#i was thinking about winter so hard it was exhausting now its kind of released a little bit
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thank you tipsilon you will keep us warm
#art#its 2am now and i sat on this from early in the morning with interruptions though#i made myself a perfect drawing day though perfectly configured#and the mental facilities boost from drawing + coffee always gets me in hyper mood and it makes me make more tumblr posts#this is in the style of the one with the rocket launch site and the splitheaded witches again#the other cave painting looking one#i was thinking about winter so hard it was exhausting now its kind of released a little bit
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Dazai living in a shipping container analysis
I’ll be talking about the “pros” and “cons”, if you can even call them that, of Dazai living in a shipping container near a dumping site. Also I am using what architecture knowledge I do have on the subject of container homes.
This is on the longer side so brace yourself. Also Stormbringer spoiler warning, in case that wasn’t realized yet.
Before I actually start I’ll preface this by saying that I’m a former architecture student but it was with a design focus. I have also previously designed a shipping container home so although I have some knowledge, it does have its limitations.
Also this will be updated when the fan translations get to this part of Stormbringer. Currently, I’m getting the information from chazukekani and popopretty’s summaries and translations, so please check them out too!
As a general reference for what to expect of a shipping container home, the average shipping container is 8 x 20 ft or 8 x 40 ft. As a more visual example, here is a portion of the container house I designed. Note that it’s total length is 30ft because I have two 20ft long containers stacked on top of each other, with a 10ft offset. The space beyond the sliding doors is a balcony and can basically be ignored for the purpose of this analysis. With the pictured dimensions, you can consider it to be insulated from the outside, so as not to sacrifice internal space. Despite this, you can see that it feels fairly cramped even with minimal furniture (a sink, toilet and shower unit in the bathroom and a bed, desk, and wardrobe closet in the master bedroom).
Dazai’s current living arrangement
Now for comparison, let’s first take note of what’s known of Dazai’s living conditions for comparison.
he’s living in an illegal dumping site, and there are toxic substances coming from the ground because of this
“Not even a field mouse would dare to approach it.” (Popopretty)
the area is not on the map and Dazai lives near the center of it (which can easily be one of the worst parts in terms of health and safety)
the container was previously “used to export passenger cars overseas” (popopretty)
his only furniture is a fridge, (exhaust) fan, desk/table, a chair, and a bare light bulb
no one would approach “not just because the place itself was weird. It was because no one could predict how Dazai would react if someone approached his private residence.” (Popopretty)
it’s been a year since he’s joined, yet no one trusts him → he could’ve been living here since before he joined but we don’t know as of yet
he’s sitting in complete darkness, lightbulb off and door shut, until Verlaine opens the door and walks in
Verlaine asks if he’s living here because he’s afraid of property taxes but Dazai claims that he’s afraid of Verlaine. He’s not actually addressing his choice of location because he only corrected Verlaine on what he fears, and gives no actual explanation for why he chose to live here.
The “pros”
Naturally unapproachable location. Even if Dazai being PM Dazai wasn’t a factor in people staying away, the nearby smell alone means no one would normally approach it, much less suspect a Port Mafia executive of all people to be living there. It’s also unmapped territory so even less reason for him to be found. This means enemies and allies alike would have a more difficult time trying to find him (ie. to come for his life) and there’s unlikely to be anyone else around. After all, if even a mouse won’t go there why would a whole person live there?
It costs him nothing. Not that it’d make a difference with what we can assume of his financial wealth. He has money, likely more than Chuuya who lives in a nice apartment in a nice area, yet chooses to live in a shipping container in an illegal dumping site. This is beneficial for Dazai, since there’s no paper trail or record of where he lives, which goes right into my 3rd point.
Ease of abandonment. Considering his whole goal at the time is to off himself without troubling others in the process, it makes sense that he’d want to leave minimal traces behind. No unpaid rent or mortgage, no one on a waiting list to move into a nice place, and no personal belongings or attachments. This winds up being a pro/advantageous when he does leave the PM since there wasn’t a trace to follow him with in the first place. He can simply grab his few things of importance and find a new shipping container or abandoned building outside of the PM’s territory. In fact, he might’ve even been able to stay there or in that general area since no one dares to approach it in the first place.
The “cons”
Or should I say say the dangerous living conditions he’s in. I don’t find them surprising because again, he doesn’t have a long term plan to live at this point. He doesn’t have much reason to care about what happens to himself, as we can deduce from his overall disregard towards being constantly injured and in danger for example. This is also where the architectural stuff comes into play.
Let’s start with the most visible one, lack of insulation. With a shipping container home, you can insulate from the inside and lose about a foot of interior space in each direction (6 in. off each wall) or from the outside and lose the aesthetic of the textured walls. Either way, it costs time and money to do it. We know it’s not insulated from the inside because of the illustration and, in my opinion, it’s very unlikely that Dazai would’ve gotten it insulated from the outside because at the very least, it would make his container stand out among the others nearby. You need to insulate a container home because they get very hot or cold in the summer and winter respectively, as they are made of metal. I’ve heard that at the very least, Japan’s summers are HOT.
This one is a little harder to confirm and will likely be updated as fan translations are released, but a likely hazardous set up for electricity and (hopefully) plumbing. If you don’t have the insulation on the inside but you still have your electrical and plumbing, it can possibly become both a visual mess and a safety hazard. It’s possible that he kept it all in the back portion of his container for example, or maybe he has it taped to the floor or walls somewhere, but that also brings the question of where it’s connected to on the outside. Since he’s on a dumping site, then where’s the electrical going to go at the very least? Sure he can use nearby public facilities but every day? He has a fridge, single lightbulb and a fan but where is the power is connected to? In terms of plumbing, I think it’s equally likely he found a Porta potty nearby or there’s (hopefully) some sort of public or PM owned facility nearby. Really, his hygiene, especially during the PM days when he was (as far as we the audience are aware) likely at his lowest, can easily become its own separate question/discussion for another day. After all, we’re just talking about the condition of his container in this post.
The possible fumes and chemicals left over. The paint on shipping containers is meant to withstand the sea water splashing on to them, so it may contain harsh chemicals. And we know that his container was used previously to ship cars overseas, but that still leaves the possibility for things to have leaked on the inside at this time. We don’t actually know if it’s been used more than once, but seeing as we do have a usage history, I’d say there’s a fair enough chance for it to have been a single use container. Still, chemicals could’ve previously leaked and the paint may be a concern in the long run. It’s also possible that it has begun rusting as well, due to the metal being exposed to the likes of sea water. Also, let’s not forget the toxic substances from the illegal dumping site itself, possibly going into the container over time.
Also as far as we can tell, there seems to be a lack of windows. This means no natural light, aside from opening a whole door. Keep in mind that windows can help with indoor temperature control, not just natural light.
Living in a dump site, especially an illegal one. This one should speak for itself but I’ll list some concerns anyway. Seeing as it’s illegal, we can probably just forget about regulations altogether, much less any possible existing ones being followed. This means that there can be literally anything from hazardous waste material, to dangerous and sharp objects on the ground, to who knows what kind of smells and fumes, etc. In short, not a safe area to live in, for health concern reasons at a minimum.
Again, my knowledge on shipping container homes themselves is limited and I do recommend checking out Belinda Carr’s videos on some of the downsides of them from a professional’s POV.
7 reasons why shipping container homes are a scam
Responding to comments: shipping container scam video
Also, just because Dazai was making presumably LARGE amounts of money obviously doesn’t mean that he has to spend it all or live luxuriously if he doesn’t want to. It’s not that hard to infer why Dazai did choose to live in such conditions and I mainly wanted to draw attention to how these conditions can affect him, with both the advantages and disadvantages.
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The Perils of Being Mr. Nesta Archeron
It’s important you understand this is my incredibly poor attempt at comedy and I just wanted to write some nonsense.
This popped into my brain after seeing all the posts about how awesome Nesta is and how she had a ridiculous amount of marriage proposals and interest from human men, fae males and demons alike.
I just kind of took it from there...
***
“I still like what Nesta’s done to the place.”
Feyre looked around the grand drawing room of the House of Wind, her dozing son on her lap and her bored mate at her side who murmured something which could be taken as an agreement while pulling off imaginary pieces of lint from his sleeve.
The House was now Nesta’s, in as much as anything sentient could truly belong to anyone, and as such was rarely used for official Night Court business. Its predominant function was as home to Nesta, Cassian and a reluctant Azriel, who’d been gifted the responsibility of ‘supervisor’ – a gift which Feyre suspected he’d like to return.
The Inner Circle still held Starfall at the House and, like now, the High Lord and High Lady of Night, would visit. When she visited alone, Feyre visited in the capacity of sister and friend but when with Rhys, it was all work.
Nesta and Cassian had embraced their titles as the Lord of Bloodshed and Lady Death and their combined reputations proceeded them sending them into every corner of Prythian and the many dark outer reaches was a tactic Rhys now employed.
The aim was to achieve negotiations and encourage peaceful surrenders where necessary but if there was resulting collateral damage, it was of little consequence to Rhys.
The other reason that the House was seldom used for official Night Court business was the unnerving issue of the House itself. Whilst the majority of the architecture remained unchanged there was the occasional surprise addition. Or subtraction.
Amren discovered the House’s penchant for the latter when, on one uninvited call, she opened a door which should have led to private chambers only to find herself plummeting through the air onto the ground. She swore blind the House foundations quivered like it was laughing.
Feyre wondered how independently the House acted from Nesta and how much it carried out her wishes. She suspected that this room, the grand drawing room, had been one of Nesta’s heart fulfilments or, at least, something for Cassian.
The room was sizable, entered from the hallway via a series of doorway arches wide enough for splayed Illyrian wings. Oversized plush furniture filled the room and the floors were strewn with thick sable rugs.
The most spectacular draw to the room was the window which stretched from ceiling to floor and from wall to wall on the side opposite the doorways. The view, one across Velaris’ golden rooftops and shining turquoise waters of the Sidra, filled the space like a painting.
Feyre sighed, at least this current visit was expected and so they weren’t risking the windows opening of their own accord to fling them out. The occupants of the House had been gone for longer than anticipated on this task and so Rhys sent ahead a message that he wanted a full debrief when they returned.
Feyre opened her mouth to speak again but stopped when she heard the thud of boots and flutter of wings.
“Finally,” Rhys said with a glance towards Nyx whose eyes flickered open.
“He’ll be happy see Aunt Nesta,” Feyre said in a sing-song voice to her now awake baby, turning him so he could view the entrance. “He loves Aunt Nesta.” She wasn’t above using her infant son as a tactic to avoid her eldest sister’s potential irritation at the intrusion into her home.
Rhys eyed up the shaking walls, “Yes, as does the House.”
Nesta entered first and Feyre breathed a sigh of relief that the floor remained solid underneath where she sat.
“Hello,” Nesta said, her voice soft and cooing. Her welcome wasn’t to her sister or brother-in-law but to the now beaming baby in Feyre’s lap whose legs and arms flailed in the air as he wriggled.
Nesta stepped further into the room, treading over the rugs, arms outstretched, “Come to Aunty Nesta.”
The vast windows let in the bright sunlight, sunlight which illuminated the state of the Illyrian leathers Nesta had clad herself in.
Feyre shrieked, twisting in the chair and blocked Nyx from Nesta’s grasp, pointing at her sister’s waist. “What is that?””
Nesta paused and frowned, looking down.
Aside from the interesting splotches of red across the leathers, the utility belt tightened around Nesta’s waist contained the usual items Feyre expected; knife, pouch, knife, another knife and then... another item she hadn’t.
A leather strap was wound in multiple knots around the thick band and tied to an uneven, lumpy dome the other end. The lumpy dome ended in a stump clotted with congealed blood.
“Oh,” Nesta said with a shrug, “I forgot.” She untied the leather strap and pulled the lump away. “Just another one for the collection.” With a graceful arm movement, Nesta threw what Feyre realised was a decapitated head onto the floor where it landed with a thud, a dribble of blood oozing fresh from the neck wound.
“Well, you can’t hold the baby until you’ve washed your hands. Thoroughly.”
Nesta frowned at her, an ice-cold glare fixed on her face. “Fine,” she snapped, as though Feyre’s request was unreasonable.
Cassian, unlike her sister, had taken some time to remove his blood encrusted leathers before greeting his guests, and he wandered in through the arch with a nod of his head towards Feyre and Rhys.
His hazel eyes noted the bloodied head by the door and he released a sigh.
“You need to stop doing that.”
“The House doesn’t mind.”
The shutters covering the windows in the other rooms started to clatter up and down.
“See?”
“Yes, but I mind and besides,” he gestured across to Feyre, “an infant is present.”
Nyx, now bouncing on Feyre’s lap, slapped his hands together as hard as he could in time with the House. He gazed at Nesta as though she’d sliced her way through necks especially for him.
“He doesn’t care,” Nesta said in a sing-song voice eerily similar to the tone Feyre herself used earlier. She beamed at her nephew, “He’s clapping with the House.”
Rhys’ face turned white, “The House is applauding you?”
“Oh yes,” Az said, arriving at last and pushing his way through where Cassian and Nesta stood to flop down onto the armchair next to Feyre. “Nesta always gets rapturous applause when she brings home a kill.”
Feyre glanced from Azriel, legs sloping over one armrest while his head flopped across the other, to Nesta and then onto Cassian who was pinching the bridge of his nose.
“As much as I am ecstatic to see you all,” he said, “I’ll leave Az to deal with the debrief. I need to go lie down for a while.”
Cassian exited as swift as he entered, Az not bothering to open his now closed eyes. The concerned glances of the other room occupants followed Cassian’s retreating back.
Nesta turned back to Feyre, the ice-cold glare melted away. “Excuse me while I disappear.” Then, in a heartbeat, her expression was one of joy, “Bye-bye baby, I’ll see you in a little bit for snuggles.”
Nyx let out a small sob as Nesta left and Feyre quickly turned him towards her, readying him for a feed, knowing that the small sob would turn into a loud shriek.
“Well,” she said, “she obviously prefers Nyx to me.”
“Feyre, darling – you got spoken to,” Rhys said. “I think it’s safe to say Nesta didn’t acknowledge my existence. Which I’m fine with,” he added, nervously eyeing up the House’s stone walls, “whatever makes her happy.”
Nyx, thankfully, latched onto Feyre’s bared breast and for a moment no noise sounded in the room other than his greedy milk-hungry gulps.
A thought played over and over in her mind though; Nesta’s look of concern, Cassian’s uncharacteristic broodiness. “Are they ok?” she asked Az, at the same time Rhys enquired as to how the recent mission went.
Az’s eyes fluttered open and he gestured to the head on the floor. “As you can tell – we won.” Then, his voice gentler, he turned to Feyre, “They’re fine.”
“Is Cassian upset at the violence? At Nesta doing the um...,” and using her free hand Feyre motioned across her throat with a finger.
Az laughed, such a rare sound it reminded Feyre of the bells on Solstice evening. “Not at all. He likes that she does those things it’s just-”
He paused.
Rhys, satisfied that the mission went well and not caring about anyone’s romantic woes, settled back into the loveseat while Feyre leaned forward, careful to not disrupt her feeding son.
Azriel nodded towards the head, “Before the Anguis went the way of Hybern and the Kelpie, he managed to propose.”
“Not another one!”
“Don’t worry,” Azriel said, “I’m sure Nesta is reassuring Cassian of her love as we speak.”
As though cued up with expert timing, or, as Feyre suspected, the House lifting a self-imposed sound barrier to prove a point, the thumping drifted down to the grand room from several floors up.
“That was...fast.”
Suddenly Azriel appeared just as exhausted as Cassian had. “Nesta reassures Cassian of her love at least twice a night anyway, and when she’s done reassuring him, he feels the need to thank her back.”
Feyre winced, her face contorting into one of displeasure while Rhys didn’t try to hide his smirk. “This is what – the fourth proposal? Fifth?”
Az closed his eyes and dropped his head backwards once more. “Ninth. This isn’t the worst we’ve had.”
Nyx snuffled and Feyre moved him to her other breast. “Wasn’t the first in the Winter Court?”
They’d been in Winter for the naming ritual of Kallias and Viviane’s baby and once the ceremony was done, all guests mingled in the palace hall. The High Lord and Lady of Winter stood on the dais, draped in silver and grey, Viv beaming as she held her pink cheeked daughter.
The music, food and wine flowed freely but Feyre could barely hear the former over the laughter of the high fae and the chime of glasses as toast after toast was declared. The Inner Circle members had dispersed throughout the crowds earlier, all intent on seeking their delight in various forms.
Feyre had seen Nesta on the dance floor for the opening songs but she’d long since gone and Feyre wondered if Nesta and Cassian had snuck away to take advantage of the Winter palace’s numerous private bedrooms.
She had done her duty as High Lady of Night, walking around the hall, ice blue gown sashaying around her legs as revellers congratulated her on the arrival of her own child.
Feyre had smiled and thanked them but she tired easily after Nyx’s traumatic birth and it wasn’t long before she sought out the fur-decked chaise longue tucked in one of enclaves on the far wall.
As Feyre made her way towards it, movement from the corner on her right drew her attention.
Nesta was standing by another enclave, glass in hand, virulently shaking her head. Nesta’s golden-brown hair had been braided into a complex knot adorned with diamonds which caught the fae lights and casted shapes on the ceiling. It had been this that captured Feyre’s eye.
“No,” Nesta said, “I don’t think so.” She smoothed down a non-existent crease on her dress, a pale grey-blue that shimmered like mist over ice, ever changing.
The male she was speaking to was some high-ranking courtier from Winter who Feyre had been introduced to earlier that evening but whose name escaped her. He was tall and handsome enough, gazing at her sister with sapphire blue eyes, but Nesta’s demeanour suggested nothing other than sheer boredom.
Cassian emerged from the crowds, seemingly drawn to what was happening in the corner of the room like a moth towards a flame, his body screaming nothing but fury. Still, he interjected himself between Nesta and the Winter male with a decorum Feyre felt he should be proud of. His fists were clenched and his jaw twitched as he ground his teeth but there was no violence. Yet.
Feyre moved quickly to them.
Side by side there was no contest that Cassian was the larger, broader and less refined male. He wore scuffed Illyrian leathers and the most he’d done for the event was clean his hair and tie it back.
The courtier wore ivory silk brocade strewn with pearls and viewed Cassian up and down with a sneer.
“And who, exactly, are you?”
Cassian spat out his answer, “Her mate and husband and your executioner – you are?”
“Ah yes,” Rhys said. “The naming ball. Was it just the one dance Nesta performed before she had the males panting over her?”
“Still,” Feyre said, “that one was the easiest to smooth over. No one was killed. Or maimed.”
“I think the proposal with Chrysos was when Cassian was aware this was going to be a repeat issue,” Az said.
Chrysos stood before them, undulating between the visage of a male and of something else, something other – possibly human but not quite. His skin was translucent and his gold blood ran through his veins, clear to their eyes, like streaks in white marble.
He was horrifying and beautiful and Feyre struggled to tear her eyes away.
“I must marry you,” he said, directing his words to Nesta. Chrysos’ voice echoed around the cave chamber, strangely melodic, a harmony of angels singing in chorus, one voice on top of another. “I shall make you my Queen and take you into the darkness where we shall make the sweetest music and-”
Nesta’s shoulders sagged, energy sapped from her as she gave a frustrated sigh.
“What the fuck?!”
Feyre jumped at Cassian’s yell, the noise bouncing from the tops of the cave to the bottom, deep into the darkest part and back again.
“Seriously! For fucks sake, I am standing right here!”
Rhys chuckled. “That ended quick enough if I remember?”
“We were on a recruitment mission though, we wanted him on our side,” Az said, “not dead.”
“Cassian maintains he slipped.”
“From six feet away?”
“Yes.”
“With his sword aloft?”
“I didn’t think the proposal in Summer was too bad,” interrupted Feyre, now with Nyx resting against her shoulder so she could pat his back with soothing circles.
The party on Tarquin’s barge was held at the height of the season the Court was most famous for.
The weather was idyllic; sunshine beating down on Feyre’s skin, endless blue skies stretching ahead while a cool ocean breeze drifted from the teal waters teaming with coral. Dolphins pranced in the frothy waves around them, shimmering and shining, their scales a rosy pink.
“Look, Nyx, look!” Feyre held her cooing baby high, pointing the dolphins out to his curious violet eyes.
The barge moved at a comfortable pace and again, like all parties the High Lords arranged, the music, food and wine flowed. Guests streamed from the top desk to the lower one and lower still when they felt like taking to the private cabins, the heat in the air turning into heat in the blood.
The decks were vast enough to not see the same individuals constantly but small enough to see them often and Feyre had smiled every time she walked past a relaxed Cassian and Nesta.
On their first stroll about the deck, Nyx had been awake and grinning, Nesta peppering his small face with a flood of kisses that had him squealing and his limbs flailing with joy. Cassian had joked about knowing his place in the pecking order and Nesta smiled at him in turn.
Cassian’s hair was tied back into a loose bun, strands of black hair falling past his jaw. It was too hot for leathers and, with his white linen shirt with sleeves rolled up to expose the black tattoos on his arms, he was the most casual Feyre had ever seen him.
Nesta stunned in a dress of blue which started ice blue at her shoulders before blending into a shade so dark at the hem it was almost black. The front was a demure and delicately scalloped neckline but Nesta’s back was entirely bare, held up by invisible straps.
Multiple pairs of eyes glanced their way but Nesta’s hand never left Cassian’s and his free one travelled the length of her spine dipping beyond the fabric at her lower back.
You’re borderline indecent, Feyre told them with pretend outrage and continued to walk the deck.
The second time Feyre passed them, they had been talking to Tarquin and Feyre only caught a brief snippet of their conversation, trying to settle a now restless Nyx against her shoulder.
“One apology,” Tarquin had said, “that was my mother’s favourite building.”
On Feyre’s third pass, Nyx now in Rhys’ arms, Tarquin had gone. In his place stood a fae Feyre didn’t recognise.
“I had turned away for a couple of seconds,” Cassian said, his hands in fists, “and you thought this was your opportunity to sneak in here like a panting-”
“Cassian,” Nesta warned, “we don’t want another incident in this Court.”
“Well, there will be one if this prick doesn’t move out of here. We’ll see how he fares with my foot up his as-”
“Cassian!”
“She’s married and mated. Can’t you see the matching rings? Can’t you smell the mate bond?”
The high fae nodded his head, “Yes, but...”
“But? But what?! That’s it,” Cassian said, “we’re leaving this fucking party.”
Rhys and Az stared at Feyre as she burped Nyx, their mouths open.
“What?” she asked.
“You didn’t think it was too bad?” Rhys said, his voice incredulous.
Feyre shrugged, “No one died and no wars were started.”
“They’d only just removed the ban on Cassian to have to enforce it again.”
“I don’t think the second ban was fair though.”
“Feyre, darling. He destroyed the barge.”
“We spent hours fishing everyone out of the sea,” Az said. “Then we had to work out where Nesta’s unfortunate suitor had landed after Cassian threw him towards the cliff.”
“Wasn’t he clinging onto the side of the rockface?”
“Yes.”
“And didn’t Cassian destroy another building in his haste to get away?”
“Yes.”
“Alright,” Feyre said, frowning. “So maybe it was bad.”
“I quite liked the proposal from Locuples,” Az said, “that was the best for all involved. No one died and we ended up with a pretty good trade agreement.”
“Oh, I remember that,” said Feyre, “I was here when Nesta and Cassian came back.”
Feyre and Az had been in the grand room, as they were now, sitting opposite each other in companiable silence. Steam from their tea cups swirled in the air and Feyre gazed out the windows at the white clouds over the city.
“What the-?”
Feyre’s head snapped round, surprised at the uncharacteristic shock in Az’s voice. He stared towards the door archways and Feyre followed his eyeline.
Cassian and Nesta had returned, surprisingly quietly, as she hadn’t heard them land on the roof. Or perhaps, looking at the display in front of her, they’d travelled by some other means.
Nesta sat on a throne on an open topped litter, carried by two lithe creatures who were more shadow and smoke than real and whose feet never touched the ground. Nesta herself, bedecked with jewels, a tiara and clutching a sceptre, wore an expression of confusion.
Cassian followed on foot, wings tersely tucked in, heaving a trunk filled with gold, jewellery, silks, furs and bottles which wafted exotic scents.
Cassian glanced at them from the corner of his eye, “Don’t ask.”
“I thought we expected this to be a hostile negotiation?”
“I said don’t ask.”
“We still receive gifts on a monthly basis,” Feyre said and slid to the floor to lay a barely awake Nyx on the soft furs - one of those aforementioned gifts. She traced a thumb on the arch of his foot and watched it curl, his lips smacking in contentment.
Feyre swore the floorboards underneath him adjusted to accommodate his shape.
“Don’t you receive monthly gifts from Helion as well?” Rhys asked. “Or did Cassian put a stop to that?”
“Cassian put a stop to that one,” Az said.
“Doesn’t Nesta still have the first gift though?”
Az groaned and placed his scarred hands over his eyes. “Yes, and I cannot express how much upkeep it takes.”
Feyre smiled, “Oh, I remember that one too.”
The shriek took Feyre by surprise and she leapt from her chair, readying herself for action. It was only seconds before she realised it wasn’t a shriek of pain but one of sheer, childlike joy.
Once again, her and Az were in the House and, once again, she hadn’t heard the arrival of the House’s other permanent occupants.
“In the name of the Mother,” Az breathed and, in what was a familiar pattern, Feyre turned to where he was looking. This time, instead of Az looking towards the doorway, he was staring outwards at the windows.
Nesta, clad in her leathers and with windswept hair was sat astride a glorious white winged horse, her black leather a stark contrast to the white of the creature she sat upon.
“Someone find Gwen and Emerie! They need to know about this; they need to come here!”
With another shriek of joy and a gentle nudge to the horse’s sides Nesta rose higher, the wings of the horse flapping with enthusiasm, happy to appease its new owner.
There was a sigh from behind them and Feyre and Az turned. Cassian leant against the doorframe, fingers rubbing his temples.
“Cass... isn’t that Helion’s last and most prized flying horse?”
“Please – do not ask.”
“That thing is a nightmare,” Az said, “it eats everything, likes very few fae and can somehow find its way into the House in the dead of night. Do you know how terrifying it is to wake to find a winged horse hovering over you demanding sugar cubes while stealing your blanket? I can’t live like this.”
Feyre shot him a sympathetic smile while Rhys laughed. In the brief silence which followed, Feyre could hear the rhythmic banging echoing its way through the house.
“Aren’t they done yet?”
“Doesn’t sound like it.”
“At least it will be over soon.”
“Nope.”
“Oh.”
“You think this is bad?” Az said, “You weren’t here after the proposal with the Peregryn.”
To Feyre, the Dawn Court was one of the most beautiful. Its shades of gold and red weren’t bright or ostentatious but were the softer golds found in the rising sun, the reds not vermillion or scarlet but something akin to a dusky rose.
Every town held a thousand clock-towers, every hand matching perfectly, the chimes on the hour synching in a glorious song, calling to the skies in praise of a new day, of promises to be made, of joy to come.
The peace of that particular morning had been broken by the shouts of males, all raised in the ecstatic spirit of competition. Nothing violent or aggressive but it spoke to Feyre of knuckles and bone crunching all the same.
She’d pushed her way to the front of a crowd, the fae recognising her and making room for her to pass. A fighting circle had broken out in a section of the town square, cheers raising into the air as one of the fighters scored a blow.
