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entishramblings · 6 months

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Watcher of Wanderers [Legolas/F!Reader]

A.N: this was intended just to be a mini one-shot to get back into writing. although, I will admit I got carried away. oops. heh.

Pairing: Legolas X F!Reader

Song Inspo: Mountain Meditation by Chantress Seba

🌬️ I highly recommend listening while reading

Summary: Legolas senses a presence following the fellowship on their journey and it seems to be particularly fond of him.

Disclaimer: all mythology related to the reader was made up for plot purposes lol. not canon.

Word count: 5.6k (once again, idk why I’m like this)

Warnings: comfort, fluff, loneliness, flirting, suggested sexual innuendos, stalking sort of (yes, again, I know. you’re just gonna have to read it I can’t explain it)

Additional Content: moodboard linked here

MASTERLIST | AO3 | WATTPAD

When you are nothing but a breeze that passes through the travelers’ bending hair. When you are nothing but a tickle that brushes upon the vagabonds’ breaking skin. When you are nothing but a whisper that hisses upon the wanders’ deaf ear. When you are nothing but alone, you too are a voyager.

That’s what (Y/N) was, wasn’t she?

She sailed through the years, watching every war and every battle. She observed every lover as she observed every enemy. She attended to them all, from their start and to their end. She perceived them hunt—first for food and drink, the simplest things, then for more. She witnessed them build—smaller creations in the beginning, then large structures that reached deep into her sky. She gazed at them as they grew, in mind and body. They began as little screaming balls of flesh, then sprouted into large beings that walked and talked. They produced more of themselves. They multiplied. Families, they had called it. She saw each one of them go by, twisting with desire as they did with age. Each was sneaking to find something—riches, power, hope, love, safety—but it didn’t really matter. She just bore witness. She bore witness to the happiness and to the dread. Yet, even when it was dark and desperate, she did nothing. She was silent—as she was meant to be.

Cursed to ride the winds for all of her immortal years.

Cursed to guide them and bend them.

Cursed to behold them.

Cursed to be them.

Alone.

A Watcher of Wanderers.

She was unescorted, unattended, and unchaperoned. She was unaccompanied as she wove through the desolate lands of Arda. Through the oceans, through the deserts, through the mountains, she bent and bellowed. But (Y/N) didn’t need anyone to accompany her, for she simply didn’t exist—at least not in the way one would think.

But after so long in solidarity, watching and observing, (Y/N) wondered what it would feel like to be more than what she was. She wondered what it was to taste and touch, to smell and see, to live and breath.

She thought how pain must feel. How did it bring red to the surface of their skin? How did it bring tears to their eyes? How did it bring screams to their throats?

Still, she wandered more.

She thought how laughter must feel. How did it bubble in their chests? How did it bring water to their faces? How did it bring glee from their mouths?

Still, she wandered more.

She thought about how love must feel. How did it soften their gazes? How did it bring drops upon their cheeks? How did it bring proclamations to their lips? How did it feel to welcome in another soul? Was it safe—not that she would know what safety felt like.

Still, she wandered more.

As each day passed and each traveler followed, she continued to question, guess, inquire.

Some of these creatures were more in tune with the natural currents of the word. It was the immortal beings, distinguished by the pointy ears that lent them an air of otherworldly grace and their lightning-quick reflexes. They were not just any immortals, but those whose lineages stretched back to ancestors who had walked among the Valar themselves. At times, (Y/N) entertained the fantasizing notion that they possessed the rare ability to hear her, though she recognized that this belief was nothing more than wishful thinking. As a watcher of wanderers, she liked these ones best.

Yet that did not mean that others did not catch her eye, for she was curious of anything unusual from the regular patterns of life. And when nine—born of various blood—walked together, her curiosity peaked.

So, she followed them.

One was a Maiar, but not like her. He shared the same celestial origin, shaped as one of the spirits meant to aid the Valar in their worldbuilding endeavors. However, his form differed greatly from hers—a form (Y/N) yearned for. She had seen him many times before, puffing his pipe. He had many names, but most knew him as Gandalf.

Two more figures accompanied him, mortal beings aging like the rolling seasons. Burling and tumbling they went, with their countless heavy weapons. One emanated kindness, his heart a wellspring of warmth. She had seen him before too. But the other, he was….troubled.

Another was one of the immortal, graceful, pointy-eared race—elves, she recalled. He was fluid and elegantant. He was observant and evaluating. He was tranquil yet vigorous. (Y/N) liked this one. She always had liked the elves.

From the mountainous regions of unyielding stone came another companion—a burly and gruff figure. His anger resonated in the sharpness of his words and the boastry of his laughter. (Y/N) could feel his temperament through the earth's vibrations. It wasn't always pleasant

Next, matched four more. They were stompers and stumblers, in a clumsy sort of way; yet, it was evident that they held no desire to ravage the earth. If anything, they seemed to harbor deep affection for it. The sad one broke her heart, the kind one warmed her soul, and the last two made her giggle….and sometimes she thought the elf could hear it.

See that was the thing.

Initially, her fascination led her to accompany them, drawn by their sheer otherness—such a strange assembly of beings walking in unison. But as she ventured alongside them, she felt connected to them. She got to know them, and one seemed to know her….sorta.

The first time she noticed such a thing was when a sound of joy escaped her being.

The two silly ones, which she found out to be named Merry and Pippin, were cracking jokes at one another and performing a game of riddles. As they did so, they ended up breaking into an argument. The most ridiculous words they called each other: mushroom murderer, squash squisher, beet beater…..

She couldn’t help but release a whisper of amusement, and when she did, the elf—Legolas—abruptly halted. His eyes brimmed with uncertainty, and he swiveled his head, as though searching for someone.

But he couldn’t….

No…

He couldn’t have heard her….could he?

Of course, occasionally, all could hear her. In moments of anger, she would unleash her fury with deafening howls and piercing screams, causing gusts to bellow and trees to tremble. Her yell created a hollow sound as it funneled through the rest of the world—echoing upon mountains, bouncing off houses, riding along hills, drifting through the farmer’s mills. It took much frustration to create such a ruckus of vibrations. However, just a faint breath of joy? There was no way the elf could hear that….right?

…..

The second time that a strange encounter occurred was when the group stopped by a deep river. Legolas had wandered a little way away from the group where the trees were denser and the light was less, and oh of course (Y/N) followed.

There, the elf stripped off his clothing, letting the moonlight bend and dip upon his muscled form. The cool night air played gently against his bare skin as he ventured into the water, welcoming the invigorating sensation. With his hands, he meticulously scrubbed away any lingering grime, running his palms across his arms and fingers through his damp hair until no trace of dirt remained.

Gently, he laid upon his back, floating at the surface of the smooth river.

(Y/N) watched as he closed his eyes and inhaled deeply and repeatedly. Meditation, she recalled the elvish creatures of the world calling it.

Eager to draw nearer, (Y/N) gracefully glided closer, brushing ever so lightly upon the surface of the ripples. She circled him, her gaze drinking in every detail of his form slightly obstructed by the water—his elegant facial features, his sleek hair, his sculpted biceps, his toned abs, the sharp v-line of his lower abdomen, and, she couldn't help but notice his rather large…

A soft giggle escaped her lips, her warm breath brushing against his cheek.

Instantly, Legolas sprang upright, his feet finding a place upon the rocks beneath the now turbulent ripples. He swiftly pivoted, calling out, “Who’s there?!”

(Y/N) was still, shock and uncertainty shrouding her.

Legolas' cerulean eyes darted anxiously from side to side, his chest rising and falling rapidly. He moved with haste, continually spinning around in search of…..something.

“You…you can hear me?” (Y/N) whispered.

He did not respond and his state did not change. There was not an ounce of any recognition across his features.

…..

The third time that Legolas was startled by the curious enigma that appeared to be haunting him was when the fellowship had set up camp for the night.

Gandalf and Legolas were on watch, their attentive gazes shifting from the crackling fire to the perimeters of their camp. Mithanduil contentedly puffed on his pipe, releasing wisps of smoke that ascended into the night sky. Legolas was methodically sharpening the tips of his arrows, preparing for the inevitable fight. The ambiance was strangely peaceful, with the imminent dangers appearing to be held at bay, at least for the moment, even in the face of the dread.

However, this serene atmosphere suffered a sudden intrusion, initiated by (Y/N)'s ever-present curiosity.

She loved watching the creatures of Arda. It was her favorite pastime over the eons. Well, her only pastime. After all, she was a watcher of wanderers. For, as her shapeless form, there was nothing more she could do with her existence.

Therefore, when the elf began to draw whetstone upon the tops of his arrows, (Y/N) wanted to observe. She crept closer to him, becoming entranced by the rhythmic and tranquil nature of his movements. Drawn into the spectacle, she leaned in further and further until, unintentionally, she brushed lightly against his form.

His hand instinctively reached for his shoulder as his wide cerulean blues initiated their frequent and fervent scanning of the dim surroundings—a routine that seemed to be occurring with increasing regularity nowadays.

Gandalf’s gray eyes drifted upon the elf curiously, his bushy brows lifting in questions.

“I swore…” Legolas began, still peering about the campsite. “I swore I felt…something.”

The wizard’s inquiring gaze only deepened, imploring the elf to add more to his rather empty statement.

Noticing Gandalf's unspoken request for more information, Legolas continued, "My apologies, Mithranduil. Lately, I've been sensing a presence. Yet, when I search for it, I'm met with nothing but emptiness and confusion."

Gandalf huffed before pressing his lips to his pipe again, his gaze drifting away in a dismissal of danger. “It is probably just (Y/N).”

“(Y/N)?” He questioned, still puzzled.

Gandalf glanced at Legolas, and with a nonchalant hum, he spoke again. “The spirit of the wind. A Maiar with a form that knows no shape.” He rolled his eyes as he gruffed out an additional mumbling sentence. “She has a particular fondness for elves.”

Legolas, still flushed with adrenaline, only stared at him. “I—I do not understand.”

The wizard’s gray gaze drifted back to the elf, who was clearly seeking answers. “(Y/N) is one of the Maiar, tasked many ages ago by Manwë to help shape Arda. She still lingers in this realm, often stirring up her usual mischief as she follows wanderers on their adventures."

Legolas frowned. “If she wanders this earth, why can I see her not?”

Gandalf drew another puff from his pipe before responding, "She was cursed to be without form, unlike myself."

“Cursed? But why?”

The wizard raised his bushy brows once more. “Her mischief irked many—especially Manwë.”

“What sorts of mischief do you speak of?”

Gandalf shrugged. “Inconsequential pranks and harmless tricks. Quite frankly, an annoyance to us all, but not dangerous.”

At that very moment, a gust of wind swept in rather forcefully, causing the wizard's beard to billow and lifting his hat into the air, sending it spiraling down to land by his feet.

Legolas's lips parted in surprise as the wind subsided, and Gandalf let out a string of curses and grumbles.

"I believe you might have offended her," Legolas remarked, amusement dancing in his eyes.

The wizard snorted, his irritation obvious, as he picked his hat up and placed it atop his head once more.

….

As the weeks continued on, Legolas took notice of (Y/N)’s subtle presence.

It seemed she was indeed traveling with them. On scorching hot days, a refreshing breeze would rise and caress them gently, offering some much-needed relief. As the autumn months settled in, that coolness transformed into a warm breath flowing through the air, comforting them. When they kindled fires, little gusts rushed forward, providing oxygen and nurturing the flames. If an item of clothing or a parcel were dropped, it would be delicately carried toward a hand ready to collect. It was as if the wind—(Y/N)—was assisting them along their quest.

It was particularly noticeable to Legolas that she often lingered in close proximity to him. Her presence seemed to envelop him frequently, becoming unmistakable and distinct.

When Legolas would be tasked to collect firewood, a gentle breeze would follow him. It would brush leaves out of the way to reveal dry wood and small sticks, perfect for kindling. The wind murmured songs among the soil, almost as if it were beckoning him to dance.

When Legolas would be hunting for food, a calm drift would search alongside him. It would twist through the brush, startling small prey to reveal them to him. The wind breathed wordless encouragement to him, as if challenging him to impress her.

When Legolas would be walking upon hard terrain, a playful gust would walk with him. It would blow his hair away from his face to reveal his features. The wind sent flirtatious laughter upon his elvish ear, chasing shivers along his nerves.

When Legolas would be changing out of mud or blood covered clothes, a devious wisk would linger behind him. It would push his tunic and undershirt upwards to reveal his muscled form then make his extra clothing scatter. The wind whispered sultry glee to him, teasing him in efforts to show more.

This mischievous presence that shrouded him seemed to flirt with him—challenge, play, and engage. Of course, Legolas recalled Gandalf's earlier assertion that the wind spirit held a particular fondness for elves, but the true depth of this fondness had only become apparent as her companionship persisted. He couldn't deny that their ongoing interaction held a certain allure, for he would be lying if he said their little game did not entertain him.

When the fellowship was in Moria, however, silence reigned. The usual gusts and breezes that had accompanied them were absent. It was as if the very air mourned with them. Yet, as soon as they exited, with grief heavy upon their soul, a quick adrenalized wind came to find them. It seemed to brush around the rocks, taking in the pain of the travelers and trying to process what it meant. Though, as the wind noticed one was no longer there, she took to sending warmth their way in hopes to soften the sorrow—shrouding Legolas for just a moment longer than the others.

When the fellowship was in Lothlorien, (Y/N) came too. Rustling up trouble among the elves with flirtatious gusts, lifting skirts and sweeping away cloaks, fostering much annoyance and embarrassment among the immortal elven folk. However, those brushes of wind often struck Legolas more than any other.

When the fellowship—or rather the three that remained—took to sprinting across Arda, the wind ran alongside them. It pushed them forward with encouragement, almost too eagerly and too persistent. It was as if she was whispering ‘hurry hurry’ in their ears—as if she possessed knowledge they did not. Though Legolas suspected neither Gimli nor Aragorn noticed the subtle guidance of the wind.

A watcher of wanderers indeed.

As the group arrived in Rohan, their hearts brimmed with renewed hope, for they had gained the knowledge of Merry and Pippin’s life and the presence of Gandalf.

Following Mithranduil's expulsion of the sorcery that had ensnared King Théoden, the weary travelers were ushered to various chambers where they could refresh themselves and find much-needed rest.

Legolas opted to bathe immediately, determined to liberate himself from the accumulated dirt and grime that had clung to his body through the arduous months of travel. He eased into the in-ground basin, the soothing warmth and enveloping steam creating a cocoon of comfort. He tended to his skin and hair with meticulous care until he finally felt rejuvenated. Elves did not like to linger in grime.

Emerging from the bath, he stepped into the adjacent bedroom, where his gaze was drawn to the open windows, allowing the cool breeze to waft in. The wind seemed to recognize him instantly, rushing forth with an almost mischievous enthusiasm. It nearly yanked his towel from his waist! It was only through his quick reflexes that he narrowly avoided a less than modest reveal.

Legolas ground his teeth. “(Y/N),” he mumbled in a chastising tone.

In response, the wind seemed to giggle, as if playfully toying with him.

He rewrapped the towel and hastened to close the windows, yearning for a night of undisturbed peace. Normally, he would tolerate (Y/N)'s whimsical outbursts, but on this night, his weary body and mind craved respite and tranquility.

Legolas changed into more comfortable attire and settled into his bed. He allowed his heavy eyelids to drift shut, for he craved sleep. But after a brief moment, they snapped open.

He watched as the curtains shifted ever so slightly, followed by the tapestry on the wall and the drapes above his bed. The blanket beside him rustled gently, and then, there was no movement in the room.

She hadn't left when he closed the windows.

She was still here.

Though he couldn't see her, he was acutely aware of her presence…right beside him.

The elf couldn't help but blush, a warm crimson hue creeping up upon his ears and cheeks. Oh, if his Ada knew he was flirting with the wind….

In an effort to divert his thoughts from such matters and avoid giving (Y/N) any indication that he was dwelling on them, the elf shifted onto his side, turning away from the playful Spirit whose home was the sky.

…..

Legolas took notice of (Y/N)’s presence among the battles at Helms Deep and the Fields of Pelennor; although it wasn't until the latter that he knew for sure she was actively fighting alongside him.

Amidst the relentless chaos, the elf wielded his two silver blades, using them with deadly precision to cut the throat of one orc and immediately behead another. He swiftly pressed on, eliminating as many of the enemy forces as he could.

The men around him were growing weary, their energy dwindling, but Legolas continued to stand firm, even though he too felt the drain on his strength.It seemed the dark forces had taken notice of the relentless devastation he was causing among their ranks, as they began to single him out. Hordes of orcs began converging on him, and Sauron's archers took aim. However, the arrows meant for him didn't find their mark. They veered off course, curving with an unexpected gust of wind, plunging directly into three orcs nearby.

Legolas whipped his head around in astonishment, but it took only a moment for him to grasp the source of this unexpected intervention: (Y/N).

As he continued to take down orc after orc, she remained by his side, using her ethereal presence to force the creatures back into one another, granting Legolas a distinct advantage and a brief moment to catch his breath. She deflected arrows aimed at him and extended her helping hand when he faced the Oliphaunt. She even lifted him up with a gentle drift when his footing faltered. (Y/N) followed Legolas throughout the battlefield, her commitment unwavering, even after the war had drawn to a close.

Exhausted and burdened by grief and relief, the mortal, battle-weary soldiers sought solace and took to rest, heal, and eat.

Legolas volunteered to wander the battlefield in search of any survivors.

He tread carefully, his feet moving softly over the blood-soaked and red-stained earth. The ground seemed to bear witness to the agony, uncertainty, and hope that had marked their strenuous journey. Legolas had never anticipated surviving the trials that had befallen him, yet here he stood, alive and persevering against all odds.

With a heavy heart and the absence of survivors to be found, Legolas, fatigued and drained, decided to make his way back to his comrades who were attending to the wounded and offering peace to those in need.

In a sudden fierce gust of wind, Legolas found himself surrounded by an unexpected swirl. Swiftly, he whirled around, his keen elven senses alert, just in time to witness an orc raising an axe menacingly above his head, poised to strike.

However, Legolas was not met with such a gruesome fate. The wind seemed to rise against the approaching beast, as though an invisible force hindered its advance. However, that force began to no longer be invisible. A strange, translucent figure began to materialize into the opaque form of a woman. She stood, her back pressed against his chest and her front pushing firmly against the would-be assailant. With her arms raised high, she held the axe at bay, preventing the deadly blow from falling upon the elf.

Legolas' lips parted in astonishment, his eyes widening as he struggled to comprehend the event unfolding before him. But everything transpired too swiftly for him to intervene. The figure solidified, to the point that he could feel her against him, and the axe came down at an unusual angle, slicing into the woman's side.

A cry escaped her throat, and she collapsed to the ground, her pain echoing through the air.

Suddenly thrust back into the harsh reality of battle, Legolas swiftly grasped the knife strapped to his belt. In one fluid motion, he drove the blade into the orc's heart. The creature gurgled for a moment, blood pooling from its mouth, before finally collapsing lifeless.

Without hesitation, Legolas fell to the unconscious woman crumpled at his feet. His heart clenched with dread as he noticed the crimson stains spreading across the delicate, iridescent fabric that cloaked his form.

"No, no, no," he murmured, his hands pressing against the wound in a frantic attempt to stop the bleeding. Panic tinged his voice as he glanced at her face, his voice rising in desperation, " (Y/N), you foolish Maiar. Why did you intervene? Why did you put yourself in harm's way?" His bloodied hand gently cupped her cheek. "Wake up. Come on, wake up!"

She remained unresponsive.

Swiftly, Legolas gathered her into his arms, keeping one hand pressed against the bleeding wound, and hurried towards the makeshift infirmary.

Pushing the doors open, he called out in a voice laced with fear, "Aragorn!"

Immediately, the urgent tone drew the attention of those nearby, even in the midst of the ongoing chaos of the healing ward. The Ranger, alerted by the distress in his friend's voice, swiftly moved past the curious onlookers, with Gimli at his side and Gandalf following not too far behind.

