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acotarxreader · 7 months ago

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Tell me, Party Girl

Azriel x Reader (Cassian's sister)

Synopsis: Your former party girl title rears it's head again as you try to escape the reality of The House of Winds newest resident, Nesta. Very quickly tension bubbles over between you and the night courts current 365 party girl, leaving Azriel to do what he does best.

Warnings: Angst, Nesta being so rude, mentions of alcoholism, fluffy

A/N: You guys! Hello! I have missed writing for you friends! Sorry for being a lil MIA especially with Azriel fics. Let me know what you guys think of this!

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Flashes of iridescent technicolour filled the darkened room, the free spirits of the Autumn Court escaping their world's trials and tribulations. Pounding music like nowhere else in the whole of Prythian filled the club scene, as you swirled effortlessly into the centre of the floor. Your hands flowed above your head, the flickers of light passed through your fingers as your head tilted back, lost in the world of the music. Fae bumped into you, with little notice given by you, following their own flow away from their earthly body. The floor of this long-forgotten former base was the scene of many a moment lost and gained to powerful music envied by the rest of Prythian and felt by so few. Unfortunately, as soon as you felt the peace in the vibrations, the heavy boots of Autumn court troops shook the room out of serenity. You snapped from your inner world back to the world of ruined fun, fae ran from every which direction, doing their best to evade capture and wrongful retribution. You followed your own intuition, skillfully avoiding the guards and ducking into the surrounding wood for cover. Your dancing shoes found it difficult to adapt to their new purpose of dashing over thickets of roots to take cover in, sending you crashing into damp dusk moss.

“Need a hand?” You exhaled loudly towards the source of the words, reluctant to look up and find the scolding source. You pushed onto the backs of your legs, the sound of guards circling but unable to see you through the shield you emitted.

“Your power has so much more use than partying YN, if only I could convince you to join my team” A gloved hand reached down, your knees split from the fall, the blood now flowing as you allowed him to pull you up.

“Whatever Az, as if he’d allow me on any of the fun missions. Taking me back to my cell?”

“Do you mean your plush room in a palace? Then yes” he smiled softly, tucking your arm close to him, shadows ran up and down your bare legs attempting to bring some semblance of heat back to them.

“A gilded cage is still a cage” You sighed, a sympathetic smile growing on his face as he dissolved you both into shadow, the sound of the guards finally reaching you both a distant memory, to match the freedom you briefly felt.

The landing to your House of Wind living quarters was as gentle as ever, Azriel in full knowledge of your hatred for winnowing. You threw yourself down on the edge of your bed, your ruined shoes being kicked free.

“Night YN” Azriel smiled as you flattened yourself out of the delicate sheets, eyes fixed on the swirl of stars painted across the ceiling.

“Where’s my keeper?”

“He’s busy getting nowhere with Nesta” he laughed quietly while you uprighted yourself to look towards the Shadowsinger again, a smirk painting your face.

“I enjoy the stress that female puts on my dear brother, it keeps me young and beautiful” You grinned, striding over to sit at your vanity, your fingers pulling stray sticks from your locks.

“You don’t need help with that”

“What?” You turned to question Azriel’s barely audible words but he had already gone, leaving you alone again, the wind reverberating against the towering windows.

You sauntered into the long dining room, your footsteps against the stone cutting into the clearly awkward silence between the three other residents of the House of Wind. The legs of the large oak chair scrapped along the worn stone, making Nesta recoil slightly from the other end of the table, Cassian watching her face carefully from the opposite end. Azriel looked grateful to have you sit across from him, anything to end the tension between the two on either side of him.

“So, sent dear Azzie out to fetch me again brother?” or start new tension Azriel thought, your almost bored words dragging Cassian's eyes to you.

“You shouldn’t go to those parties, anything could happen you”

“Yeah like a break from you two...or something interesting” You muttered down to your grapefruit, Azriel’s foot briefly tipping against the top of your toes in a comforting movement so short you couldn’t say it happened for sure.

“They’re all out to stop our freedom YN” Nesta chewed out, a blow clearly directed towards Cassian who threw a glare to her. You didn't hate Nesta per say, sure she kept your brother occupied which allowed you more time to sneak away but you paid the price of having to deal with her tantrums. As well as having to deal with the foul moods she put your brother in.

“I appreciate the support Nesta but with all due respect you’re a traumatised, spendthrift, alcoholic, I just have a control freak for a brother” Azriel nearly choked on the orange segments he ate with bad timing as now both Nesta and Cassian directed their annoyance towards you. Neither heated glance fazed you, you knew Cassian's weak spots since a child and as for Nesta, she wasn’t yet up to the skill it would take to leave a scratch on you and so there you sat, eating your grapefruit with a smug sense of comfort.

“Takes one to know one” Nesta scoffed towards her breakfast.

“Excuse me?” You bit back, Azriel’s foot gently tapping you again, its reassurance doing little to your escalating anger, a stray shadow now wrapping around your ankle.

“Don’t play all high and mighty, Cassian’s told me all about the whoring party girl you used to be-”

“-Enough Nesta” Azriel spoke with a slow composure that conveyed a level of anger you prayed never to be on the other end of.

“Why!? You’re all allowed to talk about my drinking and fucking!? Why can’t I talk about the original party girl of the group? The female that got so drunk that she slept through Tamlin and his father stealing away Rhysand’s sister? Some lady in waiting you are! Or should I say were?” Venom from Nesta’s tongue stung more than any blow her power could deliver. Your deepest regret, the deepest darkest lowest point of your 500 years on this Earth, thrown at you like it was nothing. You thought about that night often, how you just wanted one night of entire numbing, to not feel the deep scars down your back where your wings once were just once and how you would pay the price of that for centuries after. You screeched the chair along the slate again, standing with escalating anger as Cassian began reprimanding Nesta.

“I hope you never feel an ounce of what I did that night Nesta, I hope you get everything you want in life and it still not be enough” Your voice was an even calmness that came with pure white-hot rage as tears began to brim along your lash line. You met the dining room door quickly, the room descending into a deeper realm of tension than when you had arrived.

“And I also hope you fall down those steps your feeble muscles can’t even bring you down” You added before slamming the door of the dining room, jolting Cassian slightly. Azriel stood from his place, his fingertips pressed into the oak as it pushed back against him.

“Speak to her like that again and I’ll personally help Rhysand kick your sorry ass to the wilderness” Azriel often avoided full eye contact with Nesta and yet this time found himself staring down Lady Death with only rage bubbling through his veins.

—

You flung your favourite clothes into the rucksack Cassian had carried through his first war. You looked down at its deep indigo colouring, its tattered fabric a reminder of the battles your brother fought for his people, for you.

“YNN?” Azriel called softly from the other side of your door, shadows beginning to leak under the doorframe. You sank into your power, vanishing from visibility as Azriel entered the room slowly. He crossed to your bag and tipped the contents back onto the bed, his shadows curling into him.

“I know you’re here YNN” You didn’t respond to him, his eyes still fixed on your clothing until shadows darted from his side and pinned you against the silver wallpaper of your room.

“Agh! Cheater!” You called back, dissolving the mist of invisibility you had built.

“You know I will always find you, no matter where you run to” He smiled sweetly at you before glancing at the emptied bag of your belongings.

“I know, an annoying characteristic of yours that I love” You laughed, his shadows releasing their hold allowing you to return to pack your bag at Azriel’s side.

“She was being an idiot, you know no one blames you for what happened?” You didn’t reply to his gentle words. For centuries you fought the demon in you blaming you for that night, how you might have stopped it if you hadn’t been licking your wounds. Countless times the Inner circle absolved you of blame, reminded you that regardless you wouldn’t have been able to stop a High Lord and his son, how no one ever for an ounce of time thought you should pay the penance you had set on yourself.

“Cassian is downstairs reprimanding her, pretty sure she’ll be getting the silent treatment for a while” he added.

“That shit probably turns her on”

“So snarky for, what was it? A former party girl whore?” He laughed back at you, your eyes finally returning to his, your own grin forming.

“If the shoe fits” You held up your disregarded pump from last night's antics, Azriel taking it from you, his marred hands dusting off the now-dried peat.

“Well, hopefully, the whore part doesn’t fit you anymore” he looked from the satin fabric forever stained back to you.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” You chuckled, returning your clothing back to the rucksack, his free hand taking hold of yours as it made its way to gather more articles of clothing.

“I would actually, tell me, tell me about the males who try with no success and great success. Tell me so I may hunt them down and destroy them for ever thinking themselves worthy of the moon, a beauty we mere Earth dwellers may only admire from afar. Tell me YN, tell me so I may stop searching every room I enter in hopes I find you there and not wrapped around some other male. Tell me so I can find comfort in the invisibility you are blessed with that I am cursed with. Tell me, party girl, tell me so I can move on from you” Azriel’s words hung in their honesty between you like apples on a tree. Yours to take or yours to leave.

“How-how do you always know where to find me Azriel?” You found yourself asking, your eyes looking from his down to the shoe he held. He would always come for you before you even knew you needed him, always there to your rescue or support. Always there to defend your antics to Cassian when he feared his sister was lost to her old self again. Always there to pull you back before you could meet that old self again. Always there.

“I think you know YN” his voice like smoke and glowing embers, comforting you as it always did, tethering you to him like it always did. Tethering.

“You’re my mate” It came out like a statement, not a question, a statement of something always true but not always obvious to you. Had your gift been obscuring the truth from you or had it been your own selfish ways, it didn't matter, what mattered was-

“Yes, I’m your mate, yours YN but you are free to be anyone else's or no one’s at all, I will not add to the gilded cage” he dropped the shoe, moving to release your hand only to find yours tighten its grip, charged with a quiet intensity that had never been there before. His hand lifted, trembling slightly, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear, last night's make-up probably still smudged in your waterline. The touch lingered, his fingers tracing the curve of your cheek until your eyes fluttered shut as you leaned into the touch, the warmth of his palm soothing every frayed nerve that ever jolted in your body. Azriel leaned in, unable to deny himself any longer, knowing now that you wanted this to. That you wanted him. The kiss was gentle, glowing like a realisation that all you had both ever wanted had always been down the hall from one another. His hand found the back of your neck, pulling you in closer as you reassured him with soft breaths that you wanted this, wanted all of him. Never wanting it to end but also not wanting to suffocate. You separated with somewhat sharp breaths, oxygen flooding your blood again.

“How long did you know Az?”

“The night Spring took our family and I found you passed out at the end of your bed, your back still raw from that sick sick cruelty of our blood-” his hand travelled from your neck down to your shoulderblades, the small mounds of scars pressing into the soft fabric of your shirt “-I lifted you into your bed and just, just stayed watching you all night from your vanity chair, watching your breath and holding my own breath every inhale you took, waiting for the exhale. You used to really scare us YN”

“I know” You ran the back of your hand down his cheek, soaking up the stray tear that leaked from his eyes.

“I-I never admitted this to anyone but I felt-I felt relief finding you there, that-that they didn’t take you too, that they didn’t hurt you like they hurt them” his head dipped in shame, a secret he held since that night. You kissed him sweetly then, pushing away his growing sorrow.

“I’ll admit the same to you, I felt relief when I found out you didn’t accompany Rhysand to Amarantha’s ball like you were supposed to, that she didn’t get you too” You dipped your glance briefly at your admission before Azriel surprised you by smiling.

“Rhysand has terrible friends, one of them is trying to fuck his sister-in-law and two others are glad it's him and not them that the terrible things happen to” You laughed at his obvious parody of your lives. You sat on the bed, the rucksack sinking into the bed beneath your hips, Azriel joining your side.

“Where were you going to run to?” He found his curiosity asking, his shadows swirling lovingly around you.

“There’s this party at this old bunker in Winter Court I was going to check out”

“An old bunker? Are they ever in buildings that haven’t been condemned?” he chuckled, his thumb brushing over the back of your hand.

“Not any good ones” you returned the laugh.

“Are mates welcome?”

“I don’t know does the whole mate thing really go with the party girl whore image I apparently projected”

“Maybe that's okay too” he smiled, your head leaning into his shoulder.

“I think so too”

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Whatcha think???

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spicyspiders · 7 months ago

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old man logan part 4

1.1k words

I was going to make this angsty, but decided to make it smutty (to no one's surprise). Warning for rimming and rough/unprotected sex.

Part 1, Part 2, and Part 3.

“Logan,” you whine, “he’ll be back soon,” you bite into your bedspread trying to muffle your moans as Logan’s tongue flicks over your hole.

You didn’t just need Logan out, you also needed enough time to air out your dorm room to rid the air of the stench of sex.

“I could go faster if you’d fuckin’ relax,” Logan said before biting into the flesh of your ass cheek. You’ve grown used to his rough fingers, but still it makes you gasp to have them on your skin, especially on your hole, slick from his spit.

“Maybe if you weren’t so rough,” you responded angrily as you moved back into his fingers.

“Don’t you fuckin’,” he groweled, one of his hands going to the back of your neck to push you roughly down into the bed, “sass me. You want me to stop?” He whispered in your ear after blanketing his body on top of yours.

“No,” you said into the blanket, your voice muffled.

“Speak up!” He barked. He moved his hand to the front of your neck to pull you back into his chest, “I can’t hear you,” he said into your ear.

“No,” you repeated louder.

Logan’s hard cock rubbed wetly into the small of your back, smearing precum into the sweaty skin. You could sass him further by telling him he probably wasn’t able to hear you because he was the one that pushed your face into the bed, but you knew there wasn’t enough time.

Logan chuckled before responding, “I can tell,” he says as he presses two fingers slowly inside, “you’re swallowing me right up,” he observes as his fingers slide inside. He makes a noise of bewilderment, “what’s this?” He asks as they go deeper.

“Before you came over,” you began before your voice fell off into a moan. His two fingers gilded against your prostate, mixing in with lube already in your hole. “I-” you tried to continue, but Logan cuts you off by turning your chin to get his lips on yours.

“Shh,” he says softly after he’s pulled away from the kiss, “you do this in the shower before I got here? You hafta hold your hand against your mouth so no one would hear?” He asks as he scissors his two fingers.

You groan through the burn, “I couldn’t wait,” you whimpered, pushing your hips back into his fingers.

“I can tell,” he repeats with another laugh as he adds another finger to the mix. “You’re so wet,” he says softly through the squelch of the lube. “I probably didn’t even need to lick you open,” he says to himself.

He pulls his fingers free once he’s deemed you adequately prepared for his fat cock. He rolls you onto your back before he smears the lube along his cock, his eyes dark as they look you over.

“Did you cum while you were in the shower?” Logan asks as he lifts your legs onto his broad shoulders. He presses his lips to yours, not even giving you the chance to answer, the head of his cock at your stretched hole.

“Wanted to wait for you,” you gasped as he thrust slowly inside.

Above you, Logan moaned before he ducked down to once more get his lips on yours. “So sweet,” he says against your mouth after he’s pulled away. “It almost makes me feel bad,” he says as he slowly pulls his cock free, “fucking you like this,” he finishes as he thrusts back inside.

Your cock lays hard against your stomach, hard and neglected. Instead of reaching down to wrap your hand and stroke to the rhythm Logan sets, you wrap your hands around his neck to pull him in for another kiss.

“I’m just the dirty old man,” Logan says after he’s broken the kiss, “fucking the sweet college boy,” he says punctuating his point with harsh thrusts. The headboard knocks against the wall, the noise ringing alongside the smack of his skin against yours.

“Slow down,” you groan, you run your nails down his back, a hot flashing running through your body at the noise of pain and pleasure he lets out, “we’re being too loud.”

He laughs loudly as he comes to a stop, “never thought I’d hear you say those words,” he says, swiping a hand across his face. You didn’t think it was funny enough to warrant wiping away tears, but your brain was too fucked out to realize he was wiping away sweat and not tears.

Logan leaned close, his hips circling your ass, causing his cock to rub right against your prostate. Before his lips were on yours, his voice came out soft and gravely as he spoke, “missed you,” he said, lips brushing yours. “Missed taking care of you,” he said as he reached between your sweaty bodies to wrap his hand around your cock.

To try and muffle your moans when you cum, you kiss him once more. Logan’s tongue does little to cover the noise, but still he does his best to swallow the noises. You cum in messy spurts across his fist, right between your bodies.

Logan’s head falls to your shoulder as you clench around his cock, the man moaning at the sensation. He brings himself up on his forearms as he picks up the pace momentarily. His thrusts are stuttered and uncoordinated as you continue to milk his cock through the aftershocks of your orgasm.

You watch with half-lidded eyes as Logan brings the hand that was just around your cock to his mouth. Your cock gives an involuntary twitch as Logan licks up the cum on his fingers. You watch his fingers disappear into his mouth, and moments later, Logan’s hips still.

It reminds you of earlier when you were in the shower as you had to use your hand to muffle your moans as you fingered yourself open. You hadn’t even been able to finish earlier after you had gotten harder faster than you expected, fearful that it would ruin your time with Logan if he had to get you hard again in the little time you had together before your roommate got back. He moans around his two fingers, his hips twitching as he cums as deep as he can inside you.

His sweaty body collapses on top of you once it’s over, the bedsprings groaning in protest at the sudden combined weight. “When’s your next break?” He asks into your neck.

You laugh breathily as you tangle a hand through the sweaty locks on the back of his head, “you’re still inside me and you’re already asking when I’ll be home so we can do this again?”

Logan pulls his softening cock free before asking the question again, “there,” he says, “happy? Now, when will you be home?” He asks, nipping at the sweaty skin closest to his mouth.

The word home sends an emotion through your body you don’t want to think about, “next month,” you respond softly, trying to ignore it when it happens again when Logan leans into the touch of your hand in his hair.

#x male reader #x male reader smut #logan howlett x male reader #logan howlett x reader #wolverine x male reader #logan howlett x male reader smut #wolverine x male reader smut #bottom male reader #wolverine #logan howlett #wolverine x reader #i'll stop this series when i run out of ideas or when i run out of photos i can crop to make the header #meaning it will never end #jk.... unless...?

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fidesvirtusobsession · 2 months ago

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𝔄 𝔐𝔦𝔩𝔩𝔦𝔬𝔫 𝔇𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔪𝔰

Yandere Emperor x afab concubines reader

Description: Plucked from the streets and forced into the Emperor’s harem, Yn refuses to bow to fate. She fights, schemes, and searches for any opportunity to escape the palace’s suffocating grip. But as she navigates the treacherous world of politics, power, and whispered conspiracies, she catches the attention of Emperor Zhéyàn—a man as ruthless as he is unreadable. In a palace where survival is an art, will she be able to reclaim her freedom—or will she find herself woven into the empire’s fate?

The sound of her bare feet slapping against the cobblestones was the only thing Yn could hear as she sprinted through the twisting alleys. Her breath came in sharp gasps, heart hammering in her chest. The city, usually bustling with life and noise, felt suffocating now. Too many corners. Too many eyes watching.

She knew these streets. Knew every crack in the stone, every loose board she could slip under, every shadow deep enough to swallow her whole. But none of it mattered when they were already closing in.

It had been a mistake—staying too long near the merchant stalls, laughing with the baker’s daughter, standing in the sun where her face could be seen. She hadn't noticed the house master watching from the silk shop across the street. A man with gold-threaded robes and a calculating gaze, one who judged worth with a glance. And in that moment, he'd decided: Pretty enough.

"That one," he'd told his guards, voice cold and certain. "The Emperor’s harem has room for another."

And just like that, her fate was sealed.

Yn had been running ever since, slipping through side streets, dodging hands that reached for her. Her legs burned, her lungs screamed for air, but she didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop. She knew what happened to girls taken behind those gilded walls. They became ornaments. Playthings. Forgotten names and silent mouths.

"Get back here, girl!" a guard barked from behind, heavy boots pounding the ground. "Don’t make this harder!"

Harder? It was already impossible. She could hear the jangle of armor, the sharp whistle one man gave to signal the others. They were surrounding her, closing the trap like wolves circling prey.

She ducked into a narrow alley, heart pounding in her ears, only to skid to a halt. Another guard stood at the end, smirking, arms crossed as if he'd been waiting. Of course they knew her routes. The streets she called home were nothing compared to the reach of palace dogs.

Desperation clawed at her throat. She spun around, ready to risk another path, when a hand snatched her wrist. Rough. Unforgiving.

"Let go!" she snarled, twisting and kicking, but her strength was nothing against the iron grip of someone trained for this.

The guard yanked her forward, face impassive. "You should be grateful," he muttered, almost bored. "The palace will feed you. Dress you in silk. You’ll live better than you ever did here."

Yn spat at his feet. "I'd rather starve in the streets."

The streets blurred past in a rush of dust and panic. Yn thrashed in the iron grip of the palace guards, bare feet scraping against the rough stone as they dragged her away from the life she knew. Her heart pounded in her ears, drowning out the muttered curses of the men hauling her toward the looming palace gates.

The slap came fast, sharp enough to make her ears ring. She tasted blood, but it only fueled the fire burning inside her chest. She thrashed, bit, kicked, but they were too many, too practiced. She was dragged, half-limp, through the streets she'd once run freely.

Onlookers turned away. No one interfered. Why would they? It wasn’t the first time a pretty girl had been plucked from the gutter for a higher purpose.

"Hold still, you little—!" one growled, tightening his grip on her wrist.

Yn’s answer was swift—a sharp twist and a vicious bite to the soft flesh of his hand. The guard yelped, jerking back, and she used the moment to kick at the other’s shin, adrenaline making her wild.

“Stupid girl!” The second guard stumbled, nearly dropping her. “You think this fight matters? You’re palace property now.”

“Like hell I am!” she spat, kicking again, heels digging into the ground as they pulled her forward. “You’ll have to kill me before I sit pretty in silk for some spoiled bastard!”

The third guard, older and wearier, only sighed. “They always fight,” he muttered. “Doesn’t change a damn thing.”

The palace walls loomed closer, golden in the dying light. Beautiful, cold, inescapable. A gilded cage. She’d heard the whispers from girls who’d been taken before. Once you passed through those gates, you were no longer a person. Just another flower in the Emperor's garden, waiting to wither.

She didn’t care. She couldn’t care. If she stopped fighting, if she let them take her into that gilded prison, she’d never see freedom again. Her fists lashed out, nails clawing at skin, voice raw from screaming as people on the streets turned away. No one interfered. No one ever interfered.

They reached the palace gates too soon. Tall, imposing, decorated with gold filigree that caught the dying light like fire. A beautiful lie.

The last thing she saw before the gates closed behind her was the sky turning crimson—like the universe itself was bleeding for her.

The guards didn’t slow. One yanked her forward by the waist, throwing her over his shoulder like a sack of rice. She kicked and punched, but his armor dulled the blows.

“Let me go, damn you!” Yn snarled, beating her fists against his back. “I’m not something you can claim!”

The sun hung low over the palace, casting golden light through the lattice windows of the grand hall. Incense curled lazily in the air, failing to mask the bitterness of court politics. Zhéyàn, the Emperor, sat on his throne, sharp golden eyes half-lidded in boredom as the steward droned on.

“…and with the new batch of girls brought in from the outer provinces, Your Majesty, I’m certain you’ll find one to your liking,” the steward said, her tone practiced and smooth. “The ministers continue to whisper about heirs. A distraction might ease the pressure.”

Zhéyàn didn’t react, swirling the tea in his porcelain cup. He’d heard it all before. The officials, the nobles, even the servants—they all spoke of duty, legacy, and heirs. As though a womb could settle an empire.

The steward, an older woman with silver threaded through her dark hair, pressed on. “I selected them personally—educated, graceful, untouched by the corruption of the city. A few from the countryside, some from merchant families. The house master is already preparing them—”

A scream cut through the air, followed by the unmistakable thud of bodies hitting the ground.

“Let me go, you bastards!”

The hall fell silent. Zhéyàn’s gaze flicked up, suddenly alert.

The steward paled. “What in the heavens—”

Another shout echoed through the open courtyard outside the hall, followed by a string of curses sharp enough to make the gathered officials exchange uneasy glances.

“Get off me! I’m not some prize to be bought and sold!”

The heavy wooden doors burst open, and two guards stumbled inside, struggling to restrain a young woman. Dirty, disheveled, and wild-eyed, she kicked and twisted with the kind of ferocity born from desperation.

One guard grunted as she drove her elbow into his ribs. “Hold her down, damn it!”

Zhéyàn leaned forward, intrigued despite himself.

