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promisingyounglady · 2 months

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accident. | JP x Reader

PAIRING: Javier Peña x Wife!Reader

SYNOPSIS: we all make accidents. javier forgetting to pick you up at the train station was an accident. you forgetting to bring an umbrella was an accident. throwing a knife at your husband? you’re going to have prove that one was an accident to him.

WC: 3.6k

WARNINGS: SMUT, angst, mentions of weapons and knives, reader throws a knife at javier *just read you’ll find out*, implied age gap, established relationship, javier is a bit older than reader, domestic au, slight dom!javi, mentions of food and cooking, profanity, bratty!reader, reader is mean but javier can be meaner, floor sex, creampie, unprotected sex, spanking, handcuffs, cum eating, brief oral (f recieving), slight non-con, rough sex, praise, degradation, post-sex sweetness, not proofread.

AUTHORS NOTE: obsessed and mentally ill. so here’s slightly dom!javi with a ton of angst

A headache ensues in Javier’s mind.

He tries to combat it with the clouds of smoke rising through the air, the comfortable scent of tobacco and cigarettes filling his nose as he takes a drag from the stick perched in between his blistered fingers, this inhale, longer than the last.

Today had been shit. It really had. All day he had been cooped up in the office with stacks of paperwork almost taller than himself, tossed onto him and Murphy's desk by the higher ups, a high demand for deadlines with their patience being low.

Javier had been sitting in his office for almost seven hours straight, looking at papers with tiny writing and filing reports with pen until sensitive pink blisters formed around a hand that should’ve been driving and carrying a gun today, out in the field on a mission another team had instead been tasked with.

He’s getting old for this stuff, and he knows its true when he feels a strain in his back from shifting in his seat.

Maybe that’s why they shoved the paperwork in the old man’s hands.

Javier leans forward, grabbing his almost empty pack of cigarettes from his desk, deciding a fourth one was necessary for tonight.

“Javier,” a voice calls for him, looking up when he sees the new secretary holding the phone facing her chest. “You’ve got a call”

“From who” he says gruffly, brows furrowed. He lights the cigarette with his lighter, tossing it onto his desk and taking another puff.

“It’s your wife,” The secretary states. “she’s asking what you want for dinner.”

Javier stops in the middle of flicking the ashes, letting the cigarette sit warm in his fingers when he turns his head so he could see her correctly.

Your sweet voice calls out through the receiver, a chill running down Javier's spine when he makes out that it really is you.

“Yeah, Sherry, it’s fine if he’s busy, just let him know I called. Tell him dinner’ll be late tonight, at around 10.” you piped up sweetly, saying goodbye to your husband's secretary before hanging up the call.

She leaves after telling him what he already heard, but Javier is quick to immediately put out the burning cigarette and quickly grab his coat, making his way out the office.

“Peña, Where are you going? We only got a few more stacks left” Murphy calls out, hair in a mess from the many stressful tugs and his own cigarette nestled in between his fingers.

“my wife.” Javier replies, suddenly not liking the bitter taste in his mouth.

“It’s raining outside, you’re gonna get drenched” the blonde tells him, shaking his head as he took a drag from his own cancer stick.

Javier stops in his tracks, looking outside the window to see his partner was right. It was pouring out there, hardly able to even make out the cars in the parking lot.

Him getting wet was the least of his worries. It was you, he was thinking of.

“Fucking hell.”

You set the receiver down on the living room table. The ticking of the clock resonating in the silent house before a sigh finally escaping your lips.

Droplets of rain water cloud your vision, cheeks pink from the cold as water dripped onto your wooden floorboards.

Fists clench and unclench around the handle of the umbrella given to you by an old lady at the train station.

“A girl like yourself shouldn’t be alone in the rain, mija” she insisted, letting you take her frilly umbrella as her son would pick her up shortly.

Javier was supposed to pick you up too.

But after forty minutes of standing out in the rainy weather under a flimsy roof as you waited for his truck to pick you up, you disappointedly caught a taxi and drove home by yourself

You were returning from your visit to your sick grandmother. You were her only granddaughter who she called the week prior, telling you how she missed you and wanted you to visit.

Javier insisted you went, not wanting to hold you back and assured he would come to pick you up at the station after the weekend spent with her.

What a fucking liar, you thought to yourself.

You quickly undressed your wet clothes, the outcome of having to have walked in rain to find an available taxi this evening.

You're curious to see the look on Javier’s face when you make him beg on his knees and ask for forgiveness. Maybe you wouldn’t even kiss him tonight, thinking in silence as you prepared for dinner.

You definitely weren’t trying to think about what an excellent opportunity this was to be a brat.

—

Javier parks into his quiet drive way exactly thirty minutes before 10. That’s thirty minutes of trying to get on your good graces and pray that he wouldn’t be sleeping outside tonight.

When he opens the door to the house, his heart beats fast. Prepared to see you ready to lash out at him, he’s instead surprised with the aromas of spices and your homemade cooking wafting to his nose, unconsciously realizing that he skipped lunch today from how caught up he was with work.

Picking up your wet jacket from the floor, Javier slots his keys and sunglasses in the bowl by the entrance, hanging his own jacket as well before he makes his way quietly to the glowing kitchen.

The stovepot is on a low boil, and he sees you in a long t-shirt, one that you made sure wasn’t his. Your hair is damp, probably from a shower as you swiftly work your hands away in prepping the vegetables.

Javier mumbles quietly in a gruff voice. “You, uh, left your coat on the floor.”

Thwack.

An aggressive chop at the carrots replaces your words, each cut piercing louder like a gunshot ringing in his ears.

“Hermosa, I am so sorry.“ Javier begins sighing because he knows he fucked up real bad this time.

Thwack. You moved onto the chicken meat.

“There’s no excuse baby, I wasn’t keeping track after being cooped up in the office today.” he sighs, brows furrowing as big brown eyes stared into your back.

Thwack. Thwack.

The DEA agent flinches at the sound of the raw chicken being butchered by your swift, angry hands. You’re not facing Javier directly and yet he can already see your glaring eyes. He sighs, not wanting to fight you. He tries to lighten the mood, voice soft as he comments.

“Qué te ha hecho ese pobre pollo”

You don’t reply, let alone acknowledge your husband, continuing to brutally dice the chicken on the cutting board before turning around to wash your hands.

Javier watches you swiftly work in your kitchen, feeling sorry as he still watches you prepare dinner for the two of you after such a long train ride.

He moves forward, rolling his sleeves as he tries to help you . “Querida, I’ll help with the pot-”

The clang of the knife hitting the cutting board echoes in the kitchen, finally looking up to face your husband. Javier leans back, resting against the kitchen counter, arms crossed and gun holsters unremoved after coming home.

You try to ignore how tired he genuinely looks, reminding yourself you were just the same when standing all alone for that one hour.

“Y’know what Javier?” You begin, eyes watering and nose twitching in anger. Javier stays silent, staring at you with sincerity.

“Fuck you” you spit, pointing an accusing finger at the man. “fuck you and your fucking DEA work, Javier”

“Mi-”

“I had to wait forty minutes outside in rainy weather, trying to see if every car passing by would be yours.” you said, voice breaking towards the end. You felt uncomfortable waiting by yourself.

Javier shuts his eyes, forehead wrinkling as he tries to calm you down. He draws your name out in a firm but gentle tone.

You ignore him, replacing his words with your attitude. “You always do this!” you exclaim, voice rising.

“Leaving your wife and family second while you think it’s cool to go and chase criminals while risking your goddamn life.” You mutter, glaring at your husband.

“I didn’t want to leave you at the station all alone, honey. I’ve been sitting at my desk since afternoon drowning in paperwork the higher-ups dumped on us” he presses, eyes sincere but patience wearing thin.

You scoff, shaking your head. “So even stupid paperwork makes you forget your wife.”

Javier pinches his nose bridge, his head pounding as he tries to communicate with you.

You go back to cutting your vegetables, mumbling under your breath. “Who the fuck in Bogotá is giving you credit for slaving away all day trying to catch Escobar, hm?”

The words pierce through Javier’s heart.

Your eyes light up in fake sarcasm. “Oh, I bet it’s the fact that you’re too busy being a fucking doormat to all the younger agents at work aren’t you? What, Murphy said he can’t do his share of the work so he gave you his leftovers?” You spit.

“Hey," Javier snapped, gruffly and darkly. He looked at you, eyes narrowed and dark. "Stop it. I've told you."

Anger gets the best of you as you turn to the cutting board. Grabbing the first thing you saw.

A carrot piece shoots in his way. Javier flinches, the food hitting his chest. Your husband stands there, stunned at his wife’s childish behavior.

“Go fuck yourself, Peña” you say menacingly.

“We don’t throw food in this house, mama” he barks, hands on the hips of his belt, gun and badge tucked in his back. He would never use them on you.

A celery stick slaps Javier in the face this time, making his patience hanging on by a thread even thinner.

Maybe he could whip out the handcuffs.

“Dont you fucking call me that!” you said spitefully, throwing anything and everything you could at the man who dodged your attacks.

“Querida!” Javier raises his voice at you, a growl in his words.

You felt the cold, hard material in your hands for a split second before you’re throwing it at him, almost wondering yourself why you were getting so angry at Javier.

You didn’t want to fight this bad, but at the same time you were sick of watching him work himself to death, forgetting about you. This wasn’t the first time he did something like this.

But you already crossed that line. You both stand in silence, holding your breath as you realized what you threw.

Now it was your turn to fuck things up.

Javier’s lip snarls and his mustache is in a scary frown when he shifts his head.

Only a few inches beside his face lands a dull potato knife, wedged in the kitchen cupboards above. It wouldn’t have worked on anything since it was unsharpened and unused, but the tremendous force you had thrown it with allowed it to have been lodged in the wood.

You gasp, hands flying to cover your mouth.

You both watch Javier slowly raise his hand, pulling the knife inches beside his head with ease before tossing it into the sink. The clatter of the metal blade hitting the sink rings in the kitchen. A swarm of guilt fills your chest as you stand still in fear.

“Javi… I-I’m so sorry” you say, heart beating against your chest, cautiously awaiting a reaction from him.

Javier dusts off the carrot peels on his shoulder, watching as his jaw tenses but shoulders relax.

“Come here.” he all but says quietly. You see Javier reaching for his back pocket, taking out his gun and badge and placing it on the counter.

That wasn’t what scared you.

What scared you was then seeing Javier pull out the silver handcuffs lodged in his back pocket. Your eyes widened at the sight of him playing around with them.

“Javi, I’ll go get the-“

“Come. Here.” Javier cuts you off, staring at you with dark eyes.

You swiftly shake your head, refusing to go. “It was an accident!” You exclaimed, dashing out the kitchen as you tried to escape Javier who was hot on your heels.

“Honey.” he says in a not so endearing way, a warning edge to his voice.

Tears littered your cheeks, knowing that you pushed Javier’s limits and that he would really punish you for how bratty you had been tonight.

You gasp, running up the stairs before strong arms encaged your frame, desperately trying to escape before shrieking in surprise as Javier hoisted you over his shoulder, a loud and painful smack being brought down to your ass by his strong hands. You grimaced, helplessly being brought to the kitchen in swift strides.

”It was an accident, I’m sorry, I was just so angry!” You wailed, groaning as your back hit the carpeted floors of your living room. Your vision was hazy, the dizziness getting to you as you saw Javier leave the room into the kitchen, and come back a few moments later. This time, he was unbuttoning his shirt, his forest of chest hair and strong muscles peeking through.

Javier took a deep breath, eying the way your t-shirt had hiked all the way up so your panties were showing. Your hair spread around your head like a halo, and he noticed how you clenched your thighs together in vulnerability.

“Some accidents need to be punished, baby” he muttered darkly.

You sobbed softly, nose red as you turned your head to the side, looking away from Javi’s menacing look. He didn’t mind, he knew once he was done messing with you, you would be clawing at his chest, begging him to fuck you properly while looking into his eyes. Javier leans down at your level, crawling on your body so he was on top and you were trapped on the bottom. He rips your t-shirt off of you, leaving you in your bare state with panties flimsy enough he could rip them with his teeth. Not today though, he had other things in mind.

He coos at your weak state, dropping his head so he could press a kiss to your sensitive neck, giving a small nip that made you yelp. Two large hands come to play with your nipples, pulling each one hard in between his fingers as you moaned hysterically.

“What did I say about being fucking mean?” He says roughly. He inhales your scent, smelling a sweet sense of fear.

“Carino,” a warm voice calls out, you can feel the grin spreading on Javier’s face. You cry in a mix of pain and pleasure when he flips you on your tummy, cheek pressing against the rough carpet material as Javier slots his hard member encased in his jeans, right by the curve of your ass.

“Answer me, mama”

A clinking of metal makes you cry out in protest. No, you wanted to say, feeling Javier cuff you behind your back like you were one of his petty drug thiefs. But a slap to your ass cheek makes you gasp, eyes shutting as Javier pulls your panties off.

”Being mean gets me punished” you responded softly, a pool of desire aching in your folds as you almost tutted your ass up to show him you were ready. “I’m sorry, Javier” you sniffled quietly, hoping he would hear.

Javier laughs, cocking his head to the side as one hand groped the flesh of your bum, and the other undid his belt buckle. The sound makes your mouth water, wondering if he’ll let you suck him off too for forgiveness.

“So you do know how to be nice?” He groans, giving you no time before his hard members penetrates your entrance, head turning back and eyes rolling when you clenched around his dick so well. “Javier!” You screamed, eyes rolling back in pleasure from the strong stretch.

Your arms ached, desperate for release so you could brace yourself against the floor for every hard thrust your husband would give you.

“Listen carefully, querida” he moans into your ear, humping you as you moaned loudly. “You’re gonna be a good girl and let me fill you up, alright?” When there was no answer, he slapped your cheek again, this time echoing throughout the living room and leaving a red splotch on your ass. “Answer me.” He growled, patience growing thin from your pathetic wailing.

You grit your teeth, hating the fact that you were supposed to be mad at Javier for forgetting about you, and yet here you were receiving back shots with a stinging red ass.

”Yes, Javier” you said back, feeling his girth stretch your walls.

”Good. And once I’m done fucking my pretty wife, you’re gonna suck me off like you mean it. That sounds good mi amor?”

You nodded in return, eyes shut and panting like a slut from the feeling of Javier slowing down his thrusts, deepening every stroke.

“Yes, Javier” you repeated.

