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writerfromshikahr · 4 days ago

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I want to state this is not a "hate Neve" piece. I wrote this originally as a bit of a tongue in cheek nod to players (perceived) frustrations about the flirting between Neve and Lucanis if you're romancing him. It was a one off piece originally and then a friend of mine encouraged me to write the whole damn thing. It's silly and probably not the best writing I have ever done, but it's a fun read (oh and long)!

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First Cut - Lucanis X Rook Fanfic

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It had been a mistake to stay in the room earlier, to stand there and watch Lucanis and Neve exchange flirtatious banter.

Neve had laughed, bright and melodious, and Lucanis had responded with a smile that seemed to light up the whole damn Lighthouse. Right in front of her. In front of her. The pang in her chest had been immediate and deep, leaving her breathless and struggling to maintain her composure.

Now, as she stood in the quietest corner she could find, away from everyone else, the hurt replayed itself over and over, accompanied by the cruel voice of self-doubt that she couldn’t quiet. What did you think would happen, Rook?…she chided herself. That he’d notice you when someone like Neve exists?

She squeezed her eyes shut, feeling the familiar burn of embarrassment. Of course, Lucanis liked her. Why wouldn’t he? Neve was stunning, with her sleek, sophisticated appearance and the grace of a refined Minrathous mage. She always had the perfect thing to say, remaining calm under pressure and exuding an effortless charm that captivated everyone. Neve was flawless. Neve was everything a woman should be.

Rook, on the other hand, was… well, she let out a humourless laugh. She was “pleasantly plump,” as one Crow had called her, with thick thighs and a belly she had long since stopped trying to hide. Her Crow leathers had to be adjusted to fit her more comfortably around her hips and legs. Where Neve embodied elegance, Rook was simply Rook. Awkward, self-conscious, and hopelessly bad at saying anything clever, she always seemed to trip over her words or, worse, blurt out something completely foolish at the worst possible moments.

You thought he felt the same way about you, didn’t you? Her heart twisted painfully at the realization. What a cruel joke. The way he had looked at Neve today was proof enough, wasn’t it? She wasn’t his type. The message was received—loud and clear.

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Rook had become a master at avoidance over the past few days, though it was starting to wear her thin. Every time she caught a glimpse of Lucanis, her heart clenched painfully, so she did what she could to keep her distance. She slipped out of rooms when he walked in, buried herself in tasks that required her full attention, and, when it came to conversation, she only offered clipped, polite responses to Neve, refusing to engage in anything more. It hurt to keep her walls up, but it was the only way she could cope.

Instead, she found herself spending more time with Davrin and Assan, grateful for the easy friendship they shared. Davrin, with all his swagger and occasional theatrics, had a way of making her smile even when her heart felt heavy. He was like the big brother she never had, someone who made her feel safe and seen without any of the complications that seemed to swirl around Lucanis. And with the added charm of Assan, Davrin’s adorable toddler griffon companion, there was always something to laugh about.

Today, they’d ventured out to the Arlathan Forest, a welcome reprieve from the Lighthouse and all the tangled emotions that currently lived there. The forest was peaceful, a canopy of golden leaves rustling overhead, and Rook felt some of her tension ease. She and Davrin found a small clearing atop a rocky outcrop, perfect for Assan to practice his flying. The young griffon flapped his wings with eager determination, making little leaps and swoops that brought a genuine smile to Rook’s face.

They settled on the smooth granite, sharing a simple lunch of bread and cheese, and conversation flowed easily between them. Davrin regaled her with tales of growing up in Arlathan, his voice full of life and humour, and she listened, fascinated by his stories. In turn, he asked her questions about the Crows, and she answered as best she could, occasionally making light of some of the darker aspects of her life. They even exchanged stories about their respective fights—the Grey Wardens and their eternal struggle against Archdemons, and the Crows with their endless contracts and rivalries. Despite Davrin’s opinions about her line of work, he respected her. They had built a solid friendship, and she had come to value it deeply.

He could tell she needed this time away, and so he did what he did best: kept her entertained and laughing. Still, even with all the humour and warmth between them, Davrin wasn’t blind. He’d noticed that something seemed off, that Rook was more distracted than usual. And, more curiously, he’d noticed the absence of Lucanis. Usually, the two were practically joined at the hip, their bond undeniable. But now… there was a definite shift, and he wasn’t sure how—or if—he should bring it up. As he watched her thoughtfully, he finally spoke up, trying to sound casual.

“So… you gonna tell me what’s got you all twisted up, or are we just gonna pretend you haven’t been acting like your mind’s somewhere else entirely?”

Rook looked at him, startled by the question, but then she sighed, her shoulders sagging. She had hoped that spending time with Davrin and Assan would make her forget the pain, but there was no escaping how deeply it cut her. “It’s nothing,” she said softly, but even she could hear the lie in her voice.

Davrin didn’t push. He knew her well enough to know when to leave things be. Still, he reached out and gave her shoulder a squeeze, his usual cheeky grin softening. “Well, whatever it is, you know I’ve got your back, right?” Assan warbled in agreement, flapping his wings like he was seconding the sentiment.

Rook’s lips twitched into a small smile. It wasn’t much, but for now, it was enough to have someone who cared, someone who could make the world feel a little bit brighter. Even if she couldn’t outrun her feelings, at least she had friends who made the burden easier to carry.

