#let the quill bleed | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

etfrin · 4 months

Text

❝ꜱᴏᴜʟꜱ ᴛᴏ ᴄʀᴜꜱʜ❞ — chapter four | coriolanus snow

「ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢ:」 NSFW | Coryo being Coryo, elitism, panic attack (nothing too graphic), mentions of death, mentions of blood (just a tiny bit), male masterbation near the end of the chapter | lmk if i forgot anything

「ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ:」 young! Coriolanus Snow x fem! Reader

「ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ:」 they meet up in the library, Coryo has a panic attack, and low-key has issues 💀 but hey, he fucks his fist in the end of the chapter also let's his paranoia win lmao

「ᴀ/ɴ:」 reposting this!! Hope y'all like it!

beta read by @nowitsmissing

series masterlist | navigation | previous chapter

You didn't disappoint.

He couldn't help the heavyweight leaving his chest, his shoulders relaxing and his face in a smile (which he quickly hides) as he sees you. You were sitting on a chair, a stack of books in front of you, parchments all over the table, cookies in a box and you were writing something with your pen.

Was it instinct? Was it the bond? He will never know but you look up and meet his gaze. Your eyes narrowed at him, for being late he reasoned but he noticed that you relaxed as well, your body nearly sagging into the chair.

“You're late,” you greet him as he sits across from you. He shrugged, his eyes looking at the cookie and he ignored the clench of his stomach. He had cabbage soup again for dinner, the tasteless veggie didn't do anything to satisfy his hunger. It served as a reminder instead of why he needed to win the Plinth Prize.

He replied, “Death does that.” He tried to keep his voice sad yet composed. How sad could one be when you lose a family who is poison with perfect teeth.

“Should have stayed at home to mourn then.”

“I plan to do that at the funeral.”

Your eyes meet his briefly when you hear his answer, he notices that your eyes are red. Like it would be when you're crying. He couldn't wrap his mind around why you would be crying. Arachne was never a friend to you, a district girl, if anything you were the one who received most of her scorn. And yet you were with tears in your eyes, instead of him, a Capitol boy, someone with the same blood as hers.

What does that say about him?

“I plan to do the same too… She's family after all.”

Not yours. He wanted to reply but didn't. He gave you a nod and went back to his work. Ignoring the way your hand subtly (not so much) wiped the tear away from your cheek, and the growl of his stomach when he smelled the chocolate chip cookies sitting right in front of him.

Hours bleed and both of you were still working with minimal talking. He wanted to ask what you were so diligently reading and jolting down. His mind is plaguing him with the fact that you have better ideas than him. You seemed well prepared enough with all of the books that were left open around you.

You make a soft humming noise, “Your father was a co-founder of the Hunger Games.” You chuckled, though Coriolanus didn't know what was funny. “And here you're writing a proposal on how to improve the Games. Like father, like son.”

You give him a small smile. And then it turns into a frown when you notice that the cookies remain untouched. “I made these for us, ya know. I promise that they don't have cyanide in them. You can try but no promises if it's good or not. As the cook I am biased but I would love your opinion.”

His lips quirked up at your joke. You always had an uncanny sense of humor and you were never hesitant to showcase. He was glad to finally have permission to taste those mouth-watering cookies. “Thank you,” he manages to reply cordially as he takes a cookie for himself to munch on.

Your eyes were innocently wide as you watched him eat the cookie. You had stopped your writing, the quill resting on the side of your proposal. He realized that you were waiting for his comment, waiting for his approval. And he squirmed in his seat as he realized that you were hanging onto his words for something as simple as a cookie.

“It’s delicious,” he said, his tongue licking his lips to get the remaining cookie crumbs. He smiled a smile that wasn't calculated like every one of his interactions with his peers were. He smiled a smile reserved for a soulmate he couldn't have.

He sees your grin when you hear his opinion. Your face brightens up and you give your attention back to your work with vigor. It made Coriolanus realize your confidence was a facade, just like his perfection was. There was a certain joy in knowing that for Coryo.

And the bonus point is the fact that you asked for his opinion on nearly everything since childhood, even after getting closer with Sejanus, it's his approval you sought.

It was such a heady feeling that always fed to his ego and calmed his mind down from jealousy. Even if your proposal was better than his, in the end, it didn't matter if he simply lied to your face about it.

Soon, he was over with his proposal. The cookies were now finished and his body filled with the rare satisfaction of not having an empty stomach. He looks at you and sees that you are revising your written proposal now.

He bites his tongue to distract his mind from the fact of how pretty you looked like this. Your lips parted, your eyes focused (will it be focused on him like that if he ever kissed you, or will your eyes glaze over with pleasure?). He hated how he felt at that moment, like a teenage boy with a crush.

He decided to distract himself with something better. Your proposal. “I check yours. You check mine?” He suggested, quirking his eyebrow for an extra measure to convince you.

You frown for a moment and he has to fist his hand to make sure he doesn't come forward and smooth the wrinkles away. “Sure,” you reluctantly agree, a hint of hesitation clear in your eyes.

“What?” He smirks, leaning forward a bit (close, close, but too far). “Afraid I will steal your ideas?” He asked his tone just a tiny bit condescending.

You looked down. Backing away from his challenging gaze, taking the fun out of it. “More like you'll laugh at my face,” you muttered.

Now it was his time to frown.

“That was one time.”

“One time too many,” you replied.

And then you add, “Give me yours first, and then if I like it I will give you mine.”

He grits his teeth, already knowing that your district stubbornness won't have you backing away. “Fine,” he said and he held the assignment in front of you. Yours for the taking.

Your fingers brush his as you take over the papers. The touch sends an electric jolt down his spine as he retrieves his hand back quickly. His breaths are shallow and cheeks burning, eyes diverted away from yours as the soulmate bond flares up.

It happens rarely, often in the comfort of his home that he feels his need for you. Like an addict. His need to be close to you, his need to hold, kiss, and love you.

It's a phenomenon restricted to those who try to reject their partners despite knowing who they are. And what better example was for that than Coriolanus Snow.

He could feel the blood rush. A high that was crashing, and he was the urge to just fuck it. Fuck you, claim you against the shelves, kiss you. Something, anything that would calm his baser instincts. But it didn't work like that.

He wasn't a District animal, he was a Capitol boy and he won't be losing control in this manner.

But he was so close to it and the worst part of it all? You weren't even doing anything except reading his paper, your shoulders relaxed as you leaned back in your chair. Your tongue peeking out to lick your dry lips, as you flick over the next page.

One of your hands on the table and your fingers tapping an unknown tune on the wood of the table. It was overwhelming. He felt his senses going haywire and he needed to be away, alone from you.

He stood up, ignoring the sound of a chair scratching the expensive floor. “I'll be back,” he said, his mind anxious but his face had no expression whatsoever. You didn't even look at him, just nodded, and that somehow frustrated him.

‘Look at me,’ he wanted to yell, ‘Look at the state I am in because of you.’

But he didn't, so he rushed to the bathroom. Closing the stall with the lock, and pulling down the lid so he could sit on it. He takes in deep breath, pulling his sleeves up as he begins to feel his legs shake, tapping the tiles with a tic, tic noise. He begins to pay attention to the noise more than his chaos of the mind, letting everything simply fade away as his breathing gets to normal. It takes a while, his shirt now sweaty clinging to his skin, and his curls now messed with his hands constantly running through it. But he was feeling better now, despite his throat being parched.

After washing his face several times in the sink, he gets himself outside of the bathroom. He frowns when he notices the time. He was there for nearly twenty minutes. Embarrassing, how was he going to explain that? Fuck.

Turns out he didn't have to because you were gone. He feels bewildered as he reads the note you left on the table.

‘Had to go! Will submit your proposal along with mine by tonight!’

He grits his jaw, he hadn't permitted you to do such a thing. Even though a part of him did feel grateful that he wouldn't have to walk the extra mile to submit his work. He still felt angry though, and it wasn't admittingly your fault.

But you were the cause of it. And with the current circumstances, it's not like he could punish you for it. He wanted to, there's no denying that.

When he reaches home, his anger boils, waiting to be spilled around those around him. Grandma'am was asleep, he ignored Tigris when she had sweetly asked if you were present. He locked his bedroom door, it was a miracle he hadn't slammed it shut.

He was mad. He was frustrated, so much so that he couldn't explain. He lets out a growl, his hands in a fist, as if he wasn't sure that the wall would break had he punched it. He would have.

You weren't a drug (you were). He wasn't an addict (he was).

So why did he crave you so much? Why just a few moments alone with you has him in ruin?

‘District, district,’ he repeats in his mind, ‘You’ll never be Capitol. No matter how many proposals you write to damn your people. No matter how much money you have, or how many years you have lived in the Capitol.’

Even when he was lying on his bed, his breath was labored, his skin too hot. He couldn't stop replying to the time he had spent with you today. It was impossible not to.

You were so you.

Perfect. Flawed. Beautiful. Horrible. Everything and nothing. You made him feel like he had fire in his heart but he was a Snow. It was so jarring.

He was simply a teenage boy, and you made everything so complicated just by existing. You made him hot, burning, and fuck, he hated how he felt right now. That the anger melted away but the fire didn't. That the blood rushed from his head to his cock. He couldn't help it.

It's your fault that you made him succumb to this state. It's in you that he had one of his hands under his blanket, his eyes shut, his teeth digging into the flesh of his lower lip. He muffled a whine, as he gripped his hard cock.

The pain he felt as he bit his lips couldn't compare to the relief that came as he slowly began to stroke his cock. He strokes it slowly, savoring the sin he was indulging himself in. When he felt blood in his mouth from how hard he had bit himself, he used his free hand to muffle his soft groans instead.

He felt so boyish as he continues to fuck into his fist now, his hips rolling upwards as he continues. His pre-cum coating his length and acting as the lube. His thumb rubs against his sensitive, leaking cockhead. It makes him groan so loud that for a moment he feels like Tigris has heard.

He stops for a moment, his breathing heavy as he waits to hear footsteps. He doesn't hear one and sighs in relief. He begins to stroke his dick again, this time the pace quick and rough. His other hand wandered down his body to cup his balls, his face buried into his flimsy pillow, his teeth biting onto it. His saliva dampens the pillow, creating a wet stain that he would later feel embarrassed about.

He whines into the pillow, wanting to cum. He was so close, he just needed… needed…

You.

“Fuck! Fuck!” He groans and then moans your name as the mere thought of you has him cumming. His eyes roll back and he gasps, his blanket ruined. His cheeks burn as he realizes the cycle he's in but he couldn't care less when his bones are jelly and his mind is filled with euphoria.

When he did come back to his senses, he didn't let his shame overwhelm him. Instead, he changed his sheets, the stained ones in the laundry basket (it was his turn to wash tomorrow). He sat in front of his desk, ignoring how early light seemed to be sweeping into the room from the window. He takes out some parchment, quill, and ink.

He begins to write.

Just in case, you steal his work.

No point in trusting someone from the district, right?

NEXT PART

798 notes · View notes

ashotofogdensoldfirewhiskey · 3 months

Text

Conclusions

Ginny's run out of her good parchment and has been reduced to using something she dug out of the bottom of her trunk, hating the way her quill scratches over the rough surface. As though it isn’t punishment enough to be writing about History of Magic, she’s got to do it on this piece of rubbish.

“Bloody, buggering fu–” she swears as the point of her quill pierces a hole straight through her conclusion. Apt, probably - it had been flimsy at best. There’s a metaphor here, somewhere.

“Revision going well, then?”

The wry voice startles her so much that she nearly upends her bottle of ink all over her weak – in more ways than one – essay. “Fuck, Harry, I’d no idea you were there.”

She blinks up at him in surprise and finds him smirking, standing at the table she’s claimed in a corner of the library, looking adorably entertained by her plight. His bookbag is slung carelessly over his shoulder, his hair mussed, his stupid face made more handsome by the teasing lilt of his smile. Her heart flutters a bit, because that’s just what it always does with him. She ignores it valiantly, and hates him for it, a little.

“Sorry,” he says, though he sounds more amused than anything. “Mind if I sit?”

“Course,” she says, gesturing to the seat opposite. “Can’t guarantee there won’t be more swearing, though.”

He eyes her holey essay as he sits, jerking his head questioningly toward the parchment. “What’re you working on?”

“Something for Binns.”

“Ah, I’d be swearing, too.”

“Fucking hell, eh?”

They share a smile, and Ginny reckons she’d be better off writing an essay about that - the way she knows exactly when he’ll find something funny; the way jokes fall a bit flat when the punchline isn’t his eyes seeking her out, green and piercing and flickering with amusement. She’d fill the parchment with ease.

It’s easy to write about something you can’t stop reading into.

Just like she’s madly reading into the way he’s shown up here - no Ron, no Hermione - and sought her out, like it’s normal, like they’ve been doing this for years even though they haven’t. It feels like they have, though. That’s the worst part of it.

“What’re you doing here?” she asks, like he might just come right out and say it - to see you.

He doesn’t. She pretends that she can’t be disappointed by what she expects.

“Transfiguration,” he says darkly.

“Where’re Ron and Hermione, then?” she prods, picking at it like a scab, like a masochist. I wanted to get you alone, she urges him to say. I’ve been trying to all week and I haven’t even been subtle about it.

“Dunno,” he shrugs. Scabs bleed when you pick them, incidentally. “I can survive an evening without them, you know.”

“Can you? I don’t reckon your track record is all that spectacular on that front, if I’m honest.”

“Hey, I haven’t died even once.”

“Right,” she jokes. “Angling for a new nickname? ‘The Boy Who Hasn’t Died, Even Once’?”

He lets out a soft chuckle. “Rolls right off the tongue, that.”

“I’ll owl Rita for you. We can workshop something”

They smile.

She wants to shake him until he admits to it, confesses, like this thing brewing between them is a crime. She wants to lay all the evidence out in front of him, the aspiring Auror, and see what he makes of it. He can’t quip his way around the smiles and the banter and the looks he gives her. See, she’ll say, don’t you see?

He’s got shit vision.

They sit together for far longer than she’d planned to stay. At some point he adjusts in his seat, and his foot winds up touching hers, and he doesn’t even have the decency to move it. She fancies she can feel his warmth through their trainers, but no - it must be her own traitorous heart, frantically pumping warm blood to her foot like it’s the only part of her body that needs it, like the parts of her that aren’t touching him have ceased to matter because maybe they have.

Maybe she’s been distilled to the edge of her foot.

They talk about strategies for the Quidditch final, and OWLs, and argue playfully about which of her mum’s mince pies is the best. Ginny’s always fancied herself good at impressions, but she surprises even herself with her impression of easy nonchalance. All the while it’s building - each look, each smile, each easy joke they set each other up for feels like a firework she’s adding to the heap in her chest, ready to explode with the slightest spark.

You’ve got me alone, she tells him. Do something about it.

It’s nearly curfew. They start gathering their things, and still he hasn’t done anything. If he were any other boy, Ginny would cut through the bullshit herself, but something holds her back. She can’t fully articulate, unravel, why, but she needs him to be the one to admit it. She needs him to decide she’s worth the risk. He’s meant to be brave, isn’t he?

As she’s packing it away, Ginny remembers her abandoned essay, still punctured pathetically. She sighs, holds it up for Harry’s evaluation. “Think Binns’ll even notice?”

“Give it here,” he says, and she hands it over. He pulls his wand from his robes and waves it wordlessly, the gaping tear sewing itself together so it might never have been there. Ginny doesn’t know why she hadn’t thought to do that herself.

“Thanks. Only now, I’ve actually got to write a damn conclusion.”

He laughs and holds it back out to her. “You’re on your own.”

“Aren’t you meant to have a hero complex?” she quips, pushing the parchment back toward him. “Some useful saving-people thing? Have a go.”

To her immense surprise, he shoots her a wry smirk that sends a tingle through her stomach. “Alright.” He pulls out the quill he’d only just packed away, scrawls something at the bottom of her parchment, shielding it from view.

She’s gone utterly daft. Her heart is hammering in her chest, beating a tattoo on her ribcage; she wonders if her fingers are trembling as they reach across to take her essay back, fully convinced she’ll find the words Go out with me scribbled there.

