#and amber wanting to hold bloodied hands

[rennalaqotfm]

𖤓 DRAGONSPEAR | J.V (PART IV)

Pairing: Prince Jacaerys Velaryon x Martell Princess! Reader

Synopsys: Upon discovering Aemond Targaryen's alliance with the Triarchy, the Blacks are pushed to the point of desperation. With the war looming over the horizon, they have no choice but to turn to an unlikely ally: House Martell.

Content Warning: Sexual content (but MDNI 18+ just to be safe), dry humping (-ish?), violence, alcohol consumption, toxic dynamics, swearing, themes of prejudice and misogynism, and a lot of 'fucking politicking,' as King Viserys said, (not proofread).

WC: 5.6k

Series Masterlist

(A/N and taglist at the end of the chapter)

As the winds guided Ser Tyland's ship to the Free Cities, the excitement regarding the wedding of the future Princess of Dorne and the Crown Prince buzzed in the air. No ravens had to be sent, for the whispers began within the palace walls, spread through the bustling streets of Sunspear, and were carried by the desert winds across the dunes, reaching the furthest Dornish houses.

Princess Y/n sat before her mirror, watching her handmaiden, Melynda, fasten the back of her dress. A sweet girl of one-and-twenty, Melynda had been brought from Pentos on a cramped boat, a former slave traded by her master for coin. Ever since she had served the Princess with quiet devotion, her nimble fingers always making a masterpiece out of her.

Despite being draped in the finest fabrics of deep sapphire, adorned with intricate golden swirls and beads of amber, Y/n stared blankly at her reflection. The celebrations leading to the wedding were set to last a fortnight, a long stretch filled with feasts, ceremonies, and endless politicking. In mere hours, she would be facing the guests, forced to smile and charm as she and the Velaryon boy persuaded them to align with Rhaenyra's cause. She didn't even know where to begin looking for the strength and willpower she had to gather to convince those lords to join a war she herself didn't fully believe in.

“Is it too tight, Princess?” Melynda asked meekly, noting how Y/n had remained quiet the whole time she had been preparing her. "Princess?"

Suddenly, Y/n's bottom lip began to quiver as she felt a knot forming in her throat. 

“Gods be damned…” she muttered, feeling her tears pooling in her eyes. “How did it all come to this?” 

“If it's too tight, mayhaps I could—”

“Of course, it’s bloody tight! It’s damn near crushing my guts!” the Princess burst out, causing her handmaiden to stumble backward, her hands trembling. “I apologise, Melynda,” she sniffed, feeling the guilt pool in her chest. It wasn’t the first time she had taken her anger and frustration out on the younger girl. Of all the people in the palace, she was the least deserving of such crude treatment. “It’s just—”

“I understand, Princess,” Melynda smiled sadly, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder. Y/n held her hand softly, holding back her cries. “To be betrothed to someone who you don't truly love must be a punishment for the soul.”

“I’ve been trying to avoid this all these years. Gods forbid a woman who wants to live a life free from all this nonsense," she muttered bitterly.

“You are to be the Princess of Dorne. It was bound to happen sooner or later.”

“But not with a Targaryen… someone who sees us as nothing more than goatfuckers.”

“Once you get to acquainted with one another, I’m certain he’ll see past the veil of prejudice that blinds the rest of Westeros.”

“Oh, we’re well past the point of acquaintances, and I’m certain we’ve both made it clear that we’d rather kill each other than push forward with this betrothal.”

“And yet, you've hardly spent a moment alone together, away from prying eyes. Forgive me if I'm wrong, my Princess, but this hostility you feel towards one another... it feels more like the weight of your houses than your own. He’s not truly wronged you, nor have you wronged him... well, apart from the few wounds you’ve exchanged.”

“I wish it were as simple as you say, but the hatred between our houses runs deeper than that trial. We’re talking about years of bloodshed, of lives torn apart by their desire to conquer what was never theirs. How can we ever forget that? If anything, those Targaryens are only reaping what they've sown.”

“I understand, Princess, but is it truly fair to place the sins of the forefathers upon their children? Yes, the Targaryens once sought to conquer Dorne, but they failed. And since then, they’ve left us to rule our lands. Why should Prince Jacaerys suffer for the wrongdoings of his ancestors when he himself hasn't harmed you?”

“You speak the truth, Melynda. But do you truly think the rest of the Dorne will see it that way?” She stared at her handmaiden's reflection. “The pain the Targaryens have caused... it’s not just written in our histories, it’s engraved into the souls of our people.”

“I’m not saying that your betrothal to Prince Jacaerys will reconcile your houses overnight, Princess. In fact, it may take generations to heal these wounds. However, if Queen Rhaenyra proves to be the rightful and just ruler she claims to be, and honours your demands... and you and Prince Jacaerys unite the Seven Kingdoms as promised, then mayhaps it could be the beginning of something.” 

Suddenly, both women were startled by a knock on the door.

“Yes?” Y/n cleared her throat.

“My Princess,” Ser Domeric said from the other side. “The guests have begun to arrive, and your presence is expected shortly.”

Princess Y/n quickly composed herself, ensuring that any trace of sorrow had vanished from her face, and replaced her semblance with a mask of indifference.

The late afternoon breeze crept through the palace windows, stirring the heavy air in the Hall but doing little to lift the mood. Spirits were low and the lingering music was drowned out by the quiet murmurs of the guests. Lords and ladies from House Yronwood to House Qorgyle had traversed across the arid deserts to Sunspear, not out of enthusiasm, but out of duty, their gazes shifting warily as they gathered to pay tribute to the Princess. Even Y/n herself, appeared as though she wished to be anywhere else.

At the high table, the Martells sat alongside the Targaryens, not able to look one another eye to eye. They faced the great houses, whose semblance didn’t hide their disdain for the dragonriders. They showed no efforts for forced pleasantries, bracing themselves for the next chapter of conflict rather than celebrating a wedding that would unite the Seven Kingdoms.

Before anything, Prince Qoren stood up, ready to speak before his people.

“It is truly an honour to welcome you all this evening, and I thank each and every one of you for making the long journey to Sunspear. Tonight, we gather not only to celebrate the betrothal of my beloved daughter, Princess Y/n Martell, to the Crown Prince Jacaerys Velaryon... but also, the union between House Martell and House Targaryen,” he spoke, the enthusiasm fading in his voice. 

The crowd fell into an immediate hush, the lords and ladies exchanging uncertain glances, some full of resentment, and some full of disgust. Y/n felt each pressing gaze suffocating her and tried to hide her discomfort behind the rim of her cup, already expecting those pessimistic reactions. After all, who in their right mind would willingly wed a Targaryen?

“Out of all of the suitors that have lost their lives willing to serve you and our realm, you chose to spare the one whose ancestors sought to conquer our lands?” Lady Liara from House Briar’s voice trembled, barely able to hold back her anger. “Could you not have shown mercy to my sweet boy Eldritch instead?”

The Princess had always been taught to hold back in such moments, especially in front of such a large audience, but before she could stop herself, the words were already spilling out of her mouth.

“My Lady,” Y/n began, trying to push down the feeling of irritation rising up her chest. “Remind me… who sent your son, alone, to seek my hand? As far as I know, someone that young shouldn’t be burdened with ‘providing me a strong heir’ or ‘making Dorne more prosperous than it already is.’ Those aren’t words a boy of three-and-ten should be speaking.” 

Lady Liara sank back to her seat with a scowl. The Princess’ gaze swept across the Hall, their faces etched with grief and bitterness, never forgetting the lives lost in pursuit of her hand. 

Whilst the guests sat in silence, waiting for either Prince Qoren or Princess Y/n to justify such a decision, Rhaenyra seized the moment to capture the crowd’s attention. She cleared her throat and rose slowly, her lilac eyes lingering on each guest, meeting the same eyes that had carried pent-up hatred for generations.

“By coming here, we are not denying the sins of House Targaryen,” she paused, allowing her words to settle, her gaze never leaving the crowd.  “I understand that to many of you, we are still the enemy. I am aware of the blood that was spilled and the pain that has lingered for generations. But the true enemies now are the Greens, who have usurped the Throne and seek to bring all of Westeros to its knees. And I know Dorne will not bend without a fight. Join us, and we will stand together. We can prevent the war that the Greens will bring to your lands.”

Despite Rhaenyra's words, the guests still mumbled with one another and her plea fell on indifferent ears. She clasped her hands together, holding her composure.

“So, the Greens are the enemies now, eh?" A voice echoing across the hall finally broke through the whispers. “To them, you are the usurper. And as far as we are concerned, they have yet to come to our lands to pester us with this petty war of yours.”

“Do not mistake their silence for mercy, my Lord. When they come, they will not ask. They will take. And by then, it may be too late to decide where your loyalties lie,” Daemon retorted.

“They have left us with no other choice,” Lord Lysander Dayne scowled. “Is this why you brought these beasts? So they can burn us if we refuse to join?”

Upon the mere mention of the dragons, the fear of the crowd became palpable. Prince Qoren’s face was flushed with anger, seeing that the celebration had somehow turned into a council meeting.

“Enough of this nonsense!” Prince Qoren bellowed, rising to his feet and jabbing his fist to the table. "We are here to celebrate the upcoming wedding of my daughter, not to squabble over this bloody war! If I hear more of it tonight, I’ll throw you in a pit of scorpions myself," his voice cut through the crowd, making the lords shrink back into their seats as he glared at Rhaenyra.

The music, which had momentarily ceased, began to play again. Princess Y/n exhaled deeply, gripping her cup as she swirled the crimson liquid. If she was going to endure the remainder of this night and persuade those thick-skulled lords to support Rhaenyra, she would need wine. A lot of it. She downed the first cup, the sweet taste lingering on her palate as her gaze shifted across the room, spotting the lords she had to sway.

Lord Lysander of House Dayne sat with his lady wife, his stern face etched with displeasure. He had made it clear where he stood, opposing any involvement in the war. Yet, he was infamously known for his ambition; he was the sort of man who would bend the knee for the right price, advancing his own house in exchange for his formidable army. Then there was Lord Thaddeus of House Yronwood, head of the second-most powerful house in Dorne, capable of providing enough supplies to sustain the armies at sea; a practical man, loyal to tradition, but always open to negotiation. On the other side of the Hall, she spotted Lord Ander of House Jordayne, who owned the largest fleet in Dorne.

Ser Domeric, being part of House Uller and their loyal informant, would provide whatever support was asked. And lastly, House Santagar, though not enthusiastic, had always been fiercely loyal to the Martells and would stand by their house regardless.

Despite the collective disappointment lingering in the air, as the feast came to an end, the guests stood up to salvage what remained of the evening. Jacaerys’ eyes followed Y/n as she rose from her seat, weaving through the multitude and making her way to Lord Lysander. The man bowed his head and extended his hand, offering the Princess a dance which she accepted with a smile that seemed far too charming than she would normally allow herself to be. Jacaerys couldn’t tear his gaze from Y/n, watching how she leaned towards Lord Lysander, her lips closely brushing his ear, as he nodded eagerly so as not to disappoint her.

“A celebration of our upcoming betrothal?” Jacaerys scoffed, already feeling his blood boil at the sight of the Princess with another man. Had they been at the Red Keep, the whispers would have already circled around, rumours of the Princess enjoying the company of other men, even while bound by a betrothal to him, that would call into question not only her honour but the legitimacy of their future children. He could already hear the council’s scandalous whispers behind closed doors–whispers that had been haunting him all his life.

“She’s quite gifted, isn’t she, my dear sister?” Elyas remarked, turning to Jacaerys. “She has a way of making men dance in the palm of her hand.”

“Only if one is foolish enough to fall for whatever games she is playing,” Jacaerys muttered.

Jacaerys and Elyas watched how Lord Lysander placed a kiss on top of her hand. With one final whisper, she slipped away from his arms and disappeared into the crowd, only to be seen again; that time with Lord Ander, who offered the Princess his hand without hesitation. 

“There are a couple of things you should know about her,” Elyas said with a sneer, glancing at the Princess. “One of them is… you’ll never be her only one.”

“You need not tell me what I can already see. It seems your sister is not familiar with the notion of faithfulness.”

“Faithfulness? As far as I’m aware, neither of you are bound by vows just yet,”  Elyas grinned, noting how Jacaerys clearly wasn’t enjoying the conversation. "But listen, this celebration isn’t meant for you to sulk in a corner, watching my sister dance with every lord in Dorne. It's for indulging. There’s a place not too far from the palace, where we know how to truly celebrate. Who knows? You might not even survive this war you’re throwing yourself into. You may as well enjoy the finest pleasures our land has to offer before it’s too late," Jacaerys’s knuckles whitened around his cup, his repulsion palpable, but Elyas only leaned in closer. 

As much as Jacaerys despised watching Princess Y/n flit from lord to lord, he wasn’t about to lower himself to her games. What was she trying to prove? Was she testing him, daring him to show any signs of jealousy or anger? Or mayhaps she was simply making it clear, once again, how much she misliked him?

Jacaerys refused to give Elyas the satisfaction of a response and merely shook his head. Elyas smirked, amused by Jacaerys' restraint, and stood up, ensuring he ruined the evening even more before leaving.

“Oh, and just so you know… whatever illusions you have about loyalty and honour, you'd best cast them aside. If you think my sister will suddenly change her ways after this betrothal of yours, then you’re completely wrong. I’m telling you now, she won’t. She’s as Dornish as they come… untamable and always chasing trouble. The more you tighten the leash, the more she’ll struggle to break free. And she’ll keep playing her games, whether you like them or not... so you better learn how to play them if you don't wish to end up as another one of her playthings,” Elyas said, slapping Jacaerys’ shoulder playfully before walking away.

Jacaerys hadn’t even realised how tightly he was clenching his jaw until the sound of Elyas and his sworn protector’s fading footsteps pulled him back to reality. He let out a breath, trying to shake off the bitterness away, and downed a gulp of wine.

But what he hadn’t noticed was a pair of dark wide eyes watching him from the other end of the table. It was Farien, whose gaze had been flickering between him and Elyas the whole time. When Jacaerys caught the boy's gaze, his expression softened. He set down his cup, watching how the little boy stood up and made his way over to him.

“If you marry my sister, does that mean you’ll become my brother?” Farien asked. 

“I suppose,” he forced a smile, though he wasn’t sure if the little boy was particularly glad about that.

Farien climbed on to the empty seat beside Jacaerys, glancing around the nearly deserted table and making sure none of his family members were nearby. All of the Martells were tending their own business, leaving the Targaryens seated in silence. The boy leaned in close, cupping his small hands around Jacaerys’s ear, scared that someone might hear what he had to say.

“So, does that mean I get to ride your dragon?” He whispered. 

Jacaerys looked at him, his eyes widening in surprise. 

“If your father allows you, then I suppose you could… but are you not afraid?” He asked.

“I’m really, really scared. But I wonder what it must feel like to see the world from up above. The closest I’ve ever gotten to flying is in my dreams, you know? It feels like I’m one of Father’s falcons, soaring high in the skies. Father says I have the gift to turn into one of them at night and watch over the desert,” he glanced up, his eyes gleaming in wonder.

Jacaerys looked at the boy and allowed himself to smile, as Farien somehow reminded him of his younger brother, Joffrey, whom he hadn't seen in a long time.

“Anyway,” Farien continued, “I think we could be brothers, you and I. We even look alike, see?” He pointed at Jacaerys’ curls. “It would be nice to have another brother... because, well, Elyas... he’s nice, sometimes. But not always.”

Jacaerys held back a scoff, figuring as much. 

“And what about your sister?” 

