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bellarkeselection · 2 months

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Hey I was woundering when you ha e time could you do a tyrion short where he stops y/n wedding cuz she finds out he was alive and the run away to the drogan queen

My Dragon Savor

Tyrion was surprised when one of the Dragon Queens men appeared at his chamber door that early morning and presented him with a scroll that had the Lannister lion sigil engraved on the envelope. He tore opened the letter and began reading over the words perfectly printed on the paper that he could almost assume belonged to Sansa who was alive and had gone off to wed his brother Jaime after he killed his father.

‘Dear Tyrion, I am sending this letter to you to inform you that my sister is being wed off to Ramsey Bolton who now holds Winterfell. I know that you and her were supposed to wed one another until your father wed Jaime and I off together. Hopefully this letter reaches you - Sansa.’

The dwarf got up from his desk, letter in hand and walked out of his chambers to the Queens. His feet went as fast as they possibly could before he kicked open her door seeing Dany sitting at the window of Dragonstone castle watching the sky. “My queen, I have an urgent favor to ask of you.”

“What is this urgent favor?” She asked her Hand.

He shook his head no, folding the letter that was still in his hands. “I know that you have your cause of gaining the Iron Throne. But I am coming to ask if you could help me go stop a wedding at Winterfell.”

“What wedding is so important in Winterfell?” Dany questioned him for more details.

He slumped his shoulders. “I need to stop the wedding. Someone from my past is going to be forced to wed a very dangerous man. I am asking for your help to prevent this fate.”

“Could this person help me achieve my goal?” Daenerys rose to her feet.

Tyrion stepped closer to her, lifting his green eyes up to hers. “The oldest daughter of the former Lord and Lady Stark is married to my older brother. Which means that now Winterfell and the loyalty of the North belongs to their second daughter Y/n. If you help me stop the arrangement then she can put one of the seven kingdoms instantly on your side.”

“Can you ride on Dragonback?” Dany asked him walking past the dwarf.

He made a confused expression not expecting the response from her. “So you’ll help me if I can ride on Dragonback. I have barely ever ridden a horse.”

“Is this Stark worth the risk? I have risked everything that I have to follow my destiny and I haven’t questioned if it was worth it. That is the question you need to answer for yourself.” The mother of dragons waits for his response.

Tyrion sucked in a breath building up what courage he could. “For Y/n’s happiness putting my life at risk is worth seeing her safe.” The pair left the room and made their way to one of her dragons preparing to go to Winterfell.

Y/n’s pov

The double doors that would lead out to the Godswoods opened before my eyes. I was dressed in a gray long dress and one of my former brown fur cloaks that my mother had made for me. My hair was loose except for two strands that were pinned back with a clip. A Stark guard escorted me towards the red tree and the man I despised not as much as Cersei but he was on my list, Ramsey Bolton. “Who comes before the old gods this night?”

Theon who was standing beside me answers. “Y/n of the House Stark comes here to be wed. A woman grown, trueborn and noble. She comes to beg the blessings of the gods. Who comes to claim her?”

“Ramsay of House Bolton. Heir to the Dreadfort and Winterfell.” The annoying young bastard replied.

“Lady Y/n, will you take this man?” The minister asked me.

Clasping my hands together I desperately wanted to run but I knew it wouldn't lead to anything good. “I…”

“No she doesn't.” Whipping my head up into the dark skyline I recognized the voice of Tyrion but I couldn't see him until a large creature with wings dropped down right behind the four of us. The dwarf man dismounted with a woman that had almost white hair who remained standing by what I assumed must have been a dragon.

I ran towards him not caring what might happen to me. “Tyrion!” Dropping to my knees in the snow I embrace him in a hug of relief and messy tears. The level of emotions I feel seeing him right now are almost undetectable at this point. I had assumed more than anything else that he was dead. That I would never see him again in my life, but here he was alive and well.

“”What are you doing here, dwarf? You and interrupting my wedding to Lady Y/n.” Ramsey scowled at our embrace looking at Theon to make a move and do something.

Tyrion ignored the bastard lord behind us. All his mind could process was that he was holding me in his arms after so long apart. He didn’t care how powerful Ramsey thought he was in this moment for nothing could compete with a dragon. “I am here to take Lady Y/n away from you, bastard.” Tyrion separated from me and I rose to my feet, never removing my hand from his.

“How dare you. I am the Lord of Winterfell.” Ramsey challenged him.

The woman with white hair tied in braids stepped away from her dragon who blew its breath in our direction. She walked right past us and stared down at the bastard before delivering the most powerful declaration I had ever heard. “I am Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, of the blood of old Valuria. I am the dragon’s daughter.”

“That doesn’t mean anything to me. Y/n, come here now!” He spat in my direction.

Tyrion and I shared the same look and he could see the discomfort in my gaze. “You don’t have to go with him. She’ll set things right…for me.” He squeezed my hand looking to the queen he had sworn to, she would handle him wherever she saw fit.

“Has he hurt you, Lady Y/n?” The woman asked me.

I shook my head no but gave her a verbal answer with it. “I’ve seen what he does to people he gets tired of. He lets his dogs eat them and I fear him may do such a thing to me one day if I can’t provide an heir.”

“What shall we do with him?” She asked me a second time.

Tyrion lifted his gaze to her. “His father will come after you. I suggest we send a message that shows we man business but not with blood.”

“Fire does not seem fair for him.” She agreed, eyeing me. “You should decide his fate.”

“You don’t have to kill him, Y/n. We can lock him up and send a message to his father that way or we don't have to send a message at all.” Tyrion turns to me, taking both of my hands in his.

I slumped my shoulders remembering how he had tried to touch me. The thought of what he did to members of Winterfell. I knew of violence and my father would say mercy if they deserved it. “Tyrion, I haven't been violent to anyone. But he deserves it…his family helped to kill mine.”

“As did mine, dear.” He reminded me in defeat.

Moving one hand to his face I sent him a smile. “You aren't like your father and sister.”

“Okay then I'll give her the word.” He nodded seeing the mother of dragons waiting for our response. He didn’t like encouraging her to do violent things but for the sake of what Y/n felt he would bend what his opinion would be if he had lived through what she had since she had left her former home. “Use what you wish, my queen.”

Daenerys nodded her head in agreement uttering a word seconds after Tyrion had instructed me, the priest and Theon to get behind her dragon. “Dracarys.” Ramsey went up in flames by her dragon's fire and to my surprise I didn’t scream in terror.

“I can;’t believe you’re alive, Tyrion.” I admitted hugging him once more, not bothering to care about my dress being dirty by the snow.

He cupped my face in his hands, declaring to me with a kiss. “I’m done waiting to tell you this. I love you. I want you to be my wife, Y/n Stark.”

“I’ll gladly marry you, Tyrion Lannister. Now and always.” I kissed him back and that night we were wed under the Godswood tree together with the mother of dragons being my savior.

Comments really appreciated

#comments really appreciated #ask box is open for anything #requests open #tyrion lannister x reader #tyrion lannister #game of thrones #game of thrones masterlist #games of thrones #daenerys targaryen #ramsey bolton #wedding #wyvern #rescue #peter dinklage #got #got x reader #got fanfiction #got fandom

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transingthoseformers · 9 months

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I am picturing so many shenanigans.

Listen since they are referencing G1 so much it doesn't start as Dinobot/Dinosaur Island but Shockwave is left alone too long and he finally checked out the human internet spoke to one nerd a little too long and was sent Jurraisic Park and now there are dinosaurs.

The JazzWaveProwlTara family just wake up to Starscream shouting about this and ready to wring his neck while clutching a whining baby T-Rex who is gnawing on his hand. They have dinosaurs now. Shockwave did careful research not to affect the environment and everyone is fascinated. Swindle turns into a moneymaking opportunity, and they have their own instagram and followers. The T-Rex is named Rexy via internet vote.

The next disaster is Breakdown getting the boot and towed in Kentucky and they have to break him out before he gets uncovered because he's banned from the state after several incidents at the racing rink. Which is when, with Tara's holoform, the Cassettes, and Jazz, they also find Bumblebee arrested too and call the Autobots to pick him up.

Deadlock shows up and Starscream and them think they are fucked because he didn't part from them on good terms to say the least but he appears as a plus one to Ratchet. Who everyone says "I thought you died??" to only for her to roll her eyes and Deadlock to follow behind besotted and threatening.

Jazz and Prowl are thrilled by the reunion and everyone gets a check up.

Thundercracker shows back up and, as part of their attempt to ease tensions, makes a documentary about it. It is supposed to be a serious demonstration of compliance and their history and it is, but it has a lot of parts with Decepticons being silly, baby nonsense, and Shockwave making unholy abominations because he manages to sneak a read of the Emberstone and while he was banned from making more dinosaurs making babies is clearly allowed so part of the documentary is his announcing Specimen Zero escaped and can fly and a very loud shout from Starscream of "YOU MADE A DRAGON!" and Shockwave saying,"I made a protoform." and then having to pull a biting baby Predaking from the trees. All this broken up by snippets of Trine Reunion drama as Thundercracker brought their human partner Marissa and their pet dog.

Everyone is deeply invested in the Decepticon Reality Television and there's a whole following about Breakdown's 'secret boyfriend' while Bee sweats nervously in the background.

The Maltos have definitely watched.

More serious thought though occur, of them receiving a message on a Decepticon frequency saying, "Calling all Decepticons. Calling all Decepticons stationed on Earth. Your hailing signal has been received. Assistance en route. Lord Galavatron's ship the Revenge en route."

That would be adorable as fuck!

I wholeheartedly blame Shockwave for why there are dinosaurs in rescue bots so naturally naturally he's cloning them back here too (plus side: the sparklings playing with fluffy raptors?) Tarantulas helped him and they called Nighty as a consult on occasion because that'd be adorable

Plus arguably blah blah blah we can't clone back dinosaurs because the dino DNA is too broken to work with but we can make new dinosaurs example the chickensaurus project that's considering a little ✨out there✨ by the paleontological community and the ethics of bringing a new species into the world as a novelty animal blah blah blah Riot being a downer about dinosaurs time over

Yessss on Rexy the Instagram Star.

"What were you two idiots thinking"

"Bold for you to assume we were thinking Jazz"

Dratchet Dratchet Dratchet Dratchet Dratchet

Deadlock and Ratty have the coolest "how we met is a long story" story ever don't they, and I feel like it's connected to Deadlock finding Ratchet hurt and returning the favor from yOU GUESSED IT THE DEAD END CLINIC ^w^

Also interesting to see the "Ratchet may or may not be dead" theory

Thundercracker our beloved, he's trying ultimately but everyone's making the docuseries silly goofy silly goofy

Shockwave babygirl that there is a decision alright

Adorable

Yes

I imagined tfe Predaking is a lot smaller than we see him in tfp, he's little (well little by cybertronian standards) and he's technically a Terran because I say so and that'd be adorable as fuck (if Nightshade can scan an owl statue for an altmode can't Predaking do similar?)

Ah yes Thundercracker meeting the trine and learning Nova Storm has taken his place in the trine (he's okay with this naturally, it was him who left) so he's excitedly introducing Marissa and Buster

Yes, everyone is so invested

Look I just had to make various in universe tags for this stuff

#Breakbee4life, #DRT, #DeceptiDinos, #RattyIsBack, #DoYouBelieveInDragons, #TrineReunionDrama, #Decepticon, #DeceptiFails, #Rexy, and probably more. Definitely more. This shit is popular on social medias and Megatron is having so many emotions and opinions about the clusterfuck that this is but deep down he's just a little proud that they're settling into a domestic ish post war rhythm.

Wait

Wait oh no

Galvatron oh no

#maccadam #transformers #it's the crackiest of crack aus #many many characters #we need a name for this now #jazzprowlwave #transformers earthspark #there are no spoilers #only crack #wAIT #PERFECT NAME IS RIGHT THERE #Decepticon Reality Television au #unless you have anything better

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dfroza · 6 months

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“This letter comes, written with the confidence…”

Today’s reading of the Scriptures from the New Testament is the 1st (and only) chapter of the letter of Philemon:

Paul, a prisoner of Jesus the Anointed One, with our brother Timothy, to you, beloved Philemon, our fellow worker; and to Apphia our sister, to Archippus our fellow soldier, and to the church that gathers in your house. May grace and peace from God our Father and the Lord Jesus the Anointed surround you.

I am constantly thanking God for you in my prayers because I keep hearing about your love and faith toward our Lord Jesus and all those set apart for His purposes. Here’s what I’ve been praying on your behalf:

Thank You, Father, for Philemon. I pray that as he goes and tells his story of faith, he would tell everyone so that they will know for certain all the good that comes to those who put their trust in the Anointed One.

My brother, because you are out there encouraging and reviving the hearts of fellow saints with such love, this brings great joy and comfort to me.

Although I am bold enough in the Anointed, our Liberating King, to insist you do the right thing, instead I choose to appeal to you on account of love. I do this for my own sake since I, Paul, am an old man and am held prisoner because of my service to Jesus the Anointed. I make this request on behalf of my child, Onesimus, whom I brought to faith during my time in prison. Before, he was useless to you; but now he is useful to both you and me. Listen, I am sending my heart back to you as I send him to stand before you, although truly I wished to keep him at my side to take your place as my helper while I am bound for the good news. But I didn’t want to make this decision without asking for your permission. This way, any goodwill on your part wouldn’t be seen as forced, but as your true and free desire.

Maybe this is the reason why he was supposed to be away from you for this time: so that now you will have him back forever— no longer as a slave, but as more than a slave—as a dear brother. Yes, he is dear to me, but I suspect he will come to mean even more to you, both in the flesh as a servant and in the Lord as a brother.

So if you look upon me as your partner in this mission, then I ask you to open your heart to him as you would welcome me. And if he has wronged you or owes you anything, charge it to me. Look, I’ll put it here in my own handwriting: I, Paul, promise to repay you everything. (Should I remind you that you owe me your life?) Indeed, brother, I want you to do me this favor out of obedience to our Lord. It will refresh my heart in Him. This letter comes, written with the confidence that you will not only do what I ask, but will also go beyond all I have asked.

One more thing: you should get a room ready for me as I hope to be released to you soon in answer to your prayers. Epaphras (my fellow prisoner in Jesus, the Anointed One) greets you, as well as my fellow workers Mark, Aristarchus, Demas, and Luke.

May the grace of the Lord Jesus the Anointed be with your spirit. [Amen.]

The Letter of Philemon, Chapter 1 (The Voice)

A note from The Voice translation:

The gospel is a powerful social force for good, capable of making rich and poor, slave and free into beloved brothers.

Today’s paired chapter of the Testaments is the 15th chapter of the book of Ezekiel:

The word of the Eternal came to me.

Eternal One: Son of man, what is the difference between the wood of a grapevine and the wood of a tree in a forest? Is the wood of a grapevine ever used to make anything practical? Can it be carved into pegs to hang things on? No. When vine wood has been bundled together and thrown into the fire as fuel, its ends are burned but the middle is only charred. Are the remains good for anything then? Even when vine wood is whole and not yet singed, it is not useful for anything; so how can it be made useful after the fire has scorched some and consumed the rest?

Therefore, this is what I, the Eternal Lord, have to say: Just as I have gathered the wood of the grapevine among the trees of the forest to be used as fuel for the fire, so I will bundle together those who live in Jerusalem. I will turn My back on them. Even though they may survive the fire, another fire will nonetheless consume them. And when I turn My back on them and oppose them, you will know I am the Eternal One. I will transform this land into a wasteland because of their faithlessness.

So says the Eternal Lord.

The Book of Ezekiel, Chapter 15 (The Voice)

A link to my personal reading of the Scriptures for Saturday, november 11 of 2023 with a paired chapter from each Testament of the Bible along with Today’s Proverbs and Psalms

A post by John Parsons about enduring suffering:

You may sometimes struggle with your faith -- not by questioning whether Yeshua is the Savior who died for your eternal healing, but in an hour of testing, when you feel exhausted by pain, when you pray for relief, seeking God in your cries and tears, but the pain continues, and then you are left rationalizing why you were denied your supplication, why your suffering has been prescribed -- for surely, you believe, God can heal you by simply saying the word - and then you wonder to what extent you need to be broken in order to be fully remade... As C.S. Lewis once said, “We are not necessarily doubting that God will do the best for us; we are wondering how painful the best will turn out to be” (Letters of C.S. Lewis, 1964). There is a trust issue in suffering, and an intimacy that comes through its fires. And as Soren Kierkegaard reminds us, “It is one thing to conquer in the hardship, to overcome the hardship as one overcomes an enemy, while continuing in the idea that the hardship is one's enemy; but it is more than conquering to believe that the hardship is one's friend, that it is not the opposition but the road, is not what obstructs but what develops, is not what disheartens but ennobles."

The difficulty of intense personal suffering is deeply existential: how do you keep hope in the midst of this tension? “Lord I believe; help my unbelief” (Mark 9:24). How do you affirm that your heavenly Father will heal you but at the present hour you must continue to endure suffering? Do you then devise a “soul-building theodicy” to explain your struggle – providing a narrative to answer the “why” of your suffering -- or do you attempt to sanctify suffering as a means of healing others by the grace of the Messiah (Col. 1:24)? When Yeshua victoriously proclaimed, “It is finished” just before he died on the cross, he foreknew that his followers would experience a “purging process,” a “refining fire,” and time on the “potter’s wheel” to perfect their sanctification. At the cross of Yeshua death itself was overcome – and all that it implies – and yet it is nevertheless true that we will suffer and die ourselves and that death persists an enemy (see 1 Cor. 15:26). While we celebrate the reality of the final redemption, the “instrumentality of our sanctification” needs to be willingly accepted and endured. I say “endured” here because I don’t think we will ever have a complete answer to the question of “why” we undergo the various tests we face in this life. Our disposition in the midst of this ambiguity, in the midst of seemingly unanswered prayers, is where our faith is disclosed: will we despair of all temporal hope or not? Will we console ourselves with the vision of a future without tears and loss - a heaven prepared for us -- or will we resist the present darkness and seek to find deliverance in this hour? Do we trust God with our pain and submit to his will, or will we “curse God and die” inside – losing hope and despairing of all remedy?

As King David once wrote, "At an acceptable time, O God, in the abundance of your steadfast love answer me in your saving faithfulness. Deliver me from sinking in the mire; let me be delivered from my enemies and from the deep waters. Let not the flood sweep over me, or the deep swallow me up, or the pit close its mouth over me. Answer me, O LORD, for precious is your compassion; in the abundance of your mercies, turn to me" (Psalm 69:16).

God sometimes allows difficulties in the lives of those whom He favors in order to ultimately reward them. Why were Sarah, Rebekah, and Rachel barren for so many years? So that God would hear their prayers and reward them for their steadfast faith. Why was Leah more fruitful than the other wives of Jacob? Because she was “hated” and subject to unending gossip that she tried to steal her sister’s husband, yet she persevered in hope. In this connection, some of the Chassidic sages render Psalm 118:21 as, “I thank you that you have pained me (עֲנִיתָנִי) and have become my salvation.” The pain that I regarded as punishment became the means by which I obtained the salvation of the LORD. Similarly, “It was good for me that I was afflicted (עֻנֵּיתִי), that I might learn your decrees” (Psalm 119:71).

It is written in our Scriptures: “But You, O LORD my Master, deal with me for your own Name's sake; because your steadfast love is good, deliver me" (Psalm 109:21). "Deal with me me" is the confession that God alone has the power to help. Asking God to bring glory to His own Name -- to honor and magnify His Name -- is the theme of all true intercession.

Suffering has a way of focusing the heart and mind, reminding us that “today is the tomorrow of yesterday.” Life is short, and our need is great to turn to the LORD and take hold His promises. We take comfort that God is for us the God of salvation: “Blessed be the Lord, who daily bears us up; God is for us our salvation. Selah. Our God is a God of salvation (יְשׁוּעָה), and to GOD, the Lord, belong deliverances from death” (Psalm 68:19-20).

[ Hebrew for Christians ]

Psalm 119:71 reading:

https://hebrew4christians.com/Blessings/Blessing_Cards/psalm119-71-jjp.mp3

Hebrew page:

https://hebrew4christians.com/Blessings/Blessing_Cards/psalm119-71-lesson.pdf

11.10.23 • Facebook

from yesterday’s email by Israel 365:

This psalm was written by King David, a man who knew all too well what it meant to be caught in battle, and yet he also knew the comfort that comes from trusting in a higher power. Psalm 28 contains an urgent request for salvation in addition to a strong belief in redemption, both of which resonate in light of the current conflict.

Today’s message (Days of Praise) from the Institute for Creation Research

November 11, 2023

He Shall Speak Peace

“And I will cut off the chariot from Ephraim, and the horse from Jerusalem, and the battle bow shall be cut off: and he shall speak peace unto the heathen: and his dominion shall be from sea even to sea, and from the river even to the ends of the earth.” (Zechariah 9:10)

This wonderful prophecy follows immediately after the verse predicting the coming of the Messiah into Jerusalem riding upon a lowly donkey’s colt (v. 9). That prediction was fulfilled by Jesus as He came into Jerusalem on that last Sunday before His death and resurrection (Matthew 21:4-5), but the prophecy in our text was certainly not fulfilled at that time. There have been wars somewhere in the world practically every year since Jesus came. Nevertheless, the day will come when He shall indeed speak peace to all the nations.

Early in the last century, the nations had fought a great war that was supposed to end all wars. They celebrated the armistice that ended that war on November 11, 1918, and established an annual holiday called Armistice Day. But many other wars followed that war, so the name was changed to honor the veterans who had fought in any of those later wars as well. However, there is still no real peace in the world.

The fact is that there can be no lasting peace between men and other men until there is peace between men and God. Only the Lord Jesus Christ can make such a peace, for He alone is the “Prince of Peace” (Isaiah 9:6). Indeed, He has already paid the price to make such true and eternal peace, for He “made peace through the blood of his cross, by him to reconcile all things unto himself” (Colossians 1:20).