The steward, flustered, hurried to explain. “Ah—this one, Your Majesty, was a last-minute acquisition. The house master saw her in the market and deemed her… suitable.”

“Suitable?” Zhéyàn echoed, watching as the girl—no, the woman—bit down on the arm of the second guard hard enough to draw blood.

The steward winced. “She was… less than compliant. But her looks—once cleaned up, of course—”

“Let. Me. GO!”

Zhéyàn didn’t move. He simply watched.

The tiger at his side, Huāng Xie, lifted its massive head, golden eyes narrowing as it observed the commotion with lazy interest.

Finally, Zhéyàn spoke, his voice calm but cutting through the chaos like a blade.

“Enough.”

The room froze. The guards halted mid-step, one holding Yn by her upper arm, the other wiping blood from his lip.

Yn, breathless and trembling with adrenaline, snapped her gaze toward the throne.

Zhéyàn met her glare without flinching. Beneath the dirt and fury, she was striking—not just in appearance but in spirit. The concubine house broke most women before they even reached the palace gates. This one? She was still fighting.

“How charming,” he drawled, resting his chin on one hand. “The steward brings me flowers, and yet one arrives with thorns.”

The steward bowed hastily. “Your Majesty, I assure you, she’ll be trained into proper decorum. This behavior is—”

“Expected,” Zhéyàn interrupted, eyes never leaving Yn’s face. “A caged bird always beats its wings before it realizes the bars won’t break.”

Yn’s lip curled. “I’m not a bird. And I won’t stay in your damned cage.”

A sharp intake of breath swept through the hall. No one spoke to the Emperor like that.

Zhéyàn smiled, slow and deliberate. “Is that so?”

He rose from his seat, robes whispering against the polished floor as he descended the steps of the dais. The guards stiffened but didn’t move as their Emperor approached. Huāng Xie padded silently behind him, tail flicking.

Standing before Yn, Zhéyàn studied her like one might examine a curious artifact.

“Tell me, street rat,” he murmured, voice low enough for only her to hear. “Do you know how many women have stood where you are now? Cleaned, polished, and presented like lacquered dolls?”

Yn’s breath hitched, but she refused to look away.

“They all came in with dreams of escape,” Zhéyàn continued, fingers brushing Huāng Xie’s fur as the tiger prowled closer. “Most realized too late that freedom in this palace is an illusion.”

Huāng Xie paused beside Yn, nose twitching as he sniffed at her dirt-streaked clothes.

The steward wrung her hands. “Your Majesty, if you’d prefer, we can return her to the house master and—”

“No.” Zhéyàn’s golden eyes gleamed. “Keep her.”

The words landed like stones in the hush that followed.

“Train her, clean her, dress her in silk if you must.” He tilted his head, smile sharpening. “But don’t break her. I find her far more interesting when she bites.”

With that, he turned and ascended the steps once more, Huāng Xie brushing past Yn’s side as if in silent approval.

The guards hesitated, waiting for further orders.

Zhéyàn waved a dismissive hand. “Take her away. Make sure she doesn’t destroy half the palace before nightfall.”

Yn, still catching her breath, clenched her jaw as the guards moved to drag her off again.

But this time, she didn’t scream.

She simply stared after the Emperor, defiance burning in her eyes like an ember refusing to die.

As she was pulled from the hall, the steward muttered under her breath.

“May the gods have mercy. That girl is going to be nothing but trouble.”

Zhéyàn heard—and smiled.

“Perhaps,” he murmured, settling back into his throne. “But what’s a kingdom without a little rebellion?”

The hall buzzed with uneasy murmurs as the guards dragged Yn away, her defiant glare lingering like smoke in the air. The steward, still pale from the scene, hurriedly bowed before Zhéyàn, her forehead nearly touching the polished floor.

“Your Majesty,” she began, voice tight with strained composure, “I deeply apologize for the disturbance. I had no idea the girl would be so… unruly.”

Zhéyàn, reclining in his seat once more, waved a hand lazily. His golden eyes glinted with something closer to amusement than anger.

The steward swallowed hard, choosing her words carefully. “Rest assured, I will personally speak to the girl. She’s clearly frightened and unaware of her place. Given time, I’m certain she can be… molded into something more fitting for the palace.”

Zhéyàn hummed thoughtfully, fingers tapping against the armrest of his throne. “Do you intend to break her spirit entirely, Steward? That would be rather dull.”

The steward’s eyes widened. “N-no, Your Majesty. I only meant to ensure she understands the reality of her situation. I will calm her down, speak sense to her. The last thing we need is for her defiance to spread among the other girls.”

Zhéyàn leaned forward, golden gaze sharpening. “See that you don’t mistake control for obedience. I don’t want another lifeless doll paraded before me.”

Huāng Xie, the tiger, stretched languidly at the foot of the dais, golden eyes half-lidded as he rumbled in satisfaction.

The steward bowed deeper. “Of course, Your Majesty. I will handle the matter personally.”

Zhéyàn leaned back once more, the smile curling at the edge of his lips betraying his amusement.

“Good,” he murmured. “Do try. I look forward to seeing how long it takes for her to slip through your fingers “

The walls of the concubine house closed around Yn like a silk-covered cage—beautiful, suffocating, and inescapable. She stumbled into the courtyard, wrists raw from the ropes they'd only just cut loose. Her clothes, once practical and sturdy for street life, were torn and stained with dirt from her struggle. Stray strands of hair clung to her sweaty face, and her chest heaved with exhausted defiance.

“Move.”

The guard shoved her forward, and Yn barely caught herself, stumbling onto the pristine stone pathway. Around her, silk-clad women paused in their embroidery and quiet gossip, eyes narrowing in assessment. Some whispered behind delicate fans. Others looked away, uninterested.

Her heart pounded in her chest, panic rising like bile in her throat. Her arms were aching from the tight grip of the guards, but she refused to show any weakness. She wasn’t going to submit. Not to them. Not to the Emperor. Not to this life.

One of the guards, the one who had been the most vocal in dragging her here, chuckled cruelly. “I can’t wait to see how long it takes for her to turn sweet and obedient. You’ll break, eventually,” he said with a nasty grin, his eyes roaming over her dirtied clothes and disheveled hair.

Yn’s chest tightened, the insult cutting deeper than she expected. Something inside her snapped—her resolve hardened, her pride surging up through the anger burning in her veins.

Before any of the guards could react, Yn swung her fist. It was a wild, desperate motion, one driven by instinct and fury. She aimed for the man’s jaw, hoping for even a hint of satisfaction.

But her aim was off. The force of her punch collided with his face, but the impact wasn’t as satisfying as she’d hoped. Her fist instead struck his nose, the sickening crunch of bone splitting the air. The guard staggered back, his face bleeding, but Yn barely noticed. Her hands throbbed with a sharp, searing pain, and she let out a cry of frustration, clutching at her wrist.

“I told you to stop!” one of the guards shouted, seizing her by the arm. “You’ll pay for that!”

The two others closed in on her, eyes full of fury.

But before they could lay hands on her again, two figures stepped into the room. Lian, with her practiced grace, and Mei, her gaze hardened but filled with a quiet understanding. Lian took one look at the guards, her gaze icy.

“Enough,” she said firmly, voice carrying an authority that immediately made the guards hesitate. She glanced at Yn’s broken hand, then back at the guards with a disappointed sigh. “You’ve done enough. This is not how we handle matters here.”

Mei stepped forward, placing a gentle hand on Yn’s bruised wrist. “Let me see,” she said softly, her voice soothing as she began to assess the damage. “You were too rash. You should’ve waited for a better moment.”

Yn gritted her teeth, pain coursing through her, but she didn’t pull away. Mei was always gentle with her, unlike the others. She tried to resist, but the tears threatened to well up in her eyes as her hand was carefully tended to.

Lian crossed her arms, her gaze coolly sweeping over the guards. “If you think a woman’s spirit can be broken with pain, you’re sorely mistaken. If you want obedience, try kindness. If you can manage that, maybe we’ll see how it goes.”

The guards looked between each other, unsure of how to respond to the unexpected reprimand. Lian turned to Yn with a small, reassuring smile. “Let’s get you cleaned up,” she said, her tone softening just a bit. “You need rest. Let the guards handle the rest of their mess.”

Mei gave Yn a sympathetic look, guiding her gently towards the back of the house to tend to her injuries while Lian kept her calm, her presence acting as a shield against the rest of the chaos around them.

Yn’s hand still throbbed, but in the midst of the pain, there was a small, flickering feeling—one that she hadn’t had in a long time. Maybe, just maybe, she wasn’t entirely alone in this.

Yn stood in the center of the bathhouse, the steam swirling around her like a suffocating fog. She felt exposed, her skin raw and dirty from the streets. She had been yanked from her life, torn away from everything she knew, and now she stood here—alone. The thought of being forced into this bath, cleaned like some animal, ignited a bitterness in her chest.

She stood in her old, tattered clothes, a far cry from the lavish silk robes the other concubines wore. Her body was tired, covered in grime and the wear of the harsh life she had fought to survive. The humiliation of this situation hit her hard, like a weight pressing down on her chest, suffocating her resolve.

“Don’t be shy,” Lian’s voice cut through her thoughts. Yn looked up to find the older girl standing at the doorway, her expression kind, but laced with an understanding that Yn couldn’t quite grasp.

Mei was behind her, arms crossed, leaning against the wall with an expression that seemed to hide a great deal beneath her calm exterior. The steward watched from the side, her face unreadable, but there was a certain coldness in her gaze.

Yn remained still, the bitterness building, but Lian stepped closer. “Let us help you. You’re not alone here.”

There was no escape. Yn knew that now. Her only choice was to play along, to endure, at least until she found a way out. The water, warm and inviting, seemed almost like a mockery. She didn’t deserve it. She didn’t deserve any of this.

But Lian’s voice softened, “You need this. Let us clean you.”

Yn didn’t respond immediately. She didn’t want their help, but she didn’t want to fight them, either. Slowly, reluctantly, she stepped into the bath, the warm water surrounding her as she lowered herself in. It felt like the water was mocking her, lapping against her skin with the same cold indifference the world had shown her. She closed her eyes, letting the warmth seep into her aching muscles, but it did little to ease the tension in her chest.

Lian motioned for the attendants, who poured water over Yn’s head, their hands gentle as they washed away the dirt that clung to her skin. Mei observed from the corner, quiet but watchful, her eyes never straying too far from Yn, as if waiting for her to break.

The scent of soap and oils filled the air, and for a brief moment, Yn was transported back to simpler times. Times when she’d bathed in the quiet comfort of her own home, away from all this. But now, those memories were just that—memories.

“I know it’s hard,” Lian said, her voice gentle as she helped Yn scrub the dirt away. “But you’ll get used to it. We all do.”

Yn didn’t respond, her eyes trained on the water beneath her, unable to meet their gaze. She didn’t belong here. She wasn’t like the others. She didn’t want to be here.

Once the bath was finished, Lian helped Yn out of the water, her touch surprisingly gentle as she wrapped a towel around her. The heat of the water had relaxed her body, but her mind was still sharp, still defiant. She hadn’t let them break her, not yet.

“You should get dressed,” Lian said, offering her a robe made of soft, pale silk that contrasted sharply with the dirty, torn clothes she had been wearing.

Yn hesitated, glancing down at the fine fabric. She didn’t want to wear this. She didn’t want to be treated like this. But Lian’s steady gaze held hers, and with a resigned sigh, Yn slipped into the robe. It was soft, luxurious even, but it felt wrong on her body. She didn’t deserve this. She was just another girl in this palace, another face in a sea of beautiful, obedient women.

Lian smiled, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “It’ll be alright. We’re all in this together.”

Yn didn’t speak, just nodded quietly. She didn’t trust Lian’s words, not yet. But for now, she would play along. For now, she will survive. She had no other choice.

The steward watched silently, her eyes lingering on Yn for a moment longer before he turned to Lian and Mei. “Get her settled in,” she said, her tone flat.

Lian nodded and motioned for Yn to follow her. As they left the bathhouse, the scent of oils and soaps clung to Yn, and she couldn’t shake the feeling that she had lost more than just her freedom.

But as they walked down the hall, she kept her head high, unwilling to let anyone see the tears that threatened to break free. She would endure this, but she wouldn’t let it break her.

Not yet.

Lian led Yn through the quiet halls of the concubine quarters, the soft sound of their footsteps echoing off the polished floors. The other girls—Mei and a few others—followed behind them in silence, casting glances at Yn every so often. Despite the warm gestures and kind words, Yn could feel their eyes on her, like they were trying to gauge whether she would fit in with them, or whether she would break under the pressure of palace life.

Finally, Lian stopped in front of a simple wooden door, its frame carved with intricate patterns, though it lacked the ornate grandeur of other rooms in the palace. She opened it with a soft click and motioned for Yn to enter.

"This is your room," Lian said, her voice soft but warm, like she was offering something precious. "It’s simple, but it’s yours for as long as you’re here. You can decorate it as you like, and it will be a place of your own."

Yn stepped inside, her gaze immediately scanning the room. It was larger than any space she had ever had for herself, yet it felt almost too empty. A bed with white silks, a small table near the window, and a wardrobe on one side. In the corner, a display shelf for any gifts or tokens given to her—perhaps by the Emperor, perhaps by other guests.

But none of it mattered. It was just a gilded cage.

Her eyes flicked to the small window near the bed, where the moonlight leaked through the curtains, casting a pale glow on the room. She felt the weight of it—this was not freedom. This was confinement dressed in silk.

Her fingers lightly traced the wood of the table as her mind worked, already scheming and planning. She knew this palace better than most, and she had spent enough time observing the guards, the routines of the servants, and the flow of life here to start putting the pieces together.

Lian and Mei stood by the door, watching her, though they said nothing for the moment. There was a tension in the air—an understanding between them that Yn wouldn’t be here long if she had her way. But for now, they would let her have her space.

"It's... not as grand as some of the other rooms," Lian said, as if trying to reassure her. "But it’s comfortable, and the Emperor will likely send gifts for you in time."

Yn's eyes flicked toward the shelf where such gifts would be placed. Jewelry, perhaps, or other trinkets. Things she didn’t want. Things she couldn’t care less for. She had no use for any of it, not while she was stuck in this gilded cage.

“Thank you,” Yn said quietly, her voice low but polite enough to mask the bitterness curling in her chest. She made a point not to look at Lian or the others, though she could feel their eyes still on her, watching her every move.

"You should rest," Mei said after a long silence, her voice soft. "Tomorrow will be a busy day, getting to know everyone and the routines here."

Yn didn’t respond. She wasn’t tired. Not yet. But she knew there was little use in resisting for now. She had to wait for the right moment.

“I will,” Yn finally said, taking a deep breath and glancing around the room again. Her gaze lingered on the small window. If she could find a way out, she would.

Lian stepped forward and gently set a folded robe on the bed. "You’ll need this for tomorrow. Something simple for when you meet with the others. The Emperor prefers it when we look... presentable."

Yn picked up the robe, eyeing it for a moment before tossing it aside carelessly. "I don’t need it," she muttered under her breath.

Lian didn't seem to take offense. She just nodded, a soft understanding in her eyes. "It’s your choice, but the Emperor will expect certain things from you. You’ll learn what they are soon enough."

Yn nodded without speaking, already mentally mapping out her next move. She’d have to be clever, patient, wait for the guards to grow lax in their vigilance. The layout of the palace was already ingrained in her memory, and she knew where the hidden passages and servant tunnels were. She could slip out unnoticed. It wasn’t a matter of if—it was a matter of when.

Mei and Lian lingered for a moment, both silently observing Yn, before Mei spoke, her voice calm. “We’ll leave you for now. But if you need anything... anything at all, let us know.”

Yn gave a small, almost imperceptible nod as they exited, the door clicking shut behind them. The room was silent now, save for the faint hum of the palace at night.

She moved to the window again, pressing her palm to the cool glass, her eyes scanning the courtyard below. Beyond the walls of the palace, there was freedom, and one day, she would reach it. She would escape.

Her fingers curled into a fist, the determination within her solidifying. She had been brought here against her will, but she would not let this be the end of her story. Not now. Not ever.

She turned away from the window, her eyes flicking over the room one last time, before she sank down onto the bed. Tomorrow, she will play the part. But tonight—tonight she would dream of escape.

Yn sat on the edge of the pristine silk-covered bed, her damp hair falling in loose strands around her face. The soft fabric of the robe Lian had given her felt foreign against her skin, far too delicate compared to the worn clothes she’d lived in before. The room was quiet, save for the faint rustle of the curtains as a cool breeze slipped through the slightly ajar window.

Her gaze drifted to that window, moonlight pooling on the floor beneath it. It was small, but not impossible. If she could hoist herself up and slip through, she might land quietly in the courtyard below. The guards rotated shifts around midnight—she’d seen it often enough when sneaking near the palace walls for scraps. If she timed it right, she could be gone before anyone even noticed she was missing.

But the walls. The palace walls were tall and smooth, built to keep people like her out… or in. Her brows furrowed as she leaned back, palms pressing into the plush bedding. Maybe if she could slip into the servant tunnels? They ran like veins through the palace, and the kitchen staff were up before dawn. If she could blend in, steal some plain clothes—

Her thoughts were interrupted by a soft creak from the hallway. Instinctively, her body tensed, ready to fight, to run. But the sound faded, leaving only the weight of silence behind.

With a frustrated sigh, Yn dragged her knees to her chest, wrapping her arms around them. She hated this. The softness. The stillness. It wasn’t hers. She belonged out there, under the stars, with dirt under her nails and freedom in her lungs—not locked away like a doll on display.

Her eyes flicked to the empty shelf meant for gifts. The thought made her stomach turn. She didn’t want silks or jewels. She wanted the streets, the thrill of running barefoot down alleys, the warmth of the sun on her face as she bartered for fruit at the market.

She glanced at the door. Locked, of course. They weren’t stupid.

Her head tipped back against the carved headboard, and she closed her eyes, mind still racing with plans. The window. The tunnels. The guard rotations. There had to be a way.

The moon climbed higher, casting pale light across her face as exhaustion finally began to creep in. Her thoughts slowed, tangled with dreams of scaling walls and slipping past watchful eyes.

Tomorrow. She’d find a way tomorrow.

Sleep claimed her quietly, the last thing on her mind not fear, but defiance.

The morning sun filtered through the paper screens, casting soft golden patterns across the floor. Yn stirred awake, momentarily disoriented by the softness beneath her. The bed. The silk. The scent of jasmine lingering in the air. Reality crashed down like a wave, and her muscles tensed as she sat up, heart pounding.

Still here.

Before she could plan her next move, a knock sounded at the door, sharp and precise.

"Lady Yn," Lian’s voice called from the other side. "It’s time to rise. We have much to do today."

The door slid open before Yn could answer, and Lian, ever poised and graceful, stepped inside, followed by Mei, who offered a gentler smile. Both were dressed impeccably in pale, flowing robes, their hair twisted into intricate buns adorned with delicate pins.

Yn, by contrast, still wore the robe they’d forced on her the night before. Wrinkled now, slightly askew, but no less suffocating.

"I’m not interested," Yn muttered, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. "Go play palace doll without me."

Lian’s smile didn’t waver, but her eyes sharpened. "You’ll find that disinterest is a luxury you can’t afford here."

Mei stepped forward, her tone softer. "We’re not your enemies, Yn. If you don’t learn the rules, you'll suffer for it. We’ve seen it happen."

Yn met her gaze, reading the sincerity there. Mei looked tired, older than her youthful face should allow, like someone who’d long since accepted her cage but still pitied the new birds thrown into it.

With a reluctant sigh, Yn stood. "Fine. Show me the circus."

The day began in the dressing hall. Rows of concubines, some chatting quietly, others silently enduring the hands of servants as they were preened and polished like ornaments. Lian led Yn to a quieter corner, where a maid waited with brushes and fabrics.

"You’ll be expected to look presentable at all times," Lian explained, arms crossed as she observed the maid combing through Yn's hair. "Even if the Emperor doesn’t call for you, palace officials, visiting nobles—they all watch. A single misstep can cost you everything."

Yn snorted. "Good. Maybe if I mess up enough, they’ll throw me out."

Mei winced. "It’s not exile you’ll face if you offend the wrong person."

The weight of that warning settled like a stone in Yn’s stomach.

After dressing—simple robes, thankfully, nothing too elaborate for a first day—they moved to the outer gardens. Other concubines strolled along stone paths, laughing behind delicate fans, their faces masks of practiced ease. Servants flitted about, tending to blooms and fetching refreshments.

Lian gestured subtly as they walked. "Morning hours are for leisure. Reading, embroidery, music—anything that shows refinement. If you can’t sing, learn. If you can’t play the qin, pretend you’re trying."

Yn eyed a group of women giggling under a willow tree. "And if I’d rather climb that tree?"

Mei actually laughed, earning a sharp look from Lian. "Then you’ll be gossip fodder for weeks. And you’ll stand out. Which is dangerous."

The weight of their words pressed down harder with each passing minute. Meals were formal, conversation measured. Etiquette lessons filled the afternoon—how to bow, how to walk, how to smile without baring teeth.

The soft patter of footsteps faded as Lian and Mei left Yn’s room, their gentle reminders of "Stay out of trouble" and "Don’t wander too far" lingering in the air.

With a quiet huff, she stood, slipping into the simple shoes left by the door. The palace stretched far beyond the concubine quarters, and boredom was a dangerous motivator. If they were going to keep her here, she might as well learn its weaknesses.

The palace was alive with movement, a world within a world. Yn walked slowly through its winding corridors, her bare feet brushing against the cool stone. The scent of incense and fresh jasmine drifted through the air, mixing with the faint aroma of ink and parchment from the nearby study halls.

She had been left alone for the rest of the day—an unusual mercy. Or perhaps an oversight. Either way, she intended to make use of it.

Her eyes flickered over the passing figures, each one a piece of the empire’s grand design.

A group of servants hurried past, carrying trays of steaming food and silken fabrics, their eyes kept low, their movements practiced and precise. She noticed how they barely spoke, only communicating in glances and nods. Their silence was not born from discipline, but from fear. Mistakes in the palace were costly.

Not far from them, a young boy, no older than six, clung to his nurse’s robes. A noble’s child, judging by the embroidered silk of his tunic. His round face was scrunched in frustration, small hands tugging at the woman’s sleeve.

"I don’t want to study!" he whined.

"Hush, young master," the nurse scolded, casting a nervous glance at the guards nearby. "Your father will hear of this."

Yn watched as the boy sulked but followed, disappearing behind a carved wooden screen. A child of power—one already learning that in this palace, obedience meant survival.

She turned a corner and nearly walked into a pair of diplomats, their conversation sharp and clipped. They wore the colors of rival regions, their voices laced with careful politeness.

"The Emperor’s patience is not infinite," one murmured.

"Neither is his rule," the other countered, though more softly.

Yn kept walking, pretending not to hear. Politics were not her concern. Escape was.

Ahead, a line of imperial guards stood at attention, their polished armor gleaming in the morning light. They were like statues, barely breathing, eyes forward, unreadable. She had fought against these men only days ago—biting, kicking, drawing blood. Now they barely acknowledged her presence.

Except for one.

A guard slightly older than the rest exhaled sharply when he saw her, as if already exhausted. His grip on his spear tightened.

She gave him a slow, mocking smile. Yes, poor man, I am still here.

Beyond the guards, the world opened up into a sprawling courtyard. Flowers bloomed in careful, deliberate patterns, a beauty too precise to be natural. Stone paths wove between koi ponds and carved gazebos, a paradise designed for those who would never leave.

Like me, she thought bitterly.

And yet, even within this gilded prison, there were cracks in the design. Routes the architects had not accounted for. Shadows where the watchful eyes of the palace did not linger.

Yn strolled forward, fingers brushing the soft petals of a peony, gaze flickering towards the high walls beyond.

She was learning. Observing.

Soon, she would find her way out.

The hallways were eerily empty. Most concubines were busy with their scheduled activities—embroidering flowers they'd never wear, practicing music for ears that rarely listened. Servants flitted by, their gazes sliding off her like she was just another ornament.

Yn moved quietly, brushing past the polished wooden pillars and delicate silk curtains that separated one lavish section from the next. Her eyes darted, not for beauty but for opportunity.

A cracked window. A loose panel. A hallway too dimly lit for prying eyes.

