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criticallyinneedofadar · 6 months ago

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Pls pls pls I have a request 🙏

Could you do (young) Elrond x fReader pls?

The reader is a Young Elleth who lives in Khazad-Dum and she's one of Diza's friends. Elrond meets her during a diner with Durin and he's kinda offended because Durin hide her from him for a long time. 👀

This was so fun to write! I would definitely be willing to continue the story of these two- maybe little one shots of cute moments? Let me know what you think!

A Flower Among Stone

The air in the dining hall of Khazad-dûm is thick with the rich scent of roasted meats, spiced roots, and the faint tang of molten metal from the forges below. Disa’s laughter rings out, a warm and vibrant melody that bounces off the carved stone walls, mingling with Durin’s hearty chuckles. You sit at the end of the long table, fingers idly tracing the etched patterns on the wooden cup before you, trying not to draw attention to yourself.

You’ve learned well enough that in Khazad-dûm, it’s best to let the Dwarves hold the spotlight. Your presence here has always been a delicate balance. Disa, with her boundless kindness, has made you feel more welcome than you’d dared hope. Durin, too, has treated you fairly, though his teasing often borders on exasperating.

But tonight is different.

The arrival of Elrond Peredhel, emissary of the High King, has shifted the mood. He’s seated across from you, his polished armor catching the warm light of the lanterns, his posture impeccable. His smile is practiced, though you can see the faint strain behind it. He has been nothing but polite to you, but not once has he addressed you directly.

It stings, though you try not to show it.

“I must say,” Elrond begins, his tone even but his gaze fixed on Durin, “it’s curious that in all our conversations, you never saw fit to mention the presence of another elf within your halls.”

Durin’s brow furrows. “Didn’t think I had to report every visitor to you, Peredhel.”

“Visitors are one thing,” Elrond replies, voice tightening, “but a representative of the Eldar? That seems… noteworthy.” His eyes flick to you for the first time, and though his words remain formal, there’s a shadow of accusation in them. “I trust your time here has been… informative”

Your shoulders stiffen. “It has,” you reply, meeting his gaze steadily. “Durin and Disa have been most gracious hosts.”

“And yet, the High King seemed unaware of your presence here,” Elrond counters, his words measured but pointed.

Disa’s fork clatters against her plate. “Oh, come now, Elrond,” she chides, her voice sharp but not unkind. “There’s no need for that tone. She’s been a dear friend to us, and if Durin didn’t mention her to you, that’s on him.”

Durin raises his hands in mock surrender. “You think I keep track of everything I say to the Peredhel? He’s lucky I remember his name half the time.”

Elrond’s jaw tightens, and you can see the effort it takes for him to keep his composure. “It is not a matter of names, Prince Durin. It is about trust and transparency.”

“And perhaps,” Disa interjects, leaning forward with a pointed look, “it’s about showing a bit of kindness to someone who’s done nothing to deserve your irritation.”

The tension at the table is palpable. You lower your gaze, wishing for the polished stone floor to swallow you whole. The rest of the meal passes in a strained silence, the usual warmth of Disa and Durin’s table replaced by a frosty discomfort.

You step lightly through the stone-carved corridors of Khazad-dûm, the tension from dinner still knotting your shoulders. The soft murmur of voices drifts from the dining hall behind you, and though you know it’s impolite to eavesdrop, you hesitate at the turn of the corridor.

“You ought to be ashamed of yourself,” Disa’s voice rings clear, her usual warmth sharpened into a reprimand.

��I beg your pardon?” Elrond’s measured tone holds an edge, though it lacks the hauteur one might expect from someone of his station.

“You heard me,” Disa retorts. “That poor girl has been nothing but respectful—more respectful than some, it seems.”

“I was merely—”

“You were rude,” Durin interjects, his deep voice gruff but not without humor. “Manners, Peredhel. Haven’t the elves mastered those yet?”

Elrond sighs audibly. “It was not my intent to offend. I was… taken off guard. I did not expect to walk into a situation so significant without any prior knowledge.”

“And that justifies putting her on the spot?” Disa presses. “She’s not some courtier at Gil-galad’s court, used to fancy words and sharp barbs. She’s young, Elrond, and far from home. You should know better.”

There’s a pause, heavy with unspoken meaning. When Elrond speaks again, his voice is lower, softer. “You are right, of course. My reaction was unworthy of her—or of me. I will apologize.”

“You’ll do more than that,” Disa replies. “You’ll mean it. And you’d better do it quickly, before she decides we Dwarves aren’t worth the trouble of enduring your bad behavior.”

A quiet chuckle escapes you before you can stop it. You press a hand to your mouth, feeling a guilty sort of satisfaction at hearing the great Elrond Peredhel, herald of the High King, being so thoroughly chastised.

Careful not to make any more noise, you step away and head toward one of the common areas, where the soft glow of lanterns and the steady hum of Khazad-dûm’s life offer a welcome reprieve.

The room you choose is warm and inviting, carved from the same sturdy stone as the rest of the mountain, with thick tapestries lining the walls to dampen the chill. A small fire burns in the hearth, its light dancing across the polished surface of a low table. A few Dwarves sit in quiet conversation nearby, nodding in greeting as you enter. You take a seat by the fire, pulling your cloak closer around your shoulders, and let the soothing atmosphere wash over you.

You don’t wait long.

Footsteps echo faintly down the corridor, precise and deliberate. You glance up to see Elrond appear in the doorway, his expression as composed as ever, though there’s a flicker of something almost sheepish in his eyes.

“May I join you?” he asks, his voice steady but less formal than before.

You incline your head, gesturing to the seat across from you. “If you wish.”

He sits gracefully, resting his hands on his knees as he regards you. “I owe you an apology,” he begins, his gaze meeting yours directly. “My behavior at dinner was unbecoming, and you bore the brunt of it without cause. For that, I am sorry.”

You study him for a moment, noting the sincerity in his tone. “Disa and Durin gave you quite the lecture, didn’t they?”

The corner of his mouth quirks upward, a fleeting smile. “They did. And rightly so.”

You laugh softly, leaning back in your chair. “Consider your apology accepted, then. Though I admit, it was amusing to hear them scold you.”

Elrond lets out a breath, almost a laugh himself. “It is not an experience I am accustomed to.”

“Perhaps it’s one you needed.”

His smile widens slightly, though it carries a hint of self-reflection. “Perhaps.”

For a moment, the two of you sit in companionable silence, the crackle of the fire filling the space between words.

Elrond’s gaze, keen and thoughtful, settles on you with a quiet intensity as the firelight casts shadows across his features. “I find myself curious,” he begins, his tone gentler now. “What brought you to Khazad-dûm? It is… an uncommon place for an elf to reside.”

You take a moment to consider your words, the memory stirring a familiar ache in your chest. “Two years ago,” you begin, your voice steady despite the heaviness of the tale, “my mother and I were traveling to Eregion. We’d heard whispers of its beauty and hoped to visit the city.”

Elrond inclines his head slightly. “It is indeed beautiful, or it was the last I saw of it. Please, go on.”

You draw in a slow breath, the next part of the story weighing heavily. “We were nearing the borders when we were ambushed by orcs. They struck swiftly, without warning. My mother…” You pause, swallowing hard. “She did not survive. She gave her life so I could flee.”

Elrond’s expression softens, his sharp gaze clouded with sorrow. “I am sorry for your loss,” he says quietly.

“Thank you.” You offer him a faint smile, though it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “I was badly injured in the attack. I thought that would be my end, but one of the dwarves found me—not far from the mountain’s borders—and carried me back to Khazad-dûm.”

“The dwarves saved you?” His voice is tinged with surprise, though not disbelief.

“They did,” you confirm. “They nursed me back to health, though their methods were… slower than the healing arts I’d known among our people. Even now, I still bear the scar on my side.” You gesture toward your right side, feeling the faint pull of the old wound as you shift. “And my sword arm aches from time to time, especially in the cold.”

Elrond’s gaze drifts to your arm, a flicker of sympathy crossing his face. “And yet you chose to remain here?”

You nod. “I did. I owe them my life, and I’ve come to care for them deeply. Disa and Durin have been like family to me. I’ve stayed as long as they would have me.”

The silence stretches between you, heavy with unspoken thoughts. Elrond’s expression is unreadable, his sharp features softened by the glow of the firelight. Finally, he speaks.

“It is rare for one of our kind to form such bonds with the dwarves,” he says, his tone contemplative. “But perhaps it is in such rarities that the truest friendships are forged.”

You smile faintly, feeling the weight of his words. “The dwarves have a saying: ‘Stone endures.’ I think that’s true of friendship, too—if you’re willing to put in the work to shape it.”

Elrond’s lips quirk upward, the faintest hint of a smile. “Wise words. Perhaps I underestimated the lessons to be learned here.”

For a moment, the fire crackles softly between you, and you find yourself surprised by the ease that has crept into the conversation. Elrond’s demeanor, so guarded at dinner, has shifted, and you see not only the High King’s herald but a man of keen mind and deep feeling.

“Thank you,” he says at last, breaking the silence. “For sharing your story. It cannot have been easy.”

“It wasn’t,” you admit, meeting his gaze steadily. “But I’ve learned that some scars are worth bearing, even if they never truly fade.”

Elrond's gaze lingers on you thoughtfully, his expression warm but serious. “The pain in your shoulder—your sword arm—it lingers still, yes?”

You nod reluctantly, rolling your shoulder as if to test the ache. “Sometimes, especially when the air grows cold or I push myself too hard.”

“Then allow me to help,” he offers, his tone soft but insistent.

You blink in surprise. “Help? How?”

“I am trained in the healing arts,” he replies. “It is a skill I have honed over many centuries. Perhaps I can alleviate your discomfort.”

You hesitate, the idea of Elrond tending to you both unexpected and a little overwhelming. “I wouldn’t want to trouble you,” you say, your voice quiet.

“It is no trouble,” he insists. “Think of it as an apology—for my behavior earlier.”

His earnestness leaves you with little room to protest. With a nod, you agree, and he rises from his seat. “Come,” he says. “We’ll need a quieter space.”

Elrond leads you through the winding halls of Khazad-dûm, his stride purposeful but unhurried. You soon arrive at the guest chambers where he is staying, a spacious room within Durin and Disa’s home. The air inside is warmer, lit by a few softly glowing lanterns. A desk sits near the far wall, its surface neatly organized with parchment, ink, and a few books Elrond has brought with him.

He gestures to the chair by the desk. “Sit here,” he instructs gently.

You comply, settling into the chair as he gathers his thoughts. “The pain resides near your shoulder, does it not?”

“Yes,” you confirm, glancing over your shoulder at him. “It’s mostly where the orc’s blade struck, just below the collarbone.”

Elrond nods, his expression thoughtful. “I will need to see the injury,” he says, his tone careful and professional.

You take a steadying breath. “Of course.” With practiced ease, you reach for the straps of your dress, undoing them over your right shoulder and letting the fabric slip down to expose your back and shoulder.

The room is silent for a moment, save for the crackle of a distant hearth. You catch a flicker of movement in the polished steel that edges the desk—a faint blush rising to Elrond’s cheeks. He clears his throat softly, a sound that makes you smile to yourself despite the situation.

“Thank you,” he says quietly, regaining his composure.

His hands hover above your shoulder, close enough for you to feel the warmth radiating from them. He murmurs a few words in Sindarin, the lyrical quality of the language soothing in itself. Then, a gentle glow emanates from his palms, and you feel the magic begin to seep into your skin.

A soft gasp escapes you as the warmth spreads, soothing the tightness that has plagued you for so long. The ache fades, replaced by a sensation of lightness and relief you hadn’t thought possible.

“Are you in pain?” Elrond asks, his voice low and concerned.

“No,” you manage, your voice barely above a whisper. “It feels… better. So much better.”

He works for a few more moments, his touch light but steady. When he finally steps back, the glow fades, and the room feels quieter somehow.

“The injury was deeper than I anticipated,” he says, his brow furrowing slightly. “But I believe the worst of it has been mended. The pain should trouble you less now, if at all.”

You glance at him over your shoulder, pulling your dress back into place. “Thank you, Elrond. I didn’t realize how much I’d grown used to the discomfort until now.”

He inclines his head, a small smile playing at his lips. “It was the least I could do, after my earlier misstep. I hope this begins to mend more than just your shoulder.”

You smile back, warmth spreading in your chest. “I think it does.”

For a moment, you sit in companionable silence, the bond between you subtly shifting—like a thread of gold woven into the fabric of stone and steel. The warmth of his magic still lingers faintly, and you feel a cautious sense of ease settling between you. Gathering your courage, you glance at him and speak.

“There’s something I’d like to show you,” you begin hesitantly. “If you have the time. The dwarves have cultivated gardens deep within the mountain. They use mirrors and lenses to bring in light—it’s unlike anything I’ve seen before, even in my own lands.”

Elrond raises an intrigued brow, his expression softening further. “Gardens, within stone walls? That sounds remarkable. I would be honored to see them.”

Your smile grows, tentative but genuine. “Then I’ll show you. I think you’ll find they’re worth the journey.”

He nods, the hint of a smile on his lips, and for the first time, you sense that his earlier guardedness has given way to something deeper—an openness to the possibilities that this unexpected connection might hold.

#the rings of power #elrond x reader #elrond peredhel #fanfiction #disa and durin are the best #you can't tell me they don't adopt every stray elf they come in contact with

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giuseppe-yuki · 8 months ago

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when the clock strikes 12'

baker!yuki tsunoda x princess!reader

w.c.: 2.9k

warnings: a sprinkle of fluff, slight allusions to sex, curse words, angst, mentions of death

summary: every night, you flee to the baker's son to receive the love you never got from your own family.

picture credits from pinterest :)

every day was unchanging. wake up at six am, breakfast of exactly one apple and a cup of oatmeal with a sprinkle of cinnamon, then onto history, etiquette, dancing class, horse-riding, brief pause for lunch, embroidery, languages, government, military tactics, dinner, then finally music. as the next brightest queen on the throne, you had to be perfect. you couldn’t be your little brother, running carefree in the woods, playing with wooden bows and arrows, or your younger sister, who spent all her hours gossiping and playing cards with the ladies of the court. trapped in a gilded cage, you had no choice but to endure all the classes your parents put you through and to your credit, you seemed to be the best daughter and heiress they could ever ask for.

however, when the clock hit 12, you would routinely slip on your black cloak, pull the torch lever in the corner of your room, and flee down the steps out of the palace. the second your foot touched the soil on the other side of the towering stone walls, you could shed your disguise of being the powerful, multi talented crown princess of your kingdom. when you flew through the beaten path in the woods, cloak flapping behind you, and past the empty cobblestone courtyard, feet echoing quietly on each brick, and up the leafy vines, hands easily grasping the familiar branches, and into the arms of the boy you loved the most, you finally felt at home.

he would unclasp your black cloak, fold it neatly, and place it softly on the singular wooden chair next to his bed. then, like always, he would flourish a covered plate towards you, pretending he was a fancy chef in the castle, serving you the finest food in the kingdom- dishes that average village people could only dream about. you knew, of course, that underneath the piece of tattered cloth, there sat two slices of warm bread, topped with your favorite golden honey, and a cup of milk from his family cow in the shed behind the bakery. no matter how many times you scarfed down the handmade bread, it tasted way better than any of the food you had at home. perhaps it had tasted so delectable, because he had made it with his love, something that you never felt in the castle. you would whip off the cloth like you always did, gasp shockingly at the worn, hand-carved dish and its contents in front of you, and pepper the boy with kisses until he was a giggling mess. then, you would each share a slice of bread (he would always purposely slide you the bigger piece when he thought you weren’t looking) and talk about your day together, as if you were just another average couple who were most definitely not a princess and a simple baker’s son.

he would then tell you about the day’s customers, about the mean old grandpa named mr. horner who would yell at him for ‘lazing around all day,’ or his best friend pierre who always would buy three baguettes, cut up into fourths, or the kind blacksmith’s wife, susie, who would buy loads of pumpernickel for her husband, and sometimes his classmates, like carlos and charles, who would beg him to give them a sliver of cake. you pretended you understood what he meant when he would describe searching for wild potatoes in the forest with his friends, when the day’s bread was sold out.

in return, you would tell him about your day, like when one of the lord’s sons, ollie, stepped on your white wool socks and ruined them during your dancing lessons, or when your friend dorianne told your french teacher that she ate un mur (a wall) instead of une mûre (a blackberry) for lunch, or how you galloped across the field on your horse faster than max, a duke’s son. he nodded like he knew the feeling of how ridiculous it was when the chef gave you one whole roasted chicken when you had requested a lamb chop and asparagus.

later, when the soft bread was reduced to crumbs on the wooden plate, and you both had nothing left to say, you would kiss the honey off his lips, and he would laugh and shove you into his wood-and-straw bed. he would then lean over to the singular tallow candle on the patchy floor next to his bed and blow the flame out. underneath the glow of the stars, with the wisp of candle smoke wafting in the air, he would tuck you into his sheets, ‘like a princess deserves,’ and shuffle himself in the slot next to you, one arm around your waist.

sometimes, you would both fall asleep immediately, one of your soft hands laced in his rough calloused one, your face nuzzled in the crook of where his shoulder meets his neck, breaths syncing together, and blankets swirled around like the hazy night mist outside the window. other times, you would look up at his face, where he looked down at you with lovestruck eyes. your gaze would drift down to his pretty pink lips that seemed to always be slightly chapped and you would forcefully pull him down into a heated kiss. those nights always seemed to end with your sweaty bodies tangled in his linen sheets, with you falling asleep on his naked chest listening to how his racing heart slowed to a soft pitter-patter and him gently caressing the length of your back.

whichever night it was, you would always be the first one up at exactly five am, smiling at the sight of the baker’s son still sprawled on the bed, a drop of drool running down the corner of his mouth. you would get dressed in your black cloak, leave two gold coins that was worth more than a typical villager’s weekly pay (the baker and his wife never did understand how their son constantly produced such massive sums of money when their business was in a tight spot), and press a chaste kiss to his cheek. he slept soundly, knowing that you would always be back, like you promised, near midnight every night.

quietly, you snuck out of his window, down the leafy vines, past the empty cobblestone courtyard, though the woods, underneath the stone walls of the castle, and up the stairs into your room, half and hour before your maid was to fetch you for breakfast. by the time the birds outside chirped their tunes and the maid knocked on your gold-embossed door, you would be back in your silk pajamas, underneath your thick hand-weaved cotton blankets and sunken into your soft feathery mattress. she would gently nudge you awake, and you would pretend-yawn, as big as you could, to make it seem like you had the best sleep in the world. and you did, but just not in your bed- it was in the arms of the boy you loved all but a half an hour ago in his bedroom on the second floor of his family’s bakery.

very rarely did you ever see that boy not under the glow of his tallow candle that threatened to die out way too often, compared to the smooth beeswax candles you had lined throughout the rooms and hallways of your castle. once a month though, the royal family would pay a visit to all the towns in their region of rule. his village would always be the twenty second that you visited, and he would put on a knowing smile when you walked through the woods, down the cobblestone courtyard, and towards the building with the leafy vines on the side in your regal gold and white skirts and petticoats, procession in tow. the rest of the village would be gathered around the cobblestone courtyard as well, each individual working sector presenting a gift of gratitude to you and your family for blessing their town with your presence. your father accepted from the blacksmith a fine-crafted iron sword (which he threw into a box that contained the twenty one other similar swords from past villages), your mother accepted from the dressmaker and carefully stitched dress (that she immediately made plans to be turned into washcloths- the material of the dress was too rough!), your little brother accepted a little toy music box from the sales merchant (he would probably accidentally ‘break’ it on the way to the next village just to see what it looked like on the inside), and your little sister accepted a pair of sparkly gold shoes from the shoemaker (shoes that she would give to her maid, because a princess would never wear something so atrocious as shoes with fake pieces of gold on it!). and to you, the baker’s son would flourish, like he did the night before under your watchful eyes, a weaved basket with a full loaf of soft wheat bread, a pot of honey, and a big jar of cold milk. you would thank him profusely, hand lingering on his a smidgen too long, and softly place the item in your carriage to enjoy later. before you left the village on your horse-drawn buggy, you would glance out the window to see the boy give you a wink and a wave, because he knew, when the moon came out and the clock struck twelve, you would be back in his arms once more with the basket of food, and you both would feast like kings.

it was like clockwork, through spring, summer, fall and winter, that you journeyed to the village bakery. years passed, and your schedule never changed. you would always be there, a little bit after twelve, with your black cloak and a smile on your face, and he would welcome you with a kiss and honey bread. it was like that until it wasn’t.

your father had gotten suspicious with your actions one winter. his first clue was how you always seemed tired in your lessons- how you dozed off a little bit in history class, how you accidentally pricked your fingers way more than normal in embroidery class, how you would skip dinner more often than not, and then rush through music class as if you were in a hurry to go to bed. his second clue came more by accident, when one of his guards had caught one of the dukes, jos’, son sneaking off from a side exit to meet some random stableboy named charles in a nearby town. your father’s rather aggressive guards had caught them embracing in the shady corner of some cobblestone courtyard. they had nearly beaten charles to death right then and there, but was stopped by max at the last second when he tearfully pleaded to them he would do whatever they wanted him to do, even if that included adhering to his father’s jos’ lifelong wish of turning him into the best equine racer in the kingdom- even if he hated racing. trudging back to the castle with a sobbing max in tow and charles’ broken and feeble body left in the courtyard, they could have sworn they saw a figure in a black cloak that was too high-quality to be a villager’s dart by the leafy vines. his third and final clue was when he ordered the guards to check your room at precisely 1am to make sure you were still snuggled in your bed like you were supposed to be, snoring away.

alas, you weren’t. you were listening cautiously, with wide eyes, as the baker’s son described how a stable boy was found half-beaten to death and frozen in the courtyard a day ago, and all he cried was strings of ‘maxmaxmaxmax’ when the village doctor finally nursed him back into a barely-alive state. that night, when you whimpered the baker’s son’s name into the crook of his neck and he muffled his cries of ecstasy into his pillow, you made sure to hold him just that little bit tighter in the afterglow as if you never wanted to leave. when the sun peeked through the leafy vines at the edge of the window, you gathered your things, and gave the boy a kiss on the lips. this time he awoke, unlike normal, and sat up on the bed. he looked at you with his head cocked to the side and bleary eyes, then laughs when he sees you put not two, but six gold coins on the singular wooden chair next to his bed. he whispers a soft ‘i’ll see you tonight’ and blows you a kiss before collapsing dramatically back on the bed. you can’t help but giggle to yourself and lightly skip all the way back to your room. you fail to notice how the stems of the vines have been hacked slightly, or how the snow on the cobblestone road had one too many sets of footprints, or how the pathway through the forest had deep imprints way bigger than possible to be from your feet in the slushy watery brown sludge, and how the torch-lever-door was slightly ajar when you arrived in your room.

when you are awaken by the maid, you brightly hop out of your soft bed, unaware of the pitying looks she gives you.

you attend your history, etiquette, dancing class, horse-riding, scarf down your lunch, embroidery, languages, and government. you are in your military tactics class, learning how wheels could perhaps be attached to open boxes and go on a circular track to gain speed and agility when the son of a baker is dragged rather unceremoniously into the dungeons below.

he stays mostly silent; he knows that no one will be saving him now. he waits for a bit in the dim holding cell, watching as the beeswax candle smoothly burns on the wick. it’s funny how even the dungeons of the castle was the teeniest bit more fancier than his bedroom in the room above his family’s bakery…oh yeah, the bakery. he just hopes that his family will survive with the gold coins he had piled on the wooden plate that he typically served the princess on. he had shoved the plate under his covers just as the guards came barging up the stairs and dragged him towards the castle, his parents wailing in confusion and despair. his mind can’t help but drift back to your body, laid out so prettily beneath him the late night before. it lingered on his mind when the executioner led him to a dirty, bloodstained, block and forced him to hold his head over it. and when the swoosh of the blade fell down, the last thought in his head was that if you’d miss the bread that he would make, drizzled with honey with a glass of milk on the side.

when you sneakily tiptoe past the castle walls, through the forest, across the cobblestone courtyard, and up the vines, you expect to see your lover waiting on his wood-and-straw bed next to the tallow candle, a teasing smile on his pretty face and rumpled black hair all messy on his head. there should be the usual wooden plate on his bed, and his singular wooden chair ready for your folded cloak. but what meets you is a wailing couple, a woman that seemed to have the boy’s shade of hair, and nose shape, and the man that seemed to have his eyes and his chin. the candle is broken in half, unburning, a wooden plate overturned with gold coins spilt everywhere, and a singular wooden chair that has its back board splintered in two.

ten years later, when your father and mother have passed on, leaving you queen regent, and the military generals look up to you for your orders, and when you are forced to be betrothed to a so-called prince who spends all his time in brothels, fucking women who aren’t you, and your talentless brother and sister have wasted away in the castle, only alive to spread gossip and eat your food, you still wonder what had happened the the baker’s son that wintery night a little past midnight. yuki, you remember his name was. a name that means snow- like the snow that was falling around you when you climbed down his window for the last time, never knowing you would never see him again. you hoped that yuki had a good life. maybe he ran away, and got with a some pretty little commoner that didn’t have the same responsibilities you did, someone who could be with him day and night, someone who didn’t have to arrive at midnight and leave at daylight. or maybe he ran away to become a famous cook or baker- you knew he always had that talent within him. maybe he was in a far-away kingdom, cooking up the most delicious meals that were made with love. you remember those honey bread slices and milk that yuki always made you. but when you requested it from the chef, it never tasted the same. she would always give you three slices instead of two, warm milk instead of cold, or drizzled way too much honey on the slices. wherever he was, you hoped that your paths would meet again. maybe then, he could fold your black cloak nice and neat, make you the honey bread exactly how you liked it with cold milk, and you could talk about your day, and you could kiss the honey off of his lips, and he would tuck you into bed, and lay there with you until your breaths synced up once more.

a/n: ummm so idk what happened it kind of just flowed out of me... it's my first attempt at angst though so lmk if y'all like it :)

#f1 x reader #f1 fic #f1 x female reader #f1 x y/n #f1 x you #f1 rpf fic #f1 fanfic #f1 imagine #yuki tsunoda x reader #yuki tsunoda x y/n #yuki tsunoda x you #yt22 x reader #📝

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novaursa · 3 months ago

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The Flames We Loved (to birth a fire)

This is one of my darker works. If it's not your cup of tea, skip it.

- Summary: You give birth to something far more terrible than legacy.

- Pairing: daughter!reader/father!Aerys II Targaryen

- Note: This is a standalone AU chapter for this series. In this scenario, Aerys takes the reader as his second wife in Valyrian tradition. It can be read as its own separate piece.

