#silk spun tales

[silkspunweb]

A Gift from Santa

w.c.: 4.2k

it's just delusional fluff. husband!nanami x reader, papamin in his glory. a very late christmas fic.

a/n: As President of the Haitchverse Fanclub, thank you for all you do for us fellow kento/hiromi lovers @pseudowho ❤️

School days were coming to a stop as the days ended sooner, the air was frostier, and the holidays got closer. You mentally scolded yourself for not ending class earlier this week so the kids could finally get some time off when you hear Itadori think aloud, "Ah, we only have a few days of school left before the holiday break, huh."

"Hmm? Oh yeah," Kugisaki responded, "I was going to do some Christmas shopping."

"You're going to do it at peak Christmas shopping time??"

"Why not? Might as well get some shopping done for a new year wardrobe!" She snickered.

Noticing your curiosity, Fushiguro turned to you and asked, "What about you, Mrs. Nanami?"

"Me?"

"Yeah! What do you and Nanamin plan on doing for Christmas?" Itadori perked at the idea of his favorite teacher and favorite mentor doing mundane holiday things.

You responded without thinking much about the question, "I think we're going to work on dinner together and have some family over." Though, as soon as those words came out, there was a sense of deflation in the air.

"Ah, I see." They all shared a look, then Itadori spoke up, "I think this is my first time spending it without Grandpa."

"Now that you mention it, this is my first time spending it in Tokyo," Kugisaki shrugged.

"Usually, my sister plans dinner for us," Fushiguro said.

You could almost hear the lonely sigh they gave out as they tightly tugged their lips into a curt smile. Your heart went out to these kids. 'They're still so young. They shouldn't be spending Christmas by themselves in their dorms.' You frowned, trying to think of ways to spend time with them without making them think it was out of pity. There must be something their teacher can do. After all, what's closest to a parent figure than a teacher? Perhaps this was something your husband could solve.

Your husband. That's it. You quickly packed your bag, waving the kids off as they said their goodbyes and left the room. 'Would Kento oppose this?' You wondered, 'Nah, surely even he can't be that callous.' You headed straight for the door before pausing, "Ah, but he's definitely going to mock me for this."

You got home before Kento and sent him a quick message that you'd be preparing dinner. It was a little crazy, that idea of yours, but the craziest part would be if Ken would actually play along in your schemes (as he would call it).

"You know, you shouldn't poke your nose where it doesn't belong." You remembered him telling you that right before you took up the position to fill in as Gojo's substitute. "You're only going to get attached to them, Darling." Psh, what did he know? Only just about everything about you.

"I'm not going to get attached, Ken, I'm just doing a favor for an old friend. Besides, those kids are going to join us on the battlefield someday, maybe even tomorrow. They need someone to guide them properly, especially when Gojo's not around." You grumbled on the drive home, peering at him from the corner of your eyes as he chuckled.

"Sure love, whatever you say." He remained focused on the street before him,  "Ten dollars says you do, though."

"Nanami Kento," you faked a gasp," are you making a bet with me right now?"

"Nothing wrong with a little indulgence, is there?" You turned to him with a raised brow. There was a playful glint to his eye; he knew what he was doing here, baiting you into these childish games. There was no real prize here; the money would stay where it belonged, but he got the right to say he won.

You scoffed to yourself, 'No one would believe me if I said that my husband would partake in stupid bets like this.' You rolled your eyes at him, "Alright, ten if you win. But if I win, I want to change the color of our bedroom."

He raised a brow at you, "What's wrong with our bedroom color?"

"Nothing's wrong with it, our new room color is just going to be a reminder of my new victory."

"You're a little too confident here, don't you think," he chuckled.

Damn him. Damn him, damn him, damn him. How dare he be right about everything. You felt the embarrassment on your face as you mixed the curry roux in the pot. Ugh, he was going to be so smug when he heard your stupid plans.

You could back down now, there was no reason you couldn't. Hell, maybe if it was a month ago, you wouldn't even think a second thought about these kids. But Kento, he just had to be good with children. You didn't think much of it when he came to pick you up from your mission with the kids last month. You didn't think much of it when he asked you and the kids if you guys ate yet. You didn't think much of it when he invited them to join you guys for dinner at home, seeing that it was late at night. You didn't think much of it when he offered them the couch and the spare bedrooms. You didn't think much of it when he told Itadori to eat his vegetables, handed Kugisaki a spare hair tie, and gave his seat to Fushiguro at the dinner table. You didn't think much of it when he told them to go relax, cool off, and that he would handle the dishes. But man, you saw the fond look in his eyes when he dropped them off at their dorm the next morning. You saw how happy he was to have them around, to occupy the spaces of your shared home, to relax and share a meal with these kids at the dinner table. Call it camaraderie, mentor-mentee relationship, or authoritative affections. Call it whatever you want, but Kento was meant to be a dad.

You smiled at the pot of curry in front of you. You knew he was going to mock you, but you couldn't help but wish that you were making this dinner for five right now instead of two. You knew that even though he was going to tease the hell out of you for feeling this way, the feelings were mutual and he wanted them around too. So, you sucked in a deep breath when you heard his car pull up in the driveway, turned off the stove, and made towards the door to welcome him in.

You opened the door before he could even pull out his keys, throwing yourself into his arms as he walked in.

He leaned in, putting his face into the crook of your neck, “Well hello to you, too.” He pressed a soft kiss to your temple, taking in the little things that made his home whole. 

“Welcome home,” you pressed your face into his chest, unwilling to let him see the look of defeat evident in your eyes. 

He pulled away to look at you, your eyes downcasted and a slight puff in your cheeks. “What sort of trouble did you get into this time?” He mused. 

“I need your help, Kento.” He quirked a brow at you as you suddenly helped him take off his winter coat and scarf. “There's something bothering me at school.” A light tug to loosen his tie, “It's been killing me all day,” another tug, “and I just don't know what to do.” You glared at the offending piece of fabric as if it was the cause of your demise. “Will you help me?” 

“That depends,” he hummed, “what's got you so worked up that you need my help at school?” You gave out an exaggerated sigh, walking back into the kitchen to plate him his dinner. He followed, washing his hands and setting up the table. “Is this about the kids?” He doesn't even look at you, knowing you'd do anything to deny it. It was childish, you both knew it, but you couldn't help the heat creeping up your back. How does he always know? There was a pause, then another. You placed two plates onto the dinner table, sitting down without another word, red staining your cheeks as you flushed in embarrassment. He sat down and chuckled, “I'm right, aren't I?” You scrunched your nose at him, debating to deny it or admit your grievances. “Darling,” he reached his hand across the table for you to meet his in the middle, “is this about the kids?”

Another deep sigh, “Yes Kento, it's about the kids.” You rolled your eyes, slipping him a ten dollar bill across the table. 

He chuckled, “You know that's not what I wanted in the first place.”

“Ken, really?” You frowned at him, placing one hand on top of his. His brows quirked up, making you run your other hand through your hair. “Alright, alright. You were right. I grew attached to the kids. I said I wouldn't, but I did. You warned me and you told me so. Now stop being a butt head, and help me with this.”

“I was going to tell you to say, ‘please,’ but this'll do too,” he gave a gentle squeeze. “Now, what did you have in mind?”

“I need you to dress as Santa.”

“No.”

“But—

“Absolutely not.”

“Ken—”

“Nope.” He met your offending glare with indifference on his own face. “Why on Earth would I dress as Santa.”

“It's for the experience.”

“You think I should experience wearing red velvet and a—”

“No, not for you! The experience is for them.” His face deadpanned. “I'm serious, I think you should dress as Santa, like when dads pretend to be Santa for their—”

“They're not our kids.”

“You don't mean that.” 

“Of all things you want me to do—”

“It'd make a fond memory for them!”

“To put me in a big red coat and that ugly—”

“You wouldn't even have to wear the beard!” He gave you a pointed look. “Okay, the beard would help a lot, but Ken—”

“No.” You opened your mouth in protest, “Absolutely not.” A pout formed on your face, cheeks starting to puff in frustration. He gave out a big sigh, “I'll get them gifts to open for Christmas. Won't that suffice?” He poked one of your inflated cheeks. “We can even head over to celebrate with them if it'll make you happy.” You refused to look at him at this point, disappointed in his lack of enthusiasm for your plans. 

Getting up to clear your dinner, you grumbled as you walked past him to the sink, “They don't have anyone to go home to like we do. I just want to give them something happy to remember.” Your words hung uncomfortably in the air as he stared down at what was left of his dinner. He heard the tap turn on, then off. You left him to simmer in his thoughts. Another big sigh as he ran a hand through his hair, he quietly pulled out his phone and made some orders online. 

“They're not our kids.” Why did he say that? He knew you saw how happy he was whenever the kids were over for dinner. 

“You don't mean that.” You were right. He didn't mean it. He loved every minute of it when the kids stayed over, even if dinner time was rowdier and messier than usual. Even if he had to give up some of his comfort and private space to have these kids around. Even when he had to scold them for something as miniscule as eating their vegetables out of his work hours, for goodness sake. “I just want to give them something happy to remember.” He frowned. This could've been a happy memory for you, too. After all, it was just one day, probably not even the entire day in a stupid red suit. So what if he thought it was ugly, that dumb suit could've really made his wife happy. He groaned, opening his phone once again to make another impulsive purchase. He may have won your little bet, but it seems like you won something else after all. Even if you didn't know it yet. 

After he cleared his own plates, he made his way to get ready for bed so he could return to you. He walked through the bedroom door, disappointed to find you facing the other way. You weren't even sparing a glance at your husband nor making any cheeky comments about how wet he looked and how low that towel hung around his waist. Nothing, zilch. He sighed again, throwing on a pair of checkered pajama bottoms before making his way next to you. He had his arm over your waist, testing the waters, and a little glad that you hadn't shaken him off. 

“Good night,” you grumbled. 

He pressed his own “good night” into the crown of your head. 

You woke up a little earlier than usual with your husband's arms around you tighter than it was last night. With one arm across your chest and the other around your waist, he had your hips flush against his. It was so pleasant, you almost forgot why you had your back facing him to begin with. You blinked the sleep away, mentally at war with yourself to either stay or to forcefully peel away from his embrace. You shouldn't, ‘He doesn't deserve it,’ you pouted. ‘Even if I reaaaallly want to, I should be firm about this.’ You tried to reason yourself as you felt him shift from behind, only pulling you in closer, tighter. His face was in your hair, his puffs of breath tempting you to go back to sleep. You mentally screamed, ‘Damn him! I need to— ugh. It's so comfortable.’ You wanted to cry. This was the ideal morning, but you had to get up now if you wanted to work on setting up the classroom for the kids. Time was of the essence, and since somebody denied you of some good, fun Christmas spirits, you just had to make up for the non-participating party's lack of enthusiasm. 

You willed yourself to pull away from your husband as you slipped out of the comforter, not making it far before he had his arm around you again. “Stay.” You didn't realize he had sat up when you tried to sneak off. If not for the arm that wound around your belly, you would've mistaken his low morning voice for something else. It was something akin to dark chocolate and warmed honey, running deep and slow; it woke you up in the morning. You wanted to whine at how unfair he was being. How affectionate and cuddly for someone so stern and callous last night. You shook your head and quickly pulled yourself out of his arms and into the shower. 

‘I have to stay strong,’ you repeated to yourself under the freezing water. After getting dressed, you went to the kitchen where you found your distracting husband in just his checkered pajama bottoms. ‘Oh, dear lord, I am not your strongest soldier.’ He gave a soft smile, his hair sticking to one way and the other. You wanted to run your hand through it so bad, but if you got any closer, you might not leave as early as you had hoped. 

“G’morning.” There he goes again. Him and his stupid, perfect face, and his stupid, perfect— “I made you tea and breakfast.” Oh no. 

You forced yourself to grab the coffee pot instead, “No thanks, I plan on leaving to work earlier today.” You didn't even bother with the cream and sugar, needing the bitter taste to jolt you out of this domestically inviting scene. Nope, nope, nope. You grabbed a piece of toast, gave him a quick peck on the cheek for good morning, and rushed to the door before he could stop you from leaving again. He blinked at the whirlwind that was his wife, frowning when you slammed the door. The door opened again, “I'll be a little late today! Don't wait up!” His frown deepened at the second door slam. Knowing you, you were probably going to set up some lights and a small tree in the classroom or at the dorms just to make it a little more festive for the kids at school. 

“I must've really messed up,” he scratched the back of his neck, “No use in moping about it now.” He sighed and eyed the unwanted cup, then went to check his phone.

You were quieter than usual for the next couple of days, not so much as being upset with him, but more distracted with your thoughts. You already had the lights up to the kids’ surprise that one morning and promised them that the tree will have more ornaments the next day. They tried to wave you off, saying, “No need ma'am, you already do enough for us,” and “Really, we're fine, it's just Christmas.” You hushed them, something about ‘the presents are already wrapped’ and you ‘already mailed Santa for them’. You knew they were old enough not to believe in some merry folklore, but you wanted them to look forward to something this week. You checked your phone to see if the surprise was going to arrive on time. 

‘Today's Wednesday, and the package is going to come tonight. Then break starts…Friday?’ Your brows furrowed, ‘Would I have time to get dinner for them too? Ugh, I should've told Kento to prepare food instead of wearing a Santa suit or something. That would've been smarter. Ah! What about the second years? Did I buy their gifts yet?’ The day ended, leaving only two days left for you to prepare, so you hurried home to think of gift ideas for the others. ‘Socks are only cool when you're in college and realize you need to appreciate useful things, like parents who provide socks,’ you scoffed to yourself. ‘What would high schoolers even like? Are CD albums still cool? But what do they listen to? Do they even listen to TommyHeavenly6 or L’Arc-en-Ciel? Oh god, am I outdated now? Are Scandal still cool??? Ah, focus! Now’s not the time. What would these kids like for Christmas?”

You pulled up into your driveway, making your way to your front door, brows still furrowed as you nearly walked into your husband, “Oomph.”

“Welcome home,” he said warmly, pressing a kiss to your forehead as he helped you out of your work shoes. “How was work?”

You eyed him momentarily before speaking, “It's going well, I think. The kids are…Well, they're losing focus now that break is just two days away, so it's hard to get them focused on the lesson. Itadori nearly ran into the door this morning because he forgot about doors.” You chuckled fondly, “Though I suppose that's my fault for putting up all those Christmas decorations. I probably got them excited and whatnot.” You tiptoed ever so slightly to kiss him on the cheek, “What did you do today?”

“Had a mission that ended early, so I made dinner,” he said. It wasn't a total lie, he did make dinner, but instead of a mission, he actually drove around town, picking up what you missed on your not-so-secret Christmas plans list. He knew it wasn't going to fully make up for his harsh words, but you were going to appreciate it either way. 

Dinner went smoothly. Better actually, now that you were both hip to hip at the sink, washing dishes together. You two were back to your usual routine; he connected Bluetooth to your phone, and you got to play music that made you nostalgic for your teen years again. He rolled his eyes when you blew sudsy bubbles at him, “Real mature,” he hip bumped you before flicking water onto your glasses. His heart swelled seeing you look at him, like it was his first time again, seeing how your smile widened the slightest of increments or how your eyes darkened a little more with mirth. With another nudge, he insisted you showered and got ready for bed, “I can handle the rest,” he waved you away. 

After you showered, you went to bed, tucking yourself underneath his chin, and pressed a kiss to his sternum for “good night.” He could've melted right there and then under your touch, but instead held you close, hoping the next few days were going to be to be easier for the both of you. 

Thursday went by fast, and all of a sudden it was Friday. ‘D-Day’ as you'd called it in your head. ‘Kento’s gonna be at work, so he probably won't make it to see the kids open their gifts.’ You frowned as you remembered the shaky handwritten cards you wrote for the second years, embarrassed that you had to stick to gift cards in the end. Nothing wrong with gift cards, but you would've liked to be as personal with their gifts as you were with the first years. 

It was a bit before lunch that you decided to give them a short break, and quickly made your way to the bathroom to change into your outfit. It was a silly oversized red coat, and you realized why Kento had been so stubborn about wearing such a thing. You laughed at yourself in the mirror, ‘Okay, I get it, it is ugly.’ You made a beeline for the staff room, imagining Kento’s reaction to you and the hideous outfit, but nothing could've prepared you for what you saw next. Your husband, the love of your life, the most stubborn man on Earth, stood before you in the same exact outfit. You could've sworn you were in the soda can commercial with how cold and stiff his face was. 

“Kento.”

“Yes?”

“What on Earth are you wearing?”

“I could say the same to you,” he raised an eyebrow, eyeing you up and down. 

“I thought you didn't want to,” you trailed off, not sure if you should be pointing and laughing or crying over your husband in those ridiculous clothes. 

“I didn't.”

“Then why are you—”

“You were right.” You stared at him with your mouth wide open, “The beard does help a lot.” He offered a taut smile and you jumped into his arms, happy enough that you could have married this man a second time.

“I can't believe you,” you buried your face into his neck, “you silly, silly man.”

He let out what sounded like a small laugh, “Let's go before I change my mind about this outfit.” He gave you a peck on the forehead and went to pick up the bags off the table. 

“You got them gifts???” He raised his eyebrow once more, opening the bag to show you the contents. Your face fell at the trays of food, “Really??”

“Hey, these kids are big eaters, and besides, you left food off your list.”

“Ah! You saw that?” You flushed, unable to contain the smile growing wider on your face. 

“Of course I saw it, it was the only thing you looked at all week,” he rolled his eyes, taking your hand in his free one as you both walked back to the classroom. 

“What did I do to deserve you?”

“Dunno, but next time, how about you don't reject my—” 

A water bottle fell to the floor when the door opened. 

“Na-nanamin?”

“Why are there two Santas?” 

There was a camera shutter click. “I'll send this to you guys later,” Kugisaki smiled. 

“But seriously, what are you two wearing?” 

Kento sighed, “There was a little mix up. Mrs. Claus here almost left some of the gifts back at home, so I'm here to deliver the rest of the presents.” 

You smiled at him before turning to them, “You should go call for the second years, tell them to come inside for lunch.” 

The kids immediately rushed outside to bring the upperclassmen in. Something about, “Hurry up,” “Food’s here,” and “Forget the food, hurry before he changes out of those clothes!”

No one understood why Kento was dressed as Santa. After all, he wasn't technically their teacher. Sure, they’d had dinner with him a few times, but did that really warrant buying them presents and helping them celebrate with a Christmas meal? Or maybe he lost a bet? No, Nanamin would never take part in bets. Then what was it? They weren't exactly sure. All they knew was that the way he smiled at his wife was the same as when he sat at the dinner table with them at home. The Nanamis sure love Christmas, they joked. You watched all five kids lean in towards your husband as Kugisaki whipped her phone out for a selfie with Santa. It reminded you that you ought to capture the moment while Kento was still willing to participate. With another click of a shutter, you took the picture of your smiling husband and your kids. 

“Darling,” he gave you a warning glare. 

“Oh, c’mon Santa, lighten up,” Maki joked and the others giggled. 

You poked his side, “Yeah, Santa, who knows when I'll get to see you like this again.”

Nothing could have prepared you for his response; he gave you another flat look, then replied, “Probably when we have our own kids.”

credits to @cafekitsune for the beautiful Christmas banner

#jjk x reader #jjk fluff #nanami x reader #nanami fluff #papamin ♡ #everyone needs to read pseudowho's work #gotta post this before someone takes my crown title #thanks to my best friend too cuz she's been pushing me to write and post for years now but she's not on here so it's hard to tag her #thank you to the two who supported me ❤️ #and thank you for those of you who are reading ❤️ #stay warm and safe :) #silk spun tales

[faesdreaming]

Yandere Fae - Temptation

he just wants to know your name, that’s all. he promises.

tw: yandere themes, possessive behaviour, reader is lowkey okay with it, implied murder, unhealthy relationships, stockholm syndrome (?)

“Come now, darling,” he croons, so very sweetly, “it’s just a name. I promise I won’t tell.”

He leans his cheek against your arm, gazing up pleadingly. You sigh as you feel your resolve waver. He— the fae— Lucian, he says his name is but you don’t know if he’s telling the truth.

Fae can’t lie, you’d been told as a child. The people of your town nary spoke of the faekind, save in warning tales. They’d told of weaknesses, of iron and salt. Lies. Falsehoods born from ignorance. Fae could lie, could weave truths of honeyed poison sweeter than any ambrosia. One thing you did know was not to tell one your name. Your grandmother had told you. She was the same woman who warned you of the dangers, who thwarted the ignorant claims of the fellow villagers

“Please.” Lucian all but whines. You can’t help but giggle in amusement. For such a powerful creature, he’s acting as though he were a puppy. “It’s just a name.”

But it’s not just a name. Name’s are powerful. They hold history, stories, one’s very being. So, you’ll refuse him once more. “I can’t.”

“Can’t or won’t?” Lucian tilts his head. The slightest hint of venom tinges his tone. His slit pupils are dilated double their size, like a predator catching sight of its prey. “Tell me your name.”

Lucian’s been persistent in his efforts. Ever since you moved into a cottage deep within the forest. Unable to bear the repetitive, noisy life of your village, you left. He’s been following you ever since you moved in. He’s bound, tethered to the place. To the land. Through magical means you don’t understand. Lucian adores pestering you with questions, and inane conversation, that you’ve grown to enjoy. But above all else, he seems determined to get your name. Not that you plan to give it to him.

He makes a frustrated noise, a pout forming on his lips. “You’re so stubborn.” Lucian complains. “Just tell me. I won’t tell anyone else, I swear.”

Liar, you think fondly, It’s cute, really, the effort he puts in.

Biting your lip, you briefly contemplate your sanity. Should others find themselves in this situation they wouldn’t be as calm. They’d panic. You should panic. You should probably run for the hills. For it’s not his status as a fae that forebodes danger. He’s— Lucian is complex.

The good-natured mask he wears is just that. A mask. One he wears for you. Your relationship with Lucian is multilayered. Surface level, it is a give and take. What he gives and what you take remains unclear. Surface level, you’re companions. But that implies trust. You don’t trust him. You’re smart enough not too.

“I’m heading out to town.” You tell him. “To the market.”

Lucian huffs. He storms off like a petulant child, intelligibly whining and a pout on his face. You roll your eyes. Gathering a basket and pulling on a cloak, you step out of the cottage. The way to town isn’t marked by a path. You memorize trees and large stones. Landmarks. You trek through the woodlands, thoughts of Lucian occupying your mind.

You hold a certain fondness for him. For the little game you two indulge in. It’s an odd affection, a tired, old one. He makes you cook for him, bemoaning your atrocious mortal cuisine as he eats all of it. He follows you around the cottage with seemingly no concept of personal space. He lingers around you, as if he were a ghost and you his haunt. He entertains you. With tall-tales spun from silk. He offers you gifts in the form of odd trinkets, flowers, nuts, sometimes gems.

Lucian perplexes you. Because despite the casualness of your relationship, you’d be a fool to not be aware of the power imbalance in between the two of you. There’s something dark, dangerous. An ancient, primal magic tethering him to the cottage. To you.

You shake off your wonderings as you reach a clearing. Down, to the left is a quaint little town. It’s sparsely populated, everyone knows everyone, at least everyone who inhabits the area. Locals are wary of travellers, yet they are not so foolish to deny potential patrons business. Their market, tavern, and inn are what’s to be expected of a place such as this. It’s sufficient for your needs, though. Far be it for you to complain.

You stop by the market, examining items being sold by the vendors. As you take an apple in hand, trying to determine whether the produce is worth it’s price, a hand reaches by you. Curiously, you sneak a glance to the person it belongs to.

You’re met with the appearance of a rugged, rogue. Weary from his travels, if you’d have to guess. He gives you half-grin half-smirk that makes your insides flutter. Normally, you’d offer him a flirtatious smile. Perhaps he’d ask to take you out for the night, to the tavern. You’d drink sweet mead and suggest stopping at an inn for the night. Spend it together. Alas, the sanctity of your normal ended upon your meeting with Lucian.

“‘Scuse me, love,” he says, voice a rough timbre. It’s so different than Lucian’s smooth, honeyed lilt. You like it. “You ain’t from ‘round here, eh?”