In conclusion, he’d written, this essay is over.

She snorts, mostly at herself. She’s officially deluded. Cracked. What is wrong with her?

“Wow. Thanks for that,” she says drily. “How would Binns have known otherwise?”

He grins. “Anytime.”

“Totally unrelated, but do you offer refunds? Perhaps a voucher for another Harry Potter rescue at a later date?”

“Non-refundable. Sorry.”

“I’m going to be honest,” she lies. “I expected a better rescue than that.”

He shrugs. “You expect too much from The Boy Who Hasn’t Died, Even Once.”

She can’t help herself; she laughs. His eyes seek hers out - green, so green, twinkling with amusement and something that looks so fond. She’s going to set fire to the heap of fireworks in her chest, just to get it over with. She’ll explode in color, driven to madness by the boy who hadn’t died even once but who’d killed her, slowly, with smiles.

In conclusion, she thinks, I’m utterly fucked.

#hinny #canon compliant #hbp missing moment #it's still valentine's day somewhere #not here #but somewhere

278 notes · View notes

nouvxllev · 1 month

Note

Hi loved your recent Jenna fic

I have a request where reader confesses their feelings to Jenna after a long friendship (you can figure out how long and that friendship if you want) and Jenna doesn’t really react and unfortunately something or someone interrupts them that forces them to push that topic aside or something then Jenna like shuts down because she goes over reader’s confession over and over because how did she not see it that what she felt towards reader was exactly the same thing which leads her to think over having a relationship with reader and how it’ll work or how it won’t work I’m rambling at this point so you can just take over from here if you want

Just something along those lines idk if that made sense you can ignore this if it doesn’t ha😅

so this is love?

Pairing: Jenna Ortega x Gn!Reader

Summary: request!! ^^

Words: 4.7k (damn i expected it was gonna be more than 5k)

Warnings: a long fucking love confession!!! you'd think to yourself how did they even say that in one breath, jenna being the oblivious little shit, r and j.o is horrendously inlove w eachother its fuckng insane, kind of bittersweet kind of just sweet, several 7 husbands of evelyn hugo references, im yapping too much about love here

a/n: first of all, thank you so so much!! and hope you'll like this one anon, thank you for the idea!

masterlist.

"Y/n, I'm thinking about changing this scene. Just a slight bit, nothing too over the top. What'd you think?"

"Yeah? Oh, yeah. Definitely."

"But it's such a late change—fuck, I should've told Tim a little earlier. You think he's gonna get frustrated? Then again, he's a sweet guy, I don't think he will."

"Jenna. Jenna, I like you. So fucking much. It's spontaneous, a little on the weird side that I'm telling you this now in your Wednesday Addams get up with a script on your hands asking me if your idea is good or not, even if it is—everything you do is amazing—but I'm in love with you for little over a year now and it's tearing me apart so please just reject me so I can move on."

"Yeah, yeah I like the idea too but—what?"

"I like you. Jenna."

. . .

Here's the thing:

You give a poet paper, they will embellish it with their words. People will mourn over their unfortunately late mortal soul enclosed with a tomb that carries their quill and ink.

You give a painter a blank canvas with nothing but their own mind, they will create a sensation, a masterpiece, a tour de force. People will gaze upon it in awe, so valuable they will waste a fortune.

You give a musician a silent room, an auditorium with nothing but a few instruments and tarnished worksheets. They will make out of it, they will fill the room with melodies that no one would hear, yet the very vibrations would resonate with the walls.

But if someone gives out their heart to you, they will pour it all over you. They will reprogram their own organ so that it beats solely for you. They will rip it out of their chest in bleeding agony and give it to you with no price more than their own faith.

You are given no options other than cherish it, treasure it, be thankful someone admires you as such they will do anything and everything for a piece of your attention, maybe even reciprocation.

You are also given the option to trample on it, break it, shatter it into minuscule pieces that have no intention in restoring to it's formal use. Let it be nothing but a bullet to their own decision, to their own emotion, to their own choice to love you.

Jenna was given those options. None other from her friend since the day she became an actress at a young age, a childhood friend even. What now?

. . .

"...What?"

The brunette responded, murmured even, like she was out of breath. The corner of her lips forced themselves to tug into an awkward smile.

What else are you going to respond with if you're stuck in a situation where your friend of a decade, nearly how long Jenna has been in this fucking industry, tells you that they're in love with you?

You shook your head, noticing how Jenna's gaze flicker to your fidgeting hands. "I like you, Jenna. Like, like you. I love you—no, that's crossing the line. But I just... like you, Jenna. Don't you get it?"

Jenna blinked. So much for being in character. She scoffed, albeit playful, running her fingers through Wednesday's fringe, "Yeah. I like you too. We are friends. Best of friends."

You shook your head once more, slowly taking a step forward towards Jenna like you were cautious. "No, Jenna, I—" you sighed, "I like you. Romantically. Like I'm willing to be in a relationship with you like way."

Oh.

Jenna swallowed the ever growing lump in her throat, feeling her eyebrows crease yet a smile was still present on her face. Her lips parted, threatening to say anything that just comes to her mind at this point. "You… you're serious?" Her voice wavered.

"Very. Dead serious." You nodded, gulping in your own words like you were trying to swallow them whole.

"I don't want our friendship to die out because of this, I wished I should've stopped my mouth from rambling all this to you so spontaneously but I—I should've done it more romantically than this setting. I've been in love with you my whole life, I've loved you for as long as I can remember even if I lose my memories. I'm not a romantic soul, I'm more far from it, and I'll never find the words even if I'm given a lifetime to describe how much I love you. I'm… I'm not saying all of this so you could reciprocate what I feel, it's just that I'll be lying to myself everytime I breath if I don't tell you this. You're my colleague, my co-star, my friend, my childhood, my everything ever since we met on that set of that god-awful ad that I cannot for the life of me watch again. I noticed that I talk to you almost everyday, how I adapted to your weird fucking horror movies that I absolutely somehow love, how I—I bought a stupid vinyl because you liked the artist, how I started listening to your music taste, how I started writing poems, how you always manage to sneak up in my conversations with others. You don't have to even be there, and yet, you linger in my words. I would surrender everything I worked for just for you, I would do anything, sacrifice my time and all. You've been all of those and more, and it's shocking that I'm only saying this now, after five years of loving you, half of the time we've known each other."

Jenna was silent, her lips parting as if to speak, but her mind held her back. But her heart did everything to speak, yet it never came.

She was lost, unsure, afraid. She didn't understand, and she fears that you know she doesn't. She never will unless time so happens to be on her side. Breathing was the only option, and breathing out was her only relief that she was alive.

She looked at you, and you looked at her back. No words exchanged. Your hands are now fidgeting with the hem of your shirt, pulling the loose strings apart as you catch your breath.

Jenna could grab your hand, apologize, and reject you. She could throw everything you both had built and walk away, leaving you behind to pick up the pieces of your shattered heart.

Maybe that both of you will go to separate paths after filming was over. Maybe you'd tear away the contract that stated that in all your shows, Jenna should be there.

But the thought pained her.

It's painful, it's torture, it's agony, it's suffering to live in that universe where you weren't the one Jenna calls when it's a rainy day. The universe where Jenna stays awake, mellowing in her own woe, not knowing who to turn to, who to call at the dead of night. The universe where every poem on her phone, on her paper, on her notes, on every surface she had the ability to write on, wasn't meant for you.

Do you refer to that as love?

"Y/n, I... I just need some—"

"Y/n! There you are."

Shit.

Tim cut Jenna off, approaching the both of them, but more primarily you.

"Y/n, makeup team, and Jenna, your scene."

It all took Tim nothing but to speak seven words for the both of them to pry their eyes off eachother and remind themselves it was a professional setting. With professional actors and professional feelings. Nothing personal, is what Tim would say.

Jenna was an actor. You were an actor, her co-star.

That just so happens to be in love with her.

You nodded as you looked right at Tim, your gaze leaving Jenna for the first time.

Jenna was desperate to hold your hand, take a firm grip of your wrist and to tell you to 'stay' or 'don't go' like what they do at cheesy romance movies where the guy gets the girl.

But it wasn't. Jenna would've loved you if it were a movie.

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

The question still arises on set. Dressed up as Wednesday, cameras rolling, her mind wandering nowhere near the scene but your trailer.

What do you do when a friend confesses their love to you?

A friend who's been a familiar presence in Jenna's life, a friend who's been there since Jenna learned her heart yearned for others, how it beats for other people.

Someone through every moment of self-doubt, they saved her when she couldn't save herself. Through struggles that Jenna considered could be something to gash her mending heart, but they would offer a piece of theres in exchange for happiness in her.

A friend she loves.

It's a simple. You fold your heart in half, maybe even in fourths, then tuck it away in the deepest depths of your pocket. You might stamp it, decorate it, perhaps even address it to none other than your soulmate.

What do you do if you don’t know your soulmate?

You look for them. Jenna never looked for love outside of her family or friends; her heart was content with the familiar comfort of their love. Those were the types of love she knew. She had never felt the need to pursue romance.

Probably because everyone sees some others as they want them to be in their own head. They fall in love with the idea of them, the person they want them to be. An idealized version only they see fit to their desires, a false projection.

Most people would call her beautiful or pretty. She would pass the street and people would look at her, stare at her, look at her up and down, maybe even subtly lick their lips. They look up at her like she’s a force they cannot compete with, like she wasn’t human. Not amongst them. They will compliment her base on her appearance, and in rare cases, on how talented she is.

But someone would call her glorious, like Greece, and grandeur like Rome. Someone would call her lovely, not in a way everyone calls her, but someone would look up at her with eyes that feel like they’re borrowing, harnessing even, the energy of a thousand suns to even look at her. Like she was a garden. But yet, they would also look at her like she was an old friend. An old soul, the soul that could melt yours but still be so comforting.

And it was you.

Most people would look at her and smile. Say hi, wave a greeting, a handshake if it was really needed.

But you look at her as if you were seeing something more, as if Jenna had never seen a person more in awe that you when you look at her. Like how the sun would be nothing without her, how you'll spend your whole life loving her and nothing more, how you look at her and she feels though as if she has never been admired in her whole life. If she was someone intolerable, someone unbearable, suffering to a degree you'd rather die, and you would. But only if it were in her arms.

Most people would describe her as someone talented, art, hot, stunning, sexy. Like she was nothing but a piece of imagination to someone, like her good traits were the only characteristics that made her Jenna Ortega.

But you would turn all of those down. You would say, no, in the face of the interviewer. You would say that she was the renaissance reincarnated as a single human, that was beauty in everything imperfect, she was the art that would put the Sistine Chapel to shame, the sculpture that would have Michelangelo resurrecting from the dead only to lie back of how undoubtedly perfect and impossible to replicate the pure astonishing beauty that was her.

You were an old friend of Jenna, the two of you were ever since Jenna played young Jane in Jane the virgin at twelve years old and you had approached her as an extra to be her somewhat, co-star-in-the-future-friend.

And now, she's only imagining what would've happened if you hadn't been the big ball of sunshine that you always were up until now.

There were times that you would make her laugh, putting up a half-assed comedy show whenever she's in a bad mood, but then you'll give her space if she doesn't budge. Times where you would hold her close in your arms whenever she's on the verge of tears, and times where you hold her close to you whenever she achieved something.

There were times she wasn't proud of herself, how self-doubt creeped into her mind and slowly started to deteriorate her soul, yet you were there. You called her brilliant, a genius, someone show-stopping people from all around the world would be shocked how amazing she was and a few other words that she kept close to her heart.

There were times where Jenna calls you, telling you how filming was all too stressful and she needs a break. Then you're with her the next day, surprisingly becoming an extra or maybe a new side character to her films.

You were always saying how you would protect her at the age of twelve, and she'd always respond with "how?" with a laugh, then you'd respond with a simple shrug saying, "I'd love you."

Jenna didn't understand it at first and yet you understood her in such a short amount of time. How you knew why she always has her headphones on, how you wrote down and knew at the top of a hat what she likes and what she hates, how your laugh sounded at her most darkest of jokes, how you would bring back snacks whenever you're on a run, how you would always say 'i love you' in times where she's breaking down.

And up until now, she never understood why you would protect her with your love.

Jenna was your friend but you treated her like she was your everything.

And up until now, she realized that she loved you back.

And up until now, she realized how could she even dare to live without giving you the same love as you did to her?

People tell you that relationships are easy, that they're lovely, that they tell you that love is the only thing that keeps the both of them going.

But they don't tell you the rest.

They don't tell the pain you want to go through all for your significant other. The nights you want them to be in your arms but you've gone through yet another foolish argument that created a hole in your heart that seem to never mend, but it will.

It made sense that Jenna never wanted to be in a relationship, it was scary. The answer to a question as such was always going to be no. How there was always someone going to be hurt or inflict hurt.

But it never made sense that Jenna would experience pain with no presence of mercy to be with you.

Everyone talks about falling out of love, but that's bullshit. If you fall out of love, then there must be a reason you should've never fell from them in the first place. It's something Jenna never understood why falling out of love was never a thing if love prospered and it was for all eternity.

But the thought of being in a relationship with you, and having to watch you fall out of love with her is terrifying.

The two of you would work because the both of you are long friends, childhood friends. Yet, it won't. Because the two of you were friends. What would happen if Jenna let you in the most deepest parts of her heart? What would happen if you did? Would you get turned off? Would she get turned off? She wouldn't. You wouldn't

If no one had stopped Jenna in the midst of her performance as Wednesday, she wouldn't notice she was messing up her lines. She wouldn't have noticed that she was crying.

But she did notice that one familiar scent you always carried around you; that one perfume mixed with the shampoo you used everyday. Jenna was around you her whole life and she never got tired of it. It could be the smell of her home, like that one familiar scent at your childhood home.

It wasn't long before she felt a pair of two hands grabbing her shoulders, tugging her gently, and it wasn't long before she felt herself walking with them.

The voices were drowned out, muffled, she can hear someone saying to "let her take a break until she's feeling better. Emma, your scene."

"Jenna?"

"Jenna, please, talk to me, why are you crying?"

"Shit—Jenna? Jenna, it's alright, I'm—Well, I shouldn't probably be here."

She knew that voice. How could she forget them?

It wasn't fair that Jenna's heart skipped a beat once she heard your pitch, like you were worried or concerned. She recognized it all too well that it brought a sense of comfort in her soul.

"Y/n?" She whispered, noticing how you brought her into your trailer and sat her down. "Shit. Fuck, I'm supposed to be on set. Y/n, why am I—"

"Jenna. Jenna, hey, look at me," you grabbed her hands, your touch a bit too warm as you held hers tightly, but it never failed to give her peace. "I'm sorry, I know I'm not the one who should be doing this since you know, the whole shit that happened an hour ago."

Jenna looked down at your hands, your thumb slowly caressing the back of her palm, a silent permission. A permission she would always grant with open arms. Or maybe hands in this case.

You nodded, fixing yourself up on the couch as you look at Jenna. "We're gonna take deep breaths, alright? I'll be here, don't worry." You squeezed her hand in reassurance.

"No, y/n, I—I need to tell you something, please—"

"Jenna." You sighed, noticing how it wasn't out of annoyance but out of concern. "Your voice is cracking, you're stuttering, you're in a higher pitch than you are normally. And more importantly, you have tears in your eyes." You would sooner or later interlock your fingers with Jenna's offering another reassuring squeeze. "I'll protect you. You're safe with me, don't worry, please, Jenna."

Oh.

. . .

You know, people think sex is intimacy, the highest form of intimacy there is.

But they're wrong.

It’s being able to realize something heartbreaking, something that cuts you deep in your soul to the point where no amount of bandages will help. But somehow, someway, someone so special could heal it with their words.

It’s where you can be vulnerable with someone, be happy, be sad, be angry, be every emotion you’re afraid surrendering to. They will wrap their arms around you and whisper to you that they’re there for you. You’re safe with them.

It’s when you realize that heaven couldn’t be real if it isn’t with them.

It's when you realize that everyone got it wrong in perceiving them, noticing how you're the only one who truly understands them.

