#Mar My Dearest

[wardog-of-the-endless]

⭐

Dearest, Darling... Are you trolling for compliments?

We're past the 'I'm too shy to talk to you but let's be friends" stage... And I predate your content SO. Those don't count. But everything else really. ALMOST BLACKOUT MY DEAR. The Romantic Love is a nod to the muses, the platonic is for me. Xoxoxo.

[lets-try-some-writing]

Blinded By The Light

Moon was not always by Earth's side. Before he found her, he was once mighty. Born of another powerful Titan, he was prideful and content.

That security led to his and his citizens downfall.

━━━━━━ ⊙ ❖ ⊙ ━━━━━━━━━━━━

Fengari was forged under the stars. He woke in a pool of protomatter, weak, cold, and yet not afraid. The stars comforted him, and the light of Luna 1 and 2 calmed his anxious spark as he pulled himself free of wires and the remnants of his birthplace. Many cycles were spent watching the celestial bodies above, observing their rotations before a call in his spark urged him to stand and wander.

He remembered it clearly, walking alone on the surface of Cybertron without so much as an inkling as to where he was or where he was meant to go. He was smaller then, and for a time he had been petite enough to be cared for by a small clan of grounders who he instinctively knew were not like him. They taught him to write and speak in their language. Then they showed him how to avoid the things which they called Predacons. The mighty beasts of the skies were of Primus, that much he knew. But they were deadly things that hunted others for fuel. It was strange to him considering his guardians foraged for their energon. 

His guardians often told him that he would not have to fear them once he grew mightier, but while he was still small, they taught him to take care. He respected the Predacons and kept away from them. In turn, whenever they saw him bow his helm in light of their passing, took care to leave him be. Looking back, it may have been that they sensed what he was. But it was difficult for him to tell.

His guardians were good to him, although he could not remember their names. Eventually, once he began to tower over the oldest of his guardians, they took him toward the mountains. He did not understand. But the oldest of the clan, when asked how he knew where to go, told Fengari all he needed to know.

“You have your progenitor’s optics.”

Fengari was not made without reason. He was forged by another one of his kind, one who called himself Caminus. The specifics were difficult for him to discern, but Caminus was ancient enough to have seen the thirteen when they still walked the surface of Cybertron. Why he chose to create life was unknown to Fengari when he was still young, but Caminus was old enough to break away a piece of his own spark and send it forth like a seedling. The spark shard was not guaranteed to take root, but from one of Caminus’s shards, Fengari had come into being.

He was, according to Caminus’s citizens, a miracle. Few shards ever became anything of note. Most turned into plant life or fostered new hotspots. Rarely did any develop into a young Titan.

Yes, that was what he was. He was a Titan, and he was not alone.

“What is your name?” His Progenitor spoke to him in soft tones, for at the time, Fengari was still very small. He sat in the core room of Caminus’s frame alongside the Speaker, listening intently to every uttered glyph with complete and total awe. His Progenitor was massive, and the city that he formed when he remained in alt-mode was both sizable and impressive in the extreme. The elder Titan’s citizens were well-educated and kind, each welcoming Fengari with cheer when he entered their sanctuary. All of it spoke to Caminus’s age and wisdom. 

“Fengari, Titan of Cybertron, forged of Caminus.” He felt his Progenitor’s joy at his words, and in that moment, all was right with the world. He was a true son of Caminus, and he was proud of his heritage. His Progenitor’s love for him caused his loyalty to grow. All was well within Caminus’s walls, for there he knew he was cared for.

For many long vorns, he remained within the confines of Caminus’s walls, learning both the ways of the smaller children of Primus and the customs of the Titans. Caminus’s wards were difficult to understand at times, but it was for that reason that Caminus often took care to encourage Fengari to interact with them. They certainly adored Fengari whenever he asked questions and reached out to interact with their little ones.

The sparklings were so very sweet. Fengari personally found they were his favorite since he could show them the stars with his height.

“Pick us up Fengari! Pick us up!” The little ones swarmed around him with gifts and paints, eager to cover him in swirling patterns and designs that were common amongst Caminus’s kin. They wore their paint to honor their Titan, and while Fengari walked among them, he was happy to bear the red face paint that Caminus and his citizens were known for.

“Calm yourselves little ones. I do not wish to drop you. I am no longer as small as I used to be.” He laughed as the little ones sat on his opened servos, quickly clambering onto his shoulders and back to begin painting him and putting stickers in places they knew he could never reach on his own. He settled on the ground with a smile and let them giggle and play.

“You are very good with sparklings, Fengari. If you keep growing at this rate, you will likely be ready to set off and begin welcoming citizens of your own.” A caretaker commented merrily as he held a servo out to catch one of the floundering fliers trying to reach his optics. He smiled at their words, his spark flaring in excitement at the prospect of having citizens of his own.

He learned and walked among them until he grew as large as a combiner team of six. Only then did Caminus truly begin offering his insight.

“You are a Titan, Fengari. We protect our citizens until our very sparks go out. That is our design.” Caminus’s glyphs were heavy and grim. Fengari tilted his helm in concern and confusion as he stood before the core of his Progenitor with the Speaker.

“That much I know. It is ingrained in my very spark… Why do you sound so sullen?” Cables emerged from the walls and slithered along his limbs as Caminus’s way of offering comfort. Fengari found himself at a loss as his Progenitor shattered his world.

“Our citizens come before all else, and that includes our connections.” Caminus sighed, and while Fengari did not fully understand, he could glean the grief in Caminus’s words. He was going to do something to separate them. He could feel it in his spark.

“I cannot remain here, Fengari. I must leave this world with my people. We must spread to the stars before I can no longer wake and become naught but a relic of an age gone by.” Fengari had never once cried up until that moment. But as Caminus basked him in grief-addled love, he wept. Tears fell from his optics as he cried at the loss that he had not yet sustained.

Caminus wept with him, although his Progenitor shed no tears.

“Preparations are being made, but until the time comes that I must leave, I will teach you all I can and connect you to the rest of our kin. You will not be alone.” He could do nothing but nod at the time. However, he relished every interaction he had with Caminus as the city slowly began to change. Citizens adjusted their lifestyles as walls retracted and Caminus’s sprawling frame began to compound into something different, something space-worthy.

Predacons took the chance to attack on occasion, and that was where Fengari learned to fight. He could not yet transform, but he used his fists to wrangle Predacons to the ground and keep them away from his Progenitor’s precious people. Of course that was not all he did. Throughout the preparations, Fengari learned and was given knowledge of Cybertron’s surface and the best places to go to care for citizens. Caminus was thorough, and even when his Progenitor was ready to leave the planet, he took the time to move for the first time in millennia in order to watch as Fengari settled on the place he wanted to establish himself in.

It was bittersweet selecting his home ground with his Progenitor high in the skies above him, mere moments away from leaving. However, Caminus left him with one final gift before parting.

“Some of my citizens could not bear to be parted from you. They have decided to stay and ensure you grow strong. Take care of them, Fengari. They will serve you well.” Caminus bid him a final farewell, and as he did so, a small armada of fliers descended from the skies like angels. They came singing and settled upon his now mighty shoulders with smiles.

His very first citizens and his final gift from his Progenitor, his father.

“Why did you decide to stay with me?” He questioned as the last inkling of his father faded into the dark skies.

“Because you are of Caminus, and we wish to ensure that his legacy goes on.” One of the fliers replied fondly. They all smiled at him then, and in that moment, Fengari’s grief was largely forgotten.

He never saw Caminus again, and he never found out what happened to his father while he remained on Cybertron. But with his newfound citizens, he had responsibilities. There was little time to reminisce with Predacons around. He settled quickly, and with the guidance of his wards, he transformed for the first time and learned to morph himself into a home for his beloved citizens. 

He modeled himself after his father, forging towering structures that were both works of art and practical defenses. He did not glitter gold or red like his Progenitor, instead he glimmered like crystal. He was proud to be a son of Caminus, and he was glad to foster his citizens as they grew, changed, and evolved. His presence allowed a hotspot to form around his frame, and from that hotspot, little ones emerged.

He loved them all. He loved his citizens so much that as he spread his roots, he grew walls and warded away Predacons with guns and blasters. Youth faded away into maturity, and as it did so, he finally found himself able to connect to others of his kind.

“You are Fengari, right?” Bellum was his name. He was another shard of Caminus, one who never found his way to their Progenitor before their father left. He too loved his citizens above all else. They spoke through their roots and shared their experiences. Bellum was red and rustic, preferring a more openly mechanical nature to his city and citizens. However, despite having never met Caminus in person as Fengari had, Bellum maintained the custom of having painted marks on his frame. All his citizens bore the marks, and for that reason, Fengari and his brother mingled, their citizens passing between their cities. The Predacons lurked, but they were not an issue for being as mighty as them, especially not when one of the older Titans wandered and made a habit of protecting Titans like Fengari and Bellum who were immobile.

“I am Mortis. Fear not, for I will guard you and the little ones from the beasts of the skies.” He was bright and highly mobile. Mortis was not a large Titan by any standard, but his strength was in his swiftness and the sheer amount of weaponry he was adorned in. He did not have citizens, instead opting to have a small squadron of fliers hailing from other Titans willing to offer up aid. Mortis guarded them against the worst of the Predacons and often wandered Cybertron’s surface to help protect the clans of wandering mecha who either could not reach the cities of Titans or had no interest in giving their allegiance to one who could house them.

Mortis, Bellum, and others. They were together, and despite the threat that loomed above them all, they were content. They grew, and their citizens prospered. Bellum was filled with nothing but mirth, Mortis was aggressive but stalwart, and the other Titans scattered across the surface who bothered to communicate were kind in their own ways. Nothing worried Fengari. He trusted his citizens and his kin enough to allow himself to fall into a well-deserved recharge as all elder Titans eventually did. 

That was his first and final mistake.

He was stirred from his slumber by his Speaker who bowed before him in tears. He felt fire upon his surface and worried that perhaps Predacons were attacking and damaging him. The pain was manageable, but he felt the heat continue to increase. It was wrong, something was horribly wrong.

“Great Titan, please help us! Fire scorches Cybertron and we cannot endure!” He listened and observed in terror as great swathes of fire came from the nearest star, whipping across Cybertron and cutting down Predacon and Cybertronian alike in equal measure. The fires turned his shining city a startling black, and he could sense his citizens huddling as far in his frame as they were able.

It would not be enough. The fires were only getting hotter and Fengari did not have the time or the resources to take to the stars with any of the security of Caminus and his citizens. He would have to take drastic measures to save as many of his citizens as possible.

It was agony tearing himself up from his rooted position after so long remaining immobile. Citizens were crushed in the transition, some falling prey to shattering streets and falling towers while others succumbed to the heat as their frames failed to endure. Fengari lamented every loss, but he could not stop. If he was to save any of them, he had to transform. He had to become mobile, even if that meant the deaths of a few.

He screamed as cables tore and his frame forced itself to reconfigure. His Speaker cried as more and more were lost, but those who he could save were ushered into his core to hopefully be kept safe. Fire ran along his frame as his limbs reformed and he pulled himself from ash and dust. He screamed and his voice rang out for the first time in almost an entire age. He hardly paid any mind to the pain of his fellow Titans as they too frantically scrambled to escape the fires.

He wasn’t ready to move. It had been too long and his frame was too rigid. He hadn’t had time to prepare, and already he was going to have to transform again. The screams of his fellow Titans told him that the fires were everywhere. He had to abandon the surface, he had to somehow get to the skies. That would be his only salvation. 

“I’m so sorry. I must get us free. We must escape.” He tried to soothe his citizens, but his core temperature was rising as he tried to fight off the fires. Parts of his plating melted as he hobbled and forced himself to walk for the first time since Caminus left. He prayed to Primus, he cried out to his Progenitor, his brothers, and anyone who would listen. It did nothing as he tried to run and force his battered body to become loose enough to facilitate yet another rushed transformation.

Parts of his former city were digging into his frame. The things built by his citizens that had once been so beautiful now tore into him like daggers which he could do nothing to remove as he ran with all the might in his body. He felt his citizens screaming. He heard them in his very spark. He had to run, he had to begin the transformation needed to take him up and away. He had never left the ground before, but he had seen fliers. There had to be a way.

“Forgive me.” He begged his citizens as he screamed. Fires grew, and scorching whips assaulted his face as he tried to look up to the stars and find a place to break through the atmosphere where the flame was not as brutal. His very fuel lines seemed to bubble and boil alongside his optics. Tears of energon fell from every orifice, but he could do nothing but force himself onward as thrusters tore their way out from under his armor, and city structures fell away in favor of the streamlined form of a space cruiser. 

His vision fizzled and turned into a mess of pixels and colors as he finally leaped and pushed his broken body to function. The screams of his fellow Titans fell silent, and along with them, he felt the sickening cracks of hundreds of frames shattering within his own. 

His thrusters roared as he tore through Cybertron’s skies and far away from the burning world he once called home. Primus would endure. He was safe from the fires far below the surface. But everything else was burned and black. Nothing remained, and most importantly, his citizens were no more.