You nimbly step aside, appreciating the view. You should leave, you know the consequences if you stay. “No.” You tell him. “I live a little ways away.”

He smiles at that. A small little grin that’s almost a smirk. What a dangerous thing, he is. He starts chatting you up. You know what he wants from you and you’re quite certain he knows what he wants from you. You should be beyond such inhibitions— but it’s been so very long since you’d indulged in a bit of fun. So you let him take you back to his inn, slip something in his beer so when he’s done and your sated, he’ll slip right off. The moment he does, you slink away, trekking through the woods back home. Most people wouldn’t, scared of the dangers lurking. But the forest knows that the true danger resides within your home, guaranteeing your safety.

The moment you make it back, Lucian appears, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed. “Entertaining night?”

His tone is frigid and cold, almost the same as his usual indifference. But you know him better than that. “Very.” You hum. “And yet, I’m here with you.”

“Yet you’re here with me.” He parrots. The shift in his demeanour is almost imperceptible, a change so subtle it appears meaningless. You watch as he slinks away, the satisfaction of his tone lingering throughout your mind. The affirmation, to both him and you, that you were here. That you came crawling back to him. That the pull, the tether he held on your being remained tight as ever.

That you were—

Not his. You were still your own being. You let out a shaky sigh and head up to bed. You’ve had too much to drink, you tell yourself. The next morn, when you awaken, groggily blinking, something immediately feels off. After living like this— after living with him— for so long, you’ve come to understand to trust your intuition while ignoring the warning bells ringing in your head.

You head down the stairs. Your body is heavy from your hang over. It dulls your senses. You know you need to be on guard, lest Lucian have his way. Speak of the devil, you muse, as he leans on the kitchen island smugly. “Rough night?”

“Don’t.” You warn, grabbing a pot and filling it with water to boil. Lician laughs. His laughter sharp and smooth. “Forgive me, lovely.” He croons. “I do not intend to rouse that temper of yours.”

You eye him suspiciously. Of course, you’re always suspicious in regards to him, but this behaviour is odd. Odder than usual. He usually demands you cook for him, asks for your name, then huffs when you rebuff him. It’s routine and Lucian isn’t one for breaking routine. You rake over his handsome, pointed features. He sports an usual grin. Self-satisfied and almost victorious. Then, you spot a crimson splatter along the underside of his throat.

“Is there something wrong, lovely?” He inquires, tilting his head almost as if to show you the blood stained on his neck.

Don’t give in. Don’t pay attention to it. You learned early on giving in only worsens his behaviour. “No.” You answer firmly. You avoid his question, evasive and ignorant. Your ignorance serves as a shield. “I ought to make something, barely ate yesterday.”

Lucian’s eyes flicker with both annoyance and pleasure. “Make me some too.” He orders, before sauntering off.

It sends a shiver down your spine, your compliance. Barely able to deny him, yet unable to give into him. It irks him. It also pleases him. It’s a game between the two of you. One neither of you can quit. You tow the line each time, out of selfishness. The desire to be free. To be as it was. It ends in his possessive fits, with blood shed, staining your hands crimson. Yet you continue. His attention is intoxicating. As addicting as mead. It drives you mad, tantalizes you, taunts you. But you don’t give in fully. Can’t. At least, not yet.

“Come now, lovely. I know you wish to fall into temptation with me.”

#yandere romance #yandere x reader #yandere headcanons #yandere #yandere oneshots #yandere drabble #yandere oneshot #yandere fae #yandere scenarios #yandere imagines #yandere imagine

[asumofwords]

Lighthouse - Sailor!Aemond x LighthouseKeeper!Reader - Mini Series

Summary: You work as a lone Lighthouse keeper on a small island just off the coast. Everyday was the same routine, tending to your duties and the lamp with not much time to spare. But what will happen to your routine when a storm rages across the sea, and a handsome man washes ashore?

Warnings: This fic is 18+. Readers discretion is advised. Warnings will be added in their relevance. She/Her Pronouns. Slow burn, pining, kiss.

Note: EEEE! Here is chapter two of my little mini-series! Thank you all so much for your patience for this update, to say it has been hard has been an understatement. An odd thing to put into the notes of a fanfic, but From the River, to the Sea. 🇵🇸

Chapter 2: Unfamiliar Changes

The next few days were the same routine as usual, but with a new addition; A man who had been at deaths door, recovering in your bed. 

The lighthouse, you knew. 

You knew the way to light it, tend to it, care for it. It had been your life for many years ever since your Pa had died, leaving its responsibilities to you.

It had been him who taught you everything. He who had raised you to know what you now do, to do as you now do each day. And you were thankful. Thankful to not be married to a Fishermans son, or market boy at a young age, to squeeze out child, after child, in a marriage that had no love or care but rather a societal duty. 

But now, there was a man in your home. 

A man on your small, little, isolated island which you sought refuge in. An island and isolation that had been all you had known, and yet now, here he was, laid in your bed with hair like spun silk that lay around his head, a violet eye you had only heard in the tales on shore, a scarred cheek and sharp mouth. 

Was he a pirate?

You had heard of those, but for some reason, he didn’t seem to be as brash and roguish as those stories either. And whilst his presence was not all begrudged, it did throw your small little world into a loop. So with the duties of old, came the duties of new. 

You would rest, only shortly, wake, and tend to the lamp, the storm slowly moving away inland, but the winds too high to take your small boat alone, or send your pigeon with a letter to alert them of the wreck and lone survivor.

Thereafter, you could come back inside, fix yourself a tea, and here began the new routine; you would make two instead of one. 

Two plates or bowls of food. 

Two cups or glasses of water, or tea.

Two of everything. 

One for you.

And one for the man. 

A man who still had not told you his name.

That was until that evening.

The winds had begun to yield, but the soft grumbling of thunder still prevailed in the near distance.

You were eating the last of your stew together, though this time, he was seated at the table. You having dragged the only other chair on the island down the many stairs of the lighthouse to the cottage. 

He was still rather pale, and wheezed and coughed on occasion, but after his many days in your presence, you realised that he was not pale because of his ailment, but rather, his skin was just as white as the porcelain William’s wife owned. His cheeks however, gained some colour, and his lips were no longer cracked and dry, but now hydrated.

And plump.

And soft.

And-

“-Aemond.”

The spoon you were holding clinked back onto the side of the bowl.

“Pardon?”

“My name,” The man put another spoonful of stew into his mouth, chewing before swallowing politely, “Is Aemond.”

You tested the name on your tongue. It was definitely not a common name from around your part of the world.

“I take it you are a long way from home?” You chewed on a chunk of potato, watching as the man nodded.

“Aye.”

“Your ship-“

“-Vhagar.” So that’s what its name was, “Sunk to the bottom of the sea, I presume.” His lips pulled down at the sides.

You nodded solemnly, “Was your family-“

“-No. No family. Just me and my crew.”

You cleared your throat awkwardly before nodding, “I’m sorry. Though we have the Gods to thank. They favoured you when they washed you ashore.”

Aemond, the man before you, scoffed, “Favoured. Sunk my ship and my men. Drowned me.”

You sucked your teeth, feeling slightly guilty about your choice of words, “Yes, and yet you are here. I prayed-“

“-You prayed?”

A nod, though his gaze seemed more intrigued than mocking, “To the Drowned God. Prayed to anyone who would listen to spare your life.”

You watched as the corner of his lip twitched, “And why should a Lady such as you, pray for a sailor such as me?”

“I’d hardly like to deal with a corpse on my beach." You stirred your stew, "And I am no Lady, I have told you this.”

The snort from his nose made way into a smile that was contagious. 

At least you could be blunt.

And in some ways, you supposed that he liked this bluntness. 

You shared your meal together quietly, the crackling of the fire and sound of rain and occasional thunder outside. You found, much to your displeasure, that you did not mind having his company after all.

He did not talk to fill the space, and seemed to think deeply before he spoke, at least when he was not irritated or slightly offended by your own remarks. All in all, he was a welcomed presence in your modest home.

And that was what scared you.

“Do you often have drowned men wash ashore?” His spoon was delicately placed in his bowl, bread devoured shortly after given to him. The way in which he ate, the manner in which he sat back, rod stiff, indicated to you that he came from some form of high society, far higher than you, and likely came from money and wealth that you could do naught but try to imagine. 

You smiled coyly, “You’re the first. An achievement to some end, I am sure.”

The corner of his lips pulled again, yet this time, it developed into a full smirk, “Then I am honoured to have been the first, Miss.”

A blush rose to your cheeks, and you had to look away.

The way in which he spoke, the way his voice became deep and smooth like the whiskey in your cupboard, had sent shivers down your spine with the implication that perhaps there was a double meaning to what he said.

To what you had said. 

But then he continued, “And how does a woman of your stature become the keeper of this Lighthouse?”

“My Pa. He was the keeper before I. Taught me all there was to know. It was just me and him on this island for a long, long time, and now it is just me.”

“Is your father-“

“-Dead.”

“I see.” Aemond nodded, “I am sorry for your loss.”

“Don’t be.” You gave him a small smile, “He died doing what he loved.”

A silver eyebrow raised above the man’s seeing eye, “And what was that?”

“Drinking on the job.” You poked your tongue in your cheek to stifle the laugh as you watched Aemond’s composure become flustered, “It’s okay,” You reassured him, “You can laugh. My father was not a solemn man. I like to think he enjoys my humour.”

A hum was all you received, though he did not smile as you had hoped.

You had not fully seen him do so yet, and although there was glimmers of a more playful and relaxed man, you wondered in that moment if perhaps he was simply just a rather stern and serious sailor after all. That his nature was to be stiff, and bold, and unbendable.

And if he was to be that, a small flicker inside of you wished to make him bend. 

Gods, what was wrong with you?

Had you grown so lonesome in your isolation that the first man to wash upon your shore, literally, was whom you would grow some sort of desire for?

Sure, you were no stranger to pleasure, chasing your own peaks with your hands as often as you’d like, of course, if it did not endeavour to endanger the care of the lighthouse. And now, that a man was sat before you, kept in the confines of your home by storm and ailment, you wished to taste what it truly meant to be pleased. 

It had of course crossed your mind once or twice on your rare travels to shore. Speaking to the locals in shops or on the street, friends of William, or any decent man who cast you a glance. You had thought about it seriously, allowing some sort of dalliance to form, to warm a mans bed and then leave on the morrow to go back to your life of solitude. 

In fact, it had almost happened. 

A sailor named Dalton Greyjoy had caught your eye on the occasions he would be on shore at the same time as when you were. He was sailor from a well known, and well to do family. He came and went as he pleased, and it was no secret that he liked his women. Dalton's hair came below his ear, curling slightly atop his head, the colour as black as night and with his eyes to match his hair; a piercing, deep black which captured and lured anyone who caught his gaze.

And you had caught his, on more than one occasion, and each time, he had tried to woo you. Tried to offer a trip on his sturdy ship which carried more than one hundred men. Or a tour of his home which lay on bountiful lands on shore.

He had even offered a drink in the local tavern, and a meal, with a desire to speak to the ‘beautiful woman who keeps my ship from ruin’. 

And you had thought on it, had almost given in, and when you had rejected him the last time, you had meant to offer him refuge on your island, should he ever so need it. If he was ever so inclined to have a tour of your own homestead, of your lighthouse which kept him from ruin. 

But when you had moved to tell him thus, he was gone, back to the seas for the Gods only know how long, perhaps months, before he returned to shore. And that had been two months ago, and you had almost kicked yourself at the missed opportunity of having a man warm your bed, and then leave. 

The convenience was lost.

You were under no impression that it would be anything more than a release for the two of you, and in your eyes, it was perhaps, a perfect arrangement. Yet, you had strung him for too long, and the seas had called him once more. 

You had thought to wait to look for his ships arrival as it passed from you to shore, and lowered its anchor within eyesight. You had thought that perhaps at the sight of it, you would send your pigeon to her, the large ship, or to shore to send word of your request of his presence. But then, you thought, perhaps you would make a quick stop to the markets, weather permitting, and keep your eyes widened for the dark black hair which you sought. 

But now, as the man you had come to know as Aemond, grew stronger with each day, the desire to meet your desires with Dalton faded, and were now replaced for the desire of a man who was the stark opposite.

No black hair, only silver. No black eyes, only lilac.

Would his lips be as soft as they looked?

Would he hold you passionately? Whisper in your ear? Give you pleasure that you had only read of?

This was what you thought of, thighs clenching as you pulled the old wick from the lamp to replace it with a new one, careful to not spill any oil around the lamps enclosure or yourself. You were exhausted as you lit the flame, night crawling towards you rapidly.

There was not much rest that you could get when sleeping on the worn down lounge of your home, mind reeling at the thought of the handsome man not too far from you in the warmth and plush of your bed.

Once you were positive the lamp was fine and well lit, you trudged down the stairs, eyes struggling to stay open as you made your way back to the cottage, the wind blowing your hair roughly as you closed the door behind you.

The fatigue dragged you down, limbs feeling as heavy as stone as you moved to make yourself some tea, feeling all the more exhausted than before, eyes half shut.

Once your tea was made, you sat on the couch and stared at the fire, blowing the steam away and sipping on it to warm your chilled bones. The lighthouse was cold inside, no warmth but the lamp, and despite wearing your warm layers, the cold still nipped you to your core.

There were no thoughts as you moved half asleep around your home, pulling the heavy waxed coat from your shoulders to place on the hook by the door.

Your boots came next, and then your socks, and finally you pulled away at your dress, untying your stays as it slid down your hips to the floor.

You trudged to your room, having extinguished the lamps and candles in the cottage, leaving the fireplace to burn through what was left of the night.

It was dark as you pulled back the sheets, mind in memory and eyes already shut, as you slid into bed in only your slip, pulling the sheets up to your neck as you lay on your side.

Then sleep came just as quickly as your eyes closed.

-

It was hot. 

Too hot. 

There was a warmth that radiated around you as you slowly rose to consciousness.

Then, came the weight. 

A weight of something wrapped around you, behind you, heat seeping into your spine. You blinked sluggishly, confused as to what it was as you shifted, feeling whatever that warmth was shifting with you. Solid.

Arms. 

Two arms.

One under your head, the other draped over your middle, hand splayed across your stomach as your back was pressed into the flush of someones chest. 

Not someone.

Aemond. 

You jerked, suddenly awake and out of the bed, looking down at the man who looked tiredly up at you, corner of his mouth lifting slightly as he fought away a smirk. Heat rose up your neck and into your cheeks in embarrassment. 

You had been in bed.

With him.

Tucked into him.

Oh Gods.

Your mouth opened and shut as your brain misfired, unsure of what to do our say. 

Do you apologise?

Gods, you had been so tired you hadn’t even realised. 

You were suddenly mortified at the thought of what he must now think of you. 

He must-

“-If you want to get into bed with me, all you must do is ask.” Came the low timbre of Aemond, who now smirked freely at you. 

Your heart raced in your chest as you became flustered, a small squeak escaping your lips. 

Aemond’s eye bore into your own as you stood there, bare feet on the cold flagstones below, chest heaving as you were at a loss of words. His eye then roamed lower, taking in your appearance as you felt the heat of his gaze blanket over you.

It was then, that you realised, you were in nothing but your thin shift.

“Gods. Fuck.” You swore, turning quickly to throw on an old dress, foregoing your skirts, stay and stockings.

You kept your back to him as you hastily did up the many buttons, suddenly cursing each and every one of them as your fingers struggled to do them up the more you become flustered, all the while you could still feel his heated gaze upon you from the bed.

You uttered an embarrassed apology, too ashamed to even raise your eyes to look at him, before you fled from the cottage, forgetting your coat, and not even doing up the laces of your boots as you shut the door behind you and raced towards the lighthouse. 

You had never quite climbed the steps as fast as you had in that moment, desperate to get away from his salacious gaze, and your burning embarrassment.

What had you been thinking? Climbing into bed with him like that? He must think you desperate. Depraved. Unkempt.

Gods be good.

The embarrassment made tears prickle at your eyes.

Though the lamp in the lighthouse was fine, and there was no true reason for you to monitor it, the worst of the storm having moved away, you did not return back to your cottage. You stayed in the cold, no coat and shoes half tied, shivering in the stone walls of the lighthouse to avoid the mortification of that morning. And yet, despite trying to avoid him physically, there was no possible way, you had tried, to avoid thinking of him. 

Thinking of his touch, how warm he had been behind you, how his large hand had completely spanned across your middle as he held you to him, how his fingers had twitched and pulled as you wriggled in first wake. How he smelt of the sea, and sweat, the stew you had cooked him, and the smell of your own sheets, but beneath it all, there was his natural scent, something earthy and musky and like sandalwood that surrounded your every waking moment. 

If it wasn’t for his legs and his near death, you would think the man was a Siren.

You thought of how cold he had been when he washed ashore, how pale and almost blue he looked, and now he burnt hot, and although he was still pale, the flush of life coloured his cheeks and lips. His lilac eye devouring you every chance he had.

At first you had thought you were mistaken, that he was simply looking at you, but now you were sure of it. His eye, the seeing one, unclouded by injury and simmering a bright lilac, watched you almost always half-lidded and ablaze with something you now thought could perhaps be lust.

Gods. 

You buried your head into your hands, deeply exhaling before standing up straighter, trying to erase the images and thoughts of him from your mind, but it was hopeless. He was all you could think of, all you could smell, or see behind your eyelids, and you yearned to reach out and touch him. Hold him. Caress him. 

Your thighs instinctually squeezed together and you sighed, feeling a wetness that had settled between them. 

Gods be good, you were in trouble.

You shivered again, rubbing your hands together as you looked out at the sea, mentally cursing yourself for not having more than two chairs on the island, but you had never needed more than that.

Your legs ached from not having sat in the hours that had passed, and you had turned to pacing the small landing back and forth to try and keep yourself warm. 

A soft clunk came from the bottom of the lighthouse. 

You mustn’t have shut the door properly. 

You continued your pacing, back and forth, breathing into your icy palms as you tried to warm them, mind straying to a body of warmth that you knew, if you pressed your palms against him, would warm in an instant. Your hands coming beneath his tunic to splay against his stomach, working their way-

The sound of rustling came from behind.

You spun on your heel in fright, breath caught in your throat to find Aemond behind you. Now standing straight, the man towered over you, looking down his sharp nose at your shivering form. His hair was slightly wet, stuck down to his shoulders and dripping from its ends onto the floor of the lighthouse. The tunic he wore, stuck to his skin where spatters of rain wet the material. 

In his hands, your coat. 

“Gods be good.” You cursed at him, hand immediately shooting out to press against his forehead, having to rise slightly on your toes to reach, “Have you gone mad? You’ll catch cold and grow ill again.”

Snatching your coat from his hands, you threw it up and around his shoulders, pulling it together tightly at the front, watching as his brows furrowed at you.

His hands caught your wrists as you fussed over him, and you immediately could no longer meet his eye. The warmth of his hands seeped into your bones, and a barely contained sigh fell from your lips.

Aemond was so close, so close to you, you could feel his warmth, smell his-

“Go back to the cottage before you become feverish again.” You tried to pull your wrists away from his hands to push him back to the door, but the man did not budge, his grip only tightened. 

“You’ve been avoiding me.” Came his low response, jaw tensed as he watched you. 

You swallowed, looking anywhere but his eye, “No.” You lied terribly, hoping he couldn’t feel the way your pulse quickened at your wrist, “I have to tend to my duties.“

“-You’re a terrible liar.”

You bristled, heat rising in your cheeks again before you met his eye.

Exhaling shakily, you tried again to get him to release your wrists with no avail.

“Please let go of me, Sir.”

Aemond’s cheek twitched, before finally he let go, and you begrudged his warmth leaving you the second he did. 

As his hands dropped to his sides, your eyes flitted to the exposed skin of his chest, if only for a moment, where his tunic was ripped down the middle. He moved, arms coming up again as he pulled your coat from his shoulders, stepping towards you suddenly. 

You stiffened, feeling his warmth envelop you and the subtle scent of salt and sandalwood engulf you as he wrapped you in your coat, pulling it tightly against you at your front. Your arms were trapped beneath it as he kept his hold on you, the coat pulling tighter as he stepped closer.

“You’re cold.” He whispered, head ducking slightly as he looked at you, long strands of silver cascading over his shoulder. 

Okay. You were sure of it. 

Perhaps he was a Siren. 

And now he was going to drag you to the sea and-

You watched in a confusion, or horror and delight as his head began to dip down towards your face, eye watching you intently as you held your breath.

Oh Gods, was this really happening? Was this man-

“Sīr gevie.” Came a deep purr from the back of his throat, and there it was again, that half lidded gaze. 

You parted your lips instinctually, feeling his nose brush against yours, your eyes fluttering as you looked down to his lips which were parted a hairsbreadth away from you, “I don’t know what that means.” You whispered, feeling his breath fan across your lips warmly. 

“Beautiful.” Came his response, less purring than the last, more of a whisper, more delicate, like the silk that spun his hair, ready to break.

His face loomed closer, the tip of his pink tongue coming to wet his lips, and all you could think of was how you wished to close the distance, to press against him, taste him, have him. 

Your lungs ached from the breath you had been holding, and a sudden gust of wind knocked at the windows of the lighthouse. It seemed to have broken the spell, jerking you away from the man in front of you, who blinked longingly at you.

Swallowing thickly, trying to ignore the ache in your core, you uttered, “I need to prepare supper.” Before you dashed away from him and down the stairs, almost tripping over your half laced boots in the process. 

As you wound down the stairs, you felt a pang of guilt leaving him up there.

Would he be fine to get down himself?

What if he grew ill? It was cold, and he had no coat, and you had just-No. If he had made his way up those stairs, then he could surely make his way down them.

You wasted no time preparing dinner, darting about the kitchen noisily as you began to prepare your meal, cutting the vegetables on the chopping board, and moving for some more dried meats to add with it, soaking it in some bone powdered broth you had made days earlier.

When the door of the cottage opened, and then clicked shut, you ignored the mans arrival, keeping your back to him, pretending that you were all too busy preparing the dinner to spare him a second glance, and not only that, you were far too engrossed of thinking what was coming next, and not at all how his lips might have felt on yours. 

You heard him settle at the table by the fire, and without looking, cast your voice behind you, “I still have my fathers belongings,” You told him, voice shy, “Seemed a waste to be rid of them when he passed. You may fit them. I’ll let you look through the trunk after supper so that you may have some cleaner, warmer clothes.”

A hum, and then, “Thank you. You are a gracious host.”

You blushed at his compliment, thankful that your back was turned to him so that he would not see you shy once more. Once your meal was cooked, you brought it over to the table for the two of you, including a plate of some of your scones, as well as the jam from Celia to go with them after.

It was a mostly silent affair, a tension strung between the two of you, pulled taught as the minutes went by. That was until-

“You are not married.”

It wasn’t a question, more of a statement of fact. 

You blinked, taking your eyes away from your meal as you looked up at him.

He was already watching you.

But there was nothing malicious about his statement, more so curious as to why.

Aemond continued, “You are a beautiful young woman, a shame that you are not out in society.”

You swallowed thickly, feeling vulnerable at the turn of conversation. 

You knew it was unheard of a woman of your age to be unwed, and not only that, alone in a usual mans position. You knew that the townsfolk at shore talked about it, whispers behind your back at why that was.

There had been a cruel rumour once that you simply enjoyed the coming and goings of the many different sailors who came to and from the port. It didn’t help that Dalton was not quiet about his interest in pursuing you, at least, not as his wife anyway.

“I am content where I am.” You sighed, “I have no desire to be flaunted on a mans arm as merely decoration. I have a responsibility to those on shore and on sea, and I doubt any man in town would know more about the mechanisms of working such a lamp than I do. They would be more of a burden than a blessing.”

Aemond blinked before lifting another steaming spoonful of food to his lips, “And do you not grow lonely on this little island?”

Did you?

You didn’t think you did.

At least, not until he arrived on your shore.

“Not at all.” And unconvincing lie, or perhaps not a full one, “William comes to bring my reprieve, and I go to and from shore as I wish for the whims of societal company.”

The man swallowed his mouthful of food, head cocked as he looked at you, “William?”

