#(Ash tries writing a little angst)

[risarchives]

imperium!david brainrot

[calypsocolada]

they think they lost you... ft. sanemi, rengoku, obanai, giyu, tengen, & hotaru

authors note: holy cow this was a lot of writing but i fear i may have done a good job. i hope you all enjoy this angst :)

cw: lots of mention of blood and gore, suggestive, angst, not proofread apologies

wc: 6.8k

click here for my masterlist

Sanemi isn’t able to speak. He'd never felt more anger in his life as he searched the charred remains of the mansion. A hopeless sort of desperation slowly nudging his anger to the back of his mind as he almost frantically tossed debris out of his way. His eyes searched everything they could, he left no stone unturned and only when all hope had been lost had he taken a step back.

You two paired up for this mission against Sanemi’s wishes of course. He’d been cold to you ever since you became a Hashira. Ignored you at every turn and when he couldn’t outright ignore you he was outwardly rude. Saying things about your position, how you weren’t strong enough to be fighting beside him, let alone any other hashira. Things that burnt you to your core. A part of you didn’t want to care about him. Didn’t want to linger on his vile words but you found yourself trying to prove him wrong at every turn. Trying to prove to him that you belonged. That you were strong enough to fight alongside him. It was stupid. It was idiotic. But you couldn’t help yourself. So when the chance to pair up with Sanemi arose you snatched it up with pleasure. 

He didn’t talk to you the entire train ride to your destination. You tried sparking some small conversation but… he just wasn’t having it. Not wanting to evoke his anger, you let him be, you lapsed into silence. You let him spend the rest of the ride alone in the suite as you explored the train, landing a seat in the little cafe until your platform was announced. Sanemi met you at the train door and gave you a withering look as he led the way off. For a moment you paused. You could let the door close right now, let the train carry you away. Let this week not be wasted on a man like him. 

But you stepped off the train.

The ashes of the mansion dusts up around Sanemi as he kicks the nearest pillar causing it to crack under his ire. You followed him off the train. He stayed spiteful to you. Why in the hell did you follow him? Sanemi felt the endless pit of anger in his stomach grow. You followed him into this mansion despite his warnings. You fought well. You fought violently and when Sanemi felt backed into a corner you helped him out of it at the cost of your life. This was the exact fucking reason he was so cold to you. The exact reason he kept his distance. The coldness inside of him was warmed just by your mere presence and he hated it. He hated that the mere thought of you and the mere sight of you weakened his deposition. You made him weak and you made him sloppy. You evicted his better judgment and filled his thoughts with only images and moments he’s shared with you. You’d never know this though because he never once let even the slightest amount of want slip through the cracks. He was a tight ship and he hated himself for it. Because all his work amounted to nothing. All his attempts to scare you into another avenue, another way of life and it all didn’t matter. You were dead and you’d never know just how much he cared. 

Sanemi felt the aching start in his chest. A deep bone rattling ache that made him physically reach up and place a hand over his heart. He was bereft. He was speechless and angry and couldn’t fathom that your last moments were wasted saving someone like him. He could hear the spiraling of his thoughts, their downturn. Honestly… he wasn’t quite sure if he could live with himself after this. 

“Shinazugawa!” A voice chirped, clipped and quick. Then again. He turned and the sight was something that almost took out his knees. The utter relief that flushed over him turned his stomach and healed the ache in his chest. You limped your way towards him, your hand still gripping your broken sword. There was a shit eating grin on your lips as you waved your sword at him. “I saved your life, you absolute asshole!” You yelled, coughing slightly as you slowed your pace. Sanemi didn’t answer your words. He almost said he could kill you for scaring him so deeply but with the possibility still real and tangible in his mind it was something he couldn’t speak aloud. He walked forwards without words, none of them would come out right no matter how it was spoken. You slowed down at his quick pace and something flashed across your face moments before he yanked your stubborn ass into a lip smashing kiss. You stumbled back at the force of it only for Sanemi’s ash covered hands to slide around your hips and yank you into him.

~

It was beyond Rengoku’s scope that you’d been taken from him. The indomitable spirit within him wasn’t allowing him to accept the very real fact that you could be dead. That no matter how hard he fought there were things beyond his control. Things that could be taken from him. Even when he held on with the utmost of his might. 

Rengoku had happily asked you to accompany him on his mission. You weren’t a demon slayer, just a nice girl he met in a village diner a few years back. 

He’d seen you in the kitchen, watched you from his diner booth. Watched you wipe sweat off your brow as you fixed food so effortlessly, tendrils of hair around your face like vines of ivy. He couldn’t look away, even when a nice waitress brought him his food and it sat slowly losing its warmth. He’d made a habit of coming to the diner as often as he could and it wasn’t for the food, obviously… 

The first speaking interaction you two shared was a quick moment as you passed by. He met your eyes and you paused. Your town was pretty normal, most people around her dressed in darker colors and lots of layers due to the colder climate, hair usually one of three or four colors so seeing a man with loud two toned hair and fiery garb had stopped you in your tracks, though this wasn’t the first time you’d seen him it still gave you some pause. That was until you remembered your father telling you about the hashira that had been stopping by a few times a week. You minded your manners and gave the man a soft smile.

“Enjoying your food?” You knew the answer, this man usually ate ten to fifteen bowls in one sitting. He was currently on his seventh bowl when you ventured out of your spot to take a little break outside. The man’s mouth was full so he gave an enthusiastic nod of his head as you breathed out a soft laugh through your nose. “Good to hear.”  You said demurly, walking your way towards the front door. 

Rengoku searched the depths of the forest, he called out your name relentlessly, He listened intently. He searched for hours.He’d search for days for years if needed. He’d run himself ragged, he’d tear through the leaves, he’d overturn mountains, he’d tear down the sky in search of you. He’d find you too. There was something about the determination in him that would fight off the improbability that you could really be gone. If there was even the slimmest, smallest chance he could find you, that he could save you he’d traverse the depths of hell and back. He’d do it all for you. 

Rengoku popped his head out into the cold to follow you outside. He hadn’t followed you after the first time you spoke to him but he decided a few days later he wanted to talk more with you. Not usually given the chance while you were hard at work You sat on a bench on the side of the diner, shielded by the overhang as snow flurried around you. Rengoku wasn’t used to the cold but just the sight of you brought warmth to his bones. You turned your head at the door being pushed open and offered him a polite smile. Rengoku returned your smile, wide and bright. 

“Morning.” You greeted.

“Good morning.” Rengoku returned eagerly. You moved over, sharing your space as Rengoku greedily took your offer and sat beside you. The first thing you noticed about this man was his warmth. You grew up in the cold with a colder family. Rengoku’s smiles and radiating kindness was something foreign to you. Foreign but wholly welcomed and intriguing. For a few days after he sat beside you it started to be a sort of regular occurrence, he’d find you, you’d offer him a seat you two would talk. The normality set in quite quickly and you began to look forward to the moments you two shared on your little breaks. You found yourself drawn to him like a freezing body drawn to a roaring fire. Before you knew it things were serious, he took you away from that cold town, away from uncaring parents into a stable environment. He filled you with love and soon enough the dregs of your past were slowly forgotten. And when you begged him to let you tag along on just one of his missions he was unable to turn you down. 

So as he searched for you now he didn’t have a moment to cry. To let out his emotions. He wouldn’t let himself grieve. He hadn’t lost you yet. 

“Kyojuro…” Your voice was small but there was no way in hell he’d let it go unheard. He called out to you again and waited. He heard his name once more and ran with ungodly speed towards the lips that had spoken it. When he found you it was like seeing you for the first time all over again. You parted your lips, most likely to apologize for letting the demon separate you two but Regoku swept you up in a hug, spinning the both of you around. His hands held you tightly as you smiled, breathing out in relief. For a moment, lost in the pines, you felt that cold creeping in. But once again this man fought it out and won.

~

You staggered, your wounds opening as you pushed out through the trees. You felt the warmth of oozing blood staining your uniform. Losing your footing you crashed into the forest flooring, the pain making you see white momentarily. You tried to push to your feet but you were unable.

Obanai was fast through the trees, he was quiet, precise. He killed the left over straggler demons without remorse, without a second thought. He sliced cleanly and kept moving. You two had been separated for too long and Obanai couldn’t help but assume the worst. Assume that he’d lost you and due to his negligence would never see you again. He found part of your haori in the hand of a slain demon. He ripped the scrap away from its hand and held it tightly between his fingers, his heart thrumming wildly in his chest.

You had managed to finally get to your knees, you sat there for a moment. Rain had started to pour, freezing rain that soaked you completely through. Against all odds you got to your feet, you trudged forwards towards a clearing, back the way you and Obanai had previously been separated. 

Obanai enjoyed nights like these. Cold and quiet. With rain pouring against the roof of Kagaya’s mansion. He’d stopped here to give a report but the rain poured so heavily he was asked to stay over for the night before taking a trek back to his own home. Likewise you were in the same position and out of all the hashira to be stuck with Obanai would be your last choice. You found him terribly scary. He was standoffish with mannerisms much like his white snake that always perched itself on his shoulders. You weren’t necessarily a fan of snakes, nor a fan of the man that had one as a pet. But the people pleaser in you kept what little conversations you two shared, well more of you talked and he possibly, possibly not listened. 

You found yourself in a similar situation tonight like many other nights. That damned snake always found its way to you, startling you into a choked scream. Embarrassed, you clapped a hand to your mouth, not wanting to wake Kagaya and his family. Pretty much every time you were forced to interact with Obanai it was after he’d come looking for his snake that, without fault, found its way to you everytime.

“H-hello Kaburamaru.” You greeted as the white slithering thing made its way closer to you. You felt your heart in your throat as the creature raised its head as though to greet you back. You swallowed as it lowered itself and slithered towards you again. You stepped back, softly blowing out a stressed breath as it wrapped around your leg and made its way up and up until it was around your own shoulders. A part of you hated this but another part felt sort of… excited, almost honored that this creature chose to climb on you. Kaburamaru’s head sort of nuzzles against your cheek as you hear the backdoor to Kagaya’s kitchen slide open. You’d been eating a late night snack when the snake found you. Your probably wide eyes met Obanai’s as he stepped inside. He takes in the scene, his hand paused on the handle of the door. “H-he always seems to find me doesn’t he?” You ask, attempting lighthearted banter with the dark spectral that was Obanai. His two toned eyes meet yours. His black hair was slightly damp from the rain and he wasn’t in his usual haori but instead some casual clothes. You cleared your throat after he didn’t answer, after realizing you were staring at him. “It’s like he likes me or something.” You say as Kaburamaru nuzzles you again and you swear the creature nods its small head. Obanai doesn’t answer, just walks forwards and holds out an arm. It takes a moment for you to realize he’s extending a branch for Kaburamaru and you feel slightly sad as the creature slithers off of your shoulders, leaving them bare. Obanai wordlessly makes his way back to his room. “G-goodnight.” You call after him. No response.

Obanai stopped in a clearing, slowing. He felt… disheartened. Kaburamaru hadn’t perked up since the moment he last saw you and the last time was… well it was bad to say the least. You were injured, far worse than you tried to let on. Obanai didn’t want to push, he just wanted to get you out of this damned forest in one piece. But he’d been searching for over an hour, he couldn’t sense you at all. He’d called out to you time and time again but only the sound of trees rustling responded. That’s when he spotted something, something unmoving and still at the edge of the clearing.  

You sat beside him the next morning. Kagaya and his family had left earlier, leaving only you two. You were an early riser. You fixed breakfast and just as you finished Obanai stirred awake. WIth messy hair he walked groggily into the kitchen, yawning. When you first looked at him you almost didn’t notice but then you did. Usually he had a white bandage around the entire bottom half of his face below his nose. Usually. But he must’ve been entirely exhausted because that bandage was nowhere to be found. You didn’t let your eyes linger, you didn’t want to make him uncomfortable. 

“M-morning.” You greeted in the same sort of nervous cadence you always greeted him in. He didn’t respond as he gathered his things. “I made breakfast.” You said.

“I see that.” He answered, his voice clearer than you’d ever heard it. You swallowed, feeling silly. 

“I made enough for two.” You added and watched his hand pause. He then suddenly slaps a hand over his mouth and wordlessly leaves the room. He must’ve noticed in a reflection. You fixed two plates in his short absence and two cups of green tea. Obanai appeared a few moments later with his bandage in place, Kaburamaru on his shoulders and his bag packed. “Wait… you should eat something before you go.” You say and when he doesn’t respond you just stop. You stop talking, stop trying to be his friend. He wrenches open the front door of the mansion. 

“Obanai,” You called out one last time. He pauses and turns as you walk up to him. You packed the breakfast into a little container, you held it out to him. “At least take it to go.” You say. He stares at you, eyes scrutinizingly sharp and you felt like he could see right through your skin to your innards.

“You saw my scars.” He started coldly. Your lips part in surprise as your eyes rise up to his. You give a simple sort of solemn nod of the head to him. His snake eyes cut to the container in your hands, the stare lingered there for a moment before rising back up. “You shouldn’t be nice to me.” He says. You can’t help but furrow your brows slightly.

“Hm?”

“You should be disgusted.” He says as though your reaction to his scars is something strange. You suck in a quiet breath, thinking about the right words to say at this moment.

“I’m not.”

Rain pelted against Obanai as he ran to you. You were slumped against a tree, blood staining your uniform. He didn’t waste a single second, he scooped your limp cold body into his arms and set out at a breakneck pace towards the way you two had previously entered the forest. There was a village doctor and Obanai would get you to him in record time. He wouldn’t lose you. Not after figuring out just how important you were to him. Not after sharing moments and nights and stories. You knew of his past, he’d told you everything over the few months after you’d seen his scars. All that shit that weighed him down, that haunted him you had listened to and bore some of its weight, easing things up for him a bit. He felt lighter with you around. He felt seen, he felt heard. And most of all… he felt loved. Care for even. You deserved everything you’d given to him, tenfold. He took you to shelter, he held your hand through the worst of it and sat at your bedside until you woke up hours later.

“That was one tough bastard of a demon.” Were the first words you’d spoken the next morning. Obanai had a crick in his neck from sleeping uncomfortably in the chair next to your bed. With snake-like grace and ease he rose from his chair and was sitting on your bed in mere seconds. You gaped at him as his hands slid against your cheeks, cupping them as he pulled you to him and pressed his forehead against yours. A gentle and tender gesture. He didn’t even need to tell you how bad you’d scared him, you understood it in the slight tremble of his fingers as he held your face.

~

It was happening again, just before Giyu's eyes. That fresh pain of revelation sat familiar and heavy in the pit of his stomach. He’d watch someone he’d loved risk it all before and lose. He couldn’t watch that again.  

Not after all you two had been through. 

Through ups and downs. You were just as much of a pained soul as he was. You’d lost about the same as him. Where he resorted to quiet you resorted to anger. It was something to be worked on but Giyu had never known anyone stronger than you. The loneliness inside him had reached out greedily for the smallest bit of warmth you had to offer and vice versa. You two had found solace in one another. A quiet comprehension and understanding. He’d begun to rely on you. You’d begun to trust him. You two had formed something not many hashira could keep. A simple thing that had been ripped away from almost every single one of you. Love. Something so pure and simple. You lost your family and after a lot of hardships and shutting yourself off from the world Giyu had found his way through your walls. He wormed his way into your heart and although you were wholly reluctant at first in the end you realized that life was just entirely too short to keep behind shackled walls. 

It wasn’t easy. You were easily scared off to relationships let alone the absolute devotion Giyu showed you. It was hard to stick beside him when you were so damn scared you’d lose him one day. It was just a recurring curse that always struck you when you least expected it. It was as though loving and losing was just a prophecy to be fulfilled. Giyu stood strong. He never wavered in the face of your fear. He stayed by your side even when you screamed and yelled for him to leave. He never raised his voice, he stayed on the path. The path being you. Because everytime you’d leave, or storm away, or get scared to your core he showed restraint to his own fears. He was as afraid of losing you as you were of losing him. But he didn’t push you away, in fact that only made him pull you closer. 

“One of us will die, leaving the other. So what’s the point, Tomioka? This will only serve to hurt us.” You had said teary eyed one day in the beginning of your relationship. For a few weeks you two wrestled with your feelings and it resulted in Giyu kissing you. It changed everything because from that point on you craved more. You hated it too. To crave someone so deeply knowing one day you’d lose them. 

“That’s true.” He said softly then. He’d reached for you, taking your hand, gently kissing your knuckles. You bit your lip, your cheeks flushed. Giyu was always like this when you were alone, around others you could never figure what he was thinking but alone he let you know exactly the scope of his thoughts and feelings. “But I’d rather be with you than not.” He answered as if it was really just that simple. He started kissing his way up your hand to your wrist, past your wrist up your arm. You swallowed dryly and when you turned your face towards him he kissed your lips. That terrible flip in your stomach came and the fear that wracked your brain over things out of your control slowly washed away. 

You killed them demon. It was an upper rank that surprised you both. It had Giyu at one point, had him by the throat as its jaws opened to finish a thing that wasn’t a person to it. That was until you swooped in, you knocked Giyu out of the way to safety and took the battle alone on your shoulders. Giyu was gravely injured and the moment he hit the ground he lost consciousness. The last thing he'd seen was the flash of the moon glinting off your chipped sword then nothing at all. When he woke up all was quiet. He’d sat up achingly quick. Blood rushed to his head making him dizzy as he searched for you. The demon you had killed was slowly dusting away in front of you. Giyu pushed to his feet and limped his way over to you, only pausing for a moment to watch your sword fall from your grasp. His breath caught in his throat. All those nightmares of his dying in front of you were in vain because your fear ricocheted to him. About fifty yards from you Giyu watched as you crumpled to the ground, still and lifeless. Giyu tripped over himself to get to you and in his haste reopened the slowly healing wounds on his body. He didn’t care, no amount of pain could stop him from reaching you. The closer he got the better he could see your weakened state. There was so much blood, your hair was stained red from the color of it.

“Hey… hey---” His voice was strained and weak, choked up from the sight of you. His hands slide on either side of your face. You felt him touch you and immediately opened your eyes. Although you looked close to the grave it turned out that after your almost hour long fight to the death that really you weren’t as bad off as it looked. You were just fucking exhausted. You smiled up at him. 

“Hey.” You breathed out and the absolute relief on Giyu’s face brought fresh tears to your eyes. 

“You scared me.” He barked, not necessarily loud but you could tell with the way he slumped down against you, hugging you tightly that your dramatic fall to the ground had his heart in his throat.

“Sorry.” You apologized, gently sitting up and wrapping your arms around him. He kissed the side of your head and pulled back, kissing your lips.

“You saved me.” He spoke against your lips. You smiled.

“Uh huh.” You mumbled, missing the press of his lips already. “Let’s get out of this damned forest.”

~

Tengen wasn’t someone that hides his feelings. In fact to the effect where it was always known that he was in love with you. That this thing you said made him laugh or the way you trained made him proud or the way you killed demons made him flush. All those factors were something you weren’t new to but still caught you off guard every time. All these compliments, his kisses and time spent with you was something you weren’t sure you’d ever get used to but… slowly you were starting to look forward to it all. He’d first kissed you after begging you to choose going on a mission with him rather than Giyu and after that any moment you two were alone things dissolved into flicked off lights, warm exploring hands and heated kisses. This had been a recurring thing for weeks with no end in sight. But neither of you wanted it to end and although Tengen was the more outspoken of the two of you, your quiet confirmation was all he needed to push you against the backs of doors and kiss you senseless. 

But that’s all you let it be. Against Tengen’s multiple attempts to make it something serious you’d just shut it down. He’d ask you to accompany him on missions but you’d say no. He’d be gone for weeks and write to you but you wouldn’t write back but the moment he’d darken your doorstep again you’d grab a fistful of his shirt and yank him inside. He could tell you missed him through the way you touched him but that’s all he had to go on. You never slipped up when it came to revealing things you kept close to your heart. Revealing how you truly felt was a well kept secret behind locks and vaults and ciphers. You were a riddle that Tengen was driving himself mad to solve. But Tengen was shameless, he didn’t care if he had to beg and plead on your closed doors because just an ounce of your attention was flashy enough for him. 

That’s why when you finally agreed to go on a mission he felt as though it was you finally giving him some ground to stand upon. And he accepted it greedily. You weren’t a Hashira like him, you were Gyomei’s tsuguko and although you wouldn’t tell Tengen this, Gyomei had asked you to accompany Tengen. Though you wouldn’t also tell anyone that you wanted to come every time he’d asked you before but wouldn’t allow yourself. It wasn’t that you were afraid of commitment because people could come and go in your life all they pleased. It was more of the fact that you already felt tenfold of what Tengen probably felt for you. You cared for him so much that it affected a lot of your training. So much so that Gyomei sent you away on this mission because of how frustrated he was hearing you mope around the house waiting for Tengen to stumble on the doorstep. You couldn’t travel together though for circumstances out of your control and when you finally made it to the entertainment district almost an all out war was being waged.

Tengen sat, unable to stand, his wives surrounding him as the poison in his blood had finally been cured thanks to Nezuko. He was one arm short and short of one girl that he’d make his wife one day. Hinata had taken the other two wives out to look for you in the rubble of the district after Inosuke had told them you had helped decapitate that female demon. But the aftershock had separated you into disappearing from the rest of the group. Tengen tried to push to his feet but held no strength in his limbs whatsoever. The pain of the fight was nothing compared to being stuck unable to look for you. Then it only got worse when he saw a flash of your hair and realized you were being carried. It was Obanai that found you, he’d got here late after all the destruction and stumbled upon you. Tengen sat up, his wounds screaming as Obanai carried you closer. You weren’t moving. He called out but his voice was strained as Obanai met with some of the medics, handing you off to them. You still didn’t move. Tengen was in absolute hell watching this. He pushed to his feet and fell back to his knees, the pain so striking it brought fresh tears to his eyes. But he persevered. He got to the medic who’d set you on a makeshift stretcher, carefully inspecting your wounds. He jumped at the sight of Tengen.

“M-Mr. Tengen!” He was startled. “Y-you should be sitting down.” Tengen dropped to his knees, he reached for your hand, it was cold in his grasp. Your face was pale, a large slashed cut stretching across your brow down the side of your face. Your uniform was stained in soot and blood. But the only thing that kept Tengen from losing his mind was the steady slow rise and fall of your chest. You were alive and you were breathing. The relief was like a punch to the stomach and it seemed the search for you was the only thing keeping him awake because the moment he realized you’d be okay Tengen fell unconscious beside you.

When he woke up he was in a room alone. He felt better, though his body still ached he pushed out of the bed. He traversed the halls of the butterfly mansion, outside he saw his wives eating, he smiled at the sight of them. He kept going, looking for one more person, one more thing he’d been craving. When he pushed open the door to the training room he felt weak in the knees. It was as though you weren’t even affected. You trained mercilessly, sword swinging expertly. You paused, turning at the sound of the door opening and met Tengen’s eyes.

“You’re awake.” You greeted, voice light. Tengen didn’t waste another damn second. He was across that room in the blink of an eye. Sweeping you up into his arms, hugging you tightly as he spun you around. “Careful!” You called out, amusement in your tone. “You’re still healing.” 

“Don’t care.” He breathed out, setting you down, arms sliding down against your waste as he and his giant body leaning into your space, lips meeting lips. 

“I care.” You mumble against his lips. He kisses you hard at that. It’s not often you expressed a liking for him outloud. 

“That’s good to hear.” He kissed past your mouth down to your neck as he hugged you tightly again, lips kissing at whatever they could find.

“Uzui.” You warned. “Lots of people walking around.”

“Don’t care.” 

“I care you big oaf.” You snap but your tone is light, still amused. Tengen raised his head.

“Come home with me and the wives.” He asks, pressing a light kiss to the top of your head.

“Hm,” You hum as he pulls back, so tall you have to crane your head to meet his eyes. “Feeling sentimental?”

“Most of the time, yes.” He answers simply. “I want you. I want to be with you, I want you home with me. Please… say yes this time.” He can tell you’re thinking about it so he lowers his head and presses another kiss to your forehead, sweet and tender.

~

Hotaru first kissed you a few months back. It was a startling and confusing moment. You’d traveled to his village for a new sword scared out of your mind because you’d broken a sword. You stupidly asked a competitor of his to fix it, hoping to save yourself from his wrath. But Hotaru caught you in the act and instead of being outwardly angry… he kissed you. And this simple act changed everything. It changed how you perceived all your interactions after that day. His competitor had referred to you as Hotaru’s favorite and you hadn’t been able to wipe that from your mind since. You hadn’t seen him since the kiss and you tossed and turned almost every night since just trying to make sense of the moment if there was any sense to be found. Maybe he’d kissed you to shut you up. Maybe he kissed you in a polite way? Like a thanks for keeping him in business kind of kiss? No… that kiss was anything but polite. It was hot. All consuming. It was everything you didn’t expect to come from the man who struck fear in all demon slayers. So despite your better judgment you used the little bit of time off that you had to trudge back to his village. You told everyone you were going there to relax before your new mission but in reality it was to solve the mystery of why he kissed you and why you couldn’t stop thinking about it.

Hotaru lived on the outskirts of the village. A bit of a walk from everyone else’s house, It was like he was the town pariah or something. It was dark when you spotted the glow of his parted curtains, his chimney puffing out smoke. It was the dead of winter so you were chilled to the bone, not only at the fact you were about to speak to him after months of silence but also because of the damn snow storm you trekked through to get here. 

As you got to his door you blew out a breath and knocked. But just as you lowered your hand you heard something. A rustle, the movement of steps in the snow. You turned, surveying the area. Maybe a villager kid had followed you up here, interested in the girl that had come to talk to the town's scary ghost. Your eyes scanned the trees as the door opened. You didn’t turn back and that’s when you spotted it, lumbering through the trees, blood dripping into the snow. You turned back, hand flying to your sword. Hotaru stood in the doorway unaware of two things. Why you were here and why you pushed him back and closed the door in his face.

“Stay inside!” You called out to him, your sword in your hand at the ready as the demon busted through the trees towards you. 

The thing was viscous and obviously starving as its jaws opened and latched onto your shoulder. You screamed in pain, hitting it back and slashing violently across the length of its stomach. It was hard to maneuver in your layers of thick winter clothes but you mostly made it work. You fought the demon back away from Hotaru’s house, it’s bloodlust like that of a rabid animal. It snarled and growled and slashed at you, slashing up your clothes and your face. When you were finally able to get the upper hand you wasted no time slicing it’s head from its shoulders. It crumpled into dust and fire, blowing away with the wind. You blew out an exhausted breath, leaning heavily against a tree near you. So much for relaxing. You jolted at the sound of Hotaru’s voice as he called out for you near the treeline. You sighed, pushing off the tree, trudging towards his voice through the snow. 

“That was one tough bastard.” You said as you spotted him. You must’ve looked worse than you felt because Hotaru stumbled his way towards you rather ungracefully. “Careful,” You said as he approached, slamming against you in a tight hug. You gasped in surprise, winded by the force of his body slamming into yours. He hugged the life out of you. Hugged you so tightly you wondered if he was trying to kill you. “It’s okay-- I’m fine.” You breathed out and still he didn’t let up. 

“I heard you scream. I couldn’t find you.” He spoke into your hair, tightening his hold on you just barely. 

“Yeah, it bit me.” You answered nonchalantly. Hotaru pulled back, anger on his face. You sucked in a breath at the look on his face.

“What were you thinking!” He growls, turning and pulling you gently towards his house, despite the anger in his voice he handled you with care. 

“What?” You stuttered.

“You scared the hell outta me.” He says, throwing open his door and pulling you into the warmth of his house. He guides you to the kitchen. “Strip.” He commands and you do as told, kicking off your snow boots and peeling off your layers of clothes, careful around the stinging bite on your shoulder. Hotaru gathered some things, slamming things left and right. You were speechless, his reaction to you saving him was something you weren’t expecting. When he grabbed all he needed he dropped into the seat next to you and you turned to face him.

“Are you mad that I saved you?” You asked and watched his brows furrow. You sighed out heavily, almost exhaustedly. Both his hands slid against your cheeks and in another surprising twist he kissed you. He kissed you so softly and tenderly it had your stomach turning in knots. This man was loud, he was angry most of the time and every single slayer and villager was scared at the mere thought of him. But he was different when he kissed you, it had your entire body lightening on fire. You absentmindedly tried to wrap your arms around the back of his neck only for that bite on your shoulder to remind you with white hot pain. You gasped, sucking in a breath as Hotaru pulled back. He didn’t waste a second placing a rag over the wound, soaking up some of the blood. 

“I’m not angry you saved me.” He said after a moment. “Just mad you got hurt.” 

“I get hurt all the time.” You answer lightly, hoping for some humility but Hotaru doesn’t crack a smile. “It’s just part of being a Hashira.” His gentle hands are patching up your shoulder and he doesn’t say anything for a few long seconds. Once he’s finished he gets up, grabbing a blanket, wrapping it around you to warm you up. He sets back down and pulls your chair closer to his. Your nerves spike at the closeness. 

“You didn’t come all this way for a broken sword right?” He asks, your breath catches as you shake your head. 

“My sword’s fine.” 

“That’s good to hear.” He says, reaching a hand up to tuck your hair back out of your face. “Didn’t visit my competitor first this time?” It’s weird to see him joke but you find yourself relaxing.

“No. I came straight here.” You answer and his hand lingers on your cheek.

“Thanks for saving my life.” He says.

“You’re welco-” He cuts you off with a press of his lips against yours.

[serpentandlily]

Beneath the Ashes (I/II) - Azriel x Reader

Beneath the Ashes Part I - Azriel x Illyrian!Reader

Summary: Azriel finally finds the girl he’s been looking for all these years—his mate. But unfortunately for him, his mate happens to be an Illyrian who, upset over the fact that he’s turned his back on his own people, wants nothing to do with him. (Enemies to lovers vibes, angst)

a/n: based on this REQUEST. This is going to be a two part story because I kind of went a little too hard writing this haha. Thank you for your request and the inspiration! (Also I know a lot of you asked to be on a taglist for this story but since it’s only 2 parts I’m not gonna make one)

warnings: misogyny, sexism

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Part I of II

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Azriel was not happy, to say the least. Not as he landed on the cold, hard ground of one of the Illyrian war camps in the northern region of the mountains. He internally cursed at Cassian for still being on his mating honeymoon with Nesta because now he was being forced to do things Cass would normally be in charge of—primarily dealing with the Illyrians.

It wasn't a secret that Azriel hated Illyria and all its people. Hated that he came from such a barbaric, backwards culture.  He knew Cass was trying to do all he could to break the traditions Illyrians held, but Azriel had always told him they were a lost cause. If he could never see these damn mountains again, he'd consider it a blessing.

But, evidently, that was not a blessing he'd be allowed—at least, not until Cassian returned. For now, he was the one who was being sent out on these missions by his High Lord. 

Rhys had gotten word that some commotion was happening in the camp that had its people up in arms about something. He had asked Azriel to go check it out and who was he to turn down a request from his brother? So here he was. He was just hoping to get this over with soon. 

He had tried sending his shadows ahead of time to collect intel, but they had been acting weird ever since they returned to him. They had swarmed him with their cryptic messages.

Beautiful.

Our master must see. 

Permission to kill, master?

Needless to say, Azriel had no fucking idea what any of that meant. He had given them no such permission to kill, at least, not until he could see for himself what was transpiring here. 

He was passing by the training rings, ignoring the stares of the brutes who were working out and sparring within them, when he heard several sets of loud voices. He quickened his pace, following the voices into the residential section of the camp until he finally beheld what was causing the commotion. 

Three males were on the porch of one of the cabins, restraining a female Illyrian, who was thrashing around like a wildcat, screaming, "Let me go, you assholes!"

Another male Azriel recognized as the War Lord of the camp was standing on the steps leading up to the small cabin, arms crossed and a sneer on his face. A male next to him was holding a blubbering Illyrian toddler, whose arms were outstretched towards the female with tears pouring down her chubby cheeks. 

None of them had noticed him yet which Azriel used to his advantage. His shadows were already wailing when he let them loose. They spiraled towards the group, swirling around the males holding the female and yanking them away from her. All of their heads snapped in Azriel's direction except for the female. She tumbled to the ground but quickly scrambled to get up and rushed towards the male next to the War Lord, not even sparing a glance at what had caused the males to unleash her. 

She went to grab the little girl from the male holding her but was quickly held back by the War Lord with a growl. The War Lord twisted her arms behind her back, holding her in place, but his glare was firmly set on Azriel.

Azriel's face displayed no emotions as he stalked forward, his hand ghosting over Truth-Teller. 

"Shadowsinger," the War Lord bit out in greeting. The other males quickly got to their feet and stood at attention. 

"Silas," Azriel said, not bothering to address him properly which made the male bristle, "Care to explain what is happening here?" 

"None of your business, Shadowsinger," Silas hissed. "I have it under control."

"Doesn't seem like it," Azriel replied, coolly. 

The female was still trying to break out of Silas's grip, cursing under her breath. He tightened his hold on her, causing her to hiss in pain as he twisted her wrists in his hands. Azriel's shadows seemed to hiss in response, poised to attack as soon as Azriel gave them permission. 

Azriel's gaze fell on the female, noting the frustrated tears in her eyes. It seemed like there had been a scuffle. Her hair was half falling out of her braid, she had scrape marks on one of her cheeks, and a bruise was beginning to form on her jaw. One of her wings was flared out proudly while the other drooped to the floor at a weird angle. His fists clenched at the sight and when she finally looked up at him, her eyes meeting his, the breath was completely knocked out of his lungs. 

Despite her tattered appearance, she was single-handedly the most beautiful female he had ever laid eyes on. He stood frozen for a moment, taken aback before he shook himself out of the spell she seemed to cast on him, realizing how inappropriate of a time it was to be ogling her. 

"Let her go, Silas," Azriel commanded in a dark voice.

"I don't take orders from you," Silas spat out. "Besides, this female has been breaking the law for months now. We're taking her into custody." 

"Fuck you," the female barked out, stomping on Silas's foot. The male cursed and went to strike her on the back of her head but Azriel's shadow caught his wrist in their grasp before he could. 

"I said," Azriel growled, lowly, causing the males to shift in place, "Let her go." 

"Fine," Silas sneered, though a tiny bit of fear flashed in his dark eyes. He pushed her to the ground in front of him. She was quick to spring back to her feet and rush towards the toddler who was still screeching. The male could hardly keep hold of the little girl.

"Let the babe go, too," Azriel snapped. The male scoffed but set the little girl down. She immediately ran to the female who bent down with her arms wide open, catching the little girl and standing with her firmly on her hip. The little girl's cries quieted down and she buried her small face in the female's neck. 

"Would anyone like to tell me what the hell is going on here?" Azriel snarled, taking another step closer. Half the males mirrored his step back and he fought the urge to chuckle. 

"Like I said," Silas snapped, "This female has been breaking the law—”

“What law?” Azriel asked, firmly.

“Females are not permitted to live alone nor own houses,” Silas barked out. “She has ignored our warnings—”

“My father left the cabin to me in his will!” The female shouted, causing the small toddler in her arms to whimper. She stroked the girl's hair, shushing her. “It belongs to me.”

“I don’t care what your father promised you,” Silas growled. “It is against the law for you to be living here alone. You must surrender the cabin and go live in the barracks with the other unwed females of marrying age. Your sister will be placed under the care of the matron.” 

“Like hell I’m leaving her under the care of that female! You’re just going to have her wings clipped and force her to do grueling chores all day! She stays with me!” 

“You are out of line! I knew your father wasn’t raising the two of you right. Ever since your mother passed away—”

 “Don’t you dare say another word about my parents!”  

The War Lord lunged towards the female with a growl but Azriel shadowed between them, unsheathing Truth-Teller and pressing it against the male’s throat. 

“Lay a hand on her and I’ll gut you right here in front of all of your brutes,” Azriel snarled. 

Silas stepped back with a scoff. “You want to stick your nose in our business? Fine, then she’s your problem. I expect her out of this house by the end of today, Shadowsinger, or there will be worse consequences.” 

He stormed away, his entourage trailing behind him while sending glares to the female. Azriel waited until they were out of view before he turned to look at the female but she was gone from next to him, already walking up the steps to the cabin with the babe—her sister—on her hip.

Azriel went to follow her but she stormed into the cabin and slammed the door in his face before he could so much as utter a single word. He let out a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose before he knocked on the door. When Rhys had mentioned a problem happening in this camp, he hadn't expected to deal with something like this. It would’ve been much easier if it had been a problem he could solve with his fists. 

When she didn't answer, he knocked harder—nearly causing the door to shutter. 

It flung open a second later, a seething female behind it. "I already told those assholes I'm not leaving. If you're here to tell me to pack up and move, you can kiss my ass."

Azriel had to stop his lips from twitching into an amused smirk at her words. He wasn't used to dealing with female Illyrians that had attitudes. Most of them kept their heads down and stayed quiet. His mother had been like that....

"I'm not here to tell you that," Azriel answered. "May I come inside?" 

She leaned against the doorframe, crossing her arms and staring him down. He found himself even more amused at how she was trying to intimidate him. Most fae avoided him and his gaze. But a female, whose head barely reached his shoulders, seemed to be completely unfazed by him.  

"No, you may not," she snapped. "Anything you need to say to me can be said perfectly fine from where you're standing." 

“Can I at least bring a healer to come check out your injuries?” He eyed the scrapes on her face, the bruise and her drooping wing. Azriel’s chest ached at the sight and anger pulsed under his skin. He wanted to turn around and go rip those males apart limb by limb for laying a hand on her.

“I don’t need your help, shadowsinger,” she spat out.

"Fine," Azriel sighed. "I was sent by the High Lord because there's been reports of someone here causing disarray. I'm going to assume that someone is you." 

She shrugged, nonchalantly, her eyes flickering between his own and the shadows swirling around him that wouldn't shut up about how beautiful she was, how brave....They were singing her praise. It confused him. His shadows had never acted like this before. 

When she failed to answer, Azriel cleared his throat, uncomfortably. “Will you answer my question?”

“Aren’t you the spymaster?” She narrowed her eyes at him. “Shouldn’t you be able to gather intel yourself and not rely on a lowly Illyrian female?”

