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p-seduonym · 3 days ago

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Switched At Birth (Part Seven)

A/N: What, I couldn't think of a new gif idea. Don't judge me. Anyway, my laptop has been acting weird so I might not be updating as frequently. I'll try to keep it consistent though. Also, confession time, I don't particularly like Damian but I hope I was at least faithful to his character.

Taglist (I'll add you if you ask):@luludeluluramblings, @von-jour, @holylonelyponyeatingmacaroni, @kenyummy, @bunniotomia, @ch1cky-093, @toxicthotsyndrome68, @cynniee, @icefox8155, @eyeless-kun, @c4xcocoa, @ed15fashionista, @yourtypicalhuman09, @fightmebissh. @tsuniio, @fantasyhopperhea, @type-ink, @dirtydiavolo, @colorfulgardenerduck, @seemeee3, @ironsaladwitch, @yumeravenclaw

Yandere!Batfam X Switched! Fem! Reader X Yandere!Wayne!OC

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Part Four

Part Five

Part Six

Damian sat stiffly in the back seat, the city’s lights flickering across the window like a metronome. Alfred hummed quietly from the driver’s seat, an old jazz record playing low beneath the rumble of Gotham's streets. He wasn’t really listening. His eyes were fixed on the sidewalk they passed—the boarded-up storefronts, cracked concrete, and faint trails of ivy creeping where they didn’t belong.

Then something caught his eye.

Two figures, ducking through the narrow breach of a long-forgotten building. The glass dome above gave it away.

A conservatory.

His brows knit as he craned slightly, watching Melissa Wayne disappear through the broken wall. She was laughing—a soft, theatrical sound. And beside her—

There. That other one.

An unfamiliar student. Damian could only see their profile, but they were smiling too.

His frown deepened.

“—Are you listening, Master Damian?” Alfred asked gently.

“I saw something,” Damian muttered, still watching. “They shouldn’t be in there.”

Alfred didn’t respond. But Damian wasn’t looking for permission.

He didn’t trust Melissa. He never had.

But it wasn’t her that held his attention.

Melissa Wayne was far from exceptional. In his mind, at least.

She didn’t possess any athletic prowess, wit, or intelligence. The only thing distinct about her was her simpering visage—a perpetual mask of demureness, carefully arranged, right down to the slight tilt of her head and the way she blinked just a second too slow. She was practiced. Performed. Vaguely, she reminded him of the socialites who clung to his father during charity galas—smiles and silk gloves, hiding emptiness underneath.

She walked like someone who could only follow. Spoke like every word was a test.

She had a knack for drifting just close enough to be noticed, then fading into the periphery when it suited her. Never too loud. Never too quiet. Just... there. And hollow.

Damian had seen it before. In court. In League spies. In orphans trained to survive by becoming whatever someone else needed.

But Melissa?

She didn’t even do it well.

It was all mimicry. Secondhand charm and borrowed elegance. And yet, somehow, Father still looked at her with a kind of weary obligation, as if trying to fit her into a frame she didn’t belong in.

She bore the Wayne name, but not its weight. A bastard from a dalliance with some drug-addled harlot.

And Damian had never been more certain of that than now, watching her disappear into the ruins of the conservatory like a ghost playing house.

What interested him was the one who followed her.

The one beside her. The girl who walked into the darkened building with such a warm smile.

“Pennyworth, I’m leaving,” Damian announced, already opening the door. “Tell Father I’ll return.”

It was child’s play to slip into the shadows after them, though it would’ve drawn too much attention to follow them directly. Instead, he slunk into the green gloom surrounding a slumping side exit, swallowed by the ever-encroaching vegetation.

The conservatory loomed above him—rusted beams swallowed by ivy, glass warped and cracked like old bone. Damian narrowed his eyes at the structure. Sentiment. That’s what drew people to ruins—the desperate need to assign beauty to something that had long since rotted. He didn’t understand it.

He crouched low near a collapsed trellis, silent as mist, and tracked movement through the gaps in the stained glass. The figures inside cast shadows—one tall and poised, the other more inward. Melissa’s laugh chimed again, muffled by the thick, damp air. He could see the way she tilted her head, leaned in just so. He’d seen that posture before—a pathetic display of submissiveness from her bowed head to her large, watery eyes.

But the other girl didn’t mirror it, from what he could see. The dusk darkened his view, but still—she stood slightly apart, watching and listening. When she laughed, it was real. Not the kind you staged.

Damian studied her longer than he meant to.

She moved with ease. Not trained—nothing polished—but she wasn’t wary of the space. Or of Melissa. That was... rare.

He adjusted his footing on the soft soil, the hem of his uniform brushing against the weeds as he continued his quiet surveillance. Something about the scene gnawed at him. There was too much softness in it. Too much calm.

And calm, in Gotham, never lasted.

He tapped his comm and muted it. No reason to alert the Cave—yet. This was inconsequential. If it escalated, he’d act.

For now, he stayed in the green-dark, watching the two girls in the crumbling greenhouse. One, hollow and scheming. The other... confusing.

He didn’t know her name.

But she didn’t belong with Melissa Wayne.

She belonged somewhere better.

And Damian intended to find out where.

When the setting sun was finally extinguished, he watched as the two of you exited, trailing shadows nipping at your heels. He followed—certain he had not been detected. How could he be? He was the heir of the Demon’s Head, and you were civilians.

That’s what he thought—until you turned and looked over your shoulder. It could’ve been mistaken for you calling back to Melissa, if you hadn’t caught his eye.

An accident, he assured himself.

But you smiled. A cheeky, knowing smile.

Had you known he was there the entire time?

He froze beneath the greenery as Melissa remained clueless to his presence. As the two of you mounted the bike, he heard you laugh.

“What’s so funny?” Melissa asked, smiling but clearly confused.

“Thought I saw a rat.”

A rat? he thought, and Melissa echoed it.

“Yeah, small one. Ugly, though.” You chuckled, pushing off and pedaling away.

It was embarrassing how long it took to process your words. But when they registered, he flushed an indignant red.

That insolent little—

@gothamu_streets just saw a girl on a beat-up bike pedaling through Midtown with Melissa Wayne riding shotgun??? is this performance art or did I hallucinate that 📍Midtown, Gotham | 🕒 6:42 PM

@g0thamg1rl whoever that was biking Melissa Wayne down Crime Alley is braver than any marine. literally thought that was a jumpscare. 📍Lower Park Row (edge of Crime Alley) | 🕒 7:06 PM

@nvmfrankie wait—isn’t that the same girl she was with at that thrift shop on Canal St? she had the cutest cat socks @watchdogtruths yup. same height, same backpack. girl’s got rizz, tbh @bratbutgoth the thrift store girl??? oh, she’s deep in the Wayne drama now lmaoo

@vigilantytea mel wayne riding on the back of someone’s bike?? no bodyguards? no limo?? did she get disowned or is this the start of her villain arc 💀 📍Gotham U District | 🕒 6:57 PM

@waynewatchdog 🚨SPOTTED: Melissa Wayne seen cozy with a mystery student—caught riding two-up on a rusty bicycle in the East End. Is Gotham’s quietest Wayne heir finally rebelling? Or is this her way of going “normal girl”? Developing story. 👀 📍East End, Gotham | 🕒 7:12 PM

@sunlesssundays she’s not a mystery, I literally saw them together in Old Gotham like weeks ago @bootlegoracle same girl from that viral pic outside ThriftHaus on 9th. band sweatshirt, cat socks, huge bi energy. I remember things @bluelightgotham maybe she’s just a friend??? maybe mel wayne has friends like the rest of us and they thrift together. calm down, internet @n0tjackryder nahhhh no one thrifts in tandem unless it’s serious

@notbatmanirl bike kid got mel wayne smiling? either this girl’s a genius or Gotham’s about to burn down again. 📍St. Aubyn’s Overpass | 🕒 6:55 PM

@stainedglassx not her being the same girl from the thrift store pics 😭😭 i knew she was gonna be important @voidcandy this girl better get hazard pay. I’d evaporate under that much Wayne-family attention @gotham4thegirls melissa wayne and her thrift-core goth gf giving romcom energy while unknowingly walking into danger?? sign me UP

@gothamtabloid Melissa Wayne ditches her driver for a late-night bike ride with a mystery companion. Young love… or something darker? 👀🖤🚲 📍Broadcasted from Gotham Heights Newsroom | 🕒 7:40 PM

@cheesyfriesonmain someone tell me why mel wayne looked like she was clinging to that girl on the bike like her life depended on it. was that a date or a hostage situation? 📍Corner of 5th and Monroe | 🕒 6:51 PM

@roguechronicles Y’all really sleeping on the fact that the girl biking Melissa Wayne through Gotham was smiling. Like ma’am, do you know what city you’re in?? 🧍‍♀️ 📍Old Gotham Strip (near the border of Crime Alley) | 🕒 7:01 PM

@whoisontheguestlist Okay but… who is the girl with Melissa Wayne? New intern at Wayne Enterprises? Daughter of a rival family? Or just a cute nobody doomed to get caught in a mess? 📍Posted from Gotham City Center | 🕒 7:35 PM

A/N: This kinda felt like a nothing burger. I didn't really continue the story. anyway, hope you liked Damian's pov.

#yandere #yandere blog #yandere core #yandere batfam #yandere batfam x reader #yandere batfamily #yandere batfamily x reader #yandere x reader #yandere oc x reader #yandere oc #original character #platonic yandere #familial yandere #romantic yandere #switched at birth au #just let me ramble

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tovibeornottovibe · 21 days ago

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Don't Be Daft, You Practically Live Here - Part 1

Azriel x Fem!OC (Merrin)

Azriel and Merrin have been together almost one whole year now, all without his family knowing she existed. After he comes back from a mission and spends the day with her, he realises that it might not be so bad for them to meet after all. So, what better time to introduce her than Starfall? [7.9k words]

warnings: tooth-rooting fluff (domestic bliss, cats, confessions of love etc.), mentions of sex (no smut... yet?), swearing, az being a lil cutie pie

Part 2 | Part 3

Prefer to read on Ao3?

For three weeks, Azriel had been away. Rhys had sent him to the continent to probe into Vallahan’s affairs, to watch who thought what and why. It wouldn’t be enough to break them apart if they decided to be difficult, but his spies could sow the seeds of doubt. From what Azriel had learnt, he would say they’d all enjoy seeing them rip each other to pieces. That would be no less than what they’d deserve.

As soon as he returned to Velaris in the dead of night, he went to the River House. Rhys and Feyre were still awake, though his nephew was asleep, for once. He’d almost felt bad for interrupting them, but he had other priorities tonight. He debriefed them with everything he’d found out, as matter-of-factly as he could get just to make it quicker. They thought he was being odd, he could tell, Feyre had that concerned look she reserved only for him when she was worried about him, and Rhys… he hid it better, but he was just the same. Maybe they’d chalk it up to him being tired and leave him be. Or maybe he’d get Cassian kicking down his door in the morning so he could beat some conversation out of him.

Not that he’d be spending his night in his room in the House of Wind, of course.

It had been a horrible job. Over the years, he’d seen and done a great many terrible things, to the point where very little bothered him anymore. Vallahan was a different beast. The day they signed the treaty was the day he breathed easy, knowing he wouldn’t need to return there. Else, if they marched against his Court, he’d enjoy removing specific parts from specific people.

But for now, he wanted none of that, because it had been three weeks, and for that time he’d thought of almost nothing but Merrin. So, he didn't even bother to make it look like he was going to the House of Wind, nor the townhouse. No, he flew along the Sidra, making for a four-storey house just shy of the Palace of Bone and Salt, where the rooftop terrace was littered with plants, and the little, three-room, top-floor apartment was hers.

He landed almost silently on the terrace and went to the glass doors that he knew she’d open wide in the morning to let the sun in. Most of the time, she left them unlocked for him, but she’d known he was out of the city for a while. It hardly mattered; she’d given him a key not so long ago. He said no when she offered it to him at first because—well, it felt wrong that she should let him have unlimited access to something so private. He very much understood the irony. Then she’d pressed the key into his hand, rolled her eyes, and smiled. “Don’t be daft,” she’d said, “you practically live here.”

As usual, she was right.

This place was so undeniably Merrin’s. It had everything she needed and nothing more: the main room with a rack for shoes and hooks for coats by the door; a seating area with a comfy sofa and a warm rug where her cat had curled up into a ball of dark fluff; a yellow armchair by the window for her to tuck her legs under herself and read one of the many, many books which littered the walls in sage-green-painted bookshelves.

There was the kitchen in the same room, well-equipped with enough storage, a stone basin which she said reminded her of the cabin she stayed in on holidays in Summer and a dining table in front of the glass doors so she could bask in the sunset glow of the city and drink in the cool night breeze while she ate.

Then her bedroom, off in the corner of the apartment, with her absurdly huge bed for someone without wings and her masses of cushions and throws and the softest pillows he’d ever slept on in his life.

Somehow, even her bathroom was nice. She had an old bath that she’d cleaned and repaired, tasteful blue tiles, and niches in the walls covered in bathing products and plants she insisted liked the humidity.

And it was all hers.

Almost, he thought as he locked the terrace doors behind him and carefully placed his key on the end counter of her kitchen so as not to wake the cat with their jingling. Looking around, he saw the little pieces of him in there too.

The far end of the dining table that they never used was scattered with drafts that her clients needed her to edit but also, neatly stacked beside the mess she left behind while she worked, some reports he still needed to read. She kept his preferred blend of tea on the second to the top shelf in the cupboard above the sink. They’d moved her sofa slightly further away from the coffee table so he could sprawl out and stretch his wings while she got lost in a book in her armchair. He had a drawer in her dresser and a section of her wardrobe and she bought the soap he used and kept it with hers next to the bath.

Considering he barely kept anything of his own in his rooms in Rhys’ houses, to anyone who knew him, it would very much look like he did live here. He supposed that was true, in a way.

His shadows rushed through the darkened apartment to the bedroom, where Merrin was fast asleep. They knew better than to wake her by wrapping around her, though they desperately wanted to, so they dozed on the bed while he undressed and washed in the en suite. When he returned, he saw she’d pushed the covers off her slightly, and had shifted to face the window, where the moonlight was softly streaming through the curtains, away from his side of the bed.

His side of the bed. Since when had he decided he even had a side of her bed? But… he did. She slept on the right. He slept on the left. Had done since the first time.

