#forever isn't long enough chapter three
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Claws of Carnality | jjk (m) (16)
Pairing: alpha jungkook x omega reader
Genre: (fluff, angst, and smut) abo/werewolf, fantasy
Rating: 18+/nsfw
Word Count: 14.3k (We really said it's been almost a year so we're going to write thirty plus pages)
Summary:
At the bathhouse, you discover your alpha is much worse is off than you originally anticipated. You tend to him, but some scars never fade.
Warnings: MAJOR CHARACTER INJURY, LOTS OF BLOOD MENTIONS, GORE, MENTIONS OF BROKEN BONES, MENTIONS OF LOSS OF BODY PARTS, dom!jungkook, alpha!jungkook, sub!reader, omega!reader, cursing, praising, possessive!jungkook, teasing, marking, manhandling
Author's Note:
It's been awhile since I updated. Honestly, the grown-up life is rough. That's all I really have to say to answer for the extended hiatus with this story and my other one. Mental health has been going up and down periodically and it really was so hard to write through it all.
I spent about two weeks going back and forth with the chapter. I wondered if it would ever make it to a post several times because things kept getting deleted. I finally decided to just sit down and write and not stop. This is the final result. Thirty-one pages.
I hope you enjoy. I'm sorry that this isn't the long-awaited mating chapter that I know you guys all really want to see, but it is important to me that the characters are nuanced and that their connection is not one built purely on the basis of desire. Sure, that is part of it, but there's much more to it. So much more depth and meaning when we build relationships with people. Especially romantic ones.
Enjoy!
To read more, click here for the masterlist.
“O-over there, alpha,” you quietly suggest, “It would be easier for me to-“ you flounder in flusterment when the strong arm circled around your front curls possessively around you- “I-It would be easier for m-me to tend to you if you sat down on the bench.”
The male makes a deep, rumbling sound as he draws in another heavy breath of your intoxicating pheromones, “As you wish. But it will cost you for being so irresistible.”
The sound goes straight to your cunt, and you have to bite into your cheek to keep from making the sound of need that your wolf begs you to release. You shift where you stand, hoping that the quaint press of your thighs together will somehow trap the slick from where it is secreted from your sex.
“What…what is the price I must pay for my transgression?” You ask, hoping that balms, ointments, and medicinal solutions splayed on the tray you hold in your hands don’t fall from how much your heart pounds in your chest.
It’s hard enough as it is not to look down, for he is completely, utterly, and mouth-wateringly naked.
“Two things,” his uninjured arm tightens even more around your front, his hand bunching itself in your skirt as he groans at the fresh scent of desire that drifts from you. “The first is you will not leave my sight. I want you as near to me as you can be.” He noses at the side of your throat, your lashes fluttering in the warm sensation of his breath as he utters, “It was a second hell to leave you after that duel and be without you, but I wanted to respect the tradition–and your decision– had you chosen to prepare yourself for me.”
His words have affection swirling in your chest.
This male really was something special. Even after battling three other wolves and being severely injured on your behalf, he still put your needs before his own.
And really, how could you deny him his request when that was all that you wanted, deep down? To just be by his side. Forever his loyal, loving, doting mate.
“You needn’t ask me that, alpha, for it was already in my mind.” You faintly confess.
He likes that answer.
You know based on the way he presses his mouth to the oily gland along your throat. It is gentle and soft, and it is so different from what you’d seen on the glen not too long ago during his duel.
So much violence and so much pain he was capable of bringing, but with you, he would never harm a hair on your head. So great was his love for you that he would protect you from that even if it meant taking those scars onto his body.
He’d given his oath to you that he would do exactly that, and gods, he had kept to it.
It is why you let him maneuver you forward away from the watery basin you’d found him in and toward the long ebony wood bench that almost stretches from one end of the chamber to the other. A tall pillar of white wax holds a flickering wick that is set in brass lanterns hanging from the ceiling on each side of the bench, and in front of its legs are caged candles guarded by glass that have high, bright flames.
“How agreeable you are being. If you can so easily agree to that, then the second of my terms is this.” He turns you both before the front of your knee can make contact with the wood, the arm he has encircled around your waist spinning you so that you face him.
His hand never leaves your side, his fingers remaining entrenched in the sea of your skirts. Somehow, none of the vials fall from the tray you clutch onto.
Golden irises that burn with more intensity than the fire beside him have you utterly struck by their luminousness as he demands, “You will promise me that if this,” he jerks his chin toward his mangled form, “is too much for you, you will tell me. I said before that I only wanted you to tend to me, and I meant it. But if you are uncomfortable, you must say so.”
Again, he was putting you first. Despite the fact that he was hurting, he was still choosing your comfort over his own.
Just how much more could your heart swell for this male?
You shake your head, finding your voice full of doubtlessness and confidence that surge into you as you say, “I want to do this, alpha. I spent years studying the art of medicine and herbal treatments so that I could one day use it to help others.” You rise on your tiptoes to osculate your lips against his. “I would be lying if I told you I hadn’t secretly wanted to learn it mostly for situations like this.”
He smirks against you, his mouth lingering near yours as he teasingly prods, “Situations like this? Are you saying that you thought about getting me shirtless and all alone so you could touch me under the guise of that excuse?”
Heat races to your cheeks and that confidence you’d had before vanishes with it. Soon, you’re blushing as you blurt, “No! I mean, yes! I mean….alpha!”
Years ago, you had never entertained the idea that this male before you would ever become yours. That you would ever be able to have a moment like this with him. He had been a constant thought in your mind from the moment you’d first laid eyes on him when you’d been but children, and as you both grew older, his presence in your mind and thoughts had only grown stronger.
But apart from your dreams and musings, he’d been so far for you to reach with all the duties and responsibilities that had been thrust on you from such a young age. So many other omegas had vied for his attentions, and with all of them clamoring for one look in their direction whenever he had returned to the compound from his exploits deep in the forest or in the forge where he had been stationed, you had never been able to get close enough with a constant herd of wolves –female and male alike– around him.
His rank had drawn many to him, each of them hoping that the next in line to be the ruler of the pack would select them to be part of his inner circle. Any selected by him would instantly rise in rank upon his ascendance to becoming Pack Alpha, and so naturally he had had to be guarded in his interactions and limited in his contact with others beyond his work in the forge as the pack’s only blacksmith beside his father.
Rumors had spread fast in his unannounced absences that he would take with his father for increasing increments of time the older he became, because when he returned to work at the forge, there were bags under his eyes that had become more mature, had become hardened with the calluses on his hands as he worked them day after day.
Sometimes he would return with a new wound on his body that he tried to hide under the various furs he draped over his body. You knew because of the chitter of the omegas that would inevitably gossip about in front of the fire in the omegean den on your way back to your chambers after a long night in the archives that you went to after you left the schoolhouse for the day.
Those were the nights that you found your paws bearing down on the grassy ground as you ran through the hills deep in the woodland in your journey toward your favorite creek that was tucked away behind a wall of vines, deep into the forest, that no one but you knew about.
Or so you had thought.
He’d been there, too. From a distance, of course. From the moment you stepped out of your chambers, he’d been able to smell you. The wind had a cunning way of carrying that to him no matter where he was, and he was helpless to the wolf in him he had been learning to control that bayed and bayed until he listened and tracked that captivating scent that made everything else in the world fade away.
You wonder, as he urges you between his legs that he opens for you in invitation to stand between, just how much he had to sacrifice to be sitting before you now.
Your alpha observes your expressions change from embarrassment to concentrated concern, and he tugs on the invisible cord tying you both together that is the bond you now share. You let him in without hesitation, your thoughts becoming known to him as he draws on the connection.
He can hear your thoughts, can feel your emotions, can see your memories if he taps into it. In the developing stage of the bond, you wish you knew how to show him all of your dreams of him, all of your memories of him, and all your thoughts that you’ve ever had of him.
There’s something that you want him to see, but gods, your voice just won’t work the way you want it to under the emotion that cracks and breaks it. So, you let him see a memory you’d kept buried deep in the trenches of your mind for many, many moons. One that no one but he would ever carry.
It had been a rainy, stormy night. So heavy was the rain that it pelted your skin even through the thick coat of your white fur as you’d torn through the earth with paws too eager to rush you away from the center of your stresses and away to the woodland where it all melted away with the streaks of color that passed by you in your inhuman speed as you ran, ran, and then ran some more.
Thunder had rumbled through the sky on this particular night so loud that even your eardrums rang after the deafening strikes of sound that cut through the sky as lightning flashed before your eyes from under the canopy of trees.
The forest was vast, but that night, it had seemed all too small for you.
You hadn’t stopped until your lungs screamed for air, your haunches burning from how hard you’d pushed them, the bolt of white light in the sky similar to the color of the flame that had burned in the stone fireplace set in the middle of the wall on one end of your chambers while you’d carefully, attentively read the letter left to you on your windowsill.
Such a beautiful poem about a boy who had come to love the girl he admired from afar. And so meticulous had each letter been etched onto the parchment. You knew whoever had written it had taken much time to compose it with each swirl and curve of each syllable.
You had left it on your bed while you had gone to find another book to hide yet another letter from your secret admirer with no name, but had not noticed the shadow that had swept under your door to reveal your father, who had taken one look at the letter on your duvet before anger had turned him cruel at the prospect of his perfect little girl being corrupted by some hormonal male.
He'd cast the parchment into the fire despite your ardent pleas not to, the tears falling quickly when he’d let that fury burn you with pokers of curses and chastisements for your lack of purity.
He had always been adamant that you were to study the ways of the pack and devote yourself to teach its art to the youth. Those letters, to him, were nothing but distractions. Distractions that made you no better than the common whore in the fantasies they would ineluctably fill your head with.
Or so he had said.
That was why you had found yourself bounding through the forest that night with tears in your eyes not even the rain could wash away. But that night, fate had had other ideas.
You’d intended to go to the cave by the creek. You had never made it inside.
You’d stopped behind one of the oak trees on the edge of the forest floor before the soil turned to rock by the stream, the wide-mouthed cave beyond occupied by two figures.
Just by the smell of them, you knew they were of the same blood. One was older with their more muted, aged smell and one was younger.
You knew the scent of the younger one. That scent of blooming gardenia, pear and black vanilla. The same one that lingered on the letters left to you on your windowsill.
Each time the lightning pierced the black sky, their figures flashed. And each time, the two were locked in combat. Each held only a small iron dagger, their fighting leathers more than enough protection for them both lest either were struck by the other.
Unable to look away, you found yourself moving closer until you hid safely behind a thick, bountiful bush and could discern voices. Their voices. Only bits and pieces could be made out through the rainstorm, but it was enough.
“…too slow, son….can’t keep putting your arm up like that…too open and easy for me to…”
The next split of white light through the black sky illuminated them both, and the slightly shorter male with hair the color of ebony had a knife at his throat. It was held there by his father, who shook his head in disapproval as he gripped the younger male’s forearm in a vice-like hold.
“…cannot protect her if you cannot protect yourself. You are not ready.” The older male had decided. “Until you are, you will not see her. Even from afar.”
Another lightning bolt ruptures the clouds covering the moon, and a younger Jungkook had let his dogma guide his blade as he had voiced:
“Eventually I will be. And when I am, she’ll be mine. Not even her father will stand in my way.”
The next time the streak of lightning found its way through the atmosphere, the older male had been twisted around, his arm held behind his back while the younger alpha had pressed his blade to his father’s throat.
A self-satisfied grin with pointed canines protruding from under his upper lip had made your beating muscle in your chest stutter as he had released his father from the binding hold he’d had on him.
You could have sworn he looked right at you from behind the mess of leaves and brambles.
When the white fulmination cleaved through the clouds once more, your heart stopped when his father had quickly captured his son’s wrist to the hand that held the dagger by his neck only to bend forward and rotate forward, effectively flipping Jungkook onto his back. Jungkook, who had been unprepared for such a technique, had been brought to the craggy ground with a grunt, his other hand shooting out to grab for something, anything, to find purchase in as his knife fell from his fingers. Jungkook was fast, but his father had simply been faster.
The older male had easily used the momentum of move to step around and over Jungkook’s now prone form. Jungkook, who had been propped up on one elbow with a sharp looking rock held in his now bleeding hand from the blade of the dagger that had cut into his palm in the fall. It laid too far for him to reach, the essence of his defeat staining it.
White electricity strikes yet again, the deep rumble of thunder loud under the pounding of blood in your ears.
“Distracted. She occupies your mind even now. That…is dangerous, son.” The older male with gray streaking the black hairs stuck over his eyes had said. “Too dangerous for you to be allowed near her until….oncoming rut is over...”
That was the last thing you heard before there had been a flare of heat on your right, the rift of lightning arcing along the old oak’s stump beside you as the clouds clashed and loud sound pierced the earth.
You hadn’t even flinched. That didn’t matter. The only thing that did was the alpha on the ground who’s scent clung to the parchments that made you blush, smile, and kick your feet while you coveted them close to your chest as you wished to the gods that whatever force was keeping him from your side would release him.
The fascination that had turned every letter of his had tilled the very hard edge with which he spoke as he growled, “No. I cannot go through that again. You cannot make me.”
“Won’t I?” His father flipped the dagger in hand. “You’re on the ground right now because you cannot keep your mind off her. What is to stop you from venturing into her chambers tonight when you inevitably begin thinking of how good she smells? Of how pretty she looks when-“
Jungkook had pushed up on his hand, the other holding the rock slicing the air close to his father’s thigh. Each side of the older male’s mouth pulled downward, the metal of his dagger gleaming as sparks had flown upon impact of the pointed edge of the rock hitting the blade with such force.
“Don’t.” Jungkook’s jaw tensed. “Do not dare to say the things I mutter in my sleep when you have me chained to the fucking trees.”
His father had shrugged. “Then become stronger for her. Until you can, you’ll stay here, deep in the woods. Far away from her.”
The cords in the younger alpha’s neck went rigid as he scowled. “I will find my way to her. One way or another.”
With that, he’d pulled his knees toward his chest before punting his father in the chest with his feet. Such energy he’d used to push himself back from the older male as he’d used the force of the action to drive his feet over his head in a backward roll, his bleeding hand reaching around the hilt of the curved dagger on the ground. When he’d gotten to his feet once more, he had bared his teeth with determination set into those expressive features of his.
His father had nodded in approval, “That’s the spirit, son. Never accept defeat. That’s how you win.”
The clash of metal had soon become drowned out by the outpour of rain, but not even the water could snuff out the iotas of light that came at each powerful strike of their blades against each other.
Hours must have passed, but you swore it felt like it had only been minutes as your eyes followed the younger male everywhere he went, his wild dark locks sticking to his forehead and sides of his face as he moved with purpose and confidence.
There was an art to his movements as he continuously, mercilessly brought down his blade on his father’s. Time and time again.
Whether he held a quill or a blade in his hand, he was filled with purpose. Purpose that was entirely carved by you.
It had taken his father being backed into the stream for you to realize that you were too close. And that the air had become too thick to push air through your lungs as the organs in your chest contracted too deeply?
Why had it suddenly become so difficult to breathe?
Jungkook wades into the stream up to his calves, not willing to let up on his father despite the water urging him with its flow against him.
The closer he got, the more labored your breaths became.
You needed to shift. You needed to shed your heavy furs that had been drenched by the rain.
But to do that, you had to leave him.
So, you did. Quietly, you slipped into the night, careful not to make any sound lest you drew any attention to yourself. You hadn’t known you’d been holding your breath until you found your way back to your chambers, your footfalls light as your furs had begun to fall away from you. After you’d collected the rainwater you’d left in a barrel outside your window in several smaller bowls and emptied them into the cauldron hung over the metal hook above your fireplace to heat what would be your bathwater, your hands had sought the comfort of the thickest bound book that you kept on your bookshelf.
You had been too hasty to get to the dog-eared page you’d marked in the book, accidentally tearing the page before finding what you’d come to your book for. Inside it was tucked your favorite letter left to you on your windowsill. One that you found yourself rereading night after night.
It read:
The moon pales in comparison to the light that twinkles in your eyes,
The stars tremble in awe of your brilliance,
The night must blanket them and still, you offer more warmth,
Warmth that not even the sun can make as pleasant,
Warmth that the clouds could not even shade,
Warmth that no rain could fall with,
The flowers around us bloom, but none blossom with the beauty and grace of you,
The seedlings take root, but gods, none do so like the one you’ve planted in me,
The water they draw into themselves is life-giving, but yours is so much nourishing,
Still I sit here, hoping that you will allow me to bask in your radiance,
Still I sit here, promising that I will grow stronger in body, soul, and mind to be at your side,
Still I sit here, thinking of you when I cannot see, hear, or touch you as I do in my dreams.
Wait for me, my beautiful flower who only becomes more alluring under each moon.
Wait for me, and I will be your loving attendant,
Wait for me, and I will be yours.
You are forbidden to me now, but soon, you will not be. Soon, I will make you mine.
You will never have to look longingly at the wolves who hold and dote on each other while your only partner is the books you keep in your library. I will be everything you want me to be if that is what pleases you.
You will always have a shoulder to lean on, an ear that will listen, a hand that will caress you.
You will always have me.
You will never have to spend your nights crying into your pillow alone because of your father. I will be there to hold you close. I will be the fists that pummel him to the ground for daring to hurt you. Or anyone else that meddles your happiness.
All I can do for you now is watch over you from afar. Guard and protect you from the males I know you do not desire. From the females that have become venomous in jealousy of your unmatched intelligence, spirit, and beauty. From the threats that loom deep in the forest.
I hope you can forgive me for keeping my name and a face a secret from you. I suspect by now you have figured out who I am. And if you have, you will then understand why I commune with you this way.
The elders, nor your father, would allow it since you have not yet presented. Besides…it looks like I have some developments myself that I need to make. You have so consumed my mind and body that I can no longer make sense of certain things.
You are everywhere and yet, you elude me. It is the most tragic of ironies.
Until we meet again, my fair flower. I will see you long before you see me, but you can always find me in our dreams.
Always.
-Your Alpha
The air here had been clammy, too, so when you had let your thumb brush at the corner, the oils from it smudged the ink. Panic stole your breath and you not wanting to blemish the beautiful lettering, you’d slipped the parchment under your pillow and gone to the window to open it in hopes of letting some crisp, fresh air in.
Even here, you could still hear the clang of metal from the forest under lightly falling raindrops. You had let your body move on its own when you’d leaned out from the ledge of your windowsill that was only a few feet from the ground, the baser part of you subconsciously trying to be near to him despite the space between you.
That muggy draft that had clung to your ribs still did not dispel as the cold drops trickled down your body, the tears of the sky slow in their consolation as they dribbled along your arm as you lifted it up and stuck it out of the window.
It still wasn’t enough.
You needed to be able to breathe. And thankfully, you knew just what to do from all the books you read.
Hot water could provide relief to respiratory issues.
Your eyes landed on the largest of the wooden bowls you’d used to collect water from the barrel of rainwater outside, each of your hands holding it as you’d dipped it into the cauldron over boiling water, careful not to let it burn your fingers as you brought it to the tub, the sloshing of it causing you to stare down at it to see your reflection.
Your mouth was ajar with partially sharpened teeth that had not fully shifted back yet, your face flushed with redness and your eyes… your dilated pupils, now the color of the sun where they were usually silver like the moon, glowed back at you.
You blinked rapidly, surprise lighting up your face as you gaped.
Your wolf had been scratching at your psyche to do something about the irremovable weight that felt like it was pushing against your organs.
Another bout of thunder rolled through the sky from outside the semi-circular opening in the wall along the far end of the small, square room. The accompanying flash of lightning brought with it the deadly gleam of daggers behind your eyes, the image of Jungkook’s blood staining it in your mind’s eye as the suffocating pressure in your chest worsened.
You’d had to sit on the edge of the tub, unable to get air between your lips and before you could think, you raised the steaming bowl over your head and let it pour over you.
Its cascade down your flesh had immediately silenced your wolf, who preened at the hot sensation of the liquid all over your flesh. Everywhere the water touched, it washed away the uncomfortable weight that had smothered you so.
When you looked into the mirror across the room, the gold in your irises had been swept away with the last drop of water to leave only silver.
Your surprise had been doused until its remnants became distress as you looked up at the moon, your hands coming together before your bosom as you bowed your head in deference to ask, “Please, gods, do not let him suffer for me. Wherever he is, please, protect him from harm. Keep him safe.”
You’d gone to bed that night without bothering to dry off, the lightest of layers heavy on your skin as hushed prayers and pleas for his safety left your lips while you held the letter he’d left you against your thudding heart.
Words have a way of failing you when he’s around, but that? It was so much easier. So much better when you couldn’t find language sufficient to let him know what you wanted to say.
He seems to understand, because then he’s releasing your skirts and grabbing the wooden tray of salves, gauze, and other medicinal solutions with his uninjured hand and, lost in his eyes, you don’t even realize he’s put it beside him until his voice finds you through it all.
You need not worry for me, my love. I have everything I need right here. I may have had to grow up faster than everyone else around us, but I would do it all over again if it meant that you would be mine.
You only notice your hands are empty when you go to brush your forehead against his, your unoccupied hands lifting to cradle each side of his face as your eyes burn with the tears that threaten to fall.
“You are too good to me, alpha. I promise you that you will never have to be alone again. Not now, and not ever.” You pledge as you kneel between his legs, reaching for the thick roll of white translucent fabric with a loose, open weave. You take it between both hands, your mouth setting in a thin line as you rip it so that you have two moderately sized pieces while your alpha takes in the image of you on your knees before him.
“Nor do you, my love. I am officially yours now, just as you are entirely mine. No one can deny us from each other anymore.” He professes, lifting his unharmed arm so he can sweep your hair out of your face while you work.
It was no small thing to allow an omega to do this. The action was something of a rite that went back to the earliest of their ancestors. When an alpha was harmed in battle or in the hunt for prey, the omega that he let dress his wounds, by doing so, accepted the bond between them. To allow an omega to see an alpha at their most vulnerable…it was a very special, intimate moment.
And you knew of that. He knows because the thought surfaces in your mind the moment you daub the dry fabric against the top of each pectoral where four dark and furiously red lines curve diagonally downward and end on each side of his pelvis. Blood beads the incisions that Yoongi’s serrated claws had left, and the tears that had threatened to fall before fight against the entrapment of your eyelids as you try to blink them away.
“It hurts, doesn’t it, alpha?” You ask with the guilt weighing at your words as you uncork one of the small ovular vials containing a yellow liquid, the woody-sweet scent pungent in your nostrils as you use the oil left by crushed eucalyptus to clean your hands before you pour it onto the strips of fabric you’d just torn and after, you push the cork into the vial and set it down before you.
You let guilt drag each of your hands containing the gauze downward very lightly as you follow the large virgules of red. Where you normally would admire the strong, defined contours of his chest, now, the sight of it has woe whispering in your ear.
His skin is hot to the touch. As if fire burns under his flesh. So fuming and inflamed in the redness that surrounds the gaping, curling lacerations. Both sides of his sternum have been raked– no, ripped–through by sharp claws. Yoongi had cut into your mate’s skin eight blood red half-moons; four on either side of his chest that were turned away from each other, their ends incurving from the base of his neck all the way down his torso and even along his hip bones. Layers of crimson ooze and leak down his body like water, and the sight has something in your bosom tightening in on itself as your vision becomes cloudy.
Somewhere down between the middle of his pectorals, the cloths become too saturated and heavy with blood to soak up any more.
Perhaps the tangibility of his suffering is what finally has the tears falling down your cheeks, the burning in your eyes unavoidable no matter how many times you try to blink it away.
Despite that it feels as if fire sears him everywhere Yoongi’s claws had been, there is worse pain to be felt. Like the gut-wrenching punch that is delivered to his belly when he sees the first of your tears slide down your face.
With the hand he has on your chin, he tilts your chin up as he answers honestly, “Nothing harms me more than watching the light of my life weep for me.”
“I…I can’t help it, alpha.” You respond dolefully, your own stomach dropping to the bowels of your body at the high volume of blood he’s losing so quickly. He’d already turned the entire tub of water he’d been in red, and still he bled. If this kept on…
You don’t let that thought continue. You can’t.
You drop the sopping cloths into an empty glass container you’d put next to the roll of gauze only to take the roll between your hands once again. This time, you do not stop unraveling it until you have much thicker stretches of cloth folded into squares. You do not forget to grab the vial of yellow fluid once more, the viscous oil slow to make its journey to the cloths. You lightly press them against the spots you had had the other ones placed against. The second you put them to his mutilated flesh, they slowly turn crimson. The more they are stained with his lifeblood, the more you are soused with leaden compunction.
It burns, yes, but your sadness smolders him more.
“You are blaming yourself for this.”
It is not a question. It’s a statement.
You draggle each of the gauzes down along the underside of his pectorals, letting them rest there as you watch them turn completely red with his blood.
Momentarily, you wonder if the silvers he’d put on you before would be able to numb the contrition that pulls your spirits away from you.
Your mate will not have any of that.
He runs the pad of his thumb along your chin as he coaxes, “Peer into my eyes, Y/N.”