In that great coming day when He returns to Earth to establish His kingdom, “he maketh wars to cease unto the end of the earth” (Psalm 46:9), “and the LORD alone shall be exalted in that day” (Isaiah 2:17). HMM

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cursestothemoon · 3 years

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A Cruel Favor

Regulus Black x Fem!Slytherin!Reader

Request: Could I get and angsty and sad blurb with Regulus? Nothing specific in mind, Regulus’ entire life is pretty tragic already- just throwing some strained and kind of heartbreaking romance into that mix sorry i like pain this is how i cope

Summary: Your relationship with the youngest Black brother in the form of memories seen in a pensieve by Sirius Black.

Warnings: Death, sadness, crying, the dark mark, ghosts

Word Count: 3265

Author's Note: babe you asked for a blurb and i just did not listen i am so sorry, if you'd still like a blurb let me know and i'll whip up a little short piece but regardless i hope you enjoy this 😌

“You didn’t know him! You didn’t want to know him!” Your voice bellowed, trembling with the burning anger you held in your heart for the eldest Black brother.

It was true, back when the war was just ‘politics’ and the ‘Dark Lord’ a name whispered behind closed doors, Sirius Black had already made up his mind about his family- Regulus included.

“He was my brother.” Sirius spoke the statement as if just the mere fact of relation was supposed to trump that he hadn't even spoken to his brother in the months prior to his death.

You let out a bitter laugh, “Don’t lie for the sake of saving face, you never saw him as a brother; not then and certainly not now.”

Sirius seemed taken aback by your accusation, his words getting lost on his tongue for a moment before he quickly regained his fiery passion for argument.

“He betrayed me.”

“You were the one who betrayed him!” Your accusatory finger pointed at Sirius.

The eldest Black brother’s features went stoney, “The moment he decided to get that mark, was the moment he lost his name as my brother.”

Everything in the mangey old house seemed to still, a silence falling so powerful you could hear a pin drop. Your slow footsteps were exaggerated in the quiet, each creak ringing in both yours and Sirius’ ears. With a tired hand, you pushed a small pouch onto the surface of the dining room table, the vials inside clinking together softly.

“They’re numbered.” You breathed out. “There is so much you don’t know, Sirius.”

You walked through the door and onto the street hastily, not wasting any time to apparate back home.

Sirius sat down in the nearest chair with a huff, his knees spread as his shoulders slid down the back of the chair. He hadn’t remembered just how far up his brother’s ass you were.

Roughly, he rubbed his face with his palms before lazily reaching for the dark velvet pouch on the table. The emerald green reminded him not only of his brother, but of his entire family, the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. Sirius couldn’t help the groan that left his mouth at the memories of his family that seemed to plague his mind.

Fittingly, Sirius opened the pouch to reveal just that. The silvery, viscous tendrils that floated through each vial were immediately recognized by the pureblood. You had given him your memories...and a letter.

You deserve to know him.

Y/N L/N

Sirius’ curiosity regarding what secrets of his brother’s seemed to be swimming in the vials bubbled over, he was sure 12 Grimmauld Place was harbouring a pensieve somewhere within its walls, he’d just have to get up and find it.

17 October 1974

Barty Crouch Jr. was an insolent child, the type to collect bones and listen to them rattle. He had a nervous tick, his tongue slithering past his lips every so often in a manner that was so serpentine it made your skin prick.

“Come on then, L/N, be a good little girl and do as I say.”

You threw down your quill in frustration, “Bugger off, Crouch. I’ve said no.”

“Don't be like that,” Barty smirked, coming closer to where you were sitting. “It’s only some homework. You were going to do yours anyway, why not get some extra practice in by doing mine too?”

“I’d rather have unforgivables practiced on me than do anything you ask.”

His sickly sweet smile wasn’t one you were expecting, his voice low and threatening, “That can be arranged.”

Your blood ran cold as you watched his nimble fingers move toward his wand pocket in his robes. Truthfully, you should’ve known better. Being in the same house as Barty allowed you the luxury of hearing all the gossip surrounding him and his hobbies, dark magic and curses being at the top of that list.

“Barty.”

The cold baritone made the sandy-haired menace stop in his tracks, his face contorting into an expression of mild annoyance and frustration.

“There’s no need for you to be acting like a child. Quite humiliating asking someone else to do your work, isn’t it, Crouch? Are you too thick to get it done yourself?”

Barty turned to look at his friend, words jumbling as he tried to figure out how to get himself out of the hole he had dug.

“Reg-” The stone-like stare had Barty cowering and mouth snapping shut, the boy seemingly trying to fold in on himself.

With a simple nod of his head, Regulus directed the him to make himself useful elsewhere, but you were far too taken by the handsome boy in front of you to notice the stomping footsteps of Barty’s as he left. Of course you had known of Regulus Black, seen him from afar and even once had Transfiguration with him, but seeing him up close was an experience in and of itself. His skin was ghostly pale, hair dark and wavy as it fell just below his ears, and his cheekbones were high accentuating the slant of his nose. Regulus Black was beautiful, everything about him seemed to be placed just right and sculpted with the utmost care and attention.

He turned to you, your eyes meeting before he gave you an appraising look.

“Regulus.” His hand struck out, a rather rugged introduction.

Slowly, you took his hand in yours and proceeded to shake it. You couldn’t seem to rid yourself of the feeling that your hand was far too dirty, far too boring to be touching his, to even be near his.

“Y/n L/n, thank you- for that.” You were proud of yourself for not allowing your voice to shake.

“I’m sorry he was a bother.”

Regulus seemed to lack the ability of holding a conversation, he nodded- you assumed a goodbye- and got ready to make his way to the dorms.

“Wait,” Your voice came out before you could stop it. “You could stay, I’m almost done anyway. We could...talk.”

The suggestion had the boy's ears turning pink, his words coming out stuttered and jumbled, a stark contrast from the boy who had told off Barty so eloquently.

“If you- alright.”

You thought for a moment before speaking again, “You’re not very good at talking to people are you?”

“Excuse my blatant honesty, but you make me quite nervous.”

It was your turn to have your ears turn a soft hue of red, “I could say the same about you.”

5 April 1975

“Haven’t you got your own side of the blanket? Must you be so close to me?” You giggled, trying to roll away from Regulus while still avoiding the grass.

Regulus smiled, his eyes closing and nose scrunching in thought before he spoke, “I prefer to be close to you; making sure you won’t run out on me.”

Both of you began giggling, his head falling to nudge your shoulder. Ultimately, Regulus shuffled away from your side, allowing just about a foot of space in between your bodies. The wind rustled your hair as you turned your neck to look at the youngest Black as he sat up, his legs stretched and crossed at the ankles, arms propping himself up as his palms pressed flat against the floor.

It was no secret that Regulus was beautiful. His dark hair- now gently flowing in the cool breeze- stood out against his pale skin, freckles were dusted delicately over his aristocratic nose and sharp cheekbones. You could tell he’d never worked a day in his life with how handsome and soft his hands were. His fingers were long and slender, never dry or rough, and his nails perfectly trimmed and always clean.

Regulus Black was absolutely perfect and you were regretting ever complaining about his proximity.

You were quick to right your wrong, bashfully you raised yourself onto all fours and crawled over to your boyfriend. Regulus tried to hold in his smirk, avoiding turning to look at you directly but you could tell his resolve was breaking.

“Regulus…” You spoke his name with an innocent lilt, sitting back on your shins once you were close enough to have your knees touching his thigh.

He hummed, not giving you the satisfaction of having his full attention.

A huff of frustration fell past your lips at his stubbornness as you threw your leg over his thighs, straddling his legs just above his knees. His composure was thinning, a wide smile threatening to spread across his thin lips.

“You’re far too close,” he teased, his hand coming up as if trying to stop you from getting any closer. “I believe you are on my side of the blanket, L/n.”

“Don’t be so fickle, Black.”

Regulus’ pale blue eyes found yours, his delicate hand coming up to run across the delicate collar of your dress.

“It’s in my nature isn’t it?” His eyes held a certain sadness that you could not place, one you wouldn’t see again until a few years later.

Your lips parted to respond to him, only to be interrupted by a Hogwarts ghost floating nearby. It was a ghost neither you nor Regulus were familiar with and as she passed she mumbled something- rather spitefully- about young love. The event had your train of thought derailed, a quiet giggle erupting from your throat as the transparent, deceased woman floated on.

Regulus seemed to find the woman just as amusing as you did, his eyes crinkling with laughter as you two now looked at each other in fits of hysterics.

“Oh her poor soul!” You exclaimed, eyes looking off in the direction she had gone. “If you were a ghost, Reg, where would you haunt with your undead presence.”

His expression contorted into one of reminiscence, “Uncle Alphard’s cherry orchard just a few kilometers from Monts de Venasque. When we were little, Sirius and I would play in the trees. I could sit in those cherry trees for hours, everything just seemed to disappear. Alphard’s been burned off the tapestry since, but he’s left the property in my possession along with the small house on the land. I think if I were to choose one place to spend eternity, it would be there.”

You smiled softly at his answer.

“And you?” He asked, bringing you out of your lovesick haze.

“Me?” You chuckled. “I’d suppose my eternity would be well spent as long as I was somewhere with you.”

28 June 1976

It seemed the entirety of 12 Grimmauld Place shook with how hard Sirius had slammed the front door.

He was gone.

Completely and entirely gone.

And Regulus was completely and entirely alone now.

Regulus swiftly made his way up the stairs and to his room, just barely avoiding a collision with the poor house elf.

“Y/n’s room.” The words were spoken clearly and concisely as the floo powder fell from his shaky hands.

The time of night- 2:27 am- was of little importance to Regulus, he needed to see you.

You woke up with a jolt, the sound of someone stumbling into your room and panicked mumbling doing nothing to ease your nerves though the mop of dark curls had your heart calming down.

“Reg?”

He turned to look at you with heartbroken eyes, watery and bloodshot.

“He’s gone.” He choked out.

You kicked the blankets off yourself and stood up from your bed, bare feet hitting the cold floor.

Keeping a calm tone you slowly got closer to him, “Who’s gone, love?”

His pain was so evident, rolling off him in waves, “Sirius- he’s not coming back.”

“Oh,” You sighed, treading lightly. “I’m sur-”

“No!” He cried, “Burned off the tapestry, probably with the Potters- he’s gone an-and he left me with them.”

Regulus’ anguish, tear stained cheeks, had your own eyes welling with unshed tears. It was clear words would do nothing to calm him, instead you opted for pushing yourself into him and taking his crying form into your arms. His body seemed to give out as you held him, his tears soaking your shirt as he wailed into your neck.

Neither of you could tell how long you stood in the middle of your room seemingly holding him together, but his cries subsided into gentle whimpers and the occasional sniffle as his nose nudged the side of your neck.

His voice came out rough and strained, just barely above a whisper, “Please don’t- don’t leave me like Si- like he did.”

You could feel your heart shatter, “Wouldn’t dream of it, darling.”

“I don’t know how I would’ve survived in this mess if I had never known you.”

Your breath came out ragged as you spoke the truest words you've ever dared to speak, “My heart beats for you, Regulus.”

30 December 1979

His forearm itched.

It seemed to always have an odd itch ever since he was sixteen.

Regulus watched your form get closer, bundled in a thick overcoat and a dark blue scarf- Christmas present from himself- wrapped neatly around your neck. You were the picture of beauty, like a living doll with your soft smile and adoring eyes.

“My love.” You greeted him, leaning in to place a soft kiss against his cold cheek.

His eyes seemed distant, your only greeting a tight lipped smile.

Your eyebrows knit together, “Everything alright?”

Regulus nodded, his eyes swimming with a sadness so familiar, “Just taking you in.”

He pulled off his leather gloves, stuffing them deep in his coat pocket before reaching his hand out to hold your jaw, his thumb running across your skin. The action was comforting and you couldn’t help but close your eyes to savour the feeling of his thumb caressing your cheekbone.

You let out a small gasp when you felt him take your lips in a slow kiss. It was passionate, loving, yet there was a certain finality to it that had a shiver run up your spine in the most unpleasant way.

“I have the cruelest favor to ask of you, and I can only hope you’ll forgive me once I do.”

Your stomach dropped, “What do you mean, Regulus? What- what favor?”

“Please, try to understand-”

“What favor?”

“I couldn’t-”

“Tell me what the favor is, Regulus.”

Your voice had an edge to it that made him compose himself almost instantly.

He took a breath before speaking, his eyes looking off somewhere behind you as he spoke, “He’s getting stronger.”

You didn’t need to ask who this ‘he’ was, the tone made it very clear.

“He has these… horcruxes. Incredibly dark magic, I don't know how many but I know of one. It’s hidden and I’ve found out the location, I can destroy it I know I can but-”

His tone was hushed and your heart rate had started to pick up speed.

“But you don’t know if you’ll live to tell the tale?” You asked with a humorless laugh.

The look in Regulus’ eyes had told you, you were right.

“I can’t let him continue. If this could stop him, weaken him even, it’s worth whatever the consequence to myself may be.” He argued.

You pushed yourself further from him, “I can’t- I won’t lose you. No, there’s no way.”

His expression shifted into one of sorrow and pleading, “I have to.”

And you knew there was no changing his mind.

You bit the side of your lip anxiously, looking at the ground before asking, “And this favor?”

The heartbreak was almost palpable, his voice going raw.

“I cannot be fully prepared to do anything that is necessary to destroy this horcrux if-”

He cut himself off with an intake of breath.

“If I know you’ll be waiting for my return, if I know what I have to leave behind I may be tempted to not go through with my plan.”

You couldn’t help but feel and look horrified, “What are you asking of me, Regulus?”

He seemed to flinch at the tone of your voice, a tone you’d never used before and one he couldn’t name.

“I need you to obliviate yourself from my memory.”

It felt as though your chest had collapsed in on itself, “I-I couldn-”

“You have to!” Regulus cried, his arms gripping the sides of your face as you couldn’t help but let a choked sob escape from your lips. “It’s the only way I’ll be able to go through with it, I can't know that there’s a possibility of leaving you.”

“Please, Regulus, you can’t ask this of me.” You choked out, searching his eyes for some sort of humor, something that told you it was all a cruel joke.

He pressed his lips against your forehead, both of your eyes closing as you two took in short, ragged breaths.

Everything seemed darker. The flowers in the Black garden were cold and dead, the snow wasn’t snow at all, instead dangerous sheets of ice. It was then you realized the war, the death eaters, everything had become so real.

“There is a letter on your bed at home, I’ve settled everything for you. I’m going to stand against the pillar, my back to you, and you are going to do it from behind the hedges so we won’t see each other after. You need to leave once it’s done alright?”

You nodded solemnly, knowing there was no use in fighting it. The cause was bigger than you, bigger than Regulus. Everyone made sacrifices, this just had to be yours.

“My heart beats for you, Y/n, whether I know it or not.”

“And mine for you, Regulus.” You smiled sadly, pulling his wrist up to your face and pulling back his sleeve to reveal his dark mark, pressing a kiss to the skin you spoke, “You aren’t them, you never were and you never will be.”

Regulus smiled but said nothing as he lowered his arms and put his gloves back on. With slow steps he walked to the pillar and looked back at you one last time.

“I’m just taking you in.” He whispered, before slowly turning.

You took your wand from your coat as you took even slower steps to stand just far enough for him not to notice you after it had been done. Regulus felt his resolve crumble with each crunch of your boots against the frozen ground, his eyes screwed shut- tears rolling down his face freely- as he prepared for what was coming.

With a shaky hand you raised your wand.

“Obliviate.”

Present

Sirius seemed to be thrown back from the pensieve, as if the memory had rejected him from viewing any longer, still sensitive. He felt an odd tickling sensation run down his cheek, his hand raising to brush away a stray tear as he fell into a nearby chair.

He never knew…

***

You pushed open the backdoor of your small home, the warm scent of cherry trees welcoming you. The sun was just barely starting to set as you looked off into the horizon of the vast field of trees, if you looked long enough you could make out the handsome silhouette of a boy you once knew sitting up in a cherry tree.

Only a few short months later, the lone figure would be joined by another… a brother.

tags:

@amourtentiaa

@vsawyer1989

@lifeofkaze

@siriusement

@erinruby003

@maybesandohnos

@onlyfreds

@tayyx

#regulus black x reader #regulus black x y/n #regulus black blurb #regulus black imagine #regulus black x fem!reader #marauders era

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solliewriter · 3 years

Text

Archery for Writers

In this post, I'll basically tell you the small stuff: e.g., what your archer will complain about to other archers, how different bows sound, what it's like shooting in the rain or snow, finding the goddamn arrows, etc. I’m also going into technical details and will discuss the legendary Robin Hood shot.

If you want a good basic primer, T.S. Strange on Instagram did a pretty good job https://www.instagram.com/p/COat-W1rQ7o/?utm_source=ig_web_copy_link

But, if you're ready for beyond the basics, I've got you covered.

To be clear, my knowledge of archery is primarily Western traditional archery. PLEASE research the history of the type of bow you choose as they’re all unique. There’s a reason why Mongolian bows are so different than English longbows.

I have primarily shot in thick, brushy forest (not parks, actual wilderness), so when you read, that I'm talking about that setting unless specified. My favored bow is a reflex/deflex, which is basically a recurve/longbow hybrid. I have also been doing archery for as long as I can remember, so yes I know how to shoot.

SOUNDS

Different bows make different sounds. Recurve bows are loud. They make this twangy sound when you use them, unless you put a silencer on the string. This silencer is usually a fluff-type thing that is woven around and through the string. The silencer doesn't make them perfectly silent. It's more of a muffler than a silencer.

Longbows are quieter, but they still make noise. It's short, grunt-like hum that usually only the archer and their immediate compatriots can hear.

For Your Character (FYC): a recurve archer and a longbow archer will very likely pester each other about noise.

SIGHT, pt1

You can shoot blind. Sorta. No, you can't put on a blindfold and still hit your target, but you can and will extrapolate what you see. As mentioned, I've done almost all of my shooting in the forest, in the mountains. Visibility is less than perfect. You have to aim through hundreds of branches, and the likelihood of hitting a branch and sending your arrow flying into No Man's Land is very likely as a beginner and amateur. Shooting through the forest isn't like in Lord of the Rings or Hunger Games, unless that forest is a well maintained park with marked trails made by things other than deer and bear. (FYI, bear trails are perfect for humans.) Half the time, if you move an inch the wrong way, your arrow will be way off target. Missing by an inch means missing by several feet, which is really far in archery.

More than once, you see your target at one angle, but can't shoot it at another. I've experienced this frequently because my Viking sized dad will pick targets that I, his 5'2" daughter, am too short to see. I have to stand on tip toes to see his target, then lower myself into almost a crouch to shoot. I still hit the target.

FYC: Besides the obvious banter that comes from discussing height differences, there are a few other things to note. In the forest, it can be hard to find two good angles to shoot something. This can lead to frustration, complaining, attempts to get the other archer out of the way, and etc.

SIGHT, pt 2

I’m talking about recurve/longbows, so there are no actual sights to look through.

This is where things are controversial. There’s a gap shooting and an instinctive shooting. Gap shooters guess the distance, then aim. Instinctive shooters just sorta ... wing it.

I’m not going to throw shade at either method. But here’s a key reason why one would use one style or another: gap shooting is largely ineffective in mountainous, forested terrain when you can’t really see much. So, if you have an archer from a prairie and an archer from the mountains, it’s likely they use different aiming styles.

Side note: Flu-flu shots are unique and fun shots that use big feathery arrows. You shoot nearly straight up in hopes of getting your arrow on top of the target rather than straight toward it. When doing this, you can either look at the target or look at your arrow angle, but you can't do both at the same time. You have to shoot blind. Flu-flu shots aren't good for killing creatures, but they are pure fun. This is a good example of using instinctive shooting rather than gap shooting. Also, flu-flu shots are prone to being highly effective by the wind, and it’s very easy to get them stuck in a tree for all eternity. There’s a shooting area my roving family calls “The Valley of Lost Flu-Flu’s.” It’s called this for very good reason.

SMELLS

Bows don't smell, unless you've just added beeswax to the string (strings fray, wax stops that). Arrows smell for about a day after you paint them and glue them.

Leather, however, smells and remains smelly forever. I personally like the smell (though I suppose I'm actually smelling the oil, not the leather). It's very hard to describe, partially because I have so many memories involved. Unfortunately, I have to leave this to you. Just note, leather from armguards, quivers, and pouches don't smell the same as couches and your typical urbanite materials. Find your hippie friend and ask them to make you a leather bracelet or something. That'll teach you the smell.

FYC: Your archer will have very strong memories associated with the smell of leather and beeswax. They will be warm fuzzy memories.

TOUCH, aka shooting in the cold weather

All right, it's cold, and your character is wearing a big coat. Big, puffy sleeves to fit all those layers beneath. No biggie, just nock the arrow, draw, and shoot ...

FWAP!

The string hits the character's coat sleeve. The arrow goes about ten feet before falling limp to the ground like a sad puppy.

To fix this, you need to tie a thick band around your character's sleeve. Easy peasy.

Now, your OC tries shooting again. Unfortunately, it’s been raining, so to their dismay, they've noticed that their turkey fletchings (standard in the western US states) have flattened and shrunk. It looks like there is barely any fletching at all. Fear not, the arrow will still fly. It'll just make aiming a bit harder, but not terribly worse. Those fletchings are just stabilizers.

Your OC goes home. When they take off their shooting glove/tab, they notice their fingers are yellow. Oh no! Don't worry, your OC is not sick, the dye has just come off the leather in the rain. It'll wash off, but it'll probably happen every time the leather gets wet for the next few months unless your OC makes a new glove/tab that isn't dyed.

LEFTIE VS RIGHTIE

It is extremely uncommon to find a left-handed archer. This is because even if someone’s right-handed doing their day-to-day things, it doesn’t mean they’re going to be right-handed for archery.

