needed anything. March never sees them again after the funeral.

They moved away from their home on the outskirts of the Capital, because rent was getting too high and Olric could hardly support himself, much less a young boy now under his care. His older brother is forced to drop out of his position as an apprentice blacksmith, and that’s the part that makes March feel the most miserable out of all the changes that have happened. Yet, Olric never frowned or complained, or even called it a burden. He told him they were moving to a place called Mistria after being offered a position there as a miner, and he knows it’s a subtle nudge to get their life going after spending months in their family house void of his father’s booming laughter and their mother’s firm but loving gaze. To persist is how his family has functioned for generations.

Mistria is small, but quaint and beautiful, and March wasn’t too fond of it because it felt too quiet compared to the rambunctious noise of children playing outside and the whirring of heavy machinery that he was used to. The worst part was how friendly and nosy everybody was, from the man at the General Store who made corny jokes that made him grimace, to the carpenter who would often stop by just to hover over their shoulders insisting he could help them whenever they needed “as a pro!”.

March finds a peaceful middle ground with the family at the Sleeping Dragon Inn. Maybe the principle of “the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach” worked, because whenever Hemlock and Josephine would stop by to share dishes with the brothers, March grew excited for their visits. He learns they have a twelve-year-old daughter who is the same age as him, and during his first visit to the Inn, that’s where he finally meets Reina.

March has met other people around his age in Mistria. Celine, only two years younger, was too shy for March’s liking. She barely spoke a word, practically hiding behind her mother’s legs and eyeing him as if he were an alien from outer space. It didn’t help he wasn’t much of a talker either, so they sat in silence until her mother came by later in the evening to pick her up after their “playdate”. They exchanged awkward goodbyes and that was it.

Reina was friendly and hardworking, which was a trait March admired. Despite her young age, she seemed to have inherited her parents’ charisma and was able to pick up quickly on what to say around March, and soon he began spending many evenings in the Inn with her and her family. Summers at the beach playing together, and winters spent playing board games in the toasty interior of the Inn. She had also been his first crush, and that was the first time March realised he didn’t hate the idea of love and romance, spending the next few months after this realisation daydreaming of doing things like holding her hand and bragging about being her boyfriend to anyone who asks. Embarrassing to look back on now, but childhood crushes were hardly ever rational. An older March can only be relieved he never followed through with all the corny stuff he wanted to do.

The feelings eventually die down as he gets more and more comfortable being settled into the town, and he realises Reina obviously didn’t like him back. It was for the better, because she and her family had slowly become a second home to him, and he wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.

As he gets older, he picks up an interest in blacksmithing. When Errol and Landen hear about this, they are quick to call up old friends and have him enrolled in a blacksmithing apprenticeship in the Capital. He remembers how bright Olric’s grin had been the day he had been accepted, and he feels a mixture of excitement and guilt in the pits of his stomach. He packs up a month later and he’s back to his birthplace, but as he says his last-minute goodbyes, he realises he is going to miss Mistria. From the chirping of birds outside his window to the sound of chatter at the Inn, the small town had become his home. That was also when he decided that once he got his professional license, he would return as the local blacksmith, and that filled him with pride like no other.

True to his word, after finishing up his apprenticeship (and winning kingdom-wide competitions for his craft, he shamelessly brags), he returns to Mistria and is quickly hounded for his success that has spread as far as to the humble town. That is also when he realises that during his absence, a new face recently moved in.

That’s how March first meets Ryis and is instantly taken by him. It’s hard not to be. Where March was curt and testy, Ryis was considerate and calming. Most importantly, Ryis worked diligently and pulled his weight around town.

March always liked the industrious types.

Everything had been going so well for him. His work was going strong, he’d made a new close friend on the same wavelength as him, and he’s still the talk of the town despite how long it’s been since he moved back.

Then you come along and throw a wrench in everything, and suddenly it's hard to go through the day without hearing your name being mentioned at least once. You don’t shy away from making your presence known, and he’s become accustomed to seeing you run around town with an assortment of tools strapped to your back as you greet every face passing you by.

Including him, for some weird reason.

Maybe it was the jealousy that had convinced him he disliked you, or maybe your demeanour was what ticked him off. Yet, despite his snark, you still find an excuse to stop by to talk to him, even if you were meeting his attitude with your own the entire time. March wasn’t born yesterday, he knew you found some sort of twisted entertainment in your banter. Nobody needed to get their tools checked over by him as much as you did.

As Ryis had jokingly put it, March has met his match in the form of you. He could have vomited at his friend’s chosen descriptor, because it sounded too romantic for his liking. He most certainly did not have any kind of feelings for you that involved wanting to kiss you or be yours. He likes people like Reina and Ryis, and he doesn’t like hardheaded and reckless eccentrics like you.

He’s sure of it, even when he notices that the warm glow of the open fire at the Inn casts a pretty light on you. Or how your cocky grins are almost infectious. Or that you looked nice no matter what you tried out at Louise’s stall.

Oh, fuck.

[shuenkio]

Second mask | Ksn. シ︎

Paring: Sunoo x male!reader | Genre: Soft smut (very soft)

Synopsis: He is the president of the students council, wherein you were his 'little helper' when he saw you with the other guy, who's the voice president, a fire burning in his eyes.

Cw: Cursing, jealousy, obsessed (not much), red flag but love you? FWB.

Non proof read|wc: 900+

English is not my 1st language.

All photos and dividers crd to the rightful owner.

This is a work of fanfiction, do not throw unnecessary tantrums to this nsfw/sfw blog ©Shuenkio

𝐀/𝐍: This is from the request of one of the anon ask, and here it is finally make it debut lol (⁠~⁠￣⁠³⁠￣⁠)⁠~ however let's say that I wrote 'Sunoo' here a bit out of Characters, from fluffy to the man he is and so. Hope you enjoy it.

"What the fuck are you doing, m/n sii?" The loud speaking voice of the student presi shouting angry at you in an empty office after he dragged you in, demanding the answer from you with your action that even you don't know what went wrong.

"Sunoo sii! What are you talking about? I don't understand." You fire back as the curiosity and the shouting voice he gives you make you want to brust out inappropriately on the spot, yet you hold back because you care for your reputation.

The older guy then started to chuckle suddenly, his laughter holding so much rage and sarcasm that it did goosebumps you a little at how his aura changed in a blink of an eye—the guy that used to have a bright aura with a strict rule turning to be a demon himself right in front of you. And you don't get it. All you did all day was your task and work; there was nothing else to make him press like this.

Even worse, he didn't say anything; instead, he just started to throw all of his at you as if you were a doll.

"You have the nerve to say that; did you forget what we are? Hm? Why in the world should you help that unknown vice president??" Sunoo is scowling at the sight; he looks like a crazy person, with a crazy smile on the corner of his lip, turning you back a little. What will happen if you don't answer his question? The fact that Sunoo and you were tied in a friendship of friends has benefits.

Ever since he discovered that you were cheating once on an exam during the first semester, he never let you slide like a wheel away, as he made a deal with you that if you ever disobeyed him, a consequence would happen, and so you have to agree because you love your reputation as a helper to the student president or vice president, not to mention you love being popular.

Let's say he got you trapped in his cage one more time; however, with this reason of his, it's clearly that he was jealous of you to interact with the other students other than him. To the point where he almost unleashed his inner beast like he used to at home. To make it settled in this conversation, you decide to take it easy and let him blame you with his unnecessary jealousy.

"*Sigh*, fine, I'll stop talking to them... Or helping them just don't do it here; it's embarrassed." You respond gently, trying to calm him down and gesturing to him with both of your hands. Nevertheless, it was too late. Abruptly,  Sunoo rushed toward you, fire in his eyes, hungry as he grabbed the back of your nape harshly before pressing both lips against each other.

His strength was so strong that, even though you try to push him away while shocking, it can't help anything. The students president council said that everyone thought he was a girly pop actually has something underneath. He was changing 360° once he's alone with you. The kisses were harsh and forceful, and his hatred for your lip was unexplainable, mixed with anger.

His tongue is dancing inside your mouth, twirling and licking the wall of your mouth and tongue, eager to taste all of you and mark you as his. It was blistering, forceful, and electrifying that sparked the intense moment along with the cries out of pleasuring of you, turning him on like a fuel put into fire.

He wanted to hear more of you, but he wasn't going to risk both of your imagines in a public space like this, which was soon replaced by his body pressed against close to yours with clothes on clothes. Talk about how wild Sunoo is when he turns on; he was insanely creepy; he loves to make you suffer in pain of ecstasy; and your moaning is like music to his ears.

"No! Sunoo, don't do it!" You were begging, and his hands were locking around your waist tightly, with yours resting on his shoulder. But you get nothing from his response as his hip sticks even closer to yours until you feel something hard poking in the middle of his hip. Your mind goes blank, speechless at the sight and the sensation, brushing against your thick fabric.

Is this the boy Sunoo thought was a sugar pie? More like an evil twin. able to do anything, you bite your lip, holding in the pleasure whenever he shoving up and down, punishing you from his obsessed ass in such a place as this.

"If, *huff*, you ever lay on him on those guys again, everything would burn, hm?" With a few more strokes, when he feels your pants are soaked, he stops before lifting up your chin with his finger and printing a small kiss on you one last time.

Coincidentally, it seems like he can predict the times; the other students who are struggling with their projects are knocking on the office door at the same times when he stops, and soon he leaves you there without replying, flushing one last bright smile as he leaves. You were there back in the office, looking down at your black pants that had a wet spot in the middle.

It was kind of disgusting,  but it's your body anyway, and the fact that your body responded to his makes all sense. It's lucky you brought your jacket with you; if so, everyone's going to have a different idea.

"Not again, Kim Sunoo!" 

🗣️Reblog and like is much appreciated ♥

🗣️ Please mind my English! ><

[midnight-black2]

UAAHHSHWHEBW FINALLY SOMEONE WRITING FOR DOM READER😭

anyway can u write anything about Kai please 🥹 (I always thought he would be a perfect sub lol)

-𝘹𝘰𝘹𝘰

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐅𝐄𝐄𝐃𝐒

pairing : kai (from voyagers) x reader

synopsis : kai needs to be put in his place, and who better to do it than you?

disclaimers : sub!kai, dom!reader, degradation, handjob, masochist!kai (only a little), mean!reader, kinda fast pace (sorry)

note : i had to watch voyagers to make this, but it was so worth it because like why is kai so fine?? like he's an asshole, but a hot one. anyways, hope you like this !

kai had been acting like an ass-kissing, cock-sucking dickwad ever since richard died.

for some context, he sucked up to zach, the person you hated most out of the entire crew. he would laugh at all of zach's rather rude jokes, they would walk through the ship halls together, standing tall with unnecessary pride as if they were God or something. you weren't quite sure what was happening, but you knew it had to do with the blue.

kai was a smart, sweet boy. but that was before. he would cross his legs at the table, speak with manners, he would even service others at times, especially you. whether it was making a plate for you (he seemed to always know what you wanted to eat), or carrying heavy things for you. but that was before. all of it was before. before everyone stopped taking the blue. before richard died. before you all needed a new group leader.

it all went to shit.

every single little thing. there was no in between, you either followed all the rules, or broke all of them. you believed in balance, it was the only thing that keeps people sane, yet there was none. you had been going crazy for weeks. with all of the noise, the ferocity, the smell of sweat and sex, everything was so overbearing, and nobody did anything about it. so when kai got hit in the head as a result of a fight and there was a meeting called over it, you were fed up. blue got rid of the emotions, and now that there wasn't any blue, and the emotions were getting in the way of everything.

"i for one don't know if there is an alien," the girl spoke. you didn't know her name, all you knew was that she was constantly doing the right thing. she was a little boring, but you didn't hate her or anything. her eyes were lowered, not daring to look zach or christopher in the eye.

"who cares what you don't know," zach spoke, annoyedly. you clenched your jaw, couldn't he just let the girl speak?

