#son of dawn! you are fallen on the ground | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

acourtofmenandthirst · 1 year

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Tamlin x Reader. If you don’t like it, don’t read it :) I feel like after all of the events of books 2-5, he’s learned how and why he was wrong, and he’s been kicked a lot while he was down. It’s about time for him to redeem himself and find love too ok?? So here is my rendition of the start of his redemption arc.

Warnings: Swearing, mentions of death, trauma

Word Count: 8.7K

You huffed a sigh, wiping your hands at the hem of your thin dress, ridding yourself of the flecks of mud and dry blood. With a squint, you picked at your palm, trying to pull the thick wooden splinter from your skin. Fourth one in an hour, you rolled your eyes to yourself, glaring at the pile of wood and debris - what previously held the roof over your head.

You eyed the deep scratches embossed in the wood, the ones that no doubt belonged to the Naga that roamed the nearby forest. They’d looted and torn your house to the ground, much like your neighbor’s home and the shops in the town. After the High Lord had disappeared years ago, the hierarchy had fallen - there were no more sentries to guard the village, to threaten the Bogge and keep the wraiths at bay.

Not that you had many belongings, but you needed to find as much food as you could. You dug around for scraps of food, money, jewelry - anything of value that you could trade for shelter. But fuck, you came up with nothing. Your house was nothing but a pile of dust, all your belongings gone with it. And it was getting dark, the sun almost completely disappearing behind mountains in the distance.

You’d have to beg your neighbors for sanctuary, even if just for the evening. They were no doubt already locking up their homes and arming themselves with all the blades and spears they could find. Deciding you would return in the morning to continue, you turned away from the pile of remains - only for your eye to catch on a glimmer in the woods.

The shadows had already long fallen over the forest, the black of night seeping in from the treeline before you. You were met with a pair of eyes, glowing and bright green, the golden sunset mirrored in the glossy shine.

Your breath hitched in your throat, your heart stilling in your veins. There were many creatures that roamed the Spring woodlands, many more creeping in on the territory now that it lacked a High Lord. The water wraiths from the Summer Court encroached in the waters; after hearing that their neighboring sisters no longer paid the Tithe, they swam over in droves. Some were shifters, moving onto the unprotected lands to mark for themselves, others were sirens, with shimmering eyes that promised the brightest future, so beautiful that they lured the young Spring males to the coast, robbing and drowning them for pleasure.

But these eyes were different, a deep emerald, slanted inwards and narrowed - canine, feral. Studying its prey, waiting for attack. You’d heard rumors of the Autumn Court hounds, the ones Beron and his sons roamed around with. How they could track Fae down between courts, tear their throats out without even revealing themselves - some were rumored to have two heads. But you watched those shining green eyes until the beast turned away, tucking itself back between the trees and disappearing into the darkness.

___________________________

You were back on the street at the break of dawn, graciously thanking the family that housed you for the night, offering to bring them anything valuable you could find from home’s wreckage. You kicked at the dry sticks and stones on the dirt road leading to your little plot of land, cursing at the fallen trees and dying brush.

It seemed the Spring Court curse wouldn’t be lifted any time soon. You’d worn a godsdamned mask for years - a doe: the most innocent animal of Spring, silent and small in a court full of sly foxes and brash wolves. The supposed cursebreaker returned to your court only to tear it apart from the inside out, playing spy for the Night Court the whole time. The Autumn Court emissary had left and your High Lord had disappeared - no heir or kin left behind. He abandoned you all and took his power with him.

Some said he left and sought refuge in the Summer Court - that only Tarquin would be kind enough - naive enough - to offer him solace. Others thought he died, that Feyre killed him and there was nobody else to take the powers of the High Lord. You weren’t sure you believed either of those rumors. Nobody was brave enough to tread to Tamlin’s manor and find out for themselves; only the Mother knew what creatures resided there, Fae or otherwise.

The pile of wood and stone remained untouched overnight, you had to drag yourself over to your old land. It wasn’t worth anything, nothing was anymore. It felt barbaric, almost: digging through the mud and destroyed earth for something to barter with. It seemed that your court had been through nothing but devastation since you’d been alive. You were only just a hundred years old when the land was cursed by Amarantha - spent years in a mask followed by a stint under the mountain. When the curse was lifted, the Spring Court lasted about as long as the celebrations. As soon as life turned back to normal - whatever that truly was - the Night Court infiltration was exposed, Pyrthian was brought to war, and your home was destroyed.

You groaned, both of your hands wrapped around a heavy log of wood, surely it was the heaviest in the pile. You groaned, gritting your teeth as you tried (and failed) to move it. Your hands slipped, dry bark breaking off the wood beam, causing you to slip and fall backwards right on your ass. You cursed, denouncing the Mother. Perfect start to the fucking day, you’d thought. A whole day of failure awaits.

“Do you need a hand?”

Your head snapped up, nearly giving you whiplash as you turned to the side. You narrowed your eyes, the tall male standing just in front of where the sun was rising, shadow cast over his front. But you made out his light hair, glowing in the bright light, a halo cast around his head. His shoulders were so broad, his white shirt tight around his arms but loose around his waist, the fabric shifting as the wind blew past. He held a hand out to you, palm raised.

Your gaze dropped to his waiting hand, which you gladly took. His skin was rough, calluses around his palms and over his fingers. He pulled you to your feet, almost too easily, and had you balancing over the pile of bricks and shingles. “Thanks,” you mumbled, releasing his hand and brushing the dirt off the bottom of your dress. No use - there were days old mud stains all over it already.

“Is this your home?” His eyes surveyed the debris you both stood over, face still shadowed from the sun.

You rolled your eyes. “It was,” you’d scoffed, propping your hands on your hips. The male frowned, his shoulders hunched a bit. You cocked a brow at him, at the rainy evergreen smell that cascaded off of him. His blond hair was unkempt, sun-frayed and tangled at the ends. You took a step closer, onto the large wooden beam that had just bested you.

“Sorry,” he murmured, cheeks tinged pink, chin tilted downwards. Ashamed.

You nodded, standing taller, walking across the wood so you were positioned on the other side of him. The male turned with you, not allowing his back to face you. He mirrored you, perhaps in self defense, as you looked like you were the one scouting your prey. His features became sharper as he faced the sunrise, shadows looming over his face now washed away.

Those emerald green eyes watched you carefully, narrowed, just like those from the forest. His sharp brows furrowed as he watched you assess him, as you put together the pieces rather quickly.

“What would you be sorry for?” You questioned the High Lord. “Did you knock down my house?”

Tamlin didn’t respond, just stood in front of you, those light eyelashes caressing the tops of his high cheekbones as he blinked at you. His jaw clenched, tongue ran over the back of his sharp teeth as he mulled over something to say, only to come up short.

You took his lack of response as an answer in the negative. “Then you have nothing to apologize for.”

“I didn’t stop them,” he replied, voice hoarse. It was as though he hadn’t spoken in years, as if he’d spent far too long roaming the forest in his wolf form. His body was wracked with shame, remorse, and anguish. He didn’t feel the pain when he was outside his Fae form - he didn’t have to bear the anguish of witnessing what happened to his court while he disappeared into the brush.

You nodded in agreement. And while you spent these past hundred years angry, just so frustrated at what had become of your life, you couldn’t find yourself to be upset with him.

Your home had been destroyed, your family gone, everything from the life you once had stripped away entirely. But what could you do? The past had already come and gone, there was nothing you could do to change it.

The male before you felt the opposite, though. His mind was reeling with the resurgence of the memories from the past century. The masks, his friend and former lover gone - ran away to the Night Court, to the male that had murdered his family - under the mountain, the war, the Cauldron.

Gods, all of it was his fault.

His court was destroyed, but it wasn’t the war, it wasn’t the other High Lords infringing on his territory. No, it was all him. It was the lack of his presence in his court that destroyed it from the inside out. And looking at your face, the dirt smudged over your brow, your cheeks splotched from spending days in the sun without shelter, he’d wanted nothing more than to tuck his tail between his legs and disappear back into the woods.

But you were too captivating, your gaze leveled him completely. You didn’t tear into him, didn’t yell at him, didn’t hit him, not the way he knew so many others wanted to. He didn’t know how to help you, how to apologize for abandoning his court. He didn’t have any money to give you, no doubt he assumed the Spring Court estate had been robbed and looted. He wasn’t sure what valuables were even left anyway, after passing on money and jewels to the Archeron family.

“I’d like to help you…” Tamlin trailed off, the words lost. His eyes roamed over the fallen house the two of you stood on. “Rebuild.” His green eyes flitted back up to you, to the doubt and surprise laced over your features. You swallowed, shoulders shrugged in indifference. Gods, you probably hated him. Wanted nothing to do with him. “If you’ll let me.”

“I’m not sure what there is to rebuild,” you replied, kicking at some stone with your dirty boot. “I’m just looking for...” What were you looking for? “Anything.”

Tamlin nodded in understanding. He wasn’t quite sure what he was expecting to come back to, didn’t know what he would stumble upon after he’d returned to his home court. While he was no stranger to being alone, to feeling like an outcast, utterly unworthy of his position in life, he’d never been able to relate to his old friend Lucien so much. While the Vanserra had been banished from his home court, Tamlin felt like the Spring subjects would band together and exile him from his own court, too.

But the male stood still, nothing but the wind blowing his tousled hair around his sharp jaw. He was surely waiting for you, for your permission to return to his life in Spring - a new life, perhaps: a chance to rebuild your home and his life. He needed to earn his place as the High Lord, hell - he needed to learn what it meant to be a leader, to earn the trust of the Spring citizens.

“Well, help me move this, then,” you said simply, gesturing to the dark wood.

You’d quickly come to realize the male just had pent up anger, stress that may have been best relieved by throwing stone and brick around. He was quiet, not speaking unless you’d ask him a question or give him direction to move some debris. Tamlin watched you carefully, just as he had the other night, eyes glossy and pointed, observing how carefully you tended to anything that may have once had value to you. But you hadn’t made much progress, finding just scraps of clothing, a broken necklace, or some rotten food.

“I was in love once, too,” you stated out of nowhere. You kept digging through the pile of broken furniture and wood, head tilted downwards, eyes focused on the task at hand.

Tamlin’s ears perked up and he straightened, wiping his hands on his trousers to remove some of the mud that had caked his palms. He wiped at his brow, the sweat that had built up over the past few hours. He wasn’t sure what to say, you gave him nothing to work off of, offering nothing but confusion for the poor male.

You looked up at him only for a moment, plopping down on your ass with a sigh, resting your aching legs. “It can make you do some fucked up things.”

He almost laughed, would have, if it didn’t burn his throat on the way up. “Even more fucked up things once you’re out of it.”

The sound that pushed past your lips sounded like absolute heaven. It was the only salvation the male needed after years spent growling at beasts in the woods. The giggle that erupted from you - the pure surprise at the High Lord’s comment - it made his heart stop.

But he couldn’t help the deep stabbing feeling through his gut. Guilt. He shouldn’t be enjoying the sweet sound of your laughter, the shine of the sun in your hair, your pretty smile. He shouldn’t enjoy life anymore, not after what he did to yours - to everyones. It was why he shut himself out, far in the thick Spring forest, away from all salvation, any shred of comfort he might have been able to find. After Feyre had left, after Rhysand returned to twist the knife in his once stone chest, there had been no point, no return at High Lord once everything had crumbled.

“Well, Tamlin,” you sighed - the first time hearing his name on your lips. He quite liked the sound of it, but promised not to get used to it. “I think it’s about time we fix some of those fuck ups.”

He rolled his eyes, kicking a heavy log from the top of the pile. “And how do you suppose I do that?”

You huffed another breathy laugh, raising your head and squinting up at him, the sun risen nearly fully in the sky. “You do nothing,” you replied simply, propping your elbows on your knees. “We are going into town.” You opened your palm, that broken gold necklace

And Tamlin felt like folding himself in half and kneeling over that damn pile of rocks. The necklace you’d worked for hours to find ready to trade at the town center. He was absolutely sick. His mind flashed back to the days of the Tithe - how he sat atop his throne, gold jeweled crown atop his head, waiting rather impatiently for the Spring Court subjects to pay their dues. In a court where he did next to nothing to save them - after fifty years of looking for a way out of Amarantha’s plan - they still owed him.

Tamlin had a lot of regrets.

He didn’t know how to act, how to rule a court. Didn’t know how to save his people, how to make up for the lost years.

There was a lot to make up for - he knew it better than anyone.

He just didn’t know how.

You watched his mind reel, how his sharp green eyes fell to the pile of wooden scraps beneath his boots. His dark blond brows knitted together, lips pressed in a firm line, jaw clenched. His chest moved up and down with every breath he took, each one he forced in his lungs. The golden strands of his hair moved around his pointed ears, dancing over his shoulders in the wind.

“I don’t think I can,” he replied, voice just above a whisper.

You pushed yourself to your feet and reached out for him, for the tanned skin of his forearm. You held your fingers around his wrist, the touch shocking the male out of his daze. His breath caught, his mouth and throat suddenly ran dry. “You have to come back. You need to return to us.”

He tried to force himself to swallow, to will his voice to work and reply. To us. He was the only one who could fix what he’d fucked up. He didn’t know exactly how, but you were right. It would start with the return of the High Lord, with the promise of forgiveness from his subjects. He’d have to beg for forgiveness, pray that they would grant him amnesty.

He nodded though, which was all he could muster the strength for. He let you keep hold of his wrist - he didn’t even know how long it had been since another Fae had touched him - and guide him off the pile of debris, not missing how your boots skidded along the loose bricks. He reached out with his other hand to steady you, a firm hand on your hip as you stumbled to a halt, managing to remain upright.

By the Cauldron, you felt good. Warm, delicate, you smelled like the gardens after a fresh rain. He dropped his hand just as quickly, before his mind really fell into the gutter. Perhaps the years of solitude had finally gotten to him, he thought. He had officially gone mad. So he stayed composed, letting you drop his wrist from your hand - not without a backward glance at him.

“We’ll see what we can get,” you continued, beginning to walk towards the center of the town. You lived far enough on the outskirts that not many others passed by, none alerted to the fact their High Lord had returned. “The blacksmiths will probably be the only ones who will trade for it. Nobody really has use for gold anymore.”

He noted the drop in your voice, the bleakness that laced your tone. Tamlin walked only a half step behind you, yet he towered over you, his chest cleared above your head, shadow fully engulfing you. “How is the food supply?”

You knew it felt foreign for him, especially to ask now after years of his disappearance into the woods. But you could tell he was trying, gathering his bearings and reassessing the court - where he needed to start first. “Not great, honestly. There are only a few who have enough weapons to hunt in the woods.”

Tamlin knew all too well what lurked in the woods. They would be lucky if they could catch deer or rabbit, let alone an elk or mare. “I’ll see what I can manage to catch tonight,” he replied grimly, lips pressing into a frown. Under the moon was the best time to hunt, where there were surely no endangered Fae out, when the large beasts went to roam the woods, using the cover of night to avoid the hunters. The only thing that would be able to catch them lurked just behind you: a wolf.

You eyed the clouds that began to roll in overhead, dimming the sun’s bright light. “That would help,” you replied, hoping the words of encouragement would ease his mind, but not sound too desperate that they scared the male.

You walked the rest of the way in silence, peaceful albeit awkward. Tamlin’s fingers twitched at his sides - it was almost as though he barely remembered how to walk as a Fae male. You knew those green eyes that watched you from the forest were his. The second you saw the High Lord that morning, you realized you’d stared into his wolfish eyes - hungry and chilling, sad and remorseful.

His gaze shifted from left to right constantly, walking through the clutter of buildings and broken wood. Half the buildings had been looted, some torn down entirely. Fae gathered around stands and what was left of the remaining shops. He felt their eyes burning into him, heard the murmuring ringing in his ears. Some were confused, others outright scared, but none approached him.

You took Tamlin to the dim stone building, the only light pouring in from the window and cracks in the walls - no faelights or candles in sight. “He and his wife have the baked goods - there aren’t many other iron pans left in the town, he’s got the bulk of them.” Your eyes flitted around the shop, at the pile of iron ingots stacked on one of the tables. “I could never manage enough to get one, to bake my own bread over the fire.” You shot Talmin a sharp look, then eyed the shop owner across the room. “Good morning, Oleander,” you greeted the old male, hunched over a table lined with gleaming metal knives.

The hairs on the High Lord’s neck stood, a chill running down his spine at the sight of the swords hanging on the wall, the bows and arrows piled in the corner. “(Y/N),” he replied gruffly. “What brings you in?”

You turned back to Talmin, getting eyes on the male to ensure he was still in toe. “I was wondering what you might give me for this gold.” You held the necklace out to him, the cracked pendant and broken chain gleaming in your dirty palm.

“Ah,” he breathed, grabbing the necklace with his own filthy hand. “Given the condition, I’m afraid I can only give you…” He squinted at the old pendant, what seemed to be a depiction of the Mother with flowers braided throughout her hair. Tamlin’s mother once had a similar one. “Last week’s bread.”

“Old bread?” Tamlin couldn’t help but scoff, crossing his arms over his broad chest.

The blacksmith’s eyes show up toward him, as if his eyes and ears deceived him. Oleander, clearly half blind, squinted at the High Lord. “Do you have an issue with my pricing?” He questioned Tamlin - who was certainly not used to the bite back from his subjects. “I think I’m being more than fair to the female.” He looked Tamlin up and down.

“Fair?” Tamlin barked a laugh. “You own all of the weapons and food in the town and you’re telling me what’s fair?” He didn’t miss the sight of you backing up, right out of the corner of his eye. You inched towards the door, palms facing outwardly behind you, feeling as soon as your backside touched the door jam. Oleander stood, broad and burly, inching forward toward the both of you. By then, the shop had dimmed, dark clouds rolling over outside. The Fae had gathered around to watch, to see the High Lord for the first time in nearly decades.

“Oh,” he laughed, standing, grabbing one of the polished knives. He raised his voice and stepped closer to Tamlin, cornering him out the door in the same direction you were fleeing. “The High Lord has returned to preach on decorum.” Tamlin dropped his hands to his sides, unclenched fists, not looking to start the physical fight, but prepared to defend himself. He could surely take the old male on easily, even if he had been armed with half the swords in his collection. “After years of abandonment, of leaving his people to suffer at the hands of the beasts, he’s come to exhort fairness and righteousness.”

The Fae outside watched as you and Tamlin joined them outside the shop, many of their interests piqued at the sight of the golden haired male.

“He’s back?”

“I thought he had died…” “He would be better off that way.”

“Never thought I’d live the day I would rather see Beron than him.”

“Shut up, he’s returned to help.” “No way - he’s just going to start the Tithe again.”

There were giggles amongst the murmuring crowd, laughing surely at the old Fae male that had the High Lord backing out of his shop. There were no words he could say to ease the crowd, to change their minds, to earn their trust. He wanted nothing more than to shift back into a wolf and hide away in the forest alone.

“We didn’t come to make trouble, Oleander,” you spoke up calmly, empty hands raised in surrender. “He’s come to make peace.”

He rolled his eyes, amongst another burst of whispering from the gathered crowd. “Peace,” he spat. “That’s what we all used to know before he abandoned us and left us for dead.”

Tamlin’s jaw set, anger flashed through his eyes. There were some agreements exchanged by the other Fae. There were very few who sought to give their High Lord a second chance.

Fuck, second or third? Or fourth chance? Tamlin couldn’t count.

“We’re leaving, okay?” You inched closer to him, right until your shoulder pressed up against his bicep. “But please - ” you turned to face the crowd, what Tamlin could only assume were your friends, others you could consider almost family. “Please, just keep an open mind. If you’d been shunned, abandoned in the woods, you’d want us to accept you back.” There were a few nods, but many blank stares as you began walking away from the town, back towards the forest clearing. “No more hatred. We’ve had decades of spite, of shame.” Before you turned on your heel, before you grabbed Tamlin’s forearm to pull him away with you, you added: “Let us find peace again. Together: united as one court.”

Fuck, Tamlin thought. You’d spoken all of the things he should have said. He wondered if you’d practiced that little speech, if one day you secretly hoped he’d come back so you could preach that very surmon.

Tamlin pushed that thought far down in the depth of his mind.

But perhaps Oleander had a point. Perhaps they would all be better off taking care of themselves without the rule of an artificial High Lord. They surely managed to come this far. It wasn’t like Tamlin would be able to protect the town himself - he’d have to rebuild armies before infrastructure, to guard the town from the forest before they could sift through the remains of the down.

You’d dragged him along nonetheless, guiding him anywhere but the town. It was back toward your home - what remained of it, anyway. But the sky was grey by then, dark clouds shielding you both from the once bright sun. The soft crackle of thunder reverberated from the Summer Coast. “I’m - ” you cut yourself off with a sigh, dropping his arm, but continuing on your trek. “I’m not sure where we can get shelter for the evening. I don’t think anyone will let us stay for the storm.”

