#*finally sent my resignation letter........ | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

fckwritersblock · 2 months ago

Text

I Never Told You (part 1 )

Elias ‘Stack’ Moore x black reader

Description: ( unedited af ) You and Stack have been in love for what feels like forever, but neither of you has had the courage to speak up. Stack is convinced that your heart belongs to Smoke, and as for Smoke? He’s exhausted from trying to show you both that the love you seek is right in front of you.

Word count.: 3,852

A/n: this was originally one part, but I thought it’s a break it up into two because when I tell you, it’s getting a longer and longer 😭 I don’t wanna rush the way I want it to end but the way I’m craving these Sinners fic and I know some of y’all are too. I thought it would be nice to drop it now. Couldn’t contain my own excitement 😂

Part 2 - What I Should’ve Said

Enjoy ! 🩷

As soon as you stepped off the train, a smile broke across your face. The familiar sights and sounds of home wrapped around you like a warm embrace. You were excited to finally be back, but a flutter of nerves danced in your stomach at the thought of seeing your sister for the first time in ages. Yes, you guys had written to each other, and she had tore your ass a new one in a few of them letters back home bout to running off with the twins without a word. Nevertheless, you knew regardless of how upset she may be with you, she’d always welcome you home with open arms. You missed your sister. You also missed the twins, who you were eager to reunite with. It had been almost a year since you’d all been together, and just thinkin' about Stack made your pulse quicken.

Steppin' aside so other boarding the train would have access to the front door, you made your way toward the center of the station, your eyes scanning the crowd. You were sure Stack knew you was comin' at this time, so you had a feelin' he’d be lurkin' around here somewhere. Just then, you heard it—a voice that sent a thrill of nostalgia through you. You turned around, curiosity piqued, and there he was, front and center.

But your heart sank a little when you noticed the woman standin’ in front of him. Fair-skinned and confident, she had that undeniable charm—Mary. Of course she would find him, you thought bitterly.

You watched as Stack’s gaze followed her, a solemn look crossing his face as she walked away. You should’ve known he’d seek her out the moment he arrived. You’d bet money he could find her in a crowed room, without fail.

You loathed Mary.

It wasn’t a secret. You couldn’t stand her presence and that gnawed at you deep down. It wasn’t just jealousy; it was that gut-wrenching belief that Stack cared for her more than he did for you. He looked out for her in a way that was different from how he looked out for you. The attention he gave her was the kind you had secretly longed for, and judging by the way he stood there, it seemed nothin' had changed.

Oh, how wrong you were.

“Old habits die hard, huh, Stack?” you snarked from behind him, the playful edge in your voice barely masking the hurt you felt.

“Damn,” he muttered under his breath, closing his eyes in resignation. He knew he was caught.

He didn’t even have to turn around to know it was you. Stack could tell by the sound of your voice that you was pissed, especially with the faux sugary sweet smile you wore when he finally faced you. That, and when you were at him, it was the only time you called him Stack and not Elias.

Turning around to face you he could barely contain the smile that wanted to break out.

It had been a year since the two of you had seen each other, but for him, it felt like a lifetime. For six years, y’all had traveled the world together. You had taken care of him and Smoke, watchin' their backs, makin' sure he stayed outta trouble. You had put up with his antics for so long, and he’d never understood why you stuck by his side. That was until you decided it was time to carve out your own path, to prove you could stand on your own.

So you left them. You left him. You promised to return within a year or come runnin' if he called.

But Stack didn’t call.

He figured you didn’t want him to. Not really. A part of him was upset with you for abandoning him. He knew Smoke had written to you a few times, and he tried not to let the green-eyed monster show. Smoke would tell him when he received a letter, sometimes even havin' one for him too. Stack never wrote back, but he always read the ones you sent for him. Several times in fact. He wanted to know how you were, what you had been up to, even if he fronted like he didn’t care. You were miles away and all he wanted was you near..

And now you were back, standing right in front of him, looking as breathtaking as ever. The sun-kissed brown skin of yours practically glowed in the light. The apples of your cheeks rounded as you smiled, dimples showing, and the curves of your hips called out to him as he admired your frame in the flowy yellow dress you wore. It reminded him of your favorite flower, magnolias, and coincidentally, yellow was his favorite color on you too.

You were home for him, and you didn’t even know it.

“It wasn’t even like that, Bam,” he said, tryin' to brush off the tension and butter you up with the nickname he gave you.

“It never is, is it, Stack?” you shot back, crossin' your arms, though a smile tugged at your lips.

“Come on now, after all this time, that’s the mood you wanna get off on?” He hand taken a few steps toward you and grabbed your hand.

“A brotha can’t get no love first?” He flashed you a smile he knew you couldn’t resist.

Despite yourself, your smile grew bigger as you felt the warmth of his presence pulling you in. You wrapped your arms around his neck, sinking into the comfort of his embrace.

“I missed you,” you confessed, your voice barely above a whisper as you melted against him.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he replied, his words a gentle way of sayin', 'I missed you too.'

“Who’s this?” you asked, eyeing the guitar-totin' boy standin' next to them after you two finally pulled apart.

“The boy,” Stack replied, nodding in his direction.

“The boy—Little Sammie, is that you?!” you exclaimed, shocked.

“Miss Y/n?” he said, his eyes wide with disbelief.

You laughed, pulling him into a warm hug. God, he was all grown up. You used to help his ma look after him and his siblings sometimes, and you even sang in his daddy’s church for a while. That was until you started hangin' out with Smoke and Stack more and stopped goin' to church. You didn’t want to hear no sermons about how the devil had his hands on you and how you needed to come back to the Lord.

It was a bittersweet feeling, thinking about how much you missed them and how much Sammie had grown. You could see he still had to get his head on straight, but it warmed your heart that he was still playing the guitar Stack had given him.

“Well then, there will be plenty of time to catch up later. You boys finish up here. I’ll be in the car,” you announced a beat after pullin' away. You knew they was up to no good.

“Little Sammie, help Stack with my bags, will ya?” You pinched one of his cheeks playfully before giving the other a quick kiss, treating him like the youngin' he still was in your eyes.

“Oh and drop the ‘Miss’.” He stared after you, bewildered, as you walked past Stack, givin' him a wink while you patted his chest slowly, draggin' your hand away.

“That’s really Y/n,” Sammie said, still in disbelief, causing Stack to chuckle.

He hadn’t seen you since he was a boy, and he couldn’t believe how different you were now. You were just a teen girl girl in his eyes back then, but now you were a grown woman—an extremely attractive one, at that.

“She’s—”

“Way too much woman for you to handle, lil nigga,” Stack stated matter-of-factly, a smirk playin' on his lips.

Not too much for me, though, he thought to himself, wordlessly pickin' up both suitcases and handing his little cousin one. You would probably fit real pretty in the front seat of his ride right about now, knowin' you and those pretty pick pocketing hands of yours had already snatched the keys from his coat pocket.

“Well, are you?” Sammie quizzed.

“Am I what?” Stack frowned slightly.

“Handling it?” The corner of Preacher Boy’s mouth twitched just a little, and Stack knew the younger man could tell you were vexed with him, and he wasn’t handling shit.

“Bring yo ass on, smart ass.”

As a result of those endless hours of travel, you were exhausted. You hadn’t gotten much sleep on the train, not wantin' to doze off around strange white folks. Your father had raised you and your sister to always be aware of your surroundings. After hearin' Delta’s wild stories about the men he knew from the side of the road, you needed a moment to decompress. So, you let the sounds of Sammie’s guitar and the rhythm of the car rockin' gently lull you into a well-deserved rest.

You weren’t sure how long you had been asleep, but soon you felt somethin' soft brush against the side of your face.

“Bam,” you heard softly as you began to stir.

“Bam.” This time you felt a poke to your cheek.

With a soft groan, you opened your eyes to see Stack standin' outside of the car, looking at you with that soft smile that always made your heart race.

“There’s my girl.” He smiled down at you.

“What you want, Elias?” You tried not to blush at his words.

“We made it. Come on.” He extended his hand for you to take.

You took it, pullin' yourself up to stand. Prepared to jump over, he surprised you by lifting you up in the air out of the back of the car.

You squealed, caught off guard as he held you slightly above him. You looked down at him for a minute, and he slowly set you back down, your body sliding against his.

“Thank you,” you said bashfully, pretendin' to fix your hair in the mirror.

He stood directly behind you, just close enough for you to catch a glimpse of his smirk in the car mirror.

“Anytime.”

“I—” you began, but were cut off by another car pullin' ahead. Once you noticed it was the truck Stack had said Smoke was in, you started walking quickly toward it. Stack told you the two of them had to split the work and that Smoke had a few stops and you knew it wouldn’t be anywhere else, but to see Annie. It was one thing for Smoke to be gone; of course then, he and Annie couldn’t be together. But while he was home, he wouldnt go anywhere without her.

“Annie!” You called as soon as your older sister came into view.

“Y/n?” Annie couldn’t believe her eyes as you ran toward her the biggest smile on your face.

“Surprise.” You spoke tearfully, as you slowed down taking the last few steps before crashing' into your big sister. You embraced her tightly, the two of you holding onto one another as if the other would disappear if you let go.

“Look at you.” She ran her hand up and around your face, cuppin' it affectionately.

“Look at you.” You repeated, mesmerized by your sister’s loving eyes.

Eyes that always looked at you with understanding, compassion, love, and support. Annie didn’t always agree with the choices you made, but she always supported you in choosin' your own destiny.

“Don’t you ever leave me like that again,” she fussed, swattin' lightly at your butt.

“Stop, girl, I’m grown,” you laughed, spinning around in a circle to dodge her playful swats.

“Girl, I don’t give a damn.” Annie fixed you with a stern look. “You’re still my baby sister. You don’t just run off and leave me without notice like that. You scared me half to death.”

“I’m sorry, Annie. It’s not that I wanted to; I just—” you paused, searchin' for the right words.

After a moment, you realized you didn’t need to say much. Annie would understand.

“Mine doesn’t have a mojo bag; he just has me,” you said, your voice wavering, knowin' she would know you was referring to the more reckless twin.

She smiled and nodded in understanding. You stood there for a little while longer, embracing each other, tryin' to wipe the tears from each other’s eyes, gigglin' like school girls as you did so.

“We’ll take more later ya hear?”

“Yes ma’am.”

Pullin' away, you angled your body a little more to the left to finally get a good look at Smoke.

“My girl!” he said with a small smile of his own, and you couldn’t help but laugh.

“Hey Smoke.” The two of you wrapped your arms around one another.

You missed the way Stack’s jaw clenched as you embraced Smoke. The latter didn’t as he grinned at his twin. It was an asshole thing to do, but he couldn’t help it. He had been watching the two of you pine after one another for years. If Smoke had a dime for every time he tried to convince his brother that you felt the same way about him that he felt about you—or to get Stack to confess his feelings for you—boy, he’d be rich.

It was your last night in town, and the three of you went out. You were currently dancin' with some random nigga from round the way. Stack watched you like a hawk, grillin' the hell outta the man who had your attention. Smoke couldn’t do anything but laugh at his brother’s expense.

“Nigga you got it bad,” he said with a chuckle.

“Shut up, bitch. You got it just as bad for her sister,” Stack shot back.

“Sho’ll fuck do. Don’t give a fuck who knows either.” Smoke shrugged blowing a cloud in Stack’s direction.

“Yeah, whatever.” Stack muttered, takin' a sip of his beer.

“Mmhmm, whatever shit, nigga. Could be you out there dancin' with her, tryna cop a feel. Instead, you’re here,” Smoke teased.

“It ain’t like that with us, Smoke.” He denied.

For the life of him, Smoke couldn’t understand why Stack was in denial about you. It was like he was purposely standing in his own way, unwilling to accept a good thing.

“Have I ever been wrong about a woman tryna throw her pussy at you?”

“Nah,” Stack grumbled, his defenses slowly crumbling.

“Aight then, nigga. Listen for once.” Smoke said, playfully mushing the side of Stack’s head as he stood up to head to the bar.

“Aye, watch out.”

“Girl follows you around the world, and you still questionin' shit,” Smoke called over his shoulder.

He could only shake his head at the memory. Smoke swore dealin' with y’all shit was gonna put him in an early grave.

Once the two of you released one another from the hug, you walked back toward your sibling, and Smoke did the same.

“You good, man?” Smoke asked, knowing full well he wasn’t. He just wanted to see if he was ready to be honest with himself.

“Yeah, uh, I’m good.” Stack cleared his throat before repeatin', “I’m good.”

“Good.” He patted his brother on the back. “Now let’s get to work.”

Now, you knew you was comin' to work, but you ain't expectin' to be put through the wringer! As much as y’all got on each other’s last nerves during the setup, it was all part of the charm. Smoke being the bossy one, always puffin’ up his chest like everybody ain’t already know he ran the place; Cornbread, with his big ass, ain’t stop complainin' 'bout how heavy them boxes was; Delta always droppin' “back in my day” stories like they was gospel every five minutes. And Stack? He was slick, finessin' Preacher Boy into doin' part of his work in the name of “respectin' your elders.”

Not to mention you, Grace, and Annie, makin' one little complaint 'bout the heat, which led to Bo shakin’ up a bottle of beer and lettin' it spray all over y’all like a makeshift sprinkler system to “cool y’all off.” But this? This was the stuff you cherished. These were the moments you missed. After hours of busting your backs, the grand opening was here, and the party was in full swing.

You found yourself wrapped up in Stack’s arms, your back pressed against his solid front. The sweet sound of southern blues wrapped around you like a warm embrace. Ain’t nothing like live music from home, and tonight, the air was thick with rhythm. Effortlessly, your body flowed with the beat, swayin' in a circle until you found yourself once again meetin' Stack's chest. One of his arms hung loosely around your waist, his fingers barely grazing your skin, followin' the pace of your movements like it was second nature.

“So, this is new,” you teased, glancing back at him.

“What’s that?” Stack’s voice was low, his eyes glued to the way your hips moved, like he was tryin' to memorize every curve.

Stack thought you was downright gorgeous, and it drove him crazy. He wished he could tell you every single day how beautiful you were. Your body? It made his heart race. Big hips, thick thighs, and those legs that seemed to go on for days. That dress you wore? It gave him a perfect view of your curves, and he found himself lost in thoughts he shouldn’t be havin’.

“You dancin' with me,” you said louder, breakin' him outta his daydream.

“I’ve danced with you before,” he replied, a hint of challenge in his tone.

You leaned your head back further, givin' him a smirk. “Not like this.”

Stack’s grip around your waist tightened, the two of you still swayin’ to the music. “What’s this?” His breath brushed against your ear, sending shivers down your spine that you tried your best to ignore.

“Like you tryna work your way into my drawls,” you shot back, playful but with a hint of seriousness.

“And if I am?” he shot back, spinning you around so you faced him, his gaze intense.

You were momentarily stunned, your eyes searchin’ his for any signs of this bein' a joke, you arms now loosely around his shoulders.

“Smoke told you.” you said, his words heavy like a weight on your chest, but it felt more like a statement than a question.

You knew Smoke couldn’t keep his mouth shut when it came to his brother. Stack had ditched you and Smoke for the night to run off with some floozy and you were hurting bad. Especially after the way he had been flirting with you day after day. After an attempt at drowning your feeling in a bottle of whiskey, you had confessed your undying love for Elias Moore to his other half after the world became a bit too blurry. The truth came spillin' out like vomit, then afterwards, literal vomit. You could curse the ground Smoke walked on for lettin' it slip.

Stack watched as the gears turned in your head, his eyes dropping to your bottom lip, which you had pulled between your teeth. He chuckled softly, still swayin' with you, but the tension was thick.

“Smoke been tryna tell me for years,” he confessed, his gaze dropping to the floor before meeting yours again.

He wasn’t sure if he was talkin' 'bout Smoke tryin' to get him to accept his own feelings or the ones you held for him.

It was the way you cared for him. In every way. You checked on his well being constantly. The effects of the war on smoke were clear. He had his issues and one of them Stack always took care of. Rolling his cigarettes, making certain shit easier for Smoke every chance he got. Stack was the suffer in silence type. No I didn’t know the trauma he had suffered. He preferred everybody think he was OK. But you saw right through him. You seem to be able to tell every time something took him back there the lifeline you’d reach out of your hand, holding his gentle caresses to the top of his hand, which is the tiniest of squeezes that will bring him back and remind him that he was here and safe and with you. Stack was the type to suffer in silence, keepin' his struggles close to his chest. But you? You saw right through him. You could tell when something haunted him, and each time, you’d reach out, holdin' his hand, givin' him that gentle squeeze to remind him he was safe with you.

You were everything to Stack.

The air between you two shifted, thickening with unspoken words and feelings.

“When did it click?” Your heart raced, the world around you fading away.

Y’all had stopped movin’, probably the only two still in the crowd of people dancing and signing having a time.

“The one you left.” Stack admitted, feeling a bit guilty for only realizing how deep his feelings and love for you really were.

Speechless you pulled away from him completely, mouth opening and closing as you stuttered trying to find the right words to say. Overwhelmed with emotion and not quite sure what to do with yourself you turned around to scurry away when he grabbed your hand and pulled you back to him.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, hold on now. Why you runnin'?” He was holding you again, bobbing his head around trying to catch you eye as you avoided his.

“Elias, you drunk,” you said, your voice shaky.

“Baby, I ain’t had a sip of liquor,” he replied, his grip on your chin gentle, forcing you to look at him.

Big brown eyes searched yours, filled with a truth that made your heart swell with love.

“Y/n,” he started, but just then—

“Stack!” Smoke’s voice cut through the moment like a hot knife through butter.

You two pulled apart at the sound of his brother calling.

“Let me holla at you for a minute,” Smoke beckoned, clearly oblivious to the tension hangin' in the air.

You could see Stack was ready to protest, but you stopped him, gently cupping the side of his face in your hands. Stack might not have been running off liquid courage, but you had dug deep for some courage and found enough bravery to push through.

You pressed a soft kiss to the side of his cheek, and then another right next to the corner of his mouth, lettin' your lips linger just a moment longer.

“Go. We’ll talk later,” you assured him, pulling away with a grin as you turned to find a seat at the bar y’all had been swayin’ next to.

It wasn’t long before Stack's arms wrapped around you from behind.

“Count on it,” he whispered, kissing the side of your neck, sending warmth flooding through you.

You flushed at the feeling of his lips on your skin, that deep baritone voice igniting a fire you didn’t know you had.

You couldn’t wait until later. But unfortunately, later never came.

2K notes · View notes

m1ckeyb3rry · 3 months ago

Text

Series Synopsis: When the husband you’ve never met returns from the war you’ve never understood, he comes bearing a strange and inexplicable gift — a prince in chains who he refuses to kill.

Series Masterlist

Pairing: Mydei x F!Reader

Chapter Word Count: 9.9k

Content Warnings: pls check the masterlist there is. a lot. and i’m not retyping all of that LOL

A/N: UEUEUE I CAN'T BELIEVE IT'S FINALLY DONE!! thank you so much to everyone who has been here and read this — whether you were here when i just had the masterlist up or if you only read part one/two five minutes ago, i appreciate all of you and your sweet comments + support more than you know!! this series was definitely an experiment for me so being met with so much positivity has been so 🥹💖 that said i hope you all enjoy how things wrap up here and maybe i will see you again on another story / shitpost of mine!!

Where once the sounds of the sea had sung you to sleep, now it was Mydeimos’s rattling breaths which were your lullaby. He never allowed you to protest, frowning and telling you that it was wrong to argue with the wishes of a dying man before extending his arms and pulling you against him, caging you there until you fell asleep with your cheek pressed to his heartbeat. His chest would rise and fall, unsteady with his lungs’ impending failure, but the promenade of his heart remained strong and true, for he was after all a warrior, and warriors were not so easily put down.

“It burns,” he whispered to you one day, when you were on that hazy brink of unconsciousness where you knew what he was saying but did not have the means to respond to it. “Y/N, it burns.”

“Hm,” you said, though in your mind you were frantic, clawing back to wakefulness. Your grip on him tightened; it would’ve been imperceptible to anyone else, the way the sling of your arms tensed around his waist, but he was always so keen, and keener still when it came to you, so he exhaled.

“Every time you leave, it is as though I am set alight,” he admitted. “I have never felt it before, this fire, which is not doused until you return to my side. I am mad from it — if your husband does not kill me first, I am sure it will spell my end. ”

“Then shall I never leave you?” you mumbled, your words barely coherent but insistent, pleading.

“If I had my way,” he said, and then he chuckled. It was a sad, resigned sound, though you were sure he did not mean for it to be, and, as if in apology, he stroked the back of his hand along the column of your neck. “If this were Kremnos, you certainly wouldn’t.”

You still dreamt, but now, instead of those memories of the end of your existence as Y/N L/N playing on loop, you saw visions of a different life, the one you had been denied, the one where you were the princess of Kremnos instead of the lady of this empire. In these dreams, the sky was blue and your father sent you fond letters from the sea, tucked in green envelopes that smelled of salt when you opened them, so that you did not miss it too terribly. You played with Verax, who followed you around as faithfully as a puppy, nudging you with his trunk to gain your attention and then lifting his head, pretending like he had no idea what you were referring to when you chided him through your laughter. You spoke your mind against anyone and everyone, teasing the great lords when their ideas were foolish and then suggesting better, kinder methods of approaching the spirited people, tempering the fire of their many victories with the sweetness of the sea’s peace.

In all of these scenes, there was one constant: Mydeimos, always Mydeimos. He remained at your side no matter how mundane the situation, and yet you never really grew accustomed to the quality of his presence, so that every time your gaze flicked to him, you lost your voice — but you did not hate it so much when it was him, when it was done of your own volition.

He was so beautiful, his leg unmarred from the chains which crossed over it, his voice steady and painless, his hair lively in the wind, his face smooth and free of shadows. He smiled more, too, finding great amusement in everything you said, and each time was like a sunrise, just as bright, just as warm. You loved him, the Mydeimos of your dreams, who would, on the rarest occasions, touch his lips to yours and then hold you in a different way, a way you could not ask the prince himself to in your waking moments.

“Is there medicine I can bring you?” you asked him another night, one of the few where you had convinced him that he needed the rest far more desperately than you did. He lay between your legs, coughing and coughing until you became frightened that red would dribble from his lips and stain the hem of your nightgown. Petting up and down his back in a vain attempt to soothe him, you tried to focus on anything but how suddenly fragile he seemed, how delicate his sturdy frame was growing.

“Only when I am free of this place will I be well,” he said, his voice hoarse as he caught his breath. “It is this darkness, this air. Medicine will alleviate it only momentarily, but nothing barring freedom will cure me, and that—”

He broke off into another fit of coughs, and you redoubled your efforts, massaging at his muscles, squeezing his hands, cradling his head. All he could do was groan, adjusting himself so that he was sitting up straight and could muffle it in his hands. His face and ears were pink; at first you thought it was from exertion, but then you realized he was ashamed, shying away from you.

“That is the only thing you cannot give me,” he completed. “I am sorry.”

“Why do you apologize?” you said. “Of all the people, why must you apologize?”

You wiped at the corners of his mouth with your thumb, and then you leaned your forehead against his, the most affection either of you permitted. How could you allow anything more to burst forth in the confines of this jail? This was the safest option, the only option, or at least the only one which might save you both from the spiral of grief your destinies seemed headed for.

“Perhaps it will come for me soon,” he said. “The death your husband hopes for.”

“Don’t say that,” you said.

“It will be easy,” he said. “I think that I will just go to sleep one day and never wake back up.”

“Mydeimos,” you said. “Please.”

“Can I ask one thing of you? You can deny me if you’d like, but please consider it to be my final request, and take that into account when you do,” he said.

“No,” you said. “No, you will make so many incessant demands of me that I will grow tired of them — but never of you, I will never grow tired of you—”

“Listen to me,” he said.

“Why do you speak as if you are already dead?” you said, your voice bordering on hysterical. “Why are you calling it your final request?”

“You can hear me,” he tried. “Isn’t it obvious?”

“You don’t know!” you said. “You don’t know that, so don’t act as if it’s certain!”

“Y/N,” he said, and then he was dabbing at your eyes, which was the most unfair part, because why between the two of you were you the one who wept? “It is certain. If I do not succumb to the conditions of this cellar, then do you really think your husband will simply ignore my existence? I am the prince of Kremnos. I am his greatest enemy. I cannot be allowed to live.”

“You are Mydeimos,” you said, nervous tremors wracking through your body. “You are mine. I want you to live. Tell me you’ll live.”

“I can’t,” he said. “Don’t ask me to lie to you.”

“Then I will make you,” you said. “You have to. I say you will, so you will.”

His breath was warm and sweet and heady, and he was so close, only a hair’s breadth away from you but still keeping that agreed-upon distance. For a while he allowed your words to hang in the air between you, and then he let out a sigh that made you dizzy and lightheaded with longing.

