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parkerslatte · 9 months ago

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Relax For Me

Azriel x Fem!Reader

Word Count:

Warnings: smut. wing play. masterbation.

Summary: After Azriel comes home from a long mission, his best friend, Y/N, helps him relax.

A Court of Thorns and Roses Masterlist

•••

Y/N closed the doors to her balcony and drew the curtains. The sun was only just setting but she wanted an early night, ever since she had woken up that morning she only craved to go back to sleep. Y/N yawned as she shuffled to her bedroom and climbed under the cool covers. She smiled as she did so, basking in the feeling of the cold sheets against her warm skin.

The silk pillow was soft beneath her head and Y/N allowed her eyes to close, wanting nothing more than to drift off into that peaceful unconscious state. As she began to feel herself drifting off, there was a quiet knock at her front door. Y/N groaned and pulled the covers closer underneath her chin. If she ignored the noise then it would go away. However, not even a few seconds later, there was another knock and this time it was more urgent.

With a sigh, Y/N pulled the covers from her body and shuffled back through her apartment and to the front door. She frowned as she opened it, prepared to yell at whoever it was to leave. But as the door opened and revealed Azriel standing on the other side, all the irritation drained from Y/N.

“Hi,” Azriel said quietly, offering Y/N a small wave.

“Az,” Y/N said, blinking rapidly. “What are you doing here?”

“I finished my mission early,” Azriel said. “I thought I would come to see you.”

Y/N stepped to the side and allowed Azriel to step into her apartment. “Come in.” Azriel stepped past her and Y/N closed the door, locking it behind her. “I thought I wouldn’t see you for at least another few days. Did the rundown with Rhys go quickly?” Y/N continued as she watched Az slump in a chair in the corner of the room.

“I haven’t been to Rhys yet,” Azriel admitted. “I came straight here.”

Y/N finally looked at what he was wearing and frowned. He was still wearing clothes covered in dirt and grime, his wings weren’t much better as they were too covered in mud and other things Y/N couldn’t recognise.

“I missed you,” Azriel said, offering Y/N a small lopsided grin.

Y/N couldn’t help but smile back, she had always loved that specific smile of Azriel’s. “I missed you too.” Y/N stepped closer to him and took his hand in hers, giving it a small squeeze. “I would hug you but I don’t want to get mud on my pyjamas. Do you want me to run you a bath?”

Azriel looked down at Y/N’s attire. “Were you about to go to sleep?”

Y/N nodded. “I was, until you came knocking on my door. I am not complaining though.

Azriel reluctantly let go of Y/N’s hand. “I should let you get back to sleep. I will just go straight to Rhys.”

“No, Az,” Y/N said. “You look like you are about to fall asleep if you stand up. Let me run you a bath and get some clean clothes out for you.”

“I won’t say no if you were to do that,” Azriel said.

Y/N smiled. She bent down lightly and kissed his cheek. “I’ll even let you use all of my fancy soaps.”

“I must look like I’m about to drop dead if you are letting me use those. You nearly took my hand off the last time I went to use those,” Azriel jokes.

“You exaggerate,” Y/N replied. “I’ll be back in a moment.”

Leaving Azriel in the living room, Y/N entered her bathroom and began to run a bath for Azriel. She placed a brand new bar of her soap in the small dish next to the basin and poured a modest amount of bubbles into it. Azriel would always say that he hated the bubbles but Y/N knew that she loved them. Y/N let the bath fill up and walked out of the bathroom.

“The bath is currently filling up,” Y/N said to Azriel. “You can get undressed in the bathroom. If you leave your clothes outside, I can get a start on washing them for you.”

“Y/N, you don’t need to do that,” Azriel said. “I can do it back at my own apartment.”

“Az, I insist,” Y/N replied. “You look exhausted and all I want to do right now is make sure you have a nice relaxing night. I have some of your clothes here, I’ll leave them just outside of the bathroom.”

Azriel stood from the chair and reached out to Y/N, gently caressing her hand. “What would I ever do without you?”

“I’m unsure as we have been friends for centuries and there is not a moment I can think of off the top of my head where I haven’t been by your side, of course except when you go on missions,” Y/N said.

Azriel rolled his eyes and walked away to the bathroom, closing the door softly behind him. Y/N let out a small breath before settling down on the couch.

***

It wasn’t long before Y/N was interrupted from what she was doing by Azriel calling out her name. From the other side of the door she could still hear the sound of him in the water so she was unsure why she was being called.

“Az?” Y/N spoke through the door. “What’s wrong?”

There was a hesitant pause before Azriel spoke again. “Can you come in here?”

Y/N’s eyes widened. “What?”

“Please,” Azriel asked. “It’s easier to explain that way. The bubbles are covering everything, don’t worry.”

Y/N slowly opened the door and gasped at the sight. The whole side of Azriel’s rib cage was bruised and a small gash was in the centre of it. “Az, what happened?” Y/N rushed over to him.

“It was just something that happened a couple of days ago, it is healing but quite slowly,” Azriel explained.

“You must have broken a rib or two,” Y/N examined the injury. “Or three.”

“I know,” Azriel said, sitting up a bit further in the bath. Y/N couldn’t help but let her eyes drift slightly but once she realised what she was doing, she snapped them back to Azriel, who luckily didn’t notice her brief distraction.

“What do you need me for?” Y/N asked.

A small blush coated Azriel’s cheeks. “It’s embarrassing to ask now you are here.”

Y/N smiled at him. “Go on, it can’t be that bad.”

“I need you to clean my wings,” Azriel replied, his blush deepening. “I’ve managed to do the bottom of them but I can’t reach the top without this stupid injury causing me pain.”

“Oh,” Y/N said, avoiding looking at Azriel directly.

“Forget it,” Azriel said. “It was stupid of me to ask.”

“No, no, it’s not that,” Y/N said, fighting the urge to brush the wet strands of hair away from his forehead. “It’s just…you don’t ever let anyone touch your wings.”

“I trust you.” The comment came tumbling out of Azriel’s mouth quickly.

Y/N smiled. “I’m glad.”

Azriel cleared his throat. “Yes, well you don’t need to do it if you don’t wish to. I’m sure I can manage.”

“I will do it for you, Az,” Y/N said.

Azriel didn’t respond, not even when Y/N reached for the small washcloth beside him. He continued to stare straight ahead at the shutters and did not move as Y/N gathered supplies.

“Lavender or lemon?” Y/N asked.

“What?” Azriel asked.

“For the oil,” Y/N clarified. “Lavender or lemon?”

“Um, lavender,” Azriel said.

Y/N smiled softly. “Excellent choice.”

Azriel barely nodded as he fixated his eyes ahead once more. The moment Y/N placed the wash cloth against his wing, Azriel immediately flinched away, splashing water at Y/N in the process.

“Sorry,” Azriel mumbled.

Y/N placed the washcloth back onto his wing. This time Azriel did not flinch away but he was tense. Y/N continued to wipe away the grime until she threw the washcloth down onto the floor. Y/N could see all of the tension in Azriel’s body. She leant forward between his wings and draped her body on his.

“What are you doing?” Azriel asked.

“Just relax for me, Azriel,” Y/N whispered into his ear causing Azriel to shudder.

“I’m finding it quite difficult,” Azriel replied.

“Do you trust me?” Y/N asked.

“Of course I do,” Azriel said. “That's why I asked you to do this.”

“Then why are you still so tense?” Y/N asked.

“Because I know that if I relax too much, then…”

Y/N’s eyes briefly glanced down to where the bubbled obstructed Azriel’s lower half and everything clicked together. She always knew that his wings were sensitive but never realised that he could become so pent up just from her washing them.

“I see,” Y/N muttered.

“You should just leave,” Azriel said.

Y/N wrapped her arms around Azriel’s shoulders. “And why should I do that?”

“Because I don’t want to make you uncomfortable,” Azriel muttered, his hands now caressing her arms.

“You won’t make me uncomfortable, Azriel,” Y/N said, her lips grazing his ear. “All you need to do is relax for me. Whatever happens, happens.”

Azriel slowly moved his head to face her and her eyes flicked down to his lips for a brief moment. She wanted to know how it felt to have his lips pressed against hers.

“Whatever happens, happens,” Azriel repeated, his eyes flicking down to her lips. Unlike Y/N, Azriel didn’t try to hide it.

Y/N pulled away and picked up a fresh washcloth and began to wipe off the grime from his wings. Azriel flinched for a moment before relaxing against the bath, allowing Y/N to wipe all the dirt from his wings. A content sigh left his lips as she did so.

Once all of the grime was gone, Y/N looked at Azriel and did not find one trace of rigidness within his body. “I’m going to use the oil now, if that’s okay with you.”

“I’m fine with that,” Azriel responded.

Y/N poured a generous amount of the oil onto her hands, the aroma filling the room. Y/N rubbed it into her hands and slowly reached towards his wings. She had never touched them before but she had always wondered what they felt like. She was pleasantly shocked to find them quite soft and smooth. The occasional small scar changed the texture, but they were nothing like Y/N imagined them feeling.

Azriel’s breathing changed as Y/N continued her movements on his wings, spreading the oil across them. He took heavier breaths and Y/N could already begin to smell the scent of his arousal cutting through the lavender.

Y/N could tell that she had hit a particular sensitive part on his wing as Azriel gripped the side of the bathtub tightly, his knuckles turning white.

“You can leave if you want to, Y/N,” Azriel said, his voice slightly breathless.

“Whatever happens, happens,” Y/N responded. Despite her not receiving the pleasure Azriel was, her voice was breathless too. The blissed out look on Azriel’s face was one she wanted to see more often.

The sensitive part of his wing proved to be a place where Azriel liked to be touched as a soft moan slipped through his lips. “Y/N…”

“Yes?” She asked.

“Please,” Azriel said, his hips twitched under the water, “don’t stop.”

Y/N leaned forward and pressed a kiss against his wing. “I wasn’t planning on it.”

As she massaged the oil into his wings, Y/N continued to pull sweet groans from the shadowsinger. If Y/N was being completely honest, the sound was music to her ears. She had always been somewhat attracted to Azriel but it was only recently where she had begun to question her attraction to him even more and she was sure that her feelings toward him weren’t completely platonic. He was the most beautiful male she had ever seen and even more beautiful now as he cried out in pleasure. Pleasure that she was causing him all because he trusted her.

“Fuck,” Azriel grunted, hips bucking in the water.

“Do you want me to stop?” Y/N teased.

“Don’t you dare,” Azriel said.

Y/N smirked before draping herself across his back once more, her hand continuing their movements on his wing. Azriel pants were even more beautiful to listen to in her ear as she pressed soft kisses against his neck and shoulder.

“Y/N,” Azriel groaned. “If you don’t stop doing that, I will come right here on the spot.”

“Am I just that attractive?” The question was aimed to simply tease Azriel, it was not meant to be taken seriously at all.

“Yes, you are,” Azriel admitted. “You drive me crazy whenever you walk into a room. Do you know how hard it is to not greet you with a kiss whenever I see you? You are the most beautiful female I have ever seen and you have no idea how long I have wanted to say these words.”

Y/N stopped the movements on his wing. “Do you really mean that, Az?”

“Of course I mean it!” He exclaimed. “And we will talk about it after, but right now if you don’t move your damn hand Y/N, I am sure I will simply die in this bath tub.”

Y/N pressed a kiss against his neck. “Always so dramatic.”

Azriel didn’t respond. His only reaction to her words was a series of loud moans, now not afraid to conceal them. “Y/N, I am so close, my love.”

“Touch yourself,” Y/N whispered.

Azriel didn’t need to be told twice as he released his grip from the side of the bath and wrapped a hand around his cock and began to pump it up and down fast. The sounds came tumbling out of his mouth and Y/N did not want to silence them but she couldn’t help herself as she placed her lips over his. They were soft and fit perfectly against hers.

With his other hand, Azriel reached for her and laced his fingers through her hair, deepening the kiss. Y/N only pulled away for a brief moment. “Come for me, my love.”

With only a few more pumps of his cock and an added pressure on the sensitive parts of his wings, Azriel came panting against Y/N’s mouth. He pressed his lips against hers, craving the feeling once more. Y/N held onto him tightly until his high was over.

Azriel slumped against the bath and further into Y/N’s arms. He slowly caught his breath back and opened his eyes.

Y/N smiled at him. “Hi.”

Azriel smiled back. “Hi.”

Y/N pecked his lips. “As much as I don’t want to leave you right now, I think you should finish up here and meet me in the bedroom because we certainly have a few things to discuss.”

“I think so too,” Azriel muttered.

Y/N pulled away from him, despite her not wanting to at all. Her pyjamas were soaked through but she did not care as she walked to the bathroom door. “There are some clothes just outside for you.”

“Thank you, Y/N,” Azriel said.

“Don’t keep me waiting too long,” Y/N said before leaving the bathroom.

With a bright smile on her face, she walked down the short hall to her bedroom. She changed into a new, fresh set of pyjamas and waited for Azriel. It did not take long at all for the bathroom door to open and for footsteps to pad down the hall. The bedroom door was opened and Azriel stood in the doorway. He seemed to quickly dry off his hair as it was sticking up in every direction but Y/N only thought it made him look adorable.

“I love you,” Azriel said suddenly.

Y/N’s eyes widened. “Az–”

“I know that this is sudden and I promise that it is not just because you gave me a great orgasm in a bathtub, but I love you. I am in love with you and I have been for a long time,” he admits.

Y/N patted the bed next to her and Azriel walked over and slid under the covers, facing Y/N. “You love me?”

“I do,” Azriel said, reaching out to caress her cheek. “I know I am not good at voicing my feelings and all of this seems so sudden but I need to tell you. We can’t pretend what just happened in the bathroom didn’t just happen and continue with our friendship like normal. I love you, Y/N. If you don’t feel the same way, I understand but I cannot go another day without telling you.”

“Az,” Y/N said, her eyes full of love. “I love you too.”

“You do?” Azriel asked, somewhat shyly.

“Of course I do,” Y/N said. “I thought I only loved you as a friend. But recently I began to notice that friends don’t normally imagine what their friends' lips feel like against theirs. Friends don’t realise that they have always had an attraction to thief friends and find them absolutely breathtaking.” Azriel blushed. “Friends don’t act like a couple. Let’s face it Azriel, we have been acting like a couple for years, minus the kissing.”

Azriel let out a quiet laugh. “I know.”

Y/N smiled before letting out a yawn. “Now as much as I want to continue this conversation, why don’t we go to sleep.”

Azriel smirked before pressing his lips against her jaw. “I thought I could repay you for what you did for me in the bathroom.”

Y/N pulled away from Azriel’s kissed and gently held his face between her hands. “Azriel, as much as I love you, and it feels so good to say that, I was trying to sleep before you arrived here. And if I’m being honest I would rather get a great night sleep with your arms wrapped around me than an earth shattering orgasm right now. Perhaps that can wait until tomorrow. But right now, all I want is to fall asleep in the arms of my love.”

Azriel smiled and pressed a sweet kiss against her lips. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” Y/N said, nuzzling her head into his chest.

Underneath the scent of the soaps Y/N had leant him, she could still smell the familiar scent of Azriel and with that she drifted off into a peaceful sleep.

#acotar x reader #a court of thorns and roses #azriel x reader #azriel acotar #azriel #azriel shadowsinger #azriel fluff #azriel smut #acotar

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aethelwyneleigh27 · 5 months ago

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Our Throne of Ruin

Chapter One: Blood-Stained Hand of a Royal

Plus-size/Chubby afab! fem! Princess!Reader x Villain!Simon

Warnings and Disclaimers: Violence, Assault, and Attempted Sexual Assault?? (Not by Simon, it is disgusting and uncomfortable so please do not continue if you have a faint heart), Gore, Severed Body Parts, Decapitation.

Genres: Romance, x Reader Insert, Alternate Universe, Dark Fantasy, Fantasy AU, Royalty AU, Villain AU, Arranged Marriage, Dark Romance??

Throne Of Blood and Ruin Playlist <3

My CoD Masterlist and Series Masterlist <3

If you prefer to read it in Wattpad's format (Please leave comments) <3

Next Chapter

"My lady, these appear to be exceedingly valuable," Leticia, your young handmaiden, exclaimed breathlessly as she held up the ruby-encrusted silver earrings against your ears to see how they would look on you.

"I'm certain the lord who dispatched it desires a royal womb for their heirs," you said with a scoff, rolling your eyes, as you favored jewelry received as genuine gifts over bribes.

Leticia offered a simple smile, setting aside the jewelry she held into the untouched box, and instead, she searched for the ones you favored most… gold, diamonds, and pearls.

Earrings that match the pearls and gold details on the bodice of your dress perfectly, complemented by a crown crafted from the same materials as the jewels dangling from your ears.

Your senior handmaiden, Agatha, attempted to kneel and place your walking jewelry on your feet.

"Agatha! What are you doing?" you exclaimed, though the answer was clear to you. Before she could reply, you interjected, "No, please. I appreciate your willingness to serve, but don't kneel; it could injure you."

With a sigh, you stood from your vanity seat and helped her to her feet. She responded with a smile brimming with thankfulness.

"As kind and caring as ever, Your Highness," she said, lifting the small basin filled with rosewater to wash your hands, then gently wiping them with a white cloth dampened in the scented water.

The gods are aware that the woman has aged gracefully, yet there's concern she may injure herself with the relentless demanding tasks handmaidens endure. You slip on your shoes while Leticia unravels your hair from the curling cloths.

"What would you like done with your hair, my lady?"

"Pearls, Leticia…" you murmured, gazing into the mirror.

Once your handmaidens had finished preparing you, Leticia suggested a leisurely walk. She knew you might use this as the perfect opportunity to have an encounter with those vying for affection.

With a light melody on your lips, you wandered the castle's ramparts with an air of freedom.

You turn to a corner to find a man, only you could assume was a contender as well. Dressed in whatever garb their nation was to consider fashion, he had two knights along either side of him. The way he held himself, you could already tell. How arrogant.

You walked past him without much care to greet him, a test to see how he'd take rejection. He commands his knights to leave him be, striding next to you.

"I must admit I wasn't expecting to be graced with your presence so soon." He said you didn't respond verbally. Instead choosing to raise a brow at his statement, clearly not realizing that he's talking to you far too casually for your liking.

He scoffs, trying to wrap his arm around your shoulder to which you shrugged his hand off. "You reek of ale and brothels" you whispered to yourself as you subtly waved off the smell of his breath from your face.

You felt an almost cracking pain on your wrist as you were yanked back, your eyes widened, he had heard you.

You tried to free yourself but instead, he pulled the clasp and chain of your necklace, effectively choking you with the decorative metal against your skin. You pried your hands between it and your neck, desperately trying to claw his grip off.

The pain was unlike anything you had ever experienced, burning intensely. Your breaths were shallow and frantic. Tears welled up uncontrollably, spilling over.

It felt as though the muffled choking sounds were yours alone as your body convulsed. Your windpipe seemed to be caving under an unyielding grip, with every attempt to breathe met by an impenetrable barrier.

A wet, sloppy tongue dragged across your cheek, leaving a slimy trail that made your skin crawl. The unexpected touch was cold and clammy, like the lick of a serpent, and the stench of sour mixed with the pungent smell of fermented bitterness in his breath lingered in the air.

Your stomach churned with disgust as your body flinched away from his chest which he forcibly pressed against your back. Disgusting bastard, his chuckling fueled your nerves with more anger and fear.

"Pretty, defenseless little princess.." You attempted to protest, but it emerged as nothing more than a feeble whimper.

Someone, help me. Please...

You prayed for the air, for someone...

It wasn't until he was yanked away that you heard a thud, and you began to violently cough, the pressure on your throat finally easing. Collapsing to your knees, you groaned from the sudden pain, crawling away before turning to see what had transpired.

The man who just attempted to assault you on the ground and unconscious as an unrecognizable but broad figure retreated to the shadows out of the corner of your eye, just observing.

All your life, you've felt like s prey to the disgusting eyes of men older than your father, this wasn't new.

"My lady!" The scream of your handmaiden, Leticia, echoed as she rounded the corner in search of you. Panic etched her features, tears brimming at the sight of the redness on your neck.

You deemed it unwise to inform your king of the incident, especially since he was the one attempting to auction you off to a man who fancied himself a god among men.

You dusted your gown off as you instructed Leticia to ask for a tonic at the castle's apothecary, your throat nearly giving out at the soreness.

You had opted to seek solace at your place of worship before continuing through the not-so-exciting festivities your father arranged, despite your attempts to distract yourself, you cannot shake off the feeling of being watched.

Something waiting to pounce at you from within the shadows..

Prayer beads, it wasn't in your pockets.

You continue to pat around your body. "My lady, you seem troubled. Is something amiss?" Leticia asked, concern never leaving her tone since the events that transpired.

"My prayer beads, I must've misplaced or dropped them earlier," You mumbled.

"Oh.." was all she could respond, she knew how cherished that item was to you, being passed down from your mother.

"I'll make sure to find them later on, I swear that on my own mother," she lifted her palm, and a small smile broke from your lips at the promise.

You get up from your knees to set the candle you've lit down on the foot of the monument of the goddess of marriage and fertility, payers inclined to help you find a husband, unlike your father. Hoping your mother will also hear your prayers in the afterlife.

"Leticia, my shawl please" You sighed. She slipped the thin fabric over your exposed shoulders and replaced your colored veil with your earlier embellishments.

...

You composed yourself as well as possible, attempting to breathe steadily and keep your eyes open to avoid flashes of the experience from just a few hours before by picking the skin next to your nails.

Gripping your aching neck, you felt the imprints of the recent assault. As your gaze shifted to the entrance, the massive doors groaned, pushed open by the servants outside.

From the comfort of your cushioned throne, you surveyed the assembly, noting how the sound redirected their attention to the entrance, just as your eyes had done moments before.

The usual commotion and conversation that overlapped one another at such an event died out faster than poison could kill a rat, all sounds replaced by the clanking of metal... most can recognize the hollow sound of armor and the sharp end of a sword scratching the stone floor.

There a familiar broad man stood. You can't quite put your finger on it, but his face is like something out of your dreams, masked with a knight's great helm.

The silence was defending as he left the people speechless or much rather afraid to speak of anything, covered in blood and some flesh stood a stranger.

He made his way in, the crowds of nobles making a path for him as he did. The carpet beneath him somehow cushioning his heavily metal-cladded steps.

Your eyes widened at the sight of the stranger as he got closer, only now seeing what he had by his side while he hastily threw his great helm on the ground to pay his respect in court.

The severed head of the noble who tried to lay a hand on you, holding it by the fistful of hair as the blood from the neck stained the fur carpet below it.

