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#just a few coarse guard hairs
ssahotchnerr · 18 days
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girl i am BEGGING you to write a hotch story with his beard and reader doesnt know he has it because he never told her and when he comes back shes more in love with him!!! you can take it any direction you want
off guard
hehehe 🤭 cw; fem!reader, established relationship, heavy suggestiveness, fluff and bearded aaron 😵‍💫<3
after what felt like forever, came the long awaited knock on the door.
"finally." you breathed out as you threw the door open, immediately tucking yourself into aaron's chest and wrapping your arms around his middle.
the longer he was in your hold, the more you tightened your arms - as if you would blink and he'd be right back in pakistan, miles and miles away from you yet again.
it was late, or early depending on how you looked at it. the moment you received the message aaron was back in the states - prematurely and under urgent circumstances - you had insisted the second he had wrapped up, no matter the time, to come directly and strictly to your apartment.
lucky for you, he had already planned on doing so regardless.
"god i missed you." aaron sighed out in relief just as much as you, the empty void in his heart filling at last, making him feel whole again.
he had spent countless nights fantasizing of you being in his arms, the feeling near and distant simultaneously, as if he could reach out and grasp it. for the first month overseas, he had difficulty sleeping even, so used to sleeping beside you - the familiar weight of you laid on him, matching his breathing to yours, or the fact you were simply near.
the longing for you had been torturous. and at last here you were, right where you belonged.
"i almost can't believe it," you mumbled into his t-shirt, tears threatening to spill from your eyes. "five months was too long. too, too long."
you loosened your hold, just enough to peer up at him, just now getting a look at him. however, you found yourself taken aback, any eased, impending cries halting at once.
it was your aaron - your loving, wonderful aaron - staring back at you, but it didn't look like him.
his hair was longer, his body a bit more lean, but the major difference; a beard graced his face.
you've seen aaron with some stubble - not shaving during a weekend off, or his occasional five-o-clock shadow. but that was the result of a mere few days. this was months in the making, and it wasn't unwelcome in the slightest.
endless words could describe the sight before you, but your mind and mouth had run both dry. it was hot, to put it bluntly.
"jack hates it too." aaron admitted as his hands fell to your waist - not daring to part contact, mistaking your hesitancy for dislike. "i was going to shave it, but you did say to come right over-"
"hey- no." you blurted out, blinking up at him. "who said i hated it?"
his eyebrows furrowed, surprised. "you don't?"
"absolutely not," you insisted, looking almost offended at the proposition. you touched his cheek, feeling the coarse hair under your soft fingertips and igniting something deep within you. "quite the opposite, actually."
"really?" a pleased smirk formed on his face, his eyes darkly intrigued and amused.
"just when i thought you couldn't get more attractive." you smirked right back, toying with his shirt. "trust me, i like it more than you know."
aaron's fingers dug into your hips, backing you into your apartment, kicking the door shut behind with his foot.
"please tell me you have tomorrow off, because you won't be stepping outside this apartment if i can help it." you pleaded, your voice coming out as an eager whine.
"well, the team is to be evaluated by the senate committee, hearing date pending. so for the foreseeable future," aaron bit down on his bottom lip lightly, his eyes locked on yours. "i'm all yours."
"good. mainly because i missed you, but that," you eyed his beard again, a heavy breath escaping you. the ends of your lips quirked up into a mischievous smile, and aaron's lips found yours hungrily. as he frantically continued to back you towards the direction of your bedroom, you mumbled into his lips. "we can have fun with that."
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hobiebrownismygod · 2 months
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I think I asked this one before but I never knew if it got answered.
may you make a fic with hobie of how the reader is a villain and used hobie to (idk reason, kill him, invade the spider society, idk!!) and like no fluff, reader is pure evil and hobie had the most trust he ever had in someone just broke? 🙏🏽❤️
Hiii sorry this took me so long, but I hope you enjoy it! This is definitely different from what I usually write, but it was fun to try out a new kind of prompt! Thank you for requesting <3
EASY ☆ Hobie Brown x Fem!Reader ☆ MASTERLIST ☆ TAGLIST
⋆。°✩
He was so, so easy.
It was so easy to convince him to let you into his house, his life, his heart. In fact...you really hadn't expected it to be so simple.
Compliment him a little, bat your eyes at him, tell him you think he's handsome, kiss him a few times, and he was already head over heels for you. You couldn't blame him, but it was funny.
To you of course. Not to him.
But it wasn't like he knew that you'd been lying to him. That you didn't really love him. You didn't really want to be his and for him to be yours.
No what you wanted was that watch. The watch that would guarantee you access to every dimension in the multiverse.
That was the end goal.
And that was why you were here.
Stretched out on his bed, lying next to him with a coy smile on your face, tracing his nose and lips with your fingers while his eyes fluttered open, a soft yawn escaping his lips.
"Mornin'" he said gently, a smile on his face as he leaned in to kiss you. "Morning" you replied with a laugh, kissing his cheek before snuggling up into his arms again. "How'd you sleep, baby?"
"Amazing, but only 'cause you were here" he murmured, burying his face in your hair, sighing under his breath. He felt safe, happy, which was perfect. For your little plan.
You'd only been "dating" him for a week or two, but he'd already opened himself up to you completely. Telling you how much he loved you, how you made him feel, calling you pretty, beautiful, love, darling, every pet name in existence it felt like he'd exhausted on you.
And it was entertaining, watching his expression slowly fill with admiration and love whenever you walked by, the corners of his eyes crinkle just slightly when you sauntered over to him to press another one of your gentle kisses to his forehead, tracing the slight folds of soft skin and the coarse yet gorgeous hair lining his head.
Your eyes never filled with the same love or affection, with only a fake, mock version of it to keep him content, to keep him under your control.
Easy.
It'd been even easier for you to figure out where he was keeping his watch. You couldn't just steal it. He always had it on his wrist, or close enough to keep his eye on it. He was cautious, but not cautious enough.
He'd let you in close. Close enough. More than close enough.
"Mmm." You murmured, kissing his lips gently. "You look tired."
"I am tired" He replied with a grin, holding you a little tighter. "There was a hell 'f a lot going on yesterday. Nearly got m'self killed" he grumbled.
"Aww, poor thing" you cooed, kissing his cheek. "Are you okay?" Your finger absentmindedly went down to his wrist to fiddle with his watch, your doe-like, understanding eyes fixated on him.
He seemed to notice this, his eyebrows furrowing slightly. "What're you doing?"
"Hmm? I'm not doing anything" you said gently, making sure to soften your touch on his wrist. "I think you're tired. Look at your lips, you're so dehydrated" You said gently, using your other hand's thumb to trace along his mouth. "Let me take care of you"
"Huh-" He tried to sit up but you pushed him back down with a kiss to his forehead, reaching towards your counter to grab a glass of water you'd already left there before. "Drink."
He looked as though he'd protest for a moment, a cautious expression on his face. "Come on" you coaxed, pushing the glass into his hand.
His expression knit together before he relaxed, letting his guard down and accepting the glass with a sigh. He trusted you.
That was a mistake.
As he pressed his lips to the glass, you felt your smile widen just slightly, gaze fixated on him as he drank down in small sips, more thirsty than he'd let on.
When done, he wiped the corners of his mouth with his knuckles before pulling you in for another kiss. You quickly dodged this, pressing your finger to his lips for a moment to stop him.
You couldn't let him kiss you. Not now.
"Hmm?" he questioned, kissing your cheek instead, the arm that was hooked around your waist slacking slightly. "Wha-oh-" He let out a quiet groan, grabbing onto his forehead. "Fuck, how long's that water been sitting out?" He asked quietly, coughing.
"Not long, not long" You replied, removing his arms from around you and standing up next to the bed.
He laid back, groaning quietly as he held his forehead. "What're you doing?" he asked confusedly, trying his best to keep his eyes open.
"Nothing important." You grabbed onto his wrist, fingers playing with the dials of his watch. "Just looking."
"love-" he tried to pull his wrist back but it felt too heavy falling limp as your hands held it up. "What's wrong, Hobes? You feeling okay?" You asked with mock concern, leaning in slightly. "Feeling dizzy?"
"What did you do?" He asked, his eyes beginning to flutter as he struggled to stay awake.
"Nothing too dangerous. Just a simple roofie." You replied curtly, fingers hooking onto the latch of the watch and slowly beginning to pull it off.
HIs eyes widened for a moment and he blinked, breathing beginning to speed up. "W-why?" he croaked out raspily.
"Because its fun. I've never been to another universe before" You said absentmindedly, taking the watch in your hands and inspecting it as you took a step back.
He attempted to reach his arm out towards you again, but it wasn't working.
As much as you enjoyed watching him struggle, you knew you had to get out of here soon. After all, who knew how long it would take before his spider powers overtook the drugs?
"I think that's my cue to leave" You said with a wink, taking his hand in yours. "For what's its worth, this was a fun couple of weeks" you whispered, pressing your lips to his palm, eyes making contact with his.
"Don't-" he whispered, eyes beginning to fill with tears, "please don't go"
"Don't. It's not a very fun word, is it? I've never liked it when people told me "don't" do something. And I definitely don't like it now." You let his hand fall limp, hanging over the edge of the bed.
"And the word "please" has never stopped me either. Sorry, Hobes." you said with a grin, turning the dial on the watch.
He let out a quiet sound of pain, forcing himself to try to sit up to no avail. He could feel himself drifting off to sleep, knocked out for who knows long, and all he could do was watch as you opened up the orange portal he'd seen so many times before.
"Catch you on the flip side" You gave him a cocky little salute before falling back, the portal disappearing only a few seconds after you.
You left Hobie alone in the room, lying back on his bed, with his last memories being your cruel smile and the smell of you coating his bedsheets.
⋆。°✩
Taglist: @therealloopylupin2099 @spiderrinn @l0starl @daydreaming-en-pointe @itsparis-07 @vileviale @puff-hugs @d0ubl-tr0ubl3 @lauryn2558 @sunasslut69 @ask-1610-miles @axels-roses @eli21345 @s6onder
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iamjustaholeforyousir · 7 months
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You and I
part 12 of Look What We Became
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summary: what is love? what is correct?
warning: angst, kissing, mention of burns
Word count: 2127
minors DNI
part1 part2 part3 part4 part5 part6 part7 part8 part9 part10 part11 part12
Harry did not know how he had gotten out of that room, he remembered picking you up, he remembered the fight, he remembered your whimpers, but that is all he could remember. 
“WHAT WERE YOU THINKING!!?” his mother rushes into the infirmary, screaming at him, her face was wet with tears and her eyes bloodshot, her voice was coarse as if she had not said a word in days, it was heavy. 
“I am not injured,” he says, monotonously. The fear and anticipation he was currently feeling was far from his emotionless tone. There had been no news about his princess. 
From what he remembered, you had no burns, you were well, just unconscious due to the heavy smoke in the room, so then why had there not been any word about your well-being? Harry was getting nervous, he was getting worried, but his expression was that of nothing. He had sent out letters to your sisters, your parents, letting them know of the incident, but none of them had shown up. Nobody came to see you, and nobody wrote back. 
It was all as if you were already dead. 
Harry was upset, with himself, with the incompetent guards of his castle, your father, the world, with god. 
The doors to the infirmary opened as the medic made his exit.
Harry stood up looking at her expectantly “My prince, she is stable, in fact, she is doing quite well, however, she has requested that you do not see her… at all.”
She took a bow, turning to the queen, and bowed and she was gone. 
she has requested that you not see her at all.
It was like a slap to his face, why? He did not understand why you were torturing him like this. Why were you being so distant now? After he… 
“Tell me right now Harry, what was it you were thinking jumping in a burning room!?”
“I jumped in for her! And if necessary, not once, not ten times, not a hundred times, thousands of times… thousands of times, I will jump into the fire in which there is she!” 
“Why!?”
Why. he didn't know why. He knew her all for five days. The first few were spent hating her. The other spet touching her, and the last one spent away from her. 
He was so infatuated with her, or maybe it was the love he felt. Obsessing over a feeling he didn't even feel. Harry was more than just a sappy, love-thirsty, desperate boy. Then why? 
“I don't know.” 
He ran out, leaving his mother to stand there alone. 
You didn’t want to see him, he will not show you his face till you beg for it. 
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You were laying on the bed, what had become of your life? What had you done? You really were a problem. It was only right, for no one to show up. Why would they? Whatever your husband had done, you were paying the price. Did he have to be the knight in shining armour? You couldn't bare to see him. Not right now. The man who broke your family. The medic was no more by your side. No one was. You were truly alone. Not a friend in this world, at least not one who cared for you as much as you did. You had received not one letter, not one visitor, not a word, as though the rest of the world was dead. And then you screamed, loud, with frustration and anger, guilt and sadness, desperation and hatred, you screamed with your whole voice as tears streamed down from the side your face, wetting your hair and your sheets, why wasn't he coming in? He had no problem not listening to you, then why was he being so obedient now!? Come in for god’s sake! 
His mother. And running into the room, as did the guards.
“where is he!?” You screamed “why isn’t he here!!?” 
“Child, it will all be well.” 
Your hands fly up to the side of your head, clutching your pillow, shaking your head violently, thr unbearable frustration of him not being there. Where was the care and love now? Hm? Where was the protection that he wanted to give you? 
“Leave us.” the queen said, and you saw the guards back away, leaving the room. 
She kneeled beside you, caressing your head. 
“He is just a boy, he doesnt understand what you want from him till you spell it out.” she says.
“He cares about you deeply-”
But you just shook your head, fresh tears spilling form your eyes, “he does, trust me, i am his mother. I know.” she says, “its not everyday that he jumps into a fire to save just about anyone.”
Jumped in the fire. 
He.
Jumped.
Into the fire.
For you. 
“My son is not a violent being, Y/n, but he peobably would have killed-” she stops herself. 
Yes, if you hadnt stopped him, he probably would have killed youe father. 
“All i am saying is do not deem him as this unruly, violent creautre, becasue he is not. Whatever, he has done to cause you pain, in the past few days, is not how he is. His drastic actions were only to make up for the wrongs he did your way, so please, please forgive him. He wont say it for himself. So i am here to ask of you, please dear.” 
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Harry found himself by the river, the noise of flowing water had always seemed to calm him. What was he doing, and all over some girl he didnt even like in the first place! you oh you. What had you done to him? why were you suddenly so important? What is wrong with him!? Can you please get out of his head! 
“Thought id find you here.” harry hears a voice from behind him.
“I want to be alone brittward.” he says
“I am afraid my prince that that is simply not an option. Your mother calls for you, this instant. It is not wise for a king to run away from his problems.” 
“I am not a king-”
“But you soon will be, and my duty is to guide you and prepare you for that day. Now come boy, you must never keep a queen waiting.” 
Throughout the walk backto the castle, harry explaines whatever happned to brittward, even though he knew thatbrittward knew what had gone down the previous day, he didnt say anything.
After listening ot he whole story brittward says “you acted foolishly.” 
“Foolishly?” 
“Yes, you were quite the fool. Listen to me boy, and listen to me carefully. Respect is earned. However, when one is older, he gets respected for his experience, knowledge, and the life he has led. And you did not give that respect to your father-in-law. You could have acted in various different ways, one where you could have saved your dignity and hers. You, who doesn't know the first letter of being abused went and defended your wife, defending her was right, but ignoring her wasn't. Have you any idea what must be going through her head? Family is family. One must deal with it for life. And you boy, you hurt her family.”
“But her family hurt her-”
“And did she ask you to defend her?”
“No but-”
“Sometimes you must think before making a grand gesture. Sometimes you have to let things be, sometimes my boy, you dont have meddle.”
“And let the wrong stay wrong?” 
Briottward smiles but doesnt say anything.   they keep on walking without exchanging  another word. reaching the royal   infirmary  Harry seas his mother sitting outside your room so,  and with an expressionless face ask him to go inside and see you.
“ she clearly said she doesn't want to see me-”
“ don't be ridiculous Harry she is your wife she needs you”
“ she doesn't need me she has made it clear and I shall respect her decision.”
“ you are young right now you don't know how to read  between the lines she is clearly hurt and she needs her husband by her side right now.  you  needn't speak to her but at least comfort her with your presence.”
“My present is of no comfort to her-”
“ go now.”
 With a Stern expression, Harry briskly works towards the infirmary unit where you were said to be resting,  he opens the door softly assuming that you would be asleep upon opening the door he finds you still lying in the bed looking at the other way out the window”
“Princess…” he calls but you do not turn around instead just say, “ I thought you would be the first person I would see when I wake I thought you owe me that much as your wife don't you?”
“ it was made clear to me that you had other intentions princess”
“ my wishes havent stopped you before what made you listen to me now?”
 taking a deep Harry clenched his jaw. You sigh and say, “but i have to realise that you do not think rationally before acting, and for a better part of it, i am grateful. You saved my life.” 
When he didn't say anything you continued “what you did with my father it was- it was not your best decision-”
“I would like to disagree.”
“At a personal level, i think i should be grateful to you, but as a political move what you did was irrational-”
“The kingdom wouldn't want to maintain an alliance with a man like him.”
“What of your reputation?”
“Any sensible kingdom would understand what i did was right-”
“But no other kingdom knows the reason for your actions-”
“Then we tell them-”
“And ruin my father’s reputation?”
“I didn't know he had a reputation to begin with.” 
“Harry!” 
The moments when you take his name, it becomes electric, his heart beats a tad bit faster and his mind seems to rest. You taking his name, makes him feel closer to being loved, to being owned.
“You must understand, y/n, that your father isnt a great man, but he is also not a great king. And i am sure that the kingdoms around us are aware of the fact.”
“My sisters haven't reached out to me, so I only presume that their husbands don't think the way you do-”
“A woman has a mind of her own, Your sisters not reaching out to you doesn't depend on their husbands' thoughts, it depends on themselves.” 
“You are saying my sisters are choosing to ignore me and my condition?”
“Perhaps, or perhaps they are afraid of breaking the unhealthy bond they share with your father”
“Harry-”
“No. I'm right and you know it. I am right.” Moving closer to you “You know I am right, I am sick of people saying what I did was wrong, I was not. When I took you as my wife I promised to protect you, I promised to care for you and if I have to do it again I would do it in a heartbeat.” 
You both stare at each other.
“Do you love me?” 
“What?”
“Do you love me harry?”
“I don't know.”
“You don't know?-”
“Do you?” 
“What?”
There was a silence that spread in the whole room. Deafening silence. 
“Why did you jump into the fire?-”
“I don't know”
“What do you know?”
“A lot of things-”
“I am serious”
“So am I-”
“No-”
“How do you know-”
“Stop it-”
“Stop what?-”
“Ha-mph”
He kisses you, passionately, his hand slides against your jaw, firmly yet tenderly gripping it, while his other hand wraps around your waist. Your hands snake up his back, one grabbing his shoulder while the other finds the back of his head, threading your fingers through his hair. He licks at your bottom lip, and you open your mouth wider, as he lets his tongue slide in. he takes the lead, and pulls you closer, and your gown rides up your thigh due to the friction presented by the bed, exposing a few burns. The kiss is wet, messy, and all over the place, just like him. Tears slip down from your closed eyelids. You both can taste your tears as you continue to kiss with passion. He takes your lower lip between his and lightly sucks on it. His breath is hot against your face as you push his head closer to yours. he slowly breaks the kiss, resting his forehead against yours. breathing deeply he says,
"I might not know my feelings. but I know what I did was correct. I know what I am doing now, is correct. you and I are correct."