In archery, whether you shoot left or right handed is determined by your eye dominance. Most people are right-eyed dominant, so much so it’s very hard for a left-eye dominant archer (such as myself) to find new bows. And I mean really hard. Go anywhere and there’s a severe shortage of left-dominant archery gear simply because it’s that rare (hah I’m special- jk).

BOWS

There are manufactured bows (lame), and there are good bows. Yes, there’s a huge difference.

I’m not sure of the technical terms, but here’s my experience.

Manufactured bows, i.e., the cheap bows you find at a renaissance fair, are typically made from a type of plastic. Good traditional bows, from almost any country, are custom-made from wood that the bowyer (bow-maker) has shaped, treated, and glued.

Bows are a lot like musical instruments. Essentially, manufactured bows (or guitars, violins, etc.) are poor quality because they’re made of cheap materials which make the shooting quality less than superb (more on that later), and because they aren’t given the attention they need, which makes them of lesser quality because they’re just ... eh. Special treatment makes for a better bow.

Like musical instruments, there are a lot of different types. Most websites say there are only four (recurve, longbow, compound, and crossbow), but that’s not quite true. These acknowledge the four general shapes of a bow, but not the subtypes. For example, Mongolian bows are recurves, but tend to be shorter than Western recurves because Mongolian recurves are meant to be shot on horseback.

SHOOTING QUALITY

So, what is it like shooting a good bow?

Again, I’m speaking from experience with recurves, longbows, and reflexes.

A good bow has good speed. It moves the arrow faster than slower. This is a relative scale because recurves shoot arrows faster than longbows, and reflex/deflex tend to shoot faster than longbows but slower than recurves.

WEIGHT

Is it possible for people to have pulled 100 pounds of weight in a bow back in the olden days, or are people just confused?

Yes, it’s possible.

My dad, who used to do archery once or twice a week, had a 100 pound bow that he shot fairly regularly. That was before his shoulder injuries and, y’know, age.

Also note that he’s practically a Viking.

I pulled 50 pounds at 28 inches when I was doing it regularly, although now I probably have to go back to 45 pounds.

BASIC SHOOTING FORM

This is going to be heavily effected by your character’s culture, bow, and upbringing.

There’s the English, upright stance for shooting a longbow. The archer stands very straight, and their pull hand goes to anywhere between the lip and the ear.

There’s the forest stance, which is my own, and that’s slightly bent over to avoid string-slaps, finger to cheekbone. Also, I made up the forest stance, so don’t Google it.

Then there’s Walt Wilhem, who, due to physical disability, had to shoot from the hip and was still one of the best archers in the world. Watch the video of him and his brother:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=np8u69YfSA8

THE ROBIN HOOD SHOT

This is actually very attainable. I’ve done it six times. My dad has done it about 30 times. I have a friend who did it about 25 times.

In order for this situation to realistically happen (if you’re writing something unrealistic, you really shouldn’t bother reading all of this), the character needs to prep a few things.

1. Years of experience. At least six, and that’s assuming your archer shoots at least seven hours a week, without missing an hour.

2. At six years the archer might get a few Robin Hood shots. Very likely, it’ll be at a shorter distance and the arrow they’re shooting will be cross-wise instead of straight down the shaft.

3. At ten years, it’s quite likely your Robin Hood has shot straight down the shaft a few times.

4. Your Robin Hood must seek to improve every week.

SOME QUICK TIPS

unless you’re Walt Wilhem, you always pull from your back, not your arm

you never fire an arrow

back quivers are quieter and more mobile than hip quivers (suck it hipsters)

it takes practice and long fingers, but it’s quite doable to hold both a bow and an arrow in one hand while shooting

there is a system for very fast nocking

beginners have no clue what this system is and so take several minutes to nock their arrow.

contrast, it takes a second for an experienced archer.

someone who doesn’t take long to aim is often called a snap shooter, and this isn’t exactly complimentary.

This ought to take you far in your journey of writing an archer. I’ve been sitting on this post for about a year now, but still need to add to it. PLEASE google the following in case I don’t get to sharing the info.

arrow breakage

bow breaking

materials for arrows

types of wood for bows

types of wood for arrows

arrow spine weight

bow tuning

bow shelfs

different forms

holding a bow

stringing a bow

bow at rest

temperatures + bows

fletching types

aerodynamics

quivers

moving around

how to find the goddamn arrows

#archery #writeblr #writing #archers #bow and arrow #wip #writing tip #writing advice #don't tell anyone it's been 2 years since I've shot my lovely bear bow #I need my bow again #I need to shoot

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absynthe--minded · 3 years

Note

Just letting you know that if you ever write the filet about hour and Hurin you can already count one one (1) enthusiastic reader!

(Well, when you put it like that...)

“Who’s your pick?”

“Hm?”

“Your pick,” Húrin repeated, swallowing the last of the salted pork folded between halves of the Bëorian flatbread his wife had made for the both of them. “Or were you too busy dreaming of your eventual marriage-bed to recall that we were having a conversation?”

Huor snatched up a pebble that had lain by his boot and threw it hard at his younger brother, laughing when his response hit home and was met with a curse.

“Even if I were,” he said, “it would certainly be none of your business.”

“That’s as good as a ‘yes’.”

“It is not, and you know it.”

“So you mean to tell me she’s absolutely not on your mind, even a little.”

“I - !”

“You tell me ‘no’ and I’ll know you’re a liar, you’re shit at lying to me.”

A long silence, and then Huor muttered a few curses of his own while Húrin took his own turn to laugh at his brother.

“Fine,” he said. “Fine! Yes, I am thinking about her, but can you blame me?”

“I can blame you if it means you’re lost in a cloud while I’m trying to have an important conversation.”

Huor scoffed, but there was warmth in his words when he answered. “As if debating the marital prospects of our High King counts as important.”

“On the contrary,” Húrin answered, “what if the contract was not in his favor? What if the stability of the realm is threatened? What if there is a succession crisis?”

“What if you shut up and let me finish my damn food?”

Húrin laughed again, this time joined by his brother. They were sitting on the edge of a terrace in Barad Eithel, perched on a rail in a manner most improper for the high lords that their bloodline made them, watching as below them the High King and his retinue sat and shared a few pots of tea and a tray of scones. They had declined the offer to join in, instead electing to eat what was left from that morning’s meal out of their packs, and rather than press them to be social, Findekáno had commended them for not letting food go to waste.

They had been summoned to the capital along with many others, both Eldar and Edain, to hear a proposal from their monarch regarding the war. The fires had faded into memory, and the High King seemed to think that Angband was yet assailable. It was the first time that either man had laid eyes on the determined, dark-eyed nér since their stay in Gondolin, and now that they had met his younger brother, they were gladdened by his easy manner and his open smile.

Though that had not been the first thing they had noticed.

“Him,” Huor said through a mouthful of cheese and bread, lifting one hand and pointing at a tall, subtly dressed elf sitting a little behind the High King. “That fellow. Faelion.”

“Faelion?” Húrin asked, grateful he hadn’t had any pork to choke on.

“What? It’s as good a choice as any!”

“A better choice than that - what’s his face, that captain of the guard - !”

“Lindaer.”

“Lindaer. Yes. That one.”

“You think he’s married to Lindaer?”

“You think he’s married to Faelion!”

“It’s a decent guess!” Huor protested. “That sort of thing - it happens! Remember Great-aunt Inzilbêth? Didn’t she have a lady’s maid or a chambermaid or someone like that?”

“That’s different! He’s High King! How much time do you think he can spend with his valet?”

“If amount of time spent with someone is the likeliest indicator of marriage, brother, what does that tell you about us?”

“It tells me I ought to throw you off the terrace, and that we’re lucky to be speaking Haletha and not Hadora,” Húrin said, referring to the dialect of Taliska they’d learned while fostering with their mother’s folk in Brethil. “Otherwise they’d all have overheard us by now.”

“Oh, undoubtedly,” Huor answered with a bright smile, “but they think we’re eccentric anyway, and I’m rather enjoying it.”

Before Gondolin, before the fires, they might have supposed that High King Findekáno was no different from any of the other Eldar - he’d known their grandfather very well, and their father well enough, and they’d heard many a tale of his bravery and nobility, and that was as much as could be said of any of the Noldor in Hithlum. But they had been to Gondolin, had befriended Aegthel and Laurëfindil and Tuilindo and Aegamloth and Pendelot and Aldaron, had learnt the subtle signs and cues and tells that indicated when a nér or ellon was inclined to the company of other néri or ellyn. And the High King was drowning in them.

Thus, the question of the hour: who, if anyone, was the object of Findekáno’s affections?

“All right,” Húrin said, “I’ll concede that Lindaer isn’t the best choice - !”

“More like he isn’t a choice at all!”

“He isn’t the best choice,” Húrin continued, “but you won’t convince me that it’s Faelion.”

“If not Faelion,” Huor said, “then who?”

Suddenly, the conversation below fell silent. Every elvish eye was turned toward the doors on the ground level, and the small paved courtyard below the terrace that the pair of men were seated on.

“Shush,” Húrin muttered, cutting off his brother’s questions with one hand. Beneath them, they could hear quiet Quenya in an accent they didn’t recognize, and the scrape and sigh of leather boots on paving-stones. A pair of Eldar in plate armor that looked as if it had seen better days stepped into view, their backs to the terrace. Their cloaks were scarlet and emblazoned with a large golden eight-pointed star that gleamed in the light, and unlike the other elves in the garden below, they bore swords at their hips and knives in their vambraces, and stood like battle-hardened warriors watching for spies in the trees.

“The delegation from Himring,” Huor murmured, only for Húrin to wave him silent again.

A third figure emerged from under the terrace, standing between the first two Eldar, and when he drew back his hood with one gloved hand, what few murmurs had survived fell silent. He was tall, even for one of the Eldar, standing head and shoulders above many of the lords and courtiers who were in the garden; he would have towered over Húrin and even Huor was shorter than he. His hair was a brilliant, blood-drenched red, just different enough from his cloak to set the eyes of all who saw him on edge.

He said nothing, but strode into the garden, and as he moved both brothers could see his right arm ended in empty air.

“Oh, damn,” Húrin said, watching as he made his way into the midst of the other Eldar. “I’ve heard of this one.”

“That’s - that’s him, isn’t it,” Huor said, looking between the High King and this newcomer. “The Lord of the Eastern Marches. Maedhros.”

Húrin didn’t answer - his eyes were drawn to Findekáno, who was staring at the newcomers almost as if he were shocked and astonished. For a moment, so quickly it almost didn’t exist, something crossed his face - a wide-eyed, warm look, something deep and tender and private, glimpsed only because all other eyes were on the other Elda. And then it was gone, replaced with a bright, welcoming smile, and something in his eyes that was torn between joy and pain.

“Hail, and well-met!” he cried, rising to his feet; his retinue stood with him. He launched into a long and formal greeting, and Húrin and Huor turned to look at one another. They knew the expression that had flashed across Findekáno’s face well - they had seen it in their own mirrors, and the faces of the women they loved, often enough.

“Damn,” Húrin said. “Damn, how were we supposed to know he was in Himring?”

“We weren’t!” Huor answered, dropping his voice down. “That’s - shit, that’s nearly cheating.”

“Nearly cheating,” Húrin said, shaking his head. “He marries who he likes and we call it cheating.”

“It is cheating, if you win by holding out the gamepiece until the end,” Huor replied, getting to his feet and brushing the crumbs from his tunic. “All right, I’m going down to the garden.”

“What? Why? What for?”

“Because,” Huor said, “we’ve half a day of council left, and I’m not missing a second of their scintillating intellectual exchange.”

The look on his face revealed exactly what sort of intellect he was referring to, and Húrin found himself unable to hold back his laughter any longer.

Whatever the rest of the day would hold, it was certainly not going to be boring.

#replies #anon replies #tolkien #absynthe's fanfiction #húrin and huor #RUSSINGON

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ikeromantic · 3 years

Text

Old Friends, New Adventures

A Mitsuhide Akechi fanfic - this scene occurs post-Romantic epilogue. Approx. 2200 words of fluff and stuff.

First: Mitsuhide and the Maiden

Previous: My Home is Your Home

Mitsuhide was expecting to see Sarutobi. Afterall, he had invited the ninja and arranged the trip to align with the . . . worm hole. Instead, it was Ranmaru waiting for them downstairs. His wide smile and bright gaze made the warlord suspicious. He watched through narrowed eyes as his fiance bounded down the stairs and threw her arms around Ranmaru in greeting.

“It’s good to see you! Is everything ok?” She let go to look him in the face.

Ranmaru laughed. “I was about to say the same thing!” He took her hands. “I just had to come say hi when I realized this was where -” his gaze shifted to Mitsuhide. “Akechi ran off with you to.”

“We didn’t run off!” She pulled her hands out of his grip, clearly remembering Mitsuhide’s advice. “Anyway, I thought you were staying in Azuchi. Did you come all the way here to visit me?”

“Yes, why are you here,” Mitsuhide added.

Ranmaru took them both in with his wide, guileless eyes. “Oh! I suppose you left before Nobunaga announced it! I am taking a message to Kyoto for him.” He leaned forward and whispered theatrically. “It’s top secret.”

Mitsuhide did not believe the page. There were countless messengers for most letters and for important correspondence, there was no way Nobunaga would entrust that to Ranmaru. He needed to see this letter. With his crescent moon smile in place, the kitsune replied. “In that case, I must offer you my hospitality tonight. I’ll have a guest room set up for you.”

He expected Ranmaru to argue, and had already prepared several potential counter-arguments. None of them were needed. The page bowed. “Thanks, Mitsuhide! That’s really nice of you!”

His reaction almost made the warlord second guess himself. Was this what Ranmaru wanted all along? And if so, why? But he couldn’t ask. He just smiled and nodded to his castle staff. They would know what room to put the page in. It had thick walls and no windows. A secure door that could slide into place from the outside, turning the room into a cell. Mitsuhide would have answers from the page one way or another.

“Would you like to join us, Ranmaru? We’re going to visit the town and then have dinner here at the castle.” The chatelaine glanced at Mitsuhide to make sure this was alright.

“No, no. I’ll just head up to my room for a nap. I ran all the way here and I’m pretty tired.” The page wrinkled his nose. “I know you two want some alone time, anyway. But maybe we can have dinner together before I leave. That would be nice.”

Mitsuhide’s smile widened. Miyake could keep tabs on Ranmaru and maybe that would reveal all he needed to know. They said their goodbyes and left the page in good hands.

Outside the castle, the wind picked up. On the horizon, grey storm clouds billowed and boiled. There was a charge in the afternoon air that set teeth on edge. Even grown men looked askance at the shadows under trees and the darkness between close-packed buildings. It felt like the town was waiting for something.

The chatelaine noticed the brewing storm and frowned. “Do you think we’ll get rained on?”

Mitsuhide shook his head. “If a storm blows through while we are out, we can stop in a shop until it passes. This isn’t the season for heavy rains.” Still, he felt the strange currents in the cool breeze. His hand settled on his sword hilt and for just a moment, he thought of bringing the tanegashima. But this was not a battlefield and he was confident he could handle whatever came.

Many of the town’s residents still remembered the battle at Enryaku-ji, and they regarded their new lord with a wary respect. It was obvious in the way their gaze skittered to the side. How they answered every question with care. His little mouse noticed.

Her smiles were gentle and her compliments many. Mitsuhide could not help but be impressed at the way she set people at ease in her presence. She would make an excellent partner, he thought. One that could balance his strength and weakness. He didn’t notice the proud smile that turned his lips up or the warmth in his eyes as he watched her.

It was early evening when the sullen sky began to loose fat, wet rain drops. They fell in a slow but steady patter, creating little streams down the sides of buildings. The street sellers packed up their wares and people ducked into homes and shops to wait out the storm. Mitsuhide and his little one tucked themselves under the eaves of a closed shop.

“Do you want to stop by the inn for some warm sake before we go home?” Mitsuhide had to lean close to be heard over the rain on the rooftop.

She smiled and nodded. “Just one for me though. I can’t drink like you do.”

Mitsuhide grinned, wondering what she would say if she knew he didn’t drink as much as he seemed to. A man needed to have some secrets though. He grasped her hand and together they ran out under the rain, across the street and down two doors to the building with bright lanterns and music.

The inn here was always busy. It was a waystation for merchants between Kyoto and Azuchi. A natural place to stop and rest. Today was no exception. With the storm outside, the inn’s benches were packed from one side to the other. Mostly with merchants and their guards. A few townspeople, and some of the evening ladies who walked between tables looking for the most advantageous company.

One of the servers recognized Mitsuhide as they walked in, and hurried over. In moments, they were seated in a private room, hidden from the common area by deftly painted screens. Another server arrived with a tray of warm sake and onigiri.

“For you, my lord.” Both servers bowed low. It seemed they remembered his comment last time about preferring easy to eat foods.

“My betrothed would like -” Mitsuhide began, but she shook her head.

“No, this is fine. I’m not that hungry right now.”

Mitsuhide raised an eyebrow but nodded agreeably. “Thank you. You may go.”

Both men ducked out quickly, as if afraid the kitsune warlord might change his mind.

“They really seem afraid of you,” the chatelaine frowned after them. “I wish they knew how good and kind you really are.”

“Don’t go ruining my reputation, little mouse. I worked hard on it.” Mitsuhide laughed, but he was only half joking. “Let them see you as the kind and gentle Akechi, and continue to believe I am the monster.”

“But-”

Mitsuhide shook his head. “It is what must be. For now, at least.”

She looked as if she wanted to argue but after a moment, she smiled. “Alright. I know it is necessary, but I will look forward to the day I can introduce the Mitsuhide I know to all of them.”

He felt his cheeks heat at her sweet words and the look of adoration she wore. It never ceased to amaze him how precious she could be. To hide his unwieldy emotions, he turned his head to look at the screens. “Are you going to pour the sake or keep chattering away, little mouse?”

“Ooh that got to you,” she giggled. “I can see red in your cheeks!”

“You had best pour me a drink before I decide to return the favor,” he murmured. His tone had turned more husky than brusque. He hated the way she made him reveal his heart to her. It was impossible to hide from her.

“Alright, alright.”

Mitsuhide felt her move, heard the delicate clink of porcelain. He tried to focus on details to calm the fast beat of his heart and the warmth in his face. It wasn’t working very well. All he could think of was getting his love back to their room in the castle and peeling every stitch of fabric from her. With his teeth.

“You know, Nobunaga asked me once to serve him sake from my lips . . .”

Wide-eyed, Mitsuhide’s head snapped around to look at her. She was holding his sake cup in her hands. While he watched, she put it to her mouth and tipped it just enough to leave a trace of wine on her lips.

It was too much. First the sweetness and now this bold flirtation. Mitsuhide pulled her to him and kissed her. The rice wine blended with the taste of her, a heady alcohol to the drunkenness of his love.

She was vibrant and alive against him, her body warm, her hands caressing his back. Her lips moved against his, savoring the kiss. A breathy moan lost itself between them.

Mitsuhide might have done more, had they not been interrupted. Again. An embarrassed cough from a silhouette behind the painted screen. He broke their kiss reluctantly and turned his head to face the door. “Yes?”

Miyake poked his head in, cheeks stained red, eyes bright with held laughter. “Ehm. Sorry to interrupt your . . drink.”

“I assume this is an emergency?” The warlord’s tone was not amused.

“Maybe?” Miyake shrugged. “The page disappeared from his room. He is not in the castle and no one has seen him in the town. I have some men out looking for him. In fact, I’m on my way to join them. But I wanted to bring you this - in case it’s important.” He held out an envelope.

Mitushide took it. His expression remained one of calm annoyance, but inside he was a tumult of emotion. Worry for his little one, concern for the Oda forces, and even for Ranmaru. It was hard to play the traitor, harder still to be one. The envelope was sealed and on the front, it was addressed to the chatelaine.

She looked at it curiously. “Why do you suppose Ranmaru ran off? You think he’s in such a big hurry? And why did he leave me a letter? He could have just said goodbye in person.”

“I hope the letter will enlighten us.” Mitsuhide broke the seal and unfolded the paper. It held just three words.

I am sorry.

“What do you suppose that means?” The chatelaine looked anxious and confused.

Her naivete was endearing, but there were times Mitsuhide wished she was more suspicious.

Miyake snorted. “Pretty sure he’s not apologizing for missing dinner.” He turned around at the sound of a disturbance in the common room. Benches being pushed across the floor, shouts of alarm, and the stomp of running feet.

A ball of ice solidified in Mitsuhide’s belly. He hadn’t thought the ninja would act so soon - nor so precipitously. And now . . . he stood up. “Let’s see what is going on.”

The three of them pushed past the milling crowd and out into the rainy street. Across Lake Awaumi, red flames reflected against the steel grey sky. A fire big enough that even from this distance, they could smell the char of wood.

“Is that Azuchi,” his little mouse asked in a small voice.

“You can bet your best slippers, my lady.” Miyake’s face was set in a hard smile. One that promised violence to come.

“It appears, my little one, that our vacation has been cut short. We must return to Azuchi tonight.” Mitsuhide hugged her, taking comfort as much as giving it. The peace he’d hoped for was short lived, and now there was work to be done.

Above them, the storm rumbled and the rain began to fall in earnest. In moments, the fires across the lake were no more than a red glimmer barely seen through the wall of falling water. There was no sound but the rushing rain and the thunder.

Mitsuhide, Miyake, and the chatelaine fled back toward Sakamoto Castle to gather what they needed to return to Azuchi.

A figure collided with them in the street. Miyake stumbled and almost fell. Mitsuhide pushed his beloved behind him and set a hand on his sword.

“I - I’m sorry. I can’t see anything without my glasses. Please accept my deepest apologies!” The man had to shout to be heard, but even with his voice raised, Mitsuhide recognized the speaker.

“Sarutobi Sasuke.” It was an inopportune arrival, but then, neither of them could have planned for the events of this evening.