There has to be a way out.

But her thoughts were interrupted by a soft chattering sound—tiny, insistent meows.

Curious, Yn followed the noise, slipping past a side entrance that led to one of the quieter palace gardens. It was less manicured than the grand courtyards, more wild and forgotten. That explained the strays.

Three cats lounged under the shade of a crooked plum tree. One, a scruffy ginger with torn ears, stretched lazily. Another, sleek and black, watched her warily from a distance. But the third—a small gray tabby with bright, mischievous eyes—trotted right up to her, tail high.

Yn knelt, hand outstretched. "Well, aren’t you brave?"

The tabby sniffed her fingers before nudging its head against her palm, purring loudly.

A flash of green caught her eye. Close to the edge of the garden, half-hidden among the weeds, catnip grew wild and untamed. She grinned.

"Of course. That’s why you're so friendly."

Yn plucked a few sprigs and rubbed them between her fingers, letting the scent bloom. Within moments, the ginger stray perked up, sauntering over with a curious rumble. Even the black cat crept closer, cautious but intrigued.

Before long, she was surrounded. Cats flopped beside her, rolling and purring, content under her gentle touch.

For the first time since being dragged into this gilded prison, Yn felt something other than anger or exhaustion.

Peace.

Soft fur under her fingers. The sun warming her back. No guards. No silk-clad concubines whispering behind fans. Just her and these little survivors, thriving in the cracks of the palace's perfection.

A tabby paw batted at her sleeve, and she laughed quietly.

"Guess we’re all strays here, huh?"

But as the sun dipped lower, shadows stretching long across the ground, reality crept back in. She couldn’t stay here forever.

With a reluctant sigh, Yn stood, brushing dust from her robe. The cats blinked up at her, content and drowsy.

"Don't get too comfortable," she murmured, gaze drifting toward the high walls in the distance. "Next time, I’m not coming back."

And with that, she slipped away, the scent of catnip still clinging to her fingertips.

The sun hung lazily in the sky as Yn wandered further than she should have. The palace grounds were vast, and after her morning spent with the strays, she’d pocketed a few sprigs of catnip—just in case. Not like she had much else to entertain herself with.

The courtyard near the emperor’s private quarters was quieter than the rest. Too quiet. It should’ve been her first warning.

Her second came when the stray she'd been trailing—a scrawny thing with patchy fur—bolted like its tail was on fire.

Yn barely had time to register the low rumble vibrating through the air before a flash of white and black fur cut across her path.

A tiger.

Not just any tiger—Huāng Xie, the emperor’s infamous beast.

For a moment, time froze. The tiger, muscles coiled, stood at the top of the stone steps leading to the courtyard. Its golden eyes locked onto her.

Her foot caught on an uneven tile, and she went down hard, palms scraping against the ground.

The catnip.

The crushed leaves tumbled from her pocket, releasing their sharp, minty scent into the air.

The palace guards stationed nearby froze, hands flying to their weapons. One servant shrieked and darted behind a pillar.

"She's dead," someone whispered.

Even the concubines watching from the shaded walkway stood wide-eyed, fans forgotten in their trembling hands.

Yn didn’t move. Heart pounding in her ears, she slowly lifted her gaze to the tiger, now prowling toward her, each step deliberate and soundless.

Well, she thought grimly, at least it won’t be boredom that kills me.

Huāng Xie paused a breath away from her sprawled form, nose twitching.

Then, to everyone’s horror, the massive predator leaned down—

—and purred.

Deep, rumbling, content. Like thunder softened by silk.

The tiger’s wide head bumped against her shoulder, almost knocking her flat again. Yn barely had time to blink before it flopped down beside her, tail flicking lazily.

It wanted belly rubs.

The silence was deafening.

From the balcony above, Zhéyàn stood, arms crossed, golden eyes sharp with disbelief—and, if one looked closely enough, amusement.

One of the guards finally found his voice. "Is… is it broken?"

Another guard hissed, "Shut up! Do you want it to remember it's a tiger?!"

Yn, thoroughly stunned, stared at the giant feline now rolling half onto its back, head resting comfortably on her lap. The crushed catnip lay scattered around her like an offering.

"You're not very good at being a tiger, you know," she muttered, hesitantly scratching behind its ears.

Huāng Xie purred louder, tail thumping against the stone.

Zhéyàn, still watching from above, chuckled under his breath. Interesting.

He turned to the steward beside him, whose face had gone pale.

The emperor ordered, lips curling into a lazy smile. "I’d like to meet the woman who tamed my tiger."

Yn, oblivious to the new attention, sighed and pushed at Huāng Xie’s massive head.

"Get off me, you overgrown house cat. I'm trying to escape here."

Tags: @yourhornysister

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aspenmissing · 19 days ago

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Hey hey hey! If you're comfortable with it and you have time, can I request a oneshot with Jayce, Viktor, Jayvik, Ekko, Vander, Silco and Jinx reaction to reader making something similar to odm gear and seeing it in action?!

🫶🏼🫶🏼

Btw, I'm literally in love with all of your works 😍

ᴛᴀᴋɪɴɢ ꜰʟɪɢʜᴛ

ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ | ᴠɪᴋᴛᴏʀ | ᴊᴀʏᴠɪᴋ | ᴠᴀɴᴅᴇʀ | ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ | ᴊɪɴx | ᴇᴋᴋᴏ || ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ || 7815 ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ || ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ʜᴇɪɢʜᴛꜱ, ɴᴇᴀʀ ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ (ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ'ꜱ ᴘᴀʀᴛ)

ʀᴇQᴜᴇꜱᴛ ᴀɴꜱᴡᴇʀ: ʜᴇʟʟᴏ ʜᴇʟʟᴏᴏᴏᴏ ᴍʏ ᴅᴇᴀʀ! ᴛʜᴀɴᴋ ʏᴏᴜ ᴠᴇʀʏ ᴍᴜᴄʜ ꜰᴏʀ ʀᴇᴀᴅɪɴɢ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋ, ɪ ᴀᴘᴘʀᴇᴄɪᴀᴛᴇ ɪᴛ ꜱᴏ ᴍᴜᴄʜ! ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ꜱᴜᴄʜ ᴀ ᴄᴏᴏʟ ᴄᴏɴᴄᴇᴘᴛ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ɪɴᴛᴇʀᴇꜱᴛɪɴɢ! ɴᴇᴠᴇʀ ᴛʜᴏᴜɢʜᴛ ᴛᴏ ʟɪɴᴋ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛᴡᴏ! ꜱᴏ ɪ ᴅᴏ ʜᴏᴘᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴇɴᴊᴏʏʏʏ!! <3 <3

JAYCE

Jayce had always been the golden boy of progress. The hammer-swinging, wide-grinning symbol of Piltover’s brilliance. Councilman, inventor, icon—he walked the gilded halls like he was born to ascend them. But lately, his gaze had begun to wander.

Not out of boredom. Not out of arrogance.

But toward you.

And you? You were busy reinventing gravity.

You hadn’t meant to make a weapon. Not exactly. It started off as a dare to yourself—just a sketch on a coffee-stained napkin after watching a Lanes courier vault from rooftop to rooftop like a ghost, ducking patrols and disappearing into the smog. If they could run like the wind, you thought, then surely someone could fly.

The gear you built was crude compared to Jayce’s polished designs, but elegant in its ambition: compressed air canisters, dual-hook grappling lines, and gyroscopic stabilizers synced to wrist-mounted control pads. All of it powered by a humble shard of low-yield Hextech crystal you'd salvaged from one of Heimerdinger’s rejected prototypes.

It was heavy, loud, and clunky.

It was beautiful.

And it worked.

Jayce found you in your workshop just as the sun began bleeding through the stained-glass windows of the Academy’s lesser-known wings. Blueprints lined the walls in overlapping layers, curling at the corners. Tools lay scattered like breadcrumbs leading to invention—or madness. Half-drunk mugs of cold coffee sat abandoned beside scorched wires and busted coils.

You were hunched over your workbench, muttering to yourself, soldering a filament to the ignition trigger on your left gauntlet. Sparks snapped against your goggles. You didn’t even hear the door creak open.

Jayce leaned against the frame, arms crossed, a smirk playing on his lips. “You know, for someone who claims they’re not an inventor, you’re making me look bad.”

You didn’t look up. “I’m not trying to show you up. Just trying not to die when I test this thing.”

Jayce pushed off the frame and walked in, eyeing the crude-yet-impressive rig strapped to your hips. “That’s not exactly comforting.”

You finally glanced at him, smirking. “Want to see me jump off a building?”

Jayce blinked. “...Please tell me you’re joking.”

The platform you chose was high enough to make Jayce question all your life decisions.

It overlooked one of the older industrial sectors of Piltover—full of brick towers and tight alleyways, perfect for testing mid-air pivoting and anchoring. The wind howled up here, snapping at your coat as you stood on the ledge. The city sparkled below, gold and steel and smoke, a puzzle box of possibility.

Jayce stood below, pacing like a man awaiting a death sentence. “You’re not actually going to jump off that thing, are you?!”

You called down, voice bright. “Only one way to find out if it works!”

“If it doesn’t, you’ll die.”

You looked over your shoulder and grinned. “Yeah, but I’ll die cool.”

“Y/N!”

You winked, took a breath—then stepped off the edge.

For one long, heart-seizing second, there was only free fall. The city blurred into streaks. Wind screamed past your ears, cold and brutal.

SHHH-KA-THUNK!

The hook slammed into the side of a clocktower. The cord snapped taut with a jolt, swinging you wide in a violent arc. Your stomach dropped. Your heart leapt. And for the first time in your life, you flew.

The stabilizers activated, a dull thrum beneath your ribs, balancing your core as the gear recalibrated mid-air. You twisted your hips and fired again—another line hissed into the upper edge of a smokestack. Your momentum curved sharply, propelling you into a tight spiral between two towers. You screamed—half exhilaration, half raw joy.

Your laughter echoed over the rooftops, bright and feral and alive.

Down below, Jayce was frozen. His hands gripped the railing until his knuckles turned white. He watched you defy gravity with nothing but grit and ingenuity and a bit of salvaged Hextech. His heart was in his throat.

And then you descended, cutting your final line, landing hard on the stone platform with a rough skid. The boots groaned beneath the impact. You dropped into a crouch, panting, flushed and grinning like a lunatic. Hair wild. Eyes blazing.

You looked like you'd stared down death and come back with stars in your lungs.

Jayce rushed to your side, but stopped short, stunned.

You stood tall, unhooking the gear, chest rising and falling with adrenaline, your voice breathless. “So… that went well.”

He didn’t answer. Just stared, open-mouthed. Awestruck. A little terrified. A lot in love.

“Holy shit,” he finally breathed. “That was—”

“A little terrifying?” you offered, tilting your head, trying to downplay the way your knees still shook.

Jayce dropped to one knee in front of you, fingers gently reaching to cup your face. “No. That was incredible.”

You blinked, suddenly shy in the face of his sincerity. “Yeah?”

He smiled, eyes crinkling with affection. “You just... defied physics. Gravity. Sanity. And you lived. You flew.”

You leaned forward until your foreheads touched, your voice soft, but electric. “Told you I wasn’t trying to show you up.”

Jayce chuckled, brushing a wind-swept strand of hair from your cheek. “You didn’t. You reminded me what progress really is. It’s not always polished. It’s not always safe.”

His hand slid down to rest over your pulse, thundering beneath your skin. “Sometimes it’s messy. Bold. Brave. You.”

And then he kissed you—hard and breathless and full of awe—like he was afraid you'd launch into the sky again and never come back.

But for that moment, at least, your feet were still on the ground.

VIKTOR

The lab was a mess—and not in the “scattered blueprints and spare parts” kind of way Viktor usually tolerated. This was the chaotic aftermath of trial and error. Cables snaked across the scorched floor, copper coils were fused together from overheating, and a faint trail of smoke curled toward the ceiling from the metallic heap that hung from an exposed support beam.

You sat cross-legged in the center of it all, a smear of grease on your cheek, your elbow propped on your knee, and your chin cradled in your palm. There was a wrench resting across your thigh and soot in your hair. You were silent, staring at the failed test like it had personally offended you, oscillating between frustration and grudging admiration.

Then came the sound of metal striking stone—tap, thud, tap, thud—as Viktor’s cane echoed down the hall and into the lab. He stepped in, sharp eyes scanning the damage with the calm horror of someone far too used to your antics.

He stopped in the doorway, took a slow breath, and tilted his head. “Moje srdce… dare I ask what used to be over there?” (My Heart)

You grinned, teeth white behind smudged lips. “Progress, my dear Viktor. Beautiful, explosive, back-bruising progress.”

His eyes moved from the twisted steel to you. “Ah. So nothing survived.”

“Oh ye of little faith,” you said, standing and brushing ash off your trousers. You flexed your gloved fingers, then made your way to the far corner of the lab where a cleaner workstation stood. With a flourish, you unveiled what looked like a harness out of a madman’s dream: waist-mounted grappling hooks, gas-propelled canisters, retractable wires, and twin foot-thrusters that shimmered faintly with traces of Hextech filaments.

“Introducing…” You struck a dramatic pose. “Omni-Directional Mobility gear. Or ODM gear. Designed for vertical traversal and high-speed movement across complex environments. It’s how I’ll win the council’s innovation grant. And maybe a few races across the rooftops of Piltover.”

Viktor limped closer, inspecting it with narrowed eyes. “Y/N… this looks incredibly dangerous.”

“That’s because it is,” you replied, chest puffed with pride. “And that’s the fun part.”

He glanced at you, then the ceiling scorch mark, then back at you. “You wish to wear this and use it?”

“Not wish,” you corrected, lifting the harness. “Will. Today, actually. Just need someone brilliant, charming, morally conflicted, and devastatingly handsome to oversee the test and make sure I don’t die. Know anyone like that?”

Viktor sighed, his shoulders slumping. “If you break a limb, I will be the one repairing it. You do realize that, yes?”

You stepped in and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek, leaving a small grease smudge behind. “Then I’ll count myself lucky to be in the hands of the man I love.”

His lips quirked. “Flattery won’t distract me from how thoroughly unhinged this is.”

“But it might distract you a little.”

Academy testing grounds

The wind was biting. Cold and sharp against your cheeks as you stood on the rooftop, the city sprawling out below you like a maze of steel veins and sun-kissed rooftops. The gear whirred softly at your hips, the pressure tanks fully loaded. You inhaled slowly and looked over your shoulder.

Viktor stood behind the safety railing, gripping his cane tightly with one hand and a clipboard in the other. His face was unreadable, though his knuckles had gone white.

“Ready?” you called, shouting over the wind.

“No,” he replied immediately. “You are about to do something ridiculous and untested.”

You winked. “Perfect.”

And then you launched.

The air cracked as the grappling hooks fired, slamming into the ledge of a tall tower. The cable lines tensed, and with a jolt, your body was flung forward. You whooped as momentum carried you, the world rushing by in a blur of sky and steel. It was fast, chaotic, but you felt free.

Midair, you activated the thrusters. They kicked with a violent whoosh, redirecting your flight as you arced toward Viktor’s observation platform. Your heart pounded against your ribs. Gravity bent to your will.

Then came the landing—less of a “graceful drop” and more of a “controlled crash.” You tumbled across the stone, rolled onto your back, and lay there, gasping, grinning at the sky.

Viktor’s shout rang out. “Did you just— You almost hit the tower! Do you have any idea how close you were to breaking your neck?!”

You pushed up to a seated position, hair wild, cheeks flushed. “But did you see it?!”

He appeared at your side moments later, cane tapping faster than usual. He knelt beside you with difficulty, worry etched across his face as he checked your limbs for damage.

“Nothing broken?” he asked, voice softer now.

You shook your head. “Just bruises and adrenaline.”

He closed his eyes and exhaled, forehead brushing yours as his hand cupped your cheek. “You’re brilliant. And utterly reckless. You do realize that my heart cannot withstand this level of stress?”

You leaned into his touch, your smile gentler now. “But you’re still here.”

“I always will be,” he murmured, brushing a windblown strand from your face.

And then, amidst the burn marks and the distant whine of retracting cables, he kissed you.

It wasn’t rushed. It was grounding—his lips warm, his hands steady, the world shrinking until there was only you and him and the soft hum of victory in your veins.

The two of you worked in companionable silence. The lighting was low and golden, casting a soft glow over the room. Viktor scribbled calculations while you tuned the fine control servos on the ODM rig, your hands moving instinctively, tired but fulfilled.

“I was thinking…” you began, voice soft, screwdriver turning a bolt with a quiet click.

He hummed in acknowledgment, not looking up from his notes.

“If I can get the controls more intuitive, maybe… I can build a version for you. Reinforced with Hextech. Lighter. Something that integrates with your cane so you can shift balance mid-swing.”

The scratching of pen on paper stopped.

“You’re designing one for me?”

You glanced up and met his eyes. “Well, yeah. You deserve to fly too.”

He looked at you then, really looked. Something in his expression melted—a vulnerability he rarely let surface. He reached over and took your hand, gently, his thumb running over your grease-streaked knuckles.

“You’re extraordinary,” he whispered. “And very bad for my blood pressure.”

You grinned. “But good for your heart?”

His smile deepened, quiet and tender. “Always.”

And in that peaceful moment—surrounded by half-finished inventions, half-burned schematics, and a love that had only grown stronger through every storm—you realized that even with both feet on the ground, Viktor had already taken flight… right into your heart.

JAYVIK

The low hum of Hextech resonated through the lab like a living pulse, intertwining with the soft, rhythmic tap… tap… tap of Viktor’s cane on the metal floor. The air was thick with the familiar scent of hot copper, solder smoke, and machine oil — the smell of progress, of obsession, and of long nights spent working too close together to call it anything but love.

You were hunched over your latest creation — a contraption that looked like it had crawled out of a wild dream. It hugged the contours of your back like an armored exoskeleton, lined with pressurized canisters, dual-wired harpoons, and flexible tubing that gleamed in the dim light. It was part weapon, part miracle. Messy. Volatile. Brilliant.

“I think I’ve finally got the pressure calibration right,” you muttered without looking up, goggles slightly fogged and a smudge of grease streaked across your cheek. “I just need to test the grapple retraction system. Then it’s go time.”

Jayce, who had been pretending to tinker with one of his hammers across the room, finally gave up the act and crossed over to stand behind you. His arms were folded, muscles tense in that classic overprotective spouse stance. “You mean the part where you launch yourself across buildings and hope the retractor doesn’t snap you in half like a slingshot?”

You grinned without missing a beat. “Exactly. That’s the one.”

Viktor let out a quiet chuckle as he approached, his gait measured, each step echoing softly. He rested a hand on the edge of the worktable, fingers brushing against scattered blueprints and half-finished schematics. “Perhaps I should prepare a stretcher. Or at the very least, a very large mattress — to catch your fall or Jayce’s panic-induced fainting spell.”

You finally looked up, blinking behind your goggles. There they were — your constants. One a silhouette of elegance and intellect, leaning on a cane like it was just another limb, gaze sharp and endlessly curious. The other was all warmth and strength, already frowning like a man about to witness his wife jump off a cliff — because he was, and also because he’d probably jump after you if it went wrong.

“You two are such worriers.” You clicked the final piece into place with a satisfying snap. “I’ve triple-checked the failsafes. Besides, if this works, it could completely revolutionize mobility in Zaun’s lower sectors. Think about it — no more ladders, no more stairs. Just… freedom.”

Viktor tilted his head. “You mean imagine how many times Jayce will try to steal it and crash into a wall.”

Jayce gasped, scandalized. “I have never crashed anything.”

“You broke your nose piloting a hoverboard,” Viktor said without even blinking.

“That was once. And I blame you for giving me faulty schematics.”

“You forgot to attach the stabilizers.”

You sighed dramatically and stood, slipping your arms into the harness and adjusting the shoulder straps. “Alright, boys. Save your flirting for later. Time for the show.”

Outside, on the reinforced test field behind the Academy, the sunlight glinted off steel beams and tall support poles — like the skeleton of a city waiting to be explored. The wind picked up, brushing your hair back as you adjusted your gloves and flexed your fingers.

Viktor had claimed a seat on one of the benches, cane resting across his lap, eyes gleaming like molten gold in the sun. Jayce stood beside him, arms crossed, brows furrowed in an expression that said, I support you and I’m terrified for you all at once.

“You’re sure about this?” Jayce called out, voice raised just enough to carry across the yard.

You looked over your shoulder at the two of them and gave a cocky little salute. “Hold your jaws. This is gonna be awesome.”

Then you fired.

The twin harpoons launched with a thwip, embedding into one of the topmost beams with a satisfying clang. The canisters hissed — and then you were flying. Your stomach flipped as the retraction system yanked you upward, the world blurring into streaks of blue and silver and wind-whipped exhilaration.

You twisted midair, feet tucking as you angled your trajectory, and then released. Your body arced like a missile, flipping once, twice — before you fired again. This time you zipped sideways across the course, weaving between beams like a pendulum with purpose.

Jayce whistled low, utterly floored. “Holy—”

“She’s like a pendulum,” Viktor murmured, leaning forward. “A very fast, very terrifying pendulum.”

You caught the edge of a high beam with your boots and crouched like a predator, grinning down at them. “See?”

Pop.

The grapple line detached.

Your heart dropped into your stomach as gravity reclaimed you, wind roaring in your ears.

Jayce bolted, sprinting toward the landing zone with panic written all over his face. Viktor didn’t move — not because he didn’t care, but because he saw it. The backup line hissed a split-second later, catching you mid-fall and slinging you into a wide arc. You landed hard on the practice pad with a bounce and a skid, rolling once before stopping in a tangle of limbs and laughter.

Jayce reached you first, hands on your shoulders, eyes wide and wild. “Are you trying to give me a heart attack?!”

You were still laughing, breathless and glowing. “Only a mild one.”

Viktor arrived a moment later, slower but smiling, his eyes scanning you for injury with clinical precision and something much softer underneath. “You are reckless. And brilliant. And you are never testing that without us again.”

You pulled them both in, fingers fisting in shirt collars, tugging their warmth toward you. “So… you liked it?”

Jayce looked like he was still recalibrating his pulse. “Are you kidding? I’m already thinking about how to integrate the grapples into a gauntlet system. Make it more compact. More… me.”

Viktor leaned his forehead to yours, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’m thinking about how proud I am. And how much you terrify me, mé srdce.” (My Heart)

You turned to kiss his cheek, then did the same to Jayce, who grinned despite himself. “Good,” you said. “That means it’s working.”

And for a brief moment, the three of you stood there — inventor, engineer, idealist — tangled in love and sweat and adrenaline. A messy little triad of heartbeats and Hextech, tethered tighter than any wire could hold.

VANDER

The Last Drop was buzzing with its usual late-night hum — drunken laughter, clinking glasses, the low rumble of arguments that hadn’t turned serious yet, and the occasional crash that followed Mylo being a menace. Warm lantern light flickered against the stone walls, casting shadows that danced over patrons leaning into their drinks and their secrets.

You were tucked away in the back room Vander had cleared out for you weeks ago. It used to be a storage space — cluttered, dusty, forgotten — but now it smelled like oil, copper, and ambition. Tools were strewn across the workbench in organized chaos. Gears, bolts, lengths of wire, and scrawled blueprints layered with sketches and notes in your handwriting. At the heart of it all, clamped between two heavy vices, was your prototype: a pair of mechanized grapple gauntlets rigged with compressed gas triggers and reinforced cables.

Vander leaned in the doorway, arms folded across his broad chest, watching with quiet curiosity. His figure took up most of the frame, a silhouette against the dim glow of the bar beyond. He looked like someone who belonged in every room he entered — steady, grounding, impossibly solid.

“You planning to take flight, love?” he asked, voice rough with humor and affection, a teasing smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.

You glanced up from tightening a gear spindle, grease smudged across your cheek and temple. The lamp above you flickered once as if catching your grin.

“Not quite. More like... launch, swing, land dramatically. Maybe with a flip,” you replied, your eyes sparkling with anticipation.

He let out a low chuckle. “You planning to be Zaun’s first flying rat?”

You turned in your chair, wiping your hands on a stained cloth. “You laugh, but this could be the future of getting around down here. No more broken ladders or hoping someone doesn't cut the bridge ropes just to win a bet. It’s fast, it’s nimble—”

“—it’s dangerous,” he cut in, stepping closer, his brow lifting in that familiar are you serious? kind of way.

