#it's a bittersweet threshold to growing up | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

annikin-annotates · 8 months

Text

Within a Wing Beat - Homecoming

Hi lovelies, another chapter hot off the press. I hope ya’ll like it, please let me know! Please reblog, it helps keep my fanfiction alive!

Pairing: Aemond x Winged!Reader

Warnings: PTSD, Poor conversational skills.

Word Count: 9,199

Cluethael

Cluethael had returned from the mountainous ranges of Valkyrie Village in the late hours of the night, the sky still as black as the Strangers cloak. Her mother and sister would no doubt sniff her out soon enough, so for now she roamed the halls of what once was her home. The only ones who had been alerted of her arrival so far were a pair of guards, and a ginger mousing cat. The sudden flash of auburn gave her a start as it darted in between her legs, sending her back to that frost bitten forest, back to the screams.

Draghiem did not seem as bright or cheery as she recalled; the whole castle felt as if it was covered in a heavy shroud, it's only goal being to suffocate her. She was not the same person as she was when she last walked the halls, she was nothing more than a little girl playing at womanhood. For her, it seemed that girlhood was a matter of growing the sweetest fruits from a bittersweet poison.

“Cluethael!” A familiar voice cried, she turned around to see both her mother and sister rushing down the high arches of the hall, their house coats billowing behind them.

“Mother! Emerie!” she cried out in delight, rushing up the hall to meet them, and they gathered in a tight embrace of tenderness and effervescence.

“I’ve missed you both so much,” she sighed, savouring the warmth and inhaling the smell of Emerie’s patchouli scented hair oil mixed with her mothers ginger and cardamom perfume.

“We have missed you more than you know, my sweet girl,” her mother cooed, running her ringed hand over Cluethael’s braided hair; she had no idea how much she had longed for her mothers touch.

“You must be exhausted sister, please rest, we shall all talk in the morning,” Emerie offered. ever the matriarch, Cluethael thought to herself, a smile cresting her lips as she nodded.

They led her to her room, as if she had been away for so long that she had forgotten where it was. She left them both with a kiss on the cheek and wished for a night of full rest as she closed the door. She stood at the threshold of her room, still filled with the clutter of childhood, of a little girl who was no longer her.

She undressed herself, slowly peeling off the layer of leather that had become a second skin and replacing it with a soft cotton chemise that no longer fit as it used to. Though she did not mind, it was soft and the very antithesis of what she had become used to.

She climbed beneath the goose down cover and sunk into the mattress, the softness leaching away all those years she spent in a cot. Cold slowly ebbing away the longer she was beneath the covers, she was bone weary but thankful to be in a place where she could finally rest.

It was then, in the quiet moonlit calm of her old chambers, beneath the covers that she began to cry. It felt as though the weight of the world had finally been lifted from her, she felt as though she could finally mourn all that she had been through.

Cluethael had been up for hours before the sun's rays began to pierce through the thin curtains of her chambers. She had already dressed herself in a light cotton tunic and the trousers from her leathers with boots that stopped at the knee. She found her old spot by the windowsill, the scratch marks from her wings etched into the wood, like she could almost see the ghost of her past self.

Breakfast had been laid out on several trays, the smell of fresh baked bread wafted through the room as she went to sit down in her usual chair, only to find a pair of large round eyes staring back at her. Cluethael blinked in surprise at the child before she knelt down on the cobble floor, sitting eye level with the dark mop of curls.

“And who might you be?” Cluethael asked with a slight lilt, her eyebrow arched. The girl stared back at her quietly, simmering on the question as if it held the key to all the world’s unanswered questions.

“My name is Saelira, and I’m a Princess, who are you?” she snipped, it made Cluethael snicker in delight. This one was going to drive her mother absolutely mad, she thought.

“Well, Saelira, I am also a Princess, who also happens to be your mother’s sister,” she remarked with a grin.

“Sister? My mother doesn’t have a sister!” she bit. The response caused Cluethael to pull back, the pang in her chest apparent. Did her sister not speak about her?

“She absolutely does,” she grinned.

“Does not!” Saelira replied.

“Does too,” Cluethael countered, the whole kerfuffle beginning to take an eerily similar route of her and Emerie’s arguments. Cluethael sighed dramatically, pressing a hand to her forehead in faux hurt.

“Perhaps when your mother arrives, we shall settle this debate, until then Princess, I bid you farewell,” she replied, bowing her head, taloned hand rolling slightly.

“You’re funny,” Saelira giggled at Cluethael, her small freckled nose scrunching in delight.

She stood once again, sitting beside Saelira, making sure to check the chair before seating herself, a smirk inching onto her face. It wasn’t long before Emerie rushed into the room, red in the face from huffing, though her shoulders relaxed when she laid eyes on Saelira.

“How many times have I told you not to venture off like that, Ñuha Byka Jorrāelagon,” she sighed, scooping up the writhing tangle of wings and limbs.

Cluethael muffled a laugh as she served herself, taking a small piece of almost everything on the table, a chunk of pheasant, a slice of bread layered thick with salted butter and jam, a bowl of oats sweetened with sugar and spices, a whole apple and some salted pork.

“Where is mother, won’t she be joining us?” She queried, mouth half full of bread.

“Firstly, if you’re going to speak with food in your mouth, be sure to fill it all the way up first,” Emerie shot at Cluthael, the corners of her mouth quirked. “Mother sends her apologies, she has some pressing business to tend to,” Emerie continued, her mouth setting in a hard line; something about the way Emerie said pressing business screamed trouble to Cluethael, she intended to find out why.

Cluethael took as much time as she could to eat her breakfast so as not to raise suspicion, taking large, but manageable bites of bread and jam. Surely the largeness of her bites could be contributed to her finally getting to eat something other than gruel and hard tac. She had sorely missed the softness of bread and the salty sweetness of butter and jam as it melted from the steam.

There was a long silence between the two, only the sound of cutlery clinking against the crockery, that was, until Saelira broke the silence.

“Mama, who is this lady?” she asked, porridge dripping down her small chin.

Surprise flashed on Emerie’s face as her eyes flitted to Cluethael, who intently stared back at her sister, a wry grin tipping the corners of her mouth.

“Yes, Princess Saelira and I were having a rather riveting conversation about my parentage before you interrupted,” Cluethael remarked slyly.

“That’s your aunt, Cluethael, she has been away for a very long time,” Emerie offered. Saelira’s eyes narrowed at Cluethael, evaluating every word her mother told her.

“Where did you go?” she asked, her porridge now long forgotten. Emerie looked at Cluethael pleadingly, she gave her a small reassuring smile - leave out the bloodshed, understood.

“Well,” she started, setting down her cutlery. “When I was young, I decided that I wanted to go on an adventure. See, I had read so many books about dragons and creatures from the beyond, that I decided that I wanted to find some,” she said, offering a tight lipped smile.

“Did you?” she asked, her eyes taking on that childlike gleam. Cluethael couldn’t help but smile at her sweetness, a true smile, one that exposed the sharpness of her fangs.

“I did,” Cluethael nodded, “But those are stories for another time,” she added sternly.

“But why?” Saelira countered, her little arms crossed in front of her chest. Cluethael looked to Emerie, unsure of what to say.

“Come now, Byka Perzys, we should get you dressed for the day,” Emerie sighed, lifting Saelira from the chair and setting her on the floor, heading towards the door. Her older sister turned her head to Cluethael and mouthing ‘thank you’, before exiting the dining room.

Cluethael waited until Emerie and Saelira were out of earshot before she exited, now she could figure out what that ‘other business’ that mother was attending to was. She assumed that her business would be taking place in one of two places, the throne room or her personal solar. She made her way through the high stone hall’s to the antechamber of the throne room, the sound of muffled voices growing louder as she drew closer.

She nodded to the guard stationed to let her pass, assessing the situation as she strode towards her mother and sister; they were standing on the dias with her uncle Eriling. She gave him a polite nod in greeting, but not before she bowed to her mother and Emerie; Lord Eriling stood at the foot of the dias, looking up to her mother as he continued to plead his case.

“Do you not think that your duties lie elsewhere? Your daughter has just returned home from what was surely a gruelling experience. Is it right to deprive her of the maternal figure she needs?” He asked, looking from his goodsister to Cluethael, she pushed down the urge to roll her eyes.

“That is quite the bold accusation, Lord Eriling. You assume that I cannot run a kingdom and be a mother, have I not been doing so for two decades?” Her mother spoke in that same calm and even tone that she always had, she was open to criticism but had the iron fist of a monarch to snuff out treason.

“I-I assume no such thing, but does your heart not yearn for something…befitting of your station?” He stammered, beginning to crack under the burning gaze of three royals. Rage bubbled up into Cluethael’s throat, acidic vitriol threatening to spill from her, she looked to Emerie, who was already staring at her with a look of warning in her eyes.

“Be mindful of your next words, for the words you speak are seditious,” Emerie’s voice taking on a cold edge.

“It is not seditious if it holds truth,” Eriling responded. “It is always the same with you women, insult their ability to rule and you come crashing down, just like your mother before you,” he continued, grinning like a cat who had dined on cream for dinner. Something snapped in Cluethael, it was one thing to insult her mother, but a different thing entirely to disrespect the dead, her teeth ground together in disgust.

“And you assume Lord Eriling, that you are more fit for the role? What is the reasoning that you would come here and ask my mother, quite boldly might I add, to renounce her throne? Do you think that being my father’s brother protects you from being charged with treason?” Cluethael hissed, unable to hold back the floodgates any longer.

A stunned silence filled the room, all three heads snapping to Cluethael, her eyes wild and wings flared in frustration. Lord Eriling scoffed and shook his head, but backed up a few paces as Cluethael took a few steps towards him, placing herself between him and her family.

“You will learn, one day, that a woman is not fit for the throne,” he hissed, turning for the door. Cluethael opened her mouth to retort, only to have a taloned hand grab her arm, the claws digging in painfully.

“You have done quite enough,” her mother said, using that same calm and regal voice on her as she did mere seconds ago with Lord Eriling.

“Well, Cluethael, one thing hasn’t changed since you’ve been gone. When there’s a pot of shit boiling, you know how to stir it like it’s the god’s work,” Emerie remarked, releasing the iron grip on her arm and shaking her head in annoyance.

She fled the throne room after Eriling left to hide her embarrassment first and foremost, but also to avoid lashing out at her mother. She was only doing her duty, allowing him to air his qualms before her, as is the right of any subject of the crown.

Cluethael had spent the rest of the day tucked away in the library, her nose pressed into the pages of a book. She tried to ignore the blood that still simmered in her veins as she read the words on the page before her. She was sure she had read the same eleven words at least twelve times and still could not retain it; she bit the inside of her cheek in frustration.

Princess Nymeria fled the Valyrian freehold with her people aboard 10,000…

Her focus began to deviate once more and she threw her head back, a sigh escaping with the motion of it. She couldn’t shake what her uncle had said to her, you will learn, that a woman is not fit for the throne. The mere sentiment made her stomach churn, was it not decided near a century ago that women would sit on the throne? He had no idea the burden that each woman that came before had faced, he was no different than any of the other men she had met, all hungry for power.

It was not her mother’s, nor her grandmother’s fault that they would bear the crown, the same duty bound burden her sister would carry, and then in time little Saelira too. The choice was taken from them in the same way as a child not choosing when to grow up, to put away childish things and by the time they notice, it is often too late.

Cluethael supposed it was the same for her in a way, it wasn’t her choice to marry the Targaryen Prince, it was a matter of duty. And like it or not, her time to fulfil those duties was fast approaching, she would spend the rest of her life in a far off place away from her family and the comforts of her home, all for the sake of duty.

It was well into the hour of the owl when Cluethael returned to her chamber, only to find a small lump in the centre of the plush mattress. For a split second her heart began to race, her first instinct thinking it was a creature that had come to claim her. It was only when she drew closer to the bed that she noticed the small wings buried into the thick goose down.

Saelira sat up slowly, rubbing the sleep from her eyes and looking to the doorway, the flickering candlelight streaming into the room. Judging by the state of the hearth, which was nothing but embers, Saelira had been in her chambers for a while, she made for the edge of the bed, closing the door behind her.

“What’s the matter, Ñuha Dōna?” Cluethael asked, her voice laced with worry.

Saelira looked at her for a moment, her eyes beginning to glaze over with unshed tears before leaping into her arms. Well this is certainly a change from breakfast this morning, she thought, but wrapped her arms around her niece regardless. Saelira felt so small in her grasp as she held her close, rubbing small soothing circles on her back.

“I - I had a nightmare,” she cried into Cluethael’s arms, her tears beginning to seep into her linen shirt.

“Sh, sh, sh,” she hushed, lifting Saelira into her arms, toeing off her boots and climbing beneath the covers. Saelira nestled into her Aunt’s arms, still sniffling as Cluethael smoother her hands over the small head of curls beside her “Mirre iksis sȳrī, ñuha byka prūmia. Daorun kostagon ōdrikagon ao kesīr,” she spoke in a soft, honeyed tone.

“Would you like to talk about what you saw, Little Spark?” Cluethael asked her softly, curious to find out what stirred her so much to seek out her Aunt’s comfort.

Saelira took in a shaky breath, trying to formulate her sentence, “I dreamt that there was a big scary monster that tried to take me away, I called for my muña but she didn’t come. I felt so scared!” she sobbed. “And then I woke up and I couldn’t find my muña, and then y-you weren't here either!” Saelira continued, she could just about feel the poor girl's heart beat through her chest.

Saelira whispered, her voice sounding so small. “I thought everyone had left me,”

“Oh Byka Rhaperzys. It’s okay, the monster can’t hurt you. I’m right here, and I’m sure your muña isn’t far away, she is just with Mumuña,” she soothed. “But for now, you can stay here with me,” she whispered, running a delicate finger from Saelira’s forehead to the tip of her nose. It was the same soothing motion her sister would do for her when she would rouse from a bad dream.

Cluethael repeated the motion for several minutes as she hummed softly, watching Saelira’s eyes grow heavy with sleep. Never in Cluethael’s life had she taken care of a child, and yet here she was, taking care of Saelira like she was her own babe. She looked upon the now sleeping child, her heart filling with a feeling she couldn’t describe, her own eyes growing heavy.

—

Cluethael could hear bards tuning their instruments in preparation for the grand celebration that her mother was holding tonight, a celebration for the safe return of her second daughter. That brought her to where she stood now, being fussed over by no less than three handmaids, all tasked with different things.

The dirt had been meticulously scrubbed from beneath her claws and the dew talon that stood proudly on each wing was filed. Her hair was washed and brushed through with spicy smelling oils, it seemed her mother thought that she was not capable of cleaning herself. They had scrubbed her skin so harshly that it was pink and raw by the time she emerged from the water. A thin cotton sheet was placed over her body to both dry her skin and protect her modesty as she sat on the stool in front of her vanity.

Her wings had been cleaned and dried with gentle hands, she could feel them cringing at each scar they crossed over. She hated being treated as though she was so fragile that she may break, she was not made of glass, but steel. Deft fingers braided the tresses that curled down her back, settling between her membranous wings, small beads of water clinging to the ends like diamonds. It was then that a knock came from the door, the three handmaid's parting swiftly, like waves, as though she was some sort of deity cutting through an ocean.

“Come,” Cluethael called, her eyes trained on the door through the haze of the mirror. The door inched open, just enough for a familiar dark head of hair to peek through, the hinges groaning in protest. She was elated when her eyes met the familiar gold-toned eyes of Alia, as she pushed the door open to enter the room, dismissing the three girls.

“I can continue from here, thank you,” she remarked as they passed, closing the door as they left Cluethael’s chambers. A giddy grin spread across Cluethael’s lips, fangs just peeking out from underneath her top lip, a gentle reminder of the killer she had become, she shook away the thought. Alia placed a gentle hand on Cluethael’s shoulders, a soothing balm on her battered soul.

“I have missed you dearly, Alia,” she smiled, trying to force down the urge to lean into her touch.

“The castle has not been the same without you,” Alia replied, giving her shoulder a gentle pat before she began unfurling the braid in her hair, clearly displeased with the work of her underlings. “Never send a girl to do a woman's job,” she muttered, Cluethael suppressed a giggle. It had been far too long since she had laughed, it almost made her look forward to the celebration her mother had planned.

Festivities that she had come to know were not as frivolous as the ones she had grown up with, libations were never strong enough and the music always reminded her of war cries. To hear a lute that had been properly tuned and to taste wine that didn’t remind her of urine would be a welcome change.

Alia had worked her magic on Cluethael’s hair, she had pulled all of her dark curls away from her face, her horns on full display. Two braids ran along the top of her head, and one more braid on either side of her temple, all four of them converging at her nape where they were weaved together in the same fashion a basket would be. The rest of her hair was left to hang in its natural curl, slowly spiralling as it dried.

She stepped back from Cluethael and moved to the chest at the end of the bed, pulling out an arm full of silver fabric. The dress fit her like a glove, a silver-grey gown with flowing, near floor length, sleeves of soft opaque fabric shimmered like starlight. Two triangular pieces made up the decolletage, forming a deep ‘V’ shape that accentuated her comely figure and broad shoulders, before it fell gracefully to the floor, a small train forming behind her.

It cinched dramatically at her waist with a diamond shaped cut of soft brown leather layered with braided silver threading that tied it together. The back of the gown was left almost completely open, save for the straps that ran across her shoulders to keep the sleeves from falling, and a thin silver chain with an onyx stone that ran the length of her spine.

—

The roiling in her stomach did not seem to quell no matter what she did. Alia had let slip that the Targaryen-Hightower branch of her betrothed’s family would be in attendance at tonight's celebration. With each step she took down the spiralling main staircase, she too began to spiral further. Insidious thoughts snaked their way into her head, their poisonous fangs piercing deep into her heart; an unspoken whisper that she was no longer good enough, no longer a viable match for the empire the Targaryen’s had built.

No. She was as much the blood of the dragon as they were.

She was nothing if not worthy, she was everything she could have hoped to be, skilled in combat, intelligent and cunning with a wit that was unmatched. Cluethael was nothing if not the culmination of all who came before her, learning from their follies and making sure that she would not suffer the same as her predecessors.

She reached for the tarnished seven pointed star that Aemond had gifted her all those years ago, she remembered the argument that led to the gift as if it had happened only yesterday. Her thumb and forefinger passing over it, the feel of the fine threads of gold a comfort she had not always been afforded. And yet, even with the knowledge she possessed, she did not know how to make people see her as anything more than a second daughter.

A sacrificial lamb.

All eyes were fixed to her as the grand doors to the hall were opened, the music ceased as she gracefully descended the steps. Her eyes searched for her family as she cut through the sea of people, all of them bowing their heads in respect as she passed. They had been perched at the dias, the three thrones had been substituted for a long table to accommodate both her own family, and her new one.

Music thrummed throughout the entirety of the castle; she watched on as people danced together, smiling at the sea of colours before her. She had not seen a party so lively since her thirteenth name day celebration, which had ended in a long list of horrors that she would rather not think about right now.

Aemond’s Pov

The last time he had set foot in this room he was hardly old enough to tie the laces on his shoes, and now six years later he stood outside its doors once more. His mother stood in front of Aegon, desperately trying to fix his mussed hair and crinkled doublet, smoothing it over with her hands as he tried to push himself away.

“Mother, please. I am a man grown,” Aegon huffed.

“A man grown would allow the servants to help him dress,” she replied, exhaling from her nose, eyes fluttering in frustration. Aegon had opened his mouth to retort as the ornate oak doors began to open for them, his mother and grandsire took the lead as they descended the steps, followed closely by Helaena and Aegon, and lastly, himself.

It hadn’t changed at all since he had last been inside, the same large misshapen stone tiles made up the floor, and the same candelabras stood dripping with tendrils of melted wax. Above him was the same Sept-like expanse of wood and stone that steadfastly held the roof above their heads.

The thrones atop the dias had been shifted, a long table now in its place, suspended above it was an arrangement of flowers so large it almost entirely blocked the circular stained glass window behind it. It was a mass of ferns, feathers and ivy, flowers of red, black, and grey intertwined with the greenery; its spindly branches hanging so low they almost skimmed the wooden table.

Sitting proudly at the head of the table was the Taloned Dowager herself, her face was stern, her eyes hard as she watched them descend into the room. Aemond could feel her eyes piercing into his skull, as he found his seat at the end of the table, a large black feather hanging above his head. It was only then, after they had found their seats did she stand to address the gathered assembly of numerous lords and ladies, from both Westeros and Draghiem.

Silence fell with a simple movement of her slender hand, “I welcome all those who have travelled far and wide for this special occasion. After many years away, my youngest daughter has returned home to us, to her rightful place,”

There was a hushed murmur that ran through the crowd, Westerosi lords and ladies alike exchanging strange looks with one another. Aemond couldn’t help but notice the slight against his family, to her rightful place, he repeated in his head. The marred golden scars on the Queen’s wings glittered and glowed in the candlelight, a flamboyant display of their pedigree.

His mother thought they were all mutts, but his grandsire said that they needed them.

“But that is enough for now, let the festivities recommence!” she declared before returning to her seat.

“What a wonderful ball you have hosted, your Grace,” his mother complimented, a tight expression across her features.

The Taloned Dowager nodded, her fingers locked tightly around a chalice of wine “Thank you, your Grace. It is not very often we have such… esteemed guests,” her smile did not reach her eyes.

Aemond had never been one for balls or festivities, he had always found them to be a hunting ground for desperate lords and ladies to auction off their children to the highest bidder. It reminded him entirely too much of the court back home, to Lord Borros. He took a sip from the chalice he had been nursing, before looking back out over the crowd and tuning out the overlapping chatter around him.

That’s when the doors to the hall opened once more, revealing a face he had not seen in quite some time; Cluethael. The once lively hall ceased all activity as she entered, everyone's eyes fell on her, including his own. She was beautiful in the way a storm was, harsh and frightening like the streaks of lightning that crackled across the sky. Her horns wrapped around her head like a crown made of bone, each talon at the tip of her fingers glinted like a blade, both a warning and a testament to anyone who challenged the Draghiem’s power.

Aemond followed his mother’s lead as she stood gracefully from the table, followed by his sister, brother and finally his grandfather. There was something in the way the numerous lords and ladies in attendance parted for her, their heads bowed, that made his skin heat. His eyes never left her as she ascended the dias, stopping on the other side of the table to curtsy. It wasn’t as graceful as some, but it was better than he expected, she was always one to choose her duty as a warrior over that of being a princess. She was exactly who her mother raised her to be, what they were all raised to be - vicious killers.

He listened intently as she participated in pleasantries, but he did not miss how her eyes would find his own. “Princess Cluethael,” Aemond greeted.

“Prince Aemond, it is lovely that you have attended, it has been far too long,” she smiled politely, dipping her head in respect. Her voice was deeper than when they last spoke, honeyed and melodious.

“Indeed it has,” was all he could manage. But with his extensive education, surely he could have come up with more than that. She indulged him with a half laugh, before excusing herself to sit by her sister, who now had a brood of her own. He found his seat once more, resisting the urge to shrink back into it.

He studied her from afar as she conversed with her sister, as she fussed over the child grabbing at her arm, no matter where Cluethael would roam, his eyes stayed transfixed on her. She had matured a great deal since he had last seen her, in the ways most women do as they age, but there was something dark about her, simmering just below the surface. Aemond noted the sharpness in her smile and the presence she commanded, like a general commanding a battalion.

They locked eyes with each other across the room, she gave him a small nod in acknowledgement - an unspoken greeting. They had yet to speak a word to each other other than pleasantries, neither of them wanting to stand from their seats.

“ - As stupid as a basket,” Aemond had caught the tail end of his misbegotten brother's sentence as he sidled up to him.

“What?” his response to Aegon was curt, frustrated that he had been pulled from his thoughts.

“I said; The ladies at court are pretty, but they are as stupid as baskets compared to Draghiem’s court,” he repeated.

“It is not as though you have an interest in intelligence, brother,” Aemond huffled back, trying his best to keep track of Cluethael and act like he is listening to his brother.

“You would do well to retrieve your jaw from the floor, brother,” Aegon jested. Aemond rolled his eyes, unamused by his brother’s jest. Was it that obvious? He shot Aegon an incredulous look, the glare that took over his singular lavender eye still sharp enough to cut deep. As much as he wanted to continue the delightful conversation his brother roped him into, drowning out the story he was now telling about his recent visit to a whore house.

Instead he found his mother staring at him, her slender brows rising slightly, flicking her eyes from himself to Cluethael, who sat oblivious at the other end of the table taking in her surroundings. Aemond gracefully rose from his seat once more, before they had entered the hall his mother had asked him to share a dance with Cluethael and much to his chagrin, he agreed. It was not as if he couldn’t dance, quite the contrary, he just did not like to be seen as anything less than the stone walls he had built around himself. But by the time he had summoned the courage to take the first step towards her, Cluethael had been whisked away from him once more.

She had been taken by her sister, the both of them smiling and conversing with one another as they went through the motions of a dance he had never seen before. Aemond’s eyes tore from her to look around the hall, people were laughing, talking and embracing their children as if they had not seen them for a while. The room hummed with an energy that he couldn’t quite place, relief possibly?

It was then that Cluethael’s mother stood from her chair in the middle of the table, it was the first time he had taken the time to notice the wings of the monarch, how marred and filled with scratches they were. The hall's energy lowered from crackling with a feeling he couldn’t place, to a low hum as Cluethael’s mother began to talk.

“I would like to take this moment to honour those who were lost in this year's Blood Rite, it is a pain that no parent should know. I send my deepest sympathies, may the Boreas take them,” she started, a solemn silence taking the hall.

“But I send my gratitude to both the old gods and the new for bringing a lucky few back to us, may we now hold the moments we have with our children all the more dear,” his eyes found Cluetheal, “For on the wings of victory they shall soar!”

He had found his way to the balcony overlooking the sheer drop into the thrashing ocean below, it held the same isolation that Dragonstone or Storms End had. A person quietly sidled up to the railing on his left side about four paces away from him, their head tilted upwards to the sky. He turned his head abruptly, to tell Aegon to leave him be, only to find Cluethael leaning on the railing, her eyes trained on the sky.

“It’s beautiful, is it not? It’s so vast, I wish more people could see its beauty,” she hummed, her head turning to face him before returning to the sky.