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Lucanis’s gaze lingered on Rook, his expression dark with confusion and frustration. She had gone out of her way to placing as much distance between them as possible, choosing the spot farthest from him at the table, right between Davrin and Taash. She occasionally spoke, and her lips curved into a soft smile when Davrin leaned in to whisper something that made her laugh. The sound, bright and genuine, only twisted the knife deeper into Lucanis’s chest. She hadn’t even spared him a single glance.

He took a sip of his soup, the taste barely registering, and let out a sigh that was loud enough to draw Lace’s attention as she grabbed seconds and plopped down beside him. “This is one of the best meals you’ve cooked, Lucanis,” she said with a grin. “Seriously, it’s delicious.”

He mustered a small smile at the compliment, but his eyes drifted back to Rook. He missed her terribly—her company, their conversations, and, most of all, the way her laughter used to be directed at him. Now, it was as if he had become invisible. What did I do? he thought, trying to piece together where he’d gone wrong.

Neve, who had also taken a seat nearby, picked up on his brooding mood. She arched an eyebrow and gave him a teasing smile. “Don’t tell me my assassin is feeling broody this evening?” she asked, her tone playful.

Lucanis’s eyes flicked over to her, unfocused. “What?”

Neve rolled her eyes, grabbing a piece of bread and dipping it into her soup. “I said, you seem broody tonight,” she repeated, though she didn’t seem all that concerned about it.

He nodded, distracted, and looked back at Rook, who was still doing her best to ignore him. “Perhaps I am, Neve,” he replied, the words tasting bitter. It was infuriating how Rook refused to acknowledge him as if he’d become a ghost. He had replayed every conversation and every moment from the past few days, trying to figure out when he might have crossed a line, said something careless, or given any reason for her to pull away. Yet he kept coming up empty.

Spite, normally full of commentary and sass, had fallen unusually silent. Then again, Spite tended to grow quieter whenever Neve was around.

Neve leaned closer, trying to pull his attention back to her. “Do you want to catch up this evening?” she asked, eyes sparkling with interest. “I found a book I think will be right up your alley.”

Lucanis had barely registered her words, his mind too full of the ache that was Rook. He blinked at Neve, his expression blank. “A book?” he echoed, his voice distant.

Neve, clearly unimpressed, shook her head. “Yes, Lucanis. I have one for you,” she repeated, with a touch of exasperation.

“Oh,” he said, realizing he’d made her repeat herself. “Sure, I’ll swing by later and get it from you.” His reply sounded mechanical like he was going through the motions. But then, out of nowhere, Rook’s laughter cut through the air, loud and free, a burst of joy that caught everyone’s attention. Even Taash choked on her drink, snorting with amusement.

Lucanis felt his heart sink further. Yeah, he thought miserably. I hate it here. Watching Rook smile at Davrin felt like punishment, and not knowing how to fix things between them was driving him mad. He had no idea how to bridge the growing distance or why he had ended up here in the first place, and that, more than anything, was the most frustrating part.

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Rook’s heart hammered in her chest as she froze in the hallway, seeing Lucanis waiting for her. Every instinct screamed at her to turn around and walk the other way, to avoid whatever painful conversation was about to unfold, but she knew she couldn’t keep running. You can do this, she told herself, her throat tightening. She drew in a deep breath, trying to steady herself, and forced herself to speak.

“Lucanis,” she greeted, her voice carefully cool. “Is there something I can do for you?”

His brow furrowed, confusion and frustration warring on his face. “What is happening, Rook?” he asked, a hint of exasperation leaking through. “Why are you avoiding me?”

She looked away from his gaze, her eyes fixing firmly on the stone floor. If she looked at him—into those deep, dark eyes that always managed to see straight through her—she knew she’d cave. She wasn’t ready for that. For once, she was determined not to fold, to hang onto her anger, even if it pained her. “I’m not avoiding you,” she replied, her tone clipped. “I’ve been busy, you know, saving the world, fighting ancient gods… that kind of thing.”

Lucanis regarded her quietly, the weight of his gaze like a physical thing pressing down on her. “I see, have I said something or done something?”

Rook forced a smile, one that didn’t reach her eyes. “No, I’m fine,” she said, her voice flat and devoid of the warmth she usually reserved for him. The fine was a lie, but she clung to it desperately. It felt safer than admitting how badly he’d wounded her. And it gave her a semblance of control over her heart, a way to shield herself from the crushing weight of feeling like she wasn’t enough.

Lucanis tilted his head slightly, his eyes narrowing. “Fine?” he repeated, scepticism heavy in his voice. “Hmm. It doesn’t look that way from where I’m standing.”

He took a step closer, and Rook instinctively backed up, keeping the same distance between them. She wouldn’t let him close, not when her heart was so fragile. “Perhaps you should go pick up that book from Neve,” she shot back, “I’m sure she’ll have your favourite coffee brewed and waiting.”

Lucanis’s eyes widened a fraction, the hurt flashing across his features unmistakable. Before he could respond, she brushed past him, retreating into her room and closing the door behind her. She leaned against it, breathing hard, fighting the urge to cry.

In the hallway, Lucanis stood in stunned silence, the shadows around him deepening as he tried to piece together what had just happened. His head tilted slightly, confusion etched on his face. Was this about Neve? The question churned in his mind, sending him spiralling back through every conversation, every interaction with Neve, searching for any clue. Why would Rook mention her?