“This isn’t the Southern Sea,” he said. “You cannot command me, beloved princess. Nor is it Kremnos, where I could order you around; I recognize this, and so all I can do is beg you to take heed.”

“What is it, then?” you said, your teeth clenched in the hopes that the scratching in your throat would abate. “Your request.”

“If I should come to my end in this cellar—” You whimpered, and he shushed you, his index finger resting against the seam of your lips. “Y/N. If I should come to my end in this cellar, then I wish for you to be there. Let the last thing I see be so beautiful. Let there be light to guide me on my way. I know it is selfish of me to ask you to keep vigil over my corpse as it cools, just so that I may have one more moment of warmth, but that is all I can fathom wanting.”

You thought of rebuking him. You thought of telling him to never ask something like that of you again, but then you imagined him curling into himself the way Verax had, left alone in the dark, shuddering as death descended upon him as swift as nightfall, and all you could do was cling to him, stuttering out promises as your knuckles stamped divots into his shoulders: I will, I will, my dear Mydeimos, I will stay with you until the very last. You needn’t beg me anymore; I will stay with you. No matter when or how it must happen, I won’t let you leave this empire alone.

There were times when neither of you could find sleep, and then you both would entertain one another with stories. He would tell you of his youth, of his love for the flush of dianthuses in the spring and the tart sweetness of pomegranates in autumn, how his people adored him for his unprecedented magnanimity, especially towards the children, who flocked towards him in droves when he strolled the streets of Castrum Kremnos.

“Such dear little things,” he said while you brushed his hair, the most care you could lavish upon him without a hint of dissent on his part. “How can anyone be cruel to them? I don’t understand it. They are so guileless.”

“Not everyone has your patience,” you said, for that was what it really was. How strange, how contrary you would’ve found it just one year ago, the mere thought of saying that. Mydeimos, the beast from Kremnos — who in their right mind would call him patient? Yet what other word was there for the boy who had slept every night in an elephant’s stable? What other word was there for the prince who knelt so that the children of the streets could tie flowers into his hair when he passed? It was patience, there was no doubt about it, pure and enduring as it was. “If only they did.”

You could not tell him of your past, not when you were so bound, so instead you made up fantastical tales and told them with great animation, waving your hands about for emphasis and to make up for the fact that you could not show your heart to him the way he had to you. He did not complain, and after every story he would cock his head before nodding, always too clever for his own good.

“So,” he said. “This jellyfish princess, who nobody loved because of their fear…what became of her?”

“She spent the rest of her life floating about in the depths of the sea,” you said. “She thought she might be lost for good, but then she met the prince of dolphins, and instead of shying away from her, he smiled and told her that she was beautiful, that he knew who she was beneath those stinging moon-tendrils. And you know what the strangest thing is, Mydeimos?”

“What is it?” he said. You traced the mark underneath his right eye, the one which meant clarity — of vision, of mind, of heart. He blinked but did not cower away, instead remaining very, very still.

“She was never venomous in the first place,” you said. “They were frightened because they thought she might kill them, but she didn’t even have that capability, let alone the desire.”

“I see,” he said. “How horrible it is, to be thought of as a monster when you are anything but.

“Yes,” you said. “I should hope that anyone who is in such a predicament may find at least one person who looks at them as if they are something beautiful. Something more than what they are called by the rest of the world.”

“Well, my lady of dolphins,” he said, covering your hand with his own, keeping it held against his face. “At least I am so lucky.”

As rumors of a Kremnoan counterattack solidified into genuine intelligence, your husband and his cousin both grew more and more involved with their generals and their advisors, leaving you alone more often than you were not. You did not dare visit Mydeimos in the daytime, for his warning that the army-men often came to mock him rang in the back of your mind, but now you did not wait for midnight, instead fleeing to the cellar at dusk, as soon as your obligations to appear at dinner were fulfilled. He welcomed you, of course he did, though he was always more careful than you were, telling you that you had to return before the bakers awoke to make the day’s bread.

The days stretched on, and your will to return to the world of the palace faded until it was nothing but a weak, flickering candle-flame, wont to be extinguished at the slightest breeze. Let me die here, too. If I can be with you for a little longer, then I will gladly accept it. You never said it to him, but you thought it, every time he ushered you out of the cellar with the reminder that you might be caught. Let them find me, Mydeimos. Let them kill me if they will, but let them know that I was never their perfect empress. Even in the throes of docility, I was still Y/N L/N, the princess of the Southern Sea, who lay with the prince she was meant to hate.

“Dear lady!”

The banging on your door at such an hour was out of the ordinary, but even more alarming was your husband’s cousin’s voice, frantic yet shot through with something like ecstasy. Outside, the sun had not yet risen, though there was a watery gathering of light on the horizon that said there were only a couple more hours until dawn, and although you had already had slept as much as you would, back in the cellar you had just returned from, you were still confounded for a moment by the repetitive knocking, your voice coming out groggy and dazed.

“Whatever is the matter?” you said with a yawn, rubbing your eyes and flinging the door open with no small amount of irritation. “Why have you — ah!”

He grabbed your wrist, pulling you after him with a cackle of glee. “My dear lady, the time has finally come!”

“What are you talking about?” you said, almost tripping as you attempted to keep up with his sprint. He paused, whirling to face you, and you furrowed your brow when you saw that his eyes were glittering. “Why do you keep calling me that? ‘Dear lady,’ I mean. What mood are you in?”

“The Southern Sea has refused to cooperate,” he said. “The king says that they will not join in the war against Kremnos until the ruler of this empire is of the blood of the tides. That is after all what was promised in the treaty of our alliance, though I believe we all imagined he would not be so stubborn as to genuinely withhold aid from us when his own daughter is the empress.”

“Why are you happy about this?” you said, despite your own joy, which flowered with abandon at the news of your father remaining as stubborn as ever, uncompromising through sadness and sickness alike.

“Wars are costly, and without the aid of the Southern Sea, our empire will surely feel the effects of another conflict,” he said. “But the Kremnoans are coming to us, whether we want them to or not, and with my brother’s latest actions, they will only come sooner. We will lose…or, that is, he will lose. All that our family has built will crumble to nothingness at the hands of those barbaric, uncivilized warriors. It is known — by delaying the execution for as long as he has, he essentially set his fate in stone — but his fate needn’t be mine. No, indeed. Once I deliver the Southern Sea to the people of this empire, I will depose my dear brother, and then, with the combined might of both kingdoms behind me, I will defeat the Kremnoans for good.”

“You mean to overthrow my husband?” you said, and you should’ve felt surprised, but it made so much sense that it was more of a relief than anything, an explanation for every bewildering move he had made thus far.

“The life of a second son is spent ever waiting, ever watching, pliant until the moment to strike becomes evident,” he said. “You must know it’s not a coincidence that I have ingratiated myself with the soldiers and the councilmen alike — I am sure if it comes to it, they will support me over him, who they all but detest for his peacocking, his pointlessly grandiose gestures. They would follow me anywhere, and those who might protest, who might cling to the old regime, will fall in line when faced with the wealth of the Southern Sea, which is so vast as to be incomprehensible to those of us who have lived our entire lives here.”

“You speak of the sea, but how do you expect to win it when even my husband could not? You are gambling so much on something that is not even assured,” you said. “The king is not so easily swayed, this I can promise. If he has refused this empire once, he will surely do it again and again, for what does it matter who is asking? Why should he give you any different of an answer than he would my husband?”

“For a while, my plan was longer, more gradual,” he said, and then the two of you were walking again, although this time with consideration for your pace, which was about half of his, and with his arm heavy over your shoulders, companionable and careless, like you both were old friends out for a stroll. “The first thing I had to do was arrange for the course of your thoughts to turn my way. I thought this would be the most difficult, for my brother is after all such a charming, handsome man, but he neglected you to the point that it was an invitation, really! He made it so you would have loved anyone who showed your desperate, starving self any shreds of affection, and from there it was simple on my part. The seeds of infidelity were sown by my brother himself; all I did was water them, and is that such a sin?

“You would’ve taken me into your bed eventually. It is why I made such a crude suggestion all those days ago, though of course I never meant for you to genuinely allow a stableboy to father your heirs. All along I spoke of myself, who you — and therefore the Southern Sea — would then be bound to, even after the death of your husband rendered you free of your obligations to this empire,” he said.

“Why are you telling me this?” you said, for you were unsure of what else to say, unsure of what else to feel besides a discomfort at the fact that he had been toying with you. Even this, however, was mild, because who in this empire was not playing with your life? Since the day you had come here and sworn yourself to that statue, the people in this palace had treated you as little more than a vapid, sickly woman who brought nothing with her but senseless tears and parsimonious promises from a family that had sold her to save themselves. For your husband’s cousin to reveal himself in such a way was a foregone conclusion, and perhaps it should’ve hurt you, but all you could muster was a detached sort of acceptance.

“Things have changed,” he said. “He is distracted at present, and so, in this brief moment while the world’s eyes are averted, I can tell you this: today, your husband is signing the order for his own death. The palace will be thrown into turmoil, and without the protection of your marriage to him, you will find that once the Kremnoans come, you will be the first to fall. Who would defend the princess of a kingdom that refused to come to our assistance? But it needn’t be that way. Escape this fate with me, dear lady. Promise you will marry me, and when all is said and done, I will even let you go home.”

“Home?” you said, and he nodded, maneuvering you so that you were tucked away in an alcove where he could cup your face in his hands without fear of discovery.

“Yes,” he said. “Once this war is won and our heir is born, relations between the empire and the sea will be established. I will have no further use for you here, so why should I not allow you to return to where you came from? Certainly your father will not mind, sentimental old fool as he is.”

You swallowed back a lump in your throat before nodding, taking the insult to your father quietly, not wanting to upset him when this was the first glimpse at freedom you had been given. Home. He was promising to let you go home. You would marry anyone if they gave you that assurance, and something behind your eyes prickled the longer you thought about it.

They would welcome you so grandly, wouldn’t they? The palace would be covered in pearls, and the sea would be so blue, and the whales might even sing again in jubilation at your return. Your father would be there, his face lined and gaunt but alive and happy, so happy it’d carve a hole in your intestines, the kind of hole borne from an incapability to handle that much delight.

“Come with me, then,” he said. “We must run from this palace and make ourselves scarce for the moment, in order to gather our forces. This opportunity may not present itself once again, so we have to take advantage of it while we can.”

“Wait,” you said. “You have mentioned only vaguely what my husband is doing at present. What can possibly demand so much of his attention and also be such a fatal mistake?”

“Mydeimos,” he said. “Your husband has finally deemed it time for him to meet the lord of death, and so he is utterly preoccupied with that, but with the Kremnoans so close, this is nothing but folly. He is making a martyr out of the very man they adore so much; rather than cowing them, this will only fuel their efforts further. If we can escape during the execution, we can mobilize the army to cut them off, turning us into the indisputable heroes of the empire. It will be difficult, but it can be done, and with both him and the prince taken care of, there will be nothing standing in our way.”

“No,” you said immediately, ice shooting through your veins, the rest of his explanation blurring together as you elbowed him off of you with an unprecedented vigor, earning a yelp out of him. “No, Mydeimos is mine. He’s mine, he’s mine, he can’t die without my permission! He can’t, and I haven’t given it yet, so that means he won’t!”

“I was sent to fetch you for the event,” he said, dusting himself off and giving you an odd look. “Don’t throw a tantrum. They await us in the throne room, though you know he is impatient. I wouldn’t be surprised if he just kills him to end the waiting, which is all the better for — where are you going?”

You were already running in the direction of the throne room, smacking his hands away when he tried to reach for you. He hissed in dismay before yanking on your sleeve, holding you securely in place and scowling at you. The expression was so reminiscent of your husband that you actually recoiled, an nagging voice in the back of your mind reminding you of what you had sworn: duty, obedience, docility.

“If you leave now, then everything will be lost. He will know by your presence what I plan to do, and I will be seized,” he warned as you fought back the instincts that demanded you go limp in his grasp. “Do you understand? You will die here, and for what? Your own possessiveness? Your childish greed? How spoiled you are! To think that you would throw away everything, all because someone touched your favorite toy! I had heard the whispers that you were such a brat in your home, allowed to run unchecked by your father as you were, but this is unprecedented. Think for once, won’t you? If you do this, you will never go home again.”

Never go home again. Never go home again. Never go home again.

“I don’t care,” you said, and near tears though you were, reluctant though you were, you pulled away from him. “How many times must I say it before all of you listen? He is mine. I will never, ever leave him.”

That was the last thing he had asked of you, the only thing he had ever asked of you. If I should come to my end in this cellar, then I wish for you to be there. And you had sworn you would be, so how could you break that promise? Not for anything. You would not break it for anything, not if it meant your husband’s ruin, not if it meant you could go home again, not if it meant your father would embrace you for the rest of your life. You would give up all of these things if you had to, but you would not leave him to die alone.

The throne room was as cavernous as the last time you had been in it, empty and hollow like the stomach of a titan. In the center, the statue of your husband loomed, as unfeeling as the day you had wed it, and in the back, upon his raised throne, was your husband himself, staring down at you imperiously.

“Where is he?” you said, your voice meek, yet somehow stronger for its trembling, for the proof that you could not ask such a thing and yet were doing it anyways. “My lord. Where is he? Where — is — Mydeimos?”

By the end of it, you were gasping the words out, and you glared at him as well as you could, the most rebellion you were allowed. He did not say anything about it, but you knew he saw, for the faintest hints of humor flickered in his cold eyes, as if you were a jester he had hired, a clown instead of a wife.

“Why are you so worried? Haven’t you been telling me to kill him since the day I brought him here?” he said before laughing in earnest. “I should be asking you where that treacherous cousin of mine is, but I know the answer to that all too well. Did he ask for you to come with him? He has always been so insatiable. Everything that is mine, he longs for. Such is the nature of second sons, though that’s not something I’d expect either of you to understand.”

There he was, chained to the base of the statue in the same fashion he had once been bound to the wall of the cellar, his left leg heavy with gold but the rest of his limbs free: Mydeimos, his tether shorter now, but still loose enough that he could shift to watch you as you took one step and another, trudging towards the inexorable pull of the throne, of your husband, who regarded you with a careful disdain.

“You can stop there,” he said. “I know you want to remain at his side, so you needn’t force yourself to go any further.”

You halted immediately, just close enough to Mydeimos that if you were to reach out, you could grasp at his arm, just close enough that you could almost feel the warmth he always emanated, like he was your very own furnace — but also far enough that there was still a sharp pang in your lungs with every breath you took, far enough that your heart still ached from the distance. You wanted to embrace him, to run your palms up and down his shoulders, to ask him if he was alright while you tended to every wound that had never been inflicted upon him but which he still stung from, anyways. Yet in front of your husband, the most you could do was hold your breath, keeping the scent of him in your lungs for safekeeping.

“The prince of Kremnos and the princess of the Southern Sea…what a collection of delegates I’ve gathered here,” your husband said. Both you and Mydeimos had to crane your necks to look up at him from the dais his throne rested upon, and you knew he found some satisfaction in that, in the simple reminder that he was above you in every way that mattered. What was a prince or a princess compared to an emperor? Your titles were more of mockeries than anything, reminders of what you had once been but what you never would be again, now that you were so soiled by this place — a prince-turned-prisoner and a princess-turned-wife.

“You can’t kill him,” you said, taking yourself aback with the boldness of it, the urgency of the request. “My lord, I will do anything, I will bear your children without complaint, I will beg my father to give you the Southern Sea, but please — please let him live, please — I will take responsibility for him, I will drag him around by his chains until we both die if that’s what I must, but don’t kill him today, please, I will have nothing to my name if you take him, too—”

“My pretty wife,” he interrupted you. “Your fretting is endearing, but it is unnecessary. I do not intend to execute him just yet. There is still something I need from him, and he can hardly accomplish it if he is dead, after all.”

“Is that why you have brought me here? Whatever it is, I won’t do it. I have no interest in being your accomplice,” Mydeimos said. His words were still thick with drowsiness, and you realized with a start that they must’ve poured a sleeping draught down his throat in order to bring him to the throne room from the cellar. You shivered, and once again you wished you could hold him against your breast, could defend him from the tribulations of this empire, of this place and these people that found such particular and cruel pleasure in beating him down, over and over and over until he was ground to nothing but dust.

“I think you’ll find that this is a mutually beneficial deal,” he said. “You see, I’m in a bit of a dilemma at the moment. My own cousin, set to betray me; my father-in-law, refusing to support me; the Kremnoan army, marching towards my city.”

“None of these are my problem,” Mydeimos replied.

“No, of course not,” your husband said. “But your captivity is, right? You have been locked away in a cellar, kept from the sun until you have been reduced to this waifish state. Don’t you wish to be freed?”

“You mean to free him?” you said. Your husband raised a placating hand, silencing you immediately with the casual gesture.

“He must free himself. Even I cannot break thrice-blessed chains until their condition is fulfilled,” he said. “But you can say I have a...vested interest in the completion of this specific condition.”

“What is it?” Mydeimos said warily. All three of you knew that this was a trap being laid out for him; after all, this was your husband, who was known above all else for his tricks and cheats, for being a serpent instead of a lion, a man with nothing resembling honor to his name. Yet already the two of you were ensnared, and so your only choice was playing out his script until the end, following his plans until they came to fruition, no matter how unwillingly.

“You know already,” your husband said. “That’s the thing about thrice-blessed chains: as much as they long to bind their target, once they have accomplished that, they wish most avidly to be destroyed, and so they whisper to their prisoner the methods of their undoing. After all, such immortal power is not meant to remain on this earth for very long.”

“I haven’t the faintest clue what you refer to,” Mydeimos said. “Tell me plainly; I have no interest in these games of yours, snake-emperor. I have played one too many already, and I don’t have the patience for any more.”

“Indulge me this final time,” your husband said. “I am sure you have some idea as to what I’m talking about. The thing which you desire above all else, which quells that remarkable fire that has blazed within you since your capture…oh, you really are lost. What a comical surprise! The prince of Kremnos is an idiot!”

“My lord,” you said softly. “Don’t torture him like this. Haven’t you done enough already?”

Perhaps you should’ve been more careful, but you did not want to mind your words more than you already did, and anyways, you had a sense that hiding anything from him was futile at this point. He could see through you as certainly as if you were made from glass, and he did so with impunity, with the same beguiling set to his mouth as ever. His eyes, unclouded and bright, rested on you for a while, and then he snorted, nodding like he was indulging in the whims of a child making some impossible demand.

“Fine, then,” he said. “It’s not such a difficult thing, anyways. In fact, it’s simple, especially for a man such as he. Mydeimos, prince of Kremnos, heed my words: if you wish to be freed, you must kill your master.”

“Easy enough,” Mydeimos said immediately, any traces of lethargy long gone with this news, even the false sleep bolting in face of his vehemence. “I can feel it in my bindings that you are telling the truth. Well, come down here, then, coward! I have wished to destroy you from the moment I heard your name. Shall I tear out your throat? Your heart? Don’t just sit there and stare at me, emperor. If this is your wish, then challenge me as a man would — as you refused to at our last meeting!”

“You can do that, if you’d like,” your husband said, his voice lilting and musical. “My heart and my throat, with your nails or with your teeth, whichever you prefer. I’m sure you’d even enjoy it, filthy brute as you are…but no matter how you go about it, it’s inconsequential. My death will not release you.”

“What?” Mydeimos said. “Why not?”

“Because,” your husband said, and then he glanced at you and you swore, you swore his pupils were slitted, his teeth sharp like fangs, the corners of his mouth blue with venom, “I am not your master. She is.”

“I’ll kill you,” Mydeimos said, baring his teeth, a snarl in his voice when he shoved you behind him, standing between you and the throne. “You lying mongrel, I’ll kill you—”

“I’m not lying,” your husband said. “What, did you think I just gave you to her for no reason? As soon as I summoned the chains and became aware of the condition, my plan began, and her stewardship over you was only one of my contingencies. You can tell I’m being truthful, can’t you? The chains are affirming it. You’re drawn to her. You want to be near her. You want to kill her.”

“That’s not why,” Mydeimos said, and then he was turning to you, his eyes wild with pleading. “Y/N, that’s not why, that’s not—”

“Don’t tell me,” your husband said with a chuckle. “All this time…you actually thought you loved her? No, you don’t. You don’t even have that capacity, prince of terrors. It’s the chains. It has always been the chains.”

“Why?” you said, and it came out as it always did: demure, gentle, when all you wanted to do was scream and throttle him. “Why are you doing this? I don’t understand it. Why do you want me to die?”

“In truth, this confrontation is the most desperate option,” he said. “I was hoping he would’ve killed you long ago. That’s why I had you go to the cellar, after all.”

“You…?” you said.

“The prince of Kremnos,” he said, and your stomach dropped. “He calls for you. With the blessings of the messenger lord, it was not so difficult to fool you, dear lady, especially when you have the kind of sweetness that all but begs to be manipulated.”

“You made her this way,” Mydeimos said. “Don’t you dare put her down for something you did to her. It is your fault.”

“You may be right, at that,” your husband said. “Well, anyways, does it matter who did it? Regardless, she is such an amenable woman, so easily led astray, straight to the cellar which should’ve spelled her doom. What a story to tell your father, don’t you think? His most beloved daughter, slaughtered by the savage prince Mydeimos. The Southern Sea and Kremnos would bleed one another dry in their fury, and thus there would be no resistance left to oppose us when we came en masse to conquer them both.”

“But he didn’t kill me,” you said. “He never even tried to.”

“Yes,” your husband said. “This has always confounded me. That morning, when I came to see the state of you, to raise the alarms that my wife had been murdered in cold blood, I found you sleeping peacefully in your bed, without a trace of worry in your lovely expression. Then I thought you might awaken and bawl to me of your near-escape from death, but to my everlasting shock, you were entirely unaffected; furthermore, that night, you returned to his side, and with food in your hands, to boot!”

“Y/N,” Mydeimos whispered fervently. “Y/N, you must believe me, I would never — I know I said I considered it, but I would never hurt you, I would not, I love—”

“Oh, but you will,” your husband said, cutting him off. “Or else you will spend the rest of your short, miserable life as a prisoner of this empire. Kill her, and then kill me if you want. My cousin is far from this place, thinking that he is taking advantage of me, and through him, my blood will remain on the throne; it is the only reason I have not dissuaded his attempts at a coup, which were so clumsy that even a child could see through them. Forever and always, he will remain my heir, and I suppose there is some irony in that.”

“This will not work the way you think it will,” Mydeimos said. “I will tell the king of the sea what you did to her. With the support of the Southern Sea, Kremnos will demolish you. Perhaps we are not so wealthy, but our army is infinitely stronger, and with the south at our side, you will never be able to defeat us.”

“Who will he believe, I wonder? The one who married his daughter, or the one who killed her?” your husband said. “Because you will not be able to lie about that, Mydeimos, and you do not know the old king as I do. The circumstances are irrelevant — the mere fact that you killed his darling will be enough to turn his mind to darkness. He will never stand with Kremnos, and the sea itself will never welcome the rabid prince that murdered its most beloved.”

“What if I give him to you?” you said, interrupting their argument, which strangely enough was being held over your fate. “If he is yours, then you will be his master. He will kill you, and then he will be free.”

Your husband did not falter. “Yes.”

“You are not frightened of this outcome, although it is contrary to everything you have planned for,” you said. “Why is that?”

“Did you think I would not account for such a simple escape?” he said. “Oh, my dear lady. Come here.”

You were moving before you knew it, moving until you stood at the foot of his throne in wait. He did not say anything for a while, and you realized he was looking at Mydeimos, who was staring at you in abject horror. This was the first time he was seeing the extent of it, the first time even you yourself were experiencing the full strength of your devotion, and the expression on his face clawed at your throat even as your husband caressed your hair. He was grieving you already, you thought, that wise, tender prince — he knew what your husband did not, he knew that you were little more than a marionette, already killed long ago by the very man who pet you now as if you were his lapdog.

“Duty, obedience, docility,” he recited. “Go on, then, my wife. Try and give him to me. Your prince, your prisoner…give him to me.”

“Mydeimos,” you said. “I—I—”

Your words dissolved into a flurry of coughs, and you hunched over from the violence of it, pressing your forehead against your husband’s knees as the entirety of your chest collapsed in on itself. There was an invisible fist barging past your lips, imaginary ropes binding your tongue to the roof of your mouth, and so every time you tried to form those words, you were left with nothing but a weak series of inhales and exhales, body rejecting the mere thought of such a betrayal.

“You swore to me, too,” you choked out. “Didn’t you? How can you do this to me when you swore you wouldn’t?”

“Trust,” he said. “And so I trust that your death will bring me what I need. Favor; and so I am favoring you with the honor of sacrificing for the empire. Companionship; and so I will not leave you to die alone. Surely I will chase you into the afterlife, and then we can be together for the rest of eternity.”