In the circle stood two males, both tall and broad, barefooted and bare-chested. One had wings similar to the Pegasus which Nesta now owned, white and gold-feathered, and the other had wings as black as night, the rising sun highlighting veins and patches of amber.
A female was eagerly watching them, a female Feyre shoved past fae to move next to.
“Nesta! Why is Cassian sparring with a Peregryn?”
Nesta didn’t tear her eyes from the males. “Some old nonsense about fighting for the right to take my hand.”
Cassian landed a punch to his opponent’s jaw, the crack reverberating through the air as the crowd cheered on.
Sweat trickled down Cassian’s own jaw and onto his neck. His muscles were strained, his abdomen contracting. As the fighters turned positions, his back faced Feyre, black tattoos against dark skin, his shoulder blades gleaming with oil.
Feyre glanced at Nesta who was dressed in a pale peach dress adorned with pearls, her hair up but with soft stands framing her face. She would have looked a wholesome picture of innocence if not for her darkening eyes.
“Shouldn’t you stop this?”
“Probably.”
“Are you going to?”
Nesta’s eyes flickered from the top of Cassian’s head down his back and then, as the fighter’s moved again, to his stomach where they lingered on the trail of hair leading down to the waistband of his trousers. She sighed.
“A few more minutes.”
Feyre blinked as if she could rid herself of the memory. “I can only imagine.”
“If I didn’t visit the river house for dinner I would have starved. The House had to perform a deep clean.”
The walls shook in what was akin to a shudder.
“The bard was wholesome enough,” Rhys said.
Az groaned, “And yet ridiculous.”
In a concerted effort to apologise to the Courts on behalf of the behaviour of some Inner Circle members during previous gatherings, Feyre and Rhys had invited the High Lords and their significant others to Starfall.
The House remained still, either curious as to who all the guests were or silently sulking that there were guests at all.
The tang of a rich red wine was on Feyre’s tongue, not from anything she had drunk, but from a stolen kiss from Rhys, under the night sky, in a moment solely theirs before it became everyone else’s.
The night was filled with laughter and talking and Feyre slid into the embrace of her mate, content in the knowledge that Nyx slumbered underneath the watchful eye of the House’s nursery, a room which hadn’t existed before this very evening.
Her heart hurt, but in a good way, as though each chamber was bursting with a joy they couldn’t contain and her happiness spilled out into every corner of the rooftop.
Azriel was intently speaking with Nesta’s red-haired friend while Elain watched on from a distance, either not aware of, or ignoring, her own red-haired watcher.
Amren and Mor stood amongst another group, Mor’s golden hair cascading down her back like a waterfall and near the balcony was Cassian and Nesta, pressed side by side, hand in hand as they gazed upwards, Cassian pointing to a constellation.
Nesta glanced at him as he spoke, her face softening in a way Feyre never thought possible, a smile on her lips. When Cassian looked back at her, to check her understanding of what he was saying, he brought their intertwined hands up to his mouth, to kiss her fingertips.
Feyre smiled, all was well and all would continue to be well. That was until a voice, clear and resolute, spoke out into the crowd.
“My High Lords and Ladies and Paramor’s, I am a bard from the Spring Court – famed as the best in all the Courts!”
Chatter drifted into murmurs as heads turned expectedly to the fae now standing in the centre. Feyre noted his lute fixed upon his waistband but the bard made no attempt to reach for it.
“I have travelled across the land, coming to the Court of the High Lord and High Lady of Night with one purpose and one purpose only – to serenade with tales of fortune and love!”
A ripple of anticipation broke out amongst the crowd to hear such songs and Feyre turned to Rhys. “Did you arrange this?” but his face was twisted in confusion.
“I dedicate my melodies to one female, one who understands music as though her very bones were formed by the notes. My song to you, Lady Nesta and also my hand in marri-”
“FUCKS SAKE!”
Feyre let out a sigh. “I felt so sorry for the bard. He must have seen Nesta on one of her visits. To think, he spent all those weeks travelling on foot to arrive to the House and then Cassian threatens to dangle him from the roof.”
“Cassian did dangle him from the roof.”
“No one’s going to invite us to any more parties,” said Rhys with a sorrowful sigh.
“I think we can handle an overly amorous high fae or two,” Az said, “it’s the demons which worry me.”
“They’re no cause for concern,” Rhys said with a wave of his hand. “In fact, we have a valuable asset on our side. Drag Nesta in front of them and it tends to shut them up.”
Feyre frowned. “That is my sister you’re deciding to use as romantic bait. Besides, the issue we had with the Caligo demon was that it didn’t stop talking. There was such a mess.”
Screams filled Feyre’s ears as terrified Night Court citizens ran past her, almost a blur.
Tears streaked down terror-stricken faces as they grabbed the arms of their loved ones and scooped up children too small or young to so anything other than shiver and cry.
Cracks appeared in the ground beneath their feet, the cobbles of the street twisting and turning before jutting upwards like the jagged, sharpened edges of broken bone. The air was thick with acrid smoke which stung Feyre’s eyes causing them to stream with the tears she saw running down her people’s faces.
Rhys was to her right. Or that’s what she hoped. He had been standing but he’d gasped in pain and then she no longer saw him through the gaps in the cloud. When she managed to glimpse him, he was on his knees, thick red blood pouring down his face from a cut on his scalp.
Feyre choked back a sob and clambered over the rips in the earth to reach him.
Steel clashed with steel in the darkness, the shouts of Cassian and Azriel tearing through the blackness as they pressed forward. A shimmer of magic absorbed as much of the darkness away as it could and created a halo around the members of the Inner Circle.
Hands, strong and steady, circled Feyre’s waist and Nesta held her up, helped her over the torn earth.
“I am destroyer,” the thing hissed. “I am consumer, I am flesh ripper and soul tearer and I-”
It turned, watching them all, gloating in their misery and gorging itself fat on their pain. One of its bulbous eyes slid to where they stood, Feyre leaning into Nesta’s side. Her sister’s hair was dishevelled, her arms smeared with blood but Nesta’s eyes remained cold and hard upon the demon.
“And I – oh, oh, you are spectacular.”
A roar ripped through the darkness; a bellowing from powerful lungs as the words of the creature reached the ears of all present.
“Absolutely fucking not!”
Cassian advanced from the void, red siphons blazing as though he were shrouded in flame. “I am her mate; I am her husband and I suggest you put those sloping tongues back into your mouth or Mother help me...”
Feyre swallowed the rising bile. She tried not to think about the events of that night, though she didn’t know what was worse – that night or now, with the thumping above their heads gaining momentum.
“He got the job done,” Rhys said and then smirked, “and he’s doing the same now from the sounds of it.”
“Rhys!” Feyre admonished and placed her hand on Nyx’s stomach to calm herself. “Why do you think he puts up with it?” she asked Az.
“What choice does he have? Besides, he loves and trusts her. There’s no one for him but her and no one for her but him.”
“Disgusting,” Rhys said with slight mockery to his tone.
“No,” Feyre said, “what’s disgusting is the head in the corner.” She eyed up the lump that had once been somethings head; the glassy eyes, the bloodied stump. She wouldn’t relish touching the thing but she would happily remove herself out of earshot of Nesta and Cassian’s post proposal love affirmation. “Where do I take it?”
“The House created a trophy room three doors down,” Az said.
Anguis’ mouth hung open, razor sharp rotted teeth all lined up on display. Feyre felt a slither of pity. “I’ll take it there.”
“No, Feyre darling, I’ll do it.”
Feyre breathed a sigh of relief and nodded before turning to Az. “Shall we wait for them to be done? We need to discuss the next mission which is rather sensitive.”
Az shook his head, “No, you may as well go home. It was a proposal so they’re not stopping until – what day is it now, Thursday? – they’re not going to be fit for purpose until Monday.”
Rhys, still lounging, stretched out into the space Feyre previously occupied. “We can’t wait that long.”
“Do you want to volunteer to interrupt them?
“No.”
Feyre glanced between them both. “Cassian did look rather sad.”
Azriel laughed again, the sound echoing throughout the room, his head thrown back. “Don’t pity Cassian, he knows what he’s doing.”
“And Nesta falls for it?”
“No, she definitely doesn’t fall for it.”
“But isn’t she in their chambers um...reassuring him?”
“Yes.”
Feyre bit her lip, “So surely...”
“Oh Mother,” Az rubbed his hand across his face. “It’s their form of twisted foreplay. When Nesta received a proposal from – well, I can’t remember which one, I came home early and almost went blind. Have none of you questioned the indoor swing?”
Feyre’s voice was quiet when she spoke, scooping up her son into her arms with haste. “I thought they were creating an inside playground.”
“Ah,” Az said, his voice soft, “not quite.”
The thumping reached its crescendo and blessedly, stilled.
“Oh, thank the Mother,” Rhys said, “they’re done after all. Az, go retrieve them. We need to discuss the next mission.”
“Why me?”
“You live here.”
“You’re the High Lord.”
Feyre looked around her, Nyx clutched in her arms. “I think the floor is sloping us out towards the door.”
“I don’t think so Feyre, darling.”
“No really, the head - which you said you’d deal with by the way - is rolling away.”
Feyre wasn’t imagining what was happening, she’d passed under the entrance to the room, Rhys and Az’s chairs beginning to follow.
“This happens,” Az said with a calmness Feyre didn’t feel. “Usually when they don’t want anyone to overhear the next part of their ‘Nesta got proposed to again’ sex marathon.”
“Why? What could they now be planning that’s so much worse?”
“I don’t know,” Az replied, “the House always shuffles me out at this point. One time I was trying to prep my knives and almost stabbed myself in the eye.”
“Right,” said Rhys, “I think we can walk out of here without a sentient lump of stone forcing us to. Which,” he said with an eye to the steepness of the floor angle, “is completely within its’ right.”
Feyre nestled a snoring Nyx into one arm as Rhys helped her up. Az was already on his feet, out the door and into the hallway before he got flattened by an oversized, burgundy armchair.
He turned to them both.
“So, where’s the next mission to anyway? Where are you sending our glorious Lady Death and Lord of Bloodshed and can I sit it out?”
Feyre and Rhys exchanged glances. “I think we might need you in attendance,” Feyre said.
Az raised an eyebrow. “Well, I know King Lascivus is causing some problems with his tithe but as long as you weren’t planning on sending us to his palace, it will be fine. He’s famous for his side hobby of trying to find a muse to depict as the Mother in his artworks. Borderline obsessed.”
Feyre cleared her throat, “Sounds like he’s fervently religiously devout.”
“Hardly. The issue isn’t him trying to depict the Mother but that he’s spent centuries convincing everyone that she needs to be represented in her naked glory and I quote ‘with the petals of her flower fully opened.’”
Rhys coughed and moved fast down the hallway towards the roof entrance his wings already forming.
“Rhys!” Feyre called out. “You know I can’t run when I’m holding the baby!”
Az’s voice was quiet. “Feyre?”
“You know we love you,” she said, not meeting his hazel eyes, “and you’re always welcome at the river house. For as long as you want, whether that’s weeks or months.” Her voice dropped to a whisper, “I swear on the Cauldron, if you need to you can stay for centuries.”
“Feyre?”
She turned and didn’t look back, picking up her own speed to follow Rhys, ignoring the quiver in Az’s tone.
“We love you Az,” she shouted over her shoulder, propping Nyx into a position ready for flight as the House opened its doors to hasten her exit. “Always remember that.”
TAGGING
@live-the-fangirl-life
@champanheandluxxury
@dontgetsalmonella
@purpleglitterypinecone
#nessian#fanfiction#nesta archeron#cassian#nesta x cassian#nesta#acotar#acomaf#acowar#acofas#acosf#i wrote something#nessian fanfiction#nessian fic#nessian fan fiction#nessianfic#nesta archeron x cassian#nessian fan fic#the perils of being mr nesta archeron
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*rolls up to ask box* Lemmee get a Yoongi with plus size black reader where she's a teacher who moved to Korea teaching English at a university. She's grading papers at a 24 hr coffee shop with her 4c hair in puffs & glasses on. He's out getting his beloved iced Americano and he sees her. He's watches her for a bit until she overhears him talking about her fine ass in korean thinking she can't understand him but she snaps her head up and speaks perfect korean to the waitress? Sorry it's so long
I changed it a little bit but here you go wifey!
First encounter
“God, this is so good…” you sighed in happiness once the delicate taste of your sweet cappuccino hit your tastebuds. This was exactly that you needed after a long day at school: a nice coffee and a new book to enjoy reading at your favourite café.
After clocking out, you had gone home to change into something comfortable and decided to let your hair rest in cute little buns and your glasses just complimented the whole outfit. Thank God it was Friday because you were so ready to just unwind and spend some quality time alone. You had some plans to go and have some fun in Seoul but those weren’t fully convinced of the plans just yet. Teaching had been very exhausted, but you loved your job, nonetheless.
You were about to dive back into your book when you noticed a very handsome guy sitting just two tables away from you. He had his laptop out, with something that looked like a small portable piano keyboard. He was bobbing his head along to whatever tunes were blasting through his headphones. You couldn’t help when he suddenly broke out grinning, showing off his gummy smile and it instantly made your heart swell with happiness.
The handsome stranger continued to grin while tapping away at his laptop, making you lose yourself in his little bubble, you were growing curious to what he was creating while wondering whether you’d ever be lucky enough to listen to it.
“Shit!” you hissed to yourself when the handsome stranger noticed your gaze on him and snapped his head in your direction, the two of you making instant eye contact. In that moment you released two things:
1. You had been staring at Min Yoongi aka, BTS’s Suga
2. Min smiled when your eyes locked, and he gave you a gentle head nod
To say that you were panicking a little was an understatement. That man wasn’t just a celebrity but also had acknowledged your existence. A boost of self-confidence rushed through your body while you looked down at your book and mentally counted to ten in order to get your shit together. This wasn’t happening.
It took you more than ten seconds to calm down before clearing your throat and trying to focus on the phrases of your book. Your tensed shoulders slowly relaxed again, and a small smile crept onto your face, you had never guessed this would happen in a million years.
Five minutes into your book, you randomly glanced up again and noticed that Min was still staring at you. You gave him a small smile and raised your cup of coffee, not knowing that your beauty was putting the musician in complete awe. He hadn’t been able to keep his eyes off you as he instantly was interested in you.
Sure, Min had seen and met many beautiful people in his life but something about your smooth brown skin, the clothes that were hugging it perfectly and your simple behaviour was doing something to him. You didn’t know that he had paused his music and made it his personal mission to try and get close to you. Min was happy that today was the day he had decided to leave the house in order to find some inspiration for BTS’s upcoming song, because you were now the newly discovered inspiration.
The group had decided to write another beautiful love song, this time not just only expressing hopes of finding that intense and addicting love but to actually write about experiencing it. Not many knew that Min Yoongi had experienced that kind of love, it hadn’t lasted for a very long time but his heart had once belonged to someone special. The breakup nearly killed him though, the pain was unbearable and the musician had ever since been afraid to even approach someone.
Seeing you there, he felt his stomach flip in anxiety but also excitement because he felt determined to get to know you. Your eyes locked for a few more minutes before you felt like a creep and decided to get back to reading.
Taking another sip of your cup, you noticed your palms starting to sweat as Min’s handsomeness was simply too overwhelming for you. “Such a beauty”, whispered the singer in Korean before shaking his head in amazement.
I BEG YOUR PARDON?!
You screamed in your head, your eyes almost popping out of its sockets. Min didn’t know that you were fluent in Korean as it was a necessity in order to teach in the country and probably didn’t expect you to understand him, so he felt more than free to voice his opinion on you.
You took a big sip from your coffee and decided to take your interaction a step further. You took a few deep breaths before standing up, collecting your book, hot drink and phone before walking over to him and joining him at this table.
Min let out a surprised gasp when you looked at him and replied in Korean “Thanks for the compliment”. Then you started the conversation, saying that you had been fluent in the language for a few years now and that you were a fan of BTS. The way he snapped his laptop shut had you giggling while leaning back against your seat and smiling happily.
Min instantly felt shy and apologised for his comment, expressing how it wasn’t gentleman like and that he just felt so amazed by your beauty. You excitedly let him know that you also found him very beautiful and then you loved his musical talent. The rapper then asked you about your life, you liked your job and how you liked living in Seoul, he patiently listened to you while making mental notes how you beautiful your voice sounded. It was like sweet honey to his craving ears.
You told him a few funny stories that happened while teaching and the way he threw his head back and laughed loudly had you instantly catching feelings. His gummy smile just looked breathtaking, he didn’t give a single fuck about the fact that his loud laughter was booming through the whole café, he just was in his happy moment.
Min then told you different stories of his life as a worldwide known musician, the ups and downs of dealing with fame and even his hopes for the future. It was so easy to read right through him like an open book: that man found happiness in the simplest things of life but was very lonely. He didn’t have many friends and barely had the time to spend some quality time with them, but just from the way he was looking while talking about them, you knew that he loved them dearly.
Yoongi continued talking about the group’s members, what he had learned from them and how much he loved them despite being very bad at showing his appreciation. You clung onto every word that left his soft and plump lips and imagined what it would be like to feel them gently pressed against yours.
“Hey…Can I take you out sometime? There’s many amazing places I can show you if you want”, Min asked with the most adorable yet shy expression on his face. You were melting away while he was trying his best to not show how much he wanted to hold your hand, listen to you talk for hours and be lucky enough to kiss your plump lips that were calling onto his.
Your numbers already had been exchanged a few minutes into the first conversation so all you could hope for was to get a text from the musician.
“I would love that!” you grinned and couldn’t help but reach out for his hand and give it a quick squeeze. His palms were sweating, and his nostrils immediately appreciated your delicate scent when you leaned in. That man was falling quick and hard for you. You didn’t mind his sweaty hand, actually loved the feeling of his soft skin.
Your heart skipped a beat, but you didn’t dare show it. This felt amazing. You wished it never end, but that wasn’t an option, for now. With one final smile you wished Yoongi a nice day before standing up and gathering your things, your cup of coffee already having been consumed. After leaving a few bills and a nice tip on your table, you made your way out of the café without glancing back, knowing damn well that Min was staring at you and your luscious curves.
Tag list: @jamesbarnesappreciationclubub l @pleasantdreamqueen l @disneymarina l l @harleycativy l @sparklemichele l @melaninmarvel l @amethyst09 l @the-force-of-imagines l @bossyboyd03 l @pebblesz892 l @stars8melanin l @brittyevans l @toc1985 l @janeyboo l @badassbaker l @winters-beauty l @cannonindeez l @ilovefanfic86 l @adorablespecialsnowflakes l @brittanyovens l @kanupps06 l @jazmynejack l @thebookwormslytherin l @theunsweetenedtruth l @talannalew l @littlexmissxfandomxlover l @amethyst-dreams-and-candy-canes l @crimsonash330 l @booklover2929 l @aranelgrey l @panda-duuu l @thisismysecrethappyplace l @titty-teetee l @honey-anon l @princess-evans-addict l @hp-hogwartsexpress l @malindacath l @letsdisneythings l l @shado-raven l @alisoncdariel l @plutoneu l @queenoftheworldisdead l @briannab1234l @miyaeadys-blog l l @hihellogoodbyebruh l @nackrosor l @nerdgurl1985 l @2darkskinbeauty l @bugngiz l @african-melanin-goddess l @barnes-wilson-love l @ktiz90 l @let-the-love-in l @robinredboob l @hopefuloperaangelnerd l @kola95 l @partypoison00 l @alwaysadreamingoptimist l @reniescarlett l @g0thicdream l @mayasopinions l @captaintightpants58 l @leillee
-Emmanuelle 💋❤️
#min yoongi#min yoongi x reader#min yoongi x plus size reader#min yoongi x poc!reader#suga bts#bts#plus size reader
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Hot Cocoa Mix
Type: Kurapika x reader
Prompt: Jour de la Lumière givrée (Frosted Light Day) — A popular Winter Holiday commonly celebrated in the Yorbia Continent and the republic of Padokea. On the day of December 16, some people will go shopping for a gift at local shops to give to family members and/or lovers while others will prepare their snowflake lanterns. Such festivities will continue until 11:05 when strings of lights placed around the city or town will light up and people will begin to release their lanterns into the sky; creating a beautiful sea of lights.
Author Note: I hope you guys enjoy! I’m sorry this took so long, for so reason I just forgot how to write Kurapika’s character like it was insane. I had to rewatch the whole Yorknew Arc just to get a single idea.
(Prompts/Rules) (Holiday Masterlist)
The winter wind howled on from outside. Throwing around the snow that was falling from the sky with it, creating a painful whiplash to whoever crossed its path. Though that was the last thing on your mind at the moment for you could not hear the weather outside nor was aware of it as it was being drowned out by the loud chattering of people. Well, more like a swarm of people, who were interacting with each other throughout the tightly packed and crowded mall.
A clear sign that it was now the holiday season. More specifically, That today was officially December 16 and Jour de la Lumière, or Frosted Lights day, was upon you. Due to this many people, including yourself, were trying to buy lanterns or get a gift to give to family members.
“Oh I want this one! And that one as well!” Neon shouts out as she continues to pull out sweaters and throws them onto the pile of clothes in your hands. As people stare on and whisper to each other, quite confused at your strange group, You wondered if Neon truly even knew that she was supposed to be trying to get a gift for her father instead of herself.
“Miss Neon-n, aren’t we supposed to be finding a gift for your father? Eliza asks, worried about your well-being as well as how much the young girl was spending.
“Oh yeah… Well, I’ll just pay for these and then we can go find a gift for daddy.” Neon says happily, as she gives you her credit card and skips away with Eliza following in tow. Before leaving, Eliza gives you an apologetic look but you only shake your head. There was nothing for her to apologize for, it was your job as a bodyguard to take care of tasks such as this one.
Once the girl is reassured, you stagger over to go wait in line while balancing the large pile of clothes in your hands. Thankfully this line wasn’t as long as the other stores you have visited, so you should be able to catch up to the rest of the group rather fast.
As you wait in line, you let out a sigh while you ponder for a little. You wondered why you just felt so odd. Like as if you were kind of sad or…. gloomy? It was Frosted Lights Day, your most favorite times of the year, so there should be no reason for you to be feeling this way.
“Honey, I think you made a perfect lantern,” A young gentleman's voice says, catching your attention. Looking over, you see the man with an arm wrapped around another young woman. They both were in front of a vendor selling Make-your-own lanterns, the lady painting one herself. They must be a couple, you concluded to yourself as you continued to watch them.
The girl giggles happily to her boyfriend.
“You think so? I messed up the snowflake design though…” She admits, rather embarrassed at herself. The boyfriend laughs and kisses the girl’s temple.
“I think it’s perfect! Come on, let’s go pay for it.”
As the two pay for the lantern, you can’t help but realize your heart feels rather heavy now. Was that what was making you feel down? Because you couldn’t celebrate the Holidays with your own boyfriend, Kurapika?
You quickly took your eyes off of the couple, you were being ridiculous. It wasn’t like Kurapika was gone or anything, you would see him tonight like almost every night. You shouldn’t be feeling down just because Kurapika doesn’t celebrate the Holidays. It wasn’t his fault he grew up in a tropical climate and his people do not have winter-esk holidays.
You let out a groan as you start to feel even more gloomy than before. Why did Frosted Lights Day have to be your favorite holiday?
“Miss!” You are startled as you hear a voice yell in front of you, “It’s your turn to pay.”
You gulp, embarrassed you had spaced out and missed the fact the cashier had been calling your name for a while. Giving an apologetic bow, you walk up to her counter.
“S-sorry about that. I was a little spaced out.”
“I could see that.” The cashier mumbles out as she begins to ring up the items. You clearly heard the rude response but chose to ignore it. There wasn’t any point in starting a fight in a clothing store after all.
Originally you were going to go back to observing the area around you but you feel your phone buzz suddenly in your backpocket. Taking it out and opening it up, you see you have a message from Melody.
‘Miss Neon would like to pick up a cake from the bakery. It’s closer to your location do you think you could pick one up?’
Typing back a quick response in confirmation, you quickly put your phone back away and bring your attention back up to the cashier. You didn’t want to come off as rude or impatient for having your phone out after all.
After punching in the credit card when the cashier tells you the amount needed, you take the bags of clothes and leave the store. As you find a map of the mall nearby, you hoped Melody was referring to the cake shop you saw when you entered the mall. If not then you would have to deal with one of Miss Neon’s “episodes” for bringing her the wrong cake.
Swiftly moving around other crowds of people as you get to your destination, you notice something in the corner of your eye. Looking closer you see near another store stood a hunched over elderly lady seeming to have dropped some of her stuff. People walked by her but it seemed none were trying to stop and help her.
Letting out a sigh, disappointed by other people’s selfishness, you quickly make your way over to go help the elderly lady.
“Oh deary, thank you very much. You didn’t have to help little old me.” She tells you as you begin to pick up the dropped items for her.
“It’s not a problem,” You tell her, give her a small smile as you place the items back into the bag. Though as you were picking some of the items up you would pause for a moment to make sure your eyes weren’t tricking you. Some of them were quite peculiar. Usually gifts that were given or treats that were made for Frosted Lights Day were decorated with a winter theme in mind but this lady had more of a spring theme going on. Cookies and pastries decorated with flowers. Bright yellows, greens and orange colored wrapped gifts. It was far from the usual traditional way of doing things.
As if sensing your curiosity the elder in front of you begins to explain,
“Odd choice huh? Well, ever since I was a child I never liked the winter. Especially the cold weather and snow that came with the season. I much, much preferred the spring. The blooms of colors that came with the buds of flowers that grew. The many scents that you could come across. Just everything about spring was so perfect.”
You stopped picking up the last item to look up at the lady. Amazed at how happy and carefree she looked as she explained her love of spring.
“Though, my friends and family loved winter, especially the holidays that came with it. So, I just added my own signature twist to it.”
“As if it’s your own tradition…” You mumble out almost as if you are in like a daze as a thought comes to you. Finally putting the last item away, you hand the bag back to the lady as you stand up, “Thank you, Miss.”
The elderly lady didn’t understand why at first you had thanked her but when she looked at your eyes, without any words, she suddenly understood. When she had first met you, she saw an anxious storm brewing in you, with your eyes dark and a light sheen over them. But now, the storm was gone and your eyes were bright and shined like stars.
“Your welcome.” The elder mumbles out, giving you a small wave as you leave to travel further into the mall.
—.—.—.—.—
Kurapika lets out a heavy sigh as he punches in his floor number and leans against the wall of the elevator. He was utterly exhausted, taking care of the business in the place of Mr Nostrade was really tough. Though, Kurapika knew it would all be worth it.
As the elevator doors open on his floor, he clutches tighter onto the box in his hands. To anyone else walking by the package would look like a gift given for the holidays. But it was anything but that. For a pair of scarlet eyes laid in the box. Kurapika’s recent item he had obtained from his hard work.
As Kurapika continues to walk down the hall, he tries not to allow his anger cloud his judgement. Though he couldn’t help but feel an itching, almost burning, feeling come over his eyes as he recalls the events from earlier today. Those slimy bastards, Kurapika thinks to himself as their laughter and carefree manner echoes throughout his head. How dare they treat these eyes —the eyes of his brethren— as if they were just some sort of item to decorate their shelves. Some sort of useless toy…
“Kurapika,” The soft touch of your hand touching his cheek and your calm voice brings him out of his thoughts. As he slowly comes out of his trance, he realizes he had already gotten back home.
“(Y-y/n)...” Kurapika mumbles out, still slightly dazed. Even though no words are spoken between you two, you can tell what exact “item” was in the box he was holding. Especially at the fact his knuckles were white from clutching it so harshly.
