#to lay down my sword and shield at last
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「 hold my hand, please, one last time.」
⤷ info: kazuha, albedo, aether, xiao, wanderer x gn!reader || angst, this is based on the prompt “can i hold your hand?” (or “can you hold my hand?”) || wc: 3104
⤷ warnings: death, this is v v angsty
⤷ extra: i wrote this a while ago back on soleillunne and decided that it was too good to be gone forever lmao
kazuha.
The battlefield was strewn with chaos, and amidst the clash of swords and the cries of war, Kazuha fought with all his might, his heart burdened with the weight of the lives at stake. He had hoped that his skills with the blade and mastery of the Anemo vision would be enough to protect those he held dear, but fate had other plans.
As the battle raged on, he caught a glimpse of his lover, a skilled warrior whose presence had always brought him comfort and strength, you. Your eyes met for a fleeting moment, and in that exchange, you understood each other without uttering a word. It was a silent promise that you would find each other amidst the chaos.
But the tide turned against you, and the enemy’s forces seemed endless. Despite your best efforts, the defenders were overwhelmed, and Kazuha found himself standing back-to-back with you, defending against the onslaught.
In the midst of the chaos, an arrow found its mark. Time seemed to slow as the arrow pierced through your chest, and the world around you faded into the background. Kazuha’s heart clenched in horror as he caught you, your strength waning with each passing moment.
“Kazuha,” you gasped, blood staining your lips. “Can I hold your hand?”
Tears welled up in Kazuha’s eyes as he clutched your hand tightly, trying to offer some semblance of comfort amidst the pain. “Yes, of course,” he choked out, his voice trembling with grief.
Your hand trembled in his grasp, and Kazuha could feel your life slipping away like sand through his fingers. He could do nothing but watch helplessly as the light in your eyes began to fade. You smiled weakly at him, a bittersweet expression filled with love and regret.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered, your voice barely audible above the sounds of battle. “I wish… we had more time.”
“Don’t speak like that,” Kazuha pleaded, his voice breaking. “We’ll get through this. I won’t let you go.”
But you knew better, and as your strength waned, you continued to smile at him, your touch growing weaker by the second.
“I love you,” you murmured, your breath becoming shallow. “Always…”
Tears streamed down Kazuha’s cheeks as he held you close, trying to shield you from the harsh reality of the world around you. He wished he could turn back time, rewrite the events that led to this tragic moment, but life was unforgiving in its cruelty.
Your hand in his grew colder, and your breathing ceased. Your life force, once vibrant and strong, slipped away, leaving behind only a lifeless body in Kazuha’s arms.
Kazuha held your hand tightly, unable to let go, as if keeping that connection alive could somehow bring you back. He cried out in anguish, the weight of grief crashing down upon him like an unforgiving storm.
In that moment, amidst the chaos of the battlefield, Kazuha felt an emptiness he had never known before. He had lost not only a lover but a confidant, a soulmate with whom he had shared dreams, laughter, and countless cherished memories.
And as the battle raged on, Kazuha clung to your lifeless hand, lost in sorrow, with a heart that would forever bear the burden of their memory.
albedo.
Albedo’s heart pounded in his chest as he cradled his you in his arms. He was just about to descend from his lab on Dragonspine to meet up with you as he promised, only to see you laying on your own blood at the bottom of the mountain. He had seen you only hours prior, he’d laughed with you, but now, all that remained was a sea of sorrow, the bitter taste of loss overwhelming his senses.
He looked down at the face that he had cherished so dearly, now drained of all warmth and life. Your eyes, once filled with light and love, now stared back at him with a haunting emptiness. Albedo’s hands trembled, and tears welled up in his eyes, blurring his vision.
“Can you hold my hand?” a weak voice whispered, barely audible amidst the sounds of grief and despair that surrounded them. Albedo’s heart wrenched at the sound, and he quickly took your freezing hand into his own.
Tears streamed down Albedo’s cheeks as he clutched your hand tightly. “Yes, of course,” he choked out, his voice breaking with pain. “I’ll hold your hand for as long as you need, my love.”
He brought your intertwined hands to his lips and placed a tender kiss on the once-warm skin, now cold and lifeless. Memories of your time together flooded his mind – the laughter you shared, the dreams you nurtured, and the love you built with each passing day. Now, all that was left were shattered hopes and dreams.
“I’m so sorry,” Albedo whispered, his voice filled with regret and guilt. “I couldn’t protect you. I failed.”
You weakly shook your head, mustering a faint smile. “No, don’t blame yourself,” you managed to say. “You… you brought me so much happiness, Albedo. Please, don’t forget that.”
Albedo’s heart ached at the words, realizing that he had to find the strength to carry on without you. But it felt like an impossible task, as if the very essence of his being had been torn apart.
“I don’t know if I can,” he confessed, his voice trembling with sorrow. “You’re my everything.”
You fingers tightened around his hand as if trying to hold on just a little longer. “You’re strong, Albedo. Stronger than you know,” you said, your voice barely audible. “Promise me… you’ll keep going… for both of us.”
Albedo nodded, his tears falling freely now. “I promise,” he whispered, trying to keep his voice steady. “I’ll live for the both of us. But it won’t be the same without you.”
Your breaths became shallower, and Albedo knew that your life was slipping away. He leaned closer, trying to memorize every detail of your face, never wanting to forget.
“I love you,” you whispered, your words fading like a gentle breeze. “Always.”
“I love you too,” Albedo replied, his voice choked with emotion. “Always and forever.”
And with those final words, your grip on his hand slowly weakened until it was gone completely. Albedo held onto your hand a moment longer, pressing it against his heart as if trying to keep your love alive within him.
As grief consumed him, Albedo felt a mix of emotions. Sorrow, anger, and a deep longing to see his lover again, even if it were just for a moment. But he knew he had to continue, to honor your memory and the love you shared.
Albedo gently laid your body down, closing your eyes with tender care. He stood, feeling the weight of loss heavy on his shoulders, but also the weight of your love, and your belief in him, pushing him forward. Though his heart was shattered, he would carry your love with him, always.
And as he walked away from that place of sorrow, he knew that the pain would remain, but so would the memories of a love that would never truly fade away.
aether.
Aether’s heart pounded in his chest as he cradled his dying lover in his arms. The battlefield around them had turned into a chaotic canvas of destruction, but his attention was solely focused on the person he held dear. You were slipping away, and he could feel your life force fading like a waning star.
“Can you hold my hand?” you whispered, your voice barely audible amidst the cacophony of war. Aether’s eyes filled with tears, and he gently clasped your frail hand in his own, interlocking your fingers. His touch was warm, providing a sense of comfort amidst the pain.
“I’m here,” he choked out, his voice trembling. “I won’t let go.”
Your breathing was shallow, and your once-bright eyes were now dim, but you managed a faint smile. It was a bittersweet expression, as if you were trying to convey so much in that fleeting moment. Memories of you flooded Aether’s mind, from the first time you met under the starlit sky to the promises you made to each other.
“You have to promise me,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper, “that you’ll keep going. That you’ll find happiness again.”
Aether couldn’t find the strength to respond, his throat constricted with grief. He knew that in a world without his lover, life would lose its luster, its purpose. But he understood that you were trying to ease his pain, even in your last breaths.
“No,” he whispered, tears streaming down his cheeks, “I can’t bear to live without you. Please don’t leave. Not you too.”
You smiled again, a mixture of sadness and love in your eyes. “You are strong, Aether, and you will find the strength to carry on. I will always be with you.”
Aether’s heartache intensified, and he leaned down to press his forehead against yours. He wished he could freeze time, to hold you forever, but he knew it was slipping away like grains of sand through his fingers.
“I love you,” you said, their voice fading into a whisper.
“And I love you,” Aether replied, his voice breaking.
Your grip on his hand loosened, and Aether felt the last pulse of life slip away from you. He held onto your hand a moment longer, not wanting to let go, but eventually, he lowered it gently to your chest.
In that moment, as the world around him continued to rage with chaos, Aether felt an overwhelming emptiness inside. His lover was gone, and the pain of your absence consumed him. But he knew he had to honor your last wish—to find a way to live without you, to keep your love alive in his heart.
With tears in his eyes, Aether kissed your forehead one last time before he stood, facing the uncertain future that lay ahead. Your love would forever be his guiding light, and he would cherish every memory, every moment you had shared.
And as the battles raged on and the world continued to turn, Aether vowed to carry your love with him, a beacon of hope in the darkest of times. Though your physical presence was gone, your love would endure, a reminder that even in the face of loss, the power of love could transcend beyond the boundaries of life and death.
heizou.
Heizou knelt on the cold, damp ground, cradling your cold body in his arms. He had just returned home from work, when the last thing he expected to see was see you laying on your own blood in your shared home. He held you closer, your blood staining his hands, mingling with his own tears. His heart felt as though it had been torn apart, and the pain was almost unbearable.
The world seemed to slow down as Heizou stared into the fading eyes of his beloved. Each second felt like an eternity, and yet, it was slipping away all too quickly. He could see the struggle in your gaze, the effort it took to speak those final words.
“Can I hold your hand?” you whispered, your voice getting lower with each word.
Tears streamed down Heizou’s face, and he gently clasped your trembling hand with his own, intertwining your fingers. He felt your warmth slowly waning, and he held on tighter, as if he could somehow will life back into you with the strength of his grip.
“You don’t have to ask,” Heizou choked out, his voice breaking with sorrow. “I’ll hold your hand forever.”
You managed a faint smile, your strength visibly waning. “I… I love you,” you managed to say, your voice barely above a whisper.
“I love you too,” Heizou replied, his voice trembling. “You’re my everything, my reason for living.”
As the commotion outside your shared home began to get louder, the people having noticed the blood stains, Heizou’s focus remained solely on you. The world outside ceased to exist for him, and he poured all his love and energy into holding you, trying to be your anchor in this storm of pain and suffering.
In your last moments, you clung to each other tightly, as if afraid to let go. Heizou’s heart ached as he felt your life slipping away from him, the person who meant more to him than anything else in the world. He wished he could have done something, anything, to save you.
But in the end, all he could do was be there, holding your hand, providing them with comfort in their final moments. Heizou would carry the weight of this loss forever, the memories of you etched into his soul.
Even as people left you two alone and the world moved on, Heizou remained on that cold, damp ground, cradling the body of the one he had loved and lost, his heart forever scarred by the pain of that fateful day.
xiao.
Xiao knelt on the damp ground, his heart pounding with anguish as he cradled your shaking form in his arms. The battlefield around you was silent, the chaos of the battle having retreated, leaving behind only the echoes of suffering and loss.
Your once bright eyes, now dulled by death, stared up at him, and Xiao couldn’t bear to look away. Your hands, once intertwined in a promise of eternity, now lay limp and still. Tears welled up in his eyes, but he refused to let them fall.
“Can you hold my hand?” your voice was a faint whisper, barely audible amidst the devastation surrounding them.
Xiao’s heart shattered at those words, but he gently took your hand in his own, holding it with all the tenderness and love he had for you. “I will always hold your hand,” he choked out, his voice breaking with grief.
You managed a weak smile, the corners of your lips lifting slightly. “Even in death,” you murmured, your voice barely reaching Xiao’s ears.
“I’ll follow you anywhere, my love,” Xiao vowed, his fingers trembling as he clung tightly to the hand that was growing colder by the second. “Even to the ends of this cruel world.”
Your breathing grew fainter, and your grip on his hand loosened. Xiao felt his heartache intensify, knowing that he couldn’t change the cruel fate that had befallen you.
“Thank you… for loving me,” you whispered, your voice a mere thread of sound.
“Thank you for making my life meaningful,” Xiao replied, his voice choked with emotion. “I’m grateful for every moment we shared.”
Your eyes locked for a final time, and in that fleeting moment, a lifetime of love and memories passed between you. Xiao wished he could freeze time, to hold on to this moment forever, but life had other plans.
As the last breath left your lips, Xiao leaned down, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead. “Rest now,” he whispered, his voice breaking with sorrow. “I’ll carry you in my heart. Until we meet again.”
He remained there, holding your lifeless hand, as tears streamed down his cheeks, mingling with the blood-stained soil beneath you. Xiao knew that a part of him had died that day with his beloved, but he also knew that your love would live on, eternal and undying, no matter the circumstances.
wanderer.
Wanderer knelt on the ground, his heart pounding in his chest as he cradled you in his arms. The world around you seemed to blur, the noise of battle fading into an eerie silence. The battle had been brutal, and he had fought with all his might to protect the one he loved, but fate had dealt them a cruel hand.
Your once vibrant eyes now glistened with pain, and a weak smile graced your lips. Blood stained your clothing, and Wanderer could feel your life slipping away.
“Hey,” you whispered, your voice barely audible. “I don’t have much time, do I?”
Wanderer choked back a sob, clutching your body tightly. “Don’t talk like that. You’re going to be fine. We’ll get you help.”
A soft chuckle escaped your lips, but it quickly turned into a cough. “You can’t lie to me, my love.” you managed to say, your breath shallow.
Tears finally streamed down Wanderer’s face as he pressed his forehead against yours. “I love you,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “I’m sorry if I didn’t say it often. I can’t bear to lose you.”
You trembled in his grasp, and gazed into his eyes with a mixture of love and sadness. “Can I hold your hand?” you asked, your voice barely audible.
Wanderer nodded frantically, intertwining his fingers with yours. He held your hand close to his heart, hoping that somehow he could transfer strength to you.
“I’m scared,” you admitted, tears pooling in your eyes. “I don’t want to leave you.”
He brushed a strand of hair away from your face, his touch gentle and full of affection, reserved only for you. “You won’t have to. Just hold on a little longer, and we’ll get you help. We’ll face this together.”
Your grip tightened weakly on his hand. “You’re my light, my love, my everything,” you murmured. “You always have been. Promise me you’ll keep shining, even when I’m gone.”
Wanderer could feel whatever was left of his heart shatter with your words. “I promise,” he choked out. “But you can’t leave me. I can’t do this without you.”
Your breathing grew shallower, and your voice became softer. “You’re strong, my love,” you said. “You’ll find a way. Remember me, but don’t let my memory hold you back. Live your life to the fullest. Find happiness again.”
“I can’t imagine life without you,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “How am I supposed to go on?”
Your only response was a brief smile, and he squeezed your cold hand tightly. “I’ll never let go,” he vowed. “Not even when you’re gone.”
Your breathing slowed, and your eyes locked with his one last time. “I love you,” you whispered, your voice fading away.
“I love you too,” he whispered back, his voice cracking.
And then, with your hand still clasped in his, you were gone.
Wanderer held your lifeless form closer, his tears falling like rain. He knew that life would never be the same again, that a piece of his heart had been taken with you. But he also knew that he had to keep the promise he made. With a heavy heart, he stood, carrying your memory with him as he faced the world without you, knowing that he would always carry your love and light with him.
───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────
@amalythea 2024. | do not re-upload, copy, translate, etc. my works on any form of media.
#「 birth of a supernova」#・ nouveau livre ˎˊ˗#kazuha x reader#heizou x reader#albedo x reader#aether x reader#wanderer x reader#scaramouche x reader#xiao x reader#genshin x reader#genshin impact x reader#kazuha angst#heizou angst#albedo angst#aether angst#wanderer angst#scaramouche angst#genshin angst#genshin impact angst#kazuha x reader angst#heizou x reader angst#albedo x reader angst#aether x reader angst#wanderer x reader angst#scaramouche x reader angst#xiao x reader angst#genshin x reader angst#genshin impact x reader angst
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My Tears Are Becoming a Sea
Azriel x Fem!Reader
Summary - Azriel wished that you’d wake up in time for Starfall, that you’d be home to see the souls cross the sky. The war against Hybern had wrecked you, and he couldn’t bear to be away from you for another moment.
Warnings - angst, sad boy Azriel, mentions of death and blood, some self loathing, but a beautiful happy ending for our Shadowsinger 🤍
They'd won.
But none of it meant anything if you weren't there with them.
Hybern had been defeated, they had won the impossible battle thanks to you, thanks to your skill, your power, and that shattering determination to find the upper hand your family so desperately needed.
You had disappeared without a word just after the High Lords meeting, after realising that the forces you needed lay beyond the capabilities of armies and blind hope. Azriel knew better than to stop you, he traced the line of your jaw as he kissed you for what could have been the last time. He savoured the taste of your lips, your scent, that smile that had the power to command the attention of anyone or anything.
There were no words that any of them could say the moment they saw you on the battlefield, you stood above them clad in your leathers wearing a sadistic grin as Bryaxis and the Weaver stalked from behind you whilst they all waited to meet their fate.
Azriel puffed his chest out with pride, glancing to Cassian with a smirk. That's my girl.
You were a formidable force, bending the elements around you like it was your mother tongue, sending spears of fire and ice through the chests of whoever opposed you, allowing the ground to swallow whole groups of soldiers as you passed by. Your sword was an extension of your soul, a cunningly beautiful thing, curved and sharp, and coated in the blood of your enemies which had also splashed across your cheeks.
His shadows were in awe of you, a horribly fierce awe as they watched you cut down man after man, paying little mind to anything else other than making sure that Feyre and Amren reached the cauldron.
That wretched thing.
The cauldron had broken. Feyre needed to put it back together. Feyre needed the power to put it back together.
Azriel watched as you tackled Rhys to the ground, as you threw up a shield around yourself and Feyre so that she had no choice but to use you. To take everything you had to stop the world from crumbling into dust.
Feyre had wept and screamed as she held you in her arms, her fingers pushing the hair from your face as she rocked back and forth, begging your soul to return to your body. Azriel fell to your side and pulled you from Feyre's gasp, his shadows flittered anxiously over your face and body whilst their master pressed his lips to your eyes, pleading the High Lords around him to do what they did for Feyre, to bring you back to him.
Each High Lord offered a kernel of their power, even Feyre had thrown in her own in hope it would made a difference.
Rhys had held him tightly as your soul returned to your body, his sobs wracked his chest when your own began to rise and fall in a healthy rhythm. You didn't wake though.
After days of Madja fussing over you, she had exhausted all of her options. You were warm, your heartbeat was strong and your lungs were functioning as they should be, there was no reason why you shouldn't have been awake and telling Azriel how much you loved him.
He had refused to leave you, his shadows less willing to do so, they loved you so dearly to the point you often found a couple of rogue shadows perching on your own shoulder instead of your mates. Deep circles clung to his hazel eyes that were dark and dreary, he hadn't eaten, he just sat beside your cot and held your hand, noting how peaceful you looked in your eternal slumber.
Much to his rage, it had been decided that Helion would transport you to the Day Court with the promise that his army of healers and researchers would find a way to bring you back. Rhys had agreed, willing to try anything to bring you back to your family, and had to order Azriel to stay away from you whilst Helion gave it his best shot. They couldn't have a grief stricken Illyrian forbidding anyone to touch you.
Velaris felt empty without you. The bakeries were far too full and the children too quiet. The Sidra begged for your fingers to run through her ripples, to caress her with that power that complimented her own so perfectly.
The world just felt darker without you annoying them, prodding Cassian with stupid jokes or dragging Mor dress shopping, even Amren was missing your feet propped on her lap whilst she tried to research, and Nesta yearned for your intelligent observations on the plot holes and desires for the books you shared.
Feyre had become a shell, busying herself with preparations for Starfall so that she would forget how guilty she felt for a moment.
Starfall was your favourite thing in the world, nothing bar Azriel could bring so much joy to you. The music, beautiful outfits and food were just minor aspects in comparison to the main event, when those stars would hurtle across the sky and illuminate it with that hot white glow.
Azriel had always found himself stood behind you, arms wrapped tightly around your waist and chin resting atop your head as you both watched in awe. It never ceased to amaze either of you.
This year was different. No amount of flowers or pastries could distract anyone from the fact that you weren't there. He should have stopped you, gotten to you quicker before you could attack Rhys and take his place; you should have just let Rhys give his power, he would have recovered quicker, everything would have been fine.
Mor had tried to get Azriel to dance, but he didn't want to dance with anyone who wasn't you. All he wanted to do was go back to your shared room and wrap himself in your scent so he could dream of you, the only place you were alive and chatting idly about some random fact you'd found in a book that sent your mind spiralling into balanced wonder.
"She wouldn't want you to stand on the side lines, Az," Cassian clapped his shoulder, trying to coax his brother to partake in something this Starfall, for you.
Gasps echoed about the room, a sign that the main event had begun. Usually, you'd be jumping up and down in your spot with excitement, clutching to his fingers as you dragged him from the room and out to the private balcony you had both made yours.
Males and females floated out of the arched doorways, but Azriel stayed behind, not being able to think of witnessing a single Starfall without you.
Burying his hands deep into the pockets of his black pants, Azriel moved in the opposite direction to the enthralled crowd, not being able to stomach even pretending to be happy. With no particular place in mind, Azriel walked, down winding hallways and up a set of steps, along the arched walls until he fell into place in front of a set of familiar doors.
Doors that you had practically torn the handles from one year from the sheer uncontrollable excitement to get outside before either of you missed it.
Azriel sighed, wiping the corners of his eyes, he sniffled softly as he took the handle in his scarred fingers, feeling electricity pouring through it, so intense that he had to pull away with a frown. He stood there for a moment, unsure and bewildered by the sensation.
