#how do you clip feet sincerely?
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I was going through my photos from when I was in China (it's been about ten years now) and among the photos of sights and friends were some funny mistranslations signs.
#funny signs#how do you clip feet sincerely?#and why shouldn't you rely on the door?#funny?#chinese#english#language#pictures
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Ruining You
Ser Harwin Strong x Female Reader
Summary: You’re Viserys’ eldest daughter, the blood of the dragon running thick. You have a temper, and it seems Harwin is the only one brave enough to tame it despite your mutual loathing
Warnings: Smut, angst, fluff, swearing and depictions of violence
A/N: Holy shit. This was originally 13k words but in the last thousand the plot went a bit haywire and the writing was bleh so I deleted that and just fixed a few things to make it where it is now. I sincerely apologise if this isn’t what you thought when I originally posted the idea, it did kind of run away on me but at the same time, I lowkey love it. Enjoy, this 12k fic :)
Rage boils deep within your veins, the bubbles extremely close to spilling over. Your father always said you and your sister Rhaenyra share the blood of the dragon, especially the hot temperament, though he underestimated just how ferocious you can get, even as a child.
You feel every emotion with such a raw intensity that sometimes you don't know what to do, or how to deal with it and it explodes, consuming you whole and turning you into someone entirely different. Your alter ego, as your uncle Daemon calls it.
Much like now, wildfire blazing within your eyes, steam simmering out of your ears and blood spilling into your mouth from grinding your teeth so hard. It takes every ounce of strength to not erupt, destroy anything in your path and embarrass your father further.
"Are you even listening to me?!" Viserys yells from the throne, his voice echoing down the great hall for all to hear.
No, you're not listening to him, too busy trying to direct your anger elsewhere, direct it at someone else. Pain flares up your arms, wrapping around like a snake as your nails dig into your palms.
Viserys calls your name and almost stumbles back in response to your attention flickering up to him. "Is that all, your grace?" You grit.
The small group of occupants cease breathing. Viserys sighs exasperatedly, gesturing for your dismissal. Without hesitation you spin on your heel, marching your way out of the hall and toward the fastest exit out of the Keep, away from prying eyes.
Servants, lords and ladies all evacuate the premises, steering clear of your path of destruction as you make your way toward the back of the gardens, your secret area you call it. Your dress swishes around your ankles, your heeled boots clipping the ground.
You barely make it in time, rounding the large tree and searching for your hidden blade. The steel glints under the sunlight, ringing as it slashes through the air and makes contact with the already-exposed bark. Bits fly everywhere with each swing, your bottled-up rage slowly leaking out.
You don't hear the person approach, nor do you feel the eyes watching you intently, silent and observing. To say the knight is used to your outbursts is an understatement. You never fail to remind him of who you're descendant from, the unyielding anger and raw emotions of a Targaryen.
A dragon.
"Fuck!" You scream angrily, tears pricking the corner of your eyes and your knees buckling. You hit the earth harshly, staining your dress, not that you care at this moment.
The sword falls from your grip, landing amongst the dirt.
"I half expected you to climb atop your dragon and burn King's Landing to the ground," the knight muses from behind you, making himself known and slowly approaching you like a rabid animal.
You squeeze your eyes shut, wishing him away and hoping to awaken from this horrible nightmare. You hear the debris snap under his weight with each step closer, reigniting your hatred.
With precision, despite the dress, you come to your feet and whirl around, your hand having grasped your blade in the process. "And you best believe I'd burn you first, you fucking snitch." You seethe, pointing the end toward him.
"Princess-" he starts, daring to place his foot down and inch himself closer.
"Unless you want to be choking on your blood Ser Harwin," you address him. "I'd stand down and leave me be."
Harwin swallows thickly, an inkling of fear rolling down his spine. "It wasn't me," he starts off carefully, deciding to keep his distance. "I never told anyone, certainly not your father or mine. But to be truthful, I'm glad someone else did."
"Liar," you approach him with purpose, resting the point of the blade on his knitted tunic. "You have the most to gain by staying on his good side, being rewarded with his favour; Commander of the Gold Cloaks." He holds your eye, his fingers twitching. "My uncle is bound to screw up eventually and when that happens, you'll slide right into his position. All you heirs are the same."
"Princess," he tries again.
"Breakbones."
His jaw flexes. You've struck a nerve, a nerve you love to hit. "Don't," he warns.
"Go guard your honourable princess, and leave me alone. I'm in no tolerable mood." You indicate your younger sister, Rhaenyra.
Harwin breathes steadily through his nose, ignoring the fact that you're trying to get under his skin, to piss him off like you are. It's almost routine by now, especially when you're this riled up.
"And so you plan to torture the tree? With that flimsy sword, which by the way, will shatter the moment it meets real steel."
You close your eyes, inhaling deeply and exhaling harshly. Harwin makes a split-second decision, one that he's sure will land him as food for your dragon. He knocks your sword away, the unexpected force causing you to stumble back and blink up at him.
"Never take your eyes off your opponent."
Confusion begins to overlap your previous state, your fingers twisting for a better grip on the handle of your sword that now is by your side. "What are you-"
"Who taught you to wield a sword?" You don't answer. Harwin speaks your name, a different kind of fire burning within you. "Who taught you?" He presses, his tone firm, as though he talks to a child.
"Ser Criston Cole."
"Ser Criston Cole," he drawls, almost in disbelief. "Of fucking course." He mumbles to himself. His own kind of anger sparks, his skin crawling at the thought of the two of you alone. "And let me guess, you begged and pleaded with him to teach you how to defend yourself because you know that going outside the Red Keep is a stupid fucking idea."
He should slap himself for speaking so indirectly, informally to you, his princess. Yet, he couldn't stop the words from spilling out.
During your nights, you spend them down in Flea Bottom, or anywhere that's not the Red Keep, spreading your wings and soaring. You hate being holed up, being monitored and being expected to carry out duties you never asked for, never wanted. Even as a child, you wished you of been born to a low-born family, even a lady and lord would be better than King Viserys' firstborn.
When your mother and brother passed, Viserys was prepared to bake you his heir, but you declined. You could think of nothing worse, having seen the stress and duty your father must endure on a day-to-day basis. You know Rhaenyra will be a better Queen.
Not to mention, you wish to marry for love. As childish and dreamer-like for you to want, you gave up fighting years ago.
On most of your escapades, Harwin finds you, and ultimately drags you back to the safety of the Keep. He's the only knight that you know of, that's caught you, leading you to believe he is responsible for reporting it to your father. Hence why you were abruptly dragged from your chambers this morning.
"And you think you can do better? Ser Criston at least understands that I'll do as I please, not try and reprimand me at every given chance." You lower your voice. "And watch yourself, Ser Harwin, I'm still your princess, no matter how much you hate it."
Regret flashes in his eyes before it's gone. "Then let's see what you've learnt."
Harwin draws his sword, knowing damn well he could be executed for doing so. But at this moment, you're both too wound up to differentiate between what's right and wrong. A habit, of the both of you.
You flinch at the large sword, deep down knowing Harwin would never jeopardise you, never put you in harm's way or risk hurting you. You lift your chin, swallowing the lump in your throat and raising your sword.
He watches in amusement, allowing you a heartbeat before he attacks, bringing his sword down. You block with ease, unprepared for how light it is. He's pulling all his strength back. You push the sword away, moving around and keeping your footwork light, smirking.
"Is something funny?" Harwin raises an unimpressed brow, his eyes never leaving you.
You bite back a smile at his clear agitation. "No."
He grunts, striking again. Your reflexes move before you think, blocking and attempting to counterattack yourself, refusing to show your frustration. He's still clearly overpowering you and much more experienced.
You silently pray for those that meet the end of Harwin's fury.
"Tell me, Princess" he starts, a loud ringing vibrating into the area as your swords clash. "Has Ser Criston taught you hand-to-hand combat, or how to escape someone's grip?"
The question takes you off guard, your head tilting as you try to remember. Harwin uses the moment to smack your sword out of your hand, his own dropping for your safety and his arms wrapping around you.
You cease breathing, the constricted in your throat and your heart skipping a beat. An arm gently presses against your throat, Harwin having put you in a controlled headlock, your back flush with his front.
Your lips part, your fingers instinctively digging into his arm. Heat crawls up your neck, blood pounding in your ear. You know this is a training exercise, but you can't help in feeling so safe in his arms. Your muscles automatically relax, your adrenaline calms and your breath slowly comes back to you with each second.
You should hate the situation you're in. Granted, if it was any other person you'd be kicking up a shit storm and preparing to have them fed to your dragon but it's not just anyone. It's Harwin, and that makes you hate him more.
Hate him for having this effect on you, for consuming your thoughts and imprinting himself amongst your dreams. Though you know he's not to blame, it's yourself.
For falling so profoundly, and irrevocably in love with him.
"No doubt, you could handle yourself in an armed fight but what if they get the upper hand, like I did just now, and you're left with close combat, or even worse, they grab you like this," Harwin says to you, his voice thickening with an emotion you can't quite place. "How do you get out?"
You shake with nerves, at the thought of your escape plan. It's stupid, and it might not work and fuck everything up. Though it could work, and once again, fuck it all up. You push the insecurities down, knowing that he's trying to teach you a life lesson, even if you don't want to hear it.
You twist your head, his grip not being tight in any way, and find his lips with ease, capturing them. Harwin falters, his arms opening and allowing you the opportunity to slip through and distance yourself from him.
"That's how." You lick your lips, drawing the taste of him into your mouth.
Harwin studies you with a deep look of something, mixed with unhinged anger and fear. He doesn't say anything, even as he quickly reaches for his sword, sheathing it against his hip and holding your eye for a moment longer.
"One day," he croaks. "You're going to wake up and find yourself all alone." And with that, he turns his back on you.
You watch him leave, shakily bringing the pads of your fingers to your lips, brushing them tenderly. You feel humiliated, shameful and disgusted. You also feel lighter, having finally answered your own question; his lips are soft and the taste of his breakfast still lingers.
"I already am." You whisper to yourself, biting your finger to keep the tears at bay, the anger subsided.
The sun begins its descent from the highest point in the sky before you arrive back at your quarters, dismissing your maids in exchange for silence. You sit atop a lounge on the windowsill, breathing the fresher air from the high distance, ignoring the crestfallen ache in your heart.
You knew something like this would happen, that Harwin would reject you and push you away. It's part of the reason why you hate him because you know you can't have him. Your father would never allow it, as his firstborn. He'd see to it that you marry a beneficial house, to further strengthen your sister's claim to the throne since you turned away from it.
It doesn't make it any easier, or any less hard. You've spent almost every day in each other's presence, in either passing or company. You've known him since he was a boy. Uncoordinated and lanky, until he grew and filled out into the man he is today.
"I don't know what you've done, but I'd steer clear from father," Rhaenyra bursts inside, speaking before seeing you. She calls for you when you don't respond, hoping she'll leave.
She doesn't.
Rhaenyra perches herself beside you, brushing a strand of your curly hair behind your ear. "What's happened?"
"Ser Harwin told father of my nightly adventures."
Rhaenyra frowns, gazing out the window. "It wasn't him, it was Ser Criston," you gape at her, shifting to lean your back against the wall, mirroring your sister. "He said as much when Ser Harwin confronted him about teaching you how to wield a sword, and the two go into it."
"Shit," you murmur, leaning your head back.
"I assume he came from seeing you, with how riled up he was. Never seen him so angry."
She looks at you expectantly. "I kissed him." Her eyes widen. "To prove a point! He asked me how I'd escape from a headlock, and I kissed him, to distract him. It worked because he let go of me."
"Makes sense," Rhaenyra nods, referring to his destructive path. "What was it like?"
You glance at her, a small smile ghosting your lips. "It was only brief, but they are smooth, the complete opposite of him."
You both giggle, dismissing the fact that you dishonoured not only yourself but Harwin. For a few minutes, you sit in silence, relishing in the company of your sister. These moments are rare, as of late, with her newfound responsibilities.
"Are you going to listen to father?"
You stare at her, the answer shining in your lilac eyes. "What do you think."
-
Harwin surrounds himself with his fellow gold cloaks, in an attempt to enjoy his night off. They laugh and joke, spilling their alcohol and losing their hands on woman's bodies.
He finishes his drink rather frustratedly, slamming it on the counter accidentally. He can't get the stupid fucking kiss out of his head, replaying the scene over and over.
The way your body moulded to his own, your smaller frame engulfed and your erratic heart pounding against his arm. How he divulged himself and allowed his nose to brush your hair, inhaling your scent and losing his control.
And fuck, when you leant up and kissed him, he couldn't help but respond. His restraint snapped at that moment, and if it weren't for you slipping out and distancing yourself-he doesn't want to imagine what he would have done.
From your first meeting, he knew he'd grow up to love you, your hot-headed temperament and stubborn wilfulness. Before he arrived in Kings Landing, his father had drilled into him how to act, how the royal family would act, yet there you stood, unaware of his presence as you yelled profanities into the sky. Not to mention, when you caught him gawking, asked him, the fuck are you looking at?
Your first words ever spoken to him.
He sighs dramatically, rubbing his face and deciding to leave, knowing that drinking his problems away won't solve anything. The cool air nips at him through his woollen clothes, his dark cape swaying behind him as he makes his way back to the Keep.
Approaching the gates, he hears a rustle, pausing to make sure his senses aren't clouded. "Fucking shit," Harwin immediately reaches for his sword, keeping his hand on the hilt whilst cautiously making his way closer to the whispered profanities.
He watches you, straightening your clothes and checking to make sure the coast is clear before you walk off toward the city. He raises a brow at the choice of clothes; black pants and a shirt, with a jacket that is a size too big and a cloak to hide your white hair. Though nothing can cover the deep lilac of your eyes.
He makes the hasty decision to follow you, keeping his distance yet being close enough to protect you should anything happen. Harwin smiles to himself, knowing this is the perfect opportunity to teach you a lesson.
If it's so easy for him to sneak up behind you, imagine someone else, with impure intentions.
He follows you for some time, a small part of him enjoying the look of awe and joy at the sights. Each night you leave, you try to explore new parts of the city, learning about your folk. Harwin must admit, not many royals would do so, preferring to stick to the comforts of the Keep.
The moon is high in the sky, shining down and revealing clear paths as you steer left and right, nowhere in particular yet taking note of each turn. You may be reckless, but you're not stupid.
Harwin chooses this moment to make his move, observing the way you slip steadily down the passageway and pause at the sound of water lapping against the walls. He creeps out, covering your mouth and pulling you to him, stepping out of the light and into the darkness.
You scream against his gloved hand, thrashing wildly and reaching for your concealed knife when, "and just like that princess, I've killed you. Or worse, knocked you out and used you for my pleasantries. How many times must I tell you until you get it through your thick skull that this isn't safe."
You stop, your heart thundering and your adrenaline pumping. You close your eyes, subconsciously leaning further into Harwin. He hesitantly removes his hand, waiting for the explosion.
"I could have killed you," you murmur, the weight of the blade heavy in your hand. You were prepared to stab him in the kidney. The thought of harming him destroys you. "I could have killed you, all because of your stupidity!" You whirl around, still touching him.
"My stupidity?" He repeats.
"Yes!" You fire, glaring up at him. "All to teach me a lesson, when I'm not stupid! Have you ever thought that maybe I just don't give a fuck? I know it's not safe, why do you think I sneak around and blend in." You pause, avoiding his gaze and staring at the Strong house crest on his chest. "This is the only time I feel normal, where my existence is insignificant."
"Princess, no one asks to be born into their roles, to be born rich or poor," he starts, remembering all the times you spoke of wishing to be someone other than a princess, other than Viserys' firstborn. "But it's our duty to push through, to become what we're meant to be; Lord of Harrenhal, and Princess, of the seven kingdoms."
Your emotions are high and twisted, a single tear slipping down your cheek as you squeeze your eyes shut to keep them at bay. "I didn't want to be a Queen, I sure as hell don't want to be a princess. I just want to be someone's wife, someone's mother. Someone's greatest love. Is that so hard?"
You can't control the words, the heartfelt words that shatter Harwin. Suddenly, he understands you. He knows you. He says your name, softly, bringing his hand to your chin and tilting it up. Forcing you to look at him.
Harwin wipes at your cheek with his thumb, tenderly caressing the flesh and relishing in the feel of you in his hand. So small and frail. So exposed. He opens his mouth to say more when the sound of metal armour clanging together draws his attention elsewhere.
"Shit." He curses.
He has nowhere to move to. The path spans over a hundred metres, with a wall on one side and the water's edge on the other. He couldn't even go to a corner. Solutions run through his mind, the sound of guards nearing causing him to do the first thing that pops up.
"Sorry, Princess." He mumbles, pushing you against the concrete wall and covering the majority of your body with his, with no space left between you. Your brows furrow in confusion, question flashing in your eyes.
Harwin does what he's always wanted to do: press his lips to yours.
You squeak, given no time to prepare, your eyes wide in surprise. Only twelve hours ago, he was looking at you with utter hatred and disgust for you doing the same thing. The blade clatters against the ground.
The gold cloaks walk past without an issue, chuckling at the two of you but paying no mind. Harwin keeps his lips firmly against you, hating having to put you in this situation.
When they become a dot in the distance, does he pull away, searching your eyes. "You kissed me back," you refer to earlier. That was your first kiss, this you never realised Harwin had responded. Your eyes harden, your lips pursing as you inhale as much air as possible before being your hand up and slapping him. His head snaps to the side at the sheer force, shock yet understandable written on his face.
He doesn't respond, the words unable to form in his mouth. He swallows thickly, his jaw taut. He deserved that. He dares look at you again, his chest rising rapidly and the air crackling.
You push off the wall, shaking your head in disbelief and attempting to round him. Your shoulder clashes with his when he turns to grab your upper arm, halting you. You glare up at him, opening your mouth to hurtle harsh words at him. Harwin moves first, pulling you back to him and claiming your lips.
