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zapreportsblog · 8 months

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The Volturi kings meeting reader who is a deep sea mermaid and is just amazed because she didn’t know there was more than just the dark ocean she lived in

❝curiosity killed the cat or mermaid in this case❞

✭ pairing : volturi kings x mermaid reader

✭ fandom : twilight

✭ summary : (y/n) is what’s known as a mermaid, an mythical creature that humans believed to be made up fairytale stories. Her clan always warned her to never wander to close to the oceans surface for bad things happen to mermaids who do, if only she had listened.

✭ authors note : I already pre wrote this story in my head from when I seen this request :) the first twilight masterlist got filled up so I made another

✭ twilight masterlist 2

(Y/N) was a mermaid unlike any other in her clan. While her fellow merfolk were content with their deep-sea existence, she had an insatiable curiosity about the world above the ocean's surface. The shimmering sunlight that filtered down from the top always fascinated her, casting dancing patterns of light in the depths where she lived.

However, (Y/N) had been warned time and time again by her clan about the dangers that lurked near the surface. They spoke of mysterious creatures that roamed the shallows, perilous storms that could send a mermaid spiraling into the abyss, and humans who were relentless in their pursuit of the underwater world.

Despite the warnings, her desire to explore the surface world only grew stronger with each passing day. She spent her free moments studying the patterns of light, listening to the songs of seagulls above, and dreaming of what lay beyond the boundary that separated her from the surface.

One fateful day, her curiosity became too powerful to resist. She decided to venture closer to the surface than she ever had before, her heart pounding with excitement and trepidation. She swam upwards, her tail gliding effortlessly through the water, until she found herself dangerously close to the surface.

As she breached the water's edge and her head broke through to the surface, (Y/N) marveled at the world above. The sensation of the sun warming her skin was unlike anything she had ever experienced. The world was different up here—vast, open, and filled with colors she had never seen in her underwater realm.

But her joy was short-lived. Just as she was about to dive back down to the safety of her underwater home, a sudden, painful tug on her tail sent shockwaves of fear through her. She struggled against an unseen force, but it was too late. (Y/N) had been captured in a fishing net.

Panicking, she thrashed and twisted in the net's grasp, but it held her firmly. Her heart pounded in her chest as she realized the gravity of her situation. She had ventured too close to the surface, and now she was at the mercy of whatever creature had ensnared her.

As the moon hung high in the night sky, casting an eerie glow over the Volturi's ancient castle, Ronaldo, the traveling Norman vampire, stood before the imposing gates, seeking an audience with the Volturi leaders. His request had been granted, and now he wheeled a large, water-filled tank into the dimly lit chamber where the Volturi convened.

The room was shrouded in shadows, and the Volturi leaders, Aro, Caius, and Marcus, sat upon their thrones, their crimson eyes piercing the darkness. (Y/N), curled up in the tank, shimmered like a moonlit pearl in the dim light, her beauty and strangeness taking the Volturi by surprise.

Aro, the most enigmatic of the three leaders, leaned forward, his eyes fixated on the captive mermaid. "What do we have here?" he inquired, his voice dripping with curiosity.

Ronaldo, ever the salesman, grinned and began to recount the legends of mermaids from human lore. He spoke of their captivating beauty, their ethereal songs that lured sailors to their doom, and the countless tales of their existence. His storytelling skills were as smooth as his negotiations, and he had the Volturi leaders captivated.

"What is it you desire in exchange for this extraordinary creature?" Aro asked, his gaze never leaving (Y/N).

Ronaldo's eyes gleamed with a mixture of desperation and cunning. "My freedom," he replied without hesitation. "I know you have been hunting me for my past transgressions against your kind. I will hand over the mermaid to you in exchange for my release."

Aro's fingers steepled in thought as he considered the offer. He was intrigued by the prospect of possessing such a rare and mystical creature, and Ronaldo's freedom seemed a small price to pay. "Very well," he agreed. "We have a deal."

Ronaldo breathed a sigh of relief, his gamble having paid off. He knew that his own fate had been hanging by a thread, and the mermaid had become his lifeline.

Once the transaction was completed, Ronaldo left the chamber, the tank left ominously behind him. Unbeknownst to him, Aro had no intention of letting him escape unscathed. The Volturi had their reputation to uphold, and no one defied them without consequences.

After Ronaldo had left the castle, Aro gave a sinister smile. He turned to his loyal guards, Demetri and Felix, and issued a chilling command. "Follow him. Ensure he doesn't make it far. Oh and make sure Ronaldo does not survive his very unfortunate…accident.”

With unwavering obedience, Demetri and Felix departed, their dark forms disappearing into the night as they set out to fulfill Aro's orders, leaving the fate of Ronaldo and the mermaid hanging in the balance.

As the realization dawned that (Y/N) was scared, Marcus, the most taciturn of the Volturi leaders, spoke up, his voice carrying a hint of empathy. "She's terrified," he observed, his eyes focused on the mermaid's curled-up form in the tank.

Aro, however, was not one to be deterred by fear. He was determined to have the mermaid as part of his collection, and her fear was an obstacle he intended to overcome. "Fear won't do," he declared, his voice commanding.

With a flick of his hand, he summoned some of the lowly guards that stood nearby. "Fix up the garden," Aro ordered them. "Prepare a suitable place for our new acquisition."

The guards hurriedly obeyed, scurrying to the Volturi's garden. There, they prepared a large, elegantly designed pond, its waters reflecting the pale moonlight. Once the garden was to Aro's satisfaction, they wheeled the tank containing (Y/N) to the pond's edge and carefully lowered it in.

As soon as the tank was submerged in the saltwater pond, (Y/N) sensed her opportunity for escape. She wasted no time and swiftly swam out of the tank, her lithe form disappearing into the depths of the pond. Her mermaid instincts guided her, and she found solace in the cool, familiar embrace of the saltwater.

Aro, not one to be outwitted, addressed (Y/N) directly, his thoughts projecting into her mind. "Dear mermaid, I mean you no harm. We merely seek your company and your unique presence." His words were accompanied by a sensation of reassurance and curiosity.

But (Y/N) was not easily swayed. Her instincts and her fear of the unknown prevailed. She refused to heed Aro's words, choosing to stay hidden at the pond's bottom, her tail camouflaged among the aquatic plants.

Aro's efforts to cloak her presence and win her trust proved fruitless, and he could only watch as the enigmatic mermaid remained hidden from sight, her secrets and her destiny her own to protect.

Days turned into weeks, and (Y/N) found herself settled in the Volturi's garden, beneath the moonlit sky, surrounded by the grandeur of the ancient castle. The kings of the Volturi had made it a habit to visit her, each with their own approach to her peculiar presence.

Aro, ever the strategist, was persistent in his attempts to communicate with her. He visited the pond regularly, his thoughts reaching out to her. "Dear mermaid," he would say, "I am genuinely curious about your kind. Do you have a name?"

However, (Y/N) remained steadfast in her silence. Her oceanic gaze remained fixed on the pond's depths, her secrets guarded by her enigmatic presence.

Caius, on the other hand, was a man of few words. He would visit the pond and simply stare at her for hours. His crimson eyes bore into her, and she could feel the weight of his scrutiny. There was an intensity about him that sent shivers down her spine, but he never spoke a word to her.

It was Marcus, the third and often overlooked leader of the Volturi, who approached (Y/N) in a different manner. He would sit quietly nearby, bringing books from his extensive library. He read out loud to her, his deep voice resonating through the garden.

The books he chose were tales of ancient love and legends of the sea, and he read them with a melancholic grace. He didn't ask questions or seek answers, but his presence was a soothing one. It was as if he understood the mermaid's need for companionship, even if it was only in the form of his voice.

As the nights passed, (Y/N) grew accustomed to the routine of her existence within the Volturi's garden. The vampire kings' visits were as mysterious as they were intriguing, and the ancient castle held more secrets than she could fathom. Yet, she remained a silent enigma, her presence a source of fascination and curiosity for the Volturi leaders.

A month had passed since (Y/N) had been captured by the Volturi, and her time in their garden had settled into a peculiar rhythm. She had grown accustomed to the vampire kings' visits, and although she remained mostly silent, their presence had become a strange sort of companionship.

On this particular evening, as Marcus sat beside the pond with a book in his hands, (Y/N) decided to break her silence. The book in question was an archaeology tome, filled with intricate details about ancient civilizations and their mysterious ruins.

Curiosity had finally gotten the best of her, and she swam up to the surface of the pond, her azure eyes fixed on Marcus. "What is that book about?" she asked, her voice a melodious echo.

Marcus turned to her, his eyes holding a hint of surprise. It was the first time she had spoken in his presence. "It's a book about archaeology," he replied in his deep, soothing voice. "It delves into the mysteries of ancient civilizations and their remarkable ruins."

Intrigued, (Y/N) pressed further. "Tell me more," she urged.

With a nod, Marcus closed the book and set it aside. "This book, in particular, discusses the Mayan ruins of the Holy Land. The Mayans were a fascinating civilization, known for their advanced knowledge of astronomy, mathematics, and intricate city planning."

As he spoke, (Y/N) listened with rapt attention, her curiosity piqued by the wealth of knowledge Marcus possessed. The world of the surface, so distant and unknown to her, seemed to hold countless wonders waiting to be explored, and the vampire's words painted vivid images in her mind.

For the first time since her capture, (Y/N) felt a spark of connection, not just to the vampire before her, but to the world above the surface, a world of ancient civilizations and untold stories waiting to be discovered.

The next day, as the sun dipped below the horizon, Aro paid his customary visit to the garden. He approached the pond with his usual air of intrigue, expecting the same silent presence from the mermaid.

But as he drew near, (Y/N) surprised him by speaking. Her voice was soft and tinged with a hint of curiosity. "You are back," she said, her eyes fixed on him.

Aro, taken aback by her words, responded in kind, "And you are speaking."

They sat in a brief, somewhat awkward silence, both processing the unexpected turn of events. Aro's fascination with the mermaid had only grown since her arrival, and now her ability to communicate added another layer of intrigue.

After a moment, (Y/N) felt compelled to break the silence once more. She hesitated for a moment before finally revealing, "My name is (Y/N)."

Aro's crimson eyes studied her, a faint smile touching his lips as he absorbed this newfound information. "It is a pleasure to finally know your name, (Y/N)," he replied.

But before any further conversation could unfold, (Y/N) suddenly felt a wave of shyness wash over her. Without another word, she swung her tail and gracefully slipped beneath the surface of the pond, disappearing into the depths once more, leaving Aro alone by the water's edge, pondering the enigma that was the mermaid named (Y/N).

As the moonlight cast a silvery glow over the Volturi's garden, (Y/N) found herself seated on a large rock by the pond. Her mermaid tail glistened as she meticulously cleaned it, her slender fingers running through the scales with care.

Caius, drawn by his usual fascination with the mysterious mermaid, had come to watch her again. He approached her quietly, his crimson eyes fixed on her as he observed her delicate task. But this time, a pressing question weighed on his mind.

"How did you get captured by a coward like Ronaldo?" Caius asked, his voice carrying a hint of curiosity and disdain.

(Y/N) paused in her task, her gaze shifting to meet Caius's piercing stare. She took a deep breath before answering, "My clan has always warned us not to venture too close to the surface. But my curiosity got the best of me, and I swam higher than I should have. That's when Ronaldo captured me."

Caius listened intently to her explanation, his features impassive. He, too, had a sense of disdain for Ronaldo, but he was more interested in understanding (Y/N)'s perspective.

"Do you ever miss your clan?" he asked, the question surprisingly gentle.

(Y/N) nodded, her eyes momentarily clouded with sadness. "Every day," she admitted softly. "I miss the deep ocean and the songs of my kin."

Caius, for all his coldness, seemed to sense the depth of her longing. He didn't press further but simply nodded in understanding. With that, he turned and left the garden, leaving (Y/N) to her quiet contemplation by the pond, as the mysteries of her past and her future continued to intertwine with the enigmatic world of the Volturi.

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baldurs-simp · 7 months

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Un-Holy (Astarion x Aasimar!Reader)

Summary: Your heritage comes out in the midst of a battle, leaving you to confess your past to Astarion, whom you have developed a strong relationship with.

Warnings: strong language, mild spoilers, aasimar!reader, fluff, written at the spur of the moment while slightly tired, a bunch of rambling in the beginning but shit goes down later on

MY MASTERLIST

You have gone years without a fight until you woke up on the Mind Flayer ship with a tadpole behind your eye. Now, you cannot go a day without fighting for your survival after the ship crashed somewhere near Baldur’s Gate. You are not alone in the fight, however, having met some companions along the way who all share the same affliction you do; the threat of becoming a Mind Flayer.

The first you met was a Gith, Lae’zel, on the ship before it fell, then a Cleric of Shar, Shadowheart. The two don’t see eye to eye, but they keep the peace well enough to not cause a fight within the camp at night. Then you meet the rogue, Astarion, whom you later find out is a vampire after he tried to drink your blood in your sleep. How he’s able to walk in the sun without burning to a crisp is a mystery to everyone, but you think you could be because of the tadpole lurking around in his head. Or perhaps it is the work of the Guardian that visits you in your dreams.

Then you met the wizard from Waterdeep stuck in his portal, Gale. He has his issues. An orb sits in his chest, waiting to explode if it is not sated with magical-infused objects. You normally allow him to consume items that would otherwise be of no use to you. Items that grant you spells that you can already cast. Items useless to you, but not to Gale.

Wyll you had met after defeating a group of goblins that tried to enter the Emerald grove. Meeting him spurred your quest to help the Tieflings being kicked out by the druids. You plan on clearing the way for them, getting rid of goblins that might attack them west of the Blighted Village. Wyll had his quest to hunt down a devil, whom you found, Karlach.

Karlach is nothing like what Wyll had described and they finally came to a consensus to not kill each other. The tiefling that fought in the Blood Wars was only enlisted against her will. And she now joins your party in search of a cure for the Mind Flayer tadpoles.

You feel as if you know everyone in your party, and know somewhat about their past from what they shared with you after bunking down for nights while on the road. Yet, they don’t know a thing about your past. They don’t know who you truly are, or what you really are. But sometimes you think it’s for the better.

Battling the Hobgoblin leader, Dror Ragzlin proves to be a difficult fight. With the majority of your companions looking rough and the fight still raging on, you can’t help the necrotic energy bubbling up inside of you. You have to let it out.

Planting your feet firmly into the ground beneath you, you let out a fierce cry as ghostly skeletal wings sprout out from your back. A necrotic shroud falls over you, turning foes close to you around in fear. Your eyes turn into black pools as your gaze falls on Ragzlin, letting him know that he is your target.

The fight is quickly won after that and you drop your celestial facade, helping up Gale and healing him of his wounds. “Well, I didn’t know we had an Aasimar in our party,” Shadowheart mentions, causing you to turn your head towards her and see that everyone else stands behind her, staring at you in awe and curiosity.

“Let’s just find Halsin and get out of here,” you quickly say, walking past them without so much as making eye contact with them.

“Woah, woah, we’re not gonna talk about how fucking cool that was?” Karlach mentions as the party follows you, stepping over goblin corpses as you briskly walk toward the exit.

“There’s nothing to talk about so let’s not mention it. This is just something I can do just as you can go into a rage,” you say over your shoulder, pushing the heavy oak door open, shoving the piercing gazes you feel on your back from your companions. You sigh, knowing that they will pester you if you don’t tell them what they want to hear. “Look, it's a long story, okay. I come from a celestial background. It’s no different than Lae’zel coming from a Githyanki background. We all come from somewhere and none of us has pestered anyone about it, so why should it be different with me?” you question, turning around to face them. So, can we please leave it at that, find the druid, and get out of this place?”

From the tone of your voice, they can tell that your heritage is a sensitive topic. And they know you’re right. Everyone has their past and they are free to disclose as much as they want. It prevents tension from rising in camp. So, they suck it up, leaving your story to their imagination. Until you’re comfortable telling them.

Astarion, on the other hand, is not one to let things go. He thinks that he deserves to hear your story after he told you what happened to him and how he became a vampire spawn. Not to mention that you and him have become somewhat close. After all, you do allow him to feed off of you at night when he needs to. That creates quite a bond if he must say so himself.

As night draws near, everyone tends to themself to rest after a long day of slaying foes in the desecrated temple of Selune. You keep to yourself, not wanting to be involved in conversation as you fear that someone will bring up what happened to you in the fight. It’s a conversation you don’t wish to have.

You sit by the edge of the lake, looking up at the stars, lost in thought and memory. You don’t even hear the footsteps approaching you from behind as you stare at the twinkling lights illuminating the sky.

“There you are,” Astarion’s voice calls, pulling you out of your thoughts and back down to earth as he sits beside you on the ground. “I had thought that perhaps you had flown off.”

It was meant to be a joke and you know that. But it does not make you laugh or smile. Instead, you sigh heavily and glance down at your feet. “If only. Unfortunately, my wings are incapable of flight,” you state, looking back up at the water lapping at the shore. “They never used to be, you know. Gods, I used to be so fast, flying between clouds like a blur. Now, I can remember what it’s like,” you say, smiling to yourself as you recall a memory of being in the sky.

Astarion has his eyes fixed on your face, taking in your smile, something that rarely comes across your face since he’s met you. “What happened?” he asks, tentatively and in a whisper.

“I fell in love with someone I wasn’t supposed to,” you say, shaking your head in shame. “I fell in love with a devil. He was charming and cunning and I was cast out from my people because of it only to find out that he was toying with me because he wanted to see me stripped of my radiant power. He wanted to see me fall,” you explain, turning to meet Astarion’s gaze finally. “There is no pride in being a Fallen. Only shame.”

He understands now. If anyone, he knows all about shame and it explains more than you know to him why you never told anyone what you are. He wants to reach out and touch you, lay a hand on your wrist as a way to tell you that you are not alone in this. But he doesn’t know if you will allow him to touch you. He knows that if the roles were switched and he told you in extensive detail what Cazador had done to him, he might not know what to do with a friendly touch.

