#vague howling in the distance | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

lauraneedstochill · 1 year ago

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Cry me a river

summary: Aemond finds her wounded and left to die in the middle of nowhere. her desire for vengeance helps her survive — and her unbreakable spirit inevitably draws the prince to her. author’s note: her betrothed does what Daemon did to Rhea... this time, the woman survives 🔪 also, couples who kill together, stay together, I don’t make the rules warnings: archery (described in unprofessional language), slow burn (... and then not so slow), mentions of blood and murder (duh), it gets a bit heated words: ~ 11K song inspo: Tommee Profitt ft. Nicole Serrano — Cry me a river (cinematic cover) 🔥

>>> Aemond is caught in heavy rain midair, in the depths of a starless night. The storm rips through the clouds, and the lightning flickers across the sky that’s bowed over the Vale. He tries to resist the voice of reason that urges him to land, he’s no little boy to be afraid of the whims of nature. But the downpour only grows more ferocious, and the rattling of thunder soon drowns out Vhagar’s displeased roars.

Begrudgingly, Aemond sets his pride aside and peers into the darkness that stretches as far as the eye can see. He can barely make out a vague outline of the mountains but the rocky terrain is a poor resting place, that much he knows. Exasperation slowly claws at him as the wind howls, his clothes drenched and heavy, and the ribbon of moonlight slips away into the gloom.

When his gaze suddenly catches a flicker of light, a faintly lit cave in the distance — Aemond thinks it’s the Gods' mercy as it is. He is yet to find out that the Gods are leading him that way for a reason.

>>> The landing is rough but Aemond holds back complains and runs for cover, breathing a sigh of relief once he gets to the cave. Vhagar curls up in a heap, and her enormous silhouette can easily pass for just another mountain in the valley.

The prince tiredly wipes the raindrops off his face — and only then notices a spot of crimson right under his feet. He recognizes the color of blood in an instant, and the realization fills him with dread. Slowly, he turns around, his eye following the gory trail, his hand reaching for the dagger. But the sight he’s met with leaves him frozen in place.

Aemond is sure he’s never been so stunned and horrified all at once.

At the far end of the cave, a woman is lying next to a waning fire, with her eyes closed and face drained of color. She is dressed in bright red, and the blood on her hands blends into the laced fabric of her long sleeves, and Aemond is struggling to locate the injury that left her unconscious. She looks so helpless, a breath away from irrecoverable, he throws caution to the wind and rushes to her side without much thought.

Aemond kneels, examining her bare and bloodied feet, the torn hem of her dress, the smudges of dirt on it. With timidly blossoming fascination, he takes in the softness of her features stained with tears, green leaves tangled in her hair. Aemond reaches his hand to smooth a strand of it when he sees a splash of red framing the side of her face. His fingers barely graze her temple — and once he sees them stained with red too, his breathing hitches.

He’s no stranger to cuts and bruises but he doesn’t know how to treat a head wound. And his fighting skills won’t be of use against the Stranger.

A feeble voice brings him back to reality:

“I am not dying.”

Startled, Aemond lets his gaze fall on her lips, parted and faintly tinted with pink. Her eyelids flutter before she opens her eyes — they meet his in an instant. The feeling he gets bears no explanation: it’s sudden and overwhelming, raging like a hurricane that hits right at his chest. She doesn’t look away while her hand finds his — his fingers are still in her hair, and he shudders at the touch; her skin is cold but the grip is surprisingly firm.

“I’m not dying tonight,” she repeats, her tone a bit steadier. “I will not give him the satisfaction.”

His brows furrow from the lack of understanding. His body tenses at the very clear hint that he gets.

“Who did this to you?” Aemond asks with concern.

But she already drifts out of consciousness, back to where she can’t hear him. The thunder rolls and the lightning tears the cover of darkness, illuminating uninhabited mountains and valleys. The terrible weather seems like the least of Aemond’s problems.

>>> It rains all night, and the dawn comes shrouded in white mist. He cannot sleep a wink. The woman tosses and mumbles incoherently as her mind lapses back into the grasp of the unknown suffering. Aemond finds the sight so unnerving, it’s almost painful to watch, but he doesn’t take his eye off her.

He keeps the fire burning to help warm her up, ignoring his own discomfort. Not his shivering but hers eventually compels him to peel off his wet outer garment to dry it off faster. He hastens to put the clothes back on but leaves out his coat to cover her with it, black material over red, a night draping over sunset. Hesitantly, he rubs her arms and back, his usually deft fingers now tentative, until he sees the life returning to her cheeks. It puts Aemond’s nerves at ease, and he belatedly realizes how stiff his body has become from hours of sitting in agonizing suspense. And yet, he never leaves her side.

The mountain tops stay hidden by the clouds, the sky coated in gloom the sun can’t peek through, but around midday, she wakes up again. Her eyes dart to Aemond who moved to feed the fire with branches. He doesn’t rush into conversation, giving her a chance to come to her senses. She is looking at him with distrust but without a hint of fear.

“You stayed,” she concludes in a hoarse voice, slightly shifting in place.

“Leaving you all alone didn’t seem fair,” Aemond responds, which only earns a huff from her.

“I am perfectly capable of managing on my own,” she rebuts, trying to prop herself up on elbows — and instantly groans at the ache in her temple.

Aemond comes closer in a blink of an eye, and it’s hard to miss the empathetic look he gives her. He politely stays at arm’s length which she is thankful for.

“Your bleeding stopped but such a serious wound must be examined by a maester,” Aemond tells her peacefully. “How far away is your home? I shall accompany you there once the weather calms down.”

He sees emotion flashing through her face, and for a moment it gets so quiet, he can only hear the rain still drizzling outside the cave.

“I do not have a home,” she forces out, and Aemond is surprised to notice that she doesn’t sound sad. If anything, there is ire in her words. “You shouldn’t bother.”

“I am sure your family is worried by your absence and —”

“My family valued me so little, they got rid of me at the very first chance,” she cuts him off, her voice stern. “So I am not going back to them, I’d rather you leave me here.”

He looks her over — her ruined dress and anguished face, dried-up blood in her disheveled hair. No doubt, she is hurting, and it would be unbecoming of a prince to leave a lady in such dire straits.

“I can do no such thing,” Aemond insists. “You survived a severe injury but whatever discomfort you are now feeling can be eased.”

“Complaining would only make me look pitiful. I need none of that,” she is sitting with her fingers pressed to the aching part of her skull, her brows knitted.

“Only seems reasonable to pity anyone with a ble—”

“Did anyone pity you?” she interjects, looking straight at his eyepatch.

The question is meant to cut him yet it doesn’t — too much time has passed, and his once painful memories are now dust-covered images at the back of his mind. But he finds her intent amusing. Wounded and weak, she is supposed to be at his mercy, but her spirit stays unbendable, and her gaze is so blazing, it’s nothing less of a fire. She keeps her eyes on him, waiting for his reply, confident that she will get it.

“Hardly anyone,” Aemond admits. “But I wasn’t left in a cave to die, so the comparison doesn’t work in your favor.”

He expects her to snap again, he almost wants to have another taste of her insolence — a trait so uncommon among any women he’s met, Aemond deems it not offensive but thrilling. She only hums in response, throwing him a glance, and he sees curiosity shining through her cold stare, like a ray of sun in the storm clouds. Their exchange of pleasantries is cut short by another one of her groans. He is usually patient but the sound of her suffering is a test that he fails.

“You will not get better on your own and you know it,” Aemond tries to reason. “I can take you to the greatest maester there is,” — and his persistence is akin to a plea. He anticipates her fears and allays them before she can utter a word: “You will be free to leave at any moment, you have my word.”

“What’s in it for you?” she narrows her eyes at him, her whole demeanor a clear evidence of her refusal to give in just yet.

Aemond thinks for a moment. The real answer to her question lies on the surface and is as vivid as her dress and as her blood: he knows nothing about her and he wants to know everything. He has trouble not only voicing but coming to terms with his desires.

“I am afraid that guilty conscience will disturb my sleep,” Aemond says, and it’s not entirely untrue. He can already tell he’ll think of her many nights to come.

She looks at him appreciatively, slowly, as if her gaze can cut through the cotton of his shirt, flesh, and bones his body is made of. Whatever is her verdict, he can’t tell because in the next moment, she is stricken with pain again, and talking isn’t of much help.

“We shall leave at dawn,” Aemond recapitulates, helping her lay down to have some rest while he can’t find any.

“Do you happen to have any water?” she mumbles more humbly. He senses that showing weakness doesn’t come easy for her; he’s not the one to gloat at something he can perfectly understand.

“I will fetch you some,” he reassures and pulls his coat over her again — and hurries outside.

The mountain valleys welcome him with stillness, and Vhagar’s eyes are two beacons in the mist. The dragon seems comforted by the rain and pays Aemond no mind as he climbs up to get a flask with water he luckily brought, and some lemon cakes Helaena insisted that he take (“should something happen on the road”, she said; he makes a mental note to thank her later).

They eat in silence — she has no appetite, and Aemond feels food stuck in his throat. She tells him nothing but her name; he savors the sound of it, a weave of letters he can now put to her face. Aemond studies her discreetly and although he can’t read her yet, he puts everything in memory, down to the smallest detail. The slight tilt of her head, the pensiveness of her gaze, a blizzard of feelings trapped in her irises, the stubbornness in her lineaments paired with beauty. The curve of her neck and a thin golden chain around it, her collarbones flowing down in that hollow spot his thumb would fit in... He stops himself from looking further down; his face flushes nonetheless, and something sparks inside him, dangerously unnamed.

The evening approaches stealthily but comes chilly and dank. They go to sleep early, both laid next to the fire, and Aemond courteously keeps his distance. She notices the goosebumps that snake under his shirt; her suspicions are soon confirmed when she catches the sound — and can’t tell if it’s the hammering of rain or his chattering teeth.

She considers him: his sharp profile, tense angles of his jaw, lines of his cheekbones seemingly chiseled by the Gods themselves. With his silver hair and eye the color of wisteria, she expected a different attitude; everyone knows the Targaryens to be self-righteous at best and prideful as a given. But the man next to her is instead stoically enduring the hardship he can easily avoid — if he only rolls closer and allows their bodies to trap the elusive heat; he doesn’t dare to. She realizes he could’ve taken advantage of her if he wanted, but it seems like the thought hasn’t even crossed his mind. She finds it way more endearing than her vigilance would usually let her — the pain must’ve dulled her sanity, she thinks, reminding herself that it’s the sole intent of surviving that should motivate her.

No words will work against his wit so she wastes no time snuggling up to him, with her forehead against his shoulder, her hand resting on his chest as she shares his own coat with him. A quiet gasp escapes Aemond’s mouth, but he stays still.

“I can hear you shivering,” she can feel it now too — his skin trembling under her fingers. “You are risking to catch a cold.”

Aemond is frozen for a minute, his heart thrumming at that unexpected boldness, at the feeling of her — malleable curves and no rigid edges, their ribcages in contact, their thighs brushing. Calming his breathing is an arduous task; he’s used to fighting off opponents but now he’s battling with himself, with the need that’s treacherously strong, almost primal. He barely quells it, and only by some miracle his inhales are soon steady again.

He moves his arm — the one she’s lying on — a little to the side, giving her more space to settle into, tips of his fingers stopping at her lower back. He does feel undoubtedly warmer. Aemond glances down at her, his voice a whisper tinted with mirth:

“Isn’t this called pity?”

He hears a faint cackle. “Call it rationality,” she refutes. “Since we are to leave soon, and only one of us can fly a dragon.”

The words roll off her tongue like it is the most mundane thing, not a century’s worth of power encased under the thick-scaled skin of a creature the size of a castle.

“You do not find the beast scary?” Aemond can’t stop himself from asking.

“Why would I? It is only a dragon,” her voice grows smaller, eyelids become heavier. “Unlike some men, the dragons are at least not known for their ill intentions.”

At that moment, a wish is abruptly made — to find out who harmed her, make sure it happens no more. The fury in Aemond is a mounting force meant to cause destruction, tamed yet never really dormant. But he listens to her breaths and pushes his anger aside, and the full moon is the only witness of his surrender. As he falls asleep, he tries not to think how nice it is to have her body pressed to his.

>>> What he should be thinking of is how to explain all this — him, unwed, bringing a woman to the castle; a scandal, no less. And yet, it is the last thing on his mind. It’s only occupied with this moment he wishes would never end — with gusts of wind tucked under the dragon’s belly, clouds spread out around; and, most importantly, his arms snaked around her waist, her back touching his chest.

It is bittersweet, truth be told because her pain isn’t gone overnight, and he can’t heal her with just his hands and his words. The splotches of dark maroon are even more visible in her hair in daylight, and she winces at loud sounds, at the harsh flow of air that bites her skin while Vhagar soars up, and she has to grab onto Aemond a little tighter.

But soon they reach the clear canvas of the sky, the serene emptiness, and she looks around, taking it all in — and then the corners of her mouth curl up. There are sparkles of delight in her eyes, and still no sign of fear. And he thinks that her smile is the closest thing to the sun.

They cover many miles, crossing the lands as Vhagar bursts through the clouds, and the time allotted to their inadvertent closeness runs out, mercilessly as ever. Once they land and he helps her climb down, his anxiety comes back, like a wave approaching shore. But then a sound of her whimper reaches him, almost inaudible; he only has time to turn around, to see her pained expression. She passes out — he catches her; it’s his heart that falls, and no other thoughts and explanations matter.

When Aemond is seen at the castle, he’s carrying her in his arms, his lips pressed into a thin line, and not a word slips out after he calls for the maester. The prince pays no attention to the guards and the maids exchanging glances, to his mother stopping dead in her tracks upon seeing him, her hand over her heart. There is a question hanging in the air, parting Alicent’s lips, but she doesn’t voice it and only watches her son walk away, hurried and fearful in a way she forgot he was capable of. She struggles to remember when was the last time she saw Aemond in the company of a lady. And if he ever looked at a woman the way he looks at this one.

>>> Aemond is pacing the corridor, his eye on the floor, on the pattern of the stone surface. His mind is treading at the doors that were closed in his face after she was carried into the room. She was breathing still, and that’s what helps him keep it together, his hands clasped so tightly his fingers go numb.

He wonders if maester Mellos has always been so annoyingly slow. That’s the only wondering he can allow — otherwise the noxious thoughts will flood his head: how much blood did she lose before he found her? What if he was the one being too slow? What if —

“Her life is not in danger as she regained her senses” the maester moves with the pace of a cat, his face wearing the same unbothered expression. “The long flight might’ve been tiring for her impressionable female nature.”

That assumption is disregardful and uncalled for — Aemond hates it; still, he’s glad to hear the rest. He lets out a breath that frees his chest from the chains of agitation.

“I will fetch her some herbal ointment to help the cuts and bruises heal faster,” the old man then adds.

Aemond’s expression hardens; clearly, he knows the meaning behind the words but he cannot fathom them. Violet marks of violence blooming on her skin, how could he miss it? How did she get them? He accidentally thinks of it out loud.

“It is a rare luck to get only bruises after taking a fall from a horse,” the maester looks at him askance. He gives his final verdict before leaving, followed by a sigh: “The young lady surely must rest.”

The displeasure is a tiny tongue of flame at Aemond’s ribs. He is vexed by not knowing (nothing new in that, not with his eagerness to learn all and everything ever since he was a kid). Unexpectedly, he is equally vexed by not seeing her — so much so, that he almost reaches for the handle of the door that separates them.

Aemond stops himself, his reticence a fetter but also a necessity: she needs her rest, and he shall leave her be. He will not go beyond the bounds of decency.

She can’t be niched into any bounds, he soon will learn.

>>> Aemond is good at many things but not at waiting, as it turns out. In the morning, after he wakes up, anticipation already laps up in him, his day a blur — breakfast, sword practice, the lines in a book he picks at the library all merge and bore him. He only glimpsed the maids leaving her chambers once; it took all of his willpower to go the other way.

In just three days, his impatience smolders — then flares up, then erupts into a wildfire, his head in a haze that makes him lose focus. The more Aemond tries not to think of her, the harder it gets.

He pushes yet another thought aside as he sees Ser Criston approaching, armed with a longsword and perseverance. Aemond’s training is never a dull routine — the knight makes sure of that and doesn’t make concessions. Their swords lock and clank, and time is a whirl; in the midst of it, Aemond finds himself reminiscing about her shining gaze. He almost misses the hit aimed at him and ducks at the very last second — spins, glares, strikes, his blade stopping an inch away from Criston’s face.

The knight chuckles in good spirits, and the pride he feels is almost paternal. “Such a shame you aren’t the one for tourneys,” he pants, wiping the sweat from his brow.

Aemond rolls his eye, a brief respite not helping with his frustration. The subtleties of his emotions are unknown, unreadable like an ancient language: he’s daydreaming of her hands, her face, her —

“What a shame, indeed.”

Aemond turns to the sound of her voice. The whirl is silenced in an instant.

It’s different from his memories and his dreams — better than both: she is alive and well, she’s right next to him. She isn’t wearing a dress but a tunic and a pair of breeches, cool-toned material against her sun-kissed skin. Her wound is cleaned and healing, the mark left is a lightning peeking from her hair, the waves of it loosely braided. The simple attire doesn’t take away from her beauty (nothing can, he thinks), and it takes him a second to blink the enchantment away.

Aemond’s voice comes back, a tad low. “Aren’t you supposed to be resting?” He’s looking too joyful for it to sound like reproach.

There’s laughter in her eyes. “No one forbade me from stretching my legs. Am I interrupting?”

“Not at all,” Ser Criston chimes in, cautiously curious. “If only you don’t find the sight too unsettling,” he twirls his sword, the steel soundless in his hands.

“On the contrary, I find it entertaining. Although that wouldn’t be my weapon of choice,” her gaze follows the blade up.

Aemond throws her a surprised look but Ser Criston is the one to raise the question. “You have your preferences? Do tell,” he turns his head to the weaponry on a nearby table. “We’ve got shortswords, flails, axes...”

“All of which lack speed,” she remarks pertly, leaving the knight mystified.

Aemond sees no mystery; he knows that in the highlands catching prey is way trickier than killing. Knives, swords, blades of any kind won’t cover a long distance. Something else will.

“Archery, then?” the prince guesses.

“Doesn’t seem like the type of weapon you Targaryens prefer,” she shrugs but her disinterest is feigned.

Ser Criston catches onto that. “Can’t have preferences if there is nothing to choose from,” he grins, then calls for one of the guards, giving short instructions.

The man runs back in a minute, with a bow and arrows, and her eyes light up. They glide over the tight string, the polished wooden bend, concave at each end; it’s crafted beautifully.

“I must ask you to spare the guards,” Ser Criston jests while she takes the weapon, laying hold on its grip. “But do not be shy about taking your pick,” he points randomly at a stack of barrels, about thirty yards away. “These might be nice for a start.”

“That is too easy of a target,” she barely glances that way, then takes a good look around. “Do you truly think so little of me?”

The knight’s cheeks heat up. “My apologies, I didn’t mean to —”

“Oh, I do not find it offensive,” she grants him a meek smile without looking, already eyeing something much further away. “To tell you bluntly, it only spurs me on,” she mounts the feathered end of the arrow against the bowstring — and then pulls it.

Both men follow the direction the arrow is pointed at. Right outside the castle gates, there’s an apple tree, tall and branched, bent slightly over the stone wall. The fruits are bulked and ruddy, mouth-watering; but from where they are standing, the apples can barely be seen, obscured by foliage the wind breezes through.

Ser Criston raises an eyebrow, not incredulous but intrigued; Aemond only gets time to take a half-breath. The first arrow is fired with no warning — it cuts through the air, a flash of color above everyone’s heads, — and pierces an apple, pinning it to the trunk. A moment later she takes another shot; after the second one, Aemond isn’t looking at the apples, his eye instead drawn to her.

He suddenly can see nobody else.

Her every move is concise and simple, but her gaze is dead-set on the tree. She repeats each shot with a honed precision, controlled yet gracious; one of her arms set in a straight line, the other one follows a well-learned pattern — an arrow out, an apple down. That’s where, he thinks, her intrepidity comes from: the deadly weapon in her hands sings like a musical tool. The chance to watch her is bliss, and she’s a vision.

Only when she’s down to the last arrow, her hand unexpectedly flinches. She doesn’t miss, still, but the iron tip veers off and knocks the apple to the ground; a shadow of discontent glides across her face. Ser Criston is too impressed to notice yet Aemond knows that feeling all too well. He’s always strived to be the best too, and he knows how poisonous the pursuit of excellence can be.

“With that level of skill you might be unrivaled,” the knight praises, his words backed up by some of the guards and passersby clapping.

She seeks no praise, her quest is more troublesome. “I can do better,” she says, with her disappointment forced down. Her voice wanes a little when she adds: “I will do better by the next full moon,” and that hidden meaning holds unfathomable weight.

Aemond is too eager to bring her comfort to read between the lines. “The bow and arrows will be waiting for you, shall you decide to train more. But do have mercy on the tree,” a smile ripples her lips, a warmth ripples his heart. “I will ask for some target rings to be made.”

That gives her a dollop of contentment, and their fingers brush when he takes the weapon back. As Aemond gazes after her, he wonders if she feels it too — blood stirring, sweet dizziness, limbs lightweight.

Ser Criston watches the prince with a knowing look, a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. “It is so rare to find a lady with such a competitive spirit and a talent to match,” the knight muses. “Her husband must be a lucky man.”

Aemond’s joy shrinks, that mere word disturbing. “She doesn’t have one,” he responds. The uncertainty of his answer leaves a sour taste in his mouth. Doesn’t she really?

“That might not be for long,” Ser Criston carelessly comments. The prince’s cold stare makes no impression on him. “Shall we resume our training?”

Aemond goes to pick a shorter sword, his blood now boiling for another reason. There’s a gaze that’s akin to a caress, to a gentle tap on Criston’s shoulder — he turns readily to meet it, dark brown eyes that are a mirror of his own. Alicent casts a glance at her son, questioning and worrying, then holds the knight’s gaze once more. The looks they share are hand-written letters — both of them write the same thing.

>>> Alicent goes looking for answers first — she walks into the woman’s chambers the very same day, with the elegance of a Queen, with the benevolence of a mother. She doesn’t push but guides the conversation; she faces no resistance from the woman she’s facing.

When they are both seated, she tells her a story as old as time, a tragedy lived out by many. Her mother died when the girl was ten years of age, too weak to carry on her blank existence, and her father couldn’t even bear to look at her, no matter how much she tried to please him. Growing up in the Vale felt freeing but lonely, so she preferred archery over embroidery to leap at every chance to get away from home, into the beauty of the wilderness she had no one to share with. But she held out to hope that her life would change. She couldn’t predict that said change would start as an accident — her horse slipping on wet grass.

Alicent can’t help but bring her into a compassionate embrace at the mention of it. Her embrace turns into an offer — of a place to stay, of a shelter, and a friendly ear (maybe those were all the things her younger version wished for but was robbed of). The lie Alicent heard was so skillfully woven into the truth, she didn’t get suspicious.

Once Aemond learns the story from his mother, he discerns the misleading part in a second. All the other pieces fit together like a puzzle — her being self-reliant and guarded, her brazenness a shield, just like the one he’s grown accustomed to. But that last bit was made up, he can tell. And yet, he just doesn’t know how to approach the subject and not scare her off.

Aemond takes a task on earnestly.