“A lowly Illyrian female?” Azriel raised an eyebrow at her crass words towards herself.

“Isn’t that how you and all the High Lord’s dogs view us?” Her tone was biting, her eyes filled with hate.

Azriel shifted, at a loss for words. He was used to being met with hostility by the Illyrians, but never usually from the females themselves. “I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about.”

It was a lousy response, but he truly had no idea what to say. She scoffed, rolling her eyes at him and moved from the doorway, grasping the door. 

“Even if I could help you, I wouldn’t care enough to do so,” she snapped. “Now, if that is all, you can kindly escort yourself off my property, shadowsinger. Thank you.”

The door slammed in his face a second later.

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Azriel returned a few hours later with a letter from the High Lord in his hands. He stormed through the camp, once again ignoring all the glares sent his way. He pushed his way inside the main war tent where Silas was sitting at his desk, twirling a dagger in his hands. His dark eyes looked up at him as he walked in, narrowing.

“You’re back,” Silas said, voice dripping with disdain. “I noticed that the female has still not been relocated from the cabin.”

Azriel strode forward and slammed the letter down on his desk. Silas’s eyes dipped down to it, quickly reading the short message before he looked back up at Azriel with a sneer. “What is this?”

“A notice from the High Lord and Lady,” Azriel answered, face unreadable. “Any laws that forbid a female from living alone or owning property are hereby revoked. This repeal shall be set in motion immediately.” 

"I can read just fine, Shadowsinger," Silas snapped. "I meant what the fuck is this? Does Rhysand think he can just snap his fingers and remove laws that have been around for centuries? I refuse to allow this."

"You'll address the High Lord properly or I'll cut your tongue out for your disrespect," Azriel growled. "The High Lord and High Lady can do whatever they want. You will abide by these new laws or your title of War Lord in this camp will be revoked." 

Silas looked like he wanted to say more, a vein in his forehead pulsing, but he only tightened his hands into fists and let out a long breath. "Very well then, Shadowsinger. I assume you've already informed Y/n of this?" 

"Y/n?"

Silas smirked. "You ran to tattle on us to the High Lord and didn't even know the name of the bitch you—"

Before anything else could come out of the War Lord's mouth, Azriel stalked forward and kicked his desk over, causing both Silas and all his paperwork and trinkets to smash on the floor. The War Lord let out a pathetic gasp in fear, scrambling to his feet and pressing himself against the back of the tent.

"Talk about her like that again," Azriel snarled. "And I'll rip out your throat."

Silas quickly tried to school his composure but Azriel could still see the lingering terror in his eyes. Silas straightened out his leathers before glaring at him. "It's nice to see the Illyrian is still in you after all this time, Shadowsinger. Once a brute, always a brute—isn't that what you like to say?" 

Azriel felt his pulse spike at Silas's words. He hated being reminded that he was Illyrian, even more so being compared to the worst of them. He wasn’t even sure why such rage had sparked in him in the first place. Silas's lips twitched into a smirk as he saw the way his words striked through him. But Azriel didn't wait around to hear what else the asshole had to say, letting his raging shadows swoop him into their darkness. 

He stepped out of the shadows and onto the porch of the cabin he had been at earlier. He took several breaths, trying to calm himself before gently knocking on the door. After no one answered for a moment, he lifted his fist to knock again but the door was pulled open, leaving his hand to hover in the air. He dropped it to his side, narrowing his eyebrows as he was met with no one.

"Hewwo."

Azriel nearly jumped in fright before his gaze dropped to the toddler that stood in the doorway. It was the little girl from earlier, Y/n's sister. He swallowed harshly, eyes darting around the foyer of the cabin in hopes that her sister would pop out any second but no one came. He wasn't good with children, and wasn't used to being around them. Nyx was the only child he had ever really been around and he was still a baby. 

Azriel sighed and crouched down on his haunches, making him more eye level for the little girl. Her shoulder length hair was the same color as her sister’s, her eyes too. The resemblance between the two of them was undeniable. 

"Hello there," Azriel said as gently as he could. "Is your sister home by any chance?" 

“Mhm,” the little girl hummed, busy watching the swirling shadows all around him. 

"Do you think you can go get her for me?" 

She shook her head no, her hair bobbing with the motion. 

"Why not?" Azriel asked, keeping his voice light.

"Cause I'll get in trouble," she said with a little lisp. "Mm not 'pposed to open the door." 

Azriel smiled at her, trying to appear friendly. He was surprised that she didn't seem scared of him or his shadows, as most kids were. "Don't worry, I won't tell her you opened the door for me. It can be our little secret."

She looked to be contemplating his promise, her little nose scrunched up. One of his shadows whisked forward and started swirling around her tiny frame. To Azriel's surprise, the little girl giggled, swiping her hand around to try and catch it. 

"Suri, what are you—Get away from her!" 

Y/n came thundering down the hall, yanking her sister away from the doorframe. Azriel stood to his full height, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly as she glared at him before turning to look down at her sister.

"Suri, go to your room." 

"No," Suri pouted, crossing her little arms. "I wanna play with the shadows."

Azriel's lips twitched. This was quite possibly the first time a child had ever seemed anything but scared of his shadows. It was oddly endearing. 

"Go to your room," Y/n commanded in a stronger voice. "Now."

Suri stomped her foot but did as she was told, disappearing from his view. 

"What are you doing back here?" She hissed, once her sister was gone. 

Azriel pulled out the other parchment paper he had brought with him, the same notice he had given Silas. He held it out for her. "I came to deliver this." 

She took the paper from him, glancing at him suspiciously. Azriel watched as her pretty doe eyes scanned the parchment, reading Rhysand's elegant script. To his surprise, she started to chuckle to herself. She handed it back to him, her face twisted into a mocking smirk. 

"Do you honestly think this is going to stop them from trying to kick me out of this house?" She asked him, sarcastically. His eyebrows furrowed. "I'm guessing you're going to patrol this camp for a week or two to make sure they're adhering to the notice and then you'll wipe your hands clean of this all, pretending the High Lord solved everything. But you know the day you stop showing up here, Silas will be at my doorstep." 

"I can assure you that we'll do everything we can to make sure all the WarLords follow these new laws," Azriel said, his face unreadable and his voice detached. She shook her head with a smile that lacked any warmth. “I promise you that.”

"Right," she drawled out, "Well, thank you so much for your help, shadowsinger." 

She went to shut the door but Azriel stuck his hand out, catching it before she could. His gaze fell to her drooping wing, still bent at an awkward angle. "Please, let me bring a healer to attend to your wing." 

Her wing could heal on her own. It would probably only take a day or two, but just seeing it made Azriel's chest ache. He knew the pain she must be in. 

Her eyes narrowed. "Don't pretend like you care about my wings." 

"I've broken a wing before, too," he explained. "I know how much it hurts. Please, let me help you." 

She scoffed, rolling her eyes. "Do you want to know the difference between my wings and your's, shadowsinger? Your wings healed. You get to fly. Mine will never heal."

Azriel's gaze dropped back to her wings, now noticing the two scars—clipped. Her wings had been clipped. His heart dropped into his stomach, rage bubbling to the surface instead.

"Who?" he growled, his voice ice cold. 

"Like I said," she bit out, "Don't pretend like you care." 

"I do care," Azriel replied, fists clenching. And it was true, he did. Wing clipping was a heinous crime, one that had been outlawed since Rhys was sworn in as the High Lord of the Night Court. Of course, sometimes the practice of wing clipping still took place in remote camps that slipped through the cracks. "Wing clipping has been forbidden since—"

"I am well aware that wing clipping is forbidden," she snapped. "But like your stupid little notice, no one cares. And the High lord and all of his cronies, you included, Shadowsinger, have made it very clear that you don't either." 

"We do care," Azriel argued. "We do. But we cannot keep watch of all the camps at all times. We rely on people reporting it—" 

"Oh, spare me from hearing your excuses," she cut him off with a growl. "Do you want to know who did this to me? Here's a clue—go look in the High Lord's desk for a letter addressed from me. I've been sending one every single day for the past six years so there's bound to be at least one still around." 

"Six...six years?" Azriel questioned, quietly. "You've been sending a letter every day for six years and not one of them was ever answered?"

Sure, Rhysand had been gone for fifty years, of course and the rest of them had been unable to leave Velaris thanks to him. Then, they had been busy with the war and didn’t have time to deal with inner court problems. But it had been two years since then and she was still sending letters. Letters looking for justice for what happened to her. Letters gone unanswered.

"Not a single one," she huffed.

"Y/n...I am so sorry—"

"Save it," she barked out. "Now, if we're done here, I'd like you to leave." 

"Please, let me help you—"

Azriel choked in surprise as something within snapped. He couldn’t breath, taking a single step back as a golden thread weaved its way through the space between him and the female standing before him. 

Before his brain could even process what just happened, the door was slammed in his face. But Azriel stood frozen on her porch. Frozen in shock because he had finally found his mate. After all these years, he had finally found the person he had been searching for. 

And she absolutely hated him. 

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Your wing had healed enough by the next morning that you could lift it off the ground, though it was rather painful to do so. Your pride made you suck it up, not wanting to go to the healer and have anyone touch your wings. No one had laid a hand on your wings since the day they were clipped and you wanted to keep it that way.

You got ready for the day, putting on one of your mother's old white, chemise dresses. It fell to the top of your boots, swishing around your ankles. You layered a dark blue skirt over it before putting on a front lace-up corset. You grimaced as you did up the buttons under your injured wings before you tightened the corset until it fit snuggly. Lastly, you threw on a cloak. It was snowing outside today and the last thing you needed was to freeze to death.

You stepped in the hallway, the cabin quiet. You went to wake up Suri to get her ready for the day. Normally she was still asleep, so you were surprised when you heard her voice the closer you got to the door to her bedroom. 

"Bad doggy," she babbled, her voice muffled through the door. "You can't go in there." 

Your eyes widened, realizing she was talking to someone or something. You quickly slammed her door open, eyes darting around in concern. Suri jumped as her door banged open, spinning around on her bed to look at you. A small shadow wisped behind her, like it was hiding. 

"Suri?" You questioned. "Who were you talking to?" 

"Issy!" Suri sang out, jumping off her bed in her little pajamas. She still called you issy, unable to pronounce your name easily or the word sister. "The doggy came back!"

Your eyebrows furrowed in confusion. "The what?"

The shadow darted out from behind Suri, swirling around her and causing the little girl to giggle, "Doggy!"

Your eyes narrowed. One of Azriel's shadows had not only lingered behind, but had been staying with your baby sister. You felt your pulse spike with anger. As if it could sense your emotions, the shadow stopped swirling around and instead pressed itself on the floor like it was bashful and guilty. 

You scoffed, "Go back to your master! We don't want you here." 

The shadow wisped upwards, disappearing through the ceiling. A realization had you clenching your fists. Suri pouted. "Issy, you scared the doggy away!" 

"That was not a dog—" you cut yourself off with a sigh. "Suri, go brush your teeth and your hair while I get breakfast ready, okay?" 

"No," Suri grumbled, her tiny nose twitching. "Not unless you get doggy back!" 

"If you do as I say, I'll make you strawberry pancakes for breakfast." 

"Strawb'rry pancakies!" Suri squealed, the shadow momentarily forgotten. Satisfied with your deal, your sister rushed off to get ready. You left her to it, stalking outside through the backdoor. You walked a few paces away from the cabin, staring up at the roof, using a hand to block the rising sun from your eyes.

"I know you're up there!" you shouted. "Don't bother trying to hide!" 

Footsteps were heard and then there was Azriel, peering down at you from his perch on your roof. His annoyingly beautiful face was near unreadable, his hair in a bit of disarray like he'd ran his hand through it one too many times. Dark circles were underneath his hazel eyes and those familiar shadows were whirling around him.

"Why are you on my roof?" You snapped, crossing your arms over your chest. 

"Good morning, Y/n," Azriel said, his voice low and husky from disuse through the night. "I've been keeping watch. I wanted to make sure none of those males would bother you again." 

"I already told you I don't need or want your help, Shadowsinger! Now get the fuck off my roof," you snarled at him. You didn't want him here. You didn't want his stupid shadows near you or Suri either. Besides, since when did he care what happened to you or any other Illyrian females? He had turned his back on his own people the day he ran off to the High Lord's perfect little city, pretending like he wasn't one of you, wasn't Illyrian. 

Easy for him. He was a male that could get siphons to use his powers correctly, a male who hadn't been forced down and clipped. He could fly wherever he wanted, go wherever he wanted. He had money and resources you wouldn't even bother dreaming for. Azriel could wipe his hands clean and pretend like he hadn't been born in these mountains and hadn't left anyone behind to suffer when he left. 

It was one thing to escape this brutalizing, barbaric way of living. It was another to gain power and influence within the court and not bother to help your own people. Azriel was a traitor and he could go to hell for all you cared. 

You hated him for it. Hated him and all of his friends. Hated the High Lord and Lady who did little to help anyone here. Hated the General for leading your father to his death in the war. You hated them all.  

Azriel let out a quiet sigh. "I know you don't need my help, but I... I can't just leave knowing those males might come back and hurt you again. I made you a promise and I intend to keep it."

"I don't care about your stupid promises," you bit back. "Get off my roof and go home, Azriel. You're not wanted here." 

"I know you hate me and I know we've all let you down," Azriel replied, guilt shimmering in his eyes. "I'm going to do everything I can to make it up to you, Y/n. I promise." 

"Again with the promises! Your words mean nothing to me," you grumbled, tossing your hands in the air. "I don't have time for this. You know what? You want to spend all of eternity sitting on my roof, you go ahead! But I would really appreciate it if you would just fuck off!"

You didn't bother waiting for his response, storming back into your house and slamming the door shut behind you. 

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A week went by and Azriel kept watch over you the entire time. Every day you would walk outside and peer up at the roof to see him perched there, oftentimes twirling his dagger in his hand lazily. He'd give you a small smile that looked more like a grimace and you'd roll your eyes and go back inside. 

You hated that some part of you did feel better knowing he was there. You knew his reputation and you knew none of the males in this camp would bother you as long as he was there. But it still infuriated you to see his face every morning. To see him shake the snow off his wings. To see him glare down at everyone in your camp like you were all beneath him. 

You especially hated how much Suri had come to love his shadows, always chasing them down the hallways of the cabin. You just wanted him gone. 

And it seemed like you got your wish two weeks later.

It was nighttime, the house quiet now that you'd coaxed Suri into going to bed. You were getting ready for bed yourself, dressed in a nightgown and putting out the fire when a series of soft knocks caught your attention. You frowned, pausing to look at the door. Who would be coming by at this time? Certainly no one good. 

You were debating on ignoring it when a dark shadow whisked its way underneath the door. 

"Y/n," Azriel called out. "It's just me." 

You rolled your eyes and opened your door, knowing he wouldn't leave until you did so.

"What?" You eyed him, taking in his disheveled appearance. You wondered how he survived spending the night in the snow. Just the small draft that came in from opening the door had you shivering. You hugged yourself, your hair blowing gently in the ice cold breeze.

Azriel seemed at a loss for words for a second, his eyes roaming down your body before he met your gaze. His cheeks turned a bit pink as you raised an eyebrow at him. He swallowed, his throat bobbing with the motion.

"I need to leave for a few days," Azriel finally said. "The High Lord is sending me on a small mission. I...I would feel a lot better if you'd let me take you and your sister somewhere else while I'm gone. I can set the two of you up in a nice inn or tavern in Velaris. Or you could stay at my personal residence. Just for a few days." 

You stared at him utterly perplexed. "You're...you're joking, right?" 

He shook his head looking dead serious. "No, Y/n, I'm not. I worry what will happen if I'm not here to watch over you. Please, just...just let me help. It might be nice for Suri to take her to Velaris and let her see the city." 

"You're out of your mind," you hissed. "I'm not leaving my house and certainly not with you. I already told you I don't need your help."

You went to shut the door but Azriel reached out and grabbed it before you could.

"Please, I just want to help—"

“Azriel, I have survived here on my own for the past two years since my father died in the war,” you growled. “You can't sit on my roof forever. If you truly wanted to fix things, you would've done so centuries ago. So just leave, Azriel. And don't bother coming back." 

“I do care,” Azriel pleaded. “Please—”

"I am not leaving," you snapped. "I am not letting those stupid males run me from my own home. I don't know why you even care! And stop with the whole 'I promised you' thing. You don’t even know me!”

He opened his mouth to say something else but you slammed the door shut in his face. You locked the deadbolt before letting out a sigh. 

──────⊹⊱✫⊰⊹──────

Azriel was worried. Worried and scared and angry. Worried that Silas and his goons would bother his mate while he was gone. Scared that they’d hurt her. And angry at just the thought of that. His chest ached as he thought about his mate and her clear hatred towards him. He couldn’t blame her for it. She was right. He had abandoned Illyria a long time ago. 

But that needed to change. He needed that to change. Not just for his mate’s sake but for her sister, for Nyx, for all the females and children whose lives were awful because of the males in charge of all their camps. 

She had been the wake up call he needed. He had the privilege of being a male in Illyria. He got to keep his wings. Got to work at having a different life then the one he was born into. His mate hadn’t had those opportunities. She was flightless, stuck to the ground and stuck in her miserable camp. 

Azriel wanted nothing more than to just grab her and her sister and get them far away from Illyria. To bring them to his apartment in Velaris where he could take care of them, could keep them safe. 

But his mate didn’t trust him. 

He would do anything to prove himself to her. Prove that he did care for her and all the other Illyrian females. No matter how much hate he was met with, he’d keep crawling back until he earned her forgiveness and a chance to give her a better life. 

She deserved that more than anything. Not just because she was his mate but because she had been so strong all these years, standing up to males twice her size and keeping her sister’s wings from being mutilated like hers had been. She didn’t choose to be Illyrian anymore than he did. 

And Gods, he wanted her to stop hating him. He wanted her to give him a chance. Just one chance to show her what she truly deserved. He had learned so much about her by just watching her this week and he knew that no other female would come close to capturing his heart and attention the way she had in just that short span of time he’d known her. 

Azriel knew he didn’t deserve her or her forgiveness. He knew she was too good for him. Too beautiful, too pure of heart. He could see that just by the way she took care of her sister and the other females in her village, despite the torment it brought her from the males. 

He let out a sigh, his eyes still locked on the camp of Autumn Soldiers. He was doing a reconnaissance mission. Beron was up to something again and these soldiers had been spotted on the coast. 

It had been two days since he left his mate and so far, nothing had been unknowingly sent down the bond except for her normal moods she fluctuated with during the day. 

He just needed to finish this mission and rush back to Velaris to drop off his report to Rhysand before he could get back to her. He normally liked to take his time on his missions but this was quite possibly the first time he ever had a want to get back faster. He was hoping to sneak into the River House and set his report on Rhys's desk without seeing anyone. He'd been ignoring and skipping family dinners for the past week and knew they'd have a lot to say about it. 

Azriel faltered as a wave of fear crashed through him. No, not fear. Terror. Unbridled terror and then pain. He sucked in a breath, nearly falling from the tree he was perched in. He was frozen for a second before he realized what was happening---his mate was in danger. 

It took him less than a second to decide to abandon the mission and shadow all the way back to the Illyrian mountains. Azriel let out a curse when he stepped out of the shadows in front of his mate's cabin to see it covered in flames. Someone had set it on fire and it was quickly crumbling under the flames. His heart was beating in his chest as he strained his ears to make sure no one was inside.

But then the most heart-stopping, chill inducing sound was heard ringing through the camp.

His mate's screams.

He sprinted towards the sound, his boots pounding against the cold hard ground. It led him to the town center where a crowd had formed, males hollering and shouting encouragement at whatever was happening. 

Azriel pushed his way through the crowd, shoving aside male after male until he reached the front. His heart dropped in his stomach as he beheld what was happening before him. 

His mate on her knees, holding up the tatters of her shirt to maintain her dignity. Silas standing behind with a whip in hand, raising it in the air again. Blood all over the white snow around his mate, staining it red. Tear streaks running down his mate's face, her beautiful face pale and twisted in pain. One of Silas's commanders holding a crying and screaming Suri, her tiny fists pounding on his chest. 

Azriel wished he knew what happened next. Wished he had this memory to look back on whenever he remembered the rage he felt. But one second he was standing there staring at his mate in horror and the next second, he was surrounded by dead bodies with Truth-teller in his hand dripping with blood. The camp had fallen silent and his ears were ringing, his chest rising and falling with deep breaths. 

Suri had been dropped in the chaos and had rushed towards her sister, throwing her small arms around her neck as she sobbed.

And his mate.

His beautiful mate was staring right at him, eyes wide from witnessing the carnage he had just unleashed in this camp. Silas laid dead behind her, his shadows still ravaging his body. Slit throats, broken necks on all the other males that laid dead at his feet. But his mate was looking at him.

Azriel took a step towards her, watching her carefully as she weakly wrapped an arm around her sister's body while her eyes never left his. And he knew the mating bond had just snapped for her, could see the realization in her eyes. 

"N-no," she stammered out, her voice cracking. "No. Not you. Not...Not you! Anyone but you!"

Azriel could feel her dread pouring down the bond amidst the pain and terror she felt. He felt his heart crack in his chest, heard his shadows wailing as they too felt her pain and sorrow. 

But his broken heart at finding his mate and hearing that she didn't want him was not important in this moment. Not as his mate's eyes rolled to the back of her head and she slumped to the ground.

Azriel rushed forward, scooping both his unconscious mate in his arms and her crying sister before disappearing in a whirl of screaming shadows. 

[oneeyedlove]

King of the ashes.

summary | Moons had passed since your last quarrel with your estranged husband, the events of Rook’s Rest bringing you together one more time.

pairing | Aemond Targaryen x oc!reader, Jacaerys Velaryon x oc!reader (platonic).

tags | 18+, MINORS DNI! Unprotected sex, PinV, arguing, oral sex (f receiving), mentions of death, Targ!cest, ANGST/little comfort, ooc Aemond (probably). SPOILERS

wordcount | 8.5K - i am so sorry

note | All the valyrian i use comes from a very shady translator so there probably are a lot of mistakes, if you have any input or helpful information pls tell me. I got really excited writing this but I feel the last part is a bit rushed, sorry about that! Any comments, likes and reblogs are appreciated! <3

Find part 1 here

[ gif by @gameofthronesdaily ]

124 AC

The afternoon sun spilled its light upon the tearful eyes of prince Aemond Targaryen, almost if mocking his heartache through its refulgent heat. The young boy sheltered himself in a seemingly abandoned corridor of the Red Keep, seeking solace from the cruel hoax imposed on him during his lessons. He could still hear them, their words — “The Pink Dread”. Such title roared in his ears, humiliation engulfing the silver prince as he forced his cries back into his throat. His mother had failed in her feeble attempts to comfort him, her attention focused solely on punishing his nephews for their so called savagery — even if it was clear this had Aegon’s name written all over it.

The worst part was that she had witnessed it. She hadn’t laughed or joined them in their persecution, but he could not bear the thought of his weakness being exposed before her. Hers was the judgment he feared most after all, she was the only one he could truly call friend.

Aemond hadn’t taken notice of a blue covered figure that watched him until she sat at his side, her weight shifting the cushions of the settee beneath them. His eyes refused to meet hers, hoping to conceal his shame as he hugged his knees against his chest. The girl stared at him in silence, her back resting on the wall whilst her feet dangled over the edge of her seat.

“Aem…” Aelora finally spoke, the softness in her tone melodic as a ballad.

“What do you want?” He asked, his voice lacking its usual warmth.

She had been made aware of Aemond’s displeasure concerning the dearth of a dragon to call his own through countless protests, his state being one of constant anger towards what he deemed his fault. It was also known by her that he would grow to be the most estimable dragonrider of them all, for none were devoted to learning and practicing as he was — it was only a matter of patience. Thus, when Aelora’s eyes caught sight of the swine inside the dragonpit, her brothers knew their mother’s chastening would be nothing compared to hers.

“My brothers are fools, I wish to apologize on their behalf.” She brought her hand to hold his, a gesture of innocent assurance.

“You did not deserve it.”

The boy slowly drifted his eyes from the window to lay his gaze upon her, his heartbeat quavering at her touch. Nevertheless, her kind words couldn’t erase his shortcomings — he couldn’t accept charity for his ridicule, he wouldn’t.

“I… I have no need for your pity.” As much as he tried, he failed to stop woe from consuming his voice, as well as his demeanor.

“I don’t pity you.” Grasping his hand tighter, she looked at him through furrowed brows.

“You shall have a dragon. One even bigger than Sunfyre, I know it! In the meantime you can help me with Lyrrax, even fly with me once she’s big enough!”

It was evident her enthusiasm was a childish one, an effort to install hope over the sorrow that buried his thoughts — but she had no care for it. She noticed as a smile pulled at the corners of his lips, even as he tried to suppress it. She wasn’t the one who owed him an apology, and yet there she was, offering her own dragon for an olive branch. His gaze flickered down at their hands, her smaller one over his, and he intertwined their fingers. The tension in his shoulders visibly eased, for Aelora’s presence was reassuring and tender.

“You truly believe I'll claim one?” He asked, unable to hide the fleeting shadow of optimism that burned in his eyes.

“I am certain of it. We are Targaryens, the blood of the dragon. You just haven’t found the right one for you.” A smile crept its way onto her face, her cheeks rosy and plump with eagerness.

Aemond scanned the girl before him, his expression almost vulnerable. The feeling of indignity was one familiar to the young boy and he had enough of it. He contemplated her words for a moment, and for once allowed himself to consider she might be right.

“Perhaps you're right. Perhaps I lack patience.” He let out a deep breath, as if letting go of the bitterness that had taken hold of him.

“You would do well to remember I’m always right.” The smug grin on her face earned herself only a rolling of eyes in response.

“Come on. I know something that will lift your spirits.”

Her words had barely escaped her lips before she burst through the corridor, tugging the prince’s hand as they ran. Hurried footsteps clashed against cold stone as Aelora strided through the maze of indistinguishable aisles, her gaze occasionally flickering towards the boy behind her. The smile that stubbornly weld itself onto Aemond’s face had transformed into a beaming grin, the sound of her angelic giggles clipping away the sullenness from his features.

A deafening thump alerted the prince of their whereabouts, the wide entry of her bedchamber welcoming him inside. He stepped in and curiously observed as she struggled to close the wooden doors, trapping the pair of them in concealment. The calling gesture of the princess hand woke him from his trance as he marched towards the illustrated wall beside her bed.

“Wait, what are you doing?” His head tilted in confusion whilst he fixated his lilac eyes on her hands. Her palm grazed the intricate designs on the stone, finally encountering the familiar crease on the surface — she pushed it, a dimly lit passageway staring back at him.

“Its Maegor’s secret tunnels!”

Aemond's bewilderment had quickly given way to wonder and awe. The maesters had taught him legends of Maegor's construction schemes, rumored to be an intricate labyrinth hidden beneath the Red Keep, but he never dreamed he would get to see them for himself.

“What?! How in the Seven Hells did you find them?”He asked, his voice tinged with disbelief.

“A fortunate accident.” She shrugged.

“I was hoping to find the way to your apartments and surprise you but I reckon it cannot be done anymore.”

“You’re mad!” His gaze quickly flickered back to Aelora.

His eyes, violet in the soft daylight that cascaded through the nearby window, studied her almost warily, as if to gauge a reaction from her. He received no such thing. The princess brought her hand to his once again, carefully establishing themselves inside the narrow corridor as the heavy stone shut behind the two. Aemond allowed himself to be pulled along, not even protesting in favour of the tunnel. He observed the strange architecture through their route, the dim light that filtered through small gaps, and the strange cobwebs that had taken form. The limb that remained in hers seemed to squeeze it almost possessively — out of fear, or out of eagerness, Aelora could likely tell.

The hairs atop the young royals’ heads twirled at the light breeze that embraced them, the scent of saltwater filling their nostrils. A moss covered archway revealed a small, damp cavern. As they entered, rugged walls formed by weathered rock surrounded them and an opening that lead directly onto the beach offered a panoramic view of the shoreline and the rolling waves beyond. Beams of sunlight streamed in through gaps, illuminating the cave's interior with a soft, ambient glow. Their feet grazed the sandy floor underneath them, scattered with small shells and pebbles, remnants of the sea's presence. Inside the serene and veiled space, a true connection between land and ocean can be felt — a fitting discovery for a princess of House Velaryon.

Aelora’s brown orbs searched for the boy’s lilac ones, a wide grin spread on her face as she squeezed his hand tenderly.

“So… What do you make of it?”

Aemond was quietly impressed, his head tilting back to look up at the ceiling of the cave, eyes roaming across the stalactites that hanged over them, a small gasp escaping his pink lips. He slowly peeled his hand from the princess, walking over to the opening to look out at the sea.

“How — how did you find this place?” The young prince questioned softly, his head turning back to look at her with an almost admiring gaze.

“It is unimportant. We can confine ourselves here whenever we like! The others do not know about it — I’m halfway certain no one does.”

A small, pleased smile tugged on his features just at the thought of using the cave as a hideaway; a private place, just for himself and Aelora. He hums quietly under his breath, in slight agreement.

“Our secret?” He extend his pinky towards her, indicating for her to do the same.

“Ours.” She smiled as she locked their fingers together in a silent promise.

A silent minute exchanged itself between the pair, the linger of a childish oath tickling their skin. The future memory would cling to their hearts for years to come, a longing fondness drowning them each and every time — except they had no knowledge of it as of the moment, being too focused on the possible amusement that would certainly come from the cavern’s discovery.

“I can best you to the shore!” Aemond wasted no time as he sprinted to approach the broken waves at the end of the beach.

“Wait!” She shouted, avidly picking up her pace to match the boy’s, his long limbs giving him a considerable advantage over the girl behind him.

It had been an entire afternoon of nothing but running, chasing, and exploring together. The young prince had forgotten his troubles and worries completely, instead focusing on the thrill of catching a slippery, wiggling sand crab. The cold feeling of the seawater against his skin didn’t bother him either, nor did the wind whipping at his silver hair as they sat building sandcastles. By the time dusk began to settle, the two children had become completely filthy with sand, mud, and water. Their garments were most likely ruined from the seaweed’s smell, fact that would assuredly earn them serious reprimands from their mothers. Yet, he could not remember a time when he felt so alive.

As they returned to the cave, the sunset’s glow reflected in the wet stones inside, a sense of comfort enveloping the rock-strewn cavity. Aelora’s gaze fell upon the young prince before her, his valyrian grace never yielding to his disheveled appearance. She observed as he bent down, a sharp ore emerging in his hand.

“What are you doing?” She questioned through a mess of rumpled braids.

Aemond glanced up to look at her, smiling softly. With careful movements, the boy carved into the rock, his free hand resting against the stone wall for balance. After a moment, the four letters of their initials were carved into the stone. The scribbles “A.T.” and “A.V.” were jagged and a bit uneven, but still clearly visible.

”Leaving a marking… to remember.”

---

129 AC

Bleeding. Bruised. Brokenhearted. Those were the exact words to describe the state in which princess Aelora Velaryon arrived at Dragonstone. The crimson liquid that gushed out of her right side was courtesy of a Kingsguard during his desperate attempts to put a stop to her fleeing — the remnants of his white cloak hanging from Lyrrax’s teeth were evidence of the retribution he earned. The loyal she-dragon landed crudely, sharp claws sinking in the placid sand as her screeches blended with her rider’s whimpers. The princess could sense the pain inside the beast’s mind, their unbreakable connection making their emotions into one.

Pellets of rain grazed her face as she crawled up the endless stairs towards the peak of the islet, the translucent droplets mixing with tears of her own. The young woman’s sobs were filled with tales of disloyalty. She had betrayed her family, her duty, and worst of all, she had been betrayed by him. The one who stood before the gods of Old Vayria and pledged his unyielding love for her. The one who she had deemed worthy of the deserting of her kin. The one who promised her a future beyond the carnage of war. And yet he was the first to commence bloodshed. Her devotion had not been enough to subdue Aemond’s thirst for revenge — but how she wished that it had.

The mud on the soles of her shoes stuck to the stone floor, leaving behind a trail of shame as she entered the intimidating fortress. Her name and titles thundered inside her ears as the voice of a guard announced her arrival, though she hadn’t actually heard him. Her tormented psyche fevered with dread, fearful of the reactions she would receive due the forsaking of her own blood. All the eyes of her mother’s Small Counsel widened at the sight of the princess, distress and grief scattered across their faces. Her gaze flickered to the silvery locks on Raenyra’s head, the woman’s back turned to the room.

Aelora’s steps were slow and somber, as if her soul had faded and the lifeless carcass of who she was moved against her wishes. She skipped past Daemon at her mother’s side, lacking the nerve to meet his stare. Finally, she reached the bereaved woman before her, brown meeting lilac in a lachrymose gaze. Their pale hands intertwined in haste, and the once composed tears transformed into loud sobs as the young princess collapsed to her knees, begging for Rhaenyra’s forgiveness. Blood and teardrops met in the Black Queen’s dress, staining it as she knelt in front of her daughter. She brought up her palm to caress the side of the young woman’s face, the maternal touch conveying a juvenile yearning in Aelora’s heart.

“Oh my sweet girl.” Her mother whispered as anguish imbued her words.

---

The moons that followed Luke’s death were arduous for the princess, constantly having to prove herself before the family that once accepted her. Rhaena and Rhaenyra had silently recognized Aelora’s circumstances, acknowledging she grieved for a husband as well as a brother. Baela had hesitated in the endorsing of her cousin but surrendered to her pleads nonetheless. Daemon barely addressed his wife’s daughter, his hatred for his nephew fused inside the resentful stares he gave her. Despite her best efforts to cope with her standing, it was Jacaerys’ unyielding disregard for his sister that slayed the woman’s hope of mending their bond. The storm behind the prince’s eyes was well hidden inside his stoic expressions, seemingly unaffected by Aelora’s prayers for his recognition. It was only in the afternoon before their grandmother’s departure for Rook’s Rest that the siblings found each other.

The soft rustle of parchment echoed through the otherwise silent library, a salty breeze infiltrating itself through the window. The princess sat by the unlit fireplace as her gaze swept across the leather-bound books scattered inside the numerous shelves, each and all replete with the history of House Targaryen. The smell of dusty, old tomes was a bitter comfort in the midst of her morose silence. She had accustomed herself to this moments of solitude, seeking solace inside her soul. At heart, her deepest fantasies scampered free, picturing a simpler life as a commoner — untethered by the Targaryen name and relieved from the torment of the constant shadow of war.

Aelora was chased back into reality as Jacaerys’ presence made itself known. The young man invaded the room like a blizzard, his cold glare locking upon her figure as she rested over the armrest of the settee. Her eyes glistened with heartache once she felt how profoundly hostile her brother had become, turning on his heel to abandon her presence. The woman’s voice trembled as she spoke, her words pleading and vulnerable.

"Jacaerys, wait...please."

He halted, his shoulders tense as he looked back at her. The expression on his face was hard to read, a mixture of ire and pain etched into his features.

"What do you want, Aelora?" His voice was cold, the distance between them palpable.

"Have I stooped so low in your graces that my presence offends you? We are family, Jacaerys. Can we not even speak?" Her voice was laced with a hint of desperation as she asked.

"You ask for words as if they could undo what has already been done." His expression hardened, his jaw tightening at her words.

Aelora got to her feet, her legs trembling under her weight. He spoke as if it had been her to murder Luke, not Aemond. Her eyes met his as she stood, her voice wavering with a mix of sorrow and anger.

“Do you truly believe I have not been made aware of that?!”

“Every day of my miserable existence is plagued by guilt. I close my eyes at night yet sleep eludes me, for the ghost of Luke haunts my every thought!” She grew restless at every word, tears forming in her brown orbs as she gestured frantically through phrases.

“I know I failed him, as I failed you and our family… But don't forget I too lost a brother that day.”

Jacaerys stood frozen in place, his grief still bubbling within him and yet his heart ached at the sight of his sister's tears. Her words cut through him like a dagger, his own teardrops threatening to fall.

"Luke is gone, Aelora, and your presence here only serves as a reminder of that fact." He took a step backwards, his jaw clenching as he struggled to control his emotions.

“You cannot blame me for what was not my doing. I was Aemond’s wife, not his conscience — albeit my best efforts.”

"But you married our enemies, sister! Do you truly believe your actions have no consequences?"

"You stood by while they plotted against us and our family. How can I not blame you, when you chose to bind your fate to theirs?" A hint of anger flashed in Jacaerys' mournful eyes as he continued.

“i admit i have made my bed and I must lie in it, but you speak of matters you do not understand.” She crossed her arms over her chest, as if she could shield herself from his hatred.

“He swore to me…“ Her voice cracked, heartbreak swallowing her words.

“He swore to avoid this — to stop this insane feud. He is an oathbreaker as well as a kinslayer and he made me a fool!”

The room was still tense but as Aelora's sobbing grew heavier, something shifted within Jacaerys. He stepped closer to his sister, and without a word, pulled her to him, wrapping his arms around her in a tight embrace. His body was warm against her chilly frame as he held her close, almost protectively. Their grievances seemed to dissolve in that moment, replaced only by a shared sorrow as her tears dampened his shoulder.

“Do you hold love for him, still?” He whispered.

“Only for the memory of who he used to be.”

The prince held Aelora a little tighter at her admission, his chin resting on the top of her head as they remained locked in their embrace. He could feel the weight of her broken heart and the ache it left her with. His wrath had dimmed, replaced by a sense of care and familial loyalty.

"Memories are not enough… Promise to break him should you get the chance"

“I will.”

Neither of them knew, but she lied.

Rhaenys, The Queen Who Never Was, met her fate by the hands of the newly appointed Prince Regent, Aemond Targaryen.

Meleys, The Red Queen, had her head paraded through the streets of King’s Landing.

And Aelora, Aemond’s beloved nightmare, sent him a raven.

“We must speak. Find me at ghost’s hour where salt meets memory.

A.V.”

