#cast bronze spill | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

novaursa · 7 months ago

Note

I have way to many idea so sorry for everything I’m going to send you 👉🏼👈🏼

Aemond x Niece (maybe a Nyra x daemon before her wedding!?)

He’s obsessed with her, she represents everything he want, she’s a perfect Targaryen white hair, purple eyes, huge dragon vermithor or cannibal?

But she’s engaged to Jace and he hate the fact that she is “given” to a bastard. So he tried by all things to make her his, he wish so hard to be found with her in a bad position that they obliged them to get married.

He make sure that Larys Steong see them, he even say to the maester to give her moon tee or medicinal herb for morning sickness ?! Otto find that about the maester and decided to marry them ( daemon and nyra are not ok they say It not real) and aemond took that personally and decided that they will have a child right now 🫣

The Dragon's Mark

- Summary: When Aemond found out about your betrothal to Jacaerys, he knew how all seven hells could not hold him back from taking what was rightfully his.

- Pairing: niece!reader/Aemond Targaryen

- Note: Reader is the firstborn child of Rhaenyra. She had a reader with Daemon before she involved herself with Harwin Strong. Daemon legitimized the reader. For more of my works visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top.

- Rating: Explicit 18+

- Word count: 4 000+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff

- A/N: I've changed the thing with a Maester to make it more believable. I hope you don't mind.

Aemond sat across from his mother, Dowager Queen Alicent, and his grandsire, Ser Otto Hightower, in the great hall of the Red Keep. The torchlight cast shadows over their faces, making their expressions harder to read, not that Aemond was paying much attention. Their voices drifted to him as if through a thick fog, muffled and distant. He stared at the tapestry on the wall opposite, its intricate designs of dragons entwined in battle barely registering in his mind. His thoughts were elsewhere, consumed by the image of you.

You, to him, were the embodiment of Valyrian perfection, a true daughter of Old Valyria. Your silver hair fell in soft waves, catching the light like molten silver, and your violet eyes held the depth of the ancient Targaryen bloodline. You are more than a princess; you are power personified, a dragonrider of Vermithor, the mighty bronze beast who had bonded with you when you were but a girl. Aemond could still remember the first time he had seen you astride Vermithor, your small form commanding the great dragon with ease, your expression fierce and unyielding.

Now, you are a woman grown, and in Aemond's eyes, you are perfect. You are the one he deserves, a match that would not only strengthen the bloodline but would also solidify his place in their shared history. He could see it so clearly in his mind: you by his side, the two of you ruling as a power unmatched, with dragons and fire at your command.

The thought of you set a slow burn within him, a mix of admiration and desire. He had always been captivated by your strength, your beauty, and the fire in your spirit that matched his own. You are everything he had ever wanted, everything he needed. A true Targaryen, unmarred by the weaknesses of others. Aemond clenched his jaw, pushing down the surge of emotions that threatened to spill over.

His attention snapped back to the present as his mother's voice cut through his thoughts, sharp and clear.

"...Rhaenyra has decided to marry her daughter to Jacaerys," Alicent said, her tone carefully neutral, but there was a hint of distaste in her eyes.

Aemond's world tilted on its axis, the words crashing over him like a wave. His blood ran cold as the realization settled in. Rhaenyra intended to wed her daughter, you, the one Aemond desired above all others, to that bastard Jacaerys. His hands curled into fists on the table, the knuckles white as the force of his anger rose within him, threatening to consume him whole.

"A match to solidify her claim, no doubt," Otto added, his voice dry and calculated as always. "She seeks to ensure her line continues to hold power, binding her daughter to her eldest son."

Aemond could barely hear them now over the roaring in his ears. The thought of you, bound to Jacaerys, of the union of your bloodlines through a marriage that had nothing to do with honor or strength but everything to do with Rhaenyra's desperate attempt to secure her position—it was unbearable.

His mind raced with images of Jacaerys, the boy who had always stood in his way, who had always been favored despite the question of his parentage, despite his weaknesses. And now, to think that he would have you, the woman Aemond had longed for, the woman who should have been his—!

"Aemond." Alicent's voice broke through his fury, pulling his gaze to her. She looked at him with concern, as if sensing the turmoil within him. "What are you thinking?"

Aemond blinked, his breath coming in sharp, controlled breaths as he forced himself to calm. He could not reveal the depth of his feelings here, not now. He met his mother's gaze, his expression hardening into a mask of indifference.

"Nothing, mother," he said, his voice low and measured. "Only that Rhaenyra's choices will bring about her own downfall."

Alicent frowned slightly, but before she could press further, Otto interjected, his eyes narrowing as he studied his grandson. "This marriage will complicate things, Aemond. We must be cautious in how we respond. Rhaenyra seeks to bind the loyalty of her supporters through this match."

Aemond nodded stiffly, though his thoughts were still far from the politics of it all. He would not let this happen. He would not allow Jacaerys to take what should be his.

"Perhaps," Aemond began slowly, "we should consider our own alliances more carefully. There are other ways to weaken Rhaenyra's position."

Otto raised an eyebrow, intrigued by the shift in Aemond's tone. "What do you suggest?"

Aemond met his grandsire's gaze, a plan already forming in his mind, a way to ensure that you would not be lost to him, that Jacaerys would not win. His lips curled into a small, cold smile.

"There are always ways to turn the tide," he said softly. "We need only find the right pressure points."

Alicent looked between them, her unease growing, but Aemond paid her no mind. His thoughts were solely on you, on the woman who had unknowingly claimed his heart. He would have you, no matter the cost. You will be his, and nothing, not even Rhaenyra’s schemes, would stand in his way.

The fire in the hearth crackled softly as you sat at your vanity, the brush gliding through your long, silver hair. Each stroke was methodical, a ritual you found soothing as the day's events faded into the quiet of the evening. You took a deep breath, savoring the calm, but beneath the surface, your thoughts were a swirling current of unspoken feelings, thoughts that often turned to him—Aemond.

The quiet attraction you felt for him had always been there, lurking in the periphery of your mind, but never voiced, never acted upon. There was something in the way he carried himself, the intensity of his gaze, that made your heart quicken whenever he was near. Yet, the distance between you had always remained, unbridgeable, or so you had thought.

You placed the brush down, your hair now smooth and shining in the firelight, ready to retire for the night. But just as you were about to stand, a knock echoed through the chamber, pulling you from your reverie. You frowned, surprised by the interruption at this hour. Before you could respond, the door creaked open, and there he was, Aemond, standing in the doorway, his expression unreadable.

"Aemond," you whispered, your voice betraying a hint of the surprise you felt.

He stepped into the room, closing the door behind him with a soft click. His presence filled the space, commanding yet silent, and for a moment, neither of you spoke. His eye, that piercing violet eye, locked onto yours, and you felt your breath catch. There was something different about him tonight, an intensity that set your heart racing.

"I... wasn't expecting you," you managed to say, your voice barely above a whisper.

Aemond moved closer, his gaze never leaving yours. "I needed to see you," he said quietly, his tone carrying a weight that made your pulse quicken. He was so close now that you could feel the heat radiating from him, the scent of leather and smoke clinging to his clothes.

You swallowed, your mind racing as he reached out, his hand brushing a stray lock of hair from your face. The touch was gentle, almost reverent, and it sent a shiver down your spine. There was something in his eye, a hunger, a longing that mirrored the unspoken desires you had kept locked away for so long.

"I've thought about you," you admitted softly, the words slipping out before you could stop them. "But I never—"

He silenced you with a look, his fingers tracing the line of your jaw before tilting your chin up, his gaze darkening. "No more words," he murmured, and then his lips were on yours, claiming them with a fervor that took your breath away.

The kiss was everything you had imagined and more, a rush of heat and need that left you dizzy. You responded in kind, your hands finding their way to his chest, feeling the hard muscle beneath the fabric of his tunic. He pulled you closer, his arms wrapping around you, and you felt the world narrow down to just the two of you, the fire, and the beating of your hearts.

When he finally pulled back, you were both breathless, your foreheads resting against each other as you tried to steady yourself. But before you could speak, before you could mention the name that had been on your mind earlier, he shook his head.

"Don't," he whispered, his voice rough with emotion. "I don't want to hear his name tonight."

You nodded, understanding the unspoken plea, and let the thought of Jacaerys fade away, replaced by the man before you, the man who had captured your heart without either of you realizing it.

Aemond's hands moved to the ties of your gown, his fingers deftly undoing the knots, and you felt your pulse quicken as the fabric slipped from your shoulders, pooling at your feet. You shivered, not from the cold, but from the intensity of his gaze as he took in the sight of you, bared before him. There was a reverence in his eyes, a deep appreciation that made your cheeks flush with heat.

He shed his own tunic, revealing the lean, strong lines of his body, the scars that marked him only adding to the allure. You reached out, your fingers tracing the contours of his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your palm. It was all so surreal, so perfect, that you almost feared it was a dream.

Aemond's hands were gentle as he led you to the bed, laying you down with a care that made your heart ache. He moved over you, his gaze softening as he positioned himself between your legs, his body pressing against yours in a way that felt both new and familiar, as if you were made to fit together.

"Are you sure?" he asked, his voice barely more than a whisper, his eye searching yours for any sign of hesitation.

You nodded, your hand cupping his cheek, your thumb brushing over the smooth skin just beneath his patch. "Yes," you breathed, your voice trembling with anticipation. "I want this, Aemond. I want you."

He leaned down, capturing your lips in a tender kiss as he entered you slowly, the sensation both sharp and sweet, a mingling of pleasure and pain as he took your maidenhead. You gasped, clutching at his shoulders, but the discomfort quickly faded, replaced by a sense of fullness, of completeness, as he buried himself deep within you.

Aemond stilled for a moment, his breathing ragged as he took in the sight of you beneath him, your hair spread out like a silver halo on the pillow, your eyes wide with trust and desire. The knowledge that you were his, that you had given yourself to him, filled him with a satisfaction that went beyond mere conquest. It was everything he had ever imagined, and more.

Tomorrow, he knew, the servants who served Larys Strong would change the sheets, and the evidence of your union would be seen by those who needed to know. But for now, all that mattered was the here and now, the way you felt beneath him, the way your body responded to his.

You urged him to move, your hips shifting beneath him, and he obliged, setting a slow, steady rhythm that had you both gasping for breath. The pleasure built between you, a slow burn that grew hotter with every thrust, every kiss, until it was all-consuming.

Aemond was lost in the sensation, the feel of you, the sound of your breathless moans, the way your bodies moved together in perfect harmony. It was everything he had ever wanted, everything he had ever dreamed of, and more. He could feel the tension building, the pressure mounting as you both neared the edge.

As you reached the pinnacle, your release washing over you in a wave of pleasure, he buried his face in your neck, his voice rough with emotion as he urged you to call his name, to let the world know who you belonged to. "Say my name," he breathed, his words a plea and a command all at once.

"Aemond," you gasped, your voice breaking as you clung to him, your body trembling with the force of your release. "Aemond, please..."

And then he was there, the last threads of his control snapping as he spilled himself inside you, his own release ripping through him with a force that left him trembling. Your name was on his lips, a whispered prayer, a declaration of everything he felt, everything he could never put into words.

For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of your mingled breaths, the warmth of your bodies pressed together, the lingering echoes of pleasure that pulsed through your veins. Aemond held you close, his forehead resting against yours as you both came down from the heights of your passion.

In that moment, there were no words, no need for them. Everything you had ever wanted, everything you had ever felt, was conveyed in the way you held each other, in the way your bodies fit together so perfectly, so naturally.

As you drifted into sleep, Aemond's arms wrapped around you, you knew that everything had changed, and there was no going back.

The morning arrived as Aemond moved with purposeful strides. His mind was sharp, focused, each step a calculated part of the plan he had set into motion. The events of the previous night played over in his mind, not with regret, but with satisfaction. Everything was unfolding exactly as he had intended.

He turned a corner and spotted Grand Maester Mellos in the distance, the elderly man’s stooped figure moving slowly down the hall. Aemond quickened his pace, his boots echoing against the stone floor, and within moments, he was at the Maester’s side.

“Grand Maester Mellos,” Aemond greeted, his voice measured and calm, though there was an undercurrent of urgency that could not be missed.

The Maester looked up, startled by the sudden appearance of the prince. “Prince Aemond,” he replied, bowing his head slightly in respect. “How may I assist you this morning?”

Aemond’s expression was inscrutable as he spoke, his voice low, as if to ensure their conversation remained private. “I require your expertise, Maester. There is a matter concerning Princess Y/N—my niece—that needs your immediate attention.”

Mellos frowned, his brow furrowing in concern. “Of course, Your Grace. What seems to be the issue? Is Princess Y/N unwell?”

Aemond shook his head, his gaze intense as he met the Maester’s eyes. “No, she is not unwell. However, I wish for her to be examined… to ensure that she has not been harmed.”

Mellos’ confusion deepened, and he tilted his head slightly, trying to understand. “Harmed, Your Grace? I do not follow. What examination, exactly, do you require?”

Aemond hesitated for only a fraction of a second before he continued, his voice steady and deliberate. “Last night, she and I... shared an intimate moment. I want to ensure that she was not hurt during our union, that she was not harmed in any way.”

The Maester’s face went pale, the full implication of Aemond’s words sinking in. His eyes widened slightly, and he took an involuntary step back, his hand trembling as he clutched the folds of his robes.

“Your Grace…” Mellos began, his voice shaky as he tried to comprehend the gravity of what had been revealed to him. “You… you wish for me to confirm that Princess Y/N was… that she…?”

Aemond’s gaze remained fixed on the Maester, his expression unwavering. “Yes,” he said simply, allowing the full weight of his words to settle between them. “I want you to ensure that she was not harmed. And if any trace of injury is found, I want you to inform me immediately.”

Mellos looked as though he might faint, the color draining from his face entirely. His mind raced, trying to grasp the enormity of what Aemond was asking, and the consequences that would follow. The bloodied sheets, the confirmation from the Grand Maester—these were not just symbols of a consummated union; they were a declaration of intent, a claim that could not be ignored by either Otto Hightower or Rhaenyra Targaryen.

“I… I understand, Your Grace,” Mellos stammered, his voice barely more than a whisper. “But, Prince Aemond, surely you realize that such news… it will reach the ears of the Queen, and Prince Daemon…”

Aemond’s lips curled into a faint smile, though there was no warmth in it. “That is precisely what I intend, Maester. The sheets will speak for themselves, and your examination will confirm what is already known. My niece is now mine, and any plans to wed her to Jacaerys must be reconsidered.”

Mellos swallowed hard, the implications of Aemond’s words weighing heavily on him. The Prince’s plan was clear now, as was the role he had unwittingly been drawn into. The Maester nodded slowly, realizing that there was no turning back from what had been set in motion.

“As you wish, Your Grace,” Mellos finally said, his voice hoarse. “I shall see to it immediately.”

Aemond inclined his head, satisfied that his instructions would be carried out. He could see the fear in the Maester’s eyes, the way his hands shook ever so slightly as he turned to leave. But that fear was necessary, a tool to ensure that the plan would proceed without a hitch.

“Thank you, Grand Maester,” Aemond said, his voice as smooth as silk. “I trust that you will handle this matter with the utmost discretion.”

Mellos nodded quickly, his face still ashen as he hurried away, his steps faltering as though the weight of what he now carried was too much to bear.

Aemond watched him go, a sense of triumph settling over him. The seeds had been sown, and soon enough, they would bear the fruit he desired. His grandsire would be forced to recognize the union, and Rhaenyra would have no choice but to break the engagement to Jacaerys. There would be no way to deny him now.

As he turned and walked back down the corridor, a sense of satisfaction filled him. Everything was falling into place, just as he had envisioned. And as for the flushed and worried Grand Maester, he was merely the first to feel the ripple effects of the plan Aemond had so carefully crafted. Soon, everyone would understand that you belonged to him, and no one—not Jacaerys, not Rhaenyra, not even Daemon—could take you away from him now.

Aemond entered the chamber, summoned by his grandsire. The usual sense of foreboding that accompanied meetings in the Tower of the Hand was magnified tenfold by the figures waiting inside. Otto Hightower stood near the center of the room, his expression grave, while beside him stood Rhaenyra, her face a mask of barely concealed fury. But it was Daemon, pacing like a caged beast, whose presence dominated the space, his anger felt in the air.

Aemond, however, was unperturbed. He walked with measured steps, his posture erect, his face a picture of calm satisfaction. His eye met Daemon’s, and he could see the rage simmering there, a wildfire barely restrained. Aemond’s lips curled into a slight smile, knowing full well that it would only infuriate Daemon further.

“You summoned me, grandsire?” Aemond’s voice was even, respectful, but with an edge of smugness that did not go unnoticed.

Otto cleared his throat, his gaze flicking between the furious Targaryens and his grandson. “Aemond, it has come to my attention—” He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “It has come to my attention, through certain… whispers, that Grand Maester Mellos was called upon this morning to examine Princess Y/N. An examination that has confirmed… certain truths.”

Rhaenyra’s fists clenched at her sides, her violet eyes blazing with a fury that matched the fire of the dragons themselves. “How dare you,” she hissed, her voice trembling with rage. “How dare you lay a hand on her!”

Before Aemond could respond, Daemon stepped forward, his hand instinctively reaching for the hilt of his sword, Dark Sister. His face was a mask of barely restrained violence, and for a moment, it seemed he might strike Aemond down where he stood.

“Daemon,” Otto warned, his voice firm, though there was a thread of unease beneath it. “Violence will solve nothing here.”

“Violence is all I see fit to deal with this insolent whelp!” Daemon barked, his voice echoing off the stone walls. “He dares to defile my daughter, and you expect me to stand idly by?”

Aemond, unflinching, met Daemon’s gaze head-on, his own expression hardening. “I have done what was necessary, uncle,” he said coolly. “She is mine now, and there is nothing you can do to change that.”

Rhaenyra’s voice broke through the tension, sharp and cold. “Her betrothal to Jacaerys has been agreed upon for years. You cannot simply cast that aside as if it means nothing.”

Otto interjected, his voice measured, though the urgency was clear. “In light of these recent events, the betrothal to Prince Jacaerys must be reconsidered. It is in the best interest of both houses that Princess Y/N and Prince Aemond are wed, to avoid any… further complications.”

Daemon’s eyes flashed with a deadly light as he turned on Otto. “You would sell my daughter to this boy after what he has done? You forget yourself, Hightower. She will not be tangled into your schemes!”

Aemond stepped forward, his voice cutting through the tension like a knife. “This is not a matter of scheming, uncle. It is done. She is mine now, and there is nothing that can undo it. You cannot deny what has been consummated.”

Daemon’s hand tightened on the hilt of his sword, but he did not draw it. Aemond’s words, as blunt and provocative as they were, held the weight of truth, and that was what infuriated Daemon most of all.

“The marriage must happen,” Otto pressed, sensing the shift in the room. “And it should happen soon, before word spreads and this matter becomes a scandal that neither house can afford.”

Aemond did not miss the opportunity to twist the knife deeper. “Indeed,” he said, his voice smooth, dripping with a satisfaction that only inflamed Daemon’s ire further. “The ceremony should be conducted in the traditions of old Valyria, where fire and blood bind us as one. And it should be done with haste.”

He paused, letting the weight of his words settle in the room before delivering the final blow. “For I hope that soon, another dragon will be born of our union.”

The implication hung heavy in the air, and Rhaenyra’s face turned ashen, her fury giving way to something colder, more calculating. Daemon, however, looked ready to strike again, his entire body tensed with the desire to lash out, to wipe that smug look off Aemond’s face.

But Aemond stood tall, his gaze steady, unflinching in the face of Daemon’s rage. He knew he had won. The plan had worked flawlessly. The whispers from Larys Strong, the bloodied sheets, the Maester’s examination—all had been carefully orchestrated to force this very outcome.

A tense silence stretched between them, thick and oppressive, until finally, it was Rhaenyra who spoke, her voice cold and sharp as a blade. “If this is to be done,” she said, “it will be done according to our customs, and with the respect due to our house. But know this, Aemond—should you ever bring harm to my daughter, not even your dragon will save you from my wrath.”

Aemond inclined his head slightly, accepting her warning with the same unyielding calm he had maintained throughout. “As you wish, sister. I will see to it that Y/N is treated with the honor she deserves.”

Daemon said nothing, but the look he leveled at Aemond spoke volumes. It was a promise, a vow that if Aemond ever crossed a line, there would be a reckoning, and it would be brutal.

But for now, Aemond had what he wanted. He had claimed you, and soon, the two of you will be bound in marriage. The thought of it sent a thrill of triumph through him, and though he kept his expression carefully neutral, inside, he reveled in his victory.

Otto, sensing that the matter was settled, nodded gravely. “Then it is decided. The preparations will begin at once.”

Without another word, Aemond turned and left the chamber, leaving behind a flushed, furious Daemon and a conflicted Rhaenyra. He knew that the days ahead would be tense, that there would be fallout from his actions, but none of it mattered now. You were his, and soon the world would see it, would understand that he was not to be trifled with.

And as he walked away, his thoughts were already on the future, on the life he would build with you, a future forged in fire and blood, just as the old ways dictated.

#house of the dragon #hotd aemond #hotd x female reader #hotd x you #hotd x y/n #hotd x reader #aemond x y/n #aemond x you #aemond x reader #aemond targaryen #aemond one eye

416 notes · View notes

andy-15-07 · 2 months ago

Text

The Soulmate Connection

Pairing: Pedro Pascal!characters x female reader

Word Count: 4525 | requests are open! (send requests, I will gladly answer them all)

Pedro Pascal Masterlist

Ancient Rome (Marcus Acacius)

The sun burned over the Colosseum, its relentless rays glinting off bronze armor and sweat-slicked skin. General Marcus Acacius strode through the chaos of the training grounds, his presence commanding respect and silence. Soldiers moved aside instinctively, their chatter dying down as his sharp gaze swept across the field. Each step he took echoed with authority, his crimson cape trailing behind him like spilled wine on the sands of war.

In the corner of the grounds, Y/N knelt beside a young recruit who had taken a nasty fall during drills. Her hands moved with practiced ease, pressing a damp cloth to the boy’s forehead and inspecting the gash above his brow. The faint scent of medicinal herbs clung to her like a second skin, an aroma Marcus had come to associate with the healer who had become an unspoken presence in his camp. As she worked, her brow furrowed in concentration, stray tendrils of hair slipping free from her braid to frame her face.

“You’ve been busy,” Marcus observed as he approached, his voice low but carrying authority. The young recruit stiffened and attempted to sit up, but Marcus waved him off with a quick motion. “Stay still. Let her finish.”

“And you’ve been reckless,” Y/N replied without looking up, her tone as sharp as the scalpel she carried in her kit. She tied off the bandage with a practiced flick of her wrist and finally met his gaze, her eyes steady and unflinching. “Your men need rest, not endless drills.”

A rare smirk tugged at Marcus’s lips, the expression softening his otherwise stoic features. “A healer with a sharp tongue. I’ll remember that.”

“You’d do well to listen,” she countered, rising to her feet. Though he towered over her, she refused to be intimidated, standing her ground with a quiet confidence that intrigued him. “They’re not machines, General. Push them too hard, and you’ll break them.”

“They’ll endure,” Marcus said, though his tone lacked its usual certainty. “They have to.”

Their exchanges became a regular occurrence in the days that followed. Marcus would find excuses to visit the infirmary, his inquiries about the health of his soldiers gradually giving way to questions about Y/N herself. He learned that she was the daughter of a merchant, her life upended by a raid that had left her orphaned and destitute. She had joined the army’s retinue out of necessity, trading her skills as a healer for protection and a sense of purpose.

“I’ve seen enough death to last a lifetime,” she admitted one evening as they sat by the fire, the flickering flames casting shadows across her face. “If I can save even one life, it feels... worth it.”

Marcus listened in silence, his own thoughts a whirlwind of conflict. He had spent his life taking lives in the name of Rome, his hands stained with the blood of countless enemies. Yet, in Y/N’s presence, he found himself yearning for something he couldn’t quite name—a sense of peace that had always eluded him.

Their bond deepened with each passing day, their connection forged in moments both grand and mundane. Marcus would seek her out during the quiet hours of the night, their conversations ranging from the stars that glittered above to the burdens they carried in their hearts. He found solace in her sharp wit and unwavering compassion, and she, in turn, was drawn to the depth of his resolve and the vulnerability he tried so hard to hide.

But fate, as it always did, intervened. Rumors of a plot against the empire reached Marcus’s ears, forcing him to leave for a dangerous campaign in the northern provinces. The night before his departure, he found Y/N in the infirmary, her hands busy mixing a salve for a soldier’s burn.

“You’re leaving,” she said without looking up, her voice tight with emotion.

“I have no choice,” Marcus replied, his tone heavy. “Rome comes first.”

Y/N set down the mortar and pestle, turning to face him. “And what of the promises you made? The future we spoke of?”

“I will return,” he said, stepping closer. “If the gods are kind.”

“The gods are fickle,” she whispered, tears brimming in her eyes. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Marcus.”

He reached out, his hand brushing against her cheek. “I swear to you, I will come back. No matter what it takes.”