“We like sneaking sweets from the kitchens and feeding them to the horses,” Farien’s eyes suddenly lit up. “And she loves fighting, too. But not the angry, shouting kind, no. She says that sometimes, fighting feels like dancing, and that’s why she enjoys it. She’s really good at it. And I think you are too. But my sister is better.”

Just as he was about to ask Farien what other things his sister enjoyed, one of the little boy’s servants approached them. 

“My Prince, your father has sent me to take you back to your chambers to rest,” she smiled at the little boy, who had no choice but to accept dejectedly.

As the servant took him in her arms, Farien waved at Jacaerys with a small smile. He nodded at the little boy, unable to stop himself from smiling back.

“At least the little one is not as irritating as the rest of his family,” Rhaenyra said as her gaze softened, noticing how the little boy never tore his eyes from them as he got further and further.

“Give him a couple of years. He will turn out exactly like his older brother,” Daemon muttered. 

Then, Jacaerys' gaze trailed back to the Princess once again, who was still locked in a dance with Lord Ander. The exchange of whispers seemed to grow more intense, as his lips lingered on the shell of her ear, making her nod as her smile never left her lips.

“Jacaerys,” Daemon’s sharp voice cut through his thoughts. “Do you not have a duty to fulfil?”

“I have been fulfilling them since the moment we arrived,” he muttered, his voice laced with irritation. As Jacaerys had been doing everything he could to uphold his duties, Daemon merely sat back, watching the spectacle he had set in motion unravel before him. 

“You have, but sitting and watching the Princess be courted by every lord in Dorne is not one of them. Listen to me, these men are doing everything in their power to pull her away from our alliance since they can see she does not favour you,” he paused leaning in closer. “You are no stranger to this. If you two are to rule the Seven Kingdoms, she needs to be seen by your side.”

Jacaerys rose from his seat as he exhaled, growing frustrated by the second. It was all in the name of duty, after all. He headed towards the Princess with steady steps, disappearing into the crowd and dodging every drunken lord and lady that stood in his way. Lord Ander, who seemed to have more intentions than just dancing with the Princess, held her close, too close, his hands lingering on her waist. 

“My Lord,” Jacaerys cleared his throat, barely containing himself. Lord Ander snapped his head towards his direction. “I would hate to interrupt your conversation, but the hour is quite late, and Princess Y/n needs to rest.”

“Is that so?” He pulled Y/n even closer to him, making Jacaerys’ blood boil. “How come the Princess seems to be enjoying herself?”

Jacaerys’ eyes flicked to the cup in her hand, the liquid threatening to spill from the rim. He wasn’t a stranger to that dazed look and that loose smirk playing on her lips. 

“The Princess seems to have indulged in one too many cups. You may continue whatever… conversation you were having on the morrow, my Lord,” Jacaerys forced his words through his teeth. 

“Is that an order from the Crown Prince? Or from a boy who is still learning how to hold a woman’s interest?” Lord Ander raised a brow, sliding his hand even lower on her waist. 

The Princess’ gaze flicked between the two men, unaware of the escalating tension. She took another sip from her cup, her eyes landing on Jacaerys, finally acknowledging how dashing he looked in a Dornish ensemble of deep blues and golds.

“Gods, spare me,” she muttered, rolling her eyes. “You two sound like you’re ready to start another war.”

“If it means winning your favour, Princess,” Lord Ander said with a grin.

“Mayhaps that's a battle for another day. Besides, the Prince is right, the hour is quite late,” she said softly, growing tired at the show of bravado between the two men. She moved away from Lord Ander and took a step towards Jacaerys.

Jacaerys, whose heart was pounding with both anger and relief, offered her his arm. Y/n would’ve hesitated at first, but under the effects of wine, any qualms were long gone. She noted how he tensed his arm uncomfortably, unaware that she was putting pressure on the wound she had given him not too long ago. 

Casymir leaned against one of the pillars with a hint of amusement on his face, watching the whole scene unfold before his eyes. Once Jacaerys and Y/n were away from the crowd, he finally pushed himself off the pillar, approaching Jacaerys, who was struggling to keep her in place.

“Allow me, my Prince. The Princess is in good hands with me,” he said, extending his arm. 

Jacaerys glared at Casymir as he adjusted her weight in his arm, wondering what he was smiling for.

“You are the Princess’ sworn protector, are you not?” He raised his brow. 

“Yes, my Prince,” he smiled proudly.

“Yet all you did was stand and watch how the Princess wandered into the clutches of men with less than noble intentions,” Jacaerys tried to keep his composure, though his anger simmered beneath the surface.

“Do you question my service to the Princess, my Prince?” He chuckled, brushing the Prince’s concerns aside. “The Princess was in no immediate danger. And as far as I’m aware, a dance with a lord hardly constitutes a threat.”

“If you think a man whose ulterior motives are clearly written in his face not to be dangerous, then mayhaps we have very different understandings of the word danger,” Jacaerys said. 

“You greatly misunderstand the Princess. Lord Ander was eager, but he knew better than to cross the line. And besides, she would’ve ended his attempts long before you stepped in. As you might have already… experienced, the Princess knows how to handle herself and hardly needs to be coddled,” his blue eyes trailed at the way their arms were intertwined. “Though, it seems she doesn’t mind letting you try.”

“So, what are you here for, then? Just for decoration?”  

“Is picking fights with other men a favourite pastime of yours, my Prince?” The Princess laughed, poking fun at Jacaerys as she unconsciously tightened her grip around his injured arm. “You do seem to have a talent for making enemies wherever you go.”

Jacaerys hesitated, unsure if replying to the Princess was even worth the efforts given her current state, so he merely scoffed, shaking his head in defeat. However, one thing he couldn’t ignore was the feeling of having her so close as she mindlessly ran her hand up and down the length of his arm. He tried to calm his heart, but he couldn’t keep his composure with each stroke of her fingers that made him lean into her touch ever so slightly.   

Once they reached the Princess’ chambers, Casymir leaned on the door, his arms crossed with an infuriatingly calm expression on his face. 

“If you wish to be escorted back to your chambers, my Prince, I can call for a servant,” Casymir offered, implying that Jacaerys had overstayed his welcome.

“No. I wish to stay. The Princess and I have a few words to exchange,” he said.

“I’ll be fine, Cas,” the Princess slurred, assuring her sworn protector with a slow nod.

“As you wish, my Princess. I'll be just outside, should you require any assistance.”

Jacaerys stood by the door, unsure of what to do now that he was inside the Princess’ chambers. It wasn’t improper of him, as her soon-to-be husband, to be seen there, so he found himself leaning against the wall, trying to regain the composure that he had repeatedly lost throughout the night. His eyes trailed around the intricately carved golden statues that adorned the corners and the colourful tapestries that swayed slightly, catching the faint breeze that slipped through the windows and bringing with it the distant murmurs of the ongoing celebration. 

Only when he heard a soft clink and the steady stream of wine being poured into a cup, he snapped out of his thoughts. Before he could even think, he turned to Y/n, walking towards her and snatching the cup and jug from her hands, causing her mouth to hang open in disbelief and indignation. 

“You will not drink any more tonight,” he ordered, pouring the liquid out of the window and slamming the cup aside.  

“Well, isn’t this absolutely perfect?” She spat, throwing her arms in the air in defeat. “Not only will you take away my freedom, but now you wish to take away one of the few things that bring me joy?”

“You must live a very miserable life, Princess, if wine and men are the few things in life that bring you joy,” Jacaerys burst out, no longer able to contain the pent-up anger that had been brewing all night.

“Oh, believe me, I’ll have a miserable life once I marry you.”

“And what makes you think I want to marry you? That behaviour of yours… is unacceptable,” he wrinkled his nose in disgust. “I do not wish to marry someone who is a slave to their desires.”

“A slave to my desires? Is that what you think of me?” Y/n shouted, unable to control the fury taking over her voice.

“What else am I supposed to think when you go from lord to lord like a marionette whose strings had been cut?” He paused, taking in her dishevelled appearance. “I was not aware how these Dornishmen could name someone so ruthless and so debauched as their Princess.” 

“And I didn’t know you Targaryens go around crowning bastards just to keep your house on the Throne,” she spat, making sure to rest her gaze on his dark eyes and on his brown locks long enough.

“You whore–!”

Before Jacaerys could finish his sentence, Y/n's palm collided with his cheek in a stinging slap, his head snapping to the side. His eyes widened, more in shock than pain, as his hand instinctively rose to the reddening mark on his face.

“A whore? A savage? A goatfucker?” Y/n's voice trembled with fury. “Is that all you see me as?” She shoved him hard, sending him stumbling backward until his back hit the wall. Her finger jabbed into his chest with every word. “You,” she spat, “should be thanking me for getting my hands dirty, persuading those lords to join your petty war!”

Jacaerys was stunned into silence momentarily, feeling every ounce of her rage bleeding through her words.

“And who told you to do that on your own?” Jacaerys shot back. “You could have asked me, we could have gone together and spoken to them like it is expected of us!”

“You overestimate yourself,” she scoffed, narrowing her eyes at him. “Do you even know what those lords think of you? Of your family? If it weren’t for our betrothal, they would have driven a spear through your chests without a second thought. Because to them, you Targaryens are nothing but bloodthirsty murderers who’ve come to take our lands all over again.”

“Enough!” Jacaerys grabbed her by the shoulders and spun her, slamming her against the wall. “You think I do not know that? You think I do not feel it every time I step into a room? The way they look at me? At my family? You think I enjoy being the enemy?” He seethed, feeling his throat grow raw with each word. “Gods, you are infuriating,” he grunted, realising how close their faces were to one another. 

The Princess’ lips curled into a smirk, a flicker of satisfaction lingering in her eyes. She had struck a nerve, realising how Jacaerys was always quick to react to whatever blasphemous speech she had to say about his family, and once again, she had managed to unleash the dormant wrath that blinded his actions. 

As the Princess found herself cornered between his arms and the wall, she crouched low, slipping beneath his arms in a fluid motion and spinning around to pin Jacaerys against the wall, pressing her chest to his back. Jacaerys reacted instinctively, kicking off the wall to shove her back. The sudden force sent her stumbling as she crashed on the ground, and he followed, landing on top of her in a tangle of limbs.

Just as he was about to stand up, Y/n yanked him back down and rolled on top of him, keeping him in place by locking her thighs around his waist and pinning his arms on the floor with one swift movement. Truth be told, Jacaerys could have easily pushed her away as her usual strength was halved by the wine; yet he remained still, feeling the warmth of Y/n’s body pressed into his, and how their faces were inches apart yet again, her breath hot on his skin.

Once again, he found himself under her mercy.

She stared down at him with half-lidded eyes and lips slightly open as she breathed lightly, taking in the sight of Jacaerys’ flushed face and his gaze clouded by desire. Jacaerys looked up at her and gulped, feeling his erection stirring uncomfortably beneath his breeches.

His eyes locked onto her plump lips and trailed towards to the hollow of her neck, down to her chest. He stared hungrily as she leaned towards him, his fingertips itching to explore the skin hidden beneath the fabric of her dress. As she got closer and closer to his face, Jacaerys’ breath hitched, and without realising it, his lips parted slightly as his eyes fluttered shut in anticipation. His pulse quickened, waiting for the warmth of her lips pressing against his.

But instead of the kiss he craved, he felt the hot caress of her breath graze the shell of his ear, sending a shiver down his spine. Her voice, low and smooth, held him captive with each honeyed word.

“If you want to win this little war of yours, you better start by respecting me,” she whispered as she let go of one of his wrists and began tracing delicate patterns with her finger. “Just because I’ve chosen you as my betrothed doesn’t mean I won’t change my mind,” she bucked her hips against his hardened cock, causing Jacaerys to groan at the sudden spark of pleasure coursing in his veins. 

In that very moment, Y/n had uncovered yet another emotion—the primal desire that, despite her infuriating attitude, she had managed to set ablaze. If Jacaerys had to ask himself how it happened, he wouldn’t know where to begin answering. Had it all started when they first met, when she held little regard for him? Was it in the arena, when she brazenly humiliated him in front of everyone? Or was it the fact that they always seemed to find themselves pointing a blade at each other’s throats? Behind all that anger and hatred, and the prejudice that blinded him from seeing the Princess as she truly was, lay a spark of curiosity. Something he knew that once he began to explore, that spark would turn into wildfire.

With each passing second, he fought against the temptation to place his hands on the curve of her hips and make her grind herself against his cock.

“Remember, my Prince,” she purred in his ear, bucking her hips once again. “The wedding has not taken place yet, and anything could happen.” 

A/N: For some reason, i keep beating my wordcount record. istg my fanfic wc is way bigger than all of my uni papers combined, and bare in mind i was a humanities student lmfaooo.

anyway, i feel like this chapter was a mess. jace's patience continuously getting tested by everyone, and our reader making things even harder for him. i actually feel sorry for those two but the way they are handling things is not very demure, mindful or cutesy. we got the exact opposite.

Taglist: @happinessinthebeing @deltamoon666 @dark1paradise @elz-zalarrr @v0dka4a (continued in comments)

[shooting-love-arrows]

𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄! 𝟏𝟗𝟐𝟎'𝐬! 𝐑𝐈𝐂𝐇 𝐌𝐀𝐍

SYNOPSIS: 𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞! 𝟏𝟗𝟐𝟎'𝐬! 𝐑𝐢𝐜𝐡 𝐌𝐚𝐧 tries to be a better man but others seemed to be testing his limits. PAIRING: 𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞! 𝟏𝟗𝟐𝟎'𝐬! 𝐑𝐢𝐜𝐡 𝐌𝐚𝐧 x Reader (gender isn't impiled/mentioned/specified) Tw. blood, description of wounds, violence, cussing, smoking, possesive behaviour, reader is called darling

𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

"I hate bastards like you." 𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞! 𝟏𝟗𝟐𝟎'𝐬! 𝐑𝐢𝐜𝐡 𝐌𝐚𝐧 breathed out under his nose and despite being physically active for the past hours. He turned around on the squeaking, old chair he was occupying and calmly took out his silver and amber cigarette case from one of his coat’s pockets which was hanging from the back of the furniture. Now with his possessions at hand, he returned to his previous position. "Ya want one?" 

The man messily sprawled on a wooden floor could only whine pathetically like a little baby.

"Alright." 𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞! 𝟏𝟗𝟐𝟎'𝐬! 𝐑𝐢𝐜𝐡 𝐌𝐚𝐧 shrugged, taking the whine as ‘no’. Without any care in the world, he himself took one of the cigarettes from the rectangle case. He furrowed his thick eyebrows as he lit it up using his trusty lighter. "Like I've said...where was I?"

Silence fell on the dingy room like a thick blanket, choking everyone with its density, except the one who caused it in the first place. 

"Ah! Right!" 𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞! 𝟏𝟗𝟐𝟎'𝐬! 𝐑𝐢𝐜𝐡 𝐌𝐚𝐧 facepalmed, shaking his head in disbelief that he forgot what he was talking about in the first place. "I absolutely HATE bastards like you."

𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞! 𝟏𝟗𝟐𝟎'𝐬! 𝐑𝐢𝐜𝐡 𝐌𝐚𝐧 leaned down, his fitting shirt accenting his lean and tense body, to tightly grasp his victim's hair in his iron grip and harshly brought the idiot up to be face to face with him. The man screamed painfully, choking on his blood that kept pouring from his mouth and nose. One of his eyes began to turn black and was tightly shut from how puffy it had become. The rest of his body wasn’t in any better shape.

"The ones that lure in a place where they don't belong. The ones who believe they have a chance with someone who is clearly taken. But most importantly, the ones who dare to ignore me."

𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞! 𝟏𝟗𝟐𝟎'𝐬! 𝐑𝐢𝐜𝐡 𝐌𝐚𝐧 continued his speech like he wasn’t talking to a man beaten half to death. He deeply breathed in his cigarette and after holding it in for a few seconds, he blew toxic smoke right in this man's face, watching with satisfaction him fall into a coughing fit. The victim winced and began to cry, mainly because of his broken ribs. "I was so generous and took my precious time to politely inform you to stay away from my darlin'. I remeber explicitly advising you to search for a good fuck somewhere else. Right?"

𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞! 𝟏𝟗𝟐𝟎'𝐬! 𝐑𝐢𝐜𝐡 𝐌𝐚𝐧 harshly patted the bruised and bloody cheek of the said man after noticing him falling unconscious. The man gasped and cried harder, weakly nodding.

"Right! And what did you do?" 𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞! 𝟏𝟗𝟐𝟎'𝐬! 𝐑𝐢𝐜𝐡 𝐌𝐚𝐧 took a deep breath from his cigarette, gritting his teeth in rage. "Like a swine decided you know better than me and went for it! You...you fucking bastard..." He began panting and letting this powerful emotion take control over his whole being. 𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞! 𝟏𝟗𝟐𝟎'𝐬! 𝐑𝐢𝐜𝐡 𝐌𝐚𝐧 couldn’t help but begin to laugh like he heard the best joke. It sounded so houting, echoing in the small room which the victim occupied on a daily basis.

"You bastard fucked with a wrong darlin'." 𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞! 𝟏𝟗𝟐𝟎'𝐬! 𝐑𝐢𝐜𝐡 𝐌𝐚𝐧 summed it up and took a deep breath to calm himself down. Then he took another deep inhale of his cigarette, before taking it out of his mouth since it was almost burnt out completely. He flexed his aching jaw and gripped the man's hair tighter, satisfied to be hearing his high pitched whine. "MY darlin'."

𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞! 𝟏𝟗𝟐𝟎'𝐬! 𝐑𝐢𝐜𝐡 𝐌𝐚𝐧 didn’t hesitate to bring the still burning cigarette to the man's forehead and put it out there. The man screamed but didn't trashed much. He didn't have any strength in him to do so anymore.

"And I won’t tolerate it."

And he didn't.

“What happened to your hands?” You asked the very next day and carefully took them in yours. 𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞! 𝟏𝟗𝟐𝟎'𝐬! 𝐑𝐢𝐜𝐡 𝐌𝐚𝐧 basked in your attention, especially loving skin to skin contact initiated by you. 

“Ah, it’s nothin’, really.” 𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞! 𝟏𝟗𝟐𝟎'𝐬! 𝐑𝐢𝐜𝐡 𝐌𝐚𝐧 laughed it off and took this chance to burn the image of your concerned face in his memory. You looked so adorable. So gullible…

“You don’t need to worry your pretty head over this, darlin’.”

“But – !”

“Ah!” 𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞! 𝟏𝟗𝟐𝟎'𝐬! 𝐑𝐢𝐜𝐡 𝐌𝐚𝐧 tutted, cutting you off and moved his aching and bruised hands to take yours instead. He squeezed them affectionately, looking lovingly into your eyes. “How about we go to buy that clothes we saw yesterday? You looked so darling in them!”

All of the published posts on this account/blog belongs to @shooting-love-arrows. I do not consent to my works being: translated, stolen, published or reposted on this and other sites. Likes, reblogs, comments are highly appreaciated. Thank you.

[frances-baby-houseman]

I would have bled out in the parking lot

Amber Nicole Thurman's death is on Trump's hands

Bess Kalb

Sep 17

In 2019, about six weeks after my first child was born, I found myself on the bathroom floor in a small, but nonetheless unsettling puddle of blood.

“Oh no,” I remember thinking. “I just did the laundry.”

I called out my husband’s name, but the sound caught in my throat. The pain I felt inhaling to get enough air out of my lungs to yell the two syllables in “Char-lie” jabbed my guts like a bicycle spoke to the abdomen.

So I was quiet, trying to keep breathing in a way that didn’t move anything inside me, and the pain pulsed a bit, then steadied, then dulled, then evaporated into whatever hell ether it came from.

Because there is no G-d (unless there is, in which case I abbreviated His name so as not to desecrate it, and also thank you, King of the Universe, for subscribing to this newsletter) this was the one time in my life I hadn’t brought my phone with me to the bathroom.

I decided to sort of slither-lumber to the door like a lame harbor seal, because I didn’t want to stand and loosen the spoke that had just stabbed me. I reached for the knob and let the door creak open.

The cat was there, looking at me right at eye level, keenly aware what was happening, and completely unmoved by it.

“You are dying,” he blinked, “Pity. Have a nice time.” He sashayed away.

Fortunately, our house in Los Angeles was small enough that from the bathroom door one could see everything. My husband was sitting on the couch with our infant, and I knocked on the open door to summon him. Within one one thousandth of a second, he set the baby on the (since-recalled) donut pillow and was holding my head.

I sat up. I breathed. No pain. I took a picture of the bloody mess on my husband’s phone, texted it to myself, he found my phone, then I texted the picture to my OBGYN.

Apologies for being graphic, but within the puddle there was something roughly the size and shape and color of a fig.

“Is this ok?” I said to my doctor, the bicycle spoke scraping lightly at my insides again from all the lumbering.

“Come in,” she replied.

Within two hours, I was in the waiting room of her office, accompanied by my terrified but SMILING mother, who was still, as is the Jewish custom, in town for “a few days or so” after the birth.

An ultrasound which felt like the finger of Satan himself revealed there was retained placenta in my uterus. If I hadn’t come in, there would have been more hemorrhaging, then sepsis, then whatever the cat foretold.

The next day, I was in surgery getting a Dilation and Curettage.

I went home, pumped the anesthesia milk, then fell asleep perfectly fine, my sweet newborn cooing merrily in the bassinet next to his alive mother.

Amber Nicole Thurman’s story was the same as mine, but it happened to her in Georgia in 2024, not California in 2019. She was a Black woman in a healthcare system that disproportionately kills Black women, especially postpartum. In 2021, the Black maternal mortality rate was nearly three times the rate it is for white women. Post-Roe, the toll is and will continue to be staggering.

Because post-Roe, the procedure that saved my life, the D&C, is something doctors cannot perform in states where matters of life and death have been left up to non-medical Christian-supremacist superstitions.

I know the pain Amber Thurman felt when that placenta dislodged and carved its tiny, treacherous hole in her uterine wall. I know the terror she felt when she saw the blood, and the rush of dread when she thought of what her child would do without her.

And when I vote in November for Kamala Harris and every progressive down-ballot candidate, I will do it because she can’t. And I will do it so that women in Georgia and Idaho and Texas and North Dakota and South Dakota and Utah, Arizona, Nebraska Iowa, Missouri, Arkansas, Louisiana, Mississippi, Alabama, Tennessee, Kentucky, Indiana, Florida, South Carolina, and West Virginia won’t have to meet the same completely preventable doom.

This election isn’t just about Amber Thurman. Every day of my lucky, breathing life is about Amber Thurman. Because the only thing that separates us, is one of us bled out under the right Supreme Court.

Let’s raise absolute federal hell about it.

-- From Bess Kalb's newsletter The Grudge Report. I pay for this substack -- though it's free-- and think this is a message worth sharing far beyond her newsletter.

[loves4ge]

close your eyes

toji fushiguro x reader

established relationship

injured toji!!!!!!!!!

if you were already asleep, you wouldn't hear the soft click of the front door. it was quite late, actually, so it wouldn't be a stretch to assume you'd be sleeping. but you couldn't. not without toji. he had certainly spoiled you, wrapping you in his arms each night, rubbing palms into your back, lips against your hairline.

you sit up in the bed, waiting for toji to climb upstairs and get into bed with you. but minutes pass without any appearance of the gruff man, worrying you. slipping into fuzzy slippers the two of you bought at a flea market months ago, you trudge downstairs. there's a pink bow on the band of one of your slippers, reminding you that you took off the bow from the other one to make a little hairclip. for him.

you slide down the stairs, feet heavy with sleep.

"toji?" you call out, his name leaving your lips smoothly, dripping honey and warmth. a groan sounds in response, somewhere from the kitchen.

that doesn't sound promising at all. grimacing, you manage your way to the kitchen in the dark.

you fumble around, gliding your fingers across the wall in an attempt to find the light switch. successful, you flick it on.

“god, toji.” there he is, in all his glory, slid up against the cabinets lined under the kitchen counters. his face is bruised, shirt torn with haphazard and bloodied bandaging peeking through. his face is screwed up in a grimace, and his scar glimmers in the dim, amber light of the kitchen bulb.

"didn't mean 'ta," he shifts, hand tightening over a particular spot on his abdomen, "didn't mean 'ta wake you up."

your frown deepens, a sad sigh leaving you. dropping to your knees, you place your own hands on his forearm.

"love, what… don't say that." you exhale a breath, kissing a seemingly devoid of any hurt spot on his shoulder. he doesn't twitch at the contact; a good sign. there's a first aid box somewhere over in the kitchen which is probably why he dragged himself here in the first place.

you crawl to the cabinet storing the box, retrieve it, then return to where toji is. he is hardly ever this quiet. it scares you.

"what happened?" you murmur softly, using scissors to cut up his shirt. you remove the scraps, and examine him with tender eyes.

"nothin'. just got hurt. it happens." he is short, curt. you expect it; he's not the type to sing kumbaya and hold hands when it's time to open up.

"alright. i'm gonna remove these bandages, okay?" he manages a short nod in response. his hands are limp at his sides as you unravel the gauzy strips. it's hard not to flinch at the red, ugly gash large as a kitchen knife. god, you are gonna be sick. although, you are glad it is shallow, not requiring any stitches.

you work in silence, pressing a cotton pad soaked in disinfectant. toji groans, his hands curling up into fists until his knuckles turn white. after prepping the wound, you start to unwind the roll of medical gauze.

"sit up please." he tries to.

you start winding the bandage around his torso, leaning in close, your face pressing against his bare chest. you snip the bandage, securing the end.

"thank you." his voice is scratchy, and when you look at him, all you can see are the whispers of purple blooming against his cheekbone. your body is sagging in exhaustion, though your mind is running in overdrive.

"i'm so," you start, cutting yourself off as a sob creeps up your throat, "i'm just so, so worried about you, toji. i just- i can't," tears gather in your eyes while he looks at you, expression unchanging, "i don't want to. scratch that, i can't do this without you." there's a watery crack in your sentence but the both of you disregard it.

"i love you." toji says, pain and admiration swirling in those eyes of his that you love so much. you crack a rueful smile at his statement.

"i love you too."

toji smiles, though it probably hurts to do so. his hand that was at his side now travels to yours. you entwine your fingers, softly. he looks at you.

[chunkypossum]

@jules-writes-stories I love that comparison especially when you consider Francesca and Paolo thought their love was beautiful but it put them in Hell. Ultimately, Francesca doesn't take responsibility for her actions, claiming that his love was so strong she had no choice but to reciprocate... Kind of how SJM mating bonds feel to me and partially why I am out to rewrite how they operate in this fic… Very similar to how our two idiots found themselves doubting the love they built in What We Deserve. I also really love how it fits the title. I was going to save this and refine it some more and release it with the next chapter but I keep fucking with it instead of writing so I'm hoping if I post I can forget it and continue drafting. For now, here's an peek at What We Deserve Chapter 8.

Too heavy to hold up on his own any longer, Eris’ head fell to the side, his gaze cast upon the floor. Dulled amber eyes, barely split open to the world, found his father’s umber stare one last time. Breath like the rattling of dried bones labored back and forth between the High Lord’s cracked and bloodied lips where he lay dying. All while the sweetest cries from the male whose arms were wrapped around Eris battled those horrible sounds. Azriel was begging the Mother to bring Eris back to him.  I’m here. Eris wanted to say, but could not.  I won’t leave. He promised anyway, hoping it wouldn’t turn out to be a lie.  Perhaps it was another hallucination from an air-starved mind. As Eris’ breathing halted and his vision darkened around the edges, he noticed Beron’s hand twitch. His father’s fingers seemed to inch toward Eris’ limp ones hanging out of Azriel’s hold. Time suspended at that moment where, at the end of it all, Beron might have finally been showing the love Eris had craved all of his life. Evident only by the shade of a scorch mark hidden in the pattern of the polished marble.  A scorch mark that no one would ever see and Eris would pretend to have never noticed.  A touch of a smile tried to lift in one corner of Eris’ mouth as Beron’s fingers, warm for the last time, reached for his son. Though he wasn’t sure he ever managed it as Beron’s eyes glassed over and he exhaled his last breath.

Holla at ya boi if you want on or off the Azris tag train : @talibunny30 @iftheshoef1tz @born-to-riot @fell-in-luvs @fieldofdaisiies @aktrain @honeysuckle-daydreams13 @secret-third-thing @acourtofladydeath @pippsmcgee @youvereachedthenearest-lovergirl @baileybird71 @skyesayshi @yanny-77 @areyoudreaminof @unanswered-stars @futurehunt @ninthcircleofprythian @matrixsss @going-through-shit @c-starstuff-man0 @jules-writes-stories @the-darkestminds @krowiathemythologynerd @cauldronblssd @hieragalbatorixdottir @yourlazykitkat @hellolordling @christeareads @climbthemountain2020 @lilah-asteria  @shadowsandlint @acourtofbatboydreams @theeternalstruggle @molcat07 

Inspired by — Roberto Ferri, Vanitas | Paolo e Francesca

[erwinsvow]

𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐮𝐧𝐟𝐢𝐱𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞

summary: you've gotten used to stitching up rafe these days.

word count: 0.9k

now spinning: shades of cool by lana del rey

Rafe likes to keep his work and his home life separate.

In the past, when the two get all tangled up with each other, it gets messy, and so his new habit is to keep everything apart from each other. Talking business with his dad, figuring out what the hell is going on with this gold and the treasure and these stupid Pogues and his stupid sister, it was all interfering with his personal life. His life with you. 

You’re hopelessly clueless. If he didn’t like you as much as he did, it would be annoying. All you have to do is sit there and look pretty on his arm, let him fuck out his anger on your pussy, and follow his rules. And you’re obedient too, you follow his rules and every word he says like a lost puppy, terrified of leaving its master’s good graces.

You don’t ask questions when he comes back to you, knuckles bloody and ribs sore. Instead you sit him down on your bed, running to fetch an ice pack and a damp towel, wiping until all the red leaves his skin while having him hold the cold compress down.

You complain about the mud he’s tracking in on your floor, and you shove his arm when he gets blood on the pale pink of your sheets, but you never ask questions. You never tell him to stop.

It’s an unspoken rule between the two of you. You’ve totally brainwashed yourself, you think in the back of your head, when he comes to you bleeding from a cut that’s too deep for just a tight bandage. You like to think that, because the alternative is that he’s brainwashed you, and you just can’t swallow that thought.

Maybe because you don’t really care if he has. You like being his, you’ve decided, just his and no one else’s. 

Rafe groans from pain, feeling droplets of blood running down his arm. He wants to lay down, even though you told him not to. You’re out of the room right now, running to get the other first-aid kit in your house because you’ve burned through all the supplies in the first one, the one you kept under your bed for Rafe in these situations.

You come back with a bigger box and a glass decanter filled with an amber liquid. 

“No,” he moans out, trying to get up but ultimately sitting back down. His head hurts like a bitch and the wound on his shoulder is bleeding too much, but if you’ve brought him whiskey—it has to be whiskey, even though you know he prefers scotch, your dad likes whiskey and he knows this because for your parents’ anniversary last month, he got your father a bottle of aged whiskey, to try and stay on his good side despite the fact he knows he never will—then it’s about to get bad.