He hummed in agreement, “It is, there isn’t much else as beautiful as the night sky, my lady,” he replied, doing his best to ignore the nervous prickling at the base of his spine.

“My lady, would you do me the great courtesy of saving your next dance for me?” He was just as surprised as she was when the question, which sounded more like a statement, came from his lips.

A grin crossed her lips as she nodded, “Of course, my lord,” was all she afforded him before returning to the warmth of the hall, that damn stone glinting in the moonlight.

Cluethael’s Pov

If there was one thing Cluethael was absolutely sure of: Aemond had become every bit of the Targaryen dragon lord he had desired to be. His menacing stature alone was enough to have the servants avert their eyes from him–not that he paid them any mind–he looked far too focused on the stone wall behind her. Despite his stoicism, Cluethael found him quite attractive, as he really did grow into his features.

They had a less than enthusiastic reunion after so long of seeing each other, perhaps a sliver of that little boy she knew still lived in him. He had not spoken to her at all besides the pleasantries he awarded everyone, which was nothing more than a short, ‘Princess,’ and a bow. She had no idea why the interaction disgruntled her so much, as she was not entitled to any more attention than any of the other maidens in attendance.

It was somewhere between the sixth and seventh course when she began to grow tired of the eyes on her; the room began feeling far too closed off despite its spaciousness. She politely excused herself from the table before making her way towards the large balcony that overlooked the rolling ocean.

The night sky here was beautiful; stars glittered in the sky by the thousands, each of them a testament to the gods' creativity, to allow us to gaze upon something so magnificent. She only realised that she wasn’t alone when a head snapped towards hers, a scowl on their face, silver strands fluttering in the ocean breeze. Her body released tension she didn’t know she had been holding when his face began to relax, taking notice that it was her.

Cluethael wasn’t sure how she ended up with her body tucked closely to the Targaryen Princes’ but there she was, her slender taloned hand clasped in his. The whole thing felt awkward, she would admit, the tension that hummed between them as they glided around the slate floor. She needed to do something to break the barrier between them, anything to break the silence as they twirled between couples.

“I love this dance, it is traditional to Westeros is it not?” she asked, near groaning as the statement left her lips. After all the lessons in conversational etiquette, this was the best she could do? At the very least, her embarrassment could pass for being flushed from dancing.

“Indeed, it is most invigorating. The dance hails from the Vale I believe,” he replied. His voice sounded far off, like he was relying on muscle memory to guide him through the conversation, stiff silence hung between them despite the moment and music.

“It is your turn to say something, My Lord,” she urged, taking charge of the conversation. “I spoke about the dance, it is your turn to remark about the slightness of our Great Hall or the number of couples,” she tried her best to smooth the frustration in her voice. She could hear her mothers words echoing in her mind: Do not let them know how you feel, keep your emotions tucked close to your heart.

“I am perfectly happy to oblige, please advise me on what you would like best to hear,” he remarked, a flash of something she didn’t recognise glinting in his eyes. She had finally gotten the chance to look at him closely, taking in his features, a strong jawline and a defined aquiline nose. There was no denying that he was every bit the blood of the dragon.

“Perhaps it is best we remain silent,” she replied, rolling her eyes. Another wave of silence followed for a moment, Aemond broke it this time.

“You talk as a rule while dancing?” he asked her, a scarred brow raised as they spun, their hair fanning out around them, like the night encircling the moon.

“No, I prefer to be brash and unsociable and taciturn, makes it all so much more enjoyable, don’t you think?” Cluethael quipped, a smile dancing on her lips.

Maybe things would not be as bad as she thought.

Blinking herself out of her trance, her brain reconnecting itself back to her body, she stood in front of the long mirror in her chambers. She ignored her racing heart, instead observing her out: the fine travelling coat of deep green, its sleeves long and soft against her arms.Underneath the coat was light leather armour, it made her feel secure; it was her little piece of home she wanted to take with her.

She played with the gold necklace Aemond had given her all those years ago before tucking it under her coat and armour. A thin brown leather belt hung on her hip, a marvellous silver dagger set with a ruby on the hilt, and her rope dart; looped neatly in its holster. Her hair was braided in a traditional Targaryen style, two large braids at the top of her head, hanging at her back. Startled by the knock on her door, it swung open as Saelira rushed at her, she bent down to capture her in a tight embrace.

"Hello my little love!" she greeted, kissing her repeatedly on her cheeks causing a chorus of giggles to ensue, she pulled away to stand and look at Emerie.

"She came to see her favourite aunt off," Emerie smiled, pulling her little sister - who was not so little anymore - into a bone crushing hug. She returned the favour by hugging her sister tighter.

“I’m her only aunt,” She quipped. Cluethael didn’t miss the smile that ghosted her sister’s lips, before the same solemness set in her features once more.

"Mother wishes for us to see you off; He is here," Emerie whispered to her, she pulled away from her sister instinctively. The words that he had written on the letter swirling around her head I shall return for you. She shivered involuntarily, a physical manifestation of the building anxiety, she nodded letting out a slow breath to soothe herself, casting her gaze down to her nieces

"Let's go meet our new friend shall we?" she asked the two doe eye girls, feigning excitement. They both nodded eagerly, practically dragging her by her travelling coat.

The hallway to the grand hall felt longer than it was, the doors opened to reveal her mother in all her regal pride in a dress of the prettiest blue. She took off in a run to pull her mother into a teary hug.

"Oh my darling, how beautiful you look," she sniffled, taking in how much her daughter had grown. The queen had not realised how much her youngest had changed in the past six years, she was a young girl no longer; but a woman grown.

They both stepped back from each other as her sister and her children took their place beside them. "Send the prince in,'' her mother commanded. The doors opened once more as a familiar tall, silver haired prince stalked forward like a wild cat hunting his prey. He wore a simple riding coat and a black doublet and britches, his boots stopped at his mid calf; a sword and an all too familiar dagger hung at his side.

She stood steadfast and tall, even though she wanted nothing more than to shrink herself down to the size of a pea. Seeing him was different when she knew that she would not see her family on the morrow. His gaze tingled across her skin, and Aemond bowed to the small group as they stood in front of the dias.

They returned the respect in kind, dipping their heads in a silent greeting. Cluethael had lost track of what was going on around her, the pleasantries exchanged fading into a soft hum, flashes of the last year repeating in her mind. The familiar tingle of fear prickled the base of her spine as they moved through the courtyard, a firm hand grasped her by the shoulder.

Her mother had only embraced her in such a way twice before, the morning she left to become a Valkyrie and the morning she returned. It pulled painfully at her heart to always be the harbinger of such sadness, if she were to have it her way, she would never leave the confines of the kingdom if it meant that she could stay.

“Oh my sweet girl, it feels like you had only just returned and now you are being taken again,” her mother lamented.

Cluethal nodded. “I know mother, I did not wish to be away again so soon,” she blinked away the tears pricking at the corners of her eyes.

She reluctantly let go of her mother, reaching out to Emerie, who embraced Cluethael tightly, resting her head on top of her little sisters. Cluethael basked in the farewell she had with her mother and Emerie and her nieces. When she turned back to Aemond, she saw he had taken a few respectful steps back so she could say goodbye.

Mae, the quieter one of the two, grasped her at her hand tightly, making her stop. She turned to the young girl and bent down to her level, her dark wild hair hanging at her shoulders.

“Where are you going?," she asked, her eyes beginning to water; Cluethael’s own lip trembled, her carefully built exterior cracking for a brief moment.

"I’m going on a new adventure!” she began, putting on a wide smile, “Perhaps when I am settled your mother will allow you to visit,” she reassured, standing up again. Cluethael took several steps back from them, making her way toward Aemond. She looked back at her family again from where they stood on the steps of the castle; they looked complete, even in her absence.

They walked together in silence, the path they walked all too familiar. Neither of them wanted to break the silence, that was until they stopped at the clearing. A gasp escaped her lips as she smacked his arm in delight, Aemond's lips quirked at the sound. To say the beast before her was large was an understatement, deep green scales marred with scars covered its body.

"Her name is Vaghar,'' he said, making his way to the beast, his hand carefully placed at the small of her back. Vaghar's body shifted as her rider and his companion came closer, her yellow eyes snapping open, pupils narrowing into slits. Aemond brought her to Vaghar's head and placed her hand on her snout, his hand placed firmly on hers.

She could feel the callouses and small cuts on his hands from training, unprompted she began to speak "Kesan daor ōdrikagon zirȳla, iksan iā raqiros,'' simply letting her know that she meant no harm and was a friend. Vaghar let out a low grumble in acknowledgement; the air released from the dragon's throat and out her nostrils blew her hair back.

Aemond looked at Cluetheal in quiet amazement, though he didn't say anything, only made his way to mount the large beast. Aemond stepped to the side to allow his betrothed to climb the rope ladder before him. Instead of climbing the tattered looking ropes that hung from Vhagar, she flapped her wings to lift herself to the dragons’ back.

Once both of them were mounted, Aemond let out the command for Vaghar to fly, the movement of her body sending thunderous shockwaves up her spine. Vaghar's wings opened as they sped up into the air, that delightful feeling of the world falling away beneath her feet.

It gave the Princess just enough time to look back at Draghiem, the view of her family home and ancestral seat had never looked as grandiose as it did now. Its high spires and towering Grand Hall almost reaching for her, pain tugging at her heart. Vhagar banked to the side and continued out over the ocean, her home fading from view.

From where she was on her perch behind Aemond on Vhagar’s large saddle, her hand placed loosely around his waist. She could see the sky beginning to shift colours, the warm orange-red hues becoming maroon and indigo. It had been so long since she had seen the sky free from obstruction; she had not flown since her journey home and her wings ached for it, but for now she would settle for the view on dragon-back.

It was a calm night, the sky was crystal clear, and while the conversation was sparse, the long silences were not awkward or uncomfortable and for that, she was thankful. They hadn’t spoken a word to each other in hours, she had gotten so used to noise that she had almost forgotten what silence sounded like.

She turned her head back to the scenery around her, not realising her thoughts had led her so far away from her own body that she had been staring at the back of Aemond’s head for several minutes. In the time she had been submersed in her own thoughts, the sky had grown dark and heavy with storm clouds, the flashes of lighting had put her on edge.

There was roaring rain and rolling thunder from the clouds beneath them, she could feel the crackle of electricity in the air before it struck the sea thousands of feet below them, causing the hairs on her body to stand up. The sudden crack of light through the air as thunder crashed around them made her flinch, sucking in a sharp breath through her teeth.

Her heart raced, desperately trying to claw its way out of her throat she could feel the panic thrumming through her veins. Cluethael did her best to calm herself, the embarrassment of being ten and eight and still scared of thunderstorms heating her cheeks. Aemond shifted in front of her, a large hand snaked around to her thigh, a silent grounding presence.

Only then did she realise, as the wind whipped around and thunder shook her bones, of how warm his touch was.

They spent most of the night in a comfortable silence, the sky had once again begun shifting colours to herald in the oncoming dawn. The deep blues and violets of the darkness changed to an intricate painting of soft blues and pinks, the golden warmth beginning to crest over the horizon.

Aemond extended a finger to point in front of them, to the patch of land slowly appearing over the horizon. Two large buildings stood out to her immediately, one made entirely of red stone, four tall towers that she could just make out. While the other building seemed to be a large dome, a gold spire glinting in the orange glow of dusk.

"The building towards the ocean is the Red Keep,” he directed his finger once more to the domed building.

“We are making our way to this one,” he said, pointing out the domed building.

A grin overtook her mouth, only offering a curt nod before she untied the rope keeping her in the saddle and let herself fall from Vaghar. Entering a blissful freefall towards the ocean, letting out a happy yell as she opened her wings and shot back up past Aemond, coming to glide above Vaghar’s massive wing.

He looked at her incredulously, loving that mischievous glint in her eyes. It was the same one she had back in the clearing all those years ago; his Wildflower: He drank in the visage of his betrothed in flight, her hair whipping around her face wildly, the light filtered through the thin membrane of her wings highlighting the knicks and scars on them.

She looked every bit lovely than he remembered, her upturned nose and high cheekbones, she looked free. The closer they got to the Dragon Pit the more nervous the princess became, her stomach had not stopped bubbling since she mounted Vhagar yesterday.

She knew that when she arrived that she was on their ground not her own, if training with the Valkyrie taught her anything it was that she needed to be careful. She left the safety net of Vaghar's wing and dove down towards the water, she lent her hand down revelling in the warmth, the icy chill of winter finally receding.

Once Vaghar had landed outside the Dragon Pit, it was in the cover of darkness once more; they both made their way into the large domed building, she had never seen something like this in her entire life. Its roof had to be eighty feet tall, arches carved out of sandstone lined with candles, she was brought back down to earth when she saw two people at the far end of the pit by the enormous doors.

The closer they came the more she could make out the figures, one was Queen Alicent with her hands clasped tightly in front of her beautiful green dress, opulent gold jewellery seemed to drip off her. The other body standing beside her was tall and had a beard of sandy brown on his chin, he had crows feet at the corners of his eyes and crease marks on his forehead showing that he was a seasoned thinker. And then a third figure in amour that shone like the moon, a familiar face that she took to more kindly then the previous, Ser Criston, dipping his head as the royals approached.

He stood proudly beside the queen, his hands resting behind his back, Alicent stepped toward her son pulling him in for a hug and thanking the seven he returned safely. She smiled at the princess fondly, "Oh my dear girl, how you've grown," she marvelled at the girl who stood before her. Her broad shoulders and body built for fighting was not something often seen in Westeros, nor were the awful things attached to her back. Cluethael returned the polite smile and dipped her head in respect, but she would not bow.

"Thank you, your Grace,'' she responded with a well rehearsed curtsey, wearily eyeing the man beside her. He stepped forward and bowed his head.

"Lord Otto Hightower, Princess," he re-introduced himself, before stepping back once more.

"It is a pleasure to meet you again, My Lord," she said, the words tasting sour on her tongue. She could never understand all the needless titles and pleasantries of the court. “It would be a great honour if you would call me Cluethael.” she added, watching them take a sidelong glance at each other.

"I am sure you both are exhausted from your travels. Shall we return to the Keep?" the Queen suggested, glossing over Clethael’s request entirely, allowing Lord Hightower to take the lead out of the Dragon Pit doors followed closely behind by his daughter and grandson, with Cluethael begrudgingly bringing up the rear with Ser Criston.

The royal chambers she was given were comfortable to say the least, She shed her riding coat and belt before diligently untying her armour, letting it fall to the floor in a heap. She was fortunate enough to have a few dresses and nightgowns afforded to her on arrival, she picked the simple floor length linen one that struck her fancy. She stopped when she realised there was a back on the dress, they were not accustomed to having someone like her here.

She sighed before taking the night gown in her hands and ripping the back open, it slid over her wings after that. Her scalp ached as he undid the tight braids from her head and brushed the knots from her head slowly, the repeated motion relaxed her. She stood up once more and looked at the room, red stone walls and a lovely balcony, a copper tub behind a modesty screen, a small table and chairs sat behind a large settee.

One thing stuck out to her; the bed was not large enough to house her. But there was no fixing it, she blew out the candles in the room one by one and crawled onto the bed, her wings hanging so far over the bed they almost entirely laid on the floor. A sigh fell from her lips as she welcomed but rather uncomfortable sleep.

Taglist: @cyeco13

I’d like to give a quick thank you to both @sylasthegrim for the lovely chapter header and @arcielee for being my beta reader and suffering through my 2,000 “If this is a semi-colon and not a comma I’m gonna scream” comments.

Translations:

Byka Perzys - Little Flame

Ñuha Byka Jorrāelagon - My Little Love

Ñuha Dōna - My Sweet

Mirre iksis sȳrī, ñuha byka prūmia. Daorun kostagon ōdrikagon ao kesīr - All is well, my little heart. Nothing can hurt you here.

Byka Rhaperzys. - Little Spark

Mumuña - Grandmother

Kesan daor ōdrikagon zirȳla, iksan iā raqiros - I will not harm him, I am a friend.

35 notes · View notes

sunsetstarrogue · 5 months

Text

Right Where You Left Me

Chapter Two

Other Chapters - (1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18)

Characters - Rhaenys Targaryen (daughter of Rhaegar) x Robert Baratheon (political)

Summary - Rhaegar's life is spared by the valiant intervention of Arthur Dayne, moments before Robert deals the fatal blow. With their lives preserved, Rhaegar and the remaining Targaryens seek refuge on Dragonstone, eventually making their escape to Essos. Regrettably, Rhaegar is forced to leave his eldest daughter behind.

Left in the midst of her adversaries, Rhaenys grows up surrounded by those who view her as an enemy. As time passes, she becomes entangled in the treacherous game of thrones, particularly in the aftermath of Cersei and Jaime Lannister's public execution for their incestuous relationship.

Caught in a web of schemes and deceit, Rhaenys finds herself compelled to employ similar tactics in order to ensure her own survival.

Word Count - 5.3k

Rhaenys slowly stirred from her sleep, her senses alerted by a persistent knock on the heavy wooden doors of her chambers. The sound reverberated through the room, gradually pulling her out of the realm of dreams. Blinking away the remnants of slumber, she heard the familiar voices of her handmaidens outside, seeking permission to enter. With a quiet confirmation, she granted them access, granting permission to step beyond the threshold of her private sanctuary.

Four figures glided into the room, their presence both comforting and bittersweet. These were her faithful handmaidens, her companions and confidantes, who had remained a constant source of support in a tumultuous sea of uncertainty.

Their loyalty had proven unwavering, standing as a stark contrast to the calculated maneuverings of the Lannister queen who had once held sway over her handmaidens. Cersei had intentionally rotated her handmaidens, a sinister reminder to Rhaenys that no true friends could be found within the walls of King's Landing, not even among those closest to her.

In the beginning, the young Targaryen princess had yearned for friendship, a connection that would bridge the divide between her and the world around her. But the bitter reality had soon settled upon her innocent shoulders, extinguishing the flickering hope within her heart. She had come to accept the harsh truth that genuine companionship would forever elude her grasp, as long as she remained confined within the claustrophobic confines of the Red Keep.

Yet, the winds of fate had shifted. The Lannister queen now lay lifeless, her reign of terror vanquished. With Cersei's demise, the king and his entourage cared little for the affairs of the Targaryen captive. Rhaenys had been permitted to retain her handmaidens, a small but significant concession granted to her since the moment Cersei's severed head had tumbled from her lifeless body.

As Rhaenys adorned herself with garments befitting her status, her loyal attendants informed her of the king's summons. It had been a full two moons since she had last sat vigil by his bedside, recounting the tales of her ancestral lineage in an effort to comfort him during his illness. Once he had recovered, the exchanges between them had become infrequent, reduced to mere superficial pleasantries. The news of the king's request now surged through her, causing her hands to grow clammy with a mixture of anticipation and trepidation.

With measured steps, she traversed the hallways of the Red Keep, making her way towards Maegor's holdfast where the royal quarters stood. Ser Barristan Selmy, ever vigilant and steadfast, stationed himself at the entrance, a stoic guardian of the king's chambers. By his side stood Ser Arys Oakheart.

Silently, Rhaenys approached the threshold, her heart quickening its pace with every footfall. The weight of uncertainty hung in the air as she prepared herself to face the enigmatic ruler of the Seven Kingdoms, her destiny intertwined with the shifting sands of power and politics.

With a mix of anticipation and apprehension, Rhaenys hesitated before pushing open the heavy doors to the king's quarters. Unlike her previous visits, where he had been confined to his bed, the king now sat upright at his desk, engrossed in a sea of parchment scattered across its surface. His solemn gaze lifted as she approached, her presence acknowledged by a curt nod.

As she reached the desk, Rhaenys performed a graceful curtsy, a gesture of deference befitting her station. "Your Grace, you called for me?" she inquired, her voice tinged with a blend of respect and curiosity. Observing Lord Robert fumbling amidst the disarray of papers, she sensed a certain restlessness in his demeanor. Something had prompted this summons and Rhaenys was eager to know why.

"A letter from Prince Doran arrived a few moons ago for you," Lord Robert finally spoke, his voice resonating with a deep timbre that commanded attention. His words hung in the air, laden with implications. Rhaenys' brows furrowed, her mind racing to comprehend the significance of such correspondence.

"A letter?" she blurted out, unable to contain her surprise. The king emitted a weary sigh, his frustration palpable. "Yes, a letter for you," he reiterated, his voice carrying a trace of impatience.

Curiosity piqued, Rhaenys pressed further, seeking clarity. "You mentioned that the letter arrived moons ago. Why is it being presented to me only now?" Her voice held a hint of inquiry, tinged with a delicate thread of confusion.

"Is asking questions all you're good for? Huh girl?" Lord Robert's words dripped with condescension, his impatience manifesting in his tone. "Lord Arryn received the letter directly, intending to deliver it to you once he had read its contents. However, it seems the matter slipped the old man's mind."

Acknowledging his explanation, Rhaenys mustered a show of gratitude. "I see. Well, I am grateful for your assistance, Lord Robert." Stepping forward, she reached out to accept the outstretched paper, delicate fingers gingerly clasping it within her grasp. Just as she prepared to announce her departure, the king's voice cut through the air, its usual resonance softened but still commanding.

"Perhaps it is best for you to read it here, you may have some questions," he suggested, his words carrying an undertone of insistence. His gaze bore into her, leaving no room for discussion. She was to read the letter within the confines of his quarters, under his watchful eye. Rhaenys nodded silently, acquiescing to his request, her mind racing with questions and apprehension.

Lowering her gaze to the parchment held tightly in her hands, she fought to steady her trembling fingers. What secrets or revelations awaited her within those inked words? Why did the king deem it necessary to witness her reaction? The weight of anticipation settled upon her like a heavy cloak as she cautiously began to peruse the contents of the letter, her heart pounding within her chest.

"My Dearest Princess Rhaenys,

I pray that this letter finds you in good health and spirits. Throughout the passing years, the Hand of the King and I have maintained a diligent correspondence, ever mindful of your well-being and future prospects. As you stand upon the precipice of turning ten and seven, swiftly approaching the grand age of ten and eight, it is with great care and consideration that we broach the delicate subject of your betrothal.

We have striven to discern a match that befits your esteemed lineage. Countless discussions between Lord Jon Arryn and myself have culminated in a unanimous decision—an agreement that we believe to be both advantageous and fortuitous for your future.

Thus, one moon after the celebration of your ten and eight name day, a momentous occasion marking your passage into womanhood, you are summoned to embark on a journey to the north. There, in Winterfell, a joyous union shall be sealed—a marriage ceremony between yourself and the honorable and gallant Robb Stark. I have personally corresponded with your esteemed betrothed and can confidently affirm his noble character, his kindness, and his innate sense of honor. In him, my dear Rhaenys, you shall find a worthy and devoted husband, capable of ensuring your happiness and security.

I implore you to approach this news with an open heart, for it is a union forged not merely in political advantage, but in the sincere belief that this marriage shall bring harmony and prosperity to our realms. I understand the weight of this responsibility, and it is my fervent wish that you embrace this opportunity with grace and resilience, for the honor of House Targaryen rests upon your shoulders.

With utmost affection and anticipation,

Prince Doran of Dorne"

The contents of the letter, unveiled before her curious eyes, diverged greatly from the expectations that had fluttered within her mind. In truth, when Robert Baratheon had announced that the correspondence hailed from her uncle, a vision of a formal greeting or felicitations on her name day had danced within her thoughts.

However, the words inked onto the parchment revealed a proposal of matrimony—an unexpected twist that elicited a surge of conflicting emotions within her.

Her initial impulse, like a tempest brewing, stirred the tempestuous fires of rage and resentment towards her uncle. How dare he assume such authority over her life, she mused inwardly, prepared to unleash a tirade of curses and objections upon the page before her. Yet, the weight of a gaze, intangible but undeniably present, fell upon her. Even without meeting the king's eyes directly, she felt the intensity of his stare, a silent but powerful presence that arrested her anger.

A torrent of thoughts and questions swirled within her mind, leaving her uncertain of how she should react. Should she extend gratitude to his Grace for orchestrating such a seemingly advantageous match? Or perhaps he expected her to crumble into tears, allowing her vulnerability to surface before him. But she refused to shed tears in his presence, knowing well that they would be perceived as a weakness. Rhaenys Targaryen was not one to be labeled as feeble.

"I did not know that the Prince of Dorne and your esteemed hand had made a betrothal for me," Rhaenys voiced her surprise, her tone a delicate blend of curiosity and veiled suspicion. Deep within, she harbored the conviction that Jon Arryn's pursuit of a betrothal between the heir of House Stark and herself had only materialized after his advances towards her hand had been firmly rebuffed. It ignited a flicker of intrigue, prompting her to question who possessed enough influence to dissuade the second most powerful man in the realm from securing her hand. However, the answer to her own query was as evident as the sun in the sky. Robert Baratheon, the very king of the Seven Kingdoms, held the authority to sway the decisions of even the most powerful lords.

This revelation birthed a cascade of further inquiries within her enigmatic mind. Why would the king obstruct the union that Jon Arryn had fervently desired? What purpose could be gleaned from her impending marriage to a northern lord? The notion crystallized in her thoughts—a potent realization. Perhaps the king sought to ensure her distance from him, deliberately engineering a scenario in which she would be banished to the desolate and unforgiving lands of the North. A mere pawn in his game of power, Rhaenys, the daughter of Rhaegar Targaryen, would be exiled to fulfill her duty and eventually succumb to a frigid demise. In this sinister tapestry, she envisioned her forgotten existence, a princess ensnared as a prisoner of war, abandoned to the elements where ravenous wolves would eventually feast upon her lifeless remains.

The chilling prospect of her future in the North enveloped her consciousness, casting a shadow upon her every thought. In her mind, she conjured visions of the children she would bear in that harsh realm, the relentless grip of the northern frost suffusing her very being. Love, she realized, would be a fleeting illusion, a rarity lost amidst the icy winds that swept across those lands. She refused to succumb to such a fate. If they sought to send her away to a lifeless and frozen vessel, then let her cold corpse be the sole tribute the North received.

The Baratheon lord, observing her pensive state, interjected, his voice heavy with the weight of impending departure. "Preparations are underway for your journey to Winterfell. Your name day approaches swiftly, and you must ready yourself for the long trek northward," he informed her, his words laden with a sense of finality.