Then he felt it.
He felt the familiar scent flood where he stood, the shadows reacted quickly, darting to the handle and dancing over the door, fighting for it to be opened.
It couldn't be. Helion would have told them if you had awoken.
It couldn't be.
Azriel flung the doors open and his shadows surged forward, there you stood, your back to him, dressed in Day Court gold with a solid gold halo encasing a full braided bun. The shadows reached you first and you giggled as they kissed every inch of your face, and gods, did that sound have him melting into a blubbering mess.
You turned to him, your mate, and opened your arms to him, ones that he gladly stepped in to. Azriel wrapped his arms around your waist, he ran his fingers over your skin, he left lingering kisses in the nape of your neck and along your shoulder.
"You're home," he strained, sobs of pure happiness tugging at his throat as he pulled away from you, looking down into those eyes he adored too much.
You moved a piece of his hair away from those pools of brown and green, closing the gap between you as the sky came to life, allowing your love to explode around you whilst the world above and below held a calm breath.
"I couldn't full well miss my favourite night of the year, could I?"
Azriel pressed his forehead to yours, stared into your eyes and drank in every single part of you, his fingers not once moving from your body, "You came back to me."
"I'll always come back to you, Az. Always."
Authors Note
I needed something fluffy after my gut wrenching Eris post before.
I'm halfway healed.
#azriel x you#azriel x reader#azriel#azriel shadowsinger#acotar imagine#acotar fanfiction#acotar#rhysand#rhys acotar#feyre archeron#feysand#amren acotar#mor acotar#cassian#nesta#fluff#maasverse#shadowsinger x reader
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World Bearer Part 1
Bearing his child as he was fighting in Shibuya
It wasn't intended neither it was accident, the child you caress in your womb, it was the result of love. A couple of days earlier barely even recalling the dates, news came unto you as Shoko informed you of Gojo captured, impossible..
He promised
He always promises y/n, you thought to yourself having filled with worry and doubt this time the result would be different, this time he wouldn't be able to be by your side, the last smile he gave you, the last kiss, it floods all to your every bit of sanity left.
You wept unsure of what to do, this is bad for your child. It's stressing you out knowing you can't do anything and you can't ask anyone about it. It pains you that you cannot be beside him nor come to his rescue, you carry the world inside you and you can't risk to lose any of which.
Your whole relationship with him was hidden deeper than 6 feet graves could even speak, only Shoko were informed and were supposed to be the only person besides him to assist you on giving birth.
'missed a call from Shoko'
You missed her first call as you were to focused on picking up some shards of glass, you dropped the mug you and Gojo share for every morning coffee.
Broken. You struggle to bend down as your belly bump is clearly on the way, you stood up and checked your phone to your surprise
Is it finally good news
You called back as she picked up in a hurry, she seemed to hesitate to tell, she hesitated to cause anymore stress than to bear the very weight of the next possibly most powerful sorcerer to mankind in the next generation. Even the weight of the child causes a wave of imbalance in the world between curses and the burden of being expected to be the sword and shield for the most dangerous circumstances awaits your child if his birth were to be exposed and known to the world.
It's what Gojo went through afterall
"y/n listen, Gojo is out now and currently facing curses and possibly Sakuna. I am called for support for the sorcerers in Shibuya—" she paused for what seemed eternity, fueling my anxiety and worry.
"y/n I just wanted to tell you to worry a bit less, he told me to relay you his message: I'd win, I'd be there when our son is born. I'm the strongest afterall" Shoko whispered to the phone as I let out a little chuckle still with a hint of nervous yet comfort. Atleast feel a little ease for the child you bear, for the child you birth with Gojo beside you.
"Thank you Shoko" I whispered back, your voice crack and break devours the silence of the room.
2 hours pass, and shit you feel building up contractions, painfully telling you your world is about to arrive. You rush to get some lukewarm water, a damp towel, quickly sterilize some scissors and a warm blanket
Yet he is not here, he's in battle, fighting
Unable to contact anyone else you try to reach for Shoko again. Afraid, you're just straight up afraid. Your timing your contractions yourself as you lay down your soft bed sheets, slowly painting it with blood. Gojo is in his battlefield and so are you, you combat the pain as you try to push harder and harder not trying to pass out on the way.
One
Two
Three
You push, again
One
Two
You push, you can't stop here. Your child needs to get out now
You gave another hard push screaming your lungs out, cursing, fist balled in the sheets as the other scratched the bed board.
Finally, a cry
Don't faint, don't faint
You pick yourself up, positioning yourself to sit back at the bed frame for support. Picking up your child and expertly cutting his umbilical cord before you could finally fix your eyes on your child you made sure to hear his heart beat, your scared you did a step wrong.
But his heart beat as loud as he cried, you admire your child clearly reassembling your husband. His hair and the same goes for his eye lashes, white as snow, his eyes with a hint of you a hue of purple and mainly the blue skies, high and mighty, adding the captivating and deep capture of the ocean you admire from Gojo.
You cried, as your child slept in your arms. A call notifies your phone enough for you to immediately answer before it wakes up your son.
"He's here" you said as Shoko could picture your smile from the phone call before she could even speak a word, her seconds of silence sends you a break of her heart like she's about to break another bad news for you.
#anime#gojo x reader#gojo satoru#jjk#jjk x reader#jjk gojo#gojo angst#jujutsu gojo#gojo x y/n#gojo x you#jjk satoru#gojo
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Devotion
Osferth (The Last Kingdom) x Reader - Part 1
Summary: You are a Dane living in Rumcofa. After the untimely passing of your parents, you are now the sole supporter of your two younger siblings. Uhtred and his men have taken your family under their wing and you beg Osferth to teach you to use a sword to defend your family, an unusual request for a young woman. Osferth, being unable to deny you anything, agrees and your passion for him grows.
Words: 5.9K
Chapter Warnings: NSFW, Death and parent loss, children rearing children, mentions of virginity, mentions of battle, alcohol consumption
A/N: At last, I apologize for the delay with this. This story is going to be slightly different than my other, smut heavy fics as it is definitely a SLOWBURN (but it'll be worth the wait, I promise).
This first Part sets up the reader and her relationship with Uhtred's men and takes place at the beginning of Season 5. It won't follow every event from the season specifically, I've chosen what I wanted to keep as I went along.
Thank you to my incredible beta reader, @arcielee, as always for her expertise. I swear she knows all.
Prologue
“Please, Osferth?” you plead, your voice carrying a tremor of desperation as you stare at him from across the campfire. Your eyes bore into his, seeking something within his big, blue gaze.
Osferth studies your face, a frown forming in between his eyebrows. He lowers his gaze and studies the fire, the crackling flames cast an orange glow upon his face as he contemplates your unusual request.
The recent wave of Dane raids had left your town vulnerable as the most battle-worthy men were constantly away from home, defending the realm for one lord or another. They were spread too thin and those left behind were exposed and defenseless. You are tired of living in fear of the next raid and determined to do something to protect your home and younger brother and sister. No longer did you want to simply hide and cower from fright.
“Please,” you whisper, barely daring to breathe. “Teach me how to use a sword. Show me how to fight so I may protect my family.”
Osferth sighs as he watches the flames of the fire. Never had a young woman asked him to teach her how to use a blade before.
"Very well, my lady," he concedes, though his countenance still seems reluctant.
"I shall instruct you."
“On your feet, my lady. I know you can do better than this,” Osferth’s soft but firm voice rings out over the practice yard as you struggle to rise from the dirt, having been knocked down yet again.
“You need to be quick and light on your feet, prepared to spring into action at any moment,” Osferth advises yet again, a note of frustration in his voice, and you let out an aggravated huff.
You were trying, you really were. Your right arm aches from the weight of the sword, even though it was smaller and lighter than the weapons the men wielded. Your back and left shoulder throbs from the strain of holding up your heavy wooden shield. When you had initially asked Osferth to teach you to use a sword, you hadn’t quite comprehended the physical toll it would take. When you lay in your bed each night after training, your whole body feels exhausted and sore as if it had been beaten.
Osferth has been diligent in his instruction but equally tireless. When he first put a sword in your hand, one intended for a man as that was all that was available at the time, he quickly realized you could barely lift it, let alone give it a swing. He compromised by having you use a child’s wooden sword so you could “get the feel of it” before finding you a smaller one of steel that was more manageable for someone of your size.
But further recognizing that your physical strength still needed substantial improvement before delving into the intricacies of swordplay, he had started your training with a rigorous workout routine. For a few weeks now, he had made you lift buckets of water, carry piles of wood uphill, sprint across the training grounds, and, in time, practice sparring as you were doing now.
Hefting your shield you turn to face Osferth again and assume the defensive position he had taught you. Finan, the Irishman, watches you from the sideline, bemused. At first, he and Sihtric thought Osferth was wasting his time on you. But as they witnessed your determination and subsequent improvement first-hand, they joined you in your workout and occasionally watched you spar with Osferth, calling out advice and encouragement when they could.
“Wait, Osferth, I have an idea,” Finan says abruptly as Osferth easily knocks you off balance again without even trying. Finan walks over to you, a frown on his bearded face, his dark eyes accessing your shield arm. Suddenly, he reaches out and removes your shield.
“This is too cumbersome and heavy for you, it’s only servin’ to slow you down,” he says with his familiar Irish lilt. “Your advantage is going to have to be your speed and quickness,” he turns and speaks directly to Osferth. “She won’t be able to catch a swing from a bloody Dane on that shield anyway. It would only break her arm.”
Relieved of the shield, you do feel much lighter, but now exposed to attacks.
Finan looks back at you as he retreats from the training yard. “Grasp the hilt with both hands and let’s see how you do now,” he nods encouragingly.
Following his instruction, you tighten your grip on the sword with newfound enthusiasm and launch an attack on Osferth. Ever the superior swordsman, he catches your first swing on his shield easily, but almost misses the second, not anticipating your speed. You gain confidence as you continue to swing, forcing Osferth to defend himself. Two handed, your swings are much more powerful than when you were only using one and you feel like you have better control.
Osferth allows your assault to continue for a few more minutes and you quickly realize his strategy a moment too late. Your relentless attack has quickly tired your arms and you almost duck too slowly when he swings back. You dodge his arching blow and jump out of arm's reach. Since you no longer have a shield to block attacks, you have to rely on your quick feet to evade his counterattacks, but you’ve exhausted yourself attacking him first.
You realize he’s taught you yet another important lesson. After a few more moments exchanging blows and deftly avoiding Osferth’s purposefully slow strikes, he calls an end to your practice session. For the first time, you feel like you have managed to genuinely spar.
“Much better!” Finan yells from the sidelines, “I can’t wait to watch you properly kick Baby Monk’s arse soon!” His laugh booms across the training square and he gives you a wink before turning and strolling away. You can’t help but chuckle in response and Osferth catches your eye, pressing his lips together in a shy smile.
“Come on, you two,” Finan shouts over his shoulder as he heads for the town square. “You don’t want to miss the festivities!”
“You did well today, my lady,” Osferth says quietly as you both return your swords and gear to the rack where the training materials are kept. A few townspeople mill about but most were already in the center of town, having begun the celebrations for Blood Month.
“Finan is right. I think we found a better technique for you,” he adds.
“I felt really good today,” you agree, “but I know I need a lot more practice.”
“All in good time, my lady, all in good time,” Osferth reassures you with a nod.
A cold breeze sweeps around you, welcoming the arrival of Blood Month, November. In honor of this month, commonfolk make offerings to the gods, typically by sacrificing their animals. You knew Osferth and Finan were on their way into town to meet up with Aethelstan, who has been tasked with slaying his first beast, considered a rite of passage from adolescence to manhood. The truth is though, he is a young man now and has been for some time, even without having to slay a beast to prove so, but only Uhtred refused to see him as such.
You can feel the town start to stir with the excitement of the festivities. Under Uhtred’s leadership and guidance, Rumcofa prospers and flourishes, serving as a place where both Dane and Saxon can live together in harmony. It was one of the reasons your father had been drawn to Uhtred and had served him faithfully for many years; he thought it was to be a safe place to raise a family.
And it had been until tragedy had struck. Your father had been one of Uhtred’s best warriors and very skilled with a blade. But that didn’t stop him from falling from a poisoned arrow while chasing off raiders with Uhtred’s men near the same time the fever had taken your mother. At one and seven, you had suddenly found yourself as head of the family, responsible for caring for your home and raising your younger brother and sister.
As you trudge up the muddy lane back home, your mind drifts to your tasks ahead before you can join in on the celebrations and the weight of being the head of your family settles back on your shoulders, momentarily forgotten in the physical exertion of your training.
Deep in thought, your fingers clasp the bronze Thor’s Hammer pendant of your necklace, one of the few material items that remained to you that had previously belonged to your father. You wish he could see you now and hope he would be proud of all that you were learning, of how you were valiantly trying to protect your family.
After their passing, Uhtred had personally come to your door to offer his condolences and so much more. So many questions had lingered since you had been so young. Would Uhtred turn you out of your home? Would he force you into marriage? How could you continue to care for your young siblings?
But you were pleasantly surprised by his soft tone and wide, gentle eyes. The brave face you were trying to maintain in front of him quickly crumbled and he held you as he cried and wiped your tears. He promised that you could remain safely in Rumcofa, under his protection, enabling you to stay in your family home and finish raising your siblings. He did not pressure you into marrying, moreover stating that any marriage would need his approval and that he would not allow just any man to marry you.
The following few years had not always been easy but the small community had come together to help you in times of need and you could never repay them for their generosity. Your father had served with Sihtric, Finan, and Osferth and your families had been relatively close before their untimely deaths. You were overwhelmed with how quickly they took you under their wing.
It was because of Osferth that you now made a living as the local medicine woman. You had to admit though, the only reason you had shown curiosity in the art of healing was because of your girlhood crush on Osferth. It was a perfect excuse to spend more time with him. Although Osferth was only a few years older than you, at that time you were too young for him to give you any notice; if he was aware of your crush on him, he hid it well.
After badgering him consistently when you were younger, he had taught you all he knew about the ways of healing and medicine. Those early days were filled with diligent study and hands-on practice, learning the delicate arts of setting bones, soothing fevers, and brewing potent remedies.
Luckily, Rumcofa was in need of a healer and you remained consistently occupied, whether from fixing the local childrens’ playground mishaps or by patching up Uhtred’s men after skirmishes and you had come to enjoy your job and the value that you were able to provide to the townspeople. Osferth was always the first to praise your growing expertise and efficiency, which had now surpassed his own. Having known him since you were a young girl, you could see the look of pride on his face whenever you taught him something new. Osferth’s mentorship had meant everything to you, and you always felt like you would be indebted to him for giving you a way to sustain your livelihood and carving out a valuable place for you in society.
Sihtric and Finan had also become like surrogate uncles. Because of his growing family, Sihtric’s wife, Sigdeflaed, had plenty of clothes her children would outgrow and offer it to you as a hand-me-down for your growing siblings. And Finan’s wife, Ingrith, would often invite your small family over for dinner and she always packed leftovers to take home. But your familiarity with all three men was not just because they had served with your father, but also because of Aethelstan…
When you had been one and three, Uhtred had returned to Rumcofa after peacefully ensuring the succession of the Mercian throne with an extra person in tow; Aethelstan, the first trueborn son of the king and the child Uhtred had promised to raise as his own. Being more similar in age to this young newcomer, who was only two years younger, you had become Aethelstan’s first friend.
At first, Aethelstan was a solemn boy, very shy and quiet. But under Uhtred’s care, you had witnessed his transformation into the tall, confident young man he was now, far surpassing your own height and strength. Uhtred had raised him to be a warrior and a warrior he was.
But despite his prowess with a blade and upbringing in a predominantly male environment, Aethelstan remained incredibly tender-hearted and sweet. He had been your most steadfast companion after the passing of your parents. He had offered you comfort and a shoulder to cry on when the burden of raising your siblings and caring for your household began to take its toll. Despite being younger than you, he often offered advice and wisdom beyond his years. You would never be able to tell him how much you valued his support and friendship.
You loved Finan’s booming laugh and Sihtric’s calm, quiet steadiness. During any downtime when Uhtred and his men were home, you’d always find Osferth huddled in a corner somewhere, reading The Holy Book. Although you had been raised a Dane, you’d often ask him to read you a few verses; his soft, warm voice was like a soothing song as he read to you and you enjoyed it immensely. He tolerated your endless questions about the intricacies of The Holy Book and you were always fascinated by his interpretation. He never seemed to tire of your boundless curiosity.
Your thoughts drift to Aethelstan and his coming of age. You had been a woman grown for years now and you were starting to feel yourself longing for companionship; basically becoming a single mother of sorts was as lonely as it was tireless. Now at the age of twenty, most young women were married and had young families of their own. Although you were proud of all that you had accomplished at a young age, maintaining a household and an income and being able to provide for your siblings, you were more often than not wishing for a suitable spouse, someone who was willing to share your burden with small children in tow.
You had your eye set on someone; you had for a long time. In your heart, you desire for your friendship with Osferth to evolve into something deeper, something more profound and meaningful, with possibilities for a future life together considering your siblings simply adored him as they adored all of Uhtred’s men.
You sigh as your thoughts settle on Osferth. That was part of the reason why you had also chosen him to help you with your sword training. He was an excellent swordsman and teacher, and he had never told you “no” before, you knew he would agree to help you. But, deep in your heart, you had also hoped he would start to see the woman you had become rather than forever remain anchored to the girl he used to know.
Recently, unrest has been rippling through the countryside. Twice your home has been robbed by raiders; you and your siblings were safe and tucked away in your hiding place as the Danes tore through your meager belongings. But as the sole guardian and protector of your household, you were determined to do whatever it took to ensure their safety in these tumultuous times; the men were often gone, chasing these raiders away or offering their swords to one lord or another. You no longer wanted to be a helpless damsel in distress. Learning to protect your home was your top priority and you would do whatever Osferth said to see it done.
You push open the creaking door to your modest home and are immediately accosted by your little sister, Liv, who is only seven years old. She bounds up to you on little feet, almost trembling with enthusiasm, proud to show you the bracelet she had crafted earlier that day. Her euphoria is infectious as she inquires as to when she would be allowed to join in the celebrations that evening. You give her a reassuring smile and tell her that after dinner you’ll all be able to join in, but she must help with preparing dinner first.
The rhythmic clatter of knives against wooden cutting boards forms a comforting backdrop as you both chop vegetables for the evening stew. Your brother, Erik, a boy of eleven, wanders in a short while later as the stew simmers merrily over the fire in the hearth, proudly holding up a rabbit for you to add. Although so young, you knew he already felt the pressure to help you provide for the family and he was quite skilled as a trapper; your family rarely went without meat on the table.
After an usually good meal shared with your siblings, you can hear the growing clamor from outside. Making sure your siblings are bundled from the chilly air, you grasp your little sister’s hand so she doesn’t get trampled by the crowd as your brother flies out of the house in pursuit of a friend he sees in the distance.
“Be sure to be home by nightfall!” you call after him and he gives you a small wave, acknowledging that he has heard you.
You arrive into town at the same time as Finan and Uhtred. Most of the townsfolk have already had a considerable amount of ale, their raucous laughter fills the air and they wave their torches around in jubilation. Uhtred makes his way to the raised platform in the middle of the muddy square.
“Aethelstan!” he calls. “Why have you left your post?”
“His first hunt, Lord,” Osferth answers at first.
“It’s good luck for Blood Month, Uhtred,” Aethelstan adds.
Uhtred stands across from Aethelstan and considers him.
“You think you’re ready to slaughter a beast?” he asks.
Aethelstan smirks. “You know I am.”
You see the reluctance in Uhtred’s countenance but you know he can no longer delay this moment.
“Aethelstan says he is ready,” Uhtred says, turning to the crowd. “What do you say?” He poses the questions to the townsfolk and is immediately met by cheers.
“For Blood Month!” Uhtred exclaims, raising his hands in celebration to which Aethelstan imitates as shouts go up in the square, the men all laugh exuberantly.
“Be careful,” Uhtred cautions seriously amidst the noise but you can still make out his words to Aethelstan. “The animal will fight to the death.” He cannot help the paternal energy that radiates through him at this moment.
In the midst of the excitement, you spot Astrid in the crowd, who often watches Liv for you when you are busy working. A widow now with three grown sons, Astrid enjoys feeling needed again and is often responsible for watching over the younger children of the town when their parents are otherwise occupied.
Liv runs up to her and hugs her around the middle. “You deserve a break too, dear,” Astrid smiles at you. “Let me take Liv for the evening. We will have lots of fun together!” She adds as Liv jumps up and down on the balls of her feet. She simply adores Astrid. You nod, relenting and Astrid holds Liv’s hand as she leads her through the crowd, towards where the other young children are playing.
You watch her go, your heart content to see her so happy and carefree. It was your ultimate wish that she remain a child for as long as possible; to not feel burdened to provide for the family. You were fortunate you had someone as trustworthy and reliable to watch over her when you couldn’t.
“Let’s go kill the swine!” Sihtric exclaims, hefting his torch to chants of “Blood Month! Blood Month! Blood Month!” from the excitable crowd.