In a slow manner, you lightly lean over and allow your noses to rest against each other. This Eskimo kiss type of act always had a calming effect on Kurapika, “Come downstairs when you are ready, okay?”
With that, you allow Kurapika to make his way upstairs to do his thing. You knew not to interrupt or press into him when it came to something like that.
In the meantime, you decided to finish up the activity you had planned for tonight. You just hoped Kurapika was up for it.
“Ah,” The sudden voice startled you. Turning around, you are surprised that Kurapika is already back down stairs. Usually, it takes him a while to calm himself when he finds a pair of scarlet eyes. Especially if he wants to find a safe place for it, “(y/n), what is all of this?”
A dash of heat comes to your face as you feel yourself slightly become embarrassed.
“W-well it is Frosted Lights Day and I know you never grew up with exactly ‘Winter’ and my holidays. But, I still thought we should celebrate in our own way.” You explain to Kurapika as you watch him make his way to the coffee table and grab the flowers and colorful paints you have placed out.
You can’t help but feel nervous as you wait for Kurapika to respond. Just waiting for a single word, anything at all.
“These are to decorate the lanterns right?” Kurapika mumbles out, breaking the silence as he picks up a white lantern nearby.
“Y-yes. It’s a tradition to make them.”
“Then, let’s do it,” Kurapika states as he gives you a smile, allowing all your worries to disappear.
Shuffling over to make room for you, You sit down next to Kurapika on the soft carpet decorating the floor. As you two begin to decorate the white paper lanterns you bought, you two converse about your day. You tell him about how guarding Neon at the mall went. While he slowly, almost hesitantly, tells you about his meetings today. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust you, you knew he would trust you with his life, but you knew it was still hard for him to open up to people about his vulnerable side.
“I see…” You say out loud once Kurapika finishes explaining. At this point in time, you were resting your head on his shoulder. In a slight way to comfort him while he was telling his story, “I’m sorry Kurapika. I wish people weren’t heartless, money grubbing bastards.”
Kurapika laughs, almost sarcastically in a way, before kissing your forehead. “I wish for that too. But soon I won’t have to deal with that anymore.”
“Oh yeah, your new job is coming up right?” You mumble, almost to yourself in a way. It was some sort of bodyguard job for an emperor if you were remembering it correctly.
“Yeah—“ Kurapika is cut off by a loud bell ringing out.
“Ah, it’s already time?” You shout out surprised as you take a look at the clock. It truly was already 11:05, you two must have been talking for a while.
As both of you make your way outside, with Kurapika helping you get to your feet, you gasp as you see the sea of blue and white lanterns. Even with the cold pricking at your skin, you can’t help but feel a happy warm-like glee fill you to the core.
“So pretty,”
“Yeah it is…” Kurapika states, almost breathless and amazed at what was in front of him. He had seen the lanterns a couple of times while he was exploring after the Kurta Massacre but always from afar, almost hard to make out the shapes. Never up close. Never like this.
After a little bit more of watching the lanterns go by, you feel Kurapika tap you from behind. Turning around, you see he has already lit both of your lanterns. “Ready?”
“Yeah..” You whisper out, breathless out how handsome your boyfriend looked in the soft warm glow of the lanterns you two had made. Taking your lantern, you two stand next to each other ready to send them off. “On the count of three, okay?”
“1…”
“2….”
“3..—“
“Ah. Wait.” Kurapika suddenly says, quickly searching for something in his pocket. Thankfully even though he caught you off guard, you are able to stop yourself from letting the lantern go. Confused, you look at your boyfriend as he finally finds the item out he was looking for.
“A string?” You questioned confused as your boyfriend grabs the lantern from you. Though, you soon realize what he was doing and can’t help but feel your heart flutter.
“Yeah, I don’t want them to get separated after all,” Kurapika explains as he ties the lanterns together, each with a bit of space in between so they don’t bump into each other when they float away. As Kurapika gives your lantern back to you, you can’t help but feel extra jittery now. “Ready, (Y/n)?”
“Yeah…” You whisper out, finally allowing both of your lanterns to slowly float up into the sky to join the others. In the sea of blues and whites, the warm orange glow from your colorful lanterns stick out like a sore thumb.
After the lanterns start to make their way higher into the sky, you quickly close your eyes and begin to make a wish to yourself. Though as soon as you are about to wish for something you feel something caressing your cheek. It took you a moment but you soon realize it was Kurapika’s warm calloused hand.
Quickly, almost worried you would open your eyes too soon, a pair of soft lips mold against yours. It’s hesitant at first giving you slight pecks but once Kurapika gains more confidence as he goes on, he dives in further to give you something more passionate.
It’s as if the world has stopped when you two slowly pull away from the kiss. It’s peaceful, quiet and as if nothing could ruin this moment.
Kurapika flashes you a rare smile and he rests his arm around your waist when you slowly open your eyes. Even though he ruined your chance to make a wish, you didn’t care in the slightest and press further into his touch by resting your head on his chest and draping your arms loosely over his shoulder. Softly, you two begin to hear some jazz music playing from a band down on the street below. Leaning in to rest his head against yours, Kurapika begins to slowly sway you two back and forth. There wasn’t any reason behind the actions, you weren’t even sure Kurapika knew how to dance correctly. But, all that you two knew was it just felt… right…
Taking in each other’s presence as the aroma of hot chocolate fills the air from somewhere, you can’t help but feel at peace. Especially as you watch your two lanterns float off into the horizon.
Never, ever, floating two far away from the other…
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The Heartrender - Chapter One: Ashes
Hey everyone! Here’s my latest Enemies to Lovers Everlark fic. It’s a fantasy AU inspired by Leigh Bardugo’s Six of Crows duology, more specifically Nina Zenik and Matthias Helvar. You don’t need to have read Six of Crows to understand this story since I took ideas from Bardugo’s world and then made it my own. It doesn’t take place in the Grishaverse but is heavily influenced by it. I came up with countries, parts of a new language, and backstories for my witch!Katniss and witch-hunter!Peeta.
All four chapters have been written and I plan on uploading every Friday:)
You can read here on Tumblr or here on AO3.
Rating: Explicit
Warning: Graphic Depictions of Violence, Sexual Content
Relationship: Katniss Everdeen/Peeta Mellark
Tags: Enemies to Lovers, witch!Katniss, witch-hunter!Peeta, AU - Shipwrecked, AU - Fantasy, Sexual Tension, Explicit Sexual Content, Furs and Fires, Angst and Fluff and Smut, sexually experienced Katniss, virgin Peeta, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Implied/Referenced Underage Prostitution, Loss of Virginity, Laughter During Sex, Blood and Injury, Imprisonment, Peeta has some prejudices to work out, Peeta also has an accent, Inspired by Six of Crows
Summary:
He hated her. He hated her for what she was: an abomination, a demon sent to tear at the fabric of the natural world. He hated her for making him want to laugh. He hated her for being so brazen and sensuous and everything the women of his country were never allowed to be. But mostly he hated her because he realized he didn’t hate her. Not even a little bit.
After a shipwreck has left an abducted witch and a member of the ominous Order bent on wiping out her kind stranded on the icy shores of an uninhabited land, the two must work together to survive or face tearing each other apart in the process.
Chapters: 01 | 02 | 03 | 04
Chapter One: Ashes
Peeta had imagined his death many times. A slit throat or an ax in the chest. Perhaps run through with a sword and thrown from a cliff. A warrior’s death, a man’s death, as was expected of him in his service to Sjorkden. Never did he think he’d pass bloodlessly and without a foe to fight. Yet here he was.
Drowning.
The frigid water wrapped around his body like a salt casing, water-logging his shoes and pulling at the cloth of his uniform. He imagined clammy hands latching onto his limbs, dragging him down, down, down. In the harrowing moments before he ran out of air, he watched dreamy streams of moonlight filter towards the black bottoming out of oblivion that was the ocean floor. Below him gaped miles and miles of seawater, and he would be lost to it.
He prepared himself for what was to come, slowly counting down the seconds to when he would snort salt water into his lungs and end it. No use in prolonging the inevitable, though his dreams lay like air pockets in his stomach, lifting him to hope there was still time for him to change things. To achieve something with the life he would have had if not for this stroke of bad luck.
Water pressed at his lips like an unwelcome guest. He was truly out of air now and the suffocating vacuum in his chest was enough to burst him apart from the inside out. The tips of his fingers began to tingle painfully, oxygen deprivation or the effects of cold, he couldn’t tell.
His last thoughts before he lost consciousness were of the countdown to drowning himself.
Three… two…
And then nothing.
X
Peeta awoke to an embrace. Thin arms twined about his ribcage, hoisting him above the frothy crests of waves.
His people believed in Gratka, the valley of heaven, the holy place of worshippers, warriors, and the most pious of women. A divine world spun from light and cloud, flowing with rivers of honey wine and heavy with the scent of eternal orchards. Peeta was not sure if he had been worthy of Gratka, but surely the chasms of hell would have been hotter than this.
He jerked his head about, trying to get his bearings back. His lips dripped with saltwater and his lungs burned with every ragged inhale.
He and his companion were bobbing on the frigid waves. The sky wheeling above was full of black, ominous storm clouds and the ship, The Bloody Rose, was on fire.
He hadn’t meant to, but he must have let out a cry because suddenly the arms tightened around him and a pair of lips pressed against his ear.
“You can’t save them. Just help me swim.” Then a strangled grunt and a: “Gods, you’re heavy. What do they feed you? Horses?” The words were choked, spoken in the voice of someone who had swallowed too much seawater and was struggling against the current. She spoke in Krellian, a sharp language of hissing consonants and hard breaks, only punctuated by the occasional swooping vowel. He twisted to face her, his lip curling in disgust when he saw those flashing silver eyes.
The witch.
How had she gotten out of her cell?
Her eyes bulged in panic as he kicked away, ripping himself from the circle of her arms.
“No!” she screamed as she grabbed at him, but without her there to buoy him, his head quickly slipped beneath the waves once more. His arms felt sluggish and he realized with a paralyzing rush of cold that she had been keeping his blood warm with her magic.
He struggled to break the surface, coughing up a mouthful of seawater and thrashing about as he tried to find her once more in the dark. “Witch?” he sputtered, ashamed of the sharp edge of fear in his voice. They reached out for one another, barely holding on by their fingertips as a wave crashed overhead, but then it passed and they were righted once more. He didn’t try to get away this time, afraid of his dipping heart rate and the hazy rush of dizziness that quickly abated with her touch. He didn’t feel warm, but the numb ache in his limbs lessened. He pulled her to his chest, locking her body within his arms like a vice.
“We can make it to shore, but I need you to kick. I can’t swim and keep both our hearts beating.”
He blinked the water from his stinging eyes, already exhausted.
She pressed the back of her head into his shoulder in frustration. “Jųlaik, ” she begged.
Please.
He grunted in reply and then started swimming. In return, she kept their hearts beating despite the cold. They weren’t sure which way the shore was. For all they knew, Peeta could be bringing them further out to sea, but with every passing minute the blazing ship they’d escaped from grew smaller and smaller until it collapsed in on itself, a charred heap dipping below the waves.
Not only had Peeta’s brothers in arms been on that ship, but Peeta’s future had been on that ship. Seventeen witches, four of which he had captured and that he could claim, all dead, except for one.
In his service as a witcher, he had brought forty-six witches to court and he had witnessed them all, his bounties, burn at the stake. The sweet stink of smoke and the way that charred flesh falls away from bone were all too familiar. This was his country’s way. This was justice. Four more would have won him his freedom, his manhood, his honor. Four more witches and he would have held the world in his palm like a flowering bud ready for plucking. All the blood and sweat and sleepless nights spent scouring the wastelands of countries far from home would have been worth it.
Hours passed. The storm clouds released their last torrents of icy rain and then cleared to reveal a bright purple smattering of stars above, carving their ancient celestial paths across the sky. The only sounds were his labored breathing and the sloshing of waves. Peeta’s legs felt as if they were going to fall off, both burning from the physical exertion and freezing in the arctic water. His nerves didn’t know what sensation to succumb to, retreating into numbness. He felt as if he were kicking around two logs.
The witch hadn’t spoken since the ship disappeared, but Peeta could tell by the way she was gritting her teeth that it was taking everything in her to keep them from freezing to death. He almost laughed at the irony of the situation. The witch and the witch hunter. Not a pair destined for groundbreaking teamwork.
So why had she saved him?
Dawn peeked over the horizon, pulling it’s smoldering pinks and oranges upwards until the stars faded and the moon was just a paling ghost of its nighttime brilliance.
“There,” the witch whispered through chattering teeth, her voice weak with exhaustion. Peeta turned his head to see what she had gestured to.
A coastline with tall cliffs crusted in ice and snow, and there at the shore, a black stretch of beach. Peeta swam on against the surf, the waves pushing them back out as if the ocean wasn’t quite ready to let them go. Finally, Peeta touched bottom and they crawled to land, collapsing on the sand with water lapping at their ankles. The two were heaving and freezing and giddy with the fact that they were alive, against all odds they had survived, though the silent celebration didn’t last long. The air was bitter and their wet skin puckered beneath its needle-sharp caress. They needed to find shelter, and fast, or the witch’s magic wouldn’t be enough to keep them alive.
Movement was hard. Peeta’s body felt as stiff as a piece of plywood and each attempt to stand left him trembling under his own weight. He looked back at the witch lying prone in the sand. Her hair was a tangled mess and clung to her face in dark, wet clumps. He almost thought she wouldn’t make it, that she’d just stay collapsed and never get up again. But she managed to rise onto her hands and knees, and then slowly to her feet.
They didn’t talk as they climbed a narrow pass up the cliffside. The rock was black and smooth, flowing magma that had cooled, dotted here and there with the greenish-brown blooms of lichen. Perhaps the land had once been volcanic, but that must have been a very long time ago.
As they reached the top of the cliffside, they found themselves marooned in a land of winter. Sharp white mountains jutted up in the misty distance and the foothills that spread out before them were dotted with boulders and stretches of snow and the shrubby, paling vegetation that hinted at a short growing season. It was a harsh land where only the most adaptable species could survive, and Peeta knew if they didn’t find a cave or some sort of outcropping to huddle in soon, they’d be done for.
Luckily, they stumbled across a cluster of circular lodges at the top of the cliff. The witch, shuddering so violently Peeta almost thought she could be seizing, disappeared past the thick curtain that acted as a door, shuddered one final time, and then collapsed onto a pile of discarded furs.
Peeta limped inside and scanned the den. It had been constructed and then abandoned by a whaling expedition, which were common this far north, though whaling was only done in the spring. The walls were layers of tanned animal skin and were held up by thin ashwood beams running from floor to curved ceiling. They looked like the bones of a rib cage bleached chalk-white in the sun. A thick column stood sentinel at the structure’s center so the roof wouldn’t sag and beneath it lay a small fire pit with a few half charred logs. The lodge was designed to house upwards of fifteen people, whalers with thick cloaks and packs full of food and supplies, but now just sheltered two shivering, salt-crusted water rats with nothing. The whole place smelled of wet fur and welcomed Peeta with open, shadowy arms.
“We should start a fire,” Peeta croaked, his throat ravaged by salt and exertion. He nudged the witch with the toe of his boot when she didn’t respond. “Are you dead?” A part of him wanted her to be. He hated owing her for his life, a debt he knew he would have to repay before this horrible nightmare was over. But if the swim had killed her, he wouldn’t have felt a shred of guilt.
As he circled around he saw that she was in fact very alive. Her eyes were propped open, wide and glassy, as if she didn’t have eyelids, shot through with red where there should have been white. She was chanting he realized. Praying perhaps.
It scared him.
“Hey!” He kicked her shoulder and the witch’s eyes cleared as if they were rising above a cloud line. “Stop that, it’s freaking me out.”
She glared up at him. “Never disrupt me again.”
“Why?" he sneered. "So you can curse me? Blind me or make me impotent? Cast a horrible death upon me and all my descendants?” Witches were known for curses. Pregnant women whose unborn babes had offered strong kicks days before, born bright blue and as limp as dead worms. Men cursed to wander the forests until they clawed out their own eyes and died of blood loss. Children swallowed up by thick mountain mists, never to be seen again. Death. Woe. Suffering. All at the hands of a wretched few.
“I have not cursed you. Your allegiance to a false god has done that.”
“And yet, we’re in the same predicament. Seems your gods have doomed you as well.”
This struck a nerve. Perhaps the same thought had been pressing on her mind. She narrowed her eyes, bunching her fists in the fur she lay atop of. “If I had the strength I would burn that blackened heart of yours right out of your chest.”
“Should I be worried about tomorrow then?”
“Very.” She rose to face him, hatred pouring forth from her eyes and twining about her head like a poisonous snake baring its fangs. He met it with a hardened look of his own.
“I’m still waiting on a ‘thank you’ for dragging you out of the ocean,” he said.
“And I’m waiting on a ‘thank you’ for keeping your tiny heart from shriveling up. Trust me, it was no easy task.”
He smiled coldly. “My, you have a big mouth for someone so small.”
“And you have a big head for someone with such little brains.”
He almost laughed, but they had been through a lot and Peeta was tired of arguing. He crossed to the fire pit and ignored the eyes boring into the back of his head.
“What? No response?” she goaded bitterly, but Peeta didn’t rise to her bait, focusing instead on starting a fire. After scraping two jagged rocks together, there was a spark. Thankfully the kindling was dry and after a few harsh blows and a prayer, Peeta was successful. The fire was delicious, like a tiny heart slowly beating life back into his frozen fingers.
He realized that this was the first time in weeks that he and the witch hadn’t been separated by iron bars.
As if in response to the shameful flush of heat that had radiated through his body at the thought, he heard a muffled sound, like a bird’s wings rubbing together, and turned his head.
The witch’s dress was off, her body bared to him. Her small, rounded breasts and jutting hips shone like caramel in the soft light.
Peeta’s cheeks flamed, afraid that he had been caught staring. “What are you doing?” he sputtered as he moved to shield his eyes.
She turned to pick her dress up off the floor and shot a look over her shoulder. Her very bare shoulder. “You don’t seriously think I’m going to spend the night in a wet dress, do you?”
“But you’re naked!” He winced at how petulant he sounded, how very much like a child he still was in some ways.
She rolled her eyes at him, but he was too focused on avoiding the very sight of her that he didn’t notice. “You’ll get naked too if you have any sense. No use in wearing wet clothes when you can let them dry.”
“You’re perverted.”
“I’m being practical.” She twisted the seawater out of her dress and then snapped the damp fabric at his back. “Now strip.”
X
He had to admit, shucking off his wet uniform and wrapping his body in a pelt had made him feel much better, though he was careful to cover the flesh between his legs when he did.
“Aw, you’re blushing,” she laughed. The sound set Peeta’s nerves on edge. The witch lounged near the fire pit on a nest of pelts she had constructed, wrapped in a glossy black fur that reflected threads of reddish-gold in the firelight. As she sat, the weak glow of the flames cast her features into warm relief, deepening the shadows under her cheekbones and darkening her lashes. Her salt tangled hair was as ebony black as a night sky with no stars and her skin was flawless, the color of water beaten clay beds.
“Come here,” she beckoned.
Instead, Peeta took a step back. “I do not take orders from witches. Even naked ones.”
“It’s like you don’t want to survive the night,” she scoffed. “See this?” Her furs shifted as she reached out a hand, allowing a dark sliver of her inner thigh to catch the light.
Peeta tried not to stare.
She pointed a finger towards the dwindling fire. “We barely have any wood left, and when the fire dies while we’re sleeping, the only thing keeping us warm will be each other. Now get over here. I don’t plan on freezing to death when I have a big lump of muscle to keep me toasty.”
She made a good point, but still, Peeta hesitated. What if this was just a trick? A lure to get him close enough so she could pounce and gouge his eyes out. Or maybe she’d wait to finish him off when he fell asleep, his beating heart ripped from his chest while he cradled her against him.
In the end, he decided there was little chance of them surviving out here with no food and only three measly logs to keep a fire going. If he was going to die, he’d rather die warm. Besides, having his heart ripped from his chest would be over faster than starvation.
He moved towards the nest, and only after he had discarded his pelt and shimmied under hers did she speak.
“Closer, lieutenant,” she urged in a singsong voice.
He growled in response.
“Seriously, you’re acting like a blushing schoolboy.”
“I do not wish to lay with a witch.”
“This is not laying. This is surviving. If you had any experience pleasuring a woman you’d know the difference.”
Peeta’s body stiffened behind her.
“Oh, don’t tell me you’re embarrassed by it,” she chuckled meanly. “I thought the whole point of your pious Order was that you prided yourselves on being virgins. That and murderers.”
He ignored the word murderers. Only a witch would consider what the Order did murder. Everyone else considered it justice. Shearing the rot riddled branches off the tree that was the human race. Magic was a disease, nobody should have that kind of power over another. It was unnatural and the world was better off absent of her kind, but he didn’t expect her to understand.
Monsters were always blind to their own evils.
So instead he addressed her derisive use of virgin. “We marry only when we’ve proven ourselves worthy to the Order.”
“Shouldn’t you only have to prove yourself to your wife?”
What a silly notion, Peeta thought. “A man does not have to prove himself to a woman. He has responsibility over her. Nothing more.”
“How romantic.”
“Do not mock me, slum scum.”
“I think I like ‘witch’ better,” she quipped. She was infuriatingly quick-witted and Peeta seethed in silence, unsure that he could contend with such a sharp tongue.
“Whatever,” she said after the silence grew too long. “Just know that there’s nothing to worry about. Even if I wanted to, I would never defile my body with the likes of you.”
“That’s reassuring,” he muttered.
Despite her declaration, the witch drew nearer. The goose flesh of her back felt clammy against his chest, but soon their body heat melded and all he felt was radiating warmth prickling against the chill that had settled into his bones.
“Why did you save me?” he asked lowly, unable to quiet his racing thoughts. A part of him wanted to keep her talking so he wouldn’t have to close his eyes and picture Yasser’s bloated body lost at sea.
“Because you’re a human being,” she murmured, her voice saturated with drowsiness. “And because I knew if you survived I’d have someone to cuddle with at night.” Suddenly, and with a rustle of fur, she turned to face him. He scooted back. “Relax, lieutenant. This isn’t where I have my way with you. I just prefer to sleep with my back to the fire.”
“Are you always so lewd?” he asked, the disapproval in his voice as clear as a church bell ringing across a courtyard.
“If you knew me you’d know the answer to that is yes.”
“I do not wish to know you, witch.”
“Good. You don’t deserve to.”
With these terse versions of “good night” exchanged, they settled against one another, though Peeta was careful to avoid the brush of her breasts. She smelled of sea and sweat and the musk of fur, but something sweet lay underneath all that. Lavender milk. A chamomile bath. Medicinal salves. Jasmine blossoms suspended in freshwater. Long tumbles downhill.
The smells soothed him, until he remembered she’d been locked in the brig for a month and shouldn’t smell anything but horrible. A spell then. He was surprised. He thought all Krellian magic was blood rituals and sacrifices, not a spell in place of perfume.
Despite himself, his eyelids grew heavy. The last thing he remembered before falling asleep was of slinging an arm around her waist.
#everlark fanfiction#everlark fanfic#everlark smut#witch!Katniss#witch-hunter!Peeta#Fantasy AU#I finally got around to editing#posted on AO3#enemies to lovers#The Heartrender
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Before you read, here’s the previous chapter. New? Start from the beginning!
Daffodils Bloom After Winter
Ao3
Chapter 8: Rain is Grace
“Shikamaru. Shikamaru!”
Shikamaru released an unflattering snort as he jolted awake. He’d fallen asleep standing up, propped against the wall of Naruto’s office. The papers that he’d been reading had slipped from his hands and were now a pile of out-of-order documents at his feet. He blinked blearily, struggling for a few moments to come out of the daze of sleep, until Naruto’s jumpsuited form materialized in front of him. The blond had his fists pressed into his hips as he leaned over to critically inspect the taller man’s face. If it was the same as the one he’d seen in the mirror that morning, it probably wasn’t pretty— pale, clammy, with stubble peeking out around his untrimmed goatee and his eyes laden with deep blue-black bags.
“You okay there, bud?” Naruto questioned, an eyebrow creeping up his forehead as Shikamaru bent down to retrieve the scattered papers. Shikamaru winced as his back popped and a sharp barb of pain rocketed up his spine. Ugh… I’m not an old man yet, he grumped silently, one hand nursing his spasming back muscles and the other gripping the papers while he slowly straightened back up.
“Just peachy, Naruto,” he lied. It didn’t hold much weight with the exhaustion lacing his tone. Though Naruto was dense at the best of times, it seemed even he wasn’t fooled by Shikamaru’s half-assed attempt. He only gave Shikamaru a suspicious look, making him blush slightly and rub at the back of his neck with a groan. “I, uh… I haven’t been sleeping well lately.”
“Are the nightmares back?”
Shikamaru cringed at the mere mention of them. Following his wife’s death, he’d been plagued by terrible night terrors, worse than even the dreams he’d had before his venture into the Land of Silence. He’d awaken deep in the night howling and clutching his blankets, sweat clinging to him like a veil to suck away all his warmth and leave him cold and shaking. Those days had been a blur. Sleep-deprived, he’d been unable to tell reality from dreams, wandering around like a ghost and plagued with hallucinations. It had culminated with him attacking Naruto in a psychotic break, but thankfully, the young Hokage wasn’t one to be taken down by the uncoordinated swings of a deranged man’s kunai. After being detained and placed in the hospital for intensive care, Shikamaru had recovered… more or less.
“No,” he said hastily, eager to put Naruto’s fears at ease. “No, I’m not having nightmares.” That wasn’t a lie, and Naruto could tell; the blond relaxed with a small smile. It had been a hard time for everyone, not just Shikamaru, and that showed by the relief that passed over his friend’s face. “I’m just… having a hard time, that’s all.”
Honestly, though, when wasn’t he having a hard time?
“You should go home,” Naruto suggested, reaching out to pat Shikamaru encouragingly on his upper arm. “I can manage here,” he persisted when Shikamaru gave him a doubting look. “Take the rest of the day off, Shikamaru, and go try to get some rest. If I don’t get to work sleep-deprived, neither do you,” he said with an accusing point of his finger. Shikamaru smiled wanly at how easily the tables were turned on him; Naruto using his own logic against him, such an infallible argument. He often chastised the Hokage for attempting to stay too late, booting him out and yelling at him to go home. I never thought those words would be turned around on me, he thought with a wan sigh.
He knew that Naruto wasn’t going to allow him to start at work, so he obeyed his friend’s order and marched out of the office. He really didn’t have much care to go home and mope, though. The sun felt warm on his skin, giving him a rare dose of contentment— enough to get him to shrug out of his coat and roll up his sleeves to allow the light to play over his arms. He hummed to himself, closing his eyes to enjoy the light basking him in warmth.
It didn’t last long. The clouds passed over the sun, blotting out the light and stealing away the heat that his cold, sad body was trying its hardest to soak up. He cracked his eye open with a disappointed frown, looking critically at the large, fluffy, white cloud that had drifted in front of the source of his much-needed crumb of serotonin. Just par for the course, he thought with a weary smile.
Even worse, the clouds were tinged with gray, indicating that it may rain by the end of the day. Shikamaru ought to head home so he didn’t get caught in the storm, but for once, the idea of moping on his couch in the fading daylight didn’t appeal to him.
Ino is probably in the shop today, he thought. It had been a while since he’d seen her, so he figured he should probably stop by and let her know that he was still alive. Even as thunder rumbled in the distance, making his hair stand on end, he set off down the street. It wasn’t a far walk, and Shikamaru kept his strides long to keep the rain behind him.