“An old friend of my fathers.” You explained, watching as he relaxed at the explanation, “Brings food and goods to me when I cannot get them my own, which is more often than not. His wife and daughters join him here on occasion.”

Aemond hummed, “It is a shame you have no feelings of loneliness.”

“A shame?”

The corner of his lip twitched, “I thought you might have enjoyed my company.” Before you could respond, he spoke again, “Though, perhaps it is not a shame after all. There is no husband that I need worry about.”

Heat rose into your cheeks fast, and a flush of hurt crept up your throat.

Of course he would make a comment about you being unwed. 

He was just like the others in town. 

“You mock me.” You grit angrily, hands twitching on the table. 

You watched as a flash of regret creeped over his face.

“I don’t.” His tongue darted out to lick at his lips again, the hungry look in his eye not at all for the food on his plate, “I would worry that my attempt to court you would be burdened by a disgruntled husband.”

Court you. 

Court. 

Your stomach turned tightly, and you found yourself pushing your chair behind you quickly as you stood, grabbing your empty plate as you moved to take it to the kitchen, unsure of what to say, mouth dry and mind reeling. 

As soon as your back turned, you heard a deep chuckle behind you, making your cheeks flush with heat once more. You did not even bother to clean your plate, instead dumping it into the dry sink before you snatched your coat off of the coat hook and moved to open the door.

“You cannot avoid me forever.” Came his low purr, and would if you tried.

The door thumped behind you as you swept yourself outside.

-

By the time you finally returned to the cottage, the night had flown away from you, having spent the majority of it trying to cool the heat in your body that he had stoked, resting your cheeks against the cool class of the lighthouse, anything to soothe the molten blood that coursed through you.

The storm had mostly passed, and your home was quiet as you snuck back inside, darkness filling the majority of the space bar the fireplace as you pulled your coat from your shoulders, back facing the room.

When you turned to walk further inside a small gasp pulled into your lungs. 

“You’re awake.” You blinked at Aemond owlishly, watching as he leant back on the small worn couch, his long limbs stretched out in front of him by the fire, with one arm resting against the back.

“I am.” You shifted on your feet, unsure of what to do or say. 

Damn your anxious mind, reeling in circles at the thought of him, and his desires and if he desired you as much as you desired him. And what if-

You shook the thought away, “Well, you must be tired. You need to rest so that you may go home. The storm is passing, and I’d wager that you could return to shore now.” You wrung your hands together. 

You didn’t want him to go, but you knew it was logical.

He would have to leave. He would have to go home. To his family. To his friends. To his land. And then, you would be left alone with the spiralling 'what if's' of his stay.

“You speak of fatigue as if you sleep more than I, and do less.” Came his pointed remark, “I am well aware of my need to recover, and my abilities.”

Speechless. 

That was what you were.

The fire crackled loudly between you as you watched him shift, moving to lay himself down onto the couch which was comically too small for him. His long legs stretched over the arm, feet dangling almost to the floor whilst his head was tucked at an awful angle on the opposite arm. 

He looked like a doll that had been carelessly tossed onto the couch by a child.

“You need rest.” He mused, eye roaming over your body shamelessly, “I shall sleep where I am.”

Your brows furrowed, “You can’t suggest that you wish to sleep there.” Your hand pointed to where he was uncomfortably lain, “You do not fit. You shall see no rest and I will have to nurse you to health once more.”

“All the more reason for me to stay here.” His eye slid shut, seeming to make a point of sleeping on your lumpy and aged lounge.

You guffawed at him and his brazen flirting, mouth hanging open as your hands moved to your hips, “Go back to bed.”

His brow lifted, but his eye stayed shut, “A command or request?”

You blinked, “A request, if you know what’s good for you.”

“Will you be joining me?” Came his purr, eye cracked open at you, the bright lilac having turned as stormy as the sea once had been.

“No.”

Another hum, something you had grown used to by now, his eye sliding shut, “Then I shall stay put.”

You stormed towards him, looking down at him, trying to not notice how soft his hair looked, or how the pale skin of his chest looked like a cozy place to-

“Really, Sir.” You sighed, exacerbated, “I must implore you to sleep in the bed tonight. You will only hurt your neck and back. I am far smaller than you, and-“

“-Sīr byka.”

The language was smooth, the r curling in the front of his teeth, all creamy, and soft like syrup and warm. It sent heat straight into your core. 

“What does that mean?”

His eye opened again as he sat up, “Would you like to know?”

Gods, he was infuriating. 

“Yes.” You grit out, “Or else I wouldn’t have asked.”

“I said you were little.”

Embarrassment curled in your chest, but not only that, something else that sent heat striking through you. 

You tried to blink it away, “An obvious observation. And the bed would fit you perfectly well, if only-“

“-Nyke kessa mazverdagon ziry-“

“-Would you stop that?” You snipped, chest heaving as you blushed, watching as the tall man pulled his legs down and sat up, looking at you predatorily. 

You were in trouble.

Every hair on your body stood up as he watched you beneath his lashes.

“Stop what?”

You wet your lips, “T-that.”

“What, byka ōños?”

“That!” You pointed, running a hand through your hair, “You- You make a mockery of me.”

His head tilted, “I do no such thing.”

“You do.” You countered, looking anywhere but him, “You speak in tongues that I do not understand. For all I know, you could be throwing insult at my person. I know that I am not as educated as you-”

“-Do you want to know what it means? You only need ask.”

“What does it mean?” You breathed, watching as he stood from the couch, sucking all the air from the room as his head slowly came up to your height, then finally looming over you down his nose. 

“What does ‘what’ mean?”

“Fine." You huffed, "You shall stay on the couch, and I shall send word tomorrow-“

“-Little light.”

You lashes fluttered against your cheeks as you felt him step closer to you, your chest heaving as one of his hands reached out to caress a lock of your hair, tucking it behind your ear. You shivered as his fingertips grazed a path down your neck, his eye intent on you. 

“W-what?”

“Byka ōños,” Aemond purred, “It means ‘little light’.” He took a step closer to you, his chest brushing against yours, warmth immediately seeping into your dress as you craned your head to look up at him, "Byka perzys.”

“And what does that mean?” Your voice was quiet, unsure, the air around you crackling with the tension that had been building for days.

“Little flame.” He translated, large palm moving behind your neck as he gripped the back of it softly, fingers tangling in your hair. Your breath hitched as he moved forward, his eye on your lips, yours on his.

“Byka jelevre.”

“What does t-“

Aemond’s lips crashed into yours hungrily, silencing your question. You squeaked, eyes widening before they slowly slid shut, hands coming to the front of his tunic as you fisted them tightly, rising on your tip toes to meet him. His kiss melted you, a fire being stoked in your gut steadily as the fingers in your hair tightened.

Then as sudden as it came, it stopped. 

You were both panting, looking at one another as his tongue wet his lips.

“Fuck.” He growled, before crashing into you again, teeth nibbling at your bottom lip as you sighed into his embrace.

His other hand wrapped around your waist pulling you tightly against him as his tongue licked at your bottom lip. It was unfamiliar, uncertain, and your lips parted in a small gasp, immediately feeling his tongue lick tentatively at your mouth.

You were still, frozen as you thought of what to do as the hand on your waist moved to pull at your skirts hastily, dragging them up your legs.

And then, it was as though the fog was cleared, and your mind re-emerged. You pulled back with a gasp, hand gripping the wrist that was pulling at your skirts, your eyes searching his face with uncertainty. 

And then, slowly, it dawned on him, realisation washing over his features. 

“You’re untouched?” Came his quiet breath.

You swallowed, shutting your eyes to avoid his prying gaze, too afraid of his next reaction as you answered him. 

“Yes.”

The warmth of his body left yours, and you almost subconsciously followed it, eyes reopening. 

He looked at you with a new expression you could not quite understand. 

Your chest ached to be held again, to feel his want and his hands pressed against your body. To feel his chest against yours, his lips on your own, his tongue teasing yours as you sighed into it. You wished to feel the calluses of his hands, and smell the salt and sandalwood that lingered around him.

You felt stupid for having told him, for having stopped him. You wished you hadn’t. You wished you had just let him have his way-

“-Apologies, Miss. I did not mean to overstep.”

Any thought that you had vanished, and you found yourself gasping for air like a fish out of water.

“I shall retire for the evening.” He took another step back, his eye not once leaving yours as he shifted his body towards your bedroom, “But if I do take your bed, I would like to earn my keep around your home as I recover.”

If this man did one more thing out of the ordinary, you thought your head may spin off your neck.

“Your keep?” You echoed, feeling the tingle in your lips from his kiss. '

Did he mean-

“-Work around the island. Cleaning, gardening. Anything that you need or want from me. I am yours.”

You felt that his last offer meant more, but you did not have the wherewithal to ask for elaboration, nor did you have the courage. 

Gods, what was it about this man that turned you to syrup?

You nodded slowly, watching as relief washed over his features, “It is much appreciated, though I will be hard pressed to find things for you to do yet.” You shifted on your feet, hands wringing together once more, “I shall send word soon of your survival to shore. My pigeo-“

“-No.” Aemond said hastily, to which he recovered a moment afterwards, “No need until I am hale and healthy again. There is no point for false hopes, I may turn on the morrow.”

You shook your head, a small laugh falling from your lips, “I see no possibilities of you turning to meet the Stranger tomorrow. You-“

“-Please.” Came his voice once more, rough and quiet, and more strained than before, “Let me stay dead for a while longer.”

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[hyperfixatedonthisnow]

Love in the Rain

*not my GIF Summary: Nikolai is your best friend and you’re hopelessly in love with him, too bad he’s engaged to Alina Starkov. But maybe a storm and a love confession could change everything. Requested by: kateswone - Could you do a Nikolai x reader one, where there's a lot of pining and in the rain confession in the end? - This started as a drabble and somehow became 6000 words 🙈 I hope you like it! Word count: 6K ish Warnings: NSFW - 18+ only. Minor Alina Starkov friendship and brief mention of Dominic Vertov, mild angst/pining, fluff, idiots in love, smut, fem!reader, fingering, P in V sex, unprotected sex (not recommended in real life!), suggestion of oral sex. Fun fact, this was my first ever request! I had so much fun writing it, so if anyone would like to request something in the future please do, my inbox is always open and anonymous asks are on too 😊

You had always known you were illegitimate, born to a nobleman and his housekeeper. Though their union may have been scandalous, you believed with all your heart that they had loved each other.

You had few true memories of your mother, who had died when you were very young, but you remembered the happy years you had spent with your father, who had been warm and loving. He had always treated you as his daughter and never made you feel less than. Unfortunately when he died, yet another casualty of the Ravkan war, you had finally found out what it truly meant to be illegitimate. A bastard child could not inherit and your father’s estate had been entailed away to some distant male relation. The new master of the house had not wanted the trouble or expense of raising a child, and your father’s will did not include any incentive for him to do so. So you were promptly dropped off at an orphanage and at 8 years old, you had found yourself completely alone in the world. You had little to call your own except a book of fairy tales that had once belonged to your mother. Some of the pages were frayed around the edges and the cover was battered and worn, but it was your most treasured possession. The stories were all of a similar ilk, cautionary tales with brave princes fighting dragons and ogres, and princesses held hostage or locked away in towers. The heroes always triumphed and the damsel was always saved, and they all lived happily ever after. You would read the stories over and over, dreaming that one day you too would get your happy ending. Adjusting to life in the orphanage had been difficult, you were used to fine food, to goose-down pillows and silk, but now you ate meager rations, wore clothes of peasant rough-spun and slept on a mattress stuffed with hay. You tried your best to acclimate and vowed never to complain, but your high rank of birth made you unpopular, both with the other children and the staff.

They made it clear that they resented your good manners and education. They mocked the way you spoke and how you held yourself, deliberately excluded you from games and always saddled you with the worst of the chores. No matter how hard you tried, you did not fit in. So any time an opportunity presented itself that would allow you time away from the orphanage, you took it. That was how you met Nikolai. You were 12 and him 14, and you were on the Vertov farm for the summer to help with the wheat harvest. It was hard work but the Vertovs were good people and they treated you kindly. They invited you to eat dinner with the family every night and one night, their son Dominic brought along a friend from the palace. With his golden hair and shiny boots, Nikolai looked as if he had walked right off the page of your storybook. He took the seat next to you and when he engaged you in conversation it seemed like he was genuinely interested in what you had to say. You quickly found that he was as charming as he was handsome, a fairytale prince brought to life and you warmed to him immediately. In the weeks that followed that first meeting, Nikolai was at the farm almost as often as you were. He rolled up his sleeves and mucked in with the work, spending long days in the fields alongside you and Dominic. Sometimes the boys would tease you, but it was never mean-spirited in the way that it was at the orphanage and soon the three of you became firm friends, joking and laughing together as you worked. Nikolai in particular was easy to talk to and over time you confided in him about how awful things were at the orphanage and how much you missed your father. In return he had told you a bit about his life at the palace, his complicated relationship with his brother and the rumors of his own parentage. You both knew what it was like to feel that you didn’t belong, and having someone else who understood made you feel less alone. Before long you had developed a crush on the prince, though it wasn’t your fault. He was always looking at you, and smiling in that way that made butterflies take flight in your stomach, always telling jokes and trying to make you laugh. He insisted he sit next to you whenever he stayed for dinner, and he had a way of making you feel like you were the only person in the room that mattered. As September came to an end, so did the harvest and you were to return to the orphanage. You had cried saying your goodbyes, and Nikolai had enveloped you in a hug, squeezing you tight and promising he would see you again soon. Just a few days later, a messenger had arrived to notify you that there was a place for you within the Queen’s household. It didn’t take long for the young prince to seek you out once you arrived at the palace, but when you thanked him for bringing you there he had acted the picture of innocence, declaring he had no idea what you were talking about. His mother chose her own ladies, he insisted, though his mischievous grin suggested otherwise. Although she was surely aware of your illegitimate status, the Queen graciously allowed you to adopt your fathers name at court, and the other ladies accepted you as one of their own without question. You found it was remarkably easy to settle into a happy existence at the palace, especially since Nikolai was a constant presence, always there to help and encourage you. No matter how busy he was, you could always depend on seeing him at least once a day. Sometimes he would seek you out at breakfast, stealing fruit from your plate and winking at you when his mother scolded him, or stop you in the hallway to ask about your day while the other ladies giggled behind you, but his favorite time to visit you was late at night, when everyone else was asleep. He would sneak into your room, face lit by dim candlelight and sit cross-legged on your bed, talking endlessly about anything and everything - palace gossip, an idea he had for an invention, places you both wanted to travel, dreams for the future. Even when he went off with Dominic to complete his military service, and then off to sea, he somehow still found time to write to you several times a week until he returned. Now almost 12 years had passed since he had rescued you from your life at the orphanage and Nikolai was no longer a prince, but he was still your best friend. Which only made the fact that your childhood crush had blossomed into unrequited love that much more difficult to bare.                                      - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - The state banquet was in full swing and you were seated near one end of the long table. The Kaelish ambassador sat to your right and another man on your left, though you could not recall his title. Both men had been talking almost non-stop for over an hour, each competing for your attention, but you had long since tuned them out. You couldn’t stop your eyes wandering to where you knew the King sat, at the head of the table. He was deep in conversation with Alina Starkov, who held the place of honour by his side, but his eyes met yours briefly and the corner of his mouth tipped up into that boyish smile you loved so much. The Kaelish ambassador laid a hand on top of yours on the table, trying to regain your attention and Nikolai’s smile dropped from his face, a small crease appearing between his brows in its place. You turned away, breaking the eye contact so that you could politely extricate yourself from the ambassador’s grasp. When you looked back, the King had returned to his conversation, the Sun Saint once again holding his full attention. You watched as he leaned in close to whisper in her ear, and she tipped her head back to laugh. You studied her as you sipped your wine. The Sun Saint and the saviour of Ravka. You wanted to hate her, but she couldn’t even allow you that you thought bitterly, because not only was she beautiful, she was also brave and kind. Even her laugh was pretty, a light, musical sound. Despite the fact that she had grown up an orphan like you, she had a way about her that just screamed royalty. She would make a perfect Queen for him. You pushed away your plate of half-eaten dinner, your appetite quite ruined.                                     - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Nikolai watched you from the opposite end of the table. Alina was talking and he knew he should be focused on her but in truth he was barely even listening. You looked stunning tonight, even more so than usual, and he was having a hard time taking his eyes off you. Your gaze finally fell on him and he smiled back at you, warmth blooming in his chest at having your full attention even in the crowded room, but then the Kaelish ambassador touched your hand with his and Nikolai’s heart sank. You were a beautiful and intelligent woman and yet you were still unmarried, so it was no surprise that any man seated next to you would be vying for your affections. Nikolai knew he had no right to be upset, given his own engagement to Alina, but truthfully, he was a selfish creature at his core and he did not want to see you with anyone but him. As you turned to the ambassador, Nikolai forced himself to shift his attention back to Alina, he couldn’t stand to watch the other man flirt with you. Alina was giving him a knowing look and he didn’t like it. The last thing he wanted was a lecture on the dangers of unrequited love from the Sun Saint. Humor was his favorite method of deflection, and it had always served him well in the past, so he leaned in close, quietly making a joke about the unfortunate looking man sat opposite them. Alina laughed and the moment passed just as he’d hoped it would. He made a concentrated effort to keep his eyes off of you for the rest of dinner.                                     - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - After dinner, the King and his fiancé led the procession, their arms linked together delicately, as everyone moved to the ballroom. You trailed behind, tempted to just duck out altogether and go back to your room where you could be alone. Then the Kaelish ambassador appeared at your side, offering to escort you in and dashing all hopes of escape. You looped your arm through his reluctantly and allowed him to take you into the crowded ballroom. Your eyes swept the room involuntarily, seeking Nikolai out as always. You found him off to the side of the dance floor, talking with Alina again, their arms still linked and their heads bent intimately close together. You ignored the bloom of pain in your chest and forced yourself to look away. You turned to the man at your side instead, plastering a smile on your face. “Are you enjoying your time in Ravka, ambassador?” You asked. “Very much so,” he smiled, “but then, what man would not enjoy your charming company?” You looked away, feeling your cheeks heating up at the compliment. “That’s very kind of you to say, ambassador.” “Please, call me Cillian.” “I’m not sure that would be appropriate,” you demurred. “I insist,” he said, taking your hand. You caught sight of Nikolai in your peripheral vision, he and Alina were moving towards you and panic clawed at your throat. You didn’t have it in you tonight to pretend to be happy for them. “Alright,” you allowed, giving him the coyest smile you could manage, “but only if you will agree to dance with me.” The ambassador - Cillian, looked thrilled and you felt a stab of guilt, but you let him lead you away from Nikolai and out onto the dance floor all the same. The orchestra struck up a new tune, blending seamlessly from the last and Cillian pulled you in, one hand clasped with yours and the other at your waist. You tried to keep your eyes entirely on him, studying his features as you moved together through the steps of the dance. He was several years older than you, you determined, but not old, and he was handsome enough, with dark auburn hair and emerald green eyes. He wasn’t Nikolai, but then, no one could measure up to him in your opinion.

When the dance ended, Cillian disappeared to go and fetch you both a drink. You waited for him at the edge of the crowd, and watched as Nikolai escorted Alina out onto the dance floor. The music started up again, a slow, romantic melody and Nikolai held Alina as close as propriety would allow, one hand pressed to the small of her back. At first the two of them just swayed together in time with the music, completely caught up in each other, and then Nikolai whispered something in her ear and finally started to lead her in the dance. They moved beautifully together, perfectly in sync and suddenly you felt so sick, you couldn’t stand it. You turned on your heel, pushing your way through the crowded ballroom and towards the exit as fast as your feet would carry you.                                     - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Nikolai stared steadfastly ahead as he led the guests into the ballroom, Alina on his arm. If he allowed himself to look around, he would only look for you. He stopped walking as he reached the opposite side of the room, deeming it far enough away from the door and other people to be acceptable. “You might as well look for her,” Alina said, leaning in to him, “I know you want to.” “Who?” he asked, playing dumb. “You know who,” she pressed patiently, “you should go find her and tell her how you feel.” “I don’t know what you mean,” he said, his voice coming out entirely too high to be believable. He cleared his throat conspicuously and she gave him that knowing look again. “Oh come on,” she said, rolling her eyes, “a blind person could see that you’re in love with her.” “I’m not -“ he started automatically, but he cut himself off when Alina raised her eyebrows in disbelief. “Okay, I am,” he admitted, “but I can’t tell her that. She’s my best friend.” “All the more reason to tell her,” Alina reasoned, “all the best relationships start out as friendship.” “No,” Nikolai insisted, “she doesn’t see me that way and I can’t risk losing her.” “With great risk comes great reward,” Alina shrugged, “that sounds like something Sturmhond would say, don’t you think?” “Sturmhond isn’t here,” he muttered, but a nagging voice in his head told him she was right. “Look, there she is now,” Alina said, and Nikolai couldn’t help himself. He turned his head, following her line of sight until he spotted you in your pale blue gown, talking with the same man who had held your attention at dinner. You were smiling and your cheeks were flushed as the ambassador took your hand. Before Nikolai had even had a chance to react, Alina was grasping his arm tight and dragging him through the crowd towards you, but by the time they reached you, you were already out on the dance floor. Jealousy coiled sharp and hot in Nikolai’s gut as he watched the other man hold you in his arms, moving you effortlessly across the floor. You stared into his eyes, as if he was the only person you could see and Nikolai’s heart ached. He couldn’t bare to watch and yet he found he couldn’t look away. As soon as the music ended, he pulled Alina onto the dance floor without even asking, determined to distract himself. “I can’t dance,” she hissed, clearly annoyed despite the smile fixed to her face, “I don’t know how!” He laid his hand lightly on the small of her back, helping her sway gently in time with the beat. “Sorry,” he whispered, “just let me lead, you’ll be fine.” He began to lead her through the dance, keeping his frame firm. Luckily the melody was slow and even, so it was not difficult for Alina to follow him, but he looked up just in time to see you fleeing the ballroom and then both their footsteps faltered. He murmured a hasty apology to Alina, abandoning her on the dance floor to pursue you.                                     - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