---

The stars twinkled outside the formidable walls of Dragonstone, nightfall enveloping the island in its deep shadows. The approach of ghost’s hour disrupted the princess’ heartbeat inside her chest, her previous conviction giving way to fright as she slithered into the network of caves where the dragons nested. Aelora called out to Lyrrax, her voice wavering with a mixture of stress and uncertainty. As the great beast appeared before her, its wings unfurling, she couldn't help but wonder why she had sent the meeting request at all.

The dragon’s own tension could be felt through her scales as the princess climbed onto its back, the weight of her decision settling on them like a heavy cloak. As they soared through the night sky, Aelora's thoughts were consumed by memories of Aemond and his treachery. The image of him flying over her grandmother’s corpse haunted her mind — the cold, merciless expression he conveyed twisting her guts. She questioned her own judgement in seeking him out, even as her heart yearned for the man who once pledged his undying love and protection. She looked back at Dragonstone, its familiar walls and towers illuminated by the silvery moonlight; she was abandoning her blood for him once again. The princess could only surmise she was either possessed by madness or a true lovelorn fool.

The frigid roar of wind traveled across her face as Lyrrax’s wings scraped over the tide’s surface, saltwater droplets cutting into her skin as well as her pride. She knew her grandmother would never forgive her for this, it was likely none would; she was an idiotic excuse for a Targaryen if she thought seeking the slayer of so many of her kin was justifiable. The burden of loss hung heavily on Aelora's soul as she took in the landscape before her. The faces of Rhaenys and Luke, forever etched in her mind, fueled a mix of anger and trepidation inside the young woman. Her thoughts swirled with a maelstrom of emotions as she soared towards him, recollections of the past playing out like a tragic play as her brown orbs focused upon the once affectionate site of King’s landing.

With practiced grace, Aelora guided the dragon into a smooth descent, its blue wings beating against the air as its claws set down on the shore of Blackwater Bay. The sound of their landing was muffled by the night, its velvety darkness swallowing the pair by the quiet that enveloped the world like a thick, black blanket. The crash of the waves greeted the princess’ ears as she dismounted, struggling to catch her breath and steady her emotions. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, the young woman caught sight of the familiar cave that laid ahead, its entrance like a dark maw in the cliffside. The jagged edges were illuminated by the silvery glow of the moon, sending shadows dancing across the rocky surface.

Bittersweetness engulfed Aelora’s frame as the memories memories of her secret rendezvouses with Aemond brimmed in her mind. Every step she took towards the cave was like a blow to her legs, feeling shaky and unsteady. Doubt gnawed at her spirit as if a persistent rat, her stomach flipping with every crunch of the sand beneath her feet. Yet, she pushed forward, determination fueling the princess even as her disheveled heartbeat hammered against her ribcage.

The sight of Aemond standing amongst the shadows caught Aelora off guard, the dim light emanating through the cave's entrance barely illuminating his form — she had thought to be the first to arrive. Before she could stop it, a slight gasp escaped her lips and her eyes widened in disbelief. He looked different, somehow. He seemed further villainous and wearied, the once familiar spark in his eye now replaced by a bold robustness. His sharp and handsome features were now harder, almost rugged, as if her absence had left its mark on him. Swallowing hard, she acknowledged the stark contrast between the nostalgic sentiment that nearly overcame her a moment ago and the tense silence that now enveloped them. They stood opposite each other mutely, both frozen and locked in each other’s gaze.

“Wife.” He greeted, his voice grazing her earlobes like the finest of silks.

“That title does not fit me any longer.” She replied coldly.

His lilac eye examined Aelora’s frame from head to toe, her cloak hiding black leather garments — most likely dragonriding attire. She looked skinnier than he recalled, the shadows only enhancing the redness of her eyes. Aemond could not help but wonder whether she had been weeping during her journey there, grief tackling her psyche as well as her build. The princess demeanor turned stiff, arms crossing as she stood clearly on edge.

“You remain mine, before gods and men.” His gaze flickered with something akin to resentment.

“Kinslaying is a rather suitable ground for an annulment, i should think.” She said, removing the cloak from her head, allowing her braid to cascade over her shoulder.

He froze, the muscles on his neck and jaw tensed. His first reaction is one of anger, clenching his fist as he prepared hateful words inside his throat. But as he looked her in the eye, his wrath melted away into something much more dangerous and devastating — something fragile. All he could see was the girl he grew up with, the girl who stood by him at his boyhood. The woman who whispered sweet nothings amongst the vows of their wedding. The woman who played silly songs on the harp and sang with the loveliest voice he'd ever heard. The wife who's hands he dreamed of at night.

“So eager to rid yourself of the shame affixed to my reputation… And yet, you request my presence with equal vigor.” He stood with his hands behind his back, swallowing any desires that threatened to get the better of him.

“It is my understanding you have become Prince Regent.” She tried to ignore his jabs, the truthfulness they held hitting a sore point inside Aelora.

“The betrayal of your brother becomes you. Yet another broken oath in your conquest for the throne.” She returned his insults, the knowledge of his ambition stirring something within the prince.

“You speak of broken oaths. And what ought I call the oaths you have broken? The promises we made when we married in front of Heleana and the Gods?” His one eye darkened, taking a step forward as he kept his tone controlled.

“Your hypocrisy is staggering.” He shook his head, jaw clenched as he spoke.

“My hypocrisy?!” She could feel the anger boiling her blood, as if fire consuming wood.

“Your sanctimonious preaches fail to erase your true nature, Aemond. Naming yourself Targaryen whilst the sigil of our house is paraded through the streets as if some vainglorious prize of war!” Her voice turned to screeches as it echoed through the stone walls of the cave.

“You may call me a bastard if you wish to, but my blood honors Old Valyria far more than yours.”

Aemond’s hand shot to her wrist, gripping it tight enough to leave marks on the skin underneath. His single eye was wild and livid, the scar around it turning his gaze even more menacing. He moved a step closer, the scent of him overwhelming her — mint and leather mixed with a hint of smoke, the familiar essence blurred her senses in a wave of longing. The princess hid her weakening behind a wrath curtain, the disdain she held for the twisted version of him that now stood before her casting their love aside.

“Watch your tongue, Aelora.”

“Or else? Will your murder me as you did my brother? My grandmother? I can see the conqueror’s dagger in it’s seath, evidence of yet another attempt at fratricide!” She accused him further.

“Have you not done enough? Must you ravage our family and yourself in your thirst for power?”

The hand that gripped her wrist traveled up to the back of her head, grabbing the braided hair. Yanking it softly, he pulled Aelora even closer, his lilac orb flickering over her expression.

“I am Prince Regent as the Gods intended.” He hissed into her ear, a dangerous edge to his voice.

“My reign, unlike that of Aegon, will be glorious — my rule absolute. And you, wife, will be by my side when I sit on the Iron Throne.”

Aelora’s eyes betrayed her as water began to brim in their edges, a horrified gleam passing through her forming tears. A hand cupped his left cheek as she scanned him, a desperate search for the man he once was. The man she longed for each night. The man who was the source of greater heartache than she had ever felt in her life. The man who was also the root of her most joyous moments.

“Your ambition shall be your demise, husband. I was yours before all of this, before your perverseness overcame your affection for me.”

“The crown may sit upon your brow, but i have sufficiently torn my heart to shreads in my attempts to remove you — even if you are my weakness, I will never belong by your side once more.”

”No wrath or cruelty is capable of subduing my craving of you, issa vēzos (my sun).” He leaned into her touch, letting his eye flutter at the feeling of the soft skin of her palm against his cold cheek.

In that moment of contact, he seemed so vulnerable, and much younger than his years. He was weak. A pathetic, love-sick man, and he could not bring himself to care. Aemond leaned his head against hers, their foreheads connecting as his gaze softened.

“I am plagued by thoughts of you and I, each reminiscence a torment to my soul.”

“Come back to me, be my Queen and rule by my side. Our love will be known forever through the Seven Kingdoms, your belly swollen with our child ensuring our line shall never be forgotten.”

There was a moment of silence as Aelora absorbed his words. He was offering her a chance at a life she had dreamed of, one full of passion and legacy as their offspring lived on after them. But it would be an existence consumed by greed, she knew it. There could be no going back after what he had done; Lucerys would never be uncle to her progeny and Rhaenys wouldn’t be there to counsel her through hardships. Their family was torn from the beginning, the tapestry of their lives further lacerated by his actions. And she couldn’t betray her blood again.

“I would do anything for you.” He begged.

“Would your bend the knee to my mother?” Her voice was shaky as the lachrymose gaze she held shattered, its translucent shards falling through her cheeks.

"I will give you anything. Anything within my power to give." His voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper.

"But not my crown."

“Then there shall be naught left to ask, issa hūra (my moon).” She sent him a smile, albeit a woeful one.

Aemond opened his mouth to protest, but knew it would be in vain. He was so close to her that he could feel her breath on his lips, the feeling slowly driving him mad. He had imagined Aelora’s face, her curves and her voice each night he had been forced to spend alone — and here she was, right before him, but he couldn’t have her. The thought of how this could be the last time he held her without being shoved away made him pull her to him, his arms wrapping around her like vines.

The princess found herself unable to resist as she pressed her head against his chest, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat a comforting presence in the silent cavern. She clung to him tightly, her fingers gripping his clothing like a lifeline in a storm-tossed sea. For a moment, they stood there, holding each other without a word. The moons of distance melted away, replaced by a shared sense of desperate longing to be close again. Despite the comfort and familiarity of his embrace, she knew deep down that he would never surrender — his path set on the course of war and the bloodshed it entailed. The pain and loss they had faced would forever stand between them, but it did not matter tonight. Concealed by shadows inside the stone walls surrounding them, their grievances and broken oaths would dim at the radiance of their burning passion. For a brief moment, the pair would be one once more.

Aelora’s head parted from the warmth of his frame as her gaze followed the line of Aemond's jaw, her brown orbs traveling upward until they reached his mouth. A sharp breath hitched within her throat as she remembered the soft touch of his lips against hers, butterflies rattling in her stomach. In that moment, she was transported back to the blissful months of their marriage, when their intimacies were full of love and promise. The need to feel the familiar touch of his skin against hers consuming every inch of her being.

The prince’s mind and body were on fire. He could feel her gaze raking over him, like a caress to his spirit. The mere sight of his estranged wife in his arms making his heart pound wildly in his chest. His good eye watched her mouth as she swallowed, his one trackmindedness fixated on everything about her. He could see the memories, the same ones he saw every night, flashing through her gaze. His fingers reached up to brush a strand of her brown hair aside, her once perfect braid now half done as the long locks threaten to escape. His hand trembled with how badly he wanted to feel her body, to trace his hands over her curves and kiss her neck, as he had done countless times before.

Aelora's restraint snapped with a sharp tug as she pulled him down towards her, their lips finally meeting in a desperate, ardent kiss. A muffled gasp left her lips at the familiar touch, her body responding instinctively as she pressed herself against him, hungrily devouring his taste. The prince’s sense of control collapsed like a house of cards, his tongue slipping into her mouth as he held her close. He was a man starved, his palms roaming over her frame, as if trying to commit every curve to memory.

Aemond's hands began to roam under her cloak, his fingers tracing over the round hips hidden underneath. He could feel the heat of her desire through the thick fabric, his own body aching to devour her whole. The fingers on his left hand fiddled over the clasp of her mantle, yearning overcoming his senses as he tossed the fabric onto the delicate sand.

Before he was able to protest, Aelora broke their kiss. Her eyes glistened with arousal as she watched his lips, reddened and bruised from the hastiness of their embrace. Her nimble hands found the buckle of her leather doublet, shivering as the absence of the rougher material revealed her chemise underneath. The sheer linen did little to protect the princess’ frame from the cold breeze that made its way through the cave’s entrance, her nipples stiffening at the feeling. The young woman felt no grief for her modesty as Aemond’s eye watched her carefully, a glimpse of a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. She continued to undress, slender fingers slowly untying the laces on her breeches. Her boots met the rest of her dragonriding garments on the jagged rocks by the cavern’s wall, leaving the princess in only her smallclothes.

The silver prince was left breathless by her actions, completely entranced by the sight of her exposed chest, every contour of her body on display through the translucent fabric. His eye drank in the sight and he could feel his blood rushing to a southernmost point. He wanted to worship her, to kiss and nibble her skin — to make her cry out his name until the only thing she could remember was the feel of him against herself. At this moment, he was no longer Aemond Targaryen, Prince Regent and Protector of the Realm; he was a dog at her heel, eager for her calling. His gaze never left hers, staring at her vulnerable state as he mirrored her actions. First he removed his baldric, steel clinking as his dagger and sword fell to the ground. Then, he slowly undid the various buckles on his black jerkin, his breeches following suit. He did not waver as her brown eyes found his stiffened manhood; for he hadn’t cared to remain in concealment as she did.

Aelora’s gaze followed her husband as he approached her again, his hands reaching out and his fingers gently sliding up her bare thigh. She felt him press further into her, his cock pushing itself snugly against her core. He leaned in until his mouth was just beside her ear, his breath warm against her neck as he bit the skin softly. There was no denying she was his, her soul forever branded by his sinful devotion; the princess would never trust a kinslayer twice over, but she couldn’t help but love him.

“Vestragon ao’re ñuhon. (Say you’re mine.)” His voice was barely a whisper but it was as much a command as a plead.

“Vestragon ao’re nykeēdrosa ñuhon, gīda sepār syt kiza bantis. (Say you’re still mine, even just for tonight)”.

“Nyke aōhon. Ēva tubis ōños. (I am yours. Until daylight)”. She answered, lips trembling as the words escaped her.

A primal possessiveness engulfed the one eyed prince, the part that had always longed for her roaring in victory. At that very moment, he felt that there was nothing in this world that he would not do for her. He took her mouth in another kiss, their tongues clashing in a more feral and desperate manner. Aemond lifted her, his calloused hands digging into her plump arse as she wrapped her legs around his waist. Her fingers gripped at his silver locks, his sudden responde sending waves of languor across her limbs. He moved her onto the cloak that was on the ground, the velvety sand welcoming her weight over the fabric as he covered her body with his.

Aemond continued his path of kisses down her body, his hands wandering over her breasts and waist and his mouth leaving more marks in its path. He could feel Aelora shudder in anticipation, her hips arching against his as he moved closer to her core, the air heavy with the scent of her nectar. He halted, taking in the sight of her before him. It had been so long — too long — since he had laid eyes upon her like this, and he relished in the way she already looked completely wrecked by his touch alone. The prince finally reached his ultimate goal, his lips finding her mound as he licked a stripe across the sensitive flesh. He let out a low moan at the taste of her sweet ambrosia on his tongue, a loud whimper emanating from her lungs in response.

The young woman’s hair laid carelessly on the ground, grains of sand intertwining into the brown mess as she arched her back in pleasure. She cried out as he grabbed her thighs, spreading her further apart and burying his face between her legs, his tongue exploring her in ways she had missed for many moons. He could not get enough of her, his lips and tongue trailing silent prayers over her most sensitive spot as his name left her lips. She felt her walls clench as he barged inside her cunt with a long finger, adjusting to the once familiar feeling. Shivers ran down her spine in satisfaction as Aemond synchronized his movements, the overwhelming pleasure bringing stars to her eyes.

A lilac eye never left her face, watching every expression that played across her features. Her mouth parted in pleasure, each gasp and moan fueling the fire of the prince’s own arousal. He had longed to see her like this, writhing underneath him, his name on her lips and his touch on her skin. The memories of her had haunted him in his nights alone, but now, in this moment, he was finally able to worship her like the god given treasure that she was.

Aelora's cries grew more intense, her hips bucking against Aemond's skilled mouth as pleasure mounted within her. Her thighs trembled slightly, its muscles tensing in anticipation of the release that was quickly approaching. Each touch and movement only served to bring her closer to the precipice of pleasure.

A loud cry echoed through the cavern as she climaxed, her body shuddering and her fingers digging into the ground in a desperate attempt to anchor herself. As the waves of ecstasy washed over her, she felt as though she had been transported to another realm. The connection between them was somehow stronger than it had ever been before, their souls dancing to a passionate melody.

When Aelora finally gasped for air, the prince slowly moved up from her core, his body hovering over hers. He watched as she recovered from the rapture he had given her with a dark and vainglorious smirk. With his elbow holding himself over her, he pulled her leg to rest on his hip as his eye scanned her features. Her hand moved to cup his cheek, the tip of her finger caressing his reddened scar as she furrowed her brows.

“Nyke gaomagon regret ziry. Skoros nyke vestretan se mōrī jēda. (I do regret it. What I said the last time.)” She apologized, regret brimming in her brown orbs.

Aemond leaned into her touch, his good eye closing at the gentle touch of her hand against his skin, it felt nearly as soothing as a balm to his weary heart. The mention of the title she had bestowed upon him sent a chill through his spine, his monstrous behavior had earned the words even if they had maimed him. His face turned to press a soft kiss into her palm, before opening his eye to look at her again.

“It is of no importance.” His voice was rough and low as he spoke.

Aelora softly tugged at the straps of his eyepatch, earning a trembling exhale from him in response. The touch of her delicate fingers on his malady sent a wave of fear through his spirit. She removed piece of leather, revealing the puckered, scarred skin where his eye had once been. He found himself unable to look at her for a moment, the feeling of vulnerability consuming him in the dim light of the cave. The princess looked deeply into the sapphire gem in his socket, tenderness engulfing the kiss she placed upon it.

Aemond's touch was gentle as he took her lips in his, not waiting for her response as he gripped her hip and turned her on her stomach. His eye roamed over the expanse of her back, tracing his fingers over the smooth surface of her skin, leaving a trail of gentle caresses in its path. It was a stark contrast to the frenzied way he had touched her previously, this touch was far more tender, almost reverent in nature. His body pressed against hers as the length of his manhood rested on the small of her back, buring into her skin. He leaned down, his mouth finding her ear as he moved closer.

“Azantys ñuha sindigho, issa vēzos. (I have missed you desperately, my sun)”. His breath was warm against her skin as he whispered.

Aelora arched her back as she felt the tip of his cock breeching her dampened slit, her knees propping her hip upwards in search of contact. His arm reached under her, squeezing one of her peaks as he fully entered her. The pair let out breathless moans as Aemond moved against her, leaving no time for her adjustment. The sting of pain she felt had been nothing compared to the ecstasy of his length inside her, finding herself unable to focus on anything but the feeling of being around him.

The prince’s thrusts grew harder, his body moving against hers in a rhythm that was both frenzied and yet somehow controlled. Her moans and sighs filled the air, his own breaths coming quick and sharply as he took her with a wild abandon. He buried his face in her neck, biting down on the soft flesh as his hands buried into her hips.

“Avy jorrāelan. (I love you)” Aelora murmured between ragged moans, her hand reaching to grasp his hair.

His eye widened slightly at her words, a thrill rushing through him at having heard them coming from her lips once again. His lips found the base of her jawline, pressing a kiss to the sensitive skin. His cock kept reaching further into her cunt as their flesh moved together with a rhythmic thrust, like the rise and fall of waves on the shore.

“Avy jorrāelan. Avy jorrāelan. Avy jorrāelan.” Aemond mumbled repeatedly in between thrusts, his words a fierce declaration of their love. He continued moving inside her, his heart racing in his ribcage as his pleasure overcame physical bounds.

Every thing about this moment was singled out from any other they had shared. The grief, pain and betrayal that coursed through their marriage dissipated amongst the dragon fire that burned within the pair. It all faded away, and all that was left was this, the feel of her skin against his, the sound of his muffled whimpers in her ear, the desperate way he repeated her name over and over. This moment felt like the calm in the middle of a storm, a rustle of the ashes of their love.

Aemond could feel his peak building, his movements becoming more urgent and frantic as he chased the pleasure he sought. His breaths came out in ragged pants, mingling with the sounds of her gasps in the air as his length clashed inside her. Aelora sensed the twitching of his manhood, threatening to spill his release inside her walls. The mere thought tightened the knot that had formed in her belly, reaching the edge of her desire.

Aemond sent a few more thrusts into the brown haired woman underneath him before both found their release simultaneously, their movements slowing as they both rode out of the ecstatic trance that washed over them. The prince’s face was buried in Aelora’s neck, a guttural moan escaping him at the force of his own pleasure. Her body shivered at the feeling of his seed drowning her cunt, pearly tears streaming down her leg as she whimpered.

The lovers stayed silent in an adoring embrace after he disconnected their bodies, a wave of comfort washing over them. For a while they simply laid there, basking in the afterglow of their passion, their frames entwined in a tangle of limbs. It was a strange sort of peace, one that they both knew wouldn't last once the sun rose — but for the moment, they were content. The night stretched on, each hour passing in a blur of whispered words and slow hands. Aemond and Aelora clang to one another, as if they could melt into one if they only held tightly enough. The threat of daylight and the inevitable parting loomed over them like a dark cloud on the horizon, anguish settling inside their hearts.

As the hour of the nightingale approached over their secret sanctuary, the prince and princess began to break away from the blissful haven that enveloped them. There were no words to be spoken as they both dressed silently, the sound of rustling fabric and soft breaths filling the air between them. The weight of war and the knowledge that this moment was fleeting hung heavily in the air. Aemond felt a pang in his chest as he looked towards her, a mute wish in his heart that they could stay like this. To be locked in this moment forever, away from the world that demanded so much from them. But he knew that was not possible. Soon, they would have to return to their duties and obligations — this feeling would become nothing more than a memory.

As they stood before each other fully clothed, their eyes met in a bereaved gaze — sorrow for the love they shared engulfing them. Aelora stepped closer to him, holding his hand softly, almost in a cowardly manner. She had no words for the man who was her everything, the man who had her in every way possible, and she was ashamed of it. His free hand moved hesitantly to hold her cheek, his eye flickering over her face, taking in every feature. He wanted to burn the image of her into his mind, to remember every detail about her, down to the smallest freckle on her nose. His thumb traced her soft skin as he leaned in to press a soft, lingering kiss to her lips, as if to say “I will be with you forever”. Tears began to form at the corners of her brown orbs as she abandoned his touch. The sound of the rustling sand underneath her feet echoed through the cave as she reached its entrance, her form never escaping his stare.

She halted at the stone archway, her silhouette framed by the soft silver light of the moon. The night air was cool on her skin as she turned to look back at Aemond, the feel of their passion still lingering in the air. For a moment, they simply stood there, eyes meeting in the darkness. She ached to say something, to find the words to convey the maelstrom of emotions that raged within her. In the end, she simply smiled, bittersweet and knowing.

“Should we meet on the battlefield, I can’t hesitate.” Her voice came out a whisper.

“I won’t hesitate to kill you.” She repeated, to herself or to him — Aemond didn’t know.

The prince’s breath had grown a little shallow at her words, a frown forming on his face. The idea of their next encounter being on the battlefield, facing off against each other like enemies was a thought that pained him, even though he knew it was a possibility. He wanted to tell her that he wouldn’t hesitate either, that he would fight her with everything he had if they ever met in battle, but the words stuck in his throat. He simply nodded in acknowledgement.

Once again, she left him. Aemond would be a King without a Queen, half of his soul forsaken in his search for power. It had to be worth it.

Bur they wouldn’t meet again, not in the context of war or any other.

She would meet her demise alongside her brother in the Battle of The Gullet. Fighting hard like a Strong, dying besides her dragon like a Targaryen and laying to rest at sea like a Velaryon.

He would grow mad at her perishing, ire overcoming his every sense. And he would eventually be slayed by her stepfather at The Battle Above God’s Eye.

Their love was epic, a fierce tale of forbidden passion that would never be written about inside history books. The only legacy they would leave behind had been scribbled onto a stone wall years before.

A.T. & A.V.

---

Taglist: @onlyrealjoy @siriusblackssun @adombtch

[azullumi]

trying different types of kissing with scaramouche?💔 like forehead, neck kisses, hand or anything at all....

“say yes to heaven” ; wanderer/scaramouche

summary — ultimately, he really does just want to be loved, behind the many layers of him to hide all that yearning and longing. but how can he say it when love, for him, was a synonym to forgiveness; alternatively, different kisses with him, with each one signifying a progressing relationship.

pairing — scaramouche/wanderer (w/ gender-neutral reader) ; could imagine this with either but i wrote this with wanderer in mind

tags — established relationship, fluff, a little bit of angst, not proofread, 1.1k ; ficlet

note — i needed an excuse to write a fic that is just all about kissing him and also comforting him (but still, i hope u like this nonnieee!!)

i. hand

You hold his hand and press small kisses on his knuckles, a little bit ticklish it was for him but he doesn’t retract. The feeling of it makes something in his chest ache with an unfamiliar sensation, and he knows it’s not his heart because he never had any.

You kiss the back of his hand, an intimate gesture, like devotion, like he was something—or someone—that should be adored.

“I am no god.” He was no deity to be worshiped so why are you so gentle to him? He wasn’t made of glass nor is he fragile; he was born from ashes of a burned home, he was carved out of war and winter storms and everything that you could ever pray against, he was a symphony composed of nothing but bad luck and conflicting melodies—he was not the kind people would choose to be around, much less adore.

And as if you bear a part of him in your mind, you understood what he was trying to say, could hear the questions that tormented him, could see the conflicted look on him as he looks at you with a gaze that seems to scrutinize your being when only he is looking for an answer. He tries to look for a crack, a gap in your expression, so that he can look through it and see what you’re really thinking.

“You don’t have to be one to be loved.” You press one last kiss on his hand just as you finished speaking, looking up to him. Indigo blue orbs met yours in a gentle gaze, eyes filled with affection only for the other to drown in. If he could put all that he was feeling, all that he was asking and seeking an answer to, into a simple word, it all condenses to: why?

“Do you still have doubts?” You ask, despite knowing the answer. He opens his mouth only to close it again, looking for the words that he should say but chose to be silent instead. And you smile—not a beaming grin nor a subtle paint on your features, but something gentle and comforting as if you’re assuring him: it’s okay, I understand you. I know you.

“You’re not unloveable.”

Loving him wasn’t the hardest thing to do, it came to you naturally as if breathing but the man thinks otherwise. A burnt child who loves the fire will only hear the fact that he is loveable, people just choose not to.

“How do you know that?” You know him well enough to hear the way his voice trembles at the effort to allow himself to be vulnerable. Long was the fall of the tall and formidable walls that he built around him.

“You’re not unloveable.” You repeat, taking hold of his fingers to kiss his hand once more. “Am I not enough proof of that?”

ii. forehead and cheeks

You cupped his cheeks and kissed his forehead, an unspoken language of tenderness in which he took a long time to understand. When love and affection has finally been given to him after decades of yearning, he’s unsure of how to hold it in his hands—does he gently hold it with both? Every bit overwhelms him to the bone, the gratifying yet intense feeling seeps through his being and settles inside of him in a way that it slowly consumes the crevices of his mind, until all that is left of him is nothing but a starved man who only longs for the feeling of your skin against his own.

There was a flicker of warmth in his expression and he closed his eyes as he relished in your kindness, your hands cradling his cheeks with warmth that coaxed his entire existence, your lips pressing against his forehead softly. Then, you started to pepper his face with small kisses and the man could only surrender to your touch, a dance of vulnerability and intimacy as he crumbled into your hold.

No one has ever come this close to him (a closeness that was a stranger to the pages of his past, a tender note composed solely for him), no one and nothing.

You spoke, murmuring against his skin and close to his lips: “Sunshine.” Humor weaves through your tone, teasing the absurdity of the mismatched title and the man who wears it with subtle grace.

“Don’t call me that.” He snarks yet no bite. It’s ironically funny how you use that nickname on him despite him being the complete contrast of it; he stands as the living paradox of the word itself.

The sound of laughter bubbles up in your throat and you answer, “Why not? It suits you perfectly, don’t you think?”

What else should you call the man who grasps the warmth and tender light in his chest only the sun could give? To be with him was to sit in the autumn sunlight, to sleep in the comfort of your sheets when the rain patters against your window, to walk barefoot on the sand even if it feels like shards of glasses against your sole, to be with him was to simply exist; you’ve never met anyone who had the sun for a soul and he has never met anyone who had the stars in their eyes, and while you had the universe etched on the palm of your hands, he has your name engraved on his.

iii. lips

Your lips ghost against his own, albeit in a tantalizing manner, teasing and quite slow—but he wasn’t a patient man.

“Are you going to kiss me or what?” He whispers and you don't waver at his straightforwardness, having been used to this note. There was no hostility in his tone, just pure and raw desperation and desire to feel you.

You could imagine the eye roll he would give you had he not had his eyes closed at the moment, could imagine the frown on his expression while he spoke and could imagine it faltering soon when you finally kissed him, slow as if to savor the softness of his lips and how it reminds you of spring; he could not properly express the warmth on his chest at the thought of how you love him when he still tasted of heartache and war.

You part from him but remained close, foreheads pressed against one another, breathing heavily, and looking into each other’s eyes. You wanted to tell him that you will find him in every lifetime, but the silence between you two was enough to convey such strong affections that you could hear him respond: And I will love you in each one.

(And he somehow finds himself thinking at the same, this is what he deserves. He’d do these, these vulnerable moments where he lays himself bare for you to touch and hold even if you’ll see the scars and cracks on his skin, the falling and getting hurt despite the fear, the burning and constant searching for something, he’ll do it all over again—if it’s you.)

If someone were to ask him what forgiveness tastes like, he would utter your name—everything that he has ever longed for came in the form of you. And he fears that this longing will last forever even while you’re here, that this longing will grow even when he crumbles to dust, that this longing will outlive this body and weave life into the earth that swallows your existence.

© azullumi — do not plagiarize, copy, repost, nor translate any of my works.

[inkykeiji]

what now?

character: dabi | todoroki touya

genre: smut + angst

notes: eeeee happy birthday dabi!!! sorry i’m a day late, and sorry i keep writing angst for your birthday. this piece is set directly after dabi’s touya reveal, in that dingy little safe house he seems to love so much! please heed the warnings below and stay safe!

warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, rough sex, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, dom/sub dynamics, use of master/owner/sir, fem!reader, minimal prep, biting, branding, blood, the piece switches between both dabi and touya as names, size kink + size difference, spanking, objectification, degradation + dumbification, a lil bit of praise, dabi’s pretty mean when he’s fucking, dabi carries reader, toxic relationship, dacryphilia, choking

words: 8.8k

It’s dark by the time he returns, reeking of charred flesh and ash. He had stashed you away in a decaying little safe house—a place no one else knew about, a place that was his and his alone—and had told you to wait for him. He had promised he’d return to you, no matter how long it took, no matter what happened, he’d be back, pinky swear.

Touya never breaks his pinky swears. Dabi might, though.

You had seen his video. You had been watching the news just like he told you to, anxious, waiting for any sign or indication of trouble, of terror, but the heat and the dust had been too much for the news cameras to penetrate, and there had been no reports of casualties on either side. 

Yet. 

It’s astonishing to think that the whole world knows his name now—his true name, the one buried in his blood and his bones, the one staining his soul, the one he can’t snuff out, no matter how hard he tries. You remember the first time he told it to you. 

“Touya.” 

He had said suddenly, randomly, while laying in bed with you one night back at the League’s hideout—back before all of this was set in motion, back when there was just the gentle clink of glass sounding beneath the floorboards, followed by a muddled curse and the rapid mashing of plastic buttons. 

It was muttered out in the dead of the night, when the wind was stagnant and the moonlight shimmered through grimy windows, brilliance of the beams diffused by the dirt, turning everything a hazy silver, glinting off his stitches.

“Hmm?”

“That’s my real name. Touya.”

“Touya,” you had murmured to yourself, rolling the letters around on your tongue, allowing them to seep into your flesh. “It’s beautiful.”

“Todoroki Touya.”

Oh.  

“It’s still beautiful,” you said softly, after several moments of silence, feeling Dabi melt beneath your words, tender yet resolute. “Even if the man who gave it to you isn’t.”

“Yeah,” he had responded, though his voice had sounded weird to his ears; odd, off, broken. “Fuck that guy.”

And that had been it. You hadn’t made a big deal about it, or pushed him to tell you more, or badgered him with questions and curiosities about his past. You had just accepted it and continued on. 

He had offered up shards of information over the next few months, always murmured out in the dead of night, always a piece and never a whole, always something too jagged to fit with any of the other pieces of his jigsaw he had gifted you. 

But it didn’t matter. Who he was, his past, the name he carries around and DNA twined inside his body—none of it mattered. He was, and will always be, the man you love, irregardless of the name he was born into, and the curse it bears.

The harsh unlatching of that decrepit painting startles you from your stewing thoughts, your gaze snapping toward the noise just in time to catch Dabi crawling through the trick window, entrance hidden behind the heavy gilded frame. 

Your legs toss themselves off the fraying couch the instant his gaze meets yours, heart kickstarting thick bouts of adrenaline to rush through your veins, footsteps keeping time with the tattered exhales each bang of your heart sends barrelling up your throat, body colliding into his only a moment later.

He catches you with ease, laughing loudly as he sweeps you from the floor, strong arms locked at the wrists around your lower back. Instinctively, your ankles hook together at the base of his spine, fingers immediately wandering into the dirty hair at the nape of his neck, whole body wound around his own.

He’s still laughing, bright and breathless and so, so beautiful, even as he crushes his lips to yours, even as your tongue pries past his teeth and slams against his own. It spills down your throat in warm vibrations and you swallow it readily, greedily, hands sinking further into tufts of ink-tinged ivory and twining the strands around your knuckles, desperate to tug him closer. 

The tang of death stings your tongue, earth and copper and smoke, so poignant you swear you can taste their screams, those who lost their lives to his flames and Machia’s feet and the rubble left in their wake, but you don’t care.

You don’t care, because he’s here, he’s home, he’s safe and back in your arms, with his teeth clacking against yours and his spit flooding your mouth and his unruly little giggles consistently breaking the flow of your lips. 

“Did you see it? Huh? Did you see it?” he hurls the words into your mouth, lips still mashed against your own but spread in a smile, sapphire eyes twinkling.

“I did,” you confirm with a nod, tips of your noses nudging. “I did, it was brilliant; you were brilliant, baby.”

“I know,” he snickers, foreheads knocking together, breath wafting in small, ragged pants across your face as his feet begin to move, unable to stand still. “It couldn’t have gone more perfect, I swear to fuckin’ Christ. It was—It was better than I could’ve ever imagined. I can’t even believe it.”

Words continue to tumble from his lips in excited gasps as he twirls in wide lopsided circles slow and careless around the decaying little safe house, his boots conjuring small puffs of dust beneath their soles.

“I wish you could’ve been there, baby, honest. I wish you could’ve seen that fucker’s face, it was fuckin’ priceless, and—Oh! Fuck, how could I forget the best part!” 

Halting his whirling, he pulls back to look at you more resolutely, as if he has to see the whole picture, sapphire darting around your face all wild and erratic, his smile spreading impossibly wider; uncanny, inhuman, eyes glowing with the thrill of the secret he’s about to spill.

“Shouto was there, too! How much happier could a coincidence get!” 

“Shouto?”

“I wasn’t expecting him to be there, but seriously, it was the cherry on top.” 

His feet begin to move again, resuming his impromptu dance number, adrenaline thrumming in his veins, overflowing from his orifices—smile stretching, chest swelling. 

“His presence is what really made it spectacular, you know? Sure, dad was broken, but Shouto…” Dabi shakes his head. “Little baby Shouto was knocked off his fucking feet.”

“Oh, I can only imagine…” 

…How horrifying of a realization it must’ve been; how terrifying it must’ve felt to encounter your father’s worst mistake in the breathing, bloodied flesh.

“I doubt he even remembers me—” Dabi continues, “he was only five or so when I died; he barely knew me at all.” He laughs, but it sounds tangled, caught on something buried in his throat. “Imagine that! Your big brother, only ever a ghost haunting your life, back from the grave!” 

“I’m sure he was very shocked,” you giggle, pressing your forehead to his again, fingers combing through the hair at the back of his skull. 

“Shocked? Baby, he was beyond shocked. He was—He was—I don’t even have a word for it!”

Another laugh spills from his lips, jagged and squeaky and full of razors. 

And, oh, how breathtakingly beautiful genuine happiness looks on him, even if it’s tinted with derangement—the edges of his smile a little too sharp, the glint in his eye a little too vicious.  

“The whole thing sounds magnificent,” you admit, soft and genuine, lips brushing his own. “I’m so happy it went so well.”

“It was perfect,” he gushes in a sigh. “The only way it could’ve been any more perfect is if mom, Yumi, and Natsu were there—but I’m sure they all caught the broadcast.”

You’re sure they did, too. That news programme had been playing on every major screen across the entirety of Japan; you’d have to be buried beneath a rock to have missed it.

He’s still babbling, feet still hopping and skipping around with you cradled tightly to his chest as the anticipation of his return finally wears off, clears from your system, and you take a real, good look at him. 

And your heart sinks.

New burns have bubbled up on his cheeks, leaving only a sliver of skin between them and the scars below his eyes. Staples have snapped in half, hanging precariously from chunks of dead flayed flesh, their broken edges tinged an ugly black, burnt by Todoroki flames. Speckles of crimson are splattered artfully across his hair—though whether they belong to him or someone else, it’s hard to tell—the small remaining patches of healthy skin marred by dried black dye. 

“Baby,” you breathe, struggling to keep your smile from trembling, struggling to keep concern from seeping into your voice. “You’re filthy.” 

“Yeah, you should’a saw the other guy!” he giggles at his own joke, strident and sticky in his throat, but his smile is still so bright.

“And you’re hurt.”

He blows a dismissive breath from between his lips. “Can barely feel a thing, though—and I’m not even rolling right now!” 

“Still,” you say, a frown beginning to weight the corners of your grin. “You should let me clean you up.”

“But it isn’t even painful.”

“Still,” you repeat, tender fingers brushing strands of white back from his forehead. “I want to clean you up.” 

Begrudgingly, he allows it, sat on the closed toilet lid and continuing to chatter on as you tend to his wounds, words bubbling up on breathless excitement, massive smile still slapped, almost uncomfortably so, across his face.

Oxygen keeps escaping him before he finishes his sentences, everything bouncy and enthusiastic, and it’s such a stark contrast to the Dabi you’re used to, with his languid apathetic drawl and unhurried, uninterested speech. 

And despite the subject matter, it’s nice, it’s cute. 