Hydrangeas bloomed in two big pots on either side of the flower shop door, baby-blue blooms enticing passersby to come sample Ino’s wares. Their sweet aroma clouded the air around the doorway like a heady perfume. Shikamaru breathed it in, a smile teasing his lips, as he pulled open the door. The little bell tinkled to signal his arrival— followed by a surprised gasp as someone walked smack into him, nose colliding with the top of his sternum.
“Ah! I’m sorry!” the woman exclaimed, jumping back and holding a hand over her nose. Shikamaru instantly recognized the chestnut hair swishing around her shoulders and the large brown eyes peering apologetically at him between flushing fingers.
“Ayumi?”
“Shikamaru? I’m sorry! I should have checked to make sure no one was at the door!” she groaned. “I was a bit preoccupied…” She looked down at the packets of seeds she clutched to her chest, a collection of vegetables that could survive the oncoming cool weather.
“Planting a vegetable garden?”
“That’s right!” she smiled, instantly brightening. “With summer ending soon, my flowers will begin to wilt and die. Shikadai likes my garden so much that I thought we could plant something that will last until the snows!”
Shikamaru’s heart fluttered in his chest, and a warm smile appeared on his lips. He could tell just from her voice how much she adored his son, but the twinkle in her soft brown eyes only added to her depth of feeling.
“I’m sure he’ll enjoy that very much.”
“Yes, I— Oh, no! I forgot the kale seeds!” Ayumi suddenly exclaimed and whirled on her heel, slapping his chest with her tresses of brown hair. “Ino! Ino, I need some kale seeds, how much are the—”
“Just take a pack or two, Ayumi,” Ino chuckled as she appeared from within the rows of blooms, wiping her soil-smudged hands off on her apron. “You buy plenty enough to keep me in business. I won’t miss them.” When she noticed Shikamaru standing behind Ayumi, Ino’s pale blonde eyebrows leaped up her forehead. “Oh? What a nice surprise. Did you get off work early?”
While Ayumi scrambled over to the display of vegetable seed packets nearby, Shikamaru approached Ino, a wan smile on his lips.
“I, uh, fell asleep on the job, so Naruto sent me home.”
Ino immediately leaned in with a concerned expression to hiss, “You aren't having nightmares again, are you?” Again with that question, just a testament to how much Shikamaru’s hardship affected everyone. That partly comforted Shikamaru, but it also made him a bit queasy with guilt. He should be able to deal with his own shit, not dump it onto someone else.
Ino seemed a bit uneasy as he stripped into self-pity, so he hurriedly reassured her: “No, I’m not having nightmares. I’m not sleeping well, but it’s just because I’m having trouble falling asleep.”
“What’s on your mind?”
Shikamaru didn’t answer. His eyes just strayed to Ayumi, leaning down to pluck a few kale packets from the display. Her chestnut hair cascaded around her shoulders, catching the sunlight streaming in through the wide windows to shine like rivers of caramel. She reached up to tuck it behind her ear, revealing the happy smile gracing her plump, pink lips. Just a small quirk of the corner of her mouth and a slight lidding of her eyes, a look he had seen many times on his late wife’s face.
Shikamaru had initially likened Ayumi to Temari after witnessing that tempestuous temper firsthand, giving her a fierce beauty that stirred his dead heart in his chest. However, after his numerous encounters with the woman, Shikamaru realized that Ayumi’s beauty and grace was all her own. She expressed her kindness and selflessness freely, not afraid to wear her heart on her sleeve and a smile on her face. Temari’s kindness and smile had been a secret only he could know, something he’d always cherished about his wife; it was her sharp wit and barbed tongue she doled out to the masses.
Shikamaru could not help but wonder what lay hidden behind Ayumi’s sweet exterior, what she would reveal only to the person who held her heart. And it was thoughts like these that kept Shikamaru awake at night— or rather, the fact that he was thinking them in the first place. He hadn’t thought things like that since he was nineteen and falling in love with the woman who would become his wife. So these thoughts? They terrified him.
But he couldn’t help the way his heart stirred in his chest when Ayumi stood, flipping her hair over her shoulder and flashing him an absolutely radiant smile. It shone like the sun, white-hot and brilliant, and Shikamaru felt like he was melting down to his very bones. Yet at the same time he felt cold, so cold with fear.
“Shikamaru?” Ino asked him suspiciously, and he turned back to see her eyebrows scrunched together. “What are you…”
“I was just thinking I should walk Ayumi home. It’s getting on in the day, and there are a lot of bars on her path home. Wouldn’t want a drunk harassing her,” he explained, and he was kind of amazed at how easily the lie tumbled off his tongue. However, Ino was a cunning and observant individual herself. Her brow only quirked higher in a suspicious look, but thankfully, Ayumi trounced up with her seed packets bouncing in her arms.
“Oh, really? Thank you, Shikamaru, that’s really kind of you,” she beamed. Ino’s blue eyes slid to the unsuspecting teacher, but thankfully, she didn’t pry any further.
“All right, well, you two had better get a move on,” Ino shrugged and pushed them both lightly in the shoulder, a silent ushering out of her shop. “It was nice to see you again, Ayumi; let me know if you need any help with the garden! And also nice of you stop by, Shikamaru. I’ll catch you two later!”
And just like that, he was standing outside the flower shop with Ayumi. The gray clouds had encroached while he had been inside, choking the sky overhead to blot out the light. Lightning snaked through the ashen sky, portending rumbles of thunder. Shikamaru’s nerves buzzed like the electricity was skipping along his skin instead of in the sky, making his hairs slowly stand on end. It made him feel a little better, however, that they were walking in the opposite direction of the slowly-moving storm.
“Ah, I was hoping to plant these today, but it looks like I’ll have to take a raincheck,” Ayumi hummed, then giggled at her own joke. Shikamaru had to smile at her cute little witticism. “But, that just means the soil will be good and moist for them to grow better!”
Always looking on the bright side of things, Shikamaru thought, his smile widening. It truly was a marvel, the depth of Ayumi’s optimism.
“If you’d like, I’ll bring Shikadai over tomorrow to help you plant them.”
“Oh, will you?” she beamed, looking at him in delight. “That’d be great!” Again, he was reminded just how much Ayumi adored Shikadai— and just how lucky he was that she did. With how stormy his relationship was with his son, he was grateful that he had another adult to support him while Shikamaru tried to piece his life back together. Even when Ayumi turned her gaze back to the road, he continued to gaze at her, watching the sparse sunlight catch on the ribbons of caramel brown in her chestnut locks.
She really was beautiful.
Shikamaru’s step faltered, but thankfully they had reached Ayumi’s home, so she didn’t notice. She opened the gate, then turned to him just in time to watch him bristle at the rumble of the thunder. Her gaze became curious, drifting up to the cloudy gray sky, then fell back down to him.
“Shikamaru? Would you… like to come inside for a while? The weather forecast said this rainstorm would be mild and short— not much longer than a few cups of tea, I imagine,” she offered, giving him that sweet, sweet smile that made his heart clench in his chest. Beautiful, kind, selfless— a perfect woman, through and through. Shikamaru, by some divine providence or just plain selfishness, was growing closer and closer to her, and that fact plagued his thoughts at night.
But that didn’t stop him from following her through that gate, because he was downright addicted to the sweetness, even if it might be the death of him.
Enjoy this story? Here’s the next chapter! Please consider perusing my Table of Contents.
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𝐭𝐢𝐭𝐥𝐞: pampering you
𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐩: yukishiro azuma/reader
𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠: sfw
𝐰𝐜: 1.8k words
𝐚𝐧: thank you for ordering, @sleepy-ruri ~ I actually used your tag game as a basis for certain parts~ anyways, I hope this was worth the wait! I was gonna go straight to the cuddle but got inspired to add some build-up.
The amount of sleep you get is a gamble between 4 hours and 20 hours, no in-between. Tonight was clearly heading towards the former, well if the caffeine swimming in your bloodstream had anything to say about it.
And that’s on coffee addiction, periodt.
It's pretty tough, on one hand, you valued your sleep. A comfy bed and a nice pillow taking you on a trip to meet the Greek god of slumber Hypnos himself was always ideal.
On the other hand, there were just too many things to do and too little time to do them. Sure, you had finished your work for the day, but you had a whole list of things you could stay up for without feeling an ounce of regret morning come.
Itaru told you that he saw a lot of potential in you ever since you opened up your wallet for that cat game everyone was playing during “The Great Sardine Search”. Was that supposed to be a compliment?
It started out with him recommending a few more casual and cute games, the usual cat and dog idle time waster games. After a few weeks, he had proclaimed it was time to “drag you into gacha hell with him,” whatever that meant.
It only started with a simple rhythm game, which not only had cute characters but was pretty free to play friendly.
Looking through the list the local gamer DMed you, you sighed in disappointment. Was it directed at Itaru for dragging you into this hellhole, or at yourself for succumbing to the joy and eternal suffering of gacha games? Who’s to say, really.
Obey Me!, three different Ikemen games, Twisted Wonderland, two Ensemble Stars games, a good amount of battle RPGs, one with handsome spirits, another with humanized swords, and a good amount of idol music games with either cute boys or girls to name just some of the titles.
Just looking at the google docs gave you a headache, they even came with little summaries and color-coded notes that made you wonder if Itaru tried out all of these at one point, even the otome ones. The very thought made you chuckle, plopping onto your bed as you decided to finally download one.
3 hours. Well, 2 hours and 48 minutes but who needs to know the finer details?
You’ve hit a new low, congratulations. Might as well have stayed up the whole time instead of going to sleep, but you ended up exhausting all your energy both in-game and otherwise. You ended up looking at gameplay guides until you inevitably passed out.
You wanted to sleep-in but there was still work to do. Trudging out of your bedroom and into the kitchen, several boys were already eating their breakfast.
“Good morning,” some of them turned to greet you, and you could see Yuki’s… disgust? Concern? Concern hidden under the guise of disgust?
“You look like a raccoon,” Yuki says bluntly as he stabs his pancake with a fork, “your shirt doesn’t even match your pants.”
You laugh, albeit tiredly, as you look down at the shirt you randomly snagged from your closet. Oh, haven’t seen this one in a while.
“That bad?”
Yuki scoffs at your question like it even needed to be asked, “you looked like you chose it blind.”
“Fufu, I’m sure there must be a reason why our dear director stayed up late,” a voice behind you says, patting down the bird’s nest on your head. It was difficult to resist his touch, even if it was just that little, and you found yourself shifting into a position where he’d have more access to pet you.
Did he say you had a good reason for staying up? If he thought so kindly of you, you’ll let it stay that way for as long as possible.
“Oh my, our director sure is affectionate today,” you didn’t realize that your eyes had closed until they fluttered open again, looking straight up at an amused Azuma.
“Sorry, having a hard time staying awake,” you muttered, still enjoying the man’s healing touch. Ahh, no wonder he was so popular. Not only was he beautiful and a gentleman, but you could feel your stamina bar slowly filling up just by him petting you on the head.
“Agh, it’s too early in the morning for this,” Yuki grumbled, looking away to finish the rest of his meal, “you better fix yourself later.”
You were going to dig in the food Omi so helpfully served you, but Azuma’s eyes scrutinizing your face made you more conscious than usual. Sure, Yuki mentioned your eye bags but he seemed more bothered by your not-so-cute outfit choice.
With Azuma, who always did his best to maintain and improve his appearance, it was a little different.
“You poor thing, someone as cute as you doesn’t deserve to look so tired,” he tutted, letting out a thoughtful hum. It was difficult to read Azuma’s face, but gears seemed to be turning in his head as he combed through your hair.
He paused his ministrations to bring your face closer, and you quickly averted your gaze. You weren’t sure if the other boys were watching, but still!
“Azuma, can you-“
“Come to my room later, okay? If you’re going to stay up, at least let me help you take care of your skin, hmm?”
The offer was tempting. It was kind of embarrassing going to a man’s room at night, even more, embarrassing to have him look at your face closely, regardless if it was just to help you with your skin!
Then again, he was a comforting presence. Being around him rejuvenated your spirit, which was very needed after that horrible no event card, x10 summon and the migraine Sakyo’s logistics lecture gave you.
Knocking on his door, Azuma personally greeted and escorted you inside. He sat you down on his bed as he walked away to grab a whole tray of products, the different colors and sizes momentarily distracting you. You weren’t sure if you could count properly at this point, but weren’t there 10 different products?
“I think these products will work best with your skin. There are ten steps so pay close attention to me, okay?”
Something about the way he just said things were so alluring? It really wasn’t fair to you.
“Alright,” you watched as he plucked an amber-colored bottle from the tray, pushing the nozzle that released its contents onto his fingers. It looked like an oil product, shining as the pads of his fingers touched your face.
“This is an oil cleanser, it removes your make-up and draws out other oil-based impurities,” he explained, beginning to massage the cleanser in. By instinct you shut your eyes, enjoying the sound of laughter coming from Azuma.
“Don’t get sleepy yet, director~ We still need to wash your face a few times after this.”
...
After washing your face for the second time, Azuma said you could finally relax. Well, you were gonna take him up on that suggestion.
Tomorrow you’ll take note of all the different skincare products and the steps in the routine, but for now, it was hard to pay attention, what with Azuma pampering you and his silvery voice lulling you into sleep.
Surely there were a few more steps to go, right? You’ll get some shut-eye until he finishes, then.
Azuma takes notice immediately of your lack of responsiveness, not even a gentle hum to let him know you were listening. Watching the steady rise and fall of your chest, he smiles to himself as he continues. It’s not often he gets to see this side of you, so he thinks himself pretty lucky. He’ll spoil you as much as you want.
...
Your hair being played with rouses you awake and even through the haze of drowsiness and the lack of lights in the room, you can tell Azuma’s been at this for a while.
“Good morning, sleeping beauty,” he says softly, and you were sure his playful teasing pinked your face.
“Sorry, how long was I asleep?” When you entered Azuma’s room there was still some noise outside from the rest of the boys, but now the silence made it feel like you two were the only people still up.
Of course, with someone like Itaru and maybe even Banri around, you doubted it.
“Long enough for me to finish my own nightly routine, actually.”
“Sorry for taking up your bed space. I’m sure you want your beauty sleep, too.”
You should move, but now you felt much too comfortable to even leave the bed. You knew some of the other boys have already slept over with him, Mankai’s local amnesiac being a frequent bed invader himself; would he be alright with it if you slept over?
You looked up at him, figuring out what to say or waiting for him to pitch the idea himself, but he only stared at you, patiently waiting for what you had to say for yourself.
“Could I sleep here tonight?” The corners of his eyes crinkled, lips lifted upwards. Maybe you never gave it much thought, but at that moment he gave off a warm glow, not unlike a fireplace on a cold, winter night.
“My room and bed will always have a space vacant for you, director.” His dulcet tones were like honey to your ears, sweet and loving, and like a moth to a flame you were entranced.
He carefully adjusted the pillows, lifting the blanket before snuggling beside you. He left a small space between the two of you, leaving you with the choice to come closer or not.
Scooting your body nearer, you turn around so that you faced the wall instead of him.
“Little spoon this time, then?” You don’t respond, not really finding a reason to do so. At first, he’s stroking your arm, fingertips drawing incomprehensible patterns and shapes against your skin. First on your hands, slowly moving upwards to your forearm, until he reached your shoulder where you could finally make out a shape.
Stopping him for a moment, you shift slightly to take his palm and trace back a heart.
“Oh, are you playing with me?” He murmurs, now fully encircling his arms around you, his stomach resting against your back. Your legs tangle slightly with his, as tucks his chin by your shoulder, making you two inseparable.
In the darkness, his embrace was like a small dose of heaven, and your senses were beginning to shut down once more.
He breathes in your sweet scent, and you take in the rhythmic beat of his heart as both of you finally close your eyes.
“Good night, Azuma.”
“Good night, lovely.”
When Azuma woke up, he was face to face with his precious director engulfed in his arms, still in dreamland. During the night you must have turned around to face him. He briefly considered waking you up or moving you to get up but shut the thought down just as fast. His skin care routine could wait a few minutes.
Silently, he observes your peaceful face for a little longer.
Sometimes getting up early isn’t bad at all. After all, he gets to see a cute sleeping figure beside him.
want to order again?
#a3!#a3! act! addict! actors!#azuma yukishiro#yukishiro azuma#a3! azuma#a3! game#a3 actor training game#a3 azuma#reader insert#azuma x reader#cafe: dessert menu#a3! x reader#a3 x reader
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Rise Above
Soooo I’ve been OBSESSING over the Witcher series (and currently reading Book 2 in my off time). I can’t seem to get Geralt out of my head and I basically ran out of fics to read/ patiently awaiting updates, so I let my imagination flow with this one.
It’s going to be a multi-fic with the first three chapters completed and too many ideas brewing. I’m thinking of posting weekly (every Sunday) if there is interest? Please let me know what you think! All feedback is greatly appreciated. I’m also finishing up some Mayan stories because the fandom needs some extra love.
Masterlist
Geralt of Rivia x Reader
Word Count: 1.4k
Warnings: slight man bashing, language
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Since early adolescence mother always cautioned of the intrepid bewilderments and betrayals men were guilty of alluding to. Their mortal trickeries and wickedness so elegantly aimed to prey upon their next doe-eyed victim patiently awaiting. Mother also taught her to never succumb to their predatorial tendencies without a fight. For this made Y/N swear to never become what others around her so willingly yielded to, and that was a promise she intended to uphold until her last untimely breath. Even against her worst nightmares, Y/N would willingly glower straight into death’s mischievously hollowed eyes than ever give a man a sliver of power over her very existence especially without her consent. Her mother made sure of that.
Y/N reigned from the bountiful lands of Temeria. Plentiful on unharvested acreages and majority of kind folk. Her livelihood rotated between feeding livestock, sharpening blades, tending to her colorful harvested gardens, and riding her beloved stallion, Mr. Darcy among many other hobbies that encapsulated her attention. Days blended into months as Y/N kept with her daily chores watching in discomfort as her mother pretended their lives weren’t about to be upended in numerous ways. Even the mere existence of magic couldn’t make undeniable ailments evaporate. Humans were a multifaceted bag of bones; mages were an untouchable species still yet to perfect their untapped capabilities. Y/N wasn’t too keen on categorizing herself hence her importance of isolation. Her once radiant mama rapidly dissolved into emaciation, staying presently beside Y/N for a moment’s more of honest love.
“Do not let fear grip its’ treacherous claws into you. For I know the searing pain of losing a beloved.” A ragged gasp slipped her lips as she ventured on, her words choppy. “I spent a good amounts time wallowing. Misery is an old friend. And its occasional deviousness ruses you sometimes into thinking that its constant companionship will remain and that one is unable to attain blissful happiness. But you can, you can walk away from pain. Never forget your choices, my love.”
“You have my word, forever and beyond. I will live in your image.”
Her bones progressively weakened as many sleepless nights withered into dusk; her skin once glowed with the light of a thousand suns now had a clammy-cool manifestation. Y/N refused to acknowledge the painful jab that infiltrated her deceitful senses, so she stayed the course and masked her outlandish emotions. Now wasn’t the time for pity. But her one solace and comfort were the freedom and exhilaration her morning rides brought to her burdened soul. It was in these hushed moments of tranquility she could actually feel the fresh air maneuver throughout the entirety of her body, engulfing her lungs in a welcoming burn. He truly was a beauty to behold. Y/N couldn’t help but notice how the flitter of his silver mane reflected upon a summer’s day or the thickening of his luscious coats preparing for a long winter. When her loneliest moments fleetingly caught up to her, she was never sincerely lonesome.
Old wives’ tales voiced intricately woven fantasies of princesses awaiting their rescuers in decaying castles merely passing time as their hair grew longer in confinement. Y/N recollected eavesdropping upon the town baker’s inviting stories by the ages of nine, quests chockfull of bravery and resolution, doubt beginning to flood her veins. Another story, another vapid man to ‘save’ the day. She could barely hide the chuckle that fell off her lips when she dare glance at the girls lost in tragic intrigue. One tale in specific resided in her childish memory; painting a certain princess that captured the eye of a handsome knight all within the shadows of her forbidden fortress. His velvety voice promising her everything her heart was trained to desire, all she simply had to obey was his one command; to throw down her beautifully kept hair in order for her release to occur. Why were women forced to choose and best be timely in such a life altering circumstance? Y/N wondered if the Princess truly desired to be set free from her silent haven.
Like clockwork, Y/N left the bakery in disarray all while quietly venting underneath her breath. The fable lived on for centuries later as all the women in her village maintained their perfectly kept long locks as long as the Gods allowed. From that moment on, Y/N kept her silky blue hair shoulder length and out of the way. Her mother should have named her rebellion by her mannerisms and ideals alone but deep inside her cavernous belly, she carried great pride of her kin, knowing she wasn’t graced with a foolish daughter as far back when she was safely in the warmth of her womb.
Y/N was brazenly gorgeous with a fierce lioness temperament that left men thirsting at her feet, but she merely wasn’t interested in what any suitor had to offer no matter the amount of gold, land, or riches. She was satisfied with little for her happiness to flourish. Her athletic build aided her in this strenuous life asking for no help and receiving none was her personal policy. Her lineage solidified their strength. Hushed whispers from townsfolk accursed them to witches but they had no humanly conception of the power that laid within their own bloodlines. Unfortunately, it didn’t stop men’s gazes upon the beautiful duo.
Y/N had received no official training as mages were accustomed to but her mother put her faith wholly into her only living daughter. By five, Y/N was capable of complex charms and potions her mother had never laid witness to and for this simply delighted her. Y/N recognized that magic was a tedious give and take, an equal force of dynamics in order to maintain nature’s balance and in secret, she efficaciously thrived. Magic was an underlining necessity that Y/N made sure to never abuse in her favor no matter the situation. She was born and bred with a ferocious vigor and damned be the day she would allow her abilities to do her heavy lifting. Blood, sweat, and tears was her silver lining and Y/N be damned if that was ever taken away from her. She was always a compulsive pessimist, always looking for the soft brown spot in the fruit, pressing so hard she created it. She excelled in the art of secrecy always staying perfectly out of reach even to the woman who adored her completely.
Her mother’s passing hardened her seemingly aloof heart or so she was told. Memories do not always soften with time; some grow vicious edges like knives. Some hearts will forever understand each other whether death’s door stand in their way or not. Curiously, she didn’t remember when she became exhausted. She didn’t remember when exhausted was no longer exhausted, it just was. The tiredness was in her hardened bones and she accepted this state of being bogged down in apathy. Though through her mountainous misery, goodness could often be found residing in the middle of hell.
Trapped in the comfortability of mundane routine, Y/N fantasized about a journey brimmed with mischief and riddled adventure, but little did she know the Gods were listening to her every whim. Fate and destiny happily intertwined. Over a period, her dreams grew consistently worrisome; haunted by an attractive man with hair the color of the moon, hypnotically golden orbs aside his more than chiseled features. If she were to extend her arm his way, he was just barely out of reach and oh, how she desired for a simple touch; to know what stood in front of her was reality or foolishness.
What really unnerved her was the repeatedly jumbled words almost as if the man were submerged under harsh waters. His eyes relayed urgency that Y/N couldn’t quite decipher, not quite yet. With every vision entangling itself profoundly into the corridors of her singular subconscious, Y/N was further entranced by the strange gentleman she was graced with every night fall whether by coincidence or curse. And as he groggily faded into oblivion, Y/N had never slept so soundlessly in her entire existence.
#geralt x reader#geralt of rivia x reader#rise above#my writing#the witcher#series#geralt imagine#the witcher netflix#geralt x y/n#geralt of rivia x y/n#witcher fanfiction#fanfic#geralt of rivia#witcher#henry cavill#henry cavill x reader#reader fic
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MAN OF HONOR (PART ONE)
Summary: You were dreading a certain wedding you were involved in, desperate to find a suitable date that could pass as your fake boyfriend. Luckily, Bucky Barnes had nothing better to do.
Notes: NSFW (18+), Swearing
For the fourth time, your head had met the counter. It didnt help that Tony used the most expensive granite he could find, well then it again it might help with the impact. You groaned out, the thought brimming once again you had to fly away tomorrow to your little sister’s wedding. It wasn’t only the fact she was younger than you, it was the fact she was most definitely making it known she is getting hitched off before you are - which makes you the exhibit of the wedding. You weren’t prepared for all of the comments of you being old, needing to get married - kids. The whole shabang. Now two days away, you had exhausted every possible option of a date - you were at your wits end. Sitting in your misery, you heard a soft laugh above you. Flickering your eyes upward, you saw your best friend clearly amused by the fact you could possibly be acting over dramatic.
“You know, it doesn’t help much - banging your head on the counter.” Wanda smirked, pouring you a small cup of coffee.
“You’re right, if its not a headboard its not worth it.” You coughed out, wiping away the small ache you had collected to your forehead.
“Just so you know, you haven’t asked…everyone.” Wanda smirked once again, bringing her coffee to sip.
You already began to shake your head, the thought that she planted was already being pushed out of your mind. There was no way in hell you were going to ask the only bachelor left in the Avengers compound.
“Are you insane?” You knitted your brow, “Mr. Grouch? there’s no way.”
“Oh come on, he’s not that bad.” Wanda defended, and she motioned to the workout facility.
“No. Wanda. I’m not. He’s a huge pain in the ass.” You rolled your eyes, hoping she would deter already from the topic, “Besides. He wouldn’t go anyways.”
You shuffled throughout the halls, nearing the workout area. As much as you fought it, it was your only hope to show up to the wedding with some dignity. You already could feel the confusion brimming in your mind, hearing a rather modern song begin to echo as you neared the door. Sure enough, it was a song you had heard just the other day - and you remembered writing it down. You always liked chainsmokers - and their newest hit was something you had been playing on repeat. Now it was ringing throughout the workout room. Your eyes had finally caught him, and you were genuinely surprised at how good he looked. You had only had a couple of interactions with him - obviously through Steve. You had heard stories of his past, he was the infamous Winter Soldier - but in honesty it didnt frighten you that much. He wasn’t that man anymore, now he was known as Steve Rogers best friend. You watched only for a lingering moment, taking in that he had clearly been working hard in here. His hair was pulled back, a few strands falling from his workout. He was covered in a sheen sweat, and you noticed yourself swallowing now. It was no secret he was fit, his frame was incredibly large - he could took take you out in mere seconds. Which is why you hesitated, but you needed to move forward.
“B-Bucky?” You choked out, and noticed the music was a little loud for him to hear you.
His hands met the punching bag, and you wanted to ignore it - but his low grunts from the blows was beginning to cause you to sweat.
“Bucky?” You nearly yelled out now, and finally he turned.
He was out of breath, and you noticed the front of his black shirt was slightly damp.
“Can I help you?” He huffed out, his expression clearly confused as to why you were talking to him.
“Uh- I was just, wondering-“ You stammered, your eyes flickering across his sweats hanging low to his waist.
“Wondering? What?” Bucky began to unwrap his flesh hand, and you noticed that they had grown slightly bloody from his harsh workout.
“Well I have this-“ You stammered even more, “I have a wedding this weekend. I know this sounds crazy, But I’ll do something for you in return if you could maybe, think about possibly-“
“Spit it out, Doll.” Bucky sighed, closing his eyes in slight annoyance.
“I have my little sisters wedding, and I need a date. My ex will be there, and I can’t go alone in front of my family.” You blurted it all out, and you realized you probably shouldn’t have mentioned it.
