#you know it’s not real and there are edges where the illusion fades away and turns into the stage | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

trashytracktales · 1 month ago

Note

Hey! Please do a lando x ex!reader. They break up after a lot of arguments due to being away from each other so much and then they meet a few months later and hook up. Like angst in the beginning then lots of smut.

If it's meant to fall apart | LN⁴

💌 REQUESTED by anon ──── I was actually planning to write something similar for so long. Thank you for the request and I hope you like it 🤍

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𐙚 summary ──── Surprisingly, months apart haven’t dulled the connection between them. After a night of passion and honesty on both sides, maybe there is a future where they can make all the right decisions, after all.

𐙚 pairing ──── Lando Norris x ex!reader

𐙚 rating ──── explicit

𐙚 category ──── F/M

𐙚 warnings ──── +18, mature/sexual content, lots of angst & back-and-forth, fluff & smut, teasing, praising, explicit language, unprotected sex, mention of alcohol and drinking, swearing, not the healthiest relationship I've ever written tbh (the toxicity is implicit tho), overstimulation, pussy-drunk Lando, Max F. & Ethan aka FEEFA cameo.

𐙚 word count ──── 10.6k (Thank you to everyone who voted on this poll I posted the other day, I didn’t expect to see so many 🥺).

𐙚 date ──── Nov. 27, 2024

𐙚 a/n ──── Guys, look. I know it's A LOT 🥴 I kinda let myself run with this one because I haven't posted anything in like a week or so. I still have 2 requests I'm working on, so don't give up on me yet 🤞🏻

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SHE'S NOT ENTIRELY sure how long they’ve been dancing, but she hasn't finished her drink yet. Time feels like an illusion, blurring the edges of her vision with every new rhythm of the night. For the first time in months, she feels a little lighter, her friends’ energy pulling her out of her own head — and apartment, where she locked herself in after the break-up.

The club is packed tonight, bodies pressed together in a sea of drunken, sweaty chaos. Neon lights bounce off every surface, painting the room in vivid purples, blues, and pinks. It's not usually her style — not anymore — but she figured it won't hurt to let lose for a couple of hours.

It’s only when she steps away from the dance floor, her feet hurting and her head buzzing, that she spots him.

Why tonight, of all nights?

Why here, of all places?

Why him, of all people?

He’s leaning casually against the bar, a glass in hand, chatting with a few familiar faces. Faces that she can't help but miss.

She stopped talking to Max — well, Max stopped talking to her after ending things with Lando, too upset that she toyed with his best friend's heart for ‘no apparent reason’. Their friendship dissolved under pressure, fragile as a cheap plastic cup in the grip of sulfuric acid. But Max wasn't the only one who took it personally. That's why she needed to cut ties with everyone from her past. She needed new friends — her own friends —, she needed a new place and new clothes, and to rebrand herself from scratch. Which she did.

She thought she had made it through, but the past has its twisted ways of coming back when you least expect it.

Now, the sight of him, so vivid and real, makes her chest tighten.

She stops in place, hoping he doesn’t notice her, but then his eyes flick in her direction and, for a brief moment, neither of them blinks, the noise around them fading into a dull murmur.

He straightens slightly, his relaxed posture gone as his brows knit together. There’s something unreadable in his body language — surprise? Excitement? Confusion? Pain? She doesn’t know, but it mirrors the knot twisting in her stomach.

Her friends call out to her, pulling her attention briefly, and when she looks back, he’s still staring. Except now, he’s moving, weaving his way through the crowd toward her.

Oh, hell no.

Her heart starts to race, a mix of adrenaline and something far more complicated than fear, as she rushes to walk away; she's fought for far too long, and now her instinct is to fly as soon as she senses danger.

Unfortunately, she's not quick enough.

“Hey,” says Lando when he gets closer, his voice low but audible over the music.

Hearing him gives her goosebumps, hating the way her body is betraying her. It’s been months since she’s heard his voice, but it still hits her the same way: sharp and unrelenting.

She turns around, forcing a smile, “Hi, Lando,” she manages, her voice steadier than she feels, thinking she should try acting if she makes it out alive from this encounter.

“Can I buy you a drink?” he asks, his tone careful, yet extremely suggestive.

It makes her stomach twist again.

He used that line the very first night they met, his boyish grin lit by the dim, flickering lights of another club, in another city. Potentially another life, she's not sure. She remembers the way he had leaned in, so full of confidence and asked the same exact question with a mischievous glint in his eye.

It feels too deliberate now, too heavy with the weight of their past for her to ignore.

“All set,” she finally says, her voice quieter than she intended, as she raises her half-full glass in her hand. “Thanks.”

For a moment, it feels like they’re strangers meeting for the first time. Except they’re not, and their history is hanging heavily in the air between them.

Lando nods, shoving his hands into his jeans pockets, “How about this, let me join you for that drink?”

She takes a look to where her friends are dancing, then she turns back to him, “I'm here with my friends.”

It's a pathetic excuse, she knows that. But she has no time to think of something else. Not when her brain is suddenly all scrambled and can't form a single coherent thought.

Lando frowns, disappointed, but not willing to give up that easy. “Come on, just a quick catch-up and then you can go back to your friends. Mine won't mind,” he shrugs, pointing at the bar, where the others are following their every move like a bunch of curious minions.

She catches Max lifting his glass in her direction, and Ethan, waving frantically.

Against her better judgment, she nods.

“Okay,” she murmurs, “Let's catch up,” she spits the words, sounding a bit too sarcastic. Still, it makes Lando smile.

His shoulders relax slightly, relief softening the tension in his body. He gestures toward a quieter corner of the club, away from the pounding bass and the sea of bodies. His first instinct was to take her hand in his, but since that's over the line, Lando keeps looking back, making sure she follows him. And she does. Like a naive, lost puppy that hasn't learned a single thing in the past five months, apparently.

The crowd surges around them, chaotic and loud, and before she can react, someone stumbles into her, their elbow catching her arm. As a result, she's thrown off balance, her feet slipping on the slick floor. Gasping, she's bracing for the inevitable fall that… never comes.

Lando’s hand shoots out, catching her waist and pulling her upright. His grip is firm, grounding, and suddenly she’s pressed against him, her chest brushing his.

“Careful,” says Lando, his lips close enough to her ear for the voice to cut through the noise.

The spot where he's touching her is burning her skin. She looks up, speaking with a hesitant smile, “Thanks, I'm good.”

The club around them fades away, and all she can feel is the warmth of his hand on her waist and the familiar scent of his cologne — a smell she used to know so well. It is almost intoxicating, and it makes her mouth water. She realizes that's what she was missing the most.

Lando smiles faintly, his hand slipping away as if he’s reluctant to let go. “Always got you.”

She doesn’t know how to respond to that, sensing the double meaning behind his affirmation. So, she nods and lets him guide her the rest of the way.

They find a small, semi-private booth near the exit, far enough from the main dance floor that the music dulls to a manageable volume. He gestures for her to sit first, then slides in across from her.

She fiddles with the edge of her glass, feeling his eyes on her.

“So,” she starts, leaning back against the booth, “You're here.”

Here, as in back home.

“For a week or so, yeah. Got a bit of a break between Brazil and Vegas.”

She nods, emptying the rest of her drink in one go, “How’ve you been?”

Lando shrugs slowly, “Alright. Busy with work and everything,” he trails off, his gaze dropping to her lips for a brief moment. “It’s not the same,” he continues, his smile fading away. “What about you, what have you been up to?”

She needs superhuman powers to stop herself from scoffing in his pretty face. It’s such a simple question, yet it feels loaded, heavy with all the things they haven’t said to each other in almost half a year.

“It's been… peaceful. I moved to another neighborhood. Kept busy, distracted.”

Lando hums, his expression unreadable for some reason. “Yeah, I get that. You look great, by the way,” he states it as a fact, his voice soft but unwavering.

She hesitates, then looks up at him, really looks at him. His face is the same and yet… not really. The boyishness is still there, but there’s a weariness in his eyes that's somehow new. Plus some facial hair she always begged him to try out. It tugs at something inside her, something she’s not sure she’s ready to face. Because it hurts. Because it annoys her. Because, after everything, she's still not over it.

“Cheers,” she replies, hoping he won't catch the blush in her cheeks. “I kind of hoped you would look like shit when I saw you again,” she admits. “You know, I'm talking no front teeth and severely balding. But, oh well. You too.”

Lando's smile widens, making everything infinitely worse for her.

He wears a black shirt that clings to his frame in a way that highlights the muscles in his arms. His black cap is pulled low, worn backwards in that signature way he always did, giving him that effortlessly cool vibe. His eyes are still the same, though. Dark, piercing, the same ones that could make her heart beat faster even after everything that’s happened.

“I thought about you a lot over these months, you know,” Lando finds himself saying, chewing on his lower lip.

She shoots him a surprised look.

As if, she thinks. His Instagram feed would say otherwise.

“You did?” she ends up asking, curiosity getting the best of her.

A hint of vulnerability creeps into his voice, “Of course. I've missed you.”

She laughs dryly, “But it's been good for us, right? We just established we both look great, no constant fighting, no slamming doors, no smashed phones…” she says, looking at him intently.

He can't sustain that for long, so he looks down at his shoes, slightly ashamed, remembering how bad it used to get when the distance between them felt too much to handle. He remembers the frustration, and the helplessness he felt when he couldn’t reach her, because he couldn’t make things right. He did smash his phone once, in a fit of anger, because he couldn’t get ahold of her for hours — not his proudest moment, that's for sure.

Lando swallows hard, “Yeah, it has been nice to have some distance. I guess it makes the heart grow fonder, right?”

“Hmm,” she hums, letting her eyes travel across the room, scanning random faces and wondering how life would be if she were someone else, “I don't know about that.”

She knows, in fact. But the words pause in her throat, too tangled up in memories. When he finally looks up, she's holding his gaze for just a beat longer than she should, and she wonders if he can feel it too — that familiar pull, like gravity, drawing them back together once again.

“I know—” Lando begins, not sure from which angle to approach. “I know it was the right choice at the time, but I can't help but wonder what things could have been if I'd fought harder for you.”

“Come on, Lando,” she laughs, unamused, giving her head a shake, “We would've ended up in another vicious circle, no matter what. It's always like that with us, isn't it?”

A part of him knows she's right. Still, “We'll never know.”

“Well, maybe it's better that way,” she manages, her voice lacking conviction.

“Or maybe it’s not,” he contradicts her, his words carrying a weight that presses on both of them. “You never think about us?”

Another sharp, dry laugh — it's either this, or she'll start crying. “I am actively trying not to,” she admits, her tone tinged with exasperation. “What’s the point, Lan? Thinking about what could’ve been won’t change what happened. You were always gone, and I couldn't spend my life following you around like a headless chicken. We had a good time, but it was never going to last,” she says the last part mostly as a reminder for herself. “Not in those circumstances.”

His jaw tightens. “You think it was easy for me? That it didn’t tear me up knowing I couldn’t be there for you the way you wanted me to?”

“I didn't say that,” her eyes snap to his, “We simply weren't working. We were too good at breaking each other.”

Lando leans back in his chair, frustration visible on his face. He hates that she's right, but it doesn’t stop the ache in his chest.

His jaw clenches, “I just… I don’t want to believe that’s all we were. Breaking each other.”

Her expression softens a little at his words, “Not all. But enough to make us miserable.”

For a while, the air between them feels heavier, the noise fading into the background. He wants to say something, anything, to counter her point, but all he can do is look at her and ask himself if they were, indeed, playing a losing game back then.

“Did you meet someone?” his question flies out of nowhere.

Lando looks at her with anticipation, sensing the hesitation.

“I did,” she replies, nodding slowly.

“And?”

She meets his eyes for a split second before looking away again, fixing her gaze somewhere on the table. “And we're happily married with twins on the way. What do you think? I just. Couldn’t.”

Lando's stomach drops, trying his best to remain calm, his hands clenching into fists. “You couldn’t what? Be with them?”

She shakes her head, her movements slow and deliberate, as if choosing her words carefully. “It was too soon.”

Her answer only leaves him with more questions. “So, what does that mean?”

“I don’t know what it means,” she rushes to say, her tone tinged with irritation. It’s clear she’s as unsure as he is, but that only makes it harder for Lando to process her reaction.

He runs a hand over his face, his exasperation bubbling to the surface. “I’m just trying to understand,” he says, his voice quieter but no less intense. “Because I've also tried.”

She looks directly at him now, her eyes narrowing slightly. “And?” she challenges in the same manner, her tone carrying just a hint of defiance.

“They weren't you,” says Lando, the truth of his statement hanging between them like a heavy anchor.

They remain silent after that.

She wants to ask him why — why he still cares, and why it hurts so much to be in the same space again after all they’ve been through. Nothing comes out, though; she already has the answer to that. They didn't break up because they stopped loving each other. They had both been too caught up in their own worlds to find any kind of balance. That broke them up.

He wants her to speak. He needs to hear her speak. To react. But when she says nothing in return, there is a brief second when he feels like giving up for good; he can't do anything if she's already made a decision. He knows how stubborn she is.

Lando nods to himself while getting up and start walking toward the exit, his thoughts all over the place.

The night air greets them with a quiet, cooling embrace as they step out of the club. Of course she follows, and she hates herself for that. But she can't help it — it's instinct. Like a magnetic force he's always had over her.

On the other hand, it's how they always communicated, through gestures and actions rather than words.

The soft click of her heels against the pavement gives Lando hope. He slows down so she can catch up, and then they walk side by side, without talking. The background noise of the city keeps them company, and by the time she decides to break the silence, he stops abruptly.

His voice sounds so small now, like a child asking his parents why can't he eat his chocolate bar before dinner.

“I know it feels so silly looking back,” says Lando, as though afraid to shatter the superficial peace between them. “We did so many things wrong, but I think we also did a lot of things right.”

She hesitates, her eyes dropping to the ground where a patch of light from a distant street light catches the edge of her shoe. Her arms fold tightly across her chest, while trying to look anywhere but at him.

“Yeah, breaking up was one of the right things,” she says thoughtfully, though her voice has a trace of bitterness behind it. “Before that, we tried so hard to make it work that we ended up burning each other alive.”

It's crazy how simple words can cause physical pain so quickly.

“Yet we're still here,” he reminds her. “Knowing what we know now, maybe we wouldn’t burn so fast this time. And isn’t it worth it, even if it only lasts for a little while? We were so happy at the start.”

That’s what he clings to. The laughter, the stolen moments, the way they fit together so effortlessly — she can’t argue with that. Their beginning was a beautiful dream, but it’s the nightmare that followed that keeps her guarded now, even though all she wants is to crack his ribcage open and slip inside him so they will never be apart again.

Her voice shakes as she tries her best to make him see her side, the memories spilling out like water breaking through a dam. “I had to put myself back together, Lando. Piece by piece. And I was all alone.” She forces herself to meet his gaze, finally, her eyes glassy with unshed tears. “Turns out, our friends were actually your friends, and I had to go through the worst breakup of my life with no one by my side. I had to move, I had to build an entire life from pretty much nothing. And I had to do everything alone, because I didn’t just lose you. I lost everything the moment I made you the center of my universe.”

Her words knock the air out of his lungs, guilt clawing at his insides. “Look, I know I should have been there,” says Lando, his voice barely steady. “Fuck me. I wasn’t supposed to let you go in the first place, alright? I should’ve been a better boyfriend, and I should’ve fought harder to make it work, using what we had then. But you did fuck with my head, and I thought being away would help.”

The first tear spills down her cheek, and she wipes it away hastily, as if she could erase the vulnerability altogether.

“It did help,” she agrees. “I know I can live without it now.”

Lando freezes for a split second, then stepping dangerously closer to her. “So, you’ll be fine if we stay broken up?” he asks, his voice almost a whisper.

She nods, but it’s shaky. And when she takes a step back, trying to put distance between them, Lando decides he gave her enough space. Fuck that. He's not thinking anymore, not with his brain, at least. He closes the distance again, his hands finding her waist and pulling her close in one swift motion.

It’s impulsive, desperate even. But he doesn’t care. The moment he feels her presence in his personal space, the fire he’s tried to smother for months, roars back to life, more powerful than ever. And just like that, everything it's right again. The way her body fits against his, the familiarity of it all, makes his heart race in his chest.

“Stop being so fucking stubborn, baby,” he murmurs into her hair, his voice cracking under the weight of his own desperation. “Why can’t we at least try, hm? You told me it was too soon for someone else. Maybe it’s because it’s supposed to be me.”

Her breath catches at the sudden closeness, at the rawness of his voice. She's unsure of what to do with her hands, until they hover awkwardly by his shoulders.

“You're not fair,” she whispers, her voice slightly trembling. “You can’t just accidentally waltz back into my life and say things like that.”

“I don’t give a flying fuck about being fair,” he says, his voice firm. “I just want us back. Simple as that.”

Her tears blur the edges of Lando's face when she tries to push him away, but his grip won't let her. Not this time.

“It's not that simple, and you know it,” she says. “We’ll only end up hurting each other again.”

“Then we hurt, so what?” he counters, his voice soft but sure. “At least we’ll know we tried until there wasn't anything worth fighting for. I'm not done with you, baby. Are you?”

Her hands finally move, trembling as they brush against his cheeks. They're not as soft as they use to be, his little facial hair scratching slightly at the pads of her fingers. The connection sends a jolt through them both as her touch lingers, trailing up to his hair. She pulls at his cap with both hands, placing it on her own head with a weak smile.

“It’s longer than you used to wear it,” she notices, her tears catching the street lights.

Lando’s heart clenches, managing to shoot a small smile in return, “I thought maybe I’d try growing it out. Do you like it?”

“I love it,” she admits as she tries to messily style his hair with her fingers. “It suits you.”

For a little while, they’re trapped in their own bubble. Her touch feels like home, and all Lando can think of is that he can't lose it again.

“I’m not asking you to decide now,” he finally says, his thumbs tracing soft circles on her waist. “I just need to know I’m not the only one still holding on.”

TWENTY MINUTES LATER, they're stumbling into her apartment. She knows it's reckless, and she's basically throwing away five months of progress, but it wasn't going to last, anyway.

Addictions are very hard to keep under control, especially when they have curly, dark hair and give you bed eyes.

“This way,” she says, her lips swollen from kissing all the way to her door.

Lando doesn’t have time to adjust, his head already spinning with hundreds of scenarios that fly tirelessly through his mind. However, the only thing that captivates him at the moment is her, and the way her fingers curl into the waistband of his jeans. She tugs him closer, her lips crashing onto his once again, their breaths blending in a frantic exchange of need and uncertainty.

He watches her fumbling with the buttons of his shirt, her movements clumsy but determined. His heart reaches his throat, swallowing hard, as his hands move from her waist to his belt, blindly unbuckling it before tossing it carelessly aside. The sound of leather hitting the floor barely registers over the erratic, overlapping rhythm of them kissing.

Then, he sees it. The spark in her eyes she used to have when she looked at him — it catches him off guard, giving him hope. He follows her as she moves slowly, her back toward the bed, her movements precise, like a cat's. She lies down, propping herself up on her elbows, while he takes cautious steps closer, his shirt hanging open to reveal his chest and toned abs.

But just as he leans forward, her high heel presses lightly against his chest, stopping him.

Lando freezes, his hands bracing on either side of her foot, tracing his palm up and down her leg, as his eyes dart up to meet hers.

“You can look,” she says, catching a glimpse of confusion in his eyes. “But for now, no touching.”

He frowns, clenching his jaw at her request. It would make sense for her to bring him to her place only to torture him, but she can't be that heartless. Right? The sight of her, stretched out on the bed with her foot holding him at bay, is almost too much to handle already.

“You're not fair,” he mutters under his breath, a ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“I don't give a flying fuck about being fair,” she repeats his words from earlier, her foot staying firm against his chest.

The power is in her hands, and she's planning on using them properly tonight.

“No touching,” she repeats, determined.

Lando's hands fall at his sides.

Slowly, she slides her foot down, letting it drag across his chest, making a quick stop on his lower abdomen before settling on the bed. Her gaze locks onto his, a daring glint in her eyes as she spreads her legs, revealing the black lace panties. The dress she's wearing lifts up her thighs of its own accord, leaving Lando chocking on air for a brief moment. His lips part as she trails her fingers down her own body, teasing herself the way she’s done countless nights before.

Nights when he wasn’t there.

Nights when she was alone, chasing a high only his touch could give her.

“Wanna see how I got through five months without you?” she asks, her hands traveling way down, hooking her fingers to pull at the soft material.

His breath hitches, the sight of her undressing before him so painfully slowly making his chest ache with longing and guilt.

“I thought of you,” she continues, letting a small whimper out when the soft lace peels off with a little resistance from her already soaked pussy. “Your hands, your mouth… the way you sound when you're turned on,” she discards the panties at the foot of the bed, her breath catching in her throat as she glances at him through her lashes. “Such a delicious combination between your sleepy voice and that low octave you hit when you're drunk.”

Lando’s mouth goes dry, his hands twitching at his sides, itching to lean over and collect the material off the floor to stuff it into his pocket as a souvenir. He’s never felt so powerless and yet so utterly consumed by someone before.

“Will you let me?” she asks, her lips curving into a smile that’s equally wicked and vulnerable, “Show you?”

Her name leaves Lando’s lips in a protest while he takes an instinctive step forward, but she stops him with her foot once again. It’s a punishment, and he knows it. She’s showing him exactly what he missed, and exactly how she wanted him for so long.

Lando's breath is shallow, his chest rising and falling as he watches her. Helpless. His every nerve is tuned to her, eyes following how her fingers slide so easily between her folds, spreading the wetness as she teases her hole. Of course she’s taking her time with it, only to make sure he registers every tiny detail, just in case he forgot.

Her head tilts to the side with a quiet gasp when she pushes slowly inside. The sound of her wet entrance is enough to make his knees weak, still, his body turns to stone.

On the other hand, his heart is a mess of pride and frustration — pride that she still feels comfortable to be this vulnerable and open in front of him, frustration that he has to see her like this, untouchable. That's why he's not even blinking, too afraid he'll miss a thing.

She starts to gently rock her hips against the bed, fucking her fingers in and out, her body trembling as her whimpers fill the room. It's too much for Lando, but luckily, she didn't say anything about moving. His legs finally give out, and he falls to his knees, the sound of his breath ragged and uneven as he gets closer to her.

Yes, she's in charge — for now, at least — but he can't stop his words slipping out. Quiet, yet demanding.

“Slower,” he says, fixing his eyes on the way her fingers slide over her clit. “Don't rush it, please. I want to see all of you.”

Her gaze meets his, and for a moment, neither of them says anything else. She sees the vulnerability etched into his features, the way his body betrays him, shaking with restraint, completely at her mercy.

He looks like a man unmoored, defeated. So beautiful.

“Lando…” she breaths heavily, her back arching against her own hand, that flattered slightly at his words, a blush creeping up her neck and cheeks.

She hates how much he still affects her, obeying him without questioning his ways. Like no time has passed whatsoever.

When they make eye contact again, it's like they silently agree to go with it; whatever tonight will bring.

“That's is,” says Lando with satisfaction as she resumes her movements. “You gorgeous little thing. So beautiful when you listen, yeah?”

She nods, feeling him leaning forward just slightly, close enough that she can feel his warmth on her skin, without him touching her in any way. The air feels electric, her breath stuttering as she keeps fucking up her fingers under Lando's careful guidance. He watches every motion, his jaw tightening, ignoring the ache in his boxers the moment she finds her sweet spot, crying at how good it feels. She tries to muffle the moan, but Lando catches the hesitation, his eyes narrowing in her direction.

“No, let me hear you. Please, let me hear you,” he implores, exhaling sharply. “God, you're perfect. I could watch you forever.”

Lando can't help but notice how receptive she becomes at his words, her body tightening at the way he's praising her. As a result, she presses her fingers harder onto her clit, feeling the pressure building inside.

“Mhm, Lan…”

“I'm with you, baby. Keep going,” he encourages her, his gaze fixating on the slickness dripping between her legs. “Fucking hell. You're already so close, aren't you?”

It's like every word gets caught in her throat, and the only way she can reply to him is with a pathetic, desperate whimper.

In hindsight, she's never came from her fingers so quickly before, but the wave that’s hitting her from every direction right now is too intense to process right away.

It happens too fast, and the next thing she's aware of is Lando's voice, bringing her back.

“Please,” she hears him beg, managing to give him a slight nod of her head in return.

In that moment, the lights go out. Even so, Lando wants to be patient, as his index finger lightly brushes against her warmth. She exhales, giving up control, her gaze locked on him as if he is the only one that ever knew her. Meticulous, Lando traces his long, rough finger through her wetness, causing a shock to run through her whole body as it moves up and down her clit.

She thought she already crossed her limit, but then he leans down to press his mouth on her — deliberately, unapologetically, thirsty.

Lando lets out a deep, guttural groan that reverberates against her, causing her hips to twitch slightly. His tongue is wet and warm on her pulsating clit, leaving her breathless while he tastes her like it's the last time.

“My sweet, sweet baby,” he whispers, his voice intimate and personal, the words enveloping her in layers and layers of honey.