He smiled, kissing your neck sweetly, contrasting his hip movements. “Thank you, mama” he replied, cherishing your sweet moans and gasps as he went at a deeper, harder pace.

It’s delirious, the whole situation. You feel as though you’re on cloud nine with the way Javier is so possessive of you, caging you like a butterfly in his garden with the apple of desire.

You felt sinful. You felt glorious. You needed his release to fill you up so badly.

“Javi…” you muttered, tits starting to get carpet burn from being fucked against the ground.

“I know mama, you’re doing so good for me. Taking your lesson so well” he groans, sweat beading at his forehead.

You were aching and begging for orgasm, but feeling Javier rut into you so passionately made it all worth it. It dissolved any anger, any resentment from earlier because you knew how good he could take care of you.

“You’re so fucking mean sometimes, you know that?” he tells you, brows furrowed and concentrated on fucking the daylights out of you. You could feel the handprints marking your hips, wondering how many of Javier’s marks would be on you tomorrow morning.

“I know” you sigh, feeling a slap come down on your ass as you groan louder.

“You’re so fucking stubborn sometimes, you know that too?” you pant, squirming under your cuffs. Javier shudders, your walls sucking him a little too well.

“I know.” He says back gruffly.

Javier feels the knot untying in his stomach, too late to tell you verbally as you felt his warm seed leak inside, cumming first.

“Merida”

You were also close, loving how despite already coming, Javier was fucking you so that you could cum too.

”I’m gonna” you pant, forgetting to finish your words as you felt hot liquid threatening to spill from every stroke he made in your hole.

Javier whispers, pressing ticklish kisses from his mustache to your bare shoulder. “Cum on my cock, baby, you know what to do” he muttered, both of you groaning loudly as both your releases became mixed inside you.

“Oh fuck, Javi!” you scream, hair a mess and pussy aching.

You feel dizzy, used but happy, shivering as a large sludge of your cum spills out and drips down your thigh to the carpet.

Javier is quick to lap you up with his tongue, slotting his face in your ass as he filthily cleans you up.

“Can you get these off me, please?” you ask him meekly, relishing the feeling of your sensitive wrists when they touch the cool air.

Your husband presses a kiss to each one, marking your ass and shoulders with playful hickeys and bruises.

You both catch your breath for a moment, Javier turning you over so you were facing the ceiling, your sensitive tits perking up.

It’s all so sudden but before you two realize it, you’re latching onto each other immediately, hungrily sharing a kiss as your arms wrap around his neck.

“Hermosa,” he tries to begin, before being shushed by you, pulling him back in to lovingly kiss your husband.

Sure, rough sex was great, but god did you love just kissing Javier absentmindedly. You had to touch each other, kiss each other, that was how you two made up.

“Lo siento, hermosa” he sighs, wanting to get lost in your embrace. You smile, knowing that Javier is sincere. “Me too.” You reply, voices hushed as it was now later in the night, the neighbors probably aware of what had happened next door. A moment passes.

“Didn’t you say you wanted me to suck you off?” you asked innocently, gazing up at Javier as your head rested on his chest.

He grins, softly whispering a later as he played with your hair, cock soft against his thigh as your leg nudges it playfully.

He growls, nipping your ear. “Behave” he says firmly, cheeks rosy. This time you listen.

“Who picked you up today then if I didn’t come?” Javi asks, reaching over to wrap a blanket around you two near the fireplace.

You smile, knowing that you can’t always listen to Javier’s warnings. “Just some cute young taxi driver. Asked me for my number y’know” you grinned.

Javier looks down, eyes darkening as he mutters softly. “Unless you’re gonna be a brat again, you better watch yourself” he reaches for your mound, cupping you softly so you moan in pleasure, still sensitive from the previous activities. He hoists you above his stomach, feeling your nails scratch his pudge and bend down as you give him a kiss. “I’m just messing with you” you giggle, a familiar feeling coming back when his bare cock is nestled by your thighs. “He was old. A grandpapi” you said, feeling his hands roam the flesh of your ass.

You press a hand against Javier’s chest, giggling as you peck his jawline. He rolls his eyes, hands wrapping around your waist instinctively.

“I missed you.” he mutters, feeling you up.

You smile, remembering how warm it is on top of your husband before you shut your eyes softly.“Me too.”

You look up, apologizing to him. “Sorry for almost stabbing you with that knife”

You feel the vibrations and sounds of a loud chuckle, Javier holding on to you. “It was an accident” you mumble, circling shapes on his skin. He knows.

You make up for it by leaning in, pressing kisses under the shell of his ear. Whispering how you’ll let him stuff his cock in your mouth again to get even.

Fuck it, he thinks. He’d let you kill him anyday.

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cambrinkisbae · 20 days

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*•♡never be like you ♡¸.•*'

nika muhl x cheerleader!reader

"I wanna hold the hand inside you. I wanna take the breath that's true"

word count - 3.4k

themes :

-fluff

-comfort

-toxic rls

warnings :

-arguing

-mentions to abuse

-explicit language

-iowa winning

A/N - did I get you guys. y'all really thought I would wait any longer to post this....

"can we please not do this ash."

i practically pleaded for my boyfriend to not argue with me before a big performance.

it was the day I had been waiting for since I was ever even notified that there would be a uconn game against iowa. I couldn't be dealing with relationship issues right before.

i attempted slipping on my skirt in the bathroom while my boyfriends voice was ringing in my ear no matter how much I tried to ignore it. I hate arguments. especially when they are stupid and have no point in even happening.

"no we are doing this now I don't care! you need to tell me the truth before you leave." Asher growled from outside the bathroom door. part of me wanted to swing the door open and break his nose but I knew that I didn't have time for that. so I gently but swiftly opened the door and forced my eyes into his with probably the most 'i'm not fucking around right now' look I'd ever given him. which is shocking with all of the arguments we've gotten into.

"Asher just fucking stop! I wasn't anywhere, I was literally sitting on the bench waiting for katie to pick me up! why is that so hard for you to comprehend." I pull my face away from his and before I could close the door and continue getting ready I whisper under my breath "its like you want me to cheat on you." the door was about to latch onto the door frame when his pale and veiny hand gripped onto the wooden edge. "what the fuck did you just say?" shit.

he then swung the door open with a force I've never seen before and a wave of fear flushed through my head. there were already tears welling up in my eyes from the yelling and now this just made them fall down my face. inside I was screaming incoherently at his face, slamming the door on his fingers and bashing his head around the room.

this has happened too many times. where we argue and I end up bruised or crying and I have to walk to Natalie's place and cry even more but into her arms instead. there's been too many times where Asher gets away with shit that no other man could get away with. and too many fucking times have I stayed.

his hand was peeled away from the edge of the door and I swear there was hot lava falling out from his eyes instead of guilt tripping tears. "why do you do this to me y/n? it hurts." he dramatically let his hand fall into his palms as more tears fell from his clearly angered eyes. most times I would let myself feel guilty and sorry for him as if I was the one that did the hurting. but this time I was done. nothing was officially over but the moment definitely was. he's going to have to find a way to win my attention back this time.

i tightened my pony tail and grabbed my cheer bag before walking out of our apartment, slamming the door behind me. it was so early in the morning that the sun was only rising as I walked out the door. I'm almost positive that everyone else on the team was asleep so I had to walk to practice. I was only a couple steps into my long walk when a car pulled up in front of me. well not in front but beside me. I continued walking until a window was rolled down and I heard a familiar voice call out.

"yo are you good?"

i was not. I had tears streaming down my face and I probably looked like I was just thrown in a pit of piranhas, but I cant say that.

"huh?" I turn my head to the side to see a white BMW pulled over. the voice I had heard earlier had a very memorable accent in it. Nika Muhl. 5'10 point guard. pretty hair. pretty eyes. just pretty.

"are you okay?" another voice reached out from the drivers seat of the car. Paige Bueckers of course. I finally looked down from my own height and saw a the brunette looking up at me with kinda eyes. her head was slightly tilted to the side while she waited for me to answer her question. "oh. uh." I waited a moment.

just before this I was telling myself that I wasn't going to put up with asher's bullshit anymore. that included hiding what was going on. Asher put me through shit. I mean he curb stomped my head on a pile of shit and dragged my face through it with his bare hands and never felt any regret.

"n-no not really." yeah I did that. fuck you Asher. the feeling of just admitting that I wasn't made the rest of my tears started to drain back into my eye sockets. I could see it in Nika's eyes that she felt bad even if she was smiling and laughing. she popped open the car door and tapped her lap. "well c'mon." she swayed her head, gesturing for me to literally crawl over her lap and get into the backseat, as there isn't a back door. I didn't want to be rude so I sighed and crawling over Nika's lap and into the backseat. I was hovering over her long enough to smell the beachy sunscreen smelling perfume she had on. her hands grazed my thigh that was exposed after my skirt had started to hang down from my position. thank God the cheer uniforms had shorts under the skirts because when I was almost in the back seat next to Ice Brady and KK Arnold, my skirt lifted up right in Nika's face. I almost fell face first into the backseat before I felt Nika's hands grip onto my waist to support me until I was sitting down. I let out a sharp and quick sigh while fixing my hair and and un-ruffling my skirt, I looked into the driver seat to see Paige holding back tears of laughter. I could practically see how red Nika was from the back of the head rest she had her hair pressed against.

i didn't expect the car ride to be as comforting as it was. the entire drive was basically just the girls either singing or asking me questions about cheer. it was all fine before Nika decided to speak up about why I was sobbing on the sidewalk.

"so what was going on with you earlier? before we very obviously saved your ass." I couldn't help but laugh at her remark but quickly got more serious when Paige turned down the music so everyone could hear me. I felt like I was put on a stage with a microphone in a pretty pink dress waiting to win Miss America with everyone's eyes on me while they waited for me to answer.

"oh it was nothing just stuff about my boyfriend...." I tried to shake off the question even though a part of me wanted to scream how much I hated him. I trailed off and glanced to the side to find an unconvinced KK staring at me. KK is funny, I always see her jumping around after a win and shes always filled with energy.

I shrugged and threw my head back before actually giving in. "fine. he's like, really shitty honestly. I want to break up but I can't." the car was silent for a couple seconds while I patiently waited for someone to speak. "what way of shitty? like wants to break up constantly but wont or like- another way of shitty" Paige asked without making any eye contact.

another way for sure. every other way that you could think of Paige.

"guilt tripping manipulative way I guess?" I said, my voice slightly cracking. Nika clicked her tongue as she reached around her seat and looked back at you. "you know you don't have to stay. I know its hard to not stay but you aren't obligated to stay." thank you. that the only thing I was needing to hear in the past year I had been with Asher. I know I'm not obligated to stay with him but Jesus it feels like it. "thanks." the car ride was silent for a couple more minutes before Paige pulled into the driveway of my cheer practice building.

I was just about to get out of the car before realizing that ice was in front of the door I should've been getting out of. I had to crawl over Nika's lap again. I tossed my duffel bag into her lap and its like she could read my brain when she opened her door and gently set the bag out side. but this time she put down her car seat so that there was a (mainly) flat surface for me to crawl over. instead of crawling, I lifted my feet over Nika's body first and then slid myself over her. my ass gently bumps against her lap, almost sending a loud gasp from my lips. there her hands were again. I thought everything was going by quickly but she still had enough time to wrap her fingers around my waist and lifted me from the back seat out the door.

it was honestly hard for me to speak after having to be that close to a practical stranger in the span of 20 minutes but I tried my best.

"thank you guys for the ride. good luck on your game!" as I was waving goodbye while walking down the sidewalk towards the door of the building, Nika yelled out.

"y/n? I'll see you there right?"

oh my fuck she wants to see me at the game. she actually WANTS me to be there.

all I could manage to do without folding over and passing out of the concrete was throw a thumbs up from behind me and continue walking. the moment I stepped or slid out of that car, all the thoughts came back, rushing through my head. how the fuck was I supposed to focus on cheer when my relationship was on the brink of ending. I felt tears well up in my eyes just thinking about it. obviously I wanted things to end but its been a year and a couple months. I don't know how I was going to just break up and be fine. when I swung open the doors to my cheer studio I saw coach and couple other girls sitting down, tying their shoes and fixing each other's hair. coach waved at me once I got through the door. I made my way over to the other girls and gave them each a hug with a very fake warm smile plastered on my face.

"hiii, are you okay you look like you've been crying?" Taylor spoke in a soft, caring mom kind of tone. why is everybody so worried about if I was crying or not. its not that big of a deal just let me cry. I nodded aggressively "mhm. yeah I'm good." the two girls, Taylor and Caydence, looked at each other and they obviously could see through me. I held back even more tears when they shrugged their shoulder continued talking, I knew they didn't believe me but they didn't push an answer out of me like Nika and Paige.

a part of me has always been interested in basketball but the other part kept telling me that I was talented enough or masculine enough. Nika was always an inspiration to me even before I started cheering for UConn. sometimes after practice, as long as there is no performances and I'm not being held back by my coach, I like to go to the public gym and practice basketball by myself. every time I do, I always wish that there was someone there to practice with me. that is part of the reason I went on to cheer for UConn basketball.

i was still stretching when some more girls off the team walked through the door. makeup done, lashes curled ready to go. I still sat in the corner with a couple mascara streaks running down my face. sadly, there weren't any wipes anywhere in the studio so I had to sit with dried cracky mascara on my face instead of my lashes. I stood up after stretching and actually set my bag and water bottle down at some benches before going up to my best friend, Farah, and squeezing her tightly. she had just walked through the door holding a bag with her cheer supplies and another that had a bow tied around it. it wasn't too big but definitely noticeable. my eyes were immediately drawn to it but I waited for her to bring it up after we finished hugging.

"don't act like you aren't wondering what's in here." she shook the yellow back in front of me, letting me take it out of her hands. I scrimmaged through it and found a piece of paper in the bottom. it looked blank until I flipped it over.

mother fucking Farah.

"YOU GOT ME TICKETS TO OLIVIA RODRIGO? WHAT THE FUCK?" I squealed loud enough for the entire team and coach to hear. all eyes were on me but I didn't care. there was literally no reason for Farah to do this at all. shes just a really fucking nice person. she bent over, holding her stomach with laughter pouring out of her mouth. I felt all sorts of feelings rushing through me. confusion, happiness, more confusion, a little bit of sadness because there was only one ticket at the bottom of the bag.

that when everything died down. I realized that she only got one? no way.

"wait did you-" I began to question but Farah stopped me by shoving her finger over my lips.