The transformation had been too harsh. Those who had not fallen to the heat of his core or the flames outside had been crushed to death as he tried in vain to save them. He should have gone slower, but panic fueled his desperate flight. He was alone.

He watched for a time with increasingly failing vision as he wept over the loss of his citizens. But he saw no other Titans flee to the stars. He could no longer feel them, although that was to be expected without roots. There were no others, and for all he knew, he was the last of the Titans that lingered upon Cybertron after Caminus left.

The world around him became a mess of color that only came into focus when he drew near. He could no longer see as he used to. The fires had taken his home, his family, his citizens, and his sight. Everything, gone in an instant.

He had thought himself safe. He had basked in the rays of peace and brilliance. But now? His arrogance and pride had brought him low.

He was blinded by the very same light he once adored.

[verooquieremimir]

Words cannot express how much I love him😭

[yume-fanfare]

i love you kaveh genshin impact you're the kindest man in the world im going to give you a kiss

[faggotwalkwithme]

wooo

[tuxedokit]

hugging you hi hello i love u

hiiii hugs you

[crescentmp3]

my father should stop arguing with me about the moon landing being faked by the way

[honoosenshi]

tag dump i.

∘⡊ 🔥 ˚⊹ blazing beauty ⊹ — visage. ∘⡊ 🔥 ˚⊹ punishment by holy fire ⊹ — aesthetics. ∘⡊ 🔥 ˚⊹ aloof yet passionate ⊹ — musings. ∘⡊ 🔥 ˚⊹ princess of the white moon & dearest love ⊹ — usagi. ∘⡊ 🔥 ˚⊹ a gentle spray of water ⊹ — ami. ⡊ 🔥 ˚⊹ herculean thunderbolt ⊹ — makoto. ∘⡊ 🔥 ˚⊹ kissed by aphrodite ⊹ — minako. ∘ ⡊ 🔥 ˚⊹ pink rabbit ⊹ — chibiusa. ∘⡊ 🔥 ˚⊹ our distant comrades ⊹ — outer senshi & other. ∘⡊ 🔥 ˚⊹ good prince of the earth ⊹ — mamoru. ∘⡊ 🔥 ˚⊹ pretty guardians in a sailor suit ⊹ — senshi. ∘⡊ 🔥 ˚⊹ eien no melody ⊹ — music. ∘⡊ 🔥 ˚⊹ asks ⊹ — answered. ∘⡊ 🔥 ˚⊹ sentence starters & memes ⊹ — prompts. ∘⡊ 🔥 ˚⊹ crack ⊹ — laughter. ∘⡊ 🔥 ˚⊹ just for funsies ⊹ — other. ∘⡊ 🔥 ˚⊹ headcanons. ∘⡊ 🔥 ˚⊹ ooc. ∘⡊ 🔥 ˚⊹ the guardians of princess mars ⊹ — phobos & deimos. ∘⡊ 🔥 ˚⊹ starter call.

[zhongrin]

festered wounds

— when you’ve never been the first choice your whole life, it’s hard to accept the possibility that you could be loved.

© zhongrin | 2023  ✼  no repost・translations・plagiarism of any kind・ai data mining. rebloggers get a free cup of tea ��

✼ characters ┈ zhongli, al haitham, wriothesley

✼ tags ┈ gn!reader, this is more of a vent drabble, hurt with comfort, reader with massive insecurity issues, implied past trauma, slight blood & gore in the portrayal of ‘hurt’

✼ a/n ┈ this…. got really personal, haha. i wrote this in a bad headspace, so apologies if it got depressing or if it’s of a low quality. i didn't want to have this in my drafts and i certainly don't want to bring it to 2024 so i'm just posting this now.

ᴏᴜʀ ꜰᴜʟʟ ᴍᴇɴᴜ (ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ)  ✼ ᴍᴇᴍʙᴇʀꜱʜɪᴘ (ᴛᴀɢʟɪꜱᴛ)

“i’m sorry.”

zhongli’s heart dropped at the words escaping your lips. this was certainly the most unexpected response you could give to his confession, seeing the promising recent developments in your relationship — and so celestia forgive him, he had to pause to gather his thoughts. this made you fidget even more under his gaze, and so you succumbed to your frazzled nerves to continue in a more panicked voice.

“i’m sorry, mr. zhongli, i know you’re not the type to resort to deceit or find joy in toying with people’s feelings, but i’m just— i can’t—” you trailed off, feeling your chest tighten in pain.

“please, hold your tongue for a moment,” the refined man held out one of his hand to settle onto your shoulder comfortingly. his expression was a mixture of worry and confusion, eyebrows furrowing in a sign of distress. “are you saying that you… do not believe my words? you think i have malicious intentions?”

“….. i’m sorry, i’m just not used to- i’ve never-” you stumbled over your words and squeezed your eyes shut, “i’m sorry….”

zhongli watched you for a moment, observing the smallest ticks and the story behind your body language. you looked so vulnerable, like a scared animal instinctively cowering at some invisible threat. you looked as if someone had stripped away a bandage that had been haphazardly wrapped around a wound left unattended for so long, it had festered into an abomination, eating away at you slowly, even now.

belatedly, he realized that ‘someone’ was himself.

zhongli inhaled deeply, his palm leaving your shoulder. this time, he took his hands to tenderly grab your fingers, lifting them up to silently plead for your attention. your eyes were troubled and full of storms, the rain and lighting reflecting on your expression as a solemn flutter of your eyelashes and sorrowful downturn of your lips. the slight tremble of your body reflected the silent call for help from a blemished heart that never had the courage to forget.

“my dearest. i see the pain you have gone through. i have yet to know the tales that had marred your heart, but i want you to know that i am willing to be the pair of ears you tell your grievances to, and you can be rest assured that they will be safe with me. i know my words will not be enough to convince you otherwise at this moment… however, you must forgive my impatience, for it stems out of genuine love. i simply must humbly ask once again—”

“— please, give me a chance to heal you.”

“a-are you sure you want me?”

out of the 18 different responses he anticipated, al haitham did not expect this. however, his surprise merely manifested in the rising of both of his eyebrows and the subtle shift on his legs.

“unlike the consensus the public seemed to have one-sidedly agreed on, i am not foolish enough in the matter of romance as to confess to someone i do not hold deep affection and great care for,” he said in the same tone as the moment he asked if you would consider taking your relationship into the ‘officially dating’ phase, “is it not obvious? kaveh claimed i was ‘laying it on thick’ and cyno had noted of how i treat you better than how i treat the dendro archon.”

“oh….”

“….”

“….”

you thought you had gotten used to al haitham’s stare with how much you both had been hanging out, but right now you couldn’t seem to lift your head. the scholar crossed his arms, waiting patiently for your response. you were both gratuitous and dreading his resilience.

“i-i still think you could do better, though. i mean, look at you! you’re so fit, so wouldn’t you feel better if your partner is more of the sporty type? and you’re the top graduate of the haravatat darshan, so you would pair better with someone smarter…. a-and someone like me will just drag you down; aesthetically speaking, i… uh, leave much to be desired while you’re… you know…”

you spoke of such illogical assumptions and erroneous advices that he couldn’t help but roll his eyes. you spoke of belittling yourself as if you were used to riding on the rails of insurmountably low dip of the self-esteem cliff for years. you spoke of these things as if you were repeating words someone told you at least once in your life.

and it angered him.

but he wasn’t angry at you. he was angry for you.

funny how empathy wasn’t his strong suit, and yet he jumped on the bandwagon as easily as an otter taking off into the waters the moment it came to you and your emotions.

“i care not for such shallow qualifications when it comes to seeking a partner. your presence triggers the relevant hormones that make me feel relaxed and comfortable, and my mind spontaneously seek for your attention. it’s only logical that i seek for an arrangement that would ensure these pleasant things to happen and develop further.”

“you’re the best choice for a partner, simply because i wish to spend the rest of my life with you; and i think that's enough.”

“i don’t think i’m a good choice for you…”

wriothesley looked as if you had pinpointed his weak point in a boxing match and delivered a straight jab right onto it. his lips slacked open and his body froze as he tried to process your words, the meaning behind it, the—

he inhaled deeply and punched his own fist into his palm, stretching his jaw with a growl before a darker tone took over his voice.

“alright, who’s been talking shit? let me at them. it won’t be manslaughter if they don’t die, right?”

he watched as your nervously fiddling fingers stopped twisting around each other, your eyes widened in shock and alarm at his words. briefly, he praised himself inwardly for being able to switch your mood at the snap of his fingers. now if only he could do that, but instead of surprise-and-horror, it could turn into surprise-and-joy instead…

“what?! wait- no! no one said that, i ju—”

“then is your own head telling you that?”

“it’s—” you gulped, gaze slowly breaking away.

he sensed a secret kept safe under the heaviest chains and locks. pain that had nearly torn up that warm heart of yours, shoved into the furthest part of you in a desperate attempt to save yourself; to silence the damned screams and the river of curses that would have made you self-destruct. he saw the remains of the thousands of needles that had embedded itself deep inside your worn heart a long time ago, and yet still it beat and struggled to not bleed out and drown you in its venomous blood.

he saw a heart as scarred as his skin, and he understood.

“..… alright, sweetheart, listen up, and listen close.”

the man’s hands suddenly cradled your cheeks, his icy blue eyes penetrating your clouded gaze. his whole demeanor had shifted into gentle and loving, as if he was holding his entire world in the palms of his hands. he resisted the urge to kiss you when you couldn’t help but lean onto his touch, instinctively seeking comfort.

he would do you better. he would give you the kind of love you’ve yet to experience. there were so much he wanted to say, but he chose to speak of the reassurance he thought you needed most at this moment.

“i say you’re the perfect choice for me. let me prove it to you.”

✼ ᴍᴇᴍʙᴇʀꜱʜɪᴘ (ᴛᴀɢʟɪꜱᴛ) ┈ @abyssmal-skies | @hamdehlesmis | @depressivecomforts | @sunnshineflxwer | @yuutasbabe | @queen-belial | @stygianoir | @silentmoths | @niktwazny303 | @dustofthedailylife | @marina-and-the-memes | @mixed-kester | @lordbugs | @anonymousficreader | @shizunxie | @ansy-tea | @irethepotato | @sassy-cat-in-town | @syrenkitsune | @smokipoki | @cakeboxie | @crystalflygeo | @ciexuvia | @illaasya | @celestewritestoomuch | @pams-comfortzone | @spidermanluvr444 | @ourstrawberryclouds | @ryuryuryuyurboat

[critterbitter]

I'm wheezing over Ingo and Litwick's dynamic jgjbjjxjsjwkfiisiq and TYNAMO FITTING INTO EMMET'S SCARF IS SOOO CUTE!! Love how you draw the little sbubby bois, their conductor themed outfits are soo freaking cute!!!

I have so many thoughts when it comes to them it’s insane. Glad you like the characterizations!

Here’s a quick one shot under the cut, as a treat for making it this far.

Emmet finds Tynamo three months before Ingo meets Litwick. Ingo has some thoughts.

Ingo and Emmet are part of a pair.

If Emmet is the fuck around and find out, then Ingo’s been relegated amused damage control. This has always been the case, right up until Emmet found tynamo. Then suddenly, it’s “wow emmet, you’re so responsible!” “Golly gee Emmet, what do you mean you don’t want to go exploring the cave systems after dark?” “Gee whizz, what do you mean curfew for your eel puppy?” “Why in Reshiram do you get to have a whole pokemon three months before we agreed to get starters, and i don’t?”

Ingo doesn’t say the last part. He’s a bitter world-weary twelve year old languishing about the unfairness of the pokestray distribution system, but he also loves his brother. Emmet found an injured tynamo in chargestone cave and decided to help— tynamo decided to stay. It’s every child’s film plot. Ingo being a grouchy gengar makes him objectively a terrible friend.

Oh dragons, is Ingo a bad brother?

“Ingo!”

Speak of the cold, and he shall enter. Ingo swings his whole body around to better brace for the flying tackle.

“Emmet!”

“I am emmet! You are sulking.”

Ingo clicks his mouth closed and tries not to sulk harder. He fails.

“You are not being verrrry convincing, brother dearest.”

“I do not have any idea what you are going on about,” Ingo’s traitorous mouth blurts. “Be convinced I love you and am not planning dastardly plots.”

Do not think about getting a ground typed starter. Do not think about getting a ground typed starter.

Emmet shoots him a judgemental look from under the brim of his hat. Ingo glowers back, and slowly starts leaning forward, smooshing Emmet under his weight.

“Ttttell me why you look like a crushed joltik.”

“Keep this up and you are going to be the crushed joltik.”

Anyways, Emmet is becoming more bold by the day and even actively discussing electric types with the new girl in elementary prep, Elesa. Ingo thinks she’s cool, but she flinched when he blurted a once again too loud greeting so he’s… letting that cool off. They definitely don’t have anything to talk about beyond pokemon, and Emmet and her already have pokemon. Ingo feels a bit left out.

Caught in the ennui of not having a blitzle or tynamo, Ingo slips as Emmet rolls out from under him. The two go down in an ungraceful tangle of limbs.

“Tell. Me. What’s. Wrong.” Emmet gently slaps Ingo’s face like a ripe oran berry. “You want to tell me sooo badly. Ooh.”

