#but he's still slow and uncertain about it when he speaks but he's trying and he's like I JUST WANNA LEARN!!!!! IW ANNA KNOW HOW YOU GUYS

[rottenache]

no no i am thinking about him because imagine the ultimate shock when you have spent your entire life researching and neck deep in papers and never holding a weapon unless it's a knife to peel an apple with, and then you are in the thick of literal actual war a month later.

[capquinn]

thinking about pranking Quinn with that trend where your bf kisses you and you wipe it off after each one and how he would react

omg i've never heard of this trend but i'm obsessed. if there is one thing i love to write about, it's face smooching. it doesn't matter if it's quinn being the smoocher or smoochee — i'll write about it until my dying breath <3

It starts out innocently enough. Quinn comes home from practice, his cheeks still faintly pink from the cold outside, his hair slightly mussed like he’d been running his hands through it. He’s tired, but the corners of his mouth lift into that familiar, soft smile as he toes off his sneakers by the door.

You’re in the kitchen, absently wiping down the counters, a tea towel in one hand, when he crosses the room to greet you. Leaning in, he presses a quick kiss to your cheek — a small, sweet gesture that’s become second nature.

But as he steps away, heading toward the fridge, you casually swipe at your cheek, your movements quick and deliberate. You think it’s subtle, just a fleeting motion as you turn back to your task, but it’s not subtle enough. Out of the corner of his eye, Quinn catches it, and his steps falter mid-stride. The fridge door hangs open as he half-turns, confusion flickering across his face.

“What was that?” he asks, his voice slow, uncertain, like he’s not sure if he imagined it.

You don’t miss a beat, your expression calm as you wipe an imaginary smudge on the counter, acting like his question is the strangest thing you’ve ever heard. “What was what?”

Quinn’s brows knit together, his hand still on the fridge door. He studies you for a moment, eyes narrowing slightly as if trying to catch you in a lie. “Did you just…” He motions vaguely toward his own cheek, the question hanging in the air.

But then he shrugs, brushing it off like it doesn’t bother him. “Never mind,” he mutters, but there’s the faintest flicker of doubt in his eyes as he grabs a water bottle and closes the fridge. He heads to the couch, his posture easy, but the way he glances back at you one last time tells you that he's trying to play it cool, but it’s clear the thought isn’t leaving his mind.

A few minutes pass and then Quinn reappears in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed, his eyes tracking your every move as you fuss with the coffee and sugar canisters by the kettle. He’s trying to look casual, but the furrow of his brow and the subtle way his jaw ticks betray him.

“How was your morning?” he asks, his voice a shade too light, too measured.

“Good,” you reply, not missing a beat. “Ran some errands, got some work done. Why?”

He shrugs, but the way his eyes narrow slightly tells you he’s studying you, trying to piece together a puzzle only he seems to see.

“Just asking,” he says, though his tone carries the weight of unspoken questions.

After a beat, he pushes off the counter, his movements slow and deliberate as he closes the space between you. His expression softens, his smile easy but curious, like he’s decided to let it go — or at least pretend to.

“Okay,” he murmurs, the word carrying a quiet, unbothered edge, like he’s conceding to the mystery for now. But the way his eyes linger on yours says otherwise; he’s testing, searching for a hint of what’s really going on.

And then his lips find yours — warm, lingering, the kind of kiss that makes you forget the rest of the world for a moment. But it's more than just sweet; it’s purposeful, like he’s trying to gauge your reaction, to see if you’ll brush this one away too. So, when he pulls back, his eyes search yours, and you can’t resist. With practiced nonchalance, you lift your hand and swipe at your mouth, as if brushing away crumbs.

His reaction is immediate. His brows shoot up, his head tilting slightly as his arms fall to his sides. He stares at you, disbelief etched across his face, his lips parting slightly like he’s on the verge of speaking but can’t quite form the words.

Quinn squints at you, his lips pressing into a pouty frown that only makes it harder to keep a straight face. He studies you like he’s trying to solve an impossible riddle, his eyes narrowing in suspicion.

“Wait,” he finally says, his voice tinged with both confusion and mild offence. “You’re not… wiping off my kisses, are you?”

You shrug, fighting back a grin. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

His mouth opens, then closes again as he squints harder, the corners of his lips twitching downward. “No, no. You’re definitely wiping them off.” He leans in slightly, his voice dropping. “Why?”

You shrug again, this time with an exaggerated air of indifference, your lips lifting with barely contained amusement. “I’m just… making sure my face stays clean.”

Quinn freezes for half a beat, his jaw slackening slightly as disbelief washes over his face.

“Clean?” he echoes, his voice pitching in offence. His brows knit together, and he leans back just enough to look at you fully, as if checking to see if you’re actually serious. “Are you — are you saying I'm dirty? I'm not sick, babe.”

You bite down on your lip, a valiant attempt to stifle your laughter as you shake your head. “I didn’t say that.”

But the glint in his eye changes. The confusion melts away, replaced by a slow, dangerous grin that stretches across his face.

“Oh, okay. Fine,” he says, his voice low and far too calm.

Before you can even process the shift, Quinn closes the space between you in a heartbeat. His hands cradle your face, firm yet careful, and he plants the loudest, sloppiest kiss on your cheek, complete with a dramatic mwah. The sound is absurd, echoing through the room, and you barely have time to gasp before he’s moving onto your other cheek, then your forehead, your nose, your jaw — every inch of your face he can get to, each kiss louder, wetter and more exaggerated than the last.

“Stop! Quinn!” you cry, your words broken by uncontrollable laughter as you squirm in his hold, trying in vain to escape the onslaught.

But he doesn’t let up. If anything, the mock-serious look on his face only intensifies.

“You started this,” he declares between kisses, his tone resolute. The corners of his mouth are twitching with amusement. “Now you’re getting all the kisses, and you’re not allowed to wipe a single one off.”

By the time he finally pulls back, you’re breathless and red-faced, your laughter mingling with his. His grin is triumphant, the very picture of smug satisfaction, but as his eyes meet yours, the teasing melts into something softer.

His hands slide down and settle on your waist, this time with a gentleness that makes your heart stutter. Leaning in, he presses one final kiss to your lips, slow and tender, a stark contrast to the chaos of moments before.

When he pulls back, his voice is low, tinged with warmth as he murmurs, “Still wanna wipe that one off?”

Your smile stretches wide, your cheeks still flushed from laughter. Shaking your head, you lean into him, your arms looping around his neck as you tilt your face closer. “Maybe one more… just to be sure?”

Quinn’s grin softens, his eyes glinting with something tender as he leans in again, brushing his lips against yours with a sweetness that leaves no room for teasing. It’s gentle, unhurried, and when he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, the corners of his mouth tugging upward.

“You’re just looking for excuses now,” he whispers, his voice laced with affection.

“Can you blame me?” you tease back, your fingers playing with the hair at the nape of his neck. “You started it.”

His laughter is soft, barely more than a breath, and he presses one last kiss to your forehead before pulling you snug against his chest.

“Consider it settled,” he says, his words vibrating against your hair, but you can feel the smile still lingering on his lips.

[crescenthistory]

#11 "i want to see you" with Regulus pretty please?

well, when you ask so nicely, of course babe<3

Prompt: E.11 "I want to see you"

Words: 1.5k

Warnings: not proofread, implied smut (mdni), foreplay, heavy makeout, implied trauma and mental health issues on reggie's part, creating a safe space during sexy times, established but new relationship

Note: this man is not okay and i want to personally rectify that. don't know how i feel about this one, but it's something!

The curtains in Regulus’ dorm are drawn, bathing the room in a soft glow from the lantern on the bedside table. You have been spending more nights here than in your own bed the past few weeks, your lives being tangled more and more, and the thought of it all tasted sweet. Each night, you fall into this rhythm, this back-and-forth dance of give and take, of pushing and pulling, daring the other to take it another step. 

His hands are at your waist as you straddle his lap where he sits against the headboard of his bed, fingers tracing absent-minded patterns across your skin. Your shirt is discarded somewhere on the floor, leaving you half-exposed, while Regulus is still fully dressed, save for his tie, which is deliciously loosened. The knot hangs precariously around his neck, the top few buttons of his shirt undone, revealing the pale skin beneath. His chest is heaving and his heart erratic beneath your palm.

His lips meet yours again, soft at first, like he is testing the waters, but you can feel the tension rolling off him in waves, the barely restrained control he is trying so hard to maintain. It’s intoxicating, the way he holds himself back, but you want more. You need more.

You deepen the kiss and feel him melt slightly into you as your fingers tangle into his dark curls, pulling him impossibly closer.

When you break the kiss, you rest your forehead against his, breaths mingling. His hands still linger at your waist.

“Regulus,” you murmur, voice low and edged with something unspoken, "I want to see you.”

His brow furrows slightly, lips parting as if he’s about to speak, but nothing comes out. You bring a hand to his face, thumb brushing over his cheek, his jawline tense beneath your touch. You know he understands, even if he doesn’t want to.

“I understand why you're scared,” you repeat, voice softer but no less insistent. Your fingers move to the knot of his tie, slowly pulling it loose, and you feel his breath stutter against your skin. “But I care for you. I will take care of you, I just want to see you. All of you.”

You mean the words in every possible way. You want to see him — vulnerable, bare, unguarded. Not just physically, you want him to let go, to stop hiding from you, from himself.

His eyes flicker to yours, wide and uncertain, but you can see the desire, the passion, burning in them. A spark that matches the fire simmering inside you. His hesitation makes your heart ache, because you know why he feels the way he is, why he is wired like this, how much he fears losing control, of unravelling in front of you. But you also know how much he wants this — how much he wants you.

Your hands move to the buttons of his shirt, undoing them one by one, your movements slow, deliberate. You give him ample time to stop you, tell you he's too scared, but he just watches you, hunger slowly overtaking his uncertainty. You can still feel the tension radiating from him, the way his breath comes faster with each button undone, as if he's teetering on the edge of something he can’t quite name.

“Let me in,” you whisper, your lips brushing against his collarbone as you push the fabric of his shirt off his shoulders, letting it fall to the floor. “I want to see you fall apart.”

He exhales sharply, like he’s been holding his breath for years. His hands move from your waist to your back, pulling you closer as his lips crash into yours again, more desperate this time, more raw. You can feel the shift, the way his restraint is slipping, the way he is starting to let go.

You’re pressed against him now, your bare skin against the warmth of his chest, the last of his barriers crumbling as you move together. His kisses grow hungrier, his hands rougher as they trace the curve of your spine, the dip of your waist. He groans into your mouth, and the sound sends heat pooling low in your belly.

"I need you," he whispers against your lips. "Just you."

Your hands explore his chest, fingers swirling over his nipples, smiling when he jerks into your touch at the sensation. You let your nails lightly scratch over his stomach, moving slower as you caress his happy trail and eventually the waistband of his trousers. He is receptive to your touch, finally making the occasional sound of enjoyment as he uses his tongue more surely, more passionately. The controlled Regulus Black allows himself to be more sloppy, more desperate, and the mere thought that it's all for you excites you more than anything.

A teasing finger slips beneath the edge of fabric, pulling slightly at it as you push yourself further into him. You feel him tense slightly against you again, though this time it's not from hesitation — it’s from the sheer intensity of everything he’s feeling. He’s right there, on the cusp of losing himself in you, and it’s driving him equally as mad.

You pull back just enough to meet his gaze, your free hand caressing his jaw and neck, your chest heaving as you try to catch your breath. “Reggie,” you whisper, your voice thick with emotion. “You don’t have to be closed off with me. I’m right here.”

"You are," he repeats, eyes holding yours intensely, the weight of your words sinking in. You see the war dying inside him — the battle between wanting to keep his walls up and the overwhelming desire to tear them all down for you. One of his hands moves to your thigh while the other holds your back as he lifts you up from his lap to place you on the mattress behind you. You gasp and he smiles, devilishly and beautifully, before kissing you deep.

“Merlin,” he groans against you, his voice low and wrecked, lips trailing down your neck. His teeth graze your skin in a way that has you arching into him and he meets you in turn. He is starting to unravel under your touch, piece by piece, and it’s the most intoxicating thing you have ever seen.

You feel his hands at the clasp of your bra, his fingers only shaking ever so slightly as he undoes it. There is something vulnerable in the way he moves even now, like he is baring himself just as much as you are. When your bra falls away, his breath catches, and for a moment, all he can do is stare at you, his gaze reverent, like he can’t believe you are real.

“So beautiful, so, so gorgeous,” he whispers, already moving down to kiss across your chest with an open mouth, voice rough with need. His hands tremble as they slide up your sides, kneading the flesh, and you can feel how close he is to losing control, but he’s holding on, just barely, because he’s still afraid to fall completely.

You cup his face in your hands, pulling him back up to meet your eyes. “Let go, my love,” you murmur, your voice barely more than a breath. “I want to see you.”

His resolve shatters.

With a low, broken groan, he kisses you again, harder this time, his hands everywhere at once — your hips, your thighs, your breasts. He’s a mess of need and want, his careful control slipping through his fingers like sand. He is undone, and it is everything you’ve been waiting for.

His trousers are the next to go, discarded in a rush as he moves above you, his body pressed to yours, skin to skin. The heat between you is unbearable, but it’s perfect, and when he finally gives in, when he finally lets himself fall apart in your hands, it’s the most beautiful thing in the world. 

As his groans fill the space between you, as you pull him closer, your bodies tangled together in a perfect mess, you realise this is what you’ve both been waiting for — raw and real, he is completely yours and you his. He whispers your name into the darkness.

[greynatomy]

the space between us

ingrid engen x reader

hi, it’s been a while

———

You met in the strangest way—one of those encounters that should have been fleeting but instead rearranges the entire landscape of your life. It wasn’t a grand romance at first, just a quiet unfolding, a slow realization that her presence fits into the empty spaces of your days. In hindsight, you realize it was never small. It was everything.

At the time, you didn’t know how brief it would be.

You met on one fateful day, losing your grip on your dog’s leash, he rushes to a person sitting at a cafe.

“Oh, hello little one.” She reaches down to pet the dog’s head.

“Benny!” You chase after him. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to let go of his leash.”

She looks up to meet your eyes and you swear time stopped.

“Well I’m glad you did.”

“Y/N.” You reach your hand out. She gives you a smile, taking your hand in hers.

“Ingrid.”

It starts with a text. A ridiculous, unfiltered thought they send late at night that somehow finds you in the middle of your sleepiness.

“Did you know that your brain blends out a lot of noises your body makes?”

“Huh?” You reply, squinting your eyes from the brightness of your phone.

“If you were able to hear it, you would slowly drive yourself insane.”

You smile in the dark, the glow of your screen paints soft shadows on the wall.

“That would absolutely drive me insane.”

And just like that, a door is opened.

That night, you talk for hours. About anything, everything and nothing all at once. About her childhood fears. About the way you pick at your nails when you’re nervous. About how some songs feel like home even if you don’t know why.

“You ever feel like you’ve met someone before even when you haven’t?”

“Like déjà vu?” she replies, her voice drowsy through the phone.

“No. Like…fate.”

She didn’t reply after that, you heard the way her breathing evened out, knowing she fell asleep.

“Goodnight.”

The days that followed are filled with stolen moments, with messages slipped into the space of obligations.

You were on call again late at night. You knew she was half asleep but you couldn’t keep it in any longer.

“Can I tell you something?” you ask.

“Anything.”

There was a moment of silence as you find the courage to speak.

“I think I’m scared.”

You can hear her bedsheets rustling. “Of what?”

“Of how much I feel this. How I don’t wanna lose you.”

There was another moment of silence.

“You won’t lose me.” she whispers.

You don’t reply right away, but when you do, your voice is barely there, your vulnerability can be heard.

“Promise?”

Ingrid promises, but sometimes promises aren’t enough.

The unraveling happens so slowly that you don’t notice at first. Maybe neither of you wanted to.

She signed with Barcelona, promising that nothing will change and distance is just a small obstacle.

But the texts become less frequent. The calls grow shorter. The easy and effortless way she once reached out to you becomes hesitant, uncertain. You tell yourself that she’s just been busy. That nothing is wrong.

But something is.

“Are we okay?” you ask one night, after yet another day of silence.

She hesitates.

“Yeah. I’m just… I don’t know. I’ve just got a lot going on.”

You want to believe her. But there’s a distance in her words now, something slipping through the cracks.

“You know you can talk to me, right?”

“I know.”

But she doesn’t . Not in the way she used to.

And then one day, they just… stop.

Not in a dramatic and catastrophic way. Not with a fight, not with a storm of angry words. Just a slow fading, like ink dissolving in water.

At first you make excuses. She’s busy. She’s tired. She had a long day. Everything will go back to normal again.

But it doesn’t.

You try once more, sending her a short message.

“Goodnight, sleep well. I love you ❤️”

It sits there, unread.

And you know.

The absence settles into you like a ghost. You still catch yourself reaching for you phone, expecting her name to light up your screen. Some nights you find yourself scrolling through old messages, rereading conversations that once felt infinite, listening to the many voice notes she used to send.

You tell yourself that it was brief. That it shouldn’t hurt this much. But it does.

Because it was real. Even if it was short.

Even if it’s over.

One night, much later, you find yourself looking up at the moon, remembering a moment a few days into her move to Barcelona.

“Oh wow, the moon is beautiful tonight. Not as beautiful as you, but still beautiful.” you tell her as you stand outside, earphones in your ears.

“Thank you.”

“How’s your moon looking like?”

“Beautiful.”

“Do we have the same moon? Wait. Duh. There’s only one moon.”

She laughs. “You’re so cute.”

As you look at the moon, you wonder if she’s thinking of you too.

If somewhere in the quiet of her own loneliness, she remembers the sound of your laughter.

If she ever misses you the way you miss her.

If she ever looked at her phone, just for a second, and almost reach out.

But she does’t.

And you don’t.

So, instead, you whisper a goodbye to the sky.

And let her go.

[geneviveleocardius]

könig and his way of loving you

but his reserved, shy, original self

könig’s love is gentle, sincere, and wrapped in vulnerability. he’s shy, uncertain, and often overwhelmed by his own emotions. but once he lets you in, his love is unwavering. he’s not one to demand attention or grand gestures, but his care is profound. his protection comes from a quiet, almost innocent place, where he’s constantly trying to balance his own insecurities with his need to keep you safe and cherished.

he’s drawn to your lips—soft, vulnerable, and just the right height for him to brush his own against them. even when you’re not speaking, he feels a pull toward that intimate connection.

könig is hesitant but gradually becomes more comfortable as he grows closer to you. his hands often rest on your arms, your back, or your thighs—places that feel safe and grounding for him. he likes holding your hands, his large, rough hands enveloping yours, as if anchoring himself to you.

his kisses are shy but full of emotion. he starts slow—soft, hesitant, barely brushing against your skin—but the more comfortable he becomes, the more passionate they become. his kisses are often brief, but filled with longing. he’ll often shy away afterward, cheeks flushed, unsure of whether he should have done more.

quality time and physical touch. könig shows his love by being present—whether it’s sitting in silence, holding you close, or simply being near. his touch is gentle, and he’s constantly seeking reassurance that you’re there and you care for him too.

on your period he’s incredibly considerate and sweet. könig doesn’t really know how to navigate these moments at first, but once you show him what helps, he’s attentive. he’ll fetch you whatever you need, hold you close, and make sure you feel comforted. he’s awkward, but deeply caring, always apologizing for not knowing what to do but trying his best anyway.

he’s often flustered when you offer to help. he struggles to balance his pride with the vulnerability he feels when you’re close. you’ll often have to hold his hands or encourage him through workouts, but he’s bashful about it, his large frame trembling slightly with effort and embarrassment. but beneath his shyness, he truly appreciates the support.

his jealousy is quiet and subtle. könig won’t get angry or aggressive, but he’ll withdraw, growing quieter and more distant. he’s afraid of being overlooked or unworthy of your attention, so his jealousy comes from a place of insecurity. he’ll often seek reassurance afterward, quietly asking, “do you still love me?”

only when it comes from fear—fear of losing you. his possessiveness is subtle, almost subconscious. he’ll want to hold you close, subtly leaning over you or resting his hand on your waist when you’re around others, but he’ll never be overtly controlling. his devotion to you is quiet, but it runs deep.

he’s aware of his height, but not in a boastful way. he’ll lean down to speak softly in your ear, his breath warm against your skin, his large hands cupping your face when he kisses you. he likes resting his forehead against yours, seeking closeness without needing to say much.

könig’s mask becomes a barrier that only you can break through. there’s something intimate about the moments when he pulls his mask down, hesitant but craving that connection. his kisses are tender, his hands trembling slightly as he reaches up to touch your face. he feels vulnerable, his shyness amplified, but he trusts you enough to let you see him.

intimacy with könig is slow, deliberate, and filled with quiet intensity. he’s careful not to overwhelm you, but he’s deeply passionate in his own way. he likes to watch you, studying your reactions, always worried he might be too much—but his love is pure and sincere. he prefers soft, lingering touches and quiet whispers.