Feeling his warm breath on her center causes a surge of tension within her, making her walls tighten as his tongue explores within. He can't help but smile just as she leans into him, her body responding naturally, and he grips her thighs, closing the remaining gap between them. At that, she instantly buries her fingers in his curls, her hips mimicking his head movements.

“Oh, fuck,” she exhales abruptly.

The rest is pure bliss — his tongue licking in deep strokes, his muffled moans between her thighs, and the way he can’t seem to let go of her, gripping her tightly because he’s been deprived of her taste for so long.

Just for a brief second, Lando raises his head and, as his gaze remains fixed on her eyes, his mouth sucks gently at her clit. She's never seen him so desperate before, the sight of him owning her like that covering her entire body in chills.

Gradually, his kisses become way too powerful, which forces her to quickly grab his messy curls and pull him closer, unable to control herself anymore.

Without any warning, she screams his name as her climax hits her like a tidal wave for the second time in a row.

His growling makes her thighs quiver in his grasp, the vibrations intensifying her pleasure as her body convulses with each new sensation, while Lando’s tongue continues licking her during every heartbeat and shiver.

Next time she looks at him, his lips shine, his cheeks are red, and his gaze so intense that it causes her heart to skip a beat, creating a connection that seems more profound than any physical sensation she's just experienced.

He didn’t try to give her the best she’s ever had, but attempt to remind her how well he knows her body — to show her she still belongs to him.

“You’re so pretty,” says Lando, keeping his eyes on her, while he presses one finger back inside her cunt to test how thight she is after her second orgasm.

“Lando,” she spits his name at the unexpected touch, still too sensitive, “What… are you doing?” she gasps softly, a mixture between a sigh and a moan, when Lando's finger pulls out and glides across her wet, delicate clit once again.

“What do you think I’m doing?” Lando murmurs against her thigh, his voice low and reverent.

He grins in her direction, while his thumb circles her clit with precise intention, like a wheel gripping the perfect racing line. Sure of himself, Lando continues his movements, realizing how overstimulated she is, as he gets up to hover above her. Her hips buck instinctively into his hand, a jolt of reaction she can’t control.

Seeing Lando on top makes her react on instinct, wrapping one arm around his neck, while the other hand travels down his chest. The heat pooling in her stomach rises fast, an apex she didn’t expect to reach so soon. It’s intoxicating, her body spiraling as her mind blanks out the world beyond him.

“Lan—” she gasps, her back arching as if trying to escape, though every fiber of her betrays that she wants more.

“Come on, baby,” he says, increasing the pace. “You can give me one more. You're doing so well, I know you can,” his voice is a blend of dominance and desire, while his fingers press into her, knowing exactly where to go and how to bend, “Like that, see? So easy for me to read you. I could fuck my fingers into your pretty hole all night long and you'd still come for me every single time, wouldn't you, baby?”

Shaking, she clings to his neck, crying out his name in spasms. He loops his free arm around her, gently kissing her cheek — a gesture so tender and innocent that makes her heart grow ten times in size.

She grips his shoulder with one hand, her eyes closing in pleasure. “I can’t—” she chokes, the words tumbling out between ragged breaths.

In an attempt to get her power back, she tries to push at his wrist, but his arm steadies her, determined.

“Of course you can, love,” says Lando, his voice a gentle command, the firmness in his tone like a driver refusing to lift his foot off the pedal, curious to see how far he can take it.

Her hand clenches around his arm as his thumb presses against her clit with ruthless precision. She reacts on instinct, muscles coiling tight as she bucks against his hand, not sure what controls her body anymore, since her brain got disconnected long ago. The slik rhythm of Lando's fingers becomes too much, and she knows she's close when he starts curling them inside at the perfect angle.

“La— Fuck, baby, that feels so good,” her voice is a high-pitched cry now, laced with desperation. “I’m going—”

“I know, baby. So pretty. Look at you, making such a mess for me,” he urges, leaning in to kiss her neck.

Her body tightens as pleasure explodes within her, blinding and all-consumming — a full-throttle sensation, unrelenting in its intensity. She sobs his name as liquid warmth spills from her pussy, coating Lando’s fingers. He doesn’t stop there, though, his hand continuing its pace, coaxing every last wave of her climax as his arm holds her securely against him.

“God, I've missed you.”

When her breathing slows down, he falls down on top of her, burying his head in the crook of her neck. Her legs shake slightly, and her fingers curl weakly into his bare chest as he cradles her close.

Lando presses a tender kiss against her temple, his voice filling the quiet. “It wasn’t acciedntal,” he confesses.

She blinks rapidly, tilting her head to look at him, confused, “What?”

“Earlier,” Lando clarifies, “You said I was accidentally waltzing back into your life — it wasn’t accidental,” he repeats.

“What do you mean?”

Lando places a few more kisses on the heated skin of her neck, sucking in a couple of bruises, the gesture meant to buy himself more time for the storm raging in his head to stop.

“Lando,” she pulls him out of it.

“Been trying to figure out how to do this for a while. I just… couldn’t stay away from you anymore,” he admits, looking up at her, his eyes pleading. “I had Max playing detective while I was away.”

She pushes him off her to sit up on the bed, pulling at the edges of her dress. “Seriously, what?” her tone is not defensive — at least not yet — but there’s a sharpness to it that cuts into him.

“No, I didn’t mean it like that,” he rushes to explain, “Look, I didn’t stalk you or anything. Nor Max,” he continues, getting up to stand next to her. “I didn’t even know where you lived until you brought me here. I swear.”

She wraps her arms around her own body, needing something to ground herself, “What did you do, Lando?” the girl asks, her voice quieter now.

He swallows, “I just asked him to check in on you. To see if you were okay.”

“And how did he do that?”

“He saw you tagged in a pic on this girl's account, and then did some research on the people you were with, paid some dudes to find out if their records were clean—” he starts chuckling when her fist hits his shoulder, playfully, but still with intent.

“Don’t be a dick,” she warns, her smile giving away the fact that she’s still amused by his immature sense of humor.

“I just… didn’t want to simply appear out of nowhere if you were happy. If you’d moved on,” Lando continues, his tone more serious now. “But when he told me you seemed like you hadn’t, I couldn’t keep pretending like I was fine. I'm really not.”

His honesty was always a breath of fresh air, but now it's suffocating. Hearing him admitting he's not okay, implying that she's the reason why, is simply heartbreaking.

Her arms drop slowly to her sides, her fingers gripping the edge of the bed, “Why now, Lando? And why not text or call?”

He scoffs, “Can you look me in the eye and tell me honestly that you would have picked up if I called? Especially given how we left things?”

She cups Lando’s chin in the palm of her hand, forcing him to look at her, “I'll always pick up if it's you.”

The admission makes his chest tighten.

Lando shakes his head, “I promise I’ve tried,” he says, “God, I’ve fucking tried. I threw myself into everything, and nothing worked. Racing, training, sim sessions, going out with the guys — no matter what I did, I was constantly thinking of you. Every night out felt wrong because I wasn’t coming home to you. And I know home is such a vague word for me, because I’m mostly away, but you made every single place feel like home, and that's why it didn't matter where I was at the time. I just needed… need you in ways I can't nor want to explain.”

His confession makes her head spin. The breakup had been difficult for her, but she hadn’t considered how Lando had handled the past five months. All along, she had assumed he wouldn’t miss her — that his life, always on the road and consumed by his own pursuits, was too busy to notice the absence of one small, insignificant detail: her.

She's now realizing how wrong she had been to think that way.

“So…?” she finally asks. “Do you think a few orgasms later can mend what was broken five months ago?”

“What? No, of course not,” he says firmly, leaning forward, his elbows digging into his thighs. “I swear, all I wanted to do tonight was talking to you. I didn’t plan on getting to this point, but I can’t say I’m mad about it,” says Lando, taking her hand in his, brushing his thumb over her knuckles. “You still want me,” she shoots Lando a rapid look, studying his face, “Just like I want you. I see it, I feel it. Baby, I know it.”

Her heart pounds in her chest, the sincerity in his voice cutting through her defenses like a hot knife through butter. She wants to be angry, to accuse him of being selfish, but the truth is, she isn’t. Maybe it’s foolish to believe him, but one thing Lando never did was lie to her. He did worse, yes, but he never lied.

“Lando...” she starts, but her voice trails off, wishing her head would stop spinning so she could think.

“I know I hurt you,” he continues, his voice softer now, “You hurt me. We hurt each other. But we're too good together not to find a way to make it work.”

She doesn’t respond immediately, her mind racing with memories of their past — the good, especially the bad, and everything else in between. Her fingers toy with the fabric of her dress, her eyes flickering between his face and the floor. The room is heavy with silence and, just for a moment, she lets herself believe that maybe, just maybe, they could find each other again.

Otherwise, if it's meant to fall apart, then let it happen with them gasping for air, tangled together, connected in every way imaginable.

THE MORNING SUN filters shyly through the curtains, soft and golden, spilling across the bed where Lando stirs awake. He’s all alone, the sheets around him rumpled from where she had slept. He blinks up at the ceiling, a little disoriented. Then, he hears the faint sound of running water and realizes she’s in the shower. It makes him feel like everything went back to normal, but he can't be sure of what's going to happen next. He can only speculate and hope, but nothing more than that.

The quiet is interrupted by the persistent buzz of his phone on the nightstand. He reaches for it, still groggy from sleep, scrolling through a handful of texts from last night — banter in the group chat, some Instagram notifications, a few missed calls; nothing too important to catch his eye. He places the phone back on the smooth surface carelessly, and his hand knocks over something solid in the process.

Frowning, he sits up to put it back in its place, and that’s when he sees it — a framed picture of them, taken during a rare quiet weekend in Monaco over a year ago, right at the beginning of their relationship. She looked so happy back then, caught mid-laugh as Lando was gazing at her with an expression so tender that it makes his chest ache now. The weight of the memory hits him harder than he expects, pulling him fully awake.

The sound of the bathroom door opening makes him turn, and he puts the frame back quickly. However, it's enough for her to catch his sudden movement, her eyes flicking to the photo and back to him.

Her cheeks flush a deep pink. “I meant to put that away,” she rushes to say, pulling the towel tighter around her body like it might shield her from the embarrassment.

“Carlos took this one,” his voice is soft, as his eyes shift back to the frame. He picks it up again, turning it in his hands. “You asked me why didn't I call, but… why didn't you call?”

She laughs dryly, crossing the space to take the frame from his hand and placing it face down on the nightstand. She sits down next to him, shrugging.

“And tell you what, Lando? That I couldn’t stop thinking about you even though you broke my heart?” she asks, shaking her head, the embarrassment turning into something closer to frustration. “It’s just a stupid picture, anyway. We barely knew each other when it was taken.”

“It’s not stupid,” he contradicts her vehemently. His hand reaches out tentatively, brushing against her soft forearm. “It's nice to know I wasn’t completely crazy for hoping you felt the same.”

Her lips part like she wants to say something, but no words come out. The towel slips slightly, and she clutches it tighter, her defenses crumbling under the weight of his hungry eyes.

“Lando…”

“Leave it there, yeah?” he says, pointing at the picture. “Facing your side of the bed, preferably.”

Seeing her suddenly deep in thought, Lando grabs her wrist and gently pulls her onto his lap, his thumb lightly brushing against her silky skin.

She looks at him, her emotions warring on her face. “If it makes me look less pathetic, it was face down most of the time.”

Lando laughs, his hands finding her waist, then her hips, steadying her on his lap, “I love you,” he says it casually, but it still freezing the blood in her veins.

Her fingers fly towards his mouth to cover his lips, “Don't,” she warns.

“You know I do. I was serious last night. You don't have to decide anything right now, but I'm not going anywhere. It sucks we needed to hurt for a while, we're both at fault, but I never stopped loving you,” he repeats.

“You're so unfair.”

“Don't care, say it back,” he teases, digging his fingers into her skin to tickle her sides.

She starts giggling, “Don't you dare.”

His grin widens, “Or what?” he asks playfully as her hands fly to his, trying to fend him off.

“Lando, I'm serious. Stop it,” her laughter blends with his while he leans in closer, his lips brushing her ear.

“I need to hear it, baby. Please. Just say it back.”

“It back,” she chuckles, feeling his fingers tickling her so mercilessly that tears form in her eyes. Their laughter bubbles over, loud and uninhibited, until she collapses against him. “Okay, fine. Fine,” her breathy voice stops him in place, catching his attention. “I love you, Lando.”

A simple confession; he asked for it. But none of them expected it to hang that heavily between them. It's not a lie — not in the slightest — and Lando knows it.

“Enough to give us a second chance?” he asks.

Her breath catches at the sudden shift in his tone, and before she can reply, his thumb traces her cheek gently.

“I'm so scared,” she admits, leaning into his touch.

Lando sighs, understanding too well where she's coming from, “I know, baby. But I'm even more afraid of losing us again. Losing this…”

His hand slides down her chest, tracing the curve of her breasts. With a gentle movement, he tugs at the corner of her towel, letting it drip smoothly down her body. Patiently, he runs his hands down her waist, moving back up to her chest as they leave goosebumps in their wake. Hungry, his hands rest on her breasts, squeezing them lightly until he feels her nipples in his palms, and she drops her head on his shoulder, whimpering softly.

Memories of last night make her body shudder, feeling the heat between her legs intensifying. Following his lead, her fingers start tugging at the waistband of his boxers, until they slip low on his hips.

Lando moves one hand around her neck, pulling her in for a kiss. He groans against her mouth, his breath hot and ragged, before breaking their connection long enough to kick the boxers aside.

Skin on skin, their bodies align like two puzzle pieces.

She hovers over him, his hands on either side of her, “I wanna take care of you,” he speaks softly, closing his eyes when her forehead rests against his. “Please, let me take care of you.”

There’s a vulnerability in his tone that twists something deep inside her. She's just learned how to be independent again. She can't throw all of it away. She can't let herself slip.

She can't.

“Okay,” she whispers, her voice steady despite the storm raging within her.

Her answer is all that Lando needs to hear. His lips crash back onto hers as he swaps their positions, lowering her onto the bed, his body pressing against hers, warm and solid. And so very real. Every touch, every kiss, every whispered word feels like a promise, a vow that he won’t let her slip through his fingers again.

And then, Lando takes control — not the type of dominance he's used to when he steers his car. It's more like devotion; his hands map her body all over again, like a driver learning every twist and turn of a new circuit, his lips following the trail his fingers blaze.

She arches into his touch, responding to him in ways she thought she’d forgotten.

But the body remembers.

And the remembering is, oh, so good.

Last night was just the warm-up, she reckons — an act meant to remind both of them how well they fit together. Lando was gentle, kind, and patient. But now, she sees the shift in him.

His eyes are darker, filled with lust, his touch greedier. She can't help but smile when she realizes that the Lando she knows all too well — the one who’s needy, insatiable, and unrelenting in his desire for her — is still there, and so ready to show off.

Her skin tingles in anticipation as she watches him, knowing exactly what he wants. And for once, she wants it just as much. Maybe even more, considering how her body is acting independently from her brain.

She wants him to give her everything, to burn through her until she’s left gasping and wet and ruined, and she’s ready to meet his hunger with her own.

But before that, “We're not done talking,” she tells him, breathing heavily against his mouth.

“Yeah, we'll talk. Stay with me and we'll talk all you want, baby.”

She wants to protest, but her air gets knocked out of her lungs and her fingernails sink into his shoulders when Lando nudges the head of his cock up and down her slit to collect the wetness. With a gentle kiss on her jaw, she closes her eyes, tracing her fingers down his arms as he pushes inside.

They both exhale, relieved that they're back where they belong.

Talking can wait.

Lando's hands grip her waist just as he pulls out, only to push back in, all the way to the hilt in one slow, but hard thrust. The feeling is almost too much for her, which is ridiculous since he just started moving. But she feels so full, and the sounds he lets out only make her open up for him even more.

“Wait, wait,” she can barely recognize her own voice, stopping Lando when their hips touch together.

She can't explain it, but she needs it.

“What's wrong?”

She looks down between their bodies, confusing Lando even more. “I…,” she begins, but she's not sure how she's supposed to voice her need.

“It's okay, you can tell me,” he assures her, bringing his hand to cup her face in his palm, tracing his thumb over her cheek.

“I—need a second to feel you,” she explains, pushing his hand away only to trace her palms over her face.

Lando chuckles, “Baby, don't hide from me. You're driving me fucking mad when you're blushing.”

“I'm not blushing,” she contradicts him, raising her hips against his, her walls hugging him tighter with every move.

“No?” whispers Lando roughly as if he lost his voice. “God, you're perfect. So good, so fucking sweet and perfect around me, baby.”

Her legs tighten around his waist, keeping him inside, while one hand moves to his lower back to push him against her even more. There is no physical space left between them, but she still wants more. It only makes Lando's cock throb inside her pussy, giving her a few more seconds to adjust to his length before he pulls all the way out and slides back, searching for the perfect pace.

“Fuck, Lando,” she whines, burying her fingers into his hair, tugging at the roots.

“Yes, I know,” agrees Lando, his eyes flicking over her face. His insides tighten at the sight of her parting her lips in pleasure, her breathing hot and irregular. “You're so beautiful from this angle.”

“Shut up,” she cuts him off, which makes Lando chuckle again.

“Why would I?” he asks, leaning closer to her ear, while thrusting a couple more times before pausing. “You look like a fucking goddess taking my cock so well.”

She squeezes her eyes shut at the sound of his voice, low and raspy, rocking her hips to find that sweet friction against her walls again.

“Keep,” she whines, “Keep going, then. Let me have it.”

Lando presses his lips on hers at the same time he resumes his movements, his hands roaming all over her body.

“You can have my cock, baby,” he groans into her hair. “All yours.”

She nods, wrapping her fingers around his biceps, “Yeah?”

“Promise you,” says Lando.

After that, he picks up pace, both falling into an agonizing rhythm. All this time, she had thought that familiarity might dull the edge of being with Lando, that knowing his moves would make it predictable and boring, maybe even ordinary.

Somehow, it’s the exact opposite.

It’s because she knows him, and he knows her so well, that every touch feels ecstatic, every kiss charged with meaning. He doesn’t need to guess what she likes; he already knows how to unravel her, how to leave her trembling and breathless. And she knows exactly what will make his breath hitch, how to draw out that low, desperate groan that ignites her own fire.

In a way, every time feels like the first, but it's always much better, because they know how to make each other fall apart like no one else can.

“Please,” she gasps, breathing wetly in his shoulder. “Harder.”

One thing about Lando, he's always been good at listening. Without thinking twice, he tightens his grip on her hips, fucking his cock inside her harder and faster than before. In an instant, her ears are blessed with the way his moans sound.

“God, I've missed fucking my pretty girl like this,” says Lando, his hands moving on her thighs to spread her more so he can slide in faster. “It's never like this, baby, fuck.”

Being with Lando is chaos, the kind of beautiful, consuming chaos that leaves everything around them in shambles. They are loud and messy, and everything is sweaty and wet and sticky. He kisses her like he’s starving, touches her like he’s desperate to memorize every inch of her skin, and she matches his fervor, meeting him with the same wild energy that pulls them under. Together.

“Lando,” she spits his name out of her mouth in short spasms. “Lando, Lan… Lando.”

It's almost like a cry for help, but she doesn't need saving. Not when he's fucking her so good, slamming against her over and over again, until the outside world fades away and all she remembers is his name.

“Lando,” she whimpers again.

“Keep me in, love. Like that,” she can barely hear him over the sound of skin slapping on skin. “Fuck. You're taking me so well, I won't stop fucking you, baby. I won't—”

She sucks in a breath of air, her body buzzing with pleasure. Wrapping her arms around his torso, she can feel how hot and sweaty his chest is. She moves with him for a couple more thrusts before she lets go, the sound of Lando fucking in and out of her while she comes so obscene that it makes her eyes roll.

“I'll never get tired of seeing you coming like that,” says Lando, pinning her to the bed, his cock feeling so fucking good inside of her that it makes him see stars. “So fucking hot, baby.”

Her nails scratch the skin of his back as her pussy clenches around his length, forcing another hiss out of Lando's mouth.

“Don't stop,” she manages to say, even though she feels her throat raw.

“Ah, look at you, now. Being so good for me,” says Lando with a smirk, tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Letting me have my way with you when you're sore and spent. And so wet, baby, you're dripping all around my cock. Fucking hell.”

Lando's jaw clenches, a visible battle playing out in his face as his breath hitches. She feels him moving deeper, hitting the sweet spot inside her, sending ripples of pleasure through her body with every thrust.

“Yes—fuck. Don't stop,” she repeats.

His eyes widen as he tries to hold on for as long as he can, but it's hard when he flashes his eyes in her direction and catches her already looking. It doesn't take long for him to realize there's a replica to her first orgasm. He nods, without saying anything else, bringing his hand up to her neck. She places hers on top of his, not to push it away, but to let it rest there as a sign that it's fine to claim her if that's what Lando needs.

And that's enough for him to lose it.

“Baby,” he breaths out, fucking her slopply, any sense of order dissolving under the weight of their eye contact.

She arches into him, her fingers trembling as they rise to cup his face.

“Keep your eyes on me,” she demands, her voice a desperate need.

She pictured that face thousands of times in the past months, but nothing compares to this. Lando groans at the command, his hooded gaze staying on hers. The intensity of his expression nearly undoes her again — his pupils blown wide, lips parted as he lets out s string of cuss words.

“That's it, pretty boy,” she whispers, her thumb brushing over his cheek as he moves inside her, his pace faltering for just a moment before he snaps back into thay sloppy rhythm, chasing his release. “Want to see you when you let go.”

She barely finishes her sentence when his orgasm crashes over him like a tsunami; no one would be able to even tell where she begins and where he ends.

Lando looks so beautiful and wrecked, and she drinks in every second of his surrender.

Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful.

When his features soften, she sees how vulnerable he is, and it leaves her breathless.

Satisfied and content, her fingers still trace his face, wanting to remember the exact way he looks in this moment, when he is completely hers.

Unable to support his weight, Lando collapses on top of her, feeling his body as light as a feather, which is so far from the truth. But she doesn't mind; she loves the feeling, actually. She loves the heaviness, and the way he keeps his cock tucked deep inside her, wet and softening slowly, not allowing his cum to leak out of her.

Descending back down from their high, the only sounds in the room are their slowing breaths and the soft rustle of the sheets. It's hard not to notice the weight of reality when it begins to creep in around the edges.

She lies beneath him, her fingers lazily tracing patterns on his back, but her mind is miles away.

“When are you leaving?” she finally asks, her voice barely above a whisper.

Lando tenses for a moment, then shifts to lie beside her, propping his head on his hand to look at her. The vulnerability in her eyes twists something deep inside him.

She swallows hard, suddenly flooded by all the reasons they had fought, all the late nights filled with misunderstandings and misaligned priorities. She remembers all the reasons why they broke up, and thinking how bad of an idea this has been. Because, how can she let go of him again, without feeling like she'll be losing both her head and heart in the process.

“On Tuesday,” says Lando softly. “But not how you think.”

Her brow furrows in confusion as she turns to face him. “What do you mean?”

Lando leans over, his hand caressing her cheek as he gathers his thoughts.

“I’ve been thinking about us for months. Since you left, actually,” he begins, his voice low and deliberate. “I had a lot of time, and I managed to figure out why it didn’t work before, why I couldn’t give you what you deserved. So… I’ve talked to the team.”

She almost stops breathing, her eyes widening in his direction while she waits for him to continue. Months ago, she would've die to have this conversation, and now that it happens, she doesn't know how to behave.

“I'm working on a schedule. To have more time for us,” Lando explains.

Her heart skips a beat. “You’d do that?”

“For us,” he repeats, his voice firm. “I can’t keep pretending I’m okay without you. I don't want to be okay without you, it's stupid. And I don’t want to keep coming back here, hoping for a second chance, only to mess it up again. I want to get it right this time.”

She stares at him, not knowing what to do with that information. This is not the Lando she knows. The recklessness and impulsivity got replaced by caution and planning the steps ahead. It's new, and exciting, and it makes her tear up.

“And what if it still doesn’t work?” she asks, her voice small.

He leans closer, his forehead touching hers. “It will.”

His tone is so definitive that she can't say anything else, letting the silence stretch between them as she searches Lando's face for any sign of hesitation.

There’s none.

“How... did you actually know where to find me last night?”

Lando smirks, studying her face with half-closed eyes, bringing his hand to her jaw. “That friend of yours posted on her story. Honestly, I didn’t know you were going to be there. But I hoped.”

She shakes her head, scoffing, “Stalker behavior.”

Lando shrugs nonchallantly, “I just happened to be nearby,” he chuckles.

“Lucky me,” she says, tracing the contour of his nose with her finger, stopping on his jaw.

“Lucky us,” he corrects, pulling her in for another kiss.

Thank you for reading!

None of my works are available for reposting on other platforms. Reblogs, likes, and comments are deeply appreciated ♥︎

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fioiswriting · 1 year ago

Text

Reunion | Sequel

[Part 1]

Summary : After the Battle Above the Gods Eye, Daemon returned victorious. Aemond was presumed dead, though his body was never found. Three years later, you've mourned your former husband and are ready to move on. But it seems that some ghosts from your past have come back to haunt you, and that the dead aren't really dead after all...

