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slotmachines-fearofgod · 1 year ago

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sorry in advance, this IS angst. not proofread or edited heavily since it's just a WIP, but y'all have been patient with me so i figured it could be a little treat :3 let me know what you think in the comments!

—

The day that Marshal Commander Cody died was an entirely unremarkable one.

It had been a busy market square in the Outer Rim. Closer to Tatooine that anyone would’ve liked. A raider’s run, soldiers and slavers clashing to defend or steal the people there. It was a common occurrence, the people there later revealed to Obi-Wan.

Cody, in all his stubborn glory, put himself between the people of that planet and the raiders trying to take them. He got cornered, got shot, got left for dead. Rex didn’t know why he hadn’t called for help, hadn’t had the chance to ask anyone and hadn’t been able to stomach reading the report.

Obi-Wan delivered the news to him. Rex delivered it to the batch. Only then did Obi-Wan file the official paperwork.

Fives had been hovering for the past few days. So had a few others, but especially him. Rex had thrown himself head first into work, giving himself little time to rest or come back to himself.

Anakin and Obi-Wan approached him to offer Cody’s old position at Obi-Wan’s side. He was one of the most qualified and knew how Obi-Wan thought. He’d seen Cody’s day to day and knew what would be expected of him.

Rex had politely refused and excused himself to go throw up in the fresher.

Rex had never really had a batch. He did, but he was weird. Different from them. Difference was deadly on Kamino.

It had been Cody that found him, Cody that took him under his wing, Cody that taught him the importance of brotherhood and loyalty. He took an angry fucked up kid and made something worthy out of him and for that Rex would never be able to repay him.

In the quiet of his room, the rare hours that he allowed himself sleep, he stared at the ceiling with tired eyes, unable to find rest. He stared and thought. Thought about the man Cody was. Thought about how Rex would’ve done anything for him. Thought about how he’d never see him again.

Thought about how that was his big brother. Thought about how he used to think Cody was invincible.

During their very brief time as children, Cody was untouchable. He was smart as all hell, good at getting in and out of trouble quicker than you could blink, and egregiously annoying about it. He used to tease Rex about coming back with a blush on his cheeks and a scowling trainer, boasting about how he wouldn’t have gotten caught.

He’d only ever gotten caught for Rex’s sake. Once, when Rex had really fucked up, Cody took the fall. He left with the trainers, coming back hours later bruised and beaten from the extra training they forced on him. He’d met Rex with a wide smile and an arm around his shoulders, crowing about how Rex should see the other guy. Rex hadn’t known whether to laugh or cry.

Fives had been hovering. Even now, he sat in Rex’s office while Rex worked, uncharacteristically quiet. He was scanning through mission reports, actually doing his work for once.

It was sort of nice to have another body with him. To not have the crushing loneliness take him.

It had occurred to him a few days after Cody’s death that Rex was alone now. Not truly, never truly alone, not while other clones existed. But still lonely.

He’d always had his big brother with him, taking the fall for him, protecting him. He had memories of life before Cody, but they were fuzzy and far away, like remnants of a dream. The day Cody shoved himself into what he thought was an unoccupied storage closet to escape Fox’s wrath, only to bump into a small and sulky CT was the day Rex’s life changed for the better. It was easy with Cody. They knew each other. He always stood in front of Rex in the most annoying ways.

He thought he lost Cody once before. Before he’d grown used to death and the silence that accompanied it. Cody took a shot for him on Geonosis. Rex had never been so angry and he’d never felt so loved.

I’m your brother, Cody had said, I’ll always take the shot for you. Stop acting like that’s a surprise.

Rex had gone back and cried. It was before he had Torrent and the 501st. Back when it really was just him and Cody. He hadn’t been able to stomach the thought of Cody going without him. Hadn’t been able to breathe when he thought about his brother dying, leaving Rex alone to fend for himself.

It felt vulnerable in a way Rex hadn’t expected. Like all this time Cody had been a pillar of protection and without it Rex was left to the wolves. He couldn’t flip on his comm and shoot Cody a message asking for advice. He couldn’t wander to the 212th bunks during shore leave to catch up with him and complain about his Jedi. He’d never get to see if Cody would grow a pair and confess to Obi-Wan. He’d never get to spend the end of the war with his brother, endless days under some gentle far off sun.

They’d made plans when they were kids about what they’d do once they left. It was the only promise Rex allowed himself to make. He knew there were no absolutes in war, but so long as he had the list and he had Cody to check it off with, he was okay.

They’d gotten less than halfway through when Cody died.

Fives’ comm beeped and Rex watched his brow furrow. Rex thought about what he’d do if Fives died. He honestly didn’t know.

Fives looked up at him, took in his demeanor, and his face relaxed. Rex had gotten too transparent with everything going on.

“I’m heading out,” Rex said, the hoarseness in his voice surprising even him, “I’ll be back by dinner.”

“I’ll come with,” Fives said quickly, already getting to his feet, “Where are we going?”

“Meeting,” Rex said, closing out of his work, “It’s above your security level.” It wasn’t, it wasn’t even a meeting, but Fives would insist if he told him that.

“I’ll talk to the General then,” Fives said, “I’m sure it’ll be fine this once.”

“Fives,” Rex started, before hesitating and backtracking, “It’s okay. I’ll be fine.”

Fives’ face hardened and he crossed his arms, “Rex -”

“I’ll see you later,” Rex sighed, his armor feeling like it weighed two hundred pounds, “Try to wrap up those reports while I’m gone.”

Fives jaw clenched but he nodded. Rex appreciated that about him. He knew when to push and when to let things lie. Many people thought he was brash, charging in with no regard to his surroundings. Rex always felt the opposite. He liked to push, yes, and he liked to get his way, but he only pushed when it was needed. When he was seeing something Rex wasn’t.

He reminded Rex a little bit of Cody sometimes.

Rex often wondered if it had been Cody and Fives on Umbara instead of him. He wondered if Pong Krell would’ve been able to take them apart the way he did. Those two were strong in ways he wasn’t.

Rex left his office, fixing his helmet over his head as he went. They’d landed on Coruscant two days ago, four days after Cody’s death. Rex hadn’t left the bunkhouse for anything except food and a summons to the Jedi Temple.

He took a breath as he exited the complex, hating the weight of his kama as he moved.

Cody never had a kama. Everyone mocked and made fun of him for it except Fox. Rex always thought there was some unspoken agreement between those two, some burden their ranks afforded them that the rest were all kept from. Rex had never been jealous of their relationship until now.

He made it to the Coruscant Guard Complex almost unconsciously, too caught up in his own head to follow his feet until suddenly he was standing at the entrance. A trooper in red nodded at him from the front desk. Rex nodded back, taking a seat in the waiting area.

It wasn’t long before Fox came down, also in his full kit. He greeted Rex as warmly as he ever does, which is to say not very, and gestured for him to follow.

“Almost everyone else is here,” Fox said as they walked side by side through the winding hallways, “Just missing Bly.”

“So you mean Wolffe is here,” Rex attempted to joke. Fox’s nonanswer was all he needed to know that it fell flat.

Sometimes Rex thought about Fives and his batch. Watching it shrink piece by piece, losing and losing and losing until all you have is yourself. Between Cody and Ponds, he was beginning to understand it better than he wanted to.

“I’m sorry,” Rex said quietly, one of the overhead lights flickering as they passed.

Fox waved him off, “Gallows humor. It’s understandable.”

They walked in silence for another five minutes, the white lights painting everything in a stark light. Shadows were almost non-existent here, only lurking behind closed doors and corners the unnatural light couldn’t quite reach. It was too harsh.

Rex entered Fox’s office, taking a look around the space. It hadn’t changed much since the last time he’d been here. There was still an old, cheap looking couch in one corner, a massive desk piled high with flimsiwork and datapads, windows that overlooked the Senate Complex, and if he had to wager a guess at least three blasters hidden in the room.

Wolffe was currently sitting on the couch, already nursing a glass of whatever Fox managed to get his hands on this time. Pros of dealing with criminals everyday, Rex supposed. Still, Wolffe looked about as bad as Rex felt.

He hadn’t been invited to this after Ponds’ death, instead meeting up with the batch at 79s after they had their initial wake. He wasn’t sure how this was supposed to go.

“Rex’ika,” Wolffe greeted, standing to pour Rex a drink, “Glad you could make it.”

“Thanks,” Rex said gruffly, “for inviting me.”

Wolffe shrugged, his back to Rex, “You were his vod’ika. Pretty sure he’d come back from the dead to kill us if we didn’t invite you.”

Rex gave the best laugh he could.

Fox moved past him, pulling off his helmet. Rex followed suit, placing his on a small table next to the couch as he accepted the drink from Wolffe. Fox looked like hell, as per usual. He had a bruise forming under his right eye, his broken nose that never quite healed right standing out more than usual next to it. He had a new scar on his jaw, a small thin line that Rex probably wouldn’t have noticed if he wasn’t looking.

“Prison riot,” Fox grumbled when he saw Rex looking, “Got a little out of control.” Rex nodded, accepting the answer without a fight. If Fox wanted to tell them more, he’d tell them more.

Rex moved to the couch, sitting on the opposite end of Wolffe. The elder got a temper, especially in cases like this, and Rex didn’t want to be next to him when it inevitably showed itself.

“How’s the 501st?” Fox asked, more of a polite formality than anything else. It struck Rex how weird this situation was. Normally Cody was there, a binding force that meshed two parts of his life seamlessly. It was never awkward or centered around small talk when he was there but now - now it was like they had nothing but small talk.

“Good,” Rex said simply, sipping his drink and doing his best not to make a face, “We’ve got a few more being sent off for ARC training soon and I’m working on proposing a few initiatives to the admirals about restrictions regarding eating habits.”

“Restrictions?” Wolffe asked, a puzzled look on his face, “What for?”

Rex shrugged, relaxing into the cushions, “Some of the heavy gunners and ARC troopers are complaining that their meal plans aren’t being switched to a higher protein intake despite their intensive training. I’m working with the Commander to get that fixed.”

He’d worked with Cody on it too.

Fox made a considering noise before saying, “The ration restrictions in general are a pain in the ass already.”

Wolffe raised an eyebrow at them, “General Koon got rid of those the second month of the war. What’s taking your people so long?”

“Palpatine.”

“Anakin.”

Fox and Rex made eye contact, a smile pulling at the corners of Fox’s lips. It seemed Palpatine’s influence had rubbed off after all.

“The chancellor I understand,” Wolffe continued, “But General Skywalker?”

Rex shrugged again, “He’s more concerned with action, less so politics. Doesn’t like to get involved on the administrative level aside from the fight.”

Wolffe scoffed, “Sounds like a shit general.”

Rex smiled wryly, “He does alright. General Kenobi’s been helping.”

Wolffe rolled his eyes, “The 212th can’t be expected to step in everytime Skywalker throws a hissy fit over paperwork.”

“They don’t,” Rex said, a somewhat bitter smile on his face, “I do.”

Wolffe grunted but let the subject be for the time being.

Fox turned to face Rex, “Skywalker visits Palpatine often.”

Rex nodded.

“What’s that relationship like?” Fox asked, looking at Rex with a strange light in his eyes.

Rex took another sip before answering, “I’m not sure. I get the feeling it’s complicated between him, Kenobi, and Palpatine. Everytime Kenobi and Palpatine interact I feel like they’re about to start brawling.”

“But Skywalker,” Fox pushed, “What’s his thoughts on it?”

“I guess he’s fine with it,” Rex said, “I mean, he wouldn’t be going to see him so often if it wasn’t.”

“And you?” Fox asked, “How does he treat you?”

Rex narrowed his eyes as he looked at Fox, “Why?”

Wolffe spoke up, “He’s a paranoid bastard, just answer him.”

Rex glared at Wolffe before turning back to Fox, “He’s fine. It’s fine. We get along well and the Commander and I are on good terms.”

Fox’s shoulders, which Rex had not realized were previously tensed, relaxed, “Good. Glad to hear it.”

Fox’s comm chimed. He looked down to read over the message before excusing himself to go retrieve Bly from the lobby. Rex watching him go, an alarm bell going off in the back of his head.

“Is he okay?” Rex asked Wolffe once the door closed.

Wolffe stared after Fox, an unsettling look on his face. It was times like this that Rex was reminded of how close Wolffe and Fox were. If Rex noticed something was off, Wolffe certainly had as well.

“He’s fine,” Wolffe said, something like steel in his tone, “As fine as the rest of us.”

Rex hid his wince. He supposed that was fair enough. Like he said, Cody and Fox had always understood each other on a different level.

“You?” Wolffe asked after a moment of silence. Rex looked at him, confusion written clearly across his face. Wolffe sighed, “How are you doing?”

“Oh,” Rex looked back down at his drink. He hadn’t really expected them to ask. “I’m fine.”

“Right,” Wolffe drawled, knocking back the rest of his drink. He stood and snagged the bottle from Fox’s desk, bringing it over to the couch to refill. “I won’t even pretend to believe that.”

Rex frowned as he nursed his drink, “There’s not much for me to say that you’re not already thinking.”

Wolffe scrubbed a hand over his face, “Look, kid, I’m trying to help you out here. Offer you a willow branch or whatever the saying is. You can’t be honest with the Jedi and you can’t be honest with your men so be honest with us.”

Rex bit the inside of his cheek, weighing Wolffe’s offer. He supposed that was the point of this meeting, to talk and memorialize and be honest. He rubbed his eye before saying, “He’s my big brother. My only brother, for a while there. What do you think?”

Wolffe leaned back, satisfied with his answer, “We’re your brothers too.”

“Yeah,” Rex agreed, “But you know it was different.”

“I know.”

Rex stared at the little scratches in his glass and wondered how many times Fox had pulled these out for similar situations. He wasn’t a big drinker, as far as Rex knew. He preferred to keep his head in order to better deal with senators and politicians. But these glasses told a different story.

“I used to wonder what he saw in you,” Rex looked up at Wolffe, only to find the other’s gaze fixed on the window across from them, “What did you have that our batch couldn’t give him? Then I realized it wasn’t about giving. It never was with Cody.”

“I wondered that too,” Rex admitted softly, following Wolffe’s line of sight to the Jedi Temple, “I still think he just felt bad for me.”

Wolffe laughed sharply, “Probably. At least, initially. But he liked you enough to keep it going.”

Rex felt his mouth lift slightly into a smile, “I’m better for it.”

Wolffe hummed in agreement and they fell into a comfortable silence. It was easier now that he had other people that knew Cody. That weren’t just eyeing him like they were waiting for him to snap. He wasn’t going to snap, largely because he already had, and the constant handling had been getting on his nerves more than he realized.

He’d gone down the night he got the news and whaled on a punching bag. He made it back to his quarters with bloody knuckles before collapsing and sobbing on the floor, crying for Cody like a child. He’d been ashamed of it the next morning, the physical evidence of a break that he shouldn’t have had blatant under the fluorescent light. He’d applied bacta from the stash in his room and slid on his gloves, hiding the winces that came everytime he flexed his fingers and raw skin rubbed up against the material.

He looked at Wolffe from the corner of his eye, wondering what his reaction had been after they hung up the call. Bly Fox and Wolffe had answered with varying degrees of annoyance before seeing the look on Rex’s face. He was pretty sure Fox knew before he said anything, but Bly and Wolffe had both been caught off guard.

Fox listened, offered his condolences, and hung up. None of them held it against him. Sometimes that was just the way Fox was.

Bly and Wolffe stayed on the call, wanting to hear the how, when, and why. Bly shut down pretty quickly, compartmentalizing as fast as he could. Rex couldn’t blame him, that was his initial reaction as well. He’d told Obi-Wan thank you and assured Anakin he’d be fine before abruptly ending the call on them.

Wolffe looked angry. He looked angry and scared and Rex knew from dealing with others that was not a good combination. He’d heard a knock on the door just before Wolffe hung up, suspecting it to be his general. Rex didn’t bother following up on that, figured either it was or it wasn’t and no matter which it was it wasn’t his business.

“I keep thinking I see him,” Wolffe admitted to the silence of the room, “Now that the 212th has landed it’s like he’s everywhere.”

Rex winced, remembering his own reaction. The flashes of orange and yellow filling the bunkhouse, each one a reminder, a possibility, a failure.

“It’s hard to move on like this,” Rex agreed, “When we all look like him. Talk like him.”

Wolffe snorted, “No one talks like him, not since Kenobi got his hands on him. Cody learned a bunch of big words and used it to sound like the smartest guy in the room.”

Rex dipped his head to hide his smile, “He’s always been competitive.”

“You’re telling me,” Wolffe grumbled into his drink, “You didn’t meet him before he developed a conscience.”

The door slid open, revealing Fox and Bly on the other side. Rex gave Bly a weak smile, he returned it with about the same level of enthusiasm. Rex let the greetings fade into the background, choosing instead to top off his drink as Bly settled in next to him. Rex poured another drink for Bly and handed it off, just trying to keep himself busy.

“What did you two talk about while I was gone?” The question drew Rex back into the conversation. He looked up at Fox, who’d taken off his helmet again, before looking at Wolffe.

“What do you think?” Wolffe drawled, unbuckling his vambraces now that everyone was there.

Fox sighed and claimed a spot on the floor, leaning against his desk for support, “Just wondering. Maybe you finally met someone desperate enough to give you a shot, I don’t know.”

“Fuck you,” Wolffe sneered, “I’m a real treasure I’ll have you know.”

Fox rolled his eyes and turned his attention to his drink, apparently not feeling like putting up much of a fight. Rex was glad for it.

The room fell uncomfortably silent, all of them looking at each other and thinking the same thing.

It was too cold in here.

They were pessimists. All except Bly, but you wouldn’t have guessed that based on outward appearance. Every single one of them lived day to day, putting one foot in front of the other, and expecting every ounce of blood that swam around their ankles.

Cody hadn’t disbelieved that, but he’d always been different. He wasn’t - Rex wouldn’t have described him as an optimist. But he knew how to be happy. He knew how to let himself go a little bit, balance the soldier and the person with effortless grace. The rest of them had never really mastered that without having help. Usually the help was Cody.

He was just good with people. Good at being a person. Good at being something other than what he was engineered to be. Cody was the closest to ‘human’ most of them would ever get.

Now, sitting in this cold office holding a glass of moonshine and staring at men that he’s suddenly not sure he’s ever really known, Rex felt like Cody was further away than ever.

Bly cleared his throat, raising his glass, “To Kote. May he march on under the light of the Manda, guided forever by his wit and warrior’s heart.”

They drank, the swill burning more than Rex remembered from the past few sips. The silence returned, heavy and oppressive. Rex’s chest felt heavy, like a weight had been placed upon him since Obi-Wan first called him and now it threatened to suffocate him.

“How’d you find out?” It took Rex a moment to realize Bly was addressing him. He looked up, reading an innocent curiosity on Bly’s face. “I assume Skywalker told you?”

Rex shook his head, “Kenobi.”

Bly sucked in a breath and nudged his shoulder in sympathy, “How soon after?”

Rex shrugged, his gaze going to the opposite wall, “About three hours.”

“How’d he break it to you?” Wolffe asked, stretching an arm out over the back of the couch.

Rex gripped his glass a little tighter, looking back down at it, “As best as he could. He asked me to pass the news along to you three before he filed the report.”

“Thank you,” Bly said, “I know it was a tough call.”

Rex ducked his head, not trusting the way his throat had begun to close up. The last thing he wanted to do here was cry.

“Alright,” Fox drawled, “Enough of the downer stuff. If he’s going to die on us the least we can do is rip him to shreds at his own wake.”

Rex huffed a laugh while Wolffe sent a sharp grin Fox’s way. Bly rolled his eyes but a small smile played at his lips. It was unconventional, and not the way Cody would’ve broached the subject, but it worked.

“Anyone got any pact stories?” Wolffe asked with a sly smile.

Pact stories were unique to this batch as far as Rex could tell. Instances or happenings from their training or later careers that were sworn to be kept between two members until one of them died. Cody and Rex had a few of their own, a few secrets and adventures that they both swore up and down they would never voice unless the other was dead and gone. It was funny, Rex had never thought he’d be the one telling them.

“He had a crush on Shaak-Ti,” Bly said proudly, cutting off Fox who’d opened his mouth to speak. “Remember when she came to see the commanders off? He gave her his comm code.”

Rex bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. He had remembered Cody pulling the Jedi aside to speak with her, but it looked like a serious conversation so he hadn’t asked.

“We only knew Shaak-Ti for a month before being shipped out!” Wolffe said incredulously, “He’s an idiot.”

Bly smiled toothily, leaning back now that his bit was done. Fox sat up with a sparkle in his eye, his expression spelling nothing but trouble.

“Do you guys remember the weapons ring on Kamino? The one the Cuy’val Dar set up that the Kaminoans pretend didn’t exist?”

Rex did indeed remember it. A lot of the Cuy’val Dar were bounty hunters at one point or at least followed Mandalorian traditions. They complained about Kamino’s mass manufactured weapons, calling them cheap and useless. Rex wasn’t sure where it started, but one day he remembered seeing trainers walking around with shiny new blasters, bo staffs, and vibroblades.

“Well,” Fox grinned into his cup, “Cody found where they kept the weapons. He didn’t tell me until about a week after, during the sleep deprivation training.”

Rex remembered how much Cody hated that training. He was incredibly physically and mentally strong, but the man had a thing about sleep. He hated missing out on it, going so far as to nap in active warzones when he could if he’d missed his baseline minimum hours the night before.

“We sabotaged them,” Fox’s face morphed into one of malicious glee, one they were all intimately familiar with but hadn’t seen much recently, “Did just enough damage that nothing worked but they couldn’t prove anything without going to the Kaminoans for help. And the Kaminoans only turned a blind eye because no one talked about it. They had to buy the whole shipment over again.”

Wolffe whistled, mirth in his eyes as well. It was expensive getting things shipped out to Kamino, even more so when you’re paying for discretion. It was a good move on Fox and Cody’s part. Rex would’ve given anything to see the look in the Cuy’val Dar’s eyes when they saw what happened.

Rex finished his drink and reached for the bottle as Wolffe took his turn to speak, “One time he kidnapped a padawan.”

Bly started coughing, his face turning red as he pounded his chest while Rex and Fox stared at Wolffe.

“He did what?”

Wolffe grinned, smug as you please, now that he had everyone’s attention, “We were at 79s together, Fox had a meeting and everyone else was on a campaign or mission, and we ended up pretty much blacking out. Cut to the next morning, I’m laying in my bunk with the worst headache known to man and the first thing I see is my general standing over me very firmly asking where the padawan is. I had no clue what they were talking about, so I pointed them to Cody.”

Wolffe paused to take a swig while Rex took a second to muse over that mental image. He wasn’t sure what he’d do if Skywalker woke him up by looming over his bed frame after a night out. Probably yell for Ahsoka.

“Well turns out they can’t find Cody,” Wolffe continued, the rest all leaning in, “And one of my boys told them that we’d been together. So we went to the Temple and pulled up security footage from the night before and there’s Cody, cooing over this little red head human who was about a third of his size. The poor kid was crying and it looked like Cody was trying to help but it wasn’t really working. Anyway, we followed the cameras and realized the padawan had led Cody out. Poor bastard was too drunk to know what was going on.”

Rex snorted, imagining a wobbly Cody being led by a little kid with a snotty nose and big eyes. It was the kind of routine that Rex can absolutely imagine working on his brother.

“I went back to the bunks to wait and eventually Cody comes back a few hours later looking like hell. I asked him what happened and he just went,” Wolffe pulled himself upright to a proper soldier’s posture and puffed out his chest a little more than necessary, “That’s classified. You’ll have to ask Commander Dume for the full report. So that’s what I did. Turns out the kid led him to a late night food court and he spent over one hundred credits on him.”

Bly and Fox cackled while Rex laughed and shook his head. Honestly, Rex was a little impressed by the kid. He had guts, that’s for sure.

“Anyway, Kenobi paid him back for everything but I swear Cody hid from that kid everytime he saw him afterward.”

“Isn’t that General Billaba’s padawan?” Bly asked, still laughing a little. Wolffe nodded in confirmation and Bly’s laughter picked up again as he pulled up his comm. “I have got to tell Grey about this.”

Rex chewed on the inside of his lip, wanting to tell his story but also unsure. He wanted to keep at least a part of Cody for himself.

But the other three were looking at him and Rex was reminded that for as much as he was grieving, so were they. Cody might’ve been special to him, but his brother had a lot of people on his side. They’d shared willingly, it would be selfish of him not to.

“He tried to distract a Seppie senator by flirting with him,” Rex said quickly, automatically uncomfortable with the way everyone’s head turned his way. “We were on a diplomatic mission and the Jedi were getting up to something or other.” It had been on Mandalore, actually. He was pretty sure Obi-Wan and Satine had been fooling around and it was Cody’s way of getting petty revenge during a very important political ceasefire.

“Skywalker asked us to keep the guards busy so I made up a story about needing help about something or other, but we ran into a senator on the way over. So Cody, in his full kit, decides the best way to distract him from asking too many questions was to flirt with him.” Rex smiled a little bit, remembering how horribly embarrassed he’d been in that moment watching everything happen. “As you can imagine, it didn’t go well.”

Wolffe’s laugh was practically a bark as he said, “What you mean the officer of the GAR flirting with a Separatist senator didn’t go over smoothly?”

Rex shook his head, “Well, the issue was that he started flirting back.”

Fox seemed to catch on, his jaw dropping slightly and a shocked look flitting across his face, “Please tell me he didn’t actually…”

Rex bit his lip but gave a tiny nod. A chorus of yells echoed from the other three before Rex intervened, “It didn’t get far! Cody made up an excuse and left and swore me to secrecy and that was that.”

Fox and Wolffe looked at each other, surprise still written on their faces. Bly finished his drink and grabbed another while Rex grinned.

“That’s…” Bly sighed into his cup, looking disappointed, “Actually yeah that sounds like him.”

Rex laughed, his head starting to feel a little fuzzy. It was a good buzz, the atmosphere having lightened significantly now that they were more focused on happier things. He settled into the couch, cradling his glass close to him. Maybe Cody wasn’t here, and maybe he was. Maybe he could keep him alive and with him, just for one more night.

—

Rex did not make it back in time for dinner. He’d answered Fives’ call drunk off his ass and assured him he was getting a walk back to the GAR complex and then stayed for about five more hours, drinking and talking and laughing for the first time in days.

Eventually, he had to go. The 501st was taking off the day after next and Rex would be needed to oversee the usual pre-takeoff duties. That and Fives had gotten Kix on his case as well and he really didn’t want them to physically drag him away. That would put a damper on the night.

Rex sighed as he left the Guard compound, his escort for the night graciously allowing him to lean against him. He stood at the doors, feeling the rare Coruscanti wind on his face and the cool night air hit him. It helped sober him a little, get rid of some of his haze.

“Ready to go sir?” His escort, a kid named Rune, asked.

He nodded, moving to put on his helmet before deciding against it. On the off chance he had to throw up before he could reach a fresher he really didn’t want to have to clean it out of his helmet.

They walked in silence for a bit, passing through the large stone structures that marked the entrance to this place. Rex didn’t get how Fox could stand being here. Everything was so enclosed, so ominous, so statuesque. It was too perfect, like someone was trying too hard to cover up something ugly.