“A-an ax to the side. She’s bleeding heavily,” he sputtered out. “Please.”

Pointing to a makeshift bed, Aragorn commanded. ‘Get her on that cot! Quickly now.”

Gimili, entirely bewildered by the unfolding events and his friend’s frantic behavior, called out, “Laddie, who is that?!”

Legolas, gently placing her form on the cot, didn't even bother to look at his dwarf companion as he replied. “(Y/N).”

The dwarf shook his head and raised his hands in confusion. “Who the fuck is (Y/N)?!”

The elf sent Gimli a quick, almost exasperated glance. "The wind!" he snapped back, a bit too sharply.

Gimli’s eyes drifted around the room, his confusion turning into concern for his friend’s well being. “The wind?” he questioned. “Did ya happen to get knocked in the head, tree boy?”

It was Gandalf that chimed in. “(Y/N), a Maiar, the spirit of the wind. She has been with us throughout our journey.”

Aragorn shot the wizard a brief look as he swiftly cut away the mysterious, translucent fabric cloaking the woman and began tending to the deep, bleeding wound.

“With us the entire time?!” Gimli bellowed. “Then why haven't I seen her once?"

Gandalf peered over Aragorn’s shoulder. “She doesn't have a corporal form. At least, she didn’t. I’m afraid this is the first time any of us are seeing her.”

Legolas ran his bloodied hands through his hair, his fingers trembling with anxiety as he stepped back. His chest felt constricted with worry while his eyes remained fixated on the woman as Aragorn worked. “Can you do it, Aragorn? Can you save her?” he implored, his voice quivering with a mixture of desperation and hope.

The man met Legolas' gaze. His determination to save her was unwavering, even in the face of this strange reveal of a profound connection between a force he didn't know existed and his dear friend. Seeing Legolas’ pain, he responded firmly, "I will try."

Gimli, moving to stand beside the wizard, watched the scene with a mixture of concern and curiosity. He couldn't help but murmur, "I've never seen him so frazzled before." His words were filled with a deep sense of empathy for his elven friend, for this had clearly shaken Legolas to his core.

Gandalf let his gaze shift from the elf to Gimli, offering the dwarf a knowing look in response.

The watcher of wanderers had now become a wonder to the wanderers themselves.

……

Legolas sat in a chair beside (Y/N). He was quiet and still as he watched her chest rise and fall steadily. Aragorn had successfully treated her wound, preventing infection, though she remained unconscious. She rested soundlessly, her expression peaceful—despite Legolas’ bloody handprint, now brown, dried, and cracking, that lingered upon her cheek. Her features were graceful and elegant. Each curve and bend of her face accentuated her beauty. He wasn't sure what he had expected her to look like, though how she appeared made sense with her temperament. He could see her flirtatious streak, her mischievous tone, and her protective aurora. She was exactly what wind would be: strong yet gentle, fierce yet calm, emotional yet stern.

He watched over her, just as she had watched over him. So intently, that he didn't notice one behind him until a hand pressed firmly upon his shoulder.

"Legolas," Aragorn began, his expression filled with gentle concern as he inquired, "How do you know this woman?"

Legolas sighed, keeping his gaze on her. "She has been traveling with us," he explained.

The sound of wood scraping against stone told the elf that the Ranger pulled a nearby chair over to sit next to him.

“So Gandalf said. Though I do not understand,” Aragorn admitted.

Legolas shifted. “I started to notice strange occurrences—unexplained events.”

Aragorn raised a brow, “Strange occurrences?”

Legolas felt his cheeks heat as he cleared his throat. “Yes, yes, but more importantly, I noticed something helping us. Consistently.” He paused, “I asked Mithranduil about it and he told me of her.” He shook his head. “He said she was cursed to watch us—us inhabitants of Arda—and not be able to walk among us.”

“Then how is she here now before us, like this.”

Legolas glanced at his hands, a hint of nervousness in his expression. “I asked Mithranduil that too,” he admitted. “He said her sacrifice must have ended her limbo.” He then let his eyes land on his friend and he spoke once more, his tone almost fearful and definitely shy—something Aragorn had never seen from the elf. “If she doesn't survive, because of me, will Arda have wind no longer? I haven't felt a single breeze since she fell.”

Aragorn sighed. “I do not know, my friend. I do not know.” He reached forward and placed his hand upon his shoulder. “Please go clean up and rest. You are no good to her like this. I will take care of her, I promise.”

Legolas hesitated, “But what if she wakes?”

The Ranger sighed again, “If she wakes, I will send someone to—”

He was interrupted by a soft groan escaping from the lips of the Wind Spirit.

Instantly, both Legolas and Aragorn turned to look at the woman.

Her eyelids lazily blinked open, and she gradually became aware of her surroundings. A frown creased her face as she emitted another groan. Her hand moved slowly, making its way down to her bandaged side.

"What... what is this feeling?" she murmured to herself, puzzled by the sensations.

To her astonishment, Legolas responded, “Pain.”

She scrambled to sit upright in bed, the pain surging through her body but the sheer force of adrenaline propelled her actions. “You–you can hear me?” she whispered, eyes wide.

Legolas moved closer, taking a seat on the edge of the cot. In a gentle tone, he answered, "I can hear you. I can see you." He tenderly raised his hand to her cheek, resting it on the dried bloody mark already there. "And I can feel you."

A hushed gasp escaped her lips as she reached up to touch his hand. "It's... it's warm," she remarked, her voice filled with surprise. "I didn't expect it to be warm."

The elf smiled gently in response.

A mischievous smirk then graced her lips, and her gaze, rather unmistakably, wandered down his figure and briefly settled upon his pants. “Is everything this warm?” she inquired with a teasing tone.

Taken aback by her words and her brazen gaze, he cleared his throat. A noticeable flush crept across his cheeks and ears as he broke eye contact. With that, Legolas turned to face Aragorn, who stood behind him with raised eyebrows and a playful grin forming at the corner of his mouth. “My apologies, Aragorn.” He glanced back at the Wind Spirit. “(Y/N), this is—”

She interrupted him, her eyes on the other man. “I know who he is,” she said with confidence. “Aragorn, son of Arathorn the second, also called Strider or Wingfoot, Chieftain of the Dúnedain, and the Uncrowned King of Gondor.”

The expressions on both men's faces contorted, morphing to sheer astonishment—how did she know all that?

(Y/N) grinned sheepishly. "I am the wind," she confessed. "I see and hear a great deal."

…..

The Minas Tirith Castle was cloaked in the deep shroud of a late moonlit night as Legolas walked through its ancient halls. The soft flickering of torchlight painted wavering shadows on the weathered stone walls, lending an atmosphere that resonated with the weight of its history. His footsteps were silent as he moved, and his thoughts followed suit, meandering through the corridors of his mind.

However, up ahead, a figure bathed in a gentle glow caused Legolas to abruptly halt in his tracks, his thoughts instantly converging on the woman.

“(Y/N),” he called out, approaching her. “What are you doing away from the House of Healing? You shouldn't be out of bed. You should be resting!”

She let out an exasperated sigh, not appreciating his chastising tone. "I am a watcher of wanderers, Legolas. Therefore, I too am a voyager. It is not in my nature to stay still."

Legolas released a heated breath through his nose. “That may be true, but you now have a corporal form. No longer are you just a breeze.”

She rolled her eyes, shifting her feet to hide the persistent pain emanating from her side. “I may not be a breeze any longer, but I still control all the winds of Arda. I could knock you on your ass in seconds, injured or not.”

Legolas chuckled lightly. “I never would have gotten involved with the wind if I knew she was so temperamental,” he teased.

(Y/N), suppressing a grin, responded with a snarky retort. “Oh, so we are involved, are we?”

The elf sent her a look, trying to hide his expression of amusement. “I would be naive to think that all the times the wind flirted with me, it was just a ploy.”

“Maybe I enjoy a ploy from century to century, Legolas,” she replied.

He laughed lightly at her jest, then took a step closer, his demeanor shifting to one of seriousness. Gently, he pressed his hand to her bandaged side. “(Y/N),” he began softly. “Why did you do it? Why did you get in between that orc and I?”

She looked up at him, her eyes gleaming with sincerity. “You know why.”

“Say it,” he commanded.

“Because,” she began, her tone becoming shy and soft. “Because, I—I love you.”

Instantly, Legolas wrapped his arm around her back, pulling her close to him. He pressed his lips fervently against hers. As their mouths met with equal intensity, he tasted the essence of the wind. And oh, it tasted of adventure, suffering, and joy. It tasted of warm bread from the north, bitter nuts from the east, clear water from the south, and fresh fruit from the west. It tasted of eons and eons of wandering, yet still, she tasted of home. Her hands found their way into his golden locks of hair, twisting and tugging it lightly. He allowed her to siphon off his heat, for the wind was often cold and bellowing. Though, he could tell she was taking more than just his warmth—she was taking his love; and oh, he gladly gave it to her.

…..

Everything Taglist: @lea----b @aredhel-of-gondolin @princecami @the-fandoms-georgie @jazziwritestolkienprimary @swimming-in-stardust @elvish-sky @red-riding @brun-lieve @hey-its-nonny @mirclealignr @sydney-1209 @laneynoir @straysugzhpe @runningfeather @finallyforgotten @kaiawrites @commanderawkward @xxbluestrifexx @slytherinambitious @redbirdbluebird333-blog @desert-fern @skairipakomtrikru @genderfluid-anime-goth @skairipakomtrikru @hemera1227 @sotwk @sirenofavalon @hobbitsesoftheshire @asianbutnotjapanese @mgchaser @heavenshumour @mgchaser @heavenshumour @casuallyeating-blog @cheari

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#vayawrites #lotr #lord of the rings #the hobbit #legolas #legolas x reader #legolas/reader #legolas fic #legolas fanfic #legolas fanfiction #LOTR fic #LOTR fanfic #legolas one shot #legolas drabble #legolas love story #LOTR writer #LOTR writing

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xxbimbobunnyxx · 6 months

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You’ll Never Be A Burden

(Eddie Munson x Fem!Reader)

Summary: When you can’t get out of bed, answer your phone, or shake the feeling of hopelessness your boyfriend is there to reassure you that he will always be there for you no matter what. WK: 1.6k moodboard

Warnings: Talk of mental illness, depression, feeling unloved/unworthy of love, not being able to get out of bed, insomnia, food mention, hurt/comfort, Eddie being the sweetest sweetie. Just all around this is centered around mental illness and how it feels to be too depressed to get out of bed. Please let me know if I missed any. Also I wrote this in one sitting so there’s probably typos. 18+MDNI

A/N: I don’t specifically mention a certain mental illness but for me this is how it feels when I’m having a BPD episode. So for me this symbolizes borderline depression but it can apply to any type of depression or mental low. I’ve been really going through it lately, so I just harnessed how I feel into writing this and it was very therapeutic. I wish Eddie could come hold me.

You weren’t sure how long you’ve been laying in bed in between awake and asleep at this point. A few hours? A day? Two? All you know is that the clock on your nightstand reads 2:48AM and you have been trying to force your brain to shut off since it read 8PM. You tried everything to calm the war raging inside your mind. You took so many deep breaths at this point you lost count, you pulled all the blankets over your head and tightened your body into the smallest ball you possibly could, you rocked back and forth while you repeated your mantra of “you’re okay” to yourself over and over again. But no matter what you did you couldn’t stop the negative thoughts from swimming around inside you.

You hated when you got like this. Overcome by this feeling of hopelessness. The feeling of shame. Loneliness. Not being able to shake the feeling as if you’re a burden to everyone around you. So you isolate yourself. Not wanting to drag anyone down with your negativity, not wanting to lash out at the people who are just trying to help you, not being able to bear the feeling of being alone in a room full of people.

Your friends had all texted and called you, social media notifications and voicemails piling up. Not even being able to muster up the energy to pick up the phone and respond to the one person you knew would make you feel better. So instead you thought of him. The way his beautiful eyes lit up when a smile spread across his lips. The way it felt to have his arms around you, his smell, his soothing voice. It’s what kept you going on days like this. Him.

Yet you couldn’t bring yourself to pick up the phone. To ask him to come hold you. You were embarrassed, embarrassed of the disaster your house has become, embarrassed of your unbrushed teeth and messy hair, the pajama pants that felt like they were stuck to your body. You didn’t want him to see you like this. He’s only ever seen you like this once, and he was amazing, perfect even. But to this day you beat yourself up over those days he took care of you, washed you, held you while you sobbed, read to you in exaggerated voices until you dozed off with your head in his lap and his fingers in your hair.

You know he wouldn’t mind, that he was happy to help you, be there for you. But you were so scared of him seeing you differently and changing his mind about you. You were terrified that if he saw the real you, truly, that he would leave. You’d become too much, too little, never the right amount, just like you always did.

That’s why when you heard a knock on your door your heart race picked up, you felt your skin flush, because you knew it was him. You knew he’d come, you knew he’d be worried and you can’t decide if worrying him to the point that he showed up at your door or just texting him back was worse. You heard him knock lightly on the door a few more times before you heard the key you had given him turning the lock.

“Baby? Are you here? I just came to check on you… haven’t heard from you since yesterday morning and I was starting to worry.”

His voice became louder as he talked, his footsteps padding down the hall to your bedroom door. Your head was still shoved under your blankets so you didn’t see him but you heard the knob turn and the door swing open.

“Sweetheart…”

Eddie’s heart nearly shattered when he opened your bedroom door. Your room was trashed, the black out curtains drawn blocking out the moonlight, and even your fairy lights you always had on, even in the night, were shut off. He couldn’t see you, but he could see the outline of you and hear your breathing. He walks over to your bed and sits on the side next to the lump of blankets you’ve buried yourself in. His hand comes up and runs along your side and it causes you to jump.

“Baby… please let me help you? Let me take care of you. I know you’re scared of being a burden but you’re never a burden to me.” He continued to run his hand up and down your body, the feeling already causing your body to subconsciously relax just the tiniest bit. “Can you come out? Please? I wanna see my girl.”

“I look horrible Eddie… I don’t want you to see me like this.” You pull the blanket tighter against you, shutting him out no matter how loud your body screamed at you to just throw yourself into his arms.

“I’ve seen you wasted, vomiting your guts out in Harrington’s bathtub, it can’t be much worse than that baby. Come oooonnnnn pleeeseee. I’m not above begging.”

He chuckles, his hand squeezing your hip lightly before it resumes caressing you. You sigh, pulling the blanket back just enough to peak your eyes out and him and your heart swells. He’s so beautiful, just the sight of him made butterflies erupt in your stomach. Just being near him made you feel just a little bit more alive. He pushes the blanket the rest of the way off your head, smoothing your hair out of your face.

“There’s my beautiful girl. Hi baby.”

He cups your face in his hand, running his thumb along your sweaty cheek, not caring if you think you look awful, you’re always gorgeous to him. Even like this. Especially like this. Raw and real. He wants you to feel safe with him when you’re in this low place. He wants to sink down to your level and pull you back up with his hand in yours. Eddie would do anything for you. He knows that scares you, he knows you want to believe him but it’s hard to fight the feeling that he’s going to abandon you. But he will do whatever it takes to prove you wrong. To prove that he isn’t like everyone else. To prove that he will stay.

“Hi.” Your voice comes out a scratchy and whiney and it makes you even more embarrassed than you already are. “I’m sorry.”

“For what? You have nothing to be sorry for sweetheart. I’m here for you, always. I brought your favorite snacks, bubbles, and your favorite teddy bear, me. Come here, let me hold you.”

He pushes the blanket back further and you shiver when the cool air of your room hits your body. He holds his arms out to you and your whole body tingles. He’s here for you. He wants to be here for you, and even though that terrifies you, the soft look on his face makes you feel safe. He makes you feel safe. You push yourself up and he grabs you by the forearms pulling you into his lap and cradling you like a small child.

As soon as his arms are around you the floodgates open, sobs leaving your entire body shaking while your tears soak Eddie’s t-shirt. He doesn’t say anything for a while, just holds you while you cry, running his hands through your tangled hair, caressing your skin under your oversized shirt, kissing on your tear stained cheeks. After a while your sobs turn to small cries before they finally stop.

“It’s okay baby girl, you’re okay. I’m here for you, okay? Let me run us a nice bath, afterwards you can eat something, only if you want, if not that’s okay, I just want you to drink some water for me okay?”

“Okay Eddie… thank you, I-“

“Shh, you don’t have to thank me and you don't need to apologize, I’m your boyfriend and I love you, let me be here for you.” He smiles sweetly at you, rubbing the remaining tears from your cheeks and gathering you in his arms.

Eddie spends the night making good on his promises. He pampers you in the bath, washing you and brushing your hair, even putting lotion on your skin afterwards. He puts your comfort movie on tv in the living room so you can lay on the couch while he makes your safe meal. He doesn’t push you to talk, he knows you will when you’re ready. He holds you and tells you he loves you while he makes commentary on your favorite movie. When you finally start to feel sleep creeping up on you he ushers you back to your bed, the sheets now changed because he insisted it wasn’t a big deal. He holds you tight, and kisses you over and over again. He even gets you to giggle and pulls a genuine smile out of you a few times.

As you lay there in the love of your life’s arms you feel less hopeless. You feel less alone. You feel your body start to warm inside from the tips of your toes all the way to your nose as he places a gentle kiss on it. You feel safe. You regret not calling him sooner but the fact that he came without you even asking makes it even more special to you. Your mind can tell you he doesn’t care all it wants, because he’s always there to tell you he does.

“I love you angel, get some rest, okay? I’ll be here when you wake up. I’ll always be here.”

“I love you Eddie. I know you told me not to thank you, but thank you, for being here for me. For being you.” You nuzzle your face into his neck, placing a gentle kiss there before you doze off into a peaceful sleep. In the arms of someone you know loves you.

#eddie munson x reader #eddie Munson fluff #eddie munson hurt/comfort #Eddie Munson x fem reader #Eddie Munson one shot #Eddie Munson fanfiction

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lunar-years · 5 months

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after making that hayffie moodboard I am now thinking about how I envision their lives post-series... I don't see Effie moving to District 12 ever, so instead she's still in the Capitol or in one of the districts closer to the Capitol, helping with the rebuilding efforts and whatnot. But she and Haymitch are calling each other ALL the time. Effie claims she's "just checking in on the team" and Haymitch always indulges her by talking about how Peeta and Katniss are doing for a bit, but they both know Effie is really trying to make sure Haymitch hasn't reverted to drinking himself to death again he'll slide in an update on himself to let her know he's okay, really, and she'll just say 'thank you Haymitch.'

On the days Effie doesn't call, Haymitch calls her to "give her an update" which is always something stupidly innocuous like "Peeta got the oven working again." Really he wants to make sure she's all right, because she's ostracized somewhat by both Capitol and District society, now, and he knows she gets lonely. also right after the war everything is still hard to come by and she hasn't told him this but he knows Effie is trading her ration cards for stupid shit like makeup powder and he cannot with this woman Effie please buy food, jesus. then he waxes on about how he is never ever returning to the capitol or anywhere close to it's vicinity because how can you people still be so shallow and Effie is like fine you idiot I will come visit you, then. but before she can she gets into a (minor) accident of some sort and ends up briefly in the hospital and when haymitch finds out he is on the first train. rinse & repeat.

#i'm not sure if they ever actually get together formally tbh i lean towards no. but they also are together in their own way. you know.#long distanced married but also divorced!!!! but also not actually any of those things.#im saying #anyway....#hayffie #thg #hg #hunger games #ship post #haymitch abernathy #effie trinket

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youre-ackermine · 2 months

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Moodboard:

Headcanons:

Postwar Levihan

It's been three years since the war ended. Against all odds, Hange survived & lives with Levi. They found an abandoned cabin in a remote area near Liberio, miraculously spared as well as the bunch of trees that hides it from sight.

Day after day, they fixed up their new home as best they could. It’s not much but it’s their safe, shared home & it’s all that matters.