It’s when you realize every living and late poet was wrong in their writings, in their words, in their books. Love wasn’t an emotion, it wasn’t a choice. It was someone. Someone special.

It’s when you realize if ever you’ve completely turned the whole world against you, the time where you’ve devastated everyone in turn for your own selfish needs. Yet you will find yourself standing in front of them. Realizing you’ve spared them from your wrath.

You expect them to hurt you. To break you, to do everything within and over their power to make you experience the same pain you’ve inflicted.

Yet they will show no betrayal.

They will simply show understanding, awe even. Love. They will catch if you if you fall from the top you’ve tore and exhausted yourself. They will sing to you if you feel every melody has nothing. They will do everything, they will accept you, not only because of you, but because of what you carry, what you’re pretending not to be.

Love was never easy, Jenna knew that. You don’t listen to Pat Benatar or The Cascades to not know what true love does to someone; It will shatter you, then mend your now fragile heart like its nothing. It will let you experience grief, then peace. It will let you feel nothing, then everything. It’s not simple, never is. It’s complicated, it’s fucked up. It’s terrifying. So fucking terrifying.

But if Jenna was going to experience everything she’s thinking of right now; Agonizing heartache that feels like mercy isn’t even an option, and peace she had never felt before, it was going to be with you.

. . .

"Jenna? Jenna are you—"

She had never really truly felt luxury in a while until she let her trembling hands reach up to cup your cheeks, stealing one glance away from your eyes before closing her own and softly pressing her lips against yours.

What do you say to a friend you realized you’ve fallen in love with now?

Maybe you’d kiss them, like what Jenna is doing now. Let yourself bring peace in your world that is full of unjust morals—let them be a light, be something that felt half as right as loving the taste of their lips on yours.

Maybe you'd let them into your world. Remind them of how they're the only ones in this life were worth devoting your entire life to, how being in their presence was an experience of a life time.

Maybe you'd let them care about your entire being. Let yourself be vulnerable, be free within their arms. Let them tell you that they're going no where but to where you're headed, that peace only belongs to a place where you're present.

Maybe you’d tell them how you like the way they look at their belongings like it was their favorite part of the day? Tell them how they make you feel that everything is possible, how you knew that you’ll be living as much as they would be smiling.

Or maybe, Jenna would say this,

"Y/n," she broke off the kiss, her hands returning to her lap and intertwining with yours. "I'm sorry. I couldn't give a proper reaction to your confession earlier. It was so stupid of me I—"

You laughed. Fuck, your laugh was beautiful.

"Don't worry, Jenna. You don't really feel the same way as I do, and that's fine. I just—I just hope it won't ruin our friendship, you know?"

Jenna scoffed, eyebrows creasing, "No, y/n, give me time to talk, please." She laughed, then took a deep breath.

"I love you, y/n. I never really realized that, I mistook them for something lesser. Mostly because love wasn’t the right term to describe it. Love is simple, fast, overused, something tossed around so carelessly that it couldn't be something I'd say to you; you don’t deserve such a weak word that has no meaning but tarnished from other people. It’s not complex, like how you’re represented in my soul, how you grown ivy around my heart as if I’m trapped in your unbearable love, yet why do I accept such an idea that is only a metaphor that I wish it were true? It's clear that no one knows me greater than you have. It happens more often than not that people will see right through me, only to find a barricade of walls that reflects repressed emotions that keep them from entering. But you tell a different story, different words that people don’t use to tear at my heart. You whisper something so precious that I wish to hear again but I shouldn't before I fall. You unravel my soul with a gentleness that defies everything, that makes me wonder where pure tenderness comes from if it isn't from you. I've known you for long enough to know what the sound of your voice is in, whether your anxious or joyful, how your voice is the sole reason why I sleep without your arms wrapped around my body. I want nothing but to hold you in my arms, to lie beside you in nothing but eternal slumber then rise again if you are ever disturbed. I want to fear nothing, to be afraid of nothing, to have death be a mere word unless your name is next towards it. My name is always associated with me being an actress, a talented one, someone who would no longer be a name hidden in the dust but someone who would rise to the top. A glamorous world is what they would tell me, everything I would want is granted. But why aren't you there in the vision they see? The lover that I yearn for, a home that would finally bring me peace, the home that I wouldn't escape from with bare melodies that lay emotions that I couldn't voice. I just—Fuck, I love you, y/n. Through a decade we've been together, it's only now that I realize that life without you is simply a life worth killing myself to. Death shouldn't be an option when you're around me, it should be something we'll defy, an afterlife that would fail in making us part ways from eachother. I love you. Really. I'm sorry, I just didn't know what to say or do, but I love you. I've realized that."

The silence was unbearable, only now did she realize she blurted out a confession only those who're dead can say in a sentence without stuttering.

"No, no Jenna…" You pushed her hands away from yours, the action stinging her own hands as you stepped back, putting unfamiliar distance between the two of you.

"Y/n, what?" She scoffed, her voice betraying her of a flat tone, "What do you mean, I thought—" Jenna immediately reached out for your arm, her words were faltering, her fingers now trembling as they threatened to brush against your skin.

She was expecting to get yelled at to leave, to never show her face to yours ever again. But as she looked into your eyes, she was met with tears that dared to glisten your gaze. "Are you… are you crying?"

You chuckled, "You know… You know I can't compete with that confession, Jenna. It's unfair to those who don't have a habit of staying up late and writing poems." You brought your hands up to your eyes and wiping away the tears that fell on your cheek, only to be replaced by warm ones.

Jenna cupped your face, her thumb caressing the gentle touch and warmth of your skin, feeling how you leaned into her touch almost immediately. "Oh, you're awful. You had me worrying that I said something wrong or you changed your mind."

"Oh, no, never." You laughed it away, shrugging the tears that continue to stain your face. Then, without a word, you reached up to cradle her own face in your hands, letting her place them down on your lap and close the remaining distance of the two of you that were seated far too apart from eachother.

"I never really thought that you'd say yes. Or say something too poetic." You whispered to her, daring yourself to not drown in her pool of brown eyes that threatened to kill you if you looked too closely.

"I never really thought that I would truly love someone, and look at that turned out."

"Like what?"

"Like I never wanted to love someone more than I loved everything." She tilted her head, leaning forward and closing the distance between your lips and hers. A soft but gentle press to your own, yet it was fervent.

She pulled away, only so slightly that your lips never touched eachother again before they fall into the same predicament as addiction. But close that she could feel your heartbeat, your warm breath against hers, everything that made you you.

"So, this is love?" She whispered.

"Dangerously attractive in a form of a human?" You smirked, winking even, before Jenna rolled her eyes.

She scoffed, "I was going to take you out to dinner, but you are awful at charming someone."

"Take me out to dinner and I'll never make that statement again."

"Deal. I'd splurge a shit ton of money for you not to repeat it ever again."

"You pain me. I love you."

"I love you too."

And then she kissed you, holding you tight as if reminding you're more than just a friend.

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

a/n: i'm in a desperate need of a girlfriend. also in the span of my 1 week break ive written only 2 stories. its such a low number damn 😭😭😭 (+ then he kissed by by the crystals reference at the end!)

#jenna ortega x reader #jenna ortega x you #jenna ortega x y/n #jenna ortega #jenna marie ortega #jenna ortega x fem!reader #jenna ortega x femreader #jenna ortega x female reader

255 notes · View notes

000marie198 · 1 month

Note

What were to happen if Sonic and Tails both became babies? Y'know, besides Knuckles and Amy having to wrangle their clingier than usual sibs.

Imagine two gremlin twin kittens who just got reunited staring at you with these faces:

:3 :3

Moments before disaster strikes

.....

But this happens after they are placed in the same space together and make friends.

The first instinct of baby Tails would be to pounce on his fellow age mate cuz he wanna play

The first instinct of Sonic would be to yip in terror and roll away from the fox and tremble while still curled up in a teeny ball. He won't know it but his action will make baby Tails pause and tilt his head in confusion and then curiously approach the still trembling ball to nudge it. It pricks him due to quills and he also yips and scuttles away, then whimpers and sniffs, holding his bleeding snout.

The hedgehog, recognizing the sounds as expressions of pain and fear and not sensing anything else for a full minute uncurls slightly to make a little peek at the kit, he's cautious but also curious.

They don't really have the memories of their lives but the general instincts and bonds are there and seeing the teary blue eyes and soft sad sniffles... Little hoglet is not able to handle it and uncurls completely and whimpers too.

He hurt the other. He doesn't want the other to be hurt. He's really sorry he hurt the other.

Little hoglet stumbles towards the sniffling kit and pats him with his little paws over and over till baby Tails stops tearing up with a hiccup and stares curiously at the hoglet.

Baby Sonic let's out an open mouthed smile. Tails gets curious and comes closer, which reactivates the hedgehog instincts and Sonic rolls away again.

Baby Tails realizes the other one can get scared if he comes close without warning or pounces so he doesn't do that. He just sits and waits, tails lightly swishing back and forth, watching baby Sonic till he calms down and uncurls, meeting the fox replicating his earlier smile.

Big wide eyes staring at each other and slowly they both become comfortable enough to actually start communicating, in babbles and gestures but it's still communication.

In a while, Sonic's stomach growls, he has always had higher metabolism okay. Baby Tails starts sniffing around to find him something to eat. He sniffs something he likes, FLIES OUT OF THE PEN, locates a cookie and brings it to Sonic. The hoglet muches on it and offers it to Tails after 3 or 4 bites. Tails also munches on cookie.

They start competing on who can munch louder, it's a miracle one of them hasn't choked on a crumb while giggling so much.

They bond over chocolate cookie :]

........

There's a lot more moments we can add afterwards, aka once the two have become friends. .

Both babies would literally have that package deal, Do Not Sperate level separation anxiety specifically and only when it comes to the other.

Knuckles would carry Tails away to feed him something and Sonic would start wailing and reaching, Tails doing the same. They are very loud and they won't shut up till you reunite them, which will end up in close hugs and sniffles

There was that one time Amy had to take Sonic away for a little bit to give him a bath and Knuckles had to fight to hold a frantic clawing fox kit away, especially when Sonic's cries of sorrow turned into screeches of fear. This was so not easy.

Tails bites both their older friends after that while Sonic naps in the background all freshened up and tidied.

........

You cannot leave the babies unsupervised anywhere! They will work together to escape one way or another no matter where and they will drive everyone nuts looking for them only to be found inside a barely ajar cupboard with cereal scattered all around them and blinking like deer caught in a headlight.

......

You give one of them a toy or teether or rattle and they'll fight over it and scream. Sighing, you take away the toys. Next time you make sure to give both of them identical toys. They still look at the other and try to snatch it, starting another fight.

.......

There are two gremlins rolling around and flying all over the house, getting into the craziest, unreachable places. Sonic just scuttled under the fridge, Tails is perched on a ceiling fan. Everything is scattered

.......

The next time baby Tails pounces on the hoglet to play with him, Sonic doesn't curl up in fear

#they are sooooo *holds them gently*#baby sonic #baby tails #sonic the hedgehog #sonic #sth #miles tails prower #sonic and tails #unbreakable bond #ask answered #anon ask

155 notes · View notes

asumofwords · 10 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: You know I can't resist... So here is another chapter! Hehe, thanks for the love and kind words as per usual! I wonder what the reader is going to do now heheh <3

Chapter 82: The Cracks

A letter sat in the centre of the table in your chambers. Its soft yellow parchment was rolled neatly, a black, three headed dragon wax seal holding the fine paper together. It had been untouched. Unread. Unopened. The seal still in its whole form.

A letter from your family.

Its soft gentle sloping the telltale sign of your mothers handwriting. Small and gentle, feminine slopes, no harsh ’t’s or sloppy ‘y’s. It was her. And you let a small sigh of relief escape from your lips.

The letter began as most did, a greeting, a comment about Daemon to let you know it was your mother, despite you knowing her writing by heart. But then the letter became more anxious. Asking about your wellbeing, stating that it had been too long since they had last heard from you.

How long had it been?

Was time running away from you? The days bleeding and blinking together.

When was the last time that you had written?

Aemond had held the parchment out for you and you had taken it wordlessly, bitter resentment still curling in your gut. You took your time walking to the chaise and moved to sit by the light and warmth of the fire to read, the hearth crackling softly as Aemond sat at the table, quill in hand. Quiet gentle scratches of ink rose in the air as he wrote, having been writing all day after you had spent yours in the Gardens.

‘It has been too long, we fear you have fallen ill. Are you well? Must we come visit to see for ourselves? Alicent has corresponded to let us know that you are well, but we wish to hear from your own word. Have you lost yourself amongst the library? Or have you run out of starfruit and are desperately in need of more?’

Alicent?

Your mother had written to Alicent?

You smiled at Rhaenyra's script, bringing the parchment to your nose and inhaling deeply. It smelt of her. Her subtle oils that she rubbed into her skin, the soap she used to wash her hair, and the ever so faint smell of smoke.

‘Jacaerys and Baela were wed in tradition here at Dragonstone.’

A stone sank in your stomach.

‘It was a beautiful day, no winds, nor rains, nor a cloud in sight. Baela was a vision, a beauty of Valyrian blood, and Jacaerys as handsome as ever. His hair has grown longer, it curls above his shoulders now. He misses you terribly. We all do. Your absence was noted at the union by all present.’

A tear fell from your cheek.

You had missed it.

Baela and Jacaerys’ union.

A union of love.

A union of respect.

Something pure.

And you had missed it.

A day like that would never come again.

You felt sick to your stomach as another tear fell from your eyes, stomach turning painfully as you thought of it.

You thought of your father, proud and smiling at his daughter and step son. Of how Rhaneyra would have beamed, and fretted over Jacaerys’ hair and clothing. Of how Rhaena would have been glued to Baela’s side.

You wondered what Joffrey, Little Viserys and Aegon the Younger had worn. Of what they looked like. Of how it had been.

Would you have smiled brightly at the union, filled with joy at seeing two people you love dearly be wed to one another?

Or would have cried, overwhelmed by it all and what you had missed out on in life?

You sniffed, and Aemond’s head lifted from his page to look at you. You roughly wiped your eyes with the back of your hand placing the parchment in your lap as you tried to steady your breathing.

You had not forgotten the dinner that the two of you had. Nor of Aegon’s confession of Aemond’s deceit.

But you swallowed it as you did everything else, and made priority over what you could and could not feel for. And soon the sadness that ate at you turned to anger, and you began to think more on when the perfect time to strike is.

Aemond stood from the table, shoes barely making a sound as he came around beside you, one hand on your shoulder as he reached forward for the letter.

If Aemond so wished it, he could sneak anywhere without being seen or heard.

“May I?” He asked, and with shaky fingers you lifted the parchment to give to him.

“Jacaerys and Baela were wed.” You spoke dully, pushing down the tide inside of you.

Stay strong.

Aemond hummed, eyes skimming the pages, “I am sorry to have missed it.”

“As am I.”

“Perhaps when Rhaena is wed-“ Aemond stopped himself.

Rhaena.

Rhaena was betrothed to Lucerys.

But now she would not wed him.

You would never get to see Lucerys be married to someone who would have loved him just as fiercely as you did. You would never get to see him grow, or start a family of his own. You would never get to see him grey with age. Lucerys would always be a boy.

You stood on stiff knees, brushing down your skirt in habit.

“Excuse me.” Was all you said as you moved yourself away from your uncle and the fireplace, and across the room to leave the chambers, leaving Aemond behind, needing a moment for air.

Needing a moment to breathe.

A moment to be away from it.

It was overwhelming, and you fought the urge to cry.

You slowly made your way down to the Gardens, neither walking fast or slow, but taking your time with each step as you tried to steady your breathing and tame the tides that surged within.

“It has been a while since I saw you here.”

You turned your head slowly, looking behind you.

Aegon sat in your usual seat in the Gardens, looking at you with a lazy grin. He did not wear his crown today, and despite him being alone and you with him, your heart did not race.

“I have been thankful.” You responded, moving to continue on your walk down the Gardens to the shore of the beach.

Aegon’s footsteps clunked against the stone ground loudly, heavy on his feet where Aemond was light, as he chased to catch up with you, your hands held together at your front.