“Oh right. The one you asked Steve go to, and Sam…Let’s see who else” He cleary sounded annoyed now, and you knew how bad it sounded.
“Come on, Bucky-“ You choked out.
“No really, its flattering. Being your last choice. Is it because I’m Scary?” Bucky was now teasing, shaking his head as he walked away.
“Please.” You almost sounded begging, but you didnt care, “Please, Bucky.”
He stopped in his steps, and you had hoped that was a sign of him thinking about it.
“Fine.” He sighed out, “We’re leaving tomorrow?”
“Oh my god, thank you.” You couldn’t help your excitement, “Yes, yeah. we leave tomorrow.”
“I’m saying this now, just so we’re clear. I’m not your goddamn ken doll.” Bucky looked to you, his blue eyes nearly piercing to you.
“Yes. Of course.” You motioned, taking a deep breath, “Just, please. Be…nice?”
Bucky only glared to you, and you realized you could’ve gone without saying it.
“Oh I’ll be nice.” His eyes traveled you, “See you tomorrow.”
You released a sigh, as if you were holding your breath all this time.
Planes Suck. That was the only thought that was in your mind, but you managed to still look somewhat presentable. Already the two of you had conflict, Bucky explaining he was going to be late - which ended up him getting a flight an hour after yours. Which led you to this moment, waiting for him in the London airport. You took the time in the airport bathrooms, refreshing your waves - changing into your dress for the Brunch your Mother had planned for the wedding party. You went with the safe option, the peach and beige dress. It was classified as your lucky dress, whenever you wore it something wonderful happened - you were hoping today was the case. You sighed out, taking yet another glance to your watch - you only had 2 hours to get to the country house, and Bucky was still nowhere to be found. You pulled out your phone, ready to call him to see what the hell was taking so long. Your eyes flickered upwards in the right moment, and you were unsure of what to do with yourself. Without control, your mouth hung open - seeing Bucky finally walk towards you. You swallowed harshly, you had never seen him look so incredibly dapper. He wasn’t kidding, he wasn’t taking this lightly.
“Close your mouth, doll. Its just an outfit.” Bucky sighed, pulling your elbow up from the seat.
“Jesus, where the hell did you get that?” You finally choked out, your eyes still looking over the suit.
“Does it matter?” Bucky spoke softly, “It’s no tux.”
“Yeah but…shit. Thank you.” You blinked wildly, still feeling his hands guide you.
“You got it, Darlin’” Bucky had a teasing tone, already mocking you.
“Seriously, Be nice.” You already grew annoyed, knowing he was going to give you shit this whole trip.
You had to deal with it for two weeks.
You nearly cursed the car that it took you there in a hurry, and the sight of the country house made your skin now sweat. It had been 4 years since you had been here, your mother married to the man who had lived outside of London his whole life. You were the only one who decided to stay in America, which clearly made you some kind of an outcast. But now you were back in the house that most of your heartache resided in every visit. Most of all the man you used to love also lived near here, and you had found out he was a part of the wedding party. The thought of seeing him again, it made your heart nearly burst. He had caused you so much pain, yet he went on living his life as if nothing happened. Out of nervousness, you began to chew at the bottom of your lip - wondering if you could muster the courage to actually get out of the vehicle.
“Go before me.” Bucky sighed, and you watched him already remove himself from the car.
“Are you crazy? the whole point of you being here is to go in with me, at the same time.” You sighed out, following his actions.
Bucky smiled only for a moment, “I know what I’m doing, Doll. Get your ass in there.”
You rolled your eyes, knowing there was no point in arguing - if there was one thing you knew about Bucky was that he was stubborn, and didnt take the option of no very well. You straightened your dress, turning one last time to see him practically shooing you forward. Taking a deep breath, you moved across the lawn. You gripped at your coat, the near fall weather was causing goosebumps to prickle along your arms and legs. You knew you should’ve worn something else. Once your feet had hit inside of the home you knew, all eyes slowly turned to you.
“Oh, sweetie. Why didnt you wear the blue number I sent you?” Your mother shuffled to you, and quickly your little sister caught your eye.
“Teddybear!” Your little sister nearly squealed, and you shut your eyes to your nickname. It came because you carried the small stuffed bear your father gave you when you were little - needless to say they never let you live it down.
“Please dont call me that.” You grumbled out, feeling your mother already latch to you.
“Honey, I thought you were bringing a date-“ She sighed to your ear, and you knew it was coming.
“Did he stand you up?” Your little sister looked to you in mock sympathy, and you hated Bucky for staying at the car for whatever damn reason.
Just when you thought it couldn’t get worse, you saw your ex now flicker his eyes to you - and he hadn’t changed in expression. You thought you couldn’t breathe to the sight of him, and now a woman closely to his side. Of course he had a date. You removed your coat, your mother raising her brow to the sight of the dress you were wearing. Part of you wore it to spite her. Your mother opened her mouth, and you knew she was about to say something about it - that was until you felt a pair of hands to your back. Giving you no time to process, you understood why Bucky stayed behind. Your eyes shot open, feeling his soft lips crash to you within seconds. Knowing it mustve looked odd, you relaxed to the touch - and for a brief moment you began to taste his lips. You nearly whimpered, feeling his hands grip to the small of your back - and then he pulled away. Standing dumbfounded, you had to wipe slightly at your lips - god you weren’t expecting him to taste that good.
“There you are, sweetheart.” Bucky took a breath, and you watched his blue eyes look to you in complete amusement, “I already missed you.”
You finally looked to your mother, her mouth still dropped to what she just witnessed.
“M-Mom. this is-“
“James Buchanan Barnes, Ma’am. Nice to meet you.” Bucky flashed a incredibly charming smile, taking her hand to kiss softly.
“Why hello.” Your mother turned slightly pink, laughing at the action.
“You were right, Doll.” Bucky looked to you, still grinning, “You do get your beauty from your Mother.”
You couldn’t believe it, but you heard your mother practically giggle.
“Hi, Hello.” You sister fumbled forward to Bucky’s gaze, and he mirrored his action - taking her hand to his lips.
“Now, You must be the little sister.” Bucky winked, and you saw your sister’s lips turn in a grin, “Here’s to the lucky chrome dome who gets to marry you.”
She giggled too, and you nearly laughed at the sight.
He was good.
“Sorry about that.” Bucky placed his hand to your back, pulling you to his side, “Just can’t keep my hands off her.”
“Well, thats quite alright.” Your mother nodded to you, clearly approving.
“Still in that honeymoon stage, If you know what I mean ma’am.” Bucky winked, and you nearly gasped to the feeling his hand now at your backside.
You took it all in, and you were nearly ecstatic to the sight of your ex trying to get a better look at the two of you.
You were definitely winning.
As your family walked away to return to the party, you noticed Bucky keeping his hands to you.
“Where did that come from?” You turned to him in astonishment.
“1940s, Darlin.” Bucky sighed, pulling you into the home finally.
You managed to make it through the hell of brunch, giving you and Bucky no time to come up with a story. Most of the meal it was quick thinking, and at some point the both of you began to lose your match in stories. You still couldn’t believe that he was here, doing this for you - even if he was technically the last one you asked. Still you appreciated the gesture, but the realization came that you didn’t know Bucky as well as the others. Now here you were, your mother had planted the two of you in the guest bedroom - together.
“So I’m thinking I’ll sleep on the floor.” You coughed out, seeing Bucky already plant his suitcase to the bed.
“What are you, five? Don’t be ridiculous. We can sleep in the same bed” Bucky sighed out, opening the suitcase to grab clothing, “Shower?”
You motioned, swallowing harshly, “I’m just saying wouldn’t it be awkward, or whatever.”
He grinned teasingly to you, “Only if you make it awkward, darlin”
You took a deep breath, bringing the glass you took from brunch - thank god for alcohol. You turned suddenly, Bucky not giving a care in the world of your presence - removing his shirt.
“So we should probably discuss a story. Like how we started dating.” You choked out, “I mean my family knows everyone so it’s not like you’re a total stranger-”
You turned, not thinking anything of it - only to gasp out audibly. He was completely naked. Your mouth dropped, and you screwed your eyes shut - you even heard a soft laugh escape Bucky’s chest.
“If we’re going to be dating, might as well get comfortable, doll.” Bucky chuckled, and you felt him throw a material to your head.
“That doesn’t mean you should-” You did it again without thinking, this time your eyes couldn’t help but fall below the waistline - your mouth dropped again, you’d never seen someone so-
“Just say we met through Wanda, I thought you were cute - so I took you out.” Bucky walked the other direction, and you nearly whimpered to the sight of his ass. You shot your hand up just enough to cover his exposed skin.
“Okay fine just-” You swallowed yet again, “Dont think you can just walk around here naked”
“Why, make you nervous?” Bucky winked, shutting the door finally to the bathroom.
You huffed out, these two weeks were going to be hell.
#bucky barnes x reader#bucky barnes x y/n#bucky barnes fanfiction#bucky barnes fandom#bucky barnes fanfic#bucky x y/n#bucky barnes#buckybarnes#marvel#bucky barnes smut
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Can’t believe I’ve actually written something so... ugh, I meant to say dirty, but that’s kinda fluffy too, so figure it out yourselves friends.🥰
Adult content.
Humid air inside his car.
Foggy windows.
Heavy breaths.
Lips almost touching.
His strong hands holding her hips tight, helping her move.
Up and down.
Up and down.
Her fingers tangled in his dark locks.
He moves his lips down her neck, latching on her pulse point.
Taught nipples rub against his chest.
They are in a haze of lust.
She is overwhelmed.
Just as she is about to shatter he makes her look into his eyes.
He likes the eye contact when she falls apart.
Blue eyes boring into her, making her come harder.
“Babe? Are you alright?”
Betty is snapped out of her thoughts. She turns her head to look at her boyfriend, where he sits beside her on the couch. Short blonde hair and pale grey eyes.
“Yeah. Just a bit nervous about tomorrow’s test” she quickly makes a lie.
“You’ll ace it, as always.” Josh smiles and pecks her cheek.
Josh.
Her boyfriend.
On whom she is cheating.
Fuck.
It’s not that Betty doesn’t love her boyfriend. She loves him. But sweet feelings with which they started dating merged into strong friendship. She loved him as a part of her life, but not as a lover.
Not that she loves Jughead.
They don’t talk or spend time together. They just fuck. She knows he has a girlfriend, but she doesn’t know what makes him cheat on her. She feels bad, he tells her not think about it, so she doesn’t.
What makes her cheat on her boyfriend is an incredible sexual frustration. It’s not that she and Josh don’t have sex. They do. Rarely. And not satisfying. They lost their virginity to each other, but it soon turned out that Josh just wasn’t that much into sexual part of relationships. And he also didn’t know how to bring her to an orgasm. Betty could relieve just as much frustration with her hand.
She met Jughead when he was taking his internship at her parents’ newspaper during summer. She came to drop by some papers that were sent to their home by mistake. Her parents were out chasing some story. They hooked up in a storage room.
They continued seeing each other after that, but made sure to keep it strictly about fucking.
It has been two months by now.
Just as she shut the door behind Josh her phone dings with a message. The contact’s name consists of two emojis. A crown and a snake.
“Tonight?” the message reads.
She smiles, already anticipating what is awaiting her.
“My parents are out of town. Come in two hours. Make sure no one sees you.”
They fuck through the whole night, making each other moan and groan and come again and again.
At first it’s hard and fast. He crashes her just as he walks through the door and bends her over the back of the couch that stands closest to the door. She wears only a robe, no underwear and he doesn’t bother to undress, pushing his jeans so he is able to plunge into her.
After the edge is taken off it’s slow and sensual. He likes to tease her, make her beg.
He eats her out on her dinner table. He holds her thighs to the table and licks and sucks her clit until she is a whining mess and then he thrust two long fingers into her, bringing her the desired relief, her juices sipping on the table. She scrubs it clean and bleaches next morning, but still blushes almost every time and tries to eat at the kitchen isle.
Then he makes her suck him off, standing in the middle of her living room. She hums and moans around his cock, helping with her hand where she can’t fit his impressive length into her mouth.
They are on her bed and he groans into her neck.
“You are so hot” he breathes into her ear and she thrives in his praise.
“I want you all the time” he pants, “all. the. damn. time.” he punctuates each word with a hard thrust and she nearly comes from just this.
He continues his dirty talk and leaves only when the sun starts rising.
They never sleep together, don’t even lay in afterglow. Just fuck.
As months go by Betty starts to learn and notice small things about him. She knows his usual order at Pop’s, knows that he likes dogs and conspiracy theories, she knows what books he likes to read, he even borrowed her books a couple of times. He doesn’t hide those things, but they made a deal not to share.
She understands that something went wrong somewhere around February. They are meeting at the drive in, that is closed for winter. When she sneaks into the projection booth he is sitting on the cot, head thrown back, leaning on the wall. Even in the dim light of a small lamp in the corner she can see he has a black eye and a cut on the brow. His lips are split too. And her heart wrenches with worry.
“What happened?”
“Nothing that you should know.” he snaps and she lets him fuck her hard, bite her shoulder and spill inside her. When he comes she can’t help but holds him a little longer, clinging to him.
He must feel something, because when she is dressed again and ready to leave he says “Don’t do it, Betty. We had a deal.”
She breaks up with Josh next week. She can’t lie to herself anymore, because she feels like she is cheating. And she does. But she feels like she is cheating on Jughead.
She tells him about breakup during their next encounter and he must have understood something, because he stops contacting her after that.
By April Betty is angry, sad and frustrated. She is a mess of feelings and she seeks release in the sting that’s created when her nails dig deep into her palms. But she can’t complain, she did it to herself. And she wants him. All of him.
On April 21st her phone rings at four in the morning. Her heart starts beating faster when she sees a snake and crown.
“Can you come?” his voice is low and hoarse.
She shouldn’t. She should hang up and ignore him like he did the last three months.
She sneaks out of her house and drives to Sunnyside trailer park.
The door to his trailer is not locked and she finds him on the couch. His state is bad.
His face is cut and swollen, shirt torn and soaked with blood. She doesn’t ask, she knows he won’t answer. She holds her tears and helps him out of his clothes and to the shower. Once he is clean of blood she can see his ribs are bruised and he limps on left leg. She finds the first aid kit and tends to him. All silent. Once he is in his bed she turns to leave.
His hand wraps around her wrist, “I want you”.
“You are in pain” she reasons.
“I don’t care. I want you.”
She wants to scream at him, demand explanations, but then...
“I need you... please” he lets his walls down. There is vulnerability in his eyes and a hint of fear. Fear that she will leave.
She is careful with him, soft touches and slow movements. They hold eye contact all the time and there are so much in it that she collapses and falls asleep in his arms exhausted. Emotionally more than physically.
She wakes up in early morning. Jughead is already awake, he rubs his thumb on the scars on her palm.
“Why did you do it?”
He tugs her palm closer and kisses crescent moon scars. Each one of them.
«I should probably go”, she croaks finally, “you friends and girlfriend are probably wondering how are you...”.
“I don’t have a girlfriend”, he answers, as of its the most important information right now. Not who did this to him. Not why. Just that he doesn’t have a girlfriend.
“She dumped me in October, kind of birthday present I guess”, he chuckles, “said she was more into girls”
Betty wants to be sorry, really wants, but she isn’t. Not sorry for him being single.
And then...
“Betty....” her name is soft, coming out of his lips.
She looks into his eyes and sees everything. Self doubt, struggle, fear.... “I love you”, his voice is just above whisper.
“I love you, too” she exhales in response.
And all is right in the world.
#betty x jughead#betty cooper x jughead jones#bughead fan fic#bughead au#bugheadedit#betty x jughead fanfiction#bughead fanfiction
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Sweater Weather
It wasn’t that Catra wanted a sweater.
They were ugly, honestly. Awful patterns, garish colors, slightly lumpy in that obviously homemade way. But… they did look soft. And warm. That was a plus these days; the chill of the winter air had begun to seep into the unnecessarily wide halls and tall ceilings of the castle, and Catra was finally starting to feel it. She’d woken up shivering the past couple days, even with an extra blanket, so it would be nice to have another layer to wear around the place.
It certainly had nothing to do with the fact that Adora had started wearing her sweater like a festive uniform as she ran around decorating the castle with her new best friends. She, Bow, and Glimmer seemed to match, somehow, despite the fact that the visual similarities of the three garments were limited only to their sheer hideousness and the enormous letter knit into the chest of each sweater to match the wearer’s first initial. (There was a larger, white and gold sweater hanging in Adora’s closet with a giant “S” emblazoned on it, surrounded by tiny wings and swords. Even She-Ra had her own sweater.)
But Catra wasn’t about to get a sweater of her own anytime soon. They came from Glimmer’s aunt, she had discovered, and the princess alliance reluctantly allowing Catra to join their ranks was a far cry from being close enough to the royal family to get her own personalized knitwear. Especially after the portal, and its… consequences.
So, Catra took the most reasonable course of action.
She stole Adora’s jacket.
It was disappointingly easy, given how Adora only ever seemed to wear that absurd sweater these days. Adora’s reaction was disappointing, too; simply a raised eyebrow, smile, and short laugh from across the room before returning to whatever ridiculous piece of unnecessary greenery she was stringing across an archway with Sparkles.
Catra folded her arms with an annoyed shiver. The darn thing wasn’t even warm enough. Honestly, who wore a jacket with gigantic holes in the sleeves? Ridiculous.
Catra strolled over to a table strewn haphazardly with decorations and eyed it suspiciously. There was an awful lot of red. And green. And silver and gold and strings of unlit, multicolored lights. She picked up a strand and dangled it from her forefinger and thumb.
“What’s this holiday thing called, again?” She called over in Adora’s general direction. The concept of “holidays” was foreign enough, but she’d started tuning out after learning that there were several of them every year and they all had different names and meanings. It sounded exhausting.
“Winterfest!” The excited response came from several feet above and to the left of Catra’s head. Adora was on a ladder. “It’s when everyone gathers around with the people closest to them and celebrates having a place to be together and warm in the coldest months of the year. There’s lots of food and decorations and stuff. I think the lights are supposed to look like stars?”
“Mm.” Catra let the strand of lights drop back to the table, staring instead at a ball-shaped decoration with a hook on its top. It was red, shiny, and placed precariously close to the edge of the table. She couldn’t tear her eyes away.
“D’you want to help decorate?”
Catra ignored her, slowly reaching toward the red ball in a trance-like state. Just before her hand would have made contact, she flicked a finger out and knocked it onto the floor.
Disappointingly, it didn’t shatter, simply bouncing a couple times before rolling away to rest at Adora’s feet. Huh. Guess she’d climbed down.
“I take that as a ‘no,’” Adora said with an amused expression, reaching down to pick up the ornament.
“You seem to be doing fine without me,” Catra said, letting a little more bitterness seep into her tone than she’d planned.
Adora gave her an odd look, then fidgeted with the ornament for a moment. “You know we want you here, right? If you want to be.”
Catra was saved from responding by a distant shriek of laughter that rose from behind Adora, and they both turned to see Bow chasing after Glimmer with a handful of fake snow before finally catching her and rubbing it into her hair. Adora smiled, and despite Catra’s best efforts, the corner of her mouth twitched upward slightly.
“I felt a little out of place my first Winterfest, too,” Adora said quietly, still watching the antics in the distance.
Adora, out of place with her new friends?
“Why?”
She shrugged, fidgeting again. “It’s a time for being with your closest friends and family, and I’d left all that behind me.” She glanced up, meeting Catra’s eyes. “I didn’t know if I’d ever have it again.”
Catra swallowed. “Well, I… I’m here now,” she said, lamely.
The warmth of Adora’s smile almost chased away the cold in Catra’s bones.
“I know.”
In the next instant, Catra found herself enveloped in a very sudden, very tight hug.
“What are you doing?” she asked, slowly.
“Giving you a hug,” Adora said into her shoulder, tightening her grip a little.
“I noticed,” Catra said, fighting very hard not to give in to the desire to bring her arms up and return the gesture. “Why?”
“Because you’re here, it’s Winterfest, and I’m happy,” Adora replied, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Plus, you looked a little cold.”
Catra found she couldn’t muster any snide comments about the first part of Adora’s statement, and therefore focused on the second.
“I’m not cold.”
“Oh, well in that case--” Adora immediately released her grip, turning around to return to her decorating. Catra’s body immediately felt the betraying chill of the castle’s winter air, and before she realized what she was doing, Catra found herself halting Adora’s escape by wrapping her in a tight hug.
“I thought you weren’t cold,” Adora said, and Catra could hear her smug expression.
A half-dozen sarcastic remarks rose to her lips, but she swallowed them. “I lied.” Catra pressed the side of her face into the warm, soft, and slightly lumpy material of the sweater covering Adora’s back. She pulled back. “And as long as I’m being truthful: you look ridiculous.”
Adora laughed, turning to pluck briefly at the red sleeve of Catra’s--her--jacket. “So do you.”
“Insulting your own fashion choices, Adora? Bold move.”
“Nah, I just don’t think it works for you.”
“Please. Everything works for me.” Catra tugged the hem of the jacket down and struck a pose, hands on her hips. “I look amazing.”
Another laugh from Adora. “If you say so.”
--
Some hours later, Catra found herself walking the halls of the castle, rubbing her arms in a thoroughly inadequate attempt to warm up. The glow of a fire caught her eye, and she turned the corner to find a well-decorated room with a tall tree in one corner and a fire blazing in the hearth. She stretched her hands out gratefully toward the heat, letting her eyes wander over the tree. It was pretty, she had to admit. Lights twinkled from amid the dark green of its branches, polished baubles hung from its boughs, and little strands of silver and gold glinted in the firelight.
“Catra?” A voice came from behind her. She turned to see Adora standing in the entryway and felt her mouth tug up into a small smile.
“Hey, Adora.”
Adora walked over to stand next to her in the warmth of the fire, joining her admiration of the tree. “How do you like the tree?”
Catra shrugged. “It’s alright.”
Adora nudged her with an elbow, her smile knowing. “You like it.”
“I do not. It’s too..” she struggled for a moment, searching for an appropriate word. “...princess-y,” she finished, lamely.
Adora shrugged, unaffected. “I helped decorate it.”
Oh, great. Catra felt a stab of something like regret. She coughed.
“I mean, it’s… nice.”
Adora snorted. “Don’t strain yourself. Did you notice the box?”
With all the other decorations flooding the room, she’d simply filed the colorful, flat box at the base of the tree into that category without really noticing it. She looked at it more closely, now, squinting at the tag tied to the ribbon wrapped around the box. Was that… her name?
“It’s from Castaspella,” Adora explained. “She said to give it to you on Winterfest day, but I don’t think she’ll mind if you get it a little early.”
Catra stared dumbly at the box. “Why?
“Huh?”
“Why would she give me anything? We’re--we were enemies.”
“Not anymore,” Adora said simply. “Besides. I think she’s kind of a fan of how you didn’t let her niece die on Horde Prime’s ship.”
Oh. That. It hadn’t seemed like much, not compared to all the bad she’d done. Just barely enough to convince the alliance that she’d changed. Was changing.
“Open it,” Adora prompted, nudging her forward.
Catra picked up the box and slowly, almost hesitantly removed the lid. There, amid some colored tissue paper, lay a sweater much like Adora’s--except this one was orange, covered in a pattern of small trees and lights, and had a giant “C” knit into its front. She lifted it from the box to better see the pattern, the lumpy material incredibly soft under her fingers.
It was the ugliest thing she’d seen in her life.
She loved it.
“It’s nice,” she said, finally, voice a little thick.
“Try it on,” Adora urged. Catra did, pulling it with some effort over her thick mane of hair and feeling it puff out from static electricity. The material felt even softer against her arms, and the low-grade chill she constantly felt faded almost immediately. Adora’s hand landed gently on her arm.
“We’re happy you’re here, you know,” Adora said, softly. “It’s not just me. Bow, Glimmer.” She gestured to the sweater. “Castaspella.”
Catra snorted quietly, willing away the strange moisture that was collecting in her eyes. “I don’t think Swift Wind likes me very much.”
“He’ll get over it.” Adora smiled.
She suddenly leaned forward, wrapping Catra in another warm hug. This time, Catra didn’t try to fight it, letting her arms come up around Adora as she buried her face in the soft warmth of Adora’s shoulder.
“Happy Winterfest, Catra,” Adora said, squeezing just a bit tighter. “I’m glad you’re here.”
Catra closed her eyes, letting the warmth of the sweater, the hug, and this new, strange sense of… belonging wash over her. She smiled into the soft material.
“So am I.”
#oh look I did the thing!#this is supremely unbetad so..... sorry XD#i don't know if i'm going to post it on ao3 so let me know if you think it's worth it? i guess?#she ra#spop#catra#adora#fanfic#my fic
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Here he comes, one of the planet’s most conspicuous young men, stepping out of the London drizzle and into a dusty suburban pub. If there was an old vinyl record player in the place it would scratch quiet. Instead, the two-dozen punters turn hushed and intent, as if a unicorn has just trotted in off the street, and nobody wants to scare it off. “That’s frickin’ Harry frickin’ Styles,” whispers a young man at the bar, “in this pub.” The pop star is asked what he wants to drink and in a voice already inclined to undertones, quietly orders a cup of tea.
A former teen star who is now 25, a happier and rockier solo artist since his boyband One Direction split a few years ago, Styles has hidden himself inside a large, swamp-green parka. He’s tall, around the 6ft mark, and carries himself with a slight stoop. If Styles could only do something about his appearance from the neck up (elfin brow, wide Joker smile, a face that’s recognisable across multiple continents) you sense he could drink in pubs like this anonymously enough. As it is, cover blown, he removes the parka. A woolly jumper beneath has a picture of the planet Saturn on it. Maybe they’ve heard of Styles there, too.
We take a seat in the corner. On nearby tables, conversations start to sputter as people try to keep their own talk ticking along on autopilot while straining to hear what Styles says. I ask him about the sheer strangeness of this and other aspects of fame. Full stadiums, swooning admirers, an excess of opportunity and cash. Why isn’t Styles an absolute ordeal of a human being by now? Keith Richards, at a comparable stage, imagined himself the pirate leader of a travelling nation-state, unbound by international law. Elton John was on vast amounts of cocaine. Meanwhile, here’s Harry, known in the music industry as a bit of a freak, medically, having maintained abnormally high levels of civility in his system.
Styles tilts his head, flattered. There are others, he promises. “People who are successful, and still nice. It’s when you meet the people who are successful and aren’t nice, you think: What’s yer excuse? Cos I’ve met the other sort.”
Styles read Keith Richards’ autobiography a while back, and he recently finished Elton’s, too. (“Soooo much cocaine,” he marvels.) We talk for a bit about whether extreme dissolute behaviour and artistic greatness go hand in hand. Styles, who has just released his second solo album, Fine Line, the penultimate track of which is called Treat People With Kindness, has to hope not. “I just don’t think you need to be a dick to be a good artist. But, then, there are also a lot of good artists who are dicks. So. Hmm. Maybe I need to start scaring babies in supermarkets?”
A couple of lads hustle over to offer drinks. A photo is requested; they say they’ll wait. I’m weirdly anxious about Styles’s phone, which is slung on the table in front of him. What must be the black-market value of that thing? If fans were to get hold of it, would they want to open Styles’s music app first, to listen to tracks from the new album, or rush to see his messages and calls, to find out who Styles has been flirting with late at night? The interest in his music has always run at a ratio of about 50/50 with the interest in who he is dating.