Rex’s eyes drifted to the Geonosis memorial, as they always did. The names and numbers of every clone and Jedi that died during the battle were engraved on that stone, a mass etching that spoke of death, sacrifice, and war.

He had a batcher that died during the fight. He’d been surprised to be so upset over it, especially considering the distance that he himself created between them. But it had been there nonetheless, a little ball of grief that sat just behind his ribs. He wondered if he could find his number on the stone. He hadn’t lived long enough to earn a name.

Rex slowed in front of the memorial, searching for…something. He wasn’t sure what.

“Captain?”

Rex turned his head to the side at the quiet call. It sounded small and shaky.

It didn’t sound like it belonged to Obi-Wan Kenobi.

“General,” Rex said, doing his best not to slur. He remembered a second too late that he was supposed to salute the man, but Kenobi waved away the motion before Rex could complete it. He looked awful. There were bags under his eyes, his normally perfectly styled hair was greasy and unkempt, and he smelled like he’d spent a week in a brewery in the Outer Rim.

“Rex,” Kenobi said. Rex waited for him to elaborate, but he didn’t, just stared at Rex with sad, sad eyes and an expression of despair.

“It’s me,” Rex confirmed, walking closer to the other man, “I was seeing a friend.”

Kenobi nodded, his eyes going back to the wall in front of them. It was odd. Rex didn’t think anyone but clones ever bothered to look at this.

“Are you alright sir?” Rex asked, turning to face the wall as well.

“Please don’t call me that,” Kenobi whispered, his face scrunching up like he’d gotten a taste of something sour, “I don’t - I’m not that right now.”

Rex furrowed his brow, not sure what he was referring to. Oh well. He’d figure it out later. He was too tired and too drunk for that right now.

“But are you?” Rex pressed, the giddiness from his evening beginning to vanish.

Kenobi laughed, a wet, hopeless sound that grated on Rex’s ears, “Are you?”

Rex shrugged, “I don’t know.” It was the truth. He didn’t know how he felt. His mood had been switching too quickly for even him to keep up.

Kenobi made another painful noise but didn’t answer. Rex shifted, looking back at Rune who was staying a respectful distance away. He didn’t want to waste too much of his time.

“It wasn’t your fault,” the words were falling out of Rex’s mouth before he could stop them. He knew Kenobi probably blamed himself, knew Wolffe and Fox and Bly all did too. But they didn’t see what Rex saw. Kenobi would’ve done anything for Cody, including jumping in front of that blaster for him. He would’ve done it, if he were able.

Kenobi didn’t respond but his eyes shone in the ever-present light of the planet. Rex wasn’t used to such a blatant display of vulnerability from the other man. Kenobi was always snappy, witty, ducking and dodging through conversations as artfully as he did battles.

Kenobi sucked in a ragged breath before saying, “We made plans. For after the war.”

Rex tried not to feel jealous about that. Tried not to think about the plans he and Cody had made so long ago, worlds away from this one, back when they had chubby cheeks and missing teeth, whispering under the blankets after curfew.

“What plans?” Rex croaked. Kenobi needed an outlet, as Rex had earlier. He could do that for him. For Cody’s sake.

Kenobi hummed, gathering his thoughts. Rex turned back to Rune and jerked his head back toward the complex. The younger hesitated, but Rex gave him a reassuring look and purposefully pointed at Kenobi. Rune nodded after a second and turned, pulling up his comm, likely to contact Fox and let him know what happened.

“I wanted to take him to Kashyyyk,” Kenobi whispered, pulling Rex’s focus back, “He always loved the forests the most.”

Rex thought about that for a moment. Cody and Kenobi, away from the Jedi and the GAR, pulling each other headfirst into a new adventure every day, waking up to the sounds of birdsong and sun on their faces.

It sounded like the kind of life Cody would’ve liked.

Rex told him so and Kenobi smiled weakly, “I would’ve followed wherever he wanted to go.”

Rex’s eyes burned abruptly, the emotion he’d been trying to avoid so fiercely surfacing now. He blinked rapidly, trying to clear his vision and realizing too late Kenobi was still speaking.

“-you all the time,” Kenobi’s eyes scanned the stone, taking in the many many casualties they’d suffered, “He loved you more than anything.”

It felt like all the air had been punched out of Rex’s chest. He didn’t want to hear that, not from the man that Cody had spent long hours pining over and making plans for every chance he got. He didn’t want to hear that from the man that was supposed to be Cody’s everything.

“Did he ever tell you?” Rex asked weakly, knowing the answer to his question. Still, he looked at Kenobi, just in case.

“No,” Kenobi said softly, a tear slipping down his face, “But I knew. We both knew.”

And that - that felt like getting hit by a freighter. Cody had known all this time. He’d known and still he’d held himself back, refused to allow himself even one small pleasure while lives were at risk.

Rex wished his brother was a selfish man. He wished with all his might that Cody had been a little more cowardly, a little more covetous, a little less heroic. He wished Cody would’ve taken something for himself for once.

Rex ignored the hot tears beginning to spill down his face, looking stubbornly at the memorial in front of him, “He’s an idiot then.”

Kenobi huffed, “It would’ve been futile. It wouldn’t have changed anything. He’d still be dead.”

Rex looked at the Jedi, for the first time wondering how they grieved. The one time he’d seen Anakin do it was probably the most terrifying few days of his life. Things had been bad aboard the venator. He’d been angry and twitchy, yelling and snapping like a feral dog. Rex had stepped in between him and Ahsoka at one point, telling him to back off before he did some real damage. The look in his eyes that followed haunted Rex for weeks after. It was the first time he’d ever been truly afraid of his general.

Rex looked at the man in front of him and wondered if he loved anyone enough to be reduced to nothing like that. Wondered if the effect he had on Anakin went both ways.

“He was a good man,” Kenobi said quietly, tears flowing down his face as well, “A very good man.”

Rex clenched his jaw. He didn’t want Cody to be a good man. He wanted Cody to be here. He wanted, so stupidly and so desperately, for Cody to be here to tease him for crying over him. He wanted Cody to be here to banish the crushing loneliness that was coming back over the course of this conversation. He wanted Cody to be here because Cody knew him, and Rex wasn’t sure anyone else ever would.

He was a captain to his men, a soldier to his superiors, a brother-in-arms to Torrent, and a little brother to none.

“He was my brother,” was all Rex could say in response.

“I owe you an apology,” Kenobi said after a moment, “I believe I asked you to step into his shoes far too quickly.”

Rex tried his best to keep his shrug nonchalant, less like the flinch it truly was, “It’s alright.”

Kenobi shook his head, finally turning to look at Rex, “We both know why I really asked.”

Rex grimaced. He’d had a feeling, but no confirmation. Rex was the closest thing to Cody. The next best person. They had similar attitudes and stances. They had the same sense of humor and the same sense of severity when shit hit the fan.

He and Cody had the same sense of humanity, despite their upbringing. He would’ve been Cody’s replacement, not a commander in his own right. It was, after all, half the reason Rex refused.

“I know,” Rex said softly, drumming his fingers on his helmet. His thoughts were slow and syrupy, filtering too much and not enough. “Maybe in a few months. If the position isn’t filled.”

Kenobi shook his head again, “I don’t want to hold you to that. You’re happy with the 501st. Cody always seemed to think so.”

Rex’s lower lip trembled. He was. He really, truly was happy with them. Fives, Jesse, Kix, the whole bunch. He was a brother and a captain in one, there to lead them down the right path and it was good. It was fun. It was more than he ever thought he’d get out of this shitty life.

It didn’t mean he didn’t miss Cody with his whole being.

Before Anakin split off to form the 501st, when Rex was in the 212th and working under Cody, it had been so easy. Their dynamic barely changed as Cody remained in the lead and Rex remained staunch in his resolve to follow him wherever he went. They’d worked well together and at the end of the day they could still share meals, swap stories, and be brothers. They were still Rex and Cody.

“I am,” Rex said in lieu of all that, “An - Skywalker is a good leader.”

Kenobi smiled, but something was off. Painful looking. “I’m glad.”

They sat in silence together for a few more minutes, both discreetly wiping their faces. A few guards passed them by but no one came up to interrupt them. No one dared pull a Jedi away, especially not at this time of night.

“I should let you go,” Kenobi said. It was almost like watching an illusory trick in real life, the way he slowly collected himself until he looked more like General Kenobi, and less like Obi-Wan.

Rex nodded slowly, still drunk despite the sobering conversation, “Fives is worried. I’ve been gone a while.”

Kenobi looked at over at Rex and then behind him into the guard compound, some semblance of understanding on his face, “I’m glad you four got to mourn.”

Rex’s face twitched. He wasn’t sure how he felt about Obi-Wan knowing that’s what he was doing and where he was coming from. It made sense that he knew, given Ponds’ death and Cody’s own occasional disappearances in there to go see Fox, but still. It felt odd. Like an intrusion.

Rex didn’t say any of that, instead giving Kenobi a short nod and doing his best not to wobble too much as he walked away. He brought up his comm as he glanced back, seeing the Jedi still watching him go as the wall behind him loomed ominously. It felt symbolic, important in a way Rex didn’t yet understand. The vision of Kenobi, defeated and beat down, in front of a wall of dead clone names…maybe if he was more sober he could’ve added something to that. Bly and Ponds would’ve known.

“Fives?” Rex croaked into his comm, his voice worn from various conversations and tears, “You available for a pick-up?”

Rex heard Fives sigh into the comm, “Always Rex. How bad are you?”

Rex shrugged, forgetting that Fives couldn’t see. After an awkward moment of silence, Fives grumbled something about drunk brothers and Rex could hear him going for his boots, “Where exactly am I finding you?”

“Guard complex.”

“Jesus Rex.”

“Not like that,” Rex muttered, “Was just visiting.”

“Oh,” there was a small pause on the other end, “Oh. Fox.”

“And Wolffe and Bly,” Rex admitted, looking around for a place to sit. He really wanted to sit. “It was good.”

There was another small pause before Fives answered, sounding a little strange, “I’m glad. Support is important.”

“Yeah,” Rex hummed, “Maybe. Wasn’t about that.”

“No?”

Some part of Rex registered Fives was just keeping him talking. Another part of Rex didn’t actually care.

“No,” he said quietly, “Just remembering.”

Fives made a noise like he understood. Rex turned around to see Kenobi gone from the memorial. Briefly, something in his chest pinched and pulled tight. He hadn’t taken into account that Kenobi was also one of the last threads to Cody he had left.

“Rex? You okay?”

“Hm?” Rex’s attention was half-focused on Fives, half-scanning for Kenobi, “Yeah. Of course.” And then, because for some reason he couldn’t keep his mouth shut, “Ran into Kenobi.”

He heard the soft whoosh of the doors to the GAR barracks, knowing Fives was probably on his way, “Yeah? What’d he say?”

Rex shrugged, new tears welling up in his eyes. He tried to choke them down as he spoke, “What I expected. He loved Cody, Cody was a good man, I’ve got a job offer if I want it.”

There was a sharp intake of breath on the other line before a little half-scared, “What?” made it out of Fives.

Rex scrubbed his eyes. He hadn’t told anyone about it the first time around. “Cody’s position. If I wanted it.”

“Oh,” Fives sounded small all of a sudden. Unsteady. “Do you?”

Rex hummed, “I don’t know.”

“Oh.”

They sat in silence for a little bit, the various sounds of the street filtering through both sides of the comm. Rex found a seat on a bench not too far away, eyeing civilians passing by in case they tried anything stupid.

“I want you to stay here,” Fives finally said. “I know you and Cody -”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Rex said, cutting Fives off before he could get further, “It was just an offer. We’re both drunk and…drunk. I’m not taking it.” Yet.

He heard a breath of relief from the other side and guilt twinged at him, “Good. I’m glad. We need you here, Rex.”

Rex hummed, looking up and for once wishing he was surrounded by stars. It was easy to get sick of it in deep space. It gave him a headache sometimes, staring out into an empty void that he knew would kill them all in an instant. But here on Coruscant you couldn’t see the sky, not after generations of light pollution. It made him wish to be away, to be anywhere but here.

“I don’t have a big brother anymore,” Rex said into the comm. It was more of a passing comment, something he’d been chewing on since Cody’s death.

“I know,” Fives sounded horribly sad in his response. Rex blinked at the comm, almost wanting to see Fives’ face. He was the oldest of his batch. He’d seen his little brothers die one by one. Rex wondered what it felt like to be on that side of things.

“I’m not anyone’s vod’ika,” Rex murmured.

“I know,” Fives repeated, quieter this time but still weighty.

Rex wasn’t sure what else to say. His big brother was gone. Nothing could change that.

“I’ll be there soon ori’vod,” Fives said kindly with only a mild note of concern in his voice, “Then we can go home.”

Rex nodded numbly. Home would be good. He was drunk and tired and a bed sounded really nice right about now.

“Rex?” Fives called his attention away from thoughts of sleep, “You know…you know we’re here for you right? We get it. We’ve all had someone die on us. You don’t have to do the command staff thing of hiding it away for our sake.”

Rex pinched the bridge of his nose, “I know Fives.” The words were automatic, completely hollowed out and said just for the purpose of being said. Both men knew it.

“Alright,” Fives relented anyway, “Just - don’t go anywhere without us.”

Rex nodded blearily, once again forgetting Fives couldn’t see him, “Aye aye Captain.”

Fives huffed in a poor imitation of a laugh, “Alright asshole. I’ll be there in five.”

The comm clicked off in Rex’s hand. Rex looked at it, considering carefully.

He entered Cody’s comm channel, surprised to see it come up unanswered. He’d have thought they would reassign it by now.

Leave a message here

The glowing blue words blinked up at him. Rex stared, unsure what to say. He began typing a few times only to erase his message, thoughts of officers or god forbid Kaminoans finding the message playing like a warning in his head.

The message clicked off when Rex took too long. He scrambled to reenter the code, though this time a voice played.

This is Marshal Commander Cody speaking. Leave me a message or send me a comm and I will respond as my schedule allows.

Rex wanted to laugh. Of course Cody would program a voice message into his comm. Of course it would have a very pointed fuck you to everyone who thought they could walk all over him.

He wanted to laugh but the noise that made it out of his chest was anything but happy. He gripped his pulse point over his wrist, shoving the comm back into his belt, and tried to gulp down breaths of air.

He missed him. Gods above he missed him. He didn’t think he’d ever stop missing him. He knew the ache dulled, knew it from experience and from watching others around him, but here and now he was alone. Alone and sobbing on a bench in Coruscant, the looming specter of death behind him. A memorial, a reminder of everything Rex had lost, here to tower over him even now.

“Rex?”

Fives.

“Rex,” Fives sighed, putting a little more step into his walk as he made it to Rex, “Let's get you home, yeah? I think it’s time you called it a night.”

Rex nodded again, letting Fives sling his arm over his shoulder and moving forward obediently.

“You know I love you right?” Rex asked, not looking at Fives.

“‘Course I do,” Fives responded, keeping his eyes forward as well, “Why?”

“Just need to tell you,” Rex sighed, his eyes sliding half shut, “Just in case.”

Fives’ grip on him tightened. Rex tried not to think about how soon this might be taken from him too.

#commander cody #the clone wars #captain rex #cc 2224 #ct 7567 #my writing #fanfic #star wars #angst #hurt/no comfort #grief #character study #major character death #also sorry for being MIA #its midterms szn #and my mental health is hell #everything is bad so i made everything in here bad too

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anotherbummer · 1 year ago

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Spotify Character Study Masterpost

Below the cut is the current list of fandom/ character playlists. Many of these playlists are ever-growing because I keep adding more songs, if you have any requests for a playlist or song recommendations for a playlist, the inbox is open!

Series:

Doctor Who

Good Omens

Our Flag Means Death

Reservation Dogs

Fleabag

Stranger Things

What We Do In The Shadows

Animated Series:

The Amazing Digital Circus

The Radio Demon

Hazbin Hotel

Angel Dust (Hazbin Hotel)

Marceline (Adventure Time)

Gravity Falls

Pink Diamond (Steven Universe)

Bee and Puppycat

Character from a series:

Twelfth Doctor

Fourteenth Doctor

Fifteen Doctor

Wednesday

Lucifer Morningstar

Thomas Shelby (Peaky Blinders)

Aubrey Thyme (Good Omens fic) (NEW!)

Aziraphale (Good Omens)

Crowley (Good Omens)

Tanis (Letterkenny)

Willie Jack (Reservation Dogs)

Laura Palmer (Twin Peaks)

BJ Hunnicutt (M*A*S*H)

Hawkeye Pierce (M*A*S*H)

Marvel & DC:

Gambit

Rogue

Rogue & Gambit

Hobie Brown

Peter Parker

Bucky Barnes

Yelena Belova

Loki

WandaVision

Moon Knight

Werewolf By Night

Harley Quinn

Harley & Ivy

Star Wars:

The Mandalorian

Ahsoka Tano

Obi Wan Kenobi

Anakin Skywalker

Anakin & Padme

Movies:

The Hunger Games: The Ballad of Songbirds & Snakes

Barbie

Veronica Sawyer (Heathers)

Christine Daae (Phantom of the Opera)

Jennifer Check (Jennifer’s Body)

Ginger Fitzgerald (Ginger Snaps)

Holly Golightly (Breakfast at Tiffany's)

Bonnie & Clyde (1967)

Animated Movies:

Howls Moving Castle

Kat Elliot (Wendel & Wild)

Luca

Bruno Madrigal (Encanto)

La Familia Madrigal

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codecicle-archive · 1 year ago

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Ok so. Chip star wars au backstory. Basically, what I'm thinking is that the story is pretty much the same, with some obvious adjustments.

Chip grows up on board the Midnight Rose (a space ship this time, not an ocean one lol). It's the early years of the Empire, and the Black Rose pirates are both pirates and kind of an early rebel cell? sorta? They're still pretty powerful, like in the riptide canon, as the Empire is still kind of getting its shit together. And when I say they're *sort of* rebels what i mean is that, while they do actively dislike the Empire, they're not fighting them directly so much as they're being a general nuisance for them and stealing their shit and disrupting their plans.

As for the hole in the sea...well, I have two ideas for that would be.

Number one is that it's, like, a weird Force thing, which there are A Lot of in Star Wars. It's sort of like that weird fucking cube-planet-thing they get stranded on in The Clone Wars for that one arc with the Father the Daughter the Son--it's that sort of batshit fucking star wars thing, and it basically, like...sucks them in and the events of the Hole in the Sea oneshot play out pretty much the same way. This one I like because it has the wackass magical element to it and could thus account for the wackass Chip Lore that we're currently being insane about in the hiatus.

(The aforementioned Wackass Chip Lore does throw a bit of a wrench into the AU, since we don't know anything for certain about it, so when Riptide starts back again and we find out more this part of the au could be pretty much derailed, but adjustments can always be made and the sw lore is crazy enough that I'll probably be able to figure something out).

Second option is that the "Hole in the Sea" is a weapon of sorts--something the Empire is maybe working on in secret, something that they maybe found that was like, the ruins of an ancient space-civilization with super weird, cool technology yknow? And the black rose pirates end up there somehow (one idea is that it's like a gravity well, like they had in Rebels I think??? It might have been tcw i can't remember. Something that can pluck ships out of hyperspace like it's nothing). It could also be a combination of these two options--maybe it's some weird space magic thing the Empire was studying but then some Weird Magical Bullshit happened and drove them all out, but the Magic was like, awake, or something, idk I'm tired and that's all I have for now. This ask was not originally this long LMAO

Oh my fucking god I understand I get it. What if the hole in the sea was the Empire experimenting with the dark side of the force to build the superweapon that can just. Yoink a fuckin ship out of hyperspace and send them to some form of a rebel prison, but it ended up malfunctioning because the original designs were ones they stole from that ancient space-civilization you mentioned were made with the light side of the force/jedi use in mind. it ends up creating a sort of whackass void/black hole of the force in this pit deeeep deep into outer space and just like the Allport blockade, the Empire ends up telling any ships that try to leave the docks not to go there. the only people that can go anywhere near it are the ones that live on the nearby planets (like the underground towns and crew the albatrio found while in the black sea when chip got his heart ripped out), the Empire visiting bases (like the navy base from 114), or any rebel trader that's either stupid enough or skilled enough to disobey the Empire and make it all the way there and back alive. Since Captain Rose was one of the pirate lords, maybe it was an intentional and direct attack that just ended up backfiring and left them with no other option than to quarantine that set of planets and hope nothing else happened and no-one survived (they literally all did LMAOO)

#i make yet anothet post just for me 👍#we have mail :]#jrwi #ohhhh those bg3 brainworms have infested my head and its just this au. losing it rn #only question because im soso insane about them: how would the leviathans and the navy studying them work?#what would the star wars equivalent of that be. WAIT. WHAT IF THE DEATH STAR WAS THE ARTIFICIAL LEVIATHANS #put that in ur pipe and smoke it

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mydearestblue · 2 years ago

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so I had been thinking about the many similarities between the Chiss and the Time Lords, and between Thrawn and the Doctor as well, and now I need a Doctor Who AU where Thrawn takes Eli as his companion to show him the wonders of the universe

#i mean both species have in their moral code to not interfere in other people/species conflict #and both are pretty much elitarist and have a very unique technology to travel through space (and time)#but if we want to talk about thrawn and the doctor #well: both found a human to take as their protégé #both are very fond of art and love to study their enemy before formulating their attack move #both have a kind of intelligence that many others don’t understand and are able to make connections few could have predicted #both try to prevent useless deaths- ofc the doctor more than thrawn but still #and yes the doctor would never be an imperial or do the bid of a tyrant but he has bloods on his hands too #some regeneration more than others #so yeah all this to say I need time lord thrawn to find tech analyst eli and show him present past and future #just to see the wonder in his eyes #doctor who #star wars #thrawn #thranto #and as a post just reminded me #both thrawn and the doctor are outcast #who basically left their people to be among humans and different aliens

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archiving-my-thoughts · 2 years ago

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Who Shot First? George Lucas vs. Authorship

To slightly extend my earlier post on Star Wars and the death of the author, it should be noted that the franchise and its fandom have always been at odds as the rejection of canon was not exclusive for the Disney era. Although George Lucas was praised for the creation of the original trilogy and was thus seen as the author, there has also been quite some backlash on some of his decisions regarding storylines and worldbuilding.

The release of the prequel trilogy, starting with The Phantom Menace in 1999, came with criticism from the fandom. The prequels focused heavily on the digital innovation that was available at the time and thereby “diverged from the aesthetic, technological, and thematic principles of the original trilogy” (Lomax 38). Critics said it was style over substance, with the special effects taking center stage over the story.

More controversy came when the original trilogy was re-released for its 20th anniversary. Not only were the image quality and visual effects remastered, which caused the films to look different than what the fans were used to, but Lucas had also decided to add and alter key scenes of the trilogy. It was Lucas’ attempt at achieving the ideal version that he was unable to create initially due to technological limitations and time restraints. He thereby reclaimed his role as the author and imposed his own vision on the story.

This resulted in quite some backlash. It had been twenty years since the release of the trilogy and fans had claimed the films as their own. They had become the author of the story. The most well-known example is probably the debate on whether Han Solo or Greedo shot first. In the original release, Han shoots under the table to kill Greedo. In 1997, the scene was altered with Greedo shooting first but missing. The decision to let Greedo shoot first changed the Han Solo character that had been established twenty years prior, and this new version therefore did not coincide with the initial meaning of the scene as it had been interpreted by fans.

As a result, some fans claimed their own authorship of the franchise by re-editing the films in the way they chose fit. Lucas responded to those videos by saying “all those same guys that are complaining I made a change are completely changing the movie … I’m saying: Fine. But my movie, with my name on it, that says I did it, needs to be the way I want it” (qtd. Matthiesen 89). He argues that he is the author and therefore has the final say in the interpretation of the story. An interesting view as it goes aganst Roland Barthes’ notion of the death of the author, as he claims that the creator of the text loses control over it when it gets introduced to others.

Lucas deems himself the one who is allowed to make creative decisions which fit his own interpretation of the text. Meanwhile, fans are using the concept of the death of the author to reclaim the interpretation that they deemed true. The question then remains, who is the true author after all these years? Yes, Lucas created the franchise with his vision and decisions, but after all those years the fans definitely do have an involvement in the interpretation of those decisions.

As someone who is not that involved with the Star Wars-franchise and fandom, this might not be as extensive or insightful as it could be. Therefore, if anyone wants to add onto this with other examples or insights, feel free to do so. This franchise really is one of the most interesting ones in regards to the death of the author, so any expansion on this topic is welcome.

Sources:

Lomax, Tara. “Thank the Maker! George Lucas, Lucasfilm and the Legends of Transtextual Authorship across the Star Wars Franchise.” Star Wars and the History of Transmedia Storytelling, edited by Sean Guynes and Dan Hassler-Forest, Amsterdam University Press, 2018.

Matthiesen, Neil. “The Marketing of The Force: Fans, Media and the Economics of Star Wars.” Fan Phenomena: Star Wars, edited by Mika Elovaara, Intellect Books, 2013.

#star wars #george lucas #essay #further thoughts #fandom studies #death of the author #roland barthes #who shot first

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multific · 7 days ago

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In the Shadow of the Hunt

Yautja x Reader

Warning: Smut

Summary: Trained to outlast any Predator, you never expected to earn the respect and heart of one.

You were doing fine until something far worse than the Yautja entered the territory.

The creatures were not natural.

Mutations, maybe. Bloodthirsty beasts designed for something else's war.

You heard the Yautja before you saw him, you heard clicks low in the trees, that faint hum of cloaking tech.

At first, he was your death sentence.

Now he was your only chance.

It started with a standoff.

You had your knife drawn, back to the river, as he de-cloaked in a shimmer of light and metal.

Eight feet tall, heavy with muscle, body scarred and worn from a hundred battles. His mandibles clicked as he studied you with a curious expression.

You should have attacked.

Instead, you lowered the knife.

"Common enemy," you said slowly, keeping your voice low, hands spread open. "You can kill me later. But right now we both have bigger problems."

He tilted his head sharply, as if weighing your words. His wrist-blade retracted.

It was the beginning.

You learned to communicate through simple gestures at first.

Pointing. Nodding. Grunts of acknowledgement.

He didn’t speak human languages, but he understood survival, a universal tongue.

You nicknamed him R'thok in your mind, it sounded close to the snarling sound he made when introducing himself.

In turn, he began to call you a series of low clicks that almost sounded affectionate.

When you saved him, dragging his heavy body out of a pit trap, using your last medical kit to seal his bleeding side, everything changed.

He touched your wrist afterwards.

A careful touch. Not demanding and not threatening.

Grateful.

Respected.

At night, you camped near each other.

Not too close but close enough that you could hear his breathing.

He carved strange symbols into the dirt. You answered by sketching your own.

A new language bloomed between you, drawn in sand and mud.

Safe.

Danger.

Hunt.

Stay.

And sometimes he would leave you little offerings, cleaned bones from his kills, scavenged tech scraps, a strange fruit you had never seen before.

His way of caring.

You started smiling more around him.

He noticed.

His mandibles twitched into what you thought might be a grin.

The first time you touched him was after another ambush.

One of the mutated beasts had cornered you.