“Rafe, Rafe-” you repeat, scrambling down to his side, setting the whiskey and a box with a blue lid onto your covers. “Please, you have to let me stitch it up, it’s too deep and since we can’t go to the hospital—”

He stops moving under your gentle touch eventually, unbuttoning his shirt and using your clean, white shirt as a makeshift tourniquet. He feels guilty when he sees his blood on it afterwards, discarded on your floor. His heart feels like it's on fire when he reflects on what you just said—not that he can’t go to the hospital, no, we can’t go, you and him, together.

You clean his wound, and make him drink the whiskey so it hurts less. It doesn’t.

“I’m sorry,” you say, while he sucks in a tight breath every time the needle goes in. “There wasn’t any scotch in the house, I’m sorry-”

“‘S’fine, it’s fine,” he chokes out. He has to be quiet because your parents are asleep in the next room. “Whiskey’s good. You’re good.”

You beam under his praise, even in a situation like this. He grips your face with his bloody hand for a second.

“Thanks for doing this, kid.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” you repeat back at him, looking back down and continuing your work on his arm. He stares at the blood leftover on your cheek, his blood.

You stitch up his arm and then wrap it tightly. You clean off as much blood as you can, and then find him clean clothes to sleep in—his clothes. You have half his closet here, he notices, pulling out a baggy shirt for him and then for you. You both crawl into bed together. You’re exhausted, he can hear it in your breathing. You just hope you’re not getting too tired of him.

“Sorry, kid,” he says. You look up at him quickly, eyes watery, from your position against his chest. His good arm hangs around you, fingers brushing right above your elbow. He looks down to meet your eyes. “I got some blood on your sheets. Sorry.”

“Oh,” you breathe out. “It’s okay, I’ll just wash them.”

He presses a kiss to the top of your head, and you’re asleep before you know it.

[sakkiichi]

NOT IF IT’S YOU.

“I’ll take care of you.”

“It’s rotten work.”

“Not to me. Not if it’s you.”

Jing Yuan, Blade, Dan Heng, Luka, Seele x gn! reader.

genre/cw: angst to fluff, feelings of not being good enough, mentions of blood & injury, but soft comforting vibes.

✧ JING YUAN

Muffled cries and a darkened room are all the company you wish for tonight.

You messed up.

You utterly and completely fucked up.

Not only were you not able to catch the stellaron hunter, but you also got severely injured.

In your defense, the guy was skilled with that wicked sword of his.

And yet, that doesn’t make you feel any better.

Pressing your hand down your bloody side, you reach home.

And for the first time since you started dating him, you really hope the general is already asleep tonight.

The creaking of the wooden door makes you cringe when you enter the main hall, memorized steps guiding you to the bathroom.

Hopefully you’ll be able to patch yourself up without making too much noise.

A low purr greets you when you reach your destination’s door.

“Shhh, Mimi, please…” you utter, weakly, patting her fur with the hand that’s not soaked in blood. “Be a good girl and keep quiet for me?” The lion purrs again, as if unsatisfied, sensing something’s clearly amiss.

Wincing, you close the bathroom’s door behind yourself, pent up tears blurring your vision as you rummage the cabinets for disinfectant and some bandages.

“And just about what do you think you’re doing?” A familiar baritone sternly asks.

You stop in your tracks, a roll of bandage in your bloodstained hand.

“Jing Yuan…” you meekly manage. “Sorry I woke you up.” You lower the dressings in your grasp, defeated.

“You’re bleeding yourself out and me having woken up is your first concern?” He asks, disbelieving, leaning off the doorframe, walking towards you.

“I’m not bleeding myself out, general.” You respond through gritted teeth, your tone harsher than intended. “It’s just a flesh wound.”

And yet, the pained hiss you let out begs to differ.

“Let me see.” Your lover prompts, placing a calloused hand on your shoulder.

“No!” You pull away from his touch, something you had never done before. “I already told you, it’s just a scratch, it’s not worth worrying over, I’m not worth worrying over...”

“Don’t say that again.”

Jing Yuan’s tone leaves no room for argument, steely as the spear he wields. His usually soft amber eyes are akin to raging embers now, glueing you in place, a gelid chill running down your spine.

“But it’s tr-“

“Don’t. Don’t let me hear it.” The arbiter general cuts off, his voice a contrast to the tenderness with which he takes the stained gauze from you.

And under the warmth of his touch, you let yourself be shielded by the rainfalls of lightning with which he’d struck down any who dared hurt you.

Careful hands remove your sticky shirt, a deep gash criss-crossing your abdomen in ominous shades of crimson. With as much softness as he can muster, your lover applies antiseptic, stinging pinpricks in his wake.

“You shouldn’t be doing this.” You mumble, voice milliseconds away from breaking. “It’s trouble, I’m trouble, I failed the mission and now you have to patch me up and take care of m-“

Slightly parched lips land on yours, ardently, as if wanting to cauterize the raw soreness from your open wound. Jing Yuan’s hands settle on your waist, like stitches putting shards of you back together, your brokenness, a myriad of pieces glued back into a colorful mosaic.

And in his healing hold, you let yourself fall, because you know no matter how small the pieces, by his side, you’ll find a way to solve the puzzle.

“You are never trouble to me.” Is your general’s affirmation when he pulls away, leaving a lingering kiss on your brow as he begins wrapping your gaping wound.

Perhaps this once, you’ll believe it, you think, as the ache dulls and exhaustion starts to take over.

✧ BLADE

The moment you see his weapon fly out of his grasp, all caution is thrown to the wind.

You weren’t used to the sight of him anything but defeating with ease any who dared to cross him.

Yet now, he bleeds.

Staggering to the side, Blade tries to reach for his discarded sword.

To no avail, for he drops to his knees, sickly crimson pooling at his feet.

Whatever cursed fragmentum creature he’s parrying against will land its last strike.

You can’t imagine a world without Blade. Without Ren.

Not like this, not ever.

The next sound in the desolate battlefield is the clang of metal against metal and your strained grunts.

“[Y/n]…” your lover musters, barely any strength left in his usually steely tone. “Go…”

“Like hell I’m leaving you here!” You yell back, your muscles sore from blocking the enemy’s fatal blow. “I’m not abandoning you, Ren!” A lone tear slides from the corner of your eyes, because of the effort or the thought of a world where you don’t get to wake up by Blade’s side, you are not sure.

“[Y/n]… I’m done for.” He coughs.

“Shut up, shut up, shut the hell up!” You scream, now locked in combat with the creature launching their piercing weapons at you.

You manage to dodge a few of its pounces, ducking and parrying as best you can.

But eventually, their chainsaw-like armament grazes your collarbone, your sky shattering cry hurting Blade more than the deadly wounds he bears.

You can’t let this end here.

Mustering strength from aeons know where, you impale your own weapon into the monster’s middle.

Flecks of fiery dust fly around you, before the construct goes up in flames, the image burning in your teary gaze.

“Ren!” You call, running to kneel by his broken form.

“Why?” The stellaron hunter wonders, ebony hair plastered to his face, deep night skies shadowing the underside of his ruby eyes. His bleeding hand reaches to cup the side of your face. “Why did you save me? I’m rotten.”

If it wasn’t because the guy is quite literally holding himself together in tatters, you’d be slapping some sense into him.

Instead, tears stained in yours and his shades of red careen down your cheeks.

“You are not! You never are! And you never will be to me!” You fling your arms around him, holding his weakened body as close to your heartbeat as possible.

Blade never believed in angels, but tonight, you might as well have been one. His savior in a battlefield where he otherwise would have breathed for the last time.

✧ DAN HENG

Night stars and daylight seem to mingle together lately.

Aboard the astral express, you find yourself buried in work. Records from expeditions, blueprints from parts of the train you need to memorize should they need repairing, leads and clues on the whereabouts of the stellaron hunters… the lines of text begin to blur before your tired eyes, eliciting a sigh from your lips.

It might be good to go grab a coffee, you muse.

But looking at the time, you should work for a while longer without distractions, you really could use a breakthrough in the stellaron investigation… Everyone’s working so hard, and the last thing you want is to be dead weight.

As you stretch your arms and attempt to re-focus on your task, three knocks resound through your room’s quiet.

Resignation makes itself apparent on your tone when you ask:

“What is it?”

“It’s just me.” A familiar voice, smooth as a breeze combing through greenery states.

“Dan Heng!” A relaxed smile tugs at your lips, as you get up from your desk to let him in. No matter how many galaxies you transversed, Dan Heng’s presence was always the brightest constellation to you.

Now, it’s not like you can admit your feelings to him, but you’ll enjoy this fond closeness you have now while you can.

“You’re still up?” You prompt, more of a statement than an actual question. “What brings you here?”

“I could ask you the same question.” He deadpans, arms crossed over his chest.

“Work.” You sheepishly say, with a mirthless smile.

“Have you eaten?” The dark haired man questions, the lilt of his tone indicating he is very much aware of how you have indeed not dined.

“Uh… I drank fruit juice and coffee? A while ago?”

Now it’s his turn to sigh in exasperation.

“How many times will it take of me repeating it to you for you to take care?”

“Sorry.” You lower your head. You know your friend is right and you’ve been neglecting yourself, but can you be blamed? The amount of work you took on is hefty, to say the least.

“Since you aren’t doing it yourself, let me take care of you.” His aquamarine eyes pierce through you, but they hold a warm gentleness to them. Every time you get lost in his gaze, you feel like you’re swimming in luminescent lakes under a thousand starry nights.

However, the reverie is short lived.

When you feel his hand around your wrist, pulling you out of your airless room, a shadow of guilt lodges at the back of your mind.

“Dan Heng, I can’t let you do that.” You stop in your tracks, averting your gaze, not allowing yourself the pleasure to dip in the profound waters of his eyes.

“Why not?” The boy’s hold on you slackens a little.

“You have enough work yourself, I can’t burden you anymore…” You mumble the last part, but it doesn’t escape him.

“You’re not a burden.” The wielder of cloud piercer assures you, incisively.

His hold on you tightens a little, his hand descending to find yours.

“But surely you’d prefer spending your time doing something more fun or, I don’t know, useful, at least…”

“No, I wouldn’t.” He responds. His hand squeezes yours in silent reassurance.

You could get used to his touch.

You’d like it very much, actually.

Instead, self-doubt robs you of your voice again tonight.

“Why?” Is the question echoing in between the corridor’s walls.

“Because I like- no, because I love you.” Is Dan Heng’s confession, cheeks matching the maroon of the maple leaves you’ve sometimes studied together.

Loud heartbeats and frenzied euphoria mingle in your chest, your hand squeezing his this time.

“What? Really? No, don’t get me wrong, it’s good- I mean, thank you- I mean, are you sure? Because I’m flattered but- Well, I love you t-“

Your speech is cut short by familiar hands steadying your shoulders. Dan Heng heaves a shaky breath, then:

“I’m going to show you how sure I am.”

A second later, his lips carefully, tentatively, envelop yours. It’s hesitating, and your noses bump a few times, but, to you, it couldn’t be any more perfect.

Your hands find themselves clinging to the front of his shirt, his still poised on your shoulders.

And as you leave fields of stars behind and enter new woods of shining asteroids, you finally let yourself submerge in the pools of jade contained in the mysterious man’s gaze.

Taking a break was certainly worth it, is the thought crossing your mind, as you lean in for another less innocent kiss.

✧ LUKA

“Ouch!”

“Stay still, Luka.”

“But it stings!”

“Oh and the blows you took out there didn’t?”

“But I won, right?”

“You always say that, yet at what cost?”

That is the currently ongoing conversation (or scolding, depending on how you look at it); the same one that repeats every week, after every victory he achieves in the fighting ring.

Because no matter how many times he emerges as victor, Luka always comes back to you beaten up and bruised. Bloody sometimes too, and you can only be grateful for no fractured bones.

You were no healer, but you still remember the first time you saw him fight.

—

It was his first ever combat, against a much bigger opponent.

Luka was smiling when his arm was lifted announcing his victory, and yet, you will never be able to shake off the sight of his concealed flinches every time his chest rose and fell.

His bruised ribs didn’t escape you.

In the same way that you didn’t miss the redhead lingering for a while after the crowd had dissipated.

Those coughs of his naturally wouldn’t let him go too far.

“Hey, are you alright?” You approached him.

“Sure, I’m fine!” The fighter tried to smile, only for it to turn into a fit of coughing that didn’t sound good at all, especially not with how he keeps holding his sides every time his ribcage so much as slightly stirs.

“No, you’re not fine.” You scoffed, arms crossed over your chest. “You have a black eye, your ribs look bruised and you’re limping. How is that being fine, again?”

“I’ll get through it.” He smiled. His blue eyes glinted in the dim light of the venue, akin to patches of clear sky in the soot-filled air of the underworld.

“How exactly? Passing out from pain? Come on, sit down, I’ll patch you up.” You offered, hurrying around the rundown gym, in search for something resembling a first aid kit.

“You don’t need to-“

“No buts.” You stated, leveling him with a gaze, pointing at him with a newly acquired roll of bandages.

—

“You know, you don’t have to waste your time on m-“ he tries to retort now, summer ocean eyes averted, his usual smile replaced by a frown you’re not fond of.

“Luka.” You stop him before he can continue his self deprecation.

“But you could be doing so much bette-“

“I won’t hear it.” You cut off, applying more pressure than needed while disinfecting a cut on his cheekbone. “We’ve already talked about this. You keep getting roughened up on the battlefield, I’ll be here to patch you up. No buts.”

A smile crosses the redhead’s face, the swirling typhoons in his gaze calming down to ripples over a lake. But still, some clouds linger over the surface, no sunlight quite filtering through in harp like beams underwater.

“Don’t you get tired, though?” Luka ventures, hesitation and bashfulness lacing his tone.

“Never when it comes to you.” You assure him, without having to think twice. “And no buts.”

“No buts, huh?” The corner of his lips curves upward, the cheeky smirk you always adored back. “But what if I asked you to kiss it better, would you?” The fiery haired warrior teases.

“Oh, you…” And yet, you can’t hide the wide smile helplessly illuminating your features.

Softly, your lips brush over each of the clean bandages you applied.

And Luka could swear your lips are better than any painkiller.

“There, all healed.” You whisper when you pull away, enchanted by the lights dancing in the sapphire expanse of his stare.

“Not yet.” He breathes, pulling you to him by the hand, your weight falling against his bare chest.

“Luka…” Is all you can muster before he’s kissing you full on the lips, his hands on the small of your back, the softness of his skin and the iron-hardness of metal making your every hair stand on end. You cup his face tenderly, brushing sweaty auburn strands away, as you drown in the colliding waves of his intense tide.

“Now I’m all healed.” Are Luka’s words when he pulls away, dopey smile adorning his bruised face.

You’re definitely never getting tired of this.

✧ SEELE

By moonlight, she waits.

From her vantage point on the rooftop of Goethe Grand Hotel, Seele counts down the seconds for your return.

She’s noticed.

Your leaves in the dead of every night, when you think everyone’s sleeping soundly.

Your returns before dawn, covered in dust and bruises.

The puffiness and redness of your eyes, the shadows under them.

In the starless silence, the butterfly stills her wings, listening to the steps crossing Boulder Town’s plaza.

With a swift motion, the wildfire fighter steps down from her perch, leaning against the hotel’s front wall.

“Good night to you too.” Seele calls.

Your eyes widen in shock. Why is she here now? She wasn’t supposed to see you in such a state.

“Seele! You startled me…” You try for a reassuring smile, as if to say ‘hey, everything’s fine’, but alas, when it came to you, nothing escaped Babochka.