“I wandered around on my own, living off the land, too ashamed to show my face to others, fearing that they would know what I had done and how far I had fallen from grace,” you say, looking back out to the lake. “I was on my own for so long, until I was taken by those Mind Flayers. It seems fitting now, being a Fallen Aasimar with a tadpole behind my eye.”

“You are not alone in this, you know,” he simply says, leaning slightly forward so that he can hold your gaze. “No matter how far you have fallen from grace, you are not alone, little angel.”

You chuckle at his words, your shoulders relaxing as you shift in your seated position. “I’m glad to have met you, Astarion. I only wish that we had met sooner,” you say, smiling sweetly at him as you cross your legs under you. “Perhaps things would have been better.”

Astarion laughs, throwing his head back slightly as he follows your gaze out to the water. “I do not think you would have liked me all that much. I would most likely have led you like a lamb to the slaughter for Cazador to feast on. And he would have reveled in the taste of your blood,” he says, a low growl in his voice at the mention of your blood.

You two had talked about what the others might taste like to him, talking - theoretically - how different people’s blood would taste like. You’re sure that yours must taste different than those he had bitten in battle for a bit of extra strength.

“And I would have tried to kill you if you did,” you tease him, looking at him, your eyes meeting his and you two stare into each other’s eyes.

“May I see them?” he asks, his eyes shifting to your back.

You know he means to see your wings, even in their dismal state. You feel comfortable showing them to him just as he had felt comfortable telling you that he is a vampire. Giving a small nod, you close your eyes to focus on conjuring your spectral wings, revealing their skeletal form with minimal feathers covering parts of them, some looking as though they are ready to fall off.

His mouth falls slightly open as he stares at them, shifting himself on the sand of the shore so that he can kneel behind you. You can almost feel his breath on your next as he shifts closer, his fingers reaching out to touch the exposed bone.

A breath catches in your throat, your head perking up as a shiver runs through your spine, making your wings slightly perk up. Your heart skips a beat, something you’re sure Astarion can hear, and you turn your head slightly over your shoulder to look at him.

You don’t have the heart to tell him that his actions are considered something intimate between your people. Taking another’s wings is something only lovers do. You’ve never had anyone touch them, even when they are in their original, glorious form.

You close your eyes at the sensation, taking in it because you are not sure when you will experience it again. When you feel Astarion moving away, you look at him again and smile. “Thank you. For letting me myself around you,” you whisper, standing up off the ground and dusting off the sand from your hands and legs.

“No. I think I should be the one thanking you for trusting me,” he speaks, standing up with you as he gazes at your features illuminated in the moonlight. Gods, he wishes he could see you in your full glory. He knows you’re still holding back what you could be. Still, he thinks it could be absolutely glorious to see you as the angel you truly are.

You bid him good night and walk to return to your tent. As you leave him, he casts his eyes to the ground to spot a black feather that has fallen from your wings. He bends down to pick it up, twirling it in his finger as she smiles to himself.

He’s going to keep this feather so he remembers this moment forever.

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cannedpickledpeaches · 1 month

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Insert Your Name (8)

Mafia!Jade Leech x Mafia!Reader

Link to series masterlist!

Notes and TW: Whether or not this is a story, does it really matter if characters are living fleshed out lives in their own perception of the world? This series will have mentions of blood, violence, crime (kidnapping, attempted assassination, extortion), and harassment, as one might expect from a mafia AU. Please enjoy!

Tags: @guava-writes @itszzmoon @twstsandturns @myteacupisempty @rou-luxe @chikitasmol @night-shadowblood-writes2

You walk next to Jade along the beach, feet sinking into the sand. Your shoes dangle from their tied laces in your hand. The feeling of the grains shifting around your feet, the sound of waves lapping on the shore, they feel soothing in a way. Even though the winds are stronger today and there are dangers you can’t see lurking beneath the waves, you don’t worry because you have Jade beside you. Reliable, constant, safe. You can’t even be sure how long you’ve been thinking of him this way anymore.

An hour earlier, you were in a meeting with Walrus about the dead assassin’s body. Apparently, there are multiple layers of magic shrouding it that require some time to break. Nothing conclusive yet, but at least there’s a glimmer of hope. You wonder if Walrus is dragging out the process on purpose so that she can ensure the cooperation of the Leech Mafia lasts throughout her coup.

“In a way,” you say, “Walrus reminds me of you.”

“How so?” Jade is so very fond of playing dumb. It takes one to know one, and he knows. You can tell from his perfectly unreadable smile throughout that meeting that his guard is always up around her.

“She’s a gluttonous schemer who pretends to be kind and harmless, but secretly plots to gain the most out of anyone.”

He chuckles. “Thank you.”

Of course. It is just like him to take it as a compliment. Jade takes your shoes from you and you let him carry them for you as though he’s just your pack mule instead of the temporary head of the Leech Mafia. The setting sun casts an orange glow over the beach, turning the frothy tips of the waters into flames and Jade’s irises into molten gold. You catch his gaze and you smile into the eye contact.

“I like that about you.”

His eyes soften, molten gold shining with slightly mismatched hues and matching depth. You can’t look away. Not when he returns your smile with eyes like that.

“What part of it do you like? The scheming? The gluttony?”

“Now you’re just fishing for compliments.”

“But of course. I need to know what you like best about me.”

“Why?”

Jade chuckles. “The more information I have on any topic, the better prepared I will be for any situation, don’t you agree? In my position, ignorance is a sin.”

You certainly agree. The more you know, the better. But in this case, what is he even preparing for? He could probably cook up some sort of blackmail against you with the most innocuous tidbit of information.

You shake those thoughts away. You made him a promise. What was it that he said? At least promise me this. Even if I turn on the entire world, promise you will trust that I will not betray you.

He made you a promise, too. The promise that he would never lie to you again echoes in your heart. Even if those words were a lie and he said all that to lower your guard, you’ve decided to cross that bridge when you come to it. No point in fretting about something that may not come to pass. You have a thousand other things to worry about, and you’ve decided to trust Jade enough that this will not be on the list. If you end up in a sticky situation, you will sit and think of a solution, just as you have always done.

“Honestly,” you say, gazing out at the white-tipped waves, “I like it all. Your cunning, your lies and half-truths. It’s admirable. These intangible things have been forged into your weapons and armour. I only complain when it inconveniences me.”

It’s the truth. As much as you suspect and are wary of him, Jade is someone you admire and respect. Besides, if you truly disliked him, you would not be walking along the beach alone with him at sunset. You would not have stuck with him for fifteen years. You would not have kept on bringing pebbles and plants and fungi and bugs and any other number of curious things to the shore in your preteen years no matter how much money he offered.

“I would listen to all your complaints,” he says with nothing but sincerity in his voice.

“No promises not to inconvenience me, huh.”

“I promised not to lie to you. It is a bit of creative omission on my part.”

You chuckle. Silence settles on your shoulders like a blanket, comfortable and familiar. It’s nice to have a moment like this where you aren’t thinking too hard about everything. A reprieve filled with the ambience of waves washing up on shore and Jade’s presence.

“Do you,” he breaks the silence with a softly uttered question, “really believe that manuscript is a reflection of things that will certainly come to pass?”

This is the third time he’s asked you this. It must really be a sore spot for him. Jade isn’t the type to repeat himself. If he doesn’t get his way with one method, he’ll find twenty other ways. You don’t understand why he keeps asking with the same words and phrasing.

“I still can’t be sure. But you know, the Leech Mafia gaining influence because another syndicate fell is actually mentioned in the manuscript. I’d say things are still going according to the story.”

“No details appear as to how that was achieved. Perhaps this is not how things went behind the scenes in the original story.” He stops walking and faces you fully. “Your caution and your persistence in tying loose ends led to the investigation of mages within the Carpenter Mafia, which in turn led to Walrus revealing herself. I have yet to thank you for that.”

“You don’t need to. She would’ve revealed herself sooner or later to make her deal with you.”

Jade hums thoughtfully. “I doubt it. She likely planned on staying as the head of security in my home as long as possible. There are many benefits to being undercover in a place so close to me. She would have concealed her appearance or prepared a proxy to meet and make a deal with me. That is what I gathered from her personality.”

“It takes one to know one.”

“As the saying goes.” He admits it, his lips lifting in a smile to reveal his sharp teeth. “That aside, there is another piece of evidence that shows discrepancy between real life and the story. Floyd.”

Of course, out of everyone, Floyd would be the one who tears the plot points of the original story into shreds and stomps on their remains. He hates being constrained, arguably even more than Jade. He would never follow that story to the letter, and you know this, so you compromised by letting him do the bare minimum to fulfill the requirements of the story.

“What has he done?” You can’t be there to watch any of his interactions with (Y/N), so you don’t know the specifics.

“Don’t worry, he’s been following the dialogue and actions from the manuscript for the most part. The discrepancy arises where the story says (Y/N) becomes something of a mood stabilizer for him, keeping him in a constant state of happiness.” Jade places a hand on his chest, a fond gleam in his eye. “There are a few times I had to intervene so that his mood did not noticeably sour.”

You’re actually surprised that there were no major incidents. Floyd’s mood changes like the wind, ranging from a hair-trigger, volatile temper to a cheerful disposition that rivals the sun. That is not something a person can fix just because he likes them. In the first place, Floyd is not a project that needs to be fixed.

“I like Floyd the way he is,” you say, thinking about the times his flipping mood has caused your sense of schadenfreude to take center stage in your mind. “It’s not easy to schedule around, but it’s refreshing in a way when things don’t go exactly to plan.”

“I agree.” Jade places a hand over his chest. “He has made my life boundlessly interesting.”

“Right? It’s best to like Floyd in his entirety. But I’m sure (Y/N) would like him even if he isn’t sunshine and rainbows all the time.”

“You have great praise for her character.”

“She’s wonderful.” You smile fondly. At the same time, something still nags at you. It should be the result you want, right? But you’re hesitant to ask. “Are you sure you haven’t fallen for her after spending so much time with her?”

“I’m certain.” There is no hesitation in his response. “She is a decent person, but I do not think she deserves the compliments you rain upon her.”

A strange sense of relief washes over you. “Don’t be ridiculous. She’s literally perfect.”

“I would disagree. She is hardly a saint.” Jade’s expression settles into something more serious. “Don’t you think it’s strange that she has not contacted you after all this time?”

That’s still a mystery. “She doesn’t remember me, allegedly. You’re the one who told me that.”

“Yes, but surely you have left traces of yourself in her life. Have you ever given her anything? Taken pictures with her?”

He raises a good point. You’ve given her many things that she wanted but didn’t have enough money to buy. Usually trivial things like mugs with cat designs or pretty hair clips. Now that you think about it, there are polaroids of the two of you on her nightstand. Has that not raised any questions? Does she not wonder about the person in those photos that she allegedly cannot remember?

Furthermore, what Jade said strikes you as strange. “Wait, you didn’t see my pictures in her room? You stayed overnight, right? Did you see the pictures on her nightstand?”

He looks out at the sea in thought. “I would have noticed something like that immediately, but I do not recall it.”

You stiffen. Where did the photos go? Surely, the story hasn’t written them away. Even though your pictures aren’t mentioned in the manuscript, they can’t have been omitted in real life. After all, you’re still here.

Did she dispose of them? But why? If she saw pictures of herself with someone she doesn’t remember framed on her nightstand, why would she put them away or toss them in the trash? Wouldn’t she logically keep it and try to remember who the mystery person is? Unless she’s only pretending not to remember. Unless she hates you. Unless she’s using this as an opportunity to cut you out of her life. Is that the truth? Was she ever such a two-faced person?

You refuse to believe it. There were many opportunities to cut you out of her life, especially when you got busy. In those times, she was the one who reached out first. You can’t accept that she suddenly came to hate you without a reason.

“Let’s not dwell on it.” Jade steps in front of you. “May I ask you a different question?”

“Go for it.”

“Do you really believe that manuscript is a reflection of fate?”

You furrow your brows. “Isn’t that the same thing you’ve been asking me the whole time?”

“It depends on how you interpret it.” He pulls his gloves off and starts to reach for you. As though struck by a thought, he hesitates. His hand returns to his side. “What I am really trying to ask is, if you think that is fate, do you also believe fate can be changed?”

He asks the second question as though he is sure of your answer to the first one. You study his expression in the dying light. Placid. Pleasant. This is the face he uses when he’s holding his cards so tightly to his chest that he may as well bury them inside his heart.

“Doesn’t that defeat the purpose of fate? The point is that fate is how the future is meant to happen. If fate can be changed, then it isn’t fate to begin with.” You gently take his hand and hold it between both of yours. “So, to answer all your questions in one go—I don’t think that manuscript is fate.”

A grin full of jagged teeth breaks through his pleasant mien.

“Finally,” he breathes out, stepping closer to you and bringing your hands up to his chest. “I was hoping to hear you say that.”

“You know, I was half convinced for a while that (Y/N) is just a character made by that manuscript. And in extension, we’re all characters made to play out the plot it’s outlined. Right now, though, I think you’ve convinced me that the manuscript isn’t as set in stone as I thought.”

He chuckles. You expect to feel a steady heartbeat in his chest, but the tempo quickens at your touch, the allegro drumming a sharp contrast to the adante you thought you’d find.

“I was not aware you entertained such notions in your mind. Indeed, anything is possible in this world.”

“Are you making fun of me?”

Jade rubs his thumb against the back of your hands. “Of course not. I simply thought it was amusing. At the very least, you and I are not characters. We have thoughts and feelings that go beyond ink on paper. Such is the complexity that sentience yields, and it is what keeps me endlessly interested in observing others such as yourself.”

“I’d have to work hard if I really wanted to keep your interest. Sounds like a lot of effort,” you tease.

“I do not think it is possible to grow tired of you. You are endlessly fascinating to me in every way.” He leans close to you, his vibrant eyes filling your vision. “Does that answer your worries?”

“Worries?” You laugh it off. Were you worried about that sort of thing? He isn’t wrong. Since when were you so scared of losing him? “I guess I wouldn’t be thrilled if you got bored of me.”

A wave of emotion that borders on triumph washes over his features, exhilaration and happiness flickering on the edges. He brings your hands up to his lips and keeps them there, his breaths fluttering over your knuckles.

And he whispers your name. Not Friend A, not Red Handfish, not (Y/N). There is no name to insert here because it is yours, the one you always had, the one that represents all of you and who you are. Your name.

#twisted wonderland #disney twst #jade leech #twst x reader #jade leech x reader #twst jade #twst fanfic #mafia au #multi chap fic #slow burn

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theteasetwrites · 9 months

Text

Begin Again

Chapter 1: Aux Portes de la Mort

❧ Media: The Walking Dead: Daryl Dixon ❧ Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Female Reader ❧ Era: Season 1 ❧ Pronouns: she/her ❧ Warnings: violence, blood & gore, scary situations, mentions of death ❧ Word Count: 7.6k

❧ In This Chapter: When you and Daryl awaken in an unknown land, far away from home, the world becomes twice as dangerous as it once was, with a whole new breed of dangers lurking around every corner. You have no choice but to begin again on a new mission: Get. Back. Home.

❧ A/N: IT'S HERE. I'm so excited to be writing for them again ugh it's been too long. I love this reader because she has all that history with Daryl from the first series so it's a real treat to keep all that in mind when I'm writing their scenes together. Also I am posting this before the premiere of the show. This chapter is based on the events of the sneak peek that was released on AMC+! So here ya go, the first chapter! Shoutout to Dahlia (@simpbyday) for helping me with the French translation for the title. She will be my official French language correspondent throughout this process. And if anyone else also knows French, I would love to get feedback on my usage of French throughout the series as well! <3

“Near death” did not mean much to you anymore.

You were either dead or alive, nothing in between. That’s how you felt about it now. There were few areas in life that were black and white to you, and that was one of them. If you were alive, you were alive. Maybe you’d be a little worse for wear, but you were alive. That was the important thing.

That’s what you told yourself, anyway. As a way to condition yourself, to be stronger. For Daryl. For Robin. For Wes. You had to be strong for them. Maybe that’s what got you into this mess.

No, Daryl did. Daryl got you into this: tied loosely to the back of a lifeboat, one foot missing a boot and hanging off the edge, dangling pitifully in the ocean as the small vessel drew you closer to the shore.

You might’ve stayed asleep if it weren’t for the splashing sound, followed by the familiar grunts and wheezes of gasping breath. You felt the rope across your hips pull in the other direction, where Daryl fought with the current to come back to the air. Through heavy eyes, crusted by a long sleep and sensitive to the bright light of what must’ve been mid-afternoon, you saw him struggle to lift the rope from his body as a wave pummeled him back down below the water.

Your throat burning, rendering you unable to so much as cry out his name, you freed yourself from the rope, sliding into the water. What happened next would fade into the obscurity of rumbling waves carrying your weak bodies closer to shore, until the feeling of ground underfoot welcomed you.

But that feeling was short-lived. As soon as your feet felt the sand, you were knocked down by another wave. Now you could only crawl, with what little strength you had left. Even Daryl, so very hearty and always physically stronger and more durable than yourself, began to stagger, falling less than gracefully to his knees just a few feet from you. There was no need for verbal recognition or even touch—you felt him there, crawling beside you, alive.

Now with only your feet still clinging to the sea, your arms gave out underneath you, like two pieces of boiled spaghetti, limp and sprawled out not far from Daryl, who lied with his face pressed against the sand, his wet hair shrouding any semblance of his visage.

Though you could hear his sharp breaths, his heavy pants that withdrew with high-pitched whimpers that sent a shiver down your spine, you could hardly tell if he was moving.

Momentarily frozen, you gathered all your strength to extend your arm across the sand. Your fingers stretched out to the fullest extent, crawling like a spider until finally you gripped his hand, entwining your fingers with his and shaking it roughly, urging him to move.