It’s a ratio Styles tries to adjust in favour of the music by being vague about his ex-partners, real and rumoured (Taylor Swift, Kendall Jenner, Parisian model Camille Rowe), diverting to discuss his songs about failed relationships. A year ago, when Styles was floating around near this pub in north London, where he lives, and California, where he tends to record, looking for inspiration for the new album, his close friend Tom Hull told him: “Just date amazing women, or men, or whatever, who are going to fuck you up… Let it affect you and write songs about it.”
Styles, who writes in collaboration with Hull and producer Tyler Johnson, sounds as if he took the advice. The new album, Fine Line, is at its best when capturing late-hours moments, drunk calls, “wandering hands”, kitchen snogs. A golden-haired lover recurs. There are up tracks, down tracks, some with the trippy delirium of harpsichord-era Stones, others with the angsty Britpop swell of strings. While I listened, I couldn’t help scribbling down names, possible subjects. On the lyric “There’s a piece of you in how I dress” I wrote: maybe Kendall? In a song about a lover “way too bright for me”: surely Taylor.
Styles says he keeps to a general rule: write what comes and don’t think about it too much afterwards. The only time he worries about an individual lyric is if it risks putting an ex in a difficult position. “If a song’s about someone, is that fine? Or is that gonna get annoying for them, if people try to decipher it?” Has he ever got that judgment call wrong and taken a bollocking from an angry ex? Styles raises an eyebrow. “Maybe ask me in a month.”
I quiz him on something I’ve often wondered about. Why are the very famous so inclined to hook up with the very famous? From the outside it looks twice the hassle, with twice the odds of ending badly. “Don’t we all do that, though?” Styles asks. “Go into things that feel relatively doomed from the start?” I ask him why he doesn’t date normals. He seems tickled: “Um. I mean, I do. I have a private life. You just don’t know about it.”
Styles doesn’t particularly like being asked about his love life, but is amused all the same, as he is about most things. When I ask about the logistics of someone as well known as him dating someone anonymous (“Do you need to give them, like, some sort of primer?”), Styles snorts with laughter.
���Uh-h-h. Like any conversation, I guess, it’s easier if you’re honest. But I try to let it come up when it comes up. Cos that’s a weird thing to talk about, y’know? If you’ve just started seeing someone, and you’re, like: [he adopts a throaty, mission-briefing voice] So! This is what’s gonna happen!” Styles holds out his hands: no, ta. “I don’t wanna have that conversation, man. It would be fucking weird.”
And not very sexy, I say.
“Not sexy,” Styles says, “no.”
A quick aside about his accent, which is hard to capture in print. (“Nat sexy, no.”) After a workout in a hotel gym recently, Styles says he was taken aback (“taken abeck”) to be asked by a stranger whether he was speaking in a fake voice. He was appalled. But after so long crossing borders and time zones, living and working between England and the US, the accent has undergone a jazzy remix, and tends to get farthest from its Cheshire roots when he’s around strangers. Once Styles begins to get comfortable in the pub, the flatter, no-nonsense sounds of his youth return. Nowpe he says, for nope. Fook, for fuck.
“What the fook are they?” This was the response of his childhood pals, he remembers, back in the village of Holmes Chapel, when little Harry had the gumption to show up in the playground wearing Chelsea boots instead of the approved chunky trainers. Styles’s parents had separated when he was very young, but there is no origin-story trauma: he has always stayed close to both. His mother, Anne, would praise his singing voice in the car, and when Styles was 16 it was agreed he could audition for a singing contest on TV.
“The craziest part about the whole X Factor thing,” says Styles, who auditioned for the ITV reality show in 2010, “is that it’s so instant. The day before, you’ve never been on telly. Then suddenly…” Suddenly you’re a piece of national property. “You don’t think at the time, ‘Oh, maybe I should keep some of my personal stuff back for myself.’ Partly because, if you’re a 16-year-old who does that, you look like a jumped-up little shit. Can you imagine? ‘Sorry, actually, I’d rather not comment…’ You don’t know what to be protective of.”
By the winter of 2010, Styles was a fan favourite, a key member of One Direction, a five-piece that enjoyed enormous national exposure and gathered millions of fans before any music had been released. Cameras filmed every part of their rise. There wasn’t any time in the dark to practise, test things out, mentally brace. “We didn’t get to dip in a toe,” Styles says. “But, listen, I was a kid, all I knew was: I didn’t have to go to school any more. I thought it was fucking great.” He remembers having a lot of fun, and being well taken care of. He jokes: “Maybe it’s something I’ll have to deal with a bit later. When I wake up in my 40s and think: Arrrggh.”
In February 2012, One Direction were feted at the Brit Awards, hours before they were due to fly to the US for the first time. On TV that night they looked young, silly, chuffed – on the precipice of something huge, and with no clue at all. Their subsequent wonder-run (five platinum albums, four world tours) had its foundations in their ridiculous popularity in the States. Right away, Styles remembers, “We were fuelling a machine. Keeping the fire going.” He remembers it as a stimulating time; maybe overstimulating. “Coming out of it, when the band stopped, I realised that the thing I’d been missing, because it was all so fast paced, was human connection.”
I first met Styles in 2014, around the time the lack of human connection was starting to bite. One Direction were promoting their penultimate album and I’d been commissioned to write about themthe Guardian. Management felt the boys were so exhausted that my minutes in their presence had to be strictly counted. Inside a circle of cripplingly hot lights, while someone ran the stopwatch, we interacted as humanly as we could.
I remember how jaded the best singer in the group, Zayn Malik, seemed. (Malik was weeks away from quitting.) I also remember how flattered and bewildered the others were to be asked a few grownup questions – and not what Louis Tomlinson would later describe to me as “who’s-your-favourite-superhero… all that shit”. Styles was watchful and quiet that day. By total chance, a week later, we were in the same London cafe and he tapped my shoulder. He was having lunch with friends. “Will ya join us?”
t struck me as a quietly classy move. I was fascinated to see him interact with mates he’d chosen for himself. Styles was dry and funny, older than his years. After lunch we said the usual things about keeping in touch, and followed each other on Twitter. I kept an eye on his updates, about leaving One Direction, releasing an impressive, self-titled debut album in 2017, playing for 36,000 people in Madison Square Garden in New York, acting in Christopher Nolan’s Oscar-nominated war movie Dunkirk. Meanwhile, I did my best to manage the mess that had been made of my own account after Styles’s Twitter follow ignited a small explosion of teenage longing in my mentions. For at least a year I received weekly, sometimes daily, pleas from people who wanted messages conveyed to “H”. Still now, every few days, fans in America, Asia and Europe follow me to “see what H sees” in their timeline.
He has around 50 million social media followers, and with that comes the ability to ripple the internet like somebody airing a bedsheet. I’ve noticed, though, how rarely Styles directs people to support specific causes, last doing so in 2018, when he encouraged people to join a march against gun violence. Why don’t you use your influence more, I ask? “Because of dilution. Because I’d prefer, when I say something, for people to think I mean it.” He runs his fingertips across the table. “To be honest, I’m still searching for that one thing, y’know. Something I can really stand up for, and get behind, and be like: This Is My Life Fight. There’s a power to doing the one thing. You want your whole weight behind it.”
It’s one of the things that sets Styles apart, the way he puts his whole weight behind the different aspects of this strange job. If you watch footage of him as a guest host on Saturday Night Live last month, Styles plunges in, fully inhabiting the silliness of every sketch. He has good songs in his repertoire (2017’s ballad Sign Of The Times stands out), and would probably admit to some middling songs that attest to his relative inexperience as a writer. But whichever of his songs Styles performs, he goes all-in, trusting that his zest and energy will hold an audience’s attention. He approaches this interview in roughly the same spirit, not enjoying every question, fidgeting, pleading for clemency once or twice, but giving everything due consideration.
I bring up something Styles joked about earlier: the possibility of waking up in his 40s with deferred mental health problems.
“Mm,” he says
Have you thought about therapy, I ask, to get ahead of that?
“I go,” he says. “Not every week. But whenever I feel I need it. For a really long time I didn’t try therapy, because I wanted to be the guy who could say: ‘I don’t need it.’ Now I realise I was only getting in my own way.” He shrugs. “It helps.”
Lately he’s been reading a lot (Lisa Taddeo’s Three Women stood out). He’s watched a lot of Netflix (crime thrillers and music docs). He recently cried through Slave Play on Broadway. I sense in Styles, at 25, a pent-up undergraduate hunger, maybe a desire to make up for lost time. “I’ve definitely been wanting to learn stuff, try stuff,” he says. “Things I didn’t grow up around. Things I’d always been a little bit sceptical about. Like therapy, like meditation. All I need to hear is someone saying, ‘Apparently, it’s amazing’, and I’ll try it. When I was in Los Angeles once, I heard about juice cleanses. I thought, yeah, I’ll do a juice cleanse.”
How messy were the results?
“You mean…?” Styles raises an eyebrow, recalling the poos. “They were all right. I was just hungry. And bored.”
One notable feature of Styles’s solo career has been his headlong embrace of unconventional clothing. A 2017-18 tour could have been sponsored by the Dulux colour wheel: mustard tones in Sydney, shocking pink in Dallas. In a more serious sense, some of Styles’s choices have fed into an important political discussion about gendered fashion. In May, as a co-host at the Met Gala in New York, he stepped out in a sheer blouse and a pearl earring. One evening’s work challenged a lot of stubborn preconceptions about who gets to wear what.
He says: “What women wear. What men wear. For me it’s not a question of that. If I see a nice shirt and get told, ‘But it’s for ladies.’ I think: ‘Okaaaay? Doesn’t make me want to wear it less though.’ I think the moment you feel more comfortable with yourself, it all becomes a lot easier.”
What do you mean, I ask?
Styles is leaning forward, hands folded around his cup of tea. “A part of it was having, like, a big moment of self-reflection. And self-acceptance.” He has a habit, when he’s made a definitive statement, of raising his chin and nodding a little, as if to decide whether he still agrees with himself. “I think it’s a very free, and freeing, time. I think people are asking, ‘Why not?’ a lot more. Which excites me. It’s not just clothes where lines have been blurred, it’s going across so many things. I think you can relate it to music, and how genres are blurring…”
Sexuality, too, I say.
“Yep,” says Styles. “Yep.”
There’s a popular perception, I say, that you don’t define as straight. The lyrics to your songs, the clothes you choose to wear, even the sleeve of your new record – all of these things get picked apart for clues that you’re bisexual. Has anyone ever asked you though?
“Um. I guess I haaaaave been asked? But, I dunno. Why?”
You mean, why ask the question?
“Yeah, I think I do mean that. It’s not like I’m sitting on an answer, and protecting it, and holding it back. It’s not a case of: I’m not telling you cos I don’t want to tell you. It’s not: ooh this is mine and it’s not yours.”
What is it then?
“It’s: who cares? Does that make sense? It’s just: who cares?”
I suppose my only question, then, is about the stuff that looks like clue dropping. Because if you don’t want people to care, why hint? Take the album sleeve for Fine Line. With its horizontal pink and blue stripes, a splash of magenta, the design seems to gesture at the trans and bisexual pride flags. Which is great – unless the person behind it happens to be a straight dude, sprinkling LGBTQ crumbs that lead nowhere. Does that make sense?
Styles nods. “Am I sprinkling in nuggets of sexual ambiguity to try and be more interesting? No.” As for the rest, he says, “in terms of how I wanna dress, and what the album sleeve’s gonna be, I tend to make decisions in terms of collaborators I want to work with. I want things to look a certain way. Not because it makes me look gay, or it makes me look straight, or it makes me look bisexual, but because I think it looks cool. And more than that, I dunno, I just think sexuality’s something that’s fun. Honestly? I can’t say I’ve given it any more thought than that.”
In our musty corner of the pub we’ve somehow passed a couple of hours in intense discussion. We’ll lighten up, before Styles heads home, with some chat about clever films (Marriage Story), stupider viral videos (the little boy who’s just learned the word “apparently”), that favourite-superhero stuff that, after all, has its place. He talks about the curious double time scheme of a pop star’s life – those crammed 18-hour days and then the sudden empty off-time when Styles might find himself walking miles across London to buy a book, afterwards congratulating himself: “Well, that’s an hour filled.”
Before we stand up I ask if he’s minded any of my questions.
He pushes out his lips, possibly recalling them one by one, then shakes his head. “What I would say, about the whole being-asked-about-my-sexuality thing – this is a job where you might get asked. And to complain about it, to say you hate it, and still do the job, that’s just silly. You respect that someone’s gonna ask. And you hope that they respect they might not get an answer.”
I tell him I do.
“Cool.”
Styles has to find those lads who wanted a photo. He scoops his phone off the table and flicks his thumb around the screen. Lately, he says, when he messes around on his phone in an idle moment, it’s mostly to look at videos – clips that his friends have sent him, in which their kids sing along to music he’s made. “Never gets old,” Styles says, beaming.
A few years ago, when he emerged from the boyband, blinking, shattered, he set himself three tasks: prioritise friends, learn how to be an adult, achieve a proper balance between the big and the small. Full stadiums, provocative outfits – Styles genuinely loves these things. “But I guess I’ve realised, as well,” he says, “that the coolest things are not always the cool things. Do you know what I mean?” He grabs his parka and his phone and, a little stooped, heads for home.
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A Stroll in a Dark Forest
Summary: Childbirth is like a stroll in a dark forest. You never know what comes on the other side.
Rating: T - Suitable for teens, 13 years and older, with some violence, minor coarse language, and minor suggestive adult themes.
Explicit depiction of non-violent adult and child character death. Reader discretion is advised.
Words: 2650
Notes: I don’t have mommy issues, I swear! Anyways, enjoy.
It was February 16th, 1927, and Dante could not believe it had been a year already.
Life had a way of speeding things up and slowing them down in such a thrilling and tricky way. This past year had gone by so fast, compared to how slow days had gone by in the Winter of 1925 until Summer of 1926.
Each day they spent together was a blessing.
The weeks flew by them. Lili was getting more and more excited each passing day. They learned she was pregnant in mid-December, and Dante was happy and Lili was thrilled. Children, continuing the bloodline, has always been a looming reality for the mob boss, and he never felt particularly strong about it.
When he was younger, dread wrapped its bony hands around his neck, when he considered that he would have to marry and, ahem, impregnate someone, someday, and it would not be the woman he loved. He consoled himself with the thought that Nicola could very well take over that particular duty for him, and so it would not matter in the end.
As their circumstances changed, as he finally was blessed with what he wanted the most, children still were not the most important thing in his mind. He would be happy if he found himself as a father, do not misunderstand, but he would be perfectly satisfied barren, too.
Nevertheless, Dante was happy that his wife was happy, and that is what mattered the most.
With pregnancy, his usually vivacious and energic wife grew tired easily, and would often take naps during the day and fall asleep as soon as she retired at night.
In the dark, Dante liked to rest his hand on her stomach, feeling the stirrings of life and the future.
Despite feeling achy and tired, Liliana was unbelievably happy. She anxiously counted off the days and months.
"Only four more months until we meet the baby!" The blonde woman would say, a smile bright on her face and a hand covering the bump on her stomach lovingly, and he would feel a protective instinct rise on his heart.
Increasingly limited in her daily activities, Lili spent her time embroidering, knitting, or doing some other dainty kind of work preparing for the child. She was infectious to all, her face alight. She shed happiness and good fortune around her, thanking God for her blessings.
Dante watched in astonishment as his beloved wife turned more into mother with each passing day. She spread love like perfume, and he loved her right back all the more. He could not have predicted how his feelings for her would have deepened, but deepen they had.
As spring came, Lili's spirits increased with the temperature. Flowers grew, and she would spend hours in the garden looking at them. She was eating well, and her midwife said that Lili was perfectly healthy, and this pregnancy was developing quite well. The baby was expected to be healthy.
She did everything in whatever manner she was supposed to. She slept well, ate all the right foods, declined alcohol, did nothing strenuous. All the while she waited for her child to come.
"Dante," she whispered once in March, late at night. She took his hand and held it to her stomach.
He felt something push up against his hand. Lili sighed. Was she in pain?
"Lili? Are you alright?" He asked, anxiety raising in his voice.
"I'm fine, I’m fine!” She said, her eyes overflowing with tears. “Dante, you just felt the baby. He just moved!"
It hit him then. This baby was alive, and coming soon. In a matter of months, it would not be just the two of them anymore.
Against his worst expectations, he already felt a profound connection to the little being living inside Lili. This child seemed to underline their connection to each other. They were no longer just in love, or simply a husband and wife, but they were to raise a child together.
Or two, or three... Dante could not say what the future held for them, but it looked good.
In June, the midwife moved into one of the guest bedrooms and they prepared a room for Lili to give birth in. On June 30th, and right on time, Lili sat up, gasping in pain and clutching her swollen stomach.
"Dante." She whispered, too quietly to wake him up. "Dante!"
His blue eyes fluttered open as a particularly painful shock ran through her, causing her to gasp.
Everything had been prepared. The midwife was woken, and Lili was transferred into the room next door. After she was settled into the bed, Dante sat down right next to her, but the midwife shook her head.
"I'm sorry, signore, but rules are rules." The midwife said, sternly, hushing him out of the room.
Dante decided he did not like this woman. How could he trust her with his wife when she was in labour? It was obviously best was that they stayed together, and she was not doing what was best.
"Let him stay!" Lili cried. "Please."
"You need to relax, Signora." The midwife said. “It will not do if you are excited or anxious.”
“No!” Lili shook her head emphatically, in tears because of the pain and because of her agitation. “I can't do this without him! I need him! I need him here!"
"Signora…" Dante said, gathering himself to argue with the healer. "May I stay just for a while? The baby surely is not coming for another few hours, is he?"
She sighed. It was not wise to argue against the mafia.
"Very well, but as soon as I have to really work, you need to leave. We cannot have you getting in the way." She replied, in tone of resignation. "I'm going to go get some cloth and cold water for signora's head. It will bring her some relief."
Lili breathed a sigh of relief as she and Dante were left alone.
"I'm so excited." Lili said, resting her hands on her stomach eagerly. The pain had subsided a little for now, and she was able to fully realize that the baby was finally coming. "Do you think it'll be a boy or a girl?"
"I have no idea." He responded, feeling faint.
Throughout the pregnancy, Lili had referred to the baby as both 'he' and 'she,' trying to see which one felt better. She had not come to any solid conclusions, though.
He sighed, thoughtful. "I just cannot believe how everything is going to change after tonight."
"Ah!" Lili cried, reaching for his hand and gripping it so tightly he thought his fingers would break.
He did not know what to do. His pulse picked up speed, and he looked around for someone to help. Tears poured out of her green, wide eyes, and he felt desperation.
She breathed deeply, trying to steady herself in spite of her whimpering in great pain. A few sobs broke through her tense disposition, and she squeezed her eyes shut.
She surely should not be in this much pain. Was something wrong? Was the baby coming to fast? It was supposed to hurt, but Lili looked as though she was dying. He could not take it.
The midwife came back then.
"Should she be in this much pain?" Dante asked anxiously. "This does not seem normal!"
"Signore, I have seen more pregnancies than you can imagine, and this is absolutely normal.” The woman responds with little patience. “It is called a contraction, and yes, they hurt. Her body is trying to push the baby out, and it takes a lot of energy."
He glared, but said nothing in retort. Lili seemed to be recovering a bit, in any case. Her grip on his hand was less painful, and her breathing was not as frantic and erratic.
Nevertheless, these contractions did not seem to be working, or so Dante thought. Two hours later, Lili was still scrunched in pain, whimpering and gasping, but the midwife still insisted they were making progress.
"Signore, it has come the time for you to leave." She insisted brusquely.
Dante found it hard to take orders from someone with their head between his wife's legs, but complied anyway, kissing Lili goodbye.
"I love you." He said, but she was too concentrated to reply.
Outside the room, he paced for hours. He thought he was going crazy, waiting like this. All he wanted was for Lili's pain to be over, so she could finally hold their baby in her arms like she wanted to.
He could only imagine the look of bliss that would be on her face as she held their child, he could almost see it. The triumphant smile, the pride, her arms at once protective and caring holding the tiny being.
Noises constantly came from inside the room. Lili was gasping, and he heard the midwife muttering things, sounding soothing and encouraging. He wished he could help, knowing Lili was in pain and suffering just made him agitated. He did not like any bit knowing she was uncomfortable and knowing he could do nothing to help.
At three in the morning, he was sitting on the ground, his eyes sliding in and out of focus as he stared at the pattern of the wallpaper. He was exhausted. He did become aware, however, that there was silence from inside the room. Then a scream, much worse than any of the cries he had heard before.
"Lili!" He cried in desperation.
Without any thinking, Dante threw open the door and ran inside. He hurried to the bed, but the midwife held out a hand, stopping him from coming any closer to his wife.
"No. This is an emergency!" She barked, but that sloppy statement certainly did nothing to ease his mind.
"This is my wife you are talking about! What's going on?" He cried. His voice was coming out strained from his closed throat.
"I have to get the baby out." The midwife said, business-like, focused on her goal.
Dante's heart seemed to stop beating. The woman released her grip on him, and he fell to his knees next to Lili on the bed, reaching for her hand.
"Lili?" He called for her, without response.
Her eyes were closed. Was she in pain? What was happening with his wife?
"Lili, I'm here." The man whispers once again, trying to coax a reaction out of her to no avail.
Her hand was limp. He turned to look at the midwife in desperation.
"What's going on?" He turned back to Lili, shaking her shoulder. "Lili? Lili! Wake up! Wake up!"
Yet, the blonde woman did not move as he shook her. He shouted over and over for her to wake up, but she did not reply. Eventually, his cries turned to sobs, and he dropped his head onto her stomach, crying into her body.
"Signore…" The midwife whispered. He looked up, and saw what she was holding. Not who, but what. His child, their child, platinum hair and blue eyes, was resting in her arms, covered in blood. Underneath the blood, however, was a grey and pallid complexion that even Dante knew meant the worst.
"I'm so, so…"
"No. Don't say anything to me." Dante cut her off coldly. "You have done enough. Just... leave. Leave me alone!"
Tears were pouring down her face, it was seldom that both the mother and the child died, and she had never seen a scene this pitiful. She wrapped the child in a blanket and handed it to Signore Falzone.
Dante took the child with shaking arms, his tears making the room blurry. He realized then that he did not have to be quiet or strong, and he clutched the child to his heart while he sobbed for the loss of his family.
He looked down, and saw Lili's face. Her beautiful eyes were forever closed, and her forehead was smooth and peaceful. He smoothed her hair back, moved her legs down. He straightened her nightgown, and tucked her hands around herself the way she liked to sleep.
They had had less than two years together. He had spoken to her for the first time just over two years ago, after waiting and hoping and looking on the outside in for so much time, and here she lay next to him, dead.
Curse his impetuousness, curse his desires, curse his seed, curse his blood. If he had done what was best from the start, his beloved wife would still be alive and well.
He knew childbirth could be dangerous, but he had not let himself think of the worst...
He hated himself. He had done this to her. If he had known this would have happened, he never would have touched her. He would have been perfectly happy just waking next to her every morning, the world of the flesh left unexplored.
The man knew that opening that door led to sin and danger, that he would be the damnation of hers, he knew what the Church expected of him. Yes, it had brought pleasure as well, but had it been worth it? No. Here, his beloved wife lay dead next to him. His heart felt like cold stone in his chest.
As he looked at their child in his arms, he realized he did not know what it was. He was reluctant to pull back the blankets, for even though he knew it was dead, the little body in his arms was so small. He did not want it to get cold.
Finally, Dante managed to look. In his arms, he held a little boy. His son lay in his arms, dead. That was not where he belonged.
What Dante did next to him seemed the most natural thing to do. He opened Lili's arms again, and, as gently as he could, he settled the little boy into his wife's arms. For she was a mother now. She never got to meet her child, but she had been a mother from the moment she realized they were to have a child together.
In Heaven, the two could be together. Lili could live there with her lost family and their son, and he would be left alone.
He did not know how he could face the coming hour, let alone the rest of his life. Here he was, twenty-five and a widower. His one and only love lay unmoving next to him. She had been so full of life, dreams, love and sweetness that he could not imagine her ever leaving the earth. She was spring, she was flowers, she was light.
How could those things exist without her now?
He had no answer. He was alone now, as he had been for the first twenty-two years of his life. She had come forth like a stray sunbeam, enchanting his life with music and Heaven for two short years, then dancing off back to God.
You always knew she was an angel, Dante thought. Now she's back home.
He hoped Lili was with their son. He hoped they were together, and he hoped to see her again soon.
Soon, unfortunately for the mob boss, was not now, and for the moment, he lay next to his family, wrapping an arm around them both and burying his face into Lili's still-warm shoulder, inhaling the scent of her hair, which still lingered.
The lack of a blush on her cheeks was the only indication of her present state.
When he closed his eyes, he could almost hear her breathing as he had every night for the past year.
He lay next to Lili and their son who she held in her arms. They were not protective or proud the way he had imagined. He would never see her look of triumph.
For one last moment, he could be with his family.
*_*_*_*_*
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The Last Snoggletog | Phantomverse Snoggletog One-Shot
Also read on: AO3, FF.net
Summary: Four winters after the Phantom has stopped haunting them, Berk celebrates Snoggletog. Finding that perhaps, in many ways, the Phantom is still with them after all.
Set after the events of The Phantom of the Arena, and about half a year before those of the sequel (currently WIP), The Phantom of the Archipelago.
A/N: Merry Christmas to those of you who celebrate it! I am very happy to be back in the Phantomverse with a little story for the holidays. This one-shot is set after the events of the Phantom of the Arena and hence contains major spoilers for that story.
It is also set about half a year before the events of the sequel I am working on as I post this – The Phantom of the Archipelago…
Winter storms were a yearly recurrence on Berk. They were sudden, unpredictable, gripping you with full force before you properly realised what you’d gotten yourself into. Their strong winds released torrents of snow right in your face, making your skin feel as if it was being grazed by ice while you slowly lost any sense of feeling in your fingers. No number of layers of clothes would help, they all became soaked through more quickly than you expected them to, after which they’d freeze to your limbs, turning your skin red and finally blue. The only thing you could do was look for shelter, hoping, praying to the Gods that they’d cease their torment and allow you to make it through the night.
Astrid Hofferson wasn’t sure which alternative was worse. The snowstorms the Gods brought down upon them, or dealing with the blizzard that was a three-year old on Snoggletog Day.
“Mummy!”
She felt something pull on her sleeve and looked down into a pair of big, absurdly green eyes, surrounded by a smattering of freckles all belonging to Hamish Hofferson. She was about to open her mouth to tell him off when he was whisked away by a pair of hands that weren’t hers.
“What did we say about going near the fire?” her mother scolded Hamish, lifting him up under his armpits and looking at him with a strict expression.
Astrid didn’t need to see Hamish’s face to know he was pouting. “But -”
“No, Hamish, what did we say?” her mother insisted.
Hamish’s shoulders slumped in defeat. “It’s dangerous.”
“Right,” her mother nodded. “So don’t do it.”
“But I wanna know when Odin’s coming!” Hamish squirmed, twisting his head to look at his mother.
Astrid rolled her eyes and smiled to herself as she stirred the pot in front of her. He definitely hadn’t been asking her that question non-stop since this morning.
“Grandpa Stoick isn’t here yet,” she reminded him. “He has to make sure everyone is okay first.”
“Cause he’s the Chief!” Hamish beamed as if he was the only one in the room who was aware of that information.
“Exactly,” her father nodded, scratching his brown beard. “And Odin doesn’t deliver presents if you’re watching.”
“Why not?” Hamish asked.