>>> He looks for an opportunity to talk — he ends up tirelessly watching her, and he can’t say that there is no pleasure in it. She does resume her training, and every morning she’s the first one at the training yard when the sun is barely up, and no prying eyes can witness her dedication. Him having an eye on her doesn’t seem to be a problem.

His relentlessness has always been something Aemond prided himself on but it’s hers that he grows to enjoy. He carefully notes her refined movements, her sharp focus, her gaze cutting through any target before an arrow does. It’s easy to be fascinated by her; it takes him a couple of days to look past her outward calmness to catch a flicker of a feeling he can effortlessly recognize — an undercurrent of fury. And then he grasps that each time she aims at the wooden boards, she means to hurt someone. And maybe that is the exact reason she struggles with her every last shot, and her hand keeps flinching, unsure, or maybe too overwhelmed with certitude instead.

On one of those mornings, Aemond gets an idea, an outburst of bravery (or madness, but he’s too excited to care). She’s grimly collecting the arrows, inspecting them for damage when she sees him out of the corner of her eye.

“I couldn’t help but notice that something’s been troubling you,” Aemond comes closer, hands behind his back. She gives him a look that holds no denial but no explanations, either.

Aemond goes to the wooden boards, round and lined up on a hastily built frame, — and stands in the middle, right in front of them. He then puts out a hand with an apple in it, ripe and deliciously red. “Maybe I can help.”

Nothing short of shock flashes through her face, her eyes darting from him to the fruit and back. “What— ” her jaw drops as the words escape her; she strings them into a sentence. “What are you doing?”

“Helping you focus better,” Aemond offers in the calmest tone he can master.

It’s not uncertainty that leaves her speechless, her proficiency hard to deny. It’s the genuine, borderline naive trust that he shows her — with his open gaze on her, his body not moving from the spot, his faith in her as unwavering as his posture.

The moment is fleeting, soft like a morsel of a gossamer cloud, with so many words not shared; in another blink of his eye, it ends. The change in her isn’t drastic but chilling, like a touch of steel blade to the skin — her hand doesn’t waver when she reaches for the arrow, her gaze firmly locking on him.

As her last attempt at leniency, she notes: “There is no stopping an arrow once it’s shot.”

Aemond doesn’t think twice before replying: “You trusted me with your life once. I trust you not to kill me.”

She lifts the bow without hesitation, and he keeps eye contact with bated breath. The never-ending movement of life abates and the pale sunlight fades, and Aemond is deaf to everything but his booming heart. She drops the bow out of the way just a little and pulls the string up to the tip of her nose. She waits at full draw, the passing seconds endless and fulminant at once, before her hand flows back, her fingers relaxing — and the arrow slices through the air.

The first one hits somewhere above the apple; Aemond doesn’t dare to even take a glance, standing motionless, rooted to the ground. The second one follows soon. It’s a blood-curling contrast — how quiet is each shot until it reaches the target, and then the arrow rips right through the board, a deafening crash, a waft of death he’s spared from. Until she draws the bowstring again.

Aemond hears the third and the fourth hit, his hand unmoving, every muscle in his body tense. He is rarely scared, and it’s easy to mistake the fluttering of his heart for fear. But with how his eye is riveted on her, his gaze rapt and throat soar, — he thinks, it might be some other feeling. He gets no time to guess as the fifth arrow — finally — plunges into the apple and pins it to the board.

It’s a momentary reprieve, a quivering wave going through his body; and yet, she doesn’t lower the bow, eyes still fixed on him. Aemond can see her inhaling, the metal tip of the arrow pointing in his direction — and then released smoothly. In a split second, it lodges into the gap between his ribs and his arm, the feathery end stopping right next to his heart. When Aemond looks at her, he catches fiery glints of mischief in her gaze — and then something else, bright but short-lived like a glare on the water.

She puts the bow down, and they both know — her hand didn’t flinch once.

Only when Aemond steps away, he sees that the six arrows form the letter “A”, with the red apple right in the middle.

>>> He’s afraid the change is transient but it lasts — she is now watching him, too. Aemond finds it befuddling at first, not considering himself worth the attention, not used to being seen as something other than a wreckage of man, intimidating, and lonely, and harsh. She doesn’t look daunted. On the contrary, every time she sees him, the ice of her concentration thaws, and her gaze softens and lingers on him, mending every part of him that’s been broken by his insecurities.

She doesn’t recoil from the parts that are irreparable, either. She shows the same understanding when he can’t find the right words and shrinks into his shell — in the middle of conversations, in between rows of bookshelves, at bustling dinners; her company is a haven he can retreat to without a word. She welcomes his every impulse to talk and to share — thoughts, meals, books he thinks she will like (she bites down a smile thinking how much time he spent looking for any mention of archery).

She stays by his side when he doesn’t want to talk and when he overshares, when he’s bleakly taciturn, and when his temper gets as rigid as his sword; she’s enthralled by his anger, never burnt by it. One week turns into two, then into three. Day by day, Aemond wakes up earlier to watch her hit every target without fail, and she then watches him win one bout after another with evident amusement. They explore the castle, get lost in the library, take rides to the woods — she laughs as her horse breaks into a gallop, she basks in the sun, wind ruffling her hair, and his heartbeat raises to a clamor upon seeing her like that.

Her seat is next to his at the dining table, their chambers not too far away, and he persistently walks her to her doors, and every evening he dithers before saying goodnight and parting ways. Her presence soon becomes a warming light nurturing his days — and simultaneously the reason for him losing sleep. But as he lays at night, watching the moon wax, he thinks of another constant, bothering him like a page missing from a book, a closed door he’s got no key for — it’s her secret that he is yet to uncover.

He gets his chance when he least expects it.

>>> The month is nearing its end when Aemond is nearing the dining hall, brimming with emotion he cannot capture — excitement, unrest, sprinkling of anguish. He last saw her hours ago, when his mother came to her in the training yard, and the two of them hastened to leave, seemingly in some agreement he knew nothing about. He caught bits and pieces of words — mentions of fabrics and seamstresses, but it didn’t help with his confusion which soon turned into worry he had trouble coping with. And it wasn’t the worst part.

What’s worse is the comprehension, icy and unforeseeable like a blast of northern wind: it’s only been a few hours, and he’s already missing her. He looks back at the days she wasn’t with him, but they all seem too far away and forgotten, his life before her a blank canvas that she’s now painting with colors. He keeps thinking of her, getting more pensive with each step, until he reaches the doors, and walks in, and —

the ground is cut from under his feet.

All is the same in the hall: long table in a cloud of mindless chatter, silverware clanking, a rich palette of scents. What stands out is the color, bright like rubies formed within the earth’s crust. It’s the red of her dress — the same old and brand new — and he can only catch a glimpse but it’s enough to leave him dazed. It lasts a second before she senses him, her conversation with Helaena interrupted; she springs to her feet, the dazzling hue stirs up his ardor — he’s almost blinded when he gets an eyeful.

He is staring at her, everyone’s staring at him.

Helaena stands up with a laugh in her attempt to smooth things over: “It isn’t very nice of you to keep a friend waiting,” they both sit down then.

Aemond goes to join them with cotton feet.

He must’ve been too busy last time, her injury too big of a disturbance, so he paid the dress no mind. But once he’s seated, he can’t help but notice: the layers of fabric, flowing lines of her body, the cut in the front, the golden chain now ten times brighter. She casts him a wondering glance, he drinks half the cup in one swallow. The minutes that follow are like a fog, and although the conversations carry on, Aemond can’t bring himself to take part in any.

That is until he hears vaguely his sister’s delighted voice. “The stitching is barely noticeable! What an excellent work,” she marvels at the red dress, then looks at him with the spontaneity of a child. “Wouldn’t you agree, dear brother?”

He’s certainly grateful he’s not drinking otherwise he’d choke. Aemond manages to cast one furtive glance. “A fine work indeed.”

His mother gently picks up the discussion. “It was only fair to help repair the thing your friend holds so dear,” Alicent’s gaze is directed at her. “You can now wear it on more than just one occasion.”

Why would she hold so dear the dress that only carries the memories of her pain, he wonders. The dress that was covered with blood, with fingerprints of someone who wanted her dead. He takes a peek at her, and her face expression gives away no answers but for a second too short to comprehend he sees the undercurrent again; only it never takes shape. She puts on a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes, and he’s the only one to notice.

“I greatly appreciate you taking your time to help me,” she says, and Alicent’s smile — a genuine one — only grows wider. Maybe even a bit too wide for it only to be about some stitching.

“I suspect we tired you out with all the measuring and dressing up,” his mother points at her plate. “You hardly ate, my dear.”

“It’s been a long day,” her fingers close around a cup but she doesn’t drink from it, “And the dress brought back some memories,” her grab tightens, the only sign of everything she’s keeping covered. “But I am glad to get a chance to wear it one more time.”

“And I am happy to help,” Alicent assures, “But please, go have some rest, you have seen enough of our boring dinners.”

“I was never bored,” there’s a glimmer of gratitude, a tone of sincerity as she gets up from the table and looks at the faces sitting at it. For a moment, it seems that she wants to say more — grand, meaningful, closer to the truth. And yet, she just opts for a short, “Thank you for having me.”

She barely has time to take a step before Aemond all but jumps to his feet. “I will walk with you,” the words leave his mouth as he stands up with unflinching determination. And it’s not that he wants to leave as much as he wants to follow her.

His eagerness doesn’t come off as a surprise. No one says it but it seems that everyone knows — Alicent and Criston sharing the same looks, Helaena beaming, Aegon smirking into his cup. Aemond only waits for her reaction, his eye focused on her face. She isn’t against it — just like she’s never been before, every time he found a reason to come to her and be with her, and even when there was no reason to do so. She gives him a nod, a tad guiltily but more so accepting (and maybe just as eager as he is).

While they are on their way out, Aegon turns on his chair to say something but Helaena covers his mouth with her hand.

>>> Aemond breathes a little deeper and walks a little slower, gathering his words, — and before he knows it, they are talking again, his infatuation receded, although never truly gone. He asks about her day, and in the corridors and hallways curtained with silence, her voice flows lightly. He can tell that she’s abashed by all the fussing over her.

“Our seamstresses are quite fierce,” he chuckles. “I fear no sword of mine will stand a chance against their needles.”

“They said this dress was made for feasts,” she quotes, fiddling with the material as if she can’t see what’s there to admire.

“Well, Aegon’s name day is approaching. That will surely be a feast we are all invited to endure,” Aemond jests.

“I don’t think that I will —” she doesn’t finish the sentence, biting down her lip. He’s too distracted by that movement to pay attention to what’s left unvoiced. “You do not find those celebrations to your liking?” she changes the topic swiftly.

“I find them boring,” Aemond huffs. “The same old lords boasting about their wealth, making up achievements that are each so hollow.”

“Sounds like ladies aren’t a part of those conversations?”

“Theirs are hardly better so you should keep your expectations low,” he ruefully remarks. “Сourt gossip is one thing you can’t avoid. And then they’ll either lament about their husbands or try to find one for you,” he doesn’t think much over his words until he sees her smile dropping. And then, before he can find a reason not to, he adds: “...Assuming you are not already married.”

As soon as she hears it, she stops — Aemond does too, and he can tell that she isn’t looking for lies and excuses. She only timidly looks around, as if she’s afraid the walls have ears, and the truth she’s about to tell him is only meant for his. They managed to reach his chambers first, so without a single word Aemond goes to open the doors, and she accepts the nonvocal invitation.

They walk in — both are hasty and agitated, but he gives her space and scarcely hides the trembling of his hands. She finds it hard to utter a particular word. “I was... betrothed but not anymore. The man in question now believes I am dead.”

Her face is turned away from him, her gaze gliding over every object in his room, searching for something to fall on. She hesitantly walks to his table, glancing over a stack of books on it.

Aemond gives her a minute, then inquires: “Was he the one to hurt you?”

Her pain is still fresh, her face briefly splashed with it but she pushes through. Her response is not affirmative and yet, it’s enough of a confirmation. “I should’ve known better than to trust him.”

His anger rears up its head, a beast on a chain readying to get loose. “There is no excuse for what he did,” Aemond punctuates. “There cannot be —”

“There isn’t,” she cuts him off, not harshly but with a weary acceptance, her finger grazing thick book covers. “And I’m the last person to ever make excuses for him. But I should’ve known.”

Aemond is hurt by the thought he gets, but her torment is even more hurtful so he says the words, each letter scorching his heart. “You can’t take the blame for having feelings. Love often makes people let their guard down.” (And for years, he never did. Not until her).

With how fast she retorts, his ache is cured: “It wasn’t love.” Whatever it was, she regrets it so deeply, it’s written all over her face. “Now that I think about it, it never was.”

Her fingers travel down to the table surface, her thoughts straying back to the time that’s too distant but too haunting to forget.

“Lord Dykk Hersy is a son of my father’s friend, we’ve known each other ever since we were kids. He was always too noisy, then turned too self-centered, not much to like about that. And I never thought he fancied me, either. But my father made a decision about us some years back, and he wouldn’t take no for an answer. So Dykk started coming more often, following me around, being very nice. And I wasn’t...,” she stops fumbling with strewn parchments and lets out a sigh. “Not a lot of people were nice to me back then. I was naive to mistake his kindness for something else, and he was smart enough to say all the right words to make me believe him.”

Her fingertips reach his dagger, unscabbarded and left in plain sight. His eye is drawn to her every movement.

“We were betrothed when I was ten-and-six. I grew to like his company, and I think he did try his best, at first. For a couple of years, he was courteous, generous enough to give in to my every whim. Not that I had too many,” she’s glassy-eyed, and Aemond’s glare would be enough to kill. “But the illusion didn’t last for long. I soon began to notice pitiful stares, taunting whispers behind my back, maids dropping their gazes in shame. Three years in, I found out one of them was carrying his child.”

“Am I right to assume he denied it?”

“He did,” she chuckles bitterly. “He seemed taken aback by my anger, tried to persuade me he was falsely accused. But I could never blame the girl, it’s not her fault he was so good with words... I fell for them too,” her sadness is washed off with virulence; her fury awakened again, flames of it rising from the bowels of her restraint.

Aemond finds himself only a few feet away from her, pulled in by empathy at first, enamored somewhere in between the first and second steps.

“From that day, the complaints began, the excuses — he was too busy to stay for long, then got too busy to visit.”

“Was it so hard to saddle a horse?” Aemond bristles.

She casts him a glance followed by a half smile. “He lives in The Reach.”

“So chivalry is dead,” he snorts, and her laughter gives him a spark of joy. “It isn’t far away from here,” Aemond notes.

“Takes way longer to reach the Vale,” she explains, then pauses. Her memories eat up the merest hint of cheer. “Only he wasn’t road weary. He was burdened by me.”

Aemond almost reaches out for her, but clasps his hands together, his knuckles whitening. Her finger traces the very edge of the blade.

“And then, on his latest name day, my father made a poor joke,” her smile is crooked, hating. “He said me and Dykk were meant to stay together unless death do us part. That’s when, I think, he got the idea.”

“It is unworthy of a man to ever nurture such a thought,” his voice is embittered, his chest ablaze with wrath.

“I should’ve known,” she sounds dull like an echo. “He’s always called himself a man of traditions — the start of the month was meant for hunting, and he preferred the grounds of Grassy Vale, the shore of the Blueburn river. But then, all of a sudden, he wanted to explore the mountains of the Vale,” she wraps her hand around the hilt. “Said he wished to reconcile, that the trip would bring us closer, made me wear a dress,” she stumbles over the words, “And I didn’t even want to come or to see him, and all the signs were there, but I put on the stupid dress, and I was the one being so unbelievably stupid and —”

His palm covers hers in a rush of tenderness, his gaze more telling than a poem, confessions embedded in it — so many of them, it would take all night to unravel. They stand still, their eyes locked, his affection sweeping in between his fingers and her skin.

“None of that was your fault,” Aemond asserts. “And no one is to blame but him. Your fortitude is only worthy of admiration.”

It’s alluring how unrelenting he is in his desire to please her; the shift of her body toward his is barely noticeable, and she looks a second away from giving in. Something stops her, a sign of regret on her face, her gaze averted.

“And yet, he continues with his life thinking he got the last laugh,” she bemoans. “And I fear I... will never forget the feeling of his stranglehold as long as we are both alive.”

“You survived the unthinkable,” he tugs at her hand, caring in a way no other man ever was with her. “Why can’t it be enough?”

She ponders, hesitates, her outrage tempered by his solicitude. “I guess some lessons can only be learned the hard way,” she draws conclusion.

There it is again — the puzzling implication, a mystery wrapped in an enigma; it leaves Aemond with a sense of unease. “You deem that lesson to be worth it?” he questions.

The truth slips away from his grasp, but her hand stays, and it is too disarming of a sensation for him to think clearly. “I am afraid it’s too soon to tell,” she deflects, her thumb pressed against the flat of the blade. She can’t resist glancing briefly at it.

“You seem to like this little thing,” Aemond observes. “If so, you can have it.”

Her face is so bright with glee again, all the light in his room grows dim in comparison. “I’ve never seen such an intricate pattern,” she clarifies shyly, then adds with appreciation: “It’s truly beautiful.”

“It is,” he’s only looking at her.

“Teach me how to use it,” she unexpectedly asks. She looks at him again, her gaze exulting, and his heart skips a bit. “Properly.”

“And why would I do that?” he asks, undeniably willing.

“Why wouldn’t you?” she teases, her hand moving from his, clamping the dagger tightly.

Aemond misses the feeling — her skin against his, tighling with warmth, — and he catches her fingers in the same second. The distance between them is shortened down to a few inches; they don’t seem to care.

His touches are light and feathery. “You need to make sure your grip is strong,” he gently presses his forearm to hers, her hand positioned in his palm. “Not too tight so there’s some room for maneuvering. But with all your fingers in place,” he gives instructions, and she eagerly follows.

The red of her dress is a striking distraction; as is the softness of its lace, of her touch, of her lips parted in wonder, her diligence bewitching. She waits, his blood rushes; Aemond gulps.

He continues. “It is a common mistake to take a swing with a pommel up,” two of his roughened fingers latch onto her palm. “But the backhand grip works better,” Aemond rotates her hand in the right position, a steady motion with unsteady breath; her shoulder comes in contact with his chest.

He halts all movement, she makes no attempt to step away. He wonders if she can feel... He lacks the words to describe it. But he can discern her bosom heaving with every breath, and his heartbeat is caught in his throat.

He keeps the dagger pointed down, then calmly guides it up and away, their fingers intertwined. “This way, the point of the blade always comes first,” her eyes are on the steel, on the veins scattered on the inside of his wrist. “Which means that the threat also comes faster,” his eye is on the curve of her neck, on the necklace gleaming, beckoning him to glance lower.

Both of them feel the pull, too spellbound to resist — she takes a half step back, he meets her halfway. Her back is now fully propped against him, every bit of his body overflushed with yearning. Their hands stay adjoined as his words vine through her hair: “You try it.”

And so she does. The first time she repeats the movement, it’s almost reluctant, and his long tenacious fingers lead the way. He inadvertently leans in, his forearm molding into hers, a touch that edges towards embrace; her bashfulness then disappears without a trace. The metal shines coolly as she dexterously twists the blade, and Aemond should be concerned with how easy it comes to her; he is instead utterly transfixed.

She looks at him over her shoulder, his breath fanning out over her cheek, the space between them almost nonexistent. She makes a turn, torturously slow, their hands an inseparable duet, bodies longing to share heat.

“Seems like you did have some practice beforehand,” Aemond notes, voice barely above a whisper.

“Or you are a good teacher,” her eyes slip over his lips.

“And you are a fast learner,” he says under his breath.

This once, his gaze wanders, like a wayward traveler in search of means to satisfy his hunger; she is the one he craves. His fingers are itching for every curve of her body — she’s burning in all the places she wishes he could touch her. The tension rises, floods their bloodstream like fever, and —

“Hardly fair to leave me deal with our grandsire on my own!” Aegon bursts through the doors without knocking, a cup in his hand. “Did I ask for a lecture on table manners? I did not!”

He then sees them, already a step away from each other, and there’s a hint of surprise in his eyes which quickly turns into suspicion. He’s about to voice it when she blurts out: “Aegon would make for a good target.”

The cup he’s holding doesn’t reach his mouth. “...I beg your pardon?”

“I talked your brother into teaching me how to throw a dagger,” she lies slyly. “Would you mind stepping back to the door?”

Aegon blinks, incomprehension evident on his face for a moment, until he frowns and does move back to the door — only to open it and rush out, grumbling: “Both of you are utterly insane.”

The second he leaves, she bursts into laughter, and the same sound, low and hearty, spills from Aemond’s lips. She glances at him — his face relaxed, cheeks adorned with dimples, and he catches her gaze. The moment is lost but their desire isn’t, still swelling in both, unabated fire under the navel.

But now she tarries, her delight eclipsed by a grim understanding she chooses not to put into words. She tries giving him the dagger but Aemond gently pushes it back: “I meant it, it’s yours.”

“Thank you,” she puts it into a scabbard he hands her, then murmurs, sincerely grateful: “For listening, too.”

“I am glad to be worthy of your trust,” he replies warmly.

There’s a ringing urge in the back of his head to come closer to her again. But she is unanticipatedly avoidant of any intimacy, mumbling something about the late hour, moving out of his reach — and then the urge turns into a need so desperate, he can’t keep it bottled up.

“I think he is the biggest fool in the Seven Kingdoms,” Aemond lets slip.

She turns to him when her hand is already on the door handle. “Because he couldn’t manage to kill a woman?” the smile she gives him is acerbic, but her gaze is sad.

“Because he didn’t love you the way you deserve,” he breathes out.

She looks astonished, her mouth falling open, and he wants nothing more than for her to say another word, just to give him a reason to spill his every feeling out. But she slumps her shoulders and purses her lips, and then pulls the handle and gets out so quickly, the door slams behind her, and the sound makes him wince.

He is left all alone, with an unsaid revelation at the base of his throat — the way I would’ve loved you, he wanted to say. And with another heartbeat, Aemond realizes: he already does. He is already hopelessly in love with her.

>>> That realization is a ball lightning that swirls in his chest, and he cannot close the eye all night. It’s liberating to say it to himself — love, the word that sounds and tastes so sweet; it’s also absolutely terrifying. Chaotic thoughts run through his mind, and he is racked with indecision that’s paved with his self-doubts and fears. Amidst the chaos, Aemond finds himself reminiscing of her shining gaze — and then of a touch of her hand, of her eyes on him, of her body leaning toward and her lips not shying away from his. He couldn’t have made all that up, he thinks. He also can’t let fear dictate his future.

Aemond leaves the room with the first rays of the sun, while its light only shyly skims the ground, but the prince’s never been more awake. His intent is a vital force, a fuel that makes him quicken his pace. He all but runs — down the stairs, through the doors, through the castle, and out of it; her name and his proclamation on the tip of his tongue

— only she isn’t in the training yard.

And neither are her bow and arrows.

Anxiety scrapes his ribcage and spreads like ice, then creeps, sluggish and squeaking, into his subconscious. His gaze roves over every corner of the yard, but he can’t catch the slightest hint of where to look for her.

He does break into running on his way back; the corridors and walls all flash before his eye. Her chambers greet him with her absence, the maids all share his concern. Aemond tries to look for clues — a letter, a piece of anything that once belonged to her — but she had no belongings, he remembers then.