Unquestioningly, you do. He’s more than earned your obedience. What you see in the depths of those orbs is unending and bottomless in the plunge to the part of him that he would never show anyone else. The part of him that he had kept buried and sunken in wait for the right creature to unearth it. So many masks he had had to wear when so many had ulterior motives and designs around him, but this creature before him? He would break them all to pieces so she could see him for what he really was.
Once, he had asked his father how he would really know if anyone wanted him for him and not his power or his rank. His father had simply laughed and told him: You won’t. All you can do is watch and wait to see someone’s true colors when they think no one else is watching.
This creature before him who cried in the face of his pain and suffering did so out of pure, genuine sorrow. He could feel it sinking your spirits, your very thoughts through the bond. He could see it deep in the valley of your eyes that are, even in the guilt that tries to make them cloudy, drizzling with love for him.
There was no doubt in his mind that you were true and that you were absolutely, unequivocally his. That is why he allows the walls of his reservedness to crumble as he confides:
“Hear my words, my love. This is a result of my own weakness. I teased you before about you wanting to do this. But know that you are only in this situation because I wasn’t strong enough to do what I needed to do.” He doesn’t let go of your chin. With his other hand, he places it between your breasts. The action has him sucking his lip between his teeth as excruciating pain shoots through his upper bicep where the flesh has been torn from limb. A river of red gushes from the open wound, but it matters little to him when pangs of your heart are slower even than his as if it, too, was sulking itself in blame. Despite the way his split blood vessels cry more tears of blood in the movement, he goes on with a grimace, “I know what you’re thinking, my sweet, beautiful girl. You are not to blame for this. Do not pity me. Do not feel guilty for me. If anything, I should be the one pitying you for having to tend to me for such serious injuries.” He leans forward, his lips meeting the flesh between your brows, “I’m sorry you had to see that. And I’m sorry I didn’t come back to you with only a scratch. But I meant every word of what I said when I made that oath to you that I would protect you with my body. My body can be mended. My soul, if it lost you, could not.”
The male before you shouldn’t even be able to move in his condition.
And yet, he does.
For you.
Your own emotions crack and fracture under the seriousness of his words and unhesitant ministrations. Each is packed with the mass of his candor and you can’t stop yourself from pouring your heart out to him.
“You ask me to simply accept this…this agony that you must be feeling, alpha, and I,” you cry out,” I cannot! I care too much for you to simply turn off my emotions. I cannot do it!”
You lift the strips of soddened fabric away from his chest through eyes full of tears, your sight descending to where you hold them in your now shaking hands as you place those, too, in the same glass bowl as the others. “You ask me not to blame myself, but your wounds…they are there because of me. And they are serious. Serious enough that if this keeps on, you-“ Your sniffle, shaking your head in unwillingness to finish the unbearable thought. You take the gauzy roll in your hands once more and unwind it, you have to rely on muscle memory because at this point, the constant slew of tears is too much for you to see through.
Your alpha’s eyes soften as you try to rub at your own, your tear-streaked cheeks sullied by the tracks the salty water had left, the fresh blood that now covers your hands a stark contrast to the darker, dried blood he’d painted on you earlier during the Smearing.
Why did that make you look even more beautiful to him?
“I’m not asking you to simply turn a blind eye to your feelings, sweetheart. Such a task would be difficult for anyone with a heart to attain.” He brings his lips under one of your eyes, the tang of salt and iron left on his lips as he does. “What I ask is that you try not to blame yourself for my errors. It is my misjudgment that earned me more scars. These are not the first, and they likely will not be the last.” He turns his head so he can leave a soft, featherlight kiss under your other eye. “These scars shall be proof of the trial I had to face to earn you. And I would take hundreds of thousands more of these for you. If I had lost an arm or leg tonight, I would have been alright with it. Your smile and your happiness are worth that much to me.”
The sound of the white fabric shredding between your fingers is muffled under his voice. It’s as if your senses have been dulled to all but him. Even the firelight fails to crackle in your ears amidst the steady beat of his own heart while you tremblingly let the lip of the vial teem with the oil that smells of honey, mint, and citrus.
“My happiness should never come at the expense of pain or suffering, alpha,” you murmur mournfully as you eye the bawling gashes of scarlet.
You crimp the gauze into two thick squares once they have been wetted with the oil before holding them down over the underside of each of his pectorals. You wait until the part in contact with his frayed skin is steeped in scarlet before you flip each of them over and depress them along the arched curvatures going in opposite directions toward each side of his pelvis.
His lips tighten, wrinkles forming where none existed before when you tenderly wipe away at the jagged ends of each of the four lines on either hemisphere of his torso where Yoongi’s claw had pierced the deepest, not bothering to hide his expression from you now at his most vulnerable. There was nothing to hide now. No reason to keep his pain from you when he knew that doing so would just upset you more.
It pains you to see him like this. You wish there was a way for you to make it all disappear, but unfortunately, there were no medicinal or herbal remedies that had the power to do that.
“Such is our way, omega. It is my duty to protect you. I will never neglect that obligation if it ensures your safety." He hisses when you gingerly drag the gauze along the same path upward to collect the stray rivulets of crimson that had dripped from the top of his wounds.
The incinerating flare of flames feels like it is scorching him from the inside out under each slash and tear in his flesh left by Yoongi’s claws, and each time you attempt wiping away the bloody tears his body weeps, more of his life essence is there to replace it.
The oil offers a mild cooling sensation, but it is similar to throwing a block of frozen ice into a roaring bonfire.
You note the lack of stoppage of blood flow from those wounds, concern turning your lips down even more. What you had been reluctant to think about before was becoming all the more possible now. Even if you did keep trying to refuse it.
Worry soon lugs you asunder with the guilt that swims densely about you, and your brows furrow as you instruct, “Alpha, I need you to lie down now. You aren’t having any changes in the blood loss and I fear that something bad may happen if you lose too much more.”
He nods, but the action has a dot spotting his vision and no matter how many times he blinks, it remains. Soon, there are more. And as he holds your watery gaze, more tears trek down the contours of your cheeks.
Something in his chest twinges that has nothing to do with the wounds Yoongi had left.
“As you say, my love.” He brings one knee carefully up toward his chest, his foot resting on the edge of the wood as he asks “What will you have me to do with this arm of mine? It’s in bad shape.”
You grab the now near-empty vial of eucalyptus oil that you’d set on the ground between your knees and return it to its place on the tray, your mind easily supplying you with the answer to his question after having spent so many nights hunched over tomes about medicinal treatments and herbal remedies as you rise, one of your hands wrapping around his nape and the other laying itself over the palm he has pressed between your breasts. The arm that palm is connected to is the one that Yoongi had mangled such that you can see bone between the split mess of muscles bordering it.
You can only imagine how much agony he must be in. If you could take it into yourself, you would.
Not that he would let you, though.
His promise to you had been made not only out of love for you, but out of pride as an alpha. An alpha that could not protect their mate was not deserving or worthy of her. It was an alpha’s responsibility by right to be the source of security and protection for his omega. An alpha who could not guarantee that for his omega had failed her.
Or so the tradition had held.
“You need to relax this arm and let me maneuver it so that it rests by your side. What I’m about to do will require a certain position,” you urge him down by the back of his neck, and while you know your measly strength could never compete against his, the fact that he allows you to move him so readily is an obvious display of trust. His back is laid atop the bench first, and you are delicate in the way you guide his head down until it, too, comes to a rest on the wood. “And it…it will hurt. I’m going to have to move your arm so we do not risk further injuring it. After that, I will need to clean it before applying pressure where the worst of the damage is.”
With conviction clearer than any concoction you could give him, he asserts, “Do what you have to do. You know what needs to be done. You have trained and studied well. It goes without saying that you have my trust. All of it.” He adds.
Gods, you couldn’t have asked for a more perfect mate.
“Let me be the voice of reassurance this time, alpha,” you express while you curl your fingers around the hand of his that is placed along your sternum. Your other cups the underside of his forearm and, scrupulously, you usher it to his side before slowly and surely straightening it. He grimaces, and to distract him, you assure, “I’ll do everything I can to fix you. I promise, alpha.”
You monitor the bone in his arm that shifts in the movement, the middle of his humerus exposed and clearly fractured. From the dark line running perpendicular to the bone along the end closest to his elbow, you know instantly that he’s suffered from a transverse fracture to the bone. Honestly, you had expected worse with the way Yoongi had thrashed his head with Jungkook’s poor arm trapped between his teeth. Those teeth had managed to pierce halfway through the vessels and muscles lining his upper arm, the punctures still gushing blood.
It should have been impossible for him to have moved it. And yet…
“How did you move this arm when your bone has been broken, alpha?” You ask, swallowing the emotion that wants to be let out as you assess him.
His brows scrunch together and he answers like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “The pain was inconsequential next to the sadness that pooled in those pretty eyes.”
You fight the burning at the edges of your vision as you silently take your skirt between your fingers, the soft material pliable under your fingers. You don’t say anything. All you can do is let your hands work as you find the slit cut into it and tear along the line.
“What are you doing, my love?”
It is a question not asked out of doubt, but genuine curiosity.
The sound of ripping fabric ceases as you pull a sizable amount of the organza away from you and turn it inside out before placing it onto the tray beside his head and grabbing for the rectangular glass canister next to the eucalyptus oil.
I have to clean it. It’s infected already, and if I don’t get the bacteria out, your condition will worsen. Once I clean it, I will have to mobilize and brace it. A piece of my skirt should be the outer layer so as not to discomfort you.
You don’t trust your voice not to rupture, so you gently push the words to him through the bond as you grab the roll of cotton wool beside the gauze and unwind it before pressing it to your lips, closing your eyes, and silently begging for the mercy of the gods to take pity on him. To save him.
You knew what to do, but there was only so much that herbs and medicinal solutions could do.
You discard the thought like one of the blood-stained gauzes before you. You couldn’t afford to think like that. Especially not when you’d promised to put him at ease as he had always done for you.
When you bring the wool away from your mouth, you lift the lid from the container and the musky, earthy smell of the ginger poultice you’d prepared weeks ago joins the scent of muted iron in the air as you dip the wool into it several times to ensure its transfer onto the material.
The ginger will not hurt you, alpha. The pressure I will have to put on you will, however.
“I meant what I said, omega. Do what you need to do. I can take it.” He confides, opening his mouth so he can bite onto it.
I know, alpha. I know. More than anyone.
You pick up the considerably long, thick strip of wool from where you’d left it in a heap atop of the open poultice, bending over him before straightening it out so that it ran the length of his upper arm. Thankfully, it was just wide and long enough to completely cover his arm.
With one hand holding one end and your other hand on the other, you bring it down over the split skin from just under his shoulder to just above his elbow.
Just as you’d told him, there is no burning sensation as the gelatinous, thick solution is applied and spread across his sheared muscles, blood vessels, and bone. The blood spurting from the ruptures in his flesh is quick to permeate into the cotton, but you’d expected as much.
The ginger and eucalyptus have antioxidants, antibacterial, antiseptic, and disinfecting properties good for fighting infections. That’s why I chose to have Namjoon collect them from my personal store that I made.
Have I ever told you how attractive I find your intelligence?
Yes, alpha. You have.
You smile through the tears as you untwist more cotton wool from its spool, careful to lay it flat over the existing layer you’d just put over him. It, too, becomes saturated with his life’s essence within seconds.
He needed something else. Something to help boost the efficacy of the poultice. And you knew just the thing.
You scan the tray, evaluating the vials and containers left on it as you note the last addition you had yet to make. There, in the middle, was the small wooden box no longer than your hand and no taller than your pinky. You flip open the latch, the powder inside a brilliant yellow with the hint of orange tang under your nose.
His irises follow your every movement as you peel the layers of cotton wool up and off of him, disposing of them both in the same bowl as the other discolored fabrics.
When you unravel the dressings this time and steep them in the poultice, your other grabs a considerably sized clump of the crushed turmeric powder and sprinkles it all over his slashed open arm.
Three handfuls of that later, you are satisfied with the way the powder has been packed over the gash and surround it with several strips of the material lathered in the ginger solution.
The turmeric has curcumin in it, which can enhance granulation tissue formation and wound contraction. It also decreases inflammation and oxidation and can increase antioxidant capacity of the body, which means it helps fight compounds that could damage you.
The words are recited just as you had written them in one of your journals, and you busy yourself remembering that in lieu of your mind wandering to darker, scarier thoughts as his life’s essence clings to your hands while you rip apart more strips of cotton and run them all through the container of poultice.
Keep going, my love. Tell me more.
He feels the quiver of your hands as you lay each rectangular cloth down over his raw, chafed abrasions lining his chest, his uninjured arm wrapping around your thigh to steady you as his temples begin to ache.
The ginger root that this poultice was made from speeds along the healing process for cuts and abrasions among the other qualities it possesses. You won’t have to worry about these dressings falling off.
Underneath each dressing you affix to his front, his very cells feel as if they are being engulfed in an inferno. One that only blazes hotter every second that passes.
The gingerols and shogaols are compounds in it that will work as a natural adhesive to the cotton and to your skin without sticking or gluing it to you.
His second lack of response has you tilting your head in confusion.
You had said before that the poultice was not meant to feel like that, so whatever was happening, he was certain that you were not the cause. Perhaps it was just some strange side effect of blood loss? How odd that this sensation did not spread to his arm. He really should have studied more.
I’m fine, love. I think. My chest… it feels like I’m burning up from the inside. Have you any idea what that could be?
You’d read many books on herbology and medicine practices. None had ever described that as a symptom of blood loss.
With worry making your mouth go drier than cotton, you examine the way he blinks rapidly as if trying to get something out of his eyes.
W-what else ails you, alpha?
More dots have begun to occupy his sight, and no matter how many times he tries to close and open his eyes, they will not dissipate.
I cannot see properly. It is like there are dark circles blotting parts of my vision.
˙
That was definitely a symptom of blood loss. But the burning sensations? That wasn’t characteristic of the lesions that had been cut into his skin. Nor was the ceaseless gush of scarlet from his chest injuries.
You recall the events that had brought you both here, identifying that it had only been Yoongi that had managed to harm your alpha. He’d been bitten on his arm and struck by claws on his chest. Two different points of contact with two different mediums.
You compare the two areas where he’d been mutilated, spotting the angered, puffed up flesh just that became more raised the closer it got to his now covered traumatisms on his torso. Like something was agitating it from the inside. His arm, however, mangled as it is, is not as badly puckered up around the gash despite the blood he’s losing. Which brings you to your next observation: His blood drips slowly and languidly from his chest wounds where it wells and spurts from his arm. With as deeply as Yoongi had pierced through him, he should have been losing more.
What is going on in that pretty head of yours, my love? Have you…have you discovered something?
There’s a slight pause between each of his unhurried words through your bond. As if it took effort to pull them forth.
You push through the distress that wants to drag you down, forcing yourself to focus and do everything that you could to aid him as you turn your attention to his arm now that you had taken care of his chest wounds.
You needed to stop the river of red that streamed down his arm. Without removing the cloth you’d set over it, you use your teeth to shear the white open-weaved fabric from the now nearly depleted roll it had once been spun around.
I will have to apply pressure as I said before to make sure the medicines set on the punctures in your arm. It…it’s going to hurt, alpha. If you want, you can bite onto my skirts. I don’t mind.
The offer earns you a nod, and so you rise to stand by his side and a wad of your skirt in your hands, hoping that he doesn’t mention the way that they shake as you do.
Forgive me, alpha.
It’s all the warning he gets before you place the dressings over the first layer covering his arm and push into the afflicted area, mindful of where his bone has been broken and avoiding that as you squeeze. Unlike the ruptures along his chest, this area does not nearly scald you.
He curses, his teeth grating into the fabric of your skirt as you apologize over and over again, guilt leaving tangible evidence of itself on your face while you cry for him.
Anyone else would have flinched, but not your alpha. No, he simply screws his eyes shut as he hisses through the material between his lips.
I’m sorry, alpha. I’m so, so sorry. But you have to stay like this for five minutes. I have to try to make the bleeding stop.
The dots that had been impairing his vision increase and the ache in his temples he’d felt before turns into a fierce throbbing as the world begins to dim around him while the claw marks along his chest ripple forth with black blood.
You perceive the way his eyes begin to flutter closed, the arm he’s wrapped around your thigh beginning to loosen. A tremble overcomes his body in the way that it suddenly is as if it’s gone down many degrees, and at that, a lump of dread drops into your stomach.
Not wanting him to slip into unconsciousness, you squeal. “N-no! Stay with me, a-alpha!”
Your voice cleaves through the barren desert that has set upon your throat.
I’m sorry, my love…I’m trying, but…it’s cold, yet my body feels like it’s on fire.
There are longer standstills between his words now. Like each one has to be dug up from the recesses of his mind.
Why has it suddenly become a….a blizzard in here? Why does…does my head feel…feel like someone is…is pounding… into it?
The dread in your belly is joined by another chunked mass of fear as his responsiveness slows with the unseen ice that encases and numbs him. When his good arm falls limply to his side from where it had been encircled around your thigh, you snivel, shaking your head vigorously back and forth as you whisper through a cracked voice, “No, no, no, no, no. This can’t be.”
As his eyelids tiredly droop, that’s when the panic grips your organs and wrings them out.
You had to stay strong. And you could not panic. Doing so would only stress him further.
But that thought is difficult to keep under the fleeting consciousness of your mate before you, who squeezes his eyes shut before opening them wide in effort to keep awake as you had instructed as he shivers.
You swallow around a brittle, sandy throat, wiping your hands on your bodice before your attention sifts around the room in search of something, anything, to help you. You start with the tray. The bowl of blood-soaked, soiled gauze and wrappings sits on its edge, the rolls of gauze and cotton wool in front of it. Next to them, the rectangular wooden box of turmeric powder remains beside the canister of ginger extract. Around them, the vial of eucalyptus lays on its side where the other glass containers of assorted colors and contents are placed. Three had been unused.
The first was a smaller brown bottle of oil secreted from crushed neem kernels you’d plucked from the seeds yourself. The second was a moderately sized canister of milk-colored paste you’d boiled and ground from coconuts. The last was a large flask of honey.
All would work to stop the bleeding. Five minutes had felt an eternity with his continually shallow breaths in your ear, his heart rate weakening under the lack of blood to push through his body. You hadn’t understood why your vocal cords felt so sore, but when you release him and the mewling coming from your mouth dies out, that answers the question.
You waste no time emptying the bottle of neem oil over each of his wounds as you sniffle, “Keep looking at me, alpha. Don’t go to sleep. I-I need you awake for me.”
Despite the gnawing pain in his temples and the ever increasing temperature that boils the parts of him under the skin of his thorax, he battles the darkness that wants to swallow him as he tries to stay in the light of your eyes that shine glassily down on him while you pour the honey, with unsteady hands, along each striation channeling his chest and arm before adding another lining of gauze over his crimson turned bandages.
“One more, alpha. One more, and then I can make a splint for your arm.” You don’t care anymore about the snot that runs down your nose with the tears trailing it as his skin begins to lose its color.
He nictates through bleary, dimmed orbs, and the sight twists your heartstrings.
You keep your hands busy, because you know the moment you stop is the moment he could slip through your fingers.
You cover both hands in the creamy mixture and with the first pass of your fingers against his sternum, you wrench your hand back in the overwhelming heat that scorches you like a blazing sun.
“You’re burning up, alpha.” The words are choked out. “It’s gotten worse.”
He says nothing. Doing so would cause it to sear him even more.
His pained expression is answer enough. And the discomfort of the sensation it had brought was nothing compared to what you knew he faced. For him, you would cross any sea of fire. For him, you would do this. No matter the cost.
So, you gently trail your fingers around the reddened, plowed planes of his chest to surround all sides of the new contours there in the substance.
You shake the canister over his arm so that thick dollops land over the flesh there so you can spread them around, too.
Once you’re certain no part of him is bereft of your attention, you straighten and scour the room for anything you could use as a splint. There alone atop the cabinet by the door, was a clipboard with paper. No doubt a visitor’s log.
It was the perfect length for his arm.
Before you leave his side, you check his vitals for any unseen changes. Still he attempts to combat the throes of sleep that wish to pull him asunder, but the most serious of his wounds have now been disinfected and dressed.
“Alpha,” you prod, “I’ll be right back, okay? I need to get something to stabilize your arm.”
You wait for him to give a slow incline of his head, the action causing him to wince as explosive pain fires through his temples.
You turn, but the watchful glance you keep on him remains as you make your way across the room. You do not miss the way his fingers along his good arm twitch as if searching for you.
Your fingers close around the edge of the board of wood, your own chest splintering at the sight.
You return to him within seconds, but gods, it had felt like hours.
This time, you walk over to the side of him where his bad arm now rests, one of your hands wrapping around the underside of his arm to coax it only an inch upward. He lets you so you can slip the board underneath it as you observe him for any fluctuations in symptoms. His pupils are stagnant and idle, but they do not stray from you even as his breathing begins to slow and his heart beats become fainter and fainter.
Worry sets in your veins as you take the piece of your skirts that you’d torn earlier and tie it around the board of wood and the bandages you’d put there.
When you press your index and middle finger to the pulsating vein along his neck, it beats feebly.
He needed to replenish the blood he’d lost before it was too late. And you knew, right then, exactly what you needed to do to fix that.
However, no matter how much you flipped through the pages of the books you’d read in your mind, the answer to his inquiries and asymptomatic conditions he’d alerted you to did not match what you knew of blood loss. Whatever he had described was clearly something else. Something that Yoongi must have done since he’d been the only one to successfully injure your mate.
Yoongi, who had bitten him on the arm and his claws on Jungkook’s torso where, surprisingly, Jungkook had explained the worst of his pain to be. Where you yourself had felt it to be in the irate ire of the wounds there so hot to the touch.
It is with that identification that you scrap the books you’d read about common ailments in lieu of one you’d been hunched over for many weeks trying to memorize in its abundance of knowledge. One that had detailed poisons and toxins. There was one that matched what you had seen and heard from him. One that, if introduced into the body, was capable of corrosive necrosis in cells and had sensations and symptoms that matched what he’d described. One that was odorless, colorless, and impossible to cure.
It must have been dappled on Yoongi’s claws. He must have known about the deadly poison carried by a large fungus that even necromancers hesitated to harvest. It was capable of causing the entire bodily organs and tissues to break down and feel as if they were burning in their degradation when the toxins turned the cells against each other.
Jungkook’s eyes close, and horror clods your ribs and bowels of your body.
You had to keep him awake. For fear of losing his life, you had to keep him from sinking into the darkness.
Stay with me, my mate. My alpha. My love. Please, don’t leave me.
The words course like a ravine through the bond, the waters of your affections evident in the tracks they leave down your cheeks as you lift your leg up and over so you can sit astride him, desperation making you move before your mind can. The raindrops of your sadness fall over him like a fall downpour, and soon, his entire chest is wet with the salve of your handmade solutions and sadness.
The longer his eyes stay shut, the closer he dangles to that dangerous idea you’d kept rejecting and denying. That idea became more real by the moment.
You promised me, alpha. You promised me that you wouldn’t leave me! I can’t do this without you!
Distress takes control as the rush of thoughts spill from you and you bring your hand to your teeth that you had subconsciously sharpened in the iron that now falls across your tongue.
I can’t do this without you, alpha. Life without you was life without meaning. Life without you was like having silver thrust on me every day from the moment I woke to the moment I fell asleep: gray, senseless and deadening.
Something warm trickles from the sides of your lips when all of your now edged, serrated upper teeth easily prick and slice through your palm and you suck a mouthful between your lips.
The taughtened muscles around his eyes and mouth slacken, the movement of his irises behind his lids moving this way and that. As if he was still trying to search for you in the darkness. The gentle thud of his heart is all that you hear in your ears anymore. No other sounds matter.
You speak to him through it, hoping with everything in you that doing so will give him something to hold onto.
I love you, alpha. I love you more than anything in this world. So please, come back to me. Come back to me so I can express it to you, show it to you, and make more wonderful, beautiful, colorful memories with you.
You take his chin between the fingers of your other hand, lifting it before using your thumb to part his lips.
With the hand you’d just bitten, you hold it over his mouth only to turn your palm to the side before curling your digits in, your nails sinking into the fragile flesh to cut into it so that more streaks of crimson dribble down, the dark drops of your blood falling between his lips.
Adam's apple bobs as he tries to swallow it, but it’s not enough.
As you watch your blood spread across his tongue, you can’t help but notice how his skin has gone whiter than sleet, his usual golden glow drained with his life’s essence as he continues to shudder beneath you.
The faint presence of him dwindles in the bond like candlelight that the cold darkness schemes to snuff out, but still he is kindled in yours as you lean forward, your mouth seeking him.
Take my blood, alpha. Drink and replenish what you have lost. It is the only way.
The last sound of you is tucked in his mind just as your mouth slots itself over his, the mouthful of your blood that you had drawn forth from your hand soon emptied into his as he swallows it weakly. You mindfully set your bleeding hand between the middle of his sternum, the thick redness sobbing for him, too, as it spreads down his torso and seeps into the coverings draped across his chest.
With the first swill of you down his throat, the throbbing in his temples begins to dull and the air around him starts to warm.