[moonlitstoriess]

Oaths and Ashes-Lorcan x fem!reader (oneshot)

Summary: Bound by oaths to Maeve and haunted by the bond he fears, Lorcan clings to loyalty as a shield against his own heart. But when a mission goes awry, forcing him to choose between duty and his mate, the cracks in his resolve begin to show. In the shadows of betrayal and pain, will love rise from the ashes?

Warnings: Mentions of trauma, manipulation, physical injury, toxic loyalty, and themes of betrayal. Angst with no fluff and an uncertain end.

A/n: Got this random idea for a Lorcan fanfic and thought why not? Anyway you have been warned, enjoy 😘

See masterlist

The outpost was eerily quiet, save for the distant howl of the wind outside. The cold stone walls did little to keep the chill at bay, and the fire in the hearth burned low, its feeble warmth barely reaching the center of the room. She stood by the window, arms wrapped tightly around herself, watching the snow swirl and dance in the night.

Lorcan sat across the room, sharpening one of his blades with slow, deliberate movements. The metallic scrape echoed in the silence, grating and purposeful, as if he was daring her to speak first. He didn’t look at her.

“Another mission done,” she said, her voice low, breaking the stillness.

“Hm.” The sound was dismissive, his focus never wavering from the blade in his hands.

She turned, leaning against the windowsill, her arms dropping to her sides. “Is that all you have to say?”

His dark eyes flicked up briefly before returning to his task. “What else is there to say? We survived. That’s enough.”

The coldness in his tone cut deeper than she’d expected, and her jaw tightened. “You don’t think it’s worth talking about? The fact that it was another trap? That Maeve sent us into another gods-damned death mission?”

“You’re alive,” he said flatly. “That’s what matters.”

“Barely,” she snapped, taking a step toward him. “But I guess that doesn’t matter to you, does it? As long as we’re breathing, it’s fine. Just another day serving Maeve like the obedient dogs we are.”

His hand stilled, the blade catching the light as he set it down. When he looked up at her, his gaze was cold, calculating. “If you’re not cut out for this, maybe you shouldn’t have sworn the oath.”

The words landed like a blow, and she staggered back a step, her chest tightening. “You think I want this? You think I wanted to swear myself to her?”

“Did someone force you?” he asked, his voice sharp, mocking. “No? Then don’t complain about the choices you made.”

Her breath hitched, and she turned away, unable to look at him. The sting of his words mixed with the weight of her anger and exhaustion, threatening to choke her.

“I should’ve known,” she said quietly, her voice trembling. “You don’t care about anyone but yourself.”

He stood abruptly, the scrape of the chair against the floor loud in the silence. “Don’t presume to know what I care about,” he said, his voice low and dangerous.

“Then tell me,” she said, whirling to face him, her eyes blazing. “Tell me why you’re so gods-damned loyal to her. Why you follow her orders without question, even when you know it’s killing us. What is it, Lorcan? What keeps you chained to her like a dog?”

His jaw tightened, his hands curling into fists at his sides. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me,” she shot back, stepping closer, her voice shaking with anger and something rawer. “Because I’m standing here, breaking myself for this—for you—and you won’t even look at me.”

He flinched at the accusation, but the mask of indifference remained firmly in place. “Don’t make this about me,” he said coldly. “You’re not here for me. You’re here because you swore the same oath I did.”

“And that’s all I am to you? Another oath? Another pawn in Maeve’s games?”

His silence was answer enough.

The room felt impossibly small, the air thick with unspoken words and frayed emotions. She took a shaky breath, forcing herself to speak even as her heart ached. “You can’t keep doing this, Lorcan. Pushing me away, shutting me out. It’s not going to make the bond disappear.”

His expression darkened, his lips pulling into a tight line. “The bond doesn’t matter,” he said harshly. “It doesn’t mean anything. Not to me.”

The words were a dagger to her chest, and she staggered back as if he’d physically struck her.

He saw the hurt flash across her face and immediately hated himself for it, but he didn’t take the words back. He couldn’t. Not when the truth was so much harder to face.

“Fine,” she said, her voice breaking. “If it doesn’t mean anything, then neither do I.”

Before he could respond, she turned and stormed out, the door slamming shut behind her.

Lorcan stood there, staring at the empty space she’d left behind, the weight of his words crashing down on him. He clenched his fists, his nails biting into his palms, but the pain was nothing compared to the ache spreading through his chest.

For the first time in centuries, he felt something dangerously close to regret.

But Lorcan was too stubborn to let go of his pride. She would understand at some point. That he is not meant to have a mate.

The bond, while recently discovered by the both of them, lay unacknowledged by either. Though he could see how much the female whom he has known for so long is trying to create something out of this.

But it would be useless. Lorcan knew it. He was not meant to have a mate. How could one ever have a mate after walking a lonely road for so long? Too much blood, too many sins on his hands.

Besides, he was too much of a monster to even know anything outside of pain, bloodshed, loss and anger. His shadows, his demons constantly consumed him and that was enough to draw him away from everyone. Including her.

—————

Y/n had loved him for as long as she could remember. Well, maybe not from the very start because the way they met wasn’t quite under the best conditions.

She was a rebel, part of a secret organization that went against those in power. She still remembers how one hundred and fifty years ago, she was captured by The Cadre and brought to Doranelle.

There, under Maeve’s orders she was questioned. Fenrys and Gavriel constantly tried going the diplomatic way and ease her into talking while Lorcan and Rowan would just vote to have her tortured.

Y/n smiled at the memory.

Though they all started at the wrong foot, eventually she grew closer with the males, even going as far as to prove her usefulness to Maeve and swearing a blood oath, a choice she has come to very much regret.

The boys see her as a part of them now. A younger sister and a very capable fighter with a unique power.

But Lorcan…..he has always been this way and not just towards her but to the others too. It just hurt a little more because she unfortunately grew to deeply care for him.

That is why, on one random day when both her and Lorcan found out about their bond was also the moment all her dreams with him came crashing down.

He said very hurtful things that day, how he would never accept it. How he will never even acknowledge it and neither should she.

Y/n tried, she really tried to get through to him but alas, everyone has a breaking point. And yesterday was the final straw for her.

How much longer is that prick going to choose Maeve over his mate? His fucking mate!!

How much longer is he going to follow every order of that poisonous queen and defend her in every argument?

It hurt….and she was tired. Tired of trying to get through to him. She has been doing that from the moment they met and now it was time to stop.

Y/n sighed as she cleared her mind, put on her stoic mask, straightened her shoulders and entered the sitting room of Doranelle’s Grand Stone Palace, designed specifically to fit the taste of her bitchy majesty, Queen Maeve.

Upon entrance however, she noticed that the queen is yet to arrive. Rowan, Fenrys and Gavriel were all scattered around the room, with the silver haired warrior standing next to the gigantic windows and watching the view over Doranelle and the latter two sitting on opposite armchairs.

Lorcan was nowhere to be seen but, she would not concern herself with the thoughts of him.

"Y/n! Finally you are here." Gavriel's voice brought her back as she looked to see all three of them looked straight at her.

Y/n offered a tight smile to Gavriel as she moved further into the room. Fenrys shot her a grin, his golden eyes sparkling with mischief. “Well, well, look who finally decided to grace us with her presence. Let me guess, Lorcan was brooding too much, and you needed a break?”

Y/n snorted, pulling off her gloves and tossing them onto a side table. “More like I was brooding, and he needed a break.”

Rowan turned from the window, his piercing gaze scanning her face. His sharp instincts probably caught the flicker of tension in her shoulders, but he said nothing. Instead, he inclined his head. “How was the mission?”

She shrugged, aiming for nonchalance. “Standard Maeve nonsense. Get in, retrieve the target, fight off a few surprises along the way. Nothing we haven’t done a hundred times before.”

“Yet you look like you’ve been through hell,” Fenrys said, leaning forward in his chair. “What happened out there?”

Y/n hesitated, feeling their eyes on her. She knew they cared, but she couldn’t bring herself to explain the emotional storm that had brewed between her and Lorcan. “The usual,” she said finally. “Maeve’s intelligence wasn’t exactly accurate. There was an ambush.”

Gavriel frowned. “An ambush? Were you injured?”

“Nothing I couldn’t handle,” she said quickly. “We managed.”

“You managed?” Fenrys repeated, a skeptical brow arching. “Sounds like there’s more to that story.”

“There isn’t,” Y/n said firmly, brushing past him and sinking into one of the chairs. “It’s over now. That’s all that matters.”

The males exchanged glances, their concern evident, but they didn’t press further. Instead, Fenrys leaned back with a dramatic sigh. “Well, next time, try not to steal all the excitement. We’ve been stuck here dealing with Maeve’s mood swings. Honestly, I’d take an ambush over her any day.”

Y/n allowed herself a small chuckle. “Careful, Fenrys. She might hear you.”

“Let her,” Fenrys said with a smirk. “I live to irritate her.”

Rowan rolled his eyes. “You live to irritate everyone.”

“True,” Fenrys admitted, grinning. “But I do it so well.”

The light banter was a welcome distraction, and Y/n felt some of the tension in her chest ease. For a moment, it was almost enough to forget the weight of the bond, the mission, and Lorcan’s cold words. Almost.

The grand double doors swung open with a creak, and the room fell silent as Maeve swept in, her dark hair gleaming and her presence commanding as ever. Her sharp eyes scanned the room, lingering briefly on Y/n before flicking to the others.

“Good,” Maeve said, her voice like silk wrapped around steel. “You’re all here.”

Y/n straightened in her seat, instinctively falling into the poised composure Maeve demanded. But then her heart sank as another figure stepped into the room behind the queen.

Lorcan.

His towering presence was as dark and imposing as ever, but it was the way he stood at Maeve’s side, slightly behind her like a shadow, that made Y/n’s stomach churn. He looked as though he belonged there, loyal and unyielding, his gaze sweeping over the room without a flicker of acknowledgment in her direction.

Fenrys stiffened, his usual easygoing demeanor vanishing in an instant. Rowan’s jaw tightened, his expression unreadable. Gavriel was the only one who spoke, his voice calm but tense. “Maeve. Lorcan. What’s the occasion?”

Maeve’s smile was sharp, predatory. “A new directive,” she said, her gaze landing on Y/n. “But first, I’d like to hear about your little adventure.”

Y/n clenched her fists, forcing herself to meet Maeve’s piercing gaze. “The mission was completed successfully,” she said evenly. “We retrieved the artifact and neutralized the threats.”

Maeve’s smile didn’t falter, but her eyes glittered with something that made Y/n’s skin crawl. “Good. I expected no less.”

Lorcan said nothing, his face carved from stone, but his silence was louder than any words. It echoed in the room, in her chest, as Maeve began to speak of their next orders, her voice a cold melody weaving a new web of commands. Y/n barely heard her, her focus splintered by the man standing silently by the queen’s side, the mate who had once again chosen duty over her.

“And you,” Maeve said, her voice honeyed and venomous all at once. “I have a special task for you.”

Y/n’s spine straightened, her expression unreadable, her mask firmly in place. “Of course, my queen.”

Maeve tilted her head, a mockery of affection flickering in her eyes. “I’ve decided to send you on a mission of utmost importance. Alone.”

The room tensed. Fenrys shifted in his seat, his golden eyes flicking to Y/n with concern. Gavriel’s brows furrowed, his mouth opening as if to protest, but one glance from Maeve silenced him. Even Rowan, stoic as ever, allowed his jaw to tighten, his fingers flexing where they rested at his side.

She was never sent on a mission alone. It was always with one of the members because 1. Maeve, no matter how much she pretended, never trusted y/n and 2. The males would always manage to protest against her going alone, though it is not something she hasn't done before.

Y/n didn’t flinch. She didn’t allow even the faintest crack in her calm facade. “What would you have me do?”

Maeve’s smile widened, pleased with her composure. “There is a rebel camp in the northern cliffs. They’ve been meddling in my affairs, intercepting important supplies. I want you to dismantle them—destroy their operation entirely.”

The silence that followed was deafening. Rowan finally broke it, his voice carefully measured. “The northern cliffs are treacherous, especially this time of year.”

“Which is precisely why I’m entrusting this to her,” Maeve said smoothly, her gaze never leaving y/n. “She has proven herself capable time and time again. Haven’t you?”

Y/n inclined her head. “I’ll see it done.”

A flicker of something unreadable crossed Lorcan’s face, but he stayed silent, his broad shoulders stiff. Fenrys leaned forward, his hands gripping the armrests of his chair. “With all due respect, this is suicide. Send at least one of us with her.”

Maeve’s expression hardened, her voice cutting like a blade. “Did I ask for your opinion, Fenrys?”

He clenched his jaw, leaning back in his chair but shooting y/n a glance filled with unspoken worry. Gavriel tried next, his tone more diplomatic. “She is capable, yes, but even the most skilled warriors can be overwhelmed. Perhaps a small team would ensure success.”

Maeve’s gaze snapped to him, her smile razor-sharp. “Are you questioning my decision, lion?”

“No, my queen,” Gavriel said softly, bowing his head.

Maeve turned back to y/n, her tone almost sweet again. “I trust you will not fail me.”

“I won’t,” y/n said evenly, ignoring the tension radiating from every male in the room.

“Good,” Maeve said, stepping closer, her presence suffocating. “You leave at dawn.”

Without another word, Maeve swept out of the room, her dark gown trailing behind her like the shadow of death itself. And Lorcan behind her.

As the door closed, the room erupted.

But even through all the worries, all the scoldings, all the words said by the three males, her brothers, y/n's mind was only filled with the sense of betrayal.

He didn't even protest. Didn't even stand against Maeve. Didn't even offer to join y/n. His mate.

This has to be some cruel joke fate is playing on her.

----------

Y/n was alone, methodically packing her gear. Her hands worked quickly, though her mind was a maelstrom. She refused to dwell on the danger of the mission, on the implications of Maeve sending her alone. This was just another test, another way to prove she could survive whatever hell was thrown her way.

A knock sounded at her door. She didn’t bother turning, knowing who it was. “What do you want, Lorcan?”

The door opened without her invitation, and he stepped inside, shutting it firmly behind him. He didn’t speak at first, his dark eyes scanning her as if trying to decipher her thoughts. Finally, he said, “You shouldn’t go.”

She didn’t stop packing. “Not your decision to make.”

“It’s reckless,” he snapped, his voice low and sharp. “Maeve’s playing games, and you’re letting her.”

Y/n spun to face him, her eyes blazing. “Letting her? Did you not hear me back there? She gave me an order, Lorcan. What would you have me do, defy her?”

His silence was damning.

“Exactly,” she said bitterly, turning back to her pack. “You’d rather I die proving myself than risk questioning her.”

“That’s not fair,” he said, his voice softening, but she rounded on him.

“Fair?” she hissed, her voice shaking with anger. “What part of this is fair, Lorcan? The bond? This gods-damned oath? Maeve holding our lives in her hands? I don’t see you fighting for anything better.”

“I’m not the one running into death for her approval,” he shot back, his tone colder now, defensive.

“No,” she said quietly, the words cutting deeper because they were true. “You’re just the one standing by while she destroys us.”

He flinched as if struck, but she didn’t stop. “You chose her again, Lorcan. You always choose her.”

His jaw clenched, his hands curling into fists. “She is my queen.”

“And I’m your mate!” she yelled, the words tumbling out before she could stop them, raw and exposed. “Or does that mean nothing to you?”

For a moment, he didn’t speak. His dark eyes burned with emotion, but when he finally spoke, his voice was icy. “It doesn’t change anything. And we are not mates."

She swallowed hard, the weight of his words settling over her like a physical blow. “You really are a coward, Lorcan.”

Before he could respond, she shoved past him, her pack slung over her shoulder, and walked out the door. She didn’t look back, even when she thought she heard him whisper her name.

When she reached the stables, she mounted her horse and rode into the night, the frigid wind biting at her skin. But the cold was nothing compared to the ache in her chest, the one that reminded her she was truly, irrevocably alone.

The northern cliffs were as treacherous as y/n had anticipated. The jagged terrain, biting winds, and freezing temperatures made every step a trial. Her days were spent navigating narrow paths carved into the mountainside, her sharp eyes scanning for signs of movement. At night, she set up meager camps, always alert for threats, her weapons and magic ready for use. Sleep came in fleeting moments, her instincts honed to the dangers lurking in the shadows.

It had been five days since she left the fortress. Five days of cold, isolation, and silence. She told herself that she didn’t mind the solitude—it was better than the suffocating weight of Lorcan’s words or the betrayal she’d felt when Maeve’s command echoed through the room.

Still, the mission felt… off. She’d found no sign of the rebel camp Maeve had described. The cliffside paths, though rugged, showed no indication of regular travel, and the forests below were eerily still. It was as if the cliffs themselves were abandoned, yet Maeve had insisted that rebels were causing disruption in the area.

“She sent me here for a reason,” y/n thought bitterly, though she wasn’t sure if it was to succeed or fail.

On the sixth day, y/n stumbled upon a narrow gorge that seemed to fit the description of a potential rebel hideout. The entrance was obscured by thick overgrowth, and the cliffs loomed high above, casting long shadows over the path. She hesitated, her instincts prickling. This was the first sign of anything remotely suspicious since she’d arrived.

Cautiously, she advanced, her sword unsheathed as her senses sharpened instinctively. The air was heavy, thick with the scent of damp earth and something metallic. Blood.

She moved swiftly, keeping to the edges of the path. It led to a clearing—a small encampment, or what was left of one. The ground was littered with debris, tents torn apart, supplies scattered as if a storm had swept through. But it wasn’t a storm. The claw marks gouged into the rock told her that something—or someone—had done this.

Kneeling, she examined a broken weapon—a sword, its blade snapped in half. Blood stained the hilt, fresh enough that it hadn’t dried entirely. Her pulse quickened. She was being watched.

The sound of a snapping twig behind her made her whirl, sword raised, ready to strike—but nothing was there.

Yet, she couldn’t shake the feeling of eyes boring into her from the shadows. She forced herself to stay calm, to think. If this was a rebel camp, they wouldn’t leave it undefended. If they were gone, where had they gone? And why did the destruction look staged?

Her heart sank as realization dawned. This wasn’t a rebel camp. This was a trap.

The first arrow whistled past her ear, embedding itself into the rock behind her. She ducked instinctively, rolling into a crouch as more arrows followed, peppering the ground where she’d stood. Her claws gleamed in the dim light as she shot forward, seeking cover behind a crumbled tent.

Voices echoed through the gorge—low, guttural commands that sent chills down her spine. She couldn’t see them yet, but they were closing in.

Y/n moved quickly, her breaths steady despite the adrenaline coursing through her veins. She darted from cover to cover, her sword slicing through any obstacle in her way. The first attacker emerged—a tall man clad in dark leathers, his face obscured by a hood. He lunged at her with a blade, but she sidestepped, her dark magic aimed right at his chest. He fell with a gurgled cry.

Another came from the right, and she barely dodged the strike aimed at her side. She spun, driving her small but sharp knife into his arm and kicking him backward. But for every one she took down, two more appeared.

Soon, she was surrounded.

Y/n fought like the rebel she was, every movement precise and lethal. She used the terrain to her advantage, leaping onto rocks and darting through narrow paths. 

But there were too many.

An arrow grazed her leg, the sharp pain momentarily throwing her off balance. A sword nicked her arm, blood staining her sleeve. Her breaths came heavier now, her strength waning.

One of the attackers—a burly man with a scar down his face—stepped forward, a cruel grin spreading across his features. “The Queen sends her regards,” he sneered, raising his blade.

Y/n’s heart sank. Maeve had sent her here to die.

The realization stole the last of her resolve. She faltered, just for a second, but it was enough.

The scarred man’s fist connected with her stomach, and she doubled over, the air knocked from her lungs. Before she could recover, another blow landed against her temple, sending her sprawling to the ground.

Her vision blurred, and the world tilted as she tried to push herself up. Hands grabbed her, wrenching her arms behind her back. She struggled, but she was too weak, too drained.

A final strike—a boot slamming into her ribs—left her gasping for air. The edges of her vision darkened, her body refusing to obey her commands.

As she was dragged to her knees, she heard the scarred man chuckle. “Tie her up. The Queen wants her alive—at least for now.”

Y/n’s head lolled to the side, her strength gone. The world around her faded into darkness, the sounds of her captors’ laughter echoing in her ears.

Her last thought before unconsciousness claimed her was bitter and raw.

She sent me here to die, and I have no one left to fight for.