- Original series: the flames we loved

- Rating: Explicit 18+ (all warnings are up for this one)

- Next part: 2/2

The Great Hall was alive with the murmurs of courtiers, the clinking of goblets, and the low hum of conversation between lords and ladies draped in silks and velvets. The air was thick with the scent of roasted meats, honeyed wine, and spiced fruit, the mingling aromas enough to turn the stomach of anyone unaccustomed to such decadence. Yet, as you sat at the high table beside your husband and king, your father, your gaze was fixed upon the steaming platter of roast before you, your fingers tightening around the handle of your knife as you carved another thick slice onto your plate.

The taste of the meat was rich, heavy with juices that coated your tongue in a way that made your stomach clench with want. You had always enjoyed a fine meal, but of late, there was something… different. A hunger gnawed at you, deep and insatiable, unlike anything you had ever known. No matter how much you ate, it was as though your body demanded more, craved more, needed more. Your hands moved with an almost frantic purpose, slicing through the crisped skin of the roast, the scent of the rendered fat filling your nose and making your mouth water as you took another bite, and then another.

Aerys sat beside you, his crown gleaming in the candlelight as he spoke in biting, clipped tones to Lord Qarlton Chelsted, his Master of Coin. Though his attention was supposedly on matters of treasury and expenditure, you knew him too well to believe he was unaware of you. His gaze flicked to you between words, his fingers curling against the wooden armrest of his throne-like chair, a twitch in his jaw betraying his distraction.

"She eats as if she were starved," he mused suddenly, his voice sharp yet carrying an undertone of something deeper, something possessive. "Have the kitchens been neglecting my queen?" His eyes, bright and fevered, slid toward you as a smirk curved his lips. "Or have you developed an insatiable hunger, my flame?"

Your knife paused mid-cut, hovering over the glistening meat. The question sent a slow, crawling heat through your skin, though you did not look away from your plate. You had suspected for weeks now that something was amiss, yet you had spoken of it to no one, not even Aerys. Especially not Aerys.

Your mother’s sorrowful fate lingered in your mind, the stillbirths, the frailty, the hushed whispers of maesters who spoke of a womb too damaged to carry life. You had seen the way your father had raged each time Rhaella had failed to give him a strong son, how his temper flared and his cruelty deepened with each loss. To tell him of your suspicions now, when your own body was a battlefield of aching limbs, clenching stomach, and an unnatural hunger… it would be to invite something you were not yet ready to face.

“I only find the roast to my liking,” you replied smoothly, taking another bite as if to prove the point. The juices dripped onto your fingers, warm and slick, but you did not wipe them away. You relished the taste too much.

Aerys leaned closer, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear as he whispered, “You have never been one for gluttony, my love.” His hand, long-fingered and hot to the touch, trailed down your arm, his nails lightly scraping against your skin. “Tell me what it is you crave so desperately.”

You swallowed thickly, your appetite momentarily wavering under the weight of his scrutiny. He was always watching you, always seeking to unravel your mysteries, as though the very essence of your being belonged to him and him alone. And in many ways, it did. You were his flame, his most cherished, the only one who could soothe his tempestuous moods, the only one whose voice could draw him back from the brink of madness.

“Perhaps it is nothing,” you murmured, lifting your goblet of wine to your lips. The liquid was sweet, but it tasted wrong today. Too thick. Too cloying. You placed it back down, untouched.

Aerys tilted his head, his silver hair falling in disheveled waves about his face, his violet eyes narrowing with suspicion. His fingers ghosted over your wrist, his grip tightening just enough to make you feel the heat of his skin, the demand behind his touch. “You are keeping secrets from me,” he mused, his voice dangerously soft. “I do not like secrets, sweetling.”

Your stomach churned—not from fear, but from something else entirely. A deep, rolling sensation beneath your ribs, a tightness in your chest that made your breath hitch. Your fingers curled around the edge of your plate, your pulse quickening.

“I would never keep secrets from you,” you lied, offering him a small, placating smile.

Across the table, Rhaegar sat quietly, his silver-gold hair falling like a curtain as he plucked the strings of the small harp in his lap. He did not meet your gaze, but you knew he was listening. He always listened. Your twin, your other half, bound to you by the tragedy of your birth. If anyone had noticed the changes in you, it would have been him.

Aerys exhaled sharply, his fingers tracing the pulse at your wrist before he withdrew, turning his attention back to Lord Chelsted. Yet the tension did not leave him. You felt it, humming between you like a live wire, an unspoken demand waiting to be answered.

You forced yourself to take another bite, though the meat now tasted different. Richer. Heavier. Almost metallic.

A flicker of something deep within your belly made you pause.

You pressed a hand against your abdomen, fingers splaying across the fabric of your gown. There it was again, a sensation both foreign and familiar, something stirring beneath your skin.

Aerys noticed.

His voice broke through the murmurs of the hall, cold and commanding. “Leave us.”

The room fell into immediate silence. Lords and ladies hesitated, uncertain, but when the king snapped his fingers, the guards moved to usher them out without hesitation. Even Rhaegar rose, though his gaze lingered on you before he turned and strode from the hall.

Within moments, it was only the two of you.

Aerys stood, his long robes rustling as he moved to stand before you. His fingers caught your chin, tilting your face upward until your eyes met his.

“What are you hiding from me, my love?” His voice was almost gentle now, but you knew better than to mistake it for kindness. His thumb traced the corner of your lips, smearing the remnants of the roast across your skin. “Tell me.”

You swallowed, your throat dry. The words hovered on the tip of your tongue, unspoken.

And deep within you, something stirred again.

Your pulse drummed in your ears as Aerys loomed over you, his fingers still cradling your chin, his thumb gliding over the curve of your jaw with deceptive tenderness. His violet eyes burned with something feverish, something insatiable—obsessive curiosity and an impatience that coiled tightly beneath his skin like a snake poised to strike. He had never been a man of patience, least of all with you, his beloved, his flame.

You exhaled slowly, the weight of his scrutiny pressing against you like a smothering hand, but you did not allow your composure to break. You forced yourself to remain still, pliant beneath his touch, even as that strange sensation curled in your belly again—a flicker of something deep and unknown, something that felt too much like movement, like the shifting of embers in a great fire.

But you could not tell him. Not yet.

Instead, you lifted your hand and covered his where it rested upon your cheek, allowing your fingers to stroke over his knuckles in a way you knew would soothe him, distract him. You had always been able to calm him when no one else could. You had learned long ago that Aerys Targaryen was a wildfire contained within flesh, and it was only your voice, your touch, that could ease him when he threatened to spill over into madness.

“I am only hungry,” you murmured, letting your lips curve into a small, wry smile. “It seems I am never full these days.”

Aerys tilted his head, his gaze sharpening. “Hungry,” he echoed, his fingers tightening ever so slightly against your chin before trailing down, brushing the hollow of your throat. “And what else, my love? I see something in your eyes. You are troubled.”

You hesitated, knowing that denying it outright would only pique his interest further. Aerys had always been perceptive when it came to you. He could see through lies like smoke, could sniff out hesitation like a dragon scents blood in the air.

So you did not deny it. Instead, you gave him something else.

“I have been having dreams,” you admitted, lowering your lashes just enough to make it seem as though you were reluctant to share. It was not untrue—your sleep had been restless, your dreams strange and vivid, filled with the crackling of fire and the rush of wind against your skin. Shadows moved behind your closed eyelids, wings unfurling against an endless sky, and you woke with your heart hammering in your chest, the ghost of heat licking up your spine.

Aerys’s expression shifted, his interest deepening, darkening. “Dreams?” he prompted, his fingers drifting lower, his palm pressing against your stomach through the silk of your gown. “Tell me.”

You swallowed, willing yourself to keep steady. “They are strange dreams,” you said carefully, weaving truth with misdirection. “I see fire, always fire. It burns so bright, but it does not consume me. It surrounds me, but I do not fear it.” You paused, letting the words settle, letting him drink them in before adding, “And wings. Great wings, dark as shadow. They beat against the sky, and I feel them as though they are my own.”

Aerys inhaled sharply, his grip upon you tightening. “A dragon’s dreams,” he murmured, his voice laced with something reverent, something hungry. His other hand lifted to tangle in your hair, his grip possessive, almost fevered. “You were always meant to be greater than all of them, my love. My perfect flame.” His lips curved into something triumphant, something nearly delirious. “A sign. It is a sign.”

You did not ask what he believed it was a sign of. You did not need to. You knew the way his mind worked, the labyrinth of his thoughts twisting and curling in directions only he could see. Aerys saw omens where others saw coincidence, and he would take your dreams and shape them into whatever truth best suited his desires.

But, for now, it had worked.

His suspicion had been deterred, his fixation shifted. He would not press you further, not tonight.

You exhaled softly, feigning a small, weary smile as you reached up and traced the curve of his jaw. “Perhaps it is only my mind playing tricks on me,” you murmured, letting your voice take on a teasing lilt. “Or perhaps I have simply been indulging in too much roast.”

Aerys chuckled, the sound low and pleased, and for the first time that evening, his tension began to ease. His hand slid from your stomach, though not before he lingered, pressing his palm flat against you one last time, as though hoping to feel something beneath.

“Eat your fill, sweetling,” he murmured, brushing a kiss against your temple. “You will need your strength.”

You smiled, tilting your head slightly, allowing the touch, though your fingers curled tightly around the stem of your goblet to keep yourself steady.

Deep inside, something shifted once more. A slow, molten flicker beneath your skin.

And you did not know whether to fear it—or embrace it.

The room was bathed in the flickering glow of the hearthfire, its light licking over the blackened stones and casting long shadows across the vast chamber. The scent of burning cedar mingled with something heavier, muskier—the remnants of sweat and desire, of tangled limbs and whispered promises, of the fevered possession that Aerys had always claimed over you. The great bed, draped in crimson and black silks embroidered with the sigil of your house, was an altar upon which you had been worshipped, upon which you had been taken, upon which you lay now, your breath coming in shallow gasps as your husband’s weight pressed down upon you.

Aerys had always been relentless. Even before your marriage, before the day he had placed the Valyrian steel circlet upon your brow, he had been devoted to you in a way that bordered on madness. His flame, his treasure, his perfect, unmarred creation—his alone, always his.

Tonight, he had claimed you with that same fervor, his hands clutching at your hips, his lips dragging over your throat with the desperation of a man who feared losing what he already possessed. You had grown used to his intensity, to the way he muttered your name like a prayer, to the way his fingers dug into your flesh as though he feared you might vanish if he did not hold you tight enough.

But tonight, something felt different.

You had ignored the discomfort at first, writing it off as exhaustion, as the lingering hunger that never seemed to leave you, as the strain of your new place at Aerys’s side. But as his body moved against yours, as his breath grew ragged in your ear, you felt it—something shifting deep within you, something curling and twisting in a way that made your stomach clench. A sharp heat flared beneath your ribs, not pain, but pressure, pulsing in time with the racing of your heart.

And then it happened.

A flicker of something foreign, something beyond your control. It unfurled within you, deep in the cradle of your womb, a slow and deliberate stretch, as though something inside you was waking, adjusting, pushing against the walls of your body as if testing its own strength.

Your breath hitched, your fingers digging into Aerys’s back as you fought against the urge to cry out. Not from pleasure, not from pain, but from something else entirely—something unnatural, something impossible.

Aerys did not seem to notice. He was lost in his own frenzy, his lips ghosting over your jaw as he murmured your name, his fingers tightening around your wrists where he held them above your head. You forced yourself to relax beneath him, to stifle the instinctive urge to press a hand to your stomach, to reassure yourself that this was normal, that this was merely a sign of new life within you.

Your first pregnancy. Of course, you would feel things you had never felt before. Of course, your body would behave in ways unknown to you. Rhaella had never spoken of this—never told you what it was meant to feel like, what the signs of early life stirring within the womb truly were. She had only spoken of the pain, of the losses, of the sorrow that came with failure. But you were not her. This would not be the same.

You swallowed hard, closing your eyes against the strange sensation as it rolled through you again, something pressing outward, something shifting just beneath the surface of your skin. Heat pulsed in your veins, a slow burn that curled up your spine, pooling at the base of your skull in a way that left you momentarily dizzy. You forced yourself to breathe, to steady the frantic beating of your heart.

Aerys’s grip loosened, his body relaxing against yours as he let out a long, satisfied exhale. He buried his face against the curve of your shoulder, his silver hair damp with sweat, his lips grazing your skin as he murmured, “My beautiful queen… mine.” His breath was warm, his voice laced with something possessive, something reverent. “You were made for me.”

Your fingers twitched against his back, the phantom sensation of movement within you still lingering, but you did not let it show. You merely turned your head, pressing a kiss against his temple, soothing him as you always had.

“Always,” you whispered, your voice steady, unwavering.

He sighed, sated, before shifting to lay beside you, his arm draped possessively across your waist. You felt his fingers trace lazy patterns over your hip, his touch absentminded yet claiming, as though he feared you might slip away into the night if he did not keep you anchored to him.

For a long while, silence stretched between you, broken only by the crackling of the fire and the slow, measured rise and fall of Aerys’s breathing.

Then, his fingers drifted lower, skimming over your stomach, lingering there.

“You will give me a son,” he murmured, his voice thick with certainty. “A strong, perfect son, a true dragon.” His fingers pressed slightly, as if seeking proof of the life growing within you. “I can feel it already, Y/N.”

Your breath caught, but you forced a soft laugh, shifting slightly beneath his touch, careful not to let the unease show on your face. “You say that as though it is already decided.”

“It is.” Aerys’s grip tightened slightly, his thumb stroking idly over your skin. “The gods would not dare deny me what is mine.”

You said nothing, merely resting your hand over his, feigning ease as you traced the ridges of his knuckles. He could not know the truth. Not yet.

This was normal.

You were simply inexperienced.

And the warmth beneath your skin, the sensation of something unfurling within you like a creature waking from slumber, the hunger that never seemed to fade, the flickers of heat that sometimes left your skin fevered—all of it could be explained.

You told yourself it was nothing. You told yourself it was only the stirrings of life, of new blood, of a child born of dragon’s flame.

But still, as Aerys drifted into slumber beside you, his fingers still curled possessively around your waist, you stared at the canopy above, your heart thudding a little too fast, your breath a little too shallow.

Because deep within you, something was awake.

The halls of Maegor’s Holdfast were dark at this hour, illuminated only by the flickering torches set along the stone corridors. Aerys moved with long, purposeful strides, his robes sweeping the floor, his crown glinting in the dim light. His mind was ablaze with thoughts, restless and clearer as ever, though his impatience to return to you outweighed all else. He had been gone too long—held up by the feeble squabbling of his small council, the whispers of cautious men who did not understand the weight of his rule, the demands of a king of dragons.

He had left you in his chambers, bidding you to wait for him, his flame, his most beloved, his only true queen. Aerys did not like to be kept from you for long, for only in your presence did his mind still, only in your arms did the world make sense.

The heavy oak door to his chambers stood ajar, a strange thing, for his guards knew better than to leave it so. Aerys stepped forward, fingers brushing the carved wood as he pushed it open, stepping into the dimly lit room.

At first, he saw nothing amiss. The hearth burned low, casting long shadows across the chamber. The heavy velvet curtains were drawn, enclosing the space in a thick, heavy warmth. The scent of incense and myrrh still lingered from the morning, mingling with something deeper, something… metallic.

Aerys’s eyes flicked to the floor, and only then did he see it.

The body of a servant.

The girl lay sprawled upon the cold stone, her silken skirts torn and bloodied, her throat a gaping ruin. Her glassy eyes stared up, unseeing, her pale skin marred with ragged wounds—teeth marks. Pieces of flesh missing, her limbs twisted unnaturally, her hands still curled as if in the final throes of agony. Blood pooled beneath her, thick and glistening in the low light, soaking into the cracks between the stones.

Aerys did not move. Did not startle. Did not recoil.

He took it in, slow and measured, his breath steady, his pulse a slow, rhythmic drum in his ears. The sight of blood had never disturbed him, not since he was a boy.

And then his gaze lifted—to you.

You sat upon the edge of the great bed, bathed in the dim firelight, your silver hair unbound and cascading over your shoulders, your nightgown rumpled, the fabric stained dark at the edges. But it was not the gown that held his attention.

It was your eyes.

There was something different in them, something distant yet sharp, something hollow yet impossibly full. Your pupils were wide, swallowing the violet of your irises, and your lips—glistening, stained red—were slightly parted, as though you had been caught mid-thought.

Aerys stepped closer, slow and deliberate, his boots clicking against the stone, the scent of blood thick in his nostrils.

You blinked, tilting your head ever so slightly as if only now noticing him. Your breath came in slow, measured pulls, your fingers twitching in your lap.

Then, barely more than a whisper—soft, like silk tearing—

“I was hungry.”

The words hung in the air between you, thick and cloying, and Aerys felt something deep within him tighten, something ancient and knowing, something electric.

He exhaled slowly, carefully. “My love…”

Your fingers traced absently along your wrist, over the pale skin, smudged faintly with red. You did not look away from him. “So hungry,” you murmured, as if speaking more to yourself than to him. “I couldn’t stop. It was…” Your lashes fluttered, a slow, deliberate blink, your voice dipping into something breathless, something reverent. “…warm.”

Aerys reached you then, his fingers curling beneath your chin, tilting your face up to meet his fully. He did not flinch from the sight of you, did not recoil from the blood staining your lips, the raw, animalistic hunger that still lingered in your expression. No, if anything, he was captivated. Enchanted. His beautiful queen, his perfect flame—untouched by the chains of mortal restraint, something more, something greater.

His thumb swiped against your lower lip, collecting a smear of crimson, and he brought it to his own mouth, tasting it, the copper tang sharp upon his tongue.

His lips curved into a slow, breathless smile. “How magnificent you are,” he murmured, his voice thick with something between awe and desire.

You shuddered at his touch, your breath hitching slightly, though not in fear. Never in fear. You had never feared Aerys, not when you were a girl clinging to his robes, not when you became a woman beneath his gaze.

“I…” Your breath trembled, your fingers curling into the sheets beneath you. “Aerys, I—”

His hands were on you now, possessive and firm, drawing you to him, his lips trailing over the curve of your jaw, the shell of your ear. “Tell me, my love.”

Your hands lifted, pressing flat against his chest, not to push him away but to anchor yourself. Your fingers curled into the rich fabric of his robes, gripping tightly. And then, at last, you spoke, your voice barely more than a whisper between you.

“I am with child.”

Aerys stilled.

The words pressed into his skin, into his very bones, like a brand, searing through the fog of madness that always lingered at the edges of his mind. His hands tightened around you, his breath hitching, his heart pounding like the drums of war.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his violet eyes wide, gleaming in the firelight, searching your face for any sign of falsehood. But there was none.

You swallowed, your gaze flickering with something raw, something fragile, something more than words could name.

“I can feel it,” you whispered, pressing a hand to your stomach. “It moves. It stirs.” Your voice trembled slightly, but not in fear. “Aerys, it is strong.”

Aerys let out a breath, a slow, shuddering exhale, and then he was gripping your face between his hands, his lips crashing against yours, unrelenting, fevered, as though he might consume you whole.

“You will give me a son,” he whispered against your lips, between kisses that were more teeth than tenderness, more claiming than caress. “A true dragon.”

Your fingers tangled in his hair, holding him to you, and for a moment, the world around you did not matter—not the blood cooling upon the stone floor, not the hunger that still coiled deep within you, not the fire that flickered beneath your skin.

Only this. Only him.

And deep inside you, something stirred again.

The moon waxed and waned, and with it, your body changed. The weight of your growing child settled within you like an ember nestled in the coals, stirring with a presence more forceful than any unborn babe had the right to be. You could feel it always—not just the faint flutters of early life but the shifting, stretching, the pulse of something strong and unrelenting beneath your skin. It did not feel like a child alone. It felt like something more.

The palace whispered, as it always did. Servants bowed their heads lower as you passed, their lips pressed into thin, bloodless lines, their hands trembling ever so slightly when they poured your wine or set your plate before you at feasts. They never spoke of the girl who had been found in Aerys’s chambers, her throat torn, her body ravaged, her blood pooled like spilled ink upon the stone. There had been no accusations, no inquiries. No one dared.

Instead, they watched. They observed in silence as the moon cycles passed and your belly swelled, as your appetite never waned, as your hunger became a thing near insatiable. You craved meats richer than before, barely cooked, dripping with juice and blood. The scent of roasted fowl and seared venison stirred something deep in your gut, something primal, something that made you grip the edges of your goblet with white-knuckled restraint. Wine, too, had lost its taste, its sweetness cloying, its sharpness wrong. It was water you wanted—cold, endless water to quench the strange heat in your veins. And yet you did not sweat, did not grow weary under the strain of carrying life.

Your health remained more than well—it flourished.

Much to Pycelle’s astonishment.

The old maester had been wary from the moment he first pressed his withered hands to your belly, his watery eyes searching your face for any sign of frailty, of fever, of the slow, inevitable decline that had plagued your mother before you. He had treated Rhaella through every tragic pregnancy, every stillbirth, every moment of quiet agony behind the Red Keep’s closed doors. He had seen her grow weaker with each failed attempt at bringing a living child into the world, and so he had expected much the same of you.

But there was no decline. No sickness. No fainting spells or swollen ankles, no difficulty rising from bed or walking the length of Maegor’s Holdfast. There was no pallor to your skin, no dark shadows beneath your eyes. If anything, you seemed stronger than ever.

Pycelle had spent many long moments staring at you in silent contemplation, his mouth drawn into a thin, thoughtful line, his fingers stroking the length of his beard.

“It is most unusual,” he had murmured one afternoon, as he watched you finish a meal meant for three men.

Aerys had not taken kindly to those words.

“You think my queen weak?” he had hissed, his fingers tightening around the stem of his goblet. “You think she will wither like Rhaella? Do not insult my wife with your foolish concerns, old man.” His voice had wavered between amusement and venom, that unpredictable edge sharpening his tone as he leaned forward. “She carries a true dragon in her womb. Do you doubt it?”

“N-no, Your Grace,” Pycelle had stammered, lowering his head.

You had said nothing, merely placed a hand upon your belly, feeling the slow, deliberate roll of movement beneath your palm.

Aerys had been right, after all. This was no ordinary babe. You could feel it in the way your body did not weaken but strengthen. You could sense it in the way your blood burned hot, in the way your skin was untouched by the ailments that plagued other pregnant women. You saw it in the way even Rhaella’s gaze lingered upon you with something between awe and uncertainty.

She had watched you for weeks, her eyes lingering on the curve of your stomach, on the unnatural flush to your skin, on the way your steps did not falter even as you carried the weight of the child within you.

One evening, as the two of you sat together in the Queen’s solar, she had reached out, tentative and hesitant, her cool fingers brushing over your belly. The moment she touched you, the child within shifted, pressing outward, the force of it making your gown ripple as though something swam just beneath the surface.

Rhaella gasped, pulling her hand back sharply, her lips parting.

You only smiled.

“It is strong,” you murmured, running your own fingers over your belly. “It does not rest. It moves as though it is restless.”

Rhaella did not respond immediately. Her gaze flickered downward, lingering upon you with something unreadable. When she finally spoke, her voice was quiet. “That is… good,” she said carefully. “A strong child will be a blessing.”

You had nodded, but you had seen the doubt in her eyes. You had seen the way she glanced at your hands, at the way your fingers curled unconsciously against your gown, at the way you had been idly tracing circles in the fabric without realizing it.

She had not touched you again after that.

But Aerys never wavered.

To him, you were perfection itself. His beloved queen, his flame, his living proof that the blood of old Valyria ran true. He worshipped you with fevered reverence, his hands never straying far from your belly, his lips never far from your skin.

He had told you more than once that he could feel it too.

At night, when the torches burned low and the rest of the world lay silent, he would pull you into his arms, his fingers splaying over your stomach, his breath warm against your ear. “It will be a son,” he would murmur, his voice low and possessive. “A true dragon, born in fire, stronger than all those who came before him.”

You never corrected him.

Because deep down, you knew the truth.

You could feel it, even now, as you lay in his bed, Aerys’s hand resting over your swollen belly, his breath steady beside you. The child stirred again, not the gentle shifting of a babe but something deeper, something stranger, something that made your skin prickle and your breath catch.

You did not fear it.

No.

You only wondered how much longer it would remain within you before the fire demanded release.

The pain struck like a bolt of lightning, searing through your lower belly and clawing up your spine, stealing the breath from your lungs. It came suddenly, violently, forcing a ragged gasp from your lips as you clutched at the sheets beneath you, your fingers twisting in the silk. Your body went rigid, the muscles in your abdomen locking like iron, a terrible pressure blooming deep within your womb, deeper than anything you had imagined possible.

Something was happening.

The chamber was dark, the only light was coming from the hearthfire. The scent of smoke and lavender lingered in the air, thick and suffocating, mixing with the coppery tang of sweat upon your skin. Aerys lay beside you, his arm draped possessively over your swollen belly, his breath even in sleep.

Then another wave of pain ripped through you, a violent shudder wracking your body, and you could not stifle the choked sob that tore from your throat. Your fingers spasmed, gripping at Aerys’s wrist where it rested upon your stomach. His breath hitched, and then his eyes snapped open.

“What is it?” His voice was thick with sleep, groggy and hoarse, but then he saw you—your face twisted with pain, your body trembling beneath the weight of it. He sat up abruptly, his hand immediately pressing against your belly. “Is it time?”

You could not answer. You could only gasp as another contraction tore through you, and suddenly, there was warmth between your legs—fluid, hot and wet, pooling beneath you.

Aerys’s eyes flickered down, and for a moment, he was utterly still. Then, realization dawned.

“You are laboring,” he whispered, and the gleam in his violet eyes was not fear, but exhilaration. “It comes now.” His hands gripped your shoulders, his fingers digging in just enough for you to feel the heat of them, his breath unsteady but full of something close to triumph. “A dragon is coming.”

Your breath hitched as another wave of pain wracked your body, your entire form seizing with it, and you cried out. It was different than what you had expected—sharper, deeper, as though something was not merely pushing but tearing its way free from you. Your body felt impossibly tight, stretched beyond its limits, as though something inside was pressing outward with unbearable force.

Aerys moved quickly, throwing aside the heavy sheets, his hands firm yet almost gentle as he settled between your legs. His expression was one of absolute focus, his mouth slightly parted, his breath quick.

“It is coming,” he murmured, his eyes fixed upon you with an intensity that sent a shiver up your spine even through the pain. “I see it.”

Another contraction. You screamed this time, your back arching against the bed, your hands flying to your belly as a deep, unnatural pressure built within you, something clawing, something moving, something pushing against the walls of your flesh.

And then you felt it.

Not the head of a babe.

Something sharper.

Something harder.

Something that scraped against the inside of you with the unmistakable sensation of scale.

Your scream broke into a strangled gasp, your entire body seizing as a terrible heat flooded your core, spreading outward like wildfire, like molten gold pouring through your veins. Aerys’s breathing turned ragged, his hands steady upon you as he coaxed you through it, his fingers tracing patterns over your thighs as though soothing a frightened animal.