Once settled, none of them could stay out of the action. Hange works in what remains of Liberio, in a makeshift hospital occupying the ground floor of a half-destroyed building. They help treat sick or injured people several days & nights a week.

There isn’t enough room at the hospital so they managed to set up a lab at home where they can do some research, mostly about new medications or even prosthetics. Levi stays at home most of the time, taking care of the house, growing a vegetable garden, cutting wood & planting more trees around their cabin. In his glass house, Levi enjoys raising flowers, but he also sowed medicinal herbs for Hange’s experiments. Every once in a while, he goes to Liberio to help refugees, mostly children who lost their parents during the war.

Valentine's Day

A couple weeks ago, Gabi & Falco told Levi about Valentine’s Day, a tradition unknown on Paradis Island. As much as it seemed futile at first, Levi couldn't stop mulling over the idea.

After several days of wearying work, Levi convinced Hange to rest properly for once.

Sitting on the bed next to them, he takes a few moments to gaze at Hange’s sleepy face. He finds them beautiful, despite the burns. Or maybe he loves them even more because of these scars, a testament to their bravery. He’s so grateful they’re here with him, brightening his days with their cheerful, beaming smile, the very smile he fell in love with.

Meanwhile they sleep in on their day off, he busies himself getting tea ready for breakfast, packing some food & a blanket in a basket, slicing vegetables for the stew simmering in the pot over the fire.

Levi is waiting for Hange in the hall while they put the bouquet of snowdrops he picked for them earlier this morning in a vase. They blushed & stammered a shy thank you when he drew it from behind the basket placed on his lap.

He promised himself today would be special. Nothing fancy, but a few hours for themselves without work or chores.

Hange would push his wheelchair along the paths nearby, blabbering about their research, asking him a million questions about the garden or the herbs he grows, about the pain in his leg. From time to time, they would lean down to kiss him on the cheek, giggling like a shy teenager. They would find a nice place to spread a blanket on the grass & enjoy their picnic. They would spend the afternoon watching clouds, Levi listening with fondness to Hange’s explanations about their shapes or how they form. When the sun would start to set & the breeze to be too cold, they would go back home & take a bath to warm themselves.

Hange would stuff their face with the most delicious stew they ever tasted. They would settle with a contented sigh & a glass of wine in front of the fireplace, snuggled up against Levi under a warm blanket.

Levi would say he's not good with words. Levi would draw a little box out of his pocket & simply give it to Hange. Levi would gently slide the jewel on Hange's finger, not a proposal but rather a promise.

The promise to spend the rest of their lives together.

Happy Valentine's Day ❤️

Moodboard, header & dividers: @youre-ackermine

Requested by: Flo @littlerequiem 🌹

A/N: Snowdrops are a symbol of hope, new beginnings, renewal, comfort, capacity to triumph over challenges, beauty & purity// English is not my usual language // Click on the moodboard for better quality

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ewanmitchellcrumbs · 11 months

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The Colour of Blood

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x original female character (Sylva Martell) Warnings: Canon typical sexism. Canon typical violence. Enemies to lovers. Smut. Word count: ~5.3k

Summary: Unity between Dorne and the realm is long overdue. While Qoren Martell is not prepared to yield his beloved country to the rule of the Targaryens, he is willing to compromise with peace. In exchange for Daeron being sent to live as a ward of House Martell, Qoren surrenders his youngest daughter, Sylva, to House Targaryen. Peace, however, is the furthest thing from Sylva's mind. Based on this request.

Moodboard by the wonderfully kind and talented @ruby-dragon

Author's note: No gods, no masters, no tag lists. Only scabs community label fics. If you find yourself tempted to slap a label on this, please block me instead.

“Go to King’s Landing and make me proud.”

The words of her father repeat over and over again in Sylva’s mind as her carriage and the accompanying entourage make the long journey from one capital city to another. She already misses Sunspear, the air grows colder the further north they travel. The gooseflesh prickling the tawny flesh of her arms serves only to stoke the anger that has been simmering inside of her ever since her father broke the news that she is to be a ward of House Targaryen.

Since the Dornishmen helped the Triarchy to beat back the realm’s defenses in the war for the Stepstones, King Viserys has been desperately trying to unite Dorne with the rest of Westeros. Sylva knows her father will never bend the knee; Qoren Martell is too proud, but she is less than pleased with the compromise that has been struck.

A bid for peace between the two kingdoms has been proposed. Prince Daeron Targaryen is to travel to Sunspear to be hosted by her family, and in exchange Sylva will be housed under the roof of the Targaryens. A prince for a princess. Sylva hates it. She knows being the fourth and youngest child puts her in a tricky predicament. Aliandra is set to inherit her father’s position as ruler of Dorne once he passes, while Qyle and Coryanne are in the midst of being partnered with highborn suitors. She has never felt more like a spare part, something disposable to be traded like livestock in her father’s politicking.

Sylva blinks back her tears, hardens her heart and allows her fury to consume her. She decides she hates King’s Landing the moment she steps out of the carriage. She wrinkles her nose at the unfamiliar smells and shivers at the chill she feels in the air. The people are pale faced and ugly, their manner of dress looks frumpy and uncomfortable. Her heart aches for home, she wonders when she will see it again, if she will see it again.

As she is guided around the Red Keep she is startled by the lack of imagery of R'hllor. It appears to her that everyone here follows the faith of The Seven, the lack of reverence towards the Lord of Light makes her uneasy. She is shown to her quarters and immediately struck by how dull and grey everything seems, she longs for the vibrant hues of the tapestries and furnishings of Sunspear. All of the colour has been sucked out of the world here.

She is grateful, however, for the furs she finds tucked away in the armoire of her bedchamber. She keeps one clutched tightly around her shoulders throughout the welcome feast that’s held in her honour that evening.

“Are you not too warm in that, dear?” Alicent leans across, brown eyes filled with concern as she touches Sylva gently on the arm.

Sylva does her best to bite back her resentment, Alicent has been nothing but kind to her since she arrived and none of this is her fault, yet she cannot help her sullen tone as she responds. “No, I find it rather cold here, compared to home.”

Alicent nods in understanding, retreating back into her own space and continuing her meal.

The food is bland and tasteless in Sylva’s mouth. The spice of snake sauce, mustard seeds and dragon peppers are alarmingly absent on her tongue. She picks at the food on her plate, unsure of how she will struggle through it.

She is broken out of her train of thought when she feels the hot sourness of wine upon someone’s breath fill her nostrils. She turns to see the Queen’s eldest son, Aegon, leering at her.

“You know,” He slurs. “If you are cold, I have ways of warming you up.” He winks, raising his wine cup to her before taking a long drink.

She grimaces, turning away as he titters beside her.

“Oh come now, I was jesting. I thought your people were supposed to be promiscuous.”

“Enough.” Alicent warns him sternly. “Go back to your seat, or I will have Ser Criston return you to your quarters.”

Aegon huffs, obviously deflated, and slumps down into his chair.

When Sylva looks up she notices the single eyed gaze of Alicent’s second son, Aemond, upon her. It is intense and unblinking. She expects him to avert his eye, embarrassed to have been caught staring, but he continues, his expression passive and unreadable.

She is overwhelmed by the sense that if she looks away then somehow she will lose in this exchange, and so her dark eyes lock with his blue one, until Otto announces that it is time they all retire for the evening, and they shift their focus away from each other.

Sylva is glad that the day is finally at its end. She is exhausted from her travels and utterly miserable. She is unsure of how she will ever get used to it here.

As her hand reaches for the handle to the door to her bedchamber, she feels a presence lingering behind her. She turns to see Aemond hovering behind her, stoic and unreadable as he has been all evening.

She is about to ask him what he’s doing when he speaks. They are the first words she’s heard come out of his mouth since she arrived and she is surprised by the softness of his voice, a contradiction of how intimidating he appears.

“I wanted to apologise for how my brother spoke to you earlier.”

Sylva nods, giving him a tight lipped smile that doesn’t quite meet her eyes. “It is fine. I have heard worse.”

“I’m sure you have.” He says smoothly, keeping his arms clasped firmly behind him. Sylva wonders if perhaps there is a rod of sorts inserted down the back of his tunic, such is the rigidity of his stance. “But now you are here you will learn what it is to be a proper lady.”

“What do you mean by that?” She asks, as her eyes narrow with a combination of confusion and mild irritation at the direction this interaction is taking.

Aemond tilts his head as though thinking carefully about his response. “There is a certain depravity that is common among your people. You’ll learn what it is to be civilised here.”

The anger that has been simmering inside of her all day finally reaches its boiling point. “My people?! Isn’t it your people that marry off brothers and sisters?! I would rather hail from a land that celebrates depravity, as you like to call it, than one that operates under the illusion of propriety while brothers and sisters fuck behind closed doors!”

It is the first time she sees any visible trace of emotion on his face as his eye widens, he opens his mouth to speak but she holds up a hand, cutting him off. “I have heard enough from you. Have the evening that you deserve.”

She storms in her chambers, slamming the door heavily behind her. Her sleep is fitful that night, her surroundings too unfamiliar for her to ever drift off properly.

The next morning when she awakens, she is saddened not to be greeted by bright sunshine when she looks out of the window. The sky is overcast and bleak looking, a sight she is not used to. As her eyes scan the surrounding area of the Keep, she notices a group of men sparring and for the first time since she arrived in King’s Landing, Sylva feels excited.

Her father had trained all of his children in the use of a sword, ensuring they were all proficient fighters. It was one of the things she enjoyed most in the world. Wielding a weapon made her feel powerful.

Hurriedly, she braids her long, dark hair and dresses in breeches and a loose fitting shirt over her underclothes, before pulling on boots and rushing her way out of the castle, towards the training yard. She approaches the man she assumes to be in charge; a Knight that Alicent had introduced her to as Ser Criston Cole. He stands watching the fighting while delivering instructions.

He bows his head when he sees her. “Good morrow, Princess. Have you come to watch?”

“I’ve come to join. Where may I find a sword?”

His eyebrows raise as his mouth parts in shock. “Princess, ladies cannot join. You could get hurt.”

Sylva rolls her eyes at this. “In Dorne, women fight alongside men. There is a higher likelihood of me hurting someone than the other way around.” She folds her arms, looking at Criston indignantly.

“I’m not going to be able to change your mind, am I?” He says with a sigh.

“No.” Comes her flat response.

“Very well. If you can find something that fits, there’s light armour and blades over there.” He points to a shed on the other side of the yard.

Sylva nods and goes to retrieve what she needs. When she steps out she is immediately met by the sight of Aemond. He visibly bristles when he sees her.

“Cole! Surely you are not allowing her to spar? She is a woman!”

“The Princess insisted, Aemond. Who am I to deny her?” The Knight responds with a perplexed shrug.

“Well, I’m not sparring with her.” He says indignantly.

Sylva laughs, though it is mocking and without any genuine mirth. “Why? Afraid you’ll lose?”

“A fight against a woman would be little challenge.” Aemond says haughtily.

“Prove it.” She counters. “Unless you really are scared?”

Aemond’s nostrils flare as he exhales with irritation. “Fine.”

He raises his weapon, and widens his stance. Sylva does the same.

Aemond swings at her, always ensuring to keep her clear of his blind side; he is quick, but not quick enough for her.

Sylva laughs as Aemond's eye widens in surprise as she rounds on him with her sword, beating him backwards.

"No wonder your uncle lost so spectacularly to my father if this is how you Targaryens fight." She hisses.

Aemond's nostrils flare again, a noise low in his throat rumbles, indicative of anger. "I am not my uncle!" He seethes, charging at her.

She blocks his attack with her shield, discarding the now useless wood as it splinters beneath his blade. The impact causes Aemond to stumble back a little and Sylva seizes the opportunity to square up to him in his vulnerable position, the tip of her sword mere inches from touching his throat.

"Well met, Princess." Criston calls from across the training yard, signalling the end of her and Aemond's sparring.

"That isn't fair!" Aemond calls out to him. "She didn't best me, I tripped!"

"You didn't trip, you lost." She smirks, bumping his shoulder with hers as she moves past him towards the training yard shed to discard her light armour.

She hears Aemond enter behind her a few moments later and begin to remove his own. Feeling his gaze upon her now she is just in her undershirt, she turns to face him, eyes narrowed.

"What are you staring at?"

Aemond huffs, facing away. "Nothing. Merely surprised there isn't the body of a man hidden beneath your armour."

She scowls, snatching up her clothes and moving to leave, she will dress in her quarters she decides. She pauses as she reaches the door, casting a look at Aemond as he stands in a similar state of undress.

"I am surprised to see there is the waist of a woman hidden beneath yours."

As she bathes in preparation for dinner that evening, she casts her mind back to how Aemond had looked at her earlier. She smiles at the thought, knowing she had clearly flustered him. She wishes to rile him further.

Braving the chill she feels in the air, she opts to leave her fur behind when she heads down for the evening meal. Her long, flowing silk gown cuts in at the waist and leaves her shoulders bare. It is a style that is common in Dorne, but Sylva knows it would be considered entirely inappropriate in King’s Landing. The only reaction she cares about though is Aemond’s.

She sweeps into the dining hall, her raven tresses loose around her shoulders, as the skirt of her dress billows behind her. She smirks, feeling all eyes upon her as she takes her seat.

“It is good to see you aren’t feeling the cold so much today.” Alicent offers with a tight smile.

“Yes, I worked up quite a sweat beating Aemond in the training yard earlier.”

She turns from Alicent to him, catching the way his eye flashes up from her chest towards her face, the faintest tint of pink in his cheeks.

The dress was clearly having its desired effect. Good.

He clears his throat, turning his attention to his plate, ignoring his mother’s questioning stare. The rest of the meal passes in silence, though every time she glances towards Aemond, his eye is fixed upon her. He doesn’t dare to entertain the notion of yesterday’s staring contest, this time whenever she catches him he looks away.

Sylva goes to bed that evening with the smug satisfaction of knowing she has bested a Targaryen Prince twice that day.

Disappointed to see the training yard empty from her window the next morning, she decides to explore the Red Keep. She remembers little from the brief tour she was given on her day of arrival, her mood was too sullen to listen properly.

Her fingertips trail along the cool stone of the corridor walls as she wanders, until eventually she finds a set of large oaken doors. She pushes one open, slipping through to be met by the sight of floor to ceiling rows of books. She studies the titles on each of the spines, awed by the sheer number of tomes a single room can encompass.

“What brings you to the library?”

She startles, broken from her thoughts and looks to see Aemond seated in an armchair by the fireplace, a book cradled in his long fingers.

She scowls. Sylva does not enjoy being taken by surprise. “I don’t see how that is your business.”

“I hadn’t realised you Dornish could read.” He says with an amused smirk.

“Fuck off.” She spits, turning to leave.

“Wait.” Aemond stands from his chair. “I…owe you an apology.”

Sylva quirks an eyebrow at him. “For what?”

“For…everything, I suppose. The manner in which I have treated you since you arrived has not been befitting of a Prince. Forgive me.”

“I’ll try.” She says, a hint of a smile playing upon her lips.

She is certain she sees the faintest flicker of one of his own tug at Aemond’s mouth, and then he speaks again. “You fight well, Princess, your father must be proud.”

Sylva sighs, chuckling bitterly. “If my father was proud of me he wouldn’t have sent me a thousand miles away to live with strangers.”

Aemond softens. “At least yours notices you. Mine doesn’t seem to realise I exist.”

“I am a spare.” She shrugs. “My oldest sister will rule Dorne in my father’s wake, my other siblings will marry into highborn families. I have been sent here purely for my father’s benefit, he doesn’t care about me.”

“Then perhaps we have more in common than we realise.” He concedes. “My brother will sit the Iron Throne once my father passes, an obligation he doesn’t want or deserve. Meanwhile, I study history and philosophy, train with the sword and ride the largest dragon in the world and I am overlooked.”

“Why aren’t you using any of that to your advantage?” She steps closer, her eyes never leaving him as she becomes more animated. “Like you say, you ride the largest dragon in the world and yet you allow yourself to be fettered here, when it serves no benefit for you to do so.”

Aemond hesitates a moment, looking uneasy. “It is…improper. I have a duty to my family.”

Sylva throws up her hands. “Who cares what is proper? Well behaved people seldom make history, you claim to study it, you should know that.”

“And what about you?” He counters. “You could have fought against your father’s decision to send you here, why not take your own advice?”

“If I’d have done that I’d have missed my opportunity to torment a Targaryen prince, a once in a lifetime opportunity.”

She grins and the smirk he returns is genuine. From that moment on, something between Sylva and Aemond shifts.

An unlikely kinship is struck between them, forged from an understanding of knowing they have rank without any real place in the world.

Over the course of the following month Sylva and Aemond grow closer. No longer does he object to her joining in in the training yard. Instead he asks to be paired with her, and the two learn from each other’s differing fighting styles, enjoying the challenge of attempting to best each other.

He sits beside her at meals, helping to fend off the unwanted attention of Aegon. They read about Dornish history together in the library and Aemond recites to her what he already knows, while Sylva entertains him with stories from her own personal experiences of her homeland.

Eventually, Aemond introduces Sylva to Vhagar. She has never seen a dragon before and the sheer enormity of Aemond’s leaves her speechless. She gasps at the roughness and warmth beneath her palm as Aemond guides her palm to stroke along her flank.

“You will need to meet her a few more times before she is comfortable having you on the back of her, but perhaps we could go flying together once she is?” Aemond suggests, not pulling his hand away from hers as it moves over Vhagar’s scales.

Sylva’s eyes light up with excitement. “Really? Where would we go?”

“Anywhere you like.” He smiles down at her.

“Could we go to Dorne?”

“Are you really so eager to return?”

“No.” She replies, and is surprised that she actually means it.

Her friendship with the One-Eyed Prince has brought colour into her life in King’s Landing, where previously it had been dull. The food no longer seems quite so bland. The feeling of homesickness that has sat heavily upon her chest feels like less of a burden to carry. For the first time since her arrival at the Red Keep she feels happy.

However, as the weeks press on she begins to suspect that Aemond is not fighting to his full potential when paired with her in the training yard. She no longer has to make an effort to disarm him, his attacking blows are not quite so aggressive as they once were. She is sure this is deliberate.

“Well fought, Princess.” Aemond says cordially as she knocks his sword from his hand yet again.

She throws down her own in frustration. “No, it wasn’t!” She snaps, before stalking back towards the shed. She has had enough for today and is tired of Aemond not taking it seriously.

She groans in irritation when he follows her a few moments later.

“Have I done something to upset you?” He asks, a trace of uncertainty in his tone as she keeps her back to him.

“Do you not think I am a worthy opponent?” She asks, peering over her shoulder at him.

“You are one of the most capable fighters I have ever seen.” He replies without hesitation.

She turns to face him fully. “So why are you letting me win? I have seen you train properly Aemond, you aren’t even trying.”

He takes a deep breath, directing his gaze towards the ground before back up to her. “You’ve never once mentioned my eye.”

Her brows pull together in confusion. “So? Why should I? It makes you no less of a man, you wield a sword better than most with the full power of sight.”

Aemond draws closer to her, the way he stares at her makes her breath hitch. In her relatively short life no one has ever looked upon her with such reverence before. “That is why I cannot bear to hurt you.” He admits softly. “No one has ever cared for me so deeply before, and I must confess, I…care for you too.”

Sylva is unsure of who moves first, but their lips meet and she feels a flutter of excitement in her belly as they kiss. His movements are uncertain to begin with, and she wonders if this is the first time he has ever kissed anyone. He learns quickly, however, a hand moving to the back of her head to tangle into her hair as his mouth works with more urgency against her own.

When they finally break away from each other, he rests his forehead against hers, his breathing heavy.

“I have wanted to do that for so long.” He whispers. “Our union will be what finally unites Dorne with the realm, and secures my brother’s succession.”

Sylva feels as though she has been submerged in ice water, she pulls back from him, hurt and anger contorting her features into a snarl. “You are no better than my father, I am just a political asset to you. I trusted you!”

