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writefightandflightclub · 2 months

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Ride or Die (Santiago “Pope” Garcia x fem!reader): Chapter Five (of 11 - COMPLETED SERIES)

Series summary: Together, you and Santiago have been “soldiers” then “friends” then “lovers”; but will you ever figure out what comes next, especially when Santiago can’t (or won’t) stop running?

Genre: a LOT of angst, some smut, best friends to… lovers?

Warnings: see collated series warnings, here. Please note this series is 18+. Minors / ageless blogs interacting will be blocked.

Series info: this is a COMPLETED SERIES. All chapters are written and queued. Posting schedule is here (includes series master list).

Author’s note: This is SO VERY ANGST. More angst than any other chapter so far. STRAP IN GIRLIES (GN). I'd love it if you feel like sharing what you think - your feedback means the world to me. ILY :-* Reblogs, comments, and asks are literal power-ups in my day and I appreciate every single one!

Word count: 8.3k for this part.

Tag list info: will reblog separately tagging those on taglist. You can request to be added to taglist if you are 18+. Send me an ask, please, so I can keep track :)

You’re spiralling.

You’re pissed off and you’re hurt and you’re somehow still horny as hell (somehow, perhaps even more horny since Santiago helped you out in that very particular way of his). You feel all in a tizz, like you don’t know which way is up; but even so, you’re pretty sure you’ve simply been going around in circles, and it’s dizzying. Santiago makes it easy to do that when you follow his lead, after all – all the more reason that you’d had to get out finally, all those months ago.

Safe to say, you’re a little bit worked up. Too many thoughts are racing through your head. Resentment that he could get you all riled up like that, have you come undone, and then straight up deny you. Like it was some power play all along and that all he wanted was the satisfaction. On the other hand, a dreadful longing spikes at the thought that maybe he really did just want to protect himself, because he wouldn’t know how to find his way out this time if he got lost in you all over again.

The main thing you’re feeling though – a bitter shard of pain stabbing through any sense of pleasure you may be left with - is a singular fear.

What if he really doesn’t want you anymore?

He wants you, yes, on some level. His admissions in the kitchen about wanting to kiss you confirmed that much. But his desire for you had always felt like an unstoppable force. Like something he couldn’t help or hope to control. Like a raging fire. He had told you that he loved you, wanted you, needed you, all those months ago. And while you are sure that remains true at least in part, you are terrified that all you leaving had achieved was to teach him how to live without you. And, contrary to that, his touch had simply confirmed how hopelessly consumed by him you still are, all your progress - moving on and rebuilding and forgetting - unravelled in mere moments by his fingers.

You resent that too. His power over you, when you always prided yourself on being strong – needing no-one. You have never liked to feel like the one who is compromised, in any situation. You always prefer to be the hunter as, that way, you’re not the one who gets hurt. But Santiago? Santiago is lethal, and he has always known your weak spots.

Maybe that’s why you had stormed angrily to your room, subduing your heavy footsteps reluctantly, only for the sake of your dear buddies sleeping soundly in their beds. Maybe that’s why you had hastily cleaned up, throwing on some fresh clothes from your case – a low cut top and some obscenely tight jeans. A splash of perfume. Some lipstick. All in the hopes of heading out to the local bar and searching for the kind of late-night attention which feels in your control. Seeking a desire which feels manageable. Trivial almost, instead of the kind which burns.

Part of you – a small part of you, at least - recognises you’re being ridiculous, irrational, reactive, even as you zip on your boots. But there is another part of you that simply can’t stay here in this house with him a moment longer, feeling like he doesn’t want you the way you want him.

You feel like, while you’ve been breaking apart for all these months, he was healing. It’s cruel maybe, that you would wish for his desire to burn him as much as it has a hold over you – but perhaps you’re not perfect. Perhaps you’re only human.

Whatever. It doesn’t all need to make sense right now. Your head’s all over the place. You’re not really thinking straight at all. You don’t know whether you want to cry or scream or get your brains fucked out (or maybe all of the above - not in that order). And so, you’re definitely not thinking when you throw open the door to the bathroom, recalling that you’d left your necklace on the counter. If you were -thinking- perhaps you would have heard the rushing of the water. Perhaps you would have heard the muffled, bitten back groans emanating from the shower cubicle.

Fuck.

If you weren’t thinking straight before, every thought falls right out of your head altogether when you swing open that door. Namely, when you see Santiago, his body slanted into the wall as he palms his thick, straining length in something of a frenzy.

You should retreat, probably. In fact, yeah. That's exactly what you should do. But, the sight of him there arrests you, and you can’t help but devour every detail of him. Your eyes skim over him only fleetingly, and yet your memory of his body fills in the gaps, meaning you’re able to see far more of him than you could otherwise in the split second your eyes rove over him.

He is stripped down, his body curled into the tiled wall, his forehead and one shoulder bracing himself as the stream of water thunders down on the back of his neck and his broad, lightly muscled shoulders.

His thighs are slightly spread and his full glutes are clenching as he fucks his hard, veined cock into the circle of his left hand, squeezing tight and showing no mercy, his pace relentless.

From the way his nipples are pebbled and the way you observe the tightness of the muscles coiling in his back, you can guess that the water is cold. Perhaps, that he had attempted to cool off after what had happened downstairs, seemingly to no avail. His need is heavy and urgent and burdening his hand, the veins popping in his slick forearm as water sluices over every contour of him and still, his want is evidently raging.

The most important detail of all, however, is that his eyes are closed, droplets of water beading in his long lashes, and a wracked moan sounding from around his own fingers as he shoves them over his tongue.

Fuck.

He’s licking them clean. He’s tasting you. Tasting your juices from his fingers and pumping himself raw from the thought of it.

Holy shit.

He wants you.

You see it now, clear as day. He wants you to the point of desperation. Helplessness. To the point of coming undone with his need for you. His want rages even beneath the stream of a cold shower, taken in hopes of subduing himself. He works himself urgently in his fist, in hopes of finding his release. You find him here, like this.

Unfinished.

You can see it much more clearly now. You see how he wants you. You see what you do to him. What you still do to him.

You see now that saying no to you likely took every scrap of control he had, and now that is gone, there is nothing left for him but you.

As you enter, Santiago hears the door creak open – you weren’t exactly sneaking- and he immediately tilts his body to the wall. It’s automatic - showing his ass rather than his dick in his hand, likely in case one of the boys had just walked in on him. But, when he sees it’s you stood there, all slack-jawed and honey-eyed, he foregoes the need to hide. He turns towards you instead, his length twitching as it grows even more rigid and more ruddy at the sight of you. Santiago’s eyes hooded and desolate with want as he looks you up and down in your ridiculous, come-fuck-me clothes.

Santiago knows fine well that you only wear red when you want to be shown a good time. You feel like a flare, on display, and maybe you’d feel stupid -like scrubbing this red paint from your mouth – if his need was not blatantly on display too. If his predicament did not seem even more dire than yours.

Finally, though, as you look and he lets you, you register the intrusion, and with a series of stunted vowel noises which barely make it past your teeth, you are dragging your eyes away from his. Your legs like jelly and skin flushed beneath your tight clothes, you are clasping the door handle and turning on your heel. Your only objective is to make it out of there, even if you turn to vapour in the hallway after the fact.

“Where the fuck are you going?” Santiago asks gruffly, and you are not sure what he means. Not sure whether he means to ask where you’re headed out to so late, or to inquire why in the hell you’re leaving the room now that you’re here, but God, you’re not sure anymore that you could answer either question in any way that would make the slightest bit of sense.

You’re just not thinking straight. Can you be blamed? Look at him. Look at this, all for you.

So, you freeze, breath held in your lungs as you grip the handle – your back to him, and about to swing the door open to hasten your exit. Instead, though, against every shred of good sense you have, you push the door closed, ever so gently, with you still on the inside. You turn, preposterously slowly back towards him, and when the sight of him stood there, wet and dripping, face all stern and languidly palming himself in the circle of his hand hits you, you flatten your back to the panelled door. Truth is, your legs feel so weak that you could barely stand without it.

And, as if that wasn’t quite answer enough, Santiago continues to look at you insistently.

Well? The quirk of his thick brow seems to enquire. Where the fuck are you going?

Your voice comes out all breath. “Nowhere.”

You’re going fucking nowhere, apparently. Only ever around and around in circles with Santiago “Pope” Garcia – but suddenly, you could care less.

Your eyes lock then, and it takes less than moments for him to be on you, his wet hands fisting everywhere - in your hair and your clothes - and dragging your mouth onto his in a sudden, consuming crush. Your hands snake into his hair, squeezing cool shocks down your forearms as you wring rivulets of water from his grizzled curls, grabbing handfuls of the length at his crown to pull him deeper into you, his tongue hot and supple and buried in your mouth. Your top sticks to you, wet and sodden in all the places he has grabbed up handfuls of your flesh, or pressed his hot body flush against you.

He drives you back, into the door and the awkward mess of towels hanging there on hooks.

“Fuck,” he bites off into your mouth, and you surge forward with this barrelling want, walking him backward and slamming him against the cool tiles with a thwap and enough force that he grunts. Still, it barely slows him down at all, his hands all over you and his kisses still devouring, ripping the air from your mouth.

There is no romance in this, you think. Only need, raw and animal, and you are surprised that you show enough restraint not to tear each other down to the floor and go at it right on the tiles. Still, you barely show any more restraint than that.

“Shit. Fuck. Turn around. Turn around,” Santiago rasps, entirely wrecked already, barely able to get the words past his mouth. His cock looks almost painfully hard, and entirely insistent against your ass as he spins you and roughly bends you over the counter, pots of toothbrushes knocked into the sink and soap rolling who knows who cares where.

“You want this?” he asks as he presses you into position, little precision or ceremony in it – just a rough, raw urgency, entirely untamed.

You can see yourself reflected in the mirror above the sink, blurry and steamy and bent over, and that’s exactly how it feels. Everything; blurry and steamy and close and tight. He’s as hard as the cool marble surface digging painfully into your hips, and you’re as hot as steam and as wet and slick as this mirror and you’re melding into one another – not single bodies anymore but shapes and a mood and a feeling, and there is nothing else.

“Princesa?” Santiago pleads, even as he tugs your jeans down over your ass, removing the bare minimum of clothing to give him access where he needs, the garment still tight and unforgiving around your thighs, not allowing you to move - barely at all. “You need me?”

“Yes. Fuck me. Need you,” you beg, and you hear him spit unceremoniously into his hand -not that he’d need it- and slather it all over his length, groaning as he makes contact with his sensitive, needy dick as though he might spill over his knuckles with the anticipation of stuffing you full alone.

Still, he holds on -by a thread – and your eyes roll back into your head as you finally feel the blunt tip of him notch clumsily at your need-swollen entrance.

Then – ohhhhhh- then, there is the dull ache shortly after as the girth of him pushes through your wanting folds. You grunt at the initial stretch as he works himself inside of you, but pinned between the counter and his surging hips there is nowhere for you to go, and his need sinks into you inch by inch until he fills you all the way.

You succumb to your ragged breaths and mewl for him, you arms practically giving way beneath you as you press them into the cool surface to keep you standing. He fills you, and God, you’ve missed this. Have missed how full you feel with him inside of you - in every sense of the word. The way his hands grip your hips in that specific spot he likes.

You have missed his girth. Could swear you can feel every inch of him pressing outward against the tight grip of your heat as he fucks his cock into your hole, bottoming out with a delicious, wracked, stuttering moan, the sound alone causing pleasure to bloom around the drag of him deep inside you.

Still, despite this fullness - you also feel the give of your walls to him, your slick and eager heat actively suckering him in. He stutters his hips as you clamp tightly around him and then, so help you, he finally begins to move.

Jesus, this feels even better than his fingers, even better than you remember, and you relish every moment as he fucks into you, bareback and desperate, your pleasure coiling up impossibly quick as the straining mass of him works you open, hitting all of your sweet spots. Your legs tremble beneath you with adrenaline and want, and you feel Santiago’s thighs flush against the back of your legs, his hips snapping against the cushion of your ass as the counter edge bites painfully into your hinged hips.

He's not taking his time with you. Not teasing or planning or thinking. You can tell by the undone grunts and groans he’s submitting to you already, that -for once- he is far too consumed by his own need to contemplate yours. Can tell by the sloppy pace of his thrusts and the lack of attention to your clit or your breasts or anything else but filling you - his hands fisting in the meat of your hips as he takes what he needs, gives what you crave – that he’s not even trying to make you come… but goddamn it if he isn’t going to get you there all the same.

Soon too.

God, the head of him is rubbing exactly where you need, and you can’t remember the last time you felt this good with a dick inside you. Your cunt is primed for him, still sensitive from where his fingers fucked you open and it isn’t going to take you long at all to reach your peak.

Even without seeing him properly, in the misted-up mirror, you can tell that Santiago is going feral behind you. Filling you deeply and haphazardly, his fingers leaving imprints on your skin.

You hear a snarl, and see a pearly flash of teeth as his lip curls up from how good you’re making him feel.

“Fuucckk,” he groans, his head tipped back now, that pretty chin pointing up to the sky and his mouth dropping open – you can vaguely see in the mirror

His broad hand smooths firmly down the middle of your back and over your ass - grabbing handfuls of you- before he retraces his path, sliding his hand up between your shoulder blades and winding his hand in your hair, grabbing and pulling until your spine is curled back for him like a bow, your ass arced up and allowing him a deeper angle of penetration which sends tingles all the way to the tips of your toes when he hits just right.

You practically yowl for him, your whole body trembling and shaking, sweat trickling down the centre of your cleavage as the layers you did not have time to dispense of overheat your skin. As your clit is nudged into the lip of the counter in a way that shouldn’t work for you, probably, but totally does, the intermittent slap of Santiago’s hips against you providing a pleasing rhythm.

It’s uncomfortable, and hot, and cramped, and in some ways painful to be rammed up against the surface like this, but you wouldn’t tell him to stop for the world. You wouldn’t tell him to stop because the way he’s taking you feels divine, Santiago burying his want for you as deep as it will go, releasing his punctuated, abortive gusts of breath in time with his thrusts.

You feel drips land on the small of your back, and whether its water cascading from his dampened curls or beads of sweat from the exertion rolling down his temples you do not know or care.

You only know that you want more.

Determined as ever, you plant your hands firmly on the counter as he fucks you near boneless, driving through your hips until you meet his thrusts, working him up higher, finding the angle which hits just right and-

“Unnnngggg.” A whimper falls from his pretty mouth and his thrusts are suddenly far more shallow, slow, nudging against your nervy, sensitive entrance. His breaths are coming in deeper, heavy gusts now and you might be afraid that he was about to stop - if you weren’t so sure that he was, in fact, gearing up.

“Santiago,” you complain as he blunts the sharp edge of your precipice with the break in rhythm. You urge him to give you more, and he uncurls his fingers from your hair and adjusts position.

Obligingly, he wraps his stronger arm around your chest to guide you closer to standing, pressing his chest to your back, his head hooking over your shoulder. And, with his other arm, he reaches forward towards the steamed mirror, using his palm to clear a window from the condensation.

“I wanna see you,” he rasps, a hoarse, gritty whisper in the shell of your ear. “Wanna watch you.”

God, it’s too much. The way his arm is wrapped around your front, strong and yet tender as his forearm braces across your chest and his fingers dance tenderly over your jaw. The wracked, undone voice of him, whisper soft. The contrast between this and the certainty of his thrusts as he finds a new rhythm. As you find a new rhythm together, entirely in sync.

Slowly, so slowly, he draws out of you, ensuring you can feel every single inch of him, the tantalising drag of him through your folds making your quiver. Then, he snaps back into you all at once, so suddenly shoving himself up into you, balls slapping against your ass, each repetition of this pattern building you up. God, you want him to spill himself inside you, and you think vaguely that it is the only thing which could quench you.

It is your undoing when his eyes find yours in the mirror, and this all becomes real. No longer fantasy like your unreliable recollections of him all these months. No longer shapeless, tangled, blurry bodies, but now so very suddenly, you are looking at you and him, with all that means.

The look in his eyes gives form to this act, as though the love settled in them is the very thing giving form to the way he fills you. He is at once stern - his brow burdened, heavy-lidded with need, his eyes sunk into a pit of desire - yet soft. His strong nose is crushed up against you as his lips caress your neck. His eyes dance over your face, taking you in as you languish up against him.

His eyes are molten when they find you again, dancing with a soft, subtle heat not unlike firelight, long lashes fluttering in disbelief at the sight of you. At the feel of you wrapped around him. No longer just a body or some carnal need, shapeless and intangible.

Instead, Santiago and you, and your bodies moving as one.

His soft lips and rasp of stubble break from the column of your neck as his thrusts become sloppy, and you feel his hot breaths come thick and fast against your skin now.

He missed you.

He missed you, and this is what he’d meant. Had meant he needed to feel you wrapped around his dick. Moaning his name. Needed to see you being his. Missed you being his. God, you missed that too, in so many ways.

A moan rips through you as you approach your peak, and you plead profusely with him.

“Don’t stop. Santi. Please.”

You don’t ever want him to stop.

As you clamp down on him, your fluttering core wrings his own orgasm from him too, and then he’s pulsing his load into you, thick and warm and abundant, his thighs quaking against yours and his arms gripping on to you more tightly – this time for purchase – as though this might be the time his knees finally buckle if he doesn’t hold on to you.

You can feel his racing heartbeat hammer from his chest to yours as he holds you flush to him. Can feel his mouth suck at the column of your neck, his tongue sliding along your pulse point and tasting your perfume.

You come down from your high, thrumming with it. Wet and messy between your legs as Santi drags his softening dick out of you, letting your juices and his seed slip down your inner thighs.

You feel good. Blissed out. But, as ever, with you and Santiago, there’s always a catch. The joy is immense, but, guaranteed that one of you - if not both - will find a way to ensure it is short-lived.

Indeed. All too soon, you begin to feel that creeping sense of regret hollow-out your stomach.

You can see it on his face too. The uncertainty. The lack of understanding of what this all means. About what to do next. It is evident from the way he so quickly moves away from you, picking up his shorts and t-shirt and covering up his body. Similarly, you hike up your jeans without even cleaning up, and as much as you might have hoped for a joyful, intimate moment, you know that it’s already too late for that. The moment that the insecurity, doubt and uncertainty had crept in on each of your faces it had become self-reinforcing. A spiral. Running in circles.

“Shit,” you sound out, in a clear peal of regret, planting a hand over your face in distress - despite everything.

“Sounds about right,” Santiago agrees in a monotone, brows drawn down and his gaze fixing on a spot of tile, unable to look you in the eye, despite having been buried inside you only moments ago.

“No,” you stress, bringing a second hand to your face. There’s something else. Something that makes you feel stupid and sick. “I…. I mean, shit. I changed my birth control up and I… I mean we…” Santiago snaps his eyes back up to you now, alright. You curse when you note the writhing of his taut jaw, set and a little annoyed. Your softly puffed expletive which follows is contrite, but it doesn’t help.

It’s not like you -or him- to make a mistake like that. And yet, you had all the same.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

You bristle at his harsh, accusatory tone. How quickly things sour. “It’s not like you checked!” It is his turn to bristle now, and so you opt to be harsher still. “Besides, I didn’t exactly think you were going to be quite so quick on the trigger, Santi.”

He narrows his eyes at you, his riposte about his stamina not even required. He got you off, didn’t he? So, your attempted distraction is futile, as he manages to stay alarmingly on topic. You fold your arms across your chest as he steps towards you, feeling on the back-foot as his flattened palm nags through the air to punctuate his words. “It didn’t occur to you to mention that before we fucked?”

“I forgot. I switched up my method and I’m not technically covered yet. It’s marginal, you know. Most likely fine. I mean, what’s another 24 hours? Besides, I didn’t exactly plan on this, did I?”

He scoffs, then he purses his mouth until much of the colour drains from his lips. “Oh yeah. Sure you didn’t.”

You raise your eyebrows, and jut a hip out to the side for good measure. “What exactly is that supposed to mean?”

Santiago shakes his head softly. Plants his hands on his wide hips, making himself larger. You don’t shrink back from him, but you note it. “For real?” He flashes his line of teeth now, a lopsided, disbelieving lilt of his lips – no happiness in it. Not at all. “I know you love to pretend like I’m the bad guy, right? That serves your narrative or whatever? Bullshit, honey. You knew exactly what you were doing tonight.” You snort out a huff of air through your nose, your look all steel as you prepare to deny his claims. You falter though, with his next words. “I can’t get off without you, Santiago?” he mimics, and your comeback dies on your lips. “You wanna put this all on me now? Believe me, I gave it everything I had to stay out of-“

“-My vagina? Yeah, great job, Pope.” You throw your hands up in the air and they slump right back down again. “You’ve had everything up in there except your damn tongue.”

“Let’s go then, sweetie,” he challenges, nodding to the rear of you, his voice taut rather than inviting. “Hop up on the counter and spread your legs, I’ll make it 3 for 3.”

It’s unfamiliar to you, this tone of his. It makes your heartbeat rage. You swear you can even feel the pulse of it in your tongue. “Fuck. Whatever. I’m not having this conversation with you.” Your adrenaline spikes at the prospect of another argument and you turn on your heel, looking for an exit.

However, before you can retreat, Santiago’s broad palm contacts your arm to stop you – open hand, no force applied – and you turn your head over your shoulder. “At least tell me you’re going to take care of this,” he bites off, with a clear attempt to restrain his aggravation, expression sullen.

“Of course I am.”

“How?”

You think. “I’ll go to the pharmacy in the morning. I’ll deal with it.” You pump your brows emphatically. “Okay?”

You shrug his hand off of you then with apparent disdain for his touch, and in spite of his (relative) tolerance of your acerbic tone, that is apparently the move which fractures his composure. “You know what actually blows my mind? The way you can be nice to me just long enough to get yours. Pretty fucking convenient.”

You feel your face twist with the weight of a sour expression, mirroring his. “Why are you always like this?” You don’t wait to hear his answer, the adrenalin propelling you away, down the hall and closer to your room, but his footfalls follow closely behind you, hot on your heels. Your voice is a whispered hiss, as, somewhere in the back of your mind, you are vaguely aware of the need to keep it down – the other boys are lights out by now. “Why can you never just fuck me and be happy about it, huh?” You spin to face him, chest to chest and facing off.

“I knew this was a fucking mistake.”

Your pulse is in your throat. “Right. Maybe it was. That’s all I ever was to you, I guess.”

Your voices raise, slowly creeping up in volume as you each get lost in this intimate bubble of angst. Of resentment. On some level, you know you could stop now - before it gets worse and you say things you will only regret (or worse, hear things you’ll wish you hadn’t). You know that you should stop, but it feels… oddly necessary.