"if we repair the damage we can watch the surveillance video and-" she was cut off by zach.

"shut your fat, puss-filled face," you scoffed. how low, even for him. you saw the way kai snickered, you felt like slapping the two of them then and there. you pinched kai's right thigh, giving him a look of warning. he looked over to you, he gulped, yet rolled his eyes anyway.

"i have a right to talk," she responded, finally looking zach in the eye.

"you talk enough as it is, you bloated wheezing blister," he countered, with a smirk. everyone started laughing, including kai. you felt your blood boil. she was only trying to make a point.

"zach, she can talk," christopher interfered.

"you shut up too," zach muttered. he went on, and it escalated. it almost ended in the same way the fight ended last time. it was all a blur--everyone split up. kai and half of the others followed behind zach. you had it with him. you gripped his arm harshly. you pulled him down the hall, luckily no one noticed the two of you leave.

"y/n," kai called, brows furrowed, he was a bit angry. "y/n, what are you doing?"

"shut up," you ordered, through gritted teeth. he quickly complied, his breath hitched. you went inside an empty sleeping quarter, shutting and locking the door.

"you've been such a fucking brat lately, kai,"

"y-you can't do anything about it," he replied, stuttering, voice shaky. he knew damn well you could. you had this odd sort of control over him he couldn't quite understand. with the snap of your fingers he would be on his knees, consciously or not.

"yeah? watch me," you challenged. you crossed your arms over your chest, your patience was growing thin. "strip."

"w-what?" he was shaking slightly, eyes flickering between your eyes and your lips.

"you heard me, strip." he listened. it seemed an ounce of obedience was still left in him--only for you, though. he started with his shirt, pulling it over his head. he was lean, toned. you couldn't help but stare, you would've smirked if you weren't so frustrated. he felt your eyes, they were gaping burning holes all over into his body.

he slowly unbuttoned his pants, pulling them down, leaving him in only his boxers. you walk over to him, and grip his raging hard-on.

"all you do anymore is think with your stupid cock," you spit out, looking him right in the eye. he let out a soft whimper. you swiftly backed him up against the nearest wall. you were surely manhandling him, but who was he to tell you not to? you pulled down his boxers, and they sat at his feet. he breathing picked up.

it was embarrassing, to say the least. he was naked and you were completely clothed. he felt so vulnerable, but it was even more embarrassing that he liked it. your hand wrapped around his cock, you squeezed quite harshly. you had forgotten how big he was, probably a good 8.5" when hard.

"fuck, y/n," kai groaned. did it hurt? yes. did it only enhance his pleasure? also yes.

"seriously kai? you get in a fight over a girl. you get hit in the head with a metal rod, yet you're over here whimpering like a bitch when i simply squeeze your dick? a little pathetic," you utter, a brow arched.

"please," he let out, subconsciously. he cursed himself internally, he knew you would only be harsher on him now.

"please what, kai? please fucking what? i don't feel like giving you shit. you take what i give you," you responded. you brought your fingers to his mouth, thumb prodding at his lips. "open."

he did as he was told, and allowed your fingers to explore his mouth. you pushed them as deep as they'd go before he gagged softly. he shut his eyes. as humiliated as he felt, your fingers were quite warm. you took them out, and he sort of disliked the absence of you digging around in his mouth. god, he thought he was so weird.

your hand returned to his cock, wrapping around it and pumping up and down quickly, without warning. he cried out, gripping your shoulder.

"goodness, look at you. wish someone would walk in right now. hear the way you moan and whine weakly. they'd figure out so quickly you're not quite as high and mighty as you make yourself out to be," you chuckle, looking at him writhe. although he was taller than you, it still felt as though he were underneath you.

"s-shit, y/n," he moaned, hips bucking. your free hand gripped his waist, keeping it pinned to the wall.

"stay still." you instructed, your hand on his cock speeding up a bit. kai's knees buckled, he felt his mind was mush, he was shaky and all thoughts of you consumed him.

"fuck y/n, i think im gonna cum," kai warned, opening his eyes to take a peek at you. he couldn't handle it. the way you looked so angry, so ready to snap him in half. if he kept looking at you, he would surely cum right that second.

"already? that's a little sad, don't you think?" you teased, hand on his waist making its way up his chest. you pinch his left nipple harshly, and he whimpers once again.

"oh my god," he moans. you could feel his entire body shaking and jolting with every move you made. "can i?"

"cum? i don't know. why should i even let you?" you asked, only wanting to hear him beg.

"please. fuck, please let me cum. i need to i really need to. i'm sorry! i'll-ill keep my mouth shut when you want me to," kai pleaded. you, at last, gave in.

"go ahead, cum," you said. he let go with a loud moan, anyone directly outside the door could probably hear. you moved to the side just in time so his mess wouldn't touch you.

"o-oh, fuck," he panted, sliding down the wall, sitting on the floor. you kneeled, your hand placed on his cheek.

"you learn your lesson?" you asked, smirking complacently.

"maybe." you rolled your eyes at his response, but couldn't help the smile that followed.

𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟒 © 𝐤𝐲𝐚-𝐢𝐬-𝐤𝐨𝐨𝐥

𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭𝐲? 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

When The World Is Crashing Down [Chapter 10: Blame Everyone But Me For This Mess]

Series summary: Your family is House Celtigar, one of Rhaenyra’s wealthiest allies. In the aftermath of Rook’s Rest, Aemond unknowingly conscripts you to save his brother’s life. Now you are in the liar of the enemy, but your loyalties are quickly shifting…

Chapter warnings: Language, warfare, violence, serious injury, alcoholism/addiction, references to sexual content (18+), Aemond-induced chaos, death and destruction, witchcraft! 🔮

Series title is a lyrics from: “7 Minutes In Heaven” by Fall Out Boy.

Chapter title is a lyric from: “I’ve Got a Dark Alley and a Bad Idea That Says You Should Shut Your Mouth” by Fall Out Boy.

Word count: 6.2k.

Link to chapter list: HERE.

Taglist (more in comments): @tinykryptonitewerewolf @lauraneedstochill @not-a-glad-gladiator @daenysx @babyblue711 @arcielee @at-a-rax-ia @bhanclegane @jvpit3rs @padfooteyes @marvelescvpe @travelingmypassion @darkenchantress @yeahright0h @poohxlove @trifoliumviridi @bloodyflowerrr @fan-goddess @devynsficrecs @flowerpotmage @thelittleswanao3 @seabasscevans @hiraethrhapsody @libroparaiso @echos-muses @st-eve-barnes @chattylurker @lm-txles @vagharnaur @moonlightfoxx @storiumemporium @insabecs @heliosscribbles @beautifulsweetschaos @namelesslosers @partnerincrime0 @burningcoffeetimetravel-fics @yawneneytiri @marbles-posts @imsolence @maidmerrymint @backyardfolklore @nimaharchive @anxiousdaemon @under-the-aspen-tree @amiraisgoingthruit @dd122004dd @randomdragonfires @jetblack4real @joliettes

Only 3 chapters left! 🥰💜

“Aemond!” he roars into the cerulean midday sky, knowing it is useless, that fate has already spoken.

All his life, fate has proven Criston Cole wrong. He once believed he could not rise above being born to a steward in the Dornish Marches. He once feared he would never be permitted to join the Kingsguard. He once felt in his twisting, self-loathing guts that he would never love any woman but Rhaenyra. And Criston once knew—without reservation, without complexity—that Alicent’s eldest son would never amount to anything worthwhile, could never be courageous, self-sacrificial, competent, a true king. Each time, fate had a different ending in store.

All around him, Green soldiers are dying in what will be known to history as the Butcher’s Ball. They are being slit open, disemboweled, crushed beneath the hooves of warhorses, stabbed and clubbed and speared. The Northmen have scorpions with them as well, with massive bolts to bring down dragons; but they are unnecessary. There are no dragons on the battlefield today.

Criston pictures Aemond as a boy, always so sullen, always so dutiful. He read and he wrote and he sparred in the castle courtyard until the blisters on his palms burst and bled and then turned to callouses, knots of dead-nerved scar tissue that grew over his wounds but never cured them. Criston did not just believe in Aemond’s abilities, his honor; he was certain of these things, he carried them as interminably as the lines in his palms. Criston knew Aemond and Vhagar would be the saviors of the Greens in this war. He knew Aemond would be here.

But he’s not. He’s just not, and there’s nothing I can do to bring him.

Cregan Stark is cutting through the Greens’ men. He is not a soldier, he is a force of nature, he is a thunderstorm or a famine or a rogue wave, he is winter coming to rip the trees bare and bury the weak in frostbitten earth. Arrows are loosed by the Northmen’s archers, lethal hissing rain. One hits Criston in the shoulder of his sword arm. Another pierces him through the small of his back, severing his spinal cord and dropping him to his knees.

Through the fray, Cregan sees the Kingmaker. He wants him, he wants Criston’s blood on his blade, his hands, his face; and what the Warden of the North wants, he is never denied.

Alicent, Criston thinks, and he remembers her lying in bed after giving birth to Aegon. She was a girl, just a girl, pale, sick, in terrible and unspoken pain, never the same in body, forever darker in mind, alone in a room full of tapestries of her husband’s house as the court celebrated her newborn son. She knew she had been used. She knew this was her life and always would be, a wheel that goes around and around and crushes the same bones until they stop mending, until the misery and desperation becomes so much a part of you that you could almost forget it’s there. It’s your shadow, it’s your religion, it’s a sigil or a ring.

I suppose now I have something to live for, Alicent had said, and Criston sat on the edge of the bed took her small, cold hand in his own. He raised her knuckles to his lips and answered: I swear to you that I will always protect him. That I will never let him die.