Rating : Explicit 18+, MDNI

Pairing : Aemond x Velaryon/Strong!niece!Reader

TW : unprotected sex, breeding kink, mention of characters death, angst, possessiveness, p in v sex, oral f receiving, dom/sub undertones, mention of war, AU where the Blacks won the war, anxiety, Reader has a child, grief, fluff, pregnancy, not proofread.

Reader is Rhaenyra and Harwin’s daughter so I imagined her with dark hair like Jace, Luke and Joffrey but feel free to imagine her as you want of course <3

Words count : 9150

Author's note : Hello everyone!! Sorry for the wait, I've been very busy, but here's part two of Reunion (or at least the first part two, let's call it part 2.1 hehe). Thank you again for all you kind comments and the love you've given my fanfic omg!! Spoiler alert: this is the happy alternate ending! But I've got another bittersweet alternative ending planned 😈 If you think the first part was good enough on its own and the sequel may break the vibe, don't force yourself to read!! But if you need a happy ending, here it is <3 The plot still doesn't make any sense, but hey, we're here to have fun so enjoy ❤️

English is still not my first (or second) language, so sorry for the grammar mistakes <3

When you wake up, the first thing you feel is the reassuring embrace of his arms around you. You don't want to move, not even when the sunlight tickles your face through the opening between the wooden shutters, trying to make the moment last endlessly. But the growing anxiety in your stomach chases away the illusion of your fleeting happiness.

You close your eyes a little tighter. Perhaps if you try again, perhaps if you try harder, the world around you can fade away.

Perhaps you can wake up again, in a different reality.

But it's inevitable. You know that now you're awake, it's only a matter of time before the two of you have to say goodbye forever. Your breathing becomes heavier, and you have to fight the tingling sensation at the corners of your eyes.

Why have the gods decided to be so cruel to you? They grant you one last taste of his skin on your lips before taking it from you, again.

Haven't you given enough?

Could they not show you mercy?

You who had forgotten him, you who had begun to turn a new page, to seek comfort in the arms of the cold, far away from the fire and the ashes, why did you have to touch the poison that would once again stain your soul?

Behind you, Aemond buries his long nose in your hair. His hand absently caresses the skin of your thigh, just where the edge of the linen tunic you put on sometime during the night when you were cold ends. The fabric is pulled up, revealing the outline of your bottom, and you can already feel your uncle hardening between his thighs, but you don't move.

If you move, you'll make everything more real. Tangible.

You'll speed up the process of losing him, of him slipping through your fingers.

How can you let him go, now that your heart is full again, now that you feel complete in a way you haven't felt for over three years?

How can you let him go, now that your body has retrieve the extension of itself in the arms of the man who was the cause of your torment, your moments of joy, your pain and, paradoxically, your happiness?

"I know you're awake."

You hold your breath and Aemond inhales into your hair. His hand moves down the inside of your thigh, along the hollow that joins it to your groin. He doesn't venture any further.

His thumb rests there and brushes your skin, trying to arouse the desire in you with gentleness.

Subtly.

He doesn't want to hurry, he doesn't want to rush you.

Not when he's been harbouring the impossible fantasy of waking up with you in his arms since the day he nearly died.

He presses harder against you, as if he doesn't want to let you go, as if he wants to be one with you again, and you feel him pulsing against your buttocks, under the linen cloth that has been pulled up a little higher. He says nothing, but he is pleading, needy, in his gestures, which is rare for him.

Something has changed, after all, and perhaps something has changed in him too.

"I am awake, indeed, " you whisper in a voice that is still half asleep. The lump in your throat betrays the feeling of anxiety gradually creeping into your body, and Aemond seems to notice. Under your tunic, his hand moves up along your belly until it nestles against your chest, close to your heart. His thumb draws small circles, once again trying to bring you back to him.

Trying to calm your mind.

"Let us forget for a little longer," he whispers, his clenched jaw resting over your head. "Please."

And you know he never begs.

Aemond takes and doesn't ask.

Aemond believes he is owed everything and never gives in return.

Hearing him beg breaks something inside you, because this is the first time he does so.

Usually it was you, it was always you, begging for peace, begging for more, begging him not to leave you.

Part of him is as desperate as you are; part of him also dreads the moment when you will have to part again. Forever. It's comforting to know that his feelings are sincere, just like yours.

" Make me forget, then." You reply, moving your lower loins back against him, giving him tacit permission to explore your body once more. His fingers move down to your breasts, which he covers softly with his hand, his thumb skimming over a nipple to make it hard. You let out a gasp between your parted lips.

His hand slides lower, his palm flat against your lower belly, his fingertips brushing the light patch of hair at the top of your mound. You feel the familiar warmth growing between your thighs, in your core.

He sighs against the back of your skull, his head tilted forward. His lips search the skin at the nape of your neck, behind the long hair that has become tangled during the night, while his fingers intimately explore the secrets of your body that he knows all too well. The remnants of last night's lovemaking still smear the insides of your thighs and folds, but it doesn't matter; his fingers easily find the little bundle of nerves that they tease until you close your eyes, until your hand grips the damp, shabby sheet that covers the ragged mattress in the inn where you've spent the night.

Just the both of you, in the comfort of anonymity.

"Let me taste you". His voice, still husky, tickles the back of your neck and you feel him shift behind you. When you feel the warmth of his bare chest, against which you're nestled, leave your back, your body automatically tries to move back against him. You still need him. You still need him to chase away the lump of anxiety in the pit of your stomach and the voices that keep reminding you that you're only postponing the fateful moment. Your hand slips under your white tunic and wraps around his wrist to force him to stay there, to hold his fingers against the source of heat spreading from your core. Your hips are demanding, grinding against his hand. "On your back," he insists, and stands up on his forearms.

With reluctance you turn over. You obey, lying on your back, your hair spilled around your head on the flat, uncomfortable pillow on which you slept badly. The white tunic that serves as your nightgown is pulled up, crumpled, just above your crotch, which it barely conceals.

Aemond has swung over your body, silvery strands loosening from the braid that holds his hair behind his head and sliding down his shoulders, falling in loose loops on either side of his face, tickling your cheeks.

His lilac-tinted blue eye glows with a predatory gaze, a ray of light catching in the sapphire he hasn't removed from his socket.

He captures your lips with his own, begging for access. Aemond marks your jaw and throat with light kisses, sucking at your collarbone to make the violets of possessiveness with which he likes to adorn your body bloom. His lips travel down your chest, playing with one of the two small nipples raised by the cool air and by desire, and continue their journey past your navel.

Your heartbeat quickens as he settles between your legs, spreading your thighs to admire the part of you he covets so eagerly. At the same time you bend your legs, your gaze falling on him, on his unravelled hair, on his eye that locks with yours. He is so close to you, so close to your warm centre, and you know that between your folds the sweet nectar that your uncle longs to taste is already flowing.

But his lips trace the inside of your thighs instead, where the skin is soft and tender, and gradually they reach the hollow that connects them to your most intimate part. He takes a malicious pleasure in building up the tension, in savouring every millimetre of you like a fine delicacy, with only the tip of his lips brushing against your skin.

His thumbs spread the tender flesh of your womanhood and then he places a chaste kiss on the very centre of you. His tongue is shy at first, tracing the slit that connects your entrance to your little knob, collecting the evidence of your desire.

As his tongue wraps around your nub, your hands grip the sheets, knuckles white.

Aemond drinks from your essence like a thirsty man, his nose buried between your folds, rubbing your pearl.

The tip of his tongue catches what drips from your opening, and then the flat of his tongue tastes your slit, working its way up to the little nub gorged with desire.

He maintains the same rhythm, revelling in the moans that escape from your half-open lips. Soon his middle finger begins to draw circles against your entrance, the first knuckle sliding inside, then the whole finger. Your head is thrown back and immediately your hand buries itself in his silvery hair, gripping his braid in a messy bun behind the top of his head. Forcing his face against the most intimate part of your body, forcing his lips to work on your wet warmth, you seek more contact.

Aemond adds a second finger. He can feel you tighten around him as he searches for that particular spot, as his tongue continues to play with your bundle of nerves.

As he devours what is his, utterly his.

His fingers, the ones that aren't buried inside you, close around the flesh of your hip in a possessive grip. "Come for me," he whispers against your womanhood, his eyes lifted to you. "I know you can do it."

Your breathing becomes more erratic, faster too. You tighten the grip of your fingers in his hair, your thighs pressing either side of his face, and he collects the sweet taste of your release on his tongue with a hum.

You feel like you're floating. The waves of warmth still wash over you, less and less intense, your breast rising and falling as you catch your breath.

Your hand tucks a lock of his hair back behind his ear as Aemond lifts his face towards you, and you rest your hand against his cheek. His parted lips still glisten with your desire smeared across the lower part of his face. He stares at you without moving, his deep, regular breathing the only sound to break the silence that has followed your release. You stay like that for a moment, his gaze burning into yours. At any moment he might pounce on you. At any moment he might close the tiny distance separating your mouths and press his lips against yours like the starving man he is.

It's you who makes the first move. You taste yourself on his lips and your tongue entwines with his in a fiery, demanding kiss.

Straightening up, Aemond creeps between your legs, his hand on the underside of your thighs, holding them apart. He is still completely naked from the night before, he has not bothered to get dressed after your lovemaking, so you can catch a glimpse of his erect manhood, slightly curved. He wraps his hand around to guide it towards your still sensitive wet entrance.

He slides into you easily, in one slow movement. The haste of the night before, the urgency of the reunion, has given way to the tenderness and laziness of the early morning, and Aemond rocks inside you slowly. His hips undulate, punctuated by long, deep thrusts, in an illusion of domesticity.

But the damp sheets, rough against your skin, the discomfort of the hard mattress beneath your back, remind you that your lovemaking is anything but domestic.

For Aemond is still the enemy, for Aemond is supposed to be dead.

For your family is probably looking for you at this very moment, worried that you have not returned home for the night.

But you push those thoughts away. The weight of your uncle's body on top of yours soothes the knot that forms in the pit of your stomach at the thought of time slipping away, at the thought of having to leave him again, at the thought of this being the last time you will taste his lips, his skin.

Aemond is gentle, and that is rare enough to be worth mentioning. He has never been so gentle, so soft, in the limited time that you have been married.

Between you, there had been the devouring, consuming passion, the power play that in your submission had granted you dominance.

Between you it had been raw and devastating more than gentle and tender.

His fingers run the length of your body to your core, combining his slow, deep thrusts with the movement of his fingers against your clit.

There are only few words exchanged between you, as if you were both afraid to break the grace of the moment.

His panting, noisy breath echoes in the silence, skimming the skin of your throat, then mingling with yours as the shadow of his lips brushes against yours. He rests his forehead against yours, your hand cupping his cheek, sliding behind his neck, and you are transported into a cocoon of intimacy where nothing else exists around you.

There is only his body against yours, warm and reassuring.

There is only him inside you and the slow movement of his hips.

There is only your breathing, blending in the space that separates your mouths.

"Do you know how much I've missed you?" He whispers against your lips as you close your thighs around him. "How much I dreamed of this tight little cunt?" You swallow his words. Your hips meet his as he pushes against you. He is reaching deep inside you. Despite the intimacy of the moment, his body oozes power and darkness, and you can't help but be drawn to that side of him that complements yours so well.

You can't stop your body from aching for him.

"You could have been my queen," he says as his movements grow stronger. He won't last long, but neither will you. He's inside you, where you like to feel him, and your walls clench around his member. "And I would have set the whole world on fire for you." He thrusts. "Burned it to the ground" He thrusts again. "All for you." And again.

The old wood of the bed creaks with each of his movements.

You seek out his lips, just to brush them against yours.

Without sealing the kiss.

"And I would have accepted," you answer with a whimper. "I would have been your queen, qybor." In another life, you think you would.

In another life, in another universe, you would have been his queen.

A grunt escapes his lips and lands in the hollow of your ear. Aemond straightens on his bent elbow, right next to your head, and he plunges into you one last time, with more power, more vigour, just as his new position allows.

You close your eyes.

A second wave of warmth is about to engulf your body.

And you wait for it, you welcome it.

"Look at me when I come inside you," he growls hoarsely as his seed pours deep inside you, into the most intimate part of your body. "Look at me as I fill you up."

Your eyes lock with his, fiery as ever. A final moan escapes between your lips and you seal them to your uncle's in a feverish, wet kiss. You hold him in your arms for a moment longer, as if to allow yourself the luxury of illusion for a brief instant.

You delay the fateful moment a little longer, fighting the minutes that inevitably slip through your fingers.

"Stay inside me just a little longer," you whisper, burying your head in the hollow of his neck where you can feel the rapid rhythm of his pulse. His arms close around you, holding you tight against him, and you hear him purr against the hair on the crown of your head. He rocks you gently.

The silence welcomes you both into its embrace and you savour it like a treasure. Your body aches in the sweetest way, your insides throbbing around his softening manhood.

And around you, nothing exists anymore.

*** *** *** *** *** *** ***

"I've changed, you know." His hoarse voice vibrates against you, but you refuse to meet his eyes. You keep them closed.

You're not sure if Aemond has really changed. Aemond is ruthless, cold, brutal, calculating, merciless. Cruel. You're not sure if Aemond can ever change, but he shows unusual tenderness, and maybe, just maybe, you allow yourself to doubt. You indulge in the illusion.

Perhaps Vhagar's death has broken something in him.

Perhaps it's true, perhaps he's not the same man anymore.

He's not sorry for what he has done. He never will be. He's too proud, even if you can catch the glimmer of remorse that colours his icy eyes when he is not looking at you.

Does he think of your little brother? Is he haunted by the memory of him, as you have been for so many years?

Does he think of the innocents he killed without flinching, the blood he spilled in the Riverlands that now stains the burned grass?

Is his sanity slowly being eaten away by the atrocities he has committed with his own hands?

He has changed. You are not sure if he's changed for the better or for the worse, but he has indeed.

Daemon has changed too. So has Rhaenyra. So has Jace.

You too have changed.

For war changes people, war makes them weary and wary, it shatters something in the body that will never be the same again. It hollows out the roundness of the cheeks, it deepens the dark circles under the eyes, it fades the sparkle of childhood that remains in the eyes.

Aemond seems to be waiting for an answer, but the words remain stuck in your throat. I know, you want to whisper, I know, but suddenly you've forgotten how to speak. His thumb draws the soft line of the underside of your breast.

The future terrifies you more than ever. You had made peace with your past, you had come to a conclusion that, even if it pained you, had given you some respite.

Seeing your uncle alive had reawakened your demons.

Spending the night in the embrace of his arms had revived everything you had buried deep, deep down.

The past had returned, creeping towards you, gnawing at the corners of your heart and at what remained of your sense of stability and certainty.

Now you are plunged into doubt.

Just as you were a little over three years ago, when you were informed of his death, when you had to learn to live with the choice that had never really been given to you.

Just as three years ago, when you noticed a familiar lilac-tinged blue in Rhaegar's eyes.

Like when you had to live with the memories that haunted you, that were slowly eating away at what little sanity you had left.

Like when you finally decided to leave for the North.

Aemond seems to sense your anguish, because his fingers get lost in your hair.

"What are we going to do now?"

Finally, you dare to utter the inevitable words that have been hanging on the tip of your tongue since you woke up, words you've swallowed so many times this morning. You immediately blame yourself.

Saying them only makes them more real.

They tear at something in the imaginary cocoon you've built for yourselves. You bury your face against his skin, breathe in his scent, as if you never want to forget him.

For you know how fleeting memories can be.

You remember how his face faded with each passing day.

You don't know if you'll ever be able to experience it a second time.

"We could leave," Aemond replies, as his fingers venture to your jaw, caressing the line of your cheeks with the back of his knuckles.

He's so pragmatic, as always.

Even in this situation.

Even now.

It makes you want to shake him.

"We could run away," he says again. His gaze, fixed in the distance, falls on you at the same moment. "To Essos. Pentos. No one would know who we are." You close your eyes, and let his hoarse voice lull you into silence. "To start our own family, the three of us."

You know he is not serious. Even though he looks at you with such insistence, with that flame that flickers in the centre of his iris.

You relish his fantasy, this impossible dream.

But you can't leave your family; Essos is not Winterfell. There, they knew where to find you. They knew you were safe. They knew you were sheltered between the walls of the northern castle, under the heavy furs, under the protection of Cregan Stark.

Essos is the unknown.

You cannot let your mother lose her only daughter, not after everything she has already lost.

The itch is familiar, tickling at the corners of your eyes. There was a time when you thought you'd lost that sensitivity. When you thought the war had left you cold, incapable of feeling anything. Incapable of crying.

"You know I can't." Your nose rubs against his milky skin, made clammy by sweat. You keep your eyes closed because you feel the weight of his cold gaze on you, his furrowed eyebrows as he stares at you blankly, his lips pursed in a long, thin line. You don't have the courage to meet his accusing gaze, let alone the wounded look on his face as you crush all his illusory dreams into dust.

When did you become the more pragmatic of the two?

When did you become the one responsible for bringing Aemond back to reality?

It used to be you, the one who filled your mind with unrealistic dreams, the one who dreamed of stories and fairy tales, back when you could still dream. "They need me, you know that."

A sneer stretches across your uncle's lips as he swallows a chuckle that sounds more like an ironic growl. You feel his whole body tense against yours, a sign that he's holding back his annoyance.

A sign that he has something to say, that he's upset, but doesn't quite know how to put it into words.

"Like they needed you back then?" he replies scathingly, bitterness on the tip of his tongue. "When they used you as a bargaining chip to achieve their ends, hm?"

Your red cheeks burn with shame, as if he'd slapped you. You don't move, merely swallow hard. You know there's something right about what he is saying, but you don't want to admit it.

You've done your duty.

You've done what is expected of you as a daughter.

It was not a question of them using you. It never was.

It was your duty, only your duty, what you were always meant to perform, wasn't it?

And yet a small voice in the back of your head had already given you a similar speech, a few years ago, but you had tried to silence it.

You refused to let Aemond admit it. You refuse to allow him to do it. He had no idea, no right to criticise your family when he'd acted like that.

When he has done what he has done.

He has no idea what it is like to be a daughter.

You don't answer, and silence falls between you again.

You wish so desperately that he could go home with you; that he could tell them that he's sorry.

You wish it were easier.

There is no one left to wait for Aemond but you, but his son, you know that. His family has been decimated, as has yours in some ways, though you still have your parents and your older brother.

For your uncle, there's nothing left but the shadow of his existence, the shadow of who he once was, long ago.

You let your hand trace the side of his throat, your nose buried against it, your lips hovering over his skin. You lean against him, your body on top of his, pressed together as if you were afraid to let him go.

"You could come with me instead," you whisper, but you refuse to meet his gaze. There's something shameful in the words you've just spoken aloud, something naive, and your burning cheeks are proof of your embarrassment.

Almost imperceptibly, he clenches beneath you, holding his breath. This is a bad idea and you feel stupid. Naive to have dared to suggest something like this.

His voice purrs in a hm that vibrates against you. He's about to say something. He searches for words. "You know that -"

"I know." You cut him off sharply - a little more than you would have liked, your eyes raised to silence him.

You know what he thinks.

He thinks that Rhaenyra will never be his queen. He thinks he will never bend the knee to his eldest sister and her authority, which he doesn't recognise.

He thinks that with the death of Aegon, with the death of the children his brother fathered with Helaena, the throne belongs to him.

And you are aware of his ambitions. You know how perfectly the conqueror's crown fits his head. You know how it sets off the sapphire embedded in his eye socket. You remember the look of greed in his eyes every time he stared at the Iron Throne, you remember the look of pride on his face every time he scorned anyone who dared to question his decisions as Prince Regent.

You know how mercilessly he made the soldiers at Harrenhal kneel, forcing them to contemplate their impending deaths. You know the terror he has sown throughout the Riverlands.

Even in the Seven Hells you could have found more mercy than at the hands of Aemond Targaryen.

Aemond may have changed, but you're not sure he's changed enough to put aside the pride that is consuming him from within.

You take a deep breath. "You don't really have a choice, qybor."

Fearing his reaction, you curl into a fetal position, your back to him, your knees drawn up to you. You close your eyes. You wait for his frustration.

You wait for his sentence.

You know that he is aware that he has no choice.

He has only two options: swallow his pride or sink back into the abyss, disappear into the dark meanders of oblivion.

Rhaegar needed his father, of course, but you found him a father in Cregan Stark.

That was a sacrifice you were willing to make.

There was no way you would give up what family you had left.

For Rhaegar needed his grandparents and his uncle even more.

Behind you, you feel your uncle's hand slip under your tunic and around your body, pulling you against him. He presses his bare chest against your back, tucking your head under his chin. His hand caresses your stomach, then his fingers brush the base of your breast.

"You know she will never be my queen. You know the throne belongs to -" But he lets the words drop without finishing the sentence, the knowledge of what he was about to say hanging in the air between you.

As long as he remains alive, will the embers of war never truly be extinguished?

You don't know, but you accept the risk.

You close your eyes, as if you're about to jump into the icy depths with both feet.

"The rest is up to you, Aemond," you whisper, barely audible. "And if you have truly changed, then you will know how to make the right choice."

He says nothing.

You savour the last few minutes of illusion you have left.

*** *** *** *** *** *** ***

The fear of making the wrong choice never really leaves you, but your mother chases your fears away, as she so often did when you were a child, tucking one of your dark curls behind your ear. She has her distinctive little smirk on her lips, the one that pulls the corner of her lips up towards her nose.

The same one Lucerys had, you think sadly.

You still miss him, even after all this time, and sometimes you wonder what kind of young man he would have become.

"You're a clever girl, my sweet clever girl," she whispers against your forehead as she cradles you in her arms. She's as beautiful as ever, as gentle with you as ever, despite the years, despite the wear and tear of war that has hardened her features and hollowed her cheeks. "And I know you have made the right decision." She lifts your chin with her forefinger to look into your eyes, and you feel like you're turning back into that shy, insecure girl who disappeared somewhere in the violence of the war all those years ago.

"And if it should turn out that you were wrong... Daemon will be there to intervene. You know he is just waiting for that." You roll your eyes at her attempt at humour, and she plants a kiss on your forehead.

For a split second, you truly are that carefree little girl again.

But behind your mother's humour lie fragments of reality that make your laughter bitter.

The news of your husband's survival remains a hazy blur in your mind. Sometimes you're not sure if this conversation really occurred or if you're dreaming.

You're not sure if what's around you, if the night you spent in Aemond's arms, is real or an invention of your sick mind.

Sometimes you're not really conscious of the events or how long they lasted, the lump in your stomach grows back, and once again you're destined to carve half-moons marks in the palms of your hands to soothe the tension in your body.

You told your mother first because you knew she'd be more understanding. As a mother, as a woman, she knows the meaning behind certain silences, the weight of words, the unspoken words that float between sentences.

You know she can understand your pain and your doubts, but also your love and your compassion.

She was shocked when you told her that her younger brother was still alive. She smoothed her dress, paced back and forth, then took the time to sit down, her eyebrows furrowed, her eyes riveted to your face, looking for clues that would betray what you were thinking, what you might be hiding. She was afraid that he had hurt you. She was afraid that he would rip you away from her, just as he had once ripped your little brother away from her.

Her fingers had gently taken your hand and her thumb had drawn little circles on the back of your hand to comfort you. She listened to you first as you confessed everything.

Where you were that night when you didn't come home.

Who you were with.

And then she took you in her arms. She reassured you. Soothed you.

You had been so afraid of disappointing her, of disappointing all of them, that the tension paralysing your body had finally loosened and you burst into tears.

Things had proved more complicated with Daemon. When he learned that his nephew was alive, that he wasn't forgotten forever in the deep waters of the lake near Harrenhal, he refused to believe you. He was furious. He said he had seen him fall, that he was the one who had taken his life, tearing the sky apart.

You didn't know where to look, and it was in your mother's eyes that you sought support, comfort, anything in the face of your stepfather's rage. You could feel on you the look of disappointment of your brother, Jace, as he held his shoulders up and his chin high. He wanted to prove that one day he would be a good king. With his jaw clenched, he said nothing, looking at you as if you were suddenly so foreign to him. He probably didn't know what to say, for fear of being clumsy, for fear of unintentionally hurting you, even more than by his lack of support.

You know it wasn't his fault.

He simply couldn't understand.

The words stuck in your throat and you found yourself unable to speak, pearls glittering in the corners of your eyes while you waited impatiently for the final blow.

The final death knell that would seal your disgrace in everyone's eyes.

After all you'd endured.

Daemon stood before you, his eyebrows furrowed, his eyes hard. He was staring at you as if you'd committed the ultimate treason, and you knew he was controlling himself to keep his anger from exploding. "You're going to bring him to me," he had hissed, his hand closing over your shoulder.

" You will lure him here and he will be put to the sword." His tone left no room for argument. With the tension growing in your stomach, you sought your mother's compassionate look to calm you. You could see the fury in your stepfather's eyes, and also a mixture of fear and feelings of betrayal. You knew that, deep down, he was afraid for you because he considers you his daughter. Because Baela and Rhaena are like sisters to you.