It’s as if your blood had passed life into him, for his tongue eventually sweeps at the excesses of your mouth for the remnants that percolate from the small scrapes your teeth had left in your cheeks. You let him lick it, and with each pass of his tongue over each one, the muscle beating under your hand on his chest beats steadier. Stronger. Louder.
He required more. Way more after all that he had lost. And you? You intended to give it to him.
When he’s lapped all of your quintessence up, you pull away only to bring the hand you’d bitten to his lips in offering.
With his eyes still closed, he can’t see it, but he can smell it.
The tang of iron is powerful enough to summon his mouth to it, his baser being taking over as he closes his mouth around your open palm.
His teeth pierce through you easily and when your blood bursts forth from the punctures and he sups it without hesitation.
The violent, searing pain stemming from the claw marks along his torso where your blood had permeated through his bandages starts to lessen amid the ache that is dispelled in his skull. The quavering of his body soon ceases in the absence of the chill he’d felt before.
He wraps his lips tighter around you, and when he extracts your essence this time, it is with more urgency.
You run your other hand through his dark, ebony hair, the color slowly returning to his cheeks as he drinks from you.
“Take as much as you need, my love. You will require quite a few mouthfuls to, ah-“
You pause when he detaches from your hand, licking at the stray droplets of your blood before gripping your forearm to bring your wrist to his nose so he can inhale and run his lips longingly along it. His head falls back as he does, the pink muscle slipping between his lips to taste the remnants of you there, too.
“Want to…bite you…right here. Can I?” He asks hoarsely yet huskily.
You’re already answering before he’s even finished. “I’m all yours, alpha.”
The implications of this are not lost on you. By puncturing your scent glands where they produce the oils and scent of you the most–seconded only by your neck–his bite will forever leave his trace where he’d enter you. No other wolf would be able to take in your succulent smell without his lingering odor behind it.
From where you are seated on his lap, you swear you see his eyes roll back behind his lids.
When his canines elongate such that they protrude from his upper lip and he penetrates your flesh along the middle of your wrist, your blood eagerly teems into his mouth. Just like the first time he’d bitten you, there is no pain in the sharpness of those teeth. What was urgency before becomes hunger now as he feeds on you, his cheeks hollowing as he quaffs the life-giving nectar you have produced just for him.
You shudder as he draws deep, gulping mouthful after mouthful and all the worry you’d had before is sapped away as he does.
Your flavor is so fucking saccharine on his tongue, and each time your essence washes down his throat, his body surges with vitality and energy.
He can’t get enough of it. It’s too good. You’re too good.
More he takes and more he swallows like a crazed male, and you allow it as your own lids lower while you ogle him as the released endorphins stored in the glands along your wrist flood you in pleasure as you mindlessly–instinctively– rut your hips into his.
“Do I taste good, alpha?” You moan softly, your body growing limp as the fingers you’d twisted and twined around his locks loosen.
You taste sweeter than sweet.
His good arm shoots out so his fingers can splay around your hip to steady you as he indulges in the pulses and pangs of strength that return to him with each consuming swig of your lifeblood, your hips helped back and forth by the hand he has on one of them as your moans turn to whimpers.
You taste something like pineapple, grapes, strawberries, and everything good in this world.
When his eyes open, he looks at you like you’re a fucking goddess. Like you’re some kind of deity, and he is some servant beneath you.
He revels in the revelation that graces him as he takes in the sight of you atop him.
Your crimson-stained lips have slightly fallen ajar to reveal still jagged, pointed canines, remnants of red still flecking the sides of your mouth. Your silver irises have been glazed by desire, the daubing of crimson along your lids creating a deprived picture.
The dried, dark paint of his own blood that he’d smeared all over you was still there, but the new addition of his scarlet handprint between your breasts and streaks the same color all along your skirt and bodice are all the more depicting of a debased creature.
You straddle him, your gown ripped unevenly along one of your legs to reveal one bare calf and thigh.
How he had fucking ruined you.
His once pure, innocent goddess that must have been a fallen, divine being sent to him to save him.
“J-Jungkook,” you whine when your vision begins to darken at the edges as his teeth bury themselves deeper into your flesh so he can cravingly command more of you down, “I…I-“
The strong hand on waist pulls you down over his hardening member, your breath hitching when you remember he’s entirely naked beneath you.
“Even goddesses have their limit. I can see it,” he groans around your wrist as he savors the way you sag forward, your thighs loosening from where you’d been squeezing him between them. “I can feel it.”
He takes one more mouthful of your rich, piquant ichor, your front slumping forward until your head rests in the crook of his neck.
With your jugular vein so close to his ears, the rhythm set by the tune of your heart beats far too slow. The sound snaps him out of his craze instantly as the hand on your waist clutches you tighter as if you might slip away if he doesn’t hold you close enough.
“Goddess? Do you mean…me?” You drawl out the words through the tingling sensation in your head.
Despite the loss of your blood, affection courses through you when he attentively dislodges his teeth from you and makes sure to catch the bright red drops that run forth from the two new dark blots along the underside of your smaller wrist. As he does, he affirms, “You saved me.”
The hand at your waist gives you another comforting squeeze before it journeys up along your side, your shoulder, and then down your arm until his digits close around your wrist so he can rub soothing circles into it. “I was so lost in the darkness, omega, but your voice…I followed it back to you.”
“Me?” It’s all you can say. The rush of endorphins fades with the extraction of his teeth, and your hips slow to still as his words sober you.
One side of his lips turn up at that. “Yes, my love. You.” He coaxes your wrist upwards so he can kiss you where his teeth and yours had been. “You, the light of my life. The reason for my being, The purpose of my existence.” His head falls to the side as he shepherds your hand toward the palpitating muscle along his chest. “I once thought of you as my queen, but I see now that you’re so much more than that.” He places your hand right above his heart, and you’re so mesmerized by those beaming irises of gold that you don’t even realize what he’s done when those warm, calloused fingers brush along the side of your cheek until they rest in your hair and his palm holds the edge of your jaw to coax it upward as he brings his mouth near to yours. “Your voice is a song that even the muses envy. Your body is the drink of the gods that even they would fight wars for. Your mind and soul are so perfect and good that even demons would wish they could bottle them.”
His eyes twinkle with sincerity as he goes on, both fondness and affection for him taking turns to cleanse you of the desire you’d felt before so that something much deeper can fill your entire being.
“Shhh, alpha… you need to rest now. This can all wait until later.” Your words are throaty and full, for your heart has somehow found its way there, too. “You lost a lot of blood and-“
He seals your mouth with his, and like wax under a newborn wick, you melt into it. He’s warm and gentle in the warmness that he emanates that no candle ever could. The quiet intimacy of it has your lids falling to a close, the air around you making way for you both as you share each other’s breath.
There was nothing quite like this. Nothing like the way that your fingers sought any part of him that they could as they both encircled his uninjured wrist, unwilling to let him go. Nothing like the way your body was perfectly molded against his, the kiss akin to a butterfly’s wing in its softness that could take your breath away. It was the water that quenched after a drought. It was the furs that gave such comfort on a winter’s night. It was the rain and a flame all at once.
And gods, he couldn’t bear even a second’s separation from her. Truly, he’d never been so blessed with the gift of life until now. Until you. Hell would surely have frozen over before he would relinquish this: your mesmerizing, mellow eyes; your pliant, pretty lips; your stuttered, stammered breaths whenever he looked at you; your smaller, tinier hands that loosed and tightened around his wrist as he held you.
But his damned lungs just had to get some air, and so he had been forced into breaking the kiss.
When his mouth parts from yours, he breathes heavily. “I do not need rest when I have you. Imaginings and visions leave little to be desired when their source is on top of me like this. And,” the other side of his lips lift up and you’re sure that thudding in your ears gets louder as he does, “It would be rather impolite not to pay my respects to you, my divine little deity. You were–are–magnificent.”
You try to hide your face in his neck, your cheeks heating up at his praise. He won’t have any of that, and so he urges it back up.
Looking into those eyes is like looking into two orbs spun by the sun. That warmth that emanates over your skin like warm rays makes everything else lackluster, and even his voice carries that vivid color of emotion as he voices, “Do not hide from the truth, my love.”
You make a sound of questioning, not understanding what he’s just said. It’s as if there’s a fuzzy blanket around your body and mind, your disoriented thoughts too sluggish to formulate for you to say much more.
He chuckles lightly, his chest moving up and down gentle enough to not jostle you.
“You do not know it, but I shall help you see.” He offers, nosing at your jawline as he does. “Allow me to show you what you did to me, my love. I think you’ll find the evidence of your miracles when you do.”
He releases you, a quiet whine leaving your lips at the absence of his touch. Soft lips are there to soothe you when his mouth brushes where his hand had been at the edge of your jaw. There he presses his lips as he tells you, “Look down, my love.”
You’d been expecting to see more blood spilling from the open wounds arcing down both sides of his chest, his bandages completely soaked through with his life’s essence.
You did not expect to see one of the lines of gauze you’d laid down over the lacerations lifted in the air by your alpha to reveal a deep gash completely closed, the angry red slash now only a faint line of pink.
As if it were nothing but an old war scar.
At first, you think you might be seeing things.
You blink owlishly at him, and he grins only to pull back another strip of fabric that you’d used to pack another wound.
It, too, is only a faded, paled remnant of what it had been minutes ago.
Your fingers lethargically draw down his torso where the flesh that had been raised and furious is now smooth and normal.
There is no pain that festers there with the poison that had been set upon him by Yoongi’s claw. Its dissipation had had nothing to do with your medicines. He knows that now. It had been you.
Your lids have begun to grow heavy as sleep begins to beckon, and all you can do through the drowsiness that has set as you rest one of your temples against his shoulder so you can still stare at him as you manage the only word you can summon in your dumbfounded state. “How?”
“My mother used to tell me stories about our ancestors. It was said that the first rulers of our kind, who were chosen by the gods, were given abilities no others possessed.” Your mate tosses the soiled dressings into the bowl before he reaches for his splinted arm wrapped in bandages. “Abilities that made the rest of our kind lower their heads in awe.” He unties the knot you’d made out of the ripped fragment of your gown you’d affixed the wooden board to, and while he does, he tells you, “She told me that the king and queen of our kind were fated by their souls. That the first omega’s songs of mourning had so moved the gods when he’d been killed trying to protect her that they gave her the power to heal him through her kiss.”
Slumber drags you away from him, his voice fading the more it tugs and tugs you as he goes on. “So powerful was she that the other wolves revered her as a goddess in her capacity to mend and restore not only the physical body, but the soul and mind as well. And her king? He was vested by the gods who took pity on him with strength, speed, size, and stamina that no other could match.”
Distantly, you think you see a glimpse of the linens you’d put around his arm being peeled back to uncover what you had thought had been a mangled mess of bone and flesh. But no longer. Now, just like his chest, there are only small grazes and punctures that have since been pulled together with slightly darker cicatrix marring him.
When your lids fall closed and sleep takes you from him, he uses that arm to secure you close as he attentively watches over you. In your ear, he confides, “Rest up now, beautiful deity. You shall need it for what is to come, my love.”
#jungkook x reader#jungkook#jeon jungkook#bts writing#bts x reader#jungkook fanfic#bts scenarios#bts#jungkook bts#bts smut#jungkook smut#jungkook x you#jungkook x y/n#alpha!jungkook#alpha!jungkook x reader#dom!jungkook#sub!reader
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Alrighty, here we are again
previously, in harrowcita the ninth:
this happened
currently, after ch. 2 (once again, I wanted to read more but realized these notes were too long):
first off, I need to point out something very important
reading the first part of gideon, this was how the dynamic of her and harrow felt like, from gideon's pv in the first chapter or two
this is what it actually was like, now that I have harrow's pv
so, now that we've cleared that up, let me tell you about the emperor
I don't know about this guy
something's not adding up for me
I feel like he's either lying, telling half-truths that benefit him or he doesn't know what he's doing
and none of those options are very god-tier
he's also constantly going like "harrow, I'm gonna let you choose" and five minutes later he's "oh, actually, you never had a choice to begin with, I'm so sorry about that"
I don't think you're sorry if you've done it like 3 times since we've met you
maybe say what you actually mean, unless you're full of lies
he takes harrow on a walk through the clown death star ship he's got going on
and takes her to his coffin hangar
shows her coffins of the people he made to send to the ninth
the new ninth people
aiglamene is gonna have to work overtime
(I can't believe I've never forgotten her name)
and then there's coffins for all the little friends we made in canaan house
:) ♥
except there are a bunch missing people
let me just note the info we got
the second says "no human remains inside"
last we saw them, martita was KO and judith was bleeding to death
nobody from the third as well, and we already have suspicions about wtf is happening with these parsley and cilantro twins
from the sixth, one is empty because CAMILLA ISN'T DEAD GODDAMMIT
the other one has little pieces of palmolive in it
me picking up the pieces of palmolive from the decor of canaan house
there is one coffin for not!dulcinea
the emperor guy says he's taking her with the other lyctors
as long as he flushes afterwards, it's fine
we are, by the way, trying very hard to not mention gideon ever, apparently
just wanna point out real quick that THERE'S A LOT OF PEOPLE UNACCOUNTED FOR and this guy is GOD so he's doing a terrible job
or he's not saying all he knows
or both
all this time, ice cube barbie is tagging along
ice cube barbie is harrow's babadook, which I stan tbh
since she's here to stay, let me show you another pic of that doll because it's my favorite from the haunted beauty collection
so, the emperor starts telling harrow what they're fighting against (or escaping from) and where they came from
this man explains what he wants and leaves out what he wants
at one point, when harrow asks something like "how will you explain all the dead people?" he goes like
he asks harrow about death and the process of it and she says, at one point:
"In cases of apopneumatic shock, where death is sudden and violent, the energy burst can be sufficient to countermand osmotic pressure and leave the soul temporarily isolated. Whence we gain the ghost, and the revenant."
this is important for the later conversation about revenant beasts, which are the things that the emperor is having trouble with
but I highlighted it because I am adding it to my notes of "reasons why gideon could be not dead forever"
I am holding on to all the hope I can get
because if sudden violent death can leave the soul temporarily isolated and not do the due process of transitioning to the river or whatnot
and gideon isn't within harrow or whatever
maybe
maybe she's somewhere else
I don't know, let me have this, don't tell me anything, just
LET ME HAVE THIS
so yeah, basically the story is that the emperor is running away from nine revenant beasts, which were created during the resurrection, when a planet was blasted off
nine beasts like nine houses
there's three left now
I don't know about all of this, you guys
I don't have enough context and I don't trust this guy here
how do I know where we stand in all this?
what if he's not the good guy and what he did was some planetary bullshit to begin with?
what if the other side is the good guys?
what if he's killed by one of our heroes? like harrow or gideon or camilla?
because he's actually a false god jerk?
what if I kill him????
and then we have two last important things
first, barbie ice cube speaks now
love that for her
then, very crucial
the non-gideon mentioning seems to be a Thing
I don't know if I'm understanding correctly but
the emperor mentions ortus
ortus, the one we knew, our old pal from the ninth
and I got the feeling, idk if I got it, that he just assumed ortus was the cavalier she had with her
because 1) he didn't go down there and 2) no body was recovered
and then harrow also mentions ortus, but she says he "died thinking it was the only gift he was capable of giving" and that she "wasted it" and idk if she did that because she's blocking sad memories, she's confused because she's Not Doing Great Mentally Right Now, she doesn't wanna tell the emperor what actually happened, or all three
there's stuff about ortus I don't know, but that sounds to me more like what gideon said than what ortus "Got Blown To Bits With Mom In Ship" did
and then the emperor says his name again with suspicion and I'm like
I think this clown doesn't know
I think he doesn't know about gideon
I think he doesn't know about gideon or who gideon actually is
which we don't know yet either but it's probably important
because she's hercules, as previously established
I think maybe gideon is an outlier
an important planetary outlier
I have hopes
also, another day without camilla
god (not this one) I hope I can make shorter recaps but there's so much happening, I'm so sorry
#luly reacts to tlt#harrow the ninth#harrow the ninth spoilers#tlt spoilers#long post#the locked tomb
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i loved the present and i love you ;; matt murdock x fem!reader
pairing: matt murdock x afab!reader
summary: your birthday isn't your favorite holiday. damn, you don't even celebrate it properly and you weren't precisely looking forward to it. however, this year you have Matt and he won't let it go unnoticed. at least you will notice.
disclaimer: this is a os from a fanfiction with multiple chapters. there's no need to read the entire fic (i wouldn't complain if you do;)), but there's a couple things you should know (no spoilers / minor spoilers):
▪︎ matt and reader met in columbia, this is a (past) academic rivals to lovers fic.
▪︎ reader is peter parker's adopted sister
▪︎ reader doesn't know about matt being daredevil (yet)
warnings/tags: shameless smut (minors dni), oral sex (r receiving), fingering, praise kink, established relationship, mention of past injuries, sad origin story (r), mention of ben parker's death, hating birthdays, but not so much anymore
word count: 2.5K
from: your forever is all that i need on ao3 - discontinued
✰ mila's paracosm (main masterlist)
The last time you happily celebrated your birthday was before your and Peter's parents died.
Your first birthday after that was spent crying in your bedroom while May and Ben tried to make you leave your room. They tried so hard, and you knew it, but there was no ounce of strength in you that could help you cross that door.
Eventually, everyone stopped trying.
You felt guilty. Ungrateful. Like the worst human on Earth. But birthdays celebrate life and you felt like you didn't have a pinch of it inside you.
However, you let Ben talk to you in this fatherly way you had missed. You would know about it because you'd had two fathers by then, and even though Ben never had children of his own, you felt like you had had three.
Ben said it was okay if you didn't want to celebrate your birthday. He said it was okay to mourn however wanted. He said it was okay to miss everyone you had lost. And he meant it, you knew.
So, for years, you and May used to bake birthday cake from the box, Ben and Peter would buy balloons and candies and it was just the four of you. That, until Ben passed away.
That's when you stopped celebrating your birthday for good, and every person who got into your life and stuck long enough to get to your birthday knew you didn't like it.
You got birthday gifts, though, and didn't really hate the thought of someone caring about you enough that would get you a present.
Still, here we are.
"Is it Y/N's birthday today?"
Peter looked at Matt. "What? Nope."
"When is it, then?" Matt frowned, catching Peter's heart jumping suddenly.
"When our parents adopted her it didn't say." he lied, expecting Matt to let it go. "Why the question?"
"I overheard her talking on the phone with someone. Said someone sent her a basket full of all her favorite candies, a gorgeous necklace, and wished her a happy birthday. She said thank you." Matt explained. "I was thinking about it and realized that we never threw her a birthday party at college, and she was great friends with the guy that hosted the best parties."
Peter shook his head. "Fine. It is her birthday, but don't talk about it. Pretend today is any normal day and we'll all be just fine."
"Why? I would really like to take her out for dinner and get her something nice." he questioned. Peter sighed.
"She was big on birthdays when she was little, but after everything that happened, she started hating them. The last of her birthdays we celebrated was before Uncle Ben died." Peter replied. "May and I always give her cute presents, she says thank you and the day goes on as if nothing had happened."
"So now I will just know it's her birthday and do nothing about it?"
"Exactly." Peter nodded. "It's for the best if you don't wanna upset her."
"But someone already gave her something and she didn't seem that mad."
"It was probably Louis or Donna. At the office, the inner circle knows. The first time they threw her a big party and she got sick right there. Y/N then told them the truth. From that moment on, they send her a gift saying nothing else, she calls them to thank them, and if she brings it up or it feels fine, they wish her a happy birthday," he told Matt. "There's only one other person who knows about it, but nothing to worry about."
Matt clicked his tongue. "It was another person."
"Please, don't do anything. She probably doesn't want to deal with that today." Peter pleaded after a long silence.
"It's fine, I won't." Matt agreed. "Are the two of you doing something today for her?"
"Nope," Peter replied. "I'm going to put on the suit and May has reading club at Mrs. Irwin's place."
"She is going to be home alone on her birthday?"
"Not really, she'll eat a bunch of candies and watch rom-coms." Peter sighed. "That's how she likes to spend her birthdays, there's really nothing wrong about it. Don't feel like you have to do something."
"Hi, sweetheart."
"Hey, there." You smiled, not that Matt could find out from the other line or anything. "How are you?"
"I'm great now that I hear your voice," Matt replied. "Miss you. You should come over."
You hummed. "We had lunch together."
"Still miss you."
"Now?" you questioned, feeling lazy because you were watching 13 going on 30 and eating chocolates and were comfortable in Matt's t-shirt you stole and pajama shorts.
"Nope, is it fine in 5 minutes?"
"How about if you come? You can join me in bed and we can cuddle, but no sex because I showered early and I don't wanna shower again."
Matt chuckled. "I don't mind if you haven't showered."
"I love it that you miss me and everything, but is something else happening?" you asked, having your own theory in mind but not wanting to test your luck. "Like, what's the occasion?"
"Well, you came over two days ago unannounced with no occasion… I thought that missing you would be enough."
"I had an occasion, I wanted sex."
"You don't want sex now?"
"I won't complain at all, but I don't wanna leave home."
Matt laughed. "But we'd have privacy here."
"Peter is staying over at Ned's and May is out on a date with someone she hasn't told me and Peter about. Don't tell Peter, though. He thinks she's at her reading club at our neighbor's."
"Okay… See you in an hour."
"See you."
"Why won't May tell you and Peter about her date?"
You snorted. "Because we were teasing her too much about it the last time. In our defense, it was Happy."
"What was happy?"
"Happy is a human male. He works for Stark. He's his driver but they're like best friends of some sort."
"His name is Happy?"
"I don't know, that's what we call him."
"And why would you annoy May because of Happy?"
"It was so weird, I'm telling you." You widened your eyes. "They're like oil and water… But he's nice."
Matt laughed. "If you say so."
You snuggled onto him and smiled. "Thanks for coming."
"You don't have anything to thank me for."
Nowadays, seeing Matt in anything other than his work suits was rare to say the least, so having him by your side in just a t-shirt and sweats as if he was going to work out was a miracle.
Your fingers started softly tracing the silhouette of his body, the tip of your fingers wandering delicately, causing goosebumps on his skin. You chuckled. "You like that?"
"What?" he asked, playing pretend. "Don't know what you mean."
You scoffed as your fingers went to his face. "You don't know? Let's see."
Then you went to his torso, going lower until you reached the hem of his t-shirt. You lifted it slightly, making him lightly whimper.
"Oh…" you muttered as your index finger ran into a prominent scar. Its length was about three quarters the one of your finger and its relief was higher than any scar you had seen before. "Is this…?"
Matt flinched as he noticed the direction you were going. "It's- uhm… really old."
Thanks to the darkness of your room and the only lightning that allowed you to barely see were the moon and the streetlights, you didn't notice that the scar was still pinkish and that he was lying. "How did you get it?"
"I was…" Matt sighed. A made up story he had built in case anyone ever saw the scars and he couldn't explain the truth to them came to his mind. He knew you deserved better than that. "lightly stabbed."
You gasped. "What?"
"Yeah, I… was trying to be the hero and got stabbed. You wouldn't want to see the other guy, though." he replied, making you laugh because you were convinced he was joking. "I didn't either but from what I heard it wasn't that cool for him."
"I wanna keep that version in my mind, so I'm allowing it."
Matt smiled and gave you a kiss. His hands touched the bare skin of your arms in a seductive kinda way. "How about we leave this one on and make this night a good one for my pretty girl, huh?"
Now you have goosebumps.
He lifted your t-shirt, drawing tender circles on your skin and delighting himself with how perfect it felt. His fingers met with your bralette, the lace fabric making him think that maybe you weren't really discarding the possibility of sex. He was completely right, and he would not fuck that up because now he had you right there for him. And he wanted you.
As a result of this growing desire, Matt slipped into the bra, stumbling with your sideboob and tracing its outline until he reached the valley between your breasts. Then, he went to your hardening nipple and circled it.
You gasped almost mutely. "I haven't showered since early in the morning, so maybe you should stop doing this to me? You know, because it-"
Matt shook his head, kissing your temple. "I don't care, sweetheart… If you don't want to, I'll stop, but don't think for a moment that I could-"
"Find me dirty? Because I am."
"You smell like you. This perfume of yours I love, although fading a little… You washed your hair this morning, so you smell like the same shampoo you've used since college. Your fingers smell like chocolate and your lips taste like chocolate and I'm certain you've eaten more in the past hour than what a human being should ingest in a week. Always the biggest sweet tooth I know. I'm not gonna lie, you've sweat today, as have I. As has everyone else on Earth. I don't care. You're perfect."
That motherfucker is going to be the death of you… Fucking man, how much you love him.
And that argument of his? Feeling that cherished, plus his caresses, plus his subtle kisses on your cheek and neck, plus everything that he makes you feel? It was a major turn on.
"Oh, there it is…" he noted in a loud moan. Matt's hand left your breasts and went south, feeling the matching lace fabric interrupt his path to your sex. "You smell so good, and you taste even better… Can- can I? Can I, sweetheart?"
You nodded impatiently, and he was even less.
As soon as he felt the motion beside him, the air shifting, he went full in.
You flinched at the sudden contact with his cold fingers, and he groaned at the sensation of your arousal meeting his eager digits… The mere reminder of how long your scent lasts on him was enough to make him hard.