"nope." she pulled out her hand from her bag and there were two other tickets. why two? why two. two. fuck.

"for Asher!" she held onto my wrists more excited than she was walking inside of the studio. that giddy smile on her face fell quickly. there is no way I'm bringing Asher with to a concert that he wouldn't even give a shit about. all he'd care about is getting in my pants afterwards because my feet will hurt too much to walk away and say no. I pulled myself towards Farah's ear and whispered softly "Asher cannot come with. I'm planning on breaking up with him."

Farah's eyes widened once I pulled my mouth away from her ear. all she did was nod and dropped my hands back to my side. we walked over to the bench and continued waiting for the rest of the team to show up.

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

practice went smooth. now its about to start. UConn and Iowa. fuck I'm nervous. I've been a UConn fan for years and this game is one of the things I've always wanted to see in person. they start introducing players while the cheer squad was doing our main routine to the rhythm of a random Taylor swift song. I think it's I knew you were trouble. ironic. the one thing I was not allowed myself to think of was Asher. if I wanted to think about him I would just trick myself into thinking about Nika. wait that came out wrong. anyways. I was just let down on the floor after doing a thigh stand and the team continued dancing until it was finally tip off. I scurried off the court with the rest of my team and sat to the side while a couple girls above me kept moving around with pom poms. we got the ball first and stayed in the lead for a while.

as much as I was pretending to focus on the shots all the players were making, I couldn't peel my eyes away from Nika. she was on Caitlin Clark's ass. not even letting her shoot a three pointer. shes doing so good. she had her hands surrounding the ball, barely letting Clark shoot at all. I admire her for her defensive skills. I believe her aggression really helps with that. shes passionate. she obviously wants to win but on court it looks like shes playing with her life on the line. but she does it with ease. the one thing I kept forgetting was that this could be her last college game. ever. no one knows where shell go after UConn. lots of people are saying overseas and I think that would be the death of me. I watched every move she made. not in a stalker way but in an invested in her game way. the way her hair swayed back and forth while she shuffled around Caitlin. the way she already had a couple balls of sweat falling off of her forehead. I would be lying to myself if I didn't think she looked really hot right now.

and I'm up again. Caydence was holding onto my hips before she tossed me in the air, I landed on her and angels palms before flipping off and landing feet flat on the floor. still holding a pretty fake smile on my lips. once it was someone else's turn to do a crazy flip, I took the chance and looked back at the bench, watching as Nika took multiple sips out of a Gatorade water bottle. her hand rested on Paige shoulder while she shot something that probably motivational and worded beautiful to Paige's ear.

the game was going smooth until the 4th quarter. I could feel my blood boiling while watching the timer tick lower and lower without our score going higher. this cant be happening. 3.9 seconds on the clock. I could practically feel the vibrations of every UConn fan tapping their feet waiting for someone to shoot a three pointer and give us the win. but no. a foul was called on Aaliyah. I don't think it was a foul but what do I know.

as much as I was desperate for us to win, I knew we wouldn't be taking home the win this time. 4.6 seconds. now Paige. what is it with these bullshit calls.

i never liked Iowa. in my opinion, Clark is good at basketball but can be conceited and over hyped. of course I didn't want anyone to come at me with that when Iowa "wins the natty" so i'll have to keep that in my head for now.

i started calming down, trying to accept the fact that there wasn't a point going on but they from the far side of the court I saw Caitlin Clark. the basketball player dubbed as the goat and a women's basketball savior, bounce a basketball off of her so called friend? fuck that shit. I almost stood up and sprinted across the court. me and Paige may not be close but I cant take shit like that. Farah rested her hand on my thigh, telling me to not do anything. because its "out of my control"

it could be in mine. just saying.

and just like that, number 20 gets the ball, throws it in the air, and declares the win for Iowa. I could physically feel my face getting hotter with each tear I saw fall from Nika's eyes. Iowa doesn't deserve this. they have everything. and UConn gave up everything. I couldn't stop myself from crying too. I shoved my face in my hands trying to dry the tears that were slowly ruining my eye makeup/ I feel fucking terrible. how could UConn give so much for this and barely get anything back. just the noise of all the Iowa fans cheering and laughing and the sight of them smiling made me sick. I wont even hide it. I was jealous. jealous that they had such dick riding refs.

who said that.

i wanted, so badly, to stand up and wrap my arms around Nika and Paige and Aaliyah and all the others to just give them some sort of recognition but we had to go. coach led us through the tunnel and that was it. I sat on a bench in our locker room, debating what to do.

and I figured out what to do. right then and there.

even with my hands on my forehead, crying and stressing, the inside of me was happy because I knew that someone wouldn't be feeling so bad on April 22nd.

#nika muhl #basketball #lesbian #uconn wbb #uconhuskies #paige bueckers #never be like you #Nika muhl x reader #Iowa wbb #nika x reader #cambrinkisbae

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asumofwords · 11 months

Text

Smoke, Fire and Ash

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence, death, forced marriage, and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on.

This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: You are the eldest daughter of Rhaenyra and Daemon Targaryen. You are forced to navigate the difficult surroundings of your upbringing and the eventual disintegration between your family and the Hightower's relationship. What will happen when your older and estranged uncle suddenly takes a more sinister interest in you? (Dark!Aemond x Reader)

Masterlist

Characters: Aemond Targaryen X Reader, HOTD characters.

Note: I am home from the shit show that was my work meeting haha. Feels good to be back in my own bed, and I will hopefully be able to write more and post more often. I went back through all my planned chapters and holy shit I have a lot hahaha, might have to cut it down a bit oops. Thanks for all your love and support as always and thank you so much for all the beautiful birthday wishes!!!! <3 Enjoy

Chapter 69: Alone

You had stewed in your chambers, staring out the window at the water, willing the oceans swell to calm your rising waters, but it did nothing but let you sit in your bitter anger and resentment. Thinking of all the ways he had hurt you. Of all the ways he had wronged you. Of all the ways the Greens had taken everything from you.

From your mother.

From your brother.

It spiralled out of control and you found the anger mount within you at a frightening pace. Your blood rushed in your ears as you stared into the fire, pacing in front of it. Thinking more and more of what they had done.

What they would do.

What they could do.

What you were forced to do.

Forced to lay beneath a man you did not love. Forced to have his seed inside of you as he thrusted above, or below. Forced to kiss him back. Forced to smile at him, and dress prettily for him like a doll.

You were voiceless.

Powerless.

Defenceless.

You thought of how you had crawled on top of him and ridden him, seeking your own pleasure and basking in his. How you had moaned and whined, uttering his name to the Gods as you peaked. How you had let him touch you, hold you, whisper praise to you.

The doors to the chambers had opened, and Aemond entered quietly, whispering your name as you stilled. Without turning to face him, you kept your eyes on the flames, watching them devour a log inside. Wishing the flames were devouring the Keep. Devouring the King.

Devouring him.

Aemond came to stand beside you, and you saw in your periphery that he placed your book down on the coffee table beside you. He uttered your name again, but you refused to meet his gaze. Refused to meet his eye knowing that you would lash out at him.

Strike him.

Curse at him.

You wanted to hurt him.

You wanted to so badly that your fingers twitched at your side, forcing you to bite the inside of your cheek, tasting the bitter copper of your blood flood over your tongue. Your hands shook in anger, bawled in tight fists as he continued to stand there.

What did he want?

My blessing?

To fuck her?

To leave me with them?

Fuck you.

Aemond whispered your nickname, trying once more to gain your attention, standing still as he watched you, but all it did was make you bristle.

“Dracarys.” Came the whisper of Lucerys.

You blinked, and let your eyes drift to the window away from the raging flamed.

There, seated on the seat beneath, was a mop of brunette hair you wished to bury your face into. The boy you missed dearly. Someone you would do anything to have back, including giving up your own life for his.

Lucerys sat, wet, watching you, stiff backed, but eyes dangerously angry. His hair stuck to his forehead, robes dripping below him creating a puddle on the chambers stone floors.

He reflected the anger within you.

You clenched your jaw, refusing to turn to look at Aemond. Instead, keeping your eyes on Lucerys who continued to whisper over, and over.

Dracarys.

You heard Aemond sigh beside you. His footsteps moving away from you, halting by the door. Pausing as though he wished to say more. As though he wished to do more. Thinking, waiting, wanting.

The chambers doors opened and then closed.

Lucerys leant back against the window, watching you as you watched him. He looked comfortable now that Aemond was gone, relaxed, at ease. Like all the anger had drained out of him with his uncle’s leave.

His head tilted, dark curls flopping over his forehead. His robes had stop dripping, the sound of water ceasing in the room, only to be filled with the crackling wood.

You moved to step forward, to reach out, to touch him.

Would you feel him as you felt Helaena?

The young boys lips split into a smile, teeth showing and cheeks rosy. And with a blink, he was gone.

You exhaled the breath you didn’t know you were holding and looked at the empty space he was was in. The space looked cold, sparse.

Haunted.

Why did he have to leave?

Why could he not stay?

The book on the coffee table caught your attention, and all the rage and anger came back.

Grasping the book, you hurled it across the room, pouring all your anger and resentment, fear and disgust, into the movement as you screamed. The book flew across the room and hit the wall beside the window where Lucerys had been. It fell to the floor with a heavy thud, cover half ripped off in the impact, and pages bent beneath its weight on the stone floors.

You stood, chest heaving as you stared at it without moving.

When the sun had sunk below the horizon, the maids came to your chambers bringing your supper, and only yours, placing it on the table. The smell filled the room and your stomach rumbled. Only then did you move away from the book, only then did you make your way to the table to eat alone.

One of the girls moved to pick the book up from its discarded spot on the floor, seeing how your eyes never left its sight.

“Leave it.” You all but barked as the girl neared it, hand outstretched to pick it up.

The maid rescinded her hand beside her, uttering an apology and moved to leave the chambers with the other girl quietly.

You ate alone, stewing your anger. Replaying the events that had led up to this very moment over and over in your head. Every single waking moment where Aemond had imposed himself onto you. Where he had come to haunt you. Where he had come to hurt you.

His visits to your chambers when Viserys was still King.

The glass in your feet.

His fingers in your core.

His hand around your neck.

Lucerys.

The fall.

The wedding.

All of it.

The longer you thought, the more resentful you became, drinking the entirety of the decanter of wine, not caring for the headache that would no doubt greet you when you rose in the morning.

The maids came later when you had finished to tidy the chambers and ready you for bed.

They did not greet you, nor did they bid you a good night. The two girls seemed to have sensed your anger, and most likely had learnt that keeping their head down and staying silent was the best way to deal with a Targaryens fury.

They would have learnt this the hard way from serving Aemond.

When your hair had been brushed, and you were dressed for bed, you moved to lay in the sheets of the bed and stared at the ceiling thinking. Waiting. Turning possibilities over in your head. Thinking of the promises you made to your family, thinking of your duties to them.

You fell asleep that evening, the flames within being doused with wildfire.

And you let it consume you.

When you woke the next morning, your head throbbed, but your thoughts were clear. The maids came, and you greeted them softly. If you were to do this right, you needed their sympathy, their loyalty, their love. You needed to be kind to them, not bark orders at them like your husband.

You ate alone, were dressed with their help, and once you were readied for the day, you stood and walked to the side of the room where the book had spent the night.

You stood over the black leather cover, looking down at how it had half of its spine separated from the glue. It was broken. Ripped apart. Yet it was still the same. Still held the same words of ‘The Fourteen Flames’. Still held the tales of the Gods. It was still, despite its outer appearance, a holder of memories, truth, secrets.

Crouching down, you picked the book up, careful to not rip the spine any further, feeling its weight in your hand. The pages were a little bent from where it had fallen atop itself. The crisp paper creased and marked.

The Septa would be enraged if she saw this.

With a gentle hand, you smoothed out the bends and looked at the pages.

Still the same words, still the same tales, just marked.

Never to be unmarked again.

Scarred.

You were the same.

Scarred. Bent.

Broken.

No.

Not broken.

Different.

Changed.

You took the book down to the Gardens by the water to read.

The sun peaked behind clouds, occasionally casting warmth upon you. The soft formations moved across the skies, growing heavier with each passing, and you wondered if it would rain.

You hoped that it wouldn’t.

You spent your first day alone, as you always did, seated where you and Helaena always had, looking out at the water and reading. And when the day had ended, and the evening had creeped in, you went back to your chambers and ate alone, as always, and went to bed alone, as you would with the absence of Aemond.

You had passed Aegon in the halls on the way back to your chambers, skin prickling and anger simmering as he smiled at you and continued on walking with Otto and Jasper Wylde.

That smile followed you into your dreams.

When you woke the next morning, you followed the familiar routine, though not having seen Lucerys again, and sat yourself at the water with the torn book. You wondered if you could ask for some glue, or perhaps should take it to the Septa or Maester or maids, and have them fix it for you.

“I thought I would find you here.”

You lifted your head at the voice to see Aegon approaching you, smirk on his face and hands behind his back. Ser Cole stood behind him as he approached you, armour tight on his body and crisp, white cloak clasped to his pauldrons. Your eyes flitted between the knight and the false King.

Aegon’s green robes had a large, golden, three headed dragon on the front.

You looked at your eldest uncle expectantly, waiting for him to continue speaking.

He walked around the space, looking at the table and chairs, the bench, and the flowers surrounding you in false interest. When he got close to where you sat, you shut the book in your lap with a thud, finger in-between the pages to keep your place.

Cole stayed where he was, at the entrance of the sitting space, hand on the pummel of his sword.

“Thought I would give my niece some company, now that her husband has gone from Kings Landing again.” Aegon sat himself on the pillow that Helaena favoured, and you had to force yourself not to scream.

“Aemond is performing his duties to the realm.” You replied, watching the man closely as a smirk wound its way on his face.

Aegon cocked his head as the smirk rose higher, “I wasn’t aware that his duty was between a woman’s legs.”

Cunt.

You breathed deeply, pushing down the fire that burned you hotly.

“The Prince assured me that his duties lay elsewhere,” Lie, “By your command.”

Aegon frowned at you in a mocking manner, a falsely sad smile as though he pitied you, or found you to be simple.

“I am sure that he did. My brother has other interests in Harrenhal that I don’t require.”

Was Aemond lying?

Aegon smirked as he saw your composure falter. Standing, the King looked out at the water.

“Helaena loved this spot.”

Your brows furrowed as you stared up at him.

How did he know that?

“She spoke of you often.” He added, but his voice was quieter.

Softer.

Nostalgic.