When you turn back around, you see Osferth through the throng, yelling and cheering with the rest of the townsfolk as Sihtric starts to lead the hunting party. As the crowd disperses and the men start to head in the direction of the woods to hunt the boar, you tug on Aethelstan’s sleeve to get his attention.
“Hey,” he looks down and greets you warmly, smiling, but you can tell his thoughts are elsewhere, fire in his dark eyes.
“Good luck on your hunt,” you say as you walk alongside him, smiling back. “Don’t let that boar gore you, I don’t want to be stitching you up later,” you tease playfully.
He rolls his eyes, radiating confidence as he leans down to whisper in your ear, “I’ll give you first pick of the meat when I’ve killed it,” he says, squeezing your arm lightly. Your breath hitches a little, mainly because it's your swore sword arm but you wonder if perhaps he could feel your growing muscle underneath. You hadn’t told him of your practice with Osferth and you aren’t sure if any of the men had bothered mentioning it to him. Uhtred’s constant demands of his time and attention had kept him so busy, you hadn’t had the opportunity to share your sword training with him yet.
“Then I happily await your return,” you smile genuinely and give him a light shove off into the woods as Finan spots the two of you and, in his typical boisterous manner, exclaims. “There’ll be plenty of time for kissing girls later, Aethelstan! Now come on!”
You shake your head at Finan and smile, which he returns before following the rest of the men into the fog of the forest. You can barely make out Osferth’s retreating back in the distance and give a small sigh. You feel oddly protective and possessive of these men. Even though Finan and Sihtric are married and have families of their own, you knew that some piece of your heart would always belong to these strong, dependable men who had stepped in to fill the void left by your father's absence.
You decide to wait in the pub, knowing that will be their first stop when they return from their hunt to celebrate. All of the townsfolk are out tonight and the bustling pub is warm and welcoming, filled with hearty laughter and conversation. Ingrith offers you the seat next to her and you settle at a wooden table, the flickering candlelight casting a soft glow upon the well-worn, ale-stained surface.
The two of you engage in lively conversation, swapping stories and laughter over tankards of ale that seem to flow endlessly. You find yourself sipping more freely than usual, the ale making you feel more lighthearted and comfortable as you relax for the first time in a long while.
A short time later and much earlier than expected, you hear deep muffled voices coming from outside and you exchange a look of concern with Ingrith as hunting the boar should have taken longer than this. The pub door swings open, heralding the arrival of the men as raucous laughter and jeering fills the pub.
Your fears are abated slightly as all seems well until you spot Aethelstan. He looks a little worse for wear, his clothes are muddy and there are several long scratches on his face. You feel a surge of concern as the men begin sharing the story of Aethelstan's unexpected ordeal in the woods, the sudden attack by three unknown men. Your stomach drops as you hear of the danger, feeling as though you are not nearly prepared enough in your training to protect your family.
But despite the blood and disheveled appearance, Aethelstan seems exhilarated from his fight, having killed two out of the three of his assailants. His eyes gleam with a sense of pride and adrenaline and he wears the bloodstains on his clothes like a badge of honor. You watch as all of the men pound their chests and raise their tankards of ale, shouting praises for Aethelstan’s bravery. To them, this is a symbolic moment that marks his transition into manhood. The pub erupts with cheers, and you can't help but share in their pride, even as a sense of worry continues to gnaw in the back of your mind.
Once the crowd settles a bit, you make your way over to him.
“Aethelstan, are you alright?” you say with a little alarm. You know your friend well and you think the adrenaline is the only thing keeping him from going into shock right now.
“Might have a few scratches for you to look at later, but I’m fine,” he shouts back over the noise of the crowd, seeming delighted to see that you had waited for his return. He continues to absorb the praise of the townsfolk as you worriedly stare up at him. Sensing your gaze, he finally looks down at you and meets your eyes.
“I promise I’m fine,” he says with a smug grin and nonchalant shrug to reassure you, at least on the surface, that he's physically alright. You can't help but manage a small smile in response. The noise and commotion of the celebration make it difficult to engage in a serious conversation about the attack at the moment, but you make a silent promise to revisit the topic when things quiet down.
His wide smile is infectious as Aethelstan raises his tankard and toasts with you, just as Finan’s voice booms from above. He's clearly in high spirits as he stands on the table, commanding the room's attention. He sweeps his arms wide in a grand gesture.
“LADIES OF RUMCOFA! WE HAVE A NEW MAN FOR YOU ALL TO ENJOY THIS EVENING!” Finan shouts joyfully above the crowd.
Aethelstan’s face turns beet red and you feel your cheeks flush with secondhand embarrassment. You decide it’s your time to leave the celebration since Finan’s antics have taken a rather suggestive tone; and you'd rather not stick around to witness the more explicit details of his celebration for Aethelstan becoming a man.
You shout into Aethelstan’s ear as Finan starts asking for volunteers, “And now I shall take my leave,” you chuckle in amusement at his predicament. “Good luck!”
Aethelstan watches you go, looking like he wants the floor to open up and swallow him whole as Finan continues his spirited matchmaking efforts, identifying a seemingly willing participant in the enthusiastic crowd.
You catch Osferth’s eye as you pass, his expression is a mixture of smug satisfaction and amusement. His eyes seem to dance with mirth as he observes the festivities and Aethelstan's evident uneasiness. It's clear that he finds the situation highly entertaining, and a playful smile graces his lips as he acknowledges your presence, nodding at you as you make your way out the door.
Finally, once out of the alehouse, the cold night air is welcoming on your face and you gulp a few crisp lungfuls, allowing it to steady your thoughts. Aethelstan is younger than you, yet he is about to enjoy the pleasures of the flesh before you do. You can’t help but feel a small pang in your chest at the absurdity of this thought as you make your way home. Was it loneliness that made you wish for someone to share your bed with too?
As you make your way home through the dusky evening, you pause at Astrid's house to collect your sister. In the corner of the room, you find her peacefully asleep, nestled amidst soft blankets, clearly worn out from the earlier festivities. You thank Astrid for watching her as you wake Liv, who groggily walks the rest of the way home as if she’s had too much ale to drink too but you know she is just tired.
Upon arriving home, you're greeted by Erik at the hearth, tending to the fire. The flickering flames cast a cozy glow throughout the room, instantly dispelling the chill that lingers in the night air. You let out a sigh as you undo all your layers, welcoming the warmth from the fire. You ruffle his hair, a silent expression of gratitude for heeding your advice and returning home at a reasonable hour.
You lay your sister in the small bed made up at the foot of your straw mattress and your brother climbs in next to her, you can tell from the look on his face that he’s had a full day of excitement too. You wash your face off in the basin and then get yourself ready for bed, stoking the fire and putting on your simple woolen shift that you sleep in. You're about to get into bed yourself when there’s a small knock at the door.
Immediately, your heart jumps into your throat as you and your brother exchange a fearful glance, but next a familiar voice whispers out. “It’s me!”
You sigh with relief and race to open the door, stepping back to let Aethelstan inside. Erik jumps out of bed and races forth to wrap his skinny arms around Aethelstan in a bear hug which he eagerly returns. Your siblings love him like an older brother.
“What are you doing here?” you ask in a shocked whisper as the voice in your head wonders why he isn’t intimately wrapped around some other woman right now.
“I escaped,” Aethelstan whispers back and makes a pointed glance down at your brother as he doesn’t elaborate. Erik, oblivious, excitedly whispers, “Aethelstan! Are you going to stay here tonight?” as he turns his big brown eyes on you, pleading for your permission.
Aethelstan looks abashed but then says to your brother. “As long as your sister allows me,” and you watch his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows heavily, eyes flicking back up to meet your gaze.
You give a sigh as your brother immediately starts to plead but you’re tired and you don’t want to argue.
“I was hoping you could clean these scratches for me too,” Aethelstan reminds you gently. You consider him for a moment and then nod; he is right, his wounds need to be cleaned before bed.
“Yes, he can stay,” you pretend to be exasperated as you turn to your brother. “Now go fetch me my supplies so I can clean him up before bed.” Erik races excitedly to get the small wooden bowl and poultice that you use to clean wounds. You pull up a chair in front of the fire, indicating Aethelstan should sit.
The truth is, Aethelstan is a fairly frequent visitor to your house. As children, you often shared a bed and as you grew older, you found yourself keeping the same habit from time to time, especially once your parents had passed. You slept the best when he was here with you; finally feeling like you had a protector to watch over you. Further, he had never tried to do anything “more” with you. You felt completely safe with him and comforted by his presence.
Your brother, who had somehow heard of Aethelstan’s attack in the woods, bombards him with questions as you clean his scratches. You listen to his story intently, worried that nobody seems to know who these men belong to or why they attacked Aethelstan specifically. You meet his gaze, unable to conceal the worry and fear you feel and a sense of foreboding.
Once finished cleaning him up, you snap your fingers at your brother to indicate he should get back into bed and he hastens to obey.
“Enough storytelling for one day,” you say easily, not wanting your brother to know your alarm. “Time for bed.”
You settle into your own bed as Aethelstan removes his layers for sleep as well. He props his sword next to the nightstand and slides down into bed with you. You both wait a few minutes, just simply staring at each other, knowing your brother will be out cold soon and then you can talk freely.
The light of the dying fire glows orange on Aethelstan’s tired face. You think the adrenaline is finally leaving him and can see his exhaustion in the bags of his eyes and the tired way he blinks.
At long last, when you hear deep breathing at the foot of the bed, you whisper with childlike curiosity. “So? Did you do it?”
Aethelstan takes a slow deep breath and shakes his head as he reaches out and smoothes a strand of hair behind your ear.
“I couldn’t, the guys think I’ve gone off with some girl but I snuck off when she wasn’t looking,” the corner of his mouth turns up at his small feat.
“You know you won’t be able to evade this forever,” you say. “Maybe you should just do it so Finan can stop shouting from the rooftops that you’re still a virgin,” you counsel him as if you, too, aren’t still a virgin.
Aethelstan stares at you for a beat and then lowers his gaze, blinking slowly. You know he’ll soon be fast asleep too. “Maybe, yeah,” he breathes before his eyes shut completely. Within a few minutes, he’s snoring gently.
You watch him sleep, feeling suddenly alert. You didn’t understand the big deal the men always made about virginity and you feel sorry for Aethelstan for constantly being their target. He was your friend and you wish you could help him. This wasn’t the first time he found a way out of sleeping with a woman.
You continue to watch him, admiring the length of his eyelashes as he sleeps and your mind wanders. Osferth’s joyous face flicks across your vision. If you didn’t already intend to give your virginity to someone else, you think you would have been ok with giving yours to Aethelstan, you muse. He was your first kiss, after all, not that it should really count. You had both been curious as children, having sneakily watched Sihtric and his wife once; you couldn’t stop fixating on the way they seemed to consume each other with their kisses. When things progressed, Aethelstan was sure he was hurting her by the sounds she was making. You remember clapping a hand over your mouth to keep from laughing at the horrified look in his eyes.
Afterwards, you had decided to practice with each other out of natural curiosity. You smile slightly at the memory as you roll over, seeing the moonlight stream through your curtained window. Now that you are older, you often feel a certain curiosity about Aethelstan. He was the blood of the King; he would never be a proper match for you with his royal bloodline. But he has grown into a fine, handsome man, sweet, kind and gentle. Similar to someone else you consistently had less than honorable thoughts about…
But something nags at you and you can't really explain it. Even if you did offer yourself to Aethelstan, you didn’t think he would accept you and you didn’t know why. He had never shown any inclination towards women that you knew of. But he is one of your dearest friends and you love him regardless of his nature.
You breathe a deep sigh and close your eyes, waiting for sleep while contemplating the ridiculous habits of men.
>>>> Part 2
A/N: Did I get a little lost in Aethelstan's dark eyes in this part? Yes, yes I did. But more Osferth to come, I promise.
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#ewan mitchell#tlk osferth#osferth smut#osferth the last kingdom#osferth x reader#osferth#tlk aethelstan#aethelstan#finan being finan#the last kingdom fanfiction#the last kingdom fanfic#uhtred#sihtric
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Bloody Knuckles and the Songs of Death (Part 2)
Azriel x Reader
Summary: Reader is everything that Azriel is not. Opposite feelings but equal death in the end.
AKA: Half a rewrite of chapters 43-47 of ACOWAR where reader is now there as part of the Autumn Court, excited to meet Azriel. The other half are my own ideas.
Warnings: Major themes of death, ACOWAR spoilers, blood, gore, mentions of abuse, smut.
Word Count: 3,991
(Part One)
_________________________________________
Absolute silence. Absolute stillness.
The tremor of magic slides through the room as shield after shield locks into place around each High Lord and their retinues. A wave of heat flashes across your face as even Beron’s protective shields come out, and something exciting stirs in your chest because of it. The power flitting through the room weighs heavy on everyone’s shoulders, their faces solemn as they look between each other wearily, sizing each other up, but your lips twitch, itching to break out into a grin.
You can almost smell the bloodshed waiting to happen.
You can’t help but watch how the Night Court participants react to Tamlin’s arrival. Rhysand’s face is set into that well-practiced bored look that Eris had told you about. You can practically feel the dark power rippling beneath his skin.
Feyre tries to school her face into the same cold caution her elder sister wears, but she fails so miserably your laugh nearly slips. Not even the daggers the shadowsinger shoots you has your smile faltering, and you lean in a little closer to Eris beside you, if only to play the part you knew so well as you dismiss him, feeling the embers of Beron’s eyes following your every move. At the sight of the vague distaste on Mor’s face, you’re on the edge of your seat.
Feyre’s discomfort is palpable in the large room that has suddenly shrunk three sizes since the arrival of the missing High Lord. Your attention returns to Tamlin, his gleaming green eyes fixed solely on the new High Lady of Night and her mate.
He smiles broadly, his sharp teeth white as crow-picked bones, the kind that can rip through flesh with the ease of the freshly-sharpened blade at your side, the kind that can land a killing blow with one well placed bite. A shiver slides up your spine at the thought of Tamlin slaughtering someone with those wolfish teeth.
Thesean rises from his lush chair as if to greet the tardy male. His captain remains seated beside him with a hand on his sword.
“We were not expecting you, Tamlin.” Thesean gestures beside him towards his cringing attendants. “Fetch the High Lord a chair.”
Tamlin doesn’t acknowledge Thesean, instead, his eyes stay locked on Feyre and her courtiers.
Something in his smile changes, turning more subdued. You can see clearly the effect it has on Feyre, the way she stiffens under his unfaltering eyes, turning more and more vicious the longer he looks.
He’s clad in a green tunic, the color of full grasses you’d only seen once. He dons no crown, no adornments that show off his wealth like many of the other High Lords. Eris twists his thick gold ring around his first finger, a circlet of leaves that make up his family crest, his only true show of wealth.
Beron is the one who breaks the tense silence and you refrain from rolling your eyes, knowing what punishment it will catch you if he notices.
You still hadn’t fully recovered from his last disciplinary action.
Azriel’s brows furrow in your direction as you shift uncomfortably in your chair, fingers brushing over your sleeve where the mark lays. It’s a fleeting brush of his golden gaze as it hardens on the Autumn Lord two seats down from you.
“I will admit, Tamlin, that I am surprised to see you here.”
Still, the High Lord of Spring does not look away from his prey, watching every breath Feyre takes.
Beron continues anyway, “Rumor claims your allegiance now lies elsewhere.”
You have to give it to the asshole High Lord that you’d very much like to put in the ground. He isn’t afraid to ask the real questions, the ones everyone so desperately wants answered but doesn’t dare ask.
Finally, Tamlin’s gaze shifts, not towards the male speaking to him, but to the shining ring on Feyre’s finger. To the dark swirl of ink etched across her hand, flowing beneath the glittering, pale blue sleeve of her gown. It trails up, up, up to the crown of onyx jewels in her hair, glittering in the sunlight.
Nobody moves.
You’d heard of what she’d done to him and his court. The deceptions, the lies, all of it had spread across Prythian like a wildfire, poisonous and all consuming. What she’d done to him in her rage…you would have to agree that the beast keeping her holed up in his mansion deserved nothing less. If the Autumn and Night Court weren’t on such terrible terms, you think you'd actually like to get to know Feyre and become her friend.
The change in Feyre’s stare is evident. Her molten wrath at the memories of what he’d done to her turns her pale gray eyes into something sharp-edged and brittle.
Thesean’s attendants return, hauling a chair between them. They set it between Oakland and Helion’s entourage. Neither look thrilled about it, Oakland trying to smother the look of disgust with his wine glass, but they aren’t stupid enough to physically recoil as Tamlin sits.
The High Lord of Spring says not one word.
Helion waves a scar-flecked hand and your head tilts as you stare at the pink slashes cutting across his dark skin, curious as to how he’d gotten them. If he’d been close to Death when he’d received such an honor.
“Let’s get on with it, then.”
Thesean clears his throat, but no one looks his way.
Not as Tamlin surveys the hand Rhys has resting on Feyre’s knee.
The loathing in the Spring King’s eyes practically simmers.
Everyone in the room braces themselves as he opens his mouth to speak.
“It would seem congratulations are in order.”
His words are flat–flat yet sharp as the claws he’s hiding beneath his golden skin.
Feyre says nothing.
Rhys holds Tamlin’s stare. He holds it with a face like ice, and yet utter rage roils beneath it. A cataclysmic rage, surging and writhing around the room, threatening to take everyone out in a single snap.
But Rhys addresses Thesean instead, who has reclaimed his seat, yet seems far from any sort of ease, “We can discuss the matter at hand later.”
Tamlin tacks on calmly, “Don’t stop on my account.”
The light in Rhysand’s eyes gutters, as if a hand of darkness wipes the very stars from his violet gaze. He reclines in his chair, withdrawing his hand from Feyre’s knee to trace idle circles on his seat’s wooden arm. “I am not in the business of discussing our plans with enemies.”
You, along with Helion, across the reflection pool, grin like lions.
“No,” Tamlin replies with equal ease, “You’re just in the business of fucking them.”
The entire Court goes silent.
Cassian, Azriel, and Mor are as still as Death, fury rippling off of them in silent waves, something that has utter delight rushing through your veins. As if Eris can feel your excitement, he places a hand over your knee under the table where no eyes can see, not that anyone is paying the two of you any attention anyway, not while there is something far more interesting to watch.
He squeezes softly in warning.
Don’t fuck this up.
Whether Tamlin notices the courtier's anger or cares that the three of the deadliest people in the room are contemplating his demise, he doesn't let on.
Your mouth parts slightly to taste the air. It’s all you give yourself for now, the metallic tang of bloodshed waiting to happen. You want to feel that red warmth across your skin, ache for the slickness between your fingers, painting your skin crimson, warm like the Death you love so dear.
Rhysand only shrugs, smiling faintly. “Seems a far less destructive alternative to war.”
“And yet here you are, having started it in the first place.”
The Night Court ruler’s blink is the only sign of his confusion.
A claw slides out of Tamlin’s knuckle.
Kallias tenses, a hand drifting to the arm of Viviane’s chair–as if he’ll throw himself in front of it. Honorable of him. But Tamlin only drags his claw lightly down the carved arm of his own chair. You’re wickedly transported to the thoughts of all of the times you’d done the same with your blade, watching the life drain from your foe’s eyes. Your stare becomes more intense.
Tamlin smiles at Feyre knowingly, the High Ladies pallor turning white as the motion triggers something within her.
“If you hadn’t stolen my bride away in the night, Rhysand, I would not have been forced to take such drastic measures to get her back.”
Feyre says quietly, “The sun was shining when I left you.”
Your smile hurts.
Green eyes slide to her once more, glazed and foreign. He lets out a low snort, then looks away just as quickly.
Dismissal.
Kallias asks, “Why are you here, Tamlin?”
Tamlin’s claw digs into the wood, puncturing deep even as his voice remains mild. “I bartered access to my lands to get back the woman I love from a sadist who plays with minds as if they are toys. I meant to fight Hybern–to find a way around the bargain I made with the king once she was back. Only Rhysand and his cabal had turned her into one of them. And she delighted in ripping open my territory for Hybern to invade. All for a petty grudge–either her or her…master’s.”
“You don’t get to rewrite the narrative,” Feyre breathes. “You don’t get to spin this to your advantage.”
Tamlin angles his head at Rhys. “When you fuck her, have you ever noticed that little noise she makes right before she climaxes?”
The grin drops from your face.
Feyre’s cheeks are stained red. This isn’t an outright battle, but a steady, careful shredding of her dignity, her credibility. Beron beams and your stomach churns at his delight–while Eris carefully monitors.
Rhys turns his head, looking Feyre over from head to toe. Then back to Tamlin. A storm about to be unleashed.
But it’s Azriel who says, his voice like cold death, “Be careful how you speak about my High Lady.”
A shiver works its way up your spine. Something preens in your chest at his words, at the open threat on his face, bright eyes dark with the shroud of Death itself.
Surprise flashes in Tamlin’s eyes–then vanishes. Vanishes, swallowed by the pure fury as he realizes what that tattoo coating Feyre’s hand is for. “It was not enough to sit at my side, was it?” A hateful smile curls his lips. “You once asked me if you’d be my High Lady, and when I said no…”
A low laugh. “Perhaps I underestimated you. Why serve in my court, when you could rule in his?”