Matt used his other hand to manhandle you until your back was against his front.
His fingers worked you up until you were wet enough for his finger to slide into you with such ease. "You're perfect," he muttered, his fingers following a steady rhythm of ins and outs you eagerly matched as his hips grinded urgently against your ass. "My perfect girl…, you feel so good."
"So do you," you said, your arms holding onto his strong biceps. "God, yes… Just like that, yes…"
Matt's middle finger left you empty, but then did his comeback along with his ring finger as the palm of his hand gave you that intermittent friction your clit begged for.
With endless moans escaping from your parted lips and the most desperate breathing leaving your exploited lungs indicating Matt you needed a release, as the loyal devotee of you that Matt is, he obeyed your body's wishes as if it was a command. For him it was.
And he never stopped grinding, and he came.
And you followed.
As soon as he made sure you were done, his hand abandoned your aching core and went right to his mouth, where he licked it clean.
"So good…" he whispered in bliss. Then, Matt undressed you. You let him. "My pretty girl's taste is perfect."
His mouth didn't waste any time and searched your cunt. Matt drank every residue of your arousal on its surroundings and then buried his tongue inside you.
His tongue went up and down your slit trying to collect every drop he could get, and then he swirled it on your sensitive, needy clit with the purpose of creating more and more. He was eating you out faster than you could register and it felt so goddamn good.
As if he was just told that this would be his last meal in a long time and he is only trying to eat as much as he can so the fullness lasts longer.
Your fingers tangled in his hair as you pulled him closer. "It- it feels so good."
"Does it?" Matt moaned into you. "I'm glad… You taste way better."
A desperate gasp escaped from your lips as your orgasm felt closer and closer. "Please, don't stop."
You could swear you felt his smile down there. "I won't…"
So he didn't. His tongue only focused more on what he had learned you liked.
Your thighs held him in place and he felt lightheaded, but didn't care. Matt's hands gripped your hips and held on for dear life so you wouldn't move too far from his sinfully skilled mouth.
With distressed moans and more urgent movements and a coat of sweat and curled toes and arched back and his name on your lips like a spell, you announced how close you were.
And then that filthy explosion of sensations took over you ever so harshly that it took you a while to stop the loud whines that made sure to let many of your neighbors know that the man that entered your home a few hours ago gave you quite the session.
Everyone knows that his name is Matt and that he made you feel so good.
Neither one of you was ashamed of it, especially not Matt. He would gladly do it all night long so no one forgets who you belong to and who satisfies you that well.
He kissed you and as many times before, you tasted yourself in him.
"I gotta tell you something about today."
Matt nodded. "Peter told me."
"You aren't mad because I didn't tell you?"
"Do you think I would've done that if I were mad?" he questioned, and he could feel your incredulous glance. "Yeah, I have… Forget about that one," Matt smiled. "I'm not mad, I don't have any right to be… Peter explained everything and I understand that. Maybe someday you'll want to celebrate it and I'll be right here, alright? Meanwhile I can give you a gift like this one every year."
You snorted. "You'll just use any excuse to do that at this point."
"Oh, if it isn't the pot calling the kettle black." he mused. "Happy birthday, sweetheart. Love you."
"Thanks. I loved the present and I love you."
#matt murdock#daredevil#matt murdock x reader#daredevil x reader#matt murdock fanfic#matt murdock imagine#matt murdock x fem!reader#charlie cox#matt murdock smut
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Klaroline Fanfiction Masterlist
It's been a minute since I last updated my masterlist so I decided to go ahead and start a new one.
Yokan //
▪ Multi-chapters
. The Wolf Series [I, II, III and Outtakes - Incomplete]
When Caroline wakes up shackled, powerless and very far away from Mystic Falls, she knows she's in serious trouble. But when a woman named Sophie Deveraux reveals the reason why she's been kidnapped and taken to New Orleans, she realizes things are far worse than she could've ever imagined.
[The Originals rewriting where Caroline is a witch and gets pregnant with Klaus' child. Seasons 1, 2 and 3 complete, season 4 coming.]
. Vice and Virtue [6/6 - Complete]
As the second son of a Duke, Klaus Mikaelson has the means and all the time in the world to indulge in every manner of wild activity with very little respect for the regiment of polite society. That is until his brother decides he's had enough of his vulgar ways and gives him an ultimatum. Caroline Forbes is a young debutante in search of true love and adventure. Except her aunt wishes for her to marry a somber Viscount who's already buried three wives. When their paths cross, they realize they might yet strike a deal that could satisfy their relatives and benefit them both.
[AH Regency!AU inspired by Bridgerton and a dozen other period novels I have been reading lately.]
. Pedulum [2/2 - Complete]
This is what Klaus Mikaelson knows: death isn't the end for him. From the moment he is brought into the world to his final shuddering breath, Klaus' life is pretty much the same as everyone else's. The difference lies in what happens after he dies: he goes right back to the beginning, a child in London with the memory of dozens of lives lived before. Nothing ever really changes, including the fact that no matter how hard he tries, he can never save Caroline Forbes' life for too long.
[AH/soulmates!AU with a slight magical twist. Technically a one-shot, chapter 2 is just an alternate ending.]
. We'll Always Have New Orleans [3/15 - Incomplete]
Caroline wakes up in a world where everything looks exactly the same, only nothing really is. For starters, she's no longer a vampire, and no one else in Mystic Falls has ever heard of witches, vampires or werewolves - no one except for Klaus, who woke up just as human and twice as angry about it. Their search for answers and a way out takes them all the way to New Orleans, and Caroline could never anticipate how much this crazy fake world was about to alter her reality forever.
[Canon-divergence!AU. Set right after TVD 4x18.]
. Speed Dating [3/4 - Incomplete]
Klaus is having a bad month, so Caroline decides it's a great idea to drag him along to a round of Speed Dating. Other men in the room do not approve.
AH/AU fluff that was inspired by an episode of House (yes, it is fluff, I promise).
. Gasoline [2/2 - Complete]
"He doesn't apologize, of course he doesn't. He doesn't care. He calls everyone love. It's not meant to mean anything. Except it did, once, and it makes Caroline's stomach churn away inside, as she feels Klaus crawling underneath her skin like he never left at all. I've still got you."
AH/Band!AU. Two years after Klaus walked out on his band - on her -, Caroline finds herself in her least favorite place on earth - New Orleans. She really did try to stay away from him, escaping an event just to keep off his radar. He finds her anyway.
. Like It's Christmas Again [2/2 - Complete]
As Christmas approaches, Caroline Forbes, a New York-based event planner, is sent to a quaint small town in Virginia to organize their holiday festival. But her plans are momentarily hindered by the presence of Klaus Mikaelson, the Mayor's brother and a grumpy billionaire lacking in any holiday spirit, who's in town to close the sale of his family's manor - the charming estate she was hoping to use as a venue.
[AKA that time when I committed Christmas fic. AU/AH inspired by a Hallmark movie, I kid you not.]
. Spin [5/5 - Complete]
Since she was seven years old, Caroline Forbes has been preparing herself to become President of the United States. But before she gets to the Oval Office, she needs to win the election for senior student president at the prestigious Saint Sebastian High - which would be in the bag if only goddamn Klaus Mikaelson hadn't decided to run against her.
[AH/AU lovers-to rivals-to-lovers The Politician!AU where everyone takes school elections way more seriously than they should.]
. How Far I'd Go [2/2 - Complete for now]
Set in TVD S6/TO S2. Unable to control Caroline after she turns her humanity off, Stefan reaches out to the only person he can think of for help.
[Slices of moments of Klaus in Mystic Falls while Caroline has her humanity off.]
�� One-shots
. The Sound of Settling
Klaus hates his job at Mikaelson & Sons. He hates wearing a suit. He also hates his brothers constantly butting into his life. Everything will be better once he gets his much desired transfer to the New York branch. Caroline Forbes is the owner of Mystic Café, and when Klaus accidentally wanders into her coffee shop, his whole perspective changes.
[AH/Coffee Shop!AU where Klaus is a lawyer. Fluffity Fluff. Lots of Mikaelsons and some Carenzo friendship.]
. The Witch Queen
Caroline always knew she was different. She was keyed into her own otherness very early on. Strange things happened around the Forbes women. Her mother never really had to spell it out to her, give it a name. Caroline could always sort of feel it, and then at some point the feeling blossomed into comprehension, and comprehension hardened into fact. And with that came an altogether different kind of certainty: this was not a secret she'd be able to keep forever. One day, no matter how hard she tried to hide it, everyone would find out. And when they did, they would come for her.
. Worst Things Have Happened
Klaus Mikaelson is a prince with a very dark secret that threatens to destroy his family's legacy. Caroline Forbes is a sorceress whose job is to make sure his secret remains buried. But would it hurt him to put some clothes on?
[Royal!AU, with a magical twist.]
. The Unexpected Grace of Falling Apart
The whole incident was bound to go down as a funny anecdote to be shared among friends, a Oh, you think you've had the worst hook-up ever? Hold my beer kind of story. Provided, of course, that she never had to see him ever and could just wipe him out of her life and memory for good. Given that they live in different time zones, it shouldn't be too much of a hassle.
That is precisely why Caroline is livid when she emerges from the arrivals area at Richmond airport to find Douchebag, in the flesh - sunglasses indoors and all, like the proper jerk that he is - holding up a sign that readsClarisse.
[AH/AU. It's Tyler's wedding weekend and Caroline is back in Mystic Falls for the first time after the most traumatic and depressing year of her life. And it's about to get even worse as she's made to share breathing space with Klaus, The Worst Guy Ever. Except they might have to join forces to save the wedding, and to the discovery that things might not be what the seem. As Caroline teeters on the edge of a breakdown she'd been trying very hard to conceal, an unexpected savior appears to help her through the haze.]
. love, the monster's got me now
[Canon compliant. Set in TVD S03E09 Homecoming.]
"Don't run," he says calmly, sounding almost bored, but with a clear warning. "I'm in the mood for a chase. Little spoiler: you can't outrun me." His eyebrows twitch up when he finally turns around to face her, lips curling into an amused grin. "Tyler's girl," he states, gesturing towards the now empty yard. "You missed out on the celebrations, I’m afraid."
[Or: the missing Klaroline scene between "There's your pretty little girlfriend, Caroline" and "There's a whole world out there waiting for you." Klaus and Caroline meet after Homecoming.]
. When It's Gone
Suddenly, Caroline hates how nice the bed feels. How soft the pillows are. How smooth and cool and expensive those goddamn sheets are against her skin. She hates the giddiness in her belly, like she's a stupid schoolgirl when she's not allowed to be one anymore. She hates how right the space between Klaus' arms felt, how easily she molded against him. His lips were as full and as soft as they looked, but his hands were gentler and more reverent than they had any right to be, and Caroline hates it. Hates it, hates it, hates it. She hates that it suits her, hates that she wants it, hates that none of it is hers to keep.
[Set after TVD S04E19 Pictures of You. Caroline hears about Klaus' impending departure after a mysterious letter and decides to have some words.]
. Wishing Each Sigh Might Be the Last
The first time she sees him, Caroline thinks he's an angel.
[Set in 1800s New Orleans. As Caroline lies dying, she prays for God to send help or end her torment and save her soul. She thinks an angel has come for her. But he's no angel at all.]
. Feel the Madness Closing In
Set in TO S3. Caroline is in New Orleans when Lucien and the Ancestors make a move against the Mikaelson family - and they know exactly who to target in order to get to Klaus. Paranoia sets in, sending him to a very dark place, and Caroline finally learns the price of being loved so profoundly by a monster.
. Issues
When Klaus' Hollywood career takes a down turn after a nasty divorce and a viral mug shot, his manager decides his life is not yet miserable enough, bringing in a PR company famous for its high-profile damage control cases.
[AH!AU where Klaus is a problematic movie star and Caroline is a PR agent with no time for his BS.]
. Urban Legend
"I hate myself for saying this, but I have to agree with Little Miss Sunshine," Caroline cuts in. "This is Whitmore. Nothing ever happens here. Least of all a possession that leads to a massacre of slasher movie proportions."
"Thank you, love," Klaus returns brightly. "Very flattering to be validated by you."
"Bite me, Klaus."
"Find me later, after my shift, and we can see to it," comes the shameless rejoinder.
[Or: Caroline tries to navigate life in college having the worst roommate ever, a douchebag who cannot take a hint and a nosy journalist whom she's definitely not attracted to. Never in a million years.]
#klaroline#klaroline fanfiction#klaus x caroline#klaroline fic#kc fanfiction#kcfic#kc fandom#klaus mikaelson#caroline forbes#the originals rewriting#the vampire diaries fanfiction#yokan writes#masterlist
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End of the Year Fic Recs!!!
thank you @echo-bleu for tagging me! <3
I adore this as a game because I love reccing fics (and really should do it more often because So. Much. Good.Fic). This is going to be all shadowhunters I'm afraid though because I am still very much in the shadowhunters brainrot stage and haven't read much of anything else. (Also, sorry to those I haven't left a comment for yet, I WILL, spoons have just been low this year...) Also, I'll try to keep it to one rec per author because there are so many wonderful authors, but definitely go check the other fics of these people (if you haven't already) they're all excellent.
Recommend up to 5 series or multi-chapter fics from 2023 that everyone should read (multi-year WIPs count, if the last update was in 2023).
Running from the Night by @to-the-stars-writing. My forever fic spouse and the fic I reread themost this year goes to the fantastic, angsty Alec goes to live in a small village to get away from the Clave because the poor dude is traumatized fic from to-the-stars. This fic is my fics spouse (yes I got @to-the-stars-writing's permission to marry this fic) and I love, love, love it so much.
Flames to Embers by @notcrypticbutcoy: teenage!Alec is poofed into the timeline of his older self and it is lovely, sad, and heartwarming all at the same time. Also, teenage Alec is delightfully grumpy and Adult Alec is even more delightfully Done with teenage!Alec's grumpiness.
starshine and moonlight by she_who_reads (all_fandoms_reader) A three +1 fic where Alec isn't enough until he finally is. This fic is angsty and delves into Alec's (not all that great) self-worth issues and it hurts. Might or might not have cried reading it.
The Warlock's Cat by @dreaming-marchling. I hesitated a while which one I should pick from Marchling, but I ended up choosing this one (that said PLEASE go read Bleed for Me as well it is so goooood). The Warlock's Cat is a delightful "Alec gets turned into a cat and ends up in Magnus's care" fic. I adore it, and while it has its angsty or whumpy spots, it's mostly a nice, feel-good read.
Magnus Bane: Menace by AceOnIce To give some reprieve from all of the angst in this list, here is a fic of pure, unabashed fluff. Starring: Warlock Alec and Shadowhunter Magnus, the latter of which writes some truly ridiculous mission reports to HOTI Ragnor's grief.
Recommend up to 5 single chapter fics/one-shots (long or short) from 2023 that everyone should read.
The river cannot go back by @lawsofchaos1. Alec being Alec and completely in love with Magnus which leads to him committing treason like it's nothing. It is a short, brilliant fic that had me screeching like any @lawsofchaos1 fic does.
I'm finding it hard to breath by Honey_Hued_Hermes This one is pretty heave, but it does have a Hopeful Ending. Alec never promised he would tell Magnus if things ever got that bad...and sadly they do. Diving into Alec's Suicidal Thoughts and his Self-Harm tendencies.
A Most Fundamental Truth by autisticalec A missing scene from 2X10 when Alec tells Magnus that he's never been as terrified as when he feared Magnus had died from the Soul Sword. This one-shot dives into the "Alec was really very not okay emotionally" in this scene, so go read it!
The Difficult Task by @dani-dabbles: Another Alec is going through it emotionally fic (there are quite a lot of these on this list I just realized, oops). Thankfully, Magnus is there to offer support when Alec needs it because Magnus is still the best boyfriend. (also the repeated "not good enough"is evil and I am suing for emotion damages, please and thank you very much)
come to me (in the night hours) by @moonlight-breeze-44 Izzy is a supportive sister and is there emotionally for Alec right before his wedding to Lydia. This fic left me feeling all sad and weepy. This fic is technically part of a series, but as no other parts have been posted yet I am posting this in the one-shot part.
Recommend up to 5 fics NOT from 2023 that everyone should read (oldies but goodies).
I've Always Dreamed of Meeting Someone Like You by ColorfulWarlock A non-magical Alternate Universe this time around. Single-dad, fashion designer, and CEO Magnus needs someone to draw his designs for him after a hit-and-run leaves him unable to draw for himself. Insert Alec, the wonderful babysitter, and game designer who seems to understand what Magnus envisions and draw them into reality!
Angelus ex Machina by BlueA The series starts with the sudden disappearance of demon activity and the way that lack of activity impacts the local Shadow World. I love the way the parabatai bond is portrayed in this fic (especially in the third installment).
through the fire and pain by alxndrlightwoods is another parabatai-bond deep-dive that goes deep into how a parabatai bond can change shadowhunters. It also explains why, if parabatai are so powerful, there aren't that many of them. Love this fic!
i cannot touch because they are too near by @faejilly nobody manages to write poetry without writing poetry quite like @faejilly for me, seriously the words are always so beautiful I am in awe. This fic has to be my absolute favorite though because deep-dives into the parabatai bond are interesting to begin with but the way Jilly decides to do so in this fic makes it go from interesting to absolutely brilliant.
Greater Love Hath No Man by @lawsofchaos1 Okay, I lied, here is a second Laws fic, but considering this fic led to the demise of my laptop, I felt that it deserved to be on the list. (No, that wasn't a joke). Dad!Alec is forced to send baby!Max away to a warlock orphanage when his magic grows too strong for him and leaves him injured. The pain is real and it is excruciating, tissues are advised.
Recommend up to 5 of your own fics (completed or WIP) from 2023 that everyone should read.
As much as I adore reccing fics, doing self-recs is awkward, so I'm going to keep this to one rec before I combust into flames.
All Was Golden (everyone has probably read that one already because it's my most-read fic which makes this slightly less awkward than reccing any other of my fics.) Anyway, soulmate AU with a kind of ugly meet that has some angst.
Tagging, without any kind of pressure, the authors I tagged in the rec-list (if they haven't participated already) as well as @miss-mouse.
#rec game#foodsies rambles#I love all of these fics so much#and there were so many more I wanted to include#maybe I should do rec lists more often#even if nobody reads them
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Once again, it is time for that rare moment where I talk about Deltarune instead of Sonic stuff. And today, I've decided to talk about one of the many mysteries of the setting.
Namely... what did Asgore DO?
One of the constants kept over from Undertale in Deltarune was the sad reality that Asgore is still divorced from Toriel, and their post-divorce relationship is... less than ideal, with Asgore desperately trying to get back into Toriel's good graces and Toriel being none-too-thrilled about it. And its pretty clear that whatever happened in the divorce, it's taken a pretty bad toll on Asgore. It's implied he doesn't have visitation rights, and no longer lives in the same house as Tori, instead living in his flower shop. And his present state of living is just... almost too depressing for words.
So yeah, things are not looking great for ol' Asgore. But that does beg the question- what happened THIS time? Recall that in Undertale, Toriel's hostility to Asgore was predicated on both him murdering six children as well as basically getting everyone's hopes up for who-knows-how-long rather than taking one soul and going straight to business after escaping the Underground. How justified she is is going to be the subject of endless debate, now and forever, but at the core of things in Undertale its pretty clear that this hostility comes from some VERY grim circumstances.
Given the more comparatively mundane nature of Hometown and the Light World, its pretty clear that whatever circumstances led to Toriel and Asgore divorcing couldn't be anywhere near as horrible as what happened in Undertale. There's no fantastic circumstance here- Monsters live on the surface as humans do (that we know of), and while Asgore is not exactly held in high regard by Hometown these days, he none the less leads a free, if somewhat depressing life.
So again, what happened here? Why is it that Asgore is still divorced?
As it stands, with everything else, we only got two chapters to go by, and as such we need to work with a LOT of contextual clues to try and piece together even a vague idea of how things reached this point.
And believe it or not, one the key bits of insight we have? Is none other than Rudy Holiday.
Rudy is established as having been friends with Toriel and Asgore in college, and is all but stated to have been Asgore's best man at their wedding, and even in the present is still close to the both of them even though they are no longer together. Out of all the people we talk to in Hometown, Rudy is the one with the most positive stuff to say about Asgore, and Asgore recipricates this by visiting Rudy in the hospital daily, with new flowers for each visit. And while we don't witness it for ourselves, it is revealed that Toriel ALSO visits Rudy and is implicitly close to him as well, with Rudy even suspecting that Kris' visit was done at Toriel's prompting (and sadly probably WOULD be if we weren't using them as a meat-puppet).
This might not seem like such a big deal, but I feel it reveals something very crucial about what might have happened, if only in the abstract. It tells me that whatever happened? While it was serious enough to prompt the divorce and cause Toriel to no longer love Asgore, it WASN'T bad enough that Rudy doesn't think ill of Asgore, or enough to cause Toriel to no longer wish to associate with Asgore or Rudy with her. He bears no malice to anyone in the Dreemurr family, and this is an important detail, because it would seem extremely improbable that things between the three of them would be this hunky-dory if Asgore really did do something legitimately terrible.
Which, admittedly, isn't impossible... but it does feel unlikely, under the circumstances we presently see.
Given the way Dark Worlds reflect something of Lightners, some have suggested that maybe the Card Kingdom just as easily reflects something of Kris as it does Susie. While King mirrors Susie's earlier statements, one cannot help but notice that King is an enormous, pseudo-mammalian king with a hefty build, almost like a warped mirror of Asgore. And that comparison becomes all the more concerning when you consider how, as we go on, its revealed that Kris was once a very mischievous little kid... one can imagine that, perhaps, Kris was very much like Lancer, once upon a time. And if that's the case, then maybe it’s not a coincidence that King threatened both Lancer AND Kris directly.
It's a tempting thought... and oh, the warped implications it would carry, given that in Chapter Two its revealed that King wasn't going to go through with his threat and actually CARES about Lancer, despite earlier evidence to the contrary? Now THAT would imply some ugly-ass things about Kris' thoughts and feelings about their father. Or Susie's, if you believe the Card Kingdom is primarily 'meant' for her. It does make an eerie amount of sense, does it not?
Only... not quite. It’s tempting to think Asgore might have done something to Kris in a moment of weakness, but honestly? I really, really doubt it. Because let's face it, if Asgore had hurt or done something out line with Kris? It's incredibly doubtful that Toriel would ever allow Kris to get anywhere NEAR Asgore, and Rudy likewise would probably have little to do with Asgore over something like that. Oh, sure, friends will stick with friends, but that feels like something not even Rudy could overlook. And then there's the whole 'Eggs-Husband' incident...
... God that was painful. Like, kudos to Toby Fox, I don't think I've EVER felt that kind of secondhand embarrassment from a piece of media ever. It really was just a masterpiece of utter and complete failure. Still, it's important in helping to frame where everyone stands in this divorce, because while Toriel does try to get away from Asgore as fast as possible after his disastrous attempt at punnery (and who could blame her?), she none the less is willing to hear him out when he wants to talk about Asriel's return (possibly about the divorce itself).
It's important to note that, again, context is key here. Earlier in Chapter 1 its established that Asgore keeps sending Toriel flowers, which inevitably wind up in the trash, and likewise she rebuffs his deeply ill-conceived attempt to re-connect with her at Sans' store. But from what we see so far, it may not necessarily be that Toriel hates Asgore, so much that he refuses to get a clue about where they stand and persists in these self-sabotaging attempts to curry her favor. While the problem might be rooted in whatever happened in the past, it’s pretty clear that a BIG part of that is due to Asgore's present behavior. How do we know this? Because she still hears him out when he ISN'T trying to get into her good graces.
I feel that if Asgore had done something to Kris, or done something REALLY bad? Then he wouldn't even get that much. As it stands we don't know enough to say for sure, and all we can do is look at how people act and try and come up with some idea of things, but I'm willing to bet that while Asgore made some kind of serious misstep? He didn't do something unforgivable... just something severe enough that it would justify Toriel leaving him, with his refusal to let go simply making things that much worse over time given that its clear Tori CAN be civil with him. He just makes it difficult due to his overbearing and embarassing behavior... again, we can only infer things, but I do feel like a large part of Toriel's hostility stems from Asgore's inability to back off more than anything else, even the events that caused the divorce.
I can of course, be wrong, about all of this. We have only two chapters and nothing else to go by. But there is one last piece of this puzzle that I think offers an even better insight into why things happened as they happened- the reveal that Asgore used to be the chief of Homedown's police department, and that he was made to step down under unknown circumstances, hence why Undyne, a rookie, is now Hometown's police chief. We don't know what happened yet, but whatever did happen? Kris doesn't like to read about it, keeping Us from seeing what happened. It could be because they don't want us prying into their family's business just in general, but there's also a really good chance that it may be simple guilt that keeps them from reading the rest of that article.
And from here, we can paint a pretty compelling picture of what may have happened. As we know, Dess Holiday, Rudy's oldest daughter and Asriel's childhood best friend, went missing under mysterious circumstances. Dess' mother is mayor of Hometown, and its strongly hinted that whatever happened, DEss is now trapped somewhere in the Dark World (or worse), and other hints seem to indicate that Kris might in fact be aware of this, and its hinted that this event may have occurred near the mysterious bunker in the forest that Kris is explicitly afraid of. More interestingly, schoolmates Snowy and Monster Kid seem to be aware of this fact as well, which brings some interesting implications of itself.