Despair crawls out, like a predator sensing blood; Aemond isn’t about to give up without a fight. He goes to question the guards — surely, she couldn’t just disappear into thin air, no matter what her talents are. The men in silver-plated armor are doubtless striving to help, but only one of them recalls her visiting the yard not long before the sun emerged. That knowledge is rather scant and hardly helpful, and Aemond’s determination traitorously falters.

Help comes in the form of a stable boy passing by who gleefully chirps:

“The lady must be a skilled hunter,” he says to no one in particular, dreamingly impressed. “Not many people stick to traditions these days.”

“...Come again?” Aemond throws him a glance so piercing, the boy stammers.

“I only m-meant that it’s a full moon,” he hurriedly explains. “They say, on that day deer move more at night hence why the hunters favor it so much.”

That’s when her words resurface in his mind —

“I will do better by the next full moon.”

“Lord Dykk Hersy always called himself a man of traditions.”

He thinks that for a man who’s only lost one eye, he surely couldn’t have been more blind. Because the clues he’s been so desperate to find were all before his eyes this entire time. He promptly knits together all the fragments — her tireless training, haunting memories, her asking to repair the dress. Only, the one occasion she wanted it for was not some silly dinner.

Disappointment clashes with worry in his chest as Aemond leaves the castle once more, this time with a destination in mind. He blames himself for not guessing sooner; he hopes and prays that it’s not too late.

>>> The grounds of Grassy Vale are robed in green, a canvas of valleys and flats with lone wooden shacks interspersing; Aemond reminds himself he didn’t come for sightseeing. He gazes into fields sprawled underneath, and Vhagar’s body casts a shadow that sweeps along the earth like a water stream. With how low they are flying, it won’t be hard for any of the smallfolk to spot the dragon but Aemond can’t find it in himself to care.

His gaze is searching for one person only, his longing for her immense against everything in his life that’s been measured. But soon he sees the river, and the valleys smoothly give way to forests; Aemond admits with increasing concern that he’ll have to continue on foot. Vhagar grudgingly plops into the high grass, burying her claws in the ground, the flap of her wings so strong, it brings down a couple of trees. Once their rustling is stilled, the sullen peace settles in the vale.

As if to add to his unrest, the sky gets blanketed with clouds, and he can hear the thunder humming in the distance, his heart already hammering in tact. The Gods, it seems, certainly have a penchant for drama.

The sound of the branches crackling is what catches his attention first, and he discerns heavy footsteps fast approaching. In just a second, Aemond sees a man running out of the forest, and there’s no need to take a guess — not only does the stranger look clearly aghast, he’s also got an arrow sticking out of his shoulder.

Aemond throws him a disdainful glance but Lord Hersy is too distraught to notice. “Please, help!” he begs and whines, “I am being chased by a mad woman!”

The prince holds back a snicker, trying not to wrinkle his nose at the sight. “Oh, how unfortunate,” he drawls, and every feature of the man looks hideous to him. “A woman instilling that big of a fear? It is the rarest of things.”

Lord Hersy can’t seem to share his amusement. “She’s truly evil!” he assures with wide eyes, his legs unsteady, hand pressed to the wound, red seeping through his fingers. “She led me into an insidious trap, and I am left completely disarmed!”

“It sounds like it required quite a lot of planning,” Aemond notes. “Might it be that she has a reason to be cross with you?”

“I am a righteous lord, I wouldn’t hurt a fly,” the man lies profusely, and a dark look crosses Aemond’s face. “My only fault was trusting her, that scheming wen—”

With one hand movement, Aemond grabs him, his fingers holding the man’s collar so tightly, Lord Hersy has trouble breathing. “But you are surely cross with her, it seems,” the prince remarks in a dry tone, his gaze blistering cold. Underneath the ice, there’s a flare, a spark; he is actually enjoying this. “Would you mind, my lord, telling me more about her?”

Lord Hersy seems taken aback by the request but obeys implicitly. “She’s n-not lacking beauty, that I will admit,” he weakly tries to free himself yet to no avail. “But ignorant of manners and so terribly short-tempered!”

“Is it her temper you are so afraid of?” Aemond doesn’t hide his mocking.

“She’s got a dagger!” the man complains in distress. “An angry woman armed poses a horrid threat! Gods know, I’ve done nothing to merit that mistreatment!”

He opens his mouth to accuse her some more — but then finally takes note of the frighteningly stiff look on Aemond’s face. The prince’s lips curl up into a wrathful and malignant smile, and the air gets heavy with silence.

His anger is a beast that breaks the chains with its teeth.

“Hm,” Aemond shakes his head with derision. “Worry not, ser, you are in good hands,” the prince lowers his face to his, his voice spewing poison when he hisses, “I was the one to give her the dagger.”

Lord Hersy does attempt to escape Aemond’s grip, he’ll give him that. Pathetically and weakly he twitches and wails, tries scratching his face, then reaches for the eyepatch, wobbly fingers tugging at the stripe of leather, gasping and swearing and —

all of his efforts fall short, and Aemond’s iron grip doesn’t loosen one bit.

And then, out of nowhere, another hand grabs a fistful of the lord’s hair, yanking his head back so harshly, that he gasps. They both were too distracted by the scuffle to notice her draw near, but once she reaches them — engulfed in red, her gaze equally flaming — she truly is force to reckon with. The fury looks so good on her, it makes Aemond hold his breath.

“I see your luck did finally run out,” she says to the man, words filled with resentment.

Lord Hersy grows unsure about his every accusation. “I think there’s been a grave misunderstanding,” he protests in a whiny tone. “I deeply regret causing you any offe —”

“I don’t remember you regretting dragging me down from a horse to try and crash my skull with a rock,” her voice is low, biting. The grin that follows makes her face look sinister. “I knew you couldn’t finish.”

His frown betrays his irritation — he puts it out the second he pulls out the dagger. “There are still ways for me to make amends,” Lord Hersy pleads so sickly sweet, Aemond lets out a growl. “I made a terrible mistake, I shall admit, but I did search for you! Day and night, I prayed to the Gods to find you, I cried my eyes out!”

Her face seems empty while she listens, and Lord Hersy is enough of a fool to mistake it for reluctance. But Aemond thinks she’s never looked more sure, and there’s no mercy she can grant the man whose fate has long been sealed.

She tilts her head, the corners of her mouth twitch, and the prince reads this expression with ease — she’s finally facing her most wanted target. He loosens the grip, and Lord Hersy falls to his knees, gulping air, the breath of death no longer tickling his neck; but his relief is premature.

The blade in her hand pale-glimmers in the vanishing rays of the sun — the man only catches a dreadful glint before he feels the metal pressed against his throat. Her gaze is just as sharp. “Go on then, dear lord,” she sneers without a sign of mirth, each word hastening his end, “Cry me a river.”

He barely gets a breath in when she swings — unmerciful and with the backhand grip; the dagger draws a scarlet cut across his throat. The wound is deep and fatal, and the blood runs fast and thick, cascading down his chest, his body going limp and falling lifeless to the ground. The red seeps out into the grass, splashed beads of it shining dully against all the green, and it’s almost alluring to look at.

Unceasingly and invariably Aemond only looks at her.

The trees sway in the wind, and the clouds race, the sky now veiled with the darkness of the unfolding storm. He’s never been the one to value landscapes, but it makes him think: the same lush wilderness surrounded her while she was growing up, a rose among the weeds, her thorns repellent to most but no obstacle for him. With bloodied hands, disheveled hair, dirtied clothes — she’s still the only one he wants, irresistible as life.

She stands in reverie, her gaze boring into the huddled body of the lord: “I must admit, this is poor planning on my part.”

As if on cue, Vhagar’s roar echoes in the distance, and Aemond smirks: “I know of a way to get rid of a body.”

She hums and slightly leans over the dead man, wiping the dagger off on his coat, and Aemond sees that she ripped the dress again; he finds it funny.

“Not the best choice of clothing, I might say,” the prince notes.

She follows his gaze and doesn’t even bother to adjust the damaged hem. “He thought I came back from the dead to hunt him,” she lets out a dry laugh, “I counted on that.”

“Wish I could see it,” Aemond says, a gentle admiration in his tone.

Her mask of concentration crumbles, replaced by the expression he remembers from the day before. The same astonishment mixed with timorous indecision, with a tint of shyness, washes over her face as their eyes meet.

“You came for me,” the words fall from her mouth as if she only now becomes aware.

“Why do you find it so surprising?” he wonders because leaving her was never an option for him.

“Unreasonable, mostly,” she bashfully remarks. “You’ve been so kind to me, and yet I left without saying goodbye.”

“You did,” he agrees, thinking that shyness only adds to her charm.

“And I never told you of my plans,” she admits, even more coyly, and he just nods.

Her gaze falls, mouth unsurely half-open, as if she’s trying to pluck the right words from the grass. He watches her, and there’s that pull again, the flowering desire in his chest.

“I think it’s time for us to go our separate ways,” she musters out, and it knocks the air out of his lungs. She’s curbing her own pain, deeming it to be a relief for his. “You’ve done more than enough for me... I think your conscience should be clear.”

The wind picks up, and so does his pulse. “And where will you go?” Aemond asks, his voice faltering.

“I am my father’s only heir” she shrugs, mostly burdened than pleased. “He will take me back and,” she works up the courage to find his gaze again, “I won’t be a problem of yours any longer.”

The thunder is approaching, a rushing sound disrupting the peace of nature. Aemond knows he will never find peace if he lets her leave.

“So you can go,” she offers but they both don’t want it, and he instead allows himself a step to her. “If this is what you want,” she blurts out in a shaky voice that gives away her struggle no matter how much she tries to put up a face. “If this is what your heart desires,” she adds so quietly, she isn’t sure he will hear her. But Aemond does.

Something snaps in him, and his body is an arrow shot out — he closes the distance in a heartbeat, and his lips all but crush into hers. She kisses him back with the same fervor, without a moment’s hesitation, and neither of them is timid or holding back. His hands find her waist, follow the gentle bend of it as she presses herself to him, as her mouth opens more, and his craving turns into hunger, his desire not hidden any longer, erupting right through.

Aemond grabs onto her hips, desperate to feel more, ravenous in his need, and each of his kisses is a plea for her to heed to; she does. Her fingers frantically travel up, then tangle in his hair, untieing knots of his restraint, his quivering sighs all disappearing into her mouth. There are no other sounds but their shuddering breath, their lewd touches, moans — hers or his, he can’t tell.

The massive storm is brewing when they part, both breathless, their lips still brushing.

“It’s you,” his confession is hot against her mouth, “You are the only thing I desire,” the syllables flow, pouncing like a waterfall, “He was undeserving of you, foolish, pathetic excuse of a man, and if only I—”

His words die down at the feeling — her fingers dancing right above his cheek. The one that’s scarred, unloved, detested by him; the gruesome sight that was supposed to be covered by the eyepatch. He must’ve missed the moment when he lost it, too wrapped up in his anger to notice the despicable lord succeed in his attempts. Aemond can’t find it in himself to ask for confirmation, to even move his hand to cover half his face.

She never looks away. And then, in the gloomy evening, she smiles — the sun rises again, a crack of dawn formed by every feature of her face. Her fingertips tenderly graze his scar.

“You asked me once if I thought it was worth it,” she recalls, her gaze affectionate, without a shadow of a doubt. “It was. Because I would do it all again if I knew the fate was leading me to you.”

The warmth of her touch heats him up, then ignites every part of him. She’s still caressing the side of his face when he reaches for her — his kiss so searing, her hand trembles, while his confidently moves to the hollow of her throat; this time, the sound of pleasure is undoubtedly hers. With his eye closed, his mouth on hers, Aemond sees the vision, bright as day: him going through the layers, lace and red, until she is all bare in his sheets, and he can put his lips to every inch of her skin. And feel her, drink her, worship her, their limbs intertwined, him drawing moans from her until the night sky lets in the first streaks of light.

He has to take a labored breath to blink the dream away, to hold his ardor back for just a little longer. By the look on her face, she’ll welcome his every offering.

“It seems that all those years I’ve been searching in all the wrong places for you,” Aemond whispers, holding her tight in his embrace.

“But you found me,” she follows the contour of his jaw with her finger, her smile never fading. “And you can have me,” she makes a vow, and her lips trail for his to seal the promise.

And no storm can compare to the love for her that rages deep in his heart.

✧ if you are into stories about revenge (enemies to lovers, with angst, fighting, and quite a bit of fire involved), I have a multi-chapter fic for you ✧ two more stories inspired by songs (modern!au): with Aemond & with Aegon ✧ my masterlist tagging @amiraisgoingthruit who was kind enough to ask (girlie, I’m sorry this one is so enormous…) also big thank you to arcielee for approving the gif it was driving me insane 💙

English is not my first language, so feel free to message me if you spot any major mistakes. reblogs and comments are very much appreciated!

#aemond targaryen #it took me 3 (THREE) months to find inspiration to finish the gif and I can't say I'm 100% happy so I will take NO criticism #to the ten people who will read this — I am forever grateful (I'm sending you cups of cacao as a treat)#my stuff #aemond targaryen fanfiction #hotd fanfiction #aemond x y/n #aemond targaryen x y/n #aemond targaryen fanfics #aemond targaryen fic #aemond one eye #aemond one eye x y/n #hotd fic #house of the dragon fanfics #hotd fanfic #aemond x reader #aemond x you #aemond #aemond the kinslayer

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cyber-dump-171 · 3 months ago

Text

Chapter 5: Call a doctor!

Objection! Stand your ground! Marvelous! (Twisted Wonderland x Reader)

← Chapter 4 | Masterlist | Chapter 6 →

Word count: 6.5k.

WARNING: brief mentions of injuries, and various diseases.

Note: We're starting with Heartslabyul's arc!

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You awoke while the night sky was still dark, gray clouds blending together as they covered the round silver moon. Your skin feels cold to the touch, and the tips of your fingers are numb from the freezing weather.

As your teary eyes scan your surroundings, a vague feeling of disappointment combined with dread grips your heart. Despite everything you experienced the day before, a small voice in your brain had convinced you this was a dream. A bad nightmare, fueled by stress and sleep deprivation from your insomnia, had created this elaborate and fucked-up scenario.

Unfortunately, the small blades of grass that prickle your back tell you that you're still trapped in this world with no way to go back to your home.

Feeling the sleepiness leave your body, you groan as the bones of your stiff back crack loudly as you stretch your arms above your head, and like a chain reaction, your movements inadvertently wake your other two roommates who were snoring soundly next to you.

Fígaro is the first to open his eyes, slowly removing his right hand that had accidentally landed on your stomach while tossing and turning in his sleep. Man, he moves a lot. While he sleepily runs a hand through his tangled locks, Yuuken rises next to him, some dry leaves and twigs stuck into his hair as he rubs his eyes using his fist. “Mornin',” he grumbles with a yawn, and you both reply with an incoherent string of words along the same greeting.

You kick off the heavy sheet; your skin feels sticky and oily from exposure to the dirt and the ungodly heat emanating from Fígaro. “Somebody has the time?” the Finnish man mutters beside you, turning to his side as he snuggles further into the pillow. Yuuken drowsily stares into the distance, ignoring the conversation. “I’ll go check,” you reply with a yawn.

Your legs feel like jelly as you get up and wobbly make your way to the Ramshackle dormitory to check the hour ticking away on the miraculously still-alive wall clock you found yesterday during your “cleaning” spree. As you grumpily open the dilapidated door, you encounter three particularly annoying faces.

“Ooooooh, good morning, child!” the chubby ghost greets you happily, the other two semi-invisible dumbasses behind him giggling annoyingly as if the prank they were playing was so hilarious. Too tired to argue with them, you push past the cold figures and squint to see the clock hands moving behind the dirty, yellowed broken glass. 4:18 a.m. Well, at this point it might be best to just start the day… you highly doubt you’ll be able to go back to sleep.

“Awwww, leaving so soon, friend? We hope you come back alive! The dust misses you,” mocking laughter echoes through the rotten walls as you leave the house without looking back, you feel something pulsing in your brain trying to give you an unnecessary headache. You’ll deal with the ghosts when you return, for now, it’s best to get a move on.

The howling wind from last night has died down to a light breeze, but the temperature has dropped considerably, as little puffs of warm steam leave your mouth with every breath you take. Judging by the dead leaves littering the ground and the bare branches, this place is either in the middle of autumn or approaching winter.

Unfortunately, as you return to your makeshift campsite and feel the sharp wind cut against your skin, you're made painfully aware of the lack of sweaters, as your world was still in the middle of summer when you were abducted. Shivering from the cold, Yuuken steals the blanket that was lying on the ground, wrapping himself in the fabric to protect himself from the air. Fígaro doesn't seem to mind the temperature, lying in a star position while looking at the sky.

At this point, it's best to start the morning routine.

So the three of you unanimously decide to check the “lost and found” first for any kind of warm clothing or other items that might help you get through the next few days. Since Crowley covers food and water, you suggest using your first paycheck to buy some underwear, toiletries, and maybe some cleaning supplies. You want to avoid repeating the events of the previous day and be able to sleep comfortably in a bed without worrying about bugs or dirt.

Fígaro adds, with a yawn, that to speed up the process of getting more money, it would be wise to sell any valuables you have with you, such as jewelry and watches, unless they have some sentimental value. You gently nudge the Kendo student walking sleepily beside you, pointing out the sad expression on the Finnish man's face as he stares at his decorated fingers.

Though you and Yuuken quickly intervened that he shouldn't feel pressured to sell his valuables, the blond man simply shrugged you off, having already taken off most of his jewelry except for a silver ring with a small chalcedony stone that sits on his index finger.

“Thank you for your concern, both of you, but most of these were from sponsored merchandise or gifts from acquaintances. This is the only piece that is very precious to me,” he whispers as he lovingly looks at the ring. Without much thought, you step forward and deposit any loose jewelry that you had little to no attachment to, only keeping a black leather wristwatch that you bought with your first salary.

While it hurts to sell what had been hours of part-time work, at this point surviving and seeing your family and friends are the only thoughts that drive your decision. Yuuken seems to think so too, as he drops a sterling silver thumb ring on the pile.

Fígaro stores the jewelry in a well-worn cross-body bag he found in one of the sheets the ghost had used to prank him the night before. It had seen better days, with pieces of fabric torn off in various places and several indentations on the black leather straps from stress. Although the blond man complains about the quality, he insists that it will work. He gives you a small smile before gently ushering you to continue your path.

The rest of the way is quiet, except for a few yawns and some brief but awkward banter. Back inside the huge building, you lead your two roommates to the library, remembering the twists and turns on the map you examined yesterday.

You highly doubt that you'll be able to find so many clothes or useful materials in there, after all, the "lost and found" is usually a big cardboard box that the secretary sticks under the desk, right?

You were dead wrong.

As the friendly ghostly librarian led you through the room where the bookcases were so high you swore they touched the roof, the last thing you expected to find was a utility closet labeled “lost and found”. Even more impressive was the fact that every single shelf in there was filled to the brim with various items.

“Feel free to take anything. Most of these articles have been in here for over a year and no one has come to claim them. I'm sure you'll make good use of them!” with a cheerful farewell, the sweet ghost disappears, leaving the three of you staring at the room with open mouths and owlish eyes.

“Well then, let’s give these things a good home,” Fígaro states as your hands and fingers begin to dig through the shelves, picking out various items, examining them, and either taking them or putting them back in their place. You're able to find four sweaters in good condition that could help protect you from the cold.

You end up taking other items like a scarf, a (surprisingly) clean water bottle and a thermos, a portable sewing kit that was missing a few threads and needles, and a small fiction book. But the most valuable item of all, and the one that you could hardly believe had not been claimed by anyone to this day, was a tablet with a shabby charger attached to it.

“I call dibs!” you announce quickly before grabbing the rectangular device, feeling like a gremlin as you chuckle mischievously and eye it like a piece of gold. Yuuken lets out an “aw” behind you, disappointed that you beat him to it, while Fígaro gives you a dirty look, questioning your behavior before shaking his head with a chuckle. “I think we’re good, I don’t know what else to take,” the Kendo student mutters under his breath while doing one last look over the shelves.

“If we’re missing something, we’ll make a mental note and return here. But, we should get a move on, or else we won’t have time for breakfast,” you indicate while gazing out of a nearby window, observing as the twilight merges with the sunny colors of the sky. “Goodness… let’s first head to the showers.”

As you hurriedly leave the library, Yuuken and you exchange some jokes while Fígaro quietly laughs at your childish banter. You fail to notice a pair of green eyes curiously examining you from the dark. Again.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

You’re absolutely, 100% sure that what you’re currently doing is illegal.

This has to violate some type of law, right? You're well aware that Crowley could potentially be sued for violating child labor laws, especially since even though you're 17, your parents have to sign a contract and the crow can only make you work a certain amount of hours.

Also, even though you have some first aid certifications, you don't have a medical permit to work, much less administer medication. Holy crap, you don't even have supervision! What if you screw up?

Well, the headmaster of this institution didn't give a damn, because after showing you how to work the system, he gave you a comforting pat on the shoulder and quickly left the infirmary.

You feel a little nervous as you’re left alone in the office, but you lift your spirits as you promise to do your best to take care of the students.

And here you are. The warm, bitter liquid touches your lips as your fingers type away on the tablet’s screen, opening a new email account. It's a moment of peace since you began your shift, and by God, you never imagined how reckless some students at this place could be. You expected them to be more rowdy than usual for an all-boys school, but treating over twenty different injuries in four hours is a cause for concern.

It started pretty normal, with headaches and scraped knees that weren't that big of a deal. Just some medicine and a note to rest and avoid exercise for the day. Then it went up a notch when two students in white and red suits stormed into the infirmary, holding their hands as they'd suffered first-degree burns while making tea. All that was needed was to place the reddened skin under cool water, apply and prescribe petroleum jelly, and bandage the wound.

And then it got weird.

A boy had crashed into a tree while riding his broom and required help removing the splinters. Then, two students were suffering from the effects of a faulty spell and needed to be prescribed a special concoction (thank whatever deity for the digital medical encyclopedia installed in the infirmary's computer). Another student was accidentally turned into a monster during a fight, and you had to subdue the creature until the spell wore off.

And now, you're currently dealing with a person who has contracted "fisherman’s fever" from a failed experiment performed in potionology class.

The device in your hand vibrates as a shrill but catchy tune plays over the speakers, indicating the timer is up. You place the dark green ceramic coffee mug that has the cringeworthy inscription "Adulting is hard AF" on the white desk and take a look at the potion brewing in the glass pot.

According to the medical encyclopedia, to treat the disease, the scales that appear on the person's skin must be delicately removed using a sharp object. Then, to cure the internal effects such as the transformation of human blood into cold blood and the appearance of gills, the person must drink a special tea made with a bizarre combination of ingredients three times a day for a week.

You sigh softly, the scent of mint and mandrake permeating the air as the rays of the morning sun stream in through the window, adding some color to the gray infirmary. As your weary eyes watch a series of hot bubbles appear and quickly burst at the inner corners of the pot, you grab the metallic spatula spoon and carefully stir the liquid, which has taken on a muted cyan hue. A voice behind you coughs, drawing your attention, but you keep your gaze on the tea.

“Is he going to be okay?” the student's friend, whose name you learned is Kyle Blackwood, asks from the side of the bed, worried eyes watching his friend's tanned skin turn an awful shade of pale green.