You had been near death enough to know that the worst thing to do was to stop moving. That was like accepting death, and wherever you were now, you weren’t going to face it without him.

Your movement brought him to life as he lifted his head, his sight first taking in his surroundings—a beach.

And not far in the distance, a small blue bucket.

You followed his gaze, which seemed transfixed on the object, partly buried by the wet sand that must’ve remained untouched for God only knows how long.

Having a near encyclopedic understanding of Daryl’s mind, you knew what he was thinking of—survival. There was water in that bucket. Sandy ocean water, but water nevertheless.

All you could think of, though, was how familiar that little bucket was. Robin had one just like it. Last time you’d taken her and Wes to Oceanside, they played on the beach for hours, making sandcastles with her little bucket and shovel that she’d gotten for her seventh birthday last May. Somehow she’d convinced Daryl to let her bury him under the sand. You had the Polaroids to prove it somewhere in one of the pockets of your vest, if they hadn’t been lost to sea.

The memory faded quickly, as he pulled you up, still holding your hand. At least now he was moving, dragging you and himself towards the bucket.

He’d let go of your hand to pick it up, digging out as much sand as he could before handing it to you. Without a word, you brought the rim of the bucket to your lips, taking just a few sips, despite the painful drought in your throat.

Daryl took the rest, downing the sandy saltwater like it was the nectar of life, and here, at the gates of death, it was.

When the water was gone, he let the pail fall back to its final resting place. You couldn’t bring yourself to even raise your head. You could only watch it fall, the bright blue plastic taking you back to a time that seemed so far away now, to a world you wished you’d never left.

But Daryl, ever the pragmatist, always planning the next move, was already narrowing his eyes, looking around for the answer to that burning question that lingered between the two of you—where the hell are we?

You could’ve looked at that little bucket forever, if he hadn’t tugged on your hand, not unlike how you’d done so to his just minutes ago.

“C’mon.”

The further the two of you walked, slowly, limping, the more you began to take note of your surroundings, without too much thought of the complete and utter shit you two were both in. For all the differences between you, you both knew one thing was true—there was no point in dwelling on how you got here, the only thing that mattered was getting back home. That was the unspoken truth.

As you walked further, the sand beneath your feet turned into concrete. Some kind of parking structure, or what once was. You passed the rotting, rusted shells of cars, their windows smashed and their hoods lifted, no doubt due to survivors looking for parts to salvage. A clump of neglected bicycles leaned against a graffitied pole. Like most graffiti, you couldn’t make out what it said.

Passing a small overgrown boat, you spotted a signpost not too far away. You walked ahead of Daryl, all too eager to see what it said. The letters were faded, but you could make out the arrows, meaning it would point you in whatever direction you needed to go in. That was all you needed now: direction. Some delusionally hopeful part of you, deep down, wanted to believe the sign would display the word “HOME” with an arrow accompanying it, leading the way without confusion or ambiguity.

But of course, you knew that was impossible. Still, you did not anticipate what you saw.

Squinting your tired eyes, your weakened legs slowed to a halt as the sign’s lettering came into view. Your heart sank as you stepped back, almost terrified of what you read. But you backed against Daryl’s chest, which caught you before you could lose your balance from the shock of the realization.

You could not read the sign.

Pla… place de… ste?

Port de… Martegues?

… Cimetiere?

Shit.

Some kind of port city, somewhere in France.

That’s what you decided upon, in the silence of your heavy thoughts as you walked together aimlessly, still not speaking. How could you speak to him? What was there to say? You had no hope now. It was gone, and usually, that was the only thing that kept you talking in times like these.

And Daryl, he could go hours without speaking, if he had nothing to say.

He, too, was at a loss for words. After all, he knew he’d gotten you into this. He knew none of this would’ve happened if he’d just… It didn’t matter now, though. What mattered was getting home.

But you weren’t safe here.

You always knew that the whole world must’ve fallen, of course. When everything happened, the world went dark. France was no exception. The state of the place was proof enough. In this old city, with cobblestone streets littered in the abandoned remnants of a once prosperous civilization, every corner you turned was the same—empty, ruined, overgrown.

By some instinct, you both walked along a path just on the edge of a canal that seemed to run through the city. Perhaps it was just a gut feeling, or perhaps the both of you knew to stay close to the water, on the off chance that you’d find some kind of seafaring vessel. Though you still couldn’t shake the taste of saltwater, you knew that the only way you could get back home was to get back on the water. That was your priority.

Sure enough, you came upon a boat, moored at the edge of the path, floating upon the water, and looking as though it had been there for centuries.

Just outside the boat on the cobblestone path, it looked as though someone had set up camp, once upon a time. Whoever had been there, though, they were long gone. As you passed a desiccated corpse, completely barren of flesh with a long fisherman’s spear skewered through its head, you wondered if this body had once held the poor soul of the boat’s former occupant. You didn’t wonder for long, though, as these days, you’d seen enough dead bodies to almost completely desensitize you from any human curiosity. Now, it was just a bag of bones.

Approaching the stern of the vessel, Daryl went into the cabin first, his sights set on the wine bottles perched on a wooden shelf, in the hopes that maybe they’d contain some water. He picked them up one by one, shaking them. Nothing at all.

You busied yourself, rummaging through a bag you found hanging from a nail near the door. Your hand gripped on some long, cylindrical plastic, ribbed and seemingly filled with liquid.

“Daryl.”

You held the water bottle out towards him as he turned around. You hadn’t caught a good glimpse of his face yet, until now.

The skin of his face and neck were reddened terribly by the sun, but that didn’t worry you as much. It was the scarlet red cut stretching diagonally over his forehead, and the paleness of his lips, dry and dehydrated. The saltwater you both drank earlier only made the thirst more potent.

Deciding he needed the water more than you, you pressed the bottle to his chest, despite his brief protest that he gave with only a knowing look on his face, as if to say: You drink first.

You returned the look, but with more conviction as you shoved the bottle harder now, as if to say: No. Drink.

Reluctantly, he did, drinking less than half before handing it back to you, with the same force you applied when giving it to him, and the same stern, protective look: Drink.

You took the rest of the water, wincing at the aged taste. But you drank it down slowly, steadily, the cooling liquid coating your barren throat.

Lost in the brief relief it gave you, you hadn’t noticed Daryl’s continued russling as he pillaged the tiny boat cabin, looking for anything and everything that could somehow be useful.

As you used your long, torn sleeve to wipe away the dripping water from your chin, you were startled by the sudden sound of a man’s voice, not Daryl’s.

With a flinch, you turned around to see Daryl, sitting at the small dining table, holding a tape recorder.

“Nineteen months at sea,” said the man’s garbled voice, with an accent you deemed to be Irish. “Hoping to stay ahead of this thing.”

On the table before him was a map of Europe, and a photo of a family. There was a man that must’ve been the owner of the voice you listened to now. Beside him was a woman, his wife, Daryl assumed, because on her lap was a little girl, holding a large stuffed penguin, about half the size of her. She couldn’t have been older than Robin, he thought.

They looked happy, all smiles. Somewhere in one of his pockets, he was sure he had a picture that looked almost exactly the same, only with his family—Robin, Wes, Dog, you. He quickly willed the thought away, though. If he kept thinking about it, he was sure he’d break down, when at this point, what he needed to be the most was strong.

“Circled Spain,” the voice continued. “Nowhere safe… We’ll try Marseille next. Maybe the south of France is good… There’s got to be a safe place somewhere.”

You were sure you’d uttered that phrase once. Maybe around the same time he did. Just goes to show how much this world changes you, which was saying something—you always believed the world hadn’t changed you nearly as much as it changed everyone else. But you knew now that there was no safe place in this world, except in the arms of the ones you loved. And even then, that was only a metaphor. But you had to believe it, to convince yourself it was true. Otherwise, you were no different than the dead.

Night was closing in. There was no more time to waste.

Still without hardly more than a one-word sentence exchanged between you, you got to work setting up a night’s worth of camp, while Daryl speared a fish in the canal. Just one was all the energy he had, but it was more than enough for the both of you. A white fish of decent size, which Daryl cooked over the makeshift barbecue near the boat.

Sitting on the boat, you got a lantern working, providing just enough light to see what you were doing as you tried to filter the muddy canal water through the mesh lining of a jacket you’d found inside the boat. Across the way, you’d glimpse at Daryl, now draped in a tarp he’d fashioned into a poncho, in only the way Daryl could even think of doing.

His tired face was illuminated by the fire over which he cooked the fish, turning it over with a small knife until it was cooked through. You wondered what on Earth was going on in his head, if he was as frightened as you were, if he had any hope left.

You didn’t have much hope anymore. Not now.

In this world, you’d found that your hope had been tested constantly, but only a handful of times did it try you like this. When the farm fell, when you lost the prison, when the Saviors took Daryl…

But you always got it back. You always found your strength again.

You weren’t sure if you could get it back this time.

Still, you had Daryl. If you were alone, in a strange place, thousands of miles from home, you were sure you would’ve given up by now. But he was here.

The silence between you persisted into the night, as you sat across from each other, under the dark blanket of the night sky, eating the charred fish straight off the bone, with only the dim flickering light of the lantern just barely lighting your faces.

When the silence became unbearable, Daryl had pulled the tape recorder from his pocket, playing it again, as if he found comfort in the man’s voice, despite the ultimate tragedy that must’ve occurred.

“Sue had a heart attack.” You could only assume that was the name of his wife, the woman in the photograph. “I had to… take care of it.”

You’d heard stories like that before, of someone having to put down their loved one before or, God forbid, after they turned, but it would never cease to send a shiver down your spine. The thought of having to do that to Daryl… It was a nightmare you’d had more than once.

“Our tenth anniversary would’ve been in June… Holly keeps crying. She wants her mum back.”

That was when you stopped eating, a sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach.

“She wants things the way they were.”

You swallowed hard in an attempt to suck down the lump forming in your throat.

“She wants to go home.”

“Turn it off.”

The sudden sternness in your voice nearly surprised him, or maybe it was just how many words you spoke at once.

He grabbed the recorder and turned it off with a sharp click, restoring the heavy silence that lingered like a thick fog between you.

Daryl watched intently as you hugged your legs against your chest, your eyes downcast and glued to the worn and torn stuffed penguin, buried underneath some ropes and an empty old fuel tank. You recognized it from the photo.

He could read the look on your face, and the thoughts that he knew were flying through your head at a thousand miles an hour. He knew that you were thinking about home, about your family. Still, he couldn’t shake this discomfort. This quiet.

For all the years he’d known you, he’d never gone this long with such silence between the two of you. Of course, he’d been separated from you before for much longer, but together? You were hardly ever at a loss for words. He couldn’t remember the last time you were like this, but he didn’t like it. Funny, Daryl was always the quieter one, the one who more often than not needed to be coaxed into talking. He always preferred the quiet, but this was unbearable.

He needed to hear your voice, now more than ever. He needed your hope.

“You haven’t said more than three words since we got here.”

Washed up here, your mind corrected.

He leaned forward stiffly, still eying you, despite your gaze still transfixed on the once pristine stuffed animal.

Several painful moments passed. Daryl couldn’t take it anymore. He’d beg for you to speak, to say anything to him. All he wanted was to hear you.

“Please.” His voice was low, soft. It was always like that with you, but something about it now seemed more desperate. “Please say somethin’.”

Finally, you raised your head slowly, meeting his silvery blue eyes, visible through several loose strands of hair that framed his face. If you were in better spirits, you might’ve smiled, just seeing his face, despite how badly he was in need of a good shower. You were sure you looked rather filthy yourself.

But you couldn’t smile. You couldn’t even imagine such a thing. The last time you smiled seemed so far away, you could hardly even remember it.

“What do you want me to say?” Your voice was shaky, hoarse, tired. He’d been with you through Hell and back, and back again, and yet he’d never heard your voice so defeated, so… lost.

“I don’t know,” he replied simply, still holding your gaze. Now, you both stared intently, as if battling to see who could dare to look away first. “I just…” As he trailed off, his eyes sank in defeat. He’d lost the battle. “I’m sorry.”

With a sniffle, you replied. “What are you sorry for?”

It took him several moments to speak, as he tried to compose himself. If he opened his mouth too soon, he might start crying, and despite how much you encouraged him to be vulnerable, to not neglect his emotions around you, he could never fully let himself cry in front of you without feeling that ingrained sense of failure and inadequacy, like he wasn’t the strong man you needed, no matter how many times you reminded him of how strong he was.

“For gettin’ you into this.”

Your lip quivered, your eyes softened.

He continued, “If I hadn’t asked you to go with me—”

“Then you’d be sitting here, across the world, alone, and I’d be in Alexandria worried sick about you.”

“But you’d be safe,” he said, an almost imperceptible shake in his voice as he was reminded of the danger you were now mired in, all thanks to him.

“How many times have I told you… I’m safest when I’m with you.”

That thought was nice, but it still could never completely alleviate Daryl’s worries.

And there was another reason he wished he hadn’t asked you to come along.

“But you’d be with the kids.”

Your eyes sank as though they were anchored to the floor of this decrepit old boat. He knew that would get you, you were sure. He knew that, besides him, you loved your children more than anything else, and being so far away from them, lost with no immediate hope of seeing them again, was crushing you.

A silence befell you, and Daryl felt like he lost you again. God, all he wanted was to hear you. Your voice was the most comfort he could have right now, just to know you were near.

Now Daryl looked down, focused on the mud caked around his brown boots. He raised his hands to his face as he huffed.

“Shit,” he mumbled. “I’m sorry.”

You weren’t angry. Just sad.

With a sniffle, you looked back up. He still sat with his head in his hands, until he lifted his eyes above his fingers just enough to see you.

“It’s okay,” you said, your voice a cracking whisper.

“Nah,” he said abruptly. “Nothin’s okay.”

Daryl always had that bad habit of blaming everything on himself. You knew it well. It frustrated you—his inability to give himself any credit and his tendency to dwell on his flaws instead of celebrating his accomplishments. Granted, one of the many traits you admired about your husband was his humility, but sometimes, you wished he would consider the things he’d done right instead of all the things he did wrong.

You raised yourself to your feet, crossing the boat to sit beside him. He did not look your way or pay you much attention, still lost in his thoughts. Still, you carefully, slowly, wrapped your arm around his waist and his shoulders, holding him.

He was stiff, but under your touch, he slowly began to soften, as he always did. It was then he had realized how long it seemed he’d gone without your touch like this. You’d been with him the whole time, but survival did not allow for many moments of pure, gentle intimacy between two lovers.

“We’re alive,” you whispered. As you leaned against him, you pressed a small, but firm, kiss to his cheek. “We’re together.”

Without a word, he gave you a knowing glance. He narrowed his eyes almost suspiciously, while he chewed his bottom lip in deep thought. He didn’t need to say anything for you to know what he was thinking.

You smiled. “One of us has to be the positive one. We can’t get anything done if we’re both sitting around feeling sorry for ourselves.”

“Yeah… I know.”

“It’s shitty,” you said. “This is a shitty situation… Maybe the worst situation we’ve been in, but we’re going to get back home.”

Though you spoke with conviction, you weren’t entirely sure that you really believed the words you spoke. It was hard to believe. It was hard to believe you were here in the first place. Nevertheless, you’d die trying to get back home, to see your children again, to watch them grow.

There was no way in Hell you were going to sit back and do nothing.

To your relief, Daryl’s hand found yours, curling around it and squeezing it tight. He nodded, then raised your hand to his lips.

“Yeah. We will.”

You smiled as you roamed his face, finding comfort in the familiarity. In this world of uncertainty, this new world where neither of you belonged, you found safety in each other—you saw Alexandria in his face. All the memories. It was like a photo album, everything flashed before your eyes. You saw Robin, Wes, Aaron, Lydia, Maggie, Michonne, Rick… everyone. Everyone you loved, alive or dead, all in him.

And in you, he felt the same, but not only that. He saw everything beautiful and pure in this world, everything worth protecting and keeping alive. As you held him, he held your face, his thumbs moving gently over the apples of your cheeks.

Your face was worn, tired, with a few knicks and scratches scattered about over your usually smooth and unblemished skin, but nothing could distract from the perfection of your features that he knew and adored so well.

And you, you couldn’t help but eye that nasty cut on his forehead. You swept away the stray pieces of hair that obscured the cut, then huffed. Though you had already washed the cut with water, you were itching to find a real first aid kit to prevent infection. The one on the boat was cleaned out, and whatever first aid kit you had brought with you was in a bag lost at sea.

“S’fine,” he said, knowing full well what you were thinking. “M’fine.”

“It’s just… I don’t like it.”

He smiled. “I know.”

“We’ll find something to help it. If I could get my hands on some calendula or even some marshmallow…”

That thought prompted you to look around, the darkness of the empty waterway in the desolate, ruined city. Even if you could find some herbs with healing properties here, you wouldn’t know where to start looking.

The south of France wasn’t exactly the same as Virginia in terms of flora and fauna.

“First thing we gotta find is a way back,” he replied.

“We could fix up this boat.” Daryl’s mechanic expertise started and stopped with cars and motorcycles, but you figured a boat couldn’t be much different.

“Nah. Engine’s shot, and I dunno the first thing ‘bout how boats work, anyway.”

“Well… We’ll just have to find another way. There have to be people somewhere.”

He looked at you with a raised eyebrow as he chewed the last of his fish. “You remember what happened the last time we asked a bunch of strangers for help?”

Ah, yes—the Commonwealth.

At least that turned out in your favor, eventually. It took almost a year of turmoil, but in the end, it was worth it.

“Daryl, I don’t see any way out of this without some help. Besides, we haven’t seen any walkers yet… Maybe France is faring better?”

“Or maybe they’re all dead.”

“Stop it. That’s not true.” You held his cheek and turned his face towards you. “You know it’s not true… It can’t be.”