Either way, with these details we can imagine a very probable chain of events for how things went down- Kris and Dess did something or the other at the Bunker, which led to Dess possibly being whisked away to the Dark World. Asgore, as police chief, is tasked with finding Dess. His inability to find Dess leads to him being fired by her mother, the mayor, and this would probably lead to the personal troubles at home that would lead to him eventually being divorced from Toriel and living on his own. This seems to be the general consensus among fan-interpretations, and honestly? It seems pretty probable that this, or something like this, is how the divorce went down... and maybe why Kris is the way Kris is, in the present.
There is however an interesting little wrinkle in this formula, though out of everything I mentioned, this one is possibly the longest shot. Earlier in the game when we explore Asgore's store, we find a very terse note from his landlord telling him point blank that he has a month to pay the rent, even suggesting he start selling the flowers rather than giving them away. All that we know about this landlord is that their first initial is "C". So, where does the long shot come in? There is a possibility that "C" is none other than Mayor Holiday, Rudy's wife and Dess' mother, and previously Asgore's boss. What evidence do we have to suggest this? Mayor Holiday is described as being very good at her job while also not being great with people, and is evidently very driven and intimidating, so much so that Noelle is actively afraid of her. The way the note is written is not very formal, nor is it very sociable either... and there are more than a few Christmas related terms that start with "C". A lot of the fandom seems to have settled on "Carol".
Again, this could be a long shot, one built entirely by conjecture. But if this "C" is indeed mayor holiday? That's where the wrinkle comes in. Because if Mayor Holiday is willing to give Asgore a business and overlook past failures to pay the rent, then it may be that his leaving the force wasn't JUST because of his failing to find Dess... or rather, if Mayor Holiday had any part of it, it actually wasn't out of personal anger at him failing to find her daughter. If "C" is Mayor Holiday, then in this context it means that whatever (probably negative) feelings she has towards Asgore, they're not enough to stop her from trying to help him get back on his feet. You might argue that if she IS involved in his flower shop venture it might be more due to Rudy than her, but then if Rudy has this much sway over her, she wouldn't have fired Asgore for not being able to find Dess.
Granted, there's always the 'Dying Wish' factor, though we don't know how long Rudy's been sick...
But still- firing someone for a personal reason would be a VERY bad breach of ethics, and from what we've seen (or haven't) of the mayor so far is that whatever her personality flaws, she isn't actually corrupt or anything. Hometown is so peaceful and orderly that the police force isn't really regarded as necessary! Quite the accomplishment... and firing Asgore for personally failing her would be the kind of conflict of interest that could jeopardize those accomplishments, understandable as it might be in this instance.
So, what would this imply for Asgore and his leaving the force? I believe that while Dess vanishing was the catalyst for everything, it wasn't the direct cause of Asgore losing everything. I imagine that failing to find Dess for an undetermined amount of time weighed heavily on Asgore, given that this is his best friend's daughter, a daughter who is the best friend of Asriel at that.
My hypothesis, as such? Is that Asgore's failing to find Dess slowly ate away at him, and that this caused things at home to get tense, before his eventual desperation led him to do something he shouldn't have, thus leading to him being removed from the force, and leading to further troubles at home, culminating in him saying or doing SOMETHING that led Toriel to divorce him.
I don't have any authority to definitively suggest what it might have been. But I DO feel confident that if Dess' disappearance had anything to do with Asgore's dismissal from the force? It wasn't as simple as the mayor being angry with him and removing him due to that anger, but because of something Asgore himself did in reaction to his own failure at finding Dess, and that this in turn led to whatever would happen to cause his divorce from Toriel. I believe this, because while Asgore has fallen on very hard times, the worst of what he's going through is due to his own poor choices that we can see, and however pitiful his current state, he isn't alienated/exiled from the people in his life. And if he had done something REALLY bad? I don't think that would be the case.
Of course, I can be wrong. Heck, I probably am. We only got two games to go by, and as such virtually everything I say is ultimately just conjecture, some a bit more supported by game text, and some less. But whatever the reality is? I'm VERY confident that Asgore didn't do anything evil... but it was still enough to cost him everything. Given the themes going on in the light world, it'd make sense that rather than anything big or dramatic, the truth just turned out to be something simple, unglamorous, and quietly sad.
Just like in real life, a lot of the time.
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5 times Wrecker protected his siblings and 5 times they protected him: Chapter 4
During the collapse of a building, Wrecker shields Hunter and Omega.
--
Content warning: Blood
Read on Ao3
The ceiling starts coming down so fast, there isn't time to run when Hunter shouts the warning. Hunter's already pulled a crouching Omega close, ready to absorb the impact in her stead.
Wrecker won't let it come to that, sprinting the short distance between him and his siblings to cover them. Hunter's strong, all clones are. Not strong enough to hold the mass of the collapsing warehouse. But Wrecker is.
Bracing for the debris to hit him seems to last forever. When it does, the air is knocked from Wreckers lungs and they're plunged into darkness immediately. Wrecker doesn't even have the time to register it. When the debris settles, it takes a moment for Wrecker to regain awareness of himself and his surroundings.
For a terrible few seconds, it's silent. He can't hear or see his siblings, all there is is the pressure of the weight against his back and arms, and the persistent throbbing of the impact. For those few seconds, dread grips Wrecker violently. What if he failed? What if he's the only one still alive?
Wrecker almost sags in relief when he hears a shuffle of movement, a cough and then the far too bright light of a flashlight. Almost. He'd die before he'd voluntarily drop any of the weight he's supporting without being certain his siblings are well out of range.
Omega was the one to turn on the light. Dust has settled on her and Hunter, as well as smaller chunks of debris. She looks better off than Hunter does, almost entirely unharmed. Hunter looks like he might have took a hit. Wrecker guessed the loud noise and vibration of the collapse didn't do his brothers enhanced senses any favours either.
The small amount of clear space Wrecker's managed to create is cramped, Omega and Hunter huddled closely together. It's a good thing Tech and Echo weren't in the warehouse. It would have been really cramped if they were her too.
There is just enough place for the two to move, Omega sitting back a little with her knees to her chest to look around, and Hunter adjusting his position to no longer be elbowing Wrecker in the stomach. Wrecker hadn't even noticed the uncomfortable sensation until it was gone.
“Everyone alright?” Hunter is the first to speak. Omega nods. Wrecker doesn't dare to, not wanting to risk shifting any of the debris. He responds with an affirmative hum. “Omega, start trying to contact Tech and Echo.”
Hunter and Omegas comms are met with continuous silence. They try over and over, but none of their messages get through, try holding their comlinks closer to the stone separating them from the outside world, from the rest of the batch. There's the beginnings of panic in Omegas eyes.
“Why isn't it working?” She asks.
“I don't know. Could be something in the stone.” Hunter answers, shaking his head. Wrecker knows they're all thinking of the possibility that something may have happened to their vode, something that's keeping them from answering. They go back to trying.
Despite being the only thing preventing the three of them getting crushed, Wrecker feels quite useless. It feels like he's not doing anything, and it's driving him a bit mad. He's just stuck thinking, and all he has to think about is how much rests on him being able to hold the weight of the fallen building.
He's got a good hold of it, and the crouched way he's standing does distribute the workload across his body rather evenly. But the pressure against his back is bordering on agonizing, and it is a lot of weight. Wreckers not sure just how long he can hold it, how long until his body gives out or he makes a mistake. His left arm already feels weakened, perhaps from pulling something when catching the weight. Wrecker takes a shallow breath, trying to expand his chest in a way that doesn't chance the integrity of the debris above him.
Omega pauses her failed attempts at contacting their siblings. “Won't we run out of air?” Kriff, she's right. They're not going to last long with all three of them breathing the same air.
“Omega, can you reach my pack?” Hunter asks. “There won't be enough space for me to take it off.” Omega nods. “Good. There should be two breath masks in there.” Since Omega joined, every member of clone force 99 has gotten into the habit of carrying spares of important items with them.
Omega quickly fishes the two breath mask out of Hunters pack, putting hers on as Hunter removes his helmet slowly to don his own. The dim light emitted by the masks seems bright in the dark pocket they're trapped in.
“Wrecker, I think I can reach your pack too.” Omega sits up, reaching her hand in Wreckers direction.
“Don't.” Wrecker snaps. It comes out a lot harsher than he intends it to. Omega jerks her hand back fast, eyes wide, making Wrecker feel bad for the tone he used. “It's not worth the risk, there's too much weight on it. You could hurt yourself. Can't take my helmet off well anyway. Thanks for offering.” Wrecker continues with a calmer tone. Wrecker bites back the urge to making a joke about the risk of decapitation taking his helmet off would bring with it. “If it's just me breathing the air, it'll last a lot longer.”
It's silent save for the noise of his siblings breathing and the occasional futile attempt at contacting Tech and Echo. It's unnerving, nothing but the slightly mechanical sound of the breath mask, and “Tech, Echo, are you there? Do you copy?”. Wrecker wishes someone would say anything else.
Omega eventually does. “Could we get out by moving stones?” It's a good question. Maybe they could, if they knew how far they'd have to go.
“Moving anything is risky. Only as a last resort.” Hunter says. What he really means is only when Wrecker starts loosing his strength or hasn't got enough oxygen left. Only when Wrecker starts failing them.
It goes silent again.
One breath in, one out. Omega and Hunter do so almost in sync. “Tech, Echo, are you there?” Breath in, breath out. “Please respond.” Another breath in. Another breath out. “Echo? Tech?”
Wrecker needs someone to talk about something, anything else.
“The mission was going pretty well until the building started falling apart.” Wrecker burst out with a shaky laugh. His vode look at him like he grew a second head.
“You could say that.” Hunter says. It's clear he's considering the possibility that Wrecker hit his head in the collapse.
“Tech said he got the intel we need.” Omega adds, immediately followed by another attempt to contact the others. It's getting harder to ignore how hopeless the situation seems. The burn in Wreckers muscles is increasing steadily, the weight slowly taking its toll.
It's too quiet again, but Wrecker can't think of anything else to say.
After what feels like hours of pointless attempts to contact Tech and Echo, Omega interrupts the usage of her comlink to inspect something on her trousers. “What is that?” She mutters, mostly to herself. Wrecker can just about see what she's looking at from the angle of his head: A dark stain on and above her knee.
“Is that blood?” Wrecker says before he can think about it. Please don't let it be blood. Omega bleeding is the last thing they need added to this situation. That statement immediately draws Hunters attention.
“Are you bleeding Omega?” They're so much worry in his voice. Omega looks a little worried herself.
“I- I don't know... I don't think so.” She sounds uncertain. Hunter pulls a glove off and extends his hand to touch the stain lightly, careful of the possibility that she's baring an injury under the fabric. His hand comes back stained red. Kriff.
“Omega, I'm going to need you to reach the med kit in my pack. Try to move your leg as little as possible.” Hunter's tone is calm, but his expression betrays his fear. It's a lot of blood. She might need stitches. Knees are complicated, there are a lot of bits that could get damaged. The environment they're in is far from sterile.
“But it doesn't even hurt...” She states. Wrecker and his brothers have the habit of playing down serious injury. It's extremely frustrating at times. Wrecker had hoped that Omega would never pick up that habit.
“You don't have to tough it out Omega. It's better if you tell us when you're hurt.” Wrecker says, trying to sound as calm as Hunter does. He doesn't manage so quite as well.
“No, I can't feel any pain at all!” Omega counters. She looks confused.
“Adrenalin can do that. Please Omega, get the med kit.” There's a slight hint of desperation in Hunters voice. Wrecker hopes it's just adrenalin, and that Omega isn't going into shock. Omega complies this time, handing the med kit to Hunter.
“You're going to be okay Omega.” Wrecker tries to reassure her and himself.
“I feel okay.” Omega says as she watches Hunter look through the med kit.
Hunter puts a hand on her lower leg. “You may start to feel less okay once I start treating you.” Hunter says, trying to prepare her. Omega still looks very confused, like her brain hasn't caught up with the situation. It worries Wrecker.
Just as Hunter goes to pull the leg of Omegas trousers up to look at the injury, something hits the back of his hand. A drop of blood.
All three of them stare at it as it sits on the back of Hunters hand, then slowly rolls down the side and drops onto Omegas knee.
“I told you that I'm not hurt! It's not even my blood!” Omega exclaims, breaking the baffled silence. It takes Wrecker far too long to register that if it isn't hers, it must be his own.
It takes Hunter a moment to snap out of his confusion too. When he does, he looks a bit lost. “There isn't enough room for me to reach your right side. Omega, you'll have to locate the injury and stop the bleeding.”
“No.” Wrecker says, almost cutting Hunter off. “Not worth the risk.” If any of the debris slips when Omegas hands are between Wrecker and the rocks, her fingers could be crushed.
“Wrecker.” Hunter says. It sounds like a warning. “You loosing more blood won't help anyone.” The message is clear, his tone leaves no room for protest. Wrecker doesn't object again.
“I'll be careful.” Omega says, like she's trying to reassure Wrecker, like she isn't the one having to put herself in harms way for his sake. She stands up, just about able to do so in the small space if she hunches somewhat. She's true to her word as she reaches around Wreckers arm, slowly feeling for the origin of the blood. When she finds it, they can all immediately tell by Wreckers sharp intake of breath and groan. Omega gasps.
“There's something stuck in your arm. I think it's a piece of metal.” Omega informs them, withdrawing her hands. They're dripping with blood. The pain is in Wreckers upper arm, close to his shoulder. The piece of metal must have just about missed his armor, hitting him in the gaps between the plates.
Hunter passes Omega a roll of Bandages. “There's not much we can do. Wad this up and press it into and around the wound as best possible.” Omega nods seriously.
All the time, the pain in his shoulder had been hard to pick out against the ache of carrying the weight, and the bruises from the impact. It all felt distant as Wrecker forced himself not to focus on it.
It's really hard to ignore an injury when someone's pushing bandage material into it. Wrecker tries hard not to let on to the pain the action is causing, clenching his teeth, breathing through his nose, trying to divert his concentration elsewhere. He's doing a terrible job of it.
Every time he lets a pained noise slip, guilt crosses Omegas expression and she apologizes softly. Like this is her fault. Like she's not risking getting hurt herself to help Wrecker. He wants to tell her that it's okay, that there's absolutely no need to apologize, but Wrecker knows that if he opens his mouth, he might scream. That wouldn't help the situation at all.
When she's done, Omega sits back down, avoiding the drops of blood on the floor that collected there as she worked. No more blood drips from Wreckers shoulder. It is still all over Omegas hands. She tries to get it of by rubbing her hands across the ground, but it's started to dry and continues to cling to her skin and under her fingernails.
“You did good Omega.” Hunter says, putting a hand on her shoulder.
It takes a moment before Wrecker has his breathing under control enough to say anything, almost panting at this point to try and get the pain to quiet back down. “Thank, 'mega.” Wrecker eventually manages to force out. The pain and the strain of the weight make his voice unsteady. Omega smiles, concern in her expression.
“Tech, Echo?” Omega says into her comlink. “We really need your help.”
There's no response.
It's silent again, and Wrecker hates it more than ever. His legs have started to feel shaky. For a good fifteen minutes, nobody says anything. His vode don't even use their comlinks.
“Wrecker, can we help you with supporting the debris?” Omega asks, breaking the silence.
“Nah, no need. I could keep holding this up for days!” Wrecker lies. As good as handing off some of the weight sounds, it's an unsafe idea. Any change in how the debris is held could lead to unwanted movement.
In the next bout of silence, Hunter and Omega try to contact their unaccounted for siblings a few more times. Wrecker can't tell if he's imagining it, or if the air really is starting to get thin.
That's when Wrecker finally makes a mistake.
His left leg gives, and his foot slips, bringing that knee down to slam into the ground with a deafening noise as the stone beneath it cracks, only narrowly missing Hunters leg. The debris shifts, smaller pieces clattering onto his siblings. Through some miracle, Wrecker keeps hold of the large pieces, even as his right foot is pinned, the strain on his back and arms is increased and the piece of metal stuck in his skin shifts forwards, tearing a probably ugly and definitively painful gash into Wreckers arm.
This time, Wrecker screams. Tears blur his vision as he desperately wills his shaking body not to fall any further. He can barely get himself to calm down again, gasping for breath.
They have even less room now, less time until Wrecker runs out of air. He presses his eyes closed, not wanting to see the expression on his siblings faces. He feels Omegas hands on his arm again, trying to push bandages between the rock and Wreckers arm to stem the undoubtedly way worse bleeding.
Hunter is quietly trying to reassure Omega. Wrecker wishes he were strong enough to do the same. He can barely bring a word out any more, all energy diverted to keeping his siblings alive just a little longer.
“Please work.” Omega says, probably using her comlink again. “We need help, Wrecker can't hold the stone much longer.” It's the truth, but it hurts to hear it from Omega, fear in her voice. If they die here, it'll be Wrecker's fault, and all three of them know that.
For a moment, she is met with silence once again. Until she isn't.
“Omega?” Echo's voice makes the tears in Wreckers eyes fall. He sounds just as distraught as everyone under the rubble.
“Are our trackers still working? We need to get out of here now!” Hunter responds.
“Tech says they just came back on. We'll find you.” Echo's voice is gone again, but the knowledge that him and Tech are not only alive but close to getting them out is the best news Wreckers had all day. He just needs to hold on a little longer, he can do that.
The first thing indicating their brothers outside have found them is the sound of rubble being moved. Then, there is a small ray of bright light shining into their pocket of air, bright enough to get Wrecker to open his eyes. It gets bigger with every stone moved, and soon Hunter is making sure Omega gets out through it. Moments later, and following the removal of a few stones more, Hunter follows her. He's alone under the rubble now.
Wrecker can hear them talking about him, about how to get him out. It sounds muffled.
Tech sticks his head in through the opening after a moment. “The debris on top of you is almost entirely in one piece. It could be possible for you to get out by lifting it fast enough and dropping it behind you.” Wrecker doesn't take too long to think about it. He knows he can do it, even if it will lead to him passing out from exhaustion.
“Clear out.” is all Wrecker can force out in response. He waits until he hears his vode move away, then he gathers every last bit of energy has left and pushes against the debris holding him down.
For a few blessed seconds, there's no more weight pressing against his body. Then he blacks out.
Next thing he knows, he's on the Marauder. He panics first, sure there's something he's supposed to be doing, supposed to remember. In his confusion, he almost knocks Tech over by getting up, disturbing his brothers work on his shoulder. Surprisingly, Tech doesn't even tell him off for it.
The memory of the past almost three hours, he's informed, come back fast. Everyone's still on edge. Wrecker chose a bad time to wake up, just in time to experience the gash on his shoulder be thoroughly flushed out multiple times whilst each of his siblings says something about the risk of infection and tetanus at least once. Just in time to experience the stitches too.
Beside the injured shoulder, Wrecker made it out of the ordeal remarkably well. Aside from the tears his muscles sustained from the strain, bruising and exhaustion. He'd argue he could sleep it off in a day. He doubts his vode will agree.
Wreckers left to rest when their done. Despite the exhaustion, Wrecker just sits there. Echo is helping Omega scrub the blood off her hands, he can hear them talking from the tiny bathroom they'd installed on the marauder when they started being sent on longer and longer missions. Wrecker still feels uneasy, despite knowing his vode are safe.
He came so close to losing two of his siblings today. Wrecker takes a shaky breath, rubbing a hand across his face. He doesn't want to think about how things would have ended up without Tech and Echo.
“How are you not already asleep?” Hunter asks, knowing full well why. Wrecker hadn't heard him approach. He sits down on the sleeping rack next to him.
“Too much excitement for one day.” Wrecker says with a wavering laugh. Hunter nods, releasing a tired sigh. They sit in comfortable silence for a while.
“Thank you, Wrecker.” Hunter says.
“It was nothing, no need to mention it.” Wrecker laughs again. It's not like he'd just let his siblings die, and lifting things is what he was bred for.
“I mean it Wrecker.” Hunter's got that warning tone that leaves no room for objection again. “It's not nothing.”
Then Hunter pulls him into a hug, careful of the bruising on his back by keeping the hold light. Wrecker barely has the strength to return it, arms loosely, weakly, wrapped around his brothers shoulders. He's trembling in his brothers warm embrace.
“I'll say it again.” Hunter states. “Thank you Wrecker.”
What ever fight Wrecker would have had against the rising tears is immediately lost against the comfort of the hug. Maybe he should feel stupid or pathetic, but none of his vode have ever truly mad him feel that way. So he lets the tears stream down his face, breathing shaky from crying this time.
“You're welcome.” Wrecker says, sounding more like a sob than anything else.
#tbb#tbb wrecker#tbb hunter#tbb omega#the bad batch#wrecker whump#Can't say when the next fic will be posted#I've been very slow with writing the one for Echo#and got a bit distracted writing an entirely different tbb fic#my writing
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● MULTI-CHAPTER FANFIC SERIES
Longest multi- chaptered book ( ongoing ) : When you call my name, do you think i'll come running? ( Alcina Dimitrescu )
Trailer: they say when the world is at peace to let it remain at peace.... but if the world isn't at peace?.... then what... do we create more chaos, or do we avenge the ones we lost. A battle between a human girl and " the lady dimitrescu".
Synopsis: lady dimitrescu is no saint.... we all know that. She killed your friend, so to get revenge you work for her as a maid but what happens when the invisible line of fate runs thin, or when the vail of romance and duty revails? What then... do you run... or do you stay and take that leap of fate.
Chapter one
Chapter two
Chapter three
Chapter four
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8 - coming soon along with all other chapters.
Do wanna get drunk and nasty? ( Brienne of tarth )
Synopsis: it's against royal rules to fall in love with someone who is not royalty, well imagine falling in love with your bodyguard.... who's a woman. What will you parents say? The kingdom? That's why secrets are meant to be kept....
Chapter one
Chapter two
Cupcakes and muffins ( Agatha Harkness )
Synopsis: they say childhood friendships are the ones that last forever unless something really nasty happened... something absolutely unforgivable.... when lust is high and your sanity is low there's nothing strong enough to stop you from sleeping with your best friends mom.
Chapter one
Chapter two
Don't be shy, little one ( Gwendoline christie )
Synopsis: you and gwendoline christie fall in love but all good things must come to an end...
Chapter one
Chapter two
Chapter three
Chapter four
Manners ( gwen in fabric )
Synopsis: your French teacher invites you and your entire class over to her apartment for dinner and to learn some hard words in French for an up coming oral exam, they way she looks at you is sinful, but the way she's touching you under the table infront of everyone is even more sinful.....
Chapter one
Chapter two
I see the way you look at me ( Alcina Dimitrescu )
Synopsis: your mother is sick and your desperate for some loan money, but at what price will you pay to receive it.... because lady dimitrescu has already made her sacrifices....
Chapter one
Chapter one
I will carry you ( farah dowling ) - coming soon
Synopsis: you and farah have been friends for a very long time.... she was your soulmate, well in the platonic world, though you didn't hide your feelings from her. The world was turn upside down and for 25 years the love of your life was locked away, and when you finally do get her back she slips through your fingers and fades away......
#fypシ゚viral#fanfic#marilynthornhilllover fanfics#multi chap fic#headlist#masterlist#alcina dimitrescu#Agatha harkness#gwendoline christie#brienne of tarth fanfiction#gwen in fabric#farah dowling#resdient evil#re8 alcina#game of thrones#marvel#wanda#fate: the winx saga
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Lies and Deceit, The Wrath of the Prodigal
Genshin Sagau Scaramouche x Reader
So a few days back, I posted something about Scaramouche interacting with the Creator during a specific moment in the Sumeru Archon quest Chapter 3: Act 3 "Dreams, Emptiness, Deception." I decided to expand a little on what I wrote, because I love Scaramouche and I don't think there's enough Sagau content regarding him. This is just a short little story I wrote about what I believe Scaramouche would think of the Creator and how he would react to them being in Teyvat. This isn't connected to my mainstream sagau series Messianic Aureation, the Creator in this is implied to be the reader! I don't write self-inserts very well, but I did the best I could with it! Hope you Scaramouche fans enjoy! I can't wait for when he becomes playable :)
Sorry this is so short, I promise my writings usually aren’t this quick lol
The Balladeer did not believe in the gods.
Oh, he knew they existed. It was impossible for gods not to exist in this world. In every part of Teyvat’s culture, gods were evident: this land he called home was ridden with the scars of battles long past that were waged by immortals. Civilizations dedicated to gods rose and fell with the times. Some, like Liyue, remained stubbornly strong in the face of erosion, and though Rex Lapis was no longer seen as the nation’s ruler, he was still worshiped with dedication. Others, like the city of the Scarlet King, were buried beneath the sands of the desert with the death of the god who erected it. Yet there were desert folk who still yearned for the return of Deshret’s reign. Yes, gods had power. Every nation had its own history of gods. The only country that attempted to break this long-standing tradition had been Khaenri’ah, and everyone knew how that little experiment turned out.