She pushes past Aemond, leaving him to stare after her as she stalks back towards the Keep, her eyes burning with unshed tears.

She shuts herself away in her chambers and finally allows herself to fall apart, grieving for the life she has left behind in Sunspear, for the loss of her only friend in King’s Landing and for how utterly humiliated she feels for allowing herself to be fooled by him.

Aemond knows how much she resents being used as a pawn by her father and yet it seems to her he has had the same intentions all along. The betrayal of this stings more painfully than being passed off to the Targaryen family in the first place.

Sylva spends the next two weeks avoiding Aemond. She keeps away from the training yard, despite wanting nothing more than to run him through with a blade. She knows that would be unwise and likely cost her her own life. Dinners are an awkward affair, she keeps her eyes fixed firmly on her plate, refusing to look at him. The library becomes an area of the Red Keep that she no longer sets foot in, eager to avoid being in close quarters with the man who has broken her heart.

As the days drag on, Sylva hates that she is missing Aemond. She has no one to confide in, all of the colour has drained from her world once more, food is bland upon her tongue again. Everything that ever brought her joy in this wretched castle is so deeply entwined with him, she cannot bear it.

Apparently neither can he.

The hour grows late and she is about to climb into bed when she sees the parchment slip beneath her chamber door. Gingerly she picks it up, unfolding it and beginning to read.

My dearest Sylva,

I have never been good with words, at least not ones that are spoken, it is often why I elect not to speak at all. You must forgive me, but I was a lonely child and have not had the practice of conversing quite so eloquently as I can when I put quill to parchment. It is why I have chosen to write you this letter.

I have been raised with a strong sense of duty and honour to my family. It was not my intention to hurt your feelings when I foolishly said what I said - I shan’t repeat the words, you know of what I’m referring to. I said what I thought I ought to, not what I wanted to.

If I had been able to speak my mind I would have said that you are all I think about. You drive me to distraction. My underperformance while sparring is not entirely due to my desire not to cause you harm. When the sun catches the beautiful brown of your eyes, they turn an amber colour that looks like liquid gold, I am unable to look away and so I falter in my movements. The exceptional shade and warmth of your dark hair leaves me longing to run my fingers through it. When I touched it for the briefest of moments when we kissed, I had never felt anything softer.

I do not want our union to be a political one, though I would be remiss to deny its advantages. I am a Targaryen Prince. All my life I have never considered the possibility of existing outside of that, but you see me exactly as I am. You see beyond my title, you see all that I could ever dream of being. And I want to be all of that, for you. I see you too, and I have grown to love the hot bloodedness that comes with your vivacious nature, the stubbornness that accompanies your unwavering integrity.

For me, it is not a want to be with you, it is a need. I hope you need me too. We will have whatever future you see fit for us. The last two weeks without you have made me realise that whatever path I take in life does not matter, as long as I have you by my side. If you will allow it, I will spend an eternity earning your forgiveness for my careless words. I hope the ones you are reading at this moment serve in some way to bring you comfort.

Yours faithfully,

Aemond.

Sylva clutches the letter to her chest when she is finished reading, her heart hammers wildly against her ribcage. There is only one thought in her mind; she needs to see him.

Abandoning all thoughts of sleep, she hurries from her quarters towards his, throwing open his door without bothering to knock. He hasn’t begun to ready himself for bed yet and she sees him turn towards her, startled by her sudden appearance in only the shift she wears to sleep in.

“Whatever future I see fit for us?” She repeats the line from his letter back to him.

He nods, his face hopeful as he stares at her.

“What if I want us to abandon our duties and travel the world?”

“Then we have Vhagar at our disposal to do just that.”

“What if I wish for us to remain unwed?” She steps closer towards him, eyeing him carefully.

“My love for you is more infallible than any marriage vows.”

Closing the gap between them, Sylva places her hands upon Aemond’s chest, his flesh is warm against her palms through his undershirt. “And what if I want to fuck simply for pleasure, and drink moon tea afterwards?”

His breath hitches, as his eye widens. His fingers wrap around her wrists, holding her in place against him. “If…if that is what you wish.”

“I thought you were going to teach me to be civilised?” She whispers.

“You are infuriating.” He mutters, before his mouth descends upon hers.

Desperate for each other after weeks apart, it is a messy clash of lips, teeth and tongue as they move towards Aemond’s bed. As they fall back against the mattress, Aemond breaks away to kiss down the expanse of her throat and chest.

Sighing in pleasure, Sylva threads her fingers through his silken hair, shrugging her shift away from her shoulders.

Aemond seizes the opportunity to pull it down, his hands smoothing over the supple flesh of her breasts. “You are beautiful.” He breathes.

“I want you, Aemond.” She murmurs.

Each of his touches feels like it leaves a trail of fire against her skin in its wake. Desire pools, sticky and warm between her thighs. She has not felt this kind of heat since she left Dorne, it is a sensation akin to the taste of fresh fruit after weeks of starvation.

“May I touch you?” He asks timidly, his fingertips grazing the inside of her thigh.

“Please do.”

He exhales a shaky breath as the pads of his fingers make contact with the warmth of her center. “You are so soft here…”

“Have you ever touched a woman like this before?” She asks, as he drags his fingers experimentally through her sodden folds.

“No.” He admits, embarrassment heating his cheeks and the tips of his ears.

Sylva smiles, cupping his jaw and kissing his lips softly. “Lay back. I will make it feel good for both of us.”

Aemond does as he’s told and Sylva makes quick work of undressing him, tugging his undershirt over his head and pulling his breeches off.

Her mouth runs dry at the sight of his hardened length. The tip rests against his lower abdomen, flushed pink and glistening with pearlescent fluid. She wraps her hand around the shaft, stroking softly and Aemond hisses through his teeth.

“Does that feel good?” She asks, cocking her head to the side.

“Gods…” He grits out. “You know it does.”

She giggles. “It will feel even better inside.”

Sylva straddles him, positioning him at her entrance and sinking down slowly. Aemond’s eye goes wide as his jaw slackens at the sensation.

She gasps at the stretch of him inside of her and once he is fully sheathed within her, she leans forward, pushing Aemond’s eye patch away from his face with her middle and forefingers.

She marvels at the way the sapphire within the socket glimmers in the candlelight.

Aemond swallows thickly. “Do you wish to stop?”

“No.” She replies with an experimental roll of her hips. “Just admiring you.”

Aemond leans up, a low growl rumbling in his chest as he wraps his arms around her and pulls her down to him in a passionate kiss. “You are remarkable.” He whispers into her ear, once he pulls away.

Sylva sits back up, bracing herself against his chest with the flat of her hands as she begins to rock herself against him. Every drag of his length inside of her makes her feel light headed as her breathing becomes more laboured with the effort.

Clearly growing impatient, Aemond seizes her by the hips, meeting her thrust for thrust, the pace suddenly becoming much more intense. There is an insatiable hunger within his seeing eye, Sylva can see none of its usual blue as she stares into it, it is utterly eclipsed by the dilation of his pupil.

She snakes a hand between their bodies, circling her pearl as Aemond plants his feet flat on the bed, continuing to drive up into her.

“Fuck…I think I’m going to…” Aemond trails off, screwing his eye shut and biting his lip.

The sight of him so wanton with desire beneath her, causes Sylva to clench around him, her own climax steadily approaching as she continues to work at her bud.

“Let go for me, I’m close too.” She coaxes.

His strokes become sloppier as he nears his end, his stomach muscles contracting, with one last push up into her, he stills, pulsating inside of her with a groan.

The sensation provides the added stimulus that Sylva needs to fall over the edge and she comes apart around him with a strangled cry, tightening and spasming as he spills himself inside of her.

She collapses against him, panting for breath, and they lay together in silence for a few moments, simply holding each other and recovering from their respective highs.

“You have made me the happiest man in all the Seven Kingdoms.” Aemond rasps, pressing a chaste kiss to her hairline.

“Dornish depravity will do that to you.” She says with a lazy smile.

“You are infuriating.” He chuckles, pulling her tighter against him. “But I would have you no other way.”

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separatist-apologist · 6 months

Text

How The Mighty Fall

Summary: In the centuries after the war, a treaty demands humans are compensated for the horrors wrought on them by their Fae overlords. A maiden is chosen from a village, her family cared for, in exchange for immortality.

Or so the stories go.

But beneath the pretty promises and the lush, magical world of Prythian, something is rotting. Elain Archeron has found herself swept up in the mystery, racing against the clock and a ritual that promises to end her human life for something better. What happens on Fire Night?

And where are all the missing women?

Read On AO3

Thank you @velidewrites for the moodboard and @highladydawn for betaing this for me back in 2021.

Choosing Day was always a big deal in the village. Elain helped her sisters with their hair, having bathed in frigid water the night before. Their dresses—unchanged for the last five years, were laid neatly atop the bed they shared. Elain helped Feyre and Nesta helped Elain just so Elain and Feyre could work the complicated laces and buttons on Nesta’s own dress.

Choosing Day was practically a holiday for the villagers. One woman was picked each year to accompany the High Lord and though the Lords did not speak to the humans any longer, the story was told that the treaty erected between humans and Fae demanded the High Lords be allowed to change one human to Faerie in exchange for peace. He didn’t always come to their village of Wol, just one of many that dotted the stretch of land between the Fae and human territories, and there was no way to know if this year he would, either.

It was why there was so much excitement. The families of those who were chosen were sent wealth far beyond anyone’s expectations and that was what motivated Nesta, Elain, and Feyre to get dressed and go out. Their father was badly injured with a leg that kept him from working. They were always on the brink of starvation, always worried about money and food. If one of them were picked, they’d never have to worry again.

He was lovely and unchanged. In the fifteen years of memories she had of him, the blonde High Lord looked exactly as he always had. A young man, perhaps no older than twenty-five, stepped from the woods in his fine green tunic. She didn’t find him particularly attractive but it hardly mattered when the end result was still the same. Besides, she reflected. She could always fake attraction if that was what was required. He wasn’t tragically ugly…but there was a hardness about him that Elain did not prefer.

He paused in front of her and her sisters, reaching for a strand of Feyre’s golden brown hair. She watched, fascinated, while he inhaled the air. and she wondered what he smelled. His eyes drifted towards her and that was how she knew it would be her. Something sparked in his gaze even as his nostrils flared. Elain was grateful she’d bathed.

Beside her, Nesta stiffened as if she’d protest but there was no point to it. He could kill them all if he wanted, judging by the baldric of knives across chest. They’d decided, five years before, that they’d continue to try and hope the High Lord chose one of them in an effort to lift the rest of the sisters out of poverty. Elain was grateful to be picked at all—there were more than a few beautiful women in the village that might catch his eye.

“You,” he murmured, offering her a broad, calloused hand. Elain couldn’t help the tremor in her own, nervous when he lowered his lips and brushed a kiss over her knuckles. “Do you require a moment to say your goodbyes?”

She nodded, grateful when he released her. Heart pounding, Elain swiveled in the tight, lilac dress she wore to race into the house. Her father sat on his familiar stool by the fireplace, an unfinished wooden carving in his lap. Feyre and Nesta were just behind Elain, hugging her first. They’d always had an uncomfortable relationship but this was done because Elain loved them and knew they would trade places if the Fae Lord demanded it.

“Write us,” Nesta urged, face buried in Elain’s shoulder. “Just so we know you’re safe.”

“Find us, afterwards,” Feyre added, squeezing Elain from behind. “Swear it.”

“I swear,” Elain told Feyre. “We’ll be together again.”

“Elain’s been chosen?” their father asked and a zap of frustration arced through Elain’s stomach. She swallowed it, swallowed her anger like she always had and nodded instead. She went to him, kneeling at his side. “This is a good thing.”

He shook his head. “Fifty years that Lord has been taking girls. He pays their families…but not one ever returns.”

“Oh shush!” Nesta snapped. “Returned to what? Besides, plenty of families move. How do you know they never reunited?”

“Tell him no,” her father urged, caressing her cheek. Elain shook her head no.

“This is a good thing, papa. There will be no more hungry nights after this.”

“At what cost?” he lamented mournfully. “This isn’t what your mother hoped for you…for any of you.”

“We’ll never know what mother would have wanted,” Feyre said with uncharacteristic bite. “Tell Elain goodbye, Papa.”

He pressed a warbling kiss to her cheek. “Parents aren’t supposed to outlive their children.”

Elain smiled. “And they won’t. You’ll see papa. I’ll be back.”

He didn’t attempt to get up and follow which disappointed Elain. Instead, it was Feyre and Nesta who acted as her parents, standing guard while the High Lord waited. He stood without moving, without fidgeting at all and the lack of motion set the fine hair on the back of her neck on edge, though brushed it off and accepted his hand after hugging her sisters one last time. All eyes were on her, envious for the most part though she caught more than one father watching with relief that his daughter had been spared this year. She watched, using her free hand to hold the hem of her dress so she wouldn’t drag the mud that coated the wide, uneven streets. The houses all seemed the same to her, tiny wooden cottages that had weathered one too many storms.

If the poverty bothered the Fae Lord, he gave no indication of it. Perhaps he’d grown used to such things or maybe he was so far above it he just didn’t care. She tried to focus on keeping her steps balanced and elegant, but more than once, Elain stumbled over a loose stone or a clod of dirt.

He marched her into the forested tree line where the wall was held and, absently, she wondered if he intended to walk the whole way. There was no horse that might indicate any other mode of transportation. Elain screamed when, without warning of any kind, swirling darkness gobbled her up. The pressure squeezed at her ribs, stealing the air from her lungs. Mistake! Her brain cried with panic. She felt clawed hands around her waist, felt the warmth of another body too close to her own. For one horrible moment, she was certain she was about to die—to be eaten, or worse.

She relaxed when the darkness ebbed, revealing cool, rose scented air and rolling green hills of lush, swaying grass. She stood on evenly cut gravel rock that led into a sprawling marble estate. Elain blinked, her fear ebbing to awe as she took in the true majesty of this man’s home. Crawling ivy crept up the east side, snaking up carved pillars towards a glittering white roof. Balconies jutted from the sides, overlooking an expansive garden that only magic could have made possible.

“Welcome home,” the Lord murmured softly, his tone satisfied by her awed reaction. “Let me give you a tour.”

“I’ll be living here?” she asked breathlessly, following behind him. He nodded, his shoulder length blonde hair falling into his handsome face.

“For the next six months, my home is your home.”

“Is that how long before you turn me?” she questioned, swallowing nervously. He glanced down at her, lips twitching as if her fear amused him.

“Yes. Calanmai is the name of the ritual, but you needn’t worry yourself with that.”

“And…and my family?” she questioned, stepping onto a vast, black and white checkered marble floor. He set his hand on her shoulder.

“I will ensure your family is well cared for.”

Elain beamed, exhaling with relief. He dropped his hand to her elbow, guiding her through the house. Elain noticed the servants kept their eyes firmly on the floor and said nothing at all save for one small child, perhaps no older than five. She smiled, disappointed when the little, pink cheeked cherub vanished into her mother’s skirts. It was the Lord, Elain decided. He made them nervous, likely didn’t venture into their designated areas often enough. He took her to the dining room, to the ballroom, and a drawing room, all beautifully crafted of marble and wood. Huge windows allowed glittering shafts of sunlight into the room, making everything seem warmer and brighter.

A winding set of stairs took Elain up to a library so grand she nearly wept at the sight of it. Nesta would have loved it, she thought privately, though she offered the Faerie nothing but a polite murmuring of thank you. He seemed to realize it meant something to her and offered her a bedroom just the hall over.

“It’s empty over here…none of my court prefers this wing so you will have it yourself,” he informed her. Elain nodded. He knew the room was larger than the cottage she’d grown up in and she thought if she thanked him again, he might snap at her.

“What’s your name?” she asked instead, her feet snug against a round, white rug.

“Tamlin,” he told her, bowing at the waist. “Consider me at your disposal.”

She very much doubted that. Surely he was too busy to worry himself with her, though Elain also had no intention of bothering him. Six months would pass quickly and she was adept at keeping herself busy.

“Alis will take your measurements for some new clothing but for now…the estate is yours and you may roam as you wish. I only ask you for one thing in return.”

She looked over at him, dragging her eyes from the double doors that led to her own private balcony. “Yes, lord?”

“You don’t wander off the grounds. There are sentries posted at the edge of my estate to let you know if you’ve gone too far.”

She opened her mouth to ask what lay beyond his estate, but decided it wasn’t worth starting a potential argument. His generosity overwhelmed her and the request was small.

“Of course.”

He smiled then and she thought perhaps she’d been hasty in thinking he wasn’t handsome enough for her. There was something disarming about him despite the coldness that seemed to lurk in his eyes. Perhaps he was uncomfortable with the treaty or was just awkward in general.

“My emissary will see to anything else you might require,” he added absently, turning his back to her before closing the door and leaving alone Elain in the room. She giggled, flopping atop the four poster bed draped in breezy, lush curtains and covered in a pretty floral and cream bedding. The walls were trimmed in soft gold and green and when she managed to drag herself off the mountain of pillows, she found a bathroom with taps that pulled hot water directly into the basin.

Elain bathed in scalding hot water for the first time in her life.

She was nearly finished when the Alis strode in. She was pretty in that Faerie way, her dark haired braided around a round, sweet face. She didn’t need to introduce herself as she grabbed a towel from the nearby closet and held it open.

“Come on now,” she said crisply, not bothering to avert her gaze as Elain stepped out. “You’re a thin little thing, aren’t you?”

“I uh…” Elain wasn’t sure how best to respond to that. Alis clicked her tongue.

“We’ll fix that right up. Sit,” she added, shoving Elain into a chair at the vanity. Elain watched Alis expertly trim her waist length hair before winding it in fat curlers. Elain stood, naked as the day she was born, while Alis wrapped a tape measure around her body, jotting down each number with a put-upon sigh.

“We can take this in,” she murmured, flinging open the armoire doors and pulling out a swirling blue and green gown.”

Elain learned that taking it in meant lacing it around her abdomen within an inch of Elain’s life. Alis took the curlers out and pulled half of her hair off her face with golden combs.

“You’re lovely. Far lovelier than the last few girls,” Alis murmured, admiring her work with a satisfied smile. Elain almost asked where those girls had gone, but sensed Alis missed them. Offering a smile instead, Elain asked, “Can I go to the garden?”

Alis gestured towards the door. “Go wherever you like,” Alis murmured. “Just stay on the grounds.”

Elain didn’t need to be told twice. She flew down the hall, practically running despite the soft material of her shoes and the length of her off the shoulder dress. It took her a minute to realize she’d gone the wrong way and was in a part of the house Tamlin hadn’t shown her. She turned with a frustrated sigh, intending to retrace her steps.

“Lost?” A deep, masculine voice asked. Leaning against a wall, a half-eaten apple in hand, the most beautiful man Elain had ever seen was watching her. Like Tamlin, this man was dressed elegantly in a silver tunic and a pair of well fitted black pants, his boots stopping just beneath his knees. She could see his muscles flex beneath the fabric as he straightened. His skin was golden, a golden brown that was just a shade too dark to have been warmed by the sun itself and he’d tied long red hair from his face in a neat ponytail that made the elegant cut of his features seem almost rakish.

The only thing that marred his beauty was a series of scars cut against his right eye, which had been replaced by a strange, mechanical golden eye. Elain thought the shade complemented his coloring perfectly, adding to the luminescence that seemed to radiate from him. How had he gotten it? Strange, that starkness against the otherwise luminescent perfection of him and his kind. Did it bother him? That didn’t seem like the right sort of question to ask him, so Elain remained silent, nervous and alert as he drank her in.

“Are you lost?” he asked her again, taking a fraction of step towards her.

“I ah…yes,” she replied, flustered by his presence. “I was trying to find the garden.”

He nodded, amusement sparking against his features. “You’re quite a ways up. Allow me.”