It was a fine day in King’s Landing. Small clouds littered the skies, and a gentle breeze rolled through the trees and plants of the Garden, wafting the sweet aroma of the flowers around you.

“Might I join you on this walk?” The King asked, no tone of mocking in his voice.

You turned your head to look at him, eyes roaming up and down his body.

Aemond would be furious.

“You may.” You said stiffly, turning your head away as you strolled together past bushels of lavender and rosemary, their gentle scents curling around you.

“And how is my brother today? Has his temper been soothed?”

“He is in our chambers, attending to your duties.”

Aegon hummed in agreement, a high pitch noise where Aemond’s was deep. Aegon’s came from his throat, Aemond’s came from his chest.

“Aemond does love his writing and his books. Best to keep him preoccupied.”

“And you love your drinking and your whoring.” You replied primly.

“And what if I told you I have turned a new leaf?” Aegon’s tone lightened, head turned to smile at you in your periphery.

You kept your eyes ahead on the path, “I would not believe it.”

Aegon laughed heartily, "I suppose you may be right. No harm in trying.”

“There is plenty.”

“Did Aemond ravish you after the council dinner? I have never seen him so fiery as he left to go after you. I can’t imagine it had been fun.”

“It was perfectly enjoyable.” You sighed.

I hate him, Aemond’s voice echoed in your head, He should beg for my mercy.

“Aemond does not leave much to be desired.” You continued, insinuating Aemond’s skills.

“Though I am thicker. You said so yourself.” Aegon waggled his brows at you and you fought the urge to not gag.

“Aemond is longer and simply reaches places you could not dream to reach, where you are thicker. Though the thickness does not stop at your cock.”

“Such a tart mouthed woman.”

“A brainless, whore of a King.”

“Be nice, or I may bend you over that rose bush.” Aegon pointed jovially at a bush you remembered Helaena getting caught in as a child.

Your stomach roiled and your heart rattled against your ribs.

“Perhaps I should bend you over it.” You quipped back, swallowing the lump that formed in your throat.

Aegon laughed sincerely as you began to walk down the steps towards the water, “I would not be adversed to it.” He smirked, hands tucked behind his back.

The walk down to the water was quiet, and as you got to the bottom, the two of you looked out at the rolling waters, soft fluffy white tips peaking over the waves, wind brushing over it softly, making the water look like diamonds.

You stood side by side for some time, counting your breaths in your head as you realised the risk of being with Aegon alone where you were.

But it has already happened.

What is another time more?

You turned your head to look at Aegon, who still looked out at the water, face still. His nose sloped softly where Aemond’s was harsh. Aegon looked more like his mother than Viserys. Soft cheeks and pouted lips, and a perpetual sadness that lingered behind his lavender eyes.

“I miss her.” His voice broke the silence.

You blinked.

“I know that you would not believe me, but I do. She was my sister. My wife,” He turned to look at you and you saw nothing but sincerity in his eyes, “The mother of my children.”

You swallowed as you looked at him, brows furrowed.

My children.

“Don’t look at me like that.” The King sighed.

“Do you know?”

Aegon shifted on his feet sighing, looking out at the water for a moment, letting the unanswered question wrap around the two of you coldly. His jaw clenched.

“They’re not your children.”

Aegon huffed, “Vicious little thing aren’t you.”

“Aemond and Helaena-“

“Loved each other in their own way. I know this. Anyone with eyes would know this.” Aegon began, brows pulled down, “But he was good to her. Kind even, if you can believe Aemond is capable of such qualities.”

“You are brothers.”

Aegon laughed humourlessly, “That we are.”

Silence.

“They are my children. My heirs. Maegor will sit the throne after me. And his children after him.” Aegon’s tone was brittle and stiff, an iciness that wrapped around each syllable.

“They ask after her, especially Maegor. But Jaehaera has gone quiet, so quiet since…” Aegon trailed off and looked back at the water, “She asked for you once.”

You blinked, “Jaehaera?”

“Mother is in charge of raising them now.” Aegon’s violet eyes met yours.

“My condolences."

Aegon turned on his heel and offered and elbow for you to loop your arm through. You looked at it in question. When had things gone so wrong? Why did life find a way for ruining connection and families? You thought for a beat, looking at your eldest uncles arm, and swallowed the fear that clawed at your throat.

Slowly, you looped yours through his as you began to walk back up through the Garden together, step by slow step as you both looked at the flowers in bloom. Your skin prickled in disgust and nausea ate at your stomach.

As you passed the Monkshood, your eyes darted to it and then back to Aegon who turned his head to meet your gaze.

“Remember when you caught me and that servant girl in the Gardens?” Aegon smirked, “I don't think I have ever seen you so red.”

There he is.

Fucking prick.

You hummed, “I could not think of a worser fate than having your cock in my mouth.”

“Ah, but you did say perhaps.” Aegon paused, letting go of your arm as he reached an arm forward, plucking a bright red rose from its bush. You watched as Aegon stepped closer to you, his scent closing around you as he lifted both arms.

You flinched at the movement, but Aegon did not stop, instead pushing its stem into the back of your braid, a thorn catching a strand of your hair as he pushed it down. Aegon stood back and smiled at his handy work.

“I did.” You swallowed, “Though I worry for your ability to actually please.”

“I wouldn’t worry about that, I’m a quick learner.”

Aegon grinned, from up ahead, the greying head of Otto Hightower came into view and Aegon sighed loudly, letting his head fall backwards on his neck as he looked up at the sky.

“Duty calls.” Aegon griped, searching your face. “Until ‘perhaps’?”

Bile rose in your mouth as you stared at him.

“Perhaps.” You said coyly.

A wide smirk pulled on his lips before Aegon turned away from you walking lazily up to Otto, whose gaze flicked between you and the King, his voice hushed as he spoke to his grandson. You watched the two of them walk from the garden out of sight before you released the breath that you had been holding, heart racing.

When you arrived back in your chambers you moved straight to the table, retrieving a blank piece of parchment and writing back to your family. Apologising for not being there, assuring them of your wellbeing, telling them of the gardens and the new books you had been reading. Each swipe of your quill caused heat to bloom in your chest.

Perhaps.

You were disgusted in yourself. But you knew it had to be done.

The sound of the chamber doors alerted you to Aemond’s entrance, but you made no move to greet him nor even acknowledge him, your eyes still on the parchment as you wrote. His footfall stopped beside you as he looked at you writing your letter.

“Where have you been?” Aemond asked, tone pressing.

“The Gardens for a walk.” You responded tonelessly, looping a ‘y’ with care.

Silence wrung out in the room before you felt the gentle pull of your hair at the back of your head, Aemond held the red rose in his hand as he turned it over, your eyes still on the page as you told your mother of some of the new tomes you had received, as well as the Black Stone.

“I did not know you were fond of roses.” Aemond mused, turning it over in his hand.

You paused your writing to dip the quill in the ink pot before you lifted your gaze beneath your lashes at Aemond, “I’m not. It was a gift.” You said dully, scraping the quill against the ink well, thick drops of black ink sliding back inside its holder.

A beat.

“A gift?”

You pressed the quill back onto the parchment, “Aegon joined me on my walk.”

“Aegon?” Aemond’s voice was dangerously low.

“Do you know of any other Aegon’s in the Keep?”

“Did he touch you?” He all but growled.

“He offered an arm.” You drawled, signing off your name at the end of the letter.

“An arm and a rose.”

You dropped the quill into its holder unceremoniously before turning your upper body to look at your uncle, who’s face was pulled into a frown.

“An arm and a rose are far more respectable than a bastard given to your whore.” You spoke cooly, tilting your head down to blow on the ink lightly before looking back up at him.

“You provoke me.” He grunted.

“I do no such thing.” You countered, “Merely a friendly walk and talk with my dear uncle.”

“When has he ever been dear to you?” Aemond snipped.

“When have you ever been faithful? Honourable? You wish to question me and my honour when you have fathered a bastard. Not only have you fathered potential others," You hissed, "With this one, you did not even think to tell me, your brother did. Your ‘pathing a path with good intentions’ has been trodden under your boot.”

Your words hung heavily in the chambers as Aemond looked at you.

“I’m sorry.”

“Good.” You snipped, pushing the chair out from beneath you as you handed Aemond the scroll, “Feel free to read it if you like before sending it out.” And with that you left the chambers again, needing to cool your temper.

Over the next few days, you and Aemond danced around each other, barely speaking except for your snips and snarls, Aemond returning it with little patience and immediately apologising afterwards. And Aegon took advantage of that.

And you took advantage of him.

The King begun to hang around you more often since the walk in the Gardens. His presence appearing like smoke, seemingly out of thin air. He would find you everywhere.

Anywhere.

The Godswood.

The Library.

Even in the halls and corridors as you walked aimlessly, not wanting to be found by Aemond and his incessant presence.

And you let him.

For humouring the man brought you an advantage that you hadn’t had before. You answered his questions earnestly, and responded to his flirting with playful jabs in turn. You made quick work of it, for though you had told Aegon his cock was thicker, which was true, he was also the thickest brother. Not as smart, nor as cunning as Aemond, and it showed.

Each time the King found you, you would indulge him, little by little, and by the fourth day of his small rendezvous, you even offered him a smile, something you had previously only reserved for Aemond. And with each day coming to an end, spent by the side of the whoring and drunken King, you ended your conversations with the same echoing ‘perhaps’, and the promise of something to come.

It angered Aemond to no avail.

Each time you returned to your chambers, you would mention in fleeting passing that Aegon had found you again. That he had spoken with you. That perhaps he brought you a gift, or complimented your dress, brining home more roses, or in one instance a silk chemise. And Aemond simmered with anger each and every time.

He fucked his anger out into you and you revelled in it, coaxing it from him. Making him believe that you had no play in it. That you were not repeating ‘perhaps’ to the King. That you were not letting your eyes linger on his breeches for fleeting moments. That you were not egging the King on. That Aegon was seeking you out, that you merely had no choice but to endure his presence, that you had said no once before and Aegon had not listened.

It also left him with the possibility that you were encouraging it. Though he had no evidence of such.

Aemond saw his brother pursuing you, and you played the innocent dolt. The One-Eyed Prince’s resentment to his brother was building, and you were ecstatic.

I hate him.

That morning as you and Aemond dined together, he asked you of your plans. You told him that you would be going to the Gardens to read the rest of your book in the sun, and had plans to even have your lunch there. At the mention of the Gardens, Aemond informed you that he would be joining you.

“And is a certain King the reason for this sudden declaration of company?” You questioned, lifting a brow at the Prince from across the table.

“No.” Aemond said all too quickly, “I have finished my duties ahead of time, and wish to spend my day with my wife.”

You hummed, chewing on a small piece of toast.

Aemond wanted to make sure Aegon didn't get you alone.

When you walked down to the garden together it was a quiet affair, the only sounds being your foot steps and the swishing of your skirts. When you arrived to your usual spot, you were surprised to find it empty, but felt a small piece of disappointment knowing that the two brothers would not use you as a weapon against each other.

You sat and read for a time, though you felt the constant subtle gazes of Aemond as he looked up at you.

Sensing his unease, you sought to work on it. Tucking the book at your side you chuckled softly and looked out at the water, Aemond following your line of sight.

You needed to bite your tongue about Alys. For now.

You needed to play to your strengths and his weaknesses.

Your shared childhood.

“Do you remember when the Sea Snake told us that there were dragons in the sea?” You coaxed, letting a small smile rise on your lips as you looked back at Aemond, who’s gaze was on you, and not the water.

“Hm.”

“I remember being so excited, and you were terrified.”

Aemond huffed, “I was not terrified, I simply did not believe it.”

You grinned at him, “And why is it so unbelievable?”

“Because who would claim them?”

“Perhaps the sea people he spoke about.”

A wry grin pulled on Aemond’s lips, “Again with your tales and stories. You always did love fairytales and mystical creatures.”

“I remember you loving to hear about those stories. Besides, who is to say they aren’t real? I’m sure the people in Westeros had stories of Dragons before, and they exist, do they not? What is a tale without a little truth to it?” You turned your head to look back out at the water, Aemond’s not committal hum beside you.

You paused a moment or two, looking at the water in mock thought before you opened your mouth to speak.

“Aemond,” You asked again, looking back to find he had not taken his eye from you, “How did you remember I liked lemon tarts? Did you remember when we snuck into the kitchens?”

“I remember you running into a passage to eat them greedily. You even stole mine.”

Your mouth dropped open, “I did not. You gave it to me.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes, and you know it to be true. You stole armfuls of them and only had two by the end. A terribly bad thief you make.”

“My apprentice was worse. You got caught the next time by the Septa.”

You winced at the memory, the sound of her shrieking voice as she screamed at the both of you, dragging you to your respected mothers and telling them that you were sneaking out of your chambers together.

“Not my fault you weren’t listening for footsteps. You were too busy complaining about Aegon.”

Aegon.

Aemond shifted at the mention.

“He was a twat.”

“Is.” You corrected him, "Do you remember when I hit him in the shins in the training yard?” You laughed loudly, enjoying the small smile that wound on Aemond’s face, “He really thought that he could best me with a sword just because I was a girl.”

“He underestimates a lot of people. Especially you.” There was a dark undertone to his words, but you chose to ignore it.

“Seeing him fall to the floor, clutching his shins was better than any lemon tart or star fruit. You should have seen Ser Cole’s face! I've never seen him so appalled.”

“Not even in the library?” Aemond teased, and you blushed.

“You’re cruel.” You teased, “But Aegon deserved it.” Your tone hardened, “I couldn’t stand to see the way he treated you. How he pushed you around. How my brothers joined in.”

Aemond stayed silent as you continued.

“When I found you that day in the tunnels, after they gave you the pig…” You looked back at the water, “I wanted beat them bloody. I’ve never felt rage like that before, I wanted to-“ You paused taking a deep breath, “I know that you think I betrayed you.” You said quietly, looking at the soft white peaks on the waves below, not daring to lift your gaze to Aemond’s piercing one, “But I didn’t have a choice. Rhaenyra would have never let me stay in the Keep, and seeing your mother come after Lucerys with a blade? I was terrified.” You swallowed, thinking of that fateful night.

“I stepped in front of Lucerys, I think I was ready in that moment.” You explained, your breathing uneven, “I was ready to die for him. And then I saw you, and you were looking at me, and then I saw your eye.“ You swallowed again, “I never forgave Luc for what he did to you, just like I will never forgive you for what you did to him.”

You finally turned to face Aemond, who’s face was carefully blank, “But know that if Alicent had not come at us all with that blade, I would have run to you. I wanted to see if you were okay. I wanted to make sure that you were alright, I-“ You paused, reaching your hand out to touch the scar that split through his cheek, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I wasn’t there. You were just a boy. And you were my friend. All we had was each other, and I left you alone.”

Aemond’s eye searched your face before his hand gripped your own, pulling it into his lap.

“I thought I might find you here.”

Aemond and your heads flicked to the noise, seeing Aegon standing at the entrance of the sitting area, Ser Cole behind him. Aemond’s hand gripped yours tightly, and you soothed over his knuckles with your thumb.

“It's not hard to find someone in a place they cannot leave.” You quipped back.

“Merely came to see if perhaps today was a good day.”

“Clearly I’m here, brother.” Aemond growled.

“Like I said, you could watch.” Aegon teased.

Aemond moved to stand, but you tugged him back down with his hand.

“When the sun rises in the West and sets in the East, Aegon.” You sighed, keeping a firm grip of Aemond’s hand.

Aegon smirked, looking down at your hands and then back up before bowing his head to the two of you. As he left, escorted by Ser Criston Cole, Aemond kept his eye on his brother the entire time, whilst you kept your eye on him.

“Aem,” You brushed his cheek with your hand, coaxing his attention back to you, “Hēnkirī hae mēr.”

Together as one.

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

Bold is who I cannot tag!