It had been a stupid first meeting, hardly the stuff of romance stories or songs of great love affairs. He had been stupid. After everything with Elain and that Solstice and Rhys, he had been determined to spite his brother, to prove he could have anyone he wanted and that he had never needed to pay for it. So once or twice a week, every week, for months, he got as drunk as he could get, danced with a pretty female and whispered sweet nothings in her ear until she invited him to spend the night. He did everything she wanted him to and he was damn good at it. When she’d had her pleasure and he’d had his, he would leave without a word, go back to the House of Wind and wake up for training the morning after with a splitting headache.

He never slept with the same female twice and never stayed longer than he needed to. Never wanted to. It wouldn’t have been fair to her. He didn’t want her to expect something that he was never going to give. He just wanted sex. He wanted release, and he made that clear to whoever it was who wanted him.

Though that night, the night he met Merrin, he hadn’t been looking for someone to sleep with. He’d been itching for a fight. He’d wanted to hear the crunch of bones and for his knuckles to sting. There were easy ways to get that in Rita’s.

Drink. Watch. Dance with a female he knew had a partner at the bar. The female hadn’t minded, in fact, she’d been ready to pull him away somewhere more private. He had almost laughed at how predictable males were when he let her partner pull him off her and snarl in his face. Maybe it had been ill-advised to start a fight in Rita’s, but he had been past the point of caring. At least he’d felt something when he threw his fist at that male and cracked his jaw. The joke was on him, really. Who tries to start a fight with an Illyrian in a bar?

The worst of it was that he couldn’t even remember what that female had looked like, didn’t know the cadence of her voice or the colour of her hair. When he’d caught Merrin staring at him curiously from across the room, every thought had emptied from his head. Even as someone pulled him and the male apart, she was still watching while her friend chatted at her, and, for some reason, to this day he thought she’d been a fool for it, she wasn’t completely terrified. She should have been. He had been the very definition of someone you don’t approach in clubs that night.

Maybe she just had a thing for dangerous people. Or maybe she was drunk. Or both.

He decided, right there, as she kept looking at him while they threw the other male out for starting the fight (Azriel had the kind of privilege which made people think he was never in the wrong with this sort of thing), that she was going to be the one he was going home with that night.

And she was.

Sweet nothings and promises of what he’d do had done very little for her, or so she said. He had humoured her on that, since the both of them reeked of arousal anyway. Instead, she’d asked him questions. Innocuous ones to start. He’d escalated it just to see what she’d do. By the time she led him from Rita’s, they were just being obscene. Especially Merrin, especially when it came to his wings, which she didn’t get to touch for a while afterwards.

She had taken him to this very apartment, dragged him into bed, and for the first time in a long time, he went almost all night. Because she was the best he’d ever had and he wanted to know exactly how to make her whimper and gasp for him. That night, he’d broken one of his only two rules. He stayed wrapped up in her until the morning. She slept on the right. He slept, still aching and needy, on the left.

When they woke, she’d straddled him and had him again. He’d remember her smirk when he groaned her name for the rest of his life. He could have stayed there all day, raking his scarred hands which didn’t seem to bother her across her soft skin and pulling sounds from her throat that made him twitch. Frankly, he could have died very happily between her thighs and had no regrets.

But she’d kicked him out. Sometime in the late morning, she detangled herself from him, gathered the clothes that she’d torn off him and thrown to the floor, and chucked them at him while he was still coming down from his high. She cited meetings and work and I actually have a life which I need to do things for as her reasons, but he wouldn’t have argued with her if she hadn’t given him any reason at all. It was sort of sweet that she felt the need to say anything in the first place, and it was more than he’d ever given anyone.

He had definitely shown off when he left, taking the time to spread his wings to their full breadth before launching himself from the terrace, just so she could think about them some more. He got a kick out of the thought that they might distract her in her meetings later on. When he got back to the House of Wind, Cassian and Nesta had laughed at him and asked him if he’d had a good night with sly grins, but he’d given them a non-commital shrug because he was still thinking about her and he knew he was completely, royally fucked.

He was giddy like a green boy who just won his first fight, even his shadows were blissed out and calm, and he realised that for a good twelve hours he hadn’t thought about Elain. Not once.

He went to Rita’s again the week after and lied to himself about why. He told himself to find someone, anyone, and leave before he could consider whether Merrin was there too. But she was.

That night, he’d broken his second rule. He went home with her and stayed the night again. Cassian had called him a teenager the following day when they’d sparred and the marks she’d left on his back were on full display, even with his rapid Illyrian healing. He couldn’t find it in himself to feel embarrassed about it, and he wasn’t sure that was what his brother intended when he made the comment anyway.

The third time, she hadn’t given him chance to seek her out. Her friend, his shadows told him her name was Kessler, had already found company, so she’d dodged through the crowds to get to where he was leaning against the wall opposite the door and grabbed his hand before he even said hello.

“We’re getting dinner,” she’d told him with no room to deny her, though he never would have. So they ate in a little place where she knew the owner and they could get a private booth tucked away in the corner. He expected to feel exposed, but she’d read him so easily and taken him somewhere intimate and close. No one in there paid him or her any attention. Everyone else was off in their own little world and they left them to theirs.

The food was hearty and rich and the wine was good, made all the better by her twinkling eyes and soft laughter. He’d blushed when she’d interrupted herself and asked how he could be so gorgeous, then she called him cute for blushing and he blushed harder. By the end of the night, they had a deal to go somewhere of his choice the week after.

So, here he was, gently climbing into the bed next to her and shifting his weight so he didn’t jostle or wake her. He wrapped an arm around her waist and buried his head in her mousy brown hair, taking in the scent of fresh air and vanilla which surrounded her. But of course, she stirred, and his shadows took their opportunity to greet her, wrapping in her hair and wiggling under her black bedshirt, an old one of his that she’d stolen and claimed as hers. Her hand found his and she drew circles on his scarred skin with the pad of her thumb.

“Sorry,” he muttered, pressing his lips to the back of her neck, “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“‘s okay,” she said, her voice raspy and quiet. She shuffled back until she was flush against his bare torso. “Missed you.”

He tangled their legs together as he held her. “I missed you too.”

“Good day?” she asked, but she was drifting back off to sleep. He could tell by the way her head dropped back against her pillow.

In minutes of being with her, the tension he’d had in his shoulders had loosened, and his headache was easing. Settling against her, he replied, “Better now I’m here.”

She let out a contented hum. “Charmer,” she teased, threading her fingers through his and pulling his arm tight against her. A shadow curled at his ear to tell him to sleep.

He draped a wing over the two of them, the other he stretched out behind him for comfort, though the wingtip hung off the edge of the bed. Her breathing went steady before he could reply; the sound of it gave him something to ground himself so he could rest. He let his eyelids droop, and he was out not long after.

A kiss at his jaw woke him up. Merrin had turned herself around in the night to face him and her hand had crept around to his back, where she stroked the space between his wings. The feel of it made him shudder. Gently, she was saying his name.

Three weeks without her. Without this. He didn’t know how he hadn’t gone mad.

“Az,” she said, her other hand tracing the lines of his tattoos which whirled around his bicep. He tightened his grip on her as a response. “Az,” she repeated, more urgently this time, so he cracked an eye open to find her looking up at him. “I have to pee.”

He sighed and released her, begrudgingly lifting his wing to let her out of their little cocoon. “‘Morning to you too,” he murmured against the pillow he planted his head against in her absence. He rolled onto his front, taking up the space she’d occupied, and stretched his wings until he felt a satisfying pop in the joints at their base. The sun was barely filtering through the curtains. It had to be early.

“‘Mornin’,” she laughed. Azriel trailed her as she rounded the bed, shamelessly enjoying the view. “Stop staring at my ass, Az,” she called playfully, disappearing into the bathroom. That’s not fair, he thought, she stares at my ass all the time.

He must have fallen back asleep for a while, since when he woke again, Merrin was nowhere to be found and the sunlight was streaming onto his face. His shadows hid themselves from it by diving under the sheets. Or, most of them did. A few came rushing through the door to tell him that Merrin was out on the terrace watering her plants and to whine that her cat batted at them when they went past.

Once again, he caught the scent of her clinging to the bedsheets, and he could imagine her waltzing around her terrace, humming some jaunty tune from Winter to herself, her honeyed brown eyes catching the morning sun.

…Fuck it, he thought. He’d already missed training.

Rhys, he said, pulling on the thread his brother had left in his head in case he needed to contact him. It was mid-morning. He probably wasn’t waking him up. For a moment, there was nothing, so Azriel tugged harder on that thread, and it jolted.

That one hurt, Azriel, came his brother’s voice, deep but a little breathless. He wondered if Nyx was still asleep. What is it?

I’m taking the day off. Shock came trickling down the thread, but it was quickly replaced by worry.

You—the last time you took a ‘day off’, you came back half-dead, Rhys said.

That was true, but he hadn’t really taken a day off. He had needed to go to Illyria for information, and he’d needed to do that without interference, but Rhys rarely let him go there without his brother or him. To not rouse his suspicions, he said he would take a rest day, and Rhys hadn’t questioned it. Probably because Feyre convinced him not to. He had gotten what he needed, which assuaged the guilt he’d felt about tricking them.

I’m actually taking the day off, this time, Azriel assured him.

You said that last time.

He huffed. Why did this have to be so difficult?

I was lying last time.

And you’re not this time?

No, he said, his mind wandering back to Merrin. Not this time.

He almost heard Rhys sigh. And what will you be doing on this day off of yours? he asked, voice laden with doubt.

A good question. What would he be doing? He needed to get up and get dressed. He’d go to the terrace and Merrin would tease him for getting up so late, but she’d actually be pleased that he slept for so long. They’d go to that cafe across the street for breakfast because he knew how terrible she was at getting enough food in. She’d have cinnamon swirls and coffee. He was undecided. Then she’d take him to the Palace of Bone and Salt and they’d plan dinner. It would probably be mid-afternoon by the time they got back. They’d lounge around not doing much and enjoy each other’s company until one of them caved and climbed on top of the other or it was time to eat. All of that interspersed with him kissing Merrin an awful lot, to make up for the weeks they’d gone without each other.

I’ll be in the city, was what he settled on.

Doing what? Rhys persisted.

Anything I want, he said, that’s the point of a day off.

Azriel’s shadows began to swirl. Rhys didn’t believe him, that he knew, and he almost considered just blurting the truth that he was spending the whole day with Merrin. But Rhys had never met Merrin, he didn’t even know she existed. None of his family did. Not because he was embarrassed or ashamed or anything like that, he never could be when it came to her, but because he wasn’t ready. Well, he didn’t think he was ready to introduce that part of him to her. Yet.

She knew what he did, his job, and she knew some of the things he had done to get it, some of the things he wasn’t proud of and would rather forget. She knew those things because he wanted her to understand what she was getting into, being with him. He’d been so caught up in what he thought about himself, in the idea that he could never have someone like her because she deserved better than him. When he’d told her that, she had said that she wanted all of him. All the good bits. All the horrible bits. She told him that if he didn’t believe he was worthy of her, she’d believe enough for the both of them until he did.

So maybe it was foolish to keep his family from her. They’d love her, it was difficult not to, and she’d take it all in her stride. But his life wasn’t quiet like the one she led. And the moment anyone from another Court found out that she was with him and involved with the Inner Circle, she’d have a target on her back. Always. After all the shit she’d gone through to get to Velaris, to build this life for herself, the idea that it might be taken away from her because of him terrified him.

The thought that someone might take her away terrified him.

With hesitance coming at him in waves from his brother, Azriel said, I promise you. I really am just going to do nothing.

Would it make it easier for Rhys to trust him if he just said he was spending the day with a friend? Oh, the word tasted like ash in his mouth, sure, it was nowhere near strong enough to describe how he felt, but it would perhaps soothe his brother’s anxieties, and would invite far fewer questions than ‘I’m spending the day with my lover who I’ve been hiding from you all for a year and I’d like to be left alone with her for a while’ would.

Rhys’ response came half a second later. If we have to drag you to Madja’s at two in the morning again, I swear—

You won’t have to, he interrupted him. He hadn’t expected Rhys to be so against it, though, he supposed it was rather unusual for him. Then again, being with Merrin had made him do lots of strange things, like whatever had possessed him to let her put eyeliner on him that one time. He did have to admit, he looked damn good in eyeliner, just as she said he would…

Are you with someone right now, Az? Rhys’ voice, tinged with concern, dragged him from the memory of that very bizarre, very good night. You can just say if you have a hangover, you know.

Azriel scoffed out loud. I just got back, he said, You think I went on a bender last night, of all nights?

Something inside him wanted to be annoyed that Rhys would assume he’d immediately gone back to drinking as soon as he was back, but he couldn’t blame him. He was guilty of using his supposed sleeping around as cover when he was spending time with Merrin.

I wasn’t judging, Rhys said. We’ve picked worse nights to go on benders.

Well, I didn’t. I just want a break, Rhys. He left the fact that what he really wanted was for this conversation to be over and to go attach himself to Merrin for a few hours unsaid.

For a long few moments, they were silent, though the thread between them pulsed, both with his restlessness to get this over with and with Rhys’ gentle prodding, as though he could feel out if he was lying from the River House.

Okay, he finally said, I was just making sure…

I know you were, Az said. I’m fine. In their bed, he was more than fine, actually. Tell Feyre I say hello. And tell Cassian I’ll come find him tomorrow. He owes me ten gold marks over the Grand Duchy’s real hair colour.

Fondness tickled down the thread. I will. See you soon.

See you, he said, and the thread flickered until it went back to being dormant in the back of his mind.

A heavy, but relieved, sigh fell from his lips, and his shadows swiped across his skin as if to congratulate him on a successful negotiation. Then they hissed, hiding between his wings as gentle padding sounded through the room. Something jumped onto the bed, and a second later, a soft, furry head butted against his cheek with a purr. He freed his hand from the covers to fuss it, scratching under its chin, which had her cat pushing into his hand.

“Hello, Raskal,” he muttered quietly, all the while his shadows seethed at the attention he was diverting from them. “Did you miss me?”

As though he could understand, Raskal chirped contentedly at him and tried to curl up on Merrin’s pillow. Azriel caught him and pushed himself up, depositing the cat down by the side of the bed.

“You know you’re not allowed on the pillows,” he chastised, while the cat looked up at him as though he’d personally insulted him. “We don’t want to breathe in your hair while we sleep.”