You hear the king beside you as he chokes. He could not control his breathing, seeming to be on the verge of a heart attack.

"WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?! YOU INSOLENT BASTARD, YOU'LL PAY FOR THIS!" One of the nobles in the crowd screamed with much anger, must be his father or a figure of some sort.

The man attempts to lunge at the man in armor but is held back by three of the palace knights. Loud clanking as the lord hit the armored men over and over.

Oddly enough, you weren't terrified after the initial shock. The man that stood before you severed the head of the same man who tried to commit an unforgivable act on you, it was almost poetic in its own way... satisfying even.

He knelt before you instead of your father, much to your surprise. Gasps and murmurs emulated from the nobles and royals present, apart from the screaming guardian of the beheaded suitor.

He had no respect for the head he held as he threw it on the side, having it roll to the king's feet who had no words of offense as he was too shocked to utter anything but silent stuttering.

On one knee the man with blood-soaked presumably light hair remained, his head down, eyes still on the floor. You stood up from your throne, head held high as you walked towards the armored fellow.

The intricate precious metal encrusted with priceless jewels hung on your ears and swayed along with the ones in your hair. The train of your silk gown flows effortlessly behind you.

Your eyes on him at every step, he lifted his gaze from down below onto you, his hand shifting. Uncertain of what to anticipate, you watched as he extended his hand toward you, palm open, the callouses on his fingers beckoning you closer.

You care not for the blood that stained his hand and caked under his nails, so you hesitantly slipped your fingers in his, heart pounding out of your chest as the stranger bathed in blood grinned at seeing your hand in his.

He gripped your hand in the most gentle way you've ever had anyone touch you. He lightly tugged on your arm and let you naturally step closer with his guidance as he brought the back of your hand up to his lips.

You felt his dry yet warm lips on your knuckles, eyes up on you as he looked for approval. You blinked, and for a moment your eyes drifted to the severed head.. its own open but soulless before you reverted your gaze back to the man who has your hand.

With another kiss on your ring, he releases your hand. You gaze at it, noticing how the blood has stained it in an effortlessly abstract pattern.

Breathlessly staring at your hand, now tainted with the filthy blood of one of the bastards who hurt and wronged you. Staring back at you, presenting an opportunity on a silver platter, all just for you...

A/n: I know this series will come more likely with backlash because of the reader's body description being so specific, the gore, and just the general dark fantasy aspect however I find it difficult to write for something I cannot insert myself in as it is where I build my ideas from. I know that the listed warnings are quite dark, but I am new to writing dark fantasy, I know that dark romance is very controversial, but I don't know if this counts as one of them. This is a very long one, and I hope you all enjoy it. Also new dividers from @/cafekitsune, as always 👀

Note: Comment to be in the taglist.

Series Taglist: @wishesforyou @puff0o0 @simping4konig @simp4konig @blingblong55 @azereus @rustic-guitar-notes @callsignsnowpunisher @anonymuslydumb @skeletalgoats @icarustypicalfall @connorsui @capuccino192 @miss-gms-and-the-rotten-womb @celestialhole @the-second-sage @starryylies @duck-a-doodle @everlastingmoonlightsworld @keiva1000 @drewsmuse @sommii @sleep101 @blueladys-world @myspaceisra

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importantstudentbusinessspy-blog · 8 months ago

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Cold-hearted wolf

Masterlist

Pairing: Cregan Stark × Martell reader

Tags: NSFW, arranged marriage, cregan starts out mean in this, enemies to lovers cus he's grumpy and has no time for feelings,

Chapter 4 - He finally reunites with you after months of war. Don't try this at home. Possible misuse of the wod "tenfold." Cheers ;)

The Stark bannermen arrived at Winterfell to happy cheers. A whirlwind of emotions swirled in Cegan's thoughts as he dismounted his steed and headed into the castle in determination to find you.

After reuniting with his half-sister, he was given knowledge that the training room was where you had apparently been spending most of your time when you weren't accepting audience with the common folk.

He pushed open the training room doors, armor clinking as he moved. His heart raced as he laid eyes on you, clad in a set of sparring leathers; breaches that hugged your legs, tucked into knee high boots, and a wrap of the same material around your torso and chest, leaving your shoulders and arms bare for mobility.

His brow furrowed. Some of the marks along your arms were new. Your hair was longer, and you grew in height. Your features matured during his time away. You looked beautiful. You always had, but there had been a warm naivety to your look that was now transformed into a cold beauty.

Oblivious to Cregan's presence, you were presently clashing sword to sword with your personal guard, ser Alek.

Cregan smirked, taking in your form in the tight clothes. War was a lonely ordeal, and this wasn't a bad view to come home to.

After a swift jab that you expertly deflected, your sparring partner stopped moving, looking over your shoulder. Lowering your blade, you followed his gaze and came to a halt.

Cregan stood across from you, covered in new wounds and bearing the marks of battle. His presence commanding. His stubble and the dark circles under his grey eyes were a stark contrast to the man you had last seen months back.

As he approached you, you couldn't help but notice the gravity in his gaze when it traveled across your body. There was an intensity in his eyes, a deep seriousness that sent shivers down your spine.

Gathering yourself, you curtseyed and cleared your throat. "Cr- my lord. Welcome home!"

Cregan gestured to your sparring partner, "Leave us," dismissing the knight with a single command. He then ordered, "Ensure that no one enters this room."

“My lord,” the knight bowed his head before heading out the door.

The room was now empty, leaving you alone with your husband. The tension was palpable, and your heart raced. Cregan turned his back to you and placed his sword against a wall, then began to unclasp his armor, discarding the shirt beneath it beneath as well. His back and arms have sharpened with muscle since you parted and were now painted with fresh bruises and marks.

“You didn't wish to welcome me, wife?” He asked, still facing away from you.

"I did." You swallowed. “But you have not returned my letters. I wasn't sure if you were cross with me...”

He faced you again and strode to the wash basin in the corner of the room, dipping his hands in the cold water and running them over his body to scrub off dried blood and dirt.

You let out a gasp when you saw the massive scar ranging from the top of his neck down to his lower abdomen. It was stitched up. Recently. You instinctively walked up to him, but remembering their last encounter, you stopped.

Cregan's eyes roamed over you, taking in your sparring leathers. You raised your chin defiantly, preparing to hear to more scrutiny of your cultural wardrobe. “I see you've kept yourself busy.” He muttered, eyeing the door behind which stood ser Alek.

You exhaled sharply, detesting the implication of his words. Summoning your patience, you replied coolly, "You must be tired from your travels. Shall I summon a maester?” You made way for the door.

"No, stay," He said firmly, his voice commanding and filled with an intensity that you were used to seeing from him by now.

“I see your displeasure with me outlasted our time apart.” You murmured, unable to help yourself.

He chuckled, and you got a strange sense that the joke was on you. Your patience was wearing thin, and you couldn't hold back your frustration any longer.

You exhaled sharply. "My parents lied when they told me about our engagement."

"Lied?"

“Yes.” You insisted, raising your chin defiantly. “I didn't need to be told you'd be a great ruler. There was enough talk throughout the realm of the young warrior, Cregan Stark." You rolled your eyes. "But they promised I would have love. And you know nothing of the word."

"Oh?" He raised a brow, feigning curiosity. "By all means, go on."

You did. "A strong marriage should be built on love, passion, and friendship-"

Cregan laughed harshly. His eyes burning with an intensity that took you by surprise. He took a step closer, and you took a step back. "Love has no place in a marriage of alliance, princess. Passion doesn't mix well with duty..."

His grey eyes held yours as he made steps towards you, backing you up until your back hit a wall. "As for friendship… I'm afraid I fall short on that front too. Forgive me, but I don't wish to be your friend.” He sneered at the last word.

Your breath quickened, searching his eyes for the meaning of his words. Why was he so cruel? What have you ever done to him? The room spun as Cregan closed the distance between himself and you.

“Can't you pretend, then?” You let out the words between and gasp and a sob. “For the sake of duty, tell me that you missed me. That you missed your wife!” You begged, eyes glistening with tears as you looked up at him.

His lips were on yours before you could say another word. His bare arms circling around your back to pull you roughly against him, grasping at the you wore. His bare skin was hot against yours, and the sensory overload had you struggling to breathe. Tremors followed wherever his scarred, calloused fingers touched your skin.

His kiss was heavy with emotion. Everything he wanted to say to you for the past months was in that kiss. Not letting you part for a moment, his hands held you tightly against his hard frame.

Growing light-headed, you pulled away to take in some much needed oxygen.

The action had him glaring at you. “You dare pull away from me?”

“I was short of breath!” You rushed to explain, still trying to gain control of your speeding heart.

His icy stare cracked with a small quirk of his lips. He enveloped your lips in another hungry kiss, distracting you as his hands unfastened the ties of your breaches, reaching in to slide his fingers against your folds.

You whined, arching into him. The movement lowered the material wrapped around your chest, exposing your breasts.

You couldn't believe it. Here you were, a princess of Dorne, half clad and held against the wall of a training room by the Lord of Winterfell as he trailed vicious bites and kisses down your breasts while his fingers played with you.

Cregan dove in without hesitation, biting one nipple hungirly. You jumped as the mix of pain and pleasure. Your nipples were already sensitive from the cold of the room. His scorching tongue only added fuel to the fire, his stubble leaving scratches on your skin. Cregan's gaze focused on you, enjoying the display in front of him as you offered your body like a gift.

He switched to your other nipple, as his fingers began to apply pressure to your clit. He looked at you with adoration as he wispered. "I missed you, princess. Fuck, have I missed you..."

Your heart swelled with his confession as you moved against his fingers. Strands of hair fell apart from your braid, sticking your forehead, while your lips, red, swollen, and glistening from his kisses, framed every moan, whimper, and whine you made. You looked absolutely spent, and he hasn't even done anything yet.

When he and his friends first visited the brothel, the women acted shy and timid outside of the bedroom, but in it, they were experienced, confident. You were the opposite, he noted, carrying yourself with such dignity even back when he first met you. But right now, his hot-tempered little wife was blushing, falling apart at his words, tongue, and fingers. Gods, he needed to see you like this every day from now on.

He lowered to his knees, opening your breaches to take slow licks up your slit. He inserted a finger into your cunt. Feeling how drenched you were, he groaned against you, the vibrations travelling across your skin, making you shudder.

His smile grew with each wimper you let out as he sucked on your clit, tilting his head from side to side, changing angles to find the right one. Your wimpers picked up. You would have been surprised if the staff walking outside the room didn't know exactly what was happening behind the doors.

Cregan inserted another finger into you, his thumb pressing circles on your clit.

“Cregan!” You moaned, struggling to speak. “Please, im- oh!”

“You're what, princess?” You heard the wicked grin in his question. Seeing your hips move up and down against him, chasing that intense feeling, summoned a wave of pride in him. Curving his fingers inside you, he searched for that specific spot he knew you always cried for. A sudden squeal from you confirmed his successful exploration, and he ran his fingers over the bundle of nerves again and again.

Your hands grasped at the wall behind you, shuddering to the movements of his tongue and fingers. He licked your clit through your orgasm until you shook though the last of it.

Getting up, he kissed you deeply, pushing his tongue in to let you taste herself. You whined against him, your body curling into istelf as the last aftershocks of your orgasm subsided. He was holding you up, stopping you from completely collapsing on the floor.

You don't recall when he had lowered his breaches or lined your bodies up so that the tip of his cock would be at your entrance. Panic filled your mind at the danger he was putting himself in. “Cregan, your stitches!”

“I dont care. I need to feel you.” He growled, lifting you up with ease, strong arms wrapping your legs around his torso. Lowering to kiss you again, Cregan slowly pushed into you. He groaned into the kiss, pulling away to savor the view.

His wife looked so fragile like this, blinking up at him like he was a god among men, unable to catch her breath, eyes glistening with unshed tears. He slowly began to move in and out of you, echoing your earlier words back at you. “Tell your husband you missed him, y/n."

“I missed you, s-so much!” You whimpered, happy to finally experience the sensation you had longed for for the past five months. To feel full. Whole again. You hurt on those lonely nights while he was away, fighting for your kingdom. Fighting for your people. Fighting for you.

“I love you, Cregan.” You didn't care that this was a marriage of convenience to him, that duty and passion didn't mix. It was how you felt, and you wanted him to know.

He groaned against your throat, making you shiver. “Say it again.”

“I love you,” you repeated.

“Again, darling.”

“I love you!”

He held you possessively biting his lip as he watched you meet his every thrust. “I love you too, princess.”

“I love you.” Your voice broke as you felt the warm feeling coming closer and closer. “Please don't stop,”

His movements sped up and he groaned against you. You held tight when he thrust harshly against you, both of you gasping as you reached completion.

With one hand still holding you up, he leaned the other to prop himself up against the wall behind you. You held on to him as tightly as you could, mumbling. “Don't let go, don't let me go.”

“Shh, princess.” He kissed your eyes, your cheeks, and your lips. “I'm right here. I have you.”

You couldn't stay conscious if you wanted to, a powerful wave of exhaustion had you blinking In and out of sleep.

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

You woke up the next day snuggled against him in your bed of furs. He had washed himself clean, muscular arms wrapped around you covered in washed and healing scars. His face looked nearly peaceful if it wasn't for the worried crease between his dark brows.

You carefully brought your finger to the scar etching across his chest. Your hand shook as you thought of how close he was to death, had the weapon hit a mere inch lower. You planted a kiss on the wound, thanking the gods he came back home to you.

“It isn't so bad,” his voice raspy from sleep, spoke above you as his hand came to cradle the back of your head. “I fed him to my sword tenfold.”

You smiled, gently resting your head on his chest, taking in his scent. You missed it so much. “I only care that you came back to me.”

The sounds of the palace staff beginning their day's work behind the doors reminded you that you needed to get up to attend to your responsibilities. When you began to sit up, he pulled you back down, turning the two of you so that you were flat on your back with him resting on his elbows above you. He leaned down and kissed you gently. “I was a fool to dismiss you.”

“You were”

His shoulders shook with laughter, as he trailed kisses around your face and neck, his lips tickling your skin. “Your plan saved many of our men.”

“Our plan.” You said, sighing against his kisses.

“Your idea.” He insisted, nipping your collarbone, telling you not to argue.

It was your turn to laugh. “Very well then.”

You saw movements at the foot of the bed, and Cregan's dog jumped up to you, eagerl licking your face.

“Grey!” You smiled at the dog, who was panting with his tongue out, nuzzling against you. “How I missed you, my furry friend.”

You heard a muffled groan and something that sounded like "attention theif" behind you as Cregan untangled himself and walked over to slip on his robe. You watched in awe before clearing your throat, remembering something important. "Busy day today for you."

"Is that so?" He hummed, coming to lean on his hands against the bed, his face inches from yours as he whispered. “And what do I have planned?”

“You're to meet with a delegation from the Eyrie.” You supplied, reminding him that you worked as the Lady of the house while he was away, conducting business on his behalf. “There is business regarding crop shortages you need to address.”

His brow creased, and you hand shot up to brush it until the frown was gone. “Infighting?” He murmured,

You nodded.

“In the riverlands?”

“Aye, there's tension in the south.”

"Kings Landing?"

"Yes."

He pursed his lips before getting up. Muttering "Always something with that fucking family," under his breath.

You grinned at his annoyed expression, "Duty awaits, lord Stark." You turned back to the dog, petting him. "We can stay here, right Grey?"

"Oh, think again, lady Stark." Cregan took your hand and pulled you from the bed and against him with ease. You squeaked and rushed to grab a pelt to cover yourself as Grey stirred and jumped from the bed as well.

Cregan drew you against him. “What time is the meeting with the delegation?"

"In the late morning." You looked up at him. "Soon,"

He gave you his signature wolfish grin and raised his brow. "Then you better get ready."

@malfoycassimalfoy @leahnicole1219 @literishdegree99 @sardynes @magicseahorse @nsr-15 @littlebirdgot @ginarely-blog

#cregan stark x reader #cregan x you #cregan stark #cregan fanfiction #house of the dragon #hotd #hotd fanfic #smut #cregan stark smut

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arts-bloody-rose · 5 months ago

Text

Blood of A Rose - Dangerous Territory (Art the Clown x Fem!Reader)

Masterlist

Summary - As (y/n) and Art bask in their growing relationship, a new fan of (y/n)’s dares to make themselves known.

Notes - A request for a fan/stalker fic to add to the series! I’m such a whore for reader having scary dog privileges with Art. Let me know if you have more you would like to see from this beautiful couple 💕

Word Count - 3,256

Warning(s) - Blood, gore, violence, stalker, smut (voyeurism)

Song Inspiration - SAYGRACE - You Don’t Own Me

(Y/n) stood beside Art’s workbench, easel in front of her as she painted away while he twisted and screwed. Her camera sat on the spare stool, the photo of the terrified woman open and used as her main subject while she made improvisations along the way.

She made a point to remind herself to bring her camera whenever her and Art went together, the raw fear and emotion he brought to his victims drawing a copious amount of inspiration for new pieces.

While her photography was fun and equally beautiful, there was something more soothing and calming about a canvas to her, especially in the presence of her favorite company.

(Y/n) sighed, her wrist cracking as she flexed it, stiff from holding the brush for some odd hours.

Art looked over at her and got her attention, waving for her to step away from the easel and motioned to take a deep breath.

“I know, I just get so invested to a point where I can’t stop.” He gave her a disapproving look. “But I think it’s about that time, yeah.”

She stepped away and took off her apron, moving to a nearby basin to wash her hands before putting away her camera. She grabbed the stool, making her way over to Art to sit next to the workbench.

“Whatcha making this time?” She asked curiously.

Art’s grin met his eyes wickedly as he raised his shoulders in excitement. He dramatically waved his hands over it, showcasing to her what looked like a bear trap, but it seemed to have a contraption to fit a head. Art hooked his fingers into his upper and lower mouth, slowly pulling his lips apart to represent what it did.

(Y/n) gasped and nearly gagged. “A reverse bear trap?” Baffled, she looked between the torture device and Art. “It’s - it’s impressive. And rather ingenious, if I’m being honest. Possibly your best yet.” And by best, she meant most disturbing.

Art swayed in his seat bashfully, blinking rapidly to accentuate the emotion. (Y/n) giggled and shook her head, the clown clapping to himself before returning to his work.

She tried to focus on the equipment he made, forearm resting on the bench while her other elbow did the same, chin resting in the palm of her hand with a content smile. She tried to focus, but her eyes couldn’t help but drift to his hands as they grasped at his tools.

Her eyes then slowly traveled up his arms, his torso. Up to the painted face she had grown to love and adore. His eyes carefully focused on the task before him, his mouth ticking up and down every now and then as he concentrated.

The intensity of his focus was enough to make her stomach flutter, a rare moment where she could see him without his theatrics. Where she could see him vulnerable, trusting her enough to comfortably let down the persona he lifted to those outside of their safe space.

(Y/n) gazed up at him endearingly, taking in his every expression, every twitch of his face. Art then dragged his eyes over to meet her own, but she didn’t falter. Her smile remained with the same endearment that she openly showed to him.

“Hi.” She welcomed him gently, her voice nearly a whisper.

His grin finally reached his face and he waved at her, and if she could see the skin of his cheeks there would no doubt be a blush. (Y/n) stood with a certain level of grace and rounded the corner of the bench to stand beside him, wrapping her arms around his torso to which he gladly accepted. He rested an arm around her shoulders and pulled her closer, laying a cheek on the top of her head. His other hand sat on her arm at his front, fingers tickling the surface as they moved against it.

Bing.

Their heads perked up and they looked at each other in confusion. Art watched as (y/n) looked around, trying to find something. Her eyes landed on the spare stool where her phone sat and she pulled away to retrieve it, checking for notifications.

Alas, there was one.

Her face contorted further into confusion as her eyes skimmed over an email.

“What…?” She questioned to herself. “Someone just asked for a commission?” (Y/n) explained to Art.

His face frowned to join her confusion, head leaning in to say ‘ who? ’.

“I’m not sure, it was anonymous. Apparently they want this though.” She turned her phone to show him the message, and the further he read, the more he grinned mischievously. “Looks like we got work to do.” (Y/n) smiled at him with equal mischief.

“I’m half expecting it to be some kind of a joke and they just use it to humiliate me somehow.” (Y/n) thought out loud as Art listened from beside her, their hands linked together as he swung their arms between them as they walked.

Art shrugged, not denying the possibility. He stopped them, though, and turned to her. He motioned to her, then splayed his hand on his chest adoringly.

“You’re all that matters, I know. I’m just so used to everyone else’s negativity, that's all.” He grabbed her hand again and they resumed their walk. “I just can’t help but run through the possibilities.”

Art pushed himself into her and she stumbled slightly, shooting him a side glare while he laughed to himself.

“ Ha ha. ” She mocked him and giggled.

As they meandered casually in the darker town, they eventually came upon a wandering man that Art deemed sufficient, looking over at his partner for approval as it was her own commission. They ran through their typical routine consisting of Art stalking the victim as (y/n) mindlessly followed.

As they reached the man, he shrieked as Art dragged him into an alleyway, (y/n) casually leaning against the wall beside its entrance and waiting for the clown to do what he did best.

The sounds of struggle and screaming was simply background noise for the artist with how long the two of them had been terrorizing the county together, or rather Art. She simply tagged along to catch a photo or two, and to spend time with him of course.

For the times she did sneak a peek - accidentally - she couldn’t help the warmth that formed in her lower abdomen from the sight of him. Whether he was throwing around the victim like a ragdoll or pinning them down with simply a knee, his acts of strength always held a special place in her heart.

And something else.

Art eventually finished, stepping out of the alleyway with fresh blood on himself while hiding something behind his back, other than his bag. He looked over at (y/n) and wiggled his eyebrows, suddenly whipping out a severed hand with a look of surprise.

He threw himself into a laughing fit as (y/n) jumped away from it with a shriek, hunching over and slapping his thigh with the hand.

“You’re on a roll tonight, you know that?” She told him sarcastically and he pointed at her. “Well, I’m not holding your hand, now, not with that thing.”

His laughter immediately stopped and he pouted, watching as she began to make her way back to his - now, their - hideout.

Once they finally returned, they made their way to Art’s workbench and he generously cleared off one side for her to use, setting the hand on top of it as she set down a voluminous rose at the corner.

She picked off a few petals and scattered them methodically, leading towards the hand that was made to look as if it was reaching for the rose. She snapped a few photos of it, trying to catch good lighting as she did so until she was satisfied.

The hours that followed, she went through her photos, picking out the one her and Art liked the most, editing it further and going through the process of submitting it for the public’s consumption.

By the time she was finished, the sun was almost peaking over the horizon and she yawned, rubbing at her eyes tiredly.