You ran aimlessly until you somehow ended up at the palace gardens. You just needed to get away, couldn’t bare to witness the happy couple for another minute. The rain was pouring down in sheets, the stormy weather a perfect mirror to your emotions. You stepped out into the downpour, and instantly regretted it as the rain soaked through your gown with every step you took, but going back inside was not an option. You kept your head down and ran towards the gazebo, seeking shelter there. Water dripped down your face, mixing with your tears as you finally allowed them to fall. The sound of the rain was loud in your ears and you were so caught up in your own misery that you were taken by surprise when he spoke. “Are you ok?” Nikolai asked, “what are you doing out here?” You whirled around, finding him standing behind you under the gazebo, presumably taking shelter from the storm as you had done. He looked just as wet as you felt, his blonde curls dripping onto his forehead and the white of his shirt almost translucent in places where the rain had soaked through completely. You wiped discreetly at your tears, clearing your throat but you didn’t answer him. You didn’t trust yourself to speak. He removed his jacket, offering it up to you. “You’ll catch your death out in this storm without a coat,” he chided. When you made no move to accept it from his outstretched hand, he stepped closer, huffing impatiently and you couldn’t help but laugh. “I appreciate the gesture, but I don’t think that’s going to do much good,” you said, and his face twisted in confusion. He looked down at the sodden garment in his hand, suddenly realizing how wet it actually was. “I suppose not,” he conceded with a chuckle. He moved to the low railing so that he could lay his jacket over it, then he leaned against it, swiping a hand through his wet hair to brush it back from his face. “What are you doing out here?” You questioned. He gave you a wry smile, “I asked you first.” “I needed a moment alone,” you admitted, chewing on your bottom lip. He raised his eyebrows in question. Seeing you with Alina was killing me, you thought. But you couldn’t say that out loud, so instead you said, “The Kaelish ambassador proposed to me.” The lie tripped off your tongue so easily, you almost believed it yourself. Nikolai barked a surprised laugh, “Sounds like he’s had too much kvas,” he snorted, “I hope you let him down gently.” You narrowed your eyes at him. “Actually, I told him I’d think about it,” you said, swallowing down your hurt. Was it really so unbelievable to him that a man could want you? “You can’t be serious?” He exclaimed, all trace of amusement suddenly gone. You shrugged your shoulders noncommittally and silence stretched between you. Nikolai scrubbed a hand over his face in apparent frustration, standing to pace uneasily. “You can’t marry him,” he said finally, his face unreadable. “Why not?” “He isn’t right for you,” he muttered. “You barely know him,” you bristled, feeling your temper begin to rise. What right did he have to decide for you? “Neither do you,” he countered. “Do you even love him?” “What does that matter? Marriage is an economic proposition,” you argued. “He’s handsome and rich, and he treats me kindly. As far as husbands go, I could certainly do much worse.” “As your friend, I am telling you that marrying him would be a mistake,” Nikolai insisted, his voice rising, “you cannot possibly be happy with a man you do not love.” “As my friend,” you spat, “you should support my choice, just as I did yours. Perhaps I do not love him now, but I will be well taken care of, and I may learn to love him in time.” Nikolai shook his head in disbelief. “You don’t believe that. I know you don’t. You’ve always wanted a love match.” “Yes well, we can’t always get what we want,” you said softly, looking away. “Not everyone can be as lucky as you and Alina.” “Alina and I are not a love match,” he frowned, “Surely you know that? Our engagement is purely a political alliance.” “Political, of course,” you huffed sarcastically. “It certainly seems that way when you’re fawning over her at every opportunity. Don’t lie to me Nikolai. You’re clearly in love with her!” “I do not fawn!” He objected angrily, “and I am not in love with Alina! How could I be, when my heart wholly belongs to you?!” You glared at him even as tears filled your eyes. “Now you’re just being cruel. To say such a thing when you know -“ you cut yourself off, your voice breaking. “When I know… what?” he demanded, moving into your personal space. Your fingers itched to reach out and touch him. You curled your hands into fists, fighting the instinct as you tilted your head back to look at him. “When you know that I’ve loved you for so long,” you whispered. You hadn’t meant to admit it, but you were so tired of pretending. “I know no such thing,” he said, his forehead creased into a frown. He lifted his hand to push your damp hair back behind your ear and the touch made you shiver, “I am a man of many talents, it’s true, but mind reading isn’t one of them.” “Don’t be glib,” you muttered, bringing your hands up to his chest, ready to shove him away but he captured your wrists, tugging you against him instead. Your heart was pounding and you were sure he could feel it. He said nothing, just searching your expression for something, and then his face lit up in a bright smile, all of his righteous anger melting away in an instant. “Saints. I’ve spent 10 years dreaming of this moment.” “Don’t,” you warned, your tone sharp, and his frown returned. “Don’t pretend to love me back, that isn’t fair.” “I’m not pretending,” he promised. You eyed him skeptically. “I love you,” he said earnestly, “I have loved you from the very first moment that we met, and in every moment since then. Every time we have been together and every time we were apart. In every look we have shared and every word we have spoken I have felt it, I have known it deep in my soul, and I cannot go another second without you knowing it too.” You stared at him, willing yourself not to cry as you tried to process his admission. You waited for him to take the words back, to laugh and say he was joking, but he didn’t. He closed his eyes briefly, his expression serious. His mouth pressed into a thin line, like he didn’t trust himself not to say more and when he opened his eyes, they were so full of love that you could scarcely believe it. Your heart soared with joy. “I love you too,” you assured him and he dipped his head to kiss you, finally, reverent and sweet. You pressed yourself against him, needing to be closer and his hand cupped your cheek, tilting your head up as you opened your mouth to him. His free hand went to your hair, gently pulling out the pins that held it in place, until it tumbled down around your shoulders. Later, you wouldn’t be sure if it was you or him that had turned the kiss hungry, but the shift felt so natural, like coming home, even as heat spread through you like wildfire, desperate and out of control. When your mouths finally separated, you were both breathless. You panted, trying to catch your breath and he placed a kiss below your ear before he gently sucked and nipped a line down the column of your throat and across your breasts. His clever tongue swirled over your nipple through the fabric of your gown and you gasped, arching in to him. He tugged at your neckline, seeking access to more skin and growled in frustration when it didn’t give way. You threaded your fingers through his hair and pulled him back up so that you could cover his mouth with your own again. He reached around to the back of your gown, nimble fingers making light work of the dozens of tiny buttons tracing your spine. As he reached the final button, you suddenly remembered that you were outside. It was dark, and the storm made it improbable that anyone would happen upon you out here in the gazebo, but improbable was not impossible. “Wait,” you murmured. To his credit, his hands stilled instantly, albeit reluctantly, and he raised his head to regard you. “Not here, someone might see us.” “I don’t care,” he said, his mouth returning to your throat and you struggled to recall why you were objecting. “Nikolai…” you tried again weakly. “I must have you,” he insisted, his voice rough with arousal, “I cannot wait a moment longer.” And really, how were you to argue with that? You dragged your hands down his chest, grabbing the hem of his shirt and he smiled as he lifted his arms, helping you pull it up and off over his head. When he slipped your gown from your shoulders, he sank to his knees along with it, pressing teasing kisses across your abdomen as the fabric pooled at your feet. Your hands grasped his shoulders as he lowered your underwear, baring you to him completely and a sudden wave of shyness over took you. You carded your fingers through his hair, fighting the urge to cover yourself. “Perfect,” he murmured, raising his eyes to meet yours. The desire in his gaze was so intense that it seemed to simmer in the air between you and just like that, your embarrassment dissipated. He tugged gently on your hips, urging you downward and when you joined him on the floor he tipped you backwards so that you were laying on your gown. The damp fabric was soft against your skin, cushioning your body from the unforgiving wood beneath it. Nikolai lay down beside you, propped up on one elbow and ran his free hand across your collarbone and down your side, his fingers skimming the underside of your breast, tracing your ribs and fluttering lightly over your stomach until they reached the apex of your thighs. He circled your clit, slow at first, gentle, and then gradually increased in speed and pressure as your body responded. He slipped his tongue into your mouth at the same time as he slipped a finger inside you and when you shuddered, he added another, curling them just right in a way that had you moaning his name. Your whole body felt tense, every muscle straining for release and he dipped his head to capture the dusky peak of one nipple between his teeth. The extra stimulation was all that you needed to reach your peak, and you clutched to him desperately as the wave of your orgasm crested, your core clenching around his fingers as he coaxed you through it. “Saints, you’re so beautiful when you come,” he confessed, his voice low and gravelly. You wanted to kiss him, but he seemed so far away and you still felt fuzzy, your limbs not quite under your control, so you settled for pressing a kiss to his shoulder instead. Luckily he seemed to understand what you needed, he hovered over you, careful to keep his weight off you as he claimed your mouth again, but you were impatient for more. You nipped at his bottom lip, pulling him down on to you, wanting to feel every inch of his body against yours. You wrapped your legs around his waist, urging him ever closer and swallowed his gasp when his clothed arousal made contact with your center. You reached a hand between you and tugged at his laces, eager to rid him of his breeches. He rushed to help, pushing them down so he could kick them off as soon as they were untied. He settled himself between your thighs, his cock dipping between your folds almost of its own accord and you suddenly couldn’t wait to have him inside you. You watched as he lined himself up with your entrance.                                     - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Nikolai pressed his forehead to yours, looking down the length of your bodies so he could watch as he entered you for the first time. The sound you made as he pushed inside was almost enough to undo him, and he had to close his eyes, fighting for control of his body. Only once he was certain he would not embarrass himself did he begin to move, burying himself in your heat only to retreat, over and over in a punishing rhythm that forced the air from his lungs and had you writhing beneath him. He groaned as you moved your own hips against him, meeting his thrusts on the downstroke, chasing your own pleasure as much as his. He straightened, raising himself up slightly so he could take you in, wanting to absorb every tiny detail of you beneath him. The way your hair was spread out around you like a halo, the pink blush that spread across your cheeks and down your chest, the perfect cupids bow of your lips, kiss swollen and cherry red. He wanted to commit the moment to memory, never wanted to forget the sight of you, sinful and gorgeous, and utterly wrecked. He lowered his head so he could nip gently at the expanse of skin just above your collarbone. You keened in response, tipping your head back to bare more of your throat to him and he felt a surge of something dark and possessive, an almost overwhelming sensation that made him want to sink his teeth in, to suck a bruise into your skin and mark you as his. But he would never do it without your permission, so settled for slanting his mouth over yours instead. He hitched your legs up higher on his waist, changing the angle slightly and allowing him to slide even deeper. You cried out as he finally hit that perfect spot inside you and he groaned. He couldn’t get enough of the sounds you made. He chased every moan, every sigh, like an addict looking for his next fix and he knew that even if he got to make love to you a million times over, it would never be enough. You were the sea and he was a sailor lost to the rip-tide, ready to drown in your depths. His hips began to lose their rhythm as he felt the first tendrils of his impending climax creeping up his spine and he was torn between the near desperate need to come and not wanting this to ever end. He slipped his hand between your sweat slick bodies to circle your clit as he worked his hips harder, determined that you should reach completion right along with him. Your nails dug in to his shoulder involuntarily as your orgasm hit you and you whispered his name like a prayer. The spike of pain only heightened his pleasure as he followed you over the edge, spilling his seed deep within you.                                     - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - You turned on to your side so that you were lying face to face, so close that your noses were touching, your limbs tangled together and sweat cooling on your skin. The rain showed no sign of stopping and you knew that you should get dressed, go back inside before you both caught a chill, but you were content to bask in the afterglow for as long as possible. Nikolai seemed to be in agreement. He made no effort to move beyond stroking his fingers up and down the length of your arm in a slow caress, leaving a trail of goosebumps in his path. “Marry me,” he murmured and your tender heart skipped a beat.

You didn’t know what to say, so you settled for just a slight shake of your head. Nikolai sighed dramatically.  “Before you give me your final answer, I should tell you that declining the King’s hand almost certainly counts as treason.”

“You’re already engaged,” you pointed out, rolling your eyes. “Not if I don’t want to be,” he said easily. “I don’t care about making a political alliance and I’m sure Alina doesn’t either. She’ll likely be relieved to be rid of me, as will her tracker.” “You’re the King,” you reminded him, “You can’t just marry whoever you want on a whim.” “Actually I can,” he smirked, looping an arm around your waist to pull you even closer. “I can do as I please, because I am the King. A perk of the position is being able to indulge all of my whims.” “We both know that’s not true. You have to do what is best for Ravka, and making a bastard orphan your Queen is not it.” “Why not? They already have a bastard King, why not complete the matching set?” he grinned. “Nikolai…” He sighed exasperatedly. “If you come up with any more objections, I’m going to get my feelings hurt.” “But your advisors -“ you argued. “Are just that, advisors. They give me advice, but I do not have to take it. In fact, I much prefer to completely ignore them whenever possible. It keeps them humble,” he winked. “Nikolai, be serious,” you admonished. “I am,” he protested, “I have never been more serious about anything in my life. I have given Ravka everything I have, I am allowed to be selfish in this. I want you and I shall have you as my wife, provided you will allow it.” Your stomach did a little flip and you bit your lip, trying not to show how affected you were by his words. “I don’t know,” you mused, your tone teasing, “I have had several offers for my hand this evening. I shall have to consider my options.” “Of course,” he agreed, nodding sagely before his smile turned wicked, “but perhaps there is something I could do to tip the balance in my favor?” He nudged you gently onto your back and shifted over you so that he could trail a path of teasing kisses across your collarbone and down the length of your body. “Mmmm” you hummed airily, pretending to think about it. You threaded your fingers through the mess of his curls as he reached the apex of your thighs. “Perhaps.”

#nikolai lanstov x reader #Nikolai Duology #nikolai lantsov #Smut #fluff #pining #idiots in love #Grishaverse #Zoya is my queen but not in this fic #i wrote this

[ceruleancattail]

CONGRATULATIONS ON TE MILESTONE 🎉🎉

Your writting is so pretty and flowery! I loved it! I hope your blog brings happiness and comfort to you 💗

If it's fine with you, can I request Jamil with gender-neutral reader that is always there to take care of him? It's rainy outside, dark and maybe Jamil is tired, or got hurt. Honestly I'll just take what you think would suit the caretaking better! I love your writting anyway

Thank you

Dreamy Day Event

Jamil x reader

A tongue coated in silver, polished into a fine blade. His words have always been his weapon. Carefully phrased sentences, voice as smooth as the most luxurious silk.

They wrap around you, entangling you with every letter formed by his lips.

Jamil Viper has spun tale after tale, each grander then the last, twisting words to suit his purposes. He plays with people like puppets, making them dance to his tune.

His voice, a deep seductive melody that flowed into one’s very soul. Going down as easy as rich wine, delighting the senses.

You’ve gotten used to that charming voice.

Which was why it was jarring to hear Jamil in pain. Not a yelp, nor a scream. A hiss, as sharp as burning coals thrown onto fire. A razor sharp sound, cutting deep into your eardrum.

The clatter of utensils. A knife falls, landing with a thud on the counter. Clutching at his wrist, Jamil regards his wound with a certain annoyance. A cut on his fingers, crimson blood peeking through the damaged skin. They formed scarlet beads on his finger, almost shyly.

Rushing over, your fingers brushed against his. Holding up his hand for further inspection, dabbing a piece of tissue onto the wound. Guiding his thumb over the sheet, you instruct him to press down.

Jamil only sighs, somewhat exasperated.

“You do know that this isn’t my first accident in the kitchen.”

Raising an eyebrow, you stare at him pointedly. He shrugs in response, shoulders flowing in a fluid motion. Raising his hands in surrender, Jamil gestures vaguely to a shelf.

“The bandages are there.”

“Thank you very much.” Was the curt reply. Huffing, you fling the shelf open. Fumbling with its contents, you finally yank out a box of plasters.

Jamil was by the sink, allowing the water to pour onto his wound. Cleaning it to the best of his abilities. Despite his nonchalant attitude, Jamil still found himself wincing as the running water grazed his skin. It stung, a thousand wasps converging into that single spot on his palm.

A sudden warmth pressed against the small of his back. Your palm, patting him softly. Rubbing slow, gentle circles into his back. Unconsciously, Jamil finds himself leaning into your touch. It was oddly comforting, truly.

Clicking your tongue, you gesture at his hand. Jamil obliged with a laugh, resting his hand on yours. Deft fingers ripped open the packet, yanking the plaster free. Slowly, you stuck it onto his finger, making sure every inch of the wound was covered. Curling the sticky ends around his finger, you tapped on it lightly, sealing the plaster shut.

The plaster was securely wrapped around his finger, almost like a ring of sorts. Cheeks growing a little too warm for comfort, you glance up at Jamil. A light pink was dusted over his cheeks, along with an expression you’ve never seen him make before.

His features were softer, tender, even.

Almost as if he was looking at something he loved…

Upon noticing your stare, Jamil’s hands dart upwards. They seize his hood, yanking it over his head. Effectively shielding his face from view.

He hastens his pace, resuming his kitchen duties. The chopping was loud, hasty strokes of the knife against the wooden board. Quite similar to the beat of a flustered heart, thumping wildly within someone’s chest.

Yet, no matter how deafening his chopping was, it didn’t quite muffled the sounds of a meek: “Thank you.”

Your lips twitched, slipping upwards ever so slightly.

Jamil really had a wonderful voice.

#twisted wonderland #twst #twisted wonderland x reader #disney twisted wonderland #twst x reader #Jamil Viper #Jamil Viper x reader #Jamil #Jamil x reader #Dreamy Day #AWHHHH IM SHY AGAIN #THANK YOU #flowery prose is something I didn’t expect my work to be associated with #but it’s very sweet wianskskkskske #thank you for requesting!!!

[mare-noctis-studios]

slow dancing with astarion?

this one kind of got away from me

send me prompts!

Naithrel evorlethor eryndorael esilissyr

(Together we shall dance under the starry sky)

Fandom: Baldur's Gate 3 Pairing: Astarion x You (gn terms) CW: Established Relationship, Slow-Dancing, Mentions of Cazador, Implied Past Trauma, Word Count: 2,053

Astarion has snuck away from the party and Tav goes to find him, slow dancing ensues

It takes a moment to notice what was wrong with the scene in front of you. Happy faces cajole with each other in the tavern, flasks of ale slopping over bench tops as the people toast to the good health of every living thing. The troupe in the corner belt out tune after tune, the younger folk pairing off to dance while the children run under table legs in an elaborate game of chicken-chasing: the fan-dangled party game you introduced to the townsfolk. You spy Karlach - having recently acquired the ability to touch others without turning them to ash - challenging anyone in the vicinity to arm wrestles with a steadily growing pile of coin beside her. Gale and Shadowheart stand near one of the rear walls, talking quietly and observing the merriment through weary eyes. Lae’zel stoically bears the weight of a child’s curiosity as the tiefling children you rescued crowd around to hear her war stories. Even Wyll is deep in the goblet holding court with an enraptured audience, swapping tales of derring do with Halsin to the delight of the fans.

Then it hits you. That flash of white hair, usually swindling someone of their coin while in an inebriated state, was missing. You scan the room one more time to make sure, to no avail. Astarion wasn’t here.

Disengaging politely with the wife of the mayor you were chatting with, you slip out of the main room towards the stairs that take you to the rooms above. The inn-keeper had given you rooms on the top most floor, away from the smells of the stable yard below with a pretty little prospect of the town green. This was where you were headed now, leaning on the wall to stay steady as the bottles of Chultan Fireswill catch up to you. Astarion’s room is empty at first, but you spy the ornate clothes he had dressed in for the celebration tossed haphazardly over the end of his bed, and the cool breeze against your cheek alert you to the open balcony doors.

Astarion is there, one hand smoothing over the knots and whorls in the wood, eyes fixed on the glint of ship lights in the far distance. You study him for a moment: the moonlight turning his white hair into shining silver, as is spun from the finest silk this side of the Greypeak Mountains, his pale skin looking as if it was carved from the purest marble.

You intend to walk over and join him quietly, but your little toe against the edge of the cabinet had other ideas, muffling several curse words as the marble shoulders tense. You shake off the pain and continue forward, out into the cool night where there was nary a cloud in the sky. Stars wink back at you as you settle in next to him, the warm press of your bodies pleasant in the night air.

“You’re turning into Wyll” you say after a long moment, watching the sails sway on the ocean. “All this sneaking off at parties, he’s a bad influence.”

Astarion barks a short laugh at that and focusses his attention to tracing the grain of the railing.

“Everything ok?”

You feel the sag in his body as he deflates a little, leaning closer into your warmth.

“Nights like these… people partaking in frivolous amusement… serves as a stark reminder of what I am” he says bitterly.

You link your pinky around his, eyes firm on the horizon as he stops tracing the wood and starts tracing the lines on your palm.

“Everything I drink tastes like vinegar and everything I eat tastes like ash…” he trails off, following a deep blue vein up along your forearm. “And now that we’re near the city, I…”

He falters, stilling cool fingers in the crook of your elbow to feel the thrum of your fast-beating heart. You turn to lean a hip against the railing, starting your own tracing from his hand up over his bicep, over his neck and cheekbone to brush curls delicately over one pointed ear.

“I can’t escape the memories of what Cazador made me do in establishments such as this” he finishes quietly, thumb gently brushing the side of your elbow as his gaze falls to the floor. You pull him into a hug, arms looping low around his slender waist as his go around your shoulder, face burying into your neck.

You noticed over the course of your relationship how little Astarion got to experience intimacy for intimacy’s sake – the nights lounging by the fire in his lap with a book Gale recommended open between you as you read passage after passage, a kiss brushed lightly over a cheek when greeting him after time apart, the languid kissing in the wee hours of the morning when neither of you could sleep, hands exploring gently without intent – and just how much of his sexual proclivities were only about the sex.

Those nights curled up in each other’s arms quickly became tradition, whether you were reading a book, or swapping stories from your childhood, or discussing the finer points of caring for cashmere cloth while travelling, and your companions quickly adopted your tent as extra storage since you rarely spend any time in it. Gale would comment on it occasionally, comparing Astarion to Tara with the way his eyes gleam possessively if someone got too close, and you have caught Halsin on more than one occasion studying the two of you with poorly concealed desire.

The sex was great, as it had always been, but once you were past the awkward admissions of power and manipulation you realised that Astarion had no idea how to be in a loving relationship. His boundaries were set it all sorts of fucked up ways, twisted and warped by Cazador and his own self-loathing, and they were your challenges to unravel – one experience at a time.

Amongst the sanctity of your companions, Astarion could hardly bear a minute without your touch in some way; a hand on the shoulder, a ruffle of hair, a peck on the lips in passing. He always found some way to bump your hip while working, to trace a finger down your arm, to wrap his hand around whatever limb he could reach.

He craved the warmth of your skin. You always lamented at how you ran hot as a child, sweating it out over brutal summers, but it is a blessing in disguise as you lay wrapped around each other of an evening, cold lips pressed to a warm neck and legs tangled in perfect equilibrium.

You begin to walk back slowly, pulling Astarion with you as he catches your gaze. Inky black eyes in the moonlight turn to soft red inside the room as you light the candles with a soft word. He presses a kiss to your neck, your jaw, your cheekbone, over your nose until your lips meet softly, tenderly as hands splayed over your shoulders push you closer together.

“Wait, my love” you murmur, smiling when he chases your lips with a pout. “I want to dance.”

His face falls minutely, then fixes in a pleasant smile.

“By all means darling, let’s go downstairs and rally the band!” His laugh is forced so you bring your hands up to cup his cheeks, kissing him quiet. You pull back and close your eyes, focussing on the smell of Astarion’s parfum, the taste of wine on your lips, the touch of gentle hands on your back, and you reach into the Weave.

Pleasure swirls around you, tendrils of intent wrapping around your hand as you lifted it between you two to show him the purple essence. You hum the tune in your head and will the music into existence, eyes opening triumphantly as the sounds of a flute and harp echo softly around you. Astarion’s eyes never leave your face as you take one of his hands and slide the other around his waist, desire and an amount of trepidation clear as day.

“I don’t want the band” you say simply, swaying with the music. “I want to dance with you.”

Astarion’s smile is purer than anything you have ever encountered as he takes the lead in waltzing a slow, haphazard circle of the room. “My darling” he whispers, kissing you deeply before guiding you through a slow spin. “My love.” You come back to his arms feeling lighter than a feather, adoration for your lover swelling until it felt fit to burst from your chest. Something must have shown on your face because his eyes crease in amusement, lips pressed to your temple as you sway to the melody. “My divine grace. You are surely a succubus sent to capture my soul for I don’t understand how I deserve to know your love” he says quietly into your hair, thumb idly stroking the small of your back. You go to speak but he silences you with soft kiss, pulling away the barest amount to speak as if his words were a sacred prayer. “You have been nothing but kind and patient -  accepting my faults without condescension or malice. You have taken my broken spirit and breathed life into a long-dead heart with nary a thought to compensation.”

He stills in the middle of the room, red eyes bright with wonder, the hand holding yours coming up to cup your cheek. Tracing his thumb over your bottom lip he draws you in for a deep, tender kiss, pulling your bodies so close you are sure you will melt into him.

“I might have stayed the irascible, wounded man incapable of leaving the shadows of my past if you had not taken my hand and drawn me to the very light I avoided for nigh 200 years.”

Your heart beats rapidly, surely to burst out of your chest as you tighten your arms, trailing kisses down his temple and jaw. He has come so far from the man you met by the nautiloid crash; a man who closed himself off from anything that could possibly hurt him, hiding pain and uncertainty behind a veneer of snark and derision. It seems a lifetime ago to the man currently in your arms, and if all goes well, he shall stay there for a lifetime to come.

“For the first time in 200 years I am hopeful for my future.” His voice was small, but the conviction was clear. “For the first time… I imagine a life with someone by my side. I could never have hoped to experience the love you have so freely given me, when all you received in return was lies and attempts at cohesion.”

You smile at that, bringing one hand to cover the one on your cheek and the other to press over his still heart. “I would have made do” you tease, pleased to see the joke land positively. “I am so proud of you Astarion. From the first moment we shared, your vulnerability – even though it pained you at the time – is something I will treasure forever. I see the light in you, my love, and it is breathtaking.”

The candlelight seems to pulse with your words, glowing even brighter as the music swells to a triumphant chorus.