Like it’s inevitable. Like you’ve been waiting all this time to fuck and fight because it’s all you know how to do with him anymore. At least, it’s all you know how to do when loving him heart and soul seems off the table.

The space your bodies create is tight, leaning into each other’s circle of personal space.

Santiago’s fingers bridge like a claw and he taps them against his own chest, his eyes needling you like he could sew this up once and for all. Tie off all those loose threads of blame which sit frayed between you. He’s angry. Angry and riled and pissed and even so, there is still this eerie sense of calm about him.

You’ve seen him really let loose. You’ve seen him kill, for Christ’s sake, and yet he’s still measured and restrained in the face of you. That should make it easier to bear the brunt of his sharp edges, but that’s not quite so. There’s something about the precision of his anger when it’s focussed on you. The fact it feels so considered, so targeted only makes it cut deeper. “You know what? I’m tired as shit of always being the fucking bad guy here. You wanna get into it, huh?” His voice breaks now, splitting like shrapnel, lodging in your chest. “I told you I love you and you fucking left me.”

“That’s fucking bullshit!”

He’s not happy that you said that. He rocks from foot to foot like he’s priming for something. Scoops a hand over his jaw, around his taut mouth. You’re close enough to hear it rasp, the fleck of his stubble bristling against his palm. “Oh, it’s bullshit?”

Your voice comes out hot now, your words bitten off between your teeth, flecks of spit cast from your mouth. “Yes! Because if I hadn’t left you never would have told me! You told me because I left you! You told me to fucking punish me. To try and drag me back in.”

“Wow. Jesus fucking...” He laughs, but it is a cold, brief sound. “That’s fucking rich, cariño.” His eyes glint like knife licks, and he plants his hand indignantly against his chest, jutting up his chin. Puffing up his chest and making his body all angles. Protecting himself. “That’s really what you think of me, huh?” You try to look away from him, but his eyes chase you for an answer.

Is it? Is that what you genuinely think of your best friend? Is that what you think he’s done to you? Tried to do?

If so, no wonder you’re so fucking angry. No wonder your body is trembling with it.

But the truth is, when pushed on it, you have no intelligible retort you can form. No evidence you can offer. So, instead, in your panic over losing ground, you opt to minimise. You throw your hand up dismissively and you turn on your heel, stomping towards your door at the end of the hall. “Fuck this.”

This time, his footsteps do not follow, even if you can still feel his eyes boring into your back. You think that might even be the end of things, until…

“No,” he sounds. A forceful, robust note which fills the whole hallway. A command to wait. This isn’t over.

With you and him, it’s never going to be over, is it?

You turn towards him and he is fixed in position, stance set wide and chin dipped down, eyes blackened half moons as he looks at you. “Just let me get this straight. If I’m the one who drags you back in? What the shit do you call what you just did?”

You scoff. “You were a very willing participant, Pope. Or, I dunno. Why don’t you just consider it payback for all the times you fucked me around?”

He’s biting words back as he listens to you now. You can see them, in the tilt of his head and the flare of his nostrils. In the flip and curl of his tongue settled around his upper lip, dragging back and forth just below his filtrum. “Revenge, then? Really? Is that what this weekend has been about for you? You really that vindictive?”

“No. Don’t be ridiculous.” You dismiss him again, as though not one of his complaints about you can possibly be valid. Or, rather, revealing you are currently unwilling to admit it even if they are. After all, you’re as stubborn as he is. Each of you trying so desperately to palm off the blame for how fucked up this became.

Santiago paces towards you then, footfalls rhythmic and steady as he swallows the space between you in the hall. “Jesus. You don’t even give a shit, do you? Think I deserve to have my heart crushed into fucking dust?”

Hot, angry tears spike at the corner of your eyes as you spit your words, jabbing his shoulder with your pointer finger. “Like you give a shit that I left?”

His dense brows draw down, his whole face a grimace, his voice practically booming throughout the hallway, close enough that the sound of it rumbles in your chest. “I don’t know how else I can say it. I never wanted to lose you.”

“Yeah? Well you never fucking had to!”

Santiago is the one who turns from you now, pacing back in a loop, both hands lifting and dragging backward through his grizzled curls, flattening them to his head in disbelief. He rounds back to you, spittle glistening on his lower lip from his tirade. He’s waving his arms now, everything being thrown upward just like the hideous lurch in your stomach. “You’re the one who ran from this!”

Well, that’s the biggest pile of shit you ever heard. You fold your arms to your chest, becoming guarded and taut where he becomes more frenzied. “Oh ho ho,” you scoff. “Now that’s a grade A delusion, right there.” He mumbles something under his breath, shaking his head from side to side in a long, disbelieving drag. In denial. Still. “You’ve been running, Santiago. You’ve done nothing but run from this. Even the whole time I was right next to you. Especially then.”

He steps towards you, driving your body back into the door without making a scrap of contact with you. From the force of him alone. He leans his face in real close, his movements disconcertingly slow - cautious and deliberate. It’s not threatening – you don’t feel physically unsafe at all - but you can tell from the flare of his nostrils and that gunpowder glint in his eye that while his movements may be constrained, he’s still arming himself with a coming barrage.

You flatten yourself – your back to the shut paneled door- and Santiago lifts his hand, reaching up to you. Pincering your chin deceptively tenderly between his thumb and forefinger, making sure you look at him. “Right. And you’ve been so perfect, huh?” His eyes needle you, making it impossible for you to wheedle out of this one. To dismiss him. He’s making sure you take at least some accountability for your part in this. “Fucking other guys to get back at me? Insisting we keep it a secret? Pissing off to another fucking continent, two days early, by the way, before we’d even put things right?” You break eye contact, your vision of him blurred by wilful tears. He releases your chin from his grip then, but the space between you remains tight. Close, even as you feel a million miles from him. “Christ - it’s like you never fucking wanted this to work. Never believed I was worth it. How am I supposed to work with that?”

Hot, spiking tears spill over onto your cheeks. You scrub them away with a flattened palm but it still doesn’t slow them down.

“Please,” you beg limply, shaking your head from side to side. You want him to stop this. You just want this to be over.

“I was never the guy someone would bring home to their mama, was I? Too fucked up and too broken for that? Hands too bloody, right, to be good enough for you?” You balk audibly in protest at his words, but even so, it sends a hot flash of heat to your cheeks.

Is there some truth in it?

Had you been afraid of what he’d done, even though the blood on his hands matches yours? Or… maybe because of it?

Your lower lip begins to tremble as the ire in Santiago’s eyes burns you, hot like coals. But he has more to say. “I get it. It’s easier to blame me for everything that got fucked up, right?” He beats his palm emphatically against his chest and flattens it there. “I’m hardly a fucking Saint, I’ll admit that much. But do you honestly think that I ever wanted to hurt you? That this doesn’t fucking hurt me?”

No. You want to say “no”. No. That’s not what you believe at all, but instead the words that find their way out are cruel and petty. “Well you did. You hurt me!”

You wish you could get rid of it, this anger in your chest. You only want to love him… but you tried that, and since it didn’t work, it somehow feels like the anger is all you have left to fill this hole in your middle.

His eyes tighten, and Santiago jabs his finger back and forth, his voice hoarse as he pushes the words out from the pit of his chest. “It never mattered, what I did or didn’t do. It was never going to be good enough for you.”

“That’s not true. At all!” You spit back. “It’s you who thought that. Not me. Not me. You wouldn’t even fucking try.”

Santiago scrubs a tear away from his own cheek now. His voice creaks and cracks apart. “I tried. I did. But you only want me under certain conditions right. If I quit. If I get out. Maybe if I’m someone fucking else.”

“That’s not fair, that’s not how it is. For fuck’s sake, Santi.”

You are both entirely undone now with this ugly rage, tears wetting your cheeks, and this resentment and blame twisting your words and your faces into something unrecognisable.

That makes it all the worse when Frankie’s torso pokes out of his door in the hallway. You know that the two of you are not yourselves. Frankie’s face twists with disappointment and concern in equal measure, and you fold your arms across your chest defensively, feeling embarrassed that he is seeing you this way. At your worst. Why do you and Santiago always seem to bring out the worst in each other? You’d swear blind to anyone that he’s the best person you know.

“Guys. What the fuck?” Frankie ventures. His voice is grogged by sleep, and you get the feeling he would step out into the hall if he wasn’t entirely nude behind the door frame.

Feeling suddenly ashamed, with the contrasting softness of Frankie’s eyes on yours, you feel the urge to run from yourself and what you’ve become, all twisted up like this. You push past Santiago in the hallway, storming down the stairs as tears now cascade freely down your cheeks. You don’t even make an attempt to mop them up now, letting them course down and drip from the point of your chin.

Then, with an aggravated sigh, Santiago follows you too, in pursuit, despite Frankie’s barked pleas that he “leave it alone, cabrón”.

You push out of the threshold and into the night, the cooler air a welcome relief. You pace away from the house, wanting to leave it, to leave him entirely, but your body will not let you. Will not carry you far enough away, and your steps quickly run out of steam.

When Santiago finds you, you are stood with your back to him, looking out towards the white crash of waves. He comes and stands next to you, hands gently clenched by his sides.

“Look,” he begins, staring out at the expanse of water. You feel your anger cresting and with it comes a wave of sadness. “I love you. But maybe you’re right. Maybe… we’re not good for each other. Maybe we just… can’t make each other happy.”

You shake your head softly. Tip your eyes to the sky to stave off yet more tears. “I just wish we’d never changed things.” You wish more than anything that you could simply swallow it. Go back to how things were before.

“Don’t,” Santi implores, turning to you with his hands cupped as though in offering, soft and haphazard and trying to catch on your elbow, your shoulder, your hand. “Don’t say that. Please. No matter how fucked this got… You’re the best thing I ever-”

But, your anger is not done. Your palms raise in the air, forming a barrier between your bodies - a defence against his brutal love - and you snatch yourself away from him. Your voice is once again harsh as it rings in accusation, words tearing from your lips like bullets. “-Let go?”

There is a beat.

“Seriously. You’re gonna stand there and tell me I could I have fucking stopped you?”

You raise your palms and plant them to your face, splayed fingers tugging in disbelief from your temples, sliding down to your mouth - drawing your cheeks into a grimace. You look at him and his face is once again taut with blame. His mouth a thin, downturned line. But even now….. Somehow, even now, you want to kiss him. Want to kiss him until he is soft again, like you know he can be.

Why would he never turn soft for you - not all the way? Soft in your arms? Why would he never?

He shifts his weight from foot-to-foot under your scrutiny. He sees the anger melt away from your face, but his is not done. “I mean, fuck. What do you want from me, huh? You want me to come with you? Just drop everything?”

“Just stop, Santi,” you plead, weakly, but there’s no way he heard you over his own tirade.

“My whole career. This shit I’ve got going on with Lorea. Pick-up and move here? Huh? Tell me? What do you want from me?”

You fold your arms across your chest, closing yourself off to him. “Please, just drop it.”

“You want me to have dinners with you and your family on Sundays? Take the nephews to the playpark, huh?”

He won’t stop. He won’t stop talking, stop pushing you, and you can’t take it. You’re going to snap.

“Go fucking grocery shopping? And get married and have babies and-?”

“Yes!” you finally yell, your whole body craning forward as you fire your answer out through your throat, the word coming out scuffed and sudden; but nothing if not truthful. Your eyes go wide, quivering with tears as well as the shock of your revelation. The shock of revealing something you can barely even admit to yourself.

That is what you want. With him.

Santiago is evidently as shocked as you are too. Stunned into silence, in fact. He takes a perceptible step back from you, punching out a breath like he’s just been struck with a body shot. All the tension drops from his limbs, and his arms flop uselessly to his sides.

But, instead of backtracking, from somewhere, somehow, you finally find the courage to stand in your truth. “Yes,” you say shakily. “I want that, you asshole.” And, at those words, you interpret the most repulsive thing you’ve seen in his eyes all night. Pity. “And you, meanwhile? You’d rather get shot in the guts than do that with me, wouldn’t you? Something so mundane as being happy? Something so fucking worthless as loving me?” You tear your head away from him, whip your gaze away as you cannot bear to look at him. Cannot bear to see your true wants rejected. With a final question, you stab your pointer finger against your sternum with enough force that it hurts. “I’m not a mission, so I’m not worth it right? Not important?”

He shoves his hands in his back pockets, his gaze dropping to the floor, to a neutral spot between you. His voice all but cracks apart, small and broken. “I told you that I love you.”

“That wasn’t enough!” You bite your words off before you can even think, and his eyes snap back up to yours then. Wounded. Glassy. You regret the words as soon as you have spoken them, but it is far too late to recall them now. You can see that they cut him - and you can even understand why they would hurt. What an awful thing to have said, you think; that his love wasn’t enough.

It was everything.

Everything.

Wasn’t it?

Even so, here you stand, still waiting and hoping that he can offer you something more than that alone. A solution, perhaps. A way to fix this.

Instead though, Santiago simply nods slowly. Contemplatively. In resignation. He stands eerily still. Eerily quiet. Entirely stoic. “Right. Well.” His hand rasps back and forth over his stubble, and his voice is entirely sunken. Defeated. He’s a soldier. Your friend. Your lover. But most of all, now he’s someone who appears to have stopped fighting for you. He looks you in the eye, all of his anger dissipated. Voice scrubbed clean and entirely dispassionate. “That’s too bad then. Because I don’t have anything else I can give you.”

He turns from you now, and you grab onto his arm. “Believe me. The only thing I ever wanted from you… With you, was a future, Santiago.”

It breaks your heart when he quietly, slowly extricates his arm from your grasp, slipping through your fingers like fine sands. Did you really think that you could do that? That you could keep on pushing him, without eventually pushing him away?

A divot notches in his brow. “Mmm-hmm. Well I guess we fucked any shot at that now, didn’t we?”

You search his ashen eyes - almost in desperation - for some of that all too familiar fire. For any sort of spark for you.

Godammit, as soon as the anger has gone, you want it back. You want something; only because it seems a damn sight better than nothing at all.

You can’t handle it - the thought that any future with him is being taken off of the table once and for all. You know - if you step back from this - that you’ve been far from perfect. That you’ve been bitter, volatile, reactive. Maybe even cruel, at times. You know, in truth, that you shouldn’t be so hung up on the past -on what happened all those months ago and beyond- but it’s the only thing Santiago has ever given you to dwell on. How were you supposed to move on, when he’s never been able to look ahead with you?

Still, all of a sudden, being faced with any and all possibilities of a future with him being ripped away from you, it is all you want to talk about. The past and your grievances and the blame now seem wholly irrelevant. You feel bile rise into your mouth. “Listen. It doesn’t matter. None of that matters. Just… How do we get past this, Santiago? That’s what matters.”

He stops, halting his retreat back to the house. He turns, slowly. And, Santiago takes your hands into each of his. Looks at you solemnly, as your eyes flit over his face in doubt and fear and regret. He bundles your hands up together, sandwiching them together between his warm, steady palms and he gives them a squeeze - full of finality. “Maybe… Maybe we don’t,” he sounds, flatly, voice scrubbed clean of emotion. And, the only thing worse than hearing his words out loud, is that he looks like he believes them.

For once, Santiago “Pope” Garcia seems cold, and it hurts more than any of his fire has ever burnt you. Maybe the anger, horrible as it feels, is better. Because it is better than nothing. Better than losing him altogether.

After all, what is it that happens when the fire goes out?

Well, you suddenly feel like you’re about to find out.

You suddenly feel like it’s truly about to be over.

And so, you clasp your hands over your mouth and you sob, fleeing towards the interior of the house, because you have no place else left to run but away from him.

#santiago pope garcia x reader #triple frontier #santiago pope garcia #oscar isaac #ride or die series

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acewritesfics · 6 months

Text

I Almost Lost You | JAY HALSTEAD

⚠️ THIS IS A REPOST FROM MY MAIN BLOG @/DLMLUFICS. UNFORTUNATELY, I HAVE TO DO IT THIS WAY. MORE INFO IN MY PINNED POST.

Pairing: Jay Halstead x Wife!Reader

Request: From Anon

Fic Type: Imagine

Prompt: "You think you can just push me away like that?”

Warnings: Mentions of being shot, surgery, crime.

Word Count: 849

JAY HALSTEAD MASTERLIST || TAG LIST SIGN-UP

©️ no one has permission to copy, translate and/or repost my works on here or anywhere else.

Jay sat next to the hospital bed where Y/N is currently resting. His arms are laying on the bed, one of them clutching hers. She'd fallen asleep a little more than an hour before, both of them gripping each other's hands, fearful that if they let go, the other would disappear like she almost had.

Intelligence has been looking for a duo who were robbing businesses and killing anyone who got in their way. They claimed to be the next Bonnie and Clyde and went out in the same manner as the originals. Y/N was shot three times during the shootout a little less than 24 hours ago.

Despite his best efforts, Jay is unable to shake the visual of her lying there, her breathing and pulse growing weaker as he works, in complete fear of losing her, to stop her from bleeding out.

Y/N and Jay have been married for just over three months, and he has already nearly lost her. He bites his lower lip, fighting the negative thoughts that remind him he could still lose her, especially given their line of work.

“What’s going on inside that handsome head of yours?” Y/N’s raspy sleep filled voice, brings him out of his thoughts.

“How much I love you,” he tells her, thinking that now is not the time to hash out what he’s really thinking about. Though, he is always thinking about how much he loves her.

"Don't do that," she says gazing at him, drowsily. "You think you can just push me away like that?”

"I'm not trying to push you away, babe," he says giving her a soft smile. "I can't now that you're wearing my ring."

"You know what I mean," she sighs. "I'm so doped on pain meds, it didn't come out right."

"I know what you meant," he assures her, gently squeezing her hand.

"Don't go quiet on me, Jay."

"I almost lost you," he starts telling her what he's thinking and feeling. "We've been married for three months. We’re just starting our lives together and I could have lost you. I almost lost you."

“It’s part of the job,” she whispers, weakly squeezing his hand.

“Don’t… don’t say that,” he tells her, frowning. He knew she was being nonchalant about it right now because of the drugs but it didn’t help how he was feeling or the thoughts clouding his head. “Not right now.”

“I’m sorry,” her lips pout as she lets out a quiet sob, tears building up on her eyes.

“Hey, it’s not your fault,” Jay tries to reassure her as he moves closer to the bed and brings her hand to his face, gently kissing her fingers where her rings usually sat. They had been taken off during her surgery so they wouldn’t end up damaged or lost. “You did nothing wrong. It’s their fault and mine for not being there to protect you.”

“You can’t be in two places at once,” she cries holding no resentment towards him like he seems to think he deserves.

“No but I’m your husband as well as your partner. It’s not only my job to have your back, it’s also my vow to you,” he stands up, leaning over her to wipe away the tears and kiss her gently. “You know, us being married, living together and all that, means you won’t be able to cheat recovery and come back to work earlier than the doctors order right.”

She can’t help the chuckle that escapes her lips, through the tears and sobs. “Yeah, but I have a brother-in-law who’s a doctor.”

“And I’m going to tell him if he tries to do you any favors so you can get back to work sooner, I’ll find something to arrest him on.”

“Yeah, you would do that.”

“You’re damn right I would,” he says and tells her, “Voight’s given me some time off so I can take care of you.”

“It’ll be a mini vacation,” she says giving him a weak smile.

“For you it might be,” he kisses her again before reaching into his pocket and pulling out her engagement and wedding bands. He slips them back on to her finger and brings her hand back up to his lips and kisses the same spot as before. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” she says letting go of his hand and carefully shifts over in the bed and pats the now empty spot next to her. “I don’t care what the doctors have to say, I need my husband with me tonight.” She adds before he can protest.

Kicking off his shoes, he climbs onto the bed next to her, making sure to not hurt her even more. Careful of her injuries, she finds a comfortable position for them to lay in and places the blankets over him.

It doesn’t take long for Y/N to drift back to sleep unlike Jay who remains awake until he can no longer keep his eyes open, afraid that if he does fall asleep, that he’ll open his eyes when he awakens and she’ll be gone.

TAGGED: LINK TO TAG LIST SIGN-UP ABOVE.

#acewritesfics repost #jay halstead x reader

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devildom-moss · 9 months

Note

Could you write some domestic fluff headcanons for Solomon x GN!MC like you did with Lucifer?

Thanks in advance!

I got you. I feel like I bully this man so much in my posts, so it was nice to spend three full pages just affectionately thinking about Solomon. I adore him so much. I kind of set these in Nightbringer times just for the purpose of MC actually living with Solomon, but I didn't really touch on anything too specific to that era - because I probably could have gone on way longer. Anyway, I hope you enjoy!

Domestic fluff headcanons (Solomon)

(Solomon x gn!MC)

Word Count: +1800

Solomon adores spending time with you, but he also likes having a separate room. Solomon is used to being alone, and he appreciates time to himself. The man loves his space, but that makes it even more special to him when he shares a bed with you. Solomon can’t always express how happy he is to have you there. In his mind, it was always okay that he was alone so often in his younger years. Somehow, he often “forgets” (suppresses) that there were long periods of his life where he wasn’t just alone – he was lonely. Being with you makes him wonder if maybe he can avoid that desperate, painful loneliness for the rest of his life.

This man has had a long, kind of rough life. Sometimes that means nightmares or ruminating on his past late into the night (on top of any day-to-day stressors). When he can overcome his embarrassment about you seeing him in a vulnerable or fragile state (because some nights he can’t), he will ask to crawl into your bed. If you aren’t awake, he’ll either sleep on a chair in your room or on the floor – at least until you inevitably tell him that it’s fine to sleep in your bed if you’re already asleep. No matter how difficult the night is, Solomon feels a noticeable amount of relief when he wakes up to your voice or your touch – even more so when he wakes up in your arms.

Solomon is pretty good about knocking before entering your room, but that’s only because he requests the same from you. He’s not an innocent man, and he would be mortified if you just walked in on him during something he had intended to be private.

Solomon will not go to bed if he expects you home and you haven’t arrived yet. He worries about you so much, and no matter how much he teaches you, he’s started to realize that he’ll always be protective of you. He’ll text early on in your lateness, but if you don’t respond to his texts and no one has eyes on you, he’ll call after an hour or so. If there’s no response after that, he’ll go through his magical options to get in contact with you. Please don’t let your D.D.D. die, basically.

I imagine MC’s phone dying during a party and them not noticing until after they were already outside the club. You wanted to text Solomon and let him know that you were heading home, but your phone was dead, and Mammon and Asmo were still inside. It was a nice night, and it was only a half hour walk home. You’d be fine. When you walked through the door, Solomon gave Asmo a quick “they just came home,” before he walked up to you and pulled you into his arms. You didn’t get a long look at his eyes, but the mixture of relief and fear they held simultaneously was evident. Solomon couldn’t let go of you the rest of the night. He even joined you in the shower.