Their lips met in a kiss that spoke of all the words they couldn’t say, a desperate attempt to hold onto something that was slipping through their fingers. When Marcus rode out the next morning, the memory of her touch lingered like a brand on his soul.

Weeks turned into months, and the letters from Marcus grew sporadic before ceasing altogether. News of his death reached the camp in the form of a weary messenger, his words a dagger to Y/N’s heart. She retreated into herself, her grief a silent storm that left her hollow and aching. Yet, even in the depths of her despair, she clung to the hope that their story wasn’t truly over.

Late at night, she would sit by the fire, her gaze fixed on the horizon as if willing Marcus to return. She whispered his name like a prayer, her voice carried by the wind to places unknown. And though the world moved on, a part of her remained anchored to the memory of the man who had promised to find her—if not in this life, then in the next.

Medieval Dorne (Oberyn Martell)

The sun was merciless in Dorne, its rays caressing the sands like a lover, burning hot and relentless. Oberyn Martell reclined lazily in the shaded alcove of his family’s palace, a cup of Dornish red wine balanced in his hand. The languid heat made time feel suspended, yet Oberyn himself was always a restless force—a man who thrived on movement, passion, and the art of indulgence.

It was in this heat that Y/N arrived at Sunspear, her caravan dust-streaked and weary from weeks of travel. She was a healer by trade, summoned by Doran Martell to aid in the care of the sick and injured in the city’s outskirts. Word of her skills had reached even the ruling family, and Doran, pragmatic as always, saw the value in employing someone of her expertise.

Oberyn first saw her in the palace gardens, where she tended to one of the servants who had taken ill from the heat. Her hands moved deftly, her touch gentle but firm. She was not like the noblewomen who adorned the court, their beauty polished and distant. Y/N was raw and real, her hair tied back to keep the sweat from her brow, her clothes practical rather than ornate. Yet there was something about her—an energy, a quiet strength—that caught Oberyn’s attention.

“Do you always work so hard, or is this just for show?” he asked, his voice smooth and teasing as he approached.

Y/N didn’t look up, her focus remaining on her patient. “Do you always interrupt people who are busy saving lives, or is this just for fun?”

A laugh escaped Oberyn’s lips, rich and genuine. “I like you already,” he said, settling himself on a low wall nearby. “You’re different. I can’t decide if that’s a good thing or a dangerous one.”

“I’d say the same about you,” she retorted, finally meeting his gaze. Her eyes were sharp, unyielding, and Oberyn found himself grinning like a boy caught in a prank.

From that moment on, Oberyn made it his mission to get to know her. He found excuses to visit the infirmary where she worked, bringing with him fresh fruit, wine, and an endless stream of stories. Y/N, initially wary of his charm, soon found herself disarmed by his wit and the surprising depth of his intellect. He spoke of love and loss, of battles fought and lovers mourned, and she saw beneath the surface of the infamous Red Viper—the man who lived as if every day might be his last.

“You hide your pain well,” she remarked one evening as they walked through the gardens, the scent of jasmine heavy in the air.

Oberyn shrugged, his expression unreadable. “We all have scars, Y/N. Some are just easier to conceal.”

“And some fester if you don’t tend to them,” she replied, her gaze steady.

Oberyn stopped, turning to face her fully. “And what of your scars, healer? Do you tend to those?”

Her breath caught, the weight of his question pressing against her chest. “I try,” she said softly. “But some wounds... they never truly heal.”

Their connection deepened as the days turned into weeks, their conversations a dance of words that left them both breathless. Oberyn was captivated by Y/N’s strength and resilience, while she found herself drawn to the passion and vulnerability he so carefully hid beneath his bravado. They were two souls marked by the weight of their pasts, finding solace in each other’s presence.

But Dorne was a land of intrigue, and Oberyn’s life was a web of alliances and rivalries. When a plot against the Martell family came to light, Y/N found herself caught in the crossfire. She was abducted by a group of mercenaries hired to destabilize Doran’s rule, their goal to use her as leverage against the family.

When Oberyn learned of her capture, his fury was like a storm unleashed. He rode out with a small band of loyal fighters, tracking the mercenaries to a secluded hideout in the mountains. The rescue was swift and brutal, Oberyn’s spear cutting through his enemies with deadly precision. When he finally found Y/N, bound and battered but alive, his relief was palpable.

“I thought I’d lost you,” he said, his voice raw as he knelt before her, his hands gently untying the ropes that held her. “I can’t—won’t—lose you.”

Y/N looked at him, her eyes filled with unshed tears. “You’re not rid of me that easily, Martell.”

In the aftermath of her rescue, their bond only grew stronger. But Oberyn was a man who lived on the edge, and Y/N knew that their time together was fleeting. When he left for King’s Landing to champion Tyrion Lannister, she begged him not to go.

“There’s no justice there, Oberyn,” she pleaded. “Only death.”

“I cannot run from this,” he replied, cupping her face in his hands. “You know that as well as I do.”

“And what am I supposed to do if you don’t return?” she whispered, her voice breaking.

“You’ll live,” he said softly. “You’ll live, and you’ll remember me. And one day, we’ll find each other again. In this life or the next.”

When news of his death reached her, Y/N felt as though the world had been torn asunder. But even in her grief, she held onto his words, believing that their story was far from over.

1980s Colombia (Javier Peña)

The humid air of Bogotá felt thick, stifling even in the late hours of the evening. Javier Peña leaned against his desk, eyes scanning the reports that covered the table. The war on drugs was a relentless force, but even the ever-present threat of violence couldn't quite quell the worry gnawing at him. Y/N had been sick for weeks now, and though she assured him time and time again that it was nothing serious, Javier could see the signs—pale skin, hollow eyes, and a cough that wouldn't quit.

Their first meeting had been purely professional. Y/N was a healer who had come to the city to assist with the growing number of injured due to the escalating cartel violence. Javier had been struck by how different she was from everyone around him: calm in the midst of chaos, capable of soothing pain in the way words never could. He had found excuses to stop by the clinic where she worked, asking for updates on the injured, only to leave with far more than he had bargained for. Over time, those visits became personal, the line between work and something deeper blurring in ways neither of them had expected.

Tonight, however, was different. Her condition had worsened, and he had asked her to meet him, hoping she would finally admit the extent of it. The door to the small apartment creaked open, and Y/N stepped inside, her presence as magnetic as always, despite the illness that weighed her down.

"You look like you've been working yourself to the bone," he said, his voice a mix of concern and frustration. "You should be resting."

Y/N gave him a half-hearted smile as she set down her bag. "I told you, it's nothing. Just a little fever."

Javier didn’t buy it, but he didn't push either. Instead, he reached for her hand, his thumb brushing over her knuckles. "I don't know how much longer I can keep doing this, Y/N. This fight, this constant danger, it's not the only thing on my mind anymore."

Her gaze softened, and she sat down beside him. "Javi, I knew who you were when I met you. The risks, the danger, they come with the job. But you're not alone in this."

For a moment, they sat in silence, the weight of their unspoken connection filling the space between them. But as the night wore on, the reality of Y/N’s condition became more apparent. When she tried to stand, her legs buckled beneath her, and Javier caught her, his heart pounding in his chest.

"Y/N..." His voice cracked, a rare break in his otherwise composed demeanor.

"I'm sorry, Javier," she whispered, her voice faint. "I didn’t want you to worry."

"You don’t have to do this alone," he insisted, holding her close. "You’ve been a part of this fight with me from the beginning, and I’m not going anywhere."

But as much as he wanted to believe those words, Javier knew the truth. The doctors had warned him that the illness Y/N was fighting was too far advanced, that there were no more options. And now, as he held her in his arms, it felt as though the clock was ticking down on the time they had left.

In the days that followed, Javier found himself in a battle not against cartels, but against time itself. He spent every possible moment with her, trying to keep her spirits up as her health deteriorated. The clinic was full of wounded bodies, but it was Y/N’s fragile one that haunted him.

"Promise me something," she whispered one night, her voice barely audible. "If I don't make it... don’t let this break you. You have to keep fighting."

Javier’s breath hitched in his throat, but he nodded. "I promise, Y/N. I’ll carry you with me, always."

Her hand reached up to touch his face, her fingers cool against his skin. "In another life, maybe we could have had more time."

Javier felt his chest tighten. "In another life," he repeated, his voice thick with emotion.

The night Y/N passed, the city outside seemed quieter than usual, as though even the world itself was mourning her loss. Javier sat by her side, his hand clasped in hers, as the light slowly left her eyes. And in that moment, he promised her, just as he had when they first met, that no matter what, he would carry her memory with him—for in this life or the next, they would find each other again.

Post-apocalyptic America (Joel Miller)

The world outside the small cabin was eerily quiet, the kind of silence that spoke of impending doom. Dust settled in the corners, and the dim light filtered in through broken windows, casting long shadows on the cracked floor. Joel and Y/N sat on opposite sides of a weathered table, their bodies worn and their minds racing, as the unmistakable symptoms of the infection began to creep over them.

They had known it was inevitable. The bite marks on their arms had not been deep, but the fever, the dizziness, the way their bodies felt foreign as the infection spread—it was all too familiar. Joel had seen it happen before to others, and he knew the pattern. There would be no cure. No miracle. They weren’t going to make it.

Y/N’s face was pale, her breath ragged, and her eyes carried the weight of a decision neither of them wanted to make. Joel’s own body was betraying him, the strength he’d fought so hard to keep fading with each passing second.

“We can’t let it happen,” she whispered, her voice raw, hoarse. She met his eyes, the unspoken truth between them louder than words. “We’ve seen what happens, Joel. You’ve seen it. The infected—what they become.”

Joel gripped the edge of the table, his hand trembling as he tried to steady himself. He didn’t need to say anything. They both knew. The terrifying thing about the infected was not just the physical change, but the loss of self—of humanity. They would lose who they were. The memories, the connection—they’d all fade away until nothing remained but a mindless, flesh-hungry creature.

“No,” he said quietly, his voice cracking. “We can’t... we can’t let that happen to us. Not like that. Not after everything.”

The weight of that final decision hung between them, suffocating. Joel had never been a man for big speeches or long moments of reflection. He had done what he had to do, lived how he had to live, always in the moment. But now, facing the end, he found himself wanting more time. Time to hold her, to savor what little they had left.

Y/N stood slowly, the weakness in her limbs a stark reminder of how close the end was. She moved across the room, her feet unsteady, and pulled a knife from her pack. The blade was dull, but it was sharp enough for what they needed. It wasn’t about speed—it was about choice.

“You understand what this means, right?” she asked, her voice low and steady as she placed the knife on the table. “We end it. We take control, before the infection takes us.”

Joel’s heart pounded in his chest, but there was no hesitation in his response. He nodded. “Yeah. We end it on our terms, Y/N. No turning into them.”

The room felt colder now, the silence louder than ever before, as they both stood there, each knowing what the other had already decided. There was no more running, no more hope left to grasp at. The world they had fought for was gone. The people they had loved were gone. And now, it was just the two of them.

Y/N’s hand trembled as she picked up the knife. She took a deep breath, and in that moment, everything that had led to this final choice—the losses, the betrayals, the sacrifices—flashed before her eyes. But through it all, one constant had remained: Joel. Her partner. Her equal. Her everything in this broken world.

“We go together,” she said, her voice breaking.

Joel stepped closer, his face drawn in grief, but his eyes steady. He was a man who had lived a lifetime in fear, in loss, but now, with Y/N beside him, there was no more fear. There was only this—this moment of agency, this moment of defiance against a fate neither of them had wanted.

He took her hand, his fingers cold but still strong. “Together.”

There was no more time to waste on words. Without another glance, they moved, placing the blade against their skin, ready to take the decision that had haunted them both for so long. Y/N’s eyes closed, her grip tightening on Joel’s hand, and they both exhaled one final time, hearts pounding, blood rushing through their veins.

The pain was brief, sharp. The darkness came quickly.

Ordinary World (Pedro Pascal & Y/N)

The sun hung low in the sky, casting a warm, golden hue over the bustling city streets. The world around them was alive with motion—people hurried along, cars rumbled by, the distant hum of conversations blended with the soft rhythm of the urban landscape. Yet, in that moment, nothing felt more real than the quiet, unspoken bond between Pedro and Y/N.

They walked together, side by side, the simple act of moving through the world feeling oddly sacred, as if they were part of something greater than the ordinary life they led. The breeze ruffled their hair, and the weight of the world seemed lighter when their hands brushed lightly, a touch that felt like it belonged in every moment.

Pedro glanced at Y/N, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. His gaze lingered, as if he couldn’t quite believe she was there, walking beside him. "Do you ever get the feeling that... we’ve been here before?" he asked, his voice barely more than a whisper, but carrying the weight of a thought he couldn’t shake.

Y/N met his eyes, her heart giving a little flutter as she felt the same sensation. It wasn’t just a fleeting thought, a passing fancy. It was a truth that resonated deep within her chest. "I do," she answered softly, her voice trembling just slightly. "It’s like... it’s like I’ve always known you. Like we’ve known each other for hundreds of years. Maybe even longer. I don’t know why, but it feels so... right."

Pedro stopped walking, his hand instinctively reaching out to hold hers, as if the act itself was the most natural thing in the world. He studied her face intently, as though seeing her for the first time, but also knowing every inch of her. "I don’t know how to explain it," he murmured. "But every time I look at you, I feel like I’ve been waiting for you—waiting for this moment, for this life, for us. It’s like I’m finally where I’m supposed to be."

Y/N squeezed his hand, a gentle, almost protective gesture. The warmth of his touch sent a shiver down her spine, but it was the kind of shiver that didn’t come from fear—it was a feeling of being home, of being exactly where she needed to be. "I feel it too," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "Every lifetime, every moment... I’ve always known it was you. I just... I just never understood how or why. But now... now I do."

They stood there, rooted to the spot, their hands entwined, the world around them continuing as if nothing had changed. But everything had changed. There was an undeniable pull between them—an energy that had been building for lifetimes, for eons, and had finally come to a quiet crescendo in this ordinary, fleeting moment.

"I’ve searched for you," Pedro said, his voice hoarse with an emotion he hadn’t been able to put into words before. "I’ve lived through so much, and I always felt like something was missing. Like I was missing you. But now that I’m here with you... it feels like I’ve found everything I was meant to find."

Y/N’s eyes welled with tears, but they weren’t tears of sorrow—they were the tears of someone who had been lost and had finally found their way home. "I’ve never been afraid of the unknown," she said, her voice steady, though the weight of her words hung heavy in the air. "But for so long, I wondered... where were you? Why couldn’t I find you? And now, it feels like... like I was always supposed to find you. Like this was always the way it was meant to be."

Pedro gently cupped her face, his thumb brushing across her cheek, tracing the path of a tear that had escaped. His eyes softened, the weight of everything they had been through, and everything they still had to face, reflected in his gaze. "I don’t care about the how or the why anymore," he said, his voice fierce with a quiet intensity. "I only care that I’m here. That we’re here, together."

Y/N smiled through her tears, her heart overflowing with a love so deep, so unshakable, that it felt as if the entire universe had conspired to bring them together. "And I’ll always find you," she replied, her voice a soft vow, a promise that had been made long before either of them had ever spoken the words. "In every life, in every world, I’ll find you. You’re not just someone I’ve met—I’ve always known you. And we’ll always be together. Always."

They stood there, wrapped in each other’s presence, the weight of time and eternity pressing upon them in the most beautiful, unspoken way. The city continued to move around them, people rushing by, lives continuing, but for Pedro and Y/N, time had slowed. They had found something far greater than the ordinary world around them. They had found each other—soulmates who had crossed paths through lifetimes, drawn together by a force that could not be explained, but only felt.

Pedro leaned in, his forehead resting gently against hers. "I don’t know what the future holds, but as long as it’s with you, I’m not afraid of it," he whispered.

Y/N closed her eyes, her soul at peace for the first time in her life. "Neither am I," she whispered back, the world around them fading as all that mattered was the connection between them.

In that moment, they were timeless—two souls reunited, destined to walk through this life and every other, always together.

"I know you more deeply than anyone else, in a way that doesn’t make sense."

Y/N squeezed his hand gently, a tear slipping down her cheek despite the warmth of the day. "Maybe we’ve always been waiting for each other," she whispered, the words carrying an unspoken truth neither of them fully understood. "Maybe we’ve crossed paths in every life... just to find each other again in this one."

Pedro’s thumb gently traced circles on the back of her hand, his gaze never leaving hers. "It’s like I’m meant to be with you," he said, his voice rough with emotion. "And it feels like... like we’re not just starting something, but continuing it. As if there’s no beginning or end—only us, always."

Y/N nodded, a quiet sense of peace settling over her. "Maybe we’ve always been soulmates," she murmured, the words slipping out like a prayer. "Just waiting for the right time, the right life, to meet."

They stood there for a long moment, the noise of the city fading away as they held onto that shared truth. The weight of past lives, past connections, and the profound sense of knowing each other was more than just a fleeting feeling—it was their history, their destiny, woven together across time.

And in that moment, surrounded by the hum of an ordinary world, they realized that nothing about their bond was ordinary. The love that had carried them through every incarnation, every twist of fate, was now a living thing between them. Their journey was far from over, but they had found each other again, in this life, in this world—and that was all that mattered.

"We’re not lost anymore," Y/N said softly, her voice filled with a quiet certainty.

Pedro smiled, his heart full. "No," he agreed, squeezing her hand. "We’re home."

123 notes · View notes

justiceforanders · 4 months ago

Text

Water and Wounds

Part of the "Unwritten Chapters" Lucanis x Rook Stories

Pairing: Lucanis x Rook (she/her)

Rating: M

Words: 1.5k

Available on Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/60624907

Summary: Rook and Lucanis take a dip in the fountains of the Dellamorte estate. Things get heated.

Water and Wounds is part 1 of the "Unwritten Chapters", a short series exploring extra romance scenes between Lucanis and Rook, as seen in the Veilguard story sketches by Nick Thornborrow.

Treviso was quieter at night, yet it pulsed with its own rhythm – a symphony of distant laughter, muffled footsteps, and the occasional creak of a gondola against its moorings. Lanterns cast golden light that danced across cobblestone streets slick with rain. The air smelled of water and citrus and stone, a reminder that even beauty here had a sharpness to it.

Rook and Lucanis moved through the shadows like ghosts, their breaths quick, their boots striking an uneven rhythm against the alleys’ worn paths. The heavy tread of the Antaam’s pursuit faded with every turn, until silence swallowed the city once more.

A wrought-iron gate loomed before them, its bars slick and cold under Rook’s hand. When she pushed it open, the sound was softer than she expected; a whisper, not a screech. Together, they slipped inside, their steps faltering as the world opened before them.

The garden was breathtaking. Moonlight spilled over flowering vines that wove themselves around towering trees, their blossoms trembling with dew. Marble fountains stretched wide, their basins shimmering with reflected starlight. Statues of forgotten figures stood sentinel; their serene faces tilted skyward as water cascaded around them. The air was thick with the perfume of jasmine and something faintly sweet – honeysuckle, perhaps. The whole space felt alive, alert, as if the garden had been waiting for them to find it.

“This is…” Rook began, her voice hushed, but she couldn’t finish. The words slipped away, as elusive as the moonlight on the water.

She turned, expecting to find Lucanis marveling alongside her. But his eyes weren’t on the fountains or the statues. They were on her.

The soft moonlight caught the sharp planes of his face, but it was his expression that made her breath hitch. For once, the wry amusement and practiced nonchalance were gone. He looked at her like she was the most delicate and dangerous thing in the garden.

Her cheeks burned, and she quickly turned away, brushing at her hair in a feigned gesture of distraction. “It’s beautiful,” she said lightly, her voice wavering just a little. “The fountains are so big, you could practically swim in them.”

Lucanis tilted his head, his lips curling into a half-smile. “Are you suggesting we try?”

1. 👍: I don’t think the owners would appreciate us turning their fountain into a swimming pool. 2. 🎭: No, I was just marveling at how enormous they are. My entire apartment in Minrathous would’ve fit in one of these! 3. 🛡️: No… The night air is cold enough as it is. 4. ❤️ Express romantic interest in Lucanis. (Does not commit to a romance.): Only if you’re brave enough to go first.

She snorted, folding her arms. “Only if you’re brave enough to go first.”

His smile widened, and before she could take the challenge back, he began to undo his armour, his movements unhurried and deliberate.

“Wait, I didn’t mean…”

His breastplate hit the ground with a dull thud, and his boots soon followed. Rook’s protest turned into a laugh as Lucanis hopped into the fountain, the water lapping at his waist before he sank in with a splash. He surfaced moments later, dark hair plastered to his face, droplets catching on his lashes.

“Are you always this reckless in someone else’s house?” she teased, leaning over the edge and flicking water at him, trying to sound unimpressed but failing miserably.

Lucanis, standing waist-deep in the fountain, looked every inch the troublemaker – wet hair plastered to his smirking face, droplets clinging to his bronze skin, his sharp features caught in half-shadow. “Technically, this is my house. You happened to break into the Dellamorte estate, of all places,” he said, voice low and amused. “And if I remember correctly, you were the one who dared me to jump in, Rook.”

Rook laughed again. “Your house? Well then, I don’t feel as bad about trespassing.” She grinned, nose scrunching. “I didn’t think you’d actually strip.”

His laugh was soft, almost self-conscious, sending a ripple through the still night air. “Maybe I wanted to see if you’d join me.”

Her heart stuttered at his tone – quiet, but laced with something heavier, more intent. She hesitated, her feet rooted to the edge of the fountain. The air around them felt charged, the playful banter slipping into something else entirely.

1. 👍: As tempting as it is, my schedule’s all booked up for jumping into cold fountains. 2. 🎭: Sorry, better luck next time. I think I’ll stay dry tonight. Someone has to keep an eye out, and I trust your swimming skills more than mine. 3. 🛡️: No, thank you. I prefer to stay on dry land. 4. ❤️ Express romantic interest in Lucanis. (Does not commit to a romance.): Oh, you think I won’t? Just watch me.

“Oh, you think I won’t?” she said, arching a brow, her voice laced with defiance and just enough mischief to match his energy. “Just watch me.”

She didn’t break eye contact as her fingers worked the buckles of her armour, the quiet clinking of metal cutting through the bubbling sound of the fountain. Piece by piece, the layers came off, each one discarded with a deliberate ease that made Lucanis’ teasing grin falter just slightly. When she reached her final layer, her tunic slipping away to reveal the bandeau and tattooed skin beneath, she caught the faintest flicker of something in his eyes – a spark that he quickly masked with a cough and an averted glance.

Without hesitation, Rook stepped into the fountain. The cool water lapped at her legs as she waded deeper, the chill biting but invigorating. When he turned back to face her, she had let her hair fall loose from its tie, curls bouncing and bobbing around her face. “There. Happy?” she teased, lifting her chin defiantly.

Lucanis didn’t answer.

His playful demeanour shifted in an instant, the sharp lines of his grin softening into something unreadable. His body moved before his mind seemed to catch up, his steps slow and measured as he closed the distance between them, the water rippling around him. He stopped just short of her, his gaze flickering across her face in a way that sent heat skimming down her spine.

The playfulness between them wavered, like a delicate thread pulled too tight. She saw it in the way Lucanis hesitated, his fingers twitching as though he wanted to reach for her but didn’t trust himself to.

“You look cold,” he said at last, his voice softer now, carrying something she couldn’t quite name.

“Maybe a little,” she replied, her breath hitching as his hand brushed against her arm.

He tilted his head, studying her like she was a puzzle he couldn’t solve. The air between them shifted again, the teasing ebbing away like the ripples in the fountain. Then, with deliberate slowness, his hands settled at her waist, drawing her to him. The chill of the fountain had been a shock, but it was nothing compared to the way Lucanis’ touch burned. His hands lingered at her waist, steady and warm, and she caught the way his gaze flickered down to her lips before darting away.

“Lucanis,” she began, but the name came out in a whisper, swallowed by the distance between them.

“Shh,” he murmured. His fingers trailed up her spine, leaving her shivering for entirely different reasons. Her heart thrummed as his fingers brushed against her skin, trailing up to her jaw. She couldn’t read the expression on his face – there was longing there, yes, but also something more, something more akin to fear.

When he leaned closer, she thought he might finally kiss her, and her heart hammered at the thought. Instead, his lips ghosted against the curve of her neck, soft and hesitant, as though he was testing the boundaries of a fragile thread. Rook’s hands found his shoulders, her grip tightening as he pressed closer, lips trailing along her collarbone.

It was maddening – the way he held her so carefully, as though she might break, but kissed her skin like he was the one falling apart. The warmth of his breath sent a shiver through her, and she tightened her grip on his shoulders, half-afraid he might disappear.

Then, just as suddenly as it had started, Lucanis stilled. She felt him tense, his hands sliding away as he stepped back, leaving the water between them cold and empty.

“I shouldn’t…” he began, his voice raw.

“Why not?” she asked, though she wasn’t sure she wanted to hear the answer.

His eyes flicked up to hers, dark and filled with something like regret. “Because wanting you is dangerous. For you. For me. For both of us. I can’t give you what you deserve,” he said, his voice breaking on the words. “And I’m selfish enough to want you anyway.”