A/N: i am back with part 12, sorry to keep yall waiting.
ill probably end the story in 3 or 4 parts more tho
stay safe❤️❤️
@strwbrrydaydreams @remuslupinwifee @inlikea-coolway @mypolicemanharryyy @sunshinemoonsposts @stilesissaved @novalunosising @sleutherclaw @dear-mylove @kiy0hime @rafaaoli @st-ev-ie @urmomsksjdjdjsj @lomlhstyles @love-letters-to-uranus @panicattheuc @grace-vega28 @inlovewithfictionalcharacters123 @natykn @ttkttt @missmielyhoran @ameliaalvarez06 @hearts4esmee @virgosapphire79
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Revenge pt. 1
synopsis: Y/N is Tengen's fourth wife and a Hashira in training. After a sudden turn of events, she decides to leave her home and divorce her partner(s). Not before enacting revenge.
pairings: Tengen Uzui x Reader
genre(s): Hurt, No Comfort
warning: ANGST. neglect. crying. mention of dead parents. Lying. Insults. whining. betrayal. favoritism. mention of depression. minor grammar mistakes
w.c : 1.6k
I didn’t know he was married.
Not until after he proposed to me.
Tengen Uzui had three wives and no one told me.
Not the master, not the other Hashira, who I considered my colleagues— no one.
But, I didn’t let the new knowledge deter me. I still loved him with everything I had, so I decided to marry him. I became his fourth wife. A title I grew to tolerate over time. Hina, Suma, and Makio were darling women. They always managed to make me feel loved. Invited me to missions and helped with personal errands. I grew fond of them. They comforted me when my parents died from a demon attack and encouraged me to take a break from slaying. They stood by my side during my grieving process and even hit Tengen when he was being insensitive. As time went on, I managed to fall in love with them as well. 
The five of us grew to be a family and I couldn’t be any happier.
“I’m home!” I yelled from the door, tossing my weapons to the side.
I waited for the familiar pater of multiple pairs of feet rushing my way, but nothing ever came. I slipped off my shoes and walked into the home. I peeked my head into every room, hoping to catch a glimpse of at least one of my wives, but the estate seemed to be empty. Even the servants had seemed to disappear, which made my heart beat quicken. Worry stripped through my being as I checked the outside perimeter of the house. I gazed at the nearby trees and looked for any abnormal footprints in the snow— there weren’t any. I didn’t find any pools of blood or piles of flesh anywhere on the estate, so I ruled out a possible demon attack. But that left me with more questions than answers; where did everyone go and why was the house so goddamn quiet?
After spending the last hour or so raking through the possible answers to that question, I decided to take bath to ease my nerves. I unbuttoned my uniform and allowed the clothes to fall in a heap by the entrance. I eased into the water and practically moaned from the way it graced my skin. I leaned against the edge of the giant tub and stretched out my arms. My fingertips brushed against something coarse, completely catching me off guard. I looked over to the pile of towels nearby and saw something hidden underneath. It had been a diary. It belonged to Sumi. I eyed the book, carefully considering if I should invade her privacy. But, then I thought back to all the times Suma would snoop through my room and “borrow” my accessories. I guess it was my time to shine.
I flipped through a few pages, lazily skimming random sentences. 
Tengen is so handsome!
I love it when he wears his hair down.
He looks so good when he’s shirtless.
EVEN HIS SCARS ARE ATTRACTIVE 
I chuckled at that line. “This girl is down bad for her husband, how cute,” I said aloud.
Just when I decided that I had seen enough, I found my name at the start of a new page, in a sentence I never expected to see.
I wish Tengen would’ve never married Y/N.
Shock pierced through me, but I continued to read the entry.
I don’t know what she sees in her. She pretends like she’s some sort of queen or something. She walks around with her head held high and her chest puffed out. Kinda like she owns the place. Lord Tengen calls it confidence, but I think it’s arrogance. When I train with her, she doesn’t ever give me words of encouragement like everyone else. She simply tells me that I would “eventually get the hang of it” or to “better luck next time”. She never compliments me on anything and makes me feel like I’m doing everything wrong. She doesn’t give me hugs or cuddle me after we have sex. I asked Makio and Hina about it. I had to see if I was truly going insane. And they agree— Y/N is a horrible wife. She barely cooks and refuses to do anything but train. From sun up to sun down, this woman is training. Maybe she thinks that training will bring her parents back or something—
I closed the book before I could see more. I tossed it to the side and simply closed my eyes. I paused for a moment and attempted to gather my thoughts. 
Suma didn’t like me. 
And, according to her, neither did Makio and Hina. 
I was a horrible wife because I didn’t show physical affection or give her compliments. To say that statement pissed me off was an understatement. I hated being touched, at least without consent. Whilst living a plus-size body, I noticed that many saw my flesh as some sort of playground. They would point and squeeze on my rolls. Jiggle the fat underneath my arms and slap my ass without giving it a second thought. Strangers viewed me as if I were a dough ball and manhandled me as result. So, with that being said, I was not too fond of Sumi randomly hugging me whenever she had a meltdown. She would bury her face right into my breasts and wrap her arms around me so tight it was almost hard to breathe. As much as I tried to get used to it, I found myself detesting the action altogether. I tried to let her down lightly in the beginning, but she would just cry harder. Hold me tighter and make me even more uncomfortable. And, as for compliments, I was never really given any growing up with my parents. They would simply tell me “no, that’s not how you do it” or “yes, you finally got it right”. They never said “you’re an amazing fighter” or “you’re improving every day”. So, whenever I would try to complement Suma it always came out a little awkward.
What pissed me off about the entry was I had told Sumi about this, before the date it was written. I told them all about my trauma and my rocky relationship with my parents. I made myself an open book to my spouses and that was how they repaid me. 
I washed my exhausted being and excited the bathhouse. I placed the diary back under the pile of towels and attempted to put the contents to the very back of my mind. I slipped into my favorite pajama set and tucked myself into bed. It didn’t take long for sleep to wash over me, since I already had a long day.
I was in a state between consciousness and unconsciousness when they stumbled in. I could feel the gentle moonlight sitting on my brown skin. The night breeze made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up and shivers spilled down my spine. Yet, I refused to fully wake from my slumber. Something was pushing me to remain silent and half-sleep. I could hear their hushed voices bouncing off the wood walls. Their footsteps grow louder and louder as they grew closer to my room. The door was pushed open, creaking loudly from the action. 
“Suma!” Makio hissed quietly. “Must you be so goddamn loud?”
“I’m sorry!” She whisper-yelled. “I just wanted to see if she was asleep.”
“Well,” Hina started, pausing for a minute. “She has that purple thing on her head, so she must be.”
“It’s called a “bonnet”, Hina,” Makio corrected. “She’s wearing her bonnet.”
“Well, she only wears her bonnet to sleep so. . .” Hina trailed off.
“So, she’s asleep,” Suma chimed in.
“Yes,” Makio said.
“That’s a relief,” Suma sighed. “I am not in the mood to hear her boring travel stories, anyway.”
“Ain’t that the truth?” Hina mumbled.
“Come on, guys,” Makio tried to lighten the mood. “They aren’t as bad. And, Sumi you don’t get to judge. You suck at almost everything!”
“Shut it, Makio,” the younger wife countered. “You’re just trying to be nice because Y/N always gives you the best gifts.”
“Well. . .”  Makio trailed off.
“It’s because she’s so easy to please,” Hina added. “All you have to do is give her some kind of weapon and Makio is putty in your hands.”
“Hey!” She hissed. “That’s not true!”
“If it weren’t for those gifts, you’d hate Y/N as much as I do,” Suma added.
A silence amongst the three women and a tear rolled down my cheek.
“How about. . . we just get back to Lord Tengen?” Hina broke the silence. “I’m sure the bath is ready now.”
The room door closed and I lazily opened my eyes. I had spent too much time here. I had gotten comfortable. These women didn’t see me as their wife, nor did they see me as their equal. Their little conversation was just confirmation of what Suma wrote in her diary— they despised me to varying degrees. Hina seemed to tolerate me, while Suma just outright admitted she hated me. Makio just liked me for what I could give her. It was sad because I knew Tengen would enable them. Make excuses for them and neglect my emotions. It didn’t matter how much he loved me, he still loved them first and they were his priority. No matter how mad I was at that moment, I couldn’t act on impulse. Tengen would smell it right away. He would pay extra attention to me, which would make it harder to leave. I needed him to resume the hierarchy he partook in, so I could come up with a conducive plan. 
I could no longer be with someone as flamboyant as him. 
It was too much for me.
-----------
Smut in the next part.
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Masterlist Part 2
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smutteedreams · 2 years
Note
you know what i've been thinking lately... madara letting you comb through his hair and even braid it 🥺 do you have any madara hair headcanons?
WARNINGS- none it's just fluff with slight hints of NSFW in the end
A/n- thank you for sending this ask anon...it really got me in the feels but I'm sorry if you wanted headcanons. I'm really bad at those.
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SUNSETS AND STARRY SKIES
Madara x Reader
"When do you plan to take care of this mess?"
"Show some respect, that's my gorgeous mane."
"Well it used to be gorgeous till you started living like a caveman."
This to and from between you and your husband continued for a few minutes till Madara finally gave in to your words.
"Alright, I'm gonna do something about it."
"No you're not."
"What do you want from me woman?!"
"Can you listen quietly for a minute? I'm saying that let me do it for you."
Madara seemed to ponder upon your offer for a bit. To anyone else, it would seem like he was considering the proposal of a peace treaty between two nations with utmost seriousness but no, it was his hair he was thinking hard about.
"Fine."
You let out an excited squeal cause it's not everyday that the Madara Uchiha let's someone touch his hair. You rummage through his room to find a comb and then procure some hair oil, heating it slightly in a cup, and then go into your backyard to find Madara already seated and waiting for you.
"Took you long enough."
"Not a word from you caveman. I had to scrabble around in that mess of a room to find a single comb."
Madara laughed and then beckoned you to sit on his lap. You obliged and started sectioning his hair to comb it out but his coarse hair strands made it impossible so you switched to massaging the oil into his scalp. He groaned softly at your attentions and relaxed his shoulders.
"Does it feel good?"
"Hmm."
You slowly comb out the now soft hair, careful not to pull or tug. You looked at his face, so eased. The golden of the setting sun perfectly complimenting his toned chest and abs. He looked beautiful and you couldn't help but feel bashful.
Madara thoroughly enjoyed the way you took care of him when he himself couldn't do so. He could not express how much he appreciated your presence. He was grateful of being so close to you, of being able to let his guard down in your embrace. You meant everything to him.
"Can I braid your hair?"
The question took him aback. Were you serious? He, Madara Uchiha, the founder of the village hidden in the leaves, the Uchiha clanhead, Hashirama’s rival, donning a pretty little braid. No way. It's a ridiculous idea. But...but...the way you looked at him, all doe-eyed and pleading. He couldn't find it in him to say no. Somehow, you always found a way into his heart without even realizing. So he let you do as you pleased, enjoying being the sole object of your attention.
'Pretty' felt sorely inadequate in describing his true beauty, his now smooth mane braided neatly made him look like some deity disguised as a human. You couldn't help the blush creeping up your cheeks.
A man as cunning as Madara,l obviously noticed your gaze and the pink tinge on your supple cheeks, highlighted by the dusky hues of the remnants of sunlight. He reached for you and placed a soft, innocent kiss on your lips. You could feel the emotion in his actions right at your core. You gave in to his touches as his hands traveled over any exposed skin he could find.
The neat braid was long forgotten as he laid on the lush grass and you straddled him under the starry sky, the two of you merged into one.
Tags- @mrs-bakashi @madarasthicc @hashira-mal @powerofrice @obitovoir @sharingangirl @froggyperfectiondragon @jyotsna-d @ravester @awesomeness1679 @rocknrollsoul76 @drakensmainbitch @uchihaunloved @1o0v3 @sindulgent666
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lauraneedstochill · 9 months
Text
Love always wakes the dragon / Chapter 2
summary: Aemond thinks she’s a worthy opponent — a relentless fighter, a fearless dragon rider, her temper and stubbornness only matching his. But there’s a catch: she is Daemon’s daughter who wants nothing from her father and has her own reasons for coming to King’s Landing. One of them is meant to save the other. pairing: Aemond Targaryen x OFC words: ~ 8000 (I swear other chapters are shorter I just got carried away with the ass-kicking) warnings: enemies to lovers, slowburn, sword fighting and a bruised male’s ego author’s note: I’ve read a few fighting scenes and, as much as I enjoyed them, I always thought people go easy on Aemond. so I decided to make him sweat a little... also, I added an instrumental track that fits the fight scene perfectly, and I highly recommend you put it on! ⏪ part 1
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2. The Wild Dragon
The dragonkeepers form a small crowd — as Daemon approaches, he sees the men standing still and gazing at the sky, the lack of movement making them look like statues. He hears a low buzzing of gasps and when he looks up, he finds himself in the same position, stunned and open-mouthed. The dragon is circling above the alcove, its wings stretched like a snow-white sail, and the rare, blinding beauty of it makes it hard to look away. The patch of bronze starts from beneath its neck, running down to the tail — the color mix brings back a certain memory of his, and Daemon finds himself lost in his thoughts for a moment.
Only when the dragon goes to the fourth round, the prince comes to his senses:
“Why isn’t it landing?”
One of the dragonkeepers turns to him and hesitantly points to the other corner of the gates, and Daemon only now notices a group of guards lined up with swords in their arms, looking far from being delighted. The prince groans in annoyance, his flash of anger diluted with a drop of guilt.
“Are you out of your mind?!” he yells. “Lower your weapons, you imbeciles!”
The guards retreat and the dragonkeepers back away, too, still keeping their eyes on the beast — in worry, in wonder. He circles once more and then finally flies down, and Daemon catches a glimpse of the rider — her clothes are dark, cloak withering on the wind. He feels his chest tightening with each gust, the long-forgotten feeling rousing in; he can’t remember the last time he’s been so profusely nervous.
The white dragon lands with a grace of a cat — moving paws in synch, it lowers the neck and folds the wings, its limber body huddling closer to the ground. There’s a sharpness to its features, half of his snout crisscrossed with scars, his scales coarse up close, pale and solid like ivory. The beast’s eyes focus on Daemon for a moment, its color strikingly bright, with a few specks of gold that sink in green when the dragon glares at the guards, with the damning force being the crux of his every move. A rumbling vibrates in the back of his throat but it doesn’t grow into a roar — it’s a warning on itself that the beast gives them before slowing its movement, condescending and merciful, much to everyone’s relief.
The rider jumps down, landing on both feet, and then puts the hood back so Daemon can take a closer look at her. Merely a second is enough to see — she’s an image of her mother, in every feature of her face and even in the way she moves, a rare fusion of gracious and fast-paced. Her hair is put into a braid, the color of it so rare he’s only seen it once before — it’s peaches mushed with snow, a vibrant bronze with a coating of milk. In the sunlight, it looks as bright as fire, but right through it cuts a thick strand that frames one side of her face with white, the shade of it matching Daemon’s head of hair. And when he meets her gaze, he notices that she has his eyes: the shape is a bit different, more round, but they are the same color and there’s a familiar, threatening heaviness in them. It’s only two pieces of the puzzle that she’s assembled of, but now that Daemon sees her, he has no doubts that she is, in fact, his daughter, and that feeling is almost flattering.
She doesn’t look flattered in the slightest.
When she eyes him briefly, she shows no emotion at all — uncaring, casually unimpressed. It becomes awkwardly silent, and Daemon realizes that he’s never been that good at making the first step. But maybe it’s time for him to try.
“There was no mention of the dragon in the letters,” his voice comes off a tad softer than usual, and he keeps his distance but his enthusiasm fuels him to shorten it.
“Well, surprise,” she deadpans and pats the dragon, her gloved hand gliding against the scales, a small bag clenched in the other one. “Seemed like you took more interest in discussing other matters. What is the proper way of greeting you? Should I curtsy?” she asks, looking at Daemon again, and he isn’t sure if she’s jesting, her tone matching the unreadable expression on her face. “I must apologize for my manners in advance, I’m afraid.”
Her straightforwardness brings a smile to his face.
“We can get the formalities out of the way,” the prince steps closer, standing only a couple of feet away from her. “I would like to welcome you to King’s Landing, lady — ”
“There is no need for that,” she speaks with a tone that leaves no room for discussion. “You know I am no lady, nor am I seeking any titles. You can call me Lia.”
“But that is not your name,” he says almost hesitantly, a line of confusion settling in between his brows. Daemon is suddenly questioning every piece of information he knows — or rather the lack thereof.
“That is a part of it,” her answer sounds well-rehearsed as she dispassionately tears syllables. “That’s how my mother called me, so I am quite used to it.”
Even with her name cut in half, she has more authority than the most decorated lords, Daemon thinks. It’s both inexplicable and intriguing, and he holds on to that thought — until it collides with another one, tardy and grim: when she talked about her mother, she used the past tense.
Memories get their claws into his heart as he’s reminded of Baela and Rhaena clinging to him, their muffled weeping and grief-stricken eyes. He knows that the pain of losing a mother leaves a mark that will never be erased — but kind words and a shoulder to cry on can at least help ease the suffering.
Daemon moves with the intention of opening his arms, his chest is a harbor of acceptance when he asks:
“How’s your mother been doing?” and he already suspects the answer will bring more death into his life.
Lia blinks once, twice, then says — plain and simple:
“She died.”
It sounds as mundane as discussing the weather, and Daemon is startled by the lack of sentiment. It was, indeed, uncharacteristically naive of him to expect her to rush into his arms. But her guard is up so high he feels like he’s facing an actual wall, and it makes him anxious — and that’s not what he is used to deal with when it comes to his own children.
But before Daemon can express his concern, he hears a disgruntled snarl — they both turn to see the white dragon coiled into a defensive stance, his eyes are the color of burning green leaves. A couple of dragonkeepers are approaching him falteringly, and Lia raises her voice at the beast:
“Olwen!”
His dilated pupils dart to her, and the snarling abates, but his wrath bolsters, and now he’s nothing less of a pure danger. Both his and her eyes are trained on the men, and as one of them comes closer, Lia catches a dull glint of metal in his hands.
“No chains are needed,” she instantly speaks up.
“It is a matter of precaution, we mean no harm —”
“I said,” Lia steps in front of the man, “my dragon will not be chained.”
Her tone immediately loses the light coating of friendliness — if there ever was any to begin with, — it gets remorseless and strident, and she allows no objections. The dragonkeeper looks at her helplessly then turns his gaze to Daemon, waiting for the instructions.
“They want to make sure he stays in the cave,” he clarifies peacefully.
“He doesn’t do well with chains,” Lia discloses, not moving from her spot. Daemon notes that all her responses are ill-defined which makes him wonder if she does it consciously or not. Whatever her reasoning is, it only leaves more questions than answers.
“Will he do well with other dragons?”
“Olwen will be on his best behavior,” her reply comes out too harsh, scathing, so she tones it down a bit. “Put him in any closed space, and he will sleep for days, he won’t care about anything else,” she gives an explanation almost charitably. But he accepts it.