Solomon takes so much pride in telling people that he has to leave or head home because “Mc is waiting for me.” He knows the others must be so jealous that he gets to return home to you and that he’s the person you return home to. However, he feels so guilty when you actually are waiting for him. He hates to leave his adorable apprentice waiting. You’d think that guilt would make him do that less, but he’s busy and a bit forgetful, so it happens more often than he wants it to.

He understands if you don’t or can’t wait up for him when he’s home late, and he doesn’t resent you for it. However, especially if he thinks you took special care to plan out a romantic night or if you are really nice (saving his food so it’s easy to reheat whenever he gets home and leaving a cute cat post-it note complete with a sweet message and a little heart on top, chilling a bottle of demonus for him, tidying up his desk that he left a mess – even by his standards – earlier that morning, running him a magic bath that will stay warm all night, or leaving a bouquet of flowers in a vase on his bedstand), he will be so grumpy the following day. Don’t get me wrong, he appreciates you, and he’s so happy, but he’s mad at himself and anyone who made him late. He’ll at least do his best to smile around you and thank you for being the best human to exist. To distract you from his grumpiness, he will kiss you a lot that day: soft, tender kisses where his lips linger on your skin; affectionately trailing his lips over your neck between whispered words; and even possessive, hungry kisses – especially in front of someone else who he blames for him being out so late.

The only thing you let Solomon make without complaint are drinks – which are close enough to potions that they somehow don’t kill you. He’ll make you coffee, cocktails, and tea. (Starbucks who?) I can’t explain why, but I feel like Solomon cannot make you a bowl of tomato soup that won’t hurt your intestines, but he can make you a delicious honey vanilla lavender frappe or a muddled blueberry vodka lemonade. Something about the actual cooking food bit just makes that sick, pretty head of his just think “yeah, I should improvise this badly.” Your smile is infectious when you enjoy a drink that he’s made for you.

Unfortunately, despite your pleas for him to not cook, Solomon still does it. Even worse, he blows up the kitchen or creates unimaginable messes every few months. He knows he’s not allowed to cook because according to you, his food is “inedible,” and “a biohazard unfit for consumption.” But he wants to get better until you can finally trust his food, so he has to practice. One day, he wants to make food that you want to eat, which is why he keeps offering you his culinary abominations. He’s not there yet.

When you have a bad day, Solomon will hold you, offer to cook you dinner and get rejected, and ask how he can help you feel better. If you want a distraction, he’ll have a game, movie, or show ready for you in a minute. He’ll order food in or take you out to eat. Anything you want, he’ll do his best to give it to you.

When Solomon has a bad day, he will return home and immediately find you so he can bury himself in your arms. If you are working at a desk, he will worm his way onto your lap and just nuzzle against your chest or neck. He’ll try not to disturb you, but once you’re done, he would appreciate your undivided attention.

This man loves being held so much. If it’s just you and him, he’ll occasionally do the grabby hands thing with his arms outstretched, waiting for you to hug him.

Also, we’re going to address the manspreading. This dude – this absolute bro – does not stop doing that around you, either. If you want to sit, you have two options: either you sit between his legs, or you teach him a damn lesson about keeping his legs open (by straddling his lap and forcing his legs together with your thighs). Both of those are just going to encourage him to continue, but at least you get to sit and fluster him slightly the first few times.

Solomon’s erratic sleep schedule means that, some days, he’s heading to bed when you’re getting up – sometimes vice versa if you’re playing it a little fast and loose yourself. On those days he likes to give you a kiss good morning/night before either of you finally go to sleep. If your schedules can’t align, he’s going to squeeze out whatever affection he can get from you.

Sometimes he wakes up before you and wants to get you up. He either can’t bring himself to wake you because you look so cute, or if he can, he does it with such a gentle touch. That sweet voice will call out your name, and his fingers will graze your face or arm in soft, slow motions. If only he could save this image of you for his eyes only.

Solomon tests out his love magic on you in the privacy of your home. He also uses you to practice his seductive speechcraft. The fact that no one else can walk in on the two of you is a big plus. As much as he adores experimenting on you and seducing you, there are times when he can’t stand the idea of anyone else seeing your flustered face. Also, if his love magic goes wrong, he doesn’t want anyone else to be around. Who knows what could happen.

I feel like Solomon keeps a stock of MC’s favorite snacks in the house. He does this with scented candles and soap, too.

Solomon will keep the house cool – or at least his room. If for some reason, you have a problem with it, he will – in typical flirty sorcerer fashion – offer to warm you up. If it seems to be a consistent issue in his room, he will buy a sweater or cardigan specifically for you to wear in there. He will not be made to be warm in his own room – but he’ll be damned if you’re uncomfortable.

MC covers Solomon with blankets or their jacket when he falls asleep on the couch. They will wake him or just carry him to bed if he falls asleep at his desk so that he doesn’t wake up sore. He’s so old – his muscles and joints aren’t what they used to be. He always leans into your touch in his sleep.

This is self-indulgent and related to an MC from one of my Asmo stories, but MC gave Solomon an oversized GILF (gosh I love frogs) shirt, and he sleeps in it a lot. He gets super embarrassed if anyone else sees him in it. It’s one of the few things you gave him that he won’t show off until everyone understands how NB (Nightbringer – not non-binary, but I mean?) Barbatos feels.

Solomon loves singing along or dancing to human world music with you. It’s something that feels special between the two of you. There’s something so lighthearted and sweet about those moments; Solomon can’t feel the weight of his sins when you’re smiling through a song and swaying to the music. He’ll get especially giddy if you sing love songs to him.

Genuinely, Solomon is so happy to live with you, and he’ll try to express that often. I don’t know if he could get through a day without telling you he loves you. To him, you are his home now. When you’re gone, he starts to feel lost. Wherever he goes, whatever happens, he wants to return to you every time in every world on every timeline.

#ask #requests #anon #solomon #gn!mc #obey me headcanons #obey me #obey me solomon #solomon x mc #yes I only have one more request to go but it's kinda long #anyway Solomon is so adorable and precious but he's also a menace and I want to fluster him until he cries...

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intoxicated-chan · 1 year

Text

As Long As I’m Here…

♡o。.✿ฺ Paring // Simon “Ghost” Riley x F!Reader

♡o。.✿ฺ Summary // Ghost finally wants someone, you, for himself but he knows not everyone can have their happy ending, no matter how perfect everything seems to be, everyone has their cracks.

♡o。.✿ฺ (A/n) // Inspired by “everything i wanted” by Billie Eilish. Anyways, I hope you enjoy the bittersweet, I wanted to write something with Ghost that wasn’t just angst. And requests are still open!!

♡o。.✿ฺ Word Count // 520

♡o。.✿ฺ Content Warnings // Female reader, angst-to-fluff, small mentions of abuse, light swearing, pet names (love)...

You were lucky, you are lucky. Ghost allowed you to see parts of him that he promised himself to never show, and it stole his heart of how kind and willing you are, waiting patiently for him. You showed no resentment or anger, you just waited for him. It’s what made Ghost decide to finally sleep, having you in his arms, the warmth of your body warmed his heart and finally, he believed he could have someone for himself.

But when in time, when Ghost tried his damn hardest to help you, he never expected you to drop it each time. Yet he waited, patiently, day and night, he knew he was reaching his end but he knew that forcing you to share would be the end of your relationship.

“How are you feeling?” Ghost carefully asks, he sat in bed next to you, cup of tea in hand and a book resting on his lap.

“Fine.” You responded, trying to ignore what happened last night.

Ghost sets his tea on the ground, book to the side, “Come ‘ere.” He drags you into his arms, “I know you’re not alright. But I’m here.”

“...I’m sorry-”

“You have nothing to apologize for, it wasn’t your fault.” Ghost keeps you trapped in his arms, hearing your breathing become staggered, “Breathe love.”

Ghost slammed the cupboard by accident, and your gasp worries him. He turns to you, “Are you alright?”

You fidget with your hands for a moment before silently nodding your head, “You just scared me is all.”

The next came when Ghost was cooking, all he heard was soft humming, “Can you pass me the salt?”

“Oh yeah.” You reached over the counter, but a little too close to the pan.

“Careful-!”

Your elbow hits the panhandle, nearly knocking over the pan if it wasn’t for Ghost grabbing the hot pan and pushing it back on the stove, “Shit.” He quietly curses, “You alright?” Ignoring the searing pain coming from his hands, “Are you hurt?”

“N-no but Ghost, your hands…”

“It’s nothing, just a burn.” He turns off the stove and turns on the faucet, running his hands under it. He thought all was well until he heard you sniffle, seeing you holding back tears, “Hey, I’m fine.” But the words fall dead on your ears.

“Don’t be mad.” You cower in fear, “I’m so sorry.” You cry.

In the four years Ghost had lived with you, he’s never seen you act like this. But it made him question, did he ever notice? The fear in your eyes was recognizable, one that a child has when fearing more than the anger of their parents.

“Come ‘ere.” Ghost softly speaks, removing his hands from the water and drying it on his clothing, “Please.”

Ghost holds you in his arms, “I’m so sorry love.” Careful not to raise his voice, “I could never be angry at you.”

You continue to cry in his chest, “I’m sorry.” He remains silent, “It’s my fault.”

“That’s not true.”

“I’m sorry.” You repeat.

“It’s alright love, I’m here, and I ain’t gonna let anything happen to you.”

#x reader #fluff #x female reader #simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #simon riley #simon riley x you #ghost x female reader #ghost x y/n #ghost x you #ghost x reader #cod angst #cod mw #cod mw22 #cod modern warfare #cod x reader #cod x you

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mads198-9 · 3 months

Text

The Alcott

POV: the WIP made it out of the google drive

Summary: “If he’s a serial killer then what’s the worst that could happen to a girl that’s already hurt?” - Lana Del Rey

Warnings: None really, some explicit language though. Just some fluffy angsty dialogue to either help you sleep or keep you up at night. This is my first time writing for Joel (and practically ever) so I apologize if it isn’t Hemingway-esque. This is not edited but I hope you enjoy it nonetheless. I’m debating a smutty pt. 2 😗

@amydunnewithmen (where the delulus run wild)

————————————————————————

3 minutes.

It had taken Joel all of 3 minutes to set fire to a year of your life. A year of longing, patience, resentment, guilt and every ounce of shame that Joel had clutched to his chest since September 26th, 2003.

It took you over two decades to find an ounce of peace. A place to, finally, let yourself breathe. To close your eyes out of comfort rather than necessity. You’d barely crawled out of the last city you scavenged. A metropolis that fell into a desolate isle. All you’d ever known of people was the way they’d looked with fungi crawling through their veins and seeping out of their orifices. Never a true person. The closest you’d come to other conscious humans were those who had already abandoned their humanity for the sake of surviving. What they didn't realize was that for them to live, they had to give up everything they’d ever lived for. You didn’t consider these men to be ‘people’.

Looking at your facilities it was nothing short of a miracle, it was a miracle that you’d found Jackson. A single woman dragging her depleted muscles through feats of snow, a trail of blood broadcasting your vulnerability to anything within a mile’s radius.

You don’t remember how you’d found it but you remember your pleas. Your claw marks on Jackson’s fortifying wall. You fell to the ground the moment they’d opened the gates. Almost relieved to have had a gun pointed at your head, because at least it was a person. Someone to end your suffering. You didn’t care in what way. A saviour in the form of a man nonetheless, one you’d come to know as Tommy. Tommy Miller.

He was how you’d found Joel. How Joel found you.

It was Tommy who’d found what was left of you, Maria who had housed you, but Joel who’d really saved you.

It started pure. For you at least.

The first you saw of Jackson’s newest constituent was his and Tommy’s embrace. Maybe that’s why you were never scared. Not of him, not of what he'd done, because you saw the best of what he could do. His reason for all that he had done. Family.

You hadn’t felt your heart stop in ages. Up until him, fear was the only thing that had the power to constrict your chest.

No words were spoken between the two of you for months. As the Tipsy Bison’s bartender you were the loosener of lips. An observer by nature, a listener by force, a tolerator of none. His drink order spoke for him those first few months.

Whiskey. Neat. No ice to dull its sting. A welcomed burn to the back of his throat but he sipped it like water. Years of practice of not only enduring pain, but learning to think he’d deserved it.

It was the first thing of substance you’d ever said to him. Your words numbing him like the whiskey in his glass. It took two minutes of silence for him to scrape the floor of the bison with his barstool and drag his ass out of the bar.

You blew it. Or so you’d thought. If anything, you had initiated what would be the most painful and pleasurable experience of your life. One that brought you to your knees in more ways than one. It felt stronger than any romantic pull you’d experienced. Every pace further from him began to hurt. A religion.

From that moment on Joel thought about more than just the glances you’d given. Your perception of him wasn’t wrong in the slightest but it gave him something new to think about. To dwell on and give his fist motivation when the house was silent and his needs too great.

Months of simmering tension and lenghtneing conversations that tugged the corner of his lips up led you to what would become your favourite place. The eventual route of all your pain.

His arms.

Before the age of 25 you’d experienced every horror the world had to offer. You’d spent your life running, burning the memories of your old life with every fire you’d lit to warm your skin. All while everything within you froze with time. You’d never had a moment to explore your thoughts let alone your body.

Joel was the first. In every way imaginable.

Even in heartbreak.

In all of Jackson, Tommy was the one to know Joel best. He’d seen the colour come to his brother’s cheeks at the mere mention of your name and he’d seen the way his eyes bored holes into those who gave the two of you suggestive looks in public.

The jealousy of the men who thought they had a right to fuck you and the envy of the women you ‘stole’ Joel from. The looks of outrage that painted the churchgoers faces chipped away at his resolve every time the two of you were together and only reinforced his shame.

Echoed his anxieties of whether or not he was ‘too old’ for you. Too destructive to be around such innocence. Too hardened by his years alone. How your presumed father issues were the only thing that drew you to him.

The hunter’s voices won out in the end because he lost you, at the alcott.

The last thing he wanted, he’d done to you.

You’d once loved it here. The Alcott. A space delegated to the books that once littered the halls of the ravaged homes across Wyoming. A place that Maria saw as a solution to your lack of a purpose.

Even after everything, you can’t imagine leaving.

You hadn’t left in the weeks since Joel drove a knife through your chest. Weeks you spent curled up in the back of the shop, surrounded by books, their pages riddled with love stories and sonnets, ridiculing you with their happy endings.

Draped in the flannel he’d long left, finding yourself relating to it. At first glance, an abandoned piece of cloth, but you saw it as much more. It was something he no longer had use for. Something he chose to leave. A landmine of memories. Its scent sending you into a spiral with every inhale.

It took less than a day for his resolve to crack and less than twelve hours for Ellie to tell him that he’d been a dick and only six for Tommy to see the change in him. For once in his life Joel Miller was cold. The left side of his bed that once held you now held the weight of your pain, his loss. The shattered look in your eyes as he’d told you to move on painted itself to the backs of his eyelids. His own voice haunting him, telling you to find yourself outside of who you are with him. That he’s too old for you. That you were only a kid and no matter how bad the world had gotten he wouldn’t take advantage of that.

What he didn’t know was that the time spent with him made you feel like a woman, not the solitary girl everyone else saw you for. The days spent with his lips against you were the only times in which you’d believed that your skin was your own.

But he didn’t realize that, or did not let himself because he was bad. For all intensive purposes Joel Miller was a serial killer. A lethal weapon. Nothing that could provide you with the warmth you sought. The warmth he knew you deserved. And god did he want to be the one to give it to you. Joel had spent the last twenty years of his life preserving life, not experiencing it. Hell he still was, patrolling the outskirts of Jackson four times a week. This time taking the long way home just to pass by your house. It was as he expected, as much as he’d kicked himself he knew you, craved you, understood you. So it was no surprise to see no light coming from your house. No noise either. At first he panicked. His mind his own greatest enemy in how it conjured up a thousand scenarios of you leaving Jackson, all ending with your heart stopped and skin blue.

Where on god’s green earth could you have gone. Where you’d never left.

The Alcott.

You hadn’t heard him come in.

“You're still here.”

Questioning you in his thick southern drawl, draping across his words like honey. Damn it. Damn him for still making you blush.

His presence isn’t what startled you, it was the fact that it was Joel. Your Joel, now just Joel.

“I never left.”

He regretted everything he’d ever done to you the second he saw your wide eyes boring into his own. Glossed over in every shade of pain.

He didn’t have to ask why, he was sure he knew, but he asked anyway. Never a man to stumble over his words he could barely get two syllables out.

Looking down to his shifting feet then back to you he asked you what he already knew.

“Why?”

“Because I love this place. What used to feel like our house. Even if it’s cursed now.”

He thought his heart would start screaming with the way it was beating.

“I, uh” clears his throat “I didn't want to darken y’doorstep. Anymore than I already have I’spose.”

“Funny. I’ve had the lights off since you left.”

You practically slurred your words. What was left of you both had been draining you emotionally, in only the 2 minutes he’d been here.

“So… I, uh. I was g’nna ask ya, how’ve ya been?”

Your laugh was as dry as the Texas heat Joel had come from. But less familiar.

“Why are you really here Joel? You’ve always been shit at small talk, didn’t suppose that changed in the last week.”

“Jesus” A week? “Feels like a lifetime since the last time I saw ya.”

“Funny how a ‘lifetime’ is what seemed to be between us. Different generations and all that bull shit.”

“Look kid -”

“No. Don’t you dare call me ‘kid’. Don’t make me feel smaller than I already am. Those people out there may have beaten you into submission but I am an adult! I’ve been one since I saw my first infected. I’ve been on my own, and just fucking fine, without anybody since I was a so-called kid so I dont want to hear another god damn word! You and everybody else think I can’t so much as cross the street without holding your hand but I've done more than that with less.

You know I survived on my own.

Before you.

And if it’s up to you, I will after, but I don’t want to.

For the first time in my life I got something I wanted, needed, and I don’t want to give it up.

You.

Ellie.

Tommy, Maria, the baby.

Jackson.

Living.

It’s more than surviving.

But apparently not to you.”

“That is not true.”

You didn’t realise you’d stood up until you could feel the heat radiating off of Joel, his flannel, everything.

“Then what is huh? I was a quick fuck. The first wet thing you’d felt in twenty years or what?”

You were yelling at this point and Joel hadn’t moved an inch. Not giving you anything. Not even a response except for the pinching between his brows. And it was killing you.

“You know it wasn’t like that -”

“Then what the FUCK was it if. not. real?!” Emphasizing each word with a pound to his firm chest.

Nothing you said from then on was comprehensible. Just sobs ripping from your chest as you threw your weight into him. Sinking into the floor, dragging him down with you.

His arms shooting out from his sides to enrapture you the second he felt your knees buckle and tears flow. Pulling you into his lap as your body shuddered. Immediately finding the crook of his neck. Inhaling him again. Finally, you couldn’t tell if it made you cry more or less but all you could notice was Joel. All you could feel, hear and smell was Joel. The smell of firewood dotting his skin mixed with the old spice soap he’d managed to scavenge on last week’s patrol. The feeling of giving into his arms again, coming home, and the sound of him cooing, and sniffling?

He’d lost it. Thought he’d lost you and that was his breaking point. Feeling his own tears seep into your hair you knew it was real. You knew he meant everything he’d said back then. Back before Jackson got to him. Before he’d let his own mind turn on him. And as much as it’d hurt then, it felt good now.

“Shhh, shhh.

I gotcha baby. I know, oh I know. More than you could imagine.”

“Please, please, please.”

Holding your face, and your heart, in his calloused palms he looked you in the eye.

“Please what, baby?”

Looking like a doe at his doorstep, your crumpled frame fitting perfectly within the confines of his lap.

“Please don’t leave. Please stay. I tried, I tried so hard to be good to you, for you.”

“Oh honey, you were,

fuck - you are baby.

The best I’ll ever get, all I ever want.

I’m not leaving baby girl.

Never.

Even if you ask me to, I’m not going anywhere.”

And this time, he didn’t.

————————————————————————

This sounded so much better in my head -

W o w

I actually wrote something… hot damn.

I’m debating a second part?? of smut??

#Spotify #joel miller #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller fluff #joel miller angst #joel miller x reader #joel miller x female reader #the last of us #tlou #the last of us fanfic #pedro pascal #the alcott #taylor swift #the national #joel tlou #joel the last of us #angst with a happy ending

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queen-of-deans-booty · 4 months

Text

Out of Touch: Part Two

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Female!Reader

Word Count: ~4.8k

Warnings: angst, injured!reader, fluff at the end

Request by @paarthurnax59: Hi! I hope you are doing alright! was wondering if I could do a part 2 to "Out of Touch" Where Reader realize that her and her son are in worse danger than she thought and are forced to stay at the bunker and her and Dean hunt down the demons that want Carter because he's Dean's son. Lucifer escaped and wants him as his vessel. Dean gets to see Reader in action and is impressed even tells Satan off. Reader starts to have feelings for Dean again and he nearly died protecting his family. Maybe not a happy ending but a more hopeful one where Reader gives him a second chance?

Summary: After being discharged from the hospital, you stay with your ex and his brother in their fortress of protection. Everything you do, you do for son... even if the devil himself wants him.

PART ONE

Square Filled: sam winchester (2022) for @spndeanbingo

Author’s Note: any and all comments are appreciated <3

The hospital discharged you a couple of hours ago even though your wound is still fresh. They were hesitant to let you go home alone but after convincing them you wouldn’t be alone, they let you go. You didn’t lie; you’re not alone. It's just not another adult with you.

The only place you and Carter can lay low is in a motel you were able to get for cheap. This will have to suffice until you can move on your own without the fear of bleeding out. The hospital gave you a prescription for pain meds even though they aren’t doing much for you.

You’re resting on the bed when your son walks over with the blanket from the bed next to you. He drapes it over your body as best as he can before tucking you in.

“It should be me taking care of you,” you sigh tiredly.

“It’s okay, Mommy. I don’t mind.”

“Can you get me some water? I need to take my medicine.”

Carter does what he’s told without question. You hate that he’s in this position in the first place. He should be out playing and making friends and going to school. Instead, he’s stuck with you while you heal. Before dealing with the wendigo that hurt you, you tried giving Carter a childhood as normal as possible. You took him to amusement parks and aquariums, and you allowed him to get whatever toy he wanted even if you didn’t have the money for it.

“When am I gonna see Daddy again?”

The thought of Dean brings you to tears. You don’t let them fall for the sake of your son. Seeing him in the hospital brought back so many feelings that you thought you buried. He hurt you, there’s no question about it, but the reason why you were so hurt is because you still have feelings for him… you think. Will you give him a second chance? You’re not sure. You’re not even sure how you feel but you know it’s not resentment.

It’s harder now that Carter has met him. Had he not, you could have lived in the bubble you tried so hard to create.

“I don’t think being around him is a good idea, baby.”