It was his reaction you feared most, not your mother's. His fingers dug into your skin, the floor slipping out from under you, the room swaying dangerously, and your mother had come to your rescue, trying to calm things down with her usual diplomacy.

You can't quite remember the words your stepfather said; in anger he muttered something that sounded like are you really thinking of becoming his whore again? and the words hurt like hell, but you tried to swallow the pain.

Endure, hold your head high. That was what you had learned.

Your mother had suggested you go back to your room or spend some time with Rhaegar, her fingers gently stroking your dark locks, and as soon as you left the throne room you could hear their voices echoing through the door.

They were arguing.

Over you.

Because of you, again.

You took a deep breath and returned to the gardens, where your two stepsisters were making your son laugh by playing with him. They had fun running around in the damp grass to the applause of Baela's little daughter, who clapped her little hands in delight.

Your fingers were still trembling when you joined them.

In the end a solution was found, for your mother feared losing you a second time.

She remembered what had happened to Laenor, your father, when he had grown tired of the court.

She remembered what had happened to Helaena, your sweet aunt, when she could no longer bear to suffer.

It was her worst nightmare to see you torn from her again, now that she had the chance to hold you in her arms every day, to protect you again, to see you grow again.

It was her worst nightmare to see her only daughter, her only daughter and the second of her only surviving children, taken from her.

You and Jace were all she had left of her own blood.

After long negotiations with Daemon, you had managed to bargain for your husband's life in exchange for strict conditions; increased surveillance, no bonding with a new dragon, no carrying of weapons, and the assurance that he would be executed if there was the slightest doubt about him. You proposed that you and he leave the capital, with your son as well. To return to Dragonstone. To start over on a new, blank page in a book that was already too damaged.

For you, it was also a way to ease the tensions between your family and Aemond, and perhaps find a more intimate life with your husband and son.

Rhaenyra had declared that this was the best solution: a guarantee for her to have you by her side again, a guarantee for her that you would be there.

You had been afraid of Aemond's reaction, afraid that his ego would not bear it; that he would refuse, that he would rather sentence himself to his own death than to an existence as a prisoner within his own family, condemned to live as a shadow of the man he had once been in exchange for seeing his son grow up.

But in the end, wasn't he doomed to live as a shadow of the man he had once been, anyway?

He would never be the rider of Vhagar again.

He would never be the ruthless Prince Regent again.

He would never again be the second in line to the throne, the second son greedily waiting for fate to turn in his favour.

He hadn't been all of that for a good three years, lurking in the cold, gloomy corridors of Harrenhal like a lonely monster.

And if he went back, if he rejected your proposal, he would have condemned himself to eternal solitude at the side of a witch you would rather forget.

He had no choice, for he would never be that Aemond again.

When you joined your husband at the meeting place, you were relieved to see him swallow his pride and accept. It was difficult, but you convinced him.

For Rhaegar, for his son.

Aemond had suggested that you run away, far away from everything, and you almost hesitated. Running away would have allowed you to forget, of course.

But your deepest wounds had begun to heal. You had begun to be able to face the ghosts that haunted King's Landing, the ghosts that haunted Dragonstone.

To stop there was tempting, and yet so frightening at the same time.

The unknown terrified you. You needed familiarity now, something to fall back on, for you were so tired.

Now you can't help bringing your thumb to your lips, nibbling the skin at the corner of your fingernail with the tip of your teeth as you walk away from Rhaenyra. A handmaiden brings you Rhaegar, and you struggle to breathe.

You inhale.

You exhale.

The thick tuft of brown hair makes you smile. The sight of your son is enough to give you the courage to walk with a more confident stride. It's as if you were filled with new strength, for you know that he needs you more than anyone else. And for him, you've promised yourself to stay strong.

As soon as you reach him, you kneel and plant a kiss on his plump cheeks.

He's growing up so fast that sometimes you wish you could stop time.

"There's someone who'd like to meet you, sweet boy," you explain, and you can recognise your mother's inflection in your own voice. Sweet boy. Rhaegar looks at you with big, round, questioning eyes, and you wonder if he senses your anxiety, because he takes your hand between his tiny fingers.

"Who, muña ?" he babbles, striding down the cobbled path in the middle of the gardens, hopping on his clumsy little legs, and you smile at his carefree attitude. He stops to watch the bees foraging, bends down to pick up a flower and gives it to you. He's always so curious, so full of life. He's a ray of sunshine that brightens your dull days. You finally understand your mother, the agonising fear she has of losing you. You finally understand the horror she experienced when she lost her four other children.

You also finally understand why Helena threw herself from Maegor's Holdfast.

The thought of what Daemon did still revolts you, and you can't imagine anyone hurting your boy like that.

You turn around. Rhaenyra is still there, in the distance, her crown on her head, her hands crossed in front of her on the heavy fabric of her dress, watching over you. She won't move, a comforting, discreet presence.

A stone bench awaits you by the fountain, on which two cushions have been arranged. A dessert buffet has been set up under the gazebo and you immediately spot your favourite cakes, the strawberry one, the blackberry jam one, and you look down at your son. He hasn't noticed them yet, or he would have already run over, dipped his finger in the whipped cream and stolen a blueberry from one of the tarts, his innocent expression on his face.

He is definitely a lot like you. Mischievous and clever. An angelic air. He is an easy-going child who never throws a tantrum.

Who understands quickly, too.

"I love you. I love you more than anything, you know that, don't you, young boy?" your tone is soft, and you kneel down in front of him, your hands on his small shoulders to emphasise the seriousness of your discussion. You search for your words, hesitating. How do you tell a three-year-old that his father, his dead father, is back from the dead and about to meet him?

Of course, Rhaegar knows that his birthfather was valiant, that his birthfather rode the greatest dragon in the world, that his birthfather died in battle.

But there is so much he doesn't know, so much he will inevitably learn as he grows up, and it is precisely that future that frightens you. You hug him as if you're afraid of losing him.

"Princess."

The deep voice of your sworn protector echoes behind you, and you straighten your skirt.

You know he is there.

You know you will see him the moment you turn around.

Your heartbeat quickens.

Aemond Targaryen stands behind your sworn protector, surrounded by two guards. His hands are bound in front of him.

It is so strange to see your uncle in this vulnerable position. He who for so long has been on the other side, he who for so long has been the one who bent others to his will. He looks at you harshly, and you almost feel the need to apologise.

But you know it is a matter of caution.

You know that Daemon, you know that Jace and even your mother would never have agreed to bring him in if such precautions hadn't been taken.

You admire his resilience, his determination. You admire his ability to hold his head high, to be confident, despite the fact that he is being treated like a common prisoner, about to be sentenced to death.

You struggle to swallow the lump that has formed in your throat.

"Who's that, muña?" Aemond's eyes leave you and immediately drop to the small figure that has appeared beside you, reaching for your hand, huddling against your leg, shy and worried.

Immediately, your husband's icy gaze, his lilac-coloured eyes, soften.

"Thank you, Sir Rowan. You may leave us."

Despite the worry on his face, your sworn protector nods, unties his prisoner's hands and walks back to your mother, accompanied by the other two guards. You watch them leave, and a strange silence fills the space between you and your uncle.

He doesn't look at you; his eyes are riveted to your son, whom he observes with wonder. He looks as if he is admiring the most beautiful and fascinating discovery he has ever seen. You look down to see Rhaegar's reaction, and he seems as intimidated as he is hypnotised by that gaze, by that blue and purple eye so similar to his owns, by this man looking at him as if he were one of the most marvellous things in the world.

"Gods, he's perfect," Aemond murmurs as he looks up at you, emerging from his trance. He comes closer to embrace you. And for once, there is something other than his usual brutal possessiveness and ferocity when his arms close around you.

*** *** *** *** *** *** ***

Aemond is shy at first. Awkward.

He's shy and amazed as he follows your son's every move with his good eye. From time to time, his gaze rests on you, as if to make sure he's not dreaming. As if to make sure he is doing right, seeking your approval.

Rhaegar is shy too, at first.

When he sits on your lap, he snuggles up to you, buries his face in your neck, one of your locks curled in his chubby little hand and he rubs it against his nose. From time to time, he turns to give his father a curious look, recognising his own eyes in the unfamiliar face before him.

Aemond's expression grows gentler, a softness never seen in his features before.

Once he has tamed the stranger, the little boy pecks at the blueberries in the tart in front of him. He shakes his legs, hitting your knees in painful little jabs, and your arm wraps around his body to hold him down.

Rhaegar loves cake, and the sugar may be coaxing him, for he's regaining his appetite for talking.

"He really does have my eyes," Aemond whispers incredulously, and his voice, still foreign to his son's ears, causes the little boy to lift his head.

" It is definitely the only thing he has inherited from you," you reply, teasing him with a small smile at the corner of your lips.

Soon Rhaegar finishes the blueberry tart, the cream smeared over the bottom of his face and the tip of his nose.

"He inherited that from you, that is certain." Aemond grins, pointing with his long chin at the boy's voracious appetite for cakes and pastries.

You have to pinch yourself to make sure you're not dreaming. That your husband is really standing in front of you, with your son, like a normal family.

That he was truly trying to tell a joke.

This form of domesticity is so alien to your relationship, and yet so pleasant, that you find yourself thinking that perhaps you have made the right decision, indeed, if every day can be like this.

"Your muña deserves some cake too, what do you say, little one?"

Rhaegar giggles. Aemond cuts a slice of your favourite cake, the one with the strawberries, and puts it on your plate.

You blush. After all these years, he hasn't forgotten which one is your favourite.

You can't even really whisper a thank you because this apparent domesticity, this feeling of completeness, this interlude of happiness makes you uneasy. Anxious.

You have the feeling that at any moment you'll be plunged back into the horror of what you went through all those years ago.

You have the feeling that at any moment the Gods will be cruel and snatch away this happiness that you've barely been able to taste, leaving only the memory of its sweet taste on your lips.

You breathe in and out, as you often do when you feel your palpitations rising in your chest.

"Do you... do you want to take him on your lap?" you ask your uncle with shyness, your hand stroking Rhaegar's thick brown curls. Aemond looks at you as if you have spoken in a foreign language. Lips parted, he is about to say something, but not a sound escapes his lips. His lonely eye travels from you to your son, from your son to you, in silence.

"I don't know if -"

You can hear the doubt in his voice, and it's almost touching to see him lose his confidence in front of his own son, to see him so nervous and unsure of himself.

You let out a little laugh, not in mockery, obviously, just full of tenderness.

You know what he's thinking.

He's afraid of frightening him.

He's afraid of harming him.

"You won't hurt him, Aemond."

He answers nothing. He still doesn't like to look vulnerable, unsure, and you know it has to do with his childhood. With all he has kept bottled up inside him all these years. He will need time.

Your eyes fall back to the little boy sitting in your lap, and you draw his attention to yourself by stroking the curls on his forehead.

"Do you want to go to Aemond for a while? To kepus?"

you correct yourself immediately, and Rhaegar nods in agreement.

You are amazed at how easily he slips off your legs to run to his father, to pull himself onto his lap, when only a few hours ago he was so intimidated by the presence of this stranger with the eyepatch.

Your uncle automatically puts his arm around his waist to make him feel comfortable, his new role taking root in him. His fingers reach for the cloth on the table, and he wipes Rhaegar's face, who can't help but burst out laughing at his father's clumsy gestures.

For a split second you are lost in contemplating the horizon, the stillness of the sea. You taste the sea breeze on your face.

And then you turn your head towards the cobbled path where the guards and your sworn protector are still stationed.

Your mother is no longer there, and you notice that you have not at any time felt the need to seek comfort in her presence.

You smile, for in the end you know you've made the right decision.

*** *** *** *** *** *** ***

Dragonstone, 6 months later.

When you walk the corridors of the place that saw you grow up, you are no longer haunted by the ghosts and their incessant cries. A kind of peace has settled over you, a return to the pleasant familiarity you've waited so long for.

You still think of Luke, of course. Of Luke and Joff and little Aegon and Viserys, your brothers you will never see grow old.

But you no longer feel their disapproving glances at every step you take. You are no longer kept awake by their cries, by their tears, by the remorse that twists your stomach.

You no longer blame yourself.

Perhaps you've finally learnt to make peace with yourself.

The heavy door of the bedroom you share with Aemond is half open, and you slip your head into the doorway, piqued by curiosity.

Snuggled on your husband's lap, Rhaegar is staring at the pages of a large book, the corners of which you can guess are horned, the cover worn, from being carried everywhere. You can imagine the jam stains that mark the paper with children's fingerprints. You know exactly which page is missing, the one you and Aemond accidentally tore out and hid so the Septa wouldn't notice, so many years ago.

It is a book about dragons, the very one the two of you used to read hidden under the table when you were so young and innocent, long before the torment of war.

Without a sound, you lean against the doorframe and contemplate for a moment the perfect vision before you.

You don't have the cruelty to disturb them.

"This one is Vhaegar!" shouts Rhaegar, and you hold your breath, searching Aemond's face for any hint that might betray his reaction. The mention of his former dragon is still a sensitive subject for him, you know it.

"Yes, that's Vhagar." he pauses. "She was brave."

From the corner of his eye, Aemond spots your silhouette in the faint glow of the corridor, and his attention lingers on you for a moment. He's almost embarrassed to be caught in such a vulnerable, intimate moment, but you smile tenderly to encourage him.

"And big!" the little boy adds, energetically raising his arms to the sky to emphasise his words.

"Yes, and big." There's a suspended moment of silence where the words hang in the air, and then your husband gently ruffles his son's hair. It's a tender sight to see them bond like this, and your heart fills with happiness.

Taking a step forward, you step into the light of the room and Rhaegar expresses his joy at seeing you. You smile back at him and approach the chair where Aemond sits, your son on his lap.

Your uncle's hand instantly rests on the curve of your belly, which he still stares at with the same protective instinct, the same fascination, as the day you told him the news. His eyes sparkle.

"Your daughter is restless today."

He looks up at you, not without lingering for a moment on your breasts and their new shape.

"My daughter?" he asks, one eyebrow raised inquisitively.

"I'm convinced it's a girl. You reply, smiling wryly, and take a seat in the armchair next to the one where Aemond and your son are sitting, facing the fireplace. "And she took after her father, given her temper," you tease him, your hand on the top of your rounded belly to soothe the baby growing there.

Rhaegar's eyes close slowly. Nestled against the chest of the man who, just a few months ago, was still a stranger, he fights sleep, he fights to stay awake, but tiredness quickly overcomes him. And then he falls asleep, his mouth half open, the movements of his breath making his chest rise and fall rhythmically.

Aemond finally gets up. You follow his movements with your eyes as he approaches you, the child in his arms, and he plants a kiss on the top of his head.

"I'm going to put him to bed. I'll be right back." He straightens and lowers his voice.

"I wouldn't fail in my duty and neglect my wife." The heat rises to your cheeks, turning them red at the implication of what awaits you tonight. You're already wet between your thighs at the thought.

But you nod in agreement and watch him walk away.

You are left alone in the silence of the room. The only sound around you is the steady crackling of the fire.

It's strange, you think, to be back on Dragonstone, in the familiarity of the stones you've spent most of your life between, after getting used to the idea of not surviving the war.

To the idea of dying from a broken heart.

To the idea of dying, the umpteenth victim of the vicious spiral of conflict that has torn your family apart.

And yet here you are.

With your own family.

For once you have hope for the future. You hear the cries of your little brother, lost in the storm so long ago, but they are quickly replaced by the laughter of a happy memory.

And finally, you have the absolute confirmation that you have made the right decision.

*** *** *** *** ***

Thank you so much for reading!! <3

Tag list : @minttea07 @queenofshinigamis (I'm tagging you since you asked for it ❤️)

#aemond x reader #aemond targaryen #Aemond Targaryen x reader #aemond x you #aemond fanfiction #aemond targaryen fic #aemond x y/n #aemond x fem!reader #aemond targaryen x you #aemond x niece!reader #aemond targaryen fanfic

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oswildin · 3 months ago

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Fate (Loki x Witch!Reader)

Summary: You’re a witch who has been visiting Loki, but he doesn’t know your intentions, nor whether you are even real… But talk about fate and his place in the universe, leaves him with more questions than answers. Set around the time of Thor The Dark World, before Frigga’s death and references the events of Disney+ Loki series.

Rating: PG/All Ages

A/N: Reader has GN pronouns/no descriptors or name, but is described as a witch. Inspired by my pov on TikTok, which is inspired by Alys & Daemon from HOTD.

LOKI MASTERLIST

The crowd cheered and clapped, utterly delighted and enthused by their new King. He was their leader, their ruler, their light in the darkness… And they adored him. They saw him as worthy of his place upon the throne, accepted him completely without resistance… He basked in the golden light that was shining on him, arms spread wide in pride and acceptance of their adoration.

It was everything—

“—you have always wanted… isn’t it?”

The voice broke him from his celebration, his glory… His arms lowered, the royal rouge cape around his neck suddenly feeling weightier. His shoulders sagged, the victorious smile that he had been moments ago fading from his face.

“I see Sif… The Warriors Three…” The voice continued, light yet holding a weight which only seemed to make the cape draped around him feel heavier somehow. “Faces of those you do not know the names of…”

He let out a breath, his back remaining to the one had interrupted his glorious moment.

“And yet… I see no one of great importance to you.”

Green shimmer fell over the crowd that had been cheering before him, each nameless face disappearing, each voice ceasing as the illusion faded. The weight of the illusionary cape also dissipated as it shimmered away from his shoulders, the golden hue of the throne room returning to his reality.

A cell.

Loki’s jaw tightened, his hands clasped behind his back as he stared out of the golden barrier that kept him from the outside world, more inmates entering Odin’s prison to be locked away.

“Don’t you find it strange?” The voice continued, a feigned curiosity in their tone. Loki slowly turned on his heel, his cyan eyes finally landing on the figure of the voice… The figure who had been visiting him as of late. He did not know who they were, or why they were there… He didn’t even know if they were real or merely another illusion.

Your eyes held Loki’s, unwavering, standing in the middle of his white walled cell. A faint smirk tugged at your lip, almost indiscernible as you took a small step closer. He had yet to say a word.

“How those who you regard as family are no where to be seen?” You pressed, probed, watching his reaction closely. Loki paced leisurely towards the chair in his cell before coming to a stop behind it, his hands moving to rest upon the back of the chair. His body leaned forwards, the chair supporting some of his weight as he narrowed his eyes, tilting his head faintly.

“It’s your illusion, is it not?” You asked, raising a brow, a slight shrug. “And yet you did not conjure them in it.”

“They do not matter.” He finally spoke, voice low yet holding an edge of lightness in it to match the dismissal of his words.

“No?”

“No.”

You hummed thoughtfully, letting out a breath, turning away from him to let your eyes wander over what items he was permitted in his cell - books, a small ornate table, a cot… You moved to the table, finding a book on its surface as you reached to gently pick it up, eyeing it.

Tangible.

Loki’s brows twitched slightly, lips pursing. Pushing himself from the chair, he once more began slowly pacing, not from restlessness but intrigue.

“You are a liar.” You stated simply, making Loki let out a huff of sardonic laughter.

“Am I supposed to be impressed by that observation?” He raised a brow, a hint of wryness to his words. “It’s a statement that quite a few have expressed about me.”

“I mean, you are lying to yourself.”

You let the book drop back to the table with a slight thud, Loki’s amusement quickly turning into irritation, observing as you glanced at him over your shoulder. A breathy laugh left your lips at the spark of anger in his eyes.

“Your anger blinds you.” You stated, making Loki shake his head slightly. “You let it control you.”

“It guides me.” He argued.

“Your actions say otherwise…” You sighed, moving to the chair he had just been stood by, lowering yourself to take a seat.

“My actions?” Loki repeated, a hint of disbelief. “I was merely giving truth-“ He continued lowly, his steps changing direction to stalk towards you. “-to the lie I have been fed my entire life…” He stopped before you, his sharp gaze boring into your unfazed eyes. “That I was born to be a King.”

You leaned back in the chair, elbows resting on its arms, casual - leisurely almost. It made Loki’s jaw twitch. “Perhaps those who strive for the crown are the least suited to wear it-“

“Do not lecture me.” Loki’s sharp tone cut you off, a dangerous edge to his voice. It was a warning. Maybe even a plea. You remained unbothered, looking up at him as his tall figure cast a long shadow over you. Silence fell between you, the faint hum of the golden barrier filling the space as you held one another’s gazes, almost daring the other to look away first.

“It is not a prize to be won…” You murmured. “But a burden to bear.” A pause. “You know this.”

Loki made a sound of frustration, eyes fluttering as his head snapped away, turning sharply on his heel to pace once again. You straightened in the chair, leaning forwards slightly as you watched him.

“I love Thor more dearly than any of you, but you know what he is.”

Loki’s steps halted, his posture tensing as he heard his own voice fill the space, words he had once spoken. His back remained turned towards you, his hands clenching at his sides.

“He's arrogant, he's reckless, he's dangerous! You saw how he was today. Is that what Asgard needs from its King?”

The question Loki had once uttered echoed slightly around the cell, almost taunting him. It was then he slowly, almost reluctantly, turned to look at you, seeing you now stood. You were approaching him, your expression unreadable. “Dangerous…” You breathed out, furrowing your brows. “And yet, that is what you sought to be during your time on Midgard…” Loki released an audible breath, his chest heaving slightly. “All because you desired a throne… Correct?”

Loki’s eyes searched yours, hearing the doubt in your voice. It was like you could see right through him, and he disliked it. He loathed it. It unsettled him in a way he hadn’t felt before. And the worst part was… You were right. You knew it was more than his so-called desire for a throne… It was about him wanting to be seen as worthy, to step out from the shadow he had been shrouded in, to avoid the consequences of failing Thanos…

“All your life… you have sought to command your own fate…” You spoke, almost softly, barely above a whisper, now stood right before him. Loki remained silent again. “But you… you are piece on the board…” Your hand slowly raised, tentative. Loki watched it cautiously, a faint sheen in his eyes as he blinked. “As am I…” Your fingers made contact with the skin of his cheek, light but…

Tangible.

Real.

Loki released a breath, unable to understand your reasons, your intent.

“There are things in this universe that are older than you or I…” You continued quietly, your eyes flickering over his features. “Stories and roles at play that we are not able to see or fathom.”

“And what is my place in all of it?” The words left Loki in a whisper, the touch of your fingers on his cheek somehow comforting. He had been alone for nearly a year, besides his mother’s illusionary visits… Unable to touch, to be held. A small, almost solemn smile tugged at your lips.

“Your place…” You raised your chin faintly. “Is not now, but in the past.” Loki’s brows furrowed at your words, they didn’t make much sense. They felt deliberately cryptic and vague, but… truthful. “And that past is the present… And the future.”

Loki’s hand moved quick, his fingers wrapping around your wrist of the hand that was touching his face, his grip firm but gentle. You took a breath, eyes flickering to his hand around your wrist.

“Speak plainly.” He demanded, his tone softer than he had intended.

“I do.” You whispered. Loki’s grip tightened ever so slightly, not to cause fear or pain, but almost in desperation to understand.

“Your birthright… was to die!”

Loki’s grip faltered as Odin’s words echoed in the cell, words his father had spoken to him so coldly and cruelly… Right before he was thrown in his cell… Alone.

“I don’t want to be alone.”

It was his voice. But not words he could recount ever saying. At least… not aloud. His breath caught, his hand pulling away from your wrist as if you had scalded him, the tears now evident in his gaze as he took a stumbling step back. His lips were parted, brows creasing in a mix of anger and confusion.

“Witch.” He breathed out, but unlike most who uttered the word, there was no malice. Your hand remained in the air a second longer before dropping to your side, blinking.

“I’m afraid so.” You smirked faintly, wry.

Loki shook his head, hand moving to run through his raven hair, willing his composure to return. “They do not see you.” He stated, glancing out towards the passing Einherjar who were doing their patrol.

“They do not.” You confirmed, nodding once. “You are no stranger to magic.” You raised a brow. “You know it’s a simple spell.”

Loki huffed out a wry sound, closing his eyes as he turned away from you again. “Your path is set.” You spoke again, voice resolute yet holding a hint of sympathy. “And I am sorry.” You whispered, making Loki frown. “But all paths must come to an end.”

Your words hung in the air between you, Loki processing its cryptic nature, a shiver going down his spine. It sounded like a promise. But one that you seemed to be regretting having to make.

No.

Loki spun on his heel, lips parted as he went to reply, to deny his fate, but as his gaze fell to the spot you had been stood in, he found it empty. You were gone. Without a trace. Or so he thought. His eyes dropped to the book you had picked up earlier on the ornate table, brows furrowing as he noticed the cover had changed. Tentatively, he approached it, eyes fixed on the book. Leaning down, his slender fingers grasped the book, picking it up as he took in the cover.

Yggdrasil.

He let out a breath, unsure of what it meant, eyes flickering around his cell to search for any sign of you. But nothing. Questions. He had so many. But he felt he knew you wouldn’t give them so easily anyway. And so, all he could do… was wait. Let his mind go over your words. As he looked back down at the book, he found it had returned to its original state, the leather no longer holding a carving of Yggdrasil.