Daemon casts an evaluating glance at the beast and then gestures for the dragonkeepers to stand back.
“I’ll lead the way,” he doesn’t need to turn around to know that she’s following him — her eyes land on his back like a punch.
They pass the gate, going through rows of columns carved into the stone surface and illuminated by the torches on the walls. Daemon strains to pick up any sound the dragon makes that can be alarming but he only hears the crunch of the beast’s footsteps and occasional sniffing. Looking over his shoulder, he is surprised to see that Olwen tags along, as obedient as a dog, not reacting to the unknown environment nor the distant roars of other dragons. Once they reach his cave, the beast merely gives it a look-over before settling down cozily in the darkest corner. Lia leaves the bag tucked under his wing and glances at Olwen with the faintest of a smile, but it disappears once she turns to her father.
They walk back in silence but unlike her dragon, Lia takes more interest in her surroundings — she examines weaves of caves and tunnels, looking around after every sharp turn. Daemon watches her out of the corner of his eye, vigilant and hopeful, as he keeps fighting the desire to please her, to be liked by her, this stranger that has his blood but acts like she wants none of it. He opens the carriage door for her, smothering his ego, but Lia hesitantly looks inside, and he guesses that she’d rather go on horseback. Yet she concedes, sensing his determination to bond. He thinks it’s a small step in the right direction.
Lia sits closer to the window, her interest seemingly flaring up even more. That or she doesn’t want to be near Daemon, and he brushes off the latter. He wants to offer his condolences but is afraid her wall of defense will turn into a mountain he won’t be able to climb so he chooses a safer option:
“How was your journey? Finding the Dragonpit didn’t pose a problem for you, it seems.”
“The maps you sent were very detailed, thank you,” Lia doesn’t turn to him, her eyes glued to the road as she keeps her focus on the landscape that soon gives way to the streets busy with fairs and taverns.
“Is King’s Landing always this crowded?”
“We are taking the main streets, with all the trading points and venues clustered here so these are usually filled with people,” Daemon eagerly explains but forgets to mention that he chose that road so she could get a better view of the city.
“Keeping an eye on things must be quite hard,” Lia debates.
“Hence why we have the City Watch,” Daemon grins, the feel of the golden cloak wrapped around his shoulders still fresh in his memory. “The Watch is enforcing the crown’s laws so our city is safe for all its people. I can show you around later on, should you wish for it.”
“If the city is safe, why would I need a guardian to take a walk?” when she looks at him, there’s a gleam of laughter in her eyes, and Daemon thinks that Rhaenyra would’ve liked her. He really hopes that she will.
“I am only offering my company,” he rebuts gaily.
“One would think the Prince Consort has better things to do,” the corner of her mouth curls slightly but the other one doesn’t follow, and the hint of a smile never grows into an actual one. Instead, her face is set on agitation when she suddenly says:
“I may help you pass the time,” with these words, her hand disappears under the cloak — and then Lia gives him a folded piece of parchment. “My mother wrote this for you.”
Daemon can feel that she doesn’t want to give it to him. It’s in the way her hand is gripping the letter, in the way she looks at it, her lips tight and jaw clenched. And yet she lets him take it.
“You know what it’s about?”
“I think I do,” her eyes linger on the letter. “And I would prefer if you kept it a secret,” Lia’s voice is quiet and sorrowful — and for a second she almost sounds hurt. But she averts her gaze and straightens her posture, and he can’t figure her out, once again.
“You didn’t read it?”
“The letter is sealed,” Lia looks at him with a weary judgment that’s normally expressed by men of his age towards someone like her and not vice versa. “If it wasn’t meant for me then I will not open it.”
“You could’ve burned it, you know. Keep whatever there is a secret,” he suggests, watching her reaction closely.
Lia keeps silent for a moment, and Daemon thinks he will rip the letter to shreds if only she asks, if it makes things better for her. She lightly shakes her head.
“It was my mother’s wish to give it to you, and I respect it,” Lia says firmly. “I can only hope that you will respect mine.”
“Sooner or later, everyone will find out,” he warns her, with a touch of bitterness in his voice.
“I am in no rush,” her reply is short and dry, and she turns to the window, signaling that the conversation is over.
Lia peers out, her eyes on the road again. Only now, in the broad daylight when he takes a closer look, Daemon realizes that it’s not the inquiring mind of a traveler that drives her — it looks more like she’s mentally mapping every location they pass. And he doesn’t know the destination she has in mind. The audience with the Queen goes better than Daemon hoped for — which means it’s not half as bad as it could’ve been.
Rhaenyra’s frustration due to the unannounced visit is quickly replaced by burning curiosity as she watches Lia come in. She sees the girl who doesn’t try to hide behind Daemon’s back, most of her body covered by a long cloak that still permits a straight and free stride while she boldly keeps eye contact with Rhaenyra. Lia only stops a few feet away from the throne — and she doesn’t curtsy. Instead, she politely takes a bow, not looking away for a second.
Someone else might’ve considered her behavior borderline insolent but the Queen impatiently stands up to walk closer to the girl, not offended but rather intrigued. Daemon wonders if Rhaenyra sees a younger version of herself in Lia — and his wife thinks of it, too. She is also more surprised by the lack of a title than by the name his daughter chose.
“Not a single person in my village had a title or a last name,” Lia points out, and she bears no shame. The look on her face also suggests she doesn’t expect the Queen to understand.
Rhaenyra proves her right when her gaze passes over the girl with the air of someone who knows better.
“It is fair to call you a lady, I believe, since you have dragon’s blood in your veins,” she announces as if the issue is settled already.
“As you wish, your grace,” Lia simply agrees — and it’s leniency as it is. But the Queen allows it.
She asks more questions than Daemon did, and the girl seems more affable with her replies yet somehow she gives all the same information, and not a word more. Still, he observes them with unconcealed satisfaction, pleased with the flow of their voices, with the calmness that sets in the hall, and he’s just a moment away from finding relief —
“How did your mother die?” Rhaenyra asks all of a sudden, and it makes Daemon flinch at his spot.
“Of an unfortunate injury she left untreated,” Lia begrudgingly answers, and he notices that the violet of her eyes goes a shade darker.
“Wasn’t your mother a healer?”
It’s not intended as a taunt, Rhaenyra just can’t resist wanting to know more, her eager attempts almost child-like, and Daemon instantly tenses up. They are both perplexed by the dry chuckle Lia lets out before saying:
“She cared too much about everyone else but too little about herself.”
There’s no hiding of vitriol seeping through her words but Lia doesn’t go into that topic further, her face showing nothing but a cold indifference again. Rhaenyra studies her reaction — luckily for Daemon, she does so not as the Queen but as someone who experienced the same loss once.
“I believe that hardships of life only shape your character,” she steps toward the girl, her voice pervaded with maternal-like care. “I presume that coming all that way to King’s Landing wasn’t easy but we are very glad that you did. It may take you some time to consider this place home — I assure you, the servants are ordered to satisfy your every whim”.
Rhaenyra means well, Daemons knows it, and yet for some reason, he wishes she phrased it better. Whatever Lia actually thinks of the Queen’s speech is left unsaid — his daughter only gives a polite half-smile in return:
“That is very generous of you, your grace. Frankly, I feel like I want to rest for a week, nothing else.”
“Do you really intend to?” Rhaenyra’s friendliness slightly falters. “We were planning on having a family gathering at dinner to formally introduce you to everyone.”
“Dare I ask you to postpone it just for a day? Surely it would be rude for me to fall asleep at the table,” Lia’s smile doesn’t reach the eyes, and a lull in their conversation makes Daemon uncomfortable.
“Well, I suppose just a day won’t make a difference. After such a long journey you do deserve to rest,” the Queen says after a pause. “I need my husband to return to his duties for now, meanwhile the maid will show you to your chambers,” she calls for a girl who’s been standing at the door, and the maid approaches them as quietly as a mouse.
Lia’s eyes flicker to Daemon, and he almost expects her to argue, but she says nothing aside from a hushed “thank you”, and then follows the maid out of the room. Rhaenyra watches them, tacit and pensive.
“I truly do not know what to think,” the Queen drawls when they leave. “But she is really quite something,” and her appraisal is followed by a chuckle.
Daemon nods, agreeing. Only he doesn’t find it amusing at all. Lia thinks the maid is just a couple of years younger than her but she doesn’t dare to clarify — even walking alongside the girl feels awkward and even more so wrong. Just yesterday Lia was picking up branches to make a fire in the woods, some dirt undoubtedly still left under her fingernails, and now, merely a day after, she is being led to her chambers by a maid. It feels as ridiculous as it is nauseating, and it only gets worse when she sees the room — the size of the house she’s grown in and with way more furniture than she’s ever seen put in one place.
Lia stands at the doorway, still and confounded, when the maid humbly says:
“If you are in need of anything, you can — ”
“No,” Lia cuts her off so sharply, it startles the girl.
Lia turns to her with an apologetic look:
“What is your name?”
“Annora,” she answers meekly, hiding her eyes to the floor.
“Annora, I can guarantee you I need nothing else. You are free to leave for the rest of the day,” Lia tries to sound both persuasive and kind — and not disgusted with her own pretense.
The girl gives her a confused look but seems too scared to object so she takes leave with no questions asked. Lia stays at the door and listens to her retreating footsteps, disregarding the pompously furnished room. After the sounds in the hall die down, she waits for another couple of minutes — and then slips out without looking back. Lia roams around and learns every exit and searches through every room she can open. She follows no rules except one — shall things go south, she must know how to get out, fast and without being seen. So she memorizes the turns, the pattern of corridors and stairs while trying to avoid encounters with people endlessly pacing through the castle. A few times she has to take a step back, hide in the shadows and in between columns while maids and guards and noble women with too many underskirts run by. Lia isn’t used to that — the amount of people, the fuss and the noise, but does her best to ignore it all, taking time to explore the huge building, with doors and corners and the awaiting unknown.
When she finally gets to the backyard, it feels like only a couple of hours have passed but Lia is surprised to see that the sun is beginning to set. The sky gradually darkens, dabbed with yellow and maroon, showing the approach of the evening. Only once she steps outside, she realizes how much she needed a breath of fresh air, how there’s a lack of it in the musty, sweltering castle. She is relieved to see that the yard is way less crowded, with only a few servants and a couple of knights at the gates. Her eyes skim over the open space when she hears the metal screeching — distinct and all too familiar to her: turning around, Lia predictably sees two men sparring, their swords being the source of the sound. Her attention is quickly drawn to one of them — lean, tall, and fending off his opponent with ease, his long silver hair flowing with each move. His hits seem as clear-cut as the features of his face — although she didn’t see him that well the first time, she recognizes him immediately. Aemond is the very embodiment of imperturbability, each stroke of his sword deliberate and sharp, and Ser Criston can’t let his guard down for one second. It’s a sequence he’s learned well enough over the years: there’s no rush in the prince’s attacks, there’s exhausting suspense. Aemond watches him, throws in a few teasing strikes, circling leisurely but maniacally tiring his opponent out. Only when you least expect it, he will deliver a series of blows, strong enough to knock an adult down, just enough to satisfy his ego.
And yet, Ser Criston senses that something is off. The prince is missing his usual fervor, his competitive energy, not pressing the fight but rather tolerating it, which Criston considers odd.
“Your focus seems to be elsewhere, my prince. I wonder what’s on your mind,” the knight inquires.
Aemond shoots him a cold glance and easily blocks his hit, then spins and abruptly strikes forward, his sword stopping at Criston’s neck.
“Wondering does you no good, Ser Criston,” Aemond remarks with a small grin, retreating.
“Fair enough,” he smiles in return. “I suggest we take a break.”
They had to start later than usual, and by now all the spectators dispersed and the yard has long been empty, quiet, softly illuminated by sunset. One of the guards goes to light the torches on the walls, and Aemond absentmindedly watches as the flames grow, taking a few gulps of water. Despite Ser Criston being right in his observations, training still had a calming effect on the prince, and the slight soreness of the muscles was somewhat enjoyable. It’s a way to escape reality for him, his mind concentrated on the momentum of movements, on the way his body adapts to the tempo and responds to the threat. He concludes he can go for another round, still invigorated, somewhat restive, always at the ready.
But when Aemond turns around, his eye is drawn to a cloaked figure, and all the clarity and concentration dissolve upon realizing who he’s looking at. He recognizes her immediately.
Christon follows Aemond’s gaze, spotting the girl, too, and then squints a little:
“Is that — ”
“I believe so,” the prince replies tersely.
They were on the way to the training yard when they saw Alicent leaving Helaena’s chambers, looking surprisingly grim. Caught in the moment, she had to reveal the cause of her sour mood — or maybe Alicent was actually looking for a reason to finally tell someone of it. She wore a grimace of annoyance that turned into resentment as she recounted what happened at the small council’s meeting. Her explanation left much to be desired but Criston listened attentively, seemingly intrigued. Both he and Alicent missed the stunned expression that was evident on Aemond’s face for barely a moment — somehow he instantly guessed who was the rider of the white dragon. And then regret mixed with agitation chained his heart.
It has long been known that his mother and Daemon have a bone to pick with each other, but Aemond is never hasty with his judgment. His uncle’s daughter is a girl he knows nothing about, so the prince tries to give her the benefit of the doubt instead of rushing to conclusions, or labeling, or worse. And yet Aemond keeps going back to that image of her — a splash of darkness roaming in the skies, audacious in her freedom, coming into their lives at the speed of a dragon she managed to claim even though she wasn’t supposed to have one in the first place. He even let himself wonder how their first meeting would go, thinking of an uncomfortable family gathering with forced smiles and awkward conversations.
But suddenly she’s here — her black cloak fluttering like an unknown flag, no sign of a smile on her face, no lack of confidence. And it’s also somewhat fitting that she’s defying the expectations already, his included.
She keeps her distance and pays them no mind as her eyes are set on the table with practice swords, their blades reflecting glimmers of orange and red that the sky is painted with. Criston notices Aemond’s wistful stare and clears his throat, then carefully approaches the girl.
“It’s not often I find ladies to take interest in swords,” he remarks politely.
“I couldn’t deny myself the pleasure of admiring the craftsmanship,” she answers, earning a pleased hum from the knight.
“Well, these two swords were cast only a week ago,” Criston enthusiastically comes closer.
Sensing it, she glances up at him, out of interest or as a precaution, and Aemond sees a white strand of hair sticking out, a rebellious sign of her Targaryen roots confirmed by the color of her eyes. He discreetly examines her, takes in every subtle detail he can notice as if her appearance can give him a clue for what’s underneath. But her face is a mask of reticence.
“This looks like Valyrian steel,” she infers, and Criston nods, pleasantly surprised by her guess.
“You have seen it before?”
“I have definitely heard of it,” she gives an oblique answer. “And it is truly beautiful up close. How long does it take to make one?” her voice suggests a keen interest, her demeanor so open and simple it’s only natural that Criston is driven to talk to her.
Aemond’s never been good at striking up conversations, avoiding them on the pretext of not liking any idle talk. And yet now his taciturnity weighs on him — and he doesn’t know if he’s troubled by the feeling of being excluded again or the blind urge to be the one she’s talking to.
Criston’s chattering comes with no reprehensibility, and she welcomes the nuanced explanation, listening attentively.
“You are quite passionate about the subject,” she concludes.
“It’s only fair for the knight to know more of the weapon he uses,” he explains, modest as ever. “Although, I believe we haven’t been properly introduced — I am Ser Criston Cole, the Master of swords. You’ve walked in on me and Prince Aemond training.”
She doesn’t react to the second part of his answer, not acknowledging Aemond’s presence, and he feels like a ghost, an unnoticed shadow, and the neglect unnerves him. Ser Criston is more worried about respecting social norms:
“And how should I address you?”
“Just Lia will do,” she bestows him with a smile so fleeting, he might’ve as well imagined it.
“Lady Lia, then,” he corrects, and her face is briefly shadowed by disdain.
“There’s no value in adding that,” Lia scrunches her nose.
Aemond comes up to them then, not waiting for any invitations and intending to be reckoned with, his brows draw together at her comment.
“Getting a title is something people usually pride upon rather than eschew,” he points out in a studiously courteous manner.
“Sounds like you care about it more than I do,” Lia barely spares him a glance, her head tilted as she follows the gilded pattern of the sword with her finger.
She doesn’t mean to mock him, her tone plain and stance relaxed, but the relative ease with which she brushes off his comment wounds all the same. Aemond is so used to people being intimidated by his mere presence that the lack of reaction does come off as an offense — or maybe he’s too eager to take it as one.
Ser Criston is oblivious to Aemond’s nerves slowly cracking, too absorbed in the conversation with Lia.
“To fully appreciate the craftsmanship, you should see it in action,” he carelessly continues. “Do you know how to handle a sword? I can show you.”
“It is really kind of you to offer but I’ve wielded a sword before,” her emotionless response implies she’s not affronted yet Criston notices a smile in the corner of her lips again. He wonders if it’s a sign of amiability or a contained jeer.
“I am sure you haven’t held — ”
“You can take one,” Aemond suddenly suggests, words escaping his mouth before he can think them over.
Ser Criston stops midsentence, darting an inquiring glance at him but the prince ignores it, his eye boring into Lia’s back.
“If you spar with me,” he adds — and sees that her finger stops at the edge of the blade, signaling that now he’s got her attention.
“You already have an opponent to entertain you,” Lia remarks, straightening her back.
“I am not looking for entertainment,” Aemond adamantly retorts.
He is looking for a fight, he wants to say — but when Lia finally glances at the prince, he catches an unspoken sign of understanding.
“If you win, the sword is yours,” Aemond continues, pressing for her to answer. His impatience simmers, risking to bring his temper to a boil.
There is no logical explanation for his persistence — Lia shows no interest and takes no offense, absolutely nothing suggests that she wants to fight, and she merely looked at him once since she came. Maybe that last part is the one he’s got a problem with.
Criston waits for the girl to refuse — and to do so sheepishly, in a ladylike manner. Instead, she fully turns to the prince.
“Seems like you’ve been training for quite some time, aren’t you tired?” Lia eyes him from head to toe. “I’d like us to have a fair bout,” she states impassively.
Aemond stifles a laugh, reeking of overconfidence, his reaction all too familiar to the knight but usually off-putting to the others — just this attitude alone led to more fights than Criston can count, even though the prince had no trouble winning all of them. The knight expects Lia to get annoyed, too, to lash back or quarrel — but she is a blank canvas void of any color.
“I won’t cut you, worry not. At least I will try my best,” Aemond’s reply is hardly a promise with his voice being so evidently teasing. Still, he has some decency to abide by the rules, so he asks in return: “Do you need a warm-up?”
She feels her legs humming from the number of stairs and turns she’s taken throughout the day, and the anticipation only gets the blood rushing, heating her body — but he knows nothing of it.
“I’ll pass,” she declines, and just for a moment, her gaze turns sneery, and Aemond guesses that she’s also not the one to back down. That bare glimmer of her character is enough to strike a chord in him.
Criston looks between them, finally grasping how the dynamic escalated, the air thick with tension as Aemond and Lia stare each other down without a hint of doubt on their faces.