You were surely not on your way to make any amends, though. You just kept walking back towards your little plot of land, not that there was anywhere for you two to take cover until the rain washed away.

Tamlin kept his eyes trained in front of him, not daring to spare a look at your shining eyes as he spoke. “Follow me.”

So you did. You almost didn’t recognize it, afterall, it had been almost a century since you’d walked that path. Nature had reclaimed most of it, the trail completely gone. Tamlin’s long legs stepped over vines and fallen logs, and he held your hand for balance as you followed in his footsteps - he’d even lifted you through particularly muddy patches, simply lifting you up and placing you down before him like you weighed nothing.

The walk to his manor would have taken a mere half hour on horseback, perhaps just over an hour had the path remained. But it would take a few for the two of you to find your way back to the Spring Court Estate in the condition of the forest. Especially as the rain started to fall, the heavy droplets hard against your skin as they fell from the sky.

You walked for what felt like the whole first half in silence. Nothing but the sound of Tamlin slicing thick leaves and branches, clearing what he could from the once barren path. You listened to the rain, to your own ragged breath as you struggled to keep up with the male.

You watched his golden hair darken as it became damp with rain. His white linen shirt clung to his back and arms, you’d noted the ridges carved deep into his body as his muscles flexed, working around the forest that overtook the path. He slowed once the two of you stumbled upon a clearer area, falling into step beside you.

You could feel the tension radiating from him, his fists were clenched at his side, the hairs on his arms stood up. He wasn’t used to wondering the woods as a Fae, hell - he hadn’t been in Fae form in years. Those woods felt all too familiar to him out of his wolf form, reminded him of all the times he’d fucked up in that very spot. He needed to distract himself, clear away the memories of his friend Lucien, his once lover, his newfound family.

“I was in love once,” he said, voice gruff, muffled from the sound of the rain falling against the wide leaves. He repeated your sentiment from earlier - an acknowledgement of his past, perhaps even an apology. “But I’m pretty sure she was fucking my emissary.”

You’d nearly choked.

“That’s - uh - ” Gods, what do you say to that?

He shrugged. “My feelings for her weren’t fake,” he continued, nonchalantly, as though he’d had nothing but time to come to terms with what had transpired. You supposed he did, though, and were sure that was the only thing on his mind. “I just didn’t know how to act.”

“We don’t have to talk about it,” you replied, crossing your arms over your chest, trying to keep what little body heat you had, as the cold water sent shivers down your spine.

He shrugged. “Someone ought to hear the truth - ” Tamlin paused, only for a moment, as his green eyes narrowed in on the estate before you both. Trees covered the once stony walls, vines and thick ivy woven up all the windows and over the balconies. “You seem to be the only one who will listen.”

“I don’t not believe you, Tamlin.” You let him lead the rest of the way, pushing past the thick brush that guarded you from the estate as you neared the large castle. “Sometimes people aren’t who you think they are.”

At that, Tamlin dipped his head, turning to the side only slightly, just enough for him to catch a glimpse of your solemn expression. The rain had dripped down your face, over the curve of your nose and over your cheeks. He admired the way they clumped on your eyelashes, how you didn’t have a care in the world all covered in rain - perhaps you had more important concerns. Much too worried about where you’d sleep that night, where you next meal would come from, if you’d have shelter from the beasts, than to worry about his sob story.

But you caught his gaze from the corner of your eye, where you’d found those bright emerald eyes washing over your form. Shadows cascaded down his straight nose, his eyelashes nearly touching his cheekbones. You’d wondered if it was the wolf in him that gave him those long eyelashes and thick hair, his sharp teeth and chiseled jaw. He carried himself like a High Lord, shoulders back and chest puffed out - perhaps the closer he got to his home, the more normal he felt. It was a routine, the same path he’d often walked with his friends: Lucien, Bron, Alis, Hart, those that worked for him yes, but also the only ones he could consider truly his family.

Tamlin used the small knife he had to cut though the thick vines over the stairs. He’d moved each of the fallen logs, twice as heavy because they were waterlogged, and cleared the pathway to the front doors. He wanted to create a wide opening, should you decide in the middle of the night that you’d want to escape - run away from him, from the court. He didn’t want you to feel like a prisoner - he scoffed to himself, he apparently had a knack for that.

He’d opened the door for you, watching as you gathered the hem of your soaked skirts and your muddy boots squished against the stone steps. You nodded in thanks, unable to move your eyes away from the entryway. The ceiling was fully glass, and despite the rain and clouds, cast a looming light onto the marble walls and floors. The rain echoed in the walls, the fat droplets hitting the roof hard. The heavy curtains and canvases on the walls had been ripped to shreds, rock and stone cracked and scattered along the hallways. The grand staircase was broken, missing a few steps, the railing half gone.

You wondered what war went on here, while Tamlin tried to forget exactly that.

He hadn’t been to his home in years. But he knew what would be left to salvage, the rooms he’d lost the energy to tear completely apart. So Tamlin followed you in, guiding you down one of the corridors. “We should be able to find some blankets and clothes this way,” he said, voice just above a whisper. It was so deep that it vibrated in your bones, sending shivers down your freezing spine.

He’d stirred you through the wide halls, pulling you away with a firm hand on your hip when you’d tried to move toward the great dining room. His hand was hot on your waist, right at the curve of your back as he pulled you one step closer to him. “Not that way.” His eyes were fixed on the mahogany doors, hiding whatever may lie beyond. While he was almost certain he’d left you with the idea there may be Naga or wolves or some other beasts beyond those walls, he didn’t want to correct you with the truth. The gross truth that that’s where he left the elk Rhysand brought him so long ago, no doubt rotted away and disintegrated into the table - that, or it would have been swept away by some creature, perhaps for food or simply to play with its carcass. Either way, he didn’t want to find out.

There were holes in the roof, in the floors above, that leaked through the halls. You stepped around the puddles, dodging the stream of rain that fell from the ceiling. Tamlin pushed open one of the many doors in the long hallway, a dark bedroom on the other side. “It’s not my room, don’t worry.”

You turned up to face him. He looked weary, uneasy being back in this estate. “I wasn’t worried, Tamlin.”

He released a breath, his chest visibly falling at your words. He followed you in, closing the door to shut out the cold that the rain had brought to Spring. He’d brought you to one of the guest rooms, never had been occupied by a member of his court. It went untouched during Tamlin’s rage, there had been no evidence of life to destroy. He’d managed to rummage around and quickly find some candles, digging through drawers and closets to find a dry book of matches.

While Tamlin lit the room, you were drawn to the soft couch in the corner, pulling every blanket and piece of cloth you could find. Gods, it had been so long since you had a good night’s rest, since you sat on a plush sofa and had the softest blankets around you. But you had to wait. Your dress was soaked, you’d been dragging water and mud behind you that whole time. “Do you have any…” you trailed off with a sigh, assuming the male didn’t have any spare dresses lying around.

You actually would be more concerned if he did.

“There may be something,” he replied, picking up on your predicament. He sifted through the armoire again, the flickering candles aiding his search. He’d come up with some clothes, a few linen pants and loose shirts. He held everything out to you, a pile of clean fabric.

You couldn’t remember the last time you’d worn clean clothes. Tamlin noted how your eyes widened, like you’d hit the jackpot, like you’d never seen pajamas before - clean clothes. He cursed himself once again for cursing his people, for abandoning them and forcing them to live in destroyed homes and a looted town.

You pulled a handful of clothes from his offering, your wet skin crying out for warmth. “There’s a bathing chamber that way.” He nodded to the door far off in the corner. “Doubt there’s any water but…” he trailed off with a shrug.

“Thank you,” you replied, legs practically begging to take you to the bathroom and change into the pajamas. So you’d scurried away, grabbing a candle to light your way into the bath chamber. The mirror was cracked, covered in dust. But you quickly shucked off your wet dress, grabbing the shirt from the pile and wiped yourself dry, wringing out your hair in the fabric. You pulled on the next shirt, the huge cotton long-sleeve that fell halfway down your thighs. No doubt it had been designed for the High Lord, perhaps even his emissary. But you’d take what you could get, throwing on another shirt for warmth, then the linen pants. You fisted the waist, pulling one of the strings from your dress bodice to tie the pants snugly around your waist.

Through the dirty mirror, you made out the dark circles under your eyes, your tired eyes and wild hair. You suppressed a sigh, too tired to care one bit. So you returned to the drawing room, finding the High Lord in a fresh set of clothes as well.

He was trying to busy himself, sifting through the pile of blankets you’d managed to create, even adding a few more to your pile. He didn’t want to be rude, to fall onto the soft couch or bed without first making sure you were taken care of.

His heart stopped when he turned, seeing you swimming in the Spring Court clothing, even just those too-large pajamas. You looked so relieved, so comfortable and, honestly, ready to pass out for the evening. So he cleared his throat: “You can have the bed.” It was all he said, added a head nod towards the other end of the room, where the mattress was, nothing but some sheets atop it. “I was going to give you these.” He gestured to his pile of blankets. All the soft looking ones in one pile, the thin scratchy material separated behind him.

“We can share the bed, no?” You made your way toward him and grabbed an armful of the blankets he’d folded. “We could both use the nice bed, I’m sure. I imagine it’s been longer for you than me.”

Tamlin cocked a brow, watched as you trudged over to the bed, dumping everything atop it. “I’ve managed just fine.”

You glanced over your shoulder at the male. “Bring those other ones,” you called out, ignoring her words. “We’ll probably need them if this rain doesn’t let up.”

Tamlin shook his head to himself but did as told, not in the mood to argue with the female, especially not the beautiful one wearing his clothes. So he brought over the rest of the blankets, even the scratchy ones, and helped you make the bed. It was haphazard, sure, some of them not big enough to cover the whole bed, a patchwork of covers, some yours, some his, then the ones stitching you together down the middle.

You climbed in immediately.

The sigh you let loose from your lips almost had Tamlin on his knees before you. Your back cracked when you laid down, plush mattress cushioning your spine in a way you hadn’t felt in a long while. You slept on the hard wooden planks of your neighbor’s floor since your house had been torn down, freezing and stiff. You hadn’t remembered the last time you’d had a full nights rest.

The same went for the male beside you. He’d been holed up in some cave on the Spring-Autumn border, where the wind whistled past and the cold seeped through the rock into his bone. His thick golden fur only did so much to protect him from the chill. He was surprised he hadn’t gotten himself killed out there, and he didn’t even want to think about everything he himself had killed in those past years.

“What made you come back?” Your soft voice pulled him out of his thoughts, he blinked a few times before pulling the covers back and joining you on the opposite end. He was careful to leave space, to not encroach. His palms caught on the scratchy fabric of the blanket he’d laid on his half, calluses hard and broken, left from his many years of tearing apart flesh with his paws.

“I was tired of being a coward,” he replied humbly. “I ran away from everything that happened. Pretended like it never happened and shut myself away.” He ran a hair through his half-dried hair, fingers getting tangled at the ends.

“You were alone?” It was a cross between a question and a statement, he wasn’t sure which you were going for - probably the former.

“I’ve been alone my whole life. Everyone I come across either leaves or tries to kill me.”

He felt you turn, shift on your side to gaze at him with what little light remained of the candle. Tamlin kept his eyes trained on the covers above him, unable to face the pity that probably laced your features. “Did they try to kill you?” Your voice shook, afraid to even ask the question, terrified of the response.

He offered you a half shrug. “They left…willingly,” he’d added, mulling over the words in his head. “Though I suppose I not-so-willingly let them. I don’t know how to keep friends, it seems.”

“I suppose that’s better than the other option.”

Them killing him. “Better when it’s not your own family, too.” It was no secret the previous High Lord had a knack for starting wars, for sending his sons to fight his battles for him. Tamlin had a reputation far before his powers even matured - his brothers’ even more so. But what you didn’t know was that they were ready to kill him the instant he matured into a stronger male. He wasn’t glad they were dead, but he was glad he was safe - even if only for a little while. He had found few friends before the curse, a lover afterwards, even. But just like his father and brothers, he could not show love, no matter how hard he willed it, he kept fucking up.

That’s what it felt like, at least. He supposed he was the jester of the Spring Court in the end. The friends he’d had and the lies they told him: you never made me feel like a prisoner - her voice rang in his head. Soon they were gone, twisting the opposite tale to the male that murdered his family. Nothing could be forgiven in Prythian, no reconciliation to be made between courts. There was no coping, no help from his friends, no one to confide in. So he did the only thing he knew how: shut himself out. Just like he had his former lover, keeping her safe in that very estate.

He kept every Fae who remained in Spring safe from himself, even if that meant casting himself into the woods.

You shifted only a bit, but close enough that you reached over and tucked your soft blanket around his shoulders, over his chest that had nearly gone cold from the rain and chill outside. You were close enough that Tamlin could pick up on your flowery scent, that he noted the small hint of honey and cherry blossom lingering along your skin.

It had been so long since he’d touched another Fae, since he felt someone care for him. He couldn’t help it - his head fell onto your shoulder, right where the crook of your neck met your collarbone, a perfect fit for the crownless male. “And how have you fared, Tamlin? Now that you are a free male?”

Free.

Free from what? From his duties as a High Lord, surely he’d abandoned them years ago, letting the Naga and the beasts of the Spring Court take over the sacred land. Free from Amarantha’s glamor, the shackles she’d chained him with under the mountain? Free from the binds she kept on his mind, the nightmares - memories - he relived each evening?

He wasn’t sure if he’d ever be free from it.

He didn’t know how to cope. Not when the only people he’s ever cared about left. Not when his best friend left him when he clearly needed the most help, not when his lover left to wed his mortal enemy, then bare his child. But he apologized to her, for all the trauma he must have caused, locking her away, fearful of who else from Prythian would come to spite him by taking away the female he loved, by he saving her mate.

He cursed himself. Surely, someone ought to have a happy ending. Might as well have been her.

He was upset, in fact. When it all came down to it, everything was traced back to his anger. He was blind to his own emotion, it’s what caused him to act without thinking - a strategy he’d never seemed to master, not like the other High Lords. It ended up causing him his newfound family, his Court, it got the Archeron sisters caught and thrown into the Cauldron, it spurred the war. He was a failure, he’d lost the Spring Court and his pride alongside it. He’d been played like that godsdamned fiddle.

And Tamlin let himself lie in that dark cave night after night, rotting in a lifetime of regret.

He could only shake his head, nose rubbing against your skin that poked out from the loose collar of your - his - shirt. “I swear I will rebuild the Court, (Y/N),” he whispered, breath warm on your skin. His lips just barely touched your skin as he spoke. “I promise it, I’ll run the beasts out and fix the mess I’ve made. Even if nobody believes me, if they’ve lost all faith in me.”

Your hand fell downwards over the blanket you’d placed over him, fell down the soft fabric over his chest. “Actions, not words.” He tilted his head up, and those deep green eyes met yours instantly. His gaze washed over your face, over the sheer determination and strength, but in utter admiration as you spoke. “Show them.”

You lifted your hand, fingers twitching in hesitancy, but your mind worked too fast. You brushed your hand over his cheekbone, over the strong jaw and tanned skin. He nearly shivered, nearly broke out in a godsdamned sob.

Tamlin was fighting to keep his emotions intact, to stop himself from absolutely crumbling apart in the safety of your arms. He slowly shifted upright, sitting beside you, back against the headboard just as you sat. You never moved your hand, save for your thumb running over his cheek, tracing where the light stubble had grown in over his jaw and cheek.

His own hand fell to your hip, safely above the covers. But the added weight of him caused the shift, the simple weight of his large hand on you sparked something inside of you.

So you leaned in.

You didn’t know what it was. If it was the fact you’d hadn’t been held in years, the fact you laid in bed together, cold from the rain and nearly out of candles. If it was the fact that he’d opened up for what probably was the first time ever, the male with the worst reputation - his ill temper, his tendency to fight, how godsdamned beastly was - laid out and vulnerable in your arms.

Your lips met his softly, a firm enough kiss where you felt equally matched, as if he, too, was waiting for you to do it; but soft enough that he would pull back if you did, that he would restrain himself from going further, should you realize you’ve made a mistake.

You did the opposite, though, barely breaking away for breath, parting your lips just enough to gasp for air before pushing against him once more. Your hand raked through his long hair, so Tamlin had no choice but to do the same. His fingertips wove through your own hair as his hand rose from your hip to cradle your jaw, tilting your head to the side.

He tasted sweet, not what you were expecting from the male whose scent lingered with the sultry forest and fresh morning dew. He was gentile, too. His tongue moving only to trace your bottom lip, nothing more. Your lips moved over each other in sync, breathing in tandem and letting those soft sighs escape between the two of you.

You pulled him closer, winding your other arm around his neck as you laid back, sliding further onto the bed where he had to drop a hand beside you to hold himself up. But he kissed you anyway, like you were the last breath of life for that dying male.

Perhaps you were giving him life, that spark he needed to reignite the male inside of him who he once was.

Your hand trailed down his chest as he continued deepening the kiss, lips moving quickly over yours, growing hungrier, more desperate. You fisted at his loose shirt, not even bothering to untie it, just slipped your hand underneath from the bottom where it hung so loosely from his body. His abdomen shivered under your touch, your fingertips tracing the hard rigid muscle. Tamlin sighed against your mouth, trying (and failing) to suppress the groan that built up in the back of his throat.

So he’d pulled away, the sound of your lips parting from his loud and wet, a sound he’d practically forgotten about over the past decades spent alone. His forehead dropped against yours and you felt the tickle of his hair against your cheek. “I can’t - I’ve already caused too much destruction. I’ll hurt you.”

It didn’t feel real - he had to stop himself, break free of the dream he was surely living in. Another female, not only giving him the time of day, but who cared for him without even knowing him. He huffed a loose laugh, and muttered to himself: “I’m going mad.”

His lips were still far too close to yours. They barely touched as you spoke. “Take it out on me.” You tilted your jaw up, just barely high enough to capture his lips with yours. “I can take it, Tamlin.”

He shivered, I’ve heard that before. “I don’t want you to have to.”

You peered up at him where he gazed down adoringly at you, from underneath those long light eyelashes of his. He’d bent down for one more kiss, all his passion put behind that one last time of your lips pressed together.

He only pulled away when he ran out of air.

He slotted down beside you, his arm curled under your shoulders, the other crossed above the blankets, the piles of soft and scratchy ones, and fell over your bodies to rest on your hip. You fell asleep with your face buried in his chest and your arm flung around him, dreaming of the promise tomorrow held.

#tamlin #tamlin acotar #tamlin x reader #tamlin x you #tamlin/reader #tamlin/you #tamlin fanfic #tamlin oneshot #tamlin one shot #tamlin imagine

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prettyboykatsuki · 1 year

Text

malice of a pretty face | scaramouche (wanderer)

✮ tags ; adapted from genshin canon but not genshin canon, gn!reader, forced marriage but they ally together, role reversal, scaramouche is called bride mostly jokingly, physically smaller than reader, reader has a female concubine in their bed and kisses them / had sex w them, reader is a tyrant ruler type, age gap (scara is 20 ish and reader is like 28), opium usage, raiden shogun is scara's mother who sold him out, political affairs, handjobs + making out 18+

✮ wc ; 3.4k

✮ a/n ; what if i want to be the tyrant emperor for a change huh. what then. also scaramouche is called bride but gender and stuff is whatever in this universe.

some background, this is not genshin techincally. its like adapted to be a royalty au. reader is a recent ruler of their homeland. scaramouche is a raidens son. he didn't get a lot of choice in coming but he has no political power in his homeland

(this is a rewrite of a concept i posted a while ago but i cant find the ask where someone tells me to expand so hope this finds u anon

✮ synopsis ; your "bride" hails from inazuma and comes to you dressed in white, with eyes full of lightning.

A knock on your door snaps you out of your pointless thinking. Your close companion and Royal Advisor clears his throat before addressing you.

“Your bride has been prepared for you,”

“Come in.”

The brown door creaks as it opens, the gold embellishments on either side catching light. The hallway behind is empy but bright. Your advisor stands behind your esteemed guest with a look of mild exasperation. Subtle as it may be, it makes the corner of your lip quirk in amusement. At the door is your betrothed.

Your bride comes to you wrapped in white.

“I’ll leave you too it,” Says your advisor, code for please get along that has you nodding your head. You hum quietly, waving him away. He sighs as he shuts the door, leaving your guest standing at the door awkwardly.

As the rumors have said so many times over, the Raiden Shoguns only heir is strikingly beautiful. Pale thing he is, white as a porcelain doll and nearly half your size. Even in the lowlights of your bedroom, the blurriness of candlelight, you can see the sharpness of his eyes. A signature purple, the color of royalty and trademark of the Inazuman dynasty and bloodline.

For a peace offering, he reeks of defiance. Just standing there with his arms crossed, fists clenched and jaw tight. He looks like he wants to burn the entire palace to the ground where he stands. You’re sure if you picked him apart enough he’d tell you just that. Intel tells you he’s easy to provoke, and for a Prince of his nation - he’s quite the fighter too.