Raskal stalked off hurriedly and Azriel had to restrain his shadows before they lashed out and attacked him while his guard was down. The relationship between his shadows and her cat had never been civil, but they seemed particularly antagonistic with each other today. Maybe they’d preferred the separation while he’d been away.

Leaving the warmth of the bed was difficult, and he might have sat with his legs swung over the edge, swaddled in the sheets to retain some of the heat before he braved the bathroom, for a little while, but he managed it. When he reemerged, there was melodic humming wafting in through the bedroom door. An old tune from the Winter Court about a snow fox which tricks a bear out of food. He knew the lyrics off-by-heart; it was one of the first songs she had taught him.

He leant against the doorway, arms crossed, a small smile on his face, indulging himself in the sight of her flitting about the room, watering the indoor plants on the windowsills. Once, he’d asked her why she had such a fascination with greenery. She’d given him a soft, slightly sad, look and said, “You can’t grow much of a garden in Winter. I was always jealous of our neighbour’s greenhouse, and when I was little, I promised myself that when I got older I’d have one too one day.” Then she’d laughed, “This is as good as I can get in this city! ”

“Are you going to stand there all day, hun?”

Jolting from the memory, he blushed a little at being caught staring. She stood in the middle of her living room, a hand on her hip, and unabashedly took in how he looked in just his underwear as though she’d never seen him in anything less.

Merrin, on the other hand, was attempting to kill him with what she was wearing. A sundress, green, floral, cut at her mid-thigh with a square neck. Cinched in at the waist. Very slightly hugging her hips. Straps for sleeves which left the toned muscle of her arms on display…

“Are you going to ogle me the whole time?” he teased, pushing himself off the doorframe and making his way towards her.

It felt so natural; they slotted together perfectly, his hands snaked around her waist and her arms around his neck. This felt right. Leaning down just enough to give a chaste kiss to her lips while he drew his wings around her just so. A gentle tug of a smile appearing. Her fingers threading through the downy hair at the back of his neck, sending shivering pleasure straight down his spine, so good he was almost keening.

“Only because you want me to ogle you,” she said, rolling her eyes. “And because you’re allergic to clothes.”

He shrugged, pecking her on the lips again. Even with the slightest of touches, she melted into him. Gods, she was divine. Even his shadows knew it. They danced around the two of them, whispering excitedly at their reunion.

“Not allergic, I just prefer to be without unnecessary barriers.” With a sweep of his hand at her back, which her sundress had left bare (there was only a tie at the back which kept it up), he made his point.

She hummed a laugh.

“I have a day off,” he said.

Delighted surprise came across her face. “My favourite words: ‘day off.’ In that case… If you keep fiddling with that—” he had indeed begun to pull at the tie of the dress, “—my dress will fall off.”

“What a nightmare,” he deadpanned, his voice lower than he had intended it to be, with no complaints from Merrin, of course. “However will we cope?”

“Later,” she purred, pressing a kiss to the underside of his jaw, the exact wrong place to get him to back off. Which she knew. “We need to eat. I’m thinking pastries. Actually, I’ve been craving them since I’ve been wasting away while you’ve been lounging around all morning.”

Still playing with her dress, though not actively trying to undo it, he said, “You could have woken me up.”

“Never, you need your beauty sleep.”

“Oh?” he laughed. “Am I not pretty enough for you?”

“Shut up,” she said, flicking him in the back of the head, making him yelp slightly. “You know you’re pretty.”

He grinned. “I might need to be reminded.” Another flick. He sucked in a breath with bright eyes. “You’re so violent.”

“You drive me to crime, Az. What would your law-making brother say?"

“‘Hit him harder.’”

She tutted, taking her hands and planting them firmly on his chest. With another kiss, this one a little longer, a little more fiery, she pushed him off her, and laughed at his scandalised expression. “Go put some clothes on,” she said, “I’ll be here, just waiting, because you take forever, gods know what you do in there—”

“Okay, okay,” he said, throwing his hands up in surrender. “I’ll be quick.”

It was midday by the time they stepped out onto the street, already bathed in glorious Springtime sunshine, with their hands intertwined. Such a simple thing, to hold her hand, but he got high off the feeling every time. Never had she flinched away from his hands, or any of the other scars that littered his body. In fact, one evening, she’d traced them one by one, and he told her some of the ways he’d gained them. No matter how gruesome the tale, it was never pity she gave him. Just love. She had a few scars of her own. He offered her the same.

It had taken some getting used to, having someone so… unbothered. Merrin didn’t ignore his scars, or his shadows, or his, more occasional these days, moments of broodiness. She simply accepted them, without judgement, and without fear. That had been hard to swallow too. She didn’t think him a monster, even after some of what he had told her. He wasn’t sure he could feel the same way about himself, but with her encouragement, he was trying.

She squeezed his hand and brought him back from his thoughts as they made their way to that cafe. They gained curious, but friendly, looks from passersby. There was not a single one who didn’t recognise him. A few, locals mainly, looked at the both of them tenderly, but especially at Merrin. Sure, he had their gratitude, but the people of Velaris did not love him like they did Feyre or Rhys. He didn’t need them to, didn’t want them to.

Merrin, however, had garnered the warmth of her neighbours just by being herself. She read to their children at the library and offered to cook for older fae who found themselves lacking the energy and paid a coffee forward for someone without the means every time she ordered. And she didn’t do those things because she wanted to be recognised for them, it just never occurred to her not to. Yet another thing to add to the list of things he loved about her.

They sequestered themselves in their usual corner of the veranda of the cafe, perfect for people watching and for privacy, though no one ever bothered them. No one ever talked about them in any way other than ‘oh, aren’t they such a nice couple?' Azriel knew this, he had checked. For a while, he’d been paranoid about people seeing them together, about putting her in danger, but no one blabbed about them, and for that, he was grateful. He’d realised that the people who lived here, in this quiet part of the city, were quite fiercely protective of each other’s business. If they gossiped, it was only amongst themselves.

“Az,” she sing-songed, drawing out his name tunefully. He blinked. She frowned. “Are you alright? You seem a little… distracted.”

He leant back in his chair (the one that, once the owner had discovered that he was the mysterious stranger who was with ‘our Merrin’, had been swapped out for one which could accommodate his wings). How could he explain to her everything he was thinking? All his undecipherable emotions?

“Hey,” she said softly, reaching for his hand, which he happily let her grab. “It’s just me. Tell me what’s up.”

At that moment, just as he opened his mouth, their order arrived, delivered by a bubbly waiter who Merrin knew casually through a friend. They chatted, Merrin being too polite to give him short answers to make him go away, but he did, eventually, having left her cinnamon swirls and his chocolate-filled cornetti, a coffee with frothed milk and sugar for her, and a black, bitter coffee for him. With a worried look, she knocked his leg under the table, ignoring the food altogether.

“I just…” he trailed off. How to say it…

He blurted the only thing he could think of.

“I’m in love with you.”

She quirked her brow, an incredulous look on her face, then chuckled. “Well yes, I should hope so. I love you too, you know that.”

Of course he knew that. Everyday they were together, they told each other. Every little thing she did for him, with him, she did with love. He was past the point of doubting her. But that wasn’t really what he was getting at.

“I mean,” he said, struggling to think of a better way to put it, “I’m in love with you.”

A pause. “You’re going to have to elaborate, hun.”

Now, he was really wishing he’d taken Cassian’s advice and actually read some poetry. How in the world could he put it to make her understand?

“I don’t—it’s… difficult to explain.” He gave her a pleading look, as if to beg her not to make him keep talking.

But, as ever, she was unyieldingly stubborn. Taking a sip of her coffee, she said, “We aren’t in a rush.” Hastily, she added, “But you don’t have to say, of course, I’m just— intrigued. I never really thought there was a difference between loving someone and being in love with them.”

There was. Azriel just couldn’t articulate it to her. It was like choosing between standing by a fire for heat and wrapping yourself in a blanket with a mug of tea. Functionally the same, yet entirely different.

“But I suppose there is,” she continued, getting that contemplative look on her face, like when she read something she couldn’t quite wrap her head around. “Loving can be surface-level, like how you love a book, or the way the Sidra looks on Starfall. It’s love, but it’s not always deep, not always in here.” She tapped her chest right where her heart was. “But being in love, that’s like… you can feel it, in every part of you, head to your toes. Like it’s a part of you.”

He smiled gently. “You get it,” he said. Of course she did. It was Merrin.

“Then—I’m in love with you too, Az,” she said quietly, her eyes twinkling. “Now we better eat, the coffee’s going cold.”

So they did, their conversation lightening as they picked apart their pastries and drained their coffee cups. They wandered from person to person: she told him how Kessler was writing her tenth book in a fantasy series before the eighth had even been published; he spilled details on Amren and Varian (Amren, for whatever reason, fascinated her) and their escapade at the Autumn equinox—he was not above petty rumours, after all, they made up half his job. She ordered more coffee, which he teased her for (“You’ll be bouncing off the walls when we get home.” ), and he inappropriately used his shadows to eavesdrop on a couple who had caught her attention as they walked by. Ex-lovers rekindling their affair, both married, he divulged, while she emphatically gasped.

As he predicted, the Palace of Bone and Salt was their next stop. He was happy to indulge her dragging him around every stall, talking with every seller, some of whom offered them free samples as a show of thanks to him, which made him feel incredibly awkward. Merrin liked them, and told him to enjoy the benefits of being someone important.

“Lots of people are important,” he said. “They just don’t get people offering them their livelihoods.”

“A sliver of pecorino won’t pay their rent, Az. Take the damn cheese,” she said, then, a finger to her chin, “actually, I need cheese. We should go back.”

Bags loaded with goods (he sneakily bought oranges while Merrin wasn’t looking, because they were her favourite and she never got them in, "Too expensive," she said), they chatted idly on their way back to her apartment. Her sports team had beaten his in the third round of the championship just the week prior, so she gloated until he pulled his "but my team have won the most trophies overall so who’s losing in the grand scheme of things, Merrin? " card, which never failed to get her spitting, "The last time you won was sixty years ago, Az! Six-oh!" Another thing they had in common: an unrelenting competitive streak. She’d actually shoved him into the Sidra once because they were arguing about the best draughts opener. "Accidentally," she insisted. He shook water at her in revenge.

He was suddenly struck by the thought that Cassian and Rhys would laugh their asses off if they saw that happen. They’d probably buy her a drink or two… Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to introduce her to them.

Actually, he could spare himself the agony of having another person to taunt him. Combining their strength would be an awful idea, now that he thought of it.

Raskal sniffed curiously at the shopping bags before his shadows chased him from the kitchen table and out onto the terrace. He meowed indignantly when they attempted to shut the door on him, but Az pulled them back with such conviction they apologised to him. He told them they should be saying sorry to the cat instead.

Merrin swatted at him when he revealed the oranges from his pockets with a grin, and laughed when his shadows dropped three more in the fruit bowl. While he unpacked the rest of the food, she pared the skin off two of them and cut off the pith. They shared the slices at the table.

“Are you partying hard in the House of Wind for Starfall?”

“Of course. All the civil servants and regional advisors will be getting progressively more drunk and I will be sipping wine watching everyone else fall over themselves,” he said.

“How sophisticated,” she smirked. “I’ll be sure to send an anonymous gift. If I address it to you and sign it with kisses at the end, will your family freak?”

“Yes, please don’t give them more ammunition to tease me. They have five-hundred-years of it.” A smile grew on her lips. “Don’t you dare, Merrin,” he warned.

“You can’t stop me now,” she laughed.

Seeing there was only one orange slice left, he split it in half carefully, managing to keep the spray of juice contained, and handed a piece to her. “I can,” he said, still chewing, “I will invite you so they can bombard you with questions while I laugh at you.”

“‘Joke’s on you, hun, you’re just letting me network at that point.”

He snorted. “You network every other week.”

“I could always do with more useful people to know.”

An idea bloomed in his head. Ill-formed, possibly. But a good one? Hopefully. Today had made him realise, he could introduce her to everyone. It would be awkward, he would hate it more than she would, but… he’d been out in the open with her today, and it had felt so normal that he hadn’t even considered checking if any of the Inner Circle were in the city too. He found himself not caring if they had been.

The threat it posed still frightened him. He’d have to explain to her what it would mean for people to know they were together outside of Velaris (because it would get out, politicians talked, a lot). But he could protect her. It wasn’t arrogance to admit it. No one would be stupid enough to touch her.

Besides, she could take care of herself, and had been doing that for a very long time before they met.

“Then, come to the House of Wind for Starfall,” he said seriously. “Not for networking,” he added quickly, “for me.”

She stilled.

“Are you joking?”

“No.”

“...Can you just invite me?” She snapped her fingers. “Like that?”

A raised brow told her that yes, of course he could.

“Isn’t it supposed to be for, you know, important, political people who all do jobs with fancy titles and—?”

“Merrin,” he said, cutting her off before she could spiral. “You are important. To me, at the very least. And we do invite people we like too. Makes for a better afterparty.”

For a moment, she considered him.

“And how will you be introducing me?” she asked quietly.

“Partner, lover, girlfriend, love of my life, most gorgeous female alive… take your pick,” he said, the latter earning him an eye roll with a very small twitch of the lips, which he took as a victory.

“All of them?” A tentative question.

“Fine. All of them,” he said.

Her voice still small and raw with emotion, she said, a soft smile brightening her face, “Then I’m afraid we’re going dress shopping. I don’t own anything nearly nice enough.”

Lie. He could think of three dresses in her wardrobe that would work, including the green velvet one that had made him lose his mind one night before she went to a gathering for the publishing house. He’d almost, almost, convinced her to stay home and spend the night with him instead.

Better not wear it for Starfall, then, he thought. He wouldn’t make it through the night decently.

He hummed in agreement. “Don’t invite Kessler—”

Merrin scoffed. “Gods, no. I love her to bits but her fashion sense...” She gave a theatrical shudder.

Azriel couldn’t help but agree. He and Kessler had met by accident, once, (though, he kept tabs on her just in case. Just doing his job!) and he liked her very much, not just because she was a good friend to Merrin but because she was totally, unapologetically herself. If Kessler liked him back, Merrin had never told him, however, it was likely he would know if she didn’t. Kessler was like that. She and Nesta would either get on well or level a building when they clashed.

“She’s going home for Starfall anyway,” Merrin said. “Her brother insisted this year.”