“I’m gonna sleep here tonight, okay?” She told Art who looked at her from his spot at the workbench with an eager smile. She chuckled at him and gently grasped at his wrist. “Lay with me?” She asked innocently.

Art immediately sprung off of the stool, standing behind her and pushing her towards the bedroom as she laughed along the way. He shut the door behind them as she went to get comfortable on the mattress, now covered in a multitude of blankets and pillows collected from her countless visits.

He practically jumped onto the bed beside her and she yelped, swatting at him playfully. Once they finally calmed down, (Y/n) snuggled up to Art who laid on his back. She wrapped an arm over his stomach, a leg lifted up over his hips as her head rested on his shoulder. His nose nuzzled against her head, then placed an exaggerated kiss on it before shimmying to get comfortable with her.

Her eyes drifted shut, breathing in his unique scent. With how gruesome he was, it was surprisingly more pleasant than one would expect. Obviously, the smell of blood and grime would always follow him.

But she also caught whiffs of laundry detergent, grass and leaves. And the different smells of the houses and buildings he entered stuck to him. It was an odd mixture, but it was one she grew to call home.

While her eyes were closed, her mind wandered. She was flattered with the commission, flattered that someone finally appreciated her work. It was a surprise, but it also wasn’t the first she had received. Though they weren’t exactly common, either.

But the emails didn’t stop with the commission.

(Y/n) began to find unsigned notes in the mailbox of her house, writing about how perfect her art was, how it captured something no one else could see. She would’ve been flattered again this time around, if it wasn’t for the fact that she never publicly gave out her address.

She looked over at Art who closed her front door after stopping by to grab a few knives from her kitchen. Quickly, she ripped up the letters and threw them into her trash bin before he could question them, but he did so anyway after hearing the tear of the paper.

“Just junk mail.” (Y/n) reassured him and took hold of his free hand to begin their walk. Art gladly followed, but he glanced over at her suspiciously when he heard the slight change in flux of her usually calm voice.

The following days, as she continued to check her mail, the notes grew more personal, more intimate. They began to not only compliment her work, but began to compliment her own self.

They called her beautiful. Irresistible. They even went as far as to inappropriately describe what they would’ve liked to do with her.

As she read through a particularly explicit note - now accompanied by a picture of her house - her heart began to race as her lips parted. The paper began to shake in her hands and she suddenly looked up and around her, paranoia kicking in.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a shadow move and whipped her head in its direction, but by the time she could decipher it, it was gone.

(Y/n) jumped when she felt a tap on her shoulder and saw Art now standing next to her with a grin, but it didn’t reach his eyes. He noticed the genuine fear in her eyes and his mouth twitched, eyebrows furrowed as he knew she was not one to spook easily.

Art suddenly snatched the paper from her hands, grin slowly dissipating as his eyes skimmed over it, then the picture. His eyes squinted once he finished and looked around them, grabbing (y/n) by the fabric of her shirt and yanking her close to him forcefully. She immediately clung to him as his eyes carefully searched the area, searching for the poor soul that sealed their fate.

When he found nothing out of the ordinary, she knew it was going to be a long night for them as she watched the anger boil beneath his masked grin, itching to satisfy it.

Some nights later, she woke up from her sleep earlier than usual. She typically held a strict sleeping schedule, rarely diverting. And her clown always paid attention to detail.

Art watched her, his usual unblinking stare locked onto her tense form. She hadn’t looked at him yet, too distracted by whatever thoughts gnawed at her mind, but Art saw. He always saw.

She stood in front of her easel, her hand trembling as she tried to focus on her canvas. Her strokes were less confident than usual, her creativity clouded by whatever fear gripped her.

After some time, (y/n) then sighed in an uncharacteristic show of frustration, tossing the brush down and rubbing her temples. Her phone buzzed on the stool, and she glanced at it nervously. Another message.

Art moved silently behind her, peering over her shoulder at the text.

You’re even more beautiful in person, (y/n).

She flinched, quickly locking her phone, but not before Art had seen enough. His gaze darkened with his teeth bared. He didn’t like this. He didn’t like anyone intruding on what was his.

(Y/n) belonged to him. She was his, and he didn’t take kindly to threats.

(Y/n)’s anxiety was palpable, her breathing uneven as she paced the room. He watched her carefully, his fingers twitching with the urge to do something. To protect. To hunt.

When (Y/n) finally sat down, Art slunk away into the darkness, his mind already churning with thoughts of who this intruder could be.

But he would find out. He always did.

Not long after, (y/n) stood at her easel as usual, adding final touches to her current work when the door to the hideout busted open.

She jumped and dropped her brush in the process, turning to see a bloodied Art dragging a man by his ear into one of the empty rooms. He whimpered and cried helplessly after being thrown inside, Art exiting from the room he was in and entering another.

The clown dragged a chair back into the first room, followed by more sounds of struggle and chains being rustled. She stared at Art when he entered their workspace, a sadistic grin plastered on his face as he grabbed one of their stools, then took up her arm and pulled both into the room with the man.

She entered to see him bloodied and already ripped apart in a few places, gasping for air and choking on his own blood. Art placed the stool a few feet in front of where the man sat chained to the chair and patted the top of it.

Art then proudly moved to stand beside him, presenting him to her with a flair and wide grin. With a confused expression, (y/n) looked between the two men until Art pulled out the note with the picture. He held it up, teasingly shaking it, then turned to the man and shoved it into his mouth aggressively.

“You?” (Y/n) asked the man incredulously as Art made his way over to her, his eyes never leaving the chair. She looked over at Art who then wiggled his eyebrows at her, hands brushing over her as he coaxed her to sit on the stool.

Art kissed her cheek dramatically, tickled the spot with his finger, then looked over at the man with a surprised expression, hand over his mouth. His grin returned suddenly, eyes filled with a torturous perversity as he slowly locked eyes with (y/n).

Her breath grew shallow, shaky as one of his hands grasped her arm, stepping behind her before his opposite found its place on her other. She felt his breath fan over her neck, tickling as his nose and chin feathered over her skin.

His hands leisurely progressed down to her waist, exposed fingertips raising her skin in its wake. They grasped and applied pressure, squeezing before they lowered further to her hips, brushing over the bone as they passed to her thighs. Art squeezed at their inner fat, his tongue running along the shell of her ear luring them open as they both stared at the man before them.

The fingertips of one hand danced along the fabric of her trousers, inching their way up to her clothed center as her head tilted back, breathing into his neck desperately as he seduced her.

He teased (y/n), caressing over her sensitive bud as she sighed under his ear. His other hand rose to wrap around her front, tugging her into him forcibly. The hand that teased her finally began to apply pressure, the circular motion of his fingers making her back arch against him and his body pressed further against her.

Her hand moved to settle behind his neck as he continued his rhythm, breathing uneven as he began to increase his speed. Art himself released a shaky breath when she finally moaned, quickly locking eyes with the brave soul in front of them once again.

(Y/n) felt a familiar pressure begin to build, her legs growing antsy as she moved against him. His teeth bit down on the lobe of her ear, and she gripped his neck tighter as the pleasure flooded her senses. With a second bite, she cried out with her orgasm and Art reached up to her jaw, turning her head to face the man and forcing him to watch.

Before (y/n) could even recover, Art forced his hand under her trousers and panties, coating his fingers in her slick before plunging two fingers into her. With another cry, the stool beneath her teetered as she jolted at the intrusion, hand flying down to grip at his wrist as he began to pump his digits in and out of her while simultaneously securing the stool.

The hand at her jaw slid down to her neck and wrapped around it, tight enough for her to feel breathless yet not enough to completely block her airway. She gasped as it heightened the intensity of it all, and Art eyed her expressions menacingly before turning to look at the man to show his surprise of her reaction.

He bared his teeth once more after hearing her vocals shift, his fingers eagerly chasing after her release as she clawed at Art desperately.

Heaving out a rather fierce moan, she came on his hand a second time and he flinched back with excitement, laughter soon following as he rode it out and fed into it.

Art then eased out his fingers, bringing them to his mouth to lick at them hungrily. He steadied (y/n) on the stool before reaching down for something behind her, then slinked over to stand beside the man.

(Y/n) looked down to see a brick hammer in Art’s hand, watching as the clown bent down with his hands on his knees as he grinned ominously at her stalker.

Art held up the hammer to the man’s face and wiggled it, showing it off to him before suddenly pulling his arm back and sending it to his skull.

#art the clown x reader #art the clown #art #art x reader #terrifier #terrifier 2 #Terrifier 3 #terrifier x reader #clown #damien leone #david howard thornton #fanfiction #oneshots #request #blood of a rose #x reader

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dfortrafalgar · 1 month ago

Text

Stain

You're awoken from your slumber by Law, only to find an accident that happened overnight.

Warnings: Female periods

Ever the professional, level-headed man, Law barely blinked twice when he realized what he saw out of the corner of his eye when he carefully slipped out from under his bedsheets, leaving you nestled under the warm blankets in a peaceful slumber. The light from the gas lamp he kept lit in his quarters overnight barely supplied his retinas any way to take in what he noticed, but he still spotted it.

Right beside your curled up form was a splotch of deep red fluid staining the plain white bedsheets. A larger stain ran from between your legs and up the back of your shorts.

Law grabbed a small agenda you kept beside the bed which helped you keep track of any of your bodily needs being on a pirate ship away from land for most of your time. You would always blot the days you got your period with red ink to stay on top of when your cycle would most likely appear. Just as Law anticipated, your cycle arrived a week earlier than you had initially planned.

He made quick work of marking the day’s small box with a blot of red ink for you. Tucking away the agenda, he shoved aside any of his current early morning plans and instead placed a gentle hand on your shoulder, lightly jostling you awake. With a grumble, you tucked your head into your arms, hiding your face from the world in a feeble attempt to get more precious sleep.

“Baby, wake up,” Law said with a hushed tone.

“What do you want,” you mumbled into your pillow.

You made a motion to roll over and face your boyfriend, but the slight movement of your body immediately alerted you to the uncomfortable, wet feeling in your shorts. You propped yourself up on your elbows, gazing over your body, eyes falling on the obvious blood stain that lay below you.

“Oh my god–”

Law’s hand wrapped around your wrist and beckoned you closer. “Don’t worry about it.”

“But I ruined your sheets,” you responded with worry laced on your tongue, now fully awake and aware of your situation. “I didn’t know it would be here so early…”

“You couldn’t have known,” he reassured you with a calm demeanor. His pulling on your wrist finally caused you to maneuver carefully towards him, allowing Law to scoop his arms under your legs and haul you out of bed.

You cringed at the feeling between your legs. “I’m so sorry.” Your arms wrapped around his neck for stability.

Law responded by placing a kiss to the top of your head. He used his foot to open his small private bathroom, allowing you to step out of his arms and onto the floor. Wordlessly, he started the tap of the metal bathtub, letting hot water flow into the basin. You watched helplessly as he opened a tiny wooden linen cupboard, procuring two towels, an unopened bar of light soap, and a very small bottle of a lavender scented body wash.

The sight made you crack a smile. “Where did you get a lavender body wash?”

“Stole it from an inn we stayed at on an island. Free soap and shampoo can’t be beat,” he muttered. You snorted, which made your boyfriend smile at you, amused by the situation himself. He turned back to you after placing the items on the side of the bath. “You get undressed, I’ll change the bed.” With a frown, you removed your bed shirt. “You really shouldn't, I'm the one that made the mess.”

“Nah, you can’t make a mess when you’re sleeping.” Law held out his hand towards you when you removed your ruined shorts and underwear. You were bare in front of him, knowing that you had absolutely nothing you could hide from him even if you wanted to. (He had already seen every inch of you.)

“What?” you asked, confused, looking at his hand.

“I’ll clean your shorts.”

“Huh? No, they’re disgusting now, I can just throw them out!”

Law grabbed the tiny bottle of body wash from the side of the tub. Staring at you with his steely gray eyes, he uttered something under his breath that was drowned out by the sound of the gushing water flowing into the basin. Suddenly, your hand grasped the body wash, and Law’s hand held the cleaner portion of your panties and shorts. With a smirk, he said, “I’ll clean them.”

“You’re so stubborn,” you retorted with a pout that quickly turned into a pleased smile. “You treat me so well.”

“Of course I do. Now get in the bath and clean up.”

“Aye aye, captain,” you mused with a chuckle. Law rolled his eyes, leaving you to bathe in private, knowing his coy smirk gave away any hint of feigned annoyance.

You rinsed your lower body before settling into the bath, sighing at the warmth flooding across your skin. The metal wash basin kept the water insulated, which kept you much warmer for longer. It was pure bliss, steam slowly flowing through the air. You could easily fall back into a nice sleep like this, but you could already hear Law’s disapproving voice in your ear advising you not to. ‘Your skin will dry out and you’ll get sores and those will get infected,’ he’d probably say. He was always so matter-of-fact when it came to anything medical, not that you could really blame him.

With a hum, you poured some of the body wash into your hands and scrubbed it along your body, inhaling the soothing scent that wafted through the steam. Your boyfriend was really too good to you. Most people would be revolted waking up to a blood stain from a period in their bed, but Law couldn’t be phased by anything. It was nature, it was a fact of life. He gave you no room to be embarrassed, which made you quickly shove down any shame you felt and replace it with relief and glee that you were lucky enough to end up with a man so understanding and empathetic in his own strange ways.

You didn’t know how much time passed, your eyes closed taking in all the warmth you could from the soothing bath, now accompanied by a lingering floral aroma in the air. You jumped slightly at the sound of the narrow door swinging open with a creak, revealing the lanky form of Law with a brand new change of clothes in his hands. Tucked in his arm with your clothes was a small box of tampons and a slightly larger plastic bag full of wrapped pads.

“I got them from the crew bathroom, I realized we ran out in here.” He placed the items on the lid of the tiny toilet that occupied his private bathroom. “How are you feeling?”

“I feel fine, really, just a bit embarrassed still,” you replied.

Law nodded. “I get it.” He procured your previous pair of underwear from the pocket of his sweatpants. With a smug grin, he held them up in his one hand, making the fabric sway back and forth in the air. “Look, no stain.”

Your eyes widened. They looked brand new. “How did you do that?”

The raven-haired man simply shrugged, waggling his fingers on his free hand. “Little devil fruit abuse.”

You groaned. “You do too much!”

He shoved them back into his pocket. “I think I do just enough. But if you want to pay me back somehow, I wouldn’t say no.” He flashed a coy wink toward you.

You cupped water in your hands and flung it at him, making him jump backward with a shout. “You sly bastard!” you chided with a hearty laugh.

Law couldn’t fight his own chuckle that bubbled from his lungs as he perched on the edge of the tub, leaning his elbow on his knee as he dragged his lean fingers through your damp hair. You leaned into his touch, warmth from the bath water as well as his tender caresses making the blood in your veins spark with boundless affection… until a hefty yawn forced its way out.

You pouted. “You treat me so well, but you did wake me up.”

“Yeah?” your boyfriend added.

“I’m expecting you to let me sleep in tomorrow to make up for this.”

“No-can-do, sweetpea. You’re on morning watch.”

The Surgeon of Death quieted your protest with a firm kiss to your lips, his heart hammering behind his sternum as you dropped the subject and smiled against his skin.

#x reader #reader insert #fem reader #one piece x reader #op x reader #trafalgar law x reader #law x reader #trafalgar d water law x reader #trafalgar d water law #trafalgar law #law oneshot

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winxanity-ii · 2 months ago

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⌜Godly Things | Chapter 21 Chapter 21 | venus rising⌟

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You woke with a gasp.

Your chest heaved, lungs dragging in air like you had been drowning. Your body jolted upright before your mind caught up, heart hammering so hard it echoed in your ears.

Something was wrong.

Your skin was damp, a faint sheen of sweat clinging to your brow despite the cool air seeping in from the open window. Your breathing was uneven, shuddering. When you reached up to wipe your face, your fingers came away wet.

Tears.

You blinked rapidly, swiping them away with the heel of your hand, confusion tightening your throat. You weren't crying—at least, you didn't think you were. But the evidence was there, clinging to your lashes, trailing down your cheeks.

Why?

No nightmare lingered. No fragmented memory. No reason for this hollow weight pressing against yoribs—s, heavy and unshakable.

You swallowed hard, forcing it down. It had to be exhaustion.

Last night—Apollo—the endless music, the warmth of his presence, the way his voice wrapped around you like sunlight. Maybe it had drained you more than you realized.

That had to be it.

Letting out a slow breath, you swung your legs over the bed, pressing your feet to the cool floor to ground yourself. The lingering haze clung to your mind as you stretched, muscles heavier than usual—but not unpleasantly so.

Moving toward the water basin in the corner, you caught a glimpse of yourself in the polished bronze mirror.

You looked... different.

Not in any obvious way. But something about the morning light—it kissed your skin, lingered a little too long, like it knew you. Like it belonged to you.

You shook the thought away.

Instead, you focused on the familiar routine of washing up, letting the cold water shock your system awake. As you dressed, an unconscious hum slipped from your lips.

A hymn.

To Apollo.

Your fingers stilled on the fabric of your tunic, the sound of your own voice catching you off guard. You hadn't meant to hum it. Hadn't even thought about it. Yet it had come so naturally.

A warmth settled in your chest—gentle, knowing.

You ignored it, shaking the feeling off as you adjusted your clothes and made your way to the door. Whatever last night had meant, it was over. It was morning, and you had things to do.

Taking a steadying breath, you pulled open the door—

Only to nearly walk straight into Callias.

The two of you froze, eyes locking in mutual surprise.

Callias stood mid-motion, one hand raised as if about to knock, the other balancing a small wooden tray. A simple meal rested on top—freshly cut fruit, a bit of cheese, some olives. The kind of food you might have grabbed between chores or on the way to the queen's chambers.

You blinked. He blinked back.

A beat of silence stretched between you before Callias let out a quiet chuckle, a lopsided grin pulling at his lips.

"Well, hello, sleepyhead," he teased, tilting his head slightly. "What made you so tired?"

The question caught you off guard. Your mind scrambled for an answer—one that made sense because how could you possibly explain it? That you'd spent the night with Apollo himself, playing for him, singing for him, lost in melodies that dimmed the stars?

So instead, you settled for something vague.

"You wouldn't believe me," you muttered, shaking your head.

Callias raised an eyebrow, smirk deepening. "Wouldn't I?" he challenged, leaning against the doorframe, eyes glinting with lazy amusement. "You were asleep almost all day."

Your breath caught.

"...What?"

Callias laughed, clearly amused by your reaction. "Yeah, it's almost noon," he said casually, shifting the tray so he could gesture toward the hallway.

The words hit like a stone sinking in water, dragging down into something deep and unsteady.

Noon?

You had gone to sleep just before dawn—only a few hours ago. At least, that's what you thought. You remembered the sky still dark when you finally lay down, Apollo's presence still lingering as you drifted off.

And now... it was noon?

You must have frozen completely because Callias chuckled again, though this time, curiosity edged into his amusement.

"Yeah, you were out," he continued. "But no worries. Prince Telemachus told the king and queen at breakfast that you'd be taking the morning off, so no one's disturbed you."

Telemachus?

Your thoughts whirled, struggling to keep up. You hadn't asked for the morning off. But... he had done it for you? Had gone out of his way to make sure no one expected anything from you after last night?

Something warm and strange settled in your chest, but it was quickly buried beneath the lingering shock.

"Are you okay?" Callias asked, his teasing tone dipping into something softer.

You forced a nod, though your thoughts still spun. "Yeah... just—didn't realize how tired I was."

Not a lie. Not entirely.

Callias studied you for a beat, sharp eyes scanning like he was debating whether to pry. But then, just as quickly, his usual carefree grin returned as he held out the tray. "Well, here, eat something. You probably need it after hibernating."

You took the tray with a small nod of thanks, though your mind was still sluggish, trying to catch up. So much had happened—Apollo, Cleo, your parents, everything—and yet, in reality, it had all been just one day.

The realization made your head spin.

Your body still carried the exhaustion of the Underworld, the weight of divine revelation pressing into your bones. Time had been strange since you entered the Underworld, slipping through your fingers like sand. But even then, you had never slept for so long.

"Anyway, I actually came to tell you about Venus tonight." Callias' grin widened, eyes gleaming with excitement.

You blinked, thrown by the shift. "Venus?"

"Yeah," he nodded, his enthusiasm infectious. "It'll be at its brightest tonight. The whole town is talking about it. Perfectly clear skies, the kind of thing you have to see." Your fingers tightened slightly around the tray as something twisted deep in your chest—not unpleasant, but unexpected.

Venus.

A memory surfaced unbidden, breaking through the fog.

"Tomorrow night, Venus will be at its brightest," Telemachus had said, voice quieter than usual. "It lights up the sky like a beacon. I... was thinking—if you'd like, you could... join me?"

The way he had looked at you then—hopeful, hesitant—made your heart clench.

But before you could answer, Andreia had appeared.

Her presence had shattered the moment, her voice dripping with familiarity as she touched Telemachus' arm, claiming his attention like it was hers to take. He had turned to her, torn between duty and whatever had just passed between you.

And just like that, the offer had been swept away.

You had almost forgotten. Or maybe you had forced yourself to.

Callias' voice pulled you back to the present before you could spiral too deep.

"I was thinking we could go together," he said, his eagerness cutting through the weight pressing in your chest. "It's supposed to be stunning, and I don't want to go alone."

You hesitated, emotions warring inside you.

A part of you—a small, ugly part—wanted to refuse. To lock yourself away in your room and ignore the ache curling inside your chest. To pretend none of this mattered.

But another part of you—the part that refused to let Andreia's callousness dictate your choices—wanted to go.

What did it matter if Telemachus was watching Venus with Andreia?

What did it really matter?

You looked up at Callias, his expectant expression so open, so easy. Unlike Telemachus, who carried the weight of a kingdom on his shoulders, Callias was light. No burdens, no expectations. Just here, grinning at you like nothing was complicated at all.

And maybe, for tonight, you needed that.

You took a breath, shoving the ache of Telemachus and Andreia down. Letting it settle beneath the surface.

"Alright," you said, forcing a small smile. "I'll go."

Callias' grin widened, his whole face lighting up. "Perfect! I'll meet you in the square after sunset."

You nodded, watching as he stepped back with an easy wave before disappearing down the corridor, leaving you alone with your thoughts.

The tray in your hands felt heavier than before.

Exhaling slowly, you closed the door behind you and turned back into your room.

For the first time in what felt like days, you had plans. Not with Telemachus. Not with duty pressing against your back.

But with someone who simply wanted to enjoy the stars.

And maybe, just maybe, that was exactly what you needed.