“You are deserving of a happy ending my darling elf. My only wish is that I am written by your side when our stories are told.” Tears well in your eyes and spill but you find you don’t care, pressing a kiss to the tear tracks on Astarion’s own cheek. He pulls you towards the bed and helps you rid yourself of your party clothing, settling alongside you under the rough sheets as you will the music to cease. The candlelight dims and you drift into a contented sleep, lips pressed to your hair murmuring loving epithets until your eyes droop. Just before they shut, you hear the familiar lilt of Elvish;

“Leuthilsel, delaesyrn eni, su'lmélo. Phorael'sar nindol su'linueth natha. Ren amin mindelara, natha darthas. Galennor tuulo’laer, eldalié. Syl’esske, melamin, melme’amin. Sylvaris, lyrie’nythas, varulitharien. Naithrel evorlethor eryndorael esilissyr.”

You smile through the tears and press a soft kiss to Astarion’s throat, finishing the vow in a voice laced with happiness.

“Ai’tel’quessir, mirimaar amin, nindelar. Leuthilsel mirimaar tel’quessir. Tel’quess eni.”

Here is the translation of the Elvish:

“My beloved, heart of mine, forever. By the stars’ grace we are bound. In your eyes I find home, my heart rejoices. Forever we walk, together. For all eternity, my love, my soul’s mate. Sylvan beauty, my heart’s delight, enchanter of the woods. Together we shall dance under the starry sky.”

“To the elves, our people, we shall belong. My beloved among the elves. My elf.”

Let me know what you think. Thanks for reading! K

If you would like to be added to the Astarion fic tag list please comment a 🩸

#astarion #bg3 #baldur’s gate 3 #bg3 astarion #the-fandom-files #fanfiction #writing #astarion x tav #birch writes #archive of our own #k-e-birch #baldur's gate 3 astarion #baldur's gate iii #baldur's gate 3 #baldur's gate astarion #bg 3 tav #baldur's gate 3 tav #baldurs gate 3 tav #astarion x you #astarion x reader

[cnnmairoll]

H-hello there 🥺👉👈 I really love your hcs writing especially on HSR boys aaaaa I hope you have a good day! I'd wonder of your req are open? If you did, can I request HCs, fic or whatever you find comfortable with this prompt xD on Sampo and naive(?) reader, like, the reader somewhat see Sampo's crimes business and Sampo himself in more... Brighter light? Especially as they know Sampo actively helps people of the Underworlder despite said conman running around his funny ass bad reputation in the Overworld xD I think that's all, thank you in advance!!💕✨

Silver Tongue, Golden Heart

Pairing : Sampo x Reader Genre : Fluff a/n : Sure thing anon! I hope this met your expectation!! Reminder that request is still open ^_^

In the heart of the dichotomous realm of Belobog, where the line between light and darkness was as thin as a whisper, there existed a silver-tongued merchant named Sampo Koski. In the realm where profit was the language spoken by all, Sampo thrived like a cunning chameleon. His roots were firmly planted in the Underworld, yet he was a free spirit, traversing seamlessly between the two realms.

You hailed from the Underworld, a place shrouded in mystery and isolation, where the relics of the Old World lay hidden beneath towering rocky walls. Life down there was harsh, but you had learned to survive and thrive within the labyrinthine twists of its gloomy alleys and hidden enclaves.

The Overworld was a utopian haven, its streets bathed in perpetual spring. The laughter of children echoed through the air as merchants peddled their wares, and the Silvermane Guards watched over the populace with vigilant eyes. It was a world untouched by time, an oasis of serenity.

And then there was Sampo.

He appeared in your life like a whirlwind of charm and wit. From the moment you met him in a bustling marketplace, his grin drew you in, his words weaving a spell around you. He was a conman, a master of illusion and deception, yet there was an undeniable allure to his manner. He seemed to thrive on the dance between truth and fiction, playing the roles of friend and trickster with equal finesse.

The first words he spoke were as smooth as silk, his silver tongue casting a spell that was impossible to resist. He teased and bantered, weaving tales that spun laughter into the very air around you. As a denizen of the Underworld, you had rarely encountered someone so captivating. He offered you trinkets and oddities, each with a promise of making your life easier, more exciting, or simply more bearable.

Sampo's charm was irrefutable, his humor infectious, and soon you found yourself visiting his stall often, drawn by the allure of his words and the hidden gems he provided. His interactions were filled with jokes and stories about his escapades in the Overworld, where he was known to spin his web of deception for personal gain. Yet, strangely enough, you only found yourself chuckling at his tales, unable to condemn his actions like you did with others who engaged in such deceptions.

As time passed, your naivety and his wily nature created a unique bond. His overarching goal, a secret known only to a select few, overshadowed the shadier parts of his work in your eyes. You saw him as a force for good, someone who actively helped the Underworld by sharing information and resources. The fact that he used his skills to con the privileged in the Overworld was secondary to the warmth you felt emanating from his every gesture.

You listened to his tales with rapt attention, caught in the gravity of his words. And as he described his journeys to the Underworld, where he helped those who had fallen through the cracks, you couldn't help but see a glimmer of goodness in his actions.

He went on to unveil his clandestine actions, detailing how he used the profits from his cons to support the less fortunate in the Underworld, how he supplied resources and information that would otherwise remain out of reach. "I might be a swindler in their eyes," he admitted with a rueful smile, "but in your eyes, I hope I'm something different."

And indeed, he was. Your heart swelled with admiration for the man who had seamlessly etched his presence into your life. You realized that Sampo's dual existence wasn't just a contrast but a testament to the blurred lines between good and bad, light and dark. Through his actions, you discovered that heroes and villains were far from being defined solely by their deeds. It was the intent behind them that truly mattered.

You turned to him, your eyes reflecting the sincerity of your heart. "You're more than the stories they tell, Sampo. You're a bridge between worlds, a beacon of hope in the shadows."

He looked at you, his expression softening as if the weight of the worlds he straddled had momentarily lifted. "Perhaps," he whispered, his fingers brushing against yours in a gesture that felt like an unspoken promise.

And so, the dance between light and darkness continued. The sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink, as you and Sampo strolled through the bustling marketplace. "You know," he mused, his tone contemplative, "sometimes it's the shadows that define the light, and the deceptions that illuminate the truth."

You regarded him, a smile tugging at your lips. "Is that one of your philosophical insights?"

He chuckled, a sound that felt like a warm embrace. "Call it what you will, my friend. But just remember, even in the darkest of corners, there's a chance for something beautiful to bloom."

As the evening deepened, the marketplace transformed into a tapestry of lights, each stall glowing like a star in the night sky. The laughter of children and the hum of conversation surrounded you, a symphony that encapsulated the essence of life. And at the heart of it all stood Sampo, his silver tongue weaving tales that seemed to harmonize with the very essence of existence.

You looked up at the constellations above, the stars mirrored by the glimmer in Sampo's eyes. In this moment, it wasn't just about the divide between realms or the shades of morality—it was about the connection you shared, the bridges you both represented. The line between the Overworld and the Underworld seemed to blur, just as the boundaries between right and wrong seemed to meld.

As the night unfolded, Sampo's stories continued, drawing you deeper into his world, a world where truth and deception danced together like kindred spirits. And in his presence, you found a unique clarity—a recognition that sometimes, the most unexpected individuals could be the ones to lead you from darkness into light, and that goodness could emerge even from the depths of deception.

#˗ˏˋ ꒰ ♡ ꒱ ˎˊ˗ mai writes #honkai star rail #hsr #hsr x reader #honkai star rail x reader #sampo #sampo x reader #hsr sampo #sampo hsr #honkai star rail sampo #sampo koski #sampo koski x reader #honkai star rail fluff

[sleepingdeath-light]

finding out his soulmate is depressed hcs ; loki

requested by ; anonymous (19/05/22)

fandom(s) ; marvel cinematic universe / mcu

fandom masterlist(s) ; here

character(s) ; loki laufeyson

outline ; “request: i'm desperate for a soulmate au. it doesn't make if it's between loki or wanda because i love them both but i'd love your take on the soulmate au. it'd be cool if the reader had depression, cause same. thank you!”

note ; this is going off of the au where there is a ‘red string’ connecting people and is based on the avenger!loki concept

additional note ; the references to the reader’s depression are extremely brief but present

warning(s) ; canon typical references to violence and angst

loki spent the vast majority of his life thinking that he was damned — the only person in asgard to be without a soulmate

wishing, praying, reading up on anything and everything he could just to scrape together some tiny crumb of hope that one day his string would manifest

that he wasn’t truly alone

a thousand years passed him by

then two

then three

by his fourth he’d started to lose hope and as he started to fast approach his fifth he’d given up all together

the black sheep of his family; unworthy even in the eyes of the universe

it was like some sort of sick joke

but he never told a soul, lying through his teeth as naturally as he breathed and telling tall tales of his golden string and how he was waiting for the right moment to pursue his soulmate

but they didn’t exist

and it hurt more than he’d ever let show

until one day, a quarter century shy of his five thousandth year, he awoke to find a golden string wound tightly around his ring finger — precisely where one might put a wedding band

he shook of the drowsiness and bleariness of sleep in seconds, inspecting the deceptively fragile twine with rapt interest

flicking, tugging, strumming and winding it tighter and tighter — spooling it between his fingers curiously as it continued onwards into the distance without effort or strain

always having the same amount of tautness to it no matter how hard or how far he pulled

gold spun as thin as spider silk yet, as present to the world as a light breeze yet as heavy and palpable as traditional battle regalia as he brushed his fingertip along its surface

tangibly intangible, paradoxically present and yet not so, visible and invisible

exactly as the old stories had told — and there, in the distance somewhere, was his fated other half on the unseeable other end of the string

loki wanted nothing more than to meet you, but he knew well enough that the string’s late appearance meant that he still had a long while to wait — so, instead, he busied himself with his usual routine

messing with his brother, studying with his mother and proving his worth as an heir to asgard to his father

… and i’m sure that we don’t need to explain what happened in the interim so let’s skip forwards until after the 2012 incident…

the last thing he wanted was to spend his sentence waiting on a bunch of mortals — confined to a small space filled with creatures that despised him and that were far below him in every way

and he did very little to hide his disdain for the situation — which was mirrored by his ‘landlord’, stark, who also made it very well known that he didn’t want ‘reindeer games’ living in his tower

loki, in return, went to let out another sarcastic remark about the man’s ignorance before he caught sight of the very thing he’d been ignoring for the better part of a year and the words died on his throat

leaving him completely speechless for the first time since anyone had seen him after his attempt to take his own life back in asgard

after millennia of feeling so terribly alone he could see the other end of his string and it was attached to… well… you

a mortal who looked terribly detached from their surroundings, just carrying out some standard busywork in the background of his custody announcement like it was nothing at all

if he hadn’t have been forced to wear those damned cuffs he’d have peered into your mind by now — but it didn’t take a psychic to see something in you that he had been trying to conceal in himself for a while

loki didn’t speak to you that day, nor did he get the chance for a good few months as your responsibilities kept you separated to different areas of the tower

he, as a (very unwilling) member of the avengers initiative, was forced to keep to the top few floors for training, briefing and other such things

and you, who he found to be a standard member of stark industries, tended to stay on the lower floors of the tower unless you were called upon by your boss

it was frustrating, to say the very least, but the separation gave loki the time to consider his next steps — and his situation as a whole

consider the fact that he’s destined to be with a mortal of all beings — consider the differences in experience, strength and life span

consider the fact that you likely fear or potentially even hate him for his actions against your home world — that you’d probably scorn or mock him because of his actions (and he’d deserve it, he lamented)

consider the fact that he saw part of himself in your eyes and that a mortal of all things might just be the one to understand him

consider how to approach you in the first place

in the end he just about manages to catch you as you’re walking out of a meeting with stark and some higher level agents of s.h.i.e.l.d — coughing and gesturing to the string between the two of you

for a moment you just stare at him, blinking and looking between his neutral expression and the golden string — before cracking something of an awkward smile and introducing yourself (which he returns with a kiss on the back of your hand)

and you’re too busy to stay for long, and he knows this, so he sends you on your way with the promise to meet again soon

but he also says something that sticks with you as you hurry off to your next meeting — for the rest of the day, in fact

‘i understand,’

a simple, unassuming phrase spoken so quietly and genuinely that you might have thought you’d dreamt it had it not been for the earnest look on his face when he spoke

(though even that disappeared a fraction of a second later)

the end of your brief exchange that left you questioning everything you were told about him

his tendency to isolate himself according to thor (and, later, observations from the other avengers)

his habit of lashing out when pressed on certain topics

his lack of appetite for the entirety of the time you (and most other humans) had known him

his apathy towards his own well-being and, well, what he’d done before ending up on earth which had been mentioned in whispers around the office

maybe you had more in common with your soulmate than you realised — but that could be discussed at your next meeting

#sleepingdeath #gender neutral reader #soulmate au #fluff #fluff hcs #marvel fluff #mcu x reader #mcu fluff #loki laufeyson x reader #loki odinson x reader #loki x reader

[chromiumagellanic06]

The Silver Knight: Warrior, Princess, Wife

Daemon Targaryen/Original Fem [Targaryen] Character

Chapter 29: Complete

MASTERLIST

Summary: Aemond's desires come to truth as Daemon and Naera wed in the way of old Valyria.

Word count: 2.9k

Warnings: NSFW Content! It's not THAT explicit, only vague kissing and fondling, heavy implications, suggestive themes, breeding kink, etc.

Aemond knocked tentatively on the ebony door, feet shuffling as he turned to his back, then each side, not at all calmed by the endless echoing corridors of the Keep. In his hand he held an ornate box that lay carved with ancient Valyrian runes—the result of his escapades in the King’s Stores, that he had taken it upon himself to deliver to his uncle and half-sister as a marital gift.

And then some. He had a question to ask, assistance to seek from the person he had grown to trust may understand. His half-sister was as selfish as he felt, he knew, and his uncle her husband even graver in his deeds. They were the perfect match, in a way—blood and fire, the epitome of what it meant to be Targaryen. The world would know no peace.

“Come!” He heard Naera scream from within, and he turned the heavy door on its hinges, silent. And entered the solar. It was strewn adrift with papers and letters, books and fresh parchment. Pots of ink sat beside collections of quills, ornate and rough-spun huddled alike, beside bottles of Dornish Red and some strange concoctions in twinkling glass bottles that ranged from the looks of curdled milk to liquid jade. He could smell ginger, at his first step, lemon at his second, and ash and embers when he sat.

Naera sat on her chair, eyes trained on a letter. She read it, expression bearing a soft frown that he realised was the natural way her lips fell, until she smiled, crumpled the pages in her hands and tossed it into the fireplace.

“Good morrow, Aemond.” Aemond turned to the window, one good eye watching the sun make its descent into the waters.

“It is to be evening soon, sister.” Naera followed his gaze to the window, to the haze that would soon be ushered with twilight. Her face glowed differently, he saw. Much had changed since they last met, even if only a moon had turned. As for him.

He’d made his moves carefully, spent stollen moments with the object of his every desire. He’d plucked her flowers she had never held before, told her tales of truth and sometimes even of valour, stollen kisses under the cover of shadowy night, and held to his stealth for protection. It wasn’t enough.

“Ah.” She turned to the door to her chambers, and said, aloud, “The sun sets soon, make some haste, dear groom.” He saw that she still wore a gown of black silk, not the garments of their tradition. He heard laughter from the other side, slurred words in their mother tongue that Aemond couldn’t quite decipher, but he recognised that Naera sat blushing and silent afterwards.

Blushing, for all her warrior-like ways. It was rather different from his sweet true sister’s blushes. Naera seemed scandalised, mischievous, a light flush of red on her cheeks, an embarrassed smile on her lips, but Helaena, Helaena blushed so red he feared he’d have to fetch a maester, turned so high and brilliant, eyes sparkling, lips chapped together that he--right.

He set the box down on the table, “A gift to commemorate your union.”

Naera smiled, inching the box closer to herself for a look. “Thank you—” but the door opened with a shudder.

Aemond’s uncle walked in, scuttered, rather—his steps were hasty. He was dressed in traditional garbs—red and cream, his silver-white hair left free to hang an inch above his shoulders, Dark Sister in her scabbard in his hand.

“No,” Naera covered her eyes, “A Tyroshi priestess once told me that gazing upon your betrothed on your day of marriage is considered ill-luck.” A burst of laughter left her lips.

“And a Valyrian book once told me that I may gaze at my wife as often as I wish.” Daemon left his sword on the table, snatched his wife’s hands away from her face and kissed her lips, with lust and haste, then kissed her forehead, and ran out the door. Aemond watched his back as he left, baffled as to when he had retaken the sword.

“I closed my eyes!” Naera screamed after him. Still laughing, she turned back to Aemond, “What can I do for you, brother?” Brother. He smiled back at her, unable to stop himself.

“Tell me, sister,” he breathed, licked his lips, hesitant. That is why he’d come, he knew. Sure, pay respects to his favourite family members after Helaena, congratulate them on their union, but there was always the other cause. “How can I take her?” Her, her, her; his Helaena, splendid, ethereal beauty wrapped in a promise of treason.

Naera sighed, and he was glad that she’d understood without him having to spend more words.

Naera poured him a cup of wine, water the colour of blood settling into a silver cask, like rubies spilling from a dark slate. Naera froze as she filled it, eyes distant, lost. Then, she asked, voice betraying her dreamy loss of the moment, “Does the Trident have Green Waters?”

“What?”

“Nothing.” She shook her head, handed him the cup and returned to her chair.

Aemond swallowed the wine in a breath, eye not leaving his sister’s face. She had paled, that sickly palour returning to her face. She blinked frantically, sipped a cup of water.

“You cannot take her, Aemond,” Take what you want, she had told him some moons ago—and he realised his folly. It was akin to a jerk to wake him from a long sleep.

Gods, what had he been thinking? He couldn’t take her, how could he? Where would they go? What would they do when men came seeking them? Had he been so blinded by his love, that he’d forgone all practicality? He’d hoped that she’d have an answer but—“You can maybe ask her.” He furrowed his eyebrows, a ghostly pain returning from under his eyepatch.

Naera sighed, “A maiden’s word must be your shield if you intend to have her.” Rapers went to the Wall at best, to the headsman at worst. Disgraceful.

“I do not mean to defile her,” Aemond defended, “I wish to wed her—to—” to see her wear the garbs Naera would at dusk, to drink her blood and hold her hand and vow to protect her for all their lives. That was what he wanted.

Naera refilled his cup, “I know, and she knows. The world does not.”

“You could—”

“What?” His sister’s eyes grew cold and cruel, her voice tuned to injure, to pick at his folly and tear him a regretful wound, “Tell the world that you love her? It isn’t so simple.” Aemond looked down, unable to meet those crystal eyes. Every word she spoke was true, and that hurt. Leave the world, he thought, Mother is the one we need convince.

“You can only love for so long without being loved, brother,” Naera sighed, chin dropping to her palm, elbow banging against the table, “You can only run if she wishes it also.” Run with me, Helaena. We’ll wed in the faith of the Seven or that of the Valyrians. We’d be one heart, one soul—just say the word.

“She wants me, I am certain of it.” She hates Aegon, and knows well that their days near quickly. If only mother saw through her schemes.

“It is only mother, even the King—”

Naera shook her head, “Fuck the King,” he smiled at her brashness, “fuck your mother and your cock of a grandsire,” he felt a pang of shame after the moment passed. He hadn’t defended them, he realised. He agreed with his sister. His mother, fuck Alicent, who wouldn’t see past the grey shroud of duty to gaze at the world in all its colour. Love, was the colour he wished to see, he reminded himself. He had caught a glimpse, now he wanted a full look. “Aemond,” she summoned his wits back to her, “Ask her, confide in her, and run, together.”

Dusk hung heavy in the isle of Dragonstone, a curtain of fog descending on the shores as fires were lit and the Blood of the Dragon gathered near the volcanic crypts. It was a cacophony of red and black, the colours of their heritage—silver hair and purple eyes, fire in their veins, all gathered in respect or obligation.

The priest fanned the coal and flames, ornate chalices and candles gathered by Rhaenyra arranged on a block of rock marbled with red and yellow—it was slab of frozen fire mined from the haunted crypts of the Dragons.

Daemon could hear them murmuring through the fog from where he stood on the sandy beach. He could make out the Hightower cunt’s voice, could see her black gown flapping in the breeze even through the fog, and it only irritated him. The Blood of the Dragon had gathered, so why, pray why had the stupid lanterns joined in? His robes were scratchy and cold, the calm breezes did nothing to allay his urgency. The sun was falling into the sea, a streak of gold and saffron following it, and the mists grew pink and red as though the sky itself bled. It was time

The waves rustled the sands calmly as she took his side. Wrapped in a robe nearly identical to his—cream and ruby, adorned with gold, an ornate headdress laid between her braided silver locks. Beautiful. The curve of her nose, the pink flesh of her lips, her eyes—crystals clearer than diamonds painted blue and red, gods.

His ire vapourized, that familiar panging of his heart returning, thud, thud, his heart now beat only for her, it seemed.

He took her hand wordlessly, her chilled touch sending shivers through him, and in his mind, he spoke a prayer.

Let me hold this hand forever.

The rocky shores bristled against her bare feet, reminding Naera of the time she had scaled the ports of Asshai from the rocky ends. It hurt, but it was worth it. Daemon’s hand was warm in hers, his grasp tight and binding, as they crossed the threshold to where their family waited.

The fires flared when they made it to the clearing, the sky reddened like a maiden’s blush—if the Gods could betray more of their intentions, she did not know how. With the cold of the fog, and the warmth of his hand, the serene calmness of this event came a gradual understanding that this was right. She was meant for this—to be his, to hold his hand, to wield her sword for them, to sleep and wake and live beside him. Her uncle who had never cared for her, but now he cared not what the world said as long as he could have her.

Her family stood around the flames; the two branches of the house split over the priest. Viserys stumbled close, wilting hair and face, though he had a guilty smile on. He’d done this in some hope of companionship, but it had grown into a sickly sort of love, he knew.

He took her hand, clasped it in his cold damp one, and pressed a shuddering kiss to her forehead. Naera smiled at him, watched him return to Rhaenyra’s side—Rhaenyra, who smiled in a way most disillusioned, who stood with her husband, her sworn guards, her children, her court, choosing war even in that moment. Across the priest was Alicent, face contorted in distaste for such old ways, her children at her side, all in red and black, a treaty of peace. Aemond gave her a curt nod when she met his eye, a tingling smile on her lips.

The priest—one of the old Keepers of the Dragonpit who still followed those old doomed gods—began his droning, hymns sung to Meleys, the goddess of love and fertility, to Teraxes, to Balerion—to nearly every god, but Naera cared not. This had been the scene, she knew—Daemon shrouded in fog, silent and still, calmness in his eyes.

The priest handed him a blade of obsidian, a shard of glass as black as night that glowed in its shadowy beauty. He ran it down her lower lip, skin splitting instantly, blood pooling. He dabbed his thumb on that red, red, red beauty, and smeared a straight line on her forehead.

I name you woman, fire in your veins, it meant.

She took the blade, and did the same for him, his blood warm against her thumb as she drew three bent lines on his forehead.

I name you man, blood in your nature.

He traced the dagger over his palm, striking a wound deep and true to stand out amongst all thousands scars that he brandished. A line of red dripped down his skin. Naera traced the same wound on her own palm—Of my own will, I thus give you myself, and their hands joined in a flash of pain and flame.

The priest began, “Hen lantoti ānograr va syndroti vāedroma,” Blood of two joined as one, lifeblood dripping to mingle and mix, tethering them to each other.

The priest wrapped a ribbon the colour of night and light over their held hands, blood dripping down through the binds.

“Mēro perzot gīhoti elēdroma iārza sīr,” Ghostly flame and song of shadows.

He handed Naera a chalice of stone and glass, as dark as night, and she tilted the vessel till salt and iron flooded her tongue. Our blood to bind.

“Izulī ampā perzī prumī lanti sēteski,” Two hearts as embers forged in fourteen fires.

Daemon mirrored her acts, his face twisting as their blood laced his tongue. He swallowed it bravely, and watched Naera’s eyes. Close, so close.