“Any news from your brother?” he asked. Occasionally, he sent a shadow or two to the Summer Court to check on her brother, usually at her request when she hadn’t heard from him in a while. The male was always swamped with work. Unsurprising that he so rarely answered personal letters. Tarquin really did run him ragged.

Wrong thing to ask, it seemed. She grumbled, “He’s still uppity about the Solstice.” Right. Her brother went back home to the Winter Court for it. Merrin did not. “I haven’t been back for decades. I don’t know why it’s only just started bothering him. At least he’s making headway, he was all too eager to gloat about the new ‘Egality’ laws he helped draft. I mean, great. I’m glad. But, gods, is he smug about it. I can actually feel it coming off the page from him.”

She’d shown him some of her brother’s letters to her. The smugness was not new, but no less annoying to read. A part of him was glad they’d never met. After some of the stories she’d told him, he started to understand why Rhys felt so strongly about Nesta.

“Let’s not talk about him,” she said. “Gives me a headache even thinking about it. How are your brothers?”

“Well, I think. I saw Rhys last night. Nyx is keeping him and Feyre up all night, though. And Cassian—” he shrugged, “—when I left Nesta had told him to sleep in the townhouse. He must be back up in the House by now.”

Merrin gaped at him. “Did you not go see him when you got back?”

“No,” he said. “I came straight here.”

“Az!” she admonished him, shaking her head. “Priorities!”

“He can go another day without me. He’s a fully-grown male, most of the time.”

“Well, I’m telling him you called him a child when I meet him.”

The certainty she had said that with made him smile. Starfall with Merrin; the first one they would spend together, where she would tease him with Cassian and blush around Feyre and pepper Amren with questions and… maybe he was ready after all.

a/n: want a taglist for this one? let me know! also, this was the first fic i wrote for Merrin and Az, so it's technically their origin story (even if Club Rats comes before it chronologically. the shirt Merrin wears in this is the one she steals in that fic hehe)

#azriel #azriel x oc #azriel acotar #azriel fanfic #azriel fic #azriel shadowsinger #azriel x reader #azriel x you #azriel fluff #azriel in looooove

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catcherwrites · 1 month ago

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The people voted for Corvus and Soren to be the next of my Arc 3 redesigns, and so it was done! I apologise for taking so long, things irl have picked up so I didn’t have as much time to spend on our guys.

Check out the more in-depth story and design choices below

Corvus

Story Choices

Following the events of Arc 2, Corvus, Soren, and Terry travelled with Pyrrah to find King Harrow but were unsuccessful for several months. Returning to Evrkynd empty-handed, King Ezran and Queen Amaya summoned Corvus, informing him that Amaya was stepping down as General of the Standing Battalion and wanted to name Corvus as her replacement. He was deeply honoured to be trusted with the responsibility and accepted the position, believing that he’d still have enough freedom to spend time how he wished. Unfortunately, it wasn’t that simple, and while Terry continued the search for Harrow with his new ally (who I’m keeping secret for now), and Soren returned to his Head Crownguard duties, Corvus was thrown into the proverbial deep end. Stuck coordinating recruitment and training, patrolling the borders, and going on aid missions, Corvus could only return to Katolis once a month for a few days. And while the distance had left his relationship with Soren…awkward, the Crownguard’s schedule was always suspiciously free during his visits (“Well, I have nothing on right now, so I guess we can go for that hike…”).

Design Choices

Designing Corvus was a fun challenge! I tried to communicate his promotion in the Standing Battalion without making him completely unrecognisable. However, because his Arc 1 and 2 designs outfits look like he cobbled together the most practical pieces of armour, they lack the cohesiveness one would expect from a leader – which meant I had to depart from his usual style. To bridge the gap between Tracker-Corvus, Crownguard-Corvus, and General-Corvus, I decided to take inspiration from his initial concept art and blended that with elements of the Standing Battalion uniform and Corvus’ old designs. His scarf, of course, had to stay – but you may notice it’s been stitched up, a strip of the scarf being a gift from Corvus to Soren before he left the Crownguard.

Soren

Story Choices

Soren’s been through quite a lot in Arc 2, dealing with the reopening, mending, and re-reopening of old wounds. He, Terry, and Corvus were sent to look for Harrow, but after a few months, they returned to Katolis defeated. When Corvus privately confessed he’d been transferred back to the Standing Battalion, Soren was happy and supported him through the adjustment period. Though Soren can’t quite explain why, he grew more bitter as the years went by – though he’s done very well to not show it. During the daytime, Soren trained King Ezran in swordplay, improved his poetry, and did his best to keep everyone safe and happy. In the dead of night, however, Soren would slip through the city streets and secretly meet the spies he’d sent to look for Claudia. No one else was allowed to know he was seeking her out alone, not until Soren himself could decide what he would do with Claudia when she was found.

Design Choices

It wasn’t easy to develop an Arc 3 design for Soren! His silhouette was fine, but I went through about 5-6 different colour schemes and 3-4 different cape designs, and I spent so long toggling layers to see which combination worked best. Soren’s armour is a blend of Arcs, but the cape design has completely changed to reflect his elevated rank. His hair is longer and tied back with braided cloth from both Corvus’ scarf and Soren’s cape, and he’s clean-shaven again. I wanted to show that while he’s matured a lot – Soren’s regressed a little since S7. Post-Arc 1 and post-Arc 2 share a lot of similar traumas (Viren dying, Claudia escaping) – but this time, he lacked the same support system. On a more upbeat note, that scar across his face? Hat had grown too big for Soren’s head and dug in to avoid falling. Now Soren only lets Hat rest up there when he has the downtime for it.

#i was so damn proud of myself when i came up with the idea of corvus being the general of the standing battalion #it felt like the culmination of his journey from lone tracker to team player in the crownguard #part of me is still iffy about soren’s colour scheme but i SWEAR i did my best ok??#btw rayla helped soren braid his hair tie #the dragon prince #tdp fanart #tdp arc 3 #arc 3 speculation #tdp soren #tdp corvus #sorvus #catcher writes (draws!)#continue the saga #give us the saga #greenlight arc 3 #i have thoughts about clean-shaven arc 3 soren #if you want to hear my reasoning i’m happy to add an addendum to this post #i was just brutally aware this is a ‘brief’ explanation of design choices

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jjkamochoso · 3 months ago

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💌Valentine’s Day 2025 Event💘

Event masterlist

🦢 with Feitan for @killuagirly

The pond you were admiring was surprisingly quiet for the amount of hustle and bustle happening in the city streets behind you. The fluffy clouds overhead casted shadows of all shapes onto the glistening blue water. You sighed, resting your hand in your chin as you leaned against the small railing separating the park pathway from the green reeds in front of you. You never had peaceful days like this and it was bittersweet to remember that you were enjoying this one all alone.

Especially on Valentine’s Day.

A pair of swans swam lazily together and you tried to not take their actions as a mockery of your singleness. Checking the time, you realized you should be heading back to meet up with the Troupe. Taking one last glance at the pond, you turned away. To your surprise, you spied a familiar black blob standing eerily in the bushes next to you.

“Feitan, you scared me,” you said, holding your hand to your chest. Feitan emerged, silently eyeing you.

“What are you doing here? I thought you stayed back with Phinks?” you wondered.

Feitan’s attention moved from you to the pond. “You watch birds, so do I.” He looked back at you. “Boring.”

You scoffed. “I’m so happy to know my hobby is snooze worthy to you.”

He tilted his head. “Why you out here?”

“I don’t know,” you confessed, irritated. “I just thought that today I might… every year, I wish that I have someone to…” You took a breath. “You’re right, I’m wasting my time watching these stupid birds, alone, on yet another Valentine’s Day-”

“You not alone,” he interjected, earning an eye roll from you.

“Yeah right. I’m embarrassing myself by being jealous of dumb swans on the most romantic day of the year.”

Feitan grasped your hand aggressively, his dark gray eyes peering into your own as he desperately tried to convey how his words were meant to reach deep into your very soul. “You. Not. Alone. Not this year. Never again.”

#Valentine’s Day event #feitan portor x reader #feitan porter x reader #feitan x you #feitan fluff #feitan x reader fluff #feitan x reader #feitan portor fluff #feitan portor x reader fluff #phantom troupe x reader fluff #phantom troupe x reader #hxh x y/n #hxh x reader fluff #hxh x reader #hxh x you

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wolfish-trickster · 8 months ago

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Imagine part 2

@taronyuhunter @myendlesslyunexistinglove

It's been some time since you were kidnapped. No explanation reached your ears since. But they didn't treat you badly. No, no, they were kind to you.

During the night Sylus, as you've learned, has been keeping you company. Showing you around the dark dangerous city. Denizens couldn't touch you, but you could reach out to them. Not that it mattered. They walked around the streets like living corpses. Aimless. Slow. Sylus gave you a free hand to do as you pleased. You tried talking to them, asking them where you are and what you were doing here. They only stared at you with eyes resembling porcelain doll's. The nature around was strange too. No animals, safe for the crow that spied on you back in your home, but even that was mechanical. The flowers were wilted and colorless, as if they haven't seen the light in ages nor tasted the water. Didn't matter how much you watered them under amused Sylus' watch, they remained wilted.

During the day, which didn't look that different from the night, the twins kept you company. Their personalities were a huge contrast to both your capter and the citizens. They were jovial, funny, adventure loving, a bit mischievious too. But despite their fun loving nature they kept their masked mouths shut whenever you begged for explanation.

At least they don't mistreat me, you thought whenever you longed for home. You started to wonder what are your friends doing back there. What is Rafayel doing? Did he confess to that girl yet?

The thought of everyone else being happy and you being trapped here brouch tears to your eyes. It was so unfair. Why you? You were nothing special. What could these people gain by having you here?

knock knock

"Can I come in?"

You smiled. "Sure."

Sylus entered your room. Even though he gave you freedom to go wherever you pleased you liked his mansion the most. It was cozy, safe, home-like. Better than the undead city out there.

"What happened?" he asked after noticing your wet cheeks.

"Oh," you wiped them, "nothing. Just..."

By the look on his face he already knew. It was a routine by now. You were content for couple of days, but routinely once a week a sudden wave of depression came over you. You would ask him why he kidnapped you, he would tell you he can't tell you yet. Then you would ask if you could go home. He would tell you not yet. Then after either silence or a crying session from you he'd up and leave for the rest of the night. It has always been like this.

But not tonight.

"I've brought you something," he breaks the silence. Only then did you notice one of his hands behind his back. A gesture unknown for him.

"What is it?" a trinket to keep you busy?

He pulled out his hand from behind his back revealing hia little gift for you. A book. "I've found this in the library."

"You mean the half ruin across the street?"

"It's just missing couple of walls. Easier access. Nevermind that. I've brought this for you. I can't explain you directly why all of this is happening, but hopefully you'll be smart enough to understand on your own," he pushed the book under your folded hands, his long fingers lingering on yours for couple of minutes. Then he vanished. As he always did.

You looked down on his gift, curiosity wiped out all depression. It was an old book, but not fragile. Covered with dark rough leather. Some of its yellow time tinted pages threatened to fall out. There was a single black feather functioning as a bookmark somewhere in the middle. Carefully as the old book and your shaky hands allowed you you opened the pages on the marked spot. You soon found out it wasn't a novela or one linear story. It was a collection of stories. Or myths. The feather marked the begining of a new story. In black ink with fancy lettering there was its name at the very top of the page.

Hades and Persephone.

Part 1

#sylus x reader #lads sylus #love and deepspace #love and deepspace sylus

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lena-in-a-red-dress · 1 year ago

Text

Blue and Fire Engine Red, Pt 6 (smexy times ahead)

To Kara’s surprise, steak dinner happens at Lena’s apartment. From how little Lena has shared so far, she’d expected to wait weeks or months to see where Lena lives. It’s not until she arrives that Kara realizes exactly why Lena is so willing to let Kara into her inner sanctum.

It’s completely void of personality.

Well, Kara allows, it could be that a lack of personality could be a personality in itself. And there are photos, but they all feature Lena and her crew. All smiling– all recent. Nothing to suggest Lena had a life before National City. She spies a punching bag in one corner, but the rest of the furniture is worn and basic, suggesting the place had come pre-furnished by a landlord who didn’t particularly care about aesthetics. It’s spartan and plain– forthright in a way that actually fits Lena. Still…

Kara wishes the space could have given her a better look at Lena’s inner life.

The kitchen, at least, is functional enough. Enough that Lena is able to season and sear her steaks to perfection, with some fresh asparagus sauteeing on a side burner. And she does it all with a smile, chatting with Kara as well as she had on the way home. A capable multitasker, Kara notes, though it’s less than surprising.

Lena seems incapable of being incapable at anything.

The meal is served up on non-descript plates– at least they’re ceramic and not paper, and Lena does lower the overhead lights to set the mood. Kara moans when the first bite of steak hits her tongue. Moist and savory and perfectly seasoned, it puts anything she herself could have made to shame. The asparagus is also perfectly softened without being mushy, retaining enough of its texture to allow for a bit of a crunch at the center.

“Are you sure the Army didn’t put you on the chow line? This is delicious!” Kara groans.

Lena smirks, taking a sip of her wine. “You think ‘chow’ tastes like this?” An arch eyebrow dispels that notion. “Nah. Not so much.”

“Well, wherever it comes from, color me amazed and impressed.”

Kara takes another large–too large– bite, and has to spend several quiet moments chewing her way through it. When she swallows– still too large– she tilts her head.

“Is there anything you’re not good at?”

Lena’s eyes warm with mirth, but takes a moment to consider.

“Jumping rope.” Lena shrugs. “I hate it. Can’t stand it.”

“But you can do it?”

Lena waves away the answer.

“Then it doesn’t count!”

Lena laughs. “Alright, alright… um. Okay. I can’t draw to save my life.”

It’s a surprisingly candid answer. “Really?”

Lena nods. “Any required art classes were passed on charm alone.”

Kara grins. Lena eyes her suspiciously.

“What?”

For a moment, they play a game of silent chicken as Kara waits for Lena to say the words, and Lean waits for Kara to confess what she already suspects. Finally, Lena caves.

“You’re an artist, aren’t you.”

Kara laughs, tickled by the suspicion at odds with the twinkle in Lena’s eye. “Maybe…” she draws out, unable to help the taunt. She relents when Lena’s eyebrow climbs dangerously close to her hairline. “Okay, fine. Yeah. I am. Kind of. At least, I was.”

“You were?”