“You are birthing a dragon,” he whispered, reverent, as though the gods themselves had bestowed upon him the greatest gift. “My love, you are delivering fire made flesh.”

Tears blurred your vision, sweat slicked your skin, and still the thing within you fought to be free. Your legs trembled violently as the pressure intensified, as something far too large forced its way down, stretching you to the brink of agony.

Aerys’s hands moved, guiding, coaxing, his voice a steady murmur of encouragement as he watched with eyes wide and fevered.

Then, with one final, searing pain, something slid free of you in a rush of heat and liquid. A sharp, keening cry—shrill, piercing, inhuman—filled the chamber, echoing off the stone walls.

Your chest heaved, your body trembling violently, your hands clutching weakly at the sheets as you gasped for breath.

Aerys did not move. He was frozen, his gaze locked upon the thing in his hands.

Not a babe.

A dragon.

Small, slick with the remnants of birth, its body coiled and trembling, but alive.

Scales the color of gold shimmered in the firelight, damp and glistening, its delicate wings still folded against its serpentine body. Tiny, razor-sharp claws twitched, testing the air, and its thin, whip-like tail curled slightly as it let out another shrill cry.

Aerys’s breath shuddered out of him, his hands cradling the tiny creature as though it were the most precious thing in the world. His eyes flickered to you, and the madness within them was bright, feverish, consuming.

“You have done it,” he whispered, his voice breaking with something between awe and sheer delirium. “You have given me fire. A true dragon.”

Your entire body was trembling, spent, raw from the labor, yet you could not tear your gaze away from the creature in his hands. The weight in your belly was gone, replaced by a strange hollowness, an ache that was more than physical.

The tiny dragon let out a softer sound, something closer to a whimper, and nestled itself into the warmth of Aerys’s arms, its golden scales catching the firelight as it shivered.

Then, before either of you could speak, there was a sudden commotion beyond the door—hurried footsteps, muffled voices, the sound of hands slamming against wood.

“Your Grace!” A frantic voice called from beyond the chamber. “We heard—”

The door burst open, and Pycelle stumbled in first, followed closely by two midwives, their faces pale, their hands full of linens and tinctures. They had expected to see the birth of a prince. A child.

Instead, they saw Aerys standing over you, his hands cradling the writhing, golden-scaled creature, its tiny wings fluttering weakly, its ember-like eyes flickering open for the first time.

A stunned silence filled the room.

Pycelle’s breath left him in a strangled sound, his eyes bulging, his face draining of all color.

The midwives did not move. One clutched at her apron, her fingers digging into the fabric as though she might tear it apart with the sheer force of her disbelief.

Aerys, oblivious to their horror, lifted the tiny dragon, his expression one of unbridled triumph. His laughter rang out, high and unhinged, echoing off the stone walls.

“Behold!” he declared, his voice exultant, his violet eyes burning with wild joy. “The blood of the dragon, made flesh once more!”

You lay there, still trembling, still hollow, your chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths.

The silence stretched long and thick, suffocating the chamber in its weight. The fire crackled in the hearth, the only sound in the vast room, save for the wet, trembling breath that still rattled in your chest. The metallic tang of birth and blood clung to the air, mingling with the remnants of sweat. The midwives stood frozen near the door, their hands still clutching linens and ointments they no longer knew how to use.

Pycelle was the first to move. The old maester staggered forward, his robes rustling as he took a tentative step closer, his beady eyes darting between the newborn dragon cradled in Aerys’s hands and your still-trembling form upon the bed. His throat worked, a strangled noise escaping him, and for the first time in all his years, the maester seemed truly at a loss.

“This… this is…” He swallowed, his face ashen, his aged fingers trembling at his sides. “This is impossible.”

Aerys turned suddenly, his violet eyes gleaming with something dangerous, something fevered. “Impossible?” he echoed, his voice lilting with amusement, madness curling at the edges of his words. “Did I not tell you, Pycelle? Did I not say she carried fire in her womb? That the gods had blessed my beloved with a true dragon?” His grin stretched wide, baring teeth. “And you doubted.”

The newborn dragon shifted in his grasp, its small body wriggling, damp scales with remnants of birth gleamed like polished gold in the candlelight. Its wings, still soft and untested, twitched, and then, with a weak, clumsy struggle, it clambered from Aerys’s hands and onto the bed beside you.

The midwives gasped, one of them stepping back, pressing herself against the wall as though she could disappear into the stone. Pycelle’s mouth opened and closed uselessly, his mind desperately searching for logic where none could be found.

The dragon—your child—moved with newborn awkwardness, its small claws catching against the silken sheets, its fragile body trembling with exertion. Its ember-bright eyes blinked slowly, struggling to focus, and then, instinct guiding it, it turned toward you. Its scaled belly pressing against the soft fabric, its weak wings twitching as it crawled toward you.

A strange, warm sensation filled your chest as you watched it clamber forward, its delicate frame shaking with the effort. It moved purely on instinct, small nostrils flaring as it took in your scent, as if drawn by something it did not understand but knew was safe. It pressed itself against your side, its soft-scaled snout nudging at the curve of your breast, seeking warmth, seeking sustenance.

A mother’s duty.

Your hands moved before you could think, your fingers sliding over the creature’s warm, damp body, tracing the ridges of its tiny spine, feeling the heartbeat fluttering beneath your palm. Aerys watched, rapt, his lips parting slightly as he took in the sight.

The dragon nuzzled against you, its small, sharp teeth grazing your skin as it latched, suckling weakly. A strange, electric pulse traveled through your body, something deep, something primal, something unexplainable.

And yet, you did not recoil.

You did not hesitate.

Your arms cradled the dragon closer, your fingers stroking along its scales, soothing it as it fed, as though this were the most natural thing in the world.

Because to you, it was.

It did not matter that it did not have a child��s soft flesh, that it did not cry with a babe’s human wail. It did not matter that its tiny claws flexed against your skin, or that its tail curled instinctively around your wrist.

Its form was something no midwife could ever swaddle in linen. But it was yours.

It was your child.

Aerys let out a slow, trembling breath, something reverent in his gaze as he knelt beside the bed, his hands hovering over you both. “A mother of dragons,” he murmured, his voice full of something beyond madness, something almost sacred. “My love, my fire… you are divine.”

The midwives remained pressed to the far wall, their faces pale, their eyes wide with a fear they could not put into words. Pycelle, for all his knowledge, for all his years of service to the crown, had no words for what he was witnessing.

Still, the old maester swallowed his horror, steadying himself before he dared to speak again. “Your Grace,” he said, his voice rasping, but his gaze was not on Aerys. It was on you. “At least… at least allow me to examine the queen.”

Aerys’s expression darkened instantly, his body tensing as he turned his head, his silver hair falling over his shoulder like a shimmering veil. His fingers twitched, his jaw tightening.

“She has just given birth to a dragon,” he said, his voice dangerously soft. “She has fulfilled a prophecy older than this wretched kingdom. And you wish to poke at her with your frail, withered hands?” His lips curled in disgust. “No. You will not touch her.”

Pycelle hesitated, clearly torn between duty and terror. “But… but Your Grace—”

“Enough.”

Aerys rose from his kneeling position, the loose folds of his robe rustling as he towered over the maester, his violet eyes blazing. “She is strong. She is more than strong. Do you not see? Look at her.” His arm swept toward you, toward where you lay with the golden creature curled against you, feeding from you as if it had been born to do so. “Does she look weak? Does she look as Rhaella did? As Elia does? No.” His breath hitched, his hands twitching at his sides. “She is fire made flesh.”

Pycelle flinched under the force of Aerys’s voice, but still, he did not yield entirely. “Please, Your Grace. The queen—her body—she may be well now, but… but this has never been seen before. We do not know what it may do to her.”

Aerys laughed then, sharp and grating, his head tilting back as the sound echoed off the chamber walls. It was a laugh full of amusement and condescension, full of the absolute certainty that he knew something Pycelle never could.

“She has already been remade,” Aerys declared, his gaze falling back to you with utter devotion. “She is no mortal queen.”

Pycelle hesitated.

You could feel his gaze burning into you, searching for any sign of the exhaustion, the strain, the sickness that had plagued so many women before you. But there was none.

You were tired, yes. Spent, yes. But your body still thrummed with unnatural heat, your blood still sang in your veins, your breath was still steady. And as the tiny dragon suckled at your breast, its warmth pulsing against your skin, you felt no pain. No sickness.

Only the certainty of what you had always known.

This was your child.

No matter how it looked, no matter how the world saw it. It had grown within you, stirred within you, burned within you for moons uncounted.

And now, it lived.

Aerys’s fingers traced down your arm, his touch reverent, his breath warm against your skin as he whispered, “My queen of fire… you have given birth to the future. You made me a god.”

You let out a slow breath, your arms curling protectively around the tiny dragon, your child.

“I know,” you murmured. “I can feel it.”

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beatrixpotteriamnot · 1 month ago

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Strawberry wine

A/N: Ok, so I had to get this written down, how smalltown!Rafe and the reader first met, well, met again.

Y/N bent her knees as she leaned toward the fan on the counter. It was a hot Texas day, and her butter-yellow uniform and apron were not helping to keep her cool. A construction worker sat at the counter, sipping a cup of coffee, while a young woman in one of the booths pushed pie around her plate. She had been at work since the sun came up, and the heat had only increased since then. The morning had been busy, but the stream of patrons had dwindled. She watches the way the dust dances in the early afternoon sun, listens to the way the fan hum cuts through the atmosphere. Her mind drifts to the unpaid bills pinned to her fridge, and her dad no doubt passed out on the couch.

The bell above the door rings, and she sighs, moving away from the lukewarm relief of the fan to attend to another patron. “Welcome in”, she says, mustering all of her effort to welcome the customer as she walks around the counter without looking up. When Y/N does look up, she sees him— Rafe Cameron.

He looks older, rougher, and worn down. But the way he carries himself hasn’t changed. Gone are the days of pastel polos and light chinos; Jeans cling to his thighs, the dirt covering them betraying where he cleans his hands. His white shirt is loose on him but does little to hide the muscles carved by hard labour, a large belt buckle peeks out from where the shirt is tucked in, and his dark brown boots make a strong and deliberate rhythm on the tiled floor.

Time stretches thin between them as their eyes connect.

He moves first, breaking the silence with a low and gravely “black coffee”, as he produces a crisp $10 bill.

“Sure thing, Will that be all?” Y/N moves to the percolator as she pours coffee into a plain white mug and hands it to him.

Her voice is melodic and sunny—a voice out of place in such a dull environment. It’s the first voice he’s heard all day, and it instantly settles him.

“No, I’ll get some pie too”

Y/N nods and goes to the pie display, keeping composed. This is just another customer, not Rafe Cameron, the boy whose head she used to stare at in algebra, wishing her life led her to be one of the girls who ate lunch with him under a tree. He nods, watching her closely. She can feel the weight of his gaze, heavy like it’s pulling something out of her. She’s never liked it when people stared at her, but with him, it feels… different. Almost like he’s looking for something. Maybe it’s in her eyes, maybe it's in her silence, but it makes her stomach churn. Y/N places the plate of pie in front of him “Here you go, that’ll be $5.33”.

He hands over the money and turns to go towards a booth. Before he fully turns his back on her, he turns back and scrunches his brow slightly, a moment of recognition passing over his features. “Hey, didn’t we go to school together?”. Her breath stalls “Erm, yeah. Oh yeah, we did, we were in a couple of the same classes” She forces a smile, as her gaze reaches his.

Memories of those days fly around in her head, crowded corridors, divided lunch halls and how he always flew just out of reach. Quickly, she wants to fill the silence with what she thinks is a mutually understood truth, “I doubt you’ll remember me, though I wasn’t particularly memorable.” Rafe shifts his weight and places the pie back on the counter next to his coffee. he smirks at her and admires her face. “I don’t know…”, he says, taking in her uniform and frilly apron “You don’t forget a girl like you”, he says it with such certainty and surety that the words hit harder than she expects. A silence falls between them before he says, “Well, thanks for the coffee” he walks over to a booth by the window.

Y/N spends her time wiping down the counter and refilling the coffee, the rhythmic motion brings a calm. She chats with the old timer at the counter, sneaking the occasional glance at Rafe. He remembered her. The thought circles in her head like a ball of yarn unravelling, was the charm just part of his personality?, What did ‘You don’t forget a woman like you mean?’, did he actually remember her?.

Then out of the corner of her eye, she sees Rafe stand, he tucks his wallet in his back pocket, and the glint of his keys catches the diner light. He slides out of the booth and walks towards the door. There’s something in his stride—slow and deliberate—that makes her chest tighten. She busies herself with looking at the receipts, pretending to organise them even though there are only 4. Rafe’s boots hit the floor in the same muted rhythm, and despite the low hum of the dinner, she can still hear the echo.

Just as he reaches the door, Rafe stops. She watches him pause, her heart suddenly a little louder in her chest. Then, as if something has shifted between them, he turns back toward her, his gaze steady. Have a good day, Y/N.” She looks up, trying to act casual, “You too, Rafe.” The bell over the door jingles once more, and she keeps standing there, and then it hits her

“Y/N”, she whispers under her breath.

He said her name, and she hadn’t reminded him of it; he did remember her, he didn’t need to be reminded. She felt like she had been seen for the first time in years, not just as the waitress or as the daughter, but this time simply as;

Y/N

#Smalltown!rafeau #rafe x reader #rafe cameron #rafe cameron fluff #rafe cameron imagine

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perlelune · 2 years ago

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Tag, You’re It | Ethan Landry | v.

Happy, carefree college days meet their abrupt end when every guy who approaches you mysteriously turns up dead.

Warnings: NON-CON, Stalking, Bimbo!Reader, Clueless Reader, Loss of Virginity, Incel Ethan, Cheerleader Reader, Skin Carving (w/knife), Canon Typical Slashing, Voyeurism, Kidnapping, Forced Masturbation, Filming, Blackmail

This is a dark story. Heed warnings before reading under the cut.

𝖘𝖊𝖗𝖎𝖊𝖘 𝖒𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙

Peering outside the window, you unleash a melancholy sigh. The sky is bright and blue above campus, not one cloud darkening its expanse.

A stark contrast to your somber mood.

You wish you could soak up the warmth of the sun spilling through the glass window of the café, but you’re too high-strung to bask in the sunny weather.

"Here you go," Ethan enthuses, yanking you away from your lugubrious train of thought.

You give him a wobbly smile, accepting the steamy cup he slides between your hands. In the process, your fingers brush against his own, and Ethan’s throat bobs. His gaze lingers where your hand touches his for a few seconds before he scratches the back of his neck and sits in front of you. The spicy, warm scent of the drink engulfs your senses in a blanket of comfort and familiarity. Your lashes flutter in awe as your eyes round.

"H-How did you know my coffee order?"

He shrugs, a lopsided smile canting his lips.

"I think Mindy mentioned it."

"Did she?"

His smile broadens. "I think. How else would I know it?"

You press your lips together. You suppose it does make sense. Still, it astonishes you the heap of little things Ethan has noticed about you since you met him.

Acceptance settles within you beneath his unflinching gaze.

"You're right." You nod then spot the little plate Ethan placed near the edge of the table. Your mouth waters at the sight, your stomach wrenching. When’s the last time you had a proper meal, or something sweet? "Oh, you got me a pastry too." Fingers stretch towards the appetizing treat but retreat as Alana’s voice rings in your head. Sending Ethan a contrite glance, you twist your hands in your lap. "I'm sorry. That's very nice but… I can't accept it."

Ethan’s bushy brows draw together.

"You don't like sweets? I didn't realize."

You wave your hands before you as you rush to elaborate, "I do. It's not that." A deep exhale drops from your mouth. "Alana…the captain of my team. She said we all needed to lose five pounds before the next game. So no one on the team is allowed to have carbs."

Your cheeks come aflame under his intense stare. The anger in his tone startles you.

"That's mean. Who does Alana think she is?" he scoffs. His tone softens as he adds, "Besides, you're the prettiest girl I've ever seen. You don't need to change a single thing about yourself."

A spontaneous smile blooms on your face at his compliment and the sincerity laced in his words.

"Thanks, Ethan. That's so sweet." His chestnut gaze beckons you, drifting from your face to the pastry. You nibble your bottom lip, stomach clenching. Alana would be pissed if she knew…but you’re also starving. You don’t ponder for long before reaching across the table for the sweet delicacy. "I guess I'll have it anyway. Just promise me you won't tell her."

"My lips are sealed."

Ethan patiently watches you take a few bites, a grin etched on his boyish features. As soon as the sugar melts on your tongue, your spirits are lifted.

When you’re done eating, he pulls out books, paper and pens from his backpack.

You remember why you’re here and straighten your back.

"So, where do you want to begin?" he inquires, unscrewing the cap from his ballpen and beginning to scribble on a piece of paper.

You fidget and cast your eyes downward.

"I'm not sure," you mumble.

"What do you struggle with most?"

Embarrassment tickles your insides.

"Uh…Everything?" He gawks at you and your face heats. "This class is way too hard for me, Ethan."

He shakes his head, that gentle, encouraging smile never leaving his lips.

"You're selling yourself short." At your crestfallen expression, Ethan offers, "We'll start at the very beginning and work our way from here. How does that sound?"

You gape at him, your chest swelling with hope. For some reason, you nearly expected him to give up on you right here and there.

You know you’re not exceedingly bright and that you narrowly got into college. If it weren’t for Chad and Mindy helping you study for the SATs and giving you tips…you’re convinced you wouldn’t have made it at all.

"Amazing," you chime, plucking a chest-deep chuckle from him.

Hours fly by at the café as Ethan takes time to break down concepts, make you flash cards and draw figures to help you understand the basics of economics.

You lose track of time, hanging to his every slow, patient word. Every time you ask a question, he never gets upset or belittles you, instead going over everything again without ever losing his cool.

While some areas are still fuzzy at the end, you feel a lot more equipped to understand the course material than before.

Ethan encourages you, promising the more sessions you’ll have together, the more things will make sense.

And you actually believe him.

"You're like the best tutor ever."

You bounce in excitement as Ethan giggles.

"I didn't do much."

"Not true. You make complicated stuff sound easy, Ethan."

His cheeks glow pink at your praise.

Leaning forward, you confess, "Even Mindy gave up on helping me with my assignments. She didn’t have the time…or patience. And she’s my best friend." Slanting your head sideways, you beam at him. "You're the smartest guy I know so I appreciate you taking the time."

Ethan ogles at you before clearing his throat and scratching the back of his neck. "Anytime," he says while putting his books back in his bag.

"Can I keep this?" you inquire, gathering the stack of papers covered in Ethan’s neat handwriting. You’re touched that he took the time to explain all this to you.

"Of course, it’s all for you. If you need anything, just text or call me." His inflection lowers as he bashfully looks down. "Even nighttime is fine."

His words summon flashes of the night before. Overwhelmed, tears begin pricking behind your eyes.

"Nighttime…" you quaver. You blink and salty water fills your gaze. Ethan immediately gets up and joins you on the other side of the table, handing you tissues and carefully putting a hand on your shoulder. Once again, you wipe your tears. You wonder how there’s still water left in your body considering how many times you’ve bawled your eyes out today.

"I’m sorry," you blubber.

"It’s okay." He rubs your back, licking his lips before he whispers, "You don’t need to shed so many tears over him, you know?"

A shuddering breath cascades through your throat while you gape at him in confusion.

"What?"

His jaw clenches, his gaze darkening somehow.

"That alpha douchebro Connor. He doesn’t deserve you crying over him."

"It’s not…" you trail off, shame creeping inside you. You have no desire to revisit the events from last night. Every time you recall them, a wave of sickness takes hold of you.

Ethan continues, his voice even harsher than before, "Truth be told I bet he had it coming." Your jaw drops. Ethan’s shoulders heave and slump as he explains, "I heard he was awful to girls… and that you weren’t the only one he was texting before he died."

Shock ripples through you at this newfound knowledge. It’s dumb and irrelevant now, but you thought Connor genuinely liked you at least.

Sure, he got carried away that night and got a little pushy, but you’re sure he just had one drink too many and wasn’t acting like himself.

Your forehead wrinkles as you chide him, "That’s an awful thing to say. Regardless of what he did…no one deserves to die like that, Ethan."

Ethan sighs and lets out an awkward laugh.

"You’re right. I shouldn’t have said anything. Murder’s like…fucked up, I guess."

"Y-Yes, it is," you reply, taken aback by his casual tone.

Gaze still holding yours, he bends over you and adds, "But he was a lame dudebro, and you can do so much better. I hope you know that."

You sink in the depth of his warm, brown orbs, both flattered yet a little unsettled by his fervent statement.

It’s something even Mindy told you before, that you only fall for douchebags that don’t deserve you, but you never felt that was true.

Still, no one ever said that to you with such emphasis.

"I…appreciate it," you reply, rubbing your puffy eyes as fresh tears threaten to spill.

His large hand travels up and down your back.

"Is there something else by any chance? I’m a pretty good listener."

Heat rushes to your cheeks. There’s no way you can tell him what occurred. The mere idea makes you want to die.

Your mouth trembles as you dip your chin.

"No, there isn’t."

After a few minutes of silence, Ethan’s gentle voice sweeps over your temple.

"Can I do anything to make you feel better?"

Your eyes lift to his, deep brown pools filled with concern.

You mull it over. There is one thing. A thing you sometimes do with your friends, but you’re a bit self-conscious about revealing it to him.

"I…" You emit a thin, unsure laugh. "No, that's silly. You're gonna think I'm, like, so shallow."

His thumb settles between your shoulder blades, caressing softly.

"I won't judge you, I promise. Just tell me."

"When I feel bad…" You squirm and evade his focus, gaze darting about the café as you mumble, "I like to go shopping and eat ice cream afterward."

Ethan snickers, but not in a mean way. Mirth lights up his features.

"I don't think that's silly at all, especially if it helps you feel better." His face softens. "I can take you if you want."

"Really?" Surprise and happiness coalesce in your tone. You hate shopping alone. Your brows knit as a thought resurfaces. "But I promised Mindy and Anika we’ll meet up later..."

Ethan sends you a wide grin.

"I’m sure they’ll understand."

Going on a shopping spree with Ethan is surprisingly fun. He doesn’t mind how many outfits you try, praising your choices every time.

And if sometimes his eyes rest upon you a tad too long, that strange smirk playing on his lips, you let yourself ignore that.

After all, a lot of the clothes you picked display quite a lot of skin.

Boys always stare, you’re used to that.

And it’s just Ethan looking. It’s not like he’s getting any ideas.

When it comes time to pay for your purchases, he stops you before you can collect your wallet, placing a stack of bills on the counter instead.

You give him an open-mouthed stare.

"Ethan?! Are you crazy? That’s a lot of money. You don’t have to-"

He grabs the clothes from you and gestures at the cashier to put them in bags before you can even think of returning them.

"No way I’m letting you pay. My treat, okay?"

"Ethan…"

His tone gets firmer, quieting your protests.

"I insist."

Your body deflates as you’re stunned by the shift in him, particularly his staunch refusal to let you argue.

"Okay," you concede.

After leaving the store, with Ethan carrying your bags and refusing to let you lift a finger, you get on your tiptoes and plant a kiss on his cheek.

Red spreads on his face as he peers down at you.

"You’re so nice to me," you say cheerfully.

He just smiles at you in that lopsided, mysterious way he does.

"Well, I'd say you more than earned it."

#ethan landry x reader #ethan landry #dark!ethan landry #ethan landry x bimbo!reader #scream vi fanfic #ethan landry x you #scream vi #scream #scream 6

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winxanity-ii · 3 months ago

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⌜Knot in Time | THREADED FATES: Between Waking and Dreaming THREADED FATES: Between Waking and Dreaming | threaded fates: between waking and dreaming⌟

╰ ⌞🇨‌🇭‌🇦‌🇵‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌ 🇮‌🇳‌🇩‌🇪‌🇽‌⌝

❘ prev. chapter ❘༻✦༺❘ next chapter ❘

The last thing he saw before waking was your cloaked figure fading into the shifting trees, dissolving like mist at dawn. But even as you disappeared, your presence lingered, as if the dream had been carved into something deeper than mere sleep.

And then—

Telemachus' eyes shot open.

A dull, steady thudding filled the room, accompanied by a faint voice beyond the wooden doors.

"Prince Telemachus?"

The knock came again, polite but persistent, and Telemachus exhaled, dragging a hand over his face. The warmth of sleep still clung to his skin, the last traces of the dream curling at the edges of his thoughts like dissipating fog.

For a fleeting moment, he tried to hold onto it—the stillness, the strange, weightless peace that had wrapped around him like a second skin. He tried to picture you—your shrouded figure that had spoken of his death as if it were no more than a misplaced step, who had stood before him, watching with an unreadable gaze.

But the memory blurred.

The details unraveled, slipping away like water through his fingers.

Telemachus let out a tired sigh. He knew it was no use.

Pushing himself upright, he ran a hand through his hair, shaking off the haze of sleep. The knocking continued, more insistent now.

"Enter."

The heavy doors eased open, and a handful of servants filed in, moving with quiet efficiency. Some carried fresh linens, others brought water for washing. One knelt to help set out his tunic for the day, while another murmured about the meal waiting in the hall.

Telemachus allowed it all to happen around him, standing still as they moved, as they prepared him for the morning ahead.

His body felt weighed down by something nameless, something that had nothing to do with war or duty.

And yet, as always, he carried it without complaint.

.☆. .✩. .☆.

A short while later, Telemachus made his way toward the dining hall.

The scent of fresh bread and olives filled the air, mingling with the salt that drifted in from the open windows. Sunlight spilled through the archways, catching on the polished stone floors, casting long shadows along the walls.

He stepped inside, his expression unreadable, composed despite the faint tiredness still clinging to his features.

His father was already there.

Odysseus sat at the head of the table, his posture relaxed but his presence commanding as ever. He was speaking with a servant, though his sharp eyes flicked up the moment Telemachus entered.

Penelope, seated beside him, brightened at the sight of her son.

"Ah, there you are!" she said, her voice warm, eager.

She rose slightly, as if she meant to reach for him, but instead motioned him forward.

"Come, sit. You must eat."

Telemachus hesitated for only a second before moving to take his seat.

The moment he settled, Penelope wasted no time in filling the space with words, speaking of the morning's affairs—the state of the household, news from the city, preparations for an upcoming festival.

Her voice a welcome warmth against the cool morning air; reminding him of childhood, of simpler mornings when he had no burdens to bear beyond learning his letters and running through the halls with dust on his feet.

"The fishermen have been restless," she continued, slicing a piece of fruit and setting it onto his plate as if he were still a boy. "They say the tides are shifting, that the waves have grown more unpredictable—some claim it's the gods stirring the waters again, restless with unseen quarrels."

She let out a small, breathy laugh, shaking her head. "Superstition, most likely. You know how they are—always searching for omens where there are none."