Tamlin finally faces the other gathered High Lords and their retinues. “They peddle tales of defending our land and peace. And yet she came to my lands and laid them bare for Hybern. She took my High Priestess and warped her mind–after she shattered her bones for spite. And if you are asking yourself what happened to that human girl who went Under the Mountain to save us…Look to the male sitting beside her. Ask what he stands to gain–what they stand to gain from this war, or lack of it. Would we fight Hybern, only to find ourselves with a Queen and King of Prythian? She’s proved her ambition–and you saw how he was more than happy to serve Amarantha to remain unscathed.”
You catch Feyre holding back a snarl at the heinous words aimed at her mate.
Rhys releases a dark laugh. “Well played, Tamlin. You’re learning.”
Ire contorts Tamlin’s face at the condescension. But he faces Kallias. “You asked why I’m here? I might ask the same of you.” He jerks his chin at the High Lord of Winter, at Viviane–the few other members of their retinue who remain silent. “You mean to tell me that after Under the Mountain, you can stomach working with him?” A finger flung in Rhysand’s direction.
The silvery glow about Kallias dulls.
Even Viviane seems to dim. “We came here to decide that for ourselves.”
Mor stares at her friend in quiet questioning. Viviane, for the first time since the Night Court had arrived, does not look toward her. Only at her mate.
Rhys says softly to them, to everyone, “I had no involvement in that. None.”
Kallias’s eyes flare like blue flame. “You stood beside her throne while the order was given.”
There isn’t anything anyone can do, except watch Rhys’ golden skin pale. “I tried to stop it.”
“Tell that to the parents of the two dozen younglings she butchered,” Kallias says, and this time you don’t feel that loving caress of Death, you only hurt for the children that had been ripped away from their parents at such a young age. You know that Death herself will take the best care of them, and sometimes not all death can be justified. “That you tried.”
Rhys’ mouth tightens. “There is not one day that passes when I don’t remember it,” he says to Kallias, to Viviane. To their companions. “Not one day.”
“Remembering,” Kallias answers, “Doesn’t bring them back, does it?”
“No,” Rhys says plainly. “No, it doesn’t. And I am now fighting to make sure it never happens again.”
Viviane glances between her husband and Rhys. “I was not present Under the Mountain. But I would hear, High Lord, how you tried to–stop her.” Pain tightens her face. She, too, had been unable to prevent it while she guarded her small slice of territory.
You had heard the whispers of things of what happened during Under the Mountain and snippets of what Eris could choke out, but you had never really believed it to be much truth as it came from the gossipping handmaids of the Autumn Court manor that you were bound to, even while the High Lord and his family were trapped below.
Rhys says nothing.
Beron snorts, the sound makes you cringe. “Finally speechless, Rhysand?”
Feyre’s hand slips to Rhys’ arm. Tamlin marks it, but she doesn’t seem to care. She says to her mate, not bothering to keep her voice down, “I believe you.”
“Says the woman,” Beron counters, and it’s all you can do to not look like you’re a part of their façade as a unified family. “Who gave an innocent girl’s name in her stead–for Amarantha to butcher as well.”
Rhys swallows and Feyre’s grip tightens on his arm.
His voice is rough as he says to Kallias, “When your people rebelled…” And you recall exactly how Winter had rebelled against Amarantha. And the children…that had been Amarantha’s answer. Her punishment for disobedience. “She was furious. She wanted you dead, Kallias.”
Viviane’s face drains of color.
Rhys continues, “I…convinced her that it would serve little purpose.”
“Who knew,” Beron muses, “That a cock could be so persuasive?”
“Father.” Eris’ voice is low with warning. His hand tightens on your knee.
For Cassian, Azriel, Mor, and Feyre fix their gazes upon the High Lord of Autumn. None of them are smiling.
They look as though Eris might become High Lord sooner than he plans.
That flutter kicks up in your stomach again at the lethal looks in their eyes, especially that extra sparkle in Azriel’s.
If only you could help make that happen.
But Rhys goes on to Kallias, “She backed off the idea of killing you. Your rebels were dead–I convinced her it was enough. I thought it was the end of it.” His breathing hitches slightly. “I only found out when you did. I think she viewed my defense of you as a warning sign–she didn’t tell me any of it. And she kept me…confined. I tried to break into the minds of the soldiers she sent, but her damper on my power was too strong to hold them–and it was already done. She…she sent a daemati with them. To…” He falters, but you all know what had happened. The children’s minds–they’d been shattered. Rhys swallows. “I think she wanted you to suspect me. To keep us from ever allying against her.”
What he must have witnessed within those soldiers’ minds…
“Where did she confine you?” The question comes from Viviane, her arms wrapped around her middle.
No one is entirely ready for it when Rhys answers, “Her bedroom.”
His friends do not hide their rage, their grief at the details he’d kept even from them.
“Stories and words,” Tamlin says, lounging in his chair. Your anger flares like the fires of the Court you’ve been chained to for nearly a century. “Is there any proof?”
“Proof–” Cassian snarls, half rising in his seat, his wings starting to flare.
“No,” Rhys cuts in as Mor blocks Cassian with an arm, forcing him to sit. Rhys adds to Kallias, “But I swear it–upon my mate’s life.” His hand rests atop of Feyre’s.
Your stomach whorls at the realization that he must have known what coming here, presenting his front just as they are, would cost him. What he might have to reveal beyond the wings he’s managed to hide so well for so long.
Tamlin rolls his eyes. You can see the utter restraint Feyre has to keep her from lunging for him–from ripping out his eyes in the name of her mate.
But whatever Kallias reads in Rhys’ face, his words…he pins Tamlin with a hard stare as he asks again, “Why are you here, Tamlin?”
A muscle flickers in Tamlin’s jaw. “I am here to help you fight against Hybern.”
“Bullshit,” Cassian mutters, and you silently agree, catching his glowering gaze with a slight nod of your head. His brows twitch into a furrow before he dismisses you, untrusting of the pet so cozied up to Autumn.
Tamlin glares at him. Cassian, folding his wings in neatly as he leans back in his chair once more, offers him a crooked grin in return.
“You will forgive us,” Thesean interrupts gracefully, “If we are doubtful. And hesitant to share any plans.”
“Even when I have information on Hybern’s movements?”
Silence. Tarquin, across the pool, watches and listens–either because he’s the youngest of them, or perhaps he knows some advantage that lies in letting them battle it out themselves.
Tamlin smiles at Feyre again. “Why do you think I invited them to the house? Into my lands?” He lets out a low snarl, and Rhys tenses in his seat at the sound. “I once told you I would fight against tyranny, against that sort of evil. Did you think you were enough to turn me from that?” His teeth shine white as bone. “It was so easy for you to call me a monster, despite all I did for you, for your family.” A sneer towards Nesta, who is frowning with distaste. “Yet you witnessed all that he did Under the Mountain, and still spread your legs for him. Fitting, I suppose. He whored for Amarantha for decades. Why shouldn’t you be his whore in return?”
“Watch your mouth,” Mor snaps.
Tamlin ignores her wholly and waves a hand towards Rhysand’s wings. “I sometimes forget–what you are. Have the masks come off now, or is this another ploy?”
“You’re beginning to become tedious, Tamlin,” Helion says, propping his head on a hand. “Take your lovers’ spat elsewhere and let the rest of us discuss this war.”
“You’d be all too happy for war, considering how well you made out in the last one.”
“No one says war can’t be lucrative,” Helion counters. Tamlin’s lip curls in a silent snarl that makes you wonder if he’d gone to Helion to break Feyre’s bargain with Rhys–if Helion had refused.
“Enough,” Kallias says. “We have our opinions on how the conflict with Hybern should be dealt with.” Those glacial eyes harden as he takes in Tamlin again. “Are you here as an ally of Hybern or Prythian?”
The mocking, hateful gleam fades into granite resolve. “I stand against Hybern.”
“Prove it,” Helion goads.
Tamlin lifts his hand, and a stack of papers appears on the little table beside his chair. “Charts of armies, ammunition, caches of faebane…Everything carefully gleaned these months.”
“Noble as it sounds,” Helion continues, “Who is to say that the information is correct–or that you aren’t Hybern’s agent, trying to mislead us?”
“Who is to say that Rhysand and his cronies are not agents of Hybern, all of this a ruse to get you to yield without realizing it?”
Nesta murmurs, “You can’t be serious.” Mor gives her a look as if to say that he certainly is.
“If we need to ally against Hybern,” Thesean said, “You are doing a good job of convincing us not to band together, Tamlin.”
“I am simply warning you that they might present the guise of honesty and friendship, but the fact remains that he warmed Amarantha’s bed for fifty years, and only worked against her when it seemed the tide was turning. I’m warning you that while he claims his own city was attacked by Hybern, they made off remarkably well–as if they’d been anticipating it. Don’t think he wouldn’t sacrifice a few buildings and lesser faeries to lure you into an alliance, into thinking you had a common enemy. Why is it that only the Night Court got word about the attack on Adriata–and were the only ones to arrive in time to play savior?”
“They received word,” Varian cuts in coolly, “Because I warned them of it.”
Tarquin whips his head to his cousin, brows high with surprise.
“Perhaps you’re working with them, too,” Tamlin said to the Prince of Adriata. “You’re next in line, after all.”
“You’re insane,” Feyre breathes to Tamlin as Varian bares his teeth. “Do you hear what you’re saying?” She points toward Nesta. “Hybern turned my sisters into Fae–after your bitch of a priestess sold them out!”
“Perhaps Ianthe’s mind was already in Rhysand’s thrall. And what a tragedy to remain young and beautiful. You’re a good actress–I’m sure the trait runs in the family.”
Nesta lets out a low laugh. “If you want someone to blame for all of this,” she says to Tamlin, “Perhaps you should first look in the mirror.”
Tamlin snarls at her and your excitement returns. You may see some action after all.
Casisan snarls right back, “Watch it.”
Tamlin looks between Feyre’s sister and Cassian–his gaze lingering on Cassian’s wings, tucked in behind him. Snorts. “Seems like other preferences run in the Archeron family, too.”
Feyre’s power begins to rumble throughout the room–a behemoth rising up, yawning awake.
“What do you want?” She hisses. “An apology? For me to crawl back into your bed and play nice, little wife?”
“Why should I want spoiled goods returned to me?”
Her cheeks flare.
Tamlin growls, “The moment you let him fuck you like an–”
One heartbeat, the poisoned words spew from his mouth–where fangs lengthen.
Then they stop.
Tamlin’s mouth simply stops emitting sounds. He shuts his mouth, opens it–tries again.
No sound, not even a snarl, comes out.
There is no smile on Rhysand’s face, not a glint of that irreverent amusement as he rests his head against the back of his chair. “The gasping-fish look is a good one for you, Tamlin.”
The others, who have been watching with disdain and boredom, now turn to the High Lord of Night. Now possessing a shadow of fear in their eyes as they realize who and what, exactly, sits amongst them.
You can’t help but to smile again. Wicked.
Brethren, and yet not. Tamlin is a High Lord, as powerful as any of them.
Except for the one at Feyre’s side. Rhys is different from them as humans are to Fae.
They forgot it, sometimes–how deep that well of power goes. What manner of power Rhys bears.
But as Rhysand rips away Tamlin’s ability to speak, they remember.
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𝐀𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐬𝐭 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐈𝐜𝐞 𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐒𝐧𝐨𝐰
Chapter one
Paring: Robb Stark x f!Reader
Summary: After coming to fight for house Stark after Ned Stark is killed, you're caught off guard while in the middle of battle causing an unexpected encounter with The King of the North.
Warnings: Description of death, violence.
Word count: 1.3k
A/N: Find series master list here
Watching men die was horrifying, never really thinking that you’d witness such a thing, being told from a young age that war was no place for a lady. But here you were fighting alongside men you barely knew, for a man you’d never met. The King of the North.
You were snapped back to reality when an arrow flew past your head missing you by mere inches, embedding itself in some poor soul behind you. Panic starting to set in, clashing sounds of steel fill the air. Turning quickly, lifting your shield, taking a blow from an axe, the force almost bringing you to your knees. You sweep your sword hitting the legs of the soldier, he falls, screaming in pain before you plunge your sword through his throat ending his life. Blood splattering across your face breathing heavily, you look amongst the destruction surrounding you, the sounds of dying men filling your ears, you turn to face another man dodging a blow then disarming him bringing him down. You didn’t have the chance to land the final strike, the sound of a horn stopping you in your tracks, the sound of victory.
Distracted, giving the Lannister soldier time to strike. Slamming you in the temple with a rock, knocking you off balance. This time you fall to the ground clutching your head, your sword lay by your side. Looking up at the man who has now retrieved his weapon, you can only assume that the fear in your eyes is evident, lifting his sword with both hands plunging it down, but before he can land the fatal blow a sword rips through his chest, a grunt leaves his throat fallowed by blood a small stream of blood spilling from his mouth, his limp body falls to the ground. You look up, wanting to know your savior only to find Robb Stark gazing down upon you.
Reaching his hand out, you take it pulling you to your feet. The fighting ceased as the king's soldiers began taking prisoners and finishing off the men that had yet to die.
“My king” you say attempting to bow only to stagger. His hands grab your shoulders to steady you.
“Are you alright?” he questions his eyes searching your face.
“Yes” you pause, beginning to hear a slight ringing in your ears. “Yes, I think so.”
You attempt to pick up your sword only to lose your footing, He catches you by the arm holding you up, you pull away from his grasp not wanting to seem weak.
“I’m alright” you say “truly”
He nods hesitantly, reaching down picking up your sword handing it to you with a sympathetic smile. You return the small smile sheathing your sword before speaking.
“Thank you your grace, I will forever be in your debt.” Bowing once more this time maintaining your balance.
He looks at you, a soft smile still playing at his lips.
“I’d hope you’d do the same for me if the time came.”
“Without hesitation, your grace.”
“Good” he says, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword.
He began to say something else but he was interrupted by the call of his name, he excused himself before quickly walking off.
That was the first time you’d ever spoken to Robb Stark, it would not be the last.
Days had passed since the battle, your head still tender to the touch. Luckily the ringing in your ears had stopped within the first few hours, but the throbbing pain still lingered. You developed a terrible dark bruise along your temple that surrounded a small cut. However it wasn’t your health that had you concerned, it was the amount of men you lost that day, over half of whom you brought had fallen to Lannister forces. Some of which you’ve known since you were a child.
“It’s a small price to pay for victory.” is what they’d told you, not thinking about the weight those words carried. How could they be so thoughtless? Tossing men's lives aside as if they were nothing, just mere pawns in their game. You were too lost in your own mind to realize Robb’s fixed gaze.
He was standing not more than twenty yards away a couple of men gathered around him talking, however he heard none of it as his eyes were set on you. He noticed you’d chosen to sit alone, isolating yourself from the rest of the world. He felt sorry for you, he truly did. After the battle had ended he learned the number of men that had perished, most of them pledged to your house. He could see the way their deaths had taken a toll on you, and if there was one thing Robb understood well it was grief. “Know the men who follow you and let them know you. Don't ask your men to die for a stranger." The words his father once told him rang through his head, he may not have known those men but he could know you.
The sound of footsteps pull you from your thoughts, looking up from the crackling fire to see Robb Stark looming over you, immediately you stand.
“Your grace” you bow your head greeting him
“Sit please” he says gesturing back to your previous seat by the fire.
You obey, your eyes never leaving him as he takes a seat facing you, his elbows resting on his knees.
“I’m sorry.”
“For what?” you question slightly tilting your head
“For the men you’ve lost.”
Hearing his words, you sit up straighter. You didn’t understand why his words angered you so. If anything they should bring you a sense of comfort but they didn’t. There was nothing anyone could say that would bring you the comfort you so longed for.
“There is no need m’lord, apologies don’t bring back the dead.” you say bluntly looking back to the fire.
Your words surprised him. A tinge of anger rose in Robb before he realized how right you were and how little his words did to bring you solace.
“No.” He states in a soft tone of voice “they do not.” he kept his words short, not sure if conversation was what you wanted.
But it was. You longed for someone, anyone to talk to. Having no one since you left home even there the conversations were scarce seeing as your the last of your name your family long dead. You barely remember your own mother’s voice, as she died shortly before your eighth name day during the birth of your younger brother who hadn’t survived the week. Your father’s voice however was ingrained in your memory, the yelling, the scolding, the words of hate that spilled from his mouth, You tried over the years to understand the reason for his hatred before deciding it was the wine that he drowned himself in to hide his sorrows.
Robb cleared his throat drawing you from your thoughts once more, you turn to face him, his eyes searching yours. You let out a small laugh, your hands covering your eyes. It wasn’t funny, nothing about this situation was funny, but you’d been yanked back into reality having to face the fact that your men were going to die and there was nothing you could do to prevent that. You hadn’t even noticed the tears as they began to fall, afraid of what your king might think, you stand beginning to walk away turning your back on him. But before you get too far you’re pulled back a hand wrapped around your arm, now face to face with him.
“There is no shame in tears m’lady” he speaks softly
Oh but there was.
“You are a fool to believe that your grace” your tone a mere whisper
“Why?” He asks
“It makes you weak”
“Weak” he repeats “now, that I can’t agree with.”
His grip on your arm loosened but you didn’t pull away his face mere inches from your own. Suddenly you were aware of what this must look like, the feeling of eyes on your back making you squirm. You pull your arm free from his grasp turning your back on him once more.
That was the first time Robb Stark truly saw you.
#game of thrones x reader#robb stark#house stark#robb stark x reader#jon snow#jon snow x reader#ned stark#sansa stark#game of thrones#robb stark x you#robb stark x y/n
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CHAPTER I
- AT YOUR SERVICE, MY LADY
chapter 2 →
series master-list can be found here!
summary: au where you’re a princess and clive has been appointed as your first shield
pairing: clive rosfield x f!reader
word count: 1.1k
content: NSFW (minors and ageless blogs DNI you will be blocked!) oral (f!receiving), spit, degradation, power imbalance, slight dub-con (in the beginning), exhibitionism, dirty talk, both you and clive are adults
a/n: happy happy birthday to me!!!! i got the idea to write this last night and decided i would post it as a little treat to myself. ngl i’m addicted to princess x knight or king x maid type stories 😭
dividers by @/saradika
You don’t know what it is about your first shield that strikes you, but lately, it seems he's the only thing consuming your thoughts. Perhaps it was his handsome face, branded with a scar across his cheek. Maybe it was the broadness of his shoulders or how delicious the swell of his chest looked when on display in one of his low-cut shirts. It could be the way he wields his sword in battle, his body moving in a precise and calculated manner as he hacks and slashes. You also had to take his hips into account; the sway while he walked was simply mesmerizing.
To say there was an attraction between the two of you was definitely an understatement. Though relations between nobles and their knights were frowned upon, you couldn't help being drawn to him. What started as minor flirting back and forth developed into palpable sexual tension, so much so that one day, while he was escorting you to the dining hall, you pulled him into a side room.
The sword on his back clangs against the wall as you shove him against it. Your breath heavy as you stare up at him. His face flushes as he chokes out, "My lady."
It's then that you decide to kiss him, melding his lips with your own. He's taken aback at first but helplessly becomes engrossed in the it, panting into your mouth.
"I've seen how you look at me, Clive." You pause your assault on his lips.
"The way you stare at my breasts when you think I'm not looking."
He always did his utmost to respect you, but he couldn't deny the allure of your breasts while you wore a corset. So badly did he want to free them from their confines and watch them bounce as he gave you pleasure.
He's speechless at your accusation, and knowing he can't deny it, he doesn't even try to defend himself, only being able to sputter out "Um's" and "Uh's."
"You're not in trouble, Clive."
"I want you," you whisper into his ear.
He grunts at this, throwing all caution to the wind. He lifts you up by your bum, then carefully lays you on the floor. He's ravenous as he paws at your body, his hands and mouth clinging to every inch of skin they can find.
There's a sense of urgency now with the yanking and pulling of fabrics. The bust of your dress is tugged down as your breasts bounce free. ‘At long last’ Clive thinks to himself. He gets a hungry look in his eye as he begins to suck and mouth at your tits, groaning against the soft flesh. His hand slides up your leg and into your dress, where he then pulls down your knickers, his fingers making contact with your warm heat for the first time. He positions himself in front of your bent legs, bunching up the hem of your dress over your hips.
Slowly but surely, you spread your legs, exposing your bare self to him.
"Oh, my lady," his mouth is agape as he blatantly stares, "you're absolutely beautiful." His thick fingers prod at your entrance, gathering some of your arousal as he works his way to your clit, coating the nub and rubbing it in soft circles.
"Let me taste you, my lady. It's all that I want."
You let out a whimper, and something in Clive snaps. He pulls you closer by your hips and throws your legs over his shoulder. He plants kisses to your inner thighs, licking the skin before grazing it lightly with his teeth.
"Please," you whine, biting your lip in anticipation.
The first contact his tongue makes with your cunt makes you shudder. His tongue lays flat against you as it drags from your entrance over your folds and to your needy clit. He continues to run his tongue through your folds before giving your clit quick little pecks with his lips, all of which give you a jolt of pleasure, causing you to twitch in his hold.
