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angel-of-the-moons · 8 months

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Reversal

Miguel O'Hara x Fem!Reader

TW/CW: NSFW, Smut, Sex, Sex toys, Top(?) Reader, Bottom(?) Miguel, Reader being Nasty, Size Kink, Height Difference, Overstimulation (almost), Edging(?), Canon event: Miguel likes it up the ass from time to time

MINORS DNI: I AM NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR CONTENT YOU CONSUME

A/N: Blame thank @oharaludes for this (Also I lied I should be asleep but I stayed up to write this now instead of tomorrow because akhdlhslhflhohofnsondlndlnc I couldn't afford to lose the spark™)

(Any Spanish spoken is in italics and is largely translated by Google. Header does not indicate reader's race. I really need to get more creative at making these asdfghjkl)

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Miguel O'Hara was a man who had to be in control at all times. He had to oversee who went on what mission, who to let into the Society, who to hunt down, what universes to monitor, which anomalies threatened the safety of the multiverse...

He was not known for willingly relinquishing his control.

But, being in control all the time, bearing all that weight had limitations. Sometimes, it just became too much and you would need to let it go for a bit, get the weight off your back and relax.

But then... Miguel had you.

You were probably the only respite Miguel had in the multiverse. And you were right under his nose the entire time. He convinced himself to go back to his universe, to visit his brother. He missed him.

But... he went back...

Just to find you. You were spunky, playful, and annoyingly gorgeous. And you happened to be one of Gabriel's newest best friends.

Poor Gabriel had a heart attack when he swung by your apartment to drop off the computer he was fixing for you, just to walk in and see you and Miguel on the couch in a rather compromising position.

You told Miguel you swore that his brother's brain exploded when he almost fainted.

But hey! Your computer worked again!

Not too long after, you decided to make it official. Official as in "he told you everything" official.

Gabriel just made you two swear you'd lock your front door next time.

Right now however, the nostalgia of that day lost its novelty as exhaustion and frustration crept into his body as he dragged his feet into your apartment, unlocking the door with your security code and letting himself in.

There you were. Gorgeous as the day he first saw you

One of his shirts hung off your shoulder, and down past your thighs. He couldn't resist the smile that snaked its way onto his face when he smelled you.

"Ah, Miguel! How is your universe saving thingy going, amor?" You said, flinging your arms around him as he gripped you tight, burying his nose in your hair to inhale the soft scent of you.

Coffee, chocolate, and strawberries. That's what you always smelled like.

"Exhausting." He sighed loosing his grip on you just enough to look down at you. You were so goddamn short.

It was cute, honestly.

You frowned up at him, those gorgeous lips of yours quirking down. "Ven y siéntate?"

Miguel let you pull him by the hand to the couch, where you sat down first and patted your lap.

Miguel smiled again as he accepted your silent request, lying on your couch (though mostly curled up due to his sheer size alone) and laid his head in your lap.

Your fingers dove into the soft chocolate locks on his head, massaging his scalp with your nails and he made a soft groan of contentment at the sensation.

"Now, tell me about it?" You hummed.

"Later... right now I want to relax. Olvida todas esas cosas." He mumbled softly, closing his eyes, his thumb caressing your knee softly.

"Just want to relax." He repeated, turning his face into the plus of your thighs.

He could smell you. And he knew that you knew it.

And you were never one for subtlety.

But you were one for playing coy when it suited you.

"Aw... Miggy." You purr, combing through his hair softly. "You really do need to relax, honey."

"I can think of a way." He growled, turning his head again, so he can place a kiss to the top of your thigh, making you giggle.

"Nuh-uh. How about we switch things up today, hm?" You grin.

He looked up at you.

"¿Qué quieres decir?"

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He should have known.

Of course.

Of course you were waiting for the right moment to breach this subject.

And of course you knew he'd say yes, he almost always said yes to you.

It was... odd. Not unpleasant. But odd. Normally he tops in bed, pinning you down, biting marks into your skin, sucking hickeys here and there as he pounded you into the mattress until your eyes crossed and you were a babbling incoherent mess.

And of course, you also had everything planned out.

Because when you had a plan, you had all your bases covered.

Like right now.

Somehow, you talked him into letting you top him for the night. Taking control from him and just helping him enjoy it. And you assured him he would.

You anticipated the holes he'd tear into your bed with his talons, the curses he'd spit...

What you weren't expecting though, was the soft whimpers and deep groans coming from him. How absolutely pliant he became while you fucked him with the strap-on you had secured to your waist.

You would continue to apply more lube as you fucked him here and there, stopping to grip his hips for stability, the pillow under him helping keep him angled for you.

You half wanted to have him get on all fours so you could fuck him that way, but it would ruin the other part of your plan.

"So good for me." You purr, running your fingers up his abs, tracing the small scars he's picked up over the years.

You jerked your hips upwards, not hitting his prostate but enough to make his eyes roll and him snarl through hissed teeth.

When he cursed, he wanted it to come out harsher. He meant for it to sound more... authoritative.

But all that came out was a whiny, breathy gasp.

"¡Mierda!"

You giggled, and stilled your hips just a moment to grab the bottle of lube, squirting some onto your hand as you wrapped around his throbbing length.

Not that you ever needed to use lube when you jerked him off, the man leaked so much precum that he could just use it on its own.

But, you liked the lewd sounds it helped make when you drag your fist up and down his cock.

He was so big you could barely wrap your hand around him.

You dragged your hand up his shaft slowly, leisurely tracing each vein as you rolled your hips in a consistent pace, not quite giving him the relief he wanted, but edging him just enough that he slowly just became undone under you, like you had so many times under him.

"Awww, cariño..." You tut, jerking him slowly, twisting your hand as you went to the angry and weeping head of his cock, rubbing your thumb over the slit and applying a bit of pressure there.

"Tell me what you want, baby." You grin, giving another sharp thrust, sending a sharp bolt of pleasure up his spine that hit him so hard he audibly gasped and you could hear it as his talons shredded your bedsheets.

"¡Mierda!" He groaned, the noise deep and rumbling and oh so needy that the very sound sent a fresh wave of heat straight to your cunt.

"Use your words, honey." You hum, arching your hips again as his thighs flexed, the muscles taut as he let out a shaky exhale, one arm going to drape over his face.

You clicked your tongue and reached up, swatting his arm aside so you could see that gorgeous face of his.

"Let me see you, mi amor." You say to him, making one long stroke, followed by a few short, hard ones, making him cry out again.

"Again, use your words, baby. What d'you want?"

"Fucking--" He growled. "I want to cum! Mierda I want to--"

You frowned again and let his cock go, slowing your pace to an agonizing crawl.

"Miguel..." You scold.

"P-Por favor." He whined, tipping his head back so you could see his Adams apple bob as he swallowed.

"Thaaaaat's it. I have something for you..." You say, reaching for the small velvet bag that rolled to your knee thanks to the weight dipping the bed.

He looked up at you, his pupils blown wide and his irises glowing a gorgeous crimson as you pulled out a small vibrator.

You smirked with satisfaction when you saw his cock jump, a new bead of precum dripping down onto his abs, adding to the rivulets that flowed down his sides already.

You turned it on and it buzzed to life in your hand, surprisingly loud for such a tiny thing. But damn, did you get your money's worth. You turned it off again and pressed it at the base of his cock, where the shaft met his taut and heavy balls.

"All right, since you asked nicely, I'll allow it."

The moment you turned it back on he dropped his head back with a sound that you swore would shred any other man's vocal chords, especially when you started thrusting where you knew he so desperately wanted it.

You grinned and bit your lip, thrusting up and hard, guiding the toy up and down his bobbing length, not giving him any relief.

You could tell by how tense his abs were and how desperately his hands pawed at your bedsheets that he was close.

"Go on and cum for me, cariño." You purr seductively; you punctuated every word with a thrust.

"Just." Smack!

"Like." Smack!

"This." Smack!

You dragged the small vibrator up to the tip of his cock, and thrust hard one last time, as he practically bellowed out your name as he came, hot ropes shooting out of his dick and coating his abs, parts of his chest, and completely coating the head of the vibrator.

You giggle and switch it off, and pull the strap out of him slowly, amused at how badly he was twitching for you.

"My idea was a good one, huh?" You say smugly.

Without looking at you, he sticks up his index finger.

"This time." He said, his eyes still closed as he came down from his high, his belly painted white.

"Pff. Hey, hey Miguel. Miguel. Hey. Heyyy!" You giggle, looking down at him, tapping his thigh to get him to answer you.

When Miguel finally looked at you, he had a soft scowl on his face, which immediately melted away when he watched you wrap your lips around the head of that damned toy, and lick every bit of his cum off the tip, making direct eye contact the whole time, humming like you were simply sucking on a piece of candy.

"¡Mierda!"

You shrieked and giggled when he pinned you down, spreading your legs with his thighs as he bit down on your shoulder, growling.

"My turn now, chica."

#my writing #miguel o'hara x you #miguel o’hara x reader #miguel spiderverse #miguel spiderman #atsv miguel #miguel o'hara smut #spiderverse smut

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ewanmitchellcrumbs · 1 year

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Perzys se Rūkla (Fire and Flowers) - Chapter One

Pairing: Daemon Targaryen x original female character (Melessa Tyrell) Warnings: Sexual themes. Word count: ~2k

Chapter summary: Daemon returns to King's Landing after a long absence and finds himself captivated by Aemond's pretty bride to be. Series summary here.

Endless thanks and all the love to my absolute ride or die @em-writes-stuff-sometimes for cheerleading, beta'ing and just generally being the bestest fandom boo a gal could have.

Header by the insanely talented @em-writes-stuff-sometimes

It has been fifteen years since Daemon has set foot in King’s Landing. Following his departure from the capital on the night of his niece Rhaenyra’s wedding to Laenor Velaryon, he has kept himself busy. Splitting his time between Dragonstone and Pentos, wine, women and war have served to push the thoughts of what might have been from his mind.

He has ignored all ravens from his brother, Viserys. Invitations to celebrate name days, the births of Rhaenyra’s children, the marriage of his niece and nephew, Helaena and Aegon, and the births of their children have all gone unanswered. He has been privy to all family gossip; Aemond claiming Vhagar and losing an eye at the hands of Lucerys, Rhaenyra’s alleged infidelity and her three children’s parentage being called into question. He has chosen not to acknowledge any of it.

Viserys had made it abundantly clear time and time again that Daemon was not worthy; not worthy of being his Hand, not worthy of his daughter, and so he kept his distance. Let the bloody fools tear themselves apart.

Daemon rolls his eyes as he enters his study on Dragonstone, noticing the rolled up parchment sitting on his writing desk. What joy. Yet another frivolity to be avoided.

As he unfurls the note he is immediately struck by the difference in penmanship. This is not his brother’s handwriting, yet it still bears the Royal seal of the King. This is the doing of that Hightower cunt.

An invitation to the announcement of Prince Aemond Targaryen’s betrothal to Lady Melessa Tyrell. Spare me. But the allure of why Otto has written this and not Viserys is too strong to ignore. Something must have happened. Before he has time to fully comprehend his actions, Daemon is mounting Caraxes and flying southwest towards the Red Keep.

It hardly surprises him that it no longer feels like home when he returns - he has spent more than a decade avoiding it - but now it feels particularly unfamiliar. Alicent’s presence can be felt everywhere, from the removal of the tapestries, to the iconography of the Seven adorning every available space. He scarcely recognises it.

He bristles with disgust at the Seven-Pointed Star before making his way to his brother’s bedchamber. The smell of decay hangs thick in the air as Daemon pushes the heavy wooden door open. He wrinkles his nose, taking a moment to compose himself against the acrid bile that rises in his throat, threatening to make him retch.

Daemon knew Viserys was in ill health, but how on earth had it been allowed to get this bad? He steels himself as he approaches the bed, knowing what he is about to look upon will not be pleasant. He swallows thickly at the half-rotted man that lies before him. He is not even lucid enough to register Daemon’s presence. He bows his head, not trusting himself to speak. He knows a response is not likely anyway. Poor bastard.

He finds Rhaenyra in the gardens. His last memory of her was on the night of her wedding to Laenor. She had asked him to take her away and make her his wife. He had left her and never returned. His heart hammers in his chest at the thought of seeing her again. There is so much that has been left unsaid between them.

And yet when he sees her the words die on his tongue. He feels foolish for expecting her to be the exuberant young woman he’d abandoned in the Great Hall all those years ago. The years have not been unkind to her, though she is thicker around the waist from bearing her children and her face has aged. It is not that that quells the fire in his blood for her. She is no longer his; someone else has staked their claim to her, and the three dark-haired boys that linger nearby are proof enough of that.

He stands silently beside her and she glances sideways at him.

“Daemon,” she states simply, her lips curving ever-so-slightly upwards.