After straining and then pouring the scalding liquid into a ceramic mug, you approach the stiff bed, avoiding the metal bucket on the side with the remnants of the shiny green scales you removed with a scalpel nearly half an hour ago. You softly nudge the shoulder of Hyde Sage, the sick student, to wake him up from his stupor.

“He'll be fine so long as he doesn't skip his tea. If he gets worse, like his skin turning blue or you see some gills on the side of his neck, take him to a hospital,” you indicate with a stern tone, hoping that the threat of a hospital visit might scare the first year into not skipping the medicine.

Unfortunately, the rumor that you and your roommates are magicless people spread faster than you had expected, as such, some of the students you had attended decided to disobey your instructions, refuting under their breath that what would you know, being from another world and without magic.

You are grateful for your interactions with customer service that you gained from your many part-time jobs. Despite being bad and even traumatic memories, you learned quite a lot on how to deal with stubborn people. This was no exception; instead of giving in to the anger or being intimidated by their comments and mocking grimaces, you kept a neutral expression and listed all the possible side effects of what would happen if they didn’t get their injuries or sickness treated.

Of course, you never lied, after all a small wound can develop into a catastrophic disease. It worked most of the time, their faces turning pale at the large list of infections and illnesses, and they quickly snatched the medicine from your hands, consuming it as fast as they could before they exited the office. Some quietly thanked you, others didn’t say anything.

Other times, when they were particularly argumentative, they were scolded by friends or classmates who brought them into the infirmary, telling them to shut up and just take the pills. You silently thanked them with a small smile, and they returned the gesture with a nod.

As you place the mug on a nearby table, both Hyde and Kyle let out a gasp as their eyes widen at your words. Still, many of the students are relatively nice or are too preoccupied with schoolwork to bother you or deny the treatment, such as the two teenagers sitting in front of you. Sensing their distress, you shake your head, gently patting Hyde's shoulder to ease their panic slightly.

“Don’t worry, it’s a worst-case scenario. Your fever has gone down, and your skin is starting to return to its normal color. Just, make sure to not skip the tea,” your lukewarm fingers gently press against the student’s forehead, a sigh of relief slips past your lips as you feel the earlier fever has subsided. Your free arm slides under his back and pushes, silently instructing him to sit up.

Kyle jumps at the opportunity to help him up as well, fluffing up the pillows and tucking them behind his back to make him more comfortable. As you hand the freshman the hot cup and tell him to be careful, you chuckle to yourself as you watch his nose scrunch up at the strong smell. “Bottom’s up, bud. Unless you want to become a fish.”

Hearing your words, he panics momentarily before judgmentally staring at the rather viscous liquid and bringing it close to his lips. As soon as a drop sneaks past his open mouth and lands on his tongue, Hyde physically recoils, a shiver shakes his shoulders and makes his skin crawl. He almost places the mug down in disgust, but pushes forward, remembering how much a trip to the hospital costs. Kyle gingerly pats his back as a sign of support and comfort.

Meanwhile, you return to the desk, moving your attention to the enormous metal cabinet that houses a variety of pills and medicines. You crouch down and open the compartment underneath, the door sliding open with a loud, unpleasant squeak, giving way to rows of glass bottles of various sizes and other medical paraphernalia.

Your fingers brush gently against the various containers as you calculate how much liquid is left in the pot. After a few seconds of mental calculations and the clatter of glass, you successfully locate and pull out a bottle to store the remaining tea; your ears perk up as you hear the clink of a ceramic object on a table and the rustle of sheets and clothing.

In one swift movement, you uncork the bottle, place the strainer over the opening, and begin to pour the liquid into it with ease. You unconsciously hold your breath as all of your mental concentration is focused on avoiding spilling as much as possible, although a few drops do escape and gently run down the side of the crystal. Two pairs of footsteps approach you as the last few drops of the tea land inside the bottle.

“This should give you 7-8 cups of tea. Drink it at a temperature of 65°C and don't let it cool down, it will lose its effects,” you screw the cap on as tightly as you can to avoid spills and turn around, running into the two students. Hyde's complexion looks much better, and a small smile is now appearing on his face instead of a terrified expression.

Gently, you hand him the bottle and your free hand grabs two small notes you wrote while the tea was boiling. One has a checklist written in blue ink, while the other is a more formal sheet of paper. "Here are the instructions on how to make the tea and this is your excuse to skip the rest of your classes today, deliver it to the headmaster. Then, return to your dorm, set the alarms for your tea, and try to rest today to regain your energy."

Both students nod eagerly at your instructions, gently taking away the notes from your tired hands. You’re relieved to see Hyde in a much better condition than when he arrived, remembering Kyle's panicked yells as he dragged him to the infirmary office. He was limp and couldn’t stop shivering, his skin was clammy and his eyes were constantly rolling to the back of his head. As you dismiss both of them, you’re taken aback when the two of them suddenly bow with big, happy smiles on their faces.

“T-Thank you very much, Mx. (Y/N)!” you scratch your head sheepishly at the way Hyde addresses you, not expecting such a reaction. “Don’t mention it… just doing my job. Also, (Y/N)’s fine. No need to be so formal,” the two return to their original positions before nodding merrily. As they walk towards the door, they wave again, the crimson and yellow ribbons tied to their left arms fluttering slightly as they move.

Soon, the door to the infirmary closes softly, and the office is plunged into a comfortable silence as the footsteps and lively conversation of the Scarabian students fade into the distance. You sigh as you lazily throw yourself onto the swivel chair, which creaks loudly under the sudden weight, and bring your fingers to massage the temples of your forehead.

‘That should be patient number #21… I better fill out the form and get to cleaning if I want to finish opening my accounts.’

Your hands land on the gray keyboard that sits in front of you, several of the letters blurred or missing, showing the constant use of the device. The monitor comes to life as you move the mouse, the cursor hovering over the “+” symbol and opening a new window, displaying an empty patient form. Without wasting a second, your fingers tap out different combinations, forming words to fill the empty boxes.

Time passes; outside, the birds chirp a happy tune and the clouds dance in the sky as you click the “Send” button and a message appears on the screen informing you that the form has been successfully accepted. As you stretch your arms over your head, your bones cracking stiffly, the rectangular device that’s been sitting idle for nearly an hour vibrates and the screen turns on to reveal a new notification.

Beyond satisfying your dire need to consume technology and geek content, the tablet is a key factor in your survival. In an unfamiliar world, where you don't know its customs, let alone its politics, the most important thing you need to do is nourish yourself with information on how to navigate this new labyrinth. Therefore, the moment you reset your device to its factory settings, you opened several accounts on various social media sites.

Strangely enough, many of the sites looked like bootleg copies of the ones you had back at home, right down to the bizarre similar yet different names. You almost burst out laughing when the words “MagiCam” appeared on the screen, immediately understanding what the application should be about. Thankfully, this also meant that you'd be able to navigate it much more easily since the UI was the same as Instagram’s.

In the brief respites of peace you’ve had during your turn, you’ve also understood a little more about how Twisted Wonderland works. Feeling calmer now that you know more about Night Raven College and the island where it resides, you then examined the world map and learned about the various continents of this world and who inhabits them.

You’ve also started to delve deeper into the magic of this world, but the concept still feels rather foreign and confusing, so, you’ve decided to wait until you’re in a calmer environment to pay closer attention to the details. Still, in your opinion, you’ve made good progress, and you make a mental note to share this information with your new roommates when you reconvene at lunch or later in the day.

You throw your head back, and the upper half of your body languidly lies against the chair's comically small backrest. You still feel a bit sore from yesterday's events, even after taking a hot (almost boiling) shower and replicating some of Yuuken's stretches. It also doesn't help that you've been running around for most of the morning.

You're tired... you want to go home.

As you stare blankly at the false ceiling, your mind wanders to the dark places you tried to avoid yesterday...

Will you ever be able to go home? Are your parents okay? Is Momoko okay? How long have you been gone? Does time pass differently here than it does in your world?

... Are you actually dead? This world feels so real, but you can't help but wonder…

Thought after thought flashes through your mind, as the earlier feeling of dread comes back with a biting force, stabbing at your stomach and tearing at your brain, making you feel sick. “Stop,” you silently beg to yourself, wanting the cursed string of detrimental questions to just end. And yet, your inner self continues to produce more and more, completely ignoring your desperate pleas.

Fortunately, you don't get to lose yourself for long as you're jolted awake by a hasty banging on the door to the infirmary. It startled you so much that you nearly fell out of the chair, the tip of your shoe smacking against the underside of the desk, followed by the clanking of glass, reminding you of the dirty dishes you didn’t wash. “D-Doors open!” you stammer with a shaky, feeling your heart pounding against your chest as you wobble out of the chair.

In a matter of seconds, the door opens, and a familiar man with orange hair peers in, his eyes widening in surprise as they fall on your figure. You instantly remember him from the entrance ceremony, a phantom feeling of warmth still lingers on your shoulder.

“The fu-!? H-Hey! Long time no see~!” he attempts to mask his shock with a cheerful tone before opening the door further and standing awkwardly at the entrance. “Um… do you know when the nurse is coming back?”

Without saying a word, you raise your right hand and point your thumb at yourself, swaying slightly back and forth, making the lab coat you wear over your navy blue sweater rustle. “I’m the temporary nurse. Do you need help with something?” even though his face is one of happiness, you notice that he is nervous due to his pale complexion and a slight tremor in his hands.

“O-Oh… Cool! Uh…” the orange-haired man stutters, sticking his head out of the room once more and whispering unintelligible words to someone standing outside. The exchange continues for a few more seconds, each one more confusing. Finally, with a frustrated groan, he returns and opens the door wider. “Sorry for that! We need a consultation!”

A bit weirded out by his behavior, you silently point toward one of the beds, ushering him to enter the room. You hope this consultation will be fast. As he opens the door wider and signals for the other person to come in, you turn around back to the computer and quickly open an application that pulls out a screen showcasing the list of all the students of Night Raven College.

As a precaution, before you can do a consultation or even prescribe medication, you must ensure the student isn’t allergic to any specific ingredients, takes some type of chronic medication, or has any important medical history. That way, you avoid any mishaps and save yourself a possible heart attack and a phone call to the hospital. Thankfully, the school has a nifty medical system that allows you to check for these kinds of things, all you need is a name or ID number.

Behind you, the shuffling of feet and the hushed voices weirded you out even more. ‘What’s up with the secrecy?’ Ah well, time is precious, and you want this consultation to be over quickly, so there’s no point in beating around the bush. With your gaze still focused on the screen, you click on the search bar and speak to the people. “Alright, what’s the name of the patient?”

As the question leaves your lips, a tense silence follows. You suddenly don’t dare to turn around, an uneasy feeling settles itself in the pit of your stomach as you wait for the answers. As the clock on the wall quietly ticks away the seconds that feel like minutes, somebody finally clears their throat and speaks. “Uh… Riddle Rosehearts.”

An eerily familiar voice speaks out, and you promptly turn around to watch a guy with green hair and glasses enter the room, a small and thin arm slung around his broad shoulders. And you feel the world fall apart and tear itself at its core as a head of red hair wobbles beside him, gray, piercing eyes turning to observe, widening at your figure before a recognizable scowl etches at his face.

"What in the Seven's name are you doing here?" fucking great, the last person you wanted to see, the tiny tyrant has come back to torment you again. Was the yelling match of yesterday’s night not enough for him? You take a deep breath, repeating to yourself that you won’t win showing your annoyance; you need to be a professional. Instead, you simply shrug your shoulders, maintaining an apathetic expression.

"Beats me, dude. Ask the crow man, not me," as you quickly type in his name into the application, Riddle scoffs as he’s helped to walk further into the room. "Do not address the headmaster in such a way. Have you not been taught to respect your superiors?" you roll your eyes at his comment, focusing more on his medical profile as he settles in one of the beds. Good, everything seems in order.

You don’t waste much time, reaching over to one of the desk drawers and pulling out a black bag containing a diagnostic kit and a clipboard with an empty consultation form. “I have, thank you very much. But I find it justifiable to insult the man who thought it was a good idea to stick me and the other two inside a dilapidated house,” you reply, slightly irritated as you place the stethoscope around your neck and head over to the bed.

The orange-haired man, whose eyes were intently focused on his phone’s screen, suddenly perks up at the mention of the house. “What!? Are you living in Ramshackle? I thought they were going to demolish that thing,” he mumbles the last part sheepishly as you pull a chair over to where the three men are standing.

The green-haired guy perks up at the name of the dormitory, his worried eyes suddenly landing on you. “How did your night go there?” you glance away from the prying eyes, scratching your cheek as you remember how stiff your back still is. “Awful, we ended up sleeping outside… Anyways, what's up? What are we dealing with?” although the orange-haired man seems more interested in hearing about your night, Riddle interrupts the conversation with a sharp cough.

“I'm completely fine. I just contracted a simple cold,” he remarks nonchalantly, covering his mouth with a gloved fist. However, even though the boy tries to pretend that he's fine, you notice that his chest moves up and down rather quickly, his cheeks are also slightly flushed, and small beads of sweat trickle down the sides of his face.

‘Difficulty breathing... I can cross out asthma, anemia, and anaphylaxis since his allergy chart is clear. A common cold wouldn't have him panting this way unless he overexerted himself with a clogged nose... Hmmm, it could be some kind of respiratory infection, but I need more details…’

Before you can intervene, however, the green-haired man shoots a glare at the housewarden as he angrily crosses his arms, his pose resembling a mother scolding her child. “A simple cold? Riddle, you were puking your guts out just a few minutes ago and you can barely walk!” he reprimands with a frown, and the redhead simply clicks his tongue in frustration. “As I said, I'm fine. It's nothing I can't handle.”

You jot down your observations and the glasses man's comments on the clipboard, nodding quietly as your brow furrows. “Besides the vomiting and shortness of breath,” — you feel slightly insulted as you notice Riddle’s eyes monetarily widen in surprise at your last observation. Man, he thinks you’re not capable, huh? — “Are you feeling any discomfort or other symptoms?” at your question, the housewarden ponders for a few seconds before his hand drops from his mouth. “Just a stomach ache.”

“Is the pain mild or severe?” the man shakes his head, placing a hand on his abdomen to indicate the source of the disturbance. ‘I can also rule out hepatitis at the moment. Seems to be from the core.’ “In between,” you simply hum at his response as you take more notes. “When did the symptoms start?” you finally raise your head to meet him, taking notice that he has difficulty keeping his eyes open.

He takes a deep breath and a hand shoots up to massage his temples. As you’re about to recommend he lays down on the bed and you’re three steps away from dialing Mr. Crewel, he speaks. “A-About two… no, one hour ago. I just feel dizzy. I’m fine,” he keeps repeating the last sentence as if to reassure the people in the room, but honestly, it makes you more nervous.

“Well, it might be a stomach bug rather than a cold. I’ll check your vitals before we move to treatment,” you announce before standing up and silently motioning for Riddle to remove his blazer. As you put on the earpieces of the stethoscope, his shaky and clammy hands pull off the piece of cloth, the glasses man stepping in to help. “Oh, my bad. I didn’t ask for your names.”

The orange-haired man jumps at the opportunity, flashing you a dashing smile as he holds up two fingers to his face, forming a peace sign. “Hey, hey! I’m Cater Diamond, but you can call me Cay-Cay!” he announces cheerfully, winking in your direction. ‘Well, what a charmer.’ You make a mental note not to call him that nickname, you'll just stick with Cater.

You simply wave back as you take a seat in front of Riddle and look in the direction of the green-haired man, who nods at you. “Trey Clover, vice housewarden of Heartslabyul. Good to meet you,” he replies as he flashes a small smile, though his gaze shifts to worry as he looks back at Riddle. An annoyed cough from the tiny tyrant interrupts your greeting.

“If we’re done with idle chatter, I would like to get out of here and return to my duties as soon as possible,” he grumbles as you simply roll your eyes and adjust the stethoscope. “Alright, alright. Take a deep breath,” you command in a toneless voice as you hook a finger around the collar of his shirt and harshly pull down, revealing a patch of milky skin.

A furious blush spreads across Riddle's cheeks as he short circuits for a second, a million thoughts racing through his mind as he feels your lukewarm fingers poking at his chest. He finally comes down to earth as he feels the cold nip at his exposed skin and he swears he feels on fire. “W-What’s wrong with you!? A-A warning would’ve been nice!” he shouts, almost slapping your hand away if it wasn’t for the glare you threw him back.

“Damn, you go, Riddle, getting some action,” Cater quietly giggles as he covers his Cheshire grin using his phone, which causes the housewarden’s face to turn even redder. “Shut it! Say a word of this and I’ll have your head!” the orange hair chokes on his laugh at the last words of the red hair. All of a sudden, the preppy attitude of the man is drained alongside the color from his face, instead, it’s replaced with an awkward laugh as he gingerly scratches the back of his neck.

‘What the hell is that reaction?’ Sure, the phrase elicits a rather daunting reaction from anyone who hears it, but, to pale at such words? That’s quite suspicious, but you frankly don’t want to stick your nose in the business of people who are already aggressive to strangers, especially when it comes to the tiny tyrant. You also don’t have the energy to bother, unless it becomes a bigger issue.

“My bad, sorry. But, you need to calm down or else I won’t be able to measure your heart rate,” you retort between your teeth, drawing Riddle's attention back to you. “Calm down!? Easier said than done! Are you even sure you know what you’re doing?” his booming voice does nothing but irritate you as you tighten your grip on the stethoscope. “Yes, I do. Now, shut up and let me do my job.”

About to respond angrily to your comment when he's stopped by a warm hand patting his shoulder, Trey giving him a small smile as the cold chest piece of the stethoscope touches his skin. The housewarden reluctantly agrees and gives you a nod. “Take a deep breath,” you instruct again in a low voice, listening carefully to Riddle's worryingly slow heartbeats. Each time you hear a “thump”, you draw a line on the clipboard resting on your leg, mentally counting up to fifteen; the entire room holds its breath as you remove the device after a while, your lips tightening as the uncomfortable feeling in your stomach returns with a vengeance.

‘Only 14 beats… this is bad,’ you swallow dryly as you waste no time calculating his heart rate, multiplying the number of beats by four and silently thanking your 12-year-old self for choosing first aid classes over rowing at summer camp. Unfortunately, the fleeting feeling of accomplishment soon fades, replaced by anxiety as you watch the number from the equation over and over again. “Holy shit…”

“Is everything alright?” you accidentally ignore Trey's worried voice, too consumed in your panic, as you run back to the computer and check Riddle's medical profile again. Again, he has no hereditary diseases or disorders, and his allergy chart is empty and clear. His normal heart rate, listed under his blood type, shows he has 75 beats per minute, so why the hell did your calculations show his current heart rate is 58 bpm? That's below average!

‘Is it bradycardia? It could be that he just developed it, but that doesn’t explain the vomiting or rapid breathing… Perhaps he has arrhythmia? Did I make a mistake in my calculations?’ you turn around to address the trio, wincing as you observe a powerful shiver shake Riddle’s body. ‘Whatever it is, I don’t have the proper resources, much less the adequate experience to deal with this.’

The red-haired man irritates you, his attitude is obnoxious, but there’s no way you’re letting him die here. “I’m calling an ambulance. Riddle’s heart rate is worryingly low and his conditioning is worsening. He needs professional attention.”

The three men's eyes widen in pure surprise, the shock is so severe for Riddle that he starts coughing loudly, the green-haired man next to him jumps in fright at the sound, but quickly concentrates on calming him down, gently patting and rubbing his back.

Cater reacts the fastest, shaking his phone with a pale face as he looks at you, terrified. "I'll call them!" he types restlessly on the keypad as you approach the bed to help Riddle get comfortable and calm his reaction.

But strangely, before Cater can even press the call button, a hand shoots up from the bed and rips the phone out of the orange-haired man's hands, causing him to choke on air, startled by the sudden movement.

It was Riddle.

“NO! I’M NOT TAKING ONE STEP IN THERE! I’M COMPLETELY FINE!”

… Huh?

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

Tag list:

@rotknox @agaygothicmushroom @sherryclover @mielle-estelar @yuriluvr2000 @Shironakuronatasa @yourlocalhot-simp @stvrbrighttt @tearsofgenshin @mewmew-dream @lehn2206 @coleisyn @ama-ewe

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isaacarellanesismyhusband · 3 months ago

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you’re completely mad, you know that?

pair: Fred Weasley x reader requested by anonymous

I was wondering if you could do a Fred x reader? Where the reader LOVES thunderstorms and the rain and always wants to go dance in the rain with Fred, but Fred is TERRIFIED of the rain and thunderstorms?

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The Gryffindor common room was bustling with the usual chatter and laughter, but Fred Weasley’s attention was solely on the window. His eyes darted nervously to the darkening sky outside, storm clouds rolling in like a heavy blanket over Hogwarts. He chewed on his bottom lip, his fingers tapping out a jittery rhythm on the armrest of his chair.

From across the room, you caught sight of your boyfriend’s restless demeanor. A smile tugged at your lips as you made your way over, your heart doing that familiar flutter at the sight of his fiery hair and the perpetual mischief in his eyes. Except, tonight, the mischief was replaced by a hint of unease.

“Hey, Freddie,” you greeted, plopping down beside him on the couch. You nudged his shoulder gently, trying to pull him from whatever thoughts were clouding his mind. “What’s got you so jumpy?”

Fred glanced at you, and his expression softened immediately. You had that effect on him, like a soothing balm for his anxieties. But tonight, even your presence couldn’t fully chase away the tension. He shifted in his seat, trying to muster a casual tone.

“Nothing much, love. Just... looks like there’s a storm coming.” He gestured vaguely toward the window, where the first raindrops had begun to spatter against the glass.

Your eyes lit up with excitement, completely missing the discomfort in his voice. “Oh, I love thunderstorms! They’re so... alive. Let’s go outside, Freddie! We can dance in the rain!” You were practically bouncing in your seat, already envisioning the feel of cool raindrops on your skin and the sound of thunder rumbling in your ears.

Fred’s eyes widened in alarm. “Outside? Now? But... it’s pouring!” His voice came out higher-pitched than he intended, and he quickly cleared his throat, trying to play it cool. “I mean, it’s wet. And cold. And... wet.”

You giggled, your heart swelling with affection for the tall redhead trying to mask his nervousness. You’d always found Fred’s fear of thunderstorms oddly endearing, like a secret vulnerability hidden beneath layers of bravado. But you also knew he’d never willingly admit to being scared. So, you took a different approach.

“Come on, Fred,” you coaxed, standing up and extending your hand to him. “It’ll be fun! Just you and me, dancing in the rain. I’ll keep you safe.” You added the last part with a teasing smile, knowing full well that Fred was usually the one who took care of you.

Fred hesitated, glancing from your outstretched hand to the window, where the rain was now falling in earnest. He didn’t want to disappoint you. He never did. But the idea of stepping out into that storm had his heart pounding for all the wrong reasons.

“Y/N, I’m not sure...” he began, but the hopeful, pleading look in your eyes made his resolve waver. How could he say no to you when you looked at him like that?

With a resigned sigh, Fred took your hand, his larger one engulfing yours. “Alright, alright. But if I catch a cold, you’re the one bringing me soup in bed,” he grumbled, though there was a hint of a smile playing at his lips.

You beamed, pulling him up from the couch and leading him toward the portrait hole. “Deal! Now, come on, before it stops raining!” You practically dragged him through the corridors, laughing at his reluctant shuffling.

As soon as you pushed open the doors to the courtyard, the full force of the storm hit. Rain poured down in sheets, drenching you both instantly. The wind howled, and a crack of thunder rumbled in the distance. You spun around, your face tilted up to the sky, arms spread wide, a picture of pure joy.