He tells you about his father’s paralyzation and the tears in Shouto’s eyes and the horrified panic coating their faces as careful fingers dab and wipe and smear, meticulous in their task, devoted to their cause, your head nodding along with his endless recounter, emitting the perfectly placed ooh’s and mhmm’s, asking questions when the opportunities present themselves.

And even though you love seeing him this way, full of pure joy and exhilaration, you can’t quite kill the question sprouting in the depths of your mind, chewing on the back of your brain.

What now?

It’s on the tip of your tongue, searing your tastebuds, begging to be spoken. You try to swallow it down, but it claws at the back of your tongue, clinging, curling up in your throat and refusing to be forgotten. 

What now? What’s going to happen now that Enji knows of his existence? What’s going to happen the next time he encounters his eldest child, swathed in the flames he once cherished so dearly, praised so hopefully, eating away at his boy as his hatred burns higher, blazes brighter, consumes his blood and flesh and bones and hopefully swallows down the monster that bred him in the process? 

Will there even be anything left at all? Of either of them?

Does Dabi even care? Does Touya? 

You know he’s still in there, despite the fact that his heart’s been corroded by the bitterness that’s been festering inside of him for eleven years—you’ve seen him. 

You’ve seen him, trailing along with Toga, causticity eating at his teeth as he spits that she’s fucking stupid, this is so fucking stupid, but allowing himself to be led anyway, zero resistance as her tiny hands tug him along behind her bouncing form, feet following willingly. 

You’ve seen him, meticulously picking through the glass bowls at the League’s small Halloween get together, checking and then double checking that everyone’s favourite candy is there, growling that he really doesn’t give a fuck, actually, he’s just looking for his own all the while, despite the fact that his fingers have skipped over that particular chocolate bar several times. 

You’ve seen him, on those nights where Tomura just can’t get to sleep, sprawled out on the couch in the early hours of the morning, dirty boots an inch from Tomura’s crossed legs, staring blankly at his phone and waving Kurogiri off with a go to bed already, old man. 

 So what now?

“He tried to cool me down.”

The sudden switch to a quiet, monotonous voice snaps you from your tangle of thoughts, eyes refocusing on Dabi’s face, realizing you’ve rubbed a streak of his cheek near raw. 

“What?”

“Shouto. He tried to cool me down. With his ice.” A pause, a drop of blood, balancing precariously on his lash line. “Like…Like how mom used to.” 

His Adams apple bobs with the heft of a thick swallow, his eyes blank and unblinking, staring at your shoulder. 

The blood in your veins runs frigid, hand held rigid and hovering over his wounds.

“During the fight?” 

His gaze stays fixed on that spot as he nods, slowly, just once. 

“I was overheating, and he…” 

Another beat of silence passes, the sound of your own breathing echoing in your ears, harsh and fast with the rapid beating of your heart. The blood collecting along his lashes finally overflows, escaping their confines to pool in the crinkles of dead skin and coat gold in crimson.

“Hey,” you murmur, so gentle, so soft it inspires a second wave of blood, dainty hands cupping his jaw and tilting his face to yours. 

Thumbs swipe through the thick streams of scarlet trickling down his cheeks, smearing bright strokes across healthy skin. His eyes, red and glazed but tearless, hold yours for a moment, his nostrils twitching twice. 

Beneath your palms, the hinges of his jaw flex with another dense swallow, warped smile wobbling a little.

“Whatever,” he says, voice less than an octave off from normal. “Doesn’t matter, not important.”

It does, you want to say. It is, you want to insist—

“All I want to do now is celebrate the best day of my life with the love of my life.”

Saliva pools beneath your tongue, the threat of tears thick in your throat.

“Touya…” your eyes search his face, worry woven into the wrinkles between your furrowed brow. “It—”

“Please,” he whispers, so quiet it’s barely more than a wisp of air, his eyes closing briefly for a moment as he gathers himself, lids lifting a second later. “Let me have this.” 

You want to, you so desperately want to—want to allow him this space to be happy, unfiltered and unadulterated, even in all of it’s unhinged, brainsick fervour. You don’t want to ruin this for him, the self-proclaimed Best Day of His Life, but…

What now?

It’s nipping at your lips, leaving them tingling and twitching, but you press your tongue to the roof of your mouth and suck, melting the question in the smothering heat. 

Now is not the time to ask. You will save this question, will fold it into a neat little shape and stash it away in your stomach, where it will rage and roar and demand to be spoken, where you will shove it down and stomp it into submission until it is time to be released.

You refuse to steal this moment from him.

“Okay,” you finally murmur, stroking his blood-slicked cheeks. “Okay.”

It’s hard to ignore the concern scraping at the walls of your skull, to disregard the talons tearing at your heart, to snuff out the flames licking at your lungs, but you’ll do it for him.

Always for him.

And for the first time tonight, his smile softens, sharp edges gone melty with love.

Large hands, hardened by blue fire and the ends of Marlboros, skim up your bare thighs, the callouses adorning his palms scraping roughly against sensitive skin, inspiring trails of chills in their wake. The hem of your dress pools around his wrists as his touch climbs higher, filthy fingers, with dirt caked beneath their nails and grime lining their cuticles, wiggling their way beneath a frilly pink waistband, curling almost protectively around your hips, tips digging into supple flesh just shy of too hard.

“A perfect day deserves a perfect end, don’t you think?” 

The question drips from his lips in a sultry murmur, stare heavily lidded as he tugs you down into his lap, a leering smirk smeared across his face. 

“Oh, yeah?” your arms wind around his neck, nose bumping against his own. “And what’s that?” 

“Stuffing my favourite girl full of my cum.” 

Lips trace along the edge of your jaw as he speaks, words leaving sloppy strokes of saliva as his mouth moves against you skin. 

“Over,” kiss, “And over,” kiss, “And over again, until it’s leaking out of her pretty little pussy, all over her pretty thighs, all over my pretty cock.”

“I think that—ah—I think that’s a great way to end the day.”

“Mm,” he hums, painting a flat, wide stroke of saliva up the column of your neck, the tip of his tongue tracing your cupids bow, nose bumping against your own. “It’s my favourite way to end the day.” 

His lips press to yours, tongues finding each other instantly, dragging across one another in crude, sloppy caresses, heavy and slow and firm as they grind, massaging together in little circles. It’s almost as if you’re trying to soak up his taste, to permanently imbue your tastebuds with it, to keep a little reminder of him—a single piece—with you forever. 

It’s messy, thick drool oozing from the seams of your conjoined mouths, but you don’t care, licking excess saliva from the corners of his mouth, sucking the dribble steadily collecting on his bottom lip, lapping up the foamy spit coating his chin staples, leaving them gleaming with you. 

Lips clash again, teeth gnawing their way into the warm, wet heat of mouths, desperate to devour any part of each another you possibly can, sucking gasps and mewls and laughs from one throat into another, inhaling shards of your souls and swallowing them down, burying them in pits of stomachs and depths of guts—keepsakes, kept safe.

You can taste his blood in your mouth, salty with the tears that can’t fall, trickling from the edges of his eyes. Unfurling from your mouth, the tip of your tongue licks a thin strip up his ragged cheeks, over dead skin and warm bumpy metal, sopping up crimson sadness and consuming it. 

You hold it for him, extract it from him, bear it with him, letting it soak into your heart where it can stay, for as long as he needs it to.

But that isn’t enough for him, because he wants something in return; he wants your blood, too.

Sharp teeth sink into your bottom lip, sucked taut and pressed tight to his tongue, a muted chuckle vibrating in his chest at your responding yelp. The strong hinges of his jaw flex, burrowing ivory deep, deep, deeper into your flesh, until the barrier snaps and copper explodes on his tongue, sticky and potent and so, so much. 

He refuses to release you, ribs rattling with a growl when you try in vain to tug your lip free from its captors, a sob hitching in your throat, followed by a wheezy whine. 

“Stay put, goddamn it,” he mumbles the words through his occupied teeth, tongue stroking your lip in the process. “M’not finished.” 

Your squirming stops almost instantly, body deflating into his own, and he huffs out a snort, hot against your face. 

The grip of his teeth loosens marginally, the tip of his tongue laving over the steadily weeping wound in firm, thorough strokes, tracing every indent his teeth left behind, dips rapidly swelling and filling with watered down blood, a mold of six teeth carved into your flesh. 

The strength of his suction increases, siphoning fresh blood from the tiny gashes, and he moans a little, eyes rolling back in his skull as fluttery lashes frame the whites, his hips twitching up. 

Sicko. 

His cock is already hard, rutting into your core in irregular little movements, the lace of your panties so delicate you swear you can feel it throbbing, his motions molding the dainty fabric to your soaking folds with every slight jerk upward.

Slim fingers flex, grip on your hips tightening and further burying his nails in your flesh as he forces you to begin rocking in his lap, grinding down to meet each roll up.

His lips have left your own again, his mouth streaked with your blood, a pretty pink shimmer glazing the bottom half of his face. Blood is still trickling from the six tiny slashes his teeth left, overflowing from the seam of your mouth and flowing down your chin in unbroken streams. 

Swiping a thumb through the thin floods, he smears sticky crimson across your skin, collecting a healthy swap of the substance on the pad of his finger—so much so it begins dripping down the curve to settle in the lines of his knuckle and his palm.

“Beautiful,” he whispers, repeating the action, painting you in messy shades of yourself. “Just beautiful.” 

A whimper slips through your lips, eager tongue catching his thumb and curling around the appendage—protective, possessive—drawing it into the heat of your mouth. 

He lets you guide him willingly, watches with lust-blown pupils as your lips pucker around the second knuckle, slick tongue cradling his thumb as it sucks it to the roof of your mouth, pools of saliva washing your blood from his skin. 

His breath is coming out in hot, hard huffs, exhaled through parted lips as your mouth tightens, swallows his thumb down further. His pupils pulse, gnawing away at his irises as they try to devour you whole, blue so thin it’s scarcely an outline tracing gaping orbs of black.

Your hips are still gyrating against his in erratic little circles, a single palm still clasped around your waist guiding you, encouraging you as he bucks in response, straining cock rubbing along your cunt. 

It’s just barely catching your clit, nothing more than teasing little grazes, dense heat simmering in the pit of your tummy.

You need more.

“Dabi,” you whine a little, wriggling in his grasp, a desperate attempt to garner more friction. 

“Uh-huh?”

“Touya.”

“Yeah, baby,” he answers, the nonchalance in his tone contradicting the mischief glinting in his eye. “What is it?” 

Chrome chips your nails as you claw at the heavy buckle of his belt, leather squeaking against metal. His free hand captures your wrists easily, holding them together in one palm, hard enough that the bones grind together.

“You want something? Huh?” 

Brows knitting, you glare at him, bottom lip quivering a little, fighting the urge to jut into a full-blown pout, fighting the urge to spit out what do you think? 

“You know.”

He does, of course he does. 

But that doesn’t mean he’s just going to give it to you.

“C’mon, I wanna hear you say it,” he purrs as your chin puckers, your whole face scrunched up in a scowl. “C’mon, baby, c’mon, be a good little girl and ask for it.” 

Sapphire scathes your skin, almost as bright and burning as his flames, his unadulterated attention nearly too much to bear, confidence and brattiness withering beneath his scorching stare.

Lashes fluttering, your eyes flee his, tears forming to shield you from his heat, shoulders caving inward in an attempt to protect you from his unyielding scrutiny. 

“W-Want your cock.”

His tongue clicks in disapproval, a mocking frown slapped across his face barely suppressing his amusement, eyes shining, power flaring. 

“That’s not asking, sweetheart.” 

Swallowing thickly, you force your gaze to his, lids squinting a little beneath his brilliance.

“Can I please have your cock? Please?” 

“Please what?”

And although he’s acting unaffected, he can’t quite quell the spasming of his hips, jerking up in minuscule movements and grinding his cock into your sopping hole, panties clinging uncomfortably to your folds.

An eyebrow raises, a question of Well? I’m waiting… imbued in the subtle action. 

He isn’t going to give it to you unless you ask properly, like a good little girl is supposed to.

As expected.

“Please, Master,” you mewl, fingers curling over the edges of his belt and tugging, sharp leather biting into soft hands. “Please, please, let me ride your cock, Sir.”

Cavernous eyes observe you for a moment, scanning for dishonesty, grin growing when a whine vibrates in your throat, low and needy.

“Please?” you whimper, the leather of his belt creasing beneath your grip, squealing as it rubs together, a plead hitching in your chest. “Pl—Please, Sir.”

“Alright, alright,” he’s pacifying, acting as if he’s doing you some sort of favour, as if his cock isn’t jumping eagerly with each drool of pre-cum leaking from its slit. “Go on, then. Get it out.”

Words of thanks are pouring from your lips as your hands hastily undo his pants, yanking at the buckle, tugging at the zipper, shoving at the waistband, messy and urgent until his cock is finally released.

The stretch is nothing short of incredible, as it always is with him, little hole trembling as it swallows around his girth, drawing him in further and further, deeper and deeper, slow and steady until the head nudges your cervix, his hips twitching up twice, ensuring he’s hit the end, buried to the hilt with nowhere else to go, completely stuffing your cunt full. 

And despite the trademark ache, delicate flesh stinging as it splits into little fissures to accommodate him, your hips begin moving immediately, starved and raring, whimpering a little into his shoulder as you cling to him, every rotation of your hips radiating pricks of pain through your gut.

“God, you’re pathetic,” he snorts, but the insult is soft, edges dulled by love. “So fucking desperate for my cock, aren’t you?” 

“Can’t help it,” you murmur, rubbing your cheek along the curve of his neck, then his jaw, streaking your face with his sweat. “Missed you so much.” 

“I know, baby,” the tip of his tongue swipes through the blood still staining your chin. “Bet you missed my cock just as much, if not more.”

“Yes, yes, Sir,” you’re nodding in messy little motions, hips still rocking languidly against his own, clit gliding against his slick pubic bone in rhythmic strokes. “I did, I missed it s’much—”

A gasp slices through your slurred words, sharp air shoved from your chest as his hips begin snapping upward, rough and ruthless and without warning, the hands grasping your hips tightening around your flesh as he forces you to stay in place.

“Of course you did,” he grunts out, as if it’s preposterous to think otherwise. “I’m not at all surprised; my sweet lil slut can’t live without my cock, can she?” 

“Never, never, ne-never,” you babble out in confirmation, words stuttered harshly with the piston of his hips. 

Another laugh spills from his lips, airy and malicious in melody.

“No, never,” he rasps, ever-so-slightly breathless with the effort, dewdrops of sweat beginning to adorn his hairline. “Fuck, how would you ever get off without me, huh?” 

The question sends a pang searing through your heart, echoing a question you’ve been asking yourself often as of late—how would you ever survive without him? 

The thought stings your eyes, thick tears rushing to cloud your vision and rendering him nothing more than a watery blur of ivory and violet.

“I—I wouldn’t, Sir, I wouldn’t!” you cry out, rapid fluttering of your lids dislodging teardrops, streaming down your cheeks in glistening pairs. “I n-need you, I need you, always, always, al-always!” 

Your fingers curl against his shoulders, nails catching on staples, a hiss spit from the gaps of his teeth. They sink into grafted skin, dead and weathered and dusted in ash, and cling, knuckles locked and stiff as you try to pull yourself impossibly closer to him.

Gnarled flesh collects beneath the edges of your nails as your grip strengthens, chewing on his body and gathering it in your grasp, consuming whatever tiny slivers you can, a silent plead to stay.

“It’s okay, precious,” he hushes you, lips pushed into a mocking pout, contradicted by the smothering affection exuding from his eyes. “M’here, m’not going anywhere.”

God, you hope not. 

“Please, please—” 

And you drown yourself in it, drown yourself in him; his taste, spicy hickory and warm smoke, exhaled onto your hungry tongue, soaked up and swallowed down; his gaze, overflowing with adoration and intense attention, tying itself in a thick braided noose around your neck and tightening; his touch, stamping his prints into your flesh in blotchy bursts of blue, singeing his name with licks of sapphire that welt and wound, that crust and crater and scar. 

Your ribs squeeze, sucked inward by the voracious black hole your heart has morphed into—never sated, never filled, always vying for more—whole body curling beneath the strain.

But he’s right there to hold you, to steady you, to keep you intact, his hands the stitches you need to keep from unraveling.

“I know, I know,” he’s cooing as you choke on sobs, still scraping weakly at his back, “your Master’s gonna give you what you need.”

Slim fingers flex, soot-stuffed nails latching onto your flesh like tiny leeches, dug in nice and deep, using his grasp as leverage to control the speed and angle of your hips. 

Your feet skid against the chipped bathroom tile, the muscles in your legs tensing as you attempt to find stable purchase on the floor trying to aid in his movements, to fuck yourself on him.

It’s no use, though—it’s not like it matters, anyway, not when Dabi’s got complete domination over your body, over all of its movements and positions, manhandling you into whatever arrangement he pleases, reduced to nothing more than his favourite little plaything. 

“It’s real cute,” he’s telling you in that sugared condescension you’ve come to love so much, “that you’re trying so hard to help me.”

A whine escapes your lips, caught somewhere between apologetic and petulant, hips stammering as they begin to slow, and he laughs. 

“Aw, no, don’t stop,” his tongue clicks against his teeth. “Keep trying, it’s so precious.” 

And although his tone is taunting, full of characteristic derisive glee, his eyes are encouraging, begging you to keep going, for him. 

And so, you do, desperate to please him, the muscles in your thighs beginning to burn as you work in vain to pathetically hump away at him, hips knocking together irregularly as your footing continues to slip.

It doesn’t do much to assist him, but he’s happy anyway, a certain type of pride saturating his features, dulling the points of his wide smile, dimming the harsh brilliance in his eyes, turning his face into something a little softer, something a little sweeter.

Dabi keeps an iron grip on the pace—not that you’d ever expect anything different—forcing you to ride him hard and fast, bouncing you on his cock as his hips buck up in expert rhythm, completing your movements every time. The head drags over that engorged spot with each pound into you, sending a judder of scorching sparks to rush through your blood, each bout more intense than the last.

“God, look at you, you’re such a little slut for me, huh?” he pants out, rapacious eyes sweeping across your face, keen to soak up your expression. “Taking my cock like you were fuckin’ made for it.”

He’s really fucking into you now, jerking you on his cock like a toy, because you are—something that’s his to use whenever, wherever, and however he sees fit, something that’s his to own, to care for and splinter to bits and painstakingly piece back together, over and over and over again.

Tears of ecstasy are pouring from your eyes, cascading down your face in twin streams, excess dewdrops embedded in spiked lashes glittering with every rough pump of his hips.

It all hurts—always does, with Dabi, incapable of treating anything with any degree of gentleness; not a flaw, just a fact, oblivious to his own strength—but the pain only works to elevate the pleasure, pushing it higher and higher and higher until it’s choking you, smothering your lungs and stuffing your throat and spilling out your mouth in the form of messy, stringy sobs.

“S’been so long, Sir, so long,” you weep, nails burrowing further into his body, almost as if they’re desperate to reach his core—to pry past his ribs and claw into his heart and curl up in his soul. 

Because it has been so long, too long, most of Dabi’s attention soaked up by Paranormal Liberation duties and his own extensive planning as Shigaraki’s due date drew closer and closer, any scraps of time thrown your way whenever he had a spare moment to sneak off to this dilapidated safe house where he’d stashed you away, his visits sporadic and unpredictable. 

“You’re right,” he says, and there’s a tinge of melancholy to his breath. “It’s been way too long since your sweet cunt has been filled with your Owner’s cock, hasn’t it?”  

“It has, it has,” you’re nodding sloppily, tongue tangled in threads of spit.

“My poor lil pussy,” he pouts, and it’s so derisive. “Must be starving, it hasn’t been stuffed nice and full with my cum in forever.” 

“No, no, no,” you’re chanting in agreement, “feels so empty without you, Sir, feels s-so wrong.”

“Aw, don’t worry, sweetheart,” he crudely laps at the steady stream of tears, vicious bouncing causing his teeth to nick your cheek. “I’m gonna change that.”

Chapped lips find your ear, slicked with saliva, his voice dropping an octave as he continues. 

“Because tonight,” he breathes, sweltering against your ear, his tongue darting from between wet lips to trace along the curve. “I am going to stuff you so full of my cum that—ah, fu-fuck—that it’s going to flood your cute lil tummy, that it’s gonna seep into your organs, into your fucking blood, that it’s gonna be leaking out all over the fucking place.” 

“Oh, oh, please, Sir, please!” 

The pleads come out as a single string, melded together with drool and garbled on your tongue. Little jolts of fire shoot through your body with the constant ramming of his hips, flames licking at your veins as they sear through them, the sharp slap of your ass against his thighs complementing his harsh pants and your broken moans.

“Yeah, I know, my little cumslut wants that so badly, doesn’t she?”

Your brain struggles to stitch together a sentence longer than his name, your mind gone delirious for his seed—and it’s an aching, it’s an addiction, sick and depraved and downright uncontrollable—little uh-huh!’s mercilessly fucked from your throat, head bobbling along with the affirmations.

You can feel it, a taut pleasure building within your body, a fluttering that furls into a tight ball of sapphire flame in the pit of your belly, pulsing a little faster, a little harder, a little more with every drive of his cock. 

“Oh, Touya, Tou—Touya!”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, say my name.” 

A growl rattles against his ribs, whole chest vibrating with the force of it, and his head dips down, slick tongue painting strokes of thick, shimmering saliva across your skin, an artist priming his favourite canvas.

“C’mon, tell me who’s making you feel this good—” and although it’s supposed to be a command, it comes out as a plead, voice tapering off into a low whine, muffled against your shoulder. “Tell me, tell me.”

“You, Touya,” you choke out, the name mangling itself in your throat. “You, you, you!” 

“You’re goddamn right, it’s me.” 

Sharp teeth bury themselves in your flesh, mouth clamped over the junction of your neck, harder and harder and harder until the barrier of your skin finally splits, syrupy copper erupting on his tongue. 

His name shatters on your lips, a dark chuckle soaking into the wound when you arch your neck, stretched and strained and offering him more room to work despite the squeal of pain sticking in your throat

It’s all so much, too much, his teeth in your flesh and his cock filling your cunt and—and—!

“Gonna—gonna—!” 

A large palm collides with your ass, sick slap echoing off the cracked walls. 

“Is that any way to ask your Master for permission?” Dabi spits, voice dripping with disappointment. “God,” he huffs out a laugh, incredulous, but the mirth shining in his eyes is so bright, so blazing it almost hurts to look at. “My cock must’ve really made you go fucking stupid, huh? Don’t you know this body belongs to me?” 

Another spank lands against your bottom, a yelp hitching in your chest with the ruthless jackhammer of his hips, his fingers sinking into the burning flesh in a bruising grip, amplifying the sting of the slap, digging it deep into your tissues. 

“This body is not allowed to cum unless I say so—so ask nicely, you little bitch.” 

“M’sorry!” you cry out, a fresh torrent of tears flooding your eyes. “M’sorry, m’so sorry, Master—”

“Yeah? Yeah?” 

His other hand snakes between your heaving, sweat-drenched bodies, thumb and forefinger clamping down on your clit and tweaking, hard enough to force a scream from your tongue, sending spikes of pain rushing through your veins. His fingers flatten against the engorged little nub a moment later, rubbing hard, quick circles into it, a malicious little giggle squeaking in his throat because it’s so swollen, baby and Christ, you must wanna cream all over his cock so badly! 

Sounds of affirmation spill uncontrollably from your lips, head nodding in frenetic little motions, whole face shimmering and sticky with salt, snot, sweat. 

“Uh-huh? Uh-huh?” 

He’s mocking you, chin tilted up in superiority, staring down the bridge of his nose to regard you in patronizing pity, eyebrows raised and imploring you to continue. 

“Apologies are not asking, baby,” his grip catches your slippery clit again, twisting it harder this time, your eyes scrunching shut as a cry shatters on your tongue, fingers scrabbling against his shoulders, tearing out staples. 

He’s right, you know he is, but he’s making it difficult to speak, difficult to ask, difficult to stitch together a single word at all, let alone a full thought, when he’s playing with your clit like that, alternating between pulsing pinches and gentle caresses, the calloused pads of his fingertips providing just the right amount of friction. 

Your whole body quivers with the effort of holding your orgasm back, muscles pulled tight and taut with the strain, and he laughs—beautiful, breathless, bona-fide—cock twitching inside of you. 

“Pl—Please, Sir,” you manage to gasp out, entreatment forced from your tongue in a single thin breath. “Please, let me cum, please, please, please!” 

The pleads melt into one gooey stream as they flow from your lips, slathered in drool and dripping from the corners of your mouth in thick cords. 

“Yeah? You want it? You wanna cum all over your Owner’s cock?” 

“Yes, yes!” you practically wail, pawing urgently at him. “Please, sir, let me cum, make me cum, I wanna—I wanna—”

“Alright, alright,” Dabi’s pacifying, but his actions don’t slow, hips merciless with their assault on your body. “Go ahead, sweetheart, make a pretty mess on me.” 

Never one to disobey a direct order from your Master, you do, almost instantly, entire body convulsing as your cunt pulses around his shaft, gushing so much slick that it floods his thighs and soaks the waistband of his pants.

The constant circles ground into your sensitive clit as you spasm around him only work to heighten the pleasure, brain gone numb with the shocks of ecstasy coursing through your body, another flurry of jolts sent through your veins with every run through the routine, skin rippling with the impact. 

He doesn’t stop his assault even after you cum, vehemently refusing to let up even as the clenching of your cunt fades into something faint and erratic, even as violent tremors loop through your veins, entire body quivering in his tight grasp, even as your fingers claw weakly at his wrist, crooking staples and scraping scarred flesh, blood rushing to fill the gouges left by your nails. 

No, he doesn’t stop until you’re teetering on the brink of passing out, wandering in and out of consciousness, his name leaving your lips in a near incomprehensible jumble, slurred and heavy with spit. 

Only then does he scoop you up in his arms, your legs dangling limply from his elbows as his palms firmly clutch your ass, hard cock still aching and buried deep inside of you, and carry your pliant body to that worn, fraying couch, with the puffs of white cotton leaking through the polyester and the exposed springs groaning beneath your weight.

You barely notice the change in scenery, though, still blissfully fucked out, nerves gnawed raw  by his overstimulation, a soft hiss slipping from between your teeth as the scratchy cushion rubs against your bare bottom, a raised imprint of Dabi’s palm and all five fingers still rapidly swelling. 

“It’s my turn now, angel,” Dabi’s words drift over your body in an indistinct haze, vision fuzzing at the edges, your head nodding instinctively. 

“Gonna—Gonna make good on your promise, Master?” 

“I always do, don’t I?” 

And then his hips are thrusting, cockhead repeatedly ramming your cervix with every harsh plunge forward, leaning down to catch fresh tears with his lips. The tip of his tongue traces their salty trajectory all the way to your bottom lashes, matted into wet little spikes, before sucking a hickey into your cheek, tiny capillaries bursting beneath his tongue, staining the thin skin with swiftly developing violet.

Tufts of ivory cling to his temples in damp clumps, dried black dye liquifying beneath his heat and running down his cheeks, leaving streaks along the line of his jaw and the curve of his neck. Sweat collects in the dips of his collarbones, shimmering gently in the flickering light spilling from the television set, a wavering news reporter recounting the tragic events of today, stuttered by static.

“God,” he nearly whines, voracious eyes sweeping across your face, desperate to soak up your twisted expression of pleasure-tinged pain—the way your lids keep drooping as you struggle to keep them pried open, eyes speckled with stars, lashes encrusted with tears; the way your tongue keeps lolling out to draw your slick lip back between your teeth, muffling your whimpers and mewls, and oh, no, he can’t have that, a gentle tut of his tongue clicking against his teeth as his thumb tugs it free from your mouth, drawing out a stringy whine in the process.

“You’re so fucking gorgeous when you go dumb from my cock.”

The words leave his lips in an airy gasp, as if he can hardly believe you’re real beneath him, as if he can hardly believe it’s his cock making you look this way, a hand leaving your waist to slide along your torso, taking the hem of your dress with it, rough palm tracing every curve and dip and bulge as it crawls to your collarbone. 

He takes his time to admire you—to appreciate the sensation of your skin beneath his touch, fingers gripping, kneading, scraping, gathering palmfuls of you in his grasp before letting go again in a stunned sort of marvel—hips slowing to an uneven rutting, unable to fully halt his fucking. 

Keeping a firm, steady grasp on your body and pinning you in place, his free hand continues to roam, hardened fingertips sinking into the pretty blue lace of your bra hard with enough force to elicit a yelp from your lips, amusement tugging at his lips. 

“So, so beautiful,” he pants, eyes skimming your now exposed body, his fiery gaze outlining every edge, dedicated in committing every contour to memory. “Fucking look at you.” 

In all the time you’ve been with him, your body has become a scrapbook of Dabi. It tells stories of him—what he’s done, how he’s felt, where he’s been, why he did it—stamped permanently into your flesh using his teeth and his tongue and his flames, in raised flesh and puckered craters and glittering scabs.

You can’t tear your stare from his face, though, too busy worshipping him, sapphire eyes gaping and glazed as they travel along your body, soft huffs of breath escaping his lips, pushed from his throat with the tender heaving of his chest, saliva glistening on his lips, smeared so prettily across the staples climbing his chin. 

Dainty fingers grope at the air, pathetic and yearning, clawing at nothing, and he laughs a little, nothing more than a smooth, deep vibration at the back of his tongue.

His touch finds the apex of your thighs again, nails dimpling flesh as he spreads your legs wide—so wide your muscles begin to burn, taut beneath the strain—a quiet groan rumbling in his chest as he stares at your stretched cunt. 

Two fingers press into your clit, still slick and swollen, grazing over it in slow caresses—back and forth, back and forth, gliding easily over the puffy nub and snorting a little at the way your hole flutters, eager and aching, squeezing his cock, sucking him in, begging for more. 

So cute. 

Eyes wide and unblinking, he plays with you in a trance, slowly but surely building up pleasure in you, pressure in you, fascinated by the way your body so readily reacts to his simple motions, grinding circles and rubbing strokes and pulsing fingertips. 

It enraptures him, puffs of hot air exhaled through slightly parted lips as he watches just his touch bring you to orgasm for the second time tonight, obsessed with the way your cunt trembles around his cock, a surge of your essence streaming from your hole, embracing him in a thick, wet heat.

Your cunt gorges on him—so fuckin’ greedy, even after cumming twice—fluttering a little around the base of his shaft, still oozing so much slick that it’s glazing your ass and his balls, steadily seeping past the tight seam of your hole. 

It’s so pretty, it’s so fuckin’ pretty, baby, he’s breathing, eyes hazy with awe, hips drawing back just a little to watch the way your body clings to his girth, sheathing his cock in a shimmering layer of arousal. 

A palm wraps around the base of his shaft, the head of his cock still buried an inch or two in your straining cunt, and he jerks himself hard and quick, sick wet slaps echoing out among the room as his hand slams between your cunt and his pelvis. 

“Fuck, f-fuck—” 

His hips start moving on their own accord, too impatient, his hand nothing compared to the sweltering ecstasy of your cunt, and he releases his cock, sticky hand collaring your throat, pinioning you to the couch, his thrusts so vicious they’re jostling your body up the cushions, the palm crushing your airway keeping you in place.

Lithe fingers flex as their grip on your neck tightens, coarse pads of his fingertips beginning to heat up, blood in your veins bubbling beneath his touch. 

Your flesh melts beneath his hold, melds itself to his grasp, desperate to stay in his hands forever. 

The sting is unlike anything you’ve ever felt before, his palm and all five of his fingers singed into your skin in the prettiest, most precious permanent necklace. You can barely breathe, exhales coming as weak little wheezes, and you swear his flames must be licking into your throat, down to your lungs and straight through your veins, incinerating your blood as your body goes numb, cunt clenching around his cock for the third time, wailing out shards of his name. 

But you don’t allow his hold to let up, to loosen at all, both of your hands placed firmly over his, holding it there harder, a loud moan escaping his lips, his hips stammering out of rhythm. 

“Brand me, Master, brand me, brand me,” you’re gasping out, voice wrecked and raw. “Make me yours, mark me as yours, forever!”

“Jesus Christ,” he nearly sobs, his thrusts turned brutal, primal, losing any semblance of finesse as he relentlessly fucks you, motions stuttering as he finally cums, a violent shudder coursing through his body before he collapses on top of you, drenched in sweat as his cock throbs, filling you to the brim with hot, thick cum. 

“More, Touya, more, more!” you’re crying out, scrabbling at his shoulders as you try to pull him closer, shivering legs latching around his waist as tight as you can manage as your hips roll up to meet his own, crudely humping him. “Gimme more!” 

A groan, dense and heavy, spills from his lips, his entire body rippling with hiccups as he ruts into you—automatic, instinctual, desperate to give his sweet girl what she wants, even if it hurts.

“Yeah, yeah, ye-yeah, Touya, Touya, fill me with y’r cum!” 

And so, he does, using your cunt to milk himself even as his form quivers with every rock of his hips, chills skidding across his flesh with every bump of his cockhead against your abused cervix. 

He keeps going, just like you begged him to, just like he promised he would, until your tummy is stuffed full and your cunt is leaking with his seed, until neither of you can take it anymore, bodies shuddering with every hump and drag and grind, deliquescing into one another, a puddle of limbs. 

You stay like that for a while, his body blanketing yours, breathing as one, being as one. Gentle fingertips trail up and down the column of his spine as his bones begin to fuse and harden again, tiptoeing over the trails of staples stitching dead skin to healthy flesh and evoking a mild shudder, pads of your fingers pressing into each golden suture, counting them lovingly, kissing every one. 

Eventually, after your fingers have traversed across all thirty-one, he shifts, manhandling you onto his chest as he shuffles himself beneath you, cradled between his thighs. 

“What now?”

You don’t mean to say it, don’t mean to shatter that delicate, post-orgasmic, precarious peace with two simple words, but they claw up your throat and pry past your teeth and gnaw on your lips, desperate to be vocalized, immortalized, heard.

What now? 

They’re uttered out softly enough, lips moving against his heart, warm breath seeping into his chest, the question worming its way beneath his skin. 

His muscles go rigid, his breath stalling in his lungs.

What happens now that his goal has been reached, Part One in his plan succeeded? What’s the next step, now that the world knows Todoroki Touya is alive and simmering in his hatred, fuelled by spite and ravenous with revenge?

What happens when he goes to face his father for the final time? And what happens if he never returns?

“Oh, I dunno,” he sighs out, but his voice trembles. “We could fix this place up, all nice and swanky, have a couple’a kids, get a golden retriever—y’know, real nuclear family type shit.” 

You laugh, but it comes out strangled, sounding strange to your ears, a distorted sob. 

“The dream, huh?” 

“Yeah,” he says, quiet, nostalgia for a time that has never happened, that will never come, aching in his words. “The dream.” 

A silence settles over the two of you, as tender as the edges of a festering wound.

“I have to do it,” he says after several moments have passed, and his voice is soft—softer than you’ve ever heard it before, softer than you ever thought him capable of—infused with apology.

He does.

You know he does. You understand why. That’s how the story ends, the final chapter he’s been drafting—you were never meant to be a part of this tale, written in between lines and margins, stuffed between words, twined throughout the pages nonetheless. But ultimately, this is his story—to write, to tell, to edit, to revise, to create, to conclude. 

You know.

But the acceptance sticks in your throat, furled into a tight, hard lump, so you nod instead, punctuating your affirmative with a kiss pressed to his chest, planted right over his heart. It soaks into his skin, burrows itself into pulsating muscle and finds salvation there, finds home there, a puzzle piece that snaps into perfect place—something that’s always been missing, now complete. Something he’ll take with him, when his pen leaves the page, when his book snaps shut.

You don’t dare look at him. You don’t need to. You can feel the stutter of his chest, hear the hitch of his breath tangling on hard truths to swallow, smell the copper streaming down his cheeks again.

And you hug him tighter. 

You know. And no matter how badly you wish to, you won’t stop him. 

[onlyseokmins]

ash and cinders • l.s.m.

Pairing: lee seokmin x fem!reader Genres: smut (minors dni!), angst, royalty!au, fantasy!au, gods/goddesses!au Warnings: magic, mentions of blood, war, cruelty, tyranny - all that good stuff, mentions of religion (au-specific), violence (i.e. suggestion of murder), (death) threats, and possible gaslighting 💃🏻 which just means a minor power play between them at first okay 😬 i promise it's not that bad lmao i'm just paranoid, lots of making out, oral (fem. receiving), lil bit of temp play tbh, little bit of choking, uh I wrote this so long ago and just finished it so lmk if i forgot anything?? it's just basically me attempting to write prettily uwu WC: 4.24k A/N: soooo, this has been rotting in my drafts FOREVER!!! but yeah seokmin is my most darling, favorite boy i've ever stanned anyways ofc i couldn't help but use his elle magazine photos (yes that's how long this has been ROTTING) ahhhhh - ahem anyways this goes hand-in-hand with Mischief Maker so definitely recommend checking that one out too! heheh <3

He only stayed during the night.    

When the blanket of darkness covered even the moon with a hazy layer of clouds, leaving tiny twinkling stars for a traveler’s guide. The fire once dancing in the hearth dwindled down to scarlet embers barely emitting enough heat to fill the large quarters.

Not that it mattered.

Even as you lay naked amidst the silken sheets strewn upon the grand bed, the thought of your lover’s return alone was enough to engulf your body in a flame of burning anticipation that settles and simmers between your legs.

He had been gone far too long. A lengthy patrol around the surrounding territories had taken him away from your embrace. Although every morning the sun’s rays tickled your face as a sweet greeting and bathed you in a radiant light through the day, nights without him were by far the worst.    

Cold.    

Lonely.    

Dark.

On usual accounts, it was a grievous crime to keep the queen waiting. But you would forgive him for anything, wouldn’t you? It’s exemplified in the way he bursts through the doors without so much as a courteous knock that even your most trusted servants must abide by, water droplets dripping from his auburn bangs.

Despite the eagerness to see you as soon as possible, he refused to step foot into your chambers when reeking of blood after fierce combat and soiled with dirt from travel. You always protested. The gilded throne you reigned from, the heavy crown upon your head, and even the bed you shared — all were built upon those very foundations. But your lover insisted on only showcasing the glorious side of things to you.