It was then that Spite finally spoke up, his voice echoing in the corners of Lucanis’s mind. “Tastes like… envy,” the demon mused, each word slow and almost thoughtful. “Yes. Bitter. Sharp.��

Lucanis’s eyes widened in sudden realization. Envy. Rook was jealous? His heart lurched at the thought, a mix of confusion, guilt, and something else he couldn’t quite name. Jealous of what? That was the bigger question, but he had a place to start, which was more than he had moments before.

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Lucanis listened to Neve, his gaze thoughtful as he leaned back into the couch, sipping his coffee. The cozy yet refined atmosphere of her room couldn’t fully soothe his restless mind. "Jealous? Of me? Odd," Neve mused, sounding genuinely perplexed. "We aren't exactly bosom buddies, but we've always had a good working relationship. She's a capable mage, highly recommended if you listen to House de Riva. And she’s... well, sweet. Maybe a little too sweet at times. The world can be harsh, and people like Rook don't always make it out in one piece."

Lucanis tilted his head, his lips curving into a faint smile. “Sweet? Yes, she is,” he agreed, but there was more to it. “there’s strength in her, too. The kind that can get us through this, no matter how bad things get.” He paused, searching Neve’s eyes. “You know why Viago sent her out of Antiva, right?”

Neve nodded, her brow knitting together slightly. “I got the gist from him. He seemed… displeased.”

Lucanis’s smile widened a fraction. “Viago is always displeased,” he said with a hint of humour, “but he does have a soft spot for Rook, even if he won’t admit it. She climbed the ranks fast. Full membership with the Crows at a young age. Orphaned and taken in by House de Riva when she was around eight. But what got her exiled was taking initiative where she shouldn’t have.” He swirled his coffee, his eyes reflecting a complicated mix of pride and sadness. “She has heart—a soft one, maybe—but she freed a group of prisoners and slaves one night, prisoners the Antaam would’ve had executed. Varric was among them. You know that part.”

Neve leaned forward, her interest piqued. “Yes, but?”

“But,” Lucanis continued, “her actions derailed a much larger operation. She saved lives, but it cost the Crows.. That’s what led to her downfall.” He stared into his coffee, the steam curling up like ghostly whispers. “She’s got a good heart.”

Neve considered his words, sitting beside him and absorbing the weight of what he’d said. “A good heart that ultimately got her kicked out of her city,” she pointed out, “But that doesn’t explain why she’s jealous of me.”

Lucanis gave her a wry smile, one brow lifting slightly. “I figured the renowned Minrathous detective might have some insight to bestow upon me.”

Neve laughed, the sound warm and clear. “Oh, sure. Because I’m great with people, right?” she said, rolling her eyes. “Tell you what: maybe I’ll have a word with Davrin. They’re close. Leave it with me, and I’ll get back to you.”

Lucanis's smile softened, but his heart felt heavy with uncertainty. "I appreciate it," he said, though the thought of Rook feeling hurt, even if it was out of jealousy, left an ache in his chest that he couldn't quite shake.

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“Jealous?” Davrin echoed, his eyebrows rising with genuine surprise. “Of you? Hmm... nope. She hasn’t said anything to me, but she has been distracted. Yeah, that’s the right word.” He set down his latest whittling project, a small wooden figure of what looked like a griffon, and studied Neve with his usual thoughtful expression. “But she hasn’t said anything to you?”

Neve shook her head. “Nothing, I’m afraid.”

Davrin let out a sigh, leaning back. “Look, Rook is a good person, but even I know some people need space from time to time. I’m not going to pressure her into telling me anything she doesn’t want to share. But...” he trailed off, tapping his chin, “she and Lucanis used to be practically joined at the hip. Wherever he was, she’d be right there. If you ask me, she’s sweet on him, and it’s not just that whole Crow loyalty thing.”

Neve’s eyes widened slightly. “She has a crush?”

Davrin shook his head with a small smile. “No, not a crush. She likes him. I can see it in the way she is around him, and I know her pretty well.”

Neve frowned, her mind racing. “So... what do I have to do with all of this? Seems a little strange that I’d be involved.”

Davrin tilted his head, smirking a little. “Well, who told you she was jealous?”

“Lucanis,” Neve replied, sounding almost exasperated.

“But who told him?” Davrin shot back, a knowing grin on his face.

Neve paused, then rolled her eyes. “Spite told him,” she admitted with a touch of reluctance.

Davrin’s laughter burst out, loud and unapologetic. “Oh, so we’re taking the word of a demon now?” He shook his head, clearly entertained. “This is hilarious.”

Neve threw her hands up in mock surrender. “Hey, Lucanis takes him seriously! And to be fair, that demon has never led us astray.” Her lips twitched with a hint of amusement despite herself.

Davrin exhaled, the humour fading to something more contemplative. “All right, leave it with me. Rook and I are heading out to Lavendel together soon. I’ll have a chat with her, and see if I can make sense of this mess.”

Neve nodded, a small smile of relief crossing her face. “Thanks, Davrin. Just... tread carefully, okay? Whatever’s going on, it matters a lot to her.”

Davrin gave her a mock salute. “Don’t worry. I’ve got this.” But as he picked up his whittling project again, he couldn’t help but wonder if his friend was ready to admit the truth to herself.