“Let go of her,” Mydeimos said. “If it is promises that we speak of, then let me make one to you as well, you asinine half-wit: whatever becomes of you, I promise you that today will be the last time you ever place your hands on her. Don’t you presume that you will get to touch her again. Don’t even think that you will get to lay eyes on her.”

“How passionate, prince of terrors,” your husband said. “But you would do well to remember that she is my wife. You can make no declarations as to her outcome — the only claim you have regarding her is your persistent desire to kill her, and even that is borne from your bindings. If not for the condition of the chains, you would not think of her.”

“And if it weren’t for the Southern Sea, you wouldn’t think of her, either,” Mydeimos said. “But I would. I don’t care for her father’s wealth or the fact that she can free me. I don’t care for the food she gave me or the sleep she brought me. I don’t care for any of it. I would love her if she were nothing more than the princess of seals and whale-song, because she is mine. Yes, it is so; I may belong to her, but she is mine in a way you can never understand.”

“Then take her,” your husband said, nudging you, which was all the permission you needed to scrabble backwards, stumbling over your feet as you retreated to the safety of the shadow cast over Mydeimos by the statue. “Take her and kill her and desecrate your body when you are done with it, if that is what you please.”

“You—”

“Mydeimos,” you said, cutting him off before he could hurl back some insult at your husband. “He’s telling the truth, right?”

His eyes were beseeching when he took your hands in his own, holding them against his heart so you could feel in the vascular pounding the reluctant and yet unquestionable verity of it. Your husband was many things, but this time, he was not a liar. This time, when you wanted him most to be baiting you, he was whole in his honesty. Mydeimos, if he ever wished to be free again, would have to kill you.

“I won’t do it,” he said. “I won’t. I don’t care what he says or what he plots or if it’s the truth. I won’t kill you.”

He was being earnest. He who was so abrasive and harsh, the hostile man you had found in the cellar and come to love, the man who had not killed you yet despite everything which told him to — even now he would not. He would remain in chains for the rest of his days, but he would not kill you. It was your father all over again, your father who would’ve lost the sea if you bade it, who would’ve fought such a pointless fight to save you from the empire, and so you found yourself shaking your head. Just as then, you would not allow yourself to be saved. Just as then, you would not be the reason why he fell.

“You must,” you said, your fingers soothing over the red designs running up his neck and over his shoulders. “Mydeimos, you cannot allow yourself to be swayed by something which doesn’t exist. You heard him. You don’t care for me; it is the chains which cause you to feel this way. How can you give up your life for a falsehood? You must kill me. Kill me and be free, my prince, kill me and run to my home as fast you can. Ignore the words of others, who know nothing of our ways; I swear the sea will welcome you, it will welcome you and love you as surely as I did. Run to my home and tell my father everything, tell him that I sent you — I by my name, I by the title you bestowed upon me. He will believe you. The whales will sing at your arrival, and he will believe you.”

“What is my life?” he said. “What is my freedom? I cannot have either if they must be tainted by your death, brought about by my own hands. I can hardly bear to kill my enemies. Don’t beg of me to do such a thing to you, to you who I have loved so well since I heard your name for the very first time…”

“Do you think that you will be the one to kill me?” you said. “I have been dead for so long. You are not slaying me in some vicious or cruel manner; you are only dealing the final blow and freeing us both from this torment.”

“No,” he said. “I am not one for eloquence, so I cannot say it more elegantly, but I refuse, I refuse, I won’t be the victim of his schemes again, and I won’t let you be, either. Take my chains in your hands and walk me as if I am your hound, jerk me when I am disobedient and allow me enough slack to kill those who stand before us, but do not die.”

“Think of your kingdom,” you entreated. “What will Kremnos do without you? What will become of them if they fall to the empire? And what of my home? My people? I have died one death for them, when I swore fealty to that husband of mine. I cannot bear their suffering, I will die so many times if I can relieve them of it, and do you not remember what I said to my father all those many days ago? I will find love in it. I will find happiness. Even in this loveless place, I found you; so, too, in death will I find escape. Kill me now — if it is you, I should not mind so much, I think.”

“Why must you be so trapped?” he said. “Why can I not free you in any other way? Why is death the only end to your bondage?”

“That is the nature of it,” you said. “Only by his death or mine will this marriage end. Only by his death or mine will I be saved. But he knows this, and so he remains ever out of your reach. Mark my words, he will not allow you to kill him until it is convenient for him. There is no way to outsmart a man whose power we do not even understand, a man who is so loved by divinity itself.”

Your husband was silent, observing the argument with the self-satisfaction of one whose prey was within the reach of his jaws. All three of you knew that Mydeimos could not win; the desires set upon him by the chains combined with your persistent appeals would sway his convictions until he turned his mouth upon your heart and tore it out with his canines, sinking his incisors into your chest for lack of a better weapon with which to do the deed, lapping at the rivulets of blood until your own body resembled his own, covered in streaks of irate crimson that wrote out your accursed predestination.

“The next time we meet,” Mydeimos said, closing his eyes and thumping his forehead against yours in resignation. “The next time I find you, I will steal you from him. I will come to your wedding before you can swear your vows, and I will take you away. Such a beast, they will say, such a brute, snatching a bride from her groom, who awaits her most eagerly upon the altar. But then again, to the world, that is just the way of Kremnos, and next time, I will prove them right. Next time, I will make you the queen of my horrible kingdom, and you can scream and slap at me if you’d like, but you will be mine in full, mine and not at all his, so even if you hate me, I will accept it.”

“The altar,” you repeated, and then, in the back of your mind, you thought of such a faint, silly thing that it almost did not bear vocalizing. Yet what other choice did you have but to say it? Even if it was imprudent and rash, even if it would come to nothing, you had to tell him, in whatever way you could manage. “Mydeimos, listen to me.”

“Hm?” he said as you grabbed his jaw, holding it firmly so that he could not flinch away, keeping him steady and facing you. “Y/N?”

“Everything I have ever wanted to say to you, you have heard. You told me that, once,” you said.

“Yes,” he said, his brow furrowing. You brushed his hair back, pushing it off of his forehead, marveling at how his wellbeing was already so improved. You doubted he had been back in the sun for more than an hour or so, but the color was returning to his skin, and there was genuine vitality to him. His breaths came steadily, evenly, and his eyes were like gemstones set in his strong, handsome face, which was flushed with a despondent sort of verve.

“My marriage,” you said. “Do you remember what I said of it? I cannot repeat it now, I am not able, but you must recall what I told you. The day of my wedding, everything I said…it is desperate and slim, but there is a chance. You must remember, please, you can forget everything else, but remember that. What did I tell you?”

“What are you talking about?” your husband said, and for the first time, he stood, alarm creeping into his tone. “Dear lady, what lies are you espousing? Kill her now, prince of terrors, before she can deceive you further! Kill her and free yourself!”

Staring into the churning gold of Mydeimos’s irises, praying to the sea that your own spoke everything you could not, you ignored your husband. There was not much time, and so much was left unsaid; all you could do was trust in the prince, trust that he knew you and thus knew what you were trying to convey.

“The gods of this empire are not on your side, but I am,” you said, and as his eyes widened, you tilted his chin towards the statue. “No matter what, I always will be.”

Ramming his shoulder into you, knocking you to the ground by the foot of the throne, Mydeimos gathered the drooping chains that lay on the ground. Pushing yourself up, you clambered backwards, away from the vengeful figure who, in that moment, was a god unto himself, one who did not request the help of any other deities but commanded it, who ordered their assistance as easily as a general might.

“What is he doing?” your husband said, the collar of your dress tearing as he used it to haul you to your feet. “Kill her, you idiot, what business do you have with that statue?”

“He is not the idiot,” you murmured. “You are, my lord.”

Mydeimos swung the chains around the neck of the statue, and then, with the strength of three squadrons of soldiers, his braid gleaming bright with the unwilling blessings of the gods you had invoked that day in the cellar, he yanked it taut, causing dark cracks to form in the marble.

“Mydeimos!” your husband roared, but Mydeimos did not stall, the muscles in his arms straining, sweat pouring off his forehead as he continued to tug on the metal, slicing into the stone with his own effort, the unbreakable chains digging into the white expanse. “Cease your actions immediately!”

With a great crash, the head of the statue shattered against the ground, bursting into a thousand pieces that sprayed into the air, forming clouds of dust and debris that filled the throne room. As the one you had sworn your vows to died a miserable death, its weight lifted from your shoulders, and so, gasping for breath — not from the muddied air but from your regained sovereignty — you seized your husband by the front of his shirt.

“Imbecile,” you hissed, ignoring the wounds he clawed into your forearms as he fought off your grip. “I never did give you a wedding gift, did I? My apologies for the delay, but you’ll find that this present is entirely worth the wait. The finest of plunders for the finest of husbands: the prince of Kremnos himself!"

“You can’t,” he said.

“I can,” you said. “And know this, you foul worm: you cannot give back a gift once it has been freely given. You cannot refuse him. Perhaps that is how affairs are conducted in your backwards empire, but where I am from, it is not so.”

You pushed him towards the waiting Mydeimos with all the strength you had. The prince descended with a swiftness, not even allowing him to stand before catching him, snapping his neck as easily as a butcher might snap a pig’s, tossing him aside and then lifting his gaze towards you, both of you frozen with anticipation.

The chains melted into sunbeams, sparkling against him for a moment longer before vanishing entirely, the braid in his hair coming undone as he raced towards you on unsteady feet. You met him halfway, and when his legs gave way, you were there to catch him, kissing the crown of his head over and over as he sank into your arms.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I had some ideas of coming to greet you so bravely, and here I am, in such a state.”

“Don’t say sorry,” you said. “Don’t say sorry to me, Mydeimos, you have done something that ought to be impossible, and with it you have freed me. There is no one braver. You must never say sorry.”

“I killed him,” he said, like he could not quite believe it himself.

“Yes,” you said, and then you were crying into his hair, shuddering with the ache and exhaustion of everything that had just transpired, the scratches gouged into you by your late husband’s dying efforts biting from the touch of the open air. “You killed him. That putrid, dastardly coward…you killed him.”

“We mustn’t delay,” Mydeimos said. “They will come looking for the emperor soon, and at present, we cannot fight off an entire army. We have to flee while we still have the chance and that cousin of his is still too focused on saving himself to realize that there is nothing left for him to be safe from — or nothing of this empire, anyways.”

“Where should we go? Kremnos?” you said.

“No,” he said, using your bicep to balance himself as he drew himself back to his full height. “The Southern Sea.”

“The Southern Sea?” you said, your voice catching. He smiled at you slightly.

“The wars and the fighting can wait. The empire has been weakened enough that they will bide their time before making any decisive moves, and the Kremnoans have survived thus far, so what is a little longer? Before I return to the strife and violence of battle, I will take you home. After everything, that is the least you deserve,” he said, taking your arm and dabbing at the droplets of blood which welled where the skin had broken, a frown etched on his features at the sight. “Come. A few elephant keepers will pose no difficulty to me, even like this; let us fetch Verax and use his might to escape this empire.”

“Wait,” you said. “There is something I must do first.”

As Mydeimos watched, you strode over to your husband’s limp, cold body. Drawing your leg back, you kicked it, over and over until his features were all but unrecognizable, mangled and swollen as they were. Then, gathering saliva in your mouth, delighting in the barbarism, which felt sickeningly appropriate despite how uncharacteristic it was of your typical refinement, you spat on him.

It splashed against its cheek, the frothing bubbles washing away the salty tracks of his dried tears, and only then did you turn, rejoining Mydeimos so that the two of you could leave the empire behind for good.

taglist (now complete, thank you to everyone who joined!): @mikashisus @ivana013-blog @mizukiqr @shehrazadekey @simp-simp-no-mi @reapersan @casualgalaxystrawberry @secretive3amramenmaker @academiq @chokifandom @voiddance @qwnelisa @duckydee-0 @anti-social-fox @iwumrndbm @elenaishere05 @belovedoftheanemoarchon @lannnu @ariichive @nightmarewasheree @seyboo @moons-and-mistakes @she-yaa @nayukiyukihira @sillykawa @yoyach @sugilitez @guineverewaves @pe4rlple @celestial--atlas @4acoffee @itseightamineedsleep @sunnywrites101 @moonskins @yourfavoritefreakyhan @fleuriion @luvether @lum1nesc3nce @your-sleeparalysisdem0n @lasrlo @hythlodayus @ryuushyroooooooo @96jnie @xioseu @mavuika-marquez @quincymaru @goodvibesonlyxd @glitchy-mai @justyelln @sjsjslil @weird-dere-writes @hiqhkey @thatisayouproblem [if your tag does not show up in grey, that means tumblr had an issue with it, sorry! sometimes it does that sadly]

#mydei x reader #mydei x y/n #mydei x you #mydei #hsr #honkai star rail #hsr x reader #reader insert #fantasy au #threefold #m1ckeyb3rry writes

624 notes · View notes

lokischocolatefountain · 1 year ago

Text

at last, my love has come along

Fandom: Gladiator II Pairing: General Acacius x Wife!Reader Rating: PG13 Word count: 2.9k words Summary: After the end of a loveless marriage, your father finds a match for you in General Acacius. Warnings: age gap, arranged marriage, mentions of maternal and infant mortality, widowed reader, widowed Acacius, past neglect, virgin!reader. A/N: Marcus Acacius has me in a chokehold and he knows I like it. This is a second look at the characters from home in three days, do not wash but happens earlier. You can read them in whatever order you wish. Title stolen from Etta James' At Last.

“What is he like? The Dominus?”

“He is very kind,” said one of the girls who worked on your toga. You nodded, the pearls in your earrings brushing against your skin and making the hairs on your body stand upright.

“What of my hair?”

“What of it, Domina?”

“The sun has already set. You said the Dominus will be home soon,” you said, fidgeting with the silk fabric that your sisters had presented you with before you began your travel from your village to the city. Something that would help you fit in better with the fashionable ladies and not make your husband, the General, look bad in society’s eyes.

It was not for lack of wealth that you did not own many luxurious fabrics. Only that such things did not reach your village easily and your father, despite his place in the Senate, never brought the right things home. Not for a lack of love for you and your siblings but a lack of taste in women’s clothing and jewelry.

You thought as a young girl of only fourteen that your husband, the first one, would bring you the soft silks and lustrous gold unlike your father. But he did not even bring himself home. You had been married off through letters exchanged between him and your father. It took two of living in his mansion and raising his two children from his last marriage before he finally came home. And when he did, he did not act as a husband should. Not how your older sisters told you he ought to be.

When Consus passed, you mourned not as a wife but as a friend.

“The dominus prefers unbraided hair,” the girl standing behind you said. You nodded, registering the information in your heart. You wanted to know all that there was to know about him before he even arrived. Perhaps then you would be pleasing enough to have a fate different from your last marriage.

It had been all but a year since you were widowed that your father brought you news that you would be wed to a General who lived in the capital. There was no wedding for you even this once. A repeat of your last fate. You had resigned to never knowing your husband when you reached his grand home and spent your night with servants rather than his bed.

How foolish you were to hope.

But the situation changed for the better quite suddenly when you received word that General Acacius was returning from his travel soon. You expected that the news would calm your nerves but it somehow achieved the opposite. Fear.

When the girls were happy with how they had decorated you for your husband’s eyes, they led you to his chambers. They left you there alone to stew in your anxieties about how the night would fare. The quiet of the night did not help matters. All that filled the space was the tides of the sea and the occasional clinking of your bangles as you fidgeted with your dress.

It was all you yearned for in your last marriage, a night of intimacy as a husband and wife should. But now that you were at the precipice of getting what you wanted, dread filled your chest. You’d heard from your older sisters and servants what it was like to lay with a man. From their stories, it did not seem enjoyable. Not for women. It was only something to bear for the sake of having children. And all you wanted was to have children.

You loved Consus’ children of course. They were all you had in the lonely life you led with him. But they were taken from you soon, married off or sent to battle in many campaigns. And you wanted your own children. Have what your brothers and sisters had. Hold your newborns in your arms and raise them from their first breaths rather than from the middle of their childhood.

In your fantasizing of motherhood, you had completely forgotten that you had to be bed by your husband to become a mother. You had forgotten your sisters describe how painful it would be the first time a man took you. If one’s husband was a barbarian with a big cock, it would hurt each time although not as much as the first. A servant girl told you that she had the luxury of a kind husband who would not touch her if she said she was feeling unwell. But there were also husbands who would beat their women for refusing to perform their marital duties when asked.

Your thoughts grew louder and louder in your head until you couldn’t hear the ocean anymore. And you most certainly did not hear when the doors opened and your husband entered. When you perceived his presence, he was already sat by you. When he spoke your name, your heart nearly jolted out of your chest.

He laughed softly and looked you over with a smile on his plush lips. The candle lights illuminated his golden skin and the strands of gray that interspersed his dark hair. The candle on his other side shone bright to highlight his silhouette, his aquiline nose standing bold, characteristic of a valorous man. The sight had you transfixed and you wondered if his godlike visage aided him in battle. If it distracted his enemies long enough for him to slay them.

He reached his hand out to yours, brought it up from your lap and placed a kiss on your fingers. He looked up at you from your fingers, his brown eyes drawing you in like Cupido himself was pulling your strings like a marionette.

“I have kept you waiting for long.”

Not as long as Consus did. But you kept the comment to yourself. You’d never come close to a marital bed but something told you that men did not want to hear about a woman’s previous husband.

You spoke for the first time in his presence. “You are an important man. I understand.”

He smiled, dropping your hand to the space between you but not leaving it. His hand was rough from battle yet gentle in touch. It enveloped yours, exuding a soft dominance like the rest of him did. He was quite large and you winced internally, hoping that it did not translate to his size elsewhere. Did your sisters ever tell you about the relationship between the size of his man and his manhood? You couldn’t quite remember.

“Have the servants made the home comfortable for you? It has been quite a while since this home had a domina.”

You nodded and licked your lips, wishing you could run out to fetch some water for your drying mouth. “It is comfortable. And very beautiful. I have never seen the ocean before.”

“There is nothing like the peace the sound of the waves brings. Nothing like the cool breeze at night and relaxing on the balcony to indulge in the stunning blue expanse.”

“The sight of the ocean when the sun sets is truly incomparable. I spent many evenings mesmerized by it.”

Like magic, the pressure in your lower belly disappeared. You spoke about the beauty of Rome and indulging in it. He put you at ease, drawing smiles out of you, each one wider than the last. But you had a way of finding something to torture yourself over. As you exchanged details about your past, you blurted the question out.

“Am I to your liking?”

“You are beautiful. Worthy of the praises your father sings of his younger daughter in the senate. And at banquets. The bathhouses and libraries and markets. Rome does not know your name but she knows you.”

“I…” you swallowed, relieved that he found you beautiful but afraid for everything else to come. You were inexperienced but even you knew that beautiful faces were not enough to be an adequate wife. It was not adequate for Consus and you did not want a repetition of that with the General. “I do not know what you require in a wife. But I will learn. I have kept my hair out of braids. I learned that you prefer it that way. I will learn everything else too.”

Please allow me to learn. Do not discard me for my inadequacies before I have the opportunity to prove myself.

“Your father also described you as dutiful. I see he was right.”

“Stand up,” he said and took your hand once again, guiding you to stand in front of him. “Undress. Let me see you.”

He leaned towards the headboard of the bed, relaxing with his arm draped over it as he looked at you. You felt your heart thud like a galloping horse on the battlefield. Like a good soldier would, you persisted into your own battle and undid the ties and clasps that kept your clothes in place. He sat back, exuding power with his broad shoulders, wide chests and thick thighs spread apart.

Something about the situation made you feel like cattle in the market being evaluated by customers. Did the cows feel the way you did? Did they wonder as they were purchased if they would be slaughtered for meat or kept to be bred and milked? At least they had the peace of mind knowing that the man who bought them was satisfied with his purchase.

The General hadn’t seen you before he took you for a wife.

Silk pooled around your legs and the cold breeze he’d waxed poetic about caressed your skin. The cold and the shame of being bare in front of a man persuaded you to cross your arms over your chest. You kept your eyes on the ground, focusing on his feet and yours being so close together.

You jumped when his hand grazed your elbow but refused to look at him for fear of what you would find. Disappointment? Disgust? Anger? You could not fathom which would be the worse outcome.

“Do not hide from your husband,” he said, gently prying your arms apart. Arms by your side, you dug your fingernails into your palm to keep from covering yourself again. Consus never laid a hand on you— never bedded you, never hit you. The General had been sweet so far, but you did not know who he was and what he did when angered.

He held your hip and caressed your soft skin with his calloused hand. You inhaled sharply, overwhelmed by the proximity of his hand to your core. You pressed your thighs together, your feminine demureness anxious to keep your most intimate parts hidden from men’s eyes.

“Turn around. Slowly,” he said, guiding you by your hips. As soon as you faced away from him, you brought your hands back up to cover your breasts. He did not seem to notice as his hand trailed down to your rear and grabbed your flesh in both hands. You whimpered, feeling somehow more exposed though you had not become more naked.

“Beautiful…” he hummed as he rotated you to face him once again. You dropped your arms to your sides as though you had touched a hot pot, his instruction ringing in your ear.

“And obedient… I could not have chosen better. Now show me what you can do, girl.” It was enough for you to finally look up at him. There were none of the expressions you feared you would see. He looked quite relaxed and you were afraid you would ruin that with your ignorance of what you were to show him.

“I will do anything you ask,” you answer meekly, hoping he would tell you exactly what he wanted you to do. Hoping he would instruct you every step of the way.

“Show me how you will serve me.”

You swallowed, thinking through every bit of information your sisters and servants had given on pleasing a man. It all came down to obedience, to lying down and taking what your husband gave you. Were you supposed to do something else?

“P-please,” you whispered, the world distorted as it spilled from your trembling lips. “Show me what I should do.”

He stood up, startling you and forcing you to take a step back. He placed a hand on your lower back and caressed gently like you did a litter of feral kittens when you were a girl.

He placed a finger under your chin and nudged you to look up at him. “Nothing you should do, beautiful girl. I only want what you want to do.”

“I have never…” you trailed, shaking your head in denial. “I am still chaste,” you blurted out. He froze in place, deep brown eyes boring into you.

“Your father said you were a devoted mother.”

“To Consus’ children. Borne by his first and second wives. After his second wife died in childbirth, he— I raised the children.”

“You do not want children of your own?”

“I do!” You exclaimed quickly, afraid this life would be taken from you once again. You kept silent throughout your marriage and you couldn’t do that again. Not if it meant your womb staying barren. “I do. Consus, he— both his wives before me died in childbirth and the children— he did not want them to lose another mother. So he never touched me. I am chaste.”

“Your father did not tell me.”

“I did not tell him. Consus wrote to my family that I lost pregnancies. Had my father known that he was— that we did not live as a married man and woman— he would have had me divorce him. Consus did not want that for the children and I could not tell my family the truth until he passed. Please… If my father believed I could not bear children, he would not have arranged for our marriage.”

You naively believed your father would have informed the General of your predicament. Giving one’s daughter to a man when you believed her barren was no small slight. Your felt as though a stone had lodged itself in your throat. You had just doomed yourself and your father. He could march up to the senate come sunrise. Humiliate your father. Take his sword to his neck. All because you were too foolish to know how to please a man.

“What of you?”

“What of me?” You asked, confused. He took your hands in his and guided you to sit on the bed. He joined beside you.

“Why did you remain loyal to such a loathsome man? One who besmirched you to your family rather than admit to his deficiencies as a man?”

“I was young and foolish. When I realized that he would never give me children, I… he had already lied enough to my family about my—” you stopped and shook your head. There was no need to speak ill of the dead man. No need to remind yourself how your barrenness made you the laughing stock of the village. “I resigned myself to the fate the gods had chosen for me. And I grew to love his children as my own.”

“I want more children. I ha— all my sons are dead, a few daughters too.”

You nodded, your chest clenching from the pained look in his eyes. It was universal. Almost everyone who’d had children had lost children. But the pain never subsided. You’d seen it in your sisters, noble women of the highest ranking, in servants and slaves. The first time in a General.

“I want to have children.”

He smiled and nodded before picking up your linen stola from the ground and wrapping it around you. He cupped your cheek, his hand engulfing the entirety of your face. He tilted his head, a soft sigh escaping his lips as his eyes bore into yours.

You leaned closer to him, praying you remembered how to kiss from the few times with a servant girl when you were only thirteen. Anticipation and anxiety had your heart racing together. When he finally touched his lips to yours, he quietened every anxiety, leaving only excitement behind. You placed a hand on his armor, the hardness of the metal underneath the leather contrasting the softness of his lips. Your other hand moved of its own accord, finding the nape of his neck. His soft curls tickled your fingers and he sighed into the kiss.

He traced your lips with the tip of his tongue and you opened up, welcoming him. A sense of calm settled in you as you explored each other. In his arms, you found safety for the first time since your arrival. His lips coaxed you to the gates of heaven and you followed as you imagined soldiers followed your General into war. With some fear of the uncharted territory yet brave because they trusted his leadership.