“You are fortunate to spar with a very skilled swordsman,” the knight mentions delicately, hoping that his implication might cause Lia to reconsider.
“If you say so,” is her only reply — and there isn’t a shred of uncertainty.
Before going to pick a sword, Lia looks around. Aemond thinks she wants to make sure no one is watching them, and this time, he actually wishes there was a crowd to make a spectacle in front of. But as her eyes are roving through the yard, Criston guesses that she’s sizing up the space, memorizing every detail, — and it’s definitely not a sign of her lacking the experience. He has never trained a woman but someone clearly took their chance with Lia, and the knight gets curious to know if her training paid off.
She goes to the further end of the table where the shortswords are lined up, and Aemond silently sneers: he’s proficient in using longswords, maneuvering heavy blades with ease, and going for the lighter version will pose no challenge for him. Lia doesn’t think for too long, choosing the one with a smaller hilt, plated with silver and set with emeralds. She weights it, making sure it sits comfortably in her hand, and Criston notes that her thumb lays on the flat of the blade which gives her more ability to hold on to the sword. She twirls it a couple of times, her movements smooth and polished.
The knight turns to Aemond — and he is already looking at Lia.
“You do know how to hold it. Do you know how to use it?” the prince taunts.
“Do you?” she throws him an assessing gaze.
“We are about to find out,” Aemond’s lips twitch into a smirk. 🎵
Lia twists the blade backward, and it stops right behind her shoulder, barely an inch away. She holds it there as she approaches the prince, staying at a safe distance. The forged metal is tinted with the blooming sundown — it’s bright, sinister scarlet, and Criston gets a sinking feeling of worry, the idea of them sparring not so tempting anymore. But he hesitates for just a second too long — and then it’s too late to meddle.
Aemond strikes first, not harshly but rather testing — Lia swiftly moves out of his way, without even raising her sword, and his blade almost grazes her cloak, but the material slips away in the air, following its owner. The prince takes a step back, circling her as she stands, barely moving but not letting him out of sight, not shying away from him. His gaze hunts her like prey but she’s hawk-eyed, and she is yet to show her claws.
A surprised hum escapes Criston’s mouth, and he directs his focus to Lia. She’s got good awareness of space, her stepping is correct and aligned with her rare hits, her pacing akin to a measured cadence. Using the sword in one hand gives her a longer reach — but she hardly ever initiates attacks. Instead of stopping Aemond or trying to engage, Lia easily dodges, and that behavior only serves to embolden the prince’s fervor. It bothers Criston, and he furrows his brows, watching the girl closely, discerning how aloof and impassive she seems in comparison to Aemond — he’s smoldering, she’s stone-cold, and her movements are almost... lazy.
That’s when Criston realizes: she’s the one wearing the prince out, not the other way around.
It only takes Aemond a minute to draw the same conclusion, and he feels a flash of irritation in his chest. He might’ve underestimated Lia but he isn’t used to being toyed with, and even though her face is still without expression, now her style of fighting almost seems taunting. The prince usually took pride in his self-control yet he was slowly losing it — and he hates to lose, he never does.
Aemond quickly weighs his options, chancing a glance at the yard, and a distant object catches his attention. It’s a middle-sized barrel, but it’s enough to slow her movements, he thinks, and once she’s cornered the prince might consider mercy. He intensifies his hits, pressuring her to move further away, right into his trap, to his proclamation of victory. Aemond’s chest all but puffs, his hubris blossoming — but it turns out to be disastrously premature.
Lia looks over her shoulder — and then jumps over the barrel like it wasn’t ever there, barely an obstacle, or at least not for her. She gives him a look that makes him feel stupid — and Aemond is anything but. Even from a distance, Criston can feel the anger that sparkles in the prince, his shoulders tensing up and his grip on the sword tightening. He is scary when he’s angry — when he allows himself to be, when the build-up emotions emerge from the darkness of his stiff restrain — Aemond doesn’t hold back then, and he is scarily dangerous, dreadful, deadly.
But anger is only fuel and, shall you spill too much of it, the fire will be too hard to control — and the lack of control can be lethal when someone aims a blade at your heart. Yet it seems that what Aemond may lack, she’s got plenty of, and Criston finds himself wondering if that unemotional canvas of hers is actually a facade that covers something else.
They are separated by the barrel but Lia has no intention of hiding behind it — as she goes back around, she gets rid of another restriction, hastily tossing the cloak away, and Aemond finds himself involuntarily staring at her. Her clothes are also dark — the upper garment is long-sleeved and waisted, the material of her trousers dense and fitted tightly around her thighs. It differs from everything he’s seen on the ladies of the court, and she wears it like a second skin that stretches and covers every curve of her body. As Aemond’s eye lingers, he lets his guard down, almost missing the moment when she hits, fast and without warning — the prince blocks it at the very last second, their swords locking at foot level, and her blade stops right at his knee.
Aemond’s face expresses the utmost bewilderment. She didn’t cut him — but the intent was there.
The prince inhales sharply. He can forgive her still, he can dismiss her insolence and blame it on her lack of manners, on her luck, on any ludicrous reason that he may come up with in the next thirty seconds which he definitely needs to calm himself down. He is trying with his every breath, with his every muscle to regain control and resolve the situation peacefully.
But Lia isn’t looking for peace when she says — brazenly, her eyes fixed on him:
“Doesn’t seem like you live up to the praise you’ve been given.”
His temper explodes in a second. Aemond lunges at her, an annoyed grunt bubbling in his throat, and he strikes, merciless and quick, adrenalin roaring in his blood. She bends backward, his sword gliding just above her, and then she ducks under his arm and moves away. He barely has time to turn to her when she winds in from the other side, their swords clanging — and Criston regains his senses at the loud sound.
The knight feels his heart racing, the feeling of worry now bruising him as he can’t take his eyes off the two opponents.
Aemond’s blind spot is clearly on his left, and yet Lia never aims there, not taking advantage of his weakness, and Criston can’t help but respect her for that. However, she notes him having a dominant right hand, most of his blows targeted to cover the opposite side, leaving him open to attacks from the right. The moment she realizes where to strike, her blows become harsher and more vigorous, as her sword cuts through the air with a flick of her wrist. She’s got speed and agility, she’s unwavering, she’s a hunter too.
Aemond does not give in, furious and unflinching, and yet, even with the most ferocious attempts he misses her — merely by an inch — but misses nonetheless. Lia dodges every attack, each of her blocks calculated and her gaze alert, her desire not to yield only matching his. It’s refreshing, it keeps Aemond’s blood pumping, the anger-driven energy coursing through him. It also hurts his ego quite a bit.
There’s a bizarre harmony in the way they carry themselves, Criston notices, and their anger looks about the same — fiery and scalding. And it’s only a matter of time before anyone gets burned.
Aemond runs out of patience first.
Lia bats his sword aside once more and pulls back, falling into his blind spot, and Aemond needs to spin around to keep her in sight. But his mind is clouded with fury that pushes him to take the risk before he can think it through — instead of repeating the well-known movement, he takes a swing at her, his aim nothing but instinctive. He’s never followed blind instinct so literally — he’s also never done anything so horribly, dangerously stupid.
Criston’s heart plummets like a pebble through a hole as he watches Lia’s blade missing Aemond by a hair — and it truly is a miracle if he’s ever seen one. But then the prince’s sword lands right next to her shoulder, and they both instantly halt movement, their breathing heavy and eyes locked.
There is dead silence around them, the sun is long gone, the sounds vanished, all the guards witnessing are petrified.
It takes all of Aemond’s willpower not to press the blade further into the material of her clothes to cut it. He doesn’t want to hurt her, but he wants to leave a mark. A sign that he did win, a reminder of his victory just for her to keep.
“I shall teach you a lesson on how to keep your attitude in check when you’re talking to a prince,” his words are laced with frustration yet he smirks, bathing in the satisfaction that winning always brings him.
“Only when you learn to not get ahead of yourself,” she whispers — and with that, he suddenly feels a metal blade poking at his ribs. Taken aback, Aemond looks down and, surely, she’s holding a small dagger to his side with her free hand. His delight is as short-lived as ripples on a pond.
“Now, this is not fair,” he mutters, not looking so smug anymore.
“Fairness be damned when someone’s threatening my life,” she glances up at him, their faces so close they can feel each other’s breath. She smells of ashes and the crisp freshness of the forest, and her expression doesn’t change but her eyes darken, just like the sea does before the storm, which makes him feel uneasy.
And yet, Aemond refuses to lower his sword.
“Will you be as fierce without an arm?” he hisses.
“I can survive without one. But I’ll cut into your heart first,” her voice is terribly calm, and he knows she’s not bluffing.
“That is enough!” Criston is on the verge of yelling. “No one will cut anything!”
He tries to squeeze in between them but to no avail — Aemond doesn’t budge nor does Lia. Criston has never been the one in charge of the kids yet right now he wishes he had more experience with dealing with tantrums — because that’s exactly what it is, he thinks. Except the two participants have long outgrown the age appropriate for such behavior, and both are, unfortunately, armed.
He takes a deep breath and throws a hand in between them, more firmly this time.
“You know as well as I do that this has to end,” the knight gives them a stern look, keeping his voice low and impassive, “and with both of you intact.”
Lia’s eyes dart to Criston, and he takes it as a sign of her being the one he can reason with.
“I do not think using a dagger was acceptable but to be fair, we never established any rules. And you are a good fighter,” he puts emphasis specifically for Aemond, not letting the prince interrupt. “So I propose we agree on a draw, and you will still get your sword.”
She ponders for barely a minute before looking at Aemond again:
“I believe said agreement requires mutual consent.”
Criston maneuvers his palm next to Lia’s shoulder and puts his other hand close to where she’s holding the dagger. He glances anxiously at Aemond, and the prince scowls, irritated, not in the habit of backing down. He holds her gaze for a couple of seconds — and then they lower the weapons, the movement almost synchronized except Lia does so with grace while Aemond just does everyone a favor.
Crison gently stops the girl, his hand intercepting the one she’s holding the sword in.
“I will sharpen it myself and have it back in the morning,” he promises — and she gives it up with no objection.
Aemond seethes at her compliance he hasn’t been graced with, clinging to his sword while his pride whines in offense. He watches Lia putting the cloak back on, twirling the dagger in one hand, so unbothered and composed as if he left no impression on her while she all but carved her way into his head. While she has her back to him, he thoughtlessly makes a move in her direction, and Criston’s eyes widen, a word of warning rooting in his throat — but he doesn’t get a chance to voice it.
Lia stops and turns to Aemond in one swift motion, her gaze heavy and cold — and immediately on him again. For the second time she takes him by surprise, and the prince freezes at the spot. She looks directly at him and, without breaking eye contact, slowly shakes her head no. She doesn’t utter a single word but the coldness of her gaze speaks for itself. Her eyes are saying if you dare to pick the sword, I will kill you. I will bury my dagger in between your ribs, and my face will be the last thing you see.
She’s standing in front of him — a woman wrapped in the darkest shades of black, and she radiates the most alarming threat he’s ever seen. She gives him the same feeling he gets every time he touches the blade with his bare fingers, every time he flies with Vhagar up in the sky, rising above the clouds until his lungs start burning and the air is too cold to breathe in. It’s the feeling of imminent threat, of him balancing right at the edge of a foul. It’s challenging as much as it is fascinating. And Aemond likes a good challenge.
He takes his hand off of the hilt, his crooked grin a telltale sign of his refusal to wave a white flag just yet. Criston notices the movement and breathes out, looking puzzled but relieved. Not a single word is shared, and Lia doesn’t give them another glance before leaving, the prince and the knight gazing after her.
“I want to ask what just happened but I am not sure you will give me an honest answer,” Criston drawls.
Aemond keeps silent, his eye following Lia’s cloak, and the desire to go after her feels like an itch, like a pull he can’t explain.
“I don’t think it will be wise to tell my mother,” the prince says all of a sudden.
Confusion is evident on Criston’s face, brighter than the light of the torches it’s illumed with.
“She would’ve wanted to know of it,” Criston tiredly attempts to understand him. “I am your family’s sworn protector and it’s my responsibility to — ”
“I am asking you as a friend,” Aemond cuts in, his abrupt request leaving the knight stunned. The prince doesn’t move an inch nor does he look at Criston, his sharp profile not letting any emotions slip through. And yet, these words are the biggest sign of trust Aemond has ever shown the knight in years.
Criston bites down a smile:
“Understood, my prince.” Lia navigates through the corridors, taking directions from memory — she goes past her chambers, past the bed made for her, to the other end of the castle. She sneaks to the gates and lures the guards out by throwing a rock at the fence, trying not to laugh at the fact that it takes two grown men to go check for the source of the noise. The girl escapes into the darkness of the night, into the vibrant city that’s still awake, filled with noises and people scurrying about.
She blends into the crowd, feeling her pulse finally slowing down as she stems the fire within her, and it meekly fizzles. Rowdy alleys and dark corners seem more welcoming to her than the entirety of the Red Keep, and Lia is almost tempted to get lost and forget her way back — but she can’t allow herself to. So she only quickens her steps and pulls the hood lower, trying to race her own exhaustion that unavoidably catches up to her.
Halfway to the Dragonpit, Lia feels a gaze on her but the place is too crowded for someone to stand out — and it’s clearly an advantage not just for her. She peers into a bunch of unknown faces clumped up into a moving mass, a vociferous stream of voices. She sees a couple of drunk men staring, red-faced yet not threatening enough, same for a few beggars and street dancers that reach for her but can’t keep up. The only one who does stick out is a little girl barely eight or nine years of age winding after her — her face sly, her clothes too neat for her to live on the streets. Lia takes note of the kid but doesn’t let it show and only picks up the pace, her dagger hidden under the cloak saving her from the hassle of worrying.
The cavernous building atop the hill looks even bigger at night, grand and daunting, and the stern faces of the guards don’t soften the impression given but they let Lia in with no questions asked, most likely contrite about their hostile greeting earlier in the morning. She doesn’t gloat and only enters with a nod, slipping into the tunnels shrouded in stillness, her path accompanied by the rare crackling of the torches. When she walks into the cave, Olwen looks barely awake, blinking a few times in her direction, and Lia finally lets her body relax in the coolness of the twilight.
Weariness flows through her body like a stream of water, stripping her of the feigned composure and fake indifference. Her face falls and her fists open, and the build-up tension springs free with each inhale — deep, slow, blissful. As she’s standing there, in the dark cave only lit by the glow of her dragon’s eyes, she quietly reminds herself:
“Raven woods. Yellow and brown. Calls himself Knuckles.”
Olwen glances up at her and lets out a roar, low and choppy, and it sounds almost like a purr. The dragon moves his head closer to Lia, and she sits on the ground, gently touching the rough skin of his snout. She knows he can feel it — her anger sparkling at the surface, ready to ignite at any second. But he also feels the pain that’s been wailing deep inside, vile and heavy on her heart. She thinks it’s unfair to him — this connection that they share, the unexplainable bond, and she almost wants to apologize. She knows he won’t understand.
Lia leans back on the dragon, using her cloak as a blanket and letting the exhaustion wash over her. Her eyelids flutter shut and she whispers again:
“Raven woods. Yellow and brown. Goes by Knuckles. Raven woods. Yellow and brown...”
This reminder is not a lullaby but a never healing scar branded onto her skin, tearing her life in half, leaving nothing but ruins, bodies, death. But when Lia finally drifts off, she is greeted with no dreams, and it feels like a blessing, that oblivion of hers. Because most nights, when she closes her eyes, she sees a dark forest burning in flames, filled with endless screams. Back at the castle, the one-eyed prince lies wide awake, his restless mind not letting him sleep as he keeps replaying the events of the evening in his head. Aemond’s body has gotten tired but his nerves are strained, the image of Lia fresh in his memory — the way she looked at him, daring and unashamed, the way she moved — dexterous, fast, never giving up. A recalcitrant opponent, a resistant fighter, a bastard with a wild dragon.
Or maybe she’s a dragon herself.
He wonders if he can tame her.
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• when she turns to him and shakes her head — that was inspired by the scene from “Hawkeye”. I think Yelena nailed that “I can kill you with my bare hands” look, and her character overall is very inspirational to me. • Olwen is supposed to be even whiter but I did my best:
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🔥 my masterlist
English is not my first language, so feel free to message me if you spot any major mistakes. reblogs and comments are very much appreciated!
tagging everyone who asked: @greenowlfactif, @iiamthehybrid, @melsunshine, @rosegardenpatsu
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mlmxreader · 10 months
Text
Actually Home | John Soap MacTavish x m!reader
@satan-incarnate-666 asked: Airport reunions - soap x m!jtf2!reader
summary: he’s glad more than he can say, but there is one thing that needs to be talked about.
tws: swearing
support your fanfic writers by reblogging what you read & enjoy
A distant rumble of music, growing louder the closer it became, caught Soap’s attention more than anything; listening closely, he smiled when he realised what song it was. ‘Saboteurs’, by Sabaton. He started to grin when the sounds of men singing along began to flood through; they were all home. They were back, they were safe; his worst nightmare had not come true just yet. He was relieved, but more than anything, he was fucking happy; the boys from Joint Task Force Two were home at last, and they were safe. He took a headcount as they came flooding into the airport terminal, all of them were there. 
One was holding a speaker, and he laughed as he made his way over; waiting for you to put it down by your feet before he smashed into you, holding you tightly and catching you off-guard for a split second before you actually hugged him back. A sigh left you as you swallowed thickly and turned the music down. You sniffled, clearing your throat as you let out a soft laugh, pushing Soap to arm’s length as you grinned and struggled to come up with the words that you had wanted to say ever since you had left. 
“You’re home,” he breathed out, hands on your face as he stared into your eyes, licking his lips. “You’re actually home.”
You nodded, clearing your throat again as your hands went to his waist, you could feel a sort of burning sensation in your throat as the words started to get caught and snagged amongst the delicate flesh. “I’m home, baby.” 
Soap licked his lips, his thumbs soft against your skin as he gently wiped your cheeks, trying to convince himself that he wasn’t dreaming. “Don’t leave me again.”
“No can do,” you shook your head. “I gotta get coffee.”
“I’ll come with you,” he said, picking up the speaker and grabbing your bags. “I don’t mind.”
You smiled, shaking your head fondly as you headed over to the cafe near the duty free shop; you ordered yourself and Soap one, and as you waited, you turned to him. “You don’t have to shadow me, Johnny.”
“I definitely do,” Soap told you with a curt nod. “I don’t wanna risk losing you again, not now.”
“You didn’t lose me the first time,” you pointed out. “You’ll never lose me.”
“I dinnae about that,” he shrugged. “What if you’d have got shot down?”
“Won’t happen,” you reassured, shaking your head. “And anyway, I’m home now, ain’t I?”
Soap grumbled as he put the speaker down to scratch at the underside of his jaw; his stubble was getting thicker, he hadn’t trimmed the coarse black hairs since you had left, just as he hadn’t really done any washing. Or sorted the dishwasher out. Or done anything around the house, really. He looked after the dog, that beloved greyhound that you had insisted on getting, and most of the time, it had eaten better than he did. But when it came to himself, and the house itself, he hadn’t been able to do anything; he knew that you always did everything when he was deployed, but it was different. 