Witch, indeed.

#loki x reader #loki laufeyson x reader #loki #loki laufeyson #loki imagine #marvel x reader #loki fanfic #loki oneshot #marvel loki #loki mcu

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mrs-elsie-barnes · 1 year ago

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The Old Gods and the New - Chapter 5

There You Are | Loki x Reader

After your time in the medical wing you begin to explore the compoud again, as well as your powers. Thor and Loki do their best to make you feel at home, and Tony tries to make friends the only way he knows how.

Warnings: reader is still shaken, Loki is horny, suggestions of sex, making out.

Green divider by @firefly-graphics

Series Masterlist | Loki Masterlist | Masterlist

Loki was true to his word, using his silvertongue to dodge any question about your burgeoning powers and weaving a tale of your attempts to recreate any of the fires or feelings that had scared the team so badly before. According to Loki you were capable of warming a room and making sparks, that was all. And that you could adjust your appearance and keep it stable enough to avoid their fear of the uncanny. There was no talk of your ability to conjure objects, stable objects at that.

The truth about your past he kept buried even deeper. He’d seen so much when you opened your mind to him, and yet so many of the memories were gray and hazy, with the details either missing or running together. Like a watercolour the images were blurred and he wasn’t sure whether it was because they were false, and badly done at that, or because something had been removed and meddled with. He was at a loss, trying to decide between whether someone would want to plant false memories, or meddle with old ones. But he had been able to establish, from his limited knowledge of Midgardian history, that you had managed to attend events some three or four hundred years before.

He was pondering it still, lounging in his rooms, while he fiddled with his new ring, his long fingers curling around the cold metal, his perfectly manicured nail tapped on the gem, the pad of his thumb rubbed over the delicate indent made in the silver, allowing the sapphire to lay almost flush to the surface. He marvelled in its simple intricacy, you had made this for him and he’d expected it to vanish, but it hadn’t. Even when you’d both slept, sadly in your separate beds, he had expected your magic to reset when your consciousness was resting, but he’d opened his eyes that morning to the sapphire glowing back at him.

“I thought about a real ring, I thought about drawing the metal from it and making it for you,” you’d explained, as you made your fourth lap of the building together, strolling in the mid afternoon sun while Loki pretended he couldn’t see the junior Agents that had been tailing you both for the last hour.

“That’s incredible. You understand how that’s different from, say, me making you a mirror to use once?”

“Well one is a mere illusion, I assume. The other, the ring, I thought about the metal, how it would move as I fashioned it. I thought it would fade too.” You swept a hand along the top of the neat privet hedges that lined the walkway, rustling each leaf experimentally and delighting in the way they seemed to become an even richer shade of green with each pass of your fingers.

“The mirror is an illusion, that’s correct. The other is more elemental, summoning the metal, smelting it with your magic until it’s real - that’s a lot more advanced. I’m impressed.”

Loki revelled in the way you became bashful under his praise. Smiling and ducking your head away while nodding in understanding and then turning to place a soft kiss on his cheek.

“Thank you, Loki.” You whispered, and then pulled away, leaving the path to pick a few of the errant daisies appearing around the edges of the lawn.

You should be proud, he thought, he was so proud. It welled in him, blurring into an easy affection that had been blossoming between you both. Loki had to restrain himself from holding his hand out to you when you rejoined him, had to fight the urge to kiss the soft apples of your cheeks and the fullness of your lips. He clasped his hands behind his back.

He wasn’t sure what dance you were both engaged in, where you could kiss his cheek with abandon but you never expected more from him and, in his confusion, he became irrationally angry at this new desire for closeness, for more than lust and satisfaction.

Somehow you’d turned the tables on him and he wondered if this was the feeling that had been reported to him when he arrived. A drive to adore and love and consume.

“Loki? Let’s go to the lake and practice.” You suggested, turning away from the compound and towards the glassy expanse of water on the edge of the grounds.

These lessons did not seem to quench his desire for closeness.

During the day you would walk together in the grounds and talk about theories, practising some shape shifting skills and, when there was no one else around, attempting to summon and create other objects.

In the evenings you were often away in your rooms, preferring isolation to observation even more since your time in the medical wing. But if the common areas were free Loki was able to coax you out and, together, you pulled on the threads of your memory.

At night the memories morphed into dreams, wars, suffering, pain but also happiness, faces smiling at you from behind ever changing styles and locations. You would wake, sweating, as if you’d spent your night falling forever down a spiralling rabbit hole of recollections both real and imagined.

In the mornings Loki invited you to breakfast in his rooms before your walks, allowing you a change of scenery from your much smaller bedroom. Given the chance you would spend every moment with him there. Your room felt cramped and claustrophobic, even your window was restricted from opening. But here with Loki, with his rooms full of light and air, the sun shining on you while you shared croissants, you felt alive and free for the first time.

“I don’t like this.” Tony slammed his phone onto the table after reviewing the latest surveillance footage of Loki and - prisoner felt too cruel, but he’d yet to persuade you to join the Avengers or even engage with any of them since your time in the medical wing.

“We can’t stop them from talking, Stark, what are you so afraid of?” Natasha sat across from him in his vast office, her boots propped on the table in front of her as she inspected her nails.

“Afraid? She sets fire to things, she’s supposed to be out protege, not the Prodigy. I have nice things here -” he paused to lean across the desk and push the assassins heel with a pen, “boots - down.”

“She hasn’t done that since London, and besides Loki and Thor are both keeping an eye on her, she’ll come round in time. Let him mess up.” She shrugged, pulling a piece of chewing gum from the pocket of her skin tight combat trousers.

“What if he doesn’t?”

“Then we deal with it.”

Tony picked up his phone again, scrolling through the corridor footage of Loki knocking on your door every morning and escorting you across the hall into his own rooms, of you both laughing together in the grounds and of no magic, no training. “What’s he even doing with her all day?”

Natasha snorted a laugh, “who fucking cares? Seducing her? She’s a big girl, Stark, and you’re starting to sound jealous.”

“We have Steve God Damn Rogers in this building and she’s following Shakespeare around like he’s -”

“A god?” She snapped her gum and then left her mouth open, eyebrows raised.

“Shut up.”

“If you don’t stop I’m going to start assuming you’re jealous.” Natasha raised a neat eyebrow, put one foot on the table and lent back in her seat.

“I’m not jealous we just need her back on side, maybe a gift or something, what do you think?”

“Gifts are nice, what’re you thinking?”

Tony strode across the office to a large cabinet built into the wall and opened the middle draw pulling out a Stark industries gift bag, “have someone rewrap these, no Stark logos, just a gift, to help with her research or something. Just make it look nice.”

Natasha looked inside the gift bag, rummaging through the contents, she forwent the phone, socks, pens and mouse mat before settling on the tablet. “Just this, it’s flashy enough but not overally personal, and we can restrict her access - no calls, just google.”

“Great, thanks,” Tony looked at Natasha expectantly, “do you need money for wrapping paper or something?”

“I’m not your assistant.” Natasha smirked, handing the box back over and sauntering out of the room, “if you want to top up my account I wouldn’t say no though!” She called over her shoulder as the door slammed shut.

You found the elegantly wrapped parcel resting on the console table next to your bedroom door when you returned from your walk with Loki. The god stood behind you, eyeing the shiny paper from over your shoulder.

“Is it your birthday, darling?” He asked, concerned he’d wasted a special day training instead of celebrating.

“No, it’s not my birthday.”

If Loki had been suspicious it was nothing to the way you behaved, as if the parcel might jump up and bite you. Loki kept on hand on your waist, holding you close while he reached around to look at the tag, “hmm, it’s from Stark. A peace offering, perhaps. I’m sure it’s perfectly safe.” He handed it to you and encouraged you to open it.

Inside was a sleek black box with a picture of an electronic device on, Loki was bemused but you were excited, “oh my god, a tablet!” You tore the rest of the wrapping off and, bouncing on your heels, dragged Loki back into his room so you could set it up together.

Tony’s peace offering did nothing to help your feelings towards the team, you were still cautious, refusing to engage in conversation. But you were finally able to leave the compound, in a way, using your new tablet. You walked down streets, viewing places your memory revealed to you and searching for information on everything you saw.

It helped your research as well, dating the dreams and memories that Loki helped you to uncover, so that you could recount the stories to him in the hopes that he might remember a detail as well.

The farthest back you’d been able to date so far had been somewhere in the 1800s, though you were sure Loki had seen further and had kept it from you. In your dream you’d seen yourself in spring, happy and dancing, the sun rising high and warm above you as you let the dew drops of the morning wet your bare feet.

You had told Loki, in excruciating detail, about a woman in one of these dreams. That they had been at a party with you, billowing dresses surrounding you both, suffocating you both until you found respite in the darkness of a maze in the gardens. There, you had hidden under the woman’s dress to pleasure her.

Loki had choked on his tea as you casually recounted the story, as if you were merely describing a walk around the park with a friend, and he had excused himself to relieve the growing pressure in his trousers.

When he returned you were talking to Thor, who was amused but otherwise unaffected by your stories, one arm thrown over the back of the couch you were sharing. A flare of jealous rose within him, but there was also something so familiar and comforting about the scene. Thor, in his half regal dress, sprawling in the pillows with you curled up next to him, your skirt a wash of colour and fabric around your knees. Between you Thor had set out a tray with his favourite Midgardian snacks, awful pastry items with sickly icing on top, as well as your beloved croissants and steaming cups of tea.

He had flashes of other times spent in such casual and easy intimacy, summer afternoons similarly spent lounging amongst silk pillows, laughing and sharing stories together with no other care in the Nine Realms.

You both looked up, seeing him trapped by his thoughts in the doorway, and Thor held out his hand, “come, brother, the little one was telling me about her memories, this one is particularly amusing.” You smiled at him too, shifting in your seat to create a space between you both and Loki’s heart sang, filled with that rare feeling of contentment that had eluded him for so long.

Yet Loki wasn’t the only one affected by your presence. Bucky and Natasha continued to feel uncomfortable around you, despite your generally genial nature. Thoughts both soft and wanton swirled and eddied around the minds of the Avengers, causing chaos in their work and interpersonal lives until the common areas were almost always empty, each inhabitant choosing to spend their time alone instead.

They brushed past each other in the corridors, blushing furiously and stammering like children.

That was okay with you, it suited you to be mostly alone, especially as you only really liked to talk to Thor and Loki anyway. It had taken you longer to warm to Thor, but he was kind, if not a little too loud, and he never looked at you with fear, only intrigue. You felt safe in his presence, familial and calm. With Loki there was always a draw, a fire that pulled the oxygen from the room when he entered and you craved the sensation of his presence, the way it tingled on your skin.

To the Avengers you said very little and, where possible, referred all your answers or conversation through the two Gods. Thor was quick to take your side, his booming voice a protection from whatever anxiety gripped you when questions were directed your way, and Loki was as fierce as a viper, waiting to strike quickly and with clean, cutting, precision, leaving the other party stinging from his words.

Thor found himself enamoured with your presence too, mostly because Loki seemed to be behaving himself for once, too afraid of being removed from the compound to do more than snap viciously. Focused and confident without the brash, over reaching aggression that was often his downfall. It was good to see him happy and well, and Thor enjoyed teasing him about his obviously deeper feelings. But he was pleased because there seemed to be a natural understanding between the three of you, something setting you all apart from the others, and though he knew Loki was keeping something from him, he was sure it wouldn’t be long before the two of you let slip your secrets.

It was how you’d found yourself standing in the dry grass at the centre of the compound, the pattern still burnt into the sod from Thor and Loki’s arrival, with both Gods flanking you.

“See how I can use the magic to call my battle armour.” Thor’s voice echoed from the flat surfaces of the buildings surrounding them. With a flash of lightning Thor summoned the red cape and metal plate armour that was his battle dress.

Loki was next, his familiar magic glowing around him as his black shirt and trousers changed into fine, forest green leather, his gold headpiece in his hand. He flipped it and winked, “your turn.” Before balancing the towering horns atop his head.

It was one thing to witness their Asgardian dress on the television, but quite another to see it in real life. Thor was larger than life, bright and bold, every bit the Prince of Asgard, his hammer swinging at his side. But Loki - Loki had taken your breath away. It was as if the horns and cape had made him taller somehow, impossibly imposing in a way that had you curling your toes in your trainers to stop your legs from pressing together. Every piece of golden armour curled around him like a lover's embrace, showing his broad shoulders and lean body off to advantage. In the brisk early summer wind his cape caught the breeze, billowing behind him and framing him in deep, forest green and revealing the tight fit of his leather trousers. You swallowed and snapped your eyes back to his, not missing the playful smirk that crossed his lips.

“Oh, I don’t think I could do anything like that, how do you know I even have any of this -” you waved at them both - “in me?” The idea seemed crazy, there was no way you could bring out anything even close to the regal majesty of the Asgardians.

“Call it an inkling, mere mortals couldn’t - but then, you are no mere mortal.” Loki stepped towards you.

“We have no idea what I am.”

“Exactly, it’ll be fun.” Thor clapped a meaty hand on your shoulder and gave it a reassuring squeeze, “what’s the worst that could happen!?”

You thought back to the car burning outside of your flat, of the people you’d scared and the ability to even change the colour of your fingernails fizzled away in fear.

Sensing your distress Loki brushed Thor aside and cupped your face in his long, dexterous fingers. Gently he angled your head up until all you could see was his beautiful face, framed with whips of jet black hair. He looked every bit a God as he commanded your attention.

“Just try,” he murmured, and you followed his lips as they opened and closed, mesmerised by the movement.

“Okay.” You nodded.

Loki watched as you concentrated, your hands clenched and eyes closed as always, your clothes shimmered and then, from the depths of nowhere, they changed. It wasn’t quite the same bold and majestic outfits as the Gods, but you had managed to summon a tight, dark blue jumpsuit and black cloak, a silver headband held your hair away from your face and pinched just behind your ears. Far from a perfect fit, but a lot more than you’d anticipated being able to produce.

“Very stylish!” Thor boomed, a wide smile on his face. But you couldn’t help but feel disappointed. You had secretly hoped to discover a weapon, a crown like they wore, even some armour. It was an impressive outfit to create from nothing, but that’s all it was, an outfit, not the warrior armour of a God.

Sensing your distress Loki held you once more, his long fingers touching the soft velvet of your cloak, “it is all practice. These things will come in time.” He murmured and, throwing caution to the wind still tugging on his hair, he kissed the top of your head.

When Thor left the next day he took the temperate weather with him, leaving behind a solid week of rain.

Instead of taking turns around the garden you confined yourself to the compound, finally brave enough to stake a claim to the large sofa in the common room while the Avengers were home. You had thankfully found a new app with crosswords on your tablet and, listening to the rain fall against the large glass windows, you’d allowed yourself to become lost in your puzzle until Loki sat down across from you.

“You know how you can see my memories,” you asked, eyes still fixed on the black and white pattern in front of you.

“Yes?” Loki answered but didn’t look up from his book either. Out of the corner of your eye you saw him lick his finger to turn the page.

“Do you think I could see yours?”

Loki put the book in his lap to look over at you, studying you closely. Curled into the corner of the sofa, feet drawn up under you. Since your attempt at summoning armour you’d managed to create your own clothes every day this week and you were rightly proud of it.

You had told him you were never allowed to shop when you lived with your grandfather, the man, whoever he was. You had three of four basic items that were brought in for you periodically. But now you had found fashion blogs online the limits seemed endless, you spent your mornings recreating the outfits gleefully.

Today was a simple day, just little black shorts and an oversized knit jumper that fell below your wrists and to Loki you looked so…Midgardian. He hated himself for enjoying it but, as he looked down at his own black jeans and the heavy knit of his sweater, he hated himself all over again for not realising what an influence you had over him.

Silence filled the room and Loki became aware that he had taken too long to answer and if he didn’t say something soon you were sure to come up with an even worse idea.

“Oh! Or, better, if we can see each other’s memories, do you think we could hear each other's thoughts? Imagine. And we could play tricks on people. That’d be so funny!” You were grinning to yourself now, still tapping at the screen and chewing on your thumb, but with a wide smile on your face.

The last thing he needed was you in his head. Not when his head was so consumed with thoughts of you. Just the night before you’d worn tight black jeans and a sage green translucent silk blouse to dinner and he had almost turned round and walked back out to hide his pink cheeks and filthy thoughts, if you could hear the depraved things that cycled through his mind you’d never want to come near him again.

And that would never do.

Not when you were more than happy to climb into his lap while he opened your memories, not when you kissed his cheek so softly, so chastly that he wanted to hold you there against him.

“Nevermind,” you mumbled, poking at the screen of your tablet and pulling the sleeves of your sweater down over your hands, “we don’t have to. I’m sure there’s lots of other things to learn.”

“No - no, we can try, if you’d like? Perhaps it will help us both understand the memories better.”

Loki thought his heart might beat out of his chest, he would have to be so careful, one wrong thought, one wrong step and he could spoil everything that you’d been building together. His every hand so far had been well played, but he still felt you were gaining on him with every memory returned, whether you knew it or not.

“Great!” You tossed the tablet onto the sofa cushions and shuffled closer to him. He stayed where he was, legs on the table in front of him. “Come on,” you tugged his arm until you were both crossed legged on the sofa, facing each other.

“Go on then,” Loki’s mouth twitched upwards into a teasing smirk.

“Well, I can’t just do it! You’re supposed to help me!”

“Put your hands on my face,” he brought your palms up to his cheeks, fingers on his temples and applied the smallest amount of pressure.

“Okay,” you closed your eyes and Loki felt the tickling feeling of your prying at the edges of his mind, like the picking of a label from a glass bottle and he allowed his mind to open just a little.

“I can do it - stop cheating.” You made a frustrated noise and shuffled in your seat. “Stop moving!

“I’m not moving,” Loki laughed, “that’s you!”

“Your brain is.”

Loki’s laugh deepened and he bent forwards into your hands. “How is that possible?”

“Stay. Still.”

With another grunt of annoyance you climbed into his lap, maintaining contact with his face, as you wriggled into position Loki took in a deep breath, willing his body to stay calm while your entire being pressed against him, not just your hands and your body, but your mind too. Clinging and clawing at his own. And there, in his panic, you peeled away a corner and slipped into his thoughts.

“There you are.” You whispered, reverently.

Loki fumbled for a thought that he could share with you, but all he could see, feel, think about was the way your bare thighs were pressed against his hips.

About the way you would slip your hand into his and squeeze it when you were nervous at the dinner table.

About the way you kissed his cheek and wished him goodnight like you truly cared for him.

They had warned him, The Captain and the Iron one and the others, they had all warned him to be careful of you. Yet here he was, mind and body open to you.

Your eyes darkened, fingers digging into his temples and an image appeared in return. It was almost the same as Loki’s, except as the thought appeared, your clothes melted away revealing only soft flesh, curves and dimples, pebbled nipples and the hard length of him sinking into the warmth of you.

Loki opened his eyes slowly, a smirk playing at the corner of his lips. Well, that was interesting.

“Hmm,” you moaned, somewhere between pensive and lustful and for the first time Loki doubted whether your guileless touches were real or faked, “I’m sure we can think of some fun things to do with that skill,” and you climbed off his lap leaving him confused again.

Loki stood abruptly and grabbed at your wrist, yanking you close, his nose brushed yours as he held you to him.

“Of all your tricks, you must not tell them you can do that,” he insisted, his nose traced yours and then he kissed you, his tongue sliding against your own, tasting, owning, his teeth biting and filling your mind with thoughts of him again.

“Do what?” Natasha asked and you broke apart, throwing yourself backwards across the cushions to get as far away from Loki as possible.

You panicked, “uhm -”

“She can shapeshift better now, but I don’t want you using her, she’s not ready. So don’t tell the others.” Loki snapped, smile gone and stern, blank face secured.

Natasha looked pleased nevertheless. “Good we can use that - eventually” she placated, before Loki could react. “We have a mission, but it’s not for a while.”

Loki looked over at you, eyes on your crossword again. He did not want you going on missions and bonding with the super friends, he wanted you out of her, with him, safe and secure..

What was that?!

Did you not like it?

That’s not what I said ásynja

You smiled and flicked yours eyes at him. Then at Natasha.

Ask her how Bucky is

The thought floated towards him.

Why?

For fun

Well, he did like fun.

“Agent Romanoff, how is Sergeant Barnes today?” Natasha whipped her head around, glaring.

“I have no idea.” She snapped.

“Oh, nevermind then,” Loki went back to his book, turning the page slowly.

Ask her if the bruise has gone down

Darling, let’s not play with fire -

The bruise! On her neck!

The thought was as clear as a bell ringing in his mind. Would you always be connected this closely? He should have considered how he’d lock you back out again.

“I do hope his bruise is healing well,” Loki looked from his book to the window and then back at Natasha, the picture of nonchalance. “It’s such a nuisance to have such a thing upon one’s neck.”

“Right” Natasha put her hands on her knees and stood up, “I’m out of here.”

You looked at Natasha again, really looked, and images of Natasha and Bucky pressed against the kitchen counter bubbled to the surface. You bit the tip of your tongue to stop from saying anything to hinder their progress. You’d felt it as soon as they were in a room together, like air pressure before a storm, building and sparking. Hopefully they were finally figuring things out and you’d be able to breathe again.

Natasha left the room, banging her bedroom door as she went.

“That was fun, you were right.”

“I know, but I do really hope things work out for her. I can’t explain it, I get this feeling to match people up and they so obviously like each other.” You sighed, dreamily.

“Lots of people like matchmaking, you just need more hobbies.” Loki did not consider matchmaking to be an interesting hobby, but he wouldn’t say quite that much.

“It’s more than that, it’s like I really can’t help it. That’s why they don’t like me, I made them dream about each other.”

Loki put his book down again.

“Does it feel like it comes from somewhere deep inside, like when you use your magic?” He asked, seriously, “or is it because you are naturally very vexing?” He grinned.

You threw a cushion at him, “I’m not vexing, other people are just boring.”

That was certainly true, he smiled.

“See, glad you agree with me.” Damn he was going to have to be careful with his thoughts now.

<<Part 4

Part 6 >>

#Loki #loki laufeyson #loki odinson #loki/reader #Loki x Reader #Loki fanfic #Loki series #loki marvel #Loki x you #Loki/You #loki fanfiction #Loki smut #The Old Gods and the New

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onyourowndaisymae · 1 year ago

Text

when leviathan falls in love

content + warnings: fluff, canon-typical insecure levi, gn!mc is always there to cheer up their fav boy, maybe some improper aquarium knowledge lol // [masterlist]

word count: ~1.3k

the sunlight, once harsh and overbearing, is now a delightful amber melting over the horizon. clear blue lingers at the top of the sky, a reminder of the long day now disappearing in the rearview of time, fading slowly into the fiery oranges that announce dusk's impending arrival. puffy clouds dotted the wide expanse above. though the illusion wasn’t real, watching the sun set over the steady waves was a sight to behold.

diavolo’s private beach had been loud all day, full of laughter and chaos as they enjoyed the vacation day to the fullest. now, as demons and angels alike watched a phenomenon only visible from the human world and its recreations in other realms, the beach was quiet.

“do you see this often where you’re from?” leviathan asks you.

“every day. and it never gets old.”

the two of you sit at the ocean’s edge, small waves lapping over your legs in a steady rhythm. his tail shifts unconsciously through the water, creating little ripples and splashes by your feet. the water always feels good on his scales– it’s rare that he gets to visit the ocean like this, but it feels like home when he does.

you wiggle your fingers in the water, almost as if you’re trying to coax his tail closer like some marine animal. his face flushes. are you teasing him? part of him assumes that this is all in good fun– you’re always so nice to him, after all– but he can’t help but feel that something bad will happen. he’s always willing to give you a chance, though, despite his anxieties. his tail slithers through the water and you grin. your fingers brush against the scales softly. it’s nice.

“it’s like petting a fish,” you say, looking over at him.

“that’s embarrassing.”

“is it? sorry, i didn’t mean it like that. i just– it reminds me of when i’d go to the aquarium as a kid.”

“you got to touch the fish there?”

“yeah!” your fingers stroke his tail with two fingers. he shudders– it feels pleasant, and he looks away before his cheeks flush further.

“okay i lied. sort of. i didn’t get to pet the fish like that. it was the little sharks and stingrays that i got to pet at the aquarium.”

“is that safe?”

you chuckle a little. levi thinks he’s right to be worried– sharks are dangerous– but you shake your head and explain further.

“sharks in the human world are a lot more docile than in the devildom. and smaller, too. they have, like, baby sharks in the public tanks. they’re young and comfortable with being touched.”

levi can’t really imagine an equivalent with devildom animals– they’re all far too vicious to be stroked so casually. but he’s seen enough anime to know what you’re describing. in the human realm, aquariums are painted in calming blues, with winding halls and glass walls all giving you peaks into their tanks. that’s where all the dates took place– two protagonists watching the fish, leaning in closer until their shoulders brush and they look away. then one would reach out a pinky and take the others hand, shaking a little in fear of rejection, but it never comes because fate is always so kind to friends turned lovers–

your giggling breaks him from his trance. to say levi is embarrassed would be an understatement. he’s horrified. upon tuning back into the real world, he finds that his tail has wrapped itself around your wrist, ensnaring you in his grasp as the tip flickers against your arm.