Here in the Riverlands as Cregan Stark descends upon him, Criston looks up again and sunlight spills over his face, warm and kind and golden; but the sky is still empty.

~~~~~~~~~~

In the gardens of Dragonstone, on a bench carved out of gloom-grey basalt, you pull Aegon’s legs into your lap and roll up his loose cotton trousers to inspect them: scars that have knit shut the gashes bones once cut through, muscle mass that is slowly building itself back again, good circulation, able to carry him if only for short, hard-fought distances. You have bled twice since Aemond flew back to the Riverlands to seize Harrenhal. Here under flinty autumn skies and pine trees that sway in brisk wind that smells like saltwater and metal, you think that perhaps the earth is done giving things. This is the time for harvests, not blooms. This is the season of endings, long nights full of cold stars, firelight, reaping.

“Stop,” Aegon says gently. He’s clutching a thick wool blanket around his shoulders. He’s always cold now, pale and shivering. His silvery hair hangs in untamed waves around his face adored with only a single small braid that you weave for him each day. “I don’t want you to do it.”

No; he only wants the maesters to see his weakness, his suffering. “I like taking care of you. It’s the only thing I’m good at. It’s how we met, remember?”

“Oh, I remember.” Now he smiles. “I have no idea what you saw in me.”

“An exemplary cock, mostly. Better than any in my medical books.”

Aegon laughs, a sound you rarely get to hear anymore. Then he is grave again. His hair blows in the gales that roll in off the ocean; his eyes, a tumultuous blue like waves in a storm, are ringed by shadows. “Angel, listen to me.” He places a hand over yours where it rest on a knot of scar tissue just below his kneecap. “If I don’t…” He pauses, and you think as you look at him: He’s nothing but scars now, he’s nothing but pain that is calloused over but never forgotten. “If I’m not here when the war is over, I want you to know that you’ll still be protected. Aemond knows. Larys knows. You are to be provided for. You will reside only where and with whom you choose to.”

“Why wouldn’t you be here?”

Aegon shrugs, avoiding your gaze. “We should be realistic.”

“You’ll be here. You have to be.”

Aegon stares into a thicket of rose bushes, blood-red petals and twisted thorns. And he says faintly, like something a strong wind could carry away: “I’ll try.”

“We’re winning, Aemond and Criston and Daeron and the Greens’ armies. They might have won already and we’re just waiting to hear the words. Aemond will end the war and then we’ll all be together again in King’s Landing.”

Aegon gives you a wry smirk as you roll back down the legs of his trousers, concealing his roadmap of harm. “A man like Cregan Stark would not be such a disappointment. He would be able to ride into battle. He would not have compelled you to bloody your own hands. He would not be feeble and deformed.”

“It can’t be anyone but you.”

Overhead, half-shrouded in mist, there is an immense reptilian shadow and a rumbling like the earth splitting in two, cracked and forced apart by eruptions of steam, lava, trapped toxic heat. Gingerly, Aegon returns his boots to the earth, stony and barren. He winces and groans before he can bite it back to hide it from you.

“I’ll go,” you tell Aegon, skimming your fingers through his hair and touching your lips to his temple. His wave-blue eyes are watery, grateful. “Stay here. I’ll bring him to you.”

You hurry through corridors and down spiral staircases, watched by dragons of iron and stone with fire burning in their mouths. And of course, there is more than one reason why you want to greet Aemond by yourself. You don’t know what he will say to you; you don’t know if he’s still angry. But when he strides through the entranceway of the castle to meet you—his hair in one long white-blond braid, his black coat billowing around him in the sharp wind—he is not alone.

There is a woman with him.

“…Aemond?” you say, staring at her: hair like onyx, skin like snow. She grins at you beneath eyes that are pools of ink, dark and glassy and with hardly any whites. You do not believe she intends to unnerve you; still, there is a blade-cold shudder that tumbles down the rungs of your spine.

Aemond replies with pride that is hushed, pure: “This is my wife.”

“Your…?” You cannot look away from her. Her gown is black lace with long, dragging sleeves and a train that curls around her like a dragon’s tail. You can see glimpses of her starlight skin through the fabric, her forearms, her waist, her thigh. Isn’t she cold? You are wearing heavy velvet, pine green like Aegon’s banner, and still the impending winter needles at you. “Who…?”

Lord Larys Strong arrives, his cane tapping on the stone floor. When he sees the woman, he jolts to a halt and gawks. “Alys?”

“Hello, brother.” Her voice is deep, smooth, melodic. She speaks the language of ocean currents, roots in dark fertile soil, the revolving of the stars.

You turn to Larys. “Who is this?”

“A bastard daughter of my father,” Larys answers, slow and disbelieving. “Alys Rivers. She…she was at Harrenhal, last I saw her…years ago…”

“And now she is here with me,” Aemond says. “She is precisely where she belongs.”

Silence fills the room, the world, the space that has opened up between you and Aemond. Wife? Bastard? Harrenhal? At last, you manage shakily: “Aegon is in the gardens. He’s waiting for you.”

“Good,” Aemond says. He wears something you have never seen on him before: not just pride but serenity, consolation, contentment. “There is much to discuss.”

As slate-grey wind whistles through rose thorns and cranberry bushes, you and Larys step out into the gardens with your uninvited guests. Aegon’s eyes snag on Alys, widen, and then dart to you. He mouths: Who the fuck is that? You shrug, bewildered.

Aemond says: “Allow me to present my wife, Lady Alys Rivers of Harrenhal.”

“Your wife?!” Aegon exclaims, like he couldn’t possible have heard correctly. “Your wife?!”

“Yes.” Aemond’s arm snakes around Alys’ waist. She folds into him, palm to his chest, lips to his throat, something creeping and boneless like ivy or mist or smoke. “You’ve had two now. I’ve only just found mine.”

“Rivers,” Aegon echoes incredulously. “A bastard from the Riverlands.”

Larys notes: “One of my father’s natural children.”

“A Strong bastard?!” Aegon cackles and looks to Larys. “Where is Daeron presently? Can he be summoned here? He should see this.”

“It is no jest, Your Grace,” Aemond says calmly. “It is a true pairing of souls.”

“And you were not at liberty to give yours. You have to marry Borros Baratheon’s daughter. That was the deal, that’s why he has pledged his army to us.”

“Daeron can do it.”

“Daeron won’t be old enough to marry for years, and that’s not the point! This is a slight, an egregious slight, to reject a Baratheon noblewoman in favor of a…a…what was she, a serving wench? A wetnurse? What happened to your pathological obsession with self-righteous duty? And why aren’t you and Vhagar with Criston?! Is this what you’ve been doing for the past six weeks while I was trapped here, suffering and useless? You’ve been hiding in the crumbling towers of Harrenhal with your so-called wife? What was so fucking crucial that it kept you from the battlefield—?!”

“She carries my son,” Aemond says.

A gasp spills from you before you can silence it; Lord Larys covers his mouth with one hand. Aegon stares numbly at his brother, not warring with envy or spite but raw astonishment. This is an asset to the Greens, it is a detriment, it lifts a burden from his shoulders, it imperils all of you. “You have no way of knowing what it is yet.”

“I know. We know.”

“And why have you flown to Dragonstone?” Aegon demands. “To torment me with your disobedience, to illustrate so vividly how all that relentless, calculated striving has finally cracked your brain in half—?!”

“No.” Aemond glances to you. “Something has happened. And I wanted to be here in person to deliver the news and…express my condolences.”

“Condolences?” you say, fearful, alarmed.

“Lord Larys will not have received word yet,” Aemond continues. “It has only just transpired. But Alys has seen it.”

Aegon shakes his head. He doesn’t understand. “Seen it…?”

“She sees things. The future, the past. Not every detail, but some of them. She’s seen Mother in the Red Keep, a prisoner but still alive. She’s seen Jaehaera safe and well at Storm’s End. The child has a protector, though Alys isn’t sure who.”

“She’s a witch?” Aegon says flatly. “This bastard Strong woman that you have taken to wife is, among all her other deficiencies, a witch?”

And Alys answers in a voice like the night sky, dark but threaded with glimmers of stars, moonshine, comets: “I am a woman who lives between two worlds. Your Angel is much the same, I think.”

Aegon blinks at her, not entranced or awed but fighting the instinct to flinch away.

“There have been riots in King’s Landing,” Aemond says.

“Yes, obviously. Everyone is aware of that. I think the Wildlings north of the Wall have heard.”

Aemond ignores the jab. “The Master of Coin, Lord Bartimos Celtigar, was travelling through the city in a carriage when…” He trails off, uneasy. He glances at you again. His sole remaining eye—river-blue and without any malice—shimmers with grim compassion.

“What?” you say. “What happened?”

Aemond speaks to Aegon in words you cannot comprehend, swift ageless High Valyrian.

Aegon sighs testily. “Slower. Enunciate.”

Aemond tries again. Aegon repeats a certain word, unable to decipher it. Aemond offers him several others, what you can only assume are synonyms.

Aegon’s face goes even paler, the last of the blood draining out of his cheeks. Then he reaches out a hand to you. “Come here,” he beckons softly.

“Why?”

“Angel, come here now.”

“They killed him, didn’t they?” you ask Aemond. Your voice is trembling, icy, choked. He was an architect of Rhaenyra’s war effort, but he was your father first. He was a beast with blood on his hands, but now you are too. “The common people hate Rhaenyra and they hate my family. So they murdered him.”

Alys says: “They did not just murder him.” And she is not taunting you, though she grins like she might be; she has lost pieces of what it means to be human. She is no longer fluent in anything as trite as sympathy or decorum. Her obsidian eyes gleam, polished, glowing. Her long black hair blows in the wind. There are raven feathers in it, you notice now, and twigs, pine needles, earth, sand, ashes. “They bound and tortured him, they sliced off parts of him to keep as relics, they rode on horseback through the streets swinging his severed head and cock as they celebrated an end to all taxes—”

“Will you shut the fuck up?!” Aegon shouts at her. “Angel, please, come here.”

“Your brother was there too,” Aemond says solemnly.

Yes, of course he would be. He was always Father’s favorite. “Clement,” you whimper, pressing a palm to your chest. Your lungs burn as they drink down chill autumn air that cuts like a blade.

“No,” Aemond says. “The other one.”

“What?” No. No, that can’t be true.

“Not Clement,” Aemond insists. “It was the other brother. The burned man.”

No. No no no. I can’t believe it, I won’t believe it.

“Angel,” Aegon pleads, still reaching for you.

“Everett,” Alys says, dreamy, not knowing how cruel it feels, like splinters of glass beneath your skin instead of arteries and muscle, like shattered bones. “He was not difficult for them to catch. He could not run.”

Your words escape in a hoarse whisper. “I don’t believe you.”

Alys offers her hands. They are long, lithe, white like a skeleton’s. “Would you like to see?”

“No.”

“I can show you. Then you will trust what I say.”

“Alys, my love,” Aemond warns.

“No, you’re a liar,” you snarl at her. “You’re not a witch, you’re not some prophet, you’re just a liar and I don’t believe you—!”

And before you can flee she’s crossed the space between you, she’s gripped your wrist with those slender claw-like fingers, she’s pouring her magic into you like poison down a prisoner’s throat. The vision surges into your skull and fills it, sight and sound and scent: Everett screaming as he is dragged from the carriage, the hoard ripping at his clothes and his eyes, dull kitchen knives pulled from pockets, the coppery ether of blood in the air. You can feel the feverish heat of the crowd. You can feel their boiling-over animal rage. You can feel everything, but you can’t stop it.

Beyond the grisly mirage, you can hear yourself shrieking, muffled and distant; and you can hear someone else bellowing for Alys to let you go. Her hand is yanked off of your wrist and you are abruptly back in the gardens of Dragonstone surrounded by indomitable flora that warps and tangles and endures. You are kneeling on the cobblestones, tears flooding from your eyes. Aegon is on the ground with you, his arms circling around your waist. He is calling Alys a bitch, a monster, a demon. He is threatening to feed her to his dragon.

“Forgive me,” Alys says to you, peering down with a vague sort of regret etching lines into her brow. “I did not intend to cause any distress. I only meant to help you understand.”

Aegon seethes at Aemond: “Take your witch back to Harrenhal.”

“No,” you protest; and Aegon studies you, puzzled, as you gaze up at Alys, this half-human phantom that dwells between realms, something like a dark mirror image of an angel. “What else have you seen?” Tell me Aegon lives. Tell me the Greens win and we have a chance at a better world one day. Tell me this was all worth it.

“She has seen Daemon and Caraxes meeting me at the Gods Eye,” Aemond says. “She has seen me taking flight to join them in battle.”

Aegon is stunned. “When?”

“Soon. Three days from now.”

You sob, thinking of Everett; and Autumn too, wherever she is, who will reappear when the war is over searching for home but forever unable to find it. Aegon holds you and you pull yourself into him, arms slung around his neck. His silver hair brushes your face; his scarred right cheek is rough against yours. When you breathe in violent hitches, you inhale rose oil and wine and salt and warmth and misery, you taste the war that built him and now has returned to claim the debt.

“It’s Rhaenyra’s fault,” Aegon whispers, fierce and merciless. “We will kill Daemon and Cregan Stark. We will retake King’s Landing and capture Rhaenyra. And I swear to you that she will burn.”

Aemond is saying: “Do we have permission to stay the night or not? We’ve traveled a long way. My wife is tired, and so is Vhagar. Another flight so soon would tax her.”

“You can swim,” Aegon pitches back.

Lord Larys Strong—ever servile, ever composed—clears his throat, both hands resting on the handle of his cane. “Would anyone care for some soft-shelled crabs?”

~~~~~~~~~~

Mist hangs heavy over the castle the next morning, a cool metallic grey like steel; the sun is muted, only a wisp of itself, a memory that is swiftly fading. Alys Rivers stands in the surf fetching seashells and stones that she plinks into a basket. Locks of her long, wild hair dip into the roiling water and emerge sopping and heavy, sticking to her ink-black gown. Aegon is curled up with Sunfyre at the edge of the beach. The dragon breathes with rattling, labored heaves and Aegon pets his golden face, wishing the beast’s wings to knit themselves back together and his own legs to be strong again, murmuring to Sunfyre in some clumsy patchwork of High Valyrian and the Common Tongue to assure him that he’s served his king well.