Soap never liked to be without you, not at home, and he always waited with his phone on-hand just in case; he would panic and worry every time it rang, fearing the worst. He rarely slept, knowing that the nightmares would creep into his mind and would dig their claws into his skull so deeply that he couldn’t get rid of them. He never stopped watching the news, always worried that the headlines would suddenly be about the death of the Task Force. It was different if you were on training exercises, or if you were on holidays with friends. 
“C’mon,” you hummed, holding the coffees as you gestured to the few tables. “I know I’ve been sat on my backside for a good few hours, but I gotta sit down for a bit longer.”
Soap nodded, sitting down with you and letting the speaker rest on your bag as he cleared his throat. “I am glad that you’re home, y’know.”
“I know,” you nodded back, daring to smile. “But I also know that you’re worried sick.”
“Aye, that’s true,” he dared to laugh softly. “Always knew me so well, eh?”
“Better than you think,” you laughed along with him for a brief moment. “How’s my dog been?”
“She’s good,” Soap told you. “Still steals my seat every time I fuckin’ move, and barks at me when she wants to go out… dafty dog, she always nicks food off my plate.”
“Sounds about right,” you grinned. “She probably only does it to make you laugh - she’s trying to look after you because she knows you’re worried.”
He glared at you. “Or, she’s a daft mutt… but she’s a good dog, I’ll give her that. She missed you - couldn’t open the curtains, every car that drove past, she thought it was you.”
“Johnny…” you sighed, shaking your head as you cleared your throat. “I’m gonna ask you something, and I want your honest opinion.”
“Yeah?”
“If I were to go to the Mosque,” you started, “and ask if I could get a nikah… would you sign it?”
Soap thought about it for a moment, chewing at the inside of his lip as he furrowed his brows. “You wanna get married?”
“Yeah,” you nodded. “Would you?”
He pouted for a second, and then laughed as he nodded. “Of course I would, ya fuckin’ weapon.”
You laughed as you took a long swig of your coffee. “Yeah?”
“Yeah!” He scoffed. “One condition, though.”
“What’s that?”
“We do it soon,” Soap started, “before you get deployed again - I don’t wanna be twat arsing about all on my ones.”
You nodded, daring to reach for his hand as you held it tightly. “I think we can do that. We’ll go down to the Mosque to talk about it tomorrow, yeah?”
“Alright,” he agreed, daring to smile brightly. “We can do that... it’s about time you were my husband and not my boyfriend, anyway.”
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geralts-yenn · 11 months
Text
Believe in me - part 2
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chapter warnings: talk of parental violence and abuse, an awful sister, I think that's it
word count: 1,9k
A/N: I am so happy that I found a few people that want to give this vampire Melot a chance. Words come easily at the moment when I think about this story, so I hope I can keep up with early updates...
You can find pictures that inspired me for this chapter here
Please let me know what you think - reblogs and comments are the way to make me happy! Please let me know if you want to be tagged
Series Masterlist
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Melot paced through the long hallway. Charles was by his side, grinning. It seemed as if his cousin couldn’t wait to witness how Melot once more got humiliated by the king. They were friends, but that didn't stop Charles being awfully competitive and enjoying every failure of Melot. After all, he was also his biggest competitor in the fight for their uncle's favor. 
“What does he want?” Melot asked, more to himself as to Charlie. He thought about all the possibilities August could pick up to be angry at him, but couldn't think of one bad enough to evoke August's anger. At least not lately. Most of the time, Melot tried to act in the best way possible, yet August always seemed to find a reason to criticize him. 
When they had reached the tall wooden door, the security guards just nodded and let the two vampires in to meet their king. 
Charles and Melot both bowed down and sank their heads to the floor. “Your majesty!” 
August was sitting at his desk, his eyes on a pile of papers in front of him. He merely raised an eyebrow, still looking through the documents with a deep frown on his face. Everything in his appearance screamed authority. 
He was wearing black suit pants with a matching waistcoat, the sleeves of his charcoal shirt were rolled up over his elbows and revealed his strong veiny forearms, the pale skin covered by coarse dark hair. His strict eyes were glowing red under his dark curls, and his stubbled jaw was sharp as a knife. His mustache made him look ostentatious, but not less attractive.
“Sit down!” he ordered, and Charles and Melot both sank onto the heavy wooden chairs in front of the desk. A minute passed with no one speaking nor moving, except for August’s eyes, which were still scanning the page in front of him.
Then he suddenly raised his head and looked from Melot to Charles and then back to Melot.
“What were you doing tonight, nephew?” he asked. 
Melot was surprised, August usually got straight to the point. And he couldn’t be that pissed just because Melot talked to a random human girl, right?
“I had my night off tonight. I was heading to the club when I got into a conversation with a girl. Then you sent Charles to get me.” Melot’s voice was steady although he didn’t feel calm at all. He was pissed that August treated him like a boy. This was his seventeenth century, he surely wasn’t a child.
August nodded, though his cold stare still revealed his bad mood. “You were missed at the club. There were humans trying to get in and they were harassing our guests. Must have been these fuckers of that stupid cult, Warriors of Light, they call themselves.” August’s eyes were narrowed as he glanced at Melot.
“But I wasn’t on duty, August. I didn’t know. Nobody called.” Melot tried to defend himself, although he knew that August wouldn’t care. He needed someone who he could take his anger out on. And this time he had chosen Melot.
August raged on: “You always tell me you want to take responsibility. Take it! You were always a friend of humans. So, this is your job now. Get to know more about these Warriors of Light. We need to know about their plans. I don’t want something like tonight to ever happen again.”
Melot clenched his jaw. This was not what he had hoped for, but at least it wasn’t the rubdown he had expected. He finally got a task that showed that his uncle trusted him at least a bit. He nodded and stood up.
“I will start immediately. Send me everything we have so far.” He stopped for a moment. “And I need access to the license plate database, please.” August got up, too, and waved Charles and Melot off, nodding.
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Tara threw a pillow and a duvet at Aurora. “I expect you will pay half of the rent, now that you’re living here? You’re buying groceries for yourself and if you dare to bring a vampire into this house I will kill you. Are we clear?” Aurora put the bedding onto the small couch. 
“Thank you for the warm welcome! I promise I won’t bother you in any way and I will move out as soon as I can.” Tara sat down on the lounge chair and stared at her phone, ignoring her sister completely. 
So that evening had taken an entirely different turn than expected. Instead of studying in the library, Aurora needed to think about what she could do to change her whole life. Because she definitely needed a change. She just couldn't take it anymore to live with someone who hated her so much. 
Aurora took some Tylenol that she had luckily found in her backpack, in hopes that the pain in her rib cage would at least fade a little. Then she carefully sank onto the couch and closed her eyes. 
She would need to find an apartment for herself. In no way, she was going to return to her father’s house. Not this time. But that meant she undoubtedly needed a job that paid more than the baby-sitting she had done until now. 
Unfortunately, Aurora wasn’t able to focus on that problem at all. Her mind kept drifting off to the encounter with Melot. She had never paid much attention to the existence of vampires. But now that she had seen him, she was intrigued. Were they all so stunningly handsome? Was he really that nice, or had he some dark plans that he just hid in front of her? She had heard her dad and Tara talking about vampires and she knew they hated them. Aurora though had never been convinced that they were right about it. And after meeting Melot today, she knew that they were wrong. Melot simply couldn't be the monster they thought he was.
If she had been able to toss around, she probably would have done that, unable to fall asleep. But with her ribs keeping her from moving, she just stared at the ceiling and thought about possibilities to find Melot. She needed to see him again.
When Aurora woke the next morning, Tara had already left the house. She got up, still in pain, though it was a lot better than when she fell asleep. After another Tylenol and a cup of coffee, the world was a little brighter.
So, the next issue had to be solved. Aurora looked down on herself. She was wearing some sweatpants and an old shirt. And she had slept in it, so they were wrinkled and didn’t smell too well. Aurora didn’t even have a toothbrush. She couldn’t go to her classes like this. 
When she unlocked her phone, she was relieved that the battery hadn't died until now. She thought about what to do, and then decided to call her classmate Maria. 
“Hey, it’s Aurora! I know it’s still early, but would you mind me coming over to yours? It’s kind of an emergency.” Maria didn’t mind and even offered to pick her up. Aurora was glad that she had met Maria at the beginning of the semester. She was the kindest soul she had met in a while.
Ten minutes later, Aurora was standing on the sidewalk in front of her sister’s house. She watched the street, looking out for Maria’s car, so she didn’t notice the pale man sitting in a car parked across the street. 
Maria hugged Aurora when she got into the car. “Hey, sweetheart, what happened to you?”
Of course, she had noticed that Aurora was flinching when she sat down. Aurora took a deep breath and decided to be open with her friend.
“It’s a long story. If you’re okay with skipping classes, maybe we could talk?” Maria took Aurora’s hand and squeezed it.
“Oh, honey, of course! You can count on me.” 
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At Maria’s home, the two women sat on the couch with a cup of coffee and Aurora told Maria how her father treated her after the death of her mum. And that her sister wasn’t much better. When Aurora had finished, Maria pulled her into an embrace, careful not to hurt her.
“Baby, I'm so sorry! I can’t believe that your family treats you like that. Listen, you get into the shower, I’ll get you something to change into and then we’ll think about what to do. Okay?” 
Aurora brushed her tears away. “Thank you!” she whispered. 
Melot was sitting in the car in front of the apartment building Aurora had entered with the other woman, considering what to do. He wanted to talk to Aurora. But he also needed to investigate further on her sister. What a surprise it was to find her name among the founding members of the Warriors of Light. This wasn’t good. This wasn’t good at all. August was just waiting for Melot’s next mistake. He couldn’t mess this up. But he would rather not pull Aurora into any trouble. The urge to protect her was overwhelming. 
Aurora felt so much better after a shower, brushing her teeth and getting into some clean clothes. Maria had made pancakes in the meantime and they both sat down at the small kitchen table.
“I wish I could let you move in with me, but I fear my landlord is an asshole and he won’t allow me to.” Maria said with a sad look at Aurora.
“Don’t apologize, you have already done more than anyone in my family has ever done. I’m deeply thankful for your help. I just need a job that earns me enough to pay rent for a small room. I don’t need much. Living in peace is everything I want right now.”
Maria was silent for a brief moment, then she sighed. “Look, I don’t know how you feel about it, but you were so honest to me, so I’ll be open with you, too. I know a job that would earn you more than enough and it isn’t really hard. You would still have enough time for your studies. I only work two days a week to be able to afford this apartment and my car. And sometimes it’s even fun…” 
Aurora couldn’t think of a lot of jobs that would fit Maria’s description. So, she just cocked her head curiously and waited for Maria to go on.
Maria pulled down her turtleneck shirt and revealed the bite marks that were hidden under it.
“I work in Walker’s club. I offer my blood to the guests. It’s really well paid, and Walker and his men pay attention that all of his employees are safe.”
Aurora looked at Maria with wide eyes. She had heard about the vampire club and the people who worked there, letting the vampires feed on them. Though most of it she had heard from her dad and Tara and their position in that matter was quite harsh. 
“You’re a blood whore?” Immediately abashed by the rude words that had slipped her lips, she apologized. “Sorry, I didn't mean to sound mean. It’s just, my family, they call them that.” She felt the heat of embarrassment crawling up her cheeks. “I’m not judging you, really! Actually, I think this might even be a good solution.”
To Aurora’s relief, Maria smiled, she didn’t seem to be offended by Aurora’s words.
“It’s okay. I reacted almost the same way when my friend told me about it. If you really want to try, I can call Charlie and ask if they are in need of some new blood.”
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Part 3
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kirishimasensei · 1 year
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Sometimes I just go crazy over 40-something, semi-retired pro hero Red Riot. Whose hair is black now with grey framing his face, thick and long and swept back in bun at his nape. Salt and pepper chest hair against deep bronze skin. Still built like a brick house but just a little softer around the edges than he used to be. Still broad-shouldered. Still barrel-chested. But now his strong stomach is blanketed with a thin layer of cushion, his abs not so deeply defined.
Instead of the overzealous enthusiasm that belied his youthful insecurities, he has taken on a more cool and confident demeanor. He has truly lived up to his moniker, the Sturdy Hero being a strong and stable presence to all. A sympathetic shoulder to lean on. A shield to guard against the worst this cruel and confusing world has created.
His naivety has waned with the comings and goings of war, with the loss of friends and colleagues and comrades-in-arms, but he's still standing. He's a little more worse for wear - popping joints, creaking bones, scars, and scar tissue - but he's grateful for the peace that retirement brings. Not everyone is so lucky, and he feels that loss like a punch in the gut. But he goes on, moves forward, carries the legacy of the best generation of heroes with him on his broad but bending back.
He's still all booming laughs and sharp teeth, genuine and sincere. But now the corners of his eyes have a charming crinkle. Now, a scar on his upper lip pulls at his smile. The tight stretch of the tissue makes him ever-aware of his joyful moments, a reminder that happiness isn’t always a painless thing, but sometimes requires a hard-won fight, and Kirishima Eijirou has never shied away from a fight.
He does with his days as he wants, and only once has he been called back into service, a mission that would have left all but the unbreakable hero mangled or dead. But villain attacks are few and far between these days, a peaceful era ushered in by destruction and ruin. It’s a bitter tradeoff, but that’s what they wanted, what they fought for, and there’s no arguing now with the dead.
He spends his time in his cabin in the country, relaxing on the lake in his boat or laying in a hammock on his porch, surrounded by the singing of cicadas and the twinkling of stars. He has a penthouse apartment in the city. Finely decorated, comfortable, and lonely. 
Even he can’t fill so much empty space. Being a top 10 hero his whole career has left no time for relationships. Friends have always come easy, and he has fans in abundance. He can’t walk out of his door without being greeted with a friendly smile or an outstretched hand, words of gratitude or stares of awe. But when it has come to love he has just... ignored it. 
Confident in his skills but never comfortable in his skin, he has always seen himself as a hero first and a lover dead last. So tall it’s inconvenient, so big it’s intimidating. His skin is coarse and calloused, his teeth are sharp and dangerous. He has tried, really, but it has never worked out. It’s just that it’s easier to tamp down the longing in his heart, to shy away from anything promising or hopeful, pretending like he doesn’t secretly ache and want. Sometimes it’s just easier to concede that maybe he’s meant to be alone.
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multi-fan-dom-madness · 9 months
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Chapter 13: Chaab (Second Chances - Hunter x reader)
Chaab. n. fear.
Chapter Summary: Your rescue from Coruscant goes better than you anticipate, but the squad is still fractured.
Chapter Warnings: self-starvation as a form of resistance; mentions or possibilities of torture; Tarkin is mentioned; canon-typical violence; angst; if I missed any please let me know!
Word Count: 4,171
A/N: ask zero questions about the timeline of this story because i genuinely don't know. this is purely vibes. enjoy!
Read it here on AO3!
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A guard brings you a meal again. This is the third, maybe fourth one, your only real way to measure time here. You leave it untouched. Partly, you’re unwilling to move from the corner of the duracrete cell, your body warmth having long since leached into the cold, unyielding surface. To move would mean to lose what little comfort you’ve scrabbled out of nothing. Partly, you’re not entirely trustful of the prison system food. 
Mostly, though, you’re trying to figure out if it’s even worth sustaining yourself when you know there’s a very high chance you’re going to be dead soon. 
Crosshair had said your punishment was capital. There are few greater measures of capital than a being’s life in this galaxy, particularly under the Empire. Even if you ate, even if you tried to keep your strength up, how long before they sent in an interrogator droid? How long before your trial? How long before the seemingly endless reserves of power and people overwhelmed your singular attempt at resistance? 
Punching out a sigh, you shift on the uncomfortable stone platform. Your entire right leg has gone numb sitting here. The jumpsuit they forced you into when you arrived is stiff and itchy; every nerve in your body screams for you to scratch, to soothe, to relieve. Ignoring the impulse is becoming a losing battle. 
When the guard returns to collect the food tray, still full, he says nothing, and you don’t, either. Try as you might, you can’t figure out how long you’ve been here. How much time has passed between finding Crosshair on Iridonia and now? Chewing at the inside of your mouth, you taste blood. Karking hells. You spit the blood onto the floor. 
Your world consists of dark-wash gray walls, staticky red electrobarrier, and gleaming white plastoid as guards march past on regular surveillance patrols. You can’t see any of the other cells on this block, even if you crane your head from where you sit. Probably by design. Can’t plot an escape without backup. Gray, red white. 
Jerking awake, heart pounding, you scan the small cell you’ve been confined to. Kriff, you hadn’t even realized you’d fallen asleep. As you look around, trying to determine exactly what woke you, you rub your palms on the coarse fabric of the jumpsuit. Maybe a bad dream.
“616F, 616G, 616H, 616...ah, 616I, here we are,” comes a muffled voice. 
You draw yourself deeper into the corner, eyeing the glowing red barrier. On the other side, you catch a glimpse of white armor and a light gray uniform, and then the barrier flickers before powering down fully. Your eyes narrow, heart jumping into your throat and making it hard to breathe properly. 
Polished shoes clicking on the duracrete steps, an Imperial officer descends into the cell. Uniform pressed and ironed to perfection, rank insignias aligned in neat rows, hair swept back underneath an officer’s cap, a dark-skinned woman faces you, her face twisted into something like disgust, like you’re a piece of trash stuck to the bottom of her otherwise impeccable shoe. You breathe through your nose, trying not to betray any emotions on your face. You studied intimidation tactics at the academy; you have an inkling of what this woman is here for. 
The red electrobarrier snaps to life behind the woman as she appraises you with dark, glittering eyes. You meet her gaze, lifting your chin just a hair, wanting so desperately to curl your lip in a sneer.
She mirrors the expression you’re failing to hide. In a clipped Coruscanti accent as polished as the rest of her, she says, “(full name), chain code 06Z25T891, parents unknown. Raised here on Coruscant. Admitted to the Academy under the previous regime, graduated with honors, and assigned as a supply officer to the Outer Rim. How...wasteful.” She clasps her hands behind her back, disgust growing more evident with every word. 
You remain silent. A part of you, the part that wants to claw your way out of this suffocating detention center, hopes. You hope beyond hope that the squad will just forget you, live full lives, safe and hidden. 
“Nothing to say for yourself?” the woman asks. “No matter. I believe you’ve said enough, as it is.” 
She produces a holographic puck from her pocket and holds it flat in her palm. In spectral blue light, a recording of you and Arien—your heart clenches—flares to life. 
“—out of here,” your past self says in an undertone. “I don’t like this, Arien. Come with me.”
Swallowing against the lump in your throat, your brain conjures the memory of this conversation as it plays out in real-time. In your memory, Arien is not a translucent being, but flesh and blood, purple eyes shadowed with worry and doubt. 
“It’s not safe,” she says. She places a hand on the shoulder of past-you. “Stick it out until your contract is out, and don’t re-enlist.”
The small, flickering version of you shakes their head. “That’s five years away. I won’t be complicit in this bantha—”
The Imp officer clenches her fist around the holo puck. Your and Arien’s likenesses vanish, leaving an afterimage burned into your retinas. Your eyes find the woman’s again, and you drop the neutral facade. 
“What do you want,” you ask, voice as flat as you can manage. 
With a twitch of an eyebrow, the woman sweeps an arm out as if to encompass the entire cell. “You’re smart; I’m sure you can figure that much out.” 