“sorry!” he cries sharply.

scrambling forward through choppy waves, he uses both hands to forcibly yank his wandering tail from your wrist. it’s enough to pull you from a seated position up on your knees. you laugh, stumbling forward to catch yourself on your palms before you’re face down, ass up in the shallow waves.

“it’s fine! it’s fine!”

your reassurances do little to ease his mind. he pulls the heavy appendage into his lap almost defensively– it seems he can’t trust himself not around you for a single moment!

“s-sorry, that was r-rude and probably r-r-really gross, i can l-leave–”

“relax,” you say, grabbing his arm as he starts to make his great escape. you ease him back into his spot– actually, you scoot a little closer, making the situation all the more mortifying– and settle back into a seated position. “i don’t bite. i promise. besides, that was kind of funny.”

“that was horrible–”

“it’s fine, levi. really. if i had a tail, it would probably grab you too!”

that makes him stop for a moment. his tail writhes a little in his grasp, but he holds it tightly against his chest to prevent it from embarrassing him again.

“huh?”

“yeah! if i was a demon with a tail, mine would probably reach for you too! y’know, ‘cuz i like being around you so much, even my tail wouldn’t want you to leave.”

his face and ears are scorched, but your sentiment makes him feel a bit less embarrassed for his theatrics.

“you mean that?”

“of course i do!”

part of him still wants to squirm, to dash off and hide under a rock and forget this whole mess even happened. but he takes a look back at the sun setting in the sky, then back at your smile, now looking out over the waves. maybe this is okay.

“the human realm sounds pretty cool… y’know. sometimes.”

“it is. there’s a lot to love about it.”

suddenly he feels bad for bringing it up. did he strike a nerve? but your smile doesn’t falter, so maybe it’s okay to continue.

“... do you miss it?”

“the human realm?”

“yeah.”

“sometimes,” you admit softly. “it’s the little things. it’s… it’s the sunsets and aquariums, y’know? little things you don’t think about until you don’t see them anymore.”

he nods. “i think i’d miss sunsets and aquariums, too.”

“you should come see them with me sometime.”

“what?”

“in the human realm. maybe we can spend a day together. appreciate the little things, y’know? if you wanted to.”

“that sounds nice.”

leviathan doesn’t realize what’s happening. it’s not exactly his fault– he’s always had trouble untangling complex emotions from each other, always struggled to express why he was feeling a certain way. all he knows is that he’s warm all of a sudden. his fingers tremble with something, something he can’t place, and he scrunches in on himself to hide from your prying eyes. you know him better than anyone. usually, that’s okay, but today something about that feels extra vulnerable.

because levi, in that moment, falls head over heels in love with you.

and it’s okay that he doesn’t realize that’s what’s happening. he has other ways to describe the feelings he holds towards you. you’re his number two, his henry, his favorite human– the most important person in his life.

what he knows now, staring out at the sunset, is that you make his knees wobble and his heart flutter unlike any cheesy romance manga he’s ever read. he rests his head in the crook of his elbow and stares out at the ocean, mind racing. you begin to tell the story of an aquarium trip you took as a child, mindlessly waggling your fingertips in the water again. levi wants to hear you talk about that.

and maybe, just maybe, when the tip of his tail slithers from his lap and winds between your aimless fingers, he wants that to happen, too.

taglist for this series: @deepseafragments // @darkflowerav // @annoying-and-upset // @katerinaval // @lurkingsnails // @chirikoheina // @all-mights-wife // @notareum // @ollieoven

#obey me #obey me shall we date #obey me swd #obey me nightbringer #obey me nb #obey me levi #obey me leviathan #obey me levi x reader #obey me leviathan x reader #obey me fluff #obey me imagines #otome

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tiger-in-the-flightdeck · 2 months ago

Note

Trick please! Tim and the Joker (not romantic I’m just curious about the dynamic soon after Jason’s death) or Tim and Bruce?

(I’m excited! I missed last year :D)

Welcome! I love your costume! Let me just drop this little Trick ficlet in your pumpkin pail.

Read on below, or on AO3

Broken Little Birds

“Daddy didn’t come for your big brother. He’s not gonna come for you, little nestling.”

Tim shifted in place, drawing his legs in closer to his torso, making himself smaller. His arms were bound behind his back at an extreme angle that was pulling at his shoulders. Another inch and they might dislocate. One of his ribs was broken, probably two. His vision was swimming and blood was matting his hair into clumps.

But in his position on the warehouse floor, huddled up and looking pitiful, he was protecting his belly and throat. The swings of the baseball bat landed harsh blows on his already injured body, but mostly to the padding in his uniform that gave him the illusion of muscle, or to his neck where they glanced off the metal ring he wore in his gorget. His cape couldn’t prevent the impacts but it could spread them out.

He could withstand this until Batman arrived.

Because he would.

Tim told himself that. Had been telling himself that for the last hour since he hit his emergency beacon.

Batman would make it in time. Tim wouldn’t allow himself to be the reason Bruce had to bury another Robin. He knew his mentor wouldn’t be able to cope a second time and he would snap entirely. If he wanted to keep Batman back from the edge of the darkness, he had to survive the night. It was the only reason he was in this uniform. He was Batman’s light. His guiding star.

He’ll come for you, little brother. He tried to be there for me. He’ll be here for you.

Wiping blood from his mouth on his knee, Tim nodded. “I know,”

Joker cackled and twirled the bat over his head then brought it down onto the concrete floor next to Tim’s head. The laughter grew shrill and rasping when the boy flinched away from it. “Ohh, it’s so good you agree with me. It took the itty bitty black and blue Jay a lot longer. You’re much smarter than him, aren’t you?” He pushed the end of the bat under Tim’s chin, forcing him to raise his head to look up at him. “I like brains! They look so pretty splattered on a wall!”

He’s got like. Three jokes. Oooooh, I’m gonna say a thing, then make it creepy. So original.

Jason sneered at Joker as he drifted from one side of him to the other.

Tim had been seeing him more and more lately. The visits had terrified him at first, making him think he was cracking under the pressure. But in the time since donning the cape, they had become a comfort. Jason assured him that he was proud to have him take on the mantle, and stood beside him when he was alone.

With one bare foot, his cape in tatters, and blood on his face, Jason didn’t leave Tim’s side as Joker swung the bat again. He whispered against his ear that Batman would be there for him. That he was strong enough to get through this.

That they wouldn’t be meeting for real for a long time yet.

A crash of broken glass. A flash of light and a bang, followed by the burnt sugar scent of one of the smoke bombs. Fists on flesh and broken bones as Batman roared wordlessly and beat Joker until he was squalling for mercy.

Through the smoke, Jason approached and knelt in front of Tim. He touched his head, and the pain crept back sullenly. We’re not gonna see each other for a while, little brother. Something’s about to happen. But you’ll be okay without me. You’re gonna do great, I know it.

He faded back as Batman dropped Joker’s shackled body and sprinted to Tim’s side. His hands were shaking as he checked him for spinal injuries before yanking free the bindings around his arms.

“I’m here,” he whispered, stroking Tim’s hair with deceptively gentle fingers. “I made it. I’m here, Robin. You’re safe, son.”

Tim could never be entirely sure that he was the one Batman was seeing as he made those soft promises, but it didn’t matter. He was alive.

Bruce wouldn’t have to bury another broken little bird.

#tiger writes #trick or treat #batfamily #batfam #batfamily fic #tim drake #joker #jason todd #bruce wayne

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critrolesideblog · 2 years ago

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This is foolish. Essek took a deep breath in and out through his nose to calm his nerves, making sure to keep his face calm. Foolish, foolish, foolish.

A thunderous explosion shook the stone streets, and Essek's hand was at the components pouch at his waist, fast as light, as . . .

Another volley of fireworks lit up the Hupperdook sky and a jubilant roar went up among the townsfolk milling about in the street. Vendors selling silk flowers, colorful banners on sticks, firecrackers, street food, and beer shouted their wares as they moved through the crowd. A crowd that Essek, clad in a paper-thin illusion, stood largely head and shoulders above. A Kryn man walking through the heart of Dwendalian industry. Foolish.

Foolish... and a little thrilling, knowing, as he did, that the prize of a warm welcome and an evening with friends awaited him at the end of this foolish, foolish gauntlet.

At last, he located his destination and pulled open the door to be met with a rush of warmth and noise. It was, if possible, louder inside the tavern than outside. There were musicians playing a lively tune in the far back. It was a popular tune apparently, judging by the sheer number of patrons turning merrily in the center of the dance floor, and there in the middle of them, sticking out like two bright planets in a sky full of stars, was Caleb and Jester. They spun around each other maddeningly, dizzyingly, laughing all the while.

"There you are! We were beginning to wonder if you'd gotten lost."

Fjord was in front of him suddenly, clapping him on the shoulder. It was disconcerting to be recognized so quickly, even if he had told Jester the nature of his disguise ahead of time: a tiefling, with skin, hair, and freckles the same shade of blue as Jester's. His illusory horns looped back, following closely along the curve of his skull and back out again in the place where his real ears were. The face was modeled a bit on Kingsley, and his eyes he had left their usual lilac.

"Ah, well, there were some shifty individuals in Jrusar that I thought might be on my tail, but -- aaAAah!"

Fjord's arms were around him, pulling him into the swirling mass of bodies.

"Let's get them off your tail then, shall we?"

Essek fell into position with decades of courtly practice, as Fjord took the lead, glancing around for openings in the crowd and guiding them through. Essek glanced around as well, trying to get the gist of the dance.

"I-- I am afraid I do not know this one."

"And would the Shadowhand do a dance he did not know?!" Fjord asked, dipping his voice low, eyebrow raised, peering at him with great melodrama. "The spies are confused already!"

Essek ducked his head down as he suppressed a snort of laughter. When he looked back up, Fjord was peering over his shoulder intently, eyebrows and chin raising slightly, as if nodding assent to someone. Essek turned his head to see who he was looking at, but at that moment, Fjord turned them both quickly. Essek narrowed his eyes at him.

"What are you up to?"

Fjord grinned, mischievously. "Just returning a favor."

And with that, Essek found himself being spun away from Fjord, through the crowd, and into the arms of one, Caleb Widogast.

Caleb's face was at turns surprised, confused, and delighted, as his eyes took in Essek's strangely-familiar face and then met his very familiar eyes. He threw his head back as he laughed joyously, pulling Essek close, and Essek could hear Jester and Fjord cackling victoriously over the din in the distance. He relaxed into Caleb's closer-than-proper dance hold, feeling the nerves of the day fade away as they made a lazy loop around the dance floor.

"It is good to see you, Caleb Widogast," he murmured, when Caleb's Lucidian blue eyes met his again.

"You as well, my dear. I'm glad you could make it."

"As am I." He glanced over Caleb's shoulder and spied Jester and Fjord at the edge of the dance floor, grinning, murmuring to each other. Jester's gaze caught his, and she waggled her eyebrows at him. "Fjord mentioned something about 'returning a favor.' Do you know what that was about?" Caleb's eyebrows rose, and as they turned again, he peered over Essek's shoulder toward the edge of the dance floor as well.

"Ah, I will explain later," he said with a small smile, and then leaned in to whisper in Essek's ear. "I think they are talking about us." The feel of his breath against his ear sent a shiver down Essek's spine.

"Well, then, let us give them something to talk about."

The music crashed into a raucous finale as Essek took the lead, pulling Caleb closer still. There was an instant of surprise on Caleb's face before Essek spun them a final, sharp turn and dipped him backwards as he leaned down and kissed him.

A chorus of wolf whistles and cat calls erupted from a particularly rowdy table at the side of the dance floor, full of familiar voices. He could feel Caleb laughing against his mouth as a warm hand pressed gently against the back of his neck, and for a moment, all was right with the world.

Fjord's voice called out over the din.

"You're welcome!"

#might I interest you in some self-indulgent fluff on this Tuesday morning?#essek thelyss #caleb widogast #fjord stone #jester lavorre #shadowgast #my writing tag

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scarletwritesshit · 2 months ago

Text

⭐ Sunday x Stelle ⭐ Ruler Of My Dreams

All evil that dared stood in the path of Stelle were doomed to be conquered by the very might of her baseball bat. One thing she wasn’t, however, was a blind killer without reason. Giant freakishly mutated space bugs had a reason to be squashed beneath her boot. And mara-struck Luofu soldiers too – those were long dead anyways.

But a man misguided onto the wrong path? He retained no reason for her to kill. In fact, she would argue that it was a part of her duty as a Nameless to save his life and lead him onto the path of salvation. Making it even worse for her, his worlds held some ounce of truth to them, albeit twisted in favor of his tyrannical desire. He had a noble heart, if only he could’ve seen eye to eye with Stelle a moment sooner.

When the Astral Express landed the final strike against The Great Septimus, its body, or rather Sunday’s, collapsed into the abyss, and Stelle could not bring herself to simply stand by idly. As it fell backwards, its lifeless eyes shone with glint of desperation, expression unchanging yet pleading for help all the same. Through the void he would fall, then meet the tragic death of his dream if Stelle didn’t take swift action.

Dying in the resting world was hardly a step up from experiencing it in reality. The sensations felt just as real, only what awaited on the other side was the comfort of one’s bed, and neither heaven nor hell. For him to experience it regardless was a thought most unpleasant, and Stelle couldn’t bear to imagine him falling victim to the illusion of passing on. They were on opposite sides, but he was not the enemy.

Desperation overcame rationality. Stelle charged headfirst towards the end of the stage, where the shell of a god once looked down upon the Express Crew. The calls of Himeko and Welt were futile, and March and Dan Heng could only watch speechless. She paid no mind to their concerns, not even looking back with an ounce of doubt. Once she reached the edge, Stelle flung herself off of the stage and dived down towards the disintegrating false Aeon.

As she was falling, the pieces breaking off of The Great Septimus disintegrated like comets on their last breath of life. The stardust glazing by her skin caused her no harm; it was more like a gentle kiss of heavenly light rather than the final gambit of a dying star. And as the false Aeon faded away, it slowly revealed the limp body of a Havlovian deprived of any will to carry on.

The bird didn’t bother to flap his wings. His eyes were closed, content with the death that awaited him at the bottom. Even if this world were a mere illusion of the mind, he was welcoming of death all the same.

Stelle angled herself downwards to hopefully gain some momentum. The faster she could catch him, the better, though not having any way of lifting him up herself, she could still break his fall and soothe the brutality of his awakening.

Sunday paid no mind to her.

With a heartfelt cry, Stelle reached her hand out to him.

Sunday still paid no mind to her.

Only after one final dive with the assistance of the Stellaron did Sunday at last acknowledge Stelle’s efforts. When her fingers caught ahold of his clothing, she pulled him closer and embraced him in a hug, knocking what little breath he still had out of him. At that very instant, the flow of time seemed to have slowed down around them. The two of them were drifting downwards as gently as a soft dove’s feather. As Stelle held him close, Sunday’s body felt limp, collapsing into her arms.

He opened his eyes and smiled.

“And here I was under the assumption that you were adamant about standing against me,” Sunday said.

“I never truly stood against you,” Stelle said. “I only wanted you to see just how badly you were overextending your reach.”

“Well, how was I to bring about change? I had to give the people a little nudge, as initial support was not unanimous.”

“That was far more than a little nudge. And you know it. You took things too far.”

“Not far enough,” Sunday said with a weak cough. “You managed to fell me. Your ideals triumphed over mine simply because in the end, none of what I had done was enough.”

“It wasn’t a matter of being weak, or one’s ideas being superior to another’s. There’s nothing wrong with trying to get others on board for change. But there is a fine line between convincing and manipulation.”

Sunday furiously coughed once more. “Tell me, Stelle. Why do you think people dream?”

“…Why do people dream? Doesn’t Penacony’s Dreamscape act as a respite from reality’s troubles?”

“Ah…but dreams in the waking world function in the same way, do they not? Yet those dreams don’t always play out in the most favorable way. Penacony was different, in the way it was supposed to offer an escape from all that ails one both physically and mentally. While our fragile bodies rest safely, we can life out our lives oblivious to any and all burden.”

“Isn’t that just a detrimental delusion?”

“Is a delusion truly harmful when all have been granted peace of mind?” Sunday asked.

“I guess not, but we can’t just ignore reality should we dislike how the timeline unfolds before us.”

“And why should we live worrying ourselves with factors beyond our control? No planet is without its treachery and misfortune. It’s an unavoidable fact. Why allow such to weigh heavily on your mind? Penacony offered an escape from factors as benign as the less fortunate and short lived to acting sanctuary for entire societies that have collapsed. Nobody would have the burden of the unfortunate and undeserved circumstances bestowed upon them.”

Stelle found his points difficult to argue. He spoke of precisely what she wanted; the freedom of the people from Stellaron disasters, IPC genocides, intersocietal conflicts…

“Surely, there could’ve been a much easier way of approaching things,” Stelle said.

“Not everything is meant to be easy. If it were, then the problem would have been rectified in the past. Ascending was a great difficulty that I had managed to overcome, but I have ultimately failed to live up to such a position. I was so close. So close to making everyone happy.”

A tear fell from his eyes.

“So close to being a god, but without worshippers, what good am I?”

“…You truthfully just wanted to make everyone happy, didn’t you?” Stelle asked.

“It’s all I’ve ever wanted to do. Take the burden of the people upon myself. Be the one that countless people thank every day for their sanctuary and protection.”

“You’re simply misguided,” Stelle said. “Your heart is in the right place, but there are superior ways to leading a revolution for the people.”

“Why should it matter now, anyways? We’re both slowly falling to our deaths.”

“And when we ‘die’ here, we simply wake in reality. Then, you can turn over a new leaf.”

“And change our future with what firepower? I have nothing left to my name.”

“But you have me. All it takes is a single follower to be a god to someone. You don’t need to have a mass following behind you to enact change,” Stelle said, holding Sunday as close as she possibly could against the force of them plummeting.

“Despite everything, you truthfully still hold faith in me?” he asked

With her face still shoved in his shoulder, Stelle nodded her head. A most delightful reaction, he thought to himself. One person who was still willing to believe in him…to carry on with the ideals he failed to make a reality the first time.

His eyes narrowed and a smile crept across his face.

“Then how about an agreement between us? Make me your god. I can give you everything.”

Their intertwined bodies hit the ground, and the golden starlight in their eyes shone no longer.

A short time later, on the Astral Express…

“You’re really going to trust that freak to stay out of trouble?” Dan Heng inquired.

“Like you’re any better!” March said. “Besides, this lets us keep him under our watchful eyes and we can make sure he doesn’t go trying to take over any more planets, or whatever. Nothing to worry about as long as the conductor is fine with it.”

“Invite whoever you want at this point. You’ve allowed prisoners, mementic entities, war criminals, and more to board. Who am I to care? At this point, invite Nanook,” Pom Pom said, sulking in a corner.

“See? Completely fine.”

“I shall be on my utmost best behavior,” Sunday said with a polite bow. “Stelle here has volunteered to watch over me for the time being, so I assure you that I cannot cause any problems even if I wanted to.”

“I’m the designated chicken wrangler,” Stelle said proudly.

“I suppose that is… certainly one way to put it,” Sunday said, his wings twitching. “Nevertheless, trailblazing is about forging our own paths, no? Order is no more. From here on out, I remain loyal to the path of the Trailblaze.”

Himeko was still understandably apprehensive. “Stelle, do keep an eye on him,” she cautioned. “Show him around the Express or something to keep him occupied.”

Some time away from the other Express members, with only Stelle at his side? Sunday smiled inconspicuously, most pleased by the opportunity before him.

“You got it boss!” she said with a salute.

Stelle gestured for Sunday to come follow her through the door leading to the parlor car. With a gentle nod, Sunday made haste in following her through the door and down the corridor.

“It looks so humble from the outside, yet the interior is certainly most grand,” Sunday commented as he looked around.

“It’s Pom Pom you should be praising for this vessel, not me,” Stelle said.

“You’re a key part of the team, are you not? I still feel as if I should deliver my utmost praise and thanks to you,” Sunday said.

“Regardless, it’s not as big of a deal you think it is,” Stelle said, stopping in front of one of the doors. “You said that there was something you wanted to talk to me about once you boarded, right?”

Sunday nodded his head. Stelle placed the palm of her hand on the door in front of her, opening it. It led into her room, which wasn’t necessarily prepared for guests, but it was the most suitable place for them to have a quiet talk nonetheless.

“Make yourself comfortable. I wasn’t expecting visitors, but I hope this will do.”

A smirk appeared across Sunday’s face. “It is most acceptable.”

“I apologize if it isn’t up to your standards,” Stelle said, walking him into her room. “Would I have known, I would’ve straightened my room up for you a bit.”

“No need for apologies. I am most thankful for the invitation to the Express.”

Stelle sat down on her bed, leaving Sunday room should he chose to join her. However, he chose to stand by the window rather than rest his legs. He held his arms behind his back as he looked out at the passing cosmos.

“So, in a way, this… ‘trailblazing’ thing of yours is a form of redemption?”

“More or less, for some of us. Take Dan Heng, for example. He found himself in a somewhat similar position to you right now, falling from grace and atoning for his sins by joining us.”

“Guided on the same path, yet all following your own destinies. It’s most fascinating how your little group operates.”

“I guess we’re all fascinating in our own way.”

Sunday turned away from the window and walked towards Stelle. He stood tall and proud over her, surprisingly majestic for a man who had just fallen from grace. His eyes had the most gentle yet focused gaze, looking down at her as she remained seated on the edge of the bed.

“If I am not mistaken, you are a Stellaron without a purpose, so you have declared your chosen path as one who saves those in most desperate need?” Sunday asked with a smile.

“For now, I guess. Always finding myself roped into conflict after conflict to quell Stellaron disasters at seemingly every corner of the galaxy.”

“Enough of this small talk,” Sunday said. “You wanted a future where the people could forgo experiencing such conflicts, no? I still retain the power promised to put an end to all of this blasphemy in an instant.”

“…Something along those lines, I suppose,” Stelle said, scratching her chin in thought.

Sunday tilted his head, perhaps out of curiosity, or a twisted sense of pity.

“And you’re the key to me bringing about these sweet dreams to those who reside in Penacony and beyond,” he said.

“The key to bringing about sweet dreams?”

He reached out his hand to gently caress the side of her face. He nudged back her hair with precise movements of his fingers, allowing for her golden eyes to shine brightly with a luminous glow almost identical to that of Sunday’s. Four vibrant stars glistening like the Southern Cross in Penacony’s night sky remained fixated on the other’s gaze, connected even if for a moment.

“The Stellaron that outshines even the brightest sun is the key, my star. Your worship. Your power. Combining our powers for the greater utopia…neither nightmare nor reality would pose an obstacle to total salvation of the peoples’ souls.”

Stelle remained silent and on guard as Sunday stroked the side of her face with his thumb. His wings were outstretched and proud, yet fluttering subtly with a hint of anticipation and excitement.

“Lend me your strength to once more fuel the dreams of Penacony, no, the entire cosmos for as long as the dates on the calendar pass.”

“I don’t believe these lies you spout,” Stelle said.

Sunday leaned in closer, his devious smirk only growing in size. “And why is that, darling? You were so enthusiastic about coming to my aid mere moments ago, but what has caused you to have a change of heart in such a short period of time? Dedicate yourself as a worshiper of mine. And in return, I can give you everything and anything you desire in our dream.”

“I thought that the entire purpose of you joining the Express was to keep you from creating another mass hysteria,” Stelle said, leaning back in response to Sunday’s advances.

“But the path of the Trailblaze allows for us to follow our own paths, does it not? I merely wish to return to my plans to free the people of suffering as a result of this cruel, cruel world forced upon us.”

He slid his hand down her neck and shoulder, grabbing onto her arm and pulling her closer.

“Everything. Everything you can desire. Everything your friends can desire. Everything the world could desire. Think about it. Only a fool would pass up such an opportunity.”

“I quite like having my head screwed on right and living in the real world, thank you very much.”

“I like the pretty little face I see in this reality.”

He yanked her even close.

“My star…my savior… lend me your strength,” Sunday said.

“I’ll throw you back into the void of the Dreamscape if you don’t back off,” Stelle threatened.

Sunday sighed, his wings drooping and grip on her arm loosening. “I’ll never understand you or your eccentric companions, my dear.”

“Maybe you’re not meant to.”

He walked away from her and held his hands behind his back. “Alas, if you wish to surrender the favor of a god and everything that you could possibly have, then who am I to stop you? In the meantime, I will be waiting patiently if you change your mind.”

#fanfiction #fanfic #honkai star rail #honkai star rail fanfic #stelle #sunday hsr #hsr sunday #sunstelle

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an-established-butt-dent · 10 months ago

Text

To sleep, to dream, to forget

AO3

Author: DazeChroma (that is me)

Cover art: an-established-butt-dent (also me)

Fandom: Dragon Age, Pairing: Solas x Lavellan, Words: 4,841, Tags: Post Trespasser, Angst, Lavellan deals with the emotional aftermath.

