So Many Fanfictions

I thought "Fine, I'll do it myself." I'm just hoping this doesn't blow up in my face( ദ്ദി ˙ᗜ˙ )

[fanfictionsgal0re]

Vampire Knight

Kaname Kuran

Longing

Mourning

An Impenetrable Darkness

The Past Remembers

The Distant Past

Invincible

Timelines Galore

Impressions and Fights

Love and Deepspace

Rafayel Qi

Quiet Retrospective

Caleb Xia

A Stupid, Stupid Wish

One-shots

An Old Story — Basim Ibn Ishaq

Indian Jasmine and Jonquil — Dimitri Belikov

A Judas Tree and Syrian Mallow — Genderbent Mal

A Big Fox — Yeon Lee

An Early Morning — Genderbent Grey Hollow

Boredom at its Finest — Lucas Caravaggio/Dodge/Zack Wells

A Promised Dance — Genderbent Icy

Team Seven’s Introduction — Naruto (not a ship)

Fourth Wing

Xaden Riorson

I Didn’t Know What I Was Doing: Pt.1 | Pt.2 | Pt.3 | Pt.4 |

Randoms

Something Gentle

But I Saw Something

[fanfictionsgal0re]

Team Seven’s Introduction

(Eventual Sasuke x Fem!Reader) Reader has roots in the Uchiha and Senju clans, and has a sharigan as a result.

"Why are we the only team," Naruto looks at the three of you, "whose teacher hasn't shown up yet?!"

Sakura chastises him, saying, "Cut it out, Naruto!"

You do think that this sensei is … way past the mark. You know one person who makes being this late a habit. But, it can't possibly be that guy, right? You glance at Sasuke, sitting on a desk bench with his hands clasped leaning against his elbows. He meets your stare with a raised eyebrow. You offer a shrug.

Naruto crosses his arms, muttering, "All the other teams have gone off with their teachers already! Even Iruka-sensei has gone!"

That's true. It's just the four of you waiting. Every time that door opened, your heart dropped to your stomach and it threatened to exit out the back end.

"Well," you offer, "maybe our sensei wasn't aware that he was assigned a squad?"

Sakura asks, "Can that happen?"

"I think," you respond, raising one shoulder. You divert into a tangent. "It's rare, but since most instructors are jonin—elite shinobi—they're notified of the change in mission rankings. Their official shinobi ranking isn't affected, but factoring in the skill level of their squad prior to the Chunin Exams,jonin chosen as instructors begin to get less difficult missions in order to allow them a recovery period where they can begin to focus on teaching genin—us junior ninja that've passed the academy. This practice wouldn't be applicable if the jonin chosen as an instructor was out of the village."

You conclude your little rant with a little puff of pride. Naruto and Sakura stare at you.

Naruto comments, "Wow, you know a lot about this kinda stuff, huh?"

"I have a relative who's a jonin," you supply.

Sasuke throws you a look. You stick out your tongue cheekily, throwing him a wink. After all, why not extort information from your living relatives to get an edge? He sighs through his nose and looks away. You feel Sakura's glare pierce your skull. Oh well, can't win them all.

Naruto grabs a chalkboard eraser and balances between the door and the trim. He snickers, "It's what he gets for making us wait!"

"Grow up," Sakura snaps. "I want no part of it!"

You add, "Yes, you do," from the side.

Sakura blushes as she glares at you. You give her a smug smile, wiggling your fingers.

"No way a superior shinobi could be caught in such a simple trap," Sasuke scoffs.

Except … a hand opens the door and the eraser falls on a head of white hair. Your heart falls through your bottom and doesn't just crash to the floor, oh no, it crashes through the floor. Because you know that hair. You know that groan of mild annoyance. You know the shinobi that stares at you with a wide eye. 

Naruto cackles in glee, "Ha-ha, gotcha!"

"I'm sorry, sensei," Sakura apologizes. "I tried to stop him."

She really didn't, but you're not going to say anything. This guy doesn't need any more ammunition.

"Hmm, how should I put this?" The sensei contemplates his words, explaining, "Based on my first impression, I hate you."

You mutter, "I-Isn't that too harsh?"

He doesn't say anything in response to your comment, but this idiot does give you that infuriating smile behind his mask—the one that says you're adding extra chilly flakes to his dinner tonight.

"Meet me on the roof," the sensei orders, disappearing with a puff of smoke.

"Hey," Naruto calls your name, "d'you know that guy?"

You answer, "To the roof!"

Naruto shouts, "Wha-hey! Don't ignore me!"

You tug Sasuke off the bench and shove him out the door first, leaving Sakura and Naruto in the dust. Sakura shouts something as you drag Sasuke along quickly.

Sasuke asks, "Who is he?"

"An annoying jerk that'll pull something out of his ass to make sure we won't pass," you grumble.

Sasuke gets quiet again as you throw the door to the roof open. Naruto and Sakura follow close behind like hounds from hell. You swear you can feel the heat of hell from Sakura's glare. Naruto, as always, is glaring at Sasuke. 

The four of you take a seat on some steps in front of a rooftop terrace. Your sensei leans against the railing, taking in each of you from head to toe. You glare at him with crossed arms. You're tempted to smack the back of his head like you do at the house.

He opens with, "Now, I'd like you all to tell us about yourselves."

"Like what," Sakura prompts.

"You know, the usual." The sensei shrugs. "Your favorite thing … what you hate most … dreams, ambitions, hobbies. Things like that."

"Help us out here, coach," Naruto begs.

"Yeah," you agree, "lead by example."

Sakura adds, "That's right. After all, you're a complete stranger to us. A mystery."

Sensei hums again. "Me? My name is Hatake Kakashi. I'm the kind of person who doesn't feel like talking about his likes and dislikes." What a poor introduction. "My dreams for the future are none of your business." 

You send him a sharp glare as Kakashi looks off to the side. Oh yeah, you're withholding the salt on his runny eggs and his fish plus adding extra chilly flakes on his portion. 

"But anyway," he continues, "I have a lot of hobbies."

"Like reading embarrassing books," you quip under your breath.

"Hey," Sakura comments, "he said a lot but all we really learned was his name."

You nod tiredly. Yup, that sums up Kakashi perfectly.

Kakashi redirects the conversation. "Now, it's your turn. Starting with you on the right."

"My name is Naruto Uzumaki! What I like is instant cup ramen."

He's predictable, but hey, that's Naruto. Naruto proudly shifts his headband.

"What I like even better is when Iruka-sensei treats me to ramen at Ichiraku Noodle Bar!"

"That place does have good ramen," you agree. Your stomach growls a little at the thought of mouthwatering ramen.

"What I hate is the three minutes I have to wait after I pour in the boiling water," Naruto continues, focusing solely on ramen. "My dream is … to one day be a better shinobi than Lord Hokage! And then all the villagers will have to acknowledge me," Naruto announces with a shout.

There it is: the reason you and Naruto get along. You like his dream. Naruto has this passion about him that reminds you, in some ways, of Sasuke.

"My hobbies are pranks and practical jokes, I guess," he finishes.

"Alright," Kakashi says, pointing to you, "you're next."

"I have a question before I start: isn't having a family member or guardian as a team leader not allowed?"

"It's unusual," Kakashi agrees, "but there's nothing against it in the official regulations book."

"But it's done to prevent favoritism amongst junior ninja, isn't it?"

"Yes—"

"Then what circumstances would excuse the implementation?"

"Let's focus on introductions for now, okay?" 

You give Kakashi a smug smile, knowing you've made the man sweat. You can quote Konoha's official law book along with its most standards practices down To. A. T. And this whole thing reeks of the Hokage's meddling. You're going to give that old man a piece of your mind the next time you visit Konohamaru.

You start with your name, obviously. "I like cooking, learning new medical jutsu, practicing taijutsu, my friends, AND SLEEP! I really like taking a nap on warm days or cuddling up under a pile of blankets while it snows outside. I dislike … people who hide important information at the breakfast table."

A drop of sweat slides down Kakashi's temple, pointing out, "Isn't that too specific?"

You promptly ignore him. "I also dislike early mornings and …"

You almost say the scent of blood, but you hold back. Blood is a natural part of shinobi life—especially for a medical ninja. You knew that when you chose to join the academy.

"My hobbies are sharpening my Kunai, making sure my gear pouch is always full, reading, and I occasionally draw. Oh, and I also like my Duckbutt." 

Sasuke flushes beside you.

Sakura asks, "What's that?"

"It's a shared nickname for a childhood friend and an old plush that I have," you shrug, "As for my dreams, I have a lot of those, but the main one is to live a life without a lot of regrets."

Kakashi groans, scratching his head. He yells, "Next!"

Sasuke leans forward slightly, replying, "My name is Uchiha Sasuke. There are plenty of things I hate, but I don't see how that matters considering there's almost nothing I like—"

"Not even me," you interrupt with wide, overly-innocent eyes.

"Let him finish," Kakashi instructs tiredly.

You send a teasing smile over to Sakura as she glares at you. Sometimes, you do this just to mess with her and the rest of Sasuke's fangirls. They just get so annoying, and poking fun at them is a great stress reliever.

"It's pointless to talk about "dreams"—that's just a word. What I have … it isn't a dream. I plan to restore our clan, and there's someone I've sworn to kill."

The atmosphere on the roof darkens. Kakashi glances between you and Sasuke with a raised eyebrow. You lean against your knees, hiding your face against them. That guy did a lot of damage; the Uchiha Clan was basically wiped out aside from you three—begrudgingly including him—and he tortured Sasuke. Sasuke still won't tell you how, but … 

Kakashi breaks the silence. "And finally, the last young lady …"

"I am Sakura Haruno," she says. "My favorite thing is …" You watch her glance at Sasuke. "Well, it's not a thing, it's a person. A boy … and that boy is …" She squeals to herself. "Uh-let's move onto my dream." Her face goes bright pink. "I hate … Naruto!"

The boy in question goes GAAH! Dramatic tears flow down his face.

"My hobbies are …" she glances at Sasuke again.

Sasuke's face carries a very subtle blush. If Sakura loses her attitude towards Naruto and becomes a little less boy-crazy, you could see you two getting along. She's good at chakra control, genjutsus, and has a lot of book smarts. 

Kakashi, on the other hand, already looks exhausted. You snicker, internally of course. This guy still decides your future as a shinobi.

"Enough. I believe we all understand each other. Formal training begins tomorrow," Kakashi announces.

"Yes sir! Our first official shinobi mission! What'll it be?!"

"Don't get your hopes too high, Naruto," you warn.

"Our first project involves only members of this cell," Kakashi explains. 

Naruto bounces in his spot, asking, "What? What is it?"

Kakashi answers, "Survival exercises."

Naruto repeats in confusement , "Survival exercises?"

"But," Sakura interrupts, "why would that be a mission? Our school days were full of survival training."

You answer carefully, "That was different. Everyone had to be taught the same beginner-level techniques to have a foundation to build on. Plus, our academy senseis were chunin—journeymen."

"That's right. You'd be surviving against me, a jonin. It won't be your typical practice," Kakashi guarantees.

Naruto inquires, "Well, what kind of practice would it be?"

Kakashi snickers.

"What're you laughing at, Kakashi-sensei," Sakura wonders.

"Oh," Kakashi smiles under his mask, "it's nothing. It's just that if I told you, you'd chicken out."

He's trying to provoke you. 

Naruto mutters, "Chicken out? Why?"

"Of the 28 members of your graduating class, only ten will actually be accepted as junior-level shinobi. The other 18 must go back for further training. The test we're about to perform has a 66% fail rate," Kakashi explains.

He laughs when you four don't respond, taunting, "See? You're chickening out already!"

Naruto growls, shouting, "THAT SUCKS! WE'VE BEEN THROUGH HELL! WHAT ABOUT OUR GRADUATION TEST?!"

"Naruto—"

Kakashi cuts you off, replying, "To eliminate the hopeless ones from your ranks. The ones who're left are the students who show real potential."

"SAY WHAT?!"

Maybe you should've said something before Kakashi got here, but you didn't really think your sensei would be him. 

"In any case," Kakashi continues, "we'll meet tomorrow on Team Seven's assigned practice field so I can evaluate each of your skills and weaknesses. Bring all of your ninja tools and weapons. And don't have breakfast that day unless you enjoy throwing up. The details of your assignment are in this handout." He holds out four papers. 

Sakura screeches, "THROW UP?! HOW HARD IS THIS EXERCISE GOING TO BE?!" 

Kakashi smiles one final time, advising, "Make sure to memorize it, and don't be late!"

Then, he disappears in another puff of smoke. Naruto's already reading the paper. Sasuke crumples it up. Sakura holds the paper like it's a lifeline. You stare at it blandly, skimming over the contents.

"Hey, bring snacks," you suggest, "and eat a big dinner beforehand. If this id—I mean, our sensei is right, then something small and light should be fine."

"Be he said—"

"Don't eat a breakfast," you acknowledge. You counter, "Kakashi never said what that meant. Bring a granola bar to munch on or a tangerine or something."

Naruto realizes what you're saying, pointing out, "It's a loophole!"

"Bingo~" you smile at him brightly. "If he wanted to make sure we didn't eat anything, then he should've said that."

Sakura mutters, "That's not a bad idea."

You push off your knees, standing up. "Guess I'll see you guys tomorrow."

You walk away from the group. Sasuke leaves after you without any departing words. Naruto bids a nervous farewell to Sakura, but she ignores him. Sasuke meets you at the bottom of the academy building, walking with you to his apartment building.