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"What the fuck, Davrin? Who told you that?!"

Davrin blinked in surprise at Rook's outburst. "Who told you I was jealous of Neve?!"

"Hey, I’m just asking for interested parties. They figured I’d know what’s up with my friend," he replied, holding his hands up defensively.

Rook turned away from him, her fists clenched at her sides. She was too angry to speak—not at Davrin, no. Davrin could annoy her, sure, but Lucanis? He could make her seethe. And knowing that this line of questioning was coming from Neve of all people made her want to throw herself straight into the Fade, never to return.

"Rook," Davrin said quietly, his tone unusually gentle, "I promise, I won’t breathe a word if you tell me what’s bothering you. Warden’s honor."

Rook glanced at him, catching the earnestness in his expression. For once, he wasn’t cracking a joke to lighten the mood. She let out a sharp exhale and looked away again, debating whether to open up. Finally, she gave in.

“I swear to the Maker, if you report back to them, I’ll take out a contract on you,” she grumbled before the words burst out of her. “It’s the fucking flirting! Neve and Lucanis flirt all the fucking time, and I’M RIGHT FUCKING THERE! They just flirt like I’m invisible. I—well…” She hesitated, then plunged ahead. “I like him, and he never flirts with me. Never mentions anything about buying me something at the markets, or, ‘Hey, Rook, here’s a flower I picked for you,’ or anything like that. Nothing! I get nothing. It’s infuriating. What is wrong with me? Well, I know what’s wrong with me. Look at me. Look at this!”

She grabbed her thigh angrily, gesturing in frustration.

Davrin didn’t interrupt. He just listened, his expression calm and steady, letting her vent it all out.

“She’s perfect,” Rook continued, her voice shaking with anger. “Perfect hair, perfect outfits, perfect everything. And then there’s me—always saying the wrong thing, always crumpled. And he’s all, ‘Wow, Neve, great shot,’ while I’ve just literally slaughtered ten thousand darkspawn and not once does that man say anything.”

Davrin waited a beat to make sure she was finished before speaking. “I see. Well, thank you for finally telling me. I feel like we’re making progress here.”

Rook shot him a sharp look, her frustration now turning toward him.

“So, you like Lucanis,” Davrin said with a knowing smile. “I thought as much. I mean, it was obvious to me—everyone else seems to be walking around with blinders on.”

Rook groaned, dramatically flopping her head into her hands. “Don’t tell me that, Dav. It’s not making me feel any better. I already feel like the biggest idiot alive. I guess Viago was right.”

Davrin slung an arm around her shoulder and pulled her in, his tone soft but firm. “That’s my friend you’re talking about, and I don’t take kindly to people putting her down. Question is, where do you go from here?”

Rook let out a long, exhausted sigh. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “I’m so angry at him right now. And unfairly pissed off at Neve. But I can’t forgive him yet. I’m far too in my ‘petty era’ right now.”

“I can tell, Rook,” Davrin began, his voice steady but not unkind. “Thing is, he doesn’t know what he’s done. Not sure how the man is supposed to make amends if he isn’t told.”

Rook stared off into the small village that Davrin and her had spent the last two days protecting from the Blight, her frustration simmering beneath the surface. “How does he not know? The man is a walking romance novel with her! Why doesn’t he do that with me?” She paused, her voice dropping into something quieter. “I know I’m not like her… I get that…”

Davrin cut her off before she could spiral any further. “For the love of the Maker, Rook, you’re gorgeous. Why do you keep comparing yourself to her? Sure, you’re nothing like Neve, but you’re you, and that ain’t bad.”

Rook gave him a deadpan stare, one eyebrow arching. “Really? Now you’re hitting on me?”

“Fuck no,” Davrin shot back with mock indignation. “I know who your boyfriend is... and he terrifies me.”

Rook snorted, sarcasm dripping from her voice. “He’s not my boyfriend. I have no idea what we are. At the moment, he just annoys me.” She let out a heavy sigh, her shoulders slumping. “I’m going to have to talk to him, aren’t I?”

There was a note of defeat in her voice, like she was resigning herself to some inevitable punishment.

“Fuck… why do I have to be the one to do it? I want him to apologize. I want him to beg for forgiveness.” She groaned, throwing her hands in the air. “Wow, I really am being petty.”

Davrin grinned, his expression both amused and supportive. “Yes, but it suits you.” He leaned in conspiratorially. “Do you want me to say something to him? Informing him of his gross oversight of sneaking around trying to find out what’s wrong with you and then maybe steer him toward an ‘ah-ha’ moment?”

“You’d do that for me?” she asked quietly, her voice softer now, vulnerable.

“Of course,” Davrin said with a mock-serious nod. “Killing darkspawn, being a baby daddy to Assan, and sorting out budding romances at the Lighthouse? Those are my specialties.”

Rook rolled her eyes and playfully swatted his arm. “Dumbass.”

Davrin grinned, the corner of his mouth quirking up in that infuriatingly charming way. “Maybe so,” he said, leaning back with exaggerated confidence, “but I’m your dumbass. And where would you be without me?”

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Lucanis had been quiet all day. Davrin knew he was a man of few words, but today’s outing with him and Lace had been decidedly less chatty than normal. Now, they sat around a tavern table, finally letting some warmth soak into their bones. The Lighthouse’s perpetual twilight made it easy to forget the biting cold of Thedas, but the roaring fire beside them was a rare luxury this evening.