“Rhaenyra,” he responds. He does not smile, though it is clear in the way that his eyes soften as he looks at her that he is pleased to see her.

They stand in comfortable silence for a few moments before she speaks.

“What are you doing here?”

“Can a man not simply feel homesick?”

“It has taken you fifteen years to start to feel homesick?”

It’s then that Daemon smiles at Rhaenyra - it’s small, but genuine. He has missed her quick wit and unwavering ability to call him out.

He sighs, casting his gaze downwards before back to her. “I hadn’t realised how bad your father had gotten.”

Rhaenyra nods solemnly. “You would have, had you not stayed away all this time. They are giving him milk of the poppy to manage his pain.”

“They, meaning that Hightower cunt and his doe-eyed mook of a daughter?”

“Mmmm.”

“You’re his heir, Rhaenyra. Surely you cannot allow this?”

“Until I am Queen, I have no say in what is and is not allowed. Besides, I have Laenor and the children to think about.”

Daemon cannot help the dry chuckle that escapes him. “Ah, yes, the pillow biter. I had quite forgotten.”

Rhaenyra rolls her eyes. “Daemon…”

He smirks. “Well, I’m sure those vile accusations have now been put to rest considering how much your brood looks like him. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Stop it,” she chides quietly, not wanting to draw attention.

“Speaking of bastards, where is my youngest nephew? I hear congratulations are in order - he has plucked himself a rose from Highgarden.”

Rhaenyra gestures to where Aemond and Melessa stand on the other side of the gardens, flanked by Alicent, Otto and Melessa’s father. The entire exchange looks tense and uncomfortable even from where they are standing.

“She arrived today. The official announcement is in three days,” Rhaenyra tells him.

Daemon surveys the scene in the near distance, taking in the appearance of Aemond. He was a mere babe the last time Daemon laid eyes upon him. Now he is tall, slender and a patch covers his left eye, with a ragged scar running the length of the same side of his face. Dressed all in black, he cuts quite the chilling figure, and Daemon can’t help but feel a little sorry for the poor girl that’s going to have to marry him.

“Gods, he looks like a fucking wraith…” Daemon mutters, more to himself than Rhaenyra.

It’s then that he sees her. Small in stature and slender in build, her long flaxen hair is so pale he’d almost mistake her for being of Valyrian descent if he didn’t know any better. Her blue eyes are wide, bright and full of innocence. Her upturned nose and plush rosy lips only serve to add to her girlish charm and beauty.

Daemon stares at her with predatory hunger. He has not felt himself come alive like this since he last laid eyes on Rhaenyra. He knows he has allowed his gaze to linger for far too long - and yet he cannot, will not look away. The desire to conquer this sweet little maiden, to tear her apart and make her his own is simply too strong.

“Don’t.” Rhaenyra’s bluntness snaps him out of his reverie and he looks at her, an expression of faux innocence plastered across his features. But she knows him. She knows that look. She has been on the receiving end of it many times before.

If only he had any intention of stopping.

Throughout the day, Daemon’s attention falls solely on Melessa; the sheen of her hair as it catches the light, the way her delicate rose petal mouth shapes around words as she speaks. He ponders what it would feel like to push his cock past those lips while her wide blue eyes look up at him filled with innocence. He stirs in his breeches at the thought.

He has to have her. It would be an injustice to marry her off to his scarred, frigid wretch of a nephew. A flower such as her needed to be tended to. She would surely wilt under Aemond’s inexperience and lack of care, he is sure of that.

Opportunity strikes when he sees Melessa admiring the tapestries unaccompanied. Daemon strides purposefully over to her, admiring how delicate she appears just standing there. It occurs to him that he could do whatever he wants to her and there is little she could do to stop him. He stands behind her, easily a foot taller than her and leans down to speak directly into her ear.

“Enjoying yourself?”

The scent of almond oil and rosewater causes him to take a sharper inhale than he would ordinarily, and he enjoys the sight of how gooseflesh appears across her pale skin at the sensation.

She turns, clearly startled, before making an effort to compose herself, curtsying to him.

“Prince Daemon, forgive me! I did not see you there.”

Pride wells in his chest at how she addresses him. A smile tugs at the corners of his mouth as he takes in her flustered appearance, the flush of her cheeks and the surprise in her eyes. It is an image he commits to memory and will absolutely make use of later.

“Please, Lady Melessa, spare me the formalities. We are to be family.” He cocks his head as he stares down at her. “How are you liking King’s Landing?”

“It is nice,” she says shyly. “It…”

“Smells like shit?” he offers with a wolfish grin.

He watches with amusement as she attempts to hide her giggle behind her hand. So innocent. He would have fun with this one. It is clear that him making her laugh has broken some of the tension. Her shoulders relax, pulling away from her neck as she smiles up at him.

He presses on, deciding to be bolder with his probing. “You must be excited about your betrothal to Aemond.”

Melessa nods, though her response is hesitant. “...Yes.”

Hardly the image of a blushing bride. Daemon watches as she squirms with discomfort, averting her eyes. Oh, this was almost too good. He cannot resist prodding further.

“Do I detect some trepidation, my lady? Are you unhappy with your match?”

“No!” she answers too quickly, fear returning to her gossamer features as her eyebrows shoot upwards and her eyes widen.

“Liar.” he states with a smirk. “Tell me how you really feel.”

She shakes her head, looking away. “I cannot… it is improper.”

He tuts, taking her chin between his thumb and forefinger and tilting her face back to his. “You may speak freely with me.”

Melessa opens her mouth, drawing in a deep breath and then closes it again. Her cheeks turn pink and when she finally speaks, her voice is a mere whisper. “He frightens me.”

He smiles warmly at her response. Excellent. This is precisely what he wanted. Not releasing his soft grip on her face, he prods further. “And do I frighten you?”

“A little,” comes her breathy response as she gazes up at him, the very image of childlike wonder.

“Hmmm,” he muses thoughtfully, dragging his thumb across the plushness of her bottom lip. “Such a soft little petal. Tell me - are you this soft everywhere?” If she understands the crassness of his words, she does not show it. Her expression remains placid and innocent.

All too soon, he is breaking away from her, the sound of her father’s voice beckoning her from down the hallway interrupting his moment alone with her. He turns without a word and leaves, eager to shut himself away in his chambers and relieve the aching hardness that presses itself painfully against the confines of his trousers.

Daemon is certain now that he simply has to have her. He has to move swiftly, to capture his prize before the betrothal is officially announced. He has just three days to make his claim.

Three days.

#daemon targaryen #daemon #the rogue prince #daemon stannies #pro daemon targaryen #house of the dragon #hotd daemon targaryen #daemon targaryen x reader #hotd #daemon targaryen smut #daemon targaryen angst #hotd smut #hotd angst #daemon targaryen fanfic #daemon targaryen fan fiction #daemon targaryen fanfiction #hotd fanfic #hotd fan fiction #hotd fanfiction

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alaezasmystery235 · 1 year

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rules, disclaimer and notes ☆

[ Disclaimer ] : this reading was made for entertainment purposes only. this is obviously a general reading so takes what resonates and leave when it doesn't, you don't need to force your energy to read this and leave such a bad comment just to say it doesn't resonates with you at all because the answer is very obvious!

lastly, be happy and enjoy reading my works — feedbacks, comments, likes, reblogs and follows are really appreciated by the reader. (that's me, lol :3)

[ source and creditable ] : All of the pictures are collected and downloaded from 'pinterest' i don't own any of them but credits goes to the rightful owners however edits goes and belong to me only @alaezasmystery . I use the editor tools canva and kapwing for the header and divider.

Extra credit to @daninixx for giving permission to use her rules and disclaimer.

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ＰＩＬＥ 1

LOVES LOVES LOVES Coffee

Has long hair , straight and soft

Winter is prominent , May have their birthday or it's their fav season . Also loves Christmas !!

Height is between 5'10 - 6'1

Plays guitar or takes singing lessons

Work related to healing , crafting or humanity

Has an outgoing personality. But doesn't indulge in social functions often

May have a brother or sibling whom they trusts the most

Loves beaches and spends time in solitude

Smells good and has a clean cut , Muscular fit .

Their spirit animal can be Bear and Spider

Very very good at sex .

Green Blue eyes . Specs are coming for some .

Has won some medals or prizes on sports such as swimming , yoga or HITs .

Loves savory foods and often dines at fine restaurants

May keep charms or souvenirs for luck . I'm getting some kind of family heirloom

Aesthetic Vibes :- Softcore & 90s

Their handwriting can be small in font and slanting .

Places I got = Turkey , Israel , Japan

Zodiac signs = Taurus , Sagittarius , Aries

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Quite different from your usual types

Has a big friend circle / Friendly & Outgoing

Loves astronomy . Possibility of being a starseed.

Full of surprises and enjoy life to the fullest

virgin and have a high sex drive

Height can be between 5 '7 - 5' 8

Fashionista . Loves mainly caps and bracelets

Divine Connection . Has witchy vibes .

Loves animals and wants a pet

Curly short healthy hair . Black and Red are prominent .

Graduated . Has some kind of major . OR just finished college

Not too old & young . Age between 22- 27 .

Loves Cars and bikes in colours blue / White .

Aesthetic vibes :- Dark Academia & Glam

Always on the GO !!! Doesn't like lazy people .

Has some mommy issues .

Intimidating , Majesty and model vibes

Loves to compose either books or music

Very pretty hands and nails

Places I got = USA , Florida , Brazil , Northampton

Zodiac signs = Leo , Scorpio , Aquarius , Pisces

©️ @alaezasmystery 2023

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#pick a pile #pick a card #pick a photo #pick a pile reading #pick a card reading #future spouse #future partner #soulmate #channeled message #aesthetic pictures #free tarot reading #tarot reading #tarot readings #tarot community #intuitive #love #alaezasmystery

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dreamfyre03 · 3 months

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A Dragon's Love

Author's Note: First time posting on tumblr, so please go easy on me, I hope you like this fic<3 Also, this fic is heavily team green, so if that's not your thing, this is a warning.

Header done by : @zaldritzosrose

Trigger Warnings (for this chapter): Brief mentions of violence (tourneys), childbirth, death, I think that's it but if there's more I missed please let me know.

Chapter 1: Born from Tragedy next part

As the sounds of knights riding their horses and lances bashing into shields filled the air, at the great tourney to celebrate the birth of what would hopefully be the son of King Viserys, his wife, Queen Aemma, laid in the childbed, crying out as her body swam in the depths of a pain the gods cruelly decided only women would bear.

The babe was in breech, and there was very little that could be done. King Viserys was given a choice; cut the babe out of his wife, and gain a possible son, but loose his beloved Aemma, or leave it to the gods to decide. The King chose to play god instead, and gave the order. The Queen caught on to what was happening, and as she was held down by an army of nurses, and her own husband, her lasts words were short, yet so profound they would go on the haunt King Viserys until he too met the stranger; “No.”

More disappointment was yet to come, for now the Queen was dead, and the boy the King so longed for was in fact not a boy, but a girl, a daughter. A screaming, pink, healthy babe, but she was just a girl. Viserys could hardly look at her, for shame of what he had done. The little girl looked up at her father, who struggled to even look at her, without seeing the face of his now dead wife in hers.

“And what will she be called, Your Grace?” The Maester cut the silence by asking the King. “Daenys. Princess Daenys Targaryen.” He answered, as he handed off the babe to her nurses, for in his guilt the King could not look at her any longer.

In a mere matter of months later, the King married the Lady Alicent Hightower, dearest friend and companion to his daughter, Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen. It was an act the destroyed the once unbreakable friendship between the two girls, and now the young Rhaenyra had yet another reason to loathe her new baby sister; she killed her mother, and consequently, made her lose her best friend.

Thus, the sweet baby Daenys was left seemingly alone in the world; no mother, a father that couldn’t bear to look at her, and a sister that bore no love for her. Indeed, the gods can be cruel.

Months after the marriage of King Viserys and Queen Alicent, the Queen was found to be with child, and soon gave the King his much wanted son, and they called him Aegon. Of course, at this point to Viserys, this changed nothing, as he had already named his daughter Rhaenyra as heir. At first many saw it as a temporary action to secure the line of succession, and to disinherit his younger brother, Prince Daemon. But it was clearly much more than that, and some might say it was his way of righting the wrong he did to the only woman he ever loved, his first wife Aemma, by naming their daughter Rhaenyra the first woman as the heir to the Iron Throne. If only he knew what sorrow that choice would reign upon the House of the Dragon.