“Emmet- aurgh. Gerroff’”

“I don’t speak denial.”

Ingo gives up. His entire body deflates. Emmet, not expecting the sudden loss of spinal infrastructure, slides sideways and knees Ingo’s lungs.

Ingo wheezes. “I’m sulking because you were crushing my spine.”

“Tell me the truth.”

Uh oh. Ingo studies Emmet’s face. It’s the same one he looks into the mirror with, but marred with concern and self consciousness. Ingo made Emmet worry. He’s not just a bad twin. He’s the worst.

“You are Emmet.”

“I am Emmet.”

“You have Tynamo.”

“Tynamo’s charging at home.”

Smart ass! Emmet knows what Ingo means. And by Emmet’s smug grin, Emmet knows too.

Ingo struggles to explain that Emmet has Tynamo, and Elesa, and… that’s only two other individuals. He is truly the worst twin in all the land. Emmet gets two new friends and Ingo’s being an infant about it.

One day, Ingo will have his own pokemon partner and team— but right now, Ingo only gets to have Emmet.

Ingo feels this is an unfair trade equivalent, but he does not want to say it in a way that sounds rude, so he stalls.

Emmet has no such prefunctures. He squints at Ingo, who avoids eye contact and squirms. “You are… jealous?” He tilts his head in visible confusion. “What?”

Ingo covers his face with his hands, defeated.

“You arrrre jealous!” Emmet cries, bewildered. “Why??”

Ingo lets out an unintelligible wheeze. Emmet remembers he still has a knee on Ingo’s chest, and hastily sits back.

“I don’t want to be jealous,” Ingo finally bursts. “I am very happy for you Emmet! You and Tynamo are a winning combination!” His voice cracks embarrassingly. Emmet doesn’t flinch at the volume, even muffled under Ingo’s palms. “I don’t want to be a bad brother being jealous.”

“You aren’t a bad brother, Ingo.”

“I am. I am angry that you found your starter and I haven’t. I’m sad I interrupted your schedule with my inane demands. I have made you feel like you did something wrong. I apologize.”

Peeking between Ingo’s fingers, Emmet’s face falls. Ingo wants to be struck by a giga impact rather than face this. He would rather be a dusty imprint. Where is Uncle Drayden’s Haxorous when you need her?

“Ingo, Ingo listen to me.” Emmet’s hands dart forward to settle Ingo’s shoulders. The pressure is grounding. Real. This is where Emmet tells Ingo he’s being stupid.

He hears Emmet exhale.

“I’m sorry.”

Wait, that doesn’t sound right. “Pardon?”

“I wanted to train Tynamo as my conductor, and I left our two-car train unmaintained.”

“Pardon??”

Emmet looks uncomfortable and sad. It makes Ingo uncomfortable and sad. “Yesterday night. When you wanted to go to the caves. For our weekly charting. I said I’d rather help Tynamo.”

Oh. Yeah, Ingo remembers that. It had stung. “You are not obligated to say yes,” he protests. “In fact, you should say no more. You always say yes.”

“Yes.”

“What did I just say.”

“No. You’re my brother. I left you out.”

Ingo slowly puts down his hands. His face still feels warm, but he feels less scared. Now he just feels embarrassed. He can’t help but let out a meek plea slip. “Don’t go where I can’t follow, Emmet. Please.”

“I would never! We are going on our pokemon journey together, yep yep. You, me, tynamo, and whoever your starter will be!”

The two sit there on the side of the dirt road. Emmet’s declaration sounds like a dangerous promise. Ingo realizes at that moment he would do anything for his brother, who’s his best friend and confidant and world, starter or no starter. He opens his mouth to tell Emmet that.

“Wwwwwait. You are trying to go back to the caves. Ingo! Are you trying to find a starter by yourself!?”

Never mind. Emmet’s gone for his soft underbelly, and Ingo’s in pain. “Emphasis on trying,” he mutters instead. The joltik are not interested in him. The local tynamo swarm fled. A curious drilbur had sniffed him once, turned up its nose, and then trundled into the wall.

“…ah.”

Nothing had felt right for Ingo— too scared, too judgemental, or too uninterested. He’s starting to accept that maybe none of the pokemon in this town area match his truth or ideals.

Emmet was quiet for a long time. He had his thinking face on, so Ingo did not interrupt. He took the time instead to look up at the sky, watching the giant puff of clouds drift by. A plume of swabloo lazily inches their way across the horizon.

A shadow falls over Ingo. Emmet dusts himself off, and helps drag his twin to his feet. The two sway, clasping hands.

“We’ll ask Uncle Drayden,” Emmet decides, and Ingo is enthralled by the sheer truth of that statement. “He’ll let us use the subway! And you can look elsewhere, for a starter who is ideal for you. Wwwwith me and Tynamo, instead of by yourself.”

“Truly?” Uncle Drayden is a scary man.

Emmet nods. It’s easy to talk to Emmet— he just says words that Ingo would spend hours ruminating on. “I am verrrry persuasive.”

“You mean staring at him from the corner until he cracks?”

“Brother, you know me so well!”

Ingo cant help but laugh. He still feels guilty and bad for feeling envious, but a world with emmet by his side is significantly less hostile. Emmet’s hand is warm in his.“Thank you!” He cheers, startling himself with his volume. “Bravo,” he tried in a quieter tone.

“Bravo!!” Emmet replies, pointedly louder. Ingo squawks as Emmet pulls him off balance. “You are my brother! We’re going to find you a starter!”

Ingo tugs back just as fiercely. “Bravo!! We are going to harass Uncle Drayden into letting us board the train!”

Emmet leans with his whole body, dragging Ingo into the fulcrum of his centrifuge. “BRAVO! YOU ARE GOING TO HELP ME WITH TYNAMO’S TRAINING!”

Ingo digs his heels in, and then stumbles. “BRAVO, I, what?”

Emmet looked distinctly patrat-esque. “We’re in this together, Ingo. No backing out now.”

Ingo thought about it long and hard. He gets to see his brother get electrocuted. But he will, also, most likely, get electrocuted.

(Tynamo is Emmet’s starter. But maybe, it can also be Ingo’s friend.)

But brother say brother do, and Ingo’s probably obligated to run damage control if Emmet decides to, say, shove a fork into an outlet for Tynamo to snack on.

(Emmet fucks around. Ingo finds out. Even two steps apart with new people between, this is the way of their world.)

“Alright,” he crumbles. When they step this time, they step in sync. “We do this. Together.” (Enjoy this? Here's the link to the rest of my rat crimes.)

[just-trying-to-fangirl-in-peace]

The Two (Sauron x fem!Elf!reader)

-> in which Galadriel fights to withhold Nenya and the Nine, but in the end she fails to stop your husband placing yet another ring upon your finger

Warnings: evil!reader, killing (sorry Adar), allusions to smut, injuries suffered by reader (bad ones but not very graphically described), blood drinking for healing purposes

Note: another one in the evil!reader collection. Shout out to this lovely anon for the inspiration behind a certain bit of dialogue.

This is not exactly where you had imagined you would be on this day—shackles around your wrists and blood marring your brow, being escorted through the woods in a filthy and tattered dress by a band of Orcs. You admit it isn’t the best look on you, but circumstances change, and so you must adapt.

So far, you’d say you’re managing quite well.

Adar is not alone as you reach him in the clearing. Facing him is a blonde-haired Elf with whom you have been itching to meet again, now that she has found out the truth of your identity. Galadriel turns towards the approaching Orcs, her eyes widening slightly when she sees you. She may not have known you all that well, but neither could she have imagined that one of Celebrimbor’s unassuming aids was the one being held dearest of all by the very darkness Galadriel had sworn to destroy.

Adar, on the other hand, had never known you as anything else.

“What an unexpected honor,” he says when he sees you. “To what is it owed?”

You stare him down—the Uruk who had been your husband’s near destruction, leaving you to await his return for what had felt like an agonizing eternity. If looks could kill, he would be in bloody pieces.

It’s Glug, one of the Orcs at your side, that answers him. “We found Sauron. He tried to make us betray you, but we resisted. We lost many,” he shoves you into stumbling forward, “but we got our hands on this one. His Queen, he said,” Glug mocks, and the group of Orcs breaks into a cacophony of snorted laughter. Your face remains impassive as Adar approaches you.

“Indeed, Sauron’s bride herself.” Adar stands before you, meeting your gaze head on. “After all this time, you are still at his side.”

“I am at his side once again,” you correct him coldly, “after you took him from me. For centuries.”

“So long ago, yet your hatred of me has not waned,” Adar muses. “I always wondered how deeply this great love he claimed to feel for you truly ran. Whether you were another of his victims, or some unnatural exception. I can only hope he values you as much as you do him.” He turns to Galadriel. “With any luck, she will be enough to draw him out—”

His words are cut off abruptly, and Galadriel gasps—for the tip of a sword had emerged from Adar’s stomach, then withdrew as swiftly as it had cut through him. He falls to the ground, clutching at his wound, looking up only to see you as you truly are.

Without the illusion, there is not a speck of dirt on you, never mind blood or shackles. You stand clad in elegant battle armour, your bloodied sword held in your hand with the ease and practice of centuries.

Realization dawns on Adar’s face, as you had seen it on those of so many others before, a little too late. “My children!” he calls out, visibly astonished that he even has to. Yet not one of the Orcs move.

“For years, I’ve wondered,” you mock his musing tone from before, crouching to his level and slowly putting your blade to his neck, “would it please me more to kill you myself, or to watch my husband do it? But then, I realized—and he agreed—what end could be more terrible to you than to be killed by that which you love most?”

You stand back up to your full height. To Adar’s credit, he struggles to his feet as well. Even if what happens next is plain to see, before you even speak the words.

“Uruks,” you command, a sinister smile tugging at your lips. “Finish him.”

Your new servants surge from behind you, surrounding Adar and plunging their swords into their former master. It’s poetic, really—an inverted mirror of what your beloved suffered all those years ago, whilst your husband himself walks into the clearing, no longer hiding in the shadows, and recovers the crown that should have been his in the first place from the boulder on which it had been placed. Galadriel doesn’t see him, her eyes fixed on you in anger. It’s a delight to watch it be replaced with dread when she hears your husband’s voice call her name.

By now, Adar has fallen to the ground once more, yet the Orcs are slow to cease their blows. Galadriel is frozen in place as your husband joins you at your side, both of you looking down at the Uruk who has tasted your vengeance.

“My... children...” he croaks out, pitifully.

“They have found new parents,” your husband says, pitiless.

You exchange a look with Glug, and if there was any trace of hesitancy left in him, it vanishes under your demanding gaze. With a roar, he plunges his sword into Adar’s heart, putting an end to him and the killing frenzy of his brethren.

“What orders,” he asks then, his irritatingly pitched voice downright fanatical, “Lord Sauron? My Queen?”

“Raze Eregion,” your husband says evenly. “Leave no Elf alive. But bring me their leaders.”

“Be sure to destroy every single record of Celebrimbor’s works,” you add. “We would not want the secrets of the Rings’ craft revealed.”

The Orcs bow their heads, so wonderfully obedient as they begin to chant, “Hail Sauron, the Dark Lord! Hail our Dark Queen!” They repeat it as if in a craze, still muterring the words in their speech as they scurry away to carry out your orders. Glug, however, lingers by your side.

“Forgive me, my Queen!” He drops to his knees, all but touching his head to your boots. “For the offence I brought you. I only meant to convince Adar of our lie.”

You tilt your head, such an indulgent expression on your face, one might think it was genuine if they knew no better. You put a finger beneath Glug’s chin and lift his head, his bulbous eyes widening in awe as he meets your gaze.

“Earn my forgiveness,” you say sweetly, “by carrying out the task you have been given.”

“Yes, my Queen!” he exclaims, shooting to his feet the moment you release him. “My Lord!” he bows to your husband as well, then rushes after his companions as you watch, deeply satisfied. So this is what it feels like to be worshipped as a goddess. For now, by Orcs—later, by every being in Middle-Earth. The mere thought of it feels like a sip of the most exquisite and intoxicating wine, the elation second only to that sharing in this glory with your husband. You would love nothing more than to bask in the moment, mark it with a kiss, but there is still a pressing matter to attend to beforehand.

And, at once, she demands your attention.

“All this,” Galadriel says, voice thin with held-back terror, “was your design from the beginning!”

“Not all of it,” your husband tells her with eerie humility. “When my beloved came to find me,” he glances to you, letting his knuckles graze a gentle line down your shoulder, “having sensed my presence as I strived to regain my form, we believed we would never be parted again. It was hardly by our design that we were separated in that shipwreck. Once the sea brought you to me, however—”

“—an opportunity arose,” you continue seamlessly, smiling up at your husband, “too tantalizing to pass up.” You turn to Galadriel with a self-assured gaze. “You see, my love and I may be apart in body, but never in mind. And though not even we knew where our paths would lead, we trusted that we would be reunited at the end, and be all the better for it. So, I made my way back to Eregion, where my false life still awaited me—”

“—and I let you take Halbrand there yourself,” your husband finishes. “With a Númenórean army to fight against my enemy, and your trust to help me earn Celebrimbor’s. So, in the end...” A devious smirk tugs at his lips. “One could say it was your design.”