Davrin watched Lucanis as he stared into his coffee mug, the steam curling up like ghosts between his hands. Lace was busy chatting with the patrons at a nearby table, her laughter carrying faintly over the hum of conversation.

“So, Lucanis,” Davrin said casually, breaking the silence. “You’ve been a little quiet today. Anything amiss?”

Lucanis looked up, his dark eyes sharp as they met Warden's. “I’m not in the mood.” His tone was flat, cold.

For a moment, silence hung between them, but Davrin wasn’t one to back down so easily. He leaned back in his chair, watching Lucanis carefully. “I see that,” he said finally. “Wondering if I can help you out with that?”

Lucanis sipped his coffee, his gaze distant, and he could tell he was mulling something over. “You know Rook well,” the assassin said after a long pause. “Probably better than I.”

Davrin shifted in his chair, not entirely sure where this was going. He prayed to the Maker it didn’t involve knives. “Ahhh, yes,” he replied cautiously. “Though I’d say you know our fearless leader pretty well too.”

“I’m not so sure of that.” Lucanis’s words were quiet but firm, his eyes flicking back to him for a moment before returning to his coffee cup.

Davrin leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “I’m guessing you’re looking for answers,” he said lightly, nodding toward the mug. “Doubtful you’ll find them in there, my friend.”

A faint, almost reluctant smile tugged at Lucanis’s lips. “Perhaps not,” he admitted. “But coffee is good for reflection.” He paused, the weight of his thoughts pressing down on him visibly. “I’ve done something. I know I have. But she won’t tell me what it is, and I don’t know how to fix it.”

“Well, I know what you’ve done.”

Davrin smiled slyly, taking a sip of his beer like he wasn’t about to drop a bombshell. “It’s your lucky day, Crow.”

Lucanis stared at him, his mouth slightly agape. “You know?”

The Warden nodded, leaning back in his chair with a grin. “Sure do. And I can’t say it’s an easy fix—for you, at least. But,” he added, setting his mug down with a heavy clink, “if you applied as much effort into correcting your mistake as you do into flirting with a certain detective, you might just win her heart back.”

Davrin punctuated his sentence with a deep, exaggerated gulp of his drink, clearly pleased with himself.

Lucanis just looked at him, his face blank, and said nothing for the longest while. The lively chatter and laughter of the tavern seemed to fill the silence as Davrin waited, unsure if he had heard him.

“Flirting?” Lucanis repeated, his tone a mix of disbelief and offense. “With Neve? Flirting, as in me being suggestive with Neve?”

Davrin smirked, raising an eyebrow. “Do you need to say it a third time, Crow? Whatever way you cut it, it still sounds a bit... shit.”

Lucanis blinked, his mouth opening slightly as if to argue, but Davrin pressed on, clearly enjoying himself.

“I guess Rook just got fed up with hearing about you wanting to buy Neve fresh fish and flowers at the market.” He leaned closer, his voice dropping conspiratorially. “Oh, and I think she said—” Davrin cleared his throat for dramatic effect—“and I quote: ‘And he’s all, “Wow, Neve, great shot,” while I’ve just literally slaughtered ten thousand darkspawn, and not once does that man say anything.’”

He leaned back with a satisfied grin, taking another sip of his beer. “Yeah, I think that about covers the gist of what she vented to me for a solid 45 minutes.”

“Mierda,” Lucanis muttered under his breath, running a hand through his hair.

Davrin waved at the serving girl over with a grin. “Yes, you’re screwed, Lucanis,” he said cheerfully. “But, as I mentioned, you can make this better… I think.” He ordered another beer for himself and a fresh coffee for his brooding friend.

Lucanis’s brow furrowed, his voice low and resigned. “What else did she say? I need to know just how much of a gilipollas I’ve been.”

Davrin laughed, the sound loud enough to turn a few heads nearby. “I’m assuming that’s something bad—and if it is, you deserve it.” He leaned back, his grin widening. “Let’s see… what else did she say? Oh, right!”

Davrin sat forward, lowering his voice to mimic Rook’s, exaggerating her frustration: ‘Nothing! I get nothing. It’s infuriating. What is wrong with me? Neve and Lucanis flirt all the fucking time, and I’M RIGHT FUCKING THERE! They just flirt like I’m invisible.’ He leaned back with a satisfied smirk. “And, of course, more liberal usage of the word ‘fuck.’”

“I don’t know what to say,” Lucanis muttered, his voice low. He slumped back in his chair, looking more defeated than Davrin had ever seen him. “I’m not sure what I’m meant to say. I don’t mean anything by it—the flirting. I never thought…”

“No, you didn’t,” Davrin cut in sharply, holding up a hand to stop him. “Why would you? You ask her for advice on gifts for Neve, buy her nothing, and expect everything to be fine?” He shook his head, leaning forward. “Shit, Lucanis, you could pick Rook a flower off a random bush in Arlathan, and she’d be insufferably happy for days. I do it all the time for her, and I don’t even want to fuck her.”

Lucanis’s brow furrowed deeper, but he didn’t interrupt.

Davrin leaned back with a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Bare minimum, my friend. Bare. Minimum. And you’ve somehow managed to fall below that. Impressive, really.”