You and Aemond walk down the windswept beach together, your boots sinking in wet sand and leaving imprints like bruises on flesh. Your gown is a deep, vibrant red like the sigil of the newly decimated House Celtigar; Aemond’s hair is wavy and damp and blows loose in the breeze. You are reminded of the night you shared with him six weeks ago, though you don’t want to be. Neither of you have mentioned that indiscretion. You believe you have silently agreed to forget it. You ask the prince regent: “How many people do you think you’ve burned in the Riverlands?”

“Why do you care? They’re not you. They’re not me.”

“Perhaps each life we take robs something from us as well. It carves a piece of the soul away and leaves it less than it was before.”

Aemond raises his eyebrow, intrigued.

“I am less than I once was,” you explain. “Acts of love feel like violence, violence is mistaken for love. Things that horrified me a year ago are now what give me solace when I dream of them. Vengeance, slaughter, fire and blood. Aegon grows more bitter, more ruthless. And so do you.”

“We will have the luxury of reforming ourselves when the war is won and Aegon is the undisputed king of the Seven Kingdoms.”

“If there’s any part of us that remembers who we were supposed to be.”

“I remember exactly who you were.” Aemond grins. “Fawning over Aegon, weaving braids into his hair. Scurrying around with your bandages and vinegar and honey. Always seeking to take his pain away. Always waging your own little war against the agony of mankind.”

“That feels like a different person,” you say, peering out over the ocean.

“We will build monuments to those we’ve lost,” Aemond promises. “Jaehaerys, Maelor, Otto. Your brother and my sister. You say you dream of fire and blood? I often find myself dreaming of Helaena.”

You turn to him, startled. And you recall the warnings her ghost gave Aegon before Baela and Moondancer arrived on Dragonstone: Don’t fall, don’t fall. “Does she say anything?”

“She keeps telling me I’ll lose my left eye.” Aemond smiles wistfully. “And I answer: Helaena, that’s happened already. But when I try to comfort her, when I try to embrace her, she turns away from me and says it’s too late. That I’ve ruined myself.” He walks with his hands linked behind his back, his face thoughtful but not brooding. “I still miss her,” he says. “And I still feel responsible. But things are easier now.”

You follow his eyeline to where Alys is plucking a starfish from the frothing waves and placing it in her basket. And doesn’t it make some strange bit of sense that Aemond’s match would be someone rare, bizarre, gifted in ways that are in equal parts mesmerizing and fearsome? “I’m glad you found someone who eases your burdens.”

“She has suffered tremendously. She knows what it is to be unloved and overlooked. She had to reinvent herself, just like I did. She had to shed her skin and step into a new one that she stitched together herself.”

“Perpetual Resurrection,” you say softly.

“Perpetual Resurrection,” Aemond agrees.

Now Alys is trekking up the beach to join you, her soaked hair whipping in the wind and her basket slung over one arm. From where he sits with Sunfyre, Aegon watches her with narrowed, disapproving eyes. “This belongs to the king,” Alys says to you, opening her hand. In her palm rests the ring of gold wings and jade eyes. “You should return it to him. He does not like me.”

You gasp and take the ring that you last saw before Aegon fell from the sky and shattered his legs, his spirit. “How did you find this?”

“It spoke to me. I spoke to it.” She smiles, more like a leer, though she does not mean it to be. Her eyes—onyx, jet, black moonstone—are bright with amusement. “See? You do not understand. Sometimes it is best not to ask.”

You slip the ring onto one of your fingers for safekeeping until you deliver it to Aegon. From the stone staircase that leads up to the castle’s main entrance, Larys waves Aemond over to him. Aemond kisses the woman he calls his wife farewell—a deep, burning kiss—and then departs. You say to Alys: “How did you become…like this?”

“I surrendered to it. Anyone can, if your life is hell and you are willing to burn it down to the foundations. You go deep into the swamp and then it goes into you. It grows through your skin and into your veins. It tangles up with you, vines climbing your ribcage and spine like ivy on a trellis. It changes you. It makes you greater than you were before. The victim becomes the victor. The weak turn watchful and wise.” She is gazing at where Aemond stands with Larys, exchanging theories and plots. Aemond shakes his head at something Larys says. “I always knew he would find me. The man whose fractured pieces fit with mine. Yet each time I thought I glimpsed him only to realize he wasn’t the one, I would think: How long must I wait? I have buried so many children. Will I ever have more? Will he come to me before it is too late? Is it too late already? But no, he flew to Harrenhal just as my hopes were giving out like a dry well. And Aemond was worth every second, minute, month, year. He was worth the beatings and the contempt, the rapes and the blood. He was worth all of it.”

Alys reaches out to touch your cheek and you recoil; but she is not giving you a revelation this time. She is merely tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear with a fond, maternal smile. There are mottled plumes of violet and indigo on the side of her throat, you notice only now. Alys catches you staring.

“Aemond can be rough, domineering,” she says with a sly smirk. “You know how he is.”

You know how he is. You know how he is. Horror strikes you like lightning; you imagine what other visions she has swimming in her changed blood. “It was a mistake. Aegon must never learn of it.”

“Of course not. That would kill him.” And you are gutted by a blade of cool serrated treason. Alys does not appear to be aware of it. “If I can ever be of service, please do not hesitate to summon me. I can appear and speak to you briefly, perhaps for five or ten minutes. I will be like a mirage, a ghost. Find a closed door and write my name upon it in blood. Then knock three times and open the door. I will be there.”

“A door? Which door?”

“Any door.”

You contemplate her. “Why would you believe that you owe me loyalty?”

“Because of Aemond,” Alys says simply, without any trace of resentment. “You mean something to him. So you mean something to me.”

He doesn’t crave me anymore. He has his own prize now. “I think you’re mistaken.”

“I never am.” Then Alys glides off to rejoin her husband.

Hours later as you are helping Aegon into bed—he must be carried up and down the castle steps by his guards in a litter, something he considers mortifying—you weave a new braid for him and then pour him a cup of milk of the poppy when his glazed eyes keep listing to the glass bottle of pearlescent relief, deadened nerves, liquid dreams. You crawl into bed beside him, curl up against his scarred chest, listen to the slowing thud of his heartbeat as his arms enfold you and draw you in ever-closer. His dragon ring glints on his hand, returned to its rightful place.

“Your legs?” you ask, kissing the gnarled scar tissue that has grown over his collarbones like climbing roses, like ivy. He can’t really feel your touch there, that’s not why you do it. You do it to show that you aren’t repulsed by his wounds and could never be, could never think of any part of him as something less than wondrous.

“That’s most of it,” Aegon murmurs drowsily. “I’ve started getting this ache in my back too. It won’t go away.”

“What?” You bolt upright in bed. “Show me where.”

He gestures: the curve of his spine, just above his hips. Panicked, you begin pressing lightly over where his kidneys are.

“Here? Aegon? Does that hurt?”

But now he’s realized how frantic you are, how upset. “Oh, no, never mind,” he says, clutching his pillow and feigning being too tired to speak on the subject for even a moment longer. He yawns dramatically. “It’s just a sprained muscle, I think. You know I’m always crawling around now like some kind of vermin. It’s nothing serious. It will heal in time.”

“Aegon—”