Scaramouche acknowledged the power of the gods. He himself had been created by one. But that didn’t mean he respected them. No, he abhorred them, with the entirety of his being. If he could, he would rip the wings of Barbatos off of the Archon’s back and watch with glee as he was rendered flightless forever. He would have pierced the heart of Morax and propped the dragon’s body in the center of Liyue Harbor for all its inhabitants to see-if someone else hadn’t already gotten to the Geo lord first. He would destroy the puppet of the Raiden Shogun and yank his mother out of her Plane of Euthymia with his own two hands so he could execute her in the shadow of her own omnipresent statue. If Scaramouche had the power, he would destroy every single Archon in Teyvat, and then go further. He would topple Celestia. Godhood would be his, and only his, to own. Because he knew that in order to kill a god, one would have to become a god themselves first.
Initially, Scaramouche believed there to be only three betrayals that made him realize the world was nothing more than an elaborate tapestry of lies. But now he knew this was false, for there was a fourth he hadn’t counted on and only realized recently. The fourth to betray him…was you. You, the blessed Creator, the god above all gods, the supreme being who molded Teyvat with their own hands and breathed life into the world that shunned and despised him. He had seen your statues, had witnessed the intense bouts of worship people put themselves through in order to show you their love and loyalty. All for a god who hasn’t shown their face in millennia. The very thought of it made Scaramouche laugh. At least Ei gave proof of her existence through the means of a puppet. At least Barbatos walked among the Monstadters in the disguise of a bard. There were no physical documentations of your existence. No credible writings or pieces of artwork made by your hand left behind for the modern generation to see. Even your statues were up for interpretation; neither one looked the same, as if their carvers hadn’t been able to agree on your exact appearance. The only proof that the Creator wasn’t a hoax were the Vessels. Those accursed Vision holders who traversed Teyvat’s seven nations with your blessing. You controlled their bodies, spoke through their mouths, saw with their eyes. To be a Vessel was to be an extension of the Creator themself. To be a Vessel was to be chosen. It was a sign that one mattered.
His own mother, Ei, was a Vessel. The Snezhnayan brat Tartaglia was one also, as was Barbatos, and the captain of the Crux, and many, many other people across Teyvat, mortal and immortal alike. All with Visions, all as dirty and sinful as Scaramouche himself. Tartaglia and Ei’s hands were stained with just as much innocent blood as his, if not more. And yet, he didn’t have a Vision. He had never felt your inviting warmth. People mocked him and ridiculed him.“Why would the Creator ever bless a Harbinger? Why would they ever show you any sort of favor? You don’t deserve their attention. Your damned Fatui scum, damned to the Abyss, and Their Grace knows it. The Creator has made it clear that you are nothing in their eyes. You aren’t like Childe. You are irredeemable.”
It filled him with rage, because he knew they were right. You had forsaken him. Even on all of the cold, lonely nights when he had gotten on his knees and clasped his hands together before one of your statues, tears streaming down his cheeks as he desperately begged for you to show him some sort of sign that you were there, that you acknowledged him, that you cared about him, not once did you answer, not once did you tell him that he mattered. You sided with the rest and cast him out as a worthless puppet, a weak and vile creation meant to be destroyed. You didn’t believe in him. So, why should he believe in you?
He hated you. He longed for you. He wanted to strangle you, yet hold you close and continue to beg for your validation at the same time. You made him feel emotions that he wanted no business in feeling, and for that, he despised you. You were his fourth betrayal; you abandoned him without even giving him a chance. You taunted him with your ever-alluring warmth and made him out to be a fool every time he was met with failure when he attempted to forge some kind of contact with you. He wanted to destroy you. He wanted to devour you. He wanted to crush you under his heel and prove to the heavens and the earth that you are nothing. He would tear the sky apart if it meant finding you and killing you. Nothing would quell his wrath, not even the distance you had put between your heavenly realm and the world you had created.
Scaramouche knew his time would come. Sooner or later, you will return to Teyvat. With help from the Fatui, he had tracked down any sort of writings regarding proof of your descent to this mortal plane. He waited. He bided his time. No need to rush. He would find you eventually. You wouldn’t be able to escape him once you arrived.
And then, one day, he succeeded. Your presence hit him like a boulder, rocking him back and sending a sensation of burning flames through his core. You were here, in Sumeru-where he was currently preparing to rise to godhood through means of Fatui technology and a certain gnosis he had stolen from the blonde-haired traveler you cared so much about. With the help of his one and only follower, he made contact with your mind and forced a mental connection between the two of you. He found you in a body that wasn’t your own, confused and scared, trapped within a prison of Dendro. The eyes of the young Dendo Archon were your eyes as you stared into space and caught glimpses of his pain and anger.
“I see you,” he said, reveling in the jolt of terror you felt when you heard his voice. His fists clenched and a smirk graced his lips. Electro power pumped into him from the various tubes connected to his back. His mech whirred and hummed while it gained strength, a mighty force of artificial ascension, a man-made god. Mentally, he seized your consciousness in a vise-like grip. He could feel you scream-you were fighting him, attempting to free yourself from the connection the two of you were sharing. But he wouldn’t let you go. He refused to let you go, not after you left him unanswered for all of these years.
“Shhh,” he soothed. “There is no need to fear. The pain will be brief.” You were shivering and crying, but your mind was so weak compared to his, probably from the strain of being shoved into a body that wasn’t yours. He idly wondered how such a phenomenon came to happen: you, the Creator, trapped within the frame of an Archon not even 500 years old. When he focused on you, he caught glimpses of splattered golden blood and weapons pointed towards your true body. Thankfully, Kusanali seemed to have managed to save you from certain death. Good for him, because he was the only one allowed to kill you, and Archons-be-damned, he would obliterate anyone who got in his way.
He was consuming you. You were drowning in his consciousness, your mind succumbing to his own. Scaramouche smiled triumphantly when he felt your dimming fear. “Yes, that’s it. Fear me. Know me. Hear me. I am your downfall, the one you scorned and ignored. Godhood is mine, and you, oh-beloved Creator, will fall before me. Your era is coming to an end.”
You would eventually escape him and return to your own body. But Scaramouche didn’t mind. You were here, and the connection between the two of you was there, tethering you together, whether you liked it or not. Go ahead, run away with your allies, hide from your enemies. He would find you regardless. There was no escaping the wrath of a newly-born god.
#genshin sagau#genshin impact sagau#sagau#genshin impact#genshin isekai#isekai#scaramouche#sumeru#genshin impact fanfiction#fanfiction#this is super short#but i enjoyed writing it#scaranation assemble#short story
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The Silver Dragon (45/?)
Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Original Female Character
Word Count: 4455
Story Summary: Lady Arianwyn Targaryen, the Lady of Runestone, was seeded by her father, the Rogue Prince Daemon Targaryen, in an act of unbridled hatred, and borne of her mother, the late Lady Rhea Royce, as a desperate grasp at revenge.
Ignored by her father, and alone following the death of her mother, she is raised in King’s Landing alongside her cousin, Prince Aemond Targaryen. As they grow, the two find themselves indelibly bonded. But their lives are far from the fairy tales they read, and as tensions in the family rise, they find their paths may diverge.
Will they be pulled apart when the dragons dance?
Chapter Summary: Arianwyn wakes in Aemond's arms and faces the fact that her world has changed irrevocably.
Warnings: blood
Series Masterlist
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The Silence
Arianwyn woke with a smile.
While the bed she slept in at the Eyrie had been comfortable, it had been lonely and cold without Aemond to hold her and share his warmth. Now, she was back where she belonged, in her bed, with her husband holding her so tight it seemed he was trying to cleave them together, even in his sleep.
His legs were tangled with hers, their hips resting against each other, at once innocent and intimate. One of his long arms wrapped all the way around her waist, holding her flush to his chest, while the other encircled her shoulders with his hand cradling her head against his neck.
He was not just holding her. He was clinging to her.
For a brief moment, as Arianwyn looked at the soft light of the rising sun through the curtain of the tangled hair – belonging to both of them – that hung over her face, she clung onto him as well. They were only apart for three days, but she had missed him dearly, painfully.
Now, they were together again, and all would be well. Everything would be –
Then she was finally awake enough to identify the smell that filled her senses as she buried her face further into his skin – stale blood.
It reminded her that everything would not be alright. Far from it.
Aemond, or Vhagar, in trying to protect her rider, had killed Luke. And poor, nervous Arrax.
Ignoring the scent as best she could, Arianwyn pressed closer to him, squeezing her arms around his chest. He did not wake, but still returned her embrace as if it were as instinctual to him as breathing, letting out a small sigh of contentment.
If only they could stay in each other’s arms like this forever. If only they could remain here, in this moment, where he was at peace, and the rest of the godsforsaken world would not disturb them.
But the real world would come for them, sooner or later. Likely in the form of Otto Hightower demanding answers about what happened at Storm’s End. Even nature itself seemed intent on disturbing them. For when the morning breeze stilled as the last remnants of the previous night’s storm faded away, another smell emerged, an unfamiliar acrid sweetness.
Moving carefully, Arianwyn untwined herself from her husband, stroking his hair and softly humming a lullaby each time he began to stir. Miraculously, he was still asleep when she finally slid out of bed, donning her night slippers as flimsy protection against the shattered glass still covering half the floor.
Now that the room was filled with light, Arianwyn could see exactly how Aemond had spent the hours he’d been waiting for her.
She wished it was still dark.
Several empty bottles of wine had been discarded in the corner opposite where he had been crouched, at least two of them thrown so hard they shattered.
How much had he drunk?
Too much – far too much, judging by the mostly dried sick on the floor near the door to the bathing room.
And the other small pool of it, just by the door to the solar – not as dry. Somehow, she had not stepped in it last night when stumbling around in the dark.
And the third, in the southeastern corner where she had found Aemond, just past the mirror shards – hardly dried at all.
That was the source of the smell, no doubt.
Arianwyn’s heartbreak was far stronger than her disgust. Aemond, who always abhorred how wine and other spirits clouded the mind, had gotten so drunk that he made himself sick, and then continued to drink. Again, and then again.
Covering her mouth with a hand to block out the smell and muffle the sounds of her crying, Arianwyn looked back at Aemond’s sleeping form. His brows had furrowed once more, and he now clutched her still-warm pillow to his chest, burying his face in what remained of her scent.
With his face now illuminated by more than infrequent and violent bursts of lightning, she saw his scar in its entirety for the first time.
It would have been an easier sight to endure were it not crossed with new wounds inflicted by Aemond himself.
And yet it was still not as gruesome or harrowing as she anticipated, nor was it the pit of darkness she had seen in the night. What was normally hidden behind the sapphire was hardly different from the wrinkled grey skin surrounding it, only cloaked in shadow.
To Arianwyn, it was not frightening in the least.
Though she would admit, she preferred the sapphire. Not only for its beauty, but for what it represented – her, them, their love.
With a lingering look at where the sapphire lay on the table, still wrapped in that worn purple silk, Arianwyn stepped out of the bedchamber and through the solar. She spared only a single glance at the ruined wine cabinet before she cracked open the door and slipped into the hallway.
Six of her guards – more than had ever been stationed there before – all snapped to attention, eager to hear what she would say. None of them asked anything, for they knew their Princess would tell them when she was ready.
But it was not to any of them that she turned, but Kiran. Someone had fetched a stool for him to sit on, which he immediately knocked over for how fast he stood when Arianwyn emerged. She prayed the sound would not wake Aemond, and that Kiran had obeyed her order to return to his room last night to get some much-needed rest. The latter, she would find out another time.
For now, she brushed aside his babbling questions and concerns and quickly gave him precise instructions and permission to enlist her guards for any assistance he might need. Each of the Valeman immediately agreed without raising a single objection, despite the duties asked of them being far below their station.
With that settled, Arianwyn retreated back into her chambers, treading carefully around the damaged wood and sick and glass that filled the floor to slip back into bed beside Aemond.
It took some maneuvering to extract the pillow from his arms and insert herself in its place without waking him, but she managed. And then savored the feeling of him once more lacing his fingers through her hair to pull her closer.
Gods, how had he endured sleeping without her while he was in the Stormlands?
Arianwyn felt very much like the stuffed felt butterfly Helaena had carried with her everywhere for years when they were children. But the feeling wasn’t entirely unwelcome. If she could bring the same measure of comfort to Aemond that the butterfly – named ‘Pepperfly’ because it was not yellow like butter, but had black spots that made it look like it had been sprinkled with pepper – did to Helaena, she would do so happily.
She just hoped that she wouldn’t end up as worn and ragged as poor Pepperfly.
Only a few moments after Arianwyn was settled in his arms, she heard the door to the apartments open, and several sets of feet stepped carefully inside. She had hoped they would be quieter, but she could only expect so much when they were armored and in a hurry.
On any other morning, she had no doubt Aemond would have bolted awake at the first click of the door handle, if he had not been awake already. Only the day before, she had been joking with Gerold about how little her husband slept.
But grief, anger, and despair were each as exhausting as hours spent fighting in the training yard or studying in the library. Aemond had suffered all three – was suffering all three.
His body, his mind, and his soul all needed rest. To recover from what they had already endured and to prepare for what he would face when he awoke.
Arianwyn traced the Runes of love and peace on his chest, just as she had so many times only hours ago. Over and over, she ran her finger along the sliver of his chest that was exposed by his half-buttoned shirt.
There were no wounds there – at least not that she could see or feel. But still, the pale skin was covered with faded rivers of pinkish red, as though his tears had run from his eyes to his chest, the blood it carried staining everywhere it touched. Arianwyn rubbed lightly at one of the darker lines at the hollow of his throat to see if she could scrub it away, but to no avail. It was firmly set.
So, after pressing a soft kiss to that shallow dip where his collarbones met, she went back to tracing her Runes. The symbols could not wash the blood from him or change what had been done, but they could soothe him and keep him asleep until she heard the door shut again, and their apartments fell silent.
Aemond needed rest, and she would let him have it. If he wanted to sleep for an entire week, she would let him.
But first, a bath. To wash all the blood away.
And to give Kiran and the guards time to clean the bedchamber, so he could rest in clean bedding, in a clean room. Without bloodstains, broken glass, or pools of sick to remind him of what happened.
Not that Aemond would need to be reminded. Would ever need it.
He had slept fitfully enough before she returned that she knew he was remembering, over and over again. Reliving whatever happened in his nightmares. Perhaps he always would.
Arianwyn woke him as gently as she could, pressing her brow to his as she stroked his cheek. A firmer touch than she when soothing him, but still soft, still loving.
Aemond’s eye opened slowly, his brow furrowing as he blearily looked at his wife. As if it were any other morning, and he was simply confused about why she was waking him. But as his gaze cleared, his face fell.
That slightest hint of a smile – the barely noticeable lifting of the right corner of his mouth – disappeared.
So did the light in his eye. The lovely shade of periwinkle that was perfectly matched by the scrap of silk the sapphire was wrapped in went dull as he stared blankly back at her.
Arianwyn wanted to scream.
She licked her suddenly dry lips and moved her hand from his cheek to the line of his jaw, holding him as tightly as she could without hurting him. She opened her mouth to speak and –
Aemond winced.
Before she had even made a sound beyond an intake of air. Arianwyn looked at him to find his dull eye pleading, begging.
Last night, he had wanted her to talk. Well, maybe not wanted, but allowed. He had uncovered his ears and let her tell him about her journey. But today…
A quiet day, then. A silent day.
They had not had one in years.
Arianwyn nodded, petting his jaw in apology and understanding.
He closed his eye and leaned into the touch.
When he opened it again, her mouth was a thin line, her brows delicately furrowed. She looked over him, examining from his shallowly rising chest to his bloodstained hair and dipped her chin ever so slightly.
A question.
His eye slid from hers, becoming distant and unfocused. He frowned with trembling lips.
An answer.
Aemond shut his eye tight and shook his head back and forth. Arianwyn had seen him do so before, many years ago, when Aegon and the others’ teasing had first begun – his desperate attempt to stop himself from crying. It was a wonder that he had any tears left to spill after last night, but they seemed unending.
Arianwyn just wrapped her arm around his shoulders and pulled him into her. Let him bury his face in her neck as he wept. She still said nothing – no words, no murmurings, not even a shushing or a hummed lullaby. Even when a million words were screaming in her heart and mind, she said none of them. She just held him.
When the crushing wave of despair abated and his breathing calmed, Arianwyn laid him back down. Tenderly, she freed the strands of hair stuck to his wet face and wiped the tears away with her sleeve. She did not mind the blood and sweat that stained the fabric, as it had become dirtied enough after holding him all night. Perhaps too dirty to be cleaned – Elsie may simply have to burn it.
Aemond did not move from where he lay. Instead, he only stared into his wife’s face with a wide, wet eye. That eye, which in its depths contained more beauty and sadness and love and despair than Arianwyn had ever known one person could possess, was the only indication that he felt anything at all.
She had never seen him look so helpless. So lost. So broken. Not even on the day of his father’s death, when his mind flew somewhere far away and left him stranded, reliving his worst memories.
This was so much worse.
For even in his stillness and silence, Arianwyn could see that he was still present. He was not distant, as he had been that day. He was right here, with her, and with every awareness of what had occurred – what he had done.
At last, Aemond lifted his right arm and took her hand in his own. There was so little of his usual strength in his grip, but Arianwyn knew that it had taken all the strength of his heart to make even that slightest motion.
So, she was strong for him. She wrapped her fingers around his and squeezed, trying to say with her touch what she could not say with her words.
Aemond’s gaze dropped from her face to where they touched, where she held him so tightly. His brows knitted together, and his mouth tightened, but he did not squeeze back. After a moment, he looked back up to Arianwyn with a look of such pleading that her heart seized.
Make it stop, he had begged her the night before. Those were the last coherent words he had said.
Arianwyn still didn’t know how. Despite all the studying and praying she had done in her life, she still had no idea how to help her husband. If he even could be helped.
Well… there was one thing she could do.
She kissed their joined hands and laid his back on his chest as she stood from the bed. The sounds of the sheets ruffling as he lurched toward her, desperately trying to stop her from leaving, were so clear. It was almost enough to stop her, but she forced herself to tiptoe around the various messes on the floor to his side of the bed.
Aemond was frantic by the time she came to stand next to him, tears once more falling down his cheeks and flooding his empty eye as his chest heaved, and his eye was so wide with fear she could see the white surrounding his purple iris. The moment she stopped by his side, he shot out his hand to grip her arm so tightly no god could have ripped them apart.
Arianwyn leaned down and stroked his cheeks again, keeping a slow, steady rhythm until he calmed again. Perhaps forcing him from the bed this soon was a bad idea…
No. It would be worse to let his wounds remain unclean and allow them to fester. There had to be wounds beyond the cuts on his face – there was too much blood for there not to be.
And so long as she was near, he remained mostly functional.
Indeed, when Arianwyn pulled gently on his hand to encourage him to stand, he sat upright but went no further.
Aemond shut his eye, turning his head so that his scarred side was hidden in shadow. He squeezed her hand, ever so slightly tugging her back toward the bed.
Arianwyn held firm. She reached out to cup his chin with her free hand, bringing him back to face her. She tried to give him an encouraging smile, but all she could manage was a slight upturn of her lips.
Beneath her fingers, his skin was still crusted with dried blood and the salt from his tears, and the barest hint of stubble was forming around his jaw. As Arianwyn caressed his cheek, its rough texture – so at odds with the velvety smoothness she was used to – sent a shiver through her.
Worse, when she pulled her hand away, her fingertips were smudged with rusty red.
She turned her hand up so he could see and flicked her eyes to the bed linens and his pillow. They were so dirty it was remarkable anything was left on his skin.
Aemond followed her gaze, moving as though he were made of stone. Then, turning back, he bowed toward her, pressing his forehead into her open palm.
His breathing sped and deepened, and his body began to shake. But after a moment, he braced his arm on hers and stood.
He did not stand well. If anyone had been watching, they may very well have thought it was the first time Aemond had ever stood, for his legs trembled like a newborn fawn’s, and he had to lean heavily against Arianwyn to stay upright.
It was no surprise that he was so unsteady. Not with what he went through, and not with how much he had drunk.
Arianwyn avoided glancing at the bottles, both whole and shattered, as she led him toward the bathing room door. It would be no help to remind him of the state he had been in.
Though she couldn’t avoid looking at the small pool of sick in front of the door – directly in their path. As she guided him around it, he never met her eye. He only stared down at his clumsy feet, his nose wrinkled and lips pursed. She wanted to draw his gaze, to let him know it didn’t bother her – that she did not think less of him for it. But now was not the time to press him.
Not when she opened the door, and he looked up to see the full, steaming bath waiting for them. And soaps, oils, and fresh clothing. And supplies from the Maester’s tower. Tinctures and ointments for cleaning wounds, wrappings to bind them, and…
Arianwyn silently cursed as she watched fear and resentment wash over his face, ever so briefly, as he recognized the opaque white liquid beneath the glass of one of the larger bottles – milk of the poppy.
Not just a thimbleful or a vial, but an entire bottle. Likely the bulk of the Red Keep’s store.
She knew he would likely need it, and if she asked, he would not argue against taking it. But still, she wished whoever had brought it in had left it somewhere else. Somewhere Aemond would not have to see it.
Next to the collection was a sheet of parchment. Even from across the room, she recognized the script. So similar to her husband’s, the letters thin and long. After all, the man who wrote whatever was on that parchment had also taught Aemond how to write.
He taught Arianwyn, as well. But somehow, her hand always came out much more sloppily – her letters wide and short and somehow always crooked.
Grand Maester Orwyle had sent not just supplies but instructions on how to treat whatever wounds Aemond may have. She would have to do it herself, as Aemond would certainly not tolerate a Maester now. Not even Orwyle.
Did his promise to kill anyone who entered their chambers still stand? Could he even fulfill that promise if he wanted to?
Aemond’s face contorted in pain as Arianwyn lowered him to the small, cushioned seat that had been set by the bath. But he did not grunt, or moan, or even inhale too sharply. When he wanted silence, he always steadfastly upheld it. And he would until he was finally ready to talk or hear Arianwyn’s voice. Until then, she had to content herself with the quiet, even when it went against her every instinct.
As Arianwyn began to strip away his clothing, she tried not to remember how she had done the same thing for him only a few days ago, after he returned from Fleabottom. But, at least now, he could do more to assist her – raising his arms to let her slide off his shirt and lifting his feet so she could pull off his socks.
There was blood on his feet.
Thick trails of it down his ankle and staining his soles bright red. It must have been there for hours for it to have been dried by the time she removed his boots last night.
But where had it come from?
She had found no wounds on his chest. The only markings there were the pinkish remnants of tears mixed with blood.
His legs. He must have somehow wounded his legs. Perhaps sitting amongst all the broken glass?
Instantly, Arianwyn reached for his belt. She had become accustomed enough to removing his trousers that by the time Aemond – still sluggish – gripped her wrists and halted her movements, she had removed both his belts and was already halfway through on the laces of his trousers.
She pulled against him, trying to continue, but he held firm with more strength than he had shown all morning. And when she looked into his face for answers…
He knew. Whatever the wounds were, he knew. And he did not want her to see. Was afraid for her to see.
Though the fear she saw in his eye began to echo in her chest, Arianwyn did not let it show. She squared her shoulders and nodded, hoping she looked confident, even when she did not feel it.
Yes, she had fainted the last time she saw him bleed. But that was years ago; she had been through much since then. Seven Hells, she had stabbed a man, and had been ready to do so again with Jace. Whatever Aemond did not want her to see, she could handle it.
Couldn’t she?
Aemond’s lip began to tremble again as he released her hands, watching her resume her work. She went slowly, looking back up at him often to ensure he was still fine.
The trousers were halfway down his thighs when they stuck. Arianwyn assumed it was because Aemond was still seated and gave a sharp tug.
Aemond’s body went as taut as a bowstring as he jumped, holding back a guttural scream and leaning over his wife to clutch her back hard enough to hurt. Not intentionally; she knew that. But what had caused such a violent reaction?
She looked back at his thigh, only to see a new rivulet of fresh blood spilling down his skin.
Oh gods.
Oh, the cruel and merciless gods. They had to be so, to let her dear husband suffer like this.
When the blood clotted, the fabric of his trousers had dried with it. To remove them would be to rip the wounds open again.
With his brow pressed against hers, Arianwyn could feel when a tear dropped from Aemond’s eye and onto her cheek. One of her own soon joined it.
She shot up from the floor and grabbed the instructions Orwyle had left, reading over them as quickly as she could.
Nothing.
There was nothing about what she should do now.
It was only lists of herbs to put on the wounds, which tinctures to give him, and how much milk of the godsdamned poppy to make him drink. Arianwyn barely resisted tearing the sheet into ribbons. But she would need it later.
She wanted to run away. Get Ser Warren to help, or Ser Simon. Queen Alicent, perhaps. Or Criston Cole.
Most of all, she wished and wished that Orwyle was here. He would know how to help Aemond, how to heal his wounds. He would know exactly what to say to Arianwyn to make her feel better.
But she was alone.
She was nineteen years old and had been married for hardly more than a week. She was the ruler of lands she had no memory of and the bearer of the legacy of hundreds of men and women – Royce and Targaryen alike – who would all know what to do now.