You're not even given a chance to respond before he pulls back, his face still close and his breath fanning your cheeks. He looks at you with hunger, lust and want. Realisation dawns on you; he's just as conflicted as you are.
Your heart tugs you forward, your hands gripping his tunic and meeting him halfway. Harwin's hands cup the sides of your head.
He devours you, his tongue slipping into your mouth with ease and his hands sliding to the base of your neck and head, titling you up to give more access. You whimper, grappling with his tunic as if he could suddenly move away from you.
He doesn't, shifting to have your back against the wall again, his apparent hard-on pressing into you. Your lungs ache with release, the lack of oxygen making you lightheaded yet desperate for more.
Slowly and reluctantly, you part, his forehead resting on yours. Your lips are evidently swollen, the taste of him still lingering as he peppers you softly, not quite wanting to stop.
"Harwin," you whisper, gliding your hands up to his cheeks, running the pads of your fingers over his beard and around his features.
"I know."
He could be executed for this, you could be disowned. But gods, does it feel right. Right to be in his hold, to be desired and kissed. You never want to stop.
"Fuck I know." He repeats, lower.
You nuzzle each other, refusing to leave the comfort of one another's warmth and touch, despite that nagging thought tugging in the back of your mind. Harwin murmurs that he needs to return you to the Keep, reluctantly standing straighter and removing himself from you.
You follow him in silence, sticking close and for once, not giving him grief. A step up from your usual nights out.
You soon arrive, pausing before you part and he enters through the main gates whilst you scamper up your hidden passageway. "I know it wasn't you, who told my father." You start. "It was wrong of me to accuse you, and I hope one day you can forgive my insolence, and accept my apology."
"Of course, Princess. It is known for spoilt children to lash out when they don't receive what they want," he begins to walk back with a teasing smirk.
You narrow your eyes, watching him for a heartbeat longer and then turning to disappear yourself. The journey back to your quarters is always short, your footsteps light as you work to not attract attention to yourself.
Heaving the door open, you stop dead in your tracks at the sight of your father standing in your room. "Father-"
"Where have you been?" He says in a low, deadly voice.
"Taking a walk,"
"Don't lie to me!" Viserys yells.
The room falls silent. You stare at one another, refusing to break contact. "What will it take for you to listen to me?"
You think over your choice of words. Is it wise to mention that you wish to marry for love? That you wish he'd allow for you to leave this godforsaken city and be elsewhere, anywhere. Be with Harwin.
"I wish-" you choke, refusing to look at him as you lay yourself bare. "I wish to marry of my own free will."
Silence. More silence, his fury-ignited eyes never leaving you, even as you brave the idea to glance up. "No."
"What-"
"You refused me in naming you heir, you will not refuse me in arranging a marriage for you. That, I can not accept." You gape at him, horror and sickness twisting deep within you. "Take this as your punishment for disobeying me."
"You can't do this!" You yell at his retreated figure, anger surfacing and exploding.
"Yes, I can." Viserys ends the argument, storming out of your quarters and forcibly shutting your door. You release a blood-curdling scream, frustration and betrayal gnawing at you.
You grab the closest object, a cup, and hurtle it across the room. It clangs every time it meets the ground, the metal ringing dying down when it rolls to a stop. Your chest heaves, your jaw clenching and unclenching as you grasp for some control, to leash your emotions.
You can't.
You want to hurt your father, hurt him like he's hurt you. There's only one way you know how, leaving you to quickly exit your room through the hidden passageway, navigating down unfamiliar tunnels.
When you were younger, you explored them all, yet there is only a small handful you use, mainly for your adventures outside the Keep.
You basically float over the ground, your steps carefully placed despite your fast pace, eager to arrive at your destination. You reach the door, knocking quickly but firmly, making sure you don't arouse the Hand of the King, or his younger son.
"Princess?" Harwin questions, glancing beyond you. "Is everything alright?"
You say nothing, surging forward and claiming his lips. Harwin can only raise his brows in surprise, at both your forwardness and boldness, your hands resting on his chest to walk him backward, closing the door swiftly behind you.
"What was that for?" He presses, distancing himself from you. He doesn't want to think of the penalty if you were found at this very moment. "Hmm?"
You nibble your lip, holding his gaze even though you'd rather burn for the next words that come out. "I need you."
The room falls silent, only the crackle of the fire is enough from keeping it dark and noiseless. Harwin studies you, not quite believing you. "You need me?" He approaches, agonisingly slow. "I find that very interesting, since only an hour or so ago, you were quite content."
He stands before you, his fingers coming under your chin and leaning your head up. He observes you, enjoying watching you squirm. "The truth, now." He knows you're lying, or at the very least, not entirely honest.
"I am telling the truth-" Harwin changes his grip, pulling you close to him by your chin. You almost collapse. He murmurs your name, the sound rolling down your back on waves. His eyes glint with a challenge, daring you to protest. Your neck heats up. "I could find little sleep, and my," you stop, wishing for the floor to open and swallow you hole. Harwin raises a brow.
"My fingers were insufficient."
You don't realise, that the previous fire of wrath has simmered down, laying dormant. A different burn ravages your body.
A wicked smile pulls at the corner of Harwin's mouth, his demeanour shifting. "Was that so hard?" His voice holding a certain husk, that you've never heard.
His thumb brushes your smooth skin, braving the course of your lips. You release a small breath you didn't realise you were holding and your mouth parts. Harwin drags your bottom lip down, enjoying your compliance.
"You need me to soothe that ache, Princess?" He tortures you, his mouth ghosting you yet inching up every time you try to close the gap.
"Please," you're not sure what you're begging for, the words just tumbling out. You close your eyes in frustration, his breath fanning you.
He finally relents, coming down on your mouth heavily. You barely have a moment to properly respond, his fingers tightening on your chin and his free hand coming to the base of your neck, keeping you steady as he takes your breath.
"This is all you needed," he pulls a hairsbreadth away, his nose pressing onto the side of yours. "Someone to dominate you, leave you powerless." He realises, looking over your wanton state.
Your hands fist his shirt, desperation clear on your face. He smiles softly, abruptly pulling back and creating a well-spaced distance from you. You feel as if a cold bucket of water has been poured over you, watching as he takes a seat by the fire.
"Go to bed, Princess."
You gape at him, fury bubbling to the surface. "Harwin," you start, taking a tentative step forward.
"What you are asking for, is treason. The fucking death penalty."
You flare up. "So is kissing me! What is going a little further?"
"We are talking about your virtue." He raises his voice, momentarily forgetting about his whereabouts. Gods above, should someone come knocking. "That would be despicable of me, to take something that belongs to your husband."
You frown, coming to stand before him, the sudden rush of heat inflicting goosebumps. "It should be mine to give away, not his to take."
He looks up at you, his curls dishevelled and unruly. He wears a worn shirt, the casual appearance causing your stomach to twist. What you would give, to share days where you are laid bare with each other, to see the other side of Harwin, the improper side of him.
"I trust you, Harwin," you begin, standing between his legs. "I want it to be you. No one else but you, who sees me, and touches me." You hoist a leg over his lap, moving to straddle his lap, your knees digging into the edge of the cushion.
Instinctively, Harwin's hands come to your waist, keeping you situated. He battles with his morals, his body and heart reacting completely opposite to his mind. If you were a low-born, he'd have fucked you back in the passageway, without a care of onlookers.
But your status halts him.
You say his name again, caressing his jaw, your nails scraping through his beard. He doesn't break contact, his palms wandering along your side, moving with a mind of their own. It's plain to see, how much he wants you, how much you want each other.
Painstakingly obvious.
You swallow nervously, inching down to press a gentle kiss on the underside of his jaw, allowing time for him to push you off should he really not want to continue. You wouldn't ask that of him. His fingers flex into your flesh, his head angling up slightly.
A ghost of a smirk plants itself over your lips, a sudden arrogance blooming at his reaction, at his heavier breath intake. You travel to his neck, feeling the urge to nibble lightly, Harwin rolling your hips into him reflexively.
You gasp into his skin at the sudden pleasure, the seam of your pants pulling tightly over your clit. Harwin groans lowly, both at your mouth finding his sweet spot and your hips rutting into him. A sinister thought crosses his mind.
Effortlessly he hoists you up, placing you over his thigh. You sit back in confusion, your initial reaction being that he wants to stop, until he speaks. "You say you use your fingers," your slightly wide eyes are enough of a confirmation. "Then use me. Get yourself off using me."
Your lips part, your eyes searching his. He smiles reassuringly, dragging your hips over his thigh. "Take your pleasure, Princess."
Your head drops into the crevice of his shoulder, an airy moan escaping you at the new sensation. Naturally, you begin to move on your own, a hand snaking up the other side of his head to thread through his curls, using him as leverage.
Harwin jolts his leg up, the action bringing a new wave of pleasure through you. You whimper into his shoulder, your mind reminding you how improper this is, how a woman takes no pleasure from laying with a man yet your body ignores every lesson you've ever been taught.
A low pressure builds, your thighs starting to shake and your movements quickening. Harwin makes the split decision to help, driving your hips down and over, the new motion brings you to your release.
You pant against him, squeezing your eyes shut as he continues to move you gently, drawing your orgasm out. Slowly he comes to a stop, allowing you a moment to really comprehend what's happening before he shifts in a way that he can plant a kiss on your head.
"Was that good?"
You nod, a familiar heat rising in your cheeks. Gods that felt fucking magical, and he barely did anything. You can only imagine how his cock will feel.
He chuckles lightly, coaxing you to sit back and reveal your pretty face. He drags the backs of his fingers down your cheek, memorising each fine detail. Deep down, a small part of him fears this will be the last he'll ever see of it.
In one movement, Harwin stands and gingerly lowers you onto the fur rug in front of the fire, the flames dancing dangerously close. He knows how much you love the heat.
You gaze up at him, allowing him the opportunity to worship you. His large hands slip under your shirt, dragging the material as he roams every inch of your side. You arch your back and raise your arms, allowing easier access to glide the shirt off.
Goosebumps erupt under his hardened callouses, his fingers interlocking with yours once he moves up your arms and allows the shirt to bunch above your head. "Keep them here," he murmurs, capturing your lips.
You figure he means your hands, nodding against his mouth. His tongue invades your mouth, his breath becoming your own and his fingers flexing at the sheer taste of you. You have no idea how much power you wield over him.
His hands begin their descent, grazing your flesh and finding solace on your breasts, his mouth following suit. You grab onto the edge of the fur rug, gripping it firmly.
His tongue flicks your erect nipple, his teeth meeting the tender flesh. He nips and sucks around the area, a hand paying attention to your other breast, careful to administer equally. You gasp and writhe under him, unaware that he could bring you any pleasure from this.
Eventually, he moves on, stopping at your waistline. He flickers up to you, a silent ask of permission in his eyes. You give an airy yes, anticipation gnawing at you. Harwin pulls your pants and undergarment in one motion, the cool air causing you to jump.
He laughs softly, grinning at your nakedness, at the way your skin glows under the firelight. Right now, you're all his, his to take, to touch and love. His mind captures this moment, storing it away for a time when he plans on replaying it over and over.
"How do you feel, Princess, knowing you're about to be my dessert."
Your eyes brows raise at the comment, unsure of his hidden innuendo. A dark part of Harwin relishes in the fact that it's him, that gets to taint you. That he's the one to open the gates to a whole new world of pleasure. He plans on ruining you for any other man.
"What are you doing?" You ask more in curiousness than fear. Of all your lessons, the Septas never mentioned a man putting his head between your legs.
"I'm dining on my Princess, is that alright with you?" A dark glint shines in his eyes from between your thighs, his beard grazing your soft flesh. You whimper, biting your lip and giving him the go-ahead.
You suck in a deep breath at the first contact of his tongue, your body seizing. Fuck. You throw your head back in a silent moan, Harwin's mouth ravaging you. His tongue explores your folds and clit, emitting all pitches of sounds from you.
Suddenly his hands snake around your thighs and grip you thoroughly, spreading them further around his head and giving him easier access. You squeal at the feeling of his tongue entering you, pumping in and out.
"Harwin," your knuckles have since turned white.
This is a high you never thought you could experience, the intensity hitting you like a wave. The combination of his tongue, his lips and his beard is enough to drive you over. Of course, Harwin intends for you to be fully prepared, momentarily coming up to gauge your reaction as he pushes a finger into you.
You release a deep groan at the intrusion, the pleasure brewing. He takes his time, moving in and out of you, slowly adding a second finger at the same time his thumb rubs your clit.
You squeeze your eyes shut, unable to do anything but writhe under his hand. Gods you wish you could put your arms down and grab him, show him how good he's making you feel. Harwin spreads his fingers carefully, intently studying your reaction. He wants you prepped as best as possible, wanting your first-time pain-free.
With all these motions and pleasantries you fall over the edge, calling out his name. Harwin continues his movements for a second longer before removing his hand, allowing you to come down from your high.
He skims over you, capturing your lips and emptying your lungs. You instantly wrap your arms around him, eager to keep him close. He grinds himself into you, allowing you a moment to feel how hard he is.
You lick your lips whilst you watch him undress, tossing his clothes somewhere before diving straight back down to you. You barely get a chance to admire his hard-earned body, instead running your fingers deep into his back muscles.
"Give me your hand," he guides it down, wrapping it firmly around his cock. You suppress a giggle at his involuntarily deep groan. "This is what you do to me," he says your name. "This, and so much more. You have no idea the kind of control that's in your favour."
You can't help but smirk. You leave your hand wrapped around him, a little unsure of what to do. "You take the lead, whenever you're ready." Oh. He means for you to put him in.
You glance down, hesitantly gliding to the tip, drawing it closer. "Can you help?" You have no fucking idea what you're doing.
His hand envelops your own, guiding it to you and nudging your opening. You suck in a deep breath, flickering up to his own deep blue eyes. He leaves you to your own devices, gritting his teeth at every inch.
The feeling is unlike anything you've ever experienced. For the time being, it's uncomfortable and unnatural, your body's initial reaction to close your legs and get him out of you. But you don't, removing your hand and granting Harwin the opportunity to ease in.
"Harwin." You grunt, clawing at his shoulders.
"You're doing so well, taking me so well." He praises, finally stopping once he's filled you. As time passes, your body begins to relax, climatizing to having his cock stretch you open.
"Move, please move." You strain, wanting this first part to be over with.
He does, slowly rocking out and in, the slight pain shifting to pleasure, your deep breaths becoming short. You have no idea what to do besides lay here, wrapped around Harwin as he thrusts into you, restraining himself from fucking you into the rug.
That will be for later.
For now, he intends on showing you a softer, gentler side of him, one where he tenderly brings you to release.
He fists the fur beside your head, his other hand on your hip as he steadily moves within you, your back arching slightly when he reaches parts of you, you never thought he'd reach.
You bring a hand to his face, brushing a part of his curls back and revealing his prominent features, trying desperately to hold contact.
He uses the hold on your hip as leverage, lifting your hips ever so little when he ruts into you, eliciting all frequencies of sounds from you. Your walls begin to clench around him, alerting him of your impending orgasm.
Slipping his hand over, Harwin teases your clit, eager to really please you. With this being your first time, your climax quite quickly, Harwin's name falling from your lips.
You gasp at his sudden eviction, a small part of you wondering if that was it. Harwin soon answers, scooping you up off the ground and planting you beside the fire, your front pressing against the wall. Thankfully the fire leaves it warm.
"Harwin, what are you-oh fuck!" You cry out at his sudden intrusion, entering from behind.
Harwin leaves no space between you, your legs spread to give him better access and a hand weaving through your hair and pulling your head to the side. "You wanted this, Princess, and you'll take it." He grunts into your ear, his thrusts hitting sharply. "But don't worry, you'll find yourself soon enjoying it."
You almost flutter around him, the words sinking in and leaving you in a hot and bothered state. His guttural voice mixed with those cold, demeaning words.
In a way, he's not wrong, the new position causing all sorts of pleasures to tremble through your body; your nipples grazing the stone, his cock hammering into you and his dominant hands manoeuvring you like a whore.
You snake an arm around, cupping the back of his head, keeping him close. With your cheek melted into the stone wall, his breath moulds with your own, your lips dangerously near, yet not touching. You close your eyes, enjoying the brutal fucking and not to mention, Harwin's own grunting and groaning.
It brings you joy to know that he finds great pleasure in you.
"You have no idea what you've just done, allowing me the honour to be the first to have my way with you. It wasn't a smart move Princess because I intend to ruin you," it's as though his own words spur him on, harshly rutting into you and carving you into the wall. You can do nothing but take it, and endure his treatment.
You wouldn't have it any other way.
"I intend on breaking you in to my cock, destroying all hope for you to ever enjoy someone else." He lowers his voice almost menacingly. "No one will ever fuck you like I am."
You attempt a nod, knowing he's correct. As fucked up as it seems, you know that only Harwin can bring you to these highs. He's the only one you'll ever allow to treat you this way. Like an object, a vacant hole.
You know your close, your legs beginning to shake and your breath quickening. "Harwin, please," you whimper, once again not entirely sure what you're pleading for.
Whatever it is, you know he can grant it.
Somehow he hits a deeper angle, leaving you to cry out clenching around him. He falters for a second, close to spilling over himself. He so desperately wants to, but he's holding out. With the new tempo, you crumble, spilling around Harwin as he continues to thrust into you.
You whine against him, the overwhelming pleasure causing tears to prick in the corners of your eyes. He doesn't stop, only slowing as he whirls you around, picking you up by your thighs and clamping them to his waist.
"Gods," you moan airily, his cock ramming against your sensitive walls.
"The seven won't help you here." He muses, observing your expressions.
Amazingly enough, Harwin increases his tempo, similar to before. You choke, pawing at his chest. "Harwin I can't,"
"Yes you can, hey," he cups your jaw, forcing you to open your eyes and look at him. "One more, be a good girl and give me one more, you can do it."
You bite your lip at the pain beginning to throb, your body exhausted and to be honest, your pussy used. His dark eyes watch you, a hand coming down to press against your clit, helping in relieve that pressure building once again.