Its claws had ripped through your shoulder, blood hot down your arm.

R'thok tore it apart with a roar that shook the trees.

You stumbled. He caught you.

Huge clawed hands, shockingly gentle, cupped your body and kept you from falling.

You pressed your forehead against his chest without thinking, panting.

"You… you’re warm," you whispered weakly.

He made a rumbling sound, almost like a purr.

Without words, he hoisted you up, carrying you like you weighed nothing, and set you down in the shelter of a hollowed tree.

When you woke later, the wound was stitched neatly, and R'thok was there. Watching. Guarding.

Yours.

The final fight was brutal.

The leader of the beasts pinned R'thok first.

You had a split-second decision: save yourself, or save him.

You didn’t hesitate.

You drove your knife into the creature’s eye, grabbing a discarded plasma caster and blasting it at point-blank range.

The thing screeched and died.

You turned to R'thok, chest heaving.

He was staring at you in a way he had never before.

Not as prey.

Not as an equal.

As something more.

He leaned down, his clawed hand brushing your cheek. You shivered, not in fear, but at the intensity in his gaze.

When he pressed his forehead gently to yours, you understood: it was a vow.

Among his kind, that meant something deeper than any words.

A bond. A claiming.

Love.

You closed your eyes and pressed back.

Yes.

Months later, after the rescue teams came and went, after you chose to disappear from your old life, you lived among the stars.

In a hidden place where Yautja and humans met in secret.

Where no hunt ruled your days anymore.

Only him.

Your mate.

Your hunter.

Your heart.

The ship thrummed around you, metal walls glowing faintly blue with low light.

You sat on the narrow sleeping platform in R'thok's quarters — if they could even be called that. Everything was raw, functional: weapon racks, a table of trophies, pelts spread across the floor. The air smelled like steel, blood, and something warmer... him.

He stood before you, massive and still. His armour stripped away, leaving only thick, scarred skin that shimmered faintly in the low light.

His golden eyes softened as he looked at you.

You got up slowly, your pulse a wild drumbeat. You barely came up to his chest, but he bowed his head to you, patient, waiting.

Waiting for you to make the move.

You reached up, fingertips brushing the hard line of his jaw. His skin was warm, surprisingly soft over the brutal strength beneath. His mandibles twitched, a low, almost uncertain rumble rising from his chest.

"R'thok," you whispered.

You didn’t need to say more.

The bond between you crackled like a live wire.

With a low groan, he caught your hand and drew it to his mouth. His tusks brushed your knuckles as he breathed you in.

And then, so slowly it made your head spin, he pulled closer.

You felt the heat of him.

His massive hands slid down your sides, claws grazing lightly over your hips, your thighs, as if memorising every inch.

You reached for the woven cords across his chest and tugged.

He growled low, a sound of approval and need, and helped you, stripping the cords away.

He was all muscle and old scars.

A living weapon who had chosen you, knelt for you.

He bent, pressing his forehead against yours again, the sacred gesture of his people, and you swore you could feel his heart hammering as wildly as your own.

Your fingers traced the thick cords of muscle over his shoulders, his chest, sliding lower.

His body shuddered under your touch.

When your hands grazed the hard line of his abdomen, he snarled low, catching you at the waist and lifting you as easily as if you weighed nothing.

You gasped, but he was already carrying you to the furs on the floor, laying you down with impossible tenderness.

Hovering above you, he hesitated.

He brushed your cheek, your throat, your racing pulse.

Are you sure? - his eyes asked.

You answered by grabbing the back of his neck and pulling him down.

The kiss was clumsy at first, Yautja mouths weren’t made for it, but he learned quickly.

Pressing his mandibles against your skin, nipping lightly, tasting you.

His scent wrapped around you, wild, electric, addictive.

Your clothes came off in pieces, discarded into the dark.

When you were finally bare under him, his gaze raked over you with a hunger that was almost reverent.

He touched you like a treasure, each brush of his massive hands making you ache.

He was careful as he explored you.

Mapping every sound you made, every shiver, every sharp intake of breath.

You gasped when his hand slid lower, between your thighs, and he paused, snarling softly in warning, in need.

Telling you he would go slow.

You wrapped your arms around his thick neck, anchoring yourself to him, and whispered against his ear:

"I'm yours."

He froze.

Then he roared and surged against you.

The first push of his made you cry out, he was so big, you could feel every inch.

But he was gentle, trembling with the effort to hold back. Giving you time to adjust and grow used to him.

You clutched at his shoulders, at the ridges of his back, moaning into his skin.

He rocked into you slowly at first, every movement careful, deliberate. Worshipful.

But soon restraint gave way to need.

His pace quickened, driving deeper, and you met him eagerly, rising to meet each thrust.

It was overwhelming. Consuming.

You felt the bond between you ignite — something ancient, primal — not just physical, but something deeper.

As you shattered beneath him, you felt him follow, his body locking tight against yours with a desperate, broken snarl.

He didn't let go.

Not even after.

He curled himself around you, protective and fierce, his breath hot against your neck.

One massive hand covered your belly. His way of marking you.

You lay there, panting, stroking the side of his face with trembling fingers.

"Yours," you whispered again, kissing the corner of his mandible.

A deep, vibrating purr answered you, the sound of utter devotion.

You closed your eyes, safe for the first time in what felt like a lifetime.

Not hunted.

Not alone.

Chosen.

Loved.

Forever.

~Masterlist~

ˇAO3ˇ

Wattpad

/DO NOT TRANSLATE, STEAL OR REPOST ANY OF MY WORKS TO THIS OR OTHER PLATFORMS/

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vandme12 · 3 months ago

Text

Blood, Guts, and a Lifetime Warranty- Ronin x Reader

WORDS : 11732

TRIGGER WARNING : Graphic Violence, Gore, Murder, Dark Themes

CHARACTER USED : Ronin from Killer Chat!

SUMMARY : On the way to the wedding, Dressed in black, He really did it in his way didn't he? You really had a husband right now. He proposed.

INSPIRED FROM THE ART : @scary-brainrot I love their art! ahh! This was already in my drafts, I finished it!

The art's link (The one I got inspired from)

90 followers special

“That old man keeps asking when I’ll get married again.”

Annoying. Worse than annoying. Like a mosquito buzzing in your ear when you’re already halfway to losing your mind.

The garage smells like oil, rust, and Ronin—something metallic, something alive, something that clings. You could go home, but home is a ringing phone and voices that won’t like the answers you’d give. They love you. You love them. But they wouldn’t love him. Not the way you do.

Some distant uncle, some wrinkled remnant of family dinners and polite disappointment, would take one look at Ronin and say something sharp, something final. And Ronin? He’d roll his tongue along his teeth, slow and deliberate, like a lion deciding if a gazelle is worth the chase. He’d smile too wide, say something that’s both a joke and a promise of violence.

You’d defend him, though. Because you’re his. Because he’s yours.

A year, almost. Two sick minds spiraling around each other like dying stars, feeding off the heat, off the destruction. You learned more than you should. Became something sharper, something better, something that fit in the hollow of his ribs. And Ronin, patron saint of pretty rot, never lied about the world. He just pulled back the curtain and let you see it for what it was.

He loves you, but he doesn’t say it. He shows it in the way he exists—raw, unapologetic, a brush dipped in something obscene, painting your name in places no one else would dare.

And you?

You see it now. The way he sees things. The way they were always meant to be seen.

Face it, darlin’. You lost the second you met him.

The sound of metal on metal, the slow grind of a wrench turning bolts, the scent of oil and rust clinging to the air like an old, familiar ghost.

You’re watching him—your little devil in disguise, though he’s hardly trying to hide it. Ronin leans over the open hood of a half-dead car, sleeves shoved up, grease streaked along his forearm like war paint. He works with a lazy kind of precision, every movement drawn out, every flick of his wrist deliberate, like he knows you’re watching and wants you to keep watching.

And you do.

Because how could you not?

He glances up, catches your stare, and his grin spreads slow and sharp, teeth flashing like a wolf playing at civility. His tongue drags along his teeth before he chuckles, a low, amused thing that slithers into your bones.

"What, darlin’? Ain’t never seen a man work before?"

You roll your eyes, but the heat crawling up your neck betrays you. He doesn’t miss it—he never does. He tilts his head, studying you like he’s about to make a meal of you, like he already has.

"Careful now. Keep lookin’ at me like that, and I might start thinkin’ you got a death wish."

And Ronin? He never breaks a promise.

He lets the wrench fall onto the workbench with a clatter, wiping his hands on a rag that does nothing but spread the mess further. Then he’s leaning on the car, watching you like he’s considering tearing you apart just to see how you’d put yourself back together.

"Y’know, a person like you could do better." His voice is slow, teasing, coiling around something darker. "Could find yourself a nice boy. One who doesn’t kill for fun, who calls his mama on Sundays, who wouldn’t snap your neck if you asked real sweet."

A pause. A smirk. That awful, wonderful, knowing look in his eyes.

"But you won’t. ‘Cause you like this, don’tcha?"

He takes a step closer, the space between you burning down to nothing. The heat of him, the weight of his attention, the sheer gravity of his existence—it's suffocating in the best way.

"You like watchin’ me. Like sittin’ there all sweet while I get my hands dirty." A slow grin. "Like knowin’ they’ll never be clean."

“You’re being too edgy again.”

Ronin gasps, all mock offense, pressing a grease-streaked hand to his chest like you just ran him through with a stake. "Too edgy? Darlin’, you wound me."

“You already established the bit, you don’t have to crank it up every time.” You cross your arms, leveling him with a look that should be stern, but the corners of your lips betray you.

He hums, considering. "Alright, alright. I’ll dial it back a lil’—for you."

But then you laugh. Because, let’s be real, you like this. Maybe not the whole performance, but the way he commits to it. The sheer audacity of him.

Ronin catches that little slip in your composure, and suddenly, he’s grinning again—your grin. That slow, teasing pull of lips that promises nothing good.

"See? You love it."

Before you can argue, he puckers his lips, exaggerated as hell, and throws a flying kiss your way. And then—the bastard throws it straight into the trash.

You shoot him a murder look so sharp it could split bone, but he just laughs, loud and unrepentant, striding forward without a care in the world.

And then, in the cheesiest, most dramatic display of affection possible, he plucks the imaginary kiss right back from the air, presses it to his chest like a treasured keepsake, and sighs.

"Alright, alright. I’ll keep this one." He pats his chest, eyes twinkling. "Right here. Close to my cold, dead heart. XOXO, baby."

You groan. He’s impossible.

“You’re an idiot.”

Ronin grins. "Yeah?"

"An idiot for idiots."

His grin stretches wider, teeth flashing. "Oh?"

"So idiotically idiotic it’s actually impressive."

That does it. He throws his head back and laughs, a sharp, delighted thing, full-bodied and reckless. Hands still smudged with oil, still clutching onto the ghost of that stupid, cheesy kiss, he leans in like he's about to whisper something profound. Instead—

"And you—" he drawls, slow and indulgent, like he’s savoring the words before he spits them out. "You got the energy of such a bad bitch. Or a bastard. Take your pick."

He flicks his fingers, like he’s throwing dice, like fate itself is something he can gamble with.

"Somethin’ real nasty about you, sweetheart. Somethin’ sharp. A bite to that pretty mouth. Ain’t that a treat?"

His eyes are dark with something unreadable, something between admiration and hunger, like he wants to see what you’ll do with his words. If you’ll bite back. If you’ll play along.

Because Ronin? He’s always playing. And he’s hoping—praying, even—that you’re the kind of idiot who won’t let him win too easily.

"It’s... nothing."

Ronin tuts, tilting his head, eyes gleaming like a wolf that’s caught the scent of something bleeding. "Oh, but somethin’ must be trickin’ your head, darlin’. I can hear it rattlin’ around in there." He leans in, voice dropping to something just above a purr. "C’mon now. Whisper your prayer to the Devil. What’s on your mind?"

You shoot him another murderous glare, sharp enough to cut, lethal enough to wound. He loves it.

And worse? He blushes.

It’s fleeting—a flicker of warmth, a betrayal of blood rushing to his cheeks—but it’s there. And then, just as fast, he throws his head back and laughs, wild and unrestrained, like you’ve just handed him the funniest joke in the world.

The audacity. The gall. The sheer joy in his eyes, like he’s never been happier than in the presence of someone who genuinely wants to kill him.

Because let’s be real—isn’t that his favorite thing?

Ronin wipes at his grin like he can smother it, but it lingers, curling at the edges. "Goddamn. If looks could kill, sweetheart—" he whistles low, shaking his head, "—I’d be six feet under already. You tryin’ to make me fall harder?"

You don’t answer. You don’t have to.

Ronin’s already grinning like you did.

"What?!"

You don’t even give him a chance to answer before you pinch both of his cheeks, hard.

Ronin yelps, muffled by your hands squishing his stupid, grinning face. "Owww—darlin’, what the hell—?" He grabs your wrists, but not to stop you—no, just to hold on, just to feel you, because he likes it when you get your hands on him. Even when it’s to hurt him.

Especially when it’s to hurt him.

You tug his cheeks just a little harder, watching as his face scrunches up, his nose wrinkling, eyes narrowed in exaggerated pain. "That’s what you get for talking like that."

His words come out distorted, voice wobbling from the force of your grip. "Talkin’ like wha’?"

"Like you wanna die by my hands, idiot."

Ronin wheezes out a laugh, finally prying your hands away—but he doesn’t let go. Instead, he flips your grip, lacing your fingers together like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like it’s his right.

"Ain’t my fault you’re so damn beautiful when you’re thinkin’ about killin’ me." His voice is softer now, but the playfulness lingers. His thumbs ghost over your knuckles, a mockery of tenderness, a real display of it all the same.

"Y’know," he muses, leaning in, voice dropping low, "if you ever do get sick of me, darlin’... at least make it interesting, yeah?"

You scoff, rolling your eyes, but you don’t pull away.

Ronin, grinning like he just won something, kisses your knuckles

You blush. Disgusting. You look away, like that’ll save you, like he won’t see it anyway. Like he won’t catch the way your fingers twitch in his grasp, like he won’t feel the heat you’re trying to will away. Like he won’t eat it up.

“You said live, not die.”

Ronin’s grin flickers. Just for a second. Just long enough for the mask to slip, the wires beneath to spark. Then—

“Oh, darlin’.” He lets out something between a laugh and a sigh, tilting his head, studying you like a painting he can’t quite decide how to ruin. “Now, that’s just cruel.”

You roll your eyes, yank your hands away, shove him for good measure. He staggers back with an exaggerated stumble, hand over his chest like you just stabbed him through the ribs. Dramatic. Always. Even when it’s real.

“Gotta admit,” he says, pressing his palms together, as if in prayer, as if he’s ever prayed to anything other than the void, “that’s a new one. You? Wantin’ me to live? Be still, my dead, black heart.”

You cross your arms, glare. “Shut up.”

“Make me.”

There it is. That look. The one that’s all teeth, all sharp edges and something deeper, something raw. Something hungry. He wants you to fight him. He wants you to win.

You don’t humor him. You don’t move. You stay exactly where you are, which is somehow worse.

Ronin watches. Waits. Always patient, when it matters. Always willing to let the moment stretch, to let the silence settle, just to see what you’ll do with it.

“Go on, then.” He lifts his chin, dares you. “Say it again.”

Your stomach twists. You hate him. You hate that he knows exactly how to get under your skin, exactly how to pull words out of your throat like he’s got his fingers wrapped around your voice. You hate that you let him.

“You’re such an idiot.”

He smirks, tilts his head. “For idiots.”

“So idiotically idiotic.”

His grin widens. “Say it.”

You swallow. Fine. You meet his gaze, steady. “Live.”

Something shifts.

It’s subtle. A breath held too long, a flicker behind his eyes. Like you just flipped a switch he didn’t know he had. Like you just changed something.

Then, just as fast, he laughs—loud, reckless, full-bodied. He steps forward, gets right in your space, doesn’t touch, but you feel it anyway.

“Darlin’,” he purrs, “you keep talkin’ like that, and I might just have to listen.”

Your heartbeat stutters. Unacceptable. You shove him again, harder this time. He doesn’t even pretend to stumble, just grins like you handed him a gift.

“You’re insufferable,” you say, turning away.

“You love it.”

You don’t answer. You don’t have to.

Ronin chuckles, something quiet, something softer than it should be. You feel the heat of him at your back, a presence that lingers, that stays even when he isn’t touching you.

Then, finally, he steps away. Leaves you with the echo of his voice, the ghost of his grin.

“Live, huh?” he mutters, almost to himself. Almost.

"Guess I can try."

And damn it—you hear the smile in his voice. That soft, dangerous edge, like he’s filing it down just for you. Like you gave him something new to chew

Your phone buzzes—loud, persistent, annoying—because of course it does. You sigh, already knowing who it is. That special brand of chaos only one person in your family can bring.

Before you can grab it, Ronin’s faster. Always is. He snatches your phone like it’s his right, thumb dragging across the screen as he answers the call with a lazy, cocky swipe.

"Hello, sweetheart’s personal assistant speakin’—" He pauses, lips curling when the sound of someone shouting blasts through the speaker.

"Hey! When will we meet the boy?!" The voice is rough, familiar, and exactly as you feared. "I’m looking at some photos—"

Oh no.

"—of some nice boys. I’ll send them to you. Tell me which one you like, so the family can arrange a date. Get you two to know each other better—"

Silence.

A beat.

Then—Ronin laughs. Real loud, too—like he wants them to hear it, wants it to stick. His head tips back, neck exposed, all sharp teeth and sharper intentions.

"Well, shit," he drawls, licking his teeth, voice sweet as poison. "You’re settin’ up a date for my baby? Kinda rude, ain’t it? I mean—" His free hand slides to your waist, casual and possessive, squeezing like he owns you. "—I’m right here."

Your stomach drops. "Ronin—"

He ignores you, because of course he does.

"I get it," he continues, mock sympathy dripping from every word. "I mean, who wouldn’t wanna line up a few pretty boys? But—" He sighs, dramatic as ever. "—gotta break it to ya, pops. They’re already taken."

The line goes silent—for a second. Maybe two. Then—

"Who the hell are you?!"

Ronin’s grin stretches, and oh, he’s enjoying this. Loves the fire. Loves the fight. He leans closer to the speaker, like he’s sharing a secret. "The Devil, baby. Didn’t they warn you?"

You slap his arm, hard, but it only makes him laugh more—warm and bright, like setting a match to gasoline.

"You—!" The old man sputters, full of righteous indignation. "You think this is funny?!"

"A little," Ronin purrs. "Kinda cute, actually. Y’care about ‘em so much you’re hand-pickin’ their future? Adorable." His fingers curl against your hip, deliberate. "But—" he hums, voice sinking into something darker, rougher, "—no one’s takin’ ‘em away from me, old man."

He means it. You feel it in the weight of his touch, the way his thumb circles your skin.

"Ronin—" you hiss again, trying to take your phone back, but he’s not done. Not even close.

"Look," he says, casual as hell, like this is a friendly chat. "I’m a real thoughtful guy. I’d love to meet the fam. Hell—" he chuckles, "—maybe I’ll even bring a gift. Y’know, to show my appreciation."

You don’t like the way he says "gift." Not one bit.

"You’re out of your damn mind," the old man snaps.

Ronin’s smile turns razor-sharp. "Yeah, well—" he tilts his head, brushing his lips against your ear, voice dropping to a whisper only for you. "—I’m your kinda problem now, aren’t I?"

Your heart pounds—too fast, too much—and you’re torn between wanting to strangle him and... something worse.

The phone crackles—your family’s favorite brand of righteous fury practically vibrating through the speaker.

"You arrogant little—what kind of punk thinks he can talk to me like that?!" the old man barks, voice sharp enough to cut. "You think you’re funny?!"

Ronin, being Ronin, grins wider—which should be illegal, really, because no one man should look that pleased while actively causing problems on purpose. His eyes gleam, wicked and bright, as he leans against the workbench like this is his personal entertainment.

"Funny?" He clicks his tongue. "Nah, old-timer, I’m hilarious."

Your head drops into your hands. Of course. Of course he’s not backing down. Not when there’s someone willing to bite back.

"Ronin—" you try, voice tight, but he holds up a hand—shh, baby—without even looking at you.

"So," he drawls, like he’s savoring every second of this. "How many poor suckers you got lined up for ‘em? Five? Ten? You hopin’ one of ‘em’s got a personality, or just flippin’ through the catalogue ‘til you find a pretty face?"

The line crackles again. Then—"You listen here, you little shit—"

"Nah, you listen." Ronin’s voice drops—still playful, but there’s an edge under it now, jagged and dangerous. His smile never wavers, but the temperature in the room feels ten degrees colder. "They’re not goin’ on any dates. Not with your pretty little lineup, not with anyone." His head tilts, lazy, like he’s considering how much trouble he feels like starting. "Y’see, they’re already busy—with me."

You pinch the bridge of your nose, torn between wanting to melt into the floor and… God help you, wanting to drag him down by his stupid leather jacket and kiss the smirk off his face.

"What the hell kind of guy are you?!" the old man demands, voice still boiling.

And that’s it—that’s the line Ronin’s been waiting for. He lifts his hand, fingers splaying across his chest like he’s been personally offended, but there’s a gleam in his eye. Something feral. Something viciously proud.

"Oh, darlin’ didn’t tell you?" His smile turns razor-sharp, voice syrup-sweet. "I’m their worst decision. And their best one."

"YOU—"

"Careful now," Ronin warns, mock-gentle. "Wouldn’t wanna get your blood pressure up. Though, hey—if you keel over, I’ll send flowers. Maybe."

Your mouth falls open. "Ronin!"

He shrugs, but his arm wraps around your waist, tugging you against him like he’s staking a claim. "What?" he says, all innocence. "M’bein’ polite."

Polite.

The old man, meanwhile, sounds seconds away from an aneurysm. "You punk! What the hell do you even bring to the table?! Huh?!"

Ronin hums, pretending to think—tapping his chin like this is a serious question. "Well," he finally says, drawing out the word like it’s a punchline, "I’m real good with my hands."

You choke.

He winks.

And that’s when you’ve had enough. With a furious swipe, you rip the phone out of his hand and hang up before anyone can make things worse. For a second, there’s silence—just the hum of the garage and your heart pounding in your ears.

Then, of course—Ronin laughs.

Deep and delighted, like you just handed him the best gift he’s ever gotten.

You whirl on him, shoving at his chest. "Are you INSANE?!"

He doesn’t budge. Just catches your wrists, lazy and loose, still chuckling like he’s having the time of his life. "A little," he admits, dragging your hands up to his lips. He presses a feather-light kiss to your knuckles, saccharine and smug. "But you love it, don’t ya?"

Ronin’s eyes narrow the second the old man’s voice blares back through the phone—louder, angrier, like he’s just realizing exactly who he’s dealing with.

“AH, FUCK—IT’S YOU! PUNK, EMO ASS, KID—”

Your head drops back with a groan. Oh, great.

The rant barrels on, unstoppable. “Look, kid. They told us ‘bout you—yeah, yeah, we didn’t even mind your ass. But then we heard you don’t like marriage. Christian-type stuff.”

Ronin snorts under his breath, lips twitching. "Oh, no. Anything but the sanctity of holy matrimony," he mutters, loud enough for you to hear, and you felt shitty—because, of course, he’s not taking this seriously.

The old man is not amused. “Look, respectfully—I get it. Some people don’t like the religion shit, fine.” A breath hisses through the receiver. “But this is an event. My lil’ baby is either gettin’ married—or gonna.”

You don’t miss the way Ronin’s jaw flexes at the word "baby."

“So, please—stay outta their way.”

Before you can respond—before Ronin can sharpen his tongue into something lethal—your patience snaps. You snatch the phone from his hand and, with zero hesitation, hurl it across the garage. It hits the wall with a satisfying crack, falling in two pitiful pieces.

The silence that follows is deafening.

For once—he doesn’t laugh.

Ronin watches you—sharp, calculating—like he’s peeling back your skin with his eyes, memorizing every new layer you reveal. His head tilts just a little. Something about that look makes your chest feel tight—too much, too fast.

You sigh, running a hand through your hair, like it’ll somehow smooth out the mess in your head. But when you glance back at him—he’s still looking. Still waiting.

And his voice—God, his voice—comes out too soft. “Somethin’ on your mind, darlin’?”

You look away.

His grin creeps back in, a little too sharp. “Y’know I love it when you get shy,” he teases, but the edge in his voice gives him away. He wants the truth.

Your heart stumbles. You press your lips together, fighting the way your thoughts swirl—loud, messy, too much. But the words—the real words—don’t come easy. Not when it’s this.

Still—you reach for him. Slip your fingers into his, warm and solid and steady. It’s too intimate for how casual you’re pretending to be, but he lets you.

You swallow hard. “…You don’t like these things because of—”

But you can’t finish. Your voice trips over itself, and rather than push through, you stop. Let it hang. Force yourself to smile. “It’s fine.”

Ronin doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Just stays locked on you.

You squeeze his hands a little tighter. “I’m happy. With you.”

It’s too honest. Too raw. And his grip tightens—like he’s daring you to take it back.

For a beat—he says nothing. But something shifts behind his eyes, and you know—you just know—that those words are going to stick. He’ll hold onto them like a blade tucked under his skin.

You lean up, quick and light, and kiss his cheek—lingering just long enough to feel the heat rising under your lips.

“I’m gonna go home,” you murmur. “Sleep well, Ronin.”

His fingers twitch in yours—tight, like he doesn’t want to let go.

But then—he does. And the smile he gives you as you pull away is dangerous—a promise.

“G’night, Darlin.”

The walk home is quiet. Too quiet. The kind that sticks to your skin and makes your head buzz. You told yourself it was fine—you’re fine—but the weight in your chest doesn’t quite lift, no matter how many deep breaths you take.

When you finally get home, the house is dark. Silent, except for the faint hum of that damned telephone still on the hook. You don’t touch it. Not tonight.

You kick off your shoes, peel off the day, and crawl into bed. The sheets are cold—too cold—without him. But you don’t think about that.

Not yet.

You’re too tired to fight your thoughts, so you let them fade. Let sleep pull you under.

Ronin doesn’t sleep.

Not well, anyway—not when you’re gone.

He stays in the garage long after you leave, leaning against the workbench with a half-finished cigarette burning between his fingers. Smoke curls through the air—thick, acrid—something to keep his hands busy while his mind spins.

That old bastard’s voice still rings in his ears. “Stay outta their way.” Like he’s some stray mutt sniffing around where he doesn’t belong. Like you’d ever let anyone pull that leash.

A dry chuckle slips past his lips. As if.

You told him to live. And you said it like you meant it. Like you wanted him to stick around. For you.

And that’s the problem, isn’t it?

Because Ronin’s been circling the drain for years—grinning all the way down—and then you came along. Got your hooks in him. Made it hard to fall when you’re the one holding on.

And he likes it. That’s the worst part. He likes the way you look at him—like he’s more than just teeth and blood and bad habits stitched together. Likes the way you call him an idiot and still hold his hands like you’re afraid to let go.

It’s addictive. You’re addictive.

And maybe—just maybe—he’s not ready to lose that yet.