---------

The first week of her absence, Lorcan told himself he was being irrational. She was skilled, ruthless even, and capable of handling herself. Maeve had sent her on this mission for a reason, and despite his misgivings, he trusted y/n to see it through. He buried his worry beneath grueling training sessions and the cold edge of duty, convincing himself that she would return victorious, her sharp wit ready to cut him down the moment he dared to question her ability.

By the second week, unease began to fester. There had been no word from her—no missives sent, no whispers of success or failure. Maeve brushed off his inquiries with a dismissive wave, her cold smile tightening when he pressed. “She’s completing her task, Lorcan. You wouldn’t dare doubt her, would you?”

The third week unraveled him. He had spent every waking moment pacing the grounds, his chest constricting with an unbearable weight. Nightmares plagued him when he did manage to sleep, visions of her broken body haunting his mind. He snapped at everyone—Gavriel, Fenrys, even Rowan—driving wedges into bonds already frayed by his aloofness.

Now, a full month had passed, and there was no room left for denial.

“She’s dead,” Fenrys growled, pacing the chamber like a caged wolf. “Or worse.” His golden eyes were wild, his usually jovial demeanor replaced with simmering fury. “We all know Maeve doesn’t send anyone on a mission like this without an ulterior motive.”

Gavriel sat at the table, his head bowed, his fists clenched. “We don’t know that,” he muttered, though his tone betrayed the hope he was struggling to hold onto.

Rowan leaned against the far wall, his sharp features carved with tension. “Have you noticed Maeve hasn’t mentioned her once since she left? Not a word about the mission or her progress. That’s deliberate.”

Lorcan stood apart from them, his back to the room, staring out the window at the moonlit forest. His jaw was clenched so tightly it ached, and his nails had bitten into his palms, drawing blood.

“She’s alive,” he said at last, his voice low and trembling with suppressed rage.

Fenrys stopped pacing, glaring at him. “You don’t know that. You have no idea what she’s endured out there—alone—while you stood by and let her go.”

The accusation struck like a blade, and Lorcan whirled around, his black eyes blazing. “You think I don’t know that?” he snarled. “You think I don’t feel it every second of every gods-damned day?”

The room fell silent, the air heavy with tension.

“What are you saying?” Gavriel asked, his voice cautious.

Lorcan’s hands trembled as he raked them through his hair, his composure shattering. “She’s my mate,” he admitted, the words spilling out like poison. “She’s my mate, and I let her go. I chose Maeve over her because I was too much of a coward to—” His voice broke, and he turned away, his shoulders heaving.

The silence that followed was deafening.

“You’re telling us this now?” Rowan’s voice was cold, laced with anger. “After she’s been missing for a month?”

“I thought she’d come back,” Lorcan said hoarsely. “I thought she’d be fine. She’s strong. She’s—” His voice cracked, and he slammed a fist against the wall. “I failed her. I failed her because I didn’t want to admit what she meant to me.”

Fenrys sneered, his rage barely contained. “And now she’s out there, suffering gods know what, because of you.”

Despite their anger, the Cadre couldn’t abandon her. She was one of their own—or at least, she had been before Maeve’s manipulations twisted their loyalties.

Rowan took charge, his strategic mind cutting through the chaos. “We’ll have to do this without Maeve finding out. If she even suspects we’re undermining her, she’ll punish us all.”

“And y/n,” Gavriel added grimly.

Lorcan barely heard them, his mind consumed with images of her—alone, wounded, dying. He couldn’t let himself think she might already be dead. If she was gone, the bond would have snapped, wouldn’t it? But it hadn’t. It was still there, faint but unbroken, like a fragile thread connecting him to her.

“We’ll start at the cliffs,” Rowan continued. “That’s where she was sent. If Maeve wanted her gone, she wouldn’t make it easy to find her body—or what’s left of it.”

Fenrys shot Lorcan a glare. “You’d better hope she’s alive, or I’ll make you wish you’d died with her.”

The journey to the cliffs was brutal, the terrain unforgiving. They traveled under the cover of night, avoiding Maeve’s spies and using every ounce of their combined skill to remain undetected.

They did not rest. Not even once. And even if they did, Lorcan knew that he would leave his brothers behind to find her. He would not rest until he found her. Hopefully, alive because if not....

Lorcan did not want to think about that and the hell he would raise if that were the case.

When they reached the cliffs, the sight that greeted them confirmed their worst fears. Blood stained the ground, long since dried, and the remnants of a camp lay scattered, eerily quiet.

“She was here,” Gavriel said, his voice tight with anguish.

Lorcan knelt, his fingers brushing the bloodied earth. It felt wrong—cold and empty, as if the life had been drained from the place. His chest tightened, and the bond tugged at him, faint but insistent.

“She’s close,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “She’s still alive.”

The Cadre exchanged wary glances, but they followed him deeper into the gorge, their weapons drawn.

They found her at dawn.

She was chained to a rock in a dark cavern, her body battered and broken. Her clothes were torn, her skin marred with bruises and cuts, and her breathing was shallow. Her once-bright eyes were closed, her face pale and gaunt.

Lorcan froze, his heart shattering at the sight.

“She’s alive,” Fenrys said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Lorcan didn’t wait. He rushed to her side, his hands trembling as he broke the chains binding her. “y/n,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “Please, wildling, wake up.”

Her eyelids fluttered, and for a moment, her gaze met his. There was no recognition in her eyes, only pain and exhaustion.

“I’m here,” he said, his voice breaking. “I’ve got you. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

As he cradled her broken body in his arms, the weight of his guilt crashed down on him. He had failed her in every way possible, but he wouldn’t fail her again.

“Let’s get her out of here,” Rowan said, his voice tight. “Before Maeve realizes what we’ve done.”

Lorcan nodded, his jaw set with determination. He would burn the world for her, tear it apart piece by piece if he had to.

And when Maeve found out, he would be ready.

Lorcan cradled y/n against his chest as they made their way out of the cavern, her body limp and fragile in his arms. Her shallow breathing was the only reassurance he had that she was still alive. His every instinct screamed at him to run, to put as much distance as possible between them and this gods-forsaken place, but he knew better. They weren’t safe yet.

The bond tugged at him, a faint but insistent reminder of her fragility. It was his lifeline now, urging him forward through the oppressive darkness of the cliffs.

Rowan took point, his sharp gaze scanning the shadows ahead. Gavriel brought up the rear, his sword drawn and his senses on high alert. Fenrys prowled beside Lorcan, his golden eyes flashing with barely-contained fury.

“She’s too quiet,” Fenrys muttered, his voice low and tense. “We need to move faster.”

“She’s breathing,” Lorcan snapped, though his voice wavered. “That’s all that matters right now.”

The moment they stepped out of the cavern into the pale light of dawn, the attack came.

A hail of arrows rained down from the cliffs above, forcing them to scatter. Lorcan twisted his body, shielding y/n with his own as he dove behind a jagged boulder.

“Move!” Rowan barked, his wind magic deflecting the arrows with a gust that sent them clattering harmlessly to the ground.

The enemy poured down the rocky slopes—Maeve’s minions, cloaked in shadow and armed to the teeth. Their feral grins gleamed in the dim light, their eyes alight with cruel intent.

“They know we have her!” Fenrys shouted, drawing his twin blades.

Gavriel let out a low growl, his lion-like strength cutting through the first wave of attackers. “We’ll have to fight our way out!”

Lorcan’s grip on y/n tightened as he pressed his back against the boulder, his mind racing. He couldn’t fight—not with her in his arms—but he also couldn’t let her go.

Rowan appeared at his side, his ice-blue eyes blazing. “Can you hold them off while I take her?”

“No,” Lorcan snapped. The thought of letting her out of his grasp was unbearable. “You clear the path. I’ll carry her.”

Rowan hesitated for a fraction of a second before nodding. “Stay close.”

Chaos erupted as the cadre launched themselves into the fray. Rowan’s wind and ice magic tore through the ranks of their attackers, sending bodies flying into the jagged rocks. Fenrys moved like a shadow, his blades flashing as he cut down anyone who got too close. Gavriel fought with brutal precision, his strikes swift and lethal.

But their enemies kept coming, waves of them spilling out of the cliffs like a swarm.

Lorcan’s every step was a battle. He ducked and weaved through the melee, his muscles burning from the effort of carrying y/n’s dead weight while avoiding strikes. His sword remained sheathed—his focus was entirely on her.

“Lorcan, behind you!” Fenrys shouted.

Lorcan twisted just in time to see a dagger aimed at his back. He snarled, releasing a pulse of his power that sent the attacker sprawling. The effort cost him, though—his legs trembled as he stumbled forward, the weight of y/n and his exhaustion dragging him down.

A group of Maeve’s soldiers broke through Rowan’s defenses, their eyes locked on Lorcan and y/n.

“Over my dead body,” Lorcan growled, shifting her weight slightly as he braced himself for the charge.

But before they could reach him, a silver blur streaked past—Fenrys. He leapt into the fray, his movements a deadly dance as he tore through the soldiers with savage efficiency.

“You’re slowing us down,” Fenrys barked as he dispatched the last of them.

“Shut up and fight,” Lorcan snarled back.

Rowan’s sharp whistle cut through the chaos. “Now! Move!”

The cadre regrouped, their enemies momentarily scattered. Rowan’s magic formed a protective barrier of ice and wind, giving them a few precious seconds to retreat.

“We’re not going to hold them off forever,” Gavriel warned as they sprinted toward the treeline.

“We just need to make it far enough to lose them,” Rowan said, though his tone was grim.

Lorcan’s chest burned with every breath, but he didn’t stop. Y/n’s head lolled against his shoulder, her face pale and bloodied. Hold on, he willed her silently. Just hold on.

As they reached the forest, Rowan dropped the barrier, and the group plunged into the shadows of the trees. The dense undergrowth slowed their pursuers, giving the cadre a chance to put some distance between them.

“We need to split up,” Rowan said. “Fenrys, take Gavriel and lead them away. Lorcan and I will take y/n and head for the rendezvous point.”

Fenrys opened his mouth to argue, but a single look from Rowan silenced him.

“Go,” Rowan ordered.

With a growl, Fenrys and Gavriel peeled off, drawing the enemy’s attention.

The silence that followed was deafening. Only the sound of Lorcan’s ragged breathing and the faint rustle of leaves broke the stillness as he and Rowan made their way deeper into the forest.

When they finally stopped, Lorcan sank to his knees, cradling y/n as though she might disappear if he let go.

“She’s alive,” Rowan said, though his voice was heavy with doubt. “But barely.”

Lorcan couldn’t respond. His hands trembled as he brushed a strand of blood-matted hair from her face. Guilt and rage warred within him, threatening to consume him whole.

“We’ll get her back,” Rowan said, his voice firm. “But you need to keep it together.”

Lorcan’s jaw tightened as he looked up at Rowan. “If she dies…” His voice broke, and he couldn’t finish the sentence.

“She won’t,” Rowan said, his eyes fierce. “Not if we have anything to say about it.”

Lorcan nodded, swallowing hard as he forced himself to his feet. He wouldn’t let her die. Not like this. Not when he had failed her so utterly.

And Maeve… Maeve would pay for this.

------

The first thing Y/N registered was the scent of wood smoke and herbs, mingling with the faint, earthy aroma of rain-soaked soil. The air was warm, almost stifling, and it felt heavier than it should have. Her body ached with a dull, persistent throb, as though she had been wrung out and left to dry.

She blinked against the dim light filtering through a small, cracked window, her vision swimming before settling on the modest, cramped interior of a hut. The walls were made of rough-hewn logs, the roof thatched, and a single table sat in the corner, cluttered with vials and bandages.

Where am I?

The thought was fleeting, overridden by a sudden awareness of weight—solid, grounding, and entirely foreign—pressing against her. She shifted slightly, hissing at the pull of her tender muscles, and turned her head to look down.

Her breath caught.

Lorcan.

His head was resting on her stomach, his dark hair falling in unruly strands over his face. His massive frame was hunched over, as though even in sleep, he couldn’t quite relax. One arm was draped over her waist, the other gripping the edge of the makeshift bed she lay on. His hold was tight, almost desperate, as if he feared she would vanish if he let go.

For a moment—a fleeting, fragile moment—something in her chest softened. He looked so unlike himself, so vulnerable and human, and it was a stark contrast to the cold, stoic warrior she knew.

But then it all came rushing back.

The mission. The ambush. The betrayal. His cruel words.

Her face hardened, and a sharp burst of anger surged through her. How dare he?

Without thinking, she raised her hand and swatted the back of his head.

Lorcan jolted awake instantly, his head snapping up as his body went rigid, his instincts kicking in. His hand reached for a weapon that wasn’t there, his eyes wild and dark, scanning for danger.

Then his gaze landed on her, and he froze.

“Y/N?” His voice was a hoarse whisper, raw with disbelief.

Her eyes, dull and tired, met his. “Surprised to see me alive?” she asked, her tone cutting but drained of its usual bite.

Relief flooded his features, followed quickly by a maelstrom of emotions she couldn’t decipher—shock, guilt, anger at himself, and something she wasn’t ready to name.

“You’re awake,” he murmured, as though saying it aloud would make it real.

“No thanks to you,” she muttered, shifting uncomfortably as she tried to sit up.

“Don’t,” he said quickly, his hands moving to steady her. “You’re not ready—”

“I’m fine,” she snapped, shrugging him off.

She wasn’t fine. Her body screamed in protest, and her head swam, but she forced herself upright, ignoring the way his hands hovered near her, ready to catch her if she faltered.

“Where are we?” she asked, her voice clipped.

Lorcan cleared his throat, straightening as he rubbed the back of his neck. “A healer’s hut. A friend of Fenrys’—a trusted one. It’s safe here, for now.”

“For now,” she repeated bitterly. Her gaze swept the room, noting its sparse furnishings and the faint smell of damp wood.

“You’ve been unconscious for two weeks,” Lorcan continued cautiously, as if afraid of her reaction. “We’ve been... waiting for you to wake up.”

“Two weeks,” she echoed, her tone flat. “And where are the others?”

“Rowan and Gavriel went back to ensure Maeve hasn’t caught on to our escape, or atleast somehow keep the situation stable.” he explained. “Fenrys stayed with us.”

“Of course, Fenrys did.” She exhaled sharply, leaning back against the headboard.

Lorcan flinched at her tone but didn’t argue. “I—”

“You what?” she interrupted, her eyes narrowing. “What could you possibly have to say, Lorcan?”

His jaw tightened, and for a moment, she thought he might retreat behind his usual walls. But then he surprised her.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice low and rough. “For everything.”

She didn’t respond immediately. She didn’t have the energy to yell or argue, not anymore. She just looked at him, her expression unreadable.

“You said Maeve was your queen,” she said quietly, her voice devoid of emotion. “You said you’d always choose her over me. So why are you here, Lorcan?”

He flinched as if she’d struck him. “I was wrong,” he said, his voice breaking. “I was so gods-damned wrong. And I know I don’t deserve your forgiveness—hells, I don’t even deserve to be here. But I—” He hesitated, his hands curling into fists. “I couldn’t lose you. Not like that.”

Her laugh was hollow, devoid of humor. “Congratulations, Lorcan. You didn’t lose me. But what’s left of me isn’t much, so I hope you’re satisfied.”

Her words hit him like a blow, and the guilt in his eyes deepened. “Don’t say that,” he whispered.

“Why not?” she asked, her voice rising slightly. “It’s true. I’m tired, Lorcan. I’m tired of fighting, tired of trying, tired of—” She broke off, her hands trembling as she clenched the blanket.

Lorcan dropped to his knees beside the bed, his hands hovering near hers but not quite touching. “I know I hurt you,” he said, his voice trembling. “I know I failed you. And I’ll never forgive myself for that. But please, y/n... please don’t give up. Not now. Not when you’re here, alive.”

She looked away, her jaw tight, her expression unreadable.

“I’ll fix this,” he said desperately. “I don’t know how, but I’ll fix it. I’ll keep you safe. I swear it on my life.”

“Words,” she muttered, her tone laced with exhaustion. “They’re just words, Lorcan.”

He bowed his head, his shoulders sagging under the weight of her dismissal. But he didn’t leave. He stayed there, on his knees, as though the very act of being near her was penance.

And for a long moment, neither of them spoke. The silence was heavy, oppressive, and filled with everything they couldn’t bring themselves to say.

Eventually, she lay back down, turning her face away from him. “I wish to be alone.”

He nodded, his throat working as he forced himself to his feet. “I’ll be right here,” he said softly, retreating to his chair.

She didn’t respond, and as her breathing evened out, Lorcan watched her, his heart breaking anew. He had been a fool, and now the woman who held his soul was a shadow of herself. Someone who just went through so much trauma while he sat aside and watched it happen.

His y/n was gone, the female in front of him was an empty shell.

And it was all his fault.

———————————————————————

[novaursa]

The Flames We Loved (to break)

This is one of my darker works. If it's not your cup of tea, skip it. The story gets progressively worse with each chapter. You have been warned.

- Summary: It started with Harrenhal and the year of false spring, where you danced with a dragon trying to calm his flames.

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

- Rating: Explicit 18+

- Previous part: to burn thogether

- Next part: to mend

Three moons had passed since that night, since your fate had intertwined irrevocably with Aerys’s madness, and the weight of it hung over the Red Keep like a storm cloud. The court had whispered more fervently since then, but no one dared speak of what they suspected openly. Aerys’s moods had remained volatile, though his jovial moments came more often. But those moments of peace came at a cost, a price you had paid with more than just your dignity.

Pycelle entered the king’s solar, his face strained, and his steps hesitant. His eyes flickered between Aerys, who lounged in his chair, and Tywin, who stood nearby, as ever the picture of composure. The maester hesitated at the threshold, wringing his hands together, his hesitation obvious.

Aerys noticed immediately, narrowing his eyes. “Speak, Pycelle,” he snapped, sitting forward slightly, the faintest edge of impatience in his voice. “What news do you bring?”

Pycelle shifted his weight, his gaze lingering on Tywin, clearly reluctant to speak in front of him. “Your Grace,” he began cautiously, “perhaps this news would be best delivered... in private.”

Aerys’s brows lifted, a slow, dangerous smile spreading across his face. “In private? You presume to tell me when something is best said in private?” His voice took on a mocking edge, his eyes glinting with amusement. “Speak now, Pycelle. I insist.”

Pycelle glanced at Tywin again, his reluctance clear, but Aerys had spoken, and there was no defying the king’s wishes. He drew a slow breath, bracing himself for the reaction he anticipated. “Your Grace,” Pycelle began, his voice low but clear, “I have come to inform you... that Princess Y/N is with child.”

The silence that followed was heavy, oppressive. Pycelle tensed, expecting the worst—perhaps a violent outburst, or some unpredictable lash of Aerys’s temper. But instead, Aerys’s reaction was the exact opposite.

A slow grin spread across the king’s face, a gleam of delight in his eyes as he rose from his chair. “With child?” he repeated, almost as if testing the words. “Y/N, carrying my blood… my child?” There was a dangerous sort of pride in his voice, an unmistakable glee that sent a chill down Pycelle’s spine.

Pycelle braced himself, uncertain of how this joy would manifest. “Yes, Your Grace,” he said quietly, his hands still clasped tightly together.

Tywin, who had remained silent throughout the exchange, cleared his throat, stepping forward. “Your Grace,” he said, his tone measured and calm, “while this news is... significant, it is also a matter that must be handled delicately.”

Aerys’s smile faltered slightly, his gaze flicking to Tywin, suspicion creeping into his expression. “Delicately? My daughter is carrying the blood of the dragon, Tywin. There is nothing delicate about that.”

Tywin inclined his head slightly, always careful in his approach. “Of course, Your Grace. But the court is already rife with whispers, and such a matter... may invite more dangerous speculation. It would be wise to keep this quiet, for the safety of the princess and her unborn child.”

Aerys’s eyes darkened, his mood shifting like a storm brewing on the horizon. “Keep it quiet? You think I should hide this?”

Tywin held his ground, his voice steady. “I believe it would be in the realm’s best interest if the princess were sent to Dragonstone until the birth, along with Queen Rhaella. There, in seclusion, the child could be passed as the queen’s, protecting both the princess and your legacy.”

The suggestion hung in the air like poison. Aerys’s reaction was immediate—his lips curling in distaste, his eyes narrowing as he stared at Tywin. “You would send her away? For months?” His voice carried a dangerous edge now. “You would take her from me?”

Tywin didn’t flinch, though the tension in the room was hanging like an axe. “Only for her safety, Your Grace,” he explained. “The court is already buzzing with rumors. If they learn of this—if they see her condition—the princess’s reputation could be irreparably damaged. She would be in danger, not just from whispers, but from those who seek to use this information against you.”

Aerys’s jaw clenched, his hands curling into fists at his sides. “You dare suggest she’s in danger under my protection?”