When you pulled away from each other, something felt changed. He no longer felt like a stranger. Something in his eyes, an openness inviting you into his life.

The ravages of war and time were evident in his features. A scar on the bridge of his nose perhaps from a time he came too close to his own end. His skin was spotted with marks from the sun. His eyes were soft not from the naïveté of youth but from seeing the harsh world. His golden skin peeked from under his beard decorated with a few grey flecks. You caressed a patch of skin where his beard did not grow.

Not an hour had passed since you met him but in his embrace, glancing into his eyes, you knew life would be peaceful.

Follow and turn notifications on on @chocofountain-notifs to be notified when I post. Find my other PPCU fics here.

#marcus acacius #general marcus acacius #general acacius #marcus acacius x reader #marcus acacius x you #marcus acacius x y/n #marcus acacius x female reader #Marcus acacius x ofc #gladiator 2 #marcus acacius fanfiction #marcus acacius fic #pedro pascal character fanfic #gladiator ii #gladiator 2 fanfiction #gladiator 2 fic

2K notes · View notes

chrissssssmut · 4 months ago

Note

One with Rosé

NO ESCAPE

Yandere Boss Rosé x Male

AN: Hope this one's good! Im currently writing the next request XD

You hated your job.

More specifically, you hated your boss, Park Chaeyoung—better known as Rosé.

She wasn’t just strict—she was ruthless. A tyrant wrapped in designer suits and a wicked smile, ruling over the office like a queen who knew no one would dare to oppose her. She had a special kind of enjoyment in tormenting her employees, but for some reason, you were her favorite target.

“You’re useless,” she’d scoff when you turned in paperwork with a minor mistake. “I should fire you, but where else would I get my entertainment?”

Meetings turned into hellish endurance tests, your name constantly being called out for blunders, some of which weren’t even yours. But you knew why she did it. She liked to see you squirm under her attention, liked the way your hands shook when she loomed over your desk, voice like silk but words sharp enough to cut.

And yet, you endured it. Until you didn’t.

The resignation letter sat on your desk for weeks before you finally had the courage to hand it in. You had expected her to mock you, to laugh in your face, maybe even throw it back at you. But instead, she simply smiled. A slow, knowing smile that sent a chill down your spine.

“You think you can leave?” she mused, twirling a pen between her fingers. “That’s cute.”

“I’ve already made my decision.” You kept your voice steady, despite the dread curling in your stomach.

Her smile didn’t waver. If anything, it grew. “We’ll see about that.”

You started skipping work.

At first, it was just a day. Then two. Then an entire week. No calls, no emails—nothing. You wanted her to get the message: you weren’t coming back.

Then, one night, there was a knock on your door.

Dread pooled in your stomach before you even opened it. And when you did, you wished you hadn’t.

Rosé stood there, silhouetted against the dim hallway light. She was smiling, but it wasn’t the usual condescending smirk. No, this one was different—sinister, dark, filled with something unhinged. Her eyes gleamed with a dangerous mix of amusement and rage.

“You’re avoiding me,” she said, voice almost sing-song, as if she was teasing a lover. “That’s not very nice.”

Your breath hitched. “I… I don’t work for you anymore.”

Rosé tilted her head, feigning confusion. Then, before you could react, she stepped forward, forcing you back into your own apartment as she shut the door behind her.

“You don’t get to leave me,” she whispered, her voice low, a warning wrapped in velvet.

You turned to flee, but she was faster. Her hand shot out, gripping your wrist tight enough to bruise. Panic surged through you as you struggled, but she was stronger than she looked, pinning you against the wall with terrifying ease.

“You’re mine,” she murmured, eyes gleaming with something possessive, something utterly terrifying. “And I don’t like it when my things try to run away.”

You shoved at her, desperation fueling your fight. “Get off me!”

She responded with a sharp slap across your face, the impact ringing through the room. Your vision blurred for a second, pain flaring along your cheek. Before you could recover, she grabbed your hair and yanked your head back, forcing you to look at her.

“You think you can just disappear?” she hissed. “After everything I’ve given you? After all the time I spent making you mine?”

Terror pulsed through your veins as she shoved you onto the floor, her heeled foot pressing onto your chest. She leaned down, fingers curling around your throat, squeezing just enough to make breathing difficult but not enough to knock you out.

“I could make this worse,” she whispered, her breath hot against your ear. “I could hurt you so much more, make you beg me to let you stay.”

You clawed at her grip, trying to push her away, but she only laughed, enjoying your struggle. She yanked you up by your collar, dragging you toward the bedroom. You thrashed wildly, but a sharp punch to your gut sent you collapsing onto the mattress, gasping for air.

“You’re not going anywhere,” she purred, straddling you, her nails digging into your jaw as she forced you to meet her gaze. “You belong to me.”

Tears welled in your eyes, fear overriding everything else.

“Please… just let me go,” you croaked.

Her lips curled into a smirk as she leaned in closer. “Say it,” she commanded. “Say you’ll come back.”

You hesitated, and she wrapped a hand around your throat again, tightening her grip until your vision swam.

“I’ll come back!” you choked out, gasping. “I’ll go back to work, I swear!”

She released you abruptly, watching as you crumpled into a coughing mess beneath her. Her fingers gently traced your bruised skin, a mockery of tenderness.

“Good boy,” she murmured, pressing a kiss to your temple before standing up. “Be ready in the morning. I expect you at your desk.”

And just like that, she walked away, leaving you shaking, broken, and utterly hers.

The next morning, you were at your desk.

Your hands trembled slightly as you typed, the bruises on your wrist hidden under the sleeves of your shirt. The office bustled around you as if nothing had happened, as if the last night hadn’t left you shattered.

And then you felt it.

A gaze.

You looked up, and there she was—Rosé, standing across the office, watching you. Her lips curled into a slow, satisfied smirk, her eyes dark with a silent warning.

You knew what it meant.

You were stuck with her.

Forever.

#kpop yandere #yandere kpop #kpop story #male reader #yandere x reader #yandere #yandere blog #yandere stories #rose blackpink #blackpink x reader #rose x reader #yandere x male reader #yandere x y/n #yandere x you #kpop scenarios

159 notes · View notes

pedropascallme · 1 year ago

Text

Celebrity Crushes

Pairing: Damien Haas x gn!Reader

Summary: "He had never said it was for a video, though maybe at this point you should’ve been able to guess that being asked for a list of three top choices was for this series."

Warnings: Brief mention of being drunk but otherwise none :)

AN: Hi guys!! I wrote this in 20 minutes so it’s…rough around the edges….but you’ve been so sweet and patient with me while I get my shit together now that I’m back from school!! I have many many WIPs that I plan on publishing soon that will have much more substance than this, but I still hope this helps hold you over for another week or so <3

You delayed your own emergence from sleep. Your bed was comfortable, warmer than usual, maybe thanks to the open blinds that let sunlight dapple the room. It was so easy to fall back into the snug embrace of slumber as you stretched against your sheets. You rolled over, eyes still heavily lidded and blinking to avoid the light as you felt around for your phone on the nightstand.

You yawned, stretching again; you let your back arch off the bed, feet poking out from beneath your blanket as you let your ankles crack—a quiet, congenial noise, and an even more satisfying feeling.

There were several messages waiting for you when you unlocked your phone.

Ang: UM??

Ang: New games vid????

Ang: 😵‍💫😵‍💫

You: What?

Ang: Dude🫠

You: What??

You: Isn’t it a Shayne guesses

You: I just woke up

Ang: Hold on

They were not the messages you’d been anticipating on a peaceful morning off from work. Angela’s texts woke you up immediately, her words burying themselves in your head as adrenaline took hold, muscles tensing, and you felt something pull at your stomach.

Had someone said something? Had you said something? Had you been somewhere you weren’t meant to be? Did it even involve you? Was she simply acknowledging something fucked up or funny that you had played no part in?

You held your phone in a vice grip, white-knuckling it and waiting to hear how exactly the new upload pertained to you—if it pertained to you—and whether you’d still have a job or any friends by the end of the day.

You felt a soft buzz on your fingers and snapped your attention to the screen, hoping to see Angela’s name.

Court: Was the new video planned or…

You: What is happening

You: Angela texted me too

You: I literally just woke up

Court: omg🥹

You felt hot. Not in the cozy way you had been when you woke up, but in a burnt cheeks and stomachache way. This was not something you had ever woken up to before, it was not at all routine, and you worried that your time at Smosh was up based solely on the manner in which your friends were texting you.

Another buzz. Kiana this time.

Kiana: I told Spencer not to keep it in the final cut

Kiana: But it’s really cute actually

You wanted to throw up. Shakily leaning back in bed, you tried to type out a response to Kiana that would help you wrap your mind around what exactly it was that you should be worried about.

Another buzz alerted you to Angela’s late reply, and you abandoned the message you had been drafting for Kiana.

Ang: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vzUs87BMpsc

Ang: 26 minute mark & then watch to the end

Ang: 🥴🥴🫶🏻

You had been right. It was another installment of Shayne Guesses, but you had no recollection of sending in a formal submission of…

“Can I identify someone, based on their top three celebrity crushes?”

Your heart jumped to your throat.

If this was going where you thought it was, you’d send in your letter of resignation by tonight.

You found the timestamp Angela had sent you, and immediately grimaced, folding your body into itself. You wiped a hand over your face, as if rubbing your eyes hard enough would make this all go away, leaving you to wake up fresh and unabashed.

“Ok—ok, I can work with this,” Shayne’s eyes darted over the screen, shouting a laugh when he took in the options given to him. “So Pedro Pascal—expected—Cillian Murphy, and he looks younger there. Is that what he looks like now? No…”

“No, that’s from like, 2000-something,” Spencer responded off camera, “I did not choose that picture.”

“Ok, 2000s Cillian Murphy, Pedro Pascal, and Damien Haas.” Shayne paused to stifle a chuckle. “This is the second time you’ve broken your own rule!” He stared pointedly at Spencer.

“Bro, that’s Shez from Fire Emblem!” Spencer argued, still out of frame, and Shayne bit the inside of his cheek.

“I mean,” Shayne looked at the list of names in front of him, “I feel like, you know, maybe it’s not…maybe it isn’t super obvious to people watching, but I think it’s a pretty easy guess for anybody in the office.”

“So what’s your answer?” Spencer asked.

“Oh, come on, like you need to ask,” Shayne crossed his arms before triumphantly declaring your name. “Final answer, look—” He clicked to the next page, and there was your headshot.

Your headshot.

Because Damien was one of your celebrity crushes.

One whom you worked with, and were friends with, and hung out with, and ate lunch with.

You felt your eye twitch.

You paused the video in a huff, too mortified to follow Angela’s instructions and watch it to the end.

You might’ve laughed if you weren’t so besides yourself with embarrassment. You were deeply confused as to how that list had even made it into the upload when you hadn’t sent it in.

You racked your brain, trying to remember if you’d drunkenly sent an email, or given an ok when you were only half awake.

You could recall, vaguely, a text exchange with Spencer a few weeks ago, where he had asked, out of the blue, about your top three celebrity crushes. And you gave your answers, sent a few googled pictures, all in good fun, to your friend.

He had never said it was for a video, though maybe at this point you should’ve been able to guess that being asked for a list of three top choices was for this series.

You: Charles.

You: What happened to confidentiality.

Spence: I CNA EXPLIAN

Spence: CAN

Spence: EXPLAIN

You: 🤨

Spence: LISTEN

Spence: I THOUGTH YOU KNWE

Spence: I THOIGHT IT WASSON PURPOSE

Spence: I THOUGHT HE KNEW??

Spence: BECAUSE HIS??

Spence: Please don’t kill me I have a family.

Spence: And I’ll buy you lunch.

You: You’ll buy me lunch for a month.

Spence: A week

You: Two weeks

Spence: Deal🤑

Spence: I love you❤️❤️

Spence: And I’m sorry I went over y’all’s heads

You weren’t mad.

Honestly, you couldn’t bring yourself to be genuinely angry; it was hard to be mad at one of your dearest friends over something that was so clearly a misunderstanding. Especially when it had no real bearing on your career or public image.

This just meant that people would now be fully aware that you had the hots for a coworker.

And said coworker would also be fully aware of it. You tried to push down the shame.

You: Accepted

You: I love you too❤️

You: I want Thai tomorrow

Spence: Would you settle for shirt?

You: I'll kill you.

Spence: Don’t you have another smosh man to bother🧐

You smiled at your own reassuring words, and Spencer’s acknowledgement of his fuckup was equally as helpful in improving your mood, as was his casual banter. For a moment that was enough to make you forget why your stomach was still in knots.

It could be argued that it was an open secret, it certainly seemed as though your friends were more shocked to see your list make it into the final cut of the video than they were to see the list itself. You counted on your fingers: who had you told, who figured it out like a child's simple jigsaw puzzle, who had asked point-blank after seeing you interact with Damien.

You ran out of fingers.

Still, you felt that you’d been cautious enough about it, to the point that Damien himself, at least, hadn’t seemed to figure it out, despite the amount of time you spent together, and the large portion of that time that you spent with a dopey grin on your face and a blush creeping up your cheeks.

Maybe he hadn’t seen the video. Maybe he’d never see the video. Maybe he wasn’t even planning on being online today at all.

Or maybe you could change your name and disappear for a while.

Maybe you’d be in the clear.

You took deep breaths, trying to settle your brain and your heart and the shakiness of your hands.

And then Damien’s name lit up your phone screen, and the results of your impromptu meditation were immediately gone, thrown out the window with your composure.

Damimen: Very interesting list

You: I’m so sorry

Damimen: What?

Damimen: Why?

You: I didn’t mean for you to find out this way

You: Very publicly on a Wednesday morning

Damimen: Who said I was just finding out?

You: Shut up

You: I’m good at keeping secrets

Damimen: I know

Damimen: Angela and Chanse aren’t tho

You: Oh god dammit

Damimen: Which is why I knew not to tell them anything about my list

Damimen: And I mean

Damimen: Stuff that I'd generally like to be kept under wraps

You: So the launch codes are safe?

Damimen: Are they safe if they're with me?

Damimen: 🤯

You: MR PRESIDENT!!

You: Wait

You: Joking aside

You: What are you talking about

You: Wdym “not telling them about your list”

Damimen: Did you not watch the whole video?

You: Got kinda distracted

You: Needed to make Spencer fear for his life a little

Damimen: ???

Damimen: Watch til the end

Damimen: And then come over?

Damimen: If you want?

You furrowed your brow, questions still unanswered, but pleased that he wasn’t upset with you.

You found your way back to the video, clicking forward again until you saw Damien’s headshot and then rewinding to see his list.

Pictures of you.

Three pictures of you. Pictures he had taken when you were together; at the ren faire, getting coffee, in the office.

And now the texts from everybody remarking on how cute the video was made sense. They hadn’t been referring to your list, they’d been referring to Damien’s more than forward response that worked in tandem with yours.

“Not a lot of variety to this one,” Shayne laughed into his hands, “I don’t really have to guess cause there’s only one name left on this list, but even if there wasn’t…This is Damien. Yeah, no, this is Damien. Final answer.”

“How do you know?” Spencer pushed.

“Well I mean, I, y’know, I received these pictures from Damien when they were taken,” Shayne spoke as if it should’ve been apparent, “But also. Come on. I know. See,” he clicked to the next page, where Damien’s name and picture appeared. Shayne raised his arms in triumph.

Your mouth fell open and your lips curved up into a subtle smile.

If you hadn’t been obvious, you’d certainly been oblivious.

The pictures of you that Damien had taken lined up on the screen paired with Shayne’s assurance in his answer, the knowing chuckles from off screen, it all made your heart skip. You felt it sinking from your throat and back into your chest where it belonged, thrumming contentedly.

Damien’s handle on your heart didn’t worry you. If anything, it relaxed you, made you feel safe, collected despite the rollercoaster of a morning you’d had. The discovery of a crush requited made you feel giddy; young and in love.

You: On my way

You: Gimme 20 minutes

You: And send me those pictures

You: 😘

Damimen: 🫡🥰

#damien haas #damien haas fic #damien haas fanfiction #damien haas x reader #damien haas x you #smosh #smosh fic #smosh fanfiction

581 notes · View notes

misshoneybee · 2 months ago

Text

— 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐆𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐑𝐨𝐨𝐦 —

Pairing: Staffer!Reader x Congressman!James Buchanan 'Bucky' Barnes Content Warnings: Workplace romance/sex, oral sex, vaginal fingering Word Count: 3.8k Rating: Explicit A/N: I got some feelings when I heard the bass line to Knee Socks and thought about Congressman James Barnes...so, this little brainchild was born and brought me back from a three-year hiatus from writing fics. 🤪 As always, I do my best to keep my reader as inclusive as possible but please let me know if there’s anything I can do to improve upon it! There’s no use of Y/N or anything else where you need to insert information to read just because that’s my personal preference! Please enjoy and I’d adore any reblogs or feedback, if anyone feels so inclined! Navigation: Masterpost | Divider Credit | AO3 Summary: When you overhear Bucky talking to Mel and think he's suddenly looking for a new assistant, he'll go to any lengths to make sure that you know that you're the only one he needs (or wants.)

You couldn’t stop turning the words over and over in your mind, picturing the softness behind Bucky’s eyes as he’d slipped his business card to Mel. The business card that you’d meticulously designed and sent to print. The one you’d agonized over for hours. You knew they’d be used for networking but you’d never though they’d be used to find a replacement for you.

‘You can choose who you work for.’

He wasn’t wrong, but fuck—those words cut deeper than you thought they could. There was an empty pit in your stomach as the late spring air swept through the city, making it feel cooler than it was as you stood tensely beside the congressman with crossed arms, waiting for the limousine to pull closer to the curb where you were both waiting. You’d loved the dress when you’d chosen it last week—the slinky, sleeveless black silk gown with the high neck and low back—but now you just couldn’t wait to get home and shed the second skin so you could scroll through LinkedIn or some shit.

Or maybe you would take some time and lick your wounds first before exploring your other options; you’d been by Bucky’s side for years. You’d been on his campaign since he’d launched it. It was easy to recall the day that you’d walked into the makeshift office in Brooklyn and offered to canvas for his campaign since you were sick of the congressman who’d represented your district for too many years. Since then, you didn’t think there’d been a day that you hadn’t been in some kind of contact with James Buchanan Barnes. The pair of you had fallen into an easy camaraderie.

As the long car rolled to a stop before you both and he opened the door for you, waving off the valet, you realized that everything he’d been saying for the past several minutes that you’d been waiting had fallen on your deaf ears. Carefully keeping your knees pressed together—even if you weren’t going to be working for Bucky much longer, you still didn’t need any upskirt pictures out in the tabloids—you murmured your thanks and slid into the backseat. The partition between the backseat and the driver was already up; Bucky always insisted on it for privacy. He unbuttoned his coat and ducked in after you were settled, maintaining the middle seat’s distance from you.

It was quite a feat being able to fit three phones into the tiny bag that was your clutch. You handed Bucky’s over to him on autopilot as you grabbed your work phone, leaving your personal one safely tucked away. Opening your email app, you steeled yourself and carefully left the address blank as you quickly typed Letter of Resignation into the subject line. Finally, some of his words finally bled through your endless stream of thoughts.

“Do you know what Gary was talking about?”

Finally, you glanced over at him. You were annoyed but fuck. It’s like you forgot how attractive he was every time you looked away for too long; the tux you’d picked up for him was perfectly tailored, tight on his biceps and across his broad chest. Finally, you met his light blue eyes as he continued, “He mentioned some packets that I should look at.”

The aggravation from his words overrode your momentary attraction and you let out a short exhale of an almost laugh before returning to typing your email as you pointed out, “You mean the packets that I add to your briefing folder every morning that you ignore?” Biting your tongue from including some more choice words, you gave a delicate shrug and finished nonchalantly, fingers still flying over your keyboard, “I think he was talking about those.”

You could feel the light gray-blue eyes boring into your cheek as you kept your attention directed at the little screen in your hands. The need to flinch under his scrutinizing gaze was overpowered by your attitude.

“Is there something wrong?” From the corner of your eye, you saw his brows draw together as he hesitantly tried to piece together what had happened. In all your time of knowing him, you’d always had a quick wit, but your ire had never been directed at him.

Schooling your features, you added sugar to your tone as you finally met his eyes and played dumb, wanting him to draw his own conclusion, “Why would anything be wrong, Congressman Barnes?”

“Oh, so, I’m Congressman Barnes now?”

Although it was dark and the passing headlights and streetlamps only provided flickers of illumination, you could see there was a glint of amusement in his eye, and it lit a fire where the empty pit in your stomach had just been moments before. Was this a fucking joke to him? Taking a slow breath, you corrected, “Fine, James,” before continuing your typing.

“Cut the shit.”

Your fingers faltered on your keyboard as you sat up straighter at the abrupt change to his tone. While he’d never been on your bad side, you’d also never been on his. Bucky had always been exceedingly kind. Even in his silent ways—ordering your favorite dinner when you guys spent too long at the office, holding an umbrella over you as you both canvassed the neighborhood in the rain, riding past his subway stop at the end of the day to get off at yours and make sure you got home safely before backtracking eight blocks to his own apartment when you guys were in the city and not in the capitol.

“Excuse me?”

The muscle twitched in his sculpted jaw before he continued frankly, “Come on. You’ve been giving me the cold shoulder for half the night, doll.” You cut your eyes at him as the nickname rolled off his tongue and replayed in your head. Doll. It made your heart beat a little faster, but you attributed it to your annoyance—nothing else.

He huffed a half-laugh of exasperation at your continued silence, running a hand over the short scruff of his beard, “Look, you gonna make me drag it out of you? Or can you just tell me?”

Biting the inside of your cheek, you schooled your features into something calm and finally gave him your undivided attention. Letting your eyes rove over his earnest expression, you hesitated. Did he really not fucking know? Or was he just an asshole and didn’t think you’d care? Sitting up a little straighter, your voice was even as you ignored the hurt and cooly acknowledged the elephant in the limousine, “It just would have been nice to know that you were looking for a new assistant. That’s all.”

Even he couldn’t feign the confusion that crossed his face as he pushed back, “What the hell are you talkin’ about?”

“What do you mean?” Exasperation colored your tone as your eyes carefully searched his. His silent confusion only served to aggravate the tension that wrapped around you, as the words finally spilled out, “I have basically been on your campaign since you announced your bid for congress! I know what you look like when you’re charming people for donations and you don’t think I can’t tell when you’re working someone?”

“It wasn’t—”

“I was five feet away, James!” You cut him off, your knuckles blanching as you gripped your phone tightly. The blinking cursor waited for more of your (admittedly, kind of rude) words of resignation. Feigning thoughtfulness, you carried on as if attempting to job his memory, “What was it you said? Oh! Yeah. You can choose who you work for.”

Shaking your head, both wounded and pissed off, you glanced out the window to see you were still half an hour from the building that housed both of your apartments. This was going to be a fun ride. You’d barely pulled away from the museum’s curb. As you sat back against the leather of the seat, you returned your attention to the email, continued typing with too much force, and attempted to ignore Bucky’s presence. Surely, you’d have to edit out some of the notes of ‘fuck you’ and ‘asshole’ before you sent it Monday morning.

“Can you stop fuckin’ typing?” He grumbled frustratedly. The dark metal and gold of his vibranium hand glinted under the flicker of the streetlight as he easily plucked it from your hands and tried to diffuse the situation. “Baby, listen—”

You reached for your phone as he quickly locked it and gave you a chastising glare as you tried to reason, “Look, I’m just trying to draft my letter of resignation. So, I’d really appreciate that back.”

Holding it out of your reach, he snorted a laugh. His tongue ran over his teeth, and he shook his head, almost as if he was entertained by your reaction, murmuring lowly, “I’m not gonna accept your goddamn resignation.”

A bolt of something shot through your stomach at the almost growl and you felt a shiver roll through your body, goosebumps rising on your bare arms. You shoved that aside and continued to argue, “You don’t have a choice!” Giving up, you crossed your arms and sank back into the seat, “It’s a resignation, not a request. I’m not asking if I can quit, I’m—”

“You’re not doing shit!” His voice was raised and that was the first time you’d ever seen the cords of his patience finally snap and you were momentarily stunned into silence. Taking your hand in his, and taking advantage of your sudden lack of talking, he was almost imploring as he hurriedly explained and held your gaze, “I wasn’t looking for a new assistant; I just needed Mel to know that she could work for someone aside from Valentina so maybe she’d testify at the impeachment. That’s all.”

Biting the inside of your cheek, you hesitated as his words finally computed in your brain. Well, fuck.

Maybe you’d jumped the gun because…that made sense. For the past two weeks, you both had been discussing strategies to try and ensure an impeachment for Valentina was within the realm of possibility and Mel’s name may or may not have come up a handful of times. So, maybe—just maybe—you’d gotten ahead of yourself.