He groans your name, his other hand moving to brace against the skirting around the fireplace. With his strength and subconscious force, he breaks the corner of it. You barely react to the stone crumbling at his feet, more focused on climaxing for a third and final time.
He swallows your scream, the rush of you around him enough to bring him over, spilling his seed deep. You lean your head back, your chest heaving and no doubt your back scratched. You feel content, Harwin slumping into your shoulder, nuzzling your flesh.
"I never imagined it would feel like that," you say more to yourself, your fingers threading through his sweaty curls.
Harwin lifts his head. "It's never like that, Princess."
-
The wild winds blast through your hair, your dragon's head blocking the majority from hitting you smack bang on your chest. At this height, the force is unimaginable.
You slowly begin your descent, dreading the moment you land and go back to reality, your cruel reality. In these last few months, you were made to follow your sister during her tour, allowing the lords to put themselves forward for your hand, alongside Rhaenyra.
You scowled the entire time. A cold, blank sheet was over your face, your eyes narrowed and dark. You could burn your father for the agony he's put you through, refusing your one ask of him. He's strained his relationship with you.
As more and more days pass, you ponder the thought of running away, denouncing your blood and flying off into the distance, far from this heartache.
You know it's foolish, that you must uphold your duty, but fuck duty.
Your dragon lands smoothly, his large frame dwarfing you once you climb down, your hand brushing against his scales and his head. He growls softly, leaning into your palm and hoping to draw this time out. He's missed you, much like the dark-haired knight that only just received word of your arrival.
You and your sister returned in the night, and since dawn you've been up in the skies, forgetting the situation at hand for a while longer.
You gesture for the dragon keepers to guide your dragon back into his nest, turning swiftly and making your way up to the Keep. Eyes watch you, studying you with every step. Since your last conversation with your father, you've turned into a cold little bitch.
It's the only way you know to protect yourself.
Your steel gaze burns through anyone who makes contact, challenging them to speak their mind. You know of the rumours that spread, how you've turned down every suitor, how your attitude has changed and you are no longer the nice Princess.
You don't notice the deep blue eyes following your every move through the courtyard, studying your behaviour. A part of you wonders how your first interaction would be, having not spoken a word to him since that night.
After he helped you dress, you snuck back into your room riddled with guilt. Suppose you came to your senses, realising exactly what you'd just done. But somewhere, you didn't care, you still don't. The next day you prepared yourself to send him away, should he come looking, but he never did.
And then you left, following your sister around Westeros.
"Have you seen him?" Rhaenyra sidles up to you, accompanying you to your quarters where you must prepare for the large feast. Your father has organised a large gathering where he can personally meet both of your suitors.
"No." You answer plainly.
You confessed the incident to Rhaenyra, trusting her to keep it to herself. She has and is more excited for the two of you to speak than you are.
"We should have you dressed your best tonight, show him what he's had a taste of, and what he's no doubt missing."
You roll your eyes, looping an arm through hers. She's been your rock through the whole ideal with your father, understanding both sides, yet gravitating towards yours.
Rhaenyra takes the opportunity to order your ladies as she sees fit, demanding your hair be styled up to accentuate your chest and collarbone, as the dress she picks is an off-the-shoulder. The black and red material falls to the floor, the sleeves being a cape, tying to the bodice only at the shoulder and leaving your arms to be either hidden or shown.
The dress plunges down your breasts, opting for a revealing look, courtesy of Rhaenyra. She finishes it off with a dragon-like necklace, alluding to the animal protecting your neck. Throughout the design, scales to represent your house has been embroidered, making it one of a kind.
Your sister's dress is similar, in the revealing sense. The both of you are definitely pushing your father's buttons, and you have no care.
The hours past by swiftly, and soon it's time to present yourselves. You walk side by side to the great hall, an anxious tug pulling within your stomach. You can't help but wonder how the evening will play out, and just what will happen with Harwin.
The great doors swing open, Rhaenyra being introduced first as she's the heir, and you second. Your heart rate quickens with each step, hundreds of eyes staring. You debate whether to search for his, your pace faltering as you connect.
Gods be fucking damned, he looks divine.
Your mouth dries at his black attire, at his curls being pulled back and revealing his defined features. It seems he's had a similar thought, dressing his best.
So many words portray through your eyes, so many thoughts and emotions. His jaw flexes as you draw near, his seat being close to the high table. The rest of the room fades, his gaze agonisingly slowly moving down your body, images of your naked figure coming to mind.
He pauses at your breasts, subconsciously moistening his lips before he flickers up to your face. He inhales sharply. These past months have done you justice, or you've simply become a woman since he had his share of you.
Your exchange doesn't go unnoticed, by both of your fathers.
Rounding the high table, you opt to take your seat, unlike Rhaenyra who greets Viserys before joining you. Neither of you bothered for Alicent, who flares daggers at you in particular. She normally leaves you alone, yet since the altercation with your father, she guns for the both of you.
You keep silent through the speech, given by your father, focusing on the detail of the cloth before you. A burning sensation spreads through you, almost like a sixth sense, sensing a pair of eyes boring into your skull.
You clench your jaw, preparing to scare them off when you pause. It's Harwin, unable to keep his eyes off you. Your skin heats up, your thighs pressing together. Fuck, the effect he has on you.
Viserys takes his seat, the people either beginning to eat or taking to the dance floor, music filling the air. You decide to eat, keeping your attention locked on your plate, desperate to finish it before you go looking for Harwin. You want answers, and one way or another you'll get them.
At some stage a young lordling braves the high table, asking for your hand. You pause your chewing, your eyes venomous. "As you can see, my lord, I have yet to finish my meal," you gesture to the full plate.
The boy's cheeks redden, and quickly he excuses himself.
You scoff, resuming your meal with your eyes scouring the hall. You watch the people dance, eventually ditching your plate and leaning back in your chair, your eyes narrowing at Harwin's empty place beside his brother.
You find him amongst the crowd, his attention on a young maiden. Or so you thought, until his gaze flickers up to you, before averting again.
He wants to play that game.
Rising, you round the high table and descend the small flight of stairs, accepting the first person to offer a dance and joining everyone else. At first, you attempt to pay attention to your partner, your bodies moving in partial sync across the floor.
It's not until you spin outward, that you notice Harwin, now with a different girl.
With each movement, you glance over at him, a shadow of annoyance covering you as you realise he refuses to acknowledge you.
You inhale deeply, deciding to ignore your heart's biggest ache and try to enjoy your time without him. You switch partners, losing sight of Harwin as the night progresses.
You've lost sense of yourself, spinning and moving to the flow of the music, changing partners every so often that you have no idea who each one is. Your cheeks are warm, your eyes alight. You haven't had this much fun in a while, the suitors flocking to you for a chance to dance.
Your current partner twirls you around, his grip firm and unwavering. For the first time, he matches you, each movement sturdy and confidence clear in his steps. He makes for a great dance partner. You can't help but laugh as he draws you to him, only to raise his arm over your head and redirect you.
His hand slips from yours, signalling a partner change, and you spin to stop in someone's chest. You instinctively brace yourself on his chest, an apology on your lips as you glance up. "Ser Harwin," you breathe his name.
"Princess," he curtly acknowledges.
His chest tightens at your appearance, wide and excited eyes, wisps of hair falling from their place and framing your face. Not to mention, your delicate hands still pressed to him, leaving only a splinter of a gap between you.
You follow his gaze, realisation dawning. You go to remove yourself from him, when his own hands cover yours, gently plucking them off his chest. You expect him to let go, throw you aside and move on, but he doesn't.
Harwin grasps your hands, leading you into the next dance. You follow him, lost within the depths of his blue eyes, so many words threatening to tumble out. You move fluently, matching his pace.
"Harwin," you say lowly, unsure of how to proceed.
"Don't." Your brows furrow, your chests pressing together as you both move in. "Just don't say anything."
You scoff. "You expect us to dance in silence?" He says nothing, despite the electricity sparking around you. "I've been gone for months and this is how treat me?"
"What do you want me to say?" He grits.
"Anything!" You say a little loudly, breaking contact to stare at his house emblem stitched to his chest. You sigh, closing your eyes. "Why didn't you come to see me?"
"My apologies, Princess, I didn't realise I was your lap dog."
You snap up to him. Fire burns within your hard stare. "What is your problem? Why are you like this?"
He raises an eyebrow, extending you away from his body, only to snap you back to him. You collide with his chest harshly, flashbacks of that night coming to your forefront. Reminders of how easily he dominates you.
"Are you so dense, Princess, that you can't see your actions have consequences."
You gape at him, matching his hard levelled glare. "Careful Ser, anyone else and I'd have their head." Normally, Harwin would never dare speak so freely, yet at this moment the mere presence of you sets him alight. He grunts in response to your warning.
You squeeze your eyes shut, inhaling deeply to keep the dragon at bay. The last thing anyone needs is for you to boil over and explode. "What actions are you speaking of?"
You honestly have no idea what he's referring to. "Ahh, so you're ignorant as well. Tell me again why you came to me that night, why you begged,"
"I did not beg!" You almost growl. Fuck he makes you angry, almost rivalling your father at this moment. Your veins simmer, your stomach twisting in rage. "I told you why-"
"I don't believe you." Harwin cuts you off. He lowers his face, so close to your own. His breath bares down on you, his lips dangerously near, yet Harwin's movements are calculated. There's no warmth in his eyes. "I think someone got angry at daddy, and decided to get back at him using me."
You freeze. You never expected him to say that, to call you out. "Harwin," you start, desperation filling you. You need to explain yourself, to make him understand.
Betrayal flashes across him, his back straightening. "Good evening, princess." He spits out your title, removing himself from you entirely.
"Harwin," you choke, reaching for him when a figure steps in front of you. You barely give the man a glance before you intend on following the knight.
"If I may, Princess?"
You ignore the man offering his hand for a dance, staring off at Harwin as he makes his way through the crowd and exits the hall. Distress floods you, your body shaking as you fight the urge to heave.
You feel sick.
"Sister, are you alright?" Rhaenyra notices, immediately coming to your side. You can't say anything, darting between her and where Harwin just left. She nods in understanding. "Go, I'll tell father you're feeling ill."
You squeeze her hand gratefully, before making your way toward a different exit, with a plan of cutting him off. You have vague ideas of where he would go. With everyone in the hall, it leaves the corridors vacant.
Picking your dress up at the knees, you pick up a run, your shoes hitting the floor lightly as you intend on making minimal noise. Blood roars in your ears, your heart pumping erratically.
You round corners, desperate to slip out of the Keep before anyone realises. Finally, you enter the gardens, stopping when you spot Harwin storming his way toward you, unaware of your presence.
You step into his view, flinching as he stops dead in his tracks. He goes to speak, but you beat him to it. "I am to speak, and you are going to listen." You raise a finger, keeping him rooted whilst you close the distance.
You stand dangerously close, your chest heaving and your hair falling to your shoulders. "Yes, I came to you because I was furious because I knew that it'd destroy my father much as he'd done to me. He asked what it would take to contain me, and I voiced a marriage of my own free will. He refused." Harwin stands rigid, his fingers flexing at his sides. "But I came to you-"
"Because you knew I'd do it. You took advantage of my affections for you, you used me!" Harwin raises his voice, his emotions controlling him. You deny it, trying to explain yourself when he talks over you. "You have no idea how I felt the next morning when my own gold cloaks told me that the King was to select your hand. You shattered me," you close your eyes at the sound of your name leaving his lips with such pain, tears building.
"Yet you have such a fucking hold on me that I stupidly offered my hand."
Your eyes fly open, meeting his own despite the darkness. The bright moon shines down, lighting the area as best as possible. "You," you drawl, comprehending his words.
"Yes, and I had to endure your father and his court's laughter."
"But your his Hands son-first born son! Heir to Harrenhal!"
He chuckles darkly. "Exactly, all I have to offer you is a half-burnt castle, courtesy of your ancestors."
You can't fathom that your father didn't even consider Harwin, that he belittled him. He has no idea what he's done.
"Harwin," he shivers. "I'm sorry you had to deal with that. What my father did is cruel,"
"A trait that runs in the family."
A tear slides down your cheek, defeat seeping in. It seems no matter what you say, Harwin refuses to hear. After a heartbeat of silence, Harwin moves to round you, pausing at your palm coming into contact with his chest. The feel of him sends a shiver down your spine.
Harwin slides your hand off as if you've burnt him, continuing on his path. An intense wave of pain surges through you, obliterating every part of you without remorse. Your chin trembles, your mind steaming at you to stop him, to fuck the protocols and policies.
You open your mouth to call out, to tell him the truth but it falls short in your throat, lodged well. You fear for what happens when you lay yourself bare, what he'll say and do.
"I'm in love with you."
Harwin completely seizes, as if he was close to falling off a cliff.
"I came to you, because deep down I knew my father would never approve, especially of us marrying." With each word Harwin approaches you, his body weightless. "So I decided that before I became caged and forced into a dull marriage, that I'd take control and choose who takes my virtue. That I'd lay with the man that I love, even if it were for a night."
Harwin stands directly behind you, his front pressing against your back, his breath on your neck. "If you're lying to me,"
You turn to face him. "You think I'd allow anyone to treat me like a whore?"
A flicker of understanding passes between you. How he manoeuvred you, how he controlled you like a puppet and fucked you against the wall without mercy.
"What do you know of being a whore?"
You tilt your head, standing on your toes to brush his cheek. "I know I'd let you do whatever you want, so long as it pleases you."
Harwin inhales sharply, his body itching for you. He murmurs your name, his voice trembling and his restraint slipping. He allows his fingers to loosely hang off your hips, drawing you closer.
Your mouth ghosts his, the temptation seeping in. You move your arms to his neck, threading your hands through his hair. Harwin groans, his hooded eyes burning through you, his control snapping.
He captures your lips, his grip on you tightening and his palms travelling every inch of your back, one of them ending up in your hair, the other on your neck. You whimper softly, Harwin using the opportunity to slip in his tongue and ravage you properly.
You're powerless against him, the lack of oxygen having its effect on your brain. You feel him move you backward, directing you through the garden until you stand flush to a wall, out of sight. Harwin found this hidden spot behind the bushes when he was a young lad, oft venturing here as he grew older to escape his reality.
He skims down the skirt of your dress, lifting it to cup your pussy. You whine, pulling apart to lean your head into the brick. Harwin smirks at your state, his palm moving in circular motions.
"Your drenched Princess. How long have you been like this?" He taunts you.
"Since I laid eyes on you," you answer airily.
Harwin hums in satisfaction, removing your undergarment and tapping the inside of your thigh to signal you step out of it. A chill shudders down your spine in realisation; Harwin plans on having you against this wall, where anyone could easily happen upon you.
"Hold this," he refers to your skirts, bunching the front into your stomach. You do as he says, biting your lip as he works to remove himself.
Harwin pauses, his cock hard and throbbing in his hand. "Tell me you want this," he rasps.
"I want you to fuck me."
A cold smile tugs at his lips, "as my princess commands."
He nudges into you, giving you a moment before he slides all the way in. You tense, having only had him months ago and nothing since. It doesn't exactly hurt, it feels uncomfortable, like he should be there but he is.
You grapple with his shoulders, hissing once he reaches the hilt, filling you with every inch of him that you can take. He shudders at your walls clenching around him.
Slowly he eases out and in, working you to a steady rhythm as to make sure he won't hurt you, that you've accustomed to him. You have.
He slams his hand onto the wall beside your head at the same time his hips rut into you. Your mouth opens in a silent groan, your forehead pressing against Harwin's as he intends to watch you.
Each thrust is intentional, his cock hitting as deep as possible and his slow but hard movements driving you crazy. Your whimpers and small sounds spur him on, a hand on your hip to help leverage him into you.
Though he's fucked you before, you still have no idea what to do, not wanting to just stand here and take his brutal pace. You remember how it felt to have your legs around his waist, how he was able to hit deep angles and completely fill you.
Lifting a leg up, you hook your ankle around his waist, Harwin instantly shifting. His hand glides down to your thigh, keeping it locked to him and his hips drive deeper into you.
You begin to feel that burn within your abdomen, brewing with each thrust, especially as he switches to almost completely vacating you before he hits home. You cry out, Harwin instantly covering your mouth.
"Quiet Princess, otherwise this ends very quickly." Harwin grunts, referring to someone potentially finding you.
You attempt to nod. He doesn't exactly trust your control, keeping his palm where it is as he continues to piston out of you, his heavy pants signalling how close he's getting.
You dig your heel into his lower back, so close to falling over the edge, desperate for him to follow. Harwin glides his hand from your thigh to your clit, paying particular attention to the bundle of nerves and the added sensation being enough for you to climax.
Your moan is muffled, Harwin's hips faltering at the feeling of you gushing around him. His own restraint slips, his cock ramming into you one last time, his seed spilling. His head falls to your shoulder, his hand slipping from your mouth to rest on the side of your head.
Your chest heaves, a slight sense of fatigue threatening to wash over you. "I hate you, with every fibre of my being." He whispers into your skin, his lips grazing your exposed collarbone.
"I know." You reply, your mouth dry as you run a caressing hand over his hair. You don't know what to do from this point onward, whether you and Harwin go your separate ways or you fight for him.
It ultimately falls on him.
"I would burn this fucking city to the ground for you," you murmur, wanting him to comprehend just how much he plagues you, how much he wields you, how nothing else matters in this lifetime but him. Hesitantly, Harwin lifts his head, unprepared for the serious glint in your eye. "Don't give up on me, not yet."
"Then don't leave me."
Your lilac eyes shine with fire and determination. "Never. I love you too much," he looks away, releasing a heavy breath as though he doesn't believe you. "Hey," you grab his face, forcing him to meet your stare. "I have loved you, since I was a girl. You, are why I hate my status. If I were a lower-born daughter, we could have wed a long time ago, without the burden of our duties."
"Show me," his words are barely audible, but you catch them. Show me.