You aren’t sure how much he knows of this by now. Or if he knows that you’ve learned all sorts of things about him.

Most of all, he’s intriguing. Beautiful but prickly and poisonous. You’re captivated by how much he seethes. You tilt your head as your leg up, your back against the wall. You glance briefly at the concubine asleep in your bed, back exposed. Your robe is half-fallen over your shoulder, the bandaging on your chest and shoulder visible.

You take a long inhale of the pipe resting on your bed, lungs filling with opium before you push it. Another cloud of smoke fills the room, relief in your back as you exhale. You tilt your head at him.

“Will you stand there the whole time?” You ask placidly. It angers him even more for a reason you’re unable to discern.

“Why would I get near a belligerent tyrant like you?”

You chuckle. Despite himself, there’s a tinge of anxiety to his protesting. He’s young and on guard. You’re sure your reputation with the Royal Harem has served you no favors, so he must think you’re going to pounce on him.

You shake your head.

“I like to sedate my prey before I eat it. I won’t lay a hand on you.”

Surprised by your deduction, a flush draws on his features. You smile wispily, before another thought crosses your mind. His name dawns on you, Scaramouche you think it was.

“Ah, or is it this that’s troubling you?” You say, gesture vaguely to the naked person in your bed laying comfortably “Should I send her away before we speak?”

Your conversation stirs her. Scaramouche stares on. Instead you glance at the woman before you as she wakes, turning to her side. Barren skin save for jewelry, she runs her hands through her hair as she yawns.

“Oh, Your Highness. Already another round? I hardly got any rest.” She pouts. Her behavior is amusing to you always.

“Not today. My spouse has come to visit, so I’m sending you back to your chambers.” You say smoothly. She pouts, sitting up. The sheets that covered her so thinly have fallen, revealing the rest of her. A set of gold anklets that match with gold necklaces and gold bracelet. She sits up on her knees and wraps her around your neck.

“How cruel,” She whines, rubbing herself against you “How could you abandon when you favor me so much, hm?”

“You’re quite clever aren’t you? Trying to seduce me in front of my lover, and all?”

She pulls back to giggle.

“So you’ve seen through me. I don’t care for being sent away, you know?”

“What would you like as reconciliation?” You say.

“A kiss goodbye,” She replies easily. This time you look to Scaramouche. His face is burning red.

“Is it alright with you?”

He scoffs “As if it matters what I think.”

“I’ve asked you haven’t I?”

“Do as you please.”

You laugh. He says as much but he can't help but stare. He looks embarrassed, albeit you can’t imagine which thing is troubling him so much. It’s entertaining.

You kiss her goodbye as she’s asked, though you know what type of kiss she’s asking for. A deep kiss, the kind where you have to hold her by the nape of her neck. Salacious in nature, where she squirms and holds the front of your robe. You pull away with a laugh, rubbing her lower lip.

“Send my regards to everyone. It might be some time before I visit again.”

“How heartbreaking. I’ll do as you wish, Your Highness.” She stands to her feet, pulling herself out of bed and putting on the clothes left on the floor with a sigh. Her feet pad against the marble floor as she walks away.

She stops to look at Scaramouche before leaving, bowing her head in respect before standing back. She whispers something to him (that turns his face into a blushing mess once more) before patting him on the shoulder gently.

“I’m off,” She says, waving a hand but not looking back. The door clicks back shut a second time, leaving the two of you alone in silence. You take another drag from your pipe.

“Come. Sit.”

He does as you ask this time, stomping with a characteristic frustration that you stop to laugh at internally. He sits on the corner of your mattress, legs crossed. You get to see him up close this time. What delicate features he has, he couldn’t be any older than 21. The white silks he’s dressed in are fine. A thin, lace collar goes up to his throat. A skirt with high slits about the legs and lacy socks to cover the legs. He’s wearing something over it too, draped over his shoulders. You can see the cut-out of his chest. You only glance. Any longer than this and you’re sure he’ll protest.

“What troubles you, my bride?”

He grits his teeth.

“I’m no bride.”

“I know,” You say, without any hesitation “You’re the only filial son of the Great Raiden Shogun. I may be a tyrant, but I am no fool.”

This information surprises him. He wears his emotions on his face, as expected. He’s not gotten so far without being clever. The bounty on his head is insurmountable. There’s a tension in the room, an unspoken heaviness in the air. Quite a fragile thing he is.

“Then this, this marriage - it’s fraudulent isn’t it?” He says, angry. You hum.

“I knew before we wedded. Under the law of Tevyat and in the eyes of the Nation, you are my betrothed.”

He’s catching up to all that you know. You know it all. The rumors of the cold and unyielding Raiden Shogun. The desolate lands of Inazuma, the loss of childhood and the change in the young man. Rumors of the angry Crown Prince and his bleeding heart. How he was sacrificed for power to your hands, for the eternal vision of Inazuma.

Of course you know.

“Then why…if you know about me, then why?”

“The Raiden Shogun offered you to me to get in my good graces. There’s political fairs involved but the simply reason is because I wanted to. You’re easy on the eyes.”

He ignores your flirtatious comment as you expect.

“What are the political affairs?”

“Inazuma wishes to strengthen it’s naval army and a small nation requires resources. Since I’ve only just gained power after killing the Emperor, my position for the throne is destabilized and marriage was the best option to stabilize it again,” You explain, already bored just hearing yourself.

“We don’t gain anything from joining hands with Inazuma as it stands. And plenty of people have vouched desperately for my marriage. The simple answer is because an offer like the only child of the Raiden Shogun, who’s beauty is world-renowned is quite the tempting offer.”

He looks down, away from you and you resist your own laughter.

“I despise you,”

“I know that too. That pretty face of yours doesn’t leave much for imagination. What will you do my dear? Will you run? Cry? Scheme into driving a knife in my heart? Lure me into security and disappear?”

“...You’re personality is quite twisted.”

“I’m curious about the faces you make, that’s all. What will you do, how will you react, how you think. But I do not intend to make you miserable. There’s much to discuss,”

“....Why are you posing as if you’re kind?”

“A caged animal will lash out for it’s freedom,” You say, titting your head to one side “But a looked after one will never bite the hand that feeds.”

“Wouldn’t you be the one closer to an animal with your tendencies?”

“A beast, I hear so often. My point is the same. If I intend to make you even a begrudging ally, I’m not interested in angering you. Nor forcing myself upon you for that matter,” You add the last part intentionally.

“Disgusting,” He says, all while staring at the curve of your neck and your body “Really,”

“I do not intend to force you, but if you’re so against the idea - I think it’d only be fair I’m allowed to see my concubines. It’s your choice.”

He frowns at your explanation. You grin.

“Are you so troubled by it? Would you prefer I only long for you?”

“D-don’t word it like that.” He says, a shake in his voice. You hum, taking a long drag from your pipe.

“Maybe you’re the sentimental type? A lover from the homeland? Or perhaps, you’re just too inexperienced to be confident?”

You can see the exciting look on his face. That type of shame that very few nobles wear. Most of them degenerates, or liars. Prim and properly deceitful. You look at Scaramouche’s honest face and feel something between your legs. How much he wishes to admonish you, or even push you away but is all too curious to refuse. An expression like that is a jewel, a diamond waiting for polish.

You have to chip around it, bit by bit. Too much force and you’ll scratch his beautiful surface, you only pull at him gently. Tease him so tenderly he can’t scurry off.

“Shut up. You know nothing about me,”

“If you’re unsure, you can always try. I can teach you much easier than most,” You say. You wonder if he’ll call your bluff. But he doesn’t. He sits and folds his hands in your lap. He reminds you a bit of those Glaze Lily’s all the way from Liyue. Cold and blue and eye-catching.

Scaramouche does not call your bluff. He shifts to cover his legs and something is overwhelmed inside you. You hold your breath a little. So skittish.

“There’s nowhere for me to return to,” He says first, surprising you, a bitterness in his tone that pleases you “It’s not like I want to stay here or be your ally. But returning to a place that has discarded me is even more disgusting.”

“So we’re allies for now. Understood,” You say, glancing at him “Then, are you giving me permission to sleep with you?”

His eyes widen, face reddening to an impossible degree. A belly laugh leaves you. What a simple person in the end.

“You―W-we have to consummate the marriage, don’t we? A-and if I stay here, I’ll have power. Leaving it open means it’ll be nullified and―”

“You don’t need to explain yourself to me. If you feel too embarrassed about your desires, you may spread rumors about simply quelling my appetite,” You say with a mild expression, intending it with sincerity “It’d be a shame to do nothing when you’ve dressed up so nicely for your arrival. Come closer,”

Your comment must bother him, but he resigns himself. He does as he’s asked, slowly getting on his knees and crawling towards you. His eyes are erratic, skin flush. He’s simply sitting across from you and he can’t look at you directly. You’re a little astonished by the extent of his innocence, especially with all the violent rumors around him. You blow out the flame of your pipe, and lean to one side away from you.

Then you stretch your legs out, placing your hands gently on his waist so he doesn’t startle. You manuever so he’s stradling you, his knees on either side of your thigh. Looking at him closely is exciting. There’s makeup on his face. Crushed pink pigment smeared on his lip and smoothed with oil and eyes lined with something dark. You reach your hand up to cup his face, and he manages not to flinch.

Though you can hear his heart beat. It’s tremendously loud. Nervous.

“Relax, I won’t eat you, for now. I’ll take take responsibility. Have you kissed anyone?”

“S-so what if I haven’t?”

“We’ll start there. Close your eyes and follow me.”

He listens obediently again, closing his eyes. His hands are clenched over his knee. You grab them and let them rest over your shoulders before sneaking your hand to the side of his face. You lean in to kiss him gently, his skin soft. He smells like lavender and oats, the hairs on his nape brushing against your fingers delicately. His lips are soft as you start slowly, opening your mouth just a little. He learns quickly, following your actions without trying to take lead.

You pull away and do it again. Again and again and again until you’re used to the pace. You use your free hand to squeeze at his delicate waist, relishing in how easily he succumbs to the feelings. He lets out something like a moan that embarasses him near immediately as he pulls away. He’s clumsy but it’s cute, and makes you want to kiss him more.

He turns his head, using his wrist to cover his mouth which you grab swiftly. You grab his chin too, rubbing your thumb on his lip.

“Open your mouth and stick your tongue out,” You say, a little more eager than last. He makes a face but listens. You mimic him before kissing him one more time. The feeling of your tongue must surprise him. Either way, his body responds so beautiful. He nearly melts in your arms as you wrap them around his waist, fingers dancing to any bare skin you can. He makes a pretty, pitchy sound for you but doesn’t pull away this time.

When you stop kissing him, his face looks hazy. Frustrated, he almost goes to chase your mouth but stops himself. You smirk just barely, before busying your mouth on his chin. Open kisses trace his jaw as you lean into his pulse.

It beats under your teeth, his heart does, so red and so loud. For a minute you really do want to eat him alive, devour him in one swallow. But you restrain yourself from such desires, instead putting little marks on his body for tommorrow. So everyone knows not to say anything about his status. He can resent you later but for now, it’s a safety precaution.

He makes sounds like a melody, a string insturment in the warm sun. There’s something divinely beautiful about him. His body reacts to your simple touches, a shiver running up his spine as you kiss his neck and grope him lightly. It excites you, those innocent reactions. Makes something stir in your gut and grow hot between your legs.

You feel something shift underneath you. When you look, there’s something hard poking from his clothes. It makes a tent in the delicate fabric where he stands. You pull away just to stare at it, amused by how hard he is.

“Stop looking at it or I’ll gouge your eyes out,”

“It’s cute,” You say with conviction, wrapping your hands around the base with the fabric and squeezing the base “I should get to look,”

“W-what are you?”

“I’ll bet a stuck-up prince type like you didn’t get much education. There are more ways than one to feel pleasure than sticking it in. I’ll show you, so don’t run away,”

He doesn’t have the words to protest. He doesn’t refuse you, just watches through his hands. You rub him so slightly through the thin material. Can see it clear with your eyes adjusted. It fits easily in your palm, tip harsh pink and curved. You place your thumb over the tip, smearing the pre-cum leaking onto the fabric. He’s so sticky, so hard and hot in your palms.

“It’d be better if I touched you directly, but you’re cute like this. So lewd,”

He has nothing to say. A whine or protest gets cut short with a groan of pleasure. You laugh a little. You search the bed for a bottle of oil with your free hand. When you find it, you pull away and drip it into your hands.

“Hold this up for me.” You say softly. He hesitates but does, pulling the skirt up until his cock is visible. You rub the oil into your hands, warming it before wrapping around the shaft. The skin-to-skin proves to be a lot for him, his body already trembling though you’ve hardly touched him. He’s much heavier like this, His cock is smooth and he’s near hairless, You can see so much of him, the plane of his stomach and the musculature of his thighs.

He’s got lithe muscle, nothing too hard or too defined but there all the time. He’s got a dip in one of his hips and a mole that you’ll kiss some other time, just above where you’re touching. You wonder if there’s more. Once you have your way with him you’ll count.

You stroke him slowly and easily. Any more than this might be cruel since this much action seems to be too much. You watchi his expression as you build to a steady pace, paying special attention to the head. His expression is debauched. Inexperienced as you expected, but perhaps even more than that - sensitive. He’s throbbing against the curves of your roughened skin, gasping and holding hard onto your shoulder as he tries to keep himself tight in one place. You lean your head forward, kissing just under his pec.

“This is as far as I’ll go today. Cum for your beloved, hm? Show me your face?”

That seems to do it for him. The use of lover in such a context pushes him over the edge and it only takes two more strokes to spill into your fingers. Thick, hot ropes of cum makes a mess of your fingers as he ruts his cock into your palms chasing his high.

When he’s finished, he nearly collapses into your lap. It sedates all of his previous angers, something you note in the back of your mind.

You bring your hand up your mouth, tasting it. He gasps, scandalized.

“That’s dirty!”

“I’ve done worse. Besides it wasn’t bad. Hand me that,” You gesture. He tosses you the rag to wipe your hand with and you toss it in the basket at the end of your bed. Before he can push you away, you pull him into your arms and laydown.

“What are you doing?” He says, indignant.

“Holding you,” You say without blinking, looking down at him. You wrap your arms around his waist and let him cuddle into you “The concubines get angry if I don’t after,”

“...Don’t talk about them right now,”

You laugh “Right, sorry.”

“....What about me?”

You laugh a little at him pretending he isn’t worried.

“I know you said not to mention it but I’m all worn out for today. So get some sleep. I’ll have my Advisor prepare more in the morning but you should rest.”

“Ugh. Fine. If you insist,” He says, melting into you anyway. You laugh to yourself as he closes his eyes.

You’ve signed up for something fun.

#scaramouche x reader #scaramouche smut #genshim impact x reader #genshin impact smut #writing tag #wanderer x reader #wanderer smut #please read this i rlly like how it turned out sdjkdkfj #ask to tag #age gap cw #infidelity cw #cheating cw #<- its not cheating its like common in the time period but im tagging anyway #okay. going to disappear again after queueing a bit bc im supposed to be on hiatus till goj is finished

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sotwk · 4 months

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1st Day of Yule: “A Partridge in a Pear Tree”

Crown Prince Thranduil & Princess Maereth

Second Age 3430

Bar Lasgalen, Palace of the Crown Prince

In all his three and a half thousand years of existence, Thranduil was certain he had never before held anything so precious, so desperately in need of his protection, even while the tiny fist that clutched his forefinger already boasted of a strength that made his heart swell with wonder and pride.

He tugged the swaddling clothes up higher to sufficiently cover the newborn’s head, before stepping out into the balcony and the cold winter's night. He held the babe aloft for a moment, so that the legion of stars might meet and kiss his face with their light before fading into the dawn.

But something else, something less expected, greeted them in the morning twilight. From far off, unseen voices carried faintly across the sprawling, snow-covered palace grounds, singing in chorus a sweet hymn so old, as ancient as Eryn Galen’s trees, that even he could not understand all the words of the Nandorin blessing.

“Our people welcome you, ion nin.” Thranduil chuckled at the gurgle he received in response. Such keen curiosity shone in those wandering little eyes, that already sought to take in the wide world he had just entered!

Tonight they were given privacy and peace. Tomorrow, well-wishers will descend upon Bar Lasgalen and the great feasting will start. King Oropher had already declared and made arrangements for a kingdom-wide celebration in honor of his new grandchild. The heir to his heir, the future of his house, the scion of his line. It pleased Thranduil that his father had finally set aside his grievances concerning lineage and did not let it mar his excitement over the newborn prince.

Yet a persistent cloud cast a shadow of unease over Thranduil's boundless joy. His knowledge of the Darkness stirring in the lands beyond their realm weighed on him, more heavily now that he carried a priceless treasure in his arms. The enemy threats they thought they could dismiss as distant and outside of their concerns, suddenly felt too close and too real to him, too unsafe to ignore and leave unquelled.

As father and son retreated back into the warmth of the royal chambers, Thranduil sensed his wife stirring behind the sheer curtains of their canopied bed, waking from her much-needed rest.

“Can I bring you anything, Endanya? Are you hungry? Shall I send for food?” He did not doubt his wife’s great strength, but she had yet to properly eat after her long labor, and in the days leading up to the birth she would consume only the golden pears she craved, a rare fruit that grew in the valley of Imladris where she had previously lived. Elrond himself had sent baskets of it across the mountain to Eryn Galen, making time for this gesture of care even in the midst of a rising crisis. However well-intentioned, this kindness added to Thranduil's burden of obligation to their old friend.

“No, my love.” Maereth smiled and reached out with a hand that Thranduil immediately took inside his own. “I have everything I need right here.”

“I never imagined I could love anyone anywhere close to how much I love you,” Thranduil shifted his gaze from her lovely face to that of the infant that had now fallen back asleep, content in the curve of his arm. “But this one has firmly taken his place second in line.”

He knelt at his Queen's bedside to bring their son closer to her. Maereth brushed her hand lightly over the baby's head of fine hair, silver as the starlight, just like his.

“I will do everything in my power to protect you both,” the prince said suddenly. “To the last breath in my body, I will do what I must. I will not let any danger or evil come near either of you.”

He knew she understood his meaning, and that she believed him; she always did. But she squeezed his hand and leaned over to kiss his forehead.

“Leave those vows for the morrow, Melmenya,” she whispered. “For now, let us keep our thoughts on the gift we have been given. On Mirion.”

“Our Mirion,” Thranduil agreed, carefully returning the sleeping child to his mother's bosom. “Finally, a jewel I could agree is worth marching to war for.”

Yuletide Series MASTERLIST

Yule Event Tag List: @a-world-of-whimsy-5 @achromaticerebus @aduialel @asianbutnotjapanese @auttumnsayshi @blueberryrock @conversacomsmaug @elan-ho-detto-elan-15 @entishramblings @freshalmondpandadonut @fizzyxcustard @friendofthefellowshipsnerdblog @glassgulls @heilith @heranintomyknife23times @ladyweaslette @laneynoir @lathalea @lemonivall @LiliDurin @quickslvxrr @ratsys @spacecluster @scyllas-revenge @stormchaser819 @talkdifferently6 @tamryniel @tamurilofrivendell @acornsandoaktrees @warriormirkwood @emmanuellececchi

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kiwisbell · 8 months

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The Hitman's Guide to Getting the Girl: Chapter 2 [dave york x f!reader]

It's just another job, until Dave York decides to kidnap an enemy’s wiseass daughter. It’s just another job, until he falls in love.

series masterlist

status: complete

chapter 2 summary: Anthologies of getting to know you.

pairing: dave york x f!reader

rating: 18+ (mdni)

tags and warnings for entire fic: kidnapping, murder, violence, the world being horrible to women, reader having a very terrible sense of self-preservation, unprotected piv, oral sex (m and f receiving), dave york finding his second calling as a pussy-eating god, pining, possessive sex, jealousy, daddy issues, (stockholm syndrome?), dirty talk, actually filthy talk, hitmen and politicians, revenge, scary man with a soft spot for his woman, philosophical foreplay, tramp stamp worship (you'll see), a little sprinkle of breeding kink if you look hard enough, obsessive behaviour, anal fingering, anal sex, implied age gap, light dom/sub vibes, light bondage

tags and warnings for this chapter: violence against reader, pretentious literary references and the sexual tension that ensues from them, more self-reflection, self-hatred, angst, daddy issues, light touching (!!!), mutual enabling of bad habits, protective dave york

word count: ~ 4k

i'm a little obsessed with the fact that everyone writing abt dave york agrees unanimously that his bedroom is devoid of colour and décor; community is a beautiful thing. anyway, i hope you enjoy this chapter, and thank you for all of your support thus far! <3

chapter 2: allow the ground to find its brutal way to me

FEBRUARY

“You son of a bitch.”

“Yeah, that's me, Mark.” Dave twirls the pen between his fingers, the Moon orbits the Earth for the umpeenth time, and it's dawn. He hasn't slept a wink all night. “I may be an asshole, but you should remember that you’re liable for my behaviour.”