"Yes, My Lord, I understand," she replied, her voice betraying a resignation tinged with hidden determination. As she readied herself to depart, a flicker of inspiration illuminated her mind—an audacious idea.

"Your Grace," she called out, her voice carrying a blend of determination and apprehension. The king's gaze shifted towards her, his attention now fully captured by her presence. Taking a steadying breath, she pressed on. "I have heard rumors, Your Grace, that a hunting party is to take place in the coming days. Lord Renly, your brother, mentioned it in passing."

The king's brows furrowed slightly as he confirmed her words. "Yes, there is indeed a hunting party scheduled three days from now. Why are you asking, girl?"

Rhaenys knew that her next words held the potential for disaster, yet she was left with no other recourse. If she desired to dissolve her impending doom, she had to seize this opportunity. Summoning her courage, she continued, "It's just that... well... I have never had the chance to attend one of Your Grace's hunting parties. The few ladies who have participated speak of the joy they experience. I merely wish to partake in such revelry, Your Grace." Her voice carried a delicate undertone of longing, her eyes pleading for his favor.

A palpable sense of confusion clouded the king's face as he regarded her, grappling with her unexpected request. Her future hung precariously in the balance as she awaited his response. "My name day falls on the day of the hunting party, and it would bring me great pleasure to spend a day amid the wilderness, rather than locked away within the confines of this castle, My Lord," she added, her voice tinged with a hint of desperation.

"Hmm, I see," he mused, his features shifting with contemplation. "Very well, it can be arranged. But remember, this will be no mere gathering of ladies. We shall be outside, and I will not tolerate any hindrances or delays caused by your presence." The king's words carried a stern warning, though a flicker of curiosity danced within his eyes.

Rhaenys couldn't help but feel a surge of relief, her face breaking into a radiant smile. "Thank you, Your Grace. Your kindness is most appreciated," she expressed, her gratitude spilling forth. "With your permission, I shall take my leave now, My Lord."

"Yes, go on then," he responded, granting her permission. With a sense of newfound hope, Rhaenys exited the king's presence, setting her sights on her chambers where she could find solace in solitude.

Yet, fate seemed intent on toying with her emotions, as she discovered the eunuch standing guard by her doors. The Dornish girl prepared herself to conjure any excuse to secure some much-needed privacy. However, before she could voice her pleas, the man spoke, his voice laced with a disingenuous smile. "Princess Rhaenys, it is a great relief to have found you," he addressed her, his words laced with an unsettling sense of familiarity. The desire to spit at his feet and dismiss him surged within her, but her wits remained sharp, aware that the enigmatic spymaster wouldn't be standing outside her chambers without purpose.

"Lord Varys," she addressed him with a measured tone, her gaze guarded and observant. The spymaster's presence always stirred mixed feelings within her—his charm was undeniably unsettling, yet she couldn't dismiss his cunning intelligence. Suppressing her instinctual disdain, she mustered a semblance of the diplomatic smile expected of a princess. "What brings you here at this hour? I assume it is a matter of importance?"

His slimy smile widened slightly, revealing a glint of satisfaction in his eyes. "Indeed, Princess Rhaenys, it is a matter of great import," he responded, his voice dripping with an air of mystery. She watched him, her thoughts swirling with suspicion, but she knew better than to reveal her true sentiments.

Curiosity and caution battled within her as she contemplated his words. While part of her yearned to dismiss him with contempt, the wiser part recognized the significance of his presence at her door. Holding her tongue, she maintained the facade of congeniality, her smile unwavering, concealing the storm of emotions raging within her.

"I do hope that I have not kept you waiting too long, Lord Varys," she said, her voice tinged with a hint of apology. Inwardly, she chided herself for not seeking refuge in the solitude of the Sept of Baelor instead of her own chambers at least in the sept men were more mindful of personal boundaries, a talent that was a rarity in the castle.

"Not at all, My Lady," Lord Varys responded, his tone carrying a subtle undertone of mockery that didn't escape her notice. His presence seemed to aggravate the headache that had begun brewing in the king's quarters. Rhaenys found it almost amusing to pin the blame on the eunuch for her mounting discomfort.

He knows about my betrothal to the Stark boy, she thought bitterly. Surely he was aware, yet he saw fit to withhold such crucial information from her. It wasn't a betrayal, she knew that well enough. Despite his claims of friendship, she recognized Varys for what he truly was—an unscrupulous man who only cared about his own interests. It wasn't his self-preservation that irked her; she shared that very trait. It was his pretense of innocence and ignorance that grated on her nerves.

"And what is it that you wished to speak of?" Rhaenys inquired, her voice laced with a blend of curiosity and wariness. "Oh, well, I just wished to chat with you," Lord Varys replied, his words dripping with a facade of sincerity. "It has been much too long since we've had a peaceful conversation." Her mind quickly recalled their shared dinner just three days prior.

"Well, I too have missed our conversations, My Lord," she remarked, her words laced with a tinge of false cordiality. "Please, do join me for tea in my chambers?" The prospect of company with a rat seemed more appealing at that moment, for at least those revolting creatures didn't feel the need to mask their true nature.

"Actually, Princess, I had thought that perhaps a bit of fresh air would do us good," Varys interjected.

"Yes, I am in need of some fresh air. It's been an awfully long time since we've visited the Godswood. Shall we go there?" Rhaenys declared without giving Lord Varys a chance to respond. Determined, she set off towards the sacred grove, and the eunuch swiftly followed in her wake.

As they arrived at the serene sanctuary of the Godswood, Varys wasted no time in breaking the silence.

"My Lady, it has come to my attention that you are to leave us soon," he spoke with a gentle tone, though Rhaenys resisted the urge to call out his feigned innocence. The man had been privy to her fate long before she had been informed, yet here he stood, pretending as if the news were new to him.

"Yes, it seems like my time in the capital will soon be over," she sighed, her voice heavy with resignation. "I am to marry Lord Robb Stark. They say he is a good man, and I am expected to be his dutiful wife," Bitterness tinged her words, unable to conceal the resentment she felt. Dutiful wife, she thought with disdain. She would sooner fling herself from her window than be bound to a Stark.

"You must know that this comes as a shock to me," Varys interjected, his voice conveying a hint of sincerity that Rhaenys found difficult to believe. Nonetheless, she nodded and offered him a polite smile, concealing her true emotions beneath a veil of courtesy.

"It comes as a surprise to me as well. But, My Lord, why did you wish to speak with me?" she inquired, her voice laced with a subtle sense of urgency.

"I only wished to warn you, Princess," he replied, his tone turning grave. She noticed a rare seriousness in his demeanor, a sight that unsettled her greatly.

"Warn me about what? Is there something that you aren't telling me?" Her voice grew slightly louder, her anxiety threatening to consume her. Rhaenys fought to maintain her composure, reminding herself that panicking would serve her no purpose. Stay calm, she repeated to herself, determined not to let her fears overwhelm her.

"I do not wish to worry you, My Lady. But I do think that it is within your right to know about this," Varys spoke, pausing momentarily as he locked eyes with Rhaenys, searching for any trace of emotion on her face. However, her face remained impassive, revealing nothing. Encouraged by her stoicism, he continued, his voice carrying an air of intrigue.

"As you well know, Princess, I have my little birds scattered all across Essos, diligently gathering information about your family, all under His Grace's command, of course. And well... as of late, my little birds have come across some most intriguing tidbits," Varys paused again, glancing around the secluded Godswood as if anticipating prying ears, though both he and Rhaenys knew they were alone. No one ventured to this sacred grove, ensuring their conversation remained shrouded in secrecy.

Restless, Rhaenys felt a growing sense of agitation. "Well, what did your little birds tell you?" she pressed, her voice betraying a mixture of anticipation and unease. The master of whispers leaned closer to her, his lips brushing against her ear as he divulged his secret.

"The dragons will soon sail west,”

Rhaenys remained motionless, her body rigid. Her mind raced with the implications of those words. Rhaegar Targaryen, her father, was sailing west. Her family was returning home. Slowly, she turned her head, locking eyes with Varys. In that moment, the walls she had carefully erected around her emotions crumbled, and she felt her eyes welling up with tears. Yet, she refused to let them fall. She wouldn't grant Varys the satisfaction of witnessing her vulnerability. Rhaenys knew that shedding tears would only portray her as weak. For years, she had held back her tears in front of others, refusing to allow anyone the privilege of witnessing her emotional frailty. And she damned the gods if the first person to witness her tears would be the master of whispers.

"Why are you telling me this, Varys?" Rhaenys' voice trembled, barely above a whisper. It lacked the regal authority she had carefully cultivated over the years. In this moment, the confident and poised princess dissolved, revealing a vulnerable girl standing before the Godswood. She felt small, as if the weight of the world bore down on her fragile shoulders. Fear and loneliness engulfed her, sensations that had become all too familiar, yet still managed to consume her. The reason for her overwhelming pain eluded her, leaving her perplexed and bewildered.

"I only wish to remind you that you are not alone, you are not the last dragon. You are not alone," Varys repeated softly, his words echoing in the stillness of the Godswood. With one last lingering gaze, he turned away, departing the sacred grove and leaving Rhaenys to wrestle with her swirling thoughts.

Time seemed to stand still as the princess remained rooted in the solitude of the Godswood. Her mind resembled a tangled web of conflicting emotions and fragmented thoughts. She sought clarity amidst the chaos, desperate to unravel the complexities within her. Alone in the hallowed embrace of the trees, she wrestled with the weight of her lineage, her destiny, and the uncertainty that loomed before her.

As Rhaenys emerged from the hallowed embrace of the Godswood, a fierce determination settled within her. The revelation sparked an unparalleled fury that coursed through her veins.

Since the moment her mother had perished, she had traversed a desolate path, bearing the weight of loneliness. Varys' hollow reassurances, proclaiming, "You are not alone," only served as a cruel reminder of the falsehood of such statements. Rhaenys had known loneliness intimately for far too long, a constant companion in the halls of a castle teeming with people who harbored no love for her. Oddly enough, the absence of affection had never truly bothered her. She had grown accustomed to the absence of love, realizing that the love of strangers held no significance in her existence. Her father's heart had never beat with affection for her, her brother was too young to remember her, much less love her. He And within these thoughts she came to a realization.

Rhaenys realized she no longer cared about her family's ties, the illustrious legacy of House Targaryen. The notion that she must love Aegon because he was her brother and the last reminisce of Elia Martell's lineage lost its hold on her heart. Why should blood define her loyalty or dictate her emotions? Years spent in the labyrinthine corridors of King's Landing had taught her that the bonds of blood held no true sway. She had grown accustomed to the solace of solitude, a resolute figure isolated even as her kin thrived across the Narrow Sea. Loneliness had become her constant companion, ingrained within the fabric of her being. But now, as the dragons prepared to reclaim their ancestral home, she found no flicker of anticipation within her being. How could she? She had been forgotten, left to wither in the shadows, and her heart had grown heavy with a seething resentment she could not extinguish. The prospect of a rekindled family, once cherished as a distant wish, now only served to deepen her bitterness.

Forgiveness seemed an elusive dream, even if her family had not deliberately left her behind. The growing resentment within her could not be silenced, and she embraced its consuming flames without remorse.

However twisted and tormented her thoughts may be, Rhaenys allowed them to intertwine with the very fabric of her heart. The weight of solitude bore down upon her, pressing her deeper into the depths of her own desires. Within the confines of her dimly lit chamber, moonlight casting ethereal shadows, she lay in bed, her only companion the pale glow that spilled through the window. With the moon as her silent witness, she summoned the courage to venture forth, guided by the secret passage that the ever-present eunuch had once revealed to her.

No longer bound by the legacy of dragons, she embraced her womanhood and the freedom it entailed. Why should she be confined by the rules that governed her kin? If Rhaegar Targaryen could pursue his own whims, then surely she, too, could forge her own path.

In the passage of time, years later, Rhaenys would look back upon this fateful night, the night that sealed her destiny. With the Gods as silent witnesses, she surrendered her maidenhood to the usurper.

In the dimly lit chamber, Rhaenys lay on a plush velvet bed adorned with intricate golden designs. The air was heavy with anticipation, charged with a mix of desire and guilt. A single candle flickered on a nearby table, casting dancing shadows on the walls.

As Rhaenys felt the weight of the usurper's body pressing against her own, she clenched her fists and closed her eyes, bracing herself for what was to come. The initial pain seared through her, a sharp reminder of her sacrifice and unwavering determination. Beads of sweat formed on her forehead as she fought against the urge to cry out, determined to endure the agony that would pave the way to her desired future.

Her lilac eyes remained fixed upon the usurper, unwavering in their intensity. As the moments stretched on, his eyes fluttered closed, consumed by his own desires. Rhaenys took a deep breath, using the temporary lack of movement to steel herself for the next step in her plan.

The room seemed to hold its breath, as if even the gods themselves were silently witnessing the fateful union. Rhaenys, driven by her ambitions and guided by her resolve, moved with a purposeful grace. She knew that in this pivotal moment, she held not only her own destiny but also the fate of her family and the realm itself.

With each passing moment, the boundaries blurred between duty and desire, power and vulnerability. Rhaenys focused on her purpose, her mind a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. She yearned for the control she would gain, the power that would be hers to wield. And yet, there was a sliver of uncertainty, a fleeting moment of doubt that lingered in the depths of her heart.

As the usurper's breath grew ragged and his grip on her tightened, Rhaenys found herself teetering on the precipice. In that fragile instant, she steeled herself once more, banishing all doubt from her mind. She would endure this moment, this sacrifice, for it was the key to her dreams becoming a reality.

In the quiet aftermath, a profound stillness settled over the room. Rhaenys lay there, feeling the mingling of her own essence with that of the usurper. The weight of her actions bore down upon her, both exhilarating and terrifying in its implications. In that moment, Rhaenys knew that she had sealed her destiny, forever binding her path to the treacherous road she had chosen to travel.

As the stolen moments of intimacy came to an end, Rhaenys was consumed by a torrent of tumultuous thoughts. Would this act be enough to sway the king's decision? Would he still make her marry the Stark boy as her uncle and Jon Arryn planned? Doubt gnawed at her, threatening to break through the fragile facade she had constructed. Had she made a grave mistake by offering herself to the usurper? What if he rejected her, casting her aside like a discarded pawn in his power game? The weight of uncertainty bore down upon her, tears brimming in her eyes, threatening to spill forth and betray the storm raging within her soul.

Desperation and self-preservation fueled her actions. Rhaenys knew that in order to escape the clutches of the dragons, she needed to become their enemy, a cunning stag veiled in the guise of loyalty. The only path to safety lay in the arms of Robert Baratheon. For if she became his, a possession he would never willingly relinquish, she could ensure that the Targaryens would never come to claim her as their own. Robert's possessive nature and aversion to sharing would be her shield against the impending storm.

As the tears cascaded down her cheeks, Rhaenys pleaded silently to the Gods for mercy, for peace they had denied her throughout her tumultuous existence. Perhaps the seed spilled within her would take root, granting her a semblance of mercy and protection. It was a desperate plea for salvation from a destiny that had shown her nothing but cruelty.

In the silent solitude of the kings chamber, Rhaenys succumbs to a fervent desperation. Her prayers spill forth like whispered secrets, seeking solace from the divine forces that protect the realm. With bated breath, she asks the Mother, the embodiment of compassion and mercy, to grant her plea. Let his seed take root within me, a plea for life to grow within the depths of her being.

Yet her desperation knows no bounds, transcending the confines of her own faith. She reaches out to the Gods of Old Valyria, those ancient deities whose names and faces remain elusive to her. With a fragile hope, she implores these enigmatic forces, their names and faces lost to time, to heed her plea and offer her redemption.

But her prayers do not end there, for her desperation extends even to the unfamiliar gods of the North, the Old Gods who are said to watch over the vast, ancient forests. Despite her lack of belief, she begs these ancient spirits for intervention, grasping at any semblance of hope that could sway the fates in her favor.

Lastly, her plea extends to the sun, that radiant celestial entity that bathes the world in light and warmth. With eyes raised to the heavens, she prays for strength, for the resilience to endure the trials that lie ahead. In her darkest hour, she yearns for the power to rise above her circumstances and exact the vengeance she so desperately craves.

In this moment of despair, she beseeches the divine forces, each prayer a whispered plea echoing through the chambers of her soul. Though her heart may doubt the likelihood of being heard, she clings to the flickering flame of hope, for in this darkness, it is all she has left.

#a song of ice and fire #asoiaf fanfic #asoiaf fic #rhaenys targaryen #rhaenys targaryen fanfiction #rhaenys targaryen fic #rhaenys targaryen daughter of rhaegar #rhaenys targaryen daughter of elia #house targaryen #house martell #robert baratheon #robert x rhaenys

7 notes · View notes

archived-and-moving · 2 years

Text

I’ve been mulling over the Amphibia finale for a while now, and wondering why it’s really struck such a deep chord within me.

Well, I think I know the answer.

It wasn’t because the show was overly dark and gritty, even in it’s cartoon finale. With the entire moon crashing down, the show still managed to be lighthearted and fun for all viewers.

It wasn’t Anne’s Death Scene that got me either.

While the scene itself was incredibly emotional, and it could have been a conclusion after Anne got back. It could have cut off with Anne’s decision choosing to stay, it would have been a satisfying conclusion.

But the bittersweet ending hit so much harder. Because it wasn’t the choice, or the friends, or the redemption,

It was the theme of growing up.

When the trio walked through that portal for the last time after they said their goodbyes, it represented so many things.

But growing up from their childhood was one of them.

Anne, Sasha, and Marcy were all to an extent immature teenagers who were having fun. They were flawed in ways that a lot of children are, with traits that I can recall back on when I reflect my own middle school experience.

But while Amphibia was a world of harsh surroundings and monsters, it was also the thing that matured the Calamity Trio. All three learned in their own right what their flaws were and how they needed to fix them.

I won’t get much into parallels right now, but Amphibia really was the thing that they needed to grow up. And now that their arcs have come full circle, they have nothing left to learn from this place, really.

Growing up from childhood to adulthood is something that cannot be reversed. As much as we want to go back, we can’t. Children, unfortunately, cannot stay children. They must grow and adapt eventually to be teenagers and adults, taking on more responsibility as they mature.

Matt Braly did such an amazing job conveying this.

As much as this show is about toxic friendships and even found family, the moment that our trio walked through that portal, they were growing up.

Sometimes in our lives, we come past checkpoints. Placeholders that represent something so much bigger than we know. They can be metaphorical or vague, but sometimes they can also be a little more obvious, like a giant portal that sits on the threshold of letting go of yesterday, and taking a step into tomorrow.

Like my good friend Anne Boonchuy said,

“It can be the hardest thing to realize you can’t hold onto something forever. Sometimes, you have to let it go.”

Thank you, Amphibia. For being brave enough to let us go.

#amphibia #amphibia spoilers #i have so many other thoughts but it's late and i'm not coherent #tobi talks too much #i am aware that this is pretty obvious #but i just hadn't put it into words yet #anne boonchuy #sasha waybright #marcy wu

68 notes · View notes

sweet-vanilla-sims · 7 months

Text

Year 1617

TW/CW: Miscarriage

The year began with Frideswide's absence being felt from when she left to return home to her husband and sons as Adrian and the boys tended to the family home. Francisco enjoyed the work in the garden though he was also happy to see the funds from selling their excess harvest build up so he could pursue his true calling.

June rolled around when the funds were finally enough both Ramon and Francisco were elated though they both worried that some unfortunate event would rob them again of what they wished to pursue. Still the moment was nice.

Frideswide returned to Tartosa again in early July. Her sons could hardly recognize her but she felt like a failure as a mother that once she confirmed they were fine and had been growing up well, them not knowing her didn't actually bother her all that much. She had always had an idea for life for herself and becoming a mother so young simply wasn't a part of that. In a way she was glad that her husband hadn't minded her leaving for years still she wondered if something was wrong with her for feeling so unattached to them. She had gotten to know her boys again and spent time with her husband and in-laws but the longer she stayed the more she felt like she simply didn't belong there so once her theatre troop left she didn't see much reason not to come home.

Of course once again she had returned home pregnant but she had hardly arrived at the threshold of the property when the cramps overtook her and she lost her pregnancy.

Frideswide hated that she had lost another pregnancy especially as news that Grace was expecting again came to the family but she was also relieved. She didn't want to take a break from her career which was just starting to take off again and she didn't want to go back to her marital home to be harassed because of another child but she also had hoped for her family to be together again even if she didn't exactly want another child so soon.

Then came the triplet's birthday marking them as adults. The mood was soured by the fact that the same evening Francisco and Ramon were leaving to follow their futures. It was bittersweet to have the last time for the next few years together be at a milestone birthday. More worrying was hushed talks around about tense atmospheres in the world, talks of war breaking out ate at the backs of their mind. If war broke out and Vincente had to fight, would this be the last they ever saw of each other? Still nothing was set in stone so they chose to ignore their worries but as they gathered their things to part ways it was hard to hide the looks on their faces.

Still time went on and Grace was actually enjoying her pregnancy with her second this time around. She was still petrified about what the actual delivery but the pregnancy was a lot easier and with her relationships with her husband and in-laws being a lot more stable than with her first she truly felt like a Robles this time around. There was a lot of gossip to talk about especially when she learned that William had become a father which was odd to think about since he was her cousin's son but it was nice to think about her baby having a friend their age. Aurelio was also enjoying being a father to his little girl and was excited to have another baby around the house especially with Emma growing bigger.

#Frideswide Carlisle #Agustin Carlisle #Bernice Robles #Aurelio Robles #Francisco Carlisle #Ramon Carlisle #Vincente Carlisle #Emma Robles #Guglielma Robles #The Carlisle Chronicles #Decades Legacy Challenge #tw miscarriage #cw miscarriage #1617 #1610s #ts4

3 notes · View notes

alovelylight · 3 years

Text

emma 2020 is the only adaptation that shows emma and harriet as young women in a romantic hormone-fueled friendship. had spotify existed emma would be listening to ribs by lorde when she should be sleeping

#no but like. taylor-joy's emma is so interior #she hardly ever lets her emotions on the surface #u have to focus on her face to see how much she misses mrs. weston on her wedding day #harriet distracts her from her loneliness. she's so fucking lonely #and her relief at harriet refusing mr martin is more than her class snobbery and high hopes for harriet #she really does want to keep harriet for herself #to stay in the state of non-responsibility and indulgence with her dear friend #who truly loves and adores her #and mr knightley is the antithesis of harriet. he's responsible and worldly and wise #in order for emma to accept his proposal she has to let go of harriet in some part #bc knightley and harriet are 2 halves of her heart #and she has to heal the fracture by letting her best friend go to mr martin #it's a bittersweet threshold to growing up #which is why it's so sad emma and harriet don't stay friends in the book #childhood is truly over :(((#emma 2020 #emma

42 notes · View notes

inkandpen22 · 3 years

Text

Always a Ploy

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Female!Reader

Warnings: none

Word Count: 1.3k

Summary: Y/N is often used as a ploy to catch the perpetrators and it drives Spencer crazy

A/N: I’m always adding new one shots for Reid so if you’d like to be tagged lmk!

Masterlist

Y/N

I sway my head from side to side, playing music in my head to distract myself from the fact that I'm freezing. 'Stand and wait on the side of the house' Hotch ordered. 'I'll give you the go-ahead soon' he promised. Ten minutes later, Reid and I are still waiting for the said go-ahead. At least Reid gets to be in normal clothes for the desert at night. I'm yet again being offered up as a ploy and in Morgan's mind, a door-to-door saleswoman would wear a dress when the weather is supposed to be low sixties, the wind not included.

"Honey, you're killing me. Are you sure you don't want my jacket?" Reid offers again for the third time in the last five minutes.

"Yes." My breath escapes between my teeth. "I'm fine. Plus, we won't have much time once Hotch gives the signal." I shake my limbs to remain warm.

“Wait for my command," Hotch announces into our earpieces. "We lost sight of him in the window. We suspect he’s headed to the basement.”

I shake my head. “Screw this. I’m going in.”

“No, you’re not!”

“They’re children! One more minute with that monster is another minute of trauma!” I move to step around the house and toward the front door.

Reid slips his gun back onto his belt and grabs my wrist to stop me. He yanks me back and pins me against the cool wooden panels of the house. I open my mouth to argue and he covers my mouth. He whispers frantically, “Baby, baby, listen to me. I can’t let you in there!" I wiggle in his hold. “Stop fighting me.”

“Y/N, you may proceed," Hotch announces, giving me the go-ahead.

Reluctantly, Reid has no choice but to let me go. His hand falls from my mouth slowly, but he keeps me pinned and stares into my eyes warningly. “Don’t do anything reckless!"

I smirk and slip out from under him. “You should know me better than assume I’d listen.”

“Y/N, I’m serious!” He whispers, aggravated.

“So am I." I send him a wink as I step out from beside the house.

The lights from the living room pour out of the window onto the dry dirt yard. I take a minute a toss my hair to one side and yank the dress down to reveal more of my chest.

Spencer

I watch from the shadows as Y/N adjusts herself to speak with the suspect. I hate it when she does this. I understand that Hotchner and everyone agrees that it works, but their opinions don't make any less uncomfortable. My own girlfriend is being used as a ploy, expected to flont herself to earn the trust of serial killers or rapists.

Morgan appears beside me and squeezes my shoulder. “Don’t get hostile, Boy Genius.”

“She’s doing it on purpose,” I grumble, gesturing to Y/N.

“I know, I know.” He sighs. "But she's just doing her job. It's all pretending to her too," he assures me. "She's into you, man."

Y/N

I ring the doorbell and rock on my heels, making the panels of the porch creak. Suddenly, the door swings open to reveal a worn-down middle-aged man in dirty overalls.

“I don’t want to join any religion," he grumbles. He goes to slam the door shut, but I block it with my hand.

“Neither do I,” I voice softly with a smirk. I step forward to stand on the threshold. “But maybe you’d like to sit down and talk about your finances? Have you been keeping track of where you’ve been putting your... assets?” I scan the man up and down with my eyes until I meet his gaze.

Spencer

As we listen to Y/N flirt with the suspect, Morgan chuckles quietly next to me.

I elbow him in the stomach. “It’s not funny.”