The rest of that night passed slowly, quietly. Maybe it was out of habit, or just his need to be aware of his and your surroundings at all times, but Daryl spent a good fifteen minutes checking out the general vicinity, scanning the perimeter around the little boat on which you busied yourself by fashioning a bed of sorts out of pieces of seats and blankets.

Daryl returned not long after he left, with a curious trinket in his hands: a Barbie doll.

You looked up at him from the makeshift bed. He took the liberty of posing the little blonde doll, sitting her atop the small dining table with her arm raised as if she were waving. Her hair was only slightly mangled, but you knew many tricks when it came to freshening up Barbie dolls and making them good as new for Robin, and sometimes Wes, to play with.

“Only you could find a Barbie doll in France,” you said.

“It’s not just any Barbie doll,” he said, sitting himself down beside you with a huff. Gravity forced his body to the bed. Well, bed was a generous term for the dismantled chair covered with blankets. “It’s a veterinarian.”

You studied the doll closer from a distance. Indeed, she had a little white doctor’s coat and a pink stethoscope. You would’ve thought she was actually a doctor Barbie, but only a trained, professional eye like Daryl’s would spy the light pink paw print pattern on her lab coat. Thus, she was distinctly a veterinarian, to be sure.

A smile spread across your face as you laid back, snuggling close to his side. He smelled faintly like fish, but you were certain that you didn’t smell so great either.

“She’ll love it,” you whispered. There was no question who you could possibly be talking about. “I’ll keep it in my bag until we get home.”

Daryl couldn’t respond verbally. He could only chew his bottom lip as his arm snaked underneath your side and wrapped around to stroke your shoulder with his hand. Perhaps that was the ultimate reason he took the doll—as a way to further motivate both of you to live long enough to see your family again. And you would. He’d make sure of it. He knew it. He had to.

At length, you spoke again.

“It’s clear?”

He nodded. “Yeah. No walkers, no people… No nothin’.”

That was good. If Daryl felt it was safe enough for the both of you to sleep tonight, that was a victory in your book.

“Tomorrow,” you began, “we should start heading north, towards Paris.”

Daryl’s lip twitched into a slight smile as he began to close his eyes, still holding you. Sometimes, you hardly noticed he was holding you. A long time ago, it had become second nature, so habitual that him holding you in bed at night was a feeling you couldn’t quite sleep without.

“Paris?”

“Yeah… There could be people there. Biggest city, biggest population.”

“Yeah, biggest population of walkers.”

You sighed. “Well, I don’t know then. You got any bright ideas, Einstein?”

He raised his eyebrow as he looked at you, with only one eye open, the other squeezed shut as his nose scrunched up and he made a faux scowl. It was almost enough to make you laugh.

He chewed his bottom lip, deep in thought. “How about west?” he asked. “Least we can head that way first, see if we find anyone or anything. Best to stay as far away from the city as possible.”

“You're right,” you replied, resting your head upon his chest. Somehow, it was always much more comfortable than a pillow, despite its relative firmness. “You're always right.”

“Not always,” he said lowly, his fingers finding the ends of your hair and twirling around them as if by instinct.

“Yeah… Not always.”

“Pfft…”

“What?”

“Jus’... Can’t believe where we are right now.”

You nodded in agreement, but you could tell where this line of thinking was going—this negativity that sometimes clouded Daryl’s almost unwavering hope. That was where you came in, though your hope was in serious question, too.

“Well, you did promise you’d take me on a vacation.”

He scoffed again, but it was almost a laugh. Almost.

“France wasn’t exactly what I had in mind.”

“Me neither,” you said. A few beats of silence, then you added, “I would’ve preferred Italy.”

Three days had passed, all of which were spent hiking through ruins and desolate hills. Daryl used the long fishing spear from the boat as a kind of walking stick, and a weapon, along with whatever else he scavenged from Marseille. You’d found a few good knives, but nothing to quite balance out the slight limp you’d woken up with when you washed ashore.

No encounters with walkers, you’d noted, though you’d seen some wandering in the distance, ambling aimlessly through deserted stretches of wilderness. At certain points, you feared you might’ve been walking at the same pace as the rotting corpses, but they were far enough, and none of them seemed as fast as some of the climbers you’d seen.

Wilderness eventually faded into a somewhat industrialized town, much further away from the coast you’d started from.

It was small, but a good place to stop off for the night, you’d hoped.

Wandering through the small alleyways, littered with debris and overgrown vegetation, you came upon a large building, something like a warehouse turned into what appeared to be a supermarket. At least, that’s what you gathered from the signage, despite its unknown language.

Oh, how you wished you’d taken French instead of Spanish in high school now.

Daryl entered first, quietly opening the creaking door. The general protocol when entering new, unknown buildings had always been the same: be quiet (silent if possible). Although, if there were any walkers in there, odds are, they could smell you before you’d even say a word.

Still, you felt Daryl’s hand tap your shoulder lightly. He signaled to you, signing the phrase, “Me left, you right,” as he mouthed the words.

You always hated splitting up, but you signed back, “Be careful.”

Connie and Kelly would’ve been proud, you were sure.

The two of you split up, Daryl searching the leftmost side of the building, you the right.

As you examined the place, you took note of its state. It was abandoned, of course, but it was one of those places that had been left alone since the very beginning. It looked as though there had been a farmer’s market here, with long tables and booths with once meticulously laid out displays of crafts and homemade wares. Surely, whatever fresh produce had been here had long since deteriorated into nothingness, but there was always the chance of coming across dry foods. Grains and legumes and the like. Those were the ideals.

If fortune favored you, you could even find some dried herbs or medicinal plants to use on Daryl’s cut, but that was a longshot.

Still, you kept a lookout, your mind, and your stomach, much more focused on finding food than on scoping the place out for walkers. From across the way, you heard a small thud that made you flinch. Your eyes followed the sound—Daryl had set down his bag rather carelessly.

Eyes wide, you looked at him. He seemed entranced by a jar he was in the process of opening, only to smell its contents and put it back. Feeling your gaze on him, he looked up at you.

“You OK?” he signed, mouthing the words.

You sighed quietly, recovering from the startle. “Yeah.” With much more emphasis, exacerbated by the firmness with which you moved your hands, you once again signed, “BE CAREFUL.”

“OK,” he signed back, his face bordering on slightly annoyed with your protectiveness.

But another thud quickly drew your attention, though this one was not from Daryl, who also turned to locate the source of the ruckus.

You could only see a faint movement that was rather close to the ground, as though an animal was stirring, but as the familiar groans and wheezes started, you knew what it was.

Much to your surprise, Daryl seemed stunned for a moment, standing rather still as he simply watched the walker crawl out from underneath a pile of rubbish. As for you, you gripped the handle of your knife, removing it from its holder on your belt. But you were much further from him, and where there was one walker, there were, more often not, much more.

Suddenly, more walkers seemed to awaken from their slumber. Sleepers, you’d grown to call them. In your fascination with the habits of walkers, you’d begun taking note of how they seemed to have their own mode of hibernation during times of inactivity.

From what you could see, about eight or so of them had emerged from the far left, somewhere behind the produce stands, and were heading towards Daryl. You had the luckier draw, with only three or four setting their sights, and their gnashing, rotten teeth, on you.

No need for signing anymore. Dinner was officially served, and tonight, fresh American meat was on the menu.

“You got it?!” you called out to Daryl, raising your knife as the nearest walker limped towards you, its skull just barely clinging to the remainder of petrified flesh that hung loosely from its face.

He hesitated for a moment, worrying you. Daryl seemed off his game when it came to fighting walkers. Perhaps it was because he was still frazzled by the strangeness of your situation, or perhaps, God forbid, he was more worse for wear than he wanted you to know. After all, Daryl did have a tendency to downplay his injuries or his illnesses, a habit which frustrated you perhaps beyond any other quirk he had, because this was the most dangerous to his health.

But you couldn’t think of that now. Not when there were walkers snapping at you, and even more at your husband.

“Yeah!” he finally called back as he got a grip on his spear.

He set his focus on the first walker that had risen, which began slowly limping towards him. From behind him, though, was another walker, making quicker progress. He turned briefly, skewering the walker’s head with the sharpened point of the spear. He followed that with a kick to the walker’s abdomen, removing it quickly from the weapon.

On the other side of the place, you drove your knife into the nearest walker’s skull, but not without the usual splash of blood that came spurting out afterwards.

This spurt, though, was no ordinary one.

As you tugged the blade from its skull, you noticed a stinging sound, like that of a singe. It came as the blood spattered over the floor, and continued as it poured from the walker’s head. You stepped back, brows furrowed as you watched the trail of blood seem to evaporate, but it left behind a cloud of… smoke.

In a way, it reminded you of a branding, how the hot iron had been embedded into your skin and eaten away at the flesh with a horrendous burn until an X was forever scarred into your back. Whatever was going on with that walker, if its blood had gotten anywhere near your skin, you were sure it would have a similar effect—an agonizing, flesh dissolving burn.

But you hadn’t any more time to think about the strange walker, as there was another one coming behind you.

Meanwhile, had just skewered another walker through the face, then pulled the spear out to fling the walker backwards and tumbling back against another one.

Stepping backwards, just about to turn around and face another batch of walkers, one lunged forward, reaching its hand out to grip Daryl’s forearm, but this was not any ordinary death grip.

Most walkers’ touches were cold, lifeless, but this? This… searing, stinging, agonizing sharpness that made him scream.

With one last kill, you turned towards him, your eyes wide and your mouth agape with the fear of the most profound variety. Daryl never screamed like that. At least, not when you were around. Suddenly, every nightmare and intrusive thought of Daryl being bitten assaulted your mind all at once.

All you could see was him struggling against a walker, whose grip on his forearm must’ve been so strong that even Daryl couldn’t immediately pry himself away.

But the walker’s grip really wasn’t that strong. No, its hand was simply stuck, with Daryl’s burning, melting flesh acting as a kind of glue.

As he tugged and yelled in frustrated pain, you quickly bounded across the room, taking down another walker on the way.

The closer you got, the more you saw it—the small swirl of smoke emerging from Daryl’s flesh as the walker’s hand seared the flesh of his arm.

Just before you could get to it, Daryl managed to rip himself free, stepping back a moment to briefly scowl at the strange burn.

Immediately, you came forward, plunging your knife into the walker’s head.

Daryl’s eyes flashed to meet yours, a simple exchange of breathless nods between you enough to suffice until the rest of the walkers were taken care of.

You looked around swiftly, and Daryl did the same. Six more walkers. Between the two of you, it would be light work. That is, if there were no more SNAFUs.

Daryl took the high ground, situating himself on a large wooden table to better approach the threat.

You kept on the floor, using one hand to pull the walkers toward you, the other to strike with your knife.

Once again, Daryl found himself with the unlucky situation. Underneath the table he’d taken defense at was another walker.

Plunging the end of his spear through the wood, he successfully impaled the walker’s head, but not without his spear getting stuck.

He tugged on the spear with all his strength, but the thing wouldn’t budge—the spear was lodged too deep in the walker’s skull, causing it to bang on the underside of the table with each attempt to tug it back up. In perhaps a less serious setting, the image might’ve been quite comical.

Daryl’s grunts combined with the repeated banging sound alerted you to the situation, and to the other walker coming closest to him.

You quickly charged the walker, finally taking it out with a swift but jagged movement. Meanwhile, Daryl had just freed his spear, and now moved to kill two more walkers in his path.

He was fast this time, killing them within hardly a second between each other. It was just enough time for him to turn around and see the very last walker coming towards you.

Without another second to even hesitate, you raised your knife, only for another one to fly into the side of the walker’s head, sending it falling to the ground at your feet.

Sometimes, Daryl’s flying knives startled you more than the walkers.

With a huff, you reached down, pulling the knife from the walker’s head. Just as you’d seen from the other one—a splash of burning, corrosive blood, a hissing sound as it hit the floor, and a small plume of smoke.

What the hell are you? you asked the corpse in your head.

But that wasn’t important now. You quickly turned your attention to Daryl, who pulled up the sleeve of his poncho to reveal the raw flesh of his burn.

Within a moment’s time, you were at his side, holding his arm as your eyes frantically took in the wound. In your confusion, and your fear, you looked up at him, all the color drained from your face. From what you knew of burns, this looked to be second degree, oozing redness and blisters already starting to form.

“We’ll bandage it up,” you said, nodding to yourself, as if to reassure both him and you. “We’ll clean it first… Some water and—and if I find some aloe…”

He caught your gaze, holding it for a good several moments of heavy silence.

“You ever seen a walker do that?” he asked, knowing full well that the answer was no.

You turned to investigate the last walker you’d killed—on the surface, not unlike any other walker you’d seen before, except you supposed he had a certain… je ne sais quoi, if you will.

“Maybe… it’s a French thing,” you replied. “I have no idea.”

Daryl let out a deep huff as he sat, still wincing at the unsightly burn on his arm.

You sat beside him, reaching into your satchel to procure a crinkly plastic bottle of water.

“Don’t,” he said lowly. “You need to drink that.”

Ignoring him, you dabbed several drops of water onto the clean rag you’d taken from the boat in Marseille. With Daryl always getting hurt somehow, you knew it was a good find.

He hissed between his teeth as you lightly cleaned the wound as best you could, but it still seemed to ooze.

It worried you, to say the least.

And Daryl… he only worried about what might happen to you if this thing was even more sinister than it looked.

“What if it’s—”

“It’s not,” you replied quickly. If you knew what he was going to say, you weren’t even going to let him speak the possibility into existence. “It’s not like a bite.”

“But what if it is.”

After all, what you knew of walkers was that their bites were deadly. What if their… burns were too?

But you refused to believe that.

“It’s not,” you said back. “We’ll patch it up. It’ll be fine.”

From the look on his face, he appeared not to believe that, his eyes clouded with fear and uncertainty the likes of which you’d almost never seen in him. Daryl didn’t fear death, though. He feared the thought of you being alone, in a world where the two of you needed each other more than anything.

Again, here you were, trying to lift his spirits despite the possibility of death lingering all around you, in this French supermarket that reeked of death and rotten flesh. But you weren’t just reassuring him, you were reassuring yourself.

“Hey.” Your hands cupped his cheeks, forcing his gaze to face yours. Your eyes were soft, but firm enough to remind him that, just as he would never let anything happen to you, you would never let anything happen to him. Your voice barely above a whisper, you spoke to him with the gentleness he knew and loved so well. The gentleness he’d needed all his life, and would need until the day he died, and after that, too. “Sweetheart… We’re alive.”

That was enough. It would have to be enough. Enough to begin again.

Thanks for reading! Likes, reblogs, and comments of any kind are always appreciated!

Series Masterlist Next Chapter ➳

#begin again series #begin again #the walking dead #the walking dead: daryl dixon #daryl dixon #daryl dixon spin-off #the walking dead fanfiction #the walking dead: daryl dixon fanfiction #the walking dead fanfic #daryl dixon fanfiction #daryl dixon fanfic #norman reedus #norman reedus fanfiction #norman reedus fanfic #twd fanfiction #twd fanfic #daryl dixon x reader #daryl dixon x female reader #daryl dixon x you

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limerenceheart · 5 months

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hsr blade - bath foam

hello! i'm still alive but the disappearing act is strong right now, sorry to all my requesters ;-;

this is a little bit different compare to my previous works, it's mainly fluff with darm implications because why not.

blade x fem! reader - with dark implications.

it's been a long time since blade had stepped inside a hair salon. the stellaron hunter didn't want to be here but silverwolf delayed the plan by a software malfunction stopping her from sending co-ordinates.

kafka didn't care though, just saw it as a much needed break and disappear into the crowds of allurum alley and leaving him to his own devices after blade rejected her invitation.

the man just wanted to be left alone in peace but his hair ruined everything.

"it's our grand opening day and your hair is in dry state, come in for a quick wash at 50% off."

in a normal situation, blade would shoo her away with a death blare but a nearby stall selling decorative swords featuring a design that reminded him way too much of jingliu's one made him follow her.

the last thing he needed was to have another marastruck breakdown without the actual person being there. blade wouldn't care about the chaos that would ensure, it just the acknowledgement that jingliu that vanished his life years ago still had that impact on him.

he might end up with him impaling kafka with his blade out of rage after she soothe down the marastruck because jingliu's shadow somehow still lurked over him.

a thing that could be avoided so blade went with it. the regret came instant though as the defeating sound of the salon erupted his eardrums. the man would turn around and walk out if another younger girl didn't grabbed onto his wrist.

in his frazzled state, the girl was able to drag blade to a room in the back of the salon, asking him to lay down onto one of the chair and rest his head above the sink.

blade wanted to growl at her but her mannerisms reminded him way too much of his dear friend that he tried to revive centuries ago. so blade gave in but his shoulders remained tense till the water shrouded his locks.

the sound of the running water made blade forget about the next step so when the young assistant placed a hand on his head filled with conditioner caused blade to latch onto her wrist with such brute strength.

it's just blade never liked surprises but he forgot this was a service, not a surprise so when the young assistant prompted him to let go, he did but not without missing the tone of fear in her voice.

blade was never good with first impressions, that was kafka's job, not his.

but blade didn't want to give up so easily so he tried coaxing more information out of her. maybe it was out of curiosity or nostalgic for his beloved friend or boredom.

it didn't matter either way, blade would never see the girl again.

things took a turn though when the wanted criminal finally closed his eyes at her fingers thrifting his hair, creating a smoothing sensation.

why did blade find it her touch so comforting?