☆

As the day stretched on, you noticed something felt off.

It wasn't something you could name—not fully.

It started the moment you woke, lingering at the edges of your mind like the remnants of a dream you couldn't quite grasp. The air felt heavier, the familiar scents of the palace—sea salt, aged stone, fresh linens—were sharper, more defined, as if you were experiencing them for the first time.

At first, you brushed it off—exhaustion, the weight of yesterday, your mind still catching up to the reality that had shifted beneath your feet.

But as the hours passed, the feeling didn't fade.

If anything, it grew stronger.

Every sound, every color, every sensation felt amplified, as if you had been seeing the world through a veil this entire time, and now, without warning, it had been ripped away.

Something had changed.

You had changed.

But you couldn't explain how.

And you weren't sure if you were ready to.

The sky had darkened by the time you made your way down to the courtyard, the last streaks of twilight fading into the deep indigo of night. Stars pricked through the heavens like scattered embers, and in the east, Venus shone the brightest—a beacon against the endless dark.

You exhaled, wrapping your shawl tighter around your shoulders.

Tonight was simple. Meet Callias. Watch Venus. Let the night be just a night.

This was fine. You were fine.

You weren't thinking about the way Apollo had looked at you like you were his to cherish, weren't thinking about the way Telemachus had asked you to see Venus with him, only for Andreia to steal that moment away.

No. You weren't thinking about any of that.

Tonight was different.

Tonight, you had Callias.

And yet, as you approached the courtyard, your steps slowed.

Something stirred in the distance.

Not Callias—not yet.

Beyond the stone archway, at the entrance to the palace grounds, a small caravan was being prepared.

Horses shifted under the weight of their bridles, their breath visible in the cool night air. Royal attendants moved with practiced efficiency, adjusting saddles, tightening straps, securing supplies. Lanterns flickered, casting long, wavering shadows against the stone walls.

You didn't have to wonder who it was for.

Then, you saw them.

Telemachus and Andreia stood just beyond the main path, illuminated by the soft golden glow of the torches.

Your breath hitched—just for a moment.

She stood close to Telemachus. Too close.

Her fingers barely grazed his arm, but the touch lingered. She was speaking, head tilted just so, lips curved in an easy, confident smile. The way she looked at him—like she knew she was the center of his attention, like she expected it—made your stomach churn.

But it was Telemachus' expression that truly caught you.

He wasn't smiling.

His posture was stiff, hands clasped tightly in front of him. He nodded as she spoke, but his gaze flickered—to the ground, to the attendants, to the caravan. Anywhere but her.

Anywhere but here.

It was the same look he wore when he was enduring something he didn't want but knew he couldn't refuse.

You should have looked away.

You should have kept walking, let the night unfold as it was meant to—without letting yourself drown in the weight of something you couldn't change.

But you didn't.

Something about them—the almost-blue of her dress, the tension in his shoulders, the way the torches illuminated them like a portrait painted in gold—held you there.

This was what could have been yours.

But it wasn't.

Not anymore.

A cool breeze brushed past, making you pull your shawl tighter, and for the briefest moment, you let yourself feel it.

The ache.

The loss.

The quiet, unbearable knowing that whatever had existed between you and Telemachus—that unspoken, fragile thing—was now on the verge of shambles.

And then—

"___!"

The voice snapped you out of your thoughts, light and familiar.

You turned, blinking quickly as Callias strode into view, his usual easy grin in place. He looked effortlessly put together, as always—his brown curls tousled from the wind, a thin gold chain catching the torchlight at his throat.

Behind you, the caravan began to move—horses led forward, wheels creaking against the stone path as the procession disappeared into the night.

Telemachus and Andreia turned as well, their figures half-illuminated in the shifting glow.

And for just a second—a single, fleeting second—Telemachus' gaze found yours.

Your breath caught.

Something flickered across his face—something unreadable, something buried too deep to name.

But then, just as quickly, he looked away, shifting his attention back to Andreia as she spoke.

And that was that.

Callias came to a stop beside you, watching the caravan fade into the dark before turning back to you with an amused tilt of his head.

"You were staring," he noted, teasing but light. "Do I even need to ask why?"

You swallowed, forcing a small, dismissive smile. "Not at all."

He studied you for a moment, his usual playfulness tempered by something quieter, more knowing. But whatever he wanted to say, he held back. Instead, he threw an arm over your shoulders, tugging you lightly toward the garden terraces.

"Good thing I'm here to rescue you from your thoughts," he said cheerfully. "Come on, we have stars to see. And I, for one, refuse to let you mope under a sky this clear."

You let out a soft laugh, shaking your head, and fell into step beside him.

The night stretched before you, open and endless, the sky above glittering with stars.

.☆. .✩. .☆.

By the time you and Callias reached the stargazing spot, both of you were panting slightly, the climb steeper than expected. The winding paths of Ithaca weren't anything new to you, but under the cover of night—with the occasional loose stone threatening to send you tumbling—it felt far more treacherous than it should have.

Callias let out a dramatic huff beside you, swiping his curls away from his forehead with the back of his hand. "You know," he started, breath coming in short bursts, "for an island, Ithaca sure has an ungodly amount of hills."

You let out a breathless laugh. "One would think being surrounded by the sea would make it flatter," you teased, shaking your head.

"Exactly!" Callias threw his hands up. "Mountains? Fine. Valleys? Sure. But this?" He gestured vaguely at the incline you'd just conquered, his frustration exaggerated enough to make you laugh again.

The cool night air brushed against your skin, and as you finally lifted your gaze, the sight before you made the ache in your legs seem like a small price to pay.

The stargazing area had been arranged with far more preparation than you'd expected. Ithaca, despite its deep-rooted love for land and sky, didn't typically host large stargazing gatherings. Most preferred quiet moments, watching from their own homes, sharing the night with close friends or family.

But this—this was different.

The clearing had been carefully prepared, no doubt orchestrated by Andreia herself. Blankets covered the grass while small wooden trays sat between each seating arrangement, filled with fresh figs, olives, and honeyed almonds.

Lanterns lined the outskirts, casting a warm, flickering glow—just enough to move around without overpowering the brilliance of the stars.

Already, a handful of servants from both Bronte and Ithaca had settled in, chatting in hushed voices, adjusting their seats. Others lingered by the edges, watching as the last of the caravan settled into place.

It was beautiful, you had to admit, even if it left a strange weight in your chest.

Your gaze instinctively drifted skyward, drawn by habit and expectation. But instead of the vast, glittering expanse of stars you had imagined, drifting clouds veiled the heavens. The familiar constellations flickered faintly behind them, their shapes blurred and broken, swallowed and revealed in slow-moving patterns.

It wasn't unusual for clouds to pass through, but it felt almost... untimely. As though the heavens had drawn a curtain over something you were meant to see.

Your lips parted slightly, brows knitting as you scanned the sky, searching—searching for the one light you had been waiting for.

Venus should have been visible by now.

Yet, for a long, stretching moment, it was nowhere to be found.

A pang of disappointment nudged at your ribs, though you weren't sure why. It was just a planet, just another celestial body tracing its path through the heavens. And yet...

"Don't tell we crawled up this hill for a cloudy sky," Callias groaned beside you, following your gaze with a half-hearted glare at the heavens. He crossed his arms, tapping his fingers against his sleeve. "If Venus is hiding after all that effort, I'm taking it as a personal betrayal."

You let out a small, breathy laugh, though your fingers unconsciously tightened at your sides.

"Just wait," you murmured, more to yourself than to him. "It'll show."

Callias barely gave you a moment before grabbing your wrist, tugging you toward a group already seated near the edge of the gathering. "C'mon," he grinned, excitement buzzing in his tone. "There are a few people I want you to meet."

You let him lead you, weaving through clusters of people, careful not to step too close to the edge of the hill.

Your nerves kicked in when you realized where he was taking you—to a Brontean group, already settled comfortably in a small circle.

Three figures—two women and one man—looked up as Callias approached, their faces illuminated by the soft lantern glow.

The first woman, a foreign-looking girl with deep brown skin framed by a golden-wrapped headscarf, was the first to notice you. Her dark eyes flickered with curiosity, lips twitching in amusement as she nudged the girl beside her.

The second woman—lighter in complexion, black curls tumbling over her shoulders, an air of quiet confidence around her—lifted her gaze from a bowl of figs, sharp blue eyes assessing you quickly.

The man, broad-shouldered with a trimmed beard and golden rings adorning his fingers, smirked as Callias approached.

"If it isn't Ithaca's favorite socialite," he teased, shifting slightly to make room.

Callias rolled his eyes but grinned, tugging you closer. "Everyone, this is ____, the newest addition to my very selective circle of friends."

The woman with the golden scarf hummed, tilting her head. "So this is the one Callias won't shut up about," she mused. "Well, aren't you a pretty lamb ready for slaughter?"

You blinked, caught off guard, while Callias groaned dramatically, shooting her an unimpressed look.

"Asta, that's not how we greet people."

The woman—Asta—shrugged, entirely unbothered. "I think it is."

The dark-haired woman smirked, leaning forward. "You have been talking about her a lot, Cal," she admitted, popping a fig into her mouth.

Callias nudged her foot. "I do have other things to talk about, you know."

"Sure," the man chuckled. "Like wine. And how much you hate horses."

Callias narrowed his eyes. "You're all terrible. Scooch over, we're sitting."

With a dramatic sigh, Asta made room, and Callias pulled you down beside him, flashing you a quick wink before turning back to the group.

The dark-haired woman studied you for a moment before offering a smooth smile. "I'm Lysandra," she introduced herself. "Lady Andreia's personal attendant."

Your breath hitched slightly, but you nodded, keeping your expression neutral.

Lysandra seemed to catch your hesitation because she leaned in slightly, lowering her voice. "Don't worry," she murmured, amusement flickering in her gaze. "I'm not here to test your loyalty or anything. Honestly, I'm just here for the stars and good company."

You offered a small smile, though your stomach still twisted uncomfortably.

Beside her, the man stretched, letting out a small sigh as he adjusted the rings on his fingers.

"And I'm Kieran," he said. "Bronte's Treasury Overseer and resident merchant-troublemaker. Whatever you need, I can find it—for a price, of course." His grin was easygoing, but his eyes were sharp, something calculated beneath the charm.

"And I," Asta cut in, her accent unfamiliar, "am just Asta. No fancy titles, no noble houses. Just a wandering soul who somehow ended up in Bronte."

You nodded, feeling slightly overwhelmed by the sheer presence of them all.

Callias, sensing your nerves, nudged you lightly.

"Relax," he whispered. "They don't bite." He paused, side-eyeing Asta, who merely raised an eyebrow. "Most of them don't."

That pulled a small, reluctant laugh from you, easing some of the tension in your chest.

Kieran, always one to seize an opportunity, leaned back on his hands with a grin. "So, Callias," he drawled, stretching his legs out in front of him. "What exactly have you been up to? It feels like we haven't seen you in ages."

Callias scoffed, waving him off. "You literally saw me earlier today. At lunch. And at dinner."

Asta snorted, shaking her head. "You mean we saw you grab a bite before immediately disappearing."

Lysandra smirked, adding in smoothly. "And even when you do stay, you can't stop talking about your new bestie." She glanced at you teasingly, amusement glimmering in her green eyes. "It's honestly kind of cute."

You blinked, caught between mild shock and embarrassment. Callias? Talking about you?

Callias groaned loudly, tossing his head back in dramatic exasperation. "Oh, for the love of the gods—" He shot Lysandra a playfully betrayed look. "You're all just mad I finally found someone who appreciates my charm."

Asta smirked. "Or someone who hasn't yet figured out how exhausting you are."

Laughter rippled through the group, warm and easy, and despite the lingering tension in your chest, you couldn't help but smile.

Callias placed a hand over his heart, dramatically wounded. "If this is how you're gonna treat me, then I'm leaving."

"No, you're not," Kieran said, rolling his eyes. "You wouldn't dare leave your bestie behind."

Callias grumbled something under his breath, but his grin gave him away. He leaned back onto his elbows, shaking his head in mock defeat.

Asta, still watching you with sharp curiosity, tilted her head. "So, ____," she said, smoothly bringing you into the conversation. "What's it like working under Ithaca's rule?"

Kieran perked up beside her, nudging Lysandra with his elbow. "Yeah! How's the pay? I might switch over."

Lysandra swatted his arm without looking. "You wouldn't last a week in Ithaca."

You smiled, feeling a little more at ease. "It's... not bad," you admitted, adjusting the fabric of your tunic as you as you considered your answer. "The royal family is warmer than most would expect."

Asta arched a brow, intrigued. "Warmer, huh?"

You nodded. "It wasn't always like this," you said, your voice softening in thought. "Before King Odysseus returned, things were... tense. The palace felt like it was holding its breath. The queen was strong, but the suitors brought uncertainty. It was hard to feel secure."

Your fingers traced absent patterns into your sleeve. "But ever since the king came home, things have been different. There's a new kind of peace in Ithaca. He's fair but firm. He sees people, not just titles."

Kieran hummed, considering. "Not bad," he mused. "Maybe I should switch over."

Lysandra groaned and flicked an olive at him. He barely dodged it. "Oh, shut up."

Then, she turned her gaze toward you, curiosity glinting in her eyes. "So, ____, what's he really like?"

You blinked, caught off guard. "Who?"

"The great King Odysseus, of course," she clarified. "Word of his return spread all the way to Bronte. Everyone was talking about it—the king who defeated death itself to come home."

Asta hummed in agreement. "It's a big reason why we're here, actually. Along with the whole Prince Andros situation, of course."

At the mention of Andros, a shadow flickered across Kieran's face before he scoffed.

"The 'Andros situation'—what a polite fucking way to put it," he muttered, voice edged with sarcasm. He stretched his legs out, leaning back on his hands. "More like the clean-up of a fool. Serves him right."

Asta shot him a warning look. "Careful," she said, voice even but pointed. "Someone might overhear and snitch to the princess."

Kieran rolled his eyes. "Oh, please. We're not in Bronte, Asta. What's she gonna do? Have me executed in Ithaca?"

Asta arched a brow, adjusting her seat. "No. But the way she's moving... she might find a way eventually."

Kieran's smirk faded into a scowl. He exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head. "Yeah. What a fast one, the princess is," he muttered, irritation laced through his voice.

Then, his sharp gaze flicked to you.

"Speaking of which," he said, tilting his head. "What have you heard on your end?"

You blinked. "Pardon?"

Kieran leaned forward slightly, his eyes glinting with intrigue. "C'mon. We're not gonna snitch. I just mean, what rumors have you heard? About Princess Andreia? About your prince?" he urged, tilting his head toward the clearing, subtly motioning with his hand.

Your chest tightened at the phrasing—your prince—before following his gesture, your gaze landing on the opposite side of the clearing, where the best seats for stargazing had been arranged.

Andreia sat in a broad wooden chair—one brought just for her—an ornate cushion beneath her to keep her comfortable on the rocky ground. She was speaking to Telemachus, lips curved into an easy, knowing smile. Her hands moved lightly as she spoke, graceful, practiced, but her expression betrayed little true emotion.

Telemachus, however, wasn't looking at her.

His face remained calm, polite. But his eyes were already fixed skyward, waiting for the clouds to part and reveal Venus. His fingers tapped absently against his knee, his mind clearly elsewhere.

You weren't sure why you kept watching him. Maybe it was the way his expression barely changed, the way his body sat there—composed, proper—while his hands betrayed his thoughts. The rhythmic tapping against his knee, the quiet inhale through his nose every few moments, the way his shoulders never fully relaxed despite Andreia's presence.

As if a memory had been scraped to the surface, Callias' words returned with startling clarity.

"One of Andreia's personal attendants let something slip... Apparently, she's been in talks to form political alliances between Bronte and Ithaca."

Your stomach tightened.

How long had it been since he told you that? A week? A day? Less? Everything that had happened—the Underworld, Apollo, your own unraveling—had swallowed your focus so completely that you had forgotten.

Just how much had she accomplished in that time?

Had she already planted her roots deeper into Ithaca's court? Had she secured her place by his side while you were tangled in your own problems, failing to notice?

Your fingers curled slightly against the fabric of your tunic.

What has she gained while I wasn't paying attention?

The thought made your skin crawl.

Not because of duty. Not because of political maneuvering—those had always existed, always shaped the lives of the powerful.

No, what unsettled you was Andreia herself.

"...the way she's moving... she might find a way eventually."

Asta's words echoed fresh in your mind, sharp and foreboding.

And the truth was, she was right.

Andreia wasn't just here to bask in Ithaca's hospitality. She wasn't lingering at Telemachus' side out of passing interest.

She was moving.

Every smile, every carefully placed word, every touch Telemachus never stopped—she was shifting the board, playing the game.

Your lips pressed into a thin line as your gaze lingered on her.

The dress she wore tonight was a lighter seafoam blue, not green—a color closer to Ithaca's than Bronte's. A subtle change, but deliberate. A symbol of someone adjusting, assimilating. She was embedding herself within Ithaca's court, reshaping her image to make it easier for others to see her as belonging here.

Beside its prince.

Your eyes flicked back to him.

His hands had gone still, resting idly against his knee. His face was polite, but distant.

Waiting for the clouds to move.

Not looking at her.

Your grip loosened slightly.

For all of Andreia's efforts, for all of her presence—

Telemachus was not looking at her.

He was looking up.

And for just a moment, you let yourself believe—maybe Asta was wrong.

Maybe, no matter how much Andreia tried to weave herself into his world, she would never truly have him.

You opened your mouth, ready to answer Kieran—to say something, maybe that you weren't sure, that you hadn't heard anything worth repeating.

But before you could get a word out—

A half-eaten fig flew across the blanket and smacked Kieran in the shoulder.

"Gods, do you lot even know how to ask a normal question?" Callias huffed, stretching out lazily as if he hadn't just launched fruit at someone. "What ever happened to 'Hey, ____! What'' your favorite color?' Or 'Wow, that's a nice shawl, where'd you get it?' You know—questions that don't make people think they're about to be interrogated."

Kieran let out an exaggerated sigh, dramatically rubbing his shoulder as if the fig had done any real damage. "Callias, you are insufferable."

"Selfish,"Lysandra agreed, shaking her head in mock disappointment.

"So selfish," Asta echoed, plucking the remains of the fig from where it had rolled onto the blanket and tossing it at Callias in retaliation. He dodged effortlessly, flashing them a smug grin.

"You're all just mad that I have social skills," Callias shot back, wagging a finger at them.

"You mean the skills of an annoying little brother," Lysandra muttered.

Kieran rolled his eyes and turned back to you. "This is the first Ithacan servant we've actually had a chance to talk to since being here—ever—and he want us to waste time with trivial nonsense?" He shot Callias a pointed look before glancing back at you. "I, for one, think we should make good use of the opportunity."

That... surprised you.

"You've... never spoken to any of the other servants?" you asked, hesitantly. "Is it... forbidden?"

The moment the words left your lips, the energy around the group shifted. A brief, noticeable silence settled, the once-playful air turning heavier, more serious.

Asta was the first to break it. "Not explicitly," she admitted, rolling a small olive between her fingers. "But it's an unwritten rule for Brontes not to be too communicative with outsiders."

Lysandra nodded, leaning back on her hands. "It's about presenting an image—one of strength, unity. The less our servants talk, the more disciplined and devoted our homeland appears to others. It's..." She hesitated, then settled on, "A way to maintain control, I suppose."

Kieran, however, scoffed loudly, completely unimpressed. "It's bullshit is what it is. The whole thing's designed to make us miserable. Keeps us longing for home, thinking about how much better we had it before leaving." His jaw tensed slightly, and for the first time since meeting him, there was no teasing in his voice—just frustration.

Asta arched a brow, a slow smirk tugging at her lips. "You've been awfully bold lately, Kieran." She propped her chin on her hand, eyes gleaming with amusement. "What happened to the perfect, quiet little merchant's son from Bronte?"

Kieran shot her an unimpressed glare. "He got a taste of freedom—of Ithaca—and now he's got a spine," he retorted dryly. Then, as if flipping a switch, his expression brightened.

"Oh! Tadros is passing out wine!"

He practically jolted upright, pointing toward the far end of the clearing before turning to Lysandra and tugging her arm. "Come on! Let's go before all the good stuff's gone!"

Lysandra rolled her eyes, though a faint smile played at her lips. "Fine, you child," she muttered, already getting to her feet.

Asta followed suit, stretching her arms above her head. "I'll help carry enough back for everyone," she said before shooting a smirk at Kieran. "Not that you'd be any help with that."

"You wound me," Kieran gasped, clutching his chest dramatically before grinning and leading the way toward the group of Bronte servants gathered around the wine.

As they walked off, you exhaled slowly, the weight of the conversation still lingering. The laughter and chatter faded into the background, leaving only the quiet hum of the night and the distant murmur of the gathering around the wine.

You turned toward Callias, curiosity—and unease—pressing against your chest too strongly to ignore.

"Is it really true?" you asked, voice quieter now that it was just the two of you. "That Bronte's servants aren't allowed to speak to Ithacans?"

Callias glanced at you, his expression unreadable for a moment before letting out a soft chuckle, shaking his head.

"Yeah, it's true," he admitted. "At least, that's how it's supposed to be."

Leaning back on his hands, he tilted his head toward the sky, his face thoughtful. "But I've never been one to stick to all the rules—especially not when the princess herself is out here making 'alliances.'" His lips curled into a knowing smirk, but there was something else behind it. Something tired.

His words made your stomach twist. You hesitated before asking carefully, "Have you... gotten into trouble because of... me?"

The smirk faltered—just for a second. It was quick, barely noticeable, but you caught it before he forced an easy grin back into place.

He shrugged, brushing invisible dust from his tunic as if the question meant nothing. "Of course not," he said lightly. "Like Kieran said, what could she do to us here? This isn't Bronte."

For some reason, you didn't believe him.

But instead of pressing the issue, you simply nodded in quiet acceptance. Maybe it was better not to know.

A flicker of movement caught your attention from the corner of your eye. A Bronte servant approached, their steps quick but measured, head slightly bowed as they reached Callias.

"The princess has requested your presence," they said in a hushed voice. "She wants you near her... and to play the panpipes."

A brief, loaded silence followed.

Callias didn't move at first, absorbing the words. Then, without hesitation, he gave a short nod. "Of course," he said, voice neutral. The servant inclined their head and disappeared back into the gathering like a shadow.

Once they were gone, Callias let out a long sigh, running a hand through his hair. "Well. That's that," he muttered, exhaling sharply before turning back to you. "Sorry, ____."

"You don't have to apologize, Callias," you assured him, offering a small smile. "She would've noticed you were here sooner or later anyway."