“Cut the act, will you?” She scoffs, a hand resting on her hip. “Are you going to tell me what’s going on or not?”

“Nothing’s going on.” You meekly answer, tone cold and distant.

Your girlfriend’s violet gaze dilates, concern overtaking her frown.

This detached iciness… This isn’t like you at all.

But Seele’s forte were never hugs and promises for better days to come, no. A fighter honed in battles for a mere glass of water, she always knew how to hit you with honesty, a scythe shredding the rainclouds dampening your light.

“So, are you going to keep looking miserable and isolating yourself?” She scoffs. “Be for real, you are barely talking, you leave at ungodly hours every night and you look like you’ve been crying for ages every morning. So are you going to tell me what’s wrong already?”

You heave a breath, the simple action exhausting.

“I just… I don’t feel like I deserve anyone… I’m not a good enough fighter, I’m not smart enough, I don’t really… I’m not proud of my personality and just…” you inhale, the night breeze unbearably frigid, even though the weather’s not even cold. “These nights, I’ve been going into the mines, to try and help, I guess, or to avoid thinking…” your shoulders slump.

Seele sighs, the bite in her tone completely faded, concern and care lingering as the indigo pigments of a butterfly caught in your palm.

“You can talk to me, you know?” She says, softer this time, her hand finding your blistered one from these last days.

“I know, I just… I don’t want to be a bother…”

“You never are, silly.” Your lover flicks your forehead, wrapping strong arms around your trembling form. “You never are.”

Quiet sniffles escape you at her warm embrace.

You had missed this.

You had missed her.

“Let’s go inside, yeah?” Seele utters, barely above a whisper, like a monarch’s flutter.

You nod, wiping the tears that started falling, glinting in your lashes like doomed satellites.

“I love you, never forget that.” Is your partner’s promise, with the moon as witness.

For the first time in weeks, you would fly in the sweetness of dreams tonight. By her side.

[hismourningflower]

YOU'RE NOT HER | genshin impact fanfiction. zhongli x gn!reader — heavy angst, hanahaki disease, hurt/no comfort, mentions of blood & gagging (almost vomit), death, ‘unrequited’ love

idle chatter. this is a reupload from my old blog so if you want to argue that i'm stealing, i'm literally robbing myself <3 library waiting list. @lovingluxury @dumbificat @starryshinyskies @ryuryuryuyurboat @ainescribe @bfjax @soleillunne @sangoqueenkoko

aventurine's addition. "alexi, darling, don't forget to link 'you should have been her' for the readers. it is the infamous second part, after all."

oh that man, that gorgeous, benevolent man you’d fell in love with all those moons ago; with dark hair that fades into a glowing orange, resemblant of the sunset and his own geo vision. you had fell in love, yes - you thought he had too. the thought crosses your mind whenever he’s not by your side, not within your grasp like he usually is. typically, the man was serving his job at the wangsheng funeral parlour as a consultant.

you grimace when the tight feeling in your ribcage suffocates you. it’s getting stronger as time goes on, knocking the breath right out of your lungs and leaving you hacking up blood into a white handkerchief. zhongli had expressed no ends of concern about the situation when he’d find the bloodied handkerchiefs scattered around your shared home, ushering you to doctor baizhu as soon as possible.

you had begged baizhu not to utter a word of your condition to zhongli. he returned your pleads with a sorrowful look.

how could your love be so unrequited? had you been the only one true to your word this whole time? the mere thought stings at your eyes, tears threatening to spill as you shakily wash the dishes. zhongli isn’t home, not for a few more hours. he said he had business to attend to - that meant it wasn’t work related. was he cheating? you shake the sour thought away from your head, scowling.

you wonder if the oh-so-wise man could ever read the wrinkles appearing on your skin, aging you with every passing concern that you don’t voice aloud, with every day that goes by where you’re suffocating from the inside out. he never mentions it, perhaps he simply does not care. you feel the knot in your throat, sickening as you gag and splutter into the soapy water of the sink. you keep gagging, the knot doesn’t budge and you’re filled with an overwhelming sense of nausea.

your body grows tired. you slip down to your knees, banging elbows and other limp limbs against kitchen cabinets as you go down. finally, with one last cough, the knot exits your mouth. it falls to the wood floorboards beneath you, slimy and covered in blood but undoubtedly recognised as a glaze lily. its petals are shut, you understand that there is no music, no lullaby to be heard to lull the glaze lily to bloom. it’s an ancient flower, one you always used to admire before this curse laid upon you.

the front door to your house opens, keys jingling in a specific man’s gloved hands as he enters. you hurry to throw the glaze lily out of the kitchen window, submerging your hands in the sink once more as the metallic taste of blood and lingering aftermath of a floral tang swarms your mouth. you hold your breath, hoping you didn’t have the appearance of someone who had just coughed up a flower so violently.

a pair of strong arms wrap around your waist, suddenly you’re hit with the faint smell of aged wine and familiar scent of freshly dug earth. you smile at the thought, leaning back into his chest despite the pain tearing at your lungs and the burning sensation left behind in your throat.

“you’ve been coughing again—” zhongli’s voice reverberates close to your ear, hot breath fanning over your skin and your eyes raise from the dirty water to your reflection in the kitchen window, where zhongli’s warm amber eyes are staring at you so deeply.

“it’s okay, my love, i promise,” you lie through your teeth, hoping the man sincerely couldn’t read through you the way he used to, “this time it was a smaller amount than the last…”

you try to sound cheerful in your approach to the topic, careful to maintain that personality he��d apparently fell in love with one day in liyue harbour. zhongli makes a noise - is he doubting you? you watch as a gloved hand raises, nearing your face before his thumb wipes gently at a trickle of blood leading from the corner of your lips.

“i’ll speak to doctor baizhu in the morning,” zhongli states firmly, you almost bite back the words that taste bitter about him ‘caring’ for you, “perhaps you need a higher dose of your medication.”

the medication in question surely had been a ruse to fool the man, though you did not expect it to have worked. changsheng had uttered that you could not leave the bubu pharmacy without some form of medication, it’d look absurd in the eyes of the wangsheng funeral parlour consultant. in agreement, baizhu had qiqi mix violetgrass powder with sugar - the instructions were simple, mix it into the hot tea you’d drink with zhongli every evening.

it was sweet, not at all bitter and the scent of violetgrass made it bearable. apparently the inclusion of herbal properties was enough to fool your dearest partner or so you thought.

—

it’s hard to understand the fine line between a lie and a truth when the past few months, you’d been dating a man for someone whomst he was not. it was a struggle to understand the situation but it kept you up for endless nights, counting stars and tending to the numerous flora you’d planted in the garden underneath the moonlight - courtesy of your friend the traveler for appearing with so many countless seeds of blooms from across teyvat.

yet as you sit on the grass, staring at the pile of dead - and dying - glaze lilies you had acquired, the stars twinkling endlessly above you, you understood why he’d done it. he was judicious, hoping to protect you from his past yet keep you as his future. the thought made that pain in your chest tighten. you let out a futile whimper into the quiet night.

as you ponder zhongli’s status as liyue’s archon - the geo archon of all people, you begin to question your previous doubts. your breaths become struggled, your chest heaving as you lay on your back for some relief. trembling fingertips brush amongst blades of grass, hoping for a distraction as tears spill down your cheeks.

liyue is a beautiful country with vast mountains and yellowed plains that seem to stretch endlessly. its civilisation had become fruitful at the expense of liyue harbor, bustling with trade and the thing your partner had appeared to love the most; contracts. he has every right to be proud of the nation liyue had built to this day, despite claiming that he’d ultimately retired - “the people can do without me, they’ve proved that much.”

blood trickles from your mouth but it’s not gentle, it’s a rush, like a waterfall as it spills down the sides of your face and pools on the grass below you. it’s littered in an array of blue and white petals, matching that of glaze lilies - a flower you’d grown to hate. you struggle to get oxygen into your lungs with the rising level of blood that doesn’t dissipate from your parted lips, suffocating you as you try to no ends to breathe through your nose.

that is, if there was room in your lungs for such oxygen. twists and turns of branches and roots that climb to the walls of your organs, painting them with glaze lilies and filling them with fallen petals every time a flower wilts from the unreasonable conditions inside your body.

you’re proud of liyue; the magnificent, beautiful nation of geo that you got to experience in all of its glory. zhongli often times referred to liyue with feminine pronouns and as the light dies from your eyes and your chest ceases to rise, you can only think one thing with your last dying breath.

you’re not her.

⊹˚₊‧───────────────‧₊˚⊹

© thexianzhoujade 2024. | reblogs appreciated | do not re-upload, copy, translate, etc. my works on any form of media.

[leonstoenailunderhisbed]

Did Leon change or did he stay the same?

A character analysis by me because it’s 1AM and I can’t sleep.

I’d like to think Leon goes through an identity crisis throughout the course of RE4R and after RE2R.

Everywhere he went, he’s been told that he has stayed the same even though he believes he’s changed. This got me thinking two things about his character.

A) He’s not as self aware as he thinks he is. To him, maybe he’s changed because he’s had to go drastic changes in order to become the agent he is now. The extensive work that was put on him as well as the pressure to perform well probably made him believe he was not the same man he once was. He probably feels as if a part of his humanity was ripped away. We actually see his monologue in Vendetta where he states that when he was younger, he’s always wondered about what type of man he’d grow up to be. And to realize that the version of himself, the “future” version, is probably something that he wished he didn’t have to be. He wished things were different, he wished he was different.

B) A lot of people underestimate him and his sensibility. Leon is someone who’s always known what’s just. One of his prominent characteristics is probably a strong sense of justice and humanity. He’s the type of person that would save everyone even if it meant he’d have to sacrifice himself. He’s a very noble person and most people see this as a weakness, hence why Krauser thinks he’s too “soft” for the job. But I think otherwise, I think it’s a good thing that Leon is the way he is simply because he’s still holding on to a part of himself that he refuses to give up. It’s what makes him a good person despite his bloodied hands. He’s saved countless people but he’s also killed many to save others.

After being confronted by Ada and Krauser, I’d like to think he’s doubting himself.

“Have I really not changed?”

“What about rookie me?”

“Who was I before?”

But maybe there’s another reason. He hasn’t talked to Ada in six years and he hasn’t seen Krauser since Op. Javier. So that means it’s been a long time since he’s seen both. Maybe Ada and Krauser refuse to acknowledge that Leon did in fact change and want to keep a small fragment of what Leon was prior to their meetup in RE4R. Not because they underestimate him but because Leon is a symbol of what is right. Hence why Ada didn’t give Wesker the Amber and why Krauser was so willing to die at the hands of Leon.

Leon’s character is a complex character that is heavily influenced by others around him. But that doesn’t mean he’s letting himself be used as a carpet. I’d like to think that the cop inside him didn’t in fact die, instead it grew. Why does he keep pushing through even though he says he doesn’t want to keep fighting? It’s not just the government forcing him, it’s the cop Leon that’s telling him to do what’s right for the innocent lives that could be at stake.

Leon is a good man.

[jazzsonly]

ꜰᴀᴠᴏʀɪᴛᴇ ᴄʀɪᴍᴇ

pairing(s): tara carpenter x fem!reader

warning(s): angst. tara being a bad gf and overall MAJOR asshole. lowkey bloody description of heart break. barely proofread. ooc tara.

summary: oh the things you did just so you could call tara yours.

*inspo. song: favorite crime by olivia rodrigo

part two.

────────✬────────

when you first started dating tara (six months ago) you loved nothing more than how caring she was. she stood up for you when there was a chance to(no matter how silly,) she jumped at the chance to walk you to your car, she would constantly beg for you to stay over, and so on and so.

you also just adored her nerd obsession with horror movies, no matter your distaste for them, she somehow made you love them too in a weird.

in short, you just loved tara as a whole…back then.

now? you still love her but it was a bitter love.

feeling like you couldn’t even recognize your own girlfriend was a hurt of it’s own. after the ghostface attacks, it was like tara, well wasn’t even tara. she were constantly drunk, you feel like the only time you ever got a hold of her was when she called drunk out of her at some frat party needing a ride.

she no longer attended your dates, didn’t want you to stay over, oh and the constant arguing. mostly her accusing you of things and claims you to be clingy when you wanted to spend time together.

one night it got so bad, she were just yelling at you while you cried, feeling so small. sam had to step in and stop the girl before she yelled you to death.

despite all that, here you were settled on the couch and ready for movie night with the core four. as much as you loved them, no doubt that they were your second family. you couldn’t help but feel lonely in the moment.

nearing the end of jeeper’s kreepers and tara had neglected to sit next to you the whole night. in fact, she were seated with amber, her head leaning on the girl’s shoulder.

nothing but bitterness filled your mouth at the sight and the feeling.

sure you had chad and sam by your side but obviously you want your girlfriend by your side to cuddle with.

“that movie never gets old. a straight classic.” chad commenting while he stood as the credits rolled.

“facts.” amber then spoke, standing with the boy.

you stayed put while everyone piled to the kitchen for dinner, hoping tara would stay with you.

“tara.” you spoke meekly, almost afraid.

“what?” she was on her way to the kitchen as well.

“why didn’t you sit with me?” you watch as her hands coming to her hand, a big sigh, and an ‘oh my god’ under her breath.

“can you please not start tonight? i want to enjoy one night without you being a bitch.”

“tara, i’m not being a bitch. i just want to know why my girlfriend didn’t sit with me, but yet is cuddled with another girl.”

“okay, one i was not ‘cuddled’ with amber and two maybe i just didn’t feel like sitting with you, is it your abandonment issues? is that why you’re so fucking clingy?”

so much for opening up to her about your mom. you thought at the girl’s comment.

your leg bounced up and down, she were starting to raise her voice and the last thing you wanted to do was argue in front of your friends. it was embarrassing enough for it to happen in front of sam.

“nevermind.” you swallow a lump in your throat, trying to join the others but tara grabs to your wrist.

“no. you wanted to fucking complain so bad and ruin my life! you are such a fucking burden y/n. do you know that? you make me hate everyday with your shit and i’m sick of it.”

you intense chew on your lip, stopping the tears.

“well if that’s how you feel…”

“that is how i feel.” she threw your wrist down, walking by you as if she didn’t just shatter your soul.

you walk past the kitchen, uttering on about how you were heading to the bathroom.

somehow, with any strength you had left in you, you didn’t cry. you took a few deep breaths, repeating:

don’t cry.

don’t cry.

don’t cry.

before stepping out, to finally join the others.

as much as you wanted to laugh and be in conversation with everyone, you couldn’t. your mind wouldn’t allow you. all you could think about was tara.

why? why was she doing this me? why? when she claimed to love me much and to be in love?

how could she be doing this me?

who even was she?

it was like a shotgun to the heart, your blood and your heart, in pieces all over the wall and you couldn’t do anything but watch it splatter.

“y/n?”

you look to chad, “huh?”

“you okay? you’ve barely said anything?”

“yeah,” you clear your throat. “i’m good. i just don’t thinking i’m feeling too well, i should head home.”

despite sam offering you to stay, you declined and bid your goodbyes to everyone, well, besides chad who offered to walk you to your car.

“i’ll see you tomorrow, be good.” you joke, pulling the jock into a hug.

“yeah uh…listen, i heard all tara said to you and—

“it’s nothing…it’s fine, she’s just going through stuff.”

he paused, looking at you for a second. “that’s no excuse for what she said to you, y/n. she talked to you like she didn’t even know you. you shouldn’t let someone treat you like that…no matter how much you love them.”