“Humor me.” 
“I am not in the business of humoring criminals,” she says imperiously, drawing herself to her full height.
You glower up at her through your eyelashes, not deigning to give her the satisfaction of making you move your entire head. “No, it seems you’re in the business of being an insufferable di’kut with an overinflated ego.” 
For a beat, neither you nor she moves. Then her face splits into a wide, beaming smile, one that is so saccharinely false that your blood freezes in your veins. “Admiral Tarkin will be pleased to know that you are in custody, (full name). Consider yourself lucky that you are still, as yet, of use to the Empire.”
The name is unfamiliar to you, but if you’ve caught the attention of an admiral, you can only imagine what kind of hell your life is about to become. The woman turns on her heel.
When her foot touches the bottom step, you shake your head. “You don’t know who you’re dealing with.” 
Her smile grows as she slowly faces you once again, but her eyes remain cold, menacing, uncaring. “No,” she says, softly, “you are about to find out exactly with whom it is you are dealing.” 
With a hum, the electrobarrier powers down, letting the Imp out, and immediately flickers back to life behind her. She throws you one last baleful glance before striding out of view, two troopers flanking her. After her footsteps fade, you count to ten. 
And then you sob. Pressing the back of your hand against your mouth, you screw your eyes shut. Your chest tightens. The room tilts off its axis. Heat and ice fuse into your spine, melding you in place, locking your limbs where they’re wrapped around each other. Thoughts spin wildly in your mind. Disjointed. Frantic. Panicked. 
Omega—is she safe? Will she stay that way? Will Hunter forgive you? Will you see Echo again? Are you still going to die? Are they going to interrogate you? Your brain conjures up an image of Tarkin—you’ve never seen him before, but in your mind, the unknown figure takes on a looming, oppressive presence, larger than life. You blink: in the flash of darkness, there’s Hunter, his kind, tired eyes vacant and glossy. There’s Echo, blood leaking out of his mouth. There’s Omega, screaming for you. 
Another sob rips itself from your lungs. You heave, stomach emptying onto the dark flooring.
Time passes strangely here. You’re unable to account for how much of it passes around you, whether the officer visited you seconds, hours, days, eons ago. It could be any of them. It could be none of them. You sit in the corner, eyes unfocused. When you blink, returning to the present moment, you glance around. A new tray of food rests near the barrier. All the same food sits there—mush, a dry biscuit, and a dented cup—just in different order. Or maybe it’s the same. You’re not sure. 
The sight of food makes your stomach twist. Breathing through your nose, you turn away, angling your body so that the tray is out of your periphery. If you’re lucky, you’ll starve to death before this Tarkin person arrives. The realization that you’re willing to die for your squad, even knowing that they may never forgive you, is as natural as the breath you draw into your lungs. Of course you’d die to protect them. They’d do the same. 
Wouldn’t they? 
You’re glad you won’t have to find that out. Eyes sliding shut, a tear glides down your cheek and drops onto the coarse jumpsuit. 
Apparently, you’re not the first prisoner of the Empire to attempt this tactic. You have no way of knowing how long it’s been since the officer came to you, but the dryness of your mouth, the fatigue weighing your head down, the trembling weakness in your hands when you raise them all speak to the toll your self-imposed fast is wreaking on your body. When the electrobarrier power whirs down to nothing, you blink against the bleariness clouding your eyes and raise your head. A soft groan escapes you at the effort. 
In the doorway, another uniformed Imperial hovers, with a trooper and a floating droid behind them. Panic seizes your heart, arresting its beating for a moment, before exhaustion floods through you again and you find you don’t have the energy to be afraid. Have they finally come to interrogate you? 
The Imp tsks as he descends the steps into the cell. Both the trooper and the droid follow; the barrier shimmers back to life. 
“You really are lucky you are needed,” the Imp says. His voice is scratchy, rough, grating. You grimace. “Elsewise, we might actually let you starve to death. As it is, the Admiral has requested you be in good condition for him.” 
The Imp snaps his fingers and the droid bobs in the air toward you. 
“Don’t,” you mumble, eyeing the needles on the droid. Now that it’s this close, you can do nothing but gape at the array of needles, buzzers, prods, and other instruments on its black domed surface. 
“Don’t be silly, now,” the Imp says. At a wave of his hand, the droid hovers closer and jabs a needle into your arm. You flinch, the pain intense—but brief. It is immediately replaced by a familiar cool sense of relief that emanates through your entire body. Bacta. 
Sighing, you relax. Stars, that feels damn near heavenly. When the needle retracts, you don’t even feel it. Nor do you feel the second jab, and your exhausted mind succumbs to the pleasant, airy sensation of the bacta, dragging you into a light slumber. 
When you wake next, you feel stronger, more alert. Rubbing your eyes, you push into a sitting position, groaning at the ache in your muscles. You’ve been here too long. With a glance at your arm, you find a transparent catheter taped below the crease of your elbow. Ah. That explains the reason your hands no longer shake as you hold them up for closer inspection. Karking Imperials.
You’re unsure if something woke you, or if your body finally seems to have rested enough. Standing, you shuffle across the bare floor and scale the steps to peer through the red barrier of your cell. Nothing seems to move beyond it, the lights in the hallway no brighter or dimmer than they usually are. Something is going on out there, though. In the distance, so faint you think it must be a figment of your imagination, blaster fire repeats. Shouts, incomprehensible, echo off the hallway walls. 
Even from this vantage point, you can’t see the entrances of the cells across the hall from yours. The barriers are set too far back into the wall, blocking your view. Even so, something quiets your tongue, stalling the impulse to call out and ask if anyone knows what’s going on. 
You’re glad you stay quiet. A few more long, tense moments pass; the blaster fire and shouting gets louder with each breath, until you catch the sound of footsteps approaching your direction. You scurry back down the duracrete steps and resume your position on the bench. If the footsteps coming this way are Imperial, you don’t want to be caught with your nose in their business. 
A hulking figure sprints past your cell, then seems to skid to a halt, if the clatter of armor is any indication. The figure reappears in the doorframe, walking backwards. Gray armor with white and yellow accents. 
The gasp that escapes you is nearly a squeal. “Wrecker?”
“Nav!” 
You gape, open-mouthed, at the man before you. He pushes his helmet up onto his forehead, his face creased in a massive grin.
“S’good to see ya, Nav! C’mon, we gotta go!” Wrecker raises his blaster and shoots out the door’s control panel. The humming red barrier flickers before winking out of existence for good. He  beckons you, glancing up and down the hallway.
Without a second more of hesitation, you scramble up the stairs. Heart thumping wildly in your chest, the familiar, fuzzy warmth of happiness radiating into your very toes and fingers, you tackle Wrecker in a hug. 
“What are you doing here?” you ask, face buried into his chestplate.
He awkwardly pats your back with his free hand. “Well, we—”
“We could ask you the same thing,” comes Tech’s voice from behind Wrecker. 
You step away from Wrecker. Panting, Tech stumbles to a halt, and though his helmet obscures most of his expression, his eyes meet yours briefly behind the yellow tint of his goggles. He inclines his head in greeting. 
“We received a coded transmission that you were at these coordinates,” Tech continues. 
“What?” You frown. “I didn’t— my belongings were taken from me.” 
“So who sent the message?” Wrecker asks, voice hushed. 
You worry your bottom lip between your teeth. The answer springs immediately to mind: Crosshair. You can’t make yourself say it aloud, not here, fearing that speaking his name into existence will shatter this reunion. With a sigh, you decide to tell them on the ship, when you’re all safely back in hyperspace. 
Before your silence can become something awkward, another set of footsteps rush up behind you. Your lungs feel like someone’s squeezed all the air out of them and swapped your heart for a rock. Everything seems to slow, your focus drawn in on the skull-like helmet and your warped reflection in the visor. 
“Hunter,” you breathe. 
Wordlessly, he draws you into a crushing embrace. You gasp in surprise. Of all the possibilities you ran through when imagining reuniting, this one never occurred to you, not with the way things were left on Iridonia. The hard plates of his armor digging into your skin, but you don’t care about that. All you care about are his arms around you, the tremble you can feel in his hands where they grasp at your jumpsuit, the breath he exhales that crackles through the vocabulator. Your hands find purchase around his waist. His warmth smothers all of the fear and confusion of the past two weeks. 
“Thank you for coming,” you say, loud enough for the others to hear, but you intend it only for Hunter. 
He tightens his arms around you for a moment before releasing you. You step back, a bit dazed, nose full of the acrid scent of carbon scoring mixed with gunmetal oil and musk. Looking up at him, you hope your gaze meets his behind the visor. He nods once. 
“Tech,” he says, “get us out of here.” 
“Already done,” Tech says. “Our primary route will take us back parallel the way we came in, and I have several backup routes identified should we need them.” 
“Let’s go,” Hunter says. He gently nudges you to follow Tech.
Wrecker plasters himself to the wall to let you and Hunter pass by first before taking up the rear. He taps his helmet and it slides back into place over his face. 
“Omega is at the ship,” Hunter says behind you. His voice is close—closer than he’s ever been to you before. “We’ll be lucky to get back without much resistance.” 
“Hey, at least we haven’t tripped the alarm,” Wrecker says. “Gotta be a record— oh, for kriff’s sake.”
At his words, a klaxon alarm blares to life. You wince, covering your ears as the ascending note pierces through the hallway. “You just had to say something, Wreck.” 
“Sorry,” he says, and he sounds genuinely sheepish. 
Breaking into a jog behind Tech, you refrain from peeking into any of the cells you pass. You doubt you’ll recognize anyone here—but you also fear you’ll recognize all of them for the same hopelessness you wallowed in not that long ago. The same pervasive, heavy dread that weighed on your lungs, slowly crushing them. 
You stumble, jarring out of your reverie. Hunter catches your arm and steadies you. 
“Where’s your gear?” he asks, like he’s just now realizing what you’re wearing. 
“I don’t know,” you say. “I didn’t see where it got taken.” 
“Kriff.” Hunter sighs. “Tech, detour us to—”
“The processing office,” Tech interrupts. “Done.” 
Tech leads you all down a dizzying number of turns, hallways, service tunnels, and yet more turns. It’s not until the processing office is in sight that you encounter resistance. Ducking into an alcove, you cringe as blaster bolts scream past you. Hunter and Wrecker respond in kind, the rings of blue stun blasts expanding as they travel the length of the hall. One of the men at the other end grunts in pain and the telltale sound of plastoid against durasteel echoes around you. 
“I have eyes on the intruders,” says a familiar voice—a clone voice—at the end of the hall. “They’re in Detention Block 68—hrgh.” 
“Nice shot, Tech,” Hunter says. “Nav, we’re clear.” 
Nodding, you peek around the corner of the alcove. Two clone troopers lay sprawled, unconscious, in awkward positions on the floor in front of a square room. Through the transparisteel walls, you catch sight of neat rows of cubbies, most of them empty, but in one of them you spot your faded and worn pack. 
You rush forward, stepping gingerly over the downed troopers. Your pack, blasters, and clothing are all here. On top of your pack rests a single toothpick. Eyes widening, you brush the tiny piece of wood away, then grab your belongings. The familiar, comforting weight of your pack on your back and your DC-17s in both hands settles the spike of adrenaline. Crosshair again. 
“Time to move,” Tech calls.
You glance up; more troopers rush down the hall you just left. “Coming.” 
Behind Tech once more, with Wrecker taking up the tail again, the four of you dash in what feels like an endless circle. You lose count of the turns, the backtracking, the levels you scale down. Only your absolute trust in these men, in Tech, keeps your hands steady as you fire over Tech’s shoulder, his own hands occupied with the detention center schematics on his datapad. 
“The hangar is just ahead,” he says. 
“Thank the stars.” You’re panting, a burning stitch in the side of your neck, but as the hallway doors whisk open, you nearly sob at the sight of the Marauder. 
“Intruders!” The shout echoes around the massive hangar bay, several troopers taking up the call and radioing for reinforcements. 
Putting on a burst of speed despite the way your legs feel like molten lava, you duck under the lip of a stack of crates just as blaster fire screeches toward you. The bolts impact the crates, but you don’t stop moving. The Marauder ramp begins to lower. 
“Go, go go!” Hunter urges. “Wrecker, get on board and get on the guns!” 
Tech, Wrecker, and you practically sprint for the ramp, Hunter providing covering fire behind you. You fire blindly to either side, hoping that at least one stun blast catches a trooper, or at the very least deters them from shooting at you. Tech reaches the ramp first, leaping the few feet off the ground and clambering up the rest of the way. By the time you and Wrecker reach it, the ramp is finally on the ground. Wrecker disappears to the right, but you hesitate. 
“Hunter!” you call. 
“I’m coming,” he says. 
Still a few dozen feet behind, he’s crouched behind a long rectangular supply crate, head ducked low to avoid being shot at. A quick glance shows a number of troops advancing on his position—and another squadron falling into place in the rafters at his back. Under your feet, the ship lurches. 
“No, wait, Hunter!” Your voice cracks. “Now!” 
He follows the line of your outstretched pointer finger. Stumbling, he rushes toward the ship just as the firing line opens, raining blue blaster bolts onto the crate he was just behind. You raise, aim, and fire your DCs without a second thought, nearly every shot connecting with a trooper. One, two, four go down, unconscious, and the rest scatter. 
Twenty feet, ten feet to go—the ship rises several feet into the air. You toss your blasters behind you into the ship. Like you’ve rehearsed this a thousand times, Hunter jumps and you catch his forearm, fingers digging into him as his dig into you, and you pull for all you’re worth. The ship pitches to the side; blaster fire narrowly misses the both of you as Hunter’s feet find purchase—
With another jolt to the side, you lose your footing and stumble back into the ship cabin, yanking Hunter with you. You collapse onto the durasteel floor, Hunter landing on top of you. The air whooshes out of your lungs; for a moment, you panic as the cabin grows darker. Only the pneumatic hiss of the ramp sealing calms you, though not by much. Your chest is tight where you imagine your diaphragm is, the muscle not working properly. Dimly, you’re aware of shouts being thrown back and forth over your head, Tech and Wrecker trying to get the squad to safety. 
Hunter removes his helmet; it bounces and rolls across the floor. “Nav?” 
You nod weakly, lungs still refusing to work. Pushing at his chest, you try to get him off of you, to get the extra weight off of your chest. Thankfully, he understands and lifts himself onto his palms, but he doesn’t go farther than that. Worry lines crease his forehead, his gray eyes searching your face, his lips turned down in a frown. 
Finally you heave a lungful of cold, recycled air into your aching lungs. Coughing, you gulp down a few more breaths before you become aware of the relief spreading over Hunter’s face. This close, you could count his eyelashes. Heat blooms in your chest. 
“Hi,” you whisper. 
“Hi,” he says. 
Two feet appear in your periphery, and you crane your head around. Omega’s features are upside down from your perspective, but the puffy, reddened eyes and tear tracks clench your heart. Scooting out from underneath Hunter, you rise to your knees, arms open. 
Omega throws herself into your embrace, wrapping her arms around your neck and her legs coming up around your waist, fully latching onto you. Hunter’s hand steadies you as Omega’s added weight tips you off-balance. The girl sniffles, her hair obscuring your vision, the red dye faded to pink. The ship jolts as it makes the jump to hyperspace. 
“I missed you so much,” she says, her voice thick. She hiccups. “Please don’t leave us ever again.” 
Rubbing her back, you squeeze her tightly. “So long as you all want me here, I’m not going anywhere again, kid.” 
“Promise?” she says. 
“I promise.” 
With a sniffle, she slowly lowers her feet back to the floor. When she pulls back and you look at her face, you offer her a smile. She doesn’t return it. Instead, fresh tears well in her eyes. 
“What’s the matter, bug?” you ask. “I’m here. I’m okay. We’re safe.” 
She shakes her head. “E-Echo—”
Your eyes widen. Heart thudding in your ears, you look up at Hunter, the worn, tired light in his eyes only serving to deepen the sudden dread in your veins. Echo can’t be gone. He can’t be—no. You refuse to even entertain that thought. Pushing up to your feet, you take quick stock of the ship, like he’s going to jump out at you, that they’re just playing a joke for your return. But he’s not here.
“Where is Echo?”
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Taglist: @the-hexfiles @fjordg @idoubleswearimawriter @skellymom
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this-is-all-unreal · 9 months
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My Dear Friend
Part 14
Masterlist
Warnings: mention of injury, claustrophobia, trypophobia, mentions of death, needles.
         Have you ever watched an old movie and thought about how everyone on the screen, everyone who worked on the film are all dead? That footage of their own faces outlived them.
       "Margaret, can you hear me? I asked how your weekend was." Bruce had just gotten home from his and Alfred's trip. I guess I didn't realize he had walked into my room, but I wasn't in my room. I was sitting on the kitchen counter. How did I get here? 
         I turned to look at him. It had only been a few days but he looked different. I don't think he shaved. The way the short hard hairs poked shallowly out of his lower face made my skin crawl. He put the back of his hand against my forehead. "You don't feel warm, Margaret, can you hear me?" 
        "Yeah why do you keep asking me that?" He looked relieved but I wasn't sure why.
        "Because you weren't answering me. How did it go? Dick said you did pretty good on patrol." Bruce asked as he leaned against the kitchen counter. I couldn't help but stare at his scruff and 5:00 shadow. It aged him a lot. The bags didn't help, neither did the worried expression on his face.
      "Answer his question idiot."
       "I didn't like it. It was scary and the suit was uncomfortable." I wasn't sure how much Dick told him. Did he know about the run in with Joker or my head? Bruce chuckled a little 
       "You will get used to it I promise."
       "No I won't because I'm not going back out there." One side of Bruce's lips curl into a smile. 
         "Why don't we table the conversation for now." He says as he turns the rings on his finger.
          We looked at each other for a second, could he see something was wrong? Could he tell I was hiding something? Was I hiding anything? 
        "Nothing out of the ordinary happened when I was gone?" He asks probing for information. 
        "Jason and I saw a movie."
        "That's it? No one got hurt?"
       "He's bluffing. He doesn't know shit stay strong." Trypophobia, that's what his new facial hair was reminding me of. The small pours the hairs were popping out of. It made me want to scrap it off him. I normally don't feel this way about holes. Why was it bugging me now? God my head is killing me. Maybe that's w- "Margaret for the love of God, answer the man. He's just staring at you. He's going to realize something is wrong."
         "I don't know Bruce, was someone hurt?" 
          "Why did that sound so intimidating? What's wrong with you?" Bruce raised an eyebrow and rubbed his hand against his bothersome beard. The sound of the coarse hairs rubbing his skin gave me chills. 
        "Right, I'll be in my office if you need anything." He says as he walks out of the room. 
        I wasn't sure what was happening. I'd have moments that felt normal then the next I'd be confused and more confused than I normally am. Felix was catching on quick. Unfortunately so was Bruce I think. Him and Dick had a long conversation alone. Felix wouldn't say about what. It was late evening and I was trying to watch cartoons. I was feeling mostly better but I'd have fleeting moments where I couldn't remember where I was. It was starting to scare Felix.
        "Margaret? I'm going for a drive. Do you want to come?" Bruce asks. He had a knack for sneaking up on people. I wasn't even sure how long he had been standing there. 