“Sasuke!” The chatelaine pushed past her fiancee to throw her arms around her old friend.

Mitsuhide pushed wet hair back from his face, squinting into the darkness. It looked like the ninja was alone, as agreed.

“Uh, my lady? Could we do this someplace dry?” Miyake’s strained voice cut through the storm sounds.

Sasuke nodded, wiping at his face. “Yes, that would be preferable. We don’t have much time though. I miscalculated the -”

A rush of wind silenced whatever else he’d been about to say. It came with a flash of lightning so bright, it blinded. And a roll of thunder that shook him to his bones. As suddenly as the wind came, it died. It left behind only empty silence and the sense of a vast space.

For a heartbeat, Mitsuhide panicked. This was a strange place, one without a sky or ground. Without familiar sounds or smells. He was alone. His little one, gone.

And then her hand found his.

He traced the small bones with his thumb, fingers entwined with hers. Though he wasn’t sure what was happening, he feared he understood.

Next: Adrift

#ikemen sengoku #ikesen mitsuhide #mitsuhide akechi #otome guys #otome #fanfiction #fanfic

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zombryz · 3 years

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chile, I want my guts DESTROYED by Broly or Whis. Ik saying Whis is a stretch, but idk, he's so fine to meeee. thank you 🥰

Hi Anon! I’m sort of a Whis girl myself (˵ ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°˵) please enjoy this lovely Whis one shot ~

TW: smut, and some fluff ✧

Lord Beerus’ planet was honestly really pretty. It was concealed within a nebula and it appeared to be upside down although when you were within it you were always right side up. Strange, but beautiful. There was an enormous tree growing in the center which at the base held Lord Beerus’ castle. Every morning you would take in all its glory with your daily meditation ritual that Piccolo taught you. You have been here for going on four months now. Because you were human you had no need for training, but Goku and Vegeta insisted on you coming along to cook meals and to keep them company. The Saiyan’s would be so lost without you. You had originally rolled your eyes at the invitation but you couldn’t pass up traveling through the galaxy. Lord Beerus and his attendant, Whis, didn’t seem to mind. They were always in the mood for a good meal. It was also a perk having a destroyer on your side, imagine if someone on earth had looked at you the wrong way. Gods, not even luck would be able to help them. It had grown a bit lonely though, your daily routine consisted of; waking up, meditating, watching Goku and Vegeta train with Whis, prepare breakfast, go back to meditation, watch them train some more, cook lunch, talk to Lord Beerus when/if he woke up, sometimes watch godtube with Lord Beerus, cook dinner, go to sleep, repeat. Your routine was becoming tiresome and you ached for a change.

This morning you had been meditating, your regular schedule, you looked down to see Goku and Vegeta going head to head with Whis. Obviously, Whis had dodged every single attack made by the pair of Saiyans. Your hands were on top of your knees while you were sitting in a criss-cross position. You had lifted one eye up to watch them train. The Saiyans hadn’t interested you as much as Whis did. He was so smooth and had such a calming presence. You felt as though nothing could penetrate his defenses. Vegeta once told you that Whis was the one to train Lord Beerus and so that piqued your interest. While watching them train you had usually fixed your eyes on either Goku or Vegeta, but this time you couldn’t take your eyes off of Whis. Something about him was so elegant and intoxicating. He must’ve felt your peering eyes because in the midst of taking on four fists to the face he looked up at you, making eye contact causing you to immediately close both of your eyes. Shit, you’d been caught peeping. You hoped with his many talents that he couldn’t read minds, that would be embarrassing to explain to him the dirty things you had been thinking at that moment.

Finally, it was dinner time. You had cooked up a large enough meal for your makeshift-god family. You made mountains of ramen, it all looked and smelled so delicious. The spices filling up the room causing your mouth to water. You grabbed one bowl for yourself and let them all dig in.

“Thank you, Y/N,” Whis looked at you with sincerity in his eyes. He held direct eye contact for a moment. This was a different look for him, usually, he stuffs his face and would give thanks after.

“You’re welcome, Whis,” you replied, giving a gentle smile. This interaction caused your heart to thump in your chest. He had singled you out before you were nothing more than the cook. If you were being honest with yourself you didn’t even know if he knew your name.

After dinner, you found yourself in your bedroom, one of the many rooms in the palace. This always confused you because Beerus didn’t seem to be one for having guests over. You had just gotten out of your nightly shower patting your hair dry with a secondary towel. When you walk out of the bathroom that was attached to your bedroom, you see none other than the Angel himself, Whis. You froze, your first thought was that maybe you were seeing things. Why was Whis in your bedroom? He was standing there with his scepter in his right hand while his left hand was behind his back. There was a moment of silence before he began to speak.

“I am not supposed to be doing this but after the way you looked at me today it confirmed it,” he trailed off at the end. You weren’t really following.

“Whis, what are you talking about?” You questioned, raising a brow in confusion. He seemed a little nervous himself and you were glad you weren’t the only one having a mini panic attack.

“I have felt attracted to you for a while now, Y/N. Today, when you looked at me during training your body language had confirmed that you feel the same.” He said this time sounding more confident than before. Your heart started racing, you thought this was just some silly crush but now an Angel was standing in your bedroom confessing how he feels about you. Your face was turning rosy when you realized you hadn’t responded to him yet.

“Oh, um. Y-Yeah. I’m sorry if that complicates things for you. I didn’t even think Angels were capable of liking mortals.” You finally answered, unsure of where this was going to go. You were beginning to feel the weight of this whole conversation, not even thinking about the fact that you were still in only a towel. Angels definitely didn’t understand social cues, otherwise, this would be way more awkward.

Without responding Whis hammered his scepter to the ground ordering it to undress you. Your towel dropped to the ground and you had no intention of covering yourself. Your cheeks had become completely red now, you were standing in front of the angel completely naked with your hair still dripping wet. Whis leaned his scepter against the wall and started undressing, removing his long black cuirass first and then his maroon robe not long after. Still in shock, you watched him remove every bit of clothing he had on until you were both standing nude and at each other’s disposal. Standing in silence you felt that this was oddly romantic, his eyes wandered down your body appreciating every part, every curve of it with a hunger in his eyes that you had never seen before. You returned the favor by letting your eyes trail down his body, starting with his perfectly chiseled jaw, just under was his glowing blue halo that fell at his collarbone, his arm muscles looked like they had been crafted by the gods themselves. His chest was perfectly swole and slender. His torso ended in a beautiful v-shape. He was standing with both hands behind his back, allowing you to take in his glory. When your eyes went lower you realized that he was already as hard as a rock. His dick was big and long and a lighter shade of blue than the rest of his skin. It looked so supple in the moonlight, his tip was a brighter pink and it had an iridescent glow of pre-cum at its tip. You wanted so badly to get on your knees, sucking off the Angel right where he stood. Your body tingles at the thought causing you to shiver.

Whis lifted two fingers and motioned for you to come to him, without even having to move your body you were flying to him through the air using his abilities. The space between you was very limited now and this caused your breathing to quicken. He towered over you and you couldn’t help but want to be dominated by him. Whis on the other hand was calm and eager. You stepped closer to him, that’s when you noticed his halo was preventing you from getting any closer. To fix the issue, you stepped underneath and into his halo so that now he shared his space with you. The halo was now wrapped around the both of you causing you to be forced closer together. Chests now touching, you looked up to see his face illuminated by both the moonlight sneaking in through the window and his halo that was humming a low buzzing noise next to both sides of your faces. The feeling was euphoric. He made one last gentle look at you before his eyes turned needy, he leaned down to kiss you. It was passionate and fiery, both of his hands came out from behind his back to grab and cup your face. His tongue wanting to explore your mouth so you slightly opened yours allowing him entrance. A moan escaped your lips sending him into a fury. His kisses became sloppy and hungry. His hands traveled down to your breasts, toying with your already hard nipples. He slightly pinched at your nipples before grabbing a fistful of your breasts causing him to inhale deeply. Growing impatient he reached down to pick you up so that you would be closer to him. Your legs wrapped around his waist as he carried you to your bed. Halo still around you both it was the most intimate you had ever felt with anyone. It was as though you were tied to each other, causing an unbreakable bond. Whis slowly laid you on the bed, you were already soaking wet and ready for him. This time you grew impatient and reached for his cock, once you had him in your hands you lined him up to your entrance making sure to slide him up and down to gather your wetness. Whis kissed you between moans, the moment he slid in you both inhaled deeply feeling the pleasure of him inside of you, your lips still pressed together. With a few more pumps you grew comfortable with his size, you wanted him to quicken his pace.

“Whis, faster. P-please,” you breathily mewled in his ear, he didn’t hesitate. He began thrusting into you harder and faster causing you to throw your head back in pleasure which only caused him to fall closer to you because of the halo. As he continued fucking you he snaked his hands up to your breasts, with his halo it was difficult but he needed you in his mouth. He leaned down slightly, bending his body enough to grab one of your breasts. He began flicking his tongue over your sensitive skin, you were quite literally in heaven. With his free hand, he began circling your clit with his thumb. Gods, this felt so good. You bucked your hips into him desperate for release.

You wanted to make him feel good too, you motioned for him to switch places. With a quick shift you were straddling him, his cock still deep inside your walls. You moved slightly as you got comfortable in the new position. His halo created the perfect closeness you needed to ride out your orgasm. Whis sat up and kissed down your neck and collarbone. He planted sloppy kisses all over your face. He kissed the tip of your nose and forehead, causing you to smile while you bounced on top of him. This reaction made him smile sweetly in return. You continued to grind against him, he lifted his lower body slightly to give you a greater closeness than you had before. While you were riding him he wrapped his arms around you holding you down on his cock shoving his length entirely inside you, holding you still while he thrust into you this time. A loud moan came from the back of your throat causing him to quicken his speed. You were reaching for release and god was he giving it to you, he kept massaging your breasts with one hand while holding you tightly in the other. You rode out your climax, clamping around him, milking his cock, not worried about if anyone else in the palace could hear your moans of pleasure. Whis wasn’t far behind, he quickened his speed steading out his thrusts so that he could come. He held you down on his cock shoving in and out of you while you bounced on top of him. His cock hitting the end of your walls each time. With his eyes closed, he threw his head back causing you to be pulled into the nook of his neck and shoulder. You planted kisses on the sides of his neck as you rest your head on him while he came hard inside of you. He felt so good. Without getting off of him, he remained inside of you, you could feel his warm cum spilling out from the sides of your walls and down your legs but you didn’t care. You were both panting, you were still laid against him quite comfortably where you were. You were in a hugging position and never wanted to move out of this spot. After a minute or two you sat up, still straddling him you took both of your hands and cupped them around his temples, pushing his tall, white hair down while you reached up to kiss him on the forehead. After the kiss, you pressed your forehead against his. He was your angel and you never wanted to leave this halo.

#dbs whis #whis #fan fic smut #fan fiction #dragon ball super #Bryannawrites #angel #whis imagine

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roselightfairy · 3 years

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For @carlandrea, who prompted Thranduil + Gimli. I don’t know exactly what I was intending with this, and I have no idea if it makes narrative or emotional sense, but... it’s all for the Atmosphere, baby. Just go with it.

...

Legolas was not often called away for duties when they visited Eryn Lasgalen – not since he had removed to Ithilien and taken the better part of his unit of archers with him. Though he remained yet a prince of Eryn Lasgalen in name, he was lord of Ithilien in deed and in duty, and was treated as such when he returned home.

By his father, at least. His sister had no such reservations, either in the enthusiasm of her greeting or her requests for him upon arrival. She had asked him to accompany her on a brief scouting mission, and – whether out of guilt for having robbed Lasgalen of its most skilled archers, or desire for her company, Gimli knew not – he had agreed. The journey was meant to take them only perhaps a day and a night, and in the meantime Gimli wandered the halls alone.

He had accustomed himself quickly to the caverns where the elves lived: he could find his way under stone well enough, no matter who else might inhabit it. Still, they felt strange to him – instead of the thrumming of warmth that dwarven homes always awoke in his chest – the long-awaited welcome of Erebor; the glorious thrill of Aglarond – these halls rang with an empty loneliness, an ache in his chest as of a missing piece, some long-held sadness. The closest he could come to comparing it was the dimmed ancient glory of Khazad-dûm, but even that was not quite right – there was a diminishing in these halls, an echo of emptiness not of a grandeur now lost, but of a hope never fulfilled. It echoed in his chest, in the sound of his footsteps, flickered in the shadows of ivy on the walls, illuminated by torchlight; it swept across his face in the breeze from the wide windows and skylights.

The halls of Eryn Lasgalen were quiet at night. Elves slept little, so Gimli would have expected bustling, but any reveling that occurred took place out under the stars, and he supposed even elves needed to rest at times. His footsteps were loud on the stone floors, the solid step of a dwarf accustomed to walking where he would, though it felt strangely illicit here, where so few dwarves had been welcome. Gimli was given the freedom to roam where he would in his husband’s home, where his father had been locked away merely for setting foot in the forest, and he felt almost guilty for it, as though he dishonored his father’s trials with every step.

His wandering footsteps took him around a corner, up a set of spiraling steps, and he found himself in a shaded alcove hung with ivy and berries he dared not touch, against a window cut into the stone that looked out over the forest. Gimli folded his arms on the sill and gazed out, noting the rustle of leaves in the darkness, of lights in the distance where elves must be dancing and drinking. He wondered where Legolas was, out there in the forest, beneath the shaded boughs – or among them.

“May I join you?”

The voice came from behind him, practically in his ear; Gimli whirled, nearly choking on his spiking heartbeat. Legolas’s father stood behind him, not as close as he had sounded but still far nearer than he ought to be, for how silently he had approached. He had forgone the crown of leaves tonight; his golden hair streamed loose down his back, and he wore a simple green tunic and a faintly amused smile.

“Of course you may,” said Gimli, his voice rasping as he recovered his breath. “I would not turn you away anywhere in your own halls.”

Thranduil tilted his head as if in acknowledgement of that point and came to join Gimli in gazing out the windows. He left a respectable few inches of space between them, but still Gimli rarely stood so near to Legolas’s father; his nerves hummed in acute awareness of their proximity.

It was silent for a time, and then Thranduil spoke again. “I am sorry to startle you.”

There was just enough upward lilt in his voice, something lighter beneath the dry deadpan, that Gimli risked a flicker of his eyes to the side, a slight incline of his head. “Forgive me, your majesty,” he said, “but I do not think you are.”

Thranduil laughed openly at that, and Gimli restrained a startle at the sound. “Perhaps not,” he allowed. “Sometimes, the temptation to ensure that one has not lost one’s touch is simply . . . irresistible.”

“Perhaps particularly when one is approaching one’s son-in-law?” Gimli suggested, equally dry, and was rewarded with another laugh.

Thranduil’s laughter was more restrained than Legolas’s or even Laerwen’s, as though he were waiting for another punchline, but still the rare mirth felt like a gift – like a sign of favor. “Perhaps,” he said, his smile fading as he turned again out the window. His long fingers came to rest on the sill as though it were an organ and he meant to launch into a piece of music. Like spider legs, Gimli would have once thought them – such was the phrase often used to describe Thranduil in Erebor – in exaggerated tales told after a few drinks only, for Dáin would not condone it. But still it was whispered: the lord of the spiders at the center of a web of greed and deceit.

It was an epithet Gimli would never use again – not after seeing the hatred in Legolas’s eyes when he spoke of the spiders and what all they had taken from his people and his family.

Silence fell between them, but it was not a silence Gimli could read like he could Legolas’s – he knew not whether to speak and break it, or to let it stretch. In absence of intuition, stretch it did, long and taut until something felt about to snap, and finally he could bear it no longer.

“Your halls are beautiful,” he offered, cringing even as the words left his lips. But he had begun, and so he must continue. “The design is like nothing I have seen before.”

“That means much, coming from a dwarf of Erebor,” said Thranduil. His lips pursed, then relaxed. “But even we of the woods make do, when we must.” He gazed out the window again, and Gimli too turned to look out over the woods, the patches of trees light with revelers. He wondered what Thranduil could hear.

Thranduil’s face remained as unreadable as ever, but something in his stance, in the tilt of his head, reminded Gimli abruptly of how Legolas stood when he looked at Ithilien, at the homes elves had built in trees, reveling in their newfound safety. “I know something of making do,” he said slowly. “But I do not think the creation of something beautiful is wholly a loss, even if it comes from sorrow.” He clamped his mouth shut before he could speak further, unsure whose painful memories he might rouse with these words – Thranduil’s, or his own.

Thranduil turned to look sharply at Gimli, his eyes keen as though measuring him. It was not the penetrating stare of the Lady Galadriel, but still Gimli felt somehow tested in his gaze, those cool grey eyes like steel raking over his body. When Thranduil looked away at last, he could not say if he had been found wanting.

“You are more right than even you know, maybe,” Thranduil said at last. “But I will hope for your sake and for Legolas’s that you need never resign yourself to it.” He sighed, and for just a moment his hands tightened their grip on the windowsill, his knuckles flashing white beneath his skin – and then, as though Gimli had imagined it, they were loose again, resting against the stone like on organ keys.

As Gimli floundered for a response, Thranduil straightened beside him, a wave passing through his spine to draw him up even taller than before. “Are you faring well in these halls?” he said. “No one has given you trouble?”

Gimli blinked, shaken by the abrupt change in mood. “Yes,” he said, “yes, everyone is perfectly cordial.” Not perfectly – not with the murmurs in dark corners in the Sindarin that Gimli could understand well enough; not when he sometimes felt a prickle on the back of his neck and heard laughter behind him, though he could not see who followed him. He felt safe enough here, particularly when Legolas was by his side, and that was enough.

“Good.” Thranduil nodded. “Do tell me if at any time our hospitality is less than might be hoped. I would not have my son-in-law treated poorly within my realm.”

“I” – How should he promise to do something he had no intention of doing? “You are kind,” was what he managed at last, a non-answer.

Thranduil’s eyes narrowed shrewdly, and Gimli knew he caught it, but what could he say to such an answer? “I am hardly kind,” was his response. “As you have no doubt been reminded. But I do not make commitments lightly.”

“Nor does your son,” Gimli said, before he could think better of it – thinking of the earnestness of every one of Legolas’s promises, how sincerely he held his word. His heart ached at even this brief separation, at this strange conversation with Legolas’s father while his husband was away, and yet he wondered if Legolas’s sincerity was some gift from his father, undiluted by the years of trial and suspicion that shielded Thranduil’s eyes.

“No,” Thranduil said – soft, a rush of air, almost a sigh. “No, he does not.”

The melancholy that rose between them was entirely different now: not an acknowledgement of past suffering but an unspoken shared knowledge of future regrets that neither of them could help – a shared love for one who had set himself firmly on the path to grief, heedless of what either could wish for him. Gimli had known moments like this before – more often with Thranduil’s daughter than with the king himself – of that sudden kinship, that shared silent sorrow. For a moment, it was all he could feel.

And then, as abruptly as it had begun, the moment was ended and Thranduil had let his hands fall from the sill, stepped back from Gimli’s side. “I will leave you to your thoughts, then,” he said. “Have a pleasant evening, Gimli.”

“And you,” Gimli managed after him, half-stunned in his wake, but Thranduil gave no indication he had heard him but a half-raised hand, as much a dismissal as a farewell, and then he was striding off down the hallway and disappearing into the dark.

He departed as soundlessly as he had arrived.

#my fic #gimli #thranduil #gimli & thranduil #legolas x gimli #it's implied

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ragewerthers · 3 years

Text

To Defeat A Dragon

Summary: With the 100 year war behind them and the battles now lying more in the council room then on the battlefield, Sokka and Zuko take a moment to reminisce over the last few years.

However, reminiscing comes with a few surprises for Zuko when he forgets something rather important about the spars he used to have with Sokka. But no worries... Sokka is more than happy to remind him.

A/n: Hello and Merry christmas, my friend!!! I am the secret santa for @calmturquoise for the Squealing Santa 2020! Thank you for giving me the chance to write something so sweet for these two and getting to join in on the fun of ATLA again!

I also want to thank @ticklygiggles for hosting this event again! You're amazing and I’m so happy I got to participate in this once more!

The prompt was for some sweet, platonic Sokka and Zuko and I was so excited to get the chance to write these two!!!

You can also read on AO3 at: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28308495

Enjoy! :)

Word Count: 2941

--------------------------------

“I think they’re deliberately starting to make those Council meetings longer,” Zuko grumbled, shifting uncomfortably where he now rested. Currently, he was sat at the edge of the small turtleduck pond in the middle of the royal gardens. Attempting to alleviate the ache in his back he went to sit up a little straighter. The result was his back cracking in a way that was probably unhealthy for someone who was only twenty-three, but really he should’ve known this would be par for the course. Growing up a child warrior really isn’t kind to the bones in the long run. Wincing at the dull ache it left behind it wasn’t enough to distract him from the snort of his less than empathetic friend.

“No, buddy. You’re just finally starting to become the cranky old man you always were inside,” Sokka teased, practically laying beside Zuko as he reclined back on his elbows… before promptly collapsing next to the Firelord with a yelp. A charlie ostrihorse had aggressively decided to seize the muscles in his shoulders and neck and all he could do was roll around in the grass like a crazy person. Apparently, Zuko wasn’t the only one starting to feel the effects of those long meetings.

Zuko instantly smirked at the reaction, happy to see Sokka getting a taste of the elderly lifestyle they now lived in apparently.

“First of all, you deserve all of what’s happening to you right now,” Zuko said, waving his hand in the direction of Sokka’s prone form. “Second of all, what do you mean cranky?! I’m a ray of sunshine.”

The words were spoken so deadpan that Sokka instantly snorted with a bit of pained laughter, still clutching the side of his neck as he lay on the ground. “Don’t d-do thahat! Can’t you s-see I’m hurting?!” he whined, though his smile still remained as he looked over at his best friend. “But yes… how could I forget, oh great Firelord, that the sun is literally supposed to shine out of your butt?”