Tywin remained calm, his voice even. “I suggest only that the court is full of enemies, both known and hidden. Dragonstone would offer her the seclusion and safety she needs until the child is born.”

For a moment, Aerys was silent, his chest rising and falling with the deep, uneven breaths of a man struggling to contain his rage. His eyes flickered with fury, but beneath it, there was something else—uncertainty. The prospect of losing control over you, even for a short time, clearly unsettled him. But Tywin had hit on the one thing that would get through to Aerys: the idea that you, his prized possession, could be harmed or taken from him.

“You want to hide my daughter,” Aerys said slowly, his voice low and dangerous, “to send her away, to pretend this never happened.”

“Not hide her,” Tywin corrected, his tone firm but respectful. “Protect her. And protect the legacy of your house. The child can still be passed as legitimate, Your Grace. The queen’s child, born in Dragonstone. But if the court discovers the truth, you risk far more than mere whispers.”

Aerys stood there, his eyes fixed on Tywin, his face a mask of barely contained fury. But he was listening, and Tywin knew it. The king might be mad, but he was not stupid. He knew how precarious his rule had become, how fragile his hold on power was. And if sending you away would protect both you and the child... he might just consider it.

Finally, Aerys’s gaze softened, ever so slightly. “I will consider it,” he said, his voice tight with restraint. “But she will not be kept from me longer than necessary. Do you understand?”

Tywin bowed his head slightly. “Of course, Your Grace. Dragonstone is a temporary solution, only until the child is born.”

Aerys turned away, his hands still clenched at his sides, the fire in his eyes slowly dimming. “Leave me,” he commanded, his voice cold now. “I will decide what is best for my daughter.”

Pycelle, Tywin, and the others quickly exited the room, leaving Aerys alone in the silence of his chambers, his thoughts consumed by the possibilities laid before him.

You sit in the garden, surrounded by your ladies-in-waiting and Elia Martell, the sun filtering through the leaves overhead. The air smells of roses and fresh earth, a stark contrast to the weight you feel in your chest. The conversation around you is light, filled with gentle laughter and idle gossip, but it feels distant, muffled, as though it’s happening in another world entirely.

You do your best to smile, to laugh at the appropriate moments, to respond when your ladies speak to you, but your mind is elsewhere—back in the privacy of Pycelle’s chambers earlier that morning. The examination, his careful tone as he delivered the news, the way his eyes darted nervously when he told you what you already feared. You were with child.

Your hands rest on your lap, clasped together tightly to hide the faint tremor in them. You breathe in, slowly, willing yourself to stay calm. The others don’t know. They can’t know. You’ve trained your whole life to hide what must be hidden, to play your part, and now is no different.

“Your Grace,” one of your ladies, a young girl from House Redwyne, says softly, pulling you back to the present. She offers you a delicate smile, though her eyes seem to search your face for something. “Are you well? You seem... distracted today.”

You blink, quickly composing yourself, and offer her a soft smile in return. “I am fine,” you say, your voice light, though the weight of the morning presses on your chest. “It’s just the heat, I think.”

The girl nods, satisfied with your response, and the conversation continues around you, flowing easily from topic to topic. Dresses, court gossip, the latest news from Dorne—all the things that should feel normal but don’t anymore. Not after this morning.

Across from you, Elia watches quietly, her dark eyes thoughtful, but she says nothing. She is more perceptive than most. You know she senses something, though she is far too polite to press. There is a kindness in her that you’ve always appreciated, even if it sometimes makes you feel small in comparison. She knows how to read a room, how to offer silence in moments like this, when words would do more harm than good.

The sun glints off the silver ring on your finger, a symbol of your station, and you find yourself staring at it, wondering how everything could change so quickly. How the life inside you, so small and new, could shift the course of your existence. A child. A dragon’s child. Aerys’s child.

You feel a sudden wave of nausea but force it down, focusing instead on the sound of the garden around you—the birds chirping in the distance, the gentle rustle of the leaves in the wind. You take another slow breath and glance toward Elia, who meets your eyes briefly before offering a reassuring smile.

“Sometimes the heat can be oppressive,” Elia says softly, her voice carrying the soothing lilt of her Dornish accent. “We should find shade soon, before it becomes unbearable.”

You nod, grateful for her subtle way of steering the conversation away from you. But you can’t help but feel the weight of her gaze, the quiet understanding in her eyes. She knows. Maybe not the full extent, but she knows something has changed.

One of your other ladies, unaware of the quiet tension, laughs brightly and continues speaking about the latest court scandal, drawing the others back into idle chatter. But you remain on the edge, listening without hearing, smiling without feeling.

Every movement feels like an act. Every word, carefully chosen, feels like part of a performance you’re not sure you can maintain much longer. The secret you carry inside you grows heavier with every passing moment, and the uncertainty of what will happen next gnaws at you. Will Aerys send you away? Will the court find out? What will become of you—and the child?

Elia’s voice cuts through your thoughts once again, this time quieter, meant only for you. “You don’t have to carry it alone,” she says softly, her eyes meeting yours. There’s no judgment in her gaze, only quiet support. “Whatever it is.”

You blink, startled by her perceptiveness, but you quickly smile, grateful for her understanding but unable to acknowledge what she means. “Thank you,” you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper.

But the truth remains buried, for now, hidden beneath the surface of the garden’s peaceful facade. The sun continues to shine, the ladies continue to chat, and you sit there, smiling and nodding, pretending that nothing has changed. Even though everything has.

And somewhere, just beneath the surface, you can feel the tremors of the world you once knew starting to shift.

You step into Aerys’s chambers that evening with the same quiet apprehension that has become routine. It’s a nightly ritual now, one you’ve grown accustomed to in a way that makes you both numb and sick with dread. You know Pycelle has already delivered the news to him—he always does as soon as anything happens that might affect Aerys’s mood. But even with the news out, you can never predict how Aerys will react. His moods shift like the winds, and what pleases him one day may enrage him the next.

Tonight, though, something feels different. As you enter the room, you find him already waiting for you, standing near the window with the moonlight casting long shadows across his form. He turns as you approach, his expression unreadable for a moment, and you brace yourself, prepared for whatever mood might greet you.

But then, his face softens—a rare thing. His eyes brighten, and a smile, faint but genuine, curls at the corners of his lips. You take a slow breath, your heart beating a little faster, unsure of what to make of this shift. Aerys steps closer, reaching out to take your hand in his, his fingers surprisingly gentle.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” he says, his voice low and soft. There’s a tenderness there you don’t often hear, and it unsettles you more than his rages ever could.

You try to match his softness, keeping your voice steady. “I came as soon as I could, Father.”

He lifts your hand to his lips, pressing a lingering kiss to your fingers, and the tenderness sends a shiver through you. It’s not the affection itself that disturbs you—there are moments when Aerys can be kind, when he can act as if the madness that claws at his mind is nothing more than a distant shadow. It’s the unpredictability, the thin line between these rare moments of calm and the fire that can blaze within him at any second.

“Pycelle told me,” Aerys says, his tone still gentle but with a faint edge of irritation. “He told me about the child. Our child.”

You swallow, unsure of how to respond. The knowledge that Aerys knows, that he’s already processed the news, leaves you feeling exposed. You’d expected a harsher reaction, maybe even anger, but this—this calm, affectionate version of him—is somehow worse. You have no idea how to navigate it.

“Yes,” you manage, your voice quiet, “he said you would know by now.”

Aerys’s expression shifts slightly, a flicker of something darker passing through his eyes before it’s gone again. He pulls you closer, his hand resting possessively on your waist as he leans down, brushing his lips against your forehead. “They’ve advised me to send you away,” he says, his voice carrying a faint trace of annoyance. “Tywin’s idea, as you can imagine. Sending you away to Dragonstone with Rhaella until the child is born.”

The words catch you off guard, and for a moment, you don’t know how to react. The idea of leaving—of being away from the suffocating presence of the Red Keep, away from him—brings a rush of conflicting emotions. Relief floods through you at the thought of a brief reprieve, a moment of peace. But there’s something else, too, something you hadn’t anticipated. Fear. Fear of being apart from him.

The realization unsettles you. The twisted bond you’ve developed with Aerys, the dependency that has formed over the past moons, has become familiar. You’ve learned how to navigate his moods, how to survive in his shadow. The idea of being parted from him—of losing that strange, toxic familiarity—frightens you in a way you can’t quite explain.

Aerys, sensing your hesitation, pulls you even closer, his lips brushing against your temple. “Are you afraid?” he whispers, mistaking the stiffens in your body for fear. “You don’t need to be, my sweet Y/N. No one will harm you there. You will be safe until you return to me.”

You close your eyes for a moment, letting the words sink in, and then you nod, playing along with his assumption. “I don’t want to be parted from you,” you say, your voice soft, though part of it rings true. “But if it’s for the best... for the child...”

Aerys smiles again, this time with a trace of possessiveness. “It’s only for a short time,” he reassures you. “You will go to Dragonstone, stay with your mother, and when the time is right, you’ll return to me. With our child.”

He caresses your cheek with surprising gentleness, his touch warm, almost tender. You force yourself to lean into it, playing the role he expects from you. The relief of a brief freedom mixes with the dread of what awaits when you return. You’re leaving, but you know that when you come back, the bond will be stronger, more suffocating than ever.

“You’ll miss me, won’t you?” he asks, his tone teasing but with an undercurrent of something more possessive.

You smile faintly, lifting your gaze to meet his, the weight of your response heavy on your tongue. “Of course, Father.”

The answer seems to please him, and he kisses your forehead again, holding you close as though he can’t bear the thought of letting you go. For a moment, you allow yourself to sink into the illusion of peace, to pretend that this tenderness is real, that it’s something you can trust.

But you know better.

The salt-laden air of the docks feels heavy, almost oppressive, as you stand there, your eyes fixed on the ship that will soon take you to Dragonstone. The soft murmurs of your retainers and the fluttering banners of House Targaryen do little to calm the storm of emotions swirling inside you. Rhaella, your mother, stands beside you, her face pale and drawn but otherwise composed. She has become a master of hiding the turmoil, and in this moment, you envy her ability to shield herself from the chaos of your lives.

Behind you, a small gathering of those who came to say their goodbyes stands in a neat line—Aerys, Tywin Lannister, Pycelle, and others from the court. And Rhaegar. The sight of your twin, standing stiffly with his arms at his sides, fills you with a sadness you’ve tried to avoid for weeks. You’ve kept your distance from him ever since Pycelle confirmed your pregnancy. It was easier, or so you told yourself, not to face him directly, not to see the anguish and fury in his eyes every time he looked at you. But now, there is no escape from the inevitable. You have to say goodbye.

The crowd around you begins to shift as the moment for departure draws closer. The retainers are busy securing the last of the provisions and ensuring the Queen’s comfort aboard the ship. The Kingsguard stands close by, watching the crowd for any sign of danger. Their presence is a constant reminder of how exposed you’ve felt in the Red Keep these past weeks. The thought of leaving, even for a time, brings you a strange mixture of relief and apprehension.

You catch a glimpse of Rhaegar, his indigo eyes fixed on you with a sadness that mirrors your own. The hurt there is raw, impossible to ignore, and it twists something deep in your chest. But before you can step toward him, before you can force yourself to close the distance that has grown between you, Aerys makes his move.

He steps forward, his presence immediately commanding the attention of everyone around him. He’s dressed in his finest robes, the black and red of House Targaryen, and his long silver hair gleams in the sunlight. His expression is unreadable for a moment as his gaze sweeps over you, then shifts to Rhaella, who stands just behind you. There is a brief flicker of acknowledgment in his eyes, something that could almost be mistaken for concern, but it disappears just as quickly as it came.

“You’ll be well looked after on Dragonstone, Rhaella,” Aerys says, his tone dismissive, as if sending his queen away were merely an afterthought. The briefness of his attention is palpable, but you see the faint relaxation in Rhaella’s posture as she realizes she won’t be the focus of his temper today.

She offers a polite nod, her voice steady but quiet. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

Without another word, Aerys turns his full attention to you, stepping past Rhaegar in a movement that feels deliberate, like a physical reminder of the control he has over you both. His hand reaches out, brushing against your arm with a possessive familiarity, his touch far too intimate for the setting. You can feel Rhaegar’s gaze burning into you, the weight of his silence louder than anything he could have said aloud.

Aerys leans in, his voice low as he speaks for your ears alone. “I will miss you, my sweet Y/N. Remember what I told you—this is only temporary. You’ll return to me soon, with our child.” His eyes linger on your face, searching for something, though you can’t tell if it’s affection or control.

You nod, your throat tight with the effort of keeping your emotions in check. “Yes, Father,” you whisper, your voice barely audible.

He kisses your cheek, a gesture that might have appeared paternal from a distance. His touch lingers, his lips pressing against your skin in a way that sends a shiver down your spine. You force yourself to smile, to lean into the gesture just enough to keep him placated. The last thing you want is to sour his mood before your departure.

Behind you, Rhaegar shifts, and you can feel the frustration rolling off him. You dare a glance in his direction, only to find his eyes filled with a mixture of anguish and helplessness. You’ve never seen him look so defeated. The distance between you now feels more like a chasm, one that you fear may never be bridged.

Aerys pulls back, his hand still resting on your arm as he turns his gaze toward Rhaegar. There is something sharp and mocking in his smile as he addresses him. “You’ll miss her, won’t you, Rhaegar? Such a shame to part from your sister. But don’t worry, she’ll return soon enough. And when she does, you’ll have a brother or sister to meet.”

The words land like a blow, and you see the way Rhaegar’s jaw clenches, his hands tightening at his sides. He doesn’t respond, not at first, but the hurt in his eyes speaks volumes.

You step forward, trying to close the gap between you and Rhaegar before Aerys can further antagonize him. “Rhaegar,” you say softly, hoping to reach him before the moment slips away entirely.

He meets your gaze, and for a moment, the world around you seems to fall away. There are no words, only the shared understanding of what has been lost—what can never be undone. You’ve both been pulled into a tragedy neither of you asked for, and the weight of it is unbearable.

“I’ll come back,” you murmur, though the words feel hollow, even as you say them. You don’t know what will happen when you return. You don’t know if anything will ever be the same.

Rhaegar swallows hard, nodding once, though the pain in his eyes doesn’t fade. “I know,” he says quietly, but there’s a note of finality in his voice that breaks your heart.

Aerys watches the exchange with thinly veiled amusement, clearly satisfied with how easily he can manipulate the situation. He pulls you back to his side with a possessive hand on your shoulder, turning you toward the ship.

“Go now,” Aerys says, his voice lighter. “The sea is waiting.”

With one last look at Rhaegar, you step away, joining Rhaella as the retainers prepare to board the ship. The sounds of the bustling dock fade into the background as you make your way toward the gangplank, and for the first time in weeks, you feel the faintest glimmer of hope. You’re leaving. For a time, at least, you’ll have peace.

But as the ship begins to pull away from the dock, your eyes find Rhaegar’s once more, and the heartbreak lingers between you, unspoken but undeniable.

Two months have passed since you left King’s Landing, and the stillness of Dragonstone is both a balm and a weight. The sharp cliffs, the constant crash of waves, and the isolation from court have granted you a reprieve from the ever-present tension that clung to you like a second skin. But the distance hasn’t erased the reality of what grows inside you—the child that will soon be born, branded not as your own, but as your sibling in the eyes of the world.

You sit in the garden of the ancient fortress, the air cool and salty, a stark contrast to the oppressive heat of the Red Keep. Rhaella sits beside you, her hand resting on her lap, her posture more relaxed than you’ve seen in years. Since coming to Dragonstone, her health has improved noticeably. The stress that had weighed on her in court seems to have lifted, her cheeks regaining a faint color, her breathing steadier. You’ve noticed it in the way she carries herself now—a quiet strength that had been absent for too long.

The two of you sit in silence for a while, the rhythmic sound of the sea calming your thoughts. But even here, in the peace of Dragonstone, the reality of your situation presses on you. The child growing inside you feels more real with every passing day. Your body has begun to change, a subtle but undeniable shift, and each flutter of movement you feel reminds you of what’s to come. You place a hand on your stomach, the weight of it both grounding and disquieting.

“I see it in your eyes,” Rhaella says softly, her voice gentle but knowing. She turns to look at you, her expression full of the quiet understanding that only a mother can give. “You’re thinking about the child.”

You nod, though words don’t come easily. How can you begin to explain the conflicting emotions that have become your constant companions? The child inside you is innocent, yet a product of something twisted and wrong. You don’t know how to reconcile the joy of creation with the horror of the circumstances that brought it about.

“It’s becoming more real,” you say quietly, your hand still resting on your stomach. “Each day, it feels more... inevitable. This child will be born, and it will live its life believing you are its mother. That I’m just its sister.”

Rhaella’s eyes soften, and she reaches over to gently take your hand in hers. Her touch is warm, steady. “It is cruel, what is being asked of you,” she says, her voice tinged with sorrow. “But you must remember that this child—your child—will know love. You will still be there, even if the truth must remain hidden. That is something no one can take from you.”

Her words are meant to comfort, but they only stir more of the tangled emotions that have plagued you since you first learned you were with child. You try to picture what it will be like—holding your baby, knowing that the world will see it as your sibling, that you will be forced to wear a mask for the rest of your life. And yet, the bond you already feel, the protective instinct that grows with each day, refuses to be denied.

“I wonder what kind of mother I’ll be,” you murmur, your voice almost lost to the sound of the waves. “I don’t even know what that means, not really.”

Rhaella squeezes your hand gently. “You’ll learn. None of us knows, at first. I didn’t. But you will find your way. The love you feel for this child will guide you, no matter the circumstances.”

The sincerity in her voice touches something deep inside you, and for the first time, you allow yourself to entertain the thought of what life will be like after the child is born. Will you be able to hide your true feelings, to act as if you’re nothing more than a sister to your own child? Will the secret ever eat away at you, or will you find a way to endure, as you always have?

You glance at your mother, noticing how the strain that used to line her face has faded since leaving King’s Landing. She seems lighter, almost peaceful here, away from Aerys and the court. The thought of returning, of being thrust back into that toxic environment after the birth, fills you with a quiet dread.

“How are you feeling?” you ask, hoping to shift the conversation, if only briefly. “You look better than you did in King’s Landing.”

Rhaella smiles, a soft, wistful expression. “I am better. Dragonstone is quiet... and far from your father. It’s easier to breathe here. The burden of court, of being queen, it weighs less heavily on me when I’m away.”

You can’t help but wonder if that peace will last. Dragonstone is only a temporary reprieve. Eventually, you’ll both have to return to King’s Landing, to the inevitable storm that awaits you there. But for now, you take comfort in the knowledge that your mother is healing, even if just for a little while.

The wind picks up, rustling through the trees and bringing with it the sharp scent of the sea. You close your eyes for a moment, trying to imagine a future where you and the child can live without the shadows of court, without the weight of secrets. But you know better than to hope for something so simple. Your life has never been simple.

As the sun begins to set, casting long shadows across the stone, you lean into your mother’s warmth, both of you silent again. You wonder how long you can hold onto this peace before the inevitable return to the world that waits for you.

In the Red Keep, the atmosphere has grown heavier with each passing moon since you left for Dragonstone. The court, once accustomed to Aerys’s erratic moods, now lives in a constant state of fear. Without you by his side, Aerys has reverted to his old, dangerous self—his temper shorter, his paranoia sharper. Each day, his behavior grows more volatile, his words more cutting, and the small glimmers of calm that once existed when you were present have vanished entirely.

The king prowls through the halls like a caged animal, snapping at anyone who dares cross his path. His servants tread lightly, terrified of provoking him. The members of his small council, including Tywin, bear the brunt of his unpredictable rages, but it’s Rhaegar who suffers most of all.

Aerys’s jealousy toward his son has always been present, but now, it flares into something more violent. Aerys resents Rhaegar—resents the bond the two of you share as twins, the connection that is undeniable. It eats at him, festers in his mind, and twists into irrational anger. He sees in Rhaegar what he lacks, the trust and closeness you once shared, and he can’t stand it.

In council meetings, Aerys openly lashes out at his son. Even the smallest misstep is met with scorn and venom, his words designed to wound. “You think yourself above me, don’t you, Rhaegar?” Aerys snarls one day, slamming his fist down on the table. “You think because she’s your twin, you’re entitled to her more than I am? She is mine, Rhaegar. Mine.”

Rhaegar sits quietly, his jaw clenched, refusing to rise to the bait. He’s learned, painfully, that nothing good comes from arguing with Aerys. But the hatred in his eyes is clear, and Aerys feeds off it, twisting the knife further.

“You think I don’t see how you look at her?” Aerys sneers. “How you always thought you were better because she loves you more? She belongs to me now, and when she returns, you’ll see just how wrong you are.”