“we’re all going through it, including you. trying to watch our backs for ghostface, even if things have died down a little, it’s still scary knowing he’s out there. so please take care of yourself, i love you. you’re my best friend…i don’t want to see you hurt…especially not from tara.”

you weren’t really sure want to say to the boy, of course you meekly told him you loved him too, pulling him into yet another hug. this time tighter and longer.

for the first time in what felt like forever, you felt loved. it may not have been from who you wanted it to be but still you felt loved.

you settled in your car, locking your door. you couldn’t help but break down, you felt so many intense emotions at once, you thought you could hold them in but chad’s speech brought them out.

✬

needles to say, you clung to chad every movie night for the past couple of weeks. it turned from best friend to a big brother to you.

he even took you out to breakfast, listening to you rant about tara and her ruthless nonsense. though he was a bit of an airhead, he gave you advice to the best of his knowledge on relationships. you didn’t take it, knowing it were no good.

the last time he actually dated a girl not just fucked one was in second grade. you still appreciated the attempt though.

tonight was yet again another movie night and you happily took the seat next to chad, who mindlessly put his arm around you.

“uhm, i was kind of hoping to sit with y/n?”

you had to make sure you weren’t dream.

tara wanted to sit next to you? you guys have barely spoken in two weeks. all it’s been is good morning text tara didn’t respond to until mid noon.

chad looked at you for approved and you gave him a timid nod. that’s all it took for him to give his seat up.

tara proudly put her arm over you, like chad had, taking you by surprise again. as much as you wanted to ask, you didn’t. you couldn’t risk ruining this sudden surge of affection.

the sudden surge of affection that lasted half way through the movie, until tara whispered in your ear.

“you think you’re so slick? fucking my best friend behind my back.” and there it was. you could smell a hint of alcohol on her breath.

thanks amber, for getting the parton. you sarcastically thought.

as best as you tried to ignore her, once again not wanting to argue in front of everyone. you couldn’t ignore tara repeatedly calling you a whore in your ear.

“slutting yourself out all because i don’t wanna go on a date with you.” and that’s when you broke.

you abruptly stood up, “enough tara.”

everyone’s eyes on you but you didn’t care. you had the courage chad had handed you and you couldn’t waste it.

“you hate me so much? you think i’m a whore? fine. i’ll be that and nothing to you at all. i’m done and so are we.”

— part two?

[fandoms--fluff]

Could you make a Hope x fem reader story we’re ready ends up getting in trouble at school for something stupid like getting into a fight and hopes worried at first but the once she knows Y/N fine she gets mad about her being stupid and getting the fight also if you can make Caroline in change of the school instead of Alaric bc he sucks

Together

Female hybrid reader x Hope Mikaelson

Warnings: Mentions of death and blood, and murdery tendencies?, anger/rage issues.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Can I go now" You huff, leaning back into the un-comfy arm chair across from Caroline Forbes, the headmistress' desk. Where she's sat, hands folding on the desk.

"No. You started a fight between two other vampires, killing one of them and almost killing the other." Caroline states, anger clear in her tone.

"So? They were annoying me and wouldn't. shut. up. They kept on going on and on about how much stronger they are than I am, even though I'm a damn hybrid. And so I snapped. Kind of. If I snapped all the way they'd be bloodied up way worse and both'd be dead. Not. just. one" You ground out, eyes turning an amber yellow and your veins appearing under your eyes.

Caroline shudders back and removes her hands from the top of the desk.

"Hmm, not so tough as you claim to be, or want to be seen as" You chuckle, not bothered with the caution and fear in her eyes and body stance.

"Oh come on, Blondie, no hard feelings, right?" You smirk and stand from the ugly chair, leaving the office with a mouth hanging open Caroline in your wake.

"Wait-ugh" Caroline huffs, giving up before she herself faces the consequences. She's annoyed with how easily you can get under her nerves and how, and she hates to admit it, she's a bit scared of you.

You have more than anyone has kept count of people you've murdered, and one more just got added to that giant never ending list twenty minutes ago.

Smirking, you walk down the hallway and head to your room. Once you got inside and shut the door, you sigh in relaxation when your head hit the pillow on your bed. You pick up the book from your bedside table and flip to the marked page you left off on.

"Please don't tell me what everyone is saying is true" Hope bursts into the room, slamming the door behind you. You look up to your girlfriend from the book and sigh.

"Is it really that bad?" You say sarcastically. "Yes, it is! Are you alright? Did something happen beforehand?" She exclaims, worry evident in her voice.

"Depends what you mean by 'something'" You relax back into your pillow.

"God, what were you thinking? Why did you kill that boy?" She huffs, sitting down on the foot of your bed.

"Well he was annoying so I fixed the problem" You shrug your shoulders in boredom. "Killing people is not a way to fix your problems, Y/n. Haven't we been over this before?! I swear we have" She's on the verge of yelling.

"So what if we have? You knew what you were getting yourself into once you started dating me, death, killing, trauma, the whole damn nine yards. Just like you. Except for minor differences obviously!" You stood up from the bed, crossing your arms as to not lash out and hurt your girlfriend. Even if you are fighting at the moment, you still care about her.

Sometimes you can't control your rage and you've ended up hurting people you love.

It all surprisingly got easier when your girlfriends father, Klaus Mikaelson, turned you into the only living hybrid this day. And ironically you ended up dating his daughter. Yeah, you're life is kinda...weird? to say the least.

Hope followed by standing up and tried reaching out to you. "No" You step away, backing into your desk. "Don't come any closer, I don't want to hurt you" You clamped your hands over your ears, holding tight until you couldn't hear anything but your thumping heart.

"You won't hurt me," Hope sighs. "Look, I know how the anger you feel is heightened, even more so than mine, but I'm here for you. All you have to do is let me in. And maybe ease up on the spontaneous murders." Hope walks over to you and pulls your hands away from your ears.

"At least at the school" She finishes. Baby steps, that's where she'll start. You chuckle in between deep breathes. "...Fine. We'll work on it. Together?" You slowly say.

"Yeah, together" She places a kiss on your lips.

[villain-crown]

neutral | @jegulus-microfic | words: 1,309

critical care, part 9 (part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7, part 8)

* a small amount of explicit content!!

a Jegulus nurse!AU

Regulus Black was an absolute nightmare. 

James knew this because he was watching the evidence of it in real time, in awe of the sweet-looking Slytherin who he knew to be anything but. 

After the heart attack-inducing moment when Sirius has unknowingly advised James to have dirty, unprotected sex with his precious little brother, James knew he was going to need something a lot stronger than coffee to get through the rest of this shitshow of a day. Since injecting vodka directly into his fucking bloodstream wasn’t in the cards, he’d begged, bribed, and bullied most of Gryffindor to order takeaway drinks with him from the nearest boba shop. He was just relaxing into the peace of his first sip when who else but the menace occupying his thoughts came sauntering up to the Surgical ICU nurses’ station.

James choked. 

“Hey, Reggie!” Sirius sang from near his elbow, rifling around the cardboard cup holders containing twenty plastic containers. “I have your order here.”

Taking advantage of his best friend’s momentary distraction, James couldn’t stop himself from checking Regulus out. He looked as fit as ever in his cute forest-green Slytherin scrubs, tilting his head with a devastating smirk when he caught James’s eye. 

The Gryffindor could feel his face redden as the other man’s eyes drew a long, heated line from his face, to his chest, to his waistband, and then finally, to his—

The suggestive look vanished like it was never there, replaced by something much more neutral when Sirius straightened up, holding a purple drink. 

“Here you go, kid.”

“I don’t want that one,” Regulus said with the most adorable pout James had ever witnessed in his life. He suddenly couldn’t figure out where to look or what to do with his hands when Regulus turned that look on him. “What did you order, Potter?”

Sirius raised a finger immediately as James tried to remember how words worked. “No. Don’t tell him, Prongs! No, you’re not getting your way this time, you little brat. You wanted the taro, I bought you the taro, you’re having the taro!”

Meanwhile, James thought he might pass out from the sheer intensity of Regulus’s undivided attention. 

Fuck, he’s pretty. 

“James,” the petite Slytherin cooed, and damn he was so screwed as Regulus bit his lip just so, his dove-gray eyes wide. He stepped closer so that his smaller build seemed even more obviously so compared to James’s height and muscle. Regulus’s powdery, amber scent was almost too much to resist as he tilted his neck, as though to show off the soft, unmarked skin there. “Please?”

“I… I already put my mouth on it,” James said stupidly, his lips oddly dry. 

“Oh, I don’t mind.”

That only prompted James’s imagination, which supplied a fantastic picture of Regulus not minding where else he put his mouth. For instance, Regulus with two of James’s fingers stuffed past his lips, coating them in saliva and teasing him with the warm, wet twist of his tongue. 

“Ugh, here, just take mine, Reggie.”

James was jolted back into awareness by a takeaway cup labeled Sirius being thrust into Regulus's line of sight. 

Panicking, James nearly tripped over himself for the opportunity to offer his sugary milk tea to him instead. 

“No, wait! Here, Regulus, try mine! It’s okay, really!” 

Sirius rolled his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest. “Don’t encourage him, Prongs. It’s bad enough he’s got me wrapped around his stupid little finger. There’s still time to save you.”

No there bloody isn’t, mate.

“I’m supposed to be reinforcing boundaries with you,” Sirius added to his little brother accusingly. “And I didn’t have to buy your drink order, you know. You’re not even floating here.”

“Thank you,” Regulus offered with the loveliest combination of wicked eyes and innocent smile that James had ever seen on anyone.

Sirius sighed, folding immediately as he shook the drink labeled Reggie vigorously before stabbing the plastic top with a thick straw. “You’re bloody lucky I’d do anything for you, you little monster.”

That pulled a real smile to Regulus’s lips that made James want to melt.

“I’m going to bring Remus his. He’s about to admit a liver bomb and you know how busy that will be.”

Sirius wandered off, nursing his new drink, leaving just James and Regulus standing there, staring at each other. 

“What did he mean by that?”

Regulus blinked. “What?”

“That he’s supposed to be reinforcing boundaries with you.”

The Slytherin sucked at James’s straw, unconcerned. The Gryffindor watched him do so closely, imagining Regulus’s pretty curls framing his cheeks as they hallowed to suck the fluid from James’s cock. 

“Our therapist told him that.”

“Your…?”

Regulus looked at him like he was an idiot. “Therapist. You don’t survive our family without needing one. You’re his best friend. I figured he’d told you we were in family therapy.” 

James couldn’t help but feel a little guilty. While Sirius had not in fact told him so, it wasn’t that much of a surprise. From what he’d gathered about Sirius and Regulus’s parents’ underhanded and emotionally manipulative tactics, it sounded like Sirius had a hard time letting people see any sort of vulnerability, despite their years of friendship. 

But James had seen it. 

He’d seen it in the way Sirius bought his little brother boba and in the way he’d called him “kid.” It seemed like a poor repayment of their friendship, James turning around and railing Regulus in his bed for as long as the other man wanted it and his stamina allowed.

But Regulus… fuck, he was stunning and mean with an unexpectedly wicked sense of humor that was definitely going to get James killed.

Maybe if I just fuck him once, I’ll get it out of my system, James thought desperately. Sirius doesn’t have to know. 

“What’s this?” Regulus asked as he examined the white board next to them, oblivious to how his mere presence was twisting James’s thoughts and feelings into pretzels. 

It was a busy board, boasting the day’s nursing assignments as well as the names of the interns, residents, fellows, and attendings staffing the unit for July. At the top of the board in Doctor McGonagall’s severe cursive was the riddle of the day: her way of connecting with the Gryffindor staff, who James secretly thought she viewed as her own children.

“It’s the unit riddle. You text McGonagall the answer if you think you know it, and she gives you a prize if you’re right.”

“Wouldn’t people just Google the answer?”

James gaped at him, offended. “That’s cheating!”

Regulus laughed, a real, genuine laugh that made his heart stutter in his chest. A faint blush of pink dusted across the Slytherin’s fair cheeks, giving him a truly beautiful glow that was even more appealing than crowding him up against the wall of an elevator or watching him verbally overpower Tom Riddle (though it was a damn close call).

“Let’s see. ‘I have cities but no houses, mountains but no trees. I have water but no fishes, and islands but no breeze. What am I?’ Did you guess it yet?”

James was so wrapped up in the sheer pleasure of listening to Regulus speak that he didn’t answer immediately. “Oh. Yeah, but I wasn’t right about the answer.”

Speaking of riddles, if Sirius did hypothetically find out, he should only be too grateful that it was James Regulus was seducing instead of someone like Tom Riddle, who was honestly the most arrogant doctor James had ever had the displeasure of knowing. He still couldn’t believe Regulus had tolerated the man long enough for them to couple. 

Sirius hates Riddle, James told himself as Regulus contemplated the puzzle, smirked to himself, and pulled out his phone—presumably to text McGonagall his answer.

So I’m basically doing him a favor, sleeping with his brother.

((Click “keep reading” for the answer to Dr. McGonagall’s riddle! 🫶))

Answer: a map 🗺️

[unsoundedcomic]

Whumptober 2024 - 09 - "Obsession"

Ruckmearkha prefered male spiderpaws because he understood the cock, the hunt, the need to hold a weaker creature down and destroy it so no one else could ever have it again. This was the most correct and natural urge. Some female spiderpaws had this too but it was rare, and strange, and somewhat distasteful to the efheby. They were made to be prey. There were sheep that bit too, but no one laid awake at night fearing their teeth.

Regardless, rarely, Ruckmearkha encountered a woman whose fragrance caused his venom glands to swell taut as ripe hedgeapples, and the scent patch across to chest to weep its coffee-coloured ichor. Sometimes… sometimes they excited.

One night, Ruck was so freshly awakened from the ogre caves that the earth still circled the roots of his tentacles, and crusted like sleep in his bleary eyes. Few dreams blossomed in that long, tarry hibernation. It had been an impression of viscera that had stirred him; of intestines uncurling from a slit stomach. He knew the smell of opened bowels, of fecal stink and the stinks of chewed food and acrid bile that progressed towards it. He'd rolled over and wanted to see those colours and smell that aroma again.

Trailing ogre earth still, he'd come across the crime scene too late. She'd been gone. But the victim remained: a young woman gutted beneath a pier, her insides now outside and the little crabs picking through them like finicky crones fingering melons at the market.

Ruck marvelled at the glistening organs all acrawl with arteries, besotted with blood. He found spiderpaws more beautiful beneath their skin. Clever little constructs, their soft flesh tented across sturdy frames, their most important secrets hidden in ivory cages.

Through a moonless night he'd followed the killer's bloody footprints, burning with a desire to win an aesthete, or at least someone whose soul would be heavy with uncommon traumas. Most spiderpaws were the same, he'd found. They wore identities like the most superficial clothing; the bodies beneath were all of too like a kind.

He did not let this body scream. When he tracked the motion of a woman turning towards him, startled, from a black doorway, he shot forward and upon her with all the weight of a god's judgement. Her bloody knife flew off into the night. His great shoulders splintered the door frame as he crushed her squirming panic to the ground, tentacles gone rigid around her smaller head, her torso, her arms, locking her to him. Two inches of fang punched through her neck. His glands pumped once, twice. The ecstasy of an efheby's purpose thrilled through him, jolting from the back of his tongue to the fire now awakened in his loins.

In an efheby, those loins were like a stag's horns. His prick existed to assert dominance. It rose and penetrated to humble a rival.

But no rival here. Only a curiosity. The most helpless and mewling scream gurgled from her, battling in her throat around the liquid intrusion of golden venom and her own coursing blood. With his huge right hand Ruck sought her mouse heart, massaging it through her back. Beat on, beat on, don't quit yet! It obeyed, a second syringe, dominated by the potent poison of his bite to palpitate in an alien rhythm. She grew slack even as she gasped, but it was not a distressed sound. She was happy! And Ruck was happy - as he had always been happy - that the rodents so seemed to worship and enjoy his attention.