"Do you want some onigiri? I tried making a few with that chicken teriyaki you liked," you offered.

"Hm. Did you make with tomatoes?"

You groan, "You and tomatoes. I can cook, but I can't stick them in everything."

Sasuke looks off to the side, but you can see the red on his ears.

You acquiesce, "There's a few. I also made some with furikake, mushrooms, and a few with salted salmon."

"How many did you make?"

"Like 20?"

Sasuke stares at your face.

"What? What's that expression for? It's five fillings, four for each! STOP GIVING ME THAT FACE! IT'S NOT THAT MANY!"

He walks off without a word.

"Hey! Don't just walk away! Urgh, Duckbutt!"

You meet everyone else at the training ground at six in the morning, like the paper said. You four wait around for an hour, then two, and eventually, at hour three of waiting, you pull out the onigiri from last night. You hold out one of the salted salmon onigiri to Naruto, whose stomach has been rumbling and grumbling the whole time. You wonder if he even ate dinner in the first place—an actual dinner, not cup ramen.

"Here. I made these yesterday," you say with a smile.

"Eh," Naruto looks at you, "seriously?"

You insist, "Take it. My arms are getting tired."

Naruto snatches the rice ball form your outstretched hand and gobbles it up. His cheeks puff up like a squirrel. Sakura groans quietly off to the side, clutching her stomach. Sasuke stares enviously at your bag.

"I told everyone to bring snacks," you remind. "I wasn't joking."

Sakura moans, "I didn't think Kakashi-sensei would be this late."

You hand Sakura a furikake onigiri, practically shoving it in the girl's hands. You hand the last tomato onigiri to Sasuke who takes a bite almost immediately.

Naruto shouts your name, "Ah, that was really good."

You smile, replying, "Thank you~ I have more if anyone wants another."

Naruto and Sakura stare at you with wide, pleading, puppy-ish eyes and outstretched hand. Sakura's stare is a bit more sheepish though. Sasuke also extends another hand with that bland, expectant expression on his face. You place another onigiri in each of their hands, watching as they chow down. 

Kakashi does eventually show up …

Five.

Hours.

Later.

You four got there at six; he gets there at 11:05. 

"Good morning class," he greets.

You, Naruto, and Sakura shout, "YOU'RE LATE!"

He ignores you and sets a clock on a tree stump.

Kakashi explains, "I've set a timer to go off at noon. I have three bells; usually it'd two, but this is a four-man squad instead of the typical three. Your challenge is to steal these from me before the timer goes off. Anyone who fails doesn't get lunch. Instead, you'll be tied to one of the stumps." He points to the four larger stumps off to the side. "And I get to eat your lunch in front of you."

Three pairs of eyes burrow into your back. You bet they'll all real grateful that you brought those onigiri now. You're still feeling the effects of hunger, but it's not as bad as it would've been.

"All you need is one bell each, but since there aren't enough to go around, at least one of you will get the stump." Kakashi holds the holds the bells up to his face, jingling them around a little. "And whoever that is automatically fails. One of you is on your way back to school and disgrace. You can use shurkien if you want. Attack as though you mean to kill, otherwise you won't stand a chance."

Sakura protests, "But-But that's dangerous!"

"That's the point, Sakura," you respond. "He's not going to take it easy on us like the academy senseis."

Sakura groans, shrinking into herself. You feel a bit bad, but it's the truth. Kakashi hasn't passed a single student that's been assigned to him. It's why you thought that he'd be taken off the teaching rotation. And this whole schtick with the survival exercise … you don't think he'll pass any member of your squad unless you pull out something he doesn't expect.

Naruto laughs, "You couldn't even dodge an eraser. THIS'LL BE A PIECE OF CAKE!"

"The weak speak the loudest," Kakashi counters. "Forgetting the dunce, we'll start on my signal."

Kakashi's dismissal gets under Naruto's skin. Naruto pulls out a Kunai from a leg pouch and pulls his arm back. 

You yell, "Don't—"

Kakashi appears behind Naruto with ease, grabbing his hand and pulling his arm until the Kunai rested against Naruto's neck. 

Kakashi says, "Not so fast. I didn't say go yet."

You flinch back as Kakashi moves his shoulders.

"But, at least you came at me with the intent to kill. So, it seems you've actually begun to respect me." He laughs—like the closet pervert he is—and notes, "Maybe I'm starting to like you four. Ready …"

The wind ruffles your clothes.

"Steady …"

Your back foot shifts.

"GO!"

You four launch off into the forest as your first mission as genin, and Team Seven, begins.

Wowee~ It’s finally done (´ ˘ `)♡. This took me—I think—maybe two days. I don’t own Naruto or any of the related media. All the rights belong to the manga creator Masashi Kishimoto and publisher Shueisha.

Think I might do another one of these ☆⌒(๑>؂•̀๑)

[fanfictionsgal0re]

A Promised Dance

(Genderbent Icy x Fem!Reader) Note : Reader is Bloom’s sibling and has a portion of the dragon flame. Whether they’re adopted or biological I leave to you.

The annual welcome ball held at Alfea Collge is meant to welcome the new generation of witches, specialists, and fairies. Everyone—mainly Stella and Techna—describe it as a "neutral event." Any party that attacks risks a full year's ban from any other gathering events. 

"Cloud Tower holds the record for most bans in a row," Stella shares, "but then again, they're witches. Is that really such a surprise?"

Techna adds, "It's a statistical likelihood that they'll be kicked out after the main dance is over."

"But," you pause, "we can still run into the Trix?"

"It's unavoidable. As Cloud Tower's best, Headmistress Griffin isn't likely to bring many others without them," Techna explains.

"That sounds a lot like everyone's showing off," Bloom points out.

"Because they are," Stella agrees. "Every school picks their most promising upperclassmen to greet the freshman."

You wonder, "But doesn't that increase the risk of a fight happening?"

Techna shrugs, responding, "Yes."

"Then, why do it like that? Why not make the ball all freshman from every school," Bloom questions.

Techna exudes excitement—as much as her impassive and unemotional nature allow her. 

She explains, "Because it's to gauge each talent pool. Specialists evolved from human knights; fairies from elves; and witches from ancestral witches. These main paths of harnessing magic are deadlocked in a constant struggle to become the best. Alfea—fairies—and Red Fountain—specialists—are on friendly enough terms, but Cloud Tower—witches—isn't shy about its competitiveness. That's why most partnerships between schools don't include witches."

Your head spins after Techna's done. 

"It all seems so intricate," you groan, flopping on your bed.

"Welcome to the world of fairies," Techna says, patting your leg. "There's more to go."

You scramble onto your elbows, yelling, "STILL?!"

Everyone laughs as you groan. The dress code on the announcement flyer only said formal, but you don't have any formal dresses packed. Stella offers to lend you something, but you politely decline. You didn't feel like you were close enough yet to wear her clothes to such an important event. Bloom was making her own dress, and you didn't want to ask her to make you one too.

You resolve to not go and call out sick. Surely, Headmistress Faragonda will understand. At least, that was your plan until everyone left. There was a knock at the dorm's main door. You thought someone must've forgotten something.

Probably Stella.

"What did you …" There's no one on the other side. "Hello?" Someone left a large box at the door.

At first, you assume it's something for one of the other girls. You put it on the coffee table and stare. It's a large box in light blue with a ribbon tied around it to keep it closed. The box releases an eerie pale blue glow as the deep blue ribbon unties itself. The lid audibly pops off and sags to the side. Peeking inside, you see a dress inside. You gingerly lift it up to get a better look.

The dress is backless with no sleeves. It's a deep navy color with a long white sash to hold the dress up at your neck. You've seen this type of dress before; it's a halter tie-neck. There's also a silver backdrop necklace included with a diamond shape as the end of the chain. It's a very beautiful outfit, if not a bit provocative.

You could see Stella pulling something like this off, but the color nags at you. That part isn't Stella; she doesn't wear much navy. 

A card flutters down from the dress, landing on the table. You put the dress back in the box and pick up the card. 

'I expect to see you there, little flame.'

Scratch that, you know exactly who this dress it for. It's for you. And there's only one person so far who calls you little flame. You don't want to wear the dress, you don't, but it's a beautiful piece of clothing. 

You share a room with Flora. One half of the room is covered head-to-toe in plants or books about plants and horticulture. She's a fairly nice roommate, doesn't pry much. She's also at the ball.

You glare at the dress on your bed. You grumble, "It probably doesn't even fit."

You snatch it up and strip to your underwear, slipping the dress on. It fits like a glove, and without even tying the sash. Your hands tremble as you put on the backdrop necklace. You hold the dress to your chest, looking in the mirror. 

You look beautiful. Your hair isn't styled; you don't have makeup on; you aren't wearing the heels you caught a glimpse of; but just the dress and the chain, and you look like a different person. Still you—same face, same hair, same body—just sharper, defined, highlighted. Your face feels hot. You wonder how he even knew your size. Maybe it was just a lucky guess. 

There's a screech from your bedroom door. Your head snaps round to find Stella staring at you with sparkles in her eyes.

She yells, "You never told me about that dress!"

"I-I-I-"

"Let me tie the sash and then sit down! I'll do your hair!"

"St-Stella, hang on—"

"Nope! You said you weren't going because you didn't have a dress. I'm not letting you get out of this one so easily," she teases.

That's how you find yourself standing outside the entrance of the ball with Stella. You're gripping her arm for support. The kitten heels on your feet aren't the cause of the shaking in your knees. She leads you inside without so much as a glance at anyone else.

"Woah," Musa comments, "where'd you find that?"

"A little bird dropped it off," Stella jokes. "Doesn't it suit her?"

Flora smiles, agreeing, "It really does. You look beautiful."

"I was beginning to wonder if you'd ever leave the dorm," Techna says.

Stella gasps, "Was that a joke? From our resident robot?" 

"And that's my que," Techna mutters.

"Oh relax, I'm just teasing." Stella smiles.

She releases you to the others and runs off to find her boyfriend, a Specialist named Brandon. You've met him before. He's a nice guy. Techna hands you a drink as Musa heads over to the DJ station. 

You whisper, "Any sign of them yet?"

"No. It's odd, but not out of the ordinary. I've heard Cloud Tower is usually late to official events to make an impression," Techna answers.

You let out a sigh of relief. You just want to avoid the smug look on that guy's face.

"You do know," she pauses and glances around, "you're wearing the leader's colors, right?"

You whine, "I didn't have a choice. Stella caught me when I was trying the dress on and …"

You trail off, heat crawling up your neck. Techna gives you a sympathetic smile. Stella isn't one to give much thought to the political landscape of these events. 

"He might have done it to pick a fight," Techna guesses. "Or to humiliate you."

You groan quietly, "Neither of those are good."

"I never said they were, just offered possible explanations based on his previous behaviors."

You cock your head to the side. "Previous behaviors?"

Techna sighs, "I forget you don't know anything about this." She explains, "Every school picks two students to dance with other students from the other schools. Sometimes, people will coordinate outfits."

"To get picked," you clarify.

Techna nods.

"But then, isn't it more embarrassing if you don't get picked?"

She nods again. "Last year, a girl from Alfea wore Icelos' colors. She was obsessed with him. Not only did he not pick her for the main dance, he and the rest of the Trix spilled punch all over her dress."

"Then, Cloud Tower—"

Techna nods. "Got banned from all gathering events that year. Stella wasn't wrong when she said Cloud Tower has the most bans out of all three schools."

You shudder, a chill daggering its way up your spine. 

You swallow the lump in your throat, whispering, "When does the main dance begin?"

"After all the schools—"

The main hall doors slam open, fog from outside seeping in. A tall, imposing woman dressed in an elegant blood-colored gown leads the gaggle of Cloud Tower students through the ball room. She joins the other Headpeople—Headmistress Faragonda from Alfea and Headmaster Saladin from Red Fountain—on stage. The air in the room is suffocated by the witches' arrival. 

"Don't pause the festivities on our account," she says into the microphone.

"Welcome new and returning students of Cloud Tower," Headmistress Faragonda takes over. "We hope this year's celebration of those who join us will be better and more memorable than the years past."

You're glancing through the Cloud Tower students looking for three specific people. When you don't see them, the tension in your shoulders relaxes. 

A sultry voice purrs, "My my, the street rat actually looks decent." 

You tense, staring at Techna's face. She subtly moves you behind her as you turn around. Darius, another one of the Trix, stares at you over angular purple sunglasses. Tarnished gold eyes take you in from head-to-toe. It feels like he's judging your very existence.

"I was hoping Icelos would be wrong about you," Darius sneers, "but you look much better outside of those rags you call clothes."

You bristle, insults defending your sister's work building on your tongue.

"Go away, Darius," Techna snaps.

"Brother," this voice is sharp and frigid, "I hope you aren't antagonizing my partner."

"I was just complimenting her change of style," Darius lies with a shrug, "and she looks ready to bite my head off."

"Darius, I think Stormur was looking for you," Icelos says, implying Darius' exit.

Darius sends you one final smirk before disappearing through the crowd. Techna recenters herself to stand between you and Icelos. He glances at Techna, brushing past her with a shove that knocks her off to the side. He sweeps you away from Techna and anyone else that could run interference. The musicians take over from Musa on the music, beginning a slow dance song. Icelos leads you to the dance floor despite your struggling.

"If you pull away," he mutters lowly in your ear, "it'll be an insult to Cloud Tower."

You freeze, muscles locking up as he leads you to a spot on the floor. One of his hands settle on your lower back while the other clasps your right hand. 