#yandere honkai star rail #honkai star rail #yandere hsr #hsr x reader #honkai star rail x reader #yandere blade x reader #hsr #blade #hsr blade x reader #yandere blade

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fragileheartbeats · 2 months

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𝐂𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐧 𝐎𝐟 𝐖𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫

𝗖𝗵𝗮𝗽𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝟭: 𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗺𝗼𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿

𝑺𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒚: 𝑰𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒂𝒌𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒔𝒆'𝒔 𝒅𝒆𝒎𝒊𝒔𝒆, 𝑴𝒂𝒆𝒔𝒆𝒍𝒍𝒂 𝑪𝒆𝒍𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒚𝒓 𝒇𝒍𝒆𝒆𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒓𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒇𝒓𝒐𝒛𝒆𝒏 𝒆𝒙𝒑𝒂𝒏𝒔𝒆, 𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒖𝒏𝒃𝒐𝒓𝒏 𝒕𝒘𝒊𝒏𝒔 𝒂 𝒃𝒆𝒂𝒄𝒐𝒏 𝒐𝒇 𝒉𝒐𝒑𝒆 𝒂𝒎𝒊𝒅𝒔𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒅𝒆𝒔𝒐𝒍𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏. 𝑾𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒆𝒂𝒄𝒉 𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒑, 𝒔𝒉𝒆 𝒆𝒎𝒃𝒐𝒅𝒊𝒆𝒔 𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒊𝒍𝒊𝒆𝒏𝒄𝒆, 𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒋𝒐𝒖𝒓𝒏𝒆𝒚 𝒂 𝒕𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒆𝒏𝒅𝒖𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒔𝒑𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒕 𝒐𝒇 𝒂 𝒇𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒆𝒏 𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒆𝒂𝒈𝒆 𝒔𝒆𝒆𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒓𝒆𝒇𝒖𝒈𝒆 𝒂𝒎𝒊𝒅𝒔𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒄𝒐𝒍𝒅 𝒆𝒎𝒃𝒓𝒂𝒄𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒖𝒏𝒌𝒏𝒐𝒘𝒏.

In the desolate expanse of the White Waste, where the bitter winds whispered tales of forgotten glory, Maesella stood alone, her slender frame shrouded in layers of furs against the biting cold. The icy breath of winter nipped at her skin, a relentless reminder of the harshness of the world beyond the sheltering walls of her homeland.

Yet amidst the unforgiving landscape, Maesella's thoughts were consumed not by the biting cold, but by the searing pain that wracked her body. With each passing moment, the pangs of childbirth grew more intense, a relentless tide threatening to engulf her in its icy embrace.

She had fled to the frozen wastes in a desperate bid to escape the clutches of her enemies, seeking refuge in the barren expanse where even the bravest dared not tread. But fate, it seemed, had other plans for her, for now she found herself alone and vulnerable, the weight of impending motherhood bearing down upon her like a crushing avalanche.

As the first faint whispers of dawn painted the sky in hues of pale pink and gold, Maesella's body convulsed with agony, her cries lost amidst the howling winds. With trembling hands, she clutched at her swollen belly, feeling the life within stir with restless energy.

But even as the first cries of new life echoed through the frozen air, Maesella felt the cold fingers of death creeping ever closer, a specter lurking at the edges of her consciousness. Blood pooled beneath her, staining the pristine snow crimson, a stark contrast to the purity of the world around her.

With each labored breath, Maesella's vision blurred and wavered, the world fading in and out of focus like a distant dream. Yet amidst the haze of pain and exhaustion, one thought burned bright and true in her mind: the safety of her children, her precious babes born of dragon blood.

As the cold tendrils of winter wrapped around her, Maesella's breath grew shallow, her strength waning with each passing moment. Yet, even in the throes of her own mortality, her gaze remained fixed upon the precious lives she had brought into this world.

Twin souls, born of her flesh and blood, nestled within her arms, their innocent eyes reflecting the world's first kiss of starlight.

Tears streamed down her cheeks as she gazed upon the twins she had brought into this world, their tiny forms a beacon of hope in the desolate landscape. Her slender fingers trembled as she stroked the tiny faces of her children, their eyes wide with innocence, oblivious to the perilous world into which they had been born.

"Forgive me," she murmured, her voice choked with emotion. "Forgive me for the world I have brought you into."

Maesella's heart ached with a love so fierce it threatened to consume her. She pressed her lips to the foreheads of her children, tasting the salt of her tears as she whispered words of love and protection, her voice trembling with emotion.

"Sshh, my darlings," Maesella whispered hoarsely, her voice barely above a whisper. "You are the light of my life, the hope in this darkness." She stroked their soft hair, silver and blonde like the dawn's first light, and pressed tender kisses upon their tiny foreheads.

The twins, oblivious to their mother's anguish, gazed up at her with wide, innocent eyes, their tiny fingers grasping at her trembling hands. Maesella smiled through her tears, her heart overflowing with love for these precious souls.

In the depths of her despair, Maesella's thoughts turned to her beloved brother, Jacaelar, the one who had protected her, loved her, and ultimately sacrificed everything for her. She recalled the memory of their last embrace, the warmth of his touch, the sincerity in his eyes as he whispered words of love and devotion.

"Maesella, my dear sister," he had said, his voice soft and tender, "no matter what trials may come, remember that you are loved. I would give my life for you, without hesitation, without regret."

She clung to the memory, the pain of loss cutting through her like a blade. She longed for the comfort of her brother's embrace, his strength to shield her from the cruel whims of fate.

And then, amidst the stillness of the cold land, a great shadow loomed overhead, a behemoth of legends. The beast descended from the heavens, its crystalline scales shimmering in the light, its eyes a frigid blue that pierced the soul.

Maesella's heart clenched with fear and sorrow as she beheld the creature before her, yet she did not falter. With a trembling hand, she offered herself to the dragon, a sacrifice in exchange for her children's safety.

"Take me, mighty one," she whispered, her voice a fragile thread in the chill air. "But spare my children, I beg of you. Let them live, and I shall go willingly into the night."

And as the beast's jaws closed around her, swallowing her whole, Maesella's final thoughts were of her beloved brother, Jacaelar, and the bond they had shared in life. She remembered the days they had spent together, exploring the beauty of world and dreaming of a future filled with love and joy.

"I will see you again, my dear love," she whispered, her voice fading into the cold embrace of death. "In the stars, where we shall be together once more."

𝗖𝗵𝗮𝗽𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝟮: 𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝘀𝗲𝗮

@fragileheartbeats . Don't plagiarise, repost, or translate any of my works on here or any other websites.

House Celestyr tag list: @emily2003alzaga @nash-dara @altaircc @heavenly1927 @omgsuperstarg @asoiafhyperfixation

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ridingtorohan · 6 months

Text

𓇻 ft. jealous mikasa x gn reader. 𓇻 au. friends to lovers, can be read as modern or canon setting. you've agreed to run a kissing booth. Mikasa is, oddly enough, not as receptive to this idea as you are. 𓇻 enjoy! feel free to like, share, reblog or send in asks! ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎read on ao3! - masterlist - join the taglist!

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"No."

Hearing that one syllable, you let out a slow, resigned sigh. Mikasa stood to your right, brows knitted together, mouth pulled tight into a thin line. Your own eyebrows raised, unperturbed.

"It's not really your decision, Mikasa."

It really wasn't; nor was it any of her business. Mikasa had always been tight-lipped and serious, dutiful to her own responsibilities. You'd think she'd have taken a shine to your own iniative. Everyone knew how badly your division needed the funds. As juvenile as it was, a kissing booth seemed reasonable. Especially with the festivities. Rather, not too long ago, Mikasa had been put in a similar position- though far less willing.

Even now, you could recall how she looked at the Christmas party a few months back. How her pale skin lit under the festive hues, greens and reds dancing over her cheeks. How she stood standing beneath the archway, brows knitted just as they were now. Dressed in sleek black pants, white blouse that fit her broad shoulders, glass in hand.

You weren't sure whether Jean or Mikasa had been more disappointed when they caught each other under the mistletoe.

She has that same look now, barely concealed disgust curling at her mouth, lurking in the dark grey of her eyes. Which for anyone else looking at her, was scarce more than a shadow around the corner of her lips.

"It's for a good cause." You shrugged, nonchalant and almost irritated by her reaction. Mikasa stood for a moment - never hovered, indecision was never something she did-- with eyes half-lidded and narrow in thought.

"Then I'll match it. Every donation," she said firmly, taking another step forward. Her hand rest low at your elbow, grip insistent. Warmth seeped through the fine linen of your shirt, fingers curled sharp over the dip of your arm.

You've been privy to Mikasa's protective ways, how she coddled Armin and Eren at every turn. Rarely she's turned it on you - and right now it was stifling. With a careful twist, you pulled your arm free, grip still firm on the consent papers you were asked to sign.

"It's not a big deal," you countered, a creep of annoyance crawled in and made a home in your tone. Mikasa's mouth twitched, dark eyebrows lowered over an equally dark expression.

"I see. Then you'll understand it's not a big deal when I spend my time at the booth." Mikasa's voice held firm, her gaze even more level when you turned. There was no room to brooker a disagreement; everyone knew how stubborn the Ackermans were, wielding ferocity in their bloods. Just as they held intimidation in their gaze.

With her brooding at the stand, you'd lose a great deal of customers. Nevermind the ones who specifically came to see her.

Stifled under her steely gaze, you turned away, expression twisted with a grimace. "Mikasa. Be serious. Most of the donors will be there for either you or Levi." Her presence at your side remained, every line of her body rigid and terse. You tacked on, willing for a low blow, "The Azumabito Clan will be there."

Finally, after an eternity, she turned her face away, cheek exposed. Wisps of hair fell across her cheek, shrouded her expression from view. Even from the corner of your eyes, you watched her, how the muscles in her jaw flexed, tense with the improper weight of this situation.

The memory of the Christmas party lingered; the fleeting kiss under the archway. How not once did her look shift, even when Jean pulled away, an equal grimace on his face. Not when Sasha bumped into her, cheeks rosy under the temptation of drink. Not when Eren or Levi avoided the archway like a plague while Mikasa stood vigil, totally not conspicious at all. Not even when her gaze once caught yours, too fleeting to be anything meaningful when you turned to enjoy the cheer.

At first you had admired her resolve and after a while it had been just sad. Even worse when her knuckles ghosted over the fabric of your shirt when you passed through. By then, it had been Floch who stood awkwardly there, in a futile attempt to weasel out of a kiss - even when at the time, all you had wanted to do was the feel the gloss of Mikasa's lips, her breath on your skin.

It was hard not to be bitter that night and even more bitter now, especially when it shouldn't matter to her.

Tongue pressed to the inside of your cheek, your next inhale was sharp and through your nose. Papers crinkled under your grip, freshly inked words smeared across your palm. You couldn't find yourself to care, not when Mikasa stood firm to the one thing that might, heaven forbid, not only let you help out your career but get over her.

After a moment, Mikasa's words returned, nearly as firm as the grip of her own knuckles, arms stiff at her side. Even frustrated, she was pretty, righteous in her cold fury. "I don't want to be there for them. They doesn't matter to me." Her eyes cut towards you, lines smoothed from her face.

The scent of perfume, sweat and hay became pronounced as she stepped towards you. As tall and broad as she was, she nearly cut an imposing figure. Shoulders angled forward, insistent in the tear of her gaze. A familiar glint of determination roosted in her eyes. This close, you could feel the ghost of her bodyheat as her fingertips brushed over your hip.

This close, it's impossible not to feel your heart freeze in your chest, how it skittered under the intensity of her gaze. You can't focus on anything but the shift of her palm over your body, the act familiar and intimate. When you swallow harshly, Mikasa's dark eyes flicked down, traced over the swell of your throat.

"If I attend, it will be for you." Her eyes traced over the lines of your face, from your eyes, down the slope of your nose and, impossibly, lingered on your mouth. "I don't want you kissing anyone else."

Her grip tightened, firm on your hip. "Not unless you want to."

All you can do is stare into her eyes, pools of intense and focused grey framed by thick, dark lashes. This close, you could spot the sun freckles that curved over her cheekbones and bridge of her nose. She meant it, you realized. Meant it with the same passion and conviction she used in every other aspect of her life.

Her gaze wavered and darted between your eyes. Your foot is nudged by the toe of her boot. Slowly, by fractions, her grip on your hip lessened before it left altogether. Phantom warmth lingered and for a moment, you could breathe again.

"And if that's what you want," she continued in a low tone. Her chest rose slightly, breathing deep and eyes unfathomably dark. Mikasa's gaze cut down this time, past your jaw, expression slowly knit together - guarded. "Then I won't bring it up again."

It takes another longer, tense moment to finally remember how to breathe. Your eyes caught on the curve of her face, cheeks darker now with - embarrassment? Want? With a harsh swallow, you asked, "You want to kiss me?"

Immediately, she nodded, chin tucked down and strands of black hair fell across her clear forehead. There's no shame in her expression, though the knuckles in her hands pop white, fingers curled inward. Then, as unfathomable as it is, you realize with a start that Mikasa was blushing - that the dark hue that coloured the base of her neck was the start of a flush.

It's not hard to think then, of every moment that lead to this. Of knuckles that brushed over paperwork, how close she stood at your back when she corrected your training stance. Each lingered gaze over books, how her expression eased by fractions every time you two spoke. Then, unwittingly, how her hand felt on the inside of your arm as you side-stepped her from under the mistletoe.

Had she been waiting for you there?

You breathe again with a starlight explosion in your chest. She liked you. Out of everyone that she knew, everyone who vyed for her attention - it was you that turned her head.

Heat washed up the length of your neck. It felt like your heart reacted faster to this realization than your mind could: it skipped a few beats and thundered in your chest.

Mikasa wanted to kiss you. She had been willing to spend her resources, as limited as they were, to actually get a chance to kiss you. That Mikasa didn't want to choose any other kissing booth over yours.

"Yes!" It's a single word spoken in a rush, air hot and thick in your throat. Reflectively, your fingers clenched and a low papery crunch sounded. Though her eyes remained on you, eyebrows hung low. Then the corners of her lips pulled into a frown and almond eyes squinted.

"...Okay."

With a start, you recalled the last words she had offered you. "Wait," you get out in a rush. A beat passed- one where you hesitated, papers in hand. Then it's got in the next and you shove the forms into your bag for later. You'll decide what role you'll want in the kissing booth after this.

"Wait, I meant yes, I want that. To kiss you, I mean."

It's a near instant reaction, her perception zeroing in on your baited breath, the sincerity in your voice. Tension smoothed out of her forehead, lines gone from around her mouth, each breath steady as it always was. And she stood, as she always did, with her body angled in your direction, in orbit around you.

"Yes?" She repeated, soft and low. Mikasa's expression shifted when you said it again. Then, when your fingertips traced over lax knuckles, tapped to the edge of her palm, she responded in kind, hand turned to let you lace your fingers together.

Noses bumped together as you leaned in, drawn in her orbit now, caught in the current that was all Mikasa Ackerman. Mint rolled over your face with each exhale. Strands of black velvety hair fell across your face.

'Vulnerable'. It's a strange word to apply to someone like her, even in a situation like this. But it's the one that twitched in your throat. Because that's what she is, in a moment like this. Exposed. How a smile overtook her face all at once, radiant and beautiful, her eyes no less intense but honest. This is a side that you've only glimpsed at, have seen or heard in dark candlelit libraries or under starblessed skies. This is the side of Mikasa reserved for you.

Then your breath was on her lips, air warmer than your face. Soft, plush lips brushed over yours, a little dry but not unpleasant. Nice, actually, especially in the instant when she breathed out a 'hm' against your mouth as your hands rested over her waist. This time, you guided her like she once did you.

Then her hands settled over your skin, over your waist and the dip of your shoulder, grounded you to her. Calloused fingertips felt like home. She kissed like she's never been kissed before, like all the tension that had ground up between you settled into this one moment.

There's a thousand currents that thundered through your brain, insistent and fast. All that numbed to one pinpoint: the brush of her lips against yours, insistent tug against your hip, her warm breath across your face. To feel her skin against yours, to know that nobody else would have this. That she wanted you.

And the resounding electric current under your skin that whispered, it had always been her. For the both of you, this moment would exist forever.

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themadlu · 28 days

Note

I absolutely love Zelie!

Could you write something set right after the game ends? She is tired as hell and overstressed and Astarion tries to make her feel better?

Thanks for the ask @spacebarbarianweird! I'm so happy you like her, as I love Tiriel! Wonder if they'd get along, uh.

Premise, I have never done asks (unless it's for a writing exercise) nor I am good (capable?) of writing fluff. So beware, there's as much fluff I can muster here, with a smidge of angst.

TW: none.

Tags: end-of-game spoilers (I haven't finished it yet, so if something is incorrect sorry!), fluff (kinda?), these two love in quality time and acts of service.

Hope you like it!

The charred edges of a frayed shirt stare at Astarion from the floor. He glares at them, at what they represent, in contempt: his return to the shadows. All that unprecedented (and mostly unwilling) heroism he displayed in fighting the Netherbrain served him nothing. Nothing. Not even saving Baldur’s Gate makes him worthy of a life in the sun, it seems, because, as soon as that jiggly monstrosity fell to its death, Astarion began to burn and the hunger tore at his insides.

On the run, again, nothing more than a ravenous monster lurking in the shadows.

(Somewhere, his conscience reminds him that real monsters don’t have impossible little heroes shielding them from the harming light with their own broken bodies.)

The elf laughs bitterly at that, hissing when his grimace irritates the still-healing skin around his mouth.

And yet…

Steps resonate further down the hallway with a familiarity that makes his ears twitch in recognition and his body tense in eagerness.

…she’s here.

Zélie opens the door of their shared bedroom (Only theirs, finally.), closing it promptly behind her to block the stray sun rays from the corridor’s windows. A funereal darkness, one that Astarion is all too well-acquainted with, shrouds the room in a still embrace.

Astarion is almost glad that his Zélie is human when surrounded by shadows. Back then, before the blooming trust, the tense friendship, the impossible devotion, he despised the maddening woman (He was terrified of her, so inconceivably real.) The darkness was the only time he had the advantage when her pale eyes would squint in temporary blindness and not witness the violence her stern kindness did to him. How it undid the tenets of the world, one by one.

You ruined me, darling. Look at me, a fool in a doomed love. What a ridiculous joke of a vampire you made me!