“Why not?”

Before you have a chance to answer him, someone knocks on your motel door. Carter is about to go answer it when you stop him.

“No, let me. I got it.”

You bite back a moan of pain as you get up and approach the door. You look through the peephole and sigh at who is standing there. If he’s standing there, then that means his brother isn’t far behind. Are you ready to face him again? You open the door to let Sam in, and you go back to the bed to rest.

“What are you doing here?” you ask as he closes the door.

“I’m here to take you and Carter to the Bunker.”

“Why?” you sigh.

“Come on, you want to stay here? There are resources at the Bunker that can help you get better.” You open your mouth to protest when Sam cuts you off. “I don’t want to hear it. You’re both coming with us.”

“I didn’t even say anything.”

“I know you, Y/N. I know what you were going to say. Come on, let me help you up.”

You have no choice but to accept Sam’s help. You’re still in a lot of pain that when you move, you can feel your blood seeping through the bandages. Carter gathers what he can and follows you and Sam out to the Impala. Dean is sitting behind the wheel watching and waiting for you and his son. When he sees you limping out of the room, he faces forward and grips the steering wheel. Sam brings you to the front seat, but you point to the back with a shake of your head.

“No, backseat.”

Sam looks at his brother and does what you ask him to do, and your son climbs into the backseat with you.

“Hi, Daddy,” Carter smiles.

“Hey, buddy.”

Dean looks in the rearview mirror and sees unshed tears in your eyes. He hates himself for what he did to you. He wants to make it right if you’ll let him but he knows it’ll take a lot of time. Sam comes back with the rest of your things so that your motel room is empty. Once you’re all in, Dean takes off toward the bunker.

You’ve never seen the inside of this Bunker much less knew about it, so when Dean pulls into the garage, you’re impressed with all the cars there. Carter hops out of the car once it’s parked and runs around excitedly, and you get out with a groan.

“Carter, stay close, okay?” Sam escorts you into the kitchen with Carter and Dean behind you. “Wow, you’ve got quite the setup here. I can’t wait to see all of it when I’m feeling better.”

“That might be quicker than you think. Follow me.”

You and Carter follow Sam into the massive library where there is a man in a trenchcoat. You pull Carter into you so that he doesn’t leave your side. You have no idea who this is or what he is, and you’re not about to let your son approach him.

“This is Castiel. He’s an angel.” Sam must see the panic on your face so he quickly eases your concerns. “He’s a good angel. He’s family.”

Castiel walks over to you and places a hand on your shoulder. Suddenly, the pain in your side is gone, all your aches have magically gone away, and you feel one hundred percent again.

“Whoa. You’re good. Thank you.”

“My pleasure,” he nods.

“Hi, it’s nice to meet you. I’m Y/N, Dean’s--” You stop yourself short because what are you even going to say? You’re his ex-girlfriend? His baby mama? “I’m Carter’s mom.”

“Carter is Dean’s son?”

You nod twice before turning to Sam. Dean is hanging out by the entryway between the kitchen and the library. He has yet to say a word to you.

“Where can we put our things?” you ask Sam.

“Follow me.”

You and Carter leave the library so that Castiel and Dean are alone.

“She hates me,” Dean sighs. “What I did eight years ago was dickish, cowardly, and so fucking stupid. I wish I could take it all back.”

“Give it time. I have faith it’ll work out in the end.”

“Yeah, thanks, Cas,” Dean scoffs and leaves.

Sam takes you to the room in the hall where his bedroom is as opposed to the hallway where Dean’s is. The room is bare but has the opportunity to look more like yours if given love.

“Look, Carter can stay right across from you in the other room.”

“Thank you, Sam. I really appreciate it.”

“Yeah, of course.” Sam turns to leave when he pauses by the door. “You know, he really does love you.”

“Sam, please don’t,” you sigh. “I’m already tempted to leave. The only thing stopping me is Carter. He knows you two now, and I can’t do that to him. Don’t make this worse for me.”

“Sure. I’ll leave you alone then.”

Sam closes the door behind him so that you’re alone in your room. Carter is probably with Sam or Dean, and you let him bond with either one for the time being. It’ll be hard to pull him away from his dad later on, but that’s a bridge you’ll cross when you come to it. You take off the bloody gauze and change into clean clothes before picking up the notebook you carry with you everywhere.

The entire notebook is filled with pictures of you and Dean over the years of your relationship. When you two were together, he was so good to you. He made you feel like you were the only one in the world. Despite whatever he put you through, despite him kicking you out of his life, you still love him like a goddamn idiot.

Over the next week, you and Carter got used to living in the Bunker. Sure, you’re healed and are more than welcome to leave but then you’d be taking Carter from his dad and uncle. He’s gotten rather attached to both of them fairly quickly. What kind of mother would you be if you took him away now?

You’ve got the opportunity to explore the Bunker at your leisure without an eight-year-old attached to your side. This place is extremely impressive, you have to admit. It’s a bitch to clean, that’s for sure, but you’re not going to be some freeloader even if the brothers don’t think that you are. You cook, clean, and do laundry where you can so you feel like you’re doing something with your life.

It makes you feel better, so they kind of leave you alone about it.

During one of your breaks, you wander the Bunker until you come across the basement where the gun range and the dungeon are. Yes, they have a fucking dungeon which is pretty cool. There are sounds of guns going off in the gun range, so you walk inside to investigate. Dean and Carter are in with protective eye goggles and ear protection on. Carter is the one shooting a gun that looks very dangerous to begin with.

“Really, Dean?” you sigh and lean against the door frame.

Both of them stop to look at you. Dean can see the worry on your face which he eases immediately.

“It’s a BeBe gun.”

“Look, Mommy! I can shoot a gun!” Carter says happily.

“Yeah. Good job, baby.”

They go back to practice shooting while you stand there and watch. Carter is way too attached to Dean and this place. If you’re going to leave, it’s not going to be with Carter.

The next day, you and Carter decide to go on a grocery store run to get more food for the Bunker. You thought Carter ate a lot, try living with him and the brothers. They are all vacuums, and you don’t know where they put them. The store isn’t too busy where you have to fight with someone while walking down the aisle, so you take your time and make sure you get everything on your list.

Carter is set on putting treats and snacks in the cart while you get meat, fruits, and other things to make meals with. It’s a damn good thing the Men of Letters have a virtually never-ending bank account to help with the cost of all this food. Carter grabs both cookies and donuts but you put your hand out to stop him from putting both into the cart.

“You get cookies or donuts. You don’t get both.”

“Okay.”

He drops the cookies into the cart before putting the donuts back. You walk away from your cart and approach an item on the shelf that’s on your list, and you look back at Carter to see him clutching the side of the cart patiently. After getting the item, you walk back to the cart but end up bumping into a man.

“I am so sorry,” you gasp.

“It’s fine,” he grumbles. You think that’s the end of the interaction but he stops and sniffs the air as if he smells something unusual. “Winchester.” He looks at Carter and his eyes flash pitch black. “Winchester baby.” You pull your son behind you so that he’s trapped between you and the aisle shelf. Another man with pitch-black eyes blocks the path on the other end of the aisle so the only way you’re getting out is through one of them. “He’s coming with us.”

“Over my dead body,” you growl.

“Fine by us.”

“Carter, get in the cart.” Carter does as he’s told without question while you unsheathe your iron knife from your pocket. Ever since he was born, you’ve always carried silver and iron on you at all times. You never know when you’ll get attacked. You twirl your knife and look between the two men. “You want him? Come and get him.”

The demon you bumped into rushes at you with his arms outstretched, and you take this opportunity to take him down in one move. You grab his arm and stab the iron knife in his forearm causing him to cry out in pain. You kick him in the chest and he goes flying away from you. Carter screams and you turn to see the other demon only inches from him.

You run at him before he has a chance to touch your son, and you drop down to your knees at the last second so you’re sliding toward him instead. Thank God for linoleum floors. When you reach him, you shove the knife into his thigh. He bends down in pain so you grab the nearest thing on the shelf that can be used as a weapon which is a glass jar of pickles. You ram the pickle jar into the man’s skull and he crumbles to the ground.

You get up and grab the handles of the cart to escape when you see the first demon get to his feet. Without thinking, you run at him with the cart in front of you. You hit him at full force which sends him back to the ground. You abandon the cart to approach the man and grab his hair. You yank it back and slice the man’s throat which burns like hell. It’s not the demon knife so it doesn’t kill him, but it does send a message.

Both men realize they aren’t getting out of this alive so they tip their heads back and smoke out. Taking the easy way out. Of course. You’re not sure if more are coming so you have to go now.

“Come on, baby. Let’s go.”

You pick Carter up and carry him out of the store. You don’t look back, not even when you get back to the Bunker. Sam and Dean are in the kitchen drinking beer when you rush in with your son in your arms.

“Where’s the food?” Dean asks. Both of them look over and see the fear in your eyes. “What happened? Are you okay?”

“Two demons caught us at the store.”

“What? Are you kidding me?”

“No. They smoked out. I couldn’t kill them.” You turn to your son who has a smile on his face. “Are you okay?”

“Mommy, you were totally awesome! Slicing and cutting those demons! Like the people in my video games!”

You chuckle, glad he isn’t scared.

“Go play in your room. I’ll be right there.” Carter runs to his room and you turn to the brothers with a worried look. “They wanted Carter because he’s Dean’s son. They want a Winchester. They told me.”

This pisses Dean off. He clenches his jaw in anger and makes a fist with his hand.

“I’ll make some calls.”

Dean turns and leaves the kitchen, leaving you and Sam alone. He sees something on your arm and frowns. He grabs your hand and inspects your arm.

“Are you alright?”

You look to where Sam is and see your blood seeping through your clothes. Sam rolls your sleeve to see a cut that’s not too deep. You must have gotten hurt in the small battle.

“I’m fine.”

Sam grabs a small towel and wets it underneath the faucet. He starts to clean your wound and take care of you since Castiel isn’t here to do it.

“Did you really fight off two demons?” You nod twice and he smiles. “Way to go.”

“Thank you,” you smile back.

Dean comes back an hour later looking more stressed than before. You’re all bandaged up with Sam in the library.

“I spoke to Crowley.” Dean sees the confused look on your face. “He’s a demon. He’s a dick but he’s a frenemy. Anyway, looks like Lucifer is looking for a new vessel since Sam rejected him.”

“He wants Carter?”

“Crowley put it as ‘fresh meat’ and a new start.”

“Over my dead fucking body,” you growl. “What are we gonna do?”

“We’re gonna talk to him.”

“Talk to him? You want to talk to Satan himself?”

“We have a… complicated relationship,” Sam shrugs.

“Who is going to stay here with Carter?”

“You,” Dean says.

“Uh, no. If my son is in danger by the devil himself, I’m not staying her. I’m fighting for my child.”

“I’ll stay with him,” Sam quickly volunteers.

“Fine. We’ll both go.”

“Fine.”

You and Dean get ready while Carter stays with Sam. If you’re going to up against the devil himself, you’re gonna want some weapons to protect yourself with. By the time you’re done, Carter is in the war room with his uncle. You kneel on the ground in front of him and kiss his cheek.

“Be good, my love. We’ll be back soon, okay?”

“In one piece?”

“I promise,” you smile. You and Dean leave the Bunker where his beloved car is parked outside. “So, how do you contact the devil?”

“Like this.”

Dean starts the car and drives to the nearest crossroads that is safest. He doesn’t want to get too close and have demons up the ass, especially if his son is back at the Bunker. Once parked, Dean gathers what he needs inside a tin container and buries it in the middle of the crossroads. Five minutes pass and a crossroads demon appears behind you two.

“Winchesters. How am I not surprised?” You two turn to see the man with red eyes. “I shouldn’t even be here talking to you two.”

“Save the theatrics,” Dean rolls his eyes. “We want to talk to your boss. I’m sure if he hears Dean is looking for him, he’d want to meet. Why else would he send his thugs after my son?”

The demon looks between you two and sighs. If Lucifer knew he’d turn down you two, then he’d get the bad end of his temper.

“Fine.” The demon reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small card. “Meet him here. He’ll be expecting you.”

The address is to a hotel on the other side of the state. If Lucifer wants his son, then it makes sense to have a home base in the same state as him. It takes five hours to get to Lucifer, and you see it’s a rundown hotel that doesn’t seem to be in use. The parking lot has trash everywhere, the trees are dead, the windows are boarded up, and the place looks like it’s gonna collapse any second.

Two demons meet you in the lobby with black eyes. They turn and leave without a word, and you look at Dean in confusion. He shrugs and decides to follow them to a room down the hall. Inside the room is two more demons and Lucifer himself who is in front of some computers that has all kind of information on them. Scanners, pictures, articles, and other things in his interests.

“Ah, Winchesters. I am so glad to see you,” Lucifer smiles and turns. “How is that son of yours?”

“Stay the hell away from my son,” you glare angrily.

“Yeah, not gonna happen. I need a new vessel.” Lucifer gestures to his own body. “This one is wearing thin.”

“Why my son? Why not anyone else?”

“The younger they are, the better, and it’s a plus that he’s a Winchester.”

“I’m only going to say this once,” Dean steps forward. “Come near my, Y/N, or my son, and I’ll kill you dead.”

Lucifer lifts his hand and snaps and in an instant, Dean is chained to the wall with rope. You’re about to go to him when two demons hold you on either side of your body to prevent you from moving. When you struggle, their grip tightens.

“You think you’re tough?” Lucifer asks and walks over to Dean. “How about now?”

The Archangel punches Dean in the jaw so hard that Dean gets blown back from the attack.

“Stop it!” you gasp and struggle some more.

Dean looks up with a glare and spits blood onto the floor.

“You’re being tough for your girl, huh?”

Lucifer punches Dean yet again, drawing blood on his cheekbone.

“Get your hands off him!” you yell hopelessly.

“I don’t know why you hang out with these chumps. They’re bad news.” Lucifer turns to you with a smile. “I’m much better company.”

“Some angel you are,” you scoff. “No wonder God cast you out of Heaven. You’re a lowlife and a coward.”

The smile on the angel’s face disappears, and he stalks over to you with a glare. He grabs your chin tightly and forces you to look up at him.

“No! Don’t touch her!” Dean gasps from the pain.

“Say that again,” he whispers.

You conjure up enough saliva in your mouth and spit right in his face.

“You’re a fucking coward who picks on the weak. No wonder God doesn’t love you.” Lucifer smirks and wipes your spit from his face. His cool demeanor is kind of scaring you but you’re not going to back down, not when your son is at stake. He snaps his fingers again and Dean coughs up blood. He doubles over in pain and spits a pool of blood onto the ground. “Leave him alone!”

“Why?” Lucifer lets go of you and takes two steps back. “We’re having so much fun.”

He turns back to Dean and punches him in the face again, right in the same spot as before.

“You want someone to fight? Fight me! No powers, just me!” Lucifer pauses but doesn’t accept your challenge. “What, are you scared you won’t win against a human?”

Lucifer gestures for the two demons to let go of you, and they listen obediently. He grabs an angel blade off the table and walks over to you. You think he’s going to stab you with it but he twirls it in his hand so that the handle of pointing toward you.

“Take it. I’ll make it fair. You know, for when we fight.”

You grab the blade and stare at it before throwing it off to the side.

“I won’t need it.”

“Okay,” he nods. “Show me what you got.”

“Don’t do it, Y/N,” Dean groans and looks up from his spot on the floor.

“Let’s make this more interesting. If I win, I get your son,” Lucifer smiles. “If you win, you walk out of here.”

You immediately run at Luficer. You make yourself come across as weak and inexperienced when really, you’re nothing like that. When Carter was a baby, you took self-defense and karate classes to be a better fighter. Monsters were everywhere, and Carter needed you to be able to protect him. This is no different.

When you get a couple of feet from the angel, you drop to your knees and slide on the wood floor toward him. He goes swinging to hit you but you drop out of the line of his attack. It’s cliche, but you punch Lucifer right where the sun doesn’t shine as hard as you can. He doubles over in pain as you hop to your feet. You jump onto his back when he is hunched over so that your entire body is wrapped around him. You wrap your arm around his neck to put him in a chokehold and tighten your grip.

“Angel or not, you men still have the same weaknesses.”

The cross necklace you always wear touches the back of his neck and his flesh sizzles from the contact. Before he has a chance to attack you, you yank the necklace off and shove it right into his face. The cross comes into contact with his eyes, and Lucifer howls out in pain. He grabs your arms and throws you off him from the front. You go flying over him and onto the ground and you groan in pain from where your head made contact with the floor.

Dean struggles against the rope but there is no way he’s getting out of those without help. Lucifer wants to use his powers but he is a man of his word. He rears his fist back to pummel your face when you roll out of the way at the last second. You scramble to your feet and reach into your pocket for one of the weapons you snagged from the Bunker.

They are Enochian Brass Knuckles. You read that these hurt even Lucifer and weaken him, and that’s exactly what you’re going to do to him. Lucifer rushes at you but you punch him in the jaw with the brass knuckles on your hand. He is flown back by the impact and into the table containing a bunch of documents.

You walk over to him and punch him in the nose, effectively breaking it. You step on his chest and apply pressure. The power from the brass knuckles is enough to take him down since they severely weaken even the strongest of archangels. Lucifer coughs and gasps from the pressure but doesn’t have enough strength to get you off him.

“Stay the fuck away from my son or I’ll do more than just punch you.” You get off him only to punch him in the chest with the brass rings. That seems to be enough to keep him down, and you turn to the demons who watch with wide eyes. “Anyone else want to go?” All four demons make the smart decision and smoke out of their bodies. You turn to Dean who is seriously impressed with your skill. You take out your pocket knife and cut him free of the ropes. “Come on, let’s go home.”

Dean doesn’t miss the way his heart flutters when you say “home”. The entire ride back home is silent since neither of you knows what to say. Sam has been early waiting for your return so when he hears the car come into the garage, he rushes out to you.

“What happened?” he asks when he sees the state both of you are in.

“I beat the hell out of Satan but not before he got in a few on Dean. Where’s Carter?”

“Asleep.”

“Okay. I’ll explain later. Right now, we have to go to the infirmary.”

“Y/N, I’m fine.”

“You’re going to the infirmary.”

Dean knows better than to argue with you. You take him down to the infirmary where you’re able to patch him up. He has cuts on his face that you get to work on cleaning, and he sits still and watches you. He’s done a good job of bottling his feelings up when it comes to you but after seeing what you did tonight, it causes that door to bust open. He can’t help himself when he lowers his head and cries.

“What’s wrong? Are you still bleeding?”

“I’m so sorry.” His voice sounds so small, and you know exactly what he’s talking about. Your heart hurts but you let him continue while you lift his face and clean his wounds. “I am so sorry for what I said to you. I never meant it.”

“Then why did you say it?” you ask quietly.

“Because I’m insecure. Everyone around me dies and I didn't want you to end up that way. I knew you wouldn’t have left so I said shit that would make you leave. I saw what you did back there. You’re not a bad hunter. I never meant for any of this to happen. I am so sorry.”

You set down the bloody rag and grab a cotton swab for the hydrogen peroxide. It’s minutes before you’re able to respond.

“Who are we kidding? I was a pretty bad aim back then,” you chuckle. “I couldn’t hurt a fly much less a monster.”

You dab the wet cotton swab on his wounds, and he hisses in pain.

“I’m sorry I missed out on our son’s life. I wish I could take it back.”

You sigh and put your cleaning supplies away. You grab a small butterfly bandaid to put over the largest cut over his cheekbone.

“Well, I guess staying here wouldn’t be such a bad thing. Carter loves it here… and so do I,” you whisper.

Dean catches you're eyes and smiles.

“Does this mean I’m forgiven?”

“No,” you shake your head, “but that doesn’t mean we can’t start over.” You stick your hand out to him. “Hi. I’m Y/N.”

Dean shakes his head and pulls you closer to him.

“Come here,” he smiles.

His kiss awakens something in you. His kiss is like coming up for air after being underwater for so long. His kiss is like taking a breath of fresh air after being in a stuffy room. His kiss is like stretching after being in one position for too long. His kiss is like scratching the itch that’s been bothering for you hours.

His kiss is like… home.

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targaryenrealnessdarling · 1 year

Text

A Stranger’s Hand (10)

Summary: With a broken heart and recent truths, the tourney for Helaena’s ladies finally begins.

Warnings: angst, some foul language, mention of blood, mentions of sex

A/N: This one’s a biggie at over 8.5k so STRAP IN. IT’S TOURNEY TIME

A Stranger Masterlist

Part 9 / Part 10 / Part 11

There is something extraordinary about heartbreak.

Something so overwhelmingly painful, so endlessly unbearable. And perhaps most of all, so mercilessly soul-crushing.

And yet, feels so human.

It is grief, fur-lined with fear that joy has forever escaped. It is the plate of food that you leave behind untouched. It is the uncomfortable shudder when the bath water has become too cold. It is staring distastefully at your shoes, and not having the strength to put them on. It is the flush of pink that has forever left your cheeks and migrated north to the corners of your eyes.

How could both happiness and heartbreak be two sides of the same coin, when they barely felt like they were of the same world.

In the human sense, it felt cruel, to allow people to feel what you felt at this very moment. And something that quite possibly many women before you had felt. How could the Gods have done this, to create such a feeling as this.

Perhaps it had not been part of their plan at all. And you wondered, did they pity mere mortals when they saw such despair? When they saw how something as raw, pure and visceral as love could descend into such turmoil.

Sometimes, when you clasp the sapphire necklace around your neck, you look at yourself in the mirror and think of all the things that have been said about you. That you are an inhuman female demon, that you are an innocent victim of a man-crazed forced against your will and in danger of your own life, that you were too ignorant to know how to act, that you had green eyes, that you had blue eyes, that you had both, that you have brown hair, that you have black hair, that you are of a resentful disposition with a quarrelsome temper, that you are a temptress, that you are a virgin, that you are cunning and devious, that you are soft in the head and little better than a fool and that you are a good girl with a compliant nature.

And you wonder, how you can be all these different things at once.

Sometimes when you are laying in bed, unable to sleep but too fearful to venture out into the dark, you whisper to yourself. Ambrose. Risley. Tarth. Thorne. All the men who over the past few days since the list was distributed, you learned would fight for your hand in marriage. Perhaps they would be kind. Or perhaps they would not. Perhaps they would insist on a bedding ceremony, and have their men tear their clothes from you at your marriage table, hands clamouring at your flesh as if you were a hen caught beneath the paw of a fox.

Perhaps they would take pity on you and prepare you for the duty of bearing their heirs kindly and slowly. Perhaps they would take you like the whore many supposed you were and that this meant they needn’t prepare you. Perhaps they would die quickly without planting their seed inside you. Perhaps they would live and continue to torture you with their unloving presence for years yet to come.