Zuko finally broke into a more open smile, sitting up a little straighter and nodding. “And don’t you forget it,” he joked, getting another ridiculous giggle from Sokka.

After a few more minutes, the pain finally seemed to subside as the water tribesman was able to sit up with a wince. Rolling his shoulder a bit to try and work out the last of the kink he couldn’t stop himself from letting out an almost wistful sigh. “But isn’t it a bit sad? I didn’t think it was possible to get aches and pains from just sitting! Remember the good old days of our youth when we could spar for hours and hours and we wouldn’t even be phased?”

“What do you mean ‘the good old days of our youth’? You’re only a year younger than me,” Zuko said with a little roll of his eyes as he began to remove his crown. With no further meetings scheduled for the day he figured he might as well be comfortable. Setting it beside himself on the grass he settled back against the tree, ignoring the look Sokka was giving him.

“Hey! We’re older than we were back then, right? So… those are the days of our youth! And you ignored the question,” he huffed.

“Oh… you were actually looking for an answer to your ramblings?” Zuko teased, a small smile fighting to quirk up the corners of his lips as he tried to ignore Sokka puffing his cheeks up like a toddler. Oh yeah… the man obviously had matured so much since those days. “Okay, okay. I do remember. I still consider myself proficient with the dual dao, but I think you’re right. With sitting most of our days away, I’m sure it hasn’t done our skills any favors.”

Sokka’s pout instantly retreated, replaced with a light smile as Zuko agreed with him. “Right? Not to mention that it was always super satisfying every time I won which, I mean, was almost always after our first few spars,” he said smugly, causing the Firelord to instantly focus on him.

“I’m sorry… what?” Zuko asked, his eyes narrowed and voice almost dangerously low.

Sadly, enough time and shared moments between them meant that Sokka no longer feared the ‘fire scowl’. Instead, his smug smile only grew. “You heard me. You may have handed my ass to me the first few times we spared, but after that I almost never lost another fight against you.”

“.... did that cramp do something to your memory?” Zuko wondered aloud. “It must’ve because if memory serves, you almost never won against me. You came close a number of times, but I was almost always the victor.”

However, regardless of how insistent his statement, that smug smile still remained on Sokka’s face as the Southern Water Tribesman sat up beside his friend. “Nope. I’m afraid old age has started to rust up those memories of yours, Sifu Hotman. I won almost all of our spars and I can’t believe you’ve forgotten.”

“......... did you drink one of Uncle’s experimental teas again? You know he almost killed himself doing that once!” Zuko warned, because that was the only way that Sokka could possibly think that he had won so many of their duels.

But something akin to worry grew in Zuko’s chest when he saw Sokka’s smile turning from smug to something a little more dangerous.

“Oh my dear Jerkbender. I think you’ve forgotten that while you may have had the upperhand most of the time when we were dueling, I found out a secret move. Because I remembered a universal truth about dragons.”

Oh yeah… Sokka definitely drank the experimental teas. He’d warned uncle that cactus juice wasn’t to be messed with!

Zuko quirked an eyebrow at the comment before closing his eyes to calm his temper. Taking in a deep breath before letting it out slowly, he turned once more to look at his friend. “Okay, buddy. Let’s get you to the healers,” he began gently, carefully reaching forward to rest his hand on Sokka’s shoulder. “I think they have a remedy for thi-HIHIS?!”

Immediately his arm moved back from Sokka to cover his side as an electric feeling zipped through his veins.

Sokka was only just keeping himself from laughing beside him, his fingers still poised from where they’d managed a small nibbling pinch against the Firelord's lower ribs. “The thing about dragons…,” Sokka continued, ignoring Zuko’s insistence on getting him medical attention. “... is that all of them have a soft spot. Once you find it… you can defeat it. And I was lucky enough to find a dragon with more weak spots then most.”

Suddenly Zuko remembered almost every one of his spars with Sokka… and with it the memory of an evil, horrible truth. Sokka had indeed won most of their spars after the first few. Because that cheating dunderhead had accidentally found out that Zuko… was horrendously ticklish.

And judging from the look Sokka was leveling him with his friend was looking to make sure he definitely remembered this little fact.

“S-Sokka! Sokka, listen to me… don’t you da-AH!” he shouted, rolling away just in time as Sokka attempted to tackle him into the grass. Quickly, Zuko managed to get up onto his knees, trying to get his feet underneath him to stand, but fate decided to deal him a cruel hand once more. His Fire nation robes for all the brilliance and regality they offered him to onlookers were far from practical. Long and flowing silks were seen as traditional and although he’d made many reforms in his time already on the throne, fashion hadn’t quite made it to the table yet. Thus, as he attempted to flee from his friend, his feet only managed to step on the front of his robes, stopping his movements and pausing him just long enough to land himself in Sokka’s clutches.

Before he knew it, two strong arms were already locked around his waist and Zuko attempted to use his words once more to try and plead his case for freedom.

Of course… when had that ever played out in his favor? “Sokka! S-Sokka, I remember, okay? You…. y-you don’t have to do this!” Zuko attempted to sound reasonable and less nervous then he felt, though he realized stuttering over his words lost a little bit of that authoritative tone he was aiming for.

“Oh, I realize I don’t have to do this,” Sokka teased, crooking the fingers of his left hand to press in just a little bit more against Zuko’s side making the young Firelord gasp and bite his lower lip to stay quiet. “But at this point I feel it is my duty to remind Lord Jerkbender about this so he doesn’t forget who the number one spar master is.”

“Spar master isn’t even a thing! You can’t just give yourself titles like th-ahahat! Ah! Nonono!” Zuko’s small diatribe instantly died on his lips as Sokka’s fingers began to wriggle against his side, a few rather unbecoming giggles already breaking free before he reined himself in again.

“What was that? Were you backsassing Sokka the mighty dragon slayer?!” Sokka teased, though he couldn’t help smiling as he already heard the familiar rasp of Zuko’s laughter. This was going to be far too entertaining. How could he pass up this opportunity?

“Dragon slayer?! You’re ridiculous! Let me gohohoahahaha! Stahp it! Stahahahap!” Zuko felt the flutter of Sokka’s other hand where it rested against his lower ribs on the opposite side. Immediately the jolt of ticklish sensations raced through him and he felt his knees already starting to turn to jelly beneath him. Of all of the things he could be weak against, something as silly as tickling was more than enough to sap his strength. Sokka’s smirk came back as he heard that, his fingers, scribbling lightly over both the Firelord’s sides. Working in tandem his fingers lightly brushed along the vulnerable area before massaging quickly into his lower ribs. If memory served, this had been one of the better weak spots of this particular dragon.

“WAHAIT!” Zuko cried out, his laughter finally breaking free from those raspy giggles to something lighter and more carefree. Honestly, it was something Sokka had been so proud to draw out all those years ago when Zuko was still that broody teenager who had joined their gaang. He had been so awkward and to be fair, their dear jerkbender still kinda was, but after attempting through sheer bullheadedness to forge a friendship with him, Sokka honestly couldn’t have been prouder to call him his best friend.

And what kind of best friend would he be if he didn’t tease and taunt Zuko into never forgetting his super awesome new title that he just came up with? A terrible one… and Sokka refused to be a terrible friend.

“Wait? Wait for what? Oh! Were you going to finally call me by my proper title?” Sokka teased as he moved one of his hands down to squeeze along Zuko’s right hip.

Zuko instantly jumped at the sensation, feeling his legs finally starting to cave under him as he attempted to curl up in Sokka’s hold to escape the sensations. He could feel his cheeks and ears heating up as his laugh bubbled up unbidden, the noise still slightly foreign to him even after all these years. However, Sokka had never seemed to have a problem drawing it out of him. He just wished he had remembered that before drawing out the ‘dragon slayer’ once more.

“Nehehehever!” Zuko growled out between his laughter, his hands weakly attempting to push away Sokka’s to no avail. “Ihihit’s a… a stuhupid naha-EHEHEHE! STAHAHP IT Y-YOU AHAHAHASS!” Zuko’s strength finally gave out as his legs buckled beneath him, though with Sokka’s arms around him he was easily lowered to the ground. Sadly this did nothing for his current situation as Sokka had seemed to remember another one of his worst spots.

His stomach.

“Doth my ears deceive me? Did you just call my regal and totally awesome title stupid?! How dare you, good sir!” Sokka teased, his arm braced carefully around Zuko as his other vibrated quickly right against the center of Zuko’s stomach. He’d learned very early on that the easiest way to break Zuko’s concentration and resolve was a nice little attack on this particular area. “You know how to get this to stop, Zuko! Admit that I am the best dragon slayer in the world!”

Zuko snorted as Sokka’s hand began to scribble all around the hyper ticklish spot, trying to shimmy this way and that out of the man's hold to get away from the maddening touch. However, practically sitting on the ground with a tickle monster clung to your back really didn’t leave much wiggle room and Zuko realized his chances of freedom were slim. But his pride just wouldn’t allow for him to admit defeat just yet!

“Thahahaha’ts not e-even a thihihing! I re-refuhuhuse to gihihive in t-to yo-AHAHA! STAHP IT! STAHPSTAHPSTAHAHAHAP!” Zuko instantly broke into the most wild and ridiculous laughter as Sokka snuck one of his hands under his arm, his fingers spidering quickly against Zuko’s underarm in a way that drove the firebender crazy with ticklish laughter. Zuko instantly snapped his arms to his sides, trapping Sokka’s hand against his armpit while the man's other hand continued to scribble and send nibbling pinches all along his stomach.

“Admit it! Admit that I’m the best!” Sokka called over Zuko’s loud laughter, the sound of it making him smile like an idiot even as a few chuckles escaped him. Spirits, it really had been far too long since he’d seen Zuko let loose like this even just a bit. Maybe this was something they needed in their lives a bit more? It definitely wouldn’t hurt after all the droll and intense meetings they were forced to go to day in and day out.

Meanwhile, Zuko was dying. The Kiyoshi warriors were going to show up here to see that their poor Firelord had met his end at the hands of a ridiculous man who had a pension for coming up with truly terrible titles for things! Sadly he couldn’t dwell on his dramatic end as Sokka’s fingers were still attacking two of his worst spots. Zuko knew that there really was only one way out of this. “OKAHAHAY! O-OKAY I AHAHADMIT IHIHIT!” Zuko cried out with unrestrained laughter, feeling the tickling slowing down just a little to keep him giggling ridiculously.

“What was that? Are you trying to tell me something, buddy?” Sokka teased, his fingers wriggling lightly against Zuko’s armpit as the other hand focused on a particularly sensitive spot on the side of the firebenders stomach.

Zuko snorted and kicked his legs out weakly before nodding. “Y-yes! You… you’re the behehehest gah! Not thehehere! Not there plehehease! Agnihihi why-hehehe?!” Zuko giggled hysterically as Sokka found that spot on his stomach. Taking as deep a breath as possible he tried to once more to make his bid for freedom! “Y-You’re the behehehest drahagon slahahahayer! Plehehehase!”

Sokka’s fingers immediately stopped their torment, chuckling a bit to himself. “See? That wasn’t so hard was it?” he teased, patting Zuko’s back as he helped the man sit up, watching the firebender wiping away tears of mirth from his eyes as residual giggles still managed to escape.

“Yes. Y-yes it was,” Zuko shot back, though as he turned to look at his friend, the smile on his face was more relaxed, even after the mini battle he’d just had to endure. “I can’t believe I… forgot what a… giant pain in the ass you were after you figured that out.”

It was Sokka’s turn to laugh as he heard that and he felt his smile growing all the more fond. “It was probably one of my greatest discoveries and I will cherish it forever! Not many people can say they bested the Firelord,” Sokka teased, lightly nudging Zuko with his elbow and getting a chuckle in response.

“That’s fair. But really? Dragon slayer?” Zuko asked, trying to earn back a bit of dignity as he attempted to straighten out his traitorous robes.

“What? It makes me sound so cool!” Sokka cried out dramatically, making it incredibly hard for Zuko not to roll his eyes.

“I’m still not convinced you didn’t try one of uncle’s teas,” Zuko murmured, though he smiled regardless. “And I hope you know that this is the last time the mighty ‘dragon slayer’ is going to win. I won’t be caught with my guard down like that again.”

“Oh? Is that a challenge, Jerkbender?” Sokka teased, leaning closer and wiggling his fingers threateningly.

Zuko couldn’t suppress a snort of laughter as he pushed Sokka’s face away gently with his palm. “I’m too old for your nonsense,” he joked, making Sokka laugh brightly.

“Nah. We’re still young at heart. That’s all that matters,” Sokka said with a fond smile. “And if you ever forget that as well, I’m more than happy to remind you again about the days of our youth.”

Shaking his head, but with a fond smile on his lips, Zuko couldn’t help feeling that familiar warmth build in his chest. The world may be changing. They may still be working to right the wrongs and suffer through countless meetings and council members, but… with friends like Sokka there to remind him it was okay to let loose, laugh and remember that they really were still young at heart, he knew he could face anything.

Even dragon slayers.

#squealingsanta2k20 #tickle fic #my fics #zuko #sokka #atla #fluff #these two are precious #I hope you enjoy this my friend!

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shadowthief78 · 3 years

Text

Lucky Star

(GN!Reader/Diluc)

He's never seen someone as carefree as you. You laugh until your stomach aches, steal apples for their orchards and sips of wine from any unattended glasses in the tavern, dance until your shoes split beneath the moonlight. You toss your life fast and loose like a pair of dice, betting, betting, always betting on the gods's favor and always winning it despite the lack of a Vision.

Some call it foolishness, some call it luck, but all he knows is that you have something he doesn't.

You first meet one frosty autumn day amids the bare apple trees. He stops in the space between rows, stares up at you, silhouetted agains the gray-white sky and framed by the spindly black branches.

You ignore him, only reaching up to snatch another frostbitten apple from the tree. Yesterday, he could have been certain that the only fruit left was rotten and riddles with worms, but the one you now hold is shiny and crisp, perfect in all aspects save the light layer of ice on its surface.

"What are you doing?" He asks. You open an eye and glance down.

"Nothing that concerns you," you respond, then close your eye and bite into the apple. He can hear the sharp snap of the flesh. It makes him hungry - breakfast was too long ago and lunch is too far away.

"I live here?" He says.

"Don't sound so certain now, do you?" You say, then pluck a stray leaf, twirl it in your fingers, and let it drop. You aren't even looking at him, staring into Dragonspine in the distance.

"I live here," he says, without a tremor in his voice this time. "You're eating our apples."

"Someone's got to," you tell him. "They'll go bad otherwise. And isn't the harvest done? I though people in Mondstadt are supposed to let wanderers like me pick through the leftovers."

He can't argue with you because you're right, as long as he can remember his father has let anyone who wishes to pick the fields after a harvest. He settles for sputtering indignantly, "You might hurt the tree."

"I won't," you say, sounding so certain that he falls silent.

"Aren't you cold?" He says, noticing your worn and patched clothing. He's cold, even wrapped up in a coat. "Do you want to come in?"

"I'm fine. I have to practice," you say. You look at him for the first time. "I'm going there, you know." You point to the mountain. "Dragonspine. I'm going to climb it and see the world from the summit."

If it were anyone else, he would have called their bluff. You, he just nods and accepts your statement. You're going to climb Dragonspine one day and nobody can stop you.

You turn up again the next day, wrapped up in your scrappy cape and napping on top of a few hay bales in the stable. The horses look remarkably unbothered for having a hurricane in human form in their midst, one even nosing your makeshift mattress and nibbling around the edges of your hood.

"I hope you don't mind," the stablehand says to him. "They asked to sleep for the night and it was cold, I couldn't just toss them out. I though Master Crepus wouldn't mind. . ."

Diluc isn't sure to be happy or not. Kaeya laughs at him when he says he's twice met someone who wants to explore Dragonspine later at dinner.

The third time you turn up, it's when he's been called to stop you from splashing in the fountain in the middle of Mondstadt Plaza. It's an unusually warm day in early spring and he hasn't seen hide nor hair of you since the beginning of winter, and a little part of him is grateful you haven't frozen or fallen to your death (your gliding is atrocious), but a larger part wants to ask you why you're still here when a self-proclaimed wanderer like you should already be onto the next city.

"Why, Mister Apples, we meet again," is your greeting to him and the pair of knight trainees behind him. "Been to Dragonspine lately?"

"Nobody goes to Dragonspine during winter," he says. "It's too cold."

You shrug and go back to kicking your feet in the clear water. "Not for me."

"You can't wade in the fountain," he says once he realizes there's no point arguing with you.

"Can too," you counter, hiking your pants up and walking around the fountain in a stiff-legged gait. "See? It's most definitely possible."

One of the knights behind him snickers. Your eyes gleam. "Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't realize you had a condition that doesn't allow you to wade in fountains. My condolences for your loss, Mister Apples. A terrible shame, it is, not being able to wade."

"I can wade in a fountain," he says, grumpy. "And don't call me Apples."

"Mister Apples," you correct. "Why not? You never gave me your name and I do seem to recall you are quite particular about those apples."

"My name is Diluc," he says, then realizes that the way you beam means he's played right into your hands. "And nobody's allowed to wade in this fountain, get out before I have to write you up for it."

You shrug, pick up your bag, and make a beeline to the shallow water near the flowerbeds. He doesn't know what he expected.

The next time your paths cross, he realizes he doesn't know your name. When he asks you smile with your eyes closed, a wide grin streching across your face.

"Why so curious, Master Diluc?" His name is a mockery on your lips. You enjoy polarizing the simple things, double sided words and outright lies falling from your mouth, but they all sound believable and reasonable when you deliver them with your silver tongue.

"It's annoying talking about someont whose name I don't kmow," he says. "You know mine. Don't most people give their names when they meet?"

"Ahh, but I am not most people," you say, tipping your barstool back and sliding a piece across the chessboard. "I am very far from most people in many ways."

"Most people don't want to climb Dragonspine," he says and moves a pawn two spaces forward. "How about this, if I beat you this game you'll tell me your name."

"A wager? I'll warn you, I've never lost on in my life," you say. "And what do I get if I win?"

"An apple," he says, making you laugh.

"Why, is my name not worth more than an apple to you?" You tease. "Very well then, your move," you say, gesturing to the board.

The last time he sees you, you're carrying a sack of potatoes and traipsing around outside despite the rain. He flags you over and pauses. He doesn't know what he meant to say.

"Master Diluc, lord of all apples in Mondstadt," you drawls, filling in the silence for him. "To what do I owe the pleasure? State your business in less than three sentances, I have many responsibilities to finish and not much time to do them."

"Since when have you had responsibities?" He says. You laugh.

"Since I persuaded a merchant to drag me and all my supplies to Dragonspine tomorrow," you say, a touch of genuine pride in your voice. "We leave at dawn."

"Congradulations," he says. "Good luck out there."

"I won't need it," you say. "I'm lucky, and I always have been. You can keep your luck, and borrow some of mine."

"Is this my birthday present?" He ignores rain dripping down his collar and stares at you.

"I am you own personal lucky star, how generous of me," you agree. You heft your potaotes in your arms and nod to the interiour of the tavern. "Looks like they're missing their little princeling."

"I'm not a prince," he says, but he turns arouns and opens the door.

"Happy eighteenth birthday," you say from behind him. "From me, the monarch of misfits and leige of luck, regent of rogues and liars, diety of all who wander."

"A little conceited to give yourself such titles, isn't it?"

You bow, ever elegant even when covered in dirt and carrying starchy lumps covered in rough hemp. "I suspect we won't see each other again for some time, Lord Apples."

"I hope we will sometime," he says, making you smile.

"In that case, until next time, Diluc."

"Dragonspine?" He echoes as the Traveller explains their plans. "Good luck up there. If you run across someone called (Y/N), tell them hello from me."

#genshin impact #diluc ragnvindr #puffin says stuff #drabble #x reader #fanfiction

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aelin-queen-of-terrasen · 3 years

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𝐕𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐧𝐭 | 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 - 𝐓𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞

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The day after the dinner party in the late afternoon, Celaena was whiling her time away by flipping through the pages of the latest monthly issue of the fashion magazine La Belle Assemblée when she recieved a note of invitation from Lady Towper, one of her recent acquaintances, to a walk in Hyde Park later that afternoon with her and Mrs Burnwell, another society lady Celaena had befriended. The wording made it quite clear it was more a summons than an invitation and having spent the morning by herself, Celaena was eager enough for company that she happily put down her magazine and called for her pelisse and outerwear with alacrity. Twenty minutes later she was roaming around the park when Lady Towper spotted her, gliding across the path—there really was no other way to describe her graceful movement—with an elegant swish of her skirts and a look of exaggerated distress on her countenance, followed by Mrs Burnwell who looked rather piqued. "Dear Miss Sardothein," cried the former, looping an arm around hers. "How glad I was to hear you accepted my invitation. I wanted to take a walk around the park, refresh myself and Mrs Burnwell recalled you were rather fond of exercise and suggested we take you along with us."

Celaena rather thought that on a fine weather such as this, the ladies' primary motive for a walk was perhaps to see and be seen by the upper ten-thousands of the ton, most of which had returned from their summer estates for the social season which was to start soon but said instead, "I am grateful for the invitation. Your Ladyship has quite rescued me from certain death at the hands of boredom."

The ladies tittered politely, protesting that it was no great sacrifice on their part and the trio walked along the paths making light conversation until Mrs Burnwell jerked to a halt with a pinched expression. "Mrs Whitethorn."

Though Celaena had only met the lady once, she had been left unimpressed and could not fault Mrs Burnwell for looking piqued.

Mrs Whitethorn did not improve on a second meeting - not that Celaena had had any expectations that she would - and participated as much in the conversation with as much fervor as a lifeless statue, making occasional noises of agreement and dissent. Celaena who prided herself on being able to draw someone out of their reserve met with failure at every turn and it was not long before the ladies ran out of polite remarks to exchange and their party took their leave. Celaena spotted a group of children from her neighborhood racing each other in a less scenic path around the park and soon abandoned all sorts of decorum to join in on the shouting.