The gold.    

The diamonds.

The luxuries.

All which adorned you by day. Glowing, glistening, and shining. Gems and jewels, fabrics woven from the highest quality quickly reduced to layers that only became a hindrance once it came time for his descent upon you. For you were absolutely beautiful clothed — this he very well knew — but when your whole body was bared naked for him and him alone? You were truly the definition of divine.

Those who dared to speak ill of you tried to foster ridiculous claims. Critical of the wealth in your possession. Mocked what they presumed was a lack of ambition. Wailed that you were a witch. A young monarch on an undeniable downfall to tyranny, one that would lead them all to hellfire and ruin.

Anything to validate that you were not worthy of the royal seal emblazoned across the lands in honor of a valiant leader with a royal bloodline still running through your veins.

Hypocrisy at its finest when you were the reason that they were bestowed or able to retain property linked to their names, money in their pockets, and a legacy to live by under your prosperous reign. Arrogant to cast down the very thing that elevated them to their current standing. But their greed would eventually come back to bite them. One day.

Even the religious sect whispered lowly, hidden in the shadows of the grand temples. Doubts that the king actually held a shred of affection for his partner — if the seldom visits seen visiting your chambers only when night falls were of any substantial evidence to go by. That he only lay with you out of duty, shackled and bound to an imposter who was never a faithful servant to the gods like they were.

Because not one of them truly believed that a god could ever favor, let alone love, a human.

You knew you were a savior to as many as you were also an enemy. A hindrance and a threat. A bold refusal to control or be controlled. There was nothing more to do other than lead your people as fairly as you judged. 

All the preposterous assumptions infuriated him — your devoted knight, unorthodox husband, and scandalous lover. But he manages to temper his fiery rage out of respect for you. Behind your ruthless, steely intent is a righteous and kind heart that always calls out for him, now fully vocalized and embellished by the sweet voice he's missed hearing dearly.

“Seokmin,” you murmur, grasping his warm hand once he's within reach.

An entity of many epithets with an existence worth a millennium beyond comprehension and full of worship. Yet his favorite phonetic combination he'd ever heard was the one that fell breathlessly from your lips. The closest the human tongue could get to a god’s true name. And his second favorite would be yours, the syllables rumbling in his chest like a song and you smiled in contentment.

He was back, he was home, and he was yours.

Even in the darkness, Seokmin glowed. The ethereal radiance surrounding the broad expanse of sinewy muscles easily proved his lofty status as the great god of the sun. But it was also his eyes, flickering with the unmistakable presence as one of many deities. The kind of power that has managed to refrain from turning you into ash and cinders.

Whether it's attributed to your resilience, a ruler born to stand out and lead, or an entirely different reason — or a mixture of all — Seokmin isn't really sure. He's not the first to appear in a human vessel nor the last, with at least twelve of his known brothers wandering the mortal world for various reasons.

He wonders if he's the first to bow his head willingly, though, holding back his more devious and destructive tendencies. To pay back tenfold the worship he's received since the beginning of time all to you — a mere human — yet nonetheless, his queen.

The event of swearing his undying fealty feels like it was yesterday. For a being that persists forever, it may as well have been that short ago. Every memory he etches and sears into his mind for eternity consists of you, and only you.

How could he forget? How was he supposed to bury away the confident smirk that graced your lovely lips? Would he ever not recall the first time he bent the knee in such desperation? Not for a trick or as a dark seduction that tumbles into a dreadful demise, a conquest for carnage, and an abuse of his powers. But instead for the good of humanity — however short of an era it may be.

And maybe… for more. One that his heart fears to admit, for it does not beat within his chest, but in a plane beyond the reach of mortals.

"Would you kill for me?"

"For you, anything," the god affirms. "I have laid waste to kingdoms, countries, empires, and even continents themselves. There is nothing I'm incapable of."

"And if I asked you to behead the entire entourage that has traveled with you?"

"… If it is what you will, then it is simply my command to follow. For you, I am a lone knight at your disposal."

Silken skirts flare out as does your anger when you turn away from the large windows in the tower's tiny excuse of a throne room — hardly fit for the heir — showcasing a brief flash of the lethal dagger strapped to your thigh. "Do you wish for my downfall before I've even risen to the throne? You expect me to be a tyrant, despised by the people I am meant to save? To lead?"

"Do you think I, a god, care what thoughts others conjure up in their silly little minds? I am to act on your behalf, get my hands dirty in lieu of you. No matter how morbid your desires may be."

Stepping closer, you lift his chin with the tip of a dull sword intended to be ornamental. But it may be even deadlier than the one hung at his side, metaphorically sharpened and honed by a rebel princess's innate rage. 

His little show of bowing means little with the way he stares straight at you without a shred of respect in those galaxy-filled irises. However, it is the mighty sun god who is taken aback by the hellfire burning in your gaze, hungry and powerful enough to rival his own as you scoff.

"I will show you what kind of queen this land needs, the methods we will follow, and the morals I wish to uphold. You will learn in order to understand them and enforce my will. Not only to help guide the vision I desire but to keep me accountable lest I stray. A critical misstep such as that is when I'll ask you to cut me down. Will you swear to do that for me?"

"… You dare question a god of what he can do? Your tiny, impudent human mind couldn't fathom a sliver of my capability."

"I dare to question what you can't or won't do."

"I told you, there is not a thing beyond my realm of —"

"Leave."

"… Your Highness?"

Painted lips curl in a snarl at the first address of your proper title since his arrival. "Begone, I said! Return when you feel like acting like the god you are, not simply a tool to be harnessed and used at will. Until then, I have no need for you."

Seokmin's jaw drops as you seat yourself back on the throne with a sneer and flick of your wrist for the guard to usher him out.

A challenge. 

He's been abandoned many times. Discarded and tossed to the side once his usefulness has been expended. He's left before betrayal can even be thought of — for no one points a blade at a god's back — but never has he been rejected.

It was only the beginning of how you would become many of his 'firsts' and all of his 'lasts'.

Seokmin is lost deep in the memory even with the feeling of your lips curling in a gentle smile against his — a stark contrast to your initial meeting. A nail grazes his chin, digging lightly into the skin to fully bring the god back to the present. 

You'd be offended by the habitual spacing out if he hadn't admitted to only getting lost in thoughts of you. Something he'd picked up during the routine patrols away. Though you strive to bring the god out of dwelling in the past when you're sitting right in front of him — the present — and deepen the kiss.

Yet he pulls away to tilt his head. "Do you remember what you offered to me?"

"Have I not offered you my all, my king?"

Charcoal lying dormant in the hearth flares back to life, emitting playful sparks when he chuckles. "After I returned to pledge my loyalty to you."

"Ah, even though I had you wait outside the gates for five days."

"Unfathomable for a god to hang around at the whim of a meager human, isn't it?"

"Meager?"

"To me? Yes." 

His warm exhale of amusement feels just like the breeze that fondly brushes your cheeks every morning despite the eternal humidity. It may very well be him because no matter how far away physically from you he is, Seokmin's essence radiates in every sunray that stretches across the grand skies and below.

He is everywhere and everything all the time. But he is here with you tonight once again, kissing the palm you'd placed on his cheek. With mischief flickering like a teasing flame in his eyes, the god brings your hand to his throat, encouraging you to splay your fingers across his Adam's apple.

You free yourself from his light grasp to run them ticklishly up and down the bumps of his vocal cords. The movements of swallowing ripples beneath the light scratch of your nails until he halts you by replacing a veined hand over yours and murmurs, "Squeeze."

"Ah — but I…"

He repeats it again louder when you fail to do as asked, not even daring to move a muscle. Simply staring in almost awe-filled hesitation until he guides you to tentatively do exactly as he states, "You would have done anything to strangle me back then, what has changed?"

"… You know what."

"Tell me," he says it like it's a command, eyes brightening and swirling with an authoritative amber hue though it's all in jest. "Tell me what it is, my queen."

Never one to be deterred, only Seokmin could render you motionless for so long. You do as you're instructed, the gentle pressure applied by your hand around his throat causes auburn eyelashes to flutter. The slight restriction to an airflow that isn't all that necessary for a god's survival has his eyes rolling back before they re-focus on you, half-hidden by hooded eyelids.

"Love," you murmur. For it is the answer to everything, is it not?

"Love," is echoed with a resounding voice that doesn't fully come from the tongue of the man beneath you, but bellows out from an otherworldly essence that surrounds the entire world and beyond. And at the same time, he speaks it so fondly because ultimately, he's addressing it as a title for you.

The god of the sun, as immortal as he might be, has died before. Mortal vessels manage to persevere for a fixed number of years and a feeble human body can only endure so much wear and tear. Yet Seokmin's soul still shines steadily onwards despite the memory of death over and over again lingering… and he unsurprisingly realizes that he wouldn't mind dying like this — by your hand. 

Was that love? 

But the amount of power, energy, and time, along with the unpredictable wiles of the creator would never guarantee him returning to you. Preservation of this human shell was of the utmost importance, the first time he's ever handled a vessel with care before.

Perhaps that was love.

Rather than be swept up in unpleasantries, he entertains the amusing thought of how much fragility you exercise with him. Having already released your grip far too quickly and instead, fiddle with the untied laces on his loose shirt.

"Love," he repeats, this time as a call in a raspy drawl of his own voice. 

"Hm. Or maybe it was… pity."

An eyebrow raises and the corners of Seokmin's mouth twitch upward. "Only my queen would dare to pity a god."

"It was for what you were. And who you weren't. I despise those uppity, repetitive displays of unwavering loyalty that either party can easily discard."

"Like the former king's imperial court."

"Yes." 

Your angered hiss is exactly the same as the first time you informed him of your plans to take down your father and his cult. The disgust and rage have barely ebbed even after all the progress made for a better future and as many years that have passed. 

Seokmin scans your expressions. He's always admired your spitfire that could rival his own flames. But in times when it burns long enough to possibly exhaust or hurt you, he worries. You're strong — he knows that — so many times he simply becomes the safe space where you can seethe aloud without interruption. 

"Would you rather grow dull and be poisoned because someone is not even worth keeping an eye on or the thrill of unpredictability? A constant sword dance that keeps each other on their toes, never deviating gazes from one another."

He smirks. "That sounds familiar."

You think back to earlier days with him. A stubborn royal and an even more stubborn deity. When did the challenging, pointed glares at one another change to simmering looks of desire?

Instead of your swords tangling together in an angry clash over a small matter, it was your tongues after a heated sparring session. How condescension switched to respect to something more passionate… more primal… more intimate.

"Perhaps so. But look at you now — look at how you shine."

His skin indeed glows a bit brighter as he melts further into the soft touch of your palm returning to his cheek. Thumb tracing constellations between the pair of moles on his cheek while your other finger follows the nearly invisible scar below his eye.

"Little blemishes," he had once told you, "even the body of a god bears its flaws after fighting on a battlefield."

You thought they only made him all the more perfect.

"And look at how I've fallen."

As if to demonstrate his murmured words, Seokmin moves at the speed of light — his normal pace — to lie on his back, umber strands of hair spread out like flames of fire against the grandiose bed's silken sheets.

Somehow, he'd positioned you on top of him. Much accustomed to the tiny displays of omnipotence here and there, you remain unbothered. Affectionately, you brush back his bangs. Fiery wisps of hair that seemingly move on their own accord with the amount of power that ripples through their thin fibers.

He might just be the most powerful among his fellow deities and you could wield all of that as your own because he sits obediently in the palm of your hand. Lays dociley among your silken sheets. What he's trying to prove to you — the hold you have over him — immediately enthralled under your spell as you play with his locks and softly whisper, "You're Seokmin. My Seokmin."

Despite your bare chest quite literally in his face, the god waits. Fully clothed in soft linens where he can feel every tempting pulse thundering in your precious mortal body on top of his. 

And still, he waits. 

His hands don't even reach out as you unlace his shirt. Though he has wrecked and ruined your body in a thrillingly sensual, blistering, and passionate heat of love-making before, tonight he gives himself over to you. Vulnerable and all yours for the taking, watching with faint amusement as you impatiently urge him to shed the rest of his garments.

"My queen."

"My king."

"There is no rush. We have all of eternity."

"Do we?" you breathe out and look him in the eyes as your fingers dance along his inner thigh. "Or is it only you, divine ruler of the everlasting dawn and never-ending night?"

"My graceful moon," Seokmin sighs and distracts you from grasping his weeping shaft, urging you to straddle his legs. You follow his will despite the object of your desires lying neglected between your bodies, coating your stomach in the molten saltiness that drips from it.

"My stars, my sky, my galaxy, my universe." Each title of affection is seared into your skin with a burning kiss to brand your body. Your cheek, your ear, your neck, your shoulder, and your hand. "Without you in it, the world ceases to exist."

"My sun, my warrior, my knight, my shield, and my sword." You repeat a version of your own display of worship and what he means to you — mimicking the same actions across his lithe body. "My love, it would do you good to live in the present with me. Must you think of a dire future so soon?"

"Each inhale of life thus returns an exhale of death. I dread every moment that brings me closer to your end."

"Such morbid thoughts you carry, my darling. Where is the fearless god that took a poisoned arrow to the heart and pulled it out without so much as a flinch?" 

"You think me weak when I'd take the blow of any weapon as long as it does not harm you."

The irony when you'd both been struck by invisible, non-lethal darts fired from the god of love's feathered bow. But the terrifying memory of Seokmin taking the assassination attempt in your place causes a rare, but true, fear twisting in your gut. The flash of life before your eyes changed the trajectory of your tactics and your relationship with the god. And as always he reassures you with what he knows to be the truth — for the most part.

"Nothing can hurt me as long as you're alright." 

"Then make me your goddess in return so that I will be invincible enough to protect you from harm's wrath too." 

"But that… you know I can't," he whimpers, "no matter how much I long to." 

A tear trickles down his cheek, crystallizing when it falls. Like many before and well after, all bodily fluids of the god will be found transformed as various tiny diamonds and gems. Tangled within the bedsheets the following morning as they always are and stored away in the queen's treasury.

Seokmin cries, not just at his frustrations, but at how you gingerly hold his hot and hardened length. Heavy in your palm that rubs and strokes it lovingly before sinking down with practiced ease, having already stretched yourself out earlier while waiting. Undulating your hips in slow, controlled circles that make him dizzy with desire. Your words pierce his chest, paining him like no sword that sliced him open could ever compare.

"If fate will not let it happen, then bury me in the ground so I can thrive beneath your warm rays that whisper sweet nothings. Let me smile up at you after winter passes while I bloom brilliantly through spring and long into the heated days of summer. Weave my soul among the stars so I may greet you in the morning and kiss you goodnight every evening. Scatter my ashes into the windy gusts of the north and down the silver rivers flowing south so I may laugh and dance in the skies alongside your sunbeams."

He sobs at the poignant emotional tug of your words, every poetry waxed by your breathy voice punctuated by a tantalizing undulation of your hips. You reassuringly clench around him, foreheads and bodies pressed together, hands clasped tightly in each other's grasp.

The god's chest heaves and the mountains on the eastern border shift to the left. Sometimes the air cools when this occurs but tonight, it shimmers and glistens as if straining against his commands. A hot wave that threatens to distort the very seam of reality itself. 

"I will always be yours," you kiss the corner of his trembling lips, "and you mine, my darling god."

"My sweet goddess, my everything… my love."

Seokmin's hips buck up anxiously and you let him lead the pace. Wild thrusts take over as he chases that high, wanting and needing to take you over that peak with him. Your body lays prone against him, along for the jostling ride as the god seeks his own pleasure through and with you. Praises and worship fall from his lips, never failing to be in awe of how your cunt molds and works his cock like a blacksmith shapes an iron rod yet he can bully it as he wants to fit him. Only him. 

You were made for the god of the sun.

Golden ichor thrums through his veins, lighting his skin in flashes like the sparks of embers. He's beautiful. Otherworldly. Your lips capture each glowing pulse of godliness that erupts beneath his flesh with a tender peck. He's all yours.

And he was made for you.

When Seokmin plunges into your welcoming warmth that is his alone to claim before he finally succumbs, it's blinding. On the other side of the earth, the sun shines a little brighter. A harsh glint that already emits a sweltering heat from its fiery nature flares even hotter in the blue sky. A blessed priestess looks up in contemplation, waving away the worried maidens who tend to her every need.

You feel his large hands — one presses in a bruising hold between your shoulders, the other on your lower back. Keeping you flush against him, holding your body to his while you welcome inside the scorching spurts of his seed within your womb that feel like lava. Your walls flutter around him and he basks in the feeling of them pulsating as you jerk your hips 

"Come," he begs out. It's loud and resounding. More of an instinctual command if anything and your body almost obeys unwittingly, unaware of his intent before he lifts you up with inhuman strength and clarifies, "Up here," and sits you on your rightful throne — his face, "where you deserve, the queen of queens. My queen. My love. My goddess."

He laps at you like a dehydrated dog. Both cleaning you up and creating an even bigger mess. Your thighs squeeze tightly around the sides of Seokmin's head, one hand tugging harshly at his hair and the other mercilessly wrinkling the silk bed sheets. His moans are sweet songs of praise but muffled as he sucks his release out of your cunt only to push it back inside with his tongue. The addition of globs of spit accompanying the still-hot, smeared mess causes your own sounds to grow much louder, writhing on top of him from the sloppy sensations.

Back and forth he repeats this a couple of times, the firm point of his nose stimulating your sore clit in his efforts. And finally, you come undone — spasming on top of Seokmin's chin and suffocating him just like he likes. Breathing and drowning in your essence, the very elixir of life.

"I shall make you mine," he whispers later, dutifully laying your deliciously aching but clean body onto freshened sheets. Your lover is ever so attentive, rarely nearly needing the same amount of aftercare he showers upon you.

For he is a god from the heavens to bestow blessings upon his desired mortal.

"I am already yours."

"But for all of eternity, it shall be so."

Satiated and content, you reach for him. He lovingly takes your hand and presses a kiss to the tip of each of your fingers. "How?"

"The Mother. She's the closest thing we have to the Creator and might be older than the universe itself. There's nothing she doesn't know so I'm sure she'll have the answers I seek."

"Must you leave so soon?"

Seokmin smiles as he pulls the sheets over your shoulders. "The sun never fails to rise, my dear. I will be back before you know it bringing with me tidings of great news."

"I'll be waiting."

Your shared kiss is soft and gentle. Sweet and full of sentiment. Indeed, you always wait for him and the sun god leaves with a full heart of hope. Little does he know, and little do you suspect, the true one lying in wait was the shadowed figure holding a poisoned dagger beneath their cloak.

And so, with the death of a queen so loved by the god of the sun… the prophecy begins.

onlyseokmins: September 2024 ©

[akutasoda]

war lasts, and so does a broken heart

synopsis - you lied to him, but was it your fault or was it his fault for failing as a healer

includes - jiaoqiu

warnings - gn!reader, angst no comfort, sloght fluff, kinda arguments?, implied death, brief mention of injuries, wc - 1.2k

a/n: found this in my drafts, don't remember writing it but decided to finish it! shout-out to @harque and @iceunhie for proofreading and offering very valid suggestions and advice! :>

jiaoqiu abhors you.

he despises the saccharine words that leave your mouth, hiding sickeningly sweet, placating lies behind them. he despises how you make him feel, how you made him care for you - how you make it so much harder for him to say goodbye. all the lingering memories he held dear now only served to mock and torment him, they were so vivid that for a moment he could indulge in the idea that you were still there with him.

all those years spent with you along rainsoar lake. in rain or shine, you accompanied him while he harvested ingredients as he rowed along the lake. he'd always make a point of peeling open the rice stems and handing them to you, a sweet treat as a form of thank you. jiaoqiu always spent longer at rainsoar when you were around but ultimately he would end up rowing ashore, though he wished that there'd be more time for just the two of you.

but now there was no time for reminiscing. the misty rain, various flora and peaceful fauna were replaced by unpredictable environments. the smell of iron and ash permeated the air. a chill found its way to the pink foxian and wormed its way into his very core, but it was the least of his concerns - he should be used to it after all.

jiaoqiu was drawn from his thoughts by the shouting and rushed footfalls of various soldiers drawing closer to his position. he looked over to the incoming soldiers and immediately honed in on you, being carried in by your allies. his heart dropped to his stomach but he remained still - after all, it’s important for a healer to remain calm and composed for their patients.

he listened to your allies explain today's calamity that unfortunately claimed part of your health before ushering them away. as soon as they were out of the field hospital, he turned to you with narrowed eyes. you smiled sheepishly as he sighed and started assessing your wounds.

it was silent.

you knew he was mad, and he could deny it all he wants, but he couldn't stop his ears from drooping or tail from lashing back and forth - or even prevent the frown making itself more prominent as he kept finding injuries. jiaoqiu eventually stood up and made his way to the nine-square cauldron, busying himself with cleaning and slicing ingredients.

the silence was soon filled with the bubbling and boiling of the cauldron. you tried to speak up, but jiaoqiu beat you to it. “i thought you said you'd be careful”

you sighed.

“i did jiao-ge, but you know what it's like out there” pausing for a minute before making a pained gesture to your uniform “i took on this responsibility”

“i wished you didn't” is what jiaoqiu would've said, but he couldn't form the words. when you told him about your decision to join the ranks, he respected it, bringing up his disapproval now would only be distasteful. instead he just nodded, turning to add more ingredients to the pot.

it didn't take long before he made his way back over to you with a full bowl in one hand and chopsticks in the other. jiaoqiu handed it to you before going to retrieve fresh bandages - there was only so much that his ‘medicine’ could do. he took care dressing your wounds while you ate, and when you finished, he took the bowl and chopsticks away

he seemed too distant for your liking and so you called out again “jiao-gege we both know the risks… but you have to trust me”

he didn't move to face you but he did stop to respond “this is the second time”

“but it isn't my last, is it? and that's thanks to you” your answer did little to soothe him so you continued,

“i can't guarantee i won't get hurt, but i can guarantee i will always make it back here”

a lie. it was all lies that were meant to comfort him and you both knew it. jiaoqiu shoved his thoughts and feelings aside, biting down on the urge to say everything that weighed on him

“just try and rest”

he'd never sounded so distant to you, and it hurt.

he knew that by dawn, the bugle would call again.

that dreaded bugle that forced you away from him and into the battlefield. whether he would see you again or not was anyone's guess. jiaoqiu could only hope that you weren't a part of those missing faces that he knew had departed the world for good.

every morning, he would hear that bugle. and this morning, he watched your injured form leave the field hospital in a dejected silence as he again held back everything he wanted to say. again, he tricked himself into believing that you'd always return. again, he clinged to those lies you both believed in, even if deep down he knew that it was a futile effort.

it was only a matter of time before you never returned, and jiaoqiu could only wonder how many days you had left.

the answer was one he dreaded. he wished that the day when he lost you forever never came, that it was only him doubting your abilities because that was better to fix than the pain of losing you. jiaoqiu had lost plenty of patients, he knew what happened to all of them and he hated it. but jiaoqiu barely knew those fallen soldiers. and if he hated losing them, how would it feel to lose you?

your absence did not go unnoticed.

he searched for days, a foolish part of him hoping that you did return completely unharmed, that you had simply decided to stay with your allies but…

jiaoqiu never saw you again

what hurt most was that he couldn't mourn your passing. the battlefield was no place for such sadness, if he was even capable of displaying such remorse anymore, and so you became just another face among the many patients he healed that went straight into the jaws of death.

jiaoqiu knew he had to continue on, push through the ache that tore his heart into shreds and left him with nothing but a hollow emptiness. he knew he had to move on and heal more people that would soon perish as well.

---✩

“jiao-ge look!” he turned to see you crouched beside a leafy green plant, one that had a white flower blooming out the middle. he joined you, pulling a small amount from the soil “sand ginger. good find” he placed it into his herb basket and ushered you along.

jiaoqiu stared down at the sand ginger that had grown in abundance. it wasn't the spiciest, it wouldn't bring his senses to life again but it would do - he wouldn't admit that it was foolishly more for the memories than anything else. maybe it could counteract the bitterness that consumed him.

you lied to him.

he believed you, clung to your lies like a lifeline because he refused to face the truth.

sometimes he questioned if it was his fault. he knew that all the soldiers he healed were ultimately destined toward death, but he didn't want to believe that fate would also befall you.

so maybe if he told you his feelings, if he became a better healer, then maybe… you would join him by his side one last time.

taglist - @little-miss-chaoss, @frankiesteinn

[envy-of-the-apple]

The yan!stsg x reader cheating has me in a chokehold for days actually! As much as its thrilling, vindicating and flattering that these hoes come crawling back(except for gojo? Hes like the newest addition to you so hes just strolling in your 3sum 😭😂), beneath that surface is actually a heavy cesspool of angst(i love angsts!) like thats where your vision of unrequited love in yan trope comes in delicious clutch

Youve forgiven, moved on and stuff— theres no coming back to loving suguru again; but the banger is!!! Amidst your years captivity, you forgot how you started loving suguru. Yep, forgot.

You dont wonder the moot points how suguru is unrecognizable from the time youre with him nor question yourself what made you fell in love with the pos in the first place.

But youre trying to remember how you fell for him in the past because you feel nothing now; indifference, and how jarring you find yourself to be in this predicament— and so that trying to be with the two in your turbulent captivity would be freeing in companionship.

But the thing is, your feelings are like ashes that stsg is trying to ignite again, but you feel nothing; or a blind person trying to perceive colors or stuff.

JUST imagine sugurus pain in the later years, youve got hidden diary in between your cloud docs or written in little receipts thats about your regrets and your love for a person(thats after him) and that love is so full of passion and longing its borderline painful that you tried to get back to feeling any semblance of emotions for suguru but failed. Just suguru pathetically stewing in regret, how he shouldve handled both you and gojo and rage, because you loved another person thats equivalent to how you used for HIM lmaooo

I hope ive articulate my feelings for this prompt quite fine??? Im struggling with english(its my 2nd language), i hope you get the gist of it xD thanks for listening to my rant, but i had to share this brain rot 😭🙏😊

istg if you dont get outta my inbox and wRITE THIS SHIT RN-

ughhh i think its even worse that you've forgiven them, right???? lets face it, it's only cuz of you suguru and satoru were even able to get together. those two fucking suck at communication and you basically taught suguru to love and be vulnerable. maybe, even before the cheating happened, you became friends with Satoru, you talked about things together, he become softer with you and he fell for you. They both loved you, but they loved eachother too.

you forgive them, because of course you do. but it still hurts to see them, so you leave. Maybe you move cities, ignore their phone calls, block their numbers. You meet someone else. Someone who gently puts you back together, makes you learn to trust again.

You forgive Satoru and Suguru enough to send them wedding invitations. It's all water under the bridge, you think to yourself. You don't realize that they still aren't over you. That they will never feel complete without you. They've lost contact with you for years but now you've given them an exact date, time, and location.

They don't care how happy you are with your new partner. All that they care about is how happy they'll make you.

[wishset]

i don't smoke, until i miss you boothill x reader

summary: Boothill was never a greedy man, he didn't ask for much yet he received the whole world. Just you and your child, he really didn't need much else, yet the cosmos seemed to have made a mistake and tried to rectify it by taking everything away.

explored themes. possibly ooc or lore inaccurate. 1k+ words, fluff to angst. written in 2nd pov. play i don't smoke while reading this, trust. can potentially be interpreted as platonic, if you squint rlly hard.

from author: i haven't played hsr in a while, yet researching boothill's lore just struck the rdr2 writer in me. per usual, i can't let myself be happy with anything but angst so grab a tissue. i haven't posted a work like this online before so i'm highkey nervous, but i'd love to hear what you think! there is some bonus info at the end, but i hope you enjoy this! (she said knowing this is what she ends up writing:)

Boothill was never one to smoke a cigarette, the most he would get close to one was standing next to you under a tree after a long day. You'd still offer him one, even though he always said no, as an act of acknowledgment. He couldn't do that now, though, the smoke would damage his robotic body even if he weren't the one inhaling it.

He'd be perched down on a large root of the tree you leaned back on, staring at your boots in his peripheral as you watched the sunset. The river running in the distance, your horses chewing on the grass below y'all when they weren't nipping at each other, the livestock settled down in the barns, and dinner sat on the warm fire for when the two of you returned.

"What's next?" He asks, his eyes following the line of your boot up to your face.

You always shrug, as if you never thought so far ahead. He did, fairly often in all truthfulness, and you only knew that because of how often he asked.

"'Suppose not much next, is there? Keep doin' this, 'till we're old and gray, then someone else takes over. Life goes on," you answer, flicking the ash out the tip of your cigarette.

He watches the ash burn itself in the grass as he thinks about your answer. It was food enough, neither of you learned much besides farm life. No such thing as anything more for the uneducated, which Boothill wouldn't have any other way.

He didn't mind waking and talking to Nick about the farm as he waited for you to come down for breakfast. He didn't mind wounding up the cattle every day while you watch or watching the horses while they round about the fields with you. The crops wouldn't harvest itself and there's no one else he'd rather harvest it with than you.

Life was good and Boothill was fine with it.

Would he have been so fine with it if you hadn't been hired by Nick and Graey when he turned a teen? He was glad he wouldn't have to find out. They hired a farmhand and he got a best friend, even if he was jealous they hired you in the first place.

He thought it meant he wasn't enough for them, not helpful enough, but that couldn't have been farther from the truth and you taught that to him.

And, while Boothill never liked to say he was right all along, there was more for the two of you than the repetitive cycles you'd fallen into. Matter of fact, he couldn't believe he was so content with just that now that you both had a daughter.

Maybe if you hadn't left your cigarette pack up in your room, the both of you wouldn't have returned when you did. Maybe if he wasn't waiting on the porch downstairs for you to return so you could join him at your usual place, he wouldn't have heard crying a little ways off from the house.

"What am I supposed ta' do with her?" He looks up at you when you find him. The cigarette pack falls into your pocket as if the box itself might contaminate the bundle of purity crying in Boothill's arms.

"Dunno. She like ta' join us?" You propose, motioning towards the tree up on a hill that waited patiently for you two. (Now, three.)

Boothill stood, joining you at full height. "Looks like she might."

The red-faced babe looked between the two of you, tears staining her little cheeks. How long has it been since you seen a baby? Quite a while, yet your first instinct still is to smile.

"Looks like it indeed."

From that day forward, you and Boothill were parents. Not even Nick or Graey questioned it when you both returned with a child. Finding one seemed to be common 'round those parts.

And boy, did parenthood change just about everything? She already had her first pony picked out before she could even walk, little boots and a hat, a sass about her, too.

Boothill couldn't recall the last time he was near a cigarette, not after you gave them to him to dispose of so that your little girl would never find them. It was never just the two of you at the tree again, always you three. Two grown horses and a little foal, growing along with her.

Now this he'd have no other way.

He was perched down on the large root of the tree beside you, where you sat as well. He could see the little girl in your lap in his peripheral, which he turned to look at when she called him. 

For her, it wasn't Boothill, something more like "Papa." She had this little giggle in her voice when she said it and even after the most tiring days, Boothill never had been happier.

"What's it, sugar?" He asks, turning to look at her. You look as well when she crawls out of your lap and stands, waddling her way over to him.

Was this how the mares felt when their foal stood and walked over to them for the first time? If it was, he was jealous it took him so long to figure it out for himself. You looked just as surprised as he felt and neither of you knew how to respond. Nick and Graey taught him everything he knew, yet the two of you taught him more every day.

Boothill was never one to smoke a cigarette, but now he was the one flicking ash off the tip and watching as it burned the knee of his pants. Now he couldn't get the stench of smoke off of him.

It was nice, even though his metal body hissed in disagreement. He took another puff, then another. Would you feel betrayed that he never really disposed of the pack of cigarettes? He didn't know. But it was late nights where he thought of how he got them in the first place he was glad he didn't.

It was a brand new pack when you came down from the house, now it was nearly halfway empty.

Was this what it smelt like when the house burned? Did it burn the same way? ─ No, it couldn't have. This burn burnt good, this burn was all he had left of you. This burn reminded him of you and the sacrifices you made for your daughter, this burn reminds him of the two of you and all the sacrifices he'll make for you.

bonus information: | more here.

[ 1 ] "It was a new pack when you came down from the house, now it was nearly halfway empty." That's about how many times Boothill found himself thinking of you, so much so he needed something palpable. Y'know, because everything was burned so all he has is this vague smell of you? I'm sorry. He also has blown through other packs when he just wants to remember the comfort your presence had brought him at one point, he only uses your pack on those nights.

[ 2 ] Wanna know another kicker? Boothill knows for a fact you wouldn't have been happy if you knew he smoked, before his enhancements and after. You used to tell him that they were bad for him, which he already knew, but that was very long ago in the overall timeline of this fic. When he thinks about those times, he smokes another.

[ 3 ] He doesn't have anything to remember your daughter by, he might've if the IPC nuke came a little later so that she could've given him the gift she'd been working on. You might've been able to give him your gift as well, so he had something healthier to cling on to. Those are long since burned and buried, though.

[ 4 ] In the image thing, my brain is blanking on what it's called, the "Everyone you love is dead anyway" is a reference to "You're going to die anyway". Yes, that is the front of a Marlboro pack, lol.

[ 5 ] Alright alright, you've cried enough tears, but if you notice any other little details, I'd love to talk about them/hear your thoughts. I poured my soul into this so many thanks for giving it a shot!

all rights reserved to wishset. do not copy, translate, or repost. can only be found on tumblr as of 06.30.

[redfoxwritesstuff]

A Misdemeanor Of The Heart: Chapter 1 (Alastor x Reader)

Banner Alastors done by @blobin456drawz <3

Human Alastor x married reader Rated Adult for adult themes, triggering content and sexual content. I wouldn't say this is dead dove but it's dead dove adjacent. Series Trigger Warnings: Adultery, stalking, Sexual assault, Rape, smut of undetermined sorts, Domestic Violence, Time period accurate views on women and domestic violence and skin color, Alastor is a serial Killer, there's murder, there's angst, there's dark content.

Summary: Fading away in an abusive marriage, each day passes just the same as the last. Painful monotony eats at you until a pair of warm brown eyes sparks the idea that you could have something more. When a business deal between men sparks a torrid affair, how long can you keep things going before the fire either leaves you a burnt out shell or burns up everything around you?

And what becomes of the radio host who thought he was above the fickle fires of the heart when the match he strikes burns his hand instead? Can he possess what rightfully belongs to another man without leaving everything he has fought for in ashes?

Onto more important matters- Please be mindful. This story is dark and triggering at times. I've written portions to elicit an emotional reaction. As you should always do with dark content, even if you're not at risk of being triggered, please step back and take a breather when needed. The story will always be here when you get back. I am so tickled by the excitement this story has generated ahead of its release. We're looking at tentatively between 20 and 30 chapters (A note from future Kit: Ha! That was a cute prediction... I'm drafting chapter 37 rn and looking at 50...(Another note for future-er Kit...we're writing chapter 51 rn... we're not passing 60) posted once a week on Fridays.

Masterlist AO3 KoFi

Join us at VoxTek for a Vox themed Hazbin Discord, all are welcome!

Audio by Nyx Productions, Part 1, part 2

To the world, you appeared nothing more than a simple woman with a placid smile, gliding through town. The rhythmic click of your sensible black heels echoed against the sidewalk. To a trained eye, your gait could be categorized as slightly staggered, stiff, and just a little uneven, but to an untrained eye? There was nothing to see, but a modestly dressed woman, impeccably put together though just slightly out of fashion, performing the role of the ideal well-to-do wife with the precision of a clockwork automation. 

You could have taken a bus, but you would rather walk, or at least that was your story, but it wasn’t totally true. You tried to focus on the positive, a lesson your parents had instilled in you from an early age. If you couldn’t focus on the positive little bits of your life, what else was there?

It was nice to get out of the prison of your home. That is what you’d tell anyone that asked, though you wouldn’t call it a prison to anyone but yourself. They would smile and nod, like was polite and they’d make small talk about how mundane the life of a homemaker was and assure her that as soon as little ones landed her days would be filled with excitement and joy. 

What wouldn’t be said was how you wished she could brave the bus because your simple heels hurt your feet or how the idea of falling pregnant terrified you. You couldn’t, wouldn’t really, brave the bus because it would jostle you and you’d surely bump into someone or something. This time of day, the bus would be crowded and people would bump into you.

Today you couldn’t have that. 

Today you needed to protect yourself.

Stepping into the tailor shop you thanked the man on his way out, holding the door open for you on his way. With a sigh, you let the relief of an errand half done wash over you as you stepped up to the counter. Behind you, the bell above to door jingled, announcing another new arrival to the small shop.

Glancing over your shoulder, you hardly registered the tall man with tan skin and fluffy brown hair as he held the door open for his short blonde companion. An odd pair, you thought before turning back to the counter, showing the woman where the sleeve on your dress was torn, seam along the shoulder ripped and explaining your fabricated story of how it happened. 

She smiled at you with pity. This was injury to clothing she knew well though she would never be so bold as to talk about it. You were not the only woman in town to frequent the tailors with ripped shoulder seams or dark rust colored stains. These were the secrets she kept, a professional curtesy that was expected from her but always unsaid. Did the people of the city even realize the things she knew?

“It’ll be ready in a few days, Mrs. Latimer.” The shopkeeper was quick to take the dress from you, doing the work of holding it up and examining the rip. 

It was a small mercy, to not have to raise your arm much at all. The woman folded the dress neatly away and slipping it below the counter before motioning you aside while she wrote out your ticket. She was a master at multitasking, finishing your ticket as she greeted the newcomers who seemed less eager to step up to the counter than the shopkeeper was to serve them.

“What about that one?” the blonde woman whispered to her companion as you thanked the shop keeper as she handed you your ticket. The newcomers lingered, taking their time making their way to the counter. 

“Mimzy, we are here to pick up your dress,” the man’s rich voice sounded familiar but you couldn’t place it. Glancing at him, you tried to place where you could know him from but came up blank. That was just as well, Laurence didn’t let you really socialize much outside of your day to day tasks.

The blonde, Mimzy you had gathered her name was, wiggled her fingers to you in a wave as she caught you looking their way before directing her attention back to the man she was with. 