Tywin, seated nearby, watches the exchange with the practiced impassivity of someone who has weathered Aerys’s moods for years. But even he knows that things are getting worse. Aerys has become convinced that it was Tywin’s idea to send you away, that the Hand orchestrated it just to spite him, to deprive him of your presence. Aerys brings it up frequently, hurling accusations at Tywin in front of the court.

“You think I don’t know what you’re doing?” Aerys spits one day, his eyes wild with fury. “You wanted her gone. You wanted me weak, unstable. Well, you’ve succeeded, Tywin. But she will come back. And when she does, you will regret the day you ever crossed me.”

Tywin responds calmly, as he always does, though there’s no mistaking the tension in his posture. “Your Grace,” he says, his voice measured, “I advised sending the princess away for her protection, as you requested. She will return when it is safe to do so.”

Aerys glares at him, his hands shaking with rage. “You’re a liar, Tywin. You did this to weaken me. You want to control me. But she’ll return soon, and when she does, I’ll have no need for your advice anymore.”

The court holds its collective breath during these exchanges, terrified that one day, Aerys’s temper will spill over into something far more sinister. The whispers have grown louder—everyone praying that you return soon, if only to bring some semblance of stability back to the Red Keep. Without you, Aerys is a storm unchecked, lashing out at anyone who comes too close.

Even Varys, usually adept at keeping his distance from the king’s wrath, has become more cautious in his approach. He rarely speaks unless spoken to directly, and even then, he chooses his words carefully, always aware of Aerys’s growing paranoia.

Pycelle does what he can to placate Aerys, offering calming tonics and soothing words, but nothing seems to quell the king’s growing fury. Each day without you, Aerys spirals further, convinced that everyone around him is conspiring to keep you away.

“The court thinks they can control me,” Aerys rants one evening to a small group of courtiers, his voice wild. “They think they can keep her from me, but I’ll show them. She will return, and we will burn anyone who stands in our way.”

The courtiers exchange uneasy glances, none of them daring to speak, all of them silently praying that you return soon. Because without you, there is no telling how far Aerys’s madness will go.

More moons have passed, and the athmosphere in the Red Keep is as suffocating as ever. Each passing day has seen Aerys’s moods swing from anger to despair, with the court walking on eggshells around him. No one has been spared from his wrath, least of all his closest advisors. The entire court waits, their collective breath held, for the day the raven from Dragonstone arrives.

That day finally comes, and Pycelle’s hands tremble as he holds the scroll. His palms are damp with sweat, his heart pounding in his chest. The raven had arrived not long ago, and now it was up to him to deliver the news to the king. He knows better than anyone how volatile Aerys has been, and he prays this news will not spark another outburst. The stakes are too high.

As Pycelle steps into the room, he sees Aerys deep in conversation with Lord Qarlton Chelsted and Lord Symond Staunton. Aerys’s voice is sharp, his words clipped, and the lords are nodding along, clearly trying to keep the king from spiraling into one of his tempers.

Aerys doesn’t even glance up at Pycelle when he enters. “What is it, Pycelle?” Aerys snaps, his irritation clear. “I’m in the middle of important matters. Speak quickly, or don’t speak at all.”

Pycelle swallows hard, his voice trembling as he addresses the king. “Your Grace... a raven has arrived from Dragonstone.”

The words hang in the air for a moment, and the tension shifts immediately. Aerys stops mid-sentence, his expression changing in an instant. The anger that had been simmering in his eyes is replaced by something else—anticipation, hope, and an almost frantic excitement. He fixes his gaze on Pycelle, and before the maester can even offer the scroll, Aerys is already moving toward him, his hand outstretched.

“Give it to me!” Aerys barks, snatching the message from Pycelle’s shaking hands. Without waiting for Pycelle to read it aloud, Aerys tears the seal and unrolls the parchment himself, his eyes scanning the words with a fevered intensity.

The room falls into an uneasy silence, all eyes on the king. Pycelle stands frozen in place, his heart pounding, unsure of what to expect. Lord Qarlton and Lord Symond exchange a quick, nervous glance but remain quiet. No one dares speak until Aerys does.

A long moment passes, the only sound in the room the faint rustle of the parchment in Aerys’s hands. His expression shifts again, the corners of his lips curling into a slow, delighted smile. The dread in the room breaks as Aerys’s mood lifts, his posture relaxing as he straightens.

Lord Qarlton, ever brave—or perhaps foolish—dares to ask the question on everyone’s mind. “Your Grace, what news from Dragonstone?”

Aerys’s eyes gleam with a renewed sense of triumph, his voice practically bursting with joy as he declares, “A prince has been born!”

The words send a ripple of relief through the room, though no one dares let it show too openly. Pycelle exhales a quiet breath, his hands still shaking but steadier now that the news has been delivered. Lord Symond offers a respectful nod, his voice measured as he speaks. “That is most joyous news, Your Grace.”

But Aerys isn’t interested in their formalities. His mind is already racing ahead, a manic energy building as he begins to issue orders. “Prepare for her return at once,” Aerys commands, his tone decisive and sharp. “Send word to Dragonstone—Y/N and the child will return to King’s Landing immediately.”

The court listens in silence as Aerys paces the room, excitement coursing through him. “There will be a celebration—no, a grand feast! Let it be known across the realm that the blood of the dragon grows strong. My daughter will be honored as she deserves. And my son—” Aerys’s eyes gleam dangerously, “—my son will be the pride of the realm.”

Pycelle watches in silence, his heart still racing. Aerys’s mood is euphoric now, but he knows how quickly that can change. For the moment, though, the king is jubilant, and the court can breathe a little easier—if only for now.

The ship rocks gently as it glides into the harbor, and you can feel the weight of your return to King’s Landing settling over you like a heavy cloak. Dragonstone had been a place of temporary peace, but now you are returning to the Red Keep, where the whispers and the ever-watchful eyes of the court await. Your mother, Rhaella, sits beside you, her presence a quiet comfort. The newborn prince, your son—your son, though he will be claimed as Rhaella’s—sleeps peacefully in the arms of his attendant, unaware of the weight his birth carries.

As the ship docks, you hear the commotion onshore, the hurried movement of the court gathered to witness your return. You brace yourself, knowing Aerys will be the first to greet you, and even now, you can feel the familiar dread mixed with a strange, unsettling sense of relief. You haven’t seen him in months, and though you have been away, the bond you share—twisted and wrong as it may be—still lingers in your mind.

As you disembark, your eyes scan the crowd. Aerys stands at the top of the stairs leading into the Red Keep, but before you can fully process the scene, he rushes forward, moving down the steps with a speed that takes you by surprise. He pushes through the attendants and guards, his focus entirely on you. The others—Tywin, Pycelle, and even Rhaegar—fall behind, deferring to the king’s haste.

Aerys reaches you first, his hands gripping your arms as if to make sure you’re real, that you haven’t somehow slipped away during your time on Dragonstone. His violet eyes burn with intensity, a mix of relief, possessiveness, and something darker. He doesn’t speak at first, simply staring at you, his gaze drinking you in.

“My Y/N,” he says at last, his voice low but full of emotion. “You’re back.”

You nod, the words caught in your throat as his grip tightens for a moment. But his attention shifts almost immediately, his gaze snapping to the attendant holding the child. Without releasing you, Aerys turns to the babe, his eyes lighting up as he steps toward the attendant.

The child, wrapped in fine cloth, has the unmistakable look of a Targaryen—the pale lilac eyes and silver-gold hair that mark your bloodline. Aerys reaches out, gently brushing the boy’s cheek, his expression one of pure fascination. His hands tremble slightly as he takes in the sight of the newborn.

“A boy,” Aerys murmurs, almost to himself, as if confirming it for his own ears. “He’s perfect.”

Behind him, the rest of the court catches up—Rhaegar, Elia, Tywin, and Pycelle standing at a respectful distance. But Rhaegar can’t stay back for long. He steps away from Elia and approaches you and Rhaella, his eyes soft as they meet yours. There’s concern there, though he tries to mask it.

“Are you alright?” Rhaegar asks gently, his voice low enough that only you and your mother can hear.

You meet his gaze, feeling the weight of his question. He’s asking for more than just your physical state, and you know it. You offer a small smile, though the exhaustion from the journey and the months of secrecy weigh on you. “I am,” you say quietly, hoping to reassure him.

Rhaella, sensing Rhaegar’s worry, speaks up with a kind smile. “She is well, Rhaegar. The birth was quick and clean. There’s no need to worry.”

Rhaegar’s shoulders relax slightly at his mother’s words, though you can still see the tension lingering in his posture. He steps closer, his hand brushing against your arm in a silent show of support. You haven’t spoken much in recent moons, but the bond between you—though strained—is still there, and his presence is a comfort.

But the moment is interrupted as Aerys’s voice rings out, his excitement visible as he turns back to the gathered court. “The boy shall be named Viserys!” he proclaims, his voice loud and clear, as though the name alone carries the weight of his triumph. “Viserys Targaryen, the blood of the dragon made manifest!”

There’s a murmur of approval from those around him, though you can feel the unease underlying their reactions. They know the truth, or at least some of it, but none dare voice it aloud. Aerys, enthralled by the child and lost in his own world, is oblivious to the unspoken thoughts swirling around him.

Before anyone else can speak, Aerys turns to you again, his eyes gleaming with an energy that borders on mania. “Come, my sweet Y/N. We must prepare for the feast.” His hand grips your arm, pulling you gently but firmly toward the many steps leading into the Red Keep. “This night will be one to remember.”

The feast, you know, is meant to be in Rhaella’s honor, to celebrate the birth of her “child,” but Aerys’s focus is entirely on you. The court follows behind, murmurs rippling through the crowd as they prepare for the celebration. You glance back at Rhaegar, who stands with Elia, watching you once again with a mixture of sadness and resignation. 

As Aerys leads you inside, his hand never leaving your arm, you feel the weight of the future pressing down on you. The child—your son—will be raised as your brother, and you will continue to play the role that Aerys expects of you. The walls of the Red Keep close in around you once more, and though you are back, you realize that the true test of your endurance has only just begun.

...

The great hall of the Red Keep is alive with the sounds of celebration. Laughter, music, and the clatter of goblets and plates fill the space, but you feel removed from it all, like a distant observer watching through a veil. The feast, though grand and lavish, feels like a performance you’re forced to endure. The celebration, supposedly in honor of Rhaella and the new Prince Viserys, is nothing more than a mask, hiding the deeper truths that lie beneath. Aerys’s good mood, unstable as ever, has drawn the lords and courtiers like moths to a flame. They surround him on the other side of the hall, desperate to curry favor while his temper is kept at bay.

You sit at the long table, a smile fixed in place but hollow, your mind wandering as the noise of the feast drones on. The weight of everything—the child, the lies, the court’s knowing looks—presses down on you like a heavy cloak. You try to remain detached, to distance yourself from the reality of the situation, but the growing sense of unease gnaws at you.

It isn’t until you spot Rhaegar, standing near the far end of the hall, that you feel a flicker of something beyond the numbness. His gaze catches yours, and there’s a moment of shared understanding between you. You rise quietly from your seat, making your way through the hall to find a quiet corner away from prying eyes. He follows you, his steps measured, and when you finally reach a secluded alcove, you turn to face him.

For a long moment, neither of you speaks. The silence hangs between you, heavy with the things left unsaid for months. Rhaegar’s face is a mix of sadness and weariness, and you feel the weight of your guilt more keenly than ever.

“I’m sorry,” you say softly, the words slipping out before you can stop them. “I didn’t know how to face you, Rhaegar. I didn’t know what to say...”

His expression softens, and he steps closer, his hand reaching out to gently touch your arm. “You don’t have to apologize,” he replies, his voice low and steady. “I understand, more than you think. You were protecting yourself. You were doing what you had to.”

You look down, unable to meet his gaze. “I felt like I abandoned you... I didn’t want to, but the shame... and the guilt...”

Rhaegar shakes his head gently. “You didn’t abandon me, Y/N. You’ve been through more than anyone should have to bear. I should have been there for you, but I was too caught up in my own feelings to see how much you were suffering.”

The words, so full of empathy and understanding, break through the barrier you’ve built around yourself. You meet his eyes, the shared pain between you palpable. “I’ve missed you,” you whisper, your voice barely audible.

“I’ve missed you too,” he says, his hand squeezing your arm lightly. There’s a tenderness in his touch, a reminder of the bond you’ve shared since birth. It isn’t broken, even if it’s been tested.

For a brief moment, standing there with Rhaegar, you feel a sense of connection again, as if the distance and the silence between you both are beginning to heal. But before the moment can settle, the air shifts, and you feel the prickling sensation of being watched. You glance over Rhaegar’s shoulder and see her—Cersei Lannister.

She parts from the group surrounding Rhaella, her golden hair catching the light as she moves with a predatory grace. The smirk on her lips is unmistakable, and you immediately feel yourself tense. Rhaegar must sense it too, because his posture stiffens, and his hand falls from your arm as Cersei approaches.

“Your Grace,” Cersei says, her voice sweet but laced with a cruel edge, her smirk deepening as she looks directly at you. “I wanted to offer my congratulations.” There’s a gleam in her eyes, a knowing glee that makes your stomach twist. She knows, or at least she suspects enough to make this encounter all the more uncomfortable.

You force a smile, though it feels like a mask, and nod. “Thank you, Lady Cersei,” you reply, your voice as steady as you can manage.

Cersei’s eyes flick to Rhaegar for a moment before returning to you, the smirk never leaving her lips. “It must be such a joy to return to court after so long. I imagine Dragonstone must have felt... isolating.” The way she draws out the word makes it clear she’s enjoying this, reveling in your discomfort.

You glance at Rhaegar, who remains silent but alert, his jaw clenched as he watches Cersei with cold eyes. You can feel his protectiveness, the way he’s holding himself back from saying anything that might escalate the situation.

“I was glad to have time to rest,” you say, keeping your voice calm, though the tension between the three of you is thick. “It was peaceful.”

“Peaceful, yes,” Cersei muses, her gaze flicking to the direction of Aerys, who is still surrounded by courtiers. “But court is where the real excitement happens, isn’t it? It’s always so... interesting when the king is in good spirits.”

The insinuation in her words makes your skin crawl, but you maintain your composure. You can feel the weight of Rhaegar’s presence beside you, and it steadies you, reminding you that you’re not alone in this moment.

Before you can respond, Cersei leans in slightly, her voice lowering as if she’s sharing a secret. “I do hope the king’s joy lasts. He does so love his... family.” Her smile is all teeth, sharp and dangerous.

The comment lands like a blow, and you feel the breath catch in your throat. You know what she’s implying, and so does Rhaegar. But you won’t let her see how deeply it affects you.

“Thank you again for your congratulations, Lady Cersei,” you say, your tone clipped but polite. “But if you’ll excuse us, my brother and I have much to discuss.”

Cersei’s eyes flicker with something—annoyance, perhaps—but she doesn’t push further. Instead, she gives a mockingly sweet smile and dips her head slightly. “Of course. Enjoy the feast.” With that, she turns and glides away, leaving you and Rhaegar in her wake.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, your heart still racing from the encounter. Rhaegar steps closer again, his presence solid and grounding.

“Don’t let her get to you,” Rhaegar says quietly. “She’s trying to provoke you.”

“I know,” you reply, your voice steadier now. “But she knows more than she lets on.”

Rhaegar’s hand rests on your shoulder, a silent reassurance. “We’ll deal with her, when the time comes.”

The moment is shattered when Aerys’s voice suddenly cuts through the hum of the hall, sharp and impatient. “Enough of this! I’ve had enough of these sycophants for one evening.”

You look up just as Aerys breaks away from the cluster of lords surrounding him. His eyes sweep the room before they land on you, and you can see the change in his mood instantly. He strides toward you with purpose, ignoring the lords who still call out to him, desperate to remain in his favor.

Rhaegar stiffens beside you, but Aerys pays him no mind. His attention is solely on you as he reaches your side, his hand gripping your arm with a possessive familiarity. “Come, Y/N,” he says, his voice a low command. “I’ve had enough of these fools. You will join me.”

You glance at Rhaegar, who watches with a tense expression but doesn’t speak. There is nothing either of you can say that would change the course of Aerys’s will. Reluctantly, you allow Aerys to lead you away, his hand firm as he guides you through the hall. The lords and ladies fall silent as the two of you pass, their eyes following you with the same mix of curiosity and fear that always surrounds the king’s movements.

Aerys’s pace is brisk, his grip on your arm tightening slightly as he pulls you along the winding corridors of the Red Keep. You’ve been through these halls countless times, but tonight, they feel oppressive, the weight of what’s to come pressing down on you. You feel Rhaegar’s absence acutely, but there is no escaping Aerys’s pull now.

As you reach the entrance to his chambers, Aerys gestures to the guards standing outside. “Bring the prince to me at once,” he orders, his voice sharp with impatience. The guards immediately bow and move to obey, hurrying off to fetch the newborn Prince Viserys.

The heavy doors to Aerys’s chambers open, and he leads you inside, his hand never leaving your arm. The moment the doors close behind you, Aerys’s demeanor shifts again. His grip loosens, and he turns to face you fully, his eyes dark with something you can’t quite name. It’s not anger, but there’s an intensity there that unsettles you.

“Finally,” he murmurs, stepping closer, his hand trailing down your arm. “I’ve had enough of them all, those fools clinging to my every word. But not you. You are the only one who understands me.”

You stand still, trying to steady your breath as Aerys’s hand moves to cup your cheek, his touch both familiar and foreign. His words are laced with possessiveness, and though you’ve grown accustomed to it, it still sends a chill down your spine.

“I’ve missed you,” he continues, his voice softer now, but no less intense. “All those moons without you. It was unbearable.”

You say nothing, knowing that any words you offer might provoke a change in his mood. Instead, you nod slightly, hoping that will be enough to satisfy him.

Aerys’s hand lingers on your cheek for a moment longer before he steps back, pacing the room with restless energy. “They don’t understand, Y/N. They never will. But you and I, we are different. We are dragons.”

Before you can respond, the doors open again, and the guard re-enters carrying the newborn prince. The sight of your son—your son—being brought into the room shifts something inside you, and for a moment, the fear recedes. The baby is handed carefully to Aerys, who cradles the boy in his arms with a strange reverence, his earlier restlessness momentarily forgotten.

Aerys gazes down at the infant, his expression softening as he takes in the sight of his son. “Viserys,” he murmurs, the name rolling off his tongue with an almost reverent tone. “Our son, Y/N. The blood of the dragon.”

He looks up at you, his eyes gleaming with an unsettling mix of pride and possessiveness. Then, without another word, he steps closer and gently hands the baby to you.

The moment the weight of your son is in your arms, the world seems to shift. The fear, the detachment, the numbness that has settled over you since your return—all of it falls away as you look down at him. His tiny face, his silver-gold hair, the faintest hint of lilac in his eyes. He is so small, so innocent, and for the first time, the reality of him—your child—truly hits you.

Aerys watches you closely, his eyes flicking between you and the baby. “He is yours, Y/N,” Aerys says quietly, though his tone carries the weight of command. “Bond with him. He is our legacy.”

You feel your breath catch in your throat as you look down at your son, the emotions swirling inside you too complex to name. You’ve known all along what would happen—that this child would be claimed as Rhaella’s, that the world would see him as your sibling. But now, holding him in your arms, none of that seems to matter. In this moment, he is yours.

Gently, you cradle him closer, your heart swelling with a strange mix of love and sorrow. You trace a finger along his tiny cheek, feeling the softness of his skin, and you can’t help but smile, even if the smile is tinged with sadness. You’ve endured so much, given so much of yourself, but this—he—is something real. Something you can hold onto.

Aerys watches you for a long moment, his eyes fixed on the sight of you holding the child. There is something sharp in his gaze, but for now, he seems content, his earlier agitation forgotten.

“Good,” Aerys murmurs, his voice soft but edged with satisfaction. “Bond with him, Y/N. He will be our greatest triumph.”

As you stand there, holding your son in your arms, you feel the weight of Aerys’s words pressing down on you. But in this moment, none of that matters. For now, you allow yourself to hold your child, to feel the warmth of him in your arms, and to forget, just for a little while, the storm that awaits you outside these chambers.

[nausicaamusiclover20]

I had this phrase of the song End of beginning: j"ust trust me, you'll be fine" and I wanted to write something based on it. I hope you like it❤

Just trust me, you'll be fine

The rain had started an hour ago, its soft patter against the windows now a constant hum, mixing with the quiet of the apartment. Normally, I would find it soothing, the rhythmic sound a reminder of cozy evenings spent together, but tonight, it only made the silence feel heavier. It felt as though the whole world was on pause, as if the rain, too, was waiting for something to break.