Steadily you lower your leg from his waist, ignoring the slight irritation from your hips and sudden blood flow. His soft cock slips from you, hanging limp. Pushing down the nerves that erupt along your body, you sink to your knees, glancing up at him through your lashes.
A flicker of surprise passes over Harwin. He didn't exactly mean this. Though he'd be stupid to pass up the opportunity.
"You're the only man I'll get on my knees for," you quip, tentatively wrapping your fingers around his cock.
Harwin hisses at the contact, his hand bracing himself against the wall. You allow instinct to take over, cautiously pumping him, studying Harwin's reactions. His lips part, his breath becoming heavy with each glide, his cock hardening under your touch.
"Am I doing it right?" You ask nervously, unsure of what else you could be doing to him.
"Princess," he grits, his fingers curling into a fist above you. "You keep that up and I won't be able to last."
Your cheeks flare at his comment, your thumb brushing over his inflamed head. Harwin grunts under your ministrations, his other hand flexing as he withholds the urge to grip your hair.
"Can you teach me, how to use my mouth?"
Harwin's eyes fly open, instantly finding your own. "You don't have to, what your doing is just fine."
"But I want to," you pause your movements, looking up at him expectantly. "Either teach me or I'll learn myself."
His eyebrows rise to his hairline. "You are a determined thing, aren't you?" You scowl, gently tightening your grip on him. "Alright alright," he repeats, his body stiffening. "Put it in, and for the love of the seven, don't use your teeth."
A wicked grin spreads across your face, setting Harwin on edge as you take him into your mouth, inwardly cringing for a moment. Harwin shudders, his hip's reflexively jutting forward.
"Just," he pants, at the mere feeling of his cock inhabiting your mouth. "Move like you were before, and use your tongue."
Your brows furrow slightly, hesitantly gliding along his cock and back down, dragging your tongue on his underside. He groans, his hand coming to your hair and threading it. How he so desperately wishes to face fuck you, but he won't. Not until you're his.
You bob your head, following Harwin's instructions as he guides you to bring him to a climax, his leverage on your head allowing him to gingerly rut his hips into you. "Good girl," he murmurs, his eyes closing in pleasure.
An idea flickers, your tongue swirling around his swollen head and your hand wrapping around the base of him, a small smirk threatening to spread as Harwin stammers.
You feel powerful, knowing that your mere mouth can bring Harwin to this state, his moral restraint close to breaking like the chains kept around your dragon.
Harwin calls your name, his cock twitching in your mouth. He's close, dangerously close and he fears that if you don't stop, he won't pull out in time. You remember how he felt you near your climax the night he disappeared between your thighs, sucking gently on your clit to bring you over.
You wonder if the same applies to him.
You move to his tip, gently sucking. Harwin cries out at the unexpected sensation, forcing his hips forward and ultimately thrusting his cock further into your mouth as he shatters.
You squeak, his seed filling your mouth and slipping down your throat. You can't help but cringe at the taste, pulling off him to wipe your mouth.
Slowly raising, you observe Harwin's state, as he comes down from his high. He releases a heavy breath, his senses clearing. A sense of pride runs through you, for being able to please him as he did to you.
Being with a man, is not at all what the Septas told you.
Harwin grabs the underside of your jaw, pulling you up to him. You fist his jacket, a small moan escaping you when his tongue slips in. He doesn't care that he can taste himself.
He steals your breath, your lungs aching and that familiar burn searing through your abdomen. He reluctantly pulls back, his forehead leaning on yours, his lips feathering you, refusing to completely stop.
"Harwin," you whisper, your hands sliding to his neck, playing aimlessly with his loose curls. "What are our next moves?"
"Hmm?" He hums absentmindedly, too lost in the feeling of your cheek against his. He nuzzles you, an act of intimacy that even fucking you couldn't compare to.
You chuckle, deciding to leave it and enjoy the moment, as much as the two of you should plan out the next steps.
"You're mine," he says lowly, his gravelly voice sending chills down your spine. "And I'm yours."
You nod, a smile gracing your lips. "You've ruined me for anyone else."
Tag List: @iwillboilyourteeth @sageshorrorblog @gibbsgirl7 @noisyinfluencerstrawberry @missusnora @jdm-traash @happynerdtale @westeros-needs-me @killthedarkthoughts @stardustdragon9 @my-watch-begins @ietss @znanaworm @fulla02
#ser harwin x reader#harwin strong smut#harwin strong x reader#hotd#ser harwin strong#ryan corr#harwin strong imagine
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Ghostface!Reid for trick or treat
“Dr. Spencer Reid, you naughty boy.”
trick or treat!
--
You'd never thought about how to escape from a murderer before, but apparently a knee to the crotch will do it. With your attacker on his knees you reach for the white plastic covering his face.
He's barely able to groan an incapacitated 'No!' before you snatch it off of him, the band snapping from its clips on the side where it was tight around his head.
You don't expect to see your coworker.
"Dr. Spencer Reid, you naughty boy." You drawl, "We did know the killer would try to insert himself into the investigation. I just didn't know he'd be the investigation."
"It's your fault," He groans, starting steady on his feet again. Before he can reclaim it you kick his knife behind you, still holding the mask like a trophy.
"How so?"
"You belittle me. You never listen," He gushes, face screwed up in indignance, "You treat me like shit. You all do," He pants, breathless from both adrenaline and pain, "You made me do this."
"Oh, and this helps? Hunting down the members of our team one by one and picking them off like flies? Morgan was your friend!"
"He treated me like shit too!" Spencer shouts, saliva glistening on his lips as he breaks down, "And Hotch, oh god, always 'Spencer, quiet!'. 'Spencer, not the time'. 'Spencer, you're only good for relating to the psychopaths'."
"And me? I was next?"
"You never stopped them," He insists, voice cracking against his will. His eyes hold a sincerity you wish you'd noticed sooner, "You- I wanted you to stop them, I needed you to stop them! But you never did," He breathes raggedly, "They're dead because of you."
#trick or treat with ddejavvu#spencer reid#spencer reid x reader#spencer reid imagine#spencer reid scenario#spencer reid oneshot#spencer reid one-shot#spencer reid one shot#spencer reid headcanon#spencer reid headcanons#spencer reid hc#spencer reid hcs#spencer reid fanfiction#spencer reid fanfic#spencer reid fic#spencer reid blurb#spencer reid drabble#spencer reid dialogue#spencer reid fluff#spencer reid angst#spencer reid x reader fanfiction#spencer reid au#unsub!reid#ghostface!reid#ghostface au
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Deep End (Matt Murdock x gn!Reader)
Deep End (Matt Murdock x gn!Reader)
Content: major character death, angst, profanity, mentions of blood
Word Count: 2.6k
A/N: Y’all remember that heartbreaking, angsty Matt Murdock oneshot I mentioned like 2-3 days ago?? Here ya go!
I’ve been in bed for the last three days with COVID (after evading it for three years, it finally got to me), and you’d think I would take all of this downtime to write. The exact opposite, actually. BUT I had enough energy to pump this out, so y’all better not let this flop.
I’m just kidding, I sincerely hope y’all enjoy this! I appreciate any constructive criticism and/or comments!
Stay safe, y’all!
*italics: flashbacks
A storm had rolled over Hell’s Kitchen, and it was intent on staying. One might have thought that the heavy beating the city took from the rain would keep the darkest of humans and criminals from venturing outside, their minds set on causing fear and chaos; if anything, the rain, thunder, and lightning provided only a cover for the indiscriminate ruthlessness that took over the city at night.
Unfortunately for those who committed any vile acts, The Devil had no problem venturing outside when it rained, as it only provided an extra distraction for those he hunted.
It didn’t work as well when he, himself, was also distracted; and tonight, he was possibly the most distracted he had ever been, and he had paid for it in a few ways.
The shallow cut on his side stung as he ran and leapt across darkened rooftops. His back throbbed from where a lowlife had managed to clip him with a metal bat… all because he had gotten distracted at the sound of his phone ringing.
He had gotten distracted…by his phone ringing.
But it hadn’t just been any instance of his phone ringing; the ringtone that had permeated the sounds of fighting around him was the one he had assigned specifically to you. It hadn’t been the first time you had called him during his “nightly duties”; but it was different this time around.
The second your ringtone had reached his ears, he had fumbled for a split second as the memories of the last time you two had spoken raced through his mind, the word ‘spoken’ being an understatement for the argument you two had had.
“I did what I had to do. It was either you or him, and I made the call- and I’d do it again.”
One of Matt’s fists clenched while the other hand raised and rubbed at his face roughly in an attempt to…calm himself? His helmet lay on its side from where he had carelessly dropped it onto the table in frustration.
Your name left his mouth in a sound that closely resembled an exhausted sigh mixed with a growl. Your chest tightened at the idea that your presence, which he had at one point enjoyed, now caused him nothing but exhaustion and frustration. How did you two get here?
“That wasn’t your call to make, damn it! You killed-'' His unseeing eyes closed as he took a deep, shuddering breath. “You went too far tonight, and you don’t even seem to care. You put yourself in danger tonight doing something reckless, and you don’t seem to care.”
The sudden rush of anger that seized your body surprised even you, but as you spoke quickly and without hesitation, you could see Matt’s jaw clench in retaliation.
“You’re a goddamn hypocrite, Matt. That’s all you do; you go out every night, not caring what condition you’re in, risking yourself and being reckless.”
“Yeah, well when I’m reckless, at least I’m helping people.”
He couldn’t stop the heavy sigh that wracked his body as his feet landed on yet another rooftop that brought him closer to his apartment, yet his footsteps stopped as his thoughts caught up to him. In fact, they only grew more resilient as he slowed down.
His tongue darted out, gathering rain water and the taste of copper off of his lips before pulling out his phone. He took a few steps until he was under a small awning, leaning tiredly against the brick wall as his hand fiddled with the burner phone.
His words were sharp, slicing through the atmosphere of confrontation and turning it into one of stone-cold silence.
Your chest rose and fell heavily, and it wasn’t hard to miss that his chest did the same. Taking in the way his body was closed off, you made the decision there that the conversation was over. There was nothing else to say, as there had already been plenty said. But you couldn’t stop your final words from lashing out; a last attempt to make him feel how you felt.
“Fuck you, Murdock. You and your pointless mission. You can’t help everyone, and I won’t be there when you finally realize that.”
Matt could remember just standing there, listening to your pounding heart and heavy steps as you walked out of his apartment. He remembered listening to your heart, it fading the further you walked from his building until he couldn’t hear it anymore. He remembered denying the way his own heart had thudded painfully in his chest when he couldn’t hear yours anymore.
But he also remembered the feeling of anger and frustration that had taken hold of his body that night, causing him to say words that seemed necessary in the moment, but were clearly counteractive. That same frustration had resulted in him not reaching out to you for almost two weeks, something he was surprised he was able to do.
He had had this idea that you would reach out to him when you were ready; after all, he had said those hurtful words that night while you had only spoken the truth, albeit, in a rather brutal way. Every day he had wanted to reach out to you, but he also knew that if had reached out to you only for you to turn him away, he quite literally wouldn’t know what to do with himself.
But tonight, you had called him…and he hadn’t answered because he was too busy doing the exact thing that played a factor in your argument. And then, not only did he wait to call back, he also held back from listening to the voicemail you had undoubtedly left, signaled by the extra chime that came from his phone. Every bit of his hesitation came from his own self-sabotaging tendencies, as he was convinced that your call had just been an accident of some sort.
But then there was a small, yet persistent voice in his mind pointing out that maybe - just maybe - you needed his help, and the thought of not being there was enough to push his own shame and guilt aside.
So now here he was, pressing the designated number that he knew was assigned to your name. He hadn’t noticed at first, but as the ringtone sounded, he found himself holding his breath and waiting for one of two things: your voicemail or your voice.
His eyes closed in resignation as the automated voicemail rang out. Admittedly, it made his chest constrict in guilt; but whether or not he’d be going home with more guilt would depend on the voicemail you had sent him. It only took the pressing of a button or two, and then your voice was in his ear…and almost immediately, he was pushing off of the brick wall behind him in alarm, his heart speeding up.
“Matt, it’s…it’s me- shit-”
Your words broke off and he could hear you take a deep, shuddering breath. A grunt sounded out, in your voice, but it seemed to be distanced from the phone, almost as if you had pulled the phone away. The next time you spoke, your voice was clear, but to his dismay, still shaky.
“I know you’re pissed at me, but…I need your help. I…” A noise that sounded close to a repressed cry shook him to his core as it came through the speaker. “I fucked up. It was a setup- the whole thing was a trap.”
“Tell me where you are. Come on…” Matt found himself speaking into the phone as if it were a live call, his own voice shaking in anxiety.
“I’m near 49th a-and 11th. I know I made you mad, but please, Matt I…I need help.”
He had already taken off, his legs pumping as hard and as fast as they could in the direction of the location you had given him. The echoes of your voice growing weaker and more breathy towards the end of the voicemail spurred him on as he bounded across buildings, sliding under and jumping over anything that was in his way.
He wouldn’t let himself think of the fact that the voicemail he had just listened to had been sent at least 15 minutes ago; the voicemail he had put off listening to because of his hesitancy. Matt couldn’t let himself entertain the thought that you were now in a threatening position…all because of his hesitancy.
His lips moved soundlessly as he ran, sending prayer after prayer that he’d find you in time and that you’d be okay. His mind simultaneously worked on keeping the devil at bay as it snarled, thrashing against the very restraints that kept it at bay for a chance to go after the bastards who had hurt you.
Though the second his feet landed on the corner of 49th and 11th, all of those thoughts quieted. Almost anyone could have surprised him from how focused he was on listening for any sign of you, but as he picked up the sounds of your soft grunts of pain, no one could have stopped him from getting to you.
You were in a wide alley, propped against the grimey, brick wall of one of the buildings that surrounded it. The scent of blood was strong enough for him to smell over the various disgusting, unknown scents that blanketed the alley, and that realization alone was almost enough to bring him to his knees. But it wasn’t what brought him to his knees; it was the sound of your quick and raspy gasps coming from the middle of the alley.
His feet quickly took him to where your body was before he dropped to his knees, not caring about the tiny bits of rock and trash he kneeled on. Your name escaped his mouth quietly and then he was reaching for you. Despite your efforts being weak and clumsy, you still tried to push his hands away. In your disoriented mind, the hands didn’t belong to the one person you so desperately wanted to see in the moment; they belonged to the people who had put you in this position; they belonged to the people who had spilled your very life onto the dirty ground around you in a random alley.
“Sweetheart, it’s me, it’s Matt.”
“Matt?”
It took a few seconds, but as your brain registered Matt’s voice, your weak efforts stilled. Your hands fell limply to your lap as your eyes sought out his face in the darkened alley.
Your voice was unrecognizable, but you didn’t have the awareness to be worried about it. Matt, however, was perfectly aware, and it threatened to break him right there.
He couldn’t let it show through his voice, but the terror wracking through his body made him shake. His hand that pressed against the steady flow of blood from your torso shook, as well as the hand that rested against the clammy skin of your cheek. If you were more aware, you’d be able to hear the tremor in his voice as he spoke.
“Yeah, I’m here, I’m gonna get you some help, okay? Just…just stay awake for me, can you do that?”
At his words, your head lolled into his palm. He couldn’t see it, but despite the haziness in your gaze, your eyes held the guilt you had been feeling since the last time you had spoken to each other. It was a struggle to do so, your breath hitching every time you tried to speak, but you pushed the words out; you needed him to hear you.
“Matt, I’m sorry. I’m sorry about what I said, I’m sorry about tonight. I just wanted to help, that’s all I ever wanted to do.”
While you spoke, Matt worked on pulling out his burner phone and dialing 911, quickly uttering your location to the dispatcher. His fingers slipped slightly from the blood- from your blood that coated his hand; it all threatened to make him sick.
“You don’t have to say sorry, sweetheart; it wasn’t your fault. None of this was your fault. Save your strength.”
The corner of your mouth lifted into a combination of a smile and a grimace, not having enough energy to fully make it into the former. Your vision continued to wane, but you could still see the barely concealed panic on his now completely exposed face. You hadn’t even seen him take off his mask.
“I’m not, Matt. I’m…not making it out of this.”
It hurt to say the words, both physically and emotionally; coming to terms with your own death wasn’t easy in the slightest, but Matt’s presence made it bearable. You couldn’t even feel the agonizing pain that had been wracking your body only minutes ago.
Matt’s head shook quickly, his wet hair shaking violently along with his movements.
“Hey, don’t say that. You’re going to be okay- you have to be okay. I just need you to take it easy. Focus on me and focus on keeping your eyes open- hey. Hey! No, no, no…”
Your lips parted to respond, but instead of words coming out, a violent cough seized your body. You could taste copper on the back of your tongue, and it almost seemed as if something heavy was pressing down on your chest, making it harder to breathe.
Your eyes had slipped shut without you even noticing, and they only opened after Matt tilted your head towards his, desperately calling your name. When he spoke, his voice was softer; resigned; full of a sorrow that permeated the numbness of your subconscious and made tears prick at the corner of your eyes.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean any of it- any of what I said. You do help people- you’ve helped so many people. Please, just keep your eyes open. The ambulance is on its way.”
His words reassured you while simultaneously getting rid of the very small shred of hope you had unknowingly been holding onto that you’d make it out of this alley. There wasn’t an ounce of anger in your body directed at Matt, though. If anything, the last emotion you felt as it grew increasingly difficult to draw in your next breath was a mixture of gratefulness and a bittersweet sorrow.
You knew that this ending was predictable, especially when it came to you two and your professions; but never did you think you’d end up in this position. Call it blissful ignorance or denial, but you never saw either of you in this moment. But now that it was here, you couldn’t find enough energy to be upset about it.
“I’m sorry I won’t be there, Matt. Promise me… p-promise me. You’ll…keep…the city…”
He couldn’t have stopped his tears if he wanted to. Your words grew increasingly slurred, and there was a sound deep in your chest he could hear; one that would forever plague his nightmares. The sound was a haunting sign of the inevitable, as was the feeling of your body going completely limp in his arms.