You knew it was a toxic trait, but you were already in the thick of this argument and completely relenting wasn’t an option no matter how reasonable he was. So, you rolled your eyes, ignoring the way his thumb brushed over the back of your hand as you looked past him, out the window, and mumbled without any real heat, “Okay. Sure.”

His chin dropped to his chest as he huffed out a short, dry laugh and shook his head, “You think I’d ever want anyone else by my side?” His vibranium fingers laced with yours and the corner of his lips ticked up in a half-smile at your attitude. Your eyes flicked down to your hands as he gave a gentle squeeze, and continued quietly, “Baby, I couldn’t do anything without you. We wouldn’t even be here if it wasn’t for you.”

His eyes were soft as you disbelievingly shook your head with a small smile that matched his and looked out your own window, “Shut up…”

“I guess I do a pretty shitty job of letting you know how valuable you are to me.”

Turning your head, your breath caught in your throat as you realized how close he was. The familiar spiced cologne that reminded you of whiskey and citrus clung to his chest; it invaded your senses, and you felt your face go warm. Your teeth dug into your bottom lip as a shaky breath threatened to pass from you. The blue of his eyes was just a ring around his pupil, dilated with want; you knew yours had to look the same. The fire in your stomach had dropped lower and you shifted under his wanting gaze.

This had been almost two years in the making and maybe there wasn’t a point in trying to fight it anymore. Your eyes flickered to his lips before returning to his eyes and you whispered shakily, “Bucky, we…”

Like you saying his nickname pulled some trigger, he shook his head with a crooked smile, “Fuck it.”

Bucky’s hand cupped your cheek, and, with a surprising amount of gentleness, he crashed his lips into yours and the pieces fell into place. Every feeling that had been behind some secret dam you didn’t know that you’d built rushed out. Your hand drifted over his chest and around his neck as you pulled him closer and sighed softly against his lips.

“I didn’t know you were so jealous, baby…” He teased, pulling you into his lap and you couldn’t help the way it made you smile into the kiss.

“Not jealous,” You murmured before your teeth grazed over his bottom lip and he groaned, his hand tracing down your spine before landing on your ass and giving a gentle squeeze. Giggling, you continued and pressed your body closer to his, “Just wanted some job security…”

“Trust me, baby. The job is always yours.” His words were muffled as his lips moved down your jaw and against your neck, trailing up and down, never staying in one spot long enough to leave a mark as one of his hands trailed down to the slit in your dress. “Tell me what you need.”

“Touch me.”

“I am.” He teased and you gave a soft whine, the fingers of one of your hands tangling in his hair as the other tried to urge his hand higher up the soft skin of your thigh. Feigning surprise, his lips finally moved away from your neck as he sat back and grinned wide, “Oh, you want my fingers?” Feeling the way his chest rose and fell while pressed against your own made you shiver as your legs spread slightly.

“Fuck…” He groaned, his thumb grazing the inside of your thigh before it easily zeroed in on your clit that was still hidden behind the silky material of your panties. The muscles in your stomach clenched as he pressed gently against your bundle of nerves.

“Bucky—" His name was a soft whimper as it was pulled from your lips at the pressure you needed more of.

Bucky’s fingers grazed your cheekbone as he traced your face reverently before pressing his thumb to your lips as he murmured lowly, “Get it wet for me, baby.” Your tongue swirled around his digit, sucking as you hollowed out your cheeks and watched his eyes darken. “Fuck…that’s my good girl.”

Slipping his finger from your mouth, he glazed it over your bottom lip, tugging on it gently before shifting to his knees in the spacious floorboard. You whined softly as the dress restricted your thighs from spreading any further. The ripping of fabric pulled a gasp from your lips as he tore the pre-sewn slit in your silky skirt higher.

“I’ll get you a new one.” His wolfish grin stopped you from chastising him as he tugged the gusset of your underwear aside and let out a low groan as the wetness that glistened on your folds. Digging your fingers into the leather of the seat, you shifted shyly under his gaze.

“Bucky…” You begged with a whisper, “I need you. Please.”

With a breath caught in your chest, you watched as he bit his lower lip and traced his thumb up and down your slit before letting out a low growl, “Gotta fucking taste you.”

You couldn’t stop the yelp as he easily grabbed your hips and tugged you further down the seat, slipping your panties off you and shoving them in his back pocket before hooking your legs over his broad shoulders as his big hands held your thighs wide. His thumbs spread your folds apart as his tongue licked a broad, languid strip from your weeping entrance to your swollen clit as a keening moan was pulled from your lips at the pleasure that coursed through your veins.

With a playful click of his tongue, his tone feigned disappointment, “Made such a mess of this sweet little cunt. You sensitive, baby?” He barely brushed a finger down your soaked slit again, and you couldn’t stop the way your hips bucked at the stimulation, a sob pulled from your chest. Clamping a hand over your mouth, you tried to stifle the noises that wanted to spill from you. Nipping at the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, you could feel the way he smiled as you shifted restlessly and he cooed teasingly, “Look at this perfect fucking pussy, all spread out for me.”

Without adieu, Bucky returned his lips to your clit, his tongue tracing a circle around the bud before sucking it between his lips. Your fingers tangled in his hair, and you felt the way he groaned against your center as you tugged gently. No matter how badly you needed to clench your thighs closed, whether to keep him close or push him away because the pleasure was too much, it wasn’t possible. “So sweet for me, baby…”

The vibration of his words made you whimper as he sucked an erratic pattern that made you writhe on the leather seat as your fingers gripped his hair even tighter; he was ravenous as he licked and sucked and nipped, driving you wild and pushing you closer to the edge. Slipping his middle finger into your tight channel, he pumped it in and out with lewd noises from your wetness. After a moment, he slipped a second one in with the first and crooked them up against the ridged spot that made you see flares of light. You felt your face grow warm at the sound as you begged, “Buck—”

A warmth pooled low in your stomach, and you couldn’t stop the breathy “oh’s” that were pulled from your chest. Squeezing your eyes closed, you rocked your hips up into his mouth as he sucked at your labia and dipped his tongue into your clenching core like a man starved. Just as you were about to fall over the edge, he pulled back with a lecherous grin. A needy whine fell from your lips as you gripped his hair tighter, trying and failing to keep his mouth pressed where you needed him most as he held you firmly by the hips, pressing you into the seat.

“So greedy, baby…” Pressing his lips to your mound, his thumbs brushed over your hips as he asked teasingly, “What? Did you wanna come?”

With a shuddering breath, you dropped your head back against the pillows as your fingers tightened in his hair, pleading, “God—fuck, yes.”

“Where are your manners, baby?” His words were low as a gentle nip to your clit made your back arch off the seat at the surprising cocktail of pleasurable pain. Rubbing over your button with a thumb, soothing the barely-there sting, he cautioned with a teasing smile, “If you come, I’m not letting you stop ‘til you’re begging.”

“Don’t care—please, Bucky.” Shaking your head as you looked down at him worshipping between your thighs, you weren’t even certain that your words were intelligible as you begged and babbled with hooded eyes, “Please, let me come. Please, fuck—”

Without a verbal response, he ducked his head back down and returned to his lingual assault, pulling a loud, ‘Fuck!’ from deep in your chest as you rocked your hips against the two fingers that were thrusting deep inside of you at a punishing pace, working you open. It wasn’t long before your thighs were clenching as he crooked his fingers just right and sent you over the edge.

“That’s it. Fuck…” He hummed against your center.

Your back bowed off the seat as a pleasant warmth spread through your body, radiating out through your fingers and curled toes as his tongue laved over your sensitive skin, graduating from flat broad strokes to little kitten licks that made you twitch with aftershocks of your climax. Trying to close your thighs and shy away from his touch, you whined before he sat up, blushing as you spotted his lips and chin shiny from your wetness. With the back of his hand, he wiped away some of it with a smug wink.

Pressing a hand over your chest, grounding yourself with the feeling of your skin, you tried to catch your breath as a soft laugh huffed past your lips. Sinking back into the warm leather of the seat, you watched as Bucky’s eyes trailed after his hands that worshipfully grazed up your still shaky thighs before trying to fix the skirt of your dress, gently trailing his lips over your skin as he tugged it back down to cover you. However, that did nothing to help the torn fabric that had been ripped too high.

You’d barely remembered he’d ripped the silk it until the cool air from the vent brushed over your thighs chest and you felt your face go warm, suddenly feeling overexposed as you sat up, “Bucky!” Fruitlessly attempting to tuck or adjust the fabric to maintain some kind of modesty, you couldn’t help but whine about his (slightly hot) barbarism, “I just bought this!”

“I told you I’d get you a new one.” He grinned from where he was still on his knees and slid off the black suit jacket, leaving him in his dress shirt and undone bowtie. “Here, baby.”

Sliding back into the seat beside you, he held the jacket for you as you slid your arms into the too-big sleeves, grateful it was long enough to fall to your mid-thighs. Fixing your hair for you so it wasn’t tucked into the collar, he pressed a soft kiss to your neck as the limousine began to slow. You quickly buttoned the coat as he groaned and adjusted himself where his slacks had grown tighter.

Shooting him a coy smile, you questioned innocently, “Problem?” He huffed a laugh with a shake of his head as your grin widened.

He couldn’t stop himself from pulling you back in for another searing kiss, murmuring against your mouth, “You gonna take care of it when we get inside, baby?”

Pulling away with a soft moan, you teased breathlessly, “You mean when you come inside, baby?”

His eyes darkened as you opened the door with a sly smile, stepping on to the bustling sidewalk. Your knees were still weak from the orgasm that had wracked your body, and you were quickly regretting the heels you’d decided to wear earlier. But, in a flash, Bucky was beside you with his hand on the small of your back, guiding you inside as his lips brushed against your ear and made you shiver as he murmured, “Remember when I said I wasn’t gonna stop until you were begging? That’s exactly what I mean, sweetheart.”

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader smut #bucky barnes x reader #marvel fanfic #thunderbolts*#bucky fanfic #marvel fanfiction #maddie writes oneshots #oneshot #smut #maddie writes spice #maddie writes #mine

92 notes · View notes

sweetjulieapples · 18 days ago

Text

Dear Commander - Chapter 36: Fallen Knight

Cullen x Trevelyan

AO3 MASTERLIST

The Inquisitor is "urgently" summoned to Skyhold's gardens.

Full chapter below:

"Keep your voice down," Cullen whispered as he slowly approached the door to the main hall. He glanced over his shoulder. "And put your hood up."

Slowly she lifted the fabric of her hood over her head, then with folded arms she exhaled loudly.

"You're being awfully serious. Even for you."

He sighed at the defiant volume of her voice, then turned fully to face her. His expression softened as their eyes met.

“Juliette…”

“Cullen…”

“Just look out the door. Don’t let her see you.”

She rolled her eyes. “Let who see me?”

Josephine appeared in the doorway between her office and the corridor, pausing with a curious look. Cullen gave her a small shake of his head, then turned back to Juliette.

“The brunette in the blue dress. She’s… just see for yourself.”

Juliette raised a brow, but stepped forward and peeked through the door.

“All right,” she said, “there’s more than one brunette in a blue dress.”

“The tall one. No Orlesian mask.”

She watched carefully as the guests in the hall moved about the tables chatting. Sitting alone was the brunette in question, her back to the door, posture perfectly poised as she seemed to be patiently waiting for someone or something.

Juliette gently shut the door and stepped back.

“What’s happening?” Josephine asked.

Juliette laughed. “If I knew, I’d tell you."

“You really don’t see it?” Cullen asked, brow furrowing.

Josephine smiled sweetly. “An old flame perhaps?”

“Maker’s breath, no!” he hissed. “Don’t you have more important things to be doing?”

Josephine smirked and gave Juliette a knowing look before turning back to her office.

Cullen let out an exasperated sigh and glanced at Juliette again. “Have you looked in a mirror lately?”

Her eyes widened, a hand flying to her cheek. “What? Is there dirt, or do I look—”

“No,” he said quickly, almost chuckling. “It’s not that. You look lovely, it’s just—”

His words halted abruptly. There was silence. Those few seconds felt like an eternity.

Juliette's hand slowly lowered from her cheek, fingertips brushing against her jaw, eyes wide, face flushed.

Cullen froze. He opened his mouth. Then closed it again. For a moment, he was lost for words as her gaze settled on him.

When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet, a resigned breath.

“She’s your sister. At least, I think she is.”

Juliette’s smile widened in disbelief, as if at first she thought he might be joking. “No… no, that’s…”

“She has your eyes. Your hair. She even sounds like you.”

“Wait. You’ve talked to her?”

"No. Well, yes. I just sent her here so I could find you first. I thought you'd like to know," he said, already moving towards the stairway door. “If it were one of my sisters, I’d at least want the chance to pretend I was busy.”

“Thank you… I suppose,” Juliette blinked, still trying to process everything. Then her eyes lifted. “Cullen. Before you go…”

He stopped, hand hovering over the door handle.

“Did you read my letter?”

Slowly he lowered his hand and bowed his head. He took a moment to answer, drawing in a breath and pausing, carefully considering his words. Then he turned to face her.

"I have been paying attention."

Juliette’s eyes softened. Her fingers loosened, releasing the tight coils of hair she hadn’t realised she was twisting.

Cullen smiled with closed lips, offering her a gentle look.

"Go talk to your sister," was all he said before opening the door and walking away.

The sun was bright that morning, warming the stone walls of the battlements. Juliette hardly noticed. Her eyes stayed fixed on her newly reunited sister, tracing every movement, every small mannerism, while her fingers drifted along the edge of the parapet.

"It's a nice view up here, although the wind is dreadful."

Do I really sound like that?

"Tell me, what is that ghastly horse in the stables that you have? Terribly malnourished, it's deeply unsettling. I've never seen anything quite like it."

Juliette raised a hand to her forehead, unable to endure the small talk a moment longer. "Why are you here, Beatrix?"

Her sister looked to her, lips parted and a hand raised to her chest as though it was the most offensive question in the world.

"Well, you haven't replied to our letters."

"That's not true at all." Juliette shook her head, tearing her eyes away. Her heart felt as if it were beating faster, her thoughts muddled in the shock of everything.

"You haven't replied," Beatrix clarified. "We've heard plenty from Lady Montilyet but not from you."

Juliette scoffed. "What do you expect of me? I don't have time to write letters on a whim!"

She swallowed, her throat tight with emotion. She glanced to the door further down the ramparts. Vines and brightly coloured leaves framed the entry, a place she'd often pause to gather herself — now Cullen's office felt like a sanctuary.

"The least you could have done is let us know that you —"

"—That I what? That I'm the Herald of Andraste now?" Juliette snapped. "Come along family and bask in the glory!"

Beatrix gasped, momentarily at a loss for words. Then her expression hardened as she narrowed her eyes at Juliette’s sarcastic outburst.

"None of you were bothered to write to me before," Juliette said, her voice low, seething, daring to break. "Twelve years and not a single letter. What makes you think you deserve one now?"

"It's not that si—"

"No. Do you have any idea what it's like to be a child, sent away for something you couldn't control? To be alone. Scared. To have everything you'd ever known ripped away?"

Beatrix stepped forward, hands clasped, head lowered. "Do you know what it’s like? To be on the eve of womanhood, lying awake at night in fear that any day you'd be shipped off, betrothed to a man you'd be lucky to have met thrice! Knowing you’d have to bear his children without a say."

Juliette blinked. Her lips parted, a strangled sound caught in her throat.

"And do you know, little sister..." Beatrix continued, "that was the least of my concerns. I heard it all. Every night." Her voice cracked. With a sharp inhale, she turned to face the battlements’ edge. "I heard the templars take you away. The screams. Maker, I'll never forget it."

Juliette folded her arms, leaning against the stone, unsure where to let her eyes rest.

"Mother didn’t speak for weeks. Still, she sat at that dining table with false smiles and a straight back, wearing the bruises like a badge." Beatrix’s voice dropped to a haunted whisper. "Father had us all reprimanded at any mention of you. Juliette… we didn’t abandon you. You were taken from us."

Juliette said nothing. She turned, arms still folded, a vacant stare settling on her sister at last. It was a long moment, a searching look returned to Juliette as she stood still. Everything was quiet. Every second drawn out. Juliette's head tilted to the side, careful consideration, as though trying to see the truth behind Beatrix's words, and unsure if she could.

"Inquisitor!"

Juliette closed her eyes and exhaled. Silence shattered by duty. For once, a welcome interruption.

Turning her head, she slipped into her role with practiced ease. Her eyes sharpened, expectant.

"Lord Pavus requests your presence in the gardens, Your Worship. He says that it's urgent."

"What could possibly be —" She sighed. "Thank you," and with a nod, she dismissed the messenger. She turned back to Beatrix, who now looked as though her heart had just been torn from her chest. "I need to see to this, if you'll excuse me."

"Mother is ill, Juliette."

The words halted her mid-step. Tightness in her chest, unease in her stomach. Emotions she wasn't even sure she had a right to feel. Slowly, Juliette turned back. "You could have opened with that."

Beatrix stepped forward, a desperate plea written on her face. "She doesn't have long. The doctors say it could be months."

Juliette looked to the ground. "What…" Emotion was heavy in her voice until she swallowed it away. "What do you want of me? Is it money?"

"All we ask is that you come back home."

"Home? Are you —" Juliette scoffed, shaking her head. "You cannot be serious."

"She just wants to see you again," Beatrix said softly.

Juliette blinked, tears threatening her composure. Then she drew in a deep breath and faced her sister with resolve.

"I must go. Return to the hall an ask the guards to speak with Josephine. She'll see to your accommodation and —"

"At least tell me where I can find Jonathan."

"Jonathan?" Juliette whispered in shock.

"I'd rather speak with him first, I don't plan on staying here long."

Juliette felt as though she had been slapped in the face. Perhaps, she wondered, if Briony's training had been a little too rough and only now the concussion was settling in. That all this was the result of some head injury.

"Jonathan isn't here!" Juliette exclaimed, breathless.

"What do you mean?" Beatrix asked. "Didn't he follow you to the conclave? We all assumed that he was with the Inquisition."

With a hand over her eyes Juliette whispered, "I can't do this right now." She turned and began to walk away. "Go back to the hall," she yelled as she stormed towards the gardens.

The gardens were lively this time of day. People moved about after their morning tea, others tended to the plants. Most found peace and quiet near the benches, that is until the crowd grew too large and too loud. The Chantry drew many visitors as well, with Mother Giselle holding her late morning services inside the prayer room.

The noise of the garden softened into a low hum beneath the pavilion. Only the clack of chess pieces and the occasional creak of a chair broke the stillness — alongside Dorian's unrelenting taunts.

Cullen couldn't help but smirk.

"Gloat all you like. I have this one."

Dorian looked up from the board, a mocking expression. "Are you sassing me, Commander? I didn’t know you had it in you."

Cullen shook his head, smirk widening. "Why do I even—"

From the corner of his eye he caught sight of Juliette by the steps, staring blankly ahead.

"Inquisitor!" he exclaimed, abruptly standing, almost topping the table over in his haste.

Dorian bit back a grin.

Juliette blinked and released a shaky exhale. Her blood felt like it was tingling, pulse throbbing in her neck. The noise was too loud. The sun too bright.

That bastard set me up!

She considered turning away, hiding in her quarters, far away from everyone. Had Cullen not just seen her, she would have.

Cullen slowly sat back down, then he shot Dorian the most serious look. Juliette clenched her fists. Whatever Dorian just said to him, she'd rather not know.

She took a step forward, hesitating. I could just leave now while they're not —

"Grab a seat, Inquisitor! Join us!" Dorian shouted with exaggerated delight. His voice carried loudly enough through the garden that people began to look, some conversations fading mid-way through.

Juliette turned her head just in time to see Elan rise from her kneeling position by the herb garden, watching curiously.

With a heavy sigh, Juliette stepped closer to the chess game.

Cullen glanced up as Juliette approached. His expression was smug at first but quickly dropped when he noticed how tense she was. Her arms were tightly folded, her brows furrowed, and her eyes fixed in a hard glare.

"Are you all right?" He asked, a slight edge of apprehension in his voice.

"I'm fine, thank you, Cullen," she said softly before returning her focus to Dorian. Her next words were low and pointed. "That is assuming there's no matter that requires my urgent attention."

"Not yet," Dorian said with twist of his lips, turning in his chair to face Juliette. "Although you're just in time to witness my inevitable victory. "

Cullen stifled a chuckle and quirked an eyebrow at Dorian's remark. "Really? Because I just won." He leaned back in his chair, armour creaking, unable to contain his smirk.

Dorian glanced at the board, then stood. "Don't be smug. You haven't claimed victory over Juliette."

He placed his hands on her shoulders and gently nudged her towards his seat. She gasped, flustered, and awkwardly flopped into the chair.

Dorian’s grin grew wider. “…yet.”

Juliette looked across the table at Cullen, surprise—and what she was sure was a blush—plastered across her face. She cast a glance over her shoulder as Dorian sauntered away, then straightened up in her seat.

She met his eyes, those soft amber eyes, watching her with quiet attentiveness. Cullen was different here. Relaxed. Less serious than she was used to.

"We don't have to do this, you know?"

An array of emotions surged at once: hope, longing, excitement, fear and frustration. She was exhausted, and part of her wanted to take the out he was offering. But the way he looked at her…

She bit her lip and looked down at the board. He'd already set it up.

She couldn't lie to herself, either.

"No, I want to."

Her words were a little quieter than they should have been, but they were honest. And the way he smiled, she knew he understood.

They didn’t speak for a while, just quietly sat together as the game began. Juliette leaned closer, deep in contemplation. Absentmindedly, she reached over her shoulder to pull her braid forward.

That subtle motion didn’t go unnoticed by Cullen.

"Was I right?"

His question was spoken gently, all smugness from earlier giving way as he took in her distracted presence.

"Hm?"

"Is she your sister?"

Juliette looked up and blinked. "Oh. Yes. My eldest."

Cullen smiled and spoke fondly. "You're almost identical. I thought she was you at first." Then, that smirk came back. "As you can imagine, It was a shock to see another of you."

Her lips twitched. The faint trace of a smile swept over her face while he was looking down. "Cullen, she has a good seven years on me! Do I look that old?"

He looked back up. His eyes widened and his chair creaked as he leaned forward. "No! No, you look your age…younger even! You look lovely, that's not what I meant."

Juliette's composure waned for every second their eyes were connected. All pretense of feigned offense slipped away. With a lopsided smile and rosy cheeks she murmured, "that's twice today that you've said that."

"Said what?" he asked, moving his attention back to the board.

"That I look lovely."

He paused, hand suspended in the air just a second before moving his piece. He looked at her and smiled. Then, he moved his pawn, placing it down with a deliberate thud.

"You are lovely."

Heat rushed to Juliette's cheeks. She stared at him, breathless, trying to process what he’d just said. Even with his head bowed, eyes on the game, the smirk on his lips gave him away.

"Is this your plan?" she asked under her breath. "Distract me with sweet talk so I lose my place on the board?"

He leaned back in his chair, clasping his hands, grinning smugly. "I don’t need tricks to win a game of chess, Juliette. I’ll win because I’m good at this."

"Oh," she laughed, still breathless. "So the flirting is genuine?"

He nudged his head towards the board. "It’s your move, Inquisitor."

Juliette pressed her lips together, a poor attempt at hiding her smile. She reached forward, focused on her next move and with a sudden jolt, her hand clipped one of the pieces. It tumbled to the stone floor with a loud rattle. She quickly withdrew, eyes closing in defeat as she let out a long exhale, shoulders slumping.

“And my knight has fallen,” she muttered with self-loathing.

They both stood at the same time.

“I’ll get it,” Cullen said, already kneeling.

Juliette eased back into her seat, watching as he picked up the fallen piece. Their fingers brushed as he handed the knight to her. Their eyes lingered, just a moment longer than necessary.

"Thank you," she said softly. Cullen nodded and returned to his chair.

Another moment of silence fell over them, tension simmering in the air. Juliette parted her lips, almost speaking before hesitating. Then she quietly drew in a breath.

"You mentioned earlier that you have siblings?"

Cullen answered almost instantly, as though he too were eager to say something.

"Two sisters and a brother."

"Where are they now?"

"They moved to South Reach after the Blight. I do not write them as often as I should." He looked down. "Ah, it’s my turn."

"One of four, like me," Juliette noted, watching his move with interest. "Hm, let me guess. You can't be the eldest — you're not pretentious enough."

He raised a brow, amused. "Is that so?"

"Yes, but I don't see you being the youngest either. My guess …middle."

"Where in the middle?"

"Upper middle," she said confidently. "You're not completely free of being pretentious."

Cullen laughed. "And with that attitude I can only assume you are the youngest sibling."

"Ha!" she scoffed. "That's hardly fair. Leliana would have dug up a frightening amount of information on me while we were at Haven." Her eyes narrowed with playful accusation. "And you would have read every last word of it."