“She sounds like Jessica Rabbit,” he jokes, only irritating me more.

There's creaking on the porch, followed by the front door squeaking shut. He's let her in.

Y/N

The place is an utter wreck. There have to be at least a dozen cats, hundreds of old newspapers scattered everyone, and it smells of feces. I sit down on the worn and ripped plaid couch next to the old man. I wear my best smile, though inside I'm screaming.

“Now, let’s begin. What bank do you currently use?” I ask, gripping my fake leather finance binder.

The man shifts closer to me. “Chase.”

I note now that he's missing at least five teeth. I nod. “They are great to their members, but we something broader... larger in size," I chose my words intentionally.

Abruptly, there's a high-pitch scream from within the house, making both of us freeze.

“What was that?” I ask, searching the surrounding area.

“My daughter is upstairs playing!" He rushes out and scoots closer to me. Boldly, he places his hand on my bare knee. "What was that you said about size?” He grins and begins to glide his hand up slowly.

I swallow hard, my eyes on his hand. I try to ease it off. “Sir, please-“

He lifts his hand off my knee and brings it to my shoulder. He tries to urge me to lay down. “Come on, sugar. I’ll pay you for your time. Your supervisor won’t have to know.”

I reach underneath my dress and whip out my gun, pointing it directly between his eyes. “FBI, down on the ground!”

His eyes grow wide and his jaw nearly hits the floor. “What!”

The S.W.A.T. team barges into the house, all yelling over each other. They march deeper into the house and into the basement where we know the children are. Hotchner appears in the foyer with Reid and Morgan. Soon, Prentiss and JJ are close behind.

Reid yanks the man off of me and tosses him onto the ground on his knees. He handcuffs him and pulls him to his feet. “No means no, asshole!”

“She was asking for it," the suspect huffs as he's dragged off toward the foyer.

Reid laughs mockingly. “Doubtful consider she just has to go to me for that."

Morgan kneels in front of me. “You okay?”

I nod weakly. “After every time I just feel gross.” I shake out my arms with a shiver.

“He’s a disgusting man. I’m sorry he touched you.”

“Part of the job.” I shrug. “At least I know how to defend myself. There are so many women who don't."

Morgan nods. "Maybe you can take your experiences and help those women."

Now there's an idea.

__________________________________________________

I lean against the car with JJ and Prentiss as the S.W.A.T. team and members of C.P.S carry the little girls out of the basement and into ambulances. It's a bittersweet sight. Morgan and Reid step out of the house once the last child is removed. Morgan pats Reid on the back with a chuckle as they approach us.

As soon as they reach us, Reid takes my hand and leads me to a tree a few feet away from the car. When we have some privacy, he starts to apologize. “Look, I’m sorry for what I did. I shouldn’t have grabbed you and covered your mouth. I didn’t know-“

I cut him off, reaching up and bringing my lips to meet his with a quick peck. His hands rest on my waist and I break from him.

He blinks rapidly, taken aback. “I thought you’d be mad.”

“Oh I was pissed in the moment. Now, it’s just hot," I grin, wrapping my arms around his waist.

He smirks. “Noted.”

“I didn’t know you could move so quickly, Reid,” I giggle. “And what you said to the perpetrator when you arrested him!”

He chuckles, “yeah I may have been a little heated in the moment. In my defense, he did touch you! Okay, that was not a part of the plan!”

“I appreciate the protectiveness,” I assure him with a laugh.

He glances down at the small space between us and the smile on his lips fades slowly.

I can tell there's something on his mind.

“About your performance...” He mumbles.

“Didn’t like it?” I ask, knowing how he hates it when I have to be a ploy.

He nods frantically. “Yeah, never again," he orders.

“Deal.” I nod, giving his lips a quick peck again.

He smiles into the kiss. “Well, never again for anyone else," he adds against my lips, making me grin. He breaks from me to ask, "Do you think maybe tonight you and I could talk about my assets?”

I swat him on the arm. “Reid!”

He chuckles, "you're right. We'll talk about this when we get home."

I roll my eyes and they land on our teammates by the car as they watch us go back and forth, smiling brightly.

_____________________________________

Masterlist

Tags: @mrsobrien888 @hufflepufftruffle @gillybear17 @thatsonezesty13 @smol-flowerkiddo @reesespieces10123 @madds-m @az3r0o @wafflebacon23 @spencerreid-mgg @alfonsais @justlivinginadaydream @kaitlynpcallmebeepme @farah3012 @doveygirlkay-blog @dreatine @imhappybutimalsosad @parahmur @tremendousdinosaurhideout @destiny-dream67 @ashwarren32 @yeahjustcallmer-n @bluehydrangea-cherry @izzysecrets

#criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds imagine #criminal minds #spencer x reader #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid x reader #derek morgan #spencer reid smut #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid

458 notes · View notes

hollandsmushroom · 3 years

Note

please can u do super fluffy blurb or oneshot about boyfriend tom coming home after a long time shooting and the reader and him are both crying and hugging and are just so in love :,)

Home Again || T.H.

Warnings: None just pure tooth rotting fluff

Word CountL 1,159

You hadn’t seen Tom in months, the lack of his presence weighing heavy on you as all you wanted was to be held by him, to be in his arms and loved wholly and truly but that was not something that you could have, Tom was thousands of miles away from you, doing the thing that he loved, yet that didn’t make it any easier for either of you. The time without Tom had extended so many days that your body had become accustomed to sleeping without Tom's arms around your waist, something that you never thought you would ever be comfortable with and you truly weren’t, it had just become a little easier, something that Tom knew and didn’t love. Tom never wanted you to sleep bad, he never wanted you to be uncomfortable but when you stopped mentioning that the bed felt wrong without him, it was something so bittersweet for him, he wanted you to need him, wanted you to want him, and he knew that you did but sometimes it is hard to grapple that someone could live just as happily without you as they did with you. The thing that Tom didn't know was that every morning you still reached out for his body, your hand disappointingly landing on his cold and untouched pillow, the smell of him having faded long ago, and there was no other way to describe the sensation of waking up without him than as being incorrect.

There was one good thing about distance, reunions, there truly was nothing like reuniting with the man that you loved after he had been away for so long, it was something so purely filled with love and adoration, a feeling that bubbled inside of you as you stood at the gate Tom was supposed to be coming out of, dressed still in your pajamas as you had hauled yourself out of bed far earlier than you would have liked, but it was worth it to be there to pick Tom up, it was necessary for both your hearts to see each other as soon as it was physically possible, if you could wait at the end of the of the jet way you would. If this were any other moment then you would be absentmindedly scrolling through your phone to pass the time but this wasn’t any other time, you were waiting for the love of your life and you were doing it attentively, watching the doorway with eager eyes until you finally say your boy. He was dressed in his flying clothes, sweatpants and a simple black t-shirt, shrouded in a sweatshirt, he looked adorably sleepy, his hair was ruffled and he just looked adorable. The sight of him made you freeze, it had been so long without him that finally having him with you seemed nearly unreal, something that you would dream while clutching his pillow to your chest. Everything started moving again when he looked up, his eyes locking on you and a massive smile spreading across his cheeks as he picked up his pace, taking to a slow jog as you broke into a full sprint running towards him.

“Tommy!” you cried out as you engulfed him in your arms, hands flattening on his muscular back as you pulled him as close as possible, his arms wrapping tightly around your waist as his fece squared up in front of yours, he was silent but there were tears shimmering in his eyes as he examined your face, drawing his hands from your back to your face, cupping your cheeks as he brought his lips to yours muttering your name softly and over and over again as if he is used to having it roll of off his tongue once again. His lips were soft on yours, a familiar sensation that you had missed so much more than you could manage to put into words.

“Y/n” he uttered once again as he pulled away from your lips, cheeks soaked with saline as he choked on your name.

“Tom” you blubbered out, how long had you been crying? It didn’t matter, you were with Tom once again and that is all that mattered.

“Can we go home, Y/n, I just wanna go home with you, baby” he was clutching onto you, hands holding so tight as if he didn’t you would slip away and he would be halfway around the world, as far as possible from you, just him and his broken heart.

“Yes, Tommy, yes let's go home, let's go home and go to bed” you assured, your hand clutching his cheeks and wiping away the tears as they fell, his hands doing the same for you.

The whole car ride home your hands were intertwined over the center console, the only words uttered were soft assurances of love accompanied by gentle squeezes of the hand, sometimes devolving into the both of you rapidly trading squeezes back and forth until you fell into giggles. You exchanged kisses at stop signs and red lights, any opportunity.

Tom dropped his bags on the floor as soon as you passed the threshold, taking your hand in his and leading you up to your shared bedroom, pulling you down into your unmade bed(you had left in a rush to make sure you got to the airport on time), his arms wrapped around your waist as he pulled you close to him, the contentment pulling a deep sigh from his chest as you nuzzle against him slightly.

“The bed wasn’t the same without you” you sighed, eyes fluttering closed as you inhaled his scent. “Don’t sleep well without you” your words had Tom confused, hadn’t you said it had gotten better?

“I thought you said you were sleeping better” his hand brushed lightly up and down your back.

“I know what I said” you whispered, slightly ashamed of what you were admitting “I lied because I didn’t want you to worry and feel bad about being gone”

“I don’t like it when you lie to me” he pouted at you, poking your cheek

“I don’t like it when you’re gone” you sigh, cuddling deep into his chest, lips brushing over his neck.

“Then come with me next time” he offered, a suggestion that you had both played with before but decided it was just too much, but after this stretch of being away maybe the distance was the thing that was too much.

“Okay, I will come with you next time” you said it so casually that it made Tom tuck his chin back in shock, looking down at you to find you already looking back at him.

“Really?” his hand brushed over your cheek as he waited for your response.

“Yes, that whole ‘distance makes your heart grow fonder’ thing is bullshit” you affirmed, your words making him laugh as you both fade to sleep, happily in each other's arms once again.

♡Taglist♡

@iluvdeja @quaksonhehe @lovehollandy12 @thollandneedy @prancerrparkerr @parkerpeter24 @hollandsour @evermoreholland @spidey-sophie @harmqnia @thehumanistsdiary @samaraaaaa @itscaminow @alinastarkrovs @marvelsbitch8 @celestialholland @kasidy409 @parkerdarling @scarletspideyy @capital-koreasofia @marvelhasmyheart235 @hackerholland @tom-softie @hollandsjen @tomhollandsbitch8 @bi-lmg07 @peterbarkerlmao @reawritesthings @tomsholland2412 @lowkey-holland @cocoamoonmalfoy @tomhollandlol

#tom holland reader #tom holland request #tom holland blurb #tom holland oneshot #tom holland one shot #tom holland fluff #tom holland imagine #tom holland x reader #tom holland #tom holland x reader fluff #tom holland blurbs #tom holland fic #tom holland fanfiction #tom holland fanfic

266 notes · View notes

danniburgh · 3 years

Text

Rushingly Bittersweet (Javier Peña x f!reader) part 24

Pairing: Javier Peña x ofc//f!reader with name.

Summary: After the fall of Escobar everything starts happening way too fast for Javier; his raise, his new office, his new team, the Cali cartel’s operation, the sudden arrival of a new agent that was transferred to his team for no apparent reason, the way he was falling in love with her almost unintentionally.

And he couldn’t seem to stop any of that.

Word count: +4.3k

Chapter warnings: feels, a lot of fucking feels

A/N: This chapter is set after season three. // SECOND TO LAST CHAPTER BITCHES (of the main story at least lol) this one was quite difficult for me, idk, DIALOGUE HEAVY so beware, i wanna thank @mouthymandalorian because she read half of this and gripped my shoulders, slapped me and told me it had substance, and @purplepascal042 bc she just makes me feel so sure of myself and this shitshow lmao and she gave us Carlos, i love you guys so much

ao3 // fic index // Masterlist // fic playlist

comments and reblogs are eternally appreciated 💓 let me know if you wanna be tagged

←previous // next→

gif: @pescopadral

Home.

He smelled like home.

“You stopped smoking?” you mumbled against his shoulder when you didn’t find traces of smoke on his shirt, Javier scoffed and gripped you tighter against him.

“Kinda.”

“Good, horrible habit.” you teased him and for the first time in five months, you heard him chuckle.

You let out a sigh and closed your eyes when his hands started roaming slowly through your back.

It was like you two never actually stopped hugging; you were marveled by the feeling of his hands in your body; they belonged there; it was as if his touch was meant only for you. He gripped and caressed you as if his hands had gone through a touch withdrawal. He fit there. You fit there.

“How long have we been hugging?” you teased and Javier scoffed again, a little harder, the warm air he let out clashing with the skin of your neck, it made you shiver and you smiled.

“Don’t know but don’t stop.” he replied softly, and you felt your smile growing, you opened your eyes and saw the way his body was curled against yours, almost wrapping it.

You turned your eyes to the dark sky and sighed again at the sight of the stars; they looked so close and so bright you were sure, in that moment, with him gripping you and anchoring you to the earth you had been walking alone for so long, you could reach them.

“I missed you.” you let out, your voice small, your tone warm, it made him smile.

“Yeah.” he moved his arms and stepped back from the embrace to look at you, his hands slid from your back to your waist and the hand that wasn’t holding the letter back to your face.

“Hi.” you whispered, the muscles of cheeks started to sting because of the smile you were holding.

“Hi.” Javier replied.

Your wandering hands moved from his shoulders to his arms, and then you cupped his face. He leaned into your touch as you studied his face and re-learned the features you had committed to memory, for later use or later torture, your brain struggling to grasp the fact that he was there, right in front of you; but he was, you were making sure of it as your fingers touched every single inch of his skin, Javier closed his eyes and sighed when the pads of your fingers slid through his forehead and slowly made their way to his mid brow, the perpetual frown you had met him wearing had disappeared.

“Open your eyes.” you whispered to him and he did without questioning, looking at you; there were the remnants of some unshed tears from earlier, but they were the same you had seen in between dreams, they were the same eyes you had craved for when you couldn’t hold yourself whole, when you couldn’t stand up straight, when you felt like your pieces weren’t being glued properly; and they were on you.

“What are you looking at?” he whispered his question as he moved his face closer to you. You smiled at him again as if you had stopped smiling at all, and you remembered that self-doubt that crept inside you all those months before when you wanted nothing more but to have him look at you like he loved you; your smile faded when you realized he was looking at you differently.

It wasn’t the same look he used to give you when he woke you up after spending the night together; it wasn’t the same way he looked at you across the office bullpen at the embassy in Bogotá; it wasn’t the same look you used to get when you said some horrible joke or a funny remark or a teasing comment or a snarky toned word.

But it wasn’t hard. His eyes were looking at you deeply, but you didn’t know what it meant.

“You.” you whispered your reply, and he smiled at you.

“Good.” he said and brought your face to his.

Javier’s lips took yours and he let out a sigh when he felt you kissing him back.

It was as if he never stopped kissing you.

He knew your movements; he knew you loved when his tongue brushed your lower lip, and how you sighed every time he opened his mouth slightly and took your lip again between his.

Every single thing fit; you there, standing in front of him; you there, in his arms; your lips between his lips, your hands touching his skin.

It felt right. It was right.

It was giving him everything he kept longing for when he listened to that tape with your voice; it was giving him the life he thought he wouldn't have anymore, the one he knew he didn’t even deserve.

Javier gripped you tighter against his chest and deepened the kiss. You let out a soft moan and he wanted to smirk; he still had the same effect over you as you had over him.

How could he have gone through life without your kisses? without your touch? without your essence lingering close to him?

With you there, it felt like there was no time in Javier’s life where you weren’t present in some way.

You just crept inside his body and his heart and his mind and you stayed there.

“Let’s get inside.” he muttered against your mouth, you breathed in deeply as he stepped away from you and grabbed your hand.

“Are you sure?” you said, looking at him. Javier frowned.

“Yeah, I just asked you to stay.” he tugged at your hand and pulled you softly towards the house.

You bit your lip and followed him to the house. There was a feeling nagging at your chest you recognized as that self-doubt that you thought you had left inside the glove box of your car and you tried to breathe it away.

The door was still open, and you took then a moment to look around; having been busy crying the first time you walked inside; immediately to the left there was a big archway that led to a dining room that looked simple and comically unused, stiff and almost out of character; straight to the front there was that archway you had seen Chucho disappear into the kitchen and the living room was fairly big; mostly occupied by a dark couch that looked more loved that any other piece of furniture there with a wood, cluttered console table almost protecting the back and two red armchairs on the sides, a sharp-edged coffee table between them that held a few wood figurines on the surface and a big fireplace that filled the opposite on wall; and the free spaces on the walls were filled with pictures and framed newspaper clips with both Chucho and Javier, some of them were in spanish; there were books resting on almost every surface: the fireplace mantelpiece, a cornered bookshelf behind a lamp, an end table next to one of the armchairs.

On the wall above the fireplace there was a mounted alligator gar fish you actually stopped to look at.

“What?” Javier turned to look at you, following your gaze and standing up straighter.

“Did your dad–‌”

“Yeah,” he cut you off. You looked at him and saw him with his proud smirk adorning his face “Carlos has been here since I was a kid,” he explained and you snorted “what?”

“His name is Carlos?” you asked between a tight laugh that helped ease you in, he nodded a few times, enjoying the sound of your laugh so close to him instead of in his mind “you named him, right?” Javier smiled and shook his head.

“My mom did.” he replied. Your laughter stopped, and you scrunched up your nose.

“Sorry.” you muttered almost cautiously. Which he noticed.

“Don’t do that.” he stepped close to you.

“Do what?” you asked him, widening your eyes as if he had caught you stealing Carlos.

“Loosen up,” his hand slid from your hand up your arm and rested on your shoulder, he squeezed it softly and kneaded the flesh a few times “you’re not with a stranger.”

“But you are.” you replied in a whisper before you could stop yourself, Javier licked his lower lip and cupped your face with both hands, leaning to leave a soft kiss on your mouth.

“Am I?” he turned around and kept guiding you through the house.

You frowned at his response. Did he forget? It was as if the hug you had shared a few minutes before had made him forget the entirety of the time you didn’t even talk and you started feeling anxious about it. You didn’t like not knowing, and even when he turned left into a hallway which was filled with more framed pictures of him and his dad and some older pictures of him with more people; you felt the urge to ask him if there was something else hidden behind that smile you loved, but you weren’t expecting to receive.

You crossed the threshold of a room you immediately recognized as his; it smelled like him; the bed was poorly made and there was a thick brown book resting on top of the left pillow.

“You sleep here,” he said. You looked at the bed and turned to him “I’ll take the couch.”

“Are you crazy?” you shook your head “this is your room, I can sleep on the couch I don’t care.”

Javier stood there for a moment, not looking at you, he sighed heavily and walked to sit on the edge of the bed, dropping the letter on the nightstand.

“What the fuck are we doing?” he mumbled, leaning to rest his arms on his knees and his face on one hand.

“What do you mean?” you stood where he left you and fidgeted with your unoccupied hands.

“We’re dancing ‘round each other,” he scoffed, shaking his head, “why?” he asked as he turned his head to gaze at you.

You didn’t move but took his eyes in and the way he was looking at you that was hauntingly different from the ones you were used to get from him.

“I don’t know,” you sighed out, dropping your eyes to the carpeted floor as you tried to analyze your own feelings “I feel like…” you started and saw him out of the corner of your eye shift on the bed towards you “I don’t deserve this, y’know?” your eyes were stuck to the fibers of the carpet and you felt his brown gaze on your body as you tried to put the mess of feelings that was churning inside your gut into words “I don’t know why you’re taking me in, why do you want me to stay?”

Javier saw you lift your face to him and he sighed when he saw your eyes filled with tears again, he stood from the bed and all but strode to you, his hands immediately found their home on your waist and he shivered at the way you sighed when you felt him close to you.

“You forgot what I did to you?” you asked, your eyes on him and Javier felt your eyes staring deeply inside him.

“No,” he replied “but you’re here, you’re here when I thought I’d never see you again,” he shrugged slightly and you shook your head “and we can work all this out.” he let out on a breath.

“Work this out?” you questioned in a whisper, Javier nodded “we haven’t seen each other in five months, wha–‌what does work this out mean?”

Javier gulped and realized he didn't know exactly what it meant.

And you were there, having doubts about the whole ordeal already.

“You don’t know, do you?” you asked him as your hands slid up to his chest and he shook his head no twice.

“Look,” he whispered out, trying to get you closer to him “I’ve been trying to process everything, and…” he pursed his lips trying to find the words inside his head, “and I realized none of it matters to me anymore.” he muttered.

You looked at him hesitantly, Javier recognized the insecure look in your eyes from earlier and from the last days you two had shared in Bogotá.

He hated that you weren’t saying anything; he despised not knowing what you were thinking because your face wasn’t giving him any hints; it was blank, and there were just jots and iotas of what looked like random emotions to him. He wanted to ask, but he knew you had to think about everything as well.

The silence was warm and heavy with anticipation and doubt, and he wanted nothing else but to light up a cigarette and cover it with nicotine smoke.

He was holding your body; his hands resting on your waist as his thumbs smeared the fabric of your shirt around your skin. You were there, but you weren’t.

“Where did you go?” he asked, his deep timber low and intrigued.

You doubted a bit, biting your lip as you formed your abstracts into shapes inside your head, he looked so sure of everything; he looked at you like you were the one that hung the bright stars on the dark sky you were wishing to grasp minutes earlier, and you felt it wrong.

“It doesn’t make sense,” you mumbled out, to nothing and to the heavy silence and to yourself, Javier narrowed his eyes “I hurt you,” you said, nodding once, as if emphasizing it “I lied to you,” you nodded again and Javier mimicked the action “I hid things from you bu–‌but I’m here, for some reason?” you shrug your shoulders in confusion and Javier huffed, frustrated.

Javier wasn’t sure of what the future looked like for either of you, but he understood that doubt you were letting out, he had felt it for a long time and he wanted to get rid of it; he remembered your earlier words of seeking closure, and he imagined how confusing it must be.

He wanted to show you how much you were wanted, but knowing you, he had to say it out loud.

“Let’s talk,” he muttered “we’re not talking, and we need to,” you blinked a few times while his words sank into you, you nodded and let him guide you to the bed, he gestured for you to sit and he sat next to you on the mattress “but first I need you to stop walking on eggshells.”

“I’m not walking on eggshells.” you furrowed your brow.

“Yes you are,” he whispered, leaning his face to you “you're hesitating, where is that woman that called out my shit as she saw it?”

You dropped your eyes to the floor and felt them fill with tears, Javier pinched your chin lightly and moved your head for you to see him.

“I have no idea where she is, Javi,” you muttered as two tears escaped from your eyes, he brushed them off with his other hand, “I think she left, or maybe she never existed,” you sniffed “I have no idea who I am.”

Javier looked into your watery eyes and, as more tears slid through your cheeks, he understood another nuance of you, the weight of what the two of you had lived, together and on your own, not only harmed him. It harmed you too in more than one way; and he had been blinded by his own pain that he just didn’t think about yours.

“Let me tell you who you are,” he said “you are a smart woman, that fears nothing and if she does she doesn’t let anyone know it,” his hands cupped your face as more tears fell “you are funny,” the corner of his mouth lifted and you scoffed “and you’re beautiful in a way I don’t understand,” his thumb started drawing small circles on the skin of your cheek “you put up with me and I don’t know how, I’m the most difficult bastard I know,” he let out a soft chuckle and you smiled at him “you are restless and brave…”

“I’m not.” you shook your head, Javier brushed your lips closed with a thumb.

“Strong and driven, so damn stubborn you just refuse to look at what I’m doing.” he let out.

“What?” you frowned again in confusion and Javier smiled softly at you.

“I hugged you,” he muttered and mimicked the nodding of his head you directed to him before “I kissed you, I escorted you personally to my room and you still think I don’t want you here.”

“I don’t deserve it.” you whispered against his thumb.

Javier looked at you and tried to dig up with his gaze the feeling that was keeping you from being that woman he had fallen in love with; your tear-filled eyes that looked at everything and at nothing at the same time, your trembling lower lip, your hushed voice tone that was so different and so far away from that tone you commanded and demanded respect with when he met you.

He found it ironic how much the tables had turned in so little time.

“You’re right,” he let out, dragging his thumb from your lips to your cheeks “we don’t deserve it,” he shook his head a few times “this?” he aimed his head around and sighed “it’s too good for both of us,” you nodded and rolled your eyes slightly, he was right, “but I think we’ve earned the right to be selfish, don’t you?”

His words sank inside you like a pebble on a calm lake and eased little by little that uncontrollable cyclone that were your emotions; how was he so right?

“Who are you and what did you do to Javier Peña?” you asked him, making him chuckle again.

“I’m me, baby,” he muttered, and you felt your breath hitch at the endearment “renewed and a bit patched up.”

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” you mumbled out, Javier took your head and made you look at him.

“I know, stop saying that, I know.” he sighed and leaned towards you, leaving another soft kiss on your lips.

“I think I’m gonna spend the rest of my time making it up to you.” you whispered against his lips and he smiled.

“The rest of it?” he teased. You bit your lip and nodded.

“Every minute.”

“You don’t have to,” he sat back and dropped his hands from your face, taking one of yours and gripping it tightly. His eyes fell to your intertwined fingers “just be here.”

“Javier,” you called out, and he looked at you “how do I know you won’t resent me for this?”

“You don’t,” he let out, you let out the air that was trapped in your lungs “I don’t either,” you saw him shrug and smirk at you “let’s just hope it doesn’t happen.”

“Fuck,” you chuckled out, he smiled at you and you sighed in relief “I love you.”

Javier’s face fell for the total amount to two seconds that felt like two hours when you saw his smile fade into a wide-eyed, surprised grin.

Your heart was beating at the rhythm of a racehorse’s gallop, but you didn’t take it back, you couldn’t, after showing him and after doing what you did, you couldn’t just erase it because it was true.

And saying it, to him, out loud, made your body feel as light as a falling leaf.

“Good to know,” he let out, his lips curving in a half open smile you had seen exactly once in all the time you knew him “because I love you too.”

As soon as he said it Javier took your hands and pulled you flush to his chest. A soft yelp escaped your mouth because of the force, and your arms instantly wrapped themselves around his shoulders. He hid his face inside the crook of your neck and you felt a shiver roam up and down your back when he inhaled you in.