Icelos comments, "You look beautiful in my colors."

You glance at his suit. It's navy blue with a plunging neckline and no undershirt—you could see his bare chest. You spot silver diamond shaped cuff links on white cuffs, and one ear bore a dangling silver earring in the shape of a diamond. Icelos opted for a single braid down his back instead of that long hair-tube that pulled his silver threads into a tight ponytail.

"I wouldn't have worn it if I knew it was from you," you gripe.

The corner of his mouth kicks up in a smirk, glacier blue eyes gaining a cruel spark.

"Didn't you see the card?"

Yes. "No."

"Hm, I'll have to leave it in a more noticeable place next time."

You grit your teeth. "There won't be a next time."

"You don't know that. After all, Cloud Tower students are on their best behavior."

He twirls you around and braces your lower back again, drawing you closer than before. His fingers fiddle with the back chain.

You flinch when his fingers graze the skin of your back, hissing, "Why are you acting like this?"

"Consider this my apology for the way I acted when we first met," he answers.

You snap, "You tried to kill my sister."

"She wasn't the main target," Icelos counters.

You argue, "You still tried to kill her! And you hurt one of my friends."

"And I can see how that seems horrible without proper context."

"What context could possibly excuse what you did?"

"How much do you know about raw magic?"

You make a face at the change in topic, and he sucks his teeth. Icelos glances around, making eye contact with Bloom behind your back. He smirks at her, a harmless tease, but it's enough to get her looking murderous.

He whispers, "Meet me on the terrace outside. I'll explain what your fairy teachers don't."

You don't understand what he means by that. It's only been a week since the entrance ceremony at Alfea. Formal classes haven't started yet. 

The song ends, Icelos bows, and he disappears into the crowd. Bloom and the others converge on you.

"Are you okay?"

"Did he try anything?"

"Why are you two matching?"

"What did he say?"

"Why'd he pick you?"

"Did he threaten you?"

The rush of questions makes you dizzy. You excuse yourself from the group almost immediately, citing stomach issues as the reason. It's a poor excuse. You grab a plate of food from one of the tables, heading out to the terrace like he said. This might be a bad idea, but you wanted to know what raw magic was. 

You debated asking Techna when a question popped into your head: how advanced was raw magic? All of you—you, Bloom, Musa, Stella, Techna, and Flora—got your schedules immediately after the entrance ceremony one week ago. That was how you found out your dorm assignment. You also got a peek at each of their classes. There was nothing about raw magic from what you could see. Then again … a lot of it also didn't make sense to you.

Perks of living in the human world and not the fairy one.

You wander around from terrace to terrace—there are three of the damn things, all unreasonably large with two sets of towering glass doors—until you pause at one with a long couch. You plop down onto the pillowy cushion with a loud groan and slip of your heels. You give them a good, long glare, cursing how even your shoes match his. White kitten heel Mary Jane pumps with a silver snowflake buckle.

You pick up one shoe and stare at the snowflake, muttering, "Really hammering in the snowflake theme."

"Do they hurt your feet?"

You yelp, raising the shoe to your ear as a weapon. Icelos appeared from the shadows like a ghost, a flute glass of sparkling punch in each hand. You groan, dropping the shoe with a loud clatter again the terrace floor. You take a bite of the steak you grabbed from inside.

"No," you grumble, "they're very comfortable."

He deposits one punch glass near your plate on the table and sits next to you on the couch.

"That's good. It was the only part I had to guess on."

"How'd you even know my size?"

"It was easy to place an order for a custom dress after someone leaves if you say they're your paramour."

"You said we were together?" You can't help the way your lip curls.

"You don't have to sound so disgusted."

You raise an eyebrow. "That's weird."

"It worked." Icelos shrugged. "You look beautiful."

"Flattery will get you nowhere."

"It got me a dance."

"It's about to get you a fork to the thigh."

"Oh, the little flame fairy can't handle a bit of teasing."

"Fork meet thigh. There's not much muscle there, so—"

"I get it."

You smirk, chewing a piece of stake. You draw your legs up on the couch, adjusting so you're not very close to Icelos.

"Random question: how do you say your name?"

"You isolate yourself with me on a terrace but can't say my name?"

"Ice-eh-los? EE-seh-los? Ice-eh-loss? Ice-loss. EEce-loss."

"EE-seh-los. Stress the first 'i' and soften the 'ce'."

"Right, Icelos. Why'd you attack my sister and my friend?"

"Straight to business. I respect that."

"You mentioned raw magic? What is that?"

He sighs, reaching over you to grab your plate. You protest but he shoves a forkful of steak in your mouth.

"What's in it for me if I answer?"

You glare are his smug face, chewing violently on your food. "You're the one who said to follow you!"

"How about this: every answer I give gets me a question of my own that you answer."

You stiffen. It's not a bad deal, but what would he want to know that you can answer.

You swallow carefully, answering, "Deal."

Icelos holds a piece of stake to your lips again. You eat the food without more complaint as he settles against the couch.

"Raw magic is exactly as it sounds. It's magic that's completely untamed and unmanaged by anyone—Specialist, fairy, or witch. My turn: what were you and your sister doing in the human world?"

You swallow the bite in your mouth and take a sip from your punch glass. 

"We were born and raised there. How does raw magic factor into you attacking Stella?"

"That friend of yours—the Sun and Moon fairy—has rare access to raw magic. We wanted to test a theory to see if it would react to an external threat, and to what extent. How'd you summon your flames?"

"I don't know. It just reacted." You shrug. "When you say "we," do you mean you and the rest of the Trix, or you and someone else?"

"There is no "me and the rest of the Trix." We are the Trix, simple as that. Have you ever accessed a power like that before?"

"You didn't answer my question, and no. That was the first time."

He hums, dropping the fork against the plate. "The Trix and another party. You get another question."

"Why are you called "witches" and not "warlocks"? Aren't witches typically women?"

"To be a witch is to practice every kind of magic. Without or without a specialization in one skill or area. A warlock studies one area of magic, deadlocking themselves away from any others, especially dark magic. Why didn't your sister make you a dress?"

"I didn't ask her to. Who's the other party?"

"Someone closer than you think. Why didn't you ask?"

"You have brothers, or at least, brother-adjacent relationships. Have you ever asked them for anything when you couldn't give something back?"

"Yes. We work on a partnership built for mutual gain and self-improvement. That requires the occasional favor to be done here and there for the benefit of the group."

You shake your head. "What a weird relationship."

"Any other burning questions?"

"Why'd you send me the dress? You could've chosen anyone else, and I heard what happened last year."

"I was intrigued by the human-born fairy that managed to melt my ice. Not many can do that. Besides, I wanted it very clear to everyone that you were already taken."

"We're not together!"

Icelos' stare goes cold as he pushes the plate to the floor. The mashed potatoes splatter against the tile with a plop and grapes you had go rolling away. He grabs your wrist and pins you to the couch.

"You're strong. Much stronger than most of the fairies here, and you haven't even begun any formal training. You have so much potential." There is strain as he says that word. "And you're wasting it here. Cloud Tower could teach you infinitely more."

Ice grows from his hand, spreading across your wrist.

"They won't teach you anything. Alfea will cripple you. All for the sake of their reputation!"

You struggle against his grip as little flakes of snow fill the air. Heat builds in your stomach along with fear. Your eyes prickle as you glare at him. Icelos seems satisfied by your reaction, loosening his grip around your wrist. His other hand brushes around your eye socket.

"Your eyes look beautiful full of rage and glowing with power."

You grit your teeth, grab the end of his braid, and pull. He grunts, releasing your wrist to grasp the braid. The ice on your wrist melts the moment he lets go, leaving behind raw skin. You wedge your foot between you two and shove him off.

"Fuck off," you spit, grabbing the heels and storming into the ballroom alone.

I was heavily inspired by Cat.B’s male Icy art. I think I was scrolling Pinterest when I first saw genderbent Winx Club. I don’t even know what I was thinking, just that I was curious for more. Thank you rmstitanics for the dividers.

[fanfictionsgal0re]

A Stupid, Stupid Wish

(Lads Caleb x NonMC!Reader) — Obsession AU

You’ve known Caleb Xia for years. He was the new kid in your second grade class who talked up his little sister to anyone who’d listen. That was how you met him—them. They were always a pair: Caleb and Emmie. Emmie and Caleb. Where one went, the other followed.

You got close to the pair because it was easy. You shared the candies your friends gave you with Emmie—because if there’s one thing that hasn’t changed, it’s her horrendous sweet tooth—while Caleb complained that you never gave him half as much attention. You always waved Caleb off, saying he didn't even like sweets as much as Emmie. One White Chocolate Day, you opened your locker to a flood of chocolates. It was mortifying as you shoved them all into a bag. You went home that day with a bulging bag, but not one chocolate from the boy you liked. 

Huh, you forgot to mention that, didn’t you?

As the three of you got older, you developed a crush on Caleb. It was a small, harmless thing at first. You honestly thought it’d go away after a few years of unrequited affection. 

But it hasn't.

So now, as you sit in your car outside of the restaurant where Emmie’s birthday gathering is taking place, you wonder what the hell you’re doing. Caleb is bound to be here. The One Wish Willow box sits heavy in your hands. You bought it on a whim when you went to buy Emmi’s birthday card. You tell yourself it’s a gimmick, one you can try later. Your best friend’s birthday comes first. 

You slam the car door shut as you walk in. Emmie is clad in a beautiful satin red dress with her boyfriend—tall, handsome, white hair, red eyes—on her arm. You give her a hug, wish her happy birthday, and add your card + gift to the growing pile. Most of them are from her boyfriend, but a couple on the outside of the pile are from other friends. Suddenly, you feel like your gift isn’t up to par. She’d been talking about this sweater that reminded her of one of her favorite games—something “sky children”—so you found a crochet pattern and made it. Looking at the pile, your crochet sweater feels cheap.

You slink off to the corners of the booth, ordering a Coke and slouching in your seat. You didn’t necessarily come for the music or dancing. You came for Emmie, and Caleb, but mostly Emmie. Caleb saddles up to your side, quiet as a mouse. Speak of the Devil and he shall appear, right? 

“Look who crawled out of their hole,” he jokes.

You deadpan, retorting, “My apartment is hardly a hole. And you can’t be talking, Mr. DAA Pilot. At least I texted.”

“Aw,” he whines, “I already apologized for that.”

You snort, “Not enough,” and take a sip of your soda.

It gets quiet between you two. Lucky Emmie dances with her boyfriend as her playlist blares over the restaurant speakers. Apparently, the guy rented out the whole restaurant for today. 

“What d’you think of him,” Caleb asks, breaking the silence.

You hum, swirling the soda in the cup. Eventually, you answer, “He seems okay. A little weird, but not bad.”

Caleb hums, watching the pair like a hawk. You sigh out of your nose. It’s always been like this. Caleb’s focus has always been Emmie, excluding anyone and everyone else. It was always them against the world. Even when you tried to change that, it was them against the world. There was just barely room for you in their dynamic. 

If you had one wish—

Caleb breaks your train of thought with a question: “Any new guys hanging around you?”

You jolt up in your seat, nearly spilling your soda. 

“Damn Sweets, is there a guy?”

“No,” you cough because of the funny feeling in your throat, “there’s no guy.”

“Wasn’t the last time you dated in high school?”

“Why do you suddenly want to know my dating life?”

Caleb shrugs. “We don’t talk as much. I miss my best friend.”

There it is. You think back to those trio friendship necklaces you saw in the store when you picked up Emmie’s birthday card. 

Someone you know once said, “There doesn’t need to be a third person, see? The two on the outside can always complete each other, but number three will always be unfinished.”

You stand up abruptly. Caleb looks a little shocked, but he doesn’t comment on it. You tell him you have to use the bathroom and flee the table. You lock the door to the gender-neutral bathroom once you’re inside. You feel like a fool. Your chest is squeezing itself to shreds while you hunch over the blurry bathroom sink.

You shouldn’t have come.

You shouldn’t have come.

You shouldn’t have come.

You shouldn’t have come.

You shouldn’t have come.

You shouldn’t have—

“Hey Sweets, you okay? Was Caleb being mean?” It’s Emmie.

She’s knocking on the door.

“N-no! I’m not feeling super great.”

“Oh, well, are you going to leave?”

“Maybe. I-I’m gonna be in here for a few more minutes.”

“Let me know if you need anything.”

She’s so kind. You feel like an asshole for doing this. Emmie deserves better than your dramatics. The One Wish Willow box hangs heavy in your pocket. You pull it out, read the instructions, and consider your wish. There’s two you can think of.

“I wish …”

Thank you divinyae for the wonderful banners <3 I was inspired by this post. Lemme know what you think.

Hi @inuiiwonderland, thank you for ദ്ദി ˉ͈̀꒳ˉ͈́ )✧ the inspiration. Of course, I couldn’t just tie everything up in a neat little bow ₍ᐢ. ̫.ᐢ₎ I leave the ending to those who read. What would you wish for?

[fanfictionsgal0re]

Boredom at its Finest

(Zack Wells/Lucas Caravaggio/Dodge x LockeReader) OOC Dodge

He’s lounging on your porch, listening to Tyler and Kinsey argue about the keys. He’s bored. You weren’t at the house when he got here. Your siblings can’t manage to keep all of his attention despite their desperate attempt to wrangle him into the conversation.

He’s bored.

He’s bored!

HE’S BORED!