You met his gaze, unflinching. “Since when has that ever stopped us?”

He exhaled a warm laugh through his nose, one hand reaching out to brush a stray strand of hair from your face. His fingers lingered, calloused but gentle. Then he leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to your temple — careful not to disturb the leather strap of your goggles perched on your head.

“Alright,” he murmured, voice quieter now. “Impress me.”

A few days later, the air was thick with Zaun’s signature blend of fog and soot as you stood atop a rusting industrial tower in the middle of the Undercity. The whole district stretched around you in tangled metal veins — walkways, bridges, and pipes stacked like a forgotten puzzle. Below, the streets pulsed with green-glowing chem lights and the chatter of the sleepless.

The wind tugged at your coat as you adjusted the weight of your gear. The twin grapple-shooters on your arms clicked into place, the gas canisters hissing faintly with built-up pressure. Every wire, every trigger, every mechanism had been triple-checked — and yet your heart still hammered like a jackhammer in your chest.

“Alright,” you whispered to yourself. “Let’s give ‘em a show.”

Below, Vander stood near the base of the tower, arms crossed again — but this time with a crease between his brows that hadn’t been there before. Vi, Claggor, and Powder were shouting and waving from a nearby platform, barely keeping their balance on a rusted railing. Mylo had already passed Powder a crumpled napkin IOU for “one sweetcake", reluctantly.

“No faith,” you muttered. “Typical.”

You pulled your goggles down, took a deep breath, and jumped.

Thunk—SSSHHHRIP!

The first hook launched with a mechanical snap, embedding into a distant support beam. A split second later, the second grapple flew, catching onto a dangling pipe. Suddenly you were airborne, pulled forward like a pendulum unleashed, your feet leaving the platform as the city fell away beneath you.

The wind howled past your ears, and you let out a sharp laugh — half adrenaline, half triumph. You twisted mid-air, released one grapple, and fired again, catching another beam and swinging in a tight arc. Your coat flared behind you like wings, boots skimming just above rooftops and rusted ductwork.

You skimmed by a crumbling building close enough to snag a loose poster with your shoulder, then kicked off a ledge to adjust your path — the city becoming a blur of smoke and steel.

“SHE’S A SPIDER!” Vi shouted, eyes wide with exhilaration.

“SHE’S GONNA DIE!” Powder screeched, half-hiding behind Claggor.

“SHE’S GONNA DIE AWESOMELY!” Mylo added, pumping a fist.

Vander still said nothing. But his eyes never left you — locked onto every twist, every lurch, every daring manoeuvre with a look that was part amazement, part horror, and something deeper… something fierce and protective.

When your boots finally made contact again, skidding across a rusted catwalk, you staggered once — knees threatening to buckle — but managed to stay upright. You threw your arms out dramatically, panting, exhilarated, alive.

“Ta-da!” you called out, voice hoarse but proud.

And then Vander was there. You didn’t even see him approach — just felt the heavy warmth of his arms wrap around you, pulling you into a firm, grounding embrace. He smelled like metal, smoke, and safety. His heart was racing beneath his shirt.

“You’re insane,” he murmured, voice low, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “But you’re brilliant.”

You melted into his chest, your goggles askew and breath still catching up. “So you liked it?”

“I loved it,” he said, pulling back just enough to look into your face. His thumb brushed a grease smudge from your cheek. “But next time you test something that could kill you, I’m standing behind you with a net. And three people holding it. And a bloody mattress on the floor.”

You snorted, grinning. “Deal. As long as you let me strap you in next.”

He blinked. “You want me to fly around like that?”

You winked. “Zaun’s protector in the skies? Think of the legend. You’d be unstoppable.”

Vander groaned, dropping his forehead to your shoulder with a deep, rumbling laugh. “You’re gonna be the death of me, love.”

“But I’ll make it look good.”

SILCO

The hiss of steam and metal reverberated through the underground workshop, the scent of oil thick in the air. Sparks danced in the low light as you tightened the last bolt on the gauntlet wrapped around your wrist. The final adjustment clicked into place with a satisfying snap.

From the shadows, Silco watched you, arms crossed, one brow raised in silent amusement.

“Still trying to kill yourself in increasingly creative ways?” he drawled, his voice rich and amused, smoky like the exhaust pipes just overhead.

You glanced back at him, a smudge of soot across your cheek, your hair pinned back haphazardly. “If it works, I’ll be able to move through the city faster than anyone. Rooftops, alleys, smokestacks—it won’t matter. No enforcer or bounty hunter could catch me.”

Silco stepped closer, his boots echoing against the iron floor. “Is that what this is about? Evasion?”

You turned back to your workbench, fingers trailing over the dual-wired harpoons attached to the side of the waist harness. “It’s about control. About not waiting around for someone else to come save Zaun. This tech… it’s the next step.”

He didn’t respond immediately. His lone eye studied the way your muscles tensed, the way your voice dropped when you talked about progress, revolution, invention. He’d seen men claim devotion to Zaun before, but rarely had he seen someone build for it the way you did.

“You intend to test it today,” he said finally. Not a question. A statement.

You nodded. “I have to.”

Silco sighed through his nose, stepping forward until he was just behind you. “I’ve lost too many people to risk, Darling.”

You paused, heartbeat stalling at the gravity in his voice. Then you turned to face him, placing a gloved hand over his chest.

“You won’t lose me,” you said softly. “Trust me.”

The winds howled above Zaun that night, a storm rolling in from the Piltovan cliffs. You stood on the edge of a decrepit smokestack, your boots balanced on a narrow pipe, wind whipping through your coat. Below, the chaos of Zaun continued—scuffles, steam, and shadows.

Silco stood on a nearby rooftop, watching.

You pulled your goggles down over your eyes, tightened your grip on the handles connected to the dual cables at your sides, and took a deep breath.

And jumped.

For a second, your stomach flipped. Then you fired the first harpoon.

THUNK—the bolt lodged into the side of an iron tower.

The world lurched. You twisted your hips, activated the gas burst—

WHOOSH.

You soared.

The second harpoon fired, a graceful arc of metal singing through the air. You caught another anchor point and let the cables reel you in. The wind tore past you, your body weaving effortlessly between support beams and smokestacks like a bird finally given wings.

From the rooftop, Silco watched with stunned disbelief. You were a streak of movement against the skyline—your coat flaring behind you like a second shadow, cables slashing through the fog, each movement calculated and smooth.

Then—click—you heard it. A snap, not unlike the sound of a bolt misfiring. The world tilted in a rush of panic.

The second harpoon cable jerked loose, the tether unraveling into the night air. You yanked at the handles, but the burst of gas only sent you spiraling toward the industrial skyline.

No, no, no.

Your heart raced as you fumbled with the gear. The gust of wind fought against you, sending you careening into the narrow gap between two rusted buildings. You tried to correct yourself, but your boots hit the edge of a metal ledge and—

Splash.

The icy cold water surged around you, and for a moment, everything went silent. Your heart hammered in your chest, the cold of the water seeping into your bones.

Silco’s eye widened in alarm. Without thinking, he made a move to leap toward the edge of the rooftop.

“Y/N!” he yelled, voice breaking through the roar of the storm.

But just as his foot hovered over the side, a head popped up from the water below, drenched hair slicked back against your face, but your grin wide and wicked as ever.

“Did you see that?!” you shouted, eyes alight with triumph. “I almost had it!”

Silco stood frozen for a moment, his mind still trying to catch up with the wildness of it all. A slight breath of relief escaped his lips, his chest tightening as he looked down at you, drenched and laughing in the storm-riddled waters below.

“Almost?!” he barked, though the edge in his voice couldn’t mask the relief beneath it. His hands clenched at his sides, the storm swirling around him as his gaze never wavered from you.

You waded out of the muck, pulling yourself onto a dock, shivering slightly from the cold as you powered through the moment.

“Almost,” you repeated, flashing him a grin as you pulled your goggles up and wiped your brow. “That was just a test run.”

You laughed again, the sound like a spark of life amidst the dreary, storm-soaked night.

Silco finally exhaled, eyes softening beneath his hard expression. “You’re reckless.” His tone was scolding, but it lacked its usual bite, as though his concern was beginning to outweigh the irritation.

You crossed the distance between you with a few long strides, ignoring the cold water dripping down your clothes. “But it worked, didn’t it? That’s progress.”

Before he could respond, you reached up and cupped his jaw in your chilled hands, pulling him into a kiss. The taste of rain and salt filled your mouth, but it was the way he kissed you back that mattered. Slow, deliberate, as if this was the only moment that mattered.

When you broke apart, his lips were still close to yours, voice soft. “Zaun needs people like you.”

You smiled, resting your forehead against his, your breath visible in the cool night air. “Then I’ll make sure I’m always there.”

Silco’s gaze lingered on yours a moment longer. “I’ll make sure of it.”

And with the city howling below, storm winds rising, and your gear still dripping water, you knew one thing for certain:

This was only the beginning.

JINX

Y/N had always been the tinkerer, the one to dream up outlandish inventions and make them a reality. After all, this was Zaun—a place where even the wildest ideas could find a home, if you had the guts to try. But today was different. Today, Y/N was finishing something truly ambitious, something that could push the boundaries of the impossible.

"Jinx!" Y/N called, their voice brimming with excitement as they held up the strange contraption in their hands. The device was a pair of mechanical wings, connected by an intricate web of coiled wires, with powerful grappling hooks and a sturdy harness. The whole thing hummed with barely contained energy, waiting to be tested. "I think it’s ready!"

Jinx, who had been pacing around the workshop with her usual boundless energy, practically bounced over to Y/N. Her wide eyes gleamed with unrestrained excitement, her messy hair flying every which way as she got a closer look. "No way! Is it really gonna work? I mean, this looks like something straight out of a crazy dream!" She reached out to touch one of the coils, sending a spark of electricity racing across the surface.

Y/N smirked, adjusting the straps of the harness before securing the device onto their body. "You’ll be the first to test it," they said with a wink, tightening the straps as they went. "You always love to take things for a spin, right?"

Jinx’s grin widened even more, her eyes dancing with the kind of excitement that only she could muster. She wiggled her fingers in the air like a mad scientist on the brink of chaos. "Oh, hell yeah! But you’re telling me this thing can actually fly?"

Y/N chuckled, adjusting a few more bolts and tapping a small switch. The wings and coils buzzed to life, the mechanisms humming beneath the surface. "Not exactly flying," Y/N explained, their voice confident, yet with a touch of thrill in it. "More like... swinging? It’s a grappling hook system, but with a bit of flair. You can swing from buildings, dodge attacks, and move fast enough to confuse anyone trying to catch you."

Jinx's eyes practically sparkled, her expression a mix of disbelief and pure joy. She jumped up and down, bouncing on the balls of her feet. "That’s so cool! I can’t wait to see it in action! Let’s go already!" Her voice was high-pitched with excitement, and Y/N couldn’t help but laugh at her contagious energy.

With a mischievous smile, Y/N nodded, their heart pounding in anticipation. "Alright, but you have to promise not to break anything... too expensive."

Before Y/N could even finish, Jinx was already out of the door, dashing toward the towering rooftops of Zaun, her long legs carrying her effortlessly through the cluttered streets. Y/N followed, their heart racing as they activated the ODM-like gear. The coils sprang to life with a satisfying whir, and the powerful lines shot out toward the nearest building. Y/N leaned forward, bracing themselves as the grappling hook latched on, and in an instant, they were pulled off the ground. With a swift motion, they swung into the air, the sensation of weightlessness rushing through their body.

"Woah, this feels amazing!" Y/N shouted, feeling the adrenaline flood their veins as the wind whipped past their face. They zipped across the city, swinging from one building to the next, their heart racing in time with the motion of the gears. The city’s sharp angles and broken skyline blurred beneath them, making it all feel like a thrilling dream.

Jinx, already several rooftops ahead, turned to look over her shoulder. A wide grin spread across her face, and she let out a loud, enthusiastic cheer. "That’s sick, Y/N! You’re basically a flying ninja!" she yelled, spinning in a wild loop in the air, her laughter echoing in the open space around them.

Y/N adjusted the controls, steering their body with precision, twisting and flipping mid-air. The gears responded with almost eerie accuracy, letting Y/N glide effortlessly from rooftop to rooftop. "It’s working!" Y/N shouted, the exhilaration of the moment making their voice crack with joy. "I’m actually doing it!" They shot past Jinx, their heart hammering in their chest as they looped around a nearby building, feeling like they were defying gravity itself.

Jinx, not one to be outdone, suddenly had an idea. "Let’s make this interesting!" she called out, her voice full of mischievous glee. Without warning, she grabbed a nearby bottle—something filled with a strange, fizzing substance—and tossed it toward Y/N with a wicked grin.

"Catch!" she screamed, her voice bubbling with wild delight.

Y/N didn’t even hesitate. Instinct kicked in, and they swung toward the bottle with a practiced motion. In a split second, they snagged it mid-air, the hooks of the gear latching onto it. They adjusted their grip, the coil pulling them forward with explosive force. Y/N twisted, using the momentum to avoid a shower of sparks from a nearby generator, their heart hammering in time with the rush of wind around them.

Jinx’s laugh echoed behind them as she spun through the air in a dizzying loop, her reckless energy perfectly matched to the wildness of the moment. "Alright, let’s go higher!" she yelled, the sound of her voice high with excitement. "What’s the point of swinging through Zaun if you can’t make it a little dangerous, huh?!" With a devilish grin, she shot up the side of a nearby tower, her feet barely touching the crumbling wall as she darted upwards like a streak of lightning.

Y/N’s pulse spiked, and they grinned back at Jinx. "Lead the way, Jinx! I’m right behind you!" They gave the grappling hook another twist, sending themselves off after her with renewed excitement. The city, a chaotic blend of towering buildings and endless pipes, blurred around them as they pushed the gear to its limits, zipping higher, faster, the wind catching their hair as they moved through the skyline like a pair of wild spirits.

The next hour passed in a blur of adrenaline and laughter, the two of them testing the ODM-like gear in every conceivable way. They swung between the crumbling remnants of factories, launched themselves through open gaps in buildings, and even twisted through tight spaces where the gears barely had room to function. Each stunt felt wilder than the last, each near miss more exhilarating than the one before.

As the sun dipped lower, casting long shadows across the city and painting the sky with shades of orange and pink, they finally slowed down. Perched atop a tall, crumbling tower, they took a moment to catch their breath, the rush still lingering in their veins. Jinx looked over at Y/N, her wide eyes full of admiration as she wiped a strand of hair from her face.

"You really nailed it, Y/N," she said breathlessly, her voice full of awe. "This is insane. We could totally make a fortune with this... or cause some major mayhem."

Y/N wiped the sweat from their brow, their chest still rising and falling with the excitement of the ride. "Well, I didn’t build it for the money," they replied with a smile, their voice steady but laced with thrill. "But yeah, I have a feeling this could come in handy."

Jinx’s grin returned, wider than ever. Her eyes sparkled with mischief, the kind of gleam that spelled nothing but trouble. "In that case..." she said, voice low and dangerous, "...I think we should test it again. Only this time, we’ll throw in some explosions. What do you think?"

Y/N rolled their eyes with a sigh, but deep down, they knew they wouldn't be able to resist. "Sounds like a terrible idea," they said, laughing despite themselves, already knowing where this would lead. "But yeah, I’m in."

And with that, they both leapt off the tower, ready for whatever madness Jinx had planned next.

EKKO

The dim light of the workshop flickered overhead, casting shadows over the cluttered benches and scattered tools. Y/N’s hands were steady, their brow furrowed in concentration as they fine-tuned the final mechanism of the experimental device. A sleek, slightly bulky contraption—a blend of steel, wires, and hydraulics—rested against their waist, its metallic arms extending out with a series of intricate, almost alien hooks.

It looked like something from a far-off world, but Y/N could feel the familiar thrill of possibility coursing through their veins. This was it. The dream they'd been working on for weeks. The sensation of freedom, of flight, of soaring through the air with nothing but a few precise movements. It was almost like the stories from their childhood, when they'd heard of people flying, moving like the wind, untouchable by the city's weight.

As their fingers worked on securing the last bolt, Y/N couldn't help but smile. The thought of what this could do for Zaun, for everyone stuck on the streets, in the underbelly of Piltover's shadow, excited them. They’d never seen anything like it here—no one had.

"You're up to something dangerous again, aren't you?"

The voice that broke through their focused reverie was familiar, warm, and full of affection. Ekko stood in the doorway, his arms crossed and a playful smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. His eyes scanned the device with a mixture of admiration and concern. He'd seen Y/N make countless creations over the years, but this one? This one had the potential to change everything. The way he looked at them, though, was both awe and the kind of worry that only came when someone you loved was diving headfirst into something reckless.

Y/N turned to face him, their lips curling into a smile. "Well, you know me. I like to keep things interesting." They gave him a sly wink before returning to their work. "This could change everything for Zaun. Think about it—imagine being able to move faster than anyone could catch us, slipping past the enforcers, taking back the streets. It could be like we’re untouchable. You could be a hero with this, Ekko."

Ekko pushed himself off the doorframe, taking slow, deliberate steps toward them. He was always so composed, but there was a softness in his gaze that only came when they were alone, when the world wasn't watching. His fingers brushed lightly against their shoulder as he kneeled beside them, inspecting the device more closely.

"You're brilliant, you know that?" His voice was soft but filled with admiration. "You always come up with these crazy ideas, and... somehow, they almost always work. But this? This one’s on another level. I don’t know if I’m ready to watch you swinging around like a lunatic."

Y/N laughed, a teasing lilt in their voice. "You’re just scared you’ll get left behind. You know I can’t always be the one to keep your feet on the ground."

Ekko grinned, shaking his head. "Maybe. But I like to think of myself as a little more grounded. Someone has to keep you in check, after all."

Y/N smirked and leaned back, wiping their hands on a rag before standing up. "Check’s overrated. Besides, I’m not asking you to do the crazy stunts—just watch and be impressed. I need a reliable audience."

He raised an eyebrow, the playful challenge in his eyes matching theirs. "I’ll watch. But don’t expect me to join you up there. I’m not some stunt double."

"Fine, suit yourself." Y/N grinned and attached the grappling hooks to the wall, adjusting the straps around their waist one final time. They hit the power button on the device, and a quiet whirring sound filled the room, followed by a soft hum as the system powered up.

For a split second, everything was still.

Then, in a flash, they fired the hooks into the far wall with a controlled precision, their body jerking forward with an exhilarating rush. There was a moment of weightlessness, followed by the sudden jolt of the hooks holding fast. Y/N swung gracefully across the room, their feet briefly leaving the floor, their body suspended in mid-air like they were born for it. The air was cold against their skin, but the sensation was pure freedom—the kind of freedom they had been dreaming of.

Ekko’s heart raced as he watched them fly through the workshop, his mind not quite catching up with what he was seeing. Y/N twisted and looped in the air, soaring effortlessly like a bird in the wind. Their laughter rang out, filling the space as they glided, the motion so fluid it seemed unnatural, like they were part of the wind itself.

Ekko’s chest tightened with awe, but there was a spark of concern in his eyes. This was what they wanted, what they had been pushing toward. But now that he was watching it, there was something unsettling about it, too. The risk. The danger. He couldn’t help but imagine what would happen if something went wrong.

"Alright, alright," Ekko called out, voice laced with a mixture of amazement and reluctant admiration. "You were right. That’s... that’s pretty damn impressive."

Y/N gracefully swung back, the motion so smooth it looked like they had been doing it their whole life. They landed with a soft thud, their feet touching the ground as if they'd never left. "Told you. What did I say about leaving you in the dust?"

Ekko’s grin softened as he stepped closer, his expression tender, though still filled with that playful edge. "Just promise me you won’t get too carried away. I’d hate to see you crash into a building or something." He placed a hand on their shoulder, his thumb brushing over their skin with an unspoken affection.

Y/N’s eyes twinkled, and they turned to face him, leaning in just a little closer. "Oh, come on. You know I’ll always have a soft landing for you. It’s kind of my thing."

Ekko rolled his eyes, but the warmth in his gaze softened the motion. He stepped in front of them, a slight smirk on his lips. "Just make sure that soft landing isn’t me catching you mid-fall."

The words hung between them, and for a moment, there was only the sound of their shared laughter, a sweet, lighthearted sound that filled the room. Y/N could see the worry in his eyes, the way he wanted to protect them from every danger that came with the thrill. They stepped forward, resting a hand against his chest.

"I’ll be careful, Ekko. I promise." They whispered the words softly, and Ekko felt the weight of them. He could hear the sincerity in their voice, but he also knew that Y/N was never someone who could stand still. They would always push boundaries, always chase the next big idea.

"One day, Ekko," Y/N continued, their voice full of determination, "we’ll take this to the skies. Together. We’ll make the whole city see us."

Ekko’s heart swelled with affection for them. They had a fire in their eyes that could never be snuffed out. They weren’t just dreamers—they were visionaries. And though he worried, he also admired the hell out of them for it.

"Together," he echoed, his voice steady, his smile softer than before. The promise between them was real, unspoken but understood. Whatever came next, whatever risks they took, they would face them side by side.

And, with one last look at the gear—shiny and bold and full of potential—Ekko knew that, no matter how crazy it seemed, Y/N was always going to push the limits. And he would always be there to catch them, no matter how high they flew.

#Arcane #arcane fandom #arcane fluff #reader insert #jinx x platonic!reader #jayce x reader #jayce x you #jayce talis x reader #jayce x y/n #viktor x y/n #viktor x reader #jayce x reader x viktor #viktor x you #vander x reader #silco x reader #jayvik x reader #ekko x reader

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austinbutlerslovers · 4 months ago

Text

But Daddy I Love Him

Label Mature 18+

Summary You are a well mannered socialite with a life carefully planned. Until you meet a reckless biker with a devil-may-care charm.

Drawn to his freedom and fire, you abandon the rules that once defined you, leaving behind a gilded life for one that finally feels real.

-Based on the Lyrics But Daddy I love him

💝Romantic Smut 💝 Secret romance • opposites attract• socially unaccepted• private affair• running away from home• lover to boyfriend• sweet talk •praising •body worship • P in V • multiple orgasms •creampies 🔗 Masterlist

But Daddy I Love Him

The New Year’s Eve gala is in full swing. Chandeliers hang from the large elaborate white tent spread across the sprawling lawn of an elegant estate, the lights glimmering above a sea of glittering gowns and tailored tuxedos on the dance floor

The clinking of champagne glasses blends seamlessly with the soft hum of the live orchestra. It’s like a scene straight out of a movie—one you’re desperately trying to escape.

You’re tired of the rules, the polite smiles, and the suffocating weight of “perfection.”

You’re fleeing to the only one who gives you solace—the only one who makes you feel alive.

Ducking back into the mansion through a side door, you move quickly and quietly, the lavish decor of the halls passing in a blur.

The sound of laughter and music fades behind you as you make your way toward the servants exit, the place you told him to meet when you called earlier, desperate to break out of this gilded cage.

Your heart pounds in your chest as you approach the door feeling the anticipation and the thrill. You know you shouldn’t be doing this. If your parents caught wind of who you were sneaking off to see, the fallout would be explosive. But that only makes you more determined.

As you push open the heavy wooden door, the night air greets you once more, crisp and biting against your bare shoulders. And then you see him-

Benny Cross

He leans casually against his motorcycle, his leather jacket catching the moonlight. His sandy brown hair is tousled perfectly, his piercing blue eyes gleaming with mischief as he watches you approach. A slow grin spreads across his face, the cigarette dangling from his lips long forgotten, crushed under his boot as his attention locks entirely on you.

“You look real fancy in that dress,” he says, his voice low and teasing. “Doesn’t look like it belongs on someone sneaking out the back.”

You grin as you saunter toward him. “And that bike doesn’t look like it belongs at a New Years Eve Gala,” you quip, slipping your arms around his neck.

“Guess we’re both out of place, huh?” he teases, his hands finding your waist as he pulls you closer.

Without another word, you kiss him, pouring all your frustration, your rebellion, and your longing into it. His lips are warm and soft, his hands gripping you like he never wants to let go.

You know your parents would lose their minds if they knew, but right now, you couldn’t care less. Benny is your secret, your escape, your freedom.

“Take me,” you whisper in his ear between kisses. “Take me to my parents’ estate. No one’s home—they’re too busy with their little party.”