With a choked sob, he pulled your body until you rested against his chest. His mask lay discarded and forgotten behind him, even as the sound of sirens grew closer. He didn’t care.
His tears mixed with rainwater and your blood as they fell on your skin. His head rested against the top of yours as his pleas and apologies fell on ears that couldn’t hear them anymore.
The city had taken so much away from him throughout his life, and with every loss, he was closer to going off of the deep end. Throughout the hardest moments, you had been there; the barrier that not only stopped him from doing so but also encouraged him to walk away from that deep end. But you weren’t there anymore; that barrier wasn’t there anymore.
Throwing his head back, Matthew Murdock let out every single ounce of pain and anger he had held back throughout his years of serving this god-forsaken city…and then he stepped off of the deep end.
I hope y’all enjoyed this! Let me know if it made you cry, made you mad, made you feel anything!
#matt murdock#matt murdock x reader#matt murdock imagines#matt murdock drabble#matt murdock oneshot#matt murdock x gn!reader#daredevil#daredevil x reader#daredevil x gn!reader#daredevil oneshot#daredevil imagine#daredevil imagines#matt murdock angst#daredevil angst
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“QUEEN IVY! QUEEN IVY!!!” Kagetsu’s shouting causes a few people to cover their ears as he sprints past them down the hall, but he doesn’t notice. He’s too focused on getting over to Ivy to notice anything else at all. Tunnel vision is a powerful thing.
“There you are, Queen Ivy! I have found you at last!” He nearly reaches out to grab her arm once he’s close enough, just to get her attention in his excitement (and perhaps prevent her from walking away in the event she’s upset with him for leaving her side for a time), but he’s able to hold himself back. He doesn’t want to overstep any boundaries, even if he is overjoyed to see her again.
He may have left Elusia without her, but he’s still always considered himself as ‘Retainer to Princess Ivy’ (even if the ‘Princess’ part may now be inaccurate) first and foremost. Before even the new occupation of ‘Sword Instructor’ he has now instead, the one he’s meant to prioritize. “…I am deeply sorry to have left you and my responsibilities as your retainer behind, Queen Ivy. I swear, I had always intended to return.”
He says it, and he means it, but he doesn’t know if she’d believe it. He doesn’t know if he’d believe that. He doesn’t have the best track record of returning to places he left, after all. He can only hope it’s taken as the truth he wants it to be.
“But, now you are here, and I am here, too! So there is no issue! What house have you aligned yourself with? I will have my office moved nearby at once!“ Something he thinks he’s technically not allowed to do, but who cares. Ivy > Rules.
Ivy hears him before she sees him — as typical of bold, enthusiastic Kagetsu. He is practically shoving his way down the hallway to get to her, skidding to a stop just an arm’s length away. His shoulder tenses — she sees the brief flash of consideration in his eyes — before he relaxes and drops his arm.
“Kagetsu,” she greets, smiling — his joy is infectious. She relishes in the familiar feeling of turning and seeing him by her side. The loyalty of her retainers is never forgotten, and the nervousness of being on foreign soil is already greatly alleviated by his presence. “It is good to see you, my friend. I thought I had seen your name on the staff directory, but I almost couldn’t believe it…”
Indeed, the image of Kagetsu standing at a chalkboard and giving a lecture to a troupe of attentive pupils is nearly enough to make her laugh aloud, though she suspects his instruction veered more towards the practical than the theoretical. She could only imagine what his teaching sounded like — she thinks he must be popular amongst the student populace.
Ivy raises her eyebrows at his apology. “There is nothing to be sorry for, Kagetsu. If you wanted to see the world, who am I to stop you? It’d be like caging a bird of prey. …and you’d always have a place in Elusia, if you truly wished to return.”
Kagetsu means every word he says, every syllable earnest and sincere. It had taken Ivy quite a while to realize this; but it had been as she said: she has no doubt that he’d want to return, but he is like the far-reaching wind. Of course she wanted him to return, but she could not clip his wings and force him to stay if his feet desired to wander.
His enthusiasm returns within the next heartbeat, sunlight bursting through thin gray clouds. He is right. The issue would arise eventually, but they have this moment — and plausibly many more in front of them.
“I chose the Black Eagles — I have no penchant for axe-wielding, but the school of Reason had always fallen well within my expertise. Move your office? I’m not sure how the administration will take such a notion… Such a request will certainly take a great deal of deliberation. Why don’t we get something to eat in the meantime? I’m sure you have accrued a great number of stories. I’d like to hear them — I do miss hearing your tales.”
#〞 ♡ 𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑'𝐒 𝐌𝐄𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐋𝐘 › IN CHARACTER. ╰#〞 ♡ 𝐁𝐎𝐍𝐃 › KAGETSU. ╰#〞 ♡ 𝐀𝐔𝐃𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐌𝐁𝐄𝐑 › ASKBOX. ╰#( did 14 triple cartwheels when i saw him in the ivybox )#( literally love him so much )#( the sillies. the pals. the FRIENDS )#( the little blurb about him not knowing if he would return but him believing he would eeeeeekkkkk )
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Divided
Backstory for Azimuth and Asamta Taro, the two children of Indigo Taro. Both Azimuth and Asamta are demi-female and use they/she pronouns.
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“You wish to live like this?” Azimuth scoffed, “With humans calling you filth, where they treat you lesser than, for reasons beyond your control?”
“We can rise above this, ner’vod,” Asamta insisted, “You know we have the strength to do so.”
“But I don’t want to do so!” The taller of the sisters threw her hands in the air. “I don’t enjoy standing at attention, never at ease, forced to perform like circus beasts for those lesser than us!”
Beside them, another slave coughed. “Overseer’s comin’. Youse two’d do best to keep it down, ‘n get back to work.” He spoke in Huttese, with a thick accent neither nautolan could place. The two thanked him, before diving back into the water.
Diving for seafood was, simply put, a terrible job. They both hated it, and yet they were forced to do so for the benefit of humans and red skinned aliens that stood on the back of their labor. “So how do you suggest we rise, Asam?” Azimuth demanded in a watery rendition of Huttese, “They wear us to bone, without energy to even stand, much less fight for what we deserve.”
“You seek an easy way out, Azi,” their sister retorted. She reached into the wire cage of crustaceans to pull one out, setting the clipped tail creature free. It swam off in a hurry, apparently eager to avoid siblings fighting. “A dangerous one, too. Explain to me, how you will remove your own slave collar, find a smuggler, pay the smuggler, and find something better.”
“I would rather attempt to find something better as a free person, than die hoping I can rise above crustacean farming as a slave.” Azimuth pushed them, earning them an indignant yelp. At this point, any edible creature that wasn’t trapped was sure to have been far away, hiding from bickering siblings. They would lose their wages, if this continued. “I see no hope here.” She grabbed two cages before swimming off.
“Then you are blinder than those eyeless creatures that make their home in the shitty ground!” Asamta screamed back. Their voice rippled, cracking coral as it travelled. How couldn’t they see? How was their own sibling, their flesh and blood, so blind?
Hours later, night had fallen. Asamta had finished their duties for the night, and brought with them their wages and her sister's. She pulled her weary feet to the bunks where they stayed, and saw her sister with a bag stuffed clumsily of her things. On Azimuth’s bunk was their slave collar, cracked open in two, wires and circuit boards exposed. It would seem that they managed to break it with some invisible force.
Asamta sighed. They walked up beside their sister, dumping both their wages into her bag. Then they fished around for their own stored wages, and added those as well. Azimuth looked over her shoulder at her sister. “You’re an idiot and a fool and I sincerely believe you’ll die before you even make it to the spaceport,” Asamta signed in Mandalorian. “But in the slim chance you get off this planet alive, you will need every credit more than I do.”
Azimuth’s face scrunched, but it did little to stop tears. She pulled her sister into a hug, so tight neither could breathe. Eventually, eventually, she had to let go. “Come with me,” Azimuth signed back, “I don’t want to go without you.”
Asamta chuckled, shaking their head. “You will need a home to come back to once you’re done running away, will you not? Or in case your head is clear enough to come back before you’re killed?” They couldn’t see past the tears, but they tried. If only to better remember their sister by. Azimuth laughed softly, and gently pushed their shoulder.
“Fine, you stubborn bitch. At least I know where to find you when I have to be the one to buy your freedom.”
“By then, I am confident I will already be free. Just watch.”
Azimuth snorted and shook their head. “Galaxy’s most stubborn nerf,” they said quietly, as they started making their way out of the tent.
“Not as stubborn as you.”
#swtor#swtor oc#nautolan#star wars oc#asamta taro#azimuth taro#my stuff#the two grow up to be force sensitives on opposite factions so that's fun! :D#and by fun i mean absolutely devastating! :D
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Steven with a Reader with OCD
Steven Grant x GN!Reader with OCD
You are struggling with obsessive thoughts late at night, and worry how Steven will react.
Warnings: OCD, compulsions, bleeding, aggressive nail clipping ig?
AN: I've been doing a lot better with my OCD lately, I always do better when I feel in control of my life, and I'm always more in control when Im in a stable living environment. Living with my parents was never stable, living with my last roommate was not either, but living in this dorm has been such a sanctuary. Still, there are some things I struggle with, compulsions that have been a part of my life for so long, I don't know if there's a way to go back, I don't remember a time when I had normal nails. Just wanted to write this for a little comfort.
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When Steven woke up and saw you weren't in the bed, he assumed you were in the bathroom, but when you didn't come back to him, Steven was worried so he came outside the bedroom for you. Steven saw you sitting on the couch, legs crossed, the finger tape you had been trying all unraveled on the coffee table.
You saw him, immediately closing your eyes in defeat before going back to work, trying to make your nails 'right'
"Sorry" You mumble.
"What are you sorry for?" Steven asked, sincerely.
You tried to stop from crying, angry at yourself. "For failing. I really wanted to break this, but... laying in bed I just could feel everything, and it was wrong, and it was bad and-" You wipe your eyes with your sleeve, and angle the nail clipper far in, proceeding to take off most of the nail on your toe, not that there was much.
Steven saw your low cut, abused nails and fingers, the sensitive skin that wanted to be covered and protected by callouses but now open to infection, the little bits of blood on your feet.
"It's okay, my darling, I know you're trying"
"Not hard enough, apparently"
"Hey" Steven tilted your chin up to him. "You've done really, really, well with others things, love. This is just something that's been around a long time, it's hard to break"
You pull away from him, embarrassed, but unable to stop. "I wouldn't do this if I didn't feel like I had too."
"Yeah, it doesn't seem like something you'd do for fun" Steven offered sympathetically, earning a small smile. Steven was familiar with strange quirks. Steven's bedtime routine before he met Marc was extensive, and Marc was intense about cleaning, so when you began dating, he didn't think too much of your strange eating habits. As things progressed, and you met and fell in love with Jake and Marc, you opened up about your obsessive-compulsive disorder, Steven tried his best to support you, reading all the books and articles possible, and holding your hand when there was nothing to be done.
"It's fucking humiliating" but you don't stop, you can't stop, you're trying so hard to get a nail that was in the skin, digging in at the calloused layers of your body trying to protect you. "Ow!" You missed your goal, clipping the skin and causing blood.
Within a flash, Steven stole the clippers from your hands.
"Steven!" You shout in a panic, never mind it's 3 AM
He stands up, trying to play keep-away but he's not tall enough for that. "You just cut yourself open!"
"Give it to me!" You're in a panic, you need to take care of it, need to make it right even though you know it will never be right.
"I draw the line at you hurting yourself."
"Fuck you." You storm into the kitchen, dropping blood on the carpet as you put on your slides and grab your keys.
"Bloody hell" He sighs exasperated, following you. "Where are you going!"
"To the fucking store to get another fucking nail clipper!"
"You're not driving when you're this upset."
"You don't get to tell me what to do" You clutch the keys to your chest and press your body against the door as he fights to take the keys back, but the pressure of it was all too much. Steven was mad at you, he thought you were weird, and your nails still weren't right and it was bad and things were bad and you had to fix it but he won't let you fix it and can't he see you needed to fix it?
When Steven heard you crying, he stopped, backing away immediately and giving you the clippers. His heart hurting for you, he watched as you, still crying, sink to the floor and start going back to work at your poor toes so fast, like it was the most important thing in the world. "I can't stop" You say through tears.
Steven sighed. "I know." He kissed the top of your head before stepping away. "Do what you need to do, then come to the bathroom when you're ready."
You only barely register what he said, and you certainly don't register the water running in the bathroom, your only though being fix it, fix it, fix it.
When you finally satisfy that ache enough, everything hurts, and you know damn well it's going to hurt more in the morning, multiple infections on your hands and feet, then more as they nails grow in again. Tired and ready for sleep, you pad over to the bathroom with bleary eyes, finding Steven sitting on the tub, looking up at you worriedly.
"Hey. You feeling better?"
"Sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry I'm like this."
"No" Steven stands up, taking you in his arms. "I'm sorry you're going through this, I know it's a lot. Here."
You look at the tub, realizing now theirs steaming water in it, only a few inches high.
"Is that for me?" You ask, curious.
"Yeah, it's really hot, so be carful. I just, I know they usually hurt, I thought we could try and prevent infection?"
You felt like you could cry again. "That would be great. Thank you"
The water was very very hot, Steven first put your fingers in the hot water and washed them with gentle soap, cleaning out all the blood, then after patting them dry, Steven put triple antibiotic gel on your fingers, bandaging the worst one. He then repeated the action on your toes, very careful but thorough on the toe that had been clipped.
As he laid you down on the bed again, tucking you in, he asked. "How are you feeling? Any racing thoughts?"
"No" you shook your head. "Just shit hurting" Before you or him could say more, you broke down crying again. "Im sorry"
"Oh love," Steven quickly embraced you. "You have nothing to be sorry for"
"I'm so fucking weird and gross" You sob.
"No." His voice was firm as he guided you to look at him. "You are not weird, and you are not gross. You are suffering, and it just hurts me to see you like this. I promise whatever I can do to ease your pain, I will. I'm sorry you're hurting, but you're doing so well, and I'm so proud of you."
Steven held you tight that night, the way that always comforted you, relaxed your mind, and although you swore you could feel your pulse in your thumb, and you still felt embarrassed, you felt safe knowing that Steven, Marc and Jake would always love you
**********************
IDK who would even like this but @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction @howaboutcastiel and @welcometostayingawake bc ur my buddies and you support my weirdly specific shit
#steven grant#steven grant x reader#steven grant reader#ocd#obsessive compulsive disorder#steven grant gn!reader#moon knight#moon knight x reader
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Question- do companions get their wings clipped, or pinioned? Not to out myself as a bird nerd but while they're both very bad things to do to a bird, one is a LOT worse than the other.
Clipping a bird's wing means cutting back the primary flight feathers on one wing. Clipping only one wing prevents the bird from properly balancing in flight, meaning it'll swerve to one side and fall to the ground if it tries, so it won't be able to maintain flight. It's technically painless (though robbing a bird of its ability to fly is still Bad, they're designed almost entirely for wing-powered flight from the ground up. You should see what the avian respiratory system looks like), and is reversible.
After molting, the flight feathers will grow back, and the bird will be capable of flight unless its wings are re-clipped. However, clipping often starts before a bird can learn to fly, and even without that the wing muscles will atrophy over time due to disuse, meaning that a bird whose been getting wing-clipped every molt will still have a significant road to recovery after the clipping stops, and may need to be trained or re-trained on the basics of flight.
Pinioning is worse. Pinioning means amputating one wing just above the wrist joint (the second joint of the wing, further from the body. usually just past this, to leave the thumb/alula/"bastard wing" intact so its feathers cover the stump), usually while the bird is still so young that its bones haven't had time to harden, usually without painkillers of any sort. This has a similar effect to clipping, but A. it's fully permanent and B. it throws off the bird's balance even when on the ground, as that's a not-insignificant amount of weight removed from just one side (if both sides are clipped/pinioned, the lack of imbalance means the bird can re-learn how to fly even with shortened wings). Doesn't effect heavier birds like waterfowl too bad iirc, but those tend to keep both feet on solid ground (or just float on water).
A pinioned felfolk would likely have some trouble with delicate balancing, especially as instinct might tell them to use their wings to aid them in balancing- which only makes things worse, since one is, of course, pinioned. One with clipped wings might struggle a bit, but the weight difference would be a lot less drastic, and it's just a matter of waiting to molt & regrow those flight feathers (molts usually happen at least once a year for most species, sometimes more often but most will at least molt in late fall, so their feathers are in good condition to keep them warm during winter)
...Sorry for the unprompted nitpicky inbox essay, but both options have significantly different implications for dear Castel and I'm not good at keeping my mouth shut about bird stuff. Still, I hope this could be helpful to you in some way!
Okay first off: please don’t apologize!! Thank you sincerely for bringing this to my attention… I always love learning new things about animals, even if they’re heartbreaking like this.
Everybody say thank you to bird nerd anon!!
After reading through this a few times and really think about it, I’m gonna alter a few things now that I’m more informed:
(I’d also like to reiterate that what the Sunguard Guild does to their companions is barbaric and not the norm for Guilds and their companions. I do not support the practice of declawing, pinioning, or wing-clipping.)
The Sunguard Guild typically pinions their companions. They have this process done to prevent their companions from leaving the Guild, and typically the head of the primary companion family, or the overall oldest companion, is in charge of ensuring that the pinioning goes well and relatively smoothly.
So most of the current Sunguard companions have a pinioned wing.
#(also if you want to keep spamming my inbox about bird stuff-#I might not reply publicly but I shall file the info away v loyally for later 👀)#ailurocide#ask#anonymouse#spotty speaks#ailurocide: the companions#ailurocide: the sunguard guild#keyword: m o s t companions
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Chapter 7: Marian
****
Wordcount: 2.8k
CW/TWs: none.