He punctuated his words with a long swig of his beer, shaking his head as he set the mug down.

“So, this is how you’re going to fix this,” Davrin began, pointing a finger at Lucanis for emphasis. “After we’re done at this outpost, we’re heading home, and you are going to beg for some kind of forgiveness. Kneel if you have to. Hell, throw in a prayer to the Maker while you’re at it and hope that gorgeous woman decides to give you another chance.”

Lucanis stared at him, his mouth opening slightly, but Davrin didn’t give him the chance to speak.

“And keep your damn mouth shut around Neve,” Davrin continued, leaning forward for extra emphasis. “I get it—Neve is damn fine to look at. But those thoughts? Inside thoughts, not outside thoughts, Lucanis. And for the love of everything holy, make sure your demon is on board with this too.”

Lucanis fiddle with the handle on his cup, guilt practically radiating off him, but Davrin wasn’t done.

“She likes you, I know she does. But she’s hurt, and a woman scorned is a terrifying force of nature.”

Davrin sat back, arms crossed, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “So what’s the plan, Crow?”

“I have no fucking idea,” Lucanis muttered, running a hand down his face. “I’ll think of something. I’ll fix this.”

He sounded more like he was trying to convince himself than Davrin.

“It better be good,” Davrin said pointedly, leaning back in his chair. “Because she is pissed, and I don’t blame her. And for the love of the Maker, can you tell her that you like her? It’s clear as day to me, but she has no idea. She thinks you don’t even see her.”

Lucanis opened his mouth to retort, but Davrin barreled on.

“This whole ‘I’m possessed by a demon and I can’t love anyone’ trope is old, Lucanis. If you can charm Neve halfway around Minrathous, you can bloody well lavish some of that charm on Rook.”

“I’ll fix it,” Lucanis said firmly, though the conviction in his voice wavered just slightly. “And… thank you, for letting me know.”

Davrin gave him a hearty pat on the back, his grin equal parts teasing and supportive. “I don’t envy you, Lucanis. I thought fighting the ancient Gods was going to be tough, but this? Seems like you’ve got your work cut out for you.”

Lucanis let out a quiet breath, half a smile tugging at his lips. He knew Davrin was right.

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

He found her up on the balcony, as he expected. Rook often went there to read when she needed space from everyone else. Davrin slid onto the bench beside her, and they sat in comfortable silence, the quiet of the moment broken only by the rustle of pages and the distant sounds of the Lighthouse.

Assan nuzzled his head against Rook’s arm, demanding pats, which she happily obliged, scratching behind the young griffon’s ears.

“It’s good to have you back,” she said finally, her voice soft but genuine. “I missed you. Did it go well?”

Davrin smiled, leaning back. “Of course it did. Harding is a terrible cook, though... but apart from that, we got the job done.”

Rook huffed a laugh, but before she could reply, Davrin added, almost too casually, “Oh, and I spoke to the Crow.”

Rook froze for a moment, her smile faltering. “Oh, Maker, how did that go?” She waved a hand before he could answer. “You know what? Don’t tell me. I’ve been perfectly happy here without him.”

Davrin turned his head, giving her a pointed side-eye. “Sure, sure... you’ve been perfectly happy.”

Rook glared at him over the top of her book, but he wasn’t done.

“He knows what he’s done wrong now,” Davrin continued with a shrug, “and is, and I quote, ‘formulating a plan,’ whatever the fuck that means.”

“A plan?” Rook repeated, her gaze drifting off into the endless expanse of the Fade sky. She hesitated, her fingers absently scratching Assan’s feathers as she gathered her thoughts. “I’m going to ask you something, and I want complete honesty. Even if it’s not what I want to hear.”

Davrin tilted his head, his smile softening. “Always.”

Rook turned to him, her voice quieter now, almost vulnerable. “Does the man even remotely like me?”

Davrin’s grin widened as he leaned back against the railing, taking a moment before answering. “Rook,” he said slowly, “I watched the blood drain out of the his face when I laid it all out on the table for him. I have never seen such a sorry sight.” He paused, his tone turning more sincere. “If that’s any indication of what he’s feeling, I think he’s sweet on you.”

Rook’s lips pressed into a thin line, her expression unreadable.

“He’s clueless,” Davrin added with a shrug. “I doubt he’s ever had a relationship before. Doesn’t excuse what he did, but I know he’ll fix it—or at least try to.”

Rook leaned her head on his shoulder, her voice barely above a whisper. “Why is life so hard? Everything feels so complicated, and I’m so tired. I know you said I shouldn’t compare myself to anyone, but… I don’t always feel strong, you know?” She paused, her fingers idly stroking Assan’s feathers. “Have I blown this all out of proportion? I think… I think I need to speak to Neve. She’s lovely—I know she is.”

Davrin stayed quiet for a long moment, his usual humor replaced by a thoughtful stillness.

“I think, sometimes, Rook,” he said softly, “you don’t see yourself the way the rest of us see you. At the heart of it all, you’re a good person. And yes, you’re beautiful too.”

Rook shifted slightly, about to protest, but Davrin pressed on.

“People come in all shapes and sizes. That doesn’t make anyone worth less than the next person. Maybe instead of comparing yourself to what you’re not, you should take a hard look at all the amazing things you are. All the shit you’ve accomplished under impossible odds. Hell, you’ve even put Solas in his place a few times—and that guy’s a dick.”