You watched as Aegon turned his head, his silver waves moving to look down at you. And for the first time, you saw some form of mourning for his sister-wife.

His eyes were soft, and if you weren’t mistaken, held sorrow. But as soon as you had witnessed the storm cloud pass over his eyes, it went, and instead, the King grinned slimily down at you before bidding you a good day.

You watched in confusion as Aegon left you behind to sit with your thoughts.

Did he love her?

Did he regret what he did to her?

Was there a small piece of Aegon that mourned her death and descent to madness?

Did he mourn his son?

You shook the thought away.

No.

No one who loves someone would do what he did to her.

You went to bed that evening with a crawling feeling of being watched. You had to remind yourself that Aemond was not there.

You were alone in your chambers.

And you woke alone the next day too.

The same routine, just as bland as the last.

Wake. Eat. Dress. Walk to the gardens to read.

Yet now there was a new part of your routine which set you on edge, something that you couldn’t seem to escape, like flies on a hot day, or the smell of soldiers after training. It came as a great annoyance, an irritant. Something that stirred fear and fury alike within.

Something that you couldn’t shake, no matter how hard you tried.

Someone.

Aegon.

The King came to visit again that day, Ser Cole behind him as he came to observe the water with you for a moment, if only, just for a moment.

He made a comment about the weather, which had earned him a look of confusion, which had then earnt you a laugh in return. Aegon asked if you were in want of anything in the Keep whilst Aemond was away, and you had answered, uncertainty in your tone, that there was nothing you were in need of.

Aegon had left you to your reading, yet you found that you could not concentrate for the rest of the day. When you returned to your chambers that evening, you had a crawling sensation upon your skin and felt dread begin to settle in.

Aegon’s sudden interest in you whilst Aemond was away was not a good sign. His sudden interest in your wellbeing, the weather and your peace was not a change in heart, nor was it a King doing his duties.

It was a man who was plotting.

A man who was fertilising the seed that he had sown, checking if it was time to reap.

A man who clearly had interests in Aemond being away for long periods of time.

The next morning you refused to go down to the Gardens, instead keeping to your chambers, having your meals brought to you by the maids. You told yourself you were not hiding, and that you were tired. That you wished to see if Aegon would notice your absence and storm the chambers. That you were testing him in the same way he was testing you.

You wrote a letter to your family, telling them that you would regrettably not be able to join them for Jacaerys and Baela’s union, and each stroke of the quill made your heart break. You had cried as you wrote the letter, and tears landed upon the ink, causing it to smudge the ink, and the parchment to dry funny.

You promised that upon Aemond’s return, that you would find when was best for you both to visit them. Perhaps on Driftmark, instead of Dragonstone. You had told them about the beautiful flowers in the Garden, and even made reference to one of the songs the Septa had sung.

You described the purple flowers, and hoped that they would understand, and that should anyone from the Greens read the letter, they would suspect naught. They would simply read the letter and see a lonely girl, writing to her family about the days that drag on, and the nights that get cold.

That evening you could scarcely eat your meal as you mourned the union you would miss. A union in which you desperately wished to see. A union of love. A union of promise. A union of happiness and goodwill.

Something you wished you had.

You felt a calmness in knowing that Baela would not meet the same fate as you. For to wish your own sister that fate would be a cruel thing indeed. You knew that their marriage would last, and bring laughter and happiness for them both. And you knew that Jacaerys would be loved and would love fiercely in return.

When you finally retreated to bed that evening, letter drying of your tears upon the table, you found that you tossed and turned until the hour of the owl, and the sun began to rise. When at last you did fall to sleep, you were haunted by dreams of a woman with black hair and glowing green eyes.

When you rose the next morning, you decided to go for a walk around the Keep, opting to not return to the Gardens until later that day, when the sun had begun its descent in the sky, and Aegon would no doubt have lost his interest, if indeed he had any at all, and went back into his chambers to drink himself into a stupor.

Your feet ached from how much you had walked, and your stomach growled in protest. You had not stopped to eat, aimlessly walking around the Keep, checking each room, each chamber, and each corridor for how many guards were stationed there. If there were any guards at all. You would turn corners quickly and pause, pressed against walls as if in thought, but waiting to see if any familiar face followed behind.

Watching you.

You watched the people go about their day, noting their appearance, their colours, and any house sigils they have have adorned. You used the day well, finding that every single passage to the Dragon Pit was heavily guarded, and a small servant boy with bright blue eyes seemed to round the castles corners at break neck speed when you would hide amongst the shadows.

A day of observing had helped in more ways than one.

One one hand, you were beginning to recognise members of the court, their houses, their spouses, and their duties in the Keep. You were learning the movements of guards and knights. And were not at all surprised about the small servant boy following you. You wondered if he was a spy for Larys, or for somebody else.

Perhaps Aemond?

But then on the other hand, your walking and observing, counting and hiding, gave you an opportunity to desperately avoid the company of the King.

The more you moved, the less likely he would find you, and the more you would learn.

The birds chirped in the trees as they readied themselves for their sleep, and the waves below rolled softly up the cliffs. A calm spread through you as you looked out at the water, leaning over the edge of the wall. The sky was a soft pink, like dragonfruit flesh in the spring, or the peonies that sat at the bottom of the Gardens.

“I’d say that you have been avoiding me.”

He was like mould that you thought you could clean away. Hands scrubbing the dark spores until the surface was clean, and you would stand back in triumph and look at your success. A false sense of conquest. Only for it to return some days, months, or even years later, Aegon would come back to haunt you.

You didn’t bother to turn to face him as he came beside you, the sound of Cole’s armour clinking behind you noisily. He could not sneak about the Keep even if he tried. He should put bells on instead to announce his arrival. Aegon leant against the ledge beside you, looking out at the water and the sunset.

“Perhaps you should take it as a subtle hint.” You purred, hoping the tone would keep him at bay.

Aegon laughed in earnest, a guttural laugh that was not spiteful or mocking in its tone. It was a true laugh to your comment.

You sighed.

“Does it anger you?” Aegon asked, curiosity laced in his voice.

“What?”

“That I am King.”

Yes.

Dracarys.

“I didn’t think you were that stupid.” You mused, keeping your eye on the water as a way to keep the rising anger locked down.

Fucking stupid cunt.

Aegon laughed again, leaning further forward on the edge as he looked over it and down to the cliffs and ocean below. Images of you pushing him over and watching him fall to his death flashed across your mind.

It could be easy.

A hard push would send him tumbling over and down on to the jagged rocks below. With any luck, he wouldn’t die straight away, and would spend his last living moments in agony upon the cliffs, body twisted and broken.

But a quick death would be too merciful for him. As much as you wished to see his head dashed against the rocks, skull and blood around his head like a halo, you knew it would be too swift, too unjust, too painless.

“I’ve missed our little talks.”

“I wasn’t aware that we had them.” You quipped back, voice light.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

“It was a lot easier than I thought it would be.”

Aegon waited for you to ask ‘what’ but you didn’t. You had no desire to play into his little games, and so silence spread between the both of you uncomfortably, and fell flat like a bad joke. Aegon huffed at your silence, before turning to look at you. You could see his face in your periphery as he observed you.

“Mother had told me when we were young, that I was the challenge to Rhaenyra’s succession. I didn’t believe her at the time, but it is my birthright to be King.”

You finally turned your head to face Aegon, a triumphant smile on his lips as he saw that you had finally turned to look at you.

“Viserys never named you his heir. Not once.” You looked him up and down, pausing at the crown atop his head, “Not once in his life, did he see potential in you. Not once, did he see you as being worthy. But he saw it in my mother.”

“And yet I sit on the Iron Throne.”

“A punishment from the Gods, I’m sure.”

Aegon smirked, hand coming touch you. You stiffened and grit your teeth as one hand came to touch the hair that had fallen over your shoulder. He held it in his fingers before gently pulling on it.

You stared at him blankly, but within you were fuming. Screaming at him in your head.

You are no King. You could never be worthy of being a King. You are nothing but scum.

A waste of space. A waste of flesh, and air.

A pile of dragon shit would have more right to the throne than you.

You are filth.

I cannot wait to see you burn.

I cannot wait to hear your scre-

“I have missed your fire, niece. It gets boring in the Keep with all these Lords.”

“I’m sure you can find the comfort of someone’s cunt to dive into.”

“Only yours.”

You sneered at Aegon and slapped his hand away from your hair. The sound of Ser Cole moving towards you came from the side. Aegon lifted a hand to halt the knight and quiet fell around you.

“Aemond should return soon. I am sure your mood shall improve once he has warmed your bed. After he has warmed Alys'.”

“And you will return to your empty bed.”

“Did you bleed when he took your maidenhead?”

You blinked.

You were so taken back by the comment that you could not even respond.

Aegon smiled as he looked at you.

“Does he fuck you often? He is such a serious man, always brooding. I wonder if he takes it out on you.”

“Your repulsiveness never ceases to amaze me.” You snipped, turning your body to face him, hands pressed at your side to prevent you from hitting your uncle.

A lazy smile stretched up his face.

“Does he make you scream on his cock? Does he kiss your cunny til you weep?”

You breathed a heavy breath out your nose.

It could be so easy.

You could simply grasp his shoulders and hurl him over the edge. If he grasped your robes and took you with him, you would not be upset. At least he would be dead and you would be free.

Aegon’s hand came to touch your hair again and you had to force yourself to hold still, touching the strand as it fell down the front of your gown, but his hand did not stop there. It trailed a path down the strands and grazed itself over your breast.

Bile rose in your throat as he openly touched you. A thick finger trailed over your nipple and you felt it stiffen beneath your robes. His hand finally fell back to his side, eye locked on your breast, clearly able to see the way your body had reacted.

Shame and disgust curled around your gut and you fought to not gag. You thought of the night in the dungeons and swallowed thickly, rushing away from him without a word. You fled back to your chambers, heart racing and tears rising to your eyes.

You moved through the Keep so quickly, so angrily, so fearfully, that your breath was caught in your throat and your eyes stung with tears.

There was no escape from him.

There was no escape from this.

You wished to act now. To push forward and cast the first blow, but it was too early. It was too rushed. And you knew that you had to endure for this to work. For the pieces to fall into place. For the Gods to give you a sign.

And until then, you would wait, and endure, and suffer.

You passed the knight at the door of your chambers, swinging the door open and all but racing into the chambers. The door shut quietly behind you.

Your eyes were blurred with tears as you made your way to the fire, staring at its flames, trying to steady your breath and fury. Trying to force the bile that sat in the back of your throat back down into your stomach.

It was too much.

It was overwhelming.

It was-

“Y/n?”

Thanks so much for reading along with me, if you wish to be added to the tag list please let me know :) Likes and reblogs are greatly appreciated ! Enjoy <3

Tag List:

@izzicle @ej-shitchats @may-machin @alegria1580 @witchy-jadda @videovampire @inkdelicious @queteimporta39 @virtualsweetsqueen @fo-cus @auratiqs @feyres-fireheart @queenofshinigamis @asoiafwh8re @teasandcrumpets @shesjustanothergeek @grungegrrrl@queenofsarcazm @marihoneywk @curlszx88 @virgogaia @loser-keiji @asoiafwh8re @whore-of-many-hot-men @vipervixxen @theonewiththeimaginaryboyfriends @watercolorskyy @lavendervisions @mazmack666 @chokefrog @orangejump-suit @nik2blog @serrhaewinin @ohemgeewhat @winxschester @cryptidsrcool @drinking-tea-and-be-obsessed @celestedonut @bloodyvelvet777 @iamapersonthatsalive @av-sos @yentroucnagol @sanzu-s @opheliaas-stuff @bellameshipper @maviee @persephonerinyes @neytiri-09 @ensnaredinwonderland @xbluegracex @sotragedynut @nattieot7 @shesawaywiththefairies-blog @coffedraven @prettycutebunny @celestedonut @the-jess-life @ssulfurr @out-of-life @madislayyy @crazylokonugget @cicaspair418 @katwmk @relminnie @milovart @teagrex @visenyaverse @bellameshipper @toodlesxcuddles @tempt-ress @dontmindmereading7 @qyburnsghost @55gyi53vtnquwziq5 @notnormalthings-blog @maidmerrymint @qyburnsghost @madislayyy @chelseaouat @hc-geralt-23 @daenerys-supremacy @rabbit-reveries @mari0302 @fallinglikeash @ivy-targaryen @nana-is-reading

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lyuenger · 15 days

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** Authors note. Obvious C3E91 spoilers.

[[ update, thanks to @ReaderOfDragons sending me an invite I'm now on AO3, and it's posted! I did make a few changes/updates/fixes - so read it there for the updated/better version ]]

Also, my first fan fic (and I don’t have an Ao3 invite yet, so I’m sharing here). The moments after played in my head, and the players didn’t act it all out, so I figured I would share tge version in my ''mind palace'. I’ll be sharing more art soon, now that my main job is on summer break.

Note that it switches perspectives. Also, pasting it here messed with my formatting (but I think I fixed most of it).

Faithful End

Chet couldn't hear the sounds of the metal clanking around him, only the ringing in his ears, as he stood in shock and disbelief. The air tasted of blood, sweat and red earth. Quickly his world snapped back into focus and he began to survey the battlefield. What remained of Otohan was charred and strewn about near the freshly made crater on the cave floor.

Orym.

Orym lay still and limp, covered in blood (surely both his and his foes), his sword in the nearby dirt.

A slight rise of his chest showed he was still alive, somehow.

He's alive.

Ash..

A quick look to where he had finally fallen at Otohans blade showed Imogen and Laudna rushing to aid him.

Chet rushed to Orym, knelt down, and fumbled in his pockets until he touched the cool glass of his last healing potion. He uncorked the bottle, pulling the limp Orym up and cradling him into position. “You did good, my boy.” He quietly croaked, as he carefully poured the red fluid into his mouth.

Orym’s chest rose, filling with air, and fell again as he started to exhale, then cough. Green, tired eyes opened and looked up into his own. Chet sighed in relief.

******

Orym coughed, the metallic taste of iron and the familiar herbal taste of a healing potion filled his mouth.

He hurt.

Everything hurt.

He just wanted to sleep, but he felt someone gently holding him, stroking his hair. He lazily opened his eyes, and saw the blue eyes of Chetney looking at him with concern.

Otohan. I have to kill Otohan and get everyone back safe.

With a new burst of adrenaline flowing through his veins he quickly, albeit unusually clumsily, pushed onto his feet. Intense green eyes, framed by the fresh blood that smeared his face, darted around.