Telemachus made a quiet noise of acknowledgment but said nothing, his fingers tracing the edge of his cup.

"Your father disagrees, of course," Penelope added, glancing toward Odysseus with an expectant look, as if waiting for him to correct her. "He says the sea never moves without reason."

But even as she spoke, Telemachus found his mind drifting once more. His thoughts wandered back to the dream—the presence that had stood before him cloaked in something more than mere shadow. He could still hear their voice, cool and steady, speaking of his death as though it were a certainty carved into the stars.

"So, if I was supposed to die... why didn't I?"

"I'm... not sure."

The admission had unsettled him.

Fate, uncertain?

It was almost comforting.

"Telemachus?"

His mother's voice was softer this time, breaking through the fog of his thoughts.

He blinked, pulled from the depths of his mind, and turned to find her watching him, her brow creased with quiet concern.

"Are you alright?"

For a brief moment, he considered brushing the question aside. But the worry in her voice, the way her fingers curled slightly in her lap, made him offer a small, tired smile.

"I'm fine," he assured her. "Just still a bit sore."

Penelope's lips pressed into a thin line. "Sore? And you haven't been keeping up with the physician?" She exhaled sharply, turning over her shoulder. "I'll have one of the servants fetch him—"

"Mother," Telemachus interrupted, his voice laced with quiet amusement.

She turned back, eyes narrowing slightly.

"I'm fine." He huffed a small laugh, shaking his head. "Truly."

Penelope studied him for a moment longer before sighing, though her expression softened. "At least promise me you'll rest when you can."

"I will." It was easier to agree than to argue.

Satisfied for now, she let the subject drop, shifting her attention back to her meal.

Telemachus turned his gaze to his father.

Odysseus had remained silent through the exchange, watching rather than speaking. His expression was unreadable, as it often was, but there was something in his gaze—something measuring, something thoughtful.

Telemachus took a breath.

"Father," he started, carefully choosing his words. "Can I ask you something?"

Odysseus didn't answer right away. He held his son's gaze, considering him, before finally nodding, turning back to his meal. "Go on."

There was a pause, brief but heavy.

Telemachus' fingers continued to idly trace the rim of the goblet before him. He kept his posture steady, the same way he'd been taught since childhood—shoulders squared, expression measured, never betraying more than he intended to.

Yet, beneath the surface, his thoughts churned, coiling tight like a rope wound too many times.

Across the table, Odysseus ate in silence, his movements slow, deliberate. His father had always been a man who chose his words carefully, who listened more than he spoke, who measured the weight of a moment before deciding how to tip the scales.

Telemachus studied him for a moment before finally speaking.

"If you were given a choice," he started, voice steady despite the hesitation curling at the edges of his words, "a choice between accepting what has been laid before you... or questioning it, testing it—what would you do?"

Once again, Odysseus didn't answer right away.

Instead, he set his cup down and turned his gaze fully upon his son. His expression was unreadable, but there was something behind his eyes—something sharp, something... calculating.

For a long moment, the only sound between them was the distant hum of the household, the occasional clatter of dishes from the servants tending to their tasks.

Then, Odysseus exhaled, leaning back slightly.

"That depends."

Telemachus lifted a brow, waiting.

"Some things are meant to be questioned," Odysseus continued, his voice low, thoughtful. "Some things must be challenged, bent, even broken if they do not serve you."

He paused, his gaze still steady, still searching.

"But not all things."

Telemachus frowned slightly. "And how do you tell the difference?"

Odysseus tilted his head just so, considering him, weighing something unseen. Then, after another pause—long enough to make Telemachus wonder if he would answer at all—he spoke again.

"Experience."

A simple word. A frustrating word.

Telemachus pressed his lips together, feeling the weight of his father's gaze as it settled upon him. He should have expected nothing less. Odysseus never gave answers freely—only hints, pieces, fragments that a man had to stitch together himself.

And yet... something about the way he looked at him now made Telemachus wonder if he'd already been caught in the middle of such a lesson without realizing it.

Odysseus let the words sit between them before speaking again, this time quieter. "Why do you ask?"

Telemachus hesitated.

For the briefest moment, he considered telling him the truth.

Of the dream.

Of the presence that had stood before him, draped in shifting shadows, speaking of things no mortal should hear.

Of the way his name had rolled from your lips—not as a passing thought, not as a thread to be cut, but as something... watched.

He almost spoke.

Almost.

But instead, he exhaled softly, forcing a small, tired smile.

"No reason," he said lightly, shaking his head. "I was just curious."

He reached for his bread, breaking off a piece between his fingers.

"Thank you, Father."

Odysseus said nothing at first, but Telemachus could feel the weight of his gaze lingering a second longer before shifting away.

And then, just like that, the moment passed.

Telemachus finally began to eat.

☆

The rest of the morning passed in a blur, slipping through his fingers like grains of sand.

There was always something to do—always another duty, another lesson, another expectation waiting to be met. As his father's heir, the days of his boyhood were long gone, replaced by the steady weight of responsibility that settled upon his shoulders with each passing season.

Meetings were held, one after another.

He sat beside his father in the great hall, listening as advisors spoke of trade routes, of disputes among neighboring lords, of rations and harvests, of ships in need of repairs. Every decision, every agreement or refusal, every discussion about Ithaca's future was something that would soon fall upon him.

He was being prepared. Groomed for rule.

At midday, he trained with the soldiers, drilling with them in the courtyard. Though he had fought in battle, had killed men with his own hands, his father was adamant—"You must never let your blade dull."

So he moved through the drills, his body following the familiar rhythm of combat, sweat trickling down his spine as the sun bore down on him.

Then more meetings. More lessons. More discussions on the kingdom's defenses, on alliances, on the ever-present question of what came next.

By the time the sun began its slow descent, painting the sky in shades of amber and gold, exhaustion weighed heavy on his limbs.

And yet—

Despite the long hours, despite the endless duties, despite the weight of a crown he had yet to bear—

He found himself perking up.

There was a lightness in his steps, a quiet energy in his movements that hadn't been there earlier.

Because when night fell, you'd be back.

You hadn't said it. You hadn't promised anything.

And yet, something in him knew.

You would return.

.☆. .✩. .☆.

Dinner came and went.

His mother spoke to him throughout the meal, his father listened in silence, and Telemachus answered when needed, nodding in the right places, speaking when required.

But his mind was elsewhere.

It wasn't impatience, not exactly, but something close to it. Something restless.

And so, the moment the meal was done, he excused himself, leaving the warmth of the hall behind.

His footsteps echoed through the corridors as he made his way to his chambers, slipping past servants and torches flickering against the stone walls. He undressed quickly, tugging the tunic over his head, running a damp cloth over his face before settling beneath the covers.

Sleep did't take him right away.

But when it did—

He was there again.

The cypress tree. The endless stretch of grass. The dreamscape he had claimed as his own.

But this time, he didn't lounge beneath the branches, arms folded behind his head in easy rest.

This time, he stood.

Searching.

He turned his head, scanning the shifting space around him, waiting—expecting. His fingers twitched at his sides, as if anticipation itself had settled into his bones.

He waited.

And waited.

Minutes passed.

Then more.

And then, slowly, doubt began to creep in.

Telemachus exhaled sharply, pressing his fingers to his temple before dropping back onto the grass with a quiet thump.

He scoffed at himself, shaking his head.

"Gods... I must look patethic," he muttered aloud, an amused huff leaving his lips.

"She's a deity. A mythical force. Of course she won't have no time for a mortal—" he let out another short laugh, "—Stupid Telemachus, stupid."

It was ridiculous, wasn't it?

To sit here like some eager boy awaiting a story before bed? To anticipate something—someone—who had no obligation to return?

Letting out another sigh, he rubbed at his face, his expression briefly tense as he forced himself to accept it.

Maybe you weren't coming after all.

"Were you waiting long, son of Odysseus?"

The voice—your voice—slipped into existence like a thread weaving itself into the fabric of the dream, smooth yet carrying the faintest edge of something... perplexed.

Telemachus' breath hitched.

The tension he hadn't even realized he'd been holding—the quiet tightness in his shoulders, the coiled stiffness in his spine—unraveled all at once.

Because you were here.

And gods, he felt it.

Your presence wrapped around him, something unseen yet unmistakable, shifting the very air of the dream, as if the space itself recognized you and bent to accommodate your existence. It was different from before—this time, he knew what he was looking for.

He wasn't caught off guard. He wasn't questioning whether or not you were really before him.

His head snapped toward the sound before he even had time to think, and his body was moving before reason could catch up, pushing himself upright with a sharp inhale.

He knew you would come.

A half-smile pulled at his lips, something wry and easy as he gave a small shrug.

"Can you blame me?" he mused, voice lighter now. "A powerful entity graces me with their presence—should I not be eager?"

His gaze flickered over you, taking in your form once more.

You were the same as before—your cloak draped over you like something untouched by the laws of the world, the hood still drawn, obscuring much of your face.

And yet, despite your near-ethereal presence, there was something almost... awkward in the way you stood there, as though you hadn't quite anticipated this.

A muted scoff floated between the air.

"Flattery won't get you far with me." Your tone was dry, unimpressed. "Maybe with Zeus."

Telemachus huffed a small laugh, shaking his head, but said nothing more.

As you stepped forward, your attention drifted—not immediately to him, but to the world around you.

The cypress tree stood tall, its branches swaying despite the absence of wind. The grass beneath your feet remained soft, bending only slightly beneath your presence.

Your gaze swept across the familiar dreamscape before finally landing back on him.

"This is the same dream you've had for the past few nights," you noted, tilting your head slightly; your voice held no accusation, only curiosity. "Why?"

Telemachus looked around, his gaze drifting over the familiar scenery—the towering cypress, the soft grass beneath his feet, the golden warmth spilling through the branches. "Because it's peaceful," he said simply.

His voice carried a quiet certainty, as if that alone explained everything. And perhaps, to him, it did.

But then, after a beat, his brows furrowed slightly, curiosity flickering across his features. His gaze returned to you, thoughtful.

"Is it possible for me to do what you did the other day?"

Your head tilted slightly beneath the hood.

"What?"

"Change it." He waved a hand vaguely. "Like how you shifted the dream before. The forest. The... other things."

You considered him for a moment, the weight of your stare settling over him, unreadable. Then you spoke, your tone steady, measured. "Do you mean your dreams?"

Telemachus shifted, feeling something curl low in his stomach at the way you said it—so blunt, so matter-of-fact. He frowned slightly, exhaling through his nose as he looked away. "It does sound obvious when you say it like that," he mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck.

A quiet huff of air left you, something that wasn't quite a laugh but close enough.

Telemachus cleared his throat, shifting his weight. He turned his gaze toward the distance, his expression shifting from mild embarrassment to quiet concentration.

A moment passed.

And then—

The air around you rippled.

Like a stone dropped into a still pond, the dream shuddered, distorting, shifting, bending. The cypress tree, the soft grass, the golden light—all of it melted away.

In its place—

A boat.

A small, wooden vessel, floating effortlessly on the surface of a vast, endless ocean.

The water was impossibly still, stretching infinitely in every direction, untouched by waves or wind. Above, the sky was a deep, endless black, scattered with stars so bright they looked close enough to touch.

And below—

The same stars.

The ocean reflected the sky perfectly, mirroring the constellations with such clarity that it was impossible to tell where the world ended and where it began. It was as if the boat was floating in the middle of space itself, drifting weightlessly between the heavens.

A hush settled over the dream.

You finally turned, your gaze settling on him.

"What made you create this?" you asked, your voice quieter now, something thoughtful beneath it.

Telemachusglanced down at the water, watching the way the stars shimmered in its depths before sighing softly, a small, almost wistful smile tugging at his lips as he looked away. His fingers traced absent patterns against the worn wood of the boat, a quiet motion, thoughtful.

For a moment, he said nothing, simply tilting his head back to gaze up at the sky. The stars stretched endlessly above him, scattered like dust across the heavens, flickering against the deep, inky black.

"Towards the end of my voyage to find my father," he began, voice quiet but steady, "I remember wanting to get away from the men."

His lips quirked slightly, a dry amusement threading through his tone.

"They were cheerful—too cheerful. Well, for me they were. They drank and laughed and spoke of adventures ahead, of the places we'd see, of the glory we'd find. But I..."

His fingers curled slightly against the wood.

"I wanted a moment of quiet. Peace." There's that word again.

He let out a soft breath, shoulders shifting as if remembering the weight of that night.

"So I took one of the side stowaway boats," he continued, "untied it just enough to drift a little ways off, though I left it tethered to the ship so I wouldn't stray too far."

His eyes lingered on the stars, their mirrored reflections shimmering beneath him in the endless water.

"I don't know how long I sat there," he admitted. "Just... listening. The water, the wind, the ship creaking in the distance. It was the first time I really understood how vast the sea was."

He exhaled softly, his voice growing lighter, almost distant.

"When I was younger, my mother used to tell me that if I ever missed my father—if I ever wanted to speak to him but couldn't—I should look up at the sky."

A pause.

"She said he was out there, beneath the same stars. That no matter where he was, no matter how far, he was looking at the same sky as me."

His expression flickered, something unreadable passing over his features.

"I used to believe it."

He tilted his head slightly, watching the constellations above, as if searching for something.

"That night, on the water, I found myself doing the same thing. Looking up. Wondering if he was somewhere out there, beneath the same stars, thinking of me too."

His voice softened, his gaze lingering on the vast sky.

"I suppose I still wonder about that sometimes."

You turned your gaze away from him, letting out a low, thoughtful hum. The quiet stretched between you, the boat drifting weightlessly in the mirrored expanse of the ocean, suspended between stars above and below.

Eventually, you spoke, your voice steady but carrying something almost contemplative. "It is beautiful," you admitted, your words simple yet carrying weight.

Not just the dream—the way the world had folded itself at his will—but the thought behind it. The way he sought quiet, the way he still looked to the stars like they could give him answers.

At your words, Telemachus shifted, his eyes pulling away from the constellations to settle on you.

For a moment, he simply watched.

There was something different in his gaze now—something softer. His sharp, measured features relaxed just slightly, his shoulders unwinding as his lips quirked up into a small, easy smile.

"Thank you," he said after a beat, his voice quieter than before, like he meant it in more ways than just one.

You didn't meet his gaze for long.

Instead, you let the moment pass, turning away as you rose to your feet, stepping onto the edge of the boat with an effortless ease. Or perhaps not stepping at all.

The boat didn't rock beneath your weight. The water didn't shift at your movement. It was as if you existed outside of it, your form moving as though the laws of this place bent around you rather than the other way around.

"I will be going now," you announced, your voice neither cold nor warm, simply a fact.

Telemachus didn't move, didn't stop you—only continued to sit, head tilted up, watching as you stood above him, your cloak as dark as the sky, your presence just as vast.

Still, something in the way he lingered made it clear—he didn't want you to leave.

You turned to go, the edges of your form beginning to fade, dissolving into the dream. The moment stretched just a second too long, and that was all it took.

"Will you be back tomorrow?"

The words left him suddenly, hastily—like he hadn't meant to say them aloud.

For the first time since your arrival, you hesitated.

Your form flickered, stilling just slightly, as if the question had pulled at something unspoken. And then, after a breath—

"Yes."

The answer settled between you, solid, final.

And with that, you were gone.

A/N: sorry y'all, i know i said 10 chapters, but i couldn't not write something in telemachu's pov 😩

#xani-writes: knot in time #x reader #epic the musical fanfic #jorge rivera herrans #the ocean saga #epic the musical x reader #greek mythology #greek gods #the odyssey #telemachus of ithaca #telemachus x reader #telemachus x fate #telemachus x fem reader #reader insert #slow burn #telemachus

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undead-supernova · 1 year ago

Text

Masterlist / 18+

pairings: modern!boyfriend!Eddie x bisexual!fem!reader

plot: you and Eddie are very excited to spend 4/20 together. aka just two idiots getting baked and having fun

important note: this is a silly little unserious one-off of my High Tolerance series, dedicated to the best day of the year (other than Halloween)! This could be read as a stand alone but I think my series as a whole is pretty cool and it makes me squeal and kick my feet

warnings: W E E D, just as much fluff as you'd expect, actual smutty behavior, and YES in this one they're a COUPLE now !!!!

wc: 2k

It began the moment you woke up.

At the first indication of your eyelids opening, Eddie was putting an unlit joint in your mouth and carefully sitting a party hat on your head.

“Happy 4-20, Weirdo,” he whispered before presenting you with a cup of coffee. The mug was one of those ridiculous ones from Spencer’s, with a bowl carved in for the sole purpose of smoking while drinking coffee.

And he packed the bowl. Packed. It.

Taking the joint from your mouth, you said, “Good morning.” It was all groggy and soft, resulting in a quick yawn and your hand lazily reaching for the lighter left on the bedside table.

“We have a full day ahead of us,” Eddie said as you smoked. “Just you and me engaged in a state of bliss.”

“That’s what she said,” you murmured, smoke escaping your nostrils.

“God, I love you,” he said with a chuckle before taking the mug from your hands. As you got out of bed, he added, “Have I said that?”

“Not today.”

“Well, I love you,” he said again, following you as you padded through the hallway and into your living room.

But you stopped in your tracks when you saw a shitty banner strung up on the wall. Just a string holding green balloons with blaze it written out. Oh, and one with a shitty drawing of a weed leaf.

“Okay, I can explain that,” Eddie said, stepping in front of it.

“Yeah.”

“Yeah, so there were literally no banners at Walmart, so I made this myself.” He lifted his hands and gestures towards it as if he was presenting it at an art gallery. “Look at that impeccable handwriting.”

“I know, I can actually tell that’s an e,” you agreed, nodding.

Eddie grinned. “You flatter me.”

“Also, I think I love you more,” you finally said. “Just saying.”

“Uh, that’s false,” he argued, quietly skipping into the kitchen to grab a bag. “Not when you see your present.”

“You got me a present? When?” you asked. The two of you had a rare moment of having both days off together. You’d spent that time in bed watching TV and fucking. A normal day for you now, to be quite honest.

Eddie ran back over. “Jailbait Hemp had an early morning Wake N’ Bake sale,” he explained, presenting you with the bag. “Ballsy move to get me out of bed by eight, but I did it.”

“The bravest soldier,” you said with fake sincerity, putting a hand over your heart and bowing. “I owe you my life, my lord.”

“If you keep talking like that, we may have to play maiden in a tower again.” Eddie took a step forward, one hand on your waist as he put his other over yours. Cleared his throat before dramatically tossing his hair over his shoulder. “It is I, good maiden, that has come to rescue you. To guide you to freedom.”

Matching his straightened posture, you let out an exaggerated sigh. “Oh, dear prince, you have gone to war for me. How can I show you my appreciation and gratitude?”

“Oh, I can think of a few ways,” he murmured with a smirk, leaning in to kiss you gently. You couldn’t help but return the smile, your palm grazing his stubble as you caressed his cheek.

Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed the plate of cookies you’d left on the counter the night before mostly eaten. A glass sat next to it, the milk gone but a white film left behind.

Raising an eyebrow at him, you nearly moved away. But Eddie wouldn’t let you go that easily.

“Where’d the cookies and milk go, Eddie?” you asked.

“Oh, that?” he said, guilt written all over his face. “Babe, I told you Snoop Dogg would come and eat them.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Saw him with my own eyes,” he continued. “He told me to thank you for making them. He even left you two.”

“Two. Out of the ten that were left over.”

His cheeks tinged with pink as he tried not to laugh. “Snoop Dogg got up to pee, right? And then he saw all those cookies you left out and was like ‘Oh, wow, those look really good for a four-a-m snack. Thanks, bro.’”

But Eddie clearly knew he wasn’t getting out of it that easily. “And he was like, ‘Damn, your girlfriend is just so hot. Sooo sexy. Give her a kiss for me.’”

“Snoop Dogg said that?” you questioned, fighting a smile as you went to wrap your hands around his waist.

“Mhm.”

You nodded, pulling him closer. “Every word of that, right?”

“Totally. And I told him to back off ‘cause I spent three years trying to date you.”

“Yeah, it ruined my five-year plan, actually,” you said with a smirk, lifting your hands to trace his collarbone. Eddie laughed, but he shivered at your touch. “Could you imagine still being just friends still? Today of all days?”

Eddie shook his head. “Considering I got painfully hard whenever I was around you—still do, obviously.” His eyes flickered down to the growing bulge in his pajama pants. “But I would not have been able to keep my hands off you. You, my dear, are the most outrageously beautiful being to walk this land.”

“Smooth,” you complimented, trying to slow your racing heart. “I may just forgive you for eating my cookies.”

“Remember when we decided to stop smoking?’ You nodded. “And we had an argument in the kitchen?” You nodded again. “I don’t know why, but I wanted to bend you over the counter so bad it was killing me.”

You couldn’t help your goofy grin despite the aching wetness pooling in your underwear. “That’s funny, ‘cause I was thinking the same thing.”

“Really?” he asked, surprised.

“We were eye-fucking each other,” you whispered, letting your hand move up to caress his face again, placing your thumb against his bottom lip. Watched as he opened his mouth willingly for you.

Eddie’s breathing became staggered, slithering his hands down to cup your ass. “You can’t tell me that wasn’t hot, though.”

“Edging each other for, what, two of those years?”

Pressing you back against the wall dividing the living room and the kitchen, Eddie slotted his thigh between your legs. Lifted one of your thighs to sit at his hip, grinding himself against you.

Being teased was so much more intense within the haze of your high. Every movement was another wave of pleasure, tipping you further into insanity. And you could tell Eddie felt the same from the way he swallowed, clearly trying to keep his composure.

“I do have you all to myself now, you know.”

He ground against you again, pulling a louder moan out of you. You couldn’t help but push your thumb past his lips, watching his eyes roll back as he sucked on it. Swirled his tongue around the digit..

You two were a dangerous pair.

“Eddie, if you don’t bend me over right now, I think I’ll fucking die.”

You didn’t have to tell Eddie twice.

It was almost impossible how quickly he had you pressed against the wall with his cock out and your underwear shoved down your thighs. You let out a sound of impatience, turning your head to watch him pull a condom from his pocket and roll it on.

Your eyebrows pulled tight in confusion when he pulled out another small packet, this time being lube. He messily pumped it along his length. And, before you could ask any questions, he was lining himself up at your entrance and pushing in.

And, as he bottomed out, you gasped.

“Oh fuck,” you whined, head falling back, feeling his wild hair against your face. “Did you have a condom and lube in your pocket the entire time?”

Eddie finally thrusted into you, a high-pitched sound leaving his mouth. “Jesus, sweetheart.” He sighed. “Considering we fuck like rabbits? Yeah. Yeah, I did.”

“Happy 4-20,” you teased, pushing back on his cock and reveling in the squelching sound and the way his cock buried even deeper inside you.

He gasped, tightening his grip on your hips. “Happy 4-20, baby.”

It took you and Eddie about two more hours to come down from desire, the intimacy too alluring in this state. It had only been six months since you started dating, having nothing but time to make up for. And you’d tried to stop after the first round…and the second. Popped some pizza rolls in the oven and tried to put a movie on. Ended up riding him until the timer was up.

And you would never admit to immediately forgetting they were still in the oven. Though, that was Eddie’s fault for not letting you go until you finished. Always a gentleman, that one.

You ended up in a tank top and a new pair of underwear while he threw on some boxers and one of your cropped t-shirts. Cracked open your windows to air out the joint he bought this morning. Let him crank up the music on his phone as you shimmied your way around the apartment, passing the joint back and forth. It was easy to forget to pace yourselves when he was pulling you close and putting it between your lips.

And it was an easy kind of love, the kind you’d always shared. Everything felt just the same as it had, only needing to remove the tension to fully embrace it. Eddie was always touching you now, no matter where you were. Always doting on you and whispering sweet nothings into your ear.

Steve and Robin always complained that you were lovesick idiots—and they were right, of course. Eddie was always blabbering about your shared future, all the plans that were practically set in stone now. There was no room for doubt or questions.

“I’m gonna marry you, you know,” he murmured, kissing your forehead, one hand on your exposed hip as you swayed. “Just you fucking wait.”

“Mm,” you hummed, your content smile widening. “I’d like that.”

“Yeah?”

You laughed. “Eddie, you’ve told me that, like, a million times since we became official. You already know I wanna marry you, too.”

“Well, I won’t stop,” he promised. “And we’ll have joints at the reception and everyone will dance and we’ll do karaoke and do that cake shoving thing and I’ll have the sickest vows and it’ll be ridiculously cheesy.”

“You’re gonna cry more than me,” you teased. “A big ole baby.”

He giggled. Eddie fucking giggled. It was the cutest goddamn sound you’d ever heard, knowing that he was as elated by your love as you were. Two goddamn smitten idiots.

“It’s gonna be fucking amazing,” he said, putting the last of the joint up to your lips. Watched as you took a puff. “And we’re gonna slow dance to the Lord of the Rings theme song.”

That made you laugh which then made you cough, stepping away from him and clutching your stomach.

“Fuck!” he exclaimed, obviously trying not to laugh. “Are you okay?”

You nodded, rushing over to chug the last of your glass of water. Just so you could exclaim, “We are not slow dancing to that.”

“Why not?” he asked, scoffing as he put his unoccupied hand on his hip. “It matches our theme.”

“Our theme?”

“Yeah, like, you’re gonna dress up like Arwen and I’ll be decked out in Aragorn’s sick outfit. It's perfect. What about that don’t you get?”

You rolled your eyes. “Oh, and let me guess. You think we’re gonna get replicas of that fucking ring.”

Eddie couldn’t help his goofy laughter, tossing the burnt filter onto the counter before taking your hands in his. “Was that not already established?”

“You’re the absolute worst boyfriend to exist,” you teased, moving to brush his nose with yours. Breathing him in, all hazy and at ease.

“Yeah, but I’m a great husband,” he whispered before kissing you once more.

another thanks to the lovely @strangergraphics for helping me with the dividers and the editing. you're the best I love you mwuah

#Eddie Munson x you #Eddie munson fluff #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson x female reader #eddie munson x reader #modern!eddie munson #modern!eddie x reader #boyfriend!Eddie x reader #Eddie Munson x y/n #high tolerance series

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jules-writes-stories · 10 months ago

Text

Elucien Week | Day 3 | Adventure | Full Chapter on AO3

A Heart of Gold

A Retelling of King Midas, Lucien x Elain

...The mortal lived in a hovel. But Lucien also noted her straight back, the proud tilt of her chin. The way she lovingly served the meal she prepared for her family. He noted how Silenus immediately went to the tidy bed beside the swept hearth, filled with sweet hay. The neat rows of dried herbs hanging in the rustic alcove. The way Elain cared for all.

Palace or pit, this woman would bring beauty wherever she roamed.