His eyes darken with desire, and without a word, he shrugs off his leather jacket, draping it over your shoulders, the warm, worn leather carrying his familiar scent. He swings over his bike smoothly and pulls you up behind him without hesitation.

The roar of the engine echoes through the quiet night as he speeds through the residential streets, the cold wind whipping through your hair. You cling to him, your heart racing—not just from the speed, but from the thrill of being with him.

Your estate is eerily quiet when you arrive, the grand house dark as you lead Benny upstairs. When you reach your bedroom, you barely get the door shut before he’s on you.

His hands are rough pulling his leather from your body and sliding up your back to the zipper of your dress. “This thing’s way too fancy for you,” he teases, his voice low and gravelly against your neck.

With one fluid motion, he pulls the zipper down, his fingers brushing your bare skin as he lets the fabric fall.

Without wasting a second, his hands find the clasp of your bra, and with a practiced flick, he unhooks it, letting it fall to the floor.

He slips his fingers into the waistband of your panties, pulling them down swiftly, leaving you bare before him.

Stepping back, he takes his time, his eyes raking over you like a man starved. His expression hungry and raw. “Standing there, looking like that… you’re gonna ruin me, sweetheart.” He says his tone longing.

His hands go to the hem of his shirt, pulling it over his head in one quick motion, revealing the hard planes of his chest and the tight ridges of his abs.

Then, his fingers work at the button of his jeans, the rough material sliding down his hips with ease before hitting the floor with a dull thud. Your eyes trail downward, catching on the sight of him—heavy and hard, the impressive size of his cock making you bite your lip.

He doesn’t miss the way your eyes linger, a proud grin tugging at his lips.

You reach for him, desperate to feel him against you and pull him down into a kiss, your lips crashing together in a fiery collision of need and longing.

His hands find your waist, gripping firmly as he walks you backward toward the bed, lowering you down with enough force to make you gasp against his lips.

He settles on top of you, his weight pressing you into the plush mattress, his broad shoulders framing you as he pushes your thighs apart beneath him, claiming the space between them as his own.

His lips are rough and unrelenting as they trail down to your neck. His fingers tangle in your hair, pulling just enough to make you gasp, and he takes full advantage of the sound, pressing his mouth to the sensitive hollow of your throat as he flicks his tongue.

His hands explore you, leaving no inch of skin untouched. The calluses on his fingers drag over your soft curves, teasing and torturing until you’re panting and writhing beneath him.

“Benny,” you gasp, your hands clutching at his shoulders, trying to pull him closer, needing more.

“Patience sweetheart,” he murmurs, his voice filled with promise. “I’m not done with you yet.”

He grips your hips, his strength overpowering as he pulls you closer, positioning you exactly where he wants you. His hand slides between your thighs, his rough fingers testing and teasing you as they glide through your slickness. A low hum of satisfaction escapes his throat, the feeling of how wet you are driving him wild.

“I can feel how much you need me,” he breathes, his voice thick with desire. “I’ll give you everything, sweetheart. Every last bit of me.”

His fingers slip away, leaving you aching for him and before you can catch your breath, he lines himself up, his eyes locked on yours, filled with a promise only he can satisfy. He pushes the thick unyielding length of his cock into you, stretching you wide, filling you in a way that steals your breath.

His size is overwhelming—the heat of it, the weight of it—and as he sinks in deeper, your head falls back, a moan spilling from your lips as his name escapes you in a broken cry.

His low groan follows, rough and guttural, vibrating against your chest as his body presses firmly against yours, leaving no space between you.

You clutch at his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin as he pauses for the briefest moment, letting you adjust to the sheer size of him.

“I know just what you need, sweetheart,” he promises, his breath warm against your skin and he rolls his hips forward with a force that sends you arching against him, each powerful thrust driving you into a haze of pleasure as the world around you dissolves.

Your broken cries fill the room, each one more desperate than the last as his muscles flex beneath your touch determined to claim every part of you.

His hands grip your shoulders, holding you firmly in place as he pushes deeper, his pace relentless, every stroke of his cock sending shockwaves through your body, leaving you spiraling, completely lost in the raw, consuming heat of him.

You moan loudly, your nails digging into his back as the tension in your body builds to an unbearable peak. He leans down, his lips finding yours again in a messy, desperate kiss as his pace quickens.

Your breaths grow frantic, your heart pounding as your walls tighten around his cock pulling him deeper with every thrust.

“Benny!” you moan, his name spilling from your lips in broken cries as your orgasm crashes over you.

He groans in response finding his own release with one final thrust. He buries his cock deep, holding still as he comes, his cock filling you with warmth as he breathes heavily against your neck.

For a moment, neither of you move as the pleasure subsides, leaving only the sound of your ragged breaths and the feel of his steady heartbeat against your chest.

His hands slide up your sides, his touch tender as he strokes your skin, his fingers tracing soothing patterns. “I’ve never felt this way before,” he reveals, his lips pressing a soft lingering kiss on your shoulder then on curve of your neck.

“Me neither,” you whisper, your voice soft and steady, your fingers trailing along his back as you both linger in the moment.

The way he touches you, the way he takes you—is nothing you’ve ever experienced before.

Benny is raw, he’s real, and he’s entirely yours.

Right before midnight, you return to the New Year’s Eve Gala, together on his bike, just as the first fireworks begin to explode across the sky.

The colorful lights cast you both in vibrant reds, blues, and golds as he helps you climb off his bike, your gaze drawn upward, mesmerized by the bursts of light painting the night sky.

His wraps his arms around your shoulders, holding your back to his chest as you both watch the fireworks in silence. It’s a perfect moment, fleeting but beautiful. You turn to look back at him, and he’s already watching you, his eyes filled with something you can’t quite name but feel entirely the same.

“Happy New Year Benny,” you say softly.

He pulls you closer, his arms tightening around you as his lips brush your ear. “Happy New Year,” he whispers, his voice low and full of longing.

Before you can say anything more, he turns you fully and captures your lips in a deeply passionate kiss filled with everything words could never convey.

Above you, the fireworks burst across the sky in a riot of colors, but all you can feel is him and the way he holds you, the way he kisses you, and it’s as if time has stopped in a moment where nothing else matters.

As the kiss ends, his hands cradle your face, his thumbs gently brushing your cheeks. “Next year,” he says his eyes searching yours with a mix of determination and longing “let’s make it so we don’t have to sneak around to be together.”

You softly smile, your heart full despite the knowledge that the morning will bring new challenges. Still, you meet his gaze with quiet resolve. “I’d like that Benny,” you whisper back.

As the fireworks fade, you know this is the beginning of something neither of you can, or wants to, walk away from.

As weeks turn into months, you secretly become Benny’s girl. You learn about his world—his biker crew, their late-night rides, and a freedom you’d only dreamed of.

He, in turn, is fascinated by your wit, your intelligence, and the quiet fire he sees growing behind your polished exterior whenever you’re with him. It’s a fire he knows only he can stoke, and it makes him fall for you even harder.

But the secrecy begins to weigh on you both. Your parents start to notice your frequent absences and your growing disinterest in their meticulously laid out plans for your future. Their questions start to surface, sharp and invasive, pressing against the fragile haven you and Benny have created.

Benny encourages you to tell them the truth but you always hesitate.

As Benny picks you up late in the evening, he leans against his bike, watching with an amused grin as you carefully climb down the lattice outside your window.

The pale moonlight highlights your outfit a simple leather jacket borrowed from him, thrown over a fitted black tank top and denim skirt, your feet in new leather boots for the escape. It’s a far cry from the polished dresses and heels your parents expect, but it’s undeniably you.

You cross the lawn to him quickly, your heart racing with both adrenaline and anticipation.

“We can’t keep sneaking around forever,” he says his voice low as you approach, “We’re not doing anything wrong. You deserve to live your life.” He confirms.

You roll your eyes as you throw your leg over the bike. “And what, Benny? You think my parents will suddenly roll out the welcome mat for the guy who picks me up in the dead of night on his motorcycle?” you retort, settling behind him and wrapping your arms around his waist. “Let’s be real—they’d lose their minds.”

He glances over his shoulder at you, his expression serious before you see the teasing curve of his lips. “Doesn’t mean we’re wrong,” he grins before revving the engine.

The clubhouse is quiet, the others long gone for a weekend rally leaving the space eerily still. Benny pulls his bike into the lot, parking near the entrance as you climb off, brushing your hair back from your face.

Inside, the air smells like leather, smoke, and the faint tang of whiskey—a stark contrast to the world you’ve left behind for the night at your father’s weekend tennis matches with all his influential friends.

Benny leans against the pool table, arms crossed over his chest, watching you with his piercing blue eyes in a way that makes your pulse race.

His arms look even bigger with his muscle tee revealing the taut, hard defined muscles of his biceps. The tension between you is unusually heavy, the air charged with unspoken words until he finally breaks the silence.

“How long are we gonna do this?” he asks, his voice tinged with frustration. “Sneaking around like I’m some dirty secret?”

You take a step closer, realizing how much he’s been hurting, and your gaze drops, unable to meet his eyes. “You don’t understand,” you plead softly. “They’ll try to destroy us, Benny. They’ll say you’re not good enough, that you’re a bad influence—“

Benny cuts you off. “And what do you say?”

The question hangs in the air, the weight of it pressing down on you, and as you lift your eyes to meet his the raw emotion in your gaze says everything. “I say I love you, Benny,” you whisper.

For a moment, Benny’s eyes soften, brimming with everything he’s been holding back. Then he closes the distance in an instant, his hands finding your waist as his lips crash into yours, his kiss hungry and unyielding as if he’s been waiting his whole life for this moment.

You clutch at his shoulders, your fingers tangling in his hair as the world around you dissolves. He lifts you effortlessly, setting you down on the edge of the pool table. His rough hands slide down your thighs, hitching up the hem of your skirt as he steps between your legs, his body pressing hard against yours.

“I love you so much ,” he whispers against your lips, his voice trembling with need. “You drive me absolutely insane.”

He tilts your head back, giving him full access to your neck as he trails kisses down your skin, his stubble leaving a delicious burn in its wake. Your breaths come in quick, shallow pants, the air charged with everything you’ve both been holding back.

He unbuttons and unzips his jeans, then his hands grip your hips, pulling you flush against him, his rough fingers slipping between your thighs and pulling your panties aside.

He hitches your leg around his waist, his hands gripping your thighs firmly as he thrusts into you hard, taking you right there on the edge of the pool table.

His movements are rough, relentless, each powerful stroke sending a jolt of pleasure through you as you wrap your arms around his neck, holding on tightly as he drives into you with raw, consuming desperation.

The sound of your gasps and his low grunts fill the air, mingling with the slick, wet sounds of his hips thrusting between yours, driving into you hard and fast on the pool table.

“You’re all I want ” he whispers against your neck, his voice strained and raw with emotion .”You’re everything I need” he says breathlessly, his lips trailing rough kisses along your jaw as his thrusts render you senseless. The way he snaps his hips pushes you to the brink, your cries echoing off the walls as he takes you apart piece by piece.

The rhythm of your bodies moving together becomes frantic, urgent, as if this is all that matters. His hands hold you in place, his fingers digging into your hips as his body claims yours on the table with unrelenting force.

The intensity of him—his strength, his touch, his heat—sends you spiraling into a place where nothing else exists. Nothing else matters—only him, only this.

As you orgasm, your body trembles, your walls clenching tightly around his cock, drawing a deep, guttural groan from him as his movements falter.

With a final thrust, he buries himself deep, his warmth spilling into you in surges, then his hands tighten on your hips as he pulls back entirely, the sensation sending a shudder through you both.

The room grows quiet again, the only sounds your heavy breathing and the faint noise of the city outside filtering through the walls.

He pulls you into his arms, holding you close to rest your head on his shoulder. He presses a soft kiss to your temple as he strokes your hair back, his voice gentle but serious. “We have to tell them baby.” He confesses. “I don’t want to hide like this forever.”

You lift your head to look at him, your fingers tracing the strong line of his jaw. “I’m scared,” you admit, your voice trembling slightly. “I don’t want to lose you.”

“You won’t,” he says firmly, his blue eyes locking onto yours with unwavering resolve. “You don’t have to go back. You could stay with me.”

Your heart aches at his words, the sincerity in his tone making it even harder as you look at him. “I wish I could,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. “But they’d come looking for me. I need them to believe I’m still playing by their rules—for now.”

His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t argue. Instead, he leans down and kisses you again, slow and lingering, to remind you that he’s yours, that this is real, and you feel it—the certainty that no matter what Benny is where you belong.

Benny drives up the familiar path to your estate, the low rumble of his motorcycle softening as he slows to a stop near the driveway fountain. As you climb off the back, you turn to him with a soft smile, leaning in to press a lingering kiss to his lips.

“I love you,” you whisper against his lips, your fingers brushing his cheek.

“I love you too,” he says in return, his voice low and steady. His hand lingers on your waist, reluctant to let go. “Good night.” He whispers.

“Good night,” you reply softly, your heart full as you step back.

You dart toward the lattice outside your bedroom window, moving quickly to sneak back inside unnoticed.

But just as you climb the first rung, the front door flies open, spilling golden light across the lawn.

Your heart freezes as your father storms out, his voice thunderous. “You stay away from her!” he roars, pointing a finger directly at Benny.

Behind him, your mother and his influential friends with their wives file out, their presence an intentional show of force.

The women clutch their pearl necklaces and cross pendants, one muttering loud enough for you to hear, “What a mess,” her disdain cutting through the tension.

Benny, who had been idling the motorcycle shifts his weight slightly, planting one boot on the ground as he watches the group come toward him taunting and scorning.

His hand tightens on the handlebar as his piercing blue eyes flick to you, to see if you’re okay, but he doesn’t budge, ready to face whatever comes next.

You glance back at the lattice, your mind racing, but instead of climbing up, you drop to the ground, running toward Benny as the lump in your throat swells almost unbearably. “But Daddy, I love him!” you scream, your voice cutting through the night.

Gasps travel through the group. Your mother’s hand flies to her chest, and your father’s face twists with fury. You know what they’re thinking—this isn’t how their polished, perfect daughter is supposed to behave.

The disdain on their faces, the whispers of the scandal-hungry wives—it all fuels your next move. With the entire crowd watching, you look your father dead in the eyes and yell, “I’m having his baby!”

A stunned silence follows. Your father’s face goes pale, his mouth opening and closing like he’s searching for words that won’t come

The tension is suffocating, but you don’t give anyone time to react. You climb onto the back of Benny’s motorcycle, holding him tightly, your heart pounding as he shifts into gear, the engine roaring to life.

He glances back at you as you ride off, his voice low and urgent. “Are you really pregnant?” he asks.

“No,” you admit quickly, your voice shaking. “But you should’ve seen their faces.”

A grin breaks across Benny’s face as he shakes his head impressed by your wit, and the roar of the engine drowns out everything else as you ride away, leaving the estate and your parents expectations in the dust.

For the next month, you and Benny lay low in the clubhouse. The two of you live upstairs in a loft, savoring the freedom of being together without judgment. The loft is small and rough around the edges, but it feels like a haven —your sanctuary.

Days blur into nights filled with moments of joy, laughter, and quiet intimacy. Benny wakes you with slow kisses along your neck, his lips soft and lingering, pulling you into his arms as sunlight filters through the worn curtains. The warmth of his touch and the way he says your name to wake you feels like a dream.

Morning are spent laying with him in bed, his hands exploring you lazily, tracing soft patterns on your skin as if he has all the time in the world. He teases you with gentle kisses, and mischievously grins when he pulls you closer, whispering how much he loves having you with him.

Afternoons are carefree. He teaches you how to shoot pool downstairs in the clubhouse, laughing when you miss your shot and teasing you mercilessly. “You’re lucky you’re cute,” he says with a grin, leaning in to steal a kiss as you try to focus.

Often, the two of you take his bike out for long rides, the wind whipping through your hair as you hold him tightly, feeling the freedom of the open road.

Evenings are spent wrapped in each other’s arms after a dash to the diner, your bodies entwined in the bed of the quiet loft. Most nights are passionate, Benny’s touch both tender and possessive, as he makes love to you with an intensity that leaves you senseless, his kisses stealing your breath as he whispers how much he loves you.

“You’re all I need,” he says at times when the moment is just right, the weight of his words flowing from deep within his heart.

He says it when he watches you laugh, carefree and unguarded, in a way you never could before him. He says it when he sees you curled up in his oversized white shirt, a little piece of his world wrapped around you.

He says it when you make him feel like he’s worth something more than the rough edges of his life. You see past the chaos, and the rebellion, and you love him.

As you bask in your new life with Benny, you still can’t ignore the ache that lingers at the edges of your heart. As much as you’ve rebelled against them, you do miss your parents at times.

Then one morning, everything changes.

You’re in bed with Benny, tangled together in the soft light of dawn, when the shrill ring of the phone downstairs at the club’s bar breaks the stillness. Benny groans, burying his face into the crook of your neck as if trying to block it out.

But a moment later, there’s a knock at the loft door. Benny sits up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and pulls on a pair of jeans, his movements slow, before cracking the door open.

“Your girl’s mom is on the line,” one of the guys says, his voice casual but laced with curiosity. “Guess they figured it all out.”

The words jolt you awake. Quickly, you pull a robe over the shirt Benny gave you to wear to bed, your heart pounding as you follow him downstairs to the bar. The phone sits on the counter, the receiver waiting for you. You hesitate for a moment, nerves swirling, before picking it up.

“Hello?”

Your mother’s voice comes through the line, soft and hesitant but full of emotion. “Your father wants to see you,” she says. “We miss you so much, sweetheart. Please come home —please just come home, we need to speak with you urgently.”

You glance at Benny, his steady gaze on you, offering silent support. You nod, and he returns it, understanding without a word— if you have to go he’s coming with you.

Later that day, you and Benny stand in the grand living room of your parents’ estate, the tension heavy as your father sits across from you.

His demeanor is far from the fiery man who yelled on the lawn that night. He looks tired, even defeated as he finishes his speech “We’ll hold a wedding,” he says, his hands folded tightly in front of him. “You shouldn’t have to live this way—especially if there is a baby coming. We will do what is right.”

You almost laugh at the misunderstanding, but before you can speak, Benny rests his hand on your lower back. “With or without a baby,” he says firmly, his voice steady and unwavering, “I want to marry her.”

You look over at Benny, your eyes meeting his, and in that moment, the depth of his love and devotion leaves you speechless.

Your father stares at Benny for a long moment, his eyes narrowing as if weighing every word. Finally he exhales heavily as he nods, silently agreeing to anything to keep you in his life.

Three months later, the sun shines brightly over the estate as you dance in your wedding dress, the layers of white tulle catching the light. Benny’s hands are on your waist, his grin as wide as you’ve ever seen it.

Around you, the guests smile warmly, not just your parents’ influential friends, but Benny’s biker family as well. The unlikely mix of guests creates a vibrant, joyful atmosphere that you never thought possible.

Even your father, once disapproving, watches with a small smile as you and Benny share your first dance.

Your mother watches, her eyes never dry as she dabs back her tears with a handkerchief, unable to hide her emotions as she watches you and Benny make your way through the crowd, hand in hand, husband and wife.

The gossipers and scandal-lovers—the ones who sneered and whispered at your rebellion—are nowhere to be seen; requested off the guest list entirely.

When the sun dips lower in the sky, you take Benny’s hands, feeling the weight of everything you’ve overcome together. You’re his lady now, his wife, and as you glance at your parents, they smile, their expressions warm and accepting of your choice.

As you turn back to Benny, your heart swells with love as you look into his eyes, knowing you made the right one.

Overcome with emotion you lean in and kiss each other, pouring everything you feel into the moment. His hands tighten around your waist, steady and sure, as your arms wrap around his neck, embracing each other in the love you fought so hard to hold onto—finally living life the way you deserve.

END 🏍️

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midnight-shadow-cafe · 4 months ago

Text

The Emperor's Soft Spot

Pairing: Emperor Geta x Maid! reader

Warnings : Fluff

Authors Note: I hope you enjoy!

Masterlist

MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+

The grandeur of the Roman palace was overwhelming to most, with its marble columns stretching toward the heavens and gilded mosaics adorning every corner. Yet for you, the splendor had long since dulled. Day after day, your life revolved around quiet servitude—polishing brass, sweeping floors, arranging flowers. You were just another cog in the great machine of the Roman Empire.

But all of that changed on a crisp morning in the early spring.

The air was filled with the faint scent of jasmine as you placed the last of the roses in a vase perched on a side table in the Emperor’s private chambers. You had heard stories of the young Emperor Geta—his ruthlessness in court, his sharp wit in battle. But to you, he was a distant figure, one you had no reason to encounter. Until now.

As you adjusted the vase, the heavy oak door creaked open. Startled, you froze, your heart leaping into your throat. You turned to see him—a tall, imposing man dressed in the deep crimson and gold of imperial garb. His dark hair was neatly combed, and his sharp, piercing eyes locked onto yours.

You dropped into a hurried curtsy, the vase forgotten. “Forgive me, Caesar. I didn’t mean to intrude.”

For a moment, he said nothing, his gaze fixed on you as though studying a puzzle he couldn’t quite solve. Finally, his lips quirked into a small smile. “Intrude? You are precisely where you’re meant to be.”

Your cheeks burned under his scrutiny, and you ducked your head. “I was only finishing my task, my lord.”

“And what is your name, little dove?” His voice was softer now, almost curious.

“Y/N,” you answered, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Y/N,” he repeated, as though testing the weight of it on his tongue. His smile grew. “I’ll remember that.”

---

Weeks Later

The encounter should have been forgotten—a fleeting moment in the endless expanse of your days. But Geta seemed determined to ensure it wasn’t.

It began with subtle glances in the hallways, his eyes lingering on you a second too long. Then came the questions, casually slipped into conversations with the head steward. “How is Y/N finding her duties?” or “Ensure Y/N is assigned lighter work today.” The servants began to notice, their whispers following you like shadows.

One afternoon, as you scrubbed the steps of the western courtyard, a shadow fell over you. You looked up to see him standing there, dressed in simpler robes than usual but no less commanding.

“Caesar,” you stammered, quickly rising to your feet.

“Geta,” he corrected, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips. “Must I remind you again?”

“I couldn’t possibly address you so informally,” you replied, your hands twisting nervously in your apron.

“Then you must,” he said, stepping closer. “For it is my wish.”

You swallowed hard, unsure how to respond. His proximity was overwhelming, his presence like the sun—impossible to ignore. “As you wish, Geta,” you said at last, the name foreign yet strangely natural on your tongue.

His smirk softened into a genuine smile. “Better.”

---

The garden was your sanctuary, a rare place of peace in a world that rarely offered any. As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the sky in shades of gold and crimson, you knelt among the herbs, carefully plucking sprigs of basil and thyme for the evening meal.

You were so lost in your work that you didn’t notice him until his shadow stretched across your path. Startled, you turned to find Geta standing there, his arms crossed and an amused expression on his face.

“Do you always work so diligently?” he asked, his tone teasing.

“My duties require it,” you replied, rising to your feet and brushing dirt from your skirts. “Why are you here, Caesar?”

His smile faltered, and for a moment, you saw something vulnerable in his eyes. “Because I tire of being ‘Caesar.’” He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “In your presence, I am simply a man. Do you understand?”

You didn’t. Not fully. But you nodded anyway, your heart pounding in your chest.

“I find myself thinking of you more often than I should,” he continued, his gaze never leaving yours. “Your kindness, your grace—it is a rare thing in this palace.”

“Geta,” you breathed, his name feeling both intimate and forbidden. “This... this isn’t right.”

“Perhaps not,” he admitted, his hand reaching out to brush a stray lock of hair from your face. “But I care not for what is right. I care for what feels true. And this”—his fingers lingered against your cheek—“feels true.”

Before you could respond, he closed the distance between you, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that was both commanding and tender. The world seemed to tilt on its axis, the weight of the empire momentarily forgotten.

---

The palace buzzed with whispers of the maid who had captured the Emperor’s heart. Some were scandalized, others intrigued. But Geta paid them no mind. He openly courted you, defying tradition and expectation with every stolen moment you shared.

Late at night, in the privacy of his chambers, he would recount tales of his childhood—of the weight of the crown he had never wanted, of battles fought and victories that felt hollow. And in return, you showed him the beauty of a world beyond marble walls and golden thrones.