"FASTER, TOM! FASTER, YES, A LITTLE FASTER!" cheered Celaena, bouncing up and down in excitement.

Her cheeks were flushed with exertion and her petticoats muddier than usual. She let out a high-pitched noise when little Thomas reached the finishing line and beamed. "I did it, I did it, I said I would, did I not? Oh, Cece, did you see me? I won!"

"You did very well, dear," said she, kissing his cheek. The smug look he sent his siblings' way had her struggling not to laugh.

"Yes, you won this time—" said his eldest brother in an arrogant tone, "—but I shall be the winner next time. Shall we play something else now?"

"Hide and seek!"

"Hopscotch."

"No! We must play cops and robbers today. You promised!"

"I want to play tag."

"We don't," said the twins simultaneously.

"Then blind man's buff?"

"I suppose we could—"

"Oh, no, I will not play that ever again."

Celaena smiled, watching the children argue over what they wished to do and looked at two children - presumably brothers - finely dressed and staring at the brood of children she was so fond of wistfully. "Here, you two, why don't you play?" asked she.

The younger boy beamed at the prospect but the elder looked uncertain.

He glanced over his shoulder anxiously biting his lip. "Oh, no, mama will be furious if we get our clothes dirty." But he looked at the noisy little children with such longing and he looked so serious in general with those deep blue eyes filled with sorrow and the brows that remained creased as if by default—more serious than a nine-year-old should be; he held himself with a ridiculous amount of poise, posture stiff and yet looked unsure of every little movement or sound he made, Celaena had a whimsical desire to have him enjoy himself.

"I shall tell you a secret," she gave him a conspiratorial wink. "It is healthy to disobey your parents once in a while."

The poor boy looked scandalized at the thought of disobeying anyone. When had he last had some fun? she wondered.

He looked at the boys again, then at his boots, properly polished and finely made, then straightened as if he had come to a decision. "I-I thank you, miss, but my brother and I shall take your leave now." The formal tone so became him, she was struck by the intelligence in his expression and the confidence of his words despite the apprehension evident in his posture. He continued in a softer tone, "Mama says it is not proper to talk to anyone without being introduced."

"Then perhaps we might perform the service ourselves since no one else can? I am Miss Celaena Sardothein of Raven Hall in Derbyshire." She curtsied formally, suppressing a smile.

"Oh." He looked down at his feet.

Celaena took pity on him and smiled. "It's alright, I shan't force you into anything. You are a good boy, dear, to obey your parents so." He looked so surprised, and blushed all kinds of red, though his chest did puff out a little. When had someone last praised him? Knowing there was no more she could do, Celaena was about to bid the child a farewell when a familiar figure rounded the corner.

"Papa!" cried the little boy, latching onto his father's leg.

Mr Whitethorn patted his head and gently freed himself to step forward. "Stephen, what have I told you about talking to—Miss Sardothein!" He jerked to a stop, then recalling himself, bowed to her. "I cannot say how surprised I am to see you."

"Are you really, sir?" asked she. "You know me to be unconventional. This is exactly the kind of place you should expect to find me in." She nodded towards the elder boy who looked vastly relieved to have someone else do the talking on his behalf and the younger who clung to his father for attention, bouncing on his toes. "These fine young gentlemen are your sons?"

He confirmed that they were.

"Perhaps you and your sons could join us for a while?" Both boys looked excited for such a prospect though one was more successful at hiding it than the other.

"Please papa?" asked the five-year-old.

Mr Whitethorn rolled his eyes fondly. "After recieving that look, I should not dare refuse."

The child hugged his father tightly, then ran towards the group of boys. They accepted him immediately, having settled on the blind man's bluff finally and noisily took up positions, directing and misdirecting the child with the blindfold.

His elder brother looked lost standing by the side. He looked down at his hands. "...And he has run off already."

"Why don't you join him?" she nudged gently. I know they will be happy to include you."

Stephen swallowed, looking at his father who had a neutral face on and turned to her. "I thank you, but no—" then at her stern look, he admitted, "I, I won't know what to say to them."

"Just say you want to play."

"But surely, I don't, oh, I am fine here."

Celaena signalled for him to offer her an arm and escort her there. When he refused, she said, "You know it is not gentlemanly to refuse to escort a lady somewhere, do you not?"

Stephen huffed but gave in.

Shs clapped to get everyone's attention. "This is Master Stephen Whitethorn and that—" she nodded towards the younger, "—is his younger brother, Master..."

"Charles," the boy happily supplied.

"Right. Master Charles Whitethorn." The boy grinned toothily. "Be nice to them."

Stephen blushed at the attention, standing stiffly as one by one the boys spoke their names. He half expected them to call him names like wuss or a dreadful bore like his cousins and friends always did but no one did. In fact, as long as he played well, no one cared how loud he shrieked or how often he stumbled on the tree roots or how dirty he had gotten. As every minute passed, he relaxed some more until he was laughing and jumping along with the others with no care for his clothes or boots which were already ruined. Mama would have his head if she found out, yes, and she would scold him until his ears bled but was not all this fun worth it? How often did he have such a chance? He looked back at the spot where his father stood beside the woman—Miss Sardothein—and noticed she was watching him. He rolled his eyes when she mouthed 'you are welcome' but could not help the smile that followed after.

"Poor boy," Celaena sighed to herself. "He is too shy, and he feels inferior to his brother."

Mr Whitethorn said, "He is wise beyond his years. I do not know what to do with him sometimes." He looked down at his feet, a gesture she recognised as evident in his eldest son. "You sound like one talking with experience but I cannot imagine you being shy at all." The concern expressed on his face touched her deeply and she had the strangest urge to smooth the wrinkles away from his forehead.

"I should imagine not." She chuckled. "Eleanor, my adoptive sister is very shy—not like your son, mind—but I have seen firsthand her longing to join in on the fun and her hesitance to act on it."

They watched the children play and he chuckled. "Their mother will have a fit if she finds them so muddied."

"Their mother," said Celaena, barely restraining herself from snorting. "I do not think your wife likes me, sir."

"I think that is a point in your favor, Miss Sardothein," he replied dryly, though his lips twitched. Had she paid more attention to her dance partners the evening of the Thorpe's ball or less occupied with Lord Fenrys' veiled hints, trying to figure out the meaning behind his pointed commentary and the suspicious dinner invitation she had accepted out of curiosity, she would not have been surprised by how handsome he looked. But indeed, occupied as she had been on the previous occassions, it was not until he smiled a little that she was taken completely by how well the expression of fondness became him, how his features so perfectly formed, looked more beautiful and pleasing than ever. She gasped at how beautifully his green eyes sparkled when he stood just so, with the sunlight shining in them and how gracefully he carried himself with a hint of pride that was not unbecoming on his noble mein. If at that moment he had told her he was a prince from the fairytales, she would have easily believed him.

"Are you well, Miss Sardothein?"

Celaena flushed bright red with mortification. "Oh, yes," she breathed out. She spent the better part of their afternoon walk attempting to squash the flutter in stomach by conjuring a confused, miserable Mrs Whitethorn waiting for her husband to return home. The trick did not work as well as she had hoped and when the sun started its descent, she was grateful to be able to part with some measure of equinanimity.

"You met who at a dinner party?" asked Lord Rhoe incredulously for the fifth time.

"Aelin." Seated across from his father in his private study and being the current object of the Earl's ire, James felt like the nine-year-old recieving a lecture from his father over one mischief or another when Rhoe could be bothered enough to care about something more than his next meal or the port supply. He had retreated into his own world soon after they lost his little sister and neither brother was inclined to give him more courtesy or respect than what was his due as a father. James felt he would have been perfectly justified in not informing his father of this discovery but he felt an uncharacteristic anxiety about her visit and was not inclined to risk her running into his ignorant father who would easily recognise her from afar. "Aelin was at the Thorpe's ball, the one my cousin and I attended recently, though we were not introduced. Fenrys ran into her at a nearby bookstore the other day and recognised her. Though I was initially sceptical and asked my solicitor to launch several inquiries into the girl in question and her family, Fenrys convinced me to meet her once and I—" there were hardly enough words to explain himself on this and James fell silent.

Lord Rhoe looked his disbelief.

"I know you do not wish for false hopes, sir, but I would not have come if I was not sure."

"I grieve her still," said Rhoe at last in a tone of gruff affection, "—and I know how it feels to latch onto hope but it is insanity to claim this-this madness—"

"It is not madness."

"You are letting your sentiments rule over reason. Aelin is dead, boy," said he, "and you had better drop this."

James was in no mood to drop it but Rhoe was overcome by a fit of coughs and slumped into his armchair. James rushed to his father, not sure what he would do but there was something so wrong about seeing his ever stoic, ever impassive father reduced to a fit of helplessness - no matter how small - like a common fragile old man that disturbed him greatly. James rubbed his father's back and called for a maid.

Rhoe tried to speak but a hoarse whisper was all that came out.

A maid stood at the doorway while the other rushed inside, fetching a glass of water from the pitcher. Rhoe drank it slowly, allowing the coughs to slowly fade.

"Aelin died," he choked out.

"You don't know that," reminded James gently. He was hesitant to press more but James wanted to clear this first hurdle before she arrived.

"I saw—I saw her body." Rhoe closed his eyes shut as if he was trying to block out a vision. "There was a body. Her body."

"Aelin disappeared," corrected James. "You found a body and identified it as hers but what if-what if it wasn't?"

"The magistrate found her anklet near the body. It was her. I saw the anklet."

James snapped his mouth shut. He had been nine when his sister disappeared and what little he knew about it was pieced together from eavesdropped bits of conversations and accidental slips from his uncle and aunt between the years. The Earl of Narrowcreek all but banned talk about Aelin in his home and neither son mentioned her for fear of his temper until memories of childhood acquired a dreamlike quality in his mind.

"The other anklet?"

"They never found it," said Rhoe.

James tried to consider his words carefully but . "I am aware my story sound like wishful thinking but I have—sir, I would not have believed my cousin if I had not seen her. She looks like my sister but more than that, she is-she is what I always thought Aelin would grow up to be: witty, charming and-and so wickedly clever." His words were more passionate than rationally thought out now but his father looked unaffected. James blew out a breath. "I invited her here for dinner, father. I wish to make Miss Sardothein aware of my-my suspicions. Despite what you say, something tells me I am right. I know I am. If you change your mind by dinner, you are welcome to join us tonight."

He thought his words might cause his father to at least promise to come; instead Rhoe latched onto another part of his sentence. "Miss Celaena Sardothein?!"

"The very one."

"You cannot mean to invite a tradesman's daughter into my house!"

"She is your daughter, sir!" said James sharply, feeling himself losing his control. "I mean to tell her of her identity today and you will not dissuade me from it." So saying, he quit the study door and left, suddenly quite anxious for the upcoming visit.

Celaena felt strangely off-kilter looking at a house that was as familiar as it was strange as she was handed down the carriage by a footman. Her nerves hightened for some unfathomable reason and in an attempt to distract herself by looking around the foyer of the Galathynius Townhouse, which was very grand. In the pride of the place stood an elegant water fountain, around which she could imagine a noisy brood of children splashing in and out. The elegant structure captured her interest until she stepped inside, feeling a vague sense of deja vu though she could swear she had never seen such a fine house before in her life—surely she would remember it if she had? It was not a forgettable sight—she pushed her unease aside, squared her shoulders and allowed the butler to divest her of her cloak and gloves while a maid waited to escort her to drawing room. The old servant started at the sight of her before he hid his surprise with an impassive expression like a well-trained servant, efficiently performing his duties, though she did not miss the way his eyes flicked back to her face repeatedly. Having never been invited to a private dinner before, Celaena had no expectations from the evening but was nevertheless surprised to be ushered into a private study instead of the drawing room.

A man sat in his armchair in a posture more befitting a young gentleman than an old, wealthy peer, though the grey hair at the edges of his temples belied his age.

"Miss Sardothein," said he.

Lord Rhoe noticed her surprise at being addressed by her name and smiled strangely. "Your reputation precedes you, dear. You have the whole town in a tizzy and you have in twenty four hours coerced my son into issuing a dinner invitation that is quite improper; an unmarried lady dining with two bachelors? Huge scandals have been created on far less."

"Then I wonder at your son's reasoning, for he issued the invitation. I only accepted it."

The Earl shook his head. "I know his reasons but I wonder at yours."

"I was curious."

He raised an eyebrow but she did not offer more explanation than that. "By accepting his invitation, you are putting your reputation in jeopardy, and with it, my son's."

She dimpled. "I might argue he did that himself when he issued it."

"I told you—"

"No, I told you," said she, rising from her seat, "—I am here on invitation. If you wish me gone from your home, ask and I will. But I will not accept an interrogation."

"I demand respect, Miss Sardothein."

"I shall never give it for that reason alone. I could not respect you if I wanted, sir," said she defiantly, rising from her seat, "for you were decided against me before I even entered your house—you who valued the gossip's opinions, or was your prejudice because of the grave sin I committed in being raised by a tradesman?" Her eyes flashed with ire and her breaths came faster. The Earl noticed none of it, struck as he was by the image of another adolescent ages ago shouting at his own father in the very same place. Miss Sardothein was a little older, perhaps and her features were not as delicate and soft but there was no mistaking her. He had crossed swords with his wife's younger sister to recognise her ashryver eyes and the colouring—

"Evalin," he whispered.

Bloody Hell.

Celaena's eyebrows creased when the older man looked at her in shock, then collapsed into the armchair he had been occupying.

"Uncle Rhoe? I heard raised voices—good gods, Aelin! Whatever happened here?"

If either of them noticed what name Lord Fenrys had unintentionally called her and to which she had answered, neither gave any indication. "He was telling me I should not have come and I was-I was defending myself but then he was, he was shocked at something and he said a name—Evelyn or something similar. Then he just collapsed into the chair." Lord Fenrys quickly and efficiently took charge of the situation, pouring her some wine for some semblance of calm, sending for his cousin and a footman to escort His Lordship back to his chambers. Lord Fenrys and his cousin had apparently been waiting for her in the drawing room downstairs and were not aware of her arrival. He had come to fetch a book from the adjoining library to pass his time when he heard raised voices. This assured her to some degree that she was not unwanted in the house, however as it belonged to the master whom she had quite shocked into fainting with her poor manners, she was not sure how much longer she would be welcome and expressed her desire to leave.

Lord Fenrys said immediately, "Leave? Goodness—no, my cousin will be quite cross with me if I let you leave before he comes. Do feel free to look around."

She did look around, taking in the elegant but never ostentatious furniture and the wall patterns which, though pretty, looked rather outdated. The study was well-lit with wax candles but looked cozier than she would expect an Earl's private sanctuary to look like. Her attention was caught soon by a bookcase by the farthest wall—presumably his favourites—and was surprised she shared similar tastes in reading with a man who had in a few minutes embodied all the worst qualities of the aristocracy. She moved past that wall only to come face-to-face with an unexpected portrait. It's objects—a husband, wife and their three children—sat in a formal pose but the picture radiated contentment, happiness and affection. It was perhaps something in the way the refined, elegant woman stared adoringly up at her husband or the look of affection he in turn bestowed on his two sons and a daughter who looked by turns bemused, bored and awfully wicked.

Her stomach twisted uneasily looking at the eldest son. "That. Who is that?"

"Edward," answered he. "Viscount Layton is not much fond of society. By the way his expression darkened, she surmised there must be some rift in the family—

Edward.

Edward Galathynius.

Celaena felt her own disquiet increase. Where had she heard the name before?

She glanced quickly at her host's cousin who was rifling through the drawers and examined the painting more closely. The children and the woman looked a great deal similar in colouring and in their eyes which were turquoise—

Turquoise eyes ringed with gold.

"Miss Sardothein?" Fenrys asked.

"Yes, yes, forgive me, Lord Fenrys. I feel a little, a little warm. He, your cousin—cousins, that is," she corrected herself, "they have—their eyes are a very unusual colour," she lamely finished.

"The ashryver eyes, yes." His tone was flippant, as though he had not seen her eyes. "As rare as they are beautiful, won't you say?"

Her stomach plummeted. She wanted to go somewhere—anywhere else.

Celaena tried to leave the room, her skin feeling too hot. Her knees buckled.

"Aelin!" Mr Galathynius stood in the doorway with his eyes wide.

Aelin.

She tried to ignore the implications of all that being called that name entailed.

Mr Galathynius gently led her to a seat away from the fireplace. Her head spun and her palms felt sweaty. "Home," she croaked out, unable to make out her own words. "I want home." Her skin flushed even more, her palms grew sweaty and her clothes felt coarse against her body.

Ashryver eyes.

The fairest eyes, from legends old

Of brightest blue, ringed with gold

She shut her eyes closed, willing her hands to stop shaking. It didn't work. How did she know that? She couldn't have known that. She had never met these people before, had never seen this place.

She had not.

She could not have.

Aelin was my favourite cousin—you, uh, you remind me of her.

Aelin.

But how could it be?

Aelin died in a fire thirteen years ago, Fenrys had told her. When she was but five.

Arobynn brought her home and introduced her as an orphan the same year, the year she had turned six. Arobynn had found her as an orphan roaming the streets of London when she was five.

The dates matched.

The fire. A warehouse. Two men. A pistol. She tried to remember but came up short.

"Aelin," a voice gently called out.

"You are wrong," she insisted vehemently, "I am not, I am not your sister!" Her voice turned screeching. "I was—my family gave me up, they didn't want me. Arobynn saved me. He told me they didn't want me, he told me so himself."

Arobynn lies to everyone.

But he had never lied to her. To her, he had been honest as he should.

He would not.

"Shh, It's alright, Aelin." James scooted closer and talked in a gentle tone, wishing his elder brother was present to comfort her. Edward would have known how to calm her.

Edward always had.

"Don't call me that." She shook her head tearfully. "I am not Aelin. I am not."

James placed an arm on her shoulder cautiously. The gentle touch, the compassionate voice and the genuine concern almost undid her. "Aelin," said her brother—her brother, she thought with amazement that the words did not sound as strange as they should have—"I am sorry you found out this way. Indeed, there are a great many things we are not sure of but—but my father's reaction and your own confirms what I suspected."

"You told me she died." The words came out almost as an accusation.

"It is all speculation on my part, mind, but we were informed my sister died in a fire in a nearby warehouse. The owner was a rather genial fellow and my sister—you—were friends with the man's clerk. You were playing with Edward that day—that is our elder brother—and you broke your ankle. He went to fetch help from the manor house but by the time father was able to come, you were not there. The search parties could find no signs of you until the magistrate informed her of two bodies found in a nearby warehouse. The first a child, had near her an anklet we knew you wore that day and father thought—we all thought it was you. I do not know where you did go and how the anklet appeared there but—"

She frowned. "You think Arobynn abducted me for some nefarious purposes."

"Indeed not—"

"You do," she accused, looking away from the hurt in his ashryver eyes. "You think—you think he did that. But he did not. He would not do that to me."

"Aelin, I never—"

"He wouldn't!" Celaena sobbed hysterically. "And even if you do not, everyone else will. No one will believe this—this story of ours—your father, oh god, he doubted it! He thought me a fortune hunter and—and everyone will—"

"Father did not wish to hope only to be met with disappointment, dearest."

"I all but told my father to go to the devil," she said between sobs.

"And it is a darned good thing you did," said Lord Fenrys in a flippant tone. "Someone needed to take that old man down a few notches. Besides, I suspect when he wakes up, he will have his fair share of apologising to do."

Mr Galathynius hesitantly placed an arm around his sister's shoulder as though he expected her to pull away and run. But she was too exhausted to protest and too grateful to have something solid to hold onto while the earth shifted beneath her feet. Aelin buried her face in his chest, clutching at the lapels of his coat and James felt a tender affection towards this creature who was clever and witty in ballrooms, whose ire faded as easily as it was stoked and who went from one emotion to another to another in a few moments. If in that moment someone had told him he needed to fell a dragon in order to protect her, he would have happily taken the beast on with his sword. James had been too young to do anything but squabble with his little sister but he felt all the protective instincts of an elder brother now and the first stirrings of hope that his family might not be doomed to unhappiness forever after all.

Aelin pulled back and sniffed. "I am sorry, Mr Galathynius, I suppose—"

"It would please me greatly if you would call me by my first name, dearest." James wished again he had his brother with him. "I do not think father will be angry and even if he is, I hope you will not mind him too much. I sent an express to Edward the moment we returned from the dinner party. He will be here soon and he will be ecstatic. I know I am."

"I don't remember anything."

He shrugged helplessly. "It is to be expected, Aelin. You were only five."

"But Arobynn told me I was given away by my family to, to an orphanage. He found me on the streets."

Mr Galathy—James looked at her seriously, clutching her hands in his. "I don't know if he lied or not, Aelin, but know this: your family did not give you away—indeed, we have been miserable since you left us." He bit his lip, swallowed and asked, "Do you remember even a little bit of that day? You and Edward were playing outside, you broke your ankle and he came back to the house to fetch help. He was—"

"He told me to stay there," she whispered, tears rolling down her face. "I didn't."

"You were but five," said Fenrys in an attempt to soothe. "You could hardly be expected to listen to anyone." The siblings started in surprise, having forgotten his presence.

"Do you remember what happened after our brother left?" James prodded gently.

Celaena shook her head, eyes shut. She tried to remember the day on the field near the estate. A mud puddle. A fallen ribbon. Her anklet's weak clasp. Why are you alone here? A voice.

It was a man's voice.

He had promised to take her back. I will carry you home, come with me. Into the carriage, there. She had climbed into the carriage. Perhaps she knew the man? Surely she would not have climbed into a stranger's carriage?

You were but five.

She tried hard to concentrate but could not remember anything beyond that and she told her brother so.

"You need not force yourself to, but if you do remember anything more—"

"I will tell you," she agreed. "I always wanted an elder brother, you know?"