“Not much opportunity to flex my brush skills on a cop’s schedule,” she deflects, unwilling to dull the mood with the somber reality. If Lena suspects the deeper reason, she gives no indication.

Instead, she tilts her head. “Well, I’d like to see some of your work, sometime.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Lena confirms. “If you’re willing to share, of course. No pressure.” She takes another sip of her wine. “I just know that anything you do would be amazing.”

Lena’s voice is low and throaty, and Kara senses the shift to a mood far more intimate than playful banter. “In that case, you would be right,” Kara confirms, leaning forward across the table. “Play your cards right, and I’ll prove it to you. Again.”

“Uh uh,” Lena returns, leaning to meet Kara midway across the table. She pecks a tantalizing kiss to Kara’s lips. “Tonight is my turn to go first.”

“Oooh,” Kara purrs. “I don’t mind the sound of that.”

She plays a light drumroll on Lena’s ass as she clears the dishes, which only receive a quick rinse before being forgotten in the sink. Lena’s attention turns to Kara, who feels the weight of her focus like a planar shift. The rest of the world ceases to exist, narrowing to the two of them alone.

They haven’t even reached the threshold of Lena’s bedroom before warm lips caress the skin of her neck. Her flesh prickles with goosebumps, a frisson of desire coursing through her. She wants this, and the flutter of nerves in her belly only heightens her anticipation. She’s never wanted anything– or anyone– as much as she wants this, wants Lena. She doesn’t know what Lena has in store for her, and doesn’t quite know how her body will react to her ministrations. If her current arousal is anything to go by, Kara suspects she might not survive what’s to come. And she’s perfectly fine with that.

Lena guides her with gentle hands to sit on the edge of the bed. For a moment, Kara thinks she’ll sit on her lap, like the last time on her couch. But instead, Lena lays her back, leaning over her with a muscled arm holding her up.

“Tell me what you want,” Lena murmurs between slow languid kisses. Kara whimpers into her mouth, making Lena’s lips curl in a smile against hers. “That’s not an answer, love.”

For a moment, Kara struggles to think, but Lena doesn’t relent in her ministrations. It takes long minutes of nearly losing herself in the sensations before she manages to conjure her wish.

“Let’s go slow.” she murmurs.

Lena pauses immediately, but Kara keeps her from pulling away by cupping her cheek. Lena gazes into her eyes, studying her to understand the meaning behind her words. Then, slowly, a low fire sparks deep in her gaze.

“How slow, exactly,” she asks, low and silky.

Kara lifts her chin to kiss her. “As slow as possible.”

Nodding her understanding, Lena runs a velvet touch up under Kara’s shirt; slow enough to count each and every rib. “And where would you like to start?”

Breath hitching when Lena hits a sensitive spot just under Kara’s breast, Kara tries to blink her way to at least partial coherency.

“Do you have a vibrator?” she gasps.

Lena nods, nuzzling Kara’s ear. “Excellent idea, darling.”

Finally, Kara releases herself to the experience. Lena takes her time with her, going deliciously slow as she raises Kara’s shirt by inches, kissing every exposed bit skin on her way. Not just kissing. Licking, nibbling, suckling. She lingers on Kara’s breasts, brushing her thumbs over pebbled nipples as she diverts back to Kara’s lips.

Slowly but surely, Kara’s skin heats with pleasure. But when her breath starts to quicken, Lena draws herself away. Without Lena’s body heat against her, chill air washes over her, making her groan. She squeezes her eyes shut in frustration.

“Now, now,” Lena tsks. “I want you to watch.”

Kara’s eyes fly open, and she props herself up on her elbows to watch as Lena unbuttons the fly of her jeans. Her fingers dip beneath her waistband, and Kara’s breath goes ragged in her chest. But just as smoothly as they slide under, they slip back out, and Lena shimmies out of her pants.

She kicks them aside as soon as she steps out of them, and Kara is left to ogle smooth, tones legs. Lena may not match Kara for height, but her legs are long and packed with muscle. Kara’s mouth goes dry.

“Jesus fucking christ,” Kara mutters.

Lena saunters closer, a satisfied smirk on her face. “Well, hopefully he won’t be the one fucking tonight.”

She tilts Kara’s chin up. Kara lets her mouth gape, just enough for Lena to see the invitation and take it. Her tongue slides over Kara’s, then curls languorously up and along the roof of Kara’s mouth. She sucks against Kara’s upper lip as she withdraws, and Kara lists after her when she sits back on Kara’s knees.

“Do you want to see more?” Lena croons.

Kara swallows thickly. “All of it,” she croaks. “I want to see all of you.”

Lena smiles, pleased with her response. She grips the hem of her shirt with her fingertips, and slowly begins to pull it up, up, up over her abdomen, her breasts, and finally her head. Dark hair flows through the neck opening, swishing around Lena’s bare shoulders. When Lena’s fingers move to her bra, all higher function vacates Kara’s brain. The little strip tease that follows sends bolts of arousal down through Kara’s core, pooling between her legs. Soon, only Lena’s underwear remains.

When Lena twists to deposit her bra on the pile with the rest of her abandoned clothing, Kara catches sight of a dark smudge on Lena’s ribs, but it flashes out of sight and out of mind when Lena turns her attention back to her.

Thankfully, Lena makes quicker work of Kara’s own pants. Soon Kara is completely and enthusiastically nude, and Kara notes that Lena makes no mention of how wet she is. Kara’s glad for it– she suspects it will be her default state whenever Lena’s eyes take on this sort of glint.

She jumps when the first rumble of the vibrator tickles the inside of her thigh. She inhales through her teeth, and is answered by a palm pressing flatly against her labia and clit.

“Easy,” Lena coaxes. Her lips still smirk though. “Don’t want you getting worked up too soon, do we?”

The even pressure on her groin eases some of the edge that had been building within her, and she manages to take a breath that relieves any more. Even so, she knows that once Lena gets to work with the vibrator, she would be hard pressed to draw this out as long as she hoped she could.

Lena isn’t one to disappoint. She plays Kara like a fiddle, taking her tantalizingly close to edge after edge, before drawing her back down again and again. Her technique is expert– the vibrator seems to trace patterns everywhere but her clit. Her labia, her bikini line, even the bottom edge of her belly. Sometimes, when Kara lingers too long on one edge, a warm tongue soothes her clit, dulling the hungry ache.

“Hanging in there?” Lena checks in once Kara stops squirming.

“Barely,” Kara gasps, panting.

“You are so hot,” Lena purrs. “You’re doing so good.”

That alone almost almost pitches Kara over the precipice. She curls her fingers into the sheets, gritting her teeth. “Soon,” she warns.

“Just say the word, baby. I’ll get you there.”

Lena starts again, taking her time tracing more patterns around her ultimate destination. Slowly, inevitably, the pressure building to unprecedented heights. Kara’s never been attended to like this, never been read so plainly, so intuitively. It’s as though Lena has already memorized her body, chasing every sensitive part of her with expert precision until even the ebb aches as deliciously as the flow.

When Lena brings the vibrator closer to her clit than she has so far, Kara cracks.

“Now!” she gasps.

The vibrator has hardly touched her clit when Kara hurtles over. She can’t help the cry that escapes her, loud and long and desperate. She’s never made a sound like this before. She doesn’t realize Lena hasn’t moved the vibrator before she’s tipping into a second orgasm, then a third. The last lingers for long, long seconds and only then do the vibrations cease.

The whine that Kara issues is inhuman to her own ears, but Lena only chuckles as she climbs up to check on her.

“Still conscious?”

Kara grunts plaintively, as her fingers slowly release the sheets.

“That was– whoah!”

Lena’s exclamation is swallowed by Kara’s mouth on hers, lunging for a kiss before full conscious thought has even returned. Lena melts into it, letting the kiss deepen and last until Kara is the one to break it.

“Amazing,” she finishes Lena’s sentence for her. “That was amazing. You’re amazing.”

Lena’s cheeks flush under the praise. “And you,” she returns, “are a glutton for punishment. You lasted longer than I thought you would. Much longer.” She licks Kara’s upper lip so sensually, it almost makes Kara ask for another round. Almost. “Good girl.”

Kara sighs. “I don’t know if I can return the favor,” she confesses. It kills her to say it, but she barely feel her toes. Lena laughs. “I’m sorry…”

“Please,” Lena dismisses, still laughing. “That’s possibly the greatest compliment I’ve ever gotten.”

Kara blinks. “Ever?”

“Ever,” Lena confirms. She smiles, her eyes warm and full of comfort as she gazes down at Kara. “How about an early night then?”

A sigh escapes Kara. “That sounds…”

“Amazing?” Lena teases.

“Yeah,” Kara confirms contentedly. “Amazing.”

#supercorp #blue and fire engine red #smexy times #Kara gets her turn #I hope you all like it #pls give me your thoughts #wanna make sure its worth continuing

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outofmydepthatapublicbeach · 1 year ago

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on the balcony- Julien Baker x fem!reader

summary: After a long leg on tour, you and Julien are talking at a small get-together with the band and all the crew. You find yourselves alone on a balcony, and something gets confessed.

jj chats: hiii everyone!! this is my first kind of real fic!! i really hope you all enjoy it!! my requests box is opened and i would love to get some of y'alls ideas!!! see you later by gorgeous gorgeous people!!! <333

word count: 800ish

warnings: RPF, kissing, they're both v awkward, i think that is it!!!

feedback is encouraged and i'd love to get some just please be kind!!!

The party was starting to get stuffy, the air was humid from the heat emitted from the bodies of your friends and co-workers. They were celebrating the end of a successful American leg of the up-and-coming band; boygenius. The lead singers and band were somewhere in the middle of everything, everyone talking their ears off. You held a water bottle in your hand, taking a swig from it in an attempt to cool down.

In the crowd, you spied your favorite ⅓ of boygenius: Julien Baker. You two had grown a close bond throughout the tour. In the beginning, she was quite opposed to the service you offered: make-up. But when one of the first shows in the scorching heat of summer left Julien’s pretty face completely sunburned, she figured you might know how to prevent that.

You bonded over tinted sunscreen and the lip gloss. You thought that was it at first. But after the first show she had implemented your advice she had come up to you, generously thanking you for their help.

“It’s probably not! Just doing my job!” You blushed, nervous about the tattooed woman in front of you.

To your surprise Julien looked almost as nervous as you felt, she spoke “Hey, could I have your number? In case I need any more help with skincare or makeup or something!” a dry laugh left her lips.

You practically ripped your phone out of your pocket, handing it to her. She entered her number and smiled before walking away.

Later that night, on your way to your hotel you got a text: Hey! It’s JB! Want to meet up for breakfast tomorrow? We don’t have rehearsals until the afternoon.

Your heart practically jumped out of your chest and that’s when you knew you couldn’t just be her friend.

At about the same time you saw Julien in the crowd, she saw you. In a not-so-graceful way, she excused herself and made her way over to you, almost tripping on a bunched-up rug on her way.

“Hey you,” Julien smiled, her hands empty, one finding their way into the pockets of her Carhart zip-up. “What’re you doing all by yourself?”

You sighed, pointing to your fellow makeup artist, who was currently wrapped in a guitar tech's arms, swaying to the music that sounded like a whisper at this moment. “Got ditched. But it's okay. I was about to leave anyway, parties aren’t really my thing.”

“Yeah I’m not a big fan of parties either, do you want to go somewhere quieter?” She asked, looking at you with big brown eyes that reflected purple due to the LED lights that lined the room you were currently in.

“I’d love that, let's go.” Out of habit with other friends, you went to grab her hand. Julien tensed for a split second, before wrapping her fingers around your hand as you led her out of the room and into a hallway, maneuvering between couples pressed against walls and friends laughing until you eventually made it to a balcony that overlooked the city. The breeze was cool, which left you chilly, but the warmth from the woman next to you and the giddiness that heated your heart was enough to make you forget all about the cold. You turned to face Julien again, taking in all the features of her face.

She was staring out into the city, a slight smile forming on her face as she watched the skyline twinkle like stars do in the sky. You don’t think you’ve ever seen someone as beautiful. You turned back to the city, your eyes focusing on a particular car that was zooming down the streets.

“Beautiful.” You heard Julien whisper next to you.

“Yeah the city is so pretty at night.” you giggle.

“No-” a pause, “No I mean you. You’re beautiful.” Julien said, her voice raising itself an octave.

You turned to Julien to see her face flushing. “I think you’re beautiful too J,” You smile, as your face heats up.

The moment freezes, and suddenly all that is real in the world is the woman standing in front of you, before you know it you’re both leaning forward, gentle lips pressing together. Her hand that is encased with yours tightens, while the other moves to cup your face, pulling you into her. Your chest flushed against each other, lips now crashing together, less gentle, more need.

Suddenly Julien pulls away, then breathlessly says “I like you, like really like you, and I’ve wanted to do that since the moment I met you.”

You can feel your heart swell a lot before saying “I like you too.” The two of you stand there giggling like teenagers for a while before you decide to rejoin the party. But for the rest of the night, your hand never leaves Julien’s.

#julien baker x reader #julien baker fanfic #julien baker fluff #boygenius x reader #lgbtq #lesbians #makeup artist! reader

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atsadi-shenanigans · 2 months ago

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FSBE 14 - We're All Children of Jesus

You have a confession.

On AO3.

By the time you’re done talking (and plus a “magic” ring that seems to be a flaking “gold” ring, all copper underneath) and gone to join the others, Wyll done went and slammed back some kinda truth potion. Tea. Thing. Holds eye contact with this Jaheira lady the whole time he does it, too, while Shadowheart’s face goes flat in a distinctly disapproving way, and Astarion outright rolls his eyes.

But this Jaheira lady—Karlach says she’s a druid—seems to like that. Her thin eyebrow cocks in what you think might be amusement.

Then she starts talking and you’re real glad Wyll took one for the team here. He’s a good guy. Young, earnest, and ridiculously charming.

Cause the news she shares, it sucks real fucking hard.

The Absolute cult is here all right, holed up in a tower fortress, led by an invincible old man Jaheira says she shot through the eye. She don’t seem like she’s exaggerating, neither (and huh, she’s gotta be speaking Faerunian with an accent, because the dirt potion apparently decides in your brain that she’s, what, Hispanic?). Oh, and they have a fucking army. That they’re planning on marching to Baldur’s Gate.