"We had more important worries than your birth order, let me assure you of that."

"I suppose you have a point."

He leaned back with folded arms. "You didn't tell me what your sister said."

Juliette paused for a moment. This was such a beautiful distraction that she almost forgot.

“Oh, where do I even begin?” she said with a breathy laugh. “They want me to return home.”

Cullen’s smile faded. “Really? Now?”

“My mother is ill… apparently. I… I don’t know what to think.” Her fingers moved along the length of her braid as she shifted in her seat. “But I can’t just leave! I’m the Inquisitor.”

“You don’t believe her?”

“I don’t know.” She exhaled. “And then she asked for Jonathan. She thinks he’s here.”

Cullen said nothing at first.

Juliette lowered her head, absently rubbing her thumb over the mark on her hand. Her voice was distant when she spoke again, eyes fixed on the gardens.

“If they haven’t heard from him, then he’s not in Ostwick. Then he—”

“He’s not.”

Her eyes snapped to Cullen. He was already watching her, his expression serious.

“I asked Leliana to look into him,” he said quietly. “When we first arrived here.”

Her breath caught. “What… do—do you know something?”

He shook his head. “I wasn’t sure if I should say anything. I didn’t want to give you false hope.” He leaned forward, elbows resting on the table. “He wasn’t at Therinfal. That’s something, at least.”

Slowly, Cullen slid his hand across the table until his fingers came to rest over hers.

"We'll find him," he promised.

"You've been searching? All this time?"

"I had to try," he said gently.

She blinked back tears and whispered, "Thank you, Cullen."

He gave her a smile, warm and sincere. "Of course."

The sound of footsteps on stone made Dorian fold his arms with a smirk. He could already tell by the length of the shadow cast by the late morning sun who was approaching.

"What do you think you're doing, Sparkler?" Varric asked. His voice carried the weariness of a man used to nonsense, but unimpressed nonetheless.

"Enjoying the view. Glorious morning," Dorian replied, not bothering to hide his satisfaction. He turned to face Varric. "Wouldn’t you agree?"

Varric glanced towards the pavilion, where Cullen and Juliette sat just a little too close for casual conversation. Then he looked back to Dorian. "You're fixing the bet."

"You said they had to kiss by Wintersend. There were no clauses forbidding me from giving her my seat after the chess match."

Varric narrowed his eyes. "You remind me of an old friend from Kirkwall."

"Hard to believe anyone in Kirkwall was as handsome as me," Dorian said, hand to chest. "But I’ll take the compliment."

Juliette looked at the board. Slowly, she raised her eyes, lips parted in a questioning gaze.

"I believe this one is yours," Cullen said with a smile. "Well played."

She looked down again and lifted the back of her hand to her mouth, hiding her grin from view.

"I think we’ll need a rematch," she said, a giggle threatening to escape. "I can’t have the commander of our forces be so incompetent with strategy."

He blinked, then folded his arms with a smirk.

Juliette stood, her chair scraping across the stone floor. "We should spend more time together."

Cullen’s smirk softened into a surprised smile. "I would like that."

She lowered her head slightly, smiling. "Me too." She tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear, then turned to walk away.

"You said that," he murmured, just loud enough for her to hear.

She bit her lip, furrowed her brows, and took a hesitant step forward.

Cullen stood abruptly, reaching for her arm. "Don’t go."

She froze, her eyes falling to where his hand gripped her arm. It was firm, but still gentle. Slowly, she looked up. He was close now. Her heart pounded.

Elderflower and oakmoss.

His expression was serious, but his eyes held a hint of sadness or perhaps something more vulnerable. Then he looked past her. She turned her head over her shoulder, her eyes following where he was focused. People were watching, as they often were, this time Mother Giselle's judgemental gaze in their direction.

But he never let go. Instead, he leaned in closer.

"Don't go to Lord Beaufoy's soirée," he said under his breath, desperation in his tone.

"What?" she whispered, startled.

"I’m not asking as your advisor. I’m asking as myself. Don’t go."

"What soirée?" she asked, brows furrowing in confusion.

"I know, Juliette. About the letters. The flowers. The invitation for—"

His words died on his tongue when he realised.

"Flowers?" she repeated quietly.

"There is no Lord Beaufoy, is there?" He let go of her arm and stepped back.

She exhaled a soft laugh. "I don’t know. You’re telling the story."

Cullen turned, reaching for the sword resting against his chair. With a long, tired sigh, he stepped past her.

"I need a word with Leliana and Josephine."

Furious footsteps thundered into the tavern, heads turning, chatter slowing.

"You!" Juliette growled.

Dorian grinned against the tankard that was raised to his lips.

"Hey, boss," Bull greeted, unfased by her anger.

She stepped between where Bull and Dorian sat, snatching the drink from Dorian's hands. "Oh how I'd like to give you a piece of my mind!"

"Well, I wouldn't like to take the last piece."

"Get outside, now!" she demanded with her voice low and threatening.

Juliette dragged Dorian into one of the lesser crowded spaces of the courtyard, hidden in the cold afternoon shadows by the stone walls.

"I can't believe you ambushed me!" She hissed once they were finally in private.

"I thought I was doing you a favour," he said glibly. "Doing all of us a favour. It was rather considerate, no?"

"Considerate?" she shrieked, then lowered her voice. "How about you consider this? I spent my morning in a grueling training session. Then, a surprise reunion with my sister before being thrown into a chess match that I somehow couldn't lose —"

"He let you win?" Dorian asked with enthusiastic shock.

"He didn't let me win!"

"He let you win," he repeated, amused. "Cullen never loses."

She narrowed her eyes and shook her head, gesturing for an explanation.

"He has Leliana for three. We've been trying for months, I didn't think he'd so blatantly throw the game. But then again, it is you."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

Dorian raised a hand to his forehead and scoffed. "You are an expensive friend, Juliette."

"You've wagered on this! You really are bastard, aren't you!"

"Just go and talk to him, will you? Put us all out of our misery," Dorian said, dropping all theatrics and beginning to walk away. "He's clearly enamoured with you."

"I've given him enough chances to make a move."

"You're an —" He stopped, then whispered to himself. "I can't believe I'm saying this." He turned back and stepped closer. "You are an intelligent woman, Inquisitor. I'm certain you'll figure it out."

She groaned, casting a resentful glare at the mark on her hand.

"Maker forbid the Commander of the Inquisition show interest in the Inquisitor." She laughed, sharp and humourless. "It’s exhausting, Dorian. This—" She gestured to herself, to the mark, to the fortress around them. "All of this. It's ruined everything. I can’t just be a person. Is it not enough to be a mage, and then this on top of that? ‘Blessed by Andraste’? It’s a curse!"

She looked to the ground and kicked her foot in the dirt. "I have no choice."

"You have choices," he said, almost reassuringly. "You chose to wear that…whatever that outfit is."

She hugged herself tighter, ignoring his quip. He stepped closer again.

"You're choosing to do the right thing by being here, you realise?" he said, sincerely. "I know you don't believe it, but you could have ran away. You could have just flopped yourself down in the dirt and lived as some Ferelden yokel. Worn gloves. Stayed hidden. You'd be good at that. But you didn't. You haven't."

She glanced up to him, a defeated expression on her face. "Then what do I do?"

"Ask him to dance at the ball," Dorian said before turning once more. As he walked away he said under his breath, "that should be hilarious."

20 notes · View notes

sanjoongie · 5 months ago

Text

𝒟𝒶𝓎 𝐸𝓁𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓃~ 𝒫𝓇𝒶𝒾𝓈𝑒

The Menu

❤️Pairing: boss! Kang Yeosang x employee! Reader (f)

❤️Au: bakery au

❤️Trope: boss/employee

❤️Genre: smut

❤️Rating: 18+, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

❤️Warnings: praise kink, dom!reader, sub!yeosang, pain kink, semi-public sex, DO NOT HAVE SEX IN A KITCHEN THAT'S SO UNSANITARY BRO, oral (f), hair tugging, breast play

❤️Word Count: 1,394

❤️Summary: when you praise your boss rather forcefully, yeosang pursues a more carnal activity in the kitchen

❤️Day Ten: Mingi| Masterlist | Day Twelve: San 💛

“Yeosang, I’m ready for you to show me how you fill the piping bags for these cupcakes because the last time I attempted it, it was a disaster,” You round the corner with your tray of red-velvet cupcakes.

When Yeosang doesn’t answer, you put down your tray and go find him. Usually, the head bakery chef was in his head while he completed his projects, so you had to be gentle about the way you got his attention. Otherwise, there’d be a cake on the floor.

You swiftly go towards the benches used for frosting and finally find your boss. He was contemplating his job on a special order cake. He cocked his head and shook it. “That’s not right,” he murmured to himself.

“Yeosang, it’s beautiful!’ You covered your mouth in awe.

He had prepared a mirror glaze with an aurora theme, and it was simply the most gorgeous thing you had ever seen in your entire life.

Yeosang’s eyes widened upon your statement. He ducked his head, and you spotted his cheeks becoming pink. “Oh no, I think I got the coloring incorrect. I’ll need to start again.”

You clucked your tongue in annoyance. Your boss was always his worst critique. He cared so much that he always wanted the cakes he made to be utter perfection for the person receiving them.

“You will do no such thing,” you frowned.

Yeosang sent you a kind, fond smile. “Who’s the boss here?”

You made a noise of frustration. “But Yeosang! Your art is amazing! There’s nothing wrong with this. You got the green’s and purple’s perfectly. Your talent is unparalleled. That’s why I applied to this bakery? To learn from the best.

Yeosang laughed nervously and then schooled his features quickly. “I’d tell my boss he’s the best too.”

Your body moved without another thought. You grabbed Yeosang’s face tightly. “Don’t you dare make light of what I said. I do not flatter, I simply speak the truth.”

Yeosang’s eyes were wide again in surprise. You couldn't believe you just did that to your boss.

You were quick to drop your hands and apologize. “Just don’t throw out the cake. I can at least sell it at half price as a happy accident, okay? Now, please, can you show me how to fill the piping bag properly?”

You stared down at the floor, wringing your hands in anxiety. You really had gone too far. Perhaps you should start typing up a resignation letter quickly before--

Yeosang’s large, gentle hands encompassed your own. He brought them back up to his cheeks. “Do that again.”

You eyed your boss warily. “Yeosang.”

“Please,” Yeosang murmured. “Be forceful and praise me. I liked it.”

“Yeosang…” This time, your tone took a cautious turn. “We can’t…”

Yeosang squared his shoulders. “I’m the boss, right? We can if we’re both consensual.”

Your hand tightened against Yeosang’s jaw, pushing into his flesh. “You are an amazing chef, the likes of which should be lauded for his talent.”

Yeosang whimpered in response. “More,” he whispered.

“Your cakes only rival your own looks, in beauty and visual aesthetic. If anyone was so lucky to receive your affections, and your baked goods, they would be the luckiest person on this planet,” You continued.

Yeosang swallowed loudly when you released him. You could see that the gears were turning in his head, and then he turned around to clear the stainless steel counter of all the utensils. “I’m good at other things, too. You know.” His hand patted the counter suggestively.

“Yeosang, this is--are you sure? What if someone--”

“You and I both know that the shop doesn’t open for another couple of hours. My cakes are already finished and I can help you with the cupcakes. Now, please. Hike up your cute little skirt, and let me show you how good I am at giving head.”

The quiet determination emanating from Yeosang, paired with the delicate trembling for what was to come, was all the convincing you needed.

You slipped your panties off, stuffing them into your apron front pocket, and pulled up your skirt. You put your ass to the counter and settle your palms down on the cold surface to haul yourself up. Yeosang’s hands encircled your waist and helped you, moving his body between your legs.

He reached down, almost reverently, grabbing your socked ankle and lifting one of your legs up so your foot was on the counter. It opened your body up to reveal your cunt.

Yeosang made a desperate but deep-toned noise at the reveal and fell to his knees immediately. His thumbs parted your outer lips and he dove into your pussy like it was the dessert he was most eager to consume.

You bit down on your finger to contain the moan that threatened to spill from your lips as Yeosang licked you. His technique wasn’t tentative at all; in fact, his nose continued to flirt with your clit as his tongue circled your hole and teased it.

You quickly remembered you had your own task, so you went to work. “Oh god, Yeosang, that’s it. You’re licking me so well.”

Yeosang’s licking stuttered as his body jolted from his reaction to your praise. Still he continued to trace your inner lips with his tongue.

“Oh god, your handsome face looks so good between my legs, yes, just like that, Sangie,” you cooed.

A garbled groan vibrated deep in Yeosang’s throat. His tongue began to thrust into your hole, slowly opening you up with the wet appendage.

You cast your head back, reveling in the way you were feeling right now. Yeosang wasn’t lying when he said he was good at giving head.

“Such a good little pussy licker, aren’t you, Sangie? You love being between my legs that much, hmmm? Were you meant to simply be a throne for my cunt? Cuz your tongue feels amazing in me.”

Yeosang, somehow, became even more enthusiastic in his pussy-eating. He wrapped both arms around your legs so that he could rub his face against your cunt. His tongue flicked at your clit rapidly.

Your engorged flesh was ripe to be licked, and it took everything in you to maintain your brain cells and continue to praise him. You did run your hand through his hair and use your other free hand to play with your breast.

“That’s it, play with my clit and make me feel good, Yeosang. No one has ever eaten me out like this, oh god, you’re going to ruin me for any other man, this is like heaven.”

You lightly pulled Yeosang’s hair as he coaxed you towards a climax. You pinched your nipple, pulling and playing with it to only aid in the pleasure you were feeling in this moment.

Soon, you were resorted to short, simple sentences like “yeah, just like that, Sangie” and “fuck, feels so good”, unable to wax poetic anymore.

But Yeosang was focused on his purpose. His tongue was working quickly against your clit and you could feel your climax soon approaching. You were about to tell him as such, when as if he had a connection to your brain, he sucked harshly on your clit and you came.

You squished his face with your thighs. Yeosang didn’t stop you, even though he was fully capable of pushing your thighs back apart. You had a sneaky suspicion he enjoyed the pressure.

“Holy fuck,” You cursed. “Yeosang, I--” You let out a shaky laugh.

Yeosang stood up, wiping his face with the back of his hand. “Don’t you dare say that was a one-time only freebie.”

Your mouth stayed open in shock. “Uhhh?”

Yeosang’s eyebrows furrowed with worry. “Please. Please, please, please. I could do so much more for you.”

You pursed your lips to one side and then grinned as an idea formed. “Only if you can compliment yourself once a day on your talents.”

Yeosang was nodding his head quickly, without another thought. “Absolutely. I can do that. Without a doubt.”

You laughed under your breath. He'd probably pretend that he hadn't agreed to that tomorrow, cutely scratching his head like nothing bounced around in that gorgeous head of his, but you knew better. Your boss pretended to be an airhead but underneath that exterior was a man who simply enjoyed eating pussy artfully.

❤️Day Ten: Mingi| Masterlist | Day Twelve: San 💛

#pirateeznet #lapydiariesnet #ateez smut #kang yeosang smut #ateez yeosang smut #fff25 #topaz's work #ღatz #yeosang smut #atz smut

39 notes · View notes

weaverpop · 2 months ago

Text

Disapproval— A Jing and Lady Yin origin and Family reunion

Tw VERY angst heavy, directions of blood, pregnancy, and going into labor

“I cannot believe you—“

“—of all the reckless, impulsive decisions that you have made in the past, this by FAR takes the mooncake! Sneaking around with a princess?! And a celestial one at that!”

Jing winced at his father’s yelling, shuffling from where he was kneeling at the table while his father paced back and forth in rage. The fabric of his simple blue training Hanfu suddenly felt very constricting.

“Papa,” Jing murmured quietly, “papa, please-“

“And!” The older man barreled on, speaking over Jing’s protests, “I find out that you are wanting to elope with that- that judgemental spoiled princess!”

Jing immediately tried to defend himself and his choices. “She’s not spoiled or judgemental! Yin has been nothing but kind to me and the others!” His jaw trembled, fists clenching at the front fabric of his clothes. Seeing this, his father sighed softly.

“Sweet baby” The redheads voice came out soft, almost pleading. “My son, she is a celestial. They do not care for the lives of mortals. You are too young, you do not understand yet.”

Jing glared at his father, his own voice ticking up a volume. “I understand perfectly well!” Jing wilted when his father’s gaze turned hard, but he kept going. “Yin is different, Papa.” He pleaded, “she’s not like Zāng or Nèicún. I actually like her, and she likes me.”

“It’s only a fleeting thing,” Jing’s father stated sternly, “she’ll leave at the next pretty tail she sees, just like all the others. I know you think she’s different bit she isn’t. You will be marrying Zāng or Nèicún and that’s final.”

Jing closed his eyes, sucked in a deep breath, and lifted his head to meet his father’s fierce gaze. The older man’s angry eyes tried to pierce through Jing’s defenses, but the young swordsman had already made up his mind. He wouldn’t budge. Not this time.

“I don’t care if she’s a celestial. She’s given up everything to be with me, and I’m willing do the same.”

The moment the words left Jing’s mouth, the older man stood and shouted at the top of his lungs. “Leave!” He demanded, pointing at the door, “Leave this house! And only come back when you have left that wrench!”

Jing stood with all the grace of a soldier, before turning his back to his father and strides out the door. Heat pricked at his eyes, but he stubbornly held back.

That night, while staying in a small inn the young couple could barely afford, Li Jing swore to himself that he would never sit at his father’s dinner table again.

The first few years were hard. But Jing’s grandfather was more than willing to help them out while Jing got his feet under him. The young swords man worked tirelessly, day in and day out, perfecting his craft and gaining the attention of many. Soon, he married Yin in a beautiful ceremony, Jing’s grandfather officiating.

Even after the passing of his grandfather, Jing continued on strong, determined to give Yin everything they needed.

Jing sent a single letter to his parents when, a year later, Jinzha was born. He waited several weeks, and silently cried in Yins arms when they never responded. He did this again when Muzha was born, hoping and praying they’d answer. That maybe they’d finally see past Yins celestial heritage. But nothing. Jing eventually gave up on any sort of relationship with them, resigned to never see them again.

When Nezha was born, he didn’t bother to send them a letter. What was the point?

Then after some the time after he’d moved to the celestial realm, Jing realized his parents were likely dead. He was immortal now, and while he’d always known he’d outlive them, it stung to realize he’d never be able to reconcile.

Life without Yin was hard. So hard. His father’s words echoed in his head every day, along side a certain emperors. But Jing wouldn’t let it stop him.

When Jing met, fell for, and was inevitably broke up with Azure, he wondered what his parents would say then. If they would condemn Azure too, this time for being a demon.

By the time of the heavenly pillars collapse, Jing had nearly forgotten his parents. He reconciled with Nezha, reconnected with Azure, had the cubs, and is nearly ready to give birth again at 8 months pregnant. It’d been so long, that when he went to the store, the last people he’d expected to see were his parents.

Yet there they, it rather he, stood, front and center of Magapolis mega-pharmacy. The very man who’d turned his back in Jing for falling in love. The man who Jing had finally moved passed.

Li Shānyáng was a towering man, even more so than Jing himself had ever gotten. His fiery orange-red hair was as long as it used to be, even with the streaks of grey. He was older now, more stress lines, but he walked with his back strait like he always did.

He’s seen Jing too, and looked just as startled. He reached out a single hand, to calm out to him.

“Jing?” Shānyáng whispered, almost hopeful, “Jing? Is that you?

Jing stood frozen. He couldn’t make a single sound. It was as if his vocal cords turned to cement. How was this possible?

Shānyáng slowly approached, but the moment he got within range of Jing, the pregnant man stepped away almost on instinct. He frowned and stayed where he was, but he still looked at Jing with those sad, hopeful eyes.

“How.” Jing finally managed. “How are you here?”

“Well,” Murmured Shānyáng, “demons do live long lives.”

Jing’s heart nearly stopped. A wave of dizziness swept over him,

“I’m sorry,” Shānyáng said, “I always meant to tell you.”

Alive

A demon.

His father was alive and a demon. Any further words the man- demon - may have said were drowned out my the harsh beating of Jing’s heart as it all clicked. The hate for the celetials, his father’s unnatural red-orange hair. The way others seemed weary of him all Jing’s life.

Jing ran. He didn’t think, didn’t look, just ran. He could hear his father calling out behind him, desperate and pleading. But Jing used what little energy he had to just teleport back to the celestial realm. Back home.

Everyone startled when Jing burst in, and Azure jumped to his feet in alarm at Jing’s tear stained face. But before he could comfort him, ask what was wrong, Jing shoved him away and rushed to their bedroom.

There was a large commotion, and Jing’s vision started to spin. He gasped for air, clutching the dresser, before dry heaving a few times. In his panic, he could barley hear Azures voice. “Jing! What’s wrong? Are you hurt?” but Jing couldn’t respond.

A sob ripped itself from his throat, turning midway into an enraged shriek. The pregnant celestial (celestial-demon? Celestial-human-demon hybrid? What was he?) grabbed a small plant and hurled it across the room. Shouts of panic echoed in the house, and this time Azures voice rose above it.

“Jing! What has gotten into you!?”

“He lied to me!!!” Shrieked Jing, whipping his head around to face his lover. Nezha and the others crowded the doorway, out of range, as Azure was the only one brave enough to enter. The lion only looked more confused and concerned at those words, and gently reached out to the distressed preggo.

“Who lied dear?” The former-rebel murmured, trying for gentleness. Jing didn’t care, instead hurling another plant.

“My father,” Jing hissed, and he could see the other Nezha’s heads jerk up. “He’s alive! He’s alive and a fucking demon and never told me! He let me think he was dead!”

Azure was stunned, and quickly ducked out of the way of the third plant. “Dear,” he pleaded, “I don’t understand-“

“He hated her! He hated her because she was a celestial and I never even questioned it! He lied he lied he lied—!”

(Crash!)

“Jing!” Hollared Azure, who instinctively shelled the others from the flying shards. Jing let out an inhumane scream, slamming his other fist into the glass as hard as he could.

A loud pop was heard,and everything froze. Jing let out a ragged breath, and looked down at the ground. Blood and glass littered the floor, but now so did water. It took a moment to realize what happend, but as Jing came out of his rage he relized why his pants were now soaked.

Between his meltdown and the shock of going into labor, Jing collapsed. Azure barely managed to catch his mate before he hit the ground, and they made haste to rush Jing to the hospital for a labor two months early.

@autism-autobot @peachponygirl @quitealotofsodapop

23 notes · View notes

killersfool · 2 months ago

Text

FORCE OF NATURE ִֶָ 𓂃⊹ ִֶָ Syril Karn

pairing: syril karn x fem oc

word count: 6.2k

synopsis: syril karn is alone.

with a new job and a new identity, six months pass in silence. but when footage of a familiar face resurfaces, he can't resist reaching out — unsure of where it will lead him.

notes: my star wars knowledge is not amazing so im sorry if anything is inaccurate. the plot will probably be really different to andor and im thinking of posting this on ao3 to make a full length fic. posting on here first to see what people think!

The apartment was clean. Too clean.

Syril liked it that way — or at least, that’s what he told himself.

Everything in its place. Shirt cuffs starched. Rations aligned with mechanical precision. The only disruption was the low hum of the kettle and the distant, ceaseless murmur of air traffic beyond the window. A Coruscant evening: colourless, endless.

He sat at the kitchen table, a datapad before him. Blank, save for the blinking cursor of a resignation letter he’d never sent.

It had been six months since the chaos at Ferrix. Since Dedra had stopped speaking to him. There had been no formal goodbye. Just silence – clinical, efficient.

He had read back his final message to her so many times, trying to find what had pushed her away. Too much admiration? Not enough control?

She had been the last thread. The final justification that his loyalty meant something — that he meant something. But even her clinical poise couldn’t disguise what he was to all of them.

Replaceable.

He sipped lukewarm caf, eyes fixed on the cityscape. He still wore the old Pre-Mor Authority uniform sometimes — out of habit more than pride — though it hung looser than it used to. These days, he kept it shoved into the leftmost corner of the wardrobe, out of sight. Seeing it stirred a dread he didn’t have the words for.

Had he made a mistake?

Now, he worked in private security — a civilian post, under a new name. Monitoring petty thefts, industrial sabotage, internal disputes between faceless corporate clients. The pay was better. The meaning had evaporated.

Sometimes, in the early hours, he’d wake in a sweat, Ferrix still clinging to his skin. Blaster smoke in his throat. That rebel girl’s voice—loud, defiant—ringing in his ears.

He should've killed her. He knew it now.

And maybe that was where it all began to fall apart.

Because Syril Karn had always wanted to be certain. About the rules. About order. About his place in the galaxy.

But once certainty cracked, once he saw the fracture in the design—what remained?

Just noise.