Lucien watched her sisters rise from the table, leaving their plates to retire to their corners of the single room, expecting Elain to tidy up. With a flick of his hand, the dishes were clear of food, stacked upon a cleaned tabletop. Elain gasped. Nesta’s eyes narrowed. “We don’t need your magic here, Fae,” she ground out. The human touched her bracelet of iron. The Prince bit the inside of his cheek to stop from laughing at the superstition.

“Why?” He asked instead. Lucien sat across from the elder man, who had not moved from the corner cot, now carving what looked to be a fox. Elain turned a basket over, and sat upon it.

The eldest responded with a cool, haughty voice. “Because the Fae give, only to receive something in return. Everyone knows that. And we don’t want to owe you any favors.”

Lucien hummed. “It is I, who owe you. For Elain found, and healed, my father’s pegasus.” He gestured to Silenus. “You have broken bread with me, and offered me a seat at your hearth.” His golden eye watched Archeron. There was a darkness around the mortal man, an emptiness. A need unmet. His eyes glittered as he watched Lucien.

Lucien turned to Elain. “I need to take Silenus back, tomorrow. To the Day Court.” He immediately felt her sadness tugging at him, making him want to revoke his words. Large brown eyes flicked towards the small horse, now sleeping by the hearth. The Fae Prince expected an argument, or tears. But this human was full of surprises.

Elain nodded and stood. She walked towards her tiny kitchen alcove, and pulled a small rucksack from a shelf. He watched her gathered herbs and ground them up to make a small cache. Then she went to a pewter jar, and took a cup of oats, placing it in a separate pouch. She packed it all into the sack.

Her lower lip quivered, and Lucien could tell, from the way her throat was constricting, that she was trying desperately not to weep. Her eyes were liquid, but her effort was so valiant, he could not help but feel proud. “Here,” she whispered. “He takes the powders in his oats, twice each day. It helps with the pain.” She pushed the sack into his hands, as her voice cracked. “Pardon me,” she whispered again, and slipped away, into the moonlit garden.

He looked down at the canvas bag. This human, with so very little to give, had given her own food to Lucien, a Fae Prince, for his pet. He planned to heal Silenus before they left for Day tomorrow, using magic, and here she was, giving him her hard earned herbal remedies… his chest cracked open at her kindness.

“She is the best thing I have ever done.” Lucien looked up, to see Archeron watching him. “Nesta is my head. Practically born grown, in a full suit of armor. Feyre, my legs. Always running away. But Elain? Elain is my heart.” He groaned, adjusting himself on the cot, then held up the carved fox. He placed it on a small table, beside a fawn.

Lucien stood, noting that both Feyre and Nesta had retired to an adjoining bedroom, closed off by a curtain. “I would like to thank her. Perhaps there is a way, to thank your entire family.” His golden eye whirred, noting the man’s wrapped leg. “I can heal your leg with my magic. And my father, is a High Lord. Perhaps… he can reward you, help your family.” Archeron’s eyes glittered, and that dark void that Lucien sensed with his eye, seemed to grow. It made him uneasy, but he pushed it away.

“First, go comfort my Elain. I imagine she would like to see Silenus off, in whatever way she can.” Archeron seemed tired, and lay his head upon the thread bare pillows.

Lucien nodded, and moved to the back door. He felt nervous—had never comforted a human before. Was it much different from a Fae? He made his way into the small garden, still mostly barren from the winter. Elain was seated on an overturned basin at the edge of the wood. Her shoulders were trembling. He smelled salt. She was weeping. Lucien hated it and needed it to stop.

He crouched beside her. “Elain. Please. I cannot say why, but I do not like your tears.” Her head shot up and she stared at him like he had grown wings. Anger now flashed in her eyes, her beautiful face flushed.

“Well, you do not have to watch me shed them.” She wiped her nose along her sleeve, in a very undignified manner. But tears no longer fell.

Lucien smiled. “It seems that you’ve stopped.”

* * *

He was certainly too beautiful for his own good. That slow, lazy smile. “So smug, aren’t you?” She huffed and stood. He followed.

“Elain, I never properly thanked you. For saving Silenus. For caring for him. He is only six months old. His parents, Dhahabi and Meallan, they miss him.” Lucien took her hand, like it was the most natural thing in the world. She softened, hearing of the colt’s family.

“I know he needs to go home.” Elain took a breath, her voice cracking again, and whispered, “I will miss him.” Tears fell once again down her cheeks. “He’s my friend, and I have so few these days.” She looked down at her scuffed boots, trying to steel herself. Why couldn’t she be strong, like Nesta, or airy and free, like Feyre? She tried to pull away, but this High Fae, who smelled like sunlight and spice, pulled her into his warmth. Elain let him, for a moment. It felt good to be held, to be touched. She was always so alone…

Lucien stroked her cheek, wiping away her tears with his fingers. And perhaps it was the moonlight, or her sadness, or this magical male standing in her garden, but Elain lifted her hand, and reached out to tuck his soft red hair behind a pointed ear.

He seemed to lean into her touch and said, “what if I invited you to see Silenus home? To meet his family? See where he comes from?” His fingers slipped along the knobs of her spine, a barely there touch, pausing at her lower back, sending sparks up her spine. She squeezed her thighs together and delicious little tremors quaked between her legs. Gods, what was he doing to her? She used to be a gentle lady of good standing.

“I would like that,” she said, “but Nesta would be scandalized.” Lucien tsked, and smiled, like he knew a secret. He could read her mind, couldn’t he?

“Your father may chaperone,” he offered.

Elain’s eyes grew sad. “He cannot travel.” The beautiful male took her hands in his own.

“Elain, I have already offered, as part of my thanks, to heal his leg.” He lifted her hand and brought it to his mouth. “I owe you much. Let me thank you.” And then, he reached out, and mirroring her own move, tucked a single strand of hair behind her ear. “It could be an adventure.”

And when he smiled that time, it was like the sun breaking through, and Elain found it impossible to deny him...

Read the full Chapter on AO3

@the-darkestminds @prythian-fashion @shadowqueenjude @elucienweekofficial @zenkindoflove

#elucienweek2024 #elucien #elain x lucien #lucien x elain #elain archeron #lucien vanserra #elucien fanfiction #acotar fandom #lucien acotar #elain acotar #acotar fanfiction

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xiihyunn · 2 years ago

Text

Knife Play (18+)

Jenna Ortega x fem!reader

warning: murderer jenna, sexual assault, some angst, futile boy, murder, blood, gore, knife play, biting, marking, gagging, praising/degrading kink, rough rough sex, a tiny fingering, riding, carving, more blood, cunnilingus, slapping, a bit of cnc, possessiveness, and obsession.

summary: — everybody loves jenna ortega. the young talented and beautiful actress who wouldn't hurt a fly, and you just somehow love your girlfriend even more. but after what percy did to you, something dark inside of jenna snaps.

word count: 3.2k

> masterlist

a/n: its was a request and tbh kinda shit, but enjoy. finger yourself for me.

3rd person POV

Giggles were heard throughout Jenna’s trailer. Sitting across from each other on her table, you reach for the cup of water near you, as Jenna takes a spoon full of food to her mouth. It was lunch time, and all the actors and actresses for the new series, Wednesday, were currently eating.

The day went by normally, you waking up on Jenna's bed, showering together to 'save water', and went to film. Nothing unusual happened, but it didn't last long.

Before the lunch break, Percy was giving you way too much attention. Ever since you stepped foot into Romania, and met the other casts, he had his eyes on you.

You and Jenna's relationship was public, her fans knew, your fans knew, both of your circle of friends knew, and even the staff on set.

So when Percy asked you out on a date in front of everyone, in front of Jenna, the room was filled with awkward silence. Before you could even reject him nicely, Jenna had snapped at him then dragged you out of his view.

And now you were here laughing at how cute your girlfriend looked being jealous.

"J, calm down okay? You're the one I want, and not him." You smiled at the woman in front of you. Jenna was huffing, avoiding your eye contact.

"Was he fucking blind or something? Hell, even Helen Keller could tell we're dating." Jenna said, as she eats another spoon of her food. You playfully shake your head, "Now don't be rude to our girl Keller, Jen."

You take your plate and place it down on the sink. You turn and walk over to Jenna, she is playing with her food, resting her head on her hand as she rolls the small meatball back and forth on the plate.

Jenna had a mad look on her face, the grip on the fork was fairly noticeable, and her sharp breaths were evident.

Grabbing her cheek, you made her face you. Jenna's eyes finally looked at yours, and her stiff brows finally softened. "I love you, Jen." You whispered.

"I love you too, Y/n." Brushing your thumb across her bottom lip, Jenna's eyes flicker to yours, as she leans in for a kiss.

Meeting each other's lips, you felt Jenna's body relaxing. You chuckled in the kiss, she tasted like the spaghetti you both just ate.

You retreated from the kiss. Once you opened your eyes, you saw a confused looking Jenna staring at your orbs. "Why did you laugh?" Jenna pouts.

"You taste like spaghetti, babe." Jenna's cheeks turn red, as she smiles at you. "My bad," Jenna said.

While Jenna was washing both of your dishes, you on the other hand was preparing her Wednesday uniform. Cleaning her trailer for some time, Jenna was finished.

Wiping her wet hands on her pants, Jenna grabbed and wore her coat. "Baby, I have to buy some snacks for the pantry. I'll be back on 10, wait for me," You hummed in acknowledgement, as you gave Jenna a quick peck on the lips.

"Alright. Stay safe, Jen,"

Jenna gave you one last smile and goodbye, as she opened the trailer door and left.

—

The sound of a door opening caught your attention. It had only been 5 minutes, and honestly you thought Jenna was gonna take much more time than that, knowing the convenience store is like 4 blocks away.

You were scrolling on your phone laying on her bed, you looked up expecting to see your lovely girlfriend, but instead it was Percy.

You were caught off guard by him standing and looking down at you. "Um, hey Perc, do you need anything..?" You say at the edge of Jenna's bed, waiting for him to answer.

Percy smiles at you, and shakes his head. "Oh nothing, I just wanted to see what you were doing." You can't help but to give him a weird look, "Why couldn't you just wait 'till lunch break was over?" You asked him.

His right eye slightly twitches from the tone of your voice, but you caught it. Percy just stood there, smiling at you with his face all red. You bit your lip feeling incredibly uncomfortable, but then Percy started to rub his clothed crotch.

"What are you doing?" Your eyes were wide, looking at him humping his dick in front of you. Percy just smirks, as his eyes roam around your body and specifically your breast.

Percy continued to palm his center area, and it left you baffled. "What the hell Percy, you're fucking insane." You stood up and grabbed him by his arm, pushing him to leave the trailer.

As you were about to push him even more, Percy grabs both of your shoulders and pins you on the near wall. His tall figure pressing your body hard.

You felt his hard on pressing into your pelvis making you slightly gag. "Get off of me!" You shouted at him, as you tried to push his body off of you.

"You women are just meant to be fucked and used by us men, now shut the fuck up and take my dick in you whore."

Just as Percy was about to kiss you, the trailer door slammed open.

"What the fuck!?"

You tilt your head to look at Jenna staring at you, and then at Percy. Jenna saw the displeasure look on your face, and she pushed Percy hard making him stumble to the ground.

"What do you think you're doing to my girlfriend you asshole!" Jenna got on top of the shocked boy, and landed a punch on his nose.

Jenna felt her hand throb in pain, but she didn't care. All of the built up anger and jealousy Jenna had come crashing down, as she fists Percy's collar pulling him close up to her face.

"I'll fucking kill you, Hynes." Jenna saw red. Jaw tensing, nose flaring, and she was losing all her senses of control. Rage was making Jenna sick, the sides of her vision were slowly becoming black and it covered her whole sight.

Even the thought about him even daring to touch what was hers, made Jenna mad. And now he did, and he was going to pay for it.

"Jenna stop!"

Jenna snapped out of her trance, looking at your crying figure holding her arm. You sobbed, pulling her closer to you, Jenna immediately hugged you.

Patting your head, she kissed your ear. "It's alright, baby. I'm here, I'm here." You hugged her neck, tears slowly falling to her shirt. Jenna continued to pat your hair, but then she felt something wet on her hands.

Wet and sticky.

She looked down and saw her bloody hands. It was Percy's blood, but also some of it were hers. Jenna looked over to the side and saw him, Percy was groaning, clutching his bloody and broken nose, as he tried to crawl away from her.

His face looked really bad.

Looking down at her hands again, Jenna felt something inside of her. It was almost tickling her almost, the now dry blood staining her skin felt good. Too good.

Jenna smiles, and continues to comfort your shaken up state.

The blood on her hand felt right. It felt like she was made for this, and it felt like blood was always supposed to be there.

And thought that made Jenna smile even more.

—

It was bright in the streets of Romania despite it being 11pm. Jenna was still on set since the director heard what happened on the trailer, and they were planning to fire Percy.

You wanted to wait for your girlfriend but she told you to go home, and get some sleep after the incident. Knowing Jenna was persistent and hardheaded, you left the set and your manager drived you to Jenna's house.

You told her you wanted to stop by at 711's to get some instant noodles, and some chicken for Jenna to eat when she comes back. Grabbing your plastic back, you went inside the car and drove off once more.

You gave your manager a quick goodbye and thank you, as you opened the gate of Jenna's house. Walking towards her front door, you swiped a card at the card reader, only for it to ding meaning the door was already opened.

Weird. You thought.

We probably forgot to lock it before we left this morning. Shrugging off the feeling, your fingers twist the handle, and there it was.

Something felt wrong, really wrong. The hairs on the back of your shoulders were standing, and every fiber of your being told you not to open the door. A gut wrenching feeling made its way up your throat, as you exhale a cold breath.

Run.

That's what your subconscious told you. Your 6th senses were tingling, and you felt your instincts creeping up.

Oh if this was a scream movie, you'll definitely get killed. Don't you know the rules?

In one big breath you opened the door, and the sight in front of you drained all the blood off your face.

Jenna panted, wiping off the dripping blood off of her face. She stood with confidence, as Percy's body was on the floor bloody, and lifeless.

Adrenaline was coursing in Jenna's veins, looking down at the dead body of Percy Hynes White. The white carpet was now stained in crimson red blood, thick, and almost slimy by the blood clots slowly forming.

The smell of fresh human remains filled your nostrils. Dropping the plastic bag, you covered your nose and mouth with a small shriek.

Jenna's eyes looked back at your frozen state. You didn't look at her, the body on the living room floor caught your attention more.

You held your breath as your eyes finally met Jenna's. Panic visible in your face, you blinked rapidly.

"I-I…" You whispered.

Jenna's eyes were cold, and distant. They looked dead, and empty, but somehow it was still familiar.

Jenna stood there staring at you, her bloody clothes, and her bloody bloody face was deadpan. A tear of blood fell down to her forehead, and onto her jaw, and Jenna clutched her knife in hand.

"Jenna, what did you do..?" Slowly walking towards your bloody girlfriend, you made her body face yours. Holding her forearm, you looked up.

"Baby, let's go clean you up okay? A-And then let's.. let's go to the police.." Jenna's face suddenly changed, her cold stare turned angry.

"Jen—" Jenna tackles you to the ground. Pinning your wrists above your head with one hand, and the other bringing the wet knife up to your throat.

"No one is telling no one shit, darling."

The tip of the knife touching your chin, you gulped and looked at the woman in front of you. Jenna had a smirk on her bloody lips, licking them with her tongue, her eyes flickering to your lips.

You exhaled softly, looking at Jenna's eyes on your lips. Jenna smashes your lips together. Sucking harshly on your flesh, you tasted something metallic making you tear up at the thought of eating Percy's blood.

Jenna angles the knife to your throat and pressed it, you groaned in pain on her lips, as you tried to move your head away.

"Stay fucking still." Jenna muttered, pushing the knife further into your neck, drawing blood. You whined in pain, feeling the burning and stinging sensation.

Jenna forced her tongue inside of your mouth, lapping up your saliva with hers, as she sucks on your hot and wet muscle.

She retreats the knife away from your throat, and places it to her side. Wrapping her hands around your neck like a necklace, her thumb gaze over the open wound, and you hissed in pain once more.

You felt the blood on the carpet being sucked into your clothes. Uncomfortable at the warm feeling on your back, as Jenna disconnected your lips together with a small trail of saliva on each of your lips.

"You're mine. Only fucking mine." Jenna grabs the knife again. Still holding your hands in place, she slides the blade underneath your shirt, and cuts the fabric upward.

Missing your face for a centimeter, the cold wind hits your exposed top. "W-Wait Jenna, I-I don't think it's time for us to be doing this right now…" You plead, in your peripheral vision his body was just next to you.

Tugging your wrists aways from her grip, Jenna laughs. "God killing him felt so, so good, baby," Jenna cut her way through your shorts, and you laid there only in your underwear.

"The way I stabbed, twisted, and stabbed him again and again felt amazing." Cutting your bra and panties, you groan softly at her. You wrapped your legs around Jenna's waist, as she bent down over to your tits.

The angle made your cunt hole open. Jenna's hips rubbing your clit with enough force to make you hold out a moan. It felt so good, but so wrong.

This is so fucking wrong. You thought, as a shooting pleasure made its say to your core when Jenna grinds on your pussy.

"His blood was just squirting everywhere in the room, as I slit his throat. Baby, you should've seen it~" Jenna let go of your wrist, and discarded her own clothes on top of Percy's body.

"And now I'm wondering if I could also make you squirt.."

Jenna's hands groped both of your breasts in her hands, as she took one in her mouth. "Jenna—" A moan escapes your lips. She bit down on your nipple, hard, causing you to tug on her scalp.

Jenna snakes her other hand down to your core. "God Y/n, you're fucking soaked." Jenna muttered on your tits, as she took the other one in, sucking it like milk was going to come out.

She runs her middle and ring finger on your wet slit, coating your whole cunt with your arousal. Jenna's palm occasionally bumping your clit, your nails dug on her arm.

Jenna sat on the floor. Opening both of your legs wide, she grabs the knife. "A little carving won't hurt right, baby?" Your breaths rigid and irregular, you gently shook your head.

"Please don't.." You whisper.

Jenna slaps your pussy. "I didn't hear you, darling. What was it again?" She trails the edge on your inner thighs, and stops on your clit.

The cold metal hit you, as your body started to shake. "P-Please Jenna.. don't," Shaking your head once more, Jenna strikes a toe curling smack on your pussy.

You bucked on your hip at her, biting your bottom lip as a tear fell down your face. "What did you say, Y/n..?" Blood was seeping out of your core's lips, as the small cuts drew blood.

Your pussy was burning, and stinging. Was it from the pain? Or the pleasure? You couldn't tell.

"Fuck Jenna— Yes, yes! Carve your name into my skin, please.." Jenna smirks and slices a huge 'J' on your inner thighs, as she slaps your tits.

"What a fucking whore."

You were about to inhale another set of breaths, but the moment you opened your mouth, Jenna pushed 2 bloody fingers inside and wasted no time to touch the back of your throat.

Gagging at your girlfriend's finger, you hold onto her wrist, as she pushes something inside of you.

It felt weird. It was something hard but it wasn't a dildo, it felt long and textured.

Rolling your eyes back, you looked down to see Jenna holding the sharp part of the knife, her own blood dripping onto the carpet.

"So beautiful.." Jenna slams the handle further inside of you, as you moan on her fingers. You gagged again, but she pounded it inside of you. Your muffled moans fill the room, as your tits rocked back and forth wildly from the rough movements.

Feeling the plastic fucking your insides, you started to meet Jenna's thrust. "That's it, princess. You enjoy me fucking you with a knife right?" Jenna takes the whole thing out, before slamming it back into you, hitting the entrance of your womb.

Saliva was dripping down on your mouth, as Jenna pushed her fingers deeper. She angles the knife upward, and your legs start shaking.

"O-Oh fu-ck. Jenn-a right t-her!" You start choking on your own saliva, and Jenna finally removes her fingers from your mouth only for her to kiss your lips hungrily.

You tightened around the handle, as you felt your orgasm coming. "Be a good little girl and cum, Y/n." Jenna bites your neck. Her teeth sinking deep into your skin, as you moan out juices slipping out of your cunt.

Your orgasm washed over your body like a wave, your hips shaking violently on the handle. "Fuck—!" Jenna licks the surface of your bloody neck, lapping up the dripping vital fluid, and drinking them with a forceful suck.

Taking the handle out, Jenna wraps her legs on yours, making a scissoring position. "Wait!" Jenna's cold and wet cunt touches your clit, making you release a throaty moan.

Jenna's lips curved up into a smirk, as she rested one of your legs onto her shoulder. Rolling her hip, her clit brushes into yours.

Jenna grabs your pairs and squeezed them. Making them a tool to sit up straight, when she thrust into you more. "The amount of time I fingered myself to your tits, imagining them to be my personal little stress ball.."

You closed your eyes intensely, biting back your moans, but Jenna slaps the side of her knife to your cheek. "Open your eyes you slut, look how good I'm fucking your pretty pussy."

Wet slapping noises were getting louder and louder, making you flustered. Jenna trails the knife once more on your stomach and the sharp edge sitting directly on your nipple.

You felt yourself almost at your high. Toe curling, back arching, mouth agape, and overstimulation, as Jenna's hand reached to her back and suddenly pushed through your entrance, with 2 inside, she fingers you.

Grinding her hip, clit to clit, and Jenna's fingers curling inside of you, "I-I'm gonna cum.." You panted. "Fuck, me too baby." Bucking into her fingers once more, as you tightened around her fingers.

"Cum for me, princess."

Your body convulses, as your high comes rolling on your figure. Both of you moaning each other's name, your muscles gave out and went limp.

Your eyes meeting Jenna's. Your body aches in pain, tears swell your eyes, as guilt fills your veins. With a shaky breath, you tried to push your girlfriend away, only for her to slash the knife on your tits.

Blood gushes out of your chest. Moaning and groaning in pain, you throw your head back, feeling the black void consume you fully.

"I said, you're fucking mine."

—

y'all chill, u didn't die

#jenna ortega #jenna marie ortega #jenna ortega x reader #jenna ortega smuts #jenna ortega x femreader #celebrity #actress #scream #scream smuts #netflix #wattpad #lesbian #lgbtqia #wednesday addams #vada cavell #the fallout #tara carpenter #xiihyun

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ebitenpura · 1 year ago

Text

Commander Stew

Theron cooks something for the Commander.

Odessen - The Kitchens

A young man sporting a dollop of white hair and refined features entered the communal kitchen of the Alliance carrying a large crate, wearing a plain burlap apron, rubber gloves, and waders over what usually would qualify as a stealth suit–a bit of an odd sight, but one Theron had gotten used to over time.

“Hey! You’re back early. Put ‘em down over there,” Theron glanced over his shoulder, nodding briefly at the young man, then motioning with his head at the kitchen island. Eight squeezed past him as he ran his hands under the faucet, careful not to bump into the other spy. They set down the box on the counter and patiently folded their hands, awaiting instructions.

Theron turned off the sink and flung the remnant droplets off his hands, drying them with a slightly stained checkerboard dish towel.

Even with his fearsome past, Theron found the quiet operative to be pleasant company most days, with Eight acting as his assistant in daily matters ranging from mundane chores to deadly missions. All at the behest of Lana, of course. She was the one who insisted on (see: forced) a pair of helping hands for him after he'd incorrectly assumed she’d wanted him to take on all her burdens.

Not that he was complaining about the extra hands. Certainly not today of all days–he was planning something special, and that required all of the help he could get.

Theron opened the flaps of the crate. Fresh from their gardening plot in the Odessen fields, the box was practically bursting with colorful root vegetables and leafy greens native to the planet. Purple, orange, striped yellows and swirls of blue–all packed with vitamins and the healthy color of a successful crop. Plain proof that their efforts to cultivate more organic food for the personnel had finally given fruit, after several long winters of withered stalks and exhausting meals of food chips.

Theron smiled wryly. He’d have to make a toast to Dr. Oggurrobb’s fertilizer and the Force Enclave’s agricultural knowledge later.

“Will this be enough?” Eight asked, mellow as ever. He watched him coolly through deep umber eyes.

“It’s more than enough,” Theron answered, a bit of uncertainty leaking into his tone as he stared at the foodstuffs. The vegetables taunted him from their comfy spot atop the counter next to the impressive array of knives and cooking utensils laid out side-by-side like an interrogation toolkit. “...I think.” He wiped the tip of his nose.

Theron hated to admit it, but he was no culinarian. Master Zho had never taught him (really, what could you teach a kid to cook in the wilderness besides canned goods and pre-packaged rations), and his stint as a SIS agent since his youth had left him with little time to prepare nor care. The extent of his cooking repertoire could quickly be summed up to sticking a frozen Orobird leg in the flash oven and waiting for two minutes, sadly.

So why was he making an effort now?

The image of the Commander’s tired face weary from battle and sleepless nights, aging lines etched deep into their skin with the carvings of a destiny too large for one person, flashed in Theron’s mind. He’d seen the way they’d fought–skipped meals, denied themselves sleep, hid the way their gaze turned vacant when they thought no one was looking, left their cafeteria plate practically untouched, compounded blackened bottoms of endless cups of caf, the stims—the Commander was burning themselves at both ends.

Hypocritical as it was, he couldn’t stand watching them drive themselves into the ground. The galaxy’s fate was important, but…not as important as they were to Theron. Yet he found himself at a loss; what words he wanted to tell them to eat better, to sleep more, to stop hurting themselves fell short whenever the Commander gave him that one look. That look of resignation, deep as the dull ache that would settle in his chest afterwards.

“I’m okay,” They’d tell him, smiling wan, “Thank you, Theron.” It’s alright. It’s nothing. Don’t worry about me.

Like hell he couldn’t. He–

“Theron…?”

Theron snapped out of his reverie, realizing he’d been wringing the dishcloth far too tightly for too long. Eight stared at him, puzzled. He released it. His knuckles returned to their previous pink.

“...Sorry. Just. Tired,” Theron shook his head, massaging his temples. Tired. Yeah. He was sure someone else was too, and he hadn’t asked Eight to come here to watch him have a breakdown. Pushing off from the counter, he clapped his hands together, mustering up a second wind. “Let’s get to work. Shall we?”

Commander Stew

Ingredients:

Young Makrin Legs

Orobird Soup Stock

Rootleaf, 1 Head

Imperial-issued Instant Glowblue Noodles, 1 Package

Republic Synth-Ham and Grophet Sausages

Odessen Wild Onions

Mandalorian Spice Sauce

Zakuulan Swamp Glowshrooms

Slice of Ration Cheese

Directions:

Prepare the young makrin legs by soaking them in water and shaving the fibrous exterior with a peeler.

Theron stared at the unassuming pile of…legs that resembled roots more than they did the limbs of any creature, and secretly shuddered. Makrins weren’t particularly uncommon on terrestrial worlds, but their crabby, tree-like appearance and tendency to wallow in loam didn't make them his first choice to eat. He wasn't exactly opposed to adventurous cuisine, but he wondered how exactly the legs of a chitinous creature equaled something that would make the Commander more appetized.