Y’all been tromping around out here in the sticks. You still don’t got a good grasp on population density or how big these people consider a city to be. Ancient Rome held about a million people, you think. But all that’s peanuts compared to modern cities. You flew into Phoenix, Arizona one time on your way up north, and that fucker stretched from one horizon to the next, like a carpet of brown moss between the hills.

Jaheira seems a decent person. Worried about the people around her. And she don’t shoot none of y’all through the fucking eye, so that’s a bonus. Though she does threaten to knife y’all if it turns out you’re here for culty shenanigans. You can respect that.

She also mentions something about Mr. Invincible, General Thorm, and a former army of something called “dark justiciars.” Y’all ran into a dead one on the road, if you remember right, and your gaze slides over to Shadowheart. Who watches like somebody reading Moby Dick out loud in the world’s flattest monotone.

Except you been around her a while, now. Enough to pick up on the shift. A vibe. A cat that done spotted a hummingbird outside the window.

And it occurs to you that brainworms aside she…might be a threat.

You try not to blame a whole religion for what was done to you. And to others. And to your mother. Your father. Grandfather. Entire line of ancestors and all Natives and Black people and women and each fucking other—

You take a breath.

Some people of that persuasion use it for good. Build houses for poor people until they’re ninety-fucking-years old. But some people have and will use it for the most vile shit the human imagination ever fever-dreamed up. And if somebody is inclined to vileness, or induced to it, it’s the perfect set of both shield and blinders.

How much of Shadowheart wants them brainworms out, and how much of her might look at an invincible fanatic and decide her goals might be better met with him?

The cleric turns to you, as if she knows. You fumble for your brainworm, slap around to make sure your thoughts ain’t leaking, and you look back to Jaheira.

Right as the woman says, “The artifact protects you. You can gain passage as a True Soul. Find what makes him invincible and strip him of it. And once he has been made vulnerable, we can take them all down.”

It takes a second. Cause it unfolds in your head like a kaleidoscope of razor-sharp lines.

She needs spies. Saboteurs. A man (or several) on the inside. Of a brainworm cult. And y’all got them worms without being pushed into the dirt by a Big Bitch Voice.

It’s clear. Perfect. Almost makes your eyes water, it’s so fucking clean.

All as bile claws up your throat and your stomach gives a tight lurch.

“Any cure starts with understanding the disease,” Jaheira says. Which is true. “The magic protecting Thorm must be in Moonrise Tower.”

Infiltrate a psychic cult. Pass as one of them.

Astarion glances over and you can’t meet his gaze. Can feel the ghost of his frown, though.

She says stuff about a cleric of their own and protection from the darkness and blah blah blah. You can’t hear over the hornet’s nest buzzing between your ears.

Then she leaves y’all to it. Invites y’all to some rest and vittles. Stock up and take a breather. You got half a mind to snag yourself a wine bottle and guzzle down enough your head calms down. Then remember how that shit burns on the way back up and decide it ain’t worth the small window of happy oblivion.

They got two rooms upstairs. Y’all will probably split it boy-girl.

But first, y’all need to Plan.

“No magic can put this Form together after I’ve smashed open his skull,” Lae’zel says over the bar.

“Thorm,” Shadowheart corrects, without any blade to it at all. “And that sounds like exactly what he’ll do.”

Lae’zel lifts her chin. “Then I will do it again.”

“This sort of magic tends to be very powerful,” Gale says.

“I will split his skull as many times as is required.”

“Much as I do like a good head-cracking,” Karlach says, “I’m with Sparkles here.”

The wizard coughs into his goblet of wine. “Sparkles?”

You heard he got something like a cat but he insists ain’t a cat, and you also heard that people with a pet for a long time tend to start looking like it. You’re pretty sure whatever a tressym is, it’s a fucking cat, based on the face the man makes.

“Yeah! You got them…” Karlach holds out her hands and wiggles her fingers. Magical jazz hands.

Gale takes another drink, muttering into his cup. Something about “archmage.”

“Part of any successful hunt is knowing the terrain,” Wyll says. “It would be incredibly worthwhile to get in there.”

“The Blade of Frontiers wants to lie his way into a den of illithid-infected, mind-reading cultists?” Shadowheart says, slipping her chained ponytail off one shoulder. You wonder, idly, if it ever snags and tugs one hair on her scalp the way your braid used to do when you had long hair. Fuck long hair. “Have much experience with that, do you?”

“Cults, no. But I’ve been chained to a devil since I was seventeen.”

Karlach frowns. Mutters, “Fucking bitch.”

“That’s something entirely different,” Shadowheart says. “Who here even has experience with gods or their followers?”

The countertop looks like it was carved outta a solid piece of wood. The edges are all knobby. You trace your finger along the picked-at bark and imagine a squirrel once followed that same path up to a cache.

“If I may remind you, I was the chosen of Mystra herself,” Gale says.

“And you did such a fine job, she’s tasked you with blowing yourself up,” Shadowheart says.

Wyll opens his mouth, but it’s Astarion who says, “As if you wouldn’t leap at the chance to do the same should your lady order you.”

Man’s been quiet the whole time, content to sit beside you and clean his daggers. That he jumps in now, for Gale, slams the brakes on the entire conversation.

“And out of the entire pantheon,” he says, “I think perhaps only a few would be less likely to command some grand, sanctimonious suicide than that, Sharran.”

Shadowheart focuses on him, gaze sharp. “I take it you have some great insight into the gods, then, Astarion? Funny. I’ve never heard you praying.”

“Oh, I prayed to them all. Multiple times. Every one I could remember. None of them answered.”

You close your eyes. Bow your head. Ain’t sure if the others hear in his voice what you do. They wasn’t in his head (on accident) when fish people was peeling him open. Didn’t feel his horror. His pain. And even worse, the resignation to it. Part of him, a lot of him in the moment, just accepted that he deserved it.

You spent hours, days on your knees in prayer. Years in prayer. That you would be good. Be worthy. Be enough. And it never mattered. Not once. Always dirty. Always unclean and rotten, stupid and lazy. A willing whore, but for the benevolent vigilance of the congregation, fighting against your natural inclination as a bride of the devil. On account of being born in sin, and an Indian at that; everybody knows Indian girls can’t keep their legs closed.

The lord ain’t never answered you.

Sasha did. Her friends and her people did. Your family did, once they found you again. Even though none of them could fully understand it, they all tried. Not because some holy man ordered it. Not to avoid an eternity burning alive in a lake of fire. But because they thought it right.

You got out. You got away. You fucking ran.

You wonder if Astarion ever got that chance before.

Yet here you are again. Trapped between permanent squid-face, and infiltrating a psychic army of brainwormed believers.

“I,” you start. Feel attention shift to you and nearly dive off your barstool to sprint for the door. Them shadows seem real accepting. But you know Astarion is looking at you, even as numbness starts to creep up your fingers. “I grew up. In a religious cult.”

And fuck you. There it is. Went and spilled that one all over everybody like projectile vomit. Classy.

“I thought you said your world didn’t have gods?” Gale says. Bless his poor heart.

There’s that cold spot again. To your right, this time. Don’t gotta look up to know Shadowheart stares.

“We don’t,” you say. Fuck this world and everybody in it, they will pry that conviction outta your cold, dead hands. And since your soul is stuck in a jar, maybe not even then. “But that don’t mean we don’t got believers.”

Wyll catches your gaze. There’s knowing in his eyes. He’s piecing together what you told him after that fucking bitch Mizora showed up to jerk his chain.

“So three of us possibly able to infiltrate this fortress,” Gale says.

“Four,” Astarion says.

Gale’s mouth opens. Closes. Wyll glances between you two and frowns softly.

“I mean, he is a damned good liar,” Karlach says. “No offense, Fangs.”

“None taken, darling, though I wouldn’t exactly call it lying.”

“How long did you keep your undead nature from us?” Gale says.

“According to you, it was apparent from the start. And none of you asked. There is a difference between lying and saying nothing at all.”

Lae’zel spits out what’s gotta be a githyanki curse. The dirt potion don’t translate it. It’s gotta be tied to Faerun, somehow. The perception of the people from here. Maybe the people who brewed it? Isn’t it nice to think about something else?

And that leaves…

It’s almost amusement, what Shadowheart wears. If something that condescending could be called amusement. “How long were you with your own god or goddess?”

Fuck. You was getting along. She’s been looking out for you. Then y’all got here, and she got fucking mind-whammied by her faith, and it’s like being back to square one. She was all closed off and sniping. She sees you as a threat, don’t she? You seen this before. With the newer ones to the farmstead, sometimes. Fresh converts is always the worst. Don’t matter what kinda person she is. Don’t matter how nice she is to you at first. Her allegiance is to her goddess, and if she sees you as the enemy, if her god deems you that enemy, she’ll kill any decency she might have felt for you in the name of what she’s told.

“Long enough to make it out and stay out,” you say.

It ain’t quite cruelty sparkling in her eyes. Just smugness, you think. You hope.

“And you think that’s enough to get you inside? They can read minds.”

So could the Pastor, through the lord. Or that’s what y’all earnestly believed.

Yet, in hindsight, you didn’t lose your faith all in one swoop down in that root cellar, holding a piece of glass. You didn’t even fully lose it until years after.

No. It’d been in your head for months, since Mother started talking about finding you a husband. It’d been there for years, maybe. A niggling thought. Disgruntlement, sure. But in between raving about the lord returning in fire with the sword to cleanse the world of sin, the Pastor would tell bible stories. The virgin birth. The letters of Paul. Some of the gospel, in the early days, before that got eaten by hellfire. People was kind, in them stories. Kind to adulteresses and whores, who were the worst things a person could be.

But the farmstead had no kindness for you or the other girls it deemed filthy, which was all of you on rotation. Though it called what it did to y’all as a result a kindness. Pain now for salvation later.

No, you’d been doubting for some time before that night you ran through darkened fields towards the old pickup truck sitting quiet in the road. You’d spent years hiding it from even yourself. Months spent hiding it (you thought) from the lord who knew all, and the Pastor his chosen to whom he told all.

“I fooled my mother for years,” you say. “And she was second in command. I think I can handle a single day up in that tower.”

#fsbe #these two shitheads #bg3 #astarion #astarion x tav #tavstarion #fanfic #oops there it is #when you actually have the job experience #unfortunately

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astvrook · 1 year ago

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洪水 | YANDERE THEMES | SUNGHOON.

when the «prince of the city» becomes the villain, his subjects are left unprotected from his ruthless reign even in the deepest darkness, and sunghoon, the minister's son, always carried with him the heady scent of his mother's favourite nina ricci lotion and an infectious, carefree, almost childlike smile. yet something about him disturbs the atmosphere, inducing a drop in temperature in the room as he enters, regardless of the season.

sunghoon's a masked angel, whose light fades at the emergence of the inner demon he harbours, being the culprit for the crimes committed on this earth. can be visualised manipulating the minds of those around him; with every apology and promise of amends after his cries, his parents forgive him despite knowing of his repeated wrongdoing. raised to outdo everyone in town, sunghoon's parents excused him again and again.

in the world of opulence, corruption lurks, and he shows no intention of slowing down, and true for you, you remained practically invisible to the park family due to your economic position, which allowed you to remain hidden from their eyes, but everything changed on halloween night.

when, in your boyfriend's house, an individual with an intense gaze and an unrelenting temper took control of his perfect aesthetic and the image of him sent shivers down your spine. sporting traditional day of the dead make-up, where the monochromatic combination creates a singular skull, adorned with flames, bloody roses and scars; his lack of eyes is unsettling.

you ask yourself "what dark impulse drove jihyun, with his flawed mind, to provoke park sunghoon like that?", because park had no intention of stopping.

«¡please let me go!».

it's too late for you, and you can't do anything to stop what's about to happen, so you just huddle in the corner of the room and cover your ears.

jihyun's head is bowed, blood dripping to the ground, moans and sobs escaping his lips. as the fear and pain reflect in his empty eyes and his screams echo, you find him pathetic for facing the demon with no defensive skills, while sunghoon's smile is indifferent to the suffering of others and seems to feed on pain.

dumb. dumb. dumb.

before you know it, sunghoon places your boyfriend's windpipe under his foot and takes his life in a single blow. for a moment, you are captivated as you watch him, yet at that precise moment, the world stops and you meet he's piercing gaze.

"are you enjoying watching?" he asks and takes the baseball bat and slowly brings the blood to his mouth, savouring every glistening drop. then, for the sheer fun of it, he approaches jihyun and slaps his ribs hard, an ominous cracking sound being heard.

as he approaches your presence, confesses: "it angers me to be spied on, darling."

you're paralysed, naked except for the lingerie you're wearing, as sunghoon revels in your discomfort. in panic, you try to escape, but he catches you and pushes you against the wall. with a threatening voice, he warns you that you shouldn't try to run away, at least not yet, and in tears, you beg for mercy, but he shuts you up abruptly.

slowly, he tastes you with malice, sensing every sensation on your skin as your fear grows. this night, he considers you his favourite prank.

"why settle for a mere piece of dying flesh when you can become my possession," whispers, and savours the taste of blood on his teeth, expressing his insatiable hunger. "you can't expose a lamb to a wolf and expect it not to want to devour it," he declares.

on that dark night, sunghoon is ravenous for you.

LISTA MAESTRA DE ENHYPEN.

#enhypen #enhypen fanfic #enhypen sunghoon #enhypen smut #enhypen x reader #sunghoon #enhypen imagine #sunghoon yandere #yandere enhypen #yandere fanfiction #sunghoon fanfic #yandere #yandere enha #enhypen oneshot #park sunghoon #sunghoon smut

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city-spies-confessions · 11 days ago

Note

Hear me out on t4t mother x clementine

#city spies confessions #mother city spies #city spies #clementine city spies

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rahuratna · 2 months ago

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A little gift for the lovely @cmdrfupa . Happy birthday, friend!

Synopsis: A chance meeting with a stranger by a riverside opens a brief window into another world.

[Slight Reader x Toji]

On a cobweb afternoon

In a room full of emptiness

By a freeway I confess

I was lost in the pages

Of a book full of death

~ Like a Stone (lyrics) - Audioslave

The streetlamps flicker frequently in this part of the city.

It's part of the appeal, you suppose.

You can appreciate spaces like these, hollowed out of concrete and compacted earth by some higher being's blunt-edged knife, pockets of quiet amidst the chaos.

The pavements are older, a fine tracery of cracks spreading beneath your steady stride. They are as familiar to you as the softly glowing jewels of steam, scent and spice that beckon along the sides of the riverwalk.