Long starved, the efheby gnawed at her neck and could not stop his overfull glands from pumping again and again, swelling her beyond anything she could survive. Her body filled with him. Her skin puffed and lifted away from her bones. Venom seeped like liquid sunlight from her eyes and nostrils. She glowed burning hot in his hands, vibrating with her own pulse. He loved her in that instant more than-- why, more than he'd loved anything in the last few instants, haha!

Around her his bulk knotted, and they became a single amber muscle of feasting and need and adoration. His scent patch gushed, washing her in sticky ownership. She was claimed. She was his. She would never be anyone else's.

He let her soak. The night watched. An owl hooted far away, hearing the successful hunt. Envious? Haha!

Then Ruckmearkha began to drink his mouse.

Captured by the net of his venom, all the murderess' long years and longer soul hissed between his lips and down his abyssal throat. A prize this young he would drink all in one gulp.

Bitter terror of infancy, sweet nectar of childhood. With adolescence came complexity, and this was always Ruckmearkha's favourite. That first bloom of lust in untried parts; always a disappointment when dulled by shame, but no, no shame here. She had kissed a girl and realised she'd found where she belonged.

Ruck shifted his hold on her. The tentacle securing her head to his mouth dug between her lips, down her throat, but she was beyond feeling; beyond caring. A niggling tickle of blood rolled down his temple but was wiped away by the small hand there. Then it stroked her hair and he told her - secretly, wordlessly, in the whisper only he could whisper - that he would protect her forever.

Because the girl she had loved had not. The girl had been beaten by her father, and was too afraid to run away with her lover to some promised land for which she could show no receipts. Ruckmearkha tasted the rage that had risen in her then, and though it was a very familiar flavour, he radiated approval. Yes. The knife had slashed. And it had not slashed only to kill, but to torment, to open the inside to the outside, to splay open to the night what she had wanted for herself but which she would have to steal because it would never be given.

The body still was alive when Ruck swallowed the last of its secrets. To obscure his bite, he instinctively twisted off its head, threw it far away, slithered repulsed from the mess. Would the rodents say the father had killed his daughter and her demonic friend in order to restore his honour? Were they still doing that?

It would not surprise him!

Always little changes, here and there, every time he awoke. But never too changed. Always, in some way, deeply familiar. And may the simpering motherfuckers remain so, if they valued their future.

[hiskillingjar]

Branding (Strade/MC)

i said i wanted to write people being nice to each other, right?

day 8: branding second person. sfw. injury aftermath.

"Ouch!"

You took in a sharp hiss, your naked body, drenched in sweat and still trembling, lurching forward in a feigned attempt to get away from him, all while he was cleaning the still bloody wound on your thigh.

Cleaning your wounds. What a sick joke.

"Easy! That fucking hurts..."

Strade didn't take any offence to your desperate urging away from him, though (since he never did), chuckling to himself as he doused a new cotton pad with rubbing alcohol and dragged it over the shiny, raw skin of the burn.

An arrow and two stripes beneath it. 

It matched the tattoo on his left bicep, and had your mind not been foggy from the pain, you would have found a reason to consider it a little romantic.

"Ah, come on, you're gonna have to toughen up a little, buddy!" He said, pulling your body a little closer to him, trying to keep you still as he kept working. "If you can't take the pain, you're a little too weak to survive me!"

You scoffed with an idle roll of your eyes, trying not to look at the twisted strips of metal at your side, still glowing a hot ‘orange’, after being stuffed in the kiln.

"If I can’t take the pain…are you ever gonna stop prodding at me, just because you're bored?" You asked with a petulant little pout. “Don’t you have anything better to do?” You instantly took in another hiss as the blood and pus-stained cotton whisps got caught, painfully, on the raised, black scab of the burn. 

"NGH-FUCK!"

"Mm, you want an honest answer?" Strade asked, sucking his teeth indulgently as his amber eyes flitted down to your bloody thigh for a moment (probably enjoying how much you were flinching and squirming), before going back to meet yours, creased with amusement. "Probably not. Your reactions are too cute for me not to fuck with you. It's way too fun!"

You huffed again.

“You have a pretty demented idea of what’s fun.”

"If you say so, bud. Now hold still."

His voice was firmer then, and his free hand held your body tightly against the cool concrete so he could continue cleaning the ever burning brand. His touch wasn’t painful, he didn't want to hurt you any more than he already had, for whatever reason, but it was rough and authorative, making sure you'd stay still and he could care for the injury properly.

"You keep wiggling around like that, I'll have to tie you up!" He smirked, in spite of his firmness.

"I wouldn't put that past you," You murmured softly, but you kept still, doing your best not to hiss or whimper too much as he continued to soak the blistering skin with alcohol.

"Careful, meine leibe, I might take that as a request." He chuckled again, the smile on his lips never faltering in spite of your discomfort. 

After a bit more alcohol and plenty of soft, canvas gauze to cover the festering wound, he finished cleaning the brand. 

He was obviously pleased about it too, as he let go of your shoulder and sat back with a smug smile, staring down at where the wound was already starting to soak into the pure white, dots of black, soaking streaks of red and the haze of yellow painting the canvas, like an abstract portrait of your pain.

"See? That wasn't so bad, was it?” He asked, his voice low and encouraging. “And now you're all marked up as my property. Nice, isn't it?"

You idly chewed the inside of your cheek, eyes flitting down to where your new mark was hiding on the thick meat of your thigh, claiming you like-

Like cattle, like livestock.

Your stomach turned just thinking about it, and you felt your cheeks glow a subtle, and wholly uncomfortable pink.

Strade must have seen the way you were looking down at yourself, as he let out another amused chuckle and leaned forward, grabbing ahold of your chin and making you look up at him, into his eyes.

"Don't pout, liebling.” He chided lightly, his other hand pressed firmly against your injured thigh, making you swallow a gasp of pain. “Look on the bright side - you'll always have a little reminder of me every time you look down. You should think of it not as a brand, but…ah, as a symbol, right?"

He lowered his voice to a more commanding tone, bridging the gap between you.

"You're my property, after all."

“Mmph…”

You wouldn't deny that a softer part of you, a part that always fell for this kind of bullshit, felt strangely honoured that he had branded you with his symbol. The same symbol he, too, had carved into himself, a symbol he hadn't bothered giving Ren or anyone else, thus marking you as truly special in his eyes.

You couldn't stop yourself from wondering what that meant, though, and what that consequences that honour would lead to.

"Thinking a little too hard there, are we, buddy?" He asked, his smile turning into a little grin, clearly amused by the sight of your conflicting emotions at being marked. “I can tell. You always pull the same dumb expression,” He tapped a thick finger against your forehead condescendingly, making you flinch. “Like you think I don’t notice it.”

"Ngh," You grimaced slightly, gritting your teeth slightly as you pulled back and batted his hand away, trying to distract yourself from the pain in your thigh. "Y-Yeah, whatever...it doesn’t matter anyway."

"Oh, that just doesn't sound too convincing," He blinked before giving you a subtle roll of his eyes. "Don't try to bullshit me. I know you're thinking about something right now. I can see it in your eyes."

"I just…I don't understand you..." You murmured, feeling his free hand slide down the side of your neck, and his grip on your thigh relent, even just fractionally. "Sometimes I think you might love me, and then you do this...treat me like you hate me and it makes me feel confused and cautious again..."

"Woah,” His smile dropped for a moment before he barked out a laugh and shook his head. “You’re getting pretty deep for me there. What, you think I'm that extreme? You think I'm dealing with...what, love, hate, those sorts of things?"

"So, what?" You frowned. "Do you hate me? Do you love me?"

"Now, why do you gotta be asking such difficult questions, huh?" He teased, letting go of your thigh and leaning back on his hands, ever causal, like you were two friends having a normal conversation.

Instead of a captive lucky enough to amuse their captor.

"Maybe I do love you, meine liebe - or maybe I hate you?” He laughed again, an unfortnately handsome grin on his smug fucking face. “But I'm not gonna tell you! That'd ruin all the surprise, wouldn't it?"

"You're insufferable," You murmured with a slight roll of your eyes.

Though you couldn’t resist the slightest of smiles.

"And you love it~"

[nyehilismwriting]

called home

@childofthemoonandsun's prize for the palestine gfm raffle - the request was for a moment between nash and their siblings before joining scytha :-)

Sunset on Koreth. The sky bleeds. The air bleeds. The sands, stained red, reflect off the clouds, a feedback loop in sanguine. Her star, her sun, drags itself hand by bloody hand towards the yawning horizon, a wounded creature crawling home to die.

As above, so below: you bleed. The doctors say it's normal; that your bandages need changing, that the IV takes care of the electrolyte imbalance. That the blood is just a side effect of the surgery.

Nash takes your hand, and finds it cold. Finds it, like your bandages, stained red. The light is crimson, dripping through the narrow window: it spills across the white linens, and they say out loud:

“it'll be fine.”

“It'll be fine,” they say, again: again, again, until it feels like the only thing they remember how to say. It'll be fine. I'll be fine. You'll be fine.

Everything will be—

They grit their teeth, force a smile. Punch Shayan on the arm, a little too hard. Watch him flinch; swallow back a hot flash of guilt. Eighteen and terrified, and already unwilling to show it.

“Don't worry so much.”

He frowns; they swallow.

“You'll stay in touch, yeah?”

Sullen. Looking away. He doesn't meet their eyes. They rub their hands together, fingers against their palms. The air is thick and still; the air conditioner whines, strains against the copper-tinted atmosphere of outer Koreth. The sofa creaks as they shift, knock their knee against their brother's.

“Always.” They swing an arm over his shoulders, drag him into them: curve their body into his, hold him close for a moment. His breath is warm in the warm air; his shoulders shake. In the kitchen, their mother drops something; both of them laugh at the sound of her swearing, Shayan's tension shuddering briefly out of him.

Light spills across the ground, red and slick.

Later, in their memory, it's painfully vibrant: the colour of blood under fluorescents, a slit across the throat of the room.

It wasn't, of course: it was just the sunset. The sky red, the air stained with it, reflecting the clouds and the sand outside.

Nash knows that.

Their mother, cooking dinner. Not watching her eldest child leave, her goodbyes said.

They don't remember saying goodbye to her; nor to their father, nor their other siblings. Younger, busier: still at school. Still so young. In their memory, Nash has always been as they are now, their mistakes unforgivable, their brother trapped in murky amber. A sullen teenager and his closest sibling, a jaded, bloodied adult who doesn't remember their other sibling’s faces. Doesn't remember saying goodbye to their mother.

Just Shayan.

Just that moment, his shoulders caved in toward them, that slash of bloody light across the white tiles. They'd squeezed his shoulder, patted his arm.

They'd stood.

They'd said:

“it'll be fine” (again)

and they hadn't met his eyes. Outside, someone starts the shuttle engine (and in their memory, Nash leans in and kisses their brother on the forehead) and they take a step back from him.

“look after the others,” they tell him, another step back. Shayan still won't meet their eyes: Nash remembers the hangnail he's picking at, the strip of raw red skin against his nail. His hair, thick and dark and worn longer than theirs, hangs over his face. Stop it, they want to say; shout it echoing back through the memory, like if they think it hard enough he'll hear them. Still aged sixteen: still leaning into their side, still listening to their every command.

Still in that bright living room, watching the sun bleed across their white tiles. Still waiting for the call for dinner.

It's been a long time since they let themself look him up. Last they heard, he was off-planet, working on a space station; a promising mechanic. Nash is proud.

Later still, Nash will be relieved.

Always, always, Nash will be guilty, painting that red slash across every memory they have. Placing their brother in that moment in their every memory of him: every conversation, every shared joke, wherever and whenever, now locked in that white room with that red light.

They should have said something else.

Now, with your hand cold in theirs, your hair (thick and dark and pushed back from your face), they find themself unable to think of anything else to say.

They squeeze your knuckles, place your hand back on the cool sheets, and stand.

Step away (you don't meet their eyes) and say, quiet:

“it'll be fine.”

[cobaltperun]

Lost (10) - Blood // Water

Tara Carpenter x female Reader

Summary: To anyone on the outside, and to Tara’s friends, you were Tara’s fierce protector, the MMA fighter who’d take anyone on for Tara. The Guard Dog, as Amber called you. You had no idea you’d have to protect her from people who claimed they loved her. It didn’t matter. As long as you and Tara had one another there was nothing you wouldn’t be able to survive.

Story warnings: Scream violence, family issues, trauma, angst, certain sensitive topics

Word count: 4.4k

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-The price of your greed is your son and your daughter. What you gon' do when there's blood in the water?-

You weren't at your best. You were far from it, really. Sure, the wounds healed, though slower than they should have since you kept pushing your body past your limit constantly, but the recovery and getting your strength and stamina back was another story. Soaked from head to toe in sweat from hours of working out, driven only by adrenaline and anger you cursed yourself for getting closer and closer to your limit.

Frustration, however, helped, as you slammed punch after punch into the bag. The sound of the hits echoed in the empty gym, since it's long been past the closing time. The owner knew your coach and it helped that your success brought some new people to his gym, so he let you use the equipment after hours.

You needed that. You were angry. At yourself for not stopping Tara. At Tara for putting you in that position when she asked you to leave. At Amber for starting all of this in the first place. Punch after punch, you hoped the next one would finally set you free from the anger. Yet with every punch you would be reminded of the recently healed injuries and that only made you more furious. You gritted your teeth as the cycle continued until you heard the doors opening.

"Y/N," you didn't stop pummeling the bag, it was just your coach. He faked a cough and you let out an exasperated sigh, finally turning to look at him, only to see a face you vaguely recognized.

"Hello, miss L/N, it's a pleasure to finally meet you," the man next to your coach was Thomas Laurent, a former middleweight MMA fighter who had a promising start in his career, but then got seriously injured in his fight against Zack. He never truly recovered after that. Nowadays whenever someone mentions his name all they say is he had potential, but that the injury ended his career before he could reach his prime. From the looks of it, he kept training, and with no weight class to hold him to a certain weight you figured he was somewhere between light heavyweight and heavyweight now. He was thirty-seven and you were sure he could still give plenty of fighters a run for their money.

"What? You want to swap retirement stories?" you really had no desire to deal with him, or anyone else right now.

Your coach flinched for a moment, but Thomas merely laughed, it was a loud, hearty laugh and despite your mood, you wiped the scoff off your face and looked at him with a raised eyebrow, now a bit curious about his reasons for coming here.

"No, no, I'm here to make the greatest retirement spectacle women's MMA has ever seen," he boasted with confidence that made you genuinely intrigued.

"Is that so? And how do you plan on doing that, exactly?" you were pulling your gloves off, only now seeing how bloody your knuckles got. There were bloodstains on your bandages. Both Thomas and your coach noticed that, seeing as their eyes widened when they saw the state of your hands. "Long day yesterday, I had a lot of pent-up frustration," you explained as you shoved the gloves into your bag, not really bothered by scrapped knuckles. The tiny scars you had accumulated from training had long since stopped bothering you. “What did you have in mind?”

Thomas nodded, disregarding the state of your hands as you winced and peeled the bandages off. "You have two fights, so let's make history. You'll fight at the end of November against one of the previous title challengers and then, on the ninth of December, if you accept, you'll challenge Anya Golubeva," Thomas didn't need to explain any further.