"Clive," you grumble, clearly not enjoying his teasing.
"Good things come to those who wait, my lady," He smirks. "Or was the spoiled princess never taught how to have patience?"
Before you can protest, he spits on your cunt, his finger once again making its way between your soaked folds, smearing his salvia all over your clit.
"You just can't wait, can you? It's always now, now, now with you," he mocks.
You begin to writhe against him now, silently begging him to go faster. His arm lays across your navel, preventing you from bucking your hips and taking the sweet pleasure you desire.
His ministrations on your clit pick up in intensity as he speaks once more.
"You like it messy, don’t you, my lady?"
"Who would’ve thought the sweet little princess was so filthy?"
You can't help the moan that escapes you. Your hands make their way to your tits, squeezing at them before tugging on your peaked nipples with ample fingers.
"I wonder what your people would think if they saw you like this, begging your sworn shield to eat you out on the storeroom floor like a depraved whore."
"C-Clive," you pant as you clench around nothing, a familiar heat starting to buildup in your abdomen.
"Yeah, you like that?'
"You like hearing about how filthy you are, my lady?" He smirks once more, clearly amused by the effect his words are having on you.
You were practically begging at this point, a cacophony of pleas tumbling out of your lips, wanting him to just put his mouth back on you and make better use of it instead of spewing filth.
"It’s alright, my lady. Your secret is safe with me."
"You just lay back and relax now," he leans back into your cunt gripping your thighs with his fingers. He kisses around your folds before giving kitten licks to your clit then taking it into his mouth, sucking gently.
"Fuck yes," you whine while tugging him further into your pussy by his hair.
"That’s it."
"Give in to your desire." The sound of his voice is muffled against you.
You began to buck your hips against his face, rutting your cunt all over his nose and lips, so consumed with your own pleasure. And he let you. The way your face contorted into pleasure as you took what he gave you was enough to make any man believe in the gods. Absolute heaven.
Neither of you can find the means to care as a poor, unsuspecting maid walks in on you, stunned to see the beloved princess with her sworn shield, devouring her sopping cunt like a man starved.
#clive rosfield x reader#final fantasy xvi x reader#clive rosfield smut#final fantasy xvi smut#final fantasy x reader#final fantasy smut#final fantasy 16 x reader#final fantasy 16 smut#x reader#smut#blurbs#✰ミ angel writes
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Jaune The Black Knight
An AU where Jaune and Ruby decided to say Fuck the world, got married after going rogue (they left Beacon after being betrayed by their friends) and had a daughter together named Olivia.
Salem was watching everything through her Grimm and decided to personally invite them to join her faction in turn they will get their revenge. With nowhere else to go they accepted now Ruby leads a battalion of Grimm with Jaune as her Second in Command.
And yes Salem cares about these two adorkable couple and vowed to never let anyone hurt them ever again.
I have baffled long enough, let's get this show on the road.
This particular day Salem ordered for Ruby to get some needed rest after capturing a few villages in her name, Jaune got up from bed and got ready for another day of spreading fear around the world
He showered, brushed his teeth, puts on his black armor, his wife changed Crocea Mor's color scheme, instead of a white shield it's now black with a gold outline and their combined family symbol, instead of a blue hilt it's now blood red, instead of a silver blade it's now a black sword (like the one Sokka made from Avatar the Last Airbender)(As for Jaune's armor, it's the Rusted Knight armor but it's polished and the color is black and gold, helmet included)
Jaune walks into the kitchen where his wife made him some food to go, he grabbed the bag, kissed his wife and turned to leave when suddenly his wife stopped him
Ruby: Wait Jaune, do you know what day it is?
Jaune: Uh... Wednesday?
Ruby: No dummy it's take your daughter to work day!
Jaune: Uh I don't think it's a good idea to bring our daughter to our kind of work, at least not yet.
Ruby: I know, but she has been wanting to come with us for a while and since it's take your daughter to work day I figured now is the best time, plus she'd have my big strong dark knight as her protector~.
Jaune: Well yeah but-
Ruby caressed his face: Jaune you RoseArc-promised.
Jaune sighed: I did didn't I?
3 Hours Later
The scene shows a metal door to one of Atlesian's military bases exploded with Jaune rushes in while holding his daughter's hand but hit his head on the top of the door-way
Jaune holds his head for a second before activating his shield protecting his daughter amd himself from the bullets from the AK's
Jaune: Keep your head down Olvia!
Olivia holding a stuffed Ursa toy: Okay daddy-Whoa!
Jaune quickly dragged Olivia to cover but Olivia lost grip of her best friend.
Olivia: MR. CUZZYBOTTOM!!!
Olivia was about to run out to grab her friend but her father stopped her
Jaune looked down to his daughter and saw her pointing at her stuffed animal which is laying on the ground near the Atlesian Knights
Jaune sighs and looks at Olivia: I'll get him, you stay here where it's safe.
Jaune rushes out of cover, raised his shield and charged at the robot knights
Jaune quckly cut and sliced through the knights, grabbed the toy and rushed back to his daughter
Jaune out of breath and his daughter her toy: Here you go baby.
Salem: Who's the little girl?
Jaune nervous: Oh Lord Salem! Uh... it's bring your daughter to work day and uh I'm sorry for bringing, but my wife says we barely had time to spend together and let's be honest she's right, okay she's right!
Salem:...
Jaune even more nervous laughs a bit: Do you have kids? Cause heh I mean they change your world.
Salem:...
Jaune facepalms and mutters: Ugh I'm probably gonna get either fired or killed for this but... Fuck it.
Jaune grabs his daughter's hand: I love my daughter!
Salem brought her fist to her chest and smiles a bit: That really hits me where I'd live.
Salem noticed a survivor and used her powers to grab his neck
Salem: What have you done with those plans!? Jaune here never gets time to spend with his daughter because of PEOPLE LIKE YOU!!!
Salem snaps the survivor's neck and quickly realized there was a child present
Salem raised her other hand to her mouth: I'm so sorry you had to see that.
Salem drops the body
Salem kneels down to Olivia's eye level: Are you having fun being at work with your father?
Olivia gets nervous because she doesn't like talking to strangers and hides her face behind her father's leg
Salem chuckles: I know I'm pretty scary.
LATER IN MENAGERIE
Jaune was holding his daughter's hand as he and a White Fang goon was patroling a town looking for their targets when suddenly they come across an old man (Ozpin) wearing a hood with Weiss, Blake and Yang behind him also wearing hoods
Jaune stops them: Hold up you all seem familiar.
Ozpin uses his magic: These are not the students you're looking for.
Jaune: These are not the students we're looking for.
Olivia: Yes they are.
Ozpin: Move along
Jaune: Move along!
Ozpin and the three bitche- uh I mean students moved along going into the tavern for intel
Olivia: Daddy, You're not even trying!
Jaune: Honey, It's 110 DEGREES IN THIS CONTINENT!!! I CAN'T HEAR IN THIS THING!!! *points at his helmet* I WAS JUST REPEATING WHAT I THOUGHT THE GUY WAS SAYING! IT'S NOT LIKE IT'S MY OWN MOTHER FUCKING THOUGHT IN THE MATTER, OKAY!?
Olivia runs off crying and Jaune realized what he had done
Jaune feeling guilty and runs after his daughter: HONEY!!!
White Fang Goon: See? That's why I don't take my daugher to Jack Shit!
FEEL FREE TO ADD MORE IF YOU WANT
#rwby lancaster#lancaster#jaune x ruby#ruby x jaune#ruby rose x jaune arc#jaune arc x ruby rose#evil lancaster#rwby evil lancaster#villain jaune arc#villain ruby rose#villain lancaster#jaune arc#ruby rose#salem#Olivia RoseArc#rwby#lancaster4life#guess the reference
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hi, i love your work, you're one of my favourite writers and you're seriously amazing<33
could i please request a sheriff of nottingham x reader?? maybe with some angst thrown into the mix<3
it's okay if you don't do requests, i understand
i still adore your fics, they always make my day better<333
Title: Beneath the Veil
Summary: Perhaps, just perhaps, there was still a chance for redemption amidst the darkness of Nottingham Castle.
Pairing: Sheriff of Nottingham × Fem! Reader
Warnings: Violence, insult, infidelity, angst and Smut.
Author's Notes: Thank you so much for your kind words! It means a lot to hear that you enjoy my stories. I'm thrilled to accommodate your request for a Sheriff of Nottingham x reader fic. Your support truly brightens my day! 💖📝
As you listened to the maids gossiping about the Sheriff's indiscretions, your heart sank deeper into despair. The pain of knowing that your husband had never respected your marriage pierced your soul like a dagger, and the cruel words of the maids only added salt to the wound.
"I heard the Sheriff brought another woman to his chambers last night," one maid whispered, her voice tinged with pity.
"Of course he did," another scoffed, "have you seen Lady [Your Name]? It's no wonder the Sheriff prefers the company of other women."
Tears welled up in your eyes as you pressed yourself against the wall, hidden from view but unable to escape the cruel words echoing in your mind. The memory of the scar on your face, a permanent reminder of a childhood accident, burned with shame and self-loathing.
Your mind drifted back to that fateful day when your brother's playful antics had left you disfigured and marked for life. You had been just a child, innocent and carefree, until fate had intervened with a cruel twist of destiny.
"I'll pretend you're the dragon!" your brother had exclaimed, swinging your father's sword with reckless abandon. But his aim had been off, and the blade had sliced across your face, leaving behind a jagged scar that marred your once-beautiful features.
From that day forward, you had hidden behind veils and masks, shielding yourself from the cruel gaze of the world. Your father, desperate to salvage your future, had offered a generous dowry to any man willing to take you as his wife. And the Sheriff, seduced by the promise of wealth, had accepted, never caring for the woman beneath the veil.
As the maids continued their gossip, your heart ached with the weight of loneliness and despair. You longed for a love that would see past your scars, a love that would cherish you for who you truly were. But in the cold, unforgiving halls of Nottingham Castle, such dreams were but fleeting illusions.
With a heavy heart, you retreated to the solitude of your chambers, the echoes of the maids' laughter ringing in your ears. In the darkness, you wept for the love you had never known, for the husband who had never seen you as anything more than a pawn in his game of power and greed. And as the tears flowed freely down your cheeks, you vowed to never let the world see the pain that lay hidden behind your veil.
Later that night, as you sat alone in your chamber, the comforting click of knitting needles filling the air, you found solace in the rhythmic motion of your hands. Knitting had become a sanctuary for you, a way to escape the harsh realities of your existence within the castle walls.
Lost in thought, you focused on the delicate stitches forming beneath your fingers, each loop a small refuge from the pain that haunted you. The doll you were crafting slowly took shape, its form a testament to the love and care you poured into every stitch.
You had befriended the daughter of one of the maids, a sweet child with a smile that could light up the darkest of days. It was for her that you knitted the doll, hoping to bring a glimmer of joy to her young heart amidst the shadows of the castle.
As you continued to knit, your mind drifted back to the day you had first met her. She had been playing in the courtyard, her laughter echoing through the air like a song of innocence. And when she had approached you, unafraid of the veil that concealed your scar, something within you had stirred.
But before you could dwell too long on the memories, the side door connecting your chambers to your husband's suddenly swung open, and the Sheriff himself stumbled in, his movements unsteady and his eyes glazed with drink.
You froze, your heart pounding in your chest as you watched him, unsure of what to expect. The Sheriff rarely ventured into your chambers, preferring to keep his distance from a wife he saw as little more than a bargaining chip.
But tonight was different, his presence filling the room with a tension you could almost taste. You could smell the sharp tang of ale on his breath as he approached you, his gaze lingering on your face with a mixture of disdain and something else you couldn't quite place.
"What are you doing here, woman?" he slurred, his words slurred and his voice thick with intoxication. "Shouldn't you be off hiding in the shadows like the coward you are?"
You lowered your gaze, your fingers stilling on the needles as you braced yourself for his cruelty. But to your surprise, the Sheriff's tone softened, his eyes narrowing as he took in the doll you held in your hands.
"What's this?" he demanded, his brow furrowing in confusion. "Some pathetic attempt at charity? Who is it for, hmm? Another one of your pitiful schemes to garner favor?"
You quickly looked away, keeping your scar hidden as best as you could, not wanting him to see the source of his disdain. "What do you want?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper, the weight of his presence suffocating you.
The Sheriff's brow furrowed in annoyance at your lack of response. "You know what I want," he replied sharply, his tone leaving no room for argument.
You tensed, your heart sinking even further as you realized what he was implying. Perhaps tonight, you had hoped, he would spare you this indignity, this painful reminder of your worthlessness in his eyes. But your hopes were quickly dashed as reality crashed down upon you like a wave of despair.
With a heavy sigh, you obeyed his command, slowly removing your clothes and climbing onto the bed, hiding your face in the pillows as you waited for him to take what he wanted.
The Sheriff watched you with a mixture of disgust and indifference, not bothering to hide his contempt as he undressed and climbed into bed behind you. It was always the same, the same position, the same routine, devoid of any pleasure or intimacy.
As he entered you roughly, you bit back a cry of pain, your body tensing against the intrusion. You couldn't understand how some women could enjoy such acts, could find pleasure in the harshness of it all. For you, it was simply a nightmare, a cruel punishment inflicted upon you by a husband who cared nothing for your well-being.
The Sheriff showed no mercy, his movements rough and hurried as he sought only his own release. You squeezed your eyes shut, willing yourself to endure until it was over, until you were once again alone in the darkness of your chamber.
And finally, mercifully, it was over. The Sheriff grunted in satisfaction, pulling away from you without a word, his disdain palpable in the air. You heard the rustle of fabric as he dressed himself, the click of the door as he left without a backward glance.
Alone once more, you curled into yourself, tears streaming down your face as you clung to the only comfort you had left—the comforting click of knitting needles, weaving a fragile thread of hope amidst the darkness of your despair.
As the days passed, the oppressive atmosphere of Nottingham Castle remained unchanged. The Sheriff's indiscretions continued unabated, his cruel words and actions a constant reminder of your marginalized existence within the walls of the castle.
That night, as the grand banquet commenced, you found yourself once again relegated to the sidelines, your veil shrouding your face as you observed the festivities from afar. Your husband, reveling in the company of his guests, showed no regard for your presence, his attention focused solely on his own pleasure.
As he drank, laughed, and indulged in the company of other women, you sat silently at the table, your hands clasped tightly in your lap. The sound of his boisterous laughter grated on your nerves, a stark contrast to the heavy weight of loneliness that settled in your chest.
A young lord, curious about your veiled visage, dared to question why you weren't partaking in the feast. But before you could respond, the Sheriff intercepted with a mocking jest, his words dripping with contempt as he belittled your appearance.
"No, no," he chortled, a cruel smirk twisting his lips, "I assure you, my dear lord, no one would wish to gaze upon such a sight. Trust me, it's a horror beyond imagination."
The woman perched on your husband's lap laughed lightly at his jest, her hands caressing his chest as she showered him with affection. You forced a smile, burying your pain deep within as you remained silent, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of seeing your tears.
As the festivities continued, your attention was drawn to Emily, the sweet child you had befriended. You watched with concern as she struggled to serve the lords, the weight of the wine jug proving too much for her fragile frame.
When one of the lords raised his hand to strike her for a minor spill, you could no longer stand idly by. Rising from your seat with determination, you intervened, placing yourself between Emily and her assailant.
"No!" you exclaimed, your voice firm and commanding as you shielded Emily from harm, "You will not lay a hand on her."
The furious lord stood up and shouted at you, his face contorted with rage. The sheriff's brow furrowed in annoyance at the commotion. Ignoring the woman on his lap who was still showering him with kisses, he focused his attention on the unfolding scene before him.
"Enough!" he barked, his voice cutting through the air like a whip as he rose from his seat, his dark mood surfacing with palpable intensity. "What is the meaning of this disturbance?"
The lord turned to the Sheriff, his anger unabated as he pointed an accusing finger in your direction. "Sheriff, this woman dares to defy me, to interfere with my rightful authority over the servants. She must be punished!"
The Sheriff's eyes narrowed, his gaze flickering briefly to you before returning to the lord. "Is that so?" he replied, his tone laced with cold authority, "And what offense has my wife committed to warrant your ire?"
The lord sputtered in outrage, struggling to find words as he floundered under the Sheriff's piercing stare. But before he could respond, the Sheriff intervened once more, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade.
"Leave her be," he commanded, his tone brooking no argument as he fixed the lord with a steely gaze, "I will not tolerate such petty displays of power in my presence. Return to your seat, and let this matter be forgotten."
The lord hesitated for a moment, his pride wounded by the Sheriff's rebuke, but ultimately, he relented, shooting you a venomous glare before retreating to his place at the table.
As the room fell silent once more, the Sheriff turned his attention to you, his expression unreadable as he regarded you with a mix of curiosity and intrigue. And in that moment, you saw something in his eyes that gave you pause, a glimmer of something unexpected beneath the veneer of his usual indifference.
Feeling a sense of gratitude wash over you at your husband's intervention, you seized the opportunity to act. Without another word, you quickly made your way to Emily's side, offering her a reassuring smile as you guided her out of the room, grateful for the chance to escape the suffocating atmosphere of the banquet hall.
Later, as you reflected on the events of the evening in the quiet solitude of your chambers, you couldn't help but feel a twinge of gratitude towards the Sheriff for coming to your aid. Despite the complexities of your relationship, his actions had shown a rare glimpse of compassion, one that you couldn't ignore.
Perhaps, you thought to yourself, there was more to your husband than met the eye. And as you contemplated the possibility of thanking him later, you couldn't help but wonder if there was still hope for understanding and connection amidst the shadows of Nottingham Castle.
A soft creak echoed from his bedroom, followed by the gentle click of the door closing. Hope flickered within you, prompting you to hasten to the side door that led to her husband's bedroom, eager to convey your appreciation.
But before you could reach for the handle, the muffled laughter of women emanating from inside halted you in your tracks. A sinking feeling settled in the pit of your stomach as the reality of your husband's actions washed over you once again.
Your footsteps faltered, and you withdrew from the door, the weight of disappointment pressing down on you like a heavy burden. With a heavy heart, you turned away, retreating to the solitude of your bed as you sought to drown out the sounds of your husband's revelry with other women.
As the laughter grew louder, echoing through the walls of the castle, you buried your face in your hands, tears stinging your eyes as you grappled with the pain of betrayal. Once again, the cruel reminder of your husband's infidelity shattered whatever fragile hope had begun to take root in your heart.
Feeling a wave of sadness wash over you, you closed your eyes and tried to shut out the world, seeking solace in the darkness of your own thoughts. But no matter how hard you tried to block out the sounds, they persisted, a constant reminder of the loneliness and despair that plagued your existence within the castle walls.
With a heavy sigh, you resigned yourself to another night of solitude, the echoes of your husband's laughter mingling with the distant sound of your own muffled sobs. In the silence of your chambers, you clung to the fleeting hope that someday, somehow, you might find a way to break free from the chains that bound you to this life of misery and betrayal.
And then, unexpectedly as the days passed, the atmosphere within Nottingham Castle grew increasingly tense. The Sheriff’s mysterious illness had left him bedridden and delirious with fever. His aggressive outbursts terrified the maids who attempted to tend to him.
You remained isolated in your chambers, indifferent to the Sheriff's plight, convincing yourself that he didn't deserve your care or concern. But deep down, a part of you still couldn't shake the lingering sense of worry and compassion for the man who was your husband, despite everything.
One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the castle grounds, a frantic knocking at your door shattered the silence of your solitude. Startled, you rose from your seat by the fire, your heart pounding in your chest as you made your way to answer the summons.
Opening the door, you were greeted by the sight of one of the maids, her face pale and her eyes wide with fear. "Lady [Your Name]," she gasped, her voice trembling with urgency, "the Sheriff... he's taken a turn for the worse. We can't... we don't know what to do..."
Without waiting for her to finish, you pushed past her, a sense of dread settling in the pit of your stomach as you hurried towards the Sheriff's chambers. As you entered the dimly lit room, the sight that greeted you made your blood run cold.
The Sheriff lay sprawled across the bed, his long black hair matted with sweat and his brow furrowed in pain. His eyes, normally sharp and piercing, were clouded with fever-induced delirium, and his once-strong frame seemed frail and vulnerable beneath the layers of blankets.
"Get away from me, you wretched wench!" he snarled, his voice hoarse and guttural as he thrashed about in a fever-induced frenzy, "I'll have your head for this!"
The maids cowered in fear at his aggressive outburst, shrinking back against the walls as they attempted to evade his flailing limbs. But you remained undeterred, steeling yourself against the Sheriff's aggression as you approached the bed with determined resolve.
"Enough," you commanded, your voice firm and unwavering as you reached out to restrain him, "You will not harm these women. They are here to help you, whether you like it or not."
The Sheriff's eyes widened in momentary surprise at your defiance, his struggles faltering as he regarded you with a mix of confusion and disbelief. But before he could respond, a violent fit of coughing wracked his body, leaving him gasping for breath and weak with exhaustion.