“This’s nice.” his voice was muffled by your skin and the fabric of your shirt, you huffed.

“It is.” you whispered, laying your head on his shoulder and sighing again contentedly.

“Are you tired?” he asked without moving and you nodded “you wanna sleep?” he asked again and you nodded a second time.

“Will you sleep here?” you mumbled, closing your eyes as his essence and the warmth of his body mingled with yours and settled inside you.

“You want me to?”

“I’d love you to.”

Your phrase seemed to wake him up from the temporal slumber your embrace had put him into and he helped you stand up from the bed; he said nothing as he walked to his closet on the corner of the room, grabbed a white t-shirt and handed it to you.

“The bathroom is just getting out of the hallway, if you wanna change there,” he said with a slight shrug, and you let out a giggle, as if he didn’t know already every inch of your body “I’m serious.”

“I know you are.” you said, walking towards the black desk on the opposite corner of his room and leaving the t-shirt on the surface, taking off your shoes.

Javier rolled his eyes as he turned around and pulled down the bedsheets, he grabbed the book from the pillow to rest on his nightstand. He took the letter he had dropped there first and turned to find you taking off your jeans, already wearing his shirt.

You looked at him and gave him a soft smile as he walked towards the desk, opened one of the small drawers and tossed the letter inside.

“You should burn that.” you teased.

“Never.” he teased back, stealing another chuckle out of you. He walked around you towards his closet and started pulling off his clothes.

“I like that shirt.” you went to the bed and sat back on the edge. He looked down at the red fabric and then shook his head.

“‘S yours if you want it.”

“Mhm,” you hummed in feigned consideration “looks better on you,” he smiled as he slid the shirt off his shoulders, “you still sleep on the right side?” you asked, turning back to the bed, smiling as your eyes landed on his nightstand and recognized the book he was reading: Cien años de soledad… your copy.

“Yeah.”

“You stole my book.” you turned to him as he was finishing putting on pajama pants.

“What?”

“I lent you that book,” you pointed back at the nightstand with your thumb “you sneaky asshole,” you teased and he started laughing in silence, walking towards you “I’m gonna steal it back.”

Javier grabbed your hand from your lap and pulled you to stand up, his hands wrapped your waist as he stopped laughing and your hands landed on his naked chest.

“You were right, though,” he muttered, leaving a kiss on your cheek “I needed to read some fiction.”

“I still can’t believe you never read it.” you teased him, tracing his collarbone with your fingers.

Silence fell upon you again as he rested his lips on the skin of your cheekbone. But, as most things that day, it turned back into a comfortable, lighter silence that was miles and miles away from the ones you had shared in Colombia.

Everything there was so different than it was before but you knew, deep inside, that it wasn’t a bad turn; and it made you think that maybe, the time you two spent apart, as horrid, painful and rough as it was; was needed.

He couldn’t seem to bring himself to stop touching you, his hands had missed the texture of your skin and the warmth of your body, Javier moved his hands only to let you lay down on the bed next to him, he turned off the lights and almost immediately, brought you back to him, your chest resting on his side, your head resting on his chest, the skin on skin contact was doing wonders to him and he knew he wouldn’t need anything else as long as you gave him permission to touch you.

“They offered me México.” he mumbled out, breaking the tranquil, dark silence you were snuggling under as his hand rested on your rib side.

“What?” you asked, turning your head on his chest to face him.

“After Cali, when I resigned, they offered me México.” he said, you frowned.

“That’s ironic.”

“Yeah.”

“You would’ve hated it.” you said, your fingers tracing shapeless figures on his skin.

“Why?”

“They made it a hellhole.” you shrugged slightly and his chest rose with the deep breath he took.

“Would’ya ever tell me ‘bout your time there?” he asked softly, bringing you closer to him.

“Yeah, at some point,” he hummed in response, “your dad called me Florecita.”

“Uhm, yeah.” he let out.

“Why? you didn’t tell him my name?” you asked him softly.

“I did… but the nickname kinda stuck.” he huffed. You squinted to study his features in the dark and saw him smirk.

“You called me that, right? when you talked to him?” you questioned teasingly “is that the nickname you gave me?” he nodded, and you rolled your eyes.

“You don’t like it?” he teased back.

“I mean…” you hesitated, knowing he’d tease you “I kinda do,” he laughed, and you slapped his pectoral softly “shut up.” you hid your face in his chest.

“Ay, mi florecita.” (my little flower)

“Don’t call me that.” you said in fake chastisement and he kissed the crown of your head.

He chuckled and the soft movement of his chest and the sound of his silent breathing lulled you to sleep.

For the first time in months, you fell asleep with ease.

That night Javier slept better than he had in ten years.

←previous // next→

*ABOUT CARLOS*

pedrito's perma list: @queenofthefaceless @northernpunk @pascalesque @sleep-tight1 @cheekygeek05 @bii-aan-ckaa @letaliabane @starlightmornings @mouthymandalorianalso @supernaturalgirl @metalarmsandmanbuns @purplepascal042 @asta-lily @greeneyedblondie44 @missswriter @juletheghoul @pedro-pastel @agirllovespancakes

Javi's babies: @pulplorrd

RushBit tag list: @shestillwrites-blog @absurdthirst @alliterative-albatross @thoughtfulpandawasteland @wifeofdindjarin @lank-sextburg @the-ginger-hedge-witch @helloannbananalove @diogodxlot @pascalslittlebrat @sarahjkl82-blog @pedritobalmando @a-court-of-feysand-and-elorcan @mamacitapascal @dobbyjen @callsigncatfish @feminist-violinist @jasmincita @pascalove @eury-dice3 @gingaahhhh @athalien @girlimjusttryingtoreadfanfics

#javier peña #Javier Pena #javier peña x reader #javier peña fanfiction #javier peña fanfic #narcos #narcos fanfic #narcos netflix #Pedro Pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #Jose Pedro Balmaceda Pascal #pedro pascal characters #rushingly bittersweet tag

193 notes · View notes

the2headedcalf-archive · 3 years

Note

What being non-binary and religious feels like for me:

I am beyond this body. I am transcendent. I am the burning bush and the splitting sea, the six wings with multiple eyes. I am holding the hands that crafted Adam of dust and Eve of bone. I was given a hammer and nails and told to build. I grabbed my hand, set a nail upon its palm, and built.

I grew up and with each passing age and my shifting, bleeding hands, each undertaking a different phase of my construction. I have molded myself out of everything holy and everything strange. A liminal space. A threshold. A transitional cavity. Nothing that lives here is permanent. We are all leaving.

That is my promise.

We are all living.

Despite what others may say.

When asked why God made me the way I am, I respond , “So that I may know creation as deeply as he does. So that I may be holy.”

I show them the holes in my palms.

We are not born over and done with.

Children see my hands and bring me to their mothers for healing kisses, and young women bring me band-aids they keep in their purses. A doctor brings me some gauze. But I explain to them, softly, because all things must be soft here, that I am not wounded. These holes are where I build.

A false priest averts his eyes, but cannot stop the small smile God emanates when he witnesses my hands. How he loves those hands. Of course he does. He helped make those hands.

What bittersweet joy from a father to watch their child grow.

Strangers with similar hands hold mine until our blood blends into each other. It is the closest I have felt to family in a long time.

Do not be sad for me, and think me confused, but rejoice! For I have holes in my hands and have made you a promise.

We are all living.

this is really beautiful, thank you for sharing 🥰 is it from somewhere?

#asks #exactly how i feel about God as well

68 notes · View notes

handlewithkara · 3 years

Text

I have always thought a Kara/Legion ending made perfect sense, regardless of whether Karamel are defined as romantic on the show before it happens.

Superhero shows that get a choice about the fact that they are ending want some sort of big, transformative thing to happen at the end. Whether it is Clark getting married on Smallville or Oliver dying and being resurrected on Arrow.

Kara literally stepping into a new world/future/cause fulfills that.

It also serves as a nod to various comic book incarnations of the character.

It is a better ending than death, because the message is that she is still out there fighting, saving people. It stresses her importance, she is called to the future while being more than just retaining the status quo. Her stepping into the future is literally a threshold moment.

It’s an appealing scenario for writers because Kara moving on from her home in time mirrors the fact that Melissa is moving away from the show. They get to write the characters saying goodbye to each other the way the writers and actors say goodbye to the job they have had for such a long time.

I also think that the writers love Nia and they love the idea of the show ending with her the being the Champion and Protector of Nationl City, that it is a compliment to her that Kara leaves the city in her hands.

I have always had my eye on Andrea and Lena and yes, I absolutely count on the idea that they will “end up together”. Now I actually don’t think that the show will define it as romantic. But to me beefing up Andrea and Lena’s friendship and connection makes a ton of sense with a Kara leaving ending. People have always claimed that Kara can’t leave for the future because she can’t abandon her friends. See, I feel like this argument has always read to me like it is slyly about Lena because Lena is the character who has been portrayed as being emotionally clingy and needy.

Nia is not going to collapse without Kara. Nia is capable. She has gone through her “apprenticeship” with Kara, she is ready to say goodybe to Kara and to take responsibility on her own.

I get the vibe that the writers insofar agree about Lena and Lena’s abandonment issues that it would be sad if “her only friend” left. But Kara isn’t Lena’s only friend anymore. Lena now has a bigger variety of friends and she was given Andrea as a more personal friend. So when the ending comes and the question is asked where all the characters end up, then Lena’s answer is “oh, she and Andrea are out and about, traveling, having adventures.” Lena is not alone. She isn’t being abandoned. She has Andrea with her. (again, I don’t think the show will cast them as romantic/sexual, but their stories will still end up together)

Which leaves two people, Alex and J’onn. It is pretty clear that as far as the writers are concerned, Alex&Kara is the most important relationship to these characters.

But Alex is unselfish and Alex is strong. Yes, she and Kara have a close, sometimes close to co-dependant relationship. But the show has also always brushed against the idea of how it might be unhealthy for Alex’s life to be all about Kara. There is value too in Alex having her own “growing up” story, about being her own hero, about finally becoming a mother, about forming a family unit with Kelly. Alex will have a full life, as a hero with a family. Her goodbye with Kara will be tearful and meaningful, but it will releasing Kara with both of them looking forward to a happy future. (and let’s remember, nothing about Kara going to the future means on their level that Kara can never pop back in, it’s more like moving to a different city for a job, not vowing to never speak to Alex again).

J’onn is the interesting one. I don’t think that he has a stake in Kara staying, he hasn’t been portrayed as an emotionally needy character in their relationship, but it still begets the question where he ends up. I could see either an ending where he also goes with the Legion for some mission or where the stays behind to babysit the new champions of National City, Nia and Alex.

So the main open question to me is actually the fate of Brainia. Whether they will end on a goodbye with Nia as the protector of the city or whether he will stay a while longer for love. I could see either version, mostly based on how in love the writers are with the image of Nia standing alone and strong versus whether they think Brainia is too cute to break up.

In theory, a Legion ending could have any number of characters joining Kara in the future, J’onn, Nia, Alex, even Lena and Andrea, a case could be made for any or even all of them.

Still, I think the writers likely WANT those goodbyes as powerful, bittersweet, “cry along with the goodbyes, but with a hopeful eye to the future” ending, so I could expect at least an amount of characters to stay behind rather than it being “The Legion says it’s an emergency and everybody who is a hero jumps up and it ends with Kara putting together a team and declaring that they will SAVE THE FUTURE!”

But of course you never know ;)

#karamel #supergirl spoilers #supergirl season six

60 notes · View notes

ichigo-daifuku · 3 years

Text

See No Evil, Hear No Evil, Speak No Evil [3]

Fandom: Shall We Date?: Obey Me! Pairing: Diavolo/F!Reader Genre: Soulmate AU, Fake Relationship (?), Misunderstandings, Fluff, Angst, Smut

Synopsis: During a confrontation between Diavolo and a certain witch who harbors unrequited feelings for him, he declares his intention to ask you to stand beside him in reigning over the Devildom someday. You conclude only one logical explanation for the insanity he uttered: this is his way of discouraging the witch from being so persistent. Although clueless, you play along and become ‘lovers’ with him.

Inevitably, your existing attraction for Diavolo grows, but the distinction between truth and lies, the crisscrossed lines of the right and the wrong, and the question of what’s real and what isn’t, begin to plague your mind and stir up trouble for your relationship with him with each passing day.

Entangled within the woven threads of soulmates and a royal prophecy, this is the story of the Demon Prince and his future Queen: you.

1 | 2 | 3 Chapter 3: Speak No Evil Word Count: 5.6k

“Welcome, my lady.”

The staff at the Demon Lord’s Castle greeted you with dutiful bows. If they were surprised at the punctuality of your arrival, they showed no signs of it and ushered you inside. As per your previous visits, they were all cordial. Most of them even looked excited, and you felt a pang of guilt for deceiving them all this time.

Originally, the demon brothers had planned for your grand arrival with all seven of them escorting you to the ballroom. Due to your change of plans, however, you made excuses and admitted you had matters to discuss with Diavolo before the celebratory ball, intentionally leaving out any specifics. You persuaded them by divulging your plan of handing Diavolo the baked goods you prepared as a gift. In the end, the demon brothers reluctantly relented. You patted yourself on the back for remaining firm despite your gratitude for the Seven Rulers of Hell. It was a difficult feat to accomplish.

The day after your conversation with Solomon, you headed to town and purchased an outfit for the celebratory ball on your own rather than using those hanging on the racks of the prophesied Queen’s closet at the Demon Lord’s Castle. It was the first step in your departure from your role as the faux Queen. While browsing at one of your favorite boutiques, you found a red embroidered evening gown that completely covered your back and was zipped from the side. It was simpler than any of the formalwear in the Queen’s closet, but it wasn’t as if you would be at the party to impress anyone nor enjoy yourself.

It would be the last time you would pretend to be Diavolo’s other half. After this event, everything would be over.

A bittersweet feeling flooded your chest, but when you looked back at the moments you shared with Diavolo, you were unable to deny the truth to yourself: you’d do it all again if you could.

Your high heels click-clacked on the polished floor as you approached Diavolo’s study. Before anything else, you peeked inside and only entered the room once you found it empty. You shut the door and went over to his desk. The kisses you shared with him the other day were still fresh in your mind. In a span of a few days, your circumstances with him had completely changed. It was strange to stand in the same place with that realization gnawing at your gut.

Gingerly, you set the pastry box on Diavolo’s table, pulled a sticky note from his tall stack, and wrote a short thank you note for him. A small sense of finality washed over you as you signed your name and placed it on the box. It was cowardly of you to give him your gift like this, but once you’d told him you’d end this charade with him, he might decline it. You were already hurting, and as much as possible, you wanted to lessen the impact of his rejection.

After leaving his study and roaming around the castle, Diavolo remained nowhere in sight. You took a wild guess and went to the gazebo, a tinge of dread in your steps when you found out you were right. As tall and regal as he was during the first time you saw him, he stood and gazed at the lake, its tranquility one with its beholder.

“Diavolo,” you called.

“Hello there.” He turned his head to look at you, his lips breaking into a smile. “You’re beautiful.”

“Thank you,” you replied and moved forward, taking in the sight of him in formalwear. “You look great, as always.”

“You flatter me.”

“It’s the truth.” Once you reached the gazebo, you stayed at the threshold, ready to leave once you had said what you needed to tell him. “By the way, I left something for you in your study.”

“A gift?”

“That’s right. Some pastries. I baked them myself.”

“Let’s eat them together later. We can have our own after-party.”

“No, I made them for you. And we’ll get full at the banquet, won’t we?”

“There’s always room for dessert.” He laughed at his own quip and gestured over the lake. “Why don’t you stand beside me? The view is quite splendid.”

“It’s fine. I can admire it from afar.” Unwavering, you remained rooted at your spot. The lake was majestic, but it wasn’t what you were here for tonight. You hid your shaky hands behind your back and fiddled with your fingers, taking a deep breath as you returned your complete attention to Diavolo. “I have something to tell you. It’s important.”

“You can tell me anything, my princess.”

“I’m sorry, Diavolo,” you said, “but let’s end this.”

A long pause passed before he clarified with uncertainty, “The party?”

“Not that. I meant this—whatever’s between us—let’s end it.”

“What? Why? Have I done something to displease you?” Diavolo interrogated, his entire demeanor shifting into a panicked one. He stepped closer to you, but you retreated and exited the gazebo entirely. It dawned on him: his pursuit would cause you to fall further back. A grim expression on his face, he came to a halt and demanded, “Tell me.”

“No, Diavolo. Far from it,” you confessed with a sad smile. “You’re the Prince of the Devildom, and you’re the most wonderful man I’ve ever met.”

“If so, then what’s the problem?”

“I’m in love with you.”

“And?”

And? That’s all he has to say? you thought bitterly, hurt your confession warranted such a lackluster reaction. “I can’t keep doing this when there’s someone else meant to be by your side.”

Diavolo stiffened. “Someone… else…?”

“Yes. I can’t pretend to be the Queen in the prophecy anymore. I love you. A lot. And it’s hurting me, so please, let’s end this.”

Instead of replying, Diavolo kept quiet.

Unable to take his silence any longer, you averted your gaze and proceeded to wrap up the conversation. “I’ve said what I wanted to say. I’ll attend the party. You’re free to clarify this tonight or I can pretend to be your Queen one last time, whichever works for you. But please make sure to clear up the misunderstanding in the future.”

“You’re under the impression,” he paused and let out a laugh in an icy tone you’d never heard from him before, “that we’re pretending to be together?”

Chills ran down your spine. The question he uttered made you more nervous than you ever were tonight. Diavolo’s deep voice dripped with realization, incredulity, but most of all, rage.

You were in trouble.

“You’re right. There’s been a misunderstanding.” He let out a menacing laugh and strode in your direction. Instinctively, you attempted to put space between the two of you, but he grabbed your wrist and pulled you close to him, wrapping both of his arms around your waist so quickly you didn’t have the chance to step away and flee. “All the times you said you were happy, whenever you told me you were looking forward to seeing me, when you agreed we looked like a great couple, you weren’t lying.”

“I wasn’t,” you acknowledged, your tense body gradually going lax at his touch. The familiar scent of his cologne made your mind hazy as you breathed in. “I’ve been in love with you for a while now. I might have pretended to be your lover, but I’ve been true to you. That’s why we have to end this.”

“No.”

“No?”

“No.” Diavolo bent his head and whispered in your ear, “I never lie, did you know?”

You didn’t.

His words prompted your head to swirl with scenes of your interactions, one of them standing out among the rest.

“So, that day… when Maddi confronted us about the prophecy,” you paused, your eyes wide as you tilted your head to meet his gaze, “y-you meant every word you said?”

“Yes, you’re the one for me. The only one,” he declared, embracing you tighter. “Shall I prove it to you?”

Once the question left his lips, Diavolo’s eyes glowed, and the next thing you knew, the sights around you shifted from the gazebo to the Queen’s closet. He refused to let you go, and you were faintly aware you were in the corner of the room as your hips nudged the wooden edge of the grand vanity table. Fortunately, the surface was vacant since all the cosmetics remained in the drawers, or else they would have already toppled on the floor.

Diavolo asked, “Do you know what’s on your back?”

“How did you—”

“I saw. When we had breakfast together, during that day when you agreed to pretendto be my lover.” His fingers brushed the nape of your neck and slid down to your spine, his large palm resting over your back. “Do you know what’s written here?”

“My soulmark.”

“It’s more special than that.”

“How come?”

“Have you seen it?”

You shook your head. “I’ve never dared to. I don’t like it... and I’m… scared of it.”

“Do you like me?”

“I love you.”

“Are you scared of me?”

“No.”

“If that’s the case, there’s no need for you to dislike or be scared of your mark.”

As he had revealed to you moments ago, Diavolo never lied. You trusted him. If he was certain he was your soulmate, you had nothing to fear. “Okay, but I have to remove my dress, so if you will, the door is that way.”

Diavolo released you with a quiet laugh. A familiar mischievous smile played on his lips, he shook his head. Determinedly, he reasoned, “I can’t afford any more misunderstandings with you.”

Instead of leaving, he moved and settled down a few steps within your reach. He gave you free rein over the space in front of the mirror and crossed his arms, waiting.

Conceding, you sighed and shook your head in exasperation. There was no way you could convince him to leave. You raised your fingers to pull the zipper from your side, but the eyes trained on you were too intense, you almost turned—if not for the fact you’d still see him admiring your actions from the mirror which, strangely, felt more intimate. Averting your gaze, you stripped out of your evening gown. You thought of making your way to the chaise and laying down your outfit on it, but your hands felt too shaky, and your feet felt too cold. The crimson cloth slipped away from your fingers and pooled on the floor.

Donned only in your lingerie, you were exposed, and your back was ready for your revelation. Fear threatened you to put an end to this mess through flight, but your trust and affection for the man standing in front of you led you to fight this fear and face it head-on.

And then, on your own volition, you finally looked at what was imprinted on your back: the soulmark you once resented but now gave you hope and promise.

Once you saw it, you felt grateful for your unknowingly wise decision of hiding it from everyone who asked about it in the human world.

“No way…” you murmured, unable to tear your gaze from your back’s reflection.

Three numbers were written vertically over your spine:

6 6 6

Diavolo approached you, his arm moving past your waist and resting on the table. He tilted his head to the side, and like you, openly gazed at your soulmark’s reflection in the mirror. His fingertip traced over the numbers, one after another, earning a soft gasp from you. “You know what this means, yes?”

You did.

The Devil’s Number.

Devil.

Diavolo.

Speechless, you turned your face and stared at him, tears threatening to fall from your eyes.

“Do you honestly believe I could be this good at pretending to be in love with you?” Diavolo questioned and gave you a kiss on your forehead. “You think too highly of me.”

“Do you really… love me?” you whispered.

“Listen well, my princess,” Diavolo embraced you and stroked your hair. “I love you.”

Tears streamed down your cheeks, dampening his suit, but neither of you cared. “The prophecy…”

“It’s about you.”

“So, all this time…”

He sighed and grimaced. “Yes.”

“Are you still mad at me?”

“I am,” he said, releasing you to wipe your tears with his thumbs. “Don’t think I’m letting you get away with it.”

Diavolo cradled your cheeks and bent his head to kiss you. After you decided to break things off with him, you had accepted you’d never be as close to him as you were before, but here you were. Eyes closed, you basked in his affection, which you now know was true and meant only for you. Despite the anger he admitted to, the sensation of his lips on yours was warm and forgiving. When you wrapped your arms around his neck, pulled him closer, and deepened your kisses, the soft sigh that escaped his lips was all you needed to know he was relieved. It put him at ease that you loved him and weren’t going to leave him. It was a sentiment that mirrored yours.

Breathless, he leaned back and met your heated gaze. The crackling tension between the two of you grew from powerful to electrifying, a telltale sign of a singular ending to this encounter. It was a resolution you never dared to consider when you entered this castle tonight, but it was one you had no complaints about. He needed this—needed you—and you’d be damned if you were going to let this end like it did last time.

“Will you indulge me?” His fingers grazed your mark once more as he took the clasp of your bra between them and unhooked it in one go. “Rather, would you indulge in me, my princess?”

“Here? Now? The celebratory ball is going to start soon,” you teased, tugging his bow tie with your index finger and unfastening it.

“Our unfinished business is more important,” Diavolo reminded you, his suit jacket falling on top of your dress. You unbuttoned his shirt and brushed your lips on his collarbone, the tip of your tongue teasing his exposed skin. He sighed and continued, “You have no idea what you do to me. I’ve wanted you for so long, but it seems my feelings didn’t come across properly. I’ll make it so you’ll never have any doubts about us ever again.”

Diavolo guided you to sit on the dresser and began kissing your neck, freshening the faded lovebites he had made and adding more as he caressed your breasts with his palms and dragged his thumbs over your hardening buds. His ministrations were languid and tender, but every contact with his mouth and fingers left you squirming, eager for him to quicken his pace and pay attention to where you needed him the most.

“When you first arrived here, I just knew… I have to have you all to myself,” he confessed.

As his lips reached your abdomen, Diavolo went down on one knee. To you, he looked like a knight receiving an accolade from his monarch; as if the vanity table was your throne, and he was promising himself to you. Perhaps, it would be more appropriate to liken him to the prince who had finally found his elusive Cinderella. But perhaps not—as unlike that prince, he was removing your high heels and setting them aside. Desire and reverence filled his eyes as he tilted his head and stared at your bare form, your chest rising and falling in anticipation.

“Now, everyone’s going to know you're mine,” he vowed, hooking your panties at the side and sliding them down your legs, “including you.”

Your mouth parted in a soundless groan as Diavolo kissed the inside of your knees.

“What do you say, my princess?”

Anticipation pooled at the pit of your stomach. A slow, coquettish smile made its way on your lips. Above all else, you wanted him to know you were eager for this as much as he was—that you desired him as much as he desired you. You raised your legs and beckoned him closer by spreading them and letting your calves and feet rest over his wide shoulders. “Show me.”

He smirked, pleased with your answer. Wordlessly, he kissed and nipped at the sensitive flesh of your inner thighs. Tilting his head lower, his warm breath ghosted over the apex of your legs, his lips hovering over your sex. The first swipe of his tongue was gentle. He let you familiarize yourself with the sensation before he licked you where it was the most pleasurable. When he did, the sharp inhale you took didn’t escape his notice. He knew what he was doing, flicking his tongue and sucking at that little bundle of nerves with the right amount of pressure, in the way you never knew you wanted it. His index and middle finger over the sides of your entrance, his tongue plunged inside you. It triggered a sudden movement of your hips, but he held you in place and steadied you with his other hand, his ministrations never faltering, coaxing a diminutive moan out of your lips.

“You hear that?” he murmured, pertaining to the sound the shallow thrust of his middle finger made. Those three words sent a pleasurable wave from his lips to your groin, making you curl your toes and your back arch against the mirror. “We’ve only just begun, and you’re already so wet for me.”

“Stop teasing me so much,” you whined. You reached out to brush his hair and thread your fingers between its strands, but at the quickening pace of his hand, you ended up tugging at his locks instead.

“It’s because you’re holding back,” Diavolo pointed out with a soft chuckle. He peered at your face and waited for your reaction as he added a second—and soon, a third—finger into the mix. “Let me hear you. I know you can be louder than that.”