458 notes · View notes

talesof-old · 3 months

Text

dry hands | r.s.

pairing(s): robb stark x reader

warning(s): nothing really, a few mentions of old wounds/scarring, having dry skin to the point of pain/bleeding, not edited or proofread, this is definitely a little slice of life type drabble

word count: 859

masterlist

a/n: this is an over one year old request, my apologies. i’ve been finally feeling up to working through some of my old stuff, so i’m hopefully gonna put them out over the next little bit

robb stark + “why are your hands so dry?”

Winter had come swiftly.

Summer flurries had turned to inches deep snow that gathered on the hem of your skirts and soaked the bottom of your cloak. You’d taken to spending most of your time indoors, basking in the heat the springs beneath Winterfell offered. Robb, ever dutiful, had barely had the chance to even sleep beside you, too consumed by his ever pressing responsibilities as King in the North.

You sighed, setting down the cross stitching you’d been working on for what seemed like ages, and instead inspected your hands. The cold made them ache, but the constant back and forth between the wet outdoors and burning dry heat of the castle had caused the skin to redden and crack in a far more painful manner. They stung when exposed to moisture and every time you attempted to smooth creams over them, you’d end up wishing you hadn’t.

Not built for the North, you’d utter to whoever was closest to you.

Sansa had spent much of her time reminding you that no one was truly equipped for the winter. You pushed yourself up from your seat, stretching your tired limbs and making your way to your husband’s side of the chambers. He’d hardly slept these past few weeks. His space was a reflection of the fact. Papers scattered everywhere, quills broken on the floor.

As you entered his space, Robb glanced up from his desk. Dark circles had taken residence under his eyes, his beard longer than you’d ever seen it. You smiled softly and stopped only when you came to stand behind him.

“My love, you need to sleep.”

He sighed as you placed your hands on his shoulders, thumbs digging into the skin of his back. Fingers met resistance in the form of tense muscle. You shook your head and leaned forward, nuzzling your face into his neck. Soft words were muttered against his skin.

“You’re exhausted. Come, it’s hard to sleep without you by my side.”

He placed his quill down, half-heartedly ensuring that none of the ink spilled along the haphazard papers, and leaned into you. Weariness rolled off of him in waves, sinking into your bones like a sickness. One of his hands closed over yours, a warm weight over your freezing digits. He chuckled, motioning for you to let him stand up. Robb drew you to his side as he did. His arms wrapped around your shoulders and he sighed into your hair, nearly limp.

“I don’t suppose I could give the crown to Bran, could I?” You giggled, pulling away just enough to slowly guide him to your shared bed. It was far easier to be King when all you had to worry about was fighting a war. The politics and peacemaking had deemed itself a much more difficult beast.

Readying yourselves for bed was a well rehearsed event, layers quickly shed and folded by your bedside, stored close by for when it came time to awake in the morning. You slipped into the bed in your underthings just moments after Robb, basking in the soft comfort they offered.

“You’re rather happy.” You glanced over at Robb’s face as he spoke. Truthfully, you’d been happier as of late. Your duties were going smoothly, and you seemed to fit right in with the Northern ladies.

“I’m happy you’re here with me.” The words didn’t warrant the quick look at Robb’s chest, but it happened nonetheless. Raised scars littered his chest and abdomen, just as they did your torso. He sighed, drawing you near. He took your right hand in his, bringing it to his lips.

Velvety skin met rough flesh and Robb paused. You said nothing as he inspected the back of your hand; his blue eyes narrowed in on the raw, dry patches far more painful looking than they actually were.

“Why are your hands so dry?”

His words shouldn’t have caused such laughter, but the incredulous look on his face was enough for you to break out in a fit of it. His brow furrowed and you shook your head. A simple explanation fell from your lips.

“I’m not used to the cold.” Robb frowned. Laughter still lined the planes of your face, amusement sparkling in your eyes as he ran a finger over the nearly cracked skin of your knuckles.

“Surely something exists to prevent this sort of harm.” You shrugged, drawing nearer to him and resting your head on his warm shoulder. There were certainly a plethora of creams and ointments one could use to soothe irritated skin, though you had a habit of forgetting to apply them. In the end it always hurt worse to use them.

Robb sighed, letting go of your hands in favor of wrapping his arms around you. Tension melted away as you drew meaningless circles into his skin, drifting off to sleep as the fire in the hearth died down.

“Remind me to have Jeyne bring you some cream tomorrow morning, will you?” You mumbled an agreement, patting his chest and drifting off. A noncommittal response. Affection bloomed in his eyes before he closed them, following you into the realm of sleep.

#game of thrones #game of thrones x reader #house of the dragon x reader #robb stark x reader #robb stark #house stark #asoiaf #a song of ice and fire #king robb stark #king in the north #robb stark fluff

155 notes · View notes

fatesundress · 8 months

Text

⭑ sunlight parallel pseudostars. tom riddle x reader

summary. your reunion is long overdue for the small thing it should be, sacred for the dingy place it finds you, and most consequentially, entirely on purpose.

tags. gn afab reader, part one of an inevitable part two but this one is just pining because nonny asked so nicely, yes there is fluff but it's a tom pov, so... i do what i can, post-hogwarts, mutual pining (but emphatically, arduously, overwhelmingly tom), tom and reader were hopeless fools in school who never confessed their feelings for each other, legilimency/occlumency training as flirting, reader definitely filter searches the slow burn tag, self-cockblocking, i can't tell if this is ooc even by my own delusional standards, hopeful 'ending' as an apology for my last tom fic, please accept this humble offering

note. finished my first request!! who knew i could do it! i apologize first and foremost for my inactivity and i want to say WOAHHH thank you so much for 400! i'm hoping to make up for my absence by turning this into either a two-parter or a longer mini-series. i did actually forcibly refrain from ending this in smut because i want to try my hand at a slightly slower-burn since my usual preference is like... at least 100k words of longing stares before they even hold hands. i'm trying my best.

word count. 4.9k

There’s something, at least, in the far table at the right side of the bar, that makes the process a tad less dull. It’s somehow quieter here than his flat over Knockturn, sparse with a few old wizards with beards caught in the froth of their cups, Tom’s bend of the pub warm from the fire, crackling with kindling and the scratch of his quill, drizzled in moonlight tealish enough to remind him of the Slytherin common room when little else does nowadays. Something — yes. A tolerable reprieve. The sort of monotony he likes.

As opposed to Caractacus Burke’s constant, doltish solicitations; Tom ponders when the day will come that the man strikes a deal so dumb it lights the tip of someone’s wand green and kills him. It doesn’t drive Tom to any immense grief to consider. On particularly tedious days, he staves off boredom by imagining doing it himself.

But this reprieve can only serve him so well. Tom doesn’t drink — certainly not the dreck they serve here, though he doubts even the finest of wines could tempt him to obfuscate his better senses — doesn’t dance, doesn’t take anyone home even on the rare occasion there’s someone in this pub of bearable taste (except the one time, and that was more a case study than a surrender to gratification). Essentially, he sits at his table and steals the heat and the barkeeps are wise enough to let him.

He’s mused over the exact verbiage of this tome for days. Alchemical equations are the one thing that still occasionally stump him, and Tom is eager to rectify that.

He puts quill to parchment. It bleeds when he comes up short of words. He holds infinitesimally tighter, and the ink spreads like tendrils imagined in the dark; the sort of amorphous shapes that appear on the ceiling when all the lights have gone out. He stares. He lets the shapes form, but finds nothing informative in them, and so sets his quill down and watches leaves fall from the chestnut tree splitting open the sidewalk outside.

Cold air wafts in when the door groans open. There’s the click of dress shoes and a murmur at the bar, followed by a tumbler shaking and a glass being poured.

“Oh, no — er — that one always sits alone,” he hears the barkeep say to the dress shoes.

Tom refrains from turning his head.

“Doesn’t like to be bothered,” he adds, dress shoes skidded to a halt.

A pause. A sense of eyes on him Tom elects to ignore.

“I know.”

There’s a smile in that voice. He remembers it. The teeth of it, the lips, the tongue that sometimes darts between them.

It must be very late.

He’ll look up and realise there are things other than wine that can addle a person. Too many books, not enough books, not enough sleep, a day gone by without a single spell cast, an itch for control, wanting and not having, and,

you, after all this time.

The lattermost two have for a long time been the same.

Your hair is different than it was before, your figure presented in the rarity of your own clothes when he’s so accustomed to your school robes, but it would be rather bizarre if you ever wore those again. You’re too modern for muggle and magical alike — trousers and a formal shirt, hair somewhere between kempt and wind-blown, the aforementioned nice shoes Scourgified to a squeaky black as you come closer. (You’re coming closer. What a revelation.) A drink floats beside you, your fingers undulating softly to maintain the charm.

“You,” he says, like he doesn’t remember.

You grin. “Me. Sharp as ever, Tom. You look it too.”

The nebulous shape of acumen returns to him and it’s disarming enough to be disarmed — on principle it should not be occurring — but you also should not be here.

He stands. You present your hand as if practised for the proper convention of having it taken, October-cold gloves soft when his lips press to one and he wonders if the skin beneath is softer, or if callouses mar the mounts of your palm. He lingers as the thought does. (What are you up to now? Are you tried by new labours like he is; your knuckles hard from the work? Would they feel voltaic to touch as they once did?)

“Sit, please.”

Increments of re-introduction tie him to the tangible instead of unfurling from the knots of why you’re here or how you’re here, which cannot possibly be tethered to reality because for all the hours he’s been with you, none in the last three years have happened awake.

There are the dark shapes on his ceiling again. The scraps won’t last. He’ll need to know the details.

You’ll want to tell.

You take a seat in the chair he pushes out for you, glass sinking onto the table where the condensation immediately shades a ring into the wood. “This wasn’t where I’d expected to find you, you know.”

“No?” Tom asks, returning to his seat, “I wasn’t expecting you to find me anywhere, so the surprise is mutual.”

“I’d have written to warn you, but it was easier to find the places you frequent than the one you live in — wouldn’t know how to get my owl to you directly, you know — and I’m sure that’s not an accident.”

“I feel strangely as though I’m being accused of something.”

“Mm. Your guilty conscience.”

He smiles reflexively. Old habits. “I’m sure.”

You smile too, at least. “You know, when we left school, I gave it — what — two years before you were the youngest Minister of Magic in British history?”

“Then I’ve disappointed you.”

“No, I think I knew you well enough once to know even now that the fact that you aren’t only means you have something better in mind. I’ll have to trust your judgement, because I can’t imagine what that could possibly be.” You take a sip of your drink, twirling your straw as you do. “Come to think of it, though, brooding over a book in an establishment you patronise enough to have all the workers trained to leave you alone despite not even knowing your name is… very Tom.”

“That one appears to have done a poor job,” he says with a glance at the barkeep. “You’re over here disrupting me. I think I’ll rescind my tip.”

“Still funny, too.”

“Still indecorous.”

“Still saying things like indecorous. You’d better tip, Riddle.”

“Be good company and I might.”

“Oh, I see. I need to prove that I’m a worthy disruption.”

“I was reading a very good book.”

The book was rubbish. His moleskin has roughly four lines of notes jotted on its open page, which he closes promptly, and hopes it doesn’t seem done with too much gravity. Your eyes like to wander, he recalls. Your hands, absentmindedly, too.

Torturous creature you are.

“I missed you,” you say, like you’ve never had the good sense of holding your tongue, or armouring your heart, or not feeding an animal without first seeing the size of its teeth.

You are so withholding with your work, and so generous with yourself. He wishes you wouldn’t offer him so much. He’s never had the kindness not to take everything you let him.

“You missed me,” he prompts, already asking for more.

“I missed disrupting you. No one else lets me — or calls me indecorous, and still lets me.”

“You were quite studious, in case you’ve forgotten. More literate than disruptive.”

You raise a brow. “My, I’ve never had a man call me literate before, and I’ve been courted plenty. I’m swooning.”

(Note: you’ve been courted plenty?)

“Inventive, then? Erudite?”

“Do go on.”

“I shouldn’t. I believe you were describing the manner in which you missed me.”

“It was just the one, unfortunately.”

“Why did you find me?”

This generates pause, at least, and that intrigues him.

Addendum: “Why now?”

“I was around,” you decide on, “and I haven’t been in a long time.”

You wanted to continue your studies after Hogwarts. He thinks he remembers that conversation; academics were the topic of most of your discussions, after all. Anything deeper was incidental, crumbs scraped off a plate at the end of a meal.

“Where did you go?”

You drink again. “Portugal, after school. But that was — it’s a bit of a story. I ended up at an academy in Iceland doing a few very boring, ultimately useless courses on spell creation and wandlore. Will you be horrible if I tell you I’m here because I left in the middle of term? Because then I didn’t tell you.”

“I suppose I knew you well enough once to know even now you wouldn’t have left unless you had something better in mind.”

You beam at him, and he acknowledges briefly that it feels like a reward the same way solving a problem does.

“I found you —” (You are far too generous; the question was already answered and here you are offering more) — “because I considered everyone I wanted to see again and you were the first person I thought of. I don’t like to deny myself the little things.”

“No,” he says, “you don’t.”

Rain trickles down the window, and the cool dark of autumn obscures half of your face. He wishes it didn’t, and that’s bizarre.

“I’ll be doing a course in Occlumency in Norway in the new year.”

Oh?

“I know you were always quite good at Legilimency, so don’t start,” you add hastily.

He itches not to smile. It is truth and not arrogance to say that quite good is an understatement.

“I didn’t know you had an interest.”

You scoff. “Please, everyone has an interest. It’s just hopeless for most of us, and painful to be hopeful to learn something so hopeless.”

“Well-put. A terrible ego punch for you, I’m sure.”

“It was. Until I tried Occlumency and realised I’m quite good at that, and then the wound closed a bit.”

“Glad to hear it. You’re honing the skill?”

“Slowly but surely.”

“And — you’re here seeking a teacher?”

“Oh, stop. I told you why I’m here. But if you’re — oh!” You frown suddenly. “Didn’t you say that you were going to apply for DADA after graduation?”

Ah, that. “Denied, unfortunately.”

“Seriously? On what grounds?”

“On the grounds that I’m too young.”

That and the matter of Albus Dumbledore and the air that is ceaselessly wasted on his breath.

“Oh, please; half the staff are over eighty, I imagine it might be nice to have a professor who doesn’t forget to grade their assignments every other week. You were Head Boy! That’s completely mad.”

“You’ll have to write an owl.”

“I could.” And you sigh, and stir your half-empty drink of what must be less than ten percent alcohol and ninety percent spice and apple. “Would you… would you mind, though? If your schedule isn’t terribly busy?”

“Teaching you?”

“Helping me with something I’m already good at,” you correct, “as an excuse for me not to go back to a very frilly muggle hotel by myself after coming all this way to find you.”

He echoes the part of that sentence that matters least — your invitation is all that counts, but he has no wish to make that obvious when you’ve always done this, always tugged on a string you seem unaware even exists. “Frilly muggle hotel?”

“What? I used to go to them when I was on holiday. Didn’t I tell you that?”

No. He would have clung onto it if you had. He didn’t even know you had the money for things like that after two wars, but then maybe that was something new. How would you have attained it while in school, though? An untimely familial demise? A wealthy suitor? You wore no ring. You came back to him.

Illegible signs for him to attempt to read.

“Well?” you ask, pulling two sickles from your pocket and leaving them on the table.

His answer is yes, naturally.

It’s absurd you even feel the need to ask; your reunion is long overdue for the small thing it should be, because of the small thing you were, sacred for the dingy place it finds you, and most consequentially, entirely on purpose. You didn’t stumble upon each other in the aisles of a shop after years gone by, pressured into empty conversation for the courtesy of it. You missed him, so you found him — and Tom thinks he’s been missed before, in some vague sense by some people blurred long ago by unimportance, but — found? He reconciles not finding you himself by assuring he will make something of this.

“For a worthy distraction,” he says, putting down two sickles to match.

You grin, and he takes your arm again as you thank the barkeep and depart into the slow drizzle of the street.

You tell him of Ponte de Lima and the rootless craters of Myvatn, of old cathedral spires and covens masked as monasteries. You detail the scenery like you detailed your essays in school, and it makes the ennui of London marginally better — that you are walking it with him, talking about beautiful things, in a night dark enough he might not notice the usual absence of them here.