“I’m alright.” He grabs your hand and pulls you back down to him, buries his face in your hair, nuzzles and sighs contently as he whispers: “Shh. I’m alright. Stay, stay.”

~~~~~~~~~~

“You left him!” you hear Aegon yelling from his rooms, and you drop the book you had been reading in the castle library, an anthology of illnesses of the body, the mind, the soul. You sprint through the shadowy corridors towards the noise, the hem of your sapphire gown fluttering around your ankles. You are always dressed in jewel tones these days. You are anything but neutral.

In Aegon’s bedchamber, Larys has pressed himself to one stone wall like he wishes to disappear. Alys is observing with her strange, impassive, void-dark eyes. Aemond is being berated. He does not appear resentful or defiant; no, he is paralyzed. He is haunted, he is damned.

“You left him!” Aegon screams again, and hurls a full wine cup that strikes Aemond in the chest, spewing red through the air like blood spurting from slit veins. The king is standing, but with great effort; he is scrabbling through the drawers of his bedside table for things to throw at his brother. Yet the glass bottle of milk of the poppy remains untouched. “You abandoned him, you betrayed him, you fucking murdered him!”

“Aegon, what’s going on—?!”

“Almost a week ago, Cregan Stark’s army met Criston’s in the Riverlands,” he tells you. He is panting, red-faced, furious as he recounts Lord Larys Strong’s words, the news the Master of Whisperers only now received from one of his innumerable informants.

You stare at Aemond, horrified, already knowing what this means. “And Aemond wasn’t there.”

“He was at Harrenhal!” Aegon roars, tossing one of your medical books at Aemond, a volume on herbology. It strikes the prince in the nose, and blood gushes from his nostrils; ruby droplets freckle his hair. Aemond makes no attempt to defend himself. He is in shock, he is mourning. “He was fucking his witch while our men were being butchered!”

“Criston, he’s…he’s…?”

“He was slain in battle,” Larys informs you quietly.

Aegon staggers to his brother, shoves him roughly, receives no retaliation. “He was the closest thing you had to a father, he worshiped you, he loved you, and you left him to fend for himself after I told you over and over again that you and Vhagar needed to stay with him, and now he’s gone!” There are tears on Aegon’s face, crystalline tracks that bleed down his cheeks and jaw and throat. “You killed him, you killed him!”

“The Stark men?” you ask Larys, not wanting to know but needing to.

“Moderate losses. Now headed south towards Daeron and the Hightower army.”

“You fucking traitor,” Aegon hisses, sobbing, beating his palms against Aemond’s chest again. “Your whole life all you’ve wanted was responsibility and the second someone gives it to you, you throw it away! Why can’t I be the one with a body that works?! Why can’t my dragon be whole again?!”

And at last Aemond finds his voice. It is brittle and almost too hushed to hear. “I’ll make this right. When I defeat Daemon and Caraxes at the Gods Eye, it will be over.”

“It’s already over for Criston!” Aegon explodes. “It’s over for Helaena and Jaehaerys and Maelor, it’s over for Otto and Everett, it’s over for Sunfyre, we keep losing people and it’s all your fault! You started this war and you’re too much of a goddamn coward to end it!”

“He will end it,” Alys says in that deep placid voice like dusk, dawn, midnight.

“Don’t try that bullshit with me! I don’t want to hear about your delusions, I want him to do his goddamn job! I want him to act like the hero he’s been begging to be seen as since he was five years old! You know why no one wants to write books about him or carve his face into statues? Because he doesn’t fucking deserve it!”

“I’m sorry,” Aemond whispers, his mouth trembling.

“You should be!” Aegon hemorrhages, and then collapses to the floor, moaning with his face in his hands.

You go to him, try to soothe him, grab the wine cup from the floor and fill it with milk of the poppy, tilt it against Aegon’s lips. He gulps the numbness down with helpless, hated need. Aemond and Alys flee for the doorway.

Aegon says, suddenly more calm: “Aemond, wait.”

The prince regent stills and turns back, listening. Aegon, with great difficulty, begins to say something in High Valyrian. Aemond cuts him off. “No, that won’t happen—”

“Please,” Aegon rasps. “Listen to me.” Then he continues. And as he speaks, Aemond’s eye fills with tears, a glistening like ice over lakes in the winter, like gemstones in a crown. You look between them, searching for any clues you can read.

“I understand,” Aemond says at last.

“Good. Now get out.”

Aemond wipes his face with his sleeve and then disappears from the room. You tell Aegon as you rise to your feet: “I’ll be right back.”

Aemond is moving quickly; you don’t catch up with him until he’s passed through the castle entranceway. Down by the ocean waves beneath a blood-red sunset, Vhagar is already landing, leaving cataclysmic imprints in the sand with her claws, trenches and impact craters. From the edge of the beach, Sunfyre watches with dull, wounded interest. Alys is halfway down the staircase. Aemond stops when he hears your footsteps, waiting under the rising full moon and materializing constellations.

You demand: “What did he say to you?”

“Nothing.”

“Aemond.”

“He’s confused, he’s exhausted, he’s in pain. He doesn’t understand—”

“Aemond, what did he say?”

The prince regent sighs and looks at you. “He said he doesn’t think he’s going to get better this time.”

I can’t believe that. I can’t survive that. “Why did you have to do it?” Your voice splinters; your throat burns. “He’s right that you started this war. You’re the reason Rhaenyra will never negotiate. You’re the one who made this horror inevitable. Why did you have to kill Luke?”

The dusk is radiant on Aemond’s face like firelight. It is a long time before he speaks. “I never intended to.”

That doesn’t make any sense. “What?”

“I never gave Vhagar the order. She went after Arrax. I tried to stop her.”

It wasn’t murder. It was an accident. And you think of all the times people have told Aemond that everything that’s happened is his fault, and how he has never disagreed with them. “Who knows?”

“You. Alys.”

“No one else?”

“Who would believe me?” Aemond smiles faintly, profoundly sad. “And even if they did, would that make me so much more noble than a kinslayer? A Targaryen who can’t control his own dragon? A man who is reckless, ineffective, unworthy?”

Here in air the color of flames and gore, you tell him, perhaps more kindly than he deserves: “You’re worthy, Aemond.”

“I will end this. I will meet Daemon and Caraxes in battle. Alys saw it.”

“Did she see you win?”

“Are you worried about me?” Aemond teases, grinning crookedly. And he does something that he hasn’t tried in a long time. He swipes for your forearm and you snatch it out of the way just before his fingers can close around it, just before he can catch you. Aemond chuckles. “I don’t want you to worry. I’ll win the war for the Greens. We will return to King’s Landing, we will rebuild, Aegon will heal. He will live for a long, long time.”

“Yes,” you say, wanting so desperately to believe it.

“You know,” Aemond adds as it occurs to him. “If the king does happen to predecease you, in ten years or twenty or thirty…and you find yourself unincumbered…Aegon the Conqueror had two wives. Alys would always be first, but…”

“No, Aemond.”

“Fine,” he says, agreeably enough. He smiles down at you. “I will come back to let you know when it’s done. Then I will fly south to join Daeron in annihilating Cregan Stark’s army. And then we’ll all go home.”

Yes, yes, let that be true. “Good luck,” you tell him, soft like a whisper.

“I don’t need it.”

Aemond descends the staircase, climbs up the rope ladder into Vhagar’s saddle, takes flight with Alys into the late-autumn dusk; and you watch them vanish into the crimson horizon until the sky is empty.

[h0lyfrypan]

comforting satoru in the months after the night parade of a hundred demons. you are a former classmate, who graduated alongside satoru and shoko. despite being shot down for months, you persist on trying to comfort him.

mourning, character death, no dialogue, implied satosugu if you squint. ur both not ok. i wrote this because i rely on dialogue too much. it's super short!

Satoru had changed—there was no doubt. After the Night Parade of a Hundred Demons, something inside him broke for good. Both of you had quietly hoped Suguru would return, that somehow he could avoid punishment. That day never came, despite years of waiting, and now it never would.

You vividly recall the day your cell phone rang, breaking Satoru's usual pattern of self-reliance. He was a natural at almost everything he tried (it seriously was a piss off), but on the other end of the line was a broken man. He didn’t need to voice the words; you had an innate understanding. It was always that way between you two. You knew Suguru was gone.

Satoru Gojo had a knack for keeping people at arm's length. He was 'the Strongest,' and he didn't appreciate how you could always sense when something troubled him. Your eyes softened when you were alone, the subtle checks to ensure he ate, and your consistent efforts to reach out—through letters, texts, or in person. You knew his Infinity would hinder you, but you persisted. With every brick he placed to build up his walls, you were on the other side with your own set of tools; a determined demolitionist.

The period after was a blur. Was it days? Weeks? Months? Time seemed meaningless as you sat in the morgue with Shoko, the only other person who truly comprehended what Satoru might be going through—but she was mourning, too. After all, you were once classmates and friends. The way she chain-smoked in silence, her lack of words mirrored yours. Occasionally, Satoru joined you both, but he and Shoko only discussed business. He didn't engage with you- and Shoko just wasn't as emotionally attuned as you, and that was okay, you’d never hold that against her. Everyone plays different roles in this world.

It was a while before you truly heard from Satoru again. He had a way of presenting himself as fine, radiating happiness—especially in front of his students. He engaged with them, laughed, stirred up mischief, yet emotionally, he maintained a distance. It concerned you that no one else seemed motivated to try and reach him. Perhaps they weren't as naive as you, believing they could break through. His request for you to watch his house for a few days puzzled you. It seemed unnecessary; surely he could afford to hire someone. Nonetheless, you agreed.

His apartment was cold, barebones, and modern. It suited him—a man rarely at home. Just a space for sleep when he wasn't teaching or battling curses across the country. Old clothing lay strewn about, a few dishes scattered. The ambiance felt solitary. You wondered: was he truly living, or merely existing?

Hours passed, time an elusive, unreachable concept lately. Being here for a few days justified sorting his clothes into the hamper and doing some dishes. There was nothing better to occupy your time, and he might appreciate the gesture. While rinsing cups in hot, soapy water, your mind wandered. Perhaps if you'd been closer to Suguru, you might know how to help Satoru now. Maybe Suguru could have shared the secret, but likely there was none. Suguru wasn't you, and you weren't him. Their bond was special, something you couldn't grasp. That wasn't necessarily bad, though it felt so—Ouch! Your hand under the scalding water snapped you out of that train of thought (maybe for the best).

Cold water relieved the small burn. You searched for bandages around the apartment, not eager to rummage but forced by the forming blister on your finger. As you explored cupboards and shelves, thoughts circled back to Satoru. While tending to your wound on the couch, a question arose: did Satoru always feel this way? When 'the Strongest' is down, who's there to pick him up?

Grieving for Suguru lately made you furious. Did Suguru not comprehend Satoru's willingness to let him return? That Satoru would have done anything to anyone to ensure his safe return to Jujutsu Society?  Suguru's flawed philosophies often left you contemplating and upset. Blaming a dead man for everything was too easy, but unjust.

Surveying the showroom-like apartment, your frustration grew and you teared up. You weren't Suguru, you weren’t strong– but maybe you were strong enough to lift Satoru—if only he allowed it.

Satoru had convinced himself there was no one else. Back in high school, he accepted it. There would never be anyone like Suguru Geto—no one coming close to understanding the weight he bore. To be a weapon before a human, a tool with a face, a means to an end. Yet, you persisted. He detested (perhaps a strong word) how you saw through him, how deeply you cared.

In truth, he wanted that. He just wished it didn't feel so vulnerable. He wasn't meant to be vulnerable—or that's what he felt. He appreciated every ignored text, every rejected hug, every lunch left on his desk at Jujutsu Tech, but fear overwhelmed him. How did you see through him so effortlessly? How could he be sure you wouldn’t leave?

He resented himself for not letting you in. He wanted to, truly, but the walls he built didn't just bar others out; they trapped him too. Coming home to find you asleep on the couch, curled up, blanketless and tear-stained, changed something. Maybe it was your unintended display of vulnerability, the secluded setting, or his own exhaustion. The reason mattered little.

With care to be quiet, he slipped into his bedroom, retrieving the comforter from his bed—the sole blanket in the apartment—and gently draped it over your sleeping figure. Kneeling by your side, he gently wiped away the tear stains from your cheek. It had been a long time since he allowed himself to touch you, or anyone for that matter. His breath caught when you stirred, your eyes meeting his. For once, you were unobstructed by any blindfold or infinity.

Without hesitation, you shifted from the cushion, pulling him into your arms, guiding his head to rest against your neck. He loathed this—knowing you understood his unspoken desires, yet grateful he didn't have to verbalize them. This vulnerability was taxing enough. He reciprocated, wrapping his arms around you.

And then, he cried.

It felt awful, comforting, almost amusing. Only a few silent tears fell before he composed himself, easing into your embrace as best he could from their awkward position. He almost chuckled at himself—for all the fear he harbored about opening up, finding such reassurance in your arms made it seem absurd. Shifting slightly, he settled back on the couch, intertwining both of your limbs and enveloping both of you in the blanket.

As you moved to speak, he gently hushed you with a finger to your lips. You understood, as you always did—this wasn't something he wanted acknowledged aloud. Bodies pressed together, his head nestled against your chest, holding onto you so tightly it felt as though you might meld into one. He was utterly exhausted.