He gestured for her to follow him, offering his elbow. Elain accepted, breathless when the contact zapped through her fingers, making her heart race as though she’d been burned. She couldn’t bring herself to look at him, too overwhelmed by the sheer beauty of the man who walked beside her.

“So you’re the new human, hm? Are you looking forward to Fire Night?”

“Fire Night?” She asked breathlessly.

“Calanmai,” he prodded. “The ritual? You humans have so many names for it I can hardly keep track.”

“Calanmai, of course. I haven’t thought about it much,” she lied, her stomach clenching. All she did was think about it.

“Hm,” he hummed softly. “For the best, I suppose.”

They walked in silence towards a familiar path and she wondered how many other humans had walked beside this man, awed by his beauty. How many had walked this path with him, had asked the same questions?

“Where do they go?” she asked him when he’d taken her back outside.

“Not far,” he replied easily, a smile on his face. “Who wouldn’t want to live out their days in eternal Spring, after all?”

Eternal Spring. That did sound nice. “Are there other territories?

“Six others,” he agreed with an amused smile. “Do you prefer a different season? Warmth? Snow?”

In truth, eternal Spring was probably the best place for her to live out her days, too. She shook her head no, momentarily silenced by the sight of the sprawling garden laid out before her.

“Is there anything else I can assist you with, Lady?”

Inclining her head to look at him, Elain asked, “Is that your job?”

He grinned, one hand on his chest. “For you? Yes. I am Lucien Vanserra, Tamlin’s emissary.”

“Oh!” she cried, clapping her hands together with delight. “He mentioned you.”

Lucien grinned. “My reputation precedes me, then. If there is nothing else, I will leave you to the safety of the garden.”

He bowed deeply, eliciting the strangest sensation from her body. It was only a moment, though it might have been lifetime. She had the strangest feeling they’d met before, that they’d lived an entire life together…that she knew this man better than she knew herself. The feeling raced through her body, heating her blood with recognition. Lucien, too, was no longer smiling when he straightened, his brow furrowed.

It passed with a lavender scented breeze, leaving her confused.

Magic, she told herself, watching his retreating form.

But uncertainty lingered.

Lucien blew out an unsteady breath. Another human and another Calanmai. Elain was doe-eyed like the rest of them, blissfully unaware of what Calanmai truly was. The humans used to know why the High Lords were still allowed to collect one human a year, but that knowledge had become eroded over the centuries until their little fairytale was all that persisted. Not all High Lords participated anymore, the prophecy considered more legend than truth at this point. Lucien’s own father in Autumn had abandoned the tradition at the behest of his wife, who was tired of burying bodies. Dawn and Day had also stopped when their younger, more progressive High Lords took power. Summer had very recently joined them, which left Winter, Night, and Spring still collecting human women.

Lucien did not enjoy the role he played. Keep them docile, amused and unaware right until that final night of Calanmai. It didn’t matter, then, if they learned the truth of the matter. There was nowhere they could run that the High Lord could not track. Not many unraveled the truth in time which, to Lucien, made things a little easier. They were already in love with Tamlin and believed every promise he made.

They went to the grave believing in that love. Tamlin, to his credit, dealt with their bodies in the aftermath but it was Lucien who attended to them in the months leading up to their demise. He helped facilitate the falling in love with the High Lord and Tamlin’s courtiers watched the entire thing as though it were an amusing play they were seeing for the first time.

There were bets placed already on how long it would take the newest human to offer Tamlin a dance, a kiss…and everything else.

Lucien sighed, sitting at the dining room table by himself as he ticked off what he needed to do. A virgin sacrifice was required for Calanmai, untouched until the rightful Lord came to claim her, more beast than male. Most humans didn’t survive the coupling but those who did were then sacrificed at the stone altar in the hopes she would be the one from the prophecy.

Seek out the maiden, untouched by man

Bring her forth to the golden land

A kiss that glows hot with fire

Only one is worthy to sire

When she turns the sky from day to night

A High King will emerge to set things right

Hundreds of girls had died in service to a prophecy that could have been interpreted wrong or been pure nonsense from the start. Lucien wondered how much longer Tamlin intended to try and find the right human woman in an effort to be chosen High King of Prythian. Lucien suspected Tamlin would stop when Rhysand did, determined not to let the High Lord of Night rule all of Prythian.

The prophecy never said the maiden needed to die—that had come later. In five hundred years, the tradition may have shifted entirely, but for now, it was generally agreed the fires of Calanmai were what was needed in order to absorb enough magic that would crown someone High King.

The previous year had been a disaster for Spring. Their maiden had not been a maiden at all but a married woman with a child, invalidating the entire ritual. Lucien had watched Tamlin rip the female into pieces, furious at the deception. The memories still lingered, infesting his nightmares until Lucien woke in a cold, miserable sweat.

Elain though…she had the look of innocence about her. She smelled like honey and jasmine without any hint of a male on her. She didn’t seem like the type to fight back, either. She’d go willingly to her death, gazing upwards at Tamlin with those sweet eyes. Lucien had no intention of getting close to her or learning anything about her that might make him feel sympathy.

Tamlin stepped in, closing the doors softly behind him. “How did it go?”

“She’s in the garden,” Lucien replied, grateful when Tamlin uncorked a bottle of wine and slid him a glass.

“Did she know anything about Calanmai?” Tamlin questioned, his eyes flashing with fear. They had dungeons, of course, but generally it was believed the humans should offer themselves willingly, at least in the beginning. Chasing one down, while fun, was thought to ruin the ceremony. It also made the entire ordeal worse. Killing wasn’t borne of enjoyment, afterall—killing a female shaking and begging was too much, even for battle hardened, centuries old males like Tamlin.

“Nothing. It seems the humans have completely forgotten why we come.”

“Good,” Tamlin breathed, pacing the room. “And her scent?”

Lucien glanced at his friend. “I didn’t notice anything male about her.”

“But you’ll ask?” Tamlin prodded.

“Shall I court her, too?” Lucien bit back, irritated that so much of leading the humans to the slaughter fell on his shoulders. Tamlin shrugged. Neither of them truly wanted the job, but Lucien’s resentment burned hot given he was the only one to mourn them and one day Tamlin would be High King.

“I wish you could. Give her what she asks for and keep her occupied.”

“Do you plan to take her to the starlit pool?” Lucien asked, creating a timeline of events in his mind.

“Yes, and the Winter Solstice ball,” Tamlin added. “Keep her away from the servants. They’re still upset about last Calanmai.”

As they should be, Lucien thought privately. It had been their job to clean the mess Tamlin made when he tore the girl to shreds.

“And the courtiers?” Lucien pressed. More than once, someone tried to dally with the human sacrifice either from boredom or attraction. They also weren’t above dropping little hints to amuse themselves, betting on everything from when the human might kiss Tamlin all the way if she’d figure out their deception.

“I’ll deal with them,” Tamlin growled softly. “Let’s avoid the same hiccups as last year.”

“Have you paid her family?” Lucien asked, wondering if that task would fall to him as well. Tamlin waved his hand.

“It was done moments after she arrived, along with the usual glamours. If you asked them, they would tell you she is visiting a sick relative. After Calanmai she’ll run off with a suitor, just as they always do.”

“And her memory?” Lucien continued, ticking each thing off in his mind.

“Alis knows to pour a tonic into her beverages with each meal. She won’t remember them in a month.” Lucien nodded. “Do you require anything else of me?”

Tamlin collapsed into the chair at the head of the table, face buried in his hands. “Can you fuck her for me, too?”

Lucien was grateful he didn’t have to.

#elucien #i forgot what an asshole lucien is for the start of this #oh well

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holdmytesseract · 2 years

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moodboard by the wonderful @mochie85 !

Baby Fever AU 《Masterlist》

The Baby Fever AU is set some time after the attack on New York. Infinity War, End Game and Thanos never happened. Loki's punishment had been to join the Avengers - where he met you. One thing came to the other and a few years later, you two are married - and now parents of a sweet girl, called Ella and a little boy called Narfi. This AU features the adventures you are expieriencing as a family - and a lot of dad!Loki moments, 'cause we all love Loki being a dad...

General Warnings: fluff, fluff and even more fluff! Pregnancy things, birth, etc.

Last Updated: April 17th, 2024

《 Baby Fever - the Beginning 》

(How Loki's baby fever started...)

🍼 Part One

🍼 Part Two

🍼 Part Three

《 Before Ella... 》

(The oneshots here are from the time before Ella is born. Y/N's and Loki's story...)

🍼 The Beginning

🍼 You & Me Forever

🍼 Paper Rings

🍼 On one of Tony's team bonding parties...

🍼 About Time

🍼 When a God Loves a Woman

🍼 Hunter & Prey

《 The Dad Loki Diary - Chapter One 》

(What's the 'Dad Loki Diary'? The 'Dad Loki Diary' consists of drabbles and one shots of, well… Loki being Ella's dad and doing dad things. Things that come to my mind - or things that you want to read. If you have a wish what the little family should experience together, look if the requests for this AU are open and let me know! :D)

Headcanons

🍼 Disney Edition

Oneshots

🍼 Of Fathers and Sons

🍼 Daddy Takeover

🍼 Protecting Her

🍼 Father Feelings

🍼 A Precious Moment

🍼 How to Magic

🍼 A Painful Experience

🍼 First Steps

🍼 Insecurities

🍼 First Word

🍼 Not Your Little Girl Anymore

🍼 All I Need Is You

🍼 Asgardian Sightseeing Tours

🍼 Winter Wonders

🍼 A little Girl`s Wish

🍼 Merry Christmas!

🍼 A Fresh Page

🍼 Of the Birds and the Bees

🍼 Female Nature

🍼 Tempting Touch (18+)

🍼 Autumn Blues

🍼 Little Mood Changer

🍼 Capturing the Moment

🍼 Cravings & Food Rubs

Drabbles

🍼 Ella

🍼 Lullaby

🍼 He's Back - Part Two (Part One is written by @lokisgoodgirl )

🍼 Close to You

🍼 Sugar Sweet

🍼 About Scrunchies and Hair Clips

Blurbs

🍼 Ella, sitting on Loki's chest, raven locks in her tiny hands...

🍼 Loki and Y/N, sitting opposite their dining table, looking each other deadly in the eyes...

🍼 Five-year-old Ella is sitting with Loki at the small table in her room, colouring in her princesses colouring book..

🍼 Loki, laying in the bathtub with a glass of wine in hands, living his best life...

🍼 Loki, standing in the kitchen in order to prepare a little something for you to eat...

🍼 Loki, changing the nappy of a happily gurgling Ella...

🍼 The Promo Tour

《 The Dad Loki Diary - Chapter Two 》

(Well... Welcome to Chapter Two of the 'Dad Loki Diary'. :D Our favourite God is now a dad of two. <3 A new chapter in life has started for him, so I thought it's time to start a new chapter here as well! :D)

Oneshots

🧸 Narfi

🧸 Princess Meets Prince

🧸 Tummy Talkin'

🧸 The Price of Love

🧸 Royal Visitors

🧸 Bad Dream

🧸 Football Fever

🧸 The Equation of Love

🧸 Gym Sessions & Babies

🧸 Biggest Fear

🧸 Boys Do Cry

🧸 Infinite Love

🧸 A Stroke Of Fate

Blurbs

🧸 Y/N, tiptoeing towards the bedroom after a long and tiring day of meetings...

🧸 In the royal gardens of Asgard...

🧸 At Thor's and Jane's house; quite a few miles away from the Avengers compound...

🧸 ... and a Happy New Year!

#loki x reader #loki laufeyson x female reader #loki laufeyson x reader #loki x you #loki x y/n #tom hiddleston x reader #tom hiddleston characters

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educationalporpoises · 4 months

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Before the Fall of Rome

Merry Christmas @blood-mocha-latte from your Secret Santa! (me) Hope you enjoy this fic, and your moodboards totally gave me the bug so I made one to go with this fic too :)) Rie, I had a blast writing this fic for you <33 Also here on AO3 Before the Fall of Rome, Luztoye, 2.2k, M June, 1949. There's a reunion on the fifth anniversary of D-Day. George and Joe meet again for the first time since Bastogne.

June, 1949

George was outside smoking, leaning up against a plaster column in the shade. He was on his second cigarette when a busted cream-colored Willys pulled up in front of the hotel and Babe Heffron got out of the front seat, opening the door for a lady in the passenger seat. The lady in turn pulled open the back door and held out an inconspicuous arm for Bill Guarnere to pull himself up to standing. On the other side, Babe did the same with Joe Toye. George recognized him, but the set of his shoulders, the way he carried himself, had changed from the man George had jumped with.

Joe had a suitcase in one hand, a cane in the other, and walked purposefully towards the entrance to the hotel. George flicked the butt of his cigarette into the gravel drive and stepped into line with him, passing by the doorman holding the big door to the hotel.

“Hey Joe.”

Joe grunted.

“Ballroom’s down to the right. We’re all staying on the second floor mostly, and there’s an elevator back here,” George said, trotting alongside Joe. At the elevator Joe set down his suitcase and waited for Babe and the Guarneres to catch up after checking into the hotel, shifting his weight to one side and smoothing out a crease in his pant leg where it caught above the knee.

George remembered suddenly that this was the first time he’d seen Joe since Belgium, since the snow and the blood and as his throat tightened he smiled, wide, and said “I’d probably get you lost trying to find the room.”

He left Joe standing in the hallway with his shoulders slumped and his mouth a thin line and went to help set up the ballroom. It was still mostly empty, only the guys that organized the reunion had arrived. George was only there because he’d caught a ride with Winters, who was chronically early and terminally helpful.

Winters was different in civilian clothing, his hair just beyond regulation length, his shoulders and his smile looser. George had stopped by his house in Nixon, New Jersey, a hulking, empty brownstone with a shiny Cadillac parked in the garage. Nixon (the man) had driven in from the city and cooked them dinner both nights, pouring George and himself liberal glasses of vintage wines and retelling the same stories of his childhood they’d all heard through Toccoa and the war. He’d fallen asleep in the back of the Cadillac as Winters drove them to Pennsylvania and told George about the different farms they passed by.

“We’ve heard enough about cows, Dick,” Nix said blearily from the backseat, “Luz, what are you doing next?”

“I liked hearing about the cows, sir,” George deflected. He’d told them about the last four years, taking care of his little siblings and the seasonal jobs around town he’d been picking up. But Nix had his number and knew George had no idea for his future. “I was thinking once Molly is in school I’d look into one of those job programs they have for soldiers. Learn a trade.”

“Trade work is good, Luz. You know, I put myself through college wiring telephone poles. I must have wired half of Lancaster County by the end of it,” Winters said. He glanced in the rearview mirror at Nixon, and George watched his face twist briefly before he looked back at the road.

In the ballroom Winters was directing Popeye and Tab in putting up a banner that read “506th PIR E Company” in a big red script, with “Currahee” underneath. Nixon was standing by a big table of food, some of it catered by the hotel, some of it brought by the wives and fiances of the men that had arrived. Nixon had made lemon icebox cookies the day before they left.

“Luz!” Someone behind him called out as George tried to filch a cookie from under Nixon’s nose. He turned around, wiping powdered sugar on his pants, and saw Lipton, smiling around his scar.

“And, well, we’re not telling people yet but Angie is expecting,” Lip said in an undertone, after he’d filled George in on the weeks since their last letter.

“Well tell her Uncle George is always available for babysitting. Lord knows your rugrats will be easier than the little Luzes.”

“Everyone’s easier to manage than Luz kids. That’s why they keep you around at home,” Lip joked, “You keep them out of trouble and they keep you busy enough you can’t get into trouble either.”

Lip made him promise to visit the boarding house before Angie gave birth, “Or we won’t have time to see you until the baby is in school,” and they made tenuous plans for the fall, before Lip went to talk to the other officers.

George chatted with Popeye and Moore when he arrived, and pulled Johnny Martin into a hug when he arrived. The light grew into sunset, and eventually Nixon officially opened the bar, everyone yelling over each other which drinks they wanted.

George had an Old Fashioned, in honor of the man himself, and another for confidence. By the time he was teetering between tipsy and drunk the sun had turned mellow and the room was hazy and dim. Men were dancing with their wives while others sat around talking. Winters made a brief statement standing on a chair, a glass of punch (miraculously no one spiked it) in his hand.

“I was proud to lead you into battle five years ago and I am proud of all that you have accomplished in civilian life, and the futures you have earned. Currahee!” he said, and they all cheered, and afterwards all the men had toasted each other until George was pushed up on the chair and wished them all luck in their lives after the war in Sobel’s marching cadence bellow. He’d done Sink and Dike and a big German caricature, and then mimicked a couple of movie stars, yelling orders or repeating old jokes from the war, before he was let down from the chair and handed another drink.

He watched Babe Heffron talking to Martin and his wife, a shadow hulking behind him. George went up to the shadow and tapped him on the shoulder.

“Luz, can’t you see I’m in the middle of a conversation,” Joe grumbled, following George to an empty table.

“You hadn’t said anything in five minutes.” “You were paying attention?” Joe asked, his eyebrow quirked.

“I just couldn’t see Martin with you in the way, wanted to get another look at his behind,” he said, and Joe smiled, a little. He tilted his head down when he did, as though it was a secret.

He wasn’t sure how to approach the years of silence between them, but Joe cut through the awkwardness and asked, “So how many little siblings did you come home to?” and George got to tell him about Molly, who was three now, and his nieces and nephew, and being there to see baby Robbie walk for the first time.

“You could’ve seen me walk for the first time too,” Joe said, the first time either of them made reference to the war, “Babe was there. He was trying not to laugh the whole time. Don’t know how he and Bill are friends, they never stop fighting.”

“Philly’s still the same, then?”

“Guess so. When I left the hospital I tried to go back to the mines, but I couldn’t stand long enough. They tried to give me a paperwork job but I don’t have a head for numbers,” Joe said, his shoulders up by his ears again. It was unspoken in the company that not all the boys could read as well as each other– Bull Randleman was the smartest man in the company, but he would dictate letters home to Martin. Joe had left school at twelve. George’s ma had made all of them finish high school, and he was glad for that now.

“I’m um, I’m back in the city now. Taking some classes at the college. Bill’s wife helped me set it up, it’s free for GIs.”

“That’s good, Joe, real good,” George tried to hide his surprise, “What are you learning about?”

Joe spoke further into his beer, “History. When I got back I realized… We were part of something big. They’ll teach about us in school one day. I want it to be right.”

George imagined Joe sitting in a lecture hall, arguing with the professor.

“History is long. What’s the best part of it so far?”

“We read a book about Roman generals. They led these campaigns across the continent– they wouldn’t’ve needed paratroopers. The soldiers just marched,” Joe looked up, “This one fella, well, I guess he was an opposing general, he marched his elephants over the Alps.”

Joe’s laughter was low but bright, and George indulged another sip of his Old Fashioned, lest he think something untoward about his old friend.

“Sergeant Toye, you will brush that elephant until he shines. Do you expect to go to war with dusty tusks?” George affected in Sobel’s voice, attracting the other men towards their table.

Before Bill Guarnere and his wife (Frances, George reminded himself) went to bed he came over to shake hands with Joe and say goodnight. Joe took a minute for quiet words between them, while Frances politely invited George to visit them in Philly next time he was in the area. He got a sense that if she learned he’d been in Pennsylvania without gracing the Guarnere household he’d have a riot on his hands, and promised to call on them when he could.

“G’night Toye, Luz,” Bill said, and took his wife’s arm as they went back towards the rooms. George looked away, and caught Nixon and Winters in the corner of his eye, standing close together. Nixon had his arm wrapped around Winters’ shoulders, and for a moment his hand cupped the back of his neck, thumb brushing the divot between his skull and spine. So it was like that, George thought, and wondered why an invite into their house had been so readily given. Nixon was not a cautious man, but he guarded the things he regarded as his– dogs, peaches, wine cellars.

Joe caught him watching the officers, and he turned back to their conversation.