The cigarette burns down to the filter before he flicks it aside, crushing it under his boot. His fingers twitch against his palm, and for a split second—he thinks about calling you. Just to hear your voice. Just to prove you’re still there.

But he won’t. He doesn’t want to spook you. Not when you’ve already given him so much.

Still—he’s not gonna sit here all night stewing like a lovesick idiot.

So, he grabs his keys, swings his jacket over his shoulders, and slips out of the garage with a devil-may-care grin.

If he’s not gonna sleep, he might as well have some fun.

You don’t hear the sound of his bike pulling up outside your house around 3 AM. (Just kidding)

You don’t hear the quiet creak of the gate as he slips through, or the soft thud of his boots against the porch.

The lock clicks. A sound too soft for anyone else to notice—but you do. Always.

You move without thinking, bare feet against cold floors, fingers brushing the knob before you twist it open. And there he is.

Ronin.

He’s leaning against the doorframe like he owns it, like he’s got all the time in the world, but there’s something heavy in his stance. Something coiled too tight. His knuckles twitch at his sides. The silver glint of rings, catching low light.

You don’t ask why he’s here. You don’t need to.

Your hand curls around the front of his jacket—warm leather, worn soft—and you pull. He doesn’t resist. Never does, not when it’s you. He’s already moving before the door even clicks shut behind him.

The house is still. Silent, save for the muffled hum of appliances, the faint tick of a clock somewhere down the hall. But his breathing—his—is loud in your ears.

He smells like smoke and metal and something else—something darker, sharper, like midnight and mistakes. It clings to your skin as he steps closer.

You don’t bother turning on the lights.

His hands find you first. Of course they do—always greedy, always starving—palms dragging against your waist, thumbs pressing against your ribs. Heavy. Like he’s reminding himself you’re real.

Your breath hitches when he curls his fingers into the fabric of your shirt, knuckles brushing bare skin. He feels it. You know he does, because his mouth curls—barely—and he lets out a low, breathy exhale, like this? This is exactly what he came for.

You tug him through the dark, back to your room, back to your bed—his bed, when it suits him—and he follows without a word.

The door shuts behind you both. Quiet. Like a secret.

He shrugs off his jacket as you sink onto the mattress. The leather hits the floor in a careless heap, rings glinting as his hands hover—hesitate—before he touches you again.

Always touching. Always taking.

You make room for him without thinking, shifting under the sheets as he crawls in beside you. He’s warm—too warm—like he’s been carrying heat under his skin for hours.

You should shove him. Call him an idiot for coming here in the middle of the night. But you don’t.

Instead, you curl against him, and he… melts.

His arms slide around your waist, pulling you close—closer—until there’s nothing left between you but breath and heartbeat and something too raw to name. His nose brushes against the curve of your neck, and his fingers twitch where they rest against your back.

He holds you like you’ll disappear if he lets go.

And maybe that’s the point.

His face presses into your shoulder, too much teeth against soft skin, but it’s not rough. Not really. Not when you know how much he wants this—needs this—even when he won’t say it.

Especially when he won’t say it.

He’s touch-starved in the way only someone like him can be. Starved for you, specifically. Like it isn’t enough to watch from the edges. Like he needs to feel you—to sink in and never leave.

You trace your fingers up the back of his neck, nails dragging gently against skin. He shudders. His breath stutters against your throat.

His grip tightens.

He won’t ask you to stay like this. He won’t ask for anything. But you know he’d take it if you let him.

And tonight?

You do.

You let him tuck his face against your collarbone. Let him wrap himself around you like he’s trying to crawl under your skin. His hair tickles your cheek—soft, messy, human—and for all his edges, all his sharpness, he’s warm. Solid. Yours.

His heartbeat slows against your ribs.

You stay like that. Minutes. Hours. Maybe forever.

And when his hand slides under your shirt—fingers curling against your spine, not asking, just holding—you don’t stop him.

He’s quiet, after that. Quieter than usual. Like maybe, just maybe, he’s finally gotten what he wanted.

Morning comes slow. Too slow, and somehow too fast.

The bed’s cold.

His warmth—his weight—is gone, and you feel it before your eyes even open. There’s no leather-jacketed mess tangled in the sheets, no sharp grin waiting to bite at you the second you stir. Just empty space where he was, where he always is, until he isn’t.

You sigh. Of course.

He never stays. Not all the way.

The sun bleeds through the curtains, golden and soft, but it does nothing to fill the ache curling behind your ribs. You push yourself up, stretch the stiffness from your limbs, and try—fail—not to think about the way he clung to you last night. The way his hands wouldn’t stop shaking, even when he had you pinned close.

You don’t know why you keep doing this. Letting him crawl under your skin. Letting him take whatever he wants, however he wants. But you do. Again and again and again.

Your throat feels tight. You swallow it down.

The floor is cold against your feet as you slip out of bed. You move through the motions—shower, brush your teeth, dress yourself like you’re preparing for war. Your usual uniform. The world doesn’t stop turning just because Ronin decided to ghost you.

Not that it’s a surprise. It’s what he does.

Still—you check your phone. Just once.

Nothing. No texts. No missed calls. No smart-ass messages left for you to find.

Figures.

You yank open the closet door, grab your work bag, and sling it over your shoulder. The weight is familiar. Easy. You focus on that—the rhythm of routine, the comfort of habit—because if you don’t, you’ll think about the way he felt in your arms. The way he held you like he wasn’t sure he’d get another chance.

You don’t have time for that.

Keys. Wallet. Phone. You snatch them off the counter and head to the door, locking up behind you with the kind of practiced ease that doesn’t need thought.

Outside, the air is crisp—too bright, too sharp for a morning that feels this heavy—but you square your shoulders, lift your chin, and walk.

A job’s a job. And yours won’t wait.

By the time you make it to the office, your face is carefully neutral—expression smooth, words sharper than you mean them to be. No one notices. No one ever notices. You bury yourself in your work, losing hours to reports and phone calls and emails, because it’s easier than letting your mind wander.

But it does,

Slaughterhouse: Losers Very Good—a bloodstained corner of the internet where psychos, freaks, and murder hobbyists hang out like it’s a dive bar no one sane would step into. Coded from scratch, like everything Ronin does. Meticulous. Untraceable. Home sweet home.

And you?

Offline.

He hates that.

You’re too good to him. You let him touch you—hold you—and somehow, you’re still here. Soft edges in a world full of jagged glass. He doesn’t get it. Doesn’t deserve it. And yet.

Ronin leans back in his shitty leather chair, boots kicked up on the desk. The glow from his monitors bathes the room in electric blue, half-lit shadows stretching across the mess of papers, knives, and half-finished projects. One screen blinks with a list of names. His little collection of degenerates.

If he’s gonna do something for you, it’s gotta be good.

He cracks his knuckles, spins a blade between his fingers, and pulls up the first chat.

🐺 K9 (V):

Ronin: sup, robo-cop.

K9: Don’t.

Ronin: aw, missed u too, sweetheart. anyway, i got a question. hypothetical. romantic. u know what that is, or does ur metal heart not compute?

K9: I’m blocking you.

Ronin: no u aren’t. u love me. listen, if you were, hypothetically, in love with someone—(gross, i know)—what would you get ‘em?

K9: …You? In love?

Ronin: hypothetical. duh.

K9: A knife. Through the heart.

Ronin: aw. that’s practically a marriage proposal, k9. but srsly. i want ideas. gimme somethin’.

K9: Why do you care?

Ronin: because, steel-toes, for once in my godforsaken life, i want to be nice. write that down.

K9: …Whatever the hell you are, I do respect you for wanting to do something. Get them something meaningful. Personal. Something no one else could give.

Ronin: ur such a sap under all that righteous fury. thanks, babe. xo.

Ronin grins to himself. Meaningful. Personal. Easy words when you’re not the one tangled in it. Still, not useless. And if nothing else, bothering V is a highlight of his day.

Next.

💀 LUCA_IS_SO_COOL:

Ronin: sup, sunshine.

Luca: YO DUDE. YO. YO. THE DEVIL IS IN MY DMS WHAT’S GOOD

Ronin: don’t wet ur boardshorts, prettyboy. i need ur expert advice.

Luca: BRO ASK AWAY. I AM AN OPEN BOOK OF RAD WISDOM.

Ronin: so, imagine someone who’s not me (obvs) wants to do something nice for their, uh, partner. ideas?

Luca: BROOOOOOO BROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO ARE YOU IN LOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOVE DEVILLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL

Ronin: chill. ur embarrassing urself.

Luca: NAAAAH THIS IS EPIC. OK OK OK OK. GET THEM SOMETHING FUN, MAN. SOMETHING THAT MAKES ‘EM LAUGH. OR LIKE. A DATE NIGHT. EVERYONE LOVES A DATE NIGHT.

Ronin: yea? what do u get feli? a golden shrine?

Luca: BRO. SHE DESERVES IT. LOVE OF MY LIFE. 10/10 WOULD MURDER FOR HER.

Ronin: u r so cringe it makes my teeth hurt.

Luca: NAH, MAN. THIS IS PEAK RELATIONSHIP. EMBRACE IT. TREAT ‘EM RIGHT.

He closes the chat before Luca can start writing you two’s wedding vows.

🎀 Angel (Angelic):

Ronin: hey, sweetheart.

Angel: Shouldn’t you be doing crimes?

Ronin: multitasking. i need a gift idea. something hot. spicy. devilishly irresistible. like me.

Angel: LMAO. You? Being romantic? Is this the apocalypse?

Ronin: c’mon, sugar. help a devil out.

Angel: Fine. Jewelry’s always a classic. But not basic. Custom. Something only you could give. Bonus points if it’s dangerous.

Ronin: deadly and pretty. like you. i’ll keep that in mind.

Angel: You’re welcome, loser.

Alright. Custom. Unique. That he can work with.

One last stop.

📚 Felicite:

Ronin: Hey Feli

Felicite: What do you want, Ronin? I hope you're doing fine!

Ronin: thought you academics liked answering questions. gimme ur best gift idea.

Felicite: For who?

Ronin: nosy. for my business.

Felicite: Books are an easy choice. But if you actually care, do something personal. An experience. Something only you could give.

Ronin: huh.

Felicite: For the record, Luca’s losing his mind. I think you broke him.

Ronin: lol. love that.

He leans back, phone tossed onto the desk. Mind buzzing.

Something personal. Something only he could give.

He taps his fingers against his thigh, a slow rhythm building. Yeah. Yeah, he’s got ideas.

hitmeuppp

goreboy: oi, sunshine. u busy killin’ or can i bother u for a sec?

hitmeupp: ✨ goreboy in my inbox?? is it my birthday?? ✨

goreboy: i’m the gift that keeps on givin’, baby. don’t forget it.

hitmeupp mm, flirty today. what’s on your wicked little mind, devil boy?

Ronin: hypothetically… let’s say i wanna do somethin’ nice for someone. y’know. romantic. cute. sweet. whatever. ideas?

hitmeupp: 👀👀👀 waitwaitwait—you?? doing something sweet?? for a special someone?? ohhh i am LIVING for this.

Ronin: don’t make it weird.

hitmeupp: too late, babe. so, what’s the vibe? like, do you wanna melt their heart? make ‘em blush? get ‘em to kiss you senseless? give me the deets.

Ronin: …all of the above, probs.

hitmeupp: aww, you’re adorable when you’re down bad. okay, listen up:

Custom gift—something only you could give. Unique. Dangerous, if you’re feelin’ spicy.

Surprise date—not boring, tho. They like you, so they probably have a taste for the unusual.

Handwritten note—bonus points if it’s a little unhinged. People LOVE that stuff.

Ronin: a note? what, like “roses are red, violets are blue, i’d kill for u, baby, it’s true”?

hitmeupp: LMAO okay, poet, calm down. but yeah—personal. even psychos like a little sentiment. and you’ve got that whole devilish charm thing, use it.

Ronin: u sayin’ i’m charming?

Misaki: 😏 darling, if i didn’t have standards, Stil no

Ronin: Ouch

hitmeupp mmm, promises, promises. now, get outta my inbox before i start liking you.

Ronin: too late, sunshine.

hitmeupp ugh, you’re impossible. good luck wooing your lover~ 💕

[Slaughterhouse Server – Main Chat]

LUCA_IS_SO_COOL: AYO. EVERYONE SHUT UP. BIG NEWS.

Angelic: ??

hitmeuppp: what, did u finally find a brain cell?

Angelic: Doubt it.

LUCA_IS_SO_COOL: NO. BIGGER. Y’ALL. RONIN DMed ME ABOUT GIFTS.

K9: …The hell?

Angelic: wait. hold on. pause.

hitmeuppp: ✨ omg no way ✨

Goreboy: Liar.

LUCA_IS_SO_COOL: BRO, I SWEAR. HE ASKED ME FOR GIFT IDEAS. LIKE—SOMETHING ROMANTIC. I’M NOT EVEN KIDDING.

Felicite: …what's wrong about it luca?

LUCA_IS_SO_COOL: HE’S SIMPIN’.

Angelic: That's fine?

K9: This is stupid. Who cares.

LUCA_IS_SO_COOL: LMAOOOO LOOK AT THIS HATER. HE MAD ‘CAUSE NO ONE’S SENDING HIM LOVE LETTERS.

goreboy: you’re gonna lose a limb, surfer boy.

hitmeuppp: awwww the devil’s BLUSHING~

Angelic: no because why is this actually the most interesting thing to happen all week

LUCA_IS_SO_COOL: I’M NOT EVEN DONE. Y’ALL. HE DIDN’T JUST DM ME. HE DMed EVERYONE.

K9: ......

Angelic: Hold the fuck on—

hitmeuppp: 💀💀💀 GOREBOY OUT HERE TAKING A SERVER-WIDE SURVEY ON HOW TO WOO HIS BOO??

Felicite: Oh my god.

LUCA_IS_SO_COOL: NAH BECAUSE THIS IS TOO GOOD. IMMA SAY IT. HE’S SIMPIN’ FOR Y/N.

Ronin stares at the screen.

The nerve. The audacity.

These punks. Absolute ingrates. He gives them a space to thrive, to indulge their weird little murder hobbies, and this is the thanks he gets?

He’s cool. Ice-cold. Too smooth to care. …And yet—

The corner of his mouth twitches. A little.

They’re all still going.

hitmeuppp: if it’s NOT y/n i’m actually gonna riot.

LUCA_IS_SO_COOL: BRUH WHO ELSE WOULD IT BE??

K9: I hate all of you.

hitmeupp: WAIT. HOLD UP. What if Y/N SEES THIS???

Ronin’s heart skips.

Yeah. What if?

LUCA_IS_SO_COOL: OMG OMG OMG I’M GONNA PING ‘EM.

goreboy: don’t you dare.

LUCA_IS_SO_COOL: @Y/N @Y/N @Y/N HEY, BESTIEEEE~

Ronin grips his phone a little too tight. He should stop this.

He won’t.

Because somewhere—deep down—he kind of likes it.

Angelic: luca omg ur gonna get us all murdered.

hitmeuppp: worth it.

K9: Idiots.

Felicite: …This is sort of cute.

LUCA_IS_SO_COOL: NAH THIS IS LORE. I HOPE Y/N SEES THIS.

Angelic: fr. like imagine logging in and seeing the whole server clowning on ronin for being a lovesick freak.

goreboy: y’all must have a death wish.

Ronin exhales sharply through his nose.

[PRIVATE GROUP CHAT – “Ronin Babysitting Squad”] (Created by Angelicc)

Members: Angelic, Eviscerator1990, Ai Hua, Goreboy

Angelic: this feels like a weird intervention

goreboy: this feels like a weird mistake

Eviscerator1990: Shut up, kid. We’re here to help.

Ai Hua: 🙂 what’s wrong?

Ronin blinks at his screen, fingers hovering over the keyboard. This is humiliating. Why did he think letting Vince of all people into this would be a good idea? The guy still thinks dial-up internet is modern technology.

And Ai Hua? Pure terror in the form of a woman. Always smiling. Always watching. Respect

He should leave.

He doesn’t.

Eviscerator1990: So. What happened.

goreboy: nothing happened, grandpa.

Angelic: that’s not what the ENTIRE SERVER says~

Ai Hua: 🤔

Eviscerator1990: Be honest. You wouldn’t DM all these punks unless it was serious.

Ronin sighs, dragging a hand through his hair. Why the hell is it these three? Of all people.

His thumbs hover—then, finally, he types.

goreboy: hypothetically. if i wanted to do… something. for someone. what’s a good gift?

Silence. Too much silence.

His stomach twists. Mistake. Huge mistake.

Ai Hua: ❤️

Eviscerator1990: …Is it Y/N?

goreboy: who else?

Vince sends three dots. The dreaded “typing…” lingers for a long, long time.

Ronin’s jaw tightens. Here it comes.

Eviscerator1990: Son. You got it bad.

Ronin groans. He should burn the server down. All of it. Reduce it to digital ash.

Ai Hua: 🙂 good.

goreboy: good??

Angelic: she’s right tho.

Eviscerator1990: So. What kind of thing are you thinking? Big? Small?

Ronin exhales, tilting his head back against the couch. Big? Small? Hell if he knows.

You’re good to him. Too good. And all his sharp little edges don’t feel quite so sharp around you. It’s annoying. It’s addictive. It’s yours.

goreboy: …something they’ll remember.

A long pause. Ai Hua is still smiling. Vince sends an emoji that looks suspiciously like a knife. Angelic? Predictably losing her shit.

Angelic: oh my god. oh my GOD.

goreboy: do not.

Angelic: no because this is so cute i’m gonna DIE.

Vince, at least, is playing it straight. Mostly.

Eviscerator1990: Personal. That’s what you want. Something that means something.

Ai Hua: 💌

A love letter. Of course Ai Hua would suggest something that sappy.

Ronin scoffs—but he doesn’t immediately shoot it down. Weird.

Eviscerator1990: Back in the day, I’d leave my girl notes on the bodies. You know—real romantic.

Ai Hua: ❤️ he did. very sweet.

goreboy: romantic is one word for it.

Angelic: okay okay but what does y/n like?

He knows. Of course he knows. Your coffee order. The way you hum under your breath when you’re lost in thought. How you scrunch your nose when you’re about to call him an idiot.

You like him. Which is the real problem.

goreboy: they like me.

Angelic: ugh barf

Eviscerator1990: Okay. Make it about you, then. Something only you could give.

Ronin blinks. Something only he could give.

The thought sticks—hooks deep. A dangerous idea, curling slow and warm in his chest.

Ai Hua: 🙂 you’ll figure it out.

He hates how much that simple, sweet little emoji makes him feel seen.

Eviscerator1990: Don’t mess it up, kid.

Eviscerator1990: Listen, kid—when you’ve been married as long as I have, you learn a thing or two.

Ronin immediately regrets his life choices.

His fingers hover over the keyboard. He considers leaving. Deleting the server. Moving to a cave and never speaking again.

goreboy: oh god here we go

Angelic: oh god here we go

Ai Hua: 🙂

Vince, undeterred, continues typing like he’s delivering the gospel.

Eviscerator1990: Our wedding? Best thing I ever did. No question.

goreboy: what, was it a bloodbath?

For a second, nothing. Then—

Eviscerator1990: Nah. Garden wedding. Real classy.

Ronin nearly drops his phone.

goreboy: you. YOU. Garden wedding??

Eviscerator1990: Yeah. Had flowers and everything. I wore a tux. Looked sharp as hell.

Ai Hua: ❤️ you did.

He can feel Angelic vibrating through the screen.

goreboy: no.

Ronin scrubs a hand over his face. This cannot be real life.

Eviscerator1990: Point is— That was my gift to her.

That hooks him. Annoying, sentimental, and probably too much sugar in his bloodstream—but it sticks.

goreboy: you’re telling me the best thing you ever gave her was a wedding?

Eviscerator1990: Yeah. ’Cause it meant forever. I mean, don’t get me wrong. She still scares the hell outta me.

Ai Hua: 👍

Eviscerator1990: But that’s how you know it’s real.

There’s a long pause. Ronin swears he can hear Angelic trying to choke down her squeals.

Ai Hua: 🙂 do you like them enough to marry?

His heart lurches.

The words hang there—quiet, patient.

Ai Hua doesn’t push. She never does. It’s not her way. She just lays it out, all soft-spoken and warm, like a mother easing her child into something bigger than they understand.

And for once, he doesn’t know.

goreboy: …kinda?

Angelic: KIND OF??

Eviscerator1990: What kinda answer is “kinda?” Either you want it, or you don’t.

Ronin huffs. He leans back on the couch, biting the inside of his cheek. Want. What a word.

goreboy: i want them. i want them to stay.

Ai Hua sends a heart. Just one.

Ai Hua: 🙂 then maybe… Do it your way.

His way.

His mouth curves. Dangerous. Wicked. Oh, he can do that.

Ai Hua: I’m sure Y/N likes you enough.

Something in his chest twists.

Likes him enough to deal with his bullshit. Likes him enough to stay, even when he’s all sharp corners and messy feelings. Likes him enough to keep his name on their tongue, even when it’d be easier not to.

Ai Hua: Whatever you give them that lasts longer— They’ll love it.

He blinks. The words sit heavy.

Ai Hua: Because it’s you. That’s how I feel about my husband.

Quiet. It’s too quiet. Even Angelic—who lives to make everything her business—doesn’t send a single obnoxious emoji.

And Ronin?

He stares at the screen, stomach flipping, heart hammering out some rhythm he refuses to name.

He doesn’t do forever. Doesn’t play nice, doesn’t stick around, doesn’t—

But for you?

Yeah. Maybe he does.

goreboy: Thanks

Eviscerator1990: You’re welcome.

Ai Hua: 🙂 good luck.

Angelic: this is the CUTEST thing that’s ever happened in this cursed server...

Ai Hua: 🙂 one more thing.

His thumb hovers over the exit button. Something about Ai Hua, though—you don’t ignore her when she asks.

goreboy: what.

Ai Hua: It’s fine.

He frowns.

goreboy: what is.

Ai Hua: The way you love them. It doesn’t have to be a wedding. It just has to be you.

He freezes.

Doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. Something sharp scrapes under his ribs.

You.

He’s not soft. Not simple. Not the kind of guy who shows up with roses and a ring and a stupid, starry-eyed smile. But you don’t want that. Never have.

You want him. Exactly as he is—rough edges, black heart, wicked mouth.

And maybe—maybe—that’s enough.

Ai Hua: They love your style. Show them it, my son.

His mouth twitches.

goreboy: did you just call me your son?

Eviscerator1990: We kinda adopted you, kid. Sorry. No returns.

Ai Hua: 🙂

A beat of silence. Then—

goreboy: tch. whatever. not like i needed another family.

Ai Hua: ❤️ but you have one.

His chest aches. Stupid. Sentimental. Unbearable.

Eviscerator1990: And hey— Our kids keep asking when they’re gonna see Uncle Ronin again.

His laugh slips out before he can stop it—low, breathy. Of course they do. Little gremlins.

goreboy: tell ‘em i said to stay in school.

Ai Hua: 🙂 they want to be like you.

Oh, hell no.

goreboy: no they don’t.

Eviscerator1990: One of ‘em tried to make a fake server last week. Called it “Slaughterhouse Jr.”

goreboy: i am not responsible for that.

Ai Hua: 🙂 you inspire them.

He pinches the bridge of his nose. This is a nightmare.

goreboy: y’all are gonna give me grey hair.

Eviscerator1990: You’d still be pretty.

Angelic: oh my god.

Ai Hua: 🙂 will you be okay?

For a long time, he doesn’t answer.

Will he be okay? With this? With you—taking up space in his chest, clawing your way under his skin?

He already knows the answer.

goreboy: yeah.

And for once—just once—he means it.

goreboy: thanks. or whatever.

Ai Hua: 🙂 anytime.

Now onto, you and him

goreboy: Hey, darlin’.

A simple text. Too simple. He never starts like that without a plan. Trouble in four letters.

You barely get through your day before your phone buzzes again. And again. And—

goreboy: what, too busy for lil’ old me? tragic.

goreboy: bet you’re sittin’ there missin’ me, huh?

goreboy: wait—don’t tell me. you’re makin’ heart eyes at your desk or somethin’.

goreboy: don’t blame you. i’m a lot to miss.

He’s annoying. Even through a screen. Even when you know he’s probably lounging somewhere, all long legs and lazy smirk—half-bored, half-plotting his next move.

Still. Your heart gives that stupid flutter. You glance at your phone, biting back a smile as you finally reply.

You: you left without saying anything :(

A beat. Then—

goreboy: oh, baby. don’t tell me you’re poutin’.

You roll your eyes.

You: maybe.

He’s quick—too quick.

goreboy: fuck. now i really wanna see it.

Your cheeks warm. He’s unbearable. Always poking, always pushing. And yet—

You: you didn’t have to leave so fast.

His next text comes slower. As if he’s thinking. You imagine him slumped in that busted leather chair in his garage—legs spread, boots kicked up, twirling a screwdriver or some other sharp thing between his fingers.

goreboy: duty called, sugar. had to open up the garage. wouldn’t want my precious toys collectin’ dust.

You: you’re ridiculous.

goreboy: and yet, here you are, talkin’ to me anyway.

You: i’m soft for you, obviously.

A whole minute passes. When he finally replies, it’s slower. Something tugs beneath the teasing. Something heavier.

goreboy: hey.

goreboy: you’d like… whatever i did for you, yeah?

You blink. Where is this coming from?

You: of course.

goreboy: nah, i mean— like. if i did somethin’ stupid. you’d still like it, right?

Your lips curl. So that’s it. The devil himself, circling the point like a shark.

You: depends. how stupid are we talkin’?

He sends a dramatic sigh emoji.

goreboy: unbelievable. here i am, barin’ my heart and soul—

You: pfft. heart and soul, my ass.

Still, you soften. Because under all the bravado, you can hear it—the little twist of hesitation. And that? That gets you every time.

You: whatever you’re scheming, yeah. i’ll like it. because it’s you.

You hit send before you can overthink it. Let him sit with that.

And oh, does he. For a second too long. When his next message comes, it’s something softer—something unguarded.

goreboy: dangerous thing to say, sweetheart. you know i’ll hold you to it.

You bite your lip, warmth curling in your chest.

You: i’m counting on it.

He doesn’t answer immediately. You imagine him leaning back, teeth sinking into his lower lip, mind working a mile a minute. Because that’s the thing with him—he never stops thinking. Never stops wanting.

And you—you’re the worst of it.

His brain tells him he shouldn’t care so much. But his heart? His heart’s already tangled up in you.

goreboy: s’pose i’ll have to cook up somethin’ real special then. can’t have my darlin thinkin’ i don’t care.

It makes your stomach flip.

You: i never think that.

Another pause. You swear you can feel his smile through the screen—soft, a little crooked. The kind he only ever lets you see.

goreboy: I....see...

Uptown has an alley they call Purgatory.

It isn’t pretty. Never was. A place where sunlight doesn’t dare creep, where the air tastes like rust and regret. Blood dries black against the brickwork—his blood, most days. Or someone else’s, when he’s feeling generous. It smells like piss, garbage, and death.

A shithole. Perfect.

This—this—is where Ronin Beaufort decides to propose.

Because where else? Where better? It’s where you kissed him for the first time, after all—the devil himself, knuckles raw from the man he’d left twitching at your feet, teeth red and grin wide. You’d kissed him anyway. Kissed him like you meant it. Like he was something worth keeping.