“That’s a weird way to ask me out on a date, Dav,” Rook said with a small smile, her eyes glinting with playful mischief.

Davrin laughed out loud, the sound echoing through the balcony. “You wish, de Riva. You and me would never work out.” He leaned back, grinning. “Besides, I come with a kid in tow—parenthood is tough.”

Rook chuckled, scratching Assan under the chin as the griffon chirped contentedly.

“Nah,” Davrin continued, “I think you’re more suited to the stabbity-stab life of Crow intrigue. I’m just a simple man, a Grey Warden with modest needs. You’d outlive me, no doubt, and I can’t have you being all mopey about the charming and heroic warrior you once knew.”

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

She heard the faint rustle of a note slipping under her door just as she was drifting off to sleep. For a moment, she considered leaving it there until morning, her exhaustion tugging at her. But curiosity got the better of her.

Pulling the blanket tightly around her shoulders, she swung her legs over the edge of the bed, shivering as her feet touched the cold floor. With a quiet sigh, she padded across the room, picked up the envelope, and sank into the worn couch by the window.

The candlelight flickered softly, casting long shadows as she slid her finger under the seal. The handwriting inside was instantly familiar, and her breath caught as she unfolded the letter.

-----

Rook,

I have thought about what to write in this letter to you for days as we made our way back home. I am usually good at making plans and coming up with solutions to any problem. Unfortunately, in this case, I am the problem, and I don’t know how to fix the hurt I’ve caused you.

That being said, I will try to make this right. If you decide not to accept my apology, I will understand. But if you can find it in your heart to let me make this up to you, I would be grateful.

Meet me in Treviso tomorrow evening at my favourite café—you know the one. We went there not long after I joined you at the Lighthouse.

I will wait for you.

—Lucanis

-----

Rook sank back into her couch, the letter still clutched against her chest. Stupid Antivan man, she thought, her lips twitching into a faint smile despite herself.

She couldn’t deny it—no matter how frustrated she was, no matter how much she wanted to stay angry—she was willing to hear him out.

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

There was a knock at the door.

“Can I come in, Rook?” Neve’s voice was soft but firm.

From inside, she heard a flurry of shuffling, a thud, and several muffled expletives. Finally, the door creaked open.

“Yes, come in,” Rook said, rubbing her toe with a wince. “I’m just getting ready to…”

Neve smiled knowingly. “Meet Lucanis in Treviso. I know.”

Rook sighed, slumping back slightly. “Of course you know. He probably told you.”

She moved to the couch, sitting down to pull on her boots, her movements stiff with nervous energy. Neve stepped inside, her gaze drifting to the window where the shimmering fish swam lazily outside.

“You really do have the best room at the Lighthouse,” Neve remarked, her voice distant. “No wisps, just the fish.” She turned back to Rook, her expression softening. “No, he didn’t tell me. Davrin did.”

Rook paused, her hands hovering over her laces.

“I wanted to stop by and tell you to enjoy yourself,” Neve continued. “If I know Lucanis, he’ll have a wonderful evening planned for you.” She hesitated for a moment, then stepped closer, her tone quieter but no less sincere. “And I also wanted to tell you... I envy you.”

Rook’s head snapped up in surprise. “Envy me?”

Neve gave a small, bittersweet smile. “He’s a good man, apart from the whole abomination thing he’s got going on.” Her smile widened slightly, a hint of humor in her voice. “I’ll admit, I entertained the idea of him and me once. But it was clear his heart had already chosen another.”

Rook opened her mouth to respond, but Neve cut her off gently.

“Like all men, he’s a bit of an idiot, and he’s made mistakes,” Neve said, her gaze steady. “But if you let him, he’ll spend the rest of his life making it up to you.”

“I don’t know what to say,” Rook admitted, her voice quieter now. “I do feel stupid for being unkind to you. I’m sorry about that.”

Neve waved the apology away with a small smile. “No need for deep and meaningfuls, Rook. We’re both busy women with jobs to do. But tonight?” She stepped closer, her expression softening. “You have a date with a Crow.”

Rook shifted awkwardly, Neve’s eyes scanning her as if assessing her readiness. “I know,” Rook said, glancing down at herself. “I’m in my leathers. I probably should have dressed—”

Neve cut her off with a laugh. “I saw Lucanis leave for the Eluvian. He was dressed in his too. Are you Crows ever not on the clock?”

Rook chuckled despite herself. “You’ve met my boss, right? Viago?”

Neve grinned. “Point taken.” She reached for the door, her hand hovering for a moment before turning back. “Anyway, enjoy your evening. I hope it’s everything you need and want.”

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

Davrin had insisted on accompanying her through the Eluvian to Treviso, despite her protests.

“You didn’t need to escort me, Dav,” Rook said as they stepped out into the bustling city. She smoothed down her cloak, her tone exasperated but affectionate. “I’m more than capable of navigating a city I’ve lived in most of my life.”

“Yeah, I know,” Davrin replied with a casual shrug. “But I did need to come here. Lucanis has me set up with his blacksmith. And, well…” He paused, glancing sideways at her. “I wanted to make sure you got here okay. If things go south, you know I’m around.”

Rook nudged him with her elbow, a small smile tugging at her lips. “I’ve never had a brother, but you are bordering on the whole ‘protective big brother’ vibes right now. And I have to say, it suits you.”