Galadriel purses her lips, keeping them firmly shut. She knows better than to take that bait of self-blame, you can tell. Instead, her eyes dart to her sword, discarded on the ground—betraying her intentions.

In an instant, you both bolt for her sword—and it’s only by a fraction of a second that you stomp your foot on the blade before she can lift it, leaving her to pull helplessly at the handle whilst you put your own sword to her throat. She glares up at you, her words spit out like venom, “You are a traitor to your people!”

A short, sweet laugh escapes you. “I am a traitor to all peoples.” You knit your brow, feigning bashfulness. “How kind of you to notice.”

Galadriel blinks at you, a trace of pity mingling with the disgust in her eyes. “Your mind has left you.”

You open your mouth, prepared to let her know you completely agree, and are rather pleased with yourself—when your attention lands on her hand, drawn there by a glimmer of light reflected off the gem on her finger. Nenya, the Ring of Water, shines before your eyes in all its devastating perfection.

You almost forget to keep your blade at Galadriel’s throat as you crouch down and grab her hand. She flinches, but your grip is relentless as you hold her hand still, admiring the Ring.

“Oh, this is simply...” you murmur, almost tearfully, “exquisite.”

In your long life, the only sight to grace your gaze which held similar beauty was your husband, in any form of his. And perhaps, only perhaps, from a purely aesthetic point of view, the Ring might just surpass him.

The thought, even just in passing, leaves you disoriented. And Galadriel takes full advantage of it.

She moves swiftly. Whilst you are distracted, she yanks her sword from underneath you and you lose your balance, finding yourself face up on the ground, barely parring the immediate blow she aims at your throat. Unsurprisingly, she is strong, making it a real challenge for you to keep her sword at bay with your own, but your mind is now fully present once more and you hold your own as fiercely as ever.

You don’t have to do it for long, however. Your husband’s sword intercedes between yours and Galadriel’s, breaking them apart and forcing her to fall backwards. She scrambles back to her feet, but now she is being attacked by a doubly armed foe, and it is her on the defence, struggling to match your husband’s skillful blows. You’ve stood back up, ready to fight again, but you can’t help taking a moment to behold the glorious sight of your husband fighting. It’s a rather short dance between them, brought to a halt as their blades clash and your husband swings Morgoth’s crown at the place where they meet, trapping both within its iron spikes.

Both of Galadriel’s hands hold the hilt of her sword in a white-knuckled grip, giving your husband a full view of the Ring as well. It tempts his gaze as quickly as it did yours.

“Even more beautiful than Celebrimbor led us to believe,” he says, bemused. “It would compliment your wedding band beautifully.” He glances at you. “Don’t you think, my love?”

As you meet his gaze, you are left breathless with how ardently you want to say yes. To have him place that wondrous Ring upon your finger, just as he did your wedding band all those years ago, and to admire the jewel on your hand as it touches every single inch of your husband’s skin whilst you make love for days and nights on end. You would begin right there, in the clearing, if not for the unwanted company.

Galadriel grunts, breaking away from your husband. Their withering stares remain locked as he circles her widely, coming to stand at your side. Can she not grasp that she is at a disadvantage?

“This is hardly fair. Two against one” you say, trying to sound reasonable. “It would be much wiser to simply give me that Ring, and him the Nine.”

“We do not wish to harm you,” your husband says, in that falsely reassuring tone that has worked wonders on so many others. Galadriel is having none of it.

“Do you wish to heal me?” she asks, defiantly. You would admire her determination, if it wasn’t so inconvenient to you personally.

Your husband proves more patient than you feel in his answer. “We would heal... all Middle-Earth.”

“As you have Eregion?” she growls, face twisting in rage as she readies her sword.

“Well, then,” you sigh shortly and do the same with yours, glancing at your husband, “ladies first, I suppose.”

And so you are the first to meet Galadriel in her attack. For a little while, you are evenly matched, but once your husband joins you shortly after, well—that is a different story.

You have to admit, Galadriel lives up to her reputation as Commander of the Northern Armies and then some. And yet, the fight would have been much shorter if it weren’t for a silent agreement between you and your husband, for the sadistic streak you share that makes you want to draw this out, let her believe she might prevail before you prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that she never stood a chance.

You had almost forgotten the utter pleasure that it was to fight at your husband’s side. It’s no less harmonious or fierce than when you are making love, how fluidly you complement each other’s movements, acting as though you are simply an extension of the other. In that way, you suppose, the fight is fair—Galadriel’s opponent is as one alone, in all but flesh.

The Ring, however, and the Nine whose presence your husband must feel as keenly as you do, prove a distraction. Your blades draw Galadriel’s blood, but the wounds are relatively minor, and she manages to nick your skin as well in moments where your eyes stray to the Ring on her finger, your mind clouded with thoughts of it becoming yours.

You can’t explain how else she manages to gain the upper hand as she eventually does, catching your husband sufficiently off-guard to kick him down from a small height. Your battle had taken you to the ruins of an old stone structure at the edge of a cliff, your husband landing gracelessly in the midst of it. You’re more concerned for his pride rather than his body, however. Panting from exertion, you and Galadriel lock gazes.

“You say you let him use me,” she challenges, taking her chances at riling you up now that you are alone. “Do you know what he offered me?”

“What he pretended to offer you was mine already,” you say, unwavering. “Had been for a long, long time.”

“He seemed rather convincing,” Galadriel taunts, “when he called me his Queen.”

You huff out a chuckle. “How could you not be convinced,” you retort, “when you so badly wanted to believe him?”

You charge at her again. Perhaps she has managed to make your blood boil after all, but it only works against her, because your attacks are all the more vicious as you force her backwards, down a set of stone steps leading to where your husband had fallen.

“I don’t blame you, you know,” you taunt her between strikes, “for desiring him.”

“I did not desire—!”

“Liar,” you hiss, narrowly parrying a particularly rageful swing of her sword. “I quite liked that form myself. Had a certain roguish... charm to it.” The word becomes a grunt as you kick her back into the stone wall, your swords and gazes locked together in a battle of unrelenting wills. “That stubble of his... felt especially pleasant on my skin.” You smile wickedly, voice laden with sinful implications. “Did you never imagine it on yours?”

She must have—otherwise, her eyes would not betray the sliver of shame that they do as she cries out and pushes you off her with renewed strength. You stumble to the bottom of the stairs with a deranged chuckle, putting your fingers to the stinging spot on your cheek and finding it wet with blood. She had managed to cut you.

And she seemed intent on trying to do worse to you, if not for your husband distracting her with something yet more disorienting than your words.

She freezes in place when she sees him standing before her—not as Annatar, but as Halbrand.

“Fighting at your side,” he says, as if from a distant dream, “I felt if I could just hold on to that feeling...”

Words that had once tugged at her heart, no doubt. They are not enough to deter her from attacking him now, but the internal conflict painted on her face is a delight to watch as they cross blades. Your husband changes the guise of Halbrand into that of Galadriel herself, then that of Celebrimbor. Each of them taunting her with the words he knows would cut the deepest, driving her into one attack after the other.

Until the old structure on which they are fighting crumbles, and they fall along with the boulders back to the ground. Your husband is the first to rise, back to the form he had taken as Annatar, and as you meet his gaze, alight with wrath, you both know—it’s time to put an end to this.

Galadriel gathers her sword from where it has fallen, staggers back to her feet, stubborn and determined as ever as the fighting resumes. But there are two of you, and she is more tired. Before long, you have her backed into a corner—or rather, with the very edge of the cliff at her back, with nowhere to go but into a deadly fall to the ground below. She fights valiantly, but in the end the inevitable happens. Half-distracted by you, she is not quick enough to stop your husband from plunging one of the crown’s iron spikes deep into her shoulder. He backs her into a pillar of the stone arch at the cliff’s edge, and in that position it’s too easy for you to knock the sword from her hand, once and for all.

It’s almost sad, seeing such a mighty warrior reduced to cries of pain, sagging helplessly against the stone. When your husband pulls the crown from her, she falls limp to the ground, the satchel containing the Nine slipping from an inner pocket at her chest. Leaning down, your husband finally reclaims his creations, then slips the Ring of Water off Galadriel’s trembling finger. She is too weak to do anything but groan, her eyes fluttering shut in defeat.

“The Rings are ours,” he says proudly. With his opponent utterly defeated, he lays down his sword and the crown on a nearby boulder, then tucks the satchel away within his own robes. The Elven Ring, however, he keeps in the palm of his hand as he leaves Galadriel lying there and turns to you. His steps are slow and measured as he comes to stand before you, close enough to take your hand in his if he so wishes to. But he withholds, his eyes boring into yours.

“My love,” he says, and it feels like a vow. “My Queen.” He holds out his hand, reverently. “Allow me.”

Your chest swells as you place your hand in his. You hold each other’s gaze a moment longer before you both look down and watch as he, with utmost delicacy, slips Nenya onto your finger, right next to the one that wears your wedding band. Your sword clatters to the ground, unwittingly loosed from your grip, but you don’t even hear it. The sight before you is almost too beautiful to behold, making you weep with joy.

“With this, I vow my life to be yours,” your husband says then, voice strained with emotion. “In life and in death—”

“—and for all eternity,” you finish breathlessly, raising your tearful gaze to meet his. The vows you had spoken to each other on the night you had bound your souls together, repeated with equal devotion after all this time.

His brow furrows in awe, and he beholds your face as though he cannot believe you are real. Your Ring-bearing hand trembles in his as he raises his other one to your cheek, thumb gently brushing the skin beneath the cut left there by Galadriel. He leans in and kisses the wound, his warm tongue soothing the pain and relishing the taste of you. You feel it too, sweetly coppery, as he then seals his mouth to yours with soul-wrenching tenderness. And you already know, but it still sweeps the floor from underneath your feet each time you are reminded of the full might of your adoration for him. You would crumble to the ground with the force of it, if not for your husband holding you close.

“Wed again,” you murmur as your lips part, lightheaded with bliss. His smile is soft, his knuckles grazing your temple reverently.

“I never imagined you could be even more beautiful than you already were,” he all but whispers, glancing down at the Ring of Power upon your finger. “Yet as my Queen, your radiance is nearly too great to look upon, even for my eyes. All of Middle-Earth shall bow to worship at my beloved’s feet. All shall love you and despair.”

And you shall love to be adored, yet his adoration would forever be the one you cherish most. You are leaning in to taste his lips once more, when the voice of your all-but-forgotten-about foe rudely interrupts.

“The free peoples of Middle-Earth,” Galadriel declares, “will always resist you.”

With a small sigh, you turn to her. She has managed enough strength to sit up sideways, her glare as defiant as ever even as the poisoned wound left by Morgoth’s—by your husband’s crown slowly consumes her. She’s resilient, fearsome and beautiful. Like you.

Now that she is no longer a real threat, you allow yourself a spark of admiration. Sensing your wish, your husband leaves to break away from him and go to her, lowering yourself to one knee so you meet her at her level.

“I could yet help you heal,” you offer mercifully, knuckles grazing her jawline as she flinches away. “You could yet pledge your allegiance to your King and Queen.”

“Not while I still breathe,” she spits the words obstinately. Predictably.

It seems you’ll still have need of your sword after all.

“This is a waste, truly,” you say, and mean it. “You would have made a great ally.”

Galadriel frowns, as if contemplating your words. “Perhaps,” she admits. “You, on the other hand...” She leans close to you, and hisses in your face, “...would have made a dreadful Queen.”

‘Would have’? You’re about to tell her you already are Queen, and always will be. A taunting smirk is already tugging at your lips—

—quickly snuffed out by a sharp pain, deep in your chest. Jaw slack, eyes wide, you look down to find Galadriel’s hand there, gripping the hilt of the dagger she has plunged into your heart. Nothing but a small blade, most likely conjured from some hidden pocket in her garments whilst you and your husband had been absorbed in each other, and which she had concealed within her sleeve since—it hardly matters. It all happens too quickly for your husband to reach you, and it’s distraction enough that all you can do is gasp as Galadriel grabs you by the shoulders and, with her last of her strength, pulls you over the edge of the cliff along with herself.

Your name, roared out by your beloved, is the last thing you hear as you fall.

*****

You’re alive.

Barely.

You exist somewhere between wakefulness and oblivion, the sounds around you distant and pain threatening to greet you once you have returned to your full senses—if you ever will. But a touch of your husband’s godly nature has resided within you ever since you bound yourself to one another in marriage, and so your form endures, your mind alert enough to serve you even as you lie broken on the ground.

“She should be healed,” a voice says, and you recognize it—king Gil-galad, no doubt come to recover Galadriel from where she must be lying close to you. “And made to face judgement for her treachery.”

There is another presence, yet closer to you. As a hand touches your neck, fingers pressing to your pulse point, you grasp at every last sliver of your power to conjure one small, but vital illusion.

The hand leaves you.

“I agree,” you hear Elrond say. “But she is dead already.”

Relieved and utterly spent, before long you are lost to the world once more.

*****

Your name, whispered softly by your beloved, is the first thing you hear as you wake up.