"A summer restorative in Southern England brings with it news of a certain Dramatis Personae, and the introduction of a man described thus:
'Damnably handsome. Brave in battle, smart as a whip. An excellent dancer, oh, and an even better shot.'
Richard and Anne must contend with news that upends their established plans, and in turn, show their own cards."
*****
Ao3 Link.
Scene clip below.
“Ah.” The man looked almost confused as he walked towards them, then halted a mere few feet away from Anne and Richard. He seemed surprised Richard hadn’t signaled for his guards - they’d be chomping at the bit to protect their king. “My sincere apologies for causing a fright,” he dropped his voice and noted Kathryn and Johnny peering anxiously up at him.
“Who are you?” Richard growled, getting to his feet swiftly. His fingers itched to grab his sword, but noting Ned unconscious in the man’s arms stayed his hand.
“Sturmhond, privateer, captain of the Volkvolny…” the boy began.
“-You’re the one who landed in Liverpool at Christmas!” Richard breathed, cutting him off with a sharp glare. “The first ship in a decade… How?”
“A Long story,” Sturmhond mentally wrung his hands. “Much to be explained over a cup of brandy…” he tried to grin, but returned to grimacing. Richard’s eyebrows shot up.
“How did you find our son?”
Be calm. Sturmhond chided himself. No use blurting out who you really are .
“His dragon caught an arrow to the wing in Sheffield. I…” Sturmhond broke off again. How do I explain what I was doing there? How do I explain the wings, the teeth? The sight of Cecily-Anne’s green eyes burning brighter than a noon-day sun as Jane drew the radiation from her rotting body? HOW?
#harriet rambles#richard iii#my fanfiction#threads 1984#update!#at long last#sturmhond#writing#nikolai lantsov
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One Step Forward
Often, the utter lack of a coherent timeline in the 2001 series makes me sob on the inside. This time, however, it allows me to play fast and loose with what did and didn’t happen between the initial destruction of Black Ghost’s base and the Greek gods appearing. You know, in amongst the psychic dogs and the dinosaurs :’)
Specifically: I’m playing around with the team living together and living separate from each other/returning to their home countries and suggesting that it was less of a “we stayed together for a while, went our separate ways and then the next threat to the world brought us together” and more of a back and forth drifting as each tried to find their feet, and we viewers just weren’t shown all the times the whole team or a large number of the team were together in the house. (A fact my found family self will forever be sour about. :P)
At the risk of the author’s note becoming longer than the actual fic, I’ll end this by saying only: happy holidays, @lasquadra. I hope that this brings you a little bit of joy and feels for your faves, whom I tried my best to do justice to!
Warnings: Mild language and moderate discussions of war and child soldiers. Also one brief mention about death.
————————–
It was a mark of his growing maturity, 002 thought, that he made it a whole fifteen minutes before he spun right on his heel to glare back at 008. The other man was further back than 002 had expected; the ground was cracking with the cold and had made 008’s footsteps louder than 002 was used to.
The tiny revelation changed nothing. 002 still scowled heavily as he demanded, “Are you following me?”
In response, 008 only gave him that smile that was a little bit gentle, a little bit fond, and a whole lot amused, if one knew how to find the smirk that was camouflaged in plain sight. 002 knew how to find it.
“I’m also heading in this direction,” he responded, calm to 002’s irritated.
“You’re heading in this exact direction.” 002 let the scepticism bleed into his tone. He wasn’t, after all, headed anywhere in particular, which made 008 following him even more of an unlikely coincidence. “At the exact same time as me. When you didn’t show any signs of wanting to move all morning.”
The smile on 008’s face became more obviously a smirk as he continued to make his way down the path, a rather hefty bundle wrapped in a blanket tucked under his left arm. But his tone was still (deceptively) mild when he paused a foot from 002 to ask, “Are you rejecting my company?”
It was such an unexpected question that 002 felt himself drawing back a little as though from a blow, eyes widening slightly as his stomach constricted. Despite the teasing, 008 was being sincere; that much was obvious, and that was what had really caused the blow to land the way that it did. Instinct bubbled up, telling him to be dismissive and cruel. Telling him to wound 008 with words so that, when 002 walked away, 008 wouldn’t be able to follow.
But that instinct was a worn one. It belonged to a teenager who no longer existed; who had lived in a time that had been snugly put to bed by the rest of the world. He was no longer the guy who ruthlessly cut away vulnerability and genuine care, seeing them as switchblades hidden up a sleeve, ready to be plunged into soft, vital flesh at any given opportunity. And he was, he realised, not even the weapon Black Ghost had tried to force him to be.
The little huff of dark amusement that escaped him was more for the sudden realisation that he’d started referring to his people by their numbers in his head again. And that he’d done the same for himself. They’d been trying, conscientiously, as of late. He’d been trying. And 008 — Pyunma. Pyunma was so very obviously also trying, in that sneak-attack, open-hearted way of his.
“No,” Jet answered, clipped and terse and then regretting his tone a moment later. The regret made him ask, slightly less gruffly, “Where are you headed?” as the two began to walk side-by-side.
“I’m doing a favour for a friend.”
“Because zero— because Joe isn’t around to do it?” Jet scoffed.
“Something like that,” Pyunma said, but Jet knew him well enough by then in all the ways necessary for combat to hear the hesitancy. The sudden thrum of caution-tension in his voice. He was wary, now.
What Jet didn’t know was why he was wary. Was it digging into his personal affairs? Was it the — admittedly, a little mean-spirited — dig at how everybody had made Joe their delivery person? Was it simply Jet’s attitude? The uncertainty made his gut sour. The desire to make Pyunma happy to be in his presence made him recoil with inner disgust at having such a desire. And the irritation that had driven him to the cold for a walk to clear his head rose to tidal wave proportions, washing his rational thought with anger. Because anger was a good emotion to cover other emotions; thick and strong and protective.
“This is why we shouldn’t live together,” he bit out, ignoring the part of him that was throwing up his hands in exasperation at himself. “We should all just cut ties until we need to be a team. Hell! We barely work as a team. We cobbled together fighting together but… we don’t get along. It’s ridiculous.”
He shoved his hands into his pockets, fuming, and noticed only a few beats later that he’d picked up speed, and that Pyunma was keeping pace with him. Jet hunched his shoulders and scowled even deeper and hated feeling the way he was feeling. He didn’t necessarily want to be this spitting wet cat of a person, especially not after the recent trip to America really had felt like it had… not miraculously healed something inside of him. But it had shaken something loose. Or, perhaps, it was more accurate to say that it had shaken something into place so that it no longer rattled along the confusing mix of metal and bones that he consisted of.
“I— Hm.” Pyunma cut himself off.
After they’d walked for nearly a full minute in silence, Jet sighed. “What? What were you going to say?”
“I think,” Pyunma said, slowly, as though testing out where he was putting each word in case it landed on a hidden mine, “That we have a bit of a skewed view of what family should be like, you and I.” Jet couldn’t help the little noise of surprise that left him. It was the second time in under ten minutes that Pyunma had utterly blindsided him. Pyunma glanced at him with a reassuring smile. “We used to listen to radio shows. American ones. Maybe not any you know, in particular, but I’m sure the general idea of them hasn’t changed at all.” Pyunma turned a distant sort of smile to the sky as they walked, eyes locked in memory. “We used to all crowd around the one wireless that was available and listen so closely people were slapped if they breathed too loudly. They were all about… you know. Funny, bumbling mom and dad. Witty kids. Always getting into such silly situations. And we’d laugh about it afterwards. Silly Americans. Dumb Americans, worrying about such stupid things and getting themselves into such stupid messes. But… I wanted it. We all did, I think. Not just for the lifestyle, and because the problems seemed so easy, but because of the possibility of family that was offered to us. Normal families, we were taught, never fought. Not about anything… let alone for their lives in wars.”
Jet, honestly, didn’t know what to say to that. Normal families don’t fight had turned, near-instantly, into a piece of shrapnel that was worming its way through all the vital organs in his chest, and searing like molten larva through his veins.
“I’ve never… put it into those words before,” he said, voice quiet and distant as he struggled. But Pyunma was right. Without him realising it, Jet had always subconsciously had a rosy image of what family was supposed to be. And it had been the utterly sanitised, brutally plastic opposite of all he’d experienced. “Well, what the hell does that have to do with anything?” he said, trying to snap. But there was no venom in his voice.
“We’re learning conflict,” Pyunma said, simply. “Us as a… team.” He meant family. But Jet was glad he hadn’t used the word, because it felt far too heavy and sharp to handle, just yet. “Just because we’re finding our feet and negotiating and unlearning some lies… many lies…” Another smile in Jet’s direction. This one was a little forced, but it was forced with courage and determination and hope. “It doesn’t mean we won’t work. Give us time.”
“I—” Jet grabbed hold of the sentence he didn’t actually want to say, and pulverised it between his grinding teeth. “Everything is just… really pissing me off,” he admitted, tightly.
“Because caring hurts,” Pyunma said, more gentle than he’d been so far. “That… or it’s jet lag.”
It took only a second for the play on words to hit, and then Jet cursed at him and flipped him the middle finger, and Pyunma laughed. The laughter made some of the sharp ache in Jet’s throat lessen; enough for him to find himself smirking, faintly, as they continued on their journey. He realised, a moment later, that he was now technically following Pyunma, who did appear to have an actual destination. Jet didn’t mind following.
“I… really did miss you guys when I was away,” he admitted, softly. Because Pyunma deserved some vulnerability and honesty after his help.
“Do you think that was something bad?” It was both a tease and a serious question.
Jet countered with a question of his own: “Do I think Black Ghost… put something in us to make us care about each other?” He snorted as Pyunma let out a noise of disbelief. “I somehow really doubt it.”
“So then it’s just plain old humanity keeping its hold on us.”
“That’s what worries me,” Jet admitted, still quiet. Pyunma slowed and turned almost fully to watch him, surprise and curiosity clear in his expression. Jet heaved a sigh and flung his head back to look at the sky. It was obscured, partially, by trees, either rich with their possession of gold-brown leaves or plaintively reaching bare branches skywards, ever straining. “Back when I was… Before. Before Black Ghost, when I was fully human… the gang I was in… I would have died for any of those people. Actually, dying for them would have been the nicest thing I would have done. I haven’t bought the Black Ghost insanity that humans are just destructive monsters but… but. I’ve learned to… be cautious. About humanity.”
“I understand,” Pyunma said, and Jet had known he would. The certainty had been what had driven him to say anything in the first place. “I really get it.” Growing up in a war zone and making your family out of child soldiers and whomever was still alive would give a person that kind of perspective.
“Not everybody does. Everybody else on the team, I mean.” Jet sent a stone thudding across their path, viciously satisfied at the clang that sounded when something metal in his leg hit the rock.
“No,” Pyunma agreed. “We have some people on our team who… almost literally died lonely and alone.” Jet thought about Chang and GB… and then stopped, because the burn was simultaneously ice cold and boiling hot. “And it… well. Not only it; a lot of things make us all see things differently. And deal with ourselves differently. And get angry differently.” Pyunma raised a pointed eyebrow, making sure Jet noticed it before adding, “Like Albert.”
Jet stopped walking. “What do you mean?” he demanded, instantly bristling and defensive.
Pyunma raised his free hand. “You don’t need to be Fran to hear you two,” he said, blunt but still strangely gentle.
“So you were following me?” he demanded, hotly.
“I did have an errand to run, but there was no time set to it. After you left… I thought you might want to talk.” Jet scoffed. “It’s okay if you don’t. We have time, Jet.” Pyunma slowly, with clear intention of his movements, placed his free hand on Jet’s shoulder and squeezed. “You and Albert are trying. We know that. And that’s why the rest of us don’t get involved. Time.” Pyunma gave him a tiny little shake. “You and me and Joe and Albert… we had families of war before. We just had different types of war. And that’s what makes this so uniquely hard for us. The others… don’t get that. But they’re willing to learn. Willing to give time.”
“Do you all just sit there and talk about us behind our backs?” he snarled, shrugging off Pyunma’s hand. And then he felt foolish for his reaction, because Pyunma just gave him the most deadpan look known to man. Jet sighed in a low growl and ran his hands through his hair. “Yeah. Yeah. Fine. Sorry. Just… he drives me mad.” Jet swallowed. Pyunma let him think; let the silence and the stillness swirl around them. It struck him, belatedly, that Pyunma had used the word family, this time. Not directly but… the implication was an ember inside Jet’s blood.
“Come on,” Pyunma said, eventually, and started walking again. He didn’t push Jet for anything else, and Jet used the continuing silence to try and make some sense of his swirling thoughts.
“You said Joe,” he realised out loud. Pyunma let out a questioning noise. “You said Joe also grew up in a family of war.”
“An orphanage is a kind of war, too,” Pyunma said, quietly. “Maybe not recognisable at first but… The same uncertainty, the same strive for survival and a desperate future you barely dare to hope for but cannot let go of…” Hesitation trailed the sentence to nothing. “I don’t know what he’s told you, and I don’t want to betray confidence.”
“Yeah.” Jet cleared his throat. “Enough. He’s told me…” Understanding dawned as the first reach of the steeple loomed before them. “The errand’s for Joe.” Because everybody else used Joe as the errand boy.
“They’ve rebuilt the church, and the orphanage is, apparently, back to functioning again. With some of the same staff. So he can’t… it isn’t wise for him to show his face there again. I offered to deliver what he wanted to give.” Pyunma sighed. “We cover each other’s weaknesses, Jet,” he murmured, finally sounding less-than-light. “We’re gonna be together… for a long time, it seems. We didn’t get to choose much, but we get to choose what we make of what we’ve got. How much of ourselves we’re willing to lay down for one another. It’s not… giving up on who we are or were. It’s development of self.”
“You sound like G-Junior,” Jet said, because smiling and teasing about it was the easier option. Or, no: the easiest would still have been anger. This was… this was the one he wanted to make easiest.
Pyunma laughed at him, some of the ease returning. “He has been a huge help for a lot of things,” he said, warmly. And then, teasing and also not, he added, “Don’t give up on us. Not just yet. Okay?”
Jet locked his arms behind his head. “I’m not going into that church with you,” he warned, and Pyunma snorted. “But… also… yeah. Somebody has to keep GB and Chang from murdering each other, and if it has to be Fran all the time… she’ll be the one murdering. And… hell. Joe is a walking…” He shook his head. “If I’d met him back when I was in a gang, he’d have been an easy mark,” he admitted. “Kid has zero street smarts.” Another reminder, painful-fond, that if one stacked up all the years people had been frozen for, Joe was the youngest of them all.
“And Albert?” Pyunma asked, slyly. Back to being an undercover little mischief sower.
“Albert needs a kick in the ass,” Jet growled.
“Good thing we have many feet between all the rest of us,” Pyunma said, mock-sagely.
“Ha. Send up a prayer, or whatever.” Jet stopped in his tracks, letting Pyunma, who was sniggering slightly, continue. “I’ll… be here. When you’re done.”
“I know,” Pyunma called over his shoulder, and there was an identifiable something in his tone that let Jet lean casually against a street light pole and watch the world without hurry, insides no longer raging.
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Hi there. I found your fic, Exit Wound and it's wondrous. I found it nearing it's end, wondering many a day and nights what the ending would be like at Chapter 29: Sight. Unfortunately, life got a little busy but now that I finally had time, I read the last chapters and I feel nothing short of wonder, joy, anticipation and inspiration.
Your writing was beautiful with a storyline that leaves images flitting through my mind as if I was right there in the story, watching and feeling it all. I cried, sobbed, laughed and smiled with them, feeling fear and relief when they felt it in their moments. The start pulled me in, drawing me to read further, push deeper and understand the lore of this story. The middle of the whole story gave me so many emotions that it gave me whiplash—in a good way. The ending has me burning alight with fear, anticipation, worry and interest.
I only know of a few backstories, gleamed from other fanfictions I've read while going down the GhostSoap tag on Ao3 but the characters were well chosen for their roles, matching up similarly to what I've seen from the bare bits of clips (mostly GhostSoap, I admit without shame) . I admit again, I didn't expect El Sin Nombre to take the role they did or for so many characters to appear and draw me in so effortlessly. I met many new characters in this story, found the old familiar ones and learned more of them along the journey in this story. It appears I'll have some research of my own to do in this fandom before I'm fully invested, seeing as I only know the reboot (my favourite version no less).
I won't say much, as is proper no spoilers etiquette, but I adored your fic all the way through and still do. I'll be revisiting it again and again, but oh, what I wouldn't give to travel through this marvellous story again for the first time. I may or may not have lost a few nights' worth of sleep, but the dreams that followed of the scenes you painted with words were worth every second.
Although I'm not all that invested in the Call of Duty fandom, your story drew me in with the details, the carefully written characters and the plot of the story.
If I ever do decide to write a story in the fandom of CoD, please know that you are my biggest inspiration for it.
Sincerely,
A new Ao3 user too shy to comment.
PS: Sorry for the long ask. And many more apologies for the messy message ":]
Oh my god, Nonnie. I have no words to express how much joy your ask brought me when I opened the app this morning for my morning paper read.
I'm sitting here staring at your ask with a blue to my cheeks and I want to hide my face and kick my feet because I don't know how to respond to such incredibly kind and heartwarming words?
I am so happy that my story managed to make you feel things and that I didn't bore you half to death with all my detours. I am so glad to hear that the wide array of characters I pulled in from other Call of Duty franchises (& comic backstories) felt like they fit in.
I'm sorry I caused sleepless nights, but if the price for those were dreams that you consider worth it, then I'll retract my apology.