        "No, the cat might actually get the mouse in this episode." I say pointing to the TV. 
         "No he never gets the mouse Margaret. I want to go on a drive with you, I missed you." Bruce admitting to something like that caught me off guard. "We can stop by the pet store to look at the fish. Maybe we could pick out a tank for your room." He said with a soft grin. Pet fish did seem like fun. 
       I agreed and he had me in the car in 10 seconds flat. He didn't even have a coat on. He pulled into a hospital parking lot. I had been duped.
       "Dick told me about the hit to the back of the head you took." Out of the two of us I didn't think it would be him who ratted. 
        "I feel better, I think it was a Felix thing making me feel weird, not the head."
       "Don't blame this on me! This is definitely a head thing."
        "If you walk in there with me, we can still get you some fish. If you don't there won't be any fish and I can't promise you will be very comfortable. Either way you are going in." I knew there was no convincing him. Even Felix seemed on board. 
         Without me agreeing one way or another Bruce gets out of the car and walks over to my side. He opened the door for me. "Do you need me to carry you in?" He asked, leaning down into view. I didn't respond, I was upset I was lied to but more so my head hurt so bad the thought of walking made me want to scream. He sighed and leaned over me to unbuckle my seat belt. He picked me up in a bridal style. I was too old to be carried but I don't think he minded.  
        "Do I still get pet fish?" I ask as I sit politely in his arms. We walked into the very fancy hospital. 
         "We will see." He says looking down at me with a small grin for a second. I closed my eyes, scrunching them up tight. The harsh light in here was killing me. 
        Bruce spoke to the secretary and got us in a room right away. It was the fastest I had ever been seen by a doctor. I sat on the noisy paper covered bed. Bruce stood next to me and spoke with the doctor. They went back and forth for a while. I just sat there and looked down at the tile floor counting the black squares. 
         The doctor didn't seem to bother asking if he could touch me. He moved behind me and started to examine the closed wound. 
       "We have a nurse in the family who thought he could handle it." Bruce said, explaining away the stitches. 
       "Well I'd say he needs some more practice, it's stopped bleeding but I'd like to go back in and clean that up." The doctor said as he gently brushed his thumb over the uneven stitch. I grab Bruce's hand quickly. 
       "I don't want new stitches." I say emotionless as I stare down at the floor still. Bruce holds my hand back and nods. 
       "She isn't going to be shaving her head. It isn't a problem if it scars, is it going to stay closed?" Bruce asks as he leans back to take a look himself. 
         The doctor hums as he takes a better look. The skin around it was so tender. 
         "You said she fell at the counter? This is pretty big for that."
          "It was a very tall counter." Bruce says in a sure tone. The doctor shakes his head. 
        "I'd feel better closing it myself. It won't take any time." 
       "I don't want new stitches." I tightened my hold on Bruce's hand as he pats my back.
        "Will it open back up?" He asked, I could tell he was going to side with the doctor. 
      "Probably, the knotts he used are not secure." The doctor says not understanding the ordeal it was the first time. Bruce seemed to have a better idea but he still wasn't there. 
        I pulled my head from the doctor, Bruce pushed himself against the bed to block my escape off the bed. 
         "Margaret, chill out he's an actual doctor. He can close it properly."
          "If you hold her I can have it done in less than five minutes she won't feel a thing." I tried to move out of Bruce's grasp but being stuck on the bed made that virtually impossible. He grabbed me and laid my head on his chest. I let out a scream as he put his arm around me. I could hear his heart beating in his chest, it was so calm. How could he be so relaxed in a situation like that?
         The doctor made quick work of my wound. After the pinch of the needle I couldn't feel anything. I squirmed the whole time. My head was the only part of my body I couldn't move because of Bruce's vice-like grip. Once it was all finished Bruce let me off the bed. I stood there as the doctor made an order for an MRI to be done just to make sure. He left for a moment to put the paperwork through. 
      "I'm sorry I had to do that, I didn't know he'd have to redo the stitches." Bruce said as he sat down on one of the chairs. I shook my head at him. I didn't care if he knew or not I was still mad. 
       "Don't talk to me, It hurt!" I say in a whimper. Bruce looked apologetic. 
        "I'm sorry Margaret, if you still want to we can get the fish after the MRI. I just have to know you are okay. You have been acting different and it worries me." He wasn't lying. I felt different as well. I looked away from him and sulked for a bit.
          A nurse takes us to the room with a big machine tube thing. She explains what it is but honestly I wasn't listening. It takes pictures of my head. I wondered if they could see Felix. Maybe this was a blessing in disguise. I got up on the bed and I was buckled in with a plastic and cloth belt of some kind. The nurse said it's just a precaution. I was mad at him but I was more scared than anything now. I looked at Bruce as I started to cry. His face softened just a little. 
         "It's okay. It's going to be loud and warm but nothing is going to touch you. It's just pictures." He says, trying to reassure me. He hands me a tissue and lets me dry my own face. I lay back down and the tube pulled me inside of it. At first it was quiet, but slowly I heard a whirling sound as the machine started. it got a little warm but the sound was the worst. It was like my head was shoved inside a cymbal. It was all these crashing and banging sounds. I thought the machine was going to crush me inside of it. 
        "I want to come out!" I yell at whoever is out there. I don't think anyone answered but I couldn't tell because of all the noise. After what felt like forever I couldn't take it. I was scared I was in there all alone. I felt like the tube was closing in on me. I started to hyperventilate and scream for help. I undid the buckle and started to wiggle my way out. The room I crawled back into wasn't the same room. As soon as I got off the slab the sound stopped and it seemed the machine had powered down. It was completely dark. I could see the emergency exit sign lit up over the door that was to the back right of the machine.  I ran over to it and tried to pull the door open but it wouldn't move. 
       "Bruce! Help me!" I cried as I slammed my fist against the large door. All of a sudden the MRI machine started back up. It was so loud like I was inside of it still. The lights turned on again and the slab started to move out of the tube. I could see feet slowly peek out from the machine's entrance. I was just in there. How did someone crawl in? As more of the body was revealed by the machine I could tell that it was a girl, a young girl maybe. I moved closer. I could see the top of her head as she laid still. She sat up and kept her back to me. Her hair looked like mine. 
        "Hello?" I asked, taking one small step closer. She kicked her legs over the edge of the slab. But kept her head and upper body looking straight forward. Slowly she turned her head to face me as she got up. Her movement seemed so unnatural. It was me, kinda at least. She was much paler, almost blue or gray even. Her eyes were milky and her lips were white. She had no expression. She looked like a corpse.
         "Why did you let this happen, Bruce? I could have been so much, I was so innocent and you let me die? What kind of man are you? Your father would be ashamed." She even sounded like me. She wasn't talking to me, she was talking to Bruce. But he wasn't even here. I opened my mouth to speak but before I could I heard a man yelling. 
         "Margaret, wake up! Wake up now please!" It was Bruce I think. All of a sudden the room was filled with a white light that took out my vision and I was laying on my back again on the slab. One of the doctors was checking my pulse. As another was about to move me to a crash cart. I looked around confused and tried to sit up but one of the doctors pushed me back down. I was looking for Bruce all over. He was behind me, some nurses were holding him back but let him go as soon as I started to move. I have never seen such a scared expression on his face. It made me even more scared. He rushed over and stopped just short of the bed. 
         "What happened? You can see me now?" He asked as a doctor shined a light in my eyes and turned my head to face them. They were checking me over. 
           "Of course I can see you. What happened?" I asked as he seemed just as confused as I was for once.  As soon as he saw an opening he wedged himself between the doctors and hugged me so tight it almost hurt. His rough facial hair graded against my skin. I could feel it poking through my hair as he put his chin on my head and held me to his chest.
         "What happened? What the hell happened to her?" He asked, looking at one of the doctors. They were not sure themselves. We were moved to another room, this one with a real bed. 
        Bruce explained I had some kind of fainting spell or something. My eyes were wide open but I wasn't looking at anything, I couldn't respond and the doctors were scared I wasn't breathing. He wrung his hands together as he recounted the terrible look on my face. How he thought I had died. I did my best to comfort him to reassure him I felt okay but there is only so much I could do. 
        "I don't want to lose you, I'm not going to let that happen again." I gave him a confused look. He didn't even know what it was but he was promising me it won't happen again? I just nod, not sure what to say.
        The doctor came in and said everything looks mostly normal. Just some spots that shouldn't be so dim and others that are too bright. But nothing that seemed major. They couldn't tell him what caused my catatonic state which didn't seem to satisfy Bruce.
         "We'd like to do more tests in the future but tonight there isn't much else we can do. If it happens again, come back of course but I'm going to schedule some tests with her General care physician." The doctor kept giving me this look, it was almost fearful. Maybe that's just what his worried face looked like. 
        Bruce carried me back to the car even though I was feeling well enough to walk. He seemed a little different. He held onto me tighter than before. He put me in the seat then got in himself. 
        "I know I promised but can we go fish shopping tomorrow? I want to get you home and in bed." Bruce said as he started the car and began to drive. 
      "I think I know what that hallucination was about."
         "Sure it's fine by me." I say as I lean my head against the window. I didn't think Felix could see my hallucinations. Did he see this one? I didn't want to ask him in front of Bruce. He seemed freaked out enough. Felix must have taken the hint because he didn't try and talk the rest of the drive home. 
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kaleidoskuls · 1 year
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i, uh, found this in my drafts ? forgot that i wrote it haha. but i kinda like it so i decided to post it here :) enjoy
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Will and Mike are sitting across from each other on Mike's bed, Mike's fingers tapping absently on Will's knee, mouth twisted into a lazy pout, staring into space.
Will's lips form a fond smile, and he props his chin in his hand, taking a moment to really look at Mike. He does that a lot, if he's being honest, and he takes comfort in the fact that he can admire Mike openly, that he doesn't have to hide it anymore.
His coarse, dark hair that Will finds himself constantly wanting to gently card his hand through. The freckles scattered almost artfully across his face form an irresistible constellation. Will wants to trace it with his fingers. Every so often, Mike will doze off, only for his eyes to pop open a few moments later, tired blinking, wash, rinse, repeat. It was honestly kind of entertaining.
Will's eyes inevitably move a little lower, and he feels the tips of his ears heat up.
Um. Yep. Those sure are lips, alright. On Mike's, uh, face.
Okay.
So maybe Will is currently fantasizing about pinning Mike against his bedroom wall and just– fucking– kissing him. 
Maybe.
“Will.”
Will's eyes snap up to Mike's, and he hopes his face isn't as red as it feels.
Mike lifts a lazy eyebrow, the corner of his lips pulled up in a knowing grin. His voice is thick with sleep when he says, “You were staring.”
Will refuses to blush more than he already is. “I was,” he admits. He moves forward a little and tucks a strand of Mike's hair behind his ear. Gives a shrug. “You're pretty.”
Okay, so Mike's not at too-tired-to-feel-flustered level yet, because his eyes widen a little, color suffusing his cheeks, and Will can't help but smile. Although it is, truthfully, not that hard for him to make Mike blush, the combination of accomplishment and amusement and fondness he feels whenever he does never fails to make an appearance.
He cups Mike's cheek in his palm, because he can, and isn't that just the best kind of miracle, getting to hold something you never thought you'd have?
Mike's eyes are wide, and there is something in them that makes Will's heart do a little flip in his chest. He brushes his thumb across Mike's cheek, and he repeats, voice barely above a whisper, “Pretty.”
Mike's face is reminiscent of the color of a fire engine. His mouth is moving wordlessly, like he's been flustered speechless, and Will's face breaks out in a smile.
Mike finally decides on a halfhearted “Shut up,” eliciting a small laugh from Will. But he's closing his eyes and leaning into Will's touch.
“Why?” Will muses. “It's true.”
“Well, you're prettier.”
Will lets out a surprised laugh. Mike's compliments always catch him a little off guard, leave him reeling from the sheer consistency of them, and the way Mike always seems to believe whatever it is he's saying.
Mike's eyes fly open, and he frowns. “It's true,” he insists. “You're the prettiest ever. It's just,” he gestures at Will, “your face. And your eyes and stuff. Like, wow.”
Warmth spreads across Will's cheeks. So much for not blushing any more. “You're the worst,” he huffs, crossing his arms and slumping against the bed frame.
Mike snorts a laugh. 
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tendertenebrosity · 4 months
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Not sure if any of you have read Ocean's Echo, but this is fanfic for it! Surit is a cinnamon roll and I wouldn't have him any other way, but this is an 'assholes-slowly-learning-not-to-be-assholes' blog, so.
I wouldn't get attached to these guys in their current incarnation because this is likely to become original fiction and then all of this will become noncanon, but it might as well go here in the meantime.
“It will feel like a key in a lock,” the pilot in the instructional video had said. “Or like one of those telescoping rods - I don’t know, it could feel like something totally different to you. But you’ll feel it click. Might be difficult if the reader has strong walls - sometimes it’s hard for them to drop them, but they have drugs for if that happens.”
“All right,” the medical technician said, pushing the scanner wand on its articulated arm aside. She managed to look bored; how many of these did she oversee? “When you’re ready, sir.”
Davi moved in as if he was going to write the person in front of him, but - all of him? He tried to encompass too much of the mind at once, was pushed back by slippery walls and lost his grip.
“Could you try to drop your defences, please?” he asked, distantly, all of his attention focused internally. Anxiety and insecurity gnawed at him. He wasn’t doing it properly. It should be done by now. It hadn’t sounded like a difficult procedure in the instructional vid.
The reader - Davi’s reader, as soon as he managed to actually do the procedure - took a deep breath that hitched in the middle. He looked small, even now that the guard had left; shorter than Davi, hair cropped close, the featureless prison scrubs loose and faded in stark contrast to Davi’s smart uniform. The ID cuff on his left wrist had a wooden gender token on it, plainer and somehow even less like jewellery than Davi’s button.
“I don’t…. Do I have defences up?”
Davi gave him a suspicious look, but the reader looked honestly bewildered behind his neat little glasses. No formal training, huh.
“Yes, you do,” Davi told him. They wouldn’t have stopped a determined probe, but this wasn’t a normal probe and they made things just slippery enough that he couldn’t get purchase. “If you can relax and be open, this will be a lot easier.”
“I’ll - I’ll try.”
And he did, Davi could feel it, the walls softening and thinning and the mind turning its face up to him and -
It wasn’t a click, but he could see why you’d describe it like that. Like the threads of a screw-top jar engaging. Like one of those intricately carved puzzle boxes that needed to be moved in a very specific way before they opened up. More than anything, the sense that two things that were supposed to fit together in a whole had finally found the orientation in which they did. Davi reached out and pushed those pieces together firmly.
And suddenly there was a presence, filling the tiny interview room, warm and alive and close enough that Davi felt like he was crammed up against the walls moving with its breathing. Breathing with it.
The reader’s knees buckled. Davi was somehow there as soon as it happened, to catch the slight frame in his arms and stop him tumbling to the hard metal floor. He’d known that was going to happen because the body was his, in some weird way. Part of him.
The technician spun in her chair, pressed a few buttons. “Successful sync,” she said. “All vitals looking good.”
No, Davi wanted to say. Wait. They can’t all be good. If they’re good why does this feel…
What did it feel like?
He still felt like Davi. He was just Davi with… something else stapled into the middle of his senses. It was difficult to talk around it, difficult to think around it.
The reader’s fingers moved against the chest of his uniform shirt. Stiff coarse fabric, the line of piping hard underneath his thumb - wait, what?
The fingers closed up as if to grasp him, but then flattened to push him away. Sensation, emotion, something poured out of the unfamiliar presence in Davi’s head. He struggled to name it but it was… bad. Like fighting against a torrent of dark water.
You’re in control of this, he told himself. You’re the architect. This is under your control. Get a grip.
He set his mental shoulders against the deluge, tried to rise above it. He made himself push the reader’s body away from his - not you, that is not you, keep all of that to yourself - prop the reader back up, set him on his feet. The reader was looking around the room, blinking, looking as stunned as Davi probably was.
What have you done? What have you DONE?
The thought arrived in his head, not so much in words but more the impression, but still crystal clear and foreign. Blank horror.
“You should probably head back to your quarters and rest,” the technician told him. “It’ll take a while for you both to settle into it.” She retrieved something from one of the cupboards in the med-bay - a rectangular packet of cloth. She slapped a packet of medication tabs on top of it and held it out to Davi. “Standard issue equipment for Agent Thirty-two; you shouldn’t need these, but just in case. Come back here tomorrow, or sooner if there are any issues. Do you need help getting him to your quarters?”
Davi didn’t question why she was giving the pack of uniforms to him and not to the reader, swaying and wavering in the middle of the room. Even if the other man hadn’t been on the brink of falling over or throwing up, he was Davi’s responsibility now.
He would always be Davi’s responsibility.
Oh Guidance lights what have I done…
Davi shook off the thought, exerted what he hoped was firm but gentle pressure on the alien presence in his head until it receded a little. He stepped forward and took the packet.
“No, that will be fine,” he said. “Our quarters aren’t far, and we can walk without assistance. Thank you.”
The technician gave him an odd look as he tucked it under his arm.
“Need a tissue, sir?”
“What?” Davi put a hand up to his face. To his complete surprise, his eyes were streaming with tears. He hadn’t even noticed.
The reader - Agent Thirty-two - Saelin Cor - made another small noise from behind Davi, a pained inhale. He was lifting one hand up to his temple, fingers pushing through his hair, and Davi was suddenly convinced that it was supposed to be much longer than it was, that having it short and prickly was strange and unfamiliar still.
Davi hadn’t needed to see him to know any of that.
“I’m fine,” he said roughly. Panic fluttered at the edges of his mind - what have I done what have we done what is this - and if not all of it receded when he shoved it away, well, it would improve. Nobody was expecting them to be out there at the bridge tomorrow. There was time to figure this out.
He blotted one side of his face with the heel of his hand, and turned away. “We’re fine. Come on - Agent Thirty-two. Let’s go home.”
Continued here.
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feverinfeveroutfic · 1 month
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the skeleton key | chapter three: girl in white
I had put in a request for Dave and Mark to come and pick up the pie by the end of my shift, but I was more attentive to the show over at the Baked Potato. I wasn’t going to stand there and wait for the two of them to show up to the bakery when traffic began thickening up over in Studio City within the hour, and thus, by three-thirty, I was more than eager to clock out and mosey on over to that funky little club with the bright golden yellow lights that could be seen from two blocks over. Marcy had called at lunch and told me that she was going to be late, although at that point, I was certain that I wouldn’t have to worry about it in the least.
I had my worries that I wasn’t going to make it on time, but then I remembered that the show itself wouldn’t start until well into the evening. I wanted to meet him, however: meet him and chat for a bit before he had to head up onto the stage.
I took the first spot closest to the front door, where I spotted Alex himself by the corner of the building wrapped up in a black peacoat and with a cup of coffee in one hand. His coarse black hair billowed behind him against the wind as it came in from the ocean: we were due for another round of rain in the coming days, and everything about it as well as the sight of him there left me wanting to make him something else to eat. I had my mind on knishes and matzoh balls by the time I moseyed on up to him. He turned to me and showed me the sweet little smile on his face: his lips made me think of ripe cherries fresh off the tree; the middle buttons of his coat seemed a bit on the snug side, accentuated by the black fabric.