The next is your own weak moan, pain spreading through your body as feeling returns to you. The room to which you open your eyes is, thankfully, low-lit—you doubt they could handle anything else. But all that truly matters is that you are met with your husband’s gaze, relieved and endlessly caring as he sits at your side, leaning over you.

“Shh,” he cooes, caressing the crown of your head as a tear slides down your temple. “This too shall pass, for I will look after you as you did me in my time of need. I’m here, my love,” he murmurs, pressing his lips to your forehead. “I’m here.”

The pain mercifully dulls once again, most likely your husband’s doing. This time, you are at peace as you drift away.

*****

It isn’t pain, but warmth and comfort that greets you when you next wake. Your limbs are still weak, your body made heavy with a dull ache all over, but the familiar feeling of being cradled in your husband’s arms overshadows the lingering discomfort. Your head is resting on his chest, and, in natural reflex, you nuzzle into him, lips searching for his skin and pressing to his neck.

“My love,” he greets softly, his pulse a pleasant thrum beneath your mouth. “You are awake at last.”

You lift your head, wincing at the stiffness in your neck, and look into your husband’s eyes. “Did I keep you waiting terribly long?” you ask, finding the strength to work a trace of playfulness into your tired voice. Something in his gaze breaks in the face of it.

“Unbearably so,” he replies in earnest.

There’s no response you find within you other than to press a light kiss to his lips, reassuring yourself that this is real. After, you allow him to carefully maneuver you so that you are both sitting up against the headboard, with you still tucked into his side.

“You are nearly recovered, my love,” he says as you grimace and shift, looking for a comfortable position for your aching joints, “but your strength will return with time. Until then...”

He offers you his hand, his black blood already spilled from a cut in the palm of it. It’s fresh, different from the one he had used to provide the false mithril for the Nine. This sacrifice he has made for you alone, to mend his beloved piece by piece. You don’t need him to explain all of this—you simply offer him a grateful smile as you cradle his hand in yours and bring it to your lips, kissing it almost as you would his mouth as you gather his blood with your tongue.

“There,” he says hoarsely, eyes fluttering shut with the great pleasure of feeling you consume him, any part of him. “Take my strength,” he urges, cradling your head as you drink from him. “Make it yours, my love.”

The effect may be temporary, but the relief is instant. You pull away, sighing pleasantly as you wipe your thumb over any lingering droplets of blood on your lips, and lick those off your finger as well. You feel almost as new, as if you had never even taken a blade to the heart and a shattering fall.

The memory sends a jolt through your chest. Instinctively, you bring your hand to it, looking down at the place where Galadriel had managed to stab you. The wound has been healed, but the spark of rage is kindled within you once more. And it grows into a wildfire when you notice your horribly bare finger.

“Where’s Nenya?” You scramble from your husband’s arms and off the bed, gripped by a sudden, blind panic. “Where’s my Ring?” you demand, nearly a growl. His gaze becomes grim.

“The Elves took it back,” he says darkly, standing to face you. You huff out a furious breath. So, Galadriel succeeded, then. She recovered the Ring, even if it meant taking all of you along with it. Even if she was risking her own death.

You sincerely hope she survived the fall and the wound inflicted by your husband’s crown. Otherwise, you would have no revenge to look forward to.

“And Eregion?” you ask, scrambling for some victory to which to cling in your rage. “Our army? What of it?”

“We are in Eregion,” your husband tells you, adding proudly, “what is left of it. As for our armies... nearly all Middle-Earth is ours for the taking.”

“Nearly?” you frown.

“The Elves have used the Three to create a sanctuary beyond my reach.” His voice drips bitterness. But as he steps to you, taking your hand in his, he seems more disturbed than vengeful. “Had I found that they had taken you there... where I could not follow...”

You soften, then, your anger tamed by the torment in his gaze as he trails off. You wonder if, within this sanctuary of the Elves protected by the light of the Three, you could still feel your husband’s dark soul caressing yours even from afar. The thought that you might not, that you had been at risk of suffering such an appalling emptiness, is sickening.

“It is well, then,” you say, chasing away the dread of what might have been, “that I led Elrond to believe I was dead. That is why they took only Galadriel.”

“My love.” Your husband smiles, pride swelling in his eyes as he cups your cheek. “Clever and fierce, even as you lay broken.”

“I knew you would find me,” you say simply, as if nothing more had been needed. But then you sigh, and take hold of his wrist, lowering his hand from your face. “But our victory is not yet complete,” you say sullenly. “The Three are free of your influence and beyond our reach.”

“Do not despair, my love,” he is quick to reassure. “The Seven have known my touch. We have the Nine. And very soon...” Something sparks in his eyes, cunning and mysterious. “...we shall have more.”

You raise a brow, intrigued. “More?”

He nods, brow knitting slightly as he begins to explain. “You told me it did not sit well with you that I had used only my blood in the making of the Nine. You were right, my love,” he admits. His gaze drops to your hands, his thumb brushing over the empty spot where Nenya had been. “And so,” he says, locking his gaze with yours, “it shall be with your blood and mine combined that we will forge the Two.”

The words linger in the air, ominous and captivating even before you fully grasp their meaning.

“Two Rings,” your husband continues, wrapping your hands in his and bringing them to his chest, where you feel his heart beat as furiously as yours as he speaks. “Born of our flesh and love, inextricably intertwined with one another. Whose power shall be as fierce and eternal as the devotion between you and I, greater than that of all the other Rings. Great enough to bind them in the darkness we share, and to rule them all. One for their King...”

“One for their Queen,” you whisper, the words falling from your lips as if they had always been there. Always locked behind your tongue, written in your fate, meant to be spoken in this very moment. This feeling, the things of which he speaks—it is all so intoxicating, a design too perfect in its terrible splendour to imagine it being brought into existence.

“Is that possible?” you ask, cautiously.

“If it is not... then we shall make it.”

And when he says it like that, gazing so deeply and so fiercely into your eyes, you believe him.

“Will you join me in this act of creation, my love?” your husband beseeches, so desperately hopeful. “Will you stand at my side?”

There is only one answer that could ever leave your lips. But first, you lean in and capture his in a deep, ravenous kiss, the taste of him both remedy and fuel to the delirium surging within you.

Creation. Not meant for Elves, or Dwarves, or Men. Not crafted through the deception of Celebrimbor, or even so much as with another’s aid. The very embodiment of your entwined souls, brought into being and meant to be worn by you and your beloved only.

The fruit of your union.

You break apart, opening your eyes to find the same all-consuming desire reflected in your husband’s. And once again, you speak the vow that shall very soon become inscribed upon the gold of the Two.

“For all eternity.”

Previous fic with same reader -> Defied

[kakushino]

hello can i get a giyuu x reader angst , like where giyuu had an argument with the reader , but it turns out the reader is pregnant? you can add any other plot twist cus i love plot twists thank you !<3

Almost

Tomioka Giyuu x Fem! Reader

He had lost a lot of people in his life by his own making. He refused to lose you too.

Tags: pregnancy, arguments, blood mention, abortion mention (no actual abortion), hurt/comfort Word count: 2k

Masterlist

AN: Hope you enjoy it! I actually had a WIP of an argument + making up before, so I got to revisit it and add the pregnancy spice you asked for hehe~ Huge thanks to my dearest beta reader @glitchtricks94 for helping me clear it up (o゜▽゜)o☆ another huge thanks to @starrierknight for brainstorming with me

Giyuu’s injuries weren’t worse than normal, but that didn’t stop you from fretting over him – especially when he had a gash on his cheek, the same cheek you kissed a week ago when he was leaving for his mission. It made your chest feel tight to see his pretty face marred by demons. Your grandmother was surely rolling in her grave that such a classical beauty was hurt, the thought spurred you on to care for him.

No detail went unnoticed under your eye. He seemed tired, as usual, and a little stressed, as usual too - just a regular morning after slaying demons.

You sat him down at a western style dining table with a medical kit and supplies to clean the cuts with next to you. Your hands shook slightly when the damp cloth wiped away grime and blood, your lips pressed together when a fresh drop of blood oozed from the wound.

“You need to be more careful,” you murmured as you worked, the statement automatic, thoughtless.

Giyuu’s whole body stiffened. “Or what?”

You froze in place, your hand dipping the cloth in warm water. This was a new tone of his – a new way words could cut you if he wanted you to hurt: it was rough, serrated, mean. “What?”

He rolled his shoulders back a little, rearing for a fight. “You heard me the first time.”

You clenched your hand, leaving the rag in the water, and turned to fully face him. “Why are you so defensive? I meant no harm,” you replied, trying to calm the storm before it fully set in.

He stood abruptly, nearly knocking the chair he had sat in over. The look he shot you sent your heart galloping in your chest, from fear or indignation, you didn’t know. “You’ve done enough. Leave me be.”

Did he like you like this? Was the hurt in your eyes enough? That was – did he like the way it glinted, the way it caught the light? Hours upon hours spent on making your suffering pretty, and perhaps now it would pay off. He could cut you down into something pretty if he wanted to, and maybe you would let him.

Before he could walk away, before he could twist the rusty blade, you rose from your seat, “I have done nothing to warrant this tone with me, Tomioka Giyuu. Now tell me-“

"Stop bothering me," he cut you off, heading towards the door.

A violent whirlpool of emotion threatened to drown you, and for once, you let go. “You- you oaf! I can’t stand you being like this! What’s wrong?”

“Nothing is wrong. Everything is perfect,” he snapped, voice like a viper and words just as stinging. “Or at least it would be if I didn’t have you nagging me every time. I’ve been through this enough to know what to do with myself. Unlike you who sits here all pretty and safe and fat, ready to wrap a bandage and call it a day.”

You flinched, for the first time in your husband’s presence, tears springing from your eyes, which you rapidly blinked away. What have I ever done to deserve this? You had waited on your hands and knees for this man every time he’d come home battered and bruised and broken and put him back together, without complaining, with love. This was what you got in return for your devotion? Pretty and useless. That’s what he basically called you.

Your throat tightened. You hardly had the energy to respond so you turned away and just… left. You couldn’t continue listening to Giyuu when he sounded so much like… like Shinazugawa. Whatever was bothering him best be left alone to cool off before you could talk about it.

You nodded to yourself as you packed an overnight bag. Some time apart would be good for you both. You knew he wouldn’t be sent out on a mission for a few days again, since he just returned from a longer stint, so you would come back tomorrow and try to resolve it then.

It was time for a check-up with a midwife anyway.

He had really said all that.

And you left.

Your eyes filled with tears, and you left, as you should. He had treated you like garbage.

There was no going back, no taking back his idiocy, no swallowing back his words.

‘Let's stop fighting’ was at the tip of his tongue. ‘Come here and let me hug you’ nearly spilled from his lips. ‘I'm sorry, I'm so so sorry’ choked him up as you walked away.

He knew you were right. You did nothing wrong.

He felt nothing.

He was worth nothing.

Giyuu picked up the shards of his heart up and finished cleaning up his wounds. A short bath later, he walked into the kitchen to find food already made for him, now long gone cold. It just reminded him how much he butchered his relationship by what – stress and tiredness? A demon taunting him right before its death? If so little shook him up, did he even deserve to be with you?

A sharp pain pierced his heart at the thought of leaving you. His selfishness truly knew no bounds, hurting you and putting you in danger for being a Hashira’s partner yet wanting you to remain by his side.

After eating his portion, he made tea and waited to see if you would join him. There was no movement in the house at all; were you in your shared bedroom, laying in bed as you were used to when upset? He would give you time to cool off, give himself time to breathe, and then he would approach you with a clearer head. He needed to apologize.

One hour. Two hours.

Had he angered you so much that you wouldn’t come out? Your spats had never lasted this long.

The tea had long grown cold, but Giyuu couldn’t bring himself to make more. There were no sounds coming from the house.

Were you even here?

The thought jolted him from his seat, quickly walking to your shared bedroom.

“Love?”

Nothing.

“I’m coming in.”

He somehow expected it, though he’d hoped against it. You weren’t there.

Already turning to check all other rooms, he called out your name. His pace was brisk, his throat starting to clog up with a familiar emotion. Claws of anxiety sunk into his stomach, his heart beat like a drum, his lungs struggled to take in air. You weren’t there.

Where were you?

He ran through the whole estate and back two times but came up with no clue as to where you were. Panic mounted, crawling up his spine like a spider he couldn’t shake away.

Giyuu slammed the gate of his home open, very nearly running into his elderly neighbour.

She was hardly phased, though confused by his frazzled visage. “Tomioka-san? What’s got you in such a hurry, young boy?”

“Have you seen my wife?!” he’d never been as rude as he was now, but you were gone so what was he supposed to do?

“Your wife? Oh, that’s right, I saw her. If I recall, she was on her visit… hmm, who was she going to visit?” his neighbour mused. Giyuu waited with all the patience Urokodaki beat into him, that was – quite impatiently. “Oh right! A midwife! I was very surprised when-“

He stopped listening, or rather, he stopped hearing anything going on around him. A midwife? A midwife was a profession with a very specific set of skills for a very specific group of people… Did that mean-?

“Isotani-san,” Giyuu interrupted, breathless, eyes wide with surprise. “Are you saying my wife is pregnant?”