Her throat tightened, but before she could find the words to respond, Lucanis was already climbing out of the fountain, his silhouette sharp against the moonlight. He paused only to grab his armour before disappearing into the shadows, leaving her alone with the sound of her heart pounding in her ears.

[unwritten chapters: part 1 | part 2 | part 3] & [other lucanis x rook stories]

#dav #lucanis dellamorte #lucanis #lucanis x rook #rook x lucanis #unwritten chapters

132 notes · View notes

causeimhappinesss · 29 days ago

Text

Rome's Devotion (part 10)

Warnings: Emperors Geta & Caracalla are warnings themselves, (slight?) blasphemy, slight non-con/dub-con, misogyny (Ancient Rome, so…)

Pairing: Geta x Christian!reader x Caracalla

Words: 5,2k

Disclaimer: English isn’t my native language (I’m french), so you can correct me if you spot some mistakes :)

Masterlist

The corridors feel endless as they stretch into dimly lit passages lined with towering marble columns. I walk in silence, my sandals brushing against the cool stone floor, my heartbeat a steady drum in my ears. Caracalla strides ahead, his shoulders squared, his movements unhurried. He hasn’t spoken since we left the garden. He doesn’t need to. The mere presence of him commands attention, his silence heavier than words.

We pass several guards who bow their heads as we move past them. The scent of burning oil and polished bronze lingers in the air, mixing with something faintly sweet, perhaps myrrh or the remnants of spiced wine. Finally, we stop before a set of intricately carved wooden doors. A guard steps aside and pushes them open. I don’t know what I expect, but the moment I step inside, I draw in a breath.

The room before me is nothing short of opulent. Golden light spills from bronze oil lamps set high against the walls, casting warm shadows that dance across deep blue tapestries embroidered with silver thread. Marble columns support the domed ceiling, where a fresco of hunting scenes stretches above us with lions brought to their knees by spears, wild boars caught mid-charge, the hunters’ expressions fierce with triumph. Beneath it all, silk cushions in shades of crimson and gold lie scattered atop low couches, their tassels brushing the polished floor.

But it is not the grandeur that holds my attention. It is the small creature perched on a carved wooden stand near the far end of the chamber.

Dondus.

The little monkey watches us with bright, intelligent eyes. Her tiny hands clutch the edge of the stand, her tail curling around its base. A servant kneels beside her, offering a small bowl of fruit, but the moment she catches sight of Caracalla, she lets out a chattering sound and scrambles upright. The servant quickly steps aside, bowing deeply before retreating toward the shadows.

Caracalla moves forward without hesitation. The soft clink of a chain reaches my ears as he retrieves it from the stand, but Dondus hardly notices. She climbs onto his shoulder with practiced ease, her small fingers tangling in the fabric of his tunic. He lifts a hand and strokes the top of her head, his fingers threading through the soft brown fur.

“She missed you…” I whisper, stepping closer.

Caracalla doesn’t immediately answer. He pulls a pomegranate from a nearby bowl and breaks it open with his hands, offering a seed-filled half to Dondus. She chatters again before snatching a handful of the red fruit and pressing it to her mouth, her eyes darting between him and me.

“She should. I raised her since she was a baby. She’s my sweet girl.” he finally says, his voice quieter than before.

The fondness in his tone surprises me. He strokes the monkey’s back absentmindedly, his fingers slow and deliberate. Then, I glance around the room again.

“I can see that. She lives better than most people in Rome.”

A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.

“And yet, she throws figs at the servants when she’s displeased.”

A small laugh escapes me as I imagine the scene, the little tantrums.

“She has a strong will, then.”

“She does.”

He shifts his gaze toward me, his expression unreadable.

“You do, too.”

Since, I don’t know how to respond to that, I look back at Dondus instead.

“May I?” I ask, gesturing toward the fruit bowl beside him.

He nods. I reach for a fig, its skin soft and slightly wrinkled beneath my fingertips. Holding it out, I wait. Dondus tilts her head, hesitating only a moment before plucking it from my grasp. She eats more slowly this time, her small hands gripping the fruit carefully.

“She likes you.” Caracalla observes.

“She is remarkable.”

He watches me, his gaze lingering in a way that makes my chest tighten. Something about it feels… different. Less demanding, less certain. As if he is trying to understand something about me that he cannot quite grasp. Well, they’re also things I cannot quite grasp when it comes to him. He’s lovely with his pet, but cruel with humans. He can act a kid, and the next minute, he’s threatening to spill blood.

“She was a gift. A Numidian trader brought her to Rome when I was seventeen. My father let me keep her, though Geta was furious.” He reveals after a moment, looking back at Dondus.

I glance at him, intrigued.

“Why?”

“He wanted a dog. Something to train for the hunt. He said a monkey was useless.” His smirk returns. “But she is far more intelligent than any beast he could have chosen.”

Dondus chitters again, as if in agreement. I laugh softly, offering her another piece of fruit. This time, she takes it with more care, her tiny fingers brushing against mine.

Caracalla’s voice lowers.

“She is the only creature here without deceit in her heart.”

The words settle between us like a heavy stone. I shift, unsure of what to say. There is a quiet sadness in him that I haven’t noticed before, buried beneath layers of arrogance and fire. Instead of answering, I reach up and let monkey curl her fingers around mine. The warmth of her touch is oddly comforting. For the first time since that night, something inside me eases.

Caracalla walks ahead, outside the room, his steps steady, his shoulders squared with that effortless authority he carries. Dondus clings to his tunic, her tail curling around his arm as she nibbles on here food. I walk beside him, more aware than ever of the imperial guards following at a careful distance. Their presence is constant, a silent reminder that no moment in this palace is truly private. The halls stretch wide around us, adorned with frescoes of past triumphs: battles won, legions marching, emperors standing over the broken bodies of their enemies. Gold leaf catches the torchlight, shimmering along the edges of the painted laurels and the hilts of the soldiers’ swords. The scent of burning oil and crushed rose petals lingers in the air, a mixture of power and indulgence. Caracalla says little as we walk. His fingers absently stroke Dondus’s back, his thoughts clearly elsewhere. For this reason, I don’t press him. The weight of rule never leaves him, even in these rare, quiet moments.

Then, ahead of us, a group of men turns a corner. At the center of them stands a man I don’t recognize. His tunic is of deep blue, embroidered with golden thread, the fabric rich enough to rival even that of the emperor’s own garments. His dark eyes flicker toward us the moment he notices our approach, and a smile stretches across his lips, a smile that doesn’t reach his wrinkled eyes.

Caracalla halts, and so do I. The guards shift behind us, always alert. The man steps forward, inclining his head in a respectful nod.

“Caesar…” he says, his voice smooth, his Latin spoken with a crisp precision. His gaze shifts briefly to me, assessing but careful. “And the lady. A pleasure, truly.”

Caracalla lifts his chin.

“Macrinus.”

Macrinus.

The name settles uneasily in my mind. I have heard of him, though only in passing. A man of Numidian origin, ambitious, clever, too clever, perhaps. His rise through the ranks has been swift. Some whisper he is a man to watch, though whether that is a warning or a compliment depends on who is speaking. Macrinus clasps his hands before him, his expression a mask of admiration.

“How fortunate I am to encounter you both on this fine afternoon. The gods must favor me.”

Caracalla scoffs. “The gods have little to do with it. What do you want?”

Macrinus tilts his head, his smile unwavering.

“Only to offer my deepest respect, to you and to your charming companion.” His gaze lingers on me just a moment too long. “A woman of rare grace.”

A compliment, but one that feels rehearsed, as though he has delivered similar words to countless others. I nod in return, neither warm nor cold. Caracalla’s patience is thin, but something shifts in his blue eyes, probably pride.

“If you have something to say, say it.”

Macrinus places a hand over his chest, as if wounded by the lack of pleasantries.

“Forgive me, my Emperor. I had hoped for a moment of private discourse. Matters of state, as always.”

I take this as my cue. Without hesitation, I step back, lowering my gaze slightly. Women are never involved in politics, that’s why there’s no female Senators, and they are barely concerned when it comes to business.

“If you will excuse me…” I murmur.

Of course, Caracalla doesn’t stop me. He gives a brief nod, already turning his full attention to Macrinus. One of the guards steps forward to escort me. As I turn away, I catch one last glimpse of Macrinus. His smile remains, but his eyes are sharp, calculating.

Something about him unsettles me.

But I say nothing.

Unfortunately, it’s not my place.

A sharp knock disrupts the peacefulness of my bedchamber. The flickering light from the oil lamp trembles against the polished marble floor, and I set aside the delicate embroidery I had been pretending to work on. My fingers, slightly stiff from the effort of holding the needle, unclench. I don’t need to be told who stands outside. A guard steps through the doorway, his black-plated armor catching the light, unlike his purple tunics. His expression remains impassive, as always.

“The Emperors request your presence for the evening meal.”

Not an invitation. A summons.

I nod, rising from my seat. My legs feel oddly unsteady as I smooth the folds of my stola.

“Of course.”

He inclines his head before disappearing down the corridor, leaving me alone for only a moment before Claudia and several other women slip into the room. Their movements are swift, efficient, yet never rushed. They already know why they are here.

“Another gift. Our Emperors love to spoil you.” Claudia murmurs as she unrolls a length of fabric over her arm. Deep indigo silk shimmers beneath the lamplight, embroidered with golden thread that catches in the glow. The fabric looks impossibly soft, finer than anything I have ever owned. She holds it up, examining it before meeting my gaze.

“They want you to be seen.”

I say nothing as they begin their work. Resistance would be futile. The silk glides over my skin like water as they dress me, adjusting the fabric so that it falls just so, emphasizing my figure without betraying the careful modesty expected of a woman in my position. The clasps at my collarbone are solid gold, shaped like laurel leaves, securing the stola in place.

Claudia moves behind me, her hands deft as she lifts sections of my hair, twisting and coiling them into an intricate arrangement. She pulls just hard enough to remind me that I am being shaped into something, someone, meant to please the eyes of Rome’s most powerful men. Another servant dusts my eyelids with crushed minerals, their touch featherlight. The faint scent of myrrh lingers in the air, weaving itself into the fabric of the moment. When they are finished, Claudia steps back, tilting her head as she studies me.

“Now you look as though you belong.”

The words sit heavy in the space between us. A compliment. A warning. Perhaps both.

Before I can respond, the guard returns. Without a word, he gestures for me to follow. I step into the corridor, my sandals whispering against the marble. The torches lining the walls flicker, their glow casting long, uncertain shadows. The scent of roasted meat and honeyed wine drifts toward us, growing stronger with each step. The dining room is smaller than the grand feasting halls of the palace, but no less opulent. A round table dominates the center of the room, draped in fine linen, adorned with golden plates and goblets. Slaves move quietly, setting the last of the dishes in place while tasters sample each offering with solemn duty. Caracalla and Geta stand as I enter.

“You honor us with your presence, Aurelia.” Geta says smoothly, a polite smile curving his lips. His tone is light, practiced, yet distant.

Aurelia… I almost forgot about that.

I incline my head.

“The honor is mine, Caesar.”

Caracalla watches me with an unreadable expression. His eyes, sharp and assessing, sweep over me as if he is measuring something beyond what I wear. He says nothing, but his lips curl at the edges, as though pleased. Geta gestures toward the table.

“Sit with us.”

I obey, lowering myself onto the cushioned seat between them. Only a woman of great value could sit this close to them, such as Lady Lucilla, the daughter of Marcus Aurelius. The scent of spiced wine and roasted fowl fills the chamber, rich and heavy. A servant fills my goblet with dark red liquid, then steps back, silent as a shadow. Geta takes a sip of his wine, then leans back, watching me.

“Rome will soon celebrate General Acacius’ victory in Numidia.”

His tone is conversational, but I know better than to mistake it for idle talk.

“The games will be grander than ever.”

I set my goblet down carefully, the metal cool beneath my fingertips.

“A great conquest.” I say, letting just the right amount of admiration slip into my voice. “The people will rejoice in your triumphs.”

He smiles, obviously pleased by my answer, something he expected. I would never criticize their war choices, I’m not qualified for this and I prefer my head on my shoulder than to have it rolling on the ground.

“Indeed. Rome grows stronger with each victory!” He comments with proud tone.

Caracalla’s fingers drum against the table, slow and deliberate.

“And the people will be entertained.” he says, voice lighter than I expect. “The best gladiators will fight in the arena. The blood will flow freely.”

That man loves chaos and death…

His eyes glint with something close to excitement, and I force myself to hold his gaze, though my stomach tightens at his words. Geta watches me closely, squinting his eyes darkened with makeup.

“You do not seem as thrilled as you sound.”

Even if he can read into my expression, I don’t let my expression falter. A test. A trap, perhaps.

“I understand why the games are loved. There is glory in the struggle, strength in survival.” I pause, allowing a moment to pass before adding, “But I find little joy in watching men die.”

Caracalla laughs, low and amused.

“Soft-hearted.”

“Perhaps.”

His amusement doesn’t wane as he giggles.

“You should come. You have to come. Sit close enough to feel the sand shift beneath your feet, to hear the blades clash.”

I reach for a fig from the tray before me, rolling it between my fingers before bringing it to my lips. The sweetness spreads across my tongue, but the unease in my chest does not lessen.

Caracalla leans in slightly, his voice lower, meant only for me.

“You might change your mind and come willingly…”

I meet his gaze, unflinching.

Or I might not.

A beat of silence lingers between us, stretching into something almost tangible. Then, slowly, he grins. He lifts his goblet in a silent toast. I raise mine in response, but when the wine touches my lips, it tastes heavier than before.

The final bites of the meal are taken with slow enjoyment, the richness of the flavors still lingering on my tongue as I lean back in my chair. The meal has been exquisite, beyond anything I’ve ever tasted. The roasted quail, the honeyed fruits, the wine that dances on my palate, all of it feels like a world away from the small, dimly lit rooms I once knew. I try not to let the enormity of it overwhelm me, but the grandeur of the evening, the delicate touches in every dish, has a way of wrapping itself around my thoughts. Caracalla shifts in his seat, his eyes never leaving the remnants of his plate. His fingers brush against his goblet as he takes another drink, his thoughts seemingly far away.

“I’ll admit,” Caracalla begins with authority, “I do enjoy the games. Watching men fight for their lives… it’s exhilarating.”

He pauses, the words hanging in the air for a moment before he continues, his gaze sweeping over the table.

“The crowds go wild. It’s power, plain and simple.”

Geta, ever the more composed of the two, shifts in his seat, the corners of his mouth curling upward into a faint, almost imperceptible smile.

“Power and spectacle. Rome is nothing without both.”

I beg to differ…

I catch the hint of something darker in his tone, but I say nothing. I merely nod, my fingers tracing the edge of my plate as I listen. Geta’s gaze meets mine, and I feel a flicker of discomfort.

“You will come with us. Gladiators will certainly make for an interesting spectacle.”

The question makes my stomach twist slightly. The thought of bloodshed, of men killing one another for sport, stirs a deep unease within me. Alas, I refuse to disappoint them ; I offer a sweet smile.

“They’ll be… magnificent, I’m sure.” I comment carefully, my voice steady, though my mind races to find the right words. “The people will be thrilled. It’s an honor to be in the presence of such grandeur.”

Caracalla’s eyes gleam with satisfaction, though there’s a glint of something dangerous beneath the surface. “

Yes, they should be thrilled. The games will be a reminder of Rome’s strength. We’ll show them what it means to defy the might of this empire.

I take a breath, trying to quell the unease rising within me.

“It must be thrilling to be a part of something so powerful. To lead an empire that controls so much.”

I meet Caracalla’s gaze as I speak, but it’s Geta who responds, his tone unexpectedly gentle.

“It is thrilling, but there is more at play than the battles we fight. We must show our people that their rulers are not just warriors, but leaders who know how to shape the future of the empire.”

His words catch me off guard. I hadn’t expected this shift in the conversation. For a moment, I consider asking more, about their plans, about their vision, but I hold back, unsure of how much I’m allowed to probe. Instead, I give a simple and respectful nod.

“I can only imagine the burden of such responsibility. The empire must rely on you in ways no one else could understand.”

Caracalla’s grin widens, but it’s not the same as before. It’s colder, more distant.

“It’s a burden we bear gladly. We are Romans and the Gods chose us. It is our destiny.”

The conversation shifts again, the tension palpable in the air. Geta speaks again, his voice carrying a hint of playfulness, as if to ease the weight of the moment.

“Well, after the games, we’ll need something to occupy our time. I’ve been thinking we could play Ludus Latrunculi.”

I blink, momentarily confused. I know the game, of course, most educated Roman does. However, I’ve never been particularly skilled at it, and the few times I’ve tried, I’ve ended up frustrated, unable to grasp the rules or the strategy behind it.

“I… I’m not sure I’m very good at it. I’ve never really played much before.” I admit, my voice hesitant.

Geta laughs lightly, the sound warm but with a hint of challenge.

“It’s simple once you get the hang of it. Besides, it’s always fun to have a little competition.”

I hesitate again, glancing toward Caracalla. He’s watching the two of us with interest, leaning forward slightly in his chair as though this game is of great importance to him.

“You’ll do fine.” Caracalla says, his tone easy and reassuring, not even making fun of me.

Not long after diner, the pieces are set on the table in front of me, the board meticulously arranged. My fingers hover above the small pieces, unsure of my next move. I glance at Caracalla, who is watching me closely, and feel the weight of his gaze settle over me.

“Move your piece there. You’ll block him.” he whispers in my ear, his voice low and almost conspiratorial. His warm breath makes me shiver. My heart hammers in my chest.

What’s wrong with me…?

I follow his suggestion, trying to mask the uncertainty in my mind. Geta watches me carefully, and I can’t quite place the look in his eyes. It’s not judgment, but something else. Curiosity, perhaps.

“Well done.” Caracalla murmurs. “You’re learning fast.”

I feel a small rush of pride at his words, though I know I still have a long way to go. The game keep going with the pieces moving across the board as the tension between us eases ever so slightly. It’s not a game I particularly enjoy, but the moment feels strangely lighter. With Caracalla’s subtle guidance and Geta’s occasional remarks, I find myself more relaxed than I expected.

“Don’t make it too easy for her. She needs to learn to think for herself.” Geta advices Caracalla, though his tone is teasing.

Caracalla chuckles, but there’s a hint of pride in his laugh.

“I’m sure she’ll learn quickly enough.”

I make another move, my fingers shaking slightly as I place a piece on the board. Geta’s eyes narrow, studying my move carefully. It’s a small victory, but it feels like more than that. A quiet triumph that makes me feel a little less like an outsider, a little more like I belong in this strange, complicated world they’ve created.

The air feels cool against my skin as I step out of the dining hall, my body heavy from the meal. The pleasure of the evening lingers on my tongue, but I’m grateful for the quiet as I’m escorted back to my room. The guard, silent as ever, follows closely behind, while Claudia moves ahead to open the door. Her presence is a reminder that my moments of solitude are few, yet I welcome the brief respite. Once inside, I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. The room is simple, but the softness of the bed and the stillness of the air offer comfort. My thoughts drift toward the bath, the warmth of the water calling me as if it has the power to wash away the tension of the evening.

Soon, Claudia helps me with taking clothes and we walk in the long corridors to reach the baths. Claudia steps forward, her eyes gleaming with the same practiced care that I’ve come to know in the women who serve here.

“Shall I assist you with your bath?” she asks.

I shake my head, offering her a small smile.

“No, thank you, Claudia. I wish to be alone for this.”

She nods, not a hint of surprise on her face, and with a glance at the guard, she motions toward the door. They both step out, leaving me with only the silence of the room and the promise of the baths.

Quickly, I undress slowly at apodyterium and leaves my night clothes there, since there’s nobody this late in the night. The cool air of the room brushes against my skin as I walk toward the bathing chamber. The sound of running water reaches my ears before I even enter, and the heat from the steam greets me like an embrace. I close my eyes briefly, savoring the anticipation of the warmth that awaits.

I start with the tepidarium for its lukewarm temperature, before I move to another pond, the caldarium for its warm temperatures. The water is just the right temperature, swirling with steam and the faint scent of oils. As I lower myself into the bath, a satisfied sigh escapes my lips, the tension in my muscles beginning to melt away. I close my eyes and let the warmth envelop me, the weight of the day slowly easing from my mind. The soft splash of water as I move, the peaceful silence; this is all I need.

For a moment, I allow myself to simply be… me. The sound of the water is calming, and I lose myself in it, letting it pull me into a dreamlike state. My mind drifts back to a simpler time, to the days when everything felt less complicated. When I open my eyes again, I find the dim light of the bathhouse stretching across the stone floor, casting long shadows. It is then that I hear the voice, low, amused, and unmistakably familiar:

“I didn’t expect to see you here at this hour.”

I freeze, my heart lurching in my chest. I press myself against the edge of the bath, one hand instinctively crossing over my womanhood, while my free arm hides my breasts, to shield my nudity. My breath catches in my throat as I try to compose myself, but it’s too late. I hear the soft chuckle that follows.

“Don’t be so startled. I’m not here to annoy you” Geta’s voice says, still teasing, but with a gentleness that calms my nerves, if only slightly.

I blink, unable to form a proper response as he approaches. He is dressed in a simple bathrobe, his hair still slightly damp from his own bath, the faintest trace of amusement playing across his features. He crouches down by the edge of the pond, leaning in close enough that I can feel the heat of his presence.

His eyes are warm, studying me in a way that both comforts and unnerves me. He reaches out, his fingers brushing my cheek, the touch unexpectedly tender. “

“You don’t need to hide from me.” he says softly.

I can feel the heat rising in my face, my pulse quickening.

“I-I wasn’t…” My words falter, and I quickly look away, feeling the shame of being caught so off guard. “I should leave,” I stammer, my fingers curling against the stone edge of the bath.

His expression shifts, the playful edge fading as he gazes at me with a quiet intensity.

“No. You’re not leaving.” he says firmly.

His tone is soft, but there’s an unmistakable authority in it. His gaze holds mine, a silent command behind his words. I freeze for a moment, unsure of how to react. I’ve never been in this position before, where his presence feels as much an order as an invitation.

“Don’t panic.” he adds, his voice soothing yet unyielding. “I will not do anything that would displease you. I only wish to speak with you.”

I nod, though the uncertainty lingers in my chest, tightening the pit of my stomach. His words seem genuine enough, but I can’t shake the feeling that I’m being drawn into something larger than I understand. His fingers remain near my face, his touch warm and steady as though to reassure me. His smile turns out to be soft, almost imperceptible.

“It’s alright… I promise you, I won’t make you uncomfortable.”

But I don’t know what to believe. I can only nod again, unsure of the next move, unsure of where this unexpected moment will lead.

I’m still pressing myself against the cool stone of the bath, my chest tight and my heart pounding as Geta slowly rises from his crouch. The sound of water lapping against the stone fills the space between us as he begins to undress, and I force myself to look away, though my eyes keep flicking back against my will. He doesn’t seem to mind. With each movement, he seems to draw closer, until finally, he steps into the water beside me. The ripples disturb the surface, but my gaze stays fixed on the far wall, desperate to avoid his eyes, his presence. Yet he doesn’t give me the luxury of solitude. He moves nearer, his voice low and soft.

“You don’t need to be so shy, Y/N.”

His hand reaches up to gently tilt my chin toward him.

His body is too close…

Once again, my heart beats furiously in my chest, almost piercing my ribcage. I don’t resist as his fingers strokes my face, warm and tender, while my breath catches in my throat. He leans in slightly, the warmth of his body radiating against my skin, and for a moment, I can’t think, I only feel the weight of his gaze on me, the pressure of his touch. His fingers trail through my damp hair, and I feel a shiver race down my spine as he gathers it gently, his touch lingering.

“I love it…” he mutters, his voice so close it sends a flush to my cheeks.

“Your hair… It’s perfect.” His hands move lower, caressing the strands that fall loosely against my shoulders.

“In fact, I love everything about you.”

My heart thumps loudly, as if it might escape my chest. I can’t stop myself from looking up at him then, my breath catching in my throat. His eyes hold mine with an intensity that leaves me breathless, and I feel exposed, as though he sees everything I am and all that I hide. His hands move slowly, carefully, tracing the curve of my arm, and my body stiffens, every muscle screaming for distance. I don’t know how to respond to the overwhelming sensation of his touch, so I pull back, my pulse racing in my throat. But he doesn’t stop; instead, he meets my hesitation with a quiet, almost gentle smile.

“I won’t take what isn’t yours to give.” he clarifies with a husky voice. “I only want to cherish you.”

His words are careful, and yet there’s an undeniable hunger in the air between us.

Before I can answer, he moves closer again, his lips brushing against the curve of my neck. The warmth of his breath makes my skin prickle, and the sensation is both soothing and unsettling at the same time. His kiss is light, but it lingers, leaving a trace of warmth on my skin that I can’t seem to ignore.

I want to pull away, to escape the heat that’s building between us, but my body stays frozen, caught between wanting to run and wanting to remain. I hear him whisper against my skin, his voice rich with something deeper, something I don’t fully understand.