Time remained elusive, now for a different reason. Your fingers combing through his soft hair, the sweet scent of his shampoo lingering in the air. The rhythm of your breathing and heartbeats creates a tempo for this rare and peculiar intimacy. For the first time in ages, perhaps since high school, Satoru didn't feel like 'the Strongest’. He felt painfully human, finding safety in your embrace.

This apartment, that was never quite a home, suddenly felt like one in your arms.

[clangenrising]

Month 15 - Newleaf

“You’re sure about this?” asked Branchbark. 

“Yep.” 

Goldenstar nodded and tried to convince herself that she was entirely certain. Over the last week, she had met with the other leaders to organize a plan for the upcoming battle. They’d found a good spot in EarthClan’s territory for the meeting to occur. They’d plotted out hiding spots for all of their warriors and planned to accommodate whichever way the wind was blowing. Finally, the only thing left to do was to extend an invitation to Razor. 

It had been a difficult decision as to who she would bring with her. Obviously, she had to go personally. She had nine lives. If anyone was going to put themself in danger, it was going to be her. But going alone was ill advised. Sagetooth had returned from the most recent healers’ meeting with the guidance that she needed to take two cats with her if she wanted to succeed. She had been struggling to think of who it would be for a while now. 

Scorch and Aldertail were immediately disqualified from going back to the city. Bringing a healer wasn’t a good idea either given their lack of combat experience and she wasn’t willing to bring any of the apprentices either. Russetfrond was out too. If she disappeared the Clan needed a clear leader. So that had left her with Yarrowshade, Pantherhaze, Ospreymask, and Branchbark. Eventually, she had eliminated Ospreymask since the battle of the snowstorm had put a target on her back and she had decided against Pantherhaze to make sure Slatepaw didn’t lose another cat close to her.

She still wasn’t sure this was the right move. She wished that StarClan had been clearer about their instructions. She wished Scorchplume could come with her and give her advice. Still, this wasn’t the time to be indecisive. She straightened her posture and focused on the cats who were going to accompany her. 

“I need to bring two cats and it’s got to be you two,” she said. 

“Alright,” Branchbark said, sounding unconvinced but willing to take her choice on faith. 

“Thanks, Goldie,” Yarrowshade said. “It means a lot.” 

“Now remember what we discussed,” said Scorchplume, perched nearby. “Don’t show weakness but don’t be aggressive. Never let them corner you. When all else fails, fall back on superstition as your excuse.” 

“I know,” Goldenstar said with a smile. “I’ll be careful and come right back.” 

“You’d better,” Scorch snapped. “If you don't, I'm leaving Fogpaw without a mentor.” Goldenstar heard the worry under her playful threat and leaned in to rub her cheek against Scorch’s.

“Don’t worry,” she whispered. “This will be over before you know it.” 

After a beat of hesitation, Scorch returned the gesture, purring softly. “That’s what I’m afraid of.” 

Goldenstar frowned ever so slightly but Scorch didn’t elaborate. Sighing, she turned her mind to business. The small group said their goodbyes and the Clan wished them good luck and they set off towards the city. They traveled mostly in silence which left Goldenstar with way too much time to think about how things could go wrong. 

What if they arrived and the city cats just didn’t let her leave? What if they were attacked on sight? What if Razor didn’t agree to a meeting? Scorch had of course guided her on how to avoid most of those problems. They weren’t going too close, staying where they could easily make a break for the territories. They were going to approach slowly and with friendly posture to avoid any unnecessary hostility. She was going to stress that she wanted to meet with Razor one on one to try and find peace. Things were planned out. So why was she so worried? 

They crossed the thunderpath as the sun neared its peak in the sky, the acrid stone blistering hot under their paws, and continued until a twoleg nest drew close in the field. Following Scorchplume’s instructions, they gave the nest a wide berth and settled into a path on the other side of a long thunderpath made of gravel. They padded along it until they started to smell cats on the wind.

“Getting close,” Yarrowshade mumbled, mouth open to the scent. 

“Alright,” Goldenstar nodded, confirming the smell for herself. “Remember, I’ll do the talking, just stand behind me and look strong but not aggressive, alright?” 

“Easier said than done,” Branchbark swallowed. 

“It’ll be alright,” Goldenstar said. “StarClan is with us.” She hoped they were, at least. 

After a bit more walking, they spotted a pair of cats strolling towards them on the other side of the thunderpath. Goldenstar raised her tail and started across after quickly checking to make sure there weren’t any monsters bearing down on them. The pair of cats stopped in their tracks and started whispering to each other while watching the Clan cats approach. 

“Hello there!” Goldenstar called in a way she hoped was regal. “I am Goldenstar, leader of the wild Clans. I’m looking to speak with a member of the Exalted.” She stopped a fox length away from them, Yarrowshade and Branchbark close behind her. She had to force herself not to look back at them to make sure they were sufficiently imposing. 

The cats before her were a pair of toms, both of them wearing collars with little charms on them. One was a ginger tabby with green eyes and a dark scowl on his face. He almost reminded her of Russetfrond except for the genuine malice in his eyes. The other was a brown tabby with a mask around his green-yellow eyes and a slim face. If Goldenstar didn’t know better, she would have thought he had been born a she-cat. 

The ginger tabby said, “Well, you’ve found some.” Yarrowshade bristled next to her.

The brown tabby cleared his throat and said, “Forgive my companion’s rudeness. It is an honor to speak with the illustrious Goldenstar face to face. How can we help you?” 

“I’ve come to deliver a message for Razor,” Goldenstar said. 

“Is that so?” the ginger tom shifted his posture by way of a threat. He opened his mouth to drink in their scents, looking down his muzzle at them. 

“Yes,” Goldenstar said, holding firm despite the nervous wriggling of her stomach. “I wish to discuss peace with him. In four days, at dawn, I will meet him in our woods in a place that is sacred to our people so that we can negotiate with the full support of our ancestors. He may bring a second but otherwise come alone. I will do the same.” The ginger tabby was glaring at her with eyes shrunken to slits. The brown tabby was barely restraining the look of elation on his face. 

“What a gracious invitation,” he purred. “I will go and convey the message to Razor at once. Uh, when the time comes, how will he know the spot to meet you?” 

“Cross the thunderpath where the pine tree's roots disturb the stones and head straight north from there,” she said, just like they had decided. “I’ll have my second wait on the edge of the forest to escort him.” 

“The thunderpath,” the little tom mused. “That’s the big stone path dividing our two lands, yes?” 

“Correct,” Goldenstar smiled. “I believe you call it a road?”

“We do indeed,” said the tom. “I will tell Razor at once. He will be most eager to meet you in four days time.” 

“Good,” purred Goldenstar, letting out a sigh of relief. “I look forward to it.” With that, she turned around and walked back across the gravel pathway, trying to convey confidence with every stride. She resisted the urge to look back but it seemed the others were not so strong. 

“They’re heading back to the city,” said Branchbark.

“Good,” Goldenstar said again. “I think they took the bait.” 

“I don’t like that tom,” Yarrowshade growled. “Something about him just… isn’t right.” Goldenstar twitched one ear in agreement.

“Do you think StarClan told us to bring three cats so they would be outnumbered?” Branchbark asked aloud. “Would they have attacked us if there were only two?”

Goldenstar looked over at him in surprise. “Maybe? I hadn’t even thought about that.” They had been so polite. It was baffling to think that one cat had made the difference.

“I wouldn’t put it past them,” Yarrowshade growled darkly. “Foxhearts, the lot of them.” 

Goldenstar shook her fur to dislodge the creeping unease settling into it. “Well, thank StarClan that’s done. Now we just have to win the battle.” 

“We will,” Branchbark said with surety. Goldenstar smiled and wished desperately that she had that unshakeable faith within her.

[gladiatorcunt]

RASPBERRY - CORIOLANUS SNOW

summary: the apparent end of an era

cw: implication of infant death, canon typical violence and canon major character death (if that’s how you read it), unnecessary oc children (mention of pregnancy), reader’s in lucy grays place (chosen to be in the games and etc. not as a substitute for coryo) but if she went back to capitol with him, old man snow loses his marbles, open to interpretation ending, canon typical district citizens slander (and katniss slander but it’s snow’s pov), og timeline reader in this story died in between thg and catching fire, treating this as dark content due to vagueness regarding how willing the reader is

wc: 1.3k

requests are open (read the rules first <3)

block & move on if uncomfortable

do not repost or translate!!

“Boys, workin' on empty

Is that the kinda way to face the burning heat?

I just think about my baby

I'm so full of love I could barely eat

There's nothing sweeter than my baby

I'd never want once from the cherry tree

'Cause my baby's sweet as can be

She give me toothaches just from kissin' me.”

- Work Song // Hozier

Caecilia Snow can hardly stomach what she is about to witness. Her oldest sister, Iovita, stands stoned faced behind her. One of her svelte hands clasped around her left shoulder. A mask, she’s sure. Vita always did have troubles with expressing her emotions. The middle sister, Agrippina, is a complicated mix of both. Her hand is warmer on Caecilia’s right shoulder, but the blisters make it uncomfortable. Cato, the steadfast and tough oldest son, does not look at all. One can only wonder how he felt about that tribute from two, poor souls. Little Ignacius (she will always see him as such even though he's grown a head taller than her) brow is furrowed so terribly, she fears it might get stuck.

And strange Silvanus, the second son, he isn’t even on the balcony with his beloved siblings. Perhaps he is lost in his thoughts again. He wonders now if when his father smells the wood of the gallows, he thinks of a forest out in twelve that he haunted decades ago. The handkercheif he uses to hastily wipe his tears before he can gather the courage to join his family possess drops of blood every time he pulls it away. From his nose or drug up from his lungs, who can say? The wall outside the library his father had made especially for their mother on their wedding anniversary takes several blows from his aching clenched fist. So much blood, like father like son. Silvanus feels comforted by the persistent thought.

Ignacius eyes his brother with open concern as he saunters into view beside him. He barely manages to hide his wobble and his rush to stuff a stained cloth into his pocket does nothing to ease Ignacius’s worries. Silvanus has been one of the more sensitive ones in their parade, though that has never meant that he has not fought for his family. It is because of that that when Silvanus relents to the beseeching stare of his younger brother, Ignacius nods with utmost determination. The second son softens minutely and eventually returns it.

“Snow lands on top.” Six voices whisper in chorus.

Somewhere in an alabaster mausoleum, resides an ornate urn containing what would have been a seventh voice.

At the end of it all, President Coriolanus Snow smiles and he laughs with his entire chest like you’ve told him your funniest joke. Blood pours from his mouth like hot wax. His forked tongue doggy paddles in the little sea of crimson. A weathered hand with hard to spot cracks in the skin and light purple spots clasps itself firmly around the rose pinned to his suit. The wind seems to circle around Coriolanus Snow and he heaves a hearty chuckle when it ruffles through his hair. You’re with him even now as the foundations of your dynasty crumble and scatter over a stormy cliffside. A most welcomed and yearned for torment. His dearest specter.

Finally.

It seems even a Mockingjay’s tiny brain can manage.

It brings to mind the memory of another unfortunate like her. An Angel of Death from 11, tall and hunkered over. A flag being ripped from its rightful place and being pulled over rotting corpses. They were laid so closely together, they might as well have been a pack of sardines. There was ample meaning in his rustic burial, and there were snakes that suffocated it in their multicolored den. A precious rainbow after a great flood.

He’s not the only boy she reminds him of, but he’s unable to recall the second one’s name. A ghost that hovers on the edge of his mind.

Nevermind how useless her brief moment of assumed triumph will be. The games may be locked in a box in the minds of Panem and shoved away so they can be blissfully ignorant, but there will always be those in favor of them. What they represent will remain just as their purpose will prove itself once again when the people are governed by the rabid cannibals that ate them. Dogs can’t be trusted to be left to their own devices and off their leashes. Such deranged creatures were far better suited for being submerged in the violence of their own making.

Panem today. Panem tomorrow. Panem forever.

The soft dulcet tones of silenced voices ring out, something he once knew about a man who murdered three. The white fog fades away and Coriolanus wakes with a muffled shout to find himself in a raggedy bunk in an all too familiar building. his hands tremble but they look no different. with a disbelieving laugh he realizes that nothing has changed yet, that he has been rewarded for decades of dedication and devotion to Panem. That his herculean task others once thought of as sisyphean had been irrevocably realized.

3 daughters, 3 sons. Countless grandchildren. A legacy that will no doubt be remembered no matter the connotations associated with it.

Coryo’s heart is thundering like it did back then on that fateful day, and it does not slow by the time he’s shoved his things into a sack and hidden in the back of a truck. He could sway from the dizziness of deja vu. The truck soon comes to a stop and he clamors out of it, jumping out and racing however many yards he has to until he can spot his heart doing a terrible job of hiding behind a pillar. Anyone with a working set of eyes could discern the scarlet edges of your skirt swishing from side to side. They would have an unchallenging time seeing you suppress the urge to pick at the skin around your nails.