What did those ancestors think of her now, as they looked on from whatever afterworld they went to? As they saw their bloodline reduced to a little girl who had spent her life in one tower or the other and couldn’t even stop her own husband from bleeding?
Arianwyn stumbled back to Aemond and knelt before him, Orwyle’s instructions left behind. She cupped his face in her hands, begging him silently to please, say something.
Silence had always been his way, but she couldn’t stand it. She needed him, needed his voice, needed him to tell her what to do.
Aemond only shook his head.
Arianwyn collapsed into his lap, her hands braced on either side of his waist as she cried and cried and cried.
They were supposed to go to Runestone.
They were supposed to have their fairy tale.
Not this.
-
Aemond did not know how long he sat there and let Arianwyn cry. Long enough for the new blood on his thigh to dry once more.
He didn’t care.
He knew it would hurt again when she calmed and resumed removing his trousers. He didn’t care.
He didn’t even care about the obscenely large bottle of milk of the poppy on the table across the tub.
He only cared that he had made Arianwyn cry.
And he hated himself for it.
For the only light that remained in his shriveled, blackened heart, though distant and small as a single candle, was her.
Aemond would follow wherever that little light guided him. He would do whatever he needed to help it shine.
Summoning all his strength, he lifted his hand from where it had begun to hang limply at his side and brought it to her perfect silver hair. He stroked it slowly, gently. As she had done for him earlier.
Then, he leaned down, ignoring the straining of muscles that came with the movement, summoned all his willpower into his voice, and did something he had never before done – he broke his silence before he was ready.
“I’m sorry, my love. I’m so sorry.”
She began to cry harder.
Next Chapter
#The Silver Dragon#aemond#aemond targaryen#aemond targaryen imagine#aemond targaryen fanfic#aemond fanfic#aemond imagine#aemond one eye#aemond the kinslayer#aemond x reader#aemond fluff#hotd aemond#house of the dragon aemond#prince aemond#prince aemond targaryen#hotd#hotd fanfic#house of the dragon imagine#house of the dragon fanfic#house of the dragon#ewan mitchell
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When did demanding for the next chapter become the norm? What happened to "I love your work!"? What happened to sending cute little asks yelling about how good the recent chapter is. If there is one thing that I know about writing is that rushed content will always be worse than a chapter that needed a little extra love.
this!!!! i promise this is the last time i'm going to complain about this stuff, but i think i speak for all writers when i say that if you send someone an ask or comment something along the lines of "when are you posting the next chapter?" "will there be another part?" "part 2???" you are going to burn. them. out. i think tiktok and other social media platforms have actually rotted some peoples brains into thinking that writers are content creators who can crank out 6k long works at the snap of your fingers. that's not at all how it works. the creative process takes time and can be draining for a lot of people!!!
i'm going to start deleting and potentially blocking (if it gets bad enough) people who send me asks wondering about the next part to soft spot. you guys, it is so exhausting. like i work full time. i work 10 hour shifts. i've had people send me asks THREE DAYS after i've posted a 10k long chapter asking when i was giving them another part. it's honestly childish and ridiculous. trust me i am trying. i write as often as i can. but please realize i am a human being. i haven't been very secretive about soft spot being a poorly hidden trauma fic, either. what that means is that i'm dumping a lot of my personal experiences into this story because therapy is honestly too damn expensive in this damn country lmao. so give me patience. this is all super personal to me. hounding me isn't going to make me write any faster. i have no schedule. i do not write full time. you're lucky i even post my stories at all. also i feel like i pretty regularly post updates about/sneak peeks of soft spot anyway? so if you guys would even just take a moment to go through my profile you'd probably figure out why the next chapter is taking a bit to be written lmao.
so just... keep that in mind before interacting with the authors of the stories you enjoy. writers do not owe you anything. like they mentioned in the ask, send encouragement. tell people your favorite parts about the story. ENGAGE with them for christs sake. and for all of you who do send me asks telling me what you enjoy about my work, please know i am forever grateful for you. you guys inspire and get me excited to write, and just know that it really helps so much <3
anyway, i'm hoping off my soap box now. please don't go about attacking anyone who does this by the way, i'm def not trying to spread any shit. i'm just a very tired writer trying to get their thoughts out lmao. but i agree with you 100% - this chapter needs a little extra love. and i hope it'll be worth it for you guys <3 treat your writers with kindness
#core responds#like i'm really not a confrontational person at all but y'all#remember we're not fucking ai cranking out stories#i honestly still have so much to say about this but that would take me thousands of words to type out and no one has the time for that#soft spot#soft spot ramble#treat your writers with kindness
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Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter Five | Chapter Six | Chapter Seven
It's dark. Not in the way that's familiar like the dreary shadows of the bunker. He knows that darkness, those shadows that he wraps himself up in like a blanket. No, rather, it's dark like he's lost. Dark like when he'd wandered into the forest when he was a trolling and he had no one to come look for him so he'd stumbled hopelessly through the pitch black praying that he'd find his way home. It's dark and he can't remember why.
He doesn't call out or feel around for someone else. He's not an idiot. He knows that more likely than not he was alone. He wouldn’t dare alert anything that could be out here. Instead he carefully moves forward, arm extended in front of him in hopes to keep himself from stumbling into anything while his feet silently drag across the floor to prevent himself from tripping. It's slow progress but no matter how far he goes nothing changes. The floor is rough but even beneath him and he doesn't run into anything. Not a wall or a tree or even a table. It's like the world itself has disappeared and left him behind in its shadow.
Despite that he feels strangely calm. There's no panic rushing through his veins or anxiety clogging his mind. He just moves slowly and silently through the darkness like something will change. It doesn't. Not until it does.
A long stretch away a ball of light is birthed into existence. It doesn't come into view or appear from around some invisible corner. It simply just is in the same way that before it simply wasn't. He startles at the small ball of orange and yellow flickering a forever away. At this pace he'll never reach the pinprick of fire dancing slowly closer but he was far too cautious to just make a run for it. The burst of flame was all there was. It didn't illuminate a world he couldn't see. It just sat in the center of the black, its glow absorbed into the vacuum of nothingness that consumed everything.
"Branch?" Poppy? "Branch where are you?" She sounds worried. Scared. There's a tremor in her voice that shouldn't ever be there and it sends a spike of ice through his chest.
"Here!" He calls, looking around frantically like suddenly he'd finally be able to see. Poppy broke his calm. The false sense of ease he'd felt was ripped away from him in a moment and suddenly he could feel his heart pounding a desperate rhythm in his chest and anxiety curled around his ribs and squeezed the air from his lungs. "Poppy, where are you?" He screams into the void but there's nothing there. Nothing but the fire. He throws caution to the wind and runs for it.
"Branch?" She sounds so small, so meek. She sounds so close but she's nowhere to be found. The fire, the light, it's his only hope. "Branch!"
"I'm coming!" He's trying, please, he's trying. "Just stay where you are!" She doesn't respond, just sobs, and he can't breathe. She's crying, she's scared, he can't find her. He's supposed to protect her. He's getting closer. The small speck of light is growing alarmingly fast. The fire has to be gigantic, a large ball of flame at least four times the size of him. "Poppy, please." He begs. He's still not close enough. He's still too far.
"Branch?" His heart stutters and stops and lurches into his throat. That's not fair, this isn't fair-- "I don't know where I am." Floyd. Floyd's here. Why are they here? Where are they? What is this?
"I'm coming," He swears. He's getting closer, the fire is almost as bright as the sun and somehow there's still nothing but darkness. There's no warmth, no heat, only all-consuming shadow. He feels the weight of it now. It presses in on him and slows him down. "Just wait for me."
"You're taking too long," John Dory. No. No no. He's coming. He's moving as fast as he can. "We can't wait forever." His voice is unsteady, eager to escape the unknown that makes him uncomfortable. The knee-jerk reaction to get away before something terrible could catch up to him.
"I'm almost there," He promises. He lies. He doesn't know where they are. He doesn’t know where he is, either. He can't lose them. He can't lose her. "Just wait for me."
"We're waiting," Bruce's soothing voice cuts in. He sounds sad. Patient and bittersweet and it feels dismissive.
They're lost. They're scared. They're asking for him, searching for him, and he can't find them. The fire is there. It's right there. It's the only beacon in this terrible, vacant nothingness. He's getting close enough that he can see it's raised high in the air. He has to look up now to keep it in his sight.
"Come on, Branch, you can do this," Clay urges, using his anxiety to fuel his support. He can imagine the green-haired troll wringing his hands together and he wishes that he could see it. He wants to see them. Please. He can find them, he can do this, please--
The ball of light is directly above him now and he cranes his neck to look up at it. "I'm here," he breathes, panting less from exertion and more from the weight of emotion crushing his chest.
"Branch?" Poppy whimpers. The light goes out and he's plunged into the suffocating nothing--
Branch jerks awake, eyes snapping open as he scrambles up against his headboard. His chest is heaving with each breath and panic courses cold through his veins. A dream. Of course it was just a dream, it was unrealistic and ridiculous and… haunting. It couldn't have been anything other than a nightmare but he can still hear the tremor in Poppy's voice and JD's false bravado and when he looks down at his paws cupped in his lap he can see them shaking even in the low light. Damn it. He really figured he'd be better by now. At least about this. He'd been riddled with nightmares most of his life, ever since Grandma Rosiepuff died, but he'd gotten better after he got his colors back. Until his brothers started staying with him at least.
The dreams had started back up with a vengeance after that. Some of them were completely unrelated, the Bergens betraying them or Poppy's bubbly friends ridiculing him again, but some of them hammered home just how deep his issues ran. Sometimes it was his brothers sitting him down and explaining in painful detail how the band breaking up had been his fault. Other times it was waking up to the bunker empty and all of his brothers nowhere to be found. Every once in a while the dreams would twist and morph into something unreal but no less painful, like it had tonight. Usually those ones are easier to brush off. They should be easy to pick apart and see for what they were: fake. He couldn't make rhyme or reason of the nightmare that's left him drenched in sweat and trembling like a leaf in his bed. It's infuriating that something so fantastical could shake him to his core. Sitting here alone in his room he can admit to himself that he was still scared. The terror lingered heavy over his head and he pressed his back harder against the headboard like it could protect him from some unknown evil trying to sneak up on him. He felt pitifully unsafe in his own home and the shadows he usually found soothing were quickly becoming oppressive.
Branch leaped from his bed and turned on his bedside lamp, taking a few grounding breaths when the warm glow gently spread across the room. He needed to calm down. He was fine. The others were fine. With the darkness pushed away he feels a little more at ease but his chest still feels tight and there's still a chill between his shoulder blades. He's still pitifully, achingly afraid.
Running a hand down his face and counting slowly to ten in his head he makes for the door. Always, without fail, he was the last up and the first awake. He hated the idea of being caught off guard, especially in his own home, and the constant hypervigilance kept him up and focused until he just couldn't be anymore. Ever since his brothers came back into his life he'd gotten maybe five hours of sleep every night, rarely uninterrupted. He didn't mind the routine but there was an exhaustion in his day-to-day that hadn't been there before. It was starting to catch up to him, his energy and focus were waning more often than not, but at least he knew with a fair amount of certainty that no one else was awake at this hour.
He steps silently out into the open space of the bunker and moves swiftly towards the stairs. He doesn't want to make any noise and wake anyone up so he avoids both the elevator and the lights despite how his anxious mind insists that the darkness is nipping at his heels, eagerly reaching out to drag him away from the light--
He makes it to the kitchen faster than he should have.
He speed walks down the hallway and flips on the light the second he crosses the threshold, bracing his hands on the table the moment he's close enough and just taking a few minutes to breathe. His whole body is wracked with fine tremors and his knees feel weak. You're fine, He seethes to himself, Get it together. His heart is racing beneath his ribs and he feels like it's only moments away from bursting. He pries his fingers off the edge of the table and forces himself to take measured steps over to his fridge. You're fine, he insists as he sifts through the bottles and jars tucked into the fridge door, You're fine, he chants as he selects a bottle of homemade strawberry milk Poppy had gifted him.
He lets the fridge door swing shut behind him and turns on his heel to grab a mug from the cupboard. He pointedly ignores how the bottle visibly shakes in his grip and grits his teeth when his fingers clumsily miss the handle of the mug the first few times he tries to grab it. His heart stutters and stops and aches sharply and he's fine. He snatches the cup with a violent anger that's stirring to life deep in his stomach and slams it onto the counter. Immediately he winces, cringing at the loud sound that echoes ruthlessly through the space, and when he places the bottle down beside the mug it's with a much lighter hand. He goes through the motions subconsciously, grabbing a small pot from a cabinet and pouring a generous amount of milk into it before placing it on the stove. He barely even registers that he's turned the stove on, staring blankly into his empty cup and wondering if it would be overstepping some unspoken boundary if he were to show up at Poppy's pod right now. Maybe, if he was quiet enough, he could slip unnoticed into his brothers' rooms and make sure that they were okay. Assure himself that, against all odds, they were still here. He knows it's a ridiculous fear, they were adults and they all seemed fairly happy with the arrangement, but a small part of him pleads with him to check anyway. A terrifying what-if that persists despite his best efforts to squash it with logical thinking.
He startles from his stupor when the milk boils over, hissing and spitting when the liquid dribbles into the flame. He scrambles to turn off the stove and pull the pot away from the heat, sucking in a sharp breath when the milk almost sloshes over the side in his rush to avoid making a bigger mess. Like he hadn't already been on edge before. He quickly goes about pouring his drink into his cup and setting the pot into the empty sink to cool. Haphazard clean-up complete he gently cradles his warm drink in his hands. Immediately the warmth seeping from the mug begins to soothe his nerves and a trembling sigh falls from his lips. It's a small comfort, one that does very little to calm his heart or stop the tremors wracking his body, but he's never been one to take the small things for granted. He hadn't been for a long, long time.
You're fine, he closes his eyes, focusing on the weight of the mug in his paws. You're fine, you're fine, you're fine, he chants it like a mantra inside his head. The shaking doesn't lessen. His chest still aches. He still feels like he can barely breathe and his heart is desperate to escape. You're fine, he tries in vain to convince himself, messily leaning back against the counter and sliding down until he's curled up on the floor. You're fine. They're fine, it was just a stupid dream. Nothing happened, no one left, they're all still here, His thoughts sound desperate even to himself, he knows that he's working himself up but he's helpless to stop himself from spiraling.
He sets the mug aside before he spills the scalding drink and instead wraps his arms tight around himself, drawing his legs up to his chest and burying his face into his knees. "You're okay," He chokes out just to fill the silence. His voice is strained and choked and his breath is warm against his face, "You're okay." It sounds like an empty promise, one he's tried to keep for decades. He thought he'd gotten better. Maybe he had just gotten better at fooling himself. He sobs, clenching his jaw in a futile attempt to keep his cries at bay. His eyes burn and he squeezes them shut like that would make the tears go away. "You're okay," He pleads, arms tightening around himself in a poor imitation of a hug. What's wrong with him? Why is he like this? It was just a dream, he knows that!
Another cry bursts from his lips and he gives in. He shakes apart on the kitchen floor, muffles whimpers into his arms and jerks with silent, full-body sobs that leave him gasping for air. He tugs at his hair and bites his lips to keep quiet and he falls apart because he can't possibly keep himself together anymore. Instead of some sort of catharsis, he only feels worse. He feels tired and broken and still so agonizingly frightened. He feels like he's lost himself to these empty rooms, like they've gutted him and left him hollow and alone. He cries and cries and cries and all he feels is empty and haunted. Alone, the way he's always been. Branch doesn't move for a long, long time. When he finally uncurls and peels himself off the floor he picks up his mug long gone cold and dumps the milk down the drain.
#| Game Plans |#{ isolationist }#trolls fanfic#trolls band together#trolls branch#dreamworks trolls#angst#hurt/comfort
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River Reads Midnight Sun
Chapter 2: Open Book
In which Edward faces his fears and spends an agonizing amount of time hyperfixating on Bella.
<-Chapter 1
So we jump into chapter two AND next week, as it has been six days since Edward (shockingly) succeeded in leaving town forever (citation needed)! He is chilling (ha) in a snowbank, staring up at the stars, which are truly magnificent. Or he knows they would be, except he can't quite see anything except Bella's face. Yes, the girl has haunted him straight to (checks location on a map) oh he's in ALASKA, okay! I wasn't sure where Denali was, but I was PRETTY sure even Edward couldn't drive a car to Russia. (You'll see why I considered Russia in a minute.)
Anyway, the "unremarkable" face of this girl he's literally never spoken to directly has been haunting him for six days, which is indeed troubling. While he is brooding on this, the thoughts of a new character come leaping towards him. This is where we meet Tanya, a vampire with silver skin, blonde-but-almost-pink curly hair, amber eyes, and full lips. Mary Sue Tanya is stunning and exquisite, at least from Ed's memory, since he still can't see past the face permanently branded on his eyeballs.
So anyway, Mary Sue Tanya does a cannonball into Ed's snowbank, burying him alive with snow but not burying the image of Bella. It becomes clear that she has been crushing on Ed and is sad he will be leaving soon and doesn't return her affections, although he is very polite and gentlemanly about it.
(Honestly, I liked her well enough until we got to the "I'm not used to rejection" line, and then she starts sifting through the memories of all her human male conquests next to the actual mind reader who she is attracted to, to which I say WOMAN REALLY??? I don't think making the guy you like EVEN MORE UNCOMFORTABLE than he's already admitted you kinda make him is an effective way to gain his affections?!)
ANYWAY, thankfully they get off THAT subject quickly and have a really quite nice conversation, wherein Ed apologizes for getting her hopes up by coming to her home territory and Tanya tries to be a good friend. We see a mention of her "long-lost Russian accent," thus my uncertainty about location, and she tells him she knows he won't keep running from his mystery problem because he's the type who faces things head-on. Mary Sue TANYA then runs away across the snow, so light and fast she doesn't even leave footprints, suggesting a connection between vampires and wood elves.
Encouraged by this pep talk, Gary Stu Edward also gets up and runs footprintless across the snow, determined to be brave and go back and face those "bewildered chocolate-brown eyes," and hopefully not eat the girl attached to them.
SCENE CHANGE!
Edward's back in town, and his three vampire siblings/classmates are huddled around him as they head into the lunchroom, being quite adorably protective, honestly. Alice is trying to foresee any problematic eventualities, Jasper thinks it's funny that EDWARD is the one everyone's fretting over instead of him, Emmett is acting like a bodyguard, and Ed is just exasperated with all of them.
To his surprise, nobody at school is thinking about them, suggesting that Bella didn’t blab about his black murderstare from last chapter. After all, a normal human would have asked around about it, because humans and especially teens all like to feel NORMAL and FIT IN and be a "featureless flock of sheep" and WOW, should I be more annoyed at Ed or the author for this intense bias against high schoolers?! But of course Bella isn't like those OTHER kids, she doesn't do things like talk to people when something weird happens!
About this time, Bella walks in and Alice is all, "Act human!" To which Emmett responds by taking out the snowball he compressed into an ice chunk with his superstrength and chucking it at Alice, who casually deflects it across the room at superspeed, where it cracks a brick. This does, ironically, draw attention away from them. Everyone is annoyed at Emmett, which is fair, but also, ALICE COULDN'T YOU HAVE JUST CAUGHT IT INSTEAD OF POTENTIALLY SHOOTING SOMEONE?
Ahem. So Bella's in the lunch line, and Mike Newton, Regular High School Guy And Insignificant Human Rival, is worried about her. Ed starts also worrying about if she might be sickly, what with her translucent skin. (Are we 100% sure BELLA is human?!) The vampires do a slightly better job of acting natural, and Edward decides to refer to Bella as “Bella” and not just "the girl,” "as if she were the only girl in the world," which is HILARIOUS considering where we all know this is going!
After eavesdropping on Bella and Jessica whispering about him looking at her (Bella thinks he's mad at her, after the whole murderstare incident), Bella hunkers under her hair and avoids eye contact, although Ed thinks she keeps twitching like she WANTS to look at him. Then, at long last, lunch ends and everyone starts going to class. There is another internal struggle while Ed reviews what all of his vampire family members have advised about this situation. (Emmett sounding the least helpful, as he has apparently encountered two such delicious-smelling-people incidents that... uh... sound like they did NOT go well?) But Ed is determined to prove to himself that he has the self-control to sit through biology without murdering Bella, so off he goes.
(By the way, Rosalie complains she doesn't want to have to move because they're almost finally out of high school. Again, why are you pretending to be high school students?! It's not like you'll age whether you're there or not?! HOW DOES THIS HELP YOUR COVER??)
Edward gets to Biology to find Bella at their table, doodling randomly. He decides to introduce himself. He gets briefly lost in gratuitously detailed descriptions of her eyeballs and how they are simultaneously like chocolate and strong tea, and how could anyone so frail be deserving of his unwarranted hatred last week? He's also holding his breath, but has enough air in his longs for a reasonably lengthy conversation AND a short laugh, during which Bella is... surprised/startled that he called her Bella? Because her dad introduced her to everyone as Isabella? But she's apparently told multiple people since she got here that she prefers Bella? So he probably could have learned that even without his super vampire eavesdropping powers? WHY is this weird enough to be suspicious, and HOW does it indicate she is intuitive?
Well, the book and Ed believe she is insightful and intuitive, so I guess we should just go with it. Ed does eventually needs to breath so he can talk, and even though just breathing through his mouth is like tasting the FIERY COALS of her deliciousness, and their brief moment of making skin contact is like an ELECTRIC SHOCK, he manages to continue acting normal.
By the way, along with being unconventionally if lopsidedly pretty and smelling delicious, Bella was also in advanced-placement biology at her previous school and Knows Science! Edward realizes this must mean she is ESPECIALLY intelligent for a human, which of course makes perfect sense. After all, she was the first student in two years to look him in the eye long enough to notice they'd changed from the Murderstare Incident's I'm-going-to-eat-you black to today's calmer I'm-probably-not-going-to-eat-you-except-by-accident amber/gold! My friends, may I remind you this man previously admitted he has two medical degrees, a thing that probably required some amount of physically attending college. I really wonder if Ed's standards would be more realistic if he ever once SOCIALIZED WITH HIS HUMAN CLASSMATES.
In an effort to maintain normalcy, they talk about the weather. Bella does not like the cold and wet of Forks. She clearly does not like being in Forks at all. She is vague and grumpy about why she came here, and Edward is so obsessed curious that he may implode (this is the actual word used). We learn (agonizingly slowly) that her mom remarried—and no, Edward, Bella DOES like the guy, he's nice and a minor-league baseball player; and no, Edward, her mom DIDN'T send her here, SHE sent HERSELF here so her mom could happily travel with her step-dad rather than unhappily stay home with her! Ed is certain by now that Bella "isn't like other humans" because he keeps guessing her story arcs wrong and she's just so CONFUSING and UNPREDICTABLE, and this can't possibly be because he's about 100 years out of practice having a normal conversation without a cheat code into the other person's brain.
(Okay, to be fair, there are at LEAST two moments of self-awareness where Ed wonders if he'd be this bad at reading everybody without his mindreading powers. We should give him points for that.)
But despite his difficulties, he DOES figure out that Bella is unhappy, mostly by her sending out signals that a rhino could decipher. When he confronts her with this observation, her response is, "So?" And after meditating on this for an unusually brief paragraph, Ed realizes THE ANSWER:
"She was selfless."
I'm sorry, guys, I need to break for a second, that's the first part that made me laugh out loud. Can someone lend me a combine to harvest all this corn.
(Side Note: As previously stated, I have not read the books or watched the movies, so I could be biased by the negative side of the fanbase. But my general impression of Bella has not lent itself to "selflessness." BUT, it is only chapter two and I am only going off of general hearsay! The amount of poorly concealed disgruntlement is not impressing me, though.)
Anyway, Ed guesses that she doesn't really like her situation but doesn't want people to KNOW she doesn't like it. He continues to marvel at how positively he feels towards this girl, how discerning she is, how *cough* selfless she is, not like an "average martyr" who would actually tell someone she's not 100% happy with her SACRIFICE. Bella gets annoyed, which Ed finds amusing, so there's another adjective for the list. But then she says she's annoyed because she's so easy to read, and Edward can't believe this, because he's never had to work so hard to read someone before! Again, this couldn't possibly be because she's the first person in 100+ years whose mind he can't read!
By the way, Bella also seems to be oblivious immune to the usual red flags normal humans feel around vampires! Ed tries smiling dangerously at her, but the teacher breaks up their conversation with actual classtime, so he gets to angst for a few paragraphs about why he shouldn't find this girl interesting and how dangerous this is for her and yet how MUCH he wants to know more about her. And also trying not to kill her when her thick, black hair flips in his direction and drives his vampire nose bananas.
He books it as soon as the bell rings, having survived the encounter without murdering anyone but with so many new questions about this unremarkable, shy, frail, unmindreadable-yet-highly-face-readable, delicious-smelling, selfless, quietly disgruntled human girl.
(Side Note: I have learned a new word!
"Attar—a fragrant essential oil, typically made from rose petals."
Ex: "Again, I gasped at the clean, wet air outside as though it was a healing attar."