And then, as you step onto busier streets, you say you missed this too, and he is jealous beyond sense of the architectural blemish of Piccadilly Circus.

He glances away from you and the invisible path to your hotel for the first time since issuing Wizarding London for Muggle.

It’s a crowded tableau. The post-war square is spangled with flashbulb advertisements and buskers and skinny double buses orbiting Eros atop his fountain. People skip from hotel bars and teahouses in trench coats and long skirts. Someone outside the Trocadero looks dressed for burlesque. Storefront letters hiccup light through power abscesses and imminent bursts, and the lights… The lights herald cigarettes and chewing gum and Coca Cola and performances at the theatres on Coventry Street.

You light up with them, sunlight parallel pseudostars. Tom feels half-blinded. He isn’t sure by which.

“You missed London?” he asks. It’s hard to hide in his tone how much he cannot imagine a reason why. All of the things you described in your travels sound better than this.

“I missed home.”

He possesses only a theoretical understanding of what that must feel like. The word itself is a thing long gone. There was Hogwarts, but it was never his.

“Well — I miss this,” you amend, “which I never remembered being like this, and maybe it wasn’t. All I saw in anything growing up was shelter. I’d look at buildings and imagine which ones could survive bombs, and which ones would shatter under gunfire. Since coming back, I’ve liked seeing it a different way. The lights, the people — The Criterion; they’ve a section called the Witches Cauldron, which is very risqué. You would hate it.”

His mouth twitches at the corners. “Risqué?"

“Mhm. Women with skirts over the thighs, men with skirts over the thighs, music with questionable lyrics, and really, borderline indecent comedy. But I think that's the heart of muggle theatre — the good kind, anyway."

“So I was right in calling you indecorous.”

“Hardly. I’m an observer.”

“Upstanding, then.”

You tug playfully at his sleeve. “Saintly.”

“You might revisit those churches in Portugal.”

“And you might learn to let something go. We’re here.”

He looks up at the little dais of steps before the big arch of your hotel door, stones cracked here and there, cigarette stubs smushed at his feet, and back at you, an inviting smile on your face.

“Come on.” You take his arm again and guide him in.

The lobby is all dark wood carved like lace. Fretwork in the moulding, fretwork at the counters, fretwork in the thick columns bolstering the mezzanine; and there, tables with seats turned to face the sound of music, the dulcet flicker of candlelight over plates of food that smell sweet for the hour. As you lead him up the stairs, he gives you a look that warns this was not what he was promised, but you shush him and he abides.

You are lucky for his intrigue. You are lucky for the dullness of his teeth at the maw of his hunger. He doesn’t pretend to understand — he thinks he likes not understanding.

The music gets louder. He can see the entire mezzanine from the top of the stairs; a woman is singing, a man is playing saxophone, the tables are set for dessert, and the plates are almost all licked clean.

You’re watching with the flicker of candles caught in your eyes now, grip imperceptibly tighter on his arm as you lean in to whisper. “There’s something new every night. Yesterday there was the most beautiful pianist. And they served this lemon pudding — tonight I think it’s… torte? It’s chocolate, at least. It smells amazing.”

“Did you want to stay?”

He did not. It was a courtesy question.

“Just for a song?” you ask, rather more sheepish than suits you.

Just for a song, then.

You press against his shoulder. You’re warm, despite the cold walk.

“Do you ever practise on them?" he asks.

“Legilimency?” You shake your head. “I usually refrain from digging into the thoughts of innocent muggles.”

He raises a brow. “And the bad muggles?"

“I should like to do worse to the bad muggles."

He smiles. You smile too, though you resist it for a moment. “You're as wretched as you were in school."

“Wretched, was I? And what would I have found, if I'd sought out your thoughts back then?"

You laugh, face canted toward the performance. “Thoughts of Os on every O.W.L, what Slughorn meant by a semi-formal dress code, how to get into the kitchens at night..." You turn to him again. “And you? Do I dare ask what I would have found in yours?"

“Hm. Secrets.”

“Damn you.”

The saxophone swells before the last note fizzles out, the contralto timbre of the woman’s voice washed out by a small round of applause. You clap with the other guests, glance over at Tom, frown, take his hands and force them together. He doesn’t resist, but he certainly doesn’t aid the motion. His hands are instead idly patted together, palms hitting the sleeves of his coat and making for a very poor ovation.

You give up without much effort, fingers looping beneath one of his cuffs to lead him back to the staircase.

“Wretched,” you repeat.

You search your coat pocket for your key as you walk up the stairs, remarking the artwork on the walls and evidence of a drunk muggle man who spilled champagne on his way to bed last night — you tell him to watch his step, and he averts the side of the stairs where dark spots pepper the carpet. The place is fine elsewise. You mentioned the risqué of The Criterion and he can see notes of it here, in the late night music and the drinking and a few ogling men among the guests, but it’s nicer on the inside than he’d assumed by the exterior, and you can certainly handle yourself amongst debauchees without wands.

Tom stops when you do. Your room is the furthest at the end of the third floor corridor.

“Welcome,” you say, as the key clicks and the door swings open.

A frilly muggle hotel indeed. You flick a switch and the chandelier ignites, dim but extravagant. You go to light a few additional candles at the dresser and windowsill, clipping floral drapes aside as you do. The bed, a queen, matches the fabric of the drapes, with a thick lace skirt and golden brass rails. There’s a small table and two chairs, plush with cushions that loop through the spine and knot like hair ribbons. You tuck your wand away after the room has been brightened and fix him with a look that says, I told you.

“It’s clean,” is all the opinion he offers.

“Hard to make a mess in two days.”

A rather uncharacteristic thought crosses him. He can imagine ways which would not be so difficult.

“Of course.”

“Did you want anything? I could call for room service. Wine? Chocolate torte?”

“I’m more curious to observe your Occlumency firsthand.”

“Right. I’ve been depriving you.” You sit on the edge of the bed and slip off your coat. “I meant what I said, though; I’m good at it.”

“A battle of wills, then.” And he pulls a chair from the little table by the window, sitting it across from you.

You make a face. “This is why I studied with you and never challenged you to anything.”

“Perhaps you should have.”

“Perhaps… I might have saved myself from the predicament I’m in now.”

“You brought me here.”

“I did.”

“You enjoy the predicament,” he guesses.

You smile. “I do.”

He leans in with his arms at the wooden rests of his chair, fixed on the space between your eyes and then the apples of your cheeks, looking for new scars or freckles or stray eyelashes to cast wishes on. Mostly he wonders what’s underneath. That you have presented him the opportunity, even to wonder, feels almost like a wish granted. And Tom is not the sort of man to make them.

But here you are, and the room is quiet, and your gloves sound soft rolling off your fingers, and he should take a chance on one now. He should be greedy. He should want for more.

“Shall I count to three?”

He does. He does want more.

“Whenever you’re ready,” you say, and he can see you steel yourself before his soft surge into your mind.

Your resistance is like a cliffside. His effort is a wave, lapping at the rocks, seeking erosion. It’ll come. It never hasn’t.

You stay there in the cracks between the rocks, not pushing against him as much as shielding yourself from him. He leans an inch further from his chair and inclines his head. Your mouth falls open, breath caught on the sharp edge of his next intrusion. He eases forward but you only hold stronger. An impasse is reached — immovable object and unstoppable force.

Tom’s mouth curves at the corners, patient, persistent and proud. The chase is half of it. Your capability is the other.

“How did you discover your gift?" he asks.

“Don't distract me," you answer, and the softness tells him it’s an exertion for you to speak through this.

Tom nods, though distraction suddenly seems a tempting venture. If he pushes otherwise it will be painful.

For a while he just searches — between the old moss atop the cliff, the space where water strikes and memories propagate in verdant clusters, little runnels in the stone to keep little thoughts. He can see the outlines of those moments you’d described to him on your walk, but nothing deeper, nothing untouched. The abacus on either side of a Portuguese church but no hint of the nave or the apse. The flat horizon of Myvatn lake but none of the pseudocraters.

And still the walls stand, and the wave trickles through the runnels only to feed the moss.

You’re good. He wants to break you. He wants to be gentle. He wants to know if there is a way to do both.

Yes, he thinks there is.

Tom inches his chair closer. There’s perhaps an arm's length between your knees and his, and your expression flickers as you glance at the way it shrinks. A forearm, now. A ruler. Nothing at all, if you look long enough, think about how easy it would be for the space to vanish altogether. And he is thinking about it.

Your eyes dart back to his and he glides through the first crevice of your confusion he can find. A second’s glimpse is all he gets — words on an image of the skin unclad at his wrists, like words on the storefronts of Piccadilly Circus, they spell his name. There’s the cadence of a question. He resists the urge to sink back in his seat in honest pride; that the first thought he’s carved out of you is of his hands and sudden curiosity.

Perfectly innocuous, he rolls his sleeves to his elbows. There’s a quick twitch at your mouth.

“Do you know,” he says, searching again, “there’s something in particular I want to find.”

You indulge him carefully. You must anticipate a trick. “What’s that?”

“The moment you first missed me.”

It is a hard thing to be reminded of a moment and not draw it immediately to the surface. He can see on your face that you have to push the misbehaved thing down with force. But that’s only evidence that it exists, that it’s true, and he must see it like it’s his own.

Is your missing him not his, in some way? Is his missing you not yours?

“I wonder if you missed me over quill and parchment,” he says, “in old libraries, at a café in Paris… Did you remember me by certain colours? By times of day? Or was it —”

There.

It’s the Athenaeum of Madrid, under the ceiling of the assembly hall. You’re craning your neck to admire the art, and you’re thinking how much he would have liked a place like that.

And then he’s back in the frilly hotel, and your face is in something like a gasp. You’ve swallowed it down, batted him away, but he can see it even from the outside; the curiosity is still there despite. The question unposed but sitting neatly on your tongue ready to be asked.

Tom smiles. “I didn’t know you went to Spain.”

“Well, I thought I might leave something for you to learn instead of be told.”

“Ah, so you let me in?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Will you?”

You glance involuntarily at the gap between you. Has it shrunk again? He can note the details of the face he’s missed without trying.

“Will you let me in?” he murmurs.

“I don’t think they teach this method of distraction at school,” you say softly, and now the words have been put in the air.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He shifts his chair ever closer. His eyes go to your lips. And he does mean to look away but your mouth quirks the slightest degree upward and he stays there a moment because he was expecting something else.

“Didn’t I tell you I’ve been courted before?”

“Plenty,” he recounts.

You lean in. Your knees brush his. You incline your head so your eyes find the path of his, the smile on your face finally full. It’s an error of time that he doesn’t expect it because it must not be an error on his part. “Then you should know to make a greater effort.”

You hold a hand to his cheek, watching the motion as your warm fingers trail from jaw to white collar. And then you pull back; a breeze in the place you sat when you get up.

“That’s enough for today, don’t you think?”

He recovers quickly, but there’s a lingering heat at his jaw and a curiosity he was faulted to have planted himself — he’s suffering the barest satiation for the million more questions he has. But you missed him, and you invited him here, and you wanted to see him in your mind, so he must wonder if you meant to plant some curiosity too.

“And tomorrow?” he finally asks.

There’s rummaging in one of the cupboards, the twist of cap from its tube, and the quick rush of the faucet before your face peers out from the bathroom’s thick archway, still with that smile.

You flick the light on and brush your teeth like he isn’t there. For whatever reason it’s the most disarming thing you may have ever done, and it reminds him that he had considered you torturous like it was something incidental, which means he’d begun the night with only one equation still able to stump him, and ended it with two.

He could sooner solve alchemy (the entire subject) than this.

“I’ll be out,” you say when you’re done, “but you’re welcome to join me.”

“And what might I be joining you in?”

“Tourism.”

“Tourism?” He inches out of his chair, rolling his sleeves back down.

You lean against the bathroom archway and the candlelight makes a sculpture of you. Your silhouette is a blaze tenderly burning the dark.

“It only feels right after years of doing it in other places, don’t you think? Every street I discover something I didn’t notice before.”

Tom looks at the toothbrush fitted in your hand like an unlit cigarette and imagines putting it back like he’d stomp one out, kissing you and tasting apple and cinnamon and mint stuck on the corner of your pretty mouth.

“Well? Is it below you?”

“Yes. What time?”

“Eleven,” you say, and your breath hitches beautifully at your bare collar when he glides into the archway beside you. “Is that all right?”

He brushes the dab of toothpaste away from your lip. “It’s perfect.”

Your eyes flit down his face, and now it’s him smiling.

He places a kiss on the back of your hand, looking up at you through dark lashes and a smirk as he mutters your name, a soft remembrance, a rekindled wanting. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Tom.”

The noise outside his flat that night is trivial. He has not for a long time sat awake at night watching the sky instead of the shapes on his ceiling. He has not for a long time thought of you with the tranquil knowledge that he will see you again.

#tom riddle #tom riddle x reader #tom riddle x you #tom riddle x y/n #tom riddle fluff #tom marvolo riddle #voldemort #voldemort x reader #tom riddle imagine #tom riddle oneshot #tom riddle fanfiction #harry potter fanfiction #wizarding world

354 notes · View notes

ahrahrahraha · 6 months

Text

Series

Your Hands Have Made Some Good Mistakes by @thenhewaswrongaboutme

3B by @softlyspector

"Bucky is used to being alone, so is the girl living in apartment 3B. He keeps to his routine, to crossing off amends. But mutual loneliness forges an unlikely friendship. Alone and reclusive, sweet and incredibly strange, with deep secrets and regrets, 3B has more to reveal than meets the eye".

Pairing: Bucky x Reader

Sugar by @softlyspector

"By a miracle of fate, Bucky Barnes does not fall off of the train. He does not spend decades as a brainwashed assassin. Instead, he goes home to Brooklyn to spend his life with a girl he adores, a snarky nurse that he met during the war. Told through a series of non-chronological one-shots."

Pairing: Bucky x Reader

The Florist, The Beekeeper & The Pumpkin Carver by @softlyspector

Home & Better by @softlyspector

For The Love Of The Game by @pellucid-constellations (college/baseball AU)

"Bucky Barnes was a menace. NYU’s top baseball player, he was used to girls falling at his feet and could smooth talk his way out of just about anything. You hated him. He couldn’t figure out why. So when the novelty of weekend parties and quick hookups finally wore off—and his feelings for you began to grow—he made it his mission to fix it."

Pairing: College Athlete!Bucky x Reader

Undisclosed by @pellucid-constellations (lumberjack!bucky)

"Desperate to outrun a secret that could cost you your life, you seek refuge in a small mountain town. Its deep forests and small cabins make it the perfect place to hide, but the travel website hadn’t mentioned anything about the quiet, burly lumberjack that wouldn’t leave your thoughts. No one had warned Bucky about you either."

Pairing: Lumberjack!Bucky x Reader

A Correspondence Of Obligation by @pellucid-constellations (prince!bucky)

"Obedience, duty, pristine smiles—raised as the princess of an oppressive kingdom, you knew nothing else. Your father signed your life away at the ripe age of five, black ink bleeding into a contract between nations, fate cemented with the flick of a quill. So when the time came to fulfill the promises you were too young to make, you expected much of the same in the land of Brookshire. But Prince James had other plans, as did the enemies looming outside the castle walls".

Pairing: Prince!Bucky x Princess!Reader (Royal AU)

A Million Reasons by @pellucid-constellations

"Bucky Barnes, with all of his trust fund money and family connections, gets assigned community service. You, as someone that's technically part of the community, have to put up with him. Every day. And he won't stop killing your plants."

Pairing: College!Bucky x Reader

Never Let You Go by @bitsandbobsandstuff

"After losing the woman they love, Bucky and Steve make a desperate decision with unimaginable consequences."

A Love That Never Leaves by @bitsandbobsandstuff

"Sometimes when you go looking for the past, you find things you never expected. When an accident brings him face to face with something he never knew he lost, Bucky Barnes begins to understand an age old truth – it’s so easy, sometimes, to love the things that destroy us."