She squinted at him, “You didn’t know?”

It felt as if lightning came from clear skies and struck him. Every nerve itched with some kind of energy telling him to move.

He later vaguely remembered asking his neighbour for the direction you left in, but at the time, he saw nothing, and felt everything all at once.

Were you going to… terminate it? Were you going to tell the midwife, and would she terminate it? Was the midwife going to terminate it and help you move on? Would you move on without him?

Thoughts racing, heart galloping, Giyuu felt feverish. He stumbled back, deaf to his neighbour’s concerned questions as he turned the way you had left just hours ago. One foot in front of the other, a step by step, getting faster with each meter he passed until he was running nearly as fast as Uzui, desperation spurring him on.

Kanzaburo flew overhead, and when he cleared the village bounds, he called out to get the crow to lead him to you.

Time was of the essence. He may have botched his life, but he was too selfish to let go of you. He wanted, no- needed to get you back. You were his love, his soul, his home. He wouldn’t be able to go on if you left.

He felt crazed, desperate, as he ran.

Giyuu would have been faster had he not have to follow Kanzaburo but he wouldn’t be able to find you alone. He felt as if he was racing against the time. Any minute now, you would be in a the midwife’s home, waiting for the release from his clutches; any second now, you would sever the only tactile link you had to him – your baby.

His baby.

He swore, his mind supplementing him with your argument. It had been all his fault, he’d just lashed out because of nothing, like a toddler throwing a tantrum. How childish he’d been – and he was supposed to be a father? No, he wanted to be a father. He’d fix himself and he’d support you and he’d even carry you your whole pregnancy, so you didn’t have to walk. He’d learn to cook more than the basics to feed you and your baby.

Please, let me be in time.

Then he saw you.

The whole world seemingly froze, grey and empty save for you.

You were a pearl amongst rocks, still as beautiful as the first day he saw you, as beautiful as you were on your wedding day.

Giyuu didn’t stop, even as you turned to him in surprise when he called your name. He didn’t stop until he had you in a soul-crushing hug, tight and near bruising – one he immediately eased up on, since he didn’t want to hurt you.

“Calm down, Giyuu! What’s going on?”

“D-don’t-“ he stumbled over his words, still frantic and breathing heavily, “don’t get rid of it!”

You were confused, “Get rid of what?”

His hands were heavy clutching onto your clothes, his frame nearly hanging onto you. “Our – our child,” he gasped out. “Isotani-san told me you were- she told me you were pregnant.” His words came out in a rush, eyes wide as he stared at you, his pupils darted all over your face for a sign of – of anything, be it forgiveness, anger, sadness, anything.

Looking at him in such a state, near quivering in his spot, you felt powerful. Giyuu was at your mercy for once. You could topple him as easily as a sandcastle, crush him under your boot and grind down to juice him of all that made him who he was. It made you realize you held just as much power over him as he did over you. Oddly, you felt reassured - of his love, of your love, of the relationship. 

Heart hammering in your chest, cheeks filling with warmth, the adoration you carried in your heart spilled over and pooled in your stomach. You hungered for more of this power, positively starved to sink your teeth into him and drain him.

But that could wait.

“I am indeed pregnant,” you confirmed, your hands resting on his arms, thumbs stroking soothing lines over his muscles. You paused, letting the seconds painfully stretch out, “I’m not terminating the pregnancy.”

His whole being sagged with relief. Giyuu fell to his knees in slow motion, his hands sliding down your yukata to rest over your hips, now clutching the fabric there with a weak grip. “Thank gods…” he rasped out, his breathing stuttered as if holding back sobs. “Please, love, let’s not- I apologize – I apologize for everything. I shouldn’t have lashed out. I was wrong…”

His impossibly blue eyes met yours, the surface glistening with unshed tears, his guilt bitter but his plea tasting sweet on your tongue. Saliva gathered in your mouth, wanting more.

Did that make you a bad person?

“You dismissed my concern,” you stated, fighting back any expression wanting to take over your face. “You said I nag you. You called me useless.” And pretty, your mind supplied. He’d also called you fat, so there was that. “I didn’t deserve that.”

Giyuu’s lips were downturned, “You didn’t. I was an oaf.” His admission did nothing to soothe the ache he’d given you. “I’m willing to take whatever punishment you deem worthy of my misdeeds.” He let go of your yukata, smoothing over the wrinkles he made. He didn’t know what to do with himself, trying not to fidget as you rolled his actions and words in your mind.

“There will be no punishment,” you told him. If possible, he became even more tense, the need for absolution great. Perhaps no punishment would be a punishment of itself. “But don’t think you’re entirely forgiven. I accept your apology; you however have to make up for it your own way.” You studied his earnest expression, brows slightly furrowed as he started thinking about ways to win you back. It shouldn’t be too hard. He did it once, he could do it again.

Giyuu slowly stood up, taking your hands in his. ��I won’t disappoint you, love,” he said resolutely, kissing your fingertips softly. He adored you, with his whole heart, mind and body.

Everything would work out – just like the ice always melts and clouds disperse, a typhoon passes and the sea calms.

“If you pull this act again, I’m leaving.” You glared at him for a second to get your point across. Giyuu nodded and pulled you in for a sweet kiss.

He almost lost you and he wouldn’t make the same mistake again.

Thanks for reading! Reblog or comment if you liked it :3

Networks: @enchantedforest-network @themovingcastlez

[lovelykhaleesiii]

hi there! would you be up to writing smut

Dark!Aemond? something for example with age difference, daddy kink, corruption kink, degradation and breeding? If you are comfortable then Reader could be a Targaryen what would be great but if you aren't comfortable then Stark is perfect too

Twisted, Beautiful Minds.

PAIRING: Dark!Aemond Targaryen x fem!Niece!Reader

WORDS: 2,677.

WARNINGS: mentions of warfare/murder, mentions of death-threats, swearing, degradation kink, choking, Daddy kink, corruption kink, breeding kink, manipulation, narcissistic tendencies, male oral receiving [cock sucking], mentions of p in v sexual intercourse.

A/N - you know I'm always down for some dark!Aemond... I want to also dedicate this piece, as a small bday gift to my wonderful friend Mar @aemondsmoon you have been an absolute light for me on this hellsite, and one of my dearest friends... thank you for always being there for me, and thank you for being you. you are an absolute gem, don't ever change. ilysm! 🤍

The turmoil and toils of war had finally come to an end, when Aegon the Elder, your Uncle, had commanded Sunfyre to set your beloved mother, Rhaenyra, and younger brother, Aegon III, to death by dragonfire. Your heart shattered, and mind numb, you were certain your own death was imminent in the moments after: at the very least, your Uncle would punish you with a dragonrider's death... Yet that would not be the case at all.

It seemed other plans had been set in stone. Chained and escorted by the Kingsguard to return to King's Landing once more, where you had only days previous, fled in fear, were you welcomed by the cold stares of the "Green" Council. Your chains removed, as neither the King nor his Mother, had seen you as a threat, you felt no purpose to resist nor to fight back... Your family dead, your will had died along with them.

"Fetch for Aemond. Tell my younger brother that his betrothed has returned."

His stern words felt incomprehensible in your thoughtless mind, lagging to understand the notion. You felt a cool, chill course through your weak body, rigid as though you had turned to stone, and yet, you were still breathing, still ever so present. No one had consulted you on such plans or schemes. And you were certain that Aemond himself would definitively refuse to marry the daughter of a traitor [as you presumed he would justify]. Your Uncle, Aemond, was a formidable man, fought against your late father, and had emerged the victor... And as the war, and the recent imprisoned days had taken its toll on you, your eyes darkened with the lack of sleep, unable to eat a crumb of bread, you did not look as you once had in your frivolous court, as he had once remembered you.

Although, as he sauntered into the room with such poise and stature, a certain charisma of that of a victor oozing about him, with not a single word exchanged, other than a devious smirk supplanted across his once serious face...It seemed there was more to the union than meets the eye.

Since your captive return to King's Landing, a place in which you had once considered your home, felt nothing more foreign. The stone sand walls that you had walked and run through as a child, now looked strange, the unfamiliar symbols of the Seven proudly hung around every available wall and space, gave an ominous feel. The halls seemed less brighter, even during the break of day, with the sunlight blatant in the sky, you instinctively felt as though a shadow lurked around every corner, attentive to your every move.

Dragonless, and defenceless, you were less of a threat than the younger Princess, Jahaera. The King and his Council had deemed you stable enough to roam the castle grounds freely, with a close knight in pursuit, only to ensure your own "protection" [as Aegon would admit that Aemond insisted], although you saw it more as means to deter you from being tempted to run away.

Regardless, Aemond had not spoken a word to you since hearing of the betrothal. He attended dinners with you in sight, although you rarely spoke yourself, mostly pleading and bickering with Alicent to remain in the desolate confines of your chambers. She was incessant about you joining the family, as the union was to be set in a moon's turn.

He dared not even to sit beside you: constantly at opposing ends. Although, there were rare occasions you had caught the younger Prince, brazenly staring at you with his one good eye. Unapologetically, his full attention spanned towards you, even if he had noticed you had become aware, he did not cease gawking.

Something about his looming gaze made you feel uneasy, very much on edge: a dark tinge to his violet eye, his pupils darkened as they seemed dilated. It inevitably made your stomach churn, only forcing you to resign in defeat, often excusing yourself to bed.

And often you were left undisturbed to recluse in your chambers... Although tonight, it seemed you were not alone in your ventures.

Retracing the exact steps you would take most nights, often on your lonesome return to your quarters: this time there was an accompanying sound in the distance, echoing down the hallway behind you. Heavy footsteps that caught your immediate attention. Slowly panning around, the shimmer of his lengthy, silver hair against the pale moonlight that peaked through the open crescents of the corridor, was alluring to your eye. Halting in your tracks, your breath hitched against your throat, all in trepidation, as Aemond effortlessly caught up with you in a few short strides. This was the closest he had ever truly come up to you, his towering height against you, made him even more daunting face to face.

"Running off to bed again, I see. And why is that?"

The sudden eruption of his deep, low voice breaking the stillness of the castle passage, startled you uneasily. You had exchanged many words and conversations with your elder Uncle before, during an ancient time long before the Dance had spurred. Although, the dynamics had inevitably changed, blood had been shed viciously and cruel words spat. Despite the same Valyrian blood coursing through your veins as of your betrothed, you felt solitary in their surrounding presence.

"I-I lost my appetite, U-Uncle. I wish to retire for the night," You aimlessly stutter, too weak to hold eye contact with Aemond, whose gaze remained fixated on you. His vibrant lilac orb luring over every inch of your timid body.

"Do you think it wise to roam the castle your lonesome self? Has the war not taught you otherwise? Is my niece still that same stupid, little whore I have known?"

His harsh remarks shadowed by that familiar, sly grin struck across his slim face, was plenty to furnace an incoming reaction from you, your blood boiling beneath your tender skin.

"Ah- tongue tied now, princess? Have I struck a chord with you, hmm? Mayhaps you are as weak as your father was... Now, how would he feel knowing you are to marry me? That I'll fuck his little girl, like the common whores he saw."

Your mind had no correlation to your hand, and yet the simmering rage that blistered through your body sent your mind to abyss. The small palm of your hand, strikingly latched across Aemond's face furiously. And yet, although a sharp stinging sensation poured across your hand, Aemond remained unfazed and sturdy. It seemed you had smacked the grin across his face, and in its stead, that familiar, unnerving dark tinge in his eyes scorned across at you.

Before you knew it, Aemond gripped your sides firmly, forcing your body forward, as he harshly shoved you against the cold, stone wall.

"You think that wise, whore? After the mercy I fucking showed you. I could have your fucking hand for that, or worse your head. My pretty wife's head on a spike, I'll have it right outside my window."

The cruelty that oozed from his precise lips was relentless. You wanted to burst into tears or more, burst into flames there and then...

"Do you know how long I have waited to have you under my very touch? All the sacrifices I made, the arguments I fought against my own Council to keep you alive? Ungrateful fucking bitch. Did your Daddy not teach you to be a good, obedient girl?"

One of Aemond's calloused, rough hands reached up hastily, his long fingers wrapping just so lightly around your throat, as his thumb gently stroked at your lips. His viable eye ogling tentatively over your mouth, smacking his lips innately.

"I'm your fucking Daddy now. Teach you how to be a proper lady, and a good fucking wife. I'm going to fuck that pretty pussy of yours, till you are dripping of me. I'll have you begging like a pathetic, stupid whore. I'll fuck you till I have heirs of my own, till I see fit that you have disgraced your extinct, traitorous bloodline."

"A-Aem, U-Uncle-" You breathlessly whimper in fear: freshly, swelled tears glaze your vision, as they begin to clear with each shedding streak.

"What did I just fucking say? I'm not your Uncle anymore, bitch. I'm your fucking Daddy. You would be helpless without me. Probably dead without my doing. You fucking owe me."

"Y-Yes-" Another breathless whimper, although Aemond's grip loosened, his other hand began to slowly move its way over towards your breast. His uninjured eye moving in motion with his hand, eagerly wandering over your bust. That same, very hand, began to keenly grope at your plush side, kneading at your breast tenderly, it felt foreign and sensitive under his strange touch.