“Hen jeny māzilarion, qēlossa ozūndesi,” A future promised in glass, the stars stand witness.

Naera breathed, breaking into a delicate smile again, “I shall be your side forever.”

He took her other hand, eyes never leaving—lilac and lilac, crystal clear and shallow pools of glass. “I shall hold your hand forever.”

“Synroro ōñō jēdo ry kīvia mazvestraksi.” The vow spoken through time of Darkness and Light.

She inhaled, cold, wet air flooding her nose in a rush, and she gazed, gazed, gazed at him, his eyes that refused to leave hers, the wealth of his wisdom yet to be cultivated, the gift of his existence forever claimed by her. She said, “I will defend you.” Against the night, against the light, against whatever was to come. Against every wish to exile, every spat with the greens, every ill word with the King, she will stand by him, she will protect his honour as though it was her own.

He smiled, though both love and mischief twinkled in his eye, “I will warm you.” When the night was dark and full of terrors, when the end came and her will faltered, he shall be with her, he shall give her fire and light. He will warm her bed and hers alone, warm her body when the cold came, warm her spirits over every loss and share her joy over every victory.

Naera said, “I will give it all up for you.” Dorne, Volantis, Pentos, the Dothraki Seas, Asshai, and her dreams—Yi Ti, the Jade Sea, whatever lays east of the Shadow, the very wonders of the world could be laid abandon. She loved too easily, but even the gods had proclaimed this union as perfection.

“I will never hurt you.” Not as he once had, no, never. He will never disappoint her, never let her down, never leave her behind, never let her think that he could survive without her.

“I will love you.” Daemon’s heart lost a weight he did not know he bore, a delightful, fiery blaze in his chest, a joy uncontainable. His, his, his. She was his, every flicker on her eyes belonged to him, every mocking word his, every act of bravery, every witted word. He loved already, but he could love better, now that she loved him also.

His hand flew to her face, thumb smearing the blood at her lip, red, red, red, and to show that he cared, that he loved, that he was willing to understand, he said, “For the night is dark and full of terrors.”

She leaned on her toes and kissed his lips.

His laughter would be her lifeblood, she realised as his heaving breaths reverberated through her chest, made her feel warm, made her feel him, his spirit and not just his body.

“D’you know what they’ll all say,” he spoke into her neck, his nose breathing cool air over the red mark of his bite, “When you grow round and great with my child, again and again?”

She laughed, a fleeting giggle morphing into a ridiculed laugh, “What?” He pulled her into a different corridor, away from their chambers.

“The Princess must really love her uncle’s cock,” the vulgarity made her roll her eyes.

“Maybe they’ll think that the prince has no control over himself,” Naera challenged, “Keeps getting his sweet niece with child, the poor woman.” He pushed her against a wall, cold stone of the corridors of the Keep making her flush and hum, and his hands roamed her flesh like a man starved.

Their lips met, tongues melding, breaths fading until the newly wedded couple panted for breath.

“Poor woman?” His eyes twinkled with the sort of courage that came with deeds best not committed.

“They needn’t know,” she kissed his cheek, arms winding around his neck. “They needn’t know that the idea of bearing her uncle’s seed fills the niece with a selfish joy that she cannot account for.” With a deft flick of his hand, her robes parted, rough linen tearing aloud.

“Oh, but the uncle knows,” he descended on her neck again, “He knows very well how much his niece loves having his spend in her womb.” He hoisted her legs up, lips falling to her breasts.

“Yes, oh, yes he does,” she moaned, wits departing her, fingers tugging at his hair, leading him to the other breast. He complied greedily, nipping, licking, kissing the flesh, leaving red and purple marks on every patch of free skin.

Her garbs were torn and ruined; her headdress abandoned in the hands of Laenor before they had scurried to the corridors in some mad bout of lust. Gods, lust was only one word for what she felt. She felt charged, as though lightning had struck her very soul. She felt fiery, as she often did when he stood beside her.

One kiss to his lips and the sentiment had caught on as a candle-flame blazes into an arsonist’s dream.

Now her swelling flesh was in his hands. She had lapped away the drying blood of his lip, sucked at the tear in his skin till the wound was raw, and now, she was at his mercy once again.

“Daemon,” she called, making him stare into her eyes with his own, lilac flowers and bloody amethysts. Beautiful. His hair was tousled, red streaking his forehead, but his eyes, those eyes that were over a decade older than her own yet were livelier than she had been just moons ago.

“Naera,” he called back, as had become their ritual, and she recalled the sweet bliss of hearing her name from his lips again. Completion, he made her sound complete, made her believe that she could conquer this new land that was marriage and slay this new demon that was mistrust.

Footsteps.

And the moment broke, but he was smiling as he leaned his face close to hers, covering her form from view.

“Fuck off,” he chastised behind himself, swaying his wife slowly. “Can’t you see—” but Naera put a finger to his lips, her eyes trained over his shoulder. Daemon turned tentatively, half-expecting his brother or the Hightower cunt or the cunt lord of hands but no.

He hugged his sweet wife tighter as she gave a subtle nod to Aemond, her half-brother—his sister Helaena’s hand in his, her face caught blushing a bright red, as they rushed through corridors and passageways, hastened and cautious. When their footsteps echoed away, Naera laughed.

“The Hightowers fall on our wedding after all.”

To be, or not to be…

…continued

MASTERLIST

#daemon targeryan #original female character #house targaryen #house of the dragon #daemon x oc #daemon smut #daemon targaryen smut #team black #house martell #dance of dragons #melisandre of asshai #melisandre #daemon x y/n #daenerys targeryan #azor ahai #dreams #fanfiction #archive of our own #old valyria #high valyrian #valyrian wedding

[maryhale1]

My perfect reading corner 🥰

In a hidden nook where shadows dance,

A witch's haven, a mystic trance.

Books bound in spells, whispers of old,

In leather and silk, their stories unfold.

Cauldron's brew and potion's gaze,

Pages turn in the moonlit maze.

A reading corner, where magic is spun,

In the heart of a witch, a tale begun.

Each volume a charm, a mystical key,

Unlocking realms where spirits roam free.

A flicker of candle, a rustling cloak,

In this enchanting library, the witch bespoke.

Silent whispers, ancient runes,

Among the books, the magic tunes.

From leather-bound tomes to ancient lore,

In the witch's reading corner, mysteries adore.

#witchcraft #witchy #dark academia #witch aesthetic #witches #witchblr #witchcore #witch community #witch #witches books #witchy library #wicca #wichy vibes #cold weather #wiccalife #wiccablr #bookish #witch library #books & libraries #baby witch #beginner witch #witchy living #author #Fantasy #thunderwitch #my writing #mystic alchemy #spellcasting sorcerer #witchy vibes #gothic

[silkspunweb]

In the Rain

w.c.: 1.7k

it was raining really hard last week and I kept thinking about some of my favorite Higuruma drabbles (like pamakali's or threadbaresweater's, both who I'm too shy to tag)

it's smut. soft smut, but still smut.

He stuttered his hips once, twice, then once more again to fully sink into his lover. Wet patters could be heard downpouring above their little apartment, but the two paid no mind to the rain. Why pay attention to anything other than the warmth between them where soft heated flesh met. 

It was forecast to be the heaviest rain of the year, thus ruining what was supposed to be a day at the amusement park. Halfway there it began to drizzle, and Hiromi had to think quickly before his beloved could catch a cold. Let's wait at the bus stop. They brushed fingertips and refused to let go of the other. Darling, the forecast said that the rain won't let up any time soon. She frowned. That's too bad. His slant eyes softened. I'm so sorry, I should've checked. She brought a hand to his face. There was no way you could've known. It could've happened to anyone. She ran her thumb to smoothen his frown, earning her a soft peck. With how heavily it poured, the two had no chance of grabbing a taxi. So with a shy smile and a raised brow, there was a silent agreement, and they ran. 

Making their way into the apartment, out of breath and still panting, Hiromi's jacket was playfully thrown at him with a splat. A fit of giggles ensued. And you thought that the jacket would help. She poked him in the stomach. Well you're a tad drier than me now, aren't you? He wrung said jacket over her already soaked hair. Hiro, the floor! She gasped as he haphazardly shoved his shoes off and ran inside, leaving her at the shoe rack. Muffled laughter could be heard in the hallways and she stood there scoffing, not wanting to track more water on their dark walnut floor. There was a lively crackle before she heard faint squishy padding. 

He came back with three towels: one around his neck, one in his hands, and one dragged in by his foot on the floor. Here. He chuckled as he wrapped a towel over her shoulders and pulled her in, nosing her cheek after she rolled her eyes at him. I'm soaked Hiro, it wasn't funny. He hummed. It was a little funny. See, you're even smiling. He gave her a chaste kiss. Once on the lips, another on the cheek, more and more until it led him to pepper kisses onto her damp neck. You're so lovely. He sighed, content with resting his head on her shoulder. She stood there taking the weight of his damp hair, his head, his body, as well as the weight of his love. 

They stood there for a moment rocking back and forth in soaked clothes and hushed affections. She pulled away for just a second when she met his gaze, raw and passionate with utter adoration for her in spite of being horribly disheveled with wet hair plastered on like a pitiful kitten. Her breath hitched, leaning in without realizing it as her hands latched onto his soaked shirt. Let's get you out of those clothes. He pressed a slow kiss to her lips as lithe fingers trailed underneath her thin blouse, feeling her shudder when he made direct contact to her skin. He pulled away leaving no more than a few inches between them as he silently pleaded for permission. An instruction. An invitation. 

The towel fell when she wrapped her arms around his neck. Hurry. She whispered onto his lips as she brought him back to life. He kneeled down to make work of the straps of her shoes, carefully peeling off her wet socks as she hissed at the cold air. She pulled him back up for another kiss, teasing, feeling, loving every inch of him that she could. She followed him as he backed into their living room, blouse nearly off and faces were fully flushed. Would you just– just take that stupid shirt off already. She pawed at his torso in frustration. Hiromi, if you don't, I'll–. Stuttered moans fell from her lips as he nipped harshly at her collar, lowering himself to his knees. With a sharp tug, his shirt was off and he looked up at her, lapping at the skin right above her pants. A quick nip here and a smooth tug there, he unbuttoned and freed her out of her confines. 

He was bewitched by the fabric that clung onto the plush planes of his beloved. She couldn't help but run a hand through his hair, over his nape, then ran gentle strokes under his eyes. Another wet plop was heard, she had already discarded the unwanted bra. He pressed a kiss over her mound, eyes still burning up in wonder as she gripped onto his bare shoulders for support. Without another word, she tapped the back of his head and was unceremoniously undressed from the waist down. He nudged her legs apart, lapping where she was most soft and vulnerable to him. Warm and pliable, wet and dulcet. A few playful nips had her buckling against him before he slowly dragged her down, laying her on plush towels and throws she seemed to miss before. What's all this? I never took you for a romantic. She reached for him with one hand and he interlocked their fingers together. What? This? His free hand brushed a tear from the corner of her eye before bringing it down to stroke her leg. He pressed a kiss against her bent knee, scooting himself down until he was comfortable. Just some compensation. He held her thigh over his shoulder as he lapped and lapped. Their hands were still intertwined as she tilted her head back with broken moans. T-there. She panted. Her hips bucked to meet him. 

Here?  He'd tease, pressing her in place, hands gripping tighter until he zeroed in, lips finding her clit. Her mouth dropped as he pushed her over the edge, alternating between slow lapping and harsh sucking. Tears pushed at her waterline as she neared closer and closer until she went over the edge. The hand that once held her thigh over his shoulders dove between her folds, thrusting in to draw out her high. When she finally met his gaze again, he pulled up to meet her for a scorching kiss. There were no more hesitations between them. She parted her thighs and invited him in to fully sink into her. He would've chuckled at her if he wasn't so impatient to be inside, but instead, Higuruma squeezed her hand once more. She dragged her nails down his back with her free hand. Sighs of relief were shared as they bumped foreheads. He whispered under his breath. You're all I ever wanted. 

His hips stuttered for a moment before pulling out just to sink a little further into his lover’s warmth. The rain still hadn't eased, but neither had their fervor for one another. Hiro– Hiro– ugh, oh, Romi. She sighed against him, squeezing his hand, and shakily lifting her free one to cup his face. He pressed a kiss against her palm as his hips snapped a little harder, eyes shutting tight as they both wanted to get closer. She pulled him in further with her legs as the low fire in her belly rekindled again. The downpour outside did little to hide the clapping of skin on skin and Higuruma knew that. He moaned into her neck as he listened closely to the sounds of himself continuously splitting her into two. One could almost mistaken it for the rain.

Higuruma looked down at his lover and found that her eyes had a distant longing to them. An ache that had to be soothed. A hunger that had to be fulfilled. In the throes of their passion, she was shoved up roughly against the blankets, her hair splaying on top of the bunched up fabrics, her lashes wet from pleasure, her cheeks flushed, and her hips bruising by the sheer force of him. She was like his velvet-kissed Venus, praised by the depths of his love. He wanted to ravage her more and more, and she loved every second of it. 

He adjusted her legs against his hips for the umpteenth time that night before plaiting their other hand together, finally deciding how he wanted to take her. Higuruma leaned in, capturing her lips again as he held her hands down right beside her head. His speed picked up as he continued his ruthless attack on her now swollen lips. Confessions were pressed from one mouth to another. Hushed sighs and broken moans threatened to leave the confines of their little apartment. He was ever the passionate lover, a considerate and most generous lover. You're so beautiful. He stared down at her with starlit eyes and a flushed face, so sweet and sincere. 

Her heart was pounding, it was too much. The weight of his words shook her to her core. She babbled underneath him. I love you. I love you. I love you. Higuruma felt his climax approach as his lover squeezed around him. She was at her edge too and just needed a little more until the thread snapped. You're so good to me. You always take me so well. His eyes bore into her teary ones, captivated by his confessions, tipping over the edge as he stroked all the right spots. 

She looked at him once more before pulling him with her into bliss and utter adoration. He shuddered and sighed in relief, filling her up before waiting a moment to take her in. She was never more lovely than when she glowed against him like this. With a kiss to her temple, he pulled out slowly and drew her into his arms. His legs wobbled as he carried the both of them back to bed. Another I love you was pressed against her lips after he laid her down. He tucked her against him, drawing the blanket over them as the world continued its pour. But neither of them minded that when they were safe and hidden from the rain.

credits to @ cafekitsune for the fic divider ❤️

and thank you for the 300+ notes on my first fic, it means a lot to me

#jjk x reader #jjk smut #higuruma x reader #higuruma smut #silk spun tales #inspired by threadbaresweaters and pamakali #and the rain of course #happy valentine's day <3

[quitealotofsodapop]

Jiǔwěihúlí/Jiuweihuli - The Nine Tailed Vixen

By the way; Wukong in "The Monkey King and the Infant"/TMKATI au isnt the only monkey getting an adoptive parental figure >:3

Went down a little of a Huli jing rabbit-hole after recieveing this ask from @dorothygale123:

And while researching Jin and Yin in the book, I realised some stuff;

In "Journey to the West", the Jin and Yin's mother is frequently described as "aged/old madam", making it likely that she had them in the demon equivalent of middle-age.

Here's the poetry Wukong jots down (he does that alot in the book) when he sees her for the first time;

"Snow-white hair all tousled,

And starlike eyes all aglow.

Her face, though ruddy, has many wrinkles;

She‟s full of spirit though few teeth remain.

Charming—like the frosted chrysanthemum;

Rugged—like an old pine tree after rain.

A scarf of fine-spun white silk wraps her head,

And bejeweled gold rings hang from her ears"

For some odd reason, the monkey cries at the sight of her (his excuse being that he has to bow to her while disguised as a servant). Then he abruptly bonks her and her servants while travelling before stealing her divine Binding Gold Rope and disgusing himself as her to trick her sons. And of course the whole Calabash incident happens, the boys uncle calls down an army of fox demons to fight the pilgrims, and Lao Tzu has to show up and smack his lab assistants across the head.

Which leaves the question... how does Lao Tzu know the kids of a random fox lady???

Well you see, in the Han-era (206 BCE - 220 CE); Xiwangmu was often depicted with a white-furred Huli Jing among her ladies-in-waiting. But any worship of fox-deities was out-lawed in the Song dynasty (960 CE - 1279 CE) due to a cult religion that worshipped Su Daji (of the "Investiture of the Gods/Fengshen Yanyi" fame).

So my idea for Jiuweihuli in the extended LMK-verse, is that she's was once Xiwangmu's og bestie, even long before the celestial tigress became Empress. The fox being among many chaotic and infernal spirits in the future Queen Mother's posse.

Upon the abdication of Yuanshi Tianzun as the Divine Emperor; Jiuweihuli would assist the future-Jade Emperor in his ascension to the throne, gaining her the titles "Dragon-Crushing/Supressing Vixen" due to her defeating multiple draconic rivals in battle.

For many centuries, Jiuweihuli and her family were welcome members of the Imperial Court. The older vixen having a position almost equal to a head consort despite her and the Emperor not having such interest in eachother.

Then the Investiture crisis happened...

Within years, all that Jiuweihuli had built in the Celestial Realm crumbled. The actions of Su Daji soured opinion of the Celestials towards all fox spirits. Jiuweihuli was forced to be exiled from the Jade Palace down to Earth to prevent her being killed in an angry mob.

Penniless, alone, and with only her trusty pipa to her name; Jiuweihuli would travel and sing.

Eventually she gained a reputation as a grand preformer, drawing in audiences and tudis alike. Most of her trainees were unaware of her true nature, and those who did kept it quiet - drama kids loved the tragedy of the vixen's tale and would sing it throughout opera houses.

And one day, some time after the Monkey King tore through Heaven; Jiuweihuli gained a very unusual apprentice.

Jiuweihuli, sitting at her vanity table: "You look familiar." Macaque, stepping out of the shadows: "I was once the attendant to Princess Iron Fan, but I believe both of our places in the court have been absolved." Jiuweihuli: "Oh yeah, I went to that wedding. Had to wear a glamour. Is that Bull prince treating her right?" Macaque: "He is. He was even willing to sacrifice his place in his own court for her." Jiuweihuli: "Ah. Young love. But what brings you here?" Macaque, sheepishly: "I uh... heard you were the person to go to if I wanted to learn how to preform professionally." Jiuweihuli: "...your boyfriend's in jail, right?" Macaque: "Uh, yeah?" Jiuweihuli, getting up from her vanity table: "Good. 'Cus you're about to recieve many admirers." Macaque: :'D!

You see, the older fox spirit knew she wasn't to be the "Vixen of the Stage" for much longer. She was already thousands of years old, and had found herself in the family-way by means of a romance gone sour. So when the dark, mysterious, and deadly beautiful Six-Earred Macaque showed up in her dressing room asking for mentorship? Jiuweihuli knew she had found her understudy.

With the Macaque taking on her most famous roles, Jiuweihuli was able to focus on raising her twin sons; Jin and Yin. Macaque often found himself dragged into babysitting the little terrors by the maternal fox, even if he had to admit their thieving skills were very good. The vixen in turn would protect the monkey from more imposing audience members/fans and encourage his more sarcastic humor.

She was of the shoulders Macaque cried upon when him and Wukong had their falling out.

Eventually the vixen managed to get into contact with an old... "friend" (the twins gag at the thought) Lao Tzu to provide the reckless boys some decent education.

Aaand of course Wukong had to show up centuries later and cause havoc for the fox family when the twins got a little wild with their teacher's stash/artifacts. Luckily Jiuweihuli's brother, Hu A'qi, managed to smooth things over with heaven and offered his studious daughter as another lab assistant to keep the boys in check. Jiuweihuli, cleaning her wounds, sent a letter informing Macaque that his "idiot boyfriend" was out of jail...

Jiuweihuli soon lost her understudy.

The shadow monkey too blinded by anger to consider who would have to pick up the pieces if he failed. Jiuweihuli would eventually go on to teach a hundreds of aspiring actors and musicians, but she always would mourn for her little shadow.

Cue the events of "The Monkey King and the Infant" where Macaque begins frequenting and eventually working at the Megapolis Threatre House. He recognises not only his Brotherhood-era friend Jade-Faced; but a certain old master of his...

Jiuweihuli: "Do I know you?" Macaque: "I should hope so. I was your understudy for many years." Jiuweihuli: "I've trained hundreds of understudies, hon." Macaque: "You trained me during the Tang-era? I could manipulate the shadows?" Jiuweihuli: "Doesn't ring a bell." *sly smirk* Macaque, realises she's messing with him: *sigh* "My idiot boyfriend hit you on the head with a cudgel and I stupidly ran after him and got killed." Jiuweihuli, dropping the act: "Mihou! My little moonlight! Oh how I've missed you!" *gives him a big lipstick-stained smooch on the cheek*

The old vixen is very protective of her understudy now that she has him back. Her motherly side really comes to the surface when she's interacting with the shadow monkey, even if her interactions with her biological children isn't as soft. Jin and Yin get a slap of her sandal more than a few times for their foolishness.

If she learns that Macaque has a kid/kid on the way, Jiuweihuli is going full Grandma-mode. She's always considered her understudy as equal to her own kits and now he's all grown up!! (╥ ω ╥)

And you better believe a certain Monkey King is getting his ass kicked by an old lady the second Jiuweihuli learns he's around.

#the monkey king and the infant #the monkey king and the infant au #liu er mihou #six eared macaque #lmk aus #jiuweihuli #Jiǔ wěi húlí #lmk character ideas #lmk jin and yin #lmk gold and silver demons #lmk backstory hcs #nine tailed vixen #lmk jiuweihuli

[escape-the-real]

The Lost Crown: A Tale of Rebellious Royalty. (Fantasy Au x reader)

Drabble, Characters are 18+

Synopsis: Y/n has been held prisoner by their ruthless uncle. Will they be able to escape tonight?

Word count: 2,128

Includes/mentioned: Toga, Shigaraki, Dabi, Magne, Spinner, Hana, Bakugo.

Key: (T:) - Translation, (e/c) - eye colour, (s/c) - skin colour, (h/c) - have colour.

Warning: Angst and mentions of death.

⚔︎- Chapter One: The Prisoner's Escape-⚔︎

Y/n stood at the tower window, typical, I know. Far down below, the courtyard bustled with busy working people. Unlit lanterns clang gently against the thick stone wall in the swaying motion from the gentle breeze. That same breeze wafted the smell of a whole hog turning slowly on a spit above the fire. An ensemble of performers from the town spun brightly coloured ribbons over their heads. And Y/n knew that inside the castle, players, jugglers, singers, acrobats, and whores waited to do their duties.

The Yami no dōmei (T: Dark Alliance) Stewardess, Himiko Toga, bounced across the courtyard. She threatened a couple of worker boys who were doing more looking than working.

"Hurry up, you useless bloodbags. His Royal Highness will arrive shortly and see you doing absolutely nothing! What do you think he'll do then, huh?" she let out an insane laugh, watching them scramble at the mention of his mere title.

Y/n didn't so much as laugh. Too often they have seen Prince Shigaraki punish those who had mistakenly displeased him. They shake their head at the remembrance of the screams of the punished. Quickly, Y/n thought of safer memories of their mother telling them tales of the great dragons who protect the innocent. Fascinating creatures they were to Y/n, ever since they were a child.

"Today is the day and this time," Y/n thought fiercely, "this time Shigaraki will let me come down from this tower. He must!"

The Maya blue-coloured sky dimmed into a lavender. A shade of pink outlined the black, twisted trees of the forest. Y/n watched the colors of the sky dance together. Looking below once more, the lanterns were now lit. Almost as if they were scaring away the darkness from the courtyard. All was ready. A distant trumpet sounded. A line of ghost-like lights could be seen floating along the forest road.

"He's here! He's here!" shouted Toga.

At the sound of her voice, the drawbridge went down with a low creaking and moaning. The line of lights came closer and revealed torch-lit horseback riders. Some carried torches, while others carried flowing banners. There was a great clatter of hooves and blaring of trumpets as the riders crossed the drawbridge.

Only one man drew his head up slowly towards the tower as the riders thundered into the courtyard. Y/n stepped back so fast that they almost tripped over the rug. As the curtain fell back into place, a shiver racked down their spine before saying to themselves, "I see he has not forgotten me."