“Ambrose. Risley. Tarth. Thorne”

“Targaryen”

The name rouses a cloud of guilt and shame in your chest.

You thought of all this as the ache between your thighs where Aemond had been started to fade, a sore reminder.

They don’t understand. That guilt doesn’t come from the things you have done, but from the things that others have done to you.

Otto Hightower’s words are an incessant whisper in your left ear, ‘You see? How easy it is for an idea of a person to be forgotten’

And in your right, Aemond’s words from several weeks before, ‘We are wed in soul, my love’

You thought of your mother and what she would think of you. The whore or the maiden? And as Otto’s words racked around inside your head with lack of sleep, you thought more often of her and what hardships she had endured. What had happened to her, you wonder. You could almost see her face before you, but focussing on one part of her face meant that the others disappeared and blurred away into non-existence. And you wondered how long it would be before you could not remember any detail of her face. Did your father feel the same? Did he stare up at the canopy, trying to remember his wife’s face?

Despite being the middle of the night, there were still various servants strolling about the Keep in hurried manners. Preparing for traveling west to the grounds, for the tourney.

Grasping the navy robe around you tighter to make yourself appear smaller, you knocked on the oak doors, expecting a few seconds to go by before the voice would come. After all, it was the middle of the night. You looked at the moon, which was not quite full, and the longer you looked at it the further away it seemed to get.

“Lady Highgreen” came the voice of Larys Strong from between the crack of the door.

When you looked upon his face he looked expectant, almost pleased to see you at his door. For no other reason than to imagine what secrets he could draw from your pretty little mind.

“Lord Strong” you greet, not bothering to curtsy too deeply for him, “May I speak with you a moment?”

Almost too eagerly, he opened the door a slither more and allowed you to squeeze through unnoticed. His chambers were dark, lit only by candlelight, but part of you thought that perhaps it always looked like these even in the middle of the day. A sunny day and Larys Strong didn’t seem like they could co-exist together.

“I am very sorry to disturb you so late-”

“It is no bother, my Lady. Please sit” he interrupts. You tie your robe tighter out of nervousness and sit opposite where you had presumed he had been before your arrival. He limps over to a table to get another cup, “I assumed you might want some wine” he says. Again, not really a question, but more of an assumption. This time a correct one.

He gives that unreadable smile when he hands you the wine filled goblet, watching the ways you clasp your nervous fingers around it in your lap. You didn’t particularly like Larys, in fact finding him a little disconcerting, but what you did appreciate was that he was forward, to the point. Something you feel is lacking in Court most of the time.

This is proven by his opening line.

“I trust you are anxious for the tourney tomorrow”

With a curt nod, you take a sip from the cup, letting the slightly bitter wine linger a little.

“I have a duty, as does everyone else” is all you answer, but he acts like this answer is unsatisfying.

“But you do not want it”

At this, you meet his eyes. He is sitting opposite, his cane in his right hand, fingers stroking the pattern of the wood. You note that he is still dressed in his day wear, did this man ever sleep?

“I think I would be lying if I said I did, my Lord”

Larys huffs a laugh at that and you wonder for a moment what you said that was so funny. His mouth opens to say something but you endeavour to beat him to it.

“Forgive me, my Lord, but that is not why I am here”

He raises his eyebrows at the forwardness of it, but somewhat amused.

“Alright” he says, gripping his cane tighter, “then why are you here?”

The lack of formality does not surprise you. He is trying to be as unnerving as possible. A chill runs up your spine that you try to hide.

Taking in a breath, “I no longer wish to be tortured with the memory of my mother when I do not know what happened” you begin, “I wish to know about her, prior to my birth”

Larys cocks his head, “What would possess you to believe I know?”

You want to say, don’t be so cocky, but you need his cooperation, “I know my mother and father were here, both for their marriage and my birth. I believe you were here also, your father was Hand of the King at that time”

He smiles, but it falters for a moment before returning.

“Indeed. And what is it specifically that you would like to know?”

You take another sip of the wine, sending a jolt of confidence through you that you knew you’d need.

“I have heard some rumours about her, and I would like to know if there any truth to them” you start, fingers tracing the rim of your cup, “it is said she caused quite a bit of trouble, I know no more than that”

Larys’ smile seemed to fade at the mention of ‘trouble’ and averted his eyes, as if casting his mind back, to before a time where you were even born.

“I remember the wedding very well. Your mother was quite the picture. The Queen Mother, I believe, was present as a guest”

“So they were close?”

“They were inseparable. As if attached to the hip. I believe the Lord Hand may have been acquainted with your grandfather”

You nod your head in understanding. Perhaps you had not realised just how close your mother and Alicent had really been.

“The ceremony lasted well into the night, your mother and father were practically hanging off one another in love. It is a rare sight to see, for an arranged marriage”

“Why were they married here?”

“I would have thought the Queen Mother insisted on having it in the capital”

Larys sighed once he swallowed some more wine.

“Not two moons passed since the wedding when your father was hurried away for business and it didn’t take long for your mother to find herself in trouble”

You lean forward, “Trouble?...”

Larys smiled widely.

“It is said that your mother and her cousin, Lord Cameron Tarth, were discovered in a…compromising position within her chambers”

Despite the heat of the room, your blood suddenly ran cold in your veins and you shuddered, swallowing dryly. You tried to envision it, trying desperately to not let the opinion of many others colour the judgement of your late mother. For she was not here to defend herself.

You allow Larys to carry on.

“It is unclear exactly what transpired. Your mother was beside herself with hysteria for days. And only when your father returned did she finally come out of her chambers”

“What of Lord Cameron?” you ask. You are sure he is still alive, but had never truly met him.

Larys shrugs, “Some say he left for the Wall, others say he crossed the Narrow Sea. If one thing is certain he left King’s Landing with haste”

The answer doesn’t satisfy you and you’re left with a bad taste in your mouth.

“The rest are merely baseless rumours, but many in fact believed your mother had a brief affair with Lord Cameron. And not long after-”

“She was with child” you interrupt, looking up to meet his eyes, “Was she not?”

Larys merely nods, tapping a ring-clad finger on the rim of his cup, “Your mother was inconsolable. And I do not mean to offend you my Lady since you are living and breathing before me, but it was clear she did not desire to be with child”

You clear your throat, “And what of my father? What did he do?”

“Well…” he sighs, casting his mind back, eyes on the ceiling of his chambers, “...your father was annoyingly very indifferent, despite the King’s counsel. It created quite the fuss and because of all the commotion there was the fear that your father would lose allies”

The realisation hit you that this was why your father so diligently allied himself to the Greens when the Dance began. He must have felt the need to prove himself, even so many years later. It didn’t make you want to swipe the smug face off Otto’s face any less though.

“In my opinion, your mother’s image was saved entirely by the Queen Mother”

Your eyes meet him again, drawing up slowly from your lap.

“She would certainly have flung herself from the Tower of the Hand to end the pregnancy had the Queen Mother not been there to comfort her”

You ponder the answers you received for a moment, learning more here than a lifetime with your father. No wonder he was secretive about her, he had not wanted to uproot her memory and stir about such rumours again.

So you polish off the rest of the wine in your cup and clasp your hands before you, offering a small curtsy before making for the door.

“Thank you Lord Larys, I appreciate your honesty”

Watching you leave with a smirk, Larys responds, “It is no problem, Lady Highgreen”

Before placing your hand on the doorknob, you swivel on your spot, seeing Larys’ eyebrows raised to his hairline.

“I must ask” you begin, “why is it that there are no records of my mother being here?”

Now Larys looked confused, “Oh there certainly are. Just perhaps not where you would expect them to be”

Why is everyone so cryptic here, you think to yourself.

Without another word, you leave, with even more questions than what you started with. The sky that you had observed before was tinged with a light blue, the sun threatened to come over the horizon. Every hair on your arm stood on end and a shuddering breath escaped your mouth. Your father would be arriving soon no doubt. Part of you couldn’t stand the thought of returning to your chambers.

You chant once more.

“Ambrose. Risley. Tarth. Thorne”

Usually being up at the crack of dawn was no trouble to Aemond. He had always been early to rise. It meant that he could roam about and pretend for some while that the Keep was all his own.

But this morning he felt as if he could sleep the day away without issue.

The maids rushed about his room, laying out his clothes for the day ahead, scurrying away quickly when he pushed his torso from the mattress. With a heavy sigh, the pad of his index finger traced the scar that lined half of his face. It flared with irritation and a heat emanated from beneath the skin, making it much more sensitive than it would otherwise be. It was like his body knew the consequences of today, what hardships it would bring.

He ran his fingers through his silver hair to untangle the knots he had formed in his sleep, rising to observe the plane of land outside his window. A particularly itching feeling began in his chest to look down to see if you were asleep in your usual spot, as you so often were in the months at the Keep. And how he wished he hadn’t. For when he looked down, you were there, eyes softly closed and basking in the morning sunlight, a cloud of warm breath expelled from your mouth every so often with the chill of the dawn.

Begrudgingly, he pulled his clothes over his body, making an extra effort to appear more formal and put-together. He pulled the strap over his eye and had barely attached it when a knock at his chamber door sounded.

Sigh, “Enter”

He immediately regretted his harsh tone when he saw who it was.

“Helaena”

She looked sombre, with dark circles under her eyes, and the top of her nose was pink as if she had been weeping. She was dressed also, today donning a cream gown with yellow detailing. She was always one for lighter colours, in stark contrast to her younger brother.

Not a moment sooner was the door closed when Helaena rushed over to the window, “Is she still there?” she asked.

Thoroughly confused, Aemond could only guess who she was speaking of, “Yes, she is”

“Good. I need to speak to you”

Aemond stood awkwardly as if waiting and took a seat. Despite her hurried state, the Queen merely stood there, mouth agape, forming the words in her head first.

So it was Aemond who spoke first. And he might as well speak plainly on a day like this.

“She knows, Helaena”

Helaena met his gaze, as if it was the same thing she was going to say.

“She knows about Alys”

Aemond had never told Helaena outright about the relationship he had begun with you. But he knew, she knew. She would always know everything that happened, whether she wanted to or not. A blessing and a curse at the same time.

“You and I both know that none of it is true” Aemond began,

“Of course, we know, but she does not” Helaena began to pace about the room, “Our dear grandfather has put the idea in her head that it was a fully fledged relationship, with a child!”

Aemond huffed, even casting his mind back was incredibly difficult to do. The war, realistically, was not that long ago. But the scars felt by them were still fresh.

“It was nothing like what he said”

“She manipulated you, Aemond. And lied through her teeth to advance that child to the throne”

Aemond’s left side of his face inflames irritably.

“She sought her chance and paid the price, no more need be said about it”

“There does when she believes you indifferent to her” Helaena argues,

“Rather she hates me for believing I would abuse her in such a way” Aemond murmurs in response, fingers tapping at the side of the armchair.

“Well then do something about it, Aemond!”

The younger brother is silenced at his sister’s volume. A rare sight to behold. Her lilac eyes bore into his and the intensity of it makes him want to turn away. Some said there was little fire in Helaena, but this wasn’t true. There was fire, but in her words.

“I cannot stand you moping around allowing her to marry somebody else” she huffs,

“It is not only my decision, Helaena. And who is to say she would even accept me now?”

“Do you hear yourself?” she asks almost too angry to form words, “If you offered your hand to her, do you think her father would be in any position to refuse?”

“Only if I participated for her hand”

“So why don’t you?”

Aemond purses his lips and looks up. If there is one thing he hates, it is to be reproached.

But Helaena, with that aforementioned fire, does not back down, “Your pride?” she asks.

“Helaena” he sighs.

A muffled squeal is heard through the glass of the windows and Helaena looks out, seeing that your father had surprised you with his arrival by sneaking up on you in the gardens. You had your arms thrown around him, positively joyous at his arrival. For a second, the despair disappears from your face, but the moment your father turns his back, the unmistakable drop is there.

Helaena inhales sharply, looking towards her younger sibling, “They will all be here soon. I shall hope you make your decision on what is more important soon. Your pride or her”

Aemond felt he’d had the air knocked from him once Helaena had left. His scar was sore as was his mind, swimming with thoughts. He knew he had to act. He had felt what it was to have her, not only in body but in mind and soul. Aemond had a taste of what it was to feel someone’s kindness touch him so intimately and now he did not have it, he felt the sheer chasm of loneliness that the lack of her touch would allow him to fall into. The blackened abyss of what it was to watch someone you loved walk away.

No, he thought.

This couldn’t happen.

This will not happen.

He was a fucking Targaryen.

And by the Gods, he cursed himself for forgetting the words of his own house.

Four carriages were lined up for the ladies, their fathers and Queen Helaena. Seven ladies in total were queued up to board their respective carriages, hands clasped before them, their gazes stuck on their feet before them. They looked so sombre and depressed that there may as well have been chains clanging between their wrists. Instead their father’s hand wrapped around their arms, some harshly and some with indifference.

Arm in arm with your father, his large, comforting hand on yours, your other hand bunched up the skirt of your dress to allow you to step up into the carriage.

“You look exquisite, child” your father said, taking his spot opposite you.

You merely smiled at his compliment, brushing some dust from your skirts. The maids had chosen all different colours for each of Helaena’s ladies, all varying shades of soft pastels. You noted that each house wore loosely a colour that their house represented, with Lady Lannister looking the most striking in a soft shade of crimson. Of course, it had meant that you wore a soft, pale blue with golden accents, akin to the bird that donned the sigil of House Highgreen.

A vaguely golden figure shuffles into the carriage and Helaena sighs as her back meets the seat. The Kingsguard murmurs nervously outside,

“My Queen, this is not your carriage-”

She merely closes the door to ignore him, barely turning her head to meet yours, she reaches over and takes your hand, intertwining her fingers into yours. She sighs again and closes her eyes, almost appearing as nervous as you, though there was little need for her to be.

Your father chooses not to say anything, instead busying himself with the view outside, watching the landscape go by before taking the road to the Waterfront to make the hour-long journey to the Tourney Grounds.

Helaena’s hand remains in yours the entire way. She had so much to say, but could not in the company of your father. So as much as it pained her to do so, she remained quiet. But you knew she was thinking of you when her grip tightened every so often.

“Will the King be in attendance, my Queen?” your father asked, knowing the answer but intent on making some conversation.

Helaena forced a smile, “Indeed, my Lord” she said quietly, “my husband prefers to ride on Sunfyre if it is nice weather”

You furrow your brows at this. It was most certainly not nice weather, in fact, it was so cloudy that at any moment the clouds could have opened to bring forth a storm. And because of the anticipation of it, it locked in the humid heat, making the air uncomfortable to breathe.

Aegon had most likely ridden the dragon to be rid of female company while he could.

“I hear Prince Daeron will be visiting from Oldtown for the tourney, your Grace”

“A rare occurrence indeed. All of us are rarely in the same place at once these days” Helaena says, squeezing your hand. It was almost painful the way her slender fingers gripped yours, but the pain barely reached you.

Instinctively, your fingers came to your necklace, turning over the pendant over and over again in a nervous gesture. The glint of the sapphire made your father look over briefly, his own fingers twisting his wedding ring. The whispers of what Larys had told you whirred around your brain and looking at your father now only made them louder. Would he ever have told you about her? For some reason, you don’t think so.

The carriage jolted to a stop, making your heart lurch from your chest.

Ambrose. Risley. Tarth. Thorne.

They echoed like a curse. Like the curse of being a woman.

Your father exited the carriage first, then Helaena, who never released her hand from yours.

“Y/n” she said quietly, in a hushed voice, “Look at me”

You obey her without question.

“...there is a broken shield…the ground opens up…he has black armour…”

She begins her usual babbling when she is nervous, “Helaena..” you say in comfort, trying to use her name to break her from her trance.

Her lilac eyes meet yours and both of her hands hold yours.

“You must be ready”

And just like that. She is gone.

You watch the back of her disappear in the crowd of her ladies, not knowing anything of what she meant.

You half-run to your father, taking his hand. His usual smile is something so comforting, but now, on the brink of a marriage proposal, seems so distant. He watches as you smile sadly at him, tears glazing your eyes and his hand rests on your face,

“Oh my sweet girl” he says lovingly, his mouth barely moving beneath his beard.

All notions of doubt were cast away with those words. It reminds you of being a child again. But most of all it serves to remind you that you are his daughter, and he is your father.

You barely register your head leaning against his hand, but before you can find further solace in him, you turn away. What you said with your eyes needn’t be said out loud and your hand lingers in his for a moment before you join the rest of the ladies. One lady in a blush dress is being berated by her father, with words such as ��stop crying’ and ‘stop this ridiculousness’ being popular phrases.

You walk alongside Lady Lannister, who has resorted to silence, simply staring up at the dark clouds overhead, watching the sun as it tries to force its light between them.

She takes your hand as you file into your seats, all sitting in the front row. Helaena has the centre spot beside you, right opposite where the King would be seated. But he was not here yet and very well may be late to his own tourney.

Your eyes scanned the opposite seats. There was a seat akin to a throne for Aegon, two beside him and another next to those which Alicent was seated in. On Aegon’s left there would be his youngest brother, Prince Daeron and on his right, would be Prince Aemond. But all three were empty. On the other side, sat as surly as ever, was Otto Hightower. It was difficult to know for certain, but his eyes seemed to flit between you and his granddaughter, Helaena. His words were still haunting your idle mind, and it rang there like a curse.

You feel Lady Lannister’s leg twitch with nervousness as you look over to Alicent, nodding when you meet eyes. Her expression is distant and she immediately looks away once she gives a smile of greeting, staring into a random void that was anywhere but here.

A band of at least a dozen men clad in armour began to file onto the field before you, while the staff began to write the schedule on the board for all to see. You watched them write all the names, gut wrenching to see that your name was placed last, right after Lady Lannister. And as well as that, the names of the men who submitted names were also written there.

It made your furrow your brows. All names were in alphabetical order, save yours. And when your eyes spotted your father sat on the opposing stands, his brows were scrunched together in question as well.

A ray of sun poked from between two dark clouds as Aegon advanced to his spot with another silver haired young man, who you presumed was Daeron. Daeron the Daring, they called him, for his endeavours during the Dance. And from this angle, as he sat and observed the people before him, no wonder he had earned the nickname, for he looked every bit as mischievous as you had expected him to be.

The band began to play when Aegon took his seat, initiating the beginning. At this you furrowed your brows. Aemond was not here. A little part of your heart that still had some hope died immediately and your spare hand clenched the skirts of your dress, stress overtook your senses and you felt like you could vomit right there and then.

Helaena leaned to you, “I will not let you go” she whispered.

More cryptic messages, you thought.

“I thank you all for joining me on this joyous day” Aegon’s voice immediately halted everyone, and all eyes were suddenly on him. There was a slight slur to his voice as he continued, “Let the tourney for Queen Helaena’s ladies, begin”

His eyes were trained on you it seemed as he sat down, a goblet of wine instantly materialising in his hand. The band’s music was a welcome distraction to all the chuntering and whispering going on amongst the ladies, especially the lady who was first to have her hand fought for. Two men mounted their horses in their respective colours and the lady seemed to weep silently just watching.

She clutched her flowered favour in her hands, almost so tight that she crushed the petals. Other women resorted to letting their eyes wander, and when you did, you could see the outline of Kings Landing with Aegon’s High Hill visible only barely beneath the blanket of dark clouds.

The clash of swords made you jump in your spot and a high-pitched male cry sounded out, cheers and clapping erupting from the stands as one man was pushed from his horse. A trail of thick blood followed his limping form as he clutched his leg, his ancestral sword still firmly in his grip.

It was only when the winning bachelor raised his sword that his opponent dropped his weapon, “I yield!” he shouts, not wishing to risk either more blood nor his life for the likes of a woman.

More silent tears adorn the lady’s cheeks as she stands, lowering her favour onto the winner’s sword. In truth she may have been more upset at the bloodshed than at the prospect of marrying the victor, for he was known to be quite kind and not bad on the eyes. Nonetheless, she took her seat once more as her flowers decorated the hilt of his weapon and he took his leave with a big grin on his face.

If the first one was quick, the following tourneys were slow. Some of the ladies had as many as six men fighting for their hand, so often it would result in hand to hand combat, with swords swinging, cutting the very air around them. The thud of their swords on shields was enough to send a dull chill into the spines of the spectators, with their hearts making a similar noise.

You look up to see Aegon lean over in his seat, speaking with Alicent. Whatever he asks, he has to repeat over the noise of the band, shouting and cheering and the only thing you read on his lips is ‘Aemond’. Alicent shrugs her shoulders and Aegon turns back to lock eyes with you, peering over the rim of his goblet. Flitting between you and Helaena as if in question.

Otto never takes his firm gaze off you for more than a few moments as the hours drag on.

You finally breathe when the intermission begins. Six out of Helaena’s ten ladies now have their prospective husbands, and at least half of them would not stop weeping. So you followed the ladies as they all crowded to the refreshments, most if not all of the ladies with a generous cup of wine in their hands. When you look across the clearing, something jumps inside your chest when you see your father smiling jovially in conversation with Alicent Hightower and for the first time all day it felt like, she was smiling along with him.

“Lady Highgreen”

The familiar voice of Otto Hightower behind you soured your mood instantly. Begrudgingly, you turn to face him and offer a slight curtsy, not quite making all the effort.

“My Lord Hand, how are you today” you ask flatly, not hiding the annoyance on your features.

Much like you have seen Aemond do with other people, he revels in the discomfort he brings and smiles, “It is a fine day for a tourney” he comments.

Why does everyone keep saying that, you think, it is foul weather.

But you just nod your head, taking a sip of wine and steal a glance at your father. His smile has dropped once he sees who is speaking with you.

When Otto realises you will not dignify him with a response, he continues, “I hope the Prince’s absence is not of your doing” he says.

You cock your head at him, “I know nothing of his whereabouts, Lord Hand”

“Do not play coy with me” he warns, his voice low and serious. Quiet as well, to not upset your father, who is still watching.

Your ring finger taps against the goblet, eyes averted.

“There is no great plot. Whether the Prince is present or not is of no great advantage to me”

“And I was born yesterday” he answers.

You lock eyes.

“I have not spoken to him. Nor has he spoken to me. As I asked” You counter his words.

“Do you expect me to believe that. Truly?”

“Believe as you wish, Lord Hand. I have said my truth”

Otto is about to return the favour, when your father crosses the clearing, intent to talk to you. And like a cockroach in the ray of light, Otto scurries away, not even sending your father a mere greeting.

“What did the Lord Hand want?” your father asks and you’re shocked by his rather serious tone, as he is so usually found with a smile on his face. But now he watches Otto walk away, as if making sure he is truly leaving. Burning a brand into the back of the man’s head.

“He spoke of the tourney, nothing more”

Your father knows this is a lie, but does not explore further as he looks down at you, an ever-fatherly protective expression on his face.