There was an odd stillness on the battlefield.

Laudna and Imogen were clutched together.

Shaking.

In fear?

No. Crying. They were crying. Sobbing.

He lowered his eyes and saw an empty glass bottle abandoned near Imogen.

Alert green eyes shifted slightly, resting on Ashton. He was sitting next to them, face buried in a large stoney hand. He couldn't make out his words, but he knew Ash… “Fuck. Shit. Piss.” Surely.

His eyes shifted once more and discovered a newly formed crater, and the charred and bloody remains scattered around the red and now sparkling earth. The sight caused his heart to skip, until he recognized the features… Otohan.

Oh thank the Gods.

He hadn’t believed they would survive that fight, but his friends had pulled it off. He closed his eyes and worked to catch his breath… slow his heart rate. It was over.

It would be okay… he gave himself a moment to let the adrenaline subside, and opened his eyes again.

The sparking red soil caught his eyes now. Pieces of metal? Where did all the metal pieces come from?

The gears in his head began to put the information together, but it didn’t seem to want to click into place. His shifting eyes scanned the cave once more and fell on Fearne. His Fearnie…

He watched those big eyes of hers filling as she stepped into the crater bent down.

Wait, what happened… why was she so upset otohan was dead? Why were the others so upset. They won, somehow.

At least this fight. He knew it wouldn't be their last.

He scanned the cave again checking on his friends. Immogen and Laudna were looking pretty battered and drained, but not quite as rough as Ash. Then again, Ash always looked pretty rough. Chet (who had moved over to check on Everoa) looked real rough, but he had went down hard. Luckily FCG had helped him.

FCG. Did he escape? He had been running…

Movement caught his eye, and he looked over in time to watch Fearne stand, clutching a large metallic chunk… what remained of FCGs smiling face. The eyes were cracked and FCGs smile was now disjointed and crooked, but it somehow still felt… warm.

“Letters?” He heard the words croak out of him, as he looked into Fearne’s and then Chets eyes. He read their faces. Tight, with wet eyes. Feeling his heart shattering, he knew.

“No. Nonononono.” The words softly left his lips. Fearne, barely holding back tears, rushed to him. Her comforting arms gathered him up and Orym buried his face into her.

****

Ash woke up, feeling like he had been ran over by a dragon, but that was nothing new. He always hurt. Although he didn’t always feel this weak.

Having friends, with concerned faces, helping him up was new though. So he sat up, and then stared wide eyed at scraps of metal that had settled across the ground.

Why was there metal on the floor?

That color…

The same color as… The color of FCG.

He scanned the room, quickly taking in the destruction. The crater. The remains.

Why?! Why did he do that. We talked about that.

He knew that damn automaton was going to sacrifice himself one day… he had hoped he would get through to him, but no.

No one gets left behind.

But Letters was gone.

His friend was gone. Gone.

Bits spread everywhere across the cave.

He tucked his face into his hand.

“Fuck.

Shit.

Piss.

Damn it.

You self sacrificing litt….” The words that escaped his mouth registered in his brain, and his eyes flew wide with panic.

Wait.

Orym. She got Orym. I have to help Orym.

Eyes darted to where he had seen him fall, and saw Chetney holding him as he set down an empty glass bottle. Orym’s tiny body shuttered as he coughed awake. Ash felt his body exhale in relief.

Orym will be okay. He's a little guy, but the toughest guy I know.

He's okay.

He took a deep breath in an attempt to steady himself, wiped his eyes, and looked around the room again. So many metallic scraps littered the rusty red floor.

“Fuck. Shit. Piss.” He muttered angrily to himself, and punched the ground in frustration.

He vaguely took in Ferane running to Orym and Chet, and the other two witches clinging to one another for another moment before jumping up and rushing around to look for something.

He stood dumbfounded and unsteady, leaning against his hammer and lost in thought, until his eyes caught on an unnaturally bright glint of metal in the cave wall.

No one gets left behind.

The words echo in his head on repeat, but all that escapes his lips is “Fuck.”

He takes several slow strides as his feet lead him to the rocky wall near their exit.

The piece of metal, a distinct shape…

The coin. That. Fucking. Coin.

That fucking coin that he always trusted.

What a lot of damm good it did him.

He jammed his fingers into the rock around the metal, gripped firmly and yanked. The rock crumpled away easily and he palmed the coin, staring at it for a minute before slipping it into his pocket.

“We have to make this count” Chets scratchy voice stated matter of factly. Ashton looked over to see him snatching up the backpack.

“Right.” Ash muttered to himself, and he moved to help the others gather anything they could.

***

The blood and dirt covered halfling wiggled out of Fearne’s arms, so she reluctantly set him down gently, making sure he was steady enough on his feet before fully letting him go. His eyes darted around the debris littered on the ground. He knew, deep down, it was futile, but he helped them gather all the pieces they could.

Fresh Cut Grass.

His body may have been weak from exertion and damage, but Orym’s perception didn't fail him. He could sense Fearne following near him, as he maneuvered towards a shiny chunk that had caught his eye. He wearily crouched and picked it up, turning it over in his small hands carefully, avoiding the sharp edges. Familiar slash marks arched across it. Like blades of grass reaching for the sun, or swaying in the wind. Tiny, calloused fingers, stained a brownish red with the soil and dried blood, carefully caressed the recessed lines in the smooth metal.

Letters.

He closed his eyes and hugged the piece of metal tightly to his chest.

FCG.

Faithful Care Giver.

FRITA. Fuck.

What am I going to tell FRITA…

Unconsciously he gently rubbed the moons on his shoulder. The physical pain taking a backseat to the anguish that burned through him. It was not a new feeling. He didn't like it. He would rather feel the physical pain.

It should have been me…

Letters should be with FRIDA, and I would be with Will. And Dad.

Oh Dad, I failed.

Again.

This is too big, and I'm, I'm too li….

A firm hand gripped his shoulder, breaking him away from those spiraling thoughts. He glanced up, first to the hand, then up Fearne. Her expression was full of concern, her voice soft, warm, and comforting, “You okay?”

He didn't think he knew the answer to that yet, and he knew he couldn't talk without falling apart, so he simply flung himself around her in a tight hug. If she could feel the tears soaking into her skirt, she didn't say anything.

*****

Fearne was barely holding it together. FCG was gone. She had never lost anyone she loved like that. But her best friend needed her, so she focused on him. Orym was a hardened soldier, the Savior Blade of the Tempest. He fought steady and bravely. He was a little guy, but so strong and agile. She had never seen anyone do so many sit ups, or wield a sword with such grace and control.

But his heart was fragile, having already been broken, and not yet fully mended.

Not that it ever could be. Some wounds never fully heal. She was starting to understand that. Her heart began to crumple under the weight of their mutual loss, compounded by seeing the pain in Orym’s face. She could feel his rough, gasping breathing as he clung to her.

She couldn't fix their broken hearts.

So she gently rubbed small circles onto his back instead, pushing away the sad thoughts, and focusing on comforting him.

I can't fix this, but I can remind him that he's not alone.

Orym suddenly jerked his head away from her to look down the cave entrance. She could see the damp (and blood and dirt stained) spot he left behind… Although her clothes were already quite soiled before that. Chet had also glanced over his shoulder at the same time. They must have heard something.

Quietly but firmly Chet informed them “We have to move, we won't be alone here long.”

She watched Orym nod, his face now stern and determined.

A soldier's face.

Orym slipped the hunk of metal he had been gripping into his bag as Fearne lifted him, easily swooping him up and onto her shoulders. Man was he light! And so drained, his grasp weak as he held on. Being so drained from the fight, she was sure he couldn't move as fast as they needed to. And they needed to move fast. They needed to find a safe place. They all needed to rest.

***

“Let's go!” Chetney growled.

“On it!” Ashton raged and punched the wall where the exit was.

“We still need to find the …” Laundna’s frustrated statement was cut short.

“Found it!” Imogen exclaimed, briefly holding up the staff FCG had been carrying. Laudna stopped her search with a sigh of relief, and they made their way to the others.

Smart.

Imogen was smart. Orym had known for a while that she was leadership material. They would need the staff for it's ability to teleport everyone. Soon. Too bad it needed to recharge first. Not to mention, someone would need to attune to it.

Because…

Letters.

Letters was gone.

I failed. I failed Letters. I wasn't enough, even with the powers Nana Morey gave me.

Orym felt a firm squeeze on his leg, grounding him. Fearne kept one hand gripped firmly on his leg to make sure he didn’t slip off and she rushed down the tunnel.

He held onto her with as much strength as he could muster, as the remaining Bell’s Hells fled for their lives. He looked at his friends, all beaten and tapped out, but pushing themselves past their limits once again. Helping to steady one another and make sure everyone was keeping up. Orym hugged Fearne’s head tighter and nuzzled it a little. He had great friends. Weird, but great.

I couldn't save FCG, but for now I need to focus on getting the others home.

Home safe.

Alive. Somehow.

Dad and Will wouldn't stop fighting, and neither will I…

#critical role fanart #cr fanart #lyuenger #my art #bells hells #critical role #bg3 spoilers #bg3 fanfiction #cr spoilers #orym of the air ashari #cr fcg #rip fcg #letters #critical role spoilers #c3e91 spoilers

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anianurst · 5 months

Note

can we have a mini series for the sun and the moon ??? :(

Summary: if you were the moon, Yuji the sun, Megumi the stars, then Satoru was like the earth

A/n: hi anon! hope you like this small conti of my first post. maybe if I can think of another part I'll make a pt 3. this actually turned out to be heavier angst than what I was originally planning (I apologize in advance) I'll say it again: major spoilers for JJK that won't be covered by the anime (yet. probably season 3)

Warning(s): spoilers for the second season (the start of the Shibuya arc), as well as manga chapters 136+, mental breakdown(on readers part ig), megumi's unrequited feelings brought up again, misdirected anger and all-around messy feelings

A lunar eclipse happens when the Earth moves between the Sun and the Moon. As the Moon orbits, it falls into the Earth's shadow, which causes it to temporarily darken or change colors.

'How did all of this happen?' you think to yourself. There's a stillness in the air as you hug your knees closer to your body, trying to hide from the cruel and unforgiving world.

People mindlessly stand around you, an after-effect of being hit by Satoru's domain expansion. Their eyes roll into the back of their heads, and grumbles of nothing slip past their lips. But, you don't pay any mind to them. Not when you're trying to soak up the residues of Satoru's cursed technique, the last things left of him.

The crater left by Satoru seems to keep you tied to the ground. The scatterbrained people, spilled blood, dead, twisted corpses left behind by that patch-face curse, and the insurmountable damage don't mean anything to you. Not when Satoru's been ripped out of your life.

".....!......"

".....y.....!"

"...y/...!...."

"...y/n-chan...!"

You lift your head, eyes blank and body feeling so heavy, to see Iori. Her shoulders rise and fall as heavy breaths escape her, and you wonder where she came from. Her hair's disheveled, a good representation of the shit show that just went down in Shibuya.

Her mouth moves as she speaks, but nothing seems to be heard. Her hand touches the side of your head, and it's covered in red when she pulls back. Oh, so that's why you can't hear very well; you probably had some severe head damage.

The next couple of moments pass in a flash as you let her pull your body up from the ground and out of that forsaken train station. Everything's hazy as your eyes take in the damage down to the city: buildings destroyed, ash basically covering every, blood that's seemed to dry up and turned an ugly brownish-red, and bodies littering the ground.

"y/n!" Yuji says, his voice full of relief as he rushes towards you. His hands quickly come up to cradle your face as he inspects the new scar underneath your right eye. His eyes shine with a bright reassurance at the fact that you weren't killed in Shibuya. It doesn't take long for his oh-so-bright smile to reach his face as he quickly wraps his arms around you, burying his face into your hair to seek comfort.

Megumi stands some ways back as he watches Yuji gush all over you. A heavy pain fills his heart, but it's quickly replaced with relief that you're okay. He steps towards you, and places a hand on your head and says a quiet welcome to you.

You'd break down right about now if it weren't for the fact that your eyes land on a tall, blonde woman seated on the couch. Yuji and Megumi are pushed away in a blur as you quickly grab Yuki by her collar.

A nasty sneer makes it to your face as you glare at her. A destructive aura surrounds you as a vein pops out from your neck. As quick as you were to move, the others in the room swiftly tried to de-escalate the situation.

"y/n! Calm down! She's here to help us!" Yuji says, his hand coming to place itself on your shoulder.

"Help us? Where the fuck was she when all of your friends were dying, huh?" you spit back, eyes never leaving Yuki's as her face turned blank. "Where the fuck were you?" you repeat. "You're a goddamn special grade sorcerer, and yet the only time you fucking show up is after everyone's dead? You fucking slacker."

Your words cause a heavy shift in the room as everyone listens to your tear into Yuki. They all know it's not her who you're mad at, but it's easier to let you lay all your anger into her.

"We're going to go see Tengen-sama," is all she says as she removes your hand from her shirt, quickly rising to her feet and being the first one to leave the basement where you've all sought shelter.

Yuta (ever the good upperclassman) takes a soft step towards you as he ruffles your hair. "I know it's tough, y/n-chan," he tries to comfort.

But instead of thanks in return, all he gets is a scoff of disgust as you turn to look at him with an indescribable look in your eyes. With a suffocating gaze, you move to follow after Yuki. "The only thing she can do for now is give herself up as tribute when it's time for someone else to die," is all you say, your back facing everyone.

'No! No! No!' is all Yuji thinks as he watches you walk out of the basement. This cruel world can't take away your soft smiles from him. Your kind eyes, warm embrace, and ever-radiant warmness! You are supposed to be his shining moon that he looks to for solace, a safe place where he doesn't have to carry the burdens he's been cursed with.

He's stuck in place before Megumi knocks his arm with his elbow and tells him to follow. With a grave heart, he obeys, hoping (no, praying) that this is just a phase, and you'll go back to the girl he loves.