“I hadn’t planned to come,” Joe said, “I haven’t talked to any of them since Bill and I were in the hospital together. But Babe showed up with Bill and Fran and they would’ve left me alone, but… My brothers weren’t in the war.” George nodded, Joe had told them about the various illness or necessary labor jobs that had protected the other Toyes.

“I was lonely, I think. So when Babe showed up I went with him,” He said, and sat back, done with his piece.

George said, before his brain could catch up with him, “Would you come with me now, if I asked?”

Joe nodded, and pushed himself up from the chair.

The prosthetic was easier to get off than he expected. Two buckles across his thigh, a snap connecting the harness to the wood, and Joe Toye was naked as the day he was born spread out across the floral pattern of George’s hotel bed.

George liked to tease, liked to talk and bite and argue, and he hoped they would have time for that, in the bright, impenetrable future they now had, in this time after the war. But Joe was a simple man to please, and the noises he made when George put his mouth on his cock were almost as good as his growl when George teased him to a point of rage. And George liked it pretty fucking well when he let himself draw the blowjob out a little long, until Joe pushed down on the back of his head and said, “Suck.”

Without speaking Joe curled himself behind George to sleep, his arm resting across George’s stomach.

“Goodnight, Joe,” George said. Joe grunted.

The next morning, after breakfast, George got back in Winter’s Cadillac, and went back East for the summer, waiting until Molly went to school and cleaning fish guts off his denim coveralls. He would receive letters in Joe’s stout, blocky handwriting, words scribbled out until everything was spelled correctly. In the fall he left again, and Joe Toye would pick him up at the train station. He would apologize for not having a car, and with his balance on the prosthetic he couldn’t take a bag from George either, but they walked together to the narrow apartment they would share until Joe got his teacher’s license.

George would work for one of Joe’s cousins (he would come to learn there were always more cousins) in the back of an autobody shop, mopping floors and sweeping up the screws and bolts scattered around. Joe taught history, and at night he would read to George from the books he consumed rapidly, and George would tell him they were Achilles and Patroclus, even with Joe’s Achilles Heel and all.

After the war, they continued.

#hbowarsanta23 #band of brothers #luztoye #porpoisewrites

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thebutcherbingo · 3 months

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IMPORTANT - Sign up dates are only from 22th January to 14th of February.

(Note:

Link for previous bingo

- The Butcher Bingo: Here

- Down The Rabbit Hole Bingo: Here )

VALENTINE’S DEATH BINGO

Valentine’s Death Bingo is fit for those who love cold, harsh heartache blanketed with warm clothing. A story of a battle of life and love where all’s fair in love and war. A warm meal with a taste of anger, a dessert so sweet it reminds you of the bitterness of the past.

The Butcher will cook a uniquely made menu for you and you only to celebrate a tragedy turned into celebration.

Below listed the categories of menu you can choose:

Fruit from the tree (Angst): Will include prompts around; The symbolism from actual fruits, quotes from famous and well-known love letters all around the world (sad ones), Angst prompts in general, heartbreaking songs (quotes of the lyrics or the title), sad scenarios.

Warm hot chocolate (Fluff): Will include prompts around; List of foods and drinks surrounding Valentine’s days. More likely a dessert, something sweet. Quotes from famous and well-known love letters all around the world (Happy ones), fluff prompts in general. Happy, fluffy, and warm songs (quote of the lyrics or the title). Happy scenarios.

Bouquet of flowers (Romantic): Will include prompts around; Language of flowers (red rose - romantic love, yellow rose - friendship), general romantic quotes, quotes from famous and well-known love letters all around the world (maybe a confession), romantic prompts in general, romantic songs (quote of the lyrics or the title), romantic scenarios. (Bonus: A sketch of bouquet that include a whole concept already — note - a digital art)

Valentine’s Passion (Kink): Will include prompts around; Well… kinks, sex toys types, erotic or suggestive quotes from literatures, kink prompts in general, kinky/erotic songs (quote of the lyrics or the title), sex positions, erotic/steamy scenarios.

Valentine’s Death (You don't know what you're going to get. It could be personally made art to inspire you, a simple prompt, a simple quote from a song, personally made playlist, personally made moodboards, et cetera)

Valentine’s Death Bingo is pretty simple in its entirety. It has fewer variants of menus than the previous (which we still will cook) bingo. However the effort that's going to be put into it is higher.

Let's talk about Mannerism and customer's rights now:

While The Butcher is not a highly-demanded place, mannerism is needed or else you're going to be somebody's culinary experience.

1. You can only request two (2) menu at maximum and you are only allowed to ask for a change at maximum up to 2 squares. Therefore, please be careful when ordering.

2. Due to certain culinary experiences, only customers over 18+ are allowed to order.

3. When you're eating—filling up your stomach—you are allowed to use any method to eat; with your hands, with a fork and a knife, with a spoon. Your experience when eating should grow depending on how you look at it.

4. It might sound weird, but The Butcher accepts if you play with your food however you want. For example, if you're ordering a chicken, you're free to make a poem out of it or an art, or just throw it in the trash.

5. The Butcher establishment is offering special badges if you finish eating your order. It's just for fun. The Butcher is all about having fun.

Second, customer's rights.

1. Order from The Butcher establishment opens on October 11th 2023 and will be forever open, at least until The Butcher is dead.

2. The Butcher prefers having the customers take their time when eating so no one will die choking in the establishment, so… they have time to fill up their stomachs. There's no deadline. So even if you turned into vampires--like some of our customers and live eternally, you could still eat your fill.

3. The Butcher opens its door for two orders only, however, you can cut it into pieces. There is no minimum or maximum quantity for the requirement put in as a filling. 100 pieces? Go for it. 70,000 pieces? Go for it and have fun!

(pshh! Pieces as in word count)

4. The Butcher allows customers to bring food from another establishment and mix it up with The Butcher's order, as long as the other establishment allows it.

5. Anyone from anywhere could sign up, whether you like evil superheroes or two cannibals in love, The Butcher is open to everyone.

That's it!

The Butcher

Do you agree?

If you're ready, you're welcome to order below;

ORDER HERE

@thebigbangblogproject

#the butcher bingo #the butcher #multifandom event #multifandom bingo #event #bingo event #Valentine's Death Bingo #For Valentine's Day

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hwan-g · 1 year

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11 O’ CLOCK TICK TOCK 🪬 jisung & seungmin.

part two/four of the skz go to hogwarts! series.

MOODBOARD | PLAYLIST

pair. soothsayer! jisung x fem! reader (+ prefect! seungmin, changbin, chan, minho) | genre. fantasy, romance, minor angst, smut | warnings. profanity, pet names, brief mention of smoking, food/drinking, clairvoyance, mentions of dark magic, legilimency, flawed characters, cheating, exhibitionism, fingering, dirty talk | word count. 11k

synopsis. you ask yourself when it changed. when did runes become decisions, and books holes to hide unspeakable truths? was it when you neared your captain with the Golden Snitch, and he couldn’t look away from the gold? or was it when he ran after you the first time but not the second one? decisions accumulate, you conclude. they do, and they mean everything.

“What disappears as soon as you say its name?”

That was the riddle the Ravenclaws had to solve to enter their Common Room after dinner time. It was also, apparently, the reason why the stairs to the blue and bronze tower were blocked for the past thirty minutes. An intense game of chess was currently taking place on a tread, a consequence of boredom, with both parties having lost equal amounts of pawns.

“It literally can’t be that hard,” a scowling Slytherin girl snarled, folding her arms over her chest.

Some students sitting cross legged on the stone floor in front of her looked up, an empty expression on their tired faces. The eagle knocker on the wooden door stared back, despite not blinking once. The entire fifth floor was in disarray, and no authority seemed to be around to navigate the lost Serpents back to the dungeons. The Ravenclaws were used to this scene, and certainly were not about to disrupt their routine for anyone.

“Why are you even going up there at this hour, Goyle? Class doesn’t start till midnight,” someone standing pointed out teasingly.

“None of your business,” she shot back, and stuck her button nose high up in the air in arrogance. “Anything,” she answered the knob, “we’re wizards.”

A disapproving murmur rose amongst the rest of the crowd, but Penelope Goyle ignored it all, stubbornly looking at the door that wouldn’t open. After a heartbeat, she stomped her foot and grabbed the hand of the Slytherin next to her, rushing down the stairwell before it moved again. A small win for some.

“Damn Ravenclaw riddles!” She yelled in frustration, and her voice echoed throughout the spiral staircase.

It was a strange thing, though, how no one seemed to know the answer to the knocker’s question. The portraits started placing bets after a point, talking about how ‘it may as well be the hardest riddle in a decade!’ and ‘back in our day wizards were infinitely smarter.’ Kevin Chang, son of Cho Chang, had sharply turned around and glared at that particular jab.

“Back in your day, you also started wars for no apparent reason,” he had snapped at the old man with the feather hat.

“Tell him, Chang!” Changbin’s loud tone boomed coming up the Grand Stairwell, followed by the Prefect Kim Seungmin, and Han Jisung, the former pushing through his two friends to see what the problem was.

“Where the hell have you been?” Orpheus Lovegood asked, getting up from the cold stone and dusting his robes. “Matter of fact, where’s Alphard?” Referring to the Head Boy currently missing.

Everyone looked around as if in a trance, realizing that the Head of their House was, indeed, not present. Seungmin sighed, muttering something about the Heads having a meeting with McGonagall. Orpheus groaned and slumped back down, rubbing his face, exasperated.

“What are you staring at?” Changbin snapped at his mortal enemy; the painting from 1847, Abraxas Rivertower, the last of his name.

“Here we fucking go again…” Jisung mumbled, clutching his broomstick tighter. “What’s the riddle?” He asked a Third-Year that was leaning against the ancient railing, one step behind him.

“What disappears as soon as you say its—OH, NOT AGAIN.”

The stone shook and thundered before moving slowly to the left, along with the kid, and four other students. Seungmin shook his head, and the Gryffindor chuckled. Jisung blinked.

“Rookie mistake,” Changbin shrugged, and turned back to the portrait. “I’ll say this one time and one time only, old man—Bang Chan is the best captain Hogwarts has had since Edgar Cloggs. Your generation did nothing for Quidditch.”

“I’ll have you know, you insolent little—”

“As soon as you say what?” Jisung interrupts the bickering by shouting over to the Ravenclaw that’s currently on his way to the other side of the castle.

“Its name!” He shouts back, hands around his mouth.

The Gryffindors look up, trying to see where all the commotion is coming from, while Seungmin scolds his House for not waiting for him to leave the Great Hall. Kevin argues that he’d seen Alphard go ahead of them, and assumed he was leading the way. The Prefect hung his neck and shook his head in disappointment, soft, parted hair moving with him.

“This is why I should’ve clearly been Head Boy.”

“Silence,” the round-cheeked boy says after a moment, raising an eyebrow at the eagle knocker.

The wood gives way and the door opens at once, the sound of it deafening to the tens of hopeless students that had been waiting in front of it. Clapping erupts and then everyone’s getting up at once, pushing their way through to the Common Room, Jisung’s name on their lips.

“Our Chaser is the best, of course.” “Top of the class, after all.”

“Move carefully, we have no staircase people!” Seungmin reminds them, annoyed, and climbs over rock to have a clearer view of the crowd.

“Guess I’ll wait for my lift,” the Gryffindor jokes, resting against the wall next to the entrance. “Look at you, all red.”

Jisung pierces him with an irritated look, mentally willing his hair to go back to its chestnut brown color. Having grown up with him, the Metamorphmagus abilities surprised no one by that point, yet his friends never seemed to let the fact go, teasing him any chance they got. It was all in good fun, he was aware, and secretly he even liked the attention.

But, God, could his best mates get infuriating.

“Make sure you go straight to your dormitory,” Seungmin warns Changbin, and the latter raises two fingers, placing them over his heart, crooked smile in full effect.

“You know I’m all about those rules, Min.”

“Are you, now?” The Prefect deadpans, and enters the Common Room, leaving the other two boys to stand guard until the Third-Years return with the stairway.

After Gryffindor’s win last week, Ravenclaw was gearing up for a game against Slytherin, which meant extra practices after classes, and sometimes even Sundays. The Serpents were clearly a threat to all Houses, and for good reason. The team had an unbeatable record, not to mention fast fliers. Jisung wasn’t as into it as Chan or Changbin were, but he still enjoyed the workout, and the feeling of the wind hitting his face on his broom. No other thing like it, except perhaps the smell of an old book, or you on his lips.

Shut the fuck up, Han Jisung.

There was no one to tell the secret to, he had learned. Only the corners of the library, the shadows of the candelabras—the creases of the books used that day. And they were friendly things, those; well equipped to keep secrets, and wishes. Ancient, reliable ways to swallow your feelings forever and never speak a word to anyone. Sometimes, though, and that was not often at all, Jisung would catch you looking at him, and find it in himself possible to risk everything if it meant having you. But it all also just meant one more silly reason he joined the team, and always a disappointment as your eyes remained impossibly locked on the Gryffindor captain, and never at the soothsayer. Understandably so, he’s concluded countless times. It didn’t lessen the sting.

Who’d want a scary vision and a life altering prophecy over riches and glory? Jisung was bound to lead a solitary path—Seungmin had predicted it, after all.

“Don’t tell me…” Changbin starts, tone taunting. “Purple hair, wistful expression—thinking of your unrequited crush again?” His elbow meets the Ravenclaw’s side, and Jisung resists the urge to shoot back, to ask about the Gryffindor girl that had rejected him twice or that one Hufflepuff he kept meeting up at the Astronomy Tower every Friday, but alas. He wasn’t cruel, and he certainly didn’t need any more questions raised towards him.

Even if he desperately wanted someone else besides Seungmin to talk to, about you and the things he’d seen in his crystal ball that morning in Divination class. There were far more important matters to discuss besides feelings and unlucky crushes. When would a good time come around for them, though…

“I’m a very easy person to read, Bin,” he said, slapping his friend’s chest. “Come on, we can wait inside. For all we know the staircase could’ve lost its way again.”

The Gryffindor nodded, putting both hands on the Metamorphmagi’s shoulders. “A smart fucking Raven you are, my friend.”

The Raven fakes a smile, and closes the door behind him. The Common Room has fallen into its usual half filled quiet study time, under the supervision of Kim Seungmin, who grimaces at the two of them entering without the rest.

“Too smart,” Jisung repeats to himself. “Far too smart for your own good, Han Jisung.”

“Cartomancy is commonly used to predict the future, and/or warn against a potential enemy,” professor Trelawney said, summarizing today’s lesson.

“You are each tasked to choose three cards out of the decks in front of you, my children. Three cards that are going to show you a truth. Go on, then!”

The tarot cards in front of Seungmin were faded, hand-drawn pieces of work that had been in desperate need of a replacement for some time now. He had half a mind to switch them out with his, but for the sake of this class to succeed and go according to the room’s energy, they simply had to do. Jisung on the other hand—the older boy looked to be under some kind of spell, a highly ordinary occurrence as it happened frequently when he was in the middle of a reading, but what wasn’t the least bit normal—the white tint over his orbs, the buzzing of the cards under his fingers.

The professor seemed to notice it as he did, nearing their table immediately and studying the Ravenclaw intently. The rest of the room was quiet, waiting for something kooky to happen, as it always did when Divination was in session. Seungmin was not impressed, he was concerned. Jisung had numerous visions nowadays, and fell ‘asleep’ even worse during readings. Trelawney thought he was just awakening as a mystic, but it was an entirely different thing the Raven was fighting…

“What do you see, boy?” The peculiar professor asked softly, holding her breath.

Hands moving, the boy in question pulled the three cards at once, never looking down at them. Instead, he stared straight ahead and through his friend. Seungmin sighed and made his own choices, flipping to see what they were.

“How’d you do that?” Orpheus asked him incredulously, sitting right above them.

Trelawney gasped, clutching at her chest. Everyone leaned in to get a closer look, the same surprise bleeding on their faces. Impossible, they all thought.

The Tower, Ten of Swords, Death.

On both decks.

“Disaster in the darkest hour. It has not happened yet—the Death is last,” Jisung wakes up with an abrupt shake, eyes widening before glancing down. “Twice over?” He questions, and looks to the professor for an explanation he cannot seem to find.

She’s shivering all over in her old age, backing away from the ominous duo. Seungmin gathers his things, sensing the class will be over sooner than expected. He tries to deny what just happened, but knows it’s bigger than him, bigger than Jisung himself, and will no doubt reach McGonagall and the rest of the teachers in no time. It’s a calamity, a warning. For time’s lived again and again.

“Dark times are upon us once more, my children,” she confirms the fear. “Stay behind, young mystics. The rest—dismissed! Someone please summon the Headmistress for me.”

It was the first time the class dispersed in such silence, Jisung had never seen it before. As if a gray cloud had settled over everyone, they moved in harmony and exited the room at once, leaving the two dorm mates alone with the professor. The red of the tablecloth hung heavy and deep underneath the weight of the cards. Seungmin wanted it to be a false draw, an error. Things would be simpler then, everything back to normal.

This is too much of a responsibility to hold, even for him.

Trelawney picks a fourth card, throws it on top of the others with an ease only natural to someone who’s been doing this for a very, very long time. Her fingers tremble as she passes her hand over the result.

Five of Cups. Card of change.

“One will be on each opposing side, both burdened by a decision,” she muses. “It won’t be you,” she looks at the Ravenclaws. “Though, you will be the eyes into the future.”

Seungmin maniacally chuckles, unable to hold himself back, while Jisung is getting crushed under the weight of what he’d just predicted.

“Are you seriously telling us there’s going to be another war?”

“Not me, no. The cards, dear boy.”

Seungmin blinks. “The cards can change.”

“But they can never lie,” the professor reminds sadly. “Even if the reading alters, the cards still have to be played out. It’s what I warned Albus about all those years ago…” she pins them down with a haunted look. “Before he died, I kept drawing a Tower moment. It ended up being a literal reading, and the loss was immense.”

“Professor, who has to make a decision?” Jisung asks seriously.

She looks at her student soberly, and puts a hand on his shoulder. “They will show themselves to you. You must guide them as you will know how.”

“You couldn’t have drawn a Wheel of Fortune, Han. It had to be Death,” Seungmin mutters, arms folded over his chest, robes perfectly pressed. “Typical.”

Minerva McGonagall enters the threshold in a hurry, cloak flowing in tumultuous waves, tight bun on the top of her head, looking exactly as they met her, six years ago. Timeless. The Minister of Magic stood next to her, her name powerful, important. Historic.

Hermione Granger stared at the two Ravenclaws in wonder.

Jisung glanced at Seungmin nervously, the latter’s eyes going fully round in surprise. They both couldn’t believe the legendary witch stood before them, eager to hear about their bad news concerning another war against the dark and corrupted. It was not a good look, they grimly thought. But it was, unfortunately, a true one.

“I was instructed to inform the Ministry should any talk of a prognostication like this come up,” the headmistress said. “Well?”

“It is merely an augury, though I’m sure a prophecy will not be too far behind…”

November shed all its leaves and greenery in exchange for snow. All mountain sides were covered with it, and the castle was too. Dusted and thick, it canceled a much-needed Quidditch practice, but instead gave an extra reason to haul students in the library and have them revise for the upcoming exams.

The Black Lake was at last entirely frozen, an exquisite view from the Ravenclaw Common Room. Kevin and Seungmin stood by the window, discussing the Astronomy group assignment, while Jisung got ready for yours and his study date, a tradition dating back since Fourth Year, the time his crush graduated from a tiny spark to a full blown forest fire. One sided, of course. Completely fine, that was. He’d made his peace with it already. Except for some nights, when the wound hurt too greatly, his heart beating too fast for someone that would never hear it. Still, he refused, he refused, he refused—

“Swear to me no one will learn about this,” Seungmin had made him promise. “Not a word to anybody.”

“I swear,” Jisung had agreed on it, his bones rattling with the importance of keeping something of this magnitude to himself. “I swear.”