“Do not turn this around on me, York. I didn't kidnap my daughter. You did.”

“And it took a week and a half for you to notice. Is that a new record or do you usually go longer?”

“I’m a busy man, Dave. I know you know how that feels.” Mark’s voice muffles slightly, like he's shuffling around, and then clears. “She's a smart girl.”

Dave’s hand curls instinctively around the pen. “She is a smart woman. I thought you'd want someone like that on your side, not under your shoe.”

He heaves a sigh. “I’m sorry. Are we discussing business, or my daughter?”

“They go hand-in-hand. At least, they did, until I met your daughter.” Dave’s gaze settles on the worn book on the corner of his desk: your latest recommendation. “You need to pay the money you owe me, Mark.”

“Or what, York?” Mark scoffs. “You gonna kill her? You haven't yet. For all I know, you've set her up in a lavish apartment with all the amenities and haven't laid a finger on her.”

Dave’s jaw tightens. “You need to pay the money you owe me, or I take it with interest from the account your daughter gave me access to last night.”

A delectable silence lingers on the line. Dave wants to swim in it.

“She wouldn't do that.”

“Maybe you don't know your daughter very well, Mark.”

Dave York’s home is modern, clean, and practical—except for one small detail. In his office, the bookshelf acts as a door to the discrete room behind it: a home library, filled to the brim with all the texts he's coveted since getting discharged. You’re curled up in the plush chair in the corner, dozing with Dracula on your chest, when a thud jerks you awake.

“You drool when you sleep,” says Ari, lifting the novel with a frown. “This looks boring as shit.”

“Way to wake a girl up.” You rub your eyes and quickly readjust your clothes. You must have fallen asleep halfway through the book. “What's going on?”

“Boss is done on the phone.”

“With my father?”

Ari snorts. “You think he tells me that shit? He told me to come get you.”

You huff, leading the way back into Dave’s office with Ari trailing loosely behind. You hear muffled talking from the next room, but he’s known to have conversations with himself when he needs to think things through. You put your ear to the door and frown when you hear his voice, clearly speaking to another person in a low growl.

“You don't get to make threats. Not against me.”

Your head whips around and your gaze finds Ari, standing a respectful distance away (another of Dave’s many rules). “You told me he was done.”

Ari shrugs. “Thought you might wanna hear it. It’s all about you, anyway.”

You give him a grateful nod and return to your eavesdropping. “You fucked me over, Mark,” says Dave, “so I think I’ll take whatever I want from you.”

You roll your eyes. “So dramatic.”

Another prolonged silence, presumably occupied by your father's angry words. “No, I suppose I don’t,” replies Dave, “but I think I like having her here.”

Your mouth splits into a smile. “Hey, Ari. He says he likes me.”

“Can’t imagine why.”

“If you want her back, Mark,” says Dave, “you'll just have to start giving a fuck.”

The distinctive thud of Dave’s phone on his desk indicates that you're free to enter the office. Ari follows, electing to speak first. “Boss—”

Unluckily for him, Dave’s in a sour mood, pinching the bridge of his nose with his eyes squeezed shut. “Out,” he snaps.

You and Ari share a look, and he departs without another word. Meanwhile, you take a seat across from Dave at his desk and rest your chin in your palm.

“The world should be grateful that you don't have wax wings, Mr. York.”

You don't miss the way his eyes flicker to the hem of your skirt as you cross one leg over the other. Dave sits, too, his fingers tracing the spine of the book you lent him. “You can rest easy knowing I don't get a lot of sun,” he says.

“You know that's not the point, and you know I didn't give you access to his account purely out of spite.”

“No, but it's more fun if he thinks you did.” Dave smirks, and you match it. “You sleep well?”

“I may have dreamt about vampires, but sure.” You gesture to the hidden door. “Fell asleep in there.”

“I see that,” says Dave. He runs two fingers over his bottom lip: a habit. “I can set up a bed in there if you want.”

“Is that a serious offer?”

“I’m always serious.”

“Are you also serious when you tell me you want to go out for breakfast?” You bat your lashes at him, not that you need to.

He hides his smile behind his fingers. “Yeah, we’ll go out.”

“You aren't going to handcuff me to you, right?”

“What—you wouldn’t like that?”

You lift your hand and display your wrist to him, palm facing skyward. “You haven't hurt me yet.”

Dave’s mouth feels dry. His heart is clawing for a way out of his ribcage. His hand curls around the pen in his grasp. You're wearing a skirt made of silk and an elegant top and you look like such a princess that not a single person would question it if there was a tiara atop your head. You belong in the spotlight. He’s the shadow in the corners, hooded and donning black, illuminated only by the occasional flicker of candlelight. Watching. Waiting for something he can never have.

Dave doesn't like it when something he wants is out of his grasp. But you’re living in his home and trusting him not to harm you. You're safe with him, and he refuses to break the small woven wires of trust that tie your heart to his.

His dreams will avail him for now.

Dave takes your hand and lifts it to his mouth, pressing a single soft kiss to the heel of your palm. “If you decide to escape,” he says quietly, his thumb brushing over the spot where he kissed your soft skin, “just promise me something.”

Your eyes are petal-soft, your hand lowering to the desk as he lets go. Your fingers gently prod the edge of the paperweight. “What, Dave?”

“Don't be a shadow,” he says. “You aren't a shadow.”

Your eyes search for something inside him that Dave does not know how to give you. “Have you ever thought about putting your skills to good use?”

He blinks. “I am putting them to good use. The chair you're sitting on cost seven hundred bucks.”

You pin him with a look of the variety that would get you beaten if you were anyone but yourself. “You tell me not to live the rest of my life like a shadow, but your job necessitates sticking to the darkness and following someone else’s rules.”

“This isn’t about me,” he says grumpily, sitting back in his chair.

“Is that why you founded your company? For a degree of control in a volatile business?”

Dave stares at you for a long while before he elects to speak. He does it a lot. There are things about you that he's always discovering anew. Planes and lines and shapes that may have always been there and may be new, but are always changing to him nonetheless. With every piece he takes, he constructs a sort of shape, and he's fond of the way you take the form of artwork in his eye.

To everyone, you're someone different. You read people and adjust your own behaviour accordingly. You are whip-smart and too quick for anyone’s good. You are a chameleon. And you have infested his body. His mind. A space inside his chest that he's never known anything to inhabit. It's cold and arid and yet there you are, curled up with a book in your hands, comfortable. Smiling.

“You’re doing that thing again,” he says.

“Forcible pondering?” you guess.

“Yeah.”

You shrug your shoulders and Dave watches your collarbones flex, licking his lower lip. “You're still avoiding my question.”

“That's because if I answer one more of your questions, you’ll be able to write my biography. I have to keep some things secret.”

You grin like you already know how to slot the gears in place. “Do you want to keep things secret, Dave?”

He twirls the pen some more between his fingers. “Would it matter?”

You pluck the pen out of his hand, uncap it, and write something down on a Post-it note. “Here’s your answer,” you say, placing it upside-down in his palm. “Do me a favour and don't look at it until I’m out of the room.

“Oh—” You stop yourself as you prepare to leave. “I promise,” you tell him, “to never be a shadow. But I’m not going to escape. Not yet.”

As you tuck your book under your arm and turn to leave, Dave averts his eyes.

Maybe he is Icarus. Maybe he’ll take your hand and bring you with him, just so you can know what it's like to have wings.

MARCH

“Dave?” comes your voice from the hallway, fast approaching.

He fights a smile and continues to read through Kovac’s latest mission report: racked with errors, as usual. “Yes?”

You appear in the doorway, your chest heaving a bit and your hair somewhat askew. It’s a vulnerable sight you rarely let show, and he looks down because his eyes are beginning to burn. “I ran out of closet space.”

Living with you has its unforeseen perks. The constant company of someone so sharp has its downfalls, but it’s never boring. It also comes with unforeseen challenges: namely, the fact that a rich princess like you tends to own more clothes than the average woman.

“You can use the second guest bedroom,” he offers. “It’s not like I ever have company.”

“Or a date,” you tease.

“Shouldn’t I keep a date in the bedroom with me?” He raises his brows.

“You make it sound like a hostage situation,” you point out. “Maybe you should work on that habit.”

He doesn’t remember when you began to eat your meals with him, in the kitchen, at his too-big dining table, but it feels like always. And it never gets easier.

“There’s no point in locking you upstairs. You’d charm the door into opening or some shit.”

You smiled at his grumbling and sat yourself in front of your meal. It was artistically plated, a streak of speckled sauce next to the ceramic bowl filled with cauliflower gratin. On Dave’s plate sat a medium-rare steak next to a pile of Swiss chard that Barry somehow managed to make look appetising.

“At least people don’t burn witches anymore,” you said, waiting for Dave to pick up his fork before you took your own.

“You aren’t a witch,” said Dave.

“What am I, then?” You took a bite, savoured the crackling warmth of cheese and the soft textures on your tongue, and swallowed. “Enchantress? Vampire? Lock-charmer?”

“None,” Dave muttered. “Just… something different.”

For once, you didn’t prod. You stared at Dave for so many seconds that he could count them even without the rhythmic ticking of the clock on the wall. He did count, but he did not breathe. There was something about the way you looked at people that arrested all movement. His hand, clenched around his fork, his jaw, closed around a bite of steak. His heart, ceasing to beat, stilled by the reflection of the lights in your eyes.

“Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever be able to know you,” was the first thing you said after the silence.

All he could think was, I hope so. God, I hope so. Know me, so you can tell me how.

Now, you lean against the doorframe, one hand curled around it. Come closer, he wants to say. Go, and go far. Never leave. There are obnoxious, pink, fuzzy slippers on your feet and a silk nightgown draped around your body, and he realises it’s later than he thought. “Shit.” He shoots upright, his gaze meeting yours. “You must be starving.”

You shrug, and he doesn’t like that. Be angry with me. Let a misplaced speck of dust enrage you. Let your most minute grievances sparkle into blue flame. Let it hurt for me to touch you. Let it hurt to earn your forgiveness.

Something glows in your eyes. It looks to him like knowing. “You want me to be angry with you for missing dinner?”

He scrapes his hand through his hair. “Yes.”

“All right.” You step into the room in those stupid slippers and poke him square in the chest.

“Fuck you, Dave York, for not feeding me,” you say icily. “Fuck you for missing this dinner and for all the dinners you’re going to miss. Fuck you for taking me away, for being kind, for holding a grudge against my father when I could never muster the courage to. Fuck you for your extra closet space, and fuck you for never exploding on me when I drive you crazy. Fuck. You.”

You turn away and storm off, but not without his hand in yours. “I’m feeling takeout.”

He decides that he likes the feeling of being dragged a thousand different ways by you.

He also cannot remember the first time you both stopped eating at opposite ends of the table. It seats eight, and with so many chairs in between you, it felt like occupying different sides of one solar system. Now, you claim the end of the table while Dave sits at the adjacent seat, breathing in the scent of your perfume and watching you when you aren’t looking.

Not true, of course. Somehow, he knows you’re always looking. Maybe not looking, but seeing. You can see things before they are things.

“I think people confuse hedonism with amorality too often,” you say, prodding your next bite of sushi with the chopsticks. “They don’t have to go hand-in-hand. I know plenty of libertines who give to charity in their spare time.”

“I think the book isn’t just about Gray’s portrait. I think it shows humanity.” Dave takes a swig of his beer. You’re drinking one of the many reds from his cellar. “We’re all selfish. We all want to stay pretty.”

“How very cynical of the hitman,” you say with a soft laugh. “Maybe we do all want to ignore our sins.”

“How very un-Catholic of you,” he teases.

“I haven’t been inside a church since I was twelve, Dave York,” you say, kicking him under the table, your fuzzy slippers softening the blow to nothing.

Your father, whom he knows for a fact goes every Sunday, wouldn’t be thrilled about that—if he paid a little attention, that is. “You don’t believe?”

You avert your gaze, which makes Dave frown. “There are things that happen to people in this world that a good God shouldn’t allow. Things even the devout can’t justify as lessons.”

The taste on his tongue is acrid. Salinity and gasoline. The angry smell of diesel pumping into a clear blue sky. The outrage of seeing something black pollute something clean and beautiful.

You give him a small, sad smile. “The world isn’t kind to girls, Dave. We learn that early on.”

“Is that supposed to make it right?” His voice has gone hoarse, and food is ash in his mouth.

“No. But I’m beginning to come around to your viewpoint.” You steal a piece of sushi from his plate, and it’s a conciliatory action, something small and so big he can’t hold it long enough to study it. “Maybe we’re all evil.”

“So you do want to stay pretty,” he says, not quite right enough to laugh yet. His heart still sits wrong in his chest.

You bat your lashes. “You think I’m pretty?”

“I think a lot of things about you,” rasps Dave. “You don’t want to know half of them.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’d run.” He takes another bite and relishes the eye-watering spike of wasabi on his tongue. “And I don’t want you to go.”

“Boss.”

Dave hums, eyes glued to the page. Your suggestions are always… interesting. He'd expected a woman like you to enjoy frilly fiction. But he's reading a play. A goddamn play. And he's liking it.

The Duchess despairs over the waxen figures of her family and resolves to die. Dave rubs his hand over his jaw, surprised by his own fury for Ferdinand. He's always envisioned himself impervious to being fooled; but he remembers the way you spoke to him that first night and realises he's always been fooled.

How could he think he ever stood a chance against you?

“Uh, boss.”

Dave tears his eyes away from the play and pins Ari with a glare. “What?”

Ari looks like he would rather be dragging his naked ass over hot coals than having this conversation. “Just thought you'd wanna know, the asset took a tumble. Got a bruise.”

He says it so fast that Dave blinks, trying to replay the last few seconds. He doesn't like it when the words sink in. “Excuse me?” He closes the book and leans back in his seat. Ari is avoiding his eye. “Care to tell me where she fell, Ari?”

Ari licks his teeth. “Uh, just… off the bed. Hit the nightstand. In her sleep.”

That's total bullshit. Dave’s hand curls into a fist on his lap. He doesn't want to know, but he's going to anyway. “And where will I see this bruise?”

“Her… her neck, boss.”

Dave exhales hard through his nose. A bull at the charge. “I don't hire you for your charisma, Ari. I hired you for your trigger finger. Don't fucking insult me by lying to me.”

Ari sighs. “It was Resnik, boss. She pissed him off and he put his hand around her neck. It was over before I could stop it. He realised he’d be in shit right away and bolted.”

Dave doesn't hear this last part. He's already out the door, headed for the guest room, rolling his sleeves up to his elbows. You're sitting on the edge of the bed, slipping on a pair of heels that match your silky dress.

You face away from the entrance, past which he does not yet trust himself to move. “You want to murder Ferdinand, don’t you?”

He clears his throat before he speaks. “Yeah. I really do.”

“Told you.”

He pushes himself into the room and sits on the adjacent side of the bed. You’ve since acquired more flowers for your nightstand; the bed is made, and the closet is brimming with your clothes. It feels like you live here. Like you’ve always lived here.

“Hey,” he says, gently taking your jaw between his thumb and forefinger. “Let me see.”

You comply, turning your body toward him and tilting your head to give him a good view of the faint purplish colouring just beneath your jaw. It’s barely a bruise, will disappear in a matter of days, but he had been so clear. Nobody touches her. He’d set the rules and one of his own men had broken them. He’s far past unimpressed. He’s furious.

“Your guards have no impulse control,” you supply. Dave’s chest is tight, his throat burning blue-hot. “To be fair, I pissed him off.”

“I’m not going to be fair,” says Dave, “and you shouldn’t be, either.”

“You feel betrayed,” you wager. He moves your hair aside and winces when he accidentally brushes his thumb over your bruise, even though you make no indication that it hurts.

“Yeah,” he says, vocal chords scraping over rock. It's an understatement.

“He's listened to every other order you've ever given him.”

He shakes his head, avoiding your eye. He knows he will see only the glint of gentle resignation, and he doesn't want to feel anything but anger. “This is different.”

“Why is it different, Dave?”

Because it's you. Because seeing a mere bruise on your skin is like witnessing a jagged tear in the wide blue sky. Because it’s wrong.

“Because he works for me. And this was defiance.”

You smile like you know something he doesn't. “If everyone in the world listened to you, Mr. York, the world would happen to be a much more violent place.”

He laughs, too. “Maybe I should be glad you don't listen to me, then.”

“I listen to you fine. I just don't do everything you say.”

“All right. You win.” As usual. “I won't kill him. But he's never going near you again.”

“See what good can happen when you compromise?” Your smile turns sickly-sweet, and it forces one on his face. A very small one. “Can we go out for dinner?”

He huffs, dropping his hand from your cheek, but not before playfully tugging on a small lock of your hair. “Yeah. We can go out.”

Resnik,

Attached is the file for your next target. LKL: Malta. Feel free to take as long as you need, since I don't want you back.

You should have listened.

—York

He hasn’t locked your bedroom door for a month.

For the past two weeks, he’s stood outside your door each night and listened. He doesn’t expect to hear anything in particular; he doesn’t expect you to run or to be conspiring with someone to hatch an escape plan. He just wants to be closer than the wall separating him from you. It’s a strange feeling: the itch for a warm, soft body enveloped in his arms. He’s so used to the cold ones.

One night, he swore he could hear your faint, heaving breaths and low whimpers, and his hand hovered by the doorknob as he squeezed his eyes shut and pictured the way you would touch yourself beneath the bedsheets.

His bedroom feels empty. It’s minimal, greys and whites and no pictures on the wall, but it’s the king-sized bed that feels disproportionate. Something is missing.

Dave stares up at the ceiling long past midnight. Crickets make music outside, rain patters the window briefly, and he thinks of the woman two doors down from where he lies alone.

The Post-it note stuck to the lampshade by his bed is illuminated by the warm yellow light.

My biggest secret?

I have a tramp stamp.

Your turn.

#pedro pascal #kiwisbell's fics #dave york #dave york x reader #dave york x female reader #dave york smut #the equalizer 2 #dave york x you #pedro pascal fic #dave york fanfiction

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a-world-of-whimsy-5 · 9 months

Note

May I please request Daemon Blackfyre with the prompt: Summer Wine? (Feel free to delete this.)

Hello!Thank you for the request! I confess I have not yet reached the part of Daemon Blackfyre in Fire and Blood, but I will try to do my best. I hope you like this!

"Redgrass field"

Pairing: Daemon Blackfyre x Fem. Reader

Themes: Secret love / Lost love / Angst

Warnings: Alcohol use | Brief mention of kissing and intimate activities (very very brief and very very mild)

Word count: 600 approximately.

Summary: It is not everyone who captures Daemon Blackfyre's especial attention. But what happens after that?

Minors DNI | 18+

Rules and tag form here | Prompts for requests here

You could still remember the first time you saw him.

The bastard son of Daena the Defiant, the one known to all as Blackfyre, rode up to the lists, all proud and tall and fierce, with his beaten silver hair and bewitching lavender eyes that could beckon even the most resolute of maidens like a siren's call. His silver spurs jingled sweetly even as they glinted wickedly in the brilliant summer sun. His milky white courser had been resplendent in red and black silks that swirled around it whenever it broke into a run.

It was the most beautiful of days, all bright and golden and glorious. The crowd roared every time Daemon broke his lance and unhorsed his opponent. They would gasp when his foe fell to the earth with a sickening clangor. They would applaud when the fallen knight struggled to his feet. Daena would cheer louder than all the rest, her eyes filled with unbridled pride. Daemon was her child, her light, her life, and her joy. And yet, it was not her he sought out, but you. Out of all the ladies present, Daemon sought you out.

"Victory would be all but assured, sweet lady," he had declared, "if I had the great honor of wearing a token of your esteem."

You honored him, bestowing upon him not just a bejeweled token but a great many other things even as the days melted into each other. It was you he came to for companionship; it was you he turned to in the dances. He would tenderly lead you, his feet as light as air, his touch as gentle as a feather. His laughter would ring across the grounds, as clear as dawn bells. There was magic as light and sweet as summer wine, and the two of you drank deeply during those heady nights.

Oh, how heady indeed were those nights. Daemon wooed you and courted you, his kisses tasting like strawberries and cherries and bright spring mornings. His hair smelled like warm summer nights. His skin tasted of sunlight. You both knew it would never last, for he was the son of a Targaryen princess, and you were of little consequence to be considered a worthy consort for one such as him. Still, the two of you made the most of what the Gods gave you that season, delighting in summer days and summer nights and sweet, sweet summer wine. And when he left, you wept not, content to hold onto the memories that kept you warm many a cold autumn night, thinking that perhaps, some day, he would come for you and take you for his own.

That would never be. He wed another, quarreled, and warred, and now you were here, in this faraway field, standing before the great winged warhelm that was all that remained of his grave marker. The wonder and terror of his age, your summer love, snuffed out in the blink of an eye. If you did not weep then, you wept now, your eyes filling and stinging with uncontrollable tears. Did he think of you, of those glorious days and nights the two of you shared? Had he ever considered seeking you out, even for a moment? Unspeakable grief welled up and spilled over like a mighty flood. The lady he would go on to marry had his children. You had nothing of him, save for his winged warhelm, and, of course, the memories of summer days and summer nights and sweet, sweet summer wine.