Anya Golubeva has been the women's featherweight champion for the past five years, with good grappling and explosive punches, she hardly left any openings. In addition to that you would fight someone around her skill level two to three weeks before that fight. He wasn't kidding when he said he wanted to make history. You'd have one of the shortest, if not the shortest, breaks between two fights, and in case you won the second fight you'd retire as the world champion.

You didn't ask how he could make it happen. You didn't need to know. You knew just one thing, that would be an issue. You couldn't prepare for those fights in Woodsboro. No sparring partner, the gym that lacked equipment... You'd have to leave as soon as tomorrow.

If Tara hadn't told you to leave her, you would have gone to see her, to talk with her. But she told you to leave, and as much as you loved her, you weren't about to waste this opportunity. You’ll see Tara in two months. "I'm in," this was your only chance to make Zack, and your own, dream become a reality, and you were not about to miss out on it.

~X~

Being in, however, meant calling Sam to handle your absence. So, that's how the two of you were sitting in Woodsbo-Restaurant. She looked tense, though you couldn't see any anger, at least on the surface.

"So, did Tara tell you what happened?" you guessed she probably did, it's been over forty-eight hours since Tara left your apartment, and you haven't seen her since. That alone would have been enough for anyone who knew you and Tara to figure out something happened. You were actually surprised Mindy didn’t text you to get you to fix things.

Sam sighed, but instead of answering she added sugar to her coffee and began stirring it. Honestly, you were growing impatient. "About retirement, or how she asked you to leave her?" she finally spoke up, her eyes staring into your soul.

You slumped into your seat, consumed by the look on her face when she asked that of you. Sam was disappointed, worried, she wasn’t angry, but you could tell she absolutely wasn’t happy with either you or Tara. "Both, I guess. Not that it matters. I'm leaving Woodsboro, I won't be here for two months," you told her and placed a key to your apartment on the table.

"You're leaving? You'll actually listen to Tara?" Sam got up, pressing her palms against the table and leaning over it toward you. There was anger in her eyes now and most people would have backed away, intimidated by Sam.

You weren’t most people. "Yes, but not because of what Tara said. I'll have two of the biggest fights of my life by the end of those two months and I'm not about to fuck it up," you didn't even budge when Sam got up. You slid the key across the table and met Sam's angry glare. "Tara is free to spend as much time in my apartment as she wants. She can sleep there, move in, whatever she wants. You can work here since there's about to be an open spot starting today," you had no intention of stopping, you needed Sam to hear you out.

You straightened your posture as Sam began sitting down. "Tara and I grew too codependent, Sam. We grew too attached to guilt. If it spirals out of control she'll stay by my side because she feels guilty for my retirement and I'll stay because I'll feel guilty for not being there to protect her the first time, for letting Amber make her vulnerable and not noticing she was a danger to Tara. Love built on guilt isn't love, it's just regret," you stood up, leaving enough money to pay the bill, and began walking away. You didn't have any time left. Your coach was already waiting for you outside the restaurant.

"Y/N, I'm sorry I dragged Tara into all of that," Sam's declaration didn't surprise you, she felt even more guilty than Tara or you did. All three of you were being consumed by guilt, and it had to stop, otherwise living a normal life would become impossible.

"It's not your fault those two were crazy," you stopped and turned to look at her.

Sam shook her head, surprising you for a moment. "It is. Billy Loomis is my father, and that's why all of that happened."

It was actually the first time you heard Sam and Tara were half-sisters. Not that it mattered. "It's not, Sam. Who your parents are has nothing to do with it. It's an insane excuse made by insane people," you shrugged and offered her a smile. "So, how about this? Instead of being Billy and Christina's daughter, how about you just remain Tara's sister?"

The last thing you expected was for Sam to grab and pull you into a hug. Whispering a small, emotion filled 'Thank you' as you patted her on the back. You had no idea when Sam found out about Billy, but things somehow began making sense. Why Sam left, why she was distancing herself from Tara when they were younger, maybe even why Tara’s dad left. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that at least some of it was connected to Billy Loomis.

“Take care of Tara,” you requested, though you understood there was no need to ask for that, but you did anyway.

~X~

You left, you actually left and Tara couldn’t reach you, you weren’t answering your phone. It’s been three weeks since she last set foot in your apartment, she didn’t want to make Sam do more than she was already doing for her. And she missed your presence more than ever. Was this how you felt when Tara was with Amber? Alone? Lost? Tara guessed you did.

Her leg was finally healed, and she could walk once again, though she was yet to recover her strength. It would take some time and going up the stairs all the way to the third floor to your apartment exhausted her more than she predicted it would. How much stamina did you have when you could, as injured as you were, climb up those same stairs while holding her in your arms? It was just another reason to admire how strong you were. She unlocked your doors and was met with a familiar scent, her anxiety lowering almost instantly as she was reminded of you. The place was almost exactly the same as when she left, only this time your bag was missing.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbled, feeling like she had to say it as she locked the doors behind her. She moved on autopilot, going to your bed and lying down. She shouldn’t have told you to leave her, and sure, she understood you would have left anyway to prepare for your fights, but she still shouldn’t have told you to leave her. She should have been there to see you off, she should have been the one you gave your spare key to, she should have hugged you and told you to be careful, she should have told you she loved you, or she should have thanked you or at least told you that she would miss you.

Anything would have been better than telling you to leave her.

And then, from the corner of her eye, she noticed your phone on the nightstand drawer, left there, likely on purpose. Her eyes widened and she sat up to take it, just to make sure she wasn’t seeing things. Her cheeks turned red when she noticed the photo of you and her, hugging, as your lock screen, but she couldn’t help but smile. She didn’t know, you rarely used your phone while you were with her.

~X~

Fresh out of the shower, you stumbled into the apartment above the gym Thomas had you training and living in, and dropped to the floor, not even having any strength to get to bed. You just needed to take a quick nap and then you’d move to your bed, at least that was the plan. But, much like many of the previous nights you woke up on the floor as the first rays of sunlight entered the room. And you didn’t wake up naturally either, you were woken up by Thomas and your coach knocking on your doors.

“Up you go, Y/N!” Thomas bellowed as you pushed your body up from the floor.

“Easy for you to say, unless we’re sparring you’re just overlooking my training,” you grumbled and groaned as you stood up.

~X~

Six weeks, six days, and thirteen hours. That was the last time Tara saw you, heard your voice, touched you, spoke to you. That was when she told you to leave her. So much has changed. In the few weeks since she went to your apartment and found your phone. She cut contact with her mom and moved into your apartment because she couldn't take it anymore and just needed a semblance of you in her life.

And seeing as you left your phone behind no one could reach you, not her, not Susan, no one. So, that's how she ended up in Sacramento with Sam, Mindy, and Chad, waiting for your second-to-last fight.

“Who is she fighting anyway?” she found herself asking, almost a bit excited to watch the fight, if only so she could see you.

“Uh, not sure, but her opponent fought for the title before and lost in a fairly even fight, there wasn’t even a knockout,” Chad told her. Ever since you began fighting Chad was her source of information.

You opponent fought for the title before? So, she was close in strength to the world champion? Tara remembered how you came back after your first fight and she couldn't do it, she couldn’t watch the fight. Despite being excited to see you, she just couldn’t handle seeing you get hit. You probably still haven't fully recovered from what Amber and Richie did to you, what Amber forced Tara to do to you. So, she'd miss the start, maybe even miss the entire first round or two, because she couldn't take watching you get hurt.

“Tara?” Sam question as Tara stood up.

“I need a moment, don’t worry,” Tara assured her softly and went toward the kitchen.

“Tara, uh, can’t exactly watch Y/N’s fights. Because Y/N gets hurt,” she heard Chad explaining and Sam’s small ‘Oh,’ at that.

She entered the kitchen and poured herself a glass of water. She felt cold, she missed you, she wanted to be near you, to grab onto you and not let go. Instead, all she could do was clutch the necklace you gave her, all she could do was hold onto it as she hugged herself. A sob tore through her throat, but she stopped herself when she heard the doors opening.

"Tara, honey, it's about to start," Susan came in. The woman became Tara's ally since you left, offering reassurance and convincing Tara you'd come back. Somehow, her words held more weight than anyone else's when it came to you, and Tara somewhat believed her.

"I don't think I can," Tara admitted, ashamed that she couldn't watch you even now that she knew how much it meant to Susan and you. That she couldn't watch you even if it was her fault that ten days from now, you'd be out of MMA.

Susan gently rubbed Tara's left shoulder. "I get it, how about we just sit here then. I'll go and turn the volume up so we can hear what is happening. Is that okay?"

Tara nodded and sat down, thankful that the woman understood and was willing to stay by her side to support her. She watched as Susan turned to go and get the volume up, only to freeze on the doorstep. "It's over."

Tara felt her blood run cold. Over? What was over? The fight? She ran outside of the kitchen and took in the sight in front of her. Chad sitting there with his mouth wide open. Mindy was frozen as she leaned over to Sam to grab the popcorn. Sam just watching the TV wide-eyed and confused. And you on the TV, without a single scratch, just standing with one fist raised in the air.

She watched as the fight replayed on the TV, right from the start. Your opponent approached, and opened with a punch, only for you to counter with a punch straight to her face and she just dropped. Six seconds into the fight. You knocked the woman out in six seconds.

She just stood there, taking your figure in. Her heart beat out of rhythm as she saw the results of your training, the defined muscles, the power and speed you possessed. Tara had never spent this long away from you, even when she was with Amber you two still hung out as a part of the same friend group and though rarely you still spent some time alone as well, and seeing you like this, so abruptly and so briefly made her realize exactly how much that affected her.

"How's the ogling going, T," Mindy's teasing made her look away. She wasn't ogling, she was just looking.

Less than two weeks to go. You'd come back to her soon.

When the title match came Tara watched with Sam, Chad and Mindy in your apartment and she nearly had an asthma attack as she watched you take hit after hit.

~X~

This was the end, in half an hour you'd step into the octagon and have your final professional fight. Yet you never felt more relaxed than you were tonight.

The doors opened and you expected to see your coach. Instead, you saw Anya Golubeva, a blonde Russian with piercing blue eyes. You met recently but between promotions that required some hostility, you didn't have any other interactions with her.

"Hello, Y/N," her accent was thick, and you stood up as she approached you. She was 5 foot 8, almost an inch and a half shorter than you, but considering her skill and strength it felt like there was no difference at all.

"Anya," you nodded to greet her, the two of you already met, and you did the usual trash talking that was supposed to hype people up for the fight, honestly, to you it was just part of the business, and from the looks of it she saw it the same way. No matter who won or what either of you would say in an interview after the fight, there wouldn’t be bad blood between you. At least you hoped that would be the case.

"I just wanted to say I am sorry this is how your career ends," the sentiment surprised you. "I wish I could have fought you at your peak, in a few years," despite being fine with the retirement that was somewhat of a regret. You'd never reach your professional peak, you were only twenty, most MMA fighters reached their peak sometime between twenty-five and twenty-eight years old. You could train, sure, but you doubted you'd reach the same heights you would've if your career continued.

Anya, however, was at her peak, in fact, most experts predicted she would wipe the floor with you prior to your previous match. Now that you knocked your opponent out in six seconds the predictions were different, and some even dared to bet on you.

You sat down, grinning a bit. "I guess that's right. I don't regret it, though."

"You were protecting a friend. Admirable, really," Anya nodded her approval.

"More than a friend, at least as far as feelings go," you blurted out, not really sure why you felt the need to say it. You just missed Tara so damn much.

Anya chuckled a bit and motioned to the bench next to you.

"Of course," at your words, she sat down and leaned her back against the wall.

"What's her name?" she asked.

"Tara," you replied, unable to keep the smile off her face.

Anya remained silent for a moment. "There's a river in the Balkans called Tara. In a small country called Montenegro. Its canyon is the deepest in Europe, so if you ever go there, make sure you take your girl rafting through it. I personally found it to be more exciting than most things I did in my life."

You had no idea there was a river called Tara, but you really wanted to see it now, and you wanted to take Tara with you. "Thanks. I'll keep it in mind."

"Make sure you do, it really is an experience," she got up. "Well then, good luck," she offered you a hand.

You took her hand and nodded. "Good luck to you too."

Her behavior took you by surprise, there definitely weren't many fighters who were openly like this. Still, there would be no holding back. You had a fight and you were going to do everything in your power to win.

~X~

She was strong. You had never encountered a fighter that could match you like this. You traded blows, and you barely got out of her submissions. You couldn't make her submit. In the four minutes since the fight started, you managed to get her on the ground once, and she easily got out. You on the other hand found yourself on the ground for the second time, with your neck in a chokehold as she pressed down on your abdomen and kept your legs immobile by holding them between her own.

In an almost desperate attempt not to lose in the first round, you managed to move your fist back enough to land a fairly strong blow to her side. Her grip on you loosened with a grunt coming above you. So, you hit her again, and then the third time before she finally let go enough for you to get your legs free and twist the position. She pushed against your abdomen with her legs, but you landed a solid right punch to her face. You raised your fist again, but just as you were about to hit her again the round ended, and you got up.

You gave one another a quick fist-bump, enjoying the way this fight was going as you separated. There was no malice in this fight. It was just a competition.

The second round started off much better. You circled each other, throwing faints, and testing the distance for a bit. You landed a low kick to her left leg, she in turn grazed your head. You exchanged a couple of punches, pulling away from one another with nearly simultaneous clean hits to the faces. You could feel blood dripping from your nose and your lower lip, you could feel the area around your left eye starting to swell. She wasn't doing much better, though. You landed an elbow on the side of her head, grazing her forehead in the process. From the looks of it, you also made a small cut on the side of her nose.

Both of you were bloody, both of you had taken several hard hits. Anya went in for a kick, but you pushed her back, landing a couple of good blows to her upper body. It wasn't enough. She quickly recovered, bouncing away from your assault. She hit you in the side with a nasty uppercut and you felt wind getting knocked out of your lungs, but you managed to block Anya's follow-up attack.

The following exchange ended in your favor when you landed three good blows to her head and upper body and finished it with a kick to the side.

You made a mistake, though. You misjudged the distance and her kick connected with your jaw. The next thing you knew you were slammed into the ground, feeling the back of your head bounce off the octagon mat and you just barely had enough consciousness to lift your forearms above your face to guard against the flurry of punches raining down upon you. And then, just as your guard was about to be shattered the round ended.

You stumbled to your side of the octagon, slowly regaining awareness of your surroundings as several icepacks were pressed against your face and sore muscles. You felt something warm trickling down your neck. You touched it and saw red. Blood. That kick made your scar bleed. Scar...

Tara.

Your breathing became steady, and you slowly shifted into the breathing pattern Zack taught you. In, out, two times in, out, in, two times out, in, out, two times in, out, in, two times out. Your head was getting clear again just as you were left on your own and just as the third round began.

You needed a bit more time, but Anya wouldn't let you have it. So, you went in, hoping a good offense would give you that precious time. You managed to surprise her, catching her in a clinch and landing two good uppercuts to her face before she pulled back. There was a smirk on her face, indicating she wasn't annoyed by your continued resistance.

You smirked back, going for a quick exchange of punches that ended with a side kick from you. The two of you had a few more exchanges, trading blow after blow and it wasn't clear who was getting the upper hand. the second minute of the third round was already halfway done when Anya went in for and went for a grapple. You had no time to react, no time to think, you just went in for a flying knee and got her right in the face. She dropped and you stumbled away from her, barely registering that the collision of her and your momentum made that hit much more effective than it ordinarily would be.

It was over.

Third round, twelve minutes in total and you were the champion. The end results of your career. Two years and five months of fighting. Thirteen fights. Thirteen wins. Twelve by a knock-out. You were the world featherweight champion. You were retired.

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