He should be prowling for blood and cursing the sun, yet here he is, smiling, trying his damn hardest not to rush into his woman’s embrace. You will return to me begging when she’s gone, what’s left of his spite whispers. He ignores it, because that part of him has never known what it means to be cherished simply for existing (It knows all about being wanted, although comparing that with whatever stolen miracle he and Zélie have makes Astarion gag.)

“Finally, darling! Here I thought I’d seen the last of you, lost among all that dreadful politicking—” his snarky quips (They are part of him and Zélie loves them, so he’s decided he’ll greet her with one every single day.) die in his throat when he properly looks at her.

Hells, he had gotten into the habit of scanning her for possible injuries during their travels, but now the fight is over, without visible wounds or bruises, Astarion can fully see the toll their adventure has taken on her. Her eyes are tired and bruised from lack of sleep (Of course, she’s been foregoing sleep to spend time with him at night.), her face tauter than ever, skin so sallow she looks sick. Astarion presses himself against her and bristles when he feels her ribs poking his body through their clothes.

Worry, guilt, anger grip him. His brave, little saviour looks so unlike herself. So fragile and exhausted that he fears she’ll crumble to dust should he touch her. He forgets she’s human and not a divine being sometimes, with all that practicality and stony attitude of hers. Never complaining, never relenting (He knows it well.)

You moronic creature! How dare you reduce yourself in this state.

“Darling, what—”

“Oh, hello, Astarion,” Zélie seems to take notice of him only when he’s practically caging her against the door. She’s making an effort not to slide to the floor, he can tell.

Fucking idiot.

“Are you well? I hope the room is comfortable enough?” she nearly slurs.

“Am I well?” Oh, now he’s angry, “Love, what the fuck—”

“Language! No need to be rude,” Astarion feels some relief when Zélie’s irises spark with that annoyed light he coaxes out of her oh-so-well. She inhales deeply, continuing “I came to tell you that I will be late tonight, so you could come and meet me near the main city gate? There’s barely any Fists left, and lots of properties have been robbed or vandalised since there are no guards so Wyll asked me—what’s with that look now?”

The pale elf stares at her perplexed face down his nose, nostrils flaring. “Do you hear yourself, you wretch?!” Her eyes are reduced to judging slits and she’s about to chastise him, but Astarion is undeterred. “No, rather, have you looked at yourself recently? Literal corpses have a healthier…flair than you do now, darling. Myself included.”

Zélie scoffs (Scoffs!), “Oh Astarion, I admire how far you’ve come with showing concern, really, but,” she tries to push past him, but even her martial art is worthless against his full vampiric strength, “there are things, oh you vexing elf! Things that need tending to even if I’d much rather spend the foreseeable future here with you–hey!”

Astarion feels somewhat proud of the shout she lets out when he picks her up with ease (Not so puny, after all.) She is so light something lodges in his throat (Frustration at his inability to keep her safe.) and he hopes that his renewed strength is what makes his gesture so effortless.

No one should be this light.

She used to weigh almost the same as him, all muscle and sinew from her training and a life of comfortable abundance; now, her shirt hangs loosely around her frame.

Fuck. Why in the nine hells haven’t I noticed before?!

He realises he voiced his thoughts when the woman in his arms replies, “Because critical stab wounds take precedence over hunger, Astarion."

"No need to blame anyone,” Zélie says as he unceremoniously throws her on the bed. She fights not to melt into the mattress. “Astarion,” his infuriating lover speaks slower, as if he were a child, “I need to go. We didn’t save this city only to let it implode in chaos. It needs me; Wyll needs me.”

Jealousy (Unfounded but very much present.) soars in Astarion’s chest. “Well, darling, our selfless Wyll can kindly go fuck himself and find his own lover and stop pestering mine. I’m sure he’ll have plenty of offers now he’s back in line at the next Archduke. Those horns also add a certain ragged flair that many sheltered young nobles will find irresistible.”

Zélie rolls her eyes so much only her sclera is visible. She makes to stand up, but Astarion holds her by the shoulders with one hand, pointing an accusing finger at her with the other, “Hush, you. Is that how it’ll be for the rest of time? I am tired of seeing you hurt.” That makes her expression twitch with guilt.

Good.

He glares at her, “Now, you stay here as the good girl I know you can be and I’ll go to the kitchens to see if anything edible is left. Hopefully, it’ll be better than whatever the wizard cooked.” Astarion forces himself to tear away from Zélie’s inviting body (He did miss her all day.), but she catches his wrist before he can step away.

“What now?!” he snarls. “You’ve driven mad for days with your ‘Respect others’ and ‘We are a group, Astarion!’ and ‘You can’t be that selfish’, and you won’t let me—”

“The sun,” she simply says, defeated.

Oh.

How quickly Astarion has forgotten his pathetic limitations. On a quest for tavern food, defeated by the light of day. He can’t even venture outside their room. Zélie is the only person he wants to protect and can’t even feed her when she’s fed him countless times before. He snarls loudly, balling his fists, “Fuck!”

“It’s all right,” Zélie pulls him to her, unfazed by his temperamental mood, and he lets himself fall on top of her on the bed, his mortification soothed by her closeness.

“Tell you what,” she says, breath tickling his face. Astarion holds her cheeks, sharpened by tiredness and hunger, in his hands. He rubs his thumbs over them in small circles, as if he could make them meatier, healthier, by force of will alone. “I will go downstairs, where a Fist captain is waiting for me. I will tell her to ask Wyll if the issue can wait until tomorrow or if Jaheira or Minsc,” she grimaces in worry at the idea, “can take over for the evening. Then, I’ll see if the cook has something prepared. If not, I’ll make do with some cheese and bread.”

Astarion feels a soft dizziness spreading through him. She is talking with that calm and collected voice of hers as if nothing could ever shake or hurt them when she knows what it does to him. He tangles his fingers in her curls, messing them up (An arduous task when they already look like a harpy’s.), before cradling her face into the base of his neck.

“Then,” his little hero wraps her arms around him, under his shirt and on his scarred back. Astarion is still unused to how careful her hands are on him, like a gentle breeze. She looks at him in search of discomfort, but she finds none. The elf hopes Zélie knows that nothing she does will be the cause of any uneasiness he may show in the future (Even she can’t shield him from all his memories.)

“I will come back here, to this bed. We’ll eat and rest and when the sun sets, we’ll go to the rooftop to see the stars and enjoy the summer air. How does that sound?” She boops his nose with hers.

Astarion swallows loudly, “It sounds perfect, love,” he concedes. That’s as close as anyone has ever come to convincing Zélie to drop her duties and rest. Small victories. He is sure he’ll persuade her to live a life of rest and luxury, one day. If everything goes as he desperately hopes.

He is rewarded with a content smile he does not deserve, so he kisses her soundly instead.

____________________________________________

The night is warm, comforting even. How strange; Astarion can’t remember darkness in Baldur’s Gate ever being so welcoming. A loud munching resonates on his left, and the pale elf has to keep himself from grinning too overtly at his precious woman digging into a simple beef stew as if it were the nectar of the gods. Her cheeks puff out as she takes another mouthful, her usual composure nowhere to be seen in what Astarion hopes is another first.

(He wishes he could have been her first at everything, just as she was his.)

Midnight strikes. He would have been in some dirty tavern or dingy brothel by now if the mind flayers hadn’t mercifully kidnapped him. He would have been truly dead if the impossible creature next to him hadn’t insisted he was worth saving.

Zélie looks at him as if he performed a miracle, “This, munch, is, chomp, utterly amazing. The best thing I’ve eaten in a long, long while.”

“Tut, love, I resent that. And here I thought I was special,” he purrs it in offended seduction just to witness his lover’s cheeks and forehead flush in embarrassment. She looks healthier already.

Good.

“Oh, you, sassy, snarky…ugh,” Zélie narrows her eyes at him, then immediately composes herself. “Let me specify, the best thing I’ve eaten of any nutritional value in a long, long time.”

Astarion laughs so loud that a few pigeons fly away in fear. “Touché, love. Well played.”

“Where did you even find this? When I checked the kitchen—”

When she checked the kitchen, the useless cook was not meant to start his shift for another couple of hours, which left her with two slices of bread and a portion of cheese so small even a rat would have ignored it. So Astarion, spurred on by his newly-uncovered protectiveness, waited for his Zélie to be busy with the Fists captain before putting his daggers to good use. It was convenient that the cook had no will to test out the elf’s gutting technique.

“Oh, darling, I am extremely resourceful. You should know this by now,” he says with a telling smirk.

“Right. That means I don’t want to know. Though I wouldn’t be against getting more of this,” she points at the bowl of stew in admiration, “from time to time. It reminds me of my grandfather’s cooking.”

Astarion tenses a bit at the mention of the family she left behind for him; he waits for (No, expects.) Zélie to eventually consider the whole thing as the massive mistake it is and…leave him. Hate him. Become another person he cheated not of her life (At the very least.) but of her future.

“What’s going on in that head of yours, dear?” She asks, head tilted. She can see him even without the tadpoles, and it unsettles him in a good way.

It feels right, to be known by her. To know her in return.

He doesn’t want to lie to her now (She’s rubbing her annoying righteousness all over him.), so he opens his arms and she scoots against him, full belly and satisfied gaze.

Lovely.

Astarion gently guides them to the mattress he brought up from the bedroom and curls up around Zélie. He could laugh. He despised heroes for so long and here he was, lulling one to sleep. But she was his hero, which makes all the difference; he still doesn’t believe in the natural goodness of others, but he believes in hers, and that’s all he needs.

And she fits against him, around his jagged edges so perfectly, Astarion would believe she was made for him if he were a religious man.

“Sleep darling,” he coos into her ear.

She’s already halfway to the dream realm after, but she’s ever the stubborn woman. “But the sun—”

“I don’t need sleep, love; I’ll move us downstairs when dawn comes. I’ve wasted the day in bed already,” he plants little kisses on her hair, her face, her hands. Worships her as much as he can without waking her up.

“But that’s the issue…want to…spend time with you,” why must she make it so impossible for him not to fall for her?

Every time the elf is sure he hit the bottom of the devotion he is capable of, she pushes him further down. And she doesn’t try that hard, his pesky love.

“Hush,” he murmurs, wrapping them in a thick blanket to keep his undead chill at bay. “Rest, idiot. I’m here. I’ll be here when you wake up.” Astarion tightens his grip on her sleeping form. “We’ll take all the time we need, love. I promise.”

#astarion #astarion bg3 #astarion x oc #astarion x tav #astarion x f!tav #astarion x f!oc #astarion fluff #astarion ancunin #bg3 requests #oc: zélie #bg3 #female tav #bg3 fanfiction #spawn astarion #human tav #tav oc

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gimme-gimme-georgie-weasley · 10 months

Text

i finally found you. [g.w. x reader]

Summary: When two young souls meet.

wc: 3.1k

a/n: this is actually my first time writing a soulmate au :O don't you guys just love the idea of the big mean-looking father being an absolute softie for his darling princess?

Y/ N was young, helpless, and unsuspecting the day she was found that autumn afternoon. At six years of age and all alone in a muggle park in the middle of Merlin-Knows-Where, she was all but crying; crying for her parents who had unknowingly left the little girl all alone sniffing petunias and lilies. She wailed to her little heart’s content, unsure of their return.

She was so distressed, so alone and afraid, her magic started to seep out defensively. She felt it flow through her core to the very edge of her fingertips. The sudden overwhelming surge of magic was so strong, it scared off the wildlife around her. Rabbits and birds and foxes scurried off, all whimpering in fear in the process.

Now, she was truly alone, except maybe for the abundance of flora that started to overgrow around her. Yet again, the thought of the creepy crawlies lurking neath the ground didn’t reassure her.

Just then, a freckled boy peeked his head out from behind a tree. “Um, why are you crying?”, he asked with innocent curiosity.

The girl’s head perked up, looking at him with big, glassy, red-rimmed eyes that housed all the emotional turmoil she’d been through for the past half or so hour, “I lost m’ parents. I can’t,” the girl sniffled and used her sleeve to wipe off the tears that stained her cheek, “I can’t find them.”

A brief expression of duty had flickered on the boy’s face before he turned his heel and strode off. The girl, taken aback, reached her hand out from the tall patch of grass she’d been reposed in, “Wait! Where are you going?!”

Then, loneliness befell her once again.

She accepted her fate; becoming one with the grass that shrouded her figure. She no longer paid any mind to the ants that crawled up her arms, around her shoulders, and down her still-magical fingertips. Even the company of mere ants would do. All she needed was some sort of presence, just a small sliver of hope that she wasn’t alone.

Barely ten minutes passed while she wallowed in her self-pity when a horde of redheads came trudging towards her. Behind them scurried the boy, and… another copy of the boy?

“Oh, darling! What are you doing out here all alone?!” The only lady amongst them cried out, hurriedly running towards her as fast as her stubby legs could. She had her arms wrapped around her, dusting all the ants and dirt off her. Then, she paused. She felt the little girl’s magic surge through her. A twinkle in her eyes, the girl noted.

“I lost my parents, and I don’t know my way home.” The girl said, her voice all nasally from the mucus that had been collecting in her sinuses.

Without wasting another second, the lady slipped her wand out of her holster, muttering a spell that sent– to the girl’s bewilderment– a brilliant dog flying out from the tip, and into the air, barking dutifully.

The lady smiled warmly at her, “Now, don’t you worry, dear. I just sent a patronus to your parents. They should be here any second now.”

And as the young Y/N thanked the lady profusely, she felt a pair of watchful eyes over her. Her head craned over in the direction of the boy who was standing behind who she presumed to be his older brother. She flashed him an award-winning toothy smile, and the boy swore he felt his dirt-covered cheeks flush at the gesture, nuzzling deeper into his brother’s side, flushed.

A loud crack was then heard from behind the little girl. A slim, alluring woman who barely looked beyond thirty, and a surprisingly surly-looking man with a beard almost thicker than Albus Dumbledore’s.

Before the lady could even process that she finally found her daughter, the brutish man quickly rushed over to her, picking up and lifting her up into the air. “My sweet little baby! Daddy’s so sorry he left you!” The man cried out in a crooning voice that broke at one point.

The girl’s mother quickly thanked the family for finding her, and before they knew it, Y/N’s family was ready to leave the park. But before they could, the girl stopped them.

“Wait! One last thing, please?” She shot her father puppy eyes that left him defenseless.

Her parents then nodded in agreement, curious as to what she was up to. Y/ N then quickly let go of their hands and headed straight for the boy, locking him in a rather strong embrace, definitely from her father and gave him a kiss on the cheek.

“Thank you!” She said with that silly toothy grin again.

Amused, the people around them cooed at the adorable spectacle. Just two children being children, at first glance.

Nobody, not a single soul, around them had anticipated this gesture to alter the course of their lives for the years to come. Neither of the two children had flinched at the sudden itchy sensation or the newly-embedded “moles” that decorated their skin.

* * *

Y/N wasn’t sure why the heavenly beings had persecuted her for simply staying back after class to finish up her notes.

She keened over in pain, a sharp agonising sting had wedged itself into her thigh, then spread throughout her body like a wild flame. Her skin felt like it was ripping off, but it remained intact. All she could do was cry, howl, wail. She tried everything to distract her mind from the searing pain and the fever that was slowly gathering, she tried so hard– her voice turned hoarse; throat raspy and sore. Her flesh felt as though molten pins and needles were terrorising every crevice of it. Oh, the agony– and it was all because of this wretched once-harmless “mole” on her inner thigh.

Throughout the years that led up to this, she paid no mind to the peculiar mole that had etched itself onto her leg. It was strange– it curled at the end, and was almost hollow in the centre, almost as if it spelled the letter ‘G’. What was even stranger, was the fact that it itched, and occasionally stung. Still, she paid no mind to it. She swore she could feel magic spark out of it sometimes, but blamed the delusions on her lack of sleep. Until then, of course. It was causing her a great deal of pain.

“Dear! Come quick!” The girl’s mother chided, excitement lacing her mellow voice.

A tall, surly-looking, man came rushing into the room with a pink frilly apron around his big waist. A spatula was in his left hand, while his other hand held a spaghetti sauce-smeared pot lid tightly. “What’s wrong, love–?”The lady cut him off, still as excited as she would be on Christmas the following day, “Our darling Y/N has a connection with her soulmate! Isn’t this wonderful? Oh, I do hope he’s a wonderful man. Don’t you think so, too?”

The man was stunned. His beard-laden face housed an unreadable expression before it melted into one of relief and joy. His brutish voice echoed throughout the house, shaking the walls, and surely enough the neighbours could hear him too, “My little baby’s all grown up!”

He dropped the lid with a loud metallic ‘clang’, running up to her and seamlessly picking her up. The gesture was so abrupt, so sudden, she could merely let out a yelp as her father’s warm embrace tightened gently around her. The girl’s little giggles danced around the room as her parents celebrated her, spinning her around the room.

And that was the last time the unknowing Y/N had ever once felt good about the dreaded “mole” on her leg. The happiness on her parent's faces wasn’t enough as the pain continued to shoot through her, rudely snapping her back to the present.

As she tried her best to support herself, to bid herself to at least stand up, she felt her knees buckle underneath her weight, quivering with each attempted step she took. Sweat trickled down her flushed complexion, collecting between her knitted-together brows and in the wrinkles of her forehead as her face scrunched into a pained expression.

She sucked her breath in between her teeth, biting back the crude expression about to escape her lips, “Oh for fucks sake!”

It was never this bad, she thought in between the myriad of other thoughts that were screaming and hissing. She was only about to reach her tenth year of no contact. And for the love of Merlin and Morgana, who the hell was her soulmate and why was he making her life so fiendishly difficult? Couldn’t she bear the consequences later on? Why now? Why in the midst of preparing for OWLs? Why couldn’t it happen afterwards?