Even if you wanted to subdue the gratified noises threatening to fill the room, you were helpless against his earnest pursuit of your peak. He pumped his fingers in and out of you over and over, making you cry out as you reveled in the sensation of your release. At a rhythmless pace, your hips shifted against his face once more, only this time he let you ride out and enjoy the most out of your climax.

Diavolo might be all refined, dignified, and gentlemanly, but now that you had brought out the lascivious side of him—the raw and sinful part of him he kept in the dark to many—he was relentless. He straightened his body and licked his damp lips, savoring your taste. It was a look that told you that there was more to come—that he had more to give.

Eyes bleary, you were faintly aware of it as Diavolo stood. You did likewise, albeit unsteadily, and allowed him to turn your body around. With a light press of his palm over your back, he inclined you downward. Your fingers grasped the edge of the table, and the vision of your flushed state connected with your eyes in the glass. Above your likeness, Diavolo’s reflection smirked at you. Then and there, your earlier thoughts about him admiring you from the mirror were proven correct: everything about this was intimate, enthralling, and insanely sensual.

Diavolo pressed his lips on the numbers on your spine, and your legs wobbled as you shivered. He held you by the waist, his torso perfectly fitting over your back as his other hand worked on his trousers and guided himself near your fluttering entrance, the tip touching you but not entering. His lips tickled your ear, and he dragged them across the lobe and tugged at it. With a soft but demanding voice, he urged you, “Say it.”

Still in a daze from your climax but covetous of another, you were ready to do whatever he wanted you to do. “Say what?”

“Say you’re mine.” He nudged his length between your sensitive folds. He felt so good, and you knew he was going to feel even better once he was inside you.

“I’m yours,” you vowed, shifting your lower half to sheathe him. “I’m yours—only yours! Now, please Diavolo!”

He was delivering what he had promised earlier, showing you how you were his. At the same time, you wanted him to show you he was yours, too. Yearning to be connected to him in some way, you turned your head to meet his lips with your own. Instead of replying with words, he slipped his tongue past your mouth and kissed you deeper. He gripped your hips and eased himself inside your core.

Startled, you pulled your lips away and faced forward with a soft gasp. Although you had an idea of his size and girth from your foreplay, he still felt more than you expected. He was only halfway in, and yet, you were already biting your lower lip to suppress a pleasured scream from coming out of you.

His pace was tantalizingly unhurried. Again and again, he drew back and thrust inside you—only to stop midway.

It was frustrating. You were capable of taking all of him, and you knew it.

“Harder,” you pleaded, “Do it harder… Please!”

With a kiss on your shoulder, he chuckled and replied, “As you wish, my princess.”

He gave you what you asked for and eased himself fully inside you. Once you accommodated his length, your eyes fluttered closed reflexively. Yes, this was it. This was exactly what you needed. Your breath hitched as he slowly drew back until his tip remained in your entrance, and in a second, he plunged inside you again. “Y-Yes, just like… like that.”

Diavolo groaned, increasing his pace. His fingers dug at your hips, and the erotic sound of skin slapping filled your ears. He leaned back and let out a low hum of appreciation as you took every inch of him perfectly. His voice strained and lacking its usual composure, he remarked, “Feels even better than I imagined.”

Well, damn.

The image of him touching himself to the thought of you was enough to make you shudder with arousal, but the pleasure of having him, in reality, was beyond any vision your mind could conjure up. You clenched around him, coaxing a grunt and a loud moan from his parted lips. He gritted his teeth and tightly shut his eyes, the rhythm he had set gradually turning rougher.

“Fuck!” you moaned, “Diavolo, I… I-I’m gonna—”

He sensed it. His pace refused to falter, and you reached your climax within seconds. You witnessed how much of a mess you turned to in the mirror, but you couldn’t care less. It was Diavolo who made you this way, after all. Your arms and legs gave out as you shuddered, but he readily caught you before you could fall to the ground.

Diavolo unsheathed himself from you and returned you to your seated position. He kissed your hair and shifted his lips near your ear. “More?”

“Y-Yes.”

Gently, he held one of your legs up and propped your ankle on his shoulder. His other hand clamped over your bent knee. He entered your slick heat, and this time, you were able to accommodate him at once.

“You’re taking me so well,” he praised, his golden eyes following the movement as he thrust in and out of you. “Good girl.”

For the third time tonight, he drove you over the edge, but your earlier climax caused your current race to the peak to be agonizing. You feel it dangling over you, but at the same time, it was out of your reach. Distressed, you exclaimed, “I can’t!”

“You can,” he countered, giving it to you harder, “and you will.”

The fervor in his promise remained inexorable, and the tremor in his voice hinted at his impending climax.

You grabbed his wrist and shifted your leg downward, determined. He realized what you were trying to do as you held your arms up and wrapped your legs around his hips. Chuckling, he lifted you up with ease and held you in his arms firmly. You threaded your fingers through his hair and kissed him. He gripped your thighs and slid you up and down his length, returning to the rough momentum you had moments ago in sought of the heat the both of you had built up.

Little by little, his pace turned uneven. His breathing was labored and warm against your skin.

“I want to see you come,” you told him. The familiar coil in your abdomen unfurling, your voice grew louder as you cried out, “Fill me up, Diavolo. You’re mine.”

As soon as you said those words, euphoria washed over every fiber of your being. This was the highest you’d ever felt, and you were certain no feeling could compare to this. No other being could compare to him. Diavolo was the only one for you.

In a split second, his jaw slackened and his eyes closed, groaning unabashedly and calling out your name. He continued thrusting inside you, never sliding out he chased his own peak. Trembling, he throbbed and filled you up as you asked, the warm and wet liquid dribbling down the inside of your thighs with his final thrust.

Panting, the two of you remained still as you came down from your respective highs.

It was you who broke the silence a few moments later. “I love you.”

He smiled and stroked your hair. “I love you too, my princess.”

The tender moment was shattered by the sudden increase of temperature on your back. Pain derived from your soulmark and spread over to your shoulders and hips. It rapidly grew hotter until it was sweltering. Your whole body felt as if it was on fire. You couldn’t take it any longer.

“Diavolo!” you cried, “My back—it’s burning!”

The touch of his bare skin was comforting, and somehow, his presence alleviated the agony. However, the invisible fire grew more intense. You could do nothing but let out a scream on his shoulder and cling to him.

Diavolo hooked one of his arms under your knees and carried you to the connecting bathroom. He placed you in the bathtub and made sure your head rested on the area gently. As the cold water rose and filled the tub, he caressed your forearm and held your hand reassuringly.

Your throat felt parched, you couldn’t say anything although you longed to.

He cupped your cheek and wiped the tears you were unaware you were shedding. “Shhh… It’ll be alright. I’m here. Don’t worry about anything. I’ll stay with you and...”

Before you could hear the rest of Diavolo’s words of comfort, everything had gone black.

Vivid visions of the past filled your dreams one after another. You had long heard of people having their life flash before their eyes before they pass away. Was this it? Were you dying? You hoped not. The images blurred and turned ambiguous as the heat you felt subsided.

And then, you returned to the waking world. Alive.

The cool wind from the open terrace doors nipped at your skin. Except for your exposed back, the rest of your body was warm, enveloped by the calming embrace of the man laying underneath you.

You slowly opened your eyes and blinked.

Diavolo turned his head to look at you. “You’re awake.”

Your fingers reached the fabric of the sleeveless nightdress you were wearing. Vaguely, you recognize it as one of the items in the closet next door. It was your first time wearing it.

“I dressed you. I hope you don’t mind,” Diavolo said.

“It’s fine.” You had shared more intimate moments to be embarrassed about something like that; it almost felt trivial. “Thank you for staying and taking care of me.”

“Of course.”

“What time is it?”

“Almost midnight. How are you feeling?”

Abruptly, you sat bolt upright. “Wait, what? And the celebratory ball?”

“It’s still ongoing, but you have nothing to worry about. More importantly, does your back still hurt?”

“No,” you replied after a brief pause, surprised at your own observation. You stretched your shoulders and bent your arm to reach over the small of your back to check. “It’s as if nothing happened.”

“Something did, actually. Something very important,” Diavolo informed you, his tone full of seriousness. “Your mark changed.”

“What do you mean it changed?”

It was the first time you heard of a soulmark morphing into another shape or form. Appearances of soulmarks were rare enough. As you mulled it over, however, you were quick to overcome the disbelief. When all was said and done, you and Diavolo were far from a regular pair of lovers.

Diavolo sat up and took your hand in his. “Come, look.”

The spark of excitement and delight in his demeanor piqued your curiosity. His eagerness, though contagious, was patient. He led you to the bathroom at the pace you were most comfortable with. Given the events that transpired earlier, the last thing he wanted was to insist you advance quicker and push yourself too hard.

A giant mirror rested over the sink. Unlike before, you had no qualms nor nervous sentiments about looking over your back. The nightdress made it easy for you to see what Diavolo was talking about.

“This is…”

“My sigil.”

You face Diavolo with a quiet smile.

“Do you still have doubts about me? About us?” he asked.

“No… I’m sorry.” You take his hand in yours once more. “For the record, I don’t think I ever will again.”

“Good to know.”

“Why didn’t you tell me right away? You said you suspected it from the first day we met. I think there’s a possibility Barbatos knew of it as well.”

“Yes, it was the first time I felt so drawn to someone, but while I had my suspicions, I was only able to confirm them during that day, at the House of Lamentation,” he revealed, squeezing your hand. “As for Barbatos, I asked him not to look into anything relating to the prophecy and you, or at least, not to inform me if he sees anything—except if you would be in danger. I wanted things between us to progress naturally. Was that overly selfish of me?”

“Not at all. I’m glad we were able to get through this together, just the two of us,” you replied, endeared by his intention of pursuing a relationship with you in the most normal and genuine way he could. “I didn’t act upon it because I never thought it would be possible, but I… felt drawn to you from the first day, too.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes,” you admitted and glanced at the door. “Is it too late for us to attend the party? I bet everyone is worried.”

“Are you feeling fine enough?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.” He nodded, his expression shifting into an amused one. “I think our previous outfits are wrinkled, though.”

You laughed. “I think so, too.”

“Why don’t you choose another one from your closet? You know, I was wondering why you’re always so hesitant to accept gifts from me.”

“Sorry about that,” you replied with sincerity. “This time, I accept the offer wholeheartedly. Thank you for everything. I mean it.”

“You’re welcome, my princess.”

As a final touch, you swiped a layer of red lipstick over your lips and closed the container with a snap. You leaned back and observed your reflection in the mirror. Even though your choice of lip color was bold, you opted for light makeup and went with the natural flushing of your cheeks. You couldn’t help the blood heating up your face at the reminder of your earlier escapades with Diavolo. Undoubtedly, you would never be able to look at this vanity table in the same way ever again.

Gold jewelry adorned your ears and wrists. The intricate lace pattern of the sleeves and neckline of the black evening gown you were wearing was exquisite to your touch. The full expanse of your back was bare, laid in the open for all to see. While you were unused to such clothing, the impending revelation of your fate for all of the three worlds to witness felt right. All in all, it was a quick ensemble you arranged, but it was elegant. You were more satisfied than you were earlier when you first dressed up for the celebratory ball—in more ways than one.

“All done?” Diavolo asked, standing up from the chaise and putting his D.D.D. inside his pocket. He was in his demon form, as everyone else would be except for your friends from Purgatory Hall, for your ceremonial dance at the end of the celebration. It would be the only event you would be able to attend at this point, but it was the most important one, marking the end of Diavolo’s search and the beginning of your new role.

“Yes.”

He stepped forward and offered you his arm. “Shall we, my princess?”

Wordlessly, you smiled and slipped your hand in his arm as affirmation. This time, you had no guilt nor doubt. Your relationship with him was as real as it could get. You were the prophesied Queen of the Devildom. Soon, he would be your King.

Diavolo was your fate and your choice. And you were his.

Bound by destiny are the Prince and the Princess.

Over her skin, his symbol shall appear and remain.

And with the whole Devildom as their witness,

King and Queen, they shall be; eternal, they will reign.

Notes: And that’s a wrap!

This fic began with the idea of a character having ‘666’ as a soulmark. It was the first time I posted a work that was still in progress, and I’m really grateful for all the kind comments and feedback I received along the way. Thank you to everyone who supported this story. I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it! 💖

See No Evil, Hear No Evil, Speak No Evil

Obey Me! Masterlist | Main Masterlist

#obey me #obey me!#obey me diavolo #obey me! diavolo #obey me fic #obey me fanfic #obey me fanfiction #obey me imagines #obey me scenarios #swd #shall we date #shall we date obey me #LordDiavolo #diavolo x reader #diavolo x mc #🙈🙉🙊

159 notes · View notes

creativeashproductions · 3 years

Text

A Distant Dream IV // Luke Patterson

Summary: In 1994 seventeen year old Luke Patterson had once again tried to ask out the girl that held his heart. With the belief he would see the younger Mercer girl the next morning he decides to wait to confess his feelings. Only to have soft music bewitched the reader into an antique wardrobe with lots of history

Warnings: Swearing, grief, mourning a relationship, sadness, angst, war/death, mention of strict parents, and fluff

Words: 3.1

A/N: This is a disclaimer: just because the reader and Luke start to get along better and have a date does NOT mean she isn’t grieving her relationship. Whether the love faded or not with Peter that is still a large part of who she was/is or don’t expect her and Luke to fall into a relationship immediately.

TO BE TAGGED SEND AN INBOX/ASK PLEASE!

Masterlist

The phantoms had disbanded for the night, leaving Julie alone in her room surrounded by books and Flynn. You’d snuck down to the basement as you had since you arrived in 2020 from a different world. The wardrobe that quite literally changed your life was in the back corner, unassuming for the young girl.

Your e/c eyes pinned to the antique wooden furniture that had traveled from England to America as if fate had guided it. No matter how long time went by you’d never been able to touch the wardrobe, let alone touch remotely close. A part of you feared finding if you could return to Narnia or not.

It was something you kept private from the new people helping you to assimilate back into a life on Earth. The boys often refused to leave you for very long after the traumatic disappearance, even when you urged for space. It had almost been as tricky as negotiating peace with a land boiling with civil unrest.

Alex had taken to holding your hand as you slept for peace in both him and you; he’d noticed the state of sleep you endured. It was fitful and often filled with memories in the form of nightmares. The one from last night reared its head once more.

An intake of breath as you pulled your fingers closed to your cheek. Eyes on the movement before you released the bow. The arrow sailed true into the unsuspecting enemy with a faint whistle as it travelled.

The body dropped, one of many of the battles you had attended since defeating the White Witch. A life was still a life, and taking one was incredibly difficult. You saw it in the eyes of Peter, heard it in Susan’s strained voice, saw it in the way Edmund carried himself, but the most heartbreaking was the feeling of Lucy’s tense shoulders in certain moments.

Edmund and Lucy had been children when the White Witch had reigned and fought. Lucy had been only nine years old when her foot first touched Narnian snow. At that tender age, she’d watched the evil of the world up close. Edmund not that incredibly older. The youngest Pevensie had watched her brother take his last breath. Felt the trauma of Edmund’s gasping as the cordial bled one life-giving drop of liquid.

“I’d like to say it gets better, but it truly doesn’t, Your Majesty.” General Oreius’ announced from his station beside you. It was a lull in the tension building as people got ready for the enemies on the horizon.

Oreius’ addressed you but kept his gaze on the approaching army from an enemy land; the General was gifted in multitasking. He’d stopped to give you a little peace in only the way he knew how to.

“Thank you, Oreius.” You informed the General as he took off into the land ahead, leaving you to hold off the enemy with arrows. The short lapse is a game-changer for you as you run into battle.

Last night’s dream had been a reprieve from the dreams of Peter staring sadly at you curled around Luke. It hadn’t happened, of course, but that didn’t dim the bonfire of emotions you felt for the hazel-eyed guitarist.

You couldn’t quite figure out if you loved Peter the way a wife should love their husband. It wasn’t solely Peter that made you come to the wardrobe frequently. It had to do with the family that became yours when your parents had been shitty.

“Hey.” Julie spoke, stepping up to your side. The first person to have found you in the basement where you had an entirely different life.

“Hi.” You murmured, breaking your stare to meet the lovely teenager who had taken your brother and friends into her home. Even if it hadn’t been a smooth start, the band had grown infinitely closer.

“Do you think you’ll ever go back?” Julie softly questioned with soft brown eyes taking in the action you’d known for years. Your fingers brushed a strand of her gorgeous coil hair behind her ear with a gentleness you’d done so with Susan and Lucy.

Julie watched as your eyes saddened, “I don’t know. Mere seconds before I stumbled out of the wardrobe into your home, I was an adult. I had been in my early ’30s reigning beside my husband, and then I was the same sixteen-year-old girl breaking the chains of the Mercer name.”

“You feel guilty you left Alex, Luke and Reggie without answers, but you feel like you’re betraying your new family?” Julie questioned, shifting on her sneakers to stare at the emotional mask you’d developed in Narnia.

“Something like that.” You simply replied, casting one more look at the wardrobe in your haste to leave the basement.

Julie waited until you had left before she opened the wardrobe with a loud creak. Her hands brushed material hanging before her hand met a solid surface. Her face dropped at the physical evidence that Narnia couldn’t be reached from this wardrobe again.

Julie adored you, but she wanted to know how true happiness looked on your pretty features. Even if she had to give up you just so you could be happy, it was worth it, so when you left the basement each visit, she’d check the wardrobe.

It always failed. Not a speck of snow or a call of your royal title. Had Julie not seen you tumble out of the wardrobe, she’d have never believed the story.

“One day.” Julie murmured to the silent wardrobe.

Your foot barely passed the threshold of your attic space when your ’90s friends dropped unceremoniously on the floor. Each wearing a big grin that matched the fake one you plastered on.

“Where’d you go this time?”

“Top of the Hollywood sign.” Reggie piped up, skipping over to distribute a cheesy tourist keychain of the sign. Had it been someone else than Reggie, you would have joked about it, but you never could with the sweet puppy like teenager.

“Thank you.” You told the boy who had taken to grabbing little souvenirs for you. You couldn’t remember when he’d sat beside you, but he’d softly informed you how much he’d missed you.

In the year following your disappearance, Reggie had built up a collection of trinkets he thought you’d love; he was the one with the most optimism. Even if he believed you’d met an end, that little spark of hope never died. He wouldn’t be Reggie Peters if the hope wasn’t there.

“I wish I knew if my parents kept that box.” Reggie sighed, referring to the trinkets he had collected the year you’d gone missing. You merely squeezed his shoulder in response before catching gazes with Luke.

“Flynn still here?” Alex questioned, pushing himself to sit on the box bench underneath the window. He’d proudly chosen the wear one of the t-shirts Flynn had personalized for the band.

You shrugged, “Dunno. Julie found me.”

Reggie and Luke were oblivious, but Alex knew to the core of his soul where you tended to spend alone time. Alex would see how you’d return with that ache in your eyes more prominent, and your lips quirked down just enough for him to tell. He saw the guilt when you looked at Luke, the way you thumbed your ring.

“Do you want to hang out? Maybe to use Julie’s computer to search for our childhood friends? See if Sarah got valedictorian?” Alex asked, swinging his feet, trying to pull you from your thought which he was successful with.

“Sure.”

Reggie and Luke watched as you and Alex left the attic for some one on one time together, leaving the two.

“I wonder where they’re going?” Reggie questioned, staring after the closed door. His hands pushed into the back pockets of his jeans.

Luke shrugged, “You wanna write a song?”

“Sure! We could-”

“Not country,” Luke told the bassist, who pouted but followed as his best friend poofed to the garage.

The two Mercer siblings wandered the streets of Los Angeles, each in their own thoughts but comforted by the odd brush of their arms. For Alex, it felt like the old days when you both snuck out of the house just for some air. To just to leave the tense expectations shoved on their shoulders by their perfectionist parents.

“If I’d never disappeared and you didn’t die, where do you think we’d be?” You mused, thinking of all the what-ifs. Would you have gotten together with Luke? Would Sunset Curve had gone on to do sold-out shows.

“I don’t really know, to be honest. I think if we’d gone on to be successful that Reggie would have a ranch somewhere. He might have even released an EP of country songs. I think you and Luke would be together.” Alex thought with a bittersweet smile.

“And?”

“And what?”

“Where do you think you would be?” You questioned the older Mercer, who simply shrugged, “I like to think you would have been happy. Whether that was with someone, who was worthy of you or just by being yourself. Maybe you would have started a charity or been an advocate for the LGBTQ+ community.”

Your e/c eyes caught the smile growing on your older brother’s mouth, bringing a lightness to your body.

“I don’t think it matters. We’re exactly where we’re supposed to be. If we had survived, I would have never seen you again.” Alex confessed, “I think we were always meant to meet Julie.”

You went to open your mouth when your eyes found one of the last places you wanted to be. Somehow you and Alex had walked into the area where the country club was sitting just as it was back in the ’90s. From a distance, you could see the unmistakable form of Sarah, the girl in your grade who had always unwillingly competed academically with you. Sarah was just another girl with heavy expectations from her own wealthy parents.

“Is that Sarah?” Alex softly chuckled as the girl, now a woman, holding the hand of her husband with genuine happiness, “She looks happy.”

“She deserves it. The rivalry all our parents had was insane, so I’m happy one of us got the least complicated life.” You informed Alex bumping your hip against his leg as you talked with the pink-loving male.

England, 1940s

Four youth occupied one of the many rooms in the manor that didn’t hold a candle to Cair Paravel grand size and beauty. Not that the four confused siblings spent time taking a gander in the room. Each focused on how they’d lived well into their thirties before regressing back to the ages they were when they stepped into the wardrobe. There were minor changes.

Edmund wasn’t acting like a knob, Susan inserting herself as dominant, and Lucy was quieter than usual. Peter, however, had a boiling rage he could barely contain within himself.

“Do you think Aslan did this?” Susan questioned her siblings. A single tear rolling down her face at the grief she felt.

Each Pevensie was in the beginning stages of grief. They had to grieve the life they had lost in a magical place. A place where the war didn’t ravage like it did to their home country. For the suitors, she’d only just started to seriously look into.

Not a single shred of evidence tied themselves to Narnia.

“Who else?” Peter scoffed, bringing a gasp from Lucy’s mouth. They had all proudly reigned with Aslan in mind. Not a word is spoken against the great lion who’d died for Edmund and came back to life.

“Pet-”

“This is your fault.” Peter told his younger brother with a grimace on his face, “We had everything we ever needed in Narnia. Why did you need to catch that stupid stag?”

Edmund’s eyebrows furrowed, “You make it sound like our lives were perfect. Newsflash, King Peter, but it was far from that. You barely focused on your marriage, let alone Y/N.”

“Edmund.” Susan admonished, glancing between her brothers as if watching a tennis match. The only sister paying attention as Lucy stared out the window at the overcast day.

“It’s true! His marriage was a sham, and he lied to the entire kingdom!” Edmund shouted with a heated glare, “You acted like you were the most important person in Narnia, like the only reason the place worked was because of your hand solely.”

“Shut up,” Peter growled, stepping right up to his little; Edmund had lost a lot of inches, brother with a sneer. Their hair mussed from rubbing against the furs.

“Just because you’re older and you had High in front of your title doesn’t lessen our power too.”

“STOP IT.” Lucy screamed, stomping her foot, “Who cares about that. How about we focus on where Y/N went? She was right with us in there, and then out of nowhere, she’s gone.”

“I know.” Peter’s shoulder dropped in defeat as it settled further into his mind. Not only had he lost the years he’d lived, but he’d also lost you somewhere along the line.

While you’d fallen out of love, or maybe you’d never even been in love with Peter; he’d faithfully kept feelings for you. Part of him had always known your heart was taken by another, but he cherished the times you had together.

“And she’s not in another place right now. She’s somewhere in the far future.” Edmund added with his arms crossed over each other, “She never elaborated on when, where or what the future looks like. How can we find someone that doesn’t exist yet?”

“We hope our future selves can find her.” Susan finished sending a look at each of her siblings, “In the meantime, let’s live our lives for her, so we have tons of stories for her to listen to.”

Molina Household, America 2020

Luke Patterson shook in his black vans, his best pair he owned, holding simple flowers Julie had gotten. Money from busking down at the pier for some cash the boys could have for anything they wanted. They always left money with a note when they got items.

The flowers’ stems were definitely in a battle to survive the grip from the scared teenage ghost. He’d started the day with a tickle in the back of his mind to ask you out. Just a simple date with no strings attached to see where it could go. He couldn’t chicken out when he’d already knocked, and the door was opening.

“Oh! Luke.” You gasped, blinking at the sudden appearance of the phantom. Luke’s eyes melted at the oversized flannel layered over a cropped dark blue sweater.

Your style pre-Narnia and during Narnia had coalesced over the few months you’d found yourself on Earth. Your love of cropped tops returned with a modest twist, the modesty unshakable.

“I know it’s been hard adjusting from Narnia, but I was wondering if you would go on a date with him?” He blurted, dancing on the balls of his vans with an expression of pure nerves.

Your mind flew twenty miles an hour thinking through the implications of accepting a date with this teenager. A dead teenager at that. Sure he was only a year older, but fate had a sick sense of humour.

“I don-”

“I know in your other world you have a husband. I get that, but there’s something undeniable between us. It’s been there since the ’90s, and we always just pushed it away. I learned over the twenty-six years that life is too short.” Luke pleaded, slowly pushing the pretty bouquet into your arms, “Just one date to see if this is worth pursuing.”

You should have said no, but you couldn’t, “One date.”

Luke mentally pumped his fist in the air in celebration as if he was starring in a John Hughes movie. As if reading his mind, you teasingly thrust your hand in the air, the very same hand coming into Luke’s grip.

“There isn’t a lot that we can do, but Willie knows a guy unaffiliated with Caleb. Well, he knows him through a few guys, but he hooked me up. In this lovely basket, we have a menagerie of food that I can eat.” Luke spoke proudly with that same twinkle he always had with you by his side.

Your lips parted in pure elation. Luke Patterson was taking you out on one of the things that had been on your bucket list. A picnic date, something you and Alex each desired to enjoy.