As if sensing his cause for pause, Eight peered over his shoulder where he stood frozen with peeler in hand. “The Jedi recommended them for use in medicinal dishes. When eaten boiled, it lowers blood pressure, and contains many nutrients.” He said thoughtfully, as if reading an entry from an encyclopedia.

“Is that so.” Theron inwardly balked at the mention of the Jedi–a little known fact was that Master Zho had raised him on Jedi cuisine, most of it vegetarian, but even then he hadn’t sampled every bit of agriculture the galaxy had to offer. Makrin legs were a bit out there, but seeing as they were native to Odessen, recommended by the enclave and another piece of stress relief on a plate for the Commander? His survival training told him the harmless limbs could only benefit, despite their gnarly appearance.

Remove the tips and fibrous base. When cleaned and processed, set aside.

He buckled down and began shaving the legs. Lack of proper nutrition was always a deciding factor in conflict–Theron had seen his fair share of soldiers who contracted disease from improper eating and lack of supplies– and he would feed the Commander any bit of ugly vegetables if it meant seeing a little more life restored to their pallid cheeks. His fingers found their rhythm as he removed the tough outer skin from the legs exposing their soft white core beneath the blade of the peeler, their texture reminding him oddly of Dantooinian tubers with an extra coat of slime.

Slice and dice half of a medium-sized onion.

Theron had to pretend he wasn't looking particularly emotional as he chopped the onion. Or maybe he was simply brought to tears at the thought that their food could have flavor for once, all thanks to the Alliance’s team of scouts who procured such supplies for them from the unmapped regions of Odessen’s wilds. Eight was among that team, hence Theron's willingness to let an Imp spy of all people join him in cooking. There was only a small handful of people he could use to conceal his efforts from the Commander, and Theron would make use of both his ability to obtain food in secret and his espionage skills to see this through, opposing factions be damned.

And if others worried about poisoning, well. He didn't pride himself on being Chief of Security for nothing. The safety of the Commander was his priority, as were the characters of those he chose to fight alongside them. They were his responsibility. His to trust with their most important fight and everything in-between. Theron couldn't afford to keep the old grudges that the Republic and Empire maintained in these desperate times, and he would not fall victim to their need to blind themselves with their unending war. He had to fight for what was important, and that was…people. Not sides.

Theron would always be a son of the Republic at his heart. But now his heart belonged to another, and those lines had long blurred.

Slice the glowshrooms length-wise, removing the head from the stems. Set aside.

Clean and cut the rootleaf in half, then the following halves into quarters; chop into smaller squares until you have about 1 cup’s worth of rootleaf. Store the rest in a cool, refrigerated place.

Unpackage the Synth-Ham, Republic Ration #0625, and slice to desired thickness.

Theron opened the can of mystery meat and upended it onto the chopping board. The green ham-like substance plopped onto it with gelatinous grace. He poked it with his cooking knife. It jiggled away from the tip.

Eight placed an empty pot next to him along with a can of opened grophet sausages and an unwrapped package of Imperial ration Glowblue Noodles, their signature color shining through the foil. Theron quickly thanked him out of the corner of his mouth.

Arrange the rootleaf, onion, makrin legs, and glowshrooms at the bottom of the pot in even layers.

Add a helping of Mandalorian Spiced Sauce on top.

Theron couldn't forget Torian and his people. They were the ones who suggested using their own spices for the hotpot, as “no other spice in the galaxy compares to that of a Mando’s.” Though he’d initially expressed some reservations at setting the Commander’s tongue aflame, this special mix had been made with their preference in mind; Shae had been so impressed by their valor that she presented several crates worth as a gift after the battle of Darvannis. Spices were a luxury if not a grand gesture in wartime, and not one Theron intended to use lightly.

Add the Synth-Ham, grophet sausages, and top with a slice of ration cheese over the previous ingredients.

Finally, add the Glowblue Noodles and 3 liters of Orobird stock.

Theron blinked at the finished product. “Wait a minute. This is…”

“Revanite stew?” Eight once again helpfully supplied.

It was Theron’s turn to ask the questions as he raised a suspicious brow towards his sous-chef. “They ate this during the coalition, when the camps combined. How did you get the same recipe?”

Eight smiled quietly to himself, in his mysterious and elusive way. “Our Commander was there. It was their idea to share food across factions. I still haven't forgotten its taste. If you ask any of the soldiers from that time, they will say the same.”

Theron stared at him, speechless. To think the same recipe he’d been making this entire time was a result of their union on Rishi…he recalled seeing Imperial and Republic soldiers bonding over a cookpot, but hadn't joined in, content to watch the proceedings from a distance. So much had happened during Revan’s rise that he’d failed to pay enough attention to something so innocuous as a moment of camaraderie between unlikely allies.

It had been their idea to eat something both Imperial and Republic that fateful night. To form the basis of their Alliance over a simple, warm bowl of soup.

Theron felt his heart swell.

He…he had to remind them of what they had built. What they meant to him. With this.

Set on top of a burner and deliver to recipients with bowls to share.

Theron held his breath as he wheeled the cart of foodstuffs to the Commander’s quarters, careful to avoid jostling the stew that balanced atop it as he reached his destination. He rapped on the door with the back of his knuckles.

A puff of pnematic air revealed the Commander, yawning wearily from yet another sleepless night of work and burdens. “Yes–” They stopped. “Theron? What are you doing here?” They eyed his cart. “And what's with all the food?”

Theron cracked a sheepish smile, rubbing the back of his neck. “Thought you could use some dinner, so…I brought you some. If you don't mind, that is.” He quickly added, feeling out of place in the deserted hallway.

The Commander smiled, a genuine one that reached their eyes, crinkling at the edges. “I’d love to try whatever you made. Come in, we can eat it together.” They stepped aside to allow Theron room to maneuver.

Enjoy with your intended party.

As expected, it was delicious.

Not as filling as seeing the Commander laugh to the point of tears at his explanations as to why he'd been so secretive all week trying to hide the fruits of his cooking from them, but filling nonetheless. He'd give it a 5/5, personally, as a true soup for the soul. (And a note to make it again with less sneaking around).

If the Commander was satisfied and satiated... so was he.

#swtor #swtor fanfiction #theron shan #theron shan x alliance commander #oc: orradiz #knights of the meshi.#admin writes #unnamed commander btw you can self insert. or not #eight cameo in there for. uh. reasons.#i spent way too long procrastinating on this but i think it turned out alright #writing a cooking style fic is way harder than it looks also the ending was kind of botched but im tired #a bit of alliance worldbuilding a bit of speculative cuisine of alien species and plants a bit of #CHARACTER STUDY??#what the hell whatever

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caughtnyact · 1 month ago

Note

hello hello! for thedasweekend, im curious about maevaris/lorelei, so how about them and 'scintilla - a spark or tiny amount of something, often used to describe a small flash of inspiration' from the unusual or rare words prompt list?

GAH this was such a fun pairing to work on!! Some wholesome older woman yuri to soothe my soul <3

For @thedasweekend 🤲🏻

“Mind if I sit here?” Lorelei looked up from her plate to see the former Magister Maevaris Tilani looking at her expectantly. “Not at all,” Lorelei said through a mouthful of egg. “I’m surprised you have time to take a break.” She gestured to the seat perpendicular to her in invitation.

No warnings - 1,153 words

Phew, I didn’t realize how late it is, Lorelei thought to herself as she flipped the ‘on break’ sign over on the counter. “Keep an eye on the front for me, pup.”

“You got it!” Bren eagerly set down the large stack of books he was carrying on a nearby table. It wasn’t often that he got to watch the front of the shop. Lorelei smiled to herself at his eagerness and headed through the hidden entrance. The hideout lounge was surprisingly homey for a base of operations. The fire crackling in the fireplace provided warmth and ambiance to the lounge; she guessed that it was intentional on Ashur’s part, a place of respite from all of the horrors they see on the day-to-day.

Lorelei reached into the cupboard and grabbed her favorite snack— a jar of pickled eggs. She scooped out a few onto a plate and grabbed a bunch of grapes from the fruit basket. Tarquin had picked them up on his way back from the Archives, and she wasn’t one to turn down fresh fruit. She pulled out a chair and sat down at the banquet-sized table. It was a relatively slow day at the shop, so she wanted to take advantage of the rare lull in customers and take an extended lunch break.

“Mind if I sit here?” Lorelei looked up from her plate to see the former Magister Maevaris Tilani looking at her expectantly.

“Not at all,” Lorelei said through a mouthful of egg. “I’m surprised you have time to take a break.” She gestured to the seat perpendicular to her in invitation.

Maevaris laughed as she set down her coffee cup. “A girl’s got to have her coffee,” she said. As she smoothed her satin dress under her legs to have a seat, Lorelei could smell the faintest whiff of Maevaris’s perfume; it was an understated, almost earthy, scent that she couldn’t place. She expected some decadent currant and musk perfume from Pluvairi Plaza in the upper city. It almost reminded her of her mother’s old perfume.

“Are those pickled eggs?” Maevaris rested her chin on her hand as she leaned in to see what Lorelei was eating.

“Oh, uh—” Lorelei was taken aback. “—yeah, it’s a Fereldan classic. Heals any ailment, or so my mum told me. Bren says they stink, but his shoulder pain cleared right up as soon as he ate one!”

Maevaris laughed at that. “That’s right, you’re from Ferelden. Do you miss it?”

“It’s been so long since I’ve been there, I probably wouldn’t even recognize it now. My family is gone, so there’s no reason for me to go back.” Lorelei absentmindedly played with the Denerim Vhenadahl carving around her neck. Maevaris paused, seemingly considering her words carefully before continuing.

“I’m sorry— I didn’t mean to reopen old wounds.” She had heard about the Shadow Dragons’ skirmish outside Vol Dorma and how one of the freed slaves volunteered to join them, but she had forgotten that she was one of the elves from the Denerim alienage sold into slavery to the Imperium by Loghain Mac Tir.

Lorelei waved a hand at the apology. “I’ve come to terms with what happened to me. For the longest time, all I felt was anger— I wanted every Magister to feel even a touch of the pain that I felt,” she sighed. “I had watched everyone I’d ever known be carted away Maker knows where.” She felt embarrassed to be so vulnerable, but Maevaris’s face didn’t change at hearing her story. She listened intently, not take it as an opportunity to posture about how she is ‘one of the good ones’.

“What changed your mind? We could have gotten you settled somewhere outside Tevinter, where you could have a fresh start— yet Tarquin told me that you signed on with us immediately.” Lorelei could feel the intensity of Maevaris’s gaze; it made her feel like she was the only person to talk to in the world.

“It had been so long, I was afraid I wouldn’t know how to be free anymore,” Lorelei admitted. “I remembered when I’d heard you and Pavus formed the Lucerni— Thought you were bloody mad,” she laughed, “I thought the Nocen Sea would freeze over before I’d believe two high-blood mages gave a shit about us.” Maevaris snorted as she took another sip of her coffee. She hadn’t spent this much time talking to Lorelei, and she was completely enraptured. She didn’t care about what anyone thought of her, didn’t waste time on hollow pleasantries.

“Then I heard about what you did as a young lady— how you stood on the Magisterium floor in front of those pompous assholes and showed them what you’re about. No fear. No hesitation. Just… you,” she looked away, “and that was enough for me to believe.” Both women sat in comfortable quiet, enjoying the rare moment of peace and companionship.

Upon finishing her cup of coffee, Maevaris broke the silence. “I’ve had my share of hardships in my own way, but I would never claim to know the struggle of those we fight for— that’s why we need people like you, Lorelei. You keep us grounded.”

“Oh, don’t worry, your Magister-ness, I will be the first to kick your door in to bring you back to Earth,” Lorelei promised with a smile. Maevaris felt a smile forming on her face as well.

“You might want to keep an eye on our dear Magister Pavus, then, lest his head get any bigger.” The two women shared a laugh as Lorelei finished her lunch.

Maevaris extended a gentle hand and grasped Lorelei’s. “I’ll let you enjoy the rest of your break. I’ve taken up enough of your time.”

Maker, her hands are so soft. Lorelei felt a warm blush spread from her chest up to the tips of her ears. Quickly grabbing her empty plate, she scrambled to wash it in the sink and return to the front of the shop to see if Bren had made a mess of things.

Maevaris returned to her desk, feeling a sense of contentment that she hadn’t felt in a long time. She put on her reading glasses and began reading through the latest stack of intel that Tarquin dropped in her inbox. The feeling wouldn’t last long, though, as she sensed the ostentatious presence of one Magister Pavus.

“I daresay, someone seems to be in good spirits,” Dorian raised an eyebrow and smirked knowingly. “if I didn’t know you better, I’d say that you had an absolutely titillating conversation with our dear shopkeeper.”

“Just some friendly conversation, Dorian. You know I’m too old to indulge in flights of fantasy,” Maevaris shot back.

Dorian’s gaze softened. “Even you deserve a bit of happiness once in a while, Mae.”

"That's rich coming from you, Dorian,” she smiled and returned to her paperwork. Perhaps one day she might even believe him.

#dragon age #dragon age fanfiction #thedas weekend #maevaris tilani #lorelei dragon age #maevaris dragon age

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mellyssageversee · 2 months ago

Text

Eclipsed - Chapter 11

A ZoLu/LuZo fic (AU Nika Sun God)

AO3 Link

Summary: Sun God Nika is accused of a crime he did not commit. Nika goes into hiding to avoid being hunted by other Gods who wish to have him replaced. This inadvertently plunges the world into darkness, triggering an ice age. Only one human has faith that Nika will return the Sun.

For links to other chapters, please view My OP Story Masterpost

✨✨✨

Zoro wasn’t sulking.

That was beneath him.

He just didn’t trust Hancock, that was all. How could he, when she had turned him to stone without a second thought? It didn’t matter that she’d undone it or that she’d offered them food or that Nika seemed perfectly content to forgive her. That was just how Nika was. He trusted easily, forgave quickly. Zoro could respect that about him… but did he really have to let Hancock hang all over him like that?!

“My poor Nika! You've been through so much!” Hancock lamented dramatically, setting another plate of food in front of the God as though she hadn’t already given him more than enough.

They sat in the three sisters’ home, a space carved into the earth beneath the Banyan tree. Roots twisted through the ceiling like reaching fingers, vegetables sprouting above them. The scent of fresh herbs, roasted meat, and earthen soil filled the air. It would have been a nice place, maybe even peaceful, if not for her.

Hancock… with her pale hands in Nika’s hair.

Zoro felt his grip tighten around his cup.

“To be blamed for a crime you never committed…” she murmured, trailing her fingers through soft brown curls like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Zoro watched, his irritation growing as she placed her other hand on Nika’s arm, her touch lingering far longer than necessary.

“To be hunted by Gods like my sisters and I have…”

She tucked a stray hair behind Nika’s ear… caressing the back of his neck after she did so.

“I can't imagine the fear you must have felt.”

Nika, who was far too busy stuffing his face with food, swallowed down another mouthful before flashing her a grin, completely oblivious to the way she melted under it.

“It hasn't been that bad.” Nika beamed. “Especially since I found Zoro.”

Zoro felt his chest jolt, but before he could process the warmth creeping into his ribs, Hancock let out a gasp, her entire face going red. She looked moments from swooning.

“Nika, you’re so brave!” Hancock gushed, practically sparkling. “I would expect no less from you. Not after witnessing how passionately you fought to get your friend back.”

Zoro clenched his jaw.

It was just like with Lucci.

Again, Nika had fought for him. Again, he’d been the one getting saved. And what had Zoro done? Let himself become a useless statue; just another burden for the God to carry.

Zoro pushed the food around his plate with his fork, but his appetite had long since disappeared. His stomach felt tight and twisted, but not with hunger…

Before he could sort through his frustration, fingers tangled roughly in his hair, yanking at his scalp. Instinct took over. Zoro’s hand shot up, slapping over the top of his head to stop the unwanted touch. His glare snapped to the culprit.

Sonia shrank back under his sharp gaze, holding up her hands in surrender.

“Sorry,” Sonia said, looking a little guilty. “You had a bit of wax in your hair.”

Zoro blinked. His ears burned.

Nika laughed.

Zoro whipped his head toward him, already scowling, but the sight of Nika’s amused shining eyes only made his face heat further. He turned away with a huff, but Nika was already moving on, giving Hancock his attention again.

“I’ve got a question, though…” Nika said, grabbing another chunk of meat. “If your powers don’t work on me, how come I still couldn't see your garden from the outside?”

Zoro paused from pushing his food around, blinking in surprise.

Nika couldn’t see the garden?

Hancock hummed thoughtfully, twirling one of Nika’s curls around her finger before answering.

“I never really understood that myself.” Hancock admitted. “However, the enchantment was not my own. It was our mother’s.”

The three sisters grew somber.

Sonia lowered her gaze, her expression sorrowful.

Mari sat straighter, putting on a strong face, but even Zoro could see the way her fingers clenched subtly into her skirts.

“It was her last enchantment.” Mari said, her voice steady, but her eyes looked glassy. “We had all gathered around her deathbed, here in our home.”

Beside her, Sonia sniffled quietly. Her next words were spoken with a deep sorrow and reverence that felt very familiar to Zoro…

“She said that as long as we stayed under the Banyan tree, she would protect us. Even when she was gone.”

Zoro’s breath hitched.

As long as we stayed under the Banyan tree…

As long as you wield my sword… I will always be with you…

Kuina’s voice whispered through his mind. Her words echoed in perfect harmony with the enchantment protecting the sisters.

Zoro sat still, his thoughts swirling.

It didn’t make sense.

The Banyan Tree was protected by magic, but Kuina wasn’t a witch. She had no powers. She never practiced magic.

So how-?

Zoro furrowed his brows in concentration. The pieces were not quite fitting. Was it just a coincidence? Or was there something he was missing?

Before he could dwell on it any longer, Nika’s carefree voice disrupted his line of thought.

“Wow. She must’ve been really strong to be able to do something like that.” Nika said, shoveling the last scraps of food from his plate into his mouth without a care. “I’m glad it’s protected you all for so long, but you shouldn’t be hiding in the first place.”

Nika’s gaze flickered toward Zoro’s plate.

Zoro sighed, rolling his eyes, but silently slid his unfinished plate to the Sun God. Nika beamed at him before eagerly digging in, practically inhaling the meal like he hadn’t just eaten two servings.

Mouth still full, Nika grinned and declared, “When I return the sun, I’ll tell the other Gods to stop hunting witches. My brother Sabo is really smart. I’m sure he can speak for you all.”

A sharp inhale came from all three sisters.

Hancock’s eyes widened, her lips parting in surprise. The blush that had already dusted her cheeks deepened, spreading across her face like wildfire.

“The God of Knowledge is your brother?!” Hancock barely waited for a confirmation before pressing further with a breathless intensity. “You’d really fight for our right to roam freely?”

Nika gave her a confused look, as if the very question baffled him.

“Of course! You didn’t do anything bad.” Nika replied before swallowing down the last of his meal. “You shouldn’t be hiding in the first place.” Leaning back, he let out a satisfied sigh, patting his stomach before flashing her a bright, toothy grin. “Plus, I really like you! You’re all super nice!”

Hancock swooned in her seat. With a dreamy sigh, she rested her head on his shoulder, gazing at him as if he had just confessed his undying love to her.

And Nika let her.

Zoro felt something tighten in his chest, twisting like a blade lodged between his ribs, its edge digging deeper with every second. He gritted his teeth and forced himself to look away, but the sight was already burned into his mind. He didn't think he could stand this much longer.

Clearing his throat, he tried to cut through the moment.

“It’s getting pretty late-” Zoro started, hoping Nika would take the hint that they should leave.

But Hancock was quicker.

“He’s absolutely right.” Hancock turned her starry-eyed gaze back to Nika. “Of course, you’ll both be staying with us for the night. I’ll hear no arguments about it.”

Nika’s face lit up with surprise.

“Really? That’s great!” Nika grinned, then pulled Hancock into a one-armed hug without a second thought.

Zoro swore he saw her entire body tense. Her breath caught, her face turned into a shade of red he didn’t think was possible. She looked like she was about to melt right then and there.

The twisting in Zoro’s chest grew unbearable.

“Thanks, Hancock!” Nika beamed. “Zoro didn’t get much sleep yesterday, so I know he needs a lot of rest.”

Zoro stiffened. Great. Now he had to stay in this place.

Hancock shot up from her seat so fast her chair nearly tipped over, her blush still firmly in place.

“Sonia. Mari.” Hancock commanded sharply, turning to her sisters with an air of authority. “I’ll leave you to clean up while I show our guests their sleeping arrangements.”

Sonia looked immediately offended.

“What?! Why do we have to do all the cleaning if you’re just going to-”

She cut herself off when Hancock sent her a piercing glare. A tense silence hung between them, Sonia’s gaze flickering briefly between Hancock and Nika before she sighed in defeat.

“Fine! But you owe us…” Sonia muttered, crossing her arms.

Mari rolled her eyes but didn’t argue.

Hancock barely acknowledged them before turning back to Nika, her fingers wrapping delicately around his forearm. With a gentle but insistent tug, she pulled him up from his seat and down the cavern-like hallway. She didn’t even glance back to see if Zoro was following.

But follow, he did.

Zoro moved in step behind them, close enough to keep them both in his sight. His fingers twitched at his sides as he watched Hancock loop her arm into Nika’s, guiding him like they were already something more than mere acquaintances.

The hallway was dimly lit by lanterns embedded into the earthy walls, casting flickering shadows as they walked, but Zoro barely noticed. His focus was locked on the two ahead of him, on the way Hancock leaned into Nika’s warmth, on the way she held onto him as if she never intended to let go.

Finally, Hancock came to a stop in front of a doorway.

“Zoro, this is where you’ll sleep tonight.” Hancock’s voice was smooth, but Zoro didn’t miss the way her fingers remained curled possessively around Nika’s arm. Even as she gestured toward the open doorway, her gaze never once wavered from Nika’s face.

That touch made Zoro feel sick. He had a sinking feeling he knew exactly what Hancock had in mind for Nika, and worse… he was terrified Nika was about to accept.

Nika peered into the room, his bright eyes scanning the space with curiosity. He gave an approving nod, flashing Hancock another wide grin.

“This is perfect! Thanks again!”

Then, to both Hancock and Zoro’s surprise, Nika casually pulled free from her grasp. The movement was so effortless, that it nearly made Zoro smirk. On the other hand, Hancock looked momentarily thrown off balance, her fingers curling into a loose fist at her side as she recovered.

Nika turned expectantly toward Zoro, clearly waiting for him to enter first. Before he could step forward, Hancock’s hand shot out, grasping Nika’s wrist.

“Wait.”

Nika blinked, tilting his head.

Hancock swallowed, her confidence faltering.

“I thought that… perhaps… you would be more comfortable in my quarters.” Hancock’s voice was softer now, almost shy. “My bedding is very comfortable… if you’d like to sleep in my company.”

The words made something ignite in Zoro’s chest, fire spreading through his veins with blistering intensity.

It took every ounce of restraint not to reach out, grab Nika by the wrist, and yank him into the room, to slam the door in Hancock’s face and tell her to stay the hell away from him.

Before Zoro could react, Nika’s expression lit up with understanding… although, not the right kind.

“Thanks for the offer,” Nika said cheerfully, “but I like sleeping with Zoro more.”

Hancock’s face went pale. For the first time that night, her mask of confidence shattered before Zoro’s eyes. She looked as though she’d just watched her own heart break into pieces, crushed beyond repair. Yet, Nika didn’t notice. His attention had already drifted back to Zoro, as if nothing of importance had just occurred.

The fire inside Zoro was still burning hot, but he didn’t linger. Without a word, he stepped into the room. Behind him, Nika turned, offering Hancock one last cheerful, oblivious, “Good night!” before stepping inside and shutting the door behind them.

The moment the door clicked into place, Zoro clenched his jaw, forcing himself to keep his breathing steady. The fire still swirled hot in the pit of his gut, an untamed beast clawing at his insides. He couldn’t shake the memory of Hancock’s hands on Nika… her fingers ghosting over his skin with the kind of reverence that made Zoro’s stomach churn.

Worse than that, Nika had let her.

Her delicate fingers traced the Sun God’s arms, clung to his hands, ran through his wild hair, all while she gazed up at him with open adoration. And Nika, had smiled through it all.

It was unbearable.

“Zoro doesn’t look so good.”

Nika’s voice jolted Zoro from his thoughts. His shoulders tensed as he realized just how deeply he’d been stewing. The room was dim, illuminated only by a single candle casting flickering shadows against the dirt walls. Yet even in the low light, Zoro could see the way Nika was watching him, his head tilted and his auburn eyes scanned him with keen curiosity.

Zoro forced his muscles to relax, turning away to shrug off his outer layers. He could have done it facing Nika, but instead, he let the gesture serve as a barrier, a feeble attempt to evade the God’s perceptive stare.

“You didn’t look like you were having a good time during dinner.” Nika continued. “You’re not getting sick, are you?”

“It’s been a long day.” Zoro exhaled slowly, keeping his voice level. “I was a bit too tired for dinner.”

The answer seemed to satisfy Nika, who flopped onto the bed with a contented sigh.

“That’s too bad,” Nika hummed. “Hancock’s food was delicious!”

Zoro’s grip on his discarded shirt tightened.

There it was again. Another casual, thoughtless compliment about her.

“If you’re so fond of her, why not sleep in her quarters like she asked?” The comment slipped from Zoro’s lips before he could stop it. The swordsman tensed when he heard the mattress creak. Nika must have sat up in bed to stare at Zoro again.

“That’s stupid.” Nika’s voice was flat, as if the idea itself was completely ridiculous. “Why would I do that? Zoro knows I can’t sleep.”

Finally, Zoro turned back to face him. Nika sat cross-legged on the mattress, his expression looked extremely confused, his eyes seeking further clarification from the swordsman.

It was ridiculous. He was being ridiculous. He shouldn’t care about this. He shouldn’t feel this bitter weight pressing down on his chest, but it still gnawed at him.

“I doubt she had sleeping in mind,” Zoro muttered, keeping his voice steady. “I assumed you would’ve caught on from all the flirting you two were doing.”

Nika frowned, clearly perplexed.

“We weren’t flirting.”

Zoro let out a dry, humorless laugh. “You two seemed pretty damn touchy during dinner.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” Nika huffed. “I touch you all the time.”

Zoro’s stomach twisted violently, heat rising to his face before he could stop it.

“That’s-That’s completely different!” Zoro snapped, crossing his arms. “Didn’t you notice how she treated you differently from the rest of us? How she practically draped herself over you? She was infatuated with you, and you just-” He shook his head, exasperated. “How the hell did you not notice?”

“I never really cared about that sort of thing.” Nika simply shrugged.

Zoro blinked, thrown off by the casual admission.

“Other Gods get caught up in all the romantic gooey stuff,” Nika continued. “Some of them go for physical relationships with humans since they can just leave whenever they want. But neither of those options ever seemed all that appealing.”