This was why you always chose this route after a long day at work. Each tiny food stall sent out its siren's call, every bowl of udon or heaped plate of curry set out like offerings to the downtrodden deities of the late shift, yourself included.

Today, you had a particular destination in mind. The weather had taken a turn over the last few days, chilly air creeping under the doors of your apartment, sudden sweeps of icy air waiting in ambush for your hapless ankles.

The only thing to remedy such a situation was the tonkotsu ramen at the stand you came to every fortnight. You were certainly ready to inhale a bowl of the rich, heady broth, to watch the egg yolk dispel within, warm, quivering, like a sunrise over winter treetops.

Hastening you steps, you spied the canvas strips hanging from the awning, the small hand-written signs that advertised specials and topping prices. You didn't need to consult that list. You knew exactly what you'd be ordering.

Tucking your satchel into the small space beneath the counter, you clambered onto a stool, anticipation for the meal to come temporarily drawing your attention away from the booth's only other occupant.

You were vaguely aware of him, of the fact that he was very tall and broad of shoulder, as you received your tea and took a scalding sip. Finally turning your glance to him, you almost performed a double take.

He certainly was tall, but even under the concealing lines of the dark sweater, you didn't think you'd ever seen someone built quite like him before.

There was a certain predatory grace to his power, corded lines of sinew tracing up his neck, a heaviness to his large hands, a capability for feats of strength you couldn't possibly fathom.

His features were what most would consider exceptionally good looking, but there was something there, in the hooded shadow of his eyes, in the semi-amused curve of his scarred lips, in the flare of his nostrils and the effortless drape of his dark, dark hair that was both fascinating and repellent. Like the gaze of a cobra, cold, relentless, magnetic, he was setting off every warning signal in your mind.

His glance drifted lazily across to you and he offered a measured look. You froze, unable to explain your visceral reaction to this man.

What was going on?

You'd sat at this stall dozens of times. Why was every instinct screaming at you to remove yourself from this space?

Your thoughts were interrupted by his voice, smooth, slightly husky, the cool depths of a murky city river.

"More tea. And a bowl of the tonkotsu."

Your mind was assaulted by the fact that you'd be eating alongside him, here at this stall. You shook your head slightly, as if to clear away cobwebs of doubt.

This was ridiculous. You'd never even met this man before and you'd be damned before such random feelings drove you away from the comfort of your routine. You knew that if you walked away now, you'd look back and regret it, that you'd probably curse your silly instincts for a warning that, in all probability, meant nothing.

Settling your elbows firmly on the countertop before you, you did the one thing that you knew, on some level, you really, really shouldn't.

You started a conversation.

"This place serves the best broth."

His eyes slid sideways towards you again, and you tried to convince yourself that the spike of heady excitement you felt in your abdomen wasn't accompanied by a healthy dose of regret.

He shrugged, noncommittal.

"I've had better."

"Where?"

He didn't answer your question, but now he was watching you more intently. Bringing the small cup to his lips, he took a sip, as if simultaneously drinking in everything that he observed about you. He raised his chin, playfully interrogative.

"Do you come to this stall often?"

"Yes."

"I've never seen you before."

"Ah, I don't usually come at this time. I got off work a little earlier today."

He eyed your steaming bowl as it arrived, and you tucked in a little self-consciously, aware that he was watching you eat.

Trying to dispel the awkwardness you felt (since you were the one who'd initiated this conversation) you asked a question.

"What do you do for work?"

His smile was a sudden flare of unholy glee, and he brushed back his hair with a casual gesture.

"Oh, I'm a jack of all trades, you could say. People make requests, and I see what I can do."

You paused, noodles suspended halfway to your mouth.

"That works for you? In this economy?"

You weren't expecting him to burst into uproarious laughter at your words. You noticed that the ramen vendor didn't even glance in his direction.

Turning his whole body towards you now, he slung one ankle up on his knee. If you'd thought his shoulders were singularly muscular, you'd now got the rest of him to compare them to. It was ... quite the sight.

You took a hurried sip of your tea.

Maybe he hit up the gym really really regularly. That could possibly explain ...

Your thoughts were interrupted by his fingers tapping lightly on the counter.

"This economy is ... more forgiving than you may think. For those of us who exploit a niche."

You weighed up his words.

"So you're saying ... you provide an essential service?"

"Sure. People always need a good clean up."

"Ah."

You nodded in understanding.

"So you do the jobs nobody else wants to do. That makes sense."

Something darkened in his gaze, but that ire wasn't directed at you. For you, there was only casual amusement. You had, seemingly, provided him with a welcome distraction.

"Oh, yeah. Nobody really wants the work I take on. It comes naturally to me, though. And there are parts of it that I've ... come to find satisfying."

"So, I'm guessing that you're very good at what you do."

"The best."

There was no joy to the manner in which he said this, however. It was a cold statement of fact.

"Hmm. I guess office work does have its perks. I have a schedule to stick to. That's one thing I'm guaranteed of."

He shrugged, reaching across to receive the bowl handed to him.

"I don't know if the regular grind is for me. Not any more."

You waved your chopsticks in his direction.

"It's not for everyone. But it does offer some stability. Sometimes I'm thankful for that."

"Stability?"

He snorted in a manner that was undeniably condescending, but the humour didn't reach his eyes. You noticed that there was not much that did.

"Stability won me over for a while. A very short time. Not on the table any more, that's for sure."

You wonder if there's a hint of a failed relationship somewhere in there. You wouldn't be surprised. You asked your next question carefully, averting your eyes from his.

"And were you happy? Around the time you were stable?"

"Happy?"

You'd never heard anyone say the word quite like he did; rolled on the tongue as if bitter, unfamiliar, foreign. A taste of the unknown.

"Hmm. I don't think about those times any more. Not much use."

"That's ... efficient."

"I'm nothing if not efficient."

You finished your meal, setting down your chopsticks across the top of the bowl and placing your hands together in thanks. You reached into your pocket for some cash.

You considered paying for his meal, as thanks for the company, but he'd already produced his own money, the notes lying carelessly crumpled beside his bowl. It was almost as if he'd anticipated your gesture.

Nodding politely, you slid off the stool.

"Have a good night."

"You have any kids?"

His question came from seemingly nowhere. You'd kept the conversation as free of personal details as possible.

It was then that you noticed where his eyes had fallen. There was a little badge, one of the numerous cartoon characters your nephew was fond of, pinned to the strap of your bag. It had been a gift you'd received on your last visit to your sister, and you'd worn it in place of pride.

"Oh, this?"

You gestured to the badge and smiled.

"My nephew. This is his second favourite character. He wouldn't have parted with the best one. So ... this is the one I got."

The man eyed the badge with a strange intensity.

"Second favourite, huh?"

His gaze lifted to yours, and there was no trace of the fond softness that such a conversation might elicit.

"Don't come back here tomorrow."

"Pardon?"

"Dont come to this stand. Here."

He handed you a card, produced from the pocket of his dark slacks.

"This is the other ramen place I told you about. The better one. Try that out tomorrow."

You took the card from him hesitantly, before nodding, tucking your scarf tightly into your coat and making your way down to the walkway. Glancing back, you saw that he had turned his attention to his food once more.

You didn't think much more about the encounter, until the next day.

Sitting in a comfortable booth at the restaurant he'd recommended, a fair distance from the river, you'd allowed your thoughts to wander briefly to him.

You'd never even asked his name. Maybe he'd told you about this place because he didn't want to be disturbed again. Either way, you hoped the food was as good as he'd said it was.

Your phone vibrated slightly and you slid your finger across the screen, noticing a message from Shimeda at the office.

Isn't this on the route you take home? Be careful.

Frowning, you accessed the full attachment to the message, a screenshot of an online article describing a series of explosions that had taken place close to the riverwalk you frequented in the evenings.

Upon investigation, copious traces of blood had been found at the scene, but no bodies. Cameras in the area had picked up nothing. All businesses along the riverside had been closed temporarily, until the investigation showed that no further danger to the public was imminent.

Something about the air within the small booth had grown cloying, your phone clutched like a flimsy lifeline in one hand.

He'd told you not to go back there. He'd told you to come here today.

You realised that your ears were ringing slightly, as if you'd somehow been caught up in the explosion that had rocked the tranquility of the walkway so many miles away from your current place of safety.

Was this what he -

You placed your phone on the table, face down.

No. It wouldn't do for your thoughts to wander in this direction. What was done was done. And he'd obviously done it for a reason.

Flashes of your conversation came back to you, of things vaguely alluded to. His talk of being a 'jack of all trades', of finding a 'niche', of 'cleaning up after others' suddenly took on the gravitas that came with your new knowledge.

Why was it then, that you wished you'd asked him more? Maybe what his favourite flavour of ramen actually was? Maybe you'd have asked him more about happiness, and possibly whether he'd had any children himself.

In the quiet of the restaurant, you let out a brittle laugh, too high. You ignored the look that the waitress gave you.

You supposed that now you'd never know the answers to any of those questions. It was better that you didn't, most likely.

A river eventually spilled into the sea, and sometimes, amidst the unpredictable currents and the shift of silt as dark as blood, all secrets were borne away with it.

#jjk #jujutsu kaisen #jjk fanfic #gift fic #toji fushiguro #jjk toji #toji x reader #toji x you #chance encounters #jjk angst #suspense #mystery

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heathenarmyimagines · 2 years ago

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Title: The One He Chose

Pairing: Ivar x Reader

Summary: After all this time has Ivar finally caught his wife's trail?

Taglist: @ubbesgirl, @shewolf2000, @tis-itheapplepie, @atequila, @demoncrypt1066, @greennightspider, @badbitsh13, @fireismysaftey, @minarawr, @laketaj24, @hvitserksgirl, @blahblahcookiesdoma, @fabulous-peasent, @sforsammmmmi, @minmiin1d, @courtrae89, @letsloveimagines, @tomarisela, @titty-teetee, @beyond-the-ashes@elenawrit, @mblaqgi, @whenimaunicorn, @chuflisworld, @mystruggledlife, @moose-squirrel-asstiel, @syreni-dea, @trashqueenbitch, @alykatv, @mbaku-babygirl, @perfectus-in-morte, @beyond-the-ashes, @neeadinghugs, @readsalot73, @triumphantreturnofpies, @anarchy-is-coming, @tephi101, @alicedopey, @ivarslittlebadgirl, @jtrstp, @nejijjeoroo, @charlylama, @ivartheblessed, @captstefanbrandt, @fabulouschrissi, @ivarsrideordie, @3x5gurl, @the-writer-appreciation-blog, @lolabee9, @captainfoxy22, @young-ugly-god, @im5ftbutmythroat66, @bribyyy, @irishhiggins, @cadetomlinson, @keclleon101, @slutforragnarssons, @ltkeke, @meeeeeeeeeps, @lille-kanin, @opalscarab, @ssraven7, @ivarandersen, @concretewaywardangel, @funmadnessandbadassvikings, @sharon-is-tired, @cadetomlinson, @mystruggledlife, @chuflisworld, @justmarissa97, @lol-haha-joke, @weirdly-randomly-awesome, @inlovewithmakeupcomicsanim, @idonthavehusbandsihavelovers, @alexa040004, @buckythetinman , @burntmythroatskullingmytea,@jorunnravenslayer, @two-unbeatable-beaters, @buffy-the-vampire-blogger, @arses21434, @ltkeke, @captainfoxy22, @chinduda @letsshamelessqueen-m @my-soul-is-the-moon @we-are-transcendent

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Part Four

Part Five

Part Six

Part Seven

Anyone working under the delusion that Ivar would accept the fact that his wife had escaped him eventually learned that would not be the case.

His men had stopped their violent search of Kattegat, just as he had promised Bjorn, but he was still searching for her.

Even as the months went on to become nearly a full year.

(Y/N) had been missing for ten months, one week and four days, Ivar was keeping count of his lonely nights. Despite how the people talked he had not let Freydis warm his bed in his wife’s absence.

Instead he spent most of his days and nights in his war room, looking over all the maps of other cities and villages that Kattegat traded with the most. He was furious at the fact that there had been no news from any of his informants, and his relationship with his brothers did little to comfort him.

Bjorn was, as he expected, furious at his sending off warriors to such vital trading cities. He had shouted himself nearly blue when he’d arrived at Ivar’s estate; of course he let the King do his whining and even allowed him to smash his war table in his tantrum, because to him none of it mattered.

His ships had sailed, his warriors deployed and there was nothing to be done about it; not by Bjorn or even himself. Hvitserk, like he always had, chose to remain neutral in the argument. Ubbe was clearly on Bjorn’s side, but unlike Bjorn, Ubbe seemed to understand why he had acted so hastily even if he disapproved of the actions.

Currently Ubbe was the only one of his brothers who had friendly conversations with him, and Ivar would never be able to express how much he appreciated the company in these hard months.

‘Still no news?’ Ubbe asked as they both sat on the beach and watched a merchant ship approach.

‘Nearly a hundred spies and no good news.’ Ivar sighed.

‘No good news?’ the eldest questioned.

‘My spies reported at last that they had a difficult time keeping track of (Y/N) in my time away, she would leave town alone around midday…and would not return home until nearly sunset.’ Ivar confessed, laying back in the sand and covering his eyes.

Ubbe felt his heart begin to beat faster, but he was not sure how much information Ivar truly had on the subject they were discussing.

‘You think she had an affair?’

‘I do not know, that is what tortures me brother. Not knowing things has always angered me, and now it seems I know less than ever. I don’t know if she was unfaithful, I don’t know where she is; all I know is she isn’t here.’

Ubbe had such conflicting feelings battling in his chest as he watched a few easy to miss tears roll down his brother's face. He was relieved to not have been discovered as (Y/N)’s lover, but still he was upset to see his brother in pain and know he was at least partially responsible for it.

‘If you think she was unfaithful why continue the search? Let go of your devotions and remarry, you have no obligations to her.’

'Why would I ever think such a thing?' Ivar asked, his anger visibly raising.

‘I will not let go, Ubbe.’ Ivar said as he sat back up and wiped his eyes with the back of his hands.

‘Not of her, not my marriage and not my anger. I will find her and she will answer every question I have.’

‘But what if you don’t find her? So far it has been nearly a year and you have had no progression in your search. It pains me to see you destroying yourself and your reputation for one woman you can replace so easily.’

Ivar looked over at his brother incredulously.