I am so immensely honored to have been on the receiving end of such a message, filled with praise that might actually make me cry. So thank you, sweetheart. From the bottom of my heart ♥
If you ever write something, please, send it my way, I would love nothing more than to read it. And if you ever feel comfortable to not be too shy anymore, my DMs are always open and I don't bite - much ;)
I can't wait to take your hand through another Call of Duty adventure. I can't promise it'll be as good as this story was, but I can promise that it'll be an entrancing ride nonetheless ♥
#people ask christine stuff#exit wound#anonymous#i'm legit sitting here at the office like :o because i don't know how to react#i think i'm going to print this ask and put it in my fanfic bible notebook to cherish and love forever
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In a video posted on Alexey Navalny’s YouTube channel on Monday, the Russian opposition leader’s widow, Yulia Navalnaya, announced that she plans to continue his work in his absence. She also said she knows “exactly why Putin killed Alexey three days ago” and that Navalny’s team will reveal more about this in the near future.
“I wasn’t supposed to be making this video,” she said. “Somebody else was supposed to be in my place. But that person was killed by Vladimir Putin.” She continued:
Putin killed the father of my children. Putin took away the most precious thing I had, the closest person to me, and the person I loved most in the world. But Putin also took Navalny from you all.
In killing Navalny, she told Russians, Putin didn’t just want to kill one person: “He wanted to kill our hopes, our freedom, and our future.”
“Alexey died in a penal colony after three years of torture and agony,” she said:
He wasn’t just behind bars like other prisoners. He was tortured. He was held in an isolation cell, in a concrete box. Please just imagine it: a room of only six or seven square meters [65-75 square feet]. Nothing in it but a stool, a sink, a hole in the floor instead of a toilet, and a bed that’s attached to the wall so you can’t lie down. A cup, one book, and a toothbrush. Nothing else, for hundreds of days.
But despite being tortured and starved for three years, Navalnaya said, her husband didn’t give up:
And not only did he not give up, but he supported us the entire time: encouraging us, laughing, joking, and inspiring us. Never for a fraction of a second did he have doubts about what he was fighting and suffering for.
It was because of this perseverance, she continued, that Putin ultimately killed Navalny. “[He killed him] in a disgraceful and cowardly way, never daring to even look him in the eyes or even say his name,” she said. “And in the same despicable and cowardly fashion, they’re now hiding his body, refusing to show it to his mother, not handing it over, pathetically lying, and waiting until the traces of yet another batch of Novichok [poison] disappear.”
“We know exactly why Putin killed Alexey three days ago,” Yulia said. “We’ll tell you about it soon.”
Navalnaya vowed that she and her husband’s associates will find out “exactly who committed this crime and how” — and will reveal the perpetrators’ names and faces.
She also addressed the question of why her husband returned to Russia to face certain political imprisonment after being poisoned by the Putin regime three years ago. “After all, he could have lived peacefully, taken care of himself and his family, right?” she told viewers. “He could have stopped speaking out, stopped investigating, stopped fighting, right? No, he couldn’t have,” she said:
Alexey loved Russia more than anything in the world. He loved our country. […] So deeply and sincerely that he was ready to give his life for it. And his immense love will be enough for us to continue his work. For as long as it takes. Just as fiercely and just as bravely as Alexey himself.
“By killing Alexey,” Navalnaya said, “Putin killed half of me — half of my heart and half of my soul. But I still have the other half. And it’s telling me I don’t have the right to give up.”
She called on Russians to join her:
I will continue the work of Alexey Navalny. […] And I call on you to stand beside me. Not only to share the grief and the endless pain that has engulfed us. I ask you to share the fury. The fury, the anger, the hatred towards those who have dared to destroy our future.
She ended with a clip of Alexey Navalny himself from the 2022 documentary about his poisoning. “All that’s necessary for evil to triumph is for good people to do nothing,” he told his compatriots. “So don’t do nothing.”
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Take My Hand, I'll Start My Journey (2)
Fandom: The Mummy and The Mummy Returns
Pairing: Ardeth Bay x f!reader
Warnings: Reader uses a gun and takes a life, along with the repercussions from that. Other movie elements, including Evelyn getting kidnapped.
We finally get Ardeth in this one. Reader has a flashback--it's italicized and indented.
Take My Hand Masterlist
Part 2:
Finally! You were finally back at the O’Connell residence. After your near-death experience in Egypt, you were in the same location as your bed, and it was definitely calling to you.
“Do you need me to do anything before I go to my room?” You sincerely hoped the answer was no, because you weren’t sure you even had the energy to carry your bag to your room, much less do anything else.
“Nah. You look like death warmed over.” Rick grinned as he walked by, his arms loaded with his family’s suitcases.
Evelyn shook her head. “What my lovely husband means, in his oh-so-charming way, is that we’ll put Alex to bed. You take the rest of the night, and tomorrow off.”
“Right. That’s what I said.”
You couldn’t manage to roll your eyes, you were so tired. “Sounds good.” You grabbed the strap of your bag and began dragging it in the direction of the room they’d given you when you were hired. “Maybe I’ll be awake sometime tomorrow.”
“Goodnight.”
“‘Night.”
BANG!
You shot up in bed, gasping for breath. You grasped around you, searching for anything to ground you, fingers finally finding purchase on the bed sheets. Your eyes darted around the room until your brain caught up that you were back in London, safe and sound.
“Damn.” You shook your head at your own ridiculousness. You’d been shot at before, hell, you’d been clipped before, so that couldn’t be what had your heart racing.
Maybe it was how close Alex had come to being hurt. Time had seemed to stop when you saw that man with the knife closing in on the boy. You had been beyond terrified that you wouldn’t be able to save him.
Even just thinking about it now, however far away, felt heavy on your chest, like something was wrapping itself around your heart and squeezing.
Perhaps what you needed was to see Alex alive and well to calm your frazzled nerves. You pushed yourself out of bed, groaning with the aches you still carried from your collisions within the temple. Hopefully you could find some aspirin after you checked on Alex.
As soon as you opened the door, however, you heard the distinct clashing sounds of metal-on-metal--and as far as you knew, no one in the family had taken up blacksmithing as a hobby.
“Damn it!” Without thinking, you ran to the chest at the foot of your bed and slammed it open. You grabbed the loaded handgun that had been gifted to you by the O’Connells after you’d been shot. You weren’t particularly fond of the weapon, given your background in medicine. That’s why you kept it in your chest. But at least this time, you’d be the one going with a gun to a knife fight.
For a split second, you contemplated throwing your robe on, over your pajamas, cursing that you’d chosen to change out of your day-clothes to avoid getting dust and dirt on your bed. But, fear won out over modesty, and the fact that the robe would only slow you down, as you ran for the door.
You started charging towards the stairs, towards the sounds of the sword battle, when the unmistakable sound of machine-gun fire caused you to spin around, mid-step. What to do? Did you continue on to help with the sword fighting or dash back up and help with the gun battle?
“Mom!”
Alex’s cry chose for you and you bolted down the stairs, trying to keep your socked-feet from skidding along the hardwood floors. You flew past a huge mass of red and black and collided with Alex, pulling him out of the way of a sword aimed directly for him.
“______, get him out of here!” Evelyn yelled, barely ducking in time to avoid being slashed.
You turned, shoving Alex behind you, and aimed the gun in your hand. You didn’t give yourself time to think before squeezing the trigger.
All at once it felt like everything around you was in slow-motion. You were sure you could see the bullet as it left the barrel of your gun, sped through the air, and tore through the kneecap of the man who’d nearly decapitated Evelyn. You could see the flesh give way to the projectile, blood instantly appearing in its wake.
“______!”
The man you’d shot collapsed to the ground and you jerked your head to face Evelyn. “Are you alright?”
“Thanks.” She nodded in your direction. “Now get Alex out of here.”
“Right.” You immediately grabbed hold of his arm and began pulling him out of the room.
Alex pulled against you. “Mom, look out!”
“Alex, come on! Your mom can--” the words weren’t out of your mouth when you saw another man hit her on the back of her head, causing her to fall with a grunt. “Evelyn!” Before you could try and help her, a blur of red made to grab Alex.
You didn’t hesitate at all when you fired the gun, aimed straight between the man’s eyes.
“Oh my god.” Your knees buckled slightly as he fell. “Alex, where’s--”
“Mom!”
You looked up to see Evelyn, hefted over the shoulder of a red-clad intruder, followed quickly by still another, only he turned around to throw a blade. You tensed, except he wasn’t aiming for where you and Alex stood. The knife flew through the air, coming to rest in a wood panel, narrowly missing…
“Ardeth!” How one person could both relieve your stress and crank it up tenfold was beyond you.
“______,” your name sounded more like a groan as Ardeth pushed himself to his feet. “Did they get the chest?”
Hugging Alex to you, you tried to stifle your irritation. “Along with Evelyn, yes.”
Before he could respond, the sound of gunfire drew your attention outside. Ducking low, the three of you ran to the window, just in time to see Rick and Jonathan duck to avoid being shot by the man hanging out of a car that was speeding away.
“Are you both alright?”
You nodded, resetting the safety on your gun and shoving it in the pocket of your shorts, and turned to Alex. “Are you ok?”
“I’m fine! Let’s go!” Alex ran towards the door, pulling you along with him.
“Dad! Dad!”
Alex dropped your hand and you slowed to a stop when you saw Rick scoop his son up into his arms. Jonathan’s hand found your shoulder as you tried to catch your breath.
“Ooo, what happened to the Hippocratic Oath, my dear?” Jonathan asked as he gave your blood spattered pajamas a once-over.
“Nurses don’t take that oath.” You shrugged his arm off your shoulder, feeling your anxiety rise at the endearment. “Didn’t take the Nightingale Pledge either.”
“Ah, so no vow of purity for you, then, eh?”
“How did you--you know what, nevermind. We’ve talked about this, Jonathan.”
He sighed, sheepishly. “I know. Just these life or death situations brings out the ol’ Carnahan charm.”
“I know a sure-fire medical procedure that will cure you of that.” You smiled up at him, your voice belying your annoyance.
He winced. “Right. Sorry about that.”
You nodded in acceptance and turned your attention to the rather heated conversation between Rick and Ardeth.
“I am not sure. But wherever this man is, your wife will surely be.” Ardeth pulled out a picture from his robes.
All the air vacated your lungs at the image of…
“Hey, I know him!” Alex snatched the photo. “He’s the curator. He works at the British Museum.”
“Mr. Hafez.” Your voice was barely more than a whisper.
“Are you sure?” Ardeth glanced at you before looking down at Alex.
“You better believe them. They spend more time there than they do at home.”
With that, the five of you headed towards the car.
Once it was in sight, Rick started in on Ardeth. “Ok, you’re here, bad guys are here, Evy’s been kidnapped. Let me guess--”
“Yes, they have once again removed the creature from his grave.”
You had to ask. “You mean--?”
Evelyn had once told you all about how she and Rick had met when they first “introduced” you to Ardeth. That had been an unforgettable dig, considering it was the first and only time you’d been shot. After the interlopers who shot you fled, Rick had gone off in search of help, leaving you, Alex, and Evelyn with nothing to do but wait, and in your case, bleed all over the place.
As a way to keep Alex distracted from your wound and you distracted from your pain, Evelyn told the tale of Hamunaptra, of treasure seekers, of black and gold books, of life-or-death battles, of mummies rising to take over the world through the ten plagues.
By the time she had finished, you were nearly unconscious. Luckily, Rick returned then, two other men on horses with him. Faraj was a healer for one of the Medjai tribes, while Ardeth was their leader. Having to talk Faraj through pulling the bullet from your shoulder with the clearly unused equipment they had brought, all while Ardeth stared at you was unnerving, to say the least.
Ardeth opened his mouth to respond when he was cut off by Jonathan, demanding to know why he hadn’t been doing his job. Considering what you’d learned was the main purpose of the Medjai, it answered your question well enough.
“The woman who is with them, she knows things. Things that no living person could possibly know. She knew exactly where the creature was buried. We were hoping she would lead us to the bracelet. She obviously did. And now they have it.”
Next to you, you felt Alex physically jolt as you all reached the car.
“Alex, what--”
“I--uh--” he looked back and forth between the four adults who were staring down at him. “I wouldn’t get too nervous about that just yet.” Then he rolled up the sleeve on his jacket.
“Is that gold?”
You rolled your eyes at Jonathan as Ardeth took hold of the bracelet, and by extension, Alex’s arm.
“When I stuck it on, I saw the pyramids at Giza. Then whoosh! Straight across the desert to Karnak.”
When the hell had he done that? You wracked your brain, but you were positive his arm had been bracelet-free when you’d gone to bed.
“By putting this on, you’ve started a chain reaction that could bring about the next Apocalypse!”
Immediately, you yanked Alex back from Ardeth.
“You, lighten up.” Rick jumped in before you had the chance to admonish Ardeth for his words. “You, big trouble.” He pointed at Alex. “You two,” he looked at you and Jonathan, “in the car.”
Keeping your arm around Alex’s shoulders, you led him to follow his father’s directions.
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with flowers in my hair (kys x jwy)
pairing: yeosang x wooyoung
genre: fluff. sickening tooth-rotting disgustingly romantic fluff.
wc: 1.9k
overview: wooyoung loves it when yeosang plays with his hair. yeosang just really loves wooyoung.
ao3 link
Wooyoung's hair had gotten really long as of late. It was cute, Yeosang thought. It was longer than it had ever been, brushing the tops of his shoulders on the rare occasion when he wore it out of that stupid goddamn ponytail.
(Yeosang secretly didn't mind the ponytail, but he had a reputation to uphold and there was no way in hell he was letting his best friend know how endearing he found it when Wooyoung moved his head around and his ponytail flopped with him.)
The longer his hair grew, the more frequently Wooyoung started sporting a selection of hair ties on his wrist like they were fashion accessories. He’d started with black ones, but ever since he borrowed an orange scrunchie from one of the girls in their dance class, he'd taken to buying random colours and sizes and patterns and matching them to his outfits like he thought he was an Instagram influencer or something. The day Wooyoung came home to their apartment with a bag full of new clips, bows and scrunchies and a bright smile on his face was a day Yeosang's camera roll had engrained into its memory for the rest of his life.
At present, he'd been awoken from his afternoon nap when his roommate and life-long friend had returned home - quite loudly, as he tended to do. There was clattering from the other room and Wooyoung’s obnoxious playful singing voice carried down the corridor to the bedrooms. Yeosang groaned, half considering just shoving his head under his pillow and going back to sleep. Still, perhaps this mayhem was a blessing in disguise since he'd promised Wooyoung he'd cook dinner tonight and probably needed to get started if they wanted to eat at any reasonable time.
Yeosang rolled out of bed and shuffled out of the room and down the hallway from where Wooyoung's voice was coming. His friend was now in the kitchen, unpacking milk and vegetables from fabric shopping bags to put in the fridge. Yeosang's feet scuffed along the floor as he walked up behind him and moulded his body against the length of Wooyoung's back, arms wrapping around his waist and chin resting over his shoulder.
"Hi," Wooyoung said, smile evident in his tone of voice.
"Hi," Yeosang replied, voice scratchy with sleep. He cleared his throat and peered down at the food in Wooyoung's hands. "What have you got there?"
"Ingredients for dinner." He tilted his head gently to knock against Yeosang's temple, nuzzling him affectionately. "You said you'd cook so the least I could do was restock the pantry."
Yeosang's heart thumped in his chest. He hummed, leaning subconsciously into Wooyoung's touch. "How thoughtful of you. I guess that means you've made the decision for us on what we're eating then?"
Wooyoung chuckled, low and quiet. It was a drastic difference from his usual high-pitched laughter, the kind of soft amusement which was saved for Yeosang's ears only. It made him feel special, that he was privileged enough to see the Wooyoung underneath all that loud bravado, with his layers pulled back and his heart laid bare. Wooyoung had always been one to show his genuine feelings out in the open to everybody, his heart always on his sleeve, so it wasn't the sincerity of these moments that Yeosang treasured, but the gentleness. It made him want to reach up and pull the ribbon out of Wooyoung's hair so he could card his fingers through it, nails scratching his scalp until he hummed in innocent pleasure. Moments like these made Yeosang's chest fill with warmth and his stomach flip with giddy, joyous love.
He could never pinpoint when his feelings had crossed the line - he wasn't sure there had ever been one in the first place.
Wooyoung’s ideas about love and friendship had always blurred the lines between platonic and romantic, even more so when it came to Yeosang than anybody else. The way he turned in Yeosang’s arms to slot his face into the crook of his neck was something he’d been doing their whole lives. Part of Yeosang suspected that Wooyoung already knew, had already been showing Yeosang how his deep, complex feelings were reciprocated with every soft touch and lingering gaze, every hush of sweet, meaningless, pretty words mumbled against skin. It was simply how they were. Having Wooyoung by his side, curled in his arms on the couch, flush against his back on top of the bed – it was them, it always had been.
Wooyoung was the only person Yeosang had ever let this close to him, physically and emotionally, and he did not intend for anyone to replace that special place in his heart as long as he lived. Wooyoung had carved out a space just big enough for himself in Yeosang’s chest, settled in there, and it did not seem like he intended to move, either.
Inhaling a deep breath and letting it out as a rush of air, Wooyoung sighed. He hummed thoughtfully. “I could just eat you up for dinner, perhaps,” he mumbled into Yeosang’s skin, lips brushing right below his ear.
Yeosang shivered. “Who would brush your hair for you every night then, hm?” he teased.
Wooyoung made a contemplative noise. “I think I’d just tell Seonghwa-hyung that I had knots in my hair and he’d offer to move in just to keep me squeaky clean and presentable.”
Yeosang snorted, rubbing his cheek against the black part of Wooyoung’s two-toned hair. He must have switched his shampoo that morning. Maybe the old bottle ran out, he figured, because the soft smell of coconut that reached Yeosang’s nose when he inhaled was vastly different from the sweet, fruity scent that Wooyoung usually carried with him. He smelled like Yeosang. His heart thumped louder at that thought.
“Can you do it now?” Wooyoung’s quiet, gentle, for-Yeosang’s-ears-only-voice whispered against his neck.
Allowing his eyes to flutter closed for a moment and bask in the wave of love radiating off of Wooyoung, Yeosang nodded. “Of course, sweetheart,” he whispered back.