But if something were to change, Jisung had decided; if he had a new vision on the next full moon, and it proved to be urgent… he’d tell Bang Chan. The Gryffindor needed to know, and possessed all the determination in the world to lead them to battle. A proper heads up would prove to be crucial, and he didn’t care what Seungmin or McGonagall said. Certain decisions were in order, and the Raven always felt the most qualified to make them. Seungmin was the moral of the two, but Jisung would do whatever needed to be done. The life of a mystic, perhaps.

Those were waters untested, still.

Saturdays were a fuzzy dream in the castle, coated with sticky snow and a breakfast, and lunch fit for kings. The Great Hall was always somehow so very questionably warm, and the corridors so bitterly cold, but it did not matter. The tea cakes melted in your mouth, and the quill ink never ran dry. By the time the clock sounded five in the evening, Jisung had spotted you waiting for him, an ‘Advanced Rune Translation’ volume in your hand, hair pulled away from your face, a knitted sweater and corduroy pants adorning your body.

“Kind of you to show,” he teases you, turning at once for the library.

You giggle, and nudge his arm. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

His eyes flutter shut for a single moment, the sound of your laugh too precious, too rare to go unnoticed. He wonders how it feels to live in the same space as you, hear you speak and feel your hands freely, instead of the borrowed time he has with you, the time that’s already being wasted just by walking. It is why he joined the team, the very reason why he took Ancient Runes when they have very little to do with what he’s interested in. To see you. To spend as much time with you as possible.

Him and his stupid heart, wishing and wanting without end, pointlessly. Until you break it, once and for all.

“Heard the Minister of Magic was here the other day,” you mention conversationally, waving back at random students Jisung does not know the names of. “Wonder why.”

Should he tell you? He’s lost sleep over this question. It is no sort of secret you’re one of the most important people in his life, and you deserve to know, to keep yourself safe. But to be aware of something like this prematurely, without absolute certainty of its chances of happening…he couldn’t risk that. For all he knows, the cards were picking up past energies of times passed.

How good has he taught himself to pretend ruin isn’t upon them because he predicted it.

“There’s a full moon this Thursday,” he changes the subject. “My magic is stronger then, so if you need anything solved or cleared up…”

“My Charms exams maybe,” you walk closer to him, a pleasant expression on your pretty face. “Minho mentioned you did a reading for Hyunjin last month.”

Jisung gave you a questioning look, slowing down his step. You seemed to regret letting that slip, but there was no way he was going to let that go now. Minho with you? Why?

“Wasn’t aware you two were friends.”

“We’re not,” you retort easily. “We’re working on a potion together.”

Again, he measures you with a suspicious glance. “And Chan knows about this?”

You frown, and that’s answer enough. Still, you continue, “What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”

You take the left turn to the corridor, and your arm wraps around his bicep absentmindedly, the Hufflepuff Head Girl exiting the library wondering about your proximity, sneaky eyes following your movements closely. Nearly everyone had learned the news about the princess of Gryffindor and its House’s favorite captain. It was kind of hard to miss when Chan would follow you around everywhere, like some sort of nervous puppy and its owner.

Nauseating, Seungmin had called it. For Jisung it was just tough to swallow.

“What was the reading about, Ji?” You drop your voice as you settle into a spot in between the two bookshelves.

Your study mentor busies himself with selecting the books needed for this session, avoiding your eyes. You smile as you notice the shade of his hair turning a ginger shade, and you wait for the familiar roll of his shoulders to speak again. Learning to figure out the Raven had proved to be a challenge all in itself. A fun one, nonetheless.

“It can’t have been good. His friend is planning to raise the dead.”

Jisung almost gets whiplash from how fast he spins his head your way. You smirk, crossing your legs at the ankles, and lean against the desk behind you. Neither of you break eye contact.

“What are you saying?” He asks quietly, and his voice sounds strange. Like how it does when he’s amongst tarot cards and crystal balls. Careful not to disrupt the magic.

You insist. “I’m saying I know a little more than you do for once, Han. What was the reading about?”

With a tall pile of books following him, the Ravenclaw walks to your usual spot by the furthest window away from Irma Pince, the ‘book keeper from Hell’ as you called her, and throws a leg over the wooden table, expression solemn.

“He’s been having dreams. Are you even acquainted with Hwang? Why the sudden interest?”

Your eyes shine as you sit down in front of him, opening your book to the appropriate page. The bookshelves stretch endless on each side of you, the rest of the students throwing you sharp glances, visibly fed up with your chit-chat.

“Never talked to him,” you say proudly, and Jisung is pretty sure you’re messing with him.

“I say this because I’m your friend, (Y/N), but—some things are meant to stay hidden.”

The two of you fell into your almost religious silence quickly enough, working together but separately, breaking concentration only when a question arose. Jisung was a natural in translating ancient passages into modern English, and you were not far behind, though your struggle lay on deciphering the runes themselves. It is where the differences between your Houses lay—he took a direct approach to puzzles, treating them as things with answers instead of questions, while you just couldn’t get past your ignorance. Perhaps it was your muggle background that prevented you from truly excelling; the fact that Jisung simply knew about these symbols, while you had to rewire your entire brain to even fathom they could possibly mean something.

He always took his time with you, teaching you patiently and thoroughly, his fingers tracing the runes on paper like he’d written them himself, eons ago—like friends meeting again, or at least that’s what it seemed like to you. Jisung, you’d decided a couple years ago, could not be figured out, not in the slightest. Most likely it was a Ravenclaw feature; to constantly be slipping into reverie, with no firm grasp on reality. Maybe he was never meant to fully be corporeal, to make sense—he’d always been the kid with the book, the odd one out for being able to look into a crystal ball and see more than just glass. Clairvoyance is a gift, he’d explained to you once, if one is willing to admit the future is beyond their grasp. That perhaps, all there should be is not all there is.

A lot of the time, you didn’t understand him. Not entirely. None but three classmates of yours in this whole school possessed the abilities Han Jisung had, and he was one of them, Seungmin being the other one, and Lee Felix from Hufflepuff the biggest question mark of them all. Someone that shouldn’t, yet is. The Raven took him under his wing immediately, offering everything there was to know, and watching it take form, transform into something more, something different than what he had. But nevermind that—it was a story for another time.

Your eyes followed him; the way his full lips fell open, the voice coming out soft and kind, the round cheeks and the round glasses, and the round eyes. He was just so…circular, so untouched by sharpness. Some time ago you’d taken a leap and kissed him, just to see how it felt holding the secrets of the universe inside you. Turns out they taste like blueberries, and feel like standing on the Astronomy Tower at midnight, looking up at the starry sky through a telescope, all impossible, and grounding, and transcending at the same time. You could never be with someone like Jisung, you would only hold him back.

There was no magic for you like there was for him. Books are all you could possibly share or have in common. Yet, it never left your mind, the moment of contact… Secrets knew how to conceal themselves in a library. So they did. You, on the other hand. Where was a place for you to hide, to exist through runes and charms and potions? If he could do it—if he could touch decades old cards, and sit on the highest tower on a full moon with his eyes closed and his palms open, and have the answers come to him, where would be a way to cheat your heart, the very atoms that make you, and finally find some peace for yourself?

“You know, I feel you slipping away,” he tells you very stilly, cocking an eyebrow and turning his face slightly to look at you. “If you’re bored then, by all means, put me out of my misery here.”

You can’t look away or pull back, so you stare. You smile, and you wonder if he, perhaps, is also a Legilimens. If you’re meant to collect them all and have them know you inside out as you’re losing your way more obviously with each passing day. If you can hear me, tell me what I should do.

Jisung just smiles back, holds his breath. Secrets have a way of outing themselves cold. Sometimes you’re expecting them warmly, arms open wide. Sometimes they kick you in the face and call you a hypocrite. Which one is it, then?

“You? Miserable with thousands of books around? Please. You’re just trying to make me feel better.”

“Is it working?”

Your back hits the chair, and you exhale a breathy laugh. “Maybe. Continue.”

He closes the thick book, and takes off his reading spectacles. His hair is red, and his cheeks are flushed. Your Raven is a difficult person to figure out, yes, but he’s the easiest to read. You think of Chan and how he’d react knowing you’re very actively thinking about kissing your mutual friend again. You think that because it’s clear he is. Perhaps he always has.

What you don’t notice are his closed fists. The way he wants.

“You’re asking me to do something,” he states, and it’s unfair, you know. “I won’t. I can’t.”

You don’t even blink. “No one thing is carved in stone. You told me that.”

“I didn’t mean this.”

“And yet this is no different,” you argue calmly. “It’s been going on for a long time, hasn’t it?”

He caves, or crumbles, and his back curves, his elbows touch his knees. He’s contemplating, and the universe is moving with him. It feels so much more than what it is, and for some reason you sense that it is not simple, it is not light. It will not be easy with Han Jisung, not like how it is with Chan. And maybe it will happen all the same, and there will not be a single fucking thing you’ll able to do about it.

You ask yourself when it changed. When did runes become decisions, and books holes to hide unspeakable truths? Was it when you neared your captain with the Golden Snitch, and he couldn’t look away from the gold? Or was it when he ran after you the first time but not the second one? Decisions accumulate, you conclude. They do, and they mean everything.

“Ever since I met you,” the Metamorphmagi replies, hands in front of him, an unconscious plea. By the time he closes his mouth, the strands on his head have turned black, and it is then that you realize this is bigger than you. It always is.

Because he’s not playing the game anymore, either.

It is amidst dusty books and claustrophobic library aisles that he takes your wrist and gives a wave for everything to go back into place. Non verbal magic is extremely difficult to get right, but there he was, a place he knew so intently bending to him, to his will, and he didn’t even have to mutter a single word. You recognize nothing in this Jisung—he’s not your friend, and he’s not the person that helps you study. He’s a mystic, a soothsayer with abilities beyond your understanding, and a wizard capable of far more than most his age. And all of this he achieved quietly, without fuss. While everyone else was too busy showing off.

Irma nods at the both of you as you speed walk out of the area, and into the cold, torch lit corridors of the first floor of the castle. The collar of his white button up is crooked over his sweater vest, but you swallow and say nothing because there’s raw intent in the way your hand is clasped in his. How his fingers crawled down the delicate skin to find your own, the warmth of touch closing around your digits. He has never done this before. You do not know how to come back from it.

Under stone and into the shadows is where he pushes you against rough wall and takes your mouth in his. A statue of someone important and dead towers over the both of you, but then your eyes fall closed and you can’t think of nothing but Jisung, Jisung, Han Jisung and his clean scent, his hands roaming your body, holding your face, pushing your hair back—

You move forward and press your chest to his, your arms around his broad shoulders, feeling the muscle of his back. It doesn’t register, or more like it can’t possibly—that you’re really doing this, while Chan is back in the dorms completely oblivious, thinking you’re transcribing runes next to the one person that can get you to focus. Something important is now tainted forever thanks to your inability to make up your mind. Your heart.

“Don’t you dare slip away from me now,” Jisung mutters fervently against your lips. “There’s nothing to do about what’s already been done.”

Fingers get lost in your trousers, inside your panties, curling upwards, pushing in, and you gasp, the feeling forbidden, overwhelming in its intensity. The boy all over you fucks you with an objective set in mind—to have you come all over his hand, to smell you on him every time he goes to sleep, to think back on this and have something to remember you by, something concrete, unnerving, more than a kiss, less than a conjoining of bodies. He will have it. No matter what.

“I‘ve waited for so long…watched you from afar, unable to have you like this…wanted you in all ways, your scent, your mouth, your cunt…will you understand, darling? Could you ever?”

He’s breathing hard, and you can’t really see him, but you think you can make out a sliver of midnight blue above his eyebrow, dark eyes flaring against the tiny bit of fire light that’s reaching in between the curves of the statue. Red for embarrassment, orange for nervousness, purple for love, blue for—

Blue was for—sadness. Your brows furrow as you further study his face, your eyes getting used to the dark. A surrendered expression stares back; given up eyes, and a pained smile. You can’t explain what’s stirring inside you, only that you’ve somehow hurt him, your friend, your sweet, sweet Raven. Because you don’t know what you’re looking for, while he’s been so sure from the get go. And now you ruined it.

Blue is sad because it knew all along.

“I could turn into him,” he whispers, and it’s not proud. It’s a shameful, quiet thing that escapes his mouth all at once and leaves a big hole in the middle of your chest. “If that will make me have you. I could turn into anyone you want.”

Your hands immediately cradle his face, and he leans into your touch, leans into you like a flower under the sun. Jisung blooms and opens, and it’s beautiful, it’s a lovely rarity to see. It’s all for you, and you’re being awful, leading him on in his vulnerability. You’re awful.

His hands undo your pants, while his digits move faster inside you. You’re terrified of moaning, of informing anyone of what you’re doing. Your senses are on overdrive, your moral compass seemingly cracking every time Jisung hits a spot that has you seeing stars, and his mouth devours yours like a starved man, a man that knows he only has one chance at this. He makes it count.

You convince yourself this is closure. This needs to happen so he can move on. It’s imperative that it does. Your lips go to his forehead, then his eyelids, his cheek, his nose, and finally his lips. You don’t dare actually kiss him again, you won’t be the first, but you linger, a ghost of a breath away, hoping the illusion will be enough.

“I would never ask that of you,” you tell him. “Never. You are one of a kind, Ji. I want you because it’s you. I just wish you would’ve gotten to me first.”

His eyes are still closed, taking your words in, his lips pressed together like it hurts to even hear such things come out your mouth, and maybe they do; maybe he’s regretted that most of all, these years he’s watched you from afar with his friend. That you would’ve ever accepted him is news to him. He almost doesn’t want to believe it, if the truth of it wasn’t stitching his very existence back together.

When you come, it’s an absolution that spreads across your chest, warm as a summer day, cold as panic. He holds you anyway. He holds you and makes sure your dignity, at least, stays intact. He never meant for this to happen, but chaos is a ladder, and he’s decided to climb it. See where it takes him.

He knows he needs to step away from you now. Right the wrong. But Merlin’s beard, he can’t fucking seem to know how to.

“Let me see you hear it, just once,” you see him draw a shaky breath in, his courage inhaled, at the tip of his tongue, “I love you, darling. I always have. If you come to me tomorrow or in ten years, I’ll be right here. I’ll fucking wait for you, I swear.”

“Please, Jisung. How can I—”

“Moving,” he hears a familiar venomous voice behind him. His jaw clenches, eyes rolling to the back of his head. “As it stands, (Y/N), this is the second man I see you with. Is there some sort of way to sign up for this apparent club you have going on?” A pause, as Jisung turns around to glare at the figure studying the both of you. “Consider me interested, sweetheart.”

Lee Minho stood amidst the dark in all his height and expensive clothing, obviously amused and tantalized with his own comment. The deep plum of his hair glittered under the faint light, and his big eyes sparkled with mischief.

You hadn’t seen him in a few days, after the two of you spent most of Tuesday afternoon gathering the ingredients for your joint potion. He had told you to go back to your dormitory as soon as everything was put together and ready to go, and it had left a very bad taste in your mouth. So, you’d decided to ignore him. After all, he was the one needing your help.

“What do you want, Minho?” Your Raven had turned feathery black all over, clearly irritated by the interruption. “You better have a reason for this.”

Minho tilted his head in question, obviously patronizing the Ravenclaw. “You mean walking to the library? Han, you’re out in the open,” he clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, his gaze sliding to you.

“Stop that,” you warn him, and you try to guard your mind as best as you can. “I’ve never given you permission to do that.”

Jisung squints his eyes at the two of you, visibly confused at first, though it doesn’t take long for him to figure it out. By then, Minho was chuckling in naughty delight, twirling his wand between his fingers.

It happens fast—the Metamorphmagi’s lips move and the wand goes flying right out of the Serpent’s hands. You slip from behind your friend and put yourself in the middle of them, hoping that’ll be enough to stop a serious altercation from happening. There was no reason to have points revoked for petty silliness.

“Powerful, our soothsayer, isn’t he?” The Slytherin comments, and brings his wand back the same way it was taken away. “Pity I’m better.”

“Seriously debatable,” Jisung deadpans, and you grab his sleeve, giving it a slight tug. He falls silent, those expressive eyes thundering to come to your defense.

“Leave the witty remarks for your Prefect, Han. I’ve been looking for you.”

“Why?”

Minho looks at you again. You sense you’re not supposed to hear what’s about to come next, but Jisung doesn’t bat an eye to it, making you want to stand your ground. I’m already part of this, you think in hopes the pureblood will hear it.

He does.

“The Minister came to the castle. You must’ve had something for her.”

“And what’s it to you?”

Minho audibly sighs, growing annoyed with the hostility. Just then, two Hufflepuffs cross behind him, whispering to themselves about the scene playing out in front of them. You panic, thinking they saw your hold on Jisung, and your hand immediately drops.

You regret it as soon as you do it. The Ravenclaw shudders, his eyelids fluttering, but he says nothing.

“I’m being very nice right now, Jisung. You can choose to tell me or I can do it my way.”

“Muffliato,” you quickly cast, encasing the three of you in a makeshift privacy bubble. The boys look at you. “What? Someone had to do it.”

Minho ignores that. “You’re aware my father works at the Ministry.”

The Raven folds his arms, leans against the wall. “The redemption arc, yes. We’ve heard it a thousand times. One too many Death Eaters parading around free, if you ask me.”

If Minho took offense in that, you’ll never know. His expression betrayed little, his stance remaining the same since he snuck up on you. “Not for long,” he states, tone devoid of emotion. “They’re planning an upheaval.”

Just then, the muffling incantation is disrupted, one Kim Seungmin looking absolutely shaken in his brown leather jacket and boots. He looked like he’d just come from somewhere, you conclude. His hair was wind-ruffled, his cheeks rosy.

“We need to take this behind closed doors,” he says, and Jisung is the first to catch the urgent tone in his voice. “Come with me. Now.”

The Room of Requirement materialized only when a person was in dire need of it.

Seungmin had to walk past it three times before the entrance could show itself. You’d never been at that part of the castle, all the way to the seventh floor, and you’d certainly never witnessed the tapestry opposite the hidden spot—Barnabas the Barmy teaching trolls how to dance ballet. How ridiculous. So peculiar, indeed, that only a wizard would have gone through it or dreamt it up. The magical world terrified you and befuddled you at the same time. Wonders at every corner. You would never truly get the hang of it, no matter how hard you tried, and you’d have to live with that.

But this room. It was nothing but an empty classroom with a single window, or at least that’s what it appeared to be. An untraceable place that not many people knew of—sounded like a disaster waiting to happen to you. The Slytherin was the first to break the silence, while Seungmin gave your shoulder a squeeze in greeting.

“Mind telling us why we’re here?”

Something passed between the two Ravenclaws, something you and Minho missed entirely. You merely understood it to be mystic work, an ability far beyond anything you had to offer.

The Prefect took a deep breath, gathering his slipping wits about him. “There was an attack on the Wizengamot two hours ago.”

Jisung looked at Minho who looked at Seungmin like the boy just confirmed an appointment with him. Indifferent, with those characteristic undertones of his that you still haven’t managed to figure out. Not one. This was serious. Connecting it to what the Slytherin told you earlier, it seemed to check out, because—

There hadn’t been any attacks…anywhere, really, since the late nineties. At least not confirmed ones, and it was then that the news clicked in you, the gears in your brain crossing from one dot to the other. Chan needed to hear this. He needed to know. But above all, you had to gather more information. Jisung seemed to think the same thing.

“Was anyone hurt?”

A faint shake of brown hair. “They mostly targeted the building itself. But the Senior Undersecretary…”

Out of the corner of your eye, Minho moved closer to the window, his focus moving with him.

“The— Wait, what?” Jisung did a double take on his friend, the words registering in his ears.

“What about her?” you ask.

There’s low muttering and then a Patronus Charm is casted, an Adder slithering its way across air, waiting to be directed. Minho whispers to it, and sends it off with his wand, its blue smoke figure passing through the glass effortlessly. One second you see magic being conjured, the next Jisung has his own unicorn core pointed at the Serpent’s neck, gaze vicious, suspecting.