Pairing: Bucky x Reader

Safe With Me by @bitsandbobsandstuff

"When an unknown threat enters your life, protection is offered at the highest level. As Bucky Barnes comes into your life, the game changes, and you realise falling for the man tasked with keeping you safe is the last thing you expected."

Pairing: Bucky x Reader

Three Shades of A Man by @bitsandbobsandstuff

"It was different every time, what Bucky needed from you to survive himself. It was in these moments you saw the shades behind the mask he wore in front of the world"

Pairing: Bucky x Reader

Guiding Light by @wkemeup

The Witness by @wkemeup (detective!bucky)

By Any Other Name by @wkemeup (FBI!bucky)

Sunrise by @wkemeup (armyvet!bucky)

Delicate Edges by @wkemeup (biker!bucky)

Sky Full Of Song by @wkemeup (pirate!bucky)

Pride & Privacy by @adrinktostopyourthirst

Feelings Are Fatal by @sunmoonandeddie

Appointments by @noctumbra

Codename: Lazarus by @sagechanoafterdark

I'll Take Care Of It by @tellmealovestory

Something More by @tellmealovestory (modern au)

It's a Deal by @justreadingfics

Looking For A Heartbeat by @justreadingfics

Bad Match by @justreadingfics

Lumby & Bunny by @sweetdreamsbuck (lumberjack!bucky)

Florist Bucky by @navybrat817

Biker Bucky by @angrythingstarlight

Soft Mafia Bucky by @angrythingstarlight

Chubby Baker Bucky by @angrythingstarlight

The Two of Us by @bucky-bucket-barnes

The Five Times Bucky Saved You... by @buckysknifecollection

Tiktok Trend by @tuiccim

Snow by @delaber

Personal Pillow by @buckyalpine

Untouched by @buckyalpine

Wait, What? by @buckyalpine

Untouched by @buckyalpine

Project V by @babyboibucky

"You ask your best friend Bucky a favor of a lifetime." Pairing College!Bucky Barnes x Reader"

What's Left Behind by @ussgallifrey

"The world turned upside down the minute you let your guard down and, despite it all, you just had to keep going because… what else could you do at a time like this?"

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Gender Neutral Reader

The Kids Aren't Alright by @ussgallifrey

"Nobody wants to hear you sing about tragedy but, between the three of you, there’s enough lyrics to write an anthem. You’re doomed from the start"

Pairing: Steve x named!Female Reader x Bucky

Updated 4/11/2023

171 notes · View notes

quillinhand · 6 months

Text

autumn will never be my favourite season, but I think there's something to be said about it regardless- this is when nature paints itself in colors of fire and mist fills the tired sky. the ground cracks underneath your boots and the weather cools something in you that you didn't realize was burning (the sun burns holes into your skin, and this is when you let the wounds heal). fancy lattes and fancy aesthetics, playlists for rainy days, watching the leaves fall like you can feel yourself fall for the beauty of it all (death, decaying to grow anew). when it gets cold enough for you to crave the warm embrace of luxury, when the air is clear and crisp and the coat over your shoulders is a gentle shield against the sharper edges. the world is quiet even as it freezes (burns) into another stage, and you are here to bear witness. chaos breeding comfort.

#let the quill bleed #seasons #bookblr #writblr #autumn #original poetry #my poetry #thinking of doing this for each of the seasons

40 notes · View notes

slytherinboysappreciation · 14 days

Text

Bullied - Prof. T. R. x platonic gn!Reader

A/N: this was originally written for this request, but I realized it was too angsty so I made it its own thing. Please read the warnings carefully! They’re there for a reason! This fic is completely unedited with no use of Y/N. Please be nice, I’m an inexperienced writer 💛 Comments, likes, and reblogs are always appreciated!!

CW: Bullying!!; descriptions of bullying; crying; shame; graphic descriptions of violence/injury!!; anxiety; mentions of the quills Umbridge used; detention; mentions of eating; Prof. Riddle becomes a safe space for reader; swearing; derogatory language towards reader; graphic descriptions of violence against reader!!!!; nausea; head wounds; vague mentions of blood; Dumbledore bashing; hurt/comfort, I guess; slightly fluffy ending?

I think that’s everything. Please please let me know if I’ve missed anything! If you don’t like it, don’t read it!!

2019 words

You were hiding in a corner of the library, silently crying. The library was your safe space; the only place in the whole school aside from your dorm where you didn’t have to worry about getting bullied.

And it had been invaded. Your bullies had come in today, destroying your peace with the very sight of them. Even worse, they’d ripped your books and blamed it on you.

Madame Pince had been thankfully skeptical, but the three of you still got detention. You were terrified of being in the same room alone for hours with those two.

As you sniffle and wipe your eyes, the sound of footsteps approaches your spot. You huddle up into a ball, hastily wiping your face in an attempt to hide that you were crying.

“You should be in bed.”

You look up, startled. It’s Professor Riddle, looking down at you with an unreadable expression.

“I— I was—“ You falter, unsure what to say. Telling the truth hadn’t worked with your head of house. There’s no way you’d expose your deepest shame to someone as imposing as Professor Riddle.

“Yes, sir,” you say meekly, slowly picking yourself up.

He watches you, hands tucked into his pockets. “Everything all right?”

Your eyes start to itch from crying so much. You rub at them before catching yourself. “Yes, sir. Just…”

He holds up a hand and pulls something out of his pocket. A handkerchief. “Next time, come to me.”

You take the handkerchief slowly. Next time… Was he saying… You couldn’t risk it.

“Yes, sir,” you mumble, starting to back away. He stops you with a hand on your shoulder.

“I mean it. Bullying has no place here at Hogwarts.”

You stare down at the floor, frail hope fluttering in your chest. You squash it with both hands.

“Thanks, Professor,” you say quietly. “But I’ve heard that before.”

With that, you shrug off his hand and walk away, clutching his handkerchief like a lifeline.

Your detention comes late the next night. You’re fully prepared for the usual horrors. Being forced to clean suits of armor by yourself until your fingers crack and bleed from the chemicals. Scrubbing floors till your knees are bruised and you can’t feel your arms.

Being a guinea pig for whatever malicious spell the two bullies of yours have cooked up.

Instead, you receive a different set of instructions. Your two bullies will be cleaning floors and suits of armor.

You will be writing lines with Professor Riddle.

You stare blankly at your head of house, baffled by the news. Writing lines? That’s a first year punishment, the easiest detention ever.

You show up outside Riddle’s office at exactly the time you’re supposed to. Without punishment or curses from your bullies, it’s easy to be on time.

You knock on the door, nervousness drumming through you. Why had he taken your detention? What was his plan with this? Was it some sort of worse punishment?

You’d heard about the cutting quills from Professor Umbridge’s reign of terror. Would this be something similar?

The door swings open, startling you so badly you jump. Professor Riddle raises an eyebrow but doesn’t comment on your action.

“Come in. I have everything set up.”

You slowly follow him in, your nerves building with every step. He’s supposed to be the strictest teacher. The hardest on his students and the one urging them the most to reach their ambitions.

You sit at the desk he’s provided you, looking over the paper and quill in front of you. They look… just like a normal quill and paper.

“They’re perfectly safe. I’ve used that quill before.” Riddle watches you from his desk, that same inscrutable expression on his face:

You startle. Then flush with embarrassment. “Sorry, sir. I’ve just had… bad experiences before.”

He nods. “Here.”

You watch in disbelief as he picks up his own quill and ink pot and brings them over to you. Then he takes yours and moves them over to his desk.

“Is that better?”

You just stare at him for a moment. Then your sense comes back to you and you nod. “Y-Yes, sir.”

“Please start with your lines. I’ve written the first one out for you. You will fill the front and back of the page.”

“Yes, sir.”

You lower your head and pick up the quill he’d given you. You don’t know what you did to receive such light detention, but you’re not complaining. It’s infinitely better than what you’d be doing otherwise.

You grimace at the thought and lower the tip of the quill to the page. With a deep breath, you start writing.

Over the next week, you start to warm to Professor Riddle. It takes two whole days to stop being so jumpy around him, and two more days before you slowly start to believe his words.

Mainly because he will not stop asking you about your bullies. About who they are. What they do. It would be annoying if it wasn’t so gratifying that someone finally seems to care.

You don’t really answer him, of course. You have enough self-preservation to know that much, but you do start to reveal smaller details.

Like how you’re always late to class because of them. Or how they bother you when you try to study. Or even how you’re afraid to eat meals outside of your dorm because of them.

Which is the reason you’re currently outside his office door again. You knock hesitantly, balancing your plate of food with one hand.

He opens the door and you walk in, sitting at the now familiar desk. You set down your plate and get comfortable.

“Thank you, sir,” you say quietly, picking up your fork.

“Of course.” Riddle nods and sits at his desk to eat his own lunch.

It’s strange; eating in peace for once. You don’t have to worry about slaps to the head or food being spilled on you or some new embarrassing secret being shared. You just eat your food.

It’s hard to admit, but Professor Riddle is starting to grow on you. He doesn’t make you talk; doesn’t force you to do things you don’t like. He just sits with that unreadable expression of his and lets you do the same.

You take your time eating your food, allowing yourself to savor the flavors. It’s a nice change of pace. One you could find yourself getting used to.

Once you’re done eating, you get up. “Thank you, sir.”

“Of course,” Professor Riddle says, glancing up from his own plate. “Enjoy the rest of your classes.”

“I will.” You give him a slight smile and leave his office.

Maybe things will actually be better after this.

You’re slammed against the wall. Hands grind your face against the stone, pinning you in place.

“You fucker!” It’s your bullies, clearly enraged. “You think you can tell on us and get away with it?!”

You panic, fear shooting through you.

“We almost got expelled because of you, you piece of shit!”

Your head is pulled back so you can see their angry faces.

“I didn’t say anything!“ you beg, starting to shake with panic and terror.

“Shut up! I swear to god, you dumb little—“

Your head is bashed against the wall. Your hearing cuts out, replaced by the loudest ringing you’ve ever heard. Your vision goes blurry. Something drips down your face, stinging your eyes.

Then, the hands are pulled off you. You’re vaguely aware of yelling as your legs give out and you crumple against the wall.

Your head throbs, pain shooting through your forehead as you lean your head against the wall. When you pull back to try and focus on it, red stains the stone.

Someone crouches down in front of you. A gentle hand tilts up your chin. You struggle to focus on the face, but your vision won’t cooperate.

The person says something, but you just blink. You can’t hear what they’re saying over the ringing in your ears.

Hands scoop you up, cradling you in strong arms. Nausea rises in your throat at the sudden motion.

The last thing you remember is throwing up.

You wake up in the Hospital Wing. You don’t remember much; just a bustling Madame Pomfrey and a warm, firm hand gently rubbing your back as you cry. The rest is a haze. It makes your head hurt to try and remember so you just give up.

After Madame Pomfrey pronounces you to be fine, you’re swept up to the Headmaster’s office. You sit nervously in a chair, fiddling with your fingers.

Headmaster Dumbledore’s normally kind expression has been replaced with a serious look.

“Hello,” he greets you solemnly. “I’m glad to hear you’re doing better.”

Something about the way he says it makes you doubt he means it. You say nothing in return.

Your Head of House bustles around behind you, muttering something under their breath. You look down at your hands and wish you were back in the Hospital Wing.

“Do you know why you’re here?” Dumbledore asks.

You shrug a little and don’t look up. “No.”

“We take bullying very seriously here at Hogwarts.”

You snort, then wince as your head aches from the action.

Dumbledore’s lips thin, and his look sharpens. “We understand you have been through some… issues with a few of our students.”

You bite your tongue to keep from saying anything rash.

“We’ve contacted your parents about the situation,” your Head of House adds. “But they haven’t replied yet.”

Your stomach churns. You’re well aware of that. Your parents have taken a hands off approach to your schooling since you started being bullied. You doubt they’ve even read the letter from the school.

“Unfortunately,” Dumbledore continues, “without the permission of a trusted adult, we cannot do much about the issue. The offending students will be given detention and strict warnings.”

“What?” Your eyes start to sting. “You’re just— You’re not going to do anything?”

Dumbledore raises his hands in a helpless gesture. “Without permission from a trusted adult—“

You can feel the tears building behind your eyes. “No! There has to be something you can do! I can’t— What if this happens again?!”

Dumbledore opens his mouth to say something when the door to his office flies open. Professor Riddle stands in the doorway, glaring at the Headmaster.

“A letter for you.” He says calmly. He approaches Dumbledore and hands him a letter. “I think you’ll find it contains everything you’ll require for the students’ expulsions.”

Dumbledore’s expression changes instantly. “Of course, Tom,” he says coolly, “I appreciate your care and concern for our students.”

Professor Riddle doesn’t even try to hide his sneer. “Someone has to do it.”

He gestures to you. “Come on.” It’s not a request. It’s an order.

You obey, getting to your feet and meekly following him out. As soon as you get down to the hallway, Professor Riddle turns to you.

“I’m sorry about that. You should be resting, not dealing with old fools.”

You blink up at him. “How did you…?”

“I owled your parents.”

He doesn’t elaborate and you decide you don’t want to know.

“Thank you, sir.”

He rests a hand on your shoulder and gives it a comforting rub. “Of course. Your bullies will be expelled by tomorrow morning, and you won’t ever have to deal with them again.”

Tears well up in your eyes. He truly means it. You won’t have to worry about getting to class, or about not studying, or anything like that again.

You throw your arms around him, hugging him tightly. “Oh, thank you, sir!”

He pats your back, lightly returning your hug. “You’re welcome. Now, go get some rest. I don’t want to see you out and about till morning.”

“Yes, sir!” You head off to your dorm, practically giddy with excitement.

You’re finally free from your bullies. You’ll be able to make friends again now. You can get good grades again. Live without fear for your wellbeing.

You don’t think you’ve ever been so happy in your life. And it’s all thanks to Professor Riddle.

#tom riddle #professor tom riddle #platonic reader #gn reader #gender neutral reader #divider by cafekitsune #reader is from an unspecified hogwarts house #tom riddle x reader #tom riddle x you #professor tom riddle x reader #professor tom riddle x you #tw bullying #tw violence

67 notes · View notes

slytherinslut0 · 8 months

Text

SEVERUS SNAPE ONESHOT- Yours, Always.

Tags: Breakup, Love Story, Fluff, Poet Severus, Heartbreak

It had been almost an entire year.

Almost one whole fucking year since you and Severus broke up--the challenges that you'd faced within your relationship were simply too big to overcome, and as a result, the wedge that formed between you two proved to be insurmountable. But despite your issues, not a day has gone by where you don't find yourself thinking about him, thinking about how much you fucking loved him, and all the reasons in which caused you to fall so hard for him in the first place.

You loved Severus for the enigmatic depth of his soul, the way his piercing intellect and hidden vulnerabilities intertwined. His profound understanding of magic and his fierce loyalty, despite his often aloof demeanor, were entirely captivating.

Beneath his stoic exterior, you'd seen glimpses of a wounded heart yearning for redemption, and you were drawn to the complexity of his character. It was his ability to love so fiercely, even if it was sometimes obscured by the shadows of his past, that made your heart ache for him, and you believed that beneath it all, he was deserving of the love and understanding you longed to offer; and you still believed that, even now, almost a year after you'd broke things off.

Leaving Severus was one of the most agonizing decisions you've ever made. It came from a place of deep pain and frustration, stemming from the insurmountable challenges you'd faced. Your love was undeniable, but it was also a source of constant turmoil and heartache. The emotional distance, the secrecy, and the external threats became overwhelming. You yearned for a love that was more stable, open, and free from the constant fear and tension that shrouded your relationship. It was a heartbreaking choice driven by a desperate need for emotional and physical safety, even though it meant letting go of a love that had once felt like the most magical and intense connection in your life.

And even though you'd had other partners, been with other men--nothing has ever compared. Not a single soul has ever come close to making you feel the way Severus did. Not a single one.

So on this chilled September evening, as the room feels like a sanctuary of solitude, heavy with the weight of time gone by, you find yourself frozen in grief. Shadows dance upon the walls, casting long, wistful silhouettes, as if the very atmosphere mourns a love lost to the sands of time as you sit and reminisce, allowing yourself to wallow in the suppressed pain for a while.