For the first time in over a year, Coriolanus Snow is utterly consumed by the urge to burst into tears. His beautiful beautiful dryad. The blood red dress he had ran himself ragged to buy clung to you like a lover as you twirled around nervously looking for him. Never in his life had a decision been so easy, so with a grateful chuckle and an embarrassingly giddy grin he bounds over to you. The light splintered through the trees nearby, the way it raked through your eyes and made them sparkle brought him fantastic grief. To him, they have never once lost that illustrious shine.

“I thought you’d never show up, Coryo. I was startin’ to worry a bit.”

Your hand feels like a delicious brand when it slips into his, impossibly soft and his cock throbs in his pants at the countless memories it elicits. In an apparent recreation of Pygmalion gazing upon the stone turned flesh form of Galatea, his love spills from him like a reopened wound. his Aphrodite on earth, his goddess with a never-ending number of rose petals in her hair.

“Not even a bullet in my back could keep me from you, dove.”

A garter snake slithers by between the two of you and before you can notice, Coryo swiftly crushes its head under the heel of his boot. The forest is blessedly silent. His world is kept from cleaving in two by the invisible string you’ve looped around his neck.

The putrid smell of the woods around you forces you to attempt to hide yourself gagging behind your hand. His lips twitch but he suppresses the urge to smile in that smug but infuriatingly hot way he knows you secretly love.

You’d better make quick work of getting over the mountains, you’re pregnant after all.

a/n: I’m sick and on bed rest (the cold is kicking my immune system’s ass) so wip progress has stopped but I had this in the drafts. call me Suzanne Collins because I tried with the naming symbolism. Please reblog if you liked it and yell at me about him if you want <3

[novelizt]

THE COMPLICATIONS OF A FAKE ENGAGEMENT 2 ☁︎ ANTHONY LOCKWOOD

⚜ PART ONE

GENRE ➺ fluff

SYNOPSIS ➺ lockwood buys a wedding dress for you and he doesn't explain why.

WARNINGS ➺ verbal fighting and an angry confession

DISCLAIMER ➺ i haven't read the books so the characterization/alignment with the canonical story may not line up, and there's so much cheese i might as well become a fromager.

NOTES ➺ this isn't really a series but i felt like giving them a happy ending at least. shoutout to @simrah1012 who asked for a sequel! thank you for your support!

He reserved the dress. After all that talk of cutting down expenses this month, he had it reserved. That was a check every month you (read: he) couldn't pay for it full-price. There was no room for negotiation when he wore his thinking face. So, you refrained from chewing him out in the presence of Kelly.

Your silence meant a storm was brewing. He knew better than to poke the bear. Honestly, you were just thinking of how to go about it. How to ask him why he chose to reserve the dress rather than discard it.

The reason you were there had been dealt with. You had the evidence linking the boutique to the investigation. Why the expenditure? It was like an itch that wouldn't go away. It bugged you. Guilted you. Kept you up at night for a week straight.

Even now when your eyes are burning into the back of his head, you couldn't put yourself into his headspace and understand why.

"You should consider getting a camera, pictures last longer."

You straighten in your seat, ears burning. The same boyish smile he used to get out of trouble flashes in your direction and that confirms to you that he knows what you're thinking.

"Idiot," you say.

His fingers loosen around his book. "Pardon?"

"Yeah, I'd like to know why Lockwood is an idiot as well," George says, breaking into the conversation, cozying into his chair with a tight-lipped smile.

It wasn't uncommon for you to humble Lockwood. George had turned it into his favorite pass time. Considering the two-person mission last week, he wanted to know what exactly warranted the blistering insult.

Sensing his anticipation, Lucy grew curious. She lays her magazine on her lap and fixes her sit. "I'd like to know, too."

"Bit unfair, isn't it?" Lockwood says dryly.

"It's private," you say. The defining tilt of your head and the scrunch of your brows made George and Lucy attentive enough. "You two mind? We'll see you for dinner."

"'Course," George chirps. He shoved his papers under his armpit and headed for the door. Lucy followed begrudgingly. George waves over his shoulder before closing it. "Don't kill him, y/n. Or do. Whichever you feel."

"See you at dinner!" Lucy adds before the click of the lock confirms that you had gotten the privacy you asked for.

You round on Lockwood to find that he was setting up to leave too.

"Client asked–"

"You can respond later," you dismiss.

He presses his lips together, likely coming up with another bollucks excuse to make an exit. But he also knows you, and he knows there is no leaving. So, he comes up with an alternate route;

"y/n," he says, tone on the brink of scolding you.

It doesn't work. Evidently.

You scoff, folding your arms. "You don't get to talk to me like that. Why did you reserve the dress? That was completely unnecessary-"

"No, it wasn't."

"Yes, it was!" You pinch your jacket to keep your tone from escalating any further. You wanted to fight. You wanted to fight with him, not against him, but your confusion had boiled to anger and frustration. "We're neck deep in debt and that dress will cost a fortune to pay for and- and-" you lost your voice for a moment. "And it's not like I'll be marrying anyone."

"You will," he says with certainty. "And you'll make someone very happy, y/n."

"But not now! Not at a time like this, Lockwood. Paying for it is more of a burden-"

"Not when it comes to you."

You lunge forward, fisting the his shirt with an intensity that turns your knuckles white. "Will you listen to yourself? Why would you even think of doing that?"

His hand lands on top of yours, gentle and kind. He was warmer than you, always has been. But there's something new in the way he squeezes your hands. He doesn't take your hands off him, simply letting his rest on top of yours. "We take care of each other." He says it like you don't know it already.

"We always do," you agree, lapsing into a calmer tone. It doesn't take away from the guilt eating at you. "But we could have used that money for the house. Or George. Or Lucy." For family, in essence.

His lips tip up, very slight and with a feel of melancholy. "But we don't always know what's going to happen. I could disappear tomorrow–"

"I won't allow that."

He chuckles, brightening at your defiance. "What I mean to say is," his other hands drifts to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. After that, his hand stops under your ear, resting against your jaw. "Getting you that dress is a heartfelt favor if the worst comes to pass. I still want to be a part of an important day of your life." His voice quivers ever so slightly. Lockwood tried to mask it was a cough but you had already heard, and you weren't blind, you know that look. "This is my way of taking care of you."

Your grip on his shirt loosens, grasping the wrist of the hand touching your face. "I'd rather have you than that overpriced dress."

He offers a lazy smile. "Don't lie. I saw how you were looking at your reflection."

Your hold on his wrist tightens, your frown grows deeper. "How was I looking at my reflection?"

"Like you were seeing a dream come true." Kind of like how he looked at you, if you had taken the time to acknowledge it.

You scoff. "And you were thinking about my wedding day, without you in it?"

"I think of you first. I promised." He knew that wasn't the right answer.

"Unbelievable." You shove him away. Hugging yourself and backing away until your leg hits the edge of a couch. "You talk and take risks as if no one will miss you. If you want to be there for me, take care of yourself so you can actually show up!"

"It's not that easy," he responds, empty hands falling to his side. He even turns away, and his refusal to even face you fans the flames once more. "You..."

"I what?" you take a step closer, daring him to finish what he was saying.

He faces you and you're taken aback by the glint of tears edging his brown eyes. They stick to his lashes, on the edge of falling and staining his cheeks, but he's Lockwood, so he blinks to keep it in. It breaks your heart even more.

"You deserve better," he whispers. Some part wishes you didn't hear, but he knows you did.

He's quiet as your mouth falls open and tears appear in your eyes. His nails dig into his palm to keep himself from sweeping you into his arms; Invisible shackles chain him to his spot, leaving him to watch as you cover your mouth and cry.

Even then, your eyes shine with anger. Your wipe at your cheeks furiously, turning your skin red. "How could you say that?"

"Because it's true." He regains the feeling in his limbs but they feel like jelly as he drunkenly motions the world around you. "Everything in this house is old and outdated and covered in dust! You have suitors that own pristine, marble houses without a speck or memories that make you cry. One day, you could live there instead of here, and you'd be happier because you've always wanted a big, bright house."

Your nails dig into your arms, jaw tight with tension. "This is home, Lockwood! I wouldn't change Portland Row for the biggest castle in England. You would know that if you just asked me." You took a shuddering breath. "And yes, maybe I'd be happy in those houses I talked about when I was seven but I've grown older, just as you have, and I know what really matters to me now. If I wanted those fantasies you expect of me, I would have accepted some richman's proposal. But I didn't, because you scare them away and I know you know I wouldn't have left even if they had asked me. But for the sake of it, I need to ask; If you wanted to send me away so badly, why haven't you?"

"Are you blind?" He shakes his head in disbelief. After all that, he has to spell it out for you. "Because I love you!"

For ten seconds, all you can hear is your breathing. The climb of emotions coming to a crescendo as you walk to him. He meets you in the middle and your arms come around him; his come around you, and finally, you kiss.

When you break for air, he holds fast to you. His forehead on yours like parting would hurt. "I don't want to lose you," he confesses, his eyes staying closed. "And I thought it would be easier for you if I wasn't in the picture–"

"I want you there," you say pointedly. Like your statement could beat away the rest of the doubt swirling in his head. "I want you. I want you and me, together. I don't want to lose you just as much as you don't want to lose me."

He pulls you closer, until you can feel his heart beat in sync with yours. "I love you." He says, and it sets him free. "You're my best friend."

"Always have been, always will be." That's a promise you press onto his lips. You bring his hand to your lips and place a kiss on his bruised knuckle.

He smiles for real and you can't help but copy. "I'm supposed to do that," he complains.

"Too slow," you laugh. You brush your nose against his and feel his hand settle on the small of your back. "I love you."

He laughs and it tickles your lips.

"Pinch me, I'm dreaming." You oblige and he yelps. "Not literally, y/n."

"No pet name?"

"No. I like your name."

"Yeah?"

He ghosts his lips over yours, unable to stop smiling. "Yeah. However," he switches to that tone that makes you want to strangle him sometimes. "We have got to tackle the issue of your last name. It doesn't go that well with your first."

"How do you propose we fix that?" Both your arms drape over his shoulder, playing with the overgrown hair at his nape.

"Well, I'll attend your wedding and we get it changed."

"Changed to what?" You tilt your head and laugh when he angles his to chase you.

"Mine, of course," he proclaims proudly. His smile is so wide you notice the blush on his cheeks now, it makes you weak in the knees.

Still, you can't help but tease. "That would be confusing for Lucy and George though. We'd both be turning our heads when they say 'Lockwood'."

"Now that problem is one I dream of coming true."

He steals a yelp from you as he dips you, enjoying how you cling to his shoulders before he lowers his head and finally catches your lips.

—

"Cheesy," George shudders. He and Lucy had heard the loudest parts of the argument from the kitchen, including Lockwood's long awaited confession.

"I find it sweet," Lucy shrugs, turning a page of her magazine. "But then I remember it's Lockwood and y/n and cringe as well."

"Oh, Luce, I haven't even considered that they'd get even worse."

"What do you mean?"

George points his wooden spoon at Lucy. "If the pair or them pining was bad enough, we have to see them–" he gulps, like the idea was scarier than the Red Room. "–be in love."

Both shuddered.

🦋 ⌠ @novelizt 2023 ⌡

[coolclassicmusicbookcollector]

Arcane Artbook Raffle Zaundad Work

@zaundads

Notes: I fell down the Arcane Rabbit Hole. This is more of rewrite/add-on of the Vander Flashback scene in Season 2 ep. Blisters and Bedrock. I wanted to add more Silco and Power/Jinx parallels as well as Jayvik Partnership. I also want to add more to middle of it but then it would get way too long to post. I'll post the link with extra - but unnecessary - content later if curious.

In the warm, cheery quiet of the Last Drop, the day's weariness melted away with each hearty laugh and clink of glasses. Behind the bar, Vander finished topping off Huck's drink with practiced ease and a warm smile, then set about cleaning the bar with a rag. His movements were smooth and familiar, a comforting routine in the midst of the evening's bustle. Vander couldn't help the burst of pride he felt looking over the bar—the community—they had built together. A thriving, safe place in the Undercity, free of threats or violence, where everyone could relax and enjoy each other's company.

'Well, almost everyone,' Vander thought with exasperated fondness. As usual, Silco was seated at the bar, scribbling in his notebook, his sharp eyes completely focused on his writing.

Vander's head perks up as the jukebox plays a familiar tune.

'There's a girl in town and word's gone around she's just fine'

Felicia looks over with a smirk, then dances her way over to the bar with fellow Zaunites hooting and calling after her.

“What’s the occasion?” Vander asks, already getting several glasses out.

“Hmm, can’t a lady just be in the mood for a familiar song?” she replies with a chuckle as the mood goes back quiet.

“Haha, not this lady, and not this song,” Vander teases, grinning while filling the glasses.