‘She can’t be replaced, not by Freydis or any woman in this world. She feared me Ubbe, do you understand that? From the day we stepped into that insignificant Christian kingdom, she looked at an army and still she feared me the most out of them.’

‘Ivar, every woman you have spoken to fears you. It would be impossible to find a woman in Kattegat you did not terrify.’

‘I know that, but how many of them would be brave enough to marry someone as vicious as me? How many would make that sacrifice? She could have stayed quiet and let any of those women be dragged away, but she stepped forward. Those Christian men offered her up like a lamb for sacrifice and still she wanted them to live, and was even smart enough to know how to play my mind games.’ Ivar explained.

‘How could I replace a woman like that, a woman that brave, who fears a filthy cripple like me?’

Ubbe sighed and stood up, looking out at the sea and saw that the ship was nearly at the docks, but he decided he could offer his younger brother some advice.

‘You shouldn’t want her to fear you, Ivar. How can anyone love what they fear?’

Ivar looked taken aback, as if he’d never considered not terrifying his wife, but instead of responding he turned his focus over to the ship crew that was unloading the boat.

‘I don’t see how he thought he was secretive?’ one of the men said casually as he helped to dock the ship.

‘He’s young, he’s never smuggled a damn thing and it shows,’

Ivar’s ears perked up upon hearing this conversation and he quickly called the two merchants over; abandoning his own chat with Ubbe.

The two men looked over at the princes curiously; as they had not been aware of the chaotic search for the Christian nun that had occurred while they were at sea.

‘Prince Ivar, Prince Ubbe.’ one of them greeted and the other nodded in agreement.

‘I’m happy that the Gods brought you all back to us, I would like to treat your crew to a small feast on my estate in the next fortnight.’ Ivar said cheerily.

Ubbe quickly understood the game Ivar was playing and he decided he wanted no part in it at all.

He bid his brother a less than polite goodbye and left the two men to Ivar’s manipulation.

A feast for a simple unimportant ship crew was unheard of, especially a feast given by a prince. It would have been considered a great sign of disrespect to decline his hospitality.

The two men thanked Ivar for his unwarranted kindness and went to let the others know that they would all, along with their families, be expected at the youngest Prince’s estate.

Ivar watched the ship crew discuss their surprising treat and he pulled himself up onto his crutches and began to walk back to the markets.

As he limped along his way he subtly motioned for one of his spies, a thrall working outside of the butcher’s stand, to walk along side him.

Obediently the man followed the wordless order and matched Ivar’s pace.

‘Everyone under my purse is to watch the men on the merchant ship that just docked. Every man is to be followed for the next fortnight. I will expect daily reports if anyone fails to report even one hour of their actions I will have them hung.’ Ivar said strictly not looking at the man at all.

As he had wished, his warning went a long way in getting the results he wanted. He received reports in the crewmens’ every action, he’d even gotten reports describing their trips into the woods to relieve themselves.

Still no news of his wife or of what the two men suspected a crew mate of smuggling, but Ivar was sure that this was the right ship.

He had discovered the ship had sailed off the morning after (Y/N) had vanished.

Ivar tasked his thralls with preparing for the feast and he was impressed with how well they had performed.

By the night his feast was set to happen he had large tables sat outside under a cloudless starlit sky and there were heaps of fine dishes and mead as well as wine from England.

The crewmen were all in awe of the extravagant show of hospitality and everyone gave him their thanks in person.

Ivar mingled among them and was pleased that the news of his wife's disappearance had become common knowledge to all of the men.

‘May I speak with you Prince Ivar?’ one of the men asked as he approached the high table.

Ivar was quick to recognize the man as one of the men he’d spoken to on the beach.

‘Of course come with me.’

With a great amount of control Ivar calmly led the man into his home away from the festivities.

‘What would you like to discuss?’ the prince asked.

‘Forgive my intruding, but I have heard of your wife’s disappearance, and I- I think I have some information to give.’ I asked.

This was what Ivar had planned; to give the crew such a grand feast that at least one man would be grateful enough to betray one another.

‘Please, I would owe you an unimaginable debt if you could help me find my wife.’ Ivar said cunningly.

‘I can’t be sure if it was your wife, all I know is that Amund had someone in that crate. We more experienced in smuggling saw him speaking with it, sliding his rations into it even.’ the old man said.

‘A crate?’ Ivar asked.

‘Yes, big crate, it could easily fit one person, maybe even two.’

‘Two?’ Ivar said, feeling his grip on his crutch tighten in his anger.

She’d had an affair and ran off with some nobody; she’d decided weeks locked in a crate with another man was better than the rest of her life with him.

‘You said this man’s name was…?’ Ivar questioned, struggling to keep his anger hidden.

‘Amund, strong boy; he went ahead of the rest of us and the first thing off the boat was the crate.’

Ivar took in all this information, trying to piece together what all this implied and he determined he needed more to work with.

‘Tell me, what happened after the merchandise was unloaded. Did he hide the crate?’

‘No, the crate was in the assigned room when we all brought in the rest, still nailed shut too. The Earl granted us his hospitality to rest after our journey.’

Again Ivar was silent, trying very hard to picture in his mind what could have happened. If (Y/N) was in the crate and this Amund was the one responsible for getting her out why did he leave it sealed?

‘Big enough for two…’ he mused, thinking that if there was a man strong enough inside with her he could break out of the crate with her then she could have escaped with him.

‘Was this crate ever damaged, or moved?’ he asked the crewman.’

‘No, at least not to my knowledge, but the journey had been harder on my body than usual in my advanced age. When the Earl offered us rest I rested, but I did hear rumors.’ the man continued.

‘Rumors?’

‘The merchants spoke of one of our crewmen walking into the Great Hall carrying an unconscious woman. I never saw her, but she was the topic of much gossip while we restocked the ship.’

‘Did anyone on your ship see this woman, even a glimpse of her?’

‘I can not say with certainty, I can only say that Amund smuggled someone out of Kattegat.’

The anger for the old man’s lack of knowledge was red hot and only cooled by his relief of finally having a lead.

Thank you for telling what you could, please enjoy the feast with your family. It is a celebration in the honor of you and all traders like you, what would our world look like without brave men like you all.’ the prince complimented as he dismissed the man.

As soon as the man was out of earshot Freydis, silent as death, immerged from the shadows of the dim lit room.

‘Spread the word, I want this man, Amund identified, and followed. He shouldn’t be able to sneeze without me knowing when and where.’ Ivar ordered, his voice much harder than it had been mere seconds ago.

‘For how long?’

‘As long as it takes for him to let down his guard and let the information slip.’

While Ivar’s spies began to focus on Amund, all the way in Denmark, (Y/N) was adapted into her new life.

In the first week of her new life as a thrall she quickly realized two things.

The first was that the life of a nun and the life of a thrall was eerily similar in many regards. An older, more hardened and experienced woman would assign tasks to her and then would judge if the task was completed correctly and met her standards. If she did well she would be given another, often more challenging task, but if it did not meet Hilda’s standards there was punishment.

It was a rare occasion when (Y/N) was on the receiving end of Hilda’s wrath, which was why her punishments always seemed so harsh in comparison to the other girls.

The second thing was that, even despite the hatred the head thrall clearly had for her, she greatly preferred the life of a thrall over the life she had fled from.

Sure the shed the thralls all shared was cold and hardly much of a shelter at all but she slept fine knowing she wouldn’t wake up to Ivar’s rage.

And even better she found other Christians among the women she now shared status with.

It felt as if she had been welcomed into a new church, even if it had only been a small circle consisting of three women of various ages.

There was Kendra, the youngest being only around nineteen who had been captured and sold from York. Dawn was in her mid thirties and was a cook, she had never said where she was from originally, just that she had been only thirteen when she became the old cook’s apprentice. Finally there was Megan who was closer to (Y/N)’s age being twenty four, she was originally from Essex.

After two years of hiding her faith from her tyrannical husband, praying amongst others was euphoric. Holding hands in prayer was what she looked forward to most when she awoke at first light.

Every morning she would be awakened by Hilda whacking a wooden stick against the walls of the shed from outside before the doors of the shed were thrown open.

‘Get up! Work to be done!’ she boomed unnecessarily.

It was common knowledge that anyone still laying down by the time the doors opened would not only be promptly hit with the stick but they also would get no first meal.

The term meal was used loosely, it was only gr Rx bone broth and uncooked crops or, if they were so lucky, scraps from feasts.

Today’s meal was bone broth and carrots, after receiving her portion (Y/N) went to the corner with her small group and they shared a brief prayer over your meal before eating quickly.

‘What is your chore list today Kendra?’ she asked the youngest.

‘Caring for the Earl’s stock.’ was the answer she was given.

‘Be sure you give the chickens enough, the last few we’ve cooked were more feathers than meat.’ Dawn sighed.

‘I will be…preparing for a visitor.’ Megan said quietly, hardly touching her small meal.

At this all of them went silent.

Megan was often used as a cleaning girl around the great hall, but on the rare occasion that the Earl had important company she was a bed warmer.

It was a truly horrible fate for any woman but it seemed to be an especially cruel task for a Christian.

Every night before Hilda came in to order everyone to sleep they all joined hands in a silent prayer, but even still it was obvious Megan only prayed for God’s mercy and forgiveness.

(Y/N) reached out and took Megan’s hand and gave it a gentle squeeze.

‘God knows your heart and he knows your mind and spirit. He knows what sins you choose to commit and he knows the sins done against you. He will always forgive your sins and in time he will punish those who have sinned you.’ she encouraged.

Megan held onto the hand that she had been offered. Of course all the women of this small congregation were close, but Megan had such a strong connection and admiration for (Y/N).

The lie that Amund had told the Earl was widely believed and widely discussed in the markets. Meaning it was well known that (Y/N) was a runaway bed warmer herself.

It was for this reason that Megan looked at (Y/N) such wonder and great respect. In her unknowing eyes (Y/N) had done the impossible; escaped a lifetime of being nothing but a common whore for Pagans.

‘Hurry up you dogs! There's work to be done and if even one task isn’t completed then no one eats tonight!’ Hilda’s voice boomed.

Realizing that she hadn’t been focusing on her already cooling broth (Y/N) quickly drank the remaining liquid in the wooden bowl and stuck her carrots into her skirts.

Hopefully she would get a moment to sneak away and eat them before nightfall, if not then she would give it away to a beggar.

They all arose and set out to their assigned work locations.

Hilda sent a glare of pure malice at (Y/N) as she passed her on the way out of the shed.

‘If I hear so much as a word against you from the healers I’ll have you flogged.’ the old haggish woman warned.

‘Yes Hilda.’ (Y/N) replied, the air of respect and responsibility in her tone before she went on.

She had been assigned as a healer’s apprentice due to her telling the Earl she had some experience in that field of work.

Her days were spent gathering herbs and roots, mixing and brewing, occasionally there will be a person who is injured or falls so ill they need physical care and when that happens she would be the one to give them care. She would clean them, try to close up or disinfect their wounds and feed them remedies.

Today when she entered the healer’s hut she was met with the now familiar scent of living rotting flesh.

‘Girl.’ the healer, an old ragged woman named Skadi, called to her from the table where she was laying out her supplies.

‘Who is it?’ the thrall asked as she approached.

‘One of the Earl’s blacksmiths; got his foolish self cut and didn’t think to clean the sore.’

‘Infection, can it be treated?’

‘No, but he’ll survive.’ Skadi said sadly as she placed her necessary materials on a tray.

There were ropes to tie off the blood flow and restrain him, a leather strap to keep the man from biting off or swallowing his tongue, and a red hot ax in order to both remove the limb and cauterize the wound.

You hated doing this but it was necessary, the hut stunk with infection but it didn’t smell of death quite yet.

The man was older, maybe forty but clearly he’d lived a hard life to reach that age. He was quiet but his chest was heaving as if he had been fighting for each breath. His eyes were screwed shut and his head was turned away from his rotting hand.

It truly was disgusting to see a hand that mangled. The wound was still open, but no longer bleeding leaving an open gash caked in blackened blood and crusted puss.

She went about tying him down, making sure to be extra precise when restraining the arm that would soon be handless.

This was how she spent her days, in the hut with the sick and injured. It was a far cry from her old life in Kattegat. She was no longer a prince’s wife that was tended to by a full staff of thralls. Now she was herself thrall and she was called upon to do hard, truly hard, work and she wouldn’t have it any other way.

Leaving the hut for the day (Y/N) found herself exhausted but hopeful that the man would be ok once he was rested.

As she made her way back to the shed she chomped on the carrots she had stored away from breakfast, thankful to have them at least in case someone really didn’t finish their chores and no one was given dinner tonight.

It was as she finished her last carrot that something compelled her to look over at the beach as she neared the shed.

There was a ship, of course there was a ship at the beach; where else would a ship be if not at sea. That wasn’t what made her stop in her tracks, it was undoubtedly a Kattegat ship.

By no means was (Y/N) an expert on such things but after two years she could single out Floki’s handiwork from any other boat builder.

Those sails, the dragon figurehead…that was not a merchant ship.

With her heart racing she hurried into the shed and huddled into the corner where she slept, but she did not lay down.

She just sat with her hands fiddling with the threads of her skirts, as she thought back to the morning conversation she’d had.

A visitor, an important enough visitor to be offered a bed warmer.

How had she not thought to ask who this visitor was? She prayed with all her heart that it wasn’t Ivar, but there was no way to be sure.

No, Ivar couldn’t know which boat you snuck onto, even if he did he wouldn’t just devote himself to hunting you.

At least not personally.

Ivar was a prince of a wealthy kingdom, as well as a respected warlord in his own right. What man would dare to disobey him if he ordered them to find you.

Everything was hitting her all at once.

She would have to leave tonight…run until she made it to the next town.

With what? No food, supplies or weapons to protect yourself? This wasn’t like the cold journey to Floki’s that last night. This would be a three day trip by foot. Not to mention it was no longer winter. It was spring and roads would be busy and therefore dangerous. A woman in rags traveling alone was little more than an invitation for a rapist on his way.

It wasn’t ideal by any means but it was either risk the dangers of the road or stay and be turned over to Ivar by whatever man Ivar had sent after her.

‘(Y/N), you look as if you’ve seen a ghost.’ Kendra said as she sat beside her.

‘Not to be dramatic, but it feels as if I have.’

#ivar the boneless #ivar x reader #ivar lothbrok #vikings #vikings imagine #the one he chose series

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