The Princess Rhaenyra soon married Ser Leanor Velaryon, son of Corlys Velaryon and Princess Rhaenys Targaryen. Time passed and passed, and Rhaenyra never showed a drop of kindness to her little sister, who tried to follow her around as soon as she could walk. The coldness from her sister and the slowly but surely depreciating health of her father saw the Princess Daenys in the care of Queen Alicent. She wasn’t always warm and kind, like many might expect a mother to be, but she grew a special affection for her step daughter. In turn, little Daenys felt the same for her step mother, and, her half siblings. Daenys and Aegon were about the same age, and as they grew, were inseparable. When Helaena came along, and they were about two and one respectively, Aegon cried at the deviation of attention from him to his new sister, but Daenys took to baby Helaena right away. When Prince Aemond was born a year later, Daenys loved her siblings with all her heart, even as the little girl kept longing for the love and acceptance of her older sister.

Thirteen years later

Daenys sat with her sister Helaena, who was whispering indecipherable words as she allowed the many legged creature to crawl about her hands. Daenys did not care for the many insects her sister seemed to adore so, but she never said anything because she knew there was not much that brought her sister such peace of mind, even if it meant having all sorts of bugs in display containers in their shared rooms.

She watched as Queen Alicent attempted to lend a comforting touch to her daughter, but Helaena tensed, and it was clear she did not want to be touched, as had been the case since her betrothal to their brother Aegon. Feeling bad for her stepmother, Daenys walked over and said, “Your Grace, perhaps a walk in the fresh air might do Helaena some good?” Alicent looked up affectionately at Daenys and smiled sadly, responding, “Yes, that’s a good idea my dear.” As the two princesses got up to make their way out, the doors burst open and Aemond ran in, straight into his mother’s embrace and he went on angrily, “They gave me a pig!”

“What?” Alicent asked as she tried to calm down her son. “They gave me a pig to ride!” He yelled, shaking with anger. Daenys did not hear the words of comfort whispered by his mother, but did hear Helaena whisper, “He’ll have to close an eye.”

Alicent then left, no doubt to reprimand Aegon, and Aemond stalked over to his sisters, and passed them to sit by the window, in a quiet anger. Daenys turned to Helaena, but before she could speak Helaena already knew and whispered, “Go ahead, sister.” Daenys smiled kindly, Helaena always knew what she was thinking. Daenys walked over to where Aemond sat and joined him quietly, and asked, “Are you alright?”

“They gave me a pig, Aegon and those bastard Strongs. How is it fair that the bastards have a dragon and I don’t? I’m a true Targaryen, and yet I have no dragon.” He huffed as he looked out the window. Daenys took his hand in hers and said, “Aegon is a fool, and often doesn’t know when enough is enough. I believe you’ll have a dragon on day, Aemond. It’ll be a marvellous dragon, that puts the others to shame.” At this, her brother turned to look at her and asked, “Even Meraxa?” Referring to Daenys’s own dragon, who was incredibly large, larger than Dreamfyre, with beautiful white and red scales. Daenys gave him a smile that put him at ease, and replied, “Hmm, well we shall have to see. I wonder if any dragon can put my Meraxa to shame. But until you claim one that can, you can ride with me on Meraxa any time you want.”

Aemond smiled slightly and tightened his hand around hers. Later that day, when the sun was setting, Daenys made her way to her older sister’s apartments, to wish her congratulations on the birth of her new babe, Joffery.

She knocked on the door, until she heard her sister’s voice call out, “Enter!”

Daenys pushed the door open and walked in to the sight of Rhaenyra sitting tiredly on the settee in her rooms, as she rocked baby Joffery.

“Sister, I come to wish you congratulations on the birth of Prince Joffery.” She said, as Rhaenyra barely glanced at her. “Thank you, Daenys.” Was all she said, and rather coldly at that. But Daenys was used to it. Her sister had never warmed up to her, always seeing Daenys as the one that killed her mother, and ruined her friendship with Alicent, and the years hadn’t softened how she felt about Daenys. Yet, despite the continuing effort she always made with Rhaenyra, she had seemingly already hardened her heart to the younger girl, and had no desire to have any relationship with her.

“I trust your labours were alright? And little Joffery is well?” She pressed, hoping for something, anything other than the coldness Rhaenyra always gave her, but as always, nothing came.

“They were alright. Joffery is quite well. Labours can be quite strenuous, as I’m sure you know.” Rhaenyra replied emotionlessly. They both knew she meant it not in the sense that Daenys had birthed children of her own, but that she was the cause of their mother’s untimely death in the childbed.

Daenys fought the tears that sprung up in her eyes, and simply said, “Indeed. Well, I bid you good day, sister.” As she walked out of the rooms. Rhaenyra hadn’t bothered to even bid her goodbye. Daenys lets her tears begin to fall down her face, and she quietly stifled her sobs as she made her way to the Godswood. She knew that it would be dark soon, and that she should go to her rooms with Helaena, but she preferred to be alone for a moment, if only to shed her tears in peace.

Once, when she was twelve, she tried to ask Rhaenyra about their mother, which resulted in an awful exchange between the two, which led to Rhaenyra berating her cruelly, and Daenys crying and running to find comfort in the arms of Alicent, which only angered Rhaenyra even more. The memory came back to Daenys as she sat under the Godswood tree, watching the sky turn to night, nothing but the sound of her quiet sobs and sniffles in the air.

“Daenys?” She heard a familiar voice call out to her. She wiped her tears away quickly and saw Aemond approach. “What’s the matter?” He asked as he sat next to her. She loved her younger brother, although he always put on a tough face, he had a kind heart. While Aegon was loud and boisterous, ever seeking attention, Aemond was always in the shadows, yet he always stood out to her.

“Nothing, truly.” She replied, sniffling. “Just because you’re older doesn’t mean you can’t tell me things. It’s alright. You comforted me earlier, I only wish to comfort you now.” He said with a slightly nervous voice. Daenys smiled at him sadly. “I went to see Rhaenyra. I just wanted to congratulate her on the babe.” She told him, and Aemond scoffed, “Ah yes, the newest Strong bastard.” Despite their sister’s cruelty to her, Daenys reprimanded him with a playful touch and said, “She wasn’t too happy to see me. She never is. I suppose I am a fool to keep trying, when I am to blame for our mother’s passing.”

“You’re not. Rhaenyra is a fool, and you are the best sister ever. But don’t tell Helaena,” he comforted her with a smile, and she giggled.

“Do not blame yourself. It is not your fault. You didn’t ask to be born, you could not control what happened that day, you were only a babe.” Aemond reassured her, and she chastely kissed him on the forehead and said, “Since when did my little brother become so wise?” Aemond rolled his eyes and said, “I’ll be a man soon, sister. And Daeron is quite younger than me.” Daenys laughed, “True, but Daeron isn’t here is he? So then, I’m afraid you’re little brother until we see him next.” Aemond shook his head, attempting to hide his smile, as the two siblings sat together, under the Godswood, talking and laughing until they were found and summoned back into the castle once more.

#aemond targaryen #aemond x oc #aemond fanfiction #the owl house #house of the dragon #hotd #aegon ii targaryen #alicent hightower #helaena targaryen #daeron targaryen #aemond smut #original character

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britt-kageryuu · 2 months

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A stream has started, all four brothers are together, all their models are in onesies. Leo = Unicorn, Raph = Bear, Donnie = Dinosaur, and Mikey = Fox. All the models are on giant pillows, Shelldon and River are on their own big pillow. The background is themed to a movie theater.

Donnie: Greetings Balemates!

Mikey: It's movie night!

Raph: We're watching Lou Jitsu movies.

Leo: Which oddly enough Pops has the rights to show without paying anyone Royalties!!

Shelldon & River: So grab your drinks, and snacks and enjoy the movies.

A screen where the movie will play pops in, and a header that announces the current and next movie scrolls across the top before disappearing.

Chat was filled with excited messages, Popcorn, Soda, and snack emojis galore. There was some questioning the validity of their claim, others just hope some jerk doesn't ruin the fun.

Splinter joined them at one point and Donnie had to quickly add in a model to track him. The model was closer in height to him as Lou Jitsu just older in a yukata and with rat ears and tail, Chat was filled with excitement once more, and enjoyed Splinters commentary on the films, again some questioning how he knows this, but they are drowned out by others who want to spam questions for him.

Splinter gained alot of new fans for various reasons.

Masterpost

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baragonspleasurebarge · 2 years

Text

Tag Directory

Click each topic header to find the tags for the listed items:

TYPE

short long slow photos illustration

TOPIC A-G

age progression age regression armpits arms ass baseball beard body hair bottom bottom to top chest hair chinstrap college conservative contagious cucking dick fanfic football ftm gay to straight glasses goatee gym

TOPIC H-R

Harry Potter haircut hair growth height change iq drain iq gain jock to nerd man bun Marvel masculinization memory change military muscle drain muscle growth nerd to jock pecs piercings race change romance

TOPIC S-Z

sex straight to gay stubble suburban swap tattoos top to bottom voice change weight gain workplace world change

CHARACTER A-F

bear biker boss boyfriends bro brothers bully caveman celebrity chav Chris Evans construction cop cowboy criminal daddy douche family fireman frat friends

CHARACTER G-Z

hipster jock lumberjack model musician nerd otter pilot professor pup redneck roommates skater slob stoner surfer throuple thug twink wrestler Zac Efron

RACE/NATIONALITY

Asian Australian Black European Indian Italian Latino Middle Eastern

TF SOURCE

clothing hypnotism magic musk possession supernatural verbal wish

AUTHORS

aardvarkia chickenpaddy Choose Your Own Change craftsman dumb-and-jocked galao Gay Spiral Stories Ninja_Badger rozza22365 salmonskinroll

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drachonia · 8 months

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❝ 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭? 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐦𝐲 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐚𝐧𝐲? 𝐡𝐚𝐚…𝐚𝐥𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐧, 𝐤𝐞𝐞𝐩 𝐮𝐩! ❞

𝐈 𝐁𝐄𝐋𝐎𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐎 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐄𝐎𝐏𝐋𝐄 𝐈 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐘 𝐁𝐄𝐋𝐎𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐎 𝐌𝐄 ⸻ You picked me like a flower, didn’t expect the thorns, you say that I’m too 𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐢𝐝, didn’t know what you were in for, the second that you leave I’m tearing down your tapestries 𝐢𝐭’𝐬 𝐟𝐮𝐧𝐧𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐲𝐨𝐮’𝐫𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠.

contents include: references/inspiration from norse history and culture, i'm still learning, so please be kind & bear with me if things are not entirely accurate. ;w; headers © saradika outline © celiciaa

𝐼. ⸻ 𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐥.

name, noele herra

nickname, none yet

sex, female

orientation, heterosexual, demiromantic

birth date, december 24

zodiac sign, capricorn

place of birth, coasts of quartz, northwest of rhodolite

age, 24-25

occupation, knight

crest, malamute

alignment, chaotic good

mbti, entp

𝐼𝐼. ⸻ 𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞.

eyes, icy blue, like the shadow of a glacier over ice. her

hair, pale brown, taupe colored hair, typically tied halfway up off her neck. lots of volume and surprisingly soft despite her profession and upbringing.

built, muscular upper arms (greatsword training and proficiency) with toned torso that leads into wide hips and thighs. a cross between an hourglass figure and a pear figure.

she is fair skinned, a faint bit of tanning from her time in rhodolite but still comparably pale to those from more southern nations.

height, 5'4" - 162 cm

weight, 125 lbs

𝐼𝐼𝐼. ⸻ 𝐟𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐲.

father, erik

mother, marguerite herra

brothers, ander, cavan, aleksei (oldest triplet), klaus (youngest triplet), noah

sisters, sigrid, liv

𝐼𝑉. ⸻ 𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐨𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬.

traits, autonomous, playful, attentive, protective, polite

passions, music, dance, swordfighting, light baking

fears, being unable to protect loved ones, failing at her job as a knight, losing her edge in swordfighting, being seen as unfit.

colors, mint green, lavender, warm chocolate, blush

aesthetics, fur lining & fabrics, leather laces, ice crystals, snow, pine trees, sparring, winter, morning dew, down feathers, pale blue silk, forest incense, fresh flowers

𝑉. ⸻ 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐲.

around loved ones, warm and bright, like a fireplace or a candle, fiercely loyal and protective, well-mannered around friends, free-spirited, gentle, kind-hearted, thoughtful, sarcastic around strangers, aloof, unladylike, standoffish, hot-blooded

𝑉𝐼. ⸻ 𝐚𝐛𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐞𝐬.

combat, noele has extensive combat experience and knowledge, tracking as far back as when she was a young teen.

dance, she's relatively skilled at dance and the grace from her combat training comes through in the ballroom as well

baking, though much more minor when compared to her combat skill, noele knows how to make rather delicious sweets, mostly small cakes and pastries and tarts.

horseback riding, she has a rather large shire-like horse, and is very adept at fighting on horseback. it is not, however, her preferred type of fighting, especially with her greatsword.