#yuji itadori x reader #yuji x reader #yuji itadori #one sided love on megumis part #megumi x reader #itadori yuuji x reader #jjk x reader #jjk angst #jjk spoilers #jjk x you #jujustsu kaisen x reader

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sun-stricken · 4 months

Text

Random Gratsu hc’s

Job dates. Training dates. they’ve probably had like 3 real dates not counting anniversaries

Grays childhood nickname for Natsu was Ashes, it was one of the first he called him and probs the only one that wasn’t driven as an insult.

he stopped calling him that at some point in their early teens, but he accidentally let it slip post forming the team and Natsu wouldnt respond to anything else from him for like a week straight

Gray has chronic pain, and he will drape himself over Natsu when it gets bad bc hes a human heating pad. Natsu takes it in stride even if hes having a conversation with someone

If Natsu gets too flustered (or turned on, or angry) his temperature will rise a lot, and since Gray runs cold their first kiss (and plenty after) created light steam

its happened during most of their firsts as a couple and it always makes Gray laugh which in turn causes Natsu even more embarrassment which creates more steam

its a vicious cycle

Gray fell first, Natsu fell harder

Gray isnt bad at flirting per se, hes just awkward ans gets too embarrassed with it. He prefers to ‘flirt’ with actions (looking him up and down, gifts, being touchy)

Natsu unintentionally flirts, hes not the type to hold back and says what he means. So he ends up giving the most genuine, love struck compliments known to man and he doesn’t even realize.

However, his deep hidden knowledge of actual flirting comes out when they’re fighting

Even though they argue constantly they have a rule against going to bed angry that they follow religiously, and if that means they don’t sleep for days on end sometimes thats nobody’s business but theirs.

When they started dating the original plan was to wait to tell people, but Natsu, who was genuinely vibrating with excitement and a need to tell everyone, broke within the first week

(what he doesnt know is Gray actually broke first, telling Cana the day of the first date (He needed moral support and shes had to listen to him moon over him for years! she deserved to know!))

Not that it really mattered, half the guild thought they were dating already

There was no formal announcement, they just started making out in the guild and that was that

ironically, the guildmates closest to them were the ones that had no clue and were surprised. And the ones that werent that close went on abt how ‘it was so obvious’ and ‘how could you not know?’

Once the shock and awe died down, ppl started panicking trying to figure out who to give the shovel talk to

baseline; it was very eventful

Before they started dating every now and then you could catch Gray looking in pure awe at Natsu when hes beating the shit out of someone

He doesnt even try to hide it now, even if hes the one Natsus fighting

Gray, staring at Natsu: hes so hot Lucy, concerned: ??? Hes about to kill that guy!! Gray, sighing dreamily: i know

They dont actually know how they started dating. one minute they were fighting and the next they were making out, two days later they were on a date in a restaurant way too fancy for them. and that was that

Gray has used Natsu as a human lighter so many times over the years its likely he doesnt even carry one any more

Natsu will eat the flame if Gray tries to use one till he asks him

#fairy tail #natsu dragneel #gray fullbuster #gratsu #natray #natsu dragneel x gray fullbuster #fairy tail headcanons #sun strickens ft #theyre whipped for each other

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popjunkie42 · 4 days

Text

sirens in the beat of your heart (read on AO3)

A humble offering for @nestaarcheronweek 2024! This is for @witch-and-her-witcher who is my fearless beta and takes all my writer whining in stride!

Nesta watched Feyre breathe, watched the tension in her with some queasy feeling. At how quickly tempers still flared between them.

So different from her Valkyrie sisters. They were a unit, complements to each other. Unlike the Archeron sisters, always discordant foils to one another. An ongoing play of hurts and scores and changing allegiances that tore at them all.

The specter that was between them: sleeping but still present, of jealousy. Of hunger. Of two skinny, vicious girls scrabbling for whatever was left on the table. Teaching themselves not to need love from the inhospitable desert that was their family.

Feyre took deep breaths until her muscles relaxed, just a little.

Or: Nesta and Feyre try out a bit of their new relationship post-ACOSF.

Behind the cut or Read on AO3.

It wasn’t the dull, constant thud of knives in wood that drove Nesta to the roof.

The truth was she couldn’t sleep, feeling a restlessness inside of her that had her lacing up her boots and leaving Cassian alone, sprawled out on their oversized bed.

The House of Wind was silent at night, except for the wind that sometimes howled outside, the cold stone air smelling crisp and mingling with the ash of dead fires from the evening. Nesta moved quietly, reluctant to break the stillness, heading towards the roof for a breath of fresh air.

At the first noise she had tensed, reaching for a knife that wasn’t at her side, but quickly relaxed when she saw the familiar lazy braid of her sister.

The night sky hung over the training ring like a dome, the jeweled stars of the Night Court sparkling overhead. It was a cold night, for spring, and a chill wind whipped across the stone, masking her footsteps.

Feyre was in leathers that looked a size too tight, thrown on hastily. Her youngest sister was never one to shy away from the casual or practical but tonight she looked…disheveled. Light hairs were whipping out of her braid, a halo of fine, frizzy hair framing her forehead and temples. Her boots were thrown on without being laced. She stumbled in them as she leaned forward for a throw.

There was also the fact that she was flinging knives, alone, at almost three in the morning. At someone else’s house.

Only one knife was lodged in the painted wood target, others littered around it. As Feyre released another blade, the wind kicked up and blew the dagger wide.

“Shit,” she muttered into the night.

“Your stance is crooked,” Nesta observed, walking up behind her before she could grab another blade.

Her sister gasped a little and whirled around, revealing a blotchy red face, blue eyes puffy with tears.

“Nesta,” she said, sounding guilty. Feyre quickly wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand. “Did I wake you up? I’m sorry. I just — I didn’t want to wake anyone at home and I thought it would be quieter —”

“You didn’t wake me. What’s wrong?” Nesta’s mind ran through the options — she wouldn’t be here if something happened to Nyx, and to be alone— “What did he do?” she asked, ready to draw blood.

Feyre laughed in exasperation, sniffling. “Rhys didn’t do anything. I’m fine.”

She turned away, and another knife flew through the air, silent and fast, missing the target by an inch and clattering on the ground amidst a dozen other failed attempts.

“You need to loosen your shoulders.”

“Thanks.” Her voice was clipped, her back stiff. Nesta wondered if she had been hoping for Cassian to be the one to find her. “Do you want me to leave? You can use the ring or whatever you came to do.”

Another knife thudded against the wood, hitting the target but failing to find purchase. Feyre avoided Nesta’s eyes. She swallowed, sorting through the maze of Feyre’s emotions.

If her little sister thought she could hide her avoidance, or if Nesta wouldn’t rise to uncomfortable confrontation, she was sorely mistaken.

“Feyre,” Nesta demanded. That unsettled feeling was only growing, as Feyre’s magic seemed to crackle and hum in front of her. Like her emotions were a storm about to spill out of her body. Nesta hadn’t woken up tonight prepared to deal with this emotional powderkeg.

The way Feyre’s eyes grew cold, like she retreated in on herself, and the stubborn jut of her chin made her look so young. This was the Feyre she was used to tearing apart over a worn dining table — raw with anger and a little self righteousness, fear and cruelty simmering just underneath.

Someone she hadn’t seen in a while, under Feyre the Cursebreaker, under the High Lady.

“I was just stressed, all right? I couldn’t sleep.”

“So you came here to lose all our knives?”

Feyre went stiff.

Her own wisps of wind cast out and gathered the knives, scraping over the stone and into a gently swirling cloud she brought back to the small table beside her. “Maybe I just wanted to throw things. Maybe I don’t care if they hit or not.”

Nesta didn’t know what to say. So she grabbed a knife and stepped up to her sister.

“We don’t have to talk if you don’t want to.” Maybe she could call Cassian. Her stomach sank a bit at the thought, the guilt. Maybe Cassian would be better at this, maybe he wouldn’t fumble and stomp his way through Feyre’s mess of emotions.

Thunk. The tip of Nesta’s knife buried into a bullseye.

Feyre huffed.

This time when her sister stood she anchored her back foot, setting the other in front, bouncing her wrist to feel the weight in her hand.

She pulled back her arm, stepped forward and they both watched as the knife went short, skidding loudly across the stone.

“Your stance is too tight. You need to loosen up your back a little, let your arm go.”

Feyre grunted, her lip curling up in a little angry sneer.

“Hey. Look at me.”

The eyes that met hers were like a beast in the forest.

There was her feral little sister. For a while now she had been the cool High Lady, the head of her house, the responsible sister. To see her old anger flare up again startled Nesta.

They were both far too powerful now to let it get the better of them.

“Take a deep breath. Just like me. And hold. Ready?” Nesta exaggerated the swell of her lungs, the lift of her shoulders. Cold night air filled her chest and she felt her feet ground into the stone, like she was an extension of the mountain.

Feyre fought her at first. She had to close her eyes to take in the deep breaths and let go.

“Let your thoughts come to you, whatever’s on your mind. Just let them fill you and then pass through. Keep breathing.”

Nesta watched Feyre breathe, watched the tension in her with some queasy feeling. At how quickly tempers still flared between them.

Feyre took deep breaths until her muscles relaxed, just a little.

“I’m sorry. I know you’re trying to help,” she finally said.

Nesta’s voice was as cold as ice. “I think maybe we spent so long fighting over scraps, and now it’s hard to remember —”

“That there’s enough?”

Nesta nodded.

It was hard to put into words. She was still getting used to the endless affection that poured from her mate, how she could ask for things and be given them without a thought, without a cost.

Even though a new peace lay between her and Feyre, the old scars were human, and wouldn’t heal so easily.

“Why don’t you tell me why you’re here?”

Feyre sighed again, her eyes focusing on the shining knives in front of her.

“Nyx finally went down and I was trying to fall asleep, but I remembered this fae a few weeks ago who came to petition — she and her family needed help with their farmland since their father died unexpectedly. And I told them we would send assistance — and then I just — forgot.” She swallowed thickly.

“I got up and was at my office trying to find the notes, and Rhys tried to send me back to bed, like he isn’t up working late into the night most days. Like the weight on me isn’t the same as his,” she played with a knife, pricking her fingertips on the tip of the blade idly.

“Then Nyx started crying, and it was like my whole body seized up. It was weird. It was like…my body didn’t belong to me.” Feyre shook her head, looking pale. “I just thought about that family, waiting every day for help, waking up every morning thinking ‘this will be the day.’ And I just…forgot.”

For a moment, something vicious slithered inside Nesta’s gut: a preening, satisfied feeling. At perfect Feyre, finally stumbling for once.

No. Nesta breathed through the thought, watching her sister’s tight face. Checked frantically that her shields were up.

That was an old way of thinking. When she thought they were competing. Let the thought pass through you. Feel it and let it go.

Nesta shifted on her feet. This was her terrain, her familiar training grounds. How would Feyre fit in this space?

She tried to shift the way she saw her sister. How would Cassian, or Azriel, size up a new recruit? What would Nesta feel towards her if she was a new priestess, walking nervously through that door?

How had she felt when she saw Gwyn pass that threshold for the first time, scared and seeking strength? Why was her sister any different?

“I might not be able to give any High Lady advice. But why don’t you pick up a sword? Let your body work it out.”

Feyre shook her head, her arms wrapping around her stomach. “I haven’t trained in months. And — I feel different. My body feels different. Even with everything healed I just feel…changed.”

“We can start at the beginning. I won’t go too hard on you.” Nesta cocked her head, unsure of what to make of the writhing mass of Feyre’s emotions.

“I don’t want this. I don’t want to —” Feyre paused, looking away, unable to meet Nesta’s eyes. “I don’t want some competition to see who’s the better fighter. You can be the warrior now. I don’t want it. Maybe I never did.”

Nesta swallowed. Thought about the emptiness that came when she first spilled blood –

She let the thought pass through. Focused back on Feyre, circling her slowly, watching the way she was tracked with her sister’s eyes, how her body turned instinctively to keep Nesta in her sights.

Not a fighter, she said.

This one needed an anchor. A goal. Something outside of her own panic to hold to, to pull herself up.

“Koschei is coming.”

Her words were casual. As if he were arriving tomorrow for tea.

Feyre’s face hardened. “Yes.”

“And are you ready to face him? Ready to protect your family?”

“Nesta…”

“Are you?”

Silver lined Feyre’s eyes. Nesta felt her heart crack. But she stayed still.

“No.” It was a whisper in the wind.

She watched as Feyre worked through it, the seizing fear, the desperation, the stubborn Archeron resolve to face it.

Mother knew there was nothing Nesta wanted more than her life here, small but full, with Cassian in her bed and next to her in the training ring, with her friends nearby and her work. Growing every day, luxuriating in love and happiness and sore muscles like it was a warm bath.

But Rhysand had shared Cassian’s memories with them all, of a frozen lake, of a chill wind that promised death and malice. Of even Cassian’s quaking fear.

“Then we’ll get there. I’ll help you. If you want. Or Cass can or — whoever you want.”

Nesta tried not to feel the worry of rejection. Every swing of the axe, or pull of the bow in lessons between them before had been fraught with sizzling tempers and cold viciousness.

She thought about Gwyn and Emerie, about Roslin and the other priestesses she worked with, encouraged, cheered for everyday. Thought about those emotions like a cloak and tried to see how it would fit around her sister.

“You would train me?” Feyre asked. Nesta tried not to bristle at her surprise, at whatever part of that offer caught her sister off guard.

“I could show you the Valkyrie techniques that will work with your Illyrian training. Sometimes these days, I’m the one teaching Cassian things.”

Feyre gave a watery grin. “I’m glad. Someone needs to check that Illyrian arrogance.”

“Maybe that’s why we’re mates. The Mother knew they all needed to be put in their place.”

A blade turned slowly in her sister’s hand. “You’re the Oristian.” A small, wistful smile came over her face. “I wish I could’ve been there when Devlon and the camp lords found out.”

Nesta’s smile was cold. “They don’t know what they’ve unleashed.”

“I’m proud of you,” Feyre said, her voice a choked whisper, Nesta's eyes going wide. “Not that — I know you don’t need —”

“Feyre.” At her tone, her sister stopped babbling. “That’s —” Nesta took a deep breath, letting all the discomfort and swaying emotions from her sister settle and pass through. Whatever anger or resentment she might have from before had washed away when she smelled the blood in that birthing room, when she had to beg for her baby sister’s life from the Mother herself. “Thank you. It was really hard, for a long time. But I’m happy. I’m happy here.”

Her sister’s chin wobbled and her face crumpled just before she buried it in her hands.

Breathe. In and out.

Nesta thought about her Valkyrie sisters. How sharing their heavy stories had made them feel lighter. How they looked into each other’s souls and didn’t turn away.

“Feyre. It’s ok.” Nesta rested her hand on Feyre’s arm, feeling her body shake with sobs under her palm.

At her touch, Feyre fell forward, burying her face in Nesta’s shoulder, covering her leathers with tears.

Nesta stiffened, unused to her sister’s touch.