His gaze lingered on you for a moment, as if debating whether to say something more. Then, instead of dwelling on it, he grinned—though it didn't quite reach his eyes.

"You're right," he said. "Still—kind of a shame. I was having fun."

You chuckled softly. "Me too."

Callias stood, stretching his arms above his head before rolling out his shoulders. "Tell you what," he said, glancing down at you with a playful tilt of his head. "Tomorrow, let's hang out. No princess, no obligations—just a normal, rule-breaking Bronte servant and his new bestie."

The casual way he said it made you smile. "Alright," you agreed, nudging his foot with yours. "Tomorrow, then."

His grin widened before he took a step back. "Great. I'll come find you."

With that, he turned, heading toward the main gathering—toward Andreia, who was waiting.

You watched him go, the easy energy he always carried feeling just a little heavier tonight. As he disappeared into the crowd, you let out a small breath, shaking off the weight of it all.

Tomorrow.

That was something to look forward to.

But tonight wasn't over just yet.

Before you could dwell too much on Callias' departure, the sound of approaching footsteps pulled you back to the present.

Kieran, Lysandra, and Asta returned, carrying a few clay cups of wine between them. Kieran was the first to plop down beside you, exhaling like he'd just completed some impossible task. Lysandra and Asta followed, setting down a small flask with the remaining wine.

Asta's sharp eyes swept over the circle, immediately picking up on the absence.

"Where's Callias?" she asked, brow furrowing.

You hesitated, then sighed. "Princess Andreia sent for him."

That was all it took for the mood to drop.

Asta's mouth tightened into a thin line. Kieran scoffed, shaking his head as he handed you a cup of wine, and Lysandra sighed heavily, settling in beside Asta.

Kieran took a swig from his cup, grumbling, "Figures. The four of us finally get some time together, and she takes him. As always." He rubbed a hand down his face, exasperated.

Asta hummed in agreement. "It's no different than back home," she said, swirling her wine before taking a small sip. She turned to Lysandra. "Does she ever talk about why she loves picking on Callias so much?"

Lysandra frowned, clearly considering the question before shaking her head. "I'm not sure," she admitted. "Since we've come to Ithaca, I haven't been as close to her. It's not like before."

Kieran clicked his tongue. "Bet she caught on," he muttered, stretching his legs out in front of him. "Or another servant ratted them out. You know how Bronte royals are when they travel. They love pitting their servants against each other."

His words struck something in you, but before you could dwell on it, his gaze flickered to you. His expression softened slightly, the usual sharpness easing.

"Hey," he said, nudging your arm with his elbow. "I just wanna say—if we made you uncomfortable earlier, I'm sorry. We can be... a bit much."

You blinked, then quickly shook your head. "No, it's alright. I wasn't uncomfortable," you reassured, offering a small smile. "It was nice... getting to talk to others."

Lysandra tilted her head, watching you for a moment before speaking.

"I know you were mostly here for Callias," she said gently. "And you might not be comfortable around the rest of us just yet—but we did enjoy getting to know you." She paused, then smiled. "Hopefully, we'll get to do it again."

Something about the sincerity in her voice made your chest warm slightly. You nodded, gratitude settling in your bones. "I'd like that," you admitted.

After that, you excused yourself, stretching as you stood. The others bid you a casual farewell, already shifting their conversation elsewhere.

You wandered a short distance away, their chatter fading into the background as you searched for a quieter spot. Then, finally, you found it.

A ledge.

It wasn't far from where they sat, but it felt separate enough to offer some peace. The land sloped downward slightly before opening to a ledge overlooking the sea. You made your way toward it, the faint salt of the ocean thick in the cool night air.

Settling down, you placed your cup beside you, the clay cool against the stone.

Below, the waves crashed against the cliffs, the water an endless abyss of dark blue and silver, illuminated only by the moonlight breaking through scattered clouds. The distant roar of the sea filled the silence, steady and unrelenting, constant and unfazed by mortal worries.

Above, the sky stretched wide, stars blinking in and out as the clouds drifted lazily. Orion and Perseus had already emerged, their familiar figures standing boldly in the heavens.

But Venus—

Venus was still hidden.

You sighed softly, watching as the clouds shifted, waiting.

The wind carried the scent of salt and damp earth, the waves below crashing rhythmically against the cliffs. Above, the thinning clouds slowly unveiled the vast cosmos, stars flickering into view one by one. The night stretched endless—vast—as if you were floating somewhere between the sky and the sea, caught in a strange, quiet stillness.

You traced the familiar constellations absently, mind drifting, thoughts slipping into a hazy blur—until a voice cut through the quiet.

"Now, now. Sitting all alone, looking all broody? You're gonna make me think you're lonely."

You barely smothered the startled yelp that nearly escaped, your hand flying to cover your mouth. Heart hammering, you turned sharply to your left, only to find—

Hermes.

The god lounged beside you as if he'd been there the whole time, one knee propped up, chin resting lazily against his palm. His golden eyes gleamed with mischief, lips curled into a lopsided grin that spelled nothing but trouble.

"Gods," you whispered breathlessly, pressing a hand to your chest in a feeble attempt to slow your racing heart.

Hermes chuckled, straightening slightly. "Startled you?"

You shot him a look, still trying to calm your nerves. "Just a little," you muttered, exhaling through your nose.

"Good." He winked, stretching his arms behind his head. "I'd hate to think I'm losing my touch."

You shook your head, resisting the urge to roll your eyes. But before you could respond, Hermes tilted his head, his grin turning sly.

"Speaking of trouble..." he drawled, voice dipping into something playfully accusatory. "Aren't you a little troublemaker? What happened to 'Don't get into trouble without me'? I leave you alone for one afternoon, and you almost get me singed by Hades."

You winced at the reminder, guilt pooling in your stomach. "Ah..." You scratched at your cheek, looking away. "Sorry about that. I—I really didn't mean to—"

Hermes let out a bark of laughter, waving off your apology with an easy flick of his wrist. "No worries. Lucky for you, Persephone made sure you wouldn't get any punishments. Even Hades liked you a little—but don't expect him to admit it."

Your eyebrows lifted. "Hades?"

"Mhm." Hermes leaned in slightly, eyes gleaming with interest. "I gotta say, I'm impressed. How did you do it? I was all set to be the one escorting your soul when your time came, and yet, here you are. Breathing. Living." He made a dramatic gesture with his hands. "Existing."

You cleared your throat, turning your gaze back out to sea as you scratched your chin, recalling the moment. "I, uh... just repeated the phrase you whispered to me. The one about the threshold."

Hermes blinked. Once. Twice.

"That's it?"

You nodded.

He stared for another beat before leaning back with an amused hum, tapping a finger against his chin.

"Huh."

Silence stretched between you, the waves below filling the space with their rhythmic crash. You weren't sure if Hermes was still mulling over your words or simply enjoying the way you squirmed under his unreadable gaze.

Then, his lips curled into a smirk, golden eyes glinting with mischief.

"Besides that, a little birdie told me you've learned of your favor to my insufferable big brother." He gave a dramatic sigh, running a hand through his curls as if the thought physically pained him. "Congratulations, little musician. You're officially tied to one of the most dramatic gods on Olympus. And that's saying something."

You couldn't help the small smile tugging at your lips. "Thank you," you murmured, though something about his words stirred an uncomfortable thought in the back of your mind.

Favor of a god.

Cleo's voice slithered through your memories like a whisper in the dark.

"You have everything, ____. The favor of a prince, the favor of a god. Do you even realize how selfish you are?"

Your stomach twisted. The cold breeze suddenly felt sharper against your skin. You fidgeted, clearing your throat to steady your voice.

"Hermes," you started hesitantly, shifting to fully face him. "Could you... help me with something?"

His brows lifted slightly, amusement softening into curiosity. "Of course. I am very helpful, you know."

You hesitated, heart pounding. The words felt heavy in your throat, but after everything—Cleo, the Underworld, Telemachus—you needed an answer. Even if you weren't sure you'd like it.

Taking a slow breath, you forced the words out.

"Was I... supposed to die?"

Hermes froze.

It was brief—a flicker, a second of unnatural stillness—but you caught it. His smirk faltered, his body tensed ever so slightly before he quickly masked it with a scoff.

"Where on earth did you get that idea?" he asked, tilting his head with an easy grin that didn't quite reach his eyes.

You shifted under his gaze, suddenly embarrassed. "I—I don't know," you admitted, gripping the fabric of your clothes. "It's just... things have been strange lately. And Cleo—" You swallowed hard. "She said it. That it was supposed to be me down there. And when I asked Polites, he just told me to ask you."

But you weren't done. The thoughts had already started unraveling, spilling from your lips before you could stop them.

"And then Telemachus—he said favors never end well. That they come with consequences. And what if this is mine? What if—" Your breath hitched, words tumbling out too fast, chest tightening with something raw and unspoken. "What if I was supposed to die, and Apollo changed it? What if I was never meant to be here at all?"

Your voice cracked, and you clenched your jaw, willing yourself to calm down. But the fear had already crept in, clawing up your spine, coiling in your stomach. It had been lurking in the background all day, shadowing every thought, every breath. And now, as you finally voiced it, the weight of it nearly crushed you.

Your heart pounded against your ribs, the cold air too thin, too sharp. You curled in slightly, gripping your arms to ground yourself as a quiet tremble ran through your limbs.

Then, warm fingers pressed gently against the top of your head.

A strange sensation rushed over you—soft, golden warmth eased the tightness in your chest, smoothing over the edges of your nerves. Your shoulders relaxed before you could stop them, the tension draining from your body like water slipping through your fingers.

You blinked up at him, wide-eyed.

Hermes huffed, a fond smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he ruffled your hair like you were a child fretting over nothing. "There we go," he murmured. "No need for all that panic, little musician."

You exhaled shakily, realizing just how fast your heart had been racing. The warmth from his touch settled deep in your chest, lingering like sunlight after a storm.

Hermes watched you for a moment, then clicked his tongue, shaking his head with a smirk. "Look at you. All teary-eyed." He leaned in, swiping away a stray tear with his thumb before you'd even noticed it was there.

The touch was quick, fleeting—but it sent a shiver through you nonetheless.

"Unfortunately," he continued, tone lighter now, "that particular question is a little outside my jurisdiction."

You frowned. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, my dear little mortal," he said, tapping your nose playfully, "whether or not you were meant to die is Apollo's business, not mine."

Your heart sank. "So you don't know?"

"Oh, I probably do," he teased, grinning when you huffed. "But that's a family secret, you see. Divine intervention and all that."

You opened your mouth to protest, but he raised a finger, cutting you off.

"What I can promise you, though," he said, voice dipping into something softer, more certain, "is that you don't have to worry about dying anytime soon."

Your breath caught at the quiet sincerity in his words.

He tilted his head, studying you for a moment before his smirk returned, gentler this time. "I won't allow it."

His voice was light, teasing as always, but something in the way he said it—the certainty, the quiet weight—made your chest tighten.

A promise.

A reassurance.

And for the first time in a long while, you let yourself believe it.

The warmth of Hermes' words settled deep in your chest, lingering like the last traces of sunlight on your skin. It was strange—comforting, even—how easily he could dispel your fears with a smirk and a well-placed touch. You hadn't realized just how much you needed to hear it, how much you had been carrying, until now. Your fingers flexed slightly against your lap, testing the weight of your own relief.

Hermes, for his part, looked entirely at ease. His golden eyes glinted with satisfaction as he rocked back slightly, hands slipping into the folds of his cloak. His usual mischievous grin played at his lips—but then, something shifted.

His gaze flickered past your shoulder, his smirk softening into something more knowing—resigned, almost.

"Well," he exhaled through his nose, "looks like our little heart-to-heart is about to be cut short."

You frowned. "What do you—"

"You'll see," he interrupted, smile turning lopsided, teasing. "I'll be seeing you soon, little musician."

There was something in his tone—something weighty beneath the ease—but before you could question it, a sharp crack split through the quiet.

A twig snapping.

Your breath caught. The sound was close—too close. The night air thickened, charged with something unseen, your pulse skipping as your senses sharpened.

A shadow shifted just beyond the tree line, stepping hesitantly into the torch-lit clearing.

Telemachus.

Your stomach twisted at the sight of him. He stood just at the edge of the light, framed by the silver glow of the stars, his posture stiff—almost uncertain. His dark eyes found yours instantly, the flickering torches casting restless shadows across his face.

"____," he said softly, clearing his throat before glancing away, as if collecting himself. Then, quieter, more hesitant—"Can we talk?"

Instinctively, you turned slightly, expecting Hermes' presence beside you, a snide remark or knowing grin at your expense.

But when you looked, the space where he had been was empty.

The only thing that remained was the whisper of the wind, as if he had never been there at all.

Your mind reeled, struggling to catch up. Hermes was gone. Telemachus was here. And now—he was asking to talk.

You swallowed hard, pushing down the tangle of emotions threatening to resurface.

"Of course," you murmured, voice steadier than you felt.

Because despite the uncertainty, the exhaustion, the unresolved weight between you—one thing was clear.

Whatever Telemachus had to say, you were ready to hear it.

He moved quietly, lowering himself beside you on the ledge. The air between you settled into something fragile yet familiar—not tense, but not entirely at ease either.

Neither of you spoke.

For a long moment, you just sat there, listening to the distant crash of waves against the cliffs below. The wind carried the scent of salt and cypress, weaving through the silence like a presence of its own.

He exhaled slowly, barely audible over the night's quiet hum. His fingers flexed against his knees, gripping the fabric of his tunic like it was the only thing anchoring him. At first, his posture was rigid, but as the silence stretched, his shoulders slumped slightly—like something within him had finally given in.

You turned toward him just as he lowered his head, eyes cast downward, expression caught somewhere between thoughtfulness and quiet remorse. His lips parted like he wanted to speak, but he hesitated.

And then, finally, he looked at you.

His brown eyes met yours, raw and unguarded, holding an intensity that sent your heart skittering, bracing yourself for whatever was to come, and then—

"I'm sorry," he murmured. His voice was soft, but the weight behind it was immense. "For everything."

His fingers curled into his palms, nails pressing into his skin. "I've been acting like a fool. I see it now," he admitted, his tone edged with frustration—though not at you. "The way I've treated you, the way I've kept things from you... I don't know why I thought that was fair. As if you could read my mind, as if you could just... understand the weight of everything I've been trying to juggle without me even telling you."

He let out a breath, shaking his head. "That's not fair to you. It never was."

You said nothing, letting him speak, letting him unravel what had clearly been building inside him.

His hand dragged over his face before dropping limply to his lap. "I don't even know where to start," he admitted. His lips pressed into a thin line before he sighed. "Lady Andreia. She... " He hesitated, then forced himself to say it. "She proposed a marriage alliance the first time we spoke alone."

A sharp pang shot through your chest, but you pushed it down, focusing on the way his face twisted, on the flicker of barely contained disgust in his eyes.

"I didn't see it coming," he continued, voice tight. "Not at all. I thought—" He scoffed at himself. "I thought she was just trying to recover after losing her brother. I never imagined she'd have her sights set on me, on Ithaca. Gods, I was blind to it. Completely blindsided."

His jaw clenched, frustration bleeding into every word. "And then I went to my parents. I told them everything." He let out a humorless laugh. "They weren't surprised. Not really. My father, being who he is, took it in stride. He spoke of alternatives—military alliances, cultural exchanges—but I could see it in his eyes." He exhaled sharply. "He was testing me. Seeing if I would choose duty over myself."

His voice dropped, quieter now. "And my mother... she reminded me that Andreia isn't just a princess. She's a girl who lost her brother, trying to secure a future for herself the only way she's ever been taught." His gaze flickered toward the sky, though he didn't really seem to see it. "And I hated it. Hated that it made sense. Hated that I could understand why she was doing this. Hated that I didn't know how to escape it without making things worse."

Silence settled between you, heavy and unmoving.

And then, in a voice quieter than before, Telemachus whispered, "I should have told you the moment it happened."

Your breath caught.

His hands trembled slightly as he flexed his fingers, his expression twisting into something deeply regretful. "I should have come to you," he admitted, his voice cracking at the edges. "I should have let you know instead of making you piece things together on your own. Instead of making you feel like I was shutting you out."

His throat bobbed as he swallowed, and when he spoke again. "I didn't want you to—"

He stopped abruptly, jaw tightening.

Didn't want you to what? Worry? Hurt? See how much it was affecting him?

Whatever it was, he didn't say it.

Instead, he let out a long breath, his shoulders sagging. "But by doing that, I made it worse," he admitted. "I made you worry anyway. I made you doubt things I should have been clear about from the start. And now..." He let out a soft, bitter laugh. "Now I've only made a mess of things. Because I was too much of a fool to realize how much keeping this from you would hurt you."

He dragged a hand through his hair, his fingers clenching briefly in frustration before dropping to his lap again. "I don't know how to fix this," he admitted, voice raw. "But I don't want there to be distance between us. Not anymore."

His gaze found yours again, and this time, there was something desperate in it. Something pleading.

"I just... I need you to know that, no matter what happens, no matter what people expect of me, no matter what Lady Andreia or my parents or the gods themselves want..." He swallowed hard, breath unsteady. "It's you I trust. It's you I care about."

His voice barely made it above a whisper, but the weight of his words crashed into you like a wave.

There was no uncertainty in his gaze—only truth, raw and unspoken, laid bare beneath the moonlight.

As you stared into his eyes, a part of you—the one that had spent so long second-guessing, doubting, questioning—shouted in triumph. See? it whispered, See? You were foolish to doubt him. Shame followed close behind, a quiet, creeping thing. Had you truly been so blind to his feelings all this time?

But despite that relief, one thing stood out, repeating over and over in your mind like a mantra, sticking to you like a burr you couldn't shake:

"No matter what happens, no matter what people expect of me, no matter what Lady Andreia or my parents or the gods themselves want... It's you I trust. It's you I care about."

Telemachus trusts you. He cares about you.

Does that... does that mean he—?

Your breath hitched, stomach tightening with a rush of something overwhelming, something far too big to process all at once. It was one thing to feel the connection between you, to share these quiet, stolen moments, but to hear him say it, to know that he put you above all else, was another thing entirely.

Your heart pounded, so loud you thought he might hear it. You swallowed, gaze flickering away for a moment, as if breaking eye contact might steady you. But it didn't.

Slowly, cautiously, you lifted your gaze back to his, and before you could stop yourself, the question slipped from your lips, soft and uncertain. "You... care about me?"

Telemachus stilled.

For just a fraction of a second, his entire body locked up, eyes widening slightly before he coughed, looking away. His grip on his knees tightened, and you saw it—the moment of panic, the scramble for an excuse, the way his lips parted like he might try to laugh it off, to dismiss the weight of his words.

But instead of denial, instead of some hurried deflection, he exhaled slowly. His shoulders loosened, a tired, almost self-deprecating smile tugging at his lips.

And then, before you could react, he reached over and took your hand in his.

The warmth of his touch sent a jolt through you. His fingers brushed against your skin, slow and deliberate, tracing soothing patterns along the back of your hand. His hold was firm but gentle, as if grounding himself as much as he was grounding you.

"Of course, ____," he murmured, quiet but certain. "Why wouldn't I care for the one I love?"

Your breath faltered.

Your entire body locked up, as though the words had physically struck you.

The one I love.

The rush of emotions that overtook you was near unbearable. Happiness, fear, disbelief—all of it at once, making your head spin. Your fingers trembled in his hold, and you barely managed to whisper his name. "Telemachus..."

But the prince wasn't finished.

He shook his head, his grip tightening slightly, his other hand covering yours like he was trying to reassure you, trying to make sure you understood. Then, carefully, he shifted, angling himself toward you fully, his expression raw with something so painfully tender it made your heart ache.

"____, you have to understand," he said, voice softer now, carrying the weight of years, of things left unspoken. "This isn't something new, something I just realized. It's been there—gods, it's always been there. I just..." He let out a breath, lips pressing together before continuing.

"I think I first knew when we were children," he admitted, voice tinged with nostalgia. "The first time I heard you singing to my mother, soothing her when nothing else could. You had this way of making the world feel... lighter. Safer." He chuckled softly, shaking his head. "Even then, I think I was falling for you. Slowly. Every day. In ways I didn't even recognize until it was too late."

You felt your throat tighten, emotion clawing its way up, making it difficult to breathe.

"I always thought I had time," he confessed, his fingers curling slightly against your skin. "Time to gather the courage, to find the right moment. But then everything started shifting—my father's return, Bronte, the favor. And suddenly, I realized how quickly things could be taken away." His eyes flickered with something pained, something desperate. "I realized I couldn't wait anymore."

Slowly, carefully, he reached out, his fingers grazing your cheek—warm, reverent. Your breath hitched, your skin tingling where he touched. When you met his gaze again, it was filled with something so deep, so consuming, it nearly swallowed you whole.

"But I understand," he murmured, softer now, as if afraid to break the moment. "I understand that this isn't simple. That I can't just throw caution to the wind and expect you to do the same." His thumb brushed against your cheekbone, featherlight. "I know that for me, it's easy to say I don't care about titles or expectations. But for you... it's different."

Your heart clenched. He understood. He truly understood.

"I would be a fool to ignore that," he continued. "A fool to act as though this isn't complicated, as though it doesn't put an unfair burden on you." His voice dropped lower, the vulnerability in his tone making your chest ache. "But I don't care what the world says. I don't care what Andreia wants, or what my parents expect, or what the gods themselves decide."

He swallowed, eyes dark and unwavering.

"I'm saying this because I need you to know. Not because I expect an answer, not because I want to rush you into something you're not ready for." His lips curled into a faint, almost self-deprecating smile. "I just need you to know that from this moment on, I will be vying for your love."

Your breath caught in your throat.

"You don't have to take my heart," he whispered, "but it's yours regardless."

Your chest was so tight it hurt, your emotions swirling so wildly you could barely keep yourself together.

Telemachus gave you a small, almost pleading smile. "You don't have to say anything," he murmured. "Not now. Not yet. I just... " His thumb brushed against your cheek once more, reverent, tender. "I just want to spend this moment with you. If you'll let me."

Your vision blurred slightly, a single tear slipping down your cheek before you could stop it. He caught it with his thumb, wiping it away as gently as if he were handling something fragile.

A soft, trembling smile curled at your lips. "Okay," you whispered.

And so, you sat there, your hands still clasped in his, his warmth anchoring you as the world stilled around you.

And as if the heavens themselves had been waiting for this moment, the clouds above shifted, parting just enough to reveal a brilliant glow.

Venus peeked out from the darkness, luminous and radiant, casting a gentle silver light over you both.