When James walked in, I felt it instantly—the weight of his presence had shifted. There was no excitement in his steps, no smile, no spark in his eyes. His usual energy was gone. Instead, he moved like someone carrying an invisible burden, his shoulders slumped slightly, his hands buried deep in his pockets as though to keep the rest of himself from escaping.

I watched him from the couch, noting the way he hesitated before meeting my eyes. Normally, he would greet me with that easy, crooked smile, but today, he just seemed lost. I knew that something was wrong, and I knew he wasn't ready to talk about it yet.

"Come here," I said softly, my voice quiet but firm. The invitation hung in the air, gentle but clear. I didn’t need him to speak; I just needed him to come closer.

He stood there for a moment, uncertain, his eyes flickering between me and the space around him. But then he nodded, crossing the room in a few slow strides. He lowered himself beside me, his movements stiff, and before I could even blink, he shifted, his head resting gently on my chest as we both lay back on the couch.

The silence stretched between us. His body was tense, his breaths shallow, and I could feel the weight of whatever was bothering him pressing down on both of us. His arms were tucked tightly by his side, like he was trying to hold himself together, trying to keep whatever he was feeling at bay.

I ran my fingers through his hair, letting the soft rhythm of my touch calm the both of us. I knew he needed time. But it didn’t take long for me to feel his body start to tremble, his chest heaving against mine, like he was fighting to keep it all inside.

I waited, breathing with him, letting the minutes pass. And then, without warning, he broke down.

A sharp, strangled gasp escaped him, followed by a soft, shaky sob that he couldn’t hide. His body jerked against mine, and the tears came without any warning, his shoulders shaking as his breath hitched.

I tightened my arms around him, pulling him closer, cradling him like I could shield him from whatever it was that was tearing him apart. His sobs were muffled against my chest, but the rawness of them hit me like a punch. This was more than just a bad day. This was something deeper, something he’d been carrying for far too long.

I pressed a soft kiss to his forehead, my hand running gently over his back. "It's okay," I whispered softly, my voice steady, but thick with emotion. "You’re safe here. Just let it out."

He clung to me, his body shuddering with each tear that fell. I didn’t say anything else; I just let him cry. The pressure, the weight of everything he was holding, needed to be released, and all I could do was hold him until he felt it.

Eventually, the sobs started to slow, the tension in his body beginning to ease. He pulled back slightly, lifting his head from my chest to look at me. His eyes were red, his face streaked with tears, but I could see the exhaustion in his gaze. 

I cupped his face gently, wiping away the tears still clinging to his skin. His lips trembled, and I could see the fear in his eyes—the fear of being vulnerable, of being weak. But there was something else, too. A deep ache, the kind that comes when you've been carrying something too heavy for too long and you’re just too tired to carry it alone anymore.

“James…” I whispered softly, my thumb brushing over his cheek. “What’s going on, my love?"

He hesitated for a moment, and I could feel the weight of his thoughts, like he wasn’t sure if he could say it out loud. But then his voice broke, low and raw.

“I’m just… so overwhelmed,” he confessed, his words barely a whisper. “With the band, with everything… I feel like I’m not enough. Like no matter how hard I try, it’s never enough. I can’t keep up with everyone’s expectations. And I’m scared. I’m scared that I’m failing, that I’m not good enough for you, for them…”

He swallowed hard, his breath coming in short, ragged bursts, as if the weight of his thoughts was too much to put into words. "I don't know if I can do this anymore. Everything feels so... empty. Like no matter how much I give, it’s never enough."

I felt a sharp pang in my chest. James had always been the one everyone leaned on. The one who worked tirelessly, the one who held it all together. But I could see now, that in trying to hold up everyone else, he had forgotten to take care of himself.

I pulled him closer, my hands running soothingly through his hair as I pressed my cheek to the top of his head. “You don’t have to be perfect, James," I said softly. "You don’t have to be everything for everyone. You’re enough, just the way you are. You’re my everything.”

He buried his face in my chest again, his breathing still shaky, but his grip on me tight, like he was afraid to let go.

“You don’t have to carry it all alone," I continued, my voice calm but full of conviction. "I’m here. You’re not alone, okay? Not now, not ever. I’m right here, and I’m not going anywhere.”

He sniffled, his tears slowing down, but the fear still lingered in his eyes. “But what if I’m not good enough?” he whispered, his voice barely audible, like he was afraid I might hear him too clearly.

I cupped his face in my hands, guiding him gently so that our eyes met. Then, without thinking, I kissed him—soft, slow, a simple reassurance. My lips lingered on his for a moment, a soft promise that everything would be okay. When I pulled away, I rested my forehead against his, our breaths mingling.

“Just trust me,” I said softly, brushing my hand through his hair, letting the warmth of my touch offer him something to hold onto. “You’ll be fine, my love. You’re more than enough. I see you. All of you, and it’s more than I could ever ask for. I’m so proud of you, James.”

There was a long, quiet pause, the only sound between us the soft beat of our hearts, the rhythm of us simply being together. And then, after a moment, he lifted his head, his eyes softer now, and a small, hesitant smile appeared on his lips.

“How did I get so lucky?” he whispered, his voice full of quiet awe. “You’re the best thing I have. How did I get so lucky to have you?”

I smiled softly, my heart swelling at his words. “I’m the lucky one,” I whispered back, my fingers brushing the soft skin of his cheek. “We’re both lucky, because we have each other.”

His smile deepened, and for the first time that night, I saw a flicker of the James I knew—the one who was strong, who was capable, but also vulnerable and real. And in that moment, as the rain continued to fall outside, it felt like everything was going to be okay.

[ice-knife]

hide your bloodshot eyes (i think too much)

~1.9k words, bellarook (pre-relationship), hurt/comfort. one thing to know about me is that i love an antivan crow who is scared to navigate sincere interpersonal relationships but tries anyway. title is from “losing streak” by paper planes. spoilers for the act 2 datv quest “the demon’s bargain” since this takes place immediately after it

The dust hasn’t even had a chance to settle after the last demon has been slain before Bellara suggests “Let’s get Hamuel and Yenarel back to camp.”

“Shouldn’t we go after Cyrian first?” Russo asks, startled. It would only make sense to solve this problem first, since it’s reared its head now. They can keep going, and the other Veil Jumpers could find these two soon enough—

Bellara first answers with silence, and coming from her that says plenty before any actual words can. By the time he’s turned to look at her properly, she’s rearranged whatever expression she’d had before into something… not flat, but trying to be. It’s too dark to manage that.

“He’s gone,” she says finally. Then, with a quick breath and a peppier tone, she adds: “C’mon. Let’s signal the others.”

Russo just nods, and he doesn’t say anything about how she had backed away from Cyrian’s outstretched hand. He can’t forget about it, though. Bellara — who grabs the nearest forearm for emphasis when explaining something exciting, who had hugged Neve after she returned from Minrathous — had recoiled from her little brother’s offer of touch.

He thinks to check in to see how she’s feeling, now that the worst is over. It’s only when he tries to think of what to say, though, that he realizes he doesn’t know where to even start.

Instead, he offers to help set up the signal flare.

⁂

“We need to stop him. No matter what.”

It isn’t an easy conversation for anyone involved. Cyrian was supposed to be dead, and all of the Veil Jumpers who’d known about him had believed that he was. But since he’s apparently alive and working for a Forgotten One, the conversation must be had. Strife is, Russo thinks, trying to be gentle as he talks about what needs to be done, but there’s no doubt in his voice.

“I know, Strife, but…” Bellara still leaves uncertain space around her words, even as she lifts her chin to speak. “I can get through to him. I know I can.”

Irelin voices the thought that had crossed Russo’s mind immediately: “And… if you can’t?”

Bellara’s expression falls, and her gaze goes down with it. At first, Russo thinks she’s gathering her thoughts before answering. As the silence goes on a little longer, he assumes she’s gathering her strength instead. It wouldn’t be surprising.

But then, she finally lifts her eyes again. She looks to him, not to Irelin or even to Strife. There’s strain written all across her face, from the thin line of her lips to the crease between her eyebrows where they’re trying to knit together. His stomach drops as though the earth has started to crumble away under his feet.

“Right,” he says, then realizes that he’s said it. He looks toward the other two and gives a quick nod. “Come on. We should head back to the Lighthouse.”

It isn’t a graceful exit, but it’s a necessary one. Neither of the other Veil Jumpers argue, and Russo turns to follow Bellara, who’d started marching toward the Eluvian as soon as he’d suggested returning.

They don’t say anything during the trip back, as short as the trip from Arlathan Forest to the Lighthouse is. By virtue of her quick pace, Bellara leads the way forward, and Russo isn’t about to ask her to slow down. He wouldn’t know what to say to her even if he could ask, and that’s assuming she would listen.

Something aches between his ribs, the pain present since he realized he didn’t know what to say to comfort her.

Comfort, in his experience, is hard to come by. He’s long since taught himself how to get by with a brave face and a focus on other things. That doesn’t mean, though, that he can’t recognize that Bellara is clearly trying to keep herself together in the wake of so much earth-shattering news. She needs comfort right now. He can’t just leave her to deal with this alone.

She disappears into the Eluvian to return to the Lighthouse while he’s still thinking. Losing sight of her makes that ache throb, and he picks his pace up into a run.

She’s kept her purposeful stride, which means she’s halfway out of the chamber by the time Russo catches up. “Bellara, wait,” he calls as soon as he sees her again, hoping to get her attention even if she doesn’t stop.

But then, she does. She doesn’t turn to face him, but she does stop walking. He slows to a stop just one pace behind her, but his heart keeps going as though in a dead sprint.

“…Bellara,” he repeats. “I’m… I…” Try as he might, he can’t find the words to follow up.

But he could put a hand on her shoulder. Would she appreciate that, when she’d backed away from Cyrian’s hand?

“C… Can I…?” The words still aren’t coming, so he tries anyway. He reaches his hand out to rest on the back of her upper arm. It would be easy for her to shrug him away if she didn’t want him there. The warmth of her skin seeps through her shirt and his thin glove.

She moves suddenly, and he takes his hand back. Surprisingly, he realizes he can see her face; she’s looking up at him again, her eyes glittering and her chin wobbling dangerously from the intense curve of her frown—

He has just long enough to register her expression before it’s been hidden in his shoulder, and her arms are wrapped around his ribs.

Stunned, he stands rigidly in place as he takes stock of what’s happened. Not only had Bellara not actually shrugged his touch away, but now she was pressed against him with her whole body. Her hands had curled into fists and found purchase on his cape, and she’s holding onto him as though letting go would mean drifting away. It doesn’t quite make sense. Not, at least, until a keening sob escapes her, and she buries her face further into his shoulder.

He realizes, then, that his heart is still pounding.

He realizes as well, shortly afterward, that Bellara is trembling a little against him.

With a shuddering exhale — had he been holding his breath? — he’s able to command his limbs again, and he wraps her in a hug of his own, arms securely around her shoulders. She makes another little noise as he does, a gasp in between sobs, but she doesn’t try to move away at all. Instead, she burrows against him even closer. Encouraged, he closes his eyes and bows his head a little, resting it against hers.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers.

She says something that’s probably meant to be an answer, but it’s lost in the fabric of his cape. No matter. He tightens his grip in a squeeze for a moment before giving slack again, to reaffirm for her that his words were true.

Somehow she starts crying harder in response, which sends a bolt of panic through him. He doesn’t have the benefit of practice to know whether or not this is a bad sign, or if there’s anything he isn’t doing that he should be doing. However, she doesn’t let him go even as she weeps, and so he holds on just as she does.

“…‘Msorry,” she mumbles after some time.

“Hey,” he answers, his voice gentle. “It’s all right.”

“I-I know you… don’t like to touch…”

It’s true, and he knows she knows that. He also knows she’s prone to forgetting things, although she’s been consistent about asking for permission before touching him, ordinarily. More than that, though, he knows this — her dead brother appearing in the flesh to tell her he’s been killing her fellow Veil Jumpers under the orders of a Forgotten One — is far an ordinary circumstance.

“It’s all right,” he repeats. “You’re all right. I… I think you need this.”

Bellara sniffles, then nods against his shoulder. “Yeah…” Her voice catches on the single syllable, and another sob follows it.

“I’m here,” he swears.

That must be the right thing to say, because even as she hides her face once more, he can feel the tension in her shoulders ebb away little by little. He keeps her close, as close as she needs, as her crying becomes more and more quiet.

Time always feels a little strange in proximity of the Eluvian. He could have already been holding her for a few minutes or a few hours, or even a few days, and he wouldn’t know the difference. As long as she’s solid in his arms like this, he doesn’t think it matters too much.

By a certain point, she’s stopped trembling but still hasn’t let go. Russo starts to wonder if she’s now just crying silently. Hoping to help without rushing her, he shifts his weight slowly from one foot to the other, bringing her with him as he moves. She leans into him more, he notices, as he starts to sway like this.

“Feeling any better?” he asks, a little cautiously still.

“A little.” He hadn’t been expecting her voice to sound as clear as it does — she isn’t back to normal yet, and he wouldn’t expect her to be, but her tears must have stopped.

He stops swaying and lifts his head away from hers, and she lifts her head out of his shoulder as well. The red in and around her eyes brings the ache he’d felt earlier to the fore once again. When he looks at the rest of her face, though, despite the tear tracks across her face and the texture of his cape imprinted onto her cheek, he finds a soft smile. Soft and, most importantly, free from the effort of trying to hold herself together.

“You look better.”

“Pfff.” He hadn’t meant the remark as a joke, but he doesn’t stop her from laughing. “No, I don’t,” she continues. “I’m sure I look like a mess. O-Oh, no, I just cried all over you…”

Ah. She’s already three emotions ahead of him again. “Bellara, it’s all right,” he assures. “Like I said, you needed this. I really don’t mind.”

She opens her mouth like she’s about to correct him, but something seems to make her second-guess that approach. Instead, she blinks, and then that soft smile returns. “Okay. …Thanks, Rook. I really, really did. Need this, I mean.”

“I’m glad I could help.” He finds himself smiling, too, the feeling comfortable in his cheeks.

He feels her grip on his cape loosen; taking this as a cue, he finally lets go of the hug. Almost immediately her absence leaves him feeling cooler, the emptiness of the space she no longer occupies now a tangible thing. She doesn’t stray far just yet, and she first wipes at her face with her hands, then puts her hands behind her back, the way she does when she’s thinking.

“Do you… Do you want some tea?” she asks. “I should probably have something to drink, after all of that. We could ask Manfred to make some. I bet he’d like to.”

Oh. She doesn’t want to part ways just yet. “Sure. Tea sounds really good.”

He’s ready to follow her out to the courtyard, but she falls into step beside him. The flapping bird of his heart finally calms as they walk out of the chamber together.

[grandline-fics]

Forget-Me-Not

DESCRIPTION: Sometimes things happen beyond our control. After an accident occurs your relationship with Zoro is turned on its head and changed forever.

WARNINGS: nothing too bad in this part

CHARACTERS: Zoro

WORDS: 2,094

A/N: Chapter three is here, this one is a bit slower paced but hopefully you all like how things are progressing. Thank you all for your response to this so far, it means a lot.

*REQUESTS ARE OPEN*

MASTERLIST | PROMPT LIST

Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three(here) | Chapter Four | Chapter Five | Chapter Six | Chapter Seven(coming soon)

———————

Your plan to escape the ship was easy in theory but slow to even begin to execute. Since you were still heavily injured from the ‘accident’ you needed to rest. So far you could manage getting in and out of bed and walk a little but anything more strenuous than that left you exhausted and sore even with Chopper’s medicine. As much as you were reluctant to compliment a pirate you had to admit the little reindeer knew his stuff and he had helped you considerably. So far since waking on their ship, he was the one you had the most contact with. 

The only other person so far you dealt with was Sanji who brought you your meals. He didn’t speak much beyond a greeting and explaining what was in the food. You knew there was more he wanted to say but he didn’t. While you slowly picked at and ate the food given you would observe Sanji talk happily with Chopper, giving him his meal before leaving again. 

You found it peculiar that the others you could hear moving around the ship were so hesitant to come and try to convince you they were your friends. As you ate with Chopper one afternoon you finally asked him about it. Your question seemed to surprise him but he explained. “Everyone knows how much you hated pirates until you joined us so they’re giving you the space you want. Even though they miss you and want to visit you, they don’t want you to feel crowded.” 

It was convincing, you weren’t going to lie. Whatever these pirates wanted from you, they were doing their best to get you on their side. Still though, to believe you would willingly join a pirate crew was idiotic. You chose not to make any comment to Chopper’s explanation but after a moment you caught him staring at you, clearly wanting to say or ask you something but was deliberating the decision. It amused you to see he was so uncertain around you. “What is it Chopper?”

“Wo-would you…would you want to have some visitors now?” You could hear the eager, hopeful tone in Choppers voice and saw the way his eyes all but sparkled. Who was it specifically he wanted you to talk to you wondered. Or was he hoping to get a break from his obligations to taking care of you? You were curious about the other inhabitants of the ship so you gave Chopper your best tiny shrug and small smile. “Maybe one or two would be okay…” You barely finished the sentence before Chopper excitedly bounced to his feet and hurried out of the room, his speed startling you. 

You had no choice but to wait for Chopper to return and at the sound of footsteps coming from the hallway you glanced up to the door he’d left open during his quick exit. However it wasn’t Chopper that appeared like you were expecting. The green haired man that spoke to you when you woke passed by and at first you thought he was going to keep walking but on seeing the door was open he glanced in out of idle reflex and seeing you he stopped immediately. He turned his head to face you properly but made no further move to enter the room or speak. Instead he watched you carefully. “You coming in?” You asked evenly.

“Do I need to?” He asked, his voice as deep as it had been the day you woke but the concern was gone. He seemed to be on guard and you couldn’t help but tilt your head curiously at the sudden shift in attitude. 

“Didn’t Chopper go get you?” You knew the answer was no from the way his eyebrows furrowed and shoulders tensed. Still you continued to clarify. “I told him I’d let some of you visit me.”

“Even with no memories?” He asked and you scowled at the suspicion in his tone, your jaw clenching when he even went so far as to fold his arms across his chest. His good eye scanned you critically and you bristled. How dare he judge you? He was the pirate here, not you. “Why would you want to be in the same room as the people you hate?” 

“Well according to Chopper we’re all one big happy family and for a moment I wanted to see for myself if that was true.” You drawled sarcastically as you pulled yourself out of the bed and slowly shuffled towards the doorway as you glared up at him. Your actions weren’t any of his business anyway. “So, you going to come in here and fill my head with stories of adventures and friendship that’ll withstand anything?”

“Not with that attitude I’m not.” His answer made your eyes narrow. Before you could grit out a reply, hurried footsteps sounded and you looked into the hallway to see Chopper, a woman with orange hair and a male with black hair and a straw hat appear. The trio came to an abrupt halt when they saw you and their friend, all of their expressions differing from the other as they took in the scene and tension. Finally the green haired man broke the silence. “Enjoy your visits.” He muttered and was about to walk when you seethed, refusing to let him have the final word. 

“I’ve changed my mind.” You snapped, slamming the door sharply and returning to your bed while you listened to the two new strangers shout. 

“Goddamn it Zoro! What did you say?!” The female’s voice came angrily. So his name was Zoro, you thought as you settled against the pillows. 

“Were you annoyed we were going to see them first?” You bit back a scoff and rolled your eyes at the second voice. As if he wanted to be part of the visiting crew, his whole presence told you he didn’t want to see you and that suited you fine. The less pirates you had to see and make nice to the better. “If you say sorry they might change their mind.”

“Just drop it Luffy.” Zoro’s voice spoke clearly but you could hear the tiredness in his tone as his heavy steps grew fainter. “Saying sorry won’t change anything.” You tried to listen for more but he’d gone with the others following him closely. 

—————

In the middle of the night you felt too restless to even try and sleep. Nothing you’d thought of had helped and now you were just frustrated. Giving up you pulled yourself out of bed and followed the hallway until you were on the Sunny’s deck. It’d been a week since your confrontation with Zoro and since then your recovery had progressed at a decent pace that you could now walk further without feeling the strain. In that time each of the Strawhats had come to see you. 

Luffy and Nami got a second attempt the day after the disaster. You found their dynamic amusing but Luffy’s boundless energy and extreme optimism that your memories would definitely return was exhausting. Thankfully Nami’s sterner approach to her Captain helped rein him in when his enthusiasm was clearly getting to be too much for you. Sanji began to stay a little longer between your meals and you found it slightly easier to talk to him since you were more familiar with him just as you were with Chopper. 