“You have given me something no one else could,” he said one evening, his voice soft as he held you close.

“And what is that?” you asked, your head resting against his chest.

“Freedom,” he replied, pressing a kiss to your hair. “Freedom to be myself.”

Though the road ahead was uncertain, you knew one thing for certain: you had claimed the heart of the Emperor of Rome, and in doing so, he had claimed yours in return.

Hope you enjoyed! Please consider liking and reposting! -Midnight💜

#x reader #geta x you #emperor geta x female reader #emperor geta x y/n #emperor geta x you #emperor geta x reader #geta x reader #emperor geta #geta #joseph quinn geta #gladiator 2 x reader #gladiator ll #joseph quinn gladiator #gladiator x reader #gladiator movie #gladiator ii #gladiator 2 #gladiator fanfiction

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ihopeinevergetsoberr · 4 months ago

Note

Requests are up, right?

If so, hiii! Could I please request a Viktor x wealthy nobleman reader angst set in s1 and during the timeskip? Maybe to do with reader’s parents are forcing him into an arranged marriage so he can’t be with Viktor but they’re still trying to make it work??? Don’t feel obligated to write this it’s up to you n e wayz have a good day thankss ♪(๑ᴖ◡ᴖ๑)♪

viktor x male! wealthy nobleman! reader

angst, (implied) smut, some dialogue. an experimental little thing, really.

word count: 1,7k

author’s note: this request. it’s so scrumptious. so beautiful. so delightful. thank you for asking me to write this, i don’t think i’ve met your expectation but i certainty tried to throw in some extra angst. enjoy, my darling anon!

—

He wakes up in a sweat-slick frenzy, salt dribbling down his neck when he reaches to feel it, scraping matted hair off pale skin.

The sheets beneath him are crumpled into intractable waves. The detritus of his restless sleep and whatever erotic mess he’d made out of you a few hours ago. But when his arm crawls to your side of the bed, smoothing over the rippled splendour, his fist clenches around nothing.

Heavy lids flutter with effort when his ochre eyes roll beneath the chestnut strands, fruitlessly roaming around the pompous room. All claret patches of luxurious furniture curdling into countless voids in the dim light. There’s something so inherently you and not-you-in-the-slightest all the same clashing inside this chamber. Gaudy, and tasteless, and redundantly sandalwood. Duck-feather pillows and thick mattresses. Exuberant safety.

Viktor rests his eyes, propping his head up on a trembling hand. He could never get used to this. He could never get used to you. Your reputee. Your respectable decorum. The things he’s supposed to enjoy—or, rather, finally try getting used to.

And yet, they’re still so foreign and confusing. He swears there’s a myriad snarky insults written all over this gigantic house—on every ridiculous vintage lamp and on the mortifying softness of your carpets—hell, even the curtains sway at him sibilantly, somehow.

But the mirrors are certainly the culprit. He always avoids those evil, gilded things at all cost. Not because he despises the reflection. It’s mostly the way he clashes with the grandeur that makes him avert his eyes. Away from the jaunty reminder that he doesn’t belong here.

He emerges from the bed, blood rushing out of his head and thumping harder when he slips one leg off the edge, gaining precarious hold of his cane through drowsy confusion. Hides the slopes of pointy shoulders beneath his flimsy shirt but leaves it unbuttoned. Counts puce hickeys strewn across his chest and cockily runs his heavy tongue over his molars when the number exceeds ten.

He doesn’t bother with the belt, either. He trudges out of the room with pants hanging low on hips, eerie gallus curdling into his walk when he passes Agnes, your maid, trading shrewd gazes with her judging eyes. She knows. And he knows she knows. You’re not exactly secretive with whatever blissed debaucheries happen in one of those spacious bedrooms the second your venerable parents leave the City of Progress.

Too bad he doesn’t care enough to keep you out of trouble. It’s more of an eye-for-an-eye dilemma. You’re still so skittish to address him as your partner during those numerous fancy galas. Janna, he can’t even make it to the guest list. It’s like you completely lack the balls (and the appendage is definitely there—Viktor did check, after all). But it’s okay. Viktor can be the ballsy one. He can rub it in their faces while you falter. And tonight the maid’s face falls victim to his stunt.

He asks if she’d seen you, sickeningly glibly. Finds the audacity to address you by your first name, his head cheekily tilted to the side. She inhales through her nose, canines nervously digging into her cheek.

“He’s in the drawing room,” she mumbles, looking away. “Playing the piano.”

Viktor hums. Of course you are. He thanks her with a snide nod and takes his leave. Thinks of just how oblivious rich people are to their antics: it’s ridiculous that the sounds of a literal keyboard instrument fail to reach every room in this enormous mansion. It makes him really ponder the size. So much space for privilege, and yet none for love. Boastful quarters built on ingenuity. He bites his tongue.

The door makes a heavy screech when he comes in, panting hard. Finds you at the edge of your padded seat, all tense shoulders and rigid breaths, cheeks blooming a frustrated, sweaty pink as your fingers torture the keyboard, tapping out a bluesy, messy tune. He leans on the doorframe, forehead landing against the lacquered mahogany with a light thump. Notices the expensive ruffled shirt he’d torn at earlier, lingering on the patch of skin where it swings off your clavicle. Smiles, when your melody gains a sharper edge, pitiful chords clashing into something resembling a dismissed plea—either to gods or to conniving ancestry, but that’s open to interpretation. Could be both, really.

It’s not often that he gets to admire his boy like this—tumultuous and rigid, forehead contorted with veins in your angry awe. And Viktor doesn’t want to startle you. He sneaks behind your back and hovers above your shoulders, his breath a sly tickle over your fevered temple. But his presence grounds you. Your limbs tumble, going limp as they slide off the trembling black-whites. The piano strings still vibrate when you turn to kiss him, wet lips meeting chapped.

He glides under your tongue and hums something indistinct, but you swallow his words faster. Franticly, you cling to him, desperate fingers clasping around bony thighs, and down he goes, pulled into your lap, bubbly giggle rasping against your mouth when he straddles you. Tastes of boldness, sweat and something delirious. Runs his hands up and down your back while his own arches into the keyboard and hits one cacophonic chord. It has you leaping out of your seat, hairs on ends like a skittish cat. Viktor looks at you, mouth unraveling into a boyish smile.

“Am I interrupting?” He finds his voice, still groggy from the aftermath of his slumber.

You offer him an apologetic wink of both tired eyes. “You startled me.”

“Ah, I see. I’m sorry. You should have kept going. I quite liked that improvisation.” You both laugh.

He rakes his hand up your neck, fingers circling the bulge of your voice, drawing a gulp. Your face looks strained, brows knitted together in something bizarrely tic-like—and it doesn’t go away even when his lips line up with that sensitive slope, licking, kissing, biting their way down to clavicles.

“What’s troubling you?” He whispers, leaning back. Stares at the glistening stripe of his saliva, swallowing hard, matching you when you look away, gnawing at your bottom lip. Both mouths taste iron, chewing the tension.

“Nothing?” You try to lie, but your delivery is just a tad too quizzical. Like you’re asking him to narrow it down for you, to find the answer on your behalf. Too bad he would never do you such favors.

He fists his hand into your hair, tugging hard. Makes you look back into his mighty eyes—oh that lovely, oxidised copper—and orders you to speak from the altitude of his posture. You shudder, seeking mercy. He doesn’t have any to give. Not tonight.

“There’s clearly something,” Viktor insists, letting go of your hair. Your scalp tingles with a delicious scorch. “I don’t appreciate the covertness. Especially when you’re hardly able to keep it up. You never play quite as… vehemently unless you’re upset.”

“It’s Agnes,” you crack, looking at the doorway. The maid is not there, but the weight of her gaze haunts you everytime you sneak Viktor inside, no matter if she’s not there to witness you cling to him. “She, er— My parents are threatening to fire her. She told me she can no longer keep our… secret. ”

“So be it.” Viktor shrugs. “Let her talk. She needs her income. It’s not like they’re not aware of my existence anyway.”

You scoff. “Yes, but it’s not like they’re particularly fond of you, either.”

“Since when does that distress you?” He snaps right back at you, loving hands instantly withdrawn from their hold of you, clenching hard. “You can’t possibly take their input into consideration, can you?”

For a moment, you simply stare at each other, eyes shooting angry stardust. You can feel a dry, nervous cough tickle at your throat, blood buzzing in your temples and pressing hard. You have to tell him. Preferably, now.

Because Viktor is oblivious to the ultimatum you were given all those months ago. Here he is, looking down at you full of puzzled devotion, smug, and sweet and so utterly soft. Unaware of the fact that you are to be married to another man. To someone meticulously picked out by your parents, all tedious meetings and insipid speeches about how you should stick to someone of your own kind, ears bleeding to the sounds of all the demeaning crap about witnessing their noble boy’s downfall.

But the worst part is: you still haven’t grown a fraction of a backbone. You bend to their will and adhere to self-pity, painfully wary of how to break this circle. It’s just that you let your fear prevail.

And it’s a thing to be ashamed of. Because how dare you hold him close, all limbs intertwined and eyes locking with such yearning—all the while you fail to muster the courage to offer him elopement. Hell, to even tell him the truth. You don’t deserve him—not now, not ever. Cowards are not to form bonds with those who never ask for permission.

And so you wet your lips, anxiously staring up. Your hands bonelessly dangle at your sides, terrified of reaching for him again. You’re going to tell him, it’s right there, at the tip of your tongue, threatening to leap out your mouth like an insult one doesn’t mean. You just have to do it like he does: be bold, be brave, start talking—

“Of course, Viktor,” you mumble instead, feeling shame creep up your throat. What a spineless creature. “I don’t care what they think. I’m sorry.”

His eyes flicker with that familiar, joyful spark of his. Fawning at you so gently that your heart almost bleeds through the fancy shirt, almost crumbling right then and there when he scoots closer again, hot breath fondling your face. You’re never going to tell him, are you?

Something inside you dies when he kisses your cheek, lean body tensing atop you as he commences an embrace you return with guilty reluctance, hiding ugly tears in the mess of his hair.

“Good,” Viktor whispers, holding you through your shudder. “Now, could you play me that nocturne I like, please?”

You grip the piano hard enough to leave nail marks on the gorgeous instrument.

#viktor arcane #viktor x reader #viktor fanfic #viktor x reader smut #viktor x reader angst #viktor angst #viktor x male reader #viktor x m!reader #arcane

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speaknow-sw · 3 months ago

Text

•| ᴛʜᴇ ꜰᴏʀɢᴏᴛᴛᴇɴ |•

Content : fight, killing, death, whipping.

A/N : Chapter one guys, so excited to introduce that version of Anakin. It’s kind of a knightfall Anakin, or unburnt Vader. I tried to write as good as I could but I remind you, I’m not English. Enjoy.

• | ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ɪ : ᴛʜᴇ ɢʜᴏꜱᴛ ᴏꜰ ʏᴏᴜ | •

The Colosseum roared like the mouth of the gods, hungry for blood.

THE GATES OF THE COLOSSEUM CREAKED OPEN, revealing the sun-soaked expanse of the arena. The light hit like fire, reflecting off the gilded helmets of the Roman guards stationed at the edge of the sands. Anakin stepped forward, bare-chested beneath his battered armor, the leather straps across his shoulders darkened with sweat and blood. His sword rested in his hand—a weapon as familiar to him as his own heartbeat.

The crowd roared with anticipation. Thousands of voices thundered through the stone arches, shaking the ancient bones of Rome itself. They didn’t care who fought, only that blood would be spilled.

Anakin’s eyes were dark beneath the shadow of his helmet. His expression was unreadable—cold, calculated. He moved like a wolf in a den of lions, his footsteps steady, his presence commanding. His opponent stood across the arena, waiting. A seasoned gladiator, scarred and broad, wielding a spiked mace and a shield emblazoned with a Roman eagle.

The man sneered, raising his mace in a silent challenge.

Anakin didn’t flinch. He didn’t smile. He merely rolled his shoulders, feeling the tension in his muscles coil like a serpent. His opponent was bigger, stronger. But size didn’t matter. Strength didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered in the Colosseum was who walked out alive.

The signal was given—a sharp blast of the horn—and the fight began.

The other gladiator charged first, his heavy footsteps pounding across the sand. The mace swung toward Anakin’s head with brutal force, aiming to crush his skull in a single strike. But Anakin was faster. He ducked low, the air whistling as the mace sliced through the space where his head had been.

He pivoted on his heel, slashing upward with his sword. The blade caught the other man’s shield, sending a reverberating clang through the arena. The force of the blow made the man stumble, but he recovered quickly, slamming his shield forward like a battering ram.

Anakin took the hit to his shoulder, pain blooming across his body, but he didn’t fall.

Instead, he stepped back, circling his opponent with measured grace. His eyes locked onto every movement—the way the man’s shield arm trembled under the weight, the slight hitch in his step. Every weakness was a thread to be pulled, unraveling the illusion of invincibility.

The mace swung again, a brutal arc aimed at Anakin’s side. This time, he sidestepped with ease, his sword flashing like lightning. The blade skimmed across the other man’s thigh—a shallow cut, but enough to slow him down.

The crowd’s cheers grew louder, a frenzied chant echoing through the Colosseum.

“Skywalker! Skywalker!”

Anakin ignored them. He wasn’t fighting for their approval. He was fighting to survive.

His opponent lunged again, swinging the mace in a reckless, desperate arc. Anakin caught the weapon on his sword, the clash of steel ringing in his ears. The impact jarred his arm, but he held firm, twisting his blade to lock the mace in place.

For a moment, they stood locked together, muscles straining, sweat dripping into the sand. The other man’s eyes narrowed, his teeth bared in a snarl.

“You fight like a man who wants to die,” the gladiator growled.

Anakin’s lips barely moved. “No. I fight like a man who’s already dead.”

With a sudden surge of strength, Anakin twisted his sword, breaking the lock. The mace was wrenched from the other man’s grasp, falling to the ground with a heavy thud. Anakin didn’t hesitate. He lunged forward, his sword aimed for the man’s exposed chest.

But the other gladiator was quick, raising his shield just in time to block the killing blow. Anakin’s blade glanced off the shield, sending sparks flying. The man swung the shield like a hammer, smashing it into Anakin’s ribs.

Pain exploded in Anakin’s side, but he didn’t falter. He twisted away, his feet kicking up sand as he regained his footing. His breath came in short, harsh gasps, but his grip on his sword never wavered.

The other man was breathing hard now, too. Blood dripped from the cut on his leg, staining the sand beneath him. He glanced at his fallen mace, then back at Anakin, calculating his next move.

Anakin saw the hesitation. He saw the fear creeping into the man’s eyes.

It was over.

Anakin moved like a predator, closing the distance between them in a heartbeat. His sword cut through the air, a deadly arc aimed at the man’s shield. The blow was relentless, driving the other gladiator back step by step. Each strike was precise, calculated to wear down his opponent’s defenses.

The shield splintered beneath the onslaught, cracks spreading like lightning across the wood and metal.

The crowd was on its feet now, screaming for blood.

Anakin’s sword struck one final time, shattering the shield completely. The other man stumbled backward, weaponless and defenseless. He fell to his knees in the sand, his chest heaving, his eyes wide with disbelief.

Anakin stood over him, his sword raised.

The arena fell into a tense silence, waiting for the killing blow.

The man looked up, blood smeared across his face. “Mercy,” he whispered.

Anakin’s grip tightened on his sword. His heart pounded in his chest, a relentless drumbeat of rage and grief. He saw ghosts in the man’s eyes. Ghosts of those he had killed before. Ghosts of the life he had lost.

There is no mercy in Rome.

With a swift, decisive strike, Anakin brought his sword down.

The blade cut through flesh and bone, clean and final. The gladiator crumpled to the ground, lifeless. Blood pooled in the sand, dark and endless.

The crowd erupted in thunderous applause, their cheers echoing off the stone walls. They chanted his name, hailing him as a hero, as a champion.

But Anakin felt nothing.

He sheathed his sword, turning his back on the corpse. His gaze lifted to the crowd, scanning the sea of faces. They cheered for him, but they didn’t see him. They saw a legend. A monster. A weapon forged by Rome’s cruelty.

But somewhere in the crowd, a pair of eyes watched him differently. Eyes that didn’t cheer. Eyes that saw through the mask of brutality to the man beneath.

Eyes that remembered him.

Anakin’s footsteps echoed through the Colosseum as he left the arena, the bloodstained sand stretching behind him like a trail of ghosts.

The Colosseum loomed like a monument to blood and ruin, its arches casting jagged shadows across the sand. The air was thick with the scent of sweat and iron, the echoes of battle lingering long after the last sword had fallen. The crowd dispersed slowly, their cheers fading into the streets of Rome, leaving only ghosts behind.

You walked unnoticed through the emptying arena, your form shrouded in the guise of a noblewoman. Mortals glanced your way, but none truly saw you. They never did. To them, you were a passing shadow, a face soon forgotten. But you moved with purpose, your sandals barely disturbing the blood-soaked sand beneath your feet.

The gods had cursed you to wander endlessly, to carry the weight of a legend that time had tried to bury. For centuries, you had drifted through mortal lives, whispering forgotten stories into the ears of poets and scholars. You were the goddess of legends, doomed to remember what the world sought to forget.

But now… something stirred. Something ancient. Something long buried beneath centuries of dust and stone.

You paused at the edge of the arena, your gaze drawn to the sands where blood still pooled. The echoes of swords clashing and bodies falling seemed to resonate in your bones. And beneath it all, beneath the noise and violence, you felt it—him.

Remus, Anakin.

The name lingered on the edge of your mind like a half-forgotten melody. You hadn’t spoken it in centuries. You had buried it alongside your grief, locking it away in the ruins of memory. But now, the weight of that name pressed against your chest, as if the past was clawing its way back to the surface.

Your eyes scanned the arena, searching for the source of that ancient pull. You knew it wasn’t just the place that stirred these memories. It was someone—a presence you hadn’t felt since that fateful day beneath the twin hills where Rome was born.

And then you saw him.

He stood near the gladiator gates, the torchlight casting flickering shadows across his battered form. His armor was streaked with blood, his sword still hanging at his side. His dark hair clung to his face, damp with sweat. His gaze was sharp, unyielding, even as he limped slightly from the battle’s toll.

You felt the air leave your lungs.

It was impossible. Unthinkable.

But there he stood—Anakin.

He didn’t know you. Not yet. The curse of mortality had stripped him of his memories, erasing the bond you once shared. But his soul… his soul was the same. Wild, restless, defiant. His very presence radiated rebellion, a man carved from the bones of the earth and tempered in fire.

You took a step closer, your heartbeat echoing like thunder in your ears.

The gods had whispered of this moment. They had told you that Anakin would be forgotten, his real name wiped from history, while his brother’s legacy endured. But they never said his soul would be lost forever. You had carried hope through centuries of loneliness, a fragile ember that refused to die.

And now that ember flared into a blaze.

Still, doubt gnawed at the edges of your mind. Was this a cruel trick of fate ? A shadow cast by your own yearning ? Or had the gods truly given you another chance to rewrite the legend that had condemned you both ?

Remus—Anakin—turned slightly, as if sensing a presence beyond the mortal realm. His gaze swept over the arena, passing by you without lingering.

But something made him pause.

He was more beautiful than you remembered. The years and centuries had softened the memory of his face, but now, seeing him in the flesh, it was like waking from a dream you hadn’t realized you’d been trapped in. His hair, once trimmed short and once shiny as the sun above your head, had returned in this life as wild, golden curls—disheveled and unruly from the fight, falling into his eyes with a carelessness that no Roman noble would dare. Those eyes… gods, those eyes. Blue as the sky above the Tiber at dawn, fierce and unrelenting, they seemed to pierce through the veil of time itself. He also looked older. Older than when he died, barely a man, still harboring a cherubic face with rosy cheeks and dusted lips. Now he was breathtaking.

His features were sharp yet regal, a strong jaw dusted with stubble, the high cheekbones of a warrior carved by fate’s cruel hand. His lips, stained with the faintest hint of blood, were set in a line of defiance. He bore the scars of a gladiator’s life—scratches across his broad chest, bruises blooming beneath his armor—but they only added to his allure. He was mortal, yes, but he stood with the bearing of something more, something ancient. He was a man forged by violence, yet he carried the weight of tragedy in every line of his body.

His stature was commanding, taller than most of the men around him, with broad shoulders that seemed made to carry the weight of the world—or your sorrow. There was something about the way he moved, even in exhaustion—graceful yet lethal, like a lion prowling the edges of the arena. He was strength and ruin in one.

And you couldn’t look away.

To the Romans, he was nothing but a slave, a fighter to bleed for their amusement. But to you, he was everything you had lost. Everything the world had forgotten.

His eyes, darkened, narrowed as they met yours. There was no recognition in them. No spark of memory. Yet something ancient flickered there—something deeper than conscious thought.

He frowned, his expression unreadable, before turning away and disappearing through the gates.

Your heart twisted painfully in your chest.

He was here. Alive. But he didn’t remember you.

Not yet.

And as you stood alone in the shadow of the Colosseum, you whispered the name the world had forgotten.

"Remus." No… Anakin, you chastised yourself.

The winds carried the name across the empty sands, a prayer to the past. A prayer for what was to come.

Something ancient stirred in the air—a curse left unfinished, a legend waiting to be rewritten.

The crowd gathered at the Forum, eager for blood. Romans thrived on spectacles of cruelty, drawn to suffering as moths to flame. But this was not a battle to the death. There would be no swords, no shields. This was punishment. A public reckoning. And at the center of it stood Anakin, stripped to the waist, his back bared to the lash.

The whip cracked through the air like thunder, and the first strike split the silence. His body jerked, muscles tightening, but Anakin did not cry out. He refused to give them the satisfaction. His back already bore scars from past punishments, reminders of Rome's endless cruelty. This was nothing new. He had endured worse.

The lictor struck again, the leather biting into flesh. Blood beaded along the fresh wounds, trickling down his spine. Anakin clenched his jaw, refusing to show weakness. His pain belonged to him alone; he would not let Rome take that from him. The crowd murmured in approval, reveling in his suffering, their eyes alight with morbid fascination.

But then, his gaze found you.

You stood at the edge of the crowd, cloaked in fine robes, your face pale with horror. You hadn’t come to witness this cruelty. You had come seeking answers, hoping to understand the mortal who haunted your dreams. But now, watching him bleed beneath Rome’s lash, you could barely breathe. This was Anakin. This was the man you loved—suffering from a whip.

Yet Anakin did not see love or recognition in your gaze. He saw judgment. He saw cruelty.

His lips curled into a bitter sneer, and his eyes darkened with hate. His expression hardened into defiance, as though daring you to look away. His gaze was unrelenting, full of fury and accusation, as if to say: Are you entertained ?

Another lash tore through the air, ripping his skin. He grunted in pain, his shoulders trembling under the strain. But his eyes never left yours. His anger burned, hot and unyielding, as though your presence stoked the fire within him.

To Anakin, you were just another Roman aristocrat. Another cold-hearted noble reveling in his suffering. Your beauty only made it worse. He hated himself for noticing the way the sunlight caught the strands of your hair, or the way your eyes shimmered with emotion. He loathed himself for wondering what your voice might sound like, for imagining your hands on his face, soft and kind.

But he buried those thoughts deep beneath his rage. You were a Roman. You were his enemy.

Finally, the lictor lowered the whip. Anakin’s back was slick with blood, the wounds raw and open. The guards dragged him to his knees, shackled his wrists, and hauled him away. The crowd dispersed, satisfied by the punishment, but your feet remained rooted to the ground.

As he was pulled past you, his gaze flickered toward you one last time. There was something in his eyes—pure hatred.

Back in the dim confines of his cell, Anakin leaned against the stone wall, his body aching from the beating. His wounds burned, but it was nothing compared to the rage simmering in his chest. His thoughts circled back to you, unbidden and unwanted.

The Roman woman.

Why couldn’t he stop thinking about you ?

He hated you. He hated your kind. The Romans had taken everything from him—his freedom, his dignity, his name. His Master selling his body to the highest bidder of the market for a night. And yet, your face lingered in his mind like a delicious curse. He remembered the horror in your eyes as he was whipped. He remembered the way your lips parted, as though you wanted to speak but couldn’t find the words.

But hate was easier. Hate was safer.