“Yes, yes. And you need the lining of your coat restitched,” She made a show of rolling her eyes, performing for an audience of only a handful, “You’re no fun sometimes.” 

“A dreadfully dull time, that’s me,” the man laughed lightly.

“I’m just saying,” Mimzy continued as you stepped toward the door, “You’re a good man. A decent man. You should find someone, is all. You don’t gotta settle down but you don’t gotta be alone all the time either.” 

You cringed, struggling to push open the heavy door, trying to not listen in on the pair’s clearly private conversation. You had been too eager when you pushed on it and your shoulder didn’t hold up to the stress well, pain flaring. It was easy enough to forget how painful your shoulder was in the moment. 

It wasn’t so bad, as long as you didn’t overdo it. Pushing open the heavy door yourself was clearly enough to count as overdoing it today. 

“Here, allow me.” The man pushed open the door for you, holding it open with a palm high along the edge of the door, giving you plenty of space to exit. 

You ducked under his arm with a mumbled word of thanks. It didn’t matter, he didn’t seem to really be listening for it anyway as he directed his attention back to his companion as he let the door begin to fall closed as soon as you were out of striking range of it.

“And why should I-” the rest of his words were lost behind the closing door. 

Alastor sat in the empty lounge, sipping his rye as Mimzy talked on and on while she changed. The dress surely would fit her just how she wanted, it was custom fitted but that didn’t stop her from putting on this whole production every time they got back from the seamstress. 

He knew the song and dance well enough, having known the woman for the past few years. She would change. He would complement. She would complain. He would reassure. She would blush and call him a flirt. He would move on with his day. 

“Oh!” Mimzy interrupted herself, earning a raised eyebrow from Alastor. “I forgot to tell you.”

“Tell me what, my dear?” 

She popped her head out from between the curtains, “I think I found myself a new juice supplier. You’re off the hook.”

“You think?” Alastor downed the rest of his drink in one smoothe gulp.

“Ya- Laurence’ll be able to take over soon and you’ll be off the hook again. I know you ain’t eager for that amount of risk. Told you it was only temporary.” 

Alastor hummed in acknowledgement as Mimzy went on and on about Laurence. He was tall, not as tall as Alastor, she assured him, but still tall and handsome. He tuned out her ramblings, mind instead turning back to the woman Mimzy had pointed out at the tailor shop. Such a timid little thing, fashion just outdated enough to stand out. 

Mimzy smacked his shoulder with a bar towel, leaning across the counter to look him in his eyes as she demanded his attention, “Yes?”

“You’re distracted,” she stated simply. 

“Just thinking about tomorrow’s broadcast.” Alastor answered simply, running his finger over the rim of the empty glass. “That’s all.” 

“Mhm,” she narrowed her eyes at him as he leaned back from her. “You sure you ain’t thinking about a pretty face?” 

“Haven’t seen any prettier faces than yours today.” 

Mimzy laughed loudly and teased, “Flirt! But I know it ain’t my face that’s got you distracted. Was it the doll at the shop? She was cute!” 

“She’s got a man,” Alastor countered. 

“And how the hell would you know from not speaking to her at all?” 

Alastor shrugged, “Just got a feeling about her.” 

He could tell Mimzy that she had that hollow look in her eyes that a woman got when she had a partner that got a bit too rough with her. Hell, he could point out the way she couldn’t manage to open the door to the shop, her shoulder weak from strained muscles. Did the man that called her his toss her around by the arm last night? Yank her a little too roughly?

He wouldn’t though because it didn’t matter. It wasn’t worth having Mimzy ask questions about his past or worse, assume the reason he had no partner of his own was due to any reason beyond him not desiring to be weighed down. 

“I bet a charming lad like yourself could sweep her out from under whatever man she’s caught up with anyway. Want another?” Mimzy pointed at the empty glass as melting ice settled in the bottom. 

“I’m good, Darling- It’s early yet.” 

Your feet were killing you as you made your way home. Still, you couldn’t help but take your time. If you were out, you were not home cleaning, cooking or waiting for your husband to return. While you were out, you could pretend to be your own person and it was alright, you had to keep up appearances as long as it was the right appearance. 

Lingering in front of the newsstand, you let your eyes run over the papers and magazines each with bold words on the covers, fighting for the eye’s attention. 

The headlines were polar opposites in many cases. Some celebrated the progress and change made in the 24 months since women had been granted the right to the vote. Others bemoaned the change and the influence women could now have on the world around them, pointing at any little thing as a sign of the doom this would spell for society as a whole. 

The idea made you laugh. Two years and while you did your best to learn, you hadn’t even come close to a polling center. Your husband wouldn’t allow it. Whatever change there may have been for better or for worse, you had no part of it. 

You knew which of the papers your loving husband would pick up and celebrate. It wasn’t the same ones you would but that didn’t matter. Women may have had the right to vote but you knew you were little more than an accessory in the world you lived in. 

Moving on with your walk home, you tried to force yourself to relax your shoulders and back. The pain was starting in from tensed muscles, telling you that while you hadn’t been watching your posture well enough, you had curled in on yourself. 

A deep breath in through your nose and out through your parted lips, slowly as you pulled your head up and your shoulders back, trying to ignore the way the muscles screamed in protest. You forced your spine straight and winced at the pain in your shoulder as you worked your fingers into the tense muscle, trying to convince it to relax. 

It would pain you for a few more days yet and if you were lucky, that would be it. You just needed to be good until it had a chance to heal. 

“Good Day, Mrs. Latimer.” A man you should have known tipped his hat at you in greeting, startling you out of the thoughts you hadn’t realized absorbed you as you walked slowly down the sidewalk. 

He was closer than you had expected when he snatched your attention, causing you to gasp and flinch back, shoulder twinging in pain. You didn’t like people in your space, at least not without warning. All it would take was someone saying you were getting too close to a man to your husband and hell would rain down on you regardless of the truth of it. 

Your shoulder banged into the light post behind you. You didn’t know it was there, having lost track of your surrounding as you walked in the haze of thoughts. A gasped yelp slipped from your lips before you could stop it.

Appearances. You had to keep up appearances. Swallow the pain, don’t let anyone know. Don’t let anyone see. 

“You alright?” The man asked as he steadied you, large hand gripping the outside of your shoulder only making the pain flair more. 

Shrugging out from under his grip, you painted on a false smile as you willed the tears in your eyes back. 

“I’m fine,” You looked away as you saw pity cross the man’s face. How much did he see? Surely not more than what was normal, what was acceptable?

“You be careful ma’am,” the man nodded wisely to you. “Didn’t you hear? There’s a serial killer running around. Probably not good for a lady to be out alone till they catch the bastard- pardon my language.” 

“Oh my,” you tried to play the unsteadiness on your feet as being from the terrifying news. Would be believe it? Did be believe it? “I’ll be sure to be mindful, thank you.” 

You didn’t need his pity but what you needed even less of was him seeing any real reason to pity you. Forcing your hand from your shoulder, you tried to ignore the pain, to will it away. 

There was nothing to see here. Just Mrs. Latimer making her way home from the tailor shop. There were no bruises. No torn dresses. Nothing wrong. 

Life was perfectly normal, a storybook where you were married into a family of means with your family having so very little to offer. 

Tag List: @xalygatorx, @catticora, @alastor-simp, @alastorthirsty, @nyx91, @lilith-jae, @goyablogsstuff, @kaylopolis, @sirens-and-moonflowers, @charlottemorningstarsdarling, @diffidentphantom, @rainydaysmut, @honestlyshamelesskid, @yui-onnero, @lunarmango

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Next?Masterlist

[gimmethatagustd]

call me baby | kth + jjk

Amidst a heartless divorce, Taehyung, a renowned film director, desperately tries to hold himself together. Enter Jungkook, the Kim family's devoted nanny, who has had his eye on Taehyung for years.

○ Pairing: Taehyung x Jungkook

○ Rating: Explicit/18+

○ Genre: PWP, sugar daddy au, angst, fluff, smut

○ 15 / 100 Drabble Challenge (Babysitter)

○ Word Count: 8,461

○ Warnings: TH's wife cheats on him, divorce, TH is def depressed, JK is a little bratty, hand jobs, phone sex, daddy kink (i stole part of the scene from two of my reader-inserts, see if you can guess jhskdfs), age gap, unprotected anal sex

○ Notes: This was supposed to be a standard little PWP and then I made it depressing. 🥲 I wrote it for the Top Taehyung x Bottom Jungkook Fest on AO3. I'm going to write a part 2 eventually~

○ Post Date: June 10, 2024

○ Masterlist | AO3 Crosspost

○ What was Jai listening to? older - isabel larosa

The most fucked up part about being a film director married to one of the most prominent actresses in mainstream cinema is having to still cast her in films after already signing the divorce papers. Second on the fucked-up list would be the forced joint attendance at premieres, galas, and other red-carpet events, with all the reporters asking the same goddamn questions:

Was their split amicable?

Have they told their daughter yet? Their goddamn six-year-old daughter who can barely tie her shoes and has never heard the word divorce before in her life?

How do they manage to work on set together?

Is Taehyung upset about the fact that his soon-to-be ex-wife is already in a relationship with the lead actor of a film he fucking directed? Amidst allegations that she was cheating on him with said actor during filming? 

Of course not! Why would Taehyung be upset? It’s only that he is the reason Eunji and Sunwoo ever met each other. He chose to pair them as the main love interests in what critics have referred to as the catalyst for a new era of the modern love story, and he encouraged Eunji to take the lead role despite her belief that she wasn’t talented enough. 

Of course, Taehyung isn’t upset. He’s a romantic! How could he possibly be upset about true love? The scowl Taehyung wears as he rips off his suit jacket and kicks off his black leather Louboutin Chelsea boots in the foyer of the mansion, which he still shares with Eunji, isn’t from being upset. He just has to sneeze. 

“Taehyung,” Eunji calls to him as she gingerly tiptoes toward the grand staircase across the foyer, heel straps threaded through manicured fingers adorned with thin gold rings on all but the one that matters. “Can you pay Jungkook, please? Cash, this time. He said he was having issues with KakaoPay.”

She doesn’t bother looking up from her phone as she climbs the staircase. She had barely looked Taehyung in the eyes all night, aside from during their obligatory photo op on the red carpet, this time for the premiere of a film he hadn’t directed. 

They’re gorgeous together, Taehyung and Eunji, tall and lean with angular faces and piercing eyes that they’ve passed on to their daughter, Yuri. Growing up poor and raised by a single mother, Taehyung was taught the value of hard work and humility. Still, even he knows that he and Eunji are the film industry’s power couple—that they were the film industry’s power couple. Everything the Kims touched turned to gold, except for each other. Eunji shines just as brightly as she did when they met fifteen years ago, but now Taehyung crumbles like ash between her fingers. 

Taehyung waits in the foyer until the creak of the floorboards tells him that Eunji is in Yuri’s bedroom. Only then does he follow in Eunji’s footsteps up the stairs, taking the opposite direction down the hall. 

Taehyung’s bedroom reminds him of a mouth full of missing teeth, with white walls and empty crevices around every corner. One half of his king-size bed is made. The double sink in the attached bathroom is bare on one side. Only one robe hangs on the hook beside the shower. 

He likes to poke at the empty crevices just to feel how groundless and gummy it makes him when he does. Lately, he has made a habit of running his fingers across the ornamental dresser next to the door of the walk-in closet. There are shapes in the dust that covers the dresser’s surface, one rectangle where Eunji’s antique jewelry box used to sit, others small circles and squares where she threw rings and makeup compacts whenever she was too tired to properly put them away. Taehyung links each shape with his finger, drawing little crossroads between them, and doesn’t think about how Eunji has left him with the dust—in the dust.

In the kitchen downstairs, Jungkook is washing dishes. He’s wearing loose sweatpants and a black hoodie with the sleeves folded past his elbows because Eunji keeps the house freezing in the summer. On the island counter is his laptop and a tattered leather-bound journal flipped open to messy notes. When Taehyung leans his hip against the counter, he reads the English alphabet repeated in Jungkook’s swooping handwriting in the journal and notices a podcast in English paused on the laptop. Beginner’s language learning may seem trivial, but it’s more than what most twenty-two-year-olds Taehyung knows are doing with their time.

Jungkook’s hair is a weak shade of green, pale like the mints Taehyung enjoys flicking around his teeth with the tip of his tongue when he’s trying to mask the smell of cigarette smoke on his breath. It never works; the minty burst a scent as weak as its color. Taehyung thinks if he sucks on multiple, it’ll make a difference, as though a minty smile is a bandage strong enough to clot the bloody wound in his marriage. 

That part of him has been amputated now. The only thing worse is knowing that other people know how miserable this has made him. 

Jungkook knows, probably better than anyone else. The nondisclosure agreement he signed before Eunji hired him prevents him from ratting Taehyung out for being lonely, but he knows, probably even more than Taehyung does. 

“Welcome home, Mr. Kim,” Jungkook greets as he dries his hands on a towel. They own a high-end dishwasher that Jungkook refuses to use. “Are you hungry?”

“No, no, I’m fine,” Taehyung holds up his hand when Jungkook opens the refrigerator to reveal the leftovers from his dinner with Yuri. “How was she tonight?” 

“Perfect, as usual, though she’s still doing that weird picky eater thing,” Jungkook says what Taehyung already expects. 

It feels domestic, Jungkook putting away the remaining dry dishes while Taehyung fiddles with his gold cufflinks. They often end up like this at night when they cross paths, Jungkook getting ready to leave and Taehyung finally coming home, both needing a quiet moment to wind down from their uniquely stressful days. 

Few people in Taehyung’s life don’t expect him to do something. Life is a performance, even if he isn’t an actor. Everyone expects something interesting, something worthwhile. Jungkook expects nothing from Taehyung; nothing feels better than the relief he feels when so much weight is lifted off his shoulders. 

“She gets the picky eater thing from her eomma.” 

Jungkook hums in acknowledgment of Taehyung’s comment but doesn’t respond. 

Taehyung should tell Jungkook that he doesn’t need to finish cleaning the kitchen when it’s far past midnight on a Monday night, and he’ll need to be back at the Kim residence to take Yuri to school in the morning. He doesn’t, though. Just watches and fiddles and ignores the ache in his hip from the edge of the counter pressing against his hip bone.

“Do you need help with that, Mr. Kim?” 

“Oh, no, I—” 

Jungkook gently swats Taehyung’s hand away and grabs the sleeve of his white button-up shirt. Taehyung wonders how touch-starved he must be to shiver when Jungkook’s fingers brush his inner wrist as he removes Taehyung’s cufflinks. They’re elegant little gold pieces Eunji bought him for their first wedding anniversary. There’s no way for Jungkook to know that, but Taehyung feels judged when Jungkook drops the cufflinks in his open palm with a hard stare, as though he does know. 

“There,” Jungkook says quietly, and Taehyung wonders if he imagines Jungkook’s fingers lingering against his palm just a second longer than necessary. 

It’s been two years, yet not enough time for Taehyung to have learned how to read Jungkook, especially when they spend such little time together, just these little moments of gentle small talk and light touches that Taehyung ignores with the expertise of an acclaimed actor. 

“You should go home,” Taehyung replies when Jungkook lifts his tattooed hand to his face, covering a yawn. 

Jungkook shrugs with a cheeky grin that makes Taehyung’s body grow warm. 

“Sometimes, I feel like I might as well ask to become a live-in nanny, considering I’m here all the time.” 

The corner of Taehyung’s mouth twitches, a swell of affection making his body betray the melancholy muddling his brain. 

Rolling his cufflinks around in his hand, Taehyung considers whether they need a live-in nanny. Between Taehyung and Eunji traveling for work and Taehyung’s habit of locking himself in his home office for weeks at a time while he juggles conference calls and passion projects, he knows Yuri’s family life is unlike most children’s. She doesn’t care, has never known any other way of life. Between kindergarten and Jungkook, her time is well-structured and enriching.

“Would you want to be one?” Taehyung doesn’t know why they’re speaking so quietly. The house is massive. No one can hear them. 

Jungkook wets his lips, the tip of his tongue brushing over the metal hoop pierced through his bottom lip. Taehyung drops his gaze to focus on rolling his loosened sleeves. 

“Well, I actually wanted to talk about—” Jungkook is interrupted by Eunji’s shrill voice slicing through the quiet. 

“Taehyung!” 

Cringing, Taehyung twists to face the kitchen doorway, his back to the counter and his hands at his hips to squeeze the edge of it. 

Eunji is still wearing her wine-red dress from the premiere like a porcelain doll dipped in blood, but now she’s in sandals and carrying one of her many designer purses Taehyung never remembers the names of. She runs her fingers through her jet-black hair and fluffs it over her shoulder. 

“Yes?” He tries not to breathe in the sweetness of her perfume. 

“I’m going out,” Eunji tells Taehyung but looks at Jungkook, “I’ll be back before Yuri’s ballet class in the afternoon.” 

It’s nearly one in the morning. 

Taehyung inhales to speak, but Eunji is gone between blinks. Her goodbye sounds like the front door’s lock clicking once it’s shut.

“She’s going over to Sunwoo’s.” 

When Taehyung turns his head, Jungkook seems closer. He mirrors Taehyung and leans his hip against the island counter. He’s slightly shorter than Taehyung but bulkier in his upper body. Something about Jungkook’s physique reminds Taehyung of how much older he is. His late thirties haven’t been unkind, but he misses his youth now more than ever. 

“I know.” 

“They’ve been fucking for almost a year, Mr. Kim. Sometimes here, but normally in other places.” 

Taehyung twists to face Jungkook once again. Their hands slide into each other as he readjusts his grip on the counter. 

“I know.” 

Now. 

He knows now. 

Tension builds like anxiety washing over Taehyung’s nervous system, an almost electrical feeling that sparks from where Jungkook’s fingers drag along the back of Taehyung’s hand. They follow a protruding vein up his exposed forearm before he hooks his index and middle fingers in Taehyung’s sleeve, right at the inside of his elbow. 

“You deserve better,” Jungkook tugs lightly, but Taehyung’s arm easily gives, letting Jungkook pull him forward. “You realize that, right? That Eunji noona isn’t worth the bullshit?” 

What’s the bullshit? An arduous divorce procedure that Eunji will pretend won’t turn into petty arguments over whether Taehyung gets to keep all the jewelry he bought her or if she gets more time with Yuri since her schedule isn’t as busy? Or does Jungkook think Taehyung will try to win Eunji back? 

The thought makes Taehyung laugh, dark and shallow. 

“I appreciate your concern, Jungkook,” Taehyung pulls his arm out of Jungkook’s grasp, “But what goes on between Eunji and I isn’t worth the bullshit, either.” 

“I know that,” Jungkook snorts and Taehyung thinks it’s stupid that it hurts his feelings. “But you’re so… Respectfully, Mr. Kim, you don’t pay attention.” 

Taehyung doesn’t, apparently. If this divorce has taught him anything, it’s that he doesn’t. 

Sighing, Taehyung squeezes his cufflinks until their corners bite his palm and pushes himself away from the counter. He’s tired, and thinking about Eunji before bed is the best way to prevent himself from sleeping. 

“I’ve told you, you don’t need to be so formal with me,” Taehyung runs his free hand through his hair, ruffling the strands, thick with gel, until they fall across his forehead. 

Chewing his piercing between his front teeth and bottom lip, Jungkook watches him intently enough to make Taehyung’s stomach flutter. 

“I could give you something better, hyung,” Jungkook whispers, his fingers hooking through one of Taehyung’s belt loops. 

Taehyung knows a proposition when he hears one, but he struggles to comprehend this one. Jungkook is young, with a good head on his shoulders and a future of possibilities. He has a life beyond the Kim home that isn’t tainted by divorce and abandonment. 

“I do not doubt that,” Taehyung murmurs, unable to look Jungkook in the eyes. He drops his gaze to watch Jungkook twist his belt loop between his fingers to tighten his grip. 

“Okay,” Jungkook’s tone is mocking, with a twinge of amused curiosity. 

Taehyung shouldn’t be surprised when Jungkook cups his jaw to force him to look him in the eyes. 

It’s been years since anyone looked at Taehyung the way Jungkook does now, with a gaze that slithers down his body, just to flit back up and remain steady on his mouth when he parts it slightly, suddenly breathless. Jungkook’s fingers tug on his clothes harder than before. 

Taehyung has no reason to follow Jungkook’s lead—except that he hasn’t been touched in so long, and Jungkook is pretty. His eyes crinkle, and his nose scrunches when he smiles, exposing prominent teeth that give his face an innocence that starkly contrasts with the rest of him. There’s something soft about him despite his hard edges. Funny, how Taehyung initially thought Jungkook, with his tattoos and facial piercings, would be more of a bad influence on Yuri than her own parents.

“Okay?” Taehyung doesn’t know what he’s asking and gasps because Jungkook has him backed against the counter. 

He should be more intelligent. Isn’t he? He can’t think with Jungkook’s thick thigh slotted between his legs, his mind too foggy from the draw of Jungkook’s cologne to consider how suddenly this has escalated. 

“Will you let me?” Jungkook seeks permission for something Taehyung doesn’t understand. 

He gives it to Jungkook anyway. 

Despite how rough Jungkook is as he digs his fingers in the hair at the back of Taehyung’s head to hold him steady, his whimper when he slots their lips together is so soft that Taehyung feels dirty from how the sound makes his cock twitch. He’s noisy as he sucks Taehyung’s bottom lip into his mouth, nipping and flicking his tongue over it. 

It isn’t difficult for Taehyung to remember the last time he was kissed, though the memory quickly spirals because it begins with a kiss and ends with, “Taehyung, I want a divorce.”

Kissing Jungkook won’t end in divorce, but Taehyung can’t keep himself from thinking about Eunji’s words, how they flayed him open with sharp precision, each syllable slicing off a piece of his heart. He thinks about them whenever he smokes his cigarettes, a more frequent occurrence now that he and Eunji live separate lives, Eunji hardly around enough to pester him about the smell. 

Taehyung wonders if Jungkook tastes cigarettes when they part their lips to roll their tongues over each other, flicking and pressing back against each other until their lips are slick with spit. 

Cigarettes and kisses, water and oil in Taehyung’s failed marriage. The less time his lips spent kissing, the more often they curled around a cigarette butt.

“Stop it,” Jungkook hisses into Taehyung’s mouth, “Stop thinking about her.” 

Taehyung wants to tell Jungkook that he can’t. They’re in his kitchen, in the house he still shares with his soon-to-be ex-wife and his daughter, who is fast asleep upstairs. 

But his words melt into moans as Jungkook grinds his thigh against Taehyung’s cock. 

“Oh, fuck,” Taehyung tilts his head back to let Jungkook leave wet, hot kisses along his throat. 

“You sound so good, hyung,” Jungkook grabs a handful of Taehyung’s shirt to untuck it with a hard yank so he can slide his palm against the warm skin of Taehyung’s waist, “Feel good, too.” 

Jungkook’s fingers dip lower, brushing along the edge of Taehyung’s Calvins and leaving goosebumps in their wake. 

“Can I touch you?” Jungkook pants against Taehyung’s lips while he fumbles with the button of his slacks. 

The sound of Taehyung’s cufflinks clattering onto the marble floor gets lost beneath his moans.

“Yeah, yeah.” 

Taehyung’s stomach swoops and dips as Jungkook unzips his slacks and wiggles his hand down the front of his underwear. His cold touch makes Taehyung’s cock twitch and jump, just as unsteady as the rest of his body. 

“Always knew you were big,” Jungkook smirks, his teeth pressed against the curve of Taehyung’s jaw, and strokes his cock in one long, smooth movement that gathers the slippery precum that dribbles from Taehyung’s slit and drags it down to the base. 

Taehyung can hardly appreciate the praise and can’t come up with a single coherent thought. He quivers. Jungkook has to force his legs farther apart with his thigh because Taehyung’s knees buckle by the third stroke. 

It’s a tight fit because neither of them pulls Taehyung’s slacks down far enough to get his cock out, but he likes the restriction for some reason. It feels wrong, like something quick and dirty, too secret to risk getting comfortable. 

It is wrong, quick, and dirty, a secret Taehyung has no option but to keep. 

But Jungkook is pretty, and he watches Taehyung with innocent doe eyes that shine brighter than the polished gold cufflinks sprinkled on the floor as Taehyung moans and pants, the build of his orgasm turning his insides to lava. The innocence is a facade, but Taehyung thinks they’re both getting off on pretending. 

Taehyung slips his hands under Jungkook’s hoodie and the t-shirt beneath it to rake his nails across his skin, searching for the perfect section of smooth skin to dig into as his orgasm shudders through him. 

“Jungkook,” Taehyung panics, bucking up into Jungkook’s hand. 

“Already?” 

No one has touched Taehyung like this in nearly a year. He rarely touches himself like this. 

Taehyung cums with Jungkook’s mocking laughter huffed along the curve of his ear. He nearly bends backward over the counter, dragging Jungkook with him. He pulls back, like he's trying to run from the pleasure. 

Unphased, Jungkook cups Taehyung’s balls with one hand to stroke them while they pulse, keeping his other hand rolling tight circles with his palm over the head of Taehyung’s cock. It does nothing to contain the mess, but neither of them cares.

Once Taehyung calms, Jungkook wipes his cum-slicked hand on his thigh. Taehyung’s brain is too floaty to be upset about cum getting on slacks that cost over a million won. 

“I think that’s the fastest I’ve ever made someone cum,” Jungkook looks over his shoulder as he teases Taehyung on his way to the kitchen sink to wash his hands. 

Jungkook’s comment makes shame curl in the pit of Taehyung’s stomach. The level to which Taehyung enjoys it concerns him. 

If Jungkook is bothered by how mute Taehyung is, he doesn’t show it. If anything, Taehyung thinks the whole situation seems funny to Jungkook, like he’s getting a kick out of making Taehyung cum on himself and regress into a fumbling, breathless, mindless version of himself fueled by the desire to be touched in a way no one wants to touch him anymore. 

It’s rather pathetic. 

Cheeks burning and body still suffering an occasional tremor, Taehyung is afraid to speak when Jungkook returns to stand between his legs with his hands gripping the edge of the counter at Taehyung’s hips. 

“I can’t believe Eunji is going to miss out on that,” Jungkook prods Taehyung’s clothed, soft cock with his knee. 

“Shit, don’t,” Taehyung curls inward from oversensitivity, “I, she—” 

Jungkook’s lips are pillowy and smooth when he isn’t biting and sucking Taehyung’s. They shut Taehyung up and make him melt against the counter. Jungkook is hypnotic, his presence somehow all-encompassing, all-consuming when it usually isn’t. 

Or is it? Taehyung thinks he can’t remember what it was like to know Jungkook before this. 

The difference twenty minutes make. 

Taehyung’s eyes fly open when Jungkook breaks the kiss to pluck Taehyung’s wallet from his back pocket. He’s got that cheeky, lopsided grin that makes Taehyung feel weird as he counts the bills inside, pulling out just a little more than what the Kims owe him for the day. 

“A little extra won for the additional services,” Jungkook winks, tossing Taehyung’s wallet on the counter, “I’ll see you in the morning, Mr. Kim.”

–

Taehyung sees Jungkook in the morning, hardly five hours later, but only briefly.

They squeeze past each other through the front door. Jungkook, with his backpack slung over one shoulder and his hair tousled from little sleep, and Taehyung, with a suitcase in one hand, a duffle bag strapped across his chest, and the rim of a disposable paper cup of English breakfast tea clenched between his teeth. At the same time, he tries to stick a wireless earbud in one ear.

“Hey, I know you forgot, but I have to be in New York for the next two weeks,” Taehyung snaps once he takes the cup from his mouth.

Taehyung gives Jungkook an apologetic look when he realizes it sounds like he’s getting pissy at him, and not Eunji complaining in his ear that he is so inconsiderate of her time, like as if Taehyung should schedule his life around Eunji’s extramarital affairs. 

There’s little time to feel embarrassed by the memory of the night before when Taehyung needs to get on a plane and Jungkook needs to prepare Yuri’s breakfast before school. Still, Taehyung’s stomach dips so low that his groin pulses when Jungkook grabs his waist to steady him after he nearly trips down the stairs leading from the house’s front door.

“Eunji, listen, no—Listen to me. I told you a month ago that I need to tour the premises before I can just sign off on the—”

Taehyung is scouting the perfect location for his upcoming movie; shouldn’t she be excited for him? Instead, the beep of Eunji ending the call ricochets in Taehyung’s skull.

“Do you need help, hyung?”  

How many times in the past two years has Jungkook asked that question? 

Taehyung holds his breath when Jungkook presses his palm flat against his chest, curls his fingers around the strap of his duffle bag, and lifts it over his head to carry it on his own shoulder. Their fingers brush on the handle of Taehyung’s suitcase, and his body remembers the pleasure in the kitchen, their hands intertwined against the counter. 

Late, the Kim family’s chauffeur finally pulls up to the house in a nondescript black car. He rushes to help Jungkook with Taehyung’s luggage, carrying it as if it’s precious cargo, not two weeks' worth of underwear and a high-end camera that Taehyung could buy a billion times over. 

“Tell Yuri I said I love her,” Taehyung grabs Jungkook’s wrist when he turns to jog back up the driveway, “She didn’t want to wake up when I went into her room.” 

Jungkook’s gaze lingers on Taehyung's lips, his eyes lidded and heavy with sleep. Unsettled, Taehyung tries to divert his attention elsewhere. 

“You’ll call?” Jungkook asks.

The air around them is tainted by the smell of car exhaust, but Taehyung is engulfed by the fruity and sweet aroma of Jungkook's shampoo. His chauffeur has already slipped into the driver's seat, and the heavily tinted windows make it difficult for Taehyung to tell if he and Jungkook are being watched. The question hangs in the air, soft and warm, like Jungkook's breath brushing against Taehyung's cheek. 

They're standing too close.

“Yeah, I’ll call,” Taehyung squeezes Jungkook’s wrist before he lets go to open the car door. 

As the chauffeur drives away, Taehyung leans against the window, watching Jungkook standing at the end of the driveway until they round the corner and he can no longer see him. With a heavy sigh, Taehyung lets his head fall back on the seat and wonders why it feels like he has just made a promise he can’t keep.

–

Contrary to what most people assume, Taehyung hates traveling. He likes to travel, experience the world, and live beyond what he’s accustomed to, but he hates the act of traveling—planes, cars, buses, etc. Taehyung hates it all. He can’t stand transitory spaces, moments in time when he’s not quite where he once was but not yet in the next place he needs to be. 

“Oh, so like your marriage,” Namjoon points out in the middle of Taehyung’s rant, much to Taehyung’s disliking. “Divorce proceedings are like a liminal space. You’re still married, but you’re not together. One foot in the door, the rest of your body out. Or, well, your body is still in the door. Eunji just barely has her big toe still across the threshold.” 

“Can you shut up?” Taehyung glares at Namjoon over the rim of his glass before taking a sip, hissing once the amber liquid washes over the back of his throat. Bourbon isn’t Taehyung’s drink of choice, but Namjoon said it’s “distinctly American” and thus a requirement for their trip. 

Were multiple glasses of Bourbon a requirement, though? Taehyung distinctly thinks not. Yet here he is, both forearms crossed against the sleek, black marble counter of some high-end cocktail bar, with rosy cheeks and an open tab. 

“Am I not wrong?” Namjoon slams down his glass, empty aside from melting ice cubes.

“For as long as I have known you, you are always wrong.” 

Ignoring Taehyung, Namjoon beckons the bartender and asks her for another round of drinks in Korean. The woman’s gaze slides from Namjoon to Taehyung, who kicks Namjoon in the shin and nearly throws himself off the barstool he’s perched on. 

“Sorry, it’s a mess up here,” Namjoon laughs as he taps his forehead and tries ordering in English this time, his smile all sweet and dimpled. 

Namjoon’s entire face is red, and sweat beads along his hairline. Despite the chilly air outside, it’s hot and stuffy inside the bar. Crowded yet calm, the bar patrons respect the quiet atmosphere, with its dim lighting and dark furniture, that seems to mute conversations. Even Taehyung and Namjoon, both easily boisterous, are subtle in their playful bickering. 

“Did the rest of the crew leave already?” Namjoon asks as he looks over his shoulder at the booths and tables. 

“Didn’t you hear Wonho say they’re going back to the hotel?” 

It takes a second for Namjoon to react. Taehyung wonders if they’re both too drunk to properly communicate with each other anymore. His lips are beginning to tingle, and that’s never a good sign. 

“It’s not even that late,” Namjoon pouts. He hands his credit card to the bartender in exchange for the next round of drinks anyway. 

Taehyung doesn’t want another drink. He’s exhausted from the jetlag that a fourteen-hour time difference triggers, and he’s spent the past few days talking nonstop. There’s always something. As Taehyung grows older, he realizes he desperately wishes for less. 

“Are you even listening? Did you hear what I said?” Namjoon shoves Taehyung’s shoulder hard enough to tip his barstool. 

With a panicked yelp, Taehyung clutches the edge of the bar counter to hold himself upright as the stool wobbles. 

“You’re going to knock me on the fucking floor,” Taehyung grumbles.  

Namjoon watches Taehyung with glossy eyes when he asks, “What are you thinking about, Tae?”

Namjoon waits for a response with a sense of earnestness as if he genuinely cares about what’s made Taehyung so quiet. He does care; he’s not only Taehyung’s colleague as a fellow film director, but he’s also one of Taehyung’s dearest friends.  

“Yuri hasn’t wanted to talk to me since we got to New York. She has only called me a handful of times,” Taehyung admits with a sigh. He runs a shaky hand through his hair as he speaks, “We spoke on the phone two days ago, briefly, and she told me she blames herself for everything going on with Eunji, as though she thinks she has done something to make Eunji and I no longer love each other.”

Taehyung reaches for the receipt and pen in front of Namjoon to sign for the expenses. He doesn’t bother paying attention to the cost; he only mentally processes it enough to calculate a tip before he tosses the pen on the counter. 

“Six years old, and she’s already carrying the burden on her tiny shoulders. This is exactly why I said I didn’t want to fucking tell her about the divorce.” 

“Taehyung…” Namjoon clasps Taehyung’s shoulder, digging his fingers into the tense muscles through his shirt. “Yuri just doesn’t fully understand what’s going on. She’s trying to make sense of it in her own way. Kids don’t understand how life can just… change like this, with no warning, no reason apparent to them.”

Namjoon is correct, but that reality doesn’t make Taehyung wrong. Yuri is young and impressionable, and she doesn’t understand, which is why she’s vulnerable to such terrible thoughts. Taehyung insisted that these things be kept a secret, but Eunji had other plans. 

Before Namjoon can say anything further, Taehyung’s phone vibrates loudly against the bar counter. 

“It’s Jungkook,” Taehyung mutters, reaching for his coat hung on a hook below the bar counter. He doesn’t wait for Namjoon to follow him as he shoulders past the other bar patrons until he can step into the chilly night. It’s still noisy. New York always is, but Taehyung feels less distracted when he can lean against the cold brick at the corner of the building and focus on accepting the incoming video call. 

“Appa!” Yuri shouts, her little voice cutting through the sirens ringing in the city streets. 

“Hi, baby. How are you doing?” 

“Good! Jungkookie oppa took me to the park! There was a doggy named Mouse, isn’t that silly? We should get a puppy and name it something silly. Like, well, um, I need to think about it.” 

Taehyung smiles as Yuri rambles on, waving her arm in every direction as she shows Taehyung the park they’re at. He can’t see Jungkook in the video, but he can hear him giggle with Yuri when she says something particularly amusing. 

Yuri is dressed cutely, with her hair in evenly parted pigtails, and wearing a sky blue puffy dress she refers to as her “princess dress.” Sometimes, Taehyung thinks Jungkook does a better job raising Yuri than he does. 

As most children are, Yuri is easily distracted. She quickly loses interest in describing every special rock she finds at the park and eventually passes the phone to Jungkook so she can “make new friends” and test out how many spins on the swingset it will take for one of them to throw up.

“Hi, hyung,” Jungkook’s smile shines in the midday sun, his eyes sparkling with the warm rays of light. Taehyung can’t stop himself from smiling, too. 

“Jungkook-ah,” Taehyung nearly whispers his name, still too aware of their secret. “How is everything?” 

“I know she’s been kind of stubborn, but she misses you,” Jungkook says. The wind ruffles his minty hair, lifting his bangs and giving him an angular look. “I miss you, too.” 

“Jungkook…” 

“Hyung,” Jungkook rolls his eyes, but he’s still smiling, and Taehyung is, too. “Just tell me you miss me.”

“I do,” Taehyung obliges, and it isn’t a lie. 

Every business trip away forces Taehyung to remember the fact that his days are better when he gets to spend those sacred quiet moments with Jungkook at the end of the night. In that transition period, the two of them come and go. He misses that, even without the handjob.

They’ve been through this already, earlier in the New York trip. It’s wrong to talk to Jungkook like this, someone so much younger than Taehyung, someone who works for him. 

It’s also wrong to deposit a little extra money in Jungkook’s bank account every time he leaves Taehyung little reminders of how much more Jungkook could do to remedy the lonely ache in Taehyung’s chest every night he goes to bed alone. 

It’s so, so wrong, but Taehyung doesn’t put an end to it—and he could. He could ignore Jungkook’s call later, when he’s back in his hotel room and Jungkook has put Yuri to bed for a nap. He doesn’t, though. He could end the call when Jungkook tells him again how much he misses him. He could tell Jungkook to stop when Jungkook moans into the phone and tells him that he’s touching himself to Taehyung’s rich, smooth voice. 

Taehyung could end all of it because it’s wrong, but he doesn’t. 

Instead, when Jungkook calls Taehyung during the New York trip, Taehyung lies in the dark hotel room as warmth spreads from his chest lower until he can’t ignore his cock stirring in his boxers with each of Jungkook’s moans. 

“Hyung, I can’t stop thinking about how incredible you sound when you cum,” Jungkook whimpers later when Taehyung and Namjoon have returned to the hotel and gone their separate ways. “I’d fucking listen to that all night, every night.

The cool air in the hotel room blows against Taehyung’s chest, making him shiver, but the heat pooling in his stomach is enough to keep him warm. 