𝑉𝐼𝐼. ⸻ 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐠𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝.

hailing from the far north, in a country called quartz, noele is the fourth born child to both of her parents — a former earl father and a storyteller mother of rhodolite origin — into a set of triplets. raised alongside her brothers with combat training for well over a decade, she lived her life helping around her family estate until she was old enough to travel at the encouragement of her mother. deciding to go to her roots, she moved to rhodolite for a change of pace around the age of twenty alongside a couple of friends, still keeping contact with her family through acquaintances that travel between both her home country and rhodolite.

𝑉𝐼𝐼𝐼. ⸻ 𝐚𝐫𝐭.

reference, here. art, by aki. 2 3 fics, 1 2 3

#noele #ikemen prince oc #ikepri oc

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buried-stars · 2 months

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ive had this fat squirrel as my header for so many years that i can't ever bear to change it. he's like a brother to me

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7ban-sama · 11 months

Note

jshk banner rankings? Least favorite to most?

I've been having an issue with my vision lately, so my wife made us play a little game where I looked at the banners (briefly) and then had her transcribe my reactions, to minimize screen usage. Below are the results.

(Due to the image limit, this is part 1/2.)

now, my earnest reactions. Starting from least favorite:

"get away from them."

"I don't like to see you dressed like this. but i'm glad you're in this world with me. if we have to be here at the ikemen juicebar."

(I actually didn't like this header very much at first, but my wife explained she has fond memories of playing with nutcrackers, and she likes that Tsukasa is eating nuts in this image. It keeps making me laugh. it's become more relevant.)

"funny."

"I like that aida-sensei likes mushrooms. and would draw tsukasa with mushrooms. the mushrooms themselves being so "hurt you, poisonous" is like interesting."

"he's cute. a mouse in my lunch."

"my little bean. you'll always be my little bean."

"he's tsukasa, so i care about him. but he does look funny. and these diaper eggs. don't uh help."

"he is focused. he use his whoooole fist. cute expression."

"small mouth."

"he's SOOO small in this image. I love the spooky apple pie but like, he's MICROSCOPIC, WHAT HAPPENED????? the apron is cute … falling offa him. messy (: I'll eat it…"

"double wife feature. what's goin on? tsukasa, cursed, fancy lad? nene-chan, courage test, why? so funny. what happens next?"

"elegant. classic. conveys 'its the boy'. can see why this was there for years. perfectly fine header. neutral ground, for me."

"expression is very sweet. I like that tsukasa loves christmas this much. I pity him. it feels like he needs these like, proxies, to fixate on romance. Just a cute picture."

"whatcha doin in there? he looks So young. I can never understand. he looks like, 10. purple socks??? I don't understand. seifuku???? shotacon garbage."

"I would fuck him like this... I hesitated, and he was about to be pretty high up there. BUT. but. like. compared to like tsukasa in his HAKAMA and KIMONO with a carrot in his mouth, these things aren't like on the same plane. I need to regain my senses. I can't let myself get lost. this image makes me very HORNY!! but literally in quality of image I'm like 'NO!!!! its not that good.' Stupid Mokke. I don't want that, the bunnies are better. Almost lost myself." [pause.] "I see it and I'm like 'would fuck you so hard…' then I have to be like —BUT THIS ISN'T ANYTHING!!"

"just beautiful. just a beautiful drawing of tsukasa. i always like the cheek smoosh. shoe kick off eheehehee♥"

"I love the teddy bear, what it ah, symbolizes almost. nice to see it still with him."

(these both are on the same tier.) "he's having fun. keep having fun, okay?" / "my innocent brother." [pause] "i don't have to kill him."

"an artist…………….. a visionary…. bright eyes and a squeaking voice (: i hope you can draw with nene-chan some day….. so small."

"he is very veryveryveryveryveryvery cute. please be my girlfriend…."

"I do love the carousel. I love when we're carousel boys. Circus. purple socks cute. i feel like i'm being invited behind stage, but we're going to do something bad. but its going to be my fault (that it is bad)"

"he's literally so interesting. the gloves are cool. I feel like I've been brainwashed into being his fan. much to be said about the Angel's Trumpet being chosen for this; it really elevates the AU that he COULD be associated with this imagery... suddenly you're folding in like… idols, and like, delirium? singing voice… poisoning you… ? I also have to be real, I like idols a lot. I like normal otaku idol stuff. so an idol AU tsukasa is a big deal to me."

"its just so like. 'oh, tsukasa…' it's both beautiful that he loves love so much, but i almost feel like, i guess jealous, deep down, that he is doing this. but that's almost like good for me, to be forced to feel such things."

(pt 2 Nene-chan on the same rank.) "Makes me wanna cry. I'm sorry."

"good composition, nice color, good 'cursed child' vibes. the other people are a good contrast for how its a little creepy. a ghost, no one can see him. tsukasa knows such simple pleasures, its very cute."

"what's fun about this is how eccentric Tsukasa is; compared to throwing little paper petals (still cute of course, but… this is charming.) Because it's sakuras, and i just kinda associate tsukasa with a kind of femininity, and they feel like they are blossoming from him, its all fun. light, pallid colors… mm."

"this is really one of those. 'i'm in love with you.' images. I really like the colors on the shattered glass (sunset.) it evokes tsukasa's omnipotence. aouhh God. breaking through peering into the universe. also just like a perfect expression. you love to see those eyes peaking out."

"he pisses me off. but my wife loves carrots. so i love that my wife loves carrots. so tsukasa eating carrots is like 'okay, you got me.' the bunnies are cute. [said resentfully] it is nice to think about him sprawled out like this. i like how much you can see underneath the collar. Hakama looks nice." [pause] "there". [...] "grrrr"

"it forces me to think about penis. it's kinda like a personal attack. just as flirty as shoe kicky boy, but also, think about penis. He is just like this. He doesn't choose to be seductive, he just is, and its like, infuriating. eyes closed ranks slightly higher."

"God. I just love this scene so much, so getting to see it (in color) is amazing. it feels like a good mirror image to, the Amane holding the lunar rock looking out a window. these pictures kiss in my mind. 'wow, its really twins.'"

#☀️#💬

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titiagls · 5 months

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Hi and welcome to this blog everyone ! It will be dedicated mainly to Far Cry 5 and BBC Sherlock, I will list here my stories and update it when necessary.

Many thanks to @cassietrn for the masterlist header and to @saradika for the divider. I'm not a native speaker so please bear with me if my english is sometimes strange for you 😅

And last but not least please minors don't follow me (that means 18 or 21 depending on your country's laws, thanks).

Far Cry 5

The Burdens We Bear - Joseph Seed x Female OC (WIP)

“Praise the heavens for giving us our brother John, who hears our confessions, our brother Jacob, who protects us, our Mother Destiny, who soothes us, and our Father Joseph, whose love is unending.” Sermon from the Project at Eden’s Gate.

BBC Sherlock

So Long London - Sherlock Holmes x Female OC / James Moriarty x Female OC (WIP)

“What if I want to burn until there’s nothing left of me ? Will you try to smother my fire or give me a lighter ? ‘cause I can tell you I would be a ride you wouldn’t forget.”

#wip: the burdens we bear #far cry 5 original character #far cry 5 fanfiction #joseph seed x oc #joseph seed x female oc #oc : destiny mattesson seed #wip : so long london #bbc sherlock original character #bbc sherlock fanfiction #sherlock holmes x oc #sherlock holmes x female oc #oc : taylor elyana sinclair

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angel-of-the-moons · 3 months

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Running With The Wolves

Wolfwalker!Moon Knight (Marc/Steven/Jake) x Fem!Reader

Summary:

You're on the verge of being labeled a witch, but can one handsome stranger (and his two "brothers") save you from the same cruel fate as your mother, who was labeled as one and burned at the stake?

Can you handle the truth about your heroes identities, despite it all? Would you find out who your masked savior truly was beneath his cloak?

Only you could answer that.

TW/CW: Witch hunts, violence, graphic violence, graphic death, blood, public execution, parental death, persecution, grief, depression, Wolfwalkers AU, Moon Knight AU, incorrect lore

MINORS DNI I AM NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR CONTENT YOU CONSUME

A/N: I was watching Wolfwalkers and it gave me the idea for the boys. I did a little research into the lore, so some will be inaccurate (my pagan ancestors would frown upon me lmao) as well as historically inaccurate; so what is in this fic is largely based on the film. It will be especially inaccurate because y'know, Marc is American and Jake is Spanish and Steven is English etc, as well as Khonshu being around (but in the comics he's had a Viking Moon Knight so this isn't too far fetched he'd be in a place like Ireland) so please bear with me, my poor mind has been going through it lately and I wanted to write somethin' pointless, so enjoy this weird ass AU I came up with! (Header does not indicate the reader's race!)

Taglist: @enheduannasposts

🐺🐺🐺🐺🐺🐺🐺🐺🐺🐺

PT. 1

"I heard tha's the girl who lives on the outskirts." You heard a young woman whisper to her friend. Her accent was clearly not from Ireland. She sounded like one of the people from England. They'd been arriving slowly but surely, like a trickle from a leaky bucket, since you were a child.

Your skin prickled as you looked over the vegetables in the market stall, tended to by an old woman who was blind in one eye. Mary, her name was. Mary was probably one of the only around here who was kind to everyone, unless they gave her a reason not to. And those two English girls certainly gave her a reason...

"Aye, ye two hussies best be leav'n this girl be!" She spat, waving her old wooden stick around. "She 'ent done nothin' to ye!"

The two women jumped back with a yelp and scurried off, an armored guard eyeing you and Mary warily.

Your nose crinkled at him and you turned your nose up as you looked back at the crop Mary was selling.

"I'm sorry, lass. I don't like 'em either." Mary said, winking her blind eye at you.

You can't help but smile as you trade some herbs for the vegetables, placing the juicy morsels into your basket. "I just would like for things to go back to the way they were." You sighed.

"Like when I was a girl, before they came to our town. Things were fine, everything was in balance."

Mary leaned in, holding a finger to the sky as she spoke quietly to you.

"Aye, lass. But don't worry. The crimes these English folk are doin' to us? They'll be payin', mark my words! The land, the very sky itself is angry because we can't honor the promises we made so long ago." She grinned, half her teeth missing from old age. "Then, maybe we'll be forgiven."

"Aye, or maybe be consumed by the wolves and the forest while we're at it." You smile sadly. You remembered being safe in those woods as a girl, playing in the creeks, chasing birds and hares, the wolves singing on the breeze...

But the wolf attacks have become ever so common, now. None had been bitten, but their homes had been trashed, their livestock spirited away into the cover of night, wolf tracks everywhere. You were the only one whose homestead was spared. You often wondered why. The only thing different between your little plot and the rest of the homes that were driven empty was... wait.

They were all English.

You weren't. That house you lived in had belonged to your family for nearly half a century. The English farmsteads were placed on the grounds that were cleared by the King's woodcutters and soldiers, they were the ones being attacked. Not you.

But lately, you've heard other tales as well. A "devil in white" the King's men would ramble, their voices shrill with fear. A man in white armor who moved like a ghost, and fought like hell itself. You paid no mind, figuring it may be some hermetic hunter who called the forest home, who simply didn't want to have them invade his solitude.

Maybe--

"Lass, you should get home." Mary said, looking at you with worry as a small gaggle of women whispered and pointed at you. You were used to the stares, you'd been getting them as a child. But since the English arrived, those whispers became accusations.

"Witch."

Your mother had faced a similar accusation, given her odd habits and ways of whispering to the wind.

Some considered her addled, even moreso when she began raving of spirits and the voices she said came from the ground.

You remembered the night that she died, the horrible, evil way that she left this world.

🐺🐺🐺🐺🐺🐺🐺🐺🐺🐺

You were only twelve years old, gripped hard by the local men as the bishop to your village spoke from the Bible, quoting things about the crimes of witchcraft and how your mother could only be cleansed by fire.

You screamed, and kicked, and cried and cursed, but all that earned you was a punch to the gut as they lit the kindling beneath your mother's feet.

You'd heard tales of witch burnings, but you'd never ever thought such horrible deeds would come to your town; your safe, warm little home.

Your mother was strange, yes, but she taught you many things that had proven useful. The best herbs to cure the worst fever, the best tonics to drink to cure an ailing cough, how to track in the woods, how to trust the forest to show you the way home; but only if you respected it as a living being, and respected the souls who lived within.

She wasn't a "witch" to you.

She was your mother.

And she was right in front of you, burning.

"Mummy!" You screamed, your voice sounding as though you swallowed shards of pottery.

She looked at you, and smiled, crying and struggling against the ropes that bound her to the stake.

The fire crept up, up, until it reached her feet.

You could smell it--the acrid, disgusting stench of oil and burning flesh. You could see her skin blister, peel, and burn away as she screamed, begged for mercy. Mercy that the church was not willing to grant her.

You screamed and cried until your throat was raw and bloody, struggling until you broke free of the men's arms.