Notes: see end for notes!

There are a million ways to say goodbye, but they have yet to learn of a way that is final. After the Crossroads, Allana leaves everything behind and travels. She is alone, but for a wolf that keeps visiting her dreams.

To sleep, to dream, to forget

Lavellan knew the wolf haunting her dreams.

Perhaps she should fear the shadow lurking on the edge of her peripheral vision, but this was the Fade and she was in control of her dreams. She wore an enchanted amulet, beautiful, with the added benefit of preventing others from intruding on her dreamscape. A parting gift from Dorian.

Even one as skilled and powerful as the Dreadwolf would not be able to reach her, unless she let him.

But that was precisely it. She would never admit it out loud, but somehow had yet to force his presence away. To banish him from her subconscious. Instead, she had left a window open at a crack.

Maybe it was confusion after their confrontation in the Crossroads. Maybe it was her anger, demanding more explanations from him.

Maybe she missed him.

Solas.

Mentally she scolded herself. She shouldn't use that name. The quiet apostate she had come to know, come to love, was not the same man planning the downfall of the world. Her heart was broken and Solas was dead, as much as he could be for having never truly existed.

But the Dreadwolf, Fen'harel, lived.

Ancient trickster god indeed.

Sometimes she tried to think of the elf from her memories as someone different altogether. A quiet mage lost in dreams who perhaps had planned to return to her. To explain why he left without goodbye after Corypheus' defeat. To bring reason to the many questions left unanswered and wounds left unmended.

The Solas in this imagined life might have helped her shed the Inquisitor’s cloak. Might have held her in comfort throughout the emotional aftermath.

Somehow it made the feeling of betrayal slightly easier to bear.

'-What we had was real'

The words left a bitter taste in her mouth still.

Perhaps it had all been real to him. But to her it was an illusion.

The wolf in sheeps’ clothing had not been the lover in her arms. The Dread Wolf had not been her companion, her advisor, mentor, friend, Vhenan-

Denial was not a good look on her, but it gave her peace and quiet.

And this chasm in her chest, this aching void pumping blood through numb limbs… It propelled her forward. Yet, she felt devoid of the passion and perseverance that moved her before.

Well.

You can't break what's already broken. Can't lose what you don't have.

After the Inquisition disbanded, she had felt lost. Alone.

She needed time to process everything: the loss of her arm, the long years fighting to end Corypheus and then building the world back up again only to be followed by the upheaval of the exalted council, the pain in her chest. Again there was a moment where the world spun on its axis, throwing everything she knew off-balance. Again.

She had come undone, the only thing keeping her together was the feeling of Revas’ long strides over the open plains.

Only a Dalish would pick that name for a hart, but he earned his name, spirited and wild as he was before he accepted Allana as his rider. He was her only companion.

Her eyes scanned the horizon, but there was no silhouette following her. No shadow in the waking world.

She stayed clear of civilization, only stopping for provisions. She kept to herself, used her voice so little she almost forgot what it sounded like.

She traveled for weeks like this, a strong pace forward. Needing to get away. Always away. Every moment spent in one place too long and her chest would constrict, a panic building that could only be relieved by the comfort of changing landscapes.

'You lied to me!'

She wanted to escape. To forget.

She wanted to be wild like her hart. Wanted to be free.

Revas: her freedom.

Revas, revas, revas!

She drifted weightlessly through the fade. Time seemed to stand still as she floated through the pleasant warmth of her early memories.

No terror haunted her. No fear demon pulled threads of horrible memories across her vision. Nothing clawed at her. She was safe.

Only one shadow she could not shake.

She could admit it, now. When the storms of her doubts and fears had quieted down, and she was not drowning, on the brink of being pulled under-

No.

Not now.

She breathed in, and out. At peace, you're safe, she told herself.

The storm calmed down.

He never truly showed himself at first. But she expected him to know that she could sense him.

It had been him, chasing the despair demons away in the nights before she had Dorian’s amulet. She had seen the flash of teeth and six red eyes prowling on the edge of her peripheral vision. Hungry, angry, but not for her. A lonely howl, a loud screech and a wolf had dragged the dark shadows away until she was alone once again.

The terror had melted away with the echo of the wolf's cry.

Curious spirits were discouraged from approaching her afterwards, and she could finally breathe with relief, knowing to expect a night of rest without waking in cold sweat from nightmares.

She scoffed, wondering what keeper Deshanna would say if she knew the presence of the Dreadwolf gave her some measure of comfort.

She would probably call upon all the ancient gods for guidance. To protect her lonely runaway Da'len from the Dreadwolf’s treachery.

But he has your scent.

And you have his heart.

She was almost at the coast now, where she would book passage for a ship to Starkhaven. She planned to cross the waking sea at Jader and travel to Antiva after a short stop in Kirkwall. Other than that she hadn’t decided on her plans for the future.

She had set up camp at a clearing near an old ruin. Then, she took her time to make dinner, enjoying her quiet surroundings and knowing this might be her last night sleeping peacefully under the stars for the coming week.

Revas would surely not be happy on a ship.

She looked regretfully at her hart, wishing there was another way to cross safely, without needing a ship or an Eluvian.

As she only had access to one of those options, her choice was made swiftly.

She climbed into her sleeping roll, twisting and turning until she lay comfortably on her side. Listening to her hart grazing nearby, she drifted off to sleep.

He had become bolder after she started wearing the amulet.

Perhaps he wondered how she had found peace in her dreams? Perhaps her aura, pleasantly free of fear and despair, had pulled him in?

Could he sense the enchantment? Could he see she now had more control over the Fade?

He had tried to teach her many times, but never had she managed this level of lucidity.

Did he observe curiously what strings she pulled, and which memories she traversed?

She always made sure not to dive into memories of their time as lovers. Those memories were locked away deeply, only to be revealed during waking moments of weakness where she allowed herself the time to wallow in her misery.

A slight change in the air alerted her to his presence.

Soundlessly, a shadow big as a hill moved over the horizon until she made out the shape of four clawed paws slowly treading over the grass-covered plane.

He held his head close to the ground, curiously following the invisible line of energy that lingered in her wake. Tracing her scent which was as recognizable and personal as a fingerprint in the land of dreams. Wisps of black smoke trailed his fur, distorting the landscape.

Sensing her, he slowly lifted his massive head as six red glowing eyes fixed themselves on her.

His name was on the tip of her tongue. She quickly swallowed it down, her throat suddenly dry. This was the first time he didn’t disappear as soon as they made eye contact. She was rooted on the spot, not moving an inch, afraid that any change would break the spell. The sudden wave of longing that washed over her came as a surprise. The sharp ache that quickly followed didn’t.

Then there was anger.

He took one more step towards her and tilted his head to the side, giving the impression of being unsure if he was looking at threat or prey.

Hoping she was neither, she stood still. She could feel her heart beating in her throat, uncomfortably aware of the tension building in the air. It was like the climate changed and became hotter, the air sticky and suffocating, shaped by the emotions of her inner turmoil.

He took a step toward her, and then she felt the Fade shift.

It was her own doing.

Suddenly she was alone again, overlooking the same mountains where Skyhold stood proudly in the distance. Her home.

She felt relieved that she could breathe again. The air was lighter, the sky brighter, although everything in the fade had a disorienting, ghostlike quality to it. Colors were more intense and subdued at the same time, clouded by a mist you could see only when you focused on it intensely.

Her racing pulse calmed down as she kept her attention on the familiar mountains. Two falcons slowly circled the sky, its colors giving the impression of a setting sun.

‘He is only a stranger. A stranger you once knew’, she told herself over and over.

Yet, he did not scare her. At least not for the reasons one should be afraid of a massive ghostly wolf-shadow trailing their subconscious.

Perhaps she should have confided in Lelliana, Cullen or Josephine about his presence in her dreams. But the Inquisition was no more, so sharing these developments felt... too personal, too intimate. She didn't want to think about it. Nor, for that matter, did she want anyone else to.

The Dreadwolf has your scent.

Why was he still keeping his tabs on her, even after their goodbyes?

'I will never forget you.'

No of course not, idiot, if he kept following her like this!

She could feel her anger shaping the Fade around her, the soft, wispy clouds and sharp mountain peaks crumbling. She was taken to a place darker. Deep down, deep roads, stone, damp air, echoes of fighting. A darkspawns’ screech bounced around on the slick walls of the chasm. Still far in the distance but growing louder with each panicked breath she took. The high pitch surrounded her. Darkness enveloped her like a suffocating blanket. The screams of the dead in her memories ringing like white noise in her ear, drowning out her thoughts except; ’Can’t breath!’.

Panicked, she started to run.

Feet thump, thump, thumping on the slippery stones. The echoes grew louder, a horde of demon’s awakened by the steady rhythm of her long strides. She was a hunter being hunted. The echoes of the past not brought forth by demon’s of anger or fear, but by her own traumatized subconscious. Looking for a way out.

Abruptly she skipped to a halt. Reaching for the amulet.

There were no demons. They can’t reach her.

All of a sudden she could hear a voice breaking through the clouds of her panic.

“Allana, breathe like we practiced, you are in control.” a strange voice resonated from the walls, seeming to come from all sides at once and yet far away. A voice she could recognize everywhere.

The revelation shocked her, but grounded her mind. The demons were drawing near. Memories, which could do no more physical harm unless she let them. Remembering what part would come next she needed to end it here. Right now.

She closed her eyes, taking a breath.

In through the nose-

-one, two, three, four.

Hold for five seconds, let go for six.

She opened her eyes and was again back looking at the sharp outlines of the Frostback Mountains.

The image shifted and the air smelled of spring. Warmth.

Soft winds blowing across open planes. A body of water flowing like a silver snake across the landscape, casting crystallized reflections on billowing trees. A group white halla taking off, startled by her sudden appearance. She watched them for a moment as they darted across the grass in a dance; a playful homage to freedom. They slowly disappeared along the soft edges of her dream, carrying memories of her life with the Dalish. Of an old home, and a life before the world was ending.

Safe.

On the horizon she could just see the tilt of the head of a wolf, watching from afar. Waiting.

She remembered the voice.

She could not suppress the shiver running along her spine. She wondered what would happen if she called out to him.

She never did.

She missed her friends.

Somehow her shadow in the Fade made her feel more lonesome.

It almost became a routine. Push and pull. Following and being followed. It was like a game. She realized with some humor the parallel between their dynamic during the early inquisition years and now. Some things never change.

She would like to talk about her confusing feelings with someone that would understand. But who would? Who could sympathize with a woman, the herald, falling for the affections of the enemy in disguise?

When would she be strong enough to break the chains of their entanglement?

Did she not deserve some peace and quiet? To find out who she was without the responsibilities and expectations resting on her shoulders?

But her work was not over.

She had considered stepping away, and letting things unfold without interfering. But she couldn’t. Tired as she was, she didn't know how not to be Inquisitor Lavellan.

All she needed now was a plan.

How to stop your ex-lover from destroying the world? Your ex-lover, who was, by the way, also an ancient Elvhen God and probably the most powerful Mage to walk the planet?

That did not sound impossible at all.

Damn, she really just kept handing out new book ideas to Varric, didn't she?

Whenever the desire to reach out came up, she swallowed it down.

She didn’t want comforting words from her friends, nor their pitied looks and gentle skirting around certain subjects.

'Are you sure you're alright? If you need anyone to talk to...'

After the Exalted Council she had turned down all invitations to her friends’ new lives for the time being. She promised to visit once she was ready, and that was enough for them to accept her evasion. For now.

Except Dorian was not having any of it.

He had cornered her the day before she was scheduled to leave. She hadn't wanted a goodbye but he had convinced her he was planning no such thing.

"Only a present for my dearest friend. Looking as glum as you do I would almost fear sadness is contagious," he had said with a pout.

She had fixed him with a glare, but there had been no true malice behind it. Dorian was perhaps the only one not treating her as if she was made from glass. She appreciated that about him.

"You know a present is not going to convince me to join you in Tevinter, darling dearest," she patted his cheek patronizingly, batting her eyelashes for extra effect.

"Of course not! I wouldn't dare to manipulate you with something so banal as a gift. Who do you think I am? I would at least try to seduce you with my good looks first." He gave her an exaggerated wink and she couldn't stop something that almost resembled an honest smile. She raised her eyebrows at his flirtations. He was laying it on a little bit thick, even for Dorian's standards.

Perhaps humor was the only thing guarding the show of real concern from his face.

"Without further ado, then. Come on, hands out."

He revealed a small package wrapped in cloth and tied closed with a string of leather.

She hesitantly held out her hand as Dorian sandwiched it between his own, the package a comforting shape in the palm of her hand.

She stared at their joined hands for a moment, swallowing whatever words she would have used to deflect his show of care.

He squeezed her hand once and let go.

"It's not going to unwrap itself, Allana."

She sighed, glad that his sarcasm broke through the tender moment. He knew she appreciated his friendship. She is also aware he's worried about her, like they all are. She was just bad at accepting any kind of support, afraid that leveling the slightest bit of weight from her shoulders would cause it all to come crashing down, burying her fully.

She needed to be Inquisitor for only one day longer, to keep up the pretense of strength and composure. She could deal with whatever might come crashing down after she left. But not now. Not yet.

"Yes, yes," she huffed at his impatience. Maker, give a girl a moment to compose herself!

She unwrapped the bundle and found an amulet, the telltale pulse of enchantment around it. She looked up at him, waiting for the explanation that would no doubt come.

"This will give us an opportunity to communicate directly, no matter how far away you are. I know you will be miserable without my voice pestering you over the coming months," He pulled out a similar-looking amulet from under his collar and tucked it back, giving her a gentle smile.

She blinked at the wetness threatening to spill over.

He grasped her shoulders and gently pulled her into a hug. She was glad for the excuse to avert her eyes.

Dorian never mentioned her not-so-subtle lack of grip on her emotions. He knew when she needed the space.

He continued, "It also helps you block out unwanted attention in the fade. No terror demons will find you when you sleep at night and no other spirit will be able to communicate if you don't wish for it. It keeps you bound to your own head, in a sense." She was not sure how Dorian knew about the kind of attention she’s received in the fade, but she’s touched nonetheless.

"Thank you, Dorian," Ellana mumbles into the fabric of his tunic. "Don't expect me to talk every day though."

"No need, darling. It just makes me happy to know you ignoring me is a conscious choice, and doesn’t mean you are lying in a ditch somewhere."

She snorts, a very undignified sound. "After all I've been through, that ditch doesn't know what's coming for them."

"As long as that fighter spirit never leaves you, my friend," She chuckles wordlessly into his shoulder. She doesn't feel much like a fighter at the moment, although her rogue skills are a second instinct.

She is tired. But she’s looking for something more comfortable than a ditch just yet.

"Thank you, Dorian."

"Don't get all emotional on me, darling."

She will miss him, but she has to go.

The nightmares that had plagued her for weeks vanished after she started to wear the amulet. It was truly Dorian to know the source of the bags under her eyes without her needing to say a word.

'Bad night?' was all he had to ask, and the look she gave him was enough to know.

Years ago, about a month after he had joined the Inquisition, it had only taken one evening of getting drunk together in a cozy corner of the library to share all the secrets that haunted them at night. While the candles burned low, she learned how their experience of the future at Redcliffe had left a deep impression on them both. The red, terrible future of Corypheus’ would-be victory. Thankfully it was not a future she would have to experience again. That was at least one thing she got right.

He was her closest friend after that evening, their shared pain forming a bond like no other. Ha! Who would have thought. A Tevinter Magister and a Dalish elf? Well, she was never fond of living an ordinary life anyway. It takes one to know one.

The only thing haunting her now was a nightmare of her own creation. Made of pain, self loathing and longing, twisting uncomfortably in the hollow of her chest.

That is one thing the amulet will not help her with: the ghost of a broken heart.

She had yet to find a way to live with it, but time heals all wounds. Or so they say.

But then, why, after revealing his plans, did he tell her that he would like to be proven wrong once again? Why taunt her into resuming their game of evade and catch?

Except if you're called Fen'Harel. Too pridefull to accept your failure, somehow incapable of letting go of your evil plans to restore the glory of the ancient Elvhes and simultaneously doom the lives of all other living beings and the world as we know it.

Damn it all and damn his insufferable pride.

For someone refusing to call himself a god, he sure does like to play with the faiths of mortals.

And why did she believe the sincerity in his eyes when he said it? The pain in the tilt of his brow and the clench of his jaw, the way his voice broke when he said goodbye?

He had called her Vhenan, and walked away. Did she imagine the tremble in his hands, just before he stepped through the Eluvian?

Why had he kept himself hidden from her, lied to her, for years?

What makes a cause worth it, if you have to destroy so much on the way?

Why, Solas?

No, not Solas. Not anymore.

Fen'Harel.

She is going after him.

There must be a reason he can’t let her go. If he haunts her dreams, does that mean he still thinks of her when he’s awake? It must mean that there is something still there, pulling her to him. Perhaps only a side effect of the magic from the anchor, but could it be something more?

He said once things were easier for him in the fade. All she knows right now is that he tried to reach out to her in a dream before she boarded the ship.

He even spoke her name when she got lost in a nightmare. He helped her escape her darkest thoughts. Why?

But was it really him in the dreams? Was this wolf form his true identity? Why doesn’t he show the face that she had come to know? Are the greys of his eyes even his true color? Or are they red and multiplied by three?

In the dream she stepped away out of fear and that fear fuelled her subconscious mind. Afraid of confrontation. Scared to find a fresh tear in her threadbare composure, with the wounds still raw from his betrayal and abandonment.

To fall apart before him while she had slowly tried to mend the pieces back together, that was not something she was ready for.

She wasn’t strong enough.

How much has he kept hidden from her and how much of what he shared had been real?

Ugh, now there’s a terrifying thought.

Is it possible that he can be at more places at the same time. Dreaming while awake?

Being an immensely powerful immortal mage and all, she really has no exact idea of the extent of his power.

She looked out over the open expanse of the sea. Rippling waves and cutting winds shaping the world around her like a smudged painting of greys and muted pthalo greens. The salt had chapped her lips, and the strands of hair that had escaped her braid whip her face and wipe at her tears like feathered fingers.

She hadn't seen him in her dreams for the last three days, since setting sail on the open ocean. What did it mean? Did he ignore her perhaps? Were there not enough spirits to whisper of her location?

She was not going to admit to missing her grey shadow welcoming her to sleep for the last couple of months.

Somehow being by herself for a few days, truly by herself, made it easier to recover her focus. She was not going to run away anymore. She could not abandon the world she once vowed to save.

She made him doubt his perspective once before. She can do it again.

Right?

She is Inquisitor Ellana Lavellan, first of her clan. She has been many things in her short life; Herald, Dalish, knife-ear, a beacon of hope. Lover, friend, enemy. An anchor to the world behind the veil.

She had united nations and destroyed treacherous plots. She had traveled through time and back again. She had fought nightmares, ancient darkspawn, dragons and demons. She has walked physically through the Fade, damn it!

She had fallen in love with a god. Had been betrayed by her lover. He saved her life and then took her arm.

She had promised she would not give up on him. He had said he would never forget her.

None of those experiences managed to destroy her, although they came close a few times. None of those titles made her forget who she was and what she believed in, and they will not be her undoing now.

She was Elana Lavellan. They say heroes are not destined for a long life, but could she linger long enough to beat the Dreadwolf at his own game?

Did she even have a chance? Or would she end up petrified, a grey and decaying sculpture in the garden of his pride? Would they sing songs of the Dreadwolf’s lover? Would they say that if you listen closely to her chest you can still hear the beating of his heart?

The only reason she was still alive is because he willed it.

That didn’t really sound like the equal and emancipated relationship she envisioned when she dreamed of the future long ago, now does it?

But the look in his eyes. The pain she glimpsed when he left her in crestwood. And then, the times where his body betrayed what the heart wanted. He had tried to hide it, but there was no doubt in her mind that he had desired her. The desperation in his kiss on the balcony at Skyhold. 'Ar lath ma', whispered like a confession, 'vhenan' a prayer on his lips. And then in the crossroads the gentleness in the movement of gold-plated fingers, grazing her ear and softening the pulsating pain of the anchor ripping her apart. His lips pressing to hers like it was the sweetest honeyed lie he told her yet. Like it wasn’t a goodbye.

She is going to chase that last sliver of hope. It is all she has.

She must create a thread, to pull him from his web of plotting and lies. There must be some way to keep his focus on the value of this world. To show him it was worth saving. An anchor of some kind.

The journey at sea would take one more day at most. The best course of action would be to visit the alienage of Kirkwall. She had heard of the elves leaving the city, answering a call. She must be able to uncover one of his agent’s to dig for more information. Could she disguise herself? Without her arm she would always stand out like a sore thumb. Everybody knew the stories of the knife eared Inquisitor and her stolen arm. The Dreadwolf’s agent must know of her importance in the game. Knowing that she had been close to their leader once, she could turn out to be a potential weakness.

Okay, so first she would find a smith and fabricate herself an arm substitute. Oh how she missed Dagna. The dwarven woman must have had a million ideas for hidden daggers in a fake arm! She could meet with Varric in secret, and use his contacts in the city. She hadn’t planned to stay in Kirkwall for more than a day, but she’s sure her friend wouldn’t mind the surprise. He shouldn’t have given her the city's key if he hadn’t anticipated her showing up unannounced.

Okay, step one, disguise her arm. Step two, disguise her identity. Step tree: find more information.

What is Fen’Harel gathering the Elves for? Promises of a better world? Are they joining of their free will or is it some kind of death cult compulsion? No he wouldn't go that far… or would he? She has to find out. The more gaps in her knowledge about him, the wilder her imagination is going to get.

The ocean calms her mind. The harsh winds wipe away the doubt and leave her mind clear and focused.

She has a purpose, a plan.

On the horizon she can slowly spot the soft outlines of Starkhaven forming in the distance. They are nearing land.

The wolf hunts alone, but she is lonely too.

And she is coming for him.

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

Notes:

My second try at writing a Solavellan piece, but the first one I ever uploaded on AO3! Hope you liked it. :)

Big thanks to my sister @colorandvigor for being my beta and having an amazing grasp of gramar. Note, english is not my first language.

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bowtiedauthor · 3 months ago

Text

Behind the curtain

a dystopian poetic prose re-imagining the “Wizard of Oz”

The yellow bricks are fading. Dorothy once thought they gleamed with promise, each step leading her closer to home — but now they blur beneath her feet, their edges dissolving like sand. She knows this path too well: it spirals, endlessly circling back to where she began. The shoes on her feet? Red like blood, glittering like shackles. Every step feels heavier than the last.

“The road is just a dream,” she whispers, but the wind carries her voice away.

The Scarecrow walks beside her, his head bowed low. His straw fingers grasp at the air, trying to catch thoughts that slip away like smoke. “They gave me a brain,” he says, his voice hollow, “but it’s filled with what they want me to know.” His eyes are empty, like windows looking out onto a world painted on the inside of a cage. He was told to think, but he wonders: have his thoughts ever been his own?

Behind him, the Tin Man clutches his chest. He was promised a heart, a shining piece of metal to fill the emptiness inside — but now it ticks, cold and indifferent, like a clock counting down to something he can’t quite understand. His joints groan with every step, rust building up where his hope once lived. “Love,” he says, “was never meant to be mechanical. But here, it feels like an algorithm, repeating the same story again and again.”

The Lion skulks in the shadows, always looking behind him. His mane is tangled, his eyes wide with fear, though he was promised bravery. “This courage,” he mutters, “is just a mask they made me wear.” Every roar echoes back at him, mocking, hollow. He feels the weight of something unseen pressing down, a gravity that keeps him from running free. “Is there such a thing as courage,” he asks, “when you never truly had a choice?”

Ahead of them, the Emerald City gleams. It beckons like a lighthouse in a storm, but Dorothy knows now: the light isn’t there to guide them — it’s a trap, an illusion of safety, pulling them deeper into the labyrinth. The Wizard waits behind his curtain, but she no longer believes in his power. His voice is a script, his promises empty air. The city itself is a cage of green glass, each pane reflecting their hopes back at them, twisted.

The city’s towers, she realizes, are built from the same bricks as the road. There is no escape here, only the endless winding of the same path, repeating itself in every direction. She looks down at her shoes, the red glittering like a warning. They were never the key to freedom. They were the chains all along.

But something shifts — a whisper on the wind, a flicker of something just beyond the horizon. Clarity shines like a rising Sun.

The Scarecrow tilts his head, a new thought stirring. “Maybe,” he says softly, “the mind is more than what they’ve given us. Maybe there’s a way to think outside their lines.” His fingers twitch, searching the air again, but this time there’s something different — an idea, fragile but real, taking root in the emptiness.

The Tin Man pauses, his metal heart ticking in rhythm with the world around him. But for the first time, he feels something between the beats. A warmth, small but growing, like the first drop of oil in his rusted gears. “Love doesn’t come from them,” he murmurs. “Maybe it never did. Maybe it’s something we find ourselves.”

And the Lion, trembling at the edge of the road, lets out a soft growl. Not a roar, but something more primal, something real. His eyes meet Dorothy’s, and for the first time, they aren’t clouded by fear. “Maybe courage,” he says, “isn’t about running from the shadows. Maybe it’s about facing them. Maybe that’s what they never wanted us to know.”