Because none of it is true, Astrid mused to herself, blowing on the ladle and taking a sip. She pondered for a moment before turning to her mother. “Mom, do you think this needs more yak?”
“I’m sure it tastes great, honey,” her mother instantly replied.
She tasted again, really letting the beverage simmer on her tongue, and nodded to herself. “Yeah, I actually think this might be my best batch of yaknog yet!” Who knew she could actually learn how to cook? Let alone come up with her cup of holiday cheer.
“Why not?” Hamish asked.
“Because he doesn’t want to be seen,” her mother tried.
“Uncle Tuff saw him,” Hamish retorted.
Her mother rolled her eyes, but her father played along. “Oh, did he?”
“Yes!” Hamish insisted as his grandmother put him down. He bounded over to his grandfather’s chair. “He says he looks like a troll.”
“And what do trolls look like, then?” Astrid’s father humoured him, ruffling Hamish’s auburn hair - as if it wasn’t messy enough already - before lifting him onto his lap, Hamish’s boots landing on his grandpa’s knees.
“Dunno,” Hamish shrugged, his shoulders moving more than they should.
“Because they aren’t real,” her mother cut in.
Hamish adamantly shook his head. “Uncle Gobber says they are! They steal socks.”
“And do they have any preference? Red socks, blue socks, brown socks?” her father asked.
Hamish furrowed his brows for a moment, leaving the room simmering with anticipation.
“Left socks,” he finally decided.
Astrid considered for a moment whether she should enlighten Hamish about how Gobber didn’t have a left foot, but since her mother also simply shook her head, she decided they could do with a little less Hofferson-realism for the day.
“I looked for them with Grandpa Stoick!” Hamish continued.
That was news to her. “Didn’t Grandpa Stoick take you fishing?” Stoick had needed the break after Black Plague Friday - they all did - and had been kind enough to take Hamish with him upstream.
“Fishing’s boring,” Hamish stated, as if the food he was served every day simply appeared out of thin air. She could agree with the sentiment though. The amount of time she could save if she still had Stormfly…
But that was something she could only dream of.
While Hamish started to ramble about his latest adventures, she redirected her attention to the large pot in front of her, noting that the yaknog had thickened enough, but was still bubbling slightly. Meaning it was absolutely perfect.
“Hamish,” she called, prompting the excitable ball of fluff to look up at her. “Do you want to help me hand out some yaknog outside?”
Hamish’s face lit up with a bright smile, and he nodded. “Yes!”
“Go get your clothes, then,” she ordered. Hamish instantly jumped off his grandfather’s lap and ran to the bedroom.
Her mother took the ladle from her, filling the mugs Astrid had borrowed from the Great Hall while Astrid held them up and arranged all but five of them on her favourite festive shield. From the corner of her eye, she spotted a pile of clothes waddling back out of her parents’ bedroom, unable to see where it was going.
She put the tray of yaknog down on the table, shaking her head and picking her favourite bundle of furs up from the floor, separating him from his outdoor clothes and putting them both on a chair. Hamish was surprisingly compliant, only swinging his legs back and forth while she bound a festive red scarf the same colour as his tunic around his head and pulled a dark green knit cap over his ears, his unruly auburn hair sticking out at the bottom. She wrapped him up in his fur coat and a pair of mittens and pulled on his outfit until she was sure there were no more gaps through which he could get cold.
She dressed herself and handed Hamish one of the mugs after he jumped off the chair. “Be careful, it’s hot, okay? Keep it in both of your hands and watch your feet.”
Hamish nodded as well as his scarf allowed him too, staring at his mug like a mother dragon at her favourite hatchling. “Yes Mummy!”
She pulled up the hood she’d now owned for almost four years and took the tray from the table before turning to her parents. “If it goes as fast as last year, we won’t be long. If you need us, I don’t think we’ll head outside of the village centre.”
“Take as long as you need, dear,” her mother reassured her, taking care of the now-empty pot. “We’ve got all day.”
“Just don’t be surprised if we finish our mugs before you get back!” her father added, standing up to open the door, and her mother nodded along with the kind of enthusiasm rarely seen from Sigrid Hofferson.
Astrid grinned. “I would be disappointed if you didn’t!”
She shivered for a moment when they stepped outside, figuring that this was the kind of cold no one ever really got used to. But experience had taught her that if you simply sucked it up and endured for long enough, it wasn’t quite so bad.
They walked through the village centre, its streets busy with celebrating Berkians despite the light snow, and handed out mugs of warm yaknog to anyone who liked to have some. She’d expected Hamish to bound off to jump into one of the piles of snow as soon as he could, but to her surprise he actually stayed at her side, eagerly taking a new mug from her tray after he’d managed to charm someone into accepting the one he had.
Astrid knew all too well how hard it was to say no to his big, green eyes. She’d thought Toothless begging for fish was the worst she’d have to deal with in her life, but Hamish had quickly proven her wrong. She was starting to get better at saying ‘no’ however. She didn’t want to end up like Snotlout after all. Little Solveig had managed to completely wrap her father around her finger and leave Ruffnut to do the actual parenting. In her own Thorston way.
Somewhere in the back of her mind she wondered what kind of parent Hiccup would be around Snoggletog. He’d probably be up all night, last-minute trying to finish the perfect gift, all exhaustion fading away when Hamish found it the following day, his face lighting up with the kind of beaming smile that was unique to their son.
She silently scolded herself. She shouldn’t think about things like that. Especially not today.
By the time they reached the village square, the Snoggletog Tree proudly standing in the middle of it, they had already handed out half of the mugs, Hamish’s sales technique surprisingly effective. Most Berkians took the beverage back home with them, telling her they’d rather take their time and enjoy it by the fire. She felt it was a compliment - at least they didn’t jug it down the way they did with mead. They actually made an effort to enjoy it.
And they no longer scowled at her the way they had the first year she’d been back on Berk.
She’d missed the first Snoggletog after the Phantom had left Berk. She’d been out looking for Hiccup, desperately hoping she could tell him he was going to be a father. But she hadn’t been lucky enough to succeed. And when she returned she had to deal with a village that scowled at her when her pregnancy became more visible and she could no longer hide her growing belly with loose-fitting shirts and dresses.
She could take the stares, she could deal with the disapproval. But she didn’t want Hamish to be a victim of her bad decisions more than he already was. She wanted him to have a normal childhood to the extent that he could. So she did whatever she could to help out the village, in spite of the judgement she received. Serving everyone yaknog was just one of the things she did, and judging by people’s reactions and how, as they reached the village square, none of the parents complained when Hamish instantly rushed off to play with their kids, it had worked.
She briefly chatted with Gobber after she’d run out of yaknog, listening to his lecture on all the ‘grand surprises’ he’d cooked up for the feast tonight. That kind of defeated the point of it being a surprise, but his descriptions made her mouth water enough for her not to mind.
She caught up with Heather and Fishlegs, who really seemed to be regretting setting their sights on a Spring wedding. Even though Heather had practically been living with Fishlegs ever since she’d moved to Berk, there were a lot more eyes on them now that they were properly engaged. Meaning that they’d lost a part of their freedom and were expected to stick to the tradition of staying celibate until they were properly married. Heather was one of the only people who dared to - and was allowed to - joke that perhaps, Astrid and Hiccup should have been a little more ‘traditional’ as well. Which was ironically illustrated by Astrid spotting Hamish in the corner of her eye, starting to scale up the Snoggletog Tree, and her having to rush over to pluck him off it.
He could climb just fine, his mittens not limiting him at all. Getting down was the problem. She feared he would break one, if not both, of his legs one of these days. As Stoick put it, the boy suffered from a heart-stopping combination of Astrid’s athletic intuition, Hiccup’s curiosity and, of course, his lack of danger assessment.
She supposed one of the upsides of dragons hardly being seen these days was that Hamish couldn’t jump off the back of one. Because he definitely would.
She had to tug Hamish back by his coat a few more times while hearing Tuffnut out about all the ‘absolutely wicked’ stuff he’d treated himself with in this year’s Black Plague Friday sales. Her son finally seemed to lose interest when Ruffnut and Snotlout came over with Solveig proudly cradling an over-sized stuffed rabbit to her chest. As if the girl didn’t own enough stuffed animals yet.
“Looks like someone’s spine tragically broke on Black Plague Friday,” she teased, grinning as Hamish immediately started curiously poking the rabbit. “How Gothi manages to patch you back up again every time is beyond me.”
Snotlout only managed to muster up a guilty smile in response, prompting Ruffnut to roll her eyes and lightly slap his biceps. “I told him before they went out! She has enough toys already, and it’s not like she’s not getting anything new today.”
“She’s my little princess, okay!” Snotlout offered, putting up both of his hands. “Whatever she wants, she gets.”
Ruffnut audibly sighed. “Even princesses have to learn how to share.”
“Exactly!” Tuffnut nodded. “Ruffnut and I had to share every present we got!”
“You did not!” Snotlout rebuked.
“Oh yes, we did! Every sword -”
“I know you’re pulling my leg, Tuff.”
“- every axe -”
“I’ve been married to a Thorston for over four years, I can smell your family’s shit by now!” Snotlout cut in, while Ruffnut shook her head and mouthed the words he can’t to Astrid.
“Even Macey!” Tuffnut gestured wildly, slicing the air in front of him. “Right through half!”
“Why do I put up with you again?”
“You just don’t know the sorrows of being a true Thorston! You may have married into it, but you’re not really living it.”
“And why do I let you look after my daughter?”
Tuffnut proudly crossed his arms over his chest. “Because I’m the best babysitter on this entire island. That’s why.”
“He is,” Astrid instantly concurred.
“Yup.” Ruffnut clapped her husband’s shoulder, making Snotlout visibly wince. “No argument there, hot stuff.”
“Well now that that’s cleared up -” Tuffnut continued despite Snotlout’s insistent glare.
“Grandpa!”
Hamish shot right past them, snow flurrying up as he rushed into the wide-spread arms of Stoick the Vast, an unstoppable force tackling an immovable object with a hug.
“Hamish!”
“That’s my cue,” Astrid smiled, tucking her tray-shield under her arm. “See you tonight.”
The others waved and said their goodbyes as she walked over to Stoick and Hamish, the latter already babbling excitedly.
“Mama! Grandpa says Odin came with presents!” he smiled.
She exaggeratedly pulled up her eyebrow. “Oh, did he? Then we just missed him!”
Hamish’s face clouded slightly and she smiled at him, poking his cute nose. “But you helped me hand out yaknog to the entire village. So I’m sure Odin’s proud of you.” She kissed his cheek. “I know I am.”
That seemed to put Hamish at ease, his worries soon forgotten as Stoick lifted him up on his shoulders, the view from up high never ceasing to amaze him. She got that. She knew all too well how different the world looked from above. It was something she didn’t simply forget.
They made their way back to her parents’ house, their mugs of yaknog already empty and Hamish’s completely forgotten when he spotted his helmet by the now low-burning hearth. He surged towards it as soon as Stoick put him down, leaving Astrid to fall to her knees behind him and take off his snow-soaked outer clothes while he dug in.
Her parents had stuffed Hamish’s helmet, which was still too large and slid over his eyes when he actually wore it, with sweets he liked, along with a small but high-quality wooden sword, Hamish’s initials carved into the hilt. H.H. Like his father, and the ancestors he’d been named after, before him. Just the H for Hofferson instead of the last name he should have had.
She managed to tug Hamish’s coat over his arms just before he started swinging the sword around, clearly already in love with his gift. She shared a look with her parents, taking in their delighted gazes, and smiled back at them, silently thanking them. For more than just today.
The next present Hamish found was her own; a bundle of papers, bound in brown leather, with a charcoal pencil tucked between the pages. The same kind of booklet as the one Hiccup always carried with him.
Hamish picked it up with care, feeling the leather beneath his fingers. She wrapped her arms around his middle and pulled him back into her chest, looking over his shoulder and slowly closing her hands around her gift so she could show him the empty pages.
“It’s a notebook,” she explained, taking the pencil and drawing a single line onto the paper to demonstrate. “People write stuff down in it they think is important, or need to remember. Uncle Fishlegs has a lot of them. That’s how he knows so much. And Grandpa Stoick does the same.”
Hamish, eyes filled with wonder, glanced back at Stoick, who nodded along with her story.
“And Daddy, he…”Don’t talk in past-tense, she reminded herself. “… he does the same. Whenever he sees a new dragon, or finds out something about them he didn’t know yet, he makes notes for himself. Because he’s very smart, but he also forgets things.”
“Like what?”
“Well, you remember what Gronckles eat, right?”
Hamish nodded enthusiastically. “Rocks!”
“Yes, all kinds of rocks. Daddy knew that, and he’d written down how much fish Gronckles could eat too, but he encountered this Gronckle he wanted to befriend. And there weren’t a lot of edible rocks around, so he thought he could feed him fish for this one day. Later that night, Daddy found out that was not a good idea, at all,” she laughed. “Do you know what happens to Gronckles if they eat too much fish?”
Hamish shook his head and she leaned in, whispering in his ear as if she was telling him a secret. “They love the fish. But it makes them fart, a lot.” Hamish started giggling, so she threw in a bit more of her high-quality humour. “It smells really bad. And Daddy had to spend the whole night in a cave with that Gronckle.”
“Poor Daddy,” Hamish chuckled.
“Yeah, your Dad’s a bit of a dummy like that sometimes,” she smiled, hugging Hamish closer. If only those had been the worst mistakes Hiccup had made.
“But what he also does, is drawing pictures,” she continued, more seriously. “It’s Daddy’s Book of Dragons after all, that we have at home. The one I read you from, with all the dragon drawings you love. Daddy didn’t just write the words, he drew all of the dragons too. And he has many more sketches, especially of Toothless.”
“Whoa,” Hamish gaped.
“It’s pretty cool, right?” She nodded against Hamish’s shoulder. “And now you and I can draw together too.”
Hamish clapped his hands in excitement. “And show Daddy and Toothless when they’re home!”
She could feel the eyes of the other adults in the room on her. Concerned, as if she didn’t have to deal with this every day. As if by now, she hadn’t gotten used to telling half-truths to the person she loved most in the entire world.
She simply closed the sketchbook and cuddled Hamish as tightly as she could. “Of course. They’ll love them. Toothless knows talent when he sees it.”
“Toothless is smart.”
“Oh, absolutely,” she concurred. “Smartest dragon I ever met. He draws too, but he can’t hold a pencil with his claws, so he draws in the sand with his tail and a stick.”
“I love sticks!”
She smiled to herself, shaking her head. If only life was always so simple. “So what do we say now? Who do we thank for the gifts?”
“Odin.”
“So we say…?” she continued when Hamish looked up at her. “Than…”
“Thank you, Odin!” Hamish completed, before looking back at his grandparents. “Did you see him?”
Her father shook her head. “No. We were upstairs. He must have sneaked in through the chimney!”
Hamish looked up in wonder, and Astrid just knew he was trying to figure out if he’d fit through the chimney himself. She was sure he did, and that she would have to watch him even more closely in the coming days.
“But I do think we heard something in the bedroom while we were there, didn’t we?” her father continued, looking at her mother, who nodded along but stayed silent. “Shall we take a look?”
Hamish nodded in excitement, his other presents temporarily forgotten as he jumped to his feet and let Grandpa Arne lead him into the bedroom. Astrid heard his delighted squeal not much later, which she knew had been in reaction to a rocking horse that’d been made to look like a dragon, even with a small set of wings. Stoick had put more time and effort into it than his duties allowed for. But he’d reassured her that he wouldn’t have had it any other way.
Spoiling Hamish was the only way he could try to repay the debt he felt he had towards Hiccup, after all.
“Arne and I play along, Chief,” her mother remarked, all too aware Hamish was out of earshot and preoccupied. “But I do want to make it clear that I don’t approve.”
“I know, Sigrid,” Stoick simply said.
Her mother pursed her lips, clearly not getting the answer she was looking for.
“Mom, do we really have to do this today?” Astrid tried. “Again?”
“If not today, then when?” her mother argued.
“I don’t know, I don’t think it’s a problem to begin with, so I don’t see why we need to have this discussion. As if we’ve never had it before.”
“Both of you -” Her mother gestured to her and Stoick. “- can see how dangerously much he resembles Hiccup. He’s already obsessed with dragons, and you’re only feeding it further with your stories and these kind of presents.”
“Being like Hiccup isn’t dangerous,” Stoick countered.
“A lot of the village disagrees,” her mother threw back.
“And they’re part of the reason he became dangerous,” Astrid hissed. “And what else would you have me do? Just not mention his father? Hamish is smart, he’d start asking questions eventually. I’d rather be ahead of him.”
“You could’ve told him his father’s dead,” her mother bluntly said. “It wouldn’t be an exception for a Berkian kid.”
“Hiccup’s not dead,” Stoick cut in before Astrid could, the room cooling down due to the iciness hardly ever heard in Stoick the Vast’s voice.
It left her mother completely unfazed. “Chief, we haven’t received a sign of life from your son in over a year.”
“That doesn’t mean he’s dead,” Astrid snapped. Sure, there had been obvious signals that Hiccup was still alive, in the first few years… A ripped out eye-ball or two, a severed piece of skin, all belonging to the Red Death and delivered to Berk overnight to make a point. Brought here by dragons, she presumed. She didn’t want to believe that Hiccup had been on Berk himself without checking in on her. And on the son he didn’t know he had.
“I’m just afraid you’re setting him up for disappointment,” her mother said, more silently now. “We can’t keep pretending Hiccup will come back for the rest of his life while he doesn’t. Like you said, Hamish is smart.”
“We’ll fight that dragon when it rears its ugly head,” Stoick decided, sounding more like the Chief of Berk, and less like family. It was the way their arguments always ended.
Astrid got up from the floor, wiping some of her hair out of her face and looking at her mother. “I can’t just forget about him, or his dream. Our dream.” A world safe enough for dragons. “I’m not going to raise another Berkian dragon killer, that’s not how this works, that’s not what Hiccup would want, and neither do I. I know it’s overly sentimental, I know it doesn’t necessarily make sense, but…”
She fisted one of her hands in her skirt, averting her gaze. “It’s just not that simple. Of course I wish Hiccup were here, especially this time of year. Snotlout and Ruffnut get to spend all day with Solveig, even Spitelout being slightly tolerable for the occasion, and meanwhile I’m here pretending Hiccup cares about Hamish as much as all of us.”
She bit her lip, wiping her eyes. “It’s not fair. None of it is.” She stared into the fire so she wouldn’t glare at the woman who’d raised her and who she’d relied on so much the past four years. “And you don’t need to enlighten me on how it was Hiccup’s own choices, and mine, that got us here. I know that. Better than anyone else.” She shook her head. “But there’s nothing I can do about it. I tried. I’m still trying, every single day.”
It was becoming less difficult. Slightly. But she doubted the pain would ever really go away.
She felt a large hand on her shoulder, undoubtedly Stoick’s, and leaned into his comforting touch. “We all know what it’s like to miss someone you love this time of year,” he softly said. She knew he wasn’t just talking about Hiccup. Stoick had lost more friends and family than she could imagine. “But the only thing we can do when they can’t be here for the holiday, is celebrate them. It’s what they’d want us to do.”
She could only agree with that. And when Hamish burst back in, dragging his newest toy out of the bedroom and proudly showing it to everyone, her mother resigned herself to it as well. It was their burden to bear, after all, not Hamish’s.
Her son was simply happy, his bright and bubbly smile lighting up the room. And that was all that really mattered.
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Gobber most certainly hadn’t lied about all the effort he’d put into the Snoggletog feast. He had practised absolutely zero self-constraint, and as a result, this was easily the best year yet. Roasts, stews, vegetables from the lands they had finally been able to cultivate now that the dragons didn’t destroy their fields at least once a month. And the bread, Gods, the bread… She had to get the recipe. It was criminally delicious.
Astrid couldn’t remember the last time she had been this full. And none of this, a feast this grand and lavish, would have been possible if it hadn’t been for Hiccup and his efforts to keep the Red Death occupied.
Not that anyone felt the need to thank him for that. Hiccup wasn’t publicly mentioned in general, his existence ignored, the truth about the Phantom and the accompanying question of who would succeed Stoick as Chief too sensitive to casually discuss. But they knew as well as she did who was responsible for Berk’s newfound prosperity. She could tell by the looks the villagers gave her, and her son.
All of it went over Hamish’s head, of course, who was completely unaware of how many people kept an eye on him as Tuffnut tried to teach him and Solveig how to dance. Not far away from them, Heather and Fishlegs set a good example - they hadn’t missed an occasion to dance since that very first time, when Hiccup had paired them up at Snotlout and Ruffnut’s wedding. Looking towards the other side of the dance floor, she spotted Spitelout, who was watching his granddaughter with obvious dismay.
She smirked and shook her head. How petty, being grumpy over two toddlers. It wasn’t as if they were getting married. Now that would be a disaster. A Jorgenson and a Hofferson. Right.
“Enjoying the view?” Ruffnut quipped, sitting down next to her on her bench and leaning back against the table, a mug in her hand.
“Well, they do look adorable, don’t you think? Better than them starting to pull on each other’s hair again.”
“Tuffnut’s surely got a way with them,” Ruffnut nodded. “But I was actually talking about the look you were giving my lovely father-in-law.”
She snickered. “He hasn’t grown on you yet either?”
“Oh, he has. Like a splinter in my spleen, slowly forcing its way in and festering until it smells and hurts so bad you’d rather drive a knife through your chest.” Ruffnut took a gulp of her hot yak milk. “But, speaking of parasites and things I should probably see Gothi for…” Astrid pulled up an eyebrow, but Ruffnut didn’t look at her. “That disgusting herbal tea they say is the solution to all our problems? Not always effective.”
“Well, yeah,” Astrid grinned, gesturing to the dance floor. “Forget to take it one morning and you’ve got yourself an adorable mini-Hiccup.”
“I did take it every day.”
Astrid gaped at Ruffnut. “You mean...?” She glanced at her mug of mead before Ruffnut answered, figuring she’d had too much. Sober Astrid would have caught on to that immediately. "And you mentioning Solveig having to learn how to share earlier today…?"
“Yep,” Ruffnut answered, making the ‘p’ pop. “Sol’s getting a sibling this Summer.”
“Whoa, I mean…” she blinked, trying to come up with an appropriate response.
Oh Gods.
She shook her head, snapping herself out of the hint of panic simmering beneath her skin. “Congratulations!”
Ruffnut just nodded, looking away. “I suppose so.”
“You’re not happy?” she asked, trying not to let on that she herself also had strongly mixed feelings.
“I mean, I’m not unhappy, I love Solveig, but it’s just…” Ruffnut sighed. “Complicated.”
“Does Spitelout know yet?”
“No.” Ruffnut shook her head. “Just Tuff, my mom and Snot. But I don’t think Snot can keep it a secret for much longer, he’s too excited. So we’ll probably tell his dad tonight. And I’d rather you hear it from me than any of Spitelout’s gossipping friends.”
“Thank you,” she said, from the depths of her heart. “I really appreciate that.”
“It’s nothing,” Ruffnut shrugged, followed up by a grin. “Gives me someone to complain to when Spite starts digging up every folk tale telling desperate men how to make sure their women give birth to a boy.”
She snorted. “You don’t want a mini-Snotlout?”
“I don’t want a mini-Spitelout,” Ruffnut corrected her. “And I’m sure Snotlout would be perfectly happy with a whole horde of girls to spoil.”
“Until they start dating,” she joked, hoping she didn’t sound too relieved by Ruffnut’s preferences.
“At least the chaos won’t be mine, for once,” Ruffnut smirked. “I can’t wait.”
She scoffed. “Never a dull day on Berk, huh?”
“Don’t even need a Phantom to stay entertained,” Ruffnut remarked, her smile not quite reaching her eyes. “Although that human disaster of yours was easier to deal with, in a way.”
“Maybe,” she murmured, the both of them glancing at Hamish, Solveig and Spitelout.
“You know, Astrid?” Ruffnut’s voice dropped, only audible to the two of them and surprisingly serious.
“Hm?”
“I think I’d like Hiccup to come back too.”
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Hiccup was even further away from Berk than usual. He didn’t necessarily hate that, but to say he was happy would be a severe overstatement.
Then again, happiness wasn’t one of the things he deserved to get for Snoggletog this year.
He took out his sketchbook and sat down, Toothless lying down next to him and Stormfly standing guard at the other end of the island. He searched for one of the rare empty pages and glanced up, placing his pencil on the paper and outlining what he saw in front of him.
The Rookery was a busy place on Snoggletog Day. It was filled to the brim with all kinds of dragons, some of which he recognised from his army, others from the Red Death’s nest. But the dragons didn’t seem to mind meeting their enemies here. Today, they were all equal, tending to their new hatchlings with unconditional love and care. It was as beautiful as it was frustrating.
He’d prefer to be back on the Red Death’s island and continue the fight. His efforts had been stalling for a while now, the Dragon Queen preferring to keep her head down in the heat where he couldn’t reach her. But if she kept that up, she’d starve sometime soon. There was no other logical option. He just didn’t know how much longer she would take.
What he did know was that being at the Nest wouldn’t yield him anything. He needed his other dragons to make a real impact, so he might as well watch over them and their babies for the time being. Perhaps he could intercept a few of the others on the way back, earn their trust to the point that they would join him instead of returning to serve the Red Death. Then at least it hadn’t been a complete waste of time.
He knew he didn’t need to be here. In all the years he’d guarded the Rookery, there hadn’t been a single Viking ship in its vicinity. He was the only one who knew where this island was. He could go wherever, to the Northern Markets to fix up his armour, to Berserker Island to take stock of Dagur’s degree of insanity during the holiday season… To Berk, just to give them a sign he was still alive. A Snoggletog surprise.
He snickered to himself as he heard another Gronckle egg explode in the background, an idea popping up in his head. Dragon eggs, on Berk, a ribbon tied around them. Looking perfectly innocent until they exploded. Letting him be a menace even though he wasn’t anywhere near Berk. For entertainment’s sake, this time.
“Nah,” he decided. “It’s a good thing those hatch far away from Vikings. Should probably keep it that way.”
As much as he tried to be a changed man, to think differently, to not get stuck in the negative spiral that had landed him in this spot in the first place… He wasn’t a huge fan of the idea of letting adorable baby dragons anywhere near Vikings either.
Instead he eased his boredom by continuing his sketch, capturing the Rookery’s bright beaches and many dragons as well as he could with charcoal alone. It was certainly one of the most beautiful islands in the Archipelago, and hard to properly translate to paper. Still, he didn’t think he was doing too badly. Toothless agreed, warbling his approval when Hiccup showed the sketch to him.
He considered finding a Terrible Terror and sending it to Berk with the sketch. A Snoggletog present for Astrid, like the figurine of Toothless he’d given her five years prior. He’d told her about the Rookery, and she’d wanted to see it, but had never taken her there because it was almost a day’s flight away from Phantom Island. They’d both figured there would be a time for that. They’d both assumed he wouldn’t screw things up this badly.
This could be a way to make it up to her.
But he shouldn’t. He couldn’t contact her. He wasn’t allowed to. He hadn’t earned the right to interrupt whatever she’d built for himself after he’d left. Not yet. For all he knew she was living her life happily without him. Alone, or with a man who was better for her than he ever could be.
He didn’t know. He had no idea, it was completely out of his hands. He didn’t have a sliver of control over it. And that sense of incompetence, that loss of power, was eating away at him, making his heart ache.
He missed her. He missed her so much.
Finishing his sketch, he made a promise to himself. He would kill the Red Death before the next winter. By next Snoggletog, he would have seen Astrid again. And even if she didn’t want anything to do with him, which he couldn’t blame her for, he would know she was doing fine.