#daemon blackfyre #Daemon blackfyre imagine #Daemon blackfyre x reader #x reader #reader insert #house targaryen #asoiaf #asoiaf imagine #asoiaf x reader

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tajcox · 25 days

Text

“How art thou fallen from heauen (o Lucifer) thou faire mornige childe? hast thou gotten a fall euen to the grounde, thou that (notwithstondinge) dyddest subdue the people?”

-The Coverdale Bible 1535

“How art thou fallen from heauen (O Lucifer) thou faire mornynge childe? how hast thou gotten a fall euen to the grounde, and art become weaker then the people?”

- The Great Bible 1539

“How art thou fallen from heaven, O Lucifer, son of the morning? and cut down to the ground, which didst cast lots upon the nations?”

-Geneva Bible 1560

“How art thou fallen from heaven, O Lucifer, son of the morning! how art thou cut down to the ground, which didst weaken the nations!

- King James Version 1611

“How you are fallen from heaven, O Day Star, son of Dawn! How you are cut down to the ground, you who laid the nations low”

-English Revised Version 1885

“How art thou fallen from heaven, O day-star, son of the morning! how art thou cut down to the ground, that didst lay low the nations!”

-American Standard Version 1971

“How you have fallen from heaven, morning star, son of the dawn! You have been cast down to the earth, you who once laid low the nations!”

-New International Version 1973

“How you are fallen from heaven, O Lucifer, son of the morning! How you are cut down to the ground, You who weakened the nations!”

- New King James 1982

“How you are fallen from heaven, O Day Star, son of Dawn! How you are cut down to the ground, you who laid the nations low!”

- English Standard Version 2002

Be careful!! God had made the Bible to be understood plainly. Overtime men had changed words and or phrases thinking that it’s a necessity to be more plain, while in reality their mystifying that which is plain due to traditions. Gods word as a whole, is a perfect chain, one portion linking into and explaining another. True seekers for truth need not err, for not only is the Word of God plain and simple in declaring the way of life, but the Holy Spirit is given as a guide in understanding the way to life therein revealed.

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nilsavatar · 9 months

Text

PHOENIX | 3. UNIL

Unil: ['u.nil] dream All credits for adult Neteyam go to @cinetrix

Status: CHAPTER 3 (3/?)

Prologue, Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 4

Parings: Neteyam x Fem!UnknownOriginsNa’vi!Reader

Genre/Warnings: ANGST, sorrow, mentions of nearly death, romance, adventure, soulmate love, destined lovers, possible suggestive content NSFW/MDNI later on, no use of Y/N, clans never seen in films yet. All characters are AGED-UP.

Summary: During the battle with the SeaDragon, gunfire struck Neteyam’s heart. A mortal wound that heals itself under the astonished eyes of his brother, as if the Great Mother still did not want him with her. She has other plans for Toruk Makto's eldest son. Nevertheless, his body is weak, and he falls into a slumber from which he can no longer wake up. His vital signs are stable, yet Neteyam is slowly slipping away. He is waiting. Waiting for the girl who has been appearing in his dreams since he went into a coma.

Chapter Summary: The Festival of Lights was approaching. It was a time of gladness for the Tawkami, the most anticipated celebration of the year. As the panopyras reached their peak and spores invaded the forest, love bloomed in the air. The perfect opportunity to confess one's feelings. At such an idyllic moment, the incipit of an upheaval began to make its way into Mi'niri's heart. Starting with her dreams.

Little note: OMG! This was the most nerve-wracking chapter I have ever done. A nightmare from start to finish, it never seemed to reach the light at the end of the tunnel. I rewrote it so many times, yet it never seemed good enough, and the editing was exhausting. I would add pieces, then take them out, then add them back in. As time passed, the frustration increased, and I knew there were people who were waiting for the update but whom I didn't want to disappoint. So I hope with all my heart that this endless wait was worth it. Thank you so so much🥰

If you want to be tagged in the next chapters, please just write it in the comments. I’ll gladly add y'all💕

Word Count: 9.5k

Masterlist - Request a fic

3. UNIL

“Look at her and her odd mount. They're not like us.” “She’s been rejected by her own parents, as it has been from the forest.”

The day it all began, the sky was a brilliant blue, with a few wispy clouds threatening to mar the otherwise perfect morning. Alpha Centauri’s gentleness cast a beautiful interplay of light and shadow on the jungle floor, adding an ethereal quality to the forest. Its timid warmth teased her skin as she sprinted to escape the vile draught that swept over her as soon as she had given the viperwolf cubs one last pat.

“Oe zene hivum. Hayalovay, nantangtsyìp. Makto zong.” (I must go. Until next time, puppies. Take care.)

The forest was a riot of colors: in shades of green, yellow, and brown. The clearing was rife with the scent of fallen leaves, which had littered the ground until forming small clusters around the mammoth trunk barks covered with mosses, lichens, and meandering creepers. She heard their crunch beneath her feet as she rushed through the damp soil.

The chill of the previous night’s downpour seemed to cling to her skin, every movement sending shivers down her spine. And the tension in her tired muscles mingled with the blood pounding in her ears. She adjusted her bow and increased her pace, peering at the blanket of grey-white clouds blocking the shy dawn’s pinkish glow. A few of its rays challenged the dome-shaped cumulus, rapidly growing to form a compact body, presaging dismal, harsh weather.

Get a move on, she admonished herself to run faster. Time was running out. She was almost at her destination and adamant not to get caught in the rain so close to her goal, no matter what. It lay just beyond the bend. A little rain wouldn’t deter her. Her pulse raced in time with the frenetic pace of her strides, occasionally stumbling under the bow’s weight that did not stay in rhythm.

A few lone drops plummeted innocently, in the distance already reverberated the faint echoes of the impending storm. Loud enough to overpower the agitated voices and scurrying of the prolemuris rushing for cover.

The monsoon season had begun. Who knows whether the viperwolf pack had found refuge? Were the puppies safe and sound in the warmth?

Freeing her shoulders from the bow’s string that crossed her chest, she smoothed the fringes of woven fabric that veiled her breasts and anchored to her biceps. Her ample neckline, adorned with minuscule bronze beads, flaunted a prominent teal stone that hung beautifully from her slender neck. Tiny fragments bedecked the middle of her top, resting gingerly on the sternum. A delicate repetition of the masterpiece.

With a snort, she lit a small fire and cleaned herself up at the underground spring at the back of the cavern. She revived her auburn hair and inspected herself from head to toe in the mirror of water, still not entirely used to those new accessories. They suited her, she had to admit. Gave her a much more mature, more adult air. Gifts from Kiokä to congratulate on completing the rituals.

Maybe I shouldn’t have accepted them, she told herself, fearing it might give the wrong ideas.

“Without the chief’s son tag, I’d be a jeweler. I'm always on the lookout for the weirdest materials to create something new. When I see objects others might think are just a leaf or rock, my mind starts drawing.” He scratched his throat. “You pop up in my mind in those situations. I picture you wearing the final product every single time. You are my muse.”

She definitely shouldn’t have accepted them... As she enjoyed the tickle of the water, she heard footsteps approaching. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a figure darting through the shadows, a large dagger in one hand and a strange contraption in the other. “Why's it not working?” he muttered. Without a second thought, Mi’niri ducked to the ground, yanking the weapon she wore at her loincloth, ready to defend herself. The boy dropped the knife and raised both arms above his head. “Mawey, mawey. Didn't mean to scare you,” he said, all worked up. “I got caught in the storm.” Now that she looked better, she could see his shins covered with dirt and small leaves, feet blackened by mud. “My bad didn’t know this place was already taken.”

Her pearly inquiring eyes darted over him, scanning every detail of his singular appearance. On the beaded choker that covered a solid portion of his neck, the midsection of which caught up towards his chest, then on the cuff that encircled his deltoid. Both objects were crafted using a technique she had never seen before, leaving her in awe. “You’re Omatikaya,” she stoned, giving him one last look before putting the knife back. The cummerbund he wore was an intricate weave of colors that could only belong to the Blue Flute, symbolizing his unwavering loyalty. The cornerstone of the clan's beliefs and practices. A gift to warriors who passed the Uniltaron (Dream Hunt). “You’re quite far from home.” ”Frankly, I have no clue how I ended up here. I was flying my ikran, but I must have fallen off. Even if I have no idea how. Never happened to me," he said and left it at that before asking: “And you?” “Me?” She arched an eyebrow. “What’s your clan? I’ve never seen Na’vi like you.” Embarrassment washed over her, and she couldn't help but blush as she looked down. There really was no end to it all. “Tawkami”. Her voice faded, and he found it difficult to comprehend her hushed words, now barely above a whisper. Despite cursing himself for making things awkward, he couldn't help but admire her beauty as she blushed. Eywa's handiwork.

What are you doing here in the woods, by yourself?” he questioned as he sat down. She wasn't sure what sort of answer he expected, or why she felt compelled to be friendly with him, to be fair. He was a complete stranger. “My usual - exploring, playing with animals.” “Playing with animals? Do you do it on the regular?” "Whenever I can. I enjoy being in their company.” Intrigued by her response, he hummed a tune under his breath. To him, the forest was a stunning ecosystem best experienced from a distance. Beyond one's line of vision, dangers lurked in every direction. Being part of this triumphant circle meant it had a hand in the clan's survival, providing them with shelter and sustenance. However, he much preferred to appreciate its true scale and magnificence from atop his ikran. To soar above the treetops with a bird’s-eye view of the dark, luxuriant foliage below, stretching out before him, revealing its secrets. Viewing it from the ground just wasn’t the same - it did not give the same feeling of freedom and relief as the sky. A safer, clearer place compared to the damp and musty forest floor, with its uneven terrain and hidden traps. Mi’niri resisted the urge to ask him what his indistinct hum meant. Silence descended on the pair, and she savored the placid expression on the young man’s face. He made eye contact with her, but it was brief as she immediately averted her eyes. They chattered about anything and everything until a distant murmur rang through the cave's mouth and silenced them, rising in sound. “They’re calling for you”. Strangely, he didn’t want her to walk off, but he knew he couldn't prevent it. She had to wake up, eventually. “Take care,” he said, with a pit in his stomach. She beamed at him, “You too”. When she smiled, he saw a glimpse of her true personality shine through. Her smile was warm and inviting. He found himself looking forward to seeing it again, as he decided he liked her smiling face.

She drowsily opened her eyes, taking a moment to register her surroundings before realizing a blurry figure was shaking her. “Niri. Niri, wake up,” was her father’s voice, “Selyao’s out here.” “What?” she asked groggily. Sílron’zem sneered, “You forgot about the Festival of Lights already? You’re supposed to help her.”

Shit.

As they walked among the groups of clan mates, her attention was split between her friend and their chores. They chatted and laughed together, enjoying that festive and cheerful moment - an occasion dear to the Tawkami.

The Festival of Lights was held once a year, when the panopyra stem's tips lit up, creating a hypnotizing bloom that lured in the spores of its fellows. An auspicious time when young Na’vi seeking a mate wore such tips as an attractant and aphrodisiac. A demonstration of one’s intentions. Couples exchanged garlands to express their love as a symbol of unity before the People. Traditionally, wedding ceremonies take place during this season.

Selyao's eyes roamed over, searching for a cozy spot to settle down. Meanwhile, she babbled animatedly about how her parents insisted she finds a mate now that her age allowed so she could fulfill her role within the clan. “Do they even realize I’m just in my early twenties?” she lamented. “They’re like, ‘If you don’t find one on your own, we’ll set one up for you’. Can’t believe how outdated they are!” A mumbling escaped Mi’niri’s lips just to feign involvement in the conversation. She assumed she was doing a decent job, thanks to nods of the head interspersed with a few monosyllables when required. When a break in her soliloquy called for them.

“Don’t get me wrong, I'm single and ready to mingle. I wanna fall head over heels. I'm just not ready to be tied down. Not gonna close any doors just yet. I mean, what if I screw up and pick the wrong one? What if we don't click? I gotta be absolutely positive before making the biggest decision in my life.” “Same here.” “I need to find someone for the Festival, anyway. Just to get them off my back for a bit,” she grunted in frustration.

As much as she sympathized with her, that situation was utterly unfamiliar to Mi’niri. Their parents couldn’t have been more at odds. The firsts were traditionalists, strict, unaware of their daughter's rebellious spirit. She regularly indulged in clandestine liaisons that often overlooked chastity. The others, instead, adopted a warm and modern approach, built on communication and trust with their daughter. And above all, on a total acceptance of the nature that characterized each family member. They would never have imposed a man on Mi’niri against her will, nor would they have pushed her to embark on a path she hadn't chosen for herself.

Normally, she would have been more active in the discussion, striving to be a good friend and give her the support she needed. But that afternoon, she was elsewhere. Scattered among the little fragments of the dream whenever she allowed her mind to wander. So crystal clear and palpable she couldn’t shake the feeling even after waking up. Lucid. Almost as if it could be mistaken for a memory that she could reach out and touch. She still seemed to smell the musky aroma of his skin, perfumed by the damp veil of rain. Strong, earthy notes spiced the air creating a pleasant fragrance all around. If she had squinted her eyelids and inhaled hard, she would have been able to visualize his slender, tall figure. It almost felt like she was living it all over again. The sinews tugged on his trained muscles. The glint of bewilderment in his beautiful golden eyes. The tepid breath blown against her neck when he'd sat at her side.

That was just the beginning of a succession of dreams she met him in. No matter how much the scenarios changed, he remained a constant. So much so that by now, when she went to bed, she expected to find him. Nonetheless, it was the first one that stuck in her mind. Like when Dewram came into her life, the same destabilizing feeling resurfaced. Nagging and impossible to shake off. Like a stubborn dark cloud that refused to move, her worries congested her thoughts.

“Mawey.”

A chill ran down her spine as she craned her neck towards the dense wall of trees and listened for any sounds. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end, her heart racing. She couldn’t shake the feeling that something was watching her. Searching for any sign of movement, she scanned the vegetation in a frenzy, and the other girl could sense her tension mounting. ” Why so serious?” With a playful smile, Selyao leaned forward and waved a dancing attire, enjoying the jingle of the hems. Her sly grin only intensified as she met Mi’niri’s glare, and she tilted her head; eyes sparkling mischievously. It was roughly contagious, and she had to bite her lip to keep from smiling. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she mumbled, reluctantly grabbing the fabric. “Do we really have to do this?” Selyao gave her an eloquent look. “We gotta make use of all this beauty, don’t we?” Her razor-sharp sarcasm was often ambiguous. Determining the subtle boundary between simple lightheartedness and cloaked earnestness was no mean feat. Especially in recent times, it has been veering towards the latter. The barbs had been getting more and more stinging and poisoned ever since a certain Na’vi had taken to circling Mi’niri like a bee around a flower. “Eywa blessed us with this too. Taking part in the honorary dances is a way to show gratitude.”

Mi’niri batted her lashes. The way her eyes crinkled at the corners said everything she needed to know. “What didn't you like about my speech? Honoring Nawna Sa’nok or just acknowledging you’re a stunner?” She was actually having fun pretending to be understanding. “We're friends. Your job is to boost my self-esteem.” “You're only friend,” she corrected her. “And no. My job is to tell you like it is. Flattering you be that of your muntxa (mate).” Talk about a deadly stare... “Well? Nobody wants to be alone forever.” “Sel, I don’t —. ” “I don’t get that kind of attention,” she aped her voice. “You don’t, huh? If you weren’t so elusive, you’d realize otherwise. Raso, ‘Ipäe, Eyrep - she listed - ... Kiokä.” Mi’niri’s lips twisted in disdain at the mention. “I don't get what the issue is. He’s the dream guy - good-looking, kind, and respectful, pampers you with gifts fit for royalty.”

If only she had the slightest idea about the boy in her dreams.

“And, oh yeah, he’s the Olo’eyktan’s son. I mean, he's the perfect fit. Actually, he’s more than perfect. He’s amazing.” “You hit the nail on the head! He's the Olo’eyktan’s son. He wants to be sure he's next in line.”

The people chattering was so loud she could barely hear herself think. Whispers that her ears screened out. People had mixed reactions to her parents. Some felt sorry for them, while others admired their resilience. Yet, all universally agreed the Olo'eyktan would make her his heir instead of his own son and betroth them at the Annual Festival of Lights. “Look at her and her odd mount. They’re not like us.” “She’s been rejected by her own parents, as it has been from the forest.”

Faced with the possibility of losing his birthright, Kiokä surprised many by remaining calm and composed. But just as Mi’niri did not possess the skills to follow in her parents�� footsteps, Kiokä couldn’t lead the people. He didn’t have the fundamental charisma of a leader, nor did he summon the innate respect the girl exuded at the mere sway of her hips as she walked. She had a confident posture, back straight and head high, as she strolled among the people. The same proud look of the slinth that accompanied her like a shadow.

Oh, how Kiokä adored seeing her gait, especially when in front of him. It enchanted him how the flowers she wore seemed to be a part of her, with their stems intertwining all over her body. They twisted and turned around her narrow waist, down her legs and arms. He couldn’t take his eyes off her as if entranced. Dewram’s striking colors accentuated the achromasia of her complexion. That very light grey that so lovingly clashed amidst the mass of blue bodies. But what indeed made her distinctive was the cascading, wavy copper-red hair that tumbled down her back. The ends about caressing the base of her slender tail. Not to mention those large opalescent eyes with a few hints of pale magenta around the pupil. Often her expression was stony. The slight disproportion of her bud lips gave her a pouty look that suited her damn well, though never as much as her occasional smile. Usually sketchy, but enough to grant her face a fresh gleam.

How he wanted to make her laugh. Watch her mouth open in the widest of smiles. Wait for that hint of light to explode into her eyes. See the mask of the unreachable Olo’eykte yield and tell himself that he caused it.

Yes, he wouldn’t have minded at all finding out that the rumors were true, because he was already hopelessly infatuated with her. How could he not be? Mi’niri was everything an ordinary Tawkami girl wasn’t. One of a kind. Perfect in her diversity. And if they weren’t, he would make them come true. He would reveal his intentions at the Festival of Lights, officially court her, and lead the clan to success together. Peace and prosperity as foretold. He could already picture her dressed in the most glittering ceremonial accouterments, standing under the purple glow of the village giant tawtsngal, as she recited her promises in a newfound shyness. He would love and cherish her, care for her forever.

What he could not foresee, however, was that Nawna Sa’nok’s plans differed from his own.

“Niri... Don’t listen to those stupid rumors. Sure, no one deserves the title more than you. You are Txumre’ Makto! But you passed Iknimaya long ago. If that was their plan, they would have told you. Besides, Kiokä loves you. He's been hanging onto your every word since we were kids.” “Whatever.” “Well, well, well, look who's coming this way,” she said under her breath. A subtle smile surfaced on her plump lips.

Mi’niri turned. A calm expression masked the inner storm within her, only to see Kiokä stomping resolutely down the path leading to the clearing. As their eyes locked, she could sense jitters that took her aback; it was strange to see him so... nervous? Yet he stood tall in front of them. Even though he looked intimidated, his towering presence made him stand out, thanks to his unwavering determination. The unrelenting sun beamed straight into his face, showing off his impatience with an unmistakable smirk he couldn’t hide. Ironic, given his usual composure.

“Morning, girls. Sel,” he addressed her with a little nod, and then his gaze settled on Mi’niri’s features. The sickly sweet way he pronounced her name was almost enough to make her lose her lunch, but she maintained an indifferent demeanor. “Mind a quick talk?” He extended his hand, but the sly wink that followed made her hesitant to take it. Just like when he offered her the necklace, she felt a sense of discomfort crept up again. What is he up to? She overlooked the prickly sensation on her skin and accepted his hand, letting him guide her through the overgrown thicket. He headed towards the tranquil stream as if he was eager to escape the commotion of the boisterous laughter and prying eyes, the sound of rushing water drowning out the noise of the party preparations. The music was so loud that it made the earth shake beneath her, but eventually, it became nothing more than a faint buzz.

Carefully, he cleared the path of thorns and twigs, ensuring she wouldn't get scratched as if she was made of glass. Kiokä was like that: gentle and well-mannered. However, his mild smile disguised something else that he rarely showed to anyone but her. Something that gave her butterflies in her stomach, but not in a good way. She didn’t strive to be with him at all, but here we were with a hint of nausea gripping the pit of her abdomen.

“Shall we sit?” he smiled lazily, escorting her to a group of rocks outlining the shore. He trailed his hand up her arm, feeling the smoothness of her skin before reaching her shoulder, leaving goosebumps in its wake. Mi'niri gave him a quizzical expression, wondering about the meaning of the gesture, which seemed out of place. The gesture itself didn't bother her much. She wasn’t the kind of person who eschewed physical contact as long as it remained respectful and friendly. Still, the way he had grabbed her, with that firm but caressing and, at times, impudent touch, as if he was trying to communicate something else through his actions, made her terribly aware of their excessive proximity. Something was off in that hesitation to break away, and she could sense his awe. It left her feeling both bewildered and curious.