Fred stood stiffly at first, his hair plastered to his forehead and his clothes sticking to his skin. He glanced around nervously, half expecting a bolt of lightning to strike at any moment. But then he looked at you, really looked at you, and saw the unbridled happiness in your eyes. You were spinning and laughing, and the sight of you so carefree, so utterly alive, melted away his fears, if only a little.

Tentatively, Fred stepped closer, reaching out to take your hand. You pulled him into a twirl, your laughter ringing out even louder than the storm. Slowly, hesitantly, Fred began to move with you, his initial awkwardness fading as he matched your rhythm.

“You’re getting the hang of it!” you cheered, grinning up at him.

Fred chuckled, shaking his head. “You’re completely mad, you know that?”

“Maybe,” you replied with a shrug, “but you love me anyway.”

Fred’s heart skipped a beat, warmth flooding through him despite the cold rain. He pulled you closer, wrapping his arms around your waist. “Yeah, I do,” he admitted softly, his nose brushing against your wet hair. “I really do.”

You smiled, resting your head against his chest. Together, you swayed to the rhythm of the storm, the rain washing away Fred’s fears, at least for now. And as you stood there, wrapped in each other’s arms, the thunder above seemed to echo the steady, comforting beat of Fred’s heart.

Back in the common room, the Gryffindors looked up as the portrait hole swung open, revealing a very wet Fred and you. George took one look at his twin and smirked, raising an eyebrow.

“So, how was your little adventure in the rain?” he asked, barely concealing his amusement.

Fred shrugged, a rare, genuine smile tugging at his lips as he glanced at you. “Not so bad,” he said, pulling you closer. “Not so bad at all.”

#isaacismyhusbandeventhohedoesntknowityet #harry potter #harry potter fanfiction #fred x reader #fred #fred weasley imagine #fred weasley #fred weasley x reader #fred weasley fluff #fred weasley x you #fred weasley x y/n #fred weasley x reader fluff #hp fanfic

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sky-kiss · 7 months ago

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Lucy & Cooper: Eye to Eye

A/N: So short but needed it out of my head. Vague spoilers for the end of Fallout's first season, so be aware.

L & C: Eye to Eye

Vaultie doesn’t talk much for the first couple of days.

Coop tries not to dwell on it—lot easier for him, lot safer for them, if she keeps her mouth shut. Just…well, hell, it’s one of those things that niggles at him, twitching in the back of his mind like a worm on a hook. Dumb fuckin’ fish that he is, Coop lets it draw him in.

The ghoul gives her a once-over as they settle in for the night. Blood’s still crusted on her uniform, near the corner of her mouth, some of it flecked into her hair. A mottled bruise stretches across her cheek and up over her temple, purple at its center before paling to yellows and greens on the edges. Coop knows it hurts, but Vaultie doesn’t say shit.

A noose and a prolonged stay on death’s door, dehydration, and irradiation hadn’t shut her up, but she’s sitting there, staring into the fire, all banged up and silent.

Cooper chews a sardine ponderously. There’s no taste, not anymore, just the tension of flesh and little bones giving way beneath his teeth. He grunts before sliding the rest of the tray across to her. Vaultie doesn’t take it. He clucks his tongue. “Eat when then eatin’ is good, Vaultie. Get deeper into the Wastes and…well.” he shrugs as if the silence should be all the answer she needs. And it should be, but she just goes on staring with her huge doe eyes.

“I’m not hungry.” Almost as an afterthought, she adds. “Thank you.”

“Do what you like. You’re a big girl. And I ain’t your daddy.”

The phrase jostles something in her head. Vaultie’s whole face screws up—nose scrunching, lips curling—and she opens her mouth as if to speak, only for it to snap shut. A muscle twitches in the corner of her mouth and it’s…it’s a hell of a thing.

He doesn’t see his daughter in her face…doesn’t see Barb. He’s looking in a mirror. It’s two centuries ago, and he’s staring at himself—all offended dignity as he reads something unsavory in a script or listens to a suit wax philosophical about a battlefield they’ll never see.

Vaultie must clock something about his reaction. All the stiffness leaves her posture. She just…deflates, eyes dropping. “I know that,” she says, voice soft. Not the “let me de-escalate this situation” bullshit she’d put on in Filly…just human. Very human and so tired. “I’m sorry—it was wrong of me to snap at you.”

Coop almost laughs. He holds his arms out wide instead. “No harm done.”

She goes back to her staring, back to her silence. Something howls off in the distance.

Out of nowhere, and because it’s all just fuckin’ disorienting—the silence, having somebody around again—the ghoul says, “Reckon you’ll kill him?”

“Excuse me?”

He picks nonexistent grit out of his teeth and spits. “Think you know exactly who I mean, sweetheart.” Vaultie cocks her head to the side. Firelight licks at her skin—it makes his hard lines harder, edges more jagged, but for her? She looks soft and young…a gross oversimplification. There’s steel in her eyes. Coop shrugs, flashing a smile that must look horrible. She doesn’t shrink back. “You find it offends your finer sensibilities and I’ll do it for ya.”

“No.” Her tone leaves no room for debate.

“Vaultie, that’s not a word I’m in the habit of hearing.”

“It’s Lucy,” she corrects. “And I…said what I said.” The girl hugs her arms around herself. “He’s still my dad. I don’t want him…” Vau..Lucy pauses. Her brow furrows, “...Well, I guess I don’t know what I want yet. But…I have time.”

“Less and less of it every day.”

She screws up her nose again. “Maybe. But it’s my choice.” It’s the damnedest thing: the words just hang there for a second, silence broken by the crackle of the fire. And then she seems to actively register what she’s said. It’s Lucy MacLean’s choice. She smiles and nods—brilliant and bloodied and somehow still clean. “But…thank you for offering.”

Like he’s suggested giving up his seat on the bus and not filling her daddy full of lead. Fuckin’ Vaulties…Coop shakes his head, “Anytime, sweetheart.”

#fallout #lucy maclean #cooper howard #the ghoul #fallout tv #fallout spoilers #fallout fanfic #lucy maclean x cooper howard #dunno that I should tag it as shippy it really isn't #i can feel the hyperfixation growing

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weirdly-specific-but-ok · 2 months ago

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MORNING NEWS WITH ASMI!

@wispedvellichor said he used to read my posts like it was the morning paper and now I've decided to inflict a new form of torture on you maggots.

ON TODAY'S MORNING NEWS (it's not morning. but whatever. it's morning in australia.) WE HAVE:

The stray dogs are howling outside. Perchance there is a gang war. Locals wonder if any of the dogs are gay (it's me I'm locals).

You don't have to fight with thoughts you have that you don't agree with. You can just let them be. You're not agreeing with them by staying silent. They're just chemicals. You don't have to burn down all the clothes in a store you don't wanna buy just to prove you dislike them. You can just. Let them be.

Antarctica is turning green. This is not gucci. Global warming sucks.

Homosexuality is at all all-time high.

I keep accumulating queer neurodivergent people even irl.

I have not eaten a mango in a while.

Traffic is insane during holiday season in this city.

AND NOW WE HAVE OUR WEATHER FORECAST:

Australia: Hot with a chance of thongs that are not melted but are definitely sweating rubber.

Asia: Rain and generational trauma.

Africa: Clouds and a sun that is definitely a sun and not anything else.

Europe: Falling leaves and the chill of a collapsing global economy.

North America: Icy winds and vague capitalist thunder in the distance.

South America: The smell of crumbling trees and hot abs of the trees.

Antarctica: Green. We been over this.

And here's a crossword, too!

#what the fuck am i doing #weirdly specific but ok #asmi #maggots #tumblr shit #morning news with asmi #except it's not morning and there is no news #it's just asmi #hehe

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vigilant-insomniac · 8 months ago

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Ashes rain upon your scalded palms pt 1

Part 1/3 | Next Part | or read on AO3

@phicphight submission for @ecto-mochi's Prompt

Maddie is unexpectedly sent to an ashen future. She doesn't even get the chance to meet the mysterious man who sent her to this apocalyptic world - she's only given a single command, ringing over and over in her head: "Find Danny. Save him.

Also Very Much inspired by @zillychu's fire core AU because it has me in a chokehold.

Contains: Danny & Maddie bonding (?), Post apocalyptic vibes. NOT the ultimate enemy. A bucket full of angst.

_____

Chapter One

"Find Danny. Save him."

Maddie awoke with a start and immediately fell into a vicious coughing fit. Her lungs ached. The air was thick and polluted. She had to squint through irritated eyes once she had her handkerchief pressed to mouth and nose.

She registered heat around her, sweltering, like standing in front of a furnace rather than lounging out in the sun during a hot summer's day.

With half opened eyes, she took stock of what was going on. Fear and foreboding had consumed her mind by now and were only proven to be warranted. She had been half buried under ash coated rubble.

Her first thought was a house fire. Or the aftermath of which. But there was no ruin of a house, just the rubble that covered the area around her, and above her a dusty sky. Through the smog she could make out shapes that were vaguely shaped like the structures of houses in the distance, so she was certain she was in a town, probably even Amity Park. Had there been an earthquake?

Her hands pressed into a layer of ash, heat slowly sinking through her thick gloves, as she pushed herself upright. No pain registered as she stood. A small miracle. Not even her jumpsuit seemed damaged, only stained into a colorless gray.

"Jack?" She yelled through the cloth that she kept over her mouth against the worst of the pollution. It still sent her into another coughing fit. There was no response she could hear, even after her lungs had calmed down.

She needed a better vantage point then, if her voice wasn't strong enough to yell.

So she climbed the next biggest pile of broken stone and looked around in hopes of spotting a flash of orange or any other hints or signs of her family. But there were only broken buildings surrounding her and everything else was unrecognizable in its state of ash-covered debris.

What had happened here? She could still remember the last things she had done before waking up. She had sat in the living room writing a report on her last experiment.

Jack had been next to her, busy with his handcrafts. Jazz had been off with her fiancé and Danny-

"Find Danny. Save him."

Maddie almost fell off the pile of broken bricks. "Who's there?!" She yelled hoarsely.

But the world had gone quiet again. She hadn't noticed it before, with the pounding of her heart and the clattering of rubble as she scrambled around, but, if she held her breath and stood still, the world turned utterly soundless.

Not a scurrying of a rat or the yelling of someone in distress. No howling of wind or rustling of leaves. Time itself seemed to be depraved of sound- of Life.

Her breathing became short and shallow.

"Find Danny. Save him."

She flinched when the voice sounded again. So close it seemed to come from inside her head.

Was this her own panic sparking her into action?

Danny. Her son. She had to find him. But, didn't she have to find Jazz and Jack as well?

Or was this not her own thought? Maddie sank to her knees and forced herself to take in hot air. She wiped over her brow with her sleeve. The heat was getting to her, that was probably an onset of a heatstroke.

She had to find shelter, food, water…, find out where she was, find out what had happened between her last thought and this wasteland.

She had to find her family.

With new determination she looked up again and scanned her surroundings more carefully this time.

It was hard to make things out through the smoky fog. Everything turned into a monotone shade of grey, no further than a well tossed stone's throw away.

So she almost missed it, a glint far in the distance. Skeletal shadows stood blurrily, too washed out to really look like much, but they at least looked different from the rest of the ruins around her.

Mind made up, Maddie clambered down from her perch and headed towards it.

Her walk was a somber one. The heat seemed to be getting less bearable with every step and mirages distorted the ground and air ahead which made it hard to keep her turned towards the right direction.

Her breath through her makeshift mask hitched slightly whenever she tripped over hidden rubble and her clothes were quickly soaked. Ash mixed uncomfortably with her sweat. It clung to her whenever her steps disrupted the inch thick layer with every step and made billowing clouds of burned dust rise up like smoke from a fire.

Maddie frowned at that. She paused for a moment to look behind herself, and sure enough, a path was left behind. From where she had woken up, straight to where she was now. It wasn’t surprising that she’d left a track, but judging by the lack of any other footsteps she could spot, she might be the first person to have come through here in a while. She also wasn’t sure how long she must have been unconscious. She hadn’t felt all that dehydrated when she first woke up, but she had to have been lying there for a while for so much ash to settle.

Gooseflesh ran up her arms and Maddie rubbed fiercely at them. This was all pointing towards a direction she did not appreciate. Had she been spirited away? Had she been sent into some kind of Hell? The involvement of the Supernatural seemed the most likely explanation so far. More so than a house fire or an earthquake.

Her whole life though, she had dedicated to the science of the unknown. And she was getting close to the completion of the Portal. Her and Jack had been relentless recently.

So, while she should be ecstatic to maybe gather definite proof of the very thing she had been studying, she felt bothered by it… Her encounter with the Supernatural had been supposed to be caused by her scientific prowess. Not whatever was going on here. Completely unprompted hexing. Like this was all just a coincidence. A fluke or some kind of cosmic joke. She kicked a pebble.

“Oh you small woman want to play scientist and spend your life enduring the ridicule of people disallowing women the capacity to use their brains? Well none of that, my dear, let’s just throw all that hard work away and have the unnatural come to you, without the need to use that head of yours.” Maddie mumbled in a mocking voice. She was going insane. But still that thought irked.

She didn’t like those things called Luck, Chance and Fate. They felt so antithetic to her exhaustingly hard work she had to put in. It made it feel less. Her mother never had seemed to understand her issue with that. Maddie hoped she never made Jazz, or Danny for that matter, feel like that. Like their Efforts were any less powerful than Fate.

She exhaled a long breath before turning back towards her destination. This time she kept on the lookout for any signs of disruption in the soft blanketing. Any signs that she wasn’t the only person around. She had to find Danny. She shook her head. “And Jazz. And Jack. All of them.” she spoke with emphasis.

What lay in the distance was hard to gauge, with how everything looked like just another shade of nothing. But she had been right. The structure she was getting close to was different from anything she had seen on her path. Even more so, it seemed to be the center of the whole area of sorts. The temperature had been climbing steadily and the landscape had become almost completely flattened. It reminded her of tales of bombs and explosions that the men would bring back from the front. Her father never had told her much, but on the rare nights when he had sat down with world weariness and a glint of injustice in his eyes, he would answer all her curious questions and tell her about the dark side of science. About things that were made to cause only destruction. The alcohol had surely helped in making his tongue loose, even if she had always found it decently ironic, that for someone who would be so insistent on rules, that he would so easily break them himself when it came to something like smuggling in whiskey.

But she could understand it, somewhat. If she was disturbed by the sight of her current hellscape, she didn’t want to imagine what it must be like to experience it littered with blood, guts and bodies. If she had to live through something like that, then a bottle would also seem appealing to her.

She could go for a drink now, if she was being frank with herself. Her legs shook both from exhaustion and heat, but when she finally got to the structure, it made her trip backwards with a start. Because it didn't take too much of a closer look to recognise it. And it startled her because It was familiar machinery. Intimately familiar. It was the Portal. Her Portal.

A skeletal frame was all that was left of it. Warped steel reached towards an uncaring sky. She could spot drops of molten copper that stuck to some of the carcass' innards.

Maddie didn’t even care to suppress the sob that built in her throat. Her eyes burned from more than the dusty air, and she only had half a mind to not rub them with her gritty gloves.

Her portal was dead. Imploded or exploded. It took everything with it in its final moments. She wondered if it had spared her, out of recognition. Her life's work might have.

The pain of seeing her own in such a state was overwhelming. And all the destruction.. the portal was meant to break a new frontier, not be the root of catastrophe.

Calming down was difficult, but she had to put her grief aside until she knew where the rest of her family was.

Her theory of being spirited away didn't fit her new evidence anymore.

She was …home. Except her home was devoid of her family and her greatest creation had destroyed everything in its wider vicinity. It might have even killed-

Anger flared up then. This wasn’t right. Her Portal hadn’t even been close enough to completion yet. It had been in its infancy at best. There had been no permanent connection to a generator either. Even the ones her and Jack used, wouldn’t have had enough voltage to do more than run a few basic connectivity checks.

There was not even the slightest chance that it would be able to level a city. Not yet. Their plans would involve more voltage, more fuel, more unstable elements eventually. It would have had the potential in the future. But not yet. Even if Jack and her had wanted it to be much further down their project timeline. Their issues had always started and ended with materials. It usually took them compromises for what parts they would need, or patience while they first had to develop what they'd need. A lot of their plans even hinged on hypothetical materials that might exist in another time. Finding substitutes for them...it did bear greater potential for accidents and malfunctions, but so far her and Jack had been very conservative with what they'd use.

So this mass destruction couldn't have been her Portal's fault…. Yet, it sat right there, at the center…

Though when she looked closer, even less things made sense. There were parts, melted and deformed as they were, built into place, even though they should still have been sitting on a workbench. Some parts, she had only just put the order in for.

So what was this? It definitely was the corpse of a portal. She’d even swear that it was her Portal specifically. She had walked around it once now, but there was only so much she could tell, so she did the thing she would always vehemently advise against when it came to unfamiliar or broken machinery. She stepped inside.

She half expected something to happen. But it was just more of the same mutilated metal.

Still she couldn’t help the gooseflesh that returned to her arms as she inspected the remains.

Her brows knitted together when she saw the texture of the surface of some of the support beams. There was corrosion.

She knelt down and dug around until she pulled out wires from under metal plating that was thick but loose enough for her to pry apart.

“Why do you look like this?” Maddie mumbled under her breath when she held partially intact wires in her hands. They looked wrong. Not just like they had been caught in an explosion, but as if they were plain old. Brittle insolation that had faded from their bright colors, to soft pastels. Oxidation that would not happen in even a month or two, now discolored the copper. Even the beams she had spotted were rusting and flaking. They looked off-

Maddie’s head snapped up at a sudden noise. After the silence she’d been in since waking up, the sound came unexpectedly.

Even more so, It was a hissing growl that cut through the quiet like a knife.

Maddie had grown up in the countryside, she would recognize almost any local wildlife by their noises, so she knew exactly that this was not one of them.

She crouched low and moved to a spot with a large enough gap between the metal to look through. The noise had come from a distance, yet its echo had betrayed its force. Maddie felt the gooseflesh again. A shiver that ran up and down her body and made her shudder even in this furnace of a place. Instincts. That’s what that must have been about all along.

Her breath caught in her throat when her eyes focused on what she could see through the makeshift viewport.

Ghost.

Ahead of her, far enough that it almost got swallowed by the smog, floated and growled a ghost. Its un-nature was given away by its glow to anyone who had eyes. Even through the curtain of impure air, the light it emitted was unmistakable. Its shape was harder to make out. It looked vaguely humanoid, but she would have to get closer to make out any kind of detail. But she wasn’t armed very well, she only had her standard tools in her coat pockets and she was in an unfamiliar environment and without Jack. She wasn't ready to fight, no matter how much her desire fought against her reason.

Luckily it didn’t seem to have spotted her yet anyways..

It looked to be facing away from her too and growling further into the void beyond the fog.

There must be another one, she concluded. This was bad though. Ghosts were theorized to be highly territorial. So if there were two, a fight was likely to break out, if the posturing and growling didn’t deter the challenger.

Maddie decided to follow her instincts and retreat. Getting caught up in this would not end well.

She was glad for the ashy blanket on the ground that muted her steps, even as she all but ran. She didn’t dare to look back and only stopped for breath, when the ruins became taller and more resembling buildings and the air became cooler. Her newer theory must have been correct. The Portal was the epicenter after all. She could also recognise landmarks now. It was hard to reconcile this disaster zone with her home, but those were undoubtedly the streets she's known for the last twenty years.

After catching her breath and reveling in the comparably low temperatures, she continued in the direction she’d been running towards.

She wanted answers. The further away she got from the epicenter, the more likely she was to find things that were left unmarred.

She walked until she found a building that was left whole. Its red bricks shone through in places, and the windows were intact in some of the floors.

“I’m sorry” she whispered as she broke into the home of a family she'd known in passing.

It was no matter, as there was no sign of anyone having been here in ages. This time dust coated the surfaces and furniture, opposed to the ash she had almost gotten used to.

This place was exactly what Maddie needed.

She walked carefully through the hall and towards the kitchen. She found the living room during her search and the bathroom. She ignored the living room for now, but tested out the faucet in the bathroom. Nothing. Well, she hadn’t expected it to work. The city’s water system wouldn’t have been able to take such an explosion anyways. The watertower would have been in the zone with medium destruction, but that would be enough to render the town without a drop.

She noted how the faucet had been stuck and took a fair amount of force to even budge.

She continued towards the kitchen.

There were signs that someone had rummaged around and then left in a hurry. Maddie hoped that meant that whoever had lived here, had gotten to evacuate.

Maddie opened all cupboards and shelves until she had a decent pile of conserves. There was no water, but some of the tins were filled with soup. The labels weren’t pristine like something freshly bought. But Maddie was not prepared for the smell that hit her when she opened the first can.

Almost all of them were spoiled. Some tins had rusted in places. It took her some courage to drink from the one broth that smelled the least nauseating.

Yet it was a relief to wash the taste of smoke off her tongue.

She didn’t waste time after that to explore the rest of the home. The homeowners must have been on the wealthy side, since they were equipped with all sorts of modern gadgets. They even had a vacuum cleaner. Not that she would consider that high tech by her own standards. She had tried to get her own version patented long before that stealing bastard snatched her idea and made his own “vision”. You could only suck up dust with his. How was that superior to her home defense version? But that would probably not be the last stolen patent that quack would sell as his own … at least she could turn his pile of junk into something she could use for her own situation in a bit.

The living room had also turned out to be useful for her. Books, letters, and most importantly, a newspaper were to be found.

That one made her pause the longest in her scavenger hunt.

The date on it was impossible. It was well of a year into the future. When she picked up the brittle and gilbed pages, it almost fell apart, so she carefully skimmed over the articles.

“I must be hallucinating.” she breathed out. There, on the third page of the Amity Times, her name stood out from the headline of a column.

The Fenton Portal, her portal, had been completed but a test run had been a failure. The article was mocking. But right now she barely noticed.

She put down the paper and let herself sink onto the couch, not caring about the dust that got stirred up.

She'd been running around and mentally cataloging her findings for a while now. There was probably enough now to come to some conclusions about this situation.

Examine the evidence. That's what she had to do next.

There was no mistaking it, she somehow ended in the future. The paper read it was August 22nd 1924. That was one year later than it should be, … but that was also only the date when the newspaper stopped.

The paper itself held some answers.

It looked like the old records she'd get from libraries for her research.

And she was a competent scientist, she could make an educated estimate on how old things were based on their state. And this newspaper? It looked old.

And not just the paper. The portal too. And the conserves. And even the furniture inside this house. It all consistently showed signs of aging.

She didn't want it to be true, but the evidence spoke for itself.

She was in the future. A far off one. Most of it pointed towards it being around a century or so from when she should be.

Maddie rested her head on the back of the couch and stared at the ceiling.

So she had been spirited away. Not locally, but temporally. To a time that seemed like the aftermath of an apocalypse. Or post judgement day, as her mother would surely call it.

And her Portal was supposed to be the cause of it?

That part she still couldn't agree with.

Even in the newspaper, and she assumed it had been of the day everything had gone to hell, it said the portal had been tested and failed. But that must've been a safe affair, since the news of it existed. If it had gone up during the test, then there would be no one left to report on it.

She knew herself well enough to know that she wouldn't just turn it on carelessly after a failed run.