Luke led you down a few streets to a park notorious for cute dates. Julie stood over a cliche checkered blanket. In her hand was an old iPhone or iPod hooked up to a Bluetooth speaker, a playlist curated of your favourite songs ready to go.

“You remember how to use this?” Julie questioned the teen ghost with one raised eyebrow. Luke nodded in his mission to unpack the food in a form that was as romantic as possible.

Julie nodded before casting a quiet goodbye to the two ’90s teens.

“How’d you know?” You questioned Luke as he poured a glass of the beverage he’d chosen. His ever-changing eyes flicked up to yours with an endearing expression.

Your eyes scanned his messy hair. He had taken the time to meticulously styled for his date with you. He’d chosen that gorgeous purple corduroy long sleeve shirt that turned his hair to melted milk chocolate. He hadn’t done a 180 on his style; he’d never tell you he’d styled his hair off his forehead into what Alex had dubbed the Prince Charming hair.

“1994 in the studio for Alex’s fifteenth birthday. Bobby snuck some alcohol he’d collected from his uncle’s BBQ and his father’s stash. We got drunk for the first time and played truth or dare.” Luke recalled with a smile.

He remembered how much of lightweights they were and the way his heart fluttered when Alex answered Reggie’s question. He explained how his ideal date was a picnic in a park with either a guy he was seeing or his celebrity crush. He’d mentioned it was something he shared with you, and then all Luke could think about was taking you on a picnic.

“Dealing with Alex’s hungover ass was a nightmare.” You grunted, swiping one of the pieces of watermelon from a container.

“I can only imagine.” Luke chuckled, slowly shifting closer to you with a sandwich in his left hand. His right arm slowly slinked over your shoulders to rest, the movement halting as your shoulders tensed momentarily.

“Were you really gonna confess that night I disappeared?” You asked the guitarist currently focused on the delicious sandwich. It reminded him of his mother packing his lunch every day, even in his high school years despite telling his mom he could do it himself.

“I was. I chickened out.” Luke admitted and had he been alive, his ears could have flushed along with his cheeks. The bashful ghost struggled to meet your gaze, “I had-have this massive crush on you. I’ve had it since you called me your knight in shining armour-”

“When I sliced my knee open, and you carried me home.”

“I’ve never told anyone, but you’re kinda the reason why I started wearing no sleeves. The guys and us were watching a film, and you mentioned something about the actor’s arms.” Luke snickered with a smile that faded at your sheepish grin, “Oh my god, you knew.”

“Bobby let it slip, ‘I watched him cut the sleeves of his shirts, stitch the raw edges of the fabric, prick his fingers a ton, and he nearly broke my foot’”

“Yeah I almost dropped a weight on him.” Luke snorted, shuffling to lay his head to rest on top of yours. He’d quickly learnt in his mission to gain muscle for your attention that he liked the exercise. He continued to get in shape and grow some muscle, but he still wore sleeveless shirts for you.

“You’re lucky you’re cute.”

Luke beamed at your words, “Nah, you’re the beautiful one.”

The rest of the date was everything you had ever wished for. Luke went above and beyond your expectations, even as a ghost. He’d packed a sweater to help you into when the night appeared, and the cold came. He held your hand on the way home and walked you straight to your attic door.

Luke didn’t push for a kiss either. He simply raised your clasped hand to press a lingering kiss on the back of your hand.

“Sweet dreams.” Luke murmured before he walked down the stairs. The euphoria ensuring he forget his ability to poof.

He wore the same lovesick expression into the studio where two ghosts waited for all the details. Alex and Reggie each buzzing in anticipation for their guitarist best friend.

In your room, you analyzed your feelings closely.

The guilt wasn’t as suffocating as you’d anticipated after going on a date that wasn’t with Peter. Just the guy that had been a reason your marriage with Peter wasn’t how it should have been. You also knew in your heart that Peter would want you to be happy and move on. In fact, in the last two years of your marriage, things had changed to just being two best friends married.

Your eyes met the window of your attic bedroom with a small smile. Your right hand slowly sliding the symbol of love from your finger. For the first time in a very long time, your wedding and engagement band left your hand.

“I’ll always love you, Peter Pevensie.” You murmured from your place in front of your dresser. The two rings slid into the old jewellery box where they would stay.

The only signs of your previous relationship status are just memories and a pale line on your ring finger.

Time to move on. Time to accept that Narnia was in the past and not in your future. Time to accept that Luke Patterson always had and always would hold your heart in his hands.

Tag List(s) PLEASE SEND AN INBOX TO BE ADDED! I CANNOT GUARANTEE YOU WILL BE ON THE LIST VIA POST COMMENTS!

Julie and the Phantoms Taglist

@safehavenmuse @siennanoelle01 @whiterose291 @mell-bell @blackhood5sos @ficrecsideblog @ifilwtmfc @deadpoolgirl23 @crappy-unicorn @sunsetcurve-h @elioelioeli0 @lovesanimals @popcrone818 @lolychu @deepsleepnat @tenaciousperfectionunknown @aunicornmademedoit @just-a-writer-here @simp4reggie @faithiebrock01 @overlyhypedup @differentsoulrascalsalad @aesthetic-lyss @versaceapa @carleywhittaker @lostgirl219 @itsalexx21 @elllaoo4 @merxxleighann @mediocremunge @fantomlovesjuke4ever @dpaccione @oswin05 @kaylinfayezink @aberette13 @faithie-brock-gillespie01 @eharvey0218 @overlyhypedup @benstormy @auriandthepussicats @sarcasticsagittarius1998 @whothefuckstolemykeds @siriuswvrld @princessvader15 @xoxbloodreinaxox @heimdoodle @joshy-obx @lovesanimals @oopsiedoopsie23 @am3l1a-24 @flying-solo-without-you @jaskiers-sweetkiss @lostrandomfangirln @must-be-a-weasley-92 @jatp-holland @ilikealotofpeople-younotsomuch @dxlanhxlland @dasexydevitt13 @ifilwtmfc @arianagrandes-things @kinda-really-lost @marinettepotterandplagg @ssprayberrythings @morgandamrose @thedarkqueenofavalon @zukoshonourr @crybabyddl @spooky-season-bitch @kcd15 @morganayennefertyrell @magnet-girl @all-in-fangirl @kinda-really-lost @tenaciousperfectionunknown @badwolf00593 @blowakissbabe @talksoprettyjjx @thesweetestsinner @kaitieskidmore1 @writerinlearning @aiofheavenandhell @sageellsworth05 @link-102 @merceret @kexrtiz @biqherosix @lukewearingbeanies @dangersolns @soverignparker @omgdani17 @julessbrown

9-1-1 Taglist:

#luke patterson imagines #luke patterson x reader #peter pevensie imagines #narnia #jatp luke #jatp fanfic #julie and the phantoms imagines #charlie gillespie imagines #luke patterson #narnia imagines #charlie gillespie #peter pevensie #jatp au #jatp x narnia #caitsy and ash productions

87 notes · View notes

ikeromantic · 3 years

Text

Grieving

An Ikevamp Leonardo fanfic, approx. 1800 words. This scene takes place in the main route during Ch. 19-20. Spoilers if you haven't read at least that far in the route!

First: That First Night

Previous: Friend In Need

The next morning brought only more tragedy. Leonardo woke to find a message that Jean-Paul, the old watchmaker, had died. He dressed quickly and left to meet Jean-Paul’s family. The walk into town felt like it took a very long time and yet he arrived at the watch shop all too soon.

Familiar sounds of loss and grief surrounded him as he went from one person to another offering condolences. The words were ash in his mouth. He felt hollow, no sorrow. Just barren apathy. Every funeral was like this, he thought. The details might change, but the essence was the same. Bittersweet tears of remembrance and mourning all the moments that could now never come.

The familiar words rolled over him, a wave of whispers and the rustle and scratch of black wool. In some indescribable way, it was a comfort. The story repeated itself, free from surprises. Leo knew every chapter and verse.

Into this grey void came a shaft of light. At least, that was what Leonardo saw. The door opened. A woman stood on the threshold, draped in black that gleamed blue beneath the bright sunlight. Her lips were turned to a sad smile.

Jean-Paul’s daughter took her hands and pulled her into a hug. They had never met before this, but open-hearts and shared loss made for fast friends.

Leonardo watched as his cara mia walked through the room, her soft voice speaking the same condolences. Somehow, her tongue turned them to something new, taking the familiar phrases and transfiguring them to song. It was her voice, he thought. A sharp pain took his chest, and with the suddenness of summer rain, that void in him was full. Tears threatened the corners of his eyes.

This moment would never come again. Each breath she took was one less breath she had in the confines of her mortal life-span. Just as Jean-Paul had counted out his final breaths in the early morning hours, so too would she.

He realized in that sharp breath that he truly missed the old man, with his hard-won wisdom and artistry. What would the watch-maker have said to another hundred years, had he been asked. Would he have born the cost to watch his grandchildren grow up? His great grandchildren? Or would he have cursed, as Leonardo himself did, to see all he knew and loved wither and fade?

And then he had no more time for thought, because she was there. Not even an arms length away. Her gaze held his and it was so warm. He felt it on his skin and in his chest.

“Are you alright?”

After the events of the night prior, her request and his brusque refusal, they had not spoken. Those were the first three words from her. There was no reproach in them. No bitterness. “I am, cara.”

Leonardo offered her his arm and the funeral moved from the parlor to the procession. They followed behind the hearse, passing through the black satin draped porte-cochere. The arch was hung with long stitched cloth and tied with worn velvet ribbon. The ends were ragged against the paving stones.

The creaking of the horse-drawn hearse played counter-point to the soft sobbing of Jean-Paul’s loved ones. People they passed paused in their work to doff their caps or bow their heads on the long walk to the cemetery.

Jean-Paul was laid to rest in a sunny clearing. The graves nearby were his parents and grandparents. Older brothers and sisters. It was a good place to be buried, Leonardo thought. Beside people that loved you and were loved by you in life.

He felt his cara’s head lean lightly against his arm. They stood a little ways off from the grave, close enough to offer whispered condolence but far enough not to intrude on personal grief. Eventually, the two of them were the only mourners left.

Leo’s eyes fell to the dark space of the grave. In the space of a few hours, the world changed. This life, and so many others extinguished. Others, just born, sucked in the air of this world for the first time. It was a tragedy and a marvel. One that he stood apart from. He didn’t want to be here anymore. “Are you ready to walk home, cara?”

“What if I’m not?” Her eyes did not lift to meet his, but there was an edge of challenge in her tone.

“Then I’ll carry you. Come on.” Leonardo tugged her away from the grave, walking quickly.

She stumbled, her shorter legs struggling to keep up.

Leonardo kept her from falling, and guiltily slowed his steps. He had to be careful with her. His cara mia was fragile. Mortal. A delicate creature he . . . loved. The word was weighty in his thoughts. After last night, how could he lay claim to that, or even to friendship? He’d denied her impulsive request. He should be staying away from her. And she . . . she should be angry.

Instead she looked melancholy. Thoughtful. Her gaze was set on a faraway point as she walked beside him, her mind a thousand miles away.

He found himself wishing she would talk. That they could go back to the silly conversations they used to have. Him teasing her, and she laughing sweetly. Telling him about her life and the time she came from. But neither of them broke the silence between them. It only grew with each step, until it was too vast a gulf to bridge.

Though he hadn’t intended to go anywhere but home, Leonardo turned their feet from the road to a side path. One that led to a meadow, hidden between trees. A place that felt like another world, with the golden glow of afternoon sun and the brilliant colors of blooming flowers and flitting butterflies.

Leo sat, careful not to crush the flowers. He patted the spot next to him, and his compagna sank down to sit beside him. He took out a cigarillo, toyed with it. Delaying. He found that he didn’t know how to start. What words to say to heal the wound between them. If he even should. His heart ached for it, but his head told him it would only bring more pain, to the both of them.

Clumsily, the words tripping over themselves, he said, “Thank you, for coming, I mean. To the funeral.”

She nodded. “I’m glad I got to pay Jean-Paul my respects.”

“Yeah.” Leonardo put the unlit cigarillo in his mouth, chewed at it. He felt awkward, as if he were young again and incapable of speaking his heart. He felt old too, as if all the years between his birth and this moment were weighing on him.

His compagna seemed to sense his unease. She patted his leg lightly. “Did I tell you Sebastian almost burned the eggs this morning? He got distracted reading the paper.” Her smile was thin and false. An attempt at banal cheer.

“Shocking,” Leonardo replied. His laugh was forced, but it still felt good. As if even this pantomime of a return to normal eased his spirit. “Was it a grocery sale?”

His compagna shook her head. “Some crime spree.”

“Hm. Didn’t realize he was the type to enjoy those stories.” Leo raised a skeptical eyebrow.

“I don’t know if he enjoys them exactly. But he likes to keep up with what’s going on. It’s good though, because then I don’t have to read it. He just tells me what parts of town to stay out of.” She shrugged. “I’ve never seen him get so engrossed that he forgets he’s cooking though!”

“Well, good thing it wasn’t pancakes.”

They both laughed at that. Burning Theo’s pancakes would be tantamount to heresy in le Comte’s mansion.

Leonardo glanced away, words coming unbidden. “He looked peaceful.”

She knew he meant Jean-Paul. Her thumb stroked the back of his hand. Gentle pressure. Reassuring. “I agree. He looked like he was smiling.” Her voice sounded choked.

“He probably was. Jean-Paul was always smiling about something.” Leo ignored the catch in his own voice. His eyes found the watch on her wrist. It was a relic now, a memento of more than just their short time together. “Take care of that, cara.”

“I will.” She turned her arm to look at the face of the watch. “As long as I am alive.” The last few words were barely a breath, and Leonardo wasn’t sure if he was meant to hear them or no.

They both fell silent again, sorrow hanging over them like clouds in the clear sky.

The sun tracked across the sky in its unchanging arc, reaching for the tops of the trees.

“Leonardo?”

“Yes, cara?”

She looked at him, eyes wide with some emotion he could not place. “You said you made Lumiere an offer?” She chewed at her lower lip. “What did you offer him?”

It wasn’t a question he anticipated. That was how it always was with her though. His compagna was a woman of surprises. “Is that your question for today?”

She nodded.

Leonardo debated how to answer her. The right words never felt so far away. He had only the blunt truth. Raw and unpolished. It would hurt her to hear it after all that had passed between them. Still. She’d asked. He would answer. “I promised him I would be there for him until he died.”

His cara looked away. Her hands grabbed and twisted the fabric of her dress in unhappy knots.

“I told him if that was ok, he could come with me. And his tail twitched as if he was happy with that.” Leonardo almost reached out to take her hand, but stopped himself. “That is why I took him with me.”

“That is such a sad thing to offer.” Her voice was low and thick with grief.

Leo took a deep breath, trying to untangle his emotions before answering. “It isn’t. Lumiere will die before me. It’s a fact, and there is nothing you or I or anyone can do to prevent it.”

She nodded. “Yes. That’s true. But what about you?”

He didn’t have an answer to that. There were only the scars uncounted that scored his heart. A tremulous smile turned up the corners of his lips, self-mockery, gratitude, the knowledge that everything around him would die.

His cara turned to face him again. A tear caught the setting sun as it traversed her cheek, turning crimson as the blood in her veins.

Leonardo wiped it away, his hand lingering on her cheek. He’d brought her tears again. That was why he had to let her go. Back to her time and her place, away from him and all he represented. He wanted to tell her he loved her. He loved her so much that imagining a world without her in it flayed his soul. That he would take that pain on himself if it meant giving her back her smiles. The real ones that made her seem to glow.

Instead, he stood and dusted off his pants. “Come on, cara. It’s getting dark. We should get home.” He held out his hand to her and she took it.

Next: Caught

#ikemen vampire #ikevamp leonardo #ikevamp leo #leonardo da vinci #otome guys #otome #fanfiction #fanfic #vampires #fluff #light angst

37 notes · View notes

flyinghome-againstthewind · 3 years

Text

the best by far is you: chapter 17

Read on AO3

Previous Chapter

For all the things my hands have held, the best by far is you - Cecilia and the satellite

————

Summary: An exploration of Claire & Jamie’s story if their firstborn had lived and they had the chance to be parents together of wee Faith Fraser before the Battle of Culloden.

Chapter 17

Edinburgh

June 1746

Edinburgh proved difficult to search. One lone carriage was hardly something of note for residents of Edinburgh, and that besides, Claire was quite certain this was where that particular journey had ended. They had no way of knowing where in the city Jamie and Faith would’ve gone once they’d arrived. So they checked every tavern, inn, and boarding house they could find, hoping they weren’t too late, that Jamie and Faith hadn’t moved on to some other place.

It was once again the horse, of all things, that gave them hope.

They were walking through a bustling market when Fergus stopped so abruptly in front of Claire that she nearly knocked him over. “Fergus, what are you‒”

His gaze was frozen on something ahead. “It’s Donas, Milady.”

“What?”

He didn't wait another second and surged forward into the crowd, leaving Claire and Murtagh to scramble after him. When they caught up to him, they were both brought almost nose-to-nose with a black horse that was unmistakable to them.

“Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ,” Claire whispered tightly, eyes widening at the sight before her. Donas was tucked back into a stall just off the busy street, but his head swung curiously over the wooden gate.

She glanced about, trying to get her bearings. If Donas was here, then‒

“Get back!”

The three of them startled at the sharp voice, Claire’s hand flying to Fergus’s shoulder as if that could shield him. Off to their right, a man had appeared ‒ a blacksmith by trade if his gritty, grimy appearance was any indication. “Unless ye want tae lose a hand. That beast is the devil’s own.”

Donas reared back suddenly, as if he understood and took offense. Claire was used to the horse’s attitude, but his timing always was something else, she thought. The blacksmith only took this as confirmation of what he’d just said, nodding sharply toward the horse with wide-eyed suspicion.

“See? He kens it.”

“That is not‒” Fergus began. Claire squeezed his shoulder.

“Please, can you tell us where we might find the owner of this horse?”

The blacksmith’s gaze shifted over the three of them, considering. Finally, he folded his arms over his chest and leveled a withering gaze at Claire. “Ye’re lookin’ at ‘im.”

“What?” She balked. Her gaze flew back to Donas, looking him over more discerningly. It had to be him. Then…?

“When did you acquire him?”

“I dinna see why ye need tae know.”

It was clear the man was growing tired of them, but before Claire could respond, Murtagh had fired back a reply. “I dinna see what harm there is in answering the lass.”

The blacksmith hardly concealed his annoyance but threw his hands up in defeat. “If it’ll make ye leave. A man brought him ‘round last week and sold him to me‒”

Claire felt her breath leave her lungs in a rush. A week ago. They’d never been this close before. A light, buoyant feeling filled her.

“‒ under false pretenses, mind. Tha’ horse was docile as a wee lamb when he brought ‘im here. Soon as he’s gone, I was dealing wi’ a demon.”

“Maybe you should‒”

Whatever Fergus was about to say, Claire was certain it wouldn’t have been flattering. And she needed more from this conversation still.

“Last question and then we’re out of your hair.” She felt an odd flutter in her stomach at the thought of what answers they might be able to walk away with. “What can you tell me about the man who sold you the horse?”

They’d come to stay so long in Edinburgh that Faith’s understanding of “home” was beginning to solidify around the place they’d resided there: Mary’s aunt’s house. And while the streets were still crawling with soldiers, Jamie had gone so long without incident or recognition that the wariness was fading each time he stepped outside.

Mary's aunt had been hospitable in opening her home to Jamie and Faith when they arrived with Mary, though Jamie got the distinct impression that she wasn't exactly thrilled with this arrangement, given that she knew he was a Scot.

Still, it was a safe haven while they waited for sea passage to open up again.

Jamie entered the house, lugging his bundle of purchases, and was almost immediately greeted by Faith's high-pitch squeal from the other room. He paused, wondering if it was a squeal of excitement or some sort of fit.

There was a bustle of movement up ahead from the parlor and then Faith tumbled out into the hallway, tripping on the hem of her dress. It was new to her, an old dress belonging to one of Mary's cousins, and they were adjusting it for Faith.

"Da!"

Happy squeal, then.

He grinned broadly and dropped to one knee as Faith toddled over to him, nearly tripping again as she reached him. "Did ye behave for yer Auntie Mary, then?"

She didn't respond to him, only looped her slight arms around his neck and started to hang from him, giggling all the while.

"Alright then, ye wee fiend," he laughed, scooping her up as he moved to stand.

By now, Mary had appeared at the threshold and greeted him before they all moved into the parlor. Jamie noted that none of the other inhabitants of the house were in the room and breathed a sigh of relief. He was abundantly grateful to be able to keep Faith sheltered here, but he had no great desire for the company of near strangers ‒ especially those who looked down their nose at him.

“I’ve had a letter from my father,” Mary announced.

“Aye?”

“He’s sending my younger brother to escort me back to my father’s estate.”

Jamie nodded at that, though he wasn’t sure how he should feel. “And how did he take yer news?”

“Oh quite well,” Mary said swiftly. “I knew he would. Of course he wishes I wasn’t so recently widowed, since he’ll have to make arrangements for me to be married again. But there’s no shame in being widowed and with child.”

Jamie took a deep breath, ready to dive in on that comment, but thought better of interfering in her family matters and bit his tongue instead.

“Find everything you were looking for?” Mary asked.

“Oh aye.” Jamie pulled out the fresh ginger he’d purchased. There had been a number of items he’d needed to prepare for the upcoming voyage, but none quite so important as the very thing he held up for Mary to see. “For my seasickness,” he explained and then grinned ruefully. “Canna seem to so much as set foot on a ship wi’out getting sick.”

“Is it bad?”

“It’s no’ a pretty sight, I’m sure.”

“What will you do with Faith?”

Jamie’s gaze dropped to Faith in his lap and he swallowed roughly. “I dinna have much choice but to pray the ginger tea keeps me standing. I canna afford to get sick.”

Mary fell silent at that, her hands fidgeting restlessly in her lap.

But he knew even without her saying it that it was a foolish endeavor. He knew how sick he became on sea voyages and without anyone else with them, he ran the risk of becoming too sick to care for his child. But what other choice did he have?

“I could go with you.”

Mary’s words were spoken so softly, he almost didn’t catch them. His head snapped up and he stared at her. “You canna be serious.”

“Of course I’m serious!”

“It’s‒ I mean no offense to ye, Mary. It’s only… well, yer brother is already on his way and‒”

“That’s not a problem. I’ll just leave word here with my aunt telling him where we’ve gone. He can follow after and escort me back, same as he intended before.”

“That hardly seems fair to him. How old is the lad?”

Mary hesitated briefly. “George is fifteen, he’s old enough.”

Jamie swore under his breath. “We dinna even know where we’re headed yet. Could be as far as the colonies. And even if ye did accompany us on the journey and instructed yer wee brother to follow us… by time he arrives, ye willna be fit to make the journey again wi’ the bairn coming. You’ll have to have the baby in another country, alone.”

“I’ll be alone no matter where I am,” Mary pointed out and Jamie immediately regretted his words. “Doesn’t matter if I’m in Italy or France, the colonies or my father’s estate.”

Jamie sighed. “I still dinna like the idea. Ye’re finally safe here and under no obligation to help us further. I’m already indebted to ye for getting us this far. No, I couldna ask that of ye.”

“Good thing you didn’t ask then.” Mary straightened her spine. “And it’s… it’s me who’s indebted to you. If you hadn’t come to Inverness, I’d still be‒”

Jamie raised a hand in silent pleading. After all they’d been through since he’d knocked on her door in Inverness, there simply was no keeping score of how they’d aided one another. And he valued her friendship too highly to think of it as mere transactions.

He sighed loudly, hating the idea but seeing that determined look in Mary’s eye.

“Besides,” Mary added, “I’m not really doing this for you.”

He smiled cheerlessly, once again turning his gaze back to the red-headed toddler in his lap. For Claire, she’d said at the start. And it had never escaped his notice just how much Mary risked to repay Claire’s kindness, her friendship. “Well, I thank ye for it. Truly. Ye’re a good friend, Mary Hawkins.”

The evenings were always bittersweet in Edinburgh. It meant putting Faith to bed, a small routine that they’d carved out no matter where they were, and a time that Jamie always treasured. And it also meant once his child was asleep that there was nothing to preoccupy his mind, to keep his anguished thoughts at bay.

But before then, his complete attention was always on Faith.

“C’mere, lass.”

He scooped her up and headed toward the nursery where Faith slept. He felt her head rest heavy on his shoulder as they went, and her small hand patted his opposite shoulder gently.

He was helping her change into her nightgown when she sneezed. Three times in quick succession.

“Something tickling yer nose, a nighean?” he said lightly, though his hand went to her forehead and tried to gauge her temperature. Felt normal, but there was a small voice in the back of his mind ‒ Claire’s voice ‒ reminding him that unless the fever was very high, it was often hard to discern if someone had a fever by merely feeling for it.

Faith rubbed her nose with the back of her pudgy hand and looked up at him with glassy eyes. “Christ, I hope ye’re not sick.”

He took her wee face in his hands and pressed a kiss to her hairline, then rested his cheek there for a moment. She felt a little warm, but did that mean…?

Faith’s little hands wormed their way between them and pushed his face away. “No’ sick.”

He chuckled and pulled back, startled by her boldness, her certainty. A pint-sized force of nature, even if she was ‒ perhaps ‒ feeling under the weather.

But God in Heaven! He wished Claire was here for this. For all of it with Faith, but especially this. She would know better than him what to do if Faith got sick.

“Ye ready for bed then?”

She shook her head vehemently. “No’ yet, Da.”

“Not yet?”

Again, she shook her head, this time with a hint of a smile on her face. The more she learned to talk, the better she became at delaying her dreaded bedtime. She burst into a flood of speech ‒ not much of which was intelligible to Jamie, but she had something to say nonetheless ‒ which ended promptly with the word “story.”

“Ah. Ye’ll be wanting yer bedtime story then, is tha’ it?”

A curt nod from Faith.

“Aye, I can oblige ye there, mo chridhe.”

He stood and watched Faith scurry over to the small bed that was all her own. As was their nightly ritual, he situated Faith off to one side and pulled the covers up for her before carefully easing his six-foot-four frame onto the comically small bed, curled onto his side with his feet hanging over the ledge. A gentle breeze could’ve knocked him backwards off of the bed, but this was what he’d done the first night in this strange house when Faith had been too scared to sleep alone. Now, she slept well enough so long as he was there to tuck her in, give her a story. Once she was asleep, he would move her more towards the center of the bed before he left and retired to his own room.