“Hey, there you are,” he greeted me.
“Hey! I didn’t think I could get here quickly enough to meet you before the show because of traffic.”
“Ehhh, who needs to worry about these things when there’s loads of time left in our wake…” He sipped on his coffee, and then he turned his attention to me once again.
“I like that you’re still wearing your apron,” he pointed out with a sly little grin.
“Well, I just barely got off of work,” I told him as I adjusted the shoulder straps of my white and red apron. “I was waiting for Mark and Dave, and they hadn’t shown up at all, so I just decided ‘screw it’, and I left a request for them to pick up their pie and then I came here.”
“Boy, you never stop, do you,” he quipped to me, complete with that little lopsided grin fixed right upon his face.
“I really don’t,” I assured him as I lingered closer to him; it was right then I could smell the softness of his cologne. I wanted him to always smell of that softness over that faint hint of booze. He then unbuttoned his jacket with his free hand and showed off his body to me: even though I could tell that he had not eaten much over the course of the day, he still had that pillow of softness to his middle.
“I think I’m going to need a new shirt,” he confessed to me as he tugged on the tail of his shirt. “I’m going to need a few new shirts, actually. I’m getting older and a little too chunky.”
I scanned his body from his head all the way down to his feet: I frankly couldn’t see what he was seeing because he had been so sweet to me back at the bakery and right after the show as well.
“You have this full, sexy look to you,” I said, to which he raised an eyebrow at me.
“Full and sexy, is that what you told me?”
“Yeah. You look like you eat well and you take good care of yourself.”
He closed his coat, once again with the swipe of his free hand, to which he followed it up with another sip of his coffee. His skin still had this washed out quality to it, but at least he wasn’t faintly smelling of alcohol again. Something spooked him, the way that he kept himself guarded away from me in such a way that was completely different from how he behaved that morning as well as the night before.
“I’m gonna hang out here in the southland for a few days and then I go up to Seattle to start a new tour,” he told me. “We go all the way down the west coast in a van to boot.”
“Would you like to come on over to my place for dinner or something?” I offered him. “I’d hate to see you stay in some hotel for a few days only to pick up again and then fly up north.”
“That’s really sweet of you…” His voice trailed off once again, to which he turned his head away from me, and then I frowned at that. Something perturbed him. He had no ring on his finger but he acted as if he did.
“You have a girlfriend?” And he followed it up with a sigh through his nose.
“I’m afraid so,” he confessed, and my heart sank at the sound of that. But I paid closer attention to the look on his face, to which I could make out the pained look in his eye, and I knew that something was bothering him. Indeed, I paid closer attention to his face and the fact that the color had still not returned from the day before.
As far as I knew, he might have been hungry and he wasn’t eating all that much.
The lack of color and the distant look to his eyes. The tone to his voice. I had a feeling that I had come across something that I shouldn’t know at any given moment whatsoever.
“Let me ask you a question, though,” I started again. “If you have a girlfriend, then why are you so adamant on hanging out with me?”
He never said anything. He merely stood there with his cup of coffee close to his chest and his eyes locked onto something across the street from us. But then it took me a second to realize that he wasn’t really looking at anything in particular. He merely gazed off into space, as if that question left him wondering about life itself.
“Alex?”
“There’s not many people who make me feel the way that you do,” he confessed to me without looking at me. “You know, when she first entered the picture, I was feeling something similar to what I’m feeling here with you. I was in love. I thought for sure I had found my one and only. After a while, though, things cooled off and I… started to wonder about me and her. We’ve been together for almost twelve years now, but I swear it feels longer than that most days, like we lost our way with each other. It also doesn’t help matters that she and I don’t really have that much chemistry, either.”
He sighed through his nose again, and he once again took another sip of coffee.
“Is that why you look ready to pass out?” I asked him.
“It’s… it’s complicated,” he continued as he shifted his weight right in the spot. “My mom landed in the hospital last spring and then in a home, and… it’s just one of the things that led me to feeling this way.”
I nestled closer to him, and I brought my hand close to the pivot of his knee.
“I get bored easily,” he continued. “I’m not ashamed to admit that but I also am…”
“Did you—” I stopped right in my tracks.
“I’m ashamed to admit it, at least in person, but… yeah, I… I’m looking for greener pastures, be it in the romantic sense or what have you.” He then let out a low whistle, as if he had been dying to tell that to someone.
“‘I’ll ride the wave where it takes me,’” I said, and all the while, I thought about Eddie. He showed me a smile, which in turn brought a slight color back to his skin.
“I hate to admit it, but I’m so… utterly bored,” he continued. “And it’s the weirdest thing, like I’ll think this and I’ll feel it, too, but once I see her, it goes right out the window. It just disappears from thin air, and then the next thing I know, I’m looking for another release, whether it’s with another person or my guitar or the bottom of a coffee cup.”
“Oh my god,” I breathed over the wind, and I recognized Marcy’s car posted up by the corner on the other side of the street. “And there’s my friend Marcy Playground.”
He chuckled at that, and he took another drink of his coffee, a much larger swig that time around and I knew he had finished right then.
“I’ll meet you girls inside,” he vowed to me as Marcy took to the spot right across the street, to which she waved at us through the window. “I’ll save you both a couple of seats near the front.”
I thought about what he had said to me right then as Marcy hurried across the street with her purse slung over her shoulder. Alex ran his fingers through his coarse dark hair, and he strode around the corner towards the front door. Marcy gestured for me to follow her inside of the Baked Potato, a cozy comfy warmly lit club with a series of tables strewn across the floor before us and walls utterly plastered with all manner of posters and things to make me think of all who had come to there before us as well as Alex’s little act about to take place before us.
Indeed, I spotted Alex himself over by the table closest to the stage, and he tugged out the chairs from under the table, and he gestured for us to have a seat on our own terms. I could feel the warmth in my face as we sauntered over to him and those chairs in question. The memories of seeing Chris shot through my mind the very second I took a seat with my view right within Alex’s perspective: I knew he was going to be right there on the left side of the stage, right within the spotlight.
How was it that in seven years I had five crushes, a bakery, and only one chair.
I had just began to untie my apron at the back when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned my attention to right behind me, and I spotted a head of long, fine blonde hair right behind me swathed in black leather.
“Jerry!” I exclaimed.
“Hey!” Marcy followed up with me.
“Nice little treat to see you here, what’s happening?”
“I heard there was a man who had a slice of your pie yesterday,” he quipped with a straight face, and I couldn’t help but burst out laughing at that. He picked out a chair from the next table over and scooted up in between us. “I love me a good slice of pie.”
“What kind of pie are we talking?” I asked him as I shifted around in the seat to face him: the bottom of my apron rested upon my thigh, and I pictured him placing my hand there instead.
“Either cherry or grasshopper, because I’m old-fashioned,” he replied with a slight gyration to his head.
“I don’t think I’ve made grasshopper pie before,” I confessed.
“It’s delicious but hard to get right,” he told me. “It can be easy to make it taste like toothpaste instead of straight peppermint.”
“I think I can make you a cherry pie, though,” I assured him.
“Some cherry pie from the place that gave us some slices of pie,” he sputtered, and when the two of us sat there for a second in stunned silence, Marcy then burst out laughing. He shrugged his shoulders. “I try my best.” He then cleared his throat and drummed his fingers on the table. “Anyway, shifting gears, I’m going on tour this summer.”
“Ooh! With Alice or by yourself?” My heart skipped a few beats at that.
“Solo. I’ll be with Bush and Candlebox if you can believe that, too.”
“Wow,” I breathed at that.
“But I won’t be in California until the very end, in September.”
“Plenty of time to make him a pie,” Marcy pointed out.
“A pie and maybe something else, too,” I added, and the two of them glanced at each other with their mouths slightly agape.
“You know what, just for that…” Jerry climbed up and padded across the room to fetch something from the darkest corner right near the bar.
“Wonder what he’s getting,” Marcy muttered, but then he quickly returned with a shabby dusty old black guitar in one hand. He sank back down in the seat and gave his hair a quick toss before he situated himself.
On the front of his guitar was a sticker reading “wear the blood of your lover”, and another reading “burn the gipsy charm”, and a weird, engraved little bar code near the hole, “piggy dusk stem,” followed by two “e”s, an “i”, and a “u”, followed by a shape that made me think of sage. I raised an eyebrow at that, especially when Alex left his guitar without anything like that on the front.
He sat back down with the guitar rested upon his lap, and he deftly moved his fingers over the neck of the guitar as if to serenade me with a brand-new song. Hours before the show was about to take place, and Jerry was already treating us to a show of his own.
I could hear Alex talking to someone right behind me, but I paid more attention to Jerry and the way he delved into the blues for us.
“Good to see Eric here,” he declared in a big bellow of a voice. I wondered if this was going to be a new song for Alice In Chains or for Jerry himself on a new solo record. All the while, I couldn’t help but feel magnetized to him, the mere sight of him before me, the way that he guided us along and brought us into the world of the blues, the way that we were sitting in that club together waiting for a show and we were being spoiled to of great extent—
“I need a freaking drink,” I heard him say on the other side of the room.
I thought I would never hear that phrase again, and I thought that I would never have to hear that phrase again. I thought that he would never feel that way after having such a good time and a good morning with me. I knew it wasn’t my doing at all, but something happened to him when I wasn’t looking. I didn’t want him to be like Chris again, or even like Eddie, but I wanted him to be like Alex. But that sentiment proved to me that Alex had his scars as much as Chris and Eddie, and I wondered if he was even aware of it at all.
I thought of the way that he had treated that rugelach back in the bakery, the way it shook him down with nostalgia and he was more than eager to take those day-old pastries with him back to his room. Under that cool, calm demeanor was a young boy who had no way out.
No way out. As far as he knew, anyway.
I may had been drawn to Jerry, but I had found a way with Alex, and he had found a way with me.
There was something about him that rang unhappiness to me. The way he spoke back outside, and most of all, the way he seemed so reticent about his true world within. Something frightened him, such that it actually frightened me.
There had to be a way inside of him. There had to be a way inside of his heart. There had to be a skeleton key into both of these men’s hearts, but I had to start with Alex first. And I had to keep my apron on for that evening as a result. I was going to be the girl in white for that evening, just so he could see me from the stage that night.
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intothewildsea · 27 days
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Magna greedily ran her eyes over the titles of the books she had acquired. Most seemed to be written in Altmeri, the tongue of elven scholars across Tamriel. The ones she found mostly concerned voyages of exploration, ancient myths and legends, and lore compiled from the dwemer. But one book in particular made her quiver with excitement. The tome was skin bound (human skin still eerily intact) and no title was embossed on its spine. The parchment pages were thick, black, coarse, and obviously ancient. For the thickness of the book, there were surprisingly few pages. It was not a printed volume set in the movable typefaces. It was done in the old style, hand-copied and illuminated around the borders. With shaking hands, Magna picked it up and cradled it to her bosom, her silk-clad feet carrying her away outside. "Niamh!" she called, red hair streaming behind her. "Niamh, my dear! I've finally found the book on soul transmutation and manipulation! Pack your things! We must make haste to find corpses and...fresh...souls...," Magna's voice trailed as her eyes beheld the nude body of her sweet companion bathing in the lake...oh. "By the worm!" Magna hissed and turned away from the sight. "The next time you decide to bathe naked, warn me! I could have summoned a Draugr to stand guard while you bathed!"
While Magna was going through her books, Niamh had gone outside to get some fresh air. The lake had been too tempting and she stripped off her clothes, wading into the cool water. She'd tied her wild curls on top of her head in a messy bun, hoping to keep her hair from getting wet.
A bath was just what she needed - she felt her sore muscles relaxing. She used a cloth to scrub off the dirt and grime from traveling until her freckled skin was pink.
She didn't hear Magna's approach until the older woman started speaking. Niamh turned, unabashed about being nude, and she couldn't help but laugh at Magna's exclamation and how quickly she turned around.
"You worry too much," she teased, wading back to shore and climbing out of the lake. She picked up her towel to dry herself off. "Give me just a moment and I'll get dressed."
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hearts4dwt · 2 years
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𝐎𝐍𝐄 | 𝐀𝐍 𝐔𝐍𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐓𝐔𝐍𝐀𝐓𝐄 𝐎𝐂𝐂𝐀𝐒𝐈𝐎𝐍
SUMMARY: a few weeks ago, the fiancée of your cousin passed due to a virus that makes its rounds around the kingdom. on your way across the ocean to the palace of your cousin, your ship has an intercourse with the infamous nightmare.
WARNINGS: violence, mentions of death
PAIRING: dream x fem! reader (enemies to lovers)
SERIES MASTERLIST | NEXT CHAPTER
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The soft glow of the sun seems to lay a veil of stars upon the ocean, as you feel the warm rays engulf your body tightly, standing at the head of the ship beside your guard. Due to the wind your hair seems to blow in every direction, blocking your sight from the nothingness of sea you’re travelling across. It has been hours since the ship took off, time seems to stretch for as long as it can — your feet crave the touch of safe ground, not the swinging back-and-forth, the gentle cradling, of the boat. 
Just a few minutes ago your captain had announced it was only four miles left until you'd arrive on land, at the new-built Harbor located at the coast of your cousin's country, that was once your brother's, before he passed away. 
Your cousin and his late fiancée, a noble lady of wealthy house, had made the best out of this kingdom. Although, now, after her early passing he seemed to fall down a hole of misery, and nobody was there to catch him, nor to heave him out. Not only he took harm of this: the people seemed to be tainted by the grief just as much. 
You, on the other hand, had no time to grieve. To be honest, you didn’t really know what you felt — the whole situation was quite confusing in your position, as you never really got to know the woman. You had seen her once or twice, exchanged a few polite smiles and some meaningless chitchat, but you didn’t have a deep, emotional connection. 
Nonetheless, you travelled across the ocean for her funeral, not only to give her your respect, but to give your cousin your respect and condolences as well. 
You didn’t know anything about sailing, to be honest, and you never cared enough to learn it — although, you knew your ancestors had only come so far through their business of putting and selling ships of great quality. You felt bad only a little, though, it never really consumed you.
And although you knew so little about it — the only thing you could remember your grandfather teaching you were a bunch of different types of knots — you knew that the signs the spyglass-man above you gave the helmsman were anything but good. 
You could feel a pit forming in your stomach as you watched the men on the ship hurry from place to place, uneasiness crawling up your spine, arising goosebumps on your smooth skin. 
Eventually, it got too much, and the curiosity overcame you. Turning to your guard, whose face was also written with nervousness, you opened your mouth. 
"What is going on?" Your heard yourself ask, voice slightly coarse from not speaking so long. He turned his head away from the anxious crew to look at you, sighing as he shrugged his shoulders.
"No idea."
Furrowing your eyebrows, you turned away from him to the front, and now it finally caught your eye: a huge, dark ship was only miles away from yours, the Wallflower. 
You would never mistake this ship. You had heard too many rumours about it — everyone had. It‘s stories jumped around the kingdom like a disease, venom crawling into the people's heads, making them frightened for their life.
The crew really lived up to their ship‘s name — The Nightmare. It was exactly that, a nightmare. The people they'd capture were never heard from again — their names were only legends among the men on land now, a whisper brought out in fear The Nightmare would come for those who spoke of the captured as well. 
They hoist their flag with pride, their sails with spur and tumble across the ocean like ice, letting the other ships know they are coming exactly for them. 
You felt your breath hitch in your throat, swiftly turning around before you marched forward fiercely towards the captain, who stood beside his helmsman on the platform. Discarding the scarf that was tightly hugging your throat, shielding you from any cold breeze, you came to a stop after you conquered the staircase. 
The captain turned to you with raised eyebrows and a taunting curl of his lips down, eyes flying over your body. You were wearing a gown, usual for a princess, wrapped in a warm coat as jewellery hung around your neck. The uneasiness in you grew as he eyed you, before opening his mouth.
"What is it, your highness?" He sneered, voice tight and squeaky, emphasising the title with all his willpower. He only barely managed to tower over you, thin, short legs not as long as yours, which was quite sad, to be honest, seeing as you weren't that tall yourself. Compared to the usual men at sea, at least. You fought the grimace crawling up your face, slightly amused and at the same time disgusted at the way he wanted so desperately to show off.
"What is happening?" Your words came out steady compared to his. The other corner of his mouth curled up into a taunting grin, which now arouse slight anger inside you. You didn’t catch the nervous glances the helmsman was now sending his captain, and neither did said man. 
"I don’t know? You tell me, your highness." He said and you were still able to hear the mocking undertone, frown overtaking your face. "Everything is as it is supposed to be."
It was not. This was confirmed only a second after this thought occurred to you. 
"Uh, captain, sir," the helmsman brought out hesitantly and soon enough, you heard manly groans behind you, messy yelling and iron clanking against one another. You felt your heart skip a few beats, and out of fear, you didn’t dare to turn around, hoping what you were thinking was a lie and there wasn’t even a hint of the Nightmare's crew, that was slowly but surely taking over your ship.
However, your plan of 'ignoring until it’s gone' didn’t turn out so good — in fact, it was actually very, very stupid. You spotted a man with long, blonde curls and sword in his hands trotting up the staircase behind the captain and his helmsman, wicked grin tugging at his lips and an even more evil glint in his ocean blue eyes. 
You wanted to move — really, you did — but the fear brewing inside you held you back, restraining you as much as possible. You saw his gaze fall onto you, smirk now stretching over his face as he quickly turned away, let out a whistle to his back, before turning around again. 
This didn’t go unnoticed by the captain though, and after you saw his eyes widening, almost popping out of their holes, he snapped around and grabbed the sword out of his Holster. The blonde was just about to strike him down, however, the Captain was fast enough to bring up his sword to clank it against his and eventually they would move to fight down below alongside the others. Still, you remained in your place, completely mortified, sharing a look with the helmsman who seemed just as scared. 
You tumbled back a little, vision getting blurry, until you felt a strong presence behind you, drawing a gasp as you felt a blade being pressed against the soft flesh on your bare neck, just above your necklace. Your body tensed, heart picking up speed and nearly thumping out of your chest — you were sure the person behind you could hear and feel it beat rapidly. Needless to say you were scared for your life. 
"Don’t move now, princess." A smooth voice called out from behind you in a whisper, drawing another small gasp from you, which made him let out a chuckle to your misery. You could feel his hot breath on the back of your neck as he (you assumed he was a man) pressed the blade further onto your throat, his hand flying up to your arm, holding you in place as he tilted your head with his dagger on your chin to look at you. You could feel his gaze travelling from your eyes to your lips as you let your eyes fall shut, nose scrunching up in fear. 
"Don’t be scared," his voice called out again lowly, barely above a whisper, this time directly into your ear as he drew the dagger back to your throat and added even more pressure than before. You almost let out a whimper, but managed to collect yourself as you gulped down your fear and braced yourself. He guided you with his other hand that wasn’t holding the blade, dragging you to turn around, eyes catching up on the Wallflower's crew slowly but surely being killed by The Nightmare's. You wanted to squeeze your eyes shut again, but he prevented you by pressing the blade even closer.
"Don't," his voice was firm now, his body pushing against yours to move you forward. 
"I want you to watch."
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a/n: hope u enjoyed this first chapter <3
— join taglist! <3
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