She couldn't even imagine Jack being so careless as to just turn it on or short circuit it.

An accident…. Maybe.

But they still had a procedure they followed when turning the Portal on even for its, in her actual time, half completed state. That included powering it back down and disconnecting it from its power.

But there were more factors at play here anyways.

There was a ghost. Lingering around here like it was its haunt.

And there was a reason she had been sent here.

The order to "find Danny. Save him." Had not left her head. It was like a song she'd hear on the radio once that would keep playing over and over in her head, even hours later.

Danny might've been sent here as well. Maybe she even set out herself to go after her son, and just had amnesia from whatever invention of hers brought her here.

It would be a relief at least. If she was here out of her own volition and with a mission.

Then that would mean she held strings in her own hand, and wasn't just being pulled along. It would also mean that the rest of her family wasn't here.

This would only hold up as a theory. But for now she would accept it and act upon it.

So the last piece:

The ghost.

Her instinct back there at the portal had screamed at her to run. And instinct, her intuition even, were rarely something she wanted to dismiss.

And her intuition was telling her the ghost was the key to it all. To figure out the apocalyptic event that flattened the city with her Portal at the center, and what happened to Danny. She would find him. And she would save him.

#completed #danny phantom fanfiction #ao3 fanfic #dp clockwork #dp fic #fire core au #Maddie Fenton #danny fenton #phandom #myDannyPhantom #myWriting #originalwork #danny phantom #phic phight 24 #phic phight 2024 #phic phight

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aspens-dragons · 4 days ago

Text

Off Screen Post

heat abnormal - Part Three (Final Part)

Content Warning(s): Post-apocalyptic themes/imagery, possession/mind control, parasitism, non-lethal injury.

//If the the Pokemon Sun and Moon main story makes you uncomfortable, it is recommended that you do not read this post.

The Beast runs. How long has it been running? Who knows; maybe five minutes, or ten, or maybe it’s been hours. It doesn’t particularly care; it is a Beast. An amalgamation, a manmade horror easily comprehended; It is a jacked fucking attempt at making God, having horribly failed in the process. It is nothing more than a consequence, just like how the battlefield that surrounds it is nothing more than a consequence.

04 stares into the sky; the dark, gelled mass that holds the boy is massive. He looks so small compared to it; compared to both of them. He floats, limp in it’s hold, scowling down at the chaos. 04 can vaguely feel the heat of electricity crackling in the distance behind, a flash of purple is the venom of a lethal Poison Jab. Maybe it should stop, maybe it should focus less on avoiding the attacks and maybe even help their recipients, but it doesn’t, because up in the sky is it’s goal and it’s purpose. Up in the sky is the very creature it was born to kill and the boy it has tasked itself with protecting.

As it runs, the mask cuts into 04’s neck; it hurts. It can’t remember the last time it felt air on it’s face. It would all be easier without it, but there’s no way for it’s chains to crack, so it howls instead as it races towards it’s trainer.

---

Aspen stares down at the battlefield, at the people and Pokemon and the orange flash of what he feels must be called the Blade. Something courses through his veins, something that pricks in his mind as something Wrong, as Something dangerous and noxious, but the Something is too blissful, too numb for him to particularly care. All these different battles seem so meaningless, so… small to him, but he doesn’t know where the thought comes from.

I’m so tired.

I might as well…

He wants to close his eyes, to relax, to let the bittersweet taste in on his tongue and the pleasant paralysis take hold of him forever. His vision blurs, and his eyes grow all the more dead until an unholy screech of a howl cuts into his hearing. It’s so loud, it’s louder than Miguel was, and it’s absolutely ear-grating. His eyes snap open, his exhaustion forgotten as he lets out a pained, strangled scream at the sound, excruciating and familiar in a way he can’t name.

NO-

The bliss, the paralysis, the numbness that brough him such relief is ripped from him as he screams again, the sound of that sacreligious cacophony of pure desperation reaching his ears and making him feel as though they are bleeding.

His eyes focus and they feel wet. His face feels wet.

What is this? Where am I? What’s going-

Everything is fine. I am fine.

That ever familiar pinch in his neck suddenly comes back, and everything goes dark.

---

04’s howl and Aspen’s scream both echo throughout the ruined city, and suddenly all eyes are up towards the sky and every gaze focuses on the gelatinous monster holding him in it’s grasp.

There he is; there is the boy they came in searching for, kicking and screaming, in what can only be the worst pain he’s experienced in his life.

His eyes are filled with tears.

Aspen’s eyes are filled with tears.

He is alive until he isn’t; as quickly as life returned to him, it leaves, and he goes fully limp.

The Beast, the [DATA EXPUNGED] makes a quiet sound and only runs faster, despite the surging pain every step brings. There he is, there is it’s trainer, so close yet so far. It runs and runs and it keeps running; that’s all it can do, that’s all it’s ever known, yet as it runs, not away from the boy but towards him, it can’t help but grow more and more aware of the sound of something cracking in it’s ear and the near blinding light that emanates from it’s chest.

Memories race through the beast’s mind, as though being sorted into files, into a new system; memories of joy and laughter, of pain and accidents, of quiet, winced affection and gentle, calloused hands.

As the light grows brighter and the cracking grows louder, 04 can think of nothing but it’s trainer and-

For just a moment, everything goes dark.

It can hear Aspen’s voice.

What do you say, bud?

The setting comes back as quickly as it left; everything is the same. The sun is still that wretched scarlet, the sounds of every battle in the ruin forming a horrid, terrifying symphony of desperation, the smell of chalky ash and bone and faint blood seeping into it’s nose and the overbearing, overwhelming suffocating heat continues to bare down on it’s talons and body and face–

It feels the air on it’s face. Everything is clearer, it’s senses are sharper, it no longer hurts and suddenly, 04 understands what the cracking noise and light was.

Leaving the remnants of the mask behind, 04 sprints with a newfound vigor; energy seeps into it’s bones as it locks onto it’s target.

Information about the dark, gelatinous mass that’s kept it’s trainer trapped in this hell comes to it naturally, memories of fights in never partook in playing in it’s mind like there’s no tomorrow, because there isn’t a tomorrow if it can’t get him back.

The Silvally runs, and it runs, and it runs, and it runs, and without an ounce of hesitation, it leaps into the air, eyes trained, not on the Infection, but on Aspen.

Talons and fangs and a crest rip through gelatin, the attack unleashed with every ounce of strength in it’s body; it near-tackles the Infection to the ground, ripping it away from it’s trainer; as they hit the ground, it resists the urge to continue to tear at the monster that took Aspen, but turns back to see him falling to the ground, all alone.

He looks so small; he seems to float in mid-air for just a moment, and for that moment, haloed by the sun, Aspen looks nearly divine.

04 runs towards him again, reaching him just in time to catch the boy, unconscious and limp on it’s back.

It wastes no time, sprinting through the wreckage, straight towards the Ultra Wormhole–straight towards home.

"Aw shit,” says Miguel, watching it all. Below them Celcity shifts uncomfortably.

"Everyone, we gotta get outta here now,” they look around at the rest of them.

Esper stands stock still, her head swiveling around as she speaks in a panicked tone, "What? Why? What's happening? I can't see anything out of my range. what's happening??"

"Aspen's fuckass thing is running back to the portal," Maple says, pulling herself over a ledge.

She lets out a sharp whistle, and Dash wastes no time trotting over to his rider. As he moves past Maple, she grabs a hold of him and pulls herself up onto him, the Cyclizar not slowing to a stop until they've both made it back to everyone else.

Jaime does a quick glance at everyone in the group to ensure that they’re all present and accounted for. Returning his Indeedee and his Croagunk to their Pokeballs, he says, “I think it’s time we did the same.”

He doesn’t want to spend another minute in this hell, not with the sounds of Ultra Beast cries beginning to surround the city.

The boy whistles for Momoto and Estrella to come to his side. The Cyclizar and the Espathra are both quite bruised and battered from their respective fights, but they trot to his side with newfound vigor and determination. They’re getting out of here alive.

“Momoto,” Jaime turns to his Cyclizar, “Help Esper and Victoria onto your saddle,” he moves to mount his Espathra, “I’ll take Estrella.”

Momoto nods and leaps to the girls’ side, and Victoria grabs Esper’s wrist to help lead her to Momoto, “Let’s go.”

Miguel looks around, trotting over to Maple and Dash while the others get situated, "Hey, Maple, what do you say to some good ol' distraction tactics? Keep the Beasts busy while everyone makes a break for it?"

Maple looks at everyone then back to Miguel with a smile, "I'm up for the world's first Cyclizar race to involve Ultra Beasts if you're up for it."

Miguel reaches down into their saddle bag and winces for a moment. Damn wound. Gonna have to get that one patched up. They pull out two rods, and throw one to Maple.

"Here, catch," They extend out their own with a smirk, electricity crackling off the end, "Extendable cattle prods."

Jaime glances back at Maple and Miguel, hesitation etched onto his face. “Right… well, if you two are doing that, then I’ll be taking the girls back to safety.”

He adjusted the hat on his head and said to them, “Don’t fall too far behind.”

And with that, Estrella and Momoto dashed off to the distance, taking Jaime, Esper, and Victoria with them.

Maple watches the others leave, taking a few test swings of the cattle prod. She'd ask where Miguel got this, but she's pretty sure she doesn't want to know.

"Well, wouldn't want to keep them waiting, would we?" She asks Miguel, a smirk forming on her face. Maple doesn't give Miguel a chance to respond before she sends Dash running in the opposite direction from the portal, loudly hollering to get any remaining Ultra Beasts attention.

Joy lights up in Miguel's chest even despite the shit situation, thinking to themselves, Oh, we are so fucking back.

Sprinting across the battlefield, 04 finds the weight of Aspen across its back to be almost comforting.

It can hear Jaime, Victoria, and Esper following behind them on the Espathra and the other Cyclizar. It trusts that Maple and Miguel will follow behind them.

As the Beast Type: Null Type: Full Silvally reaches the Wormhole, it can feel white hot warmth pulsing from it.

This is it.

It looks back, gazing at the five of them, who’d come into the Ruin to get Aspen. It glances at the boy on its back, just to make sure he’s still there. He looks better; his skin’s already gained some warmth to it. That’s good, isn’t it?

…

04 steps into the Wormhole.

It’s time to go home.

#wormhole link #trouble in paradise #high stakes pokeblogging #high stakes pokereality #pkmn irl #pokeblogging #rotomblr #rotumblr #off screen post #tw post apocalypse #tw post apocalyptic #tw mind control #tw possession #tw parasitism #tw injury

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montammil · 2 months ago

Text

Just a writing of Rowan and Sawyer pre-kidnap, showing a little bit of what happened before Rowan took him.

TW: Vaguely NSFW descriptions, yandere/intimate whumper, stalking, mentioned kidnapping, alcohol, attempted noncon, Rowan being a freak as always

...

Rowan swirled his whiskey glass idly but kept his gaze focused entirely on the man on stage. For the first time in a while, Rowan didn't drown in sorrows out in alcoholic despair. He couldn't, not when Sawyer was there. He wanted to be completely alert and aware to keep his attention on him. Not to mention, Rowan knew how he was when drunk, and he didn't want to make a fool of himself.

Even a sip too much, and he was either crying or giggling on the floor. Sawyer didn't deserve to see such an unsightly thing.

...even if the idea of Sawyer taking care of him while drunk was a nice thought.

No, he needed to keep a cool head. He needed to be calm and composed. Rowan couldn't let himself lose control. Not when Sawyer was in front of him.

So for the next two hours, he watched Sawyer from his usual table in the back corner of the bar and listened to the sound of his beautiful voice.

And Rowan found that he never could get enough. He still wondered what it would be like to have Sawyer sing only for him, alone where no one else would bother them. It would be perfect.

Then maybe, just maybe, Rowan would know true bliss. It was already such an amazing feeling watching Sawyer sing some old love song, wearing that charming smile he grew so fond of.

Rowan imagined the love song was meant for him. He swore Sawyer even glanced at him! Surely that meant something!

But the performance eventually came to a close. The band started packing up their instruments, and Rowan saw Sawyer start gathering his things.

With a disappointed frown, Rowan took another drink and downed the rest of his whiskey in a single gulp before getting to his feet and making a beeline outside, waiting for the raven-haired man to exit.

The winter air bit at his skin, but it only fueled Rowan's determination further. He stood silently with hands in his pockets and waited, scowling to himself. But finally the door to Indigo opened.

Sawyer stepped out into the freezing wind with nothing more than a thin jacket and scarf. Rowan tsked to himself. If only he had a way to offer his coat.

Just like always, Sawyer made his way down the street, pulling out a cigarette and lighter while he was at it. Rowan followed after him at a safe distance. The snow crunched under his feet as he tailed behind, careful to remain quiet. Thankfully, Rowan's footsteps were silenced by the cold wind howling in his ears.

Rowan was excited for when he could finally take Sawyer to his real home with him.

The anticipation and excitement thrummed within his heart. Just thinking of it, his heart pounded, and it grew hot in the freezing wind. The image of him cooking dinner for Sawyer, serving him wine, and eating with his lover was almost overwhelming.

Just on the usual time, Sawyer made his way into his apartment, and Rowan watched outside his window.

The usual.

Rowan was used to this by now.

Sawyer settled down on his sofa, flicking through the channels. He didn't even pay attention to the shows anymore. The television served as a sort of background static for him while he ate.

And, of course, he was eating his favorite Chinese takeout. How predictable, how very like Sawyer. Rowan thought he enjoyed routine, but Sawyer seemed even more stuck to routine than Rowan was.

Not that he minded. Just made his job easier, really.

An hour went by when Sawyer headed to bed. Rowan waited an extra thirty minutes after that just to be sure he wouldn't wake up. Only then did he creep closer, grabbing his lockpicks and cracking the front door open without a sound.

This wasn't the first time he snuck in, and certainly not the last. With practiced ease, he slipped through the home. Rowan's feet knew the creaky floorboards, the furniture in his way, and every nook and cranny of the apartment. It was almost like it was his own. He knew this place like the back of his hand.

Rowan went straight to the bedroom and carefully, quietly opened the door, peering inside with a hushed sigh of admiration. The moonlight peeking through the blinds lit the sleeping figure perfectly.

His gaze lingered over Sawyer's features, noting every detail of the man he adored so much. His dark hair was messy and tangled, the locks falling over his forehead in a way that had Rowan grinning.

It felt intimate.

Rowan slipped inside the room, closing the door behind him with the softest click. Then he slowly approached, reaching out. Hesitating. Was it too early? Could he touch Sawyer yet?

Sawyer unconsciously responded to Rowan's internal debate, moving in his sleep until he lay on his side with his face pointed towards Rowan. An unknowing invitation. A go ahead.

Rowan couldn't deny the permission offered to him. He swallowed thickly and caressed Sawyer's cheek.

Warmth radiated off his skin. Tension melted from Rowan's shoulders as he touched Sawyer's warm face. Careful not to jostle Sawyer, Rowan bent over him and brushed his lips against his temple.

"I love you," he whispered, pressing his nose against his hair and inhaling the scent of his aloe shampoo. Rowan sighed contentedly and moved away despite wanting to climb into bed with him.

Rowan spent a couple of seconds to find some discarded clothing he knew Sawyer wouldn't miss. When he found a sweaty tank top, he lifted it to his face and breathed in deeply.

Normally he would've thought the act was disgusting, but this was Sawyer's dirty tank top. It was normal to enjoy your lover's scent, was it not?

After taking in another whiff, Rowan tucked the tank top into his coat pocket and snapped a picture of Sawyer's sleeping face. Rowan then looked around and grabbed a few pairs of underwear for himself before slipping back out into the chilly night air.

...

The next night went a little differently.

It started with the same routine: Sawyer singing, Rowan watching every little detail, and drinking in all that was his precious Sawyer.

But Sawyer approached the bar, sitting a few seats away from him.

This wasn't rare from him, even if it weren't also common by any means. Sawyer would stop by at times after his show to have a drink or two and chat with whoever was manning the bar that day. Usually it was some guy named Lucien, which the two seemed to have the most chemistry with each other. Rowan found the guy's behavior around Sawyer detestable—a slimy, repulsive slug of a human.

But Rowan knew when he should keep his head low, and now wasn't the right time to intervene between them. No. He usually just watched on with narrowed eyes while he ordered another glass of wine for himself.

Tonight was not like that.

Rowan only gathered the courage to open his mouth for a second before some man sat in between them and struck up a conversation with his Sawyer.

He smelled of cheap liquor and was clearly looking at his lover in all the wrong ways. Rowan gripped his glass with a tight grasp, fuming inside.

"My name's Brooks. Your voice is very pretty," the bastard purred. "What do you say about you and me have some time alone together?"

Sawyer hummed indifferently. "I'm not interested."

Brooks chuckled. "Oh, come on. You don't gotta play hard to get with me."

He reached forward and put a hand on Sawyer's thigh. The singer barely gave it a glance and took another drink. "That doesn't work on me," he replied monotonously, never letting his eyes leave his half-empty glass.

Rowan became a pro at reading Sawyer; he could see the subtle changes in his expression that indicated discomfort.

It was no use though, because the stranger simply kept his hand where it was and leaned closer. "Then what will work on you?" he asked. "I'm really good in bed. Give me a chance, babe."

"I said I wasn't interested." Finally, Sawyer looked up, and Rowan caught a glimpse of his gray eyes in the dim lighting.

"I like a challenge, pretty boy." He licked his lips. "Why don't we go back to my place? I promise to make you feel really good."

Rowan was about to stand, to do something, but Lucien beat him to it.

"Get out, man." The bartender grabbed Brooks by the shoulder. "He's not interested, and he's made that very clear."

Brooks scowled but stomped out anyway. Rowan watched Sawyer thank Lucien. Even though he despised the bartender's guts, he was thankful Lucien did his job. Rowan could feel the tension bleed out of his body, and he finally took another drink, his mind buzzing with a mixture of rage and anxiety. What would have happened if Lucien didn't step in?

Sawyer ordered another drink, chugging it down in record speed. It must've been a tough night, Rowan figured. He was sure that pervert didn't help, making a mental note to get violent if he ever laid eyes on him again.

Lucien replaced Sawyer's empty glass with one filled with water. "Take it easy there," he warned.

It was clear Sawyer was drunk now, judging by the playful way he stuck his tongue out at Lucien.

He knew the two were friendly, but it was rare to see the singer be anything but solemn or serious, unless he were home alone... or rather, when he thought he was home alone. But here was Sawyer being childish; it was strangely endearing.

Even better was that he was actually showing emotion, albeit from the alcohol. He imagined when Sawyer came around to loving him back, he'd be playful with him like that, too.

"That's enough for you," Lucien snorted. "If you wait thirty more minutes, I can drive you home."

"Nah, I got a cab outside," he mumbled, words slurring. "I'll be fine."

Rowan knew damn well that was a lie, but Lucien seemed to believe him since he merely nodded and helped the next customer down the row. He watched Sawyer push the glass back to Lucien and wave before getting to his feet and stumbling outside.

Like always, Rowan followed after him. As expected, Sawyer wobbled and almost tripped a couple times.

Now Rowan was less doing this for his own needs and for Sawyer's. Someone had to be there for his love, whether Sawyer knew or not. Because who knew if someone else would try to take advantage of Sawyer's drunken state?

As if to confirm his suspicions, a car rolled up next to Sawyer and called out to him. God, did this entire town want to fuck him?!

"Hey," a different guy drawled as he pulled up next to Sawyer. "You need a ride somewhere?"

"No," Sawyer slurred. "Don' needa ride..."

"Aww, don't say that. It's cold and snowy out! Let me bring you home. Where's your house?"

Rowan decided enough was enough. He nearly jogged up to Sawyer and wrapped a protective arm around his shoulders. "My boyfriend already has a ride; thank you very much."

"Oh uh." The man's eyes darted between Sawyer and Rowan. "Didn't mean to intrude or anything. Sorry, buddy." He drove away, leaving them standing there on the sidewalk.

Sawyer stared at Rowan with dazed confusion. His brain obviously wasn't working properly. But even when he was completely wasted, he still had some common sense left in him. After several seconds of staring at him, Sawyer snapped back into reality.

"Thanks," he managed to hiccup out. Sawyer stepped out from under Rowan's arm and stumbled towards a random direction.

"Wait!" Rowan quickly grabbed his wrist and pulled him back. "I... um... I just want to make sure you get home okay." Sawyer blinked at him with unfocused eyes. Rowan wanted to snatch him up right then and there, but there were still so many things to prepare. He needed things to be perfect for him.

"Cool," he said after what seemed like an hour of silence.

He slumped into Rowan's hold and grinned. Without any trouble, they both walked in silence, with Rowan occasionally adjusting Sawyer in his arms.

Sawyer was underdressed as always for this type of weather. It only worried Rowan. Did anyone care for his well-being at all besides himself? He draped his coat over Sawyer's shoulders, to which the shorter man muttered a thanks.

At Sawyer's door, he struggled with his keys and kept failing the lock, hands shaking too hard to work it. So Rowan plucked the ring of keys from his hands and opened the door, dragging him into his apartment with ease.

"Hate it when that happens. Thanks, man."

"Anything for you."

Rowan looked through Sawyer's cupboards for a glass. Sawyer sat down and watched Rowan work, and his expression remained unreadable as he poured water.

Sawyer drank big gulps. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, so much that Rowan had to tear his eyes away before he got too excited. When finished, he slammed the cup back down onto the counter and ran a hand through his hair, mussing it up further.

Sawyer rubbed his eyes. "'M so tired."

"Then why don't you go to bed? Here, let me help you." Rowan didn't even care about overstepping his boundaries anymore; he doubted Sawyer would remember much of tonight anyway.

Rowan helped Sawyer off the stool and led him towards his bedroom, pulling off his scarf and jacket as they went.

He sat him down on the edge of the bed, kneeling in front of him to pull off his boots. For the first time, he allowed himself to enjoy such an intimate moment. He could pretend that he and Sawyer were married and Rowan was helping his beloved husband get ready for bed. Then he would climb under the covers, and they would cuddle until they fell asleep together.

God, just imagining it caused an overwhelming warmth to bloom within his chest. He had to shake those thoughts out of his head before he got carried away.

Sawyer tossed the shoes to the corner and glanced up to see him leaning back on the bed. His shirt was hiked up to expose his belly, his pants unzipped. Rowan sucked in a sharp breath, a familiar stirring happening below.

"Stay here 'till I fall asleep," Sawyer rasped. He didn't understand what he was even saying. He was vulnerable and drunk—the most beautiful thing Rowan's ever seen. It was like a gift was handed to him.

Rowan nodded quickly, trying his best to keep his cool. He sat next to him, watching him shimmy out of his slacks. Sawyer was wearing tight briefs.

The sight of it all nearly had Rowan drooling. He covered his mouth to hide his lewd grin. This was a testament to how long he was waiting for this moment, but it didn't matter, because now he finally had it.

After just a moment of hesitation, Rowan slid into bed with him and pulled him into his arms. Sawyer reeked of alcohol, but he found himself not caring one bit.

Finally, he was going to sleep in the same bed as the one he loved. He buried his nose into the crook of his neck and held him tightly. Nothing would ever compare to the feeling of holding him in his arms, warm and solid, safe.

...

Sawyer woke up to an empty bed and a pounding headache. His memory from last night was foggy, but he vaguely recalled falling asleep after bringing himself home. It was odd, because normally he'd be hanging halfway off the mattress with limbs sprawled out across the bed, yet he was comfortably tucked in. In fact, the sheets weren't even kicked down to the foot of the bed but neatly pulled up to his chin.