You appear on the porch like an angel sent from above—or a demon sent from below; he’s not quite sure which he’d prefer you to be—clad in an ugly brown winter coat. He almost tackles you into a hug, squeezing tight enough to just barely not leave bruises. You release pearls of giddy laughter to entice his self-control. 

“You’re warm,” he mumbles in your hair.

He’s nuzzling your hair, your neck, your cheeks, every bit of your face he can reach. You meet his efforts just as eagerly, peppering kisses across the skin you can reach.

You giggle, “Why’re you so cold?”

Tyler Locke—your lovely oldest brother—clears his throat with a less than amused expression. Kinsey bears a smug, cheshire smile.

“We get that you’re together and all,” Tyler complains, “but d’you have to flirt in front of me?”

You snicker, “Jealousy's a lousy thing, Ty,” planting a hard kiss on Zack’s cheek.

“And to think you couldn’t stand him,” Kinsey comments.

You huff, “Oh hush!”

““Oh hush,”” Kinsey mimics. “You really sound like an old lady sometimes.”

“I return bearing gifts and this is how they treat me,” you pout. 

Zack squeezes your midsection a smidge tighter at your dilemma. You have a grocery bag in the hand that’s not holding onto him. He doesn’t want to share you—or anything you’ve touched—with them. They have you all day, everyday. He doesn’t.

You laugh, “Hey bear! The ice cream’s melting.”

Tyler takes the bag from your hand, asking, “What kind did ya get?”

“Neopolitan and there’s a small tub of mint in there for me,” you respond, looping both arms around Zacks’ neck.

He’s nuzzling the slope of your neck, sniffing like a dog looking for food. Tyler gags overdramatically from behind you. Kinsey rolls her eyes. All it well at Locke House for now. He keeps an arm loop around your waist as the four of you head inside the house. You exude contentment, like a puppy waking up from a warm nap in the sun. 

“Don’t leave me alone again,” Zack whispers to you on the couch.

You smile, murmuring, “Were you bored?”

“I like your siblings,” he steals a peck while Tyler’s back was turned, “but not as much as you.”

You hum with a smug smile and a little wiggle. “Really?”

“You don’t believe me?”

“Well~”

He glances at your siblings arguing in the kitchen over the neapolitan ice cream and then back at you wrapped in a blanket with him in his arms. 

You poke the corner of Zack’s mouth and pull them up, commenting, “You smiled.”

He takes your hands, pressing kisses to the tips of your fingers. “Don’t make it a big deal.”

“You’re softer than you pretend to be,” you giggle.

He covers your head with the blanket as you squeal loudly. Tyler hollers for Zack to stop bullying you. Zack yells back for him to grab some strawberry and bring the small tub of mint.

Thank you @angeliicide for the banner. I initially didn’t know that Locke & Key was a comic-to-streaming adaptation and LET ME TELL Y’ALL. The show? Don’t even speak to me. It’s not bad as its own piece of media, but as Locke & Key? Horrible; 3/10 based on this scale. The comics are A DOZEN times better. The show runners had adequate—more than adequate actually—material to work with, but unfortunately (◞‸◟). So, obviously, this little one-shot is for the comic version of Dodge. I love Lucas/Zack in the comics. He’s a demonic little shit, literally.

[fanfictionsgal0re]

I Didn’t Know What I Was Doing Pt.4

(Fourth Wing x Fem!Reader) OOC Xaden Riorson OOC Violet Sorrengail Notes | I tried with the characters.

The Empyrean decided your bond was valid. 

Your mother orchestrated your transfer to the Riders Quadrant.

You had no choice but to give a Scribe the dragon’s name.

In one month, your whole future turned on its head.

And the smug, scaly lizard in front of you is why. As it turns out, Vorathyn—

I require a shorter namesake from you, child.

“I’m not giving you a nickname,” you mutter, picking rocks from between his talons.

You should. I have dubbed you child.

“Well, I think old man suits you,” you sass.

You learn quickly as a child would. ‘Tis better than something as unimaginative as old man.

You ask, “Is that supposed to be a compliment? And besides, aren’t you centuries old?”

“Why are you talking to your dragon out loud?” Violet appears from nowhere.

“Oh Dunne! Announce yourself, please,” you request loudly.

“I’ve been here the whole time. You just haven’t noticed,” Violet responded. 

“Right, sorry,” you mutter reflexively. “Still getting used to everything.”

Your sister asks, “How do you feel?”

You shrug, sharply stabbing a few rocks from between Vorathyn’s talons. The dragon nudges your body with his snout. You stumble back with a huff, tempted to whack him on the nose.

Try it. It would be delightful to give your nestmate a scare.

“I’m not doing that to her,” you say.

She is not wrong. You may speak to me with your mind.

“Sure, sure.” You wave a hand dismissively.

“Seriously,” Violet pushes, “how are you? How’s your hand?”

You get quiet, really reflecting on your feelings. You answer, “It’s rough. I wonder why mother put you through this. Me?” You shrug. “I don’t know. It’s … numb? More like I’m going through the motions than anything. It’s not all bad. My hand is mostly fine, still gets tingly once in a while.”

You haven't actually taken a long look at what’s on your hand. Everyone says that you’re lucky to have a dragon give you one so soon after bonding. It’s not like you can say, ‘Hey, actually, this gargantuan reptile gave a relic before we bonded.’ 

You are being pedantic; granting a relic after forming a bond is tradition but not law.

“It takes a bit to get used to,” Violet admits, breaking the silence.

“Yeah,” you pause, “but … it’s not all bad?”

Violet nods along with you. She gives you a small smile, responding, “You know, you’re very lucky that your dragon likes grooming. Andarna can’t stand it. She squirms like you did when Mira used to give you baths.”

You wince, sputtering a laugh. You ask, “That bad?”

“Worse,” Violet promises grimly.

You laugh loudly at that. She walks you inside to the gathering hall for dinner. You sit with her as she regails you about the antics of her two dragons, Andarna—the small feathertail—and Tairn—the largest black morningstartail you’ve seen. You separate after dinner as Violet heads back to her dorm while you head to the sparring gym. 

Since you transferred in later than almost anyone, the teachers—more specifically your mother—decided you needed extra sparring classes to bridge the gap between you and other cadets. By the time you get there, Xaden Riorson is already waiting for you. He’s been … odd since your interaction in the hall. More present. He keeps appearing around corners.

He breaks the silence first, asking, “How’s your hand?”

“I answered that same question not too long ago,” you snicker.

“Violence?”

“No, a ghost.”

“Sarcasm won’t help you win.”

“But it lightens the mood, and considering I’m about to get my ass handed to me,” you trail off.

Xaden raises one eyebrow as you step on the mat. He helps you stretch, and then you move onto drills. 

He has you try to sweep him while he resists—you fail.

You try to best him with a practice sword—you fail.

Your best area is—and still remains—medicine. You do better than most when it comes to dealing with minor wound demonstrations. You stop by the Healer Quadrant often enough that the hole in your chest doesn’t consume you. 

Focus, child. The shadow wielder is making a fool of you.

Xaden, as if reading your dragon’s thoughts, slams you down on the mat. You groan, clutching your ribs. The corner of his mouth quirks up as you roll around.

“Pay attention to your surroundings,” he instructs. “Don’t block out the rest of the world. It may get you killed.”

“I have a question,” you wheeze. “How do you block out your dragon’s thoughts?”

Xaden crouches down. “Don’t blame your dragon for everything. You’ve been spacing out more often.”

“How would you know,” you retort.

“I watch.”

For a second, you think he’s joking. 

He’s not.

You sit up on the mat. Xaden sits down.

“What?”

“I watch you.”

You laugh nervously, “Why?”

“Because you’re the only person I know of that became a Rider by accident,” he answers plainly. 

Xaden stares into your eyes, and it feels oddly invasive. You scooch back, putting a bit more distance between the two of you. He doesn’t comment. 

You clear your throat. “Well, thoughts?”

“You’re reckless, self-sacrificing, and stubborn. A horrible combination.”

“Ouch,” you clutch your chest, “twist the knife more, please.”

Do not invite insults and expect niceties.

“Oh hush you.” You wave a hand dismissively, like that’ll quiet Vorathyn.

Xaden raises an eyebrow.

“‘M not talking to you,” you clarify.

This would not be an issue if you spoke to me in your mind instead of aloud.

“Seriously though, how do you block out your dragon,” you ask again.

Xaden gets quiet before he explains, “Think of it like a wall sliding into place. If you want to block out everyone, then you do. If you want to block out one person, then focus on that person.”

You try to do what he says, imagining the connection with Vorathyn like a hallway. You slam the ‘doors’ of your mind shut. It gets quiet. 

Truly and finally silent.

Like how it was before you bonded with Vorathyn.

It feels … lonely. 

You crack open the ‘doors’ a smidge. Just enough to feel that Vorathyn was on the other end. You give him a grateful smile.

“Thanks Riorson.”

He nods, further explaining, “The wall will be weak at first. It’s similar to a muscle; the more you use it, the stronger and easier it will be to use.”

You sigh, kicking your legs straight out as you lean back. Your eyes close as your head tilts back. Your left hand tingles when you put your weight on it. There’s a nice silence that permeates the air. You find moments like these far and few between since you joined the Riders Quadrant. You don’t know if you mind it all that much.

“Why do you still wrap your hand?”

“Hm?” You crack one eye open lazily.

Riorson scoots an inch closer, focusing on your hand. “Why wrap your hand?”

You shrug, answering, “Feels”—you cross your legs and hold your hand out—“more normal like this.”

“Having your hand in bandages, constantly, feels “normal”?”

“Kind of. I think about it less when I can’t see it.”

“Do you sleep with them on?”

“Why do you want to know that?”

“Curious.” Riorson shrugs. “You wear them all the time.”

You stare at him with a small smile. You let out a short laugh. “No, I don’t sleep with them. I have an actual glove.”

“Why not wear that instead?”

“There’s something about wrapping my hand that feels …” you wiggle your fingers “self-soothing. As ridiculous as that sounds.”

Riorson gets quiet, murmuring, “It’s not ridiculous.”

He reaches for your left hand, pulling it closer. You stiffen while you wait for what he does. Xaden Riorson carefully tugs the bandages off, starting with your fingers. He pauses after every digit to glance at your face. You only tug your hand once he begins to unwrap your palm. You don’t want to look at it completely. Riorson unwraps your palm more slowly.

A line of moss green drives from the center of your palm to its edge with jagged edges, like a scar. You hate looking at it. It’s such a nonsensical relic. It doesn’t look anything like Violet’s relics—two dragons = two relics—and you don’t have anyone else for comparison. Yours is so small and unassuming—it looks like body paint instead of a true relic. Riorson traces his thumb along the relic, your relic, with a gentle hand. 

Your palm tingles under his touch.

He murmurs, “Why hide it?”

You shrug, throat clogging up. How do you say it’s because you hate it? This thing on your body shouldn’t have been there. 

“It’s not bad. Much more inconspicuous compared to some relics.”

“It’s ugly.”

“Most relics aren’t there for looks.” The corner of Riorson’s mouth quirks up.

“Maybe, but Violet’s are pretty.” There’s an awkward pause as you grumble, “Yours are too.”

Riorson lets out a harsh breath. “Have you figured out what you can do with it?”

“If I did, d’you think I’d still be covering it?”

Riorson shrugs. “Never hurts to ask.”

You hum as he traces your relic with his thumb again. It’s an oddly soothing motion. You wiggle your fingers slightly. Riorson loosens his grip on your hand but doesn’t fully let go. The air between you warms up as he leans in. You freeze like a deer in torchlight. 

He whispers, “Is this okay?”

“I-I—” You don’t know what to say. 

From this angle, you can see Riorson’s lips up close. They’re slightly chapped, but they look plush and welcoming. What? You close the gap quickly. It’s a peck—hardly an honest kiss—but it’s enough. You jolt back, ripping your hand out of Riorson’s. You sputter out some nonsense about being late for something and tear out of the gym.

Dear deceased father,

I did something stupid, and now I’m not sure what to do.

Any otherworldly advice?

Sincerely,

Your youngest child.

Thank you @thanathecreator for the banner <3 I got the photo on the left from the Xaden’s wiki. Here’s part four. More coming soon. Heavily inspired by This Was Not The Plan by Piper Thorn.

[fanfictionsgal0re]

I Didn’t Know What I Was Doing Pt.3

(Fourth Wing x Fem!Reader) OOC Xaden Riorson OOC Violet Sorrengail Notes | I tried with the characters.

October 1st.

Nine days ago, you completed the Gauntlet in its entirety. Today was the day when first-year cadets were subjected to the Threshing. You wanted to wish Violet good luck. You started in the academic wing. You were trying to get to the plateau in front of the Gauntlet before they departed. You took a wrong turn, and now you’re walking down a tunnel praying this doesn’t end badly.

You’ve kept thinking about Violet’s question. About the Gauntlet. Professor Devera. 

All of it haunts you, getting to the point where it’s begun to affect your performance in the Healing Quadrant. 

You shake your head, clearing your thoughts. You keep a hand on the wall as you walk through the dark. This tunnel twists and winds, and it technically was a branch of another tunnel that you entered. There’s two torches mounted on the wall, firelight flickering against a large wooden door. It looks old, and two thick heavy wrought iron handles stick out. You grab the handles and pull.

The door opens to bright, blinding light. You’re surrounded by greenery and wild vines. You wonder where this is. You pray it’s not where you think it is. There’s a tug in your gut. You glance in the direction it’s pulling in and then down the tunnel. You’ve been reckless two times this month anyway. Third time’s the charm, right? 