She couldn’t help but dwell on his effigy. Kiokä was definitely taller than her, with broad shoulders, a solid build, and a sharp facial structure. Although he was an affable and helpful guy, his protruding, gaunt cheekbones, serious expression, and assertive personality gave him an intimidating appearance.

Finally, the boy left her, distancing himself just enough to allow her to breathe normally again.

They exchanged a few curt words before bringing up the real reason he wanted to talk to her.

"I don't even know where to start," he chuckled. His chin resting on the back of his closed-fisted fingers, his head tilted, not missing her single movement. He watched as she hooked one leg over the other and circled her knee with crossed fingers - an obvious position of closure - long locks fell across her chest, reaching her thigh. That uncomfortable feeling of narrowness returned, and, out of nowhere, she felt how much the other’s presence oppressed her. His ego filling all the space in an asphyxiating way.

Mi’niri nervously moistened her suddenly dry lips, wondering if being close to Kiokä had always troubled her this much. Something changed since those uncomfortable rumors had started to circulate. Peeking out, she saw how the boy was staring at her mouth, her throat rising and falling as she swallowed.

“You look superb in this necklace. I knew the stone was meant for you the moment I saw it.” A polite smile soon faded away, when his index finger brushed against the embroidery on her jewelry. Dangerously close to her collarbone skin. She moved away, turning to stare at him. Eyes as sharp as knives flashed in those of the boy, who seemed to read in them all the unease she was feeling. His back straightened, and his honeyed eyes pointed ahead toward the river. He clutched the bag hanging from his tewng guiltily. “Sorry if I made you feel uncomfortable.”

A heavy burden fell on her chest, and her breathing slowed almost to a halt, following the mournful movement with which Kiokä’s gaze fell on his own hands. A shiver ran down her spine at the thought of binding herself inextricably to him. A shiver of horror. She often wondered if the sentiment he repeatedly boasted was authentic or only a mutual sense of obligation that bound them together. An accommodation dictated by loyalty and habit, as well as by a dose of physical attraction that he had never hidden.

His fingers sank into his pouch as he fumbled with something inside. A slight tinkle vibrated in the air with each indolent swing of the ikran claw that served as a pendant, tied to the handle with a sort of plastic-looking cord. His midnight dreadlocks, left loose, framed the increasingly masculine and father-like facial features. By now, very little of Tsahìk could be glimpsed.

The time for confrontation had come, and Mi’niri wasn’t ready at all.

“I reckon something is missing.” “Meaning?” He handed her a bracelet made of the same irregular, polished stones she wore around her neck. And, adding nothing else, fastened it to her wrist, which overlapped with the one she was already wearing. As if to erase the memory of her unknown mother and the dark past that haunted her. "Perfect now," he said, in a depth she didn't expect. His gaze softened with a faint, closed-mouthed smile as he stroked the back of her hand with his thumb, examining how his creation stressed her complexion.

Too bad that adjective didn’t match her personality at all. “What did I do to earn it this time around?” ” Why do I need a reason to give you a gift?” ” That's just how it's been ‘til now - she knew him far too well to be charmed - I'm not buying that your gesture is meaningless.” Nobody does anything for nothing, regardless of the genuineness behind it. Kiokä was no exception. “You just can’t make it easy for me,” he chortled. “I might sound stupid, but you probably know where this is going. Though you want to hear me say it.” Mi’niri stared at him, tired of the back-and-forth. It was time to set the record straight, despite the knowledge that everything would change. That she would lose him. Her defender, her only supporter outside her family. "It's a woo present," he confessed. “Not that the others weren’t, but I let my indecisiveness make you assume they were something else. I can’t keep my feelings for you quiet anymore.” He stared at her for a long minute, taking both her hands in his.

“Oel ngati kameie.”

She shook her head doggedly, reassuring herself that it must have been a terrible misunderstanding, a sick prank. “Believe me, Niri. I see you. I know you don't think highly of yourself. But, Eywa, you know I have done nothing else since we were kids and you were hiding behind your dad's legs,” he said, making her look away. “You got someone to go to the Festival of Lights with?” “You should already know the answer.” He sketched a conciliatory smile, but one that still leaked an aura of triumph, “Come with me” "That's probably not a good idea, Kio," she shrugged and said. She could tell he didn’t agree with her by the deep furrow of his brow. I don't see why it's a big deal to show us together. I don’t expect us to unite by the end of the season. However, I think it’s appropriate to deepen our relationship now that we are grown-ups. Let's take our sweet time to get to know each other better. I'll wait until you're ready to be my Olo’eykte, no matter how long it takes.” “What did you say?” she asked in a whiff. A hiss so close to the threatening sounds Dewram made when someone from outside the Yawäa family approached him; whether it was an elder unaware of his presence or an overly curious child. Always alert. Guardedness and wariness were traits shared by both knight and mount. “That I will wait.” “After that.” “That I wish you to be my Olo’eykte.” His words were meant to be romantic, but to the girl, they confirmed her suspicions. “I don’t think you’re aiming to be Tsahìk any more than I’m aiming to be Olo’eyktan,” he chuckled at his own joke. After all, their clan wasn't so restrictive about the distribution of roles. It had already happened that Olo’eyktan and Tsahìk weren't a mated pair. Here, the only novelty would be a female clan leader. Although it had already occurred in other populations such as among the Ikran People of the Eastern Sea.

“Ah, that's why,” she figured. “You want me to be your mate to escape the burden of being the clan leader but still keep your status? Isn't that what everyone's expecting, anyway? ‘Cause you are the clan prince, and I’m Txumre’ Makto. Nothing out of the ordinary. It’s just how things go.” Massaging her forehead, she turned away from him, signaling the end of the conversation on her part. It took Kiokä a few seconds to register the accusation. His thin amber eyes took on the same coldness as resin when it solidifies; encapsulating a poor insect, now mute and still as gems. His eyelids tightened a little, enough to instill some consternation. “What do you mean by that?” The tone was caustic and detached. “That you don’t really want me. You’re doing this for the clan,” she reiterated, unwilling to let herself be frightened and give him up. If he wanted her as a companion, he'd to prove he could stand up to her.

Not that it would have changed anything. She did not reciprocate.

As she considered their friendship over the years, she was transported back to the carefree days of childhood. Whenever she thought of Kiokä, she felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude. He’d given her the confidence to face any challenge that came her way. Countless hours had been spent in each other's company, sharing their wildest dreams and ideas about the future. With him, she felt a sense of belonging that she had only ever felt with Selyao. There had been a time when she had tried to convince herself she could grow to love him at one point. She had gazed at him expectantly, hoping to feel a spark that would confirm he was the one, a sign that would confirm he was the missing piece she had been searching for. She had been eagerly anticipating that feeling to develop, so when she noticed a change in how the boy interacted with her, she felt like she was on cloud nine.

Happiness faded away quickly, like a shooting star. It didn't take long for her to understand that the feeling of agitation she experienced in his presence was more unpleasant than she first believed. But Mi’niri silenced the growing annoyance that gradually invaded her. She believed love was a journey, not a destination, something that could be cultivated with time and effort. By focusing on what made her feel good, she could learn to cherish even the most difficult aspects of a relationship. A skill that could be honed like any other.

Alas, it wasn’t so. Nothing about Kiokä could shake her. Not in that way. She cared for him. Admired him. Yet that childlike affection between the two adolescents remained as such: a childhood memory.

“No! My love for you is true, Niri. I’m crazy about you. I never had eyes but for you. Look,” he exposed the songcord hanging from the waistband of his loincloth to the sunlight, taking between his strong fingers a particular bean. She recognized it right away. “It is a fragment of your pendant. When I found it, your face peeped out like a thunderbolt. I added it to my songcord that day, so I’d always remember the moment I met my better half.” “You’re wrong. You only found an illusion.” “Explain yourself,” he demanded. “No use in explaining to ears that won't listen.”

As she crossed the clearing, heavy footsteps heeled her out. She barely had time to register what was happening before she was seized by the wrist, spun around, and slammed into the rough surface of a log. Her head swam with a slight dizziness. “Hey, don’t just walk away. I deserve to know.” His voice leaked a dull pain that made her jerk abruptly, meeting his friend's now furious irises. A distraught gleam flashed in them, in a mix of sadness and anger. The inflection in his voice whipped her like an anvil. And there, trapped between the tree and the man’s chest, Mi’niri could feel his mournful gaze weighing heavily on her. So small and helpless. So guilty. Mi’niri closed her eyes and focused solely on the surrounding sounds, filtering out all the other senses. An unexplained sense of tranquility spread throughout her entire body soon after. She felt it relax along with her lungs, inhaling and exhaling regularly once more. The beating of her heart slowed down into long pulsations, punctuating the flow of her blood through her arteries like a metronome. And the erubescence that had crept up her cheeks subsided, revealing the unflappable nature of her being. The rustling of leaves and chirping of birds. The sound of the nearby stream.

The nearby stream. Kyokä.

As much as she wished the conversation wasn’t happening, the feeling of his hand holding hers kept her present in the moment. Oddly, his touch was somehow reassuring. It gave her the strength to face the situation. She looked at him. The sight of the sun filtering through the trees stressed the start of anxiety making its way across that no longer inscrutable face. Finally, the grip on her wrist loosen as she read the sorrow in his eyes, building like a wave about to engulf them, a looming tsunami.

“Please, Niri!” Hearing his lips murmur that nickname so sadly brought down all her defenses. Vulnerability was the one thing Mi’niri loathed displaying. She bottled up her moods, pushed them back into the furthest corner of her being, where they bubbled and swelled until erupting in a column of gas. Like accumulated hydrogen in a magma chamber. Ash and lapilli, flowing down the destroyed flanks of the caldera, overwhelmed everything that crossed their path, leaving nothing but fertile ground for the new generation of vegetation. An ecosystem that would be wiped out at the next burst.

While she looked past the boy’s shoulder, she struggled to resist the urge to spit out the truth. Don’t answer, she commanded herself, but her tongue was already disobeying. No, I’ll speak my mind once and for all. Even though she didn’t want things to escalate, she had to be honest. She tentatively returned to look at him. His eyes as shiny as gems and as dark as the cloudy sky of the dream where she had met the mysterious Omatikaya. “I don’t feel the same.”

Kiokä was forlorn and unable to find the words to respond, which gave Mi’niri an opening to carry on with her speech. She just had to turn a blind eye to the suffering etched on his face. And what better push than focusing on the clan’s venomous gossip? Their heated voices echoed inside her, reminding her why she was supposed to leave him sitting on the rock alone. Her blood boiled with anger. Her voice was becoming apathetic and detached as she hurled all the pent-up resentment at him.

He did not understand her. He did not see her.

Having a place in the community was something he took for granted. Never knowing what it was like to feel excluded, never experiencing what it meant to not belong. Oblivious to the feeling that comes with putting in effort, only to be seen as an unwelcome outsider. An outcast, a freak with no actual family, no connections to anyone - unquestionably not to the Tawkami clan. Her grey skin a constant reminder that she had to work twice as hard as others just to earn a fraction of what they did. No matter if they respect her and considered her at the extremes of a chosen one, she always sensed a certain detachment behind their friendly smiles. Like an inconvenient relative, an unwanted visitor who refused to leave. The only thing that gave her value in the eyes of the people was Dewram, which was all she really had.

Kiokä couldn’t comprehend the meaning of having nothing to cling onto as an identifier, except one singular thing. The feeling of being lost. The longing for that one thing that would give you a sense of purpose every morning. That one thing that made life worth living. Frustration hit her like a ton of bricks as she realize it wasn’t a new sensation. She couldn’t help but wonder if it had always been there, lurking beneath the surface of their relationship, eating away at their bond. She refused to believe it, but deep down, she knew it had been there all along, slowly tearing them apart. Wished that clinging to what was harmonious in their friendship was enough.

Very little, she should admit.

“And you don’t feel anything either.”

He stood frozen, his arms limp at his sides, powerless against the biting cold of her eyes. Mi’niri seized the opportunity presented by his hesitation to slip out of that position and run away. The vegetation swallowed her up, and she was left alone with the weight of Kiokä's gaze. Heavy and unrelenting. It bore down on her, even as she disappeared into the foliage, piercing her head, but she didn’t give up, zooming even faster toward home. She had to shed those garments that appeared to scorch her, that adornment that appeared to strangle her.

Something slipped along her wrist in her haste. The light thud of the fall muffled by the cushiony grass.

Mi’niri took refuge in the most isolated spot in the clearing, hidden from unwelcome glances. She was sitting on a large root, in the shade of the broad, iridescent eyaye leaves. Shimmering drops of nectar released an enveloping fragrance that invaded the space, spreading in graceful invisible waves with each flick of the foraging birds’ wings. Convinced that she was finally alone, she let out a silent, liberating cry; frustration and suffering now mastered that normally unflappable candied face.

“You look tired.” Someone sat by her side, running his warm palm between her shoulder blades, down her back, and then up the back of her neck, massaging her gently. Strangely, she did not flinch, as if expecting that attention. As if she knew she would find him there. The stranger didn’t speak, said nothing so as not to upset her further, and let her vent. With her, words were often superfluous, creating distance, forcing her to give meaning to an inner flow that she preferred to keep her own; she wasn’t temperamentally inclined to sharing, preferring to handle the emotions she felt in her own way, in the intimacy of herself. Although it was, in most cases, deleterious and exhausting; gripped by regrets, unexpressed desires, and, on this specific occasion, even some remorse.

A feather hovered in the air, gliding lightly in the open palm of the boy. He then turned it over in his fingers, studying its cyan-greenish veins that divided it into tiny sections. A few brown flecks mottled it at the edges, although the fuchsia of the tip was predominant and in sharp contrast to the white of the base. He arranged the stem behind Mi’niri’s ear along with a strand of her hair, exposing the delicate profile of her face, the pale right cheek, and the high cheekbone, accentuating the elongated slit of her eyes. He contemplated how much the feather colors complimented her face.

She was ashamed of her appearance, the mark of an outcast life, but to the boy, it was beautiful. It made her one of a kind. Her complexion could have been even in the humans’ range; in his eyes, Mi’niri would have been the most beautiful girl in Eywa’eveng anyway.

“Eventually, you’ll have to talk about it.”

She looked up at him, her bulbs swollen, flushed, and glowing. A rosy tinge of shame crossed her cheeks and nose, and the young man wondered what the source of that sad expression was. The villainy with which she had pressed Kiokä by venting her dissatisfactions on him? The exposure of his secret love? His gesture?

He smiled at the idea, but it was but a lukewarm smile, a mockery, all too aware that nothing he said or did would have any effect. Kiokä probably could have disappeared, and she would not have noticed.

“I was cruel before,” was the first thing she said since they had reached there, at the foot of that majestic tree, her voice croaking from crying. He could do nothing but sigh, the facts commenting on themselves. “What’s wrong with me?” “Nothing is wrong with you.” “Then why am I like this?”

He hesitated for a moment before answering. But by now, dabbing the wound had become useless. Sometimes you need to leave it open and exposed to the sun for it to heal from the infection. “Because you can’t resign yourself,” he sentenced laconically, “I understand, you know? I’m in the same situation as you,” he sketched a wry grin, “I’ve always let others define me, choose for me. To tell me how I should have been, what I should have done.”

The wrinkled look he gave her was so sad and dark, she felt as if she had looked out into two gloomy mirrored wells that opened a pathway to the depths of the underworld. There was nothing left of his bravado and amusing conceit, not even an iota. They were totally absent in that amber eye. And on that suddenly apathetic face, even the shadow of his usual cheeky, crafty smirk had disappeared. “I had to be shot for them to realize how hard they had been on me.”

Mi’niri winced in pain at that confession and looked away, suddenly exposed, naked. “Did you ever think of telling them?” He chuckled, widening his legs out on the bed of leaves and stretching his body backward to fill himself with the golden warmth of the foliage above their heads. “At least a million times,” he admitted, “Once I even had the urge to rant, amidst everyone, so exhausted was I of shouldering responsibilities that weren't mine. But it probably wouldn’t have changed anything.” The boy blew out a quick sigh as he continued, “I even tried to undertake trainings so heavy that they didn’t give me the material time to look after my brothers. At least I would have the excuse. But my thoughts always came back to them, together with an excruciating guilt. I’m the eldest, it’s my job to stand in for our parents.” “That’s not true. It’s not your place to educate them.”

It wasn’t part of her personality to dispense advice, still, she felt the burden of having to do so; to at least try to console him as he had done with her countless times, including this one. It was funny to talk to each other like that with a stranger whom moreover she met only in her dreams and whose name she did not even know. Confronting each other about the injustices that had plagued them from an early age, as if they had shared them as if they had always been there to back each other up.

“When are you going to tell me who you are?”

He turned again to look at her, the eyes that were staring at her at that moment, and that the faint sunlight filtering through the foliage dotted with golden straws, differed from they had been a moment ago: tremendously confident and determined, the same ones she used to meet. The girl clutched her shoulders, prey to an unmotivated anxiety that sprang directly from her gut, from her core. As if the young man who sat beside her had unexpectedly changed before her without her being able to do anything to prevent it. He looked so different, so adult and distant, yet so close, and for a second he seemed unrecognizable to her. He took her hand and brought it to his chest. When her petite palm collided with his pectoral, she could feel beneath the scar of the gunshot, beneath the warmth of his skin, the accelerated, almost frightened beat of the heart muscle.

“I’m already doing it.”

At those words, Mi’niri clenched her fingers tighter, so tightly that her nails rubbed the outline of the healed wound. And, for an instant, it felt as if she had squeezed his heart for real.

Evening had long since settled over the landscape and it was dark outside. The cooler air of mid-season was surrendering to the more sultry temperatures of early summer. So too was the cyclical pattern of constellations giving way to a less star-laden but brighter sky, thanks to the lengthening days. The celestial vault would have been marvelous had it not been veiled by the shimmering evanescence of the moons; three shining, perfect orbs that flooded the space below with an impalpable, milky glow. A light breeze rustled through the tents, its murmurs humming on the thick rocky walls of the gorge where the village resided. Channeling into the thick valley, it carried in dense sweet whiffs the scent of the panopyras - now in full bloom. In the distance, the muted crackling of tree branches brushing against each other and the faint swaying of lianas could be heard. Sounds that mingled with the rustling of the lanterns that decorated the winding lanes - already installed for the festival that was to be held soon, and which this year would have an even more bitter taste for Mi’niri.

Ideal weather for a night hike, she thought, hugging herself in her shawl as she crossed the silent, sleepy path. There was only a candle to light it; the flame flickered with each step of the girl, illuminating her diaphanous face with a faint, warm light and casting eerie shadows on the ground. Mi’niri barely glanced at them, a shiver slipping down her spine as darkness threatened to engulf everything. She had a very bad feeling.

She looked around one last time, on the alert, before peeling back the drape that served as a door, as if something was watching her intently. A nocturnal predator ready to ambush her. But even after entering the tent and closing the drape behind her, she couldn’t allow herself to feel relieved.

It was never a good sign to be summoned by the Olo’eyktan. Especially at that hour. Whatever he wanted to tell her, whatever he wanted to order her to do, was not to be overheard by prying ears.

“I've been watching her for three years,” she heard the clan leader’s unmistakable voice mutter, “She, and that beast of hers that always accompanies her.”

Dewran, she corrected him, refusing to speak, to disrespect the man who so often sinned the same error against her brother in spirit. She saw it in the way she watched him walk by her side when they passed. The same eyes the people reserved for her, burning into her like slow-flowing lava on the slopes of a volcano. The strange orphan of mysterious origins.

The first Txumre’ Makto in history. Someone fearsome, whose opinion could change the fate of many. ‘For it was Eywa’s will’, Tsahìk declared that fateful day.

“Something extraordinary awaits her. Something that will deliver immense torment, just as annihilating as the venom of her spirit brother, but that will culminate in profound shift and perpetual unity.”

“That gaze, that resoluteness in the eyes, is essential for a leader. What I seek in my successor. And Kiokä...” The silence that followed was more powerful than any words could ever be, and Mi'niri was left feeling a lump form in her throat. Hearing the way his name was spoken was like a poison-tipped arrow, piercing her heart with painful accuracy. It had been a full two weeks since she last talked to him. More or less since his confession. Now things were pretty awkward and tense between the two. Truth be told, she was keeping her distance. Avoiding him like the plague - like she was the plague. Mi’niri couldn’t risk running into each other, knowing he wasn’t willing to forgive and forget. They wouldn’t return to normal this time. His shifty eyes never failed to betray him whenever they sat at opposite ends of the hearth during communal meals. When he walked past her, she couldn't help but notice how he held himself with an air of superiority, refusing to acknowledge her presence. Mi’niri was well aware she could expect nothing more from him. She'd hurt him, broken his heart, wounded his pride. Kiokä needed time to heal. They both needed it. Most of all, they needed to ask themselves what they both wanted and sought for themselves. Besides, even if Kiokä had intended to move on from yet another wronging, meeting by chance was unlikely because of their restrictive commitments. Thank goodness. It incensed her to realize how tangled her existence had become in a mere afternoon.