The Emerald City still gleams ahead, but now Dorothy sees the cracks in its towers, the hairline fractures in its perfect glass. The Wizard’s voice grows fainter, more distant, as if he knows his spell is weakening.

She looks down at her shoes, the red gleam duller now, as if the magic is losing its grip. For a moment, she feels the earth beneath her — real, solid, grounding. There’s no need to click her heels anymore. The way out isn’t in her shoes, or in the road, or in the city.

The way out is in her.

-9/27/24

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fluffwritingsandchars · 4 months ago

Text

Finding A Path

Yosuke has another heart to heart, this time with Togaru Kamakiri, about pressures, expectations, and finding his own way.

The sun was setting after another exhausting day of training at U.A. High School, casting a golden glow over the dorm’s common room. Inside, students were scattered across the space, unwinding after a grueling day of combat practice and lessons. Amid the quiet chatter and the shuffle of textbooks, Togaru Kamakiri, with his sharp features and razor-edged Quirk, "Kamikiri," noticed a familiar figure sitting alone. Yosuke, one of his classmates, sat slumped on the couch, his uniform slightly rumpled, his fox ears drooping, lost in thought.

Togaru, with his signature swagger, walked over, his spiked green hair bouncing as he approached. “Hey, Yosuke. You look like you’ve seen a ghost. What’s going on?”

Yosuke glanced up with a faint smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. His tail flicked nervously before he spoke, his voice soft. “It’s nothing, really. Just feeling… a little down, I guess.”

Togaru frowned, crossing his arms. “Come on, man. We all have tough days, but we’re in this together. You don’t have to carry it by yourself. What’s really bothering you?”

Yosuke hesitated, running a hand through his messy hair. “It’s just… my dad. He’s always pushing me to be this perfect hero, and now that I’ve decided not to go for my hero license, I don’t know where I fit in. I don’t know if I’m living up to his expectations anymore.” His voice trailed off, a hint of hope in his eyes as he looked at Togaru. “Have you ever felt like that? Like you're not living up to what someone else wants for you?”

Togaru nodded, his sharp eyes softening. “More than once. But here’s the thing, Yosuke—this isn’t about fighting for our parents or anyone else. We’re fighting for ourselves, for what we believe in. Sometimes, that means going against what others expect. And that’s okay. It’s your life, your choice.” He sat down next to Yosuke, patting him on the shoulder. “Let’s talk about it. I might not have all the answers, but I’m here to listen. We can figure this out together.”

Yosuke’s fox ears drooped further, his tail twitching behind him. “It’s not just the pressure. My dad… he’s controlling, manipulative. He’s got his hands in every part of my life, and I can’t get out from under his shadow. It’s suffocating.”

Togaru leaned in, his tone more serious. “That’s rough, man. But you’re not him. You’re Yosuke, with your own talents and dreams. Your ‘Vulpine Versatility’? That’s serious stuff. Your tech skills, your strategy, those illusions you pull off? Top-tier. Maybe it’s time to start thinking about what you want, not what he does.”

Yosuke stared down at his hands as a faint blue glow began to form around them. “I know I’ve got potential, but what if I fail? What if I’m not good enough without being a hero? I’ve always felt like I had to be perfect.”

Togaru gave a firm nod. “That’s the pressure talking, not the real you. It’s about finding what makes you happy, not perfect. You’ve got skills, Yosuke, and I know you’ll find your path—even if it’s not as a hero. And whatever you choose, I’ve got your back.”

Yosuke smiled, the glow around his hands fading. “Thanks, Togaru. That helps, actually.” He stood up, his tail swishing with a bit more energy. “You’re right—I need to figure out what I want. Let’s go grab some dinner. I’m starving.”

Togaru grinned, clapping him on the back. “That’s the spirit. I know just the place—there’s this dive with the best ramen in the city. After the day we’ve had, we deserve it.”

The ramen shop was a small, cozy spot tucked away in a side street, the neon sign flickering outside. Inside, the smell of hot broth and sizzling meat filled the air, and the sounds of clattering chopsticks and low conversation made the place feel alive. Togaru and Yosuke slid into a booth, the warmth of the shop already easing some of the tension from Yosuke’s shoulders.

“You ever had spicy miso ramen?” Togaru asked, his eyes lighting up as he scanned the menu. “It’s intense, but I bet you can handle it.”

Yosuke chuckled, glancing over the menu. “I’ll take that as a challenge. Spicy miso ramen it is—and maybe some gyoza on the side.”

Togaru nodded approvingly. “Good choice. While we wait, though—tell me more about your tech stuff. You’ve got a real knack for it.”

Yosuke’s ears twitched nervously, but he smiled. “Before my dad stepped in, I used to work with Hatsume Mei. She’s a genius in the Support Course. We were working on these gadgets that could help in combat, and I loved it. But when my dad found out, he shut it down. Said it was a waste of time, that I needed to focus on hero work.” His tail drooped again. “I miss it, though. Creating something that matters.”

Togaru frowned, his eyes narrowing. “That’s messed up, man. You shouldn’t have to give up what you love because of his hang-ups. Maybe it’s time to work on those projects again, even if you have to do it in secret. I’ll help you test them out—my quirk’s pretty useful for that. What do you think?”

Yosuke shook his head, his expression turning serious. “Togaru, it’s not just about his approval. My dad… he’s dangerous. If I go against him, I don’t know what he’d do. I can’t risk anyone else getting hurt. So for now, I just… I have to live without it.”

Togaru set down his menu, leaning forward. “Yosuke, no one should have that kind of control over you. If you’re really afraid for your safety, that’s serious. You’re more than just a pawn in his game. You’re your own person, a hero in your own right—license or not. And you’ve got people here who’ve got your back. Don’t forget that.”

Yosuke nodded slowly, his eyes glistening. “Thanks, Togaru. That means a lot. Monoma’s been supportive too, weirdly enough. Maybe I can use my tech skills to help him from behind the scenes. It’s not hero work, but it’s something. And it feels… right.”

Togaru’s expression softened, a rare warmth in his sharp eyes. “That’s the right attitude. We’re all fighting our own battles, but we’re in this together. And when you’re ready to take that step, we’ll be there with you. Until then, focus on what makes you happy. You’ve got more to offer than you know, Yosuke.”

Yosuke smiled, genuinely this time. “You’re right. Maybe it’s time I start working on those secret projects again. But for now, let’s enjoy the night. And the ramen, of course.” He leaned back, the weight on his shoulders feeling a little lighter. With friends like Togaru, maybe he really could find his way out of his father’s shadow—and into a future of his own making.

#my hero academia #mha #bkha #boku no hero academia #MHA OC #bnha oc #Yosuke Yoshimi #OC #original character #Togaru Kamakiri #mha togaru

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bridgyrose · 5 months ago

Text

Okay, I really liked this art and it gave me some thoughts for some writing.

Whitley wiped the sweat from his brow as the heat beat down on his skin. It had felt like months since Atlas had fallen, though as he looked at his scroll, it had only been a few weeks. His skin had started to tan after weeks in the sun thanks to the tips that Oscar had given him to keep from burning, and the bruising he had received from a few of the Mantle citizens had finally started to fade.

And yet, nothing had really seemed to change.

The citizens of Mantle were still angry at those who lived in Atlas for the years of abuse they had suffered, even those from Vacuo did not take kindly to the orphaned citizens of Atlas and Mantle. Grimm attacks were becoming more frequent, and while there were still plenty of huntsmen from Atlas that could help defend Mantle, it still felt like hope was a rare commodity.

“You should go take a break and spend time with Winter,” Willow said quietly. “I can handle the rest of this on my own.”

“Are you sure?” Whitley asked. “I’m not tired yet-”

“There’s not a lot left to do and you deserve to spend time with your sister. You never know how much longer you’ll have to do that.”

Whitley let out a soft sigh, the subtle reminder that Weiss had been lost all too soon. So many angry words, so many times he’d tried to get a rise out of her… and then once he finally decided to try to reach back out to her, to try to tell her how much he really did care about her, the chance was taken away. “Maybe you can join us after?”

Willow nodded with a smile. “We can have dinner together. As a family.”

Whitley gave a small nod and started to make his way through Vacuo to find Winter. Not that it was particularly hard to find her, only to keep up. No matter how many times she had been told to rest, she always found an excuse to defend Vacuo from the grimm, to help others no matter how small the task as if she was trying to punish herself… or trying to earn repentance.

He smiled a bit as he came across Winter near the edge of the city watching for grimm. “Winter!” he called out.

Winter looked over and gave him a small, tired smile. “I thought you were with Mother.”

“I was, but she told me I could take a break until tomorrow.” Whitley stopped in front of Winter and looked away for a moment, still not sure how to show her how much he cared that she was still her and trying to reconnect. “I-I thought that maybe… we could try a couple pastries from one of the stalls. I finally found someone selling some blueberry tarts and… and you work so hard…”

“I… I can take a break,” Winter reassured him. “Where is this stall?”

“Its near the otherside of the city. But I’ve heard its worth the visit.”

“Lead the way.”

Whitley looked up at Winter and gave her a small smile as he started to walk through the city. He did his best to avoid some of the more crowded streets, though he couldnt help but smile as he watched the kids play. It almost reminded him of how close he and Weiss had been.

Weiss…

He wiped away a few tears as he continued to walk forward, only turning back briefly when he started to hear a commotion behind him. Then, he paused once he saw what was going on. “Sister?” he said quietly.

“Hmm?” Winter asked as she looked at him. “What’s wrong-”

Whitley took a step forward when he saw Weiss, pausing for a brief moment when he was certain what he saw was just an illusion. He swore the heat was getting to him, but as he glanced at Winter, the way her eyes widened at seeing a sister they thought was dead standing in front of them… it had to be real. It had to be her.

It wasnt until he saw Winter run ahead of him, watching as Weiss started to make her way over to meet up with them, that he started to follow after.

“Weiss!” Winter called out.

Whitley ran until he nearly ran into Weiss, embracing her along with Winter. He held Weiss tightly as he felt a few tears run down his cheek, fingers trembling.

“I’m back,” Weiss said through a smile and a couple tears. “I’m finally back.”

Kinda late, but yesterday (Aug. 12) was Middle Child Day!

#rwby #whitley schnee #weiss schnee #winter schnee

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lshark-cs · 1 year ago

Text

Iron God Chapter 21 [Xigon]

Dakko's speech grew less and less coherent as the pain medicine took hold. He clearly wasn't used to it like Xigon was. As the master's own pain faded back into being bearable, he used his power to push the boy down into sleep.

Of course, he'd had the bright idea earlier of putting the cot he never used away to save space. Xigon scolded himself, then reminded himself there was no way he could have expected the current predicament. He looked around his study for something he could use to keep Dakko more comfortable in his sleep. Briefly, he considered removing the padding from his wheelchair. He needed to replace it anyway, flattened and worn as it was, but he knew he still needed it. His body wouldn't negotiate like his mind did.

Instead, Xigon took his green coat off, folded it, and put it under Dakko's head. That would have to do for now, he thought. Before leaving, he left a note on a shred of parchment.

I will be back after meeting with your brother. For your own safety, do not leave this room.

He put the note down next to the sleeping boy, got up into his wheelchair, and set out to see the other brother.

As he wheeled himself out into the hallway, he noticed a bat on the ceilling. He squinted at it for a moment to make sure his eyes weren't tricking him. Then he tapped his foot on the footrest. "I know it's you, Channei. Get down from there."

The bat plopped onto the floor and then stretched itself into a more familiar human shape. Channei stood up and extended her slender arms. "You look even more colossal when I'm that tiny." She forced a smile as she turned her eyes greenish and glared daggers at him. "Good to see the real me, though?"

"Everything you show the world is an illusion. The real you isn't something anyone can see with their eyes." Xigon edged closer. "Isn't that right, Channei? Now please, let me through."

Channei grabbed his shoulders. "Master, please. Don't hurt those kids." Her tone grew frantic. "I just want them to be safe from the real threat."

Xigon pulled one glove off and wrapped his fingers around Channei's wrist. Her head sank and all her breath let out in a huff. His barehanded touch was enough to silence anyone in seconds, no matter how panicked. He kept his voice level. "Are you ready to listen?"

Channei managed to nod. She took a deep breath in when he released his grip. A faint vacant smile tugged at her lips before her glare returned. "They're victims, Master. Not enemies. What's even there to discuss?"

"Even though he harms them, those boys are attached to their leader. Deeply, firmly attached. There's no telling what they might do if, say, he comes back for them, or they manage to get their hands on Kolo." He looked up. "Should they so much as even attempt to capture or otherwise harm her, I expect you to intervene. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Master." Channei took a step back and let go of him. "Though I have a question."

"I might have an answer." He put his glove back on.

"Why is Kolo so important? Don't get me wrong, I adore her. But you never got this passionate about protecting anyone else, did you?" The shapeshifter cocked her head. "What's special about her?"

Xigon had an answer in his mind, but he knew it wouldn't make sense to anyone but himself. Instead, he said something else true. "I should have taken such care with all of you." He waved his hand. "I really need to get through, though."

"Where are you going?" She got in his way quite deliberately.

"To see Ido. He's where I told you to put him, right?"

"Aza's going to love that we set the lightning boy up in his room. Not." She rolled her eyes. "Yeah, he's in there. Door's unlocked, but Jai-Lag's standing guard outside."

"Damn cat probably wants her favorite human home." He chuckled. "Now go on and do whatever it was you were."

"No." Channei got behind him. "I'm coming with you."

The master looked over his shoulder. "Do you not trust me?"

"I trust you with my life, Master." She bowed her head. "But not with his."

He couldn't help but smile. Protecting the vulnerable was among Channei's deepest and most unbreakable instincts, and he loved that about her. In a kinder world, Xigon thought, she would have been a great mother.

She followed him all the way to Azvalath's room but agreed – albeit reluctantly – to wait outside with the sabretooth cat while Xigon met with Ido. The master worried that too many people in the room would cause the already volatile boy to panic and lash out.

Azvalath's room was a place Xigon seldom went. Unlike the other warriors' rooms, it was minimalist and orderly. The narrow bed was tucked in one corner with a desk lined up next to it. He had one mostly empty shelf and a wardrobe that hung slightly open. Strange, Xigon thought, when everything else was so immaculate. He rolled his chair up to the wardrobe and peeked inside.

Ido was hiding there, huddled under Azvalath's black ceremonial robes. When Xigon pulled the door farther open, the boy shrank himself into a ball. "No, please," he whimpered. "No, I'll be good, I won't..."

"Ido." Xigon said the boy's name in a firm tone. "You're not in any danger."

Ido curled his head into his chest. Xigon saw the boy's vital forces the same way snakes supposedly saw the heat of their prey. Like Dakko, there was a long history of bone fractures, many of which had not healed properly. He backed his chair up a few inches. "Should I come back later?"

The boy looked up with an expression of profound confusion.

Xigon folded his hands in his lap. "There is no wrong answer."

"Stay." Ido choked the word out in a voice that sounded ghostly. "Where's my brother?"

"Dakko is in stable condition." He gave no more detail. Ido didn't need to know that his brother was still severely injured and could take a very long time to recover if he recovered at all. Not yet. That could come later. "Your leader isn't here, but none of us have done him any harm."

At the mention of Haode, Ido froze up and whined. "I...I didn't kill him, did I? I blasted the place to bits with my lightning. I saw him get shocked almost to death. When Channei took us, I heard him screaming our names and then...then he was just quiet."

"Not knowing is often worse than knowing." Xigon looked down. "Believe me. I understand."

"I want him to suffer after what he did to my brother." Ido sat up and clenched his hands into fists. "I mean, I'm sorry, I didn't mean...I don't want him to suffer. I'm sorry!" He clutched his head.

"Don't forbid yourself from feeling anything, no matter how bad it might seem. Feelings are not actions." The master tugged at his gloves. "Though Dakko tells me Haode has been suffering for a long time. What do you know about him? Or about yourself?"

"I can't tell you anything. I shouldn't. It's secret. You could use it against us. You're the father of a nest of demons." Ido sounded more like he was talking to himself than to Xigon. "I can't trust you. I shouldn't, I can't..."

"You're right. I could use it against you." Xigon acknowledged the boy's fear. "How about I start, then? You ask me a question, then I ask you one. No lies. No shame. All right?"

"I...um, all right." Ido's body stayed tense even though his voice relaxed somewhat. "What are all those scars on your wrist?"

Xigon looked down and noticed one of his sleeves had hiked up, revealing at least a few dozen of his scars. He pulled both sleeves back to his elbows and held his arms out. "My bloodstained history. Each scar is a life I took."

Ido straightened. He clutched Azvalath's black robes.

The master pulled his sleeves back down and asked his first question. "Why have you stayed by that man's side despite his cruelty?"

The boy hesitated. He bit one of his fingernails and averted his eyes.

Xigon adjusted his goggles. "If you want to ask me another question, you have to answer mine first."

"He's been good to us." Ido backed into the corner of the wardrobe. "Our father was worse. Haode's a good man. He saved us."

"Thank you." The tall man sat up straighter and crossed one leg over his lap. "Your turn."

Ido paused and thought. He looked up and down before his eyes locked on Xigon's wheelchair. "Why can't you walk? What happened?"

"I can walk." Xigon tapped the toe of his boot on the footrest. He wondered how much he should reveal to the boy, then decided it would be unfair to withhold the information if he expected the full truth from Ido. "It's difficult, however. I usually need crutches or someone else helping me. As for what happened..."

The master caught himself hesitating. He almost never spoke about this, not even with his students who'd been with him the longest. Why should he tell this boy who could be a threat to them? He clenched his hands, then relaxed. He had to hold his end of the deal.

"As for what happened," Xigon said again, straining to keep his voice calm. "I decided I'd had enough of my fellow master's coercion and control. I challenged her. We fought and she tore me apart." His hand went to his side. The ancient scars felt tender all of a sudden. "I couldn't repair my own spine completely. I'll never be able to."

A long silence followed his words. Xigon broke a sweat as he fought to contain the rage electrifying his nerves. His muscles twitched. He took a deep shuddering breath and let it out slowly. Why this anger all of a sudden? He thought he had grown beyond the point of being bothered by the past, but within himself, the master saw a boy quite similar to Ido. One who loved the hand that harmed him.

Xigon remembered a line from the book he'd read a thousand times. I want your embrace. I want to claw your eyes off your face. No wonder he kept coming back to that page in particular. Now, as he spoke with Ido, the master was overcome with déjà vu.

"My next question." Xigon's shoulders heaved as he tried not to raise his voice. "What do you think makes us love the hands that strike us?"

Ido blinked. "What?"

"It's a bizarre trick of the mind. One I'm well acquainted with." Xigon's eyes started to burn. He squeezed them shut until the sensation passed. "Let's both consider that question."

He heard the sabretooth cat yowl outside the door. Channei exclaimed something and Azvalath yelled down the hall. Xigon put his head in his hands. Something or someone always demanded his attention, and now, he wasn't sure he had even an ounce left to give.

Qila's voice cut through the shouting outside. "What part of quiet hours don't you brats understand?" Xigon heard the old woman's footsteps and then a gasp.

"What's going on out there?" Xigon couldn't suppress a tone of frustration.

"I've got this, Xigon." Qila, for once, sounded calmer than he did, though he suspected she was faking it.

"That doesn't answer my question." Xigon tightened his hands into fists.

Qila snapped at him. "Don't worry about it."

In his experience, that always meant do worry about it. His head hurt all of a sudden. It occurred to him that he couldn't remember the last time he'd had a drink of water. Then he noticed his hip also hurt. He really needed to fix his chair. Of course, Xigon chose to ignore all of the above for the time being, which was exactly what he'd admonish his students for doing.

Xigon couldn't help but laugh at himself. Since when had his method been do as I say and not as I do? Since now, apparently.

Ido noticed him chuckling. "What's so funny?"

"Laughing is more fun than screaming." The master shook his head and tried to relax. "Qila, I'll be right out."

Azvalath shouted from the hallway. "Xigon, now get out of my room!"

Xigon rushed out, ready to snap at Azvalath for his disrespect until he saw the state his student was in. Looking at Azvalath hurt like looking at the sun. Where with Ido, he could easily see what was wrong, Azvalath's heat was a barrage of disorder. He had to look away for a moment. "What happened?"

"Ami poisoned him." Qila grabbed their student and steadied him. "Let me deal with this."

"Hold on. Stop right there." Xigon held his hand up. "That doesn't make any sense. Why would Ami poison him?"

"I don't know." Qila made Azvalath sit and then extended one of his arms, which was covered in blood. "Azvalath, who put this tourniquet on you?"

"Ami," he choked. "What's happening to me?"

Channei and Jai-Lag came closer. Their appearance startled Xigon, who had been so focused on Azvalath that he had forgotten they were there. The sabretooth cat chuffed and then let out a long, low hiss. Channei chuffed back at Jai-Lag, then spoke up. "Cat says she smells Ami's message in a bottle."

Qila raised an eyebrow. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Azvalath's head snapped up. He spoke in a ghostly-sounding voice that barely sounded like his own. "Dearest Masters – you take such terrible care of your students that I'd make a better master any day." Black fluid dripped from his mouth. "I'm in control. What about you? How will you play the game without your sword?" He reached into his pocket and pulled out a vial of purplish liquid.

"Azvalath." Xigon caught his voice getting panicked. "What is that?"

"What's happening?" Azvalath asked again. His hands moved as if someone else were controlling them. He uncapped the vial and held it up, fighting to keep it away from his mouth. "Master, I...!"

Qila's eyes widened. "Is that...?"

"Give me that." Xigon snatched the vial from Azvalath.

"No!" Azvalath tried to snatch it back. He growled and screamed as Qila held him back.

Xigon, knowing no other way to ensure everyone's safety, downed the vial himself.

It was like swallowing molten metal. He coughed and nearly vomited. Xigon's muscles twitched. His heart beat faster and faster. He tried to keep himself calm even as his body betrayed him bit by bit. "Qila." He looked up, then immediately forgot what he had wanted to say. "Qila..."

Everything he had ever wanted to say to Qila – but hadn't for some reason or another – spun around inside his head like a cyclone. A strange, unintelligible voice whispered in his ears. Xigon straightened, backed his chair up, and took a deep breath. He had to maintain composure. When he saw the looks on everyone's faces, that was easier said than done. Their fear filled him with visceral rage and – worse than that – a fear of his own.

Forbid no feeling, he would tell his students. Only the action that follows.

He shook his head and looked down at Azvalath. "Many of my scars were for you." He hoped no one could hear the hitch in his breathing. "Never forget that. Never make me regret it."

"Did you just poison yourself?" Azvalath's voice was shrill. "What was that?"

The ghostly whispers returned. Xigon's hands went to his ears. He tried to make the motion look like fixing his hair. Without another word to anyone, he turned his wheelchair and pushed himself down the corridor. He ignored every scream that followed.

The world blurred and the whispers grew louder and more insistent. Soon, he could make out a young girl's voice. "It's been a while, Iban-najandr."

Xigon froze. His chair rolled to a stop. That was his name in the gods' tongue, the language of creation and destruction. Master Snake Eyes. The voice wasn't their god, though. It was something else, something far larger and hungrier.

Others had told him how they saw the destroyer Kaosaan. A colossal, world-devouring beast was what he heard them say most often. What he saw, however, looked like a little shadowy girl with luminous white eyes. He wondered which image was the real one.

His head sank down to his chest. Sleep descended on him with little warning.

It felt a hell of a lot longer than his usual few minutes before he woke, but it was only a matter of seconds before he had a terrifying realization.

He couldn't open his eyes at all.

Xigon looked inward, then, and saw his own life. The flame was dim but undeniable. He tried to move his limbs. He found they were heavier than lead. All he managed to do was clench up his fingers.

"Hey there. You're awake? That was a whole half hour." Xigon recognized Rizval's voice next to him. They wrapped their jittery fingers around his hand. "Going torpid must be even more boring than watching paint dry. At some point I'd rather just die."

The outline of Kaosaan appeared to him through his closed eyelids. She tittered like a songbird, then screamed like a barn owl.

"I made Kolo some fu...freaking beautiful armor." Rizval almost cursed but corrected immediately. "All right. I have to know how you have such perfect hair all the time. Does Lalek do it for you? Should I try letting her style me?"

Xigon would have laughed if he could. Rizval's voice grounded him enough that he could keep his mind off Kaosaan. Even though he couldn't show it, he was grateful. His worst fear wasn't death, but the thought of being torpid alone, unable to die and eventually unable to block out whatever Kaosaan was trying to whisper in his ear.

"You're probably wondering why you're stuck with your favorite crocodile." Rizval squeezed his hand and laughed at their own words. "I'll let you in on a little something. Master Qila's out for Ami's blood. She's got everyone on the case except us, Azvalath, and Kolo. It's ridiculous. Never seen her so angry."

Xigon had seen far worse, but he could imagine even a small taste was too much for someone like Rizval, who only ever saw the best of their masters. At least, that was what Xigon had hoped for the longest time. Now he wasn't so sure.

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