“You are on Otto’s bad side, when you ought to be on his blind side, dear daughter”

“Father?...”

A look flashes across his face and he lovingly places a kiss to your forehead, almost instantly snapping back into his usual persona. You go to open your mouth once more, but in a flash he is gone. And even when you look back across the clearing, Alicent is gone as well. Each of them feeling more like a ghost the longer the day went on.

As you all filed back to your seats, Lady Lannister stuck to one side of you and Helaena to the other, you gripped the favour in your lap. It was a ring of blue flowers, the ones that grew knee high in the fields at Green Hill and the only ones that were native to that region of Westeros. They were tied with white and golden ribbon, colours to reflect House Highgreen once more.

You watched as the tourney ramped up once more and now with wine in their bellies, it had become significantly more violent. Two young men had already been carried away with what appeared to be life-changing injuries and now it seemed like the men were purely doing it out of enjoyment and not at the prospect of marriage.

Seven men lined one side of the grounds, their respective betrothed’s favours around their weapons. Then eight. The ninth tourney begins and two of the men who fight for Lady Lannister had also placed their names for you also, but whether that would happen was another thing entirely. Lady Lannister took in a breath and gripped your hand tightly and who were you to refuse her this kindness? This comfort.

The two men grunted like animals, almost matching the sounds their horses were making as the two began to fight. You sit and watch the sun disappear beneath the dark clouds, seeing how the rain begins to fall somewhere far away and threatens to come closer. But just as quickly, the fight is complete and Victor of House Risley lays flat on the floor, his leg facing a direction it most certainly shouldn’t be. His shield that donned his house sigil is completely shattered.

The crowd erupts in applause and Lady Lannister’s fate is sealed with Rickard of House Thorne. Her father across is clapping and nodding in approval as she stands and places her favour on the tip of his sword, watching as it sways to the hilt towards his face, which smiles up at her. He has a kind enough face and you only hope that she is at least happy. When she takes her seat once more, she no longer weeps and does not reach for your hand. It is as if her soul is taking refuge within herself.

Since Victor is critically injured and Rickard had claimed Lady Lannister as his betrothed, that left two men for you. Marq of House Ambrose and Bryndemere of House Tarth. You swallow dryly and grip the favour, now empathising with what the previous ladies had all felt. Briefly, you look over at your father, almost in a last-ditch effort to plead for him to call it all off. But he merely looks on as Victor is hauled away screaming. By now the ground is wet with blood.

“I feel sick…” you whisper to yourself. But Helaena must have heard you, as she places her warm, comforting palm on your knuckles, peering over to see your expression.

“We will not let you go” she says.

The two remaining men enter the field and you hold your breath, fearing that if you let go, so would the dam that was holding your tears back. Marq is wearing silver armour with trims of yellow in reflection of his house and he barely offers a glance in your direction as his squire laces up his gloves. Bryndemere on the other hand, with lance in hand, cannot tear his eyes off you. You think that this is not because of some infatuation, but more so that you two were well-acquainted as children, being distantly related through your mother’s Tarth side. He almost has an sympathetic expression, before placing his lacquered black helmet upon his person, matching with the rest of his armour.

You close your eyes, intent on not watching at all. But the first clash of weapons is too bone-shattering to ignore and you jump in your seat, gripping Helaena’s hand tighter. You feel a protective part of you flare as Bryndemere is flung from his horse, gasping for air as he’s hit square in his chest. His father stands on the opposite side, mouth agape, to see if his son is alright.

Marq, on the other hand, merely dismounts with a swagger in his step towards him, drawing his ancestral sword from his side to strike down. Once again, a shield is shattered, with its piercing splinters flying about. Marq’s laugh echoes inside his helmet as he raises his weapon to strike.

“I yield!” Bryndemere begs.

With a sigh, a part of your dam breaks and you close your eyes, several tears fall down your face. Ambrose it is.

Victorious, Marq removes his helmet and revels in the cheers of the audience. His own father is clapping, almost deafening the man next to him. You place Helaena’s hand back on her lap and stand, hand finding purchase on the beam before you when you sway uncontrollably on the spot. When his eyes land on you, you swear it activates a different part of your subconscious that tells you to run.

But instead he waltzes towards you, extending his sword for your favour.

No sooner do you take one step and the entire audience falls into silence. A great sound is heard like no other that echoes about the deserted land around you. While difficult to describe, it was only akin to the crumbling of stone, the crash of waves against rock and the chaos of a great fire. A single drop of rain falls between your feet when you look around. It seems like the world holds its breath, ready to hear it once more.

It happens again but closer, all the wind knocked from everyone’s lungs when the very ground sways beneath you, rocking the stands. While it is too close for comfort, a great dragon claw grips the ground behind the stand and the very earth opens up to reveal the damp mud below, the unmistakable tracks left behind.

With your breath heaving in your throat and ground still moving beneath you like being aboard a ship, you look up. It is distant enough that it’s almost difficult to see, but it is Vhagar’s large head that turns around the stand to let out her famously loud cry, sending the dust in the air vibrating. Your watery eyes track her scales up her neck to her back where there was his silhouette sitting atop the mighty dragon. He was sat calmly, the only movement was his stark silver hair against the darkened clouds.

Women screamed, some even fainted at the sight of Vhagar. And you did not see, for your eyes were locked on his form, but Aegon and Otto both stood from their seats. Aegon had a confusing look on his face, not able to tell if he was amused or annoyed. Otto on the other hand was seething from head to toe, shaking his fists. Alicent had her hand on her seven-pointed star necklace at her chest. Daeron stayed seated and smiled, as if saying finally, something interesting.

“Aemond…” were the only words that came from your mouth in a whisper.

Helaena almost laughed with glee.

You can feel the first smattering of rain on the side of your face as the wind picks up, showering droplets onto your face. You swear you see him turn his face down to look at you, but the distance makes it impossible to tell. What you can see is how naturally he dismounts his great dragon, a helmet in the shape of a dragon head in one hand.

Only when he approaches does everyone get a good look at him. His hair is down but pulled away from his face, his eyepatch fixed in place over it. He has one hand on the hilt of his sword and the other is holding his helmet, his gaze is locked on yours for a moment and you forget briefly how to breathe. He doesn’t look anything like you remember him.

When you think of Aemond and his presence, he seemed stoic, impassive and very much an observer. His aura was intimidating in general, but as time went on this front crumbled before you to reveal a sensitive, emotional human behind it all.

But now. There was something else in his eyes and not necessarily when it was aimed at you, but something had taken root there.

Marq made the mistake of opening his mouth in a smile, “My Prince! So nice to see you”

Aemond didn’t return the greeting, only granting him a darkened look.

“I’ve come to duel for Lady Highgreen’s hand”

The words that come from Aemond’s mouth almost make you weak and you barely feel Helaena’s kind hands guide you back into your seat, her thumb stroking your skin.

Marq huffs a laugh, “My Prince I am afraid I have claimed her hand for myself already. Fair and square”

Helaena swallows and the audience as well as the band are deathly quiet. Afraid that if one sound was made that it would shatter the tension between them. Aemond’s smile almost makes everyone more uneasy.

“I see no favour on your sword, Lord Ambrose” he draws his own sword slowly and hands it to a squire, who visibly shakes, “Do you refuse your Prince?” he smiles.

Marq swallows dryly, clearly nervous. He knows it, he is damned if he does and damned if he doesn’t. The Prince wishes to toy with him and he is in no position to refuse. Rather, he needs to put up a good fight.

“And where is your name on the board, Prince Aemond?” Marq questions it, but it’s clear from the shake in his voice how he feels, “You would take away what is rightfully mine?”

When Marq talks of you as if you are an object to be bartered for, a noticeable chill runs up your spine.

Little does he know that his bark is only giving Aemond more satisfaction.

“Hm” he seems amused, “Rightfully or no, duel me or I will take her to Dragonstone myself and make her my wife”

A few womanly gasps emit from the stand, half in shock at the scandalousness of it, the other half seem to look on smiling. Your breath catches in your throat at the vulgarity of what he threatens Marq with, but in reality, a little part of you that had that love left for him begins to unfurl.

When Aemond gets no response, the squire hands his sword back to him once he’s placed his helmet on and he points the tip towards the Ambrose man.

“Either way, Ambrose, she will be my wife. And she will be mine”

You can’t tell if you’re afraid or thankful for what Aemond says. Your father looks absolutely shocked and you’re not sure if that’s entirely a good thing.

But Marq of House Ambrose, in front of all these people, is not likely to swallow his pride and yield. Instead, he places his own helmet back on and gets into a readied stance. For a brief second you dare to flit across to the King and his family.

Alicent looks half-shocked and half-relieved, Aegon and Daeron are amused. Otto is most certainly not and you dare say, he will make his distaste for it all obvious once the tourney is over, whether the result is favourable to you or not.

As skilled a swordsman as Aemond is, your heart lurches in your chest at the mere thought of him risking any injury for this. You had thought many men who fought here today were brave and skilful and yet some had lost limbs for the sake of a betrothal. Your fingernail dug into your palm to distract you from the emotional turmoil you felt in this moment. Tugging in two directions. One tugs in the way of heartbreak, the thought that something inside you had been lost forever at the revelation several nights ago. On tugs in the way of hope, a hope that despite all that, he did feel something.

The first clash of swords rings out, followed by a sharp swish as Aemond pushes Marq away with his weapon. You just know that Aemond is smiling beneath the helmet he is wearing, loving the humiliation he imagines Marq must be feeling. The two continue this dance for several minutes, mostly because Aemond revels in the torture that this must be for the audience. Marq delivers his own flat strike onto Aemond’s shoulder and whether he is pretending or not, it clashes on his armour and sends him to his knees.

In a stroke of confidence, Marq straddles Aemond and attempts to plunge the sword down beneath him with a loud grunt. You wince when he parries it, sending the two longswords flying a fair distance. Aemond hooks his foot beneath Marq’s leg, flipping him so the poor Ambrose man is on his front, writhing around while the Prince’s foot is flat in the centre of his back.

You almost jump out of your seat when Aemond draws his dagger, pulling Marq’s head up from the dirt by his hair to place the blade beneath his neck. It shocks you. You’ve never seen Aemond act so brutal before. And it stirs something inside you which has never seen the light of day before.

Aemond almost looks bored when he says it.

“Say it”

“I yield” Marq hisses, but Aemond pulls his hair even more so.

“Louder, so they can hear you”

Aemond locks eyes with you now and you can see his lilac eye shimmer in the darkness of his helmet.

He sighs when Marq doesn’t respond, so he pushes the dagger so it is flush with the tender skin of his throat.

“I can’t hear you”

“I fucking yield!”

Once Aemond pulls off his helmet, the audience erupts into thunderous applause. He makes no big show about it, egging them on, and instead keeps his eye firmly on you. The rain falls thick and fast now and your waves form locks as they dampen, it makes the dried tears on your face appear as if it’s just rain now and you feel a warm trickle of it run down your neck.

Without breaking his gaze from you, he raises his hand to pull off his eyepatch and stands before you at the stands, bending to pick up his longsword that had been launched in the duel. He twists the hilt in his palm a few times and stays still as the applause continues.

You look down at him, still clutching your favour in your hand, the petals now moulded to the shape of your grip. For a moment you consider if his mournful look is an apology. As if despite the show he had put on, he was still asking for your hand. And only when he was sure he would be forgiven, would he raise his sword to accept your favour.

He appears tired, you now see. And he thinks the same of you. Weak and pale, as if all warmth has disappeared. It’s here, with the absence of the eyepatch, that you see how red and inflamed his scar looks, and how much he must ache. For a moment, you glance over at Vhagar who is almost watching the interaction with as much interest as the audience, her throat rumbles when your eyes catch her.

Only when you look back at Aemond does he mouth, my love. Almost in a question.

Your body moves before your mind and you stand, letting Helaena’s hand slip out of yours and she watches with a child-like glee at the scene before her. You give a very slight smile as you reach out, the tip of his sword is within reach. The rain penetrates your clothing into your skin as the flowers float to the hilt of his sword, you exhale with a wracked laugh, finally allowing a genuine smile to pass your features.

Aemond looks a mixture of relieved and happy when the flowers reach his sword. He ignores the stares of his family, of your father and of everyone else; his attention is specifically you. And for as long as he lives, will only ever be you.

You barely register Aemond’s arm reaching out to wrap around your waist, suddenly feeling embarrassed when he effortlessly lifts you off the stands. The smile is unmistakable on his face now as the audience shout and cheer for the dramatics the Prince is offering. He leads you by your hand back towards Vhagar, the pleading voice of Alicent and your father becomes muffled and distant. Aemond seems a man charged with power when he lifts you to the saddle in front of him wrapping the reins around your waist.

“Sōvēs” is all he commands to his dragon.

“Aemond…!” you shout in shock as Vhagar lifts her feet to flap her wide wings, naturally grasping his arm to keep you stable. A natural dragon rider, Aemond barely sways in his spot and keeps his arm around your waist as the rain pounds down, mixing with the mud and blood on the tourney grounds. In the distance, as Vhagar lifts to the sky, Marq of House Ambrose is being berated by his father. And you briefly see your father stand where he was sat in the stands, a proud smile on his face.

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veeisdunn · 1 year

Text

Distractions

This is a sequel to You and me

Arthur Shelby x sister!reader

warning: description of self-harm scars

WC: 2.4K

MASTERLIST

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

You were having a crisis. It had been around two weeks since your attempt and you had done so well, but then you nearly fucked it up. You felt like you were stuck in a cruel conundrum. If you spoke to a family member, they would probably end up hiding all sharp objects which would certainly make them resent you even more than they already did. Alternatively, if you didn’t, they would be immensely disappointed to inevitably discover that you’d broken your promise in a little under twenty days.

Deep down, you knew the right thing to do. You desperately craved the comfort of your twin, Finn, but he was fuck knows where doing fuck knows what.

Maybe he doesn’t want to be around me.

Deep down, you knew this was a stupid assumption, but your irrational side was screaming at you: You are dragging him down.

“It’s you and me, Y/N.” Did he still mean it? After all these years?

Fuck, I need help I need help.

You pulled your aching body off your groaning bed, your bones clicking after being curled in an unnatural position for the best part of a day. You resolved to sweep the house, if no one was there to help her, you'd give in and relapse. But, if someone was there, you'd keep her promise to Tommy.

You secretly wished Ada still lived with you and didn’t run off to London. Your elder sister offered her vital comfort on the phone after Polly told her what had transpired.

“I need you, Y/N. I can’t deal with all these Shelby men without my Shelby girl.”

You could ring Ada, but she didn’t want to disrupt Karl’s day by upsetting his mum, or god forbid cause Ada to put her life on hold and visit.

Your fragile frame trudged down the creaky wooden stairs, the home where you grew up. You once chased your brothers up these stairs as a child - before the world went to shit; but now they’ve all moved out, even Polly had a house. It left just you and Finn, along with any visiting family member or friend. The house was so dead and empty. Selfishly you missed when the whole family was under one roof - before the war.

You snapped yourself out of your reminiscing, now was no time for fantasies.

“Y/N?” A gruff voice called out from the living room - Arthur - shit.

As much as you idolised your eldest brother, you never had any deep, emotional talks due to your wide age gap (twenty-one years, to be precise) along with your fear surrounding Arthur’s addiction and his anger. Things only got worse whenever he and his wife fought. That’s probably why he was there.

“Y/N, love?” He repeated.

You cautiously shuffled towards the oak door of the living room and shoved it open. Immediately, you were hit with a wall of warmth and the stench of cigarette smoke.

“I’ve been waiting on ya. Thought you’d lock yourself up there forever.” Arthur sighed, putting his cigarette out and discarding it in the glass ashtray on the table. He glanced up at you and saw the all too familiar feelings of despair and sadness flooding your face. The pain radiated off you. It crushed him to see that you were feeling the same anguish he once felt. Despite his eyes on you, you remained still.

Arthur shifted over and gestured to the sofa next to him, a pleading look in his eyes. You hesitated, but then caved and sunk down next to him. His aura engulfed you like a blanket.

“What’s going on little’un?” he questioned, attempting to expel the gruff undertone from his voice

“Nothing. I - I just wanted to say hi.” you mumbled in response, evidently lying.

Arthur didn’t respond. He instead gave you a look, as if to say “bullshit.”

“I just…” Your voice broke “I don’t want to be alone right now.” You sniffled, not looking him in the eyes, instead focusing on your knees.

He sighed. He desperately wanted to help you, he empathised, but it was sometimes hard to force the words out. What would Tommy do? What would Polly do? What would Ada do?

“Then, let’s stay here together.” he half-smiled, you only hummed in response.

“Can you - can we talk about this?” Arthur stammered, immediately regretting his word choice. “I mean - do you want to talk about it?”

You didn’t respond, you stayed still. Your rational brain was telling you to spill everything, vomit your thoughts up. However, your darker side wanted your thoughts to stay locked alone.

Your fear was palpable. You wanted Finn. You and Arthur had never spoken about this. When he found out about your attempt, he broke into a fit of rage, leaving a trail of destruction - smashed glass, dented furniture - behind him. To his credit, he did try to apologise to you, but you remained silent throughout the ordeal.

"Sister." Arthur choked "I'm sorry for scaring you. I was just in my rage, you know? But… but not at you! just myself."

You glanced up at him, tears silently falling down his cheeks. You had no words left in you, so you did the only thing you could: held him. It was ironic because really you were the one who needed comforting right now, but you knew Arthur was in just as deep shit as yourself.

"I - I just feel…" your voice whispered out to him "I feel like a failure."

Immediately, the older man's bloodshot eyes widened. Had she - ?

"What did you do? It’s ok." He sure didn’t sound like it was ok.

"I swear, nothing, yet."

"Can I have a look?"

Arthur hadn't actually seen but your self-inflicted injuries were described to him in vivid detail by a very traumatised Finn. Despite this, nothing could have prepared him for what he was about witness, physical evidence making the gravity of your situation more real.

You were far too embarrassed to reveal your handiwork to him, so you instead rested your wrist on his leg to let him discover them.

"my jumper" he smiled, "but it smells too clean."

You chuckled through your pouring tears.

Cautiously, he lifted up the cuff. It revealed a few large, burning scabs, still outlined by a deep crimson. It also revealed the start of Tommy's row of stitches. The cut couldn't be as long as they said, right?

Arthur looked up at you for some kind of reassurance, but your eyes were locked on your arm. He leaned in closer to your shaking body and continued.

The black channel of parallel lines seemed to never end. He continued to slide up your sleeve, nearing your elbow. Anyone could tell how bad the cut was by the deep channel forming between the two sides. It almost looked like a stab wound, but way too large. As the sleeve bunched up and rested on your elbow, the forming scar ended.

"shit." Arthur mumbled in disbelief "can I check the other?"

The process on your right wrist was considerably faster. Much to Arthur's relief, it was still populated by the old scarring he'd been warned of. Horizontal, raised bumps ran across your arm. In a messed up way, it reminded him of trenches on the battlefield.

"D'ya promise there ain't no others?" he spoke in a low, soothing voice. You nodded your head rapidly. "I'll get Finn or Polly to check fully later, ok?"

"thank- thank you" your voice shook

"So, why're we feeling like a failure, ay?"

"Because, I - I just can't be strong. I'm meant to be strong." you cried

"says who?" Arthur countered

"I - just everything. You are all strong, and I can't do it."

"You think I'm strong? I can assure you I'm no different to you, same with Tom."

You looked up, shocked at his forwardness.

"This," Arthur picked up your stitched wrist and held it tendering in his cracked hand "this is just a physical sign of the pain you feel. We all feel pain. We all do stupid shit because of it, there ain't nothing to be ashamed of in this family."

You let a small smile tease the edge of your lips. Your were scared Arthur hated you for it, but he clearly cared way more than you'd realised.

"There's that smile, ay?" Arthur cooed, your eyes locking.

"I thought you hated me." you sobbed, confused.

He was taken aback to hear those words coming from your mouth. He and Polly raised you and Finn. He could have sworn you were a little child last year, but now you was all grown up and in a lot of pain.

"yeah? says who? don't listen to those voices, listen to me, ok?" He gripped your shoulders with his hands and pulled you in so your faces were nearly touching. "I love you, I love you so much"

His tender words made you lose it. You were surprised that you even had tears left, resting your forehead against his shoulder. Arthur wrapped his arms tightly around you and patted your back rhythmically, humming something incoherent.

"I'm sorry I made you mad with yourself, Arthur. I swear none of this is your fault." You gazed back up at her older brother, guilt clouding your vision. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you when we spoke before, you must have felt bad."

He didn't respond, just shushed you and kept a reassuring hand on your back. They remained in that position until your cries subsided and Arthur had composed himself.

He let out a strained cough to clear his throat of tears and tobacco. "What are we going to do ay? Gotta keep your big mind occupied."

You knew what you desperately wanted: Finn. But you hated to admit that to Arthur. Finn needed a break. You didn't want Arthur to think you didn't want him.

"Can we go on a walk?" You asked, yearning for fresh air and a change of scenery

He slapped his knees and stood up slowing. "I probably need the exercise anyway for the ole lungs"

You laughed again.

Arthur trudged to the door, throwing on his trench coat and cap. You shuffled behind him and wrapped your coat around your body, enjoying its warmth and softness - one of Ada's posh hand downs.

Outside, the frigid evening air enveloped Watery Lane, however the setting sun cut through the fog leaving an amber haze.

“Where’re we off to then, Y/N?”

You hummed in thought, “The Cut? It should be quiet.”

And you were off, your elbows interlinked. Arthur rambled about nearly anything he could think of - mostly Linda. You enjoyed hearing your troubled brother talk about his future - how he want a baby and a quaint house in the country.

“And I want you there playing in the grass with little Arthur junior!”

“And what if it’s a girl?”

“Little Linda! I dunno!”

He told you stories of you and Finn as small children. How Arthur would bounce Finn on his shoulders or chase you around the house in circles, much to the dismay of literally everyone else (Polly). You spoke about how during the war, if there was a problem, you and Finn would play “What would Arthur/Tommy/John do?” (depending on the day) where you would pretend to be your older brothers; going so far as to wear their clothes.

For a minute, you forgot why you were in all of this mess to begin with. Life was so simple. As the two of you walked along the cut, you gazed at your reflection in the murky water. You were so much older now, there was so much more at stake.

“Gotten quiet now? What are you thinking?” Arthur stopped and turned to face you.

“I wish we could all go back.” You sighed longingly, looking up into your brother’s face. In all your memories, he’s a twenty-something year old playing father to you and Finn - now he was in his forties.

After that revelation and some tears (from both of you), you somehow ended up at the Garrison. Typical Shelbys. After ordering a drink each from the flustered barmaid, you slipped into the snug where Finn and Isiah were deep in a drunken game of cards. After your entrance, Finn perked up, his cap nearly falling from his head.