Zoro looked away, trying to ignore the cold, sinking feeling inside him.

Of course.

He should have realized it sooner. You can admire the sun, bask in its warmth, let it illuminate your path, but you never expect the sun to admire you back.

“Zoro has a sad look on his face.”

The words were soft, thoughtful. Zoro felt his whole body lock up as Nika suddenly moved, slipping off the bed and closing the distance between them. The swordsman didn’t step back, but he felt cornered all the same, like Nika’s presence was too much, too close, too all-consuming.

A warm hand cupped his cheek, and Zoro stiffened. His skin burned under the gentle touch, but it wasn’t just that. Nika’s touch was always comforting, but now…after everything, Zoro wasn’t sure he wanted to be comforted.

“Zoro also feels really tense.” Nika's voice was gentle, and his thumb brushed against Zoro’s cheekbone absentmindedly. His brow furrowed, as if trying to decipher the unspoken tension in Zoro’s face. “Did I do something wrong again?”

The question hit Zoro harder than it should have. His throat went dry as he met Nika’s innocent, concerned expression. The God’s gaze was so sincere, and Zoro couldn’t shake the guilt creeping up inside him. He hadn’t meant to make Nika feel like he’d done something wrong.

Nika wasn’t trying to make Zoro’s heart ache or drive him mad. He wasn’t playing games or pulling strings. He was just being himself; kind, affectionate, completely unaware of the way others (Zoro included) were drawn to him. The reality of it twisted inside Zoro, but it was the truth. Nika was completely untouchable in a way that Zoro couldn’t bring himself to ignore.

Despite knowing better, Zoro still wanted to reach for him.

"You didn’t do anything wrong." Zoro said quickly, trying to ease the concern from Nika’s face. He didn't want the God to feel bad. In fact, he hated that Nika could make him feel guilty for his own frustration. But Zoro forced a steady tone as he added, “Maybe I should teach you to be more aware when a human is showing interest in you.”

Nika scrunched his nose in confusion, the furrow in his brow deepening as he looked at Zoro, clearly puzzled.

“Why?”

“Because you’re oblivious to the impact you have on people, like Hancock.” Zoro tried to explain the situation more clearly. “She was flirting with you, thinking your friendliness meant something more… and it can hurt them when they realize it’s not what they thought.”

Nika’s expression shifted to one of genuine concern.

“Oh…” Nika said, his voice smaller now. “I don’t want to hurt her. She’s nice and gives tasty food.”

The sincerity in Nika’s voice made Zoro’s chest tighten. He hated the sweet, naive honesty that made everything feel so much more complicated. Nika was kind, but he didn’t see the way his every gesture affected others.

It’s not just Hancock, Zoro thought bitterly. It’s me, too.

“Sometimes love is tricky.” Zoro explained, his voice lower now, deliberately casual as he carefully pulled Nika’s hand away from his face. “It’s tough when someone likes you, and you don’t feel the same.” He paused, his own heart pounding uncomfortably in his chest. He didn’t want to go any deeper, didn’t want to reveal he was speaking of experience. “Just let her down gently. I’m sure she’ll understand.”

Nika nodded, appearing thoughtful, though there was still an innocent glint in his eyes.

“Okay, I’ll talk to her before we set off tomorrow.” He sounded satisfied, as if the problem had been solved. As Nika shifted to settle back into the bed, his usual cheerful energy returned, and Zoro couldn’t help but watch him, feeling a strange bitter sting at the sight.

Just as Zoro turned to focus on preparing for bed, Nika’s voice interrupted him again, the question out of nowhere.

“Zoro sure knows a lot about this stuff.” Nika said, kicking his feet in bed. “Have you ever been in love?”

Zoro froze, his hands halting in mid-motion. The question hit him harder than he expected. His mind raced as he grappled with how to answer the question. He couldn't exactly tell Nika the truth; that the person he wanted was sitting right in front of him.

"I have, but it wasn't romantic love." Zoro answered carefully, draping his coat over the chair. Memories of Kuina came to mind. "I had strong feelings for my friend Kuina when she was alive. She inspired me like no one else. We shared a deep respect for each other. I guess that was the closest to being in love for me…” until now. Zoro finished the thought in his head.

Nika stayed quiet, paying close attention to Zoro's words. His cheerful eyes followed Zoro as the swordsman approached the bed.

"You miss her a lot, huh?" Nika noted.

"Every damn day." Zoro sighed, as the familiar ache of grief pressed against his ribs. He leaned his swords against the bed frame, his fingers lingering on Wado’s hilt for a moment longer than necessary. As he did so, he reminisced about the pain Kuina's death had caused him. A sad thought triggered a bitter laugh from Zoro.

"Why is that funny?" Nika asked, his never ending curiosity shining through.

"I just realized, I felt so dead inside when Kuina passed… Like a part of me had been buried with her.” Zoro answered sadly. He let his hand drop from Wado. “I guess that means I will die twice in my lifetime."

The bedding rustled, and before Zoro could register what was happening, Nika had moved. Fast. A blur of white and red seized him, and the next thing he knew, he was thrown onto his back. Although the bedding below had cushioned the fall, his breath was still stolen from his lungs.

Nika was straddling his hips, gripping his arms with an intensity that made heat pool in the pit of Zoro’s stomach.

Zoro’s heart slammed against his ribs, and his brain scrambled to catch up. He had been thrown around in battle more times than he could count, but nothing had ever left him this stunned.

The God’s usual warmth had been replaced by raw fury, his glowing red eyes burning into Zoro’s with an emotion that was impossible to ignore. His hands, always so gentle, now clutched Zoro’s arms with a strength bordering on painful.

“Don’t say that.” Nika's voice took on a darker tone, the sudden shift in mood sending a shiver down Zoro’s spine. “Zoro can’t die. I won’t allow it!”

Zoro swallowed hard, his breath uneven. His heart continued to thud violently in his chest at Nika’s strong reaction. His brain momentarily went blank, and all he could do was stare dumbfounded at the God above him.

The possessiveness in Nika’s tone, the unrelenting fire in his gaze… for a moment, it made Zoro believe that maybe Nika felt the same… but soon reality set in. Nika just told him romance wasn’t something he was interested in. So Zoro forced himself to find the words to shake himself free from the spellbinding moment. He felt he must explain a hard truth to Nika.

“Humans die all the time. We aren’t immortal like you Gods.” Zoro pointed out.

Nika's grip tightened, his nails pressing into Zoro's skin as if he could anchor him in place, as if sheer willpower could defy reality itself.

"NO!" Nika snapped, his frown deepening, his entire body tense. "Not all the time. If the Elders allow it, they can grant humans immortality." His eyes burned with an unshakable determination. "Once we prove my innocence, there is no way the Court can deny Zoro that. I won’t let them deny Zoro that right after everything Zoro has done for me."

Zoro’s eyes widened. Him? Being granted immortality? He had never once considered such a thing for himself. He had always known that death was inevitable, that all he could do was carve his name into the world as the greatest swordsman before it finally took him.

Yet here was Nika, a God, looking at him like he deserved something more. Like he refused to let Zoro slip through the cracks of time.

Zoro had never seen the God this desperate before. It set his blood on fire, made his insides twist. He burned for Nika… and it terrified him.

“Nika…” Zoro spoke seriously. “I’m not sure I’d accept.”

Determination turned to panic in Nika, causing the red hue to turn back to brown.

“Why wouldn’t you want that?!” Nika looked just as terrified as Zoro felt. “You could live forever! We could be together all the time!”

Zoro clenched his jaw, struggling to hold his ground. Together forever? That would have been a beautiful dream if he didn’t already know how cruel reality was.

An eternity of standing at Nika’s side, watching him shine, feeling the warmth of his presence, yet knowing it would never be his in the way he wanted. A never-ending existence spent pining after a God who could never love him back…

That was no blessing.

“I'll serve you for my lifetime, as long as you need me,” Zoro replied, using every bit of will power to hold back tears, “but I can't stick around forever.”

Nika’s gaze went vacant, like something in him shattered.

The grip he had on Zoro’s arms slackened. His fingers trembled before withdrawing entirely. His usually radiant face dimmed, as if the very light had been drained from him.

“Oh…” the reply was so soft it was barely a whisper. Nika averted his gaze from Zoro, and all the joy seemed to have seeped out of him. Nika removed himself to sit on the bedding once more, which allowed Zoro to sit up next to him.

Then, Nika turned away from him completely, curling into himself as if he wanted to disappear.

The sight made Zoro’s stomach twist. Nika never hid himself, never let anything weigh him down for long. He hated seeing Nika look so sad, and what was worse was that he was the source of the Sun God’s pain. Did it really bother Nika that much to know Zoro wouldn’t choose to live forever?

“Nika-“

“We have a long day tomorrow.” Nika said in an uncharacteristically cold tone. He refused to meet Zoro’s eye. “Zoro needs his rest.”

Zoro felt the need to do something, say something, but he didn’t know what. So instead, he chose to obey.

Wordlessly, the two of them settled beneath the covers, their usual routine falling into place. Nika wrapped his arms around Zoro from behind, his body radiating warmth just as he always did.

But tonight was different.

Nika was holding onto him tighter than usual, and Zoro wasn’t sure if it was for his sake… or for Nika’s.

Sunlight poured from the sky, golden and warm, casting the world in colors Zoro had nearly forgotten. Vibrant greens of fresh spring grass, pinks and violets of wildflowers reaching towards the open blue sky. The air carried the familiar scent of earth after rain, crisp and full of life.

Zoro stood still, feeling the heat of the sun at his back. Yet, something about it all felt off. Too perfect. Too vivid. As if the world itself was trying to lure him into forgetting.

Then, in the distance, he saw her. A lone figure stood amidst the sea of colors, her long green hair swaying gently with the breeze, carrying a perfumed fragrance in the air. A shade so familiar it made his chest tighten.

Zoro’s feet moved before he could think. His breath felt unsteady as he stepped forward, his voice escaping in something barely above a whisper.

“...Mother?”

The woman turned.

“Zoro.” Tera’s voice was just as he remembered it. A gentle soothing sound. She smiled, eyes drinking him in as if memorizing every inch of him. “Look at how much you’ve grown.”

Zoro’s insides twisted. He knew this wasn’t real. His mind had been plagued by too many dreams like this lately. Ones that blurred the line between illusion and reality. He had never been a stranger to nightmares, but these dreams were different. Too vivid. Too convincing, making him question if he was really dreaming at all.

“This is another dream.” Zoro muttered with certainty to himself.

His mother only looked amused.

“And if it is?” Tera countered lightly. “Does that make it any less meaningful?” She lowered herself onto the soft grass, patting the empty space beside her. “Sit with me.”

Zoro hesitated.

The last time he let himself indulge in his dream, it turned on him. Why would this one be any different?

“I don’t want to be here.” Zoro said simply, forcing himself to step back.

His mother sighed, tilting her head with knowing eyes. “Of course you do.”

Zoro’s muscles tensed.

"As your mother, I know you better than you think." Tera continued in her soothing voice. She tossed her long green hair over her shoulder. "I know how lonely you’ve been, Zoro. Your father and I were your only family, and when we died, you were left to mourn us alone." Her gaze bore into him, searching, pressing. "You miss us, as you miss your friend. You miss home. You miss the sun.”

Zoro's fingers curled into fists.

She wasn’t wrong.

He had spent so much of his life moving forward; fighting, chasing strength, surviving. He had never allowed himself to stop and acknowledge the emptiness trailing behind him. He had been alone. He had missed them.

Tera smiled, lifting her hand to gesture at the breathtaking world around them.

“We can enjoy it here together.” Tera urged, her honeyed voice trying to further coax Zoro. “Don’t you see what a gift this is?”

Zoro shook his head. He didn’t have the luxury of enjoying this. Not when his real world was nothing but cold and darkness.

“I plan on returning the Sun with Nika.” Zoro said, his voice steadier than he felt. “We’re on our way to Ohara now.”

Tera’s smile faltered before it shifted, twisting into something wry.

"Ohara?" Tera let out an amused chuckle, one that sent an unpleasant chill down Zoro’s spine. "That’s where you’re going?"

Zoro nodded, his wariness growing.

Tera laughed, bright and melodic, but there was something wrong with it. It rang too sharp, like a joke at his expense.

"Darling," Tera sighed as if humoring a naive child. "There is nothing left of Ohara. If you go, you will find emptiness in its place. There is nothing there to prove Nika’s innocence." Her head tilted, a look of pity crossing her features. "You are on a fool’s journey."

Zoro’s jaw tightened. He met her gaze coldly.

"I trust Nika." Zoro stated firmly. "If he says this journey will help restore the Sun, then I believe him."

Tera clicked her tongue, shaking her head in disappointment.

"You’ve always been loyal to a fault." Tera murmured to herself.

Then, her gaze sharpened.

"Tell me, Zoro… where are you now?"

Something in her voice changed. The softness was gone, replaced with a prying edge.

Zoro’s instincts screamed at him.

His breath slowed, and he stared at the woman before him; the one who claimed to be his mother yet felt nothing like her.

Tera held his gaze, unflinching, her eyes searching his as if she could read his very mind.

A sudden force gripped his wrist.

Zoro’s head snapped down to find a small hand gripping his own. A faint light emanating from them.

His breath caught.

Kuina stood beside him, her expression fierce, the way she had always been. Although she was less than solid, her grip was ironclad.

“Go.” Kuina's voice was sharp with her command. It was an order, not a plea. "Don’t tell her anything else!"

Zoro barely had time to process Kuina’s presence before he caught the change in Tera.

Gone was the soft amusement. Gone was the motherly concern. Her eyes narrowed, her lips twisting into a sneer as she turned a glare onto Kuina. One that was filled with contempt, like she wasn't supposed to be here.

“Zoro…” Tera’s voice was honeyed again, but something lurked beneath it. She reached for his other arm with her cold cloying hand. “Don’t look at her, my love. Look at me.”

Zoro's mind reeled.

Kuina was here. His mother was here. But why?

His chest tightened. Something wasn’t right. He had been somewhere else before this. He was with Nika.

Zoro’s mind drifted to where he last was. Lying in bed with Nika. They were safe, protected under the canopy of the-

“STOP!” Kuina cut off Zoro's train of thought.

Tera’s glare turned scathing, her fingers tightening around his arm.

“Zoro! Listen to me!” Tera’s voice sharpened, her patience snapping. “If you don’t obey me, you will be alone again. Is that what you want?!”

Her grip became crushing.

Zoro hissed, pain lancing up his arm.

Darkness bled from her fingers, thin and sharp like wires were burrowing into his skin.

“You will never bring back the Sun!” Tera’s voice warped, distorting into something monstrous. An acrid stench wafted from her, stinging Zoro’s nostrils. Her face twisted, the warmth peeling away to reveal something unnatural beneath. “You will kill his light just like everything else that comes near you!”

The shadows wrapped around his arms, slithering up his body, growing tighter, constricting like iron chains.

Zoro struggled, his breath quickening. He wasn’t sure if it was the weight of her grip or the words themselves that made it hard to breathe.

Just as the darkness began to suffocate him Kuina yanked him back with all her strength.

The world shattered.

Zoro’s stomach lurched as the vibrant landscape cracked like glass, dissolving into a spiraling void. He fell, Kuina still gripping his wrist, pulling him through the abyss.

He hit a surfaceless ground with a harsh thud. There was nothing beneath him, yet he landed all the same. His mind spun with disorientation, but Kuina never let go. Her fingers clenched tighter, urgency burning in her grip.

“Zoro, you need to wake up!” Kuina said frantically.

The void trembled around them.

“They’re trying to trick you!” Kuina’s grip faltered, her form flickering like candlelight in a storm. Shadows coiled around her ankles, pulling her away. “If you don’t wake up-” her fingers slipped from his, “they’ll come for Nika!”

Zoro’s chest tightened. Nika?!

His pulse pounded as he lunged for Kuina, but his hands passed through her like mist. His stomach twisted with dread.

The void shook. Heavy footsteps echoed through the emptiness.

A figure emerged from the darkness.

Zoro's breath turned cold.

Lucci.

The God stepped forward, his feline eyes gleaming in the dark. His claws flexed, razor-sharp and ready.

Zoro’s turned back to Kuina.

“I don’t know how to wake up!” Zoro ground out, his fingers tightening into fists.

Kuina’s gaze was fierce, even as the shadows dragged her back.

“Then RUN!” Kuina commanded. With a final shove, she sent Zoro staggering backward just as the darkness swallowed her whole.

“KUINA!”

Zoro lunged forward, grasping at nothing. His fingers clawed at empty air. His heart pounded, his pulse roaring in his ears.

A snarl came from behind. That same stench burned his nose.

Zoro spun.

Lucci was already upon him, claws arcing through the void, aiming straight for his throat.

Adrenaline exploded in Zoro’s veins. He reached for Wado and swung.

“AGHH!!”

Zoro’s eyes snapped open.

The dream shattered.

Reality crashed over him in a wave of disorientation. His body was tense, his heart still racing, his grip vice-like around Wado’s hilt.

There was movement from the corner of his eye, someone had fallen.

His gaze darted across the dimly lit room and landed on a crumpled form on the ground.

Nika.

The Sun God had rolled off the bed, recoiling, his body pressed against the floor. His red eyes were wide, filled with pain and shock…

One hand was raised to his face.

Golden ichor dripped between his fingers.

Zoro froze.

His stomach turned ice-cold.

He had hurt him.

He had hurt Nika.

Zoro sat frozen, his body rigid as if bound by unseen chains. Wado was still clutched tightly in his grasp, his knuckles bone-white around the hilt.

He stared at Nika unseeing.

The edges of his vision blurred, overtaken by the relentless pounding in his ears, a deafening rhythm that drowned out everything else. His own heartbeat felt like an accusation, hammering into his ribs.

This was a nightmare. It had to be, because the alternative was unthinkable. He would never hurt Nika. He would never raise his sword against him.

But he had…

The proof was right in front of him, golden ichor trailing down Nika’s cheek, glistening in the darkness like liquid sunlight. A wound that Zoro had inflicted.

There was no taking it back.

Somewhere through the haze, a voice called his name.

"Zoro."

Muffled. Distant. He could barely register it over the storm raging in his mind. His thoughts spiraled, drowning in the weight of what he had done.

"Zoro."

A warm hand wrapped around his own, enclosing over his grip on Wado’s hilt. The other cupped his face.

"Breathe."

Zoro sucked in a gasping breath, his entire body shuddering as air rushed into his lungs. He hadn’t even realized he had stopped breathing until that moment. The world around him swam back into focus, sharper now… but still so very wrong.

Nika was kneeling before him. He had risen from the ground, cautiously approaching like Zoro was a wounded beast on the verge of lashing out.

His face was close… too close to the cut below his left eye that still dripped golden blood. It stood out against his sun-kissed skin, a wound so small yet impossibly vast in its weight.

Zoro felt sick.

Nika didn’t seem to care about the injury. His red eyes weren’t filled with pain, or anger, or blame.

Only worry.

He was watching Zoro, searching his face for something unspoken.

Wado slipped from Zoro’s grasp.

The next moment, his arms were around Nika, pulling him in, clinging to him with uncontrolled desperation.

Zoro buried his face into the crook of Nika’s neck, his breath coming in ragged, uneven gasps.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

The strangled words poured from him like a broken dam.

“I didn’t mean to- I never meant to- I would never-”

The words choked off before he could finish, because even as he clung to Nika, even as the warmth of him surrounded Zoro like a lifeline, the reality remained: Zoro had drawn his blade against the one person he swore to protect.

Nika didn’t pull away. Didn’t recoil in fear or anger. His arms wrapped around Zoro just as tightly, holding him with a desperation that mirrored Zoro’s own. They stayed that way, bound together in silence, as if letting go would cause them to shatter beyond repair. It should hurt with the way they held each other so fiercely, but neither wanted to loosen their grasp.

Zoro noticed a trembling. Not his own, but Nika’s. Then he felt it… a damp spot where Nika had buried his face into Zoro’s shoulder.

Zoro’s stomach twisted in on itself. Damn it. Nika was shaking in his arms, his breaths coming in small uneven gasps.

A deep scalding shame burned in Zoro’s chest.

You hurt him, and now he’s the one comforting you?

Zoro pulled back just enough to see his face.

Tears streamed down Nika’s cheeks, mixing with golden ichor before rolling off his chin. His nose was running, his bottom lip quivering, his whole expression twisted with sorrow.

Zoro’s heart clenched painfully.

“I thought-” Nika’s voice wavered, barely above a whisper. He sucked in a shuddering breath, trying to steady himself, but the next words still cracked. “I thought I made Zoro mad… when I offered…”

He trailed off, but he didn’t need to finish. Zoro knew exactly what he meant.

The offer.

Immortality.

Zoro had rejected it outright, but not because he was angry. Never because he was angry.

“No!” Zoro said fiercely. His grip tightened around Nika’s waist, one arm anchoring him close while the other rose to cup his face. He brought their foreheads together, pressing against Nika’s warmth, hoping… praying that the action could somehow convey what words could not. “No, you could never upset me.” Zoro lowered his voice to be softer, but no less firm. “This is my fault.”

Nika let out a small, broken hiccup. His eyes squeezed shut, his brow furrowing as if the very act of feeling hurt.

Zoro hated it. He hated seeing him like this. He hated that Nika thought, even for a second, that this was his own fault.

Nika deserved the truth. No matter how much Zoro hated admitting it.

“I keep having these damn nightmares.” Zoro confessed. He shut his eyes, unable to face Nika’s pain, unable to face the golden blood he had drawn. Instead, he focused on the closeness of their foreheads, the way Nika’s breaths wavered against his own. “I keep thinking something is after us. They all feel too real. And every time it takes a turn, I panic… I grab Wado in my dream, but-”

But swinging his sword wasn’t a dream.

That proof bled golden down Nika’s cheek.

Nika’s breathing slowed, his body becoming rigid. Zoro could feel Nika’s fingers dig just a little harder into Zoro’s skin.

Zoro made the mistake of opening his eyes.

Nika’s face went dark. He was no longer expressing sorrow or hurt… anger burned in his gaze.

The sight of it twisted the shame in Zoro’s gut. He could take Nika’s pain, his sorrow… but this quiet barely-contained fury?

Zoro braced himself for the reprimand. For Nika to push him away, to demand to know how Zoro could have let something as stupid as a dream make him react this way.

But Nika’s grip on him didn’t loosen, and the anger in his eyes wasn’t directed at Zoro.

“What does Zoro see in these nightmares?” Nika asked, his expression deadly serious. “Or smell?”

Zoro blinked, thrown off by the sudden line of questioning. He frowned, feeling confused, but he thought about it. Really thought about the dreams. About the way his mother had spoken to him, the way she had pried, the way she seemed desperate to pull something from him. Even in the dream before, Nika asked questions he already knew the answer to.

Now Nika’s question of a smell. So odd yet…

“There’s always a smell.” Zoro admitted. “It’s like… perfume. Overpowering, like it’s hiding something. But underneath it-” His nose scrunched as the memory solidified. “smells rotten.”

Nika’s grip on him tightened.

He didn’t speak.

So Zoro kept going, purposely leaving out the detail of Nika taunting him in his first nightmare.

“It always starts the same way. Someone I know appears, asking questions about our journey.”

That was when Nika’s eyes flashed red.

Zoro barely had a second to register the shift before Nika’s entire presence flared with rage.

“That damn bastard.” Nika seethed, his voice like smoldering embers before they burst into flame.

Zoro stiffened, confused by his fury, but the confusion didn’t last long.

“That God that wanted me put to death! That stupid flamingo who can control dreams!” Nika growled, his teeth bared now. “He’s messing with Zoro!”

The realization knocked the air from Zoro’s lungs.

A God was infiltrating his dreams. Manipulating him. Prying into his thoughts.

“Lucci must have told him about me.” Zoro muttered, piecing it together. “That explains why I was asked about Wado.”

Nika ground his teeth and stubbornly wiped at his face, smearing away the tears and golden ichor.

Zoro grabbed a corner of the bedding and pressed it against the cut below Nika’s eye, trying to slow the bleeding. It wasn’t much, but it was all he could do for now. He had a feeling he was going to get an earful from Hancock about this in the morning.

Nika allowed it, though his expression remained stormy.

“What else does that guy know?!” Nika demanded, finally pulling back just enough to study Zoro’s face. His hands stayed firm on Zoro’s shoulders, as if making sure he was still here, still himself.

Zoro’s stomach sank as he combed through the memories of his dreams.

“He knows we’re trying to get to Ohara,” Zoro admitted. “He kept asking where we are now, but-”

Kuina.

She had stopped him. Cut him off before he could even think about their location. Had it been instinct? Some part of his mind protecting itself?

Zoro shook his head. He’d dwell on that later.

“But I didn’t give that information.” Zoro finished firmly.

Nika let out a slow breath, nodding in understanding.

“If the cat-god told the flamingo guy about Wado…” Nika frowned, as if the thought alone disgusted him. “Then he must’ve thought he could make Zoro use it against me.”

The idea sent a chill down Zoro’s spine.

“We have to be more careful when Zoro sleeps.” Nika said with a determined look in his eye. “I was able to move away fast enough when I saw Zoro grab his sword, but now that I know about the nightmares I can be more prepared.”

Nika’s words settled over Zoro like a lead weight.

This God had tried to use him as a weapon. Had twisted his nightmares into something lethal… and it had almost worked.

The same sickness from before curdled in Zoro’s gut. His throat burned as bile threatened to rise.

Nika was still alive and breathing, but that didn’t change the fact that if things had been even slightly different, if Nika hadn’t moved in time, if the dream had held onto him just a second longer, he could have…

Zoro clenched his jaw until he tasted blood. He couldn’t live with himself if he killed the God he loved.

“I don’t think it would be a good idea for me to stay.” Zoro’s voice came out quieter than he intended. He pulled back the blanket, revealing the wound he inflicted. The bleeding had stopped, but a crescent scar remained.

Nika froze. He stared at Zoro, as if he trying to convince himself that he misheard him. His fingers instinctively curled into Zoro’s skin as if physically keeping him here would stop whatever thoughts were running through his head.

“What does that mean?” Nika’s voice was barely above a whisper, but the fear in it was unmistakable.

Zoro didn’t look away. He couldn’t. Instead, he took in every detail of Nika’s face: his eyes still wet with tears, the cut marring his cheek, the slight tremble in his lips… He committed it all to memory, because this might be the last time he saw it.

“It means I’m not the right person to be traveling with you.” Zoro said, each word leaving a bitter taste in his mouth.

Nika’s breathing hitched, his eyes flashing with panic.

“That’s not true!” Nika said, his voice rising in desperation. “Zoro is the right person. Zoro’s the only one I can travel with to Ohara.”

Zoro clenched his jaw, forcing his gaze to remain on Nika even as his own heart pounded with dangerous regret.