Hating how she felt like her mother.

How would she want her mother to hold her? How would they all hold Nyx from this day forward —-- without reservation?

You can do this.

She could do it —-- accept love, and give it too. It would be hard but —-- she reached out her hand, pulling Feyre closer, rubbing her back gently, breathing through her discomfort and trying to bring down those walls.

When Feyre had tired herself, she stepped back, looking somewhat ridiculous with a swollen nose but with a new lightness in her eyes.

“I thought — I worried — you and Elain might never be happy here.” Nesta thought of her library and her friends there, of Cassian’s scent, and his stupidly handsome face. Happy.

The moment sat quietly between them, Feyre’s fears and the miles they’d traveled unraveling.

“I’m sorry I’m falling apart,” her brow furrowed in frustration. “I had Nyx and everything makes me cry now. Yesterday I stepped on a worm in Elain’s garden and Rhys raced home from the Governor’s council because he thought I was dying.”

Nesta’s lip curled. “I think Nyx has the power to turn all of us soft.”

“Do you ever look at him, and —” Feyre stopped short, like the words died in her mouth.

“What?”

“Sometimes I look at Nyx, and I think…I hate them. Mother. And…father. Sometimes.”

Nesta stayed still. Like the admonition would have her sister bolting at any wrong move. “I think I know what you mean.”

Feyre nodded. “I love him so much. And how could they have seen us so young and still do what they did? How could they have let themselves look away? It seems impossible. And then I worry: what if there’s some secret terrible thing that will happen that will make me feel the same way someday?”

“You will be a thousand times a better mother than our parents ever were to us. There’s no way you could ever be like them, Feyre. It’s impossible.”

“But —”

“Feyre. You’re a good mother already.” Feyre’s chin wobbled again. “And if you do slip up, I’m sure your sisters will let you know about it.”

Feyre took a deep breath, in and out through her nose. “You promise?”

“Try and stop us.”

A smile was on her sister’s face.

Nesta grabbed a throwing knife, the metal warming in her hand.

“Ok, do ten shoulder rolls, then we’re working on your stance.”

The yellow-pink fingers of dawn were pulling at the horizon by the time Feyre’s boots were tied, her muscles stretched. It wasn’t enough to warm them, yet, but the light shone on something brighter in Feyre’s face. Nesta reveled in the new feeling of being the cause of it.

She turned to her new recruit.

“Are you ready?”

#nesta archeron #nestaweek2024 #feyre Archeron #Archeron sisters #acotar #ACOSF #acotar fanfic

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wordstome · 5 months

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fully a manipulation tactic on my part to (hopefully) get more of your wonderful writing BUT;

König being built like a Hozier song

“With the roar of the fire, my heart rose to its feet Like the ashes of ash I saw rise in the heat Settle soft and as pure as snow I fell in love with the fire long ago”

Like Omggg who said thattttttt 😰😰😰

anon. come here. come closer.

*grabs you by the head* listen here you little shit (affectionate). how did you know I was thinking about Would That I at the exact moment you sent this ask. how did you do that. what witchcraft is this. did you do this to me.

anyway. have some writing or whatever (I love you)

So the whole gist of Would That I is that it likens the singer's past loves to trees, and his new lover to a fire that burns them all down. And that's so in-line with the way König loves. I imagine that with König's first true love, someone he loved in his overwhelming and passionate (obsessive) way, that relationship wouldn't have ended with a bang, but with a whimper.

He's been dumped, he's been cheated on, hell, he's even had to dump a few himself. But this one was different. They were different. They saw him, understood him, loved him deeply in a way he never thought he was worthy of. He saw them as his soulmate, planned his whole life out centered around spending it with them.

And then it just...fizzled out. He had to just watch as they got more and more distant from him, and nothing he did could stop the spiral. And then one day, he realized he didn't love them anymore either. I think with this relationship, they would have still cared about each other deeply, but it wasn't really a romantic relationship anymore, just two people going through the motions. (If you really want to fuck yourself up imagining this, listen to Trivia: Seesaw by BTS and read the English lyrics translation: "If we didn't have feelings for each other, if we didn't think of each other, would we have dragged it out like this? // Now if we don't have any feelings left, it's dangerous, dangerous on this seesaw // Stop thinking about me")

König is intense, when he's in it, he's in it, and that tends to overwhelm his partners. After this really significant relationship ends, he's probably quite weary of forming new connections. It's like what I said before in my post about whether König falls in love at first sight: he's weary of people because they treat him like an other, like he's not even human anymore just because he's big and awkward and doesn't know how to function anymore without being sent out to kill people. His past relationship just feels like the universe reminding him that he isn't lovable and isn't built to have a love that shelters him from the world the way a forest's canopy shelters everything that lives in it.

And then you come along, and all of his insecurities and his loneliness and his conviction that he isn't worthy of the kind of earth-shattering love that people write poems and songs about goes away. Everything changes for him, and it's like a fire, how passionately and intensely he loves. "Though I've handled the wood, I still worship the flame" You've burned away all of his hangups, everything in his past that weighed him down, and it's breathtaking and awe-inspiring. He would saw down the whole forest just to behold your flames. And he will.

#könig #konig #könig x reader #könig x you #konig x reader #konig x you #könig cod #konig cod #now y'all are just feeding my second chance love obsession #also anon I'm sorry if this isn't what you were looking for ;;#I can totally see this being reversed #where König is so intense that he burns away every conception of love you have from previous relationships #but I kind of wanted to tie in König's past and the way he feels about himself and love in general #könig headcanons

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coconutcordiale · 2 years

Note

Congrats on the followers! You deserve it, you know I love your blog ❤️ How about “you’re being a brat” with jealous!Jake x reader? It doesn’t have to be jealous!Jake but he’s just so good to us! ☺️❤️

jealousy, jealousy

pairing- hangman x female!reader (no y/n)

warnings- possessive/jealous hangman, ngl jake's a bit of a caveman in this idk if a man really said some of this to me i'd end him, allusions to smut so 18+ although this is pretty tame for me

length- 1k

an- thank you babe!!!! ilysm. you know i couldn't resist jealous jake god he's so aslkejfowijoaifjs. i actually hate this and how it turned out it's incomprehensible but ily ash so i'm posting it anyways

It’s someone’s birthday. Or anniversary. Maybe they’re moving somewhere. Jake doesn’t remember. It doesn’t matter. Because he’s really, really fed up with your shit.

It all started with a dress.

Jake lives in the 21st century. He understands he has no right to tell you what to wear, has no right to comment that every guy within a twelve-block radius is going to short-circuit when they notice how high the slit of your skirt goes. He knows that.

But he can’t help that he stalls with anger every time someone stares at your legs on display in said dress.

Well, it’s more like he’s trembling with anger, but whatever.

Omaha’s twirling you around the makeshift dancefloor in a poor imitation of a two-step and Jake’s teeth are starting to hurt from how hard he’s clenching his jaw. If anyone should be two-stepping with you it’s him. Omaha isn’t even from Texas, for fuck’s sake.

It’s taking everything in Jake not to sidle up to you two and tear you out of Omaha’s arms, not to slide his hands up and under the slit of your dress like he’s wanted to since the moment you put it on.

Omaha’s hand slides a little further down your back, and Jake lets out a pained noise like someone’s just punched him. He moves to stand up, not sure how much more of this he can take but is knocked firmly back down into his stool by Rooster, his stupid mustache twitching upwards in amusement.

“Tell me you saw that,” Jake protests. Somewhere in his mind sirens are blaring, a voice shouting show everyone who she belongs to, and he just barely hangs onto his last inkling of human decency so he can tell his inner self to shut the fuck up.

Rooster, the bastard, laughs, which only makes Jake’s eye twitch more aggressively. “Let it go, man. It’s not like Omaha would ever do anything.”

Jake grumbles nonsense about slaughtering chickens under his breath but stays put and lets the other man push a new beer into his hand. His teeth are nearly ground down to nubs by the time the song ends, and you float your way over to him, making like you’re going to sit down between him and Rooster.

Before you can, a tanned arm reaches out to pull you in by the waist, not stopping until you’re standing between his legs where he’s perched on his stool.

“Having fun?” Jake asks you gruffly, trying not to get distracted by the flush on your cheeks, the quick rise and fall of your chest beneath that dress.

“So much,” you answer, a little breathless, reaching down to steal his beer for a sip.

Returning his drink, you press a kiss to his cheek, turning so you can sit next to him where you originally intended. He tightens his arm around you to keep you in place, but there’s something sharp in his movements that makes you still in confusion.

You lean back, finally taking a good look at his expression.

“Okay,” you say slowly, surprise written all over your face as you take him in. You gently take the beer from his fingers, setting it on the table behind him. “Let’s take the breakable things out of your hands.”

He rolls his eyes. It’s not like he’s actually going to break the bottle.

“What’s wrong?”

What’s wrong is you don’t realize what you look like swinging around with Omaha and it’s scraping away at his already paper-thin sanity, but Jake knows he’ll get in trouble if he says that.

“Don’t like seeing his hands all over you,” Jake grits out finally, fingers rubbing absently over your sides, trying his hardest not to grip too hard and leave possessive marks on you in front of everyone.

Your eyebrows furrow. “Who, Omaha? Come on, that was about as scandalous as dancing at cotillion.”

Jake narrows his eyes. “You didn’t see where his attention was wandering, then.”

He looks down pointedly at the slit in your dress and you follow his gaze before huffing in annoyance.

“Jake, you’re being ridiculous.”

He clenches his jaw instead of answering.

On some level, he knows you’re right. Too bad that portion of his brain is currently being beaten down by the neanderthal reigning within him.

“You like the attention,” he accuses, trying not to sound childish but missing by a mile.

There’s suddenly a wicked glint in your eyes that absolutely does not shake Jake to his core, that resolutely does not make him regret the words the moment they leave his mouth.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you answer, innocent as ever, before moving to spin out of his grasp and over to Phoenix.

Fuck.

Watching you dance with Phoenix isn’t doing anything to lower Jake’s blood pressure.

It’s making it worse, actually, since Phoenix is too smart to be scared of him, so she’s letting her hands wander purposefully and shooting him diabolical looks over your shoulder.

Jake’s eye is twitching again.

No amount of convincing from Rooster could possibly keep him in his seat this time. He’s up before he even realizes he’s moving, sweeping onto the dancefloor, and pulling you into him in one swift motion.

The turmoil in his chest eases a little with you back in his arms, without anyone else touching you, but his last shred of intellect is quickly disappearing as he runs his hands down your curves, fingers dancing dangerously close to the exposed soft skin of your thigh. One look at your mischievous smirk and he wants nothing more than to wipe it off your face by getting those lips wrapped around his cock.

“You’re being a brat,” Jake mutters in your ear.

You raise an eyebrow, silent dare all over your features. “Gonna do something about that, Lieutenant?”

He scolds himself internally for how easy it is for you to wind him up, but you always know which buttons to push.

“Say your goodbyes, we’re leaving. Now.”

#hangman drabble #hangman x reader #hangman x you #jake seresin x you #jake seresin x reader #jake hangman seresin #hangman top gun #jake seresin fanfiction #hangman fic #500 followers celly

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verysadghostieinacloset · 3 months

Text

So…Hi tumblr. This is a fic that I’m posting here so… enjoy it? Eheh.

Rating: Mature

Archive Warning: Graphic Depictions Of Violence

Category: Gen

Fandoms: The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde - Robert Louis Stevenson, The Glass Scientists

Relationship: Edward Hyde & Dr. Henry Jekyll

Characters: Edward Hyde, Dr. Henry Jekyll

CONTENT WARNINGS:

Self-Harm, Blood and Injury, Murder, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Mental Breakdown, Panic Attacks, Toxic Co-Dependency, mentions of mental institutions, Disassociation, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Self-Hatred, Non-Graphic Gore

Language: English

Words: 3,603

Not beta read

Summary: Alas, the most he can pray for is time. Is a chance. Never forgiveness, never redemption, or mercy or goodness. He is long past all of those, quite thoroughly drenched in sinfulness and all the evil in human souls.

Nothing parallels him.

Not even Satan, he is sure.

OR The aftermath of Hyde murdering Carew, but I mashed it with Glass Scientists.

OR OR Can I really call Jekyll my favourite character if I haven't torn him apart first?

Reap your self-destruction

Fuck.

This is atrocious, and despicable, and really in no way good for him at all. Dead- there on the street, sights for all to see; dead. Dead. Rotting and never coming back, hacked to the pulp of an unidentifiable, red mess, there in the street, half way in the moonlight.

Bloody, and messy, and all over him because he’s a murderer now.

Shit.

This is only half the issue; the fact that he’d murdered a man and that man is never ever ever going to come back to life, and that he’d see it, all the gore, and it was undeniably him who had done that-

He’d done it all with Lanyon’s cane. The cane he got gifted for his birthday some years back from his closest friend, such a tender memory, was the very same cane he’d used to beat Danvers’ body to fine, scarlet mush as it screamed. The thing had snapped with the bones and he’d lost it in the wreckage, carrying back with him the bloodied other half, all the way to Soho. There were no officers on his trail, at least, but he could not go back to the Society- not like this.

No; he’d rushed to his apartment, hands surprisingly steady, breathing calm as possible, (he is a psychopath, a madman, really. He was breathing so normally when Danvers could never breathe again, lungs collapsed in and it was all his fault, and he’d done it with Lanyon’s gift and-) uprooting notebooks and papers from dusty draws, feeding the fire to feed his desperation and ensure there was not a splotch of evidence against him.

Jekyll’s voice stuttered frantically in his ears, the entire time, and Hyde was distinctly aware of his incoherent rambling, no doubt consumed by the gruesome sight they’d both caused. He is only Jekyll’s anger, after all.

In any case, nothing was being helped, but he’d prefer it over silence. He did not want to be alone with what they’d done. At least Jekyll could provide the understanding they’d never get in the gallows-

No, no; they’re not there yet, they won’t get there, he promises, he promises, he promises!

The papers were stained with his fingerprints, bloodied with impressions of scarlet blood that didn’t belong to him. He couldn’t think too much about it, or he’d stop what he’s doing and get caught red-handed (literally) by the police. He didn’t have time.

With this thought, he threw the remainder of the papers to the fire, watching the angry thing rise with a defiant cackle and eat away at his sins. He’d doused the other half of the cane with gasoline- ‘reserved specifically for emergencies,’ Hyde had said when he’d brought it and right now was a fucking emergency- and fed that to the monster too.