Perhaps he just imagined most of last night. Oh, well, time for a new day.

#whump #rowan oc #sawyer oc #yandere whump #yandere whumper #tw stalking #stalking #creepy whumper #tw implied noncon #whumper x whumpee #whumpee x whumper #intimate whumper

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lucentclan · 1 year ago

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well! i wasnt expecting this-

I wrote a little snippit for this that I'll put it under the cut, I'm so upset over them you have no idea

despite the war between Lucentclan and Fernclan being over, Newtstar decides that he, Pepperflare, and Violethope will go patrol the borders one last time before the sun goes down. They don't realize the scent of rain or the clouds forming in the distance, as they're crossing the beach, rain begins falling heavily and weighing down their pelts.

"Newtstar!" Pepperflare calls over the now howling wind, anxiety pricking in her paws as the rain brings back unwanted memories of Sablepaw being washed away in a flood four moons ago. "We should really go back to camp! I don't have a good feeling about this."

Newtstars ears flick in acknowledgement, "we need to be sure that Fernclan isn't up to anything. I won't lose anymore cats to those fox-hearts!" He argues back, claws digging into the sand as he thinks of their previous medicine cat, Rippleclaw.

"No sane cat will be out in this weather!" Pepperflare insists, "Especially Fernclan cats! They hate water!"

"I agree with Pepp-" Violethope begins, her meow quickly cut off by a deafening crash and flash of lightning. In the distance, the sound of trees cracking and breaking echo down the mountains.

All three clancats freeze, heads snapping to the horizon where they see a massive wave of water quickly making its way down the hill, rocks, trees, and other natural debris coming along with it. The clancats barely have time to process what was happening before the water reaches them and sweeps them off their paws and into the unforgiving ocean. Their lungs fill with freezing saltwater as they cry out for starclan to save them to no avail.

Newtstar is the first to open his eyes, the yellow a sharp contrast to the darkness around him. Stars now shine in his pelt, and reflect in his eyes as he takes in the vaguely familiar area. He had been here when he lost his first life protecting his clan from a dog the same moon Rippleclaw had been found dead on Fernclans border. It had been nice to see the tom again to be assured that he wouldn't be alone, their starclan guide, and Newtstars own kin, Shardfoam being there to keep him company.

He sits and sighs, watching the water drip from is glimmering pelt and dissappear into the stars beneath his paws. He couldn't help but feel as if he had let his clan down.

Pepperflare and Violethope join him soon, appearing with splashes of salt water and gasping breaths that didn't take any oxygen. The she-cats meet eyes for a moment, confused as they look towards their leader.

They realize the stars at the same time, dismay filling them. Quietly, they step forward to sit beside their leader in quiet mourning.

"I'm sorry it had to be this way," A familiar voice says, a cream tabby tom stepping into sight. Sympathy reflecting in his grey eyes as he looks at the warriors. Beside the medicine cat is a younger spotted gray apprentice, Sablepaw, who is looking at them with the same sympathetic look.

"Rippleclaw! Sablepaw!" Newstar cries, standing. "Whats going on? We can't actually be dead, right? What about my other seven lives?" The words tumble out of his mouth before he can stop them, needing answers. Beside him, Pepperflare tries to speak but just hacks up a mouthful of water. Violethope remains quiet.

Rippleclaw sighs, "Unfortunately there was no way for starclan to bring your body back, it was washed too far out to sea for it to be possible." He steps to the side, the area behind him now streching out into a vast area, stars littering ground. This was starclans hunting grounds. The medicine cat dips his head, tears in his eyes as his friends try to process their deaths, "Welcome to starclan, my friends. Here you can watch over and guide Lucentclan."

Down below the sky, Quailcall sits outside the medicine den, blue eyes watching the entrance of the camp. It's been far too long since the patrol had left, and the elder was starting to get a bad feeling. He looks up at the dark clouds as it stormed and shakes out his pelt before standing and turning to enter the den.

Sparkfire lays in a nest against the far wall, curled up tightly as she sleeps through the infection in her wounds. The she-cat twitches and whimpers in her sleep, shifting slightly. The tom silently makes his way to sit beside the nest, watching the slow rise and fall of Sparkfires back, half expecting it to stop at any moment.

Quailcall looks towards the entrance of the den once more, dread filling his belly. "Starclan help us." He says quietly before curling up close to the deputy and shuts his eyes in an attempt to sleep until the patrol returns.

sorry for the short fic but i wanted to write for this moon soo bad and got carried away.

What will Sparkfire and Quailcall do now?

#clangen #lucentclan #newtstar #pepperflare #sparkfire #sablepaw #rippleclaw #violethope #feel free to send asks or ask me to write more for a specific cat

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siriusleee · 2 years ago

Text

adamantine chains | part 1

"Amor et melle et felle est fecundissimus." "What does that mean?" "Love is rich with both honey and venom." "I suppose that is true." Or which in König finds you broken in the mountains. A retelling of Cupid and Psyche. König | Reader | 2k

tags: no tw for this chapter, eventual smut, eventual death, idk yet request a fic here | buy me a coffee so I don't have to work overtime and can write more a/n: reader is speaking Polish. Google translate helped a lot here.

chapter 1 | chapter 2 | chapter 3 | chapter 4

You were broken and bleeding when you were found. It was supposed to be a routine hiking trip around the Hohe Tauern - something your fiance had done plenty of times before - one last trip before the wedding. But you had been off taking photographs of the mountainside when the storm blew through. You had tried keeping still, keeping yourself where you could be easily found, but the rocks beneath you had become difficult to walk on. A hundred-foot descent had found you in a crumpled pile thinking about how your father would cry for the first time in his life when he finally realized you would never be coming home, his only child - his only baby - lost to the Austrian countryside.

You had wished, prayed for the first time since you were a kid, for death to come quickly as the rain nearly drowned you. It was a miracle full of pain when you rolled yourself over to your side, your scream reverberating off the mountain, to keep the rain from pooling in your mouth.

When the wind picked you up, you knew you were dying then. You had to be - no such softness or warmth could have come from the mountain. The vague pressure of your camera strap against your chest kept you tethered to the mortal world, but that didn't stop you from trying to speak to the soft wind that had picked you up.

"Don't lose my camera."

Even to you - on the brink of death - your voice sounded terrible: full of gravel and glass.

"Sprich nicht. Sie werden in Ordnung sein."

"What?"

***

You know you are dreaming - you haven't been home in years. Nevertheless, you don't question the warmth on your cheeks or the sweet scent of your grandfather's orange grove in the air. Your curl your bare toes in the dark loam and start running, the aisle of trees flitting past you. You have no idea why you were running - if you were running towards something or away, but something is calling you forward.

In the distance, you see your grandfather waving his hat at you, just like he did when you were a kid and he was calling you in for dinner. The urge to cry with happiness overtakes you, you haven't seen your grandfather in years, since he died when you were 15. You raise your hand, trying to wave at him, to catch his attention and let him know you're coming in when you hear him screaming for you.

"Turn around Moja miłość! Nie podchodź bliżej. You need to go home!"

His face comes into sharp focus, and you can see terror etched into the lines of his face; you've never seen him look like this. You try to slow yourself, but you can't. Your feet move of their own accord pushing you towards him. The sound of a wolf's howl cuts through the orchard.

The dark shadow of a clawed monster appears behind your grandfather. You try to scream for him, tell him to move, to turn around, to do something. But your face is forced into the same smile it's been wearing.

The monster pounces.

You awake to intense nausea. Your stomach rolls and on instinct you try to push yourself up. You dry heave before you can stop yourself, stomach acid burning your esophagus. A pair of warm hands are on your shoulders, pulling you back. You panic - the room spins, everything is in the wrong place, and everything smells wrong. The hands that hold you are too large to be your fiance's.

You can hear yourself, as if from a distance, screaming, fighting back whoever is holding you. It takes what must be an hour to realize you're yelling in Polish, probably the first time you've spoken it since your grandfather died, and the thought punches you in the gut, pulling up the image of his face from your dream.

"Zejdź ze mnie! Pozwól mi odejść! Pomoc!"

The hands let you go and you fall, hitting the ground sharply on your hands and knees. The pain brings the present into sharp focus. Beneath your hands is a stone floor, polished smooth by hundreds of feet. A pair of boots, larger than you've ever seen lay abandoned at the end of the bed. The musky scent of a man covers your clothes. With shaking hands you grab the shirt around you and realize that this isn't the shirt you had been wearing, it's not even a shirt of yours. It hangs down to your knees, more dress than shirt.

The sound of wood creaking and fabric on fabric catches your attention. You freeze, a mouse pinned beneath a cat's paw, as a shadow looms over you. Again hands larger than you've ever felt grasp you by your shoulders. You expect to be dashed to the ground, stomped on, and left there, but instead, one hand slides down to cup your elbow, helping you to stand.

"Are you alright, Taube?"

You turn to answer, to see who pulled you from the mountainside and freeze at the sight of him. He's larger than any man you've ever seen, a piece of the mountain broke off, a Baetylus brought to life. His face is covered in a mask, bleach stains running down like tears, and his eyes are ringed in black grease. A statue of Ares brought to life and hidden beneath a thin black mask, hiding the horrendous figure from the world. You think of your grandfather, screaming at you to turn around and go home. A sliver of ice slides through your belly, and you remember being a girl and your grandfather telling you about dreams and premonitions.

The man seems to realize the apprehension that fills you. He pulls his hands away, the warmth of him going with him, and steps away from you.

"Es tut mir Leid. I didn't mean to frighten you, but you need to get back in bed. You are still injured."

His voice is steady, his hands move behind his back in parade rest. You take a half step away from him when a woman's voice makes you jump.

"Was machst du, König? Lass sie in Ruhe. Du wirst sie zu Tode erschrecken."

The man cowers, stepping away from you. You turn to find an elderly woman in the doorway of the room, a large bowl in her hand.

"Entschuldigung, Oma. Sie hatte einen Albtraum und ich hatte Angst, dass sie aus dem Bett fallen würde."

"Bitte. Sie kommen jede Stunde hierher, um nach ihr zu sehen. Verlasse uns. Gehen."

You understand bits and pieces of their conversation, enough to know that the woman, his grandmother, is chastising him, but you can't make out why. The man nods at you, and leaves the room, stopping only to bend down to whisper something in his grandmother's ear before he leaves.

When he leaves, the grandmother points at the bed and barks out an order.

"Hinsetzen."

You follow her order, wincing at the pain in your chest when you do. She sets down the bowl on the side table and wipers her hands on her apron.

"Do you speak German?"

"No, I don't."

She hums at you, dipping her hands in the bowl to retrieve a white rag.

"Lift up the -" she drops her words, her fingers plucking the fabric of her own shirt. When you don't, she gives you a withering look.

"You are still hurt. You are bleeding all over the place."

With a start, you realize she's right. Blood drips from your elbow onto the stone floor beneath you. Painfully, you peel the shirt off, letting out an involuntary whine when you try to lift it above your shoulders.

The woman wipes you down like you're a child, refusing to let you have the rag. You watch as the water in the bowl slowly turns pink. You can feel the tell-tale itch of stitches on the back of your arm. You venture a look at yourself - the valleys of your skin are black and blue; you realize why your chest hurts so bad. You must have broken a rib or two in the fall.

"What is your name?" The woman asks, pulling a fresh roll of gauze from her apron pocket. You tell it to her, extending your arm so she can wrap it around the cut you opened.

"And what should I call you?" You ask softly; the hint of a smile plays on her lips.

"You can call me Oma."

"And him?"

The woman sighs; you can tell she's searching for the right things to say to you.

"Mein Enkel heißt König."

"König?"

"Ja."

When she finishes cleaning you up, she points to a pile of clothing on a wooden chair in the corner.

"Your clothes were destroyed in the accident. Those might fit you better than this," she says, throwing König's shirt over her shoulder.

"Get dressed and come eat. You've been sleeping for days."

When she leaves you, you take stock of the room you're in. It's small, but large enough for a king-sized bed and a chair, but barely. A small window with thick glass overlooks a green valley, the Hohe Tauern looms in the distance, and for the first time since waking, you remember your finance and the hiking party. Oma said you had been asleep for days, they should be looking for you for now. You need to find a way to contact them, or the embassy or someone that can let your father know you're still alive.

It takes an act of god to get dressed; you grit your teeth and push back the tears that threaten to overflow. You have to steady yourself against the windowsill and press your forehead onto the cold glass of the window to keep yourself from puking.

The stone floor is cold beneath your feet; you stumble out of the room and catch yourself on the doorway.

The main room is larger than the bedroom - large enough for a small living room and kitchen. With a sardonic chuckle, you realize you're in a semi-modernized mountain villa stuck halfway between 1560 and the present day. König shoots up from his spot at the scrubbed wood table.

"Brauchst du Hilfe? Do you need help?"

You shake your head at him, still too wary of letting him help you, of letting him touch you again.

You manage to cross the room, holding yourself up on the wall until you manage to sit down across from König, your arms wrapped around your ribcage in a vain attempt to keep yourself together at the seams.

König doesn't stand - he leaves the table and crosses the room in two strides until he's at the stove, a quaint woodfire thing that reminds you of something you'd see on television.

"Where are we?" You finally ask, the silence growing awkward. When König answers you, he doesn't look at you. Instead, he keeps his gaze affixed to the burbling pot on the stove.

"We are outside Rauris. I found you in the mountain, what were you doing there?"

König ladles what's in the pot into a bowl and slides it across the table to you, still refusing to meet your eyes. The smell of the soup, creamy and heavy, makes your stomach growl.

"I was hiking with my fiance; we're supposed to be married," you trail off, realizing you don't know what day it is and if your wedding was supposed to have passed already or not, "soon. This was a trip before we had our wedding. I need to find somewhere to try and contact him."

König clutches the crusty bread in his hand tight enough that it crumbles in his grip. With a sigh, he shakes the bread off in the sink before grabbing another piece to hand to you. He doesn't speak again until he settles down across from you, arms crossed tightly.

"Eat."

He barks it like a command, and you follow his order.

"I will take you to town tomorrow. It is Sunday today; tomorrow you can speak to the police about your fiance. But the storm was," he stumbles over his words for a moment, "schrecklich."

He doesn't need to say anything else. You scrape the bottom of the bowl with your spoon, stomach turning sour.

"Tomorrow."

#konig #konig x reader #konig mw2 #konig imagine #konig fic #call of duty mwii #modern warfare 2 #mw2 #my fics #cod fanfic #cod x reader #könig #könig fluff #könig smut #call of duty #könig x oc #könig x y/n #König x reader

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hmshermitcraft · 1 month ago

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pearldaph anon here with somethint other than pearldaph for once 😝

weekly theme submission : magic

this is goldenmoon / jimpearltyn btw (jimmy x pearl x martyn ) 🕊️🌙🌲 ~ 💛💙💚

UMMM TW FOR PARANOIA, FEELING OF BEING WATCHED, AND VAGUELY GOREY THOUGHTS !! 🦎

so martyn's never been one to believe in magic. all those folklore tales, stories of wizards and fairies and mermaids and bla bla bla. he really didnt bother with it. he much rather worry about his next rent payment than some magical hobo cursing him and his generations.

that all changed one night.

see, he's not a very anxious person. not very paranoid. he's got a degree of somewhat (read:debatable) reasonable thinking that tends to cancel out any fear or anxiety that might spark. however, that reasonable thinking doesn't account for the constant feeling of being watched by something. what that something is constantly evades him, however. as soon as he makes any sign of noticing, a suspicious look on his face, a glance around, the feeling and all with it disappears.

it got to the point where that feeling was driving him insane. it felt like something crawling in his skin, making him wish he could just tear it all off. it simmered, pumped through his veins like blood. he could almost taste the dry bile he could feel rising whenever he went outside.

it didnt help that nearly no one believed him, excluding his sweetheart of a roommate jimmy. he was so concerned when he told him, paying extra attention to him martyn swore that sometimes he could see golden wings on jimmys back whenever he came home or felt uneasy.

everything changed, however, when he saw the wolf. on his front doorstep.

for some reason, despite every hair and inch of skin that screamed run run run he stayed there. stayed watching it. the wolf was eerily pale, its fur coat a unnatural-but-beautiful shade of marble white. it seemed to almost glow under the shine of the full moon wasnt the moon only in waxing gibbous yesterday, it drew him in. it felt almost familiar.

as he stepped closer, the wolf ran to the forest. now, a smart, rational person like martyn would normally absolutely not follow this random wolf into the forest. however, at the state he was in, all rationality was thrown away. so he followed the wolf, chasing it as fast as his wobbly legs could carry. as he ran, he could hear wolves howling in the distance, his blood pumping faster with every note they sung.

at some point, the wolf stopped. so did martyn. his vision was fading out. his breath was harsh, heaving, his body screaming with soreness and aches from extertion, and he was pretty certain he'd sprained a foot or too. falling to the ground, he looked up his chest heaving his vision spotty and-

...and...

...oh.

oh.

[ - even now, martyn would be hard struck trying to recall what he'd saw. the memories were blurry and the night air was cold and harsh, and he might've been just a bit parched and maybe had some adrenaline still in his system, but he knows for sure, surer than he'd even been, that that night was the night he fell in love. - ]

she must have been a angel. a god, even.

her appearance, unassuming, meager, maybe one would even say plain, looked just that of a regular human woman. he couldnt be fooled, though. not with those eyes. oh gods, her eyes.

they reminded him of the night sky. of the cosmos. so much bigger. so much... greater. so... much…

brighter?¿ ..?

he was pretty sure he almost passed out. twice maybe. pushing on three times. nonetheless, he snapped out of that daze relatively fast, ignoring his head pounding he greeted the woman half heartedly, pointedly avoiding her eyes. she was smiling. she seemed rather amused at the mess of a display (read:martyn) and how chaotic his entrance was. she greeted him back and oh. she was going to be the death of him.

the woman's name seemed indecipherable, with how it was pronounced. it seemed impossible to speak via human tongue (because let's be honest, do we REALLY believe this lady is human?) and she seemed terribly aware of that fact. instead, she left that up to martyn. the man in question, very determined to not die, and maybe make the pretty lady happy came up with 'pearl.’

"like your eyes!" he'd said. "they're- er, really bright. real shimmery? kinda glowy. like a pearl, you know?"

not the best name he could've chosen, but hey. the lady liked it, so ha! nailed the first impression.

hopefully jimmy wouldnt mind the new guest?

[ - he did in fact not mind. in fact, as soon as martyn turned up to their front door with the woman, jimmy wrenching it it open with enough force to make him jump, he'd interrogated martyn immediately on where he'd been all night. though as soon as he saw pearl, all his fight left, a spark of something he couldn't quite decipher lighting up his expression. pearl’s grin widened. martyn had no idea what was going on. jimmy glanced back between the two, seemingly debating something, before turning to pearl and saying "does this mean I don’t have to bind my wings anymore?" - ]

anon notes - this turned out WAY longer than i meant for it to. woops.

um anyway hope this feeds the starving pearltyn solidarpearl and solidarwood fans ehe. sorry the jimmy content was actually very minimal maybe i should’ve put his as implied instead. oops

signing off,

~ 🌙🌾 (i get an emoji now right? right?!?)

Pearl politely doesn't mention how Martyn passed out part way home and she had to carry him until he woke again. That'll make perfect blackmail in the future (as if his introduction wasn't enough.) Because she will be staying. They can't get rid of her now.

Martyn also passes out again before he's able to properly process Jimmy's comment. Jimmy's kind of relieved - he knows Martyn's been struggling lately. Pearl carries him to bed, and Jimmy brushes through his hair.

He already looks softer. Like a weight has been taken from his shoulders. Maybe Pearl is the charm they need to keep whatever's been watching Martyn away...

#trafficshipping #ask #jimmy tag #martyn tag #pearl tag #jimpearltyn #mod 🎀#🌙🌾 anon #weekly theme: magic

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randomwriteronline · 1 year ago

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Ko-Wahi was a short variety of generally not necessarily pleasant things: it was desolate, cold, harsh, and - when the winds didn't rush after one another through the icy peaks with low howling shrieks, cutting through the frigid aether like claws of an enormous Rahi reaching out to grasp any wayward Matoran foolish enough to dare wander in its territory - it was abnormally quiet.

So it reasoned that if Kopaka, Toa of Ice and Hating Being Around People, was not found anywhere else, he had to have secluded himself to a place that at the very least resembled the environment he had first felt at home in.

He didn't even flinch at the rush of air that accompanied the stomps which suddenly stopped by his side.

"You're late," he only commented.

The jovial jab Pohatu had ready for him froze in his throat, and he tilted his head slightly in genuine confusion: "Late?" he repeated.

"I expected you to be here five minutes ago," Kopaka replied.

"You were expecting... Me?"

"Of course I was," the other replied matter-of-factly: "If there's something I can depend on, it's the fact you'll chase me down to the ends of the silver sea just because."

The Toa of Stone blinked quickly a few times, eventually smirking back: "And if there's something I can depend on, it's that I'll always find you somewhere snowy and deserted."

He then leaned a little closer and proceeded to add, in a goofier tone: "Like your heart."

The gentle elbow punted in his side made him snicker as he successfully evaded it the first time; he cackled a bit louder when the second jab actually hit.

His friend did not dignify his amusement with any verbal response. Instead, he extended his finger.

Pohatu followed where it was pointing, staring at the same vast expanse of white he had just sped through (luckily without having to skid through any frozen snow - perhaps one of the very few things he certainly did not miss about the island of Mata Nui), and found nothing.

At first.

His pinprick pupils, so used to the desert sun, struggled a little more, trying to tighten even harder or widen ever so slightly: even with the clouds shielding his eyes from the sunbeams turned blinding as they were reflected on the candid coat of snow, the uniformity of the colors confused and unified all that supposedly existed before him with only few exceptions. There was snow, snow, snow, more snow, a leftover Visorak web, even more snow, another patch of snow, something looking vaguely disgusting half covered in snow, some more snow, a lance of light reflected from a point just outside the clouds' range, a vast amount of snow, a smaller amount of snow, snow, snow, and one last puff of snow over there. Riveting!

But Kopaka seldom pointed at nothing at all just to stretch out his finger; and once he truly focused on the exact location he was indicating, Pohatu saw.

He saw a jagged thing, sharp end splintered and jutting towards the sky like a blade, ever so slightly greyer than the pallor surrounding it; he saw its missing half laying mournfully among the powdery ground, defeated, cracked, open wide.

He saw its entrails, eroded by the weather, far too small to properly distinguish one object from the other from this distance - still they glittered grey and blue in the lack of color as if to remind in silent screams of their existence, once, as tools and furniture and inventions of scholars, before they'd found themselves abandoned in the wake of their master's leave as strange crystalline gore only partially hidden away in the haste of a half hearted burial.

He saw dozens of the jagged corpse's kind - once pillars, columns, immense bastions, now nothing more than ruins. Enormous animals frozen in place, never to thaw awake once more.

He saw frail, beautiful exoskeletons awaiting with such tiredness to be crushed, replaced by larvae in the bowels of which knowledge would thrive.

The wind passed between them without strength, not even lifting a snowflake.

"Breath-taking, isn't it," Kopaka murmured.

Pohatu nodded in silence.

They simply stood there for a long time, side by side, looking upon the carcasses of Ko-Metru's knowledge towers.