As the maids rushed to his side with water and herbs, you took charge of the situation, issuing orders and directing their efforts with calm authority. Despite your reservations and the lingering resentment you harbored towards the Sheriff, you couldn't stand by and watch him suffer without trying to help.
Day by day, you faithfully stood by the Sheriff's side, attending to his needs and diligently observing his condition. Despite his initial resistance and aggression, he gradually grew more accepting of your presence, his fever-induced delirium giving way to moments of clarity and lucidity.
As you sat next to the Sheriff's bed, your fingers moved deftly over the knitting needles, the soft click-click of the yarn providing a comforting rhythm in the dimly lit chamber. The Sheriff lay still, his brow furrowed in discomfort despite the damp cloth you had placed on his forehead to soothe his fever.
"What are you doing?" His voice, rough and hoarse, cut through the silence, breaking your concentration.
You glanced up from your knitting, meeting the Sheriff's brown eyes with a mixture of concern and determination. "I'm knitting," you replied simply, your tone absentminded as you focused on your task, "a blanket, for you."
The Sheriff's gaze lingered on you, his expression unreadable as he processed your words. "A blanket?" he echoed, his voice barely above a whisper as he struggled to find his voice amidst the fog of illness.
You nodded, your fingers never pausing in their work as you explained, "Yes, you said you felt very cold. I thought... I thought a warmer blanket might help."
For a moment, there was silence between you, the only sound the steady rhythm of your knitting needles. Then, the Sheriff spoke again, his voice low and hesitant, "Why... why are you still wearing that veil?"
Before you could respond, the Sheriff continued, his tone softer this time, almost gentle in its insistence. "We're alone, [Your Name]," he murmured, his brown eyes meeting yours with a mixture of sympathy and understanding, "You don't need to wear the veil while it's just the two of us."
His words struck a chord within you, stirring a sense of vulnerability that you had long buried beneath layers of self-preservation. With trembling fingers, you reached up to loosen the veil that concealed your scar, setting it aside with a mixture of reluctance and resignation.
As you hesitantly met the Sheriff's gaze, you saw something flicker behind his eyes, a fleeting moment of vulnerability that mirrored your own. But before you could dwell too long on the significance of the moment, he looked away, his attention drifting to the flickering flames of the hearth.
You felt your heart sink at his dismissal, the weight of disappointment settling heavily in your chest. But you refused to cry, refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing your pain. Instead, you turned away, retreating into the familiar comfort of your knitting, the rhythmic click-click of the needles a soothing balm for your wounded soul.
In the silence that followed, you couldn't help but wonder what lay beneath the Sheriff's stoic facade. You knew that he carried his own burdens, his own secrets and regrets hidden behind the mask of authority and power. And as you sat with your back to him, lost in your thoughts, you couldn't help but wonder if there was more to him than met the eye.
Meanwhile, the Sheriff's mind drifted back to memories of his mother, a distant figure from his childhood who had been both loving and strict in equal measure. He remembered the way she used to knit by the fire, her hands moving deftly over the needles as she crafted blankets and scarves with care and precision.
The memory of her gentle touch and comforting presence brought a pang of longing to his heart, a reminder of the love he had lost long ago. And as he watched you sitting by the fire, lost in your own world of needles and yarn, he couldn't help but feel a twinge of something unfamiliar stirring within him.
For the first time in years, the Sheriff found himself questioning the walls he had built around his heart, wondering if perhaps there was still room for warmth and compassion amidst the cold, unforgiving halls of Nottingham Castle. And as he watched you knit, a sense of hope blossomed within him, a flickering flame of possibility amidst the shadows of his past.
Later that night, as the flickering flames of the hearth cast dancing shadows across the chamber, the Sheriff's fevered dreams transported him back to his childhood home. In his delirium, he called out for his mother, his voice raw with desperation as he reached out into the darkness, seeking the comforting embrace of her presence.
You stirred from your sleep at the sound of his anguished cries, your heart twisting with sympathy as you watched him twitch and thrash in his fevered state. With gentle hands, you reached out to shake him awake, whispering soothing words of reassurance as you tried to calm his restless slumber.
"Shh, it's alright," you murmured, your voice soft and gentle as you brushed a lock of his unruly black hair away from his fever-flushed face, "You're safe here, Sheriff. It's just a dream."
But the Sheriff's delirium persisted, his cries growing louder as he begged for his mother's presence, his brown eyes wide with fear and confusion. In his fevered state, he mistook you for her, reaching out to grasp your hand with a desperate urgency that tore at your heartstrings.
"Mother, don't leave me," he pleaded, his voice thick with emotion as he clung to you with a desperation that spoke of long-buried pain and longing, "Please, I need you."
Your heart ached at his distress, the weight of his suffering pressing down on you like a heavy burden. But you refused to let him succumb to his nightmares, determined to bring him back to reality with whatever means necessary.
With a sense of resolve, you assumed the role of his mother, your voice taking on a gentle lilt as you spoke to him with soothing words of comfort and reassurance. "There, there, Sheriff," you murmured, your tone soft and maternal as you stroked his fevered brow, "Everything will be alright. Mother's here, just like always."
But the Sheriff's fevered mind refused to accept your presence, his delusions clouding his perception as he continued to beg for his mother's return. "Mother, please," he pleaded, his voice breaking with despair as he clung to you with trembling hands, "Don't leave me alone. Not again."
You felt a pang of sadness at his words, a glimpse into the depths of his pain and loneliness that he had kept hidden from the world. But you refused to let him drown in despair, refusing to let him suffer alone in the darkness of his past.
"Shh, George," you whispered, your voice gentle but firm as you looked into his eyes with unwavering determination, "It's alright. I'm here with you, just like I promised. You're not alone, Sheriff. You never will be."
For a moment, there was silence between you, the only sound the soft rustle of blankets as the Sheriff's breathing gradually steadied. And as he looked up at you with tear-filled eyes, a flicker of recognition sparked behind the haze of his delirium.
"Mother?" he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper as he reached out to touch your face with trembling fingers, "Is it... is it really you?"
You nodded, your own eyes brimming with tears as you gazed into his, "Yes, George," you replied, your voice tender and full of compassion, "It's me. I'm here for you, just like always."
But the Sheriff shook his head, his brow furrowed in confusion as he struggled to make sense of his surroundings. "No," he protested, his voice growing more insistent with each passing moment, "You're not... you can't be... my mother. My mother is..."
His voice trailed off, his gaze distant as memories from his past flooded his mind with overwhelming intensity. And as he looked at you with a mixture of longing and despair, you realized the depth of his pain, the wounds of his childhood still raw and unhealed after all these years.
With a heavy heart, you reached out to him, your hand trembling slightly as you brushed his fevered brow with gentle fingers. "You're right, George," you whispered, your voice barely above a murmur, "I'm not your mother. But I am your wife, and I'll take care of you."
The Sheriff's brown eyes flickered with recognition as he gazed up at you, his expression softening with a mixture of gratitude and vulnerability. And in that moment, you saw something shift within him, a glimmer of understanding and acceptance that transcended the barriers of his fevered delusions.
But as you leaned in closer, your heart pounding in your chest, the Sheriff's gaze suddenly shifted to your face, his eyes lingering on the scar that marred your features. And before you could brace yourself for his reaction, he spoke, his voice hoarse and raw with emotion.
"You're ugly," he whispered, his words like a dagger to your heart as you recoiled from his cruel assessment. The pain of his rejection cut deep, reopening old wounds that had never fully healed, and you felt the sting of tears welling up in your eyes.
Without a word, you turned away, your shoulders trembling with the weight of his harsh words. The veil of self-preservation that you had carefully constructed around your heart threatened to crumble, leaving you exposed and vulnerable in the wake of his callous dismissal.
But before you could retreat further into the shadows of your despair, the Sheriff reached out, his hand wrapping around your wrist with unexpected tenderness. "Wait," he implored, his voice soft but determined as he pulled you back towards him, "Don't go. I... I don't want to be alone."
You hesitated, torn between the instinct to protect yourself and the overwhelming urge to comfort him in his time of need. And as you looked into his brown eyes, searching for a glimmer of sincerity amidst the darkness of his words, you saw something shift within him, a flicker of remorse and regret that mirrored your own.
"I'm sorry," he murmured, his voice barely audible above the crackling of the fire, "I didn't mean... I didn't mean to hurt you. Please, stay. I need you."
His words touched something deep within you, stirring a sense of compassion and empathy that you hadn't felt in a long time. And as you gazed into his eyes, seeing the pain and vulnerability hidden beneath the mask of authority and power, you knew that you couldn't turn your back on him, not now, not when he needed you the most.
With a heavy sigh, you relented, nodding your head in silent agreement as you wiped away the tears that stained your cheeks. "I'll stay," you whispered, your voice barely above a whisper, "I'll take care of you, George. You're not alone."
And as you reached for your veil, the familiar weight of its fabric settling against your skin, you felt a sense of resignation wash over you. You would hide your scar, bury them beneath layers of silk and lace, to spare him from the ugliness of your past.
But as you adjusted the veil over your face, obscuring your scar from his view, you couldn't help but wonder if there was still hope for understanding and acceptance amidst the shadows of Nottingham Castle. And as you settled back into your seat by the fire, knitting needles in hand, you knew that whatever the future held, you would face it together, scar and all.
Days later, as the sun cast its golden rays across the stone walls of Nottingham Castle, the Sheriff finally showed signs of recovery from his illness. Though his body remained weak, the fever that had plagued him for days had finally broken, leaving him with a newfound sense of clarity and strength.
You stood by his bedside, helping him dress and offering words of encouragement as he struggled to regain his strength. Despite the lingering traces of exhaustion that still clung to him, there was a glimmer of determination in his eyes, a silent resolve to overcome the ordeal that had nearly claimed his life.
As you adjusted his garments, there came a sharp rap at the bedroom door, the sound echoing through the chamber like a gunshot. The Sheriff's brow furrowed in annoyance at the interruption, but he waved you aside with a dismissive gesture, granting permission for the visitor to enter.
The door swung open, revealing the imposing figure of Sir Guy of Gisbourne, his tall frame silhouetted against the light streaming in from the corridor. His sharp features were set in a mask of concern, his piercing gaze fixed on the Sheriff as he stepped into the room with purposeful strides.
"Sheriff," Sir Guy began, his voice a deep rumble that filled the chamber with authority, "I've come to check on your condition. I trust that you're feeling better?"
The Sheriff nodded curtly, his gaze steady as he regarded his loyal lieutenant with a mixture of gratitude and suspicion. "Yes, Sir Guy," he replied, his voice raspy but resolute, "I'm on the mend, thanks to Lady [Your Name]'s care."
At the mention of your name, Sir Guy's eyes flickered briefly in your direction, his expression unreadable as he took in the sight of you assisting the Sheriff. And then, as if noticing something for the first time, his gaze lingered on your face, his brow furrowing in confusion.
You felt a surge of apprehension as Sir Guy's eyes roved over your features, the scar on your face laid bare for all to see. The silence stretched between you, thick with tension and unspoken judgment, until finally, Sir Guy broke the uneasy stillness with a low chuckle.
"Well, well," he remarked, his tone laced with amusement, "So this is why you wear that veil. I must say, Sheriff, I've never seen anything quite so... striking."
Sheriff narrowed his eyes at Sir Guy of Gisbourne, his brow furrowing in confusion and irritation at the man's cryptic remark. "What do you mean?" he demanded, his voice low and tense with suspicion.
Sir Guy of Gisbourne smiled, a cold smirk twisting his lips as he met the Sheriff's gaze with icy indifference. "I mean exactly what I said, Sheriff," he replied, his tone dripping with disdain, "I've never seen anything quite so ugly in all my life."
The Sheriff's eyes widened in shock at Sir Guy's brutal assessment, his stomach churning with a mixture of anger and disbelief. "What are you talking about?" he growled, his voice rough with suppressed rage.
Sir Guy's smile widened, a cruel glint in his eyes as he stepped closer to the Sheriff, his voice laced with mockery. "Oh, come now, Sheriff," he taunted, "Surely even you can't deny the truth. I've heard the rumors, seen the way you've kept her hidden away like a shameful secret. And now that I've seen her face for myself, I understand why."
The Sheriff saw red, his vision clouded with a haze of rage as he took a step towards Sir Guy, his fists clenched in readiness for a fight. He didn't know where he found the strength, the courage to defy his loyal lieutenant, but in that moment, all he could see was red, all he could feel was the burning need to defend his honor, his wife's honor, against Sir Guy's cruel words.
With a primal roar of rage, the Sheriff launched himself at Sir Guy, his fists flying in a flurry of punches aimed at the other man's face. He saw the shock in Sir Guy's eyes, the moment of realization that he had pushed the Sheriff too far, but it was too late for apologies, too late for remorse.
As the Sheriff rained blow after blow upon Sir Guy's face, his mind filled with a white-hot fury that consumed him from within. He didn't care about the consequences, didn't care about the pain he inflicted, all he cared about was the burning need to defend his wife's honor, to silence the mockery and scorn that had plagued her for far too long.
But as he struck Sir Guy again and again, his rage slowly gave way to exhaustion, his strength waning with each passing moment. And it was only when he heard your voice, your shocked and horrified cries echoing through the chamber, that he finally came to his senses, the haze of anger dissipating like fog in the morning sun.
And as Sir Guy of Gisbourne fled the room, nursing his bruised face, you turned your attention to the Sheriff, who stood before you with a mixture of anger and confusion etched across his features. His brown eyes blazed with intensity, his long unruly black hair framing his face as he glared at you with barely restrained fury.
"Why did you stop me?" he demanded, his voice a low, rumbling baritone that filled the chamber with authority. "I was defending your honor, [Your Name]."
You recoiled at his words, disbelief washing over you like a tidal wave. "Defending my honor?" you repeated incredulously, your voice tinged with anger. "You were defending my honor?"
You took a step closer to him, your gaze locked with his as you struggled to contain the torrent of emotions raging within you. "You're the first to make fun of me, to call me ugly, to mock my scar," you spat, the bitterness of years of hurt and resentment boiling to the surface. "Did you really think I didn't know why you only fuck me from behind? You're disgusted to look at my face, so what does it matter if more people call me ugly?"
The Sheriff's expression faltered, his anger giving way to a stunned silence as he grappled with your accusations. He opened and closed his mouth wordlessly, unable to find the right words to defend himself against your searing indictment.
Finally, he shook his head, his gaze falling to the floor as shame washed over him like a tidal wave. "I... I don't know what to say," he murmured, his voice barely audible above a whisper. "I didn't realize... I didn't mean to..."
But you cut him off with a sharp gesture, your patience wearing thin in the face of his hypocrisy. "Save it," you snapped, your voice dripping with contempt. "I don't want to hear your excuses."
It was too late for apologies, too late for redemption.
"Leave," he ordered, his voice raw with emotion as he struggled to hold back the flood of regret threatening to consume him. "Just... leave."
And with one final glance over your shoulder, you obeyed, disappearing through the side door that led to your bedroom, leaving the Sheriff alone with his thoughts and the weight of his mistakes. As you slammed the door behind you, the sound reverberated through the chamber like a final, damning verdict, sealing the fate of your fractured relationship with the Sheriff of Nottingham.
As the days passed, you and the Sheriff remained distant, avoiding each other's presence whenever possible. Meals were taken separately, with you retreating to the privacy of your bedroom to eat alone, concealing your face from prying eyes. Meanwhile, the Sheriff sat alone at the table, his appetite waning as he watched the servants tend to his needs, a pang of loneliness gnawing at his heart.
For the first time since your marriage, the Sheriff realized the emptiness of his solitary meals. He had never shared a meal with you, never sat across from you and shared in the simple pleasures of conversation and companionship. But he had never cared before, content to keep you at arm's length, to avoid the sight of your scarred face.
As he chewed his food in silence, the Sheriff made a decision. It was time to bridge the gap between you, to make amends for his past mistakes and reach out to you in a way he had never dared before.
That night, he came to your bedroom, his footsteps hesitant as he approached the door. You didn't look at him as he entered, your gaze fixed on the wall as you questioned his presence.
"It's time," he said simply, his voice tinged with a mixture of determination and uncertainty. "Time to try again."
You sighed, a mix of resignation and annoyance coloring your response. But you nodded, understanding his meaning as you began to undress and prepare for what you knew would come next.
To your surprise, the Sheriff stopped you, his hand gentle as he reached out to touch your face. "No," he said softly, his brown eyes meeting yours with a newfound sense of vulnerability, "I want to see your face this time."
Anger flared within you at his request, the injustice of it burning hot in your chest. Did he think that seeing your face would somehow absolve him of his past cruelty, that he could use you to prove something to himself?
But as you met his gaze, you saw something in his eyes that gave you pause, a glimmer of genuine remorse and longing that tugged at your heartstrings. Maybe, just maybe, he was trying to make amends in his own flawed way.
With a heavy sigh, you relented, allowing him to see you as you truly were, scar and all. And as the Sheriff climbed between your legs, you couldn't help but feel a surge of discomfort mixed with resentment. You lay on your back, staring up at the ceiling, your mind swirling with conflicting emotions. His touch felt foreign and unwelcome, a stark reminder of the distance that had grown between you in the wake of his hurtful words.
You winced as he slowly penetrated you, the dryness causing a sharp pang of pain to shoot through your body. Unlike the prostitutes he was accustomed to, you were not prepared, not eager to please him in this moment. But he pressed on, seemingly oblivious to your discomfort as he sought his own pleasure.
As he moved within you, you gritted your teeth against the pain, the grimace on your face not lost on the Sheriff. He watched you intently, his brow furrowing with concern as he realized the extent of your discomfort.
Deciding to try and please you in some way, he tentatively pressed his thumb against your clit, eliciting a surprised gasp from your lips. You looked at him with a mix of embarrassment and confusion, questioning his unexpected action.
He met your gaze with a slight tilt of his head, a hint of amusement dancing in his brown eyes. "Have you never touched yourself?" he asked, his voice low and gentle, the baritone rumble sending shivers down your spine.
Blushing furiously, you shook your head, denying his assumption. "No," you whispered, your voice barely audible above the sound of your own heartbeat. "I was taught... my body belongs to my husband. I was never... encouraged to... explore such things."
The Sheriff's expression softened, a pang of guilt tugging at his heart as he realized the extent of your innocence and naivety. He had never considered the possibility that you had never experienced pleasure in such a basic way, that you had been denied the simple joys of self-discovery and exploration.
He decided to change that today. The Sheriff's touch grew more confident and purposeful as he explored your body, his fingers dancing over your sensitive skin with practiced ease. With each caress, you felt a wave of pleasure wash over you, your body responding eagerly to his ministrations.
As he teased your clit, you couldn't help but squirm beneath him, your breath coming in short, ragged gasps as he brought you closer and closer to the edge of ecstasy. Your eyes remained closed, lost in the sensation of his touch, soft moans escaping your lips as you gave in to the pleasure that coursed through your veins.
For the first time, the Sheriff found himself captivated by your beauty, the scar on your face fading into insignificance as he watched your expression contort with pleasure. In that moment, he realized that your scar didn't define you; they only added to your allure, making you all the more irresistible in his eyes.
With a newfound sense of reverence, the Sheriff leaned in to worship you, his lips trailing kisses along your jawline and down your neck, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. You cried out in pleasure as he took one of your breasts into his mouth, the sensation sending sparks of electricity coursing through your body.
As he played with you, his fingers exploring every inch of your skin, he could feel how wet you were, your arousal evident in the way you clenched around him. With a sense of satisfaction, he realized that he was the one bringing you this pleasure, the one who could make you scream his name in ecstasy.
"Open your eyes," he commanded, his voice low and husky as he gazed into your eyes, searching for a sign of approval. And when you complied, meeting his gaze with a mixture of desire and uncertainty, he smiled, a sense of triumph coursing through him.
"It's good, isn't it?" he asked, his voice tinged with a hint of uncertainty as he awaited your response.
You nodded, unable to find the words to express the overwhelming pleasure that consumed you. But your actions spoke volumes as you arched against him, your body craving more of his touch, more of his love.
Encouraged by your response, the Sheriff leaned in to capture your lips in a passionate kiss, his tongue darting out to explore the depths of your mouth with a hunger that took your breath away. It was unlike any kiss you had ever experienced, wild and uninhibited, as if he wanted to consume you whole.
You moaned into his mouth, the sound muffled by the intensity of his kiss, your hands reaching up to tangle in his long, unruly hair. And as you kissed him back with equal fervor, you felt a sense of connection, a bond forged in the heat of passion and desire.
As the Sheriff's lips met yours in a fervent kiss, something shifted within him, a realization dawning with startling clarity. In that moment, amidst the heat of passion and the tangled embrace of your bodies, he understood.
He wanted you.
Not just in a physical sense, though the desire burned within him with an intensity he had never known. No, it was more than that. He wanted all of you – your strength, your resilience, your unwavering compassion in the face of his own shortcomings.
He loved you.
The realization hit him like a thunderbolt, fierce and indomitable, shaking him to his core. He loved you, scars and all, with a love that was raw and unrefined, untamed like the wild forests that surrounded Nottingham Castle.