This would be the last Snoggletog he spent in uncertainty.
--------------------------------------------------------
It was nearly midnight when Astrid got back to her own home. She silently thanked her parents for agreeing to host Snoggletog at their place this year, so she didn’t have anything to clean up. She could simply carry Hamish, who was half-asleep in her arms, into their bedroom in the back without having to care about anything else.
“There you go, little Terror,” she smiled as she put him down on their bed, shushing him as she pried his new notebook from his hands. After he’d finished ‘dancing’, they’d worked on it for a while. Hamish couldn’t read yet, let alone write, so she’d helped him sketch out the runes of his name on the first page. He’d continued to test out his pencil for the rest of the night, drawing simple shapes until he’d finally tired and fallen asleep in her lap.
She struggled to get him to cooperate as she took off his outer clothes, eventually resigning herself to simply tucking him in in the outfit he’d worn today instead of changing him into his nightshirt. She wandered around the house for a bit, making sure they wouldn’t get too cold during the night, before changing into her nightdress herself.
Hamish stirred when she slipped in next to him, opening his eyes and crawling towards her, murmuring something unintelligible.
She took him into her arms and sat back against the headrest. “What is it, baby?”
“Thless,” was all she could identify.
“What?”
Hamish fisted one of his hands in her dress, his green eyes gazing up at her through heavy eyelids. “Toothless.”
“You want Toothless?”
Hamish nodded, and she reached over to her night stand, picking up the wooden Night Fury figurine on top of it. Hamish grabbed it from her as soon as he laid eyes on it, cradling it against his chest. He’d been completely in love with it from when he was a baby.
She hugged Hamish tighter, lightly tapping the figurine’s snout. “Did you know that mini-Toothless was the first Snoggletog present Daddy gave me?”
And the only one. But Hamish didn’t need to know that.
Hamish’s eyes lit up despite his exhaustion, the way they always did whenever she mentioned Hiccup. Whenever she told him stories about his father, letting him believe Hiccup hadn’t abandoned them but that he cared, that he loved Hamish at least as much as she loved him. That he was simply away to do very important work. To fight an evil dragon and protect all the good ones she told Hamish stories about.
Hiccup was Hamish’s hero. She had built his image that way. One of an adventurer, an inventor, someone who fought for what he believed was right. All that Hiccup was if she chose to leave out the shadows and the scars. A Hiccup without the Phantom.
The Hiccup she desperately hoped to see the day he finally came back. Who could, at the very least, be a father to Hamish. If he wanted to.
Gods, she hoped he wanted to.
“He made it himself,” she explained, trying not to tear up. “Carved it out of wood and painted it to look just like the real Toothless. So that he’d always be with me.” She kissed the top of Hamish’s head. “And with you too, of course. Even when he’s away to fight.”
“Daddy and Toothless have Snoggletog too?”
“Of course,” she lied, because she didn’t know. She had no idea where Hiccup was, or what he was doing. She had no idea if he was alive. She didn’t know anything.
She kept telling people he would come back. While she wasn’t even sure herself.
“Odin only visits kids, but Daddy and Toothless celebrate Snoggletog with each other,” she improvised, biting away her tears when Hamish focused his gaze on the figurine in his hands. “They exchange gifts, although Toothless isn’t very good at it. He usually gets Daddy raw fish.”
Hamish giggled, and she went on for a while more about all the different kinds of fish Toothless liked, slowly lowering her voice until her perfect piece of happiness fell back asleep.
Then, she cried.
She kept Hamish cradled against her, not because she was afraid he’d wake up. Not because he needed it. But because she did. Because sometimes, she wasn’t as strong and hardened as she wanted to be. Because on days like these, she longed for every possible kind of distraction, to prevent herself from succumbing to the incredible sense of guilt and grief she still hadn’t managed to shake.
So she wept in silence. She had held out all day, and now allowed herself to have this moment. To imagine that she’d hear three knocks on her roof tonight and that Hiccup would slide in through the window, hugging her and assuring her that from now on, everything would be fine. That Ruffnut’s new pregnancy didn’t matter, because he’d come back. That he was going to fix the mess he’d left behind. That the Phantom was gone, and that he was here for them now. That she no longer had to do it alone.
That he loved them. That’d he’d never leave them again. That he would take care of his son until the day he died. And that he’d do the same for her, finally fulfilling his promise to make her his wife.
Just for tonight, she could be that naive. She could dream, she could hope. She could let go of what was sensible, and realistic, of all the plans she’d made for when Hiccup did come back.
And even though she hadn’t asked Odin for a present since she’d been eight, she now found herself whispering her only wish for the Gods to hear.
“Please bring Hiccup back. And let this be our last Snoggletog without him.”
----------------------------------------------------
A/N: I hope you all enjoyed this little look into the current lives of everyone we came to know in The Phantom of the Arena, and that you all have a very happy holiday period!
I’d like to leave you guys with a bit more concrete information on the sequel I talked about in the author note at the start; I am currently working on writing it, but because I have a busy half a year ahead of me, I first want to have the first act (about 10 chapters) done before I start posting. I hope the posting will start in February at the latest, but I can’t make any promises. For more updated information, you can always look at my Tumblr (aleteia-ff) or join the channel #aleteias-fics on the ATOV Discord Server (link can be found in the description of my Tumblr profile).
I can give you guys the summary as a little teaser, however:
After five years of relentlessly putting up a siege against the Red Death, Hiccup, the former terrorist known as the Phantom of the Arena, has finally defeated the Archipelago's greatest enemy, putting a definitive end to the dragon raids. Hoping the worst is finally behind him, he returns to Berk, only to find he left more behind than just the girl he loved. And that life still isn’t done with him.
Outside of the Archipelago, Eret, son of Eret, is left with nothing after a mysterious dragon rider destroys his fort and releases the captured dragons his employer sorely needed. Fearing he’ll be killed if he doesn’t, he returns to the Archipelago with what little remains, hoping to find employment in the dragon-infested area. But the threat seems to have followed him, as news spreads of how Berk's infamous Phantom has returned to reclaim what's his. And that dragon hunters like Eret will never be safe, unless they act against him.
#phantom of the arena#pota#phantomverse#hiccstrid#hiccup#astrid#fanfiction#httyd fanfiction#httyd#httyd fanfic#aleteia-writes#hamish hofferson#stoick the vast#snoggletog#merry christmas!#really hope you guys enjoy this ^^#wrote it in like 2 days
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saints can’t help me now
summary: I will tell you the mystery of the woman and of the beast that carries her, whose name has not been written in the book of life from the foundation of the world. Kings give their power and authority to the beast, and those who are with him are the called and chosen and faithful.
pairing: forest god!thor x reader
words: 4,642
trigger warnings: dub con, attempted sexual assault, vague biblical allusions that seem quite out of place in such a pagan context
notes/other: this was done for @darkficsyouneveraskedfor ‘s in the dark challenge + my prompt was “shh, it’s okay. it’ll only hurt a little.” this is also a part of @spacelabrathor‘s forest god anthology bc te amo forest god thor.
ask box / masterlist / commission info / ko-fi
There are drops of truth in every legend, however flimsy or warped. A lie doesn’t come from nowhere, lore isn’t rolled off tongues without pretext. Little children don’t lie in their sleep, in the middle of the night; they don’t lie without purpose (or the illusion of one). Behind every threat is certainty, behind every falseness a reality.
You’re smart enough to understand this, to trace the oaks back to their roots. When a villager begged for refuge from a storm and whispered to you to heed warning about some deity that had been cast away from his throne, you listened – and never traveled too deep into the deep woods. Gods are never meant to roam such an unholy place as this, which its ravenous terrain and its isolating nature and its punishing climate. Gods prefer the busy cities, the lovelier farms, perhaps even their own homes on a planet you don’t know of. An almighty being? In a space such as this? You merely laugh at the thought. Such an image is not one that inspires hope or wisdom or rebirth, rather one of a spirit thrown from its rightful place, rightful palace. Such a spirit would be vengeful, vindictive, deceitful, despiteful, unprincipled, unforgiving.
When a merchant took your money and told you of a divine man who hunted without care, you listened – and kept your cat in whenever the sun was not at her highest. Woodland creatures you rehabilitated and travelers looking for rest were sequestered within your walls until you felt it was safe. If you had to leave your home (as you often did) you refused to travel alone, preferring to starve than die at the hands of some ruthless beast. The light of day, the heat from a fire, the illumination from a torch – you trusted it all to keep you from a harm you felt was preventable.
When a fortune teller read your cards and spoke of a demiurge who threatened the peace of your home, you listened – and used every moment of every step as a way to prevent conflict. You gave what you could of whichever soul asked for it, you never disturbed the ground, you kept to yourself. Your voice remained undersized, your movements diminutive. A camp four miles away called you wee, the fortune teller called you cautious, you called it survival.
But none of that, nothing you had done or prepared or pushed to the forefront of your mind seemed to matter as you were being chased through the thickest set of trees you’d ever seen by a pack of wolves (werewolves, no less) who had spotted a way to broaden their gene pool and stalked you til dusk. Each press of your bare feet to the hardened ground forced bits of bark and bone into the callous flesh; normally you’d wail at such anguish, but the blood pumping in your ears drowns out any of your nerve’s attempts at reaching your bran. While you wince at each point of contact, the pain never seems to come.
From behind you their howls of laughter hit the trees and then your eardrums, a reminder that for them this is a game. Their idea of said game going poorly is if they do not catch you, if they cannot drag you back to their settlement as a token of their hard work.
It seems as quickly as your hunt for food had gone sour you’re plucked from the freezing ground and tossed into a barren field, slammed into the ground as your shoulders continue to rise and while your heart continues to beat at a rabbit’s pace, your eyes moving faster than the organ as they take in the scene in front of them.
Your thoughts are quick, like the blood in your veins.
Rolling hills. Crops. Yellow Crops. Deep yellow crops. Corn? Dead crops. Still cold. No snow. Yes ice. Stones, under you. Small stones. Broken stones. Bad dirt. Bad crops. Bad yield. No settlements. Sky dark. Feet hurt. Still cold. Feet really hurt.
The distinct sound of a boot digging into the ground makes you turn around, knife in your corset drawn with a shaking, aching hand.
In front of you, a man. A man in shoes meant for winter. A man dressed in dark clothes. A man with a large chest that rises slowly, slowling, slower. A man with golden skin, as deep as the flora around you. long, dirty beard. A man with long, dirty hair. A man with a set of horns that curl like a ram but peak like the blade in your palm. A man who towers over you. A man who looks less like a man as your eyes focus, but his form doesn’t become clearer.
The man is the first to speak, his lips thick and turned up into a sinister looking smile.
“What’s a little thing like you strolling alone in these woods?” His voice flows like honey with each step of gravel as he circles you. You’ve seen vultures spot prey with less purpose as his gruff laughs bring thick clouds of condensation, which fill the air between you and him. “Big, mean wolves prowl these very woods, looking for cute little things like you to prey on.”
You try to swallow what little spit remains in your dry mouth, but it seems the only thing in your throat is a thick knot of fear. Stuck in place from terror alone, each cell that makes up your body is more frozen than the ice hanging from the bare branches above you.
“I- “you’re momentarily distracted by a twig snapping in the distance. “I’m not that small!”
The man (if he even is a man) laughs, loud enough to make you flinch (of course that’s all I can do, you curse yourself. Can’t run away, but can flinch at some fucking laughter.) “In these forests you are. You’re a pretty little toy for all the packs that try to stake their claim here. It’s useless, they’ll never succeed, but that sure doesn’t stop them from trying.”
Your heart beats faster than you’ve ever felt before, each painful expansion of your ribcage syncing with the blood pounding in your ears. “Wh-what happened to them?”
He cocks an eyebrow. “What happened to who?”
You speak again, a little louder. “What happened to the packs, why haven’t they laid claim to this territory?”
His broad chest shakes as he chuckles at your insolence. “Because I already have.”
Your heart quickens again. “But you’re only one man,” another twig snap, another sound ignored as a different kind of fear rises in your abdomen. “How can you overpower those powerful packs, they’ve formed a coalition – the village hasn’t stopped talking about it – there’s at least a hundred of them altogether, I-”
An answer comes after a beat of heavy silence, though the tension of waiting seems better than the truth that comes all too quickly. “Because yappy puppies can’t usurp a god,” he hisses.
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. Fuck.
Thor, the god you’ve been petrified of since you were a child, has been the guard of this forest and everything in it for a millennium. In like fashion to other sprawling hills and tall trees, he beckons in the seasons and calms the bears into hibernation and tells the snow when to melt. Thor is the life of the forest, attuned to the air every living breathes day in and day out. Yet he’s incomparable to his benevolent siblings, hungrier and more desperate and willing to throw away his duties to sink his jowls into anything unpardonable. This god is jaded, exhausted of the mind-numbing monotonous work of running the home of so many creatures; like knife dropped in the dirt, he threatens even the ones who step careful as marksmen watch their targets.
For a few moments you think your mouth will release a quip, a sarcastic response that would get you killed, or worse. Somehow your lips stay still, warming as each pant releases hot, white puffs into the cold night air.
There’s fear in your eyes and it permeates the air around you. The god’s nostrils flare as the pheromones hit his nose. In a far corner of your brain you wonder what it smells like – such a strong emotion. Is it thick and sweet? Does it coat his tongue the same of when you bake fresh bread? Or is it deep and revolting – the smell of one’s soul decomposing before the corresponding body’s gone cold.
He steps closer.
You wince. “Please- “
He laughs like he’s watched a child fall to the ground in a field. “What? Are you scared?”
The word leaves his lips much slower than the others, like thick syrup in his mouth. Guess your fear is a much sweeter scent than expected.
“Should I not be?” The defiance in your voice comes like the wolf that bursts through the thinning trees behind you.
With the air knocked out of your lungs and each muscle stunned into inertness, there’s not much you can do but watch the god as you’re dragged away while two wolves trail behind you.
The grey sunlight fades as the flora becomes thicker, and for a hundred or so yards you feel as if your life is crumbling around you. But soon with the shadows from the trees comes the realization of familiarity.
Their faces – their snouts, eyes, ears, fur – they’re one you’d seen before. They’re the same ones from the small fairy circle down the way from your cabin, where you’d been trying to find something to eat besides dry mint leaves and crunchy bread.
These aren’t the wolves from the coalition near the village, these aren’t those nasty wolves who steal and plunder and take without end, these aren’t the wolves who chased you into the arms of the god who previously stood before you.
This is something worse…so much worse.
You’ve housed some of them, their yellow eyes and pink snouts have been fixtures of your spare room – you’ve stitched their paws and rubbed salve into their poison ivy rashes and brushed matts from their thick fur.
As one of them jumps on top of you – one you recognize from the scar you’d helped heal after a hawk had attempted to take out his eye – you can feel another pry your arms flat above you and two others hold your legs apart.
His long, wet tongue traces from your shoulder to your temple, his snout breathing hot air onto your feverish skin.
“I’ve been waiting to do this,” his voice is muffled, as if you’re talking to a person resting at the bottom of the sea. “Oh, I’ve been waiting to do this since I saw you and your brow furrowed with worry at that wound the wicked bird left upon me.”
He nudges under your jaw, grazing his sharp teeth across the fragile skin above your jugular as he pants.
If your hands were free, if your lips could move, you’d push him away and call him some mutt in heat, spit in his face and kick him away and run until you could not see the wretched creatures and they could not see you and the distance would make you forget everything that had and would happen and you never would have to think of their paws clawing at your body again and…
And…
“Stay the fuck away from her,” the god from before snarls from behind his teeth. The wolves, now thrown more than a hundred yards away from you, are nearly frozen in fear and realization that their plan has taken a toll for the worst. Your hands dig into the earth in an attempt to gain footing, but you can barely hold yourself up on your elbow as your vision spins. “If I find you again I will rip your heart from your thoracic cavity and leave you all to be found by the rest of your pitiful kind, do you understand?”
The wolves do not nod, but they also do not stay. Within an instant, you find yourself blessedly alone and then cursedly close to the very thing you fear the most.
“Why don’t I take you back home?” Thor whispers, watchful as you finally pick yourself up from the mud and moss. Bits of twigs and leaves and crushed bugs litter the light fabric, but you make no effort to remove it from your person – none of that matters when he locks eyes with you, blown pupils glittering with something you can’t place.
Still, with chest heaving and hands shaking, you lead him back to your homestead.
It’s not a long trek through the woods, yet Thor’s breath is audible like a deer sprinting from a pack of canids. You question nothing, though, absolutely nothing as you lead him on the winding, invisible path that leads you less than a stone’s throw away from the entrance.
You don’t say anything as you pull away, not a promise nor gratitude nor acknowledgement of his actions. The silence from you is met with Thor tugging your back to his front and wrapping your arms around you.
“I think you should thank me,” he coos. In the window of your dwelling is your cat, eyes wide in fear as she paces. She knows something is wrong, something bad is happening. But she doesn’t know how to fix it. “For protecting you.”
Some parts of you – maybe a few ribs, the bottom of your spine, your dry mouth – know what he wants. Behind your eyes you see images of you, him, your large bed. Of your small, begotten frame under his large form as he takes what he desires.
Some part of your brain, the logical side, knows you should feel fearful at this massive beast laying you down onto your worn, soft sheets. The other part, though, feels a particular heat flood your center and between your legs.
“And what is it that comprises such appreciation?” you ask, still facing your home as the god lingers behind you. Your breath – already shaky and shallow – hitches as one of his clawed fingers pushes aside your thick hair to expose the smooth skin of your neck. He places such small, light kisses there that for a moment you believe it was simply whispers of wind from the night, but once sharpened teeth graze your heartbeat you’re aware of the affections being his.
“Oh, little pet,” at his words your eyes shut on their own accord, and your bottom lip finds itself between your top and bottom teeth in the same fashion. “We both know what I want.”
You gulp, trying to find verbal footing as he begins to kiss down the back of your neck to the top of your spine. For a moment you try to speak, but it seems with each attempted sentence his hands move closer and closer to undoing the ties that keep your shift from falling off of you.
The god leads you into your home with a large hand pressed into the small of your back, and into your bedroom as if he had been there before, as if he had memorized the hallways in your home from years of spending time there; as if he was some constant fixture of your household.
The yards and yards worth of fabric from blankets and pillows alike have only ever smelled like you; pockets of your pesky familiar here and there maybe, but nothing that cannot be overpowered by a good night’s rest. It’s a comfort after a long day, something familiar and comforting.
As Thor lowers himself onto the edge of your bed you fear the stench of him will never leave you. A candle of doubt in you wonders if this is a bad thing.
With no hardship he pulls you to him, like a suitor inviting a debutante to be a partner in a waltz – though, this feels less like a dance as each second passes, your heavy breathing akin to a kidnapping than some public displays unadulterated affection.
“It’s cold out here in these woods,” he whispers to you. His hot breath sends shivers down your spine as his hands pet over your shaking form. “I must admit, it would be nice to have a toasty little thing like you to help keep me warm in such a chill.”
You shiver, hoping this behemoth does not mean what you think he means. Alas, as he pushes your long, wild hair to the side to expose the tender skin of your neck – your wildest fears bubble to the surface of your flesh. It’s his hands, so calloused they feel like bark, that manhandle you in the gentlest way possible into a position that makes your face burn hotter than a bonfire.
You’re in his lap now, spine pressed to sternum with him towering over you. For a moment you feel safe in his embrace, his larger-than-life stature making you feel like some protected child. It isn’t until he’s tearing at your clothes with a loud rrrrrrrip that you understand how little this creature truly cares for you. Still, it’s hard not to feel like some fragile, blown-glass vase from the village beyond the mountains, where boys with similarly rough, burnt hands create the most beautiful little sculptures you wish you could afford; an object of which is revered and magnificent, but an object of which holds neither agency nor uniqueness to the rest of the pretty things surrounding it.
It doesn’t occur, in that very moment, that there is no way this god would be cold in the thick of winter – not with heat radiating from him akin to your cat’s fur after being warmed by a particularly warm beam of sunlight. But the deity doesn’t have much need for the truth, not when he’s got your soaked cunt free from its increasingly uncomfortable confines and is tracing the slick up and down the lips between your trembling thighs.
“Shh, it’s okay,” he coos like a mother lying to her child while pulling a rose thorn from a tiny, smooth foot. “It’ll only hurt a little"
Thor’s hands are huge already, but now they seem omnipresent as he pets over your form. Part of you – the sensible part, the part that guided you through being banished from your family and made you carve out a piece of this expansive, soul-crushing forest – that wants to, or at least wants to try to, push him away; tell him no, stop, please, I’ll do anything.
But nothing, nothing but desperate whimpers, ones you wish were from displeasure, leave your lips.
“You know, gods can still starve,” you gulp as the short, wiry hair that patterns his jaw rubs against the skin of your neck and shoulders. “The fish from rivers and boars from the deeper parts of my forest quiet the growling in my gut, but there is another hunger I need satiated.”
You remain silent as before, fearful a protest would make your periled situation that much worse for pitiful little you.
He grips between your legs, palm flat against the hottest part of you, his own hand rough against your own silky folds. As you squeak from the contact Thor laughs deep in his broad chest, leaning down to nibble at the edge of your hot ear. “This piece of fruit will do,” you gasp as a single, thick finger enters your dripping heat. “I love a good juicy peach. You’re absolutely dripping for me, aren’t you?”
Again, he is met with silence. Never one to be deterred, he slips another finger into you. “Humans are so cute,” he purrs. “You all think you’re so strong, always fighting wars that never end and death that always comes. It seems the things you can never resist are a good fight, a good fuck,” a pregnant pause fills your bedroom as he crooks his fingers just right, soliciting the desperate whimper he’s wanted since he spotted you in the woods all those hours ago. “And me.”
He fucks his digits in and out you with slow motions, ones that drive you to the brink of madness. You’ve never been one to coo and moan so unabashedly, to let yourself fall apart so easily for someone who holds so much pure power over you. If you weren’t already vulnerable, you would be now – for as assuredly that the sun rises in the East and you wake up soaked in blood every some thirty days, this man, this god will look down on you and understand how little you can do to fend him, his advances, his charm, from your trembling body.
Thor lays down on your sea of blankets, leaving you feeling empty without his touch. A smug look paints his face as he waits for you to climb up his chest, but you do not move, simply peering at him with a heaving chest and feverish cheeks. Your mind wavers, wondering if his horns will tear into the fabric that paints your bed – but you do not have much time for such frivolous thoughts before they are interrupted once again.
“I wasn’t asking,” he tells you pointedly. “Now, come provide me with the sustenance I so desire.”
Sans your dress, moving up the length of his body is relatively easy. As he grips your hips and lowers you down to his mouth you wish you had some sort of obstruction, some reason to resist the god below you.
No such luck. As before, you are unimaginably vulnerable to Thor and his ways.
He begins with light kisses on the inside of your thighs, still tense and desperate to run away. Thor seems to notice this but does nothing to soothe you and your resistance – he understands much better than you how much he holds above your foolish head.
It doesn’t take long for you to forget your plan of escape, the path of freedom dissipating in the pleasure pooling from your scalp to the nailbeds of your toes. This god is nothing if not skilled, wide strokes of his tongue and nips at your innermost thigh and kisses on your sensitive nub soon having you rutting against his face like a dog in heat, like the wolves from before. Your hands try to find purchase in his wild hair, but with the horns in the way it’s easier to wrap your own fingers around the keratin masses than dig your fingernails into the scalp of the man below you.
You wonder if you’d have considered them less such wild beasts if you knew this was the pleasure they were chasing. Would have not run so quickly if you, too, understood the magic building in your core as you balance yourself against the wall your bed leans against. When Thor leaves you, would the animals accept your contrition and give you the same pleasure this god is? Or would you be left to chase a high no mortal could gift you?
It’s trail of thought cut short by him bullying three of his fingers into you as his lips suck at you, your screams filling every empty bit of air in your homestead. As your own yelps of pleasure fill your ears you cannot sort what is babble and what is tongues, what are incoherent syllables and what are pleas to celestial beings to never leave you.
These, too, are soon muffled, Thor making quick work of your mute state to flip you onto your stomach and propping your ass up toward him.
“You know,” he says mostly to himself, knowing his words will fall on ears deaf from ringing. “The Christians who pass through my forest often speak of how the original woman was tempted with an apple and I never believed their silly tales.”
He pauses a moment to trace his fingertips up the ridges of your spine before grabbing at the base of your hair. You yelp, but he ignores you.
“But now…” his unoccupied hand comes down to SMACK at your ass, eliciting another squeak. “Now I feel able to comprehend how such a person could be tempted by the prospect of such delicious sin.”
Too far gone to be ashamed now, you push back against him in hopes of reprieve from your suffering. Without much further wait Thor enters you slow and steady, the one hand still in your hair while the other grips your hip. Thor’s bigger, much bigger than your fingers or the occasional drifter, and your walls and scream the unfamiliar girth.
The man behind you does nothing to soothe you, merely hissing into the cold night air. “God, you little witch,” he grunts behind grit teeth. “Maybe it was worthwhile saving you from those wretched wolves.”
Your mouth hangs open and your lips remain mute, your hands grasping at the sheets until they become impossible to open up again. Nothing, not a single sound of yours, bounces form the walls – merely Thor’s loud grunts and the sound of his skin slapping against yours. It isn’t until his fingers release your hair and move to your neglected clit that you begin to sing for him, screams out of tune and sharp but still smooth music to his ears.
“Yes,” he moans, feeling you contract around him. “Yes you temptress, cum on my cock, fuck let me bring you to your peak.”
How could anyone refuse that? Certainly not you, the spell-caster who was saved by this magnificent, sympathetic creature with a heart of gold and pure intentions. The tight coil in your organs releases with a shout from you and a deep groan from Thor, who continues to fuck into you as you collapse and become limp under his touch. He reaches he peak quickly, stilling for a moment before flipping you over again.
You move easily under his touch, dead weight instead of some feisty, feral little lamb with too much fight in her. On your back, he spreads your legs once again, moving to revere your swollen cunt and his thick seed dripping out of you.
It reminds you of when the artists in the villages step back when they’re finished with their works, admiring their handiwork and talent. You recognize that same affection of progress and of a finished piece in Thor’s eyes, the focused, blown pupils trained on the white trailing down to your sheets and the corners of his mouth turning up into a small, satiated smile. He’s some paragon of silent pride, one hand moving up and down your folds before pushing his seed back into you.
“Beautiful,” Thor whispers, kissing where you are most sensitive once more before moving to lay beside you. The world spins around you as he pulls you into his broad chest, his heart thumping dull in the ear pressed to his heaving ribs.
You say nothing to the contrary, succumbing to sleep like a babe after a long feeding.
orThor disappears just as he entered, confidently and without much fuss. You wake up alone, more alone than you did that morning, surrounded by the very scent of him. Somehow, as the sun comes over the horizon, it’s enough.
Over the next few weeks, everything mostly returns to normal. You go through the ebb and flow of your routine; watching over your territory, eyeing the dark of the night each time the wind made the trees move like children listening to songs around a bonfire. Sometimes the swaying calms you as you clutch a cup of mint tea in your trembling hands, but others it mirrors the churning of your stomach.
Tonight, it feels like both. And tonight, you bury your face in the last of him left with you while hoping you never have to see the god again.
#inthedark!challenge#thor odinson x reader#thor x reader#lukis writes stuff#kinda had a breakdown and thought abt being in the church#if god can be vengeful than i can be flowery with my language#as with all of my works this is barely proofread and i hate it#but whateva
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