“My favourite Shelbys!” Finn slurred, stumbling to embrace you both.

“I’d be careful where you say that mate!” Isiah laughed, clumsily slamming his cards onto the table and taking a swig of a beer.

Arthur thoroughly enjoyed the sight of Finn drunk off his head “and how many deep are we, ay?” he chuckled, settling down on the bench.

“How many what?” Finn frowned, dragging you to his side of the table.

“Drinks, Finn, drinks.” You joined Arthur in his amusement

“Ooooh! I dunno.” He shrugged over dramatically in response, wrapping his arm around you. “What I do know is that I’m winning now with my new teammate.”

“I am NOT helping you gamble, Finn.”

The night eventually wound down and concluded with you helping Finn stumble home, him slurring incoherent nonsense about some girl he fancied. You found it funny how he was technically your younger brother (by a few minutes) yet he was the drunk one.

You dragged Finn over the threshold of your home, the second you let go of him to lock the door he collapsed unceremoniously onto the stairs with a thud. You yanked his shoes off and practically dragged him into the living room, relighting the fire Arthur had started earlier knowing Finn wouldn’t make it up the stairs in this state.

You'd barely turned your back before Finn was fast asleep, curled up like a child on the sofa. You settled down on the floor next to him and gazed into the popping fire. Within minutes, the radiant warmth sent you into a slumber.

Tommy came by the next morning and let himself in. His heart swelled at the sight of his two youngest siblings sleeping peacefully in the living room. Finn had gradually made his way onto the floor and was lying down next to you, your hands intertwined.

He considered waking you both up but instead resorted to spreading a blanket over you, taking the time to admire the calm atmosphere. As long as they have each other, he thought, they will be alright.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

please drop me a comment or message with any feedback or suggestions! I'd love to hear from you ♡

Vee x

MASTERLIST

#peaky blinders #peaky fucking blinders #thomas shelby #tommy shelby #shelby #finn shelby #angst #hurt #comfort #shelby sister #peaky fookin blinders #cillian murphy #peaky blinder fanfic #peaky blinder imagine #imagines #peaky blinder imagines #shelby sis #tw self harm #peaky blinders x sister!reader

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davidfarland · 1 year

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How To Fix Flat, Two-Dimensional Characters - by Ross Hartmann

When people say that a character is “flat” or “two-dimensional,” they’re typically just saying that the character isn’t interesting. And uninteresting characters are a plague on a story. Let’s look at a few techniques to make characters interesting, round, and three-dimensional.

Desires, Wants, and Emptiness

Nothing brings a character to life faster than a deep desire. Make sure your character wants something. Give them a longing, dream, or burning desire that bores an emptiness deep in their bones.

When a character wants something, they typically take action to get it. They craft a plan. And with any pursuit, there will be failure. This inherently makes a character interesting. If your character is sitting on the page lifeless, it may be because they don’t want something deep enough. Make them care about something deeply and then threaten or take away that thing.

Moral Weakness

Perfect characters are boring. They don’t struggle to get what they want. Instead, we want characters who struggle in their goals and, perhaps most importantly, in their relationships.

A moral weakness is any behavior that negatively impacts a character’s relationships. A character might be selfish, overprotective, standoffish, arrogant, paranoid, etc. It’s possible that this immoral behavior is a defense mechanism that the character consciously or subconsciously uses to protect themselves from experiencing pain from their past. In these instances, their painful past may be a key part of their backstory (i.e., ghost event).

A character with a moral weakness pushes others away, even when they don’t mean to. Over the course of the story, they must recognize their moral weakness and learn to heal it in order to connect with others and have healthy relationships. This process of emotional growth can be one aspect of an interesting character.

Contradictions

Characters who really are what they appear to be are typically flat. We want a character who’s got more going on than what appears on the surface. We’re intrigued by a character who’s rainbows and sunshine in public but can drop their mask to summon the dark forces of evil. We’re interested when a pushy, dominant character turns into a golden retriever in the presence of their family.

Consider also characters who seem to defy their archetype or schema. Perhaps there’s an assassin who volunteers at the soup kitchen. Perhaps a righteous paladin has a habit of stealing from the charity tray. Contradictions intrigue us and can bring a character to life.

Fear, Regret, Insecurity, and Resentment

Emotion brings a character to life. I’d say it’s no coincidence that we have more words for negative emotions than positive ones. Feeling the nuance of fear, regret, shame, guilt, insecurity, resentment, anguish, and other pain is all a part of what makes us human. And it’s an important part of making a character feel real.

What does your character fear? There are physical fears such as heights and spiders, undoubtedly. But what do they emotionally fear? Are they afraid of being abandoned, rejected, or losing control? And what do they regret in their life? Do they regret not having spent time with someone? Do they regret having lived someone else’s life rather than their own? Do they regret putting someone else before themselves? Has any of this regret led to resentment? What’s the pain within the character and how can you bring it out? This will help bring a character to life.

Unique Relationships

A character who plays the same role in each of their relationships can feel flat. We want characters who wear different masks and play different roles depending on the social context.

Consider a character who’s a guardian to the helpless in one relationship but a student to a mentor in another relationship. Perhaps in one relationship, they play the rescuer and in another, they play the victim. Perhaps a character is clearly an independent, healthy adult at work but whenever they’re around their family they regress and play the role of a child.

When a character feels different in each of their relationships, they can begin to feel multi-dimensional.

Give us a Reason to Empathize

Sometimes when a character feels flat or two-dimensional, it’s simply because the writer hasn’t yet given us a reason to empathize with the character. We don’t have any reason to care about what happens to this character.

Fortunately, the cure for this problem is relatively straightforward. Make the character both admirable and vulnerable. Does the character have any traits that spark admiration, fascination, or envy? Do we wish we could be more like this character in some way? Are they courteous, respected, popular, powerful, cunning, resourceful, funny, quick-witted, etc.?

And have we seen the vulnerable side of the character? Do they have fears, regrets, and insecurities? Do they have a pain from their past or an undeserved misfortune? Have we seen their human side? Do they care for someone deeply or does someone else care for them deeply? Are they willing to sacrifice for others? Do they have any secrets?

Give us a reason to empathize with a character. Give us a reason to care about what happens to them. That’ll go a long way in bringing a character to life.

About Ross Hartmann

Ross Hartmann is the author of the bestselling storytelling book The Structure of Story and the creative director at Kiingo, a storytelling school dedicated to teaching the fundamental principles of successful storytelling. His hobbies include writing, creating tools for writers, and learning the tools that help make a great story. Kiingo can be found at https://kiingo.com.

#writing tips #writing tips and tricks #writeblr #nanowrimo #writing help #writing reference #writing advice

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radical-revolution · 3 months

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“When I was about six years old I received the essential bodhichitta teaching from an old woman sitting in the sun. I was walking by her house one day feeling lonely, unloved, and mad, kicking anything I could find. Laughing, she said to me, ‘Little girl, don’t you go letting life harden your heart.’

Right there, I received this pith instruction: we can let the circumstances of our lives harden us so that we become increasingly resentful and afraid, or we can let them soften us and make us kinder and more open to what scares us. We always have this choice.

If we were to ask the Buddha, ‘What is bodhichitta?’ he might tell us that this word is easier to understand than to translate. He might encourage us to seek out ways to find its meaning in our own lives. He might tantalize us by adding that it is only bodhichitta that heals, that bodhichitta is capable of transforming the hardest of hearts and the most prejudiced and fearful of minds.

Chitta means ‘mind’ and also ‘heart’ or ‘attitude.’ Bodhi means ‘awake,’ ‘enlightened,’ or ‘completely open.’ Sometimes the completely open heart and mind of bodhichitta is called the soft spot, a place as vulnerable and tender as an open wound. It is equated, in part, with our ability to love. Even the cruelest people have this soft spot. Even the most vicious animals love their offspring. As Trungpa Rinpoche put it, ‘Everybody loves something, even if it’s only tortillas. ’

Bodhichitta is also equated, in part, with compassion – our ability to feel the pain that we share with others. Without realizing it we continually shield ourselves from this pain because it scares us. We put up protective walls made of opinions, prejudices, and strategies, barriers that are built on a deep fear of being hurt. These walls are further fortified by emotions of all kinds: anger, craving, indifference, jealousy and envy, arrogance and pride. But fortunately for us, the soft spot – our innate ability to love and to care about things – is like a crack in these walls we erect. It’s a natural opening in the barriers we create when we’re afraid. With practice we can learn to find this opening. We can learn to seize that vulnerable moment – love, gratitude, loneliness, embarrassment, inadequacy – to awaken bodhichitta.

An analogy for bodhichitta is the rawness of a broken heart. Sometimes this broken heart gives birth to anxiety and panic, sometimes to anger, resentment, and blame. But under the hardness of that armor there is the tenderness of genuine sadness. This is our link with all those who have ever loved. This genuine heart of sadness can teach us great compassion. It can humble us when we’re arrogant and soften us when we are unkind. It awakens us when we prefer to sleep and pierces through our indifference. This continual ache of the heart is a blessing that when accepted fully can be shared with all.

The Buddha said that we are never separated from enlightenment. Even at the times we feel most stuck, we are never alienated from the awakened state. This is a revolutionary assertion. Even ordinary people like us with hang-ups and confusion have this mind of enlightenment called bodhichitta. The openness and warmth of bodhichitta is in fact our true nature and condition. Even when our neurosis feels far more basic than our wisdom, even when we’re feeling most confused and hopeless, bodhichitta – like the open sky – is always here, undiminished by the clouds that temporarily cover it.

Given that we are so familiar with the clouds, of course, we may find the Buddha’s teaching hard to believe. Yet the truth is that in the midst of our suffering, in the hardest of times, we can contact this noble heart of bodhichitta. It is always available, in pain as well as in joy.”

Pema Chödrön - The Places that Scare You

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arcanarubinaito · 3 months

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MC & M6 Dynamics

Each section contains a mini-playlist with six songs. It’s followed by a general analysis of what I aimed for each playlist to convey when listened to.

A song they’ll sing to/with each other. (In Lucio’s case, specifically him to Auric.)

A song that summarizes the start of their relationship, post-death.

The dynamic from Auric’s POV.

The dynamic from the character’s POV.

An instrumental song that fits their current dynamic.

Bonus song.

Muriel’s playlist will have nine songs, in an attempt to encompass both where their dynamic is currently and where I aim to take it. I’ll show the pattern below using the numbers from above to show what each song is meant to represent.

(Present, first four songs)—2,3,4,5

(Future, last five songs)—1,3,4,5,6

Brothers.

It’s a term that both use without even needing to think about it. Family, siblings, so incredibly close that sometimes it takes Asra a moment to remember they weren’t always in each other’s lives.

Long before they lost half their heart, it already felt like it was missing. The experience forced a lot of their trauma and unresolved issues back into the forefront. They began retreating frequently once Auric was able to take care of himself, taking lengthy trips to get away from it all before it consumed them entirely.

Even without his memories, Auric still loved him. He looked up to him, depended on him. Frequently, Auric wondered if that was why Asra kept leaving—if Auric loved him too much and scared him away.

He stayed. Even when it was painful, sleeping all alone in the loft they shared. Auric stayed right where Asra left him, waiting for them to come back.

Can one still love when they feel so angry? Auric couldn’t figure it out. As time went on, the resentment would build up and all Auric would feel was guilt for it.

Love and care, soured by resentment and loneliness. Auric is finally pulling away, keeping things from Asra that he never did before. Asra wants to fix it, and they’re hoping to god it isn’t too late to do something.

Best friends; confidantes, even.

They knew each other before Auric died. They met at the wedding, and quickly figured out they had a bit in common. While they weren’t particularly close—they led very different lives and rarely had the chance to interact—they were still fond of one another.

When they met again, Nadia had been expected someone brighter and happier. That was who she met in her dreams after all. Instead, she was faced with an anxious, slightly irritable apprentice. And it felt horribly, horribly wrong.

She took extreme amounts of care to make sure Auric was comfortable at the palace. One of the smaller guest rooms, (mostly) practical outfits made from comfortable fabrics, she even incorporated foods into the menu that Portia recommended the average citizen of Vesuvia would enjoy.

Nadia found a unique confidante in Auric. It wasn't long before she confessed her memory loss, and now the two know they have something they share.

In many ways, they leaned on one another. For two people that felt lonely throughout the lives they remembered, there was nothing better than to encounter someone who knew how they felt.

Nadia wants to foster more trust between them. If ever Auric should need anything, Nadia will be right there for him to assist in whatever ways she can.

What else can they call themselves but family? Their relationship fluctuates, depending on their situation.

Meeting Julian for the first time was an… experience. But glimpses past Julian’s façade quickly revealed that he was desperate, not dangerous. Didn’t save him from getting smacked with a broom though.

Honestly the song dedicated to the start of their relationship is more or less just the vibes Julian gave off to Auric at first. Yes, it’s a Will Wood song. You can’t make a playlist without one, I don’t make the rules I just follow ‘em.

It would be a lie to say Julian didn’t have a healthy fear of Auric at first. That wasn’t what Auric intended, but he got a little intense and Julian didn’t know Auric well enough to realize that’s not how he is normally.

There’s a lot of running into each other because there’s a lot of following each other around. Auric tracked Julian down for the purposes of his investigation; Julian started following Auric around to make sure he didn’t run into trouble.

One thing they both could relate to is a longing for adventure and exploring. On top of that, the feeling that they had to stay behind for one reason or another, and in Julian’s case, the guilt that came from finally leaving and pursuing his interests.

These two keep each other in check. Both are impulsive and self-sacrificing; which means they’re perfect to keep each other from diving headfirst into something without thinking, or otherwise doing things they might regret. (Cough, cough, Julian nearly giving himself up to the guards so Auric could escape despite them both being in a very secure hiding place.)

Auric is yet another person Julian hopes can forgive him, for his past and for what he’s planning to do.

Best friends in that do everything together, giggling school girls talking about their crushes, going to the ends of the earth for each other kind of way.

They clicked faster than Auric did with Asra. Like the platonic version of falling in love at first sight. Auric found it incredibly easy to talk to Portia, and vice-versa.

See the thing is, they both love with their entire beings, absorb the stress of everyone and everything around them, and deal with it through borderline overworking themselves. It cancels out with each other. There’s no feeling like they have to prove themselves, and they can feel relaxed.

Auric hadn’t smiled like that in months. His cheeks hurt, his feet ached, but it was worth it to dance and let go of his stress for a couple hours with Portia.

It really just felt natural to talk to her. She was warm, sweet, and caring. Auric felt the most like himself, the most relaxed he had been in ages. That’s not to say he isn’t comfortable around the other M6, but they all carry stress or stressful situations with them that make it hard for him to really let go and unwind.

Boundless energy and curiosity. When Portia and Auric had the time, it was pursuing books in the library or exploring the secret passages. If their schedules didn’t line up, sometimes they’d use their time off to help each other out with whatever they were working on.

There is trust, but also secrets. And that is perfectly fine; they’ll tell each other in good time.

Once upon a time you could describe their relationship as friendly rivals. As a child, Auric often engaged in prank wars with the new Count.

Now they’ve become mortal enemies, their laughter and antics lost in the past. A small part of Lucio missed it, which spurred his actions a little; but whatever kindness and affection he might’ve had was swallowed up in anger and resentment during those three years.

Death was not kind. Or in Lucio’s case, the lack thereof. Three years allowed his anger and desperation to fester and rot, lashing out at anything that wandered into his abandoned wing.

Originally there was a sort of cat and mouse dynamic. It started when Auric first stepped foot into Lucio’s wing; taunting, chasing, even outright hurting Auric in his limited capacity. Auric didn’t remember him, which made it all the more frustrating for Lucio. Although slowly it became a point of interest.

Once he had his own body, his attention shifted away from Auric for a while. It returned swiftly once he completed his deals and he began to realize the little apprentice actually posed a threat. It’s at this point as well that Auric’s fear of Lucio transformed to full-fledged hatred. (Morga’s death was the catalyst.)

It didn’t help that The Devil and The Fool had their own issues going on, and that was beginning to influence things.

Blood will be shed because of their mutual hatred. But while Auric tries to keep it contained between them, Lucio frankly doesn’t give a fuck who gets caught in the crossfire.

They may have begun as strangers but they end up as partners.

Of course, the road to that point is long and slow when one can’t remember the other, and the other doesn’t like the first one.

Muriel barely knew Auric before he died. His opinion only really started forming after Auric’s resurrection; ‘The dead should stay dead.’ is what he told Asra. And he stood by it; he saw firsthand what trying to resurrect Auric did to them. And he saw the aftermath of it too, and how it changed his best friend.

The first time he properly met Auric post-resurrection, it was only because Asra needed someone to keep an eye on him the first time Asra took one of his trips. There wasn’t anything Auric did wrong in particular, but Muriel left with a sour taste in his mouth anyways.

Auric was afraid of him at first. The first several visits were like that; reactions of fear that never quite ebbed away. Muriel could deal with that, he was used to it. What really started to disturb him was when Auric began to slowly become more comfortable around him, despite the curse.

It’s not fear but it slowly developed into wariness. Muriel long discovered that his fear was not absent entirely; it remained attributed to whoever remembered him. And while Auric didn’t remember him entirely, something still did—something small, just under the surface. So whatever fear and anxiety Muriel was developing about the situation mimicked that.

Though to someone who lived a few years now with very limited fears, that was more than enough to trigger some avoidance and general distrust. Especially because he couldn’t control this; he had no say in whether or not Auric remembered him. And in that tiny, under-the-surface way, that was terrifying.

After this, he watched Auric only from a distance and very, very rarely would he interact with him. Warning him about the palace the morning Auric set out to see Nadia was the first time he had spoken to Auric in a good year.

… which was then subsequently followed by multiple interactions over the span of a week, and Auric’s slight recognition began to turn into vague familiarity.

To be honest, Auric was starting to freak out. He was insanely attuned to his own memory out of paranoia that he would lose it all over again; so it was very easy for him to notice all the missing ones. And it really didn’t help that they were cropping up more frequently.

Thankfully Asra returned and Muriel wasn’t needed anymore. And by the looks of things, Asra wasn’t going to leave for a while yet; good. Muriel wanted to put as much distance between himself, and Auric, and these weird feelings of slight fondness and concern as possible.

Asra asked him to stick around longer anyways. Auric was accepting only so much help from them, and they didn’t trust Julian to keep Auric safe and out of trouble either. Great, now he was stuck watching TWO people he didn’t like.

Muriel had to wonder just how much fortune hated him, for Auric to stumble across him that fateful evening in the forest. Sure, he was bleeding out from a gaping wound in his side and sure Auric unthinkingly healed him up and spent his magic reserves…

… and then they were traveling together…

… and getting to know each other…

… fuck.

Now he understood exactly what ‘butterflies’ meant. Now he knew a different kind of fear. Now he knew a different intensity to the fears he used to have.

His knee jerk instinct is to run away from it all when it gets too intense. But Auric didn’t really let him… which was surprising. And nice. Everything Auric did was surprising, mostly in good ways.

Whatever happens, they’re prepared to weather the storm together.

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oh-my-wolfstar · 1 month

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Taylor Swift Wolfstar songs day 17

Do you have your tissues? Go get em because I’m reading All The Young Dudes and I’m currently in the beginning of 1981. For those who haven’t read ATYD, at this time Remus and Sirius’s relationship is sort of falling apart at this time; Sirius and Remus don’t trust each other enough and despite living together they don’t talk anymore , at least not about the important things. You do not need to have read ATYD to understand this but be warned, it will hit much harder if you have. So bearing all this in mind, today's song is You’re Losing Me: Midnights from the vault. POV Remus.

You say, "I don't understand, " and I say, "I know you don't"

We thought a cure would come through in time, now I fear it won't

Remember lookin' at this room, we loved it 'cause of the light

Now, I just sit in the dark and wonder if it's time

Sirius and Remus never talk about anything real except to fight. They don’t understand each other like they used to. Remus used to think they would work it out but now he thinks they won’t. Remus sits in their flat and remembers how excited they were to live together; he wonders where the excitement and love went.

Do I throw out everything we built or keep it?

I'm getting tired even for a phoenix

Always risin' from the ashes

Mendin' all her gashes

You might just have dealt the final blow

Remus is breaking apart, wondering if he should give up or keep fighting for Sirius. He can’t stop thinking of the moment that they knew for sure that there was a spy in the order, and how the first person Sirius looked at was him.

Every mornin', I glared at you with storms in my eyes

How can you say that you love someone you can't tell is dyin'?

Remus began to fight with Sirius, to lash out because of his own pain. Sirius says he loves Remus but their love is dying.

And the air is thick with loss and indecision I know my pain is such an imposition Now, you're runnin' down the hallway And you know what they all say You don't know what you got until it's gone

Their whole world has become war, life has become loss and fear. Remus feels that Sirius is tired of all his problems and the way he continues to advocate for werewolves despite the growing prejudice. Remus resents him for it and for how Sirius only seems to realize what he has after Remus has been gone on a long mission.

How long could we be a sad song

'Til we were too far gone to bring back to life?

I gave you all my best me's, my endless empathy

And all I did was bleed as I tried to be the bravest soldier

Fighting in only your army

Remus doesn't know how long they can continue before they are gone to far. Remus gave Sirius the best of him and after all that he gave for Sirius and all they fought for they are ending and he can’t stop it.

Do something, babe, say something

Lose something, babe, risk something" (you're losin' me)

Choose something, babe, I got nothing

To believe

Unless you're choosin' me

Remus is begging Sirius to want him again. To risk anything, give anything, do anything to choose Remus like he did when they were younger. They are at a standstill, too proud to beg for love and too broken to suffer any longer.

Who’s crying cause I am. 😭

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save-the-villainous-cat · 11 months

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Hi Cat. I’m in need of Hero who doesn’t have guts to get rid of Villain, even though Villain would accomplish the very same task just well. So instead of a quick “happy end” Hero dooms themselves to emotional suffering and with that dooms Villain to humiliation and pain. Though, maybe, it can be changed…

The villain’s smile was soft.

“You haven’t changed one bit.”

And the hero, tears in their eyes, shaking hands gripping the gun desperately, tried their best not to sob. But it didn’t really matter. Both of them looked like a mess and the hero’s body language betrayed them, no matter how hard they tried to focus on this.

“You’re still the same scared kid,” the villain said. “So scared of what they’ll think. Monster. That’s what they’ll call you and you know it. The same name they gave to me all those years ago.”

Even though the tears were strolling down their cheeks, the hero refused to believe that they were actually crying. This wasn’t real. This was a bad dream.

But the blood on the villain’s chin, the cracked shoulders and the hero’s sprained ankles were real. All of this was so painfully, horribly real.

“I hate you,” the hero whispered, trying to convince themselves that this was just another day at work and above all, that they meant those words with their heart.