A/N: AHHHHH IT HAPPENED!!!!! 🎉🎉🎉 I know y'all were starving for romance faster, but I just had to take my time with it, lmaooo 😭😭. the way I was KICKING UP MY FEET writing this... pure ✨delicious✨ agony. also, I had to keep it 10k—I could not cut it up and risk ruining the tension. the build-up, the divine drama, the slow unraveling??? *chef's kiss*. y'all needed to feel all of it. and that little almost/not confession?? Yeahhh... I needed that. 😌 also, shameless plug-in but plz check out my sis's (k_nayee) book 'Warrior'! It's an EPIC fic basically a 'what-if' if penelope were the warrior tyring to get home instead of odysseus 👀 y'all i'm not even gon lie it's good asf and im mad cuz she won't let me be her editor so i can read ahead 💔💔but seriuosuly i'm trynna not to ramble cuz the fanservices "MWAH" never knew i needed to have odysseus more than his son until i read it y'all! here's link to the other sites shes posted on tumblr, wattpad, quotev

Tag List: nerds4life246 ace-spades-1 uniquetravelerone alassal thesimppotato11 jackintheboxs-world kahlan170 akiqvq matchaabread danishland uselessmoonlight apad-ravya

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orcasoul · 17 days ago

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The Lesser of Two Evils

Chapter Summary: You begin to adjust to your new life in Rome, while becoming closer to Marcus.

Warnings: Swearing, smut (eventual), threats of rape, sexual harassment, violence, gore, detailed injuries, angst, enemies(ish) to lovers, slow burn, protective Marcus Acacius, age gap, OFC/reader

Word Count: 7,001

Chapter 6 A Home From Home

For the hundredth time today, you are astounded. Every inch of the villas walls are painted and some are decorated with images of florals, animals and people. Tall, shiny pillars stand proud in a large hallway, lush orange curtains drape across wide arches, statues and vases of various sizes sit in niches along the walls, the ceilings display detailed recessed panels and boarders of patterns you couldn't have ever imagined. Sunlight streams in through a large rectangular opening in the ceiling and directly beneath it is a very shallow pool of water. White and gold rimmed tiles cover the floor and the smell of lavender and roses hang in the air. All of this for one man! It's unfathomable. The servants lead you down a spacious corridor lined with potted plants, stopping outside two large double doors.

"This is your bed chamber, My Lady," one of the girls says as she opens the doors for you. Blinking back your shock, you slowly enter, feeling somewhat unworthy to step foot into such opulence. This one room is three times the size of your hut back in your village. The same meticulous decor adorns the walls and ceiling, the largest and most luxurious looking bed - with an abundance of cushions, you might add - surrounded by semi transparent veils rests against the far wall. A large Oak wardrobe and a standing mirror are situated to the right of the bed, a soft Lectus is in the far right corner and a vanity table on the other side. To the left of the bed is a smaller doorway and between the door and bed, a curtained balcony leads outside. There must be some mistake. This can't be intended for you. You didn't realise you were clutching your bag so tightly to your chest until the other servant spoke. "I can take that if you wish," she said, holding out her hand.

"Thank you," you smiled shyly, passing it to her. She places it on the Lectus while the other girl opens the smaller door in your room. "This is your private room for bathing." Peeking around the door you see another room, (smaller but still bigger than your hut) with another Lectus, a large brazier and a large oval shaped basin built into the floor with the sides raised about a foot from ground level and steps surrounding it. Steam rises from the water, flower petals swirling on the surface. "All of this is for me?" you ask in disbelief. "It is, My Lady. The Generals' orders were clear. Would you like us to help you undress?" "Oh, um... no thank you," you say, maybe a bit too quickly, embarrassment flushing your cheeks. Both girls are now looking at you like you've grown another head. Were they expecting to undress and bathe you?

Maybe that's another norm here? To be bathed by your servants. Does that mean Marcus allows them to bath him?? Surely not! They suddenly look like they don't know what to do with themselves, but there's no chance you're going to allow them to see you naked, even if it is the norm here. "I'd prefer to bathe alone, please," you insist and after a doubtful glance at each other, they nod and leave the room. Peeling off your clothes, you waste no time slipping into the hot water, making sure to keep your bandaged shoulder dry. An involuntary moan passes your lips as you lean back against the edge, the hot temperature and swirling oils caressing every muscle, releasing the tension of a weeks worth of travelling.

If this isn't heaven on earth, you don't know what is. The best you could have hoped for up until now was a bucket of cold water and a rag, and in the summer months, a visit to the river to fully bathe. After washing your hair and body with the sweet smelling soaps provided, you lay back down and close your eyes. You're not ready for this to end yet... A light tap on the door causes you to startle. "My Lady, dinner will be ready soon. We must prepare you." How long have you been in here?! It feels like you'd closed your eyes only five minutes ago but now you notice that the water has cooled slightly. Reaching for a towel folded on the steps, you quickly stand and wrap it around yourself. "I'm coming," you call out to them, squeezing the excess water from your hair. When you enter the bedroom, you see the servants waiting for you, one of the girls (the brunette) holding a long, flowing pale green gown.

"It's beautiful," you gush, tracing your fingers along the delicate fabric. "Please allow us to assist you," the other girl, (the blonde one) says. "It will be difficult to do this without help." Despite your initial embarrassment, you agree to let them dress you, after all, you wouldn't even know where to begin with these strange fashions and they seem to know what they are doing. Once dressed, the girls turn their attention to your hair, which is turning out to be the most time consuming. They work in silence, but said silence is beginning to make you feel uncomfortable, so you decide to fill it. "Could you tell me your names again?" you ask politely. So much was happening upon your arrival that you didn't think to ask them sooner. "I'm Cassia" the blonde answered. "I'm Flavia," the brunette followed after her. "Thank you both for your help," you smile at them in the mirrors' reflection "It's our pleasure, My Lady," Cassia responds promptly.

There's that term again: 'My Lady'. You don't understand why they just don't use your name. "Please, just call me Alia." Both girls stopped what they were doing to meet your gaze in the mirror, clearly caught off guard by your request. "It wouldn't be proper, My Lady-" "I'm not a Lady," you interject, quickly, but not unkindly. "I have no station or class here. I'm not even a citizen yet," you shrug your shoulders. "I would much prefer for you both to call me by my name." "But the General would not allow it," Flavia objected. A small smirk raised the corner of your mouth, your tone becoming slightly mischievous. "He doesn't have to know. Maybe we could compromise? You may refer to me as 'My Lady' in the Generals' presence, but when it's just us I would really appreciate it if you'd call me Alia." Both girls exchanged glances again, then Cassia spoke, "As you wish... Alia." The girls continue with their task and this time the silence is much less strained.

*****

After inspecting the care and attention paid to his villa in his absence, Marcus excused himself to his bed chamber, eager to bathe and rest before dinner. It's been almost six months since he'd been home, and although a part of him felt that this is wrong (that he should be with his troops), he couldn't deny the relief he also felt at his homecoming. This is his sanctuary, his escape from blood, brutality and death. Well, a physical escape, at least. The horrors of war, the lives he's taken will forever be ingrained on his soul, along with their blood on his hands. It's just a reality he'll always have to endure, but at least his body can rest, even if his mind can't. And right now, his mind is on you. He can't even begin to fathom how you must be feeling after today. Not only is this a huge culture shock for you, but you're now going to have a lot to learn, and you'll have to learn it fast if you're going to thrive here. But at least you won't be alone in this. He'll help any way he can.

Marcus steps out onto his balcony, the whitewashed stone illuminated by the moon. Looking at the moon now, he's reminded of that night he watched it from that filthy cage. He was certain he would die in Germania; certain he'd never get to stand on this very balcony and observe the moon's pearlessent sheen again. Yet, here he is, and it's all thanks to you. It all feels so long ago and so recent at the same time. He thinks about the changes since then; how you've both gone from distrusting one another, to tolerating one another, to... dare he say friends? A warmth spreads through his chest at the thought of calling you a friend and, regardless of how you view him, that's how he sees you now: as his friend. That simple truth makes him smile, both inside and out, and as your friend, he'll do his very best to make the transition as easy as possible for you, starting with your comfort. You'll no longer have to scrape by every day. By the gods, you'll never suffer another day in your life if he has anything to say about it. A knock on his door, draws him from his thoughts. "Come in," he calls out. Silas opens the door. "Dinner will be served, momentarily, Dominus." "Thank you, Silas. Please inform Alia." "Yes, Sir," Silas bows and leaves the room

*****

The Triclinium (living/dining room) is awash with the most delicious aromas that Marcus hasn't smelled in months. Two plates of venison, seasoned root vegetables and potatoes are set at both end of the table along with two smaller plates of figs, pomegranates and fruit tarts. Being home really does have it perks, he thinks to himself as he savours the rich bodied wine he sips from his goblet. Marcus stands by your chair, awaiting your arrival. Moments later the doors open and his hand stops mid air, the sip he was about to take well and truly forgotten, along with the rest of the room. Marcus' breath caught in his chest as you slowly entered, convinced for a moment that venus had suddenly graced him with her presence. A soft green gown with a low v neckline framed your delicate figure, along with a cream coloured Palla draped over one shoulder, secured at your waist with a floral designed belt.

Your hair, which up until now was mostly kept in a simple braid, partly hung in loose waves around your face and shoulders, while the back had been placed up in a loose bun with ribbons interwoven throughout. You look simply stunning! As you come to a stop in front of Marcus, he notices the shy smile you'd entered with shift into a look of uncertainty. That's when he realised that he'd just been standing stock still, staring unabashedly. Before he could attempt to hide his error, you spoke, voice tinged with hesitancy. "Is- is this too much?" you glance down at your clothing, pulling your shoulders into yourself, much like you did the very first time you'd both met. Seeing you shrink in on yourself again, twisted something deep inside marcus' gut. "No, not at all!" Marcus exclaimed, shaking his head. 'You look beau-" his mouth snapped shut as his brain realised what was about to slip past his lips.

Your eyes briefly met his before you lowered them, your cheeks flushing pink. "Um..." he cleared his throat, "it suits you," he finished. "Thank you," you smile softly. "Please, sit..." Marcus pulls out your chair, noticing a flicker of surprise cross your face before thanking him and taking a seat. Once Marcus is seated, a servant appears to fill your cup and refill his own. The feast before you has your stomach grumbling. Now that the shock and awe of todays events have settled, you realise just how hungry you are. "Did you manage to get some rest?" Marcus asked. "A bit," you reply. "And do you like your room?" You can't help but gush now, "Like it?! It's incredible, Marcus! But don't you think it's wasted on someone like me. I mean, I'm hardly deserving of so grand a gesture."

"You deserve it and more," Marcus says with a tone of finality. You can't say you agree but you're not about to argue with him in his own house, so you nod agreeably. "You must be quite hungry by now." Marcus turns your attention to your food. "I'm famished," you acknowledge with a slight chuckle. As you both begin to eat you can't stop the sigh that escapes you at the rich flavour of the meat and the freshness of the vegetables. It's been far too long since you'd had a truly decent and enjoyable meal, always having to make do with scraps and leftovers in your old life. This is just sublime. You didn't even notice your eyes had rolled closed in your head until a low chuckle caused them to snap open. "Good?" Marcus asked, amusement crinkling the corners of his eyes.

"Mhmm..." you nod, vehemently, mouth still full. After finishing the main course you'd both moved onto dessert. Figs, pomegranates and fruit tart have now become your favourite foods, and you warn Marcus he might have to fight you for them in future, to which he joked, "I'm not going to fight you over fruits. I value my life too much." The lighthearted atmosphere in the room later shifted to a more serious air as Marcus surmised, "I imagine today has been somewhat... overwhelming for you." You huff. "That's an understatement." Marcus just watched you, silently waiting for you to continue. "This house..." you look around you, "this whole city, it's..." you struggle to find the words. "It feels unreal... like I'm in a dream. I didn't know people lived like this. I didn't know it was even possible. I can see now how Rome has been able to conquer so much of the world... No one stands a chance."

There's an ominous undertone in that last sentence. Marcus knows it's true. A power like Rome can never be contained. And while such power can bring great suffering, it can also bring stability and unity to an otherwise dark world. It's just regrettable that you can't have the good without the bad in those circumstances. "Well, you don't have to worry about anything anymore," Marcus offered. "You're safe here. While you're under my roof no one will mistreat you. You have my word." Marcus' soft features have now solidified into determination as he levels you with a 'do you hear me look'. Your chest filled with warmth at Marcus' concern for your wellbeing. No one has shown you such tenderness in years. It's nice but at the same time it unsettles you. The thought of putting your faith in another person is daunting and it goes against every ounce of self preservation you have. But you will try, you want to try. "Thank you," you smile, feeling the tingle of tears behind your eyes, and for the first time in a long time, hope.

*****

Later that night with the villa settled and the long and exhausting day drawing to a close, you take a much needed moment to just... breathe, to truly reflect on your new reality and the new, unmapped path ahead of you. Sitting at the foot of the bed, one hand runs over the silk texture of your sheets, while your other holds your fathers' knife, which you'd made sure to pack in your bag. You turn it slowly, eyes tracing the carvings along the hilt. Familiarity - even if it's this small - is what you need right now. Braziers bathe the room in a rich amber glow, while the distance buzz of Cicadas drift on the light breeze coming in through the open balcony door. You'd dreamt of this for weeks; to finally reach the sanctuary of Rome and try to find some semblance of peace. Every time you'd envisioned this moment it filled you with comfort.

So why, now that you're finally here, do you feel a crushing weight in the pit of your stomach, the hope you'd begun to feel only a couple of hours ago dimming like a cooling ember. And it only worsens when your thoughts drift to your parents, to Farro. You'd been so eager on leaving your old life behind that it hadn't occurred to you that you'd be leaving them behind aswell. You'll always carry them in your heart but knowing that you're so far away from the land you once shared with them cuts deep. You couldn't stay in the village, you know that, and they wouldn't have wanted you too, but that doesn't make this ache any easier to bare. It feels like you've abandoned them. Looking around the opulence of the room, it dawns on you that you don't belong here any more than you belonged with your tribe. It seems there's no place for you anywhere in this world. With such a heavy realisation, come your tears.

You reach beside you where the fur blanket Marcus gave you lays folded up. Maybe it was your subconscious compelling you to do so, you're not sure, but you wrap it around your body - despite the warmth of the mediterranean air. Just the fact it's from Marcus gives you a sense of comfort. Between the stress from the long journey and the mental and emotional storm swirling through you, you're suddenly exhausted, in every way you can be. Laying down (on the softest pillow imaginable) you pull the blanket up to your chin and close your eyes, drifting off into a deep and much earned sleep.

*****

You wake to a clinking sound in your room. It takes a moment for you to remember where you are as you blink away the daze of sleep. Turning your head in the direction of the sound you see Cassia placing a tray on your dresser. "Good day, My - um... Alia," she smiles, with a tip of her head. "You've missed breakfast and lunch. Dominus sent this platter of food for you." Still slightly groggy, you sit up, rubbing your eyes. "What time is it?" "A little after 2pm." Your heavy lids shoot up when you realise you've slept half the day away. "Oh, forgive me. I overslept," you say, sheepishly. "It's alright. Dominus wanted to let you rest after your journey. I trust you slept well?" You nod, "Yes, thank you." Cassia brought over the tray, consisting of bread, cheese and grapes and set it down on your lap. "I'll return in half an hour to help you dress. Dominus requests your presence in the Triclinium in an hours' time. He has arranged for a Medicus to attend you." Cassia bowed once more and left your room.

*****

"Lady Alia, Dominus," Cassia announced as she opened the doors to the Triclinium. Inwardly, you cringed at the title but a deal is a deal, you guess. "Thank you, Cassia," Marcus replied. "Please, come..." he extended his hand to beckon you. "This is Ennius. He's here to assess your shoulder." The short, kindly looking old man nods his head respectfully and you smile, somewhat shyly in return. "I'll leave you to it," Marcus said, then left the room. While the Medicus inspected the healing scar tissue, you kept your eyes locked on the furthest wall, unable to bring yourself to look at the consequences of your sins. This mark will forever be a reminder of the life you took. Since you hadn't regained full motion of your shoulder yet the Medicus instructed you to do morning and nightly exercises for the next few weeks. Thanking him for his help, you walk him to the door, surprised to see Marcus waiting patiently on a Lectus in the Atrium.

"All well?" Marcus asked, standing up. "Yes General, a picture of health." A quiet, relieved sigh left Marcus' lips. His own diagnosis was what he'd expected; three to four months of physiotherapy along with additional daily exercise to stop the muscle from seizing. And now with your clean bill of health, he can feel the worry he had for you draining away. "Thank you for attending us today." "Its my great honour, General," the Medicus replied respectfully, bowed and left. Marcus turned to you, his air of formality easing and a soft smile on his lips. "Are you well rested?" "Yes, thank you," you smile in return. "How did you find your first night here?" Marcus asked. How can you answer that without sounding ungrateful of Marcus' hospitality? You're glad to be here, but you hadn't expected to feel regret simultaneously. Leaving everything you knew behind isn't as easy as you'd anticipated.

With what felt like a forced smile, you answer, "It was a very comfortable night." "Good," Marcus' gaze softened even more, seemingly pleased with your answer. "Come, walk with me." Marcus held out his elbow, and you couldn't help but notice the width of his arms compared to your own. Something about the stark difference in size struck you, but surprisingly not in an intimidating way. Once, you were afraid of what he could do to you, but now you feel with certainty that he would never purposely hurt you. As you slip your arm through his, the warmth of his tanned skin and the firmness of his muscle has you momentarily entranced. Faint and more recent scars criss cross his forearm, and you wish you could know the story behind each one. "Where are we going?" you ask. "I'm giving you a tour of the villa. We didn't have time yesterday."

As Marcus led you through the spacious villa, explaining the names and purposes of each room, you once again marvelled at the beauty of the architecture, art and sculptures that make up this grand estate. But your favourite part of the tour was the Hortus (garden). Never had you seen such an array of colours! It seems every species of flower imaginable bloom here, some you recognised such as Lillies, Roses of varying shades of pink and red, Poppies and Crocus, but many you haven't before. You'd quickly learned the names as Marcus answered question after question, appearing entertained by your inquisitiveness. Iris, with the deepest hue of purple, Long stems of multicoloured Gladioli, Narcissus that looked like it had been kissed by the sun itself and your favourite; Myrtle. It's vibrant white, curved petals and tufts of white and yellow staymens reminded you of stars bursting to life.

The amalgamation of fragrances waft on the breeze, the air simply intoxicating. You continue strolling through the extensive garden, taking in the Ivy covered columns bordering it. Niches along the outer walls hold small statues and vases. Another fountain - smaller than the one in the courtyard - with dancing women carved into the marble, sits in the centre of the garden and low bushes in curved formations surround it and line the pathways. A few Cypress trees cast shadows over parts of the lawn and beautiful marble benches are dotted throughout. Birds warble from the trees, flitting from branch to branch and bees and dragonflies drift through the garden, indulging themselves on the flowers' sweet nectar. This entire garden is the very embodiment of life. If ever you have envisioned paradise, this is it.

"This place is... magnificent," you gushed as you and Marcus take a seat on one of the benches. "I wonder how you can ever bare to leave it?" Marcus gives a halfhearted smile. "It's not by choice. Unfortunately duty overrides choice." "Mmm..." you nod in understanding. "You're so fortunate, Marcus. I can only dream of one day having a home like this," you sigh, dreamily. "This is your home..." Marcus stated, sounding slightly confused. Your head snapped his way. "W-what?" Now you both share the same bewildered look, him regarding you like you've just said something absurd. "I- I don't understand," you stutter, "you brought me here to help me get a fresh start." "Yes...?" Marcus confirmed, one eyebrow raised in question. "I never expected you to take me into your home indefinitely. That would be such an imposition." Marcus' brows pinch together.

"Where did you think you were going to go?" "Well, I..." you rub the back of your neck, uncertainty creeping in. "I intend to look for employment somewhere and use the money to have my own home." Marcus' frown softened, looking at you like he was about to deliver very bad news. "I'm sorry, I should have been more clear with you," he began, hesitantly. "It was always the intention to give you a home here. When you asked about life in Rome and I mentioned employment, I didn't mean you would have to work. It's not common for a woman to work. Her father provides for her until she weds and then the responsibility becomes her husbands'." Your heart sinks in despair as the reality of you situation sets in. In just a short conversation all the plans you'd had for your future have been dashed.

"But I have neither! I have to work, Marcus!" The alarm in your voice caused Marcus to sigh and close his eyes. He'd thought it was obvious that this would be your new home. The fearful expression clouding your eyes made Marcus' heart constrict. "I'm sorry, Alia," he paused and looked you dead in the eyes. "It's very unlikely you'll ever be considered employable." "Why?!" Marcus shifted uncomfortably, hoping what he's about to say won't offend you. The last thing he wants is to hurt your feelings but you have to know where you stand. "Please don't take this the wrong way, but first of all you have no concept of life here, no skills to offer. Forgive me for asking but are you literate?" You sigh, defeatedly and shake your head. "That puts you at a huge disadvantage," Marcus adds. "Second, you're a foreigner and many employers would frown upon that." "So you're saying it's hopeless?"

The sight of your glistening eyes makes Marcus' heart ache for you, his entire being vibrating with the need to reach out and comfort you. It takes all of his willpower to stop himself. Marcus answers you with a sympathetic smile. "But there must be something I can do," you stress. "Marcus, I appreciate everything you've done for me but I can't stay here. This is your home and I refuse to be any more of a burden than I already am. You have no obligations to me other than the deal we made. There must be somewhere for someone like me, some kind of job I can do." Only two possibilities exist for someone of your station- or lack of it - and neither of them are an option as far as Marcus is concerned. He doesn't want to crush you any more tan he has but you're just not getting it. He shakes his head and exhales, "There are two options; one being the poorhouse..." Marcus' face turns grim, loathed to mention the the other, but he must. "The second is the pleasure house. And that's not happening."

Marcus can see the colour drain from your cheeks at the mere mention of that. "No, no that's not," you quickly agree. "So you see, you don't really have much of a choice." "But Marcus..." you groan, burying your face in your hands and leaning your elbows on your lap, "This isn't fair on you. You're not my father or husband, so why should you have to keep me? It's not right." "Alia..." you peer up at Marcus, looking defeated. "I'm not doing this out of obligation or pity. I'm doing it because I want to help you, because I care. And don't ever refer to yourself as a burden again." You release a humourless chuckle. "You should have ditched me on the way. I can't say I would have blamed you. Now you're stuck with me. Oh, I know..!" you perk up, "I could earn my place here. I could work in the kitchen or -" "No!" Marcus shook his head, emphatically. "Don't you think you've spent enough time in servitude?"