“Tonight a harebrained scheme these two bozos cooked up to turn a dank crack in the earth into a thriving, healthy community becomes a reality,” Felicia toasts, raising her glass.

“Tonight, eh? You hear that, Bozo #2? We made it. We're done,” Vander says, looking towards Silco.

“Oh, you’re sadly mistaken," Silco counters with an air of solemn gravity, finally looking up from his journal. "I’m Bozo #1.” He smirks, eliciting laughter from Felicia.

“A night of revelations,” Vander jokes.

Felicia takes a deep breath. “I’m knocked up."

Vander and Silco's eyes meet, widening with surprise. Without missing a beat, Vander switches Felicia’s glass of wine with a cup of orange juice and a straw, his movements quick and caring.

"A girl.”

“How do you know?” Vander asks.

“Mm. Wasn’t really part of my plan, but guess that’s everything when you’re living week to week,” Felicia explains as Silco closes his journal.

"What did Connol say?"

Felicia looks over her shoulder to where Connol is sitting with the other miners. “I haven’t told him." She looks back to Vander, holding onto her arms. "Working up the nerve. I don’t know anything about kids. I get sweaty being alone with one.”

“Hey, you’re gonna be a great mother,” Vander reassures her.

“Shut up. I’m not ready for that,” Felicia retorts, shaking her head. “I started trying to come up with a name, and it hits me that this one word is a decision she’s gonna live with her whole life. I can’t protect her from all the shit down here and work out how to be a parent at the same time." Silco glances towards Vander. Felicia always has this energy, a spark that is usually snuffed out in the Undercity. To see her so scared is worrying.

Finally, the fear and vulnerability slide away as she smirks at the two of them. "Then I realize, I don’t have to.”

“Hmm? Why’s that?” Vander asks, his curiosity piqued.

“Because the second I tell you, I put you on the hook,” Felicia says with a chuckle. “You two are gonna figure this Zaun thing out. I don’t care if you have to carve it out of the bedrock, covered in blisters. You’re not allowed to fail anymore. For her. For me."

Vander and Silco exchange a determined glance.

"What’s the point if we can’t raise an ankle biter or two?” Vander retorts.

Silco raises his glass. “To Zaun, then. Blisters and bedrock”

“Blisters and bedrock,” Vander echoes, clinking his glass against Silco's.

“Blisters and bedrock,” Felicia echoes with a smile.

“I’ve always liked the name Violet,” Vander suggests gently with a smile as he finishes his drink. "Now go tell Connol and if he reacts with anything but support tell me, and I'll have a nice chat with him after I grab my gauntlets."

Felicia smirks before making her way back over to the table, her cup of orange juice in hand. Connol greets her with a smile then shoots her a puzzled look after seeing her drink.

Silco and Vander watch with amusement as Connol's eyes widen, his expression shifting from confusion to joy. He jumps up, pulling Felicia into a tight hug before lifting her off the ground and twirling her around.

The commotion catches the attention of the other patrons, cheers and congratulations filling the room as people gather around the couple, patting Connol on the back and offering Felicia warm smiles and words of encouragement.

"Hmm, well what do you know. Fable-tales do exist in the Undercity," Silco comments with false sardonicity. He's just doing it to get a rise out of Vander. His tongue is already on the tip of his mouth, ready to respond to Vander's 'you pointy bastard'—the only person he would allow to say those words to him, the only person who could say that without scorn, voice dripping with warmth, turning what should be an insult into the highest of praise.

"Yeah, it's great, isn't it?" Vander's voice has a dreamy, almost wistful edge.

He looks at Felicia and Connol, their faces practically shining with happiness—a rare sight in the lines that wasn't preceded by drugs or alcohol. Sadly, it is an even rarer sight when the news before it concerns a child. But they are genuinely happy about the news—scared as even topsiders would be about raising a life, but happy. Because there's a community now, and that has created something that hadn't existed before: hope. Hope for a better future for themselves and their kids. Janna, the idea of everyone in the lanes—no, the Undercity—reacting with happiness at the thought of the future instead of melancholy or despair is more intoxicating than any alcohol or drug.

So caught up in his aspirations, Vander doesn't see Silco's smirk drop or the flash of fear in his eyes. The words of Felicia echo in his mind. She had been an integral part of their dream, always by their side, until she met Connol. Now, she had to focus on her child, not Zaun. The fear of abandonment clawed at Silco's chest. He takes a deep breath and tries to unclench his fingers from around the glass.

"Oh, is the great Hound of the Undercity looking for his own fable-tale with pups?" Silco pokes with a smirk too full of teeth.

Vander's head tilts back as he lets out a full belly laugh, "Haha, no way Sil. I am too busy looking after the Lanes. Besides, I am not the settling down kinda guy, you know this. I mean, yeah I'll look out for Felicia's ankle-bitter but I am not having one of my own, or making a family."

Vander's eyes are full of mirth, but sincerity when he leans toward Silco. "You heard Felicia Bozo #1, it's just gonna be you and me figuring out how to make Zaun a reality. You and Zaun are my family. And that's never gonna change."

Silco feels a warmth spread through his chest, the gnaw in chest whispering "dirty little thing" finally easing. He leans in looking up at Vander, finally, a genuine smile on his face.

Together they look over the Last Drop. Vander sees the place bustling with life, filled with the familiar faces of friends and family. He sees the camaraderie, the laughter, and the genuine connections forming. He watches his fellow brothers and sisters in the Undercity laugh together, share stories, and ease each other's burdens. It fills him with pride to see the dream he and Silco have nurtured becoming a reality.

But Silco's eyes are drawn to the shadows lurking in the corners. He sees the dirt and the grime that cling stubbornly to the walls. His gaze settles on a minor savoring her drink, knowing it will be her last until the next payday. He watches as another licks his bowl clean, unable to waste even a single crumb. The clothes people wear are threadbare, patched over and over, handed down from one person to the next. To Silco, the struggle is palpable, a stark reminder of the harsh realities they face. Despite the lively atmosphere, all he can see are the cracks and the flaws that mar their existence.

Two men in a bar look over their people, and together they share a vision of the future they will create—a nation united as one. They see only the similarities and potential good they could create. At that moment, they are blissfully unaware of how the differences in their vision will make this future unattainable. How they will lose themselves, lose their dream—how, in the pursuit of great, they will fail to do good. But that is in the future. For now, they can dream and believe the future will be bright.

[shrenvents]

Miracle Aligner

Alex Turner Series

Series Masterlist

Summary: Who knew Alex Turner, frontman to one of the greatest bands of this generation had the worst luck in love. As a romantic who's quite familiar with heartbreak, Turner's grown sick of looking for a spark that will eventually burn him. So, while visiting a local pub, how was he supposed to know that a drunken Tuesday night, would change his sombre tune forever?

Inspired by the album Everything You've Come To Expect. Mature content (sexual acts, language) Original character.

Chapter one:

Aviation

Toronto, November 15, 2015

5:57 pm

Alex's POV

"That's enough Turner!" Zach yells over the various clamouring instruments. "You've been working on these songs for weeks and this was the best you got mate?" Jaime continues with a snort. "Yeah?" I huff, rolling my eyes.

Jaime and Zach exchange a knowing look before Zach pipes up again. "You know what Al? Why don't you call it a night, maybe go out, meet a few girls, have fun." He then glances to my right. "Miles you stay and finish your set."

"What's this?" I jest, bewildered by my bandmates.

"Sorry Al, the songs you've been writing these days just aren't the Shadow Puppets brand," Jaime trails off, looking more empathetic than his counterpart. My brows crease further into my eyelids and I dully unclasp the guitar strap from my shoulder. "My songs don't fit the 'brand' of my band?" I glare at them in disbelief as the two share another look.

"Sorry Al, but your material has been all doom and gloom these days." Miles now exclaims while avoiding my troubled expression. He pauses before continuing. "Your greatest hits are love songs, passionate shite." Miles's eyes then connect with my own, and I finally understand what he's implying. "It's been a while mate." His last statement was the final blow.

That's right, I haven't been with anyone for months, romantically, physically, and everybody knows it. These days I just find romance to be tiresome. Even a shag doesn't seem to excite me much anymore. I've simply gone mad, that's what it is.

Though they seem to have me all figured out, I refuse to give in to their remarks. "You lot have lost it. I'll come back when you've come to your senses!" I bark out while snatching up my guitar and jacket. The boy's faint snickers fill the room as I take off towards the door. "Aw c'mon, Al!" Jaime carries out, stifling his laughter. I slam the door behind me with unnecessary force, utterly infuriated.

Instantly after leaving the studio, I feel the blistering Canadian winter encase my narrow frame. "Bugger," I snit before whipping out my phone, in hopes an Uber would usher me away from this frost. To my dismay, because of the excessive snowfall, transport was either delayed or unavailable, and I had no interest in sticking around roadside. So, I switched to searching for a local pub, racing out of the cold.

...

After a numbing 10-minute journey, I reached a pub called Les Cactus and ripped open its wooden entrance, embracing its heat. Whilst I take a seat on the nearest bar stool, a flash of red catches the corner of my eyes. A waitress with her back turned serves drinks to a group of men who gawk at her with an unreserved fancy. Momentarily, I admire her long, fiery hair that flows down her fit backside. Fortunately, the incoming bartender removes me from my fairly pervy thoughts. "What can I get for ya buddy?" The bartender ranks down my features, odd excitement filling his own. "You got any Bulleit?" He smirks.

"Sure thing." He spins away from me, before quickly rotating back and whispering for my ears only, "Big fan by the way." I smile politely with a nod as he disappears into the bar to prepare my drink. My gaze returns to the space where the redhead once stood, which is now vacant. "Here ya go. Let me know if you need anything else!" The bartender ponders shortly before speaking, "My name's Mickey by the way." He places my bourbon down with an oddly suggestive wink.

8:24 pm

"Maybe consider spacing out your next drink Alex. I get you're a millionaire and money ain't a thing," Mickey bobs his head, taking note of appearance, "but you're kinda overdoing it buddy," he finishes. I scoff at his smirk and slap a bill on the countertop. "Another." My face and tone drop in an attempt to be taken seriously, but my drunken command doesn't detour Mickey's delight.

"You're the boss."

"Uh-uh, that's at least his sixth drink this hour M." An unfamiliar feminine voice pitches in. It's husky and demanding, and so, I intend to listen. Curiously turning to look, my vision is consumed by that recognizable carrot-like head. If I was captivated before seeing her face, I was surely a goner now.

Mickey ceases his actions while she stares between us with scrutiny. I'm gobsmacked and she clearly takes my silence as a sort of confirmation. "Right, no more for him. Okay M?" Mickey nods sternly, face falling moderately as her tone leaves no room for opposition. "Alexander!" I practically cry out before Red gets the chance to leave. Smooth Turner.

"Excuse me?"

"I-uh, name's Alex..." Yeah, very smooth.

"Jennie." She states curtly, evidently bemused. She then moves swiftly on her heel towards the kitchen. Straight away I grimace, pulling a hand to my forehead, rubbing its lines harshly. "Not a word." Mickey chuckles quietly and goes back to his work.

9:41 pm

"Still here, Alexander?" My head shoots up, startled by Red. When did I even fall asleep-

"Yes?" She snorts at my jumbled reply.

"Want me to call you a cab? A shrink perhaps?"

"M' sorry?" I question clumsily.

"Oh? I just thought you may need one, after hearing what you told to Mickey." Her sultry voice echoes out her rather devious grin. "God." My eyes widen in horror which aids her impending elation. "What have I said?"

"Nothing really, just that..." She starts counting her digits absentmindedly. "You've got no luck writing your music, no love life. Oh, and you have no sex life!" She proclaims the last part with glee. Jesus, please end this nightmare.

"I did not."

"Did too."

"I've had too much drink."

"Drunken words are sober thoughts." Jennie carries on smiling at my trepidation. Maybe I'd find her charming if her jokes weren't at my expense. "That's it, I'm not tipping." I declare pathetically. Her devilish smirk doesn't falter. "Seriously? Things can't be that bad! Mickey tells me you're actually a successful musician."

"That you've obviously never heard of." I roll my eyes at the absurdity of our conversation. She laughs aloud at my response, which I admit, brought a genuine smile to my face. It really has been a while. Her face then goes blank. "Alexander."

"Alex."

"Alex. You're young." She pauses, her gaze sweeps my shaggy appearance. "Ish"

"Ouch." I flinch jokingly, earning myself another gorgeous laugh and playful swat.

"Hey! And you're good-looking."

"Ish." I interrupt again with a chuckle and her smile grows.

"No!" She more or less shouts, "You have a lot to work with, trust me." Her hands gesture nimbly. "The only thing standing in the way of you getting laid is yourself." A surprise roar of laughter leaves my lips shortly and I shake my head in disbelief.

"You're selling yourself short here Alexander," Red concludes. "Alex-"

"You're wasting your youth-ish," she interrupts me once again and a sliver of silence washes over us. It's as if we're the only ones in this packed pub, eyes locked on one another, communicating beyond words. Her deep hazel orbs focus on my brown ones. "What do you suggest I do then, Jennie?" Lightly raising a brow, my words dare her while her lovely name rolls off my tongue. I can't help but revel in how it sounds. Then something flashes in her fixated stare.

"Let's get out of here."

Chapter two