The prince came to visit Y/n only once in a blue moon, so every one to two years. And even that was too many times for their liking. During Prince Shigaraki's last visit, Y/n had been denied permission to walk in the corridor outside their room. Remembering this made Y/n hold their chin up high and stubbornly. This visit, Y/n meant to challenge him. They prayed that their courage wouldn't leave them.

Y/n knew The Prince usually stayed for several weeks, entertaining his many guests with brawls, drinking, many acts, and feasting. Then he would return to his court of villains, and what little peace was back to the small palace. Y/n gritted their teeth as they knew that during those several weeks, maybe even tonight, he would seek them out.

Waiting, Y/n paced the floor of their bedroom tower. The fine fabric of silk wisped around their body at each turn. Nervously, they played with the lace that trimmed the silk garment. The hours passed. Laughter and music floated up from the courtyard, but Y/n would not go back to the window. They made themselves sit on an uncomfortable padded stool.

They were still there when the door opened. Magne, who was Y/n warden and maid, ducked inside the room. The man behind her was not as tall but lean with narrow shoulders. But it was his face that drew the focus. It was pale, scratch-littered, with sunken eyes that looked like two blood droplets, and a dark expression.

"Well? Stand up and greet your Prince!" Shigaraki snapped.

Y/n stood up and forced themself to hold their head high in defiance. They met his icy look without flinching, which most cannot do. But Y/n could tell that he was not pleased with what he saw.

"They grow more like their mother every day… How could Hana marry an American is beyond my understanding. Look at their h/c and s/c!"

He made a sound of disgust and moved away from them.

"If they didn't bear the birthmark that Hana did, no one would recognize them as one of us!" he said.

Magne let out a laugh, but she stopped when The Prince spun to glare at her. Y/n remained where they were, they didn't dare speak. They couldn't.

"Still, they have the upbringing and bearing befitting one of royal blood. If they went down amongst the commoners, they just might…" His voice trailed off while he scratched at his neck. "But we'll see that doesn't happen, won't we Magne?"

Yes, My Lord," Magne said.

Y/n looked at her maid with eyes that seemed to blaze e/c. Prince Shigaraki inhaled deeply. He turned away.

"Does they not speak? Toga cut out their tongue?" He asked Magne.

"Yes, they speak," she said sourly. "And it's sharp like a dagger too."

"ah, I see. So, they are stubborn then? Willful?"

"Yes again My Lord. For all the time we've had her, you'd think they were the royal highness." Magne said with a sneer.

Prince Shigaraki frowned. He looked back at Y/n. "They grow like a weed. Soon they will propose a threat to my throne. Something will need to be done… It will be decided before my visit here is done."

Magne threw a barbed glance at Y/n. They felt their dislike for their maid once more and knew that she wouldn't miss the long climb up the tower steps if they were gone.

After one last pensive look at Y/n, Prince Shigaraki stalked out as Magne followed suit by shutting the door. Y/n rushed across their room to the closed door and pressed their cheek against the wood. Their heart sank as they heard the loud click as the door was locked from the outside.

"Someday… sometimes," Y/n promised themselves fiercely, "they'll forget."

Then the hot anger Y/n felt left them, and they slid to the floor. What had Shigaraki meant? Y/n wondered. What would he do to them before he left? Y/n shuddered. All their efforts to escape had ended in embarrassingly quick captures by Shigarki's goons. Now, despite the risks, Y/n knew that they must try again.

Deep in thought, Y/n didn't hear the lock click again. The moving door caught them by surprise. Y/n rolled over quickly to keep from getting hit as it swung open. Magne came back in, muttering to herself. Y/n remained where they were, hidden by the opened door. Sudden hope made their heart skip a beat, and they held their breath.

"Oh dear heart, probably on the bed pouting again," Magne complained.

She saw the food tray across the room and went to go grab it.

"No more climbing those stairs, I'm done my leg day for the night. I will be downstairs enjoying my evening of ale!" She called into the bedroom.

When she didn't get an answer, she grunted. A few more steps lead Magne to the arch that led to Y/n's sleeping quarters. Muttering to herself once more, she peered inside.

For a quick moment, Y/n's body felt glued to the floor. Then suddenly they were up and out the wooden door. One good pull swung that heavy door shut. Y/n used both hands to turn the enchanted quirk-cancelling key. They stopped to listen. They could tell that Magne was pounding on the door. They also knew that no one could hear her. Even in the downtime of the palace, it was hard to hear beyond the thick wood. Tonight would be extremely impossible.

Y/n descended the winding staircase cautiously, even though they felt like rushing down with joy. From previous efforts to escape, they knew that the stairs branched out like roots of a tree in many directions. Y/n took one of the left corridors that led to the art gallery that overlooked the great hall. The noise below was deafening to their ears due to hearing little each day.

Y/n hid behind the folds of the monstrous tapestry. The guests and singer were downstairs but Y/n knew that the singers would soon return to the art gallery for their moments break. Quickly, their e/c eyes scanned the crowd.

Y/n saw no one they could trust. Their father was assassinated by Shigaraki's right-hand man and bounty hunter, Dabi before they were born. And their mother died soon after Y/n's birth. "Uncle" or Prince Shigaraki had kept them locked away and hidden in the palace as they grew older. The servants had been chosen for their loyalty to him. Any guest who happened to catch a quick glimpse of Y/n's face at the window thought that it was a gosht haunting the tower.

Toga had taken great delight in passing along that story. Y/n's mouth curled into a smirk of satisfaction as they thought of the punishment that his servants would get in the morning due to their escape. Their gaze left the guests and went to the servants.

"…Servants…" Y/n muttered to themselves. They watched the servants buzz around, tending to guests. Y/n brows creased in thought.

"They are wearing clothes used only for their work in the palace. Nothing can be taken home… They have to change somewhere, downstairs?" Y/n thought.

Ripping down a tapestry and flipping it around, Y/n made a makeshift cloak. It covered their face and only trailed slightly on the floor. They hurried down the steps and into the throng of people in the great hall, hoping that they would be mistaken for a commoner who provided the acrobatic acts. No one stopped them. Y/n walked quickly out of the great hall and down a lower corridor with the same success. Everyone was too busy working, drinking, and or playing to pay attention to them wandering around. Near the courtyard, they found what they were looking for. On one wall were multiple clothes of different sizes on pegs. Y/n searched around until they found a worn frock and rough shoes, they appeared to belong to someone on the kitchen staff.

Quickly stripping off the cloth they had on now, they pulled on the escape disguise. Y/n crept back down the hallway and stopped long enough to put their silk garments in a deep vase where they would not be found. Then, pulling the cloak back around their face, they slid out the door into the courtyard.

Y/n moved around the fringes of the bustling crowd, keeping to the shadows. Only once did they turn aside to avoid running into Toga and found themself looking directly into the eyes fire breather hired as an act. His ruby-red eyes stood out from the painted mask, they seemed to stare right into Y/n's heart. Y/n stared back, unable to move. Then the crowd shifted, pushing them along. Y/n wriggled and thrust their way back into the shadows. When they looked back, the fire-breather was gone as if he disappeared into thin air.

"Hurry," Y/n told themself over their pounding heart. Desperately they searched for a way out without being detected. That's when they saw a wagon off by itself, being loaded with empty ale barrels. Y/n waited until the men finished loading the wagon and prayed that it would pass the drawbridge unchallenged. The men waved the driver a merry farewell, that's when Y/n scrambled into the back and squeezed themself between the barrels.

Y/n pulled the tapestry completely over their face and became a shadow themself. Y/n lay perfectly still, hardly breathing for fear of getting caught. The wagon rattled and jostled across the courtyard slowly. When the challenge came, Y/n clamped their teeth together to keep them from chattering out loud. Then the granting voice of the gatekeeper, Spinner, came ringing out. Along with a few cheerful insults to the driver. The driver yelled back, roaring with laughter, and the wagon creaked onward through the gate.

The wheels rumbled over the boards and onto the dirt road, leading to the dark forest. As the twisted trees appeared, Y/n jumped into action and slipped out the back of the wagon, dropping to the ground. Triumph tingled through Y/n, pushing away all fear that once resided. Y/n started walking through the tree line and that walking turned into a run.

"I'm free. I-I'm finally free!" Y/n called to the night.

Thanks for reading, hope it was enjoyable!! Make sure to stick around for ⚔︎- Chapter Two: The Dark Forest-⚔︎

#bakugou katsuki #bnha x reader #anime fanfic #fiction #bnha #bakugou x reader #anime #Shigaraki #Toga #Bnha fantasy Au #Barbarian Bakugou #Spinner #The Lost Crown: A Tale of Rebellious Royalty #Kiribaku #Dragon Kirishima #MHA #Fantasy #@escape-the-real

[giant-tiny-fiber-friends]

Sewing in G/T

Fiber Arts | Knitting | Crochet

Sewing is one of those skills that exists in literally any representation of g/t, even if it's not emphasized! Most people wear clothes, and those clothes have to come from somewhere. If they're not being sourced from another place, like doll's clothes for borrowers, then giants and tinies likely have to make clothes for themselves! So long as they have a needle and thread, they can make and mend their own clothes and other articles.

As per the usual format now, I'll be going through examples of g/t sewing in media that I'm aware of, talk about some of the practical application in g/t scenarios, and provide some examples of what gives me real life g/t vibes in sewing.

Just a heads up, I am a relative novice with sewing compared to knitting/crochet, having picked it up only in the last few years. So if anyone more experienced has more ideas, please share them!

In Media

This time around I actually have quite a few examples of on-screen sewing in g/t that I know of, and as always I'd love if anyone would share others that aren't shown here!

The most practical example of tiny sewing I know of is the scene from Studio Ghibli's Arrietty (The Secret World of Arrietty) in which she and Homily are putting together very large bags in preparation for their move. Not only is it a nice quiet moment that starts to build the tension and seriousness of their situation, but it also showcases the difference in skill and experience between mother and daughter.

While appearing rather large in comparison to real life hand stitching, you can see that Homily's stitches are tight and even along her own seam. Arrietty's, on the other hand, are uneven, and within the scene Homily points out that some of them are too long and she'll have to start her seam over to make sure it's properly secure.

Homily is shown sewing in several iterations of The Borrowers that I've seen, as shown below. She seems to be mending things in the 1997 and 1992 versions, and I think 2011 Homily is running her needle through a ribbon, maybe making a ruffle? It's hard to tell since it's not exactly the focus of the scene, but it's clearly a way for her to cope with her husband very audibly getting into trouble.

And for once I have examples of giant sewing to include as well! @taters169 recently shared one with me in the discord, in a version of Gulliver's Travels I hadn't seen before. The Lilliputians pitch in to make him a new jacket!

Another, shorter example is from an old Disney short about Paul Bunyan, an American folk tale about a giant lumberjack. There's a brief scene, timestamped below, in which the town that found and adopted Paul as a baby came together to make his clothes. Not only does this include sewing, but there's also a big group spinning yarn to knit into cartoonishly large booties for him. Again, it's very short, only one shot in the whole thing, but it's nice to see those details included!

The Potential

Sewing has been around since the dawn of time, so there's really no reason why any giant or tiny couldn't have some access to it in some form or another, if they really try! Needles can be made from bone or antler if metal isn't available, and tinies can potentially use human-sized needles for their own purposes. Sewing needles come in many different thicknesses and lengths, so depending on the scale, they don't have to be too unwieldy. The smallest needles I've seen were quilting needles (shown below), but I'm sure if a tiny or giant is crafty enough, they could make their own.

As for thread, that can be sourced from loads of places! It can be spun from natural fibers, like animal hair or plant fiber or silk, or it can be repurposed. Giants could use spools of rope, and tinies could use some of the thinner threads available.

Similarly, fabric can be homespun and woven, or found and gathered and recycled. I think it depends on the kind of setting you're working with, and whether the giants or tinies live adjacent to human society and have to source things that way. If they live independently, then the former is certainly a possibility. The latter is the reason patchwork items give me major g/t vibes! It's a thrifty way to put clothes together when you don't have enough of any one fabric for the entire thing. The smaller the patchwork, the bigger I envision the person wearing it since I can only imagine giants could find very small amounts of fabric at a time, proportionally.

I guess that leads right into:

Real Life G/t Vibes

With regard to sewing patterns, Vibes are really open to interpretation. I often gravitate to simple garments that don't have too many bells and whistles. Adjustable garments as well, especially if one imagines a giant or tiny could have less access to fasteners.

I recently found a company called Matchy Matchy Sewing Club. I'm in no way affiliated with them. They're a US based company that sells cotton and linen fabric, and PDF sewing patterns. The patterns are designed in such a way as to have several panels, giving ample opportunity to mix and match fabrics into some very cute patchwork looks!

I will say that printing PDF patterns can be tough on a domestic printer, so if you can, I would find a service that can print patterns full size for you. I can't speak for international services, but I know that in the US you can use PDF Plotting and have patterns printed and shipped to you. I haven't used it personally yet, but from what I've heard, it's more worth it to upload several patterns to print at once to make the shipping worth it. If anyone knows of other services that work internationally or in other countries, please let us know!

Fabric choice is also a factor in g/t vibes. Solids are kind of a blank slate, but if there's any sort of pattern on it, I feel it kind of works like visual storytelling. For instance, Moda has a line of tone-on-tone fabric called 'Grunge' that almost looks pre-distressed, great to give one some rugged, well-worn vibes! In a similar vein, I'm a huge fan of their speckled metallic line, which is a fun and random-looking small scale print.

The scale of prints can do a lot to imply how large or small someone is, without being obvious enough to those not in the know. Small scale can give the impression of being big in comparison, while large scale has the opposite effect! Examples below, small scale Liberty Tana Lawn on the left, and large scale Robert Kaufman Organic Flannel on the right.

The thickness and texture of the fabric can also play a part. For example, cotton woven fabrics are much thinner and more drapey than typical quilting cottons, and there are lightweight canvases that are stiffer than typical cotton, but still usable in garments if one wanted to make something that looked like it was originally made for dolls!

I feel like I could go on forever about this, but I'll cut myself off there. What do you think? I'd love to hear your ideas and inspirations for g/t sewing! And if you'd like to chat with more g/t fiber folk, come join us on our discord!

#g/t fiber arts #gt fiber arts #g/t sewing #gt sewing #giant tiny #g/t community #giant #tiny #the borrowers #gulliver's travels #gulliver's travels 1977 #the borrowers 1992 #the borrowers 1997 #the borrowers 2011 #arrietty #the secret world of arrietty #paul bunyan #borrowercore #giantcore #tinycore #g/t vibes #g/t

[star-wars-writing]

Stellar Serendipity

Another story for Codywan bingo for @codywanbingo I hope you'll like it. @swfandomevents

The prompt for this story was Blind date, it's a bit different, but I still think it could be considered blind datish.

In the vast expanse of the cosmos, where stars whispered ancient secrets and galaxies danced in silent harmony, there existed a marvel of human ambition and architectural wonder: the Celestial Haven. This space station, a gleaming jewel set against the velvet backdrop of space, was a testament to the ingenuity and spirit of cooperation that thrived among the planets of the Galactic Alliance.

Orbiting a mesmerizing nebula, with its swirls of color painting a celestial canvas, the Celestial Haven was more than a mere outpost; it was a symbol of peace and prosperity, a meeting point for the diverse cultures that dotted the star-studded expanse of the universe. Its structure, a harmonious blend of elegance and functionality, featured domes and spires that mirrored the distant stars, while its interiors were adorned with the finest materials from countless worlds – luminescent stones from the caves of Glimmera, rare woods from the forests of Verdantia, and woven silks spun by the artisans of Serica.

On this particular galactic cycle, the Celestial Haven was abuzz with anticipation for an event of unparalleled significance – a grand gala to raise funds for the restoration of war-torn planets. This noble cause had drawn dignitaries, philanthropists, and heroes from across the galaxies, each contributing to a future where the scars of war could be healed and harmony restored. The gala was to feature an auction, an event not merely for the exchange of rare and valuable items but also an opportunity for the influential attendees to display their generosity and commitment to the galactic community.

In the heart of the station, the grand ballroom awaited its esteemed guests. Vast and opulent, with high ceilings that simulated the night sky of a thousand worlds, it was an arena of splendor. Holographic projectors cast soft, ambient light, creating an ethereal atmosphere that was both inviting and awe-inspiring. Tables adorned with exotic centerpieces and the finest culinary delights from across the stars were arranged with meticulous care, ensuring that the evening would be both a feast for the senses and a testament to the cause that had brought them all together.

At the center of the ballroom, a raised dais served as the focal point for the auction. Here, the most prized offerings would be presented, each carrying the promise of significant contributions to the reconstruction efforts. Among these, unbeknownst to one of the key figures of the night, was a lot that would serve as the catalyst for an unexpected and profound connection.

In this setting, where the wonders of the universe converged and the hopes of many rested, the stage was set for an evening that would be remembered not just for its grandeur and philanthropy, but for the serendipitous moments and unforeseen encounters that would unfold under the watchful eyes of a billion stars.

Under the ethereal glow of the Celestial Haven's grand ballroom, where the universe's elite gathered in a symphony of lights and whispers, the Stewjoni envoy navigated the gala with a demeanor as serene as the tranquil hills of his homeworld. Clad in robes that whispered of distant stars and deep oceans, he was a portrait of poise, his every gesture an echo of the calm that reigned in the lush landscapes of Stewjon.

As he conversed with diplomats and scholars, his keen eyes observed the room, taking in the myriad stories each guest carried. It was then that his gaze fell upon a figure he recognized, not from personal acquaintance but from the holo-news that often featured tales of valor and heroism from across the galaxies. This man, standing with the easy confidence of one who had commanded legions, was the celebrated Commander known as Cody. The Stewjoni envoy had heard of his exploits, tales of courage and strategic brilliance that had turned the tide of battles in the Galactic Armed Forces' favor.

There was something about the commander that intrigued the envoy from Stewjon. Perhaps it was the juxtaposition of the commander's battle-hardened exterior with the warmth he exuded, or perhaps it was the subtle hints of depth and introspection that seemed to flicker in his eyes – a suggestion that there was more to this man than medals and accolades. The envoy felt a pull of curiosity, a desire to understand the story behind those eyes that had seen so much.

As the night progressed, the Stewjoni envoy found himself increasingly drawn to the idea of meeting the commander. When whispers of the evening's charity auction began to ripple through the crowd, mentioning that a dinner with Commander Cody was to be auctioned to support the war-torn planets' rebuilding, a plan began to form in the envoy's mind. Here was an opportunity, not just to contribute to a noble cause but also to satiate his curiosity about the man who had become a legend in the annals of the Galactic Armed Forces.

This notion, initially a mere flicker of interest, grew into a resolve. The Stewjoni envoy, known for his diplomacy and wisdom, saw in this potential meeting a chance for a unique exchange of perspectives – a dialogue that could transcend the ordinary and venture into realms of understanding and camaraderie rarely explored in the usual circles of galactic diplomacy. The thought of bidding for the dinner became less about the act of winning and more about the promise of a conversation that could bridge worlds and experiences, a rare opportunity in the often-scripted dances of interstellar politics.

Thus, as the auction drew near, the envoy from Stewjon readied himself, not as a bidder in a charity event, but as a seeker of stories, eager to unravel the layers of a man known to many but understood by few. In the cosmic waltz of the gala, amidst the swirling nebulas and distant stars that adorned the Celestial Haven, a new chapter was waiting to be written, one that would weave the tales of a diplomat and a commander into a narrative spun from starlight and shared destinies.

As the evening unfurled its tapestry of starlit conversations and laughter, the Stewjoni envoy, accompanied by a close confidant, navigated the intricate social labyrinth of the gala. His friend, Quinlan, a man of sharp wit and insightful observations, provided a contrasting but complementary presence to the envoy's calm demeanor.

They moved through the room, a pair of celestial drifters weaving through constellations of diplomats, merchants, and scholars. The envoy, with a mind as vast as the cosmos, engaged in exchanges that were more than mere pleasantries. Each conversation was a subtle dance of intellect and empathy, revealing the layers beneath the glittering facades of the gala's attendees.

As they conversed, Quinlan, ever the astute observer, noted the way others gravitated towards his friend. It wasn't just the Stewjoni's diplomatic acumen that drew them in; it was the genuine interest and depth he brought to every interaction. In a universe where words were often currency, the envoy's conversations were a rare commodity – sincere, thoughtful, and enlightening.

Amidst a discussion on interstellar trade dynamics with a merchant from the Core Worlds, the envoy's attention subtly shifted. Across the room, the commander, unaware of the silent regard, engaged in his own sphere of influence. His laughter, unburdened and sincere, cut through the hum of the room, a testament to a spirit unchained from the weight of command, if only for a night.

Quinlan, noticing the envoy's diverted attention, leaned in. "He's quite the figure, isn't he?" he remarked, a playful nudge in his tone. "The commander, I mean. I've heard the stories, but seeing him here, he's... different than I expected."

The envoy nodded, his eyes reflecting a galaxy of thought. "Indeed," he replied, his voice a soft echo of distant stars. "There's a depth to him, layers that the tales of heroism don't reveal. It's intriguing."

As they continued their stroll, the envoy engaged with various attendees, each interaction a brushstroke in the canvas of his diplomatic artistry. He spoke of peace and progress, of art and culture, his words weaving a tapestry that encompassed the myriad aspects of galactic society. And in each conversation, whether it was with a junior diplomat in awe of his presence or a seasoned politician seeking his counsel, the envoy's essence shone through – a beacon of wisdom and integrity.

As the night waned and the moment of the auction drew near, Quinlan remarked, "You're considering bidding, aren't you? For the dinner with the commander?"

The envoy's response was a contemplative silence, a serene sea amidst the swirling gala. "It's an opportunity for a unique dialogue, Quinlan," he finally said. "A meeting of minds and experiences that could be quite enlightening."

Quinlan smiled, a knowing glint in his eyes. "Just remember, my friend, the galaxy is full of surprises. This dinner might just be one of them."

**** 

The commander, immersed in the vibrant tapestry of the gala, found his attention invariably drawn to the enigmatic figure of the red-headed Stewjoni envoy. Among a sea of galactic diversity, there was something about the man that stood out - perhaps it was the way his blue eyes seemed to hold entire galaxies within them, or the serene confidence that emanated from his every gesture.

Rex, the commander's brother, a man of keen perception and unshakable loyalty, leaned in closer, his voice low but tinged with amusement. "You seem quite taken with our distinguished diplomat over there," he observed, his gaze flicking towards the envoy.

The commander, usually a fortress of composure, felt a rare flush of warmth at the comment. "He's an interesting figure," he admitted, his gaze lingering on the Stewjoni. "There's a depth to him, something... compelling."

Rex chuckled softly, "Well, the night is young, and the gala is full of opportunities. Who knows, you might get a chance to discover what lies beneath that diplomatic exterior."

The commander nodded, a thoughtful expression etching his features. The idea of a conversation with the envoy was unexpectedly appealing - a chance to step away from the usual military discourse and delve into a realm of thought and reflection he seldom explored.

As the evening progressed, the commander found himself inadvertently seeking glimpses of the Stewjoni amidst the crowd. There was an effortless grace about him, a tranquility that seemed almost out of place in the bustling gala. It was as if he carried a piece of his serene homeworld with him, a calm eye in the storm of galactic politics.

Meanwhile, the Stewjoni envoy, in his gentle orbit around the room, shared moments of connection and insight with various guests. His discussions were more than mere small talk; they were gateways into understanding, bridges built between worlds and cultures. Yet, even as he conversed, his awareness was acutely tuned to the commander's presence in the room, an unspoken acknowledgment of the silent thread that seemed to connect them across the distance.

As the time for the auction approached, a ripple of excitement coursed through the guests. The commander, usually indifferent to such events, felt an unusual sense of anticipation. Glancing once more at the Stewjoni, he wondered, not for the first time that evening, what a conversation with him would reveal.

*** 

As the gala transitioned into its next phase, the grandeur of the Celestial Haven's ballroom was elevated by the anticipation of the upcoming auction. The guests, having indulged in a sumptuous dinner that was a melange of interstellar cuisines, now directed their attention to the dais. The auction, a centerpiece of the evening's proceedings, promised both excitement and charitable generosity.