You’re walking before you really think about it. The only thing you have on you is your messenger bag filled with basic salves, bandages, your journal, a book on plants, a few pens, empty vials with corks, and a pruning knife. All standard items to find on someone training to be a Healer, which is what you were doing. Not at this very moment, though. You have the knife out in your hands, just in case. 

You walk in a straight line through overgrown grass and tall trees. Your surroundings are silent. Quiet enough that you can hear a stream not too far away. You come upon the stream and spot a fallen log bridging the gap. You teeter across it. You feel like a small child again, trading the neglected nooks and crannies of Basgiath War College for a rough, wild forest. 

The smell of iron fills the air. It’s strong enough to make you gag.

Someone is hurt.

The childish excitement in you shrivels. Something is horribly wrong. You sprint through the wilderness, hopping over roots and crushing ferns beneath your feet. You break through the trees into a grassy clearing. 

A kid, maybe 20 years old, sits against a tree trunk defenseless clutching his side. There’s a huge green scorpiontail positioned in front of you, eyes pointed in your direction. It doesn’t attack you. Not yet. It just watches. 

You take a step to the side towards the boy. 

The dragon doesn’t react.

You take another. “Let me help him,” you request.

Its nostrils flare, and hot air washes over your body.

You bring your hands up and hold them out, knife clutched in one hand. You take another small step. “Please.”

The dragon stares at you.

You get to the boy and drop to your knees. He’s got a wound on his leg that’s bleeding profusely and is cradling the right side of his body. You rummage around in your bag for the bandages and gauze. You need a tourniquet to stop the bleeding, but you didn’t back one of those. You pull off your hood, grab a stick nearby, wrap his leg in your hood, wrap the rest of the fabric around the stick, and start twisting. You don’t stop until you can’t twist the fabric anymore. You wipe the wound as best you can, stuff the gauze inside, and wrap it in bandages.

You will do.

You look back at the dragon.

It exhales.

A column of flame twirls to you.

Time slows down as you bring your hands up to cover your face.

You scream.

You can’t think straight. You don’t want to die. You have to get this kid out of here. This dragon is going to eat you.

You slump in the grass, watching steam rise off your hand. Your vision blurs as you stare at it. Your skin is slightly darker but not burnt. Thank the gods. Your head snaps to the kid, but he’s passed out. You look at the poisontail still staring at you. It’s late afternoon and the sun is going down fast. You can’t leave the kid here alone with this dragon.

The bond is nearly complete. I have granted my relic. You will not perish here.

“Wh-what?”

The boy was not worthy. 

“C-can you help me save him?” It’s a stupid thing to ask, but you have to try.

He will not fly with me.

“But, I’m not a Rider. I don’t—”

HE WILL NOT FLY WITH ME!

The voice rattles around your skull, giving you a splitting headache at the base of your skull. You glance at the kid. If you do this, there really is not going back. This isn’t like the parapet or the Gauntlet. 

“If I get on you, you’ll help me save him?”

You have my word, child. Make your choice.

You clench your teeth and drop your bag at his side. If it was possible for a dragon to look smug, you think it’d be right now. You clamber onto the dragon’s back with the grace of a drunk bear. There’s a single rope tied around its neck. The moment you grab it, the dragon launches into the air.

You scream, clinging to the rope for dear life. It makes your left hand tingle, like it’s about to go numb. The dragon twists its body in the air, head rearing back to where its tail was a moment ago. Your body rocks violently against spiky green scales. Its tail twists against the rest of the body, nearly striking you three times. Your hands burn from the rope, but you don’t let go. 

Is this what that kid went through?

The boy did not last half as long as you have. 

The dragon lands roughly in the clearing. You slide off its back and face-plant into the grass. Your whole body is shaking as you stand. You stumble once but keep going to the kid. He’s still passed out, but his color looks marginally better. You struggle to get the kid up the dragon without jostling his leg too much or your freshly “roasted” limb.

We will improve your physical ability when we join those who have prevailed.

“We are not doing anything,” you hiss, climbing behind the passed out guy and clutching the rope. “I’m not a Rider.”

The dragon snorts loudly, shakes it head side to side, and takes off. You note this time is much smoother than when it was just you.

Would you prefer I buck the boy off?

“Please don’t,” you mutter.

You see the flight field growing in the distance, and nerves pool in your gut.

Cease your worries, child. You will be hailed for becoming my rider.

Leave it to a dragon to misinterpret your fears. It swoops down in a gentle arc, landing on the flight field in front of the Healer tent. You clamber down awkwardly, nearly falling when the dragon helps the guy from the forest slide down by twisting its body. You brace him with your body. Your left hand feels hot and stings with every movement.

A voice thunders, “Sorrengail!” 

At the same time, you hear Violet yell your name.

You may be marked for death metaphorically, but this guy leaning on you may be on death’s door literally. Xaden Riorson storms over to you, faltering when he sees you dragging a passed out cadet towards the tent and bandages around your hand. You pass by him without so much as a glance. Inside, the tent is chaos. Cadets who have bonded are getting checked over and their injuries were dealt with.

You drop the guy on a clear cot, shouting, “I need someone to check his pulse and take a look at this leg!”

“Sorrengail,” someone shouts back, “where the hell have you been? What happened to your hand?”

“I got lost,” you lie.

What a poor lie. You have surrounded yourself with nimwits.

“A Scribe’s asking if the green dragon is his!”

As if I would bond with that weakling!

“Not the time,” you grit, gnashing your teeth as you grab a bowl of water and a clean cloth. You roll your sleeves up to your elbows and dunk your burnt hand into the water. “He’s not conscious," you snap at the other Healer. “It’ll have to wait.”

“But—”

“IT WAITS!”

The Healer rears back, nodding quickly. A few others look at you but your glare makes them look away just as fast. You pull your soaked arm from the water, wiping it roughly and smearing burn cream onto the skin.

“What the hell is this?” You finally notice how full the tent is and just how many people are sitting on cots. “If you’re not dead, dying, bleeding, or burning, you shouldn’t be in here!”

My my, where was this fire moments ago?

Everyone pauses to stare at you. Your eye twitches, patience hanging by a thread as you wrap clean bandages tightly around your digits.

“MOVE!” 

A few people actually jump as Healers usher out those who are already cleared. You spot more than a few Riders you’ve treated on occasion filtering out. Your focus turns back to the unconscious man in front of you. Another Healer begins to unwrap your makeshift tourniquet while you stand at the ready with an official one. The two of you move quickly, noting that he likely has a broken rib along with some bruised ones. The same bleeding leg is also broken, complicating things further. 

Someone rushes into the tent, yelling, “Sorrengail, they're calling for you!”

“I’m busy,” you hiss, holding a needle and thread.

“I know,” that person gasps, “but they’re insisting.”

“I’m not leaving a patient on the table.”

Someone else grabs your shoulder. You shake them off roughly. They grab again, spinning you around. You bristle as they stare at you. It’s Winifred Colbersy—Wini, the best Healer at Basgiath War College.

“It’s alright,” Wini insists, gently taking the needle from you. “We can handle the rest. Go talk to them.”

You stare at Wini for a second; then you glance around the room. You know these people. You’ve worked alongside them. They’ll do well. Wini treated Violet for nearly as long as you remember. She won’t let someone die. You give a tense nod, closing your eyes. Winifred takes over, giving orders to the Healers in the tent as you walk back out. 

Outside, there’s a crowd gathering at the tent’s opening. Your gaze turns steely. A few people flinch, looking away when you make eye contact. The poisontail stares at you, watching how you react to the crowd.

“Do you need something,” you grit out. You bark, “If not, then move! This isn’t a gallery for you to gawk at.”

The cadets have the decency to look guilty as they disperse to make more space. 

“Did he really bond with that” —someone points at the green poisontail you rode— “dragon?”

Tell them I did not.

You shrug, lying, “I don’t know. He passed out pretty soon after landing.”

I will remember this.

“Weren’t you on that dragon?”

“Aren’t you the one who completed the Gauntlet that one time?”

“What happened to your hand?”

The voices crescendo as Violet breaks through, grabbing your arm. She hauls you off to the side, away from the crowd.

She spits out questions a mile a minute, “Are you okay? What happened to your hand? Is it bad? Why do you have blood on you? Why were you on the dragon?”

Your mother, Lilith Sorrengail, interrupts, dragging you inside the college. You cast Violet a pleading glance, but someone else grabs her attention, blocking the way. You are truly alone with your mother. 

“Do you understand what you’ve just done,” she snaps at you.

You argue, “That kid was going to die!”

“This is the Riders Quadrant! Cadets die every year,” your mother reminds, shaking your arms. “That is the reality of war and battle.”

“I know that! Who do you think picks up the bodies when everything is said and done?” You shove her away. “It’s certainly not you!”

Your mother, the fearsome General Lilith Sorrengail, goes silent. For a second, you swear there’s fear in her eyes. Except, her expression returns to stone and fury far too soon for you to be sure.

“You will become a Rider,” she announces coldly.

You sputter, “What?” 

She says, “That boy didn’t bond with the dragon. He was unconscious from the moment you landed. That dragon has bonded with you. You will join Violet in the Riders Quadrant.”

“Y-you can’t be serious! I’m not a Rider!”

Lilith turns on her heel, back to you. You grab her wrist. 

“Mother!”

She pulls her wrist from your grasp. “This is the price of your recklessness. The Empyrean will decide if Violet’s bond with two dragons is viable, and then they will evaluate yours. If they deem it passable, you will transition to the Riders Quadrant with no complaint. Clean yourself up.”

She walks out to the flight field, leaving you alone in the hall. You sag against the wall. You want to disappear into the floor, just meld with the wood and never be seen again. Your stomach turns violently as you dry heave.

Breath child. Your mettle will prove stronger than this challenge.

“I DON’T WANT TO BE A RIDER!” Your voice carries down the empty hall, echoing back at you as you cradle your hand.

“Well, it’s a little late for that,” a snarky voice comments.

Lifting your head, you see Xaden Riorson leaning against the wall opposite you. You lean your forehead against the wall. You don’t have the energy for social interaction.

“Come on, Sorrengail. No comment?”

“Are you here to gloat, Riorson?”

“Why would I? You pulled an incredibly dangerous stunt, and now you think you’re being punished for it.”

“If I did nothing, that kid would have died.”

“Your mother wasn’t wrong: death becomes a natural part of being in the Riders Quadrant.”

“I’m not going to be a Rider!”

“Why not? You’ve crossed the parapet, finished the Gauntlet, and something tells me that green poisontail isn’t the cadet’s.”

Be wary of this one, child. The shadow wielder may prove to be a threat, and I am not there to shield you.

“Does it matter? There’s no way the Empyrean will say yes. I wasn’t trained to be a Rider, and I didn’t bond with the poisontail.”

Riorson grabs your left hand, pulling the bandages off. 

“Don’t—”

“It bonded with you. You can’t get rid of that unless one of you dies. You don’t have a choice anymore: you have to become a Rider.”

It’s a harsh truth that slaps you in the face as you look at your left hand. The mark—properly referred to as a relic—has already begun to darken to a moss green. Nausea rises in your throat again. You push Riorson away as you feel bile rise in your throat. You narrowly avoid making a bigger fool of yourself, but it seems that he doesn’t push the issue again.

“You should give the dragon’s name to the Scribe outside.”

Riorson wraps the bandages around your hand again and walks off.

The shadow wielder is not wrong, child.

“I don’t care.” You clench your fist. “There’s no way the Empyrean will say yes, much less the school. I’m not going to become a Rider.”

My name is Vorathyn.

And you swear on every god there is that this dragon—Vorathyn—sounds smug.

Dear deceased father,

I don’t know what to do.

I think Violet’s worried about me.

I bonded to a dragon.

Mother is forcing me to join the Riders Quadrant. 

Sincerely,

Your youngest child.

Thank you @thanathecreator for the banner <3 I got the photo on the left from the Xaden’s wiki. Here’s part three. More coming soon. Heavily inspired by This Was Not The Plan by Piper Thorn.

[fanfictionsgal0re]

I Didn’t Know What I Was Doing Pt.2

(Fourth Wing x Fem!Reader) OOC Xaden Riorson OOC Violet Sorrengail Notes | I tried my best with the characters y’all

You pass by him in the hallways without so much as a glance, always carrying something in your hands. You visit Violet in the Riders Quadrant often enough that a few cadets can point you out by looks, but you rarely make conversation with anyone else. Every cadet who goes to you for a wound takes your advice very seriously. You are well respected amongst the other first-years, and even the higher years take your advice seriously.

You don’t notice anything at first. You sneak out of the dorms every once in a while to the Gauntlet. Some nights, Xaden watches you stare at the Gauntlet. Other nights, he watches as you try to make it through. You fail. Time and time again. You make it farther each time, which is surprising. There are a handful of nights where you’ll climb anything else that you can. Trees, boulders, walls.

One night, after he found Violet walking branch-to-branch in a tree, he watches you do the same. Except, you do it better. You balance across the branches like it’s second nature. You slip once when he watches you, correcting yourself before your body even begins to teeter. You do this again and again until the sky starts to lighten. Then, you hop down and disappear off into the building. 

One day, you walk through the empty plateau through an early, misty fall morning. You stare at the Gauntlet as Xaden stares at you from the shadows. He wasn’t sure why he woke up this early, but of course it has something to do with you. You breathe out a little puff of air.