And Ronin? He’s not one to let things go.

So, he makes a plan. A fucked-up, perfect plan.

The first body is easy.

An uptight corporate asshole. Buttoned-up, boring, all crisp lines and no soul. Ronin cracks his skull open like a candy shell. Blood spatters wide, painting the concrete. Nice start. But not enough. Not for you.

The second one’s better. Messier. He takes his time—drags it out. A real piece of work, some wannabe kingpin, all bark and no bite. Ronin guts him slow, pulls pretty red ribbons from his stomach. He uses the crowbar for the heart—your heart, darling—and carves it deep into the brick. Wide, jagged, dripping. Personal.

When it’s done, he steps back, tilts his head.

Huh. Cute.

He’s still admiring his work when his phone buzzes.

Angelic: yo, goreboy, you rang?

Of course, she picks up. She always does—his favorite little devil with a halo, sharp-tongued and twice as nosy. And yeah, he could’ve asked anyone, but Angel? Angel gets it.

goreboy: need a favor.

Angelic: what’s in it for me?

goreboy: the eternal satisfaction of servin’ the devil?

Angelic: pfft.

He snorts, tongue running over his teeth. Predictable.

goreboy: fine. order me somethin’. rings.

Angelic: wait. back up. goreboy’s proposing?

He glares at his phone like it personally offended him.

goreboy: shut up.

Angelic: aw, you’re getting soft. what kind? black diamonds? skulls? molten lava straight from hell?

“Funny,” he mutters under his breath. But she’s not wrong. Your ring—your ring has to be perfect.

goreboy: black. gothic. whatever screams “marry me"

The typing bubble appears. Pauses. Then—

Angelic: lucky you, i got a guy.

Of course, she does.

goreboy: knew there was a reason i kept you around.

Angelic: anything for the devil. even if i gotta play cupid for my ex.

He rolls his eyes. “Christ.”

goreboy: Thanks Angel, Won't give up my child for a week.

Angelic: I'll just kill it again

Yeah. Yeah, he would. Not that he’d admit it.

goreboy: whatever. send me the bill.

Her last message comes fast—too fast. He can hear the smile.

Angelic: oh, darling. it’s on the house.

goreboy: Send it, you know- I don't do these Angel.

Angelic: You're cute, No. Just take the rings

He huffs a laugh, shoves his phone back in his pocket. One thing down.

By the time the sun starts to dip, Purgatory looks like an art installation straight from hell. Bodies like broken marionettes. Blood like paint, dripping in slow, thick rivulets. And at the center of it all—the heart.

Your heart.

His.

If he had one.

And if he didn’t? Well. You stole it anyway.

Ronin leans against the wall, crowbar still sticky in his grip.

What the hell is he doing?

Proposing.

Fucking proposing.

He should be laughing at himself. Should be smirking, at least. But his jaw ticks, his fingers flex, and there’s something ugly crawling under his skin—a feeling he doesn’t like.

It’s not the blood. Not the mess. That’s easy.

It’s you. It’s always you.

And the worst part? The sick, stupid, beautiful part?

He wants this.

Wants you.

He wants to keep you—ruin you—for as long as you’ll let him.

His phone buzzes again. Another message from Angel—this time with a picture.

The rings.

Sleek. Sharp. One for you, one for him. Bound in black, wrapped in silver. Yours is thinner, more delicate—but not by much. No diamonds. No fluff. Just you and him, the way it’s always been.

Perfect.

He huffs a breath, tongue clicking against his teeth.

Yeah. Yeah, this’ll do.

It’s almost cute, really.

If you ignore the bodies.

And the blood.

And the fact that he’s doing this the only way he knows how—messy and wrong and completely, utterly him.

He swipes the sweat from his brow, steps back, and admires his work.

A heart, jagged and dripping. A graveyard of the unworthy. Rings on the way.

And for you? Anything.

Even this. Especially this.

Because when the time comes—when he kneels, all cocky smirk and bloodstained hands—you’ll say yes.

You have to.

(And if you don’t? Well. He’s never been good at taking no for an answer.)

Ronin lights a cigarette, lets the smoke curl in his throat.

The devil himself, on one knee.

Christ.

What the hell has he become?

Yours.

And God help anyone who tries to take that away.

goreboy: hey darlin’~

Your phone buzzes against the desk, and you barely glance down before his name flashes across the screen. Of course, it’s him.

you: hey yourself. what’s up?

goreboy: what’s up? tsk. rude—can’t a guy check on his favorite little writer?

You smile, shaking your head. Always like this.

you: oh? i’m your favorite now?

goreboy: pfft. babe, you’ve been my favorite. since day one. don’t let it get to your head, though. my heart’s fragile, y’know.

you: lmao, fragile?? you??

goreboy: i’m delicate. like a flower. 🌹

You roll your eyes, biting back a laugh. Ridiculous.

you: what do you want, ronin?

goreboy: what, a man can’t just miss you? ‘sides… i’m bored.

Of course, he is. The devil himself, restless as ever.

you: poor baby. what am i supposed to do about that?

goreboy: come see me.

You blink at the screen, heart skipping. Oh.

you: …right now?

goreboy: yeah.

you: where?

goreboy: purgatory.

Your brows furrow. He’s teasing. He has to be.

you: lmao. you’re joking, right?

goreboy: when do i ever joke, darlin’?

A pause. Then—

goreboy: seriously. come by. just for me.

You bite your lip, warmth blooming in your chest. This—this—is why you’re in too deep.

you: fine. what’s the occasion?

goreboy: pfft. gotta have a reason? but if you must know…

Another buzz—

goreboy: maybe i got somethin’ for you.

Your heart stutters.

you: something? what kind of “something”?

goreboy: you’ll see, babe. gotta keep a little mystery alive, yeah?

You roll your eyes—fondly, though. Always like this.

you: okay, fine. any special requests?

goreboy: oh, now we’re talkin’. dress in black for me, sweetheart. if you wanna, anyway.

You tilt your head, thumb hovering over the keyboard. He’s playing, but there’s something beneath it—something serious.

you: you like gothic, huh?

goreboy: on you? hell yeah.

you: good. ‘cause so do i.

goreboy: ...perfect.

Is it your imagination, or did he just… stammer?

you: did you just freeze up?

goreboy: shut up.

The alleyway known as Purgatory is as familiar as it is haunting—a place you want to hate but can’t. Your heels click softly against the cracked pavement, the air thick with the scent of blood, metal, and something distinctly him. It’s always him. Even when he’s nowhere to be seen, his shadow lingers like an inescapable ghost.

Tonight, though, there’s something different.

Your black dress clings to you like a second skin, just the way he likes it. You don’t want to think about why your heart’s racing, or why you dressed up like you were meeting someone important. But it’s him—you know it’s always him.

And when you turn the corner, your breath catches in your throat.

A heart.

Not just any heart—A jagged, messy thing carved into the wall in dripping red. Blood, fresh and dark, soaks the concrete like an offering. The heart is wide and chaotic, edges splattered like he couldn’t help but make a mess. But in the center, etched with the brutal precision only he could manage, is your name.

It’s wrong. It’s so wrong. And yet—your pulse flutters. Your stomach twists in that awful, dizzying way it only does with him.

A soft metallic scrape echoes behind you—the unmistakable sound of a crowbar dragging across the pavement. Your skin prickles, and you don’t have to turn around to know who it is.

“Damn,” his voice purrs, smooth and sinful. “Look at you, sweetheart.”

When you do turn, he’s leaning against the brick wall like the devil himself, framed in the neon glow. Ronin.

Black beanie pulled low over his burgundy hair, the devil horns stitched into the sides making him look every inch the trouble he is. His leather jacket gleams under the dim light—studded, spiked, with a pair of rusty scissors sticking haphazardly through the shoulder. A red ‘X’ pin glints beside it, careless and dangerous. Beneath, his black t-shirt clings to him—faded skull design stretched across his chest like it belongs there. His maroon pants hang low on his hips, ripped just enough to tease, and the chains hooked along his belt jingle softly with every move.

And—God—the piercings. Silver glints along his ears, across his tongue when he grins, and the delicate sword pendant resting against his throat? Unfair.

He’s looking at you like he’s starving. Like you’re already his, and tonight, he’s reminding you of it.

“You came,” he murmurs, dragging the crowbar behind him as he approaches. “Knew you couldn’t resist me, darlin’.”

Your throat tightens as he stops in front of you—towering, all six-foot-one inches of bloodstained disaster. There’s that wild glint in his blackened eyes, something feverish and yours. The air crackles between you, electric and dizzying.

His gloved hand reaches out, and before you can react, his fingers lace with yours—gentle, almost. His touch is rough, warm, and when he lifts your hand toward his mouth, your heart stutters.

“A devil’s gotta mark his territory, huh?” he hums, lips brushing against your knuckles.

And then—he kisses your ring finger. Soft, deliberate—like it means something. Like it means everything.

Your face burns, and you try to pull your hand away, but he doesn’t let go. His thumb traces slow circles over your skin, almost absentmindedly—like he’s savoring the feel of you. Always touching. Always wanting.

“What—” your voice catches, breathless. “What is this, Ronin?”

He grins, sharp and wicked. “You like it?” he asks, tipping his head toward the bloodied heart. “Told ya I had something for you, babe. Can’t say I’m not romantic.”

Romantic.

The mess—the blood—the sheer violence of it—this is how he shows it. Twisted, wrong, and so perfectly him. And the worst part? You love it. You love how much he’s willing to ruin things for you.

“You’re insane,” you whisper, but your fingers curl against his palm like you don’t mean it.

“And yet,” he drawls, dipping closer—his lips ghosting against the shell of your ear, “here you are.”

You shiver.

He steps back just enough to meet your gaze, head tilted, that cocky tilt to his lips—but something softer lingers underneath. Something unsure.

“Tell me, sweetheart,” his voice drops, smooth and low. “Whatever I do… you still gonna want me?”

The words shouldn’t hit you as hard as they do. Because underneath all the bravado—beneath the teasing and the devil-may-care attitude—he’s asking if you’ll stay. If you’ll keep coming back to him.

If you’re his.

And you should be scared. You should. But instead, you brush your fingers against his jaw—soft, almost too soft.

“Of course I do, idiot,” you murmur, and his breath hitches—just barely. “I always want you.”

For once, he doesn’t have a comeback. Just stares at you like he can’t quite believe it. Like you’re something precious.

And when he kisses you—slow and bruising, like a promise..

His arms curl around your waist—possessive, like he doesn’t plan on letting go anytime soon. Dressed in black and soaked in sin, he pulls you against him, his voice a low murmur against your ear.

“Sorry, lover,” he drawls, smooth as silk but sharp enough to cut, “you can’t look back now.”

The neon red light hums around you both, staining everything it touches—casting the blood-slick walls in a glow that shouldn’t be beautiful, but it is. Because it’s him. Because it’s you. The blood, the guts—it all looks like a twisted love letter only he could write.

And the heart—still dripping on the wall with your name carved into its center—feels like a vow.

A promise he’s daring you to accept.

He leans back just enough to drink you in, eyes black as the void and twice as deep. The silver glint of his piercings catches the light, but it’s the look in his eyes that makes your heart twist. Something dark. Something dangerous. And God, something that’s only for you.

“Pretty, ain’t it?” he muses, like the whole bloodstained mess is just a casual art project. But there’s something else in his tone—something softer when he adds, “Made it special, darlin’… just for you.”

You should say something—maybe call him out for how utterly insane this is—but your tongue feels too heavy, trapped between your teeth as you try to process everything.

It’s a lot. He’s a lot.

And yet, your body betrays you—pressing closer, heart fluttering against his chest like a trapped bird. You hate how easily he pulls you under, how effortlessly he spins you into his gravity—but there’s no escaping it now.

He tilts your chin up with one gloved finger, lips curving into a slow, wicked smile. “What’s wrong, sweetheart?” he teases, “Cat got your tongue? Or are you just too busy fallin’ for me?”

You try to roll your eyes. Try. But his touch burns, and when he lifts your hand to his mouth—again—you forget how to breathe.

His lips brush against your knuckles—slow, deliberate—before they linger on your ring finger. It’s so soft you barely feel it at first. Just the faintest pressure. Something warm. Something cold.

And when he pulls back, there’s a glint of silver wrapped around your finger.

Your breath stutters. Your heart stops.

A ring.

Not dainty. Not soft. It’s him—jagged edges, blackened silver with the faintest blood-red inlay spiraling like a twisted promise. It’s heavy against your skin, unapologetic in its meaning.

And you didn’t even notice him slipping it on.

Your head snaps up, eyes wide, but he’s already watching you—waiting.

“Ronin—” your voice catches, and you don’t even know what you’re about to ask. What this means.

His grin widens, devilish and sharp. “What’s the matter, babe?” he coos, as if he didn’t just slide a ring on your finger like it was nothing. “Thought you liked surprises.”

You blink—once, twice—your thoughts spiraling, and he takes advantage of the silence. His hand slides along the small of your back, pulling you flush against him while his other hand traces absent circles over the ring.

“Fits perfect,” he hums, pleased with himself. “Guess that means you’re mine, huh?”

Your heart does something awful and traitorous in your chest.

He’s too much. Too close. And you—you’re letting him do this.

Still, your fingers twitch beneath his—testing the weight of the ring, the feel of it like a brand. Permanent.

“You—” Your voice trembles despite yourself. “You didn’t even ask.”

His laughter spills out, low and rough. “Baby, if I asked, would you really’ve said no?”

You hate how easily he’s right.

The gloved hand on your back slides up—tracing the delicate curve of your spine—until it rests against your neck. He tilts your head back, just enough to force you to meet his eyes. Dark. Intense. Yours.

“You’re not mad, are ya?” he murmurs, voice softer now, like there’s actually a part of him that cares. “’Cause I can take it back if you don’t want it. If you don’t want… me.”

His mask slips—just a little—and your stomach twists at the vulnerability he tries so hard to hide.

But you don’t let him pull away. Not this time.

Instead, you curl your fingers into the leather of his jacket, grounding yourself in the heat of him. Your thumb brushes over the ring—cool against your skin—and it should feel too much. Too fast. Too everything.

But all it feels is right.

“Idiot,” you murmur, and his grip tightens like he’s terrified you’ll slip away. “I’d never take it off.”

The relief in his expression is palpable—masked by a cocky smirk, ]

His lips barely part from yours when he whispers it—low, rough, like a vow dragged from somewhere deep inside him.

"Promise you," he murmurs, the words brushing warm against your mouth, "this is forever… or ‘til one of us dies."

And just like that, your brain short-circuits.

Your breath hitches. Your body freezes. You’re too stunned to speak—because, what the hell?

Forever. Forever with him—the blood-streaked, chaos-wrapped mess of a man currently holding you like he never plans on letting go. His hands are still warm against you, firm, and there’s no teasing lilt to his voice. No wicked little joke behind his words.

He means it. Ronin means it.

And for a heartbeat—just one—you can’t process it. Can’t wrap your head around the weight of what he’s just given you.

The silence stretches. Grows heavy between you. And for once, he’s the quiet one.

When you lift your gaze to his, wide and unguarded, his expression is almost… shy.

Ronin Beaufort—The Butcher, the devil himself—looks like a goddamn kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

His lips twitch, like he wants to smirk but can’t quite manage it. His hands fidget slightly on your waist—restless energy bottled under his skin. And his eyes? Pitch-black and wide open, like he’s waiting for you to either run or ruin him.

He shifts his weight from one boot to the other, shoulders hunching the tiniest bit like a kid who just handed over a crayon drawing and is desperately hoping you’ll stick it to the fridge.

"Uh—" His voice cracks just a little—a little—and you swear you catch the faintest flush creeping up his neck. "You’re… gonna say somethin’, right?"

You blink at him. Still speechless.

He fumbles. Actually fumbles—one hand pulling back to rub at the back of his neck as he huffs, "I mean—c’mon, babe, this is kinda the part where you either kiss me back or tell me to go to hell."

The confidence—the usual devil-may-care arrogance—is still there, but it’s softer around the edges. Fragile in a way he never lets anyone see.

And you—oh, you’re doomed.

Your heart does a weird little flip in your chest as you stare at him, still clutching onto your waist like you’ll vanish if he lets go. He’s so much—too much—but under all that swagger and bloodlust, he’s just… Ronin.

Your Ronin.

The idiot who drags you into alleys for romantic blood-and-guts displays. The devil who slid a ring on your finger like it was nothing. The man who—no matter how sharp his tongue is—would burn the world down for you.

“Wait,” you finally manage to choke out, the word soft and breathless. “Did you… are you actually serious?”

His face scrunches up like you just personally insulted his entire aesthetic. “Babe. Did I stutter?” He lifts your hand again, thumb brushing against the cool metal band still snug on your finger. “Or do I gotta get on one knee to spell it out?”

And oh, he’s pouting.

The Butcher—slaughterhouse king, nightmare in leather and spikes—is full-on pouting.

You bite down on your lip, hard, trying to hold back the laugh bubbling up in your chest. He notices—of course, he does—and immediately narrows his eyes.

“Don’t you dare.” His grip on your waist tightens in warning, but the corner of his mouth twitches. “I just poured my goddamn heart out, and you’re laughin’ at me?”

And suddenly—you can’t hold it back.

The laugh escapes—light, breathless, overwhelmed—because what else are you supposed to do when your psychotic, bloodstained boyfriend is acting like a needy kid who just gave you the world’s most chaotic proposal?

His brows knit together in mock offense. “Unbelievable,” he grumbles, though his tone is softer—fond—as he watches you melt into laughter. “I give you my heart on a bloodied silver platter, and this is the thanks I get?”

“I’m not laughing at you—” you try to protest, still breathless. “It’s just… you’re… cute.”

The second the word leaves your mouth, his whole body jerks.

“Cute?!” He repeats it like you’ve committed a personal crime. “I just did the most metal, romantic shit on the planet, and you call me—” He drops his head against your shoulder, groaning. “—cute. Jesus Christ, I’m losin’ my edge.”

You wrap your arms around him without even thinking—pulling him closer, fingers curling into the back of his leather jacket. He smells like smoke, leather, and something distinctly him—something you could drown in if you’re not careful.

And in the middle of the bloodstained alley, wrapped in his arms, you realize there’s no escape. Not from this—not from him.

And, God help you, you don’t want one.

“Hey, Ronin?” you whisper softly against his neck.

“Hmm?” His voice is quieter now—hopeful, like he’s trying not to get ahead of himself.

You tilt your head just enough to press a soft kiss beneath his jaw, feeling the slight hitch in his breath. “I’m not taking it off,” you promise. “Ever.”

For a split second, he’s still. Frozen. Like he doesn’t quite believe it.

And then—he’s kissing you again.

The world could burn, and you wouldn’t care—not when he’s in front of you like this. Eyes blacker than sin, lips swollen from kissing you like he’s starving, and hands gripping your waist like you’re the only thing keeping him from falling apart.

But right now, he’s the fragile one.

Your devil—loud, reckless, always too much—is holding his breath. Waiting. Like your next words could either save him or shatter him.

And God, you love him.

Your fingers brush against the ring on your hand—cool metal, heavy with meaning—before you slowly reach for his. His hands—rough, calloused, stained in ways that can’t be washed clean—tremble just a little as you lift his left hand in yours.

"You gave me one," you murmur, soft and steady, as you slide the matching ring onto his finger. "It’s only fair I make you mine, too."

His breath catches. He doesn’t say a word—doesn’t even twitch—just watches you with this raw, unfiltered intensity that makes your pulse race.

When you finish, you lace your fingers together, feeling the cool press of metal against your skin. He’s yours now. Yours in the same way you’ve always been his.

And when you speak again—voice barely above a whisper—it’s not for show. Not a tease. Just the truth, laid bare between you.

“I’ll love you forever, Ronin Beaufort.”

Something cracks in his expression—something wild and vulnerable and so, so real.

And you’re not done.

“I’m happy,” you admit, voice trembling just a little. “Happy I met you. Happy I get this—us.” You pause, and there’s this ache in your chest when you smile, soft and almost shy. “Maybe it’ll be destructive. Maybe it’ll last forever. I don’t care how it ends, Ronin… I just want it with you.”

His grip on your waist tightens—desperate—like he’s afraid you’ll slip through his fingers if he lets go.

And you don’t. You just lean closer, until your lips barely brush against his, and whisper the words that have been burning on your tongue since the day he dragged you into his twisted little world:

“I love you, Ronin Beaufort.”

For one breathless moment, he doesn’t react.

And then—he moves.

He crashes into you, mouth slanting over yours with bruising intensity, like he’s trying to brand those words into your skin—into your bones. Like he wants to crawl inside your heart and never leave.

It’s messy, overwhelming, and so perfectly him—and you give yourself to it completely.

His hands slide up your back, pulling you flush against his chest as he devours you—sharp teeth grazing your bottom lip, a low growl curling from the back of his throat like he’s trying to consume you from the inside out.

When he finally pulls back—just enough to breathe—his lips hover over yours, and his voice is wrecked.

“You’re a fuckin’ idiot.”

The words are rough, but his hands tremble where they hold you. “Why would you love someone like me?”

Your heart squeezes, and you don’t even hesitate.

“Because you’re you.”

And, for once, he’s speechless.

No snark. No teasing. Just the weight of your confession sinking into his bones—binding you together in a way no bloodstained vow ever could.

He drops his forehead against yours, breathing hard, voice softer than you’ve ever heard it. “You better be sure, sweetheart. ‘Cause you’re stuck with me now.”

Your fingers tangle in the chains hanging from his jacket as you grin. “I wouldn’t want it any other way.”

His lips barely ghost over yours, teasing, waiting, giving you a chance to breathe—but you don’t take it. You can’t. Because then he kisses you.

And God, he kisses you like he means it.

Like he’s sealing the promise in blood and breath, branding it into your bones with the press of his lips. His hands tighten on your waist, pulling you closer, like he’s afraid you’ll slip away if he lets go. Like he needs to hold on just to make sure you’re still real.

It’s slow and deep—no rush, no hesitation—just pure possession.

Your heart pounds. Your fingers tangle in the chains on his jacket, desperate to keep your balance because he’s overwhelming. He always is.

By the time he finally pulls back, you’re breathless—dazed—barely clinging to reality as he huffs out a quiet, wicked laugh.

Then—he grins. Sharp and smug, eyes flashing with something wild.

"Oh, that old man won’t shut up about how we’re not married, huh?" He snickers, tapping a gloved finger against the ring on your hand. "Guess you better show it off, sweetheart. Be loud ‘n proud about it—rub it in his face."

You don’t answer.

Because you’re still dizzy from his kiss...

It's gonna be a long night

#kc #killer chat #killer chat x reader #killerchat #killer chat ronin #ronin beaufort #ronin x reader #kc ronin #kc ronin x reader #killer chat ronin x reader #killer chat vn #ronin killer chat #ronin beaufort x reader #ronin x #killer chat ronin beaufort

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helloilikepurple · 10 months ago

Text

DC X DP - DeAged

The Nasty Burger explosion took a lot from Danny.

Stopping Dan meant nothing when Danny lost everything. His friends, his parents, his sister, his teacher - all gone. Danny, desperate to not become Dan, fled. He would not let Vlad destroy the only thing he had left; himself. He didn't turn human again if he could avoid it. Let Danny Fenton die with his family.

He did what he could, trying to keep it all together. Avoid Vlad. Catch havoc-wreaking ghosts. Try to not have a panic attack every time he saw his reflection. FentonWorks became out-of-bounds. No one was sure how to turn off the portal or any of the house's defence mechanisms so it was taped up instead.

Danny kept the GIW away. They wanted his parents' research, even if they had to bend the law to get it. Danny would not let them have it. Never.

But the GIW was persistent and Danny weak from nearly two months of being Phantom and nothing else. He was so tired. Tired from grieving, from fighting, from wandering around, completely lost and alone.

The GIW got a lucky shot in. Danny went down. He woke up, still ghost, somewhere white. He'd trained himself not to have to turn back. He was grateful he did.

The GIW studied him. Danny did not have the energy to fight back. The will to survive. Curled up in his cell, bloody and becoming less human with every passing day, Clockwork finally intervened.

He could not let the future High King wither away into nothing.

With Nocturn's help, he whisked him away. His world was dying anyway. With no one to maintain the portal, it would soon overload and explode. The radiation would kill all life on Earth, leaving nothing behind, and taking with it the potential for new life. One world among infinite realities meant nothing. But Danny, as High King, is a singularity. A unique existence, only found in one reality. Clockwork, for the sake of everything that lives and dies, could not let Danny fade away.

Danny slept at the Far Frozen, dreaming of his family, his friends, and the stars he would one day rule over. He healed, wounds knitting together into scars and fractured core slowly, ever so slowly, repairing itself. A future Ancient, bound to protect all that is and will be, was bound to be very badly hurt from such a loss.

Clockwork only wished he could have done more, but to remove Danny too early would have spelt disaster worse than the deaths of billions. This boy would someday be someone he'd proudly call his grandson. Seeing that future alone was enough to make his own core ache for the young one.

The Infinite Realms wept for its child, still but a babe yet having suffered so much. It embraced its future King, blessing him with its loyalty and adoration. The ghosts of the realms, spread far and wide over distant realities, timelines and worlds, felt the loss too.

Danny healed, unaware of how loved and precious he was to so many - how far he was from alone. The dead's sudden quiet unsettled many. Enemies froze in the silent mourning, animosity forgotten. Raging wars came to abrupt ends. So many, unable to bear the ever-reaching, unidentifiable pain in the air killed themselves. Good, kind people cried alone.

Magic users, like Constantine and Zatanna, hid, waiting out the Infinite Realm's despair for its child. No one spoke of it, for fear of disrespecting the dimension between dimensions. But they hid, and they waited, and they couldn't help but worry for themselves and everything and everyone else.

Danny got a lot of visitors. Ancients, regular ghosts, crowded around his bed, gifting him blessings and support. Danny slept, he healed, and his world died, taking with it all he'd known. He wouldn't remember or know of any of this when he woke - even the memories of his pleasant dreams will have left him. He'll awaken and think himself entirely alone.

But he'll know, someday.

Clockwork will make sure of it.

---

Danny doesn't know where he is or who he is.

He has a vague idea. His name. His life and his death. But so much is so distant, like impressions on sand, washed away by the ocean. He knows he should be bigger. He knows this isn't home. He knows there is no home anymore.

He knows there are people he misses, but he doesn't know who they are or where they've gone. He knows so little yet so much. White walls and orange hair, green (toxic, writhing green) and hazmat suits, white and black and orange and blue. Expensive, Packers-branded cologne, burning flesh, the scream of an alarm and laughter and fear and hope and love and pain and loss. Disjointed flashes, snippets of another life.

And this isn't familiar - this city and these people. These crowded, filthy streets aren't home, but there's no home anymore so of course they aren't. And maybe Danny should be afraid. He doesn't know where he is, or how he got here. There are people, so tall, walking around him not sparing him a glance. It's loud and smelly and so much to process all at once.

But Danny doesn't care because he's so tired, and he wants nothing more than to curl up in bed and sleep the day away. But he doesn't have a home, so obviously he doesn't have a bed either. He looks around for somewhere else to sleep, rubbing at his chest subconsciously as he does.