“Then shoot. Do it.” The villain seemed to be just as tired as the hero themselves. Fighting for a whole night was a bit more than strenuous and now that the sun was rising, the exhaustion washed over them like hard winter rain.

“Why didn’t you stay?” the hero asked. Their voice quivered, making them feel weak for the first time in their life.

They thought they were fine. They thought they could live with the things the villain had done to them, they thought they could move on. But they couldn’t.

In fear of seeing them, they’d gotten rid of their phone, thrown away their TV, smashed their radio. The hero had no clue what was going on in the world and all of that was just because they couldn’t stand to see the villain. Couldn’t stand to hear about what they were destroying now. Which hero they took a liking to.

They explicitly avoided fighting them.

And it was fine. It was good. Until the villain decided to build weapons of mass destruction and sell them.

“There was nothing left for me,” the villain said. They groaned as they tried to stabilise their shoulder clumsily. Funny, how both of them had the same wounds. After all these years, they still knew each other’s weak points and how to turn their strengths against each other.

“I was there,” the hero said. “I was always on your side. I knew you didn’t murder them. Why did you leave me?”

Slowly, the villain pushed themselves up and the pointed gun followed their movements shakily. Again, there was a smile on the villain’s lips. A small smile that was somewhere between regret and happiness.

“The difference between you and me, my dear, is that I don’t need you. I don’t want you anymore. I let go of our past a long time ago.” The hero wanted to sob. They wanted to hug the villain and apologise for their mistakes. They wanted to talk to them and tell them about their fears and their accomplishments, their day and their night. They wanted them back in their life oh so badly but when they looked into the villain’s eyes, there was not even a spark of those feelings inside.

“I’m sorry,” the hero said, not able to hold back the tears.

“That doesn’t change anything,” the villain said. “I loved you and when I needed you, you weren’t there for me. You may think you were, you may think you offered your help and that I was the one who didn’t come to you. But I noticed your growing resentment towards me. I noticed how you talked about me with others. So, I left.”

“I’m really sorry,” the hero said.

“I don’t care,” the villain answered. “I got out of the burning house soon enough. But you’re still in it and the fire is eating you up.”

This time, the villain’s smile was a bit cruel.

“And personally, I cannot wait to see your ashes scatter in the wind.”

#bunch of rats #writing snippet #heroxvillain prompt #heroxvillain snippet #heroes and villains #hero #villain #hero x villain #heroxvillain #an answer for an ask #request #friends to enemies #friends to lovers to enemies

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malice-ov-mercy · 4 months

Text

Star Crossed - Part 4

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 5

Pairing: Nicholas Ruffilo x Reader

Content Warnings: angst,

A/N: So sorry for the wait on this. I’m very burnt out and uninspired and this story requires a specific type of inspiration that I’ve severely been lacking on top of already being uninspired. There will be at least one more part at some point. Also, I made a playlist :) you can find it here

Word Count: 1.1k

Tag list: @circle-with-me @xxrainstorm @foliosriot @nyxthedestroyerofworlds @reader13000 @sammyjoeee @cookiesupplier @concretenoah @witchyweeb34 @an-insane-day @lyschko666 @calisto-thoughts

If you would like to be added, please let me know for who. If you tell me everyone/everything, just know that includes anything I may write for Bad Omens AND/OR Lorna Shore.

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Ruffilo Masterlist

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“What was so horrible that you had to run from me? Despite everything we’ve been through, you ran from me.”

Nicholas shouted, his usually calm and relaxed demeanor nowhere to be found. Fury burned him from the inside, fire and scorching hot heat pumping through veins. He felt he would burst into flames at any moment. Every emotion he buried and thought he recovered from sprung back to life the moment he saw you. He waited so long, over two years for anything, for any sign of life from you, and now you were standing in front of him in flesh and bone.

He wanted to be relieved, he wanted to be happy, but all he held was anguish and resentment for the one he loved.

“Do you know how much it hurt?” Nicholas’ voice trembled with anger. “To have no explanation for why you left? How worried I was about you that night?”

Wrath was completely new to Nicholas. He didn’t want to be cruel, but he needed you to know how empty your absence made him.

“I would have given my life to you, (Y/N), you know that. I still would.” He reached for your wrist and tightly gripped it. “I refuse to let you walk away from me again. I was worse off without you.”

“Nick, you know—“

“I stopped giving a fuck about what bullshit the stars say. What good have they ever done for me? For you? For us? They drove us apart and for what? Their own sick, twisted humor?”

He watched every emotion in the universe dance solemnly in your eyes. Panic and fear set prominently on your expression, deciding they were the most important in this moment.

“You don’t mean that.”

The small, broken sound of your voice sank the splintered, rusted shards of the dagger you plunged in him all those years ago deeper—but he did mean it. He meant every word. The stars dictated far too much of his life, and Nicholas grew tired, so mind numbingly, painstakingly, agonizingly tired. Free will meant nothing if he couldn’t love who he wanted openly.

“If the future’s been drawn out, then what’s the point in living?”

Nicholas slotted his fingers between yours. Your hand fit perfectly in his, like it was meant to be there all along. The familiar pain of his severely battle worn heart reaching for yours swelled to life. It’s an ache he didn’t realize he missed.

The storm in his eyes was calm, but there was a rumble contained deep in his ribs, begging to break free and rain. A typhoon was forming in yours, circling and clouding everything connected to you.

Gently, Nicholas reached to cup your face, your skin otherworldly soft under his touch. A lone tear trickled from your eye as you closed them. He brushed it away with his thumb.

“I’m tired of pretending we don’t love each other,” Nicholas traced his hand down to your nape, a delicate trail of goosebumps and warmth left behind in its path, “Aren’t you?”

“How am I supposed to love you, Nick?”

Beneath the turmoil toiling and coiling in your cells, he already knew you did. He just wanted to hear it, but didn’t know how to get you to confess.

“If the stars said that you couldn’t love me, are you telling me that you would listen?”

“Don’t make me answer that.”

Nicholas pulled you close, pressing his forehead to yours. He never forgot the tantalizing sensation of having your lips so close, how intoxicating it was to share the same air. Always within reach, but never able to claim you for himself.

“Why?” He whispered, lips ghosting over yours. “You’ve already destroyed me plenty. Don’t start worrying about my well being now.”

His words were bitter cold, void of any emotion. Truthfully, he didn’t care if you answered. All his focus went to the closeness of your lips. Nicholas would steal a kiss if you let him. He played by the stars’ rules for too long. Any consequence that befell him would be worth it.

“I—“

A quiet, airy breath left his mouth as you nervously licked your bottom lip, your tongue lightly grazing over his. The accidental touch shot an electric shock to his heart.

“I gave you up once,” he spoke. Fearing you would bolt out of his life again, Nicholas tightened his grip on your neck and hand, making it near impossible to wiggle from him if you tried. “I’m not giving you up again.”

His eyes searched yours desperately, hopelessly and silently reaching for the fragmenting tether connecting your tormented souls. Weakly the pulse throbbed, but alive nonetheless. A meek display of a sign of life.

“I’m scared, Nick.” Your voice was quiet, barely above a whisper.

Your eyes closed and tilted your head up, the gesture so minuscule, anyone else would have missed it—but not Nicholas. He noticed the subtlety and change in your breathing.

“I am too.”

Taking his fate back in act of defiance, his heart burst into a raging, uncontrolled fire as your lips finally met. He cradled your neck with both hands, sparks shooting up his arms so fast he worried they’d singe his arm hair. The calm storm rumbling beneath his skin erupted, flooding Nicholas’ senses and overwhelming him entirely. It felt like a millennium’s worth of rain washed over him.

For so long Nicholas waited, patiently impatient. His dreams were always the only realm where he could have you, touch you, and kiss you. Dream you was a perfect replica, but his fantasy tremendously paled in comparison to the warm lips melding with his. The world could end in this very moment, and Nicholas wouldn’t bat an eye.

Your figure trembled in his delicate grasp, equally overwhelmed by the emotions swarming you. His lips were softer than you ever imagined, silken smooth and immaculate, perfectly slotting with yours like they were always meant to be together. Nicholas soothed the typhoon in your heart.

His lungs burned, but he didn’t want to break apart. Desperate he was for air, but his desperation for you was greater. Light headed and breathless, his body felt weightless, like he would float above the clouds if he didn’t have you in his grasp. Wholly lost in the taste and sensation of your lips, an eternity came and went, passing by unnoticed.

Now that he finally had a taste, Nicholas knew he would crave an infinity of your kisses. One hardly sufficed the hunger that had festered for years—though, far back in the recesses of his mind, the wrath of the cosmos lingered. They didn’t take kindly to blatant disrespect.

#nicholas ruffilo x reader #nicholas ruffilo fanfiction #nicholas ruffilo fanfic #nicholas ruffilo fic #bad omens fanfiction #bad omens fanfic #bad omens fic

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andreafmn · 9 months

Text

Bound | Chapter 2

Word Count: 3K

Summary: Rosalie always carried the resentment of not being able to fulfill the image of the perfect family she had in her head. But the universe had set out to grant her everything she could've hoped for in the most unconventional way and in the form of a witch. Can their love withstand the promise of forever or will Rosalie and (Y/N) succumb to the grapples of time?

A/N: this is basically just a "and they were roommates" and a "history will call them best friends" situation. For all effects of the time period, they do refer to each other as friends though. 😉😉 Also, sorry I wasn't able to update my other stories. Have not been feeling very well these past few days and writing only exacerbates my migraines.

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What happened to her during the late hours of the night one late April in 1933, (Y/N) (Y/L/N) could not tell. She had been lying in bed when all of a sudden, all she could feel was pain and fear. Her body trembled and whined, begging for something –anything– that would ease that pain.

Her body raised from her bed, clutching at the walls of her room in the darkness. With the flick of a shaking hand, the candles on her vanity turned on, their flames illuminating the area slightly. (Y/N) sat in front of her mirror, checking her body for any sign of a bite or scratch, for any external reason as to why her body was in excruciating pain.

But there was nothing. Nothing to explain why she felt an unbearable burning running through her veins. It was the sort of sensation that could only come from a freezing state. The scolding blaze that only the lowest temperatures could bring. She could feel it flowing across her body, no site of emergence she could determine.

There was a feeling of fear inside her that she couldn’t explain as well. It called for death, tempting closer, its breath cold against her neck. She had never been afraid of dying. It had always been a fair spirit to her. Even if it had taken her mother at a young age, (Y/N) knew that it had been for a reason. But that night, she did not understand Her intentions or why she was seeking for her soul.

She tried to keep quiet. To hold in the scream that was boiling inside her throat. She wanted to release every ounce of pain throat her throat until it hurt from the wailing. Hard as she tried, sobs and whimpers escaped her, and the groans simply slipped out.

“Is everything alright, (Y/N)?” Her best friend, Bea, walked into the bedroom, rubbing sleep off her eyes. “I can hear you struggling from the living room.”

“I don’t…,” the girl tried to speak. “I don’t know –ugh– what’s happening.”

The groaning put Bea on high alert, scuffling toward her friend in an instant. “What is it, (Y/N)?” she questioned, her hands cradling (Y/N)’s face. “Where does it hurt?”

“Everywhere,” she croaked breathlessly. “It hurts everywhere.”

“Here, let’s get you to bed,” Bea cooed, wrapping her arm around her friend’s waist. She helped her to the bed, partially covering her shaking body with a blanket. (Y/N) was trembling like she was freezing, but her body was sweating as if a fever was ransacking her body. “I’m gonna scan your body, okay? Maybe that’ll tell us more about what’s happening with you.”

Bea left the room, and (Y/N) could hear her tinkering around the kitchen, gathering ingredients and items she could need. The girl stumbled in minutes later, her arms full of herbs, a mortar and pestle, a pitcher of water, a wooden bowl, and various vials that (Y/N) could not discern.

The raven-haired girl sat by the bed, placing all the ingredients and instruments on the floor. The smells from whatever paste Bea was making eased her body slightly. Scents of sage, rosemary, ginger, and moringa danced in her nose, letting her focus on something other than her hurt. The paste felt cold against her skin as Bea spread it on her arms, her chest, then her forehead, cooling everything that it touched. But it did nothing for the ache deep in her bones.

(Y/N) could hear her friend as she poured the water into the bowl, speaking an incantation she knew far too well but could not remember at that moment. Her hand governed above the liquid, turning counterclockwise with the fire-red light that left her body. Had she not been writhing in agony, she would have been so proud of how far Bea had come with her magic.

“I need your hand, (Y/N),” she said softly. Her hands took her friend’s, holding onto the index finger of her left hand. “This might pinch a little.”

In the midst of her pain, (Y/N) did not feel as Bea dug the point of a knife into her finger, letting the blood drip down the digit. What she did note was that instead of the water turning into black goo or simply a light pink, it made the liquid disappear in a small explosion.

“Well, that has never happened before,” Bea mumbled in astonishment. “I think we might have to call the High Priestess, (Y/N). I can’t explain what just happened to you.”

“NO!” (Y/N) exclaimed before she fell back with a groan. “Just stay with me. It’ll pass. Just stay with me.”

“Alright. As you wish.”

Bea sighed before ultimately crawling behind (Y/N) on the bed. She cradled her friend’s body, reciting a pain-relieving spell over the paste that covered her extremities. They stayed in that position as the night passed. As (Y/N) remained in discomfort, Bea continued comforting her as best as she could. She’d smooth down her hair, she would distract her with stories their parents used to tell them when they were younger, and she’d sing lullabies she remembered from their childhood. Everything and anything she could think of to make this unexplainable experience better for her best friend.

Hours went by, and the two friends remained in each other’s arms, and at some point, they drifted off to sleep. The rays of the sun snuck in through the windows, basking their bodies in warmth. Somehow, the night had shifted into day, and the body-shaking pain had subsided as though it had never happened.

When Bea finally awoke, she found that (Y/N) was gone from the bed. And though she worried for a second, she somehow knew that her friend had simply gone to the only place they would when the need to decompress was too high. She cleaned up the mess from the night before and headed to the river just outside the village their coven resided in.

She walked down the trail the two had traveled together many times over the years. The babbling brook had become a place of solace for both of them. When life seemed to weigh down their shoulders, they could go to the river and allow the cold water to make them feel new. It had been the only place where they could feel free. Where the eyes of some people in the coven or of the people from the town could not judge them. Whatever they were.

Bea found (Y/N)’s figure quickly. The girl was sitting by the river banks, the bottom of her white dress soaked already as her feet dipped into the water. In silence, she joined her friend’s side, a wave of relief washing over the burning in her veins. (Y/N) was alright –at least she seemed– and that was all she could ask for.

“You left so early this morning,” Bea finally sighed, breaking the silence. She took a strand of (Y/N)’s hair and ran it through her fingers, something she only did when her anxieties were getting the best of her. “I was afraid something else had happened.”

“I’m sorry to have worried you,” (Y/N) smiled. She kissed the skin of Bea’s shoulder and leaned into her friend’s touch. “But I needed some time by myself. Last night… last night was indescribable.”

“And how are you feeling now? Your complexion looks much better, I must say.”

“I feel amazing,” (Y/N) sighed contentedly. “I don’t know how to explain it. But I feel powerful. Like my magic has grown within me –if that’s even possible. I have no idea what I went through last night, but right now, I feel almost invincible.”

“Was it a magical resurgence, then?” Bea offered. “I’ve heard of them, but I never thought they would be so… violent.”

“It could have been,” she responded. “I can’t be sure. My magic does feel stronger than it has ever been. The earth around me feels like it is buzzing with excitement. As though it knows something that I don’t. Still, it has never been described this way in our books. And I’ve never heard of it happening after your twenty years of age.”

Bea sighed, her head falling slightly at the weight of the next words she spoke. (Y/N) was acting too nonchalant as to what had happened, and she was still shaking with fright from the night before. “I thought you were dying, (Y/N),” she cried. “It seemed like at any moment you would slip away from me.”

The girl turned her head to her friend, her heart breaking as she saw the tears falling down her eyes. Her hands flew to her face, her mouth kissing away the tears before they stained her skin. “I’m sorry, Bea,” (Y/N) whispered as she hugged her friend’s head close to her chest. “I would never want to scare you like that. Not willingly.”

“I don’t know what I would have done. I don’t know how I could ever go on without you by my side. I can’t lose someone else from my family.”

“Oh, my darling, Bea,” she said, her voice muddled by the black hair of her friend. “I’m right here, darling. I haven’t left. I’m right here.”

(Y/N) kept Bea close to her chest until the girl’s shaking sobs weakened. She ran her hand through the black locks of hair, calming her unsteady heart with a gentle touch. Thankful there was no one around, she kept her close to her chest, kissing the top of her head every few seconds.

“I can imagine it was scary for you as well,” Bea continued once she had calmed, her gaze suddenly more interested in her hands. “And what happened with your blood, I… at least we can rule out dark magic. But you were in so much pain, I could not bear it. Even if it did strengthen your magic now, I thought it was going to take you from me.”

(Y/N) cradled Bea’s cheek, forcing her eyes to bore into hers. “It’ll take the Great Mother herself to strike me down to take me from you,” she answered sternly. “You are my family, Bea. And I’m not planning on leaving your side.”

“Don’t speak that way of the Great Goddess,” the girl chuckled, her pale cheeks burning red. “You know the universe has a tendency to throw curveballs when you least expect it.”

“Since when do you speak in sports metaphors, Bea?” (Y/N) laughed. “The next time you come in from town, you’ll be dressing like Jean Harlow.”

“Don’t pretend like you would hate that,” she laughed. And it was such a beautiful sound that it made the woman smile brightly, the corner of her mouth stretching as far as they could. “But could you imagine what people would say if I came to the village wearing a red-silk slip dress? I’m sure I’d be run out of the coven with fire. I can already hear old Reginald telling me that a lady should always dress respectably.”

“Darling, you could be wearing a tarp over your body, and my eyes would still be on you,” she smiled. “There’s nothing that could keep me from gravitating toward you.”

Her hand rested against the skin of her cheek, tracing the curvature of her features, kissing the corner of her mouth. It was the same face she had looked at for years, and yet she never grew tired of looking at it. The way the corners of her eyes crinkled when she smiled, the way her dazzling icy-blue eyes beamed brighter when she spoke about her dreams to become the coven’s High Priestess, the way her pink lips slightly parted when she focused on listening to someone; all the things that made her the most beautiful woman she had ever seen. The very face she could have died staring at if that was her destiny.

(Y/N) wanted to confess the love that warmed her heart whenever she was with her. But those were words that would condemn them. They would force a spotlight on them that they could not bear. Not where they lived, not in the times they lived. They were forced into silence into stolen glances and a title that was far too small for the significance of her in (Y/N)’s life.

“It’s not fair, you know,” Bea sighed after a beat of silence. “We shouldn’t have to hide this way.”

“Have you been practicing your mind-reading spells?”

“No,” she smiled. “But it’s written on your face. It’s written on us every day that passes. It’s not fair.”

“I cannot speak to fairness, Bea. But it’s the world we live in. And maybe one day it won’t be, but for now, this is the way things are,” (Y/N) said, the thread of defeat sewn into her words. “I wish I could hold your hand when we are in town, I wish I had been able to steal a kiss from you in the halls of the school. I wish I could declare to the entire world that you are by my side. That you have been and always will be more than my best friend.”

“And I wish I could give all of that to you, (Y/N). I want that for you, and I want that for me,” she said, her voice breaking under the weight of her emotions. “I want the world to be okay with the way I feel for you. I want them to welcome us with open arms and understand that love can look a thousand different ways.”

“I know, Bea. But there are two secrets about us that the world can never know. Not for the time being, at least. Maybe in the next life, we’ll find each other again, and things will be different.”

“I hope so, too,” she smiled with a sigh. The river rushed rippled before them, running to meet the sea, to become part of something bigger. “You know, they call this the Bound Souls’ Bank. Have I told you the story before?”

“Only a thousand times,” Bea chuckled as she stared into (Y/N)’s eyes. “But I’ll never grow tired of hearing it.”

“Well, it’s said that a young couple met in this very river many, many, many years ago –long before even our parents were in plans to be born– a young couple met in this very river. Maybe it was by chance, pure coincidence. But many say it was fate. That it had to have been fate,” (Y/N) related. “Their paths had never meant to cross. Not in this lifetime, at least. They deemed it almost impossible for these two hearts to ever know of the other. Alas, life brought them together.

“The man had been chased to the river; not many know why. Still, he’d gotten there at the exact moment the woman had come to wash her linens. She did not know him, but she had decided to protect him that day,” she smiled at the words she said. As a beam of sunlight peeked through the trees, (Y/N) raised her head and basked in the warmth of the ray. “And the rest? Well, the rest was history.”

“They fell in love,” Bea added. “A love so intense that it defied time and space. A union people pray for but rarely get.”

“That’s right. The very founders of the village that is our home, even to this very day,” she continued. “They welcomed into the circle witches and wizards from all over the country, offering them a safe dwelling to live their lives in peace. Even opening the door to other supernatural creatures that rarely had a place in the world. And they called it New Forest Village. After the woman’s death, they named this very river in their honor as a way to say thank you. As her body burned down the stream, her soul returning to our Great Mother, they baptized the body of water. That way, no one would forget the two people who fell in love here and gifted so many with a home.”

“I wish you were my bound soul,” the onyx-haired girl admitted. “How grand would it have been if we had been that incredible love to each other?”

“It might not have been you, but you are still my soulmate, Bea. And no one can take that from us,” she offered. “And our love is not measured by whatever destiny the universe has in store for us. It is measured by what is in our hearts.”

“I guess the universe did grant us a favor, then.”

“What ever do you mean?”

“If you had been my bound soul, there would have been absolutely no one that could keep me from declaring how much I love you.”

(Y/N) pressed a chaste kiss to Bea’s lips, reveling in their softness and their warmth. Her hands snaked around her waist, needing the closeness of her body to let her know that Bea was there, right there with her. That she wasn’t a dream. She had kept quiet, but she had feared that when she had woken that morning, she had not been able to survive the night and was walking in the silence of the afterlife. The second she had seen Bea, she had wanted to believe she was wrong. But it wasn’t until she touched her that she knew she was still alive. So. Very. Alive.

“Then you will have to settle for telling it to me,” she grinned. “Whenever you feel the need to scream it out, I want you to tell it to me in any way that you desire. Through the water, through the air, the earth, or fire, darling. And I promise I will say it back.”

“You are my sun,” Bea smiled.

“My moon,” (Y/N) responded with a matching gleam.

“And all of my stars,” they said in unison.

At that moment, they swore that would be their forever. Even if they had to pretend to be friends and only friends until they were old and grey. Buried in each other’s arms was the way they were meant to live for the rest of their lives. How were they supposed to know their definitions of eternity were going to be so different?

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