You stare at the Gauntlet, going over it in your head. You’ve been practicing this to give tips to Violet, going through every section as many times as you can. You’ve gone through this whole course in sections, but never all at once. Today was the day. You had the day off from the healing ward, so what better time to do it than now. It was a week out from when Violet’s run would have to count.

You cross the log and the pillars without much issue—ankle support mattered there. The wheel was more tricky because it had to be timed, but that could be bypassed if you entered fast enough. 

The buoy balls have to be hugged to make it across. There was no getting around that one. You tried several times before.

You pause at the suspended iron pillars for a second before you make the jump. The shaking counteracts your grip, so you hold on for dear life. The elevation change is the trickiest part. You swing onto the first shaking pillar, nearly slipping off. You have to jump with both legs at a time in this part, or you’ll be shaken off—known because that happened once when you tried this section at night. 

Xaden watches you with rapt curiosity. You completely block out the staggering crowd of cadets that watch you in awe. The corner of his mouth quirks up when he notices something: you don’t have a hood on. Everyone is seeing your face this time and paying attention.

The log staircase is where nerves build in your gut. You attack it more carefully, watching the speed of the logs to avoid being swept off your feet. 

You get to the leaning chimney and scowl. You can make it through this with and without the rope, but Violet’s height could cause her problems. You slab climb up, using the friction from pressing as much of your shoe flat against the stone to make your way up.

You pause again in front of the near completely vertical ramp, wiping your hands against your pants. 

Someone yells, “DON’T STOP NOW!”

Your head snaps to the start of the Gauntlet. A dozen or so people stand there, watching you. 

“Oh shit,” you mutter.

Your sister stands at the front of the crowd with crossed arms. Yeah, you’re dead, but you can’t exactly stop now. Though, from this distance, you can say that Violet looks an awful lot like your mother. She’d have your head for thinking that.

“FINISH IT, YOU IDIOT!” Yeah, your sister is definitely going to skin you once you get down there.

You run at the wall, manage a few steps up, and just barely grasp the edge. You push the balls of your feet against the wooden, pulling yourself up a little further. You get closer enough to pull yourself up, feeling the burn in your forearms and upper arms. There’s a couple of cheers from below.

You walk away from the edge and double over. Your stomach turns when you realise you passed the Gauntlet in front of those people. This was absolutely going to get back to your mother and Xaden Riorson. You’ll get a new arsehold twice if you survive Violet first. Keyword being: if. Violet is no doubt raging down below, and you’re honestly tempted not to take the stairs down.

You do go down to face your maker—correction sister. Eventually. Violet stands in front of the steep stone stairs with a less than impressed expression on her face. Beside her stands Professor Devera with a bemused expression. You wonder if that’s good or bad. For you specifically.

“Ms. Sorrengail, Cadet Sorrengail was quite worried by your … performance,” the Professor summarizes. 

“I—sorry?” You give the pair a sheepish smile.

“You—” Violet cuts herself off, pinching the bridge of her nose.

“Granted, you did particularly well from what I witnessed,” Professor Devera continued. “Certainly caused quite the stir.”

“Yes well,” you mumble, “I practiced?”

Violet’s head snaps to you, screeching, “YOU WHAT?”

Okay, maybe not the best thing to admit right now. “Oops.” You give her a guilty smile.

“I hope you realize that this meets two of the basic requirements to becoming a rider.”

It gets quiet enough to hear a pin drop, and suddenly, you’re very aware of the dozen or so people staring at you three. Heat crawls up your neck as the queasy feeling returns. The crowd has gotten extraordinarily quiet.

“What?” You and Violet ask in tandem. A truly rare feat.

“From what I’ve heard, you crossed the parapet with ease and I witnessed you make it through half of the Gauntlet. Your mental ability has been proven. Granted, you’ve yet to spar, but I have a feeling you’d do well enough to attest to your physical ability.”

“H-hold on now,” you stammer, “that sounds like recruitment.”

Professor Devera smirks at you with a raised eyebrow. Violet stands off to the side looking like her soul has long since evacuated.

“I’m flattered but I’m a Healer.”

“And yet,” the Professor gestures to the Gauntlet.

You shake your head hard enough to make you dizzy. You never did either of those things with the intention of becoming a rider or earning praise. You did them for Violet. The parapet certainly was; she couldn’t keep leaving her bag behind. Gods forbid she got seriously hurt without the proper supplies. The Gauntlet was … for Violet. Right? You get quiet. 

You don’t want to be a dragon rider. 

Not ever.

Especially not after … 

“No thank you,” you repeat firmly. “I have no interest in being a dragon rider.”

Violet off to the side, gnawing her lip. Professor Devera looks surprised. You wonder if it’s because of your tone. Nothing can really be done about it now. The Professor almost seems … disappointed. You bow. 

“I apologize for my conduct. With your permission, I’ll return to the dorms,” you say.

The Professor stares at you for a few seconds. “Very well,” she replies. “You may go. Cadet Sorrengail, if you wish to accompany them …”

“Thank you, Professor,” Violet answers.

You two walk past the crowd. When you get inside the academic wing of the college, Violet clutches your hand. She takes you through the library, stopping a few feet away from the exit leading to the dorms.

“You know,” she pauses to swallow, “you can join the Riders Quadrant, right?”

You stare at your joined hands. You wonder how long it’s been since you two held hands. The most distinctive moments were Brennan’s funeral. And then your father’s. You give Violet a smile.

“What a stupid thing to say.” You twist your hands to thread your fingers with hers. “Someone needs to take care of everyone. Who better than me?”

Violet gets quiet, not because she has nothing to say, but because you look so empty when you say that. It’s like someone sucked the light that makes you you and left behind an empty shell. You look miserable to her. 

You’ve always enjoyed learning, and dragons were a close second. You used to sneak down to the Riders Quadrant just to watch them, and then to the Vale when you mastered stairs, carrying numerous types of jerky stuffed in your pockets. It scared mother and father more than once, but that was who you were. 

So, who was this empty-eyed imposter wearing her sibling’s skin as they said that?

“I’m going to head inside. I’ve got a few things on my mind,” you said, letting go of Violet.

She wants to grab your arm but the gap between you feels like a canyon that she can’t build a bridge over. 

Dear deceased father,

I don’t have anyone else to speak to about this, but I finished the Gauntlet. I was proud of myself. At least for a little bit. It was … more fun than I expected.

I’m worried that Violet will be angry with me. I only did it so I would know what she’s up against. I’m not sure how to apologize. She thinks I want to join the Riders Quadrant. I don’t. I’m perfectly fine in the Healer Quadrant.

I miss you, papa.

Sincerely,

Your youngest child.

Thank you @thanathecreator for the banner <3 I got the photo on the left from the Xaden’s wiki. Here’s part two. More coming soon. Heavily inspired by This Was Not The Plan by Piper Thorn.

[fanfictionsgal0re]

I Didn’t Know What I Was Doing

(Fourth Wing x Fem!Reader) OOC Xaden Riorson OOC Violet Sorrengail Notes | I tried my best with the characters y’all.

Dear deceased father,

Mother forced Violet to join the Riders Quadrant. Violet was not pleased. She doesn’t like dragons all that much—she’s more neutral than anything—and she’s not the strongest person. Mother also won’t tell us why she’s doing this. Or why it’s only Violet.

On the brighter side, I’m doing well in the Healer Quadrant. My favorite things are medicines and poisons. I think you already knew this, but enough of any medicine can become poison. I’m doing well, and Violet seems to be adjusting. 

I miss you, papa.

Sincerely,

Your youngest child.

The parapet extends before you. Violet’s bag sits securely in your arms, a reminder of why you’re even here in the first place. Leave it to your sister to forget her bag—the one you meticulously packed with snacks, burn cream, anti-septic cream, bandages, and one of her favorite books—again. There’s a small crowd in your way. 

“Sorry,” you mumble, nearly bumping into two people.

You step onto the parapet—thinking of it like a balance beam, only wider and more stony—without much hesitation. It’s going smoothly until about halfway, your foot slips off center because of a chunk of mortar sticking out. Your body teeters as you correct yourself, making a very conscious effort not to look down. You hear something behind you, like a yell, as you make it across.

You scan the cadets for your sister. Instead, you spot Dain Aetos’ head poking out of the crowd. You tuck yourself in and make your way through the crowd. When you get closer, you spot Violet’s hair beside Dain. You give yourself an imaginary pat on the back, knowing that it was dumb luck you spotted Dain.

Dain sees you first, with that bright, oblivious smile on your face and a bag in your arms, and he feels the blood in his body stop. Violet turns around after seeing the shift in his mood. 

“You forgot this,” you say it so calmly, holding out her bag.

They look at you like you have two heads. You hand the bag off to Violet, finally snapping her out of her stupor.

“How did you get here,” she asks. 

You harrumph, crossing your arms and muttering, “The very inconvenient bridge. Honestly, that thing needs a good sanding. It was so bumpy. I know mountains smoother than that.”

Her voice tightens as she clarifies, “You walked the parapet?”

“Yes. You can’t keep forgetting your bag, Violet,” you continue. “I won’t be able to keep bringing it to you. I mean, I had to walk the bridge today, and I do not want to do that again.”

“You walked the parapet?” Dain echoed.

“Oh my gods, yes Dain. I walked the parapet. I swear Violet, I’ll tie your bag to your person if you keep forgetting it.”

They’re both stunned into silence, not paying the slightest bit of attention as you chew Violet out. 

Dain eventually asks, “You know there’s another way to get to the Riders Quadrant aside from the parapet, right?”

“Oh,” you tilt your head, “really?”

“YOU DIDN’T KNOW??” Dain and Violet screech in union, a rare feat.

“No? Though, that does make sense now that you say something. You wouldn’t happen to know where is it, wouldya Dain?” Your easygoing smile gives Violet a headache.

She sighs, “You mean, you crossed the parapet without even knowing there was a safe option?”

You admit, “Kind of? I wasn’t thinking all that much.”

“Oh my gods,” Violet groans, “what did I do to deserve such an air-headed sibling?”

“Hey! It’s not like they advertise this information,” you protest. 

“I’ll help you head back,” Dain interjects with a tired sigh.

“You don’t have to sound so tired, you know. I won’t do it again if it makes you both this nervous,” you promise.

“Please don’t.”

You cross your arms with a pout. Dain leads you to the ground path between the Riders Quadrant (aka the Citadel) and the rest of Basgiath College. You spot a few dragons from here—no doubt belonging to the second and third-years. 

Five days pass without much incident. Violet finally remembers to take her bag once you refill it, and you don’t have any other reason to head to the Citadel aside from that. It’s a calm day when Xaden Riorson walks into the Healer Quadra with another cadet, a first-year cradling his arm. You have a clipboard in hand when you notice them.

“Wingleader Riorson,” you greet.

Riorson answers, “Healer Sorrengail. I have a cadet here that wasn’t paying attention and got hurt.”

You nod, glancing at one of the empty cots. “Take a seat over there please. Do you want to stay with him, or would you prefer to wait outside?”

“I’ll stay.”

You nod, placing down the clipboard in favor of bandages, a sling, and a damp cloth. You speak with the cadet quietly. Just based on your examination, he fractured his arm. You clean the minor scrapes on the cadet’s arm under Riorson’s supervision, brace his arm with a splint to correct the fracture, and help him into the sling. 

“No sparring. You’ll really break the arm then, and that’s worse,” you warn. “I’m serious. I’ll tell your wingmaster on you if I see you back here with a broken arm.”

The cadet nods quickly, hopping off the cot. He heads for the door as you wave. Riorson remains stationary, staring at you.

“Hello Wingleader, do you also need help?”

“Do you think crossing the parapet was a joke?”

You blink, staring at him. “No, but it certainly wasn’t as hard as everyone made it out to be.”

“You did it in broad daylight.”

“Yes, and thank goodness for that. I’ve heard it’s hell when it rains.” Your smile is polite as you turn your back to him.

Riorson asks, “Why cross the parapet, then? You clearly have no intention of becoming a Rider.”

“Violet forgot her bag. It’s annoying to have to constantly remind your sibling to do something,” you answer easily.

Your back is still towards him as Riorson stares a hole into your head. You move around the space with a familiarity that speaks to your dedication. Nothing about you screams dishonesty. 

“Most people don’t survive,” he eventually comments.

You nod, replying, “Yes, we’re the ones that collect their bodies at the end of everything.”

“You’re a first-year.” It sounds like an accusation to both parties. 

“First year officially enrolled, not witnessing.”

“Why become a Healer, then? You’ve seen the outcome of the cadets who fail.”

You shrug, turning to face him. “To help people. Do you need anything else?”

Maybe it’s around then that Xander Riorson actually begins to pay attention to you. He notices you more often after that day. 

Thank you @thanathecreator for the banner <3 Whew, to think I started this a while ago and am only now getting around to posting it.

I got the photo on the left from the Xaden’s wiki. There is more about this coming soon. I was heavily inspired by This Was Not The Plan by Piper Thorn.

[fanfictionsgal0re]

An Early Morning

(Genderbent Grey Hollow x Fem!reader)

Long, nimble fingers trail up your spine. They dance over the bumps in your spine and settle at the base of your neck. You swat at the chest of your bed partner with a groan. He releases a small, unguarded breath. You peek one eye open. Your lovely boyfriend gazes at you unabashedly in the early morning light.

“Grey, it’s so early,” you groan, twisting away from him.

He presses a kiss to your shoulder and slides his hand to your stomach. He murmurs, “It’s time to wake, love. Grace my world with your love and existence.”