Unbeknownst to the girl as she battled with her internal monologue, a head had peeked into the room from behind the wall of the entrance.

A crooning voice, “‘S everything alright?”

It was a voice so soothing, so pleasant, it seemed to tame her pain receptors for a good moment, washing over her like rain after months of drought. Wiping the sweat off her forehead with the back of her hand, she finally gathered the strength to sit up straight. Her face was still flushed, yet ashen, as it glistened with sweat. A tall boy had found his way over to her, towering over her with an extended hand, and for a moment, she saw the blurry face of that boy all those years ago.

She looked up at him with glassy eyes as wide as Saturn’s rings, red-rimmed as they brimmed with tears. He was just as taken aback. Who is this girl, and why does she feel so… familiar? The boy thought. And just then, before the girl could graciously accept his hand, a sharp stinging sensation had struck him in his lower spine. Rudely shocked, he let out a little yelp before quickly composing himself again.

Y/N watched as the mystery boy jolted, grabbing his lower back in the process. Then, she took note of his red and gold tie. Such Gryffindor heroism, she mused. The upper corners of her lips twitched upwards. She couldn’t help it; it was amusing.

And, without thinking, “Everything alright, Gramps?”

Her mirth-laced voice and amused expression had caught him off-guard once again. Why, isn’t she lovely?

“Aren’t you a lovely one?” The boy let out a hearty guffaw.

The girl smirked, “Why, of course.”

This time, a sort of coolness overcame his body as he felt a hand take his. He’d been so off-guard this time, his breath had hitched in his throat. Then, he felt his lower spine tingle, though it wasn’t the same as it always did. The anticipated scritches that felt like the claws of a lion digging into his skin instead felt like a feather tickling him. It was light, but not enough to elicit a little chuckle out of him, but it felt right.

He noticed as the girl seemed to shudder too.

* * *

Everything about her felt so familiar.

However, the poor familiarity fell victim to illness– bedridden and frail; surviving on a myriad of potions.

Although her hands seemed to be on the verge of withering away, her touch felt so right against his skin. Her glassy eyes felt like home; as if they were meant to stare at him and take in and drink every inch of his being. Despite it being nearly two months since they met in that empty classroom, her very presence still felt enigmatic to him. She was like a missing jigsaw piece; the final one before everything was complete and whole. Merlin, he thought, who exactly is she?

He sat down beside her sleeping form in the hospital wing, combing slender fingers through her hair. She looked as ghastly as she had been last month– a ghoulishly-white complexion, skin as thin as damp parchment, and lips as dry and rough as sandpaper. Madam Pomfrey worked tirelessly to try and stabilise Y/N’s condition but only managed to temporarily subdue her symptoms before she was bedridden again. The whole ordeal felt unreal to George.

“Unfortunately, Mr Weasley, Ms L/N is suffering from Unus-modo Amor. It seems that she has an established soulmate connection, but has been out of contact with them for a very, very long time.” Madam Pomfrey explained.

He saw the pity on her face, and he couldn’t help but feel sympathetic for her, too.

George asked, “What happens if… she doesn’t find her soulmate?”

A sullen expression had painted itself on the Mediwitch’s face, “She will enter a vegetative state, I’m afraid. It’s much like receiving a Dementor’s kiss,” she paused to rub her temples, “If she does not initiate contact with her soulmate by her birthday… The consequences are irreversible.”

George felt his heart shatter, the pieces scattering into the wind. He couldn’t lose her (he had just met her two months ago, but her presence in his life was like a turning page), he just couldn't. He hated that she was wrongly subjected to such torment and suffering– he wanted to scream at the universe at the top of his lungs for doing this to her; for stripping her of the joys of life and confining her to the cruelties of soulmate connections. He used to think that the concept of soulmates was “a whole load of bollocks”, but she proved him wrong.

However, deep inside his heart, he felt this nagging feeling that he couldn’t seem to shake off.

‘Lucky man,’ he thought bitterly, a scornful look threatening to show on his face, ‘very lucky man.’

‘Shame he isn’t here, by your side taking care of you.’ Ten points for George Weasley, he mentally rewarded himself.

Stupid Unus-modo Amor.

* * *

The susurrus of the wind-blown leaves outside rattled against the windowsill. The room was pin-drop silent, and only her ragged breathing could be heard. Then, amidst the susurration of leaves and breathing interspersed with the shivering of her chest, it dawned on him.

He’d lose her on the day she grew a year older, a year wonderful-er. He’d lose her, though not lose lose. She was going to be bedridden, void of life. She was going to lose the spark that he’d rekindled the day they met– she was going to lose that beautiful fire in her eyes that he, and he only, managed to fan.

George couldn’t believe it. He had thought out wonderful plans for her birthday. A tall, 5-layered cake, bacchanalia in the common room, leading a choir of drunken Gryffindors in singing her Happy Birthday. It was all too wonderful– a day to celebrate her. Why did it have to all go south?

Loss. George couldn’t bear the idea of loss– to lose someone you love– love?

I love her? He thought, shocked to the core.

His eyes darted over to the hand he’d been raking through her hair and suddenly started to count the days he’d spent with her in the hospital wing when none of her friends had once even thought to drop by and say hello. Then, he looked over at the tray of potions he’d been feeding her. Green potion for Monday, Purple one for Tuesday in small doses, he recalled. Merlin, he had all her prescriptions memorised at this point.

It all came crashing down on him– he loved her with every fibre of his being. He couldn’t help the bubbling bitterness that accompanied the sweetness of his revelation. He wasn’t her soulmate, or so he thought. He wasn’t her saving grace, the one who’d pull her out of her state of anguish with a kiss. But– something inside him was shouting at him beckoning him to do the unthinkable. Kiss her.

If she was going to go soon, he might as well profess his love. She wouldn’t feel it, she was asleep, after all.

George thought sorrowfully that he wasn’t ever going to fall in love again; not after she took his world by storm. Maybe in their next lives, they'd finally be tethered by faith- a bond so strong and beautiful it would bring kingdoms to their knees.

So, after retracting his hand from her hair, he leaned in. Tears welled up in his eyes as his lips quivered. His heart ached, raced, and thumped.

Then, their lips finally met.

For a moment, nothing happened. It merely felt like skin-on-skin; warm and slightly uncomfortable from her chapped lips. His eyes were closed, and the moment he opened them, her cavernous, dull eyes were staring straight into his.

Then, sparks.

It was so wonderful, she thought, having lips that melded beautifully and rightfully with hers. The everlasting numbness that had plagued her for months seemed to have dissipated and melted away. Her nerves felt hot, but it wasn’t scorching. It felt like a warm bath– it was… comfortable.

She felt life slowly seep back into her. She felt her magic bubble, as if her gears, after months of not working and rusting away, were finally turning. She felt whole.

It didn’t take long for it to hit her.

George’s lips were on hers, and it seemed to have this effect on her she hadn’t felt in almost a decade. Putting one and one together, she realised what all of it meant. Her arms shot out from underneath the cotton blankets and engulfed the nape of his neck. George’s eyes briefly widened but deepened into the kiss nevertheless.

A tingling sensation overcame her inner thigh. It felt as though the tip of a quill were engraving into her skin, slowly, but it still wasn’t painful.

“Wait!” She said, exasperated.

Surely enough, George pulled away, flushed and sweaty from the passion moments prior. He bemusedly watched as she swept the blanket off and pulled up her pyjama pants.

There it was, in golden scripture.

“George Fabian Weasley.”

A gasp left both of their lips. It couldn’t possibly be. How could it be?

“It can’t be…” said George, trailing off as he eyed the writing on her leg, but then quickly remembered the tingles on his vertebra, the way his skin felt like it stretched minutely with a little burn, “Wait, Y/N. I need you to check this.”

With her hum of agreement, the boy turned around and lifted his jumper, and lo and behold, on his pale skin inscribed her name elegantly in rose-golden ink.

Overwhelming relief crashed over her as she clasped him tightly. She was brought back to the past; to that little muggle park where little Y/N had been crying pitifully. She remembered then– that freckled boy who’d peeked behind the tree; the boy she had kissed on the cheek so innocently.

That very boy was in her arms, crooning, though she wasn’t sure if he was comforting her after her whole ordeal, or himself for being so daft. Still, she found it in herself to pull away and look him dead in the eyes– staring at him with those glassy red-rimmed eyes that he remembered dearly from when they were kids.

“I finally found you, you prat.”

a/n 2: OHH i really hope you guys caught on to the parallels between young and current-george peeking out from behind something:')))) this took me like almost a week and im terribly sorry it did

#george weasley #george wealsey x reader #george wealsey imagine #harry potter #harry potter oneshot #george weasley oneshot #harry potter imagine #george weasley fluff #george weasley imagine #soulmates #george weasley soulmate #daft george weasley #george weasley x reader #george weasley x y/n #george weasley x you

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dreadheadmadi · 2 months

Text

- I’M GONNA CLAW THOSE PRETTY LITTLE EYES OUT

Chapter 1

A/N: If you enjoyed this chapter, let me know by reblogging or just dm me! Let me know if you want to be added to the tag list! I hope you have a wonderful day or night, bye angel!

BLACKWOOD MANOR loomed on the outskirts of New York like a gothic monolith, its sprawling grounds shrouded in mist and mystery; its imposing design was a testament to the wealth and power of its enigmatic owner, the elusive billionaire Alexander Blackwood. The grandeur of the mansion enveloped the night like a cloak of decadence, its opulence a stark contrast to the darkness that seeped through its polished corridors.

Usually, the manor would lay dormant and dark, with no sounds or persons going in or out. However, tonight was a special night, a masquerade-themed birthday, of whom it belonged to but none other than Alexander Blackwood's spouse. She was different from her loner husband - a city girl and an active member of New York's rich folk. Such a figure would earn as many friends and connections as possible - and she invited them all. Within the manor's walls, the wealthy elite danced and revealed, their laughter echoing against the marble floors as they indulged in the spoils of their privilege.

Among them, Alexander's favorite niece, Sofia Blackwood, navigated the sea of masked faces, her steps hesitant as she struggled to mask her discomfort beneath a façade of poise and grace. That night, she mustered the courage to ask her uncle to fund her college education, considering that her parents disapproved of her choice of study and promised to cut ties if she pursued it.

The air was heavy with the scent of expensive perfumes and the sickly sweetness of excess, but beneath it, a palpable tension lurked—a sense of impending doom that clung to the shadows like a vengeful specter. As the night wore on and inhibitions faded, Sofia was drawn to a secluded balcony overlooking the sprawling gardens below. She needed a moment to think, to gather herself before locating her uncle. Taking deep breaths, Sofia closed her eyes before looking at the scenery. A small smile appeared as she reminisced about when her uncle would play tag with her in the garden - tiny Sofia would run around the hedges, past the fountain, and up the staircase leading back to the manor as Alexander chased her. As her eyes followed the path, her smile quickly dropped as a cold chill shot through her blood.

There, amidst the ivy-covered trellises and moonlit fountains, she stumbled upon a sight that would forever haunt her nightmares. A figure lay sprawled across the cold stone tiles—a man, his once-immaculate tuxedo now stained with the crimson evidence of his demise. His eyes, wide with terror, stared unseeing into the night while multiple grotesque gashes marred his throat, the blood still warm and viscous against his pallid skin.

Sofia recoiled in horror, bile rising in her throat as she struggled to comprehend the brutality of the scene before her. The metallic tang of blood filled her nostrils, and she fought to suppress the urge to hurl as the reality of the situation washed over her in sickening waves. Instead of vomit coming out of her mouth, a guttural, heart-wrenching shriek replaced it. Multiple footsteps rush towards her before halting abruptly, filling the evening atmosphere with their wails. Around her, the party descended into chaos, the revelry shattered by the specter of death that now loomed over them all. Sofia was grabbed by her mother and father and ushered into an enclosed room where she finally regurgitated her evening meal onto the pristine marble floors.

Guests screamed and fled in panic, their masks slipping in their haste to escape the scene of the carnage unfolding before their eyes. All but one remained rooted to the spot, their gaze fixed on the lifeless form before them. Taking off their mask reveals a Black man with a scowl so deep in hatred that one would have thought he was the one who committed the murder. His dark brown eyes glower down at the body before being covered by the full face mask again. Quickly, he returned to the building, stomping down the velvet-covered stairs and pushing his way to the front of the small crowd around the crime scene.

As the crowd prayed, cried, and cursed the murderer to hell, the man's eyes focused on the wound on his neck. The gashes weren't a nice clean slice as if it were with a standard knife; they were thinner, deeper, and jagged with bits of flesh dangling and sticking out on the sides. No, a knife hadn't done this, but a set of claws-

"It was the Prowler!" a voice declared, "Look at the claw marks! That fucking bastard killed Alex!"

"I heard he's working with Fisk now. That fucking mammoth hated Alexander," another voice added, "He probably put a hit out."

"But on his wife's birthday? At a big event like this when we're all here?" A third chimed in. The second shook his head while pointing to Alexander's dead body.

"You don't know those men like I do; Alex was his number one enemy. When Fisk's family died, he asked Alex to help with some investments on some secret project; the hell if I know what it is. Alex said the fucker went batshit crazy when he lost his wife and was all over the news saying it too. It was supposed to be a wake-up call, but Fisk took that as disrespect and has been an enemy to the Blackwood family ever since. Dropping sponsorships, buying out companies, blocking his political power, I know that son of a bitch got something to do with this!"

The first voice suddenly reached into his suit jacket and pulled out a gun. "Fuck," he spat, "Fuck, fuck! To fucking hell with Fisk! I was THIS close to buying off those fucking votes! All that money gone to shit - where the FUCK is that purple bastard?! I'm putting a bullet through his head and then into Fisk's next!" With the sudden uproar, the first voice stormed back into the manor, which prompted others to do the same, all looking for the Prowler. He was already gone, however - he snuck out of the manor and into the thicket surrounding the manor, climbing onto his motorcycle and speeding off towards Brooklin. As he blares down the road, he tears off his mask again - brown eyes darkened as a single thought runs through his head.

That bitch stole my fucking kill.

Aaron swore to his momma that he’d never hit a girl, but this bitch was asking for it. It wasn’t the first time Black Cat had killed someone on his list; no, it’s been months since their first encounter. But for how long will this keep happening? The year is almost over, and he’s only been responsible for the deaths of four unlucky souls. Four, while she had six. Five of which were stolen right from his grasp. To say he was upset is an understatement. Annoyed? Oh, that’s long gone. Pissed? Maybe two months ago. Enraged? Closer, but not quite.

It’s gotten to the point where his work has become sloppy - disregarding his usual planned and strategic approach for a quicker and easier route just in case she was around. One time he even took a gunshot to his shoulder because of his blatant tunnel vision - Fisk gave him shit for it and benched him for a few weeks to heal before shoving him back into work. Aaron figures he’s going to be hooked on painkillers for a long while.

Speaking of the Kingpin, Aaron wasn’t sure how to explain what happened tonight, hell he doesn’t even know what happened tonight. All he knew was that he had only been at the party for around fifteen to twenty minutes before Sophia’s screams were heard. The party had only been going on for about ten minutes before he arrived, so within that thirty-minute window, Black Cat had arrived at the party, isolated Alexander, and killed him.

Based on his wounds, Aaron deduced that they weren’t deep enough to make a swift and easy kill. As he studied the evidence photos of Alexander after he hacked into the BPD police files, he zoomed in closely on the gashes. While it did look like claw marks, they were uneven and choppy. It wasn’t a clean strike either - it was slanted and angled more vertically than anything. A clear indication of a height difference, Aaron noted.

Alexander was six feet tall exactly; if Black Cat had struggled to get to his neck, she’d be closer to five feet in height, five feet and five inches at max. Aaron paused and wondered if she were wearing heels or platforms that night - it would make sense, considering she’d have to blend into a masquerade-styled party. That would put her shorter than five feet and five inches, the average height for women in Brooklyn. He wrote that down on a notepad and kept examining the photos.

The pieces of flesh that stuck out kept drawing his attention. It looked like the results of his prototype claw gauntlets. They were made of random and uncut metals that weren't accurately measured or maintained. The metal would often be too sharp or dull and get stuck underneath the victim’s skin due to the curvature of the claws. Once he drew back his hand, he would quite literally rip out the area of flesh he had made contact with. While it got the job done, it was a messy and loud kill, prompting him to update his weapon.

It was evident to Aaron that Black Cat’s weapon was similar to his prototype; however, one thing still bothered him - it was a silent kill. The initial contact had been on the side of his neck, still leaving enough airway to scream out for help or in pain. No one heard anything, and according to the witness statements, no one had noticed that Alexander was not present at the party. Aaron frowned at that detail - Alexander Blackwood wasn’t stupid. Someone, be it a guard or even his wife, had to have known he was separating himself from the partygoers. A man who has many enemies wouldn’t dare leave without alerting someone.

Another thing that bothered him was that Alexander wasn’t some snobby old rich guy. Blackwood was a black belt in his youth; he competed in and eventually founded various boxing matches and fight clubs across the United States. He was highly trained in artillery and probably would have been a military commander by now if he wasn’t in control of New York’s corrupt legal system. Simply put, Alexander Blackwood was a force to be reckoned with, just to be cut down by some female in a black leather jumpsuit. It just didn’t make sense.

All of Black Cat’s six kills before Alexander Blackwood had been young men and women of minor importance—quick money, as Aaron called it. The targets Fisk had assigned to the Prowler were gang leaders, drug dealers, and old henchmen whom Fisk no longer needed. This jump from stepping on an ant to straight-up maiming a lion was highly unusual for some uptown thief in a bodysuit. A whole year with little to no gains was starting to get to the mercenary; he needed to get to the bottom of this shit and quickly.

Aaron rubbed his hand across his face and turned towards another monitor, clicking on Google and searching up “Black Cat Brooklin.” He was hoping something new would pop up, but all he found were a few articles and stories he’d already researched.