Davrin smiled shyly, looking away as he rubbed the back of his neck. “I know you’re pissed at Dellamorte,” he said softly. “I get it. But let him speak. Give him a chance, Rook.”

She sighed, her gaze dropping for a moment. “I’m not that angry anymore. I spoke to Neve before heading here—she came to my room.”

Davrin raised an eyebrow, his expression suddenly amused. “Please tell me she left said room. I know what you Crows are like,” he added with a chuckle.

Rook rolled her eyes but couldn’t suppress a grin. “She’s very much alive, thank you. And she said something… odd. Something I wasn’t expecting.”

“Oh?” Davrin leaned in, curious.

“She said she was envious of me,” Rook admitted, her voice tinged with disbelief.

Davrin stopped in his tracks, raising both eyebrows now. “Well, well,” he said with exaggerated flair. “It seems we’ve come full circle. Now she’s jealous of you! I believe I’m experiencing whiplash.”

As they walked along the bustling streets of her hometown, Rook couldn’t ignore the faint queasiness in her stomach. She wasn’t angry anymore—not really. More… disgruntled. But there was no venom behind the feeling now. Lucanis had made a mistake, and, if she was being honest with herself, she’d probably blown it out of proportion—a tendency she sometimes leaned into more than she should.

At least she’d managed to entertain everyone at the Lighthouse with the intrigue and drama.

“Ahhh, I love it here,” Davrin mused, breaking her train of thought. His eyes roamed the lively street, the laughter and chatter of the city swirling around them. “Great atmosphere, excellent food, and some rather beautiful distractions for the taking.”

Rook rolled her eyes, her nerves briefly forgotten as she fought back a smirk.

“And it seems,” Davrin added with a dramatic flourish as they neared the café, “I have delivered you to your destination, my Queen.” He swept into an exaggerated bow, his grin practically splitting his face.

“Maker, you’re an idiot,” Rook said, shaking her head with a smile. “But I love you despite it.”

Davrin grinned and placed both hands firmly on her shoulders, leaning in just slightly. “You’ve got this, Rook. Go forth and get your man and—let him speak. He can actually be pretty good at it, you know, when he’s not saying all the wrong things.”

Rook took a deep breath, her nerves settling just enough to nod. “Wish me luck?” she asked, her voice wavering slightly.

Davrin shook his head, his grin softening into something more earnest. “Nah, you don’t need it. You’ve got this, girl. No luck required.”

He stepped ahead and held the door open for her. She squared her shoulders and walked through, the warm hum of the café greeting her as she crossed the threshold.

Davrin lingered outside for a moment, watching her disappear inside. He knew, deep down, it would all be okay. But still, a small pang of worry tugged at him—for his friend, for her heart, and for the man she was about to face.

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

The café was empty.

Anxiety, her old and unwelcome friend, crept up her spine as she glanced around the dimly lit space. Had she gotten the wrong day? The wrong time? Her stomach twisted uncomfortably as she dug into her bag, pulling out the note Lucanis had sent. She unfolded it with shaky fingers, scanning the words again, double-checking that she hadn’t misread anything.

No. She was in the right place.

But as her eyes flicked to the counter, the absence of anyone behind it made her chest tighten further. The café felt eerily quiet, the usual hum of conversation replaced by the soft ticking of a clock.

Now she felt like the idiot. Where was he? And why was she standing awkwardly in an empty coffee shop at eight o’clock at night?

As a Crow, this screamed assassination attempt, and the thought made her pulse quicken. She took a deep breath, trying to steady herself, but her hand instinctively drifted to the hilt of the blade hidden beneath her cloak.

Not that she’d ever killed anyone with a dirk before—magic was her usual go-to—but the weight of the blade under her fingers offered some small comfort. Her unease grew as she wandered further into the café, cautiously checking dark corners and peeking around the pillars.

She moved closer to the counter, her nerves prickling with every step, when suddenly, Lucanis popped up from behind it.

“Maker’s breath!” Rook yelped, jumping back, her heart hammering as she glared at him.

Lucanis stood there, his dark eyes warm as they met hers, and a small, gorgeous smile spread across his lips—the one that always managed to disarm her.

“Rook,” he said softly, almost as if he couldn’t believe it. “You came.”

“Why were you hiding behind the counter?!” Rook exclaimed, her voice sharp with surprise.

Lucanis straightened, brushing imaginary dust from his leathers. “I was looking for sugar,” he said matter-of-factly. “I know you like your coffee sweet and hot. Good news: I found it.”

He turned his attention to the coffee pot, busying himself with making their drinks as if nothing about this was out of the ordinary.

Rook crossed her arms, glancing around the empty café. “And you now own this place?” she asked, her tone tinged with amusement.

Lucanis smirked, glancing at her over his shoulder. “I asked the owner for a favor and promised to pay him back with a free contract.”

Rook blinked in surprise before letting out a laugh. “I’m not sure if I should be flattered or not,” she said, shaking her head. “You never work for free.”

“Sometimes I do,” Lucanis said with a small smile, handing her the steaming cup. “Let’s sit… the table over there.”

He gestured toward a cozy corner, and Rook’s gaze followed. The table had been set perfectly, a small display of her favorite desserts arranged neatly on a plate, waiting for her.