James Galathynius was an affectionate man and he itched to embrace his sister tightly, but restrained in fear of overdoing things. The last shreds of his reserve melted with her words and he pulled her close. His little sister. He wondered if there were sweeter words in the world. "I missed you so," he answered tearfully, "So did we all. Edward refused to look at pianofortes for months, they reminded him of you, he hardly ever comes to town and father so retreated into his study and there I was—Oh, Aelin, please don't leave again."

"I shan't," she promised.

"A gentleman's word?"

She raised an eyebrow. "I am a lady."

"It's the only kind of promise you didn't break when we were children. A gentleman's word?" She heard her own voice ask the question long ago. A vague memory.

Celaena smiled. "A gentleman's word."

Fenrys broke the moment, his eyes glimmering suspiciously. He sniffed. "Stop monopolizing her, cousin."

Celaena hesitantly rose from her seat, pressing a kiss against her cousin's cheek. "I know it's all a muddle still but thank you for finding me, Lord Fenrys." She smiled sweetly at him. "You told me Aelin was—that I was—your favourite cousin, did you not, Lord Fenrys?"

"You were—you are." He grinned. "Do stop with the lord business though—I am already determined we shall be the dearest of friends. We have always been alike in our dispositions."

"What he means," James grinned back, "is the both of you have always been utter rascals, making all our lives difficult."

"I don't know what you are talking about," huffed she with feigned indignation in her voice. "I am positively an angel."

"Oh, hardly!" Fenrys shook his head. "I never saw a more mischevious child. Aunt Meave swore you were the devil's spawn."

"Oh no," she said.

"Oh, yes." James grinned at a fond memory. "And I cannot blame her. You once sneaked a frog to her dinner table. It ended up in her plate somehow; it was horrific."

"Indeed, you scarred the poor woman," Fenrys quipped. "She specifically invites only adults ever since. James told us later how you twitched and groaned, shifting in your seat, trying to hide it in the folds of your dress."

Celaena narrowed her eyes. "If you knew, why did you not help?"

"I did not want to incur her wrath," he said. "Our father or brother would have protected you from her. I was on my own."

The remark brought her back to reality. "Father—Lord Rhoe—my goodness, I implied he was proud and arrogant and—and he fainted!" James hurried to assure her that he fainted occassionally and a physician had been sent for in any case and she should not worry overmuch about that but she could not help herself. However, not wanting to worry him more—the poor man was acting so casually as if expecting another fit of hysterics—she changed the subject to one she was curious about. "And Edward—you said he has been informed."

"If I know him at all, he will come running." Then, with due caution, "I know you don't remember a thing but Edward and you were particularly close—you filled buckets worth of tears when he left for Eton, you know? And when he came to visit for the summer or holidays and you were obliged to return to the nursery in the evenings, you threw such a royal fit until father allowed you to spend the nights in his room." By the tone with which he said it, Celaena rather thought it cost him something to admit this to her and she thought she heard a touch of envy in those words.

"It was perhaps not proper," agreed Fenrys, "but you would not eat or drink and he was forced to acquiese."

Celaena laughed. "That does sound like me." Then, sobering, "I should not—it's too late, I think I should return home."

"Home?"

Celaena amended with a smile, "Well, not my home, then. But I could not move here today, not with Lord Rhoe so—"

"Father will not object," said he, with conviction. "This is your home as much as it is mine or his. I am sure Edward will be furious with me if I let you leave." Then, noticing her reluctance, he gently smiled. "I understand you will need to get used to reality and I really would like it if you stayed but if you cannot—"

"Oh, no," said she, interrupting him. "I will—I will stay if you send a note to the Rhunns informing them where I am and if my maid and a few of my clothes can be brought—Elide, my maid, she will know what to bring—then I shall stay."

This was agreed to with alacrity and orders sent to prepare one of the finest guest rooms for temporary occupation. James noticed her pale countenance and offered to send a dinner tray to her rooms in a half hour if she would like to retire early. After they were informed that Lord Rhoe had been given laudanum to calm himself and would see them in the morning, there was nothing left for her to do and she accepted her brother's offer happily. Celaena thought she would not be able to sleep for hours, ruminating on the eventful day but the overwhelming emotions of the overdeal caught up with her and she was asleep before dinner arrived.

tags:

@thesirenwashere // @courtofjurdan //@little-crow-corvere // @the-dark-swan // @queenofgreenbriar // @clockworkgraystairs // @julemmaes // @rowaelinforeverworld // @mymultiversee // @queen-of-glass @strangely-constructed-soul // @mijaldraws // @http-itsrebecca // @aesthetics-11 // @lord-douglas-the-third // @flowersinvegas // @towhateverend17 // @aelinchocolatelover // @justabunchoffandoms // @cool-ish-nerd // @faerie-queen-fireheart // @sad-book-whore // @didsomeonesayviolin // @atozfantazyxx // @hizqueen4life // @the-gods-killer // @booknerdproblems // @annejulianneh111 // @aelinfeyreeleven945tbln // @b00kworm // @mysweetvillain // @curlyredqueen06 // @moondancer-204 // @thesurielships // @witchling-leonor // @ladywitchling // @amren-courtofdreams // @ifinallygavein // @jlinez // @faequeenaelin // @df3ndyr // @in-love-with-caramel-macchiato // @bitchy-knees // @superspiritfestival // @xx-fiona-xx // @stardelia // @maastrash // @miihlovesnoone // @totenhamboys20 // @sanakapoor // @louisleblancdiggory

#throne of glass #rowan x aelin #rowaelin #rowan whitethorn #sarah j maas #aelin ashryver #rowaelin fanfiction #throne of glass fanfiction #valiant #aelin-queen-of-terrasen

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sadoeuphemist · 3 years

Text

Stories I thought about writing, but didn’t:

my voice is poisonous, a gift from a strange god my parents once befriended. I’m careful not to speak, but I know they’re afraid.

A poison-voiced girl is born to deaf parents, but falls in love with a hearing boy. Their courtship is marked on her end by a thrilling restraint, biting her lip, knowing she could kill him with an indiscretion; he, on the other hand, longs to see her act without inhibition. He manages to make her laugh, sigh, gasp out in wonder - each time he falls ill from the poison of her voice, but is undeterred even in his convalescence, returning renewed in his goal to tease another sound out of her.

Her parents tell her to break it off; she’ll kill him. She reluctantly agrees. He refuses, pleads with her, grasps her hands so she can’t sign. In anguish she cries out his name — but lo! he does not sicken, does not die. It turns out his repeated exposures to her voice have mithridatized him against it. She can speak around him freely! They both agree that this development has taken a lot of the excitement out of the relationship, but it has been replaced with a greater casualness and intimacy that balances it out.

I can see the angels in their true form, a thousand splendid eyes and all. They think it’s funny, and have taken to hanging around my apartment

The angels start making excuses to keep showing up at my apartment, in the manner of the annunciation, but for increasingly trivial reasons. They come bearing tidings about how I should definitely get the turkey wrap for lunch, which brand of fabric softener I should buy, how that quarter I’ll find on the sidewalk is a sign that I am favored by God. They come bearing bad tidings too: The Lord has heard of all the evil in your printer, and has sent us here to jam it. Their presence becomes completely overbearing, but they are insistent. There’s a reason you see us in our true forms, they say, all their splendid eyes shining. Is it so hard to believe that the God that formed every atom of you in the womb should watch over you always, that every mundane moment of your existence in this world is shot through with the divine?

There was a body in the river, ice cold and snow white. Sometimes it was all the way dead. Sometimes it sat up and talked to me.

A king has declared that whoever can complete the following tasks shall marry his daughter: 1) to recover a lost treasure stolen from his family hundreds of years ago; 2) to name the start of the pact between men and horses; and 3) to find a cure to the plague ravaging the land.

Our plucky folk hero helps an old lady who sits by the river; she tells him of the snow white body within, who has sat up and spoken to her at odd times throughout her life. It is the spirit of the glacier: the glacier melts, and forms the river; layer by layer the past frozen in it is uncovered, parts of it living and parts of it dead. Our hero builds many bonfires and melts the glacier faster; the body lives and dies and lives many times over and tells him the three answers. 1) The thief fell into a crevasse and was frozen over; the ice is melted now, and the treasure can be recovered. 2) Iron horseshoes frozen in the glacier reveal the pact is many thousands of years old. 3) The plague is an old one, frozen and released anew with the glacier’s melting; it is carried in the livestock, and they must be slaughtered.

The hero solves the king’s tasks and marries his daughter. Presumably the new king is then faced with the challenge of the rising sea levels; no idea how that plays out.

“We’re all nice to each other here,” they told us, “we’ve got angels in the hills. They like it when we’re nice. And they see everything.”

This one’s tough to summarize adequately. Two men are going door to door, seemingly taking a survey of the religious beliefs in a small town. They finish, sit together in their car. People have been very cooperative. One of the men remarks that the local religious beliefs are disappointingly unremarkable: yes, they believe in angels watching from the hills, but most people believe in an omniscient God watching over them, and whether it is God or his intercessors, does it make a significant difference?

They sit in the car. Perhaps they smoke in the lazy sunlight. They have finished their survey ahead of time. One of them proposes: Suppose we have a picnic lunch up in the hills?

They park at the base of the hill and walk up. Lovely day. They spread out a blanket from the car, stretch their legs out on the grass, take off their coats, loosen their ties. They’ve brought their packed lunch, sandwiches, a thermos of lemonade. They talk about how pleasant all the people were. Their kind of religion seems so ... brittle, one of the men remarks. If I thought there was someone waiting to punish me the moment I stepped out of line, I’d want to do something horrible just to get it over with.

You think so? says his partner. I think just the opposite. The grand problem with religion is that there aren’t enough consequences for wickedness. I know if I saw the wicked being smote down on a regular basis, I would very satisfied in my religion indeed.

Well, of course you would; you’re a sadist.

Me? A sadist? Hardly.

You’re a sadist, his partner says teasingly. A sadist and brute.

They smile at each other. Idle conversation. There is a suggestion that they have visited many such towns and cities, asking the same question, but have yet to receive a satisfactory answer. At one point one of them notes that there’s something in the trees, but this remark is ignored and nothing is ever made of it. The conversation turns back to whether the angels in the hills are real or not. The ‘sadist’ stands up, declares his intent to do something wicked to test them. He marches around, swinging his arms, then looks around at the trees and puts his hands on his hips and laughs.

You know, up here away from society, he declares, I can’t think of a single wicked thing to do!

(Maybe a conversation here about how he could tear branches from trees, despoil the scenery, find an animal to kill; but then again animals in nature strip bark from trees, kill each other bloodily all the time, tear each other to bits, so how wicked could that be, really?)

He looks down at his partner still lying back on the blanket. Unless, of course, I were to do something wicked to you.

Whatever happens next, it is very leisurely. The scene is easy, very relaxed. Lovely day. Calm. Bright blue sky. Clouds float across it, white like feathered wings, and then pass, leaving not a trace behind.

None of us can imagine what life was like before the Clocks came, before clockwork cities, and all their technology. They rebuilt our crumbling society, in perfect, mechanical order.

Brief musings on a hypothetical pre-Clock society. A society built around the sun, all buildings roofless, everyone’s necks craned upward. Cities built running north to south so as not to block anyone’s view of the rise and set. A society built around hourglasses, everyone judging the passage of time by the sand puddling around their feet, knees, waists, clambering up onto growing dunes, waiting for the flip, for the sand to slowly drain away and the furnishings of their homes to be uncovered. Perhaps this was our unimaginable life before the Clocks came: sands stretching far away and bare, the hypothetical counterpart bulb of an hourglass reflected invisible above us, empty and vast with unrealized possibility, waiting to be reset.

When I was very young, I met a bear at the edge of the woods. Before I could play dead, it bowed to me.

Jokey little fic where a child is instructed on the etiquette of bears: when to bow, when to curtsy, when to raise your hands and make yourself as large as possible, when to climb a tree, when to play dead. (Note that grizzlies are territorial, so if they attack you and play dead they’ll leave you alone because the threat is neutralized; whereas black bears are not territorial, so playing dead will do no good because a black bear will only attack if it deliberately wants to fuck you up.)

I was given very specific instructions. Go to the rosebush on a clear night. As the moonlight turns the roses silver, feed them three drops of blood.

After years of trying for a child, a couple turns to an old witch to help. The woman is instructed to eat a rose from a magical rosebush. If she first pricks her finger and stains the rose red with her blood, then she will have a son, ruddy and robust and bold in battle; if she visits the bush on a clear night and eats a rose painted silver by moonlight, then she will have a daughter, as pale and graceful and elegant as the moon.

The woman is uneasy with the implications of this binary, and says so. The witch smiles and gives her a new set of instructions. So she pricks her finger at night, her blood painted black by the moonlight, and nine months later gives birth to a child as black as a rose, who is neither boy nor girl.

Never manged to come up with a plot for this one. The kid grows up to have a career fulfilling all those “Neither man nor woman” prophecies? Eh. Kinda corny. There’s something about gender roles in fairy tales here, but I couldn’t put it together.

Not for the first time, the company time loop drill had gone very, very wrong.

I did actually write a response for this one, but it got too long and I gave up on it. Summary of the rest of the idea I had:

Time resets. Nagle confirms that it is both an actual time loop and a drill; the company is doing a controlled time loop to prepare them for the real thing. People complain. What’s the point of a drill when an actual time loop would let you keep doing things over and over until you get it right? Nagle points out that could take years, subjectively, and that this is a controlled experience where he has a code to abort the exercise if anything seriously goes wrong. He insists they try to make it work.

They go through a bunch of loops. Don’t succeed. It’s highly technical stuff that none of them are trained for. Morale drops. People start complaining, they’ve spent hours at this, they should be off duty by now. Nagle points out there’s a ruling, established with VR training, that companies don’t need to pay their employees according to their subjective experience of time, and officially they’ve only spent 34 minutes at this.

More loops. Morale drops further. People start demanding Nagle use the abort code, threatening to quit. Nagle points out that while they’re in this time loop, their actions are consequence-free, but once he ends the loop they’ll have to live with their decisions for the rest of their lives. Are they sure they really want to quit?

At that point someone loses it and kills Nagle. Shock. Panic. Some satisfaction. He’s reborn the next loop, starts screaming about it - someone kills him again. Complete social breakdown. Eventually some people decide, fuck it, let’s just live in this loop forever. Killing Nagle becomes a standard thing they do at the start of every loop, so that he can’t input the abort code. They go through various reconfigurations of their social group - orgies, riots, open paranoia where everyone colonizes a different part of the building, regressing to primitivism, open warfare between various sects, rebuilding of society along different axes of thought. Everyone starts thinking of themselves as immortal, they start calling themselves things like ‘Chronobog of the Infinite Plane of Despair’ or whatever; the narration gets increasingly surreal.

After god knows how many cycles of this, everyone finally achieves an equilibrium of perfect enlightenment. They know what must be done. They leave Nagle alive, he watches as they move in perfect unison to unlock the server room and overcome all the obstacles and repair the tachyon servers, loop is finally terminated, normal flow of time resumes.

Nagle stands up, gives a speech, starts congratulating them on completing the drill. As he talks, everyone can feel the rapport they’ve built start to slip away - they no longer understand each other perfectly outside of the context of those 34 minutes. Time is moving forward again, and with it introducing unfamiliarity, uncertainty, an impossible onslaught of variables that they cannot predict or prepare for, and they are all moving inescapably further from each other even as they glance around and try to catch each other’s eyes and keep holding on to that feeling of perfect unity - but it’s too late now, they are strangers behind familiar faces, all of them heading in their own directions, going to be returning to their own separate lives; that moment of solidarity they had is past.

And then Nagle claps his hands at them and says, “OK, drill’s over, everyone back to work!”

#fiction #dumping grounds

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ladynestaarcheron · 3 years

Text

Invisible String - Chapter Two

ao3 - ff.net - masterpost

(tagging these cuties: @iammissstark @sayosdreams @ncssian @westrangecollectionkoalaposts @queenestarcheron @nessiantrashh)

thank y’all so much for your kind words!! so happy to hear people are enjoying this. here’s chapter two!!

---

Her predicament is not new, but it's still a surprise for Nesta when she realizes if she wants to leave, she can simply go. She defers to no one, and hasn't for a while, but her lack of communication with Elain means something else: no one is going to miss her while she is gone.

She'll have to be quick. Feyre will notice, eventually, but there isn't anything odd about the pair of them not seeing each other for a week or so. And since there isn't anyone randomly, infuriatingly checking up on her anymore...

It stings more than she admits to herself.

But no matter. It's almost all behind her now.

With clothes packed enough for fortnight (she's certain she won't be gone that long, but it never hurts to be prepared), Nesta boards her carriage and waits.

A quiet, busy sort of air about her when she walks the streets of Velaris is enough to ensure no one try and talk to her, but evidently, the same is not promised for carriage rides. She supposes the only task she has to pretend to focus on is reading a book, and that's not enough to deter the passengers from incessant conversation.

"Are you traveling, Lady?" one asks her.

Obviously. "Yes," she answers.

"Will the High Lady be joining you?"

Ah, that didn't take long. She supposes she should be pleased--she can answer honestly, the faeries will all be disappointed and bored, and they'll leave her alone.

Alas.

"So are you in need of an escort, Lady?" a pretty female asks eagerly.

"No," she says, sharply. "Thank you," she adds.

"Are you traveling about the Court, Lady?"

"No," she says, hoping she sounds cryptic enough that they think they are not allowed to question further, "I have business elsewhere."

Delighted looks are exchanged amongst the young faeries, excited to have caught real Night Court fieldwork in the act.

Something moves inside of her, but Nesta's not sure what. She's not jealous, of course. She's never desired a career in politics in her life, she definitely doesn't want to start one now under Rhysand, and she certainly doesn't care enough for the well being of the people of this land to do so.

She's angry, she decides. Angry that these people are so taken with the Inner Circle.

Yes, that must be it.

There are magical checkpoints she passes, once she shows her papers and proves she's allowed to travel through five other Courts to get to Spring--most people on the journey seem to depart into Dawn and Summer, and by the time Nesta reaches the southernmost part of Prythian, she is alone.

"Good afternoon, Lady," the footmale says, bidding her goodbye. He and the carriage are gone before she can answer.

There's no point in dallying any longer, so she sets off on her way.

Spring is not as constructed as Night. There are no roads here--at least, not in this part of the Court--and Nesta can't see any buildings at all. Just a dirt path she walks along, with endless, lush green hills, rolling on either side of it. Thick-stemmed flowers of all kinds dot the grass, with fat bees fluttering from one to the next. Songbirds whistle to each other in the fruit trees. The air is almost dizzyingly sweet.

Nesta likes it, she decides. The quiet, the warmth. But probably not too many libraries.

She's not wearing a watch, but she guesses a half an hour of her walk has passed when the first sight of civilization comes into view. A metal gate in the middle of a dying hedge, encircling a mansion--an estate. White marble, with any number of ornate windows and patios and balconies.

Beautiful, but eerie, for every step she draws closer, the quieter it grows. There's not the barest trace of people inside, and even the birds can't be heard up the steps at the gash-ridden oak door.

She knocks, more out of habit than anything else. Of course, no one opens it, so she pushes it on her own.

Black and white checked flooring spills out to several doors and a vast staircase. Sunlight falls limply onto nothing, for any decor has been shoved away.

A door opens on her right. Nesta turns.

They only stare at each other for a minute, not speaking.

Tamlin looks worse than she remembers. Same golden hair, same gem-green eyes, but...thinner, perhaps, in his cheeks. Paler. Hollow.

Quite the same image she imagines others see when she looks at her, she realizes with a start.

"What are you doing here?" he asks, voice...devastated? But why?

Oh, she says to herself, the thought hitting her, he thought I was Feyre.

"You owe me a favor," she says.

He raises an eyebrow.

"Because this is your fault," she explains. "My...Hybern. So you owe me."

"Do I?"

She doesn't back down from his stare, only nods once.

"And who else do you blame? Or am I the only one?" His words are careful but she doesn't understand what he wants.

"You're all to blame," she says. "You're all murderers. None of you did a good enough job keeping humans safe. It's not my place to judge which of you is the most monstrous. I'm content to hate all of you quietly."

Tamlin chuckles--low, dark. "Not your place to judge?"

"Do you deny your role in my murder?" she snaps.

The shadow-grin on his face fades. "No," he says.

"Then help me."

His shoulders tense. "What do you want?"

Nesta inhales deeply. "You struck a deal with him...to undo the mating bond. Between my sister and Rhysand."

Tamlin stops breathing.

"I want to know how to do that."

He doesn't answer her. Stays silent for a full minute, before she presses on.

"Tell me how to do that."

"You're trying to--destroy--whose?" He is desperate, searching.

Her jaw clenches tightly. "That doesn't concern you."

"You can't."

"You thought it could be done, obviously. That's why you were willing to give us to Hybern--"

"I didn't--"

"--so just tell me."

He glares at her, and Nesta wonders, briefly, if she should be concerned. But she's too angry to be nervous. Her world has been thrown off its axis too many times now and this is something she knows she can fix. She has to.

"Don't you think," he says, through gritted teeth, "if I knew of any way to undo a mating bond, I would have done it myself?"

Nesta doesn't bother stifling her eye roll. "But how did you think he was going to do it?"

"I don't know." He looks to the side, to the nothing that lays beyond the manor. "I don't know what I thought."

Nesta does not have time for his introspection nor does she care. She puts her hands on her hips. "Well, who can I go to, then?"

Tamlin looks at her, surprised, as if he'd forgotten she's still here. "I suppose...you can catch a Suriel."

A Suriel. Nesta remembers talk of one, during the war. Feyre had gone to find one. But that one is dead now, she knows.

"How do I do that?"

Tamlin loosens a frustrated sigh. "If I catch one for you, are we even? You'll consider our score settled?"

Nesta scoffs. "I will never consider our score settled. But rest assured, if you catch me this Suriel and it tells me how to undo a mating bond, I will never have any reason to come to Spring again."