"All fucking mine... Finally. Did you really think, I would let some insolent lord have you to himself? I'd start a war for you, I won the war for you. And now you're going to repay me, just so-"

A mindless moan flew out of your wet lips, catching you abruptly by surprise, and by the looks of it Aemond, as his blackened pupil dilated with a ravenous hunger, his ears pricking and leaning forward in delight.

"I'll have you moaning for more, precious. Now on your fucking knees-"

Even with the hatred that roared deep within your belly, you felt reluctant to retaliate, as you knew Aemond would effortlessly overpower you. As he had in your youth, when you were caught in a brawl with him, often ending with him wrestling you to the ground. And after his detailed spill of such vile threats, you dared not to risk the second chance of life, you had been granted.

Your knees hit the concrete floor with some brutality, although you regained from the ache. As you steadied your propped position, your hands gripping tightly at Aemond's slim waist, he began to undo his grey, washed out trousers.

The sheer sight of his cock, was intense enough to have you questioning whether you could even take him. Although slim in girth, his length was extraordinary. A reddened tip just oozing lusciously with a white, clear film glistening over the crown.

"Suck Daddy real good, bitch. Show me that, that mouth has other good uses than for talking back."

Your attention lurking from below, dropping from Aemond's face to his cock and back up once more to his face: the sudden change in his mood shifting was palpable. The momentary, light-hearted look of ecstasy dismantled as a cold, unsettling gaze resumed across his handsome face, lingering over your kneeled state.

"Make me fucking repeat myself one more time, whore and I'll treat you worse than a whore. I'll have you forget that you are a Targaryen princess."

Aemond's large hands found their way at the base of your skull, teasingly stroking your loose strands away from your face, within a few seconds the sudden shove towards him, left you physically speechless. Your mouth slightly agape, was enough for Aemond's stiffened, pulsating tip to propel its way into your tight mouth. The friction of his hard cock against your silky, warm flesh inside, was enough to set Aemond's breathing into a speedy pace. Lean chest heaving, the mindless groaning on his behalf was somewhat alluring. You had never seen nor heard such sounds or vulnerability in Aemond before.

"F-Fuck, that feels so fucking good- Just as I prayed to the Gods. I'm going to make your mouth so numb, so fucking filthy of me, you'll be tasting me still in the months to come."

No coherent words exchanged from below his waist, only muffled moans and breath hitches, as you sulked with crave. As much as it infuriated you, pained you to admit, the feeling of Aemond's rigid, throbbing cock in your mouth, was elevating. You had to admit, in your youth, previous to the blood that had been shed, you had a childhood feverish crush on your elder Uncle, although thought it unlikely that anything would flourish from it.

"Seven Hells. Such a pretty whore, with a pretty mouth. J-Just the p-prettiest whore in the Seven Kingdoms."

With each plunge, rhythmically bobbing backwards and forwards, the raw taste of Aemond's cum, tastefully filling your mouth to capacity, as a mixture of his reside and your own saliva oozed from your crevices. The dreading thought of being caught in such a contentiously vulnerable position, especially before being wedded, was disturbing enough, for you were not yet widely favoured by the Council...

"Ughh- Swallow and get up, whore."

Self-disgust stirred nauseatingly in the pit of your gut, as you reluctantly devoured small mouthfuls of Aemond's load, almost convincing yourself you would retch it all up in a matter of seconds. Much to your relief, you remained poised, meekly wiping away the mess across your lips, shying away from Aemond's unmoving regard. As you regained your normal pace of breathing, Aemond lent a hand over, grasping your undivided attention. With such ease, Aemond aided you, lifting you up to stand, before confining you closely between the wall and his heated body once more, closing whatever space was made between.

"Now let's see what that cunt has to offer."

His skilful hands hiking your layered gown up, making way for his arms to snake around your bare thighs, lifting you idly off the ground.

"Can't wait till the wedding to tarnish you, I've waited long enough."

A sudden bolt of lightening pain shot from within your inner thighs, as your tight walls stretched out ceaselessly to accommodate, as Aemond shoved his rigid cock inside. Your back flattened against the sandstone wall, its texture rough against the delicate silk of your gown. Burying his length deeper and deeper with each harsh thrust, his heavy balls collided with your silky folds as he vigorously pumped himself back and forth. His pace, although rough, remained steady. His raw, sensitive tip pummelling at your cervix, felt scorching inside your lower belly.

"And if I fuck you so good, that you begin to swell with my child... What would your dead family think of their precious daughter then, huh? These tits belong to me now, and the mother's milk that comes with it. Your entire being belongs to me now. That babe in your belly will be all because of me, and you'll fucking love every bit of it."

"I-I owe you my l-life, D-Daddy-"

The words mindlessly slipped from you lips, and yet it felt instinctual to say. As Aemond's mouth lapped at the sensitive crook of your neck, you felt the smirk of his grin against your skin, his sharp teeth faintly biting at your soft flesh.

"That's right, baby. That's so right my needy, little slut. You have a Daddy now that can really take care of you, protect you... Love you."

The epitome of his words, the calm depth in his voice, had reached its glorifying peak, as Aemond's hot load shot up directly into you, reverently coating your insides. Like some royal orchestra in unison to his final thrust, did a growling moan escape his lips, followed by an whisper of a swear. Leaning his exhausted, heavier mass over you, as he safely guided your legs back down to the surface, his breath densely hot against your ear, his outstretched palms cladded against the wall for support.

"Clean yourself up, Y/N... Wouldn't want anyone else to see you as the whore that you are, and get any ideas-"

His heavy breathing made his voice less formidable and more husky. Eyeing over your form, as you once more scoured and polished up the mess he made between your thighs, with the inner layer of your gown. You simply nodded in response to his demand, before hastily attempting to rush back to the confines of your quarters.

Yet, a firm pull tugged at your elbow, causing you to halt in your tracks, unavoidably.

"I will seek you out again tonight... Be ready for me."

general taglist - @chompchompluke @fan-goddess @malfoytargaryen @hightowhxre @bibli0thecary @m1ndbrand @connorsui @elegantsplendour @randomdragonfires @sylasthegrim @arcielee @s-we-e-t-t-ea @sahvlren @aemondtargaryensrider @watercolorskyy @hypnos-daughter-certified @urmomsgirlfriend1 @backyardfolklore @snowprincesa1 @aegonslawyer

Aemond taglist - @megatardisbaby @harrypotteranna23-blog

credit for divider - @/itbmojojoejo

[jyoongim]

An old request i thought i would try

————————————————————————————————

Human Alastor x demon!wife reader

FLUFF

————————————————————————————————-

Something was off about you.

Alastor just couldn’t put his finger on it.

He loved you dearly, he married you after all but there was just something uncanny about you.

You were obsessed with listening to the crime reports on the radio, relished in it. He would often catch you smiling in malicious glee at the gruesome details.

You weren’t like most women when he revealed that he was the cause of most of the murders in your town.

You asked him for details, even if you could go with him to see how he killed his victims.

Being the gentleman he was he refused, saying that blood and brains were nothing a pretty thing like yourself should see.

And for a time you listened.

Until he wasn’t back for dinner.

———————————————————————————

You caught scent of blood on the wind and followed it.

You knew Alastor had said he would be out ‘hunting’ tonight and that he would done quickly, but your husband was late and it made you worry.

The sound of a sharp cry greeted your ears and you ran through the woods to see your husband on the ground. His victim had his shovel raised above his head to hit him again and you saw red.

————————————————————————————-

He should have finished him off when he had the chance, but he wanted to taunt the man. He had underestimated his strength and canny as the man had gotten loose of his restraint and whacked him over the head with his shovel.

His head spun as he looked to the night sky and the only think he could think of was what were you making for dinner.

”Hope you burn in hell you pyscho” the man said as he raised the shovel and Alastor smirked.

How ironic.

The forest grew cold and a chitter rang through the air.

Fear not my love, Ill handle it that sounded like your voice

But how?

The sound of the shovel dropped to the ground as the man whipped around.

A pair of red eyes stared at him and the shadowy figure of a grotesque beast emerged for the trees.

You let out a thunderous growl as you approached the man, your eyes shifting to Alastor to make sure he was alright.

He was breathing, but he was severely wounded.

“what the devil are you?” The man whispered frightened.

You flashed your sharp teeth at him, a wide grin on your lips

”Your worst nightmare”

Alastor groaned as he sat up, his head spinning and in pain. He saw a large creature loom over him, slowly approaching his now attacker.

It was feminine. Long wild hair, a spiky tail, and beautiful black horns.

You jumped at the man, causing him to scream, but he was soon silenced as your claws ripped him in half.

You clawed and ripped into him, gorging him of his innards and chomping into him. You plucked his beating heart and swallowed it, blood dripping from your lips, marring your face.

You let out a huff and turned around to see Alastor staring at you.

You approached him slowly and a bloody claw reached for his face

”Are you alright dearest?”

He tilted his head in confusion at the question and your form shifted back to normal.

His eyes widened “You’re a …”

You smiled sheepishly “Your kind call us demons, though it is a very broad term”

His eyes searched yours and you feared he would shrink away from you, turn tail and run.

But he smiled at you with that suave smile and leaned into your hand

”just when I thought you couldn’t be more perfect”

You helped him up and began to carry him back home.

”I don’t repulse you?” You asked nervously. You had never intended to let your husband in on your true identity, for fear he would abandon you.

But the lanky man nuzzled into your shoulder “heavens no dear, but that does explain everything”

”Can a human fuck a demon?”

You laughed, your eyes flashing as you looked at him

”Care to find out husband?”

—————————————————————————————-

[atsulovee]

✧ ─ · · KINKTOBER DAY TWO !! · · ─ ✧

To Thee, My Eternal Love

Knife play - Vampire!Dazai x Fem!Reader ➻❥ content warnings: blood, threat of bodily harm and mutilation, implied kidnapping, slight yandere!dazai, period typical misogyny (early 1800s), mentioned abuse. ➻❥ word count: 2.2k ➻❥ notes: this one specifically made me glad i put a 3.5k cap on my word count for kinktober lol. i kept catching myself getting way too wordsy so i had to cut a lot of unneeded stuff.

"The red moon hung heavy in the sky, consuming and tearing every little star in its light. Your husband was slotted between your legs, one hand keeping you leg on his hip and the other pointing the silver dagger at your esophagus. Like the old renaissance paintings of the devil, Dazai was handsome."

“To thee, my eternal love,

Even from so far, I hear the lovely beat of your heart, the alluring race of your pulse. Each night as I wake, your beating heart is all I care to listen for. I have not seen the sun in centuries, nor heard the call of morning roosters, but when the heat of your blood is my replacement, I find I do not mind. 

My beautiful mortal darling, as ephemeral as the petals of a spring flower. I, they call a vampire, a forager of blood, but it is beauty that I seek. Under the cover of darkness, near the churchyard, was when I found you. A muse, an angel, sitting at a grave. So young, so beautiful. I just could not bear letting your beauty be marred and restrained by the common village folk. I knew then you walked in a murky world- one that no one else could understand. You’re far too slight for such burdens. I would carry the world for you, slaughter villages, burn down whomever you ask. It was time to strike, for love could not wait. You fought, and you cried, relieved to be rid of mortal plights. 

I am not the monster you wish to believe I am. My undead heart has not beat in centuries- however, when I am with you, I feel the faintest tremors of a pulse. I’ll live a long time yet, my dear, and I could not bear an eternity without you. The day you die will be the day I’m destined to wander this world more helpless and alone than I have ever been. I’ll call your name to the moon at night, knowing there will be no answer.

And that is why I must never let you pass on from this world. 

Your Darling, Dearest, Dead, Osamu Dazai.”

. . .

To be the perfect doll is to be quiet, docile, and moldable. To be a wife is to be the same. A delicate puppet on silk strings, meant to be taken care of, meant to bend to every will and whim of their man. 

Cursed with your womb, you are all but a fully autonomous person in the eyes of the masses. A woman in the early 1800s has one duty to her family- marry young and above your social standing. Never step a foot out of line and never pull at your own strings. 

You were his- irrevocably, incredibly, dangerously his. Dazai had long made sure of that. 

His hand clasps your own and pins it above your head, a silent command from him to listen as you lie on the satin sheets. In a flurry, your hair splayed across the bed like a halo as blood red light filled the room. To Dazai, you were the light of heaven he was destined to never see. A gift from a God that despised him- perhaps to make up for His transgressions. 

Dazai’s deep, steady breaths puffed against your neck, even as his narrow hips pressed flush against yours. “My darling…” He sighs, never once blinking. Dazai couldn’t stand the idea of taking his eyes off of you for even a second. Each moment, each minute, each hour was so special, so precious. Each second that Dazai dared to spend not gazing upon your beauty was a second wasted. You were human still. And you could so easily leave him, slipping away into eternity.

His hips stilled against yours, the tip of his cock gently kissing your cervix. “My darling.” Dazai nearly whines, leaning forward until his chest pressed against yours just so his lips could gently kiss at your pulse point. Your blood was warm, much like the sun he had not seen in decades, and it was sweet just like the food he could no longer taste. “I adore you.”