“I won’t rush you…” he mutters softly, though I can’t help but feel as if he’s already claimed a part of me I didn’t want to give. His lips hover over my skin, waiting for my response, and all I can do is shaking. My heart pounds louder than my words, louder than my thoughts. I don’t know if it’s fear, desire, or something else entirely. All I know is that I can’t bring myself to leave. At that moment, his kiss deepens, a gentle pressure against my neck, and for the briefest of seconds, I forget everything but the touch of his lips and the warmth of the water.

One day, I’ll break.

They will win.

But when?

Here's a slightly softer chapter than the previous one. Reader and the two emperors got closer. Will they soon be able to sway her heart?

Feel free to leave your opinion :)

Thanks for your support.

My AO3: BetrayedWriter

⚔️ Taglist: @duckyhowls @babey-fruit-bat, @punk-in-docs, @t6gse370, @angelcloudxxsblog, @miragens-para-uma-vitoria, @himikoquack, @chloe-skywalker, @bocreep, @littlemissholy, @yeoldebytche

Ask to be added in the list! (or to be deleted)

#emperor geta #geta x reader #gladiator 2 #gladiator ii #geta x you #joseph quinn geta #emperor geta fanfic #emperor geta fanfiction #emperor caracalla #caracalla x reader #caracalla x you #fred hechinger #emperor caracalla fanfiction #joseph quinn

104 notes · View notes

feyhunter78 · 11 months ago

Text

Chapter Five - A tourney is held to celebrate Lord Stark's appointment to the small council, and your sworn sword is taking part.

Ch 6

The journey home from Winterfell was long, the journey there had been long, but now you were able to return to your chambers. To lay in your bed, to shed your fur lined cloaks and return to the light, airy fabrics you much preferred.

The Keep is a flurry of movement, arrangements for new small council members and meetings, noblemen switching out their sons and daughter within the Keep, new servants and merchants arriving.

You attend your lessons with Sansa now, she is slightly behind you, being younger, but she is a quick study. Myrcella enjoys having her in lessons as well, and the three of you quickly become close. The three of you spend time in the godswood, picnicking and gossiping, filling Sansa in on all the rumors that swirl around the Red Keep.

It is one such occasion that you first hear it. “I have heard tale that my Uncle Renley prefers the company of men.” Myrcella whispers as she passes a lemon cake to Sansa.

Sansa’s shocked expression makes you giggle. “Come now, Sansa, you must know there are men like that.”

“I have heard of such things but…” She trails off, taking a bite of her cake.

“It seems to be much more prevalent in Dorne, all manner of things are allowed there.” You take a sip of your tea, spotting Jon lingering on the edge of the godswood with Ghost, Theon lounging in the grass beside them.

“I pity whoever is to be married to him, how will she ever have children?” Myrcella laments, her golden tresses falling forward as she reaches for a blueberry scone.

“Why would that prevent her from having children?” Sansa asks, her eyes cast to the blanket you all sat upon.

“Because he will not…you know…” You lean forward, dropping your voice to a whisper. “Be able to get it up.”

The confusion is clear on her face, and you send a prayer to the Mother for forgiveness over the innocence you are about to ruin.

“A man’s…member must be erect in order for marital acts to be completed, he will not be able to spill his seed otherwise.” You continue feeling your face heat up. Your father had instructed a septa to give you a very frank talk about intercourse when you first bled, it was informative but jarring. Then you sought out some of the older maids to fill in the gaps of knowledge in a gentler way.

“So, if he is not attracted to his future wife, or women at all, it will not get erect?” Sansa asks, putting the pieces together in her mind.

“Which means no children.” Myrcella finishes Sansa’s thought for her.

Sansa wrinkles her nose, a gesture you are certain she picked up from you. “I cannot imagine.”

“Perhaps the marriage will be a strategic one?” You say, tearing some grass out and letting it blow away in the wind.

Lady raises her head and watches them go, then sets it back down in Sansa’s lap.

Sansa runs her fingers through Lady’s fur, mulling over your words. “I do not think I could marry for strategy; I want to marry for love.”

Myrcella rakes her teeth across her bottom lip. “I do not think I will have a choice.”

You rub your cousin’s back soothingly. “You do not know that.”

Sansa perks up. “Let us play a game, we shall describe our perfect husband and then see if it matches to any lords in the court.”

You smile, her childish innocence perfectly distracts Myrcella.

“I shall go first, then?” Myrcella says, thinking for a moment before beginning. “I would like someone my age or a little older, but not by much. Tall with dark hair and dark eyes, the exact opposite of my brothers. Intelligent, a good swordsman, gentle, and a good dancer. And if he had sisters or female cousins for me to befriend, I would like that as well. Oh, and am I terrible if I say I would wish him to be tan? I do so love the look of bronzed skin; it looks so warm.”

You nod at Sansa, who begins. “Someone my age as well, with light hair and emerald eyes, a golden prince who enjoys festivities and is noble like a great knight.”

You and Mycella share a look.

“Sansa it is supposed to be your perfect husband, not your potential betrothed.” You remind her, thanking the gods that Sansa and Joffrey’s betrothal had been delayed thanks to all the excitement when you left Winterfell. It seemed Lord Stark could not think of betrothing his daughter while Bran lay in a coma, so the matter had not been brought up in many weeks.

“Come now, Sansa, we will not tell Joffrey, speak from the heart.” Myrcella encourages, poking Sansa’s arm playfully.

“Joffrey is my perfect husband, but if I must give a different answer…” She trails off, and you can see her eyes flickering to Theon unconsciously. “Perhaps a little older, tall, and strong, but not too broad like The Hound, with light eyes and hair that looks as if it has been tousled by the sea, someone who can make me laugh, and is loyal to those he cares for.”

“That sounds like a very good man.” You say, drawing Sansa’s attention away from Theon.

“Yes, well, Joffrey is many of those things. Now y/n, it is your turn.”

“I agree with you both, no old men, someone strong, a good swordsman, but I must side with Mycrella on looks, I would like a dark-haired man as well, with dark eyes and a gentle soul. Perhaps someone loyal and well-read? And I would like to be friends with my husband, as well as be his wife.”

“It would be nice to be friends with your husband, so many women are simply wives or mothers or broodmares.” Myrcella says, tearing her scone into tiny pieces. “I pity whoever Joffrey marries.”

“Prince Joffrey is a good man; I am sure he will be a wonderful companion to his wife.” Sansa sniffs.

You purse your lips. Your father said you are not to interfere, to let Sansa realize Joffrey’s true nature on her own, but it is difficult.

“House Beesbury has many men like you described, Sansa, perhaps we should look for them during the next feast.” Myrcella says, brushing her hands off on her skirts.

“House Beesbury is a good house, or House Royce, both I believe will be sending knights for the Tourney of the Hand.” You add.

Now it is your turn to clutch Sansa’s hand as Jon faces off against Thoros of Myr. You knew the Red Priest would not hurt him, it was Jon’s first tourney, but you still feared for him. Anything could happen, he could be blinded by the sun, the Red Priest could be seized with divine madness, or the others that Jon had already defeated to reach Thoros could try to interfere and sabotage him.

Jon’s stance is steady, his sword—which glints in the sunlight, a gift from you, for his nameday—at the ready. Strong and sturdy made of the finest steel outside of Valyrian, the pommel set with an emerald, a direwolf carved into the crossguard.

“May the Lord of Light have mercy on you, my son.” Thoros says as he and Jon circle each other.

Jon says nothing, only nods and watches the older man.

Thoros’ sword is aflame with wildfire, the flames dance as he swings it gracefully, waiting for Jon to strike.

“Will the fire burn him?” Sansa asks, watching the two men through her fingers.

“Never seen Jon get burned before.” Theon shrugs.

Sansa hisses a reply at him, her head whipping forward when you gasp.

Jon strikes, fast as a whip, their swords meeting, the sound of iron on iron echoing in the ring. He has been training with Lord Aron Santagar, your uncle’s master-at-arms, or your Uncle Jaime whenever he has free time. Which is often as you do not have much to do most days, besides lessons and subtly attempting to convince Sansa to realize her feelings for Theon.

Thoros lunges, nearly catching Jon by surprise, but Jon side steps, kicking up dust as he moves.

Your heart is in your throat, and you stand, your hand still in Sansa’s when the duelers meet face to face once more. It is a show of strength, and you send a quick prayer to the Warrior, your eyes never leaving Jon’s form. Thoros is gaining, pushing at Jon, his feet sliding in the dirt, his arms trembling.

“Knock him flat, Jon!” Sansa’s voice surprises even you, as she jumps to her feet, Theon’s laughter ringing behind you both.

You are not even sure if Jon can hear her, but he seems emboldened, and he shoves the older man forward with a grunt. Thoros stumbles back, an ecstatic grin on his face.

“There it is, boy, show me your fire.” Thoros cheers, clearly enjoying the match far more than anyone watching.

Jon moves quicker than you can blink, throwing his weight behind his sword and knocking the man flat, just as he had Joffrey all those moons ago. He holds Thoros at sword point, and the crowd erupts.

Robert calls out Jon’s victory cheerfully, and you see Lord Stark smiling as Robert claps him on the back.

Sansa sinks into her chair with a sigh of relief, but you cannot do the same, you rush forward, pressing yourself against the edge of the dais. Jon is your sworn sword, and your heart will not return to its place in your chest until you have seen he is whole.

“Lady Y/N.” Jon calls, his helmet in one hand, his curls wild, a grin born of victory on his handsome face as he approaches the dais, a crown of roses hanging from his sword.

“Ser Jon.” You smile, graciously accepting the crown from the tip of his sword. It is half a hand longer than a normal sword, something you found an odd request of his, but it serves him well.

Sansa helps you arrange the crown on your head, looking at it wistfully. “It is beautiful, and it suits you.”

“Perhaps for the next tourney I will forbid Jon from fighting and Theon can crown you.” You suggest smiling devilishly at the Greyjoy.

Theon makes a sound of protest, Sansa’s own interrupted by Jon’s appearance on the dais. He has not even cleaned himself off, and he sets his helmet down on the railing, barely having enough time to speak before your uncle calls him over.

“Ser Snow, come, let us toast to your victory.” He says, raising a full cup high, Thoros is with them, his own cup full, his smile bright and genuine as he waves Jon over.

Jon looks at you, and you shoo him towards the throne. He has grown taller and stronger, though he is less broad than some other knights, there is raw strength in his every move. He is quick too, evident by the very fact there is barely a scratch on him. He fought six men and all he has to show for it will be a small scar on his cheek and sore muscles in the morning.

Theon’s voice draws your attention away from Jon. “Sansa—”

“Lady Sansa.” She cuts him off.

He leans over and plucks the crown from your head, giving you a quick wink. “Lady Sansa. If you wished to be crowned my queen of love and beauty, you need only ask.” Theon says smoothly placing the crown on her head then giving her an elaborate bow.

Sansa freezes, her eyes darting to where Joffrey sits, his attention completely consumed by the archery competition. “Theon…”

“Though I dare say you are far more beautiful without that frilly crown.” He says, twirling a strand of her hair around his finger.

“I happen to like that frilly crown.” You interject, trying to hold back your laughter.

Theon can be quite humorous, his bawdy jokes and shameless manner often sending color rushing to Sansa’s cheeks.

“You have to win me this crown, Theon, that is how it works.” Sansa says, ripping the crown from her head and shoving it at Theon.

“And where is your queen, she must come celebrate with us.” Your uncle’s voice booms, carrying over to you, as you take your crown back from Theon.

He helps you adjust it as Sansa did and gives you a secret smile. “Promise you will keep Jon from fighting next time?”

You smile back. “I promise.”

“Y/N, come over here, the people wish to see you congratulate your champion.”

You pick up your skirts and hurry over to your uncle, who is already deep in his cups. Your aunt is watching him with an air of disgust veiled by wifely concern. “My King, do not embarrass the poor girl.”

Robert waves her off. “It is only proper; it was the reward I would receive from you when I would crown you my queen of love and beauty.”

You glance at your father, who is still seated. He inclines his head towards you. It is your decision, whatever your uncle is asking of you.

Jon shifts his weight, his skin sweat soaked and dusted with dirt, a mug of ale in his hand.

“Embarrass me?” You search your mind for whatever your aunt could be referring to, there were not many times your uncle would compete in tourneys, especially as he aged, the only reward you can remember him receiving…

Thoros slings an arm over Jon’s shoulder. “A kiss, you must bestow your champion a kiss.”

Your eyes widen and you glance around. Everyone is watching, even the crowd seems intent to see what the King will encourage next. They are chanting, you did not realize they were chanting for Jon, too wrapped up in your own thoughts.

“I—I am unwed, would it not be improper?” You ask, looking to your aunt for help.

“Robert, please she is only a child—”

“On the cheek then, there is no shame then, your father is here, I am here, there shall be no besmirching of your virtue.” Your uncle says, clapping his hands together with a tone of finality.

Series Masterlist here!

Jon Snow TL: @mostclevermiss, @solacestyles, @2valentines, @sharknutz

#meg's writing #jon snow x you #jon snow x reader #jon snow imagines #jon snow imagine #jon snow #lannister!reader

247 notes · View notes

interessanne · 1 month ago

Text

Beneath the Emperor´s gaze

Masterlist - Chapter Three

Chapter 2

Pairing - Caracalla x fem! OC

Summary - At a grand banquet Liva catches Caracalla's unsettling gaze. When she serves him wine his touch linger deliberately. Geta taunts him, but Caracalla only smirks. Calling it an ''Eye for quality.'' As laughter fills the room Livia retreats, sensing that this was just the beginning.

Warning - none

The banquet was a spectacle of indulgence, the kind only emperors could command. It was held in the grand triclinium of the palace, a vast chamber where marble columns stretched toward vaulted ceilings painted with images of Jupiter among the clouds. Golden lamps flickered from every surface, casting a warm glow over the sea of nobles reclining on couches draped in silk. The air was thick with the mingling scents of roasted peacock, honeyed dates, and the ever present scent that clung to the palace walls. It was not just a feast it was a display. A declaration of Rome's wealth, its dominance and its ability to turn excess into art.

Senators lounged beside generals, their laughter mixing with the music of harps and flutes. Golden goblets never ran dry as servants were darting between guests to pour the Falernian wine that gleamed like rubies in the firelight. Slave girls were dressed in garments so sheer they might as well have been mist they moved among them offering platters of delicacies like figs stuffed with spiced nuts, oysters drenched in vinegar and fish so perfectly roasted their flesh slid from the bone with the slightest touch.

At the center of it all was a grand table adorned with polished bronze platters piled high with exotic fruits and meats from every corner of the empire. There were pheasants roasted in their own feathers, stuffed dormice glazed with honey and poppy seeds, and eels fattened on figs their flesh melting on the tongue. The air was thick with the heady perfume of spiced garum mingling with the scent of crushed rose petals scattered across the floor.

It was a night of revelry and indulgence where Rome's elite whispered secrets between bites, where alliances were forged and broken over spilled wine and where even the smallest glance could hold the weight of power.

And at the head of it all, like gods among mortals sat Caracalla and Geta. Two emperors. Two wolves forced to share a throne.

Caracalla lounged lazily, one arm draped over the back of his couch. His tunic of deep crimson pooling over his lap. His cloak embroidered with golden laurels was thrown carelessly over one shoulder, the lion-headed brooch barely keeping it in place. His sandals were polished and but well worn and rested heavily against the marble floor as he leaned into the conversation. He had the look of a man both bored and entertained at once, his dark eyes flickering between the guests, searching for something or someone to amuse him.

At times he laughed too loudly at his own jokes, his smirk curling in a way that made those around him laugh as well, though none dared to show hesitation. His fingers, adorned with rings of emerald and onyx, tapped idly against the golden rim of his goblet a restless habit.

There was something unsteady about him, something that made even the most confident senators glance his way with veiled caution. He could be foolish mocking, taunting, toying with those around him as though they were pieces in a game only he understood. But beneath that humor lurked something far more dangerous. There was cruelty in his gaze, a glint of sadism beneath his smirks. The ease with which he switched between amusement and something darker made those around him tread carefully never sure when he might turn his attention on them.

Geta, by contrast was the image of composed authority. His tunic was a deep blue, its edges embroidered in silver and every fold of fabric precisely arranged. Unlike his brother, he did not sprawl or smirk. He sat with the ease of a man accustomed to power but unwilling to indulge in excess. His golden bracelets caught the torchlight as he sipped his wine, his eyes sharp, calculating, watching everything. If Caracalla was a storm wild and chaotic then Geta was the blade that cut through it. Cold. Precise. Dangerous in his own way.

Though they ruled together the tension between them was a silent pulse beneath the revelry. It was there in the way they spoke, in the way Caracalla's jokes at Geta's expense carried just a little too much bite, in the way Geta's smile never quite reached his eyes. The room knew it. The guests knew it. And yet they all pretended not to.

And tonight Livia was among them. She had worked in the palace for months, but never in the emperor's presence. Her tasks had been confined to the lower halls, the kitchens, the storerooms, the quiet corridors where servants whispered amongst themselves so far removed from the world of rulers and gods. But tonight the steward of the household had deemed her ready.

"The emperors tolerate no mistakes," the steward had warned as he examined her with the cold detachment of a man inspecting a new horse. "Your hands must not tremble. Your eyes must not wander. You are to be silent, unseen. Do you understand?" Livia had nodded. She understood better than anyone how to disappear.

And yet, standing here in the great banquet hall surrounded by the glint of gold and the weight of marble columns she felt something unfamiliar pressing against her ribs. Anticipation or perhaps dread. She stepped forward, balancing a silver tray in her hands. A goblet filled to the brim with the finest vintage rested at its center. Her task was simple serve and retreat.

She approached the head of the table, careful to weave between the lounging nobles, careful not to brush against the silk-draped arms of women who would sneer at the mere sight of her.As she neared Caracalla, she thought she felt his gaze on her before she even reached him.

At first, she thought she had imagined it. But when she looked up just for a fraction of a second his dark eyes met hers. Livia's breath caught. Not curiosity. Not indifference. Something else.

She lowered her gaze immediately, but not before she saw the way his expression changed. A flicker of recognition. Had he seen her before? Not just in passing but truly noticed her? Her fingers tightened around the tray. One movement, one smooth tilt of her wrist, and the goblet was in her hand.

Caracalla wasn't looking at her anymore. Not at first. But as she bent forward to present the wine, his gaze flicked upward once more. His fingers brushed against hers. It was not an accident and Livia did not move.

She felt the roughness of his fingertips, the faint scrape of skin against skin, and the deliberate slowness of the gesture. They lingered for a heartbeat too long before the weight of the goblet was lifted from her grasp.

A test. A warning. She stepped back, barely breathing.

Geta, watching lazily from across the table, gave a knowing smirk. "Are even the servants now subject to your scrutiny, brother?" he murmured, his voice carrying just enough for those closest to hear. His tone was light, amused but his eyes held something sharper.

Caracalla did not immediately answer. He lifted the goblet to his lips taking a long, slow sip before lowering it again. Then without looking away from Livia's retreating figure, he finally spoke. "Perhaps I simply have an eye for quality." Laughter rippled through the senators, a few glancing at Livia with renewed interest before turning back to their own conversations.

Livia forced her feet to keep moving disappearing into the sea of servants. Her heart thrummed against her ribs like the beat of a war drum. She had done nothing wrong. And yet, something had shifted in the air. Something unspoken. Something inevitable.

She knew, with a terrible certainty that this would not be the last time the emperor looked at her.

#emperor caracalla #emperor geta #joseph quinn #fred hechinger #gladiator 2 #gladiator ii #fanfic #fanfiction

20 notes · View notes

butternutt613 · 2 months ago

Text

What sprung forth from this idea. 538 words ft. some moodboards! Thanks for brainstorming w/ me @ravenwind-75 @amethystandemma @heylorrain

The Song of Sand and Dreams

“Who are you?” she asked, her voice a gentle ripple against the endless hush of waves. Her gaze was fixed on the man before her, his eyes like moons suspended in a velvet sky, his skin dappled with constellations that shimmered faintly in the light of the rising dawn.

“You mortals have called me by many names,” he murmured. He turned toward the horizon, where gold and rose melted together in the birth of a new day. “Dream Keeper. Morfeo. Drøm. حالم. The Oneironaut. Sandman. But in this form, I prefer Ominis.”

“Are you God?” she asked softly, her fingers plunging into the fine ivory sand. It spilled through her hands like the seconds of a fleeting memory.

“I am among them,” he replied, his pale gaze tracing the path of the grains as they fell. Slowly, he extended his hand, catching the cascading sand in his palm.

When his hand was full, he cupped it gently, cradling the grains like a secret too precious to share. Then, with a whisper of breath, he exhaled into the hollow of his hands. As his fingers unfurled, the grains transformed. Golden butterflies burst forth, their wings catching the dawn's light and scattering it in a thousand shimmering rays. They fluttered upward, fragile and luminous, each one a fragment of magic.

“Will I see you again?” she asked as she extended her hand. One butterfly settled on her palm, its gossamer wings brushing against her skin, delicate as a breath. It lingered, its touch the softest kiss.

“Perhaps,” he said, lips curving into a faint smile. “When your head rests upon your pillow, when your eyes surrender to the night… I will be there, watching over you.”

That was enough.

She smiled, radiant as the sun’s first rays. The dawn kissed her skin, turning her eyes into liquid honey and her bronze skin richer and full of life. The light danced across her features, painting her with the warmth of a summer’s day. With her eyes closed, she lifted her face to the sun.

She was stunning.

Ominis reached out, fingers aching to brush back a strand of her umber curls, to feel its silken texture between his fingers. But as his hand moved closer, it passed through her like a shadow.

She was awake.

The girl vanished, dissolving into the sunlight. Ominis sat motionless as the dream unraveled, the beach fading into nothingness, the melody of the waves replaced by the quiet hum of the ancient throne room. Ominis was alone again, surrounded by hundreds of softly glowing orbs suspended in the still air. Each one the dream of a mortal.

Golden butterflies still fluttered around, delicate remnants of the dream that had just been. Their light mingled with the orbs, casting faint, shimmering reflections onto the polished obsidian floor.

Dreams. Ominis had guarded them for eons. Ominis had shaped the hopes and longings of mortals, crafting the delicate tapestry of their hearts’ desires as they slept. It was their purpose, their eternal role, and Ominis had never questioned it.

Until now.

Something stirred deep within Ominis, something ancient and unfamiliar. A flicker of yearning, of hope.

A dream of their own.