"I..." Whatever you were about to say dies on your tongue and Marcus can see the fight draining from you, replaced with a reluctant acceptance of your situation. He continues with sincerity, "Life has dealt you an unbelievably cruel hand, Alia. Please, allow me to show you kindness. Let me take care of you." After a moment of contemplative silence, you give Marcus a tired smile and nod. "I don't know what to say, Marcus, but... thank you." A warmth suddenly envelops the back of Marcus' hand, a soft brushing sensation across his knuckles. Looking down, he sees his much larger hand enclosed around yours on your lap and your other hand resting atop his. When did this happen? When did his hand find yours? And more importantly, how did he not even notice it happening? Clearing his throat, he gently slid his hand from yours, willing his quickening pulse to ease. Burying his discomfort, he says, "I don't want you to worry anymore, okay? Everything will be alright, I promise."

"I believe you," you whisper sadly, wiping a tear from under your eye. "If you don't mind, I think I'll go and lie down for a while. I feel a headache coming." Marcus rises with you as you stand. "Of course," he soothes. "I'll send Flavia for you when dinner is ready." "Thank you," you murmur before walking away. Marcus watches you as you walk back into the villa. He can't imagine how overwhelmed you must be right now and this is only the beginning. There's so much you'll have to learn, to adjust too, and it's clear to him now that it involves so much more than just life in Rome. It seems a lifetime of abuse and neglect has left you unable to fully accept basic human kindness. The injustice of the treatment placed upon you fills Marcus with a silent anger; the kind that buries it's roots deep into your soul, forever lurking just beneath the surface. If he could, he would leave for Germania this very minute and take great pleasure in burning your village and everyone who've wronged you to ashes.

Marcus pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing in exasperation as he left the Curia Julia (senate house). The meeting with the Emperors and the senate has mentally drained him. These pompous men - Emperors included - speak so casually of war, yet have never faced the reality of the battlefield, never watched the life fade from the eyes of a brother in arms, never smelled the iron tang of so many wasted lives as it seeps into the ground, never heard the weeping of mothers and wives in the aftermath. All they see is a romanticized version of it. After briefing them on all that had happened under his watch and the plans going forward under the command of his Praetorian, and the expected time of his recovery, the subject then shifted to you. He'd explained how you were mistreated and how you'd helped him escape and the promise of citizenship he'd made you.

While a part of him felt it wasn't his place to reveal certain sensitive details, he knew that if he omitted anything now and it later came to light, it could damage your image and forever tarnish you and himself as deceitful, so he told them everything; that they accused your mother of witchcraft and by extension of her bloodline, you too, that they'd murdered your parents and enslaved you and that you'd killed your chief while you were both escaping. There were some raised eyebrows and critical judgements as he'd expected, but after taking it upon himself to vouch for you, a lot of their reservations appeared to have been put at ease and he was able to begin the necessary procedures for your paperwork. Now all he wants is to get back home and be as far away as possible from these two insufferable boys and the showboating of those politicians.

Arriving at the villa, Marcus gave his horse to the stable hand, and headed straight for the Hortus. In the few days since arriving, he'd noticed you particularly favoured the Hortus, spending as much time here as possible. He found you laying on your back in the grass, eyes closed, arm tucked under your head like a pillow and long wavy hair unfurled around you like it's your crowning glory. Coming to a stop right beside you, Marcus grinned, "Now, how did I know I'd find you here?" Using your hand to shield your eyes from the sunlight, you squinted up at him, a lazy smile on your face. "How could I not be here?" you shrug, playfully. "This place is... perfection." The last word left your lips in such a dreamy sigh that Marcus couldn't help but laugh. In all the weeks he's known you, he's never seen you so relaxed, so unguarded.

Knowing that he's able to give you such peace fills him with connectedness and a deep satisfaction. After everything you've endured, you deserve the very best that life can offer, that he can offer. "Come, lay beside me," you pat the ground next to you. Marcus just stared down at you, brow ticked up in question. "Uh... why?" he asked, somewhere in between intrigue and amusement. "Haven't you ever just laid in the sun, just for the sake of it?" Marcus shrugged, nonchalantly, "Not really." "Well, there's a first time for everything." You pat the ground again and the goofy grin you're giving him makes him powerless to resist. How can he say no to you when you're looking at him like that? With a slight huff, he lowers himself onto the grass. His leg no longer hurts but the muscle is still quite stiff. But of course the more he uses it, the more it will aid his recovery.

He's still sitting up when he feels you tap his arm. "Lay down...," you say in an almost singsong tone. With a playful roll of his eyes Marcus lays beside you, copying your pose of laying his head on his arm. "So... now what," he asks, lightheartedly. "Now, close your eyes, breathe slowly and just... feel." Marcus does as he's told, secretly enjoying playing along, even if it seems pointless. This is a new side of you; calm, untroubled and Marcus likes it. You continue in a gentle lilt, "Feel the heat of the sun on your face, listen to the birds and the wind, feel the grass beneath your fingers and just... let go of everything." Marcus complies and to his surprise he can feel the tension of the morning ebbing away, his body sinking further into repose. Damn it, this is good. He can't even remember the last time he felt this peaceful.

Instead of tormented screams - which he hears all too often, even off the battlefield - all he can hear now is the sweet chirp of birds and the plants swaying in the afternoon breeze. He won't admit it out loud but you're definitely onto something here. "Excuse me, Dominus?" Marcus hadn't realised he was half asleep until he heard Silas' voice. "What is it, Silas?" he asked, sitting up. "The Medicus has arrived." "Oh, of course. I shall be right there." Silas answered with a respectful nod and made his way back inside the villa. "I Completely forgot he was coming this afternoon," Marcus said. "It's your fault, he teased you, "distracting me with... this," he waved a hand at the world. You shrug, eyes still closed but face a little smug.

"Worth it though, am I right? I'll bet you haven't felt this relaxed in a long time." "You're not wrong there," Marcus chuckled. You prop up onto your elbows, your tone now sounding more serious. "Marcus, is something wrong? Why is the Medicus here?" Your brow scrunched and the worry in your voice struck a chord deep within Marcus, your concern for him making his fondness for you grow. "Everything's fine," he reassured, getting to his feet. "He's here to begin my exercise regime." Your face instantly softened in response. "Ah, good luck," you smiled. "If you need anything, I won't be too far away." "Okay," you sigh, resuming your position in the grass.

*****

Marcus was glad to get that first session over with. He'll definitely be feeling that tomorrow, if the burn in his hamstring is anything to go by. Pouring a cup of wine, he slowly lowered himself onto a Lectus in the Triclinium. Gods, he's starting to feel his age now. Before he had a chance to really relax, Flavia entered the room, carrying a letter. "Dominus, this letter arrived earlier." "Thank you," Marcus said, taking the letter. Flavia left the room. Looking at the seal, Marcus sighed. It's the Emperors' seal. He knew what this was without having to open it; an invitation, just like he receives this time every year, requesting - well, demanding - his attendance for the week long celebrations of Caracalla's birthday. Unrolling the parchment, Marcus' eyes quickly scanned the formal invite to the banquets and Gladitorial games that will be held in Caracalla's honour, the usual entertainment as he'd expected. But what he didn't expect was for the invite (or summons) to the banquets to extend to you.

A pit of unease formed in his stomach immediately. Why would you be invited to an elite gathering? It's not that he feels you're not worthy enough to be there, but he knows everyone will look down on you. A person of low station attending an upper class banquet is rare, so for a non citizen to obtain an invite from the Emperors' themselves is completely unheard of. What exactly are they playing at? Marcus crumples the letter into a ball, throwing it in frustration. A lot of people in Rome are still, no doubt, very curious about you, so if the Emperors think they can parade you around like some exotic curiosity or use you for their own amusement, they can think again. Marcus can feel his anger flaring, his instinct to protect you returning. You're about to walk into the lion's den and you don't even know it. He'll just have to keep a close eye on you at all times. As long as he's there, you'll be okay, he'll make sure of it. Now he just has to find a way to tell you while masking his growing concern.

*****

Dinner was a quiet affair tonight. Something seemed to be weighing on Marcus, despite his attempt to hide it. In the quiet moments between conversations his mind appeared to drift elsewhere. "You've been quiet tonight," you observe. "Is something bothering you?" Whatever was just consuming his thoughts had been cast aside as he came back to himself, offering you a reassuring smile. "No, nothing's bothering me, but I do need to discuss something with you." "Oh...?" You place your fork down to give Marcus your full attention. You can see a slight hesitancy behind his smile. "I have received an invitation from the Emperors in regards to Caracalla's birthday celebrations. It will be a week long celebration with banquets and games at the Colosseum." Your eyebrows raise and you can't help but laugh. "Who celebrates their birthday for an entire week?!" Marcus huffs a laugh, "Emperors, apparantly." You nod, not sure why he's telling you this or why it's an issue for him.

"Well, I hope you have a good time. You've been cooped up here with me for the past week. A change of scenery will do you good and you deserve some recreation." Marcus' smile faltered, ever so slightly but you'd noticed it. "The invite was for both of us," he said, cautiously. Now it's your smile that falters. "Both of us? But... why? Why would I be invited?" Marcus purses hips lips in thought. "I'm not sure. Anyone can attend the games but the banquets are always restricted to those of... higher stations." There was an air of discomfort to Marcus' voice as he said that, but you know he meant no offence. He's simply stating the truth. "Then I don't understand. Why would they or anyone want someone like... me there?" Marcus could feel himself prickling ever so slightly, hearing the way you speak of yourself so disparagingly. As far as he's concerned you have more worth than all of these fools put together, but he decided to bite his tongue on the matter... at least for now.

"I imagine that everyone still wants to meet the one who saved Romes' General," Marcus said casually, trying to make light of the situation. "It's not everyday Rome has a new hero, and a woman none the less." "But I don't know the first thing about how to behave in front of all these people," you fret, voice rising as you begin to worry about all the ways you could - and probably will - mess up. "What if I say the wrong thing or offend someone unintentionally? What if I embarrass you? What if-" "Alia," Marcus interrupted, his voice firm but gentle, "you need not worry about anything. I already told you I'm a patient teacher and I'll teach you everything you need to know beforehand. And I'll be with you the whole time." Shaking your head, you look down, wearily. "Marcus, I can't go. I don't belong there."

Marcus sighs, looking at you apologetically. "I'm afraid you have no choice. To refuse the invite would be a direct insult to the Emperors." You slowly lift you head up, dread gripping your stomach, but the way Marcus is looking at you now - a mixture of understanding and confidence - slowly soothes the worst of your anxieties. "Everything will be okay," he promised, "trust me." You force a smile his way and nod. Even though you are still apprehensive about this turn of events, you find yourself believing Marcus' words. He's strong and capable and if he says it'll be okay, it'll be okay.

@bbyanarchist @myownwholewildworldwhole @imherefordeanandbones @picketniffler @h0w-1-wanna-l1v3 @chrissy-forfucksakes-wakeup @meetmeatyourworst @yorksgirl @joeldjarin @echo-ethe @whirlwindrider29 @abbyanarchist @suzyface @missadangel @evyiione @longlivekingminnn @heramj @javiismyhsbnd @kxthxrinx0310 @inept-the-magnificent @liciafonseca @marrowfrog00 @moompie @anoverwhelmingdin

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal fandom #marcus acacius fanfiction #marcus acacius x you #marcus acacius x ofc #marcus acacius x reader #marcus acacius smut #marcus acacius fluff #marcus acacius angst #general marcus acacius #gladiator 2 movie #gladiator 2 #pedro pascal characters

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yuansie · 2 months ago

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ocean memories : made to be a reflection of what each needs,

synopsis. despite the years that have aged you, shaped you into the woman that you are now, the fire in the basin always calms the storm in your mind. you may have changed, but that never will... nor will he. in some aspects, that is.

pairing. rafayel x fem! non mc! reader

warnings. time skip (they're adults now OOPS), talks about mental health but not specified (implied that reader stresses and overworks... a lot), rafayel ooc but not really bc he's a goofy king in here. if there's anything i missed, please let me know!

genres. fluff, a little bit of angst (?)

rating. sfw

w/c. 1.8k

a/n. HELLOOOOOO this is a little later than usual but whateva !! i would like to say that 1. this is not proof read (when will i ever proof read this...) and 2. next chapter the angst will be here FR heh. ANYWAYS ENJOYYYY (i hope)

THE FIRE IN THE BASIN BURNS BRIGHTLY, a sight that always eases the tension in your shoulders. one look at it washes your worries away. you can hear him every time you look at it, the playful tone in his voice telling you that you’re doing a good job, and it fills your entire being with a warmth that comforts you. it’s kind of endearing: the way you always hear his voice, a soft and elegant drawl, in your head whenever your chest seems to tighten, inky thoughts that weigh down in your mind swirling like a disastrous whirlpool that wants to shred you apart before mercilessly dragging you to the depths of the ocean. his voice will ring like a lullaby, shining the sun and dispersing the storm that brews in your head. rafayel washes the anchors weighing down in your chest and your mind away with his own warm storm, and you will always be thankful to him.

maybe he is attuned to your feelings, or maybe it is your mind that plays these tricks on you before you fall victim to its own abyss. in any matter, the truth remains as it is: rafayel is your rock, your haven.

you’re sure that the other lemurians think and feel the same as you.

“miss priestess!” you slowly rip your gaze from the fire and turn, finding a little girl no older than six standing in front of you, pointing at your head. “your coral cir… cir…” the girl flushes in embarrassment, quickly looking away as she mumbles, “cir… circle? no…”

you kneel down, a small smile on your lips as you grab her shaking hands. she looks at you with tear-filled eyes. “is there something wrong with my circlet?” you say the last word slowly, watching as the little girl sheepishly nods her head.

“it is crooked, miss priestess,” she whispers.

letting go, you reach for the coral circlet—made by the hands of the one you serve—that rests around your head, tilting it to one side. the girl giggles, shaking her head. “you have made it more crooked, miss priestess!”

you grin and guide her hands to your head, “can you fix it for me, please?”

with a nod, the little girl adjusts it carefully, beaming when she’s done. “perfect!”

“thank you so much, little one.”

the bells of the temple chime loudly; you get up and grab the little girl’s hand, guiding her to the entrance of the temple. “will you come back tomorrow?” you ask, peering down at her.

she looks up at you with big eyes, “how did you know?”

her response makes you laugh, “i am the god of tides’ priestess. i must know my people.”

the little girl, in awe, says, “i wish to be a priestess to our god, miss priestess.”

“then i will pray for him to see you.”

she brightens, hugging you quickly before running off, twisting back to wave at you. “thank you, miss priestess!” she rounds a corner and disappears into the road that leads back to the city.

the doors of the temple slowly swing shut, the thud echoing loudly in the now empty temple.

“miss priestess sounds endearing… the girl has been seen, but she will not be my priestess. i only need one.”

you tilt your head back, an unamused expression plastered on your face. “what are you doing down here?”

rafayel emerges from behind a pillar and walks closer to you, his two-toned eyes trained on the slight frown on your lips. with his pointer fingers, he gently lifts the corners—you end up smiling. “why must i force a smile on the lips of my priestess?” he pouts, “you should be smiling at me easily.”

“am i not smiling right now?”

the male doesn’t say anything, his lips void of the pout once there, his teasing and playful demeanor gone and replaced by a quiet seriousness. he swipes the pad of his thumb across your cheek before moving to the skin under your eye, his eyes narrowing. “you are tired,” he grumbles, “you work too much.”

“it is my duty to work like this,” you close your eyes and lean into the palm of his hand, “i am your priestess, rafayel.”

he hums, “that is so… but why do you worry more?” his thumb and pointer finger pinch your nose. “i can practically feel when you start to think too much.”

your eyes fly open as you yelp, swatting his hand away. “you—rafayel!”

“what is it that worries you to the point of looking so dreary?”

your shoulders slump. “i thought… i did not think it would be noticeable.”

rafayel scoffs, leaning away from you. “of course i would notice,” he says, “who do you take me for?”

“apologies,” you mumble, leaning forwards to close the space between the two of you again. you melt against him, your head tucked away in the crook of his neck. “it is just…”

“just…?”

you exhale slowly, “there should have been word delivered to me by now.”

“is that what this is about?” he laughs, pushing you away enough for him to flick your forehead. “the deep sea will send something when it is time. you should not worry about this as it is not within your control.”

“i have never gone this long without word from the deep sea,” you say, pressing your palm against the sore spot on your forehead, lips pursed. “it has been more than eight moons since i last heard from it, and it is only a matter of time before the people notice. especially when the last prophecy is about the ceremony—”

“tell them we are in times of prosperity,” rafayel says, “that is the truth, is it not?”

“yes, but—”

“then problem solved!” he grins.

he grins so brightly that whatever it is you wanted to say dies at the tip of your tongue; you stop and stare at him as if you are in a trance, dangerously drawn to him in a way that should not be allowed.

like a moth is to a flame.

“we should go to the surface.”

you slowly blink. “what?”

“let us go to the surface,” he says, reaching down to grab your hands. he intertwines your fingers, and your heart beats a little faster in your chest. “you have not gone to the surface with me in a long time.”

“it cannot have been that long—”

rafayel raises an eyebrow, “it has been twelve moons since you last went with me to the surface.” at your silence, he continues, tightening his grip on your hands the slightest bit, “come with me to the surface,” he lowers his voice to a whisper, as if it is meant to be secret between the two of you, “please.”

he brightens at how your features soften, a smile breaking out on your lips. “who am i to say no to you, my dearest friend?”

“you would be a fool to deny me,” rafayel laughs, deep blue and sunset red eyes glimmering, little specks of molten gold from the fire in the basin swimming in them. “and you are no fool.”

the two of you are like teenagers making your way up to the surface after the city has fallen asleep, giggling and pushing and hushing each other. it is nothing like the first time he went to the surface with you; this time is so different.

“you know,” rafayel glances at you once you both emerge from the water, “this is amusing.”

“how so?”

“because,” he pauses, his fingers brushing against your skin to tuck a strand of your hair behind your ear, “now i drag you along to the surface.” rafayel takes one last look at you and yells, “let us see what new treasures we will find on the sand!”

the way he jumps back into the water, his tail slapping against the surface of the ocean and splashing you with its water, is a silent invitation.

race him, beat him to the island, ask something from him if you win.

you laugh loudly, following him to the beach of the island. given his head start, by the time your tail turns into feet and touch the sand that meets the salty waters, rafayel is proudly standing in front of you, lips curved into a pretty smile, extending a hand out for you to take. your eyes land on his head and you snicker, a hand flying up to your mouth as your shoulders shake. he hoists you up, eyebrows furrowed as he does so.

“why do you laugh?”

you clear your throat, and point at his head. “you have a piece of seaweed on your hair, raf.”

his jaw drops, “i have what in my hair?”

“seaweed!” you cough, trying so hard not to laugh, and point at your head. “it is stuck right here.”

rafayel crosses his arms and looks up at the night sky, quickly glancing at you from the corner of his eye. “take it off for me.”

“what?” you grimace, “i will not do that for you. you are a grown man.” despite the reluctance in your voice, you still reach out towards his purple locks that stick to his head, the color darker than usual.

“you are my priestess,” rafayel looks at you directly, observing your slow movements. “and i am your god. is it not your job to listen to my every word?”

“before you are a god,” you mumble, carefully picking the seaweed from his hair, “you are rafayel, my friend. is that not what you told me long ago?” you throw the green object away, watching it fall onto the sand with a soft thud before looking at rafayel. you can see the little beauty marks on his face, the one on the bottom of his nose and by the corner of his eye. you can see his eyelashes, darker than usual, flutter as he blinks and peers at you with a sort of curiosity in his bicolored irises. the red at the bottom is more of a pink hue, a mix of the pink from a coral he had gifted you once and the red from his flames or the fire that burns in the basin back in the temple.

“you are correct,” he finally says, taking a step away from you. the immediate cold you feel makes you shiver. rafayel sits down on the sand, his legs outstretched, and pats the space next to him. you take your place next to him, resting your head on you shoulder, silently watching the sea in front of you with him. “…i won the race.”

“you did, yes,” you say, “is there something you wish for?”

he breathes in deeply, “i wish for you to not keep your worries to yourself anymore. tell me instead of keeping it inside.”

you hope he doesn’t hear the loud thumping of your heart in your chest. “okay.”

previous | masterlist | next

taglist (open). @bakutual @nadinefromwhere @justmystical @holywaterbucketchallenge

OCEAN MEMORIES, yuansie 2025

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a-b-riddle · 5 months ago

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Sins of the Father

cw: shifter romance. A/B/O dynamics. Angst. Grovel. Hurt/comfort. Sick children. Loss of parents. Last name mentioned for reader (sorry but they have to call her something). I’ll add more if I think of any. I’m back in my wattpad era. cringe. Reader is early to mid twenties. Related to story sorry :(

pairings: poly141 x OFC

Summary: For seven years you have lived as an outcast in your own pack. Shunned, you had to make due to ensure not only your own survival but your younger sister’s as well. Now, after years of failing to shift and being labeled as broken, the connection that the gods had chosen for you clicks into place. Much to uour dismay, it’s not only person who sentenced you to exile, but his three betas as well.

There were two rules above all else in your world:

1) Don’t disobey the Alpha.

2) Don’t sneak off packlands.

Since there was a direct order from Alpha Price to stay in the territory, you were breaking both. But the alphahole was twisting your arm at this point. It was either obey him and let Rosie die or say fuck it and she might be able to fight the infection.

Rosie 13 months old when your mother went missing. Four months later, your father had challenged Price. His wounds had been fatal and the consequence for his betrayal had fallen upon you and Rosie. She was still a baby and you were still a child yourself. But you guess the daughters were meant to pay for the sins of their father.

And Rosie had paid nearly all of her life for what your father had done. No medical aid given. Your monthly rations were whatever was leftover. Year after year the rations had dwindled down to the point where it wasn’t enough to sustain you both through a quarter of the way through the winter.

You had learned long ago that being a part of a pack didn’t make you part of the pack. Which was why you had to rely on trading with the humans in order to get medicine and non-perishable goods.

Tonight was the night before the run. No one except border patrol would be out and no one keeps tabs on what happens to the Blackburn girls. No one would be looking out for the pack’s pariah at this time of night.

You couldn’t breathe easy until your cottage came into view. You were thankful that you were so far away from the rest of the pack and remained at the edge of the border. The five mile trek had been taken down to a little over two.

Rosie was still tucked in bed just as she had been the last two days. The cold cloth on her forehead no doubt warm now. She stirred awake as the door creaked shut behind you. “Sissy?” Her voice rasped, sounding more like old hag than a 9-year-old girl.