“What story would ye like tonight, a nighean?”

“My mam?”

He exhaled a laugh. They were always about Faith’s mam. Even while he worried that Faith would never truly know Claire, it couldn’t stop him from wanting to talk about her to Faith. To help her understand the magnitude of Claire’s love for her, and that it wasn’t Claire’s fault that she wasn’t here now with Faith.

“Aye, I can tell ye about yer mam,” Jamie agreed softly. He started as he always did ‒ with a memory of Claire, whatever came to him in the moment. And he’d simply talk for as long as Faith needed, weaving one memory into another until he noticed her eyelids getting heavy, her breathing slowing to a steady rhythm.

“Ken yer mother was verra canny,” he prefaced his next story, slipping subconsciously into past-tense when he spoke of Claire. “What she didna ken about healing could fit in a shoe. After the Battle of Prestonpans, I was so weary and hurting ‒ got stepped on by a horse that day, ye ken, and och yer mam was furious wi’ me ‒ but I came back into the cottage to watch her, tending to the injured men. She was tireless and so determined…”

When Faith was finally out, he reached over and felt her forehead again, battling a sinking feeling that Faith truly was coming down with an illness. She’d been sniffling and sneezing, but that could be nothing. Or it could be the first sign of something more.

“A Dhia…”

He ached for Claire every minute of the day ‒ needed her like the very breath in his lungs ‒ but he’d never felt so wretchedly helpless without her until this moment. What would he do if Faith became sick?

Panic squeezed his heart in a vice grip. She was all he had now. Faith, still so wee and fragile, was the only thing keeping Jamie from careening off into the dark. And suddenly, he wasn’t even sure he could do this on his own.

He wanted to steal away back to the stones with Faith, to find some way to fix this. She should be with Claire ‒ she should’ve always been with Claire ‒ and it wasn’t right that they had been separated. That Faith couldn’t travel like her mother could.

Since he was a lad, he had a habit of speaking to his departed brother, Willie. Since Willie had been the oldest, he rightly should’ve been laird. So much of Jamie’s life growing up had been the result of Willie’s death. Honors that would normally befall the oldest son passed to Jamie instead, like fostering with his Uncle Dougal or continuing his studies in Paris. This had always been front of mind for Jamie, and when faced with a decision as Laird, he found it only respectful of Willie’s memory to ask his older brother’s thoughts on choices that should’ve been his to make.

Aye, the dead had a way of living with Jamie. He hadn’t only talked to Willie, but to the plovers along the shore, which legend said carried the souls of young mothers lost in childbirth. And he’d done this for years before he lost his da, but never once in the time since Brian Fraser’s death had he spoken to his father.

But suddenly, he found himself longing to pour his heart out to his departed father, in conversations he’d been too hesitant to have with the weight of Jamie’s misplaced guilt over Brian’s death. Suddenly, more than anything, he ached for one last conversation with his da.

“How did ye do it, Athair?” he whispered in the still room the question that had been plaguing him. He was intimately familiar with the pain his father would’ve suffered when his mam died. “How did you keep on living wi’out yer heart?”

The answer was there before him in the sleeping form of Faith. His father had survived for his and Jenny’s sakes, carried them through their grief and gave them hope. And though it felt impossible, though everything within him screamed that this wasn’t how it was supposed to be, Jamie would do the same for Faith as his father did for him. “I ken now the pain ye were trying to hide, Athair. But ye raised me and Jenny well despite it all. Help me do the same.”

His hand gently brushed over Faith’s wispy curls as he then addressed his sleeping child. “I’ve told ye plenty about yer mam, but nothing of my mam and da. We’ll need tae remedy that. Another time.”

He breathed in deep and then sighed heavily. “My da only ever kent me as a lad. Sometimes I wonder… if he saw me as I am today, would he be proud of me now? Would he approve of who I’ve become? And would I be much different from who I was before... or would he still recognize me as his son?”

His thumb softly stroked at her hair just above her temple before tucking a few wayward locks behind one tiny ear. “But I look at ye, Faith, and… there’s nothing ye could do that would ever change how I love ye. How I’m bursting at the seams with pride o’er ye. And that’s one thing I ken my da would’ve been very proud of,” he shifted slowly and pressed a kiss to Faith’s head before he finally stood, “My bairns.”

It had been a week since they’d found Donas and they still didn’t have a crumb of information for where Jamie and Faith might be.

“Would it have been better to wait at Lallybroch in case he sent word? Before we went trampling across the country in search of him…” Claire wondered aloud.

“That would have taken months to wait for news to arrive.” Murtagh eyed her protruding belly, just starting to appear noticeable to others under all her layers of clothing. “Ye dinna have that kind of time to wait around.”

Claire sighed. “Aren’t we just waiting here, until we find a trace of him? Doesn’t feel much different.”

Murtagh didn’t reply, just made that Scottish sound low in the throat and eased into a chair.

There was a boyish shout from outside and Claire’s gaze flickered over to the window. Fergus was out in the street with another boy, playing some sort of game. She’d told him to go run some energy off after he’d been driving her up a wall all afternoon within the cramped confines of their rented room. They’d had no lead on Jamie even after finding Donas and that had hit Fergus hard. But even worse had been walking away without the horse that Fergus had loved so dearly ‒ all the time wondering why Jamie had sold him in the first place.

“What if they’re already gone from here? How long do we wait ‒ how long can we wait before the money is gone?”

They’d had no collateral of their own to offer up for the horse and even though they had some money ‒ money that they’d carefully skimped and saved during their journey before arriving in Edinburgh ‒ it wouldn’t last forever.

Murtagh grunted softly again. He’d heard her, he just didn’t have an answer.

Claire had even tried offering her services as a healer here when they first arrived. But Edinburgh was a bustling Lowland city, not a remote Highland village, and where those small populations would flock to Claire, the people of Edinburgh turned their nose up at her ‒ a strange woman they had no cause to trust or even to need in a large city such as this. So even the small hope of word getting out to Jamie of a Sassenach woman healer had quickly been dashed.

Her gaze sought out Fergus again and her heart sank in her chest. She wasn’t sure how much more disappointment they could shoulder before it became all too much. Or how much longer they could search before the only obvious solution was to turn home for Lallybroch.

Her hand fell to her belly. Murtagh was right about that at least. They didn’t have all that much time before there would be a baby to consider as well.

The ports had reopened in Edinburgh ‒ but not without British control over what came in and out of the harbor. The sale of Donas helped provide enough to book passage on a ship, but they’d had to be careful in arranging it. Jamie had begun to notice the new broadsheets going up around Edinburgh and among them, one for Red Jamie. No doubt as the dust from Culloden began to settle, his disappearance hadn’t gone completely unnoticed.

He had followed the captain of a cargo ship recently docked in Edinburgh into a tavern one night. The captain ‒ a Scot through and through ‒ and Jamie swapped tales over drinks well into the night and only once he was sure the good captain had been plied with enough drink to make him amiable did he bring up the request to book passage with him.

“Ye dinna even ken where we’re going,” the captain laughed, his cheeks ruddy from drink.

Jamie laughed too, though he realized he’d made a misstep. That it might sound more suspicious now than if he’d learned of the destination first. Instead he tried to play it off as being cavalier. “Tell ye the truth… it doesna really matter where ye’re going, so long as it’s away from here.”

The captain chuckled and shook his head. They negotiated the price and sealed the deal there at that tavern table. “Write yer names down for me. I’ll have them added to the ship’s manifest. We sail in three days. Dinna be late.”

“And where are we sailing for?” Jamie finally asked.

“Och I thought it didna matter!” The captain roared with laughter again and Jamie reminded himself he couldn’t strike the captain that was giving him a way out of Scotland.

The captain stood to his feet, a bit wobbly at first try. Jamie thought of Mary and how she planned to leave a letter for her brother to be able to follow. How could he follow if he didn’t know where they went?

He opened his mouth to speak, but the captain clapped him hard on the shoulder and said, “Le Havre, man. We’re only going so far as Le Havre.”

In three days’ time, Jamie, Mary, and Faith were at the docks ‒ Jamie with his hair recently dyed black to cover his roots and Faith with her red hair tucked under a bonnet and then the hood of her cape as a precaution.

They would need to be allowed past by the Redcoat checking the ship’s manifest, the only hurdle standing between them and freedom. And having spoken with the captain that night in the tavern, they couldn’t fall back on their old gimmick of Jamie-as-a-mute. But this was a calculated risk he knew he would take, hoping that the time and miles between here and Culloden would be enough to shed any suspicion that he might be Red Jamie.

“Name?”

He met the eye of the Redcoat staring him down. “Alexandre Beauchamp,” he said evenly, letting a little bit of his admittedly imperfect French accent bleed into his thick Highlander dialect in hopes that it would at least confuse him. Off the surprised look from the man, he added with an easy smile, “I get that look a lot. My father was a Frenchman but my mother a Scot. Ye can see for yerself which side I favored in looks.” He could hide the red hair, but the towering height, the build of a man descended from Vikings… that could not be so easily hidden.

“And your companions?”

“My daughter, Faith Beauchamp, and Mary Hawkins.”

The man’s gaze flicked between Jamie and Mary, and though Jamie’s heart felt as though it might beat right out of his chest, this conversation was flowing exactly as he’d anticipated. They were almost through.

“And your relation to Mistress Hawkins?”

“My late wife’s sister. She’s accompanying me to care for my child.” It wasn’t terribly far from the truth ‒ and it was a necessity now to be able to explain why Faith called her Auntie Mary.

“And your reason for journeying to Le Havre?”

“My father’s family is there. My grandfather is in poor health and I must return.”

The Redcoat looked him in the eye again and Jamie knew what question came next. “And are you a Jacobite or have you ever aided the Jacobites in any way, Mr. Beauchamp?”

“No.” He was met with a look of vague suspicion and he mustered every ounce of easy confidence into next words. “I am not nor have I ever been a Jacobite, or a Jacobite sympathizer for that matter. And I never aided their cause in any way. I am loyal to the crown.”

The Redcoat quirked one eyebrow at that and Jamie felt his stomach twisting into knots. “They all say that… now.”

But with a quick jerk of his head, the Redcoat dismissed them. Jamie blinked, stunned for a moment that it had been that easy. Because even without proof… the Redcoats could have treated him any way they wanted. That was their claim as victors. They didn’t need a reason to not let him through and that had been the one variable Jamie couldn’t have planned for ‒ the mercy of a Redcoat.

He shifted Faith to one arm and moved past the man, ushering Mary ahead of him up the gangway to the ship.

“Sir! Wait.”

He froze, hearing the Redcoat’s voice ring out. Mary stopped too and whirled around to look back at him. His hold on Faith tightened and he turned slowly.

The Redcoat stared at him curiously.

Jamie forced a smile. “Have I forgotten something?”

“As a matter of fact…” the man held out his hand. In his palm was Sawny, which Jamie had given to Faith to keep her occupied. She must’ve dropped it.

“Ah. I thank ye, Corporal.” He grabbed Sawny and handed it back to Faith. “I would’ve had a verra unhappy child on my hands had that been left behind.”

He wasted no time waiting for a response and turned with Faith to head back up the gangway where Mary still stood. “Let’s go,” he uttered under his breath when they reached her. The sooner they could be at sea, the safer he would feel.

What he hadn’t expected to feel was the loss.

He held Faith in his arms as he stood by the railing and watched Edinburgh fade farther and farther away. Watched his homeland fade away, knowing they’d likely never return.

“Christ,” he muttered, blinking fast against the unexpected sting of tears.

Faith stretched her arm out in front of her, towards land, and waved.

“Ye saying goodbye, a leannan?”

“G’bye,” she echoed in a soft, song-like voice.

Ah but he would do it all again in a heartbeat for her, no matter the cost. It was always for her, for her wellbeing and chance at a happy life.

She grinned up at him ‒ not a trace of sickness, though they’d dealt with the sneezing and runny nose for a few days before she was back to her usual self. “Ken you’re mine, a nighean, but ye dinna have to rub my nose in it that yer stomach is as hearty as a sailor’s,” he teased her before moving below deck, where Mary was waiting. His stomach was already rolling and it was only a matter of time…

July 1746

Claire was writing a letter to Jenny ‒ an update without much news, but she still wanted to keep Jenny apprised ‒ when Murtagh burst into the room, startling her violently.

“Jesus Christ!”

Without giving her much time to recover, he dove breathlessly into the reason for his unsettling arrival.

“I just spoke with a deckhand down at the docks, just come back from Le Havre.” Murtagh’s eyes were aglow and Claire tried to temper the hope buoying in her chest. “He said he remembers someone that looked like Jamie who booked passage on the ship last time they came through here. Said he was sick as a dog the whole trip… and he had a wee lass with him.”

Claire was trembling and her simple question came out in a frantic whisper. “When?”

Murtagh smiled broadly, his chest still heaving as he tried to get the words out without stopping for a breath. “Just last month. They’re in France, a nighean. We found them.”

She hardly recalled how she went from sitting at the desk to being wrapped up in an almost painful hug from Murtagh, shouting with joy to keep herself from bursting into tears.

“What’s going on?”

She pulled away from Murtagh to see Fergus enter the room, concern etched into his face.

“What happened?” he asked.

Claire couldn’t keep the smile from her face even as her vision misted over with tears. Not just for her joy of being reunited with Jamie and Faith, but for Fergus’s as well. “Murtagh found them, love. We’re going home!”

When Fergus ran to embrace her, she nearly stumbled backwards from the impact of it. She cupped the back of his head and held him tight, rocking slightly.

“We’re going home.”

“D’ye have everything then, Mary?”

“I believe so.”

Jamie turned to help Mary up into the carriage. Upon arriving in France, they’d gone first to Jamie’s Uncle Alexander at the Abbey of Ste. Anne de Beaupré, that being the closest and safest place to turn to. Jamie and Faith meant to stay on at the abbey a bit longer, but Mary needed to return to Paris, to her aunt and uncle who would welcome her into their home until her younger brother arrived.

“Wait. No. I did forget something in my room.” Mary turned and stepped down from the carriage. “I’ll be right back,” she yelled over her shoulder.

“It’s alright, lass. We have time.”

“Jamie!”

He turned to find his uncle exiting the abbey, making a path towards him. “Aye?”

“We’re expecting a delivery to the abbey today. Could you help them unload when it arrives?”

“Aye of course.”

It wasn’t long after his uncle had left him that he noticed the wagon jolting down the dirt road towards the abbey.

Nobody saw what spooked the horse pulling the wagon as it neared the carriage.

It happened too fast, the one horse trying to buck itself free of the wagon, and the team of horses hitched to the carriage panicking as a result.

One moment, Jamie was standing beside a carriage and the next, he was flat on his back with a searing pain in his leg and a crushing weight pinning his body down.

And then it all went black.

#jamie x claire #outlander #outlander fic #faith fraser #tbbfiy #the best by far is you #my fic #OL fic

75 notes · View notes

ssa-steverogers · 3 years

Text

𝙩𝙬𝙤 𝙜𝙝𝙤𝙨𝙩𝙨

pairing ╏ aaron hotchner x female!reader

word count ╏ 2.4k

summary ╏ a couple years have passed, and aaron and reader begin to question their status; inspired by two ghosts by harry styles

warnings ╏ none (?) please tell me if i missed anything x

note ╏ guys. i haven't written fanfics for like three years!1!!1!1! so i apologize in advance for any mistakes and grammar errors! i do hope you enjoy though! and also for the sake of the fic, jack and haley don't exist sorry guys lol and the ending is kind of bonk bonk but leave a like, comment, or reblog if you want! <3

I couldn’t pick up the phone. I sat back on the chair in the apartment we bought a couple years ago. But it tasted bittersweet just thinking about it; something I was supposed to cherish but couldn’t. The two plates of food on the table were now dull. What was once smoking and bled with heat was now encrusted in a dry film; unappetizing.

The phone continued to ring. Once. Twice. A pause. Once. Twice. Three times. But after the eleventh call, I figured he stopped. Aaron had forgotten his key that morning. It's almost humorous how he could tell the difference between a psychopath and a sociopath in his sleep but forgot the simplest things like our house key. And our fifth anniversary.

Earlier today, I had asked Aaron to go home early. But even after five years of marriage, eight of living together, and ten of dating, he couldn’t seem to care less of my whereabouts lately. Distracted, distant, and rigid.

“Hotch,” I swung into his dimly lit office earlier that day, “I'm going to be headed home early tonight. I-“

“Alright, see you at home,” Aaron continued writing his paperwork and took half a second to glance up at me. It’s unclear if he meant to cut me off or not but it didn’t matter because it would’ve hurt either way. Distant, I thought. A quick look at his office and nothing would’ve seemed different but I thought I saw more clutter than usual.

“Okay, well... I’ll see you tonight. Don’t be late!” I tried to look past it, for now. I blew a kiss his way and he looked up to smile at me briefly. The smile reached his eyes but I couldn't tell if it was genuine. His pen didn’t stop writing. Distracted, I thought. “Bye, I love you,” I breathed out and quickly shut the door, walking out to gather my stuff. I didn’t wait for his reply; unsure if he even had one. I wondered what he’d say. And if it’d hurt more than what his words didn’t say.

Looking at my watch on the way to my desk, it was half past four and it was clear to say that no one was done with paperwork yet.

“Where are you going?” Spencer questions, catching Emily’s attention. She looks up from her pile of work as well.

“Well, things to do and places to be,” I smiled at the two, putting my tablet into my bag. I grabbed my gun from my drawer and put it to my holster. Emily smiled knowingly. She knew it was me and Aaron’s fifth anniversary. Emily even helped pick out the perfect outfit for tonight’s homemade dinner. She also knew about Aaron’s behavior lately. We both thought of it and we discussed every scenario except the worst one yet. He wouldn’t do that to me, I would think to myself, not after what Haley did to him. It was the unspoken what if that I wasn't ready to swallow yet.

Emily and Spencer waved me goodbye and she wished me good luck, along with a smile that was poisoned in pity. I was almost entirely sure it wasn’t on purpose but I wasn’t sure of anything at that point. I walked out the door, into the elevator, and it felt so repetitive. The same elevator every day, the same building every day, living the same life every single day. I’d casually mention to Aaron how the repetition felt like a lot sometimes over paperwork in our office at home and he’d hum quietly. Maybe in agreement. We both loved our job. The same thing every time; but we were saving lives. Maybe it was the effect of his changed behavior. Maybe he felt it because he thought my behavior changed as well.

The same thing every time; coming home separately, even though we used to come back together. We were drifting and although it wasn’t the first time, we always resolved it. Things happen and we’d come out stronger and I had never had a doubt. Sometimes the job was hard and I was there for him, and he was there for me but it was different this time. He'd come home late and I'd be asleep by the time he got back. Then, I started to do paperwork at the local coffee shop and he’d be sitting in our office, waiting for me to get back.

No words would be exchanged once we were together for the night. Maybe a ‘hey’ or ‘how was your day?’ and then a simple ‘good.’ We’d both change our clothes and get into the bed. We were getting further and further away every night in bed. Too exhausted to think of words for this odd place we were in. Sometimes he'd hug me and take a deep breath and I'd release a breath I didn't know I was holding. Something was just not working this time. Trust your gut, Aaron used to say to me when I first joined the BAU. My gut told me that this couldn’t keep on going at the rate this seemed to be deteriorating.

All these moments led to right now. The phone rings beside me as Aaron waits outside in the drizzling rain at eight o’clock, without the key that he forgot this morning. I unlocked my phone to read the messages exchanged earlier tonight.

today 7:40

y/n: hey aaron are you still at the office?

love: Yes, is there something going on?

y/n: aaron

love: Yes?

y/n: oh you forgot, didn’t you?

love: Forgot?

y/n: aaron, it’s our anniversary?

read 7:46

I purse my lips and wonder if he still loves me. Of course, he does, my mind wanders, would he have been with you for ten years if he didn’t? I chuckle sadly. The food on the table now cold, the outfit Emily and I chose doesn’t seem so perfect anymore. The candles on the tables nearly half melted. The dining room looked eerie now, sitting by myself on a Thursday night with two uneaten plates of food with candles nearly burnt out.

That’s when I hear him knocking on the door gently.

“Y/N? Please let me in. I didn't forget, I just,” Aaron’s sigh is muffled by the door but I hear it clear as day when I get out of my seat and walk up to the door. I think he hears me walking to the front and continues. “I was distracted. Something isn’t right between us right now and we should talk about it. I’m sorry, Y/N, please let me in so we can talk.” I sigh in defeat and unlock the door, slowly. The door opens and his hair is flat from the rain, briefcase tucked under his arm with his phone in the other hand. But his posture isn’t as upright as it usually is – he probably knows he fucked up. I wonder if he’s been profiling me from my texts, or my current body language even though we promised we wouldn’t do that to each other.

He walks through the threshold of this house but his eyes don’t waver from mine as he sets his stuff down and puts his gun away in the drawer. A glimmer of his keys reflects the light in the drawer. It’s almost funny, how he remembers his gun but not his keys even though they were in the exact same place. It makes me wonder about the integrity of our situation and if he had left the keys on purpose.

I walk to the dining table with the food I made and turn away from Aaron. I’m not sure about what to say. I've obviously been avoiding this conversation for quite some time and even after all this procrastination; I still don’t even know what to say. I hear Aaron's footsteps from behind me and I wait to see if he has anything to say. After I'm sure that he doesn’t, I begin.

“Aaron,” I turn around to face him. I smile grimly, feeling tears prickle at the back of my eyes and it hurts to swallow, “What the hell happened to us?” Aaron stands there, arms crossed and a hand on his chin. Crossing arms suggests closing yourself off and is a gesture of defensiveness. “What happened to our Thursday night dates? Aaron- I don’t- I mean,” I struggle to complete a sentence when millions of thoughts are racing through my head, “I know you’re not happy. Sure, maybe everyone thinks that you don’t show a lot of emotion but I know you and you have a tell for specific things. When was the last time we really talked about how we felt about us? C’mon, Aaron, who are we bullshitting? We weren’t communicating and you know that it’s one of the most important parts of a healthy relationship.”

“Why are you using past tense?” Aaron asks and he’s doing the face he only gives to people he thinks are suspicious.

“What are you talking about? And why are you giving me that face?” I pause and Aaron tries to cut in but I get to it first. I make a face and pull my eyebrows together. “Are you profiling me right now?”

Aaron looks taken aback at my comment. “Are you?” Oh. When I don’t say anything he continues, “You’re using past tense when you mention our… marriage and relationship. If you have anything you want to say you should say it now. There really isn’t a better time,” His voice grows cold on me, the same way he does to unsubs we interrogate. I don’t think the ice in his tone is intentional but he probably can’t help it. He’s right though, should I confirm my suspicions? I don’t want to hear his answer to my question in fear that it might be the wrong one. But he is right, this conversation is long overdue.

“Are you cheating on me?” I breathe out at once. “Are you?” The tears are getting harder and harder to hold back and time seems to move slower by the second.

“Y/N, what? No, I'm not! Why would you think that? I could never do that to you. You know about Haley and how she cheated! And you think I'd do that to you?”

“You were just distant lately and-“

“Distant?” He pauses, I know he wouldn’t interrupt me if not necessary so I let him go on, “Y/N, so are you. I didn't think you were cheating. I thought you needed time and that I needed mine. I had thought about what you had said a couple weeks ago about how repetitive life felt.” I nodded at his words. “You’re not the only one who thinks that.” A pang of guilt radiates in my chest, because I think we both know how this was going to end.

“Okay,” I say.

“Okay?”

“Okay.” I walk a little closer to him and cradle his face in my hands. He rubs circles on my wrists, caressing me and I do the same to his face. Tears are spilling from my eyes, down my cheeks, “Aaron Hotchner, I love you more than anything in this whole entire fucking world. I know you love me and that I love you but you’re one of the smartest people I’ve ever met in my life and we both know what’s coming. It’s been unspoken for too long, I know that. But whatever happens, you have to know that I love you. We had our good days,” I look around to see picture frames on the walls of our relationship in earlier stages. Smiling, dancing, laughing. I remember each and every one of the pictures and thinking that this would be the man I would love for the rest of my days. “And we had bad days. There will never come a day that I forget all the wonderful things that we had. I’m using past tense now because I think-“

“I think you’re right,” Aaron quietly cuts me off. “We’re not the people we used to be. We’ve changed but we can’t grow like this. I love you too, more than words will ever be able to encompass but maybe we’re feeling stuck, not bored or repetitive.” I want to say something for the hell of being a couple for probably the last moments but I don’t want to stray far from the truth. Aaron’s eyebrows turn downwards a bit and his eyes are glimmering with tears. He envelopes my body in his and leaves a quiet kiss on my hairline.

I take a deep breath of air, trying to savor this moment for the rest of my life. My face is wet from tears and they won’t stop falling. I hiccup from the crying in his grasp so he plays with my hair fondly and almost inaudibly hums to me.

“Will we be okay? I mean,” A hiccup, or three. “I don’t want either of us to leave the BAU because of this but also will we be okay? In terms of feelings and… well, more feelings.”

“Of course,” Aaron begins. “I don’t love you any less but we both agree that things will be better this way. We just... go back to how it used to be before you asked me to a drink for the first time,” I can feel his small grin as he leans against my head. Being reminded of that day hurts now, but it has for a while anyway. I wonder if I hadn’t asked him to that drink one night after a local case, if we’d be where we are now. But I know everything here was nothing less than fate itself and that I probably shouldn’t dwell on what if’s.

And so after some moments of silence for something that would soon be gone, we stand underneath the dim lights of the dining room. Aaron holds me against his chest as we look at the candles on the table. They’re both burnt out. There’s no light there anymore. The candle has melted onto the chamberstick, leaving long trails of wax.

I hold him a little tighter and he does the same to me. I don’t know what the future holds but our two halves have drifted too far to come back together and that’s okay. I know things will be weird for a while but it’ll be okay.

“It’ll be okay,” I whisper under my breath. For the sake of us, we'd leave it here. Once upon a time, we were younger and more naive, better for each other then. But we're older now and we're stuck. Just two ghosts standing in the place of him and me.

67 notes · View notes