“Where are you, Jungkook-ah?” Taehyung can hear rustling in the background. 

“In your bed. Eunji noona took Yuri out shopping.” 

Taehyung lets his head fall back on his pillow as he closes his eyes and imagines Jungkook sprawled on his bed, the one he’d shared with Eunji for so many years. He wonders if Jungkook would be even prettier than she was when Taehyung had her underneath him. 

“I don’t believe you,” Taehyung lies because he knows Jungkook will send him a picture. He doesn’t directly ask for one, though. He hopes that makes him less bad. 

Taehyung’s cock is a heavy burden fisted in his hand. Slowly spreading precum, he runs his thumb along his slit and thinks about the heat of Jungkook's mouth. He can practically feel them engulf his cock, stretched lips swollen and bitten red. He wants to know what Jungkook tastes like, what his name sounds like as a whimper or a moan spilling from Jungkook's needy mouth. 

“Ohh, fuck, I’m gonna cum,” Jungkook moans through the wet, sloppy sounds echoing over the phone. “Please, daddy, let me cum. Tell me I can cum.” 

“Daddy?” Taehyung nearly chokes. Shame tightens his chest when his cock twitches at the pet name. 

“You like that, daddy? Do you like when I call you daddy while you imagine you’re fucking my mouth? God, I wish I could taste your cock.” 

Jungkook is cheeky and mocking, even when he’s praising Taehyung. Taehyung likes how shameful that makes him feel, too. He lets out a breathy sigh and draws his bottom lip between his teeth as he pumps himself harder, slightly picking up the pace. 

“Tell me,” Jungkook hisses in what sounds like an attempt to hold back a whimper. 

“You can cum, Jungkook-ah. You can—” 

Taehyung presses his palm against his mouth to keep quiet when he cums, knowing Namjoon’s hotel room is right next door. 

The rub of Taehyung’s meaningless wedding ring, which he still wears out of depressing habit, dragging along the throbbing veins of his cock is what finally sends him over the edge. He cums into his hand as he imagines what it would feel like to sink inside Jungkook. In reality, his cum is messy and hot as it drips down his pulsing cock and between his fingers, making his useless ring stick uncomfortably to his skin. 

Taehyung is so fucked.

–

If someone told Taehyung he’d become a renowned film director, get married, have a child, get divorced, and become a sugar daddy before he turned forty, he would have laughed in their face. 

Now, his bank statements from the past few months reveal an embarrassing pattern of purchases of children’s toys, payments to his lawyer, and seemingly random purchases that always end up in the hands of Jeon Jungkook. 

Taehyung’s money isn’t endless, but the likelihood of it ever running out is slim. He supposes he could live off of royalties alone and never pick up another film project for the rest of his life. It’s not about the money, though. For other people it may be. Capitalism destroys art, though, and Taehyung prefers to keep thoughts about his finances separate from his film passion projects. If he considers his art his paycheck, he’ll never want to create anything again—and what kind of life would that be? 

Money is different for a twenty-two-year-old with dreams of making it big. The English language learning and desire to brush up against fame aren’t just for fun. After nearly two years, Taehyung finally learns that Jungkook’s true passions lie in acting and film production. Jungkook has goals, and Taehyung, as the seasoned professional between them, can’t possibly sit back and not help. 

If Namjoon looks at Taehyung funny when he asks him to babysit Yuri while he attends yet another obligatory celebrity event, this time with Jungkook, well, there’s nothing Taehyung can do about that. If Taehyung is going to be a proper mentor, he must ensure that Jungkook ends up in the right rooms with the right people. 

The fact that they have phone sex practically every night because Taehyung is too afraid to fall asleep alone and Jungkook likes the money he gets out of it is beside the point. Ever since that night in the kitchen, nothing physical has happened between the two of them. Taehyung and Jungkook maneuver with and around each other as though they don’t practically fall asleep to the sound of each other coming. Jungkook is sweet and caring to Yuri, as always. He gets along well with Eunji despite the tension that Eunji brings with her into every conversation. When he’s with Taehyung, he’s polite and cheerful. 

It’s strange, living a double life. It makes Taehyung feel even slimier, but he doesn’t stop. 

The thing is, Taehyung should have known that what's done in the dark always comes to light. 

-

Taehyung’s desk is littered with to-do lists. Some are on looseleaf paper, others on sticky notes or scrap paper ripped from notebooks or crumpled in the back of desk drawers. An artist type in the most terribly stereotypical way, Taehyung has yet to master the arts of time management and organization. He even maintains a digital to-do list attached to his work email account calendar. However, that one is a bit more successful than the physical to-do lists that get accidentally thrown out or left in the pockets of his slacks to disintegrate in the washing machine later. 

The digital to-do list is ideal because it’s more reliable and makes a cute little sound whenever Taehyung marks an item as completed. The application cheers him on whenever he completes more than five daily tasks. 

Five may not seem like much, but when Taehyung spends half his office days on conference calls, arguing about salaries and film sets, he needs something to motivate him. 

For now, he clicks through an old list of tasks on his to-do list to watch the virtual confetti rain down his computer screen while two of his colleagues argue over the phone. Taehyung is working from his home office, so he keeps his wireless earbuds in rather than put the call on speaker phone, not wanting the loud conversation to carry out of his office and disrupt anyone else who may be home. 

Barely five minutes into the phone call, Taehyung already wants to hang up. He has more important matters to deal with, like buying a new condo in the city so he can have a good excuse to get out of this goddamn house. 

Too distracted by his colleagues, Taehyung doesn’t hear the knock at the door, nor does he notice someone slip inside his office until they’re picking at the stray papers scattered across his desk. 

“Hyung, your office is a disaster,” Jungkook says, amusement flickering like sun rays in his eyes and with a twitch of his mouth when he holds back a smile. 

Muting himself on his phone and removing one earbud, Taehyung slightly tilts back in his desk chair to stare at Jungkook. 

“I’m on a call, Jungkook. Do you need something?” 

Jungkook rolls his eyes. Nightly orgasms and a little more money in his bank account have turned Jungkook bratty. Taehyung hates that he likes it. 

“Eunji noona brought Yuri with her to her halmeoni,” Jungkook reaches for the removed earbud, but Taehyung pulls his hand back before Jungkook can snatch it.

“So?”

“So,” Jungkook rolls his eyes again, “I’m bored.”

“And what exactly am I supposed to—” Taehyung cuts himself off as he scrambles to unmute himself when his colleagues address him on the call, “Yes, Seojoon, I already sent those documents to Bogum last week. The executives at Park Enterprises said security clearance wouldn’t be difficult to obtain once the cast is finalized.” 

Returning the earbud to his ear, Taehyung gives Jungkook a stern look before focusing on pulling up the documents on his computer. They’re highly technical, with lots of legal jargon that even Taehyung wasn’t well-versed in, so he has to review the document with his colleagues. 

“I assume they’ll all have valid passports?” Taehyung scrolls through the files, searching for the correct section to review. 

Determined to make his problems Taehyung’s, Jungkook maneuvers around Taehyung’s arms until he can forcibly sit in his lap. On another day, it could be cute and maybe even send Taehyung into a little panic attack, but Taehyung isn’t in the mood when he has frustrated coworkers in his ears. 

Get off, Taehyung mouths to Jungkook because his phone is out of reach now. 

Jungkook leans with his back against Taehyung’s chest, and his legs spread to rest on the outside of Taehyung’s thighs. When he turns his head, his lips brush against the base of Taehyung’s throat. 

“No,” Jungkook whispers before giving Taehyung's throat a gentle kiss that makes goosebumps spring across his skin. 

Jungkook’s weight feels nice, even more so if Taehyung just sits back and lets Jungkook get comfortable. Taehyung is too on edge for that, though, especially when Jungkook wiggles to get comfortable and inadvertently grinds his ass on Taehyung’s crotch. 

Hissing quietly, Taehyung squeezes Jungkook’s hip to still him, but Jungkook giggles and does it again. He leans forward to grab the edge of the desk and gyrates his hips, grinding down on Taehyung in slow circles.

“Jungkook,” Taehyung whispers, fingers digging into Jungkook’s skin to tighten his grip on his hip bone. When he tries to reach for his phone to mute himself, Jungkook snatches it and sets it near the corner edge where Taehyung can’t reach it. 

“Are you mad at me, daddy?” Jungkook asks quietly. “I just want to spend time with you. Real time with you, not just on the phone.” 

Jungkook is wearing skimpy athletic shorts just like his homemade crop top, which exposes the toned expanse of his abdomen. It’s a shame that Taehyung can’t even appreciate it since Jungkook isn’t facing him, but he does have a full view of how firm Jungkook’s ass is as he rubs Taehyung’s now fully hard cock through his slacks. Each roll of his hips hikes his shorts up further until they’re at the crease of his thighs, putting his legs on display. 

“You’re always so busy,” Jungkook whispers against Taehyung’s throat when he leans back again. 

“It’s on page fifty-eight,” Taehyung’s voice cracks on the last syllable when Jungkook grabs his hand off the mouse and presses Taehyung’s fingers against his ass. Taehyung feels something round and knobby between Jungkook’s cheeks, not needing to see what it is to know that it’s a butt plug. 

Taehyung takes a deep breath as Jungkook curls his fingers around the waistband of his athletic shorts and uses both their hands to pull them down his thighs so Taehyung can see the diamond nestled between his cheeks. 

“I thought you might want to know where your money is going,” Jungkook smirks when he looks at Taehyung over his shoulder. 

Taehyung thinks he might start crying if his coworkers don’t stop asking him to read parts of the legal document out loud to them. 

It’s clear that Jungkook has turned this into a game. He twists around in Taehyung’s lap to rub his palm against the hard bulge in Taehyung’s slacks and grins when Taehyung tries not to look at him while he reads off the computer screen. Every time Taehyung opens his mouth to answer his colleagues’ questions, Jungkook squeezes his cock. 

“Can I have it, daddy?” Jungkook rubs the head of Taehyung’s cock through his slacks as he pulls down the zipper, “Please?”

Taehyung shouldn’t do it. He’s already struggling to breathe properly on this phone call, and his forehead and the nape of his neck are damp with sweat. He can’t even put himself on mute. Jungkook is twenty-two. Jungkook is their nanny. Taehyung shouldn’t do it. 

Jungkook leans forward to brush their lips together as Taehyung lifts his hips so Jungkook can pull his pants down far enough to release his cock. If having Jungkook half-naked in his lap wasn’t enough torture, when Jungkook turns back around, he guides Taehyung’s hand to the jewel sitting pretty between his cheeks. The plug makes a wet, squelching sound when Taehyung pulls it from Jungkook’s stretched hole, lube dripping from it in sticky strings that smear Taehyung’s desk when he puts it off to the side. One of his colleagues asks him a question, but he’s too mesmerized by how Jungkook’s shiny hole flutters now that it’s empty. 

“Give it to me,” Taehyung thinks he hears Jungkook whine. 

Taehyung swipes his thumb over a glob of lube that leaked down the inside of Jungkook’s thigh and uses it, along with his own precum, to slick up his cock. He takes too long, though, and Jungkook swats his hand away to grab his cock and line it up himself. 

Rather than go slow, Jungkook drops onto Taehyung’s cock with all his weight, making his ass slap against Taehyung’s thighs and ripping a moan out of his throat so loud that Taehyung immediately ends the phone call.

“What the fuck, Jungkook?” Taehyung wants to be stern and wants Jungkook to understand that he can’t just fuck around like that with Taehyung’s job, even if Taehyung encourages it. 

But then Jungkook leans forward to lift his hips and drop back down again, enveloping Taehyung’s cock in his wet heat. Taehyung’s other complaints immediately morph into moans so breathy and pathetic that he shocks himself. 

“I feel good, don’t I?” Jungkook whimpers as he fucks himself on Taehyung’s cock even harder, using the desk to give himself momentum. “Tell me, daddy, tell me.” 

“Fuck, baby, you do,” Taehyung flings his head back and bucks his hips to meet Jungkook with his own thrusts. 

“Mhm, you wish you had me sooner, don’t you?” Jungkook’s voice takes on a higher pitch, something whiny and cute. “Could have been fucking me instead of wasting your time being sad about noona.”

The chair creaks and scratches against the floor as Jungkook bounces on Taehyung’s cock, filling the office with the sound of their moans and wet skin slapping together. 

Taehyung nods fervently, his head rolling and lolling as Jungkook uses him, drawing breathy moans from Taehyung, little “ah, ah, ah’s” that make him feel lightheaded because he isn’t inhaling. 

“Yes, fuck, yes, yes,” Taehyung’s arms fall limp at his sides as he lets Jungkook control the pace.

“You like when I fuck you, hyung?” Jungkook sounds so smug as if he knows he has Taehyung right where he wants him. Taehyung can’t even care to feel ashamed of how easy he is. 

Taehyung nods, his voice caught in his throat. 

“Touch me. I wanna cum, please.”

“Yeah? Fuck, baby, fuck,” Taehyung reaches around to fist Jungkook’s cock as he feels his own orgasm build. It dips and burns the pit of his stomach almost as quickly as it had that first night, all those months ago. 

“I could give you something better, hyung,”

As touch-starved as Taehyung is, he holds off until after Jungkook cums with a cry that makes Taehyung glad there’s no one else home. 

It’s messy and loud, and it takes too long for Taehyung to come down from his high. He feels sluggish, even after Jungkook climbs off him and strips his shirt, using it to clean himself off before tossing it to Taehyung. It’s been so long since Taehyung has felt so content, not just satiated from physical pleasure, but from shared intimacy—even if it will make him feel slimy later. 

“If I didn’t work out so much, that position would have been too hard to maintain,” Jungkook mumbles against Taehyung’s chest when he climbs back into his lap. 

He’s unfazed by their current physical state and never seems shy about the fact that he’s fucking his boss, the father of the kid he cares for. Taehyung wants to be free like that, unashamed, unapologetic. Eunji is; she’s even worse. It’s a bunch of bullshit, just like Jungkook said. 

“How are you so casual about this, all the time?” Taehyung asks quietly, eyes closed so he can try to think through the fuzz in his brain. 

“I don’t know,” Jungkook shrugs, “I like you, you like me. What else is there?” 

It feels too simple, but Taehyung likes it. He thinks back on how much of a hopeless romantic he is and how his films revolve around finding love, or at least acceptance and intimacy. Does Jungkook love him? Taehyung feels too silly to ask, but he thinks if this were one of his films, he’d want it to end just the way they are, cuddled up despite the mess they’ve made of each other, without shame. 

“I’m not like her,” Jungkook likely mistakes Taehyung’s pensiveness for sadness. “I won’t do you the way she did you.”

“The thought never crossed my mind, Jungkook-ah,” Taehyung murmurs against Jungkook’s forehead, lips brushing a light kiss that can’t begin to convey the swell of affection Taehyung feels for the man he cradles against his chest.

Disclaimer: All my writing is fictional and for entertainment purposes only. None of these characters are meant to actually represent the real people mentioned in the stories.

All rights reserved © @gimmethatagustd​ - Do not copy, repost, modify, or translate any of my writing. Do not use my writing for any AI purposes whatsoever. Do not use my fics for anything aside from reading and commenting on them. My fics will only be posted on this Tumblr and on AO3 (gimmethatagustd &daddytaehyungie).

[redtsundere-writes]

Tyrant's Favorite | Sukuna Ryomen

Part 17: Everything Is Cursed

King!SukunaRyomen x Servant!FemReader

Summary: You used to be just another servant among the army of humans operating under the command of the terrible king, Sukuna Ryomen. An ordinary human who only knows how to wash, clean and cook. Until one day, he notices something in you that you hadn't seen before.

Tags: MDNI. +18. Murder. Blood. Cannibalism. Sukuna Ryomen Is The Warning Itself. Nudity. Sexual Display. Vaginal. Fingering. Sometimes fluff, sometimes angst. Beta read.

Word Count: 6371 words.

Beginning. | ← Previous | Next →

One question was bothering you. You had been through hell and you still hadn't received your reward. That inquiry was running in circles in your mind. There were many answers, but none were facts. What was happening? Why were you going through it? How long would it be until it was over? Many possibilities, none seemed to be the right one. It was a doubt that arose the morning after the small funeral you prepared for your sister.

There was a small chapel past the garden and crops behind the terrible castle. Its white facade, with a classical curved parapet and a red tiled roof, emanated serenity in the middle of hell. On top of the facade, the emblem of Sukuna’s kingdom rose towards the sky. Vines grew around the open arch that reveals its interior. That small place had existed since Sukuna conquered these lands. With no function for that small building, Sukuna decided to leave it as it was. Sometimes the servants would go there in their free time to pray for their souls in case they didn’t survive another day.

You carefully placed the golden urn with Yorozu’s ashes on one of the shelves. Uraume had given it to you the morning after your little expedition with the king. That morning, you woke up, surprised to be in your room in the castle. Apparently, you had fallen asleep while watching the sunset and the king had to carry you back in his arms. “How embarrassing,” you thought before getting ready for the funeral.

You put on the cap of your black cloak so that no one would disturb you as you dedicated a minute of silence to your sister’s soul with your cheeks completely dry. You had quickly accepted that she was no longer with you and that you couldn’t do anything for her in life. Now the only thing you could do was honor her short life. Everything had happened so fast. A couple of months ago you were crying from happiness to see her, and now you didn’t want to cry from disappointment.

You listened to Kenjaku give his class, but you couldn't pay attention. It had been a week since Yorozu's death and something was missing. The reason why you had committed that atrocity that you wanted to forget but would haunt you for the rest of your life. You tried to pay attention to your teacher, but that doubt kept pulling you into the limbo of probabilities.

“Once you understand your opponent's point of view, it is easier to defend your own position more successfully, especially because that's how you avoid misunderstandings and arguing about aspects that the other side hasn't really said,” Kenjaku explained while writing the keywords on the board. “That's why studying the rival is very important in the debate.” He turned around to find you lost in your thoughts. You looked at the board, but you weren't really reading what it said. “Do you have any questions?”

“Why hasn't the king proposed to me yet?” You asked him, coming back to your senses. Kenjaku looked at you confused.

“I meant about class…”

“Ah.” You quickly read what the board said about the steps to learn how to argue. “I have no doubts about that.”

Kenjaku had noticed your strange attitude for a couple of days now, but as you continued with your education without delay, he never asked you. He thought it was because you were still mourning your sister's death or sad about not knowing the true whereabouts of your sisters. The teacher smiled to himself, just when he thought he could read you like an open book, it turned out that he wasn't.

“So that's what's been distracting you lately?” Kenjaku inquired.

“Did I do something wrong? The king promised to marry me once I killed someone of my kind, but he hasn't done it yet,” you explained worriedly.

“Do you want to marry him that much?” Kenjaku joked tenderly. It was nice to see a girl completely in love.

“Of course,” you answered without hesitation. Your master smiled at hearing you so excited. “My sister died because of that, I better do it.” That was not an answer he expected to hear.

“Excuse me?”

“I lost Yorozu because of that deal. If Sukuna doesn't propose to me, I would have killed my sister for nothing,” you explained, crossing your arms in frustration. “Do you know why the king hasn't done it yet?”

Kenjaku's enthusiastic smile disappeared just like that day when Sukuna came back with you in his arms, completely asleep and, worst of all, without a ring on your finger. The king was stupid for not taking the opportunity to ask you to marry him after all.

“I have no idea,” Kenjaku answered. “Maybe he's been very busy.”

That could be a possibility. You hadn't seen the king as often as before. You used to see him at every meal of the day, in the afternoon when you gave him your daily report, and when he sometimes poked his nose into your education. Now, you only saw him at breakfast time because he spent the rest of the day locked in his office. You couldn't even report to him because he wouldn't let you in. It was strange how everything around you had changed after your sister's death.

"I hope he didn't scam me," you thought, holding your head in guilt.

"The king may be many things, but a scammer isn't one of them," Kenjaku, I assure you.

The door opened, interrupting the teacher-student conversation. You recognized almost immediately the naturally bitter face, the gray hair, and the dull uniform in dark tones. It was that new servant who was so kind to you. All you knew about him had been from Mrs. Inoue, who had told you that he was such a reserved, serious, and somewhat grumpy man. It seemed so strange to you that you never perceived it like that.

“Sorry to interrupt you. The king calls you to his office,” he announced.

“Maybe the time has come,” Kenjaku commented with a smile.

“Finally…” You sighed.

It was strange. Kenjaku thought you would be more excited about marrying the king. You studied complicated subjects that fried your brain, trained until exhaustion, and got ready early to please the king’s eyes. It made no sense for you to work so hard for this moment and not be excited.

Sukuna let them into the office. You and Kenjaku entered after bowing in respect to the king and his right-hand man, Uraume, who stood faithfully behind him. Sukuna’s heart fluttered at the sight of you. He gripped his pen tightly to mask his nervousness at being in your presence.

Returning to the castle after his failed marriage proposal, he carried you to your room as you snored softly. He gently laid you down on the bed so as not to wake you up. He took off your boots before tucking you into bed. He sat next to you to admire your calmness. Your chest rose and fell slowly to the rhythm of your breathing. Your eyelashes stood out more when your eyes were closed. Your half-open lips invited him to come closer to kiss you like that night you spent together. “Enough!” Sukuna scolded himself in his mind to stop and immediately leave your room so you could continue your dream.

Since that night, he realized that he can’t think coherently when he iswas near you, so he decided to take immediate measures so you wouldn’t distract him when working. It was frustrating how your mere presence could upset him like that. He had to fight with all his instincts to concentrate on what mattered most now, the future of his kingdom.

You and Kenjaku approached the desk. Quickly, you noticed a large black box with a gold engraving of roses on it. It was almost as long as the desk. That must have been the reason you had been called. It seems that this was not what you were expecting.

“Open it.” Sukuna ordered you.

You looked at Kenjaku for a second, worried about what might be inside. Your master patted you on the back a couple of times, inviting you to come closer. You worked up the courage to open the box without a hint of fear. The latches clicked open at the same time. You lifted the lid to reveal the immaculate treasure.

A beautiful rose gold bow that radiated a special aura against the light. Your mouth dropped to the floor as soon as you pulled it out of its box, along with its matching pink-dyed leather quiver. You never thought you'd see such a beautiful weapon in your life. You pretended to load the bow with an imaginary arrow to test it out. It was lighter than the one you had before, and you could tell it was made with the best quality materials. As you lowered the bow, you noticed a small detail. In the small hollow of the handle there was an engraving, a small daisy. You smiled at the cute detail. You thought it would have a rose, since it was a common symbol in the Sukuna kingdom, but daisies are cute too.

“It's a cursed bow,” Sukuna explained, catching your attention. “That means you can kill curses with it. Keep that in mind when you train with my soldiers.”

“What's the difference from a normal bow?” You asked curiously.

“This bow is infused with the cursed energy from Yorozu’s body,” the king replied bluntly.

“Are you saying that part of my sister is here?” You stammered. Everyone in the room could tell that you were about to burst into tears.

“Yes,” Sukuna replied in the same tone.

You hugged the bow to your chest as you sobbed softly, hiding your face behind your hair and the upper limb. A pang of guilt attacked Sukuna’s chest. He really thought you would like his gift, since you deserved a cursed weapon made especially for you, but it seems he was wrong.

“Thank you…” You sobbed. “Thank you for giving me something to honor her life with.”

You looked into his eyes with tears running down your cheeks and a nostalgic smile on your face. Sukuna’s heart quickly skipped a beat as he realized the true reason for your crying. His lower hands, hidden beneath the desk, clenched into fists to control himself. How could you play with his feelings without even trying? Sukuna Ryomen, the king of curses, the powerful tyrant and the commander of thousands, was being corrupted by a mere mortal.

He hated these feelings you caused him. You made him so embarrassed he looked like a tomato, you annoyed him so much, but he couldn't get mad at you, and now, you could manipulate him with a simple smile. He would lose his temper when he was around you and that drove him crazy. If you wanted, he would be in the palm of your hand. He had to keep you as far away from him as possible to prevent the situation from getting worse for him.

“Just go train already,” Sukuna ordered in a grumpy tone, turning his gaze to an empty document to avoid seeing you.

It was a shame he hadn't asked you to marry him yet, but the king really did look busy. You could see the physical effect that being locked up in his office for so long had caused. He had purple eye bags, his posture was stiff, and his eyes scanned the document lazily. “Maybe later,” you thought disappointed before taking the quiver with pink feathered arrows.

“Yes, my king,” you replied with a bow to leave.

“We must leave then,” Kenjaku made you second.

“Who gave you permission to leave?” Sukuna ordered him.

The master was surprised at that. You and Kenjaku shared a confused look, but you decided to obey the king so as not to cause any more inconvenience. Your legs walked as quickly as possible, closing the door behind you as you left the office. Sukuna’s hands relaxed as he no longer had to keep his emotions in check. After making sure you had already left, Kenjaku approached the king.

“Why so secretive, my king?” Kenjaku inquired curiously.

“It’s not a secret, it’s just that she’s not ready to know what I’m planning yet.” Sukuna got up from the desk to take one of the scrolls that were displayed on a bookshelf. He unrolled the scroll with a snap to reveal an updated map of the great world they knew.

It was a large map made from parchment and black ink with wonderful detail. It showed all the important kingdoms and places of interest that made up the world. The Kingdom of Sukuna and the Kingdom of Jogo were to the west, the kingdoms of Gojo, Geto and Yaga; to the north. The kingdoms of Zen'in and Nanami; to the east, and finally, the Kingdom of Tsukumo was to the southeast. Currently, the great tyrant owned the east and planned to expand soon.

"I'm going to declare war on the Zen'in," Sukuna announced, pointing at the large territory with his finger.

Kenjaku looked at him impressed, but not surprised. He knew that one day the king would not be satisfied with keeping the infested lands with only curses, so he would go to conquer human lands. Kenjaku glanced at Uraume out of the corner of his eye, who had not said a single word the entire time they were there. He expected nothing less from the shadow of his majesty.

“Wow, how ambitious,” Kenjaku commented while looking at the map. “May I know why you made that decision?” He returned his gaze to the king with curiosity.

“The Gojo Kingdom and the Geto Kingdom are allied, so an invasion could be complicated with my current troops. The Nanami Kingdom, Tsukumo and Yaga are small but distant. They will be my next targets once I have the Zen'in.” Everything the king said made sense, but there was still a small kingdom that was at the equator of the world to consider.

“What about the Kamo Kingdom? It is small and right in front of the Jogo Kingdom. It is the perfect target.”

“How many times have Commander Mahito and his troops tried to kill them?” Sukuna asked him seriously. Kenjaku gulped at that indirect accusation.

“I have already lost count, my king,” he answered, embarrassed by his comrade.

“They may be a small kingdom, but they are stupidly powerful. They are watching their lands at all hours for living so close to the Jogo kingdom. If anyone is ready for an invasion, it is them.” Sukuna explained. "As this is my first invasion into the heart of a kingdom, I have spent all this time carefully choosing my first victim. Because once I do, the other kingdoms will know what awaits them."

"If you have already decided, I am ready to obey your orders as always." Kenjaku gave a bow of respect that Sukuna completely ignored to look at the window.

"My plan will be carried out once I secure the life of my heir, in case everything goes wrong," Sukuna explained. "During that time, you will take care of the troops of the Jogo kingdom."

"And what about the education of the miss?" Kenjaku asked worriedly.

"I already have that covered." Sukuna answered.

"So what is the first step?" Kenjaku inquired.

“Wait for the Zen’in to make the first move.”

You left your room after finishing getting ready for the day of training that awaited you. You had decided that from now on you would use Yorozu's dresses to train since they were lighter than yours, perfect for moving with complete freedom. Archery is a sport that requires complete mobility of the upper body, so it is annoying to wear elegant dresses that require a corset. You were heading to the courtyard, moving your shoulders in circles to warm up on the way, until you ran into that kind servant. He was dusting off an obsidian vase propped on a marble column with great laziness.

"Did everything go well with the king, miss?" The man asked you when he noticed your presence.

"Yes, he gave me a new bow." You showed it to him to show it off. He was amazed to see it.

"It is very beautiful. It is made with the best fiberglass and carbon. It must have cost the king a good fortune." He explained as he took it to examine it carefully.

“It's obvious that you know about this,” you said, somewhat surprised, taking back your bow.

“Of course I know, I was a hunter before I was a servant,” he replied.

“Really?” You asked, fascinated. The gentleman was going to answer, but another servant, who was passing by, intercepted their conversation.

“Wasuke, leave the lady alone and get back to work!” The servant scolded him angrily.

“Shut your mouth, idiot!” Wasuke replied in the same tone.

That sudden change in attitude took you by surprise. Now you understood why Mrs. Inoue said he was a grumpy man. One moment he could be a kind man and, the next, someone extremely rude.

“In fact, he is working. He is going to help me train,” you defended him. “Isn't that right, Wasuke?” You gave him a knowing wink.

“Of course, miss.” He gave you a slight smile when he realized what you were planning.

The other servant rolled his eyes and walked back the way he came, muttering insults under his breath. Typical attitude for an 80-year-old man. You and Wasuke looked at each other knowingly before smiling at each other as if you had done some mischief.

“I shall warn you that I am a very strict master,” Wasuke warned you.

“Just what I need,” you told him. “My name is Y/n,” you introduced yourself with a bow of respect to your new master.

“Everyone knows who you are,” he joked. “My name is Wasuke Itadori. It will be an honor to train you.” You had a good feeling about this.

Wasuke shouted encouragements at you while you barely did push-ups. As soon as you reached the parade ground, he told you that you were the weakest woman he had ever met in his life, so he forced you to do different exercises to strengthen your arms, shoulders, and back. Your weak muscles could barely support the weight of your own body each time you climbed up, keeping your back as straight as possible. You sweated, even in places you didn't know could sweat.

“Lift that neck, lady! Even a little girl can do 30 push-ups!” Wasuke yelled at you, small drops of saliva escaping from his mouth every time he opened his mouth.

“That's what I'm trying to do!” You complained between moans of exhaustion.

“I don't want a try, I want you to do it!” Wasuke spat. “Three more!”

With the little breath you had left, you lowered your body. The grass tickled the palms of your hands, but that wasn't going to stop you. You climbed up with your back straight and then lowered yourself again. This was more complicated than it seemed. Wasuke kept yelling at you to finish the simple exercise with a good grade. When he said he was a strict teacher, he meant it. You did the last push-up and collapsed to the ground. You groaned in pain as you breathed in the freshly cut grass.

“Get up now,” Wasuke ordered you. You reluctantly obeyed. “Now you are going to hold the bow in front of you for 5 minutes.” That sounded simple.

You took your bow, extended your arms in front of you and held the weapon with both hands. All was well until your limbs began to shiver from the exhaustion of the previous exercises. You tightened your grip on the bow to keep it from slipping from the sweat. You didn’t think you could last 5 minutes like that.

“Can I ask you something?” You tried to distract your brain from the exercise so that time would pass faster. “Why are you here? You look quite young compared to everyone else.”

Unlike the other servants, Wasuke was the youngest of them all, like you at the time. Most servants were between 60 and 80, he looked to be under 50. He had gray hair but still had dark hair, wrinkles from age, but he didn't look like a raisin, and sometimes he didn't hear well, but he was still strong.

“Do you want the truth?” He asked you. You nodded.

The truth was something he had a hard time telling. He was always a good liar to protect his family, especially his daughter. He didn't want her to live in fear because of living in a commune that was in constant danger of being attacked by a curse. His lies were the cause of his only daughter's giant curiosity. 

“My daughter died because of a curse. My wife committed suicide because she couldn't bear the mourning," Wasuke confessed with all the sadness in his heart. "I was a coward and couldn't follow the same path. That's why I'm waiting for the king to decide when it will be my time to join them." Your heart broke when you heard that. It was a tragic fate to suffer. "It's only fair that I too die at the hands of a curse. It's the price I must pay for not protecting my little girl." 

You knew perfectly well what he was talking about. There is no worse feeling than the helplessness of not being strong enough, fast enough, or smart enough to protect what you love. You had lost your family by not being able to fight adversity. You couldn't even protect that child at the harvest for a day who was killed by your lack of courage. You tightened your bow again, this time, out of frustration that both of you had to go through that.

"I'm so sorry," you stammered. You didn't think his answer would be so heartbreaking.

“Don’t apologize. Life is cruel by nature,” Wasuke sighed.

“Still, I’m sorry,” you repeated. “I know what it’s like to lose your family.”

“I know, Miss.” 

Wasuke remembered seeing you cry and scream at the sky for your sin of killing your own blood. He had never seen a person suffer so much physically, emotionally, and psychologically. Even though he was behind the strong walls of the castle, a giant window separated them, and he had a deafness problem, he could still hear the powerful wails of your soul in mourning. Your palms open like books, the blood splattered on the canvas that was your body, and your face in sorrow. It was such a powerful image that he doubted he would ever forget it.

The loud bells woke them both from the memories of their sad pasts. It was the alarm announcing an invasion. This was the second time you had heard it in your time in the castle, and you had an idea of ​​who it could be. Several armed curses ran towards the castle entrance through the battlements that were on the walls, while incoherent instructions were shouted to you.

“Don’t let him pass!” A strong-bodied curse ordered as he summoned a dark screen that slowly covered the entire castle.

“We must go!” Wasuke asked you before taking your arm. You were going to follow him, but you remembered what Sukuna told you on your first day of training:

“In case of an invasion, you will need a cursed bow that allows you to use special arrows to kill curses and use it against sorcerers.” You tightened your grip on the cursed bow he had recently gifted you.

“You go. I will stay here as reinforcement,” you told him, removing your arm so he could leave alone. “Tell everyone to prepare to escape if it gets worse.”

“Are you sure, miss?” Wasuke asked.

“It is an order,” you said, sure.

Wasuke looked at the entrance one last time and nodded, accepting the order you had given him. He returned to the castle at a quick pace to do what he had just been asked to do. You looked ahead before pulling an arrow from your quiver to load your bow. You were completely alone in the courtyard, as all the curses were either outside the castle or on the perimeter. You could only hear the war cries of the curses. You gulped, shaking at not knowing what was going on the other side. You had an idea, but you weren't sure.

The screams turned into wails in a moment. You gripped your bow, mentally preparing for your turn to engage in battle. Though, you were sure you wouldn’t be alone. There was Kenjaku and Uraume to fight next to you. Sukuna can defeat any enemy in the blink of an eye. He would take down this strong foe, wouldn’t he?

The curse screen dissipated into the air, announcing that this curse was annihilated. The chains of the drawbridge began to jingle, and the castle gate swung open. The large bridge fell into place, the ground beneath your feet rumbling. It shook you completely, staggering you in place. You tightly gripped your bow and aimed it at the invader. “A man?” you thought, faltering in your shot.

A tall man, great posture and immaculate aura, walked in confidently, leaving all the curses behind, turning into ash. His spotless black boots thudded against the thick wood, announcing his arrival. His splendid bottle-green military uniform had several gold medals decorating his chest, a black leather belt, and dark pants. He smiled proudly as he combed his blonde hair with black tips back with his fingers.

“Oh?” He stopped upon entering, staring at you in disbelief for a second, as if he had entered the wrong house by accident. “Where is the white-haired guy of questionable sex? He is the one who always greets me,” he asked, confused.

“Did you kill all the curses?” You asked, surprised to see so much ash evaporating into the air.

“You must be new.” The man smiled and confidently approached you. Not knowing his intentions, you stretched the string to load the bow to its limit, but this did not make him stop. “It is a very large weapon, do you know how to use it? I could teach you.” He spoke to you as if you were stupid. You frowned further, this stranger's attitude starting to bother you.

You had recently realized that people like him were the type you disliked the most. Self-centered people who think they can do whatever they please. Yorozu had given you the tools to deal with people like this. You forgave her because she was your sister, but him? This guy was a complete stranger to whom you owed nothing.

“Who are you and what are you doing here?” You questioned with the most demanding tone you could fake, you had copied it from Sukuna from hearing it so much.

“I am Commander Naoya Zen'in,” he announced himself with a proud smile. “So I was right,” you thought.

You had only been a servant in the castle for a short time when you heard that name for the first time. You were washing the king's long robes in the backyard with a few other maids. Your fingers were beginning to wrinkle like they do from being in the soapy water for so long. The quiet and the voices of the gossiping maids kept you company. The little peace of the task was interrupted by the alarm bells that echoed throughout the castle. You stopped at the strange noise, having no idea what you were supposed to do.

“An invasion,” one of the servants announced, surprisingly calm.

“Do you think it's Naoya Zen'in?” Another servant, one who had been in the castle the longest, asked, somewhat excited.

“Winter is almost over, most likely,” Her coworker answered, wiping her hands on her apron after finishing her task.

“Who is Naoya Zen'in?” You asked them, butting into the conversation.

“A very handsome commander from an enemy kingdom who comes every year to deliver a letter to the king,” the first one answered. “Let's go see him,” she invited you to go with them to the entrance of the castle.

“No, thank you. I still have to finish washing this,” you politely declined.

The three ladies quickened their pace to find out if it was the man they could see annually. You looked at them curiously. “Was that man so attractive that you had to see him in person?” You wondered. Now you were curious to see this man, but you had a task to finish. You dipped your hands into the soapy water again to try to remove the stubborn blood stains from the king's white robes.

Now you understand why this man caused such a stir among the maids. Someone with such a presence had not been seen since Geto Suguru's corpse appeared in these parts. You looked towards the window that overlooked the great hall, a small group of ladies greeted Naoya from the safe point. The flattered young man returned the gesture.

“Women being women,” he sighed with a big smile. “Anyway, I have an important letter from Zen'in.”

“You can give it to me and leave,” you told him without lowering your bow.

“I think you don't understand your position as a female,” Naoya came closer without a hint of fear nor respect for you. “You're not going to be able to stop me.”

“No!” You shouted, making him stop at the loud objection. “You're the one who doesn't understand.” You lowered your torso so that the arrow's trajectory would change from his torso to his face. “One shot, and you're a dead man, commander Zen'in.”

Naoya smiled at the offense. Not because of the clear threat of death, but because a woman thought she could be a match against him. You and your pink bow were nothing compared to him. A replaceable servant couldn't be in front of a great commander of one of the most powerful kingdoms in the world. He was about to teach you a lesson, and it would be the hard way.