“You're a smart, diligent lad, a real go-getter. But although you were raised to inherit my title, you don’t have the spirit to lead the people. Perhaps in peacetime that may have sufficed, but not with the resurgence of the ketuwong (aliens).”

Fully understanding where he was going with this, a grimace eluded her. I don’t have that spirit either, she wanted to shout, already feeling the responsibility that came with the title weighing down on her. I got nothing you're looking for.

“Shadow is about to fall upon us. We need a powerful leader capable of making arduous decisions.” “Ma muntxatan (husband), our son is still young. He still has time to prove himself to the people.” From behind a partition peeped Tsahìk, a reproachful look towards her spouse. “That is not the Great Mother's will. We have already broached the subject. Kiokä is a troubled, disoriented boy who shoulders the duty of his lost brother.” There’s a mournful note in the woman’s voice at the mention of her first son. The thanator attack that had claimed the life of their loved one many years ago was still fresh in their minds, a deep scar on the hearts of the clan. “He has no desire to be Olo’eyktan, rather, his true calling is in art. His love for it surpasses any ambition. Nevertheless, he picked this girl as his chosen mate,” he pointed at her, “And Eywa also favored her. That must carry some implication.” “Assuredly, my dear, but her responses are not here to be sought. She is on the cusp of something remarkable.”

What was that sentence trying to say? What am I searching for?

The man let out a distressed chuckle, sensing the same veto in his wife's eyes that he had seen in his son's as he grew up. A son who renounced to pursue his own future out of fear. Who dreaded the thought of letting down his people, of never measuring up to the clan’s expectations. Failure was a constant worry, always present in his thoughts. He lacked the confidence to see the greatness that lay dormant within him. A merit that was so impressive, it could only be outshone by a second, even more dazzling one.

“Mi’niri is averse to being appointed as Olo’eykte or Tsahìk.” Not for the Tawkami, at least. Tsahìk knew from the very start that the girl’s path wouldn’t be the same as her son’s, leading her down a separate road. A unique journey to undertake. With too many questions as her guides, she will leave behind the clan that never felt like home.

About what was in store for the girl, the goddess had been silent. Yet, the woman was sure she’d find her place in the world thanks to the deity's serene giggle whenever questioned. Mi'niri would find joy, harmony, and meaning, even in the face of darkness and pain. She would find love.

It was unreasonable to demand a girl with a tendency towards solitude to assume the reins of the masses. Just as it was ignominious to disregard the signs of Nawna Sa’nok. “Soon Kiokä will find her Tsahìk.” The man sighed, “I am getting old, ‘evan (boy [colloquial]). The Tawkami must be in the right hands, and it's up to me to ensure it happens. Embrace your destiny, it's time to fulfill it.” “How do you know this is my destiny?” A flick of a cough interrupted the conversation.

“Have a sit.” The rider's mask obscured the man's expression, but she could tell he was studying her carefully. With his gnarled hands entwined at his chin, he tapped his index finger against his thin upper lip in contemplation. His sunken eyes were devoid of any emotion, and his calm, calculating tone conveyed only a thinly veiled sense of distrust. His algidness did not surprise her. Kindness was not one of his hallmarks. Although he’d never harmed a hair on her head and, indeed, seemed to carry her on his palm, she had never felt completely at ease in his presence. He used to look at her as if he constantly kept her under scrutiny, dissecting every little detail of her being. As if he was waiting for her to mess up. Yet the girl had shown no compunction in the face of his severity and had never stopped seeking his approval by devoting herself to the clan’s well-being. She wanted to make him proud, almost as if he were a close relative, a mentor. So, as she had always done, she obeyed the man and took a seat at the other end of the massive wooden table, on which a topographical map was resting. The man stared at it for a long time before straightening his torso and exhaling heavily.

“You must be wondering why I wanted you here,” he finally spoke. His deep voice reverberated in her rib cage, causing her to flinch. Her imperceptible nod was enough for him to continue, “Sky People.”

For the past three years, new stars had appeared in the sky, closer and brighter than the others had ever been. They disappeared and reappeared in the blackness of the cosmos like lighthouses in the night. A flickering artificial light that each time it went out brought devastation to new corners of the wondrous satellite on which they lived. The forests crackled and hissed as the smell of smoke filled the air and tongues of fire licked at everything in sight. Animals’ desperate cries filled the air as they tried to escape the flames, but many were not fast enough. The streams shriveled up and disappeared, leaving behind a barren, lifeless landscape. The once vibrant scenery now reduced to a charred wasteland. Clans had to migrate. Seeking refuge, they abandoned the homelands of their forefathers and ventured into the depths of uncharted wilderness, where even the Na’vi had not yet tread.

The Tawkami's valley was a natural fortress, surrounded by high mountains and dense vegetation that stretched for miles. The rock's jagged edges were a testament to the force of the ancient glacier that carved it. Finding them was a hard task for outsiders. Complice the immune response in the Hallelujah Mountains, which, however, was triggered with increasing frequency - directly proportional to the incessant human incursions.

That apparent serenity, that somehow permanent peace, would not last much longer. The Earthlings became bolder with each passing day. The heinousness they were guilty of preceded them. Only death and destruction followed their passage. From coastal settlements to the southeasternmost archipelagos, villages were being razed to the ground. As the platoons advanced into the rainforest to protect Bridgehead supply lines found Omatikaya warriors as the sole active resistance, the RDA unleashed its new abomination.

The recombined soldiers.

Their target was one. Jake Sully.

The conflict was inching closer, and they knew it was only a matter of time before it would have a global impact. Plundering and raiding were no longer enough for the Terrestrials. What they wanted was to conquer, usurp the Na’vi of their birthright, steal their lands, and make them their new planet. Colonise and enslave in exchange for the salvation of a species that should have perished, but persisted, like weeds that never die out.

“What is it, Father?” Kiokä’s voice had a tinge of bitterness in it as he spoke, his eyes staring fixedly at the man, never settling on her. Lopsided once. Mi’niri remained composed, refusing to be disturbed by the hint of indifference with which he had expressed himself. Bordering on annoyance.

“Ikran in the colors of the Metkayina.”

Reef populations flying? Since when? What were they up to in the woods? What were they after?

His son’s nostrils flared as surprise mixed with indignation. At that precise moment, he couldn’t have been further from his well-known composure as he approached her, finally meeting her gaze. “Why’d she come here?” The girl held her ground and stared back at him. She pushed him away, the sound of his pleading voice still ringing in her ears. Niri realized he was hurt, but it didn’t excuse how unfairly he was treating her. ”We’ll come up with a strategy.” ”That's not what I asked,” he objected. The father narrowed his eyes. “To be Txumre’ Makto does?” Kiokä’s anger wavered, replaced by a flicker of uncertainty. His brow furrowed as he tried to make sense of the situation. “Have they violated our borders?” “Not yet,” he warned. Her voice emitted a deep, growling tone from the back of his throat. The Olo’eyktan anger softened, replaced by concern, though skepticism still lingered in his voice. “But why? What’s the reason for them invading our airspace?” “That is what we must find out before they reach Greenhome. Gather the best warriors and interrogate them. Make them talk.”

Notes: All the info about the clans I mention and the characters' names of said clans are from games side stories and other official sources. Since they haven't appeared in the movies yet, I take them as canon until James Cameron will state otherwise.

Blue Flute: another name for Omatikaya.

Panopyra: nicknamed the love flower by Terran scientists, is an unusual life-form that has characteristics reminiscent of a jellyfish. It doesn’t resemble any taxonomic plant group found on Earth and appears to represent a new evolution line toward a primitive nervous system. Sensory tissue and a saprophytic lifestyle, where nutrition is obtained from decayed organic matter and dead organisms, place this species somewhere between plants, animals, and fungi so it can be categorized as zooplantae. It is an epiphyte and typically grows attached to other plants, sometimes high in the canopy. Normal plant gravitropic responses are missing in the panopyra. Instead of growing toward or against gravity, the vinelike stems sense and grow toward prey, which in turn are attracted by slight electric signals emanating from the plant's stems. Once an animal approaches the panopyra it is further lured by the nutrient-rich water trapped in the cuplike plant body. This double attractant system results in abundant food for the panopyra, which has no need to make its own food through photosynthesis. The water is collected from dew and fog, which condenses and runs down into the cup-shaped body. The Na'vi collect the liquid that catches in the body and use it for a nutritious and healing drink. The flexible stems are used for making nets, traps, and other woven items. The growing tips of the stems with their sensory cells are said to be an attractant and aphrodisiac and often worn by young Na'vi who are looking for a mate.

Tawtsngal: Na’vi name of panopyra.

Ikran People of the Eastern Sea: Tayrangi Clan.

Yawäa family: Mi'niri's family

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impatient14 · 9 months

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Anthony J. Crowley as Lucifer: A Meta of Facts, Fiction, and Everything in Between

The theory that Crowley is Lucifer is hotly defended and contested, with naysayers typically casting the archangel Raphael as Crowley's identity in heaven (@vroomvroomwee's Crowley is Lucifer is particularly good-read the replies and reblogs too!) However, despite Raphael's notably absence in Heaven and the matchmaking plot of S2 (Raphael is traditionally associated with love and marriage), I think there is far more evidence that suggests he was Lucifer, instead. Yes, I know Crowley refers to Lucifer as someone other than himself in S1, but I'll get to that and everything else below the cut.

Full disclosure, I stumbled into this analysis from a different angle. Originally, I was just posting a quick little thought I had about Crowley's role on Earth. TLDR version, Crowley could have been acting not only as an agent of Hell on Earth to tempt humans but specifically ordered to tempt Aziraphale to Fall, an order he almost immediately succeeds in doing but chooses not to report. Since S2 made it clear that Crowley did not reserve his mercy for Aziraphale alone (i.e., his sense of fairness is intrinsic and not a characteristic obtained through his love for Aziraphale), it would be reasonable to think Crowley maneuvered himself into being assigned Hell's agent on Earth specifically to protect Aziraphale from Hell. This would not only mean Crowley remembered him from the beginning, it would mean he had the kind of power to assign himself that role. (It would also mean Crowley has been lying to both Hell and Aziraphale this whole time- a detail that would support Agnes Nutter's prophecy that "He is not who he says he is.")

This idea, that Crowley not only refused to send Aziraphale to Hell but actively protected him from it, screams rebellion--a characteristic Lucifer is most known for. Sure, you could argue all the angels who fell were rebellious (note here that Raphael never fell), but Crowley is the only demon in Hell who continued to rebel after he fell, making his association with the characteristic as notable as Lucifer's. This will be important in a moment.

Let's start with some history/translation issues.

The difference between Lucifer, Satan, and the Devil.

The conflation of these three names is a Christian phenomenon thought to have occurred in the process of organizing a conglomeration of "lost gospels" from numerous Christian sects, each one with their own translations and traditions. In the original Hebrew, "Satan" is actually ha-satan ("the satan"), defined as a role rather than a name (specifically the role of testing one's faith). At some point in the translation process, "the" is dropped and the tempter is simply, "Satan." Satan, before being completely subsumed by Lucifer, was considered Lucifer's vessel on earth-a separate entity.

Now, "Lucifer" is Latin for Venus' morning appearance. The word was taken from the Greek words Φωσφόρος (Phosphorus), "light-bringer", and Ἑωσφόρος (Eosphorus ), "dawn-bringer." So how did Lucifer become synonymous with a fallen angel? Folklore and metaphor. I could go really deep here, but instead I'll just say the Sumerian myth about the goddess Inanna's ability to descend into other realms including the underworld and then rise again to heaven. This myth is based in the synodic cycle of the planet--you guessed it--Venus (more specifically Venus in retrograde). Jump to the Book of Isaiah when the king of Babylon is condemned, Isaiah refers to the king as "Lucifer:"

How art thou fallen from heaven, O Lucifer, son of the morning! [how] art thou cut down to the ground, which didst weaken the nations! {14:13} For thou hast said in thine heart, I will ascend into heaven, I will exalt my throne above the stars of God: I will sit also upon the mount of the congregation, in the sides of the north: {14:14} I will ascend above the heights of the clouds; I will be like the most High. {14:15} Yet thou shalt be brought down to hell, to the sides of the pit. {14:16}

Thus, the "morning star" falling from heaven is a motif born out of a long list of myths and translations that get thrown in a pot together, stirred up, and then served according to disparate cultures and traditions. Some of those traditions combined "the satan" and "Lucifer" into Satan/Lucifer, some others kept "Satan" and "Lucifer" as two separate beings, with Lucifer ruling over Satan who acts as an agent of temptation on earth. (Sound familiar? Hold that thought!)

In contrast to "Satan" and "Lucifer," "The Devil" can be deterritorialized more simply. The title comes from a series of translations of Greek's διάβολος (diábolos), or "slanderer." Thus, how the Devil became synonymous with all things Satan, Lucifer, and Hell can be inferred via its etymology.

So, if in some traditions Satan's role is to tempt people's faith, that would mean Crowley is Satan, right? Under my thinking, yes and no.

In the Bible, "tempting" Eve simply meant asking why she hadn't eaten from the Tree of Knowledge and then telling her the truth about what would happen if did (i.e., she would not die as God claimed but would instead be granted the wisdom to know the difference between good and evil). This is important if you recall that "the satan" may act as an agent of hell, but it isn't inherently good or evil, it's there by God's design to test people. So in this way, sure. Crowley plays the role of "the satan." But in the Good Omen's universe, Satan is given definition as the King of Hell (aka Benedict Cumberbatch and a team of CGI wizards), while Lucifer is only mentioned once (I'm getting there, promise!). Given all the amalgamations we've just gone over, it isn't outside the realm of possibility that Gaimon and Pratchett switched their roles. If anything, it makes far more sense that "Lucifer" would become "Crowley" over "Satan." Lucifer was an angel not a deity, so he would become a demon, while the Satan of Good Omens is set up as a direct opponent to God.

But why does Crowley have to have been Lucifer? Couldn't he have been another fallen angel?

Sure. But it isn't a coincidence that Lucifer and Raphael aren't mentioned by name (except once, I know!). Crowley's physical characteristics are more inline with Lucifer's than Raphael's (according to literary tradition, i.e., Paradise Lost and Dante's Inferno); he was the first one to say "let there be light;" rebellion is intrinsic to him (continuously rebelling against hell); he's androgynous (Lucifer as the masculine fallen angel and the feminine Venus); and he has many faces (which he shows off more in S1). Plus, Lucifer is said to have committed the sin of Pride, something Crowley demonstrated a lot of after he cranked the cosmos.

Also, S2 has made perfectly clear that Crowley is insanely powerful for a demon. (I'm convinced the huge power surge they investigate is not the miracle that hides Gabriel but is in fact the burst of energy Crowley produces when he's angry. It occurs at roughly the same time and in the same place. Narratively, it'd be just as easy to have the blackout occur another way, so Crowley's power surge must have another purpose.) In the book, the Narrator of Good Omens (God) says, "Crowley has something no other demons have, especially not Hastur--an imagination." Crowley is repeatedly singled out as being different than the other demons. He is able to read the report that is locked to everyone but the highest of authorities in Heaven.

So, now let's talk about that quote from S1: "I never asked to be a demon. I was just minding my own business one day and then... oh, lookie here, it's Lucifer and the guys!"

It's reasonable to assume Crowley is referring to himself saying "lookie here" after he was the subject of the first part of that sentence. But in actuality, the suggestion that Crowley was "minding his own business" would contradict him then going up to a group of people and initiating a conversation. Therefore, the ellipses (as they are designed to do) represent an absent thought. In this situation, the transition of the subject. In this moment, Crowley is recalling the moments before he fell, when he was minding his own business (while in the company of others) when someone singled out him the other rebels/questioners.

Taken another way, it's also entirely possible that Crowley is referring to himself in the third person as an outside viewer of the situation because, in point of fact, even if Crowley was Lucifer, Lucifer no longer exists according to Neil:

What does all this mean?

It means that even if Crowley was Lucifer, Lucifer doesn't exist because Good Omens takes place after the Fall. Now, this may put a little hiccup in the idea that Crowley can read the top secret files because he was an archangel, but I think it can be explained away via the ineffable plan. It is obvious that God still loves Crowley and shows him preferential treatment. It isn't outside the realm of possibility that she allowed him to keep certain parts of Lucifer as he Fell--especially if he was going to play the role as tempter on Earth. Clearly Crowley retained some of his angelic "goodness," which includes a unique moral code on Earth. Otherwise he'd be just like all the other demons. Crowley has to have enough good in him to appreciate humans, to be able to differentiate who should be tempted and how. He has to understand them in order to tempt them. This, I would argue, is the perfect punishment for an angel that questioned God's creation of man (but we know now he was just questioning the subsequent destruction of the universe he created). For daring to challenge her plan, God sends Lucifer (aka Crowley) to Earth to live among the humans he didn't value in Heaven. But, as we've seen, Crowley can still go up to heaven even when he's not in Aziraphale's body. Just like "morning star" Venus, Crowley can rise to the heavens, idle at the horizon, or fall into darkness. Even as "Crowley," Lucifer is still God's favorite.

So to go back up to where we started, it's possible that Hell ordered Crowley to tempt Aziraphale into falling, but God allowed Crowley to retain a sense of justice, and, perhaps more notability, his ability to love. I think Beelzebub and Gabriel's coupling is a sign that Heaven and Hell's hold on angels and demons weakens when they are confronted with human experiences, which would explain Crowley's very loose allegiance and Aziraphale's increasing discontent with Heaven. The difference between them is that Crowley--on some level--remembers what it's like to be an authority but not THE authority in Heaven, and he knows how fruitless Aziraphale's mission is. As the serpent, he has all this knowledge but Aziraphale is still very naïve, still devoted to the idea of "good" vs. "evil." He needs to see for himself that this dichotomy doesn't exist, even with him in charge. Once he's able to see this and understand what it means for his identity, I think we'll see the most elaborate "I Was Wrong" dance in history.

(Note: I didn't proofread this before posting, because I don't wanna. Now I'm going to devote a stupid amount of time trying to see if I can figure out what the damn J stands for.)

#good omens #good omens 2 #good omens meta #anthony crowley #crowley x aziraphale

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phantomtgm · 7 months

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Phantom - Chapter Twenty Six

Maverick’s P.O.V

I was laying on something soft and cold. Snow. I opened my eyes and embraced my surroundings. I was in the middle of a snow riddled forest however my current position left me out in the open like a ginormous target.

The enemy would easily spot me and they did as soon as I scrambled to my feet. A Mil Mi-24 helicopter came soaring around the corner and I struggled to detach my parachute.

I glanced up as the helicopter spotted me and began releasing bullets. The sound of the raining bullets pierced my ears as I ran for cover in the woods. However, running into a forest where snow covered the ground was extremely hard to do.

I was in some deep shit and did not know how to get out of it. I didn’t look back as I heard stray bullets fall on the ground and as soon I saw a fallen log, I jumped behind it, narrowly missing their gunfire.

I gasped for air and laid on my back. The loud sound of the helicopter’s blades was getting closer so I peeked a look and saw the black helicopter heading straight for me so I dug my heels into the snow, attempting to run away but when I managed to stand, a F-18 came from nowhere, releasing fire into the helicopter.

The helicopter turned to open fire to whomever was in that jet. Good, a distraction but also not good because more than likely, that was Rooster in that jet. I was going to kill him the very next time I saw him.

He was definitely not supposed to do that after I just saved his ass mid air.

I shook my head and ran deeper into the woods but a gigantic explosion behind me caused me to turn around and jump as I saw that the F-18 that had covered my ass a moment ago was diving towards the ground in a ball of fire as well as that enemy helicopter.

I must admit Rooster was good at this, maybe a little too good.

It dawned on me that Rooster should have ejected from that plane so I let my eyes search the sky for a parachute.

There it was. He was dangling downward so I took off in the direction that I hoped he landed.

“What the hell? What are you doing here?” Rooster yelled after I pushed him down.

“What am I doing here?” I yelled but the frigid air was making it hard to breathe but I kept on yelling, pissed at what Rooster did.

“You think I took that missile so you could be down here with me?” I pointed directly at him even though I was relieved that Rooster was not dead.

Rooster not only looked pissed but relieved as well which sparked a bit of hope that he and I could reconcile our relationship. He was Goose’s son and I’ll always look out for him even if he chooses not to have anything to do with me.

“You should be back on the carrier by now!” I exclaimed once more, hoping to get though to him that what he did was stupid.

He looked completely dumbfounded as he said “I saved your life!” At this point I had no idea why we were still yelling.

“I saved YOUR life. That’s the whole point.” I grunted looking around then said “What the hell were you even thinking?”