There, a building, on the other side of the road. The windows are tinted, but the doors open and Danny, through the crowds and passing traffic, catches a glimpse of what has to be a couch. Maybe the people that own the building will let him sleep on their couch for a little bit.

So he crosses the street, sticking close to the legs of some lady with skinny heels that go tap-tap-tap so the cars don't go because they can't see him. The lady turns to go a different way after but it's okay because Danny is in front of the building now.

He pushes the door open and slips inside. It's quieter inside, and warmer. Danny wasn't cold outside but in here there's a nice heat that makes him feel even sleepier. He looks around at the fancy chairs and potted plants and lights, and is happy to see there are couches. Long couches, with lots of pillows and space for him to spread out.

He walks up to the desk. He's too short to see over it, and it makes him kind of angry because he's sure he's supposed to be taller. But he figures maybe he remembers wrong because people don't just shrink. Except, he's a halfa so maybe ghosts do?

"Hello?"

There's a lady here too, behind the desk, but unlike the one he followed across the street she has short, curly hair. Danny wonders if she's wearing skinny heels too. Leaning his head back, he can see her look up, glance around, and then look back down.

Danny pouts. Did she not see him?

"Hello?"

He waves an arm this time, reaching as high as he can to catch her attention. She finally sees him, eyes widening in surprise. "Oh, sorry! Hello." She has a nice voice.

"Your voice is pretty."

She smiles, and Danny decides her smile is nice too. "Why thank you. You have a pretty voice too. Is there something I can help you with?"

"Can I please sleep on your couch? Just for a little bit."

"Of course you can. Would you like a blanket? I could fetch one for you from the staff room."

Danny shakes his head. "I'm okay. Thank you."

"Alright. But if you change your mind, do tell me."

"You're very nice."

"Thank you, but it's really no problem. Not much to do today anyway."

"You should sleep too then. Sleep is good."

She giggles. "That is a very good idea. I just might take your advice." Danny nods. He has lots of good ideas. "Okay. I'm gonna' go nap now. Bye-bye."

"Sleep well."

There are a few couches, and for a bit Danny's not sure which one to sleep on. He chooses the one with the most pillows. It's very comfy, and the pillows are nice too. He puts one under his head and hugs another, curling up around it. He falls asleep in seconds.

When a toddler with black and blue eyes asked to sleep on one of the couches on in the reception hall of Wayne enterprises, May had assumed he was one of Bruce's boys. He certainly fit the type Gotham's favourite playboy liked to adopt, and it wasn't unusual for his wards to show up out of the blue.

Once she found Tim Drake passed out on the floor under her desk. Apparently, he'd been hiding from Dick who was visiting from Blüdhaven and forgot to bring his coffee with him, consequently falling asleep while he waited for her to arrive so he could ask her to go pick some up for him. That had been an interesting Thursday morning.

On another memorable occasion, Cass, Bruce's only official daughter, and her girlfriend Steph had shown up, said hi, went upstairs, then came back down after about an hour, giggling as they ran out with a wave goodbye. Not even ten minutes later, Bruce himself stumbled out of the elevator, absolutely covered in purple glitter. May remembers raising an eyebrow and asking if Bruce wanted her to have another suit brought in.

He'd ended up collapsing on one of the couches with an exhausted sigh, and said he'd have Alfred pick him up instead. He left a sparkly trail behind him when he walked, and the couch he sat on had to be replaced because, even after numerous cleaning attempts, no one could get the glitter out. He had glitter in his hair for months afterwards.

So, May hadn't bat an eye when the little boy came in. Well aware Bruce had several meetings scheduled that day, she sent him an email saying one of his kids was taking a nap in the reception hall and resolved to look out for the boy herself. Throughout the day, she made sure to check on him often, making sure no one picked him up ran (this was Gotham after all).

He slept soundly for most of her work day, barely shifting. She ended up putting a blanket on him herself during her lunch break and leaving him a water bottle and little snack for when he woke up. She also made sure security kept an eye on him whenever she left for whatever reason.

It was well into the afternoon when Bruce finally replied to her email and asked if his kid was still sleeping downstairs. She said yes, and not long after he arrived on the ground level. He walked up to her desk and asked if his kid had caused her any trouble. She smiled and assured him no.

Then Bruce asked where Tim was.

"Sorry? Tim isn't here today."

Bruce frowned, looking just as confused as she felt. "My apologies. You said one of my wards was asleep here. I assumed it was Tim."

"Oh! No, no, it's not Tim. Well, I don't actually know his name but the little guy has been here since this morning." She gestured to the toddler in question.

Bruce turned around, saw him, and frowned. "He's not one of mine."

"He's not?"

"No. Are you sure he's not an employee's child?" He kept his eyes on the boy, eyes narrowed in thought.

"Yes, I am. Only three employees brought in their children today, and all of them are ten or above. He can't be older than five." She frowned now too, turning to her computer to double check. "I'll send out a company-wide email to be sure. I should have done this sooner. I'm sorry, I was just so sure he was under your care."

"It's alright, May. I'm not upset. I'm just worried about him. When about in the morning did he get here?"

She glanced up, but Bruce was still looking at the sleeping boy. "A little after nine."

"And he's been sleeping all that time?"

"Yes, as far as I'm aware."

"Alright. Thank you for looking after him. I'll take it from here."

"Of course, sir. I'll reach out to you if anyone identifies him."

He nodded appreciatively and walked over to the boy. She watched, frustrated with herself. She's worked as one of Wayne Enterprise's receptionists for over four years. She should have known better than to just assume some random, black haired blue eyed child was Bruce's kid. She should have at least reached out to make sure that was the case.

She sighed as Bruce knelt down by the couch and gently shook the little boy awake, resting her head in the palm of her hand. This poor child. His poor parents. They must be worried sick.

She has to make this right.

---

#dc x dp #dcxdp #danny gets deaged for his own health #bruce adopts him #danny's memories are messed up because he's little #danny wakes up and calls bruce “daddy” cause he looks like jack #bruce has a heart attack #alfred raises an eyebrow at bruce when he comes home with danny #"another one #danny wants to be astronaut #dick tries to adopt danny hismelf but bruce got first dibs #danny is adorable #danny phantom #danny fenton #nasty burger explosion happened #orphan danny

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softfem-dom · 2 months ago

Note

bill relationship headcanons please…*claws at screen* it can even include Nsfw if you want. I just need content

a/n: of course! dating headcanons, sfw and nsfw, for Bill Dickey coming right up!

wordcount: 1,3k — masterlist 𝜗𝜚 navigation post NSFW CONTENT MINORS DNI

⮞ alright, let's start off with the obvious. he's a total mysognist and I don't make the rules.

⮞ he mansplains everything. everything.

⮞ he'd be the type to see you going to grab a pickle jar and snatch it up to open it for you, but he can't so he awkwardly returns it to you only for you to open it right away.

⮞ he'll affirm he 'loosened it up' for you.

⮞ he has huge jealousy issues.

⮞ you can just be talking to a random guy on the grocery store queue and he immediately assumes you're going to leave him.

⮞ gets terribly passive-agressive about it too, acting like a moody kid about to throw a tantrum.

⮞ he thinks every guy is trying to hit on you even if it's just a cashier handing you the change with a polite 'have a good day'.

⮞ there's a fifty fifty chance that he'll either take it out on you or the other guy for it.

⮞ he refers to himself as 'your knight' and says totally cringe stuff like "I would fight to the death for you, my lady" (he has never been in a real fight in his life).

⮞ if anybody ever insults you online you can bet your ass he's immediately writting a three-pharragraph response.

⮞ he's clingy as hell. but not in a cute way, but in an extremely annoying one

⮞ he's always texting, calling, or showing up at your house. and whenever you take too long to answer, he assumes you're going to break up with him and suddenly you're being spammed with over 50+ messages.

⮞ he has no real romantic experience so he just like.. showers you in gifts... of things he likes.

⮞ like... he could randomly get you an expansion for D&D despite you not having played it in your whole life and then he is the one using it😭

⮞ he calls you the cringiest petnames ever. like bro wdym my elven princess, the goddess of my realm and my player two wtf

⮞ he has you as his phone screen. both of them. no, he will not change it.

⮞ he always brags about you to the club and they are so damn sick of it.

⮞ he always tries to impress you with his wide RPG knowdelge, rambling on for hours about some obscure lore assuming you're impressed by it lol.

⮞ he actually loses his mind if you wear something nerdy, like a Star Wars shirt or something. specially if it's his.

⮞ if you cosplay (because he forcedasked you to) a videogame/series character, specially one he likes, he goes full-feral.

now, moving onto nsfw territory...

⮞ he's horny.

⮞ all the time.

⮞ he acts like he's never been touched by a woman before (because he hasn't) and is greedy about it.

⮞ he thinks he's masking it real good, but his eyes are always drift down whenever you're near him.

⮞ he's addicted to groping. this man doesn't control himself. ass, titties, thighs, everything and anything he can reach he'll grope.

⮞ he literally read guides on how to make out, watched tutorial videos, studied like it was a damn exam.

⮞ and once he got a taste, you literally can't spend five minutes with Bill before he's leaning in to initiate a make-out season.

⮞ he's lowkey a bit of a creep. he gets hard from just smelling you on his clothes.

⮞ a pantie stealer.

⮞ he goes feral whenever you wear short skirts or tight clothes. he'll play it cool in public, but the second you're alone he pounces like a damn animal in heat.

⮞ he does the moterboating thing btw..

⮞ he's mouthy as hell and doesn't know when or how to shut up. he's groaning, grunting, babbling, rambling and choking on moans the whole time.

⮞ he always leaves marks. and visible ones where you can't hide them, he doesn't care if you told him to be subtle, he wants everyone to know you're his.

⮞ he can barely last the first times btw. real pathetic virgin behaviour. will cum in under two minutes of being inside.

⮞ would and will absolutely get off on you grinding on his lap.

⮞ he freaks out over your moans and every noise you make, the first time you moaned out his name he came on the spot —no further stimulation needed.

⮞ he wakes up with morning wood almost everyday. he can't stop thinking about sex even in his dreams.

⮞ his grip is iron tight, expect to find finger-shaped bruises on your hips after every time you fuck.

⮞ when you're fucking you're his to play with. he'll take whatever he wants, satisfy himself, and then satisfy you. his pleasure comes first, sorry.

⮞ he teases you and mocks you so much especially if he's been pent up for a while. “what’s the matter, sugar? can’t handle it?”

⮞ he pins you down. full on pressing his chest against your back or chest and forcing you down on the mattress with his whole weight.

⮞ he looooves pulling your hair, the sounds you make go straight to his head (both of them, actually-)

⮞ expect to be ordered around, because when I tell you this man is bossy I mean it.

⮞ he loves making you watch yourself on the mirror while he fucks you. "look at yourself, baby. look how good you take me, sucking me in, huh? s'needy.”

⮞ and when it's over, he'll just grin at you from above —cocky, smug as if he just won over Josh— while panting like an animal in heat. "was good, huh? must've been if y'can't even answer to me. no, nods don't count as answers, doll"

#the eltingville club #the eltingville club x you #the eltingville club x reader #welcome to eltingville #welcome to eltingville x reader #welcome to eltingville x you #bill dickey #bill dickey x reader #bill dickey x you #bill dickey x fem reader #bill dickey smut

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ticifics · 4 months ago

Text

When the Stars Fade

Remus Lupin x f!reader

Summary: Remus knew—felt—that something was wrong. It wasn’t just the aftermath of the full moon. It was as if the air was heavy, carrying the weight of bitter promises.

Warnings: dad!remus, mom!reader, est. relationship, no use of y/n, no use of a baby name, angst, no war au, sensitive content, mention of death, suicide, (according to dear @lupinzlover) major/massively giant hurt&comfort- in which remus loses everything

A/N: my dear lovely @boromoony, I know it took a while to fulfill your request (and reading it broke my heart a little) but I hope you can enjoy it <33 and I think we'll need some comfort later?

Remus knew—felt—that something was wrong. It wasn’t just the aftermath of the full moon. It was as if the air was heavy, carrying the weight of bitter promises. You had tried to reassure him, a tender smile on your lips as your fingers tangled in his hair.

“You’re just tired, love,” you said, your voice so calm it was hard to think otherwise. “Just rest, alright?”

“But—”

“Remus,” you gently chided, brushing away a stubborn strand of hair that insisted on falling over his eyes. Silver strands had begun to weave their way through the brown. “We’ll be back before you even notice. I promise.”

He wanted to protest—there were a thousand and one ways to argue—but he wanted to believe you. So he only nodded, feeling a small smile tug at his lips when you leaned in, kissing him softly, as if afraid to worsen the damage left by the last transformation.

“Just… don’t take too long, please,” he murmured against your lips.

“I won’t,” you promised, a bright smile on your lips as you pulled away.

Remus watched as you crouched beside the little one, your eyes softening when they met his over her small shoulder. The morning was quiet, broken only by the gentle rustling of leaves outside and the soft giggles of the little girl, who was still playing with the hem of your coat.

“Shall we say goodbye to Daddy?” you asked gently, encouraging her with a warm smile.

She hesitated, clutching the stuffed toy in her hands—a small fabric wolf, its fur already worn from countless nights spent embraced in sleep. “Daddy’s sick?” she asked, her voice carrying the kind of innocent concern that only someone so small and blissfully unaware of the world’s horrors could have.

Remus swallowed hard, his heart clenching in his chest. He forced himself to smile, even as pain pulsed through every nerve in his body. “Daddy’s just tired, sweetheart,” he reassured her, his voice rough but warm, like a thick blanket on a cold night. “But I’ll be alright, I promise.”

She seemed to consider his words, her eyes—so much like his—studying him with a seriousness far beyond her age. Then, as if deciding he was telling the truth, she wiggled free from your grasp and ran toward the bed, stretching out her tiny arms.

“Kisses make everything better, Daddy,” she announced with conviction, pushing herself up on the mattress to reach his face.

Remus let out a quiet chuckle, the pain momentarily forgotten as he leaned in just enough for her to press a loud, exaggerated kiss to his cheek. “I think I’m already starting to feel better,” he admitted, with a sincerity that made your heart melt.

You stepped closer, lifting the little one into your arms, smoothing her unruly curls as you smiled at Remus. “Now it’s my turn,” you said, a playful glint in your eyes. Before he could respond, you leaned in, your lips meeting his in a kiss that was both soft and full of unspoken promises. He melted into you, aching body and all, as if that simple touch could erase the last few days of torment.

When you pulled away, it was only enough to rest your forehead against his. “Take care of yourself while we’re gone, okay? No pushing yourself past your limits.”

He sighed, exhaustion evident, but still managed to say, “I promise.” And though there was resignation in his voice, there was also a quiet trust, as if he truly wanted to believe everything would be alright.

You set the little one back down and began leading her toward the door, but not before casting one last glance at him—full of a tenderness that wrapped around him like warmth on a winter morning. She waved enthusiastically, her curls bouncing as she called out, “Bye, Daddy! We’ll be back really soon!”

“Bye, my little one,” he replied, watching as she disappeared down the hall, followed by you.

When the sound of the door closing echoed through the house, silence settled once more. Remus let his body sink into the pillows, his eyes slipping shut. He could still catch the lingering scent in the air—yours, mixed with the faint lavender that always clung to his daughter.

He turned his head to the side, resting it against the pillow’s softness. He knew he should get up, maybe make some tea or at least check if anything needed tending to, but the mere thought of moving even a finger felt unbearable. The exhaustion wasn’t just physical; it was something that had settled deep in his bones, a weariness that no amount of sleep or rest ever seemed to truly mend.

“It’s alright,” he whispered into the empty room, as if the words themselves could chase away the unease gnawing at his chest. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, trying to focus on anything other than the unsettling feeling that something was off. But exhaustion was stronger than worry. His body no longer gave him a choice, and he felt himself slipping further away.

The world around him faded, distant and blurred, the only thing lingering in his mind being the soft scent in the air.

Remus never noticed the exact moment he fell asleep.

There was no transition—just a slow, quiet fading, like a candle burning down to its final flicker.

And then, his body surrendered to the pull of sleep.

Remus woke with a jolt. A sharp, insistent sound echoed through the house, reverberating against the walls in a rhythm that seemed to match the frantic beating of his heart. He blinked several times, trying to adjust his eyes to the darkness filling the room. What had once been the warm glow of morning had now turned into deep, heavy shadows.

The first thing he felt was pain. Not a simple ache, but something deep, visceral. Every muscle, every bone in his body throbbed with the painful memory of the transformation. His fingers trembled as he brought them to his forehead, trying to ease the pressure building there. His chest burned, as if something unseen was pressing down on him with relentless force. He took a deep breath—or at least tried to—but the air felt thick, too heavy to fill his lungs.

The knocking continued, louder now, as if demanding his attention. He tried to sit up, but the movement sent a sharp pain straight to his ribs—a cruel reminder of the violence he inflicted upon himself every month. The pain made him choke on a low groan, but he ignored it, focusing on the sound that had woken him. Something was wrong. He could feel it in the air, like an invisible current buzzing around him. The weight in his chest, which had once felt like nothing more than lingering worry, was now suffocating.

With difficulty, he forced himself to his feet, every step a battle against exhaustion and pain. The house was silent, save for the persistent knocking. He passed through the living room, where his daughter's toys were still scattered across the floor, just as she had left them. The sight made something inside him tighten. You always complained about the mess, but now… now it felt untouched, as if moving anything would break something far more fragile than just the order of the house.

When he finally reached the door, he hesitated. A part of him didn’t want to open it. A part of him knew that whatever was on the other side would not be good. Still, with trembling hands, he turned the doorknob.

The man standing outside was unfamiliar. Tall, severe-looking, dressed in a perfectly tailored suit. The Ministry badge hung from the pocket of his jacket, a silent reminder of his authority. He looked uneasy, as if the words he was about to speak already weighed on him before they had even been said.

"Mr. Lupin?" The man’s voice was low but firm, carrying something Remus couldn’t quite identify yet.

"Yes," he answered, his voice rough with exhaustion and confusion. "What’s going on?"

"I… it’s a sensitive matter. May I come in?" the man asked, glancing briefly at the surroundings as if assessing the place.

"No," Remus answered almost immediately, his chest tightening further. He gripped the doorframe, his knuckles turning white. "Just tell me what happened."

The official hesitated, clearly uncomfortable with the refusal, but something in Remus’s eyes made him continue. He took a deep breath before speaking, as if he needed to brace himself for the impact of his own words.

"Mr. Lupin… there was an accident. Your wife and daughter were involved." He paused, but continued before Remus could process it. "Unfortunately… neither of them survived."

For a moment, the world stopped. The words echoed in his mind, repeating in a cruel loop, like a broken record. He blinked, once, twice, as if trying to wake up from a nightmare. But the nightmare was real. He could see it in the man’s eyes, in the way he avoided direct contact, in the tension that seemed to suffocate the air around them.

"No," Remus finally managed to say, his voice breaking. He took a step back, as if distance could undo what he had just heard. "No… you’re wrong. This can’t be right."

"Mr. Lupin," the official began, but Remus raised a hand, cutting him off.

"You’re wrong!" he shouted, his voice filled with a pain so raw it seemed to tear through the air. "They were fine! I saw them this morning! They were fine!"

But even as he said it, he knew it wasn’t true. He knew, deep down, that something had been wrong. That he had felt it all day—that lingering feeling, that inexplicable weight.

His legs gave out, and he collapsed onto his knees in the doorway, his hands gripping his hair so tightly it was as if he wanted to rip it out. He shook his head, muttering "no, no, no" over and over, as if the words could somehow undo what had been said.

The official took a hesitant step forward, but Remus stopped him with a look so utterly broken that the man froze in place.

"I should have gone with them," Remus whispered, more to himself than anyone else. "I should have protected them. This is my fault…"

And there, in the dim glow of his empty house, with the weight of those words still hanging in the air, Remus shattered. He didn’t just cry; he broke. Every sob was a strangled scream, every tear a piece of himself that he knew he would never get back.

Remus woke with a jolt, the sound of your voice calling his name shattering the suffocating veil of the nightmare. It was as if he were emerging from a deep, dark ocean, struggling to breathe, to understand where he was. The dim evening light filtered through the curtains, and he realized he was in bed, the sheets tangled around him, damp with sweat. But it was your voice—soft, worried, so incredibly real—that anchored him to reality.

"Remus? Love, are you okay?"

He turned quickly, eyes wide, still filled with a pain that seemed impossible to contain. There you were, kneeling beside the bed, your expression full of concern and tenderness, a gentle hand resting on his arm. Before any words could be spoken, before he could even process that it had all been just a nightmare, he reached for you, his arms wrapping around your waist with an almost desperate urgency.

"You're here," he whispered, his voice hoarse and broken. "You're here. You’re both here."

You barely had time to react before he buried his face in your shoulder, holding you with a force that seemed to want to merge you into one. That’s when you felt the warm dampness on your shirt—he was crying. His tears were silent but intense, his body trembling against yours as he clung to you as if afraid you might disappear.

"Remus," you murmured softly, your fingers threading through his hair in an instinctive, soothing gesture. "Hey, love, it's okay. We're here. I'm here. Everything's okay."

He shook his head against your shoulder, his arms tightening around you even more, as if trying to absorb your presence, your life. He seemed to be breathing you in—the familiar lavender scent in your hair, the warmth of your body—everything that proved you were real. That this wasn’t another cruel illusion.

"It was a nightmare," he finally managed to say, his voice barely audible. "Oh, Merlin, it was horrible. I thought… I thought I lost you."

Before you could respond, there was a small sound of footsteps in the hallway, followed by a sleepy, curious voice. "Daddy?"

The little one stood at the bedroom door, clutching one of her favorite stuffed toys against her chest. The moment he saw her, Remus let out a shaky breath, as if the crushing weight on his chest had suddenly lifted.

He reached out for her without letting go of you entirely. "Come here, my little one."

She ran to him in that clumsy, adorable way that only a child could, climbing onto the bed with your help. As soon as she reached her father, he pulled her into the embrace, holding both of you with a protective intensity that spoke louder than any words. He kissed her forehead several times, murmuring between kisses, "My little girl… my love… you're okay. You're here."

She blinked up at him with wide, curious eyes, clearly sensing the emotion in the air even if she didn’t fully understand it. "Daddy, are you crying?"

Remus laughed, a low, broken sound, but still filled with tenderness. "Yes, I am, my angel. But don’t worry, Daddy's okay now. You saved me."

"Saved you from what?" She tilted her head, wrapping her tiny arms around him.

"From myself," he answered softly, pressing another kiss to the top of her head. Then he looked at you, his eyes still glistening with tears, but now overflowing with a gratitude that was almost too much to hold. "And from a nightmare. A terrible nightmare."

You gave his hand a gentle squeeze, your fingers intertwining with his as you offered him a reassuring smile. "We're here, Remus. It was just a bad dream. We're okay, all of us. And we always will be."

He held your gaze for a long moment, as if trying to memorize every detail of your face—the way your eyes shone, the soft curve of your lips. "I don’t know what I’d do without you." His voice was so raw, so vulnerable, it made your heart ache.

"You don’t have to think about that," you murmured, your other hand sliding over his face, wiping away any lingering tears. "Because you’ll never be without us."

The little one, now nestled between the two of you, decided to contribute, cupping Remus’s face in her small hands. "I take care of you, Daddy," she declared with the seriousness of someone who truly believed she could protect the whole world. "I'm strong."

Remus smiled, a tired but utterly loving smile. "I know you are, my angel. You're the strongest girl in the world."

The night carried on with the three of you together, curled up in bed like a cocoon of warmth against any darkness that the world might try to cast. Remus didn’t let go of you or his daughter for even a second, and the feeling of your warmth surrounding him was all he needed to keep the shadows at bay. The nightmare still echoed somewhere in the back of his mind, but now, wrapped in the love of his family, he knew he was safe. And he knew he’d never have to face anything alone.

Things should have happened like that, but the world is not made of fairy tales.

You didn’t come home that night, or any other night. Remus never heard the comforting sound of his daughter’s laughter again, never felt the warmth of your hands in his hair or the soft touch of tiny fingers holding his face with the same seriousness of someone who believed they could heal the world. There were no more mornings where the bed was warmed by the bodies he loved so much, no more nights where the weight of your presence beside him kept the darkness at bay. Everything had been ripped away so cruelly and abruptly, leaving behind an emptiness so devastating it seemed impossible to fill.

The days following the accident were a haze, each one more unbearable than the last. Remus didn’t remember the formalities—the words spoken by the Ministry officials on that fateful day, the empty condolences that felt so meaningless, the details of the accident that he barely managed to absorb. None of it mattered. Everything was a blur, except for the crushing certainty that you and your daughter were no longer there.

He was forced to face reality on the morning of the funeral. The coffin was too small, accompanied by another that, though larger, seemed just as wrong. He remembered standing there, paralyzed, as the earth was thrown over the caskets. The feeling of cold soil was almost tangible, as if each handful buried more than just the bodies—it buried his very soul along with them.

James, Sirius, and Peter were there. They stood beside him throughout the ceremony, their presence almost suffocating in their attempt to support their friend. James, his eyes red and glassy with unshed tears, tried to steady Remus when he wavered under the weight of it all. Sirius, always so loud and full of life, was silent, his face a mask of restrained grief as he stared at the caskets. And Peter, who never knew how to handle intense emotions, offered a trembling handshake and a look that overflowed with sadness he didn’t know how to express.

Despite their efforts, nothing they said or did seemed to reach Remus. Not James’s whispered reassurances, not Sirius’s hand on his shoulder, not Peter’s quiet solidarity. They tried, and he knew they tried, but the cruel truth was that no one could reach the abyss he was trapped in.

And then the house—the one you had turned into a home—became a mausoleum. The little girl’s toys were still scattered across the living room floor, her favorite blanket draped over the couch where she used to curl up with him. Your hairbrush remained in the bathroom, strands of your hair still woven into its bristles. Your clothes and hers still hung in the wardrobe, as if at any moment, you could walk through the door and undo this nightmare. But you didn’t. You never would.

James visited a few times, bringing food that Remus had no energy to eat, insisting on conversation. Sirius showed up, too, trying to cheer him up with stories from the past, desperate to coax a smile from him. Peter came once or twice, quiet as always, but his presence was a subtle reminder that they were still there for him. But none of it mattered. No words or gestures could fill the void you and your daughter had left behind.

The nights were the worst. The solitude was suffocating, and Remus would find himself sitting in the chair by the cold fireplace, staring at the portrait of you. A picture taken on a sunny day in the garden, your daughter on his lap while you sat beside him, laughing at something he could no longer remember. He spent hours looking at that image, desperately trying to anchor himself in the memories. But they weren’t enough. They could never replace the warmth of you, the sound of the voices he would never hear again.

He tried to move forward. For you. For James, Sirius, and Peter—for little Harry, who hadn’t even learned to speak yet—who kept showing up, who kept insisting that he wasn’t alone. But it was a lie. He was alone. Because without you and without her, the world was gray and empty, an existence he didn’t know how to endure.

And then, one morning, as the timid sun struggled to break through the gray clouds, he decided he couldn’t anymore. He sat on the bed—the same bed you once shared—and realized it no longer made sense. There was nothing left to fight for, no reason to stay. He was tired. So, so tired.