He remembered the days when you had tended to him with unwavering dedication, the gentleness of your touch a balm for his fevered soul. He remembered the moments of vulnerability you had shared, the way you had looked at him with eyes full of compassion, as if seeing beyond the mask of authority to the wounded heart beneath.
And he remembered the night when he had lashed out at you with cruel words, the pain and betrayal etched in your tear-stained face. He had seen the hurt he had caused reflected in your eyes, a stark reminder of the damage he had wrought with his thoughtless actions.
But despite it all, you had stayed by his side, offering forgiveness where others would have turned away in disgust. You had shown him a kindness he didn't deserve, a love he hadn't known he craved until now.
As he kissed you with a hunger born of newfound understanding, the Sheriff vowed to make amends, to prove himself worthy of the love you had so freely given. He would show you that his love was not a fleeting fancy, but a force to be reckoned with, a flame that burned bright amidst the darkness of their fractured relationship.
And as he held you close, his heart racing with the intensity of his emotions, he knew that he would do whatever it took to win back your trust, to earn the right to call you his own.
For in that moment, amidst the tangled sheets and the tangled mess of their past, the Sheriff of Nottingham realized that he was in love with you, scars and all. And he would stop at nothing to prove it to you, to show you that his love was as fierce and untamed as the forests that surrounded their home.
As the passion between you and the Sheriff intensified, the air in the room crackled with electricity, charged with the raw desire that pulsed between you. His hands roamed over your body with a newfound confidence, his touch igniting a fire within you that threatened to consume you whole.
With each kiss, each caress, the Sheriff explored you as if he were uncovering a hidden treasure, his fingers tracing the contours of your body with reverence and hunger. And as he pressed his lips against your skin, leaving a trail of fire in their wake, you gasped in pleasure, your body arching against him in silent invitation.
"Gods, you're beautiful," he murmured against your neck, his voice a low rumble that sent shivers down your spine. "I've been blind to your beauty for far too long."
His words washed over you like a soothing balm, banishing the lingering doubts and insecurities that had plagued you for years. In that moment, all that mattered was the intense connection between you, the overwhelming desire that threatened to consume you both.
With a sense of urgency, the Sheriff lowered himself between your legs, his mouth trailing hot kisses along your thighs as he teased you with his tongue. You gasped as he delved deeper, his skilled ministrations sending waves of pleasure coursing through your body.
"Please," you begged, your voice a breathless whisper as you pleaded for more, "Don't stop."
But the Sheriff had no intention of stopping, not when he was so close to unlocking the secrets of your pleasure. With a wicked grin, he intensified his efforts, his tongue flicking against your clit with increasing fervor as he brought you closer and closer to the edge of ecstasy.
You cried out his name as the first waves of pleasure crashed over you, your body convulsing in ecstasy as he continued to pleasure you with single-minded determination. And as you reached your peak, the Sheriff's name fell from your lips like a prayer, a testament to the depth of your desire for him.
But he wasn't satisfied yet, not when there was still so much more pleasure to be had. With a growl of hunger, he rose above you, his eyes dark with desire as he claimed your lips in a searing kiss.
"I need you," he whispered against your lips, his voice husky with desire as he positioned himself at your entrance. "I need to be inside you, to feel you around me."
You nodded eagerly, your own need driving you to desperation as you wrapped your legs around him, urging him to take you. And as he entered you with a single, powerful thrust, you cried out in ecstasy, the sensation of him filling you completely overwhelming your senses.
The Sheriff's movements were slow and deliberate at first, each thrust sending shockwaves of pleasure coursing through your body. But as the intensity of your passion grew, so too did the pace of his movements, his hips driving against yours with increasing urgency as he sought his own release.
You matched him thrust for thrust, meeting his every movement with equal fervor as you lost yourselves in the heat of passion. And as the tension between you reached its breaking point, you cried out in unison, your bodies shuddering with the force of your shared release.
For a moment, there was only the sound of your ragged breaths mingling with the echoes of your pleasure, the world around you fading into insignificance as you lay entwined in each other's arms.
And as you basked in the afterglow of your lovemaking, you knew that things would never be the same between you and the Sheriff of Nottingham. But somehow, that thought didn't scare you. In fact, it filled you with a sense of hope, a belief that maybe, just maybe, there was still a chance for redemption amidst the darkness of Nottingham Castle.
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Shanks, mihawk with an s/o who is secretly very strong like y/n can be getting yelled at and she doesn't do anything and if y/n is in danger she was always saved.but this time Y/N kinda just snapped like she made a whole bloodbath
(its a bit harder to write some gore for mihawk since the man is known not to go looking for trouble so this was my best idea for him)
Shanks
he's seen you loose your shit once but he was still suspicious that it wasn't your full extent of emotions.
Shanks had a bone to pick with a certain crew for a long time however it wasnt until the bastards showed up trying to put holes in his ship that he began getting really upset with them.
"Duck!" he'd jesture for you to evade the oncoming attack knowing fully well you liked when he showed up in a blaze of glory to save your ass.
And so, you stood there waiting for the blade to strike you to feel the sting of ripping skin and yet nothing, a strong clash of metal echoed before you Shank's sword glistened in the sunlight his aura irreversably tense.
"I told you to duck, it's the last time i'm doing this." his usually soothing voice came off as an abrupt shout at you, his eyes never looking near you as he plunged the sword in the man before him.
Truth be told that ruined the picture perfect moment of saving the underdog and left you feeling bitter.
Without a warning the body he shielded with his own was long gone when he tried taking a step back to guard you from the fallen man. He looked around for you as if you had dissapeared in thin air, a loud trail of groans and painful whimpers clouded his ears as he looked forward to the sight before him.
They didn't aim to be killing anyone, however it seemed the battle had reached its peak, the floorboards creeked under your weight, the sound of bodies collapsing in loud thuds only reassured Shanks' earlier doubts about you.
You lay upon a pile of men their blood trickling down in an upsetting and horrid manner, Shanks' was stunned to say the least, he thought of you as a powerful fighter but even this beat what he had in mind.
You sat there a trail of steam forming from your breath in the cold air, nothing in your body moved, only the rise of your chest as you took deeps breaths.
There was a slight klinch behind Shanks a gust of wind going upwards as someone reached behind him their sword drawn with a coarse battlecry.
He looked at you confidently making a split second decision to see what kind of beast truly lays under this calm facade you've always put up.
In a seconds notice the strong gust of wind from your body making its way past him sent his red hair sweeping across his face. With a proud smirk he looked past his shoulders, your sword seethed in its place the man before you already out cold in his own blood.
Before he got a word in you were already gone onto the next leaving a wake of men shouting for their crew to leave before theyre all dead.
He chuckles with new found confidance in you albeit the dripping blood that neared his shoes made him realise he might need to interferre with you personally.
Your heart was in no way weak of will yet the moment he used his Haki on you left you with a stumble to your step. His gaze was certain without a mistake he was ordering for you to stop, the battle was over they had lost and you had won, so theres no more need for you to slash through even half awake bodies.
Your eyes met his in an instant the sour urge for blood had dissapated, you sighed, a long drag to seethe your sword for the last time you walked to gaze over at the sea. There were no birds in sight only a pair of sea kings leaping through the deep sea waters.
Shanks came to stand beside you his arms hovering over the end of the ship he spoke up.
"Didn't know we kept a beast locked up for so long." he laughed the pleasant roar of his chest made even you smirk under your composure.
Mihawk
He's a man who goes out at sea only when necessary therefore hes had his fair share of witnessing you fall helplessy many times.
He nearly pities you, your way of fighting was ineffective against most who've went through the basics of swordsmanship. His constant passive insults seemed to build up in your head, his judgemental stare each time you fell down, the coldness in his eyes as he retorts to how you should work on your balance as he steps over to shield you from an attack.
Well theres a time for everything.
He agreed to take you along on one of his voyages you were standing behind him the entire time watching how the water spilled over his makeshift raft.
"Try not to fall." He spoke up clutching his black sword over his shoulder eyes pointing over to the ship before him.
It was rare when he decided to dock the ships he passed however since you were with him he wanted to see if you improved atleast a bit.
Much to his surprise a clash of green swiped past his face, it wasn't an attack he insinuated and yet it it sliced the ship clean.
He watched at the sight before him, the massive ship splitting open as it held no common ground to steady its split parts.
You walked before him and without explanation started throwing long range attacks, he stepped back a foot, his plan to passivley scold you had been taken out of the books.
He was notcing your footwork, your stance and breathing. There had been no flaws in it which left him questioning if it all had been a fluke this entire time. He watched you swing your sword in everywhich direction which made it painfully obvious you were aiming at something to be hit and yet what caught his eye was your concentration and the blood thirsty aroua around you, you were allowing no mistakes to be made.
The way you changed the angle of your attack as if you sensed someones movement on the ship, landing throws wasn't random anymore it had a purpose even he didn't see.
He was beginning to wonder when did you have the time for training with how busy he liked keeping you.
You quickly ended your attacks throwing your sword over your shoulder. In a moment of silence and crashing waves a chorus of pained wails was heard.
It had to be one of the most eerie sounds he's ever heard on the open sea as his eyes windened to the sound his scowl growing a bit more dense he kept looking between you and the now collapsed ship.
He was heavily intrigued his eyes told that much.
When you turned around nothing prepared for the total calmness he felt over the eased look in your eyes, however the glint that shined within them spoke volumes of how much expetise you had.
"Fight me." He spoke calmly haven't witnessed a power like his in a while, the water before his raft floating with debris and unmistakenly blood from the men you had attacked. You smiled at his request the two of your shared little to no place for footwork and his sword was long enough to reach the other end of his raft.
He wasnt sure if it was an intimidation tactic but the way you dipped your sword in the blody water to let it drip on his raft left him a little on the edge.
After reaching a draw he sat back, his large black hat tipping over his eyes he told you "Why have you been fighting like a newborn chick?"
You caught your breath sitting down before him on the raft you spoke with your sword resting on your shoulder. "You've never asked to fight seriously." a chuckle from you made him feel like a bit of an idiot, perhaps he should have challenged you sooner or atleast once told you to fight like it meant your life.
He sighed noticing a mark on his boot, it had been cut, not enough to fully cut through but enough to leave a mean scuff on it, no doubt your doing.
He stared long at the mark until you reached your destination, his eyes boring into the back of your skull as you offered him your presance. He had lost the duel without noticing, you left the scuff there to show him he needed not to underestimate you.
The following ride back he continued to slash his sword at you in moments where you werent paying attention, watching how effortlesly you doged his attacks you warned him "If you're attacking me, aim to kill me." You smiled with a twisted twinkle in your eyes, and he did as you said slashing true his blade left a soft incision over your cheek, payback for his scuffed boot.
#onepiece#one piece fanfiction#onepiece x reader#one piece#shanks x reader#one piece shanks#shanks request#onepiece dracule mihawk#mihawk x reader#one piece mihawk#dracule mihawk#hawkeye mihawk#one piece reader insert
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In the books:
White Harbor
“Was ever snow so black?” asked Lord Wyman. “Ramsay took Lord Hornwood’s lands by forcibly wedding his widow, then locked her in a tower and forgot her. It is said she ate her own fingers in her extremity…and the Lannister notion of king’s justice is to reward her killer with Ned Stark’s little girl.” - Davos, ADwD
Winterfell:
"The bride weeps," Lady Dustin said, as they made their way down, step by careful step. "Our little Lady Arya." ... What do you think passes through their heads when they hear the new bride weeping? Valiant Ned's precious little girl." ... "Lady Arya's sobs do us more harm than all of Lord Stannis's swords and spears. - The Turncloak, ADwD
The Boltons about the Northmen marching with Stannis:
“Even ruined and broken, Winterfell remains Lady Arya’s home. What better place to wed her, bed her, and stake your claim? Let Stannis march on us. He is too cautious to come to Barrowton…but he must come to Winterfell. His clansmen will not abandon the daughter of their precious Ned to such as you. - - Reek, ADwD
The northmen marching with Stannis:
"Winter is almost upon us, boy. And winter is death. I would sooner my men die fighting for the Ned’s little girl than alone and hungry in the snow, weeping tears that freeze upon their cheeks. No one sings songs of men who die like that. As for me, I am old. This will be my last winter. Let me bathe in Bolton blood before I die. I want to feel it spatter across my face when my axe bites deep into a Bolton skull. I want to lick it off my lips and die with the taste of it on my tongue." - The King's Prize, ADwD
Stannis to Lord Commander Jon Snow:
… more northmen coming in as word spreads of our victory. Fisherfolk, freeriders, hillmen, crofters from the deep of the wolfswood and villagers who fled their homes along the stony shore to escape the ironmen, survivors from the battle outside the gates of Winterfell, men once sworn to the Hornwoods, the Cerwyns, and the Tallharts. We are five thousand strong as I write, our numbers swelling every day. And word has come to us that Roose Bolton moves toward Winterfell with all his power, there to wed his bastard to your half sister. He must not be allowed to restore the castle to its former strength. We march against him. Arnolf Karstark and Mors Umber will join us. I will save your sister if I can, and find a better match for her than Ramsay Snow. You and your brothers must hold the Wall until I can return. - Jon, ADwD
Lord Commander Jon Snow on the Wall:
"He's to marry Arya Stark. My little sister." Jon could almost see her in that moment, long-faced and gawky, all knobby knees and sharp elbows, with her dirty face and tangled hair. They would wash the one and comb the other, he did not doubt, but he could not imagine Arya in a wedding gown, nor Ramsay Bolton's bed. No matter how afraid she is, she will not show it. If he tries to lay a hand on her, she'll fight him. "Your sister," Iron Emmett said, "how old is …" By now she'd be eleven, Jon thought. Still a child. "I have no sister. Only brothers. Only you." Lady Catelyn would have rejoiced to hear those words, he knew. That did not make them easier to say. His fingers closed around the parchment. Would that they could crush Ramsay Bolton's throat as easily. - Jon, ADwD
You know nothing, Jon Snow. He thought of Arya, her hair as tangled as a bird's nest. I made him a warm cloak from the skins of the six whores who came with him to Winterfell … I want my bride back … I want my bride back … I want my bride back …
"I think we had best change the plan," Jon Snow said.
The roar was all he could have hoped for, the tumult so loud that the two old shields tumbled from the walls. Soren Shieldbreaker was on his feet, the Wanderer as well. Toregg the Tall, Brogg, Harle the Huntsman and Harle the Handsome both, Ygon Oldfather, Blind Doss, even the Great Walrus. I have my swords, thought Jon Snow, and we are coming for you, Bastard. - Jon, ADwD
Stannis sending Arya to Jon Snow for a debt owed
"Oh, and take the Stark girl with you. Deliver her to Lord Commander Snow on your way to Eastwatch." Stannis tapped the parchment that lay before him. "A true king pays his debts."
Pay it, aye, thought Theon. Pay it with false coin. Jon Snow would see through the imposter at once. Lord Stark's sullen bastard had known Jeyne Poole, and he had always been fond of his little half-sister Arya. - Theon, TWoW
Even the traitors Karstark pretending like the others:
Lord Arnolf shoved himself up, a vulture rising from its prey. One spotted hand clutched at his son’s shoulder for support. “We’ll take (Winterfell) for the Ned and for his daughter.” - The Sacrifice, ADwD
Us reading A Dance for Dragons: The North is marching for Lady Arya Stark of Winterfell, daughter of Ned Stark. Arya Stark is a pivotal character, a Key to the North around whom the North plot revolves. Various Northern factions are uniting behind her, the Lord Commander broke several oaths of neutrality and died trying to save her, two kings tried to save her.
Sansa stans/Jonsa shippers:
They hate it so much that the North plot revolves around Arya that the only thing they can do again and again is gaslight the fandom with this false equivalence that talking about Arya's importance to the North is making light of Jeyne's rape and abuse.
Also, Ramsay marries Arya Stark to give legitimacy to his stake over the North as Lord of Winterfell. Which is why Manderly wants Rickon because his claim supersedes Arya's. These morons pretending that discussing this plot is an insult to Arya while they hand over all of Arya's book themes, characterization and relationships to their fave is hilarious.
Like every other day there is a post of how Sansa is the MOST IMPORTANT because EVERYONE WANTS TO MARRY HER and she is the ONLY KEY TO THE NORTH - because the Lannisters, Tyrells and LF are all plotting to marry her off etc. The whole Jonsa shite is about Sansa deigning to make the poor bastard Jon legitimate by marrying him etc. Their world revolves around Sansa's marriage. But apparently discussing how Arya's marriage to Ramsay to hold the North is driving the Northern plot is insulting to Arya's character 🤣
When even the author has given all these interviews pointing out that replacing Jeyne with Sansa on the TV show changed the entire story because 'Fake Arya' is essential to what is happening in the North, these stans can only regurgitate this tired old nonsense and attack book readers for discussing what is actually in the books instead of making up headcanons on how their unqualified fave is the only candidate to be QITN
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Omg pls more aemond fic. Im all about hopeless pining aemond who gets a little shy around y/n, because it's the first time someone isn't afraid of him ughhhhhhh
Oooh yes, and I'm always going to be about Y/N being a lil baddie too! I guess this one turned out a little more angsty, but hey you said pining so....! haha
Aemond x Martell!Reader
You first crossed paths with Aemond in the sparring courtyard of King's Landing.
At first you only got a glimpse of the back of him as he warmed up for training, long white hair falling like a sheet down his back.
You gathered together around him and Sir Criston as they began exchanging blows and parries, dancing around the other with deft movements.
Aemond wore an eyepatch over his left eye, and you wondered silently to yourself what might have caused such an injury. You could see the vertical scar beginning above his browbone, and a twinge of something akin to pity stirred in your chest.
The onlookers winced and gasped as Sir Criston and the prince swung their weapons, barely missing, you had heard Aemond preferred to spar with live weapons instead of the regular blunted or wooden swords.
Before too long, Criston called for a break, panting and clapping Aemond on the shoulder. "Let's have a volunteer of who spars with you next, my prince."
"Am I proving too much for you, Cole?" Aemond's voice was haughty as he turned to accept another shield from a servant. Criston only panted a laugh and waved to a young man to join them. The boy, suddenly pale, shook his head vehemently and began studying his feet with intensity. Sir Criston and Aemond both laughed. "Is there really none among you brave enough to spar with the prince?"
"I will!" You stepped forward and all eyes turned to appraise you with skeptical interest. "You're a woman." Was all Aemond said. "Well spotted, my prince." You quipped back. The corners of his mouth twitched. "From where do you hail?" He asked, eye narrowing. You held you head high, "Dorne, from House Martell."
"Well then, by all means, choose your weapon." Aemond's eye had taken on an eerie coldness as he scanned your features. You knew no love was lost between your two houses, and you were eager to prove to him why the words of your house are "Unbowed, unbent, unbroken". You decisively picked up two short swords from the weapons rack and returned to face Aemond, twirling your wrists and swinging your shoulders to gain a better range of movement.
Sir Criston, who seemed as though he were on the verge of protesting, looked from you to Aemond, took note of how tense the two of you were, blew out his cheeks and shrugged. He joined the ring of onlookers, shifting nervously from foot to foot.
Aemond crouched low in an offensive stance, and you instinctively mirrored his movements. "I'll try very hard not to hurt you." His violet eye was focused with an iron intensity on your every move.
"I wouldn't sweat it." Was your reply and you were prepared when he flew at you, sword raised for an overhead attack. You ducked and weaved around the blow, letting it glance briefly against your right-hand sword with a ring of metal on metal.
The sparring match was challenging for you, much to your chagrin, the differences in your fighting styles evident. However, it did give you an edge and you pressed the advantage until, at last, the point of your sword was at Aemond's throat. He had disarmed one of your swords which now lay uselessly in the mud. You grinned triumphantly at him, he smiled lazily back at you and flicked his eye pointedly downward. Following his gaze, you looked down and saw his own sword, tip inches from your abdomen. With a growl of annoyance, you swept your sword and knocked it away.
Aemond's smile didn't fade. "That was well fought, Lady Martell. Perhaps we will settle who really won at a later date." His hostility had eased significantly, and you noticed his shoulders relax as he addressed you.
You gave him a microscopic inclination of your head, which only seemed to amuse Aemond further, and turned to leave. Many gazes followed your progress up the stairs to the Red Keep, but it was Aemond's you felt burning a hole in your back.
In the weeks that followed, you would often find yourself back out in the sparring field. More than a few times it would be Aemond with whom you trained. The two of you becoming unlikely friends, you would needle him on occasion, but he never seemed to mind. With time, the bitter remarks you made turned into fond teasing and Aemond would give it right back to you. Every other lady seemed rather petrified of the prince, and it was clear he saw you as a breath of fresh air. One he couldn't get enough of.
Many times, you would feel his violet gaze on you. Whenever you looked over at him, Aemond quickly averted his gaze taking sudden interest in anything else nearby that wasn't you. This new development perplexed you, as it was so out of character for the brazen prince.
Aemond became more formal around you as well, you two would still train together and find each other in the library to be reading companions, but a rift had opened up in your friendship and you did not know why.
You also began to withdraw from Aemond, seeking him out once a week instead of once a day, yet you still could feel him watching you when you were not looking.