A dream to see the sun-kissed girl again.

~~~~~~

I hope you enjoy, let me know your thoughts!!

All photos and art found on Pinterest or Canva and credit goes to the creator

#i have this really cool concept in my head!#hopefully i will write it well and keep my motivation #ominis gaunt #diana aurora #hogwarts legacy #hogwarts legacy fanfic #hogwarts legacy ominis #ominis gaunt x oc #ominis gaunt x mc #sandman #dream #dreamer #cass sfw #deity #dream god

29 notes · View notes

saltsicklover · 4 months ago

Text

Good Wife

Written by @saltsicklover on Tumblr and @starsrfun on A03 Song Inspiration Good Wife by MIKA Pairing: Tom "Iceman" Kazansky/Pete "Maverick" Mitchell

Content Warnings: Religious Themes, blood, death, loneliness, grief, all hurt no comfort (unless I finally sit down and write part two). Pete has abandonment issues, and daddy issues, and just so many issues. Takes place roughly 1996.

Thanks for being here, and happy reading!

God takes up the same space in Pete “Maverick” Mitchell’s mind as his father does. This isn’t to say that Pete views his father as a God. In fact, Duke Mitchell was the breathing definition of the concept: each generation from Adam and Eve gets further from God’s image. That doesn’t exactly put Pete in the best place as his father’s son. This being true, at least to some, does not negate the fact that God and Duke Mitchell are inexplicably linked in the mind of Pete Mitchell.

They, Duke Mitchell and God, serve as an altar to place blame at; like a carcass at their feet left to rot and fester. If Pete’s inability to attend the academy was a fresh dead rabbit- fur stained dark with spilled blood as the flesh was splayed open (as if one could see the pain actualizing in the spaces between it’s ribs) then Duke Mitchell’s memory has been cast in bronze, his hard lines turning a weeping teal as he accepts the flayed offering with nothing more than continued servitude.

Pete’s greatest sacrifice to God himself was his best friend. An offering not given, instead ripped from Pete’s life in a way that still echoes through him– hollow. Over the rippling ocean, alive, to then be consumed by the salt of the waves turning wine dark with blood. The pair stranded in the current, white foam washing over them with nothing left to do but drift. Their Nomex green suits weighed down by the bloody salty mixture of the sea; Pete’s white knuckle grip on the straps of his best friend’s parachute the only thing keeping them together. There was no life left in Nick then. When they were finally raised into the rescue chopper, Nick's limp body went first, turning in the wind as the waves continued to try and take Pete under. This was the first time he was truly and utterly alone. Pete had a realization then and it crashed into him harder than the waves ever could: God likes his offerings bloody too. The salt of the ocean and of his tears were nothing more than a garnish on top of an already perfect atonement.

Pete continued to sacrifice at their altar for the next ten years. From cutting his instruction at Top Gun short (two months was about fifty days too long for him) to shitty oversea placements as retribution. Small, forgotten islands in the East Sea of Japan became home. Detachments where he shared tiny barracks rooms with other pilots and seamen alike. Those felt lonelier than life on a carrier– at least with the bunk rotations, Pete could convince himself he was sharing a bed with another. The scent of sweat and cologne stuck to the rubber mattresses and it did its best to starve off Maverick’s long-haul feeling of emptiness. God, he was fucking lonely.

Things got worse when he ended up back stateside. Though he should have been thankful, one slip up of offering his new phone number to his best friend’s widow meant that his old cronies were ringing off the hook. Carol meant well in giving out that number, she really did. She figured Pete to be a lonely man whose sole purpose was to fly for the Navy, and while she hit the nail on the head with that, it didn’t mean Pete took too kindly to the near constant droning of the phone.

What hurt more was that Tom didn’t call.

Ron Kerner called regularly, and so did Carol, always wanting the latest gossip about his life, his unit, the base, anything they could get Maverick to divulge to them now that phone calls didn’t cost them a dollar a minute to make.

Marcus Williams called once too, his voice still holding that tilt that suggested that it was in fact Sundown he was talking to. He let him know of some shit he heard coming down the line from his base in Texas. Though it was true, Marcus used the call to check in on Pete, too. Ending the call, a bit less Sundown and a bit more Marcus, he left Pete with the standard we’ll talk soon though soon never quite comes at the speed they suggest it will.

That’s the thing with Aviators– they always toe the line between themselves and their call signs like a silly nickname could cover up the fact that they actually care. Pete doesn’t let himself think about when Marcus slipped into the call.

Ron calls again, and then Bradley, Carol’s son, starts to phone Pete himself. Pete’s answering machine is filled with questions about how to talk to girls and stories about just how hard it is to be thirteen. Pete does his best to return the calls and answer the questions. He loves talking to Bradley and the older he gets, the better Pete has become at ignoring the hollow feeling in his chest when he does.

He still cries, sometimes. Usually after Bradley has called and asked to hear about his father, again. It’s been like this for years and Pete still has stories the young boy hasn’t heard. One’s he’s saving for when he’s a bit older, a bit wiser, a bit more like his dad. At least that’s what he tells himself, instead he might be saving them for days when he himself is a bit stronger, a day where his voice won’t break and crackle across the phone line, a day when Pete can finally think about that day without being overtaken by nausea.

Those tears come with a choked out sob– Pete may as well be kneeling at the marble base of God’s altar instead of sitting on the cold kitchen tile, his back pressed to the linoleum of the cabinets.

And still, Tom doesn’t call.

Maybe it wouldn’t hurt so much if Pete could rip the memory of the Layton Mission from the gray matter of his brain. It’s not so much the battle that gets him, either, that gets to Pete late at night when he’s tucked away beneath his sheets– or when he’s doing preflight checks, or drinking after work, the memory is always there.

Instead, that memory, the blond man and his shark-snap grin, is almost on constant replay in the back of his mind. That damn death grip of a handshake that led to the pair coming together, their orbits finally close enough to send them colliding into each other. It was all hard pats on the back and smiles so big their cheeks hurt.

At the time he convinced himself it was just the adrenalin of realizing he was still alive. Still breathing and standing on dry land with his wingman in tow. Then, as they stood toe to toe, embraced in each other's arms as much as their gear would allow all sweat soaked and satiated just by being alive, Pete’s life shifted. It was a small shift, almost imperceivably so. But, he felt it deep within his very being. The memory of Tom’s body heat radiating into him caused a feeling of heat somewhere stuck between his heart and his stomach. In a way, Pete convinced himself it was that same sort of heat, only this time it was his body creating the feeling instead of another. But truth be told, it was all Tom’s doing, even if neither of them realized it.

In the coming days after, he rode the high of survival, letting it carry him all the way to his new posting with a fever and a confidence that was simply too Maverick to be ignored. Then as the day became more routine, the excitement of life dulling back out to a saturation of normalcy, Pete began to notice the feeling… that feeling where he knew there was something missing, hanging just beyond his reach. His world had shifted again, this time going unnoticed and it left him craving. That knowing heat no longer stuck in his abdomen, now seemingly akin to void.

It wasn’t the same hollowness that came with the thought of Nick, or the guilt that panged against the walls of that empty space inside himself when Bradley sounded just a bit too much like his father. No, this was different all together.

That made him cry too; he chalked it up to an attempted expiation, though he wasn’t sure if God or his father were receptive to that sort of thing. His amends on Earth were as completed as grief and time would allow.

These tears were something else entirely. And still, Tom didn’t call.

It’s not quite like Pete expected Tom to call. After all, they went their separate ways after Layton. Pete turned right back around while Tom turned his gaze forward. But sometimes, in the heat of the jet, or while he flies down the highway, tires squealing in the way his lungs felt the need to, Maverick swore he could feel Tom’s back pressed up against his own. Maybe that’s just how it goes when two become linked in such a way- the trauma bond starving off a war before it starts- to then lead life 180 degrees from one another. Ghosts of memories with the knowledge that they have your six in the same way that you have theirs. Phantoms of a bond that lasts not because you want it to, but because it has to despite it all.

Pete has never tried to call Tom, either.

It might be something in the way that they’ve always spent their lives halfway to heaven that makes the fact that Tom Kazansky could be- is- standing rain soaked and unannounced on Pete’s front porch less of an unheard of possibility and more like an answered prayer. The rain itself is not unusual for the season but Tom’s presence is, and the look he wears plastered to his brow in the same way his hair is, is even stranger.

And in that halfway to heaven part of their lives- both in the way that they spend their time in jets racing towards the bend of the Earth and the sky that might just give way to the heavens if they could reach it, and the way that they knew all too well how quickly a jet could claim a life- that’s where Pete first let him imagine a moment like this. A moment where Tom might step through the front door of his house- of their house- after one of those long and grueling missions. A moment where Pete might be able to wrap his hand gently around the back of Tom’s neck and pull, their lips meeting in the middle. Whispered “thank god your home” and “I’ve missed you” shared between them presses of their lips. The images swirled in his brain, thoughts he knows better than to entertain but they themselves are so sticky sweet with endearment that he can’t help but give into their warm glow. In another life where the world was different or he was someone else. He would’ve been such a good wife.

But now, Pete is still himself, and Tom is still standing under the cover of his porch dripping water onto his welcome mat. Tom looks a little thinner, and more worse for wear than Pete’s ever seen him, but fuck he still looks good. His eyes wander over Tom’s body, taking in the way his clothes stick to his skin. Light wash jeans now dark, the thick fabric hugged to his thighs. White t-shirt basically see-thru now, his abs just visible in the amber buzzing of the porch light. The button down shirt framing the thick outline of his shoulders did nothing to help Tom in the rain, but Pete can’t help but let his eyes linger on the curves of muscle Tom has there.

Tom lets Pete look, his words sitting thick on his tongue. Tom had an entire monologue planned out, from beginning to end, mapped out on his walk over. It was a few miles after all, from base to Pete’s front door. Tom has always been an analytical man, thought out and sure of himself, but all that faded to the background as soon as Pete pulled open his front door. So, Tom lets him look.

He looks, too. Not that Pete noticed the way his friend’s eyes wandered over his own body. In nothing but jeans, wrinkled and worn, left undone like Pete had pulled them on just to answer the door. They’re zipped but the button hangs open. There’s no waistband hidden underneath, just a line of dark brown hair that leads down his abs and disappears behind the brass teeth of the zipper.

Tom’s eyes are angled low enough, that in the light of the half dead bulb, he appears to be keeping his eyes strictly to the ground. He’s not, but again, what Pete doesn’t know won’t hurt him. As that thought crosses Tom’s mind again, his stomach twists a little.

“Ice… What the-”

“Fuck it’s good to see you,”

#saltsicklover #pete maverick mitchell #tom iceman kazansky #top gun #top gun maverick fanfiction #icemav #icemav fanfiction #pete mitchell x tom kazansky #iceman x maverick #pete mitchell/tom kazansky #maverick/iceman #top gun 1986 #top gun fanfiction #pete mitchell #tom kazansky #hey look whos finally writing again

24 notes · View notes

infamous-light · 5 months ago

Text

A Dance with Danger Ch. 1

Agatha Harkness x Rio Vidal

AO3: A Dance with Danger

Summary: Sheriff Agatha, a determined and relentless law enforcer, has been obsessed with pursuing the notorious outlaw Rio Vidal for years.

As their cat-and-mouse game intensifies, Agatha finds herself torn between her duty to uphold the law and the thrill of the chase.

Word Count: 2.7K

Warnings: none for this chapter

The sun dipped low on the horizon, casting a deep amber glow over the dusty little town of Westview, painting the buildings and cracked sidewalks in hues of warm gold and burnt orange.

A lazy wind drifted through, stirring faint whirls of dust that danced playfully along the ground. Despite the gentle breeze, it did little to cut through the oppressive heat that settled over the town like an unwanted blanket, heavy and suffocating.

Inside the sheriff’s office, the air was thick, a dense mix of leather, gun oil, and stale ink that seemed to cling to every surface. Shelves along one wall were overloaded with case files, their edges frayed and yellowed, some tilted at precarious angles, held up more by sheer luck than organization. On the main desk, an old tin of fountain pens lay on its side, scattering a few loose pens and ink-splattered nibs across the visitor sign-in sheet.

Near the back of the room, Sheriff Agatha sat alone at her desk, shoulders hunched forward, the familiar creak of her wooden chair filling the silence as she leaned in. Her fingers brushed along the edges of a weathered, creased wanted poster that had been thumbed through countless times, almost reverent in its well-worn state. It was a face she knew all too well, one that lingered like a ghost around the edges of her mind.

The name stared back at her in bold, black letters: WANTED: RIO VIDAL

Beneath the name, the photograph of a woman’s face was captured in startling detail.

The sepia tones gave her skin a bronzed, sun-kissed hue, emphasizing the sharp angles of her cheekbones and the narrow line of her jaw. Strands of dark hair spilled loosely over her shoulders, framing her face with an almost careless elegance. It looked as though she had just run a hand through it, leaving a few rebellious curls to fall forward, drawing attention to her lips. The faintest hint of a smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth – a teasing, almost arrogant curve that hinted at some private amusement, a secret she only knew.

But what stood out to Agatha the most were her eyes. Even through the grainy photograph, they gleamed with a challenge beneath her dark lashes, the kind of look that dared anyone who met her gaze to try their luck.

Agatha clenched her jaw, her eyes narrowing into a glare that could burn holes right through the aging poster. Her fingers tightened on the edges, and a crease ran down the center, splitting Rio’s infamous face in two as her knuckles turned bone white.

Agatha’s gaze continued to shift downward, landing on the words etched across the page: DEAD OR ALIVE, stamped in thick, unforgiving block letters.

It sent a fresh wave of heat through Agatha. She’d be damned if she allowed Rio to die – no, she didn’t deserve the luxury of death. Not after everything she had done, the way she’d humiliated Agatha at every turn. She wanted to see Rio alive and locked behind bars, stripped of her freedom, and forced to face the consequences of her actions.

She wanted Rio to feel the bitter sting of helplessness.

The image of Rio, shackled and powerless, ignited a fire deep within Agatha – a desperate need to reclaim the honor that Rio had so effortlessly taken from her but also to seek justice for all the wrongs that Rio had done.

The thought brought forth a memory, one still raw and sour, as if etched into her bones.

It was the day Agatha had come so painfully close to capturing Rio – an ambush that still haunted her dreams. The stagecoach had been rolling along a winding, desolate backroad, carrying precious cargo. Agatha had been tracking it for days, certain that Rio would target it. It was a simple enough plan: wait for Rio to strike, leap into action and take down the notorious outlaw, and finally end the relentless chase that had consumed her life for far too long.

But Rio, as always, had been one step ahead.

Agatha could still see it – the moment when everything went wrong. She and her deputies had been crouched low behind a cluster of twisted, gnarled bushes; their breaths held in anticipation. Then, without warning, the sharp, heart-stopping crack of gunfire shattered the air. Agatha’s fingers dug into the dirt as her heart skipped a beat. The sound had barely settled before she sensed a shift behind them.

Slowly, as if out of a nightmare, Rio emerged from the tree line, astride her imposing black horse.

In a heartbeat, chaos erupted.

A piercing yell cut through the air, and in an instant, Rio's group swarmed them from all directions.

Agatha fought with everything she had. Bullets cut through the air, each one a breath away from striking; her heart thundered as she fired back, every shot aimed with precision. Her eyes darted through the frenzied blur of figures and smoke, searching with a fierce urgency. Then, she caught a flash of dark hair – Rio. A wicked gleam danced in her eyes, amusement mixed with something darker, something tantalizingly dangerous. The sight of that sly grin made Agatha's pulse stumble.

But before Agatha could steady her aim, Rio was gone, dipping over the crest of a hill atop her horse.

Instinct ignited within Agatha as she swung herself up onto her own steed, her muscles coiling with tension as she gripped the reins tightly. With a fierce resolve, she spurred her horse forward, galloping hard to close the distance between them. The ground thudded beneath her as she urged her horse faster, the wind whipping through her hair and stinging her cheeks.

Before Agatha could grab her trusty rope, coiled neatly at her side, a stray bullet whizzed past, grazing one of her horse’s legs. It reared back in fear, its powerful legs kicking wildly. Agatha barely had time to react before she was thrown off her saddle, the world spinning erratically around her as she hit the ground hard. Pain lanced through her side, and she gritted her teeth, rolling quickly to the side as she braced herself against further injury, her muscles seizing from the impact.

Frustration surged through her veins, raw and boiling. The sting of failure bit deep as she lay there, watching Rio slip away with that familiar, insufferable smile tugging at her lips. It was the kind of smile that twisted like a knife in Agatha’s chest.

She would not – could not – let herself be humiliated like that again. The memory of that shame burned like an unhealed wound, refusing to fade away.

Agatha forced herself to refocus, her gaze shifting down the page, catching on to the reward sum printed boldly beneath Rio’s picture: $100,000

The number loomed like a challenge, larger than life, impossible to ignore. It hadn't always been this high. The bounty had doubled after Rio's latest stunt – robbing a U.S. governor’s train. It was an act so brazen, so recklessly daring, that it had turned the entire state of New Jersey on its head.

For a fleeting moment, Agatha’s hand trembled, though she clenched it to keep it still, forcing herself to remain calm even as the anger bubbled inside of her chest. It was infuriating to think that Rio would dare pull off such a move under her own nose – the very place where Agatha had worked tirelessly to maintain order.

It made her look bad, weak even.

Agatha gave a sharp shake of her head as she shifted in her chair, trying to focus on the current moment. Just as she decided to review another case file lying on her desk, the office door swung open with a hard creak, and Deputy Herb burst in, his face slick with sweat, chest heaving with each hurried breath.

“Sheriff!” He huffed; his hat clutched tightly in his hand. “Rio just hit the Westview Bank downtown!”

Agatha straightened, every muscle in her body tensing as her gaze sharpened. “What!?”

Deputy Herb leaned heavily against the doorframe, sweat dotting his forehead as he struggled to steady his breathing. “She robbed the bank not even fifteen minutes ago,” he panted, his voice ragged. “Cleaned it out – every coin, every bill. One witness claimed he saw her heading north.”

Agatha stood, her fingers brushing over the cold steel handle of the revolver holstered at her hip.

“She’s taunting us.” She muttered, almost to herself.

She knew what Rio was playing at. This latest bank heist was another provocation, a deliberate slap in the face to the law – and to her. It left Agatha simmering with a mixture of anger and anticipation.

She turned to Herb, her face setting into a hard mask. “Gather any available deputies. We’re going after her.”

Herb gave a quick nod and vanished into the streets. Agatha wasted no time as she grabbed her leather gloves and headed toward the door. But before she stepped outside, she paused, her gaze drawn back to Rio’s wanted poster lying on her desk. The image of Rio’s smirk seemed to mock her from the faded paper, and Agatha's lips curled into a snarl.

“Not this time, Vidal,” she spat, each word sharp as a blade. “This time, you’re mine.”

With a flick of her wrist, she pulled her hat low over her eyes, the brim casting her face into a shadow, and stepped out into the fiery light of dusk.

***

Agatha sat tall in her saddle, the leather creaking softly beneath her.

Her eyes narrowed against the harsh glare of the sun, squinting as she scanned the horizon for any signs of movement. Dust swirled in the air, kicked up by the pounding hooves of her horse and the horses of her deputies, who rode closely behind her.

“Sheriff!” Called out one of her deputies, a young man named Norm, his voice strained as he wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. “Do you think she’s still in these parts?”

Agatha's grip tightened on her reins.

“She is.” Agatha replied firmly, her voice steady as she kept her gaze fixed ahead.

The fresh horseshoe imprints they followed wound through the dry desert, dotted with scraggly bushes and rugged rock formations. Each measured step deeper into the wilderness felt like a step closer to finally bringing her to justice.

As they continued north, the terrain grew increasingly treacherous, the ground shifting beneath their horses' hooves. The deputies exchanged wary glances with each other, the unease settling over them like a thick fog. The heat of the day began to wane, casting long shadows across the landscape. It was the perfect time for an ambush and Agatha could feel the hairs on the back of her neck prickle with warning.

“Hold up,” Agatha signaled, raising a hand as they approached a narrow pass flanked by steep cliffs. This is where the horseshoe prints ended. “Keep your eyes peeled.”

Agatha's heart thudded in her chest as she listened intently, straining her ears for any hint of movement or sound. It was quiet, too quiet, and that made her gut tingle with unease.

Suddenly, a distant echo of laughter reached them, light and melodic. Agatha’s pulse quickened as she recognized it – a sound that sent a jolt of adrenaline coursing through her veins. It was unmistakably Rio.

Agatha silently motioned for her deputies to dismount, each one slipping from their horses.

“Everyone, fan out,” she commanded, her voice low and firm. “We’re close.”

Agatha crept forward; her senses heightened. Each step felt heavy with expectation, the weight of their pursuit pressing down on her shoulders.

As they rounded a bend, Agatha’s breath caught in her throat.

There, just a few yards ahead, stood a large wooden shack, abandoned and half-hidden by the jagged rocks.

“Stay sharp.” Agatha whispered to her deputies.

They nodded. Agatha could feel the tension radiating off them like heat rising from the desert floor. As they drew closer, the door suddenly swung open, and there she was.

Rio leaned casually against the doorframe, silhouetted by the warm glow inside. She was clad in an all-black ensemble that hugged her figure, the fitted leather jacket accentuating her curves. Beneath it, a dark, form-fitting shirt clung to her. The neckline dipped subtly, revealing a hint of delicate lace that peeked out from the collar. Her sleek black pants, tailored to perfection, hugged her legs with a high-waisted cut that added to her height. Perched atop her head was a black cowboy hat, from which her hair cascaded over her shoulders in wild waves.

A wicked smile graced her lips as she caught sight of Agatha.

“Well, well, if it isn’t Sheriff Agatha,” Rio drawled, her voice smooth and velvety. “I was wondering when you’d finally catch up.”

Agatha’s heart pounded in her chest as she withdrew her revolver out of her holster, the metal cold and familiar in her grip. She pointed it at the outlaw, her aim steady despite the tension crackling between them.

“It’s over, Rio! Hands up!”

Rio chuckled lightly. “Oh, but where’s the fun in that?”

Agatha's grip tightened on the revolver. “You think this is a game?” She snapped. “You’ve crossed the line one too many times.”

“Crossed the line?” Rio arched an eyebrow, the corners of her mouth curling into a sly smile. “I prefer to think of it as… dancing on it.”

Rio took a deliberate step closer, hands raised in a mock gesture of innocence, fingers splayed as if inviting Agatha to join her in this twisted game. Agatha felt the heat rising on her cheeks, an unwelcome flush that betrayed her resolve, but she refused to let it get to her.

“Get back, Rio,” she commanded. “I won’t ask again.”

“Such a serious little sheriff.” Rio purred, her voice dripping with honeyed mockery.

Before Agatha could muster a retort, Rio flicked her wrist with a flourish, sending a knife spiraling toward her. Time slowed as Agatha's instincts surged to the forefront; she ducked quickly, narrowly avoiding the deadly projectile. It buried itself deep into the rough bark of the tree beside her with a solid thud, splintering the wood around the impact.

Regaining her footing, Agatha shot a seething glare at Rio who only gave her a devilish little smirk in return.

“Come on, Sheriff,” Rio said, her tone playful. “You don’t believe I’d let you take me in without a fight, do you?”

In a flash, Rio darted back inside the shack. Agatha immediately sprinted after her without hesitation, her deputies following closely behind.

“Agatha!” She heard Deputy Herb call out, but the words faded into the background as determination consumed her. She couldn't afford to lose Rio again.

“Rio!” Agatha shouted, her voice echoing in the open space. “Show yourself!”

A flicker of movement caught her eye, and Agatha turned just in time to see Rio slip behind a stack of crates.

“Do you think you can hide from me?” Agatha growled.

In quick, short strides, she moved toward the crates, feeling the weight of her deputies’ gaze at her back.

Just as she reached the back of the shack, a sudden rumble jolted the ground beneath her feet. Dust and debris fell from the roof in a choking cloud, swirling around her as a landslide above shook the very structure to its core. Agatha stumbled back, her breath catching in her throat, the air thickening with the gritty particles that filled her lungs. Rocks and dirt continued to pour down around her like torrential rain, blocking any chance of escape. She couldn’t see anything.

When the chaos finally settled, Agatha found herself pressed against the wall, the wood splintering beneath her palm. Her heart raced, a wild animal fighting for freedom as she fought to regain her composure; though, panic clawed at her throat, hot and suffocating, as thoughts of her deputies flashed through her mind. Were they safe?

“Hey!” Agatha shouted, her voice cracking with urgency as it echoed through the dust-laden air. “Can anyone hear me?”

Each second stretched into an eternity, amplifying the silence until, finally, she heard Deputy Herb's voice break through, gravelly yet reassuring. “We’re fine! Just a bit shaken!”

Relief flooded through Agatha, momentarily lifting the weight of her worries. But that fleeting comfort was quickly followed by an overwhelming sense of disbelief. She couldn't believe that Rio had rigged the entire place with dynamite!

Just when Agatha thought she had a handle on the situation, Rio had slipped away again.

#agatha harkness x rio vidal #agatha x rio #agatha harkness #rio vidal #agatha all along #agatha all along fanfic #marvel #agathario

37 notes · View notes

isaut · 10 months ago

Text