*loud sighing noises*)
So after that brief break, he goes to class with Emmett. Emmett, IMMENSELY HELPFUL EMMETT, asks how it went, questions if it wouldn't be easier to just get it over with, reassures Ed that everyone would understand if he messed up (GIVING IN IS NOT THE SAME AS "MESSING UP," EMMETT), and then vividly visualizes a time he experienced a really good-smelling woman and ate her. Between his earlier blasé-ness about not "wallowing in guilt" over past mistakes and this section's lack of anything indicating regret about that incident, I take back any nice things I might have said about this guy. Emmett, YOU. ARE. THE WORST.
It's so bad that Ed has to bolt out of class AGAIN, although it doesn't help that Emmett follows him and continues to suggest maybe Ed should just get it over with if it's so bad, can Alice or somebody please come punch him. Ed finally gets him to leave and hides in his car. Then, "like an addict" (his own words), he searches the whole school for thoughts about Bella. From his car. My GUY, just how UNREASONABLY powerful ARE your mind radar skills???
He finally locates Bella in gym class, because Mike, who is mad about Ed talking to her, is thinking in logical, complete sentences (as one does) about how satisfied he is that Bella doesn't seem interested in Edward. He also conveniently remembers her asking "what was with" Edward last Monday (after the Deathstare Incident). So apparently Bella isn't QUITE abnormal unique enough to stay totally silent when she encounters a weird thing (not that Edward notices). Ed's response to his annoyance over Mike's satisfaction is to blast "violent music," which seems the opposite of helpful to me.
We end the chapter with Bella coming out of school and heading to her rusty old truck while Ed watches her creepily from his car. She almost hits another student's car when she locks eyes with him, and Ed has to laugh at her sudden increased driving vigilance, as if she might be DANGEROUS! Because of course it's RIDICULOUS to think that BELLA could be dangerous to ANYONE in ANY vehicle, as if the driver's physical frailty has any bearing on the damage a truck can do when crashing into cars or non-vampires at speed.
AND SCENE!
I'm gonna be honest, guys, that one was a couple degrees more agonizing than the first chapter. I dread how much more I'm going to hear about Ed's conflicting desires to eat Bella and be attracted to her simultaneously average yet fascinating allure. She's just so unusually unique and smart and intuitive and selfless and shy and frail and inspires protective instincts, you see, and she's not like ANY OTHER human he's ever encountered, even though we have evidence now that sometimes certain vampires just find certain humans irresistibly delicious, and we can probably extrapolate that those humans were somehow immune to vampire powers, too.
I also highly question Bella's above-average "martyrdom," considering she dropped her guard pretty fast around the cute stranger and basically broadcasted how unhappy she is with her decision, which makes it feel a bit like she did what she did so she could feel good about herself rather than because it was the best thing to do? Being selfless doesn't mean COMPLETELY ignoring your own needs, or justify using your good deed as an excuse to have a poor attitude. Of course, considering that half her traits that Ed notices and marvels over are actually fairly normal, I don't think any of us feel a strong need to trust his assessments of her character.
Next up is CHAPTER THREE: RISK. I'm sure it will feature Edward being very level-headed and undramatic. I think I need to build my endurance back up for this one. (And thanks for the likes and comments so far, they really help keep me motivated! =D)
Chapter 3->
#River reads midnight sun#twilight#vampires#edward cullen#bella swan#satire#literary analysis maybe?#My word there are 29 chapters and an epilogue#Lend me your strength yall#River reviews
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ஓ๑ The Luck Dragon ஓ๑
This is chapter two of my 'The Neverending Story'. This is a pick a pile for what you're overthinking about in a situation and how to release it in order to find your luck within it.
If you'd like to purchase a personal reading, then click here 🌌.
Pile one Pile two
Pile three Pile four
~ Pile one ~
What are you overthinking?
You guys are overthinking about why an ending to a connection between you and another person happened. I'm getting that this is mostly romantic. This person may have been one of the few to understand you in a way to the point where they were like your other half. You may have even seen this person as someone you could have shared a past life with or were certain that this would be someone that stayed in your life forever. For a few of you, I'm getting that the idea was actually stimulated by readings you may have gotten about this person, and was told that this was your divine counterpart or some other connection that kept you hopeful for this person. This ending happened, because regardless of what the potential was stated in those readings, if that person is not acting like your divine counterpart/soulmate/twinflame, then they gotta go. This ending was divinely orchestrated because the universe knew that you wouldn't leave if they didn't step in.
What luck are you unlocking from this realization?
The kind of luck that's being revealed from this realization, is your independence. "You do not put your life on hold for anyone" is strongly being emphasized. The problem with seeing someone as your other half, is that it evokes the idea that you're not whole. That you cannot possibly continue on with your life and make the best out of it, or find a better person out there for you without their presence and that is far from the truth. This was supposed to also shed wisdom on your codependent relationship with readings. There's a need to protect yourself from how you're disrupting the balance inside yourself. Turning to guidance can quickly turn into obsession and stagnancy in your healing if you aren't more careful with how you see divination. Don't let a reading cloud away from what's happening right in front of you, and it should never come before your own discernment. And lastly, this was supposed to bring clarity around what is an ideal long-term commitment is like for you and the kind of person you would happily spend your life with, not out of obligation because of a past life that you two once shared together.
~ Pile two ~
What are you overthinking?
You guys are overthinking about whether you've done enough. This could apply to a situation that's been causing you distress but this could also apply to literally working. You guys could be extremely worried about your finances. I feel like you guys have actually done all that you can, the problem isn't the effort that you've already put in so much of, it's your surroundings and the way it's putting you in survival mode. This could look like living paycheck to paycheck or there's this deadline that's coming to a close. I'm getting that there's a need to renovate how you're going about this by investing your energy somewhere else, and what I mean by this, is finding a new way to make money. You're being drained of your resources by doing something that isn't even giving you something sustainable to live on, wouldn't you might as well look to your other options? You've been investing your patience on the wrong thing. Drop whatever that's not really giving you anything, lay off yourself because you've worked too hard to question if you did enough, and pursue something that you'd actually be proud and satisfied to do. The income behind this will reflect how you approach this. The money is coming and going because you're looking at these careers as a temporary fix instead of long-term fulfillment.
What luck are you unlocking from this realization?
Contrary to the belief that we're just here to simply exist, you are meant to live a life with purpose. This realization is going to help redirect you to the path that's going to make you financially secure and happy. You're going to need to apply that same patience towards this journey because success isn't overnight, but it isn't a reason to give up, when whatever that's on the other side is worth having. As you're moving along this new beginning, this is going to shed light on what made you cling to what seemed safe but never actually made you feel safe. The luck that you will find from this realization is thinking outside of the box, finding solutions, and the answers to your questions about your existence that just didn't make sense until now.
~ Pile three ~
What are you overthinking?
You're overthinking about if your trauma really happened to you or if it's severe enough to acknowledge. It happened, but that's not the message. The message here is that it's so important to trust yourself that you know in your heart what happened and to remain grounded with your past. I'll share this personally, that I've struggled with my head over the abuse that I've faced, I've had to talk to strangers, friends, professionals, etc to confirm that what happened to me wasn't ok. I've even asked my guides, but they've always wanted me to be sure of this on my own because even with the help of other people and divination, it wasn't enough for me until I realized that it took outside influences and people who gaslighted me, that instilled this distrust for myself and my memory, inside of me in the first place. So why do we continue to search for outside opinions as a solution? I'll give you the comfort to know that you're not alone in struggling with this, I'll give you the reassurance that you know what you're talking about, it matters, and that you didn't deserve for it to happen, but most importantly I want you to know that to save yourself from the battles that you have within, you do so with compassion and trust, that your pain has no reason to lie, and it's there. The hurt that we feel exists as a reminder, it isn't meant to deceive.
What luck are you unlocking from this realization?
The luck that you're receiving from this realization is movement and a transformation. Surrounding yourself with like-minded people is still a necessity, but instead of being stuck in the loop of uncertainty, you'll take a different approach, looking for a way to move on from this and there will be people there to help you and comfort you. You're also no longer going to let people water down what you went through or try to recite their own version of what took place, you're going to be more assertive, grounded, and saying no more to anyone that corners you into confusion, even if that person is yourself. As you heal from the bad memories, you'll make room for new and better memories.
~ Pile four ~
What are you overthinking?
You're overthinking a decision on whether to stay or walk away from a situation. Something here feels incomplete, which is where your dilemma comes from. I'm getting that you should go with your gut feeling that knows that it wouldn't be right to leave so sudden, that there's something still that you need to finish here. There could be a pending opportunity that you're feeling hopeless about. Some of you are in a newer environment and things could be moving pretty slow and not matching the excitement that you initially felt about this new beginning. You could be questioning if you should go back home or to where you were before. But i'm getting a huge "no" and "wait". Stop and think. What exactly is making you scared of this opportunity? Is it your patience? Is it your anxiety over not adjusting into this new community? You're being advised to see it all the way through because the magic hasn't happened yet, but it will.
What luck are you unlocking from this realization?
You're going to be encountering individuals who were once in the same situation as you, who will make you feel more at home and give you a newer perspective on the benefits of staying and the potential of growth that you'll reach. This is going to make the rewards that you reap, more sweeter, as you learn how to let go of controlling when and what will happen because things are moving slow because you haven't allowed the universe to let its plan unfold. Your luck comes when you stop resisting this new abundance just because of what you don't see yet. Being open to uncertainty is not easy, but it's not impossible, focus on being more receptive in order to let the shower of opportunities into your reality.
#divination#intuitive#psychic#pick a card#oracle#spirituality#pac#tarot#pick a pile#pick a picture#tarotblr#tarot community#tarot reader#intuitive readings#psychic readings
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T & G reading since 3/9
Finished
Teen:
With Surgical Precision, by metisket
If Wen Qing had realized sooner that she wasn’t in the afterlife or hallucinating, but had actually traveled back in time, she’d have done things differently. There’d have been less murder, for one thing.
The Straightest Path, by meyari (🔒, 14 chapters)
The moment of Xiongzhang’s death would live forever in Lan Zhan’s mind. He’d turned towards Lan Zhan, qiankun pouch holding the library in his hands. Then he’d gasped as arrows flew towards them both in a hail no one could survive.
How Often Do You See Your Mother?, by Winxhelina
It is the one day of the month, when Lan Zhan gets to see his mum. This month is different. They are outside. His mother has somehow managed to convince the Lans to allow all three of them, and 12 Lan disciples, to go to the market. 'Like normal children get to do with their mummies and daddies' his mother had said. Of course his daddy isn't here.
Lan Zhan chews on the too sweet strawberry and looks through the crowds. There is a small boy, around his age, sitting on a dirty blanket on edge of the street. No one else seems to notice him, everyone's just passes him by, some of them even step on the corner of the little blanket. The boy is looking at Lan Zhan. Staring really. Lan Zhan stares back. The boy smiles at him, his smile is warm and friendly, a bit like mum's. He waves at Lan Zhan.
Inspired by the scene in the donghua that seems to suggest Wei Ying and Lan Zhan met as children.
In which Lan Zhan and his mother meet a homeless Wei Ying on the streets and decide to help him find his parents.
General:
The Other Half of My Soul, as the Poets Say, by IrisPines618
"Wei Wuxian spoke again, soft and plaintive, "Would you know him, if you saw him again ? He is much changed from who he was.... from the man you loved "
The response sounded again, sure as steel, "I would know him blind, by the way he breathed, and the sound of his feet against the earth. I would know him in death, in different forms. I would know him till the stars burn out, and in utter darkness, and in all this, my love will remain. I would love him if he hated me. Even if he killed me, my last act would be to confess my love for him. I would love him until the world's end, and beyond. I will love him forever"
Wei Ying awakens at the bottom of the canyon in the Burial Mounds, and finds a red thread tied around his ankle, one end sinking into his heart, the other stretching out towards the horizon. With nothing to lose, Wei Wuxian decides to follow it, and finds, at the other end, his destiny, his soulmate, his zhiji
Lan Qiren Time travel AU, by @marzaid (tumblr fic)
Time travel AU where post canon Lan Qiren travels back in time to when Wei Wuxian is 4 and has just lost his parents. Lan Qiren may hate the man (now boy), but he still follows the rules strictly and will not kill. Instead, Lan Qiren finds a 4 year old Wei Wuxian cowering in an alley hiding from dogs. He protects the boy because the rules tell him that it is his duty to do so.
Trellis, by WithBroomBefore
Jiang Yanli spends long enough weighing the merits of a second child against the inconveniences of another pregnancy for the decision to be nearly made by default. She is a sect leader’s wife now, and even with her mother-in-law still living, that is more than enough work to fill her days. By the time Jin Ling is nine years old, she has accepted that he will not have siblings close enough in age to grow up alongside as she and her brothers did. Still, she and Jin Zixuan speak wistfully of another from time to time, with the growing awareness that they are unlikely to follow that path. So it is a joyous surprise when the question answers itself.
No-One But The Pure In Heart, by sami (part of 2 series)
anyoneanyonebuick
I can't decide whether I think "yeah, it checks out that the Immortals would all get in on his bullshit this time"
or
"yeah, it checks out that he'd have a bunch of people pretend to be them, it's exactly what he'd do"
No, Wei Wuxian, You Cannot Divorce A Man You Haven't Married Yet!, by stiltonbasket (8 chapters)
"Have you heard? The second young mistress of Yunmeng Jiang broke her troth with Hanguang-jun and ran off to the Burial Mounds with Wen Qionglin!"
"Ah, poor Lan-er-gongzi. Breaking her sister's engagement wasn't enough for Wei-guniang, she had to betray her own intended!"
In which Wei Wuxian ditches the cultivation world, Lan Wangji goes grocery shopping, Lan Sizhui narrates his parents' love story, and Nie Huaisang is the only one who knows what's really going on. Prompt fic!
Unfinished
Teen:
What Remains After the War, by Swan_Song
There is a child in the burial mounds.
Looking at the face of a sobbing toddler, crying for the man he once called brother, Jiang Wanyin he can’t find it in him to care that the boy has Wen blood.
He takes the boy home
我们不要伤心了 - lets not grieve anymore, by bonesntears
Wei Wuxian lost it all for a second time. The one thing he thought would stay, didn't stand by his side. The only constant throughout his entire two lifetimes shook his head and turned around. The rain felt more like drowning in tears of everything he's hurt, gray clouds hiding the life he clung to so desperately. Lan Zhan, please--come back for me one last time.
i.e., instead of reincarnation through Mo Xuanyu, Wei Wuxian finds himself waking from death in his own body, as a child again.
Seven Seconds to the End, by Admiranda, miixz
Wei Wuxian has been alive for less than an hour, he has no plans for his future. But if there is one thing he knows, it’s that he wants to see Lan Zhan again.
Wei Wuxian remembers all that happened at the end of his first life. He remembers that Lan Zhan stayed on his side until the very end, how he'd tried to save him before Jiang Cheng attempted to kill them both. When he fell, the last thing he saw was Lan Zhan's eyes, the last thing he heard was his cries.
When he finds himself unexpectedly returned to life, he knows exactly who he can trust and where he needs to go. A Chen Qing Ling retelling.
How Well You Walk Through Fire, by Eternal Scribe (Shadowcat)
Jiang Cheng and Lan Wangji were not sure exactly what they were seeing, but they knew that they couldn’t look away. They had been searching for these two men for days and had finally found them trying to hide undetected in an out-of-the-way inn on the edges of Yiling. Listening to their conversation it seemed that they were trying to get to Wen Chao’s father before whoever was hunting Wen Chao caught up with him again.
General:
Blooming You a Garden Inside Me, by xxxMiaHikarixxx
Wei Ying desperately tries to befriend Lan Zhan. He feels that he needs Lan Zhan's attention so he keeps trying to get it. After the waterborne abyss incident, Wei Ying finds out more about his feelings and Lan Zhan's feelings than he was prepared for.
The Line Between Good and Evil, by Dandesamm
Right after the celebration of the successful siege against Yiling Laozu Wei Wuxian, suddenly time reverses. Back to the Sunshot Campaign.
Cultivation World: "....." Uh.Oh
Wei Wuxian: "Ha-Ha"
You go play your own Sunshot Campaign Game, but I, Wei Wuxian, will quit!
Lan Wangji: "Seconded. Hanguang-Jun shall also delete his account."
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Foxtrot Alpha Alpha - Chapter 15
Pairing: Hangman x Female OC
Word Count: 1391
Warnings: Swearing, mention of death
Summary: Hangman learned his lesson a long time ago to never show his true feelings when someone's words or actions hurt him. To do so showed weakness that could be exploited, and Seresin men couldn't show weakness. Of course, there was an exception to every rule, and Jake's always came in the form of women, three in particular: his mom, Juliette Kazansky, and the girl whose name he could no longer bring himself to speak. She was the girl that got away; she was his biggest 'what if' and his biggest regret; she would forever be the ghost that haunted his dreams. Jake believed that's where she'd stay, for he would surely never see her again after what he did.
Or so he thought.
Notes: This is the sequel to India Lima Yankee; I'm using the same callsign for the Female OC as in Ghost Story because I just really like it, but they are different characters; chapters in italics are flashbacks.
Chapter Songs: Think of You Life As We Know It
****
Ghost
You're going to get someone killed.
Maverick's words echoed in her head, and while she could take criticism from almost anyone without flinching, hearing such a thing come from her idol hurt more than she cared to admit. The last thing Ghost wanted to do was hang out at the Hard Deck, where she knew Maverick would inevitably be after the tournament to finish the day off on a good note with the Daggers. Embarrassment hardly covered her emotions, and she dreaded showing her face to him. Any chance of her getting in his good graces was probably shot now...
Still, she'd promised Juliette and Jackie she'd be there tonight, and God knows what her sister would do to her if she didn't show. Reluctantly, Ghost showered, dried her hair, curled it, and did her makeup before throwing on black shorts, a white tee, and her ever-trusty bomber jacket. As she picked up her phone to check the time, a notification popped up: Ghoul's Birthday.
A knot lodged itself in Ghost's throat. How could she have forgotten that it was today? It'd only been a few years, and she'd never missed it before, so why had this year been any different? Shaking her head, Ghost thought: Forgive me, Ghoul. I've had a lot going on, but it's no excuse. I have to head to the bar to see the Daggers, but I'll make sure I do your favorite shot in honor of you and our tradition.
Gathering herself, Ghost shoved her phone into her jacket pocket and strolled to the Hard Deck, enjoying the ocean breeze caressing her skin. It temporarily alleviated her melancholy but returned when she stepped into the Hard Deck and saw Hangman and Coyote playing darts. Once upon a time, she would've joined them without reservation or hesitation. If only those times still existed. Swallowing her unease, Ghost headed to the bar.
"Hey, Penny," she greeted, plastering on a smile. "How are you?"
"Hey, Ghost," Penny replied cheerfully. "Heard you put on quite the show today."
The aviator let out a dry chuckle. "I think that depends on who you ask."
"The spectators thought you did a great job, but they're not the ones you wanted to impress today, were they?"
Ghost shook her head. "I wasn't trying to impress anyone, but I certainly left a sour taste in someone's mouth. That, in turn, has left a bitter one in mine that I need to wash down. May I order an Irish shot, please?"
"Hitting it hard right off the bat, huh?" Penny queried, grabbing the required glassware. "How badly do you think you screwed up?"
"Enough that it's gotten to me, and that's saying something, but I'm not going to drag you down with that. Besides, this drink isn't to drown my sorrows. This-" Ghost motioned at the shot Penny currently prepared- "is an homage to my late WSO: Ghoul. Today is her birthday. We always did this shot for her birthday, and if we were deployed and unable to do it on the day, it was the first thing we did when we stepped foot onto solid ground. She-"
"Is that an Irish shot?" Coyote asked excitedly, coming to stand beside Ghost. He draped an arm around her shoulders. "Were you planning on doing this without us?"
"Us?"
Hangman appeared on the other side of Coyote and confirmed, albeit uncharacteristically demure, "Us."
"We were going to celebrate Ghoul's birthday but wanted to wait until you arrived to participate. Almost like old times. Penny-" Coyote turned to the bartender- "make that three Irish shots, please, and thank you."
"You got it," she said, pouring the Bailey's and Jameson's whiskey into shot glasses and then filling pints of Guinness. She placed the glasses in front of the aviators and asked, "How about a picture before you knock these back?"
"Good thinking," Coyote agreed, handing Penny his phone. He gently but forcefully moved Ghost to his other side so she resided between him and Hangman. "Ladies in the middle."
Ghost didn't argue. She would push aside her feelings for Hangman to celebrate Ghoul's birthday. It was only a drink, after all. Coyote lifted his shot glass, and Ghost and Hangman did the same. They smiled at the camera for a quick photo before Penny returned the phone to its owner. Once tucked safely in his pocket, Coyote toasted, "To Ghoul!"
Hangman and Ghost echoed the sentiment, raising their shot glasses and clinking them against each other before dropping them into the pints and chugging them in one go. Ghost finished hers first, more so out of desperation than anything, for she hated the taste of beer, and the quicker she finished it, the sooner she could get another drink to wash away the taste of Guinness.
Ghost grimaced and ordered a Bailey's and Whiskey to wash away the taste. Coyote grinned and said, "You know Ghoul is laughing right now."
"The things I put myself through for her," Ghost replied, taking a big swig of her new drink the moment it landed in front of her. It briefly washed away the sambuca. "How much for the drinks, Penny?"
"Don't worry about it," she said, taking away the empty glasses and subtly nodding toward Hangman, who was glancing down at his phone. "Someone already took care of them."
Ghost took the hint, recognizing Hangman didn't want her to know what he'd done. "Oh, well, whoever they are, tell them thank you. I really appreciate it."
"What do you say we play some darts?" Coyote suggested, taking a sip of the beer he'd newly ordered. "One for old time's sake before the others get here."
Do it for Ghoul. She would want us to spend time together on her birthday. "Uh, sure, if you two don't mind me joining your bro party."
"You? Never. Right, Jake?" Coyote peered expectantly at his friend.
"Of course not," Hangman responded casually. He playfully smirked, "Remember, the board is the target."
Ghost frowned. "I missed the board one time!"
"And flooded a restaurant because of that."
"They shouldn't have put a water pipe below it! It was bound to happen sooner or later!"
Hangman chuckled. "I know, I know, I'm just giving you grief. Besides, that can't happen here. Penny was smarter than those other bar owners and made the decision to put the dartboard away from any water pipes. Come on."
The trio moved over to the game, and the boys allowed Ghost to go first. They only played for fun, not keeping score, namely because Hangman would've kicked both their asses at it. Darts had never been Ghost's game, and she missed the center by a long shot most of the time, but she at least hit the board. Hangman, naturally, hit bullseye after bullseye. Coyote even covered his friend's eyes as he took the shot, but Hangman still nailed it.
"Man, how do you do that?" Coyote demanded, staring in disdain at the three darts on the bullseye.
"I had to make up for the ass-whooping I got earlier today," he said. Turning to Ghost, he added, "Your callsign should've been Demon."
"Yeah, you're not the only one who probably thinks that. Some didn't take too kindly to the stunt and let me know."
"I was mad it worked, but I'm not-"
"It's not you that I'm talking about."
Hangman frowned. "Then fuck whoever got onto you about it. It might've been considered a dirty move, but it worked, and you wouldn't pull a stunt if you thought it would put them in danger."
Touched by his words, Ghost offered him a genuine, grateful smile. "I wish they saw it that way."
"Want us to take care of him?" Coyote queried, cracking his knuckles menacingly. Hangman mimicked the actions.
Ghost laughed and shook her head. "No, no, but I appreciate you having my back."
"Forever," Hangman said.
The response- a habit formed so many years ago that had yet to break despite everything- slipped off her tongue. "And always."
For the briefest of moments, the tension between the former friends dissipated. For a fleeting second, a peace settled over Hangman and Ghost, and had no one else joined them, perhaps it would've continued like that. However, the Daggers arrived, hollering their greetings from across the bar, and the moment disappeared.
****
Tags: @lgg5989 @shanimallina87 @polikszena @summ3rlotus @icemansgirl1999 @supernaturaldawning @thedarkinmansfield @lyannaforpresident @lapilark @getmyprettynameoutofyourmouth @simpofthecentury @shadeops21 @pansexualwitchwhoneedstherapy @double-j @bradshawsandbridgetons @catsandgeekyandnerd @peachiicherries @multifandomcnova @fandomsstolemylife00 @bookloverhorses @mak-32 @midnightmagpiemama @luckyladycreator2 @ellamae021 @kmc1989
Chapters: Chp 1 Chp 2 Chp 3 Chp 4 Chp 5 Chp 6 Chp 7 Chp 8 Chp 9 Chp 10 Chp 11 Chp 12 Chp 13 Chp 14 Chp 15
If you're not on the tag list and want to be, just let me know :)
#top gun#top gun fic#maverick#rooster#hangman#phoenix#bradley bradshaw#iceman#bob#jake seresin#coyote#payback#fanboy#omaha#yale#halo#fritz#harvard#tg2#tgm#top gun maverick#fanfic#jake seresin X oc#pregnancy#grief#foxtrot#alpha
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