Looking upon what was left of a city of legends.

There had never been a Matoran called Kopaka, in the Turaga's tales.

He had never competed with Ehrye as they rushed to run errands for the seers in the hopes of one day being allowed to stand beside them at the top of those magnificent crystal constructions, spending days pondering and reading stars, uncovering the secrets of the future to the point of turning the very idea of tomorrow into such a mundane thing; he had never known Nuju, never looked at him with awe, or respect, or burning envy. He had never walked those streets, or skied down those slopes, or travelled to the Colosseum inside of a protodermis chute.

And yet he had found his chest aching as he had listened to those descriptions, from a nostalgia that wasn't his own. As though Vakama and his stories had handed him a coal that had long singed the Turaga's hand, still weakly sizzling, that now burned his palm in turn.

Mata Nui had been all he'd ever known as far as he was concerned. There had been nothing before; and if there had been, it wasn't the land the Matoran had been forced away from.

Yet despite knowing as much, despite the attempts to soothe the dull pain that had no place in his logical mind, in the long last hours he'd gotten to spend on the chiling peaks surrounding Mount Ihu the Toa of Ice had been unable to keep himself from wandering away from the material world into absentminded daydreams, trying to construct a memory that had never been there, a life he had never lived.

He had imagined Ko-Metru many times. He had imagined Metru Nui as a whole many times, the orderly archives, the silvery canals, the smoky furnaces, the dangling cables, the unmoving statues - a world for smaller eyes (like his never had been) to see. He had imagined the Colosseum, its inner mechanisms, even the Vahki guards, despite their presence being nothing but an annoyance at best and a source of uneasiness and dread and outright danger at worst. He had imagined himself getting in trouble with them often - who would they have been, to tell him what to do? What made them any different from a Bohrok?

He had imagined them often, but he had never seen them. Never whole. Never alive.

As he stared at what remained of a city of seers, he ached to have been there. Maybe he would have understood better. Maybe it would have hurt more. Maybe it would have felt more like home.

But would he have noticed? Any of the beauty, the lack of strife? Would he have liked a life such as this, spent either pondering on who knows what, or reading pages of history before they were even written, or running around tirelessly for people who did both former and latter? Would this sight have stirred something deep in him now, or would his amnesia have kept his feelings at a distance?

His chest hurt. Something inside it ached terribly, pushing hard against his muscle and metal, like a fish suddenly rushing to break the still frozen surface of a lake in a bout of claustrophobia.

He felt strange, uncomfortable.

Like something misplaced.

Kopaka's eyes wandered over the crystal towers, suddenly overwhelmed. He let out a shuddering, watery breath, as quiet as he could.

He needed not worry about being heard.

Pohatu was too enthralled by the sight before them to notice his momentary frailty.

He gazed on, unable to tear his his eyes from what his brother regarded as an enormous grave he could not mourn properly, and beheld only a thing of beauty.

It was not the vast expanse of Po-Wahi's desert, nor the infinite lushness of Le-Wahi's jungles, the burnt forests of Ta-Wahi, the Ga-Wahi reefs, the cavernous labyrinths of Onu-Wahi - it could not even compare to the frigid landscape of Ko-Wahi despite all their similarities, and he could tell from a first glance.

Ko-Metru and its siblings could have never been what the Koro of Mata Nui had been - they were not a breathing nook interwoven in the world around them: they were carefully constructed bubbles, encased, entrapped within themselves, the wild nature that once had run through it tamed carefully only to cry out despite its weakened form once the binds upon it had been snapped to pieces and left to rot.

It was not beautiful in the way he knew a land to be; it was not open and grand to the point of being frightening. It was shut on itself, broken, a pale imitation of what it had been.

And yet he found it all so gorgeous.

It had embarrassed him at first - not feeling. Remaining still and unfazed as the Turaga had longingly described what the Toa of Stone should have regarded as home, a field of statues tirelessly carved by artisans of his people. He had struggled to imagine it properly, managing only hazy scorches of some undefined place, like a mirage in the desert; and hearing his brothers and sisters wonder aloud, so curious, of how they would have expected their Metru to be, he'd been all but mortified at his own lackluster enthusiasm.

Had he really grown so self centered? All the world seemed to feel as though it had only started existing with his birth upon that fateful shore.

A city of legends on the other side of the sea... He could not have ever pictured it.

But now he was there, walking upon its streets, traveling across its lands, and it looked nothing like it had been described: it looked shattered and lost, and broken, and rusted, and standing still where it had once stood so proud and shining only to spite the cruelty of time that wanted it to bend and turn leveled.

Pohatu had lost himself between scattered remains of monumental statues, details sanded down until unrecognizable, or filled with what little life could make its home in such a crevice. He has searched between the broken Kanohi nobody had ever melted down again, seeing his and his siblings' likenesses over and over and over and over, he had followed broken cables back to the towers from which they had once served a purpose, raced along empty canals to make a sense of them, peeked into tunnels the roofs of which had been torn open like dissected anthills.

Metru Nui had never been whole, not for him.

It had always been this gorgeous wreck, this beautiful ruined landscape. He could not imagine it as anything less; he could not see it as anything mournful, or dead, or ugly.

Each toppled building was where it should have been. Each destroyed spire was exactly as the Great Spirit had intended it to be.

Such a frail, stubborn, lovely, wild thing.

A tragedy and a celebration.

Glowing brighter than the twin suns with every ounce of its incomplete, breath-taking beauty.

Kopaka felt something tug very gently at his arm. When he turned, he noticed Pohatu still hadn't taken his eyes away from the shimmering remains of the towers.

"Did you want to show me this?" the Toa asked, quietly, quietly.

His friend looked back to the sight before them and swallowed a heavy knot in his throat: "I did," he replied.

The grip on his limb tightened ever so slightly.

Comfortingly.

"Thank you." Pohatu whispered.

Kopaka did not answer.

They looked on.

#bionicle #pohatu #kopaka #metru nui #random writing #second hand nostalgia vs finding beauty in ruins: fight (the opponents start kissing each other tenderly)#in other news hi ive read 7 bionicle books in abt a month and im not even remotely mentally stable about these guys #both of these feelings in regards to the past are ones i experience and consequentially im feeling them abt bionicle too #it was never properly alive for me so im entranced by the story and the works and the fans and everything as someone from After It Happened #but at the same time i feel an ache to have been there at the beginning even though i physically couldnt have been #anyways sorry if stuff is ooc. i love these two lads but ive never written for em before #big shoutout to my friend rabid. i love you. thank you for letting the Fleshy Annotations swallow me whole

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catkin-morgs-kookaburralover · 1 month ago

Text

It might feel like reality fades in, but what it really is—really really, I mean, inasmuch as this is real—is consciousness fading in. Like someone or something else was piloting the body, and control was just wrested back.

Most people would expect to remember what happened before, but this is just... blank; not like it was removed, or by some other violent means taken away, but like it never existed. All there is is light, not bright enough to hurt but not dim enough to hide. There are walls, but they look vaguely damp.

There is probably poison in the air; every breath is moist and the only reason it cannot be smelled is because the body is used to whatever smell haunts this place. It might kill eventually, if death is possible here.

Perhaps there ought to be fear; even emotions are gone, except for an all-pervading sense of dread, too quiet to notice unless it's looked for. Can you hear breathing? What would happen if someone screamed in here? Would it echo, or would it vanish, swallowed by the distance? Feet are noiseless on the perpetually unrepaired carpet.

That means nobody will hear anyone else coming up behind them unless they make an effort to be audible. Behind, there is a continuation of the same walls and passages. Nobody is visible, but there's the sense of someone at the shoulder, hiding, about to do something dreadful; something worse than death, and not in the Victorian sense, but in the real sense, because at least death would be silence, and darkness, and not the whispering hum of fluorescents on their last legs, and not their uneven flickering illuminating unwell yellows.

None of the passages and rooms are arranged in a way that make sense. There is no larger pattern to be seen, and even if memory was infallible, there is no pattern, no matter how far anyone goes. Is sleep possible in here, even that temporary reprieve? Is there food? Will someone waste away here; is there a skeleton just around the next corner? Or behind—look behind again. There is still nobody, and in a way that is worse.

Does the body just... keep going? Is the consciousness fading in because the last one, eventually, faded out entirely?

Or, worse still, is this the only consciousness in the whole—wherever? Is there doomed to be only yellow, uneven colouring, doorways to nowhere, and the muted howl of dying light forever?

#my writing #personal #the backrooms #i also posted this on ao3 #i might write more to it later if there's interest

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whatsthethinking · 2 years ago

Text

Alignment: part two

Lo’ak x Fem!Reader (platonic)

Eywa finally hears Lo’ak’s pleas for her to bring his brother back but instead of a brother, Lo’ak receives howling winds with lashing rain and a warrior… who eats people?

➴ Warning: Vague character description but it’s not reader specific. I can’t really think of anything but let me know.

➴ Word count: 2.7k

➴ Note: Okay so, I’m not going to name the reader. I did give a slight character description but I doubt I’ll mention what the reader looks like again after this chapter because it’s not really important. Let me know what you think of this chapter (I think it’s ass but now the readers here I can get into it). Feel free to leave any suggestions.

[one] [three]

It had been a few days since Lo’ak experienced his memory with Neteyam. He had constantly been thinking about whether he should tell anyone what had changed. Who would believe him? Memories don’t just change. They don’t usually offer comfort and support. Well they do, but not like this. They don’t give hope and promises for the future. He was confused. Beyond confused, actually.

“Lo’ak, can you pass me the knife?”

Jake mumbled in his son's direction but he didn’t get a response.

“Lo’ak.”

He tried again. Jake raised his head to look at his son, only to see him looking into the distance with a vacant look.

“Sorry, what?”

“I asked you for the knife,” Jake repeated.

“Right, sorry, dad.”

Lo’ak slowly passed his father the knife and then diverted his eyes to the entryway of the marui. Jake sighed and completely stopped chopping the fruit in front of him. Jake and Neytiri had noticed a change in his behaviour, but weren't sure how to confront him. It was clear that something was on his mind. Watching the sky, watching the ocean, as if he was waiting for something to happen. They both knew one person Lo’ak could trust wholeheartedly who would be able to get him to open up about what was on his mind.

“Why don’t you two go out for a walk,” Jake stated clearly to his children but mainly to Kiri.

A few seconds passed before Kiri got the hint and shot to her feet, dragging Lo’ak up with her.

“Perfect idea, dad. Come on Lo’ak. Let’s walk.”

“I don’t want to-.”

“Come on, brother.”

Kiri tugged on Lo’ak’s arm, bringing him to the entryway where they met Neytiri and Tuk, who had spent the morning together on the beach. Tuk was bouncing on the spot holding a basket with wrapped fish and some fruit. Neytiri’s face was graced with a fond smile at the sight of her children.

“Where are you two going in such a rush?” Neytiri questioned. “It’s almost time for lunch.”

“I caught it! This one!” Tuk exclaimed, pointing to a small package at the top of the pile.

“That’s wonderful Tuk,” Kiri smiled down at her baby sister before turning to her mother. “We were just going for a quick walk; we’ll be back before you know it.”

Neytiri looked past her children and to her mate, Jake nodded and gave a thumbs-up. She smiled and stepped aside.

“Be quick. I don’t want your food to get cold.”

Kiri nodded and grabbed Lo’ak’s elbow. She continued to drag him along until they reached the beach.

“Kiri, I don’t want to walk.”

“Sh.”

“Kiri, please.”

“Come.”

Kiri walked over to a less populated part of the beach, where the beach ended and the tranquil forest began. Kiri sat down, getting comfortable before patting a patch of grass next to her.

“Sit.”

Lo’ak sighed but sat down beside his sister, dragging his knees up to his chest and resting his chin on top.

“So Lo’ak, what’s going on?”

“Nothing.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not lying. I just… Nothing’s going on.”

“Lo’ak, please talk to me.”

Kiri rested her hand on Lo’ak’s head and slowly ran it down to his shoulder. She could feel how tense he was. Kiri was more than aware of how deeply she felt about everything, but with Lo’ak, everything was different. Since Neteyam’s passing, Kiri had become very observant regarding her brother's emotions. As far as she was concerned, he was her other half, her twin. They are always there for one another. ‘Four-finger freaks’ have to stick together.

Lo’ak sighed and rested his forehead on his knees, shielding his face as Kirk put her hand back on his head.

“You wouldn’t believe me. “ Lo’ak’s voice came out muffled, but Kirk still heard him.

“I wouldn’t believe you?” Kiri questioned with humour in her voice. “You could tell me that the sky is green, and I would believe you.”

Lo’ak’s head turned to the side, allowing Kiri to see the frown on his lips and his eyebrows slightly furrowed.

“You’re too smart to believe anything like that.”

Kiri paused and nodded.

“You’re right. I am too smart. And I’m smart enough to know that something happened to you. I don’t know what, but I know that whatever it is, maybe I can help?”

Kiri turned her body towards Lo’ak and crossed her legs. Then she waited. She watched as the thoughts crossed his face, the way his eyebrows slightly twitched and the way his ears drooped.

“It’s kind of crazy, and I find it hard to believe myself.” Lo’ak started, Kiri was all ears.

“You know when I went to the spirit tree the other day? I had a memory with Neteyam and-“

Lo’ak paused and sighed deeply before turning his body towards his sister, crossing his legs.

“It was strange. Different. He spoke to me. He was older, he told me-“

Lo’ak stopped to collect his thoughts; saying it out loud made him question what had happened.

“He told me… It’s crazy. It doesn’t make sense. Maybe I imagined it. Maybe I’m desperate to hear something? Feeling something? I don’t know.”

“What did he say?”

There was a beat of silence between the two; Lo’ak fiddled with his fingers in his lap.

“He said that he would see me soon,” Lo’ak mumbled. “But that’s insane.”

Kiri had a slightly confused look, which made Lo’ak regret saying anything.

“I believe you.”

Kiri paused and then took her brother's hands into hers. Lo’ak sighed. It felt like a weight had been lifted, only slightly, but it felt like it was enough for him to feel like he could breathe.

“Thanks Kiri.” Lo’ak smiled

“I’m telling dad.”

Lo’ak’s smile dropped immediately.

“No”

It wasn’t until after dinner that Kiri managed to get her parents alone. Lo’ak had taken Tuk to see Tsireya. The older girl had volunteered to help teach Tuk to weave new clothes.

“Mum? Dad?”

Her parents paused their activities and turned to her.

“I spoke with Lo’ak.”

Neytiri ushered Jake to sit down, Kiri followed soon after.

“So, what did he say?” Jake questioned with a hint of concern in his voice.

“Before I tell you. You must understand that Lo’ak is really confused about what he told me, and I completely believe everything he said.”

Neytiri gently held Jake’s hand. She’s been so concerned for her son. Lo’ak hadn’t been himself since they lost Neteyam. His personality had changed; he was no longer the rowdy, outgoing boy she was used to. He would rarely find himself in trouble. He was completely obedient, finishing all his chores without complaint. Sometimes he would slip into his old self, but for the most part, he was different. Neytiri hated it. It saddened her greatly.

“Lo’ak told me that he saw Neteyam while at the spirit tree. He said that he was older, physically. Maybe even mentally, from what I gathered. He was reassuring Lo’ak, comforting him. His soul is fully aware of his passing and how he died. He told Lo’ak that they would be seeing each other soon. I know the last part sounds like a warning of some kind but, I don't think it is. I thought that it could mean that Lo’ak may be dying but, he assured me that that wasn't the feeling he got... Neteyam. Neteyam’s soul seemed hopeful.”

Kiri watched her parents' faces for their reactions. Jake’s face was set in a deep frown; he appeared to be taking in all the information, slowly mulling over each detail. Neytiri, on the other hand, had a look of pure disbelief, her eyes starting to well up.

“No… No.” Neytiri started shaking her head. “No.”

“It’s true, mum, I believe him.”

“It is not. I refuse it.”

“Mum-”

“No Kiri. This is not true.” Neytiri shot to her feet, one hand placed on her chest.

“Neytiri.” Jake slowly stood up. “Maybe we should listen to what-”

“No!” Neytiri exclaimed. “Ma Jake! You can not feed into this!”

“I’m not. I promise you I’m not. But what if this is the truth? We’ve accepted that Kiri has a connection to Eywa, why can’t Lo’ak? This could be some sort of sign.”

Jake wasn’t exactly sure why he was suddenly accepting what Kiri was telling them but, deep down, he knew he couldn't just assume this was false. He trusted his children.

“Because he’s not saying the same things as Kiri. He’s talking about our son coming back from the dead. It’s impossible!”

“Lo’ak can be many things but, he is an honest boy. We both know that Lo’ak wouldn’t lie, especially about this.”

Jake sighed, glancing at Kiri, who was still seated.

“Remember when we saw him? After the funeral? He was older. He didn’t know that he had died but, he appeared in his most recent body. This might be a similar situation. If what they’re saying is true, this could be an opportunity to have our son back. Our Neteyam. The chance to right the wrongs. To-”

Jake stopped speaking as his voice cracked and his eyes began to well up with tears. The idea that he could get to be with his eldest son again, to hug him. Hold him close. Tell him how much he means to him. Apologise for being a terrible father, and ask for his forgiveness. The thought of a second chance drew him in completely.

Neytiri stood before her mate and daughter, slightly shaking her head, refusing to believe what she was hearing. She wanted to believe it, she did. She knew what Kiri was saying must have some truth to it. Kiri has the purest soul with the deepest connection to Eywa any tsahìk could only dream of and she does not speak carelessly. If Kiri believes Lo’ak, then Neytiri will believe him too.

“Okay… Okay,” Neytiri sighed, facing Neteyam’s corner, wiping her face. “Tomorrow. We will ask Ronal. She will know.”

The next day did not go as planned. The sound of harsh winds and crashing waves awoke the village. Tonowari was barking orders to anyone he could, telling them to gather anything that couldn’t be tied down. A storm was coming. A great one. The hunters who go beyond the reef hadn’t seen it coming. Ronal commented to her mate that it was a sign, possibly a warning. But she wasn’t certain, she couldn’t make sense of it.

Just as the villagers were coming to the end of their scrambling, the sky above them went dark, and the rain began. It came down hard and unforgiving. Nothing about this rain was calm and tranquil. It was vicious. It was hectic, if you were to step out into it, you may find yourself lost.

Lo’ak leaned against the marui entrance watching the rain's brutal attack. After he and his mother had gone to see Ronal, he planned to try and convince his parents to join him in visiting the spirit tree. Maybe Neteyam’s soul would give them a glimmer of hope too.

“When will it stop raining?” Tuk questioned, rubbing her eye “it’s been hours.”

“I don’t know. Maybe ask Kiri. She can ask her best friend Eywa to do us all a favour” Lo’ak replied, a smirk appearing as he heard Kiri huff.

“Haha, hilarious,” she rolled her eyes and joined her siblings, peering at the rain beating down. “But it is strange, maybe something happened?”

The two older siblings had gotten bored of watching the rain ruin their day, they moved deeper into the marui helping their parents prepare the next meal. Tuk stayed by the entrance, watching as the rain began to ease.

“Look!” Tuk shrieked, pointing out into the distance. “Do you see, over there!”

Tuk’s yells caused her family to look in the direction she was pointing in. In the distance, they could all see a small dark mass approaching the village. Jake instinctively pulled Tuk away and behind him while Neytiri did the same to Kiri and Lo’ak.

“It’s an ikran.” Tuk continued as the mass got closer.

“How can you tell?” Kiri questioned, looking around her mother.

“It has wings, see!”

Tuk moved around Jake and pointed again. She was right, the mass moving toward the village did, in fact, have wings. But the wingspan of it indicated that it couldn’t be an ikran, it seemed too large. The speed it appeared to be going was also a hint that it might not be a normal ikran.

“It looks a bit too large to be an ikran Tuk,” Lo’ak mumbled

“Maybe it’s Toruk,” she argued, glancing up at her father.

“I haven’t seen Toruk in many years darling,” Jake said down to her before stepping out to get a closer look. “Stay here.”

Jake began to walk towards the central part of the village, maybe he could assist if anything happened. Lo’ak slipped out just after him, dodging Neytiri’s hands as she tried to stop him.

“I’m coming too, dad.”

Jake stopped and spun around, ready to tell his son to stay with the family. Just as he was about to open his mouth to tell Lo’ak to go back, a roar rang over the village, accompanied by a rush of cold air and a dark shadow. Shouts of the Metkayina warriors came shortly after as they rushed to get into formation just in case this creature attacked. Jake gave Lo’ak a stern look before continuing his walk, but obviously, his son didn’t pay it any mind as he followed his father closely.

Tonowari hastily approached the pair and immediately questioned if Jake had any idea what this flying creature was. Tuning out this conversation, Lo’ak watched as the large ‘ikran’ landed on the very edge of the island, quite far from the village. He wasn’t sure why, maybe curiosity, but he began to follow the warriors in that direction. On his way, he passed Tsireya, who tried to stop him, but he just brushed her off, telling her they could talk later.

By now, the rain had officially stopped.

The ikran definitely wasn’t an ikran. It was something larger, much larger. Its body appeared to be covered in black scales, with red ones peeking out underneath. Its wings were a mix of black and red too. Its eyes seemed to be a red and orange mix, alert, taking in everyone's movements. However, the more Lo’ak studied the strange beast, the more he noticed it possibly resembled a dragon from his father’s, Norm’s and Max’s human stories about brave warriors. Lo’ak couldn’t see the rider near the beast, he would’ve assumed it didn’t have a rider if it wasn’t for what looked like armour strapped to its chest.

One of the warriors stepped forward, the scaled ‘ikran’ snarled, showing off its rows of long sharp teeth.

“Stay ready.” One of the warriors voiced, getting a tighter grip on his spear. Lo’ak manoeuvred towards where the warriors were more sparse, which just happened to be the closest to the beast.

“Mawey Rìkxi, mawey. Be nice”, A voice broke through the silence as the beast raised its large wing revealing its rider. A rider no one had expected.

A rider from the Ash Islands. Some elders within the village and back in the forest had spoken of the islands. Claiming to have travelled there at a time when many of the people were rejecting Eywa, which had caused many divides throughout different clans.

It is said that the warriors of the Ash Islands are merciless and unforgiving. Your fate was sealed If you got on the wrong side of them. It seemed that no one ever survived a fight with the warriors, and they never left a body. Which led outsiders to speculate that the warriors would eat their rivals.

The Na’vi from the Ash Islands were different in appearance. They had ash blue/purple skin and amber eyes. Their tails were thin but muscular, and the tip on their tails narrowed to a point. They were known to be tall and strong, stronger than your average Na’vi. The Ash Na’vi wore neutral colours, mainly different shades of brown with minimal splashes of dark blues and reds. They usually kept their hair up and out of their face.

Lo’ak looked over the rider and noticed her hands. Hands just like him, four fingers.

The rider raised her hand to her forehead, lowly bringing it down, keeping eye contact with Lo’ak.

“Hello.”

“Hey.” Lo’ak choked before clearing his throat.

Note pt2:

Mawey - calm

Rìkxi - tremble, shake, shiver

Rìkxi is the name of the readers dragon, I based it off of Drogon from Game of Thrones because that’s the show I’m watching rn

Taglist: @eywas-heir @cvsmic-love @thehoneymushroomhealer @myvath @afro-hispwriter @jjkclub @babyymeme @lovedbychoi @dakotali @cleverzonkwombatsludge

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