𝒍𝒖𝒄𝒌𝒚 𝒐𝒏𝒆𝒔, 𝒔𝒆𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒅 𝒆𝒏𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒓— f!reader x captain rex. 6.7k. ao3

coincidence number two: you're running errands. he's a civilian for the afternoon. previous. masterlist.

You make your reward purchases before your necessity purchases. They are of the same vein— the new lip gloss tube and new mascara will serve their purpose when your currents run out. The record you’d found at the vintage store was warm and vibrant, welcoming to the ear. They’ll stun and impress at the next cocktail hour you host.

It would have been a crime to part without it.

Just as it would have been a crime to not part with the extra gelato that hadn’t been on your grocery list, to have exited the grocery store without your arms over flowing with bags. Flowers spill from the top of one of them— pink and white and orange for your kitchen table. When you get home you’ll combine them all in one of those artisanal vases you’ve acquired from more flea markets than you can count.

Marauding as a civilian, Rex spends his afternoon off wandering the streets of Theed. He knows upon any close inspection he’s anything but, but the day is young. The sun is nearly high in the afternoon air, casting the streets in a harsh glow. The fountains trickle consistently, the water gleaming under said beams. Mothers sit on the edge of the stone, careful to not get their skirts wet, while their children run around.

The oncoming lunchtime is signaled by elderly folk dressed in expensive linens eating their lunch on the iron wrought chairs outside of their favorite bistros and cafes. Rex’s gaze lingers over their habits, over the way they seem so at ease with each other.

He’s not looking where he’s going.

With your gaze turned towards the sliver of sea visible through the buildings, you collide straight into an unfamiliar body.

“Oh! Pardon me,” you say quickly, taking a step back.

“I’m sorry, I wasn’t looking where I was going,” Rex says, voice melted by the late spring sun.

The sunlight illuminates Rex directly, making his hair seem blonder and his skin darker. His eyes are all amber encrusted, sparkling in the light. In turn, the sun has haloed you, showcasing your aura around your body, from the natural frizz of your hair to the bronzed shine on your shoulders.

“Oh.” “Oh.”

Rex’s brows pinch together in recognition, just as yours furrow. His lips form a perfect little ‘o’ as yours pull down on the corners. Surprise morphs to disappointment.

“You never called me,” is the first thing out of your mouth, once you recognize who you’re talking to.

“I–” Rex can’t seem to find the words. Have you always had a mole on your cheekbone? A trifecta of them on your shoulder? Rex clears his throat, snapping himself out of his reverie. It had been dark when he was with you last, after all. “I would, but comms are monitored at work.”

“That’s the first time I’ve heard that excuse,” you sigh.

“No, no, I’m being honest,” Rex says, all too quickly. He ignores the little voice in his head that reminds him that if he had wanted to, he could have easily arranged for a secret call. That he knows all the right people for that to happen. “Really. And work’s been real busy.”

You don’t look impressed. Your eyes rake over his body, both out of irritation and to remind yourself why you had been so keen on getting a call in the first place. “Has it been?”

Yes. There had been rebel groups on the Outer Rim that needed the Republic’s help with fending off the Separatists. Not only had Rex been off station, he’d been off communications with everyone. “I’m no liar.”

Your gut– which has an eighty twenty chance of being right– seems to confirm this information with you.

“No?”

Rex shakes his head. “If I’m bein’ honest, I’m not smart enough to be a liar.”

That has you twisting your lips to squash down a smile. Your gut, the same eighty twenty one, tugs and tells you that he’s lying about that one, though.

He’s cuter in the daylight, your brain supplies you with. Then: He didn’t call you.

“Well, I should get going,” you say, shaking your hair out of your face. “Um, it was nice seeing you.”

“Yeah, you too.” The words roll off Rex’s tongue before he can stop them. He calls your name after you, with a simple request: “Wait.”

Oh, he remembers your name. You turn your attention back to him. He’s caught it again. Your grocery bag digs uncomfortably into your arm.

“Let me get you lunch. As an apology for not calling.” His eyes seem softer in the harsh light, a please behind bronze irises.

“I have to take my groceries home, I have sorbet.”

Rex glances at your bags before coming back to your face. “Let me carry it for you, then.”

There’s a part of you that wants to put up a fight. Say you’re a big girl, that you can do it by yourself. That he blew it when he didn’t call you back. Instead, you feel something tug at the back of your mind. Something that you can’t quite place. So you sigh, so you shrug the canvas bag off your shoulder and pass it over to him. What harm can come? He’s already been there.

Rex accepts the bags as if they’re made of feathers. He adjusts them all to make sure he has a good grasp on everything. It’s all rather seamless. You linger to admire for a moment.

“After you,” Rex says.

The comment snaps you back to the present moment.

Your eyes linger on him one last time, before you adjust your purse and lead him down the cobblestone roads.

“So, what work have you been doing?” You ask, making quiet conversation as you walk.

“Classified information,” Rex replies.

You hum. “Communication is monitored, classified information… You must be pretty high up on the chain.” You lift your hand to eye level to demonstrate.

“I am,” Rex confirms. “‘S not much to talk about though.”

“Well, it sounds like you can’t talk about a lot of it.” Your voice is light at the comment. “So what can you talk about?”

Shit. What can he talk about? Rex thinks for a moment, then shrugs. “I guess not much.”

“Shame. What are we going to talk about over lunch?” You unlock the gate to the courtyard, then climb the stairs to your apartment.

“I’m reading a book on military strategy,” Rex supplies, watching as you unlock the door. “But I don’t think that’s something you’re interested in.”

“Does your whole life revolve around work?” You ask, posing the question once you’re in the kitchen.

Yes. As a matter of fact, it does. His whole reason for existing revolves around work.

The sorbet slides into an empty spot in the freezer. The flowers replace old ones in a vase. Your kitchen table has an open magazine on it and a data pad. It feels like only yesterday he was in here, and maybe that’s because yesterday he woke from a dream that took place here.

You’d made him coffee. Placed it in front of him with a kiss to his forehead. He woke to a battle alarm going off.

Lunch is taken at a little cafe with a white awning. You know the worker behind the counter well, enough to be on a first name basis with her, as you order. You know the restaurant well enough that you immediately head to the outdoor area, taking a seat so you’re still able to people watch and enjoy your company.

“You must go to lots of places all over the galaxy,” you note, watching as Rex pours water for you both.

“Nowhere too fun,” Rex says, taking his seat.

Unimpressed with the answer, you take a sip of water. “Where was the last place you went, then?”

Rex debates if it’s classified information. It’s already happened, it’s not as if he’ll be returning anytime soon. And either way, you’re a pacifist. Not like you’ll go running to the Separatists with old news.

“Ryloth,” Rex says. “What I was doing there, though—”

“Is classified,” you finish for him. “That’s fine. What’s it like?”

“It’s hot. Wet, too. Even in the desert. The atmosphere holds water in it like a sponge, so as the jungles produce water, it seeps into the atmosphere. And that’s how it rains in the desert areas and why it feels wet all the time even if it’s dry.”

“I didn’t take you for an environmentalist.”

“‘S just interesting.” Rex tries his hardest to downplay his knowledge.

“I think it’s interesting too. Two years ago we had a twi’lek from Ryloth showcase his work at the gallery. All of his art was drawn with the different clays found there.”

“There are a lot,” Rex says. Some of it is even flammable. He watches with rapt attention as you fumble around in your purse for your sunglasses.

“I hope you don’t think I’m being rude, the sun is just really bright,” You say, holding them open and with the leg near your lips.

“We can swap spots if you’d like,” Rex offers in a heartbeat.

“No, no. I like the sun. It’s like I’m photosynthesizing.”

Rex thinks it’s an apt description. If you were a flower, you’d be the prettiest one. He doesn’t know much about botany, but he thinks you’re comparable to an orchid. Maybe the cattleyas, with their delicate, ruffled petals that match the flow of your hair. Or the oncidiums, which look exactly like women dancing where the blooms join together. Or even the laelias, with star dripped petals that resemble legs spread—

“I don’t get a whole lot of sun,” Rex says, stopping his train of thought.

“That’s a shame. Why not?”

“Normally on a fleet ship.”

You lean forwards. “What’s space like?”

Rex blinks. “Have you never been?”

You shake your head. “No.”

The idea baffles Rex. Only staying on one planet for an extended period of time? For a lifetime? It was unfathomable to him. Your food arrives, as he ponders over how different your life is from his. Then again, perhaps in a different life, he’d like to stay in one place. Especially if it was a planet as nice as Naboo.

“So, what’s it like?” You press.

“It’s… Well. It’s big. Really quiet.”

“What about the stars?”

“There’s lots of ‘em. Really tiny. Looks kind of like static.”

“Wow,” you breathe. “I’ve always wanted to get off the planet. I’d love to travel… My friends and I had a trip planned to Coruscant but we could never agree on dates to go.”

“Between you and me, it’s not all that exciting. I mean, it is exciting, but it’s… Loud. Visually and audibly.”

“We just wanted to go clubbing,” you confide.

Rex chuckles. “I stand corrected, you would probably enjoy it.”

“But honestly, the travel scares me. Hyperdrive? Terrifying. I don’t even like to go on the boats here.” The admittance feels silly. Who doesn’t dream of intergalactic space travel?

“Really?”

You nod seriously. “Nowhere I really want to go that I can’t get to on foot.”

Oh, that’s endearing. “And where do you usually take yourself?”

“Not many places I haven’t seen you at.”

Rex chuckles nervously. “Really?”

“Yeah. I’m a creature of habit.”

Your eyes descend down to his plate— He’s barely touched his chicken and rice. It’s good, you’ve had it before. Not your favorite thing on the menu, it’s no pesto before you, but it’s good.

“Do you not like it?” You ask, gesturing towards it with your fork.

Rex glances down. “No, I do. It’s just… it’s too good.”

Normally too good implies that it’s deserving of scarfing down the first serving and savoring the second. You wait, expectantly, for elaboration.

“Compared to rations it’s… I don’t like to tempt myself. Remind myself what’s out there.”

You blink at him. “Really?”

“Makes it easier.”

Rex doesn’t do temptation. He doesn’t indulge in local meals filled with seasonings— the cumin and the masala that Jesse lunges after when he’s on a planet. Fried foods, fresh and sizzling and on a skewer are something that he watches, mouth watering against his will, while Fives and Tup eat as much as they can afford. He doesn’t do top shelf liquor, he doesn’t do liquor at all. He only drinks the beer that’s brought to him.

You think back to the conversation from last time. No pretty women. No art. Now, no food. No good food at least. You doubt military food is very good.

“I would have thought that you would want to indulge. Do you want to try mine?”

Rex also doesn’t do hook ups. Not typically. Not unless a mission’s gone really bad, not unless he wants to bury himself out of the pain only to lie in it uncomfortably. He doesn’t do coffees after, he doesn’t do run-in lunches.

“Sure,” Rex says. You push your plate toward him, and he reaches over and takes a forkful. Normally the motion is done over a steel table under fluorescent lights, when the rations are especially bad and it’s important to have everyone join in on the misery.

Once more: It’s too good— fresh basil and lemon. Rex shouldn’t have taken a bite. He wants another. He wants another.

“You should let yourself indulge,” you say, pushing your plate further towards him.

He takes another bite. “What are you doing after this?”

“Laundry,” you answer truthfully. “And then I was going to paint.”

“You paint?”

Before you can stop yourself, the words are leaving your mouth: “Do you want to come by and look?”

Rex needs to be back at base in two hours. He’s been entrusted by his General to escort Senator Amidala back to Coruscant. Then, he’s been entrusted by his General to get back on the battlefield, witness more death and destruction and lovelessness.

“I can spare a few minutes.”

Rex tries your wine before he leaves. The crisp notes dance along his tongue, citrus and gooseberry fermented to perfection. He takes one last bite of his chicken, moist and juicy, and rice, soft and flavorful.

The last time Rex had been in your apartment, it had been by the guidance of the moon. Then, scattered from the dutifulness of his mission with your groceries. Now, under the relaxed sunlight, he has a better view of the intricacies of your railing, the floral swirls soldered together. The fountain in the center of the apartment courtyard bubbles and flows. The mosaics of the tiles are clear in the light: blues, greens, oranges, stark against the light grout.

Your keys join the others in the little tray by the door. Your shoes come off, as do his, and the two of you head through your apartment. There are paintings Rex passes that he hadn’t recognized the last time he was here. Not that he was looking, by any means. His attention had instead been focused on you.

But the paintings. They’re watercolor and oil, still life and landscapes encased behind class in treated dark oak frames.

The doors to your balcony are open. Sea breeze filters up from the ocean through the doors, rubbing against the sheer curtains like a playful, large kitten. You get good sunlight in your apartment. It warms the room with both light and atmosphere, streaming in through the windows.

“Are you not worried about bugs?” Rex asks.

You turn around to face him. “Bugs?”

“Yeah. With the…” He gestures at the open doors.

“We don’t live near a swamp. And anyways, it costs too much to run the air conditioning.” You turn back towards the doors and head out through them, letting Rex trail behind you.

Suddenly a spark of nervousness crawls through you. You play with your fingers, glancing out over the quartier of Theed you live in. Then, you gesture towards your painting where it’s leaned against an easel with a now dry watercolor palette beside it, suddenly feeling silly. Why would some random man– because Rex is still some random man– care about your art?

“Well. This is what I’m working on right now,” you say.

Rex first notes the craftsmanship of the worn easel. The natural grains in it. The only metal being the small hinges. The painting, however, is another story entirely.

“It’s pretty,” Rex says. The watercolors are delicate dabs of life. You’ve captured what must be the sunrise over your little neighborhood view. The blue-hued warmth spreads over the delicate buildings, creeping over inked lines.

He doesn’t have much else to say. It’s pretty. The flowers are larger.

“It’s really pretty,” Rex repeats.

Your cheeks warm. “Thank you.”

You glance over at the painting, then over at Rex, hesitantly. His gaze slowly leaves the painting to meet yours.

“I wish I had better words to convey how pretty it is.”

You swallow under his gaze.

“Pretty is just fine,” you say, “I remember: no art. No pretty woman, no dancing either.”

Rex feels his face warm. The tips of his ears go pink. “There’s more to me than that.”

“I’m saying it as a reason why you can only describe it as pretty.” It, because you don’t want to presume he was talking about the painting. Part of you hopes that he wasn’t only talking about the ink. Part of you hopes he was also talking about you before him. “Do you want something to drink? I can make you espresso.”

Rex watches with rapt attention as you twirl a piece of your hair around your finger. He forgets, in his gazing, to reply.

“I also have limeade. That is, if you can spare the time.”

He can absolutely spare the time. “It’s whatever you want to make.”

You check the analog watch on your wrist. Delicate, your chosen color of jewelry.

“Let’s have espresso. I’ll make us double shots, it's just a little too late to take a nap.”

The prospect, the idea, of napping is a new one to Rex. He’s never had one offered to him, never seen one ever partaken in. Meditation over naps. One could sleep when they were no longer part of this world.

Sitting back at your kitchen table, Rex watches with great interest as you make the shots. You have specific mugs you let the brew pour into, and specific saucers you rest them on. From the pantry you receive two sweet looking cookies, setting them on the saucers.

Saucers in hand, you look over at Rex. His fingers are lightly feeling a flower petal between them, thumb rubbing over the soft, colorful leaves. Cut at their base to decorate the water vase, the monochrome flowers are a quiet accent to the brightness of your kitchen and the appliances within. You almost don’t want to disturb him.

“Let’s have them on the couch,” you suggest, voice as gentle as seafoam. Rex’s gaze immediately flits to you, his hand dropping just as quickly. You watch with fondness. “They’re pretty, aren’t they?”

“Yeah,” Rex says. “We don’t have plant life on the station.”

“I have more in the living room,” you say, tilting your head in the direction of the other room. Turning, you head there, letting Rex follow behind you.

The saucers are set atop mosaic tiled coasters on the coffee table. You busy yourself in front of the stereo, picking through albums until you find one for the mood, sliding the record from its case and resting it upon the disc. Acoustic bossa nova fills the room. Crossing the space, you cross your legs on the couch, letting Rex take the cushion right beside you.

Your knees barely touch. It causes your breath to hitch, just ever so faintly, in the back of your throat.

“It’s called a monstera deliciosa,” you say, in reference to the subject of Rex’s gaze: the large, green beast of a plant in the corner of your living room. It’s almost too big for the space, despite the fact that– “It won’t stop growing. I keep having to cut off leaves and propagate them for my friends. Or I leave them in cheap little pots on the side of the road for people to take.”

Rex looks at you from over the espresso cup.

“It just won’t stop growing,” you say.

Rex doesn’t know exactly what to say. You must love it a whole lot seems a little too personal. Seems a little too on the nose. It’s pretty seems overused, but it’s what comes out of his lips.

The giggle that escapes you is one you can’t help. You cover your mouth with your hand, holding the sweet little cookie between your fingers. Your hand had originally been on a path to dip the treat into your coffee, but the detour was needed.

“She is.”

You take a bite of the cookie.

“You must love it a whole lot,” Rex says, letting the comment bubble up through him.

Glancing over at the plant, you take her in for a moment. All green stems, fanning leaves with teardrop holes in them, as if gravity was pulling them open.

“I’ve had her since I was in school,” you comment.

Rex reminds himself that it’s a normal thing to go to school. That not everyone is plucked up from a young age to undergo various trainings and trials to make them soldiers– peacekeepers.

“What did you go to school for?” Rex asks.

“Art history,” you say, still looking at the plant. Then, you look back to him. “Then back again for Gunganese art history. And then again, one last time, for a focus on art during the Suffering Period.”

Rex nods.

“Someday there will be an art historian who will study all the art made now,” you note.

“And what do you think she’ll notice?”

Humming, you ponder over the answer. You take a final sip of your espresso. Lean back against your couch. Gaze up at the ceiling. “I don’t know.”

Rex studies your profile like this hypothetical historian will study the present.

“I think she’ll think it’s interesting how war is portrayed,” you finally decide on, turning your head to face Rex. “But we don’t have to talk about that.”

“We can, if you want,” Rex says.

Your eyes flit down to glance at his hands, then back to his face. “Have you looked at art recently?”

Rex has to take a moment to think. He finishes his espresso. “There are some pieces in the Senate building on Coruscant. I’ve never really…” Suddenly he feels embarrassed. “I’ve never really paid a lot of attention to them.”

“Are they boring?” You ask. Then, coming to your own conclusion: “I bet they are. All the good art on Coruscant comes from the lower levels.”

“I thought you’d never been?”

“I haven’t, but I’ve acquired art from there. It’s all so… If it comes from the upper levels, it’s too perfect. The stuff from lower tells a story. There’s real emotion there.”

“How come?”

You shrug. “No idea.”

Rex nods. “I have a brother who likes art. He draws on napkins and stuff.”

“With a pen?” You ask, a little surprised.

Rex nods again. “Yeah.”

“I didn’t know they had those on ships,” you say, the words leaving your lips before you realize how ignorant you must sound. No reason not to dig the shovel in a little deeper. “I thought everything was done with holograms and screens.”

“Yeah,” Rex chuckles a bit at that. “Most of it is. At least ninety-eight percent of it. The other two percent is Tup drawing.”

“He must draw an awful lot to make up for two percent of all the activities up there.”

We all have our hobbies would be a lie. “He doesn’t get a lot of sleep. Or, he doesn’t get as much as he should.”

You rest your arm over the back of the couch, head against your knuckles and shift your entire body to face Rex. “That’s kind of the essence of art, though. Finding time for it no matter what. I bet she’ll be studying whatever she can find of his work.”

Rex doesn’t mention that it would all look like he’s drawn the same person over and over again. Instead, he mirrors your position.

“Really?”

You nod. You glance at his chest, then back to his face. “Yeah. I’m almost certain of it.”

Rex moves his hand to rest on his knee.

“Do you like my living room or my patio better?” You ask.

“Hm?” Rex’s eyes seem to go into focus again, as if you’ve called him back to the present.

“Do you like my living room or my patio better?” You ask again, no hard feelings.

“I think they both have their own pros,” Rex says.

“Do they have cons?”

“No,” Rex says, quick to shoot that question down.

A smirk pulls up at the corner of your lips. Just barely noticeable. “No?”

Rex shakes his head. They’re not on a cruiser light years in the sky. They happen to be yours. Safe from the spoils, or lack thereof, of war. And he’s been enjoying his time with you. All two times he’s met you.

“C’mere,” you murmur, reaching your hand out for him. Your fingers are just out of reach of his collar. “Did you know that coffee is a slight aphrodisiac?”

Rex takes in your lidded eyes, your widening pupils. “Only slight?”

Your gaze dips to his lips, his collarbones, his eyes.

“Only slight?” Rex prods, leaning forwards. Your fingers catch on his collar, pulling him closer.

You nod. Rex doesn’t stop leaning in.

Rex enjoys himself.

He’s laid over you on your couch, leg slotted between yours. One of your hands is on the side of his face, able to feel his jaw work as his lips pass over yours. The wind brushes through your open balcony door, sprawling over his back. There’s slow, lazy music playing on your stereo, and your bodies move in time with it.

The urgency that Rex should be moving with is nowhere to be seen. His hips roll against yours lethargically, and one of your legs is thrown over his hips. There’s coffee and sweet cookie on both your lips, slipping and sharing between taste buds.

Each pass of his clothed and poorly concealed hardness causes gravity to pull your legs wider, the universe eager for your pleasure. It’s been years since you’ve indulged in the pleasures of the body while the sun was still out, and it’s better than you remember it being.

Perhaps it's because Rex takes up space. He consumes you, soap and faint shaving cream infiltrating your senses. You wonder if it’s too heady to be taken in the middle of the day. If you’re too grown, if that’s something that only teenagers do when their parents aren’t home.

“When do you have to leave?” You ask, pulling back just a millimeter from his lips.

Rex glances over at the analog clock sitting on your mantle. “Forty minutes.”

You place a hand on Rex’s chest, gently pushing him back. Rex slides back, sitting on his knees. Worry flashes in his eyes, brows furrowing.

“Gonna go grab you a condom,” you say.

Rex’s ears go pink. “Really?”

“Unless you have objections.”

Rex doesn’t have any objections. The only thing he can object to is the lack of time— only forty minutes. Less, truly, because he has to be walking out the door in forty minutes. Now, thirty-nine.

You return, little foil between your fingers.

Before you can sink to your knees between his legs, Rex’s hands are on your waist and maneuvering you to sit on the couch beside him.

Before you can question his actions, Rex’s lips are back on yours. His hand slides over yours, taking the packet from you. With his hand on your back, he gently lowers you backwards against the couch.

Bunching your skirt up, you expose yourself to him. Your panties are embarrassingly dark, damp at your core from just a little bit of kissing.

Rex has that look on his face, the one where his brows are pinched and his mouth is slightly open as if he’s both shocked and deeply appreciative to be in this situation. His thumb drags over the growing wet patch, and his brow furrows.

You’re shaven. Velvet soft.

“What happened?” He asks.

In turn your brow furrows. “What do you mean?”

“You’re… You shaved.”

“I’m waxed.”

Rex blinks at you. You sit up on your elbows. “I went on a girls trip to the beach. So I got a wax beforehand. I got back in yesterday.”

It’s more information than Rex needs. He simply nods.

“What?” Insecurity begins churning in your stomach, taking over the heat that had been building. Rex’s eyes flit up from your cunt.

“Nothing,” he says, fingers dipping under the waistband on your panties. He slides them down, sighing upon seeing your exposed pussy. He’s missed this. He’s been thinking about it, been thinking about you.

You giggle. “Have you been?”

Rex’s eyes widen. “Did I say that out loud?”

Grinning, you nod. “Yeah, you did.”

A ruddiness fills Rex’s face as he flushes. “Didn’t mean to.��

“I’ve been thinking about you, too,” you admit, though you feel your body warm in embarrassment at the statement. There was a reason you were so insistent to feel him inside you again.

Humming, Rex runs his hands on the insides of your thighs, pushing them further apart. “Really?”

You nod. You wrote about it in your diary.

Rex doesn’t share that he’s thought about you so loud it’s earned him more than one reminder about Jedi sensitivity from his General. The last being on an airship after a battle. General Skywalker had bumped him on the shoulder, mumbled that he could hear him.

He doesn’t want to think about that right now.

Rex’s lips glide over yours, his tongue dancing in the tang of your pussy. Your fingers rack over his hair, scratching at his head. His tongue swirls around your clit, lips closing in after it.

Essence escapes from your cunt, trickling down your smooth skin. Soft moans escape from your lips, floating into the warm air.

Your body hungrily accepts the finger that slides inside you. Sitting up on your elbows, you want to watch, watch this mysterious man who’d rather be on his knees at work. His brows are furrowed in concentration. You squeeze around his finger and he moans into you. You wonder if he’s also gotten ahead of himself, if his mind also races forwards, thinking about the next instead of the present.

It’s loud, all the slick and saliva swimming together. Rex’s tongue is dutiful and steady, his fingers working in tandem.

Rex’s eyes crack open to gaze up your body. He ends up meeting your heady stare, the rise and fall of your chest. He pulls away, his fingers still working in those easy motions.

“Come here,” you beckon, pulling the hemline of your shirt up to expose your breasts. You haven’t forgotten the array of hickies you were left with, the days of forgoing low cut tops.

Rex seemingly misunderstands, instead shooting straight for your mouth. He swallows a moan, one that bubbles out of you as his fingers continuously beckon your closer towards a climax.

A third finger slips inside you when his lips finally wrap around an under stimulated nipple. You groan through a bitten lip, arching your back into him, hips rolling into his hand. It feels good. So much better than your own. Thicker. Longer. Better reach.

Better than your friend’s slender fingers after a drunken dinner on the beach. Rex seems to remember you. Remember all the crevices inside your body, remember the basics of what you like. Like he’s been replaying that night in his head, like a poet and their haiku.