He watched the feeds now, cataloguing anomalies that weren’t his concern. Names flagged by the Empire. Patterns that didn’t quite fit. Faces that flickered for a moment, then vanished. And sometimes, without understanding why, he saved them.

He told himself it didn’t matter. That he was just curious.

But there was a quiet ache in him — something like sympathy, something like guilt — and he thought, foolishly, that the world might notice. That it might offer him something back. A gesture. A sign. A small kindness, arriving unannounced.

Instead, he was met with silence and static. Day after day. In his own little corner of the world.

His mother never called. When he’d left the job — the one she'd once bragged about — she’d cut the line clean. Called him a disgrace. A disappointment. Now, her messages were clipped, brittle things. He’d stopped opening them.

He liked to pretend he enjoyed the solitude. The hush of Coruscant at two in the morning, when city light leaked through the blinds in pale gold lines, striping the floor. When he wandered into the old bookshop across the street and leafed through volumes no one read anymore. Revolutionary theory. Political ethics. Words he’d once dismissed. Now he read them with quiet, guilty interest.

The new job paid well enough. He filed reports, sorted logs, watched lives play out on grainy screens. Then he went home.

To silence.

A silence so dense, it pressed against his ribs like a hand.

That morning, he looked in the mirror. A scruff of a beard he hadn’t shaved. Dark circles like bruises under his eyes. His brows grown wild. He didn’t recognise the man staring back.

Six months. That’s all it had taken.

Two weeks later, it was raining.

Not the kind of rain that washed the city clean. No, this rain clung to everything — oily and relentless — turning the streets into mirrors and the sky into a smudged bruise above the towers. From his window, Syril watched the droplets trace jagged paths down the glass, threading between the red glow of traffic lines and the cold silver of aerial vehicles weaving through the airways.

Coruscant never truly slept, but at this hour, it almost pretended to. A low, mechanical hum bled into the silence of his apartment, barely louder than his own breath.

He hadn’t moved in hours.

The lights inside stayed off, allowing the city’s glare to do the painting — casting long, solemn stripes across his floor and walls, slicing his face into shadow. He sat curled in the corner of the room, knees pulled to his chest, the stale taste of caf still on his tongue and the afterburn of insomnia clinging to his skull like a fever.

The alert came at 04:13.

A soft chirp, barely louder than the storm beyond the glass. It blinked once on his screen — an anomaly — and his eyes dragged toward it, as if his body had been waiting for something to break the stillness.

It wasn’t his jurisdiction.

His name wasn’t attached. No permissions granted. No reason it should’ve arrived at all.

But then... the image loaded.

Blurry. Grainy. Caught in the corner of a surveillance lens from a docking terminal on the outskirts of the mid-rim. Mist curled like smoke around the frame, lights refracted against damp metal. She was running — her head ducked low, hair caught in the wind, a bag slung across her body. The camera only caught her for three seconds before she vanished behind a crate.

Still — it was her.

He didn’t know how he knew. He just did.

There was something in her movement, the cut of her silhouette, that same precise urgency he remembered from Ferrix — like the city had been on fire and she was the only one who knew where to go.

He froze.

Not with fear. Not with awe. With... something harder to name. Like all the hollow spaces inside him had been lit, briefly, by a flickering match.

Her file said nothing useful. No name. No affiliation. No face match strong enough to generate a confirmed ID. Just one line in red at the bottom:

“Possible insurgent. Known to evade detention.”

He let the words sit there, echoing.

He should’ve dismissed the alert.

Instead, he saved the file.

Then he stood, knees stiff from hours in the same position, and crossed the room to his desk. The dim glow of the screen lit his face in a pale wash, sharpening the hollows beneath his eyes.

He opened a new document.

And for the first time in weeks — maybe months — his hands moved without hesitating. On a map. A thread spun between systems, connecting places she might’ve touched. He sifted through archived patrol logs from Ferrix, maintenance records from departing ships, faces that matched fragments of hers even if they weren’t quite right.

It wasn’t duty. It wasn’t redemption.

It was her.

Or the ghost of her.

Because Syril Karn, despite everything, still believed that people left trails behind. That no one truly vanished — not if you were paying attention. Not if you wanted to see them.

And gods, he wanted to see her again.

He didn’t know what he would do if he did.

Only that he couldn’t stop now.

The next day, Syril woke before the sun — if such a thing could even be said on Coruscant, where the skyline swallowed light whole and replaced it with something artificial and cold.

His dreams had been strange again. Flickers of faces blurred by smoke. The echo of boots on ferrocrete. And her voice — not words, just the sound of breath caught between fear and defiance. When he sat up, the sheets were tangled around his legs and his shirt clung to his back with sweat.

He didn’t bother with breakfast. The kettle stayed silent.

Instead, he moved straight to the desk, fingers already twitching to reopen the surveillance file. Her image blinked up at him, that same three-second clip, looping silently in the top corner of his screen. He’d watched it over and over, memorised the exact second she turned her head, how the lights caught her cheekbones, how the hem of her coat lifted as she ran.

There was something alive in her. Untamed. Dangerous. Beautiful.

And maybe that was why he couldn’t stop.

His fingers flew across the console, pulling up transport logs from nearby districts, maintenance rosters, dockworker shift reports. He had no clearance — but old habits were hard to break, and backdoors into Imperial systems had been a quiet hobby of his even before he walked away. He found patterns. Irregularities. A handful of similar sightings, two weeks apart, spaced across mid-level ports.

She was moving in spirals. Not fleeing — circling. Waiting for something.

Or someone.

By midday, Syril hadn’t spoken a word aloud. His jaw ached from the tight clench of his thoughts. He barely noticed the ache in his lower back or the way his eyes watered from the glare of the screen. Only when a loud, aggressive ping rang out did he blink out of the haze.

A message.

From his mother.

"I hope you’ve finally come to your senses. They’re hiring at the ministry. Your uncle could still get your record wiped if you stopped being so proud. Call me."

He deleted it without opening the thread.

That afternoon, he walked to the bookshop. The air was damp and sour from yesterday’s rain, puddles gleaming like scars along the pavement. The bookseller — a thin, kind-eyed woman with ink stains on her fingers — nodded to him silently. She knew he didn’t like to be disturbed.

He wandered past the political theory section again. Hesitated. Then, for reasons he didn’t yet understand, picked up a worn copy of Revolution and Memory: The Human Cost of Imperial Order. Something he would’ve scoffed at months ago.

He paid in credits and left.

That night, back in the quiet of his room, Syril sat with the book unopened in his lap. His eyes were on the window — not the skyline, but his own reflection in the glass.

He looked like a man adrift.

But in his chest, there was a flicker of something else. Not certainty — that was long gone.

Conviction, maybe.

It began with a face.

Not hers — not yet — but someone else from that same Ferrix clip. A man, barely in frame, helping someone vault over a barricade. Syril had dismissed him the first dozen times he’d reviewed the footage. But now, with every corner of the image magnified and scrubbed clean by his private software, he saw the jawline. The coat. The expression.

Too calm for chaos.

He wasn’t just a bystander.

Syril isolated the frame, ran it through outdated facial recognition tools he shouldn’t have had access to anymore. The result took five minutes to process, and when the match blinked onto his screen, his breath caught in his throat.

C. Andor. Alias: Clem. Known rebel associate. Status: Fugitive.

His chest tightened.

Of course.

The girl — the one he couldn’t stop thinking about — wasn’t just some byproduct of resistance. She was in it. With him.

That should’ve ignited rage. It didn’t. It was something worse — something tangled. Disappointment twisted with fascination. A burning ache he couldn’t name.

He leaned back in his chair, fingers pressed to his lips, staring at the report like it could change if he looked long enough.

She was with Andor.

The same man who had derailed everything. Who had made Dedra unravel. Who had slipped through Syril’s fingers again and again — an absence that haunted him almost as much as her presence.

He opened a secure, anonymous channel. Its name was buried under layers of encryption, but the signal worked.

He hesitated for a long time before typing.

"Meet me at the Transit Platform on District 9. I need to speak to you. You’ll know me.”

He didn’t know if she’d ever read it. But somewhere inside of him, he knew this was a beginning and that wherever this was going, it would be far from good.

He sucked a breath and sent it anyway.

The rest of the day passed like a blur — the seconds swallowing him whole. He didn’t eat. Didn’t sleep. Just paced, reread old case files, stared at the grainy footage, replayed her laugh in his head — no, not a laugh. Something sharper. A shout. A command.

She’d been fearless.

And what had he been?

Alone. Always alone.

That night, he stood on his balcony — a tiny slab of steel and gloom overlooking nothing but a back alley full of steam pipes and humming generators. Still, he stared into the dark like it might stare back. Like her eyes might be waiting there, in the shadows, defiant and unblinking.

The next day he found himself stood before the mirror, shaver between his fingers. He tidied his beard, brushed the long curls of hair away from his face and clipped his eyebrows. He then pulled on a loose white shirt and dark trousers, and slung over a coat with a hood which he threw over his head. It was late and the city hummed with a gentle ambience.

He walked through the streets, a strange paranoia wafting through him. He didnt know who would be there - if anyone would be there. But he definitely didnt want to be seen. He definitely didnt want to risk the kind of trouble he could get himself into.

The Transit Platform was empty. No one there but him.

He glanced down at his watch. The seconds ticked by in sharp, heavy intervals. Syril’s breath misted in the cool night air as he checked his watch again, his pulse quickening with each passing moment. The platform stretched out in front of him, silent and unmoving. He could feel the weight of the empty space around him — the expanse of the city looming like a quiet, indifferent beast.

He exhaled slowly, leaning against a nearby support pole, trying to relax. The tension in his shoulders was unbearable. What if she wasn’t coming? What if this was just another failed attempt, another misstep into something even darker than before?

But no. He couldn’t afford to think like that.

The low hum of an incoming shuttle overhead broke the stillness, and for a split second, Syril thought he heard the distinct, sharp sound of footsteps. His heart skipped. He straightened up, eyes locking on the shadows, but the movement was too subtle, too quick. Had he imagined it? Or was it her?

Then, just as the doubt began to twist at the edges of his mind, he saw it. The silhouette. Small at first, then clearer as it emerged from the darkness.

It was her.

Her coat was dark, its edges catching the faintest light as she moved with purpose, but this time she didn’t hesitate. She walked straight towards him, no pause, no second-guessing. Her expression was unreadable, but there was something in the way she held herself — the confidence, the precision of her movements — that sent a chill down his spine.

She stopped a few feet from him, silent. Waiting.

Syril cleared his throat, feeling the tremor in his voice before he could steady it. “You came." His words came out weaker than he expected. He was surprised he'd ever see her face again.

He remembered the orders he had been given on Ferrix. He had been told to follow her through the back alleys and 'get rid of her'. But they got cornered in an old, collapsing factory. Debris came down. Alarms howled. Reinforcements never came. They had both been stood in this silence, blasters pressed to each others chests, waiting for the other to press down on the trigger. Tension. Quietness. The steady rise and fall of chests and bright eyes in the darkness.

Syril had known that it was his duty to kill her. Or at least to render her unconscious but his finger wouldn't press down on the trigger because there was something in her eyes — not fear, not defiance — but recognition. Like she had seen straight through the uniform, through the polished exterior and years of indoctrination, and had found the small, flickering part of him that hesitated.

That was what scared him most. Not her blaster. Not the ceiling threatening to collapse. But her gaze. The way she looked at him like she knew.

He remembered the words she’d said in the stillness — words barely audible over the creaking metal and distant sirens.

“You don’t believe in it, do you?” she had whispered. “The cause. The orders. Not really.”

He hadn’t answered. He couldn’t. Because she was right. And that truth, unspoken and fragile, had hung between them like a thread that neither of them dared to sever.

Now, on the platform, with the silence humming around them once more, she tilted her head, watching him. Measuring something. Maybe the same hesitation. Maybe the same question.

“I thought you might’ve turned me in,” she said. Her voice was low, even, but it carried something under the surface. Not quite relief. Not quite trust. Something in between.

“I thought about it,” Syril admitted. “More than once.”

“And yet…” She gestured at the space between them with a faint shrug. “Here we are.”

He nodded, unsure what else to say. His throat was dry. The cold bit through his coat but he barely felt it.

“You saved me,” she said, her voice softening. “Back in that factory. You could’ve killed me. But you didn’t.”

“You’re not supposed to remember that.”

She smirked, something almost playful in the curve of her lips. “I remember everything.”

Silence again. The shuttle had passed now. The lights dimmed. The night stretched.

Finally, he asked, “Why did you come?”

"I think you could help us."

Syril raised an eyebrow. "Who's us?"

"We've been keeping an eye on you since you left your job. I saw you the other day buying some interesting books." Her dark eyes glowed with excitement.

Syril’s stomach twisted at the mention of his recent purchase. He hadn’t thought anyone had noticed, let alone someone who might be watching him. He fought the urge to shift uneasily under her gaze.

"You’ve been watching me?" he asked, his voice guarded. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that—about someone tracking his every move. But there was something in her tone, something purposeful, that made him hesitate before dismissing it.

Her eyes remained steady, intense. "You don’t think you’ve been living in a vacuum, do you? Not after everything that happened. We’ve been keeping an eye on the people who might be useful." She smiled, but it wasn’t a warm smile. It was sharp, calculated. "And you, Syril, are more useful than you think."

The sound of his name from her lips felt unfamiliar. He had grown accustomed to answering to his new name, but hearing those two syllables again sent a jolt through him, his heart racing.

Syril couldn’t decide if that sent a thrill down his spine or if it made him feel sick. Useful to who, exactly? To them? To whoever they were? The questions piled up in his mind faster than he could process them.

"And these books?" he asked, though the answer was already clear in his head. "What are you getting at?"

She took a step closer, lowering her voice as if sharing some forbidden secret. "History books. Books about revolutions. About the fall of empires. About the people who thought they were untouchable until they weren’t." She paused, her eyes flicking toward his watch before meeting his gaze again. "You’re reading between the lines now. I saw the way you looked at them. You’re starting to see the cracks."

He swallowed, his throat dry. There was no denying it. Since leaving his position, the world had started to look different. The uniform, the orders, the Empire—he had once believed in all of it. But now? The edges were fraying, the whole system was… corrupt. And he knew it.

"I don’t know what you think I can do," he muttered, stepping back slightly, trying to regain some of the distance he desperately needed. "I’m not one of you."

Her lips twitched, but the smirk didn’t reach her eyes. "You don’t need to be. But you’re in a unique position. You know things. You’ve seen things. And I’m sure you’re realising more each day just how much power you have over your own future."

"I’m not interested in power," he snapped, a little too quickly, his breath catching. "I just want to survive."

Her eyes softened ever so slightly, but there was a knowing glint to them. "I think you're already past that point. Surviving isn’t enough anymore. Not when the world is changing around you."

The words stung, but Syril didn’t argue. He knew she was right. The world was changing, and he had no idea where he stood in it anymore.

She took another step forward, her presence unwavering. "I’m asking you to make a choice, Syril. You’ve been sitting on the sidelines, but that’s no longer an option. The Empire won’t let you stay neutral. You’ll either be crushed by it or you’ll stand up and fight."

Syril’s mind spun, the weight of her words sinking in. He had always been the one who followed orders, who stayed within the lines. But now… now, it felt like the lines were disappearing, and all that was left was a choice he wasn’t sure he was ready to make.

“I don’t know what you want from me,” he said, his voice quieter now, more vulnerable than he intended.

“I want you to decide,” she said simply. “Decide who you’re going to be. The man who fades into the background, or the one who finally chooses a side.”

Syril didn’t speak for a long time, the silence between them growing heavier. His gaze drifted to the city beyond them—the lights flickering like stars in a sky that seemed too vast for him to understand. Was there even a side worth choosing? Could he live with the consequences of any decision he made?

And for the first time in a long while, Syril didn’t have an answer.

"First you have to tell me your name and who you're with. I need to know what I'm getting myself into," he said, his voice steadying, though the tremor of uncertainty still lingered in his chest. It was a weak attempt at regaining some control over the situation, but it was all he had. He couldn’t move forward without knowing who she was or what kind of danger he was stepping into.

Her smile didn’t fade, but there was a flicker of approval in her eyes. "Fair enough," she replied, her tone deliberate, as if she’d been expecting this question all along. "You deserve to know who you're dealing with."

She took a deep breath, eyes narrowing thoughtfully as she seemed to weigh how much to reveal. "My name is Aria. And as for who I’m with…" She paused, glancing around them briefly, as if to make sure no one else was listening, then leaned in just a little closer. "I’m with the Resistance. We’re not a formal organisation yet. But we’re building something. Something that will change the course of everything. The Empire won’t be able to ignore us forever."

Syril’s mind raced. The Resistance. The very idea felt foreign to him, a world away from the cold, calculated structure of the Imperial forces he had once been a part of. A world where things weren’t dictated by rules, where loyalty and duty weren’t enough to make decisions for you. And yet, there was something compelling about it.

"How do I even begin?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper, the weight of the decision settling on him like a stone in his chest.

Aria smile returned, this time with a hint of something almost approving. "You’ve already begun. You’re here, aren’t you? You’ve made the first step."

He glanced at her, unsure if it was that simple, but the more he thought about it, the more he realised she was right. This was the moment. The choice had already been made, whether he liked it or not.

"Where do we start?" he asked, finally allowing himself to hope—just a little.

Aria's gaze softened, but there was still that spark of determination in her eyes. "We start by taking down the Empire, piece by piece. And it begins with people like you, Syril. The ones who have seen it all. The ones who understand it." She turned, her hand brushing past his as she began to walk away, her pace steady and sure.

"Are you coming?" she called back, without turning around.

For a moment, Syril hesitated, but then he followed her, the decision made. No more running. No more hiding. He was ready to step into the fight, even if he didn’t yet know what it would cost him.

"Yeah," he muttered to himself, more determined than he had felt in a long time. "I’m coming."

Aria asked him as they approached her ship if he needed anything from his apartment. If there was anything he truly valued. She also added that they had plenty of clothes and food and he told her that he was alright in the credits department, due to how well-paid his previous job had been.

There was something comforting about her presence. He sat down beside her in the ship, peeled off his coat, and he began to ask her a question, "So, where are you from?"

Aria glanced at him as the ship glided smoothly through hyperspace, her fingers brushing over the controls almost instinctively. The low hum of the engines seemed to match the quiet tension between them, a calm before whatever adventures awaited.

"I'm from Corellia," she said, her voice tinged with both pride and a subtle sadness. "It’s... a bustling world, a place where ships are built and legends are made. The Corellians have always been known for their speed and ingenuity. But it’s a hard place to grow up, always under the pressure to live up to the reputation."

She glanced sideways, catching his eye for a moment. "I left when I was younger. The galaxy seemed like a bigger place than that steel city. I wanted more than just the scent of engine oil and the sound of ships taking off every other minute."

Her fingers tightened on the controls for a brief second, before her grip relaxed, a soft sigh escaping her. "And you? Born in Coruscant, right?"

"Yes."

A silence dragged on.

"You've been alone for quite a while, haven't you?" she said, the question soft but probing.

Syril raised a brow.

"Sorry you just seem so quiet. You were so different the last time I saw you."

Syril looked at her, his voice steady and his hand gripping his glass a little tighter. "I guess I've just gotten used to being on my own. But yeah, it’s been a while since I... had anyone to talk to."

Her mouth seemed to twist to the side a little. "Me too."

"So what have you been doing since you left Ferrix?" Syril asked.

"Watching you."

Syril shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his grip tightening on his glass, but he couldn't help the faint warmth that rose to his ears. He could tell she was teasing, but there was something oddly... intimate about her knowing gaze. Something about the way she said it, as if she had been watching him in a way that went beyond mere curiosity. "The last six months? That's what you've been put up to?"

"Well that and other things. Although, I was told not to approach you or speak to you until you made contact yourself. "

Syril’s brow furrowed at her words. Made contact? He could feel his pulse quicken, confusion mixing with a hint of something else—was it dread? He hadn’t realised there was more to her being here than the mere coincidence of their paths crossing.

"And who put you up to this?" Syril looked away, still trying to regain his composure.

"You will find out in due course –"

Aria started, but Syril cut her off, his voice tight. “It wasn’t Andor, was it? You’re not taking me to him to be questioned, are you? He’s dangerous... he’s—” Syril’s hands tremble as he says it, betraying his anxiety.

Her eyes widened with surprise. "What?"

"Andor. Cassian Andor. Was he the one who wanted me here? Are you taking me to him to get questioned? Are you going to kill me?" Now he was frightened. His mind diverting to the worst possible outcomes. “I’ve heard the stories,” Syril muttered, eyes flickering nervously to the window. “Of what he can do. What happens to people who cross him. If you’re working for him... if he’s the one behind this...” Syril’s voice trailed off, caught in the weight of the unspoken fear.

Her eyes widened with surprise, but there was no mockery in her expression. She studied him for a moment, and for the first time, Syril noticed the softness in her gaze. It wasn’t pity, but something more—concern, maybe. She reached over to put a gentle hand upon his shoulder. "No one is going to hurt you."

"How can you be so sure?"

"I know these people. They don't want to make you suffer. They want to help you. They want to hear you. We aren't like the Empire."

Syril looked at her hand now upon his shoulder, her thumb pressing gently into his shoulder blade. Her skin dark and warm. It brought him comfort. He hadn't felt human touch in a long time, there was something so odd about the feeling rising inside of him.

Syril stayed still for a moment, his mind racing with confusion, suspicion, and an unspoken yearning that he didn’t quite understand. The warmth of her hand on his shoulder was both grounding and unsettling. He hadn’t realised just how much he’d been missing human connection until this very moment. Her touch felt genuine, comforting even, and yet, part of him wanted to pull away, unsure of the intentions behind it.

He swallowed hard, trying to shake off the sudden vulnerability that crept into his chest. "I don’t know who to trust anymore," he murmured, his voice quieter now, less defensive. "Not after everything with the Empire. I’ve been led down too many false paths."

Aria didn’t pull her hand away. Her fingers remained light on his shoulder, a steady reassurance. "I get it," she said softly, her voice calm and steady. "You’ve been through a lot. But I assure you, not everyone is out to use you. Not everyone wants to control you."

Syril's eyes flickered back to her face, searching for something real, something that would tell him that maybe, just maybe, he could believe her. Her gaze met his without hesitation, unflinching, as though she could see the turmoil swirling inside him. She wasn’t pushing him, just waiting, allowing him space to breathe, to decide what he wanted—what he needed.

"I don’t know how to stop being afraid," he confessed, his words almost a whisper. "I’m always waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the betrayal to come."

Aria’s hand stayed firm but gentle, her thumb brushing across his skin in a slow, soothing motion. "You don’t have to do it alone anymore," she said, the weight of her words settling in his chest like a promise. "You don’t have to live in fear."

The silence between them stretched, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was... safe. The kind of silence that felt like an unspoken understanding, the kind that suggested something had shifted, something had broken through the walls Syril had built around himself for so long.

She then pulled her hand away and he could still feel the touch linger. He watched her as she controlled the ship as if it was routine. It was late, he found himself yawning under his breath.

"You can go into the sleeping pod if you're tired," she said. "There's some clothes in there you could change into. A shower also."

"Are you saying I smell bad?" He laughed.

Aria glanced over at him with a playful smirk, her eyes twinkling under the dim lights of the cockpit. "Not at all," she teased, though there was a hint of amusement in her voice. "But you've been awake for hours. And you’ve been through a lot. I’m just offering a little rest, Syril. You could use it."

Syril chuckled softly, the sound surprisingly light in contrast to the weight that had been lingering in his chest all this time. He ran a hand through his hair, his eyes flicking to the sleeping pod she’d mentioned. "I suppose you’re right. Been a long day... or night, or whatever it is in hyperspace."

Aria’s gaze softened, her fingers still moving over the ship’s controls with ease, her focus unwavering. "The time doesn’t really matter out here. Just... sleep when you can."

He hesitated for a moment, feeling the awkwardness of the situation settle back into his bones. He had grown so used to isolation that even simple things—like being offered a bed—felt foreign to him. But the kindness in her voice was undeniable. There was no judgment, no expectation, just... care.

Syril nodded, pushing himself up from his seat. "Alright. I’ll take you up on that."

As he moved toward the sleeping pod, he couldn’t help but glance over his shoulder at Aria, still focused on the ship. She didn’t seem like the kind of person who expected anything in return, just offering comfort and space when it was needed. It made him feel a little less alone, a little less like the world was waiting for him to fail.

The pod was smaller than he expected, but it was functional and clean, and there were fresh clothes neatly folded on a shelf nearby. He changed quickly, the soft fabric of the shirt feeling like a welcome relief after the rough, ill-fitting garments he’d been wearing for far too long. The shower was equally as refreshing, the warm water melting away some of the tension from his muscles.

When he returned to the main cabin, wet hair and a slightly more relaxed demeanour, he found Aria still at the controls, her eyes focused on the blinking lights and the smooth hum of the ship around them. She glanced up when he entered, her expression momentarily softening as she took in his changed appearance.