Usopp surprised you by telling about his friend back home who was sick often and relied on him for stories to distract her and keep her spirits high. He gave you the same treatment, telling you stories of the ‘great captain Usopp’ all of them over embellished and having nothing to do with you or your connection to the crew. Robin was quieter and for the first couple of visits didn’t speak much, merely bringing a couple books in case you wanted to read while she brought one for herself to pass the time when you weren’t in the mood for conversation. Thankfully she was similar to Usopp, not forcing the conversation of your past or prodding into your lack of memories. 

Franky and Brook unnerved you on your first meetings with them. A cyborg and a talking skeleton were huge things to have to absorb for anyone. You managed to force yourself to push through that adjustment. You kept telling yourself that you wouldn’t have to be dealing with this obscure crew for long. You’d overheard Nami mention an island coming up and that would be your chance at getting home. Your patience would be rewarded, you just had to hold out a little longer. 

For now though, your focus was on your lack of sleep this night. You weren’t in the mood to stay out on the deck so you climbed the extra set of steps and walked into the galley, not surprised to see it empty and quiet. Flicking on the light you approached the cabinets and let out a small laugh to see the prominent lock on the fridge. Chopper had told you Luffy liked to steal food and Sanji had taken precautions to keep him away. Since you weren’t exactly hungry and didn’t know the code, you turned and flicked the light off again. You were about to leave when you heard two voices coming from the mast leading to the Crow’s Nest. 

“You’re an even bigger dumbass than I originally thought, you know that?” It surprised you to hear Sanji speak so coldly. “What are you trying to prove by being the only person to not see them.”

“Keep you stupid face out of my business and stick to what you do know.” Ah that explained it, Zoro was the reason. 

“Look we’re not stupid…well most of us aren’t stupid.” Sanji growled out as though his less aggressive tone was causing him harm. He was desperately trying to get his rival to see sense but it was next to impossible. “We know they don’t know us anymore and it’s hard but we’re all still trying. Just because it’s not the same doesn’t mean we just throw it all away. Not when it’s possible we can create a friendship with them again.”

“Well if you want to try that then you go right ahead.” Zoro’s tone was sharp and dismissive. “The first chance they get, they’ll be gone. If they’d half their strength back they would have already tried to steal the Mini Merry by now.”

“I’m not disagreeing but can’t you at least-”

“Look I’ve said it before and I’m saying it again. Back off and leave me to deal with things on my own.” With nothing more to say Zoro stalked away to his room while Sanji let out a sigh and climbed the Crow’s Nest to start his watch.

Thankfully you managed to make it back to the medical quarters while Sanji’s back was turned to you. Silently you processed the conversation you’d unintentionally listened in on. There was no denying the sincerity and insistence in Sanji’s voice as he tried to convince Zoro to not distance himself. Zoro’s cold demeanour was something you couldn’t really decipher because you knew nothing about him. You knew nothing of these people apart from what they allowed you to see in your brief interactions. Sharply you sighed and sat on your bed, this wasn’t the plan. Trying to work out these people was a complication. Over and over you told yourself that home and only the home you remembered was your goal. 

You were certain you wouldn’t get any sleep now so you reached over and turned on your bedside lamp and looked at the small pile of books that had gathered. According to Robin these were your current favourites or at least they were before the knowledge of them were erased. Your eyes were drawn to one near the bottom. Its cracked spine showed it had been reread countless times so you reached out and lifted it. 

Blankly you studied the cover, not surprised but still disappointed that it gave you no emotional response, no familiarity or fondness to be holding it again. As you settled back in your bed you opened the book to the first page but your movement made something appear between the pages towards the end of the book. A small card had been used as a bookmark and curiously you pulled it out to inspect it. It was for your birthday and your eyes locked in on the short message beneath your name. “Love always, Zoro.”

------------------------------------------------

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[battydora]

some my hero academia men (pro heroes) trying their hand at pegging ♡

masterlist | rules

nsfw ahead, minors dni !

characters: small might, endeavor, sir nighteye, hawks

content: nsfw, pegging, sub!heroes, afab!reader, fem!reader, strap on, safe word-ing, healthy sex, fluff

small might: he is very nervous at first, mostly scared he might feel pain but you make sure to vanish all his worries away. lubing his ass took some time, because that area has never been explored before, not even by toshinori. “let's put that ass to use, shall we?” you tease playfully as you push your strap carefully and slowly inside him. he was laying on his tummy and he couldn't help but moan into the pillow he was holding onto for dear life, you pushing your way through his tight walls so slowly was painful yet satisfying. his toes twirled the more inside you got, gasping english expressions such as "oh-my-god" or "shit". once you filled him up entirely you made sure to check on him. "babe, are you okay?" he flashed a thumbs up at the question "can i move?" you saw him nod, he seemed so quiet, from embarrassment probably "don't worry, mommy will make ya feel good", you gently began to thurst into him, catching a pace you were both comfortable with, you couldn't see it right now but toshinori was already so sensitive and overstimulated, all of his senses were on peak, you weren't even going fast but your thrusts didn't last long. "california, california!" he moaned his safe word. toshinori let out a huge sigh when you stopped moving, he wished he could continue, he wished he could take all of you, but it was too much, he was too nervous. he hid his face with embarrassment as you pulled out from his ass carefully in a slow motion "i'm sorry... i really wanted to do this, but i'm not ready" "don't be sorry, silly! we can try this again when you are. you still took a lot in so bravely like the good boy you are, i'm proud of ya', babe."

endeavor: "i swear if i don't like this..." dealing with a man whose fragile masculinity was as high as his ego, wasn't easy we must admit. you both agreed to try this sometime despite enji being somewhat puzzled about the thought of a woman fucking his ass. it just sounded so... unnatural. but things change, todoroki, now you are laying on your tummy beneath (y/n) as she gets your ass ready for what's coming. "you can always safe word if you want" "yes, whatever...". once ready, you slowly introduced yourself into his tight hole, giving yourself support on the hero's lower back. with the face buried in the pillow, enji remained quiet, he didn't seem bothered at first, but as you fastened you pace, you dedicided to ask "enji, are you ok?" but you didn't receive a clear response, as far as you were worried, you rubbed his upper back with gentleness "enji-?" you stopped speaking when you saw the man rested the side of his face on the pillow, that was something you've never seen before, his face tinted in crimson red, teeth clenching and eyes frowned from complete arousal, you could swear you saw some tears threatening to fall off his eyes. before you could ask anything else, the todoroki lifted his hips towards the strap as he gripped the sheets, looking directly at you "d-deeper, please". a devilish smirk appeared on your face at the view "you naughty little thing" you said as your hips thrusted further and faster, stealing moans and incoherent pleas and sentences from the man each second, "you like your ass being fucked so much you can't even formulate a coherent sentence. number one, i'm going to have to teach you a thing or two about speech~". enji fantasizes about this everyday now.

sir nighteye: he is shy okay? but not innocent. mirai had already fantasized about you pegging him but he remained uncertain about how he should ask you and explain the huge strap on he bought for you to use on him. certainly he didn't expect to be roughly pushed to his desk, legs being spread open as you placed yourself behind him. "h-hun i'm not sure if we should do this here..." he tried to get any excuse to try and stay reasonable but having his chest pressed against the desk, wrists being held against his back and a boner aching inside his pants made the task difficult for the hero. the strap was recently bought and it was in his office, he didn't even get the chance to drop it home and wait for you to talk about sexual intimacy. you were there to supposedly drop some paperwork at his agency and go back to work but your day turned out to be much more interesting the moment you asked your partner what was inside that purple bag next to his chair. "oh come on, both of us have the most busy schedules already, we barely spend time home. consider this your lunch break~" your hands released mirai's and unzipped his pants, shamelessly pulling them down along his underwear, his legs were tense as arousal spread to every corner of his being. you reached the bag and took a view "wow look at the size, you even bought lube too. shit, aren't you ashamed of being this perverted, mirai?" you mocked as you squished his slim ass, he shut his mouth at the motion, he prayed to everything to not be caught like this, it would ruin him completely. and you knew it. playing these risky games pushed both to a new adrenaline level. you took your time to finger his ass to get it ready for the big thing, so the moment you put the strap and introduced it in him, it slided perfectly. you took it slow of course, mirai rested his forehead on the desk moaning softly trying to get used to the feeling, you had to cover his mouth after a while, you could really get caught for how loud he got. it was a better sensation than he expected.

hawks: i can't stress this enough: hawks. loves. anal. play. he finds way more satisfaction and fulfillment playing with his ass than just orgasm to genital stimulation so the strap idea came to him early. having him laying on his tummy for you for the first time was such a view, toned back adorned with wonderful crimson wings, lower back arched and hips lifting for you, silently pleading for your attention. keigo's body was tense when you first introduced the strap, but on the inside, he was very excited; you have played with his ass before so he entirely trusted you to move forward. "my little bird, how is it going?" you ask, griping his hips tightly and sliding in him so slowly and romantically passionate "oh, it's great, babe. fill me up, fill me up with your cock~" he pleads with a smile adorning his face "yeah? you want mommy's cock? will you be able to handle it?" "yes, yes! all of it, please- i'm your good boy, i can handle anything you give me~" his words almost made you melt, he was adorable when he begged for you like that "okay, if that's what my sweet boy wants, who am i to refuse?" those were your last words before giving your loving boyfriend the night of his life, full of pegging and pleasure just for him ♡.

[orionremastered]

Heyyy!

I just wanted to put in a request for part 2 of your Damian x surgical intern reader? (If that’s not too much to ask - I loved it so much!!)

~🌼

PLEASE SEND ME MORE ASKS THEY MAKE ME HAPPY

Masterlist

Surgeon!Damian Wayne x Surgical Resident!reader

Part One, Part Two

You were, decidedly, over it. After a ten hour long heart transplant- unusually long- you could feel your every breath, every blink, and every move you made was slow and manual. Dr. Wayne- no, Damian- was more exhausted than you could imagine.

When he stumbles, you grab his shoulders quickly to stop him falling. It takes him a second to stand upright again and thank you with a set of lethargic nods.

“You don’t look like you can drive home,” you tell him as you follow him out the OR, close behind in the event that he stumbles again.

“I’m fine,” he grumbles, and you can only sigh at the stubborn man’s words.

“At least let me drive you home so you don’t cause an accident,” you insist, moving in front of him to ‘block’ his path.

Narrowed eyes and a grunt are all that follow for a few seconds after, regarding you with tired confusion. Did he seriously expect you to just let him drive home and cause an accident? To end up like the heart donor who was driving too fast and couldn’t be saved?

“Alright, fine.” He gives in, letting you lead him to the car park begrudgingly.

He unlocks his car, an expensive car by the looks of it, though you don’t know what kind- and gets into the passenger seat as you get behind the wheel.

“Wait.” his words are drawls now. “What about your-”

“I take the metro,” you reply, starting the car and driving out into the dark streets of Gotham.

Damian frowns, but in a few seconds, his head rests against the window and his eyes are closed, face relaxed for the first time that day.

It puts a soft smile onto your face when you see it, but then you realized you don’t know where he lives. And you can’t bring yourself to wake him up and ask.

You arrive at your building, gently coaxing Damian’s half-awake self, barely coherent when he mumbles something about his head. It’s certainly a challenge to get the man up the stairs since the elevator’s out of service as someone was murdered inside, but once you get him inside your (in all honesty, not even average sized) apartment, you have an odd choice to make.

He won’t fit on the couch- you have to crane your neck up to look at him, for crying out loud- but it’s awkward having a stranger in your bed, no?

Give the man a break, your mind chides. He’s worked too hard to be squished on the cheapest couch you could find.

Giving in, you let him drape across your bed, covering him with the blanket after taking off his shoes. You eat a pre-prepared meal, have a long and hot shower before finally being able to fall asleep.

You’re trying to get a blanket from the top of the closet, standing on your tiptoes as you attempt to wrestle the darn thing out when Damian drowsily speaks up from behind you.

“What’s the fuss? Just sleep here,” and now you’re uncertain if you’ve really got the world’s scariest attending surgeon in you apartment or not.

“No-no, it’s okay, just go back to sleep, you must be exhausted,” you reply, returning to the blanket that refuses to cooperate.

Damian huffs, and that was the end of that.

Until he gets up and drags you into your bed, arms wrapped tightly around you waist as he settles once more.

“You shouldn’t sleep on the couch,” he murmurs into your shoulder, lips brushing your skin gently when he talks. “It’ll hurt your neck.”

Damian had a point, but this wasn’t an option you were going to consider, but now that it was happening, you weren’t exactly opposed to it. It’s been a while since you’d been held like this, and it was... nice. Nice enough to make you drift off into sleep.

BONUS

You’d never know that at four in the morning, Damian awoke. Still tired, admittedly, but instantly aware of you in his arms.

A smile crossed is face as he watched you sleep, admiring your features as well as he could in the dark; your lashes, hair, nose, and (most importantly) your lips.

He admired them as long as he could before his eyes grew too heavy and he fell asleep for much needed rest.

[damiiimidassss]

I'm right here...

I woke up with a gasp, my chest heaving as if I had just surfaced from drowning. My body trembled, tears streaming down my face as I clutched the blanket, trying to calm myself. But it was no use, the nightmare was too suffocating too heavy for me to handle.

I couldn’t breathe.

My fingers curled into the fabric, my breath coming in sharp, shallow gasps. The room felt too small, the walls pressing in on me. My ears started to ring.

“Lotus?”

The sound of his voice broke through the haze, and I turned to see Chung Myung sitting up, his eyes half-lidded but instantly alert. He rubbed the back of his neck, his brow furrowing as he took in the sight of me.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, his voice softer now, tinged with concern.

He moved closer, his hand hovering near mine, uncertain. “Are you hurt?”

I shook my head, unable to form words. The lump in my throat was too big, the weight in my chest too crushing.

“Breathe,” he said firmly, his voice anchoring me in the chaos. “Slowly. In and out.”

I tried, but my breath hitched again, a sob tearing through me. My body shook harder, and I couldn’t stop it.

Without hesitation, he reached out and pulled me into his arms. The sudden warmth of his embrace was shocking, his hand steady as it rested on the back of my head. He didn’t speak at first, just held me close, his chest rising and falling in a calm rhythm.

“Match my breathing,” he murmured against my hair. “Come on. In… and out. Just like that.”

His voice was like a balm, steady and unyielding, and I clung to it desperately. I tried to follow his lead, my breaths uneven at first but gradually slowing as I focused on the rise and fall of his chest.

“That’s it,” he said softly, his hand brushing soothingly along my back. “You’re okay. I’m here.”

I felt the tears come harder, hot and unrelenting, but the panic was beginning to subside.

His presence, his voice it was enough to pull me back from the edge.

We sat like that for what felt like an eternity, the silence between us broken only by the sound of my uneven breaths and his quiet reassurances.

When I finally pulled back, my face was wet and blotchy, my body still trembling. His hands stayed on my shoulders, his sharp eyes scanning my face.

“Are you going to tell me what that was about?” he asked gently, but his tone left no room for evasion.

I hesitated, my gaze dropping to the floor. “It was just… a bad dream,” It was the half truth.

“Lotus,” he said, his tone firmer this time. “You were crying so hard you couldn’t breathe. That wasn’t just a dream.”

I bit my lip, my nails digging into my palms. “It’s nothing,” I said quietly, refusing to meet his gaze. “Im fine now.”

His fingers tightened slightly on my shoulders, not enough to hurt, but enough to make me look up at him. His eyes were searching, piercing, as if he could see straight through me.

“You don’t have to tell me everything,” he said after a long pause, his voice softening again. “But don’t lie to me.”

The guilt twisted in my stomach, but I couldn’t say it. I couldn’t tell him that being near him sometimes felt like drowning, like my chest was too tight and my heart couldn’t keep up. That I loved him so much it suffocated me, but I would accept it, even if it killed me.

He didn’t need to carry that burden, and I wouldn’t let him.

“I’m fine,” I said again, forcing a weak smile. “Really.”

He sighed, his hands dropping from my shoulders. “You’re impossible,” he muttered, but there was no anger in his tone just exasperation and a hint of something softer.

“I know,” I said, trying to lighten the mood, though my voice still wavered.

He shook his head, reaching out to ruffle my hair. “Get some sleep,” he said, his tone more commanding than gentle. “I’ll stay awake for you.”

I blinked at him. “You don’t have to—”

“Just sleep,” he interrupted, lying back down next to me without another word.

I hesitated but followed as my eyes closed, I silently promised myself that no matter how much it hurt, no matter how suffocating it became, I would stay by his side. Even if it meant breaking a little more each day.

--------------------

(Had a nightmare and thought its a good scenario for my oc, but readers can also imagine this as themselves)

[atlasthegreatest]

Birds of a Feather / Cassandra Cain x Sibling! Gender Neutral reader

After failing to get their revenge, Y/n is taken into custody, restrained in the Bat Cave. Cassandra still burdened with guilt, insist on staying close to help them heal, despise their lingering resentment.

Over time, Y/n begins to confront their pain and trauma, but the path to healing is long and uncertain, with trust slowly being rebuilt between them and Cassandra.

Part.2 of Shadows of the Past

— The Road to Reconciliation —

Y/n initially refuses any help or emotional connection, remaining cold and distant. Over time, however, they reluctantly accept the presence of the Bat Family. Cassandra is patient, staying by their side without trying too hard, hoping that time will soften their anger.

Despite their hatred, Y/n cannot deny their admiration for the Bat Family’s abilities. They begin training with them—at first out of curiosity, then as a way to channel their anger and trauma. The training becomes a subtle bridge for them to connect, especially with Dick and Jason, both of whom have experienced dark paths.

Cassandra, being a woman of few words, is unapologetic about leaving them behind, but her actions speak volumes. She is always nearby, offering food, mending wounds, and protecting them during patrols.

Y/n notices, but doesn’t acknowledge it at first—until one day, they silently allow Cassandra to bandage them after a difficult mission.

Y/n harbors resentment towards Batman—in this case, Bruce—seeing him as a “replacement” for David Cain in Cassandra’s life. They frequently question Bruce’s motives, challenging his authority. Over time, Bruce tries to prove that he is nothing like their father, but trust is slow to build.

As they spend more time in Gotham, Y/n eventually adopts a new vigilante identity. They are reluctant at first, seeing it as too closely tied to the Bat Family, but it becomes a way for them to carve out their own purpose. They take on a codename that reflects both their past and their desire to forge a new path.

Jason becomes Y/n’s unexpected confidant. Both have been shaped by anger and betrayal and have found common ground in their experiences. Jason doesn’t pressure them to open up but instead shares his own story of loss and anger, which helps them feel less alone.

Dinners with the Bat Family are a constant struggle. Y/n hates the idea of ​​“family” meals, but shows up anyway, mostly to scoff at the whole concept. And despite the sarcasm, they slowly find themselves drawn into the strange yet warm family dynamic.

Eventually, Y/n is forced to confront the deep trauma David Cain left behind. With Cassandra’s support, they attend therapy sessions, though it’s a rocky road. Some days they can’t bear to think about the past, and other days, they’re overwhelmed by memories. But Cassandra is always there when they return, no matter how bad it gets.

As time goes on, Y/n begins to show small signs of trust—like letting Cassandra cover for them on patrol or asking for advice on missions. These moments are rare, but they mark a shift in their relationship, hinting at the possibility of reconciliation.

Even after months or years, the tension remains between Cassandra and Y/n, but it’s no longer driven purely by hatred. Their bond, though fragile, begins to grow stronger, with an unspoken understanding that while their past is painful, their future doesn’t have to be.

Initially, Y/n challenges Cassandra to fight out of anger, hoping to prove they are stronger or release their frustration.

These sessions are brutal and emotionally charged. However, as time passes, the matches become less about anger and more about communication—a wordless dialogue where they begin to understand each other better through the shared language of combat.

As their relationship slowly reforms, there are rare moments when Y/n and Cassandra talk about their childhood. Though painful for both of them, it becomes a way to confront their shared trauma. Sometimes, they sit together in silence, reliving memories of their harsh upbringing under David Cain.

These moments are raw and difficult for both of them, but they help to break down the emotional barriers between them.

— Finding Their Own Purpose —

After a particularly grueling mission, Y/n begins to question their place in Gotham. They don’t want to be defined by their past or their relationship with Cassandra. With Bruce’s guidance, they explore different avenues of heroism. Eventually, they begin working independently, operating in the shadows of Gotham while remaining closely tied to the Bat Family.

This gives them a sense of agency and allows them to build their identity beyond Cassandra.

Alfred, with his quiet wisdom, slowly becomes a comforting presence for Y/n. At first, they are wary of him, but his gentle, nonjudgmental support helps them open up—if only a little.

He offers them tea after patrols, listens when they need to vent, and subtly gives advice, often without them even realizing it. Over time, they come to deeply respect him, even if it’s not true. They never admit it openly.