“Rex, please… Want you inside…” you insist through a sigh, squeezing around his fingers.

Rex lifts his head. “But you haven’t cum yet.”

Your jaw goes slack. Rex’s cock throbs at the plumpness of your lips, puffy from biting.

“It’s polite,” Rex elaborates.

“We don’t have very long,” you reply. “Next time you’ll call me and—” Your breath hitches as Rex’s fingers grind into you, curling upwards. “—and we’ll have more time.”

“Next time?” Rex likes the sound of that. He slowly removes his fingers, and brings them to his lips. It’s utilitarian, the way he’s after the taste. But he has to commit it to memory— He isn’t sure there will be a next time, that there will be a phone call. But now, the sun is soft and you’re sweet on his tongue and on his eyes.

You nod to answer his question. One of your legs slides off the couch as you sit up, grabbing the condom off the table.

“I wanna do it,” you say, eager to feel the weight in your hand.

Rex chuckles, enamored and a little self conscious, at your enthusiasm. His pants and briefs find their way onto the floor and he takes his shirt off for good measure too.

Your eyes linger on his dog tags, glinting in the afternoon light. Instead of calling attention to it, you take his cock in your hand, all warm and heavy, and swipe your finger over the head, through the pearly bits of precum crying there.

Rex gasps. His chest heaves, rising up and down as an arm stretches across the back of the couch.

You want to kiss it. Kiss the fat tip, let your tongue lace through the seam. But you had tried to earlier, wanted him salty in your mouth so he’d be relaxed, and had been, quite kindly, redirected.

So you pump him once. Twice. Three times for luck. The condom glides on, sucking against him. Almost too small.

Rex takes you on your back, with one leg lifted above his shoulder and the other hanging off the couch. His movements are shallow and even, pressing you further and further towards the armrest. His dog tags swing in your face and you’re caught with the unexpected urge to bite them.

Rex glances from you, out the open patio doors. A few birds flock along the horizon. The sun is setting. He sits back, hand resting on your thighs and watching intently as your breasts bounce with every thrust.

He glances over at the clock on your mantle. Fifteen minutes. He swears to himself. This is why he doesn’t like quickies— He wants to be buried in your warmth for as long as possible.

Taking his tags in his teeth, Rex leans back over you as his thrusts speed up and harden. You cry out in shock, though it quickly warbles into pleasure, as your core tightens in pressure and then suddenly, without warning, snaps. Your legs shake around him, pussy pulsing around his throbbing hardness.

Rex’s mouth opens in surprise, tags dropping. His hips slow as his attention focuses on guiding you down from your high, but you’re quick to shake your head.

“N-no, keep going,” you urge. “Want to feel you cum.”

“But—”

“No buts,” you breathe, hiking your hips up slightly. “Please, it’ll feel so good.”

Rex nods and pics up the thrusts again, returning them to his original speed, the one that had made you cream around him. Your hand travels between your bodies, fingers rubbing desperately at your clit as you feel a second, stronger orgasm approaching.

“I’m going t’cum again,” you warn.

“Fuck,” Rex swears, then quickly apologies. His hand finds purchase on the back of your thigh and presses you open, creating more of a stretch.

You swear this time, brows knitted in pleasure. With each thrust you can feel Rex’s balls, wound tight, slapping against you.

Without thinking, you clap a hand over your mouth as your second orgasm shakes through you. Rex ducks his head, chasing his own high in erratic throats before he moans directly into your breast.

You feel light, like you’re floating. Too light.

You’ve painted Rex’s groin and the v of his abs.

“Sorry,” you breathe.

Rex shakes his head, falling against you. His face rests in the crook of your neck. “Don’t worry about it.”

His cock twitches inside of you.

You let out a breathless laugh. With gravity, your head turns to the side and you look at the clock on your mantle. Your cunt throbs around him, and he exhales sharply. There’s a little twitch in response.

Part of you, the dirty naughty part, wishes there was more mess to clean up. For Rex to dip his head down and lap through, for him to—

Your train of thought is cut off by a sudden yet slow loss. Rex eases himself out, hands on your knees. Immediately, your hole pulses at the sudden loss.

“Sorry,” Rex says, pressing a kiss to the inside of your knee. Your heart, once more, flutters.

“‘S fine,” you murmur, tossing an arm above your head. The sun soothes over your body, urging you to close your eyes.

Instead, you watch as Rex disappears into your bedroom, then your bathroom, and returns with a warm washcloth.

It all feels so natural. Just like last time.

His hands are steady as he cleans you up and then himself. He tucks himself back into his pants, then his shirt, then moves to grab your underwear off the ground.

“Leave it,” you say softly. “I’m going to take a shower.”

“Oh.”

You move your legs so Rex can sit back down on the couch, then you place them in his lap.

Mournfully, Rex replies with a hand on your shin, “I have to get going.”

“You sat back down,” you point out.

You’re right. He did.

Rex’s hand rests on the inside of your calf, rubbing softly. He bows his head, leaning over to press a kiss to the top of your knee.

“Poor baby,” you murmur, reaching to scratch your nails against his hair. Rex raises his gaze to yours. “Have to go back to work on such a beautiful day.”

The day is beautiful, Rex can agree. It’s gorgeous. Stunning. He presses another kiss into the daylight that streams across your skin.

“Tell me about the rest of your day,” you coo.

If you were a Separatist spy, you’re the best one they have. Rex melts into your words, crawls up your body to place more kisses against the soft skin.

“Just some escorting work,” Rex says. “Easy stuff.”

“No danger?”

“Shouldn’t be any.”

Rex hovers above you. Your lashes glide closed and then open as you gaze down Rex’s body before back up to him. You cup his face in one hand, thumb smoothing over his cheekbone.

“That’s good. Are you going to call me this time?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Do you promise?” Your voice is almost a purr, your thumb sliding down Rex’s bottom lip.

Rex nods. There’s a hypnotic rhythm to his breath. “I’ll call you. The next time I’m in Naboo.”

“You can send me a text, too.”

“I want to call you.”

You swallow.

“I’ll call you,” Rex promises. He lowers himself slightly, unsure if he’s allowed to get a kiss or not. This is a hook up, right?

Your lips meet his half ways for a long peck.

“Good boy,” you say against his lips.

Rex nods again. “I have to go.”

“I know.” Your breath mingles with his. “You don’t want to go.”

Rex shakes his head, agreeing with you. He doesn’t want to go. You press a brief kiss to his lips.

“I’ll hear from you soon.”

Rex nods. Slowly, he eases off your body, eyes leaving even slower.

“You don’t do this often,” you note.

“No, I don’t.”

You readjust your clothes so you’re decent again. Pantyless, but decent. You sit up on your knees, dancing your fingertips along his ears.

“I’ll walk you out,” you murmur. There’s a feeling in your stomach that he won’t leave on his own.

Rex stands, and your hand dribbles off him, landing in his own. He helps you stand, letting go as soon as you’re upright. It’s a careful walk to the front door, where Rex puts on his shoes and you don’t.

“Bye, Rex,” you say.

Rex returns the departing words, your name rolling off his lips. He turns, steps through the threshold, and heads down the stairs. He’s in the courtyard before you close the door.

#captain rex x reader #a lil fic update #by ophelia #rexlia #ive been sitting on this for so long i just was able to edit it :)#hope you enjoy !

28 notes · View notes

bits-and-babs · 2 years ago

Text

𝐏𝐚𝐧𝐂𝐀𝐊𝐄𝐒 — 𝐉𝐀𝐂𝐊 ‘𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐒𝐊𝐄𝐘’ 𝐃𝐀𝐍𝐈𝐄𝐋𝐒

↳ summary: a quiet day off work calls for something sweet. Jack treats you to some pancakes and naughty chaos ensues.

↳ pairing: jack 'whiskey' daniels x f!reader

↳ [2k words] content: 18+ MDNI, food, cooking, soft!dom x sub dynamics, spanking, oral (f receiving). This is a @beskarbabs remaster -- original post date 2021.

jack masterlist I| main masterlist |I join taglist

Given your tireless work schedules, it's uncommon for you and Jack to have mornings together. Spending those scarce daybreak hours in the kitchen was exceptional. For you to walk through the doorway in just your underwear and one of his oversized shirts to find Agent Whiskey taking breakfast into his own hands? Unheard of.

Jack had pursued you for quite some time. Flowers, chocolates, and gifts had all failed to win you over in his mission to make you his girlfriend. He'd tried everything from enlisting the help of Tequila to exaggerate all the reasons he'd be a good partner. He even begged Ginger Ale to put in a good word. Regardless, after months of attempts, he had resigned to accepting that you simply didn't see him that way.

That was until he invited you to breakfast after a particularly arduous mission that had left you with minor injuries and a foul mood. On that morning, the golden glow of the sunbeams leaking in from the window above the counter lit up the kitchen as the smell of batter warmed you up from the inside. You could remember it so clearly, Jack's hat cast to the side on the table you sat at as he flipped the pancakes diligently in the pan without dropping or creasing one.

The fluffiness, the sweetness that bordered on sickly yet still managed to be just perfect, was enough for you to reconsider your stance on your relationship with the mildly mulish man. The lemon juice and sugar sprinkled on top just for you gave you no option but to pay your compliments to the chef with a kiss.

It was Jack's favourite story. He told literally anyone who would listen.

It goes without saying, now that Jack had seduced you with his southern charm and humour consisting of mostly (if not all) dad jokes, that any morning the two of you managed to spend together, he would pull out the eggs, milk, flour and sugar. This morning appears to be no different.

"Are you making pancakes?" You ask softly, cheekbone pressed between his shoulder blades as you hold him from behind. You hear him chuckle softly, turning his face over his shoulder. You know what he's asking for and oblige, pressing a chaste kiss to his bronzed skin.

"Sure am, Sugar." He returns to his work, a smile hidden under that well-kept moustache. He takes up the batter bowl and expertly uses the spatula in hand to pour out the mixture into the frying pan without spilling even a dribble. He lays the spatula down into the bowl, handle propped up against the rim as he focuses on cooking the batter so it's perfectly golden and crispy.

The warm, homey smell of frying batter swirling from the stove makes your mouth water and your stomach growl, begging for something substantial. Finally, you decide you don't want to wait for Jack to use the mixture up, so use your index finger to scoop up some of the dough and smear it across your tongue.

Big mistake.

You see Jack's broad shoulders stop moving as he pauses his work. He leisurely lays down the pan on the heat mat lying on the counter before turning to you with a fixed and piercing gaze. He arches a thick eyebrow accusatorially.

"Did you just steal some?" His voice is deep, slipping further into his accent from the low volume. You look up into his eyes, your own wide with confusion at the abrupt change in atmosphere.

"... Yes," you admit. It comes out in a whisper, aware by now that Whiskey was planning something if the smirk tugging at the edge of his lip was anything to go by. He takes up the handle of the spatula from the bowl, slowly raising it and allowing the loose mixture to fall back into the bowl. He keeps his eyes on you.

"Clean it," he murmurs, lifting the head of the utensil to your mouth. It takes a second for his order to process in your brain. By then, he's already pressing the flat side to your lips. You stare up at him, bewildered, as you trail your tongue across the plastic. You can taste the sweetness that coats your tastebuds, but note the bitterness of raw flour.

Jack's eyes follow your ministrations, seemingly unaffected by your actions. He's the most unreadable you'd ever seen, his emotions usually worn on the rim of his cowboy hat rather than his sleeve, dangling between your eyes so it was impossible to miss. Right now, however, his face is blank.

The batter gathers on your tongue until you've cleared one side, and Jack twists the handle and exposes the other side to you. You also get to work on that one, humming softly at the addictively sweet taste.

Held at this angle, the mix begins to collect on the curve of the head. It drips onto your chin and dribbles down, catching your lover's attention. However, it isn't until it falls from your chin and onto the top of your breast that you notice his eye twitch, evidence that he was affected by the scene.

Jack pulls the plastic tool from you, inspecting it for leftovers. When he finds it clean, he looks back to you. He's rock-hard in his jeans. You had learnt that Jack's tight denim did very little to hide his excitement over the many times he'd had to restrain himself during missions. It certainly wasn't hard to miss.

"Hands on the table, hips out," he orders again. You blink up at him, a weak laugh escaping your throat.

"What are you gonna do, Jack? Arrest me?" You manage to force out, heart thudding wildly in your chest. He's looking at you like he could eat you.

"You gonna do as I say?" He questions, tone demanding. You do. You turn your back to him, bending at the waist and placing your palms on the dining table. You sense him come up behind you, kicking your feet apart as though he's about to search you while he sets the bowl of batter down beside your wrist.

"Last time I checked, you were a Statesman, not a police offic-" You yelp out as the sharp sound slap that practically reverberates around the room, the sharp sting burning its way into the flesh of your exposed ass cheeks underneath the hem of the shirt you had borrowed for the morning.

The blossoming sensation of prickling skin where the object had connected had you whipping your head around to glare at Jack, whose smirk informs you he had rather enjoyed your reaction. It's then that he wiggles the spatula in his hand, alerting you to the fact he had just spanked you with it.

"Jack!" You hiss, hand moving to rub at the irritated area, "What was that for?" He swats your hand away, taking the hem of his shirt you were wearing and hiking it up over your hips so your ass is entirely exposed to him.

"Punishment for stealing," he says simply, voice low and raspy. You roll your eyes, about to argue, when he lands the utensil on your thighs just underneath the crease of your ass. It sparks a harsh sting settling deep between your legs as you cry out in shock.

There's a silence that follows in the room, but inside your ears, you can hear the pounding of your blood rushing through your body, your heart thrumming so hard it makes your chest hurt. Jack was adventurous, sure, but this was new. Deep down, you know he had started this as a joke, but if the tent you had seen in his tight jeans was anything to go by, he was enjoying this... But, of course, he isn't the only one...

And it looks like Jack noticed.

He barely skips a beat, almost like this is what he had planned all along.

"You're gonna count them out for me, Sugar." He commands, palm settling on your lower back while he waits for your consent. His body language in your peripheral has changed, suddenly very serious and driven by arousal. You nod with a shaky breath, confirming.

"I wanna hear you say it, Darlin'." Even now, he still takes so much care of you.

"I'll count them out," you repeat you him, and you swear you hear him whisper 'good girl' behind you. The bite of the first two blows starts to ebb away, aided by the gentle stroke over the curve of your ass with the back of his fingers as he takes in the view of your pink cheeks.

He gives you no further warning than removing his hand. You hear the THWACK of the pancake turner first, but the hot, prickling pain follows the sound quickly, blooming across your cheeks. You let out a soft whine, releasing the sound in an attempt to ease the tension in your muscles.

"One," you squeak out, the power-play making you light-headed as your pussy flutters around nothing. Jack is totally silent, not allowing you to see his response to your reaction.

Another quick snap of his wrist and the sharp smack of the handle hits once again just under your ass. It hurts so good, a loud moan escaping your lips as you brace yourself against the tenderness. So caught up in breathing through the pinch, you forget to count out quickly enough.

"T-Two!" You try to correct yourself, but Jack has already noticed your 'defiance'. He tuts softly, shaking his head.

"You'll have to do better than that, Sugar. I'll let this one slide-" he grips your sore asscheeks gently, enough for goosebumps to rise across your skin at the deep throbbing between your legs, "But we'll start from zero if it happens again." You nod quickly, confirming that you've heard him.

He's gracious, soothing the pain he had inflicted for just a moment before striking you again, with the rubber head this time.

"Ffu- Three," you moan, the pulses of pain thrumming straight to your core. You can feel that you're soaking your panties through, dripping from the mixture of anticipation and smarting skin.

"Two more," Jack informs you, watching the way you rub your thighs together in search of some kind of friction for your stiff and aching clit. It's no use, you both know that, so you resign to whinging softly, acknowledging the last two blows.

He spanks you again.

"Fffour!" You struggle; the heat in your asscheeks and between your thighs is almost unbearable. You can practically feel the welts rising on your skin, the buzzing energy there creating perfect ghost-touches of the utensil.

The last blow strikes you so hard that you hear it ringing in your ears. It cracks like lightning up your spine, settling deep in your cunt as you wail on the final number.

"Fiiiveee~" Sobs escape you, tears collecting in the corners of your eyes at the relief and the intense need to be touched, to ride out an orgasm that had built up so much it felt like your legs were going to fall out from underneath you. You're shaking at the knees, relying heavily on the support of the table to keep you upright.

"Such a good girl, Sugar. You did so good," he murmurs, smoothing your skin with a light touch as he moves to his knees behind you. He kisses behind your trembling knees, your left first, and then your right. He trails the tip of his nose up the back of your right thigh, noting the whines of desperation that escape you.

"Mhmm. These," he whispers, pressing gentle and loving kisses to the swell of your stinging asscheeks, "These are my favourite cakes," he subtly teases you, and you laugh out weakly at his playful, cheeky side returning. Though, the laughter doesn't last long as he moves his mouth between your legs to trace his tongue over your still-clothed cunt.

"But nothing beats the taste of this..." he groans out, the sweet tang of your arousal painting his tongue. He holds your hip in one hand, thumbs tracing gentle patterns on your hipbone while he uses the other to tug your panties to the side.

"If you haven't learnt your lesson about stealing, I can think of another way to punish you," he rasps, nose nudging at your clit.

Needless to say, you dipped your fingers into the batter bowl once more.

Maybe twice.

join the taglist here

@xwing-baby , @mybugboy , @pansa-1-san , @pedrosprincess , @cosm1c-babe , @stardu5stbunny, @lil-stark , @heart-atttack @crybaby-blue-blog , @wingedgothapricot, @ssimelttilgniht @2pacacabra @pauldanosgf @leithatnight @hairyballs-101 @kirsteng42 @dindjarinsmut @s0ftgabby @milly-louise @aynsleywalker @not-a-unique-snowflake-blog @uncassettodiricordi @Lilmizmoz @howellatme @mortallyuniquepeach @maviee

252 notes · View notes

swiftsaltsweet · 8 months ago

Text

Two Knives-Chapter 1: Kyoshi: A Poem and a Promise

Characters: Rangi and Kyoshi (RoK characters tbh)

Pairing: Rangshi

Summary:

Things have been stressful for Kyoshi. First, she sang a poem and now the whole kitchen staff thinks it’s about Rangi, and is sure that there will be gossip. Then, Yun asks her to join him for the Fifth Nation treaty signing. Now Rangi’s acting strange. It’s becoming a bit much for Kyoshi’s small corner of the world.

(Canon Divergent AU- Kelsang wasn’t the one who heard the poem?….aka What if it took longer for them to realize Kyoshi was the Avatar?)

Other Sites: AO3

A/N: <_< >_>*looks everyone in the eye* *drops another AU* *shuffles away*

*runs back and takes the mic* I don’t really wanna recap alllllll the scenes in the novel, so we’re just going to jump to the ones that def changed because of this little butterfly effect. So yeah, I'm assuming you've at least read RoK, and the scenes not shown here are fairly similar that happen in the novel. Ok? Ok. *shuffles away again*

(Tw: SLIGHT earth kingdom homophobia, mostly just alluded too, it's not my main focus, but I'll give another warning if it happens)

_____

“Can’t someone give us a decent verse?” Auntie Mui complained. She’d roped the kitchen into a forced weekly-or was it daily?- poetry time. Lee had just delivered the worst haiku in history, and it left a bitter taste in the older woman’s mouth.

Kyoshi, who was only supposed to drop off a delivery, had gotten roped into kitchen work by Auntie Mui, who asked her to help with the bread before she left. Kyoshi accepted, but was trying to rush it so she could get back to her duties upstairs.

“Well saaaaaw-rry !” Lee complained. “I’m not the best at poetry!”

“Yeah he’s better with dirty songs!” one kitchen worker jeered.

“Aren’t we all?” another hooted.

“There will be no dirty songs!” Auntie Mui cried out.

“Hey, let’s do the Unrequited Shanty!” one of the scullery maids clapped. “That one’s always fun to play!”

Kyoshi recognized the game they wanted to play. It was a well-known shanty popular with sailors and field hands, where you improvised raunchy words from the perspective of your object of unrequited affection. It was a game for others to guess who you were singing about, and the simple rhythm made manual labor more pleasant.

“Of course, ‘cause ya love ta gossip!” a cook jeered.

“There will be no-” Autie Mui started, trying to get the kitchen under control, but was cut off by Lee.

“I’ve got a nose like a dove-tailed deer / I run like a leaf on the wind,” Lee sang, evidently better at this than his failed haiku. The staff started banging tables and pots to his rhythm. “My arms are slight and my waist is tight / and I don’t have a thought for my kin.”

“Mirai!” a dishwasher yelled out. “He’s got it bad for the greengrocer’s daughter!” The staff whooped over Lee’s protests, thinking it a good match. Sometimes it didn’t matter to the audience if they guessed right or not.

“Kyoshi next!” someone said. “She’s never here, so let’s make the most of it!”

Kyoshi was caught off guard. Normally she wasn’t included in household antics. But here she was, with the whole kitchen staff banging their tables and pots in a rhythm louder, encouraging.

Before Kyoshi could consider feeling embarrassed or decline, the rhythm of the atmosphere dug its claws into her, pulling her in, and the words spilled from her mouth without a care.

“I’ve got two knives that are cast in bronze / they pierce all the way to the soul / they draw you in with the promise of sin / like the moth to the flame to the coal.”

The kitchen howled. Auntie Mui clucked in disapproval. “Keep going, you naughty girl!” Lee shouted, glad that the attention was off of him.

Kyoshi did just that, tossing out the lyrics that popped into her head. She started drumming her own dough to the beat.

“I’ve got hair like the starless night / it sticks to my lips when I smile / I’ll wind it with yours and we’ll drift off course / in a ship touching hearts all the while.”

Somehow the improvisation was easy, though she’d never considered herself a poet. Or a bawdy mind, for that matter. It was as if another person, someone much more at ease with their own desires, was feeding her the right lines to express herself. And to her surprise, she liked how the inelegant lines made her feel. Truthful and silly and raw.

“For the way I walk is a lantern lit / that leads you into the night / I’ll hold you close and love you the most / until our end is in sight.”

Kyoshi was about to ponder what the darker turn towards the end of the verse was, when she realized the makeshift music had stopped. Looking up, she saw everyone was silently looking at her with a gaped expression. Some even dropped the appliances they were using.

“W-what?” she flinched. She thought the lyrics were pretty good, sure she wasn’t a lyricist, but there was no need for such a cold reception!

“It’s Rangi!” one of the maids shouted, clapping her hands once.

Kyoshi whipped her head around to the stairs, looking for the firebending girl. Her heart started to quicken, though she didn’t know what for.

“It is Rangi!” a cook cooed, making a kissy face for some strange reason.

“W-where?” Kyoshi kept looking around.

“Not in here , idiot!” Lee slapped her back. “In your song ! Just admit it, you just sang about Rangi.”

Kyoshi felt her eyes bulge out of her head. She hadn’t really been thinking of the lyrics, but when she played them back in her head the picture became very clear. It very much did sound like Rangi.

She looked around the kitchen, some were goading her playfully, not caring that Kyoshi may have just sung a love poem about her female friend.

Some gave her disdainful looks. A wave of guilt and disgust in herself rose up in Kyoshi’s stomach, realizing that they may also veer those same looks at Rangi later. All because of Kyoshi’s loose lips.

“I-I, uh, I,” Kyoshi said eloquently. She had no comeback, she couldn’t deny the resemblance. She didn’t think she was thinking about Rangi at that moment, but she couldn’t lie to herself. She had thought of Rangi, often, at other times. The fiery girl would easily sneak into her mind when she wasn’t fully aware of it. Could this have been one of those times?

But she’d tell herself it was just admiration. She admired her friend. The way she embodied strength, skill, and determination wrapped up in an unshakable heart. Just, honorable, and kind….. And so painfully beautiful .

Kyoshi shook her head. No, she mustn’t think those thoughts about her friend. No matter how often they snuck into her mind. How often she thought about what it’d feel like to hold her close. To touch the soft flesh of her neck. What it would feel like to press her lips against Rangi’s…..

No! Kyoshi balled a fist outside of view, the nails digging into her skin to break her out of her dangerous train of thought. She’d already let her imagination run off and cause a lapse in judgment already, she couldn’t afford to do it again.

Stop… you can’t have those thoughts. It’s not fair to her. She chastised herself, trying to bury the emotions like she’d done with her crush on Yun. Having these feelings towards them, her friends, it wasn’t right. It was betraying their trust.

But unlike with Yun, these feelings kept resurfacing, stronger than ever at times. And that was dangerous. Because each time Kyoshi buried them, it became harder to do so. Which meant there was a breaking point. Which meant……there would come a time Kyoshi may make the biggest mistake of her life, and ruin her friendship beyond repair.

Kyoshi took a wobbly step back. “I, uh, I have to go get ready for my gifting duties,” she said hurriedly. Barreling her way to the staircase, trying to ignore the looks and shouts in her direction. It was easy to drown out the noise, her heart was thumping in rhythm with the footsteps around her. She briefly wondered if someone was following her, but when she turned no one was, when she got to the staircase it was empty as well.

As quickly and quietly as she could, she ascended the stairs and made her way through the mansion to her room. As she ran, Kyoshi had her hand covering her mouth, trying to choke down the air of hyperventilation. She realized she’d described Rangi’s eyes as sinful, when really Kyoshi was the one with the sinful thoughts. A new wave of guilt and disgust in herself radiated through her.

She was thankful she didn’t run into Rangi on the way to her room.

______

“Thank you,” Yun said as he nuzzled his cheek into Kyoshi’s hand.

Kyoshi had made it to her gifting duties, not only in a timely manner, but also very early. At some point, the Avatar had joined her to “help” with organizing the gifts. Really he just wanted to bug her.

But at some point the conversation had turned to him asking her to join him for the Fifth Nation treaty signing. She saw the sincerity in his plea and said yes. And now here they were in a slightly uncompromising position. It’d be a little dicey if someone barged through the door while they were like this.

Other than that slight distress hanging over her head, she let the contact wash over her. Letting it act as a balm to the fire bomb that went off on her hours before.

Right, just push the feelings down. She told herself.