Not even a second later, “You told me not to think!” I opened my mouth to speak then realized how extremely stupid I felt in this moment so I shook my head, attempting to reign in my anger.

“Well…” I finally said after a moment. “It’s good to see you.”

Rooster nodded “It’s good to see you too.”

We both looked around at our surroundings. “What the hell are we going to do?” Rooster asked but after arguing with Rooster, my mind went straight back to Ava. I needed to know if she made it.

“Rooster.” I said firmly, getting his full attention.

“What…” I swallowed the lump in my throat. “Did Ava make it?” Rooster stopped pacing and eyed me up with a weird look on his face.

His silence spoke enough.

I sighed, trying to expel the pain that I felt at that news so I started to walk towards the enemy’s airfield but Rooster’s voice stopped me in my tracks.

“She made it back to the ship but sir?” The amount of relief I felt at hearing that Ava was alive made me ecstatic. I was definitely going to be showing how much I love her the moment I lay eyes on her again.

Rooster had questions in his eyes which made me nervous.

“What’s going on between you two?” He finally muttered and the nerves overwhelmed me. I didn’t know how to answer Rooster without him getting angry so instead of addressing it at this moment, I nodded north.

“Let’s go.”

“You want to steal an F-14, that bag of ass?” Rooster’s tone almost made me laugh but I needed to focus if we were going to make it out alive.

“I took down three migs in one of those.” I voiced.

Hand smacking down in the snow, he opened his mouth to speak but I beat him to it.

“Let’s go.” I got up and attempted to walk casually across the tarmac. We didn’t need to be detected by the enemy.

“Uh Mav?” Rooster sounded unsure so I sped up. “We need to get moving.” “Yeah-h.”

Skipping across the tarmac, we made it into the only hangar that had survived the tomahawk attack. There was a F-14 sitting there in perfect condition and it brought me back to the days where I flew with Goose.

“Are you sure this thing can fly?” Rooster questioned. I was still unsure myself so I simply said “We’re about to find out.”

“Holy shit! What the fuck was that?” Rooster sounded just as perplexed as I was when that Russian plane pulled off a maneuver neither of us had seen before.

“We gotta get low!” I descended into the canyon as the plane behind us followed. “The terrain will confuse his targeting system!”

I swung left and right, effectively dodging the bullets that fifth generation plane was shooting at us with.

“He’s still coming!”

“Shit, we’ve been hit!”

This wasn’t good.

We successfully outmaneuvered the fifth gen fighter but I still felt uneasy as we glided over the ocean.

“Mav, I’ve got the radio on.” Oh thank fuck.

“Outstanding. Get us in touch with the boat.”

“Copy that.”

A warning noise flooded the small cockpit as I looked around for the plane but I couldn’t see anything.

“Where is this guy?”

I hard banked to the right as I grunted. “Rooster, flares now!”

“We’re all out of flares Mav!” Rooster’s voice was panicked.

Fuck fuck fuck FUCK.

Out of nowhere, Rooster said empathetically, “Think about Ava.” He said that like he knew what was going on between us. I admit, it sparked a bit of hope but not enough as I realized we were out of countermeasures.

“Rooster, we’ve gotta eject so when I tell you to pull the rings above your head do it!”

I pointed the nose of the plane up to get altitude. “Eject, eject!” I yelled, waiting for the canopy to open so we could eject but nothing happened.

“It’s not working!” The sadness in his voice killed me then a surge of anger came through me as I realized I couldn’t save Rooster, Goose’s son.

The urge to cry was real and the pain overwhelmed so much I couldn’t breathe.

I didn’t know I would ever see Ava again.

---------- Author's Note

Hi everyone! Sorry about the delay in posting this! I haven't had wifi for a few weeks and I just got it back! Let me know what you think! I hope you enjoy it!

#maverick imagine #top gun #top gun maverick #pete maverick mitchell #pete mitchell x reader #maverick x reader #maverick fanfic #pete mitchell #top gun 1986 #pete mitchell fanfiction

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leeminuwu · 11 months

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MY HAPPY MARRIAGE | Gojo Satoru (2)

—In which the disgraced older daughter of a small clan gets an offer from the strongest sorcerer in the world, an offer she can't refuse, an unusual prospect of marriage.

TW : domestic violence, physical abuse, suicidal ideation, suicide, self harm, 18+ themes | minors dni

Pairing : Gojo Satoru X OC, slight! Geto suguru x oc, slight! Sukuna X OC

Part One

TWENTY YEARS AGO

THE FIRST TIME a young Gojo Satoru arrived at the Furukawa household, he was eight years old. A god amongst men. A prodigy of his clan. That is what he knew and it was also the truth. To be born with both six eyes and limitless at his disposal, he was a young god amongst Jujutsu Sorcerers. Hence, warm hospitality was something he didn't particularly worry about. He knew that everyone cowered at his feet to please him, especially if it was a family trying to climb the prestige ladder in the Jujutsu World. Much like the Furukawa clan. Yet, he found himself exasperated and frankly bored listening to the full discussions of the elders.

Despite all his powers, Gojo Satoru was still a child. He wished to play, and the gardens looked especially tempting. But a problem arose, who can I play with?. The youngest son of the house was a mere child of five, who seemed quite stupid for his own good.

If there were no chances of frolic, he decided to walk the gardens by himself. A decision, that earned him a sigh from his father and grandfather. I'll never be a bore like them when I grow up. He grumbled to himself, and skipped into the lush gardens that had bloomed under the spring's grace.

The gardens were certainly not as big as his clan's. The Furukawa household reeked of new money, and their pretentiousness of trying to come off as elegant sorcerers made Gojo Satoru bite back laugh. Yet the small garden helped him calm down quite a lot. The boy walked a far as he could from the house. A lot less people, a lot less cursed energy. He thought to himself. His eyes could detect the smallest amounts to cursed energy, and that day he had seen more than his fair share emitting from the house.

While he was grateful for his abilities. He often wondered, how the world looked like without all the curses in the air.

Lost in his introspections, the boy who could sense even the smallest movements around him, was startled by a loud thud.

"What the —" Gojo looked around him, only to find a girl positioned like a cat on her forelimbs, her yukata covered in mud.

Why didn't I sense her?

The young boy was irked by the girl's lack of presence and had decided to approach her. She'd clearly fallen off the tree, yet she'd not made a sound of pain and she'd continued to pick up persimmons off the ground.

"Oi, girl!" He'd called out to her, his cheeks puffing in annoyance. How did she not emit any cursed energy?

But the girl chose not to respond, as she continued to pick up the countless persimmons in her tiny arms.

"Hey, you—" he asked a little louder, the girl's ears perked up like a rabbit as she finally heard Gojo. His footsteps towards her had gotten louder.

"Are you talking to me?" The girl asked, as her eyes widened like a doe in the headlights.

"What is your name?"

"Furukawa Chihaya" The young Furukawa girl was still confused, the boy looked like a foreigner, with his white hair and and blue eyes and couldn't understand why a foreigner would speak to her in fluent japanese.

"But why do you—" before she could finish, the realisation dawned on her, making her eyes widened in surprise. The boy infront of her was no foreigner, it was the the prodigy, she'd heard about. He is like a god. She remembered her mother saying, as she wrapped her yukata that morn. "Kami Sama!" The girl exclaimed, bowing down abruptly as the orange fruits in her arms scattered on the ground once again, startling Gojo as well.

"Ha??" Gojo lifted his brow in confusion, "What are you doing? I am not a god, geez what a pain!" The boy spoke, running his hand through his hair.

The girl lifted up her head, only to restart picking up the fruits that had fallen down, "Mother told me to treat you like a one, because she says you are the blessed one" she said, while grabbing hold of the last stray fruit.

She turned to him and gave him a warm smile.

Gojo scoffed, "Yeah, whatever I don't really care" he cleared his throat and continued "Hey Chiyo, tell me something—"

"It's Chihaya actually—"

"Chiyo" He smirked, "Why don't you emit cursed energy, huh? Is this some sort of new trick that I don't know about?"

Chihaya tilted her head in sheer confusion. "I don't have cursed energy, Gojo sama" she stated in a matter of fact way.

"I don't believe you. That's not possible. Every human being emits cursed energy" More so, non curse users like her.

Chihaya smiled yet again, however this time her smile was melancholy. "I wish I had cursed energy, my father says my cursed energy is so less that he worries if I am even human" she chuckled.

Less? No. She didn't have any. He was certain of it. The girl was an anomaly.

"Does your cursed technique suppress your cursed energy then?" He asked again, just to be clear of the freak of nature that had taken a form of a young girl with chubby plush cheeks.

She tiled her head again, a confused look in her brown doe eyes, "I don't know what you mean"

Gojo felt like nature was playing a sick joke on him, making him come across someone who could evade six eyes with their lack of cursed energy. His anger diminished to amusement. What a strange girl. He took another look at her, her arms full of ripe persimmons as she looked around awkwardly.

"Do you want something?" She asked again, those same clueless eyes. Making the young boy realise, perhaps—that odd girl had been no threat at all. Perhaps his suspicions of her had been misplaced.

"You're so weird" Gojo cracked into a hearty laughter, "I never thought weaklings could be this entertaining!"

"How mean!" The girl lifted her cheeks in annoyance, and Gojo swore she looked as round as the persimmons she held. He pinched her cheeks, making her let out a small "ouch"

"I'll be taking some" the boy swiftly picked up two of the fruits the girl and gathered, and started to run away laughing about the whole ordeal. What a stupid, weird girl.

"Hey, give them back! I found them first!"

Chihaya ran behind him as much as her damned yukata allowed her to, dropping her collected fruits in the floor. The persimmons rolled scattered under the tree, once again.

_______________

PRESENT DAY

Years later, when Gojo Satoru returned to those shabby walls of the old Furukawa mansion, he had a characteristic smile on his face as he stood under the scrutinizing gazes the higher ups as head of his clan. Their faces veiled under the dimly lit room. It had been a while since as meeting of higher ups had occurred at the Furukawa household. It was an uncharacteristic destination, however it suited the main topic of contention for the day. The fate of Chihaya Furukawa.

In the dim room, Gojo could only make out the silhouette of Utahime. Whilst he felt Yaga's presence and stern gaze on him. Gojo was aware that his actions of transporting Chihaya to the Jujutsu High was a controversial one, however that day he was ready to face the music. He was ready to unveil what had occurred at the Chiba Montessori Academy, three days ago. After all, he never undertook actions were never without a reason.

"Are you aware about the number of casualties?"

"Of course" He replied, "I was the one who got her out of that fire after all" he continued with a finger to his chin "However, I believe the firefighters had already doused most of the fire that day"

"—20 children were injured and around of 2 staff were blazed" another added, prohibiting Gojo from digressing from the issue.

A small smirk formed on Satoru's face.

"But you probably don't care about that do you?" He questioned with a taunt in his voice. Earning a tsk from Utahime, who'd been escorting Gagkuganji at the council that day, out of sheer worry for her old friend.

Naobito Zenin appeared from the shadows, his disposition solemn as the Buddha, he was accompanied by Haruto Furukawa, his eyes devoid of any apparent emotion. Of course the head of the Zenin clan had to make his point. Especially since, he shared a cordial relationship with the leech of a man beside him. Haruto Furukawa carried a small diary with him, a decrepit object of old, as the man laid it forth on the small table that was kept at the centre of the dark room.

"This is my late wife's record" Haruto began, "She kept this diary to note down the various happenings of her daily life, this is but one of those several journals" He continued, as he stood under the dim light source that illuminated the room. Solidifying his position in the room full of esteemed sorcerer, his features from as a stern old judge, "As Yuki's husband, I believe I must atone for her crime against the Jujutsu council, for she and her esteemed family had hidden crucial details about their bloodline that could cause potential harm to the world at large" the man said, his voice strong as a horse, as his head bowed in shame.

It was the head of the Zenin clan who spoke up next, making the ashamed man, lift his head in surprise at the former's words.

Gojo smile grew. How unusual.

"Let me be clear as crystal" the man sighed, not a single emotion betraying his obdurate voice, "Chihaya Furukawa's body bears the mark of the unfortunate Machi curse sorcerers have been investigating for a while, her body is a bomb waiting to go off on the entire Jujutsu World" he continued, his dark eyes burrowing holes into Gojo's form, however the whole ordeal was merely amusing to him. "We are of the knowledge that Suguru Geto is trying to get through to her as well—hence, taking her in, would be a fallacy on your part"

"I am well aware of the risks" Gojo remarked.

"Are you?" It was now the head of the Furukawa clan who spoke, his voice bellowing with caution, "she is a vessel to a powerful sorceress Lady Akane, and we saw how she burnt the entire school. You are but playing with fire Gojo kun"

"See this is where you're wrong Furukawa san, Chihaya is not merely a vessel is she?" Gojo turned his eyes to Utahime who shifted uncomfortably. "I am sure there are those who are aware of the true nature of her power"

"She—" the woman sighed, insufferable brat. All the eyes had turned to her. "According to the brief research we conducted post the incident, we have suspicions and assume that she is not merely a vessel. If we are to look into the records of the Machi clan then, she is Akane herself. We can say that there was some reincarnation ritual involved before her death that bound her to the Machi bloodline. It is just that, her body hasn't been awakened yet, however, the incident at Chiba was a grave sign that her body may have finally started to awaken"

"Is there any confirmation regarding the nature of her power?" An elder asked from the shadows, his voice heavy with contempt. "Lady Akane was a sorceress of malice. While her vessel might be a much easier to eradicate. Reincarnation rituals are troublesome things"

Before Utahime could answer the elder's queries, a rather proactive Gojo Satoru, turned all eyes to his form with a chuckle and his rather animated style of walking and hovering hands to explain the ordeal. "It's difficult to break the cycle of birth and death, if she has bound herself to the bloodline. Killing her would risk a rebirth in the future in the same bloodline, perhaps a more distant relative who'd be much harder to track" Gojo stated in a matter of fact manner. His dark shades, sliding down his nose to reveal a mysterious glint in his eyes.

"We are still looking into the probably of the reincarnation ritual, there is hardly any proof for that. She might just be a vessel" Haruto Furukawa remarked, "I have sent Makoto and his cousins to seek out the records from the Machi household"

"Quite an elaborate way to say that you've sent out your son to kill your late wife's family" His playful eyes darkened as his lips upturned into a wicked smile, Gojo's hands were tucked behind his back as his six eyes burrowed holes into old Haruto's tainted soul.

The air in the roomed seem to thicken with the young sorcerer's accusation. Silence spoke the truth.

The tension was evaded as soon as Naobito Zenin cleared his throat.

"Vessel or a reincarnated sorceress, it would be dangerous to let her free nonetheless. However, the council is also well aware that killing her would only transfer the curse to some distant blood relative of the Machi clan" he continued, his eyes on Gojo as he spoke "keeping her in this compound of Furukawa estate itself is a good decision. As long as the transformation isn't complete"

Utahime's hands balled into fists. She couldn't believe that the higher ups would choose to keep her locked up with her scum of a father, rather than find a solution for her issue. Gojo could sense the woman's frustration, however he chose to wait before delivering his proposition.

"She is a walking hazard. Staying at home would keep her bounded" Haruto added curtly.

The head of the Gojo clan bursts into a laugh, holding onto his stomach, earning a glare from his old teacher, "You're funny old man, I thought you didn't have any sense of humour to you!"

"Excuse me?" Haruto Furukawa rolled his eyes in exasperation.

As Gojo compose himself, he grinned widely, his shit eating grin making most of the attendees groan internally, "Say, Chihaya—who is barely a grade 4 sorcer now, would atleast triple in her cursed energy output as Akane is awakened. Let's say she even ends up being a special grade 1 by the end of it. I doubt you or your son are even strong enough to handle her" he continued, as he walked towards the older man, his voice lowering in a sinister tone, "and what if Geto were to find? Would you be able to stop him?"

"We are willing to give our lives to end the witch who has bought immense shame to our name" Haruto bellowe with an unyielding resolve.

Gojo's eye twitched in annoyance. Bastards.

"And if situation calls for Geto Suguru to seek Chihaya out, we will not hesitate to end her life. Even if her awaking is not complete"

"Admirable" Gojo said with a tight smile. "but foolish"

This is not the time for me to be angry.

The voice of an older man resounded with reason, Gagkuganji, a man who remained a staunch follower of the higher-ups seemed to aid Gojo's cause, even if he was not aware of it, "Do you have a better alternative?" He continued, "Is it not better for a family to deal with the misgivings of their own blood rather than involving outsiders?"

"Precisely!" Gojo exclaimed, his swift change on time, startled Haruto Furukawa, much like the others present in the room.

"Matters of old curses should be solved within families" Gojo grinned turning to Haruto, the abhorrent grin resuming onto his features "Hence I present you with a prospect"

"A prospect?" The older man inquired, almost fearful of the next set of words that would spill out of Gojo Satoru's lips.

"I will marry your daughter!" Gojo exclaimed, pointing his slender finger at the older man, as his crystalline blue eyes peaked from the back of his glasses that had slid down his now slightly. His mouth was wide with a toothy grin and Haruto Furukawa swore he could hear his wife mocking him with a laugh from her grave.

The council erupted into murmurs.

Gojo Satoru had expected shock, but not such a lukewarm response to his proposition. Little did he know his sole, supposed, ally in that council, Utahime was seething at the young sorcerer from across the room.

"Nonsense" Haruto continued, after refusing simply as he waved his hand. "This is not the time for your frivolous propositions"

Gojo let out a hearty laugh, worsening the air of sheer gall that stopped the murmurs of the Jujutsu council

"Yet it is perfect opportunity" he said after composing himself, as he turned to the council, "I wish to take responsibility of Chihaya's life. I will wed her at the earliest date and then she will be under my care" walks around the room "If Akane chooses to evolve through Chihaya, I will make sure to end her life after the awakening and break the curse, so that it is no longer transferred to another faultless child"

Haruto gasped. Throughout his years in the Jujutsu World, the last thing he'd want to do was welcome a conceited Gojo into his family. His eyes shifted to Naobito Zenin, who stood with a poker face, contemplating on the whole ordeal.

"Why is it that the great Gojo Satoru chooses to take upon himself the matters of the Furukawa household?" The Zenin headman asks, with a hint of venom in his voice.

"Because I am the strongest" he stated with a smirk as he turned to meet Yaga's gazs, his voice lower than before "Only I can keep her out of Geto's reach"

Whilst his words were firm declaration to the entire council. Yaga could almost sense a hint of sincerity in his old student's voice.

________

GOJO SATORU HAD received an earful from Yaga post the council meeting. However his perils were far from being dismissed. As he teleported back to the Tokyo Metropolitan Jujutsu High, he felt a rage filled surge of cursed energy almost smacking him at the back of his head. An attempt, that had been promptly blocked by the likes of his infinity once again.

"GOJO SATORU, YOU PIG!" Utahime screamed as she almost pounced on the younger man with her cursed energy. "I'm not going to let you honey trap my bestfriend"

Gojo let out a laugh, turning to meet the livid eyes of his senior.

"That's a lot of concern for someone who abandoned you and Shoko on a breezy August morning" he chimed in, clearly grinding the woman's gears.

She let out a tsk in annoyance to his words. Why did he have to bring that up. She wondered.

"She was going through a lot back then. I could never be mad at her for leaving us out of the blue. Especially with her father and her engagement—"

"Yeah, yeah save the sob stories for the reunion" Gojo faked a yawn, irking the woman yet again. This brat.

"For the record, I am not honey trapping her" he smirked as he continued, with his hands tucked behind him, "I am just keeping her away from Geto"

"It's rich of you to think that she would just go with him if he called for her" Utahime scoffed. As the evening breeze around them seemed to become chilly. Gojo's eyes turned to see the light clouds that formed a haze in the sky.

"It's hard to let go of one's first love" he said with a small smile on his lips.

Utahime could only stare at him in disbelief.

"I don't think she's particularly hung up on him after all these years"

Gojo chuckled. "You'd be surprised by how one continues to cherish their youth"

The older woman groaned. Gojo Satoru was making no sense, let alone, speaking like his usual self. She knew Geto Suguru was a sensitive topic for him but who knew he could speak in riddles for his sake. She rubbed her temple furiously in confusion. "What is the point? You plan to kill her anyway don't you? I never thought you'd make it easier for Jujitsu council to carry out sentences for once"

"She won't have to die" he said with a confident smile.

Utahime was dumbstruck. Gojo Satoru seemed to have lost the last bit of normalcy.

"You're telling me you'll break that thousand year long curse?!" She exclaimed in disbelief, her eyes widening in surprise.

"Ding ding ding, Correct answer! You bet I will find a way!" Gojo grinned ear to ear.

Under the soft moonlight, Gojo's words seemed the most unrealistic promise shed heard all her life. A plea of making the impossible come true. She wanted to punch the man for playing with her friend's dimming life, yet, that night, much to the woman's dismay, Utahime was presented with a flicker of hope, which she would nurture for a while.

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