It had flared madly, but there were only ashes left of his crimes. He’d killed the flames with water- pure, clear, safe; something he’d never be ever again- and not thought once before downing that wretched draught in his pocket. It’d swirled bright red then purple then green in mockery and he’d taken every last, bitter drop until he’d felt himself heaving.

Now, everything is too tight and too bloody, and the glass has shattered onto the floor and he’ll have to clean it or that’s proof against them and he’s putting them all in danger, all over again because he’s so reckless-

His bones pop disgustingly into place, bringing with them the sickly nausea that comes with the unnatural feeling of his insides turned out and replaced to make an entirely new man. Innocent, he could claim with this face and this voice. Innocent-

But his hands are still bloody! He has to get the blood off; just so it won’t stain Jekyll’s clothes, he tells himself- certainly not because it’s stifling and spreading and unstoppable.

Of course, he is completely logical, and sane; so he scrubs his hands over a basin of cold water hard enough that he thinks the skin will start to crack. The water is red. Not pink- not just stained- but so fucking red that he thinks he can dye something with the water and it’ll come out the deepest maroon.

That’s bad.

He needs to get rid of the water. It’ll stink up the place if he leaves it- well, it already is; the air is shimmery with a metallic scent that he swears to heaven will haunt his dreams. He doesn’t plan on coming back here, it’s not really his problem anymore; but the thought of leaving the water to go stagnant and rotten, with such a pungent odour as to tell the whole world what he’s done, makes his stomach churn.

So, he dumps it over the ashes in the fireplace, now clumped together, and watches the dirt drink up the river of red he’d made. It was all him, always him, every single part- the anger, the blind rage, the stab through the body, the cracking of the bones; every last bit of it is all him.

It might still smell, but at least the basin of blood is out of sight. At least it’s masked with the scent of something long burnt and no one can tell where the smell would’ve come from because there is no obvious source, no liability. Just that the room is a mess, and the fire has been put out with too many ashes, and some human is clearly missing from this place.

But that is not his issue ever again: he is human- he promises- not an animal, not a madman, not the devil. No; he is Henry Jekyll, in the blood-stained, ruined clothes of Edward Hyde- with whom he is in no way associated- and the tightness of his shirt makes him want to scream. Frantically (there is no time to waste, no time to waste, Hell is at his heels), he flings the doors to Hyde’s wardrobe open, shifting through the few clothes to find the only ones that could possibly fit him.

Again, safety measures- he kept an outfit of Hyde’s, Hyde kept an outfit of his. Just in case.

But, here, he had to be careful. If he left his clothes in a mess, he might give the police reason for suspicion.

‘Calm down.’ Hyde urges, though his voice is anything but calm, stuttering at every other vowel like a nervous child. ‘Do this logically. Don’t give the coppers a reason to suspect anything other than an escape.’ Yeah- that made sense! He could do that.

Henry’s hands shake quite violently when he looks down at them- they have been the entire time; it’s a surprise he didn’t spill the water earlier- but he’s sure he can do it. Just; take the clothes he’d messed up and fold them coherently and properly. It feels wrong doing such a mundane task when, not even an hour ago, he had murdered a member of parliament.

‘But it’s ok.’ Hyde pacifies, trying to keep his own voice calm. ‘You’ve done this before- it’s not difficult.’ No- he certainly hadn’t murdered someone before, thank you very much. ‘Folding clothes. Focus on folding the clothes.’ And he does. It’s messy and disorganised, but it can be arranged in a way to make the closet seem untouched. He heaves the biggest sigh since that body lay in moonlight, as he closes the closet doors. Nothing was taken. These clothes are his, he is fine.

‘The glass.’ Hyde hisses, just so Henry doesn’t forget. How could he? The shattered remains of the phial drip with hot, green formula, glittering in the streaming light like explosive stars. Where would he put the glass? He had pockets- pockets. The police wouldn’t suspect Jekyll to have proper connections to the murder- not after that fire.

Ok. This would all be ok.

He kneels on the carpet, just where he’d stood last as Hyde- the last time ever as Hyde. He would never come out again; Jekyll couldn’t afford it- neither could his other. Or the Society. Or everything else relying on him surviving this night. Then, with careful hands because he doesn’t want to nip himself (‘That pain would be inviting? The punishment we need. The punishment we must-’) on the glass and get even more blood stained to him, he’d had enough of the accursed substance tonight, he starts picking the shimmering shards from the ground.

Collecting the glass off the floor is easy- he just hopes to God (‘If God will listen to us anymore.’) that nothing about the few drops of potion on the carpet gets noticed. Otherwise, his pocket gets steadily heavier with the tinkling of the glass as it drops in, and soon enough, the last piece is in his hand (it’s shaking again, shaking with his breath, shaking because he knows there is only one way forward, one way to run, but he should be in the gallows, hanging like the murderer he is, all to Hell).

It’s no use. He can drop the last piece in with the remainder of the phial, but the edge cuts his fingers, slices clean into the skin and stings as red starts welling at the wound.

The careful facade of his calmness, of fixing his breath just until he’s out of Soho, shatters like the phial in his pocket.

There is blood on his hands. It’s red- it’s everywhere because he’s just murdered someone. He’s just murdered someone and they bled so much. He was a doctor- he knows how much a person can bleed before they die, that they bleed after they die too, that blood gets everywhere and never comes off and it won’t come off him because he’s bleeding and he’s a murderer and he’ll always be a murderer and nothing will ever change that.

Red. On his hands. He needs to stop it. ‘You’re bleeding.’ Hyde informs him, in some vain attempt to wake him up. ‘It’s your blood. All you need is a handkerchief.’ Right. A handkerchief to press to his finger then he can get out of here, leave this place forever and go home-

(‘The walk to your punishment?’)

No time to be hysterical. Just remember that. Hysteria gets you killed- or you end up in Bedlam. You don’t want that, Jekyll. I don’t want that. No.

He fumbles for a moment at the desk, searching for one, and finally breathing that shaky sigh of relief once he pulls one from the drawers. He presses it to the cut, watching as the scarlet invades the white of the cotton, trailing up and up through the fibres until he thinks the thing is doused.

Ok. Now, he can go home. Just- ‘My clothes are still on the floor.’ Mutters Hyde, somewhat urgently. Jekyll clenches his fist, squeezes his eyes shut as he nods- cannot force his breath to calm at all- and scoops up the bloody pile. He can take it outside to throw away somewhere. Yes.

It’s all so simple, if only he was calm-

He bundles the soft cloth between his arms; it’s drying stiff in the patches that are far bloodier. The roughness is a horror- instead, he tries to keep the softer parts running between his fingers, just to calm him until he can discard the wretched garments. Besides, the therapeutic feeling helps with the steady pain from his cut finger, handkerchief still clenches around staunching the blood.

For the last time, Jekyll turns his back to the room, surveying the wreckage he’d left behind, eyes shimmering in the fractured moonlight slipping in through the window. A wreckage like the body, discarded for the rats and writhing maggots, all done with such a holy gift that he had ruined. How dare he?!

There were still papers scattered to the ground, the last frantic writings of a madman. ‘Not enough to take us to court.’ Hyde promises; something softer, a hint more certain in his voice. Jekyll trusts him; blindly- what more can he do? For now, Hyde is the only one who knows, who will ever understand, who will ever get the feeling of his disgust and anger and pathetic self-loathing. When he hangs, Hyde is the only thing left to say goodbye to.

But with that, a murderer leaves his room, and stalks out into the thick mist of London night, hands bloodied beyond reparation.

He is breathless when he arrives at his street. The clothes (Hyde’s clothes. The last clothes Edward Hyde would ever be spotted in) have long since been abandoned in the back alleys of the city, a good distance away from his apartment in Soho. He’d stalked out of the borough on brisk legs, not risking getting a cab until he was rid of the wretched weight of ruined cotton in his arms. Besides, the walking had helped. Cold air in his lungs whilst it rushes through his hair was the blessing a sinner like him did not deserve, no matter if he found it polluted like the inner clockwork of his soul.

Alas, the most he can pray for is time. Is a chance. Never forgiveness, never redemption, or mercy or goodness. He is long past all of those, quite thoroughly drenched in sinfulness and all the evil in human souls.

Nothing parallels him.

Not even Satan, he is sure.

He takes his key from his pocket, hand grasping the cool metal press of his door handle, a grounding weight to the inner dwellings of panic still clutching at him because there is still blood on his hands, he is still a murderer, Danvers is still dead. What is changing that? What is changing-

With a snap and a click (the breaking of bones, the snap of a cane, the click of his brisk footsteps away from the scene of a mutilation), the door stutters open uneasily, and, thankful at last for this one small shelter from the eyes of the world, for the heaving anxiety lifted off his shoulders of the police following him down, he steps in with a breath.

‘To your punishment.’ Hyde’s voice curdles sickly, reassuringly in his mind. After all, Jekyll knows he is right, has seen this coming from a long way. It was one of the genuine reasons he’d rushed home (does a reprobate have a home? In hell, perhaps? With the moulding images of rotten, unrecognisable bodies, ever consumed by mycelium and fungi?), with the throb of the cut gently increasing, Jekyll had- at some point- become desperate to inflict the harm on himself purposefully.

There had been a moment of respite between the cut and his loss of composure, between the initial slash and the blood flooding through, skin opening to his darkness, inviting all other monstrosities to peek in and cower at the evil in himself. Of course there had been. There always was this feeling of pride, of calm. Knowing you did well because you punished yourself, you got what you deserved, without bothering someone else to do it for you.

That is all waiting for him now, in the depths of this cold house, with his cold blood and rotting heart ever consumed by illogical fear. Who must he be afraid of? He is the murderer, after all.

He unclips the cloak around his shoulders, maybe the last thing holding the faint lines of his soul together in a clutch of vile tendrils, moving through the shadows to his room, and only then letting it drop when the door clicks behind him. With the stuttering of some broken, sick thing, he, frantically, stumbles to the ground near his bed, no longer desperate to keep the emotions threatening to consume him trapped in, no longer concerned with anything besides raw truth and the hot tears burning their way down his cheeks, and the wretched voice in his head.

He looks down, at the bloodied cotton pressed to his hand, focuses on the sting of it when he presses too hard. But, this is all he does in the moment, all he can bring himself to when he is the spluttering mess of a last breath gone wrong. ‘Now, you know what we must do, Henry?’ Hyde mutters, and it's all Jekyll can do to make himself nod along, to lift the sleeve of linen from his forearms, a patchwork of silver spider webs stalking up it on the underside, from days when he’d been obsessed with the concept of human pain and what it truly was.

No need for morbid curiosity anymore, not when he was intimately familiar with the causes of human pain, and how to make it, and what it did to one and his mind. ‘It sends someone to Bedlam. They should’ve done that to you so long ago, because look where we are now. Henry, isn’t the glass of our broken phial so pretty?’

To Bedlam. He doesn't want to go to Bedlam, he doesn't want to be locked up with the horrors he deserves because they are the horrors he’s caused. At the end of the day, he supposes Hyde is right- a man, human and whole, would never have reason to wonder about something so horrid as suffering, lest he was mad, and Henry is far past that.

He takes a shard from the heavy pocket at his side, with those ever shaking hands, and looks at it cradled so softly in his palm like it was something new and innocent and fragile and all that he never ever would be. It was pretty, he supposed, with the way the moonlight caught it, filtered in through the windows, making it sparkle like the last wings of an angel, and with its sharp edge gleaming in the anticipation of smooth skin. It would, obviously, look a lot more prettier doused in red, dripping down to the floor, stained with all the sinful stuff inside of him.

With a shaky breath, and a screaming desperation, he brings it to press cooly against the delicate workings of his veins, and closes his eyes stained with glass tears, wrists quivering because he knows he can't do this, can’t fall back into such a habit that had eaten away so hungrily at his life.

‘Having second thoughts? Then give me the control, give me your hand. What awaits us but the punishment you cower from, coward?’ That voice spits, in all its stuttering truth.

Jekyll knows he should be fighting for control, he knows he should be doing all in his power to deal logically with this, to not hurt himself, to lay his head down and sleep and hope that will fix the wrongs he’d caused. But none of this fixes Danvers’ body, lying still in the streets, blood splayed around him, left for the rats; none of this fixes the phantom feeling of blood under his nails and ribs cracking beneath his hands. No, logic is not for him to take right now, sleep is not his luxury, the only thing he must do is this.

So, he lets Hyde do it to him (lets him do it to himself), sits idly in his body, staring as the impressions of far rougher, crooked hands ghost his, and guide the edge of the glass down words into a sloping arch. Blood blooms from the cut with intricate pain, red and the last drips of green hissing into each other as they run down his arm in a careful rivulet. It’s not enough.

He brings his hand down, Hyde following his every move, once more on his skin, watching the edge of the glass get coated in thin scarlet. An adjacent cut mars the flesh, and tingles with the delight of sweltering pride in his chest. His heart clenches at the thought of this being his downfall, of this being the thing that finally snubs his disgraceful flame from the face of the world. He’d frowned at the thought of death, but musing it now, as Hyde cuts again and again and blood pools steadily into wood with each droplet, brought by hands that are (deniably) undeniably his, it is a simple thing. Maybe even right.

Again, the heavenly edge (a devil-send) of that curved blade comes to quietly stained flesh, where his tears fall and mix with the pain of his fear and rot and peace all slipping away from him.

Another cut befalls him (he brings the blade on himself). ‘Is it not so easy?’ Says Hyde, the haze in Jekyll’s mind too sweet and simple and painful to ignore the way his words curl like the body of a snake on its latest kill. And would a death like this, for him, not be so simple? All it would take was the careful positioning at the one place he’d been avoiding, to carve the final breath from his deceitful lungs. He could fall to hell so easily, he could destroy it all now and not have to reap the consequences because he doesn’t have to look to the future.

He can die, and rot here alone for days, with a body unfound and all his blood drained. It would be so easy.

The haze grows thick like honey, seeping into the crevices of his thoughts and clogging them with undeserved, unnerving peace. He can’t feel the pain anymore. Why can’t he feel the pain anymore? Why isn’t Hyde speaking to him?

Why is the floor so red?

With the quiet plink of a shatter, in the earliest depths of a winter morning, a shard of glass splays into ten, bloodied fractures.

#fanfic #fanfiction #the glass scientists fanfiction #the glass scientists #tgs #tgs jekyll #tgs hyde #the strange case of dr jekyll and mr hyde #dr jekyll and mr hyde #writing

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