So Anakin closed his eyes and vowed to forget you.

Yet in the darkness of his cell, he dreamed of your face.

The night brought no peace. Shadows of memory chased you through sleep, weaving dreams from fragments of a life long past—a life you were cursed to remember when all the world had forgotten. A life where Anakin loved you.

You saw him again as he had once been. Young, wild, and full of life. The fields of the Aventine stretched endlessly beneath a golden sky, and the wind carried the scent of wildflowers. His laughter echoed in your ears—low, warm, and unguarded, the way only he could sound. He ran ahead of you through the tall grass, turning back every few steps to beckon you closer.

“Come,” he whispered in your dream, his voice the anchor of your heart. “There is still time.”

In the fields, he knelt before you, hands rough from a life of toil, but gentle as they wove a crown of flowers. His fingers moved with care, weaving stems together until he lifted the delicate circlet and placed it atop your head. You laughed at his crooked handiwork, brushing a stray lock of golden hair from his face.

“You look like a goddess,” he murmured, his gaze soft with devotion.

“And you,” you teased, pressing your forehead to his, “look like a boy playing king.”

His lips found yours then—sweet, tender, tasting of summer and wildflowers. His kiss was gentle, unlike the harshness of the world around you. In those moments, you had been free. With Anakin, there were no rules, no gods, no fates woven by unseen hands. There was only love.

But dreams cannot hold forever.

The fields faded into mist, and the warmth of his touch slipped away like sand through your fingers. The laughter died. The golden sky darkened into the cold gray of stone walls. Rome replaced the Aventine. Blood replaced wildflowers.

And then, there was him again.

You saw him as he had been that day—standing tall, in the Colosseum, sword in hand, drenched in blood and defiance, older... His gaze, blue as a storm-tossed sea, had found yours even as he was punished. There was no tenderness in his eyes, no softness. Only fire. A fire that burned you even now.

“Ani,” you whispered in your sleep, clinging to the name like a prayer. But no. He was not Ani anymore. He was Anakin now—a man forged in iron and rage, a soul reborn into chains.

You woke, breathless, your hands trembling with the remnants of your dream. The gods' curse weighed heavy on you, a burden you had carried for centuries. You were the goddess of legends, the keeper of stories lost to time. And your curse was to remember the one story no one else did—the story of the brother who had been forgotten.

The gods watched you still. Their eyes followed your every step, their judgment lingering over you like a shadow. But you no longer cared for their wrath. You had loved Remus once, and now, you saw him again, alive in the mortal body of a gladiator.

"Anakin," you whispered to the night, letting go of the wrong name. Letting go of the past that weighed too heavily on your heart.

You vowed to approach him. To see him again, to make him remember who he once was, who you had been together. Even if the gods punished you again. Even if the world itself crumbled beneath your feet. You needed his touch, you craved him, his scent, his voice…everything about him made your skin tingles and your heart ache.

Because you would find him. Even if he had changed.

Even if it meant your ruin.

Roma de cineribus nata est, et tu fusa manus eras.

Rome was born from ashes, and you were the hand that spread them.

#hayden christensen #anakin skywalker #anakin skywalker x you #anakin skywalker x reader #anakin skywalker fanfiction #anakin x reader #anakin skywalker x female reader #anakin x you #evie writes

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duckprintspress · 5 months ago

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Was in a Barnes & Noble this weekend for the first time in ages, and was a little shocked by how many special editions I saw with sprayed edges, gilded covers, etc., of basically mass market books.

Like, special editions feel a whole lot less special when they're everywhere.

And I know that makes it sound like I hate fun, but on the contrary, it's a major concern for those of us who publish. Those luxury editions are very expensive to produce, and major industry folks can make them affordable for buyers and profitable for their companies because they are printing huge numbers of them.

But when "luxury" features become "standard," smaller publishers really can't...do them. Like, there's absolutely no affordable way for a publisher the size of Duck Prints Press to produce editions like that. The more people expect them and come to think they're not special and luxury, the harder it will be to sell something any less fancy to them.

It's. a very frustrating cycle.

I don't know what I'm accomplishing by writing this or what action I think anyone reading it on Tumblr could possibly take, but I just felt like I had to say it. Please remember that big corporations fuck all of us, including the "small fish" businesses just trying to survive in the same sea.

#unforth rambles #duck prints press #on publishing

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neonoddeye · 10 months ago

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SFW Veritas Ratio x Gn! Reader

Bathtime with Veritas Ratio is sacred, an event only known between the two of you.

The scholar’s high regard of the nighttime routine is ritualistic, from the gilded matching bathrobes to the uniform scent that his bath supplies have. You wouldn’t dare to make fun of this; in fact, you find it endearing that he has such a delicate pastime to indulge in. It’s even more endearing that he allows you to accompany him as well.

His bathtub is as elegant as him, and isn’t too cramped to be occupied by two people at once (and maybe a little rubber duck). There is never a shortage of bubbles, or even some epsom salts or a bath bomb if Veritas has had a particularly infuriating day. He tends to enjoy eucalyptus and lavender scents the most for their therapeutic qualities, occasionally subbing them out for a seasonal scent. His soaps are always of the highest quality, and he never settles for anything less (as is seen in every other aspect of his life). And now that you’ve gotten used to them, it’s always hard to go back to whatever you were using beforehand, whether you live with Veritas or not.

Your favorite part (and his, secretly) is taking time to wash each other. Veritas always insists on washing your back for you, no matter how much you insist you can reach every spot yourself. You figure it must be therapeutic for him, as he takes his time gently scrubbing your skin for you. He even massages any sore spots you might have (even if you didn’t know you had them). If it’s a hair wash day, he’ll massage the conditioner into your scalp like you’re at the salon. You often wonder if he enjoys the mundane, repetitive motions that come with pampering you, as if he’s letting his brilliant brain rest for just a bit.

When it’s his turn, you reciprocate the warm gestures, taking your time to reach every inch of his broad back. Although you aren’t as skilled as he is, you also attempt to massage his sore muscles, weary from being hunched over at his desk for most of the day. You’re aware that he carries the tension of his work life on his back (bro probably carries the whole university on it), and you let him guide your hands to where he needs it. Even if you can’t alleviate his pain, he acknowledges and appreciates your efforts.

While you cater to Veritas, he often has a habit of venting about his day to you. He goes on tangents about his “infuriating students” while you pour water down his back, as if to wash the stress away as it comes out. If you’re washing his hair as he babbles, you’ll take extra time to work the shampoo into his scalp to really emphasize the practice of wearing down his tension. Veritas will never admit it to you, but he likes to think that it works, somehow.

After the washing is over, you and Veritas may talk each other’s heads off, be it a philosophical construct or plans for the day ahead, or sit in comfortable silence. Before you, Veritas would never let his skin prune in the bath water; now, he loathes getting out, and doesn’t mind if his fingers are wrinkly. If the universe would allow it, he’d spend hours in the bathtub with you, letting his worries sink into the water and down the drain.

#this might be my first drabble?#honkai star rail #honkai star rail x reader #veritas ratio #dr ratio x reader #dr ratio #veritas ratio x reader #veritas ratio x you #dr ratio x y/n #dr ratio x you #hsr x reader #hsr drabbles #hsr dr ratio #loopdelta

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novaursa · 9 months ago

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Between the Flames (Part 2)

- Summary: Gwayne and you rekindle your flame as a celebratory hunt proceeds.

- Pairing: Gwayne Hightower/targ!reader/Daemon Targaryen

- Note: reader is referred to as Y/N and is younger sister of Rhaenyra. If you want to read all the parts in chronological order visit my blog, the list is pinned to the top. The timeframe of events in both parts 1 and 2 is unspecified, place the plot wherever you wish it in your imagination.

- Rating: Explicit 18+

- Word count: 5 812

- Tag(s): @deniixlovezelda @duck-duck-goose2 @aadu2173 @sachaa-ff

The first light of dawn creeps into the camp as you step out of your tent. The air is crisp with the chill of morning, carrying with it the scent of damp earth and pine. You pull your cloak tighter around your shoulders, taking in the stillness that clings to this early hour. The fires from last night’s revelries are mere embers now, and the camp is draped in a quiet so deep it feels like the world holds its breath.

Your eyes sweep over the clearing, searching for a familiar face, but Rhaenyra is nowhere to be found. Of course she’s not. Your sister has likely slipped away with Ser Criston Cole, her sworn shield, to chase whatever solitude she can grasp in this suffocating charade. Rhaenyra has always despised these hunts, the feasts, the endless parade of lords fawning over her as if she’s a prize mare. You sympathize with her distaste, but unlike her, you’ve remained tethered to these duties out of some misguided sense of loyalty to your father and the memory of your late mother, Queen Aemma.

A flutter of resentment stirs in your chest. You’ve followed the rules for so long, always the dutiful daughter, watching as your sister rides free while you remain in the gilded cage of expectations. Yet yesterday, when Gwayne Hightower had found you in the crowd of nobles and knights, that sense of duty had wavered for the first time in years. His presence had unraveled something in you, a thread of emotions carefully tucked away since your father denied him your hand. His smile was the same, a little boyish even after all this time, and his eyes held that familiar warmth as they met yours.

The memories from years ago flood back, his hand brushing against yours, the quiet exchanges between dances, lingers in your mind like the aftertaste of wine. You had long buried those feelings, or so you thought. Yet now, in the stillness of dawn, all you can think about is how his presence stirs a longing you’ve tried to forget.

For once, you allow yourself to act on impulse.

You move with a sudden resolve, heading towards the small paddock where the horses are tethered. Your chest tightens as you glance around, half-expecting someone to stop you. You see Ser Harrold Westerling, his gray hair wild with sleep, standing at the edge of the camp. He’s too far away to notice you yet, still groggy and unconcerned as he yawns and stretches.

Before he can spot you, you make your way to your mare, a beautiful dappled chestnut with a silky black mane. She snorts softly in greeting, stamping the ground with her hoof. You pat her neck, her coat warm and smooth beneath your gloved hand. "We’re going to do something foolish, my sweet girl," you whisper, a half-smile playing on your lips.

With practiced ease, you mount the mare, settling into the saddle. The forest looms ahead, its dark arms open and inviting, promising the kind of freedom you’ve denied yourself for too long. A breathless excitement quickens in your chest as you lean forward, giving your mare a gentle nudge. She responds instantly, trotting lightly across the camp, her hooves barely making a sound on the soft earth.

"Princess!" Ser Harrold’s voice rings out, sharp with alarm, but you’re already gone. The wind rushes against your face as you break into a gallop, the camp shrinking behind you as the trees blur past. The thrill of disobedience courses through your veins, each beat of your heart in time with the rhythm of your mare’s stride.

The forest is alive with the songs of morning birds and the rustling of leaves. Sunlight dapples through the canopy above, casting golden patterns on the forest floor. For a moment, you let out a breathless laugh, the sheer joy of riding unbound filling you with a wild sense of elation. You understand now, at least in part, why Rhaenyra flees these events; there’s something liberating in leaving behind expectations, even if only for a short while.

You slow your pace once you’re deep within the woods, guiding your mare along a familiar narrow trail framed by ferns and moss-covered stones until you reach an edge of a small brook. The peace of the forest wraps around you like a soothing balm. Here, away from prying eyes, from duties and titles, you can simply be.

But your thoughts inevitably return to Gwayne. You remember the way he looked at you last night, the warmth in his eyes tinged with something deeper. You can still hear his voice in your head, low and intimate as he leaned in close during the dance.

“It has been too long, Y/N,” he had said softly, his hand resting lightly on your waist. “I barely recognized you the day before… though you’ve grown only more beautiful.”

A faint blush warms your cheeks at the memory. For years, you had pushed thoughts of him aside, thinking them childish fancies, a promise he couldn't keep, but his presence has reignited a spark that refuses to be smothered.

Lost in thought, you nearly miss the sound of hooves approaching from another direction. Your mare’s ears prick forward, alert, and you turn your head just in time to see a rider emerging from between the trees. The sunlight catches on silver armor trimmed with green—Gwayne.

Gwayne Hightower woke with the first rays of dawn creeping through the canvas of his tent, the dim light casting long shadows across his face. Sleep had been restless and fleeting; the events of the previous night still clung to his mind like a shroud. He could still feel the weight of Daemon Targaryen’s gaze—a sharp, cutting thing that held a silent promise of retribution. Daemon had watched them dance, his eyes like twin embers, waiting for any excuse to ignite into something more dangerous.

But Gwayne hadn’t cared. Not then, and certainly not now.

All that mattered was you.

He could still feel the ghost of your hand in his, the way your touch sent a spark straight through him. You had tried to maintain a careful distance, the practiced grace of a princess who had long learned to hide her heart behind a veil of propriety. But Gwayne knew you better than that. He knew the way your eyes softened when you looked at him, the way your voice dropped ever so slightly when you said his name. You could hide your emotions from most, but never from him.

He’d known you since you were both children, and in all those years, nothing had truly changed between you. Even now, after all the time and distance, after the layers of courtly masks, you were still the same girl who had stolen his heart. And he would not—could not—let anyone take you away from him. Not Daemon, not even your father. The King could deny him the match all he wished, but it was a hollow decree. He knew, deep down, that you were his. You always had been, from the moment you’d shared your secrets and desires with him years ago, in the quiet, hidden corners of the Red Keep.

And when he had seen Daemon’s eyes on you, the dragon’s possessiveness simmering beneath the surface, Gwayne had only felt his resolve harden. Daemon could try to intimidate him all he liked, but he would never understand that what bound you to Gwayne was deeper than mere attraction or lust. It was years of unspoken promises, of shared dreams and whispered hopes, of a love that had grown in the shadows of duty and expectation.

Gwayne exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over his face as he pushed himself out of bed. The air was crisp, the early morning dew clinging to the grass as he dressed quickly in his riding leathers. His mind drifted back to the last time he had truly held you, before politics and power had pushed you both into your separate roles. Back then, you’d been freer, more open, before the weight of a princess’s crown settled on your brow. And yet, last night, in those fleeting moments when your eyes met his, he saw a glimpse of that girl again. The one who had wanted more than what was being offered to her.

He knew you would not remain at camp long today. You despised these hunts as much as Rhaenyra did, though you bore it more quietly. And as if the gods themselves sought to reward his patience, his instincts proved correct when he caught sight of you slipping away, mounting your horse with a grace and ease born of years of practice. Ser Harrold’s groggy warning echoed across the clearing, but you were already gone, disappearing into the forest with the wind in your hair.

Gwayne’s heart leapt in his chest, a sense of urgency and determination driving him into motion. He wasted no time, striding swiftly toward his own horse, a powerful black stallion bred for speed and endurance. He swung into the saddle with practiced ease, feeling the familiar weight of the reins in his hands. Without hesitation, he urged his horse forward, following the path you had taken into the woods.

The morning sun filtered through the trees, casting shifting patterns of light and shadow across the forest floor. Gwayne’s focus narrowed, his gaze trained on the faint trail you left behind—hoofprints in the soft earth, the occasional disturbed branch. He knew where you were headed; it was the same place you always sought when you needed to escape the world, a secluded glade hidden deep within these woods.

The sound of rushing wind and the rhythmic thudding of hooves filled his ears as he pushed his stallion harder, driven by a mixture of anticipation and longing. Every beat of his heart felt in tune with the ride, each breath drawing him closer to you. He couldn’t help but smile as he imagined the look on your face when he found you—the mix of surprise and exasperation that you could never fully hide, tinged with that unmistakable affection that lingered in your eyes whenever you looked at him.

Finally, the trees parted, revealing a clearing bathed in soft morning light. And there you were, seated on your mare at the edge of a small brook, the sound of trickling water a soothing backdrop to the scene. The sight of you, framed by the dappled sunlight, took his breath away for a moment. You were like a vision from a dream, your hair catching the golden rays as you gazed thoughtfully at the water. The serenity of the moment only heightened his determination to be by your side.

You must have sensed him approaching, for you turned just as he entered the clearing. The surprise in your eyes was quickly replaced by a familiar warmth, though you tried to maintain a composed expression. “And here I thought I’d managed to escape everyone,” you said with a hint of teasing in your voice.

Gwayne brought his horse to a stop beside yours, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Did you truly think you could slip away from me so easily, Y/N?” he asked, his voice low and edged with amusement. “You should know by now that I would follow you anywhere.”

Your expression softened at that, and for a moment, the carefully maintained walls you kept around yourself faltered. “And what brings you chasing after me, Ser Gwayne?” you asked quietly, your gaze locking onto his with an intensity that made his pulse quicken. “Surely you have other duties to attend to, other places to be.”

He leaned forward slightly in the saddle, his eyes never leaving yours. “I have no duty more important than being where you are,” he replied, the words simple but weighted with meaning. “No place I would rather be than at your side.”

You looked away, as if trying to hide the emotions that flickered across your face, but Gwayne knew you too well. He could see the struggle within you, the war between obligation and the desires you kept buried. He reached out, his hand brushing lightly against yours where it rested on the reins. “You don’t have to hide from me, Y/N,” he said softly. “Not here. Not now.”

You exhaled slowly, your fingers tightening around the reins as if grounding yourself. “And what if hiding is all I have left?” you whispered, a note of vulnerability slipping into your voice. “What if it’s the only way I can survive this game we’re all trapped in?”

Gwayne’s expression hardened with resolve. “You’re more than what they want to make you. More than a pawn in this endless game of power. You’re you—the woman I’ve loved since we were children, the one I would fight for, no matter the cost.”

You met his gaze then, something in your eyes softening. The walls you’d built around yourself cracked, if only for a moment, and Gwayne saw the woman beneath—the one who wanted more than duty and expectation, the one who longed for freedom, for love, for something real.

“Maybe you’re right,” you murmured, a faint smile touching your lips. “Maybe I’m tired of hiding.”

Gwayne’s heart swelled with hope, with the belief that maybe, just maybe, you were ready to stop running from what you both knew had always been there between you. He leaned closer, his voice a gentle whisper. “Then let’s take this moment for ourselves. Forget the world outside, forget the dragons and the thrones and the knives hidden in every smile. Let’s just… be.”

For a long moment, the world held its breath as you considered his words. Then, slowly, you nodded, the tension easing from your shoulders. “For a little while,” you agreed, your voice soft, a hint of relief in your tone.

And so, you rode together through the sun-dappled forest, leaving behind the weight of duty and the ever-watchful eyes of the court. In this fleeting moment, there was no war of crowns or claims, no dragons or scheming lords—only the two of you, and the promise of something that could be, if only you dared to reach for it.

In the quiet sanctuary of the forest, with nothing but the rustling leaves and distant birdsong to bear witness, you and Gwayne finally dismount from your horses. The sun has climbed higher in the sky, casting a warm, golden light across the clearing. There’s a silence between you—charged, electric—heavy with all the unspoken words and emotions you’ve held back for years. The bond you thought had frayed with time is alive once more, vibrant and undeniable.

You both step closer, drawn together by a force that feels as natural as breathing. Gwayne’s eyes are locked on yours, his gaze intense, full of longing and a possessive tenderness that makes your pulse quicken. You can feel the heat radiating from him, the tension in the small space between your bodies crackling like a fire about to be kindled.

His hand comes up, gently cupping your cheek, his thumb brushing over your lower lip with a reverence that sends shivers down your spine. “I’ve missed this,” he whispers, his voice low and hoarse with emotion. “I’ve missed you.”

You close your eyes briefly, savoring the feel of his touch, the way it melts away the years of separation, the walls you’ve built to protect yourself. “We shouldn’t be doing this,” you murmur, though there’s no conviction in your words, only a breathless longing. The ache in your chest is one you’ve carried for so long, buried deep beneath the layers of duty and decorum. But now, with Gwayne so close, it’s impossible to deny how much you want this—want him.

His thumb tilts your chin up, and you meet his gaze once more. “Perhaps we shouldn’t,” he agrees, his voice soft but edged with determination. “But I won’t let that stop me. Not anymore. I won’t let anything keep us apart again.”

And with that, the dam finally breaks. Your lips crash together in a kiss that’s searing, urgent, full of years’ worth of pent-up desire and emotions. There’s no hesitation, no holding back. The kiss is fierce, almost desperate, as if you’re both trying to make up for every lost moment, every day you spent apart. His hands are on you, one tangled in your hair, the other gripping your waist with a possessiveness that makes you gasp against his mouth.

Your hands roam over his chest, fingers fumbling with the ties of his tunic, the urgency mirrored in the way he pulls at the laces of your dress. Every touch is fevered, every caress driven by the need to feel skin against skin. Clothes are shed with haste, your lips barely parting even as you struggle to rid yourselves of the barriers between you. His breath is hot against your neck, lips trailing down your throat as he shrugs off the last of his garments. Your own dress falls away, pooling at your feet, leaving you both exposed to the cool morning air—but the heat between your bodies is enough to chase away the chill.

There’s no room for words now, only the rhythm of your breaths, the thrum of your heartbeats in perfect harmony. He draws you close, lifting you with ease as your legs wrap around his waist, your bodies fitting together as if they were made to do so. The first touch of him inside you is a heady rush, a mix of pleasure and familiarity that sends a shudder through you both. He moves with a gentle haste, his grip firm on your hips as he sinks into you fully, a low groan rumbling in his chest.

You cling to him, fingers digging into the muscles of his back as your lips find his again in a kiss that’s all heat and hunger. The rhythm comes naturally, an instinctive dance that’s both achingly familiar and exhilaratingly new. Even after all the time that has passed, your bodies remember each other, falling into a perfect sync that leaves no space for doubt or regret.

His movements are steady but urgent, each thrust a declaration of the need that has burned between you for so long. Your moans mix with his, the sound of your shared pleasure filling the secluded clearing. There’s a raw intimacy in the way your bodies move together, every touch, every gasp a reaffirmation of what you’ve both held onto all these years. You can feel his heart pounding against yours, his breath ragged as he whispers your name, the sound of it like a prayer.

“Y/N,” he murmurs against your lips, his voice rough with emotion. “You’re mine. You’ve always been mine.”

You don’t respond with words—there’s no need. The way your body arches into his, the way you tighten around him as pleasure builds in your core, says everything. You’re his, just as he’s yours, bound by a love that neither time nor distance could ever truly break.

The tension coils tighter with every thrust, every brush of his lips against your skin, until it’s too much to hold back. Your release washes over you in a wave of bliss, pulling a cry from your lips as you cling to him, every nerve alight with sensation. Gwayne follows you over the edge, a low groan escaping him as he buries his face in your neck, his body shuddering with the force of his climax.

For a moment, the world seems to hold still. The forest fades away, leaving only the two of you, wrapped in the warmth of each other’s embrace. Your breathing slows, and you feel Gwayne’s grip on you soften, his fingers tracing lazy patterns along your back as he holds you close.

When he finally pulls back to look at you, there’s a tenderness in his gaze that makes your chest ache. “I’m never letting you go again,” he says quietly, his voice filled with a fierce kind of love. “Not for anything. Not for anyone.”

You reach up to cup his face, brushing your thumb over his cheek. “I never wanted to be let go,” you confess, your voice a whisper. “I’ve only ever wanted this… us.”

In the silence that follows, there’s a peace that settles between you—an unspoken understanding that whatever lies ahead, you’ll face it together. For now, in this stolen moment, the world beyond the forest doesn’t matter. All that matters is the way your hearts beat in time, the bond between you rekindled and stronger than ever.

And in that quiet, sunlit clearing, you both allow yourselves to believe—if only for a little while—that the future might hold more than just duty and sacrifice. That it might hold a chance for the love you’ve both fought so long to protect.

Daemon Targaryen stood near the edge of the camp, eyes narrowed into slits as he watched you and Gwayne ride back into the clearing. The sight of you both—your hair disheveled, lips still slightly swollen from hurried kisses—made his blood boil. He clenched his fists so hard his knuckles whitened, his jaw tightening as a cold fury settled into his bones. Gwayne’s smug look didn’t help; the Hightower knight sent him a knowing, defiant smirk as he rode past, one hand resting possessively on your waist. The message in his gaze was clear: I’ve won, and you know it.

Daemon’s lips curled into a sneer. Foolish boy, he thought darkly. You’ve no idea what you’re inviting.

He wasn’t stupid. He knew exactly what had transpired in the woods. He recognized the flushed skin, the barely concealed satisfaction on both your faces, the way your eyes avoided his as you dismounted. You carried yourself with that fire he adored—back straight, chin held high—but he could see through it. He could always see through you. There was anger beneath your proud exterior, frustration burning just as fiercely as his own.