“Maybe later,” you yawn.

Grey strokes the skin of your arm with a sigh. “I thought you said you could never deny me?”

You grumble something unintelligible and bury your face in his pillow. Grey sighs again as he nuzzles the back of your neck. He squeezes your midsection gently. You reach behind you to ruffle his silky soft, white hair. It’s quiet in your shared London flat. Something you noticed about Grey was that he rarely spent time in his flat.

“You need to give me your haircare routine,” you mumble.

Grey smiles against your skin, pressing another kiss there. “And share some of my secrets? Never,” he responds.

Grey presses another kiss to the back of your neck before he sits up in bed. You nuzzle deeper into the blankets and his pillow. Grey grabs a loose shirt and dress pants from a drawer, heading to the bathroom. You stay in bed—like the potato you are after a steamy night with your boyfriend. 

You crack your eyes open when Grey emerges from the bathroom. Small wisps of steam cling to him as he towels his hair. Grey stares at you in the bed and nudges your forehead with his knuckles. You cradle his hand against your cheek, kissing the smooth skin of his palm. Grey sits down at your side of the bed to observe you.

“You’re so cuddly in the mornings,” Grey comments.

You retort, “That’s ‘cause my lovely boyfriend insists on waking me up when the sky is still asleep.”

Grey hums, stroking your cheekbone with his thumb. His fingers trail over the features of your face. You hum when Grey peppers kisses across your face.

“You’re so touchy in the mornings,” you comment.

He retorts, “That’s because my sleepy girlfriend is oh-so tantalizing."

“Oh yeah,” you snort, “because me with messy hair, crusty eyes, and morning breath is “tantalizing”.”

“Absolutely,” Grey agrees.

“I was being sarcastic,” you grumble.

“I know,” Grey hums. “Now rise, my darling, we’ve got a day to conquer.”

“You mean you’ve got a day to conquer.” You sit in bed, stretching above your head. “I’ve got an easy day and then a couch to lay on.”

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Grey gives you that sly smile the reeks of smugness and secrecy.

You squint at him from the bed. “And what’s that?”

“We have a photoshoot together.” His sly smile widens as he hovers over your lap. “And~ it’s in the evening.”

“You did that on purpose,” you accuse.

Grey shrugs, offering a bland “Maybe~.”

Grey’s nose trails the slope of your shoulder. Your head tilts to the side for him. Grey presses a kiss on the slope and walks out of the bedroom. You stare after him with thinly veiled amusement. 

The sky is dusty outside your bedroom window,  still dotted with fast-fading stars. Outside, there’s a slight chill in the air. Inside, there’s warmth leaking from the kitchen and spilling into the bedroom. 

You’ve done that for him. You made Grey Hollow, labeled one of the most mysterious male models of the century, more human. You, an emerging photographer, caught his attention and managed to hold it effortlessly. One thing is certain: Grey Hollow can’t wait to introduce you to his brothers. They’ll like you just as much as he does—maybe a little less. It’d be troublesome if his youngest brother fell for you too.

Still, he can’t wait.

You come up behind him in the kitchen, wrapping your arms around his midsection. 

Yes, he’s sure. It’ll be you or no one.

Thank you @thanathecreator for the bottom banner <3 Oh Ma GAUD!!! I finished House of Hollow by Krystal Sutherland yesterday and I’ve been O.B.S.E.S.S.E.D. The mystery, the drama, the everything. I know no one asked for this, but I wanted it. One of the great benefits of being a writer. Also, the photo on the left is apparently the Brazilian cover of House of Hollow. I found it here on Artstation. I thought it was beautiful and fit the vibes almost immaculately.

[fanfictionsgal0re]

But I Saw Something.

The wind is gentle, blowing hair over my eyes. A familiar laugh rings in the air as I spin round and round. I was playing alone that day. Thick clouds hung heavy over my head, choking the light of the sun. Every other kid was inside.

Every other kid except me.

I said to the air, “It looks like it’ll rain.”

I told my mom I was going out. The woman typed away on her computer, waving me away. I pulled on a bright red raincoat and yellow wellington boots. The wind picked up, blowing around rotting, dead leaves and branches of the evergreens around my home. I took off into the treeline with a flashlight and garden trowel in hand. 

The forest was still green this late into the year. 

But it was so quiet. 

All I could hear was the crunch of rotting yellow-brown leaves under my boots. The forest was different when it rained.

Or when it was about to rain.

The smell of petrichor clogged the air settling between the trees. Little streams slid their way through soft mounds of dirt to create puddles of mud. The big river in the middle of the forest sounds angry when it's full, thundering like horses feet. 

There’s only the smell of petrichor—the smell of rain—the smell of a weeping sky.

That’s what the trees told me.

Rain was the sky’s tears, begging for mercy from humanity.

Earthquakes were the ground’s rage, screaming at humanity’s cruelty.

I wandered around the forest with my flashlight and trowel for hours. I climbed a few of the trees with trunks three times as thick as me. I dug two holes big enough to fit my fist and peered into them with rapt curiosity. Then, I pushed the mound of dirt back into its hole and patted it down. 

I felt like a treasure hunter on a secret mission.

No one but me knew what I was looking for, and no one but me could find it.

I found a smooth stone twice the size of my body half-buried, half-tangled in dirt and tree roots. The rock didn’t particularly stand out, but I stopped regardless. I crouched down to peer into the little hole created by the rock and tree roots. It was smaller than my fist.

I clicked on the flashlight and directed the beam through the shadows.

The sky above me darkened.

The forest around me went silent.

I stared into the hole, moving the flashlight around to see its full size. It was like the shadows swallowed all of the light. I squinted into the dark, inching closer to the hole.

Something moved.

The inky darkness shifted until a shiny, black bead stared back. 

I scrambled back.

The air felt stilted, like I was forcing it down my throat instead of an easy in-and-out. 

The thing in the hole made a scratching sound.

I took off towards the treeline, dropping my flashlight.

I heard something heavy scramble behind me, getting closer and closer ‘til I finally made it past the trees. The sound of footsteps like thunder stopped. When I looked back at the forest, anything past the first two or three threes was cloaked in a layer of thick shadow. 

But something was there.

I could feel it in my bones.

That twisting, bubbly feeling in my gut came from one thing: fear.

I was afraid.

I never saw anything in those woods.

I never went in them again.

My mom didn’t think anything of it. She only noticed that I started sleeping with the light on after our electricity bill came in higher the next month. Whatever she saw in my eyes when she told me to shut the light off … she never brought it up again.

My flashlight reappeared on the front porch a few days later.

It was dead.

The battery was drained.

I never put new ones in.

I chucked the flashlight into a dumpster when we visited the city a month later. Before that, I had it tucked away in the back of my closet in a shoebox.

I don’t know what I saw in the hole that day.

I don’t know what chased me through the trees that day.

But I saw something.

Thank you @thanathecreator for the borders <3

[fanfictionsgal0re]

Something Gentle

“Don’t fall asleep,” he pleads.

We lie tangled together by sheets and reaching limbs. 

One arm rests under my head. The other hangs over my waist, ghosting over the bumps of my spine.

I promise, “I’m not going anywhere.”

“But darling, I wanted to talk with you a little longer,” he murmurs.

I lean closer, bumping his collarbone with my nose.

I answer, “We’ll have all the time in the world, love.”

The moonlight spills over our legs from the window. Darkness shrouds his eyes.

“No,” he whispers, “we won’t.”

And then I wake up.

Thank you @thanathecreator for the borders <3

[fuckthisshit-ugh]

please read this even if you're not indian. especially if you're not indian.

you've seen the jokes. india is "dirty", indians are "everywhere", why don't they fix their own country. ok. let me tell you why, and what's happening right now while nobody's watching.

first, the history you skipped: britain ruled india for two centuries and drained it. economist utsa patnaik's research estimates around $45 trillion in today's money was taken. the india that got independence in 1947 was one of the poorest countries on earth. every "why is india like this" question starts there. you don't get to profit off a robbery and then mock the crime scene.

now, what's happening RIGHT NOW:

in may the question paper for NEET leaked. that's the national medical entrance exam. over 2.2 million students took it. cancelled. years of studying, families' savings poured into coaching, gone overnight because someone sold the paper. students died by suicide after. these were kids who wanted to be doctors.

and out of that came a protest movement. a gen z group called the cockroach janta party, started by a 30 year old named abhijeet dipke, got 22 million instagram followers within DAYS. they've been doing a sit-in at jantar mantar in delhi demanding education minister dharmendra pradhan resign.

and then there's sonam wangchuk. if you've watched 3 idiots, he's the real engineer the character was based on. built solar schools in ladakh. invented ice stupas so himalayan villages have water. spent his whole life on education. he's 59 and he's been on hunger strike for 17+ days now. reporters went to see him this week and he was too weak to talk. and the troll armies are calling him "anti national" and "foreign funded". a man starving himself for other people's children. that's the thing here, anyone who asks a question is suddenly a traitor.

it's not one incident, it's everywhere you look:

• infrastructure worth thousands of crores failing within months of the ribbon cutting. tunnels collapsing in regions where heavy rain is a guarantee, not a surprise.

• youth unemployment near 10% for ages 15 to 29, 13.6% in cities. in a country of 1.42 billion where more than half the population is young.

• only about the top 3% of indians earn above 10 lakh a year. meanwhile billionaire wealth keeps ballooning and the headlines celebrate it.

• manipur burned for over two years. an ethnic conflict, tens of thousands displaced, and the prime minister barely said the word manipur while it happened.

• journalists raided. critics' houses bulldozed. activists sitting in jail for years without trial under laws like UAPA. our press freedom ranking has cratered.

• even the petrol is a fight now, ethanol blending pushed through while drivers complain about their engines and get no straight answers.

and through all of it, the PM, who came to power on religious polarisation (americans, sound familiar?), travels abroad for photo ops and has not held one single open press conference in over a decade. not one.

what i'm asking:

if you're not indian: share this. our media mostly won't cover any of it because the big outlets are owned by the same billionaires the government serves. the only reason wangchuk's fast is getting any coverage is people refusing to look away.

if you ARE indian: speak up even if you're comfortable. especially if you're comfortable. join the protests. add to this, correct me, translate it. staying quiet is a choice when nothing in this post touches your life.

india is not "dirty". india was robbed, and it's being robbed again, from the inside this time. but it's also the country where a 59 year old will starve for strangers' kids and 22 million young people will rally behind a party literally named after cockroaches, because cockroaches survive everything.

we can still save her. but only loudly.

reblog. share. don't scroll past.

[vorsoisson]

India's Gen Z 'Cockroach People's Party' started as satire but is serious about change

They call themselves the "cockroaches" and they're on the march — demanding action against corruption, amid a shortage of opportunities for

[fanfictionsgal0re]

I don’t watch the news a lot …

But the fact that I haven’t heard anything about this …

What a world we live in (◞‸◟).

[fanfictionsgal0re]

A Big Fox

(Lee Yeon x Fem!NamReader)

You stand in the living room of your childhood home with a sleeping fox on the couch, not sure where to proceed. You called Shin-joo, a veterinarian you met through your sister, and told him the situation. You’d been strolling down the street at night, wondering where the hell Lee Yeon had disappeared to after the three of you—you, your sister, and him—came back from Eohwa Island, when you found a fox lying in the road. Except, it wasn't an ordinary fox.

Because nothing could ever be ordinary after your sister dragged Lee Yeon into your lives.

The fox you found was large. 

If the average size of a red fox—from the head to the tip of the tail—was 44 inches, then this fox was double that. Easily.

And it was heavy.

It was a miracle in itself that you mustered enough strength to bring the abnormally large fox to your house. 

But the most terrifying part of everything … was the tails.

Tails. 

Plural, not single.

This fox had nine tails.

You found a gumiho and BROUGHT. IT. HOME.

And you wrangled Shin-joo into your mess. Ah, Ji-ah is going to be peeved that you didn’t call her first. The supernatural is her thing; hell, she made her job reporting unnatural occurrences with no logical or reasonable explanation. 

Meaning = Ji-ah Nam, your sister, is obsessed with the supernatural.

You shake your head, grabbing the first aid kit from the kitchen. Shin-joo was still 15 minutes away. You know basic first aid on a human—technically, a gumiho has a human form. The principles apply. 

Right?

You hope so. 

You grab a cloth from the kitchen and get it damp. You head back to the living room where the gumiho is slowly waking up, crouching down. Its breaths are getting shallower and its eyelids are starting to move. You wipe down the shallow cuts with a shaky hand. Then, you wrap the bandages around its legs and torso where most of the cuts were. You sigh, putting your head on your knees with a quiet groan. 

This whole situation was a mess.

You glance up at the gumiho and jolt back. It’s staring at you with unfocused, bleary eyes. You feel bad, knowing that it’s probably in a lot of pain. You hesitate, hand flinching back, but you pat its back, smoothing down its fur. It’s a pretty red color—like a normal fox—but its tails had a gradient from red to black to white at the very tips.

You whisper, “You really had to show up in front of me, huh?” 

The gumiho whines, closing its eyes again. Your phone vibrates, screen lighting up with a message. You pull your hand away to grab the phone. It’s Shin-joo; he’s waiting at your door. You stand up to go open the door, and the gumiho jolts up, tails flaring up. It pounces on you, knocking you on your back with a scream. The front door slams open as your sister and Shin-joo barge in.

“Hyung-nim,” Shin-joo shouts, “get off of her!”