"Are you sure you don't want me to save you? I doubt a girl as weak as you would survive long here," Naoya offered, giving you one last chance to redeem yourself.

"I don't need you to save me," you spat angrily.

"Fine," Naoya pulled a knife from his back, spinning it in the palm of his hand to wield it. "Whatever you say."

You let go of the rope when you clearly saw his intentions to hurt you, and the arrow flew into his face. He dodged it with his knife before lunging at you in the blink of an eye. Before you knew it, he was already on top of you and his knife was already at your throat. It had all happened too fast. You had no idea how he had reached you so quickly. The blade swung down as Naoya's smile grew wider. You raised your hand to deflect it, but it wasn't going to make it in time. It came so fast that you couldn't even close your eyes to await your fate.

Out of nowhere, a gigantic fist sent Naoya flying, completely away from you. The powerful commander ended up being slammed into the nearest wall. Naoya groaned in pain before falling to the ground. You were perplexed at how bizarre that had been. You touched your neck on instinct, you didn't have a scratch on it. You sat down on the grass to look around for your unexpected savior.

At first glance, he looked like any other human, but up close, things were different. He was a curse with skin covered in stitches as if his body was made of patches. He had long, blue-gray hair that reached past his neck, and was divided into three large locks with bows at the ends. He also dressed like any other human. He was wearing a black shawl that separated into three pieces on the left sleeve and matching pants with white shoes.

“I'm just arriving, and they're already welcoming me with a sorcerer to kill, how fun!” The curse exclaimed as excited as a child in the park.

Naoya stood up with difficulty, dusting off his uniform. You stood up in the same way to retrieve your bow and load it with another arrow. You approached the curse with confidence, since it had saved you, even if it had only been for its own entertainment.

“Are you okay, miss?” The curse asked you with a big smile without taking your eyes off Naoya.

“Yes, I am fine. Thank you,” You told him, along with a small bow. “Who are you?”

“My name is Mahito, I am the commander of the Jogo kingdom. You must be the lady that the king ordered me to protect.” He introduced himself. “Did the king ask you that?” You asked yourself surprised. “So let me take care of this stupid sorcerer.”

“Who are you calling stupid, you fucking curse?!” Zen'in exclaimed before launching into combat for a second round.

Mahito pushed you away suddenly to transform his arms into two tentacles with dozens of knives on them and run towards his fast opponent. Naoya's knife challenged Mahito's along with the clicking of metals. The curse laughed as if it were a game, angering Naoya even more for underestimating him. They were both moving at speeds your eyes could barely keep up with, but you loaded your bow with another arrow anyway. You tried to aim for Naoya, but he was stupidly fast and Mahito was in the way. “Maybe it’s best I don’t get involved now,” you thought with some disappointment.

Mahito changed one of his tentacles into a large sword that fell on top of Zen'in. Naoya barely dodged it, his breathing ragged from the cursed energy he was expending by keeping his technique active for so long. "Who is this guy?!" He thought annoyed before moving away with a couple of backflips until he landed on his feet.

"Fine, you win..." Naoya took the envelope out of his jacket and threw it at you like a ninja star, landing on the grass in front of you. "Just for today," he said before running towards the nearest wall to climb it and escape.

"Oh, not so fast!" You exclaimed annoyed before pulling the rope.

You looked for a target before he left your sight. You focused on his back, which was the area that was free, as he climbed the wall as if he were an agile ant. You let go of the rope and the arrow flew through the air. Naoya saw it coming and dodged out of its path, but the arrow unexpectedly changed its trajectory and stuck in his back. Naoya bit his tongue to stop himself from letting out a cry of pain and continuing on his escape route. In less than a second, he had disappeared from your sight and Mahito's.

"Ah, the king is going to scold me for running away!" Mahito whined, disappointed in his efforts.

"How come that arrow didn't stop him?" You asked yourself confused. Clearly, it hit him, but he still slipped out of your hands like a damn cockroach.

"Those Zen'in have a very strong pride. That's probably what it was," Mahito complained. "But you're very good." He gave you a thumbs up. You smiled slightly.

You looked back at the card that was lying on the grass. You picked it up to examine it. It was a brown envelope with the Zen'in Kingdom's crest stamped on a wax seal at the opening. A purple orchid on the stamp decorated the envelope, giving the package a more elegant touch.

“Gimme that,” Mahito snatched it from you, ready to open it.

“You shouldn't open it,” you warned him. “It's for the king.”

“It's from an enemy,” Mahito said as he looked for a way to open it without destroying the contents. “It could contain poison, activate some bomb or a weird technique they made up. Believe me, these Zen'in are capable of anything.”

Mahito pushed you roughly to get you away from the possible threat. You had no choice but to listen to him. This was an unusual curse. He had a playful attitude, very different from what you imagined a commander should have. You covered your ears as soon as he finally opened the envelope, in case it was a bomb. Instead of a glass or smoke bomb, it turned out to be a confetti bomb. It shot towards Mahito's face, surprising him immediately, as a colored piece of paper fell into his eye.

“Oh!” You quickly approached him. Mahito rubbed his eyes in an attempt to get it off. “Let me see,” you asked.

You grabbed his chin and pulled his hands away to meet his different eyes, since his left eye was navy blue and the other, gray. Even though it was a strange looking curse, his eyes were very pretty. You blew into his eye so that the paper flew away. Once near the tear duct, you reached for it with your thumb to remove it completely.

Your touch was very kind and warm. Mahito was so used to humans treating him so badly that it was a little uncomfortable for him that you were treating him so calmly and with such appreciation. He now understood why Sukuna had chosen you as the future queen, you were a special human.

“That's it,” you smiled at him. “What does the letter say?”

“You read it, my eye hurts,” Mahito reluctantly gave it to you, rubbing his injured eye.

You opened the envelope to check its contents. You thought it was a declaration of war or some important meeting, but no. Nothing like it. Your mouth dropped to the floor as soon as you saw what it was.

Open fanfic commissions!

Masterlist.

Tag list: @bbnbhm @pxnellian @kbirdieee2540 @konigswifeyforlifey @kyo-kyo1 @calico-cheriies @imas1mpp @alone-the-honored-one @vlads-dracula3 @bigraga-sk @neeke-lilac02 @shaazd @airandyeah @energiepie @awkward-walking-potato @delightfully-studying @catobsessedlady

(let me know if you want to be tagged in next chapters!)

[edgeray]

Hi Ray! Looked to see that you have requests open and I just wanted to hear your thoughts on mad scientist!reader who after learning about Arle’s past through the leylines, decides to request Nahida to take them to Irminsul to bring back Clervie? Can totally imagine Arle and Clervie being great parents to the HotH children (Arle being Father and Clervie being Mother)

Alternatively - what do you think happens with Mother!Reader and Arle in HotH? Reader reading storybooks to put the kids to sleep late at night with Arle at the side watching on as the proud Papa she is, all the stolen glances at each other when they think the other isn’t looking, all the looks of disgust from the children when they see their Father princess carrying their Mother the moment she gets home… (I’m really, really desperate for domestic fluff)

I am of the strong opinion that it doesn’t matter how strong Arle is, she doesn’t deserve to face all these responsibilities alone. She deserves someone as her equal and lover, one who respects her boundaries and loves her for her in a healthy relationship!

I’m going to hazard a guess and say that your inbox is probably flooding with requests, so if you don’t want to write this it’s okay, just treat it as ramblings (I’ll support your work regardless ^^)

A Home To Return To

(Arlecchino x GN! Reader)

A/N - Hi anon! :D Before I start, next time you request, do you mind giving yourself a name or something that indicates that you, are well, you! ^^ I’d like to put a name to my future anons so I can differentiate between you guys. Makes it a little more personal. When I got your request, I was not flooded with requests, but I think I got like… 5 or 6 requests in the span of the past 24 hours so… you are right. This is a bit shorter, but I think this is pretty good for a 3AM writing. It doesn't completely follow everything you included but it's still domestic fluff! Content warnings / info - reader is referred to as 'mother' but otherwise GN! reader, no warnings, a bit of angst on arlecchino's part 'cuz I couldn't resist but it's mainly fluff, i promise, 0.9 words

Thoughts on mad scientist! reader will be at the bottom, because I want to prioritize the domestic fluff 🫶. And yes, Arlecchino deserves the best for her partner! Good thing there's you! ;)

Arlecchino did not know what a home was. Home was many things, but a home was neither a place of comfort nor a place of safety. If home was the place of relentless pain and practiced violence done onto her siblings by one another, then she'd rather tear apart what a ‘home’ was, brick by brick if she had to, to undo as much of the atrocity that is Crucabena's vision of a home, and rebuild her own. Her vision, however, lacked clear guidance and direction. How could she know what a proper home looked like when she herself had never had one?

Years ago, she thought she found her answer in the shape of a pink-haired girl, with a white headband, and a Lumidouce Bell necklace. Arlecchino has learned that everything always returns to ashes, and so the inklings of what a home was died away like the girl's embers. 

Still, she has tried her best to create a proper home, built from her blood-spilt and cursed hands. But with such vile foundations, the House is still far from what she hopes for it to become, as far away from her vision as the stars of fate. She knows that she alone cannot craft the home that her friend sought out, not when the most she can do is contradict Crucabena's House of the Hearth as much as possible. Still, it is not enough. The House of the Hearth children still suffer under her rule, a meager improvement from Crucabena, and she detests the thought that her House could be comparable to that wrench's. 

But she alone was not enough. Arlecchino was many things, but a builder was not one of them. She could not build a home fitting for her and Clervie, and she could neither build a home fitting for her children. She aimed endlessly for an answer, and then. 

She finds you. Her answer. 

It is ironic, Arlecchino finds, that although you do all the same things that Crucabena does, you swell with the warmth that she lacked. Yet again, contradiction is her answer, just like Clervie had been. Like Clervie, she finds home within you. 

She returns home, like she does every time her Fatui business is done, and like other days, she awaits your greeting once she arrives at the door. She imagines the heat of your body, how it melts her frigid exterior with just your arms around her; your sweet words which sweep her fortified defenses away, much like how a sandcastle easily crumbles under the gentlest of waves; and your gaze softened and full of an emotion unfitting for someone like her, someone undeserving of love, of all things to associate with her. And yet you do. 

Except, when she returns that day, you are not there at the door. She uncharacteristically pouts–an action the Fourth Harbinger rarely degrades herself to doing. Her upset is apparent to the children that do greet her, with their directed sneers to one another about how the Knave sulks. 

“Father, Mother is currently reading a book to the little kids in the living commons,” one of her children comes up to her, a knowing glance at her. Arlecchino nods, and strides her way towards your whereabouts, nodding and greeting her children along the way, until she stops at the doorway of the room, gazing behind the couch as you finish the book you wrote yourself. She remembers it endearingly, as you based it after your encounters with her, and then the two of you's eventual engagement. 

It is here, where she affirms to herself, that she's found herself a home. A home close to the one that she longed for, a home suitable for her children. It is you that can thaw the iciness of reality for the children and for her. Surrounded by the young children, you've never seen more etheral and beautiful. 

“... ‘the end!’” You finish as you shut the book. “Did you guys like the book?”

The kids giggle, looking towards their Father's direction as Arlecchino waits expectedly for you to notice her. Still unaware of your husband's presence, you stand up, from the couch, placing down the book on a nearby table. As you whip around, you're met with Arlecchino's form. A charcoal hand outstretched to cup your side, the other moving to stroke your cheek.

“You're home, Arle,” you greet as you lean your cheek against her palm. Her red-crosses glances at your eyes. Like always, there is a tenderness in them, a tenderness that makes her weaker than any attack. 

“Indeed, I am.” 

You lean in, pressing a light kiss against her nose. Arlecchino responds by leaning her forehead against yours, enjoying your proximity.  

Unbeknownst to the two of you, the children around you gag at the sight. 

“A bath would do you well, my love.”

My love. Oh, how deep does her will plummet from those mere two words. 

“Are you implying something, darling?” The Knave teases with a lilt. 

You chuckle. “Of course not. Let me prepare you one, love.” 

“There is no need–”

“Arlecchino, let ‘Mother’ take care of ‘Father,’” you hum, pressing a kiss against her cheek. 

Arlecchino chuckles, closing her eyes and accepting defeat. “Yes, my love.” 

“Get a room!” One of your rowdier children yell, interrupting what you were going to say.

“Perhaps…?” You start, knowing that Arlecchino knew your question already. She nods, bending down to fix one arm underneath your knees and another behind your back before lifting you in a bridal position. You squeak out in surprise.

“Was this necessary?” 

“Hush, love. Bathe with me?” 

“Mmm… alright.” 

Arlecchino carries you down the corridor to your room, followed by the snicking of the House of the Hearth children. 

---

My thoughts on mad scientist! reader: 

I'll be completely honest to say that I do not know a lot of Genshin lore, so unfortunately for the mad scientist! reader idea, I can't say anything besides the fact that it sounds very cool. I love the idea of Clervie being resurrected, and I can definitely see Arlecchino and Clervie as being Father and Mother. Arlecchino and Clervie being Father and Mother has my entire heart; this is the Arlevie inside of me screaming out.

Though it makes me wonder why reader would do this in the first place, what does she get out of it? I'm not sure exactly what kind of relationship you had in mind with reader and Arlecchino in this, but if reader did this for Arlecchino solely out of her affections towards Arlecchino, then it certainly makes the mad part about reader accurate.

In that case, it makes for a very interesting dynamic between reader and Arlecchino, whether platonic or romantic; Arlecchino likes to think herself of a very sane, rational person and especially want to be away from more enigmatic people, perhaps like reader themselves. This could spin into a very interesting take about obsession vs. love, which I am all for it. 

Something else that has me thinking about this ask throughout the day is the motive of why exactly reader would do resurrect Clervie, so here's another idea that still makes reader a mad scientist. What if reader, Arlecchino, and Clervie were all children of the House of the Hearth and they were best friends? Reader and Arlecchino were the only ones to survive under Crucabena's reign over the House of the Hearth (maybe reader was under the tutelage of Dottore, so they were able to escape the Kingmaking event). Both reader and Arlecchino do not take Clervie's death well, of course.

With the passing of your best friend and being around Dottore, it's bound to make you a little insane. Like Arlecchino, you obsess over her death, never having gotten over her. After witnessing Clervie's shadow, you get inspired to truly make her alive again, not just a shadow. I don't know, this was just a silly little thought of mine.

<3 i wish i could pick my brain a little more but I think this is all I have, hopefully this satisfies you anon! 

[justmystyles]

hi! your angst is so so good! could you please write something angsty around the Selena Gomez song “Lose You to Love Me” kind of about a girl learning to love herself after a toxic love with Harry and then them reuniting after growing up years later, please?

Lose You to Love Me

read my other work here

pairing: Harry Styles x plus size reader

word count: 4.2k

summary: a run-in with your childhood sweetheart brings up old memories, and lingering feelings.

a/n: my friend, you have no idea what you've done sending this ask in. technically you do, because I posted about it after i received it. but this song popped into my head a little over a week ago, and has been running up there on repeat. it's been making me think about my life and relationships, and being all reflective or whatever. i hate it. 😂

I have been thinking about this story pretty much non-stop since you sent the ask, and was so exited to finally get it written. i hope it's what you were looking for, and that you enjoy reading it as much as i enjoyed writing it.

also, a note about the story, the italicized parts are flashbacks.

i know we’re on all on edge after last night, so why not throw some angst in there to make it worse!

tags: @allthelovehes @ameerakane20 @ash-craze @bethanysnow @blue-ballad @blueraspberryreader @brightlightsinlife @creativelyeva @cute-as-ducks420 @deannaard @fanficismydrug @gem1712 @golden-hoax @gothmingguk @groovychaosavenue @hillzrry @iceebabies @indierockgirrl @jerseygirlinca @jng4kook @jooniesbabie @kaverichauhan @lexiecamposv @mrs-anna-styles211994 @n0vaj3an @potterheadandsherlocked @rach2699 @ravenclawdirectioner @stylesfeverr @superchrystaldrug @tenaciousperfectionunknown @tiaamberxx @thechaoticjoy @theekyliepage @walkingintheheartbreaksatellite @youknowwhaaat

As you moved through the streets of London, you were so focused on making it to your destination that you weren’t paying attention to the faces passing you by. 

But he was, and he recognized yours immediately. 

“Y/N?” 

You froze in place, causing the person walking behind you to crash into you. You apologized and stepped off to the side, looking in the direction of the voice. “Harry,” you breathed out. 

Before you could fully process what was happening, Harry had rushed up to you, pulling you into his arms. You closed your eyes, even after all this time he still gave the best hugs. Your mind flashed with memories of all the times you found yourself in his arms. Good and bad. 

“I can’t believe it’s you!” He spoke against your neck before pulling back, taking your hands in his as he looked you up and down. “You look amazing. All grown up.” 

“Yeah, you too.” You took him in, he had definitely filled out since the last time you saw him. Of course you knew that, no matter how hard you tried to get away from him, you never could get that clean break you so desired. That’s what happens when your ex is one of the biggest stars in the world. 

“Gosh, it’s been ages.” He muses. 

You purse your lips and nod. “Eleven years.” You feel a knot in your stomach, thinking back to the last time you two spoke. 

“Harry, it’s just not fair to me.” You move the speaker away from your mouth, hoping he doesn’t hear your breath hitch.

“And you think you’re being fair to me? This is my dream, Y/N, and I can’t even enjoy it because I’ve got you making me feel bad, or like I’m doing something wrong every time I talk to you!” 

“Yeah, well you were my dream.” Your voice is quiet, defeated. “But I guess it’s time for me to wake up.” 

Harry is silent on the other end of the phone for a moment. “What,” he lets out a deep breath. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

You wipe your eyes, sniffling softly. “It means I can’t do this anymore. You’re living your life, you’re finding your way in the world. I need to go off and do the same. Alone.” 

Harry gives you a sad smile. “I tried to reach out a few times, I didn’t like how we left things.”

“I know, me either.” You agreed. “But I needed to just sever the tie. It would have been too hard otherwise.” 

“I’m sorry,” you look at him curiously. “For how I handled things, for how it ended…”

You held your hand up to stop him. “We were just kids, you were eighteen and an international pop star, you handled things as best you could.” 

He smiled gratefully at you. “Do you, uh… do you have some time? Maybe we could grab a coffee and catch up?” 

Your mind is begging you to say no, but your mouth doesn’t listen, agreeing immediately. “But I’ll pass on the coffee.’ 

“Still?” He smirks, remembering how much you hated coffee. “Some things never change.” 

****

The two of you order drinks, and get settled at a quiet corner table in a small coffee shop, the conversation starts off simple enough, you catch each other up on your families, you tell him about your career, and how you had relocated to London three years ago for a big promotion. He shares a couple of stories of some of his more memorable moments over the years. 

Even after a decade apart, you still managed to fall into conversation with ease. From the moment you had met when you were kids, there was this instant comfort between the two of you. It was no surprise to anyone when you started dating at fifteen. You were inseparable, going everywhere together. You were there at his XFactor audition, you supported him every step of the way. It was when things really started taking off for him that everything changed. 

“Hi angel,” Harry’s voice was low and raspy, that’s when you realized you forgot to take the time change into consideration before you called. 

“Oh my gosh H, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you up, I–”

You’re cut off by his laughter. “It’s alright, I like when you wake me up.​​ To what do I owe the pleasure?” 

“Mum is taking me dress shopping for formal today, I just wanted to see if you had any ideas what you’d be wearing. We could coordinate!” There was a long silence as you waited for him to respond. “Harry?” You asked. Maybe he had fallen back to sleep. 

“Yeah, I’m here. Sorry.” You could hear him shifting on the other end of the phone. “I have some bad news actually.” He sighed before continuing. “They booked us a bunch of shows in the US, I’m not going to be able to come home for the dance.” 

“Oh,” you did your best to mask the disappointment. It was just a dance, Harry was doing amazing things, and you needed to be supportive of that. 

“Angel, I’m so sorry, I really tried…” 

“No, don’t worry. It’s fine, really.” You assured him while also trying to assure yourself. 

You heard a knocking on the other side of the phone, and muffled voices. “Fuck, I’ve gotta go Y/N. I’m so sorry, I love you. You know that, right?” 

“Yeah, I know H. I love you too.” 

“Okay, we’ll talk soon. I promise.” The call disconnects before you can respond. 

That was the beginning of the end for your young love. You had put on a happy face for everyone, especially Harry, but your family and friends were able to see right through it. He probably would have too had he actually been there. 

You ended up going to your formal with your friends, but as they danced and laughed, you sat on the sidelines, staring at your phone waiting for a call or a text from Harry. And that’s what your life became from there on. 

When Harry would come home, things would be better, but still not what it was. Because he’d be gone for such long stretches, his time was spread so thin when he was home. He would want to spend time with everyone, which didn’t leave enough time for the two of you. You would tag along as much as you could, but your one on one time was lacking. It got to a point where you couldn’t even go out on dates, constantly being bombarded by people asking for pictures or autographs. 

That’s when you decided to spend your time behind closed doors. Harry said it was so he could focus on you, but part of you wondered if it was so that he could keep you secret. You knew that there were girls all over the world that wanted to be with him, his team knew that was part of the marketability of him, of the whole group. The second the two of you stopped hanging out publicly, the insecurities started creeping in. From then on, every time you saw a picture of him with another girl, you wondered who she was, why it was okay for him to be seen with her and not you. 

As the two of you continued to talk, you glanced down at your watch. “Oh shit,” you interrupt him. “I’m so sorry Harry, I actually have to go. I have a meeting I need to get to.” You stand from your seat and collect your things. Harry stands with you.

“Yeah, of course.” You could have sworn there was a hint of disappointment in his tone. “Hey, you should come to the show tonight. If you’re free I mean.” 

You look up at him with wide eyes. “Are you sure?” 

“Of course, it’s Wembley. How many times did we talk about this?” 

“A lot,” you smile wistfully, remembering those conversations. Whenever he was feeling discouraged about his journey, you would always be right there to pick him up, assuring him it was going to work out. That he’d be onstage at the famed stadium, and you’d be right there cheering him on. 

“It would mean a lot to me to have you there. Full circle and all that.” He said with a smile. “Besides, the whole family is going to be there. I’m sure mum and Gem would love to see you.” 

It would be nice to see his family again. You had been all but officially adopted into the clan, spending holidays, dinners, birthdays with them. You were at Harry’s house just as much as you were at your own, possibly more. Sure, you had mourned the loss of your relationship with Harry, but it also broke you that you lost that second family. 

“Yeah, sure. I’ll be there.” You agree. 

“Amazing.” He pulled you in for a tight hug. “I’ll see you tonight. Just check in at the box office when you get there, I’ll take care of everything.” 

****

You made it to your meeting on time, but you were anything but present. Your mind kept going back to Harry, how great he looked, how happy he was to see you. And then the memories started flooding back. 

“Y/N?” Your mother’s voice and gentle knock on the door call your attention away from your phone. 

“Yeah?” 

She sticks her head into your room. “We’re leaving in five minutes, are you ready?” 

“Ready?” You suddenly remember that your parents were supposed to be taking you and your sister out to dinner. “Oh, I uh… no. I think I’m going to pass if that’s okay?” 

“But honey, we’re going to your favorite restaurant.” You could see the concern spread across her face. 

“I know, but Harry is supposed to call and check in. We haven’t had a proper phone date in weeks. I want to make sure I don’t miss him.” 

“Y/N…” your mother says in a warning tone. After Harry missed out on formal, you had completely changed. You’d go to school, and then immediately come home waiting to hear from him. You would drop everything the second his name popped up on your phone screen.

“Mum, next time. I promise.” 

Your mother lets out a sigh and nods, leaving you alone. 

About an hour later, your phone pinged with a text from Harry. 

Sorry love, can’t call tonight. Talk to you soon, promise. XO

****

After your meeting, you slipped out of the office. You knew you weren’t going to get anything done today. Besides, you needed to find something to wear tonight. You called Heather, your oldest and closest friends, asking her to meet you at one of your favorite shops. 

You told her about your run-in with Harry, and his invitation to go to his show. 

“You said no, right?” 

“Yeah, I said no. That’s why we’re here, you’re helping me pick an outfit for a concert I’m not going to.” you rolled your eyes.  

“Y/N, I say this as your friend, this is a terrible idea and you definitely shouldn’t go.” She says completely seriously. “Do you even remember what life was like for you back then?” 

“Come on!” Heather grabbed your arm, trying to pull you out of the booth. “Come dance with us!”

You pull out of her grip, checking your phone for a notification. “I can’t H-”

“Harry’s going to call,” she finishes your sentence. “Y/N, you’re both my friends, but you’re my best friend, so I’m going to be real with you. Harry’s a wakner.”

“Hey,” you reply defensively. “He is not, he’s just really busy. He’s kind of a big deal, you know?”

“I do know. And I also know that while you’re sitting here staring at your phone, you’re missing out on life. But he’s out there living it. You deserve better than that.” 

“Right, and in a couple of months I’ll be living that life with him.” 

Heather’s brow furrowed in confusion. “What do you mean?” 

“I’m not going to university.” You state plainly, her eyes go wide in shock. “Harry is going to get me a job on his team. It won’t be glamorous, and it probably won’t pay much, but we’ll be together and everything will be good again.” 

“Have you told your parents about this plan?”

“I have, they aren’t happy about it, but I’m eighteen, so there isn’t really anything they can do about it.” 

“And you really think this is the best idea?” She asks you.

“Yes,” you say, a little louder than intended but you needed to get your point across. “Harry and I are supposed to be together, and if this is how it needs to happen, this is how it’s going to happen.” You grab your purse and stand from your seat. “I’m going home, it’s too loud here for me to hear him anyway.” 

After that, you stopped going out when your friends invited you. They didn’t understand your relationship, and they were always on your case about it. It was easier to just stay home and wait for Harry. Eventually, the invitations stopped coming. You were fine with that. It made it easier for you to focus on Harry, and be there when he had time for you. 

As far as the job, that never happened. About a week after you graduated, you received a call from Harry. He told you that he fought for you, all the guys did, but his team said they weren’t able to make a spot for you. 

You were devastated, but you did your best to hide it from him. That didn’t last very long, however, as that was the point where the cracks in your facade of ‘supportive girlfriend’ started coming through. You started seeing what everyone had been telling you, that Harry was out there conquering the world while you were putting your life on hold, spending your life by the phone waiting for a quick text or five minute phone call.

****

When you arrived at Wembley, you gave your name at the window and were immediately ushered to a backstage VIP area. You walked in and smiled to yourself at the turnout. You recognized almost everyone in the room. You stayed by the door, not wanting to interrupt when Gemma’s eyes traveled in your direction, She did a double take before smiling wide and running to you. 

“Y/N, I can’t believe it!” She pulled you into a tight hug, which you quickly returned. “Harry told us he ran into you, and invited you to the show. But I wasn’t sure you’d actually come!” 

You giggled at her excitement. “Of course I’m here, I told him I’d come.” 

“I know, but you’re so nice, I figured you’d say that to his face and then just disappear.” You both laughed, before she took you by the hand, leading you into the group. “Come on, we have so much to catch up on!” 

You went around the room, greeting those you had known a decade ago, and meeting the new members of Harry’s entourage. Everyone was so happy to see you, you were being pulled in a million different directions trying to catch up with everyone. They had told you that Harry was with them earlier, but had to leave to get ready. You were grateful for that. It would have been too much to be there with him, and his family. 

**** When it was time to go out to the front of house, Gemma locked her arm in yours and you walked together. She stayed by your side the whole night. The two of you were always close, she had always treated you like you were sisters. Often joking that someday Harry would make it official. She made you promise not to leave without giving her your number, she said she wasn’t about to let another ten years go by without seeing you again. 

The show was incredible. Harry was incredible. As you watched him up there, you felt your chest swell with pride. Despite what had transpired between the two of you, you couldn’t help but get emotional watching him live the dream that the two of you had spent so much time talking about. He had done it, but on a level that neither of you could have even imagined. 

As you listened on, your mind wandered, thinking about the girls those songs were about. The girls that had come after you. You felt tears begin to pool in your eyes as you remembered the first one. 

“Come on guys, put it away. Y/N is going to be here any minute.” You heard Heather plead. “This is her first time out since the breakup, she doesn’t need to see it.” 

After the phone call where you ended your relationship, you were inconsolable. You cried nonstop, mourning your relationship, the future you were supposed to have, and all the time you wasted waiting for him. Your friends would come over often, but they would mostly just hold you and offer words of encouragement to you as you cried. Nobody was able to get through to you, they weren’t even sure how. 

About two months after the breakup, you got this surge of determination. Harry had taken away enough of your life, you weren’t going to let him do it anymore. You texted Heather, and she agreed to gather all your friends for dinner. 

You walked in and saw her trying to pull the phone out of her boyfriend’s hands. “What don’t I need to see?” You ask, everyone’s attention snapping to you. 

“Nothing, don’t worry about it.” Heather assured you. 

You nodded, leaning in to hug your friend, quickly diverting and grabbing the phone out of her hand. You looked down at the screen and saw a paparazzi shot of Harry walking hand in hand with Taylor Swift, it was an article about the budding relationship between the two singers. 

“Oh,” you said, dropping the phone on the table. “I uh… I just remembered I’ve got to…” your brain was too cloudy to come up with an excuse, not that they would believe it anyway. You turned and rushed out of the restaurant. Heather hot on your heels. 

“Y/N, wait!” She followed you as you ducked into a nearby alleyway, getting to you just in time to watch your back slide down the wall. 

You wrapped your arms around your knees and began sobbing uncontrollably. Heather sat down next to you, wrapping her arm around your shoulder and pulling you into her. 

“I… he… I…” You couldn’t form words, too upset to do anything but cry. 

“I know babe, I know.” Heather said in a soft tone, rubbing your back comfortably. “I told you he was a wanker.” 

You chuckled lightly, your breathing starting to return to normal. You looked up at your friend with tear stained cheeks, your breath hitching as you regained composure. “We just broke up. I’ve been locked in my room crying, and he’s been with her.” 

“He’s a piece of shit. He doesn’t deserve you. You’re so much better than all of this.” She held your face in her hands and gave you a determined look. “You’re a fucking catch Y/N, he’s an idiot for not seeing that.” You nod, pretending you agree with her. “Let’s get you home. We’ll get a bunch of junk food and watch sad movies. Get all the tears out.” 

“Hey Y/N, you alright?” Gemma pulls you from your thoughts. 

You suddenly realize the house lights are up, and people are filing out of the stadium. “Oh yeah, sorry. It’s just crazy to think that he went from the weird boy with the dumb jokes to that,” you gesture toward the stage.

“Oh, he’s still the weird boy, he’s just telling his dumb jokes to a whole lot more people.” She joked, slinging her arm around your shoulder. “C’mon, let’s go backstage.” 

“Oh, no no no, you go. I should…”

“Not a chance,” she interrupted you. “You’ve gotta come back and see him.” You narrow your eyes at her, wondering why it was so important that you see him, but she just smiles innocently and leads you back to the VIP room. 

****

You and Gemma get comfortable on a couch in the back corner of the room, so lost in conversation that you don’t even notice when all eyes in the room land on the door, cheering Harry as he enters. He walks through, offering hugs and handshakes, thanking people for coming and graciously receiving compliments on his performance. 

Once he’s made his way to the back, he stops, silently observing you and his sister gossiping and giggling just like you always had. 

“You’d better not be talking about me, or I’m telling mum.” His voice pulls you from your conversation, and you both turn to look at him. 

Gemma grins and jumps from her seat. “You were outstanding.” She pulled him into a hug, saying something to him in a hushed tone. 

He smiled gratefully at her as she sat back down, Harry turned to you with a curious expression. “Well? What did you think?” 

“H,” his nickname fell so easily from your lips, as if you had never been apart. You stood up, looking at him with so much awe that he was taken aback. “You did it. I’m so,” you sigh with a shrug. “It was incredible.” 

He smiled, dimples on full display. “Thank you, angel. You have no idea what that means to me.” He steps in front of you, pulling you into a firm embrace. You were so lost in the moment that it didn’t even register that he had called you by his pet name for you. 

Gemma stood behind you, making sure to get Harry’s attention, she winked at him with a smirk before matriculating back into the crowd, allowing you two a moment. 

When you finally separated, Harry looked down at you, his gaze so intense that you felt your cheeks heating up. “I should probably go,” you finally speak up.

“No, wait.” He says in a panicked tone. “Can I talk to you alone for a minute?” 

You furrow your brow, not expecting that. He’s in a room full of the most important people in his life, and he wants to be alone with you? “Yeah, sure.”

He leads you out of the VIP area and down the hall to his dressing room. He opens the door, signaling for you to enter. He follows behind you, closing the door once you both cross the threshold. 

You both stand there awkwardly for a few moments before Harry finally breaks the silence. “I’m really glad you came tonight.” 

“Me too, thank you for inviting me.” You smile, trying to hide your nerves. 

“I, uh…” he takes a breath, running his hand through his hair. “I miss you.” 

You look up at him in confusion. “Harry, it’s been eleven years.” 

“And I’ve missed you the entire time.” He took a couple of cautious steps towards you. “I was so stupid back then, so stupid. I know I wasn’t fair to you.” 

“I told you, it’s fine, you were a kid. You did the best you could.” You assured him.

“I think running into you today was fate.” He ignores your words and keeps going. “We’ve both grown up, I’ve grown up. I see what’s important in life now.” 

“Harry…” 

“There were so many times I wanted to call you. So many things that happened that I wanted to celebrate with you, but I couldn’t. Every sold out show, every award, all of it, you were the first person I wanted to tell.” 

You were speechless. You were listening to his words, watching the vulnerability in his face, all of it completely overwhelming you. Out of everything that could have come from your run in with Harry, this was probably the last thing you would have expected. 

“I don’t… what?” Was all you managed to choke out. 

“Listen, I’m not saying we jump right back in and pick up where we left off,” your eyes went wide at his words. “I broke your trust, that’s something I need to earn back. But I’d like to try, if you’d let me.” 

“Try…”

He reached out, taking your hand and sighing in relief when you didn’t pull away. “I want to show you that I can be what you need, what you deserve.” 

“What are you asking?” You ask, searching his face as if it held the answers. 

“I just want to be in your life again, be your friend. I want to get to know you now, I want you to get to know me now, and see where things go from there.” 

You stood in silence, looking into Harry’s eyes, butterflies filling your stomach at the way he’s looking at you. You nod your head slowly. “Okay,” you respond, barely above a whisper. 

“Yeah?” He asks hopefully, you nod with a smile and he wraps his arms around you, pulling you into his chest. “Thank you thank you thank you. I promise I’m not going to mess this up.” You chuckle against his chest. “What’s so funny?” 

“Heather is going to kill me.” 

A bark of laughter escapes him. “I’ll protect you,” he places a kiss on the top of your head. “I’m not going to lose you again.” 

[leighsartworks216]

57 perhaps? If inspiration happens to strike. I love a little desperation or uncertainty or pretty much any possible cause of trembling kisses. Can be nsfw or not. Thank you for all that you do, and please feel free to disregard entirely if it’s not your thing!

57 - kisses with trembling lips

Astarion x gn!Tav/Reader

OH BOY DID THE INSPIRATION STRIKE. IN THE WORST WAY POSSIBLE. I saw this prompt and my mind immediately went to the most painful idea. I legitimately almost started crying multiple times writing this, as someone who very rarely cries over fics at all. Soooo let that be a solid warning and good luck 👍

Warnings: ANGST ANGST ANGST

Word Count: 578

Main Masterlist

First Baldur's Gate 3 Masterlist - Second Baldur's Gate 3 Masterlist

AO3

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Kiss Prompts

It felt wrong to see you like this. You were surrounded by flowers from all your friends; Astarion despised the damn things more than ever. The only good thing was their potent fragrances masked the scent of death.

He took a deep breath, biting his cheek to force back his tears. It wasn’t working very well.

He stepped forward, leaning over the sides of the wooden coffin to peer down at your face. You looked peaceful. Much, much too pale, but peaceful. The thought of lowering you into the ground rubbed him the wrong way, but there was some comfort in knowing you would be laid right next to his own grave. When his time comes, however long from now, he’d be by your side once again.

He inhaled shakily. The tears burning his eyes broke free. He didn’t have the energy to wipe them away.

His hands shook as he reached in and cupped your cheek. The wrinkles and creases of age still felt exactly as they had a week ago, when you were scolding him for hovering over you. “I’m not helpless yet, Star. I can make it to the couch on my own.”

The thought of that house. Of going back to the emptiness… Gods, what would he do without you?

“Live. Live for me. You have so much life to live, my love. My star.”

He wished you’d open your eyes. Tell him it was all a joke. Come back to him, lay in his arms just one more time.

He couldn’t breathe. His chest was too damn tight, choking on half-contained sobs. The sun would be rising soon. He’d need to leave before then. For you. Gods know he was all too tempted to stay here, holding you one last time as he’s reduced to ash. But your voice rang all too clearly in his mind, as though you were commanding him on a battlefield. Live.

He leaned down and pressed his lips to your forehead. If he closed his eyes, he could imagine you were still alive, merely fast asleep in your armchair by the fire, book slipping from your fingertips. But the smell of death flooded his nose too strongly. It was not the warm scent of the fire, or the soaps and oils he would bathe you with.

His lips trembled against your skin. His chin shook as emotion overwhelmed him. His entire body shuddered with the power of his sobs. His tears hit your skin; a holy aspersion from a lifetime of being loved. He reluctantly pulled away, vision blurred to hell as he delicately brushed them from your brow.

The horizon slowly grew pink and yellow. He had to leave.

His heart ached with the thought, now more than ever. He would never see your face again, not outside of portraits or magic mimicry. And he couldn’t even see worth a damn to be absolutely positive he would never forget it. He forgot his own face so long ago; he wouldn’t forget yours.

He tried to speak, tried to tell you he loved you, to thank you for spending your life with him, for never giving up on him despite it all, for being you. But the words never came. A golden beam creeped over the opposite edge of your coffin. The flowers came alive in the sun. He wished you would, too.

He passed from shadow to shadow back home, sobbing out his grief with every step.

---

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