That is when the offer to stay on in King's Landing as Helaena's lady in waiting came. Once, months ago, you would have said "yes" just for an excuse to stay at Aemond's side. Now, however, you wished for the warm sun and soft sand of home more than anything.
On the day of your departure, you had not seen Aemond for several days in a row, which despite your weakening bond, had not happened before.
You were in the very same courtyard where the two of you first met, making final preparations to the carriage and luggage.
"Y/N." A soft voice from behind made you turn. Aemond was close behind you, closer than he had been in weeks. He looked...rather distraught, and your brow furrowed in unbidden worry. "Aemond, are you alright?"
He smiled ruefully, "I cannot answer that honestly, Y/N. I came to say goodbye."
Your throat had constricted, not allowing for speech, so the two of you merely stood and gazed at each other a moment. Aemond reached out, his fingers inches from your face, as if he wanted to run them down your cheek. He seemed to think better of it and instead gave you a shallow bow, you moved to enter the carriage. "Goodbye, my prince. Visit Dorne if you can." You knew it was an empty invitation, that he could not take it even if he wished to. Aemond obviously cared for you, but something held him back and with a bitter taste in your mouth you knew exactly what it was.
#aemond x reader#aemond x you#aemond fanfiction#house of the dragon#aemond targaryen#aemond one eye#aemond x oc
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What happened!?
Jaune and Cardin were scared out of their minds as they were face to face with Adam Taurus.
However, quickly coming out of his fear, Jaune acted and grabbed Crocea Mors and swung it at Adam, however, the hit didn't land. As a matter of fact, Jaune's entire right hand was missing.
Cardin was in shock, "JAUNE!" Cardin cried.
Jaune wanted to cry in pain, but he grits his teeth and holds his pain in as he sees Adam grab his sword and acting quickly, pushes Cardin out of the way, thankfully, making both avoid Adam's attack.
Adam was impressed that Jaune had noticed his second quick draw.
"Jaune! Are you ok!?" Ozma cried in his head.
'I'm fine! But we need to get out of here!' He cried.
"Let me at least regenerate your hand!" Omza cried.
'Not now!' Jaune cried in his head. Jaune then turned his head to Cardin, "Cardin! Get out of here! Tell the other teams that the White-Fang is here!" He cried.
Cardin looked baffled, "What!? No way! I ain't leaving you behind!" Cardin cried.
Jaune glared at him, "For once just listen to me!"
Suddenly, Adam appeared in front of Cardin with his hand on his sword, ready to cut Cardin in half, however, jaune rushed forward and put his shield in front of his teammate, however, instead of blocking the attack, Jaune only managed to get his shield cut in half, along with getting all of his fingers cut off.
"JAUNE!" Ozma cried
Cardin was in shocked that Jaune had saved his life for a second time but also saw just how badly he was injured.
Jaune didn't slow down despite the large amount of pain coursing through his body, he charged at Adam and wrapped his arms around the bull faunus and pushed him back.
"RUN!" Jaune cried.
Not knowing what else to do but follow his leader's orders, Cardin turned around and ran back to town to tell the others what was happening, leaving Jaune behind.
Adam was unfazed by Jaune's attempt to hold him back, and simply kneed Jaune in the stomach, hoping to get the blonde to budge, but Jaune didn't.
"Stubborn human," Adam said.
Adam's sword glowed as he raised his sword up and turned it around before plunging it down into Jaune's right side, making the blonde teen shake as he felt the sword go through his body and cough out blood.
"Jaune! Brothers! Let me take over!" Ozma cried with worry.
However, Jaune didn't budge.
Adam began to get annoyed and he quickly pulled his sword out and with his other hand, he grabbed Jaune by the back of his armor and threw him into the tree.
Jaune struck the tree and then fell to the ground, coughing up blood as he lay there.
Adam turned to him with an expressionless face. "I'll admit, you were brave, human, but very stupid to take me on," Adam said. "However, because of your bravery and sacrifice to save that coward who ran away, I'll make your death quick," Adam said.
Jaune slowly got up and sat against the tree, and as he did, he couldn't help but think about how he was going to die, how this was the last moment on Remnant.
"I-I was full of myself..." Jaune told himself. The young blonde then sniffled as tears began to form in his eyes. "I-I thought I had gotten stronger! I thought I was strong enough to live my dream! But I'm still so damn weak!" Jaune cried, finally letting tears fall.
Adam walked forward, ready to kill the blonde with a single strike., because, despite his hatred for humans, he wasn't cruel, he would not torture a human for some sick pleasure.
Jaune however, got up, even as tears still ran down his face. "Ag! I-I don't wanna die!" He sobbed, "B-But I'm gonna... I'm gonna die..." Jaune sobbed out.
"No... I won't let that happen..." Ozma cried.
Suddenly, a green glow covered Jaune for a split second and that's when Adam was confused as to what happened, but also noticed a shift in the blonde's behavior.
Ozma had forcefully taken over Jaune's body and he glared at Adam as he quickly regenerated Jaune's fingers and hand. "You're gonna pay for what you've done... Adam Taurus!"
Adam was surprised by the different voice coming from the mouth of the blonde and in a split second, Ozma appeared in front of Adam and punched Adam in the gut, knocking out all of the air in the Faunus's lungs.
Adam was then sent flying through a few trees before Jaune appeared right next to Adam and grabbed Adam by the horns and pushed his face into the ground.
Ozma let go of Adam and stood over him as he glared down at the terrorist. "Don't move... not even an inch..." Ozma told Adam.
Adam didn't listen and tried to get up only to be punched in the chest, Adam swore he felt something crack.
"I thought I told you not to move!" Omza growled.
Adam glared at the blonde through his mask, 'What the hell is this!? Where did this human suddenly get this strenght!? How did he even heal thise injuries!?' Adam thought
Ozma didn't let up as he then grabbed Adam by the horns once again and with all his might, bashed his face into a tree, breaking the Bull Faunus's mask and knocking him out cold.
Ozma wanted to punish the Faunus more but stopped and calmed himself, and quickly grabbed Crocea Mors and with his magic, fixed Jaune's shield while disposing of Jaune's old hand.
"Alright, everything is fine now, you can switch back, Jaune," Ozma said.
No reply came.
"Jaune?" Ozma called out.
Again, no reply came.
Ozma began to worry, "Hey! Can you hear me!? Take back control!" Ozma began with a worried tone. "This isn't funny Jaune! Switch with me!"
Once more... no reply came.
"Jaune...?"
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Bad Kids level 12 breakdown!
Returned from the Vulture Dimension and on a roll academically, the Bad Kids have hit level 12. We've got some simple updates and some complex choices, so let's break it down. In case you missed my level 11 update, check it out here!
Adaine: Wizard 12. She's increased her intelligence by 2, taking it to 20 (the max it can get without magical objects) and making her modifier +5. This increases her spell save DC, spell attack bonus, and all INT-based skills (Arcana, History, Investigation, Nature, and Religion) by 1. She can now prepare 17 spells per day (previously 15), and learns two new spells, which can be 1st-6th level.
Fabian: Fighter 6/Bard 6 (was Bard 5). He learns a new bard spell, which can be 1st-3rd level, and gets a third 3rd-level spell slot. He also gets a feature called Countercharm, which allows him to use his action to give allies within 30 ft advantage on saving throws against being charmed or frightened. He would also get Extra Attack as a level 6 Swords bard, but he already has it from being a level 5+ fighter.
Fig: HOOOO BOY FIGUEROTH FAETH. Fig is now Bard 9/Paladin 2/Warlock 1. She's lost a warlock level and gained two paladin levels. With that, she loses whatever eldritch invocations she got last level, 1 1st-level warlock spell slot, and 1 known warlock spell. She gains Divine Sense 6 times per long rest (which we saw her use this episode, German Shepherd-style!), 10 points of Lay on Hands healing, Divine Smite, an unknown fighting style, and paladin spells. Multiclass spellcasting gets a little complicated, but the basics of it is she gets a second 5th-level spell slot and can prepare 6 spells from the paladin list per day, in addition to the bard and warlock spells she knows. She can cast any of her spells with any of her slots, and only the 1 warlock slot recharges on a short rest.
Gorgug: Barbarian 6/Artificer 6 (was Artificer 5). He learns two new artificer infusions, bringing him to 6 total, and can have 3 infused items at once. His tool checks now have expertise, so double his proficiency bonus. In addition (and this happened a few episodes ago, so I apologize for missing it!), he's changed his subclass from Alchemist to Battle Smith. He loses proficiency with alchemist's tools, subclass spells (Healing Word, Ray of Sickness, Flaming Sphere, Melf's Acid Arrow), elemental elixirs, and the damage bonus for spells that deal acid/fire/necrotic/poison damage. He gains proficiency with smith's tools, subclass spells (Heroism, Shield, Branding Smite, Warding Bond), can now use INT instead of STR/DEX for weapon attack and damage rolls (his strength is higher than his intelligence, so this may not come into play), Extra Attack (which he already has), and, biggest of all, Clobica, his Steel Defender.
Kristen: Cleric 12. Kristen has taken an unknown feat--we can rule out any that increase ability scores, but beyond that no clue. My baseless guess is War Caster, which grants advantage on maintaining concentration checks, and is a very solid choice for any caster, particularly clerics, who have a lot of concentration spells. She can also now prepare 17 spells per day (previously 16).
Riz: Rogue 12. Like Adaine, Riz increased his intelligence by 2, bringing it to 18, making his modifier +4. This increases his spell save DC, spell attack bonus, and all INT-based skills (Arcana, History, Investigation, Nature, and Religion) by 1.
And across the board, everyone's HP goes up and they get another hit die. Let's see how this unfolds, please let me know if I missed anything, and see you next level!
#fantasy high#d20#dimension 20#dimension20#d20 spoilers#fhjy#fhjy spoilers#fantasy high spoilers#fantasy high junior year#adaine abernant#fabian seacaster#fig faeth#gorgug thistlespring#riz gukgak#kristen applebees#zoe does stuff
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Legacy of Fire (I)
Chapter One: Awakening
Summery: Rhaenys Targaryen learns of the truth
Warnings: Cursing, death by sword, death by fire, death by hanging, war, humiliation, betrayal, violence, use of the word bastard, incest, angst, fluff, burning, threatening, future smut, P in V, fingering, cunnilingus, scissoring, blowjob, handjob, anal sex, girl x girl, boy x girl, boy x boy, dragons
Word Count: 1,5K
Rhaenys Targaryen knelt beside the small cot where her elderly wet nurse lay, frail and gasping for breath. The chamber was dimly lit, the sunlight struggling to penetrate the heavy curtains that shielded them from the harsh Dornish sun. Rhaenys dipped a cloth in cool water and gently dabbed it against the wet nurse’s fevered forehead.
“Please, you must get better,” Rhaenys implored, her voice trembling with worry. “I cannot bear to lose you, especially now.”
The old woman’s eyes, once bright with life, gazed up at Rhaenys with a mixture of sadness and determination. “My lady,” she rasped, her voice barely audible, “there is something I must confess before I depart from this world.”
Rhaenys leaned closer, her heart heavy with anticipation and dread. “What is it? What troubles you, dear friend?”
The wet nurse’s chest heaved with a labored breath, and she clutched Rhaenys’ hand weakly. “You are not who you think you are.” she whispered, her voice trembling. “You are not Rhaenys Targaryen. You are…”
Rhaenys felt her pulse quicken as she waited for the revelation, her world hanging on the precipice of truth.
The wet nurse continued, her words a fragile thread of disclosure. “You are Jon Snow’s twin. Your true name…is Vaeloria”
Rhaenys’s heart seemed to stop as the weight of those words settled upon her. She couldn’t comprehend the magnitude of the secret her wet nurse had carried, a secret that had been buried in deceit for all her life.
“But why?” Rhaenys choked out, tears filling her violet eyes. “Why was this kept from me?”
The wet nurse’s grip on Rhaenys’ hand tightened, and she summoned the last of her strength to respond. “Your father, Rhaegar Targaryen, believed it was the only way to keep you safe. And your uncle, Eddard Stark, swore an oath to protect you both.”
The sands of Dorne whispered secrets, their shifting grains echoing tales of forgotten bloodlines and concealed destinies. Underneath the scorching sun, the coastal breeze carried the faint scent of salt and the distant promise of adventure. It was here, in this land of fierce beauty, that a young woman known as Rhaenys Targaryen began her journey.
As dawn painted the horizon in hues of pink and gold, Rhaenys stood atop the battlements of Sunspear, the ancient seat of House Martell. Her silver-gold hair cascaded like liquid fire down her back, and her violet eyes glistened with determination. She had awakened to a world forever changed, a world where her true identity as a Targaryen had been unveiled.
The revelation had been both a curse and a blessing. It had set her on a path she could not deny, a path fraught with secrets and treacherous ambitions. She knew that the road ahead would be perilous, but she was resolute in her purpose—to find her twin brother, Jon Snow, and to seek out the last living heir of House Targaryen, Daenerys, whose vision she believed in with unwavering conviction.
In her heart, a burning desire smoldered, a desire to fulfill the promise of fire and blood, and to continue the legacy of the Dragon. Her journey had begun, and it would take her across the Seven Kingdoms, through the treacherous landscapes of power and betrayal.
The world of Westeros awaited her, with its intrigues, rivalries, and hidden dangers. But Rhaenys Targaryen would not falter. She had awakened to her true self, and she was determined to shape her own destiny.
As Rhaenys gazed out over the shimmering waters of the Summer Sea, a sense of both excitement and foreboding coursed through her veins. The sprawling palace of Sunspear, with its sandstone towers and hidden courtyards, had been her home for as long as she could remember. But now, it felt like a gilded cage, its walls closing in on her.
She had learned much from her kind “uncle” Doran Martell, the ruler of Dorne, and her time in Sunspear had been one of safety and tutelage. Yet, the secrets that had been kept from her had become a weight too heavy to bear.
Rhaenys Targaryen stood in the lush gardens of Sunspear, wondering what her beloved uncle Oberyn would have thought of her if he were still alive this day after the revelation, the scent of blooming flowers mingling with the salt-tinged breeze from the nearby sea. The sun painted the sky with hues of orange and pink, casting a warm glow over the palace grounds. She was no longer the young girl known as Rhaenys, but the memory of her childhood with Oberyn Martell remained etched in her heart. Oberyn despised the Lannisters for what they did to his sister, he raised her to hate them as well but would he have hated her more if he knew she was one of the fruits of his sister’s husband’s betrayal? A result of what had caused the rebellion and eventually his sister’s death. The woman he raised her to love and care for even when she did not know thinking she was her true mother.
As she strolled along a cobblestone path, her mind wandered back to a simpler time. She had been a spirited child, her silver-gold hair flowing like a river of fire as she ran through the gardens. Her uncle Oberyn, the Red Viper, had been her playmate, his sharp wit and fierce determination a constant source of fascination.
One particular memory stood out—a day when Oberyn had taken her to the Water Gardens, a sanctuary of cascading fountains and crystal-clear pools. They had laughed together as they splashed in the water, carefree and oblivious to the weight of their names.
“Rhaenys,” Oberyn had called her, unaware of the secret that hid beneath the false name. “You have the spirit of a true Dornish woman. Fearless and untamed.”
She had grinned up at him, the innocence of childhood in her violet eyes. “Like you, Uncle.”
Oberyn had chuckled, ruffling her hair affectionately. “Yes, perhaps you take after your old uncle more than you know.”
In that moment, as they had shared their laughter and the warmth of the Dornish sun, the world had felt like a place of endless possibilities. The looming shadows of politics and secrets had been distant, and Rhaenys had reveled in the love and companionship of her family.
Now, as she walked those same paths, her uncle’s words echoed in her mind, and she couldn’t help but wonder how he would have reacted when he learned the truth of her identity. The thought weighed heavily on her, but she was determined to face the inevitable revelation with the same courage and spirit that had defined her as a child.
The memory of Oberyn, blissfully ignorant of her true heritage, remained a bittersweet reminder of the innocence she had lost. She would carry it with her as she embarked on her journey to reunite with Jon Snow, seek out Daenerys Targaryen, and rewrite her destiny in the ever-complicated world of Westeros.
As the sun climbed higher in the sky, Rhaenys descended from the battlements, her mind racing with plans and questions. How would she find Jon Snow, a brother she had never known? And what of Daenerys Targaryen, the last living ember of House Targaryen’s once-mighty flame? Could she convince the world that the Dragon must rise again?
Her first step led her to the chambers of her loyal confidante, the servant who had revealed the truth. There, she found the older woman with eyes red from weeping.
“Are you certain about this?” Rhaenys asked, her voice trembling with uncertainty.
The servant nodded. “I have no doubt, my lady. The blood of House Targaryen flows in your veins.”
Rhaenys’ resolve hardened. “Then it is time. I will begin my journey.”
With a heavy heart, the servant handed her a small, ornate chest. Inside lay a dragon pendant, a symbol of her true lineage. It was a reminder of the legacy she carried, a legacy she intended to honour. The other side of the had pendent a dire wolf was engraved, a dragon and wolf she was, a rare gem she was.
As she fastened the pendant around her neck, Rhaenys knew that the path she had chosen would be fraught with danger. She would be hunted by those who sought to extinguish her family’s name, and she would be tested in ways she could scarcely imagine.
But she was ready. With each step she took, the sands of Dorne whispered secrets of power and destiny, and she would follow their call.
The Dragon had awakened, and its fire would burn brighter than ever before.
As her wet nurse’s breathing grew shallower, Rhaenys felt a torrent of emotions—anger, confusion, and a burning desire for the truth. The revelations that had come to light had set her on an unexpected path, one that would lead her to confront her true identity and reshape her destiny.
As the wet nurse’s eyes closed for the final time, Rhaenys held her close, vowing to honour her memory and fulfil the legacy she had unknowingly carried all her life.
The Dragon had awakened, and with the weight of her true name, Vaeloria, Rhaenys would forge her own path in the world of Westeros.
#game of thrones smut#game of thrones fic#game of thrones au#game of thrones fanfiction#game of thrones#prince oberyn#rhaenys targaryen#vaeloria targaryen#jon snow#daenerys fanfiction#daenerys stormborn#daenya targaryen#daenerys fanfic#daenerys targaryen#daenerys imagine#daenerys targeryan#daenerys x reader#queen daenerys#game of thrones oc#got oc#house targaryen#house stark#house martell
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Percy Jackson x Hades! Reader where the reader goes to poseidon's cabin at night to secretly spend time with him?
Percy Jackson x Child of Hades!reader
Gender: Neutral
Warnings: None
Word count: 619
You sat at the edge of your bed as you tied your shoes. You quickly tied the last one and looked up from where you sat to the bed across the wall. Nico was in it. Which was good he rarely slept but both you and Will have been making him at least get seven hours a night.
You got up from the bed and slowly walked to the door. You opened it and double-checked Nico was still asleep then walked out. The door shut quietly and you breathed a sigh of relief. Now time to get past the harpies.
You walked behind the cabin and shielded yourself in darkness. The shadows obeyed and went around you to hide you from the harpies and other campers' vision.
You slowly walked to Posieneds cabin where Percy was waiting for you. No one really knew you were dating just that you were friends and you and Percy liked to have that secrecy, especially from Nico.
As you approached the window that Percy kept unlocked you wrapped the shadows tighter around you. It would be a good idea to scare Percy. You made it to the window and stood on the tiny little stool outside then opened the window. Thankfully it was quite enough to not alert Percy.
You pulled yourself up into the window and dropped to the ground. Percy was on the other side sitting at a desk as he nodded along to whatever was in his headphones. You smirked and moved behind him.
You took out one headphone and said “Hello”
He jumped and turned around. Though you were still in shadows so he couldn't see you. “Y/n”
“Yes?” You let the shadows leave and smiled at him.
“Don't do that to me I could have a heart attack” He said dramatically as he moved a hand to his chest.
“What are you 50?” you teased and moved to sit down on his bed.
He rolled his eyes and paused the music he was playing. He got up and sat next to you.
“How was your day?” You asked as you leaned back onto his pillows.
“It was good I trained some of the younger campers today they're getting better at swords”
You smiled at him. He always liked training the younger kids. “That's good. You’re a good teacher Jackson”
He smiled and moved to lay beside you. “How was your day?” He whispered.
“My day was also good I spent time with Will and Nico even though Nico hates it when me and Will tease him” You laughed a little as Nico’s face appeared in your head after you and Will ganged up on him again.
You and Percy just laid there enjoying the time you had until he got up to go grab his headphones. He laid back down and offered one to you. You put it in your ear and he put the other one in his. He pressed play and music played in your ears.
“Is this the little mermaid soundtrack?” You asked, still staring at the ceiling where little plastic stars were placed.
“Yes”
You both laughed but still listened to the music. “Can't we just watch the movie?” You questioned
“Oh yeah we can”
“Then let's just watch the movie”
You got a projector set up and played the movie. When the movie was finished you both decided to watch a few more disney princess movies until you both fell asleep.
When you got back to your cabin it was around 6 am. The time a few of the Apollo campers got up so you had to be extra careful getting back. At least Nico was still asleep when you got there.
#percy jackson x you#percy jackson x reader#percy jackson fluff#percy jackson fanfiction#percy jackson#nico di angelo#percy jackon and the olympians
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