"Feeling better?"

"Yeah," Syril said, running a towel through his damp hair. "Surprisingly so."

He stepped closer to the cockpit, leaning against the wall, unsure of what to do next. The ship was quiet, the stars outside flickering in their distant glow.

"You don’t sleep much, do you?" he asked, observing how her hands moved with practiced ease over the controls. It was as if she didn’t need rest, as if the ship itself was an extension of her.

Aria gave a soft laugh, though it was tinged with something he couldn’t quite place. "I’ve learned to survive on less sleep than most people. It’s part of the job." She didn’t seem to want to elaborate, but the words hinted at something else, something far deeper than the routine of space travel.

Syril nodded, feeling the weight of the silence between them settle once more, but it didn’t feel as heavy this time. There was a subtle comfort in it, an unspoken connection that made the distance between them seem smaller.

"You should try to get some sleep anyway," Aria said after a moment, her voice gentle but firm. "We have a few hours before we hit the next waypoint, and it’ll be better for you in the long run."

"What about you? Aren't you tired?"

"I'm okay," she murmured. "I've gotten used to running on fumes. It’s not ideal, but it’s something I’ve had to learn."

Syril nodded and began to step away.

"You know, Aria," he said after a beat, his voice softer than usual, "If you ever need someone to take over, or if you just need to rest... I’m here."

She looked at him then, her gaze steady and perhaps a little surprised by the sincerity in his voice. For a second, it seemed like she might say something else, but she just nodded instead, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

"Thanks, Syril," she replied quietly, and for the first time since they had met, he saw something in her—something human. "I’ll keep that in mind."

He met her gaze, surprised by the warmth and care that she seemed to effortlessly give. It made him feel exposed, vulnerable even, but for the first time in a long time, he didn’t mind. He simply nodded, not trusting his voice to convey how much her words meant.

With a final glance toward her, he made his way back to the sleeping pod, settling into the small space. The bed was comfortable enough, and the quiet hum of the ship seemed to calm his racing thoughts. His body, now relaxed from the shower, sank into the softness of the bed, and his eyes slowly closed.

For the first time in what felt like forever, Syril allowed himself to drift into sleep, the tension in his body slowly melting away, replaced with the strange but comforting sensation of trust.

20 notes · View notes

beardedmrbean · 6 months ago

Text

MASSILLON, Ohio (WCMH) — An Ohio school district will pay $450,000 to a middle school teacher who resigned for refusing to address two transgender students by their preferred names and pronouns.

Jackson Local School District reached a settlement in December with the teacher, Vivian Geraghty, after she claimed in a 2022 lawsuit that her First Amendment rights were violated when she was told to resign from a middle school language arts position.

The agreement follows a ruling from the U.S. District Court for the Northern District of Ohio in August that said forcing Geraghty to use students’ preferred names amounts to “compelled speech” and that the school’s “pronoun practice was not neutral.”

“The school tried to force Vivian to accept and repeat the school’s viewpoint on issues that go to the foundation of morality and human identity, like what makes us male or female, by ordering her to personally participate in the social transition of her students,” said Logan Spena, legal counsel for Alliance Defending Freedom, an organization that represented Geraghty.

“The First Amendment prohibits that abuse of power, and Jackson Local School District officials have learned that comes at a steep cost,” Spena added.

Jackson Local Schools said in a statement the district “remains dedicated to navigating complex and changing legal environments in a manner that prioritizes student safety and well-being.”

On the first day of the school year in August 2022, a week before Geraghty resigned, two of her students asked that she refer to them using names different from their names on the school’s roster. The filing states Geraghty knew these requests were “part of the student’s social transition” but disagreed because of her religious beliefs and “wanted those students out of her classroom.”

Geraghty continued to refer to the students using their deadnames, the name a trans person was assigned at birth but that does not align with their gender identity, even after one of the students sent her a follow-up request through email. That student then reached out to a school counselor about “one of my teachers dead-naming me all the time in class.”

The language arts teacher then met with the middle school’s principal, Kacy Carter “to seek an accommodation so that students would not continue to feel uncomfortable.”

Geraghty told the principal that her religious conviction would not allow her to agree with the students’ requests, and that she “wouldn’t be comfortable using preferred names or pronouns because she would know what was behind it.”

She was later called into a second meeting with Carter and Monica Myers, a district employee, who said if Geraghty wouldn’t comply with the students’ preferred names, “it was going to be a problem,” the filing states. From this point, the three individuals’ accounts of the meeting differ, but Geraghty was sent back to her classroom after she reaffirmed that she would not comply.

A short time later that day, the teacher was called back into a third meeting with Carter and Myers. While the suit states the accounts for this meeting also differ, Geraghty said the principal told her “If that is your final decision, then we need a letter of resignation effective today.”

Carter and Myers claim Geraghty repeated she would not use preferred names. Myers then said, “that’s going to be problematic” and asked the teacher whether she was “really prepared to draw that line in the sand.” The two claim Geraghty said she didn’t think she could work for the middle school anymore and “I’ll guess I’ll resign.”

Alliance Defending Freedom argued that the school did not propose other possible solutions, like moving the teacher to another classroom or having her address students by their last names. The suit also claimed the district implemented a pronoun policy that is not fairly enforced.

“Vivian resisted this unconstitutional demand and explained that her Christian faith made her unable to participate in her students’ social transition, and she has received just vindication for taking this stand,” Spena said.

The district at the time said in a statement that it does not have a policy that requires teachers to use preferred names or pronouns, but it does follow the Department of Education’s Title IX ban on discrimination based on sexual orientation or gender identity.

#nunyas news

37 notes · View notes

finniestoncrane · 4 months ago

Text

oooooooh everything’s comin up finnie!! i’m in LOVE with the commissions i’ve been working on lately, my ita bag just needs a lil bit more work before sharing, and i’m gonna do an art trade with my beloved @riddle-me-ri my parcel for my beloved @letshaveadepressionparty has finally made it to customs and my beloved @march-harrigan enjoyed all the snackies i sent them

this all makes up for the shitstorm that was my work day like if you’d told me this morning going into my meeting that by the time i was finished therapy i’d be all giddy and chilled out by bedtime i might not have had a panic attack and started writing my letter of resignation lmao

#BAD DAY TURNED GOOD DAY AND NOW I GET TO GO TO SLEEP!!#finnie shouts into the void

21 notes · View notes

inthehouseoffinwe · 5 months ago

Text

A small fic based on the end of the post below. You don’t have to read it though, enjoy :)

“Russandol, come on!”

The redhead scoffed

“You’d sooner find me running into Mandos.”

“We would as well,” Fingon muttered, grabbing his older cousin’s arm and yanking him along. Maedhros tried to pull away and almost succeeded but for Finrod looping his arm through the other and pulling the reluctant elf. When his struggles got too much even for the good natured blonde, he scowled and forced Maedhros to a halt.

“Tell me honestly, Nelyafinwë, when was the last time you went to one of your brother’s performances.”

He muttered something and turned away.

“Sorry, what was that?”

“Last year, ok.”

Two disbelieving glances. Maedhros crossed his arms, or tried to anyway,

“They’re late! Besides, Káno doesn’t mind, we talked over it. Someone has to stay watching the kids, Eru knows Ammë and Atar are busy enough with the three little demons we call brothers.” He shrugged off the stares. “We take it in turns. It’s a good system.”

“Good for driving you straight to Mandos maybe, Eru Nelyo, do either of you ever get a break?”

It was telling when Maedhros only smiled thinly. Finrod spun to Fingon, still slack jawed, then let go of his cousins’s arm and ran back to the palace. Raising an eyebrow, the redhead huffed.

“Good riddance.”

“Maitimo.”

Maedhros hmphed and made to walk back to the palace too. Fingon grappled at him, forcing him back, and the two princes fell in a heap, Maedhros scowling furiously when his cousin got him in a headlock.

“Findekáno I swear-“

Elbowing him in the stomach, Maedhros lunged forward, but Fingon held on and he yelped, spluttering at the pressure on his throat.

“You’re coming-“

Fingon wrapped his arms and legs around Maedhros, clinging as he twisted and turned.

“Whether you like it-“

Maedhros’ fist went flying and he ducked just in time, tightening the headlock.

“Or not!”

“Eru, Finno, let him breathe!”

Finwë’s voice was a welcome addition and Maedhros shouted in triumph as a red faced Fingon immediately let go and fell to the ground. Finrod’s smug face… less so.

“Grandfather! Please explain to these two weeds that-“

“They’re not the reason I’m here, Nelyo.” Finwë’s lips quirked in a way disturbingly reminiscent of Celegorm. The dread returned.

“I sent a letter to your father. It’s been some time since I spent time with my younger grandchildren, I will take over your babysitting for tonight.”

Maedhros’ heart dropped.

“But- your duties-“

“Nelyo, my love, even I get the occasional break. It’s high time you had one too.” He threw his arms out to the city. “Go! Have fun! Spend some time with your cousins and brother, just the other day Káno was telling me he misses spending time with you.”

It was a low blow. It was a very low blow. And by the unrepentant glint in his eyes, his grandfather knew it too. Once again Maedhros realised there was a reason Finwë had become king of the most stubborn group of elves on either side of the sea, and he dropped his head with a heavy sigh. Fine. But he had a few of his own tricks up his sleeve.

“Is that a command from my King?”

Finwë was unmoved.

“Yes.”

“As you wish.”

Maedhros slumped further and it finally got… some of the reaction he was hoping for. Finwë dropped a hand on his shoulder and lifted his head. Maedhros looked up to pure exasperated fondness.

“Sometimes you really are your father’s son. Then again, he got that from his mother.” He patted Maedhros’ cheek. “Go spend time with your cousins and brother, Russandol. As for you two,” he stood and grinned at Finrod and Fingon. “There’s some lovely acoustics down the southern caverns. I’m sure all four of you will love it.”

Something passed between them, something Maedhros didn’t understand but was immediately wary and resigned to. It was with whoops that a cousin took each of his arms and dragged him away, their grandfather laughing behind them.

~End

This is platonic, please do not tag with ships.

34 notes · View notes

bowieandqueen11 · 2 years ago

Text

Take Us Back / Izzy Hands Imagine

Request: ahh hope i didn’t miss the izzy request deadline!! honestly just a really fluffy one about what the reader and izzy might do on a day off on land would be super cute , could be either established relationship or the confessions could ensue during! whatever you think would work best, love ur writing sm 💘

Ahh I love this idea so much!! You know me I always love a good love confession. although this one is a little more subtle than I meant it to be!! Thank you so much :) Although this managed to turn more into hurt/comfort, so sorry about that!!

I'm sorry if this sucks ass, writer's block has been kicking my ass and I'm trying to write through it!

Warning: mentions of blood, mentions of child abuse, some strong language!

(I do not own OFMD or its characters, all rights go to creators. Gif credit goes to @tinylilvalery.)

☆.。.:・°☆.。.:・°

Izzy Hands had been seven years old the last time he had sat in the foot of a river's mouth.

Life had felt different then: harsher, colder. Even the sunlight had felt a pale wanton impression of the basking heat the crew lay under now, leaving nothing but pocked scars across his soul and a rigid fear woven through his lancinating ribcage.

But that day- god, that day. It had been one of the rare instances that his mother had been lucid, if not tolerant of the mere sight of him. She had just received news from his brother, informing her that he'd finally managed to wrangle his way into one of the crews dotted around the local docks. He still remembered pattering into their cramped kitchen that morning: remembered crawling into her lap, afraid that the shock slumping her usually sapless face as she leant her elbow wearily on the tablecloth was due to his tardiness, not registering in his tired state the opened letter his mother was clutching in her left hand. He had shut his eyes, expecting the usual sting of reproach to come burning across his backside, but instead he was met with shallow laughter and the feel of his mother's frigid hands wrapping around his spine.

She had carried him the whole way down to the bay, had spent the whole rest of that strange, surreal morning in a trancelike contentment. Instead of going to their usual morning prayers, his mother had taken his hands and had danced with him: her feet splashing across the slivering waves as they bit and hissed and fell in aglow bubbles around her feet. Instead of being sent down to the docks to haggle for some small scrap of leftover meat for him to come back and boil for their dinner, his mother had cupped his cheeks as if, for one glorious, unprecedented moment in his life, the hopeful smile timidly warming his cheeks was the most important thing in the world.

The thing Izzy remembers most, though, was the magical way his mother had sung. How the sound made his knees grow weak, tears collecting in the crinkles of his eyes as she sang a strange song about finding beauty in the mundane: of rosiness the shade of his cheeks, of the end of grief, of embracing the beautiful imperfection of our mistakes.

He was almost inclined to believe her. But even at that age, he knew reality was far crueller than her. Because even though she was still humming into the shallow depths, she had refused to even once meet his desperate eyes.

He knew the song wasn't for him. He knew, as he glanced down at the lonesome creek that he suddenly realised was bitingly cold against his waggling toes, that his life was resigned to one of subordination. How she had walked him into the water until their ankles were coated in a fine line of salt, clutching his hand to her heart as the invocation began to wear off. That this grandness, this gloriousness, was to be found inside the soul of others. As his mother began to lug at him again, drawing him further and further into the benighted depths he suddenly didn't want to wade into: was suddenly afraid to approach, he finally understood the truth of his life.

He knew he was just there as collateral to her joy. And as he began to cry out in fear, feeling that all too familiar burn against the ruddiness of his cheek, he realized that hope was created to dwell within other people.

'See child, I told you. Change comes with the tide. Fortune comes to those of us who are deserving of it', she took a deep breath and darted her eyes down to him in antipathy, before digging her spindly fingers into his wrist until they drew blood. She didn't even blink as she used her free hand to pull the letter out of her pocket, kissing its inked lines and clutching the crumpled parchment to her chest. The dying light of the day seemed only to coat her in cerement as she sobbed silently, Izzy too afraid to move in case the sallow light entombed him as well.

He hadn't allowed himself to feel the sunlight since. Instead, he shrouded himself in Stygian shadows, stifling himself under their abhorrence: he had tried to cage his heart to keep it safe. Little did he know, that instead he had created a shroud, and left the shredded remains of what was left to shrivel in the darkness.

You. You! You, god, oh you. Coming swanning into his life with the rest of Stede Bonnet's infuriating little toy miniatures, cresting with graceful consideration along the sinews he had long locked away, with a determinant hankering for his heart. Every look his way just to try and catch his wandering eye: every shit-faced smile in defiance of his crude orders and the callous bite of his words was exhuming an anguishing pain within his chest.

Which is why he found you so fucking obnoxious. Insubordinate. Just as obdurate as him. You seemed to make it your life's mission to get the tomb holding him captive to crack open.

And by god, if it wasn't about to.

He was almost embarrassed by how quickly he had agreed to join you on the shore during the crew's solitary day off that month: his head had nodded as if a screw had come loose in his neck, and although he had to punch Lucius in the stomach for guffawing at how absurd he looked from where he was pretending to mop by Stede's cabin doors, it was worth it to be able to spend some blessed time alone with you.

Which is how he found himself perched on the shallow end of a crag: the sand sifting off his boots and the midday sun burning a white-hot hole into the top of his head that even the nearby leaves of the shimmering banana tree couldn't defend him from. He kicks lazily at the water, scaring away a few darting fish as you finally give up your wrestling match with Jim and come to sit criss-crossed next to the rather forlorn looking man. He does his best to raise his frown once he feels your fingers poke at his stiff shoulder, but even you're able to see the way the smile barely makes it past the top of his stubble, let alone his crestfallen eyes.

'So...', you start with a twist of your lips, an idea suddenly popping into your head as you catch sight of a few lengths of haggard bark popping out of the mud. 'You ever fish when you were younger?' You pull some of the twine out of your makeshift rope belt, looping a knot around the cleanest ends and handing one of the makeshift poles to the first mate.

'Fish? Did I ever... fish?', Izzy asks incredulously, tilting his head at you as if in disbelief. He had fished before: in fact, he was actually rather good at it. When his mother's health began to fail and the poor relief filtering into their household in drips and drabs began to be unable to keep dire poverty from banging at their door, Izzy had taken to smuggling onto the back of boats and fishing out of barrels to get food.

'No. No', he lies. 'I'm not a fucking fisherman, I'm a fucking pirate-'. He didn't know why the memory was making him so irritated. Maybe it wasn't the recollection at all, he thought in a stricken horror, but the way you turned your full attention to him. That- that swinging gaze, that coy smile lifting your cheeks as you try your best to read every microcosm that flashes across his panicking face. That- that kindness in the furrow of your eyebrows, that forbearance as you gently took his shaking first and unfurled it, placing the fishing rod in his palm.

Your fingertips tenderly swirl against the seamed linen of his wrist before you let go. Izzy blinks unsurely, something akin to trepidation making his breath choke in his nostrils, making them flare uneasily.

'I know you're going to be a natural', is all you whisper, sensing his alarm and placing the man's hand back onto his knee with great care. With a final nod, you turn your head back to the sea line.

Fuck. Fuck. How could you read him so easily? How could he, a man so ruthless in his faux arrogance, be laid so bare before you, when he had spent so many years devotedly poisoning that part of himself? He was about to fucking burst, and if you even fucking dared to place your warm fingers against his bare skin him one more time, he was going to draw his scabbard loose and lacerate his billowing heart himself.

The feel of you sitting next to him, holding your own fishing pole between relaxed fingers was almost enough to make the sound of Frenchie hollering in the distance bearable: the man trying to do half-crab like 'somersaults' across the sand. Izzy sighs, pretending the screaming cackle of Roach as he chased the Swede with one of his juggling pins was just the faraway caw of some mythical seabird. Even though the sound of your cheerful hums were sending spears of a long buried fear deep into his stomach, he was content to let the memories of his mother wash over him, to be instead overlapped with his rapt ruminations of you.

'Am I... am I doing this alright?', he asks, daring to break the silence, although his hoarse voice barely seems to penetrate the gleaming air at all. Thankfully, you have your ears finely tuned to hear both his scolding remarks and tender confessions, and so your reply is both astute and quickly timed as you whip your head to take an enthusiastic look at his pole.

You dart a finger out before he even has time to prepare for your approach, drawing his thumb further up the stick. 'That's it... that's it! See, I knew you'd be a natural at this!' It takes all of Izzy's self-control not to whip out his wrist, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment to instead try and alleviate the way his cells seemed to catch alight every time your skin brushed against his.

'Although', you start, poking your pointer finger against your chin and looking at him in contemplation. 'Your angle is a little wrong. Do you know how to fix it?', you ask, not wanting to offend him and have him scuttling off like a snow crab when you had put so much effort into getting him to trust in your company.

'I- I don't know', he lies, already moving his torso so you would have easier access to wrap yourself around his tensing shoulder blades send ripples spreading across the back of his vest.

'Here-', you reach an arm out, palm spreading against the rigid meat of his lower back as you turn the man to face you more directly. He jolts, and for a second you're worried that you've accidentally brushed against an old injury, but then the man unconsciously mewls, his thighs bucking forward against the sand grains.

'Like this', he asks breathlessly, knowing damn well that his posture was absolutely perfect.

'Like that', you reply with a smile as sweet and meek as the champagne bubbles lapping hungrily at his feet. It was almost enough to blow away the cankered cobwebs encasing his heart: almost enough to flood the chambers of his heart with a child-like resurrection, if he only wasn't stubborn enough to keep the latches of his heart's coffin lid closed.

'I'll tell you something, you're far better company than Ed', you say to alleviate the tension, feeling sorry at the way the man seems to be cursing himself with thick, inaudible swears. You let your fingers dart across the last few vertebrae's of his spine, enjoying the way his whole body seems to convulse like an electrified eel once you let go. 'The last time I tried to teach him to fish, I swear I was two seconds away from kicking him overboard. That man genuinely does not know how to stay quiet for two seconds.'

He grabs onto your wrist, so desperate to retain every ounce of your attention. So desperate to feel you set him aflame, without the embarrassment of having to ask. For the first time that day, he stares deeply into your eyes, his thick eyelashes flickering back and forth as if searching for something.

'You don't have to tell me. I very unhappily managed to overhear him talking to himself this morning about all the ways Captain had used his fingers last night-'

You clasp your hands to your ears, a high pitched giggle pealing out of the back of your throat. 'Oh god, please! Just stop! Whatever the hell our dads do, I don't want to know!'

God, you were bewitching.

'What about your father', you ask suddenly, raising a curious eyebrow at the man. 'I know that you, Israel Hands, must have had a phenomenal upbringing to turn out the way you did.'

'I can't fucking tell if you're being sarcastic or not', he replies curtly, but the edges of his lips are curling up despite of himself.

'Come on', you prod at his side with the jut of your fishing pole. 'I have to be completely honest, I've been dying to know your story ever since you got on the revenge. Until today, Mr. 'I'm god as far as you're concerned', you've been a bit of an enigma to me.'

He looks at you sharply, his lips lingering upwards and making the warm glow that followed through into his eyes paint him as an angel against the goldenrod hues of the sun’s rising throne.

'Until today?'

You can't help but match his bashful smile.

'Something tells me you've fished before', you reply smartly, nodding your head down to his tugging line.

It seemed to come to him then, that hope he had long forgotten: reverberating through his already troubled mind like a deafening echo, screaming and writhing and cacophonous as it pierced every fragment of his brain it could, begging him to remember the days when love had been true. Pleading with him to allow veracity to forburn the self-inflicted death he had allowed to coat his now pounding heart.

His mouth twists, unsure as where to start. It had been so long... so long since he had been truthful with anyone, let alone with himself. He swallows thickly, eyes roaming over the scuffs of his boot that are sliding further and further into the chilled depths of the shallow water, before he curls his fingers into a fist and goads himself into being compliant.

'I used to... I mean, I used to go down to the river with my mother, when she could be bothered. Which wasn't very often.'

He prays that you won't notice the faraway look in his eyes. How they begin to cloud over with unshed tears for a life he should have known. Should have had. For innocence robbed, and exasperation capitulated into its place. How his hands were now beginning to jolt so harshly, he nearly sent his fishing role flying into the ocean with one particularly intense heave.

'My mother always used to tell me, that you could begin your life again if you could pinpoint the exact spot where the rivers began to merge with the sea', he seethes out through gritted teeth, a low whistle sliding over his tongue as you reach your hand out and offer him the only form of solace you can think to give. 'She used to say that this is the spot where Calypso fell after Odysseus left her. That if you sing to her, her face will appear within the waves and grant you immortality.'

'Did you believe her?'

'I didn't before.'

'Hmm, what made you change your mind?' You entangle your fingers messily with his gloved hand, allowing both your poles to clamber noisily into the rugged pit chipped out by the toes of your feet. You knew if you broke the spell, interrupted this moment, it might never come again for him.

‘It was you, for fuck's sake!’, he wanted to shout. It was the truest thing he had ever known, plain and so soul crushingly simple.

Instead he flops his head back, and looks dead-set into the blinding light of the sun. 'I heard you singing. Heard you with Frenchie earlier, when you were singing shanties on the deck. My mother also used to sing to me', he warbles, voice hoarse.

The swallow tattoo scored onto his neck seems to thrum to life with each pulse of his juddering arteries.

'Ah-', you frown, 'I-I'm sorry. I didn't mean to bring up all these... memories for you. That's why you've been brooding so much today.'

His head darts to the side to scrutinize you, but when you mumble another sweet apology he finally stops scowling. If you hadn't been so lovestruck yourself, you might have found the courage to tear your head away from the horizon in that moment to meet the look of gut-wrenching devotion that brightened the man's widening eyes, a vestige kind of hope widening the gloam of his pupils.

He tilts his head to the side: towards you, eyes dipping down to almost imperceptibly gaze over your pursed lips.

'Don't be sorry'. His bottom lip trembles as he heaves a breath and squeezes your hand tight against his own. He felt like he was falling onto the cusp of something dangerous, but he refuses to allow his obduracy to suffocate the words.

'You sounded...', he grits his teeth, trying to bury his words by seething them into his skin instead. You watch him shove his chin into the side of his shoulder with humoured curiosity, giving him the time, the space, the security to finish his thought. He buries his eyes into the water, watching the rippling reflection of his face wallow into the shoreline. 'You sounded beautiful. It was nice to hear music again. I haven't in so long.'

'Well, Israel Hands', he trembles at the feel of your warm breath brushing against the tip of his ear. 'Good thing I'm immortal now.'

He smiles at that.

'Looks like I have all the time in the world to sing for you, if you'd like.'

For the first time since he was seven years old, Izzy Hands felt like he was allowed to live again.

'I'd- I'd like that very much.'

#ofmd #our flag means death #izzy hands #izzy hands imagine #izzy hands x reader #ofmd season 2 #con o'neill #israel hands #israel hands imagine #israel hands x reader #ofmd imagine #our flag means death imagine #frenchie #the swede #jim jimenez #edward teach #stede bonnet #roach

172 notes · View notes