Just as you begin to feel the salty warmth of your tears gliding down your cheeks, you're snapped from your thoughts when your owl, Percy, glides in through the open window, holding a letter between her claws--her wings rustle softly, a mournful symphony that mirrors the heartache in the room. Her eyes, dark and penetrating, seem to hold secrets of the past, and her hoot, though eerie, carries a touch of empathy.

With trembling hands, you take the letter, your fingers tracing the familiar seal with the serpent emblem, Severus's signature. The very sight of his signature stamp sends a pang of longing through your fucking heart, your pulse increasing to an unfathomably quick rate--what the hell could this be? Severus solemnly ever writes you these days.

Upon opening the letter, the inked words appear to bleed with emotion, each stroke of the quill bearing the weight of a love that was, and perhaps still is, unextinguished. Tears gather in the corners of your eyes, blurring the elegant script as memories of your shared moments flood back in vivid detail.

"My Dearest Witch,

How many years must stretch their relentless fingers between us to prove that we are no longer inlove? Seasons have come and gone, the passage of time marked by the whispering winds of summer and the quiet melancholy of September. For how long must we persist to scour the earth for someone new to fill the others shoes?

Do not doubt that there have been others, for I have wandered through the corridors of time seeking solace after facing the reality of your absence; though none could replace the unique cadence of your voice, the way you lulled me with words, the way you breathed my name into the hollow of my neck.

Have you, too, found sanctuary in another's arms? Did they manage to provide the same reverence that you'd experienced from my hands? I ask, if I may, if you have experienced a touch as patient as mine, lips that tasted of desire and warmth that filled the silences between words? Has your heart risen like a crescendo, a wave crashing upon the shore, in the company of another?

Remember, as I whispered to you, 'Love is the only thing that time cannot touch.'

I have never spoken words more true. After all this time, my love for you remains an eternal flame, my guiding light, my morning star. Time itself bears witness to the enduring power of this ancient love, a love I will carry with me across the eons, through vast oceans of existence, down to the tiniest, most fragile inches of my soul, forever guiding me back to you.

If you too find that your heart still calls my name in the silence of your nights, then do write to me. It's time we end this madness, my dear love.

Yours, always,

Severus."

The room seemed to close in around you, the walls echoing with the echoes of your laughter and whispered confessions. Your owl, perched nearby, watches with unblinking eyes, as if understanding the depth of the pain embedded in every word.

As you finished reading the heartfelt letter, a profound sense of genuine happiness enveloped you like a warm embrace. In this unexpected moment, a radiant smile graced your lips, and your heart felt lighter than it had in years. The words in the letter had transported you back to a time when your love burned with an intensity that defied the world. It rekindled cherished memories of shared laughter, whispered confessions, and the depth of your connection.

It was as though the letter had unlocked a treasure trove of emotions that you had thought were lost to time. You felt a surge of joy knowing that, despite the passage of time and the trials you had faced, Severus still carried a flame for you. It was a validation of the profound bond you had once shared. The happiness you felt was not just for yourself but also for the recognition that your love had left an indelible mark on both your hearts.

This letter from Severus is a poignant reminder of a love that, despite its ending, still lingers like a haunting melody. You immediately grabbed your quill and began writing him back.

180 notes · View notes

chaosister · 2 months

Text

𓏲⋆ ִֶָ ๋𓂃 ⋆ RUNNING UP THAT HILL, SHADOW THE HEDGEHOG

shadow never truly knew what he would do without you, he could never bare to lose another dear one ever again.

𓈒ㅤׂㅤ𐙚 ࣪ ⭒ 𝓼ummary. gn!reader, angst, possible ooc character, mentions of death, abandonment issues, trust issues.

𓈒ㅤׂㅤ𐙚 ࣪ ⭒ 𝓷ote. oh em gee.. THIS MAN IS SUCH AN ANGST CHARACTER MATERIAL. (he's so silly you guys i love him) I write like a turtle that's why this took so long 🐢 (I usually don't write stories like this but I needed to get this out) also, my writing commissions are open!!

Shadow never experienced warmth, he was always surrounded by the feeling of coldness that came with his existence.

when he met you, his world was suddenly full of colors– his monochromatic world suddenly boomed into a colourful world when his eyes met yours.

he could remember the electric shock that wrecked through his body when his gaze landed upon your form and once he finally got to know you and be with you, shadow never felt that coldness anymore.

But sometimes, Shadow can feel how fast his heart was beating whenever he was in your presence– shadow was scared, he was scared that one day you'll vanish and he'll never be able to see you again, that's why shadow always held himself back from fully loving you because deep down he knows that all good things must come to an end and he doesn't want the same situation with Maria to happen all over again.

Shadow's heart was bruised and battered up from the shattering experiences he'd gone through but despite how flawed he was– how broken his heart was– you held him as if he was made of glass, your touches were so gentle that shadow didn't know how to react to such gestures that were filled with unfamiliar emotions.

Shadow always hoped that each day would go by faster because of how tiring it was but that reason changed when you came to his life, everyday he hoped that each day would go by faster so he could come home to your awaiting figure that always greeted him with a warm hug.

He never wants this to end, he'll fight against god if it means that you'll forever always be there for him.

———

“Shadow?” the sound of your soft voice interrupted the comforting silence that wrapped around the two of you as his ears perked up at your voice, his face that was buried in your shoulder raised a little to let you know that he was fully paying attention and a muffled hum escaped him.

“..are you happy being with me?” there was doubt hidden beneath your voice that shadow sensed and made him look up at you, your eyes that were filled with gentleness stared back at him and shadow knew at that point that something was wrong.

“why are you asking such questions? did something happen while I was gone?” the hand that was running through his quills stopped as shadow sat up to observe your face

he noticed the way you bit your lip and your gaze was suddenly full of sadness, “nothing happened, I was just curious..” Shadow's hands twitched and soon his hands found themselves wrapped around yours and the coldness that emitted from his own calloused hands contradicted the warmth that came from your soft ones.

“I apologise if I'm not as open as you'd like... I'm not used to these kinds of things but do know that my heart beats rapidly for you and only you, my world would blast with colors whenever I'm with you, and you fill me with hope that makes me wish that the day would go slower when I'm with you.”

Shadow said those words with such sincerity that it made your heart beat faster and your face to feel warmer, his gaze was filled with such intensity that it made you feel naked in front of him.

“...I love you, shadow.”

——

The two of you embraced each other at the end of it all, that was one of his memories that he cherished.

...But why was the world so against him? why was the world so cruel to him? those thoughts rampaged inside his mind as he blankly stares at your bleeding form on the floor, you were one of the few good things that happened to him and yet he failed to protect you.

sometimes, the world can be cruel to some unlucky souls and shadow was unfortunate to be one of those said souls.

Shadow didn't know how to react to your bleeding figure and so, he turned away his head as his trembling hands covered your form with a white blanket that blood seeped through.

he hopes that the ambulance would hurry up and help you despite the fact that you were already dead.

shadow doesn't believe that you're dead, you couldn't be, you were resting just like how you were when he left you.. all alone in this house that was filled with warmth and now it felt cold and empty house.

pleas left his mouth as he begged whoever was out there that could save your life– that could bring you back.

his cold hand tightly held your bloody hand that has the unfamiliar feeling of coldness and the realization that you were missing your usual warmth made him break down into tears as he desperately held your bloody figure in his arms.

the medics that rushed inside the house tried to pry off shadow from your corpse yet he refused to let go, no, he won't leave your side again.

but despite the sound of his pleas and crying the medics had no choice but to whisk you away to the hospital.

“please-! don't take them away-!”

he was left all alone again but this time, his heart was fully shattered and closed off. He was now just a broken man walking around hoping that today will be his final day.

#sonic x reader #shadow the hedgehog #shadow the hedgehog x reader #shadow x reader #x reader #shadow the hedgehog headcanon #sonic the hedgehog #sonic the hedgehog x reader #I usually don't write like this but I had to post something #cringe angst fr

95 notes · View notes

msanonymous · 8 months

Text

“How do you become a poet?”

Always looking/ Hardly speaking/ Defending the moon/ Disappearing from the room/ As if you were never even there/ Drinking more caffeine than breathing air/ Instead of falling in love with smiles, looking at them & just wondering why they don't reach it to that person's eyes?/ Instead of getting lost in the eyes, reading the sadness in them & wondering why they cried themselves to sleep at nights?/ Unsaid words, lots of them, so many that your mind gets fully clogged up with them, & at nights they threaten to spill out from your eyes as teardrops/ Unsent letters, loads of them, too many hidden well in your secret drawers, because of the fear of one accidentally landing in someone's letter box/ “Where is your home?”/ I don't know/ Strangers to friends. Within years. Friends to strangers again. Within a heartbeat/ I think I've seen this film before & I didn't like the ending/ Too many films of memories, playing in your head all together at the same time/ Too many stories of your life, having the similar last page, with the same last line/ “You are not enough!”/ Am I really not made for love?/ Lying to the whole world. “I'm fine”/ Lying to your therapist. “I'm fine, other people have it so much worse than me”/ Lying to your parents. “I'm fine.” “Then why are you crying?” “I'm not, I'm fine”/ Lying to yourself. ‘I'm fine.’ ‘No, you're not. You know you're not.’ ‘I know! But does it matter? No. It doesn't. There are hearts more hurt than ours.’ ‘But then why are you crying?’/ Daydreams & what-ifs/ Always finding yourself at the edge of the cliffs/ Envying & smiling sadly at the people who are poetry/ “I read your poem. It's beautiful!” What about me?/ Not touching your diary for months/ Then writing 6 poems in a day, after receiving 6 brand new cuts/ When no matter what pen you choose to write with, fountain, ball point, glitter gel, the ink you'll see after completing the last line will all be blood/ & then there's suddenly blood everywhere. Blood, so much blood. You lift your shaky hands & find both of your palms covered in it. You cover your eyes with them & sob, drowning in your own flood/ & you just keep praying to God for it to be your own. That the cracks of heart from all this blood seeped through, please God, let it be mine. Let it be mine/ The world hurts you enough everyday. But the last thing you want to do is to hurt the world back in your lifetime/ Mastering the art of stitching the wounds. But never for yours/ Other people have it so much worse. You don't deserve any of the cures/ Letting the wounds you think you deserve bleed/ Continuously, trying to not pay the pain any heed/ But still failing/ & weeping & weeping/ Then picking up the quill & dipping it in the aorta of your heart/ & attempting to create art/ But I think I'm not the right person to answer this question/ Because I am too inexperienced & unfamiliar with that profession/ Because as for me, I'm just a girl looking out of her window, waiting for someone to come & look at her/ & just not look away after/ I'm not a poet, how can I never be?/ But I do think/ That poets are not something that people become/ It's a mask. That people buy one day, at the price of heartbreaks & shattered hopes, to put on & hide the ugly & weak personas of them/ It's something people have to do, you know?/ Because the world can barely tolerate the poets. How many more wounds do you think you can sustain? & how many rocks do you think the world will throw?/ When you'll step out of your room/ As you?

~ms.anonymous

#Sep 11 #scattered pages of my diary

170 notes · View notes

queenhunter102 · 2 months

Text

HOUSE OF THE DRAGON (Part 2)

(Part 1) (PART 3)

Why are they not red? Hmm? Why do your hands not bleed, if My Lady asks you to clean something do so until you bleed” he spits, you close your eyes a drop of his spit hits your face, making you grimace from the feeling. “Yes Master Staell, I will do it right away Master Staell,” you said, trying to appease the man he grunted at you, as he dropped your hands “No I will get one of our civil girls to do it, no need to stain our halls with your filth,” he said, as he walked away from you. You nod your head as you lower it, you knew if you looked at him he would strike you with the force of the gods, so you watched from the corner of your eye waiting for him to leave. He growled again as he threw a fork at you, one you narrowly missed, “Why are you still here? Hmm? I gave you an order to leave!” he said, as he picked up another fork throwing it at you as you narrowly escaped. You dashed up the servant’s hallway heading to Prince Aemond’s room, it wasn’t often you were allowed to clean rooms often having to clean halls and the kitchen at the highest parts of the night, you relished the days they allowed you to clean the rooms, Prince Aemond’s room being your favourite to clean. He was a rather clean man, or at least the very few times you had seen him roaming the halls late at night, but his room was always a rather different matter he had a desk that was tucked away into a corner stacked with papers and maps, his books strewn across the desk, old ink pots lying across the desk broken Quills, snapped in half from his frustrations, you often like to run your hand over his dried writing, enjoying the way it felt under your touch.

you often tried to keep his desk as clean as you could, taking his ink pots away to be refilled, and stealing the broken Quills and stashing them in your quarters to touch and fiddle with later, you try and pin the maps he has finished with, back on their walls to be proudly displayed, you delighted when you found that his desk had divots from where his arms had rested.

You often rearranged his books into better order, but you still struggled to read with the common tongue let alone attempt to read in High Valyrian, so you tried your best to place the same books with the same author, or so you assumed, most of the words either looking the same or looking like they had the same scribbles, the only thing you noted that was the same was the initials on the inside, A.Targayen you smiled wondering if anything of Aemond’s had ever been given to Aegon accident. you walked across the room to his wardrobe always being careful not to take anything or move anything from here, knowing Aemond’s clothes were his pride and joy, you knew he was always very clean and very meticulously put together, you held out one of his sleeves as you eyed it, it noting that it should likely go to the tailors soon, the cuffs looked as though they might fray soon. you would sit and polish every shoe, every buckle, every eye patch, everything you could you did, you often stitched buttons back onto his tunics and garments when you had your sewing items with you, glad that your mother had at least had the chance to teach you something useful. You sigh as you see one of the buttons on his tunics is loose, you lightly touch it, hating that you couldn’t fix it for him, and you close the door to his wardrobe before walking into his bathing chamber avoiding the rather large elephant in the room, as you walked into the bathing chamber you found it a mess, his lotions and herbs thrown everywhere, like he was trying to find something specific, you inhaled deep to find that smell that just seemed to be his smell, It was of old books, fresh linen, drying ink as well as flowers, you closed your eyes enjoying the smell, it wasn’t often that you were allowed to nearly bath in that smell. it was like an addiction to you, letting out a slow breath, you picked up his lotions and his dried herbs, placing them back onto their shelves, tightening the lids on them as you went, you scrubbed the bath until your finger bled, once done you reached for his drying cloth finding it hard…You scrunched your face up, your hand recoiling from the texture, you touched it again, picking it up slowly you found that the drying cloth was stiff, and had an odd hard feeling to it in certain places, you shrugged your shoulders as you picked it up, bring it with you into the bed chamber again, you dumped his dirty clothes to the floor as you turned to his bed. You hated it, it felt like that was his private area, you felt like you were invading the most private parts of him, sometimes it felt like you were doing something dirty as you would peel back the covers to find something as dirty as his sleepwear or a women’s corset, you sighed as you approached the bed, noting that there was a lump in the bed, you prayed you weren’t about to uncover an unsuspecting prince who was trying to take a mid-day sleep, but when you pulled the covers back you found a stray pillow was just in the centre of the bed. You blew out a breath as you fixed the pillow moving it back to its rightful spot, striping the bed of its covers and blankets, as well as putting on fresh coverings for the cover and pillows, you chewed on your bottom lip as you thought wondering would he like it if I put decorative pillows on his bed? You continued to chew on that thought as you made his bed and picked up his dirty clothes giving the room a once last glance over and when you were finally happy with what you had done you walked out of his bed chamber heading towards the wash rooms. Unbeknownst to you, a guest was watching from the walls of his bed chambers as you took great care of his things taking the time and patience to carefully polish, wipe, and meticulously return to their rightful place, watching as you carefully made his bed, carefully eyed his room when you believed it was clean and perfect.

Taglist: @prettykinkysoul,

#aegon ii targaryen #aegon targaryen x reader #aegon x reader #hotd aegon #aegon targaryen #aegon ii #aemond targaryen #aemond one eye #hotd aemond #aemond x reader #aemond fanfiction #prince aemond targaryen #prince aemond #aemond smut #house of the dragon

81 notes · View notes