One night, after a particularly intense mission, Y/n finds Cassandra alone in the Batcave, quietly working on her equipment. They say nothing, but they sit next to her, offering her a first aid kit for a wound she hadn’t treated. It’s a small gesture, but in their world, it speaks volumes. Cassandra understands—it’s the closest thing to an apology they could offer, and she silently accepts.

Inspired by her trauma, Y/n begins working to protect vulnerable children in Gotham, particularly those who have been abused or abandoned. At first, they don’t talk about it, but the Bat Family realizes that they’re taking extra care about these cases. It’s their way of processing their pain, turning it into something good, though they’ll never admit that helping others helps them too.

As their relationship begins to heal, Y/n becomes fiercely protective of Cassandra, even if they don’t show it openly. They begin to show up during her missions unexpectedly, keeping a watchful eye on her from the shadows.

Although they still harbor some resentment, the thought of losing her again terrifies them, and they refuse to let her face danger alone.

— The final confrontation between siblings —

One night, after a difficult mission that brings back painful memories, Y/n snaps, confronting Cassandra once again about the past. It’s not a physical fight this time, but an emotional outburst where they expose their feelings of abandonment, fear, and anger. And this time, instead of defending herself, Cassandra listens. She acknowledges their pain without trying to justify her actions, and it’s the turning point they both need. That day marked the beginning of true healing between them.

– Their Sibling Dynamics –

Both Cassandra and Y/n were raised in an environment where words were secondary to action. As a result, they communicate more through body language than verbal exchanges. This allows them to understand each other in ways that no one else in the Bat Family can.

A look, a subtle shift in posture, or a slight hesitation can convey entire conversations. Their fights, training sessions, and even their moments of bonding are filled with an unspoken understanding.

Despite their resentment, the brother realizes that Cassandra is the only person who truly understands what they have been through. This creates a reluctant dependence on her. They may not trust anyone else, but they reluctantly accept that Cassandra understands their trauma and pain more than anyone else. There are times when they find themselves relying on her during missions or emotional breakdowns, even though it frustrates them to need her.

Just as Cassandra is protective of her brother, they are equally protective of her, though they express it differently. Whenever Cassandra is in danger, Y/n is the first to spring into action, often more aggressively and recklessly than necessary. It is not so much out of love as it is out of a fierce, almost primal need to ensure that no one else abandons or leaves them again.

They often express this through anger: “You should be stronger than this!” But beneath their toughness lies the fear of losing her.

There is an intense rivalry between them, driven by the need to prove who is stronger, and who survived their father’s worst abuse. Sometimes this rivalry is friendly, with the two fighting and pushing each other to new limits. Other times it turns into arguments or cold silences, as they both try to cope with the idea that neither of them has been spared from their traumatic childhoods.

Their shared trauma is an unspoken and ever-present element of their relationship. Both siblings experience the horrors of David Cain’s training and manipulation, and it shapes the way they see each other.

Y/n is fiercely independent, often rebelling against Cassandra’s attempts to protect or guide them. Having lived under their father’s thumb, they refuse to be controlled or “saved” by anyone, even Cassandra.

This leads to clashes where Cassandra wants to help them, but Y/n pushes back, determined to prove they can stand on their own. Despite this, there’s a part of them that secretly craves the protection and care they never had as a child, which creates a constant internal conflict.

Both siblings are fiercely protective of each other, although they express this in different ways. Cassandra is silently protective, always watching her brother from a distance during missions, to intervene if necessary. Y/n, on the other hand, is more open and aggressive in her protection. If someone threatens Cassandra, they become excessively angry, often reacting with more violence than necessary. There are times when they both try to relate to each other in ways that seem awkward and forced. Cassandra may try to share

Tell her siblings something personal or offer to help, and they respond with sarcasm or dismissal. Other times, Y/n might try to make a joke or do something nice for Cassandra, but it comes off as harsh and uncomfortable. Neither of them is used to normal family dynamics, so these attempts often feel unnatural—but over time, they begin to get the hang of it, little by little.

Now and then, Y/n will point out an old scar or injury they received while caring for their father—sometimes accusingly, sometimes as a reminder of what they’ve been through.

Both siblings suffer from nightmares due to their traumatic upbringings. On particularly bad nights, one might find the other sitting silently in the kitchen or on the roof of the Bat Cave, unable to sleep. Without exchanging many words, they sit together, their silent companionship offering a strange form of comfort.

The journey to forgiveness is long and confusing, but it happens in small steps. Maybe Y/n will start sharing stories from her childhood, or they’ll silently step in to help her during a mission. Little by little, they let go of the anger that has fueled them for so long, realizing that Cassandra has never stopped caring about them.

Trust begins to form, fragile but real, and while their relationship is never perfect, it grows stronger every day.

– Bonus–

The Bat Family, always trying to build stronger bonds, throws Y/n a birthday party. It’s awkward and uncomfortable at first–they’re not used to any kind of celebration, much less being the center of attention. But as the night goes on, Y/n slowly begins to relax, even cracking a rare smile when they receive a handmade gift from Cassandra.

Most emotional conflicts spill over into physical combat. When words fail, they fight. Sparring is a way for them to work through their anger and frustration without completely falling apart. These sessions are intense, often bordering on brutal, but they also provide a form of release.

After a particularly heated fight, there is an unspoken understanding—neither will let the other fall too far, and even after the hardest blows, they stick together. Fighting becomes their version of emotional catharsis.

Despite the tension between them, Cassandra and Y/n work well together on missions. Their shared training with David Cain makes them a formidable team, and they can read each other’s movements instinctively.

[donttxtathebeach]

Forever & a Day| Chapter 7: the elevator

words: 2.4k

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The night outside is still, the soft hum of the waves crashing gently against the shore filling the air as Drew and Y/N settle on the couch. The faint glow of the TV screen flickers in the dimly lit living room, casting dancing shadows on the walls. They’ve been watching Mamma Mia for the past hour, the carefree music and vibrant scenes a comforting backdrop to the quiet intimacy between them. Drew, who’s been stealing glances at Y/N all evening, finally pauses the movie. The sudden silence feels almost jarring in the stillness of the room.

He turns to her, his eyes soft, but there’s a nervous energy in the way he shifts on the couch. He takes a deep breath before standing up, crossing the space between them, and sitting on the low coffee table in front of her. The action is casual, but his intent is clear. The space between them now feels charged, like a question that’s been waiting for the right moment to be asked.

“Hi,” Drew says, his voice low, steady, but carrying a vulnerability that makes Y/N’s heart flutter. She smiles, a soft blush coloring her cheeks, as she meets his gaze.

“Hi,” she whispers back, her voice barely audible but full of warmth. She can feel the weight of the moment in the air, the unspoken tension between them that’s been building for weeks, and tonight it seems to reach its peak.

Drew takes a slow, steady breath, his eyes never leaving hers. He’s sitting across from her now, close enough that she can feel the quiet intensity of his gaze, but not close enough to touch. It’s almost like he’s holding himself back, as if he’s trying to measure the weight of every word, every breath. He shifts slightly, his fingers nervously tapping the arm of the couch before he folds them together, like he’s searching for some kind of stability in a moment that feels a little overwhelming. The air between them feels charged, full of anticipation.

“I know we’ve never explicitly talked about this,” he begins, his voice low and a little rough, as though he’s still trying to convince himself that he’s saying the right thing. “But it’s been something unspoken between us for a while now. And I don’t think I can keep it in anymore. I need you to know, Y/N…” His words falter for just a moment, but the hesitation is only for a fraction of a second. The moment he speaks again, it’s like he’s found the courage to let everything pour out. “Everything with you just feels… right. I can’t explain it, and I don’t know how to make sense of it. I’ve been trying to. But sometimes, things just don’t need to be overcomplicated. It’s just there, and I can feel it every time I’m around you. It’s in the way we talk, in the way we laugh, in the way we fit together so damn easily.”

He leans forward slightly, his eyes searching hers for understanding. His hands are now resting on his knees, the muscles in his arms flexing as he holds himself steady. “We’ve been dancing around it for so long—this connection, this… whatever it is that’s been building between us. And it’s only been growing stronger with every second we spend together. I don’t know about you, but it’s been on my mind all the time. In everything I do, you’re there. And I don’t think I can go another day without saying it.”

There’s an intensity in his voice now, something raw and vulnerable that makes her heart race. He pauses for a moment, taking a breath like he’s steeling himself for what’s coming next. When he speaks again, it’s like everything that’s been building between them is finally coming to the surface, no longer something tentative or uncertain, but something certain. Something he can’t hold back anymore.

“I don’t want to keep wondering. Wondering if this—us—is something I’m imagining, something that’s too complicated or too messy to figure out. I don’t want to question whether it’s too soon, or if we’re rushing into something. Because with you, it doesn’t feel like any of those things. It feels like the most natural thing in the world. And honestly… all I ever find myself thinking about is getting to call you mine. I want those moments, Y/N. The ones where we don’t have to second-guess anything, where there’s no gray area—because we’re already in a place where there aren’t any lines anymore. We’ve already crossed them, and I don’t want to look back.”

His voice cracks slightly as he says the next part, and Y/N feels her chest tighten, as if her heart is answering him in a way that words can’t fully express.

“You’re already in my heart. You have been for a while now. And I don’t want to go another day, another minute, without saying it. Without knowing that I get to call you mine. Because that’s what I want. To wake up every day knowing I get to be the one you call your guy. To be the person who gets to hold you close, to take care of you in the simplest ways. I want to be able to say ‘you’re mine’ without hesitation or doubt, because I already know you’re in my heart, Y/N. And I don’t want to wait anymore.”

He stops then, his gaze softening as he takes in the stillness between them. The weight of his words hangs in the air, filling every inch of space. There’s a sincerity there that’s impossible to ignore. It’s raw and beautiful, vulnerable in the most honest way. Y/N feels the flood of emotions rise within her—love, tenderness, fear, relief—everything crashing together at once, yet there’s this quiet recognition too. This is real. This is what they’ve both been slowly building, the foundation of something so much deeper than either of them had anticipated. And she feels herself caught in the powerful current of it all.

Her heart beats a little faster, her breath shallow as she searches his face for the truth behind his words. She realizes, suddenly, that she’s been feeling the exact same way. All the little moments—the lingering touches, the quiet conversations, the glances shared when no one else was watching—they’ve all been leading to this moment, this unspoken truth finally being brought to the surface.

And as the silence settles between them, thick with the weight of his confession, she knows, with absolute certainty, that whatever happens next, whatever the future holds for them, this is the moment where everything changes. This is where the lines are erased, where they both stop wondering and start knowing. This is where they start being who they are together—no more waiting, no more second-guessing.

Drew’s eyes flicker with uncertainty for just a moment, as if he’s afraid that maybe his words haven’t reached her, that he’s said too much too soon. But before he can speak again, before he can question his own confession, Y/N smiles softly at him, her heart swelling with affection. And just like that, everything falls into place. The unspoken words, the silent understanding—they’re all there between them now. And the weight of it is no longer heavy—it’s freeing. And it’s real.

Before Y/N can respond, Drew stands up abruptly, his movement sharp with nervous energy. There’s a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes, a subtle shift in his posture that makes it clear how much this moment is affecting him too. He runs a hand through his hair, his fingers slightly trembling as he glances at her, almost as if he’s afraid of what he might have just said. “Hold on, I have to grab something from my car. Don’t move,” he says, the words tumbling out faster than usual. His voice is still steady, but there’s an urgency there now, a sudden need to act before the weight of the conversation completely overwhelms him.

His eyes lock with hers for a brief, intense second, as if trying to reassure her, or perhaps reassure himself, before he turns quickly and walks toward the door. The sound of his footsteps fades as he disappears out into the night, leaving Y/N alone with the quiet hum of the house around her. The door closes softly behind him, and the silence that follows is almost deafening. It’s a stillness that presses in, wrapping itself around her like a heavy blanket, thick and warm and consuming.

Y/N doesn’t move right away. She stays where she is, her body still, as her mind races to catch up with everything that’s just happened. Her chest rises and falls slowly, her breath shallow, as she lets the gravity of Drew’s words settle into her bones. He hadn’t just been speaking off the cuff. No, this wasn’t some flippant flirtation or a passing moment of affection. This was real. She can feel it in the way his words dug deep, in the honesty that vibrated in his voice, in the vulnerability he showed when he opened himself up like that.

Her hand drifts to her chest, where her heart is still thudding loudly. She presses her fingers lightly to the spot, feeling the pulse beneath her skin, almost as though it’s in sync with the beat of everything that’s been building between them. She can’t help but smile softly to herself, a quiet, private thing. The warmth that blooms inside her feels almost too big for her chest, spreading through her like something pure, something undeniable. She’s never felt anything quite like this before—this certainty, this sudden peace that comes from finally having her heart’s unspoken desire laid bare.

Her mind drifts back to Drew’s words, replaying them in slow motion. The way he had looked at her, the careful way he chose each word, like he was afraid of messing it up but couldn’t keep the truth inside any longer. “You’re already in my heart, Y/N.” That line keeps echoing in her mind, filling the space around her, expanding with every breath she takes. It’s funny—she’s always thought of herself as someone who kept her emotions in check, kept things measured and controlled, but right now, in this moment, it all feels different. This wasn’t just a crush or a passing connection. This was something real, something solid, something that had been quietly growing between them for longer than either of them had probably even realized.

Y/N exhales slowly, her eyes closing for a moment as she allows herself to sit in the silence, letting the weight of everything that’s just been said sink in. Her chest feels full, but not in an overwhelming way—in a way that makes her feel whole. She feels at home in this moment, safe in the quiet certainty that comes with knowing exactly where she stands with Drew. It’s a rare feeling, one she hasn’t had in a long time. And somehow, it makes her feel like everything is falling into place, like they’re exactly where they need to be, no more uncertainty, no more wondering if they’re on the same page. They are. They’ve always been.

For the first time in a long while, she allows herself to dream about the future, about what this might mean, where this could go. Whatever happens next, she knows one thing for sure—she’s not alone in this. Drew’s words were more than just a confession; they were an invitation to something deeper, something that’s been waiting for them both. The connection between them has always been there, simmering just beneath the surface, but now it feels like it’s been fully acknowledged. And in that, she feels an undeniable sense of peace.

She lets out a soft, contented sigh, smiling again, this time with a sense of joy and excitement. Whatever Drew is about to return with—whatever comes next—she’s ready. She’s never been more certain of anything in her life.

Before she can get lost in her thoughts too much, the door opens, and Drew strides back in. He’s holding a massive bouquet of flowers, the colors rich and vibrant against the muted tones of the room. The sight of them makes Y/N gasp, her eyes widening in delight.

“Oh my gosh… Drew,” she breathes, her voice full of awe and affection as she stands up to meet him, her heart swelling in her chest. She’s never been a fan of grand gestures, but this one? This one feels like it’s been perfectly tailored for her—sweet, thoughtful, and completely unexpected.

Drew smiles widely, his eyes shining with excitement. “So, Y/N Williams,” he says, a hint of teasing in his voice as he steps closer to her, his smile growing. “Will you be my girlfriend?”

Her heart skips a beat. She feels a rush of joy and tenderness flood through her, and without a moment’s hesitation, she steps forward, her arms wrapping around his neck as she pulls him into a kiss. “Joseph, of course I’ll be your girlfriend,” she says, her voice filled with laughter and affection, her lips lingering on his for a heartbeat longer than necessary.

When they pull apart, she takes a step back, her eyes still locked on his. She glances down at the bouquet in his hands, admiring the flowers in all their beauty. “Where do you keep getting all these flowers? It’s like you’re secretly a florist or something,” she teases, her smile playful.

Drew chuckles, the sound rich and full of warmth. He holds the bouquet out to her, his eyes full of affection as he leans in closer. “That, my love, is something I will keep secret,” he says softly, his lips brushing against hers in a kiss that feels like a promise—gentle but full of meaning.

As the kiss deepens, the world outside seems to fade away. It’s just the two of them, standing in this small, cozy living room, with the hum of the ocean in the distance and the promise of something beautiful unfolding between them. Drew’s hand cups her cheek as he pulls her closer, and Y/N melts into him, the weight of everything they’ve shared finally finding its place in this moment.

The future feels wide open now, but in this second, all that matters is that they’re here, together. And as the night stretches on, filled with quiet moments and tender kisses, Y/N knows that whatever comes next, they’ll face it as they always have—side by side, building something real. Something that, tonight, she finally gets to call hers.

[jadedxhearts]

𝐍𝐒𝐅𝐖 𝐓𝐫𝐚𝐟𝐚𝐥𝐠𝐚𝐫 𝐋𝐚𝐰 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬 #𝟕

HC's for mutual masturbation/phone sex with Law.

Warnings: afab reader, smut, partially modern au

Originally posted on May 28th, 2023

This could go two different ways; one for a modern au and one that would work for that or canon.

The latter being that you and Law are in the same room, bored out of your minds. You finally come up with a game the two of you can play, and despite feeling uncertain at first, Law eventually agrees…

The game is that you both can please yourselves however you wish, but can’t touch each other. And Law can’t use his room to take advantage of this/cheat. Whoever gives into touching the other first is the loser, and has to endure a punishment.

So Law’s in his desk chair, you’re laid back against the pillows on the bed. Both of you have your legs spread wide, giving each other a clear view of what’s going on.

Law’s still got his jeans on, though, and you’re still wearing a very thin tank top, that hides nothing, really. You could start with pinching and pulling your own nipples, letting them become hard through the fabric. It’s a turn on to Law.

Law’s palming himself through his jeans, taking it slow so that he doesn’t have to be the first one to start actually masturbating. At first, you try holding out from touching your cunt, just to tease him more, but you feel yourself aching and pulsating, needing to be touched desperately.

You’ll slide two fingers around your folds, gathering up all the slick you can before licking it off your fingers and then plunging back in for more, only now you’re slowly guiding your fingers inside yourself. A little whimper escapes, and honestly seeing Law continue to not remove his jeans pisses you off. So you use your fingers to spread your pussy lips apart, making sure he can see everything.

Law grunts, and would eventually end up giving up. He quickly releases his cock, wasting no time in starting to pump himself. With each jerk of his wrist, and every small thrust of your fingers moving into you, his cock twitches and aches. He’d honestly not be sure if he can win this game.

But, you quickly have yourself moaning loudly, your other hand rubbing circles into your clit as you try so hard to bring yourself closer to orgasm, but it’s not easy. Your fingers can’t compare to Law’s, and you want nothing more than for him to shove his long tattooed fingers inside you.

Law’s quickly losing himself, too, but is pleased to see that you’re the one to lose the game, standing up hastily to sit in his lap, rubbing your pussy along his cock without inserting it into you, begging for him to fuck you. Then, your punishment begins…

The other scenario, now. The phone sex. Law’s a surgeon, meaning he has to work late nights sometimes. On a particularly long shift that has him staying at the hospital overnight, he gets about an hour long break to eat, take a nap, whatever. But he spends it talking to you on the phone, since you called out of desperation.

He’ll ask why you’re not sleeping, and at first you’ll try to excuse it as “I just can’t fall asleep”, but Law quickly catches onto what you’re doing when your breath randomly hitches, and you pause before speaking a lot.

“You’re touching yourself, aren’t you? That desperate for me, hm?” He’ll say, beginning to palm at his hardening cock, double checking to ensure he’s locked up in the room, so that nobody can interrupt.

You’ll whine in response, beginning to whine about how you were just too horny, and needed to hear his voice as the thing to get off to. Law chuckles on the other end of the phone, and asks if you’d like for him to masturbate with you. You say yes so quickly it’s pathetic.

So then you’re in bed, knuckles deep in your cunt but not feeling satisfied enough, even with Law’s voice. Law’s sitting alone, still, his jeans unzipped just enough for his cock to hang out, and he’s slowly stroking himself, enjoying listening to the way you struggle. But clearly, you’re in need of some sort of help, so he has a suggestion for you; “how about you go get that dildo I got you for punishing you? Clearly your fingers won’t suffice.”

So you scramble to the closet of your shared bedroom, staying on the phone with Law as he tells you exactly where to find it, and you quickly do. You return to the bed and lick up the piece of plastic, wetting it with your saliva. Law then instructs you to fuck your self with it, and change over to the facetime call so he can watch.

Now your phone is propped up on a pillow, and your legs are spread before it so that Law has a clear view. He praises you and guides you along. “Put it in now… just like that, shit. S-start slow.”

The pink fake cock is about halfway in you when Law gives you a “fuck it, just shove it in there.” And you oblige, shoving the rest of it inside you, holding onto the end of it to thrust it in and out of yourself.

Law’s praises grow more breathy, and he starts to sound desperate to cum. He watches as your cunt start creaming on the dildo through the screen, your moans like music to his ears as he gets pushed over the edge, cumming into his fist with a loud whine.

And after you’re finished spilling your juices onto the bed, Law tells you to clean up and be ready for when he gets home.