As you handed the reins to a stable hand, Daemon moved with predatory grace, intercepting you before you could disappear into your tent. He grabbed your arm, his grip firm but not bruising, his eyes burning into yours.

“What were you doing?” he hissed, though it was more accusation than question. His voice was low, dangerously controlled, a seething threat simmering just below the surface.

You jerked your arm free, glaring up at him with barely concealed fury. “I could ask you the same, Uncle. Spying on me as if I’m one of your lackeys?” Your tone was sharp, dripping with defiance. You took a step closer, your voice lowering to a venomous whisper. “What right do you have to question me? You’ve made it clear what I am to you.”

The words cut him, though he’d never admit it. His eyes darkened further as he leaned in, his breath hot against your ear. “You were gone longer than a mere ride warrants, Princess. And you return with that Hightower pup, wearing a look that tells me everything I need to know.”

You bristled, your hands balling into fists at your sides. “And why do you care, Daemon? What difference does it make to you what I do or with whom?” Your voice wavered with barely restrained emotion—anger, frustration, and something more, something raw and wounded. “You never wanted me, not really. Not as anything more than a consolation prize because you couldn’t have her.”

Daemon’s gaze sharpened, the accusation hitting too close to home. He reached out, grabbing your chin roughly, forcing you to meet his eyes. “Watch your tongue,” he growled, his voice laced with barely suppressed fury. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“Oh, don’t I?” You yanked your chin from his grasp, your eyes flashing with contempt. “You think I haven’t noticed? You think I don’t see the way you look at her—my sister? The way you’ve always craved what you can’t have? You wanted Rhaenyra, not me. But Viserys wouldn’t allow it, wouldn’t let his precious heir fall into your clutches. So you settled for me instead, the lesser prize.”

The truth in your words stung more than Daemon cared to admit. His mind raced, fury and something far more dangerous swirling within him. You had never been lesser to him—never. But he had to grit his teeth against the admission. For a heartbeat, his anger faltered, replaced by a flicker of something deeper, something that threatened to expose him in a way he despised.

His grip loosened, but his gaze remained intense, searching your face for any sign of hesitation. “Is that what you think? That you’re second to her?” His voice was lower now, softer but no less dangerous. “You’ve always seen yourself as Rhaenyra’s shadow, haven’t you? But let me tell you something, Y/N—you have just as much fire as she does. Maybe more.”

You scoffed, shaking your head. “Words, Daemon. Just more of your pretty words. You think they’ll work on me after all this time?” Your tone was bitter, but there was a note of pain beneath it that you couldn’t quite hide.

His eyes hardened again, his intensity returning full force. “You are not some replacement,” he snapped, each word deliberate, almost vicious in its conviction. “You’re mine just as much as she could ever be. Perhaps Viserys keeps me from her because he fears what we could be together—but he gave me you because he thinks you’ll be easier to control. And perhaps, for once, he’s right.” His eyes bore into yours, daring you to deny it. “But don’t ever think that makes you lesser, Y/N. You’re every bit as valuable as she is—to me and to this cursed family.”

For a moment, silence stretched between you, thick with the weight of unspoken truths and old wounds. The tension was nearly unbearable, a volatile mixture of rage, passion, and something neither of you wanted to acknowledge aloud.

You glared at him, chest heaving as you fought to control your breathing. “You claim I’m yours, yet you push me away every time I get too close, every time I try to see beyond that mask of arrogance you wear. You want me just enough to keep me tethered, but never enough to make me truly believe it.”

Daemon’s expression softened just a fraction, the cruel edges giving way to something almost tender. He stepped closer, his thumb brushing your bottom lip, and his gaze softened, the fierceness replaced with an intensity that was somehow even more dangerous. “You’ve always seen through me, haven’t you?” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper. “It’s why you’re the one thing I can never let go of, no matter how much I try.”

You felt your breath hitch, the admission hanging in the air between you. For a moment, the storm in your chest subsided, replaced by the ache of knowing that no matter what you said, no matter how much you tried to fight it, a part of you would always be drawn to him—like a moth to a flame, even if it meant getting burned.

But the moment passed as quickly as it had come, and the anger returned, raw and unfiltered. You pulled back from his touch, your voice tight with resolve. “I may be yours in your eyes, Daemon, but I refuse to be something you settle for. I’ll be more than just a placeholder for your desires.”

Without waiting for a response, you turned and stormed toward your tent, leaving Daemon staring after you, a storm of conflicting emotions raging behind his eyes. He clenched his fists, every muscle in his body tense as he fought to rein in his temper. He had always believed he could control everything, bend the world to his will—but in this moment, watching you walk away, he was reminded that some things, some desires, were far beyond his grasp.

But as he stood there, alone in the clearing, a dark, determined smile tugged at the corners of his lips. If Gwayne Hightower thought he could claim you so easily, he was sorely mistaken. Daemon had lost too much already—he wouldn’t lose you too.

One way or another, you would see the truth: that no one could ever truly have you but him.

The final day of the hunt dawned with an oppressive sense of inevitability. The skies were overcast, a muted gray that reflected the tension simmering beneath the surface of the festivities. Lords and knights milled about the camp, preparing for the last chase, but the air was thick with unspoken rivalries and hidden agendas. For Daemon, it was more than just another hunt—it was the culmination of days of mounting frustration and a terror he refused to name, all centered around one person: you.

He had prided himself on control—control over his ambitions, his desires, his enemies. But you were slipping through his fingers, and it clawed at something primal within him. The sight of you laughing, exchanging warm smiles with Gwayne Hightower, had become unbearable. It wasn’t just anger that churned in his chest; it was fear. The fear of losing the one person who had managed to burrow past his defenses, the one thing he had convinced himself was his.

As the sun climbed higher, the hounds were readied, and the nobles began mounting their horses. Daemon’s eyes never left Gwayne, who was exchanging pleasantries with his sister, Alicent. The Hightower knight held himself with the same confident ease as always, his armor gleaming, his expression serene. But beneath that polished exterior, Daemon could sense a defiant edge, a silent challenge that sent a pulse of fury through him.

He couldn’t stand it any longer. He swung himself onto his horse, cutting through the throng with a focused determination. The murmured conversations around the camp fell away as he approached Gwayne, who turned to meet him with a calm gaze, as if he had been expecting this confrontation.

“Ser Gwayne,” Daemon drawled, his tone laced with a false cordiality that didn’t reach his eyes. “It seems we find ourselves in each other’s company once more. How fortuitous.”

Gwayne’s expression didn’t waver. “Prince Daemon,” he replied smoothly, inclining his head in a respectful nod. “It’s always a pleasure to be in such esteemed company.”

The formalities hung in the air like a blade waiting to drop. Daemon leaned forward slightly in the saddle, his eyes narrowing, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “Let’s not pretend, Hightower. You’ve been playing a dangerous game, and I can see right through it. You think you can steal away what belongs to me?”

Gwayne’s smile was subtle, infuriatingly calm. “I’ve stolen nothing, Your Grace. But perhaps what you think you own was never truly yours to begin with.”

Daemon’s hand clenched around the reins, his knuckles white. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he hissed. “You’ve never understood what binds us—what we share. You think you can walk in, flash a few smiles, and she’ll forget everything?”

Gwayne’s expression hardened, the mask of politeness slipping away to reveal a fierceness that matched Daemon’s. “What binds you?” he echoed, his voice low and firm. “Do you mean the way you push her away, yet cling to her when it suits your pride? Or the way you try to control her, hoping that she’ll never see she deserves more than to be someone’s second choice?”

Daemon’s heart pounded in his chest, a mix of rage and fear twisting inside him. Gwayne’s words cut too close to the truth, exposing the very thing he feared most. He had convinced himself that he was the one who understood you, who could offer you what no one else could. But the thought that he had lost you, that you had found something in Gwayne that he couldn’t offer, was a poison he couldn’t swallow.

His voice was a growl, low and venomous. “You think you’re so righteous, don’t you? Like you’re the hero in some ballad. But you’re nothing more than a lovesick fool, blinded by a girl who’s outgrown you. Do you really think she’ll choose you when all is said and done? You’re a Hightower—nothing more than a tool for your family’s ambitions.”

Gwayne’s eyes flashed with anger, his composure cracking just enough for Daemon to see the fire beneath. “And what are you, Daemon? The rogue prince, the discarded brother who can’t win his brother’s favor, who takes whatever scraps he’s offered because he’s too afraid to admit what he really wants?”

The words hit like a hammer. Daemon’s control snapped, and before he could stop himself, he spurred his horse forward, closing the distance between them until they were nearly nose to nose. His voice was a low snarl. “You know nothing about fear, Gwayne. You don’t know what it’s like to feel something slipping from your grasp, to see the one thing that keeps you from losing yourself slipping away. I would burn the world to keep her, and you’d be the first I’d cast into the fire.”

Gwayne’s gaze didn’t falter, but there was a flash of sympathy in his eyes that stoked Daemon’s fury even more. “That’s where you and I differ, Daemon,” he said quietly, his voice tinged with pity. “You believe in owning, controlling. But I believe in letting her be free, even if it means losing her. Because what she needs isn’t chains or possessive declarations. It’s someone who sees her as an equal, not a prize to be won.”

Daemon’s grip tightened on the hilt of his sword, Dark Sister, fingers twitching with the urge to draw it and end this insufferable man’s righteous speeches once and for all. But he held back, knowing that doing so would only prove Gwayne’s point. Instead, he leaned in, his voice icy and full of dark promise. “You may have her now, but don’t mistake this for the end. She is mine, whether you—or even she—realize it yet. And one day, when you’re just a memory, she’ll see that.”

With that, Daemon yanked his horse’s reins and rode away, his heart a tempest of emotions he couldn’t fully name—anger, fear, desperation. It terrified him, this loss of control, the realization that he was losing his grip not just on you, but on himself. But he would not give in, would not let you slip away without a fight.

As he rode toward the front of the hunting party, his mind raced with dark thoughts and unspoken plans. He had lost control once, but he would not let it happen again. Whatever it took, whoever he had to destroy, he would make sure that when all was said and done, you would see that you were his and his alone.

And in the distance, Gwayne watched him go, his jaw clenched, his own heart heavy with the knowledge that this confrontation was only the beginning of the battle to come.

#house of the dragon #alicent hightower #viserys targaryen #daemon targaryen #gwayne x you #gwayne x y/n #gwayne x reader #gwayne hightower #ser gwayne #hotd x reader #hotd #hotd daemon #hotd gwayne #daemon targeryen x reader #daemon x y/n #daemon x you #daemon x reader #house targaryen #house hightower

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idkyetxoxo · 4 months ago

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Davos Blackwood - Crawl To Me

Summary - She escapes her suffocating destiny only to encounter Davos, a man equally skilled at bending the rules. They navigate a world of desire and defiance, igniting a connection that leads to a night of freedom and passion—challenging everything she thought she wanted.

Pairing - Davos Blackwood x reader

Warnings - Sexual content (smut!)

Word count - 2796

Masterlist for Davos • House of the Dragon General Masterlist

I never envisioned myself in this situation.

If someone had asked me just yesterday what my plans were, I certainly wouldn't have predicted that I'd be on my hands and knees, crawling towards a stranger.

It all began just hours earlier. My mother had insisted on draping me in the finest silks, adorning me in jewellery that weighed heavy around my neck and wrists.

Her aim was singular: to secure for me a noble husband, a union that would uphold our family's esteemed name and fortify our standing among the elite.

But my own intentions were far from hers.

The moment the opportunity arose, I planned to escape this gilded cage—to breathe freely, to live as I chose.

The hall was ablaze with the light of countless candles, their flickering flames casting a warm, golden glow over the gathering of nobles dressed in finery that dazzled.

Musicians played softly in the corner, the strains of violins and lutes adding a sense of gravity and elegance to the scene.

But all I could think about was the weight of the silk gown pulling at my shoulders and the tight bodice pressing against my ribs.

My mother, of course, was delighted; her eyes shone as she adjusted the fall of my sleeve and smoothed an errant strand of hair away from my face, fussing over every detail.

"Oh, stand tall," she whispered, her eyes glinting with excitement. "Tonight could change everything. It could be the start of your future."

Before I could respond, my mother's gaze shifted across the room, and I felt her stiffen with expectation.

Turning, I found myself face to face with the man she had set her sights on—Lord Gregory Blackmoor, an older, stoic man with a thin-lipped smile that only accentuated the lines around his mouth.

His greying hair was pulled back tightly, and his attire, though impeccable, was so staid and heavy it seemed to blend into the stonework behind him.

His gaze held mine for a fraction too long, a calculated scrutiny I found both irritating and unsettling.

I forced a polite smile as he took my hand in his rough, calloused one and bent to kiss it, murmuring some well-practised words of flattery that I hardly heard.

My mother beamed, clearly pleased with her choice.

To her, this was exactly the sort of alliance that would enhance our family's position—a union bound by power and tradition, all at the cost of my own freedom.

But to me, Lord Blackmoor was the very embodiment of everything I was desperate to escape. The thought of binding myself to a life beside him felt like a slow suffocation.

I could feel my pulse racing, a wild, defiant thought forming in my mind. And as Lord Blackmoor droned on, I realized this might be my only chance.

Without hesitation, and without a backward glance, I dropped to my knees and crawled beneath the table.

The crowd bustled around me, too preoccupied with their own conversations and gossip to notice me slipping away.

I kept moving, my hands and knees skimming over the smooth stone floor, ducking beneath tablecloths and weaving between sturdy wooden chairs, my heart pounding in my chest.

My breath caught every time I heard a voice too close, or the clink of a goblet being set down nearby.

Just a few more tables and I would be close enough to the exit to slip away unnoticed.

But then, just as I rounded a corner, I looked up and froze. There, crouched beneath the table opposite me, was a young man watching me with keen, dark eyes that sparkled with unmistakable amusement.

His lips curved into a slow, knowing smirk, one eyebrow raised in what looked like impressed surprise.

"Davos Blackwood," he whispered, his voice smooth and dark, a playful grin lighting up his face. "And here I thought I'd be the only one causing trouble tonight. Crawl to me," he murmured a hint of challenge in his tone.

Something about him drew me in; the recklessness in his eyes mirrored my own.

"Come on darling" he urged "crawl to me."

Without thinking, I obeyed, closing the distance between us, drawn by the promise of escape in his gaze.

When I reached him, he took my hand and pulled me up, positioning me behind him to shield me from view.

With a quick glance around, Davos led me through a side passage that I hadn't noticed before, one that wound through the servants' quarters and then out into the cool night air.

We slipped out into the gardens, where the sounds of the feast faded behind us, replaced by the chirping of crickets and the quiet rustle of leaves in the breeze.

As we paused beneath the shelter of a broad oak tree, he turned to me, his eyes full of mischief and something else—a kind of recognition.

"You looked like you needed rescuing," he said with a grin, his gaze never leaving mine.

"I did," I admitted, my voice breathless with exhilaration.

"Well then, consider this your first taste of freedom," he replied, his voice warm with promise.

Davos's grip was warm and steady as he led me through the moonlit gardens and into a quiet corner of the estate's back corridors.

I hadn't felt this alive in ages; every whispered word and stolen glance we exchanged along the way was like kindling for a fire neither of us tried to hide.

"So," he murmured as we paused at the base of the stairs leading to my chambers, his voice low and teasing, "is this the usual method you use to escape unwanted suitors? Crawling through dining halls on your hands and knees?"

I tilted my chin up, trying to mask my racing pulse. "And if it is? It seemed to work well enough."

He chuckled, a warm, rich sound that made my cheeks flush. "Ah, so it's not your first time, then? Here I thought I was aiding a damsel in distress, only to discover I've stumbled upon a practised runaway."

I smirked, refusing to let him gain the upper hand. "If that's how you see it, fine. But judging by the way you were grinning back there, I'd say you're no stranger to breaking a few rules yourself."

He leaned in close, his eyes glinting with that cocky spark I'd seen when he first spotted me.

"Guilty," he admitted with a shrug, his lips barely an inch from mine. "And here I thought I'd be the only troublemaker sneaking around tonight." He paused, letting his gaze linger before he spoke again.

"But what can I say? I have a soft spot for daring women with even bolder plans."

Without breaking eye contact, I took a step back, letting him follow me up the stairs, just a half step behind, like we were two halves of the same current.

When we reached my chamber door, I opened it slowly, glancing back over my shoulder with a daring smile.

"Afraid to come in?" I asked, arching a brow.

He crossed his arms, that grin never leaving his face. "I'd worry about my reputation, but I think you've got it covered."

"Is that a yes or a no, Davos Blackwood?"

He stepped through the doorway, closing the door behind him with a quiet click.

We were alone now, the air between us thick with unspoken challenges. I couldn't resist baiting him. "I didn't think you'd actually follow me. You know, Lord Blackwood—"

"Davos," he corrected, a flash of something playful in his eyes as he moved closer, a hand tracing the edge of the table beside him. "I think we're a bit beyond formalities, don't you?"

I laughed, glancing away as his eyes roamed over the room. "Fine, Davos. You were saying?"

He stopped just a breath away, looking down at me with an infuriatingly cocky smile. "Just that if you wanted to escape so badly, maybe next time you should plan your exit a bit more carefully."

"Careful exits are for people afraid of getting caught," I shot back, folding my arms to keep him from seeing my hands tremble slightly. "Besides, who says I wanted to be entirely unnoticed?"

"Oh, is that so?" He leaned against the wall, clearly entertained. "Then maybe I was your intended rescue all along."

I stepped closer, meeting his gaze defiantly. "Or maybe I wanted to be caught by someone who'd know what to do about it."

For a moment, the silence between us deepened, charged with a tension I could feel humming between us. And then, in one swift movement, he leaned in, close enough that I could see the flicker of amusement in his eyes, close enough that I could feel the heat radiating from him.

"Well," he whispered, his voice barely above a murmur, "now that you've caught me, what are you going to do?"

"I think you'll find I'm full of surprises," I said, daring him to test me.

He raised an eyebrow, laughing softly as he shook his head. "You're a dangerous one," he said, a glint of admiration in his gaze.

The silence stretched, thick with anticipation. He didn't step back, didn't shift away, and neither did I.

Instead, I stayed close, letting the air crackle between us, daring him to test his own bravado.

"Full of surprises, huh?" he murmured, his voice laced with curiosity and a hint of challenge. "Guess I'll just have to find out, won't I?"

"Guess you will." I shot him a half-smile, reaching up to trace my fingers along his collar, my touch deliberately light.

I could see him swallow, just barely, his gaze flickering as he tried to keep his cool.

But I could tell he felt it, that thrill of danger coursing beneath every small movement.

He leaned in further, so close now that I could feel his breath against my neck, warm and steady. "You think you're the only one here who likes playing with fire?"

"Maybe not," I replied, letting my fingers drift lower, inching along the line of his chest. "But I bet you didn't expect someone to make you sweat."

"Oh, you think I'm sweating?" His hand came up, gripping my wrist just enough to keep my hand still, and his fingers tightened just slightly, adding a barely-there edge. "Think again."

The challenge in his gaze was undeniable now, an invitation as much as it was a dare. He wasn't about to back down, and I could feel the tension ratchet higher between us.

I tilted my chin, meeting his stare unflinchingly. "Then what are you waiting for?"

For a split second, he studied me, as if measuring the truth of my words. Then, with a flash of decision, he closed the space between us, his lips brushing mine, testing the waters.

I didn't hold back, pressing into him with an answering intensity that was half teasing, half demanding, a silent declaration that I could match him, push him, meet his fire with my own.

His hands moved to my waist, firm and deliberate, and I couldn't help but arch into him, daring him to hold tighter, to stop pretending he could keep his composure. He gave a low chuckle against my lips, the sound rich with amusement and something darker.

"You really don't know what you're asking for, do you?"

I smiled against his mouth, catching his lower lip between my teeth for the briefest of moments before pulling back, just enough to look him in the eye.

"And you really don't know who you're dealing with."

"Careful," he replied, his voice low, vibrating against my skin as he trailed his lips along my jawline. "I might have a little more in me than you're ready for."

"Try me," I breathed, tightening my hold, unwilling to let him think he was the one leading this.

But he was already moving, guiding me back until I felt the solid wall against my back, his hands bracketing me on either side. His gaze flickered down, a smirk tugging at his mouth as he took in the way my breath quickened.

For a moment, we were locked in place, the air between us heavy and charged.

Then, in one swift move, his hands found my wrists, pinning them just above my shoulders, and his face came close enough to mine that I could see every flicker of amusement and thrill in his eyes.

"Still feeling bold?" he asked, his tone almost daring me to deny it.

I didn't flinch, meeting his gaze with the same fire I felt radiating off him. "Only if you are."

He laughed softly, a sound that was low and rough and leaned in, claiming my lips again, his grip on my wrists tightening just enough to send a shiver through me.

The teasing continued in every touch, every kiss—each daring the other to take control, neither of us willing to be the first to give in.

Our clothes fell away with a shared, desperate urgency, revealing the charged anticipation between us.

Eventually, we landed on my bed, a tangle of breath and skin. He pushed himself back against the pillows, settling into a casual authority that only heightened the tension between us.

He leaned back, gaze dark and hungry, taking in every bare inch of me.

"Crawl to me," he commanded, voice low and hoarse. The look in his eyes was an invitation, a dare I couldn't resist.

I raised an eyebrow, letting a slow smile spread across my lips as I remained just out of reach, enjoying the power of my own restraint.

"Say please," I whispered, holding his gaze as I dropped to my hands and knees, moving with excruciating slowness, knowing he could barely wait but would have to.

He sucked in a breath, his jaw tightening in a small display of self-restraint, and his lips parted as he finally gave in.

"Please... crawl to me."

"As you wish," I whispered, inching forward, each movement deliberate as I savoured the thrill in his gaze.

Finally, I reached him, settling onto his lap, wrapping my arms around his shoulders, and meeting his mouth in a teasing brush of lips.

I shifted in his lap, letting my body press and move against him, testing his patience with slow, measured movements.

A low, gravelly sound escaped him, and his hands gripped my waist, his fingers digging in with the restraint that kept him just from pulling me flush against him.

A grin flickered across my face as I leaned in, lips hovering over his ear. "You're going to have to do better than that," I whispered, feeling his sharp intake of breath.

He didn't hesitate, flipping us over in one smooth, practised motion, pinning me beneath him. I could feel his heart racing as he settled his weight over me, his breath hot against my cheek as he brought his lips to my ear.

"Careful what you wish for," he murmured, voice thick with warning, as his mouth found the sensitive skin just below my ear, his lips tracing a tantalizing line down my neck.

His hands roamed over my body, fingers skating down my sides and pausing just short of where I wanted them most.

He'd linger, tantalizingly close, then move away, watching me with a smirk that told me he knew exactly what he was doing. I squirmed beneath him, impatient, but unwilling to give him the satisfaction of asking.

Instead, I leaned up, catching his bottom lip between my teeth before letting it go, giving him a look of challenge.

"What's the matter?" I whispered, my voice sweet with feigned innocence. "Afraid you can't handle it?"

A flash of amusement crossed his face before he met my challenge with a fierce determination.

In one smooth motion, he slid inside me, his hands gripping my waist, his eyes locked onto mine as he began to move, slow at first, driving me to the edge with every deliberate thrust.

I wrapped my legs around his waist, pulling him closer, urging him deeper, needing him in ways I could no longer deny.

My nails traced lines down his back, pressing just hard enough to make him hiss, and he responded with a deliciously rough pace, the teasing entirely gone now, replaced by a raw, unrestrained need.

My mouth found his neck, marking him with soft bites that deepened into needy kisses, as our movements became faster, more insistent, both of us pushing each other toward that inevitable, shared release.

He held me tighter, pressing me into the mattress as though I belonged nowhere else, and in that moment, everything beyond us disappeared.

There was nothing else but the rhythm of our bodies, the heat, and the sensation, carrying us both away, together.

For the rest of that night, it was as though nothing outside those walls existed—no feasts, no obligations, no family plans for a future that didn't fit me.

There was only the thrill of the moment, the taste of freedom, and a night with Davos Blackwood that I knew I'd never forget.

A/n - Ok Rhys and Bridget, I still gotta read the twisted series but I think every reader has at least heard of this scene 👀

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