“Nika… I could have killed you.” The words burned his tongue like acid. “Even if we try to stop it, that damn God can still get into my head. He already knows where you’re going. How much longer before I let something else slip? Before I do something worse?”

Nika shook his head fiercely. “It was an accident! Zoro would never hurt me!”

“I did hurt you!” Zoro reminded him, his voice was sharp, but inside he felt like he was crumbling. His gaze flickered to the cut below Nika’s eye, the blood already drying but still painfully visible. A wound he had inflicted. If Nika hadn’t moved, if he hadn’t reacted fast enough… The thought of Nika lying lifeless before him, his own sword stained with golden ichor, made his stomach turn. “I-I used Wado against you.”

“Not on purpose!” Nika protested, his hands tightening as if to shake sense into Zoro. His body was trembling again, shaking with each panicked breath. “Is this because I didn’t listen in the last town? Is this because I got weak? Did I-did I do something wrong?! Did I-”

Zoro pulled Nika’s hands off him.

The moment their contact broke, so did Nika’s words.

Zoro hated the way Nika stared at him, his expression crumbling as if Zoro’s words wounded him more than his sword. It would’ve been easier if Nika had blamed him… if he had yelled, cursed, or pushed him away. Instead, he just looked hurt.

“You didn’t do anything wrong.” Zoro said, his voice quieter now, but the words felt like they were ripping his heart apart. “I’m just not the right person for this journey. I’m not good for you.”

Nika inhaled sharply, his red eyes burning with anger and frustration and hurt.

“Of course Zoro is good for me!” Nika snapped, his voice cracking with the force of his conviction. His eyes were shining with tears that threatened to spill over anew.

Zoro clenched his jaw, forcing himself to stay still. It was difficult to not let the desperation in Nika’s voice unravel him completely. It was difficult to not reach for Nika, to not pull him back into his arms where he so clearly belonged, but if he let himself give in then he would never be able to do what needed to be done.

“You’re not listening.” Zoro said, his tone harsher than he wanted it to be. “I am not a good person.” The nightmares clawed at the edges of his mind, the venomous he had heard throughout the journey slithered between them like poison.

Few mortals leave trails as bloody as yours.

You think you're protecting him, don’t you? But he doesn't need you.

You will never bring back the Sun. You will kill his light just like everything else that comes near you!

Zoro closed his eyes, in a desperate attempt to block them out.

“I am dangerous to you.” Zoro continued. His heart aching with every word. “I nearly killed you tonight. And for god’s sake, Nika… I’m a bounty hunter.”

Nika remained stubborn, refusing to give in.

“Don't tell me Zoro is not a good person!” Nika shot back, although his voice was trembling it still came out fierce. “Zoro is good!”

Zoro let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. Him? Good?! He could have cut Nika's head clean off and this God calls him good?!

“You only think that because you’re good.” Zoro felt so tired, like the words were draining him. “You trust too easily. You always see the good in people, even when it’s not there. I can't protect you the way you need me to.” He exhaled shakily, his fingers curling into fists at his sides. The regret he felt over the years was catching up to him… “The truth about me is that when Kuina died, I lost faith in everything. My only reason for living became my ambition. I’ve killed people. I’ve traded their bodies in for money. I’ve hunted men down, not because it was right, but because it was what I had to do. And I did it without hesitation.”

Zoro expected Nika’s expression to shift, for at least a flicker of doubt to cross his features. Instead, the fire in Nika’s eyes only burned hotter.

“Don’t tell me Zoro thinks he’s bad because of what this world forced him to do to survive.” Nika snapped, his hands fisted the bed covers beneath them, like he was trying to respect Zoro’s boundary to not reach for him. “This world is cruel! It punishes those who don’t fight for themselves. Zoro calls himself a killer, but I’ve seen Zoro save people too! Zoro chose to help Kaya when no one else did. Zoro fought for Nami so she could have her home back. Zoro stood up for me, a stranger, when the rest of the world mocked him for it. Zoro fights for people who don’t even ask him to, because that’s just who Zoro is!”

Zoro tried to swallow but his throat was tight.

“You don’t know me-” Zoro forced out. Before he could say anything else, Nika kept going.

“I do!” Nika insisted, his tearful gaze remained on Zoro, staring as if he could see into his soul. “I knew when I met Zoro, he was lonely, and I know what it’s like to be alone.” He took a shaky breath, tears clinging to his lashes. “Even before I was accused of destroying Ohara, the other Gods didn’t like me around. My brothers had their duties, their followers… but I was alone. Wandering both realms without a place to belong. Mortals either feared me or worshiped me. No one ever just saw me-” Nika stopped to take a shuddering breath. “Until Zoro.”

Zoro’s heart stammered, his blood burning through him, pounding in his ears.

“No one has ever understood me like Zoro,” Nika whispered. “And when we’re together, I know Zoro feels what I feel.”

Zoro’s breath came short. Nika’s words wrapped around his heart and squeezed, painful and warm all at once. He couldn’t possibly be saying-

“…Feel what?” Zoro dared to ask, his voice barely above a whisper.

Nika bit his lip, his whole body trembling. He sucked in a breath, struggling to steady himself, but it was no use. His tears falling freely once more, slipping down his cheeks.

“When I’m with Zoro…” Nika’s voice broke. “I don’t feel alone.” His hands reached for Zoro again, curling into Zoro’s shirt. “So please, please don’t leave.” His breaths came fast and uneven with his broken sobs. “I don’t need Zoro to protect me. I don’t need Zoro to fight for me. I just- I just need Zoro with me.”

Zoro felt like the entire world tilted around him. He had known that every moment with Nika, every glance, every touch, felt like it was building to something. To know Nika felt something too was almost too much for his heart to bear.

He had spent his life hardening himself, turning pain into strength, loss into resolve. He thought he had made peace with walking alone, with being nothing more than a blade in pursuit of a dream. Sitting here, feeling Nika’s warmth pressed against him, hearing the way Nika needed him… not as a protector, not as a warrior, but as Zoro, he felt his carefully built walls begin to collapse.

Zoro’s hands moved before his thoughts could catch up, gripping Nika’s smaller ones. This time, it was not to push him away, but to pull him in.

The moment their bodies met, Zoro felt Nika’s relief. It wasn’t just in the way he melted against Zoro, but in the deep shuddering breath he took, in the way his entire body seemed to relax, like tension he was holding onto had finally been set down.

Zoro tightened his arms around him, letting him breathe, letting him feel safe, but the guilt still gnawed at him. His gaze shifted to where Wado lay abandoned on the bed.

Zoro reached for her.

Nika didn’t flinch. He didn’t fear Zoro. Not even after what had happened. That unwavering faith made Zoro’s chest ache.

Zoro slid Wado back into her sheath then held the sword out to Nika.

Nika blinked, his red eyes wet and wide, but this time with surprise rather than sorrow.

“If I’m going to stay,” Zoro said steadily, “then you need to be the one to carry Wado.”

Both Nika and Zoro sat perfectly still. Zoro could see the understanding in Nika’s eyes, could see it in the way he set his jaw.

Wado wasn’t just a sword. She was Zoro’s past. The last connection he had to Kuina. To entrust her to anyone was unthinkable, but Nika wasn’t just anyone.

By placing Wado in his hands, Zoro wasn’t just giving him a weapon. He was giving him the same amount of trust that Nika had given him. This was Zoro’s promise to remain by Nika’s side.

When Nika’s fingers curled around the sheath, holding Wado as if he understood exactly what it meant, Zoro felt as though the God had accepted to hold his very soul.

[Next Chapter]

#zolu fanfic #luzo fanfic #zolu #luzo #zoro x nika #nika x zoro #mellysageverse writing #mellyssageverse

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ricardian-werewolf · 7 months ago

Text

Chapter 9: Portrait of a Dead Girl/Beautiful Boy.

Ao3 Link

Summary:

Alina has hit rock bottom. It takes a hard look from Zoya and Genya to get her back up. She has sheathed her claws long enough. Now, she is out for blood.

Notes:

Title taken from two songs by the Last Dinner Party Apologies for the long, long delay. Midterms swallowed me whole, and horrific writers block sapped me of any energy. I hope y'all enjoy!

Taglist: @lordbettany, @dreadbirate, @fauxraven, @hysterionic @rovinglemon

Chapter below the cut!

Alina’s sleep was plagued by painful nightmares.

It seemed as though the memories of the past few months could not flee her mind, even in the depths of post-amplification fever. She tossed and turned in the bed, feeling the pitch-dyed satin sheets rustle as she moved about. The antlers were horrific to get comfortable with sleeping in, since them being around her neck caused some issues. Finally, it seemed as though days had passed, she awoke. As her eyes adjusted, they locked onto the sight of a creature on her chest, snuggled close under her chin and began to purr . It had seemingly endless shadowy limbs that writhed and reformed with every movement it made.

“Oh..” Alina whispered weakly. “Who are you from?” She asked it as it yawned, showing a gaping maw of endless teeth that glittered like distant stars. It couldn’t have been the Darkling. He wasn’t kind enough to send her something like this. No, it had to have been Nikolai.

Alina looked up as a sudden intake of breath filled the room, and stilled at the sight of Genya and Zoya carrying a box of tea and a tray of food respectively. Zoya’s hair was frazzled and crackled with static. Her left cheek bore a long, dark smear of grease or oil. Genya was perfectly pristine, though she now bore an eyepatch on her ruined eye made of the same blood red fabric with the blue embroidery of her Kefta . Both women looked extremely fetching, though even their powers couldn’t hide the crushing exhaustion of being in the Darkling’s camp. The fear of reprisal and violation hung over everything with the delight of plague .

“Morning.” Zoya replied briskly as she marched over to the samovar and set about brewing a pot of tea for them. She fiddled with a match, finally coaxing the wind to allow the sparks to light. She grumbled in Kerch as she worked, never liking to be the one relegated to tea-girl duty. Meanwhile, Genya took out a bowl, saucer and cup from the box on the tray. She held up the plate silently to Zoya. her first finger pointed at the black porcelain with gold rim and in the centre of the plate’s surface, the Darkling’s symbol combined with Alina’s.

Zoya rolled her eyes, and mouthed tacky.

Genya snorted, then stiffened as Alina sat up. The critter gave a sort of almost purr, and skittered across the sheets to sit on Alina’s lap. Genya lifted the lid on the tray and grimaced down at the dinner given to her by the harried cook. Canned vegetable and pheasant soup with hardtack, and wafer thin slivers of chocolate. Peaches swimming in their juices were in a cut crystal bowl, carved into the shapes of suns. Alina noted all of it, and her lip wobbled. She pushed back her greasy hair, feeling the collar around her throat digging into her windpipe, and winced.

“How am I supposed to eat?” She asked softly, feeling the hollows of her cheeks. She felt the antlers around her neck, probing the infected edges. A sob formed in her throat, and she buried her face in her hands. Her shoulders shook as she clutched the critter to her chest until it gave a plaintive cry of pain. Her hands crept up to her hair and she tugged her long, ragged nails through her dirty tresses. She and Nikolai were no more than a half mile apart, and yet she couldn’t go to him. She was bed bound despite her body and mind being whole and hale. Yet…

You’re weak, Alina. Mal’s been shot, Genya had her eye ripped out, Nikolai is dying, and you’re here, in bed, crying .

“SHUT UP!” Alina cried, clapping a hand over her mouth in shock. She’d not meant to say that aloud. Genya and Zoya jumped, their faces paling. Zoya gave Alina a sideways glance and her eyes roamed the antlers around the girl’s neck. She looked at the older girl like a cornered, wild animal. The months of being on the run, constantly looking over her shoulder and waiting for the Darkling’s snare to take had broken her.

“Self doubt?” The squaller inquired as she poured tea. Alina’s greasy hair and her evident distress made Zoya’s heart twist with pain. She had never truly hated Alina, merely seen her as a threat to her power over the other Grisha. Power, she realised now, was something none of them held. That was all the Darkling. She crossed over to Alina’s side and pressed the tea into her hands. A wave of her hand removed the grease buildup in Alina’s curls and she sighed in relief. Her wan face and plain features were starker in the soft light of the oil lamps that wavered and sputtered around the room, like miniature suns.

“Is Nikolai…?” Alina whispered, daring not to speak of his condition aloud.

“He’s alive. Recovering.” Genya squeezed Alina’s hand. “On his feet already.”

Her eyes brightened at once, and she moved to get out of bed, but Zoya pushed her back down. “You won’t be able to see him, Alina. We must make the Darkling think he’s sicker than he is.”

Alina glared at Zoya.

She glared back.

“I knew that.” Alina snipped, sipping her tea. Zoya hid a brief smile at the surprised expression on the sun Summoner’s face. Even one of the darkling’s favourites knew how to brew a cup of bloody tea. Genya rolled her eyes - eye - and sighed. She turned to examining Alina’s food again and beckoned Zoya over. In low tones of the southern Ravkan districts, the two girls discussed feeding Alina.

“She can probably feed herself.” Genya grimaced. “But the Antlers…” She gave a helpless shrug. Zoya snorted.

“They’re in her collarbone , Safin. She won’t be choking anytime soon.”

“She certainly thinks so.” Genya rubbed at her jaw and turned back to the food. She laid the hardtack against the soup’s surface to soak and handed Alina the tray of food. Alina stared down at it for a moment, then began to eat silently. For all of her training at Ana Kuya’s hands, the starvation of amplification made her forgo her manners. As she drank down the dregs of soup with the bowl’s rim at her lips, her eyes skirted to Zoya again.

“Why’re you helping me?” She asked as she wiped the back of her hand against her mouth. Zoya raised a brow. “Should I not be?” She shot back. “If your estimates are correct, I should have put strychnine in that soup.” Crossing her arms, the squaller sighed and rubbed at the bridge of her nose.

“I hate him as much as you do, Alina, if not more.” She raised her gaze again and shook out her cuffs. “I’m not doing this out of a desire to be your friend, or some sort of cuddly word. We’re allies. We watch one another’s backs, the three of us.” Zoya looked at Genya and then back to Alina. “We all bear his scars.” She replied cryptically.

Genya sat down beside Alina and turned to digging through the drawers of Alina’s vanity. Her face was pale, the black wounds stretching long over her empty eye socket and face. She looked monstrous, as horrific as Zoya’s amplified wrist and Alina’s collarbone. The Darkling’s greed took and took, caring not for a sinner or a saint. Her fingers closed around a black package of silk tied with a pitch coloured ribbon, and she stilled. Alina looked over her shoulder, knowing instantly what that was.

The kefta she had been ordered to wear to the Winter Fete. The one she had refused to wear. The cycle had come back to the beginning. Once more, Alina was powerless, everything out of her control. She cut her gaze to Genya again as the Tailor smoothed down the crinkles in the tissue paper. “Is… is there more?” She breathed, looking at the other drawers. Genya nodded, and began pulling out more silk-wrapped packets. It was a wedding trousseau. This vanity was a glorified steamer trunk with drawers and a closet, turned on its side.

Alina closed her eyes and pressed her palms to her face. She didn’t want to think about it. She didn’t want to sit here in this bed with sheets that weren’t hers, in a tent that wasn’t adorned with her symbols. It wasn’t just the collar that kept her bound here. There was more. A noose so tight and so secretive that she couldn’t say she was being strangled without sounding like a madwoman.

“Alina.” Genya’s hand reached out, gripping her wrists tight with the strength of manacles. “Stay here. Stay here, with me.” Her eyes - eye - was wide, like some sort of cornered animal. Alina supposed she must be much the same. A broken girl with nothing to offer the world, not even her light. She squeezed her eyes shut, let the tears drip down her face once more. What was strength when one’s aims and hopes were scattered to the four winds? What was trust and mercy when the knife was always plunged back into the same gaping wound, always twisting?

There would be no bandaging up this scar, no hiding the pain of this cut.

“Is he alive?” Cecily choked, thinking in that moment not of Nikolai but Mal. She didn’t give two shits about him, but knowing he was alive was her sign of the Darkling’s mental stability. If he hadn’t killed such an insignificant tracker, then Nikolai would be safer a little longer.

“Yes.” Zoya replied automatically. “It seems he still has a need for that wretched boy.” She looked over her shoulder at Alina, goading the girl. If rage kept her out of the endless dark pit that was defeat, by the saints, Zoya would be the first in line to keep her upright. The three of them, they kept one another marching, teeth bared and claws unsheathed.

“What kind of need?” Alina growled, leaning forward in the bed. The tray on her lap teetered ominously. Zoya leaned over, her hands clamped down hard on the wood to keep Alina from kicking it up at the Squaller’s next words:

“The need to keep you like some whimpering, simpering whore of a girl.” She purred. The crack of Alina’s fist colliding with Zoya’s nose was welcome. Genya looked up, her eye widening. She stepped forward at once to repair the bones, and Zoya sighed in relief. Shaking out her cuffs, she glared at Alina, who spat out a wad of rock-hard carrot.

“I want that fucker’s head.” She growled. “On his own heraldic platter.”

“Consider it a given, Starkov.” Zoya groaned. “But first we need to cut it off. And to do that, you need to stop lying around crying hysterically. You’ve been through worse shit. Pull yourself up.” She ordered.

Alina swore.

“You…” She scrunched up her face and glared at Genya. “You’re in on this.”

“Of course.” The Tailor snorted. “As Zoya said, I want that fucker as dead as you do. He made me into what I am. I want him to suffer as the Tsar has.” She pushed up the cuffs of her Kefta and picked up Alina’s tray.

“You in, or are you going to keep cowering in that bed, Starkov?”

Alina sucked at her teeth for a moment, then touched the antlers again. She remembered the way the stag had been cut down at the Darkling’s orders, the rage and powerlessness she felt at his hand. His leeching of her power, what was not his. Her light, snuffed out.

Something within her writhed, gnashing its teeth. It wasn’t some sort of animal of prey, hunted and cornered like a wild rabbit. No, it was far more vicious, a pure predator . She looked up at Genya and Zoya again, and pushed the sheets back. The cold air was a shock, but she ground her teeth and forced herself past it.

Swinging her legs down, she stood on steady legs. Her white nightgown swept the floor as she gripped the edge of her vanity and glared at herself in the mirror. She had avoided staring at herself until now, and she forced herself to focus on the antlers, their silver gleam reflected in all of the honey-combed oil lamps and candles scattered around the tent. As her rage rose, the lamps flickered and flared, blooming like miniature, wavering suns.

The creature of pure shadow Nikolai had made her brushed against her feet, chittering excitedly. It purred as she picked it up in her hands and placed it on the vanity in front of her. Glancing through the mirror at Zoya and Genya once more, she gave them steady, sharp stares.

“Call him in.”

It was full night by the time he came to see her.

The Darkling stepped once more into Alina’s tent expecting darkness. What he found, instead, was light . The gas lamps and candles around the space glowed with the light of suns. Alina herself stood by the vanity, dressed in the black kefta he had originally given her for the Winter Fête, her hair pinned up and decked with the infamous garnets of Obetz. The yellow stones suited her ink-dark hair and regal expression. But, what surprised him was the rage that rolled off her skin in waves of visible heat . She radiated power.

Aleksander nearly flinched, nearly let his fear show. He had sought to punch her down, to bring her to heel so that she saw him as her only option. But something, some small seed of righteous power , survived. Not even his hand with the antler’s fragment in it, brought her down. Aleksander averted his gaze for just a second, thinking over what he would say to crack the ground under her feet. Her submission meant everything to him. To chase her, to have her, this maddening obsession, would soothe the raging hunger in his mind.

No matter how much of the world he burned to possess her.

Cocking his head to one side, Aleksander regarded Alina again, saw her hands creep toward the kefta’s collar. Similar to a frill-necked lizard, she pulled the collar out and bared the antlers. her eyes flashed with cold fury.

“You made me this, when we could have been equals.” She spoke softly, but each word was a dagger to his blackened and withered heart, that to him, had just begun to pump blood again.

Alina… His thoughts scattered with the storm of betrayal she threw at his feet. He looked up at her, swallowed once more. She was wide-eyed, her voice reedy with hysterics. If he could just dig up her old insecurities, threaten her with the Tracker’s death, or Saints forbid Prince Nikolai, she’d crack, shatter even.

But that had been then.

Now, he was face to face with something not even he was sure he could tame, nor bring to heel.

“I did it to protect you. Protect the Grisha. We are hunted, Alina. I did this to ensure your safety-”

The words sounded foreign falling from his lips. What he had done was make her a martyr. She was more the Otkazatsky’as than the Grishas. He could see it now. Sankta Alina, with a golden halo, clothed in gold with the silver antlers glowing with pure light. His work of the antlers was not a power play. She’d find her own way to break free from under him soon enough.

Alina, meanwhile, glowered . She was sick of being afraid of this thousand year old man. Lied to at every turn by him. He wanted her to expand the Fold? Fine. Then she’d feed him to the blasted Volcra that her parents or some such became, and go on her merry ass way with Nikolai.

“You did this to control me. To make me your little pet.” She picked up a glass of kvas , slugged it back. To him, this was no time to be drunk. To Alina, this was what she needed . She cast him a dark glare.

“You want me to be your little pet?” She snapped. He winced, smoothed it over with a dark cough and a curl of his lips into a smirk. If she agreed to his power play, then it would be so easy for him to keep her pinned down and malleable. Soon it would be so that she could do nothing but watch as he expanded the Fold to cover the whole of the West, to silence their enemies.

There would be no more war, no more of the money-greedy Kerch and their exploitative work against Grisha, no more of Shu Han’s experiments, no more of Fjerda’s Drüskelle. Nothing that threatened their people would remain, and she would herald in a new age of saints. Mechanization had weakened the need for Grisha. By cutting off access to the West, the need for Grisha would surge, rearing its head. They would be necessary once more, honoured . A deposition of the current Tzar and him taking the throne would all slot together perfectly.

It would be only Ravka. Nothing else would dare breathe, dare go against them. Novyi Zem and its honouring of Grisha would allow them to survive. Until Aleksander got bored and decided to colonise them. However, that would be a problem that was best suited to a few years' time down the line.

Alina sniffed, and slapped the glass down onto the table, which he noted with a wince, was carved with his symbol - the sun in eclipse. She stared at him, and pursed her lips. Crossing her arms over her chest so that the double sunburst on the front of her kefta was hidden, she raised a brow.

“Fine.”

He blinked. She’s agreeing? Why isn’t she fighting me? She should be screaming, be cursing my name aloud, be… His thoughts trailed off, and he stiffened. Something felt off, felt wrong . No girl he’d broken like her before had been so willing to turn around and accept his offer of submission. They so often bared their teeth, never letting his hands near their fragile, trembling pulse points on their throats. But Alina had. She had bared her throat with all of the fire and regalness of a queen, and in turn unsettled him.

He could only stare at her, open mouthed.

“When do we leave?”

Aleksander stilled as he stepped toward the tent flap. The carriages were waiting. The Tracker had fled in the night, and Prince Nikolai had been sent south to recover in the Royal Army Hospital outside Poliznaya. Nothing would protect Alina from him.

Perhaps that’s why she’s so agreeable to me. He thought hopefully, and extended his hand to her. His palm was up, slender and pale in the glimmering light. Alina glanced at it, and sniffed. A maid placed the matching cloak around her shoulders, made of black corecloth. It bore more of the golden sunburst embroidery that she deserved as his queen . The high collar framed her chin, and the cloak fell to her feet, which were encased in impractical heels. Alina flexed her gloved hand, and placed it into Aleksander’s.

What the Darkling did not know was that the cloak had been tailored. Doing more than keeping her warm, it acted as camouflage and dampened her light. Alina’s free hand, hidden under the fabric, produced a glowing, miniature ball of light. She snapped her fingers, and the ball of light extinguished, only to reappear seconds later as all of the camp’s lamps flared to light at once.

The Darkling’s eyes widened as the light flared all around them, and he raised a brow. He flexed his fingers, but the night did not waver, nor flicker out. Confusion registered upon his features, and Alina gave a ghostly smile. “I believe it is a saintly thing to allow the men some light for which to read and rest by.” She replied, knowing that this would soothe the man beside her. Baghra had spoken in mere fragments of her eldest son, but also had mentioned that he feared the dark. Alina dipped her head.

“Indeed.” He replied gruffly, and guided her by the arm to the black lacquered carriage. Fedyor opened the door, and bowed his head, murmuring to the couple: “ Moi Soverenyi, Moya Tsarina. ” The door snapped shut behind Alina and she settled effortlessly into the seat across from the Darkling. Quick, simple flutters of her fingers had the cloak falling from her shoulders. She allowed a female Heartrender stationed in the carriage to wrap her in thick, fur blankets and place heated bricks under her feet. The Darkling afforded himself no such luxury.

The crack of the reins jolted the carriage into motion, and through the crack in the curtains, Alina saw the fort and its Grisha camp grow smaller with each passing second. She laid back, and sighed deeply. Behind the black carriage, the red Corporalki carriage fell into line, then the blue Etheralki carriage. She knew that Zoya would no doubt be there, along with Genya, perhaps.

But what neither knew was the silent, steady purr of a motorbike moved to trail the convoy. For atop it was a rider whose body and soul crawled with the Morozova taint; a boy who had seen the darkness in others, and forced himself above it. Slung across his back was a repeating rifle, and strapped to his belt were two pistols. His booted feet clenched fast to the great machine’s flanks, and he adjusted the strap of his goggles over his eyes.

A feral, fox-like grin split his face as the moon emerged from behind the cloud cover. He watched how it painted the lacquered carriages in jewel-bright tones, and shifted his foot placement.

Under his skin, the shadows sang and writhed with the promise of bloody, righteous vengeance. For him, for his childhood friends, and for the woman he loved. He certainly knew she could handle herself, but Nikolai Alexandrovich Lantsov was not the kind of man to leave a duel un-answered.

He pulled his goggles over his eyes, and let the engine roar. The cry broke the night sky like a crack in the ice, and with a howl of war, Nikolai gave chase.

As he roared off into the distance, Dominik watched him go from his office window, and turned his head. Now, it would be his turn to act, to have the First Army desert the Tsar and follow their prince. He picked up the telephone resting on his oak desk, and dialled a number he knew by heart.

In the room across from him, Baghra snapped her carpetbag’s mouth shut and strode out of the fort’s walls, to a simple cart embellished with a red cross on a white circle. Propping herself against the wall, she felt the cart judder under her, and begin to creep forwards. Glancing around the half-lit space, she turned her attention to the wounded at her feet. No more boys would die, none more deserved to.

It would take three days to reach Kirbirsk. There, the stories of Alina and Nikolai had converged. Now, once more, they would meet again, under far darker and more drastic circumstances. It would be seen as to how the events unfolding went, and what good would come of things.

End of Chapter 9.

****************

End of Act II: Twist the Knife

Beginning of Act III: Saints, Guns and Money.

#nikolai lantsov #wyn rambles #shadow and bone #alina starkov #nikolina #fic: I don't want to set the world on fire

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