There was a video that had gone viral a month ago; it was the CCTV footage of a jewelry store that the villainess had broken into. She wore her classic attire, mask, and a white straightened angled bob. Strolling around the store, she opened the displays and bagged all the merchandise, even trying on some and posing in a mirror hanging on the wall. Afterward, she shouldered the duffel bag, blew a kiss at the camera, and left out of the vent system she had used to get into the building. The uproar on memes and parodies of the event were all over Aaron’s feed for days. Women were gushing over her bad bitch aura, creating fan pages, and even going out and buying white wigs, dyes, and bundles just to look like her. And, of course, the men were practically fapping their dicks, saying how she was too delicate to go to prison, how they too would steal some shit in this economy; they were lowkey gassing her up more than the women did.

Aaron didn’t care enough to have an opinion; at that time, she was just some thief. But it’s different now, he thought, she’s more than a thief, she’s a killer. This year was the first year of her dipping her toes into homicide, and from Aaron’s knowledge, she hadn’t even been caught yet. Aaron wondered if those men and women would still support her after it’s exposed that she killed six people in over a year, but he figured they probably still would - the world is fucking crazy nowadays.

Right now at the moment, he was just mindlessly scrolling, clicking on the fan pages and profiles for any information he could gain on her. And then, after refreshing for the tenth time, a new video popped up titled “BLACK CAT HAS A NEW WEAPON (and it reminds me of someone 🤔) | New Look, New Tactics.” Aaron immediately clicked on the video and recognized the person in the commentary as an influencer who was one of the ones who made the robbing video famous by creating a whole trend based on it. The video started with random filler topics, which Aaron graciously skipped through before getting down to the central part of the video.

“Okay, guys, so let’s get to the tea; last night, Black Cat was seen scaling buildings and rooftops downtown with a new look, baby! Let’s look at what Miss Cat got going on for us,” the influencer starts, clicking on a Twitter thread showing a few off-guard pictures and videos of the thief.

“Oh, my God, you guys! Look at that fur, okay, hold on, I’m getting ahead of myself,” she laughed before viewing the first picture and zooming in. “Okay, first thing’s first, that hair, baby! Miss Cat said new hair, new me, and rocking this new do! Gone is her angled bob, replaced with these cute goddess passion twists; I love this! Of course, it’s colored in her signature platinum. Is it platinum? Platinum feels more yellow to me, maybe just plain white? Or maybe more like a frosty white, you know? Yeah, let’s go with that, haha! Edges are laid to perfection, makeup always looking fresh, ugh I’m telling all of you Miss Cat needs to open up shop cause I would pay-“

Aaron skipped ahead a little more; it’s nothing new that Black Cat constantly changed up her hairstyle and makeup looks. It's a smart move, considering how easy it is to track someone nowadays. Her indecisiveness is the sole reason no one has found out who she is; by the time they get comfortable with one look, it’s on to the next.

“Alright, so let’s talk about this new suit. So, I do get why most people say this isn’t a new suit. I mean, it is just the same suit with more fur, probably to keep warm since we are in winter, but I like to call it a new suit solely for these!” The influencer moves to the following picture, a close-up of Black Cat’s arms - which had two slender gauntlets with claw-like attachments. Aaron sat up and leaned towards the screen. Those looked familiar - real fucking familiar.

“That’s right, guys, Black Cat has a new weapon! This kitty has claws, and she is not afraid to use them! Many people say they love it; it’s on brand with the whole cat thing and a way better choice than the staff she used. I love the claws; they bring her a new, dangerous vibe. Like, before, she was just this common thief we all made jokes about, but now it’s like, damn, she's pretty serious about this. Miss Cat said to put some respect on her name; she isn’t any weak runt of the litter; she is THE Black Cat. Quit playing with her; this is serious business! Now, next, we have a quick little video of this new weapon in action, but before that, a quick word from our sponsor-“

Yeah, no, fuck that. Aaron skips again to where the video starts, and his leg bounces. There’s no way, there’s no fucking way, right? Right?

The video in the thread plays, and it shows Black Cat using the claws to climb up a brick wall, leaving significant scratch marks and puncture holes etched into the concrete. Then, once on top of the roof, she raises her hand and flexes it, which seems to trigger some mechanism as the claw part of the gauntlet shoots out and attaches itself to the edge of another roof two buildings across. Black Cat then runs and jumps off the roof she was currently on and uses the rope-like connection lodged between the claw part and the rest of the gauntlet. She swings towards the building, and on the video, the connection shortens, creating a grappling hook. The video shows her safely landing and repeating the action for another building before it ends.

The video cuts back to the influencer as she comments, “So, as we can see, it’s like a grappling hook, kind of? That’s cool; I wish I had a grappling hook. Then I could properly get to work on time when there’s traffic-“

Aaron exits the video before finding the Twitter thread and checking the comments. There are screenshots of the gauntlet from different angles and a few claims that it had sometimes glowed purple. After reading more and more comments about the description of the gauntlet, Aaron leans back in his chair and blinks.

That’s my gauntlet, he thinks; that’s my prototype.

Immediately, he calls Fisk - the one person Aaron trusted enough to leave the prototype with due to his high-security level warehouses and marked a sign of mutual trust between the two business partners. After quickly catching Fisk up to date, Fisk left to check the warehouse himself before confirming that the prototype was indeed missing - stating that they had numerous techs slowly disappear since the end of the previous year but couldn’t pin who it was or how they broke in.

The whole reason he wanted Alexander dead was because he was the only other person who knew where Fisk’s warehouses were, so the Kingpin thought he was the one who did it. Regardless, Fisk seemed intrigued that Aaron had made the connection to Black Cat, but Aaron was too busy breathing fire to even tune in on what the Kingpin was saying, causing him to drop the line altogether.

Aaron could feel the uncomfortable heat of anger creeping up his spine and seeping into his brain, as he returned to the thread and checked the new comments.

It didn't take long before the public started to bring up the Prowler’s weapon and their similarities. After rewatching the video five more times, Aaron noticed the prototype was tampered with. Every major flaw Aaron had trouble with had been fixed to a degree. Aaron closed his eyes and leaned back, his leg bouncing rapidly before suddenly stopping.

“It’s my prototype, he mumbles, “And she fixed it. She took my shit and made it better.” He slowly opens his eyes; green envy returns to his dark brown eyes. “First, she steals my kills, and now she steals my tech,” he chuckles before laughing and slamming his palm down onto his desk. “I am,” he laughs, “I am going to fucking end this bitch.”

Tag list: @mordeiswrld @arielpanda1 @young-dc @fossilizedbeetle @super-nova-2006 @chelsea-xxx2003 @fandom-multiamory @leahnicole1219

#black tumblr #x reader #across the spiderverse #miles morales #x female reader #aaron davis #aaron davis x reader #the prowler x black cat #the prowler x reader #the prowler #black cat #x black reader #x black oc #into the spider verse #spiderverse x reader #madiwrites

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idkyetxoxo · 30 days

Text

One | Allure | The Last Kingdom

"Are you dead?"

"No, but you wish I was, don't you?"

───☆⋅☾⋅☆───

The day of my birth was shrouded in suffocating air, the night darker than the deepest abyss, devoid of stars but illuminated by an entrancing full moon.

In the arms of my father, the great Earl Ragnar, I took my first breath. His eyes, ablaze with paternal pride, reflected a sense of fulfilment as he cradled his final child, his youngest daughter.

While the world labelled me with epithets of darkness and irresistible allure, my father saw only the radiance of his beloved daughter, the beacon of light amidst the shadows. Despite the whispers of others and the ominous aura that seemed to cling to me, my father's unwavering love shielded me from the darkness that sought to define me.

──☆⋅☾⋅☆──

I rode alongside my brother Uhtred and the men sworn to him. Osferth, the young monk who joined our group recently, exuded a gentle warmth that seemed out of place amidst the harsh realities of our world.

Finan, bound to my brother after surviving the horrors of the slave ship, was a constant reminder of resilience and loyalty.

Sihtric, however, was a different story. Our first encounter ended in violence, a dagger buried deep in my leg, leaving behind a bitter resentment that simmered beneath the surface. Our relationship was strained, to say the least, defined by a mutual hatred that lingered like a shadow between us.

As we arrived in Alton, greeted by the sight of the devastated village, my attempt at levity fell flat amidst the grim reality before us "How fun" I said. Uhtred's scolding glance and Finan's chuckle only served to underscore the gravity of the situation.

"Rest your dark little mind," Sihtric remarked, his words dripping with sarcasm as I dismounted from my horse, ready to face the aftermath of destruction.

"You're next," I retorted, pointing towards a fallen man nearby and then at Sihtric, the weight of our mission pressed down upon us as we discussed our plan of action. Osferth approached the group of Danes, leaving me to murmur to Finan in frustration.

"What the hell is he saying?" I grumbled, only to be met with Finan's hand covering my mouth, a futile attempt to silence my impatience.

"Yeah, most, some of you might run away, hopefully. I've got.. I've got a sword. A very sharp sword but I'd prefer it if you surrendered." Osferth declared, and now I was grateful for Finan's hand over my mouth, stifling the laugh that threatened to escape.

"Be quiet, will you," Finan murmured, his expression a mix of amusement and exasperation as I responded with a playful lick of his palm, earning a grimace from him.

The chaos unfolded swiftly, the clash of swords and screams echoing through the air as the Danes fell before us. After the carnage, a figure emerged from the shadows of the church, a human heart clutched in her hand. Skade, the sorceress, exuded a chilling aura that sent shivers down everyone's spine, everyone except me of course.

The confrontation between my brother and the sorceress unfolded like a sinister dance, each step fraught with tension and menace. Their words clashed like swords in the dimly lit church, echoes of power and defiance reverberating off the stone walls.

"You now belong to me, and your spirit is mine to torment," Skade's voice dripped with malice, her words a chilling reminder of the dark forces at play. I couldn't help but roll my eyes at her theatrics, the veiled threats failing to evoke the fear she intended.

As Uhtred issued orders for Skade's restraint, I watched with a mixture of disdain and resignation. Her bindings served as a physical reminder of the danger she posed, a manifestation of the darkness that lurked within her soul.

"Brother, are you scared?" I whispered, my voice barely above a breath. His knowing glance spoke volumes, a silent acknowledgement of the peril that surrounded us.

"Not when I have my own little devil," Uhtred's words brushed against my ear, his nuzzle against my hair a gesture of reassurance. I couldn't help but groan at his jest.

Upon our return to Aescengum, Skade in tow as our prisoner, we regrouped with Alfred, Edward, Beocca, Aethelwold, and Steapa. To our surprise, Alfred expressed a desire to delay the impending battle. He wished to confront Skade himself, to see the witch who had wrought such havoc with his own eyes.

Uhtred escorted Alfred to see Skade, leaving the rest of us to wait in anticipation. "What, they're alone?" I asked, my curiosity piqued as I glanced back in the direction Uhtred had just walked from.

"Alfred wishes to hump the witch," Finan chuckled, his laughter infectious as I couldn't help but join in.

"What an unexpected turn of events," I remarked, sliding my arm around Finan's waist as he reciprocated by wrapping his arm around mine. "I don't blame him. I've always wanted to know what it would feel like to hump a witch," Finan quipped, eliciting a playful scrunched-up face from me.

"Maybe the one they call the devil will have to do," he added with a mischievous grin, prompting a gasp of feigned shock from me.

Before we could revel in our banter any further, Uhtred appeared behind us in a moment, his expression stern and unwavering. "Unhand my sister right now before I make sure you aren't able to hump another woman again," he warned, his tone laced with a hint of threat.

Finan, ever the jester, removed his hands and held them up in surrender as I pouted in mock indignation. "You can't blame a man for trying," he retorted, his tone light despite Uhtred's admonishment.

"I can and I will," Uhtred declared firmly, leaving me to sigh dramatically as the tension between us dissipated into laughter once more.

The night stretched on, devoid of sleep, as Skade's relentless cries pierced the darkness. Her ceaseless pleas for freedom echoed through the fortress, a reminder of the danger she posed.

"Someone shut her up before I do it myself," I grumbled, frustration seeping into every word as I pressed my hands against my ears, desperate to drown out the cacophony of her voice.

"Her screeching is deafening," Finan added, his head buried in his hands as he struggled to find respite from the relentless noise.

"Hah, she sounds like you then," Sihtric remarked, a sardonic smile playing at the corners of his lips as he pointed a finger in my direction. In response, I grabbed a fur and hurled it at him, the gesture a futile attempt to silence him.

──☆⋅☾⋅☆──

As the first light of dawn crept over the horizon, the eerie silence of the fortress was shattered by the arrival of the witch's keeper at the gates. This time, however, he brought with him not just a message, but hostages, women, innocent victims caught in the tangled web of malevolence.

"Fucking coward," I muttered through clenched teeth as Bloodhair callously slit a woman's throat before our very eyes, his demands ringing out like a twisted melody of despair. Two more lives were snuffed out in an instant, their blood staining the earth as a grim testament to the cruelty that permeated our world.

Uhtred emerged from the fortress, Skade in tow, the air thick with tension as he made a show of punching and kicking her before the assembled crowd. Skade's twisted encouragement to Bloodhair hung in the air like a poisonous fog, her words dripping with malice and venom.

With a steely resolve, Uhtred issued his ultimatum to Bloodhair, his voice cutting through the chaos with a chilling clarity. He had until sunset or each man in their fortress would take their turn with Skade. The fate of the hostages hung in the balance, their lives dependent on the whims of a man driven by madness and greed.

Bloodhair's gaze ascended to the fortress, and our eyes locked for a fleeting instant. The smirk that danced upon his lips as his eyes roved over my form prompted a roll of my eyes, he was too cocky for my liking.

"How exciting for you, Finan. You might get to hump a witch after all," I remarked, my voice tinged with sarcasm as I scrunched up my nose in disgust. Finan's light push away from me was met with a half-hearted shrug and a small smile.

"Heard the little devil here likes taking control, even uses her daggers when the mood strikes" Sihtric's voice oozed with a sly tone as he emerged from behind us, his smirk palpable.

Both Finan and I swiveled to confront his smug expression. "Is that so," Finan chimed in, his grin widening mischievously.

I seized the opportunity to turn the tables on Sihtric. "Why have you been questioning what I'm like in bed?" I interjected, my tone dripping with amusement as I watched his smirk falter into contemplation, a pleasing moment of triumph.

"I suppose that's the closest you'll come to satisfaction, given I wouldn't entertain your touch even in dire circumstances," I added, a smirk playing on my lips as I casually turned my head to the side, anticipating his response.

"Come on, Irishman, let's leave this rat to his fantasies," I declared, my voice laced with amusement as I beckoned to Finan. He burst into raucous laughter, effortlessly falling into step beside me as we sauntered away, leaving Sihtric in our wake, visibly flustered.

──☆⋅☾⋅☆──

The Battle of Fearnham unfolded like a meticulously orchestrated play, each move calculated, each action deliberate. From the moment the clash of steel echoed across the battlefield, victory seemed within our grasp. Bloodhair, once a fearsome opponent, revealed himself to be nothing more than a coward, fleeing at the first sign of adversity. The satisfaction that filled me as I watched him ride away, his retreating form a symbol of his defeat, was indescribable.

Collapsed on the ground, my body heaving with exertion, I clutched my dagger tightly in my hand. Bloodied and bruised, every fibre of my being screamed with exhaustion, yet I was alive. A voice broke through the haze of fatigue, kicking me lightly as I groaned, turning to meet Sihtric's gaze "Are you dead?" he asked.

He looked down at me with those same bright, two-coloured eyes, a glimmer of amusement dancing within their depths. Despite my hatred for him, I couldn't deny the undeniable allure of his rugged features. It was as though the gods themselves had sculpted him from the very essence of masculinity.

"No, but you wish I was, don't you?" I retorted, the words dripping with sarcasm as I met his gaze head-on. Sihtric feigned contemplation for a moment before nodding, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips.

In a swift motion, I kicked his legs out from under him, a fleeting moment of triumph before I scrambled to my feet and fled, his angry protests fading into the distance as I disappeared into the field.

The journey back to Winchester started light-hearted and jovial, but the mood quickly soured as Skade's incessant chatter grated on my nerves. "Shut your trap woman, I'm tired of your screeching," I erupted, unable to tolerate another moment of her relentless talking, yet she remained unfazed by my outburst.

Upon our return to Winchester, Hild awaited our arrival, her sombre expression signalling that something was amiss. Uhtred's crestfallen face confirmed my worst fears as Hild delivered the devastating news.

Gisela, beloved by Uhtred and cherished by all who knew her, had succumbed to childbirth. Even in death, she had given Uhtred another son, but the joy of new life was overshadowed by the weight of our collective grief. Days had passed since her burial.

My heart sank as I turned to face the others. The smirk on Skade's face, a cruel mockery of our anguish not gone unnoticed by me fueled the flames of my rage until I could bear it no longer.

Without hesitation, I lunged at Skade, my fury propelling me forward as I delivered a stinging blow across her face. Sihtric's swift intervention prevented me from inflicting further harm, his grasp firm as he pulled me back from the brink of violence.

"You little bitch," I muttered through clenched teeth, tears threatened to fall down my face but I remained composed, she wasn't going to get the satisfaction of seeing me upset. I pushed Sihtric away and stormed off in the direction of Uhtred.

──☆⋅☾⋅☆──

"Are you alright?" Sihtric's voice, tinged with concern, reached me from behind, his gaze fixed on the night sky above. "I don't have the energy for you right now, leave," I replied curtly, my words laced with a rawness born of grief and sorrow, before retreating into the darkness.

That night, as Uhtred mourned by his wife's grave, I found solace in comforting my niece and nephews, their innocent presence a balm for the constant ache in my heart.

───☆⋅☾⋅☆───

an enemies to lovers slow burn 🤭 ALSO had to be season 3 sihtric because like have you seen him???

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