He left a single letter, written with trembling hands and a shattered heart. It wasn’t long, because there wasn’t much to say. Just one final confession of love, to you and to your daughter, and an apology for not being strong enough to go on without you.

When Remus’s body was found days later, he was surrounded by pictures of you both. The letter still lay beside the bed, the paper stained with tears. He looked peaceful, as if, for the first time in weeks, he had found some semblance of rest.

His grave was placed beside yours, just as he would have wanted. In the silent cemetery, three headstones stood side by side, marking what was once a family and what could have been. James, Sirius, and Peter were there the day he was buried. James was the last to leave, lingering beside his friend’s grave, his eyes glistening with tears he didn’t bother to hide.

On Remus’s headstone, only a simple inscription, yet one heavy with meaning:

Reunited with those he loved.

And so, the world lost another soul, drowned in a grief too heavy to bear.

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azrielbrainrot · 1 year ago

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Such a Perfect Place To Start

Pairing: Azriel x Healer!Reader

Description: Something happens that has you questioning the nature of your relationship with the shadowsinger.

Warnings: None

Word Count: 3911

Notes: When I started writing this I didn't think it was going to lead to that. Hope you like it!

Healer!Reader Masterlist

When you were called to the House of Wind so urgently by the High Lady herself you were expecting a more pressing matter, a life or death situation like you're used to, not exactly a library full of books. You don't know how long you've been sitting in this chair but you couldn't feel your butt anymore, no matter how many different positions you tried to sit in. You were used to doing some research while studying new healing techniques or herbs but these millenia old books on magical symbols were a little different.

There had been some attacks across the Night Court, including in the mountains surrounding Velaris, with some pretty disturbing details. After being killed, the victims' eyes had been removed and a symbol had been carved into their chests. All the symbols were different and, at this time, their meaning was still unknown. Unfortunately, none of the victims had survived either so there weren't any witnesses and, even after Azriel's thorough investigations, there was no evidence left behind by the culprits. It was as if no one had even been there.

You had heard some rumors about this before getting called in. Gossip spread around fast in Velaris and, even with the Inner Circle's efforts to keep panic to a minimum, people had found out about some of the details. The area around Velaris is relatively safe so to have multiple killings in a short time and in such gruesome ways was causing a bit of a fearful atmosphere to fall upon the city of dreamers. The increase in security wasn't easily missed either.

After being summoned to the River House, Feyre and Rhysand had briefed you on everything they knew and asked you for your help, seeing as they could only trust a few select people. Since there were no other clues left behind besides the symbols, the High Lord decided that, for now, everyone should focus on finding their meaning, so he sent his most trusted people to his private library to look through every book that might help.

You had obviously felt incredibly honored and happy that they trusted you this much. You've been getting closer to the inner circle after your talk with Azriel a few months ago, and sometimes still feared your friendships were a bit one sided.

As honored as you felt that they trusted you, though, you had spent days searching through old books just to come up empty. It was more tiring than a week at a war healing tent. Not to mention having to do so by Amren's side. You had no personal problems with the newly turned high fae but she still scared you profusely. Your power gave you a sense of people's aura and hers had always felt unsettling at best, even after getting turned.

At least, you weren't alone with her, everyone in the Inner Circle and some of the Valkyries had shown up at the library to help at some point. There was no way of knowing who could be behind these attacks and, from what you gathered, these fae had been moving across the court too easily, meaning they could be from the night court or even Velaris, so you couldn't involve the priestesses in the library.

The sky was already completely dark outside, making way for the millions of stars to shine in the sky. The atmosphere was a little too quiet for this time of night, usually there would still be fae walking around the city, in and out of bars and theaters. Amren had already left. The ancient one had tucked a book under her arm and walked out without much of a goodbye, leaving you with Feyre and Azriel in the library.

“I think it's time to stop for the day,” your High Lady's voice cut through the silence suddenly, “Rhys just finished at the office too.” Sometimes you envied how convenient the daematis abilities were. As her eyes glaze over and a smirk threatens to play at her lips, you know her mate is giving her a good reason to go home.

“I'll stay a bit longer,” you hold your finger over the passage you were reading, these old books had tiny fonts and you'd already lost yourself in enough of them to know better now, “I have to go to the clinic tomorrow so I wanted to at least finish this book.” There were only about half a dozen pages left of it so, even if your body was screaming at you to go to bed, you wanted to get this done first.

“Alright,” the High Lady adds her last book to the pile and looks at you one more time, “Don't stay too long. We need you to be focused at the clinic.” Her eyes shift to the shadowsinger and narrow slightly, her tone a little sterner, “You too, Az. Get some sleep.”

The spymaster nods dutifully at his friend's warning and she seems content enough with the response or in enough hurry to meet her mate, as she gives you both one last smile and turns to the door, saying one last goodbye over her shoulder.

Azriel stayed with you, even though his book had just started and there was no way he would finish it tonight. You were torn between thinking it was because he didn't trust you in the House by yourself, as the ever protective spymaster, and just writing it off as his willingness to help his court even at the risk of his own health and comfort, you don't even wanna think how many sleepless nights the spymaster has spent working lately.

You shake off your thoughts and keep reading the boring book. The sooner you finish the sooner you can go to sleep. Even your healing abilities can't do much to fight the headache you were feeling after spending the whole day reading symbols and their uses in dark magic, some of the rituals described were also making your stomach queasy.

Just as you're about to finish the last page, you hear a soft groan coming from Azriel and can't help but look up at him. His head was thrown back, showing off the column of his neck. His eyes were closed tight like he was fighting the same headache as you. With his wings stretched as far as they could go, it looked like they were taking up most of the private library, not that it was a small room by any means.

The spymaster looked exhausted. He's been spending his days meeting up with his spies and informants all around Prythian, trying to find any information on the attackers and investigating any strange movement in the court. At night, he comes home and joins you in the library to help with research, sometimes even staying up later than everyone else. You know he will do the same thing tomorrow and the day after, until you find any relevant clues and catch the killers.

Azriel takes these things more personally than maybe even the High Lord and Lady. His job as spymaster is finding any threats to the court after all, preferably before they happen. You know he must feel like he's failing his court and you wish you could show him that he's doing more than enough, that it's not his fault. Under the tough exterior and immense power, Azriel has an extremely kind soul, you've felt it. He'd make the impossible happen if it meant he could protect his court, his family, even if it cost him his own life.

“You should go to sleep,” you can't help but worry for him, “You were out all day before you came here. You must be really tired.”

You wonder how long it's been since he's had a good night of sleep. Even before this situation, it was no secret that the shadowsinger was a bit of an insomniac. You had given him a few sleeping tonics before in hopes of helping him have at least a few moments of peace.

“I'll wait for you,” he tells you, meeting your eyes. You can see the fatigue swirling around in his unguarded gaze, it seems you had been right to assume he hasn't been sleeping. “You're almost done.”

You look back down at your book and wonder how he's been keeping track of what you've been doing while reading his own book. Still, if finishing this means Azriel can go to sleep, you'll do it as fast as you can. Reading through the last page intently to make sure nothing escapes you.

Just as you're about to finish you make a silent request to the House, and two steaming cups of tea appear in front of each of you. Passionflower tea to lessen his stress and help with sleep, you've given it to him before and he told you it helped so you hope it does the trick once again.

Since you're focused on the book, you miss the way his eyes finally stray from your form to look down at the tea now sitting in front of him. You also miss the smile on his face when he reaches for it and the way his shadows let him know you were the one who asked for it, gushing about how you took care of their master.

“Do you still not trust me, Spymaster?” You close the book and put it into the ever growing pile. Stretching a bit before taking your tea into your hands and blowing on it gently.

“I trust you with my life, sweetheart.” The seriousness in his statement makes you pause with the cup halfway to your lips for a moment. You didn't need the Morrigan's gift to know he was telling the truth. The nickname takes a little longer to register but as soon as it does color rushes to your cheeks.

“Then why wait for me?” You hadn't actually thought he didn't trust you in the library but you still weren't sure why he had stayed behind after Feyre left.

“Wanted to keep you company until you finished,” he shrugged. His voice is a little gravely with sleep which is a big problem for the butterflies already fluttering in your stomach. “We've been spending a lot of time together but we've barely talked.”

He wants to talk to you. You can't help the smile or the giddy feeling washing over you. He's tired but he chose to stay up a little longer to do something as trivial as talking to you.

“What did you want to talk about then?” The way he's picking at the painted decorations in his teacup makes you think he might be feeling a little nervous but you're not sure why.

“Anything you want,” he answered a little too fast. Maybe it's the low lights in the room but you swear there's some color dusting his cheeks.

“It's hard to pick a topic like that,” you say before biting your lip slightly. For some reason you suddenly feel a little pressure to come up with a good topic, not wanting to disappoint or bore him. “Lately, all I can think about is this,” you run your finger over one of the books' spines, “It's hard to focus on anything else after spending hours in here.”

“If you feel like this is too much you can tell me. I'll talk to Rhys and he'll send you back to the clinic,” he frowns. His shadows reach a little towards you, as if wanting to comfort you. You didn't mean to worry him.

“That's not what I meant,” you start, “I want to help. I've just never dealt with anything like this. I've been to war but this… killing innocent fae in such a disturbing way is different.”

“I understand,” he nods, “If you need anything you can tell me. Even if you just want to talk.”

“Alright.” Azriel has a way of talking that leaves you not knowing how to respond sometimes. He's so sincere in what he says that you almost feel like any response would fall short. “You too. If you need help with anything I'm always here for you.”

He gives you a single nod before hiding what looked like a bashful smile behind his tea. You finish your teas like this, enjoying each other's company in the quiet of the night.

You can't hold back a yawn when you set your teacup down. As much as you'd love to stay up talking to Azriel all night, your body is about ready to crash on you.

“We should go to sleep,” he says as he stands up, making the teacups disappear. “You have to be at the clinic early.”

“You're right,” you agree with a sigh, standing up to follow him to the door. You've only been going to the clinic twice a week ever since Feyre asked for your help with this case so you know you'll have a long day ahead of you. “Will you fly me down tomorrow?”

“Of course,” he tells you as he opens the door for you, “What kind of male would I be if I let our favorite healer walk down the thousands of steps by herself?”

“Favorite? I'll tell Madja you said that,” you point your finger at him playfully.

“Second favorite then,” he takes it back with a wink, making you laugh. The smile lingers on your face all the way to the guest room you're staying in and it only deepens when you realize he walked you all the way to your door.

You turn and look up at him expectantly. It looks like he wants to tell you something with the way he's searching your face and his shadows pool at both of your feet. If you didn't know any better you'd think they wanted to crawl up your legs. You've found that they can give some of Azriel's emotions away sometimes, when he doesn't have a grip on them at least.

Your body doesn't react when he bends down slowly, pausing for a brief moment before kissing your cheek softly, murmuring a good night against your skin. It doesn't react after either, when he pulls back to watch your reaction. In fact, it's not until he walks over to his door and lets out a small chuckle, that you finally move and almost crash into the room, fumbling with the doorknob and slamming the door behind you.

As you lean your back against the door, you put your hand over your chest and stare wide eyed at the window across the room. You almost thought you were imagining things. He can probably hear your heart beating all the way in his room across the hall, you wouldn't be surprised if everyone in Velaris could hear with how loud it's beating. You let yourself slide against the door until you're crouching.

You hadn't expected him to kiss you. You know Azriel isn't one for a lot of physical touch. You've only gotten a hug out of him once, during the war after an attack on the healer's tent. He had thought you were dead then, after watching so many die he'd just been glad to see someone he knows still breathing. Actually, you might have been the one to hug him first. You had never been so close to death and were scared out of your mind. It was your first war after all.

You and Azriel had been getting closer over the months, closer than you were with the rest of Inner Circle. Even before your talk that night, he's always been friendly to you, but the shadowsinger was kind to all the healers - to everyone that wasn't his enemy really - so you never thought much of it. But this felt different. Tonight felt different.

You hadn't fully admitted it to yourself yet but the more time you spent with the shadowsinger the more your crush evolved. What had once been a silly crush based on appearance and his kind nature had quickly turned into palpable feelings. You liked him. A lot.

However, acknowledging this could destroy the friendship you had built with him for the past few months, maybe with the rest of his family as well. That's what you thought before at least. You assumed Azriel would never have feelings for you. The idea seemed so preposterous it never even crossed your mind, but now you're not so sure.

Maybe it seemed like you were exaggerating to think this after a little kiss, on the cheek no less, but this kiss made you think back on the last months you've spent with Azriel. He's been insisting on flying you up and down the stairs every time he's around, usually this task would be left to Cassian, who loved showing off his wings to you.

He's been going to the clinic more often too, stocking up on anything he can think of when he's never done that in the century you've been working in Velaris. Azriel was always one to not think much of his own health, it bothered you to no end. He also came to you with every injury. Usually when a member of the Inner Circle was hurt, Madja was the one who was called. You'd only accompany her if she needed assistance or go in her place if she wasn't able to go herself. Of course over the years they'd come to use you more and more, which is why you didn't even think of it, but looking back now… You don't know what to think anymore.

Getting up with a sigh, you make your way to your closet to change. Your thoughts consume you while you get ready for bed but your tiring day catches up to you as soon as your head hits the pillow. However, this doesn't spare you from dreaming of a certain shadowsinger.

You take longer to wake up than usual, making you hurry through your morning routine. Your body isn't used to the schedule you've been putting it through lately, and it's starting to show. But because of this, it isn't until you go to open the door to the guest room that you remember Azriel is going to fly you down to the clinic. And the incident that had you spiraling before going to sleep.

Deciding walking down the steps by yourself isn't a viable option, you go to find him and pray to the Mother things aren't too awkward between you. It had just been a little kiss on the cheek and your lack of reaction could totally be blamed on the long day, your brain was just having trouble catching up, that's all. It had been a completely normal exchange between friends, not that you're blushing just thinking about it or anything. You could just pretend it didn't happen.

As you make your way to the front door, the shadows dancing around in the hallway catch your eye instantly. You've seen them do this before, when Azriel doesn't need them and they don't want to brave the light, they just linger around the room in curious little wisps. You can't help the smile as they gravitate slowly towards you.

Right after they notice you, their master appears through the door. One of them must have warned him of your arrival, they're so cute sometimes you forget they're spies. Of course they'd tell on you.

“Good morning,” he greets. Azriel may be a shadowsinger but he looks breathtaking in the morning light. His skin glows beautifully and his eyes look a little lighter, it makes him look younger. Gods, how can he be so beautiful?

He looks a little relieved to see you. Maybe he thought you'd escape by yourself or ask someone else to fly you to the clinic to avoid him. It makes you feel a little bad that you had him worried but it's his own fault for playing with your heart like that.

“Good morning,” you smile, walking up to him. “Are you ready?”

“I was just waiting for you,” he says as he extends a hand for you to take. This has the nerves already lingering inside your body make themselves more noticeable. You almost forgot flying you down means he'll have to carry you. It had taken a while for you to get used to not only the flying but also the way he had to hold you - funny how you never had this problem with Cassian.

You take his hand and try not to move too much or gasp as he picks you up off the floor like you weigh nothing. He immediately starts walking to the edge of the stairs, holding you close to his chest.

“Hold onto me,” he breathes into your ear, extending his wings and getting ready to take flight. You do as he says and wrap your arms tighter around his neck, praying he can't feel your heart beat inside your chest.

You'll never get over how stunning Velaris looks from above or how the wind passes around you as you soar through the clouds. It's a real shame that you weren't born with wings. You understand why Illyrians are so protective of them, after knowing what this feels like, it's hard to imagine never being able to do it again.

“You know I won't drop you.” You look away from the landscape and meet his gaze. He can probably feel how tense you are but you can't tell him it has nothing to do with the height or any fear of him letting you fall.

“I know,” you assure. “What would you do without your favorite healer?” He lets out a small laugh in response and your body finally relaxes.

The flight doesn't take long, and, before you know it, he's landing right outside your clinic. He helps you get down and even holds onto you a little longer, giving you a once over to make sure you're steady on your feet.

An idea passes through your mind and you bite your lip, wondering if you'd truly lost it. You take a quick look around before you lose your nerve. It was still early enough that the streets were almost deserted, no one should see you.

Turning back to the shadowsinger, you hesitate again when you notice him watching you, probably wondering what you were up to. If you read the situation wrong this could make things very awkward for the two of you.

Deciding not to let your anxiety reign your life, you grab his shoulder gently so you can pull him a little closer to your height. Standing on your tiptoes to clear the rest of your height difference. You hold onto his cheek and place a soft kiss on the other side of his face, murmuring a “thank you”.

You step back again and look up at him, still slightly bent from where you pulled him to you and looking at your face with wide eyes. You're not sure if you've ever seen the feared spymaster so caught off guard before. There was a small smile playing at his lips though, so you assume you hadn't completely misread the situation. You can't help but form a grin of your own and turn around to go inside the clinic, leaving him behind just as he did to you last night. Your heart soaring higher than you had just been.

#azriel x reader #azriel x you #azriel x y/n #azriel fluff #azriel fic #azriel shadowsinger #azriel acotar #acotar #divider by saradika #healer!reader #my writing

1K notes · View notes

aeralux · 1 month ago

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"About You" - Jacaerys Velaryon

Jacaerys Velaryon x Reader

Summary: War breeds loss and grief. Yet, even knowing this does not make it any easier to be apart from your love. Every night spent crying as you hoped for his safe return... perhaps then you could leave, just the two of you, forever.

Warnings: angst; mentions of death and blood; war; hurt and comfort; smut; breeding kink; very soft and loving explicit scene

Words: 8k

Notes: No description of the reader and no use of (y/n). English is not my first language. This is also perhaps the softest and most loving language I have written in a smut, so we'll see how this goes. Do not read if you do not feel comfortable with the warnings. I'm not responsible for the media you consume.

𐔌 . ⋮ aera .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

You had a dream—perhaps it was more of a nightmare—one that clawed at your heart. Jacaerys's not returning to you after the battle was a dark and heavy thought that haunted you. It seemed all too possible, a shadow lurking at the edge of your mind. In that restless unconscious state, you clung to him tighter, as if your grip could keep him safe. This could very well be your last night together.

There he stood, clad in shining armour, but it did little to mask the scene's horror. His eyes—wide and glistening—held a mixture of fear and tenderness. Blood stained his face and armour, a stark reminder of the violence surrounding him. It was his blood, and it terrified you. "I'll find you," he whispered, his voice breaking as he fell into your embrace. In those fleeting moments, his gaze held yours. As if you were the sun and the moon, all the stars in the sky. Passing away with a soft smile on his lips.

You jolted awake, your body slick with cold sweat, your cheeks damp with tears that had spilt in the night. The bed felt empty without him, and a deep ache settled in your chest. Outside, Vermax's roar echoed through the air, a fierce cry that sent shivers down your spine as you watched them soar above the towers, dark wings stretching against the dawn sky. You raised your hand in a silent goodbye, hoping against hope that he could somehow feel your love calling him in the vastness. But he was gone now, and the weight of that truth pressed heavily on your heart.

The sky was war.

Not just the kind waged with steel and fire, but the type that opened the world—winds howling like the old gods had turned on each other, clouds splitting with roars and flame. Above the chaos, Jacaerys clung to Vermax’s saddle, fingersblistered from heat and strain, his jaw set with resolve.

He had trained for this. He had studied the skies, learned how to dive, and how to read the air like scripture. But nothing—nothing—could prepare him for what war truly looked like from the back of a dragon.

The air smelled of scorched flesh and burning banners. Below, ships were reduced to drifting skeletons, fire blooming across their decks like deadly flowers. Vermax roared beneath him, not in challenge—but in pain.

There had been a blow. Arrows had come from the clouds, their sharp points digging into Vermax’s side before they’deven seen it coming. The scream Vermax let out then was like nothing Jace had ever heard. And still, he fought. Still, they wheeled and burned through the sky, young and furious and too brave for their own good.

Jace’s ears rang with the sound of wings. His shoulder throbbed—he'd taken a crossbow bolt in the scramble, the pain white-hot and searing. But none of that mattered, not really.

What mattered was the thought that pierced through all the chaos.

“If I fall, I’ll never see her again.”

Not his crown. Not his cause. You.

He pulled Vermax around sharply, feeling the dragon falter beneath him. One wing lagged. Blood streamed in long red ribbons behind them. Still, Jace reached forward and pressed his hand against the hot scales at the base of Vermax’s neck.

“Come on, boy. Just a little further. We can do this.”

Vermax gave one last push, flames licking at the edge of his mouth. But then came the second hit.

Arrows like spears. A shriek of agony. Jace barely had time to shout before they were spinning—air, blood and water rushing all at once. Vermax’s wings wrapped around him in instinctive defence, curling in. And Jace’s last thought before the world turned black was not of glory or thrones or dragons.

It was of your hand, slipping from his.

And the whisper he had sworn: I’ll find you.

You waited and waited, the silence thick like fog in the air. Pacing in his chambers, each step felt heavier than the last as you clung to the hope that he would burst through the door at any moment. Your heart raced at the thought, imagining how he would run into your arms, ready to whisk you away from all of this. But the hours turned into days, and now it had been two long days since he had left.

Rhaenyra, his mother, was already deep in mourning, her grief hanging like a dark cloud over the castle. You could see it etched on her face, a mix of sorrow and determination, her plans growing darker as she desired to avenge her eldest son.

But in your heart, you could not accept the loss. He had promised he would return to you—that he would find you again. How could he break such a vow?

Desperation fueled your spirit, leading you to climb onto your dragon and soar into the skies. You flew to the cliff where you had spent countless joyful days as children, laughing and sharing secrets as the sun dipped below the horizon. The memories flooded back—those innocent promises of forever, spoken in whispers filled with dreams, so naive and full of excitement.

Now, standing on that cliff, the wind whipped around you, carrying the scent of salt and the echoes of laughter from a time before this heavy sorrow. How you wished you could go back to that moment, to feel his warmth beside you once more, to see his smile just one last time.

He woke to the scent of crushed herbs and seawater, salt crusting his lashes, his throat raw from breathing in brine and smoke. The pain came in waves, each breath tugging at the torn skin along his ribs. His shoulder was bandaged, and his leg was splinted. The room was dim, with stone walls and driftwood beams above, and the window opened to the crash of the tide.

And at the foot of the bed: a man with grey in his beard and sorrow in his eyes.

“You’re lucky,” the man said softly, “that the gods let you wash up here instead of dragging you down with that poor beast of yours.”

Jace tried to rise. Pain answered.

“Stay still. You’ll tear the stitches.”

The man moved closer, laying a cool hand on Jace’s forehead. The touch was practised. Familiar. Maester’s hands.

“I know who you are,” he said gently. “No use pretending. There are not many Targaryens left who ride dragons, and fewer still who fall from the sky into the sea like dying stars. And that sigil on your breastplate—what’s left—well.” A small, dry smile. “Let’s just say it doesn’t take a Citadel archmaester to piece it together.”

Jace’s lips cracked when he tried to speak. “My dragon—”

“Gone,” the man said. “I’m sorry.”

Over the following days, the maester—Marcyl was his name—cared for Jace like a father might a wounded son. He crushed willow bark and poultices, set bones, and read aloud when Jace drifted in and out of sleep. He said little of his past, but his hands gave him away: ink-stained fingertips, the worn chain still tucked beneath his robes, dulled from sea air and years of silence.

He spoke often to Jace about not going back.

“You're young. Strong. The gods spared you. Take that gift. There are ships from Lys that stop by the bay below. Slip aboard. Go east. Grow a beard. Learn a trade. Live.”

But Jace's eyes always turned to the sea, haunted and stubborn. “I made her a promise.”

Marcyl sighed, sitting back in his chair. “And if you return now? You’ll be captured and or used. Or killed. The boy you were may be dead, but the prince you are is a currency of war, and you are in debt.”

“You said you served the crown once.”

“I did,” Marcyl said. “And then I saw what crowns do.”

Jacaerys sits in silence, lost in thought, as days drag on. He knows that if he flees, he might save himself. But the idea of leaving you behind breaks his heart. He thinks of your smile, so bright and warm, and the way your eyes hold a world of understanding. He misses the softness of your hands, the comfort they bring. Without you, life would feel empty, and he can’t bear the thought.

Finally, after struggling for days, he finds the strength to rise and walk. He approaches the maester, determination in his voice. “I’m going back... back to her,” he says firmly. “Maybe we can escape to Essos together someday. Who knows what awaits us?” In his heart, he clings to the hope of a new life with you, filled with love and endless possibilities.

The old Maester doesn’t try to stop him. He simply nods, eyes shadowed, like he’s known all along that the boy would choose you over hiding.

“You’ll need this,” Marcyl says, pressing a thick wool cloak into Jace’s hands. Inside its folds: dried meat, a waterskin, a small vial of milk of the poppy. And a coin—old, Valyrian. “For luck. Or leverage.”

They part in silence, the wind cold and damp with salt as Jace steps into the boat at dawn. He rows until the tide takes him, and sails once the wind favours him. Every muscle burns, and his shoulder still aches, but he pushes through it. What’s pain to a man who’s already lost everything but one person?

Nights are the hardest. Alone, wrapped in damp sails, he dreams of you—sometimes as you were, laughing by firelight, other times as you might be now, broken with grief. He whispers your name into the dark, hoping some old god still listens.

And then, finally—land.

Back at Dragonstone—the war continues. Your heart is brittle, barely holding together. Your eyes are red and sunken from crying and lack of sleep.

You lie in his bed, the sheets still faintly carrying his scent, a bittersweet reminder of the warmth you once shared. His pillow, soft and familiar, is often stained with your salty tears, each drop a testament to your heart's aching sorrow.

The only thing keeping you from spiralling completely into madness is the milk of the poppy that the Maester has been offering you. Its numbing effects provide a fleeting escape from the relentless pain.

The sight of Baela and Rhaena watching you, their eyes filled with worry, barely registers in your foggy mind. Their fears no longer matter. Not when the love of your life lies beneath the waves, entombed with his great beast, leaving you lost in a world that feels dark and hollow without him.

Still every morning and night, you go out to the sea. Hoping to even see a ghost of him. Some sign that he is still out there, watching you, looking for you. He will find you.

The fog is thick that morning. It rolls in heavy from the sea, turning the world into shades of silver and ash. You stand at the cliff’s edge like you always do, the hem of your cloak dancing in the wind, eyes scanning the horizon for something you’ve never truly believed you'd see.

A shape breaks through the mist.

At first, you think it's your mind playing tricks again—like the other times you’d sworn you’d seen wings, or heard his voice in the crash of waves. But this time, it moves closer. Steadier. Realer.

You don’t breathe.

The figure staggers as it climbs the rocky path, shoulders hunched, limping. A dark cloak clings to him, soaked through, hood drawn up. Your heart races violently, painfully. You take a step back, clutching your chest.

Then he lifts his head.

Your knees give out.

For a moment, all you can do is stare. The sea behind him howls, and the wind rushes past your ears, but none of it matters. The world narrows to the face before you—gaunt, bruised, beautiful.

“Jace?” It comes out like a breath. Fragile. Disbelieving.

He sways on his feet. “I told you I’d find you.”

You run.