You didn't think twice on it--you leapt towards the pyre.

Your mother was dead. You knew this. But all you wanted was to hold her one last time, even if all that was left now was blackened, charred flesh.

Your soft, delicate hands burned, your dress beginning to catch aflame as you desperately tried to reach for what little remained of the woman you loved most in the world.

The pain was so blinding, so debilitating that your vision went white around the edges, and you saw the world begin to go dark.

"Damn it--put the girl out!" Was the last thing that you heard before you lost consciousness.

When you'd awoke, it had been two whole days since your mother's trial and burning. Two days since she plead to the "court" about how they were treating the land; that if they didn't change their ways they would all suffer for it.

The first face you saw was the bishop looking down at you with a solemn and sad expression, completely different from the way his eyes had gleamed maniacally as he cheered the death of your mother.

"I'm sorry, dear girl." He said kindly, resting a hand on your shoulder.

Your arms and hands were wrapped in clean linen--or, well, as clean as they could get it, anyway--your burns itching and painful.

You gritted your teeth, feeling hot tears burn as you glared at him, your throat still raw and aching.

"You killed her!" You meant to yell, but it only came out a hoarse croak.

"Aye, girl, I did. But I took no pleasure in it."

Liar. Filthy, disgusting liar! You wanted to shout, You smiled when she screamed!

"Your mother was bewitched by the devil, don't you see? The only way to ensure she could make it to heaven was if she was cleansed by fire." He told you, his wrinkled eyes looking at you with such gentleness you could almost scarcely believe this was your beloved mother's executioner.

"At least now, you know your mother made it to the gates of heaven. And hopefully God finds it in Him to grant your mother eternal peace." He continued, "After all, she loved you greatly, and there is nothing more pure than a mother's love. Even if it was the love of a witch."

You bite back bile that wanted to rise--partly from the pain, partly from disgust--and turned your head away, your tears heavy like chains that hung from your lashes and held your eyes closed.

"So hopefully, we can pray she found salvation and forgiveness in the fact she loved you so."

His hand brushed a lock of burnt hair from your face.

"Don't worry, girl... You can go home. But I must implore you not to give in to the teachings your mother no doubt gave you. None of that talking trees or animals nonsense, you hear?"

You wanted to kick him, to bite his disgusting fingers off and pluck out his eyes. But... all you did was nod, and say:

"I understand."

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Later that night, barring the English women's gossip, you'd had a fairly decent day. Your snare on the edge of the forest had gotten a nice hare; providing you with some nice soft fur and meat and bone.

You'd spent your days thereafter doing much of the same work you'd done since you returned to your empty home the week your mother died. You gardened, placed more snares, cleaned the house, worked the loom, began weaving a small tapestry.

One night, you were broken from your tedium by heavy hands on your door, making you yelp and prick yourself with a needle.

You stuck your bloody fingertip in your mouth and stuffed the tapestry into your heavy wooden chest, rushing to your front door to see what was the trouble.

When you opened it, there was the bishop, flanked by two men in heavy plate armor. You felt a shiver creep up your spine; the sight was eerily similar to the night your mother was taken away, only this time the bishop looked so ancient he looked like a piece of dried, brittle leather.

"Dear girl, thank God you're alright." The bishop breathed, reaching out to place a hand on your shoulder.

Your brow creased, and you opened your mouth to speak, only for him to cut you off.

"That... That man, that devil whom the townsfolk here and elsewhere have been seeing--he was here. Tonight! He killed four of the King's finest men!" He said, panicked, his touch cold and clammy.

"And earlier in the day... wolves. A pack of white wolves! I feared for you, girl. I know that you're alone and so far from town." He shuddered a breath. His lungs sounded awful, even to your ears. Honestly... If the man had allowed it, you could have fixed his long coughing illness. He's been suffering for years with it, sometimes to the point where his surmons had to be delivered by proxy.

He was suffering... but so had your mother, whom he murdered in the name of his god.

Your jaw was tight, and you nodded. "I... I see. I haven't been attacked yet, sir. B-but I will keep an eye out and alert you if I see anything strange."

You wouldn't.

"I don't want that devil to hurt anyone else."

You hoped he chased them all away.

He mistook your shaky voice for one of mutual fear for the man that haunted the nights, like the dreaded vampires back in England and the smaller towns and villages.

"Yes, dear girl." He put his hand to your cheek and smiled, his aged features twisting in agony. "A good girl. May God protect you."

"And He, you." You replied, the words tasting like rotten meat on your tongue.

"Such a good girl." He turned, coughing into his hand. "May God help civilise this land..."

Thunder boomed in the distance, almost as if the very sky itself was urging the cruel men on their way, to leave you be.

As soon as your door was closed, you grabbed a nearby cauldron and heaved it over to your hearth, hanging it from the iron hook and dumping the pail of water into it to boil.

You hastily stripped your clothes free and dumped them into the cauldron, rushing to find your small bottles of tonics.

When you'd found the ones you needed, you dumped them, alongside fresh herbs, into the pot with your soaking clothes.

You knew, based on your own observations, that those who coughed often spread it through touch or spit. And he had coughed into his hands and touched you; you simply don't want to take the risk.

You had to start selling your healing tonics "under the table" as Mary said, as cleaning agents for clothes and blankets just so you could pass it to the townsfolk with sick family. You hated doing that, but seeing a sickly child able to run around with her siblings again without fear of that wretched cough was worth the pain of lying.

You watched as the water bubbled, standing naked as you poked at the fabric with your long wooden spoon, swirling it around and around.

Once you deemed it hot enough, you carefully picked up the cauldron and set it on your stone slab at the mouth of your hearth, you scooped some of the herbal water into your wash bucket and began scrubbing at your clothes mercilessly to rid it of any possible sickness.

Once they were clean enough, you hung them near the fire to dry (but not close enough to catch fire while you were asleep).

You felt goosebumps chill your skin as the wind rattled your shutters, so you grabbed a heavy woolen blanket to wrap yourself up in while you dug around for a new linen dress to put on.

It was a small comfort, given how early in the year it was, and these certain storms always brought unseasonably cold weather in their shadow, but you accepted it nonetheless.

You walked over to your wooden chest and pulled out your half-finished tapestry. It was one your mother started when you were barely hip-height; your father, strong and large, next to your mother, petite and soft. Interconnecting between them was you, holding their larger hands in your tiny ones.

Much of it was unfinished, and only within the last year did your grief finally allow you to finish what she started, as this was the only thing left that you had of her. When the church took her away, your mother knew they were coming, so she hid certain things out in the woods for safekeeping, only telling you their whereabouts. Once the church lifted it's eye from you one autumn day, you finally ran out into the clearing your mother hid her things in.

Being able to have something to visually remember your parents by wrenched your heart in a bittersweet way, but it was all you had of them, other than their rings you wore, hidden and slung low beneath your bodice so nobody would see.

You knew if the bishop found out... He would have them all destroyed, burned like your mother; and he would likely have you thrown into the stocks and publicly lashed as punishment.

In a twisted way, the bishop cared for you. He saw you as an innocent, God-fearing girl who had been brainwashed by your witch mother, whom only acknowledged the paganistic "Old Ways".

You hated having to keep up the act, but you didn't want to die. You owed it to your mother and father, wherever their souls were together, to live on.

You blinked, and a heavy teardrop splashed down onto the tapestry.

Your body jolted with the clap of thunder. How long had you been crying? Had you been crying this whole time, but didn't realize it? Oh, you hated how often these crying fits would strike you.

All you wanted to do was think of the happy times with your family, but it always came back to the fact that they were dead and you were alone.

You dropped back onto your bed, the old, dried wood creaking beneath your weight, the smell of the straw mattress stuffed with dried flowers and clovers soothing to your senses.

Your eyes felt heavy, weighted down from your painful thoughts, and you turned your head to look at the wreath above your bed, shamrocks with dried berries carefully strung together; it was something your mother taught you. You couldn't remember the significance of the thing, but making them when you were bored became a mundane comfort.

You closed your eyes and sighed heavily.

You would need to check your snares in the morning.

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Your leather shoes squelched in the mud as you carefully made your way to the treeline early that next morning. You nervously chewed the inside of your cheek to check if the coast was clear before venturing into the bushes.

It was early enough none had arisen yet to start the day, the sun was barely peeking over the horizon as you set off into the forest.

Yes, setting your traps beyond the treeline was dangerous, as they would tell you, but you knew the game in the woods was fat and ripe, perfectly full of meat. If you could hunt at all, you would try your aim at shooting one of those slovenly bucks with a bow and arrow.

But a hunter you were not. Trap-maker, yes. But no hunter.

Your tiny iron dagger was slung low on your hip, your mostly-empty wooden sack carrying fresh bait for any snares that were sprung, or if the bait had been snatched.

The first two traps hadn't been sprung, but picked clean, most likely by birds and quick-witted squirrels. No luck in catching anything.

But as you neared your final trap, you heard an odd noise. A wheezing sound, almost, followed by heavy pants and a whimper.

Your footsteps stopped as you peered around the thick trunk of an ancient tree, your breath catching in your throat as you looked at the sight in front of you.

It was your last snare, set up with some bread and berries to lure in a rabbit or squirrel (as was your typical game) but it seems that this time, somehow... you snagged a wolf.

And this was not a normal wolf; it was one with fur as white as the coldest snow, now muddied and stained from the soggy ground it flailed around in; your snare secured firmly around its neck and front paw, cinching the two together in a painful manner.

Your heart broke as you saw the creature struggle and wheeze, choking out quiet howls that couldn't be heard through the underbrush.

With your jaw set tight, you stepped out of the clearing, and the wolf turned to you, trying to limp away.

"Shhh, hush, now." You soothe the animal, your hands out in front of you as you got lower, trying to seem less threatening.

Yes, the townsfolk feared wolves, but you wouldn't just leave this beautiful creature to slowly strangle to death on one of your own traps; your soul wouldn't be able to handle the weight of guilt.

"I won't hurt you, sweetie." You say, your voice calm and soft as you reached out.

The wolf snapped tentatively at you, whimpering as the pain of the cord dug further into its throat and paw, red stains now blotching the white fur.

"It's all right. I won't hurt you..." You urge the panicked animal. Your own eyes locked with its dark brown ones, and you could almost hear its thoughts plead:

Help me. Please. It hurts. Please!

You wait for the wolf to still, and sit its haunches on the ground, those big, pained eyes staring right through to your very soul.

Once the wolf is calm, you hook your fingers through the snare, reaching for the part of it that looped around, and try to loosen it enough for it to slip free.

But to no avail, the amount of flailing the wolf had done had twisted and cinched it to the point you couldn't. Your brow pinched and you nervously chewed the inside of your cheek before unsheathing your dagger.

Upon seeing the glint of the blade, the wolf whimpered and panicked again, beginning to flail once more as you reached for it.

"No!" You say, frantically trying to calm the beast. "Stop! You're making it worse! Please--I'm not going to hurt you."

You grunt as you leap forward, crushing the wolf against you in a bear hug, trying to calm its thrashing body as you swing your sharpened blade through the cord, severing it from the branch it was tethered to.

You sliced your thumb in an attempt to cut the cord around its throat, but you somehow managed it, your blood leaving fresh streaks of red and pink through the wolf's surprisingly soft fur.

You drop your dagger and release the animal, falling back on your bum as you carefully crawl away as the canine heaved for uninhibited air, its barreled chest shaking with effort.

Once it had collected itself, it limped up to you, it cut paw hanging an inch or two above the ground as its wet, charcoal black nose sniffed at your wounded thumb.

Its pink tongue laved out and lapped up your blood, as if to say "sorry" for causing you to injure yourself for trying to aid it.

Your eyes however, were drawn to the cuts into the wolf's throat and paw, oozing small rivulets of blood as it stared at you.

"Oh... You poor..." You breathed, rising to kneel on your knees, dirtying your skirt even more.

"I... Those can get infected. Please. I... I can help you..."

You don't know why you were trying to bargain with an animal, but somehow it paid off. The wolf nosed its way into your lap, ears flattened up and eyes pleading up at you.

"Okay..." You murmur, scratching behind one of its ears. "Let's get you home, boy. I have stuff there that can help ya."

The wolf whimpered.

"Er... Well, I assume you're male?" You chuckle awkwardly, trying to think of how to carry this large and hefty animal back home without being seen.

"I'm not gonna violate you by takin' a peek or anything." You clear your throat when one of the wolf's ears flop as "he" tilts his head at you.

"Er. Okay. Let's go..."

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It was easier than you thought, getting him back home. As the sun crept higher, the fog and mist were your ally as you smuggled the "dangerous" animal back to the safety of your home.

You had to haul him over your shoulders and beat feet through the underbrush. Once you were safely inside, you had to (with great difficulty) maneuver the wolf down onto your bed.