“What did you do?” he asks him roughly.

You reach a hand out to rest it on his shoulder, but he’s rigid, ice cold. There’s no getting through to him at all. And for good reason, you think. But what if we weren’t always so mistrustful? What then?

“That’s his mother, is it not?” Minho asks but it’s rhetorical. The question already has an answer.

“And?”

“Hyunjin’s father is Head of Department of Magical Law Enforcement. If the Minister’s Undersecretary was attacked,” he paused and blinked pointedly, “don’t you think it was an inside job?”

“Jisung…” you spoke softly. The boy clenched his jaw, but dubiously pulled back, lowering his wand.

“I warned him,” the Slytherin looked at all of you. “That it’s began.”

“You knew?” Seungmin asks, perplexed. Offended. “You knew and said nothing?”

Minho fixed his emerald blazer, eyes flashing. It was obvious he was reaching his limit with this interaction. He humored the Ravenclaw anyway. “I know fuck all, Prefect. I’m preparing myself for every outcome, as should all of you. You think they’re going to stop there? What a foolish assumption, if so.”

“Your father is an Unspeakable. Excuse me if I have a hard time believing anything that comes out of your mouth right now, Lee,” Jisung snapped, staring hard at the green board on the wall opposite him. “What about the Minister? Surely she’s not been Imperiused?” he caustically drawls.

“Wouldn’t you expect an ex-war heroine to be at least a little bit watchful over her employees?”

The room switched in a flash. Desks went flying, but none of you visibly moved an inch; instead books and telescopes occupied the space around you, the sound of them hitting the ground nonexistent. Peculiar clocks, astral maps, constellation globes and a humongous hourglass the size of a grizzly bear stared back at you, the sand slowly flowing to the bottom bulb, an ominous warning. It was in that moment that Jisung’s body tensed up next to you, his eyes going wide then glazing over, a thin strip of haze frosting them in place. Your heart jumped, and you grabbed his hand, until you remembered there was no way of bringing him back.

No way of waking him up until the vision was over.

“The room is trying to tell us something,” Seungmin said, flipping through the numerous books. He looked frantic, quavering. “A prophecy…she was waiting for a prophecy.”

“Well, he’s working on that, isn’t he?” Minho points at the Raven, currently a thousand worlds away. A typical occurrence.

You never once drop your friend’s hand, but your brain is already working on possible scenarios. One thing burned in your chest, though, like liquid fire—whatever this was, whatever it would become… Everyone close to you would be involved, because everyone was tied to the people responsible in some way or the other. Jisung to Seungmin, Minho and Hyunjin and their Ministry fathers, Felix and Changbin… All purebloods had connections to higher ups in the wizarding world, years of positions of power being passed down from generation to generation.

“Why Wizengamot, though?” You ask, piecing the puzzle together.

“The place that condemned them. Sent them to Azkaban,” the Serpent folds a map down the middle, and looks at you simply. No patronizing glint or ironic raise of the brow. Just classmates speculating.

Funnily, you think you can get used to this.

“But Seungmin’s mother was still a student when the trials were held.”

The other Ravenclaw is too busy looking through star charts to join in the conversation, but Minho appears almost eager for this back and forth. Perhaps to provide answers for himself as well as the rest of you. Somehow, you think Chan and the others should be here as well. They deserve to know, to prepare themselves.

“They wanted to send a message, sweetheart,” the prune-haired boy nears you, lifts a strand of your hair and looks at it. You hold your breath—hold Jisung’s hand even tighter. His mouth curves, and he pierces you with those glittery brown eyes, a curse wrapped with a bow. You will your mind to close in on itself, just in case.

“The law is below them this time. They are the law.”

Jisung heaves a breath and shivers all over, coming back to the present or reality, you’re not sure which one came first. No one knows where he goes during his visions, nor do they know how long it’ll take for him to return. All they know is that if he has one, it’s important. Consequential. His fingers squeeze the side of your hand, and your attention turns to him, Minho glancing momentarily at the Soothsayer before taking a step back and going over to Seungmin, giving an absentminded spin to one of the globes.

“What is it, Ji?” you murmur, nuzzling your chin on his vest, worried, eager to learn about the unknown. You would never acquire this piece of magic by yourself, you would always have to rely on others for it.

Seungmin stopped what he was doing and looked up, sensing something you could not. Even Minho seemed to catch onto it, both his eyebrows disappearing under his bangs.

“A blood moon will rise over the one who has to make the choice,” he says stiffly, but his head shakes, like it doesn’t make much sense to him either. “He wears a black ring, he has a golden friend.”

The Slytherin chuckles but it’s not humorous. It’s not even mocking. It’s a dry, dark thing that fills you with fear. Something you don’t know. Again and again. Jisung softly untangles from your grasp, and looks around the room in a daze. He appears to understand why it’s the way it is, why the constellations are important. Ravenclaws and their moon magic, their mystic ways. It’s nothing but an alien concept to you, and it infuriates you to no end.

“We might have to brew that potion faster than I thought,” he says.

“What potion?” Seungmin asks, nose buried in another book.

“You’ll see soon enough.”

“Min,” Jisung calls. His friend snaps his head up. “Golden friend. Cancer to the west, Virgo to the east—it’s the Leo constellation.”

“Oh, fuck me,” the Prefect groans. “The Sickle.”

You were entirely lost, embarrassingly confused. “What are you talking about?”

The Raven turned to you, a tired smile on his lips. “It means we have a question mark in our hands, darling. We don’t know who the ‘Golden friend’ is.”

“I do.”

You all look to the Serpent in the corner, a muggle cigarette in his mouth. He was staring directly at you.

“It’s Lee Felix, the Hufflepuff that possesses the Time Turner.”

Golden friend. Jisung is the first to scramble for the door, never forgetting to grab your hand as he goes to leave. Seungmin yells at him to slow down, and from the corner of your eye you see him putting his face in his hands, exasperated.

“If we leave now, we may never find these books again!”

“These books are not the answer, Seungmin,” Jisung retorts, turning the carved, bronze knob.

“Then why did they show themselves to us? I better stay behind.”

Your Raven rolls his eyes and shakes his head as you come back out the same way you went in, Minho following close behind. You look both ways, and then run down the corridor, down the stairs, time a mystery, only the mission in mind. Who’s friend? You kept repeating in your head. He wears a black ring. Your Gryffindor boys only wore silver jewelry. A hidden anxiety that lay heavy on your shoulders evaporated at once with that thought. It’s not them. And if not them, then who?

“Hard headed Ravenclaw…” he mutters, but you can tell books never held answers for him. Not to the questions that mattered.

“I know another one,” you say teasingly. “He has a death grip on my hand right now.”

His hold softens, an apologetic look flashing in his eyes. “Sorry,” he mumbles quickly. “That wasn’t what we’re looking for…” he admits, rushing down the stairs of the fourth floor.

“Jisung, slow down!” you say, and for the life of you, you can’t seem to catch your breath.

It’s Minho who catches you before you can fall flat on the staircase, the boy close behind you with his own thoughts, all three of you heading the same way. You glance at him only for a moment, before pulling yourself back to your feet, your fingers catching the Ravenclaw’s again. He’s staring right through you, though, to the purple of the Slytherin’s hair, and you’ve just about had enough with the secrecy.

“We need to tell Chan,” you assert. “We have to. And then we can find Felix. This is so much bigger than us,” you plead with the Metamorphmagi. “Please.”

“Don’t want to rush you, Raven, but we need that prophecy,” Minho says and you realize he’s been reading Jisung’s mind this entire time. “You know it as well as I do that without it we’re fucked.”

Just in time for dinner, the unlikely trio enters the Hall conversing in hushed tones, searching through the tables’ crowds to find the boys in question. Once again, your hand leaves the warmth of the person holding it as soon as you spot the soft curls and toned shoulders. Jisung smiles at you anyway, because this time it’s changed—you are partners in something far greater, bigger than life. You will stop a war from happening. You will fight together against the dark forces that are threatening your very freedom, just like your predecessors did all those years ago. You’ll do it better, even.

You had a plan.

He leans into you, his lips in your hair, and he whispers, “Think about me. Think about me like I think of you. All the time. Desperately.”

Then the Serpent says, “Meet me at the abandoned girls bathroom tomorrow, at four o’clock,” and he leaves, too. Goes to his Houses’ table, and sits down next to Hwang Hyunjin, the blonde busy sketching in the notebook in front of him, unaware of most things.

You glance back at your teammates and sigh. How to persuade them to listen…

“Look who the cat dragged in!” Changbin exclaims, patting the seat next to him. “Jake joined us tonight, hope you don’t mind.”

You waved at the younger Gryffindor, and stared at the empty plate in front of you. Then at the full table of delicious food that didn’t seem one bit appetizing at the moment. Not after what you’d learned. All you had to do was tell them about later tonight. After that, Jisung would take over. Somehow, a simple task like that was making your palms sweaty, and it mostly had to do with the fact that neither of your friends seemed particularly keen on fully believing in Divination. Even after witnessing what the Raven could do. Even after being proven wrong. Multiple times.

“Hey, so, guess what,” you start, but you’ve no idea how to go on after that. All three boys turn to you, Jake blushing and looking away quickly. “Party at the Ravenclaw Common Room tonight.”

Changbin furrows his eyebrows at you. “Jisung never mentioned anything.”

You chuckle nervously. “Yeah, it was sort of last minute…”

Chan knows you best of all, though. Your mirror, since you met him. He nods, though believes not one word of it. You think he looks especially beautiful, with his natural curls and black shirt. Like a sculpture or a Greek God or both. Definitely always holding gold in his hands, flying high in the sky, overlooking, coaching. When your eyes meet, he knows something happened. Something that regular ears cannot bear to hear. He reaches over the wood for your wrist, and his thumb traces the bracelet adorning it, the beads colors moving, like smoke encased. A birthday gift long ago. He can’t believe you still have it, that you still wear it. Sometimes he can’t believe you love him back, that, perhaps, you’ll love him forever.

He will. Until the end of time. No matter what.

“Minho was with you again,” he says, but keeps his tone neutral, not wanting another fight.

Though, it did lead to mindblowing sex.

You scoop some mashed potatoes on your plate, your cup filling up with apple cider as soon as you decide to eat, and you nod, avoiding his inquisitive gaze. Changbin passes you a couple dinner rolls unasked, and talks animatedly with Jungkook about Quidditch. You touch his forearm in thanks, and he smiles lopsidedly at you. It’s the innocent way you care about each other that fuels your impatience. The sooner they know the better they’ll be protected.

Despite wanting this, you can’t help but think that you like the way it feels to know a Ravenclaw secret that they don’t. Or a Han Jisung one, more like. It makes your heart flutter in a way you can’t ignore.

“What did you study today?”

“Ancient Runes,” you reply, chewing on bread. “It was a particularly tricky passage I had to transcribe today. Jisung was on top of me about it.”

The bells only rang inside your own head, but it felt like someone was pointing a flashing arrow above you, your guilt and the weight of what you did nearly crushing you to death. The same feeling of not being able to inhale enough oxygen burst through your lungs, just like that night when Gryffindor won, that suffocating song echoing in your ears. Still, you chastised yourself to sit through dinner, to pretend, and to be a good friend to the people you’ve known all your wizard years. It seemed as though, if you weren’t able to do even that much, the chain would break, the spell would lift.

You’d no longer be tied to Bang Chan or his reflection. And that scared you immensely—like not recognizing your own self. You eat more bread, and look at the long fingers playing with your bracelet. Without realizing, your eyes lock with the Raven’s, over your table, over Chan, and Alphard and Kevin Chang. You wonder how long he’s been looking, why your heart had been searching for him before your eyes did. Weird how a person can just…be there, all of a sudden, when before he was nowhere around. He will always keep happening to you now.

“It’s a good thing he’s around then, yeah?”

“Huh?” You zoom back to Chan’s face; his full lips, and sharp jaw. His carved features tug at your split heart.

His eyes are dark, watching you ruefully. “Perhaps a little too much,” he concludes, letting the bone of the chicken hit the plate loudly. Changbin turns at the sound, even amongst all the commotion.

It’s clear that the captain is getting angry. And it’s entirely directed at you. Like you’d ever be able to escape him. Like you can even try. He’s all mouth, then, rotten, saccharine, with sharp teeth and an even sharper instinct, cutting through you like a surgeon, opening up your passageways, inspecting the reasons you are not how you usually are, and if not, then why do you seem to stand lightyears away, when just this morning he held you in his arms? Had fucked you in his bed?

Someone was stealing you away. Over his dead fucking body.

“We should skip the party,” he suggests, but you know him, he’s declaring—for the both of you. “We have practice tomorrow anyway.”

“It’s Sunday.”

“Change of plans,” he replies easily, serving himself some pudding. “We need it if we are to win against Slytherin.”

“This again…” you mutter under your breath, annoyed. “Do you ever just think people have other plans, Chan? Besides Quidditch?”

You don’t think you’ll ever forget how he looked at you then. Like a wounded puppy, like a soul sliced in half. You hated hurting him; it gutted him like no other, because it was you, because your words carried a different weight altogether. But he was being selfish and territorial, and he needed to stop. Stop demanding, stop assuming, stop deciding for you when you are perfectly capable of deciding for yourself.

Of course he’d never admit to it. Not in front of others, and especially not in front of his team. Changbin seemed uncomfortable listening to your conversation. He didn’t mean to—it was just impossible not to. His hand moved under the table, giving your knee a supportive squeeze. You squirm.

“Forgive me then,” he apologizes coldly, and the subject is dropped.

“Ravenclaw has the pitch tomorrow, man,” Changbin informs his captain. “They requested an emergency practice, since the game is around the corner.”

“Cool. Guess I have no say over anything anymore.”

You audibly sigh, piercing him with a strict glare. “You’re being dramatic.”

Chan wipes his mouth and laughs. It’s an uncontainable laugh, something that bubbled out of his throat maniacally, like it was the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard. He avoided your eyes.

“Dramatic? Baby girl, it’s you who’s lying to me,” he gets up suddenly, and passes a leg over the bench, getting ready to leave. “Ravenclaws don’t have fucking parties. And my girl has certainly never smelled like pinewood before.”

By that point, almost the entire table had stopped talking, every student staring at the interaction between the Royal couple of Gryffindor. The title never suited you; you always felt the weight of it being next to the Quidditch captain, the heaviness laying on your chest at night, thoughts of having to keep the act together for a strong and unified House or even just a peaceful school experience. You’d figured early on, that if you were to go against Bang Chan’s plans and wishes, it would be more than merely you suffering.

Because no one goes against him. No one has ever attempted to.

“Hey,” Changbin snaps you out of your spiraling thoughts. “What’s going on, almighty Seeker? Can’t figure yourself out of this one?”

Sensing people were still not minding their business, he did you a favor and scared them all off with a harsh bark of “Show’s over!” and a blazing scowl. You were never more glad to have Seo Changbin as a dear friend. He never failed to make you feel better. So many instances you can think of—he always came to the rescue, knowing just the right thing to say. A magician, but not the usual kind.

You shuffle closer to him, turning your head so your mouth is close to his ear. He leans in, curious, dark hair brushing the side of your face, brow raised. From the ceiling—snow. You watched as it fell on the student's shoulders and disappeared right away. Like it was never there.

“Jisung had a vision,” you start from the most familiar part.

Changbin almost groans, his head falling back, a disbelieving expression forming on his hard face. You squeeze his hand at once, willing, begging him to listen. And you’re not sure what it was; the serious tone of your voice or the way your eyes did not waver, not even a little bit, not even as he visibly faltered, refused to listen—

“You’re not telling me to cut it out,” he observes, baffled.

You softly shake your head, treading this subject carefully. “It’s crucial you believe me this time, Binnie.”

The beginning of the end. Your friend takes a deep breath, muscled shoulders rising and falling, and looks around before focusing on you, on what you had to say.

“Okay,” he said. His brown eyes turned dark. “I’m listening.”

As soon as Bang Chan exited the Hall, he regretted everything he said. But to go back? Admit his mistake? His ego would never let him, and he was aware of that. Perhaps he’d let a couple days go by, try to clear out his mind by flying or—he could write a letter to his mother, surely, she would have the answers, she’d guide him as she usually did…

Yes, that seemed like a solid idea. His chest deflated, his step bouncing, seemingly a weight lifting off of him—right as he was about to step on the stairwell to go to his Common Room, a certain Raven stopped him.

Not physically. By surprise.

“I thought you’d be at your table,” he remarked. “Where were you?”

Kim Seungmin stared at the Gryffindor dumbfounded. He wasn’t expecting to bump into him, and he definitely was in no state to explain or make a convincing enough excuse. Your words rang in his mind, and by the unassuming look Chan was sporting, he guessed Jisung still hadn’t told him.

“We’ve been busy,” he shrugged. “Look, there’s something you need to know. Something I found—I mean we, we found out today. It’s important.”

Chan nodded, assessing the disheveled state of his acquaintance. “Alright. What is it?”

The Ravenclaw hesitated, clearly overwhelmed himself with the discovery. He’d been informed his mother was in stable condition, that she’d be good to go come tomorrow. Even with this piece of information, Seungmin couldn’t stand still, couldn’t stop wondering. Why all this now? Why not years ago?

But he knew he couldn’t afford to think like that. A victim mindset got you nowhere with war games. He was to deal with this head on, like chess. Kill or be killed. But most of all—keep your wits about you.

The light near the Entrance flickered, like the entire castle was uneasy with the things unsaid. Seungmin didn’t doubt it whatsoever. An ancient castle has more than likely seen one too many battles, lost one too many parts of itself to cruel magic.

“There was a reading. A telling one. The Minister came and talked to us about it.”

Chan shuffled his weight from one foot to the other, strong arms folding over an equally sculpted chest. He was aware of this, everyone wouldn’t seem to stop talking about it the other day. But what about it?

“Did Han wrongly predict someone’s death again?” He asked humorously, but was greeted with a grim smile.

“It would’ve been preferred,” the Prefect agrees solemnly. “But no. He predicted a war instead.”

The captain’s eyes widened, a throaty chuckle considered answer enough. When the other boy didn’t laugh back, though, Chan got worried.

“Good one, Seungmin, yeah?”

“Not particularly, no.”

“Oh, come on, man!” He tried again, this time more desperately. “It’s the twenty-first century. Wars are a thing of the past.”

The Ravenclaw nodded at that. He would’ve even agreed in the morning, before everything. But now—now was no time for doubt. For hesitation.

“I don’t suppose it will be a war with Giants and bloodshed, Chan. They’re infiltrating the Ministry. Once they take over, they’ll fight us with laws and regulations. I imagine the Death Eater clan will be freed, and their kids made pawns for their interests.”

It was too much, all at once. Chan had a plan, a premeditated life. National, then international. Captain of the Gryffindor team for now, then a Warrior. Holding the Cup, every single time, blood rushing through his veins, adrenaline getting him higher on his broomstick, crowds cheering, his team proud, proud, proud—

You. Next to him.

Not this. Certainly. For fuck’s sake.

“What are you fucking saying, Kim?” He rasped, too shocked to make sense of anything. Surely this was a mistake, a miscalculation, an error.

Chan had dreams, ambitions. He could leave this country right now and not have to deal with any of it. It would set him back—a whole fucking lot—to not graduate, to not bring one last cup to his House, but trials for the Wollogong Warriors started in six months, and if he trained consistently enough, perhaps he could—

But who was he kidding? Because of who he was, he’d have to stay. Fight. Protect. Changbin getting left behind, the Gryffindors, his team, you—he couldn’t afford that. He would never let it happen. Because it’s him, Bang Chan the King, the butterbeer pong extraordinaire, Hogwarts’ most valuable athlete, the one that would make it big, the guy everyone trusted, respected, counted on.

“Danger,” a familiar Ravenclaw voice behind him replied. “This means we’re in danger.”

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