The commander, still in a mix of contemplation and inadvertent observation of the Stewjoni envoy, was abruptly jolted from his thoughts by the mention of the next item for auction. His brother, Rex, wearing a mischievous grin that was all too familiar, leaned in and whispered, "You can thank me later for this."

Before the commander could react, the auctioneer's voice boomed across the room, announcing the next lot: "A dinner with the renowned Commander Cody, hero of the Galactic Armed Forces!" The commander's eyes widened in disbelief, and he turned to his brother, his expression a blend of surprise and mild irritation.

"Rex, what have you done?" he hissed, his usual composure slipping momentarily.

Rex chuckled, unfazed by the commander's reaction. "Consider it a contribution to the cause, brother. Besides, it's just dinner. Who knows, you might enjoy it."

The commander shook his head, a reluctant smile tugging at the corners of his mouth despite his annoyance. He resigned himself to his fate, his gaze inadvertently seeking the Stewjoni envoy across the room. What would he think of this spectacle?

Meanwhile, the envoy, having enjoyed the diverse flavors of the gala's dinner, found his attention captured by the auction. When the dinner with Commander Cody was announced, a ripple of intrigue passed through him. The commander, a subject of his earlier musings, was now the centerpiece of this charitable endeavor. He felt a tug of curiosity, an unspoken desire to know more about the man behind the legend.

The bidding began, a playful yet earnest war of numbers. The envoy, with a calm resolve, joined the fray. Each bid he made was thoughtful, a reflection of his genuine interest in meeting the commander, not just as a famed military figure, but as a person with his own tales and perspectives.

The guests watched in fascination as the numbers climbed, the atmosphere charged with a blend of excitement and curiosity. The commander, meanwhile, stood somewhat bemused, a reluctant participant turned focal point in a bidding battle he never expected to be part of.

As the bids reached their zenith, the Stewjoni envoy cast a final bid, a decisive number that echoed through the ballroom. A hush fell over the crowd as the auctioneer called once, twice, and then declared, "Sold to the distinguished envoy from Stewjon!"

The commander, now committed to a dinner with the red-haired diplomat, felt an unexpected surge of anticipation. The prospect of an evening in the company of the Stewjoni, a man who had intrigued him from across the room, suddenly seemed less daunting and more like an opportunity for a unique exchange.

Across the room, the envoy allowed himself a small, satisfied smile. The auction had been a means to an end - a chance to delve into the depths of a man who had captured his interest in a way few had. As the crowd applauded and the auction moved on to its next lot, both men looked forward to the dinner that would bring them together, each contemplating the possibilities that lay in the shared meal under the stars.

The Stewjoni envoy, his heart echoing the pulsating rhythm of the gala, watched the final moments of the auction with a sense of fulfillment mingled with a faint undercurrent of apprehension. His final bid, assertive yet unassuming, had sealed the fate of the evening, propelling him towards a future encounter that seemed to promise more than just a charitable dinner.

As the auctioneer's voice declared his victory, a hush of satisfaction washed over him, mingling with the soft clapping of the guests. He stood there, a solitary figure amidst the sea of faces, his gaze momentarily lost in the cosmic tapestry above. The weight of the moment was not lost on him – he had not just secured a dinner with the commander, but also stepped into the realm of the unknown, a narrative yet to unfold.

Quinlan, standing beside him, offered a gentle nudge, pulling him back from his reverie. "Well played," he said, his voice a mix of admiration and curiosity. "I sense there's more to this than meets the eye."

The envoy turned to his friend, the corners of his mouth lifting in a soft smile. "Perhaps," he replied, his voice a quiet reflection of his thoughts. "There's a depth to Commander Cody that intrigues me. This dinner... it's a chance to explore that, to understand the man beyond the legend."

As the crowd dispersed, moving on to the next item, the envoy felt a gaze upon him. Glancing across the room, his eyes met those of the commander. In that brief exchange, a silent conversation seemed to pass between them – an acknowledgment of the journey they were about to embark upon.

The rest of the evening passed in a blur of conversations and laughter, but the envoy's thoughts remained anchored to the upcoming dinner. He found himself anticipating the exchange of stories and perspectives, the unveiling of the layers that made up the commander's persona.

As the gala drew to a close, the envoy excused himself from the dwindling clusters of guests, his mind adrift in a sea of possibilities. The night sky above Celestial Haven, a canvas of distant suns and swirling galaxies, seemed to mirror the whirlwind of thoughts that filled his mind.

Walking through the quiet corridors of the station, the envoy pondered the commander's reaction to the auction. Was there a hint of surprise in his eyes? A flicker of curiosity? The thought brought a subtle warmth to the envoy's heart, a sense of connection to someone who, until a few hours ago, had been just another face in the galaxy.

In the solitude of his quarters, the Stewjoni envoy gazed out at the vast expanse of space, a witness to the eternal dance of stars and planets. Tonight, he mused, the universe had spun a new thread in the tapestry of his life – one that was intertwined with that of Commander Cody. And as the stars twinkled in silent harmony, he found himself eagerly awaiting the unfolding of this new chapter, under the watchful eyes of the cosmos.

*** 

The following evening, under the soft glow of Celestial Haven’s artificial stars, the grand space station's renowned restaurant, Nebula's Embrace, prepared to host a unique dinner. The establishment, known for its exquisite cuisine and breathtaking views of the cosmos, was a symphony of elegance and tranquility, a fitting backdrop for the anticipated meeting between the Stewjoni envoy and Commander Cody.

As the envoy made his way to the restaurant, his mind was a calm sea with undercurrents of anticipation. The quiet hum of the station seemed to resonate with his thoughts, each step bringing him closer to the enigmatic figure who had occupied his musings since the auction. He entered Nebula's Embrace, the soft lighting and gentle music wrapping around him like a warm, cosmic breeze.

Commander Cody, already seated at a private table with a panoramic view of the twinkling nebula outside, felt a subtle shift in the air as the envoy approached. Clad in a less formal, yet equally dignified attire than the night before, the Stewjoni's presence brought a sense of serene confidence to the room.

Their eyes met, and for a fleeting moment, the vastness of space seemed to converge into the shared space between them. The commander rose, a gesture of respect mingling with a slight unease that was uncharacteristic of his usually composed demeanor.

"Envoy," he greeted, his voice a grounded echo in the high-ceilinged room.

"Commander Cody," the envoy replied, extending his hand. The handshake was firm, a physical manifestation of their mutual respect.

As they took their seats, the initial exchange of pleasantries was a dance of diplomacy and politeness, each man acutely aware of the other's reputation and stature. The waiter's arrival to take their order provided a brief respite from the burgeoning intensity of their conversation.

The commander, typically at ease in the throes of battle or the camaraderie of his troops, found himself navigating unfamiliar territory. "I must admit," he began, his words tinged with a hint of wry humor, "this isn't exactly my usual field of operation."

The envoy's lips curved into a knowing smile. "I find that the most interesting conversations often happen outside our comfort zones," he replied, his voice smooth like the flow of a gentle river.

As they delved into their meal, the initial awkwardness gradually gave way to a more relaxed exchange. The conversation ebbed and flowed, touching upon topics of galactic politics, the beauty of unexplored planets, and the intricacies of interstellar diplomacy.

The commander, intrigued by the envoy's perspectives, found himself sharing anecdotes from his own experiences – moments of triumph, reflections on leadership, and the quieter, more introspective thoughts that rarely saw the light of day.

The envoy listened, his eyes reflecting a deep understanding and an empathy that transcended words. He shared his own journey, the stories of Stewjon, and the delicate art of balancing personal beliefs with the demands of diplomacy.

As the evening progressed, the barrier of titles and roles seemed to dissolve, replaced by a genuine connection between two individuals with rich, yet vastly different, tapestries of life. Laughter and thoughtful contemplation filled the gaps, weaving a bond that was both unexpected and profound.

Outside, the nebula continued its silent waltz across the cosmos, a backdrop to the unfolding story within Nebula's Embrace. The dinner, initially an obligation for a charitable cause, had transformed into a meeting of minds and souls, a testament to the unpredictable nature of the universe.

In the quiet corners of the restaurant, away from the prying eyes of the galaxy, the Stewjoni envoy and Commander Cody discovered a shared curiosity and respect, the seeds of a friendship that promised to grow in the fertile ground of understanding and mutual admiration. As they parted ways for the night, there was a sense of anticipation for what the future might hold, a starlit path unwinding before them in the grand expanse of space.

As the Stewjoni envoy, Obi-Wan, and Commander Cody settled into the serene ambiance of Nebula's Embrace, their conversation began to weave through the layers of their initial acquaintance.

"Commander, I must admit, this is a departure from the usual diplomatic dinners I'm accustomed to," Obi-Wan said, initiating their dialogue with a tone of gentle curiosity.

Cody, with a lightness in his demeanor, responded, "I can see that, Obi-Wan. And for me, this is miles away from the strategy rooms and battlefields. But it's a welcome change."

A soft chuckle escaped Obi-Wan. "Perhaps tonight is an opportunity for us both to step outside our comfort zones. Tell me, Cody, when you're not on the battlefield, what occupies your thoughts?"

Pausing to reflect, Cody replied, "Peace, mostly. On the field, it feels like a distant dream. But evenings like this... they make it seem within reach."

Obi-Wan nodded thoughtfully. "Peace is indeed a complex goal. It's an intricate balance of many factors, some known and many hidden."

"That's true," Cody agreed. "Your life must be quite the balancing act too, Obi-Wan. Diplomacy is an art in itself."

"It is a journey of continuous learning," Obi-Wan mused. "The universe is a mosaic of perspectives. Harmonizing them is both challenging and rewarding."

Their conversation meandered, touching upon personal philosophies, experiences, and even humorous anecdotes. Cody shared a story from his early military days, drawing a hearty laugh from Obi-Wan.

"And what about you, Obi-Wan?" Cody asked, a smile playing on his lips. "Any memorable moments in the world of diplomacy?"

"With pleasure," Obi-Wan replied, a spark of mischief in his eyes. "There was an incident on Tiberia that involved some delicate negotiations and rather... spirited local fauna."

The evening progressed with an ease and depth that surprised them both. The formality of their initial meeting dissolved into a genuine and engaging exchange.

Leaning back, Cody looked at Obi-Wan and remarked, "I didn't expect this evening to be anything more than a formal obligation. But talking with you, Obi-Wan, has been a real pleasure."

"I feel the same, Cody," Obi-Wan replied, his expression reflecting the genuine connection they had forged. "This evening has been unexpectedly enlightening."

As they concluded their dinner, the shared experience of the evening hung between them, rich with the promise of future conversations. "I hope this isn't our last discussion, Cody," Obi-Wan said, extending his hand.

Cody grasped it firmly, warmth evident in his grip. "I'd like that, Obi-Wan. There's a lot more we could talk about."

As Obi-Wan and Cody stood to leave, the restaurant's soft lighting casting long, gentle shadows across the floor, there was a shared reluctance to end what had been an unexpectedly fulfilling evening. The nebula outside the window continued its silent, majestic dance, mirroring the swirling thoughts and emotions that filled the space between them.

Obi-Wan, walking alongside Cody towards the exit, was lost in a sea of contemplation. He had attended countless dinners and met numerous individuals throughout his diplomatic career, but none had struck a chord within him quite like this. 'There's a depth to Cody that's both intriguing and refreshing,' he thought. 'And the ease of our conversation... it's not something I encounter often.'

Cody, similarly, found himself reflecting on the evening with a sense of newfound discovery. The straightforward, battle-hardened commander was unaccustomed to the subtleties of emotional introspection, but something about Obi-Wan had ignited a spark of introspection. 'He's not just a skilled diplomat; there's a genuine warmth to him,' he mused. 'And the way we connected... it's rare to find someone you can just talk to, really talk to.'

As they reached the entrance of the restaurant, a brief pause in their steps marked an unspoken acknowledgment of the connection they had formed. Obi-Wan turned to Cody, his blue eyes reflecting the starlight. "I must say, Cody, this evening was more than I expected. It's been a pleasure."

Cody met his gaze, a sincere smile forming on his lips. "I couldn't agree more, Obi-Wan. It's been... eye-opening, to say the least."

In the quiet of the station's corridor, a moment of silence hung between them, charged with the unspoken recognition of a mutual attraction. Both men, each typically reserved in expressing personal sentiments, found themselves at the edge of a revelation.

Obi-Wan, taking a deep breath, allowed himself a moment of vulnerability. "Cody, I hope you don't mind my saying, but I find myself quite... drawn to you. It's not often that I meet someone who I can connect with on such a level."

Cody's expression softened, a hint of surprise mingling with a sense of understanding. "Obi-Wan, I feel the same. Tonight was more than just a pleasant dinner. There's something about you... it's compelling."

In the quiet corridor, the admission hung in the air, a testament to the rare connection they had discovered. They stood there for a moment, each processing the significance of their exchange, the possibilities that lay ahead.

As they parted ways, there was a shared look of anticipation, a silent promise of future encounters. Obi-Wan walked back to his quarters, his thoughts a blend of excitement and introspection. 'Could this be the start of something more?' he wondered, the question lingering in his mind like a distant star waiting to be explored.

Cody, heading in the opposite direction, felt a similar stirring of possibilities. The commander, so used to certainty and decisiveness, found himself embracing the uncertainty of what lay ahead with Obi-Wan. 'There's potential here,' he thought, a sense of hopeful anticipation lighting his path.

In their separate quarters, as they gazed out at the vast expanse of space, both men found themselves contemplating the same starlit horizon, each pondering the newfound connection that had blossomed in the celestial embrace of the galaxy.

The morning after their dinner, the space station Celestial Haven awoke to the hum of activity, its corridors alive with the bustle of departing guests and the rhythmic pulse of machinery. The nebula outside cast a soft, diffused light through the windows, painting the station in hues of dawn.

Obi-Wan, having spent a restless night mulling over the possibilities that the evening with Cody had unveiled, prepared to leave with a mind full of thoughts and a heart subtly alight with anticipation. As he packed his belongings, his thoughts kept drifting back to their conversation, to the genuine connection they had forged. 'There's something there worth exploring,' he thought, a rare sense of excitement bubbling within him.

Meanwhile, Cody, in his own quarters, was similarly reflective. The commander, usually so sure-footed and decisive, found himself in a rare state of contemplation. The previous evening had opened a door to something new, something uncharted yet undeniably intriguing. 'Obi-Wan is different,' he mused, a sense of curiosity and hope weaving through his thoughts. 'This could be the start of something meaningful.'

Their paths crossed unexpectedly in one of the station's grand corridors, a serendipitous encounter that seemed almost fated. Obi-Wan, carrying his travel bag, stopped in his tracks as he saw Cody approaching from the opposite direction.

"Commander, good morning," he greeted, his voice carrying a warmth that had been absent before their dinner.

Cody, seeing Obi-Wan, felt a smile naturally form on his lips. "Obi-Wan, morning. Heading out?"

"Yes, my duties call me back," Obi-Wan replied. "But I must say, I'm glad we ran into each other."

Cody nodded, a sense of agreement evident in his gaze. "I was thinking the same. About last night, I..." He paused, searching for the right words. "I'd like to stay in touch, if that's alright with you."

Obi-Wan's eyes lit up with a quiet joy. "I'd like that very much, Cody. There's a lot more we could talk about."

They exchanged a look, an unspoken understanding passing between them. Cody reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, sleek device. "Here's my contact. I'm not always easy to reach, but I'll make sure to respond."

Obi-Wan took the offered device, keying in his own information. "And here's mine. I travel quite a bit, but I'll make sure we find time to continue our conversation."

As they exchanged their contact details, there was a sense of promise in the air, a tacit agreement that this was not the end but the beginning of something new and exciting.

With a final exchange of understanding smiles, they parted ways, each heading towards their respective ships. As Obi-Wan walked towards his vessel, he felt a sense of lightness, a feeling of having stumbled upon a rare and precious find in the vastness of the galaxy.

Cody, making his way to his own ship, felt a similar sentiment. The commander, a man who had always found solace in the certainty of his military life, found himself embracing the uncertainty of what lay ahead with Obi-Wan, a journey of discovery that promised to be as vast and profound as the universe itself.

In their separate journeys across the stars, both men carried with them the memory of their encounter and the anticipation of future conversations. The universe, in its infinite expanse, had brought them together, two souls adrift in the cosmic dance, now connected by a shared orbit of possibility and hope.

#codywanbingo #codywan #obi wan kenobi x commander cody #commander cody #obi wan kenobi #captain rex #quinlan vos #auction #star wars fanfiction #obi wan fanfiction #commander cody fanfiction

[iamapoopmuffin]

Reflection

Fandom: Baldur's Gate 3 Characters: Astarion, Tav/OC Relationships: Astarion/Tav

Astarion has long since forgotten what, exactly, he looks like. His boyfriend wishes he had a way to share exactly how he looks to him, and one night thinks he may have figured out just how to do it.

[Using my player character for BG3, Jacquimo, a half-orc bard uneducated street urchin disaster bisexual aligned chaotic neutral-chaotic good.]

AO3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/54702118

As much as Jacquimo would have liked to have said it was a quiet, peaceful evening, the fact was their bed and board above the Elfsong Tavern was typically anything but. Between the lingering vampire spawn blood housekeeping hadn't been able to get out of the furnishings (for which he claimed to be very sorry) leaving a bit of a smell in the air and a stickiness on the floor that he would rather not think about, and the sounds of the raucous drunks below either enjoying themselves or drowning their sorrows, it made for...quite the atmosphere, to put it lightly. Still, compared to what the half-orc was used to, this was heaven. He'd all but forgotten what it felt like to sleep in a proper bed, and the streets had always been plenty noisy as well.

Sat on his bed, scribbling away in an old notebook, everything else faded out to a strange ambience. This had always been Jacquimo's element. As a bard, he excelled in spinning stories and conveying tales through word, song and poem. Over his years, he'd written and performed many a yarn, ode or sonnet, and some of them were even halfway decent pieces. He'd never had such inspiration like that gifted to him by his most recent journey though. This past week alone he had written so much, the stories and legacies of his new friends, songs on hardship and survival, music he could hear the notes of carried on the wind. One particular piece had been a problem for him, however.

It was a simple poem, words spun like silk to form a painting in your head. An Ode To A Star, he called it, and he had been working on it ever since Astarion told him he could no longer remember his own face. Karlach had suggested someone draw his portrait, but Jacquimo had never been good at that. So he tried to write it. Descriptive art to show his favourite person, the love of his life, exactly how he looked to him.

Let me be your mirror

Let me show you through my eyes

The most beautiful a being

The gods ever did devise

Let me show you every detail

Every wrinkle, every scar

Utter drivel, all of it. Resisting the urge to rip the page out, crumple the paper and throw it aside, Jacquimo cast his gaze to the window, thinking. What could he possibly say to truly convey what he needed to? Words would never be a true substitute for actually being able to see himself. And the wrong words would just cause upset. Mentions of wrinkles, for one, even if they were something Jacquimo liked about his lover. Character. Experience. All part of one damned gorgeous man.

Eyes flitting between the words on the page and the dark night outside, he paused when he caught sight of his own reflection in the glass.

Let me be your mirror.

If only it was that simple. If only he could truly show Astarion exactly what he saw when he looked at him. It wasn't like he could be like the glass in that window. It wasn't like Astarion could really see through his eyes.

Wait.

Except he could, couldn't he?

Jacquimo snapped the notebook shut and looked across the room, at each of his companions. Those who shared the tadpole infection were able to connect their minds together, weren't they? He remembered seeing himself through Lae'zel's eyes on the Nautiloid. Seeing Astarion's memory of watching him walk through the confines of the pod. Giving him his memories of breaking free of his own pod in response. Seeing paths carved through the hells through the eyes of Wyll and Karlach. The tadpole connection allowed them to see through each other's eyes, see thoughts and memories, feel what each other felt.

An idea in his head, the bard placed his notebook back in his pack and got to his feet, making his way over to where Astarion had set up. He clearly heard his lover's approach, as he closed the book he was reading, looking up to meet his eyes. "Always a pleasure to see you sauntering over. Did you need something, my dear?"

"I had a thought. Or an epiphany."

There was a subtle twitch up of the vampire's lips. "Using that brain of yours, are we?"

"I know, I know, a rare novelty. Really, though, I think I might have figured something out. How I can show you your face again."

A nearly imperceptible shift in his eyes. Interest. Curiosity. Hope? "Really now? Well, I have to say, you know how to pique my interest, darling." His voice held no sarcasm, the thought of seeing his face once more undeniably enticing.

"It's rather obvious in hindsight." Jacquimo mused, more to himself, before addressing the elf properly. "I can't promise you'll like it, but it's an option if you want to use it. The tadpoles. They give us that connection, allow us to see each other's memories. You could look into my memories, or perhaps even see through my eyes now. See yourself."

He froze, processing the words. It seemed almost ludicrous, but he was right, everything he said was right. "You would let me into your head, just to see my face? You'd let me just...poke around inside your mind like that? I could find anything in there."

"I would." He didn't even hesitate. "I trust you. I would trust you with my mind any time. And I want to do something for you."

Astarion reached up, ghosting his fingers across the bard's cheek, his voice coming out soft and vulnerable. "You have already done many things for me, you know."

"Then what's one more thing?"

"And you trust me far more than you should. It isn't wise, darling."

"Who ever said I was wise?"

Astarion retracted his hand, glancing around to ensure none of the others were eavesdropping. When he spoke, it was quiet, and completely serious. No teasing, no lighthearted foppery, no sarcasm. "And you're sure about this? About letting me into your head? I...I don't want you feeling you have to do this. You are far too self sacrificing, do far too much for others, I don't want to do this unless you're entirely comfortable with this. This is your mind we're talking about, every inner personal part of you. Just...please tell me you're sure about this."

Jacquimo nodded, confident. "I'm sure. You're only looking at my memories of your face, that's all I'm showing you. I trust you not to go anywhere I don't want you going, and I think I know how to keep people out of things when I need to - I was able to block Z'rell, Minthara and even the Emperor out of certain thoughts, and they were trying to dig into things I didn't want them seeing. I think even with the connection active we can respect each other's privacy just fine, I don't think either of us have been ones to pry. I wouldn't offer this if I wasn't sure. As much as I joke that I am an idiot, I do think things through, you know. For the most part, anyway."

A smile graced those beautiful features. He so wanted to see his face again, to remember that part of himself long forgotten, and it seemed this reward was worth the risk. Jacquimo had a way with words, of making him feel like it would be okay if only he put his faith in him, and it seemed it was time to put his faith in him again. "Then yes, darling. I would like to try it. It's about time I saw how beautiful I really am, after all."

The decision made, the bard gently reached out and took the rogue's hands, eyes meeting and holding each other's gaze as they opened that connection, reaching out with the squirming, wriggling tadpoles within, a power none too pleasant, but this time for a worthwhile cause.

And then there he was, right where he could see himself.

Astarion turned his head this way and that, taking in every inch of his own face as seen through his lover's eyes. Jacquimo let him in, focusing on memories, on that face. On the line of his jaw, the bow of his lips, the curve of his brow. On delicate lashes framing piercing red eyes that could grow so round, almost doe-like under the right circumstances. The laugh lines that made themselves known during moments of joy, the way the edges of his eyes crinkled when he smiled. Soft curls framing pointed ears, almost shining when the light hits them just right. And not just the way he looked when happy, but sad as well. When he cried, or knew he'd gone too far, when fear and anxiety took hold. The way anger could peel his lips back in a snarl. Baring fangs in threat. That first meeting, that look of suspicion. Plotting looks, teasing glances, moments of internal conflict. Everything. Every part of him, of who he is, of who he was. Every fine detail. Everything he'd lost and forgotten in all those years of torment. Bringing a hazy, indistinct image into focus, making it clear once more.

Letting himself be the mirror Astarion wanted, needed, for as long as he wanted or needed.

#baldur's gate 3 #astarion #astarion x tav #my tav #OC: Jacquimo #my writing #fanfiction #bg3 #bg3 tav #baldur's gate iii #astarion ancunin #and thanks to my friends for helping a little when I struggled with the dialogue!