“Hey Rosie Posey,” You greeted softly as you pulled the pill bottle from your backpack. “Miss Oliver says hi. Hopes to see you soon.”

Miss Oliver was a doctor that you had met years ago. Anytime Rosie got too sick for you to handle, you sought her out. She had always been willing to help. Even given the difference in species.

Rosie took the medicine without fuss and settled back into bed after offering a quiet, “thank you.”

You put away the supplies you had gotten. After changing out of your sweaty clothes, you had washed off with a basin of water and a rag in the corner of the room. The fire had now dwindled down to glowing embers.

You laid down next to her and almost by instinct, her body moved closer to yours. No doubt seeking any warmth she could.

It was hard. Having maternal feelings for a child who was meant to be your sibling. Having to become a mother before you really got the chance to be a sister.

You were just grateful she was still here.

It was moments like this when the hate you had for Price and the pack left your body body. When Rosie’s breathing becomes clear and her skin doesn’t burn beneath your touch. Where for just a moment you don’t live a crumbling shack. You feel safe and the worries of tomorrow escape you.

#call of duty #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #captain john price #kyle gaz garrick #angst #angst with a happy ending #grovel

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luveline · 2 years ago

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𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐣𝐞𝐜𝐭 𝐤𝐢𝐬𝐬 𝐦𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐩𝐢𝐝 | 𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐞 𝐦𝐮𝐧𝐬𝐨𝐧

you start to second guess your relationship when eddie doesn't waylay you with his usual abundance of kisses after work. meanwhile, eddie tries to work out what's upsetting you, how to fix it, and most urgently, how to ask you a super important question. fem!reader, 5k

cw: eddie skipping meals at work, suggestive flirting

˚‧꒰ა ✮ ໒꒱‧˚

Eddie's borrowed headphones slip down your head as you dance. Nothing dramatic, a shoulder wiggle as you do the dishes. You can't hear the racket you're making, plates crashing into one another on the drying rack, the hot water pounding the basin, the clip of your sock-clad foot against wooden slats as you tap it.

Your hands burn at the high temperature. Your fingertips are pruned, palms chapped as you finish washing Eddie's mountain of dishes. His whole apartment was in similar disarray before you arrived, laundry to the eyes and one of his haphazard book towers collapsed in the bedroom. The dishes had been scraped and rinsed but not washed, the laundry designated to one corner of the bathroom; Eddie's not unclean, necessarily, but unfocused.

You had time. You don't mind coming over to help him out.

Though if he knew you were here doing this he'd blow a gasket. I don't want you wasting your time doing shit I should've done a week ago, he'd say.

It isn't time that matters to you. You'd take a couple of days out if it helped him, if it meant he could enjoy the place he lives to the fullest extent. Plus, you spend time here too. And you get to borrow his Walkman the whole time. Eddie has the best tapes.

You hum along to the finishing line of the song and set the last clean cup upside down on the draining board. Satisfied at a job well done, you wipe the sink basin clean, drain suds from the sponge, and turn off the water. Cool air floats in through the open window, kissing your lightly perspiring skin hello.

You dry your hands on a cloth and push Eddie's headphones carefully down to your neck, more than careful with his things. He works hard for everything he has, days and nights and any shift they want him to take. Most of it goes into his savings account. His spare change gets dropped into a washed out pasta sauce jar on the sill for a forthcoming rainy day. Ridiculous amounts of it get spent on you, and if you asked Eddie he'd say it was perfectly reasonable, sweetheart.

You're not asking him. You don't think new clothes and sweet treats nearly every time you see him counts as reasonable, but you'd be a liar if you said you didn't appreciate it.

Hence your unsanctioned use of his spare key. You buy him treats too, but money can't buy the satisfaction of a clean home. (Well, it could. Hiring a day maid might've been quicker and cleaner in the end, but would a day maid have put their heart and soul into dusting his figurines with a makeup brush for fifteen minutes?)

You turn around with Eddie on your mind, feeling grateful and tired at once. Your thoughts stutter at the warm body standing casually in the doorway, his shoulder pressed to the jam, a rucksack and a carabiner of keys hanging from his curled fingers.

"Hey," Eddie says.

You flinch like he's coming at you, startled by his sudden appearance.

His laugh is apologetic, at least. "Woah! I thought you heard me, where's your head?"

You slap a hand to your racing heart and huff out a breath that fans up your face. Eddie straightens from his cool guy slouch, dropping his keys on the counter and sliding his bag beside them.

"It's around here somewhere," you say through a smile, trying and failing to glare at him as he puts his hands on your waist. "You scared me bad."

"It was accidental."

He pulls your hips to his and leans back. A close pressure without being particularly sexual. It's obvious that he's looking you over, like you might've miraculously run into harm in the sixteen hours you've been apart.

"I didn't think you'd be back yet, sorry," you say breathlessly, still recuperating from your scare.

"I'm the sorry one."

He brings a hand to your face. If there's one thing you can count on with your boyfriend, it's that he's going to find an excuse to touch your face at least once a day, whether it be with the back of a ring-heavy finger trailing down your cheek lightly, or a flat, hot palm, calluses scratching ever so slightly as he squeezes it into whatever shape he feels like. Never cruel, but melding.

He's in a mood.

Not salacious. Teasing at most, he pulls a rough line down from the corner of your eye to your lips.

"Why are you doing my dishes?" he asks.

His hands smell like citrus scrub and white vinegar. They must've had him cleaning in the kitchen at work again.

"So you wouldn't have to. I know you don't mean to let them pile up."

"I'll find my laundry in the dryer, I'm guessing."

"Nope. Folded in your dresser, more like."

He pulls your chest to his, the heat of his breath kissing your nose. It smells like the spearmint gum he chews obsessively during his morning shifts. Eddie has a theory that eating in the mornings is breaking a seal —you'll be much hungrier for the rest of the day than you would've been otherwise. Better to wait for lunch.

You hate his theory (three meals a day plus as many snacks as he needs would be perfect, if he could find the time) and his gum for what it represents. It reminds you that he likely hasn't eaten today, and you're quick to start brainstorming ideas for dinner from the ingredients you'd seen while cleaning. He has ground beef, enough eggs to make pasta, and a tupperware of frozen soup from last Wednesday. The world's your oyster.

"What are you thinking about?" he asks. You don't have time to answer. "I wish you didn't do all the laundry, babe. Those stairs are a fucking killer."

He leans that last inch. A kiss is coming any second now, your pulse capering between your ears. A hundred kisses shared between you and you wait for the next with the same calibre of excitement as you did for the first.

"I owe you a deep tissue massage, right?" he murmurs.

You beam at him, pushing the heel of your palm against his chest to widen the distance between you into something a little less heart-pounding. "You haven't eaten today, have you?"

"I'm pretty hungry," he says, his voice smooth as angora silk.

He looks, again, like he might kiss you. His eyes dip to your lips, a molten brown shining in the kitchen light. You wait, and you wait, but he doesn't close the gap.

You push your smile to one side, your eyelashes twined in the corners from the force of it. Your smile isn't entirely genuine. It's cool if he doesn't wanna kiss you… sort of. He can do whatever he likes, of course, you'd never force him to kiss you just to keep you happy or for any other reason, but you're a little down at the idea that he doesn't want to. You love how they feel. You're used to them as both hello and goodbye.

Eddie might not want to kiss you, but he isn't putting on a show, his amorous smirking a reality you battle with (read: give in to, enjoy, daydream about) on the regular. Perhaps he isn't eager to ravish you after a full day bussing tables. That's more than okay.

However he might be feeling, you aren't going to let him go hungry a minute longer. "Dinner?" you ask.

"I was thinking sloppy Joes," he says, his hand running down your arm. He turns for the fridge. You follow. "Brioche buns?"

You step in front of him, the fridge door a cacophony of glass rattling as you tug it open. "I'm making them."

Eddie wraps his arms around you, moving you bodily to the side. It's too quick for you to dig your heels in.

"You used to be a gentleman," you complain.

"No, I didn't." He taps your ankle with the rubber toe of his converse.

You make dinner together, to each other's chagrin. Eddie steals spatulas and frying pan handles from your grip. You bump his hip away from the stove grill to toast buns. When you sit down together on the couch, it's at war, elbows digging into soft spots and cups placed out of reach on the coffee table.

"Dick," you say.

Eddie takes a bite, says, "You're the dick, dick," and starts shovelling fries onto your plate. "Giving me more fries is ridiculous. We should eat the same portions, we're the same age."

"But one of us had breakfast and lunch, and one of us didn't," you say, using your fork to give his gifted fries straight back.

And here's where you get the first inkling that something's making him not want to kiss you, emphasis on you.

Eddie loves kissing you when he feels loved. For obvious starters, whenever you tell him you love him he makes sure to kiss your lips. When you make him laugh, when you wash his hair in the shower, when you draw stars into his palms, all those things garner a fond peck to the temple. He kisses the space just under your ear so often you're sure there's a contusion in the shape of his mouth there, permanent and purpling, his go-to whenever he's laying on top of you or hugging you from behind.

You can count on a mildly greasy kiss no matter the meal. Eddie loves eating dinner together. He waits for you to get home, sometimes for hours, to share a plate with you. You've never not indulged him with a kiss. Tonight, he doesn't ask.

It would be here. Name-calling dripping in affection, you elbow glancing off of his as you cut into your sloppy Joe, and the TV failing to cover the sound of a quick kiss before he digs in. You're gutted at the lack and surprised to have noticed it, but you don't go so far as to mourn the loss: Eddie's likely too hungry to think about kissing, that's all. Right?

Despite attempts to convince you otherwise, he's hungry. He finishes his plate in what feels like five big bites, hair tucked behind his ears, an innocent but far off look about him as he wipes his fingers in a piece of kitchen towel and leans back into the couch cushions with a small groan.

"We should stop eating on the couch," he says.

"You told me you wanted to sit here." You're confused.

"It's like, testing fate. I'm a mess. I'll ruin it and have to get a new one I can't afford."

You chew on a fry. "I mean," —you put your hand over your mouth, pleased when he turns to you with a ready-made smile, like the act of just looking at you is one he enjoys— "even if you drop something on it, we can Didi Seven it. Or get one of those fancy water vacuum things."

"It's my couch," he says. "You wouldn't have to clean it."

"You're my boyfriend," you respond, "so I wouldn't mind."

"I'm your boyfriend," he says, his head tilted ever so slightly to one side.

His lips close, his eyes tracking up and along the lines of your features with an unnameable emotion in his gaze. You'd like to say that it's love, but you're starting to think it's something else.

"Don't say it like that. You sound too unsure," you say.

Amusement dances across his face. "Are you finished?" he asks, opening his hand for your tray.

"No," you say, faux-stroppy. You take another fry.

Eddie grabs his tray. He skirts around your legs and stops at your side. In his more dopey moods, he'd take your face into his hand again and hold your head still as he kisses your crown.

He squeezes your shoulder. "I'm not unsure about anything," he says warmly. "I'll get you a drink, yeah? Ice?"

A chuck under the chin with his forefinger and he's gone, leaving you sitting there wondering what's wrong with him. Home an hour now and not one single kiss? Is this the end of the honeymoon phase? How do people survive this shit, you think. It's agonising.

Your chewing turns morose.

You and Eddie go through phases, waxing and waning, as most people do. There's always love there, but sometimes there's so much of it you don't know what to do with yourself besides lavish in it. Only yesterday morning he'd been in your bed, shirtless (as you often wish he'd be), dark ink like bruises in the low light where it climbed the lengths of his arms and his bare chest. You were lax under his touch, his nose and lips pressing to your skin as he kissed you from rib to soft tummy. Slow, kissing you as though he had nowhere else to be but there. As though his next shift wasn't thirty minutes around the corner.

You were mortified when he blew a raspberry. Now you're thinking you might peel out of your shirt and ask him to do it again if it means he'll kiss you in any definition.

"What are you thinking about?" he asks as he returns, his hand sliding along from your shoulder to the other while he steps over your legs.

"What are you thinking about?" you ask.

"Feeling very repetitive today, are we?" he teases, no consideration for your dinner tray as he collapses into the seat beside you.

You're expecting his cheek on your shoulder, his hair tickling your upper arm. It doesn't come. Worried he's discouraged by your tray, you place it on the coffee table and sit back. You really want him to kiss you.

Kissing someone isn't something you thought you'd want to do before you met Eddie. To be kissed, sure. To give a chaste peck, absolutely. But to have someone put their weight on you, to press at the seam of your lips with their own and to wade in like a steady wave, one breath at a time, until you're unsure where the boundary of your mouth begins and his ends, that was all new. Eddie kisses like he loves, loud and brash, rough and eager. Gentle when he needs to be but arduous.

He makes you feel wanted in a thousand ways and the first is his greedy penchant for stealing a kiss or three at every opportunity. It's weird that he hasn't kissed you yet. He's acting weird.

"You're being super weird," you say. You feel like a pressure cooker with steam pouring from the release valve.

Eddie smirks at you. "That so? Any explanation attached to that, or are we name-calling? I have some names for you, if we are."

"Oh, I have to know."

"Figured you would." He throws his leg over your thigh. The firm muscle of it tenses as he wiggles his foot.

"What were you gonna call me?" you prompt impatiently.

"Sweetheart. Angel." He turns his cheek into the back of the couch, bringing his pinky to your face and drawing a line from the smoothest skin under your eye outward. "Pretty. Very pretty."

"Says you," you murmur. If he thinks you're so pretty, why won't he kiss you? "I can't work out your angle today."

"Am I acting differently?" he asks, seemingly unperturbed.

No. He just hasn't kissed you. There might have been a moment when he first came home where you thought he was hesitating to kiss you, but since then he's acted exactly as he usually does (minus kissing, therefore making it unusual).

You sigh, half serious and half wanton sadness. "No." His nose twitches. You startle. "What?"

"Nothing."

"What, do I have bad breath?" you ask, bringing a hurried palm to your mouth to try and test it.

Eddie pulls your hand down, admonishing through a laugh, "You obviously don't. You know I'd tell you, babe."

"Oh."

"I got gum though, if you want it."

You bat his chest. "I bet you do… I don't know what it is, then. I give up."

"What's what?" he asks. He takes a curl of his hair around a painted fingernail. It coils on his finger, where he pinches the end, bringing it up to your chin and drawing a smile under your lips with the tip.

"I… do I have something in my teeth? A zit? What's the issue?" you ask, lost.

"There's no issue!" He laughs, and he curves his hand gently around your neck. "Why do you think there's an issue?" he asks. A thread of his voice wavers. Impossible to notice if you didn't know everything about him, down to the stray hair.

"No, because," —your voice shrinks— "you're being off with me." You won't cry, but it's impossible to stop the doubt that seeps into your voice. "You're not…"

Eddie strokes your neck with his thumb, growing serious. "I'm not what?"

"You haven't kissed me." You avoid his eyes. "Not since you saw me."

"I'm sorry," he says, immediately dipping forward.

You pull back. "Wait–"

Eddie waits. "What?" he asks.

"I don't want you to kiss me just 'cus I asked you to."

Eddie pushes his hand upward, his index finger shaped to your jawline. He rubs a quarter circle from your chin to your jaw tentatively with his thumb, an awful sorry look in his eyes that he gets whenever you're upset. "Well, I always want to kiss you," he confesses. His eyebrows furrow. "You know that, right?"

"But you haven't, today."

Is that pathetic? you panic. Noticing, caring, it feels so, so silly all of a sudden, you can't believe you spilled it that easily. You may as well have written clingy loser across your forehead in glaring pen.

Eddie sees it. He doesn't cringe at you like you fear he will.

"Ah," he says, almost humming, his lips barely parted, "that's just not okay, is it? My girl waiting on a kiss."

He leans in. You shy away, wanting his kiss but wanting the run up more. Eddie follows your lead, keeping space between you, rubbing a diligent and affectionate circle into your cheek. His touch is soft enough to tickle.

"I'm not trying to act desperate, I just figured– I thought there was a reason you hadn't," you say.

Eddie asks you in his softest, most genial tones if he can kiss you.

You don't say yes so much as you lift your chin and close your eyes. Your relief is sharp as he closes the fizzing space between you, as he guides your face to his and holds it there like a treasured pearl cupped in two palms. He makes a sound at the back of his throat that kills any doubts of his affection stone cold dead. Your lips part a millimetre if that, and Eddie slots into the gap, his hands growing less and less careful by the second, the pressure of his touch amping up. He moves back only long enough to turn his head, your noses bumping, another breathy sound slipping past his lips. You smother it gracelessly with a rougher reciprocation.

It's not your longest kiss, but it works. It's the reassurement you needed. Eddie pulls away to suck in a harsh breath, the feeling foreign against your tingling lips. His face dips, his eyes out of view. His hands move in twin down the slope of your neck, languish, feel along the thin layer of your t-shirt as though he's looking for some secret answer.

"I'm not trying to act weird around you, I'm just nervous," he says.

You feel your back aching, stiff as a rod. "Nervous?" you ask quietly.

Eddie rests his forehead on your chin. He whispers a cuss, and then he sits up very tall and looks you in the eye.

It takes him five seconds to tell you what it is that's making him anxious. In that time, you come up with a handful of things. I lost my job. I don't want to be with you anymore. There's someone else. There's no one else, but you did something that pissed me off/made me uncomfortable/disgusted me. I'm sick. None of your guesses are good, and none prepare you for what he asks next.

"Would you wanna move in with me?"

His hand meanders along your thigh. An awkward smile catches his lip like a fish hook, tugging it up on one side.

"I… what?"

"I think it's a good idea. I was trying to ask you yesterday, and now today it didn't feel right. I don't want you thinking I'm asking because you did my laundry." His hand warms your thigh, a pervasive heat. Your face is similarly hot. "We could split rent, and you could keep saving. You wouldn't have to deal with your shitty neighbours. You'd be closer to your job, and– and to me. It's a good idea," he repeats. "There's a ton of reasons it would be good for you, but I'm asking 'cus I missed you so bad last night I couldn't sleep. I wanna be with you whenever we can be."

"You'd really want me to?" you ask.

"You'd never have to wait for a kiss again," he says hopefully. "I know it's a big move. I get it if you're not ready."

"I'm ready," you say. You don't know it's true until you've said it aloud.

Delight sparks and catches like sun-dried tinder. Elation lights his eyes. "Holy shit, yeah? You want to?"

"Yeah," you say, nodding emphatically, trying not to yell. "Yes, I want to. I'd love to! That would be–"

"A dream," he finishes, snatching your waist into his grasp, basically yanking you into his arms.

"Amazing," you say, your arms forced over his shoulders.

You wrap your arms around the back of his head, curls that smell of almond oil and a generous dollop of hair mousse crushed to your face. Your eyes slip closed. You suck in an inconspicuous breath, though your self-indulgent action is interrupted by a groan, Eddie squeezing you hard enough to make the bones in your back click three at a time.

"I can't believe you, sweetheart. I don't kiss you for an hour and you think there's something wrong?" He laughs.

"I'm spoiled," you say sheepishly. To draw his attention, you add, "I can't believe you, afraid to ask me that! Why would I say no? I love you."

"I love you, too," he says, pulling the small of your back tighter still so he can dig his nose into the side of your head.

He kisses you all over the side of your face until you're painted in little warm patches from overexposure. A loved up mess, and dizzy with relief.

Relief and excitement. "How soon do you want me in here?" you ask, sitting back.

"How soon do you want another kiss?" he asks.

"Will we be stealing each other's questions all day?" you ask.

"For the rest of time, if I get my way."

"That's so corny," you whisper, ecstatic.

Eddie pushes you down onto the couch cushions. You know before he so much as pulls up a knee that he's going to climb on top of you. You make room for him, your heart feeling like it could breach through your ribs one bone at a time.

"What are you doing?" you whisper with a smile.

"Making up for lost kisses."

—

Two Weeks Later

Eddie wakes to a kiss.

Your arm thrown over his waist, your hand feeling greedily at the trim curve atop his hip, you've well and truly wrapped yourself around him. Like an octopus. He imagines the popping sound of your suckers if he tried to detach you (not that he'd want to).

You're dotting shy, soft kisses down the column of his throat. "I love you," you say softly between them, a melody that turns him to jelly. "I love you. Love you, love you, love you."

Your kisses are a compromise —after the general holy fucking shit-ism of your conversation a fortnight ago, Eddie put his foot down. He was out of his mind knowing his apartment was about to become yours, but he was also incredibly unhappy about the faces you'd made before he asked. He remembers your voice, your apprehension as you mumbled, "No, because, you're being off with me."

Eddie had been totally off trying to figure out how to ask what was potentially the second most important question he could ever ask you; he was distracted enough by it that he totally forgot about kissing you senseless. And your worrying asked a totally new question he hadn't thought of before. Why does Eddie always kiss you first? And why had the lack of a kiss been seen as a bar, and not an invitation?

Hence Project Kiss Me, Stupid. Or Project Kiss Me Stupid if he's feeling particularly in love (because you aren't stupid at all, but you may have made an unintelligent assumption (Eddie not kissing you for a few hours did not mean even slightly that he isn't gross in love).

The project was more like a proposal. Eddie decided you should be making the first move more often, so you weren't ever left feeling like something was wrong between you for lack of a kiss again. "If you ever think I'm mad at you, plant one on me. I promise I won't be mad much longer," he told you.

You're passing with flying colours, as far as he's concerned. Eddie thinks your moving in was gift enough, but fuck, all these kisses? He's been a walking vestibule of love, and lust, and sickening fondness for two weeks now. Project Kiss Me Stupid is the best thing that's ever happened to him. He's a genius.

"Good morning," you say into his neck, a hint of teeth scratching him with the greeting. Eddie cups the back of your head with a weak, tired groan as your lips close over his pulse.

"Morning," he says. His voice is thick with the grit of sleep.

"This is okay?" you ask, pausing in your kiss.

Eddie tips his head back heavily into plush pillows, your pillows, fresh with new bedding to match the nightstands you'd decided on together. "Please," he says. His arm slides behind your back to belt you in. "I'm gonna think you don't like me anymore if you take any longer."

"Very funny," you murmur.

He knows he's forgiven for teasing when your face dives back into the crook of his neck. His eyes shutter closed, blissed, thinking, God, I could get used to this, when you nip him.

"You didn't like my joke, I take it?"

"It was funny," you say, giving him a scratching kiss.

"That's counter-intuitive," he warns. "I like it rough."

You fall away from him to cover your face with both hands. He knows he's rubbing off on you at the sight, your head shaking a theatrical side to side that fails to hide real embarrassment beneath it. You look especially tortured.

Eddie knows exactly how to fix it.

˚‧꒰ა ✮ ໒꒱‧˚

thanks so much for reading! I really hope you enjoyed!

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