The gumiho’s eyes remind you of Yeon-oppa’s from this close. Ji-ah watches from the entrance, inching towards grabbing the umbrella. The gumiho gets off your chest, but settles on your lap instead, flicking its ear at Shin-joo. You sit up and point to the gumiho presently occupying your lap with a shaky finger. 

“T-this is Lee Yeon?”

Sweat accumulates on the back of Shin-joo’s neck as he pleads, “Please don’t take his actions too seriously. He’s probably delirious—”

One of the gumiho’s tails fluffs up under your neck, another covers your face, and the rest wrap around your torso and arms. 

“Hey!” Ji-ah shouts, “Let go of my sister; she’s not your pillow!”

She gets closer, trying to pry the gumiho—Lee Yeon as a fox—off you. Fox Yeon whines loudly, snapping his jaws at Ji-ah’s hands. Shin-joo looks off to the side, marred by guilt. You push the two tails in front of your face away as Yeon pushes his head up under yours. Ji-ah looks ready to add ‘fox-skinning’ to her skill list on her resume as you pat his head.

His fur is quite soft. Feels more like a blanket than coarse fox fur. In the back of your mind, you think Rang-ya is going to complain about how you smell. Shin-joo inches closer with his vet kit, taking stock of a pain-delirious Yeon in fox form. Ji-ah sets down her bag and goes to grab a blanket.

Shin-joo asks, “Hyung-nim, can you turn this way?”

Fox Yeon gives him a side-eye, laying more of his weight on you. You wheeze under the new weight, trying to scoot against the couch so you don’t fall over again. All of his tails are still wrapped around your arms and torso. You smooth down the fur on his back, more out of subconscious habit than anything else.

“Hyung-nim, don’t be like that. Please let go of Nam-ya and stop bothering her,” Shin-joo begs.

Ji-ah asks, “When is he going to let go of her?”

“Well,” Shin-joo sighs, “it’ll depend on him.”

You ask, “Is there anything I can do?”

Shin-joo whines quietly when Yeon turns his head away again. “Probably not.”

“Have some shame,” Ji-ah hisses. “You’re a grown man. Get off my sister.”

Fox Yeon growls in Ji-ah’s direction, squeezing your arms. Ji-ah and Shin-joo observe you two on the floor as fox Yeon nuzzles under your chin. Heat crawls up your neck, blooming across your cheeks. Darkness fills Ji-ah’s eyes as she glares at this shameless gumiho.

“And there’s absolutely nothing we can do to make him come to faster,” she questions.

Shin-joo hesitates to answer, but explains, “No. Hyung-nim’s acting out of instinct. The only thing we can do is wait until he transforms into a human again.”

“Oppa,” you look at Shin-joo, “do you know where he’s been the past week?”

Shin-joo shakes his head as Ji-ah lays the blanket across your shoulders. He explains, “I haven’t heard from him since he left for Eohwa Island with you and PD-nim.”

You share a look with Ji-ah, patting fox Yeon’s fur. It’s so soft. You almost feel like you’re taking advantage of him, but hey, he’s the one who’s not leaving your lap. Fox Yeon lets out soft “murr-murr-murr” sounds as you pet him. Shin-joo’s stare softens as he watches you two.

“Is,” you pause, “is Yeon going to be okay?”

“Probably. I can’t see any serious injuries, and you did pretty well on wrapping everything.”

You heave a sigh as you feel a wave of drowsiness. Ji-ah sighs quietly, wiping a few hairs from your face. 

“He seems like he’ll be fine,” Shin-joo sighs. “I’m going to head out. Make sure to get some rest.”

You nod, waving goodbye from the floor. Ji-ah walks Shin-joo to the door. The tails around your arms and torso loosen. They don’t let go completely, but they are looser. 

“You better get well soon, Lee Yeon,” you whisper, “or I’m going to hold this over you for life.”

Hello, how did we like this one? I made the banner myself, so please excuse any mistakes. (ᵕ—ᴗ—).

[fanfictionsgal0re]

A Judas Tree and Syrian Mallow

(Genderbent Mal x Fem!Reader)

You face away from him. “You don’t want me.”

“I do.” He reaches out for you.

You slap his hands away, hugging yourself. “No, you don’t. You want the crown. The magic wand. That’s what you came for.”

“Yes.” He nods. “Yes, it was. But I stay for you.”

“Oh please, don’t lie. It doesn’t suit you.” You didn’t meet his eyes.

“Why would I lie about this? I’ve always been honest with you.” His hands hang limply at his sides.

“You—you didn’t want me.” Frustration bubbles in your throat.

“I do.” He swears by it.

“Stop saying that!”

“Why?” His tone is harsh. “So you can go back to lying to yourself? You weren’t happy when we met.”

“But I was fine. I could deal with it by myself.” You were fine. You’d dealt with it before.

“You weren’t fine! You were drowning and no one noticed!” His words cut deep.

“I was fine!” You deny yourself the hurt. “I survived! For 16 years, I have survived. I don’t need you.”

“You don’t have to need me.” He doesn’t want you to need him.

“Well good, because I don’t. You’re free to go. Don’t stay on my account.” You cross your arms.

“Do you want me?” He closes the gap between you with a step.

“Wha—what?” You lean away from him.

“I do. I want you very much.” His eyes bear into your stare, dredging up the jagged edges. “I want the princess. I want the messy bedhead; an-and the drool on the picnic blanket; and the obsession with having books from floor to ceiling; and the ugly, snorting laughs that no one else hears.”

“Stop it.” You pull back more.

He grips the sides of your arms. “I want the girl who told me she was terrified of messing up her first date. I want the girl who admitted to still sleeping with stuffed animals by her bed.”

“Stop it.” You struggle against him.

“I want the girl who’s afraid of her crown erasing who she is.” He finds your eyes, imploring you to understand.

“Shut up!” You push his chest. “What do you know? You’ve had it so good! Neither of your parents wanted anything other than for you to be a horrible person, and you’re doing great at that!”

“I wasn’t happy.” He shakes you gently. “You make me happy. I got you to laugh. I like being around you. It’s like this cavity in my chest is finally full, and I can breathe when I’m with you.”

“You lied.” Your vision blurs.

“I did.”

“You lied to me.” Your nose itches.

“Yes.”

“From the beginning, you lied. About everything.” Droplets slip past your cheeks without permission.

“Not about you. Never once about you.” Oh, your knees are wobbling.

“How can I trust you?” You’re begging for scraps.

“You can’t.”

“Then why? Why do this to me?” He must hate you. “Why are you still here?” He must love you. “Leave.” Don’t.

“I can’t.” He’s squeezing your heart now, and he doesn’t even know it.

“Why are you doing this?” It’s cruel. 

“Because I love you.” He braces your back, taking the hits of your anger. “I love you so much that your tears rip at my heart. My scaly, monstrous, rotten heart. You’ve made me yours, princess, and no one else can have me.”

“You’re horrible.” You’re hitting his chest.

“I know.” He gives you a half-smile.

“I don’t forgive you.” Your nose is runny. It’s embarrassing.

“I hope not. You own me. Make me beg for your heart back.” He’s smiling at you.

“I don’t want that.” You pinch his side.

“Then, I’ll beg regardless.” He nuzzles your temple.

You cover his lips. “You’re infuriating.”

“And you’re kind.”

“What do we do now?” You kick the ground, leaning against his chest. Just a little bit.

“Whatever you feel comfortable with.” His arms hang loose at your waist, hands holding your body.

“I don’t want you to go.” It’s a quiet confession.

“I wasn’t planning on it.” He’s not leaving you anytime soon.

“Thank you.” It’s like a weight off your shoulders.

I’ve had this idea of a genderbent Mal falling in love with Ben’s sister running around my head for days. It was just begging to be written. I have a few more thoughts on this, and it was a faster write than I was expecting. I know no one else probably wants this, but I wanted it, so here it is. Ah, one of the few joys of being a writer. ​​(˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶)  Finally, thank you rmstitanics for the dividers.

[fanfictionsgal0re]

Indian Jasmine and Jonquil

(Dimitri Belikov x Fem!Reader)

You swing your legs idly as you sit on the stone wall. It’s isolated on this side of the academy. Dimitri Belikov—the bane of your existence and carrier of your love—watches you. He doesn’t have much of a choice. Queen Tatiana reinstated the Sydin family’s—your mother’s family—royal status. With that comes more dhampir guards. It’s rare to get a moment away like this.

You open with, “I saw Tasha Ozera pull you aside. Everything okay?”

Dimitri looks down at his hands and then out into the distance. “She …” he paused, “made a proposition.”

Your legs stop swinging as a lump builds in your throat. You surmised, “She offered to make you her lover again?”

Dimitri’s silence is enough of an answer. Tatiana would throw a fit. The reason she assigned Dimitri to you despite his recent status as a Strigoi was because you made him a dhampir again. The Queen wouldn’t like Natasha Ozera trying to go around her authority by propositioning Dimitri in the shadows.

“Why say no? It’s not a bad deal,” you mumble despite yourself.

Dimitri pins you with a hard stare. He scoffs, “You really don’t know?”

You slide off the wall, boots landing harsh on the stone floor. “You don’t owe me anything, Belikov. I saved you because I wanted to.” You pause, rubbing your neck. The next words are just lies, but lies are all you have right now. “Just to prove a point. No one would be surprised if you accept Tasha Ozera’s offer, not even me. I mean, I can’t offer you anything. She could, at the very least, help your public image. Most Moroi don’t take me seriously, so it’s not like I can help—”

Dimitri cups your cheeks, staring at your face. “You can’t fathom why I would say no?”

“What?”

“I chased you across two countries. I forced you into becoming my pseudo-lover. You staked me just above the heart, and I sent you back the stake. What more proof do you need?” He swipes his thumb over your cheeks. “There is no one else.”

Your face flushes. All of that is true, but—“You weren’t in your right mind. Strigoi have obsessions. It’s a well-known fact. I was the next best thing if you couldn’t get to Rose.” That’s your rationalisation.

“Rose, Rose, Roza.” Frustration leaks into his tone. “Is she all you think of? Do you think she is the only reason I care about you?” Dread pools in your stomach. You try to pull back from him, but Dimitri has a firm grip on the back of your neck. “There is no one else,” he insists.

You swallow a thick glob of spit, muttering, “You’re lying. You love Rose, not me.”

Dimitri nudges the side of your head with his nose. “No, moya lyubov',*” he disagrees gently, “there is only you. Reckless, stubborn, loving, you.”

Tears gather in your eyes. It’s hard to believe his words. The dregs of using spirit cling to your mind, rising like an ocean tide. “You’re wrong,” you sniffle. “It’s not love. It’s not! There’s no way. You can’t love me.”

Dimitri tilts your face up, watching as you try to hide your tears. Your hands cover your face as much as they can. You don’t believe him. You chased after him into Russia, suffered from him in Siberia, and brought him back in St. Vladimir’s. You did all of this believing Dimitri didn’t share a shred of affection towards you. It irks him. Greatly. If your heart is this big, then where does he stand within it? Why do you spare yourself no corner of your own heart to consider your own pain? Did you at all value your life when you chased after him while he was a Strigoi?

He presses a kiss into your temple. 

Another lands above your eyebrow.

One on each of your eyes. You whine, shrinking away from his hands.

More peppering across your cheeks. Your skin is warm against his lips.

A final firm kiss on your lips.

One hand braces against his side, and the other clasps the back of his neck. You return Dimitri’s kiss instinctively; it’s second nature. Dimitri braces your back with his hand and pulls your flush against him. 

His breath is heavy as he pulls away. “I told Natasha no because she is not you. Moye solnyshko.* Moya lyubov'. There is no one else but you.”

“Why?” Your voice is hoarse. 

“Moya upryamaya devochka.* I’m in love with you. You crawled into my heart, carved out a cavity just for you, and wonder why I don’t want to leave. How can I? How might I when you so effortlessly throw your safety away at the slightest opportunity?”

You give him a watery laugh tinted with disbelief. “I don’t throw my safety away.”

“Everyone I know disagrees with you,” Dimitri quips.

It gets silent as you wrap both arms around his body, nuzzling into his chest. Dimtri hugs you back just as tight. His heartbeat rings strong in your ears. He smells like home: old wood, warmth, and a hint of clean laundry. You cling to Dimitri to remind yourself that he’s not a Strigoi anymore, that your plan worked and he didn’t end up dead. 

“I’m not leaving you,” he whispers into your hair. “Not if I have a choice.”

You squeeze his midsection, whispering, “Thank you.”

Moya upryamaya devochka = My stubborn girl Moye solnyshko = My sunshine Moya lyubov' = My love

Thank you @thanathecreator for the divider. Very beautiful and saved me from hours of scrolling (´ ∇ `). How did we like this one guys? It was born out of my criminal need for book Dimitri Belikov. The show version is … fine. The movie … (¬_¬ ᵕ) we don’t talk about that. They’re both not super great adaptations. 

[fanfictionsgal0re]

The Distant Past

(Kaname Kuran x Reader)

He stands separate from you, aching to hide in your embrace.

“You’re human. In 60 years, you’ll be dead and I’ll—”

You tackle him into a hug, wrapping your arms around his neck and tangling your fingers in his hair. Truly, how is he supposed to return to isolation after you? 

“How could you do this to me?” He grips your frame. “How could you crawl into my heart just to abandon me so soon?”

You look hurt, tears gathering along your lashline. He holds tighter as your body flakes away, carried by the wind. 

“Don’t leave! Don’t leave me!”

Your body cracks like glass, shattering in his arms.