Dazai was always a desperate, pitiful man. One who longed for things greater than him and shrunk away when his wishes were fulfilled. But you, his dearest human, was one thing he could never shy away from. 

You were lonely tucked away in his home, but you were safe. There was so much beyond his walls that could harm a human and you were simply not allowed to die by anyone’s hand but his own. 

His cold hand drags up your torso, leaving goosebumps in its wake, and up to your chest. You were so warm, Dazai laughed weakly against your neck as he listened to the heavy beat of your heart. He had no need for you to reciprocate his devotions so long as you stayed alive.

“I adore you, my love. You know that.” Dazai resists the urge to sink his fangs into your exposed neck, pulling himself away to stare at the flush on your cheeks. “I haven't felt such joy in either of my lives- undead or otherwise.” He savored every whine and cry that fell from your colored lips as he slammed his hips in and out of your tight hole. 

His nails bit and tore into your skin, letting droplets of your blood stain the sheets below. You hiccuped and cried every night when he took you to bed, but you no longer fight like you once had. It was a pity, really. Dazai thought you looked especially cute as you kicked and squirmed, trying to fight an inhuman being away. 

You tilt your head to the side, sniffling as Dazai holds you by your hips, forcing you to feel every thick inch as he plunges into you with an obscenely wet noise. Your strangled gasp meshes into a hiss as he punches the air out of your lungs with each thrust.

“Look at me.” Dazai whispers, grabbing your chin and pulling your face towards him. His voice is soft and sweet, a gentle breeze against your lips. But his smile is wide and his grip is bruising. When you fail to raise your eyes, he pulls your hips towards him harshly, forcing you to feel his cock in your stomach. “I will not ask you again.” It’s only when you feel the familiar blade of his dagger pressing against your throat that you dare look at him. 

Crimson light spills into the room like it was a flood. The red moon hung heavy in the sky, consuming and tearing every little star in its light. Your husband was slotted between your legs, one hand keeping you leg on his hip and the other pointing the silver dagger at your esophagus. Like the old renaissance paintings of the devil, Dazai was handsome. In the light, his brown eyes seem to glow mahogany. A horrible, horrible gaze as you don’t dare avert your eyes again.

After a moment, as he studies the look on your face, the resignation, Dazai smiles though he does not lower his blade. “There we go. I missed those pretty eyes, my love. I don’t like when you ignore me.”

As Dazai starts to move his hips once more, he drags his blade down from your throat to in between your breasts and down your sternum.

“You do know why I must keep you here, right?” He begins. “It’s not because I’m cruel and enjoy watching you suffer. There is just so much in the world that could harm you.” Dazai’s pelvis kisses yours each time he pulls out just to stuff you full once again. His thrusts are merciless and rough, one hand planted firmly on your hip, pulling you down on his cock each time he rams it in as the other points his dagger at your heart. “Just as easily as I keep you alive, I could kill you. Isn’t that terrifying?”

His voice is eerily calm and steady, even as wet squelches, gasps, and hisses fill the air. Each thrust muddies your thoughts, filling your mind with nothing but the dopamine of pleasure. It was hard to think, much less hate the man in front of you when he fucked in a way no human could. Then, he sinks the knife into your chest just slightly, enough to split the skin and let small streaks of red make their way down your skin. 

Instinctively, you squirm and whine, desperate to move away as your mind screamed danger but his dagger did not move. It felt like each shuddering inhale and hiccuping exhale would only drive the silver blade further into your chest.

“Calm down.” He mutters, moving the blade from the shallow wound as Dazai leaned down to lie his forehead against yours. He dragged it down your stomach, stopping just above where your womb would rest. “I have no intention to kill you, and you know that. If I had, I would’ve done so long ago. What poor excuse of a husband would ever murder such a darling wife?”

You knew, had learned months ago, what a monster your husband really was. You had made one attempt at escape and you knew to never try such a thing again. Dazai was cruel and vicious with his victims- the poor, innocent people he fed from, but he was so much worse with his love. 

His smile pulled tight as he looked down at you. He had intentions of giving you a second chance only once, if his beloved dared to defy him once more… The night would end with your shared bed soaked in blood as your corpses held one another.

Stakes don’t kill vampires, he had told you that night as he dabbed at the wounds he had inflicted upon you, bloody and weeping. That’s just a silly story that weak humans came up with to make themselves feel stronger. However, silver- something so pure and holy, is just the thing to do the trick. 

“You’re sick.” Your voice wobbles, thick and cracking as your eyes glare up at his. “The only reason you haven’t killed me is because I’m cattle to you.”

“Is that so?” He smiles, stabbing the dagger into the pillow next to your head. Dazai huffs with effort, gritting his teeth, letting his fangs click and clash together as he works open your cunt. “Will you do it, then? Will you try to kill your shepherd? This is the only chance you’ll ever get, darling.”

You spat at him, face flushed red in a way his no longer could, despite the drool wetting your bruised lips. Your rich blood mixed with sweat, streaking down your chest- the mounds bouncing as Dazai grinned.

“Just look at you…” He croons, hand that once held the dagger coming to grip your chin once more. His hand held you with such force, you could see the way his arms flexed. Your once soft skin was marred and littered with blacks, purples, and yellows- with puncture marks from when he had not felt like finding another victim to terrorize. “So precious. I should carve out your womb. No human man would ever want you, then. Even if by some chance of fate, you escape from my clutches, there is not a single person on this earth that will ever consider having you know that you’ve been defiled by me.”

“You’re vile.” You hiss, voice weak and strained. You wanted nothing more than to push your captor away, to reject his advances but such luxuries were fantasy so long as you wanted to live. You clasp your hand over your mouth as Dazai delivers a particularly hard thrust into your cunt, shutting you up. 

Dazai groans, his hand falling away as his desperate thrusts speed up. “I know.” He drawls, “I know. And that’s why I want you. Why I need you.” Dazai pants into your ear, the hot breath contrasting sharply to his cold skin- the chill running down your spine and pushing you closer to him. “Because I’m vile and you’re the best thing to ever happen to me.”

He groans, rolling his hips into yours inch by inch, with the depravity and viciousness of a beast. Desperation ached inside of his bones like a disease, burning and boiling with each thought of you. Dazai loved you so much, he wanted to keep you to himself forever. Wanted to kill you to preserve your memory. Wanted to turn you to make sure he’ll never be alone again. 

As you tilted your head back, walls fluttering around him, he takes his place with his lips on your neck once more. Gently, as he had done a thousand times before, his fangs punctured the delicate flesh. Warm, rich blood pooled into his mouth- only a single drop escaping him. 

Dazai’s thrusts speed up as he gasps, pulling back with bloodied lips. He could barely control himself on the best of days, he’d drain you in but a moment. Each movement made Dazai crave more, the lava pooling in his gut addictive and sweet.

It felt like his cock was molding its shape in your core, truly claiming you as his in the most vile, animalistic way. Everything felt raw, sensitive to the touch. You could barely think, barely breathe with how thoroughly the vampire was drilling your aching cunt. Overwhelmed tears drip off your flushed cheeks as your own incisor threatens to split your lip.

“I need you by my side, my love.” Dazai sighs, kissing down from your temple until he finds the still pulsing wound on your neck. “And so, I must never let you pass on.”

Once more, his fangs find their way into your neck and once more do you feel the gentle cold taking over your body.

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[deadtired-highkeyenergetic]

Nightmares

The start of my Astarion rabbithole begins here...

Summary: You can't sleep without Astarion. Even still, nightmares continue to haunt you but Astarion vows to do all he can to ease your pain.

“Yes darling?” Astarion asks the moment he feels your face collide with his back, lifting his gaze from his book. Your arms wrap around his waist, pressing his body against yours and Astarion will never tell you how much he loves that feeling. No matter what you bribe him with.

You incoherently mumble something in return, burying your face into the back of his shirt.

“I can’t quite make out what you just said, dearest. You’ll have to speak up a bit more,” he bites back a laugh at how you give an angry grumble in response and closes the book, gently prying you off him.

Turning around to face you, he presses a kiss to the top of your head before tilting your chin up so that he can press another kiss to your lips, his cold slender fingers gliding over your warm skin. The tip of his index finger traces along your jawline as he hungrily kisses you deeper, his other hand tangled in your hair.

You kiss him back with equal fervour, eyes closed. His fangs graze your bottom lip, drawing a hint of blood which he immediately licks up, letting out a soft moan at the sweetness that floods his tongue.

“You still have not told me what it is you desire, my sweet,” he nuzzles into your hair, arms wrapped tightly around you. His book lies on the ground long forgotten, all that he can think about is how nice you feel in his embrace, as though you were made for it.

“Cuddle,” you yawn, rubbing your eyes. “Can’t sleep without you.”

“You miss me that much, dearest?” He teases. “Come along then, you need your sleep.” He pretends as though your words haven’t set his ears on fire, that the sudden rush of warmth in his chest wasn’t caused by your proclamation of how much you wanted his presence and gently guides you back to your tent, barely remembering to pick his book up.

Once he’s tucked you into your bedroll, pushing hair out of your face before you start sneezing from the tickles, he removes his tunic and gets comfortable by your side. The moment he lies down, you snuggle up to him, burying your face in his chest. Your body curls up, fitting against his like a puzzle piece.

“Good night, Astarion,” you murmur drowsily.

“Good night, my sweet,” he runs his fingers through your hair, the motion lulling you to sleep like it always does. He relishes in the way your hair smoothly parts for his fingers, the softness of the strands brushing against his skin. Ever since he introduced his hair routine to you, your hair condition had been improving and he was pleased with how much you loved to show it off to him.

It doesn’t take long for you to drift off, lips parting slightly as your chest gently rises and falls with each breath. Astarion enjoys this part of your nightly cuddles the most, it reminds him of why he fights so hard each and every day. If he had to withstand the exhausting hikes, fights and idiocy of the rest of the party just to see the small smile of contentment on your face when you slept, he would do it for an eternity without hesitation. All that mattered to him was that you were happy, safe. Free.

He gently hums a tune he remembers you humming before, resisting the urge to kiss you over and over again, knowing that it would wake you up. His fingers dance along your back, tracing the scars that mar it. He’s long memorised each and every single one of them, whether it be from the passionate nightly activities or simply cuddling, just like tonight. Even though you find them disgusting, he finds them beautiful. They are signs of what has failed to kill you, of what you’ve pulled through. They told those who saw that that you were strong, that you were a survivor.

He finds himself tracing over the thin scar lines along your arm that wrap around like vines. You’ve never told them where you got them from, each time he tries to breach the topic you shy away, changing the subject with a laugh. He knows glimpses of your past from the nights the two of you have sat together under the moonlight, talking about whatever came to mind at the moment, but he never quite got the full picture. You purposely avoided talking about certain things and he never once probed further out of respect for your privacy, but moments like this make him wonder what someone as cheerful and bright as you had been through to become a completely different person when such topics were discussed.

Still, he won’t push you further than you’re comfortable with. You’ve never done it to him, even if it clearly frustrated you how little he was willing to divulge and he respected you for that. You would tell him about the scars on your arm when you were comfortable with it, he knew, and he could wait. He was a vampire spawn, he had the time to wait.

You shift in your sleep, eyebrows furrowed and fingernails digging into the bedroll beneath. A nightmare .

Astarion gently rubs your back, whispering sweet assurances into your ear and pressing his forehead against yours, hoping it will calm you down. The whimper that escapes your lips breaks his undead heart and he wishes he could enter dreams, just so that he could fight off whatever nightmare was plaguing you tonight.

“It’s alright, love. It’s just a nightmare,” he whispers, despising how powerless he is. “I’m always right here, right by your side.”

“Star,” you whimper, eyes cracking open. “Help. Hurts.”

He desperately presses more kisses to the top of your head, holding you tightly. “I’m right here, I’m right here.”

He repeats the three words over and over again like a mantra, cradling you as you cry into his chest, sobs wracking your body. His hand rests on the back of your head, his body curled around yours to shield you from the world.

“Let it all out. No one else is here,” he murmurs. You cry even harder at his words, gasping between each sob until you have no tears left to give. He ignores how your fingernails have dug into his shoulders so much that you’ve drawn blood, far more concerned about how you are feeling.

“I’m sorry,” the words feel thick in your throat. You wipe your eyes, looking up at him with such pain in your eyes and sniffle.

“Don’t be, love. We all need a little space to cry.” He presses his lips to your warm, tear-stained skin, willing all your pain away.

Wrapped in his comforting embrace, you slowly drift back to sleep with the feeling of his hand rubbing circles on your back. Once he’s sure you’ve properly fallen asleep, he lets himself slip into a meditative half-trance, but always keeps an ear out for you just in case. He won’t ever leave you to face your demons alone. You’d do the same for him anyways, he’s just repaying the favour, right?

You reach out towards him in your slumber, throwing an arm around him so that you can pull him closer. Your breath tickles his skin and something within his chest squeezes, taking his breath away.

I love you, his lips form the words but no sound comes out. Watching your now peacefully slumbering form, his undead heart comes back to life but words still fail him. For now, he’ll resign himself to practising the words so that when the moment comes, he will be able to say them, and know you will say them back.