Yun reluctantly put her hand down. "Three..." he said, cocking his ear at the ceramic-tiled floor with a smile. "Two... One..."

Rangi slid the door open with a sharp click, and Kyoshi felt herself jump slightly. She was happy Yun had let go of her hand.

"Avatar." She bowed deeply and solemnly to Yun. Then she turned to Kyoshi, her face appeared to be more stern than Kyoshi was used to. “And you! You’ve barely made any prog-”

She cut herself off and tore her eyes away from Kyoshi, looking around the room. Her eyes widened a bit. “Oh….it’s…. actually almost done.”

Yes, most of the items had been sorted. Kyoshi just needed to finish them up, and then move the respected piles to where they needed to go.

“I got here early….” Kyoshi muttered. She kept her eyes on a pai sho table in the corner. She knew if she looked at Rangi’s face right now, then she’d light up brighter than a firefly.

This wasn’t good, if she couldn’t face Rangi then….. How was she going to be able to hide her feelings properly? Rangi was going to think she was upset with the firebender. She needed to get herself together.

“Yeah Rangi,” Yun laughed. “This is Kyoshi we’re talking about, how dare you question her skill of working fast and efficiently?”

Rangi turned on her heel to face Yun, giving him an indignant look. “D-don’t put words in my mouth! I simply thought due to the volume that came in, and the fact you are skipping training to be a distraction, she may not have gotten as far as she did.”

“Well, I left the kitchen as soon as possible and got to work, just like you wanted ,” Kyoshi mumbled.

There was a moment of silence that caused Kyoshi to chance looking in Rangi’s direction. The two stared at her with worried expressions. Uh oh, Kyoshi hadn’t made the right expression, or maybe her tone was off? She needed to rectify the situation.

Kyoshi scratched at her nose, bashfully. “Did I say something wrong?”

Rangi stared at her for a moment, and it took all of Kyoshi’s effort to keep her blush down. Rangi finally broke eye contact by looking at the ground. “No… it’s just….”

“I think Kyoshi’s just a little nervous,” Yun announced.

Kyoshi felt her heart lurch in her chest. Oh she was nervous alright, but how could he possibly know?

“I just asked her to join the Fifth Nation signing and she agreed to go,” he continued calmly.

Oh he meant that . Kyoshi sighed, grateful for the coverup.

Rangi’s eyes boggled out of her head. “Wh-what?! What do you mean she’s going ?!”

Apparently he hadn’t told Rangi, until now.

“I was going to tell you,” Yun smiled, putting his hands up in surrender.

Rangi spluttered and looked between Yun and Kyoshi. “Have you lost your mind ? The both of you? She’s not going!”

“Are you going against your Avatar’s wishes?” Yun grinned at her, but it made Rangi visibly flinch. Like he'd struck her, despite his joking tone. “Calm down, it’ll be good to have her there.”

“Good for who ?” Rangi groused. She pressed a fist to her forehead and sighed. Then she glared at Yun and grabbed his sleeve. “We’re talking about this later. Right now, I’m taking you back to your training!”

She started to pull her charge towards the door.

“Gah! Rangi! Wait!” Yun bemoaned.

Rangi practically threw the Avatar through the doorway in front of her, and then stopped with her hand on the doorframe. She looked back at Kyoshi with an expression Kyoshi couldn’t place.

“And you-!” Rangi looked at Kyoshi and then the rest of the room, trying to find something to yell at her about. “Clean-no. Just. Gah. Do whatever you were doing!”

Rangi slammed the door.

_____

Kyoshi quickly climbed the hill to the Avatar’s estate, a package in her arms. It had been a few days since Kyoshi had sung the poem about Rangi in the kitchen, as well as a few days since Yun had requested to join her on his adventure to sign the treaty.

Since then, things have been pretty hectic. She and other staff were running around trying to make sure supplies were in order for the big event in a few weeks.

Kyoshi was making frequent trips to the village to pick up various specially delivered packages. Though, she had a feeling that this one was more of a luxury item than one of necessity. She didn’t complain though, at least it was light.

Kyoshi finally made it up the hill, and was just entering the gates when a familiar black and red cladded presence came out from behind the door as she passed through. Kyoshi screamed in surprise, just barely holding onto the package.

She looked down to see her ever timely friend, Rangi, waiting for her.

As punctual as always.

She gave Kyoshi an unreadable but stern look, the same one from when she first entered the gifting room. Come to think of it, that same look had been resting on her face for the past handful of days……

“I’m sorry,” she gasped, apologizing for yelling in her friend’s face. “You surprised me!”

Rangi’s expression didn’t change, instead she turned and started walking away. Just slow enough to indicate to Kyoshi that she would escort her to her next destination.

Kyoshi frowned a bit, she hadn’t liked Rangi’s new change in demeanor. On top of that, she barely talked when they were together. She felt like there was a wall, one that was much denser than when they first met. She was used to Rangi being a raging mother hen, not stoic and brooding.

She gathered herself and caught up to Rangi, and proceeded to walk side by side to Kyoshi’s next destination. Kyoshi took in the mansion’s beauty as they walked in silence. Since they would be leaving the mansion soon, most of the usual guests had left, so the staff was free to walk around parts of the mansion that were usually off limits. Like the garden. Which was the fastest shortcut to their next destination.

Kyoshi admired the layout, how the flowers were practically bursting over each other. The sand art that lined parts of the path. The way the rocks of the path felt like they came together in chaotic beauty. It was all very wabi-sabi.

Her favorite part of the garden was definitely the small pond. The way the koi would come up to greet them for food. The little bridge they built over it. The clearness of the water. The pretty hue of green of the algae and other plants grew on top of it. The way the reflection of the water shimmered and framed Rangi’s jaw and eyes as they passed-

Kyoshi’s head snapped away, her heart beating a million miles a second. She’d let her mind wander and didn’t realize she was staring at her friend like-.... Oh…. she needed to shove these feelings down, and fast .

Oh she could only thank the spirits and Yangchen that she at least hadn’t been caught staring.

“Kyoshi,” Rangi said, breaking the silence and startling Kyoshi even more.

“Y-yes?”

“You aren’t going,” Rangi said. On top of her other new quirks, she’d also acquired a new phrase she liked.

Kyoshi sighed. “I don’t think I have a choice , Rangi. It’s a special request from the Avatar .”

Rangi stopped walking and glared at Kyoshi. “Of course you have a choice! You just have to tell him you don’t want to! Just tell him ‘no,’ Kyoshi!”

Kyoshi raised an eyebrow and gave her a joking smile. “And disobey the Avatar?”

Rangi stiffened. “It’s not ‘disobeying’ if he gave you an option in the first place, right?”

“I don’t mind though.” Ok, Kyoshi minded, just a bit . She was nervous. But it was a special request from Yun. She couldn’t say no to her best friend.

Kyoshi dropped her voice into a low whisper, not wanting others to hear her, “Plus he practically begged me. How could I say no?”

Kyoshi thought that was the end of it, and started walking again, but stopped and almost fell back when a strong grip on her arm pulled her back.

“Then what about me , huh?” Rangi glared up at Kyoshi, practically in her face, and hand sturdy on Kyoshi’s arm. “What if I begged ? What if I begged you not to come along? What would you do then?”

Kyoshi’s heart pounded so hard, it radiated in her ears. What would she do? She technically should hold Rangi’s request in the same regard as Yun’s, she’d do anything for her best friends. But these requests were contradictory, she was going to make someone unhappy.

Rangi shook Kyoshi’s arm once, and Kyoshi looked at Rangi’s face again. It wasn’t the stoic mask she’d grown accustomed to over the past few days, it was vulnerable. Pleading. Her eyes shone, not with the promise of sin, but with a promise of….of…. something . Kyoshi wasn’t sure, but she felt herself being pulled closer the longer she looked into them.

Rangi shook her arm again. “ Please . Kyoshi, please don’t come with us,” she begged, her hot breath fanning over Kyoshi’s face. Rangi was begging. Strong, prideful Rangi was begging meak Kyoshi for something. It wasn’t right. Kyoshi wanted to drop what she was holding, and take Rangi into her arms. Reassure her that she would do whatever Rangi said.

Kyoshi bit her lip and gripped the package tightly, it was the only thing keeping her grounded. She fought the ever waging war in her heart, and self-control won out again. But just barely.

She was about to comply, when a horrifying thought ran through her head. What if Rangi didn’t come back? Kyoshi couldn’t bear it, if she wasn’t going to see Rangi again then it’d be up until the final moment. Even if it meant her own doom.

Kyoshi shook her head. She tried to say “I’m sorry” but found her throat and mouth were too dry.

Rangi grimaced and released her. “Forget it,” she said, as she walked away. With her, she took a heat Kyoshi didn’t realize had formed around them.

_____

A/N: At this point, I’m just dropping fic chapters down because I can’t focus my brain on one scenario. TT0TT Also, Gee, I wonder who heard the poem? Big mystery. Much suspense. 8U

#rise of kyoshi #chronicles of the avatar #shadow of kyosh #rangshi #rangi #rangi sei'naka #rangi seinaka #kyoshi #rise of kyoshi au #kyoshi au #kyoshi fanfic

18 notes · View notes

churchobones · 7 months ago

Text

DWC August 2024: Melee

It was well past noon when Hesterlynn finally stirred.

Her head throbbed with each sluggish beat of her heart. She clutched the icy weight in her chest.

Where am I?

A bed, but not her own. The room was spartan, almost clinical, devoid of any decoration save an ornate vanity by the window, with curtains drawn shut against the red dusted sunlight of the Eastern Plaguelands. A silver tray held a cold tea service and a vase bursting with colorful wildflowers: violet dreamfoil, white peacebloom, crimson roses–

Zelion’s instructions had been simple: “You are to offer your assistance to Lord Bloodrose in whatever manner he sees fit.”

Hester willed the Light to the awful ache in her skull, and caught sight of her chipped manicure. Beneath her nails was dirt and shredded skin.

She lifted the dull linen sheets. The fabric of her dress was rife with wood splintered runs and ruined by dirt. A gorey spill of dried blood ran the length of her ruched bodice.

It was not her own.

She should have never gone to that party.

Lord Bloodrose had dressed outlandishly in ruffles, cogwheels and his workshop goggles. He requested she wear “something poofy”. She obliged in the form of a tea-length, robin’s egg frock. The billowing skirt was made of layer upon layer of airy chiffon. A demure neckline shrouded her secrets but exposed her pronounced collar bones and milk white shoulders.

The confessor stumbled from the bed, tripping over her ivory shoes. The right one was missing its low heel; the left had a rusty smudge over the toes.

She lurched to the vanity, gripping the edge of the woodwork as the world swam.

Her reflection was haggard but whole. Bruises circled both biceps and wrists like bracelets. Impossibly long blonde hair, free from its styled ties, fell in haggish curls peppered with wilted white flowers and matted with blood. Dark circles framed the candlelight glow of her eyes, dimmed and glassy.

She looked monstrous.

The cleric swallowed hard and tore off the damaged dress.

The diamond cut crystal embedded in her chest still slept in its nest of black veins.

Hester was quick to shroud the Mournstone in a cozy sweater; one long and shapeless on her willowy body that fell just above the knees. As she slid into a borrowed pair of house slippers, she inspected the punctures and tears in her ill-fated dress until her hand fell on a disc of cool metal.

"... As a bit of a thank-you for attending this lousy party with me."

A brooch forged in bronze and plated by gold. The detailed cast depicted a bouquet of flowers, unpainted, but remarkably detailed-- Plaguebloom, Arthas' Tears and dreamfoil, all with a backdrop of Sungrass stalks. On close inspection, each squared blossom spun as a cogwheel, parting the bouquet like a curtain to reveal a greater detail beneath.

"It's just what I thought of when I thought of you… I hope you like it."

To think that Hesterlynn Mournvalor was naught but a bouquet of pretty flowers was sure to be a mistake, or so Lord Bloodrose must have thought, for behind the bouquet was an intricate knife with a pearl handle and a blade of sharpened steel.

She pinned it to her sweater before bustling out of the bedroom and down the hall on legs still wobbly as a newborn fawn’s.

A saw hummed behind the double doors of his workshop. Hester sucked a sharp and desperate breath before wrapping her scraped knuckles on the woodwork.

Crash! Metal rang in the air. Lord Bloodrose swore loudly, then swung wide the door.

What a mess! Him, and the workshop too!

Tool chests lay opened, gaping like baby birds. Wires hung from the ceiling, thick black and coiled like snakes hanging from a tree. A mechanosuit stood vigil in the rear, headless and tethered like an ancient effigy reclaimed by vines.

And then Lord Corwin Bloodrose--no, Cory. An ugly bruise painted the bridge of his nose shades of red and violet. A bandage bound the worst of it, acting as a stint and giving padding to the scratched glasses resting gingerly atop.

"Hester!" he greeted, boyishly bright. "Come see this!"

To be continued.

@daily-writing-challenge

#dwc2024 #writing challenge #suntwistscribbles #comorbid-insomnia #fantasy #horror #creative writing #wyrmrest accord #world of warcraft oc fiction

11 notes · View notes

eldritcmor · 2 years ago

Text

Independent Sources

Minors DNI 18+ possible smut ahead.

Summary: Storm makes a deal for information not easily accessible.

All characters are 18+

Again, Minors DNI

The church was a tall imposing building. Dark stone carved to reflect the Victorian Gothic style. High arches, wide spaces, patterns whispering of old gods. Gargoyles standing or crouching, proud wings and binding chains on display. The heavy ash wood door, gleaming with fresh polish despite the many hands that push those doors each night. The call of pleasure spilled out the door to greet You like an old friend. Cloth draped from the beams of the church in various shades of purple and blue. The materials are mostly silk or sheer cloth. The room is always near hazy with perfumed smoke. A scent of carnal pleasure and burning woods. Braziers of dancing flames are set up at various points. Casting extreme shadows along the stone walls. Piles of pillows, low sitting couches, and rugs can be seen all over. Their fabrics are worn but all still beautiful. Doors line up along one of the walls. A peek shows various dungeons from the mundane to the extreme. Most are occupied but others are bare and cold. Music can be heard thumping throughout the building, like a heartbeat to a titan of pleasure. Above it all at the back of the church sits a dais leading up to a throne made of ash wood and silver. The throne while pretty is not what draws Your eye. No, it’s the giant spider web of red rope framed in the churches cathedral window. And in the middle of this web is a person. They are clad head to toe in black, form fitting latex. They seem to be squirming in pleasure but not a single sound is heard from them.

Chos sits on the throne tonight. Lounged back like a bored lion. You know he is anything but.

"Hello dear." Chos's voice floats just under the music but you can hear like a clear bell. "Been a long time since You decided to darken out doorstep, darling. You look exquisite as always." You had dressed like you were going to a event. Navy corset vest paired with a silver tie. Black slacks and a white shirt sleeve button up. Simple bracelets and a single silver ring decorated your arms. Nothing too eye catching. Nothing that can be pulled or interfere with a fight. You knew the rules of the court and you were not here to be a threat.

"I need a favor."

Chos tilted his head to the side. "Oh. And here I thought we would have to drag you back into the fold. But you always did have your priorities straight. Shall we take this to the lower levels then?"

You nodded. Chos hummed as he stood up. A member of security approached as Chos stepped away from the throne. The throne was never unguarded. Many had learned that the hard way. Chos beckoned you deeper into the cathedral. The cathedral wasnt bound to the rules of reality as some places were and it was always amazing to walk through the paths outside of your reality. Stone became wood. Wood became soft grass. Soft grass became a lightly traveled path through olive orchards. A small dirt path became the base of a temple.

The Temple stood above you, solid and unyeilding in its alabaster glory. But something was off. The braziers were dark with long burnt charcol. The carvings were covered in moss and vines, obscuring the stories and warnings. The wood and bronze of the doors was bleached and tarnished. It took you a minute to recongize it, but you were oddly sad to see it in such a state. You glance at Chos.

”She really kept it up?”

Chos chuckled. “She had hope, as strange as it is. And look, here you are.”

You licked your lip nervously. “I need Information. A Group has been giving my current employer some trouble to put it lightly.”

Chos hummed. “You work covert ops, darling. You’re bound to run into issues eventually. So why the need for information?”

You hummed as you sat on the temple steps. “This group has displayed abilities and tactics associated with well, our side of the world.” You pull out your phone and quickly pulled up a video.

The video was taken from security footage. You watched Chos’s reaction as the personnel rushed the scene of what appeared to be a shooting only to slump lifelessly to the floor as smoke choked them out. The smoke condensed and pressed itself into a vague human shape before forming a solid person. Another being entered the frame and snapped their fingers. A corpse at their feet sharply jerked before pushing itself up to its feet. Chos’s face twitched into a minute frown. The three exit the frame not long after that.

You take a deep breath. “That was two months ago. Since then, there have been other robberies and multiple ambushes. We tracked them back to a group known as Váli. A pharmaceuticals company specializing in biotech. On our side, Cryptozoology and Less than savory experiments on humans. Unfortunately, the trail ends there. Orochi is as tight lipped as ever. Man, I never understood how she managed to get them to bend an ear."

Chos hummed. "She is rather good at getting what she wants but then again best to feed her so she doesn't eviscerate you on sight. Orochi deals heavily in her favorite food. I can get you names and possible last known locations. But you know the rules, I will need something in return."

Storm leaned back against the steps. "One night. I return for one full night."

Chos smiled, a cruel thing. “Deal.”

Kate jerked as a loud thump landed right next to her head. She stared at the tall stack of files on her desk. Her eyes traced the hand resting on top to Storm’s face before blinking and rubbing the sleep from her eyes. She looked down at the files again. It clicked.

“Storm?” A light hum came in response. “How did you get these?”

Storm chuckled. “I made a deal with a sibling.”

kate narrowed her eyes. “What kind of sibling, Storm?”

Storm hummed as they tapped their fingers on top of the stack. “The kind that sheltered me when no one else would.”

#call of duty x reader #cod mw2 #taskforce 141 #eld writes #storm au #kate laswell #141 x reader #captain john price #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #kyle gaz garrick

73 notes · View notes

dragons-and-the-setting-sun · 30 days ago

Text

Night (2 of 32)

It is not for fate or the reasoning of stories that gloomy and windblown nights are the harbingers of tragedy. Shadows hide your blades, thunder drives your fellows into their own refugees. The screams of your enemies are not too loud when the thunder and the storm smother them. The frightened, pleading faces don’t poison you with guilt when you can’t see the light die in their eyes. You want to sleep well, even when what had to be done had been done. And for the people of the village, nothing needed to be done like this. If there had been moonlight and calm and clarity, their organs, their eyes and ears and throbbing heart would have rebelled against the better judgement of their souls. But the darkness had already come to these parts of world and it would never leave again.

Thus, they drowned their pain and fear in stale beer-water. Thus, they painted lamb blood on their patchy timber huts. Thus, they left their women and children with homes where the cold rain seeped in. Thus, they ventured into the dark forest that surrounded the village like an inky, wailing sea. And thus, they got ready to murder most unwanted guests this tempest had brought upon their shores, from the umbral depths of pine and wildness.

Their well-rehearsed chants raged to sound out the wind, whose mournful howls plowed through a patchy canopy of coniferous, withered trees.

“For the future of our world!” “Death to the warlock!” “Fire cleanses!”

The local mendicant, with the utmost pains, had written them on tablets that, not a day baked, already cracked and crumpled. Doubtlessly, this would be the most important day of his life, perhaps the entire village’s. The middle-aged thin man waved his holy words at the spearhead of his herd, head held high against malefic air.

This howling mob stood at the old house whose stone walls trembled in the wind and whose floor creacked with every step. The wood had been firm once, the walls stout. But life had been getting worse for years by now. Still, the house was nice when one did not look too closely. Thick white paint and think white lies; the childless owners, once rich peasants, had hoped the gold of the travelers might turn their fate around. Little chance of that now.

The old door cracked, its wood, hollowed by the countless worms inside, broke. The hammer rammed against it, again and again and again. “By the lord of light, open up! Give us the monster you are holding! It's not too late to save your souls!” Their champion, bald head painted with a black charcoal sun, gave no pause until nothing but splinters and dust remained.

They did not need to spill into the almost-ruin. The elderly couple, their stitched, once-fine clothes barely clinging to their emaciated bodies, were there already. With an apology in their eyes, they pushed out a lanky figure whose bronze skin glistened with the sweat of fear. Long, straightened hair stuck to a fussy face and long, straight nose as he cast a panicked glance from green eyes at the villagers. He was almost bare; the night was too hot for him. “Listen! I can explain! I too can serve the people of the emp-” He yelled. The leader hit him with the backside of his meaty hand to the cheers of the others. Bones cracked as the stranger fell. “Silence, Necromancer! It's your fault the world's gone to shit. The common man's had enough of you! You and the other degenerate will burn on the stake. That is the place the empire has given you.”

“Kill the sorcerer!” They jeered. Their eyes glinted with excitement as saliva filled hungry mouths. It had been a long time since the smoke of a purifying pyre had last touched their lips. You took what food you could get.

“Listen! I don’t take anyone’s corpse without their premortem consent! I don’t talk to the dead unless they want me to! I use my art to protect and build! I-” He did not get further. The oxlike man had stepped aside, and his leader threw one of the tablets at the man. His ribs caved in with the sound of squelching, shattering bone. Blood catapulted from his mouth.

The holy man wrinkled his mouth in a snarl of disgust at such wickedness and evil. The stranger must have been made for him, a sinner to be sacrificed for the glory of his deeds and his god. This was his path out of insignificane, into priesthood. Real power. Real magic. His golden hour. “Silence! Silence! Silence! No matter your intentions, you will not pervert the divine plan any further. All is as it should be already. The lord of light and all doth speak: Given is life by me. And the lady of death speaks: Taken is life by me.” And he reached out, to seize the offering of fate.

But fate did not win this day. He gazed into the darkness of the house and recoiled, shrieking with fear. The earth shivered, the air and the trees screeched in the storm. An undulating voice; deep like the abyss, without humanity and so much worse, without fear. “Itzil takes and gives how she pleases. No one ever stopped her. Humans who are preyful, she asks you; Is she a god?” Without rhythm, not without melody, the thing chocked all strength out of the peasants' throats and legs. When its hulking shape emerged from the shadows and the lackeys of the priest did not dare to take another step forward.

They had given her kind a mocking name, drake. Reality defied their words. A dragon, upright, no wings but terrible hands. Few were the spots where terrible brown-red scales shone against their hungry torches. Dented iron and ragged cloth from lands seen and unseen barely contained something that towered over every man. The head, so much like the great beasts of the scorched north, held two slit eyes. A yellow irradiance scorched the villager’s soul, terrible, alien, all-consuming. Paws each the size of a shovelhead pushed the human hosts aside. Its walk more beast than man, it placed a reptilian talon on the wizard, claimed him. The monk stepped back, triumph turned to terror. The monster laughed. A long, fleshy tongue trashed inside a leering maw wet with drool. Then it made words unlike them.

“Pathetic. By the dark Gods, Itzil decides to give this stranger life. You are too weak and scared to oppose her. Run off, little things.”

Only the thug in front moved to face it, as he bellowed. “Or what, sinspawn? You can't flee, you can't win! We are men! We crush monsters and all that is evil!” Eager for conflict, his muscles tensed as he lunged at her from the side, his club poised to smash her skull. His arm's arc had not reached its zenith - fast as an arrow, the drake’s hand sprang forth and seized his head. Four fingers contorted, a wet twig snapped – then brain, blood and bone exploded onto the flock of gathered humans as she crushed it like an overripe pear.

“Or, Itzil decides you die.”

The dragon opened her hand, and a mushy thing fell away, limp and spurting. She licked the gorey hand, then laughed, without depth or sincerity. The mob turned, soiled with the slimy innards and blood and horror. They would have run if it had not been for the monk. From the moment the other man had attacked the beast, he had hastened to the rear. He screamed and pointed now, more loud than uplifting. “It’s alone and we have the gods and humanity on our side! Charge!” The faithful turned around, ready to kill at the behest of their leader.

With a hideous cackle, the monster retched and from its maw exploded a hellish flame that surged across the open ground. The first melted to slag, but the wretches too removed squealed, flailed and spread themselves like running butter as the fire scorched the flesh from their bones. The monster's laughter rose to an insane howl as it cherished the sacrifice they made, priests, lambs and candles at once. Only their leader remained to stand, abandoned by the few wiser than their kin.Obstinate rage fought helpless, mortal panic and together, they rooted his limbs, left only place for bitter threats.

"You will not get away with this! My church will avenge me! You and the Necromancer will burn at the stake!"

Now, the scaled creature flung open her jaws and he espied its sharp, pearly-white teeth. The sides of her maw drew back, formed neither smile, taunt or threat. It was pure, predatory hunger. Too late, the man broke free of the stranglehold of fear. She reached him in a single leap. An animalistic hiss and a terrible weight pressed on him, pushed him to the ground. Amber animal eyes and long fangs sparked in a darkness now only lit by thunder as they snapped down. Like a surgeon's scissor, they cut his thin belly open and bathed her head in steaming hot blood, always so pleasant in cold nights like this. Warmed, she feasted on all the morsels; stomach, bones, lungs, kidney, heart, fat, in no particular order. Rolled each of them in her maw, took sweet time to savor the aroma of fear, blood, urine, stomach and fat. A familiar dark, heady rush filled her grotesque body. Only when she was almost full, her claws broke open the skull and took the real delicacy.

Sometimes later, she had been asked if any of this had been particularly necessary. Of course it was not. She said. It did not even serve any sort of higher purpose or statement. She was a hungry animal and made no apologies for it back then.

#dark fantasy #sword and sorcery #writing #dragons #dragon #horror #necromancer #pitchforks and torches #religious horror #anti hero

2 notes · View notes