You chuckled when he rolled over--and he was most definitely a "he"--and began rolling this way and that into your blankets, making small huffs and growls.

"Ah-ah..." You murmur, reaching out to brush your hand through his muddy fur. "You might make your injuries worse, 'kay, m'love?"

That seems to get the wolf's attention. You weren't sure if he could understand you, which honestly had you thinking you were crazy, but the way he sat up and stared at you, one ear flopping down as he looked up into your eyes sent a strange feeling through your body.

"Hmm..." You murmur, brushing your fingers tentatively around his wounded throat. From his muddy thrashing he'd accumulated a fair amount of dirt, and that would lead to infection.

You hike your skirts up and tie them around your waist, and you could almost swear you saw a look of modesty cross the wolf's eyes as his ears slicked back against his head and he buried his muzzle into your warm blankets.

You scratch the back of your head, a little confused at his reaction as you adjust your knickers and rush to gather your herbs you'd need, plucking dried leaves and roots that hung above your hearth.

You set the herbs down into your mortar and pestle and begin to grind them down, mixing them evenly into a dissolvable mass that would melt in the water once you'd boiled it.

You crack your knuckles and grab a pail, untying your skirts and smoothing them out, frowning at the mud stains as you reach for your door, making a "shush" gesture to the wolf.

"Stay quiet and don't go near the windows! It's dangerous if you're seen." You gently urge him before slipping outside into the morning light once again.

The trek to the well was always annoying, but your neighbors never minded you coming to fetch water, knowing how dangerous it could possibly be for you to hike to the creek at the edge of the forest just to get yourself some of the life-giving liquid.

You inwardly cringed when the Kenny's daughter, Aisling, was already at the well; her belly already round with her unborn child. Barely 19 years of age and she was already with a babe; she was often sickly as a child, this you remembered, so her family (namely her husband) was very concerned about her well-being and that of her impending birth.

Upon seeing you approach, Aisling smiled widely and waved at you, saying your name chipperly, almost like an excited morning bird.

You were really hoping not to have a conversation so early, afraid someone would know you were harboring a wolf inside your home...

"Hello, Aisling. Feeling well this morning?" You hum innocently at her as you tie your pail up, before cranking the wench and lowering it down to the water below.

"Yes, surprisingly!" She giggled, patting her belly with a soft smile. "M' little one decided it was a good day to let mummy keep food down."

"That's good! I still recommend broths if you feel nauseous, however..."

"I know, I know. My mum is constantly making sure of that." She sighed with a roll of her eyes, hooking her own two pails of water onto her yoke.

Your hairs raised and you reached out, the wench slipping from your hands and your bucket dropping all the way back down into the water below the earth.

"No! You mustn't lift something that heavy." You caution. "It's not good for your baby."

"Ohhh! You sound like my father." She sighs, frowning deeply, her hands on her hips. "I'm not helpless, y'know!"

"Yes, I'm aware, but--"

"Aisling!" Her husband panted, trotting up to the both of you. He was at least a decade or so older than she was, but nonetheless it was a good match; he seemed to love her greatly. He was English, and one of the few kind ones you've known, in fact. A gentle giant.

This fact was emphasized when his large bulky hand reached down to touch her belly, sighing with relief. "No, no, you know that you can't be out here alone! The wolves!"

"I 'ent seen no wolves!" Aisling pouted up at him.

"That doesn't mean no wolves see you, m'love." He sighed dejectedly at her. He gives you a kind smile and a nod, hoisting the yoke over his own shoulders, "Aye, lass. Glad to see someone else talking some sense into my pretty little wife, here..."

"Bah!" Aisling scoffed, throwing her arms in the air as she waddled back down to their house.

He shook his head with a chuckle, "I swear, if we have a girl and she turns out like her..."

"You'll have your hands full, alright." You sigh, cranking the wench again.

"Aye." He says, giving you a cautious look. "But, I must warn you, the same way I did Aisling... with these wolves about, it's dangerous..."

"I know." You smile. "I'll be fine."

"Alright..." He replies, giving you one last look before going back home to his wife and family.

You on the other hand, rushed back home with your water to your waiting furry companion...

You almost dropped the pail of water when you saw what he was doing. Somehow he managed to nose open up the chest containing your mother's things, and was insistently sniffing the tapestry.

"Ah! No, no, no!" You frantically say, setting the water down to rush over, gently shoving his snout to the side to close the chest.

"Gah..." You sigh in relief, and smile softly at the wolf, reaching out to pinch and squish his cheek. And surprisingly, he took it well, making a little "whurf!" as you do.

"Don't go through my stuff, it's not very polite after I risked my arse you take care of you." You chuckle, setting yourself to task of boiling the water with the ground herbs. You kneel next to the remaining bit of water on the floor, dipping a rag into the pail and making a clicking noise with your teeth.

The wolf tipped his head to the side, ears pricking up at the noise as he slowly moseyed over to you shyly.

"Oh relax, I won't poison ya." You chuckle, dabbing the soaked cloth onto his fur, cleaning him of the muck.

He of course, did not like this. He whimpered and tucked his tail between his legs, his gorgeous brown eyes pleading with you.

"Ah! That won't work on me, Mister... You need to be clean before I can clean your wounds!" You cluck at him, not falling for his cute little attempt.

Thankfully, he sits there and lets you gently massage the mud away, carefully cleaning around his wound sites before hastily grabbing the pot of boiling water and pouring some into a wooden bowl.

You scratch behind one of his ears and say softly, "Now... I'm going to take care of you, okay? Now... just let me..."

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"No! Down! Bad wolf!" You groan, watching as his tail wagged happily, one of your kirdles firmly in his jaws, daring you to come get it.

"Ooooh! I should have left you in the woods!"

His ears flatten back and his eyes get big, giving you the sweetest, saddest look you've ever seen...

And it definitely broke you.

"Ah... You little... mouth off my clothes!" You grunt, tugging the garment from between his teeth, groaning at the sight of tears from his fangs.

He dropped down onto his front paws, wagging his tail happily as he makes a playful whine and yip.

"Oi! Ya seem just fine now!" You scold the animal, shaking the torn kirdle in front of him.

It was true. In just one day, your furry companion seemed to have healed miraculously faster than what was natural. It concerned you... but you didn't feel threatened by the creature's playful antics.

If anything, having him around made you feel less... lonely.

Dinner was almost ready, a simple stew with vegetables and salted meats tossed in. You weren't sure if wolves could eat such a meal, but you would feel awful if you were eating and your new friend merely had to sit and watch.

You sigh and toss your clothes aside, watching with a snort as the wolf playfully dove for it, rolling around and kicking it with his feet as you used your ladle to scoop two bowls.

You curled your feet beneath you as you plopped a spoon into your bowl before placing the spare on the floor. Your wolf's ears perked up and he sniffed the air, licking his chops as he abandoned your torn-up kirdle in favor of investigating the food you placed for him.

You smiled around your mouthful as he accidentally dipped his nose too deep into the broth, whipping his head around with a heavy snort.

"Ah, that's not how you eat, by the way..." You hum innocently, and again, your wolf gives you an almost human reaction, flattening his ears back as he seems to glare at you for a moment, before lapping at the food, curling his tongue around to eat the bits of veggies and meat.

"Oh, I'd love to keep you, but you don't belong here, fella." You say, scratching his ear softly in an affectionate way. Your skin crawls when you hear a mournful howl travel from the forest, across the fields, and into your house.

Your wolf whimpers and looks at you.

"As soon as you're ready, I'll sneak you back out to the woods." You promise him.

"I won't let anyone hurt you."

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He looked out from the treeline, his glowing white eyes staring out from the darkness.

A large, fluffy animal--a gorgeous white wolf, fur stained with mud--sidled up next to him, ears flattened back.

"Still no sign of him?" He sighed, frustrated.

The wolf whimpered, his tail tucking and nose dipping towards the ground in a response that seemed to say "no".

"Damn it!" The man roared, his fists balling tight as he began to pace angrily.

"Still no sign of your third?" A deep voice rumbled from the trees.

He lifted his gaze to spot him in all his imposing glory--Khonshu; god of the night sky, the moon, justice and many things in-between. His lithe frame ominously perched on the limb of an ancient, thick tree. One of his legs dangled down while the other supported his arm, his dominant hand clutching his staff in a tight-fisted grip as he stared down at him.

But mostly, he was his fist of vengeance. He was dispensing justice against those who imposed their will on the weak; like the other Englishmen who oppressed the local populace with their threats of jail, execution...

He also had to deal with bandits. Bandits, constantly seemed to prey upon travelers trying to find better places to live, to eke out a livelihood to support their families.

But right now, he was on edge.

He was incomplete. He was missing a vital part of himself. Someone he would not be able to fully function without.

Finally, his tongue unglued itself from the roof of his mouth and allowed him to speak.

"No."

"He is alive. I can feel it." Khonshu sighed, almost sounding bored. "You and your wolves... Sometimes they are a gift... other times it is a curse."

It was true... there weren't many of his kind left, and they were useful as a commodity, but also a vast hindrance if they were separated. Very few were born after being hunted to near extinction, and even fewer still were bitten and turned.

He tipped his head to the side, "He will come back. But until then, we have work to do. There is a group of soldiers that have taken women and children from their homes. I'm sure you can deduce what it is that they intend to do to them. I want you to stop them and set their captives free." Khonshu tapped his staff against the thick bark of the tree, and in a sharp breeze, he vanished.

"Right..." He said, his throat tight; his body thrumming with anxiety, his hand shaking immensely at the strain of lacking such a vital part of himself. He wondered still, if he would be able to control himself, to hold himself back without him.

His wolf companion moved forward, nudging his snout into the palm of his hand, whimpering softly.

Sparing one last glance over the countryside, he made a hefty sigh.

"Where the hell are you?"

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Pt. 2: I will get to it eventually, I swear you guys

Extra super late author's note:

Yeah it's gonna be at least one or two more parts. I am gonna split it up to ease on the scrolling time for you guys! That and it feels neater than cramming so many lazy time skips into one post. I am going to get the rest of my drafts cleared (hopefully) and begin eating away some of those asks I have piled up in my inbox (that Tumblr didn't manage to delete by some miracle...)

My trip might be postponed, dealing with a lot at home, like me almost burning the house down today and almost passing out from the damn smoke because wooooo fire is bad

If I didn't have bad luck, I'd have none whatsoever!

#moon knight #steven grant #marc spector #jake lockley #steven grant x reader #steven grant x you #marc spector x reader #marc spector x you #jake lockley x reader #jake lockley x you #wolfwalkers #wolfwalkers au

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papillon82fluttersby · 5 months

Text

Famous Five Art Nostalgia #02 – Part 4B

Introductory post

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4A

(Cover art by Jean Sidobre, Hachette, Vermeille collection, 1974)

This is the second part of the illustrations featured in Hachette’s 1971 Galaxie edition of Famous Five Go Adventuring Again / Le Club des Cinq, illustrated by Jean Sidobre (the same illustrations were used in the subsequent 1974 Vermeille edition whose cover art is shown above). The first part is available here. Enjoy!

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Plot summary (continued):

One night, Timmy is awakened by a noise and attacks the intruder, who turns out to be Mr Roland. The latter claims that he was alerted by some noise around Uncle Quentin’s study and got up to investigate. Timmy’s attack gives Mr Roland the opportunity to request from Quentin that the dog be kept in his kennel from now on.

(An intruder at night…)

(Timmy on the attack!)

(George is distraught upon learning that Timmy will have to be kept in this kennel at all times as of the next day)

(First day of banishment from the house 🥺)

On the next day, George and Timmy go for a walk on their own while Mr Roland and the other children head back to Kirrin Farm to look for the Secret Way mentioned on the map, with no luck.

(George and Timmy go for a walk on their own)

(This picture is the header for chapter 10 but I’m a bit confused about what scene it is meant to depict. 🤔 I guess this may be when Julian and Dick tell George what happened at the farm… or possibly later, when she learns that Timmy’s punishment will not be lifted – although both conversations happen indoors, which is clearly not the setting of this illustration. 🤨)

Julian, Dick and Anne appeal to Uncle Quentin to lift Timmy’s punishment, arguing that George has made a lot of efforts to behave around Mr Roland, but the latter convinces Quentin to stay firm in his decision.

(Dick advises George to be on her best behaviour that day, so that her cousins can plead her cause and try to have Timmy’s punishment lifted – sadly, all of these efforts will be in vain!)

There is a snowstorm that night, and George cannot bear for Timmy to stay outside. She sneaks him inside the house and warms him up in Quentin’s study. On the next day, Quentin notices that some secret papers have been stolen from this office, and interrogates the children about it. Anne is noticeably nervous and gets some heat from Mr Roland, but doesn’t betray George and Timmy’s presence in the room that night.