Wooyoung stepped back from Yeosang’s embrace, putting just enough space between them to take his hand, linking their fingers together easily. He walked them over to the couch and sat with his back against Yeosang’s front, legs crossed. He let Yeosang’s nimble, gentle fingers find the butterfly clip in his hair, carefully remove it and place it on the coffee table. Next, the white ribbon with silver trim which held half of his hair in a ponytail. Yeosang tugged lightly until the strands of hair fell free, framing Wooyoung’s face like curtains. He added it to the pile on the table and settled back into the couch.
Beginning at Wooyoung’s wrist, Yeosang slid one hand up his arm, trailing his fingertips along his sweater sleeve, over his shoulder and up the back of his neck. Goosebumps appeared under his light touch, the soft catch of Wooyoung’s breath loud beside Yeosang’s ear. His fingers carded through his hair at last, pulling his hand back and watching the sections of hair fall through the gaps between them. He repeated the action, and again. Wooyoung melted into his embrace and hummed, content.
The weight of him against Yeosang’s body was comforting and warm. It was familiar. Yeosang basked in the feeling. He scratched lightly at Wooyoung’s scalp, lips twitching into a fond smile when he squirmed pleasantly in his arms.
“You like that?” he murmured.
Wooyoung hummed in affirmation. “Again, please.”
Yeosang obliged easily. “I have to make dinner,” he mused after a moment.
Wooyoung was quiet for such a length of time, save for his occasional hum that reminded Yeosang of a cat purring when content, that he almost thought he’d fallen asleep or didn’t hear him. Yeosang’s hands worked together to tangle three strands of hair together in a loose braid. He tucked it behind Wooyoung’s ear and moved to the other side of his head.
“I already said I was going to have you for dinner, Sangie,” Wooyoung mumbled eventually, and Yeosang huffed out an amused breath of laughter.
“Right, I forgot.” He leaned in and pressed a kiss to Wooyoung’s temple.
“You’d taste sweet,” Wooyoung continued after another moment. “Do that again, please.”
Again, Yeosang did not question him. He pressed his lips to the side of Wooyoung’s face, a little lower, this time against his cheekbone. “Sounds like you’ve given this some thought.”
Wooyoung hummed once more, shifting to turn around and face Yeosang. His eyes were warm, fond, with the faintest hint of a smile on his lips. Yeosang’s eyes softened and his heart melted even more.
Wooyoung’s eyes darted down to Yeosang’s parted lips. “Again,” he whispered, as if speaking louder would break the trance over them.
And Yeosang could never say no to Wooyoung.
He leaned in and slotted their lips together like it was the most natural thing in the world.
As they kissed, Wooyoung sighed into his mouth and tilted his head, parted his lips and let out another soft, happy noise. Yeosang couldn’t help the smile that pulled at his lips, which caused Wooyoung to pull back. His pink mouth, now glistening, looked irresistible even as he frowned.
“What? Why are you smiling like that?”
A giggle bubbled out of Yeosang’s chest, eyes crinkling at the corners as he cupped Wooyoung’s face. “I absolutely adore you, Wooyoung,” he whispered. His eyes were wet, and the words began to tumble out without thinking. “I never want a day to go by where we aren’t together.”
“Sangie, that hasn’t happened since the moment we met, what makes you think it’ll–”
Yeosang kissed him again, effectively shutting him up. “I want to wake up by your side every morning,” he continued, pulling back just enough to brush his nose against Wooyoung’s. “I want to spend every night memorising the curves and grooves of your body. I never want to forget what you taste like. I want to braid your hair and buy you new scrunchies and watch your stunning, expressive eyes light up every time we walk past an accessories store for the rest of my life.”
Wooyoung’s eyes were wet now, too. He nodded, eyes flickering down to Yeosang’s mouth again. “I love you, too,” he whispered into the space between them.
Yeosang let himself be pushed against the back of the couch until he had a lap full of Wooyoung kissing him, hands holding the back of his neck as he licked his way into Yeosang’s mouth. Yeosang slipped an arm around his waist, the other hand retreating to its familiar place in his hair, brushing through soft, clean strands of blonde and black. Wooyoung’s mouth was warm, familiar in a way that felt like Yeosang was coming home, not kissing him for the third time in his life. Everything with Wooyoung had always felt easy.
“Also,” Wooyoung pulled back to say, “I was correct. You do taste sweet.” His eyes crinkling with warmth and fondness that tempted to make Yeosang’s heart burst. “Although, I’m not sure you want to wake up with me every morning because I wake up at six to go jogging with Jongho, and you like to sleep for half the day, so–”
Yeosang pressed his mouth to Wooyoung’s and carded his fingers through his soft hair again. And again.
And again.
And again for each following day, forever.
#ateez#ateez fluff#ateez fic#woosang#woosang fic#woosang fluff#wooyoung fluff#yeosang fluff#jazzy writes
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City of Bones: Epilogue
please see the masterlist for notes about this series/collection of works
-
Clary looked at herself in the mirror in the elevator in the Institute. The doors shut behind her with a quiet creak. Most of her bruises and scrapes had faded to invisibility. She wondered if Jace had ever seen her looking as prim as she did today—she’d dressed for the hospital in a black pleated skirt, pink lip gloss, and a vintage sailor-collared blouse. She thought she looked about eight.
Not that it mattered what Jace thought about how she looked, she reminded herself, now or ever. She wondered if they’d ever be the way Simon was with his sister: a mixture of boredom and loving irritation. She couldn’t imagine it.
She heard the loud meows before the elevator door even opened. “Hey, Church,” she said, kneeling down by the wriggling gray ball on the floor. “Where is everyone?”
Church, who clearly wanted his stomach rubbed, muttered ominously. With a sigh, Clary gave in. “Demented cat,” she said, rubbing with vigor.
She heard a door click shut behind her and a familiar voice sound from a few feet away. “He’s not all bad. Though I’ll never forgive him for the time I was looking for Alec after I went on a solo mission at fourteen and he brought me to Hodge.”
She stood and turned to see Rowan leaning against the wall. They looked better than the last time she’d seen them—then again, that was in the back of Eric’s car, almost bleeding out from a giant gash in their hip, clothes torn and bloodied. Now, they stood clad in sweatpants and a plain black tanktop with a slouchy, worn-out sweater hanging off their one shoulder. The sweater was undoubtedly Alec’s in the way it was entirely too big for them. Their hair looked like they’d just woken up from a nap but they clearly didn’t look rested. She didn’t think she’d ever seen them look rested. Always tired.
“How’s your hip?” she asked gently, not wanting to pry. They seemed like they always had an issue with her, but she wasn’t sure what she did that made them dislike her so much. She chalked up Alec and Isabelle’s initial reaction to her as being the new person, but Rowan had been outright hostile without provocation in the beginning. More so than Alec and Isabelle combined.
They shrugged. “It’s better. Lots of rest for Alec and I. Isabelle’s being all mother-hen about it. I’m barely allowed to move and I didn’t even break anything.”
She smiled at them. “Glad to know you’re both healing. It’s, ah…” she paused, trying to think about how to phrase the next thing she wanted to say. They didn’t like her—she acknowledged that. And it was weird to get sentimental with someone that didn’t like you. She forced up the courage, anyway. “Thank you,” she said slowly, almost apprehensive. “You didn’t…have to take that hit for me. But you did.”
She was almost annoyed that they rolled their eyes, but she figured that was how they dealt with sincerity. Letting it roll off their back like nothing hurt them—it seemed to be a common thread among the shadowhunters she knew.
“Don’t worry about it. Any friend of Jace’s, right?” they asked, but she could tell they didn’t mean what they said. She was determined to figure out why they’d do such a thing for someone they only met two weeks ago and seemed to hate but now wasn’t the appropriate time for all that.
“What’s your deal with him, anyway?” she asked, voice much lighter. She was just curious—they seemed to have some feud that no one wanted to talk about. “You two get into a fight or something?”
They laughed. Really laughed. Even Alec made jokes when he was nervous, but they’d never seen Rowan look relaxed enough to find anything funny. They were much more stoic than he was. “Ask Izzy. She’ll give you the details. Long story.”
“Clary!”
It was Isabelle, swooping into the foyer in a long red skirt, her hair piled on top of her head with jeweled clips. “It’s great to see you!”
Rowan scoffed. “Speak of the devil and she shall appear.”
Isabelle shot a half-hearted glare over her shoulder at Rowan, who threw their hands in the air in surrender and stalked off with a slight limp. She did hope they healed okay after quite literally saving her life.
-
#xx.rowan#magnus bane#shadowhunters#the mortal instruments#alec lightwood#clary fray#shadowhunters oc#shadowhunters ocs#simon lewis#the mortal instruments oc#the mortal instruments ocs#isabelle lightwood#jace herondale
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totally dumb and completely ridiculous (or: words to describe falling in love)
read my newest fic on AO3 here!
or, below the cut
summary: Emma Swan doesn't do love. She doesn't do romance, she doesn't do dates--none of it. Even if there's a charming professor hanging around who's tempting her to break her own rules.
just under 2k words
rated t for language
you can read my other fics on AO3 here!
taglist friends: I'm sorry again, I'll get the list and I'll fix it, I swear.
Emma Swan didn’t do love.
She didn’t do relationships or even dates and especially not ones with flowers and pink dresses and reservations and walks after dinner in the breeze that lifted off the water. She wasn’t the sentimental type, she wasn’t the type to sit by the phone, waiting for a ring or a buzz with a message from some guy.
Maybe this stemmed from her independent-to-a-fault personality, maybe it came from one too many dates gone bad—or maybe she just wasn’t cut out for that kind of thing.
Love.
The thought of it made her stomach spin. That was something she hated about butterflies, too—how could you tell if your gut was screaming at you to run if there were stupid bugs flying around clogging up the alarm?
She’d spent years clipping their wings so they couldn’t make her fly. She didn’t want to fly. Flying meant leaving the ground, it meant letting your feet do something other than stay firmly planted in reality and reason. Flying meant feeling.
So, naturally, the second she met Belle’s colleague—he was a professor, for fuck’s sake—and those butterflies started planning out aerial formations, she brought out her metaphorical scissors.
Three weeks later, she created The List. Sketched out on a back page in her notebook:
Reasons Why I’m Not Romantically Available
1. My schedule is chaos.
Finishing her degree online was good in theory, but that theory failed to take into account that she still had to work and make money and also somehow maybe find time to sleep in between all of that.
2. Money.
She didn’t exactly have the disposable income to spend on fancy date outfits or meals out. Plus, grilled cheese was one of her main food groups, and that wasn’t suitable Date Food.
3. I don’t even like the guy.
He was too charming, absolutely not sincere, totally a player. No matter what Belle had said.
4. He definitely doesn’t like me, so it’s not even worth making a list over.
He refused to even say her first name—not exactly a sign of affection, right?
She frowned at the list, the one she’d written out instead of taking notes for her upcoming quiz. Four was barely a list.
She huffed, pushing the notebook away from her and letting the pen clatter over it, a small line of ink marring the last point from the way she’d thrown it. This was so dumb, and she knew it. It was nothing, really. There was…nothing.
This must’ve been a sign that she’d been hanging around David and Mary Margaret too much. She was reading into things. Trying to find romance where there wasn’t any. Even though she didn’t, as a rule, do romance.
She took a fortifying swig of her hot cocoa, dragging her notebook back and turning it to a clean sheet, determined to do the thing she was actually supposed to be doing. She was so close to finishing, and she wasn’t going to let some guy distract her from it.
—
Her last final taunted her. Her homemade study guide was its accomplice, and every single time she tried to read, it made her brain flutter around without a care in the world and without consideration for her final grade.
She couldn’t afford to make a mistake now. She was practically there, her fingers twitched with the thought of holding the tangible evidence of her success, a diploma in all its glory after so many years. She was so goddamn close.
But she hadn’t been able to focus for like a whole month. And her chest ached from trying to latch a tether onto it—she was so sick of that unsettled feeling, that wandering, that dread mingling with sick curiosity—none of it made sense.
It didn’t make sense that her hands trembled against her keyboard, like she was terrified of the words she wouldn’t write. It didn’t make sense that her jaw kept itself locked into a place she’d never gone, tension snapping her into bits and pieces.
Her frustration with herself bubbled up at inconvenient times, it mocked her for a poorly written sentence, it buried a knife in her gut when she missed a question on a practice quiz. She’d been pushing herself for years, doing her best and practicing to do better and she’d always been able to let some part of her believe that she could do this, but now, at the end, when it really mattered?
She was three steps from the top of this goddamn mountain, and her shoes were untied.
In this analogy, she was clumsier.
She couldn’t track it. She couldn’t break it into bite-sized fragments of logic that she could comprehend. She’d just been feeling like this with everything, all the time, since—
Fuck.
There wasn’t a glow of a lightbulb over her head, but there was a fairly satisfying click in her brain when she finally figured it out.
It wasn’t her fault.
The relief she felt from that thought was powerful, but it wasn’t more powerful than the irritation at the person whose fault it was.
She didn’t care that it wasn’t fair to blame him, she was just glad that she didn’t have to blame herself anymore. And maybe it was the easy way out of this emotional circle of hell, but she had to do what she had to do.
She grabbed her keys.
She must’ve looked ridiculous, plodding to her car in slippers and sweats and what was quite possibly the oldest t-shirt she owned, but once again, she didn’t care.
She didn’t care that in the six times she’d seen him she’d cataloged enough information to know exactly what street to turn on—it should’ve pissed her off that she remembered that it was Tuesday and he had a class after six every Tuesday and then he went to his office and did the grading he refused to pass off to his TA, because my students are here for an education from me, Swan, and they don’t deserve feedback from some ponce who has yet to learn how to read a clock.
It was ridiculous, it was all so ridiculous, and she muttered that under her breath all the way there, her fingers thudding uneasily against the wheel.
Three dinners at her friends’ houses, two coffees with Belle that turned into two coffees with more than just Belle, and one birthday party for Ruby at their local bar—she’d ignored the hardly subtle comments from not one but three of her friends, she’d ignored the suggestive glances they’d given her, she’d ignored the nagging in her gut that wanted to tell her things about him.
She’d sat beside Belle, across from him, and she’d tried so hard not to listen to the voice telling her that he understood. Just because he met her gaze when she’d fallen silent after a particular comment from Mary Margaret about the concept of home didn’t mean that he knew what it was like to grow up without one. And at coffee that first time, just because he’d supplied Belle with the perfect conversation to distract from her unanswered question did not mean that he recognized her need to evade the subject until she was ready to deal with it. And just because he—
It was so fucking dumb.
It was dumb that she felt her heart twist right there in her chest when she saw his name on the directory, telling her to go up the stairs and down the hall.
It was especially dumb that she hesitated at his door, because she’d come all this way, and she wasn’t a coward, and all she really knew was that she absolutely had to do well on this last final and—
Well, that wasn’t the only thing she knew.
He was wearing his glasses when he opened the door, his hair ruffled as if he’d had his hand through it one too many times while grading. His pen was still in his hand.
“Swan,” he greeted, happier to see her than he should’ve been. Or maybe he just should’ve seemed more confused. His brow furrowed when his eyes trailed down to her slippers.
Irritation bubbled within her to hide the embarrassment. “We need to talk.”
His lips quirked into that half-smirk. “I find that when a woman says that—”
She rolled her eyes, pushing past him into his office.
“By all means, come in.”
And then she was just standing there in front of him, in that stupid t-shirt that she should’ve thrown out at least four years ago, and he was there, waiting expectantly. Because she’d come all this way to interrupt him.
“What can I do for you, love?”
Her hands itched at her sides; she tugged them into fists. “This is all your fault,” she snapped. It wasn’t exactly what she’d planned to say, but she’d said it.
Killian took half a step back, his eyebrows shooting up. “My fault?”
“Yes!” she cried. “I have things to do, Jones. Important things. Finals I need to finish—you are familiar with the concept, aren’t you?”
“Aye,” he replied, partially amused, partially concerned.
“I have goals. A checklist. Things I’m gonna do—things I have to do. And I can’t afford to waste a whole night of studying all because I—” She snapped her mouth shut, her chest heaving slightly from the exertion of anger.
“Because you…what?”
Her jaw went rigid. “You.”
“Me?”
She practically growled, “Yes, you.” She crossed to him, an accusing finger landing on his chest. “You. I can’t get you out of my fucking head and that’s so unacceptable. I have goals, Killian Jones. No one is going to stop me from achieving those goals, not even you.”
He blinked a few times, confusion and slight indignation dissolving into wonder as he stared at her. “You…?”
She grit her teeth, withdrawing from him to relocate closer to the door where she could think better. His proximity made the butterfly army into a butterfly armada.
“Swan,” he murmured.
Her gaze fixed on her stupid slippers. “This is ridiculous,” she huffed. She hated this. She hated feeling things. She hated that she wanted to feel things.
“Swan,” he repeated, closer this time, and her head snapped up, her gaze locking with his. The sea churned in his blue eyes, even behind the frames of his glasses, and she was so fucking adrift. An absolute goner.
“You’ve been in my thoughts as well—though I have no desire to banish you from them,” he said, his voice warm and tender. “I quite enjoy your company, Swan, and when I’m not fortunate enough to have you around, thoughts and memories ease a bit of that…pain.”
“Pain?” she echoed, her eyes frantically searching his for evidence of a lie she knew she wouldn’t find.
“I miss you, Emma. I’m not entirely certain that I’m allowed the privilege of missing you, but I’m afraid I can’t help it at this point.”
She swallowed, trying to find her feet just to know she was grounded. “I…”
He took her silence as a reply, stepping back and away from her. And that was the moment she felt like her feet lost hold of the ground.
“Wait, Killian—” She caught his arm, tugging him back or meeting him somewhere in the middle, she wasn’t quite sure which.
“Emma?”
He glanced down to see his hand now entwined with hers, and her heart roared at the sight of the pink that tinged his cheeks. And she’d been wrong. It wasn’t quite flying. It was landing. It was coming home.
At least, that was what it felt like when their lips met.
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