His head tilts as he considers her words. "Fine," he says, grudgingly. He stalks past her, out the door and down the steps. "Follow me."

She does, off the path and into a deceptively quiet grove that leads into an even more forbidding forest, and she doesn't know for how long--she really should get a watch--until he finally holds out his arm and says, without turning around, "Wait here."

He disappears into a thatch of shrubbery. Again, she wonders if she should be nervous. Tamlin's a High Lord--this land's High Lord. Surely, if she's here with him, nothing will attack her.

And there is also the matter of...herself.

A sharp hiss escapes the spot where Tamlin crossed into, and then he barks out, "Come here!"

Moving a fair bit of bush aside, Nesta steps into a small clearing. There's a quiet stream. Tamlin, beyond it, with his arms wrapped around...a Suriel.

Hunched over, beneath a robe that might have once been very finely embroidered, the creature looks up at her with eyes filled only with whites.

"For this you have caught me, High Lord?" it--he? She?--says, its cold voice making her flinch.

Tamlin rises, letting go of the Suriel. "She has something to ask you," he says flatly.

The Suriel doesn't run once he lets it go--scared of him or her? It only straightens out the collar of its robe with long gray fingers that appear as though they have been broken more than once. "What is it, Eve-daughter?"

It knows she was human. Once, at least.

No matter. That's not what she has come for.

"I want to know how to undo a mating bond," she says, keeping her voice even. "Please," she adds.

The Suriel clicks its tongue. "Most would consider such a bond a dearly loved gift."

Nesta bites her tongue. It won't do her any good to snap at this creature. "Can you tell me?" she asks.

"But you don't like anything gifted from the Cauldron, do you? No...you prefer your gifts stolen..."

Nesta's heart stutters. Tamlin looks on, curious, but she forces herself to keep eye contact with the Suriel. "Will you tell me?" she says, trying again.

Another hiss. "I can't tell you."

"But you know who can?" she presses, guessing at its linguistic trickery.

The Suriel bites its yellowed teeth together twice. "An old friend of yours, I would say."

An old friend...Amren? But Amren is only High Fae now, surely she doesn't have any powers like this anymore...and Amren's not an old friend. Only a former one.

"Call upon the one your sister bargained with," it says.

"Which one?" There are a great many, she suspects. Each deal more foolish than the last, she's certain. If she's come all the way to Spring just for a Suriel to tell her to go ask Rhysand--

"Bryaxis."

Oh.

Well.

"Where is Bryaxis now?" It had not returned to that library after the war.

"It'll come to you," the Suriel replies. "Call upon it."

Call upon...the only thing that Cassian fears.

Fine.

"What's that in your bag, Eve-daughter?"

Nesta looks down. "Clothes."

"Could you spare any?" it asks, clicking its fingers together.

She blinks. But she remembers all too well what it was like to be freezing, and is still at the mercy of stronger Fae, and she meant what she told Tamlin: they are all monsters here and she's not any authority on who amongst them is the worst.

"Sure," she says, and takes out the cloak she had brought. Simple. Charcoal gray, with purple hem so deep it's nearly black. She steels her arms as she extends it, willing herself not to show emotion when her fingers brush its.

The Suriel rises to its full height--taller than Nesta, obviously, but taller even than Tamlin. It slips off the tattered robe and lets it fall at its feet. Nesta's cloak hits its knees.

"Well," she says. "Goodbye, then." She turns on her heel and heads back through the bushes.

This time, Tamlin follows her. "Where are you going?" he asks.

"Back to Night." Where else can she go?

"You missed the last cross-Court carriage of the day. I'm not winnowing you there."

Her steps only falter slightly. "Well. I packed for this. Where's an inn?"

"You can stay at my estate."

This causes Nesta to stop and turn to him. "What do you think this is about?"

He doesn't miss a beat. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"You are not coming with me to see Bryaxis. This is not about my sister."

He flinches. "I know that," he says, voice low, rough. "I...I let her go. Weren't you there?"

When Rhysand died, he means. "I don't care," she says honestly.

"You can stay at my home for tonight," he says again. "See Bryaxis in the morning."

Nesta thinks about it. Is staying in Tamlin's home worse than staying in Rhysand's?

No.

But she still doesn't want to.

"No," she says to him. "I won't come ask you for anything again. You can consider us square, if you like."

So for the second time, she turns and leaves him. This time, he does not follow.

When the sun sets, Nesta stops walking. This was a good idea, she thinks, even as her heart beats in her throat. It's good precisely because of her fear. Her fear of being alone in a strange land, at night, with no sense of direction, and no way to get back until tomorrow.

Because now, what choice does she have but to go to Bryaxis.

Hoping her walk has helped to summon some nerve, Nesta lays her bag down neatly at her feet and smooths her hair. She clears her throat.

"Bryaxis," she says, the stupidity she feels stronger than any scariness, "I call upon you."

She stands there, looking out onto flowing hills and nothing else, feeling foolish, at best.

Perhaps Tamlin had offered her a kindness. A safe place for the night. Then she could have taken a carriage back in the morning and swallowed her pride and asked Amren for help finding Bryaxis.

Her spine straightens suddenly--only then does she hear. Her body recognizes it before her mind.

"Nesta Archeron," it says, from behind her.

She does not turn to look, keeps herself focused on a spot on a distant hill. "Hello," she says.

"You have grown thinner," it notes.

"I can't be sure, but I imagine you look much the same." The words are out before she can stop them.

But--Bryaxis laughs. Dark, shivering, under her bones. But a laugh, all the same.

Not so terrifying, she thinks. Just...stare ahead. Don't turn around. She can do that.

"To what do I owe the pleasure? So far from...your home."

"The Night Court is not my home."

"Oh?" it asks, mildly interested. "So where would it be?"

She hesitates. "I...am from the south of the island."

"Is that your home?"

Nesta exhales slowly. The Suriel had called her Eve-daughter, had it not? Why shouldn't she be allowed to claim human lands as hers?

"But I believe you have a question for me, Nesta Archeron."

"I do." Nesta takes another deep breath. "I want to undo my mating bond."

"That's not a question."

"...can you undo my mating bond?"

"I can."

She almost wishes she could turn around. Almost.

"Will you?" she asks, and pinches her fingers.

"Neither you nor I come from the Night Court," Bryaxis says, "but we have both found ourselves residing there, have we not?"

"I...yes." Small talk with this demon...is that the price to say? To ensure her sister's happiness, get her to speak to her again?

"A special history of bargains in the Night Court. Your sister broke ours, you know."

Nesta stiffens. "You left. How could she fulfill it?"

That laugh again. "Perhaps you can fulfill it for her."

She hesitates, bringing her hand up to touch her hair. "What...would you like me to do?"

"Tell me why you want your bond broken."

Sucking in her bottom lip, Nesta tugs a lock of her hair out of its coronet. "It was only given to me to hurt me. Because my sister cares for him."

"Tell me why, Nesta Archeron."

She closes her eyes. Do it, she commands herself. Just--say it, just this once, and then it'll be over.

Eyes still shut tight, she nods slowly. "The bond...hurts me because it hurts Elain because she cares for Azriel. And it hurts me..." Just say it, you stupid girl. "...because I...care for his brother." Her voice cracks, barely a whisper on the last word.

Her cheeks heat up. There--she's admitted it. She's said it.

Oh, she--she hates this. Hates it so much. She hates him. For everything he's done to her. How he treats her, even though he makes her feel--how he makes her feel! Far too many ways!

Everything about him. His hair and his eyes and his skin and his arms and his stupid smirk and his vile tongue and every single one of his fingertips and his scent and his thighs and his shoulders and--

"There, Nesta Archeron," Bryaxis says softly. "That's it."

Nesta fists her hands together. "Will you just end it now?"

"Certainly," it says. Something cool reaches out and caresses her cheek. "Face me."

The touch is gentle, almost loving. Not scary. Not threatening. So she does.

The gentleness ends there--it all goes dark.

When she opens her eyes, the sun is rising...in the Night Court.

"Good morning, Nesta Archeron," Bryaxis says from behind her.

Nesta pushes up off the ground. She's dressed in one of the night-things she brought in her bag.

"I brought you to this place neither of us call home," it says. "Our bargain is done."

She reaches down to pick a cardigan out of her bag, but her arms are shaking. That same touch from before--gentle, sweet--picks it and helps her put it on.

"Thank you," she says, her voice coming out in a whisper. She tries to swallow, but it burns.

"You should go to the High Lord's house. They're all waiting for you." Bryaxis pushes her a bit forward. Not roughly, just enough to get her legs moving on their own again. "Call upon me again, Nesta Archeron...when you'd like."

Bryaxis' essence disappears. Without looking behind her, she knows it is gone.

Strange looks punctuate her on her walk to Feyre's home. The High Lady's sister, dressed in a nightdress, clutching a travel bag. All she wants to is get back to her apartment and shower off the past day, but if they're all waiting for her...she supposes it can wait.

She wants to see Elain, anyway. Wants to show her...how much she loves her. What she did for her.

Bryaxis had been kind, though. Had hidden most of the pain from her. Only the aftermath remains, like the hollowness she always feels after her cycle, or shaking after being sick.

She stops dead in her tracks and gasps violently. The hollowness...it's not hollowness at all. It's...wholeness. Because she's whole. She's alone.

The mating bond is gone.

A laugh--a real laugh, carefree and joyous--escapes her. For the first time in...she can't remember how long. Every step after is easier, lighter. And she is more eager to take it. Elain awaits. Elain and...

She practically skips up to the riverfront manor, not able to fully suppress the small smile on her face as she throws the door open. She starts to call her sister's name, but the sight in the front room cuts her off.

Elain is there, with Feyre. Elain lies in the latter's lap, shaking slightly. Rhysand sits behind Feyre, on the floor, his hand on her back. Her tear-stained face is still. Azriel sits on a chair, arms propped up on his lap and head buried in his palms. Morrigan sits on a couch by Amren, who stares blankly at the wall.

It is Amren who first looks up and sees her. She inhales sharply, which makes them all, one by one, look to her...and then to what she is staring at. Nesta.

Elain notices last, her face still at Feyre's legs. With their younger sister's soft cry, Elain picks up her head and turns.

She bolts upright. Nesta jerks back for her suddenness. She is wrecked.

"Nesta?" she breathes.

Nesta looks around. "What?" she says, uncomfortable and bewildered.

"You..." Elain reaches out a hand. She stumbles a few feet forward, and touches Nesta's cheek. Clammier than Bryaxis, and not nearly as gentle. "You're alive."

Morrigan rises next. "I'm going to find Cassian," she says, to no one in particular. "Tell him..." She gives Nesta a look of--fright?--and scurries out of the house.

Quite suddenly, Nesta comes back to herself. "What is going on?" she demands.

Elain draws her hands back towards herself, looking at her fingers, as if she thinks they are not real, either.

"Feyre, it's okay," Rhys says to her sister, who has gone very white.

"What is going on?" she says again.

It's Azriel who answers, standing up fast. Far too fast. "You...were...dead."

"I...what?" Nesta asks. "What are you--oh."

The bond...when it had...because she had not told them.

Oh.

Perhaps...this has not been her best thought out plan, she thinks.

"Well," she says. "I'm...I'm not dead." She looks to Azriel. "I...undid the bond."

Every one of them-like they're all puppets on a string controlled by one person-tenses at the same time. In any other situation, it would be funny.

But it's this situation. So all that happens is Elain, bursting into hysterical tears, and running away.

No, Nesta decides. Not her best thought out plan.

#nesta archeron #nessian #azriel #good news for all you bryaxis fans out there! lol #hope bryaxis is okay and we get to see them in acosf actually

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creativia10 · 3 years

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Janus in Wickhills Part 1

(Title not certain)

Janus wakes up on a forest floor, having no idea how he got there. He soon learns that apparently he seems to resemble some sort of dead evil faery king, snake scales and all, and he has no idea why. So he finds himself getting wary and suspicious looks from people he doesn’t even know, including the ones who offered to help him. Not to mention, dealing with the confusing nature of the green skinned fae who Janus can’t help but be intrigued by. However, he may come to learn that he is more connected to everything than he was aware.

Warnings : Threats of violence

Notes: So, I decided to go ahead and start posting this story. This is a fanfic au of @tulipscomeinallsortsofcolors 's Love and Other Fairytales series. I did not know before that I needed to add in the ‘read more’ link. Since this is a bigger story, I want to do better with that this time. I will probably put specific warnings at the front of each part.

Ok, so here is some setup for the story: This is an au of Laoft where Remus came back several years earlier, and Linda isn’t in the picture yet. With this in mind, setting takes place some time after Logan has become the Seelie court rep.

I do not know yet how long this fic will be, since I am still writing it, or when I will update. So far, I have five chapters written.

Let me know if you have questions about anything, or if I forgot anything.

Chapter 1

Janus stirred, first aware of a dark green surfacing through the little light against his closed eyelids. He slowly blinked his eyes open, not quite aware of everything yet. As his eyes opened he noticed some light coming in through the leaves of the top of the forest. Top of the forest? Wait.

As Janus brought himself to sit up he felt leaves shift below him. He leaned back, thankful there was a tree behind him.

Something…wasn’t right, here. He shouldn’t be waking up on the floor of a forest. He was feeling a great wrongness here. He tried to think back to how he got there, but that only gave him fuzzy images and a dizzying headache. That could not be good. He put his hand against the tree as he stood up. He felt groggy.

How long had he been asleep? That was also concerning.

As he righted himself he looked around. He was definitely in the middle of a forest. How strange. It seemed dark in there though.

He seemed to be in period clothes with a cape, that didn’t feel off at least. He carefully started stepping around, wondering how he should go about this, considering he didn’t know which way was out. Something told him it would probably be a bad idea to call out either, he didn’t know what lurked in these woods. As he started to walk around he tried to find a space between trees that could remotely resemble a path. They didn’t seem consistent though.

He hadn’t gotten far before he heard someone clicking.

“Oh you’ve done it.”

Janus whirled around to face the figure, human-like with an inhuman quality. Fae, his mind supplied him with somehow. Not sure how he knew that.

“Ohh you’ve done it now,” the figure said as they stepped towards Janus. Janus couldn’t help but step away. The fae laughed and then shook their head.

“I don’t know where you got off going around with the dead Serpent King’s face. It’s not going to end well either way.”

Janus narrowed his eyes. What were they talking about? The fae rolled their eyes.

“Oh please, no point in keeping up an act. It’s a pretty stupid thing to do.”

The fae flicked out into their hand a light colored blade.

“We don’t take kindly to mockeries of betraying usurpers around here. You wear his face, you get the same fate.”

Janus gasped and quickly dove away from the blade aimed right towards him. He breathed fast as he quickly tried to get away, not wanting them out of his sight but also wanting to get out of there.

“Help!” He shouted then bit his tongue. That felt like a stupid thing to do. He didn’t know the intentions of any of the creatures around there. An angry snarl came from the fae who attacked him.

“Don’t act so pathetic when you dare to wear that traitor’s face!”

They launched for Janus again. Janus stumbled back, falling backwards when another figure swiftly stood in front of the other fae. Said fae stopped when he did, frowning, but standing down.

“What is the meaning of this?”

“Your highness, I didn’t t-“

“This is still close enough to the revel for me to intervene. What is the issue?”

The fae scowled.

“That bastard made a mockery of the executed king by traipsing around with his face! I was only doing us all a favor by putting a stop to it.”

The royal stiffened and looked around to look at Janus. Janus stood up and eyed him cautiously, poised to take off if he had to, not that Janus knew where exactly he could go.

The royal’s face was unreadable.

“I am here now, so I am not allowing personal justice by killing on sight. I will see to it that this matter is addressed.”

“But-“

“Why do you wear my brother’s face?” The Royal asked Janus this time. Janus just looked at him.

“I am afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“He lies!” The other fae cried.

“I do not understand your accusation, seeing as we can only consider a fae capable of such a transformation, and in that case, he would be incapable of lying.”

Fae? Him? Janus felt like whether or not he was fae, should be something he should know about himself. So why did he feel so unsure about that?

The royal gave the fae attacker beside him a sharp look.

“You are no longer helpful to this situation. Go on to the revel now.”

The other fae did not seem happy about this but went off without a complaint. The royal looked at Janus again.

“Explain,” He said.

“Explain what?”

“Explain how you look nearly identical to my dead brother.”

“How the hell should I know that? You’re acting like you’ve never seen someone who looks similar to someone else before.”

“Well his snake scales are pretty iconic to him.”

His what?

Janus took notice of an off feeling, as some things were coming back to him slower. He reached his hand to touch the left side of his face and gasped when he felt not smooth skin but the raised circles of reptilian scales. Well, that mas definitely a magical characteristic. The royal was watching him.

“I, along with many others, also saw him brutally murdered in front of our own eyes, so him seeming alive should not make any sense at all.”

Janus eyes widened at that. What the hell?

This was a lot. He clenched his teeth as he felt the start of what could turn into hyperventilating. That was the last thing he needed right there. To go into a vulnerable state in front of a stranger who clearly viewed him suspiciously.

“Perhaps we should start with what you are doing here?”

Janus sucked in a breath.

“I-I don’t know.” Janus looked at him then broke eye contact. “I don’t know how I got here. I just woke up on the forest floor. I know how that sounds-“

“Not as farfetched as you would think.”

Janus looked up at him in bewilderment. The royal’s lips twitched up briefly.

“Do you know who I am?”

Janus shook his head.

“Should I?”

The royal seemed to withhold a laugh again.

“Some call me the lord of the forest.”

Janus slowly nodded at that. Somehow, that seemed to work, considering how the attacking fae earlier had acted around him.

“I am also known as the spider prince. What is the last thing you remember?” the lord of the forest asked.

“Before waking up?”

He nodded.

Janus pursed his lips as he thought. It was a bit fuzzy. He went up to a tree. There was a conversation with someone whose face he couldn’t recall. Something happened. It wasn’t good. He remembered his consciousness fading.

He hissed and winced. It was clearly not a good memory. The prince frowned.

Janus said, “Not much.”

The prince hmmed. Then he turned around.

“Come with me,” he said.

Janus just stood for a moment.

“I may know of some people who can help,” the prince said. He started to walk away.

“You may want to readjust your hat, though,” he said as he nodded to Janus’ snake side and then began to walk again. Janus turned his hat and pulled it down some, not quite covering the side of his face completely, and found himself following. It wasn’t like he had many other choices anyways.

There were whispers around them. Here comes the prince.

Strange. Who follows him?

Who tries to cover part of his face?

Poor coverage indeed.

Wait is that-?

How can it be?

We saw him dead.

Who wears the dead serpent’s face?

Janus drew himself up and sped up his pace some, feeling extremely uncomfortable. They walked into a very big clearing, filled with people dancing about. There was an overall feyness to it. Many stared at them as they went past. This whole thing seemed to scream danger to Janus. He followed the prince wondering what he was thinking. He didn’t know what the prince thought of Janus at all. They made their way to an area along the edge of the clearing in the back, clearly set aside from everything else. There were three others who looked close in age to the prince. Janus noticed a fey knight off to the side as well. She made her way over to them as the two walked forward. The prince gestured.

“Can you explain this?” He asked her. The fey knight looked at Janus in shock, then her hand made its way to the sword at her side. Janus gasped and stepped back. The prince held up a hand before her.

“I already spoke with him, he claims not to know how he got here. If he is fae, as I suspect, then he can’t be lying.”

The knight frowned but she eased up some.

“That doesn’t make him innocent though.” The other three who had been waiting for the prince stood near them. Varying levels of expressions on their faces.

The knight gave him a hard look.

“What is your name?”

Janus opened his mouth, then paused. You weren’t supposed to give your name to the fae, which she clearly was, along with the prince.

“…you may call me Jay,” He almost wished he had thought of a cleverer nickname, not one that was too close to his actual name. She hmmed, still on guard.

“He never gave anyone his real name anyways,” one of the others standing by them spoke up, who was also dressed like a knight. Although he had an iron dagger on his sheath. The prince nodded.

“I also asked him if he knew who I was and he said no,” The prince said. That caused many confused looks around them. The prince looked to another in their group. Another fae. This one, who also appeared fae, yet strangely wore glasses, tilted his head and looked at Janus in consideration.

“Hmm, well he does seem to be fae.”

“I think the snake scales were pretty telling of that. I also don’t know of any witches who can do that.”

“He did act surprised when I mentioned the scales though, as though he didn’t conjure a glamor for himself.”

“I cannot think of why someone would play at this anyways though. After all, we cannot lie and to our knowledge no one else has transformative abilities like the fae do,” Specs said.

“Aren’t there other faeries who look alike though?” The last one, with curly hair and similar glasses, asked.

The glasses clad fae shook his head.

“Not like this at least.”

“My brother was made to be gentry, as we were made to be ruling heirs of this forest. He and I were the only ones who came into being the way we did. There would be no one like us.”

The one dressed as a knight gestured at Janus.

“Well then how would you explain this!?”

The glasses faery pursed his lips.

“I am afraid I am not sure.”

This was all just really weird. He would have left ages ago if he had any idea on where to go.

“Hey everyone! What’s going on?” A voice called out loudly from behind him, getting closer. “What are you all staring at?”

The people in front of him seemed to grow very concerned as the voice approached.

The glasses fae spoke, “R-Duke…”

Janus found he couldn’t help but turn to face the other. This was a green man. He literally had mint green skin. He hung a spiked mace over his shoulder. The green man, Duke as specs called him, just stared at him, face varying in extreme expressions. Janus wasn’t sure what to make of this. He was starting to get used to the bizarre reactions to him which was incredibly infuriating. There was something about the man before him though. Something familiar that was almost on the tip of his tongue. He seemed handsome too, even with the green skin, and somewhat ridiculous mustache. The man seemed to settle on something.

“What..the hell!?”

( Continues in Janus in Wickhills Part 2)

#laoft fic #sanders sides fanfic #ts janus

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