(Protective-Big-Brother Mode activated!)

(George and Timmy go for another lonesome walk on the cliff, gazing upon their domain -- Kirrin Island)

(Julian, Dick and Anne tell George about Quentin’s papers being stolen)

Honest to a fault, George ultimately admits to her father that she let Timmy into the house, receiving a telling-to and getting confined to her room for the rest of the day. Snow starts falling in the afternoon, and the children are surprised to hear Mr Roland announcing his intention to go for a walk. Julian follows him and sees him giving an envelope to the two artists lodging at Kirrin Farm.

(Julian follows Mr Roland’s tracks)

(A covert meeting on the moor)

Based on this suspicious behaviour, the Five are now convinced that Mr Roland is the thief. After her various visits to Quentin’s office, George figures out that this room is actually the one described on the map they found and guesses that the Secret Way leads from Kirrin Cottage to Kirrin Farm. The children investigate the secret passage that night.

(Discovering the entrance to the Secret Way!)

(Exploring the secret passage)

(Along the Secret Way…)

(Anne is cold and regrets not taking her coat 🥶)

The secret passage leads to the cupboard with the trick panel that the children had been playing with at the farm, which is conveniently located in the sleeping room used by the two supposed artists. The children search the room and find the stolen papers just as the thieves realise that their ploy has been uncovered. The Five hurry down the tunnel with the thieves in hot pursue. The villains almost outrun them but retreat when George threatens to set Timmy loose on them.

(A hasty retreat down the Secret Way...)

(Timmy gets fierce!)

Ultimately, the three culprits (Mr Roland included) are locked up in a room at Kirrin Cottage until the police comes to arrest them.

~~~~~~

Bonus 1:

The original English version stops after the thieves are arrested, but the French translation adds a little titbit where the Five conclude their adventure by officially dubbing themselves the Famous Five. Here it is for your reading pleasure!

[The bolded text is Blyton’s original text; the non-bolded text is the French addendum.]

The snow melted two days later, and the police took away Mr Roland and the others. The children watched.

“No more lessons these hols,” said Anne gleefully.

“No more shutting Timothy out of the house,” said George.

“You were right and we were wrong, George,” said Julian. “You were fierce, weren’t you? – but it’s a jolly good thing you were!”

“She is fierce, isn’t she?” said Dick, giving the girl a sudden hug. “But I rather like her when she’s fierce, don’t you, Julian? Oh, George, we do have marvellous adventures with you! I wonder if we’ll have any more?”

They will – there isn’t a doubt of that!

THE END

“I sure do!”

George laughed.

“No wonder,” she exclaimed. “You're all as fierce and as stubborn as I am: you were as set in your ways as I was in mine about Mr Roland! All the same, the lot of us, with Timothy, we make a great team!”

“The Famous Five, that's who we are, and there's no stopping us!” said Dick excitedly.

“Say,” added George, her eyes shining, "here’s an idea: what if we formed a real club*?” [*Note: This is in reference to the Five’s name in French: ‘le Club des Cinq’.]

Anne jumped for joy at these words.

“Oh yes, and we won't tell anyone!”

“Then we'll have to make a vow,” Julian decided. “Although, well, Timothy can't talk.”

“It doesn't matter,” George sharply replied. “Timmy loves us and he has a faithful heart. What more could we ask for to be sure of him?” She looked at the dog who, lying at her feet, had raised his head when hearing his name.

“Let’s form a circle,” she continued. “Julian is the eldest, he should say the vow. We'll repeat after him.”

George sat cross-legged on the floor next to Timothy. Her cousins followed suit. Then George took Timmy's right paw, Anne his left, and the four children joined hands.

“Go on, Julian,” said Dick.

So the boy began: “All of us gathered here, George, Anne, Timothy, Dick, and Julian, have decided to form the Famous Five...” When the other children had repeated the words, he continued: “We promise to help each other, to protect each other, and to keep the secret.”

In turn, his companions repeated the vow, and then there was silence for a few moments.

“The Famous Five... how wonderful!” murmured Anne at last.

“When I think of all the adventures we've already had...” said Dick, “last time during the summer hols, and now at Christmas, I wonder if we’ll have more!”

“Don't worry,” said George cheerfully. “Our adventures are certainly not over. The Famous Five will have plenty more opportunities to shine!”

THE END

~~~~~~

Bonus 2:

(This is the backcover to the 1971 Galaxie edition -- poor Timmy doesn't seem to enjoy the snow too much!)

~~~~~~

Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed these little bonuses!

I don't have anything else ready yet and I don't know if I'll have anything up for next week. In any case, posting will resume in 2024. I’ll see you all next year! 💖

#papillon82 reads #famous five art nostalgia #famous five #le club des cinq #enid blyton #illustrations #jean sidobre

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ded-and-gonne · 2 years

Text

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Devil’s Night

A Ded & Gonne miniseries

Written by @firstpersonnarrator | Originally begun for @sheehalloween 2022 | Devil’s Night header gif by @salvador-daley | Sheehalloween prompt by Anon: Klaus behaving badly, genfic

AN: It’s Devil’s Night and Ben has no idea what that is. Until he becomes embroiled in a plot cooked up by his not-brother, Klaus. This Devil’s Night miniseries starring Klaus Hargreeves and Evil Ben is part of the Ded & Gonne family of stories. If you’ve been reading Ded & Gonne, this chapter follows immediately after the action in Chapter 6. Don’t feel like catching up? Devil’s Night can be read as a standalone fic. All Ded & Gonne works are genfic without exception.

TWs: Creeping dread (hopefully). Flirtation between two not-brothers. Swearing. A not-so-bright, mildly omniscient narrator. Made-up words and made-up tenses.

Ded & Gonne || Devil’s Night || Start || Next

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Part 1: Afraid of the Dark

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“Benneriiiinooooo.” Calling toward the hallway, Klaus is in his room waiting impatiently for Ben to “Get the fuck over here alreadyyyy!” Klaus has been curled up on the divan, working on his costume with his tongue poking out, all afternoon.

Ben’s head peeks around the door, sees Klaus half disguised as Jesus, and decides that it will go better for him if he picks his battles. (Never tell Ben that he’s at Klaus’s beck and call. It wouldn’t go well for you. Wrong Ben.)

The current Ben — Evil Ben — makes his way in, committing his entire body to looking both sarcastic and bored.

“Save me from my costume! I hate sewing,” Klaus wails. “Maybe I could have knitted Jesus.” Klaus punishes his costume for being annoying by throwing everything angrily in the general direction of his bed. He smiles with satisfaction as the pins and needles scatter on the floor, then turns to Ben.

“Ok, so, Bennerino. It’s Devil’s Night, and it’s cold cuz you won’t let me turn the heat up. So now I’m all snuggled on the divan where you apparently have no plan to join me. Sucks, but ok. Why?”

Ben curls his lip up in disgust. “For reasons, Klaus. It’s magenta velvet. And I can tell exactly where you always sit because the velvet has your ass permanently imprinted in it.”

“My eyes are up here, mister,” Klaus winks at Ben.

“Christ, Klaus.”

“Exactly!” Klaus decides to forego all the blaspheming he could do right now. He’s saving all his blaspheming for the kids on Halloween.

“Hurry up and pop your popcorn, Ben. We will not be stopping halfway through the first story for popcorn-popping. I mean, I know you live to piss people off, but that? It’s irritating. Just thought maybe that was something you could work on. You know, for the future.” Klaus smiles as if he’s indulging a child. “You’ll get there, buddy. You’ll get there.”

Ben is too busy being both taken-aback and off-put to say nasty things while Klaus is saying supportive things. Instead, he looks like a lost little boy. “I don’t live to piss people off.”

“Yes of course you do. It’s one of my favorite things about you.”

“But that doesn’t- Isn't pissing people off a bad thing?” Ben asks, looking confused and a smidge annoyed.

“Yeah, but it looks great on you.” Klaus seems to be feeling affectionate toward Ben again, judging by the smile.

“If you ruffle my hair, I will end you,” Ben warns.

Klaus retracts his hand.

Followed by Ben rolling his eyes, dropping heavily next to Klaus with a bounce, and waiting expectantly for the tv to come back to life.

After a few moments of uncomfortable yet companionable silence, Ben senses he’s being observed. He turns to find Klaus sitting there, expectantly staring at him with a ‘mommy bought me cotton candy’ vibe. All excited and hungry. It’s a little creepy, honestly.

“Uh, Klaus?”

“Yes, Benny Bear?”

Klaus can literally see Ben biting his tongue. “Great!” Klaus praises. “Look at you! You kept yourself from threatening me! And you held back the nasty! That’s progress. You’ve come so far, Benji.”

“Stop trying to provoke me, Klaus. It’s not what I’m going for right now.”

“Ok, fine, have it your way. I’ve taken the threat level down to just defcon Medium Meanie from defcon Big.”

Klaus goes back to staring eagerly at Ben.

This is normally when Ben would just hang up on Klaus. But now they live together. Like, together on the same hallway. Not, like, together-together. There’s a wall. Right in-between them. A wall, ok? Jesus. Whatever.

“So…” Ben prompts, hoping Klaus will start at the beginning. He’s feeling lost.

“I’m waiting for you to start, silly!”

“Start what, Klaus? Start talking, I’m bored.”

“Your story. But, don’t rush it. We’ve got well over 24 hours before it’ll start to be a little sad, missing Halloween entirely because of a creativity vortex.” Not as threatening or effective as a kugelblitz, though.

“What story? Klaus, I’m going to count to five,” Ben snarls. “Trust me, you don’t want to know what comes after five.”

“Ho!” Klaus’s eyes explode out of his head metaphorically, and he frantically begins scanning his bedroom. “Wait, wait! Where’s my bingo card?”

“Your,” [long dramatic pause] “what?”

“My business card.” Good save. “You know what, Bennerino? You don’t have to go first if you’re nervous. I’ll go first.”

“What are you talking about, Klaus? You’ll go first at what?”

“It’s Devil’s Night, Benny Bunny, and I will be your very own little devil for the night. I’ll-”

“Klaus, you’re making me uncomfortable.”

“I know, I’m really good at it. So anyway, where was I? Oh, right, I’m going first.” Klaus bounds out of his seat and Ben is plunged into darkness.

“Pffft,” Ben says, scoffing at the darkness. But then he hears the door creak and the lock click into place.

It’s probably not very kind to point out right now that Ben is already scared. He wouldn’t want you to know about that. So, moving on.

“Klaus?” He gives a quick swivel in his seat, and there’s nothing to see. Quite literally. “Why do you have blackout windows, Klaus?” It is utterly dark. No difference between eyes open and eyes closed. He reaches up to touch his eyes, making sure they’re actually open.

Ben starts fidgeting. He jolts when he notices the clock ticking. Suddenly, he realizes he never bothered to notice much of anything about the room around him. No idea what the layout is, or where the furniture is. Or the piano.

It’s just, whenever Klaus is around, he tends to fill the entire room. Like some obnoxious, yet exotic, tropical bird. All rainbows, pink feathers, and glitter briefs.

Ben starts to tap his foot in time with the ticking clock. It’s a good calming technique. Become part of the music of time and see how long you can keep the beat.

Ben’s tapping foot is sort of spastic, now. He either can’t keep up with the beat, or maybe he’s jumping ahead. He can’t tell which is which. The clock is gaslighting him.

Yep, it’s crawling.

His skin is now crawling. Officially.

Outside, a cat screeches and hisses. Because of course it does. It’s Halloween. Or Devil’s Night, whatever that is.

How could he hear hissing from this bedroom? That was outside, wasn’t it? He’d swear there’s a faint scratching on wood. Through the wall, maybe. His entire being is focused in his eardrums. Trying to gauge the nearness of the cat is more difficult than it should be.

Ben doesn’t hate cats. In fact, Mean Ben is a sucker for cats. They’re aloof and condescending, and yet you still do everything you can to get them to snuggle you. A lot like Ben, the snuggling snuggler, apparently. He definitely wants his benny bear at this point.

See, the thing is, the yowling sounded kinda far away and muffled, like through a wall, a few rooms down the hall, or down the street. But the scratching? That is a lot closer, and more claws than paws. Little scratches, but Ben tries to talk himself down by reminding himself that it’s an old building. Old buildings make sounds, right?

Ben huffs and rolls his eyes, which only serves to remind him that he literally can’t see anything. Nothing. The darkness is utterly complete. No crack of light below the door. No tiny shaft from between the floorboards. Just the scratching. The scratching that has him peering every which way, but the darkness is thick as ink. Almost oily.

Just darkness. Something small, scratching. Small? The ticking. His foot tapping. His heartbeat in his ears.

There were windows, right? Yeah, sure, there have to be, Ben reassures himself. But he vaguely remembers how very many objects Klaus has strewn around the space, creating traps that could be waiting just next to his feet. Like Klaus’s old lady taste in furniture — tufted and tasseled and poofy velvet all over the place. Coffee tables with legs and corners, supporting precariously perched bongs. And bongos. And ashtrays. And scissors. Klaus has to use scissors to sew. Has to.

But there are windows in here, right? There have to have been, right? Klaus wouldn’t choose a room without windows. He thinks he knows Klaus well enough by now to predict the man’s actions and motivations.

Underneath the patchouli oil, the sharp and keen sense of smell that makes Ben win every bake-off, senses something musky. It’s kind of like something evocative of freshly turned earth. Moist, but also tinged with a rotting smell.

The rotting smell is not coming from the same direction as the scratching. Or the yowling.

Ben reaches out with all of his senses like Pogo and Luke Skywalker taught him.

Beneath all of it is something dank and vegetal. And a slight drip coming from behind him. But the hallway is the only thing behind him. Isn’t it?

The scratching has stopped. Now it’s just the ticking of the clock and the droplets of water and the scent of mold, with something sickening-sweet just below it.

His blood is rushing in his ears. And nothing, fucking nothing, matches up. It’s like one of those old, creaky wind-up toys. The jack-in-the-box, cranking, cranking. The horrible clapping monkey, clanking its cacophonous cymbals. It’s an imperfect monkey, slightly out of time with his eyes rolling and the tune and the clanking and clanking. But the ticking clock is so close to the tempo. No, wait. It’s the clock keeping time. He can’t tell which is faster, and suddenly his entire body senses space — every hair, every brain cell, it’s all so wrapped up and jumbled. Which one is out of step with the others? But they’re all out of step and he feels like his ears are stuck in one of those 3D puzzles, the optical illusions your eyes sink into, by design. Suddenly there’s an entire space hidden to the eye, just beyond the length of his arm’s reach. Is there a table in front of him? He can’t remember.

And all of this jagged clicking, and tapping, and breathing, blood rushing in his ears, heart thudding out a tell-tale beat.

Ben’s feeling a little tippy. And he’s already sitting down. He lifts his hand to his face. It feels like something tiny has landed in the space between his nose and lips. Bringing his hand instinctively to his face, he’s surprised to find pebbling droplets of perspiration.

“Fuck!” His hand jerks up and slaps his upper lip. Hard. He pulls his hand back and with it comes a formerly living creature. A small spider. Or maybe a flea? Or a gnat. It had been crawling when he smashed the fucker’s little carapace against his skin. Too tiny to tell how many legs. Wings? Antennae?

Or if it’s alone.

Immediately following that unnerving thought, all the nerve endings in his body go on high alert. The springs in his seat complain when he jolts at the sudden awareness of sensation.

He feels a tickle or a tingle in tiny pinpoints, anywhere his skin is exposed to air.

Ben is starting to squirm. All the tiny hairs on his face and neck seem to get triggered at the same time, no rhyme, no reason. He quickly raises his hands to his face to wipe away all the sweat, and oil, and hairs, and crawlies, telling it all to shut the fuck up and get off his body. Ben finds himself compulsively itching around his neckline.

Everything feels like it’s moving. Ben feels nauseous. His eyes are rolling again, with nothing but thick ink to meet him in every direction. He wants to hug his knees to himself. He almost starts rocking himself; a self-soothing habit he abandoned years ago. But of course the minute he admits weakness, Klaus will undoubtedly return, already talking as he turns the light back on. But his shuffling footsteps can’t yet be heard out on the hallway’s ancient floorboards.

He can’t calm himself. Can’t soothe himself. Ben isn’t weak. He’s evil, for God’s sake. He can’t let Klaus see him like this.

Ben frantically wipes his palms on his jeans and again clears the sweat from his brow, trying not to think about all the little spiders he has just pushed off his skin and straight into his hair.

Ben literally sits on his hands to avoid scratching at his face. His neck. His scalp. His eyebrows. In the corners of his mouth.

No, Ben. No, that’s not a breeze. No. There wasn’t a breeze a minute ago, and there isn’t a breeze now. A prickling. Right behind Ben’s right ear, Klaus whispers, “Boo.”

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Ded & Gonne || Devil’s Night || Start || Next

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khae-writes · 1 year

Text

you are my home [ tartaglia/reader ]

tags: fluff, kisses, mentions dark side??, ooc??, fem reader, soft childe, dedicated to my best friend,

header

The sun arose, golden light shining upon a field of flowers of glaze lilies. The lovely ivory color pranced across the plains, small pebbles scattered around as the water rushed by falling into a long stream of waterfall down below. Peace and quiet, it was a moment of serenity; undisturbed and unperturbed. This was what Childe longed for — no, this was what Ajax longed for. Laying on the grass with nothing to care for, the rays of sunshine bathing his body that craved the peaceful background.

Childe — a title that he’d sullied and tainted with blood and merciless slaughter because of his drive to be an active machine in war; a title that he honors as the Eleventh Harbinger; a title that had scared many who’ve heard of his doings; a title of a strong man who’d countered many dangerous beings and lived.

And at the same time, a title that broke him bit by bit.

It was the very title that one day would spread a little far too wide in all of Teyvat that his younger siblings would hear of it. Where they would find out he worked as a villain in this cruel world; where his secret that he tried so hard and so long to keep; a secret to keep his family from being involved in dark business that could risk putting them in danger. Childe had to — no, Ajax — this was what he was keeping them from.

A world of monsters, nothing but ruin and lies — a cryptic and unapologetic dimension where if he asked as gently as he could, no one would bat an eyelash to help. A world so corrupted that despite not wanting to turn out a villain, Ajax turned into a fine asset on the battlefield. A world so unkind that just a simple witness to bloodshed would make one’s skin crawl and burn. A world where a young Ajax was forced to be brought into the Fatui because his desire to pursue violence was uncontrollable.

And one day, maybe that flickering grace of sanity in him would one day snap into a wisp of a flame.

Tartaglia couldn’t bear to picture his beloved younger brother look at him with soulless eyes, with indescribable disbelief as he would give him a look of incredulity if he saw his hands dirtied with wet gooey blood. He wouldn’t be able to fathom his surroundings; he might lash out; he might hurt—

No.

Tartaglia shakes his head, trying to rid of the negative thoughts in his head. He shouldn’t be thinking about such things in such an atmospheric calmness. He should be having fun; enjoying the scenery and resting. A good Harbinger shouldn’t break his mind over little things, no?

No. He had to stay calm; stay sane.

His family was waiting for him in Snezhnaya. Returning home into their arms with a broken mind would be like exposing his dark and poisonous behavior to his loved ones when it’s but a part of him.

‘Do not forget, Ajax, you are here to provide for your relatives and to serve the Tsaritsa as she sees fit. She wouldn’t like you questioning your abilities because she is never doubtful of your skills as one of her trustees.’

The ginger-haired male nearly lets out a laugh — would his family still look at him the same? Like he is a proud warrior who fights for the better good, someone who brings his family’s name to honor by selling toys that all children alike enjoy the toys he make? Would Teucer still look at him with those sparkling, bright jewels in his ocean-blue eyes, gazing up at him with unparalleled admiration? Or would they all turn their back on him, realizing that they’d been admiring a murderer in disguise?

Archons, he needed a distraction—

“Ajax?” A soft whisper brings him back to reality. The hallucination of his family staring at him in horror disintegrated into dust, his lifeless eyes blinking to turn his head sideways. His eyes met (e/c), and he felt his heart soften.

The girl he loves, the woman of his dreams, the queen he would rightfully do anything for so long as it was in his power. You were beautiful, inside and out. Your smile as your lips curl up onto an upwards curve, showing off that perfect smile that would brighten up his days to no end; your eyes that shined in the darkest of nights that not even the moon could compare; your hands that he loved holding even if there was no reason to — if people asked him if you were some sort of divine being, he would’ve responded yes. There was no one like you in the world.

The woman that loves him, the woman that cares for him, the woman that he keeps coming home to because he was high off on paradise every second he spent with you. There, next to him on the grass, you lied next to him with your hands resting on your chest as your head was tilted to face him.

“Yeah… what is it?”

You gave him a disapproving frown, brows furrowing. “You had this look again.”

“Did I?” The Snezhnayan male chuckles awkwardly as he rolled over to his sides so his right arm now supported his whole weight while his left hand caressed your cheek gently, a portion of his body hovering over you as he leans down to gently rub his nose with yours. “Sorry, I tend to… overthink sometimes.”

You bit down the giggle that almost slipped out from the eskimo kiss, your arms instead wrapping around his neck as you brought him closer. “That so? Mind if I know what it was about?” Your lips pecked his, and in just that split second, Tartaglia forgot what he was thinking of earlier.

God, he was drunk on love. And he wanted to bathe in it more, especially because it was you.

“Take a guess, I’d like to know too.” He teases, his pearly white teeth flashing as he coyly stares at you with a boyish grin. “I wonder what I was thinking about.” It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t the whole truth either.

You giggle, pushing his hovering body off of you and instead topping him by placing your two hands on either side of his body. Tartaglia was taken off guard, eyes flitting towards yours in slight surprise since you didn’t usually attack him first. You leaned down, lips brushing against his before letting out a short giggle.

Ajax nearly feels his heart jump out of his chest at your teasing, his cheeks reddening at what you were trying to do. His heart pounded hard and he was sure if you listened closely, you would hear the rapid noises it was making. But he focused on you solely — noticing how close you were and how he could practically feel your breath fanning on his lips every time you parted just a bit of those lips.

You were constantly in his vicinity after every battle, always in his line of vision, always so close to him — so close that he loved getting all too many opportunities to hug you, to hold your hand, to touch you, to kiss you any time he wanted; he loves simply just being there with you.

Every moment, to him, mattered.

It was when the ginger-haired male had finally grabbed all courage inside his heart to bring a hand up to the back of your head and push you closer. His head raised up a bit to meet your lips in a gentle kiss; one that, although you didn’t see coming (you probably did), you returned with just as much gentleness. Your lips and his moved in synchrony but unfortunately you both had to pull away for breath.

“What’s up with you today?” You laugh softly as you pulled away. “You’re quite soft today, not that it’s a bad thing.” You mused, seeing your lover’s expression convert into slight embarrassment, his cheeks tinted red.

He clears his throat, flushed cheeks. “Ah… well…”

You giggle and roll off of him, back onto the grass that tickled your cheeks. The silence that ensued after wasn’t uncomfortable in the least bit. Any moment with you was shared special, no matter where there are interactions or not. He counted them all and described each one as heavenly.

“Hmm… this is… a little random but,” this time, Ajax turned his head to look at you in curiosity, “what is home to you?”

He’d known beforehand what you’d lived as before he’d crossed paths with you — you were a victim of domestic abuse, and he was very much aware how much torment and pain you’d went through before stumbling upon him in dirtied garments. He had the option to ignore you, but the fear in your eyes triggered something in him — reminding him of himself from when he’d fallen into the Abyss.

Tartaglia was slightly apathetic as you asked, but as soon as you did, two things appeared in his head. One of his family in Snezhnaya and you, his beloved. The male hums in ponder, eyes darting upward, squinting slightly as they were blinded by the literal sun.

“You are my home.”

“Huh?”

“I would’ve honestly answered my family but,” he turns to you, eyes as dead as ever as he confesses, “they are my heart instead.”

You frowned. “Technically, in this given scenario, aren’t they the same?”

“They’re different for me. I can live without a home, but a heart I know I can’t go forward without.” He spoke, an aching in your chest stinging as he finishes.

And it hit you just how cold the meaning of his words meant. It was simple and straightforward, there was nothing to not get. That if he had to choose between his family and you, he wasn’t going to hesitate dropping you onto a pot of boiling lava for his own blood-related loved ones.

“I-I see… I’m sorry… for asking.” You apologized meekly, shying away now that you realized your worth in comparison to his family paled by a stretch away. What hurt, really, was that he didn’t even think twice about his decision. You knew already that he would pick family over you, but it still hurt.

“But,” he pauses again and you perked up, eyes darting to him in nervousness, “without a home, I’m lost and alone.” Ajax turned to you, eyes softening a great amount as his thumb brushes over your cheek lovingly. “You are my home, (Y/n). You make me feel safe and protected—make me feel like I can be myself without a hindrance, make me feel comfortable. You…” He trails off, his forehead leaning on yours. “I love you. And that even if I can live without you, I wouldn’t.”

Your heart beat erratically, your nose turning red as you sniffled. “Oh…” You tear up, hiding your face in your hands as he continued to caress your skin in a graceful manner.

“I… love you too. You’re my home too, Ajax—and I… I’m so glad you’re here…” You stammered, choking on your sobs before wrapping your arms around him. Under the bask of sunrays and amber light, you two held each other in a moment of peace and serenity.

This was all what Ajax needed to keep himself sane.

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