There’s no hesitation. No room left for doubt. Your hands reach for him and his arms catch you, shaky but desperate, pulling you to him like he might vanish if he lets go. You bury your face in his neck, against the soaked fabric, and sob.

“You’re alive—gods, you’re alive—” you choke through tears, pressing trembling hands to his face to be sure, to feel the heat of him.

“I’m here. I’m sorry.” His voice is hoarse. “I couldn’t—Vermax—” his throat closes on the name. You feel it, the pain. The grief. The guilt.

You just shake your head. “No more apologies. No more goodbyes.”

The two of you cling to each other as if the storm might come again as if fate might reach in and try to steal him a second time. But it won’t. Not this time.

He came back.

You bring him inside, your arms around his waist, guiding him through the familiar halls like a ghost returned to the land of the living. No one sees you. No one needs to. Right now, there is only him—cold and trembling, half-starved and so fragile beneath your fingertips, and yet, miraculously alive.

You feed him and draw him a bath, your hands steady even as your heart shakes. He watches you with wide, tired eyes as if he still isn’t sure this is real. The steam rises, curling between you, and when you help him undress carefully, reverently, he lets you. Not out of weakness, but trust. Bone-deep, wordless trust.

Scars now map his chest and arms, angry and healing. You touch them gently, and he flinches—not from pain, but emotion. You don’t ask about what happened. Not yet. You just dip a cloth into the warm water and begin to clean him, slow and quiet, your fingers trembling only once when you run them across his cheek.

You finish washing him, your hands lingering on his cooling skin before you help him from the tub and wrap a soft blanket around his shoulders. He leans against you, his weight settling like he means to rest his burdens on your frame, and your heart swells with fierce protectiveness. This man—your prince, your love, your everything—is here. He kept his vow.

"I thought I'd lost you," you whisper, your lips brushing the shell of his ear. "Gods, I thought you were gone, like the rest of them..."

A shudder runs through his frame at the unspoken grief between the words. The loss of his brother, of his cousins, of innocence and hope. Of a future that once seemed so bright and full of promise.

"I'm here," he murmurs, his arms tightening around your waist. "I'm here, and I'm not letting you go again." His voice is fervent and desperate, and you feel the weight of his stare on your face. "I found you, just like I swore I would."

He leans in to capture your lips, his own cool and searching, and you open for him without hesitation. A soft groan escapes him as he kisses you deeply, a kiss that feels like a homecoming, like a promise sealed.

You cradle Jace's face in your palms, your thumbs brushing away the remnants of tears and water from his chilled skin. Your tears fall freely, tracing paths down your cheeks to dampen your kiss with a brittle, bittersweet essence.

"Jace," you murmur against his mouth, his name a prayer of relief and gratitude. "My love, my heart... you're here. Truly here." You nip lightly at his lower lip, a physical affirmation.

Your fingers sink into the damp curls at his nape, savouring their softness and the reality of him, whole and real in your arms. You tug him closer, moulding his lean frame to the curves of your body, chasing the warmth that had begun to feel like a distant memory.

Jacaerys shudders as your fingers sink into his hair, his own hands sliding down to the small of your back to press you flush against him. He can feel every curve, every soft swell, and it ignites a hunger in him that has nothing to do with the meagre rations he's had on his journey. No, this is a deeper ache. A yearning. Something that only your body can satisfy.

He breathes your name, his voice rough with emotion and desire. "My heart, my soul... I thought I'd lost you. Thought I'dnever hold you again, never feel your touch, your kiss..." He claims your mouth once more, more urgently this time, his tongue delving deep to taste you, to consume you. To remind himself that you're real, that this is happening.

His hands roam your back, your sides, your hips, mapping the dips and curves he knew so well. They slip beneath the hem of your tunic, seeking the bare skin underneath, calloused palms skimming up your ribs to cup the soft weight of your breasts. He thumbs your nipples through the thin linen of your small clothes, feeling them pebble and tighten at his touch.

"I need you," he rasps against your lips, rocking his hips into yours with a soft groan. "I ache to feel you, every part of you."

He walks you backwards towards the bed, his mouth never leaving yours, his hands not stopping their sensual exploration. When your knees hit the mattress, he lowers you down onto it, covering your body with his own.

His touch was gentle yet urgent like a man starved for affection. A soft whimper escaped your lips, your eyes flutteringclosed as you leaned into his caress.

"Jacaerys..." you breathed, your voice trembling with barely contained emotion.

Your hands drifted over his chest, his shoulders, admiring the pale muscle and warm skin beneath your fingertips. You drank in every detail, committing it to memory, in case this was all a fleeting dream.

Leaning up, you tenderly brushed his damp curls back from his brow, tucking them behind his ears. Your breath caught at the sight of him, at the raw beauty and vulnerability in his eyes. Your pretty prince, back in your arms where he belonged.

"Let me take care of you," you murmured, your voice low and soothing. "Let me love you, cherish you, the way I always have. The way I always will."

You cupped his face in your palms. Your heart ached to see him so weary, so worn, yet it swelled with fierce love and protectiveness.

Slowly, you guided him up the bed, your body melting against his as you sank into the soft furs. You rolled him over, straddling his hips, wanting to be the one to comfort, to nurture, to worship him.

Jacaerys' breath catches as you roll him onto his back, his eyes darkening with desire as you straddle his hips. He looks up at you, his princess, your hair falling around you like a curtain as you lean over him. In this moment, the war, the grief, the fear—it all falls away. There is only you, only this, only the love that burns between you.

"Let you love me?" he whispers, a small, tired smile tugging at his lips. "I thought you already did, with every breath, every beat of your beautiful heart." His hands find your waist, thumbs rubbing slow circles on the small of your back as he pulls you down, urging you to settle against him.

"I need your touch," he murmurs, his voice rough with desire and something softer, something that feels a lot like devotion. "Need to feel your skin, your heartbeat, your breath. Need to be inside you, surrounded by you, until I can't tell where I end and you begin."

"I love you," he breathes, his eyes never leaving yours. "I love you more than anything in this world or the next. And I'mgoing to spend the rest of my life showing you just how much."

With that, he surges up to capture your mouth in a searing kiss, pouring all of his love, his relief, and his desperation into it. His tongue delves deep, tangling with yours, tasting you, consuming you. One hand tangles in your hair, and the other slides down to grip your hip, pulling you harder against him.

He rolls his hips up into yours, letting you feel the hard, hot length of him through the fabric of the towel. A low groan rumbles in his chest as he grinds against you, seeking friction, seeking more.

You sigh breathily as Jacaerys guides your hips to grind against his, your body melting into his touch. "Oh, my prince..." you gasp, your voice trembling with honest emotion. You smile down at him. "I missed you... so very much. My heart felt so empty, so lost without you by my side."

Your eyes shimmer with unshed tears as you gaze at him, drinking in every beloved detail of his face. "My life had no colour, no warmth without you in it, Jacaerys. I was merely existing, not truly living, not until this moment." You lean down to brush a tender kiss against his lips, pouring all your longing and love into the soft press of your mouth against his. "Please... do not ever leave my side again."

Jacaerys' heart clenches at the raw emotion in your voice, at the shimmer of tears in your eyes. He feels a surge of love so fierce it steals his breath, a protectiveness that makes him want to gather you up and never let you go. He knows exactlywhat you mean—the time spent without you had been a bleak, empty hell, a hollow imitation of life.

"Never," he vows, his voice low and intense. "I swear it, my love. I'll never leave you again." His hand cups your cheek, thumb brushing away the dampness beneath your eye. "My life has no meaning without you in it. No purpose, no joy, no light."

He sits up, bringing you with him, his forehead pressed against yours. "You're my heart, my home, my everything," he murmurs, his breath mingling with yours. "I'll spend every day showing you how much you mean to me, how deeply I love you."

His hands slide down your back, over the curve of your rear, before gripping the hem of your tunic. Slowly, he starts to lift it, his calloused fingers skimming over the bare skin of your thighs, your hips, your waist. He tugs it up and over your head, tossing it aside to leave you bare before him, save for your small clothes.

"Beautiful," he breathes, his dark eyes roaming over every inch of exposed skin, drinking in the sight of you. "My goddess, my queen, my everything..." He leans in to press open-mouthed kisses along your collarbone, his tongue darting out to taste your skin, making you sigh in pleasure. His hands map the curves of your breasts, thumbs circling your nipples through the thin linen until they pebble and strain against the fabric.

He leans in to capture your breast in his mouth, his tongue swirling around the hardened peak, suckling and teasing as he wets the fabric. He wants to show you with every touch, every kiss, every thrust, just how much he loves you. Just how much he needs you. Just how much you mean to him.

"Ohhh, Jacaerys..." you breathe out, your voice hitching as pleasure courses through you. Your fingers thread through his damp curls, gripping them lightly as you hold his head to your breast. "That feels...mmm...don't stop."

You rock your hips harder against the growing bulge underneath the flimsy towel, seeking some relief from the throbbing ache he's ignited between your thighs. The rough fabric rubs deliciously against your most sensitive places, making you gasp and clench around nothing.

"Please, my love," you whimper, your back arching to push your breast more fully into Jacaerys' eager mouth. "I need...I need..." you can't even finish the thought, too lost in sensation, too desperate for his touch.

Your head tips back, exposing the long column of your throat as soft mewls of pleasure spill from your lips. The wet heat of his mouth, the scrape of his teeth, the swirl of his tongue—it's almost too much, yet not enough. You're drowning in sensation, consumed by the love and desire that burns between you, hotter and brighter than any dragonfire.

Jacaerys groans around your breast, the sound vibrating against your skin, sending shivers down your spine. He can feel your need, your desperation, and it fuels his own. He wants to consume you, to devour you, to make you feel pleasure so intense it borders on pain. He wants to hear you scream his name, to feel you clench around him as you find your release.

He releases your breast with a wet pop, his lips trailing kisses up the column of your throat until he reaches your mouth. He captures it in a searing kiss, his tongue delving deep, tasting your gasps and whimpers. His hands slide down to grip your rear, kneading the soft flesh as he pulls you harder against him, grinding his covered erection against your core.

He's aching to be inside you, to feel your tight heat surrounding him, but he forces himself to take his time. He wants to worship you, to make you feel pleasure so intense it borders on pain.

"Ah, Jacaerys," you gasp, your voice ragged with need as you rock wantonly against the hard length of him, the rough fabric of his towel rubbing deliciously against your aching core. "I want to bear your children, my love. I long to feel your seed quickening inside me, to grow round with your heir."

Your hand slides down his back, nails raking lightly over his skin as you pull him harder against you, desperate to feel every inch of him. "I want to be your queen in truth, your partner, your lover, the mother of your children. I need to have a part of you with me always, growing inside me, a testament to our love."

You capture his lips in a fierce, passionate kiss, pouring all your longing and desire into it. "Fill me, Jacaerys," you breathe against his mouth, your voice low and urgent. "Give me your heirs, bind me to you in every way possible. I'myours, now and forever."

Jacaerys shudders at your words, a low growl rumbling in his chest. The thought of you round with his child, your belly swollen with new life, your breasts heavy and full—it ignites a primal hunger in him. He wants to claim you, to mark you, to make you his in every way possible.

"Gods, yes," he rasps, his voice rough with desire. "I want to fill you, to claim you, to make you mine in every way possible." His hands grip your hips hard enough to bruise as he grinds his clothed erection against your dripping core.

He captures your mouth in a brutal kiss, all teeth and tongue and desperation, pouring every ounce of his love and lust into it. He wants to devour you, to consume you, to make you a part of him forever.

"Mine," he growls against your lips, his hips snapping forward, the hard length of him pressing insistently against your entrance. "You're mine, now and always. I'll fill you again and again until my seed takes root until your belly swells with my child."

Frantic with need, you yank off your small clothes, baring your dripping sex to Jacaerys' hungry gaze. With trembling fingers, you undo the towel wrapped around his waist, freeing his pretty cock. It springs forth, hard and heavy and perfect, making your mouth water with anticipation.

"Please, my love," you whimper, spreading your thighs wider on top of him. "I need you inside me. I need to feel all of you, every thick inch of your cock splitting me open, claiming me, filling me. I'm aching to have you so deep inside me that I can feel it for days."

Your voice is ragged, your chest heaving with each desperate breath. You reach for him, your hands gripping his firm ass, urging him closer, needing him closer. "Fill me with your seed. I'm yours, now and forever. Let me take care of you, my prince."

Jacaerys' breath catches as you bare yourself to him, his eyes darkening with lust at the sight of your glistening sex. He groans lowly as you free his aching cock, his length throbbing and heavy with need. The feeling of your small, soft hands gripping his ass, urging him closer, is almost too much to bear.

He lines himself up with your entrance. He teases your folds with the swollen head of his cock, coating himself in your arousal, making you both slick and ready.

"Ride me," he commands, his voice low and rough. "Take what you need, what you want."

You gaze at him through hooded eyes, your plump lips curling into a coy smile as you bite down on the soft flesh, leaving a crescent imprint. Your fingers wrap around his throbbing, leaking cock, helping him guide his leaking cock to your entrance. You let out a breathy whine as you feel him start to push inside, your inner walls stretching and yielding to his thick size.

"Jace," you keen, voice high and breathy, thighs trembling and quaking around his hips as you adjust to the intrusion. The initial penetration is a mix of sweet pain and intense pleasure, your body having tightened slightly during your time apart. The feeling of being so utterly filled, claimed, and possessed by him is overwhelming. "You're...so big," you pant, your nails digging into his abdomen as you try to relax your hips, to take him deeper. "I've missed this, missed you, so much... love how you fill me up."

Jacaerys lies back, his chest heaving as he gazes up at you with hooded, adoring eyes. His hands skim over your curves, caressing every dip and swell, as if committing your body to memory. "You're exquisite," he murmurs, his voice rough with desire and emotion.

He swallows hard, his throat bobbing with the effort, as he watches you take him deeper. "Gods, you feel incredible," he grits out, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your hips hard enough to leave marks.

He reaches up to cup your face, his thumbs brushing away the tears that occasionally slip down your cheeks. "My princess," he whispers, his voice thick with emotion. "My everything. I love you so much... I'm here now, and I'm never letting you go again."

As he speaks, he rolls his hips up to meet yours, driving himself deeper inside you. His hands slide down to grip your rear, urging you to take more of him with each downward thrust. He sets a steady, deep rhythm, his thick length stretching and filling you so completely that you can feel every ridge and vein as he moves within you.

"Ahhh," he whimpers, his head tipping back against the pillow as he loses himself in the exquisite sensation of your body surrounding him. "You feel like heaven, my love."

"Ohhh, Gods!" you moan loudly, your voice echoing off the stone walls as you feel him fill you up completely with every deep, powerful thrust. Tears of joy and overwhelming pleasure stream down your face as you gaze down at Jacaerys in awe as if the Gods had answered your prayers and returned him to you.

Your hands find his chest, fingers splaying over the firm muscle as you balance yourself and start to move faster, riding him with increasing eagerness. The sensation of his thick, hard length stretching you open, claiming you, filling you so utterly and completely—it's almost too much. But you don't want it to ever end. You want to drown in it, to lose yourself in the feeling of being one with him.

"Jacaerys," you gasp, your hips rolling and grinding against his, taking him as deep as you can. "I need you." Your voice is ragged, desperate, consumed by the love and lust that burns between you.

Your eyes are locked onto Jacaerys, drinking in the sight of him, committing every moment to memory. You want to sear this moment into your mind, to hold onto it forever—the moment when he claimed you, body and soul, and made you his for all eternity. Giving you his seed, a part of him.

Jacaerys' breath comes in harsh pants as he watches you, his eyes dark and intense, filled with a love so deep it steals his breath. He can feel your need, your desperation, and it fuels his own. He wants to give you everything, to fill you up until you're drowning in him, in them.

"Take it," he pants. "Take all of me."

He snaps his hips up to meet yours, driving himself impossibly deep, his thick length pulsing and throbbing inside you. He can feel your walls fluttering around him, gripping him, and it takes every ounce of his control not to spill himself inside you right then and there.

"Ahhh, fuck," he grits out, his head tipping back against the pillow as he loses himself in the feeling of your body surrounding him. "You feel so fucking good, my heart. So perfect, so right."

He reaches up to cup your face, his thumbs brushing away the tears that slip down your cheeks. "I love you," he whispers, his voice breathless and low.

With that, he surges up, flipping your positions so that he's hovering over you, his hips nestled between your thighs. He starts to move, his thrusts deep and powerful, his length stretching and filling you so completely that you can feel every ridge and vein as he drives into you again and again.

"Ohhh gods, Ja-Jacaerys!" you cry out, your voice breaking on a moan as he flips you over and drives into you with renewed hunger. Your eyes roll back in your head, nails raking down his muscular forearms as you cling to him desperately.

"Mine," he growls, his voice low and possessive. "You're mine, now and forever. And I'm going to fill you up. Going to give you my seed, my heirs."

"F-fuck, you feel...ungh...incredible," you pant out, your hips bucking up to meet his thrusts. You can feel every thick, pulsing inch of him dragging along your sensitive walls, the fire building low in your belly.

You gaze up at him with hooded, lust-darkened eyes, your heart stuttering in your chest at the breathtaking sight of him lost in pleasure above you. "You're...you're so p-pretty," you manage to gasp out, your voice thick with desire. "Want to be...ahh!...filled with your seed. Want to feel you...coming inside me."

Your thighs tremble and clench around his waist, urging him deeper, needing him closer. You're so close to the edge, teetering on the brink of ecstasy. You just need a little more, a little harder, a little deeper...

Jacaerys' eyes blaze into yours, filled with love and lust so all-consuming it steals your breath. He can feel your body tensing, your walls fluttering around his length, and he knows you're close. He wants to feel you come undone beneath him, wants to watch as the pleasure overwhelming you play out across your beautiful face.

"Fuck, I love you," he growls, his voice low and rough with desire. "I love you so fucking much."

He doubles his efforts, his hips slamming against yours with enough force to rock the bed beneath you. He's determined to bring you to the peak of pleasure, to make you scream his name until it's the only word you remember.

The room fills with the obscene sound of skin slapping against skin, with your moans and cries and the low, guttural groans spilling from his throat.

"Come for me," he commands, his thumb finding your clit and rubbing tight circles over the sensitive nub. "I want to feel you come apart around my cock, want to feel your sweet cunt milking my seed from me."

He leans down to capture your mouth in a searing kiss, his tongue delving deep, swallowing your moans and cries of pleasure. He's so close, so desperately close, but he's holding back, waiting for you, wanting to feel your release before he lets go.

"Now, my love," he demands against your lips, his hips never faltering in their relentless rhythm. "Come now, and scream my name. Let the whole castle know who you belong to, who fucks you like this, who loves you like this."

You can barely get a word out as you moan loudly, cries of pleasure falling from your lips like a prayer. "I'm... I-I... oohh Gods!" you scream, your voice echoing off the stone walls as the most intense orgasm of your life crashes over you. Your vision goes white, your back arching sharply as ecstasy consumes you utterly.

Tears stream down your face, you're overwhelmed, drowning in sensation, your body shaking and trembling with the force of your release. You can feel Jacaerys' fingers digging into your hips, holding you in place as he chases his own pleasure, as he fucks you through your climax.

You're making noises you have never made before, sounds of pure, unadulterated bliss that fill the room and make the air crackle with energy. You're lost in a haze of pleasure so intense it teeters on the edge of discomfort, your mind blanking out everything except the feeling of Jacaerys moving inside you.

Jacaerys feels your velvet walls clamp down around him like a vice as you come undone, your scream of ecstasy echoing off the stone walls. The sensation is too much, too perfect, and with a roar of your name, he surges forward one last time before burying himself to the hilt inside you.

"Fuck, yes! Take it, take my seed, my love!" he bellows, his length pulsing and throbbing as he spills himself deep inside your spasming core. Jet after jet of his hot, thick cum paints your insides, filling you up just as you begged him to do.

He collapses on top of you, his hips still twitching and jerking as the last waves of his release course through him. He peppers your face with kisses, tasting your tears, your sweat, your pleasure. "I love you, I love you, I love you," he chants, his voice raw and wrecked.

Finally, he stills, his softening length still nestled deep inside you. He knows his seed is taking root, and knows that in a few short months, your belly will swell with new life. The thought makes him groan with satisfaction.

"Mine," he murmurs, his hand sliding down to splay across your lower belly. "All mine. You, me, and our child. A family, a legacy." He smiles softly, his eyes filled with love and adoration as he gazes down at you. "My queen, my heart, my everything."

You gaze up at him, your chest heaving as you struggle to catch your breath. A soft, sated smile plays at your lips as you drink in the sight of your beloved Jacaerys above you. You reach up with a trembling hand, your fingers lightly caressing his cheek, needing to feel the warmth of his skin, to assure yourself that this moment is real.

"My king," you whisper, your voice hoarse from screaming his name. You search his brown eyes, seeing your love and devotion reflected at you. "You found me... as you promised"

Jacaerys leans into your touch, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment as he savours the feeling of your fingers against his skin. When he opens them again, his gaze is intense and filled with emotion. "I did," he murmurs, turning his head to press a kiss to your palm. "I'll always find you. No matter where you are, no matter what stands in our way, I'll always come back to you."

He rolls to the side, gathering you into his arms and holding you close. He strokes your hair, your back, your arm, his touch gentle and soothing. "You're my home," he whispers, his breath stirring the hair at your temple. "You're where I belong. And I'm never letting you go again."

He tilts your chin up, his thumb brushing over your lower lip. "I love you," he says softly, his voice filled with wonder and awe. "More than anything in this world or the next. You're my heart, my soul, my everything."

He leans in, his forehead resting against yours, his breath mingling with your own. "My queen," he breathes, a smile playing on his lips. "My love. My future. I'm yours, now and forever."

The war didn’t end with thunder but with silence.

With both of your parents gone and perished, the realm was at Jacaerys' feet.

The lords of the Black Council looked to him. The armies whispered his name. There was talk of vengeance still to be taken. Of fire yet to fall.

But Jacaerys felt hollow.

He stood on the shores of Dragonstone, holding your hand tightly, staring at the horizon as the waves rolled in, and said the only words that had made sense to him in days:

“I’ve seen enough death. Let it end with me.”

You nodded, squeezing his hand in response.

He had no more heart for the Iron Throne. No more hunger for the game that had devoured his mother and shattered his bloodline. The boy who once trained with blades and studied treaties, who had flown into battle thinking himself a hero—was gone.

And in his place stood a man, bruised and wiser, holding the hand of the only person who made him feel human again.

“The war is over. Aegon the Younger is the rightful king. I will kneel to him.”

There were protests. Rage. But no one dared to challenge him outright. His wounds were still fresh.

And so Aegon III ascended the throne—crowned quietly in the ashes of the past. A boy-king with haunted eyes, grieving his mother, his brothers, his innocence.

Jacaerys gave up his claim. Not as a coward. But as a prince who chose to break the cycle.

He left behind the Red Keep. The black banners. Even the ruined corpse of Vermax, buried in the cliffs beyond Driftmark. No dragon would ever bear him again.

Instead, he took you.

Just you.

One ship. A handful of loyal guards. A sack of coins gifted by Maester Gerardys, who simply clasped Jace’s shoulder with a heavy heart and said, “Your mother would have wanted this—her line to live, not just survive. Take the coin, and the histories too. Someday, your daughter may wish to know the truth.”

Giving him scrolls, books and maps to pass down to your children.

And so you set your sights on Lys. The sunny island with palm and fruit trees and the surrounding blue-green waters filled with fish.

It was a place of warmth and colour, of lightness that neither of you had known for so long.

Some knew who you were.

Whispers floated like sea foam on the docks, passed between wine merchants and old sailors with sharp eyes. The silver in your hair. The curve of his jaw, unmistakably Velaryon. The way he moved, the ghost of a prince still in his spine.

But no one said anything. No one came knocking. And soon, the rumours faded like stories told too long under the sun.

You made your home in a white-stoned villa nestled against the curve of the sea. Vines crept up its sun-warmed walls, and flowering trees spilt their perfume into the breeze. From the terrace, you could see the blue stretch of the water, the same sea that had once tried to take everything from you—now glimmering with peace.

There was salt in the air always, but also the scent of honey wine, fresh herbs hung to dry, and the spices that simmered in your kitchen. Laughter lived here now. Laughter, and the thudding of small feet.

Your daughter—curious and bright-eyed, with his gentle mouth and your intense eyes—ran barefoot through the kitchen, chased by her younger brother. He was all cheeks and mischief, his curls bouncing as he shrieked with joy, clutching a stolen fig in his tiny hand.

“Careful!” you called, though your voice was light with laughter. Jace looked up from his seat by the open window, his book forgotten on his lap, a quiet smile playing on his lips.

He had not worn a crown in years.

But in this moment, he looked every bit a king.

He rose, scooping the boy up in his arms with ease and planting a kiss on his head before the child could protest. You watched them together, sunlight caught in his dark hair, the way he held your son like something sacred.

“I caught a thief,” he said, grinning as the boy giggled against his shoulder.

“He’s your son,” you teased, reaching to stir the pot on the stove. “What did you expect?”

Jace crossed the room to kiss your temple, one hand resting briefly on the curve of your hip, grounding. Familiar. You leaned into him, just for a moment, breathing in the salt and spice and the warmth of his skin.

There were still days when you and he woke in a cold sweat, memories of fire and falling and the ache of absence.

But they were fewer now.

And the sound of your children laughing chased them away, piece by piece.

Night had fallen soft and slow over Lys, and the windows of the villa breathed in the breeze from the sea. The curtains swayed gently, catching the gold flicker of candlelight that bathed the bedroom in warmth. Outside, waves murmured against the shore, a lullaby.

You stood near the open doors that led to the balcony, the scent of the sea curling in, salt and jasmine and wine. Jace came up behind you quietly, arms slipping around your waist, pulling you back into the safety of him.

The children were asleep. The wine was gone. The world, for once, was still.

He swayed with you—slow, steady, like the tide. One hand at your waist, the other pressing lightly over your heart. The candlelight danced on the walls, catching on the soft curve of your collarbone, the shadows on his jaw, the lazy curl of his smile.

“I could live a thousand lives,” he whispered, lips brushing your ear, “and never feel as full as I do with you in my arms.”

You turned your head slightly, enough to feel the scratch of his stubble against your cheek, the warmth of his breath against your skin.

“You do say the sweetest things after a bottle of Lyseni red,” you teased softly, voice a murmur, thick with affection.

He chuckled low, burying his face in your neck. “Only when they’re true,” he replied. “And maybe the wine helps me say them out loud.”

You leaned your head back against his shoulder, eyes half-closed as you listened to the sea. His fingers drew slow, lazy patterns along your waist, grounding you. Loving you.

“I still see you,” he said after a pause, quieter now, like a confession. “Even after everything. I see you the way I did that night in Dragonstone when I came back to you.”

You turned to face him fully, hands resting over his heart. “And I see you, Jace. Not the prince, not the heir. Just... you. My lover.”

He kissed you then—soft, unhurried like the world had given him all the time it had ever owed.

The waves sang to the sand just below the cliffs, and the night stretched out before you, tender and wide and full of dreams that no longer felt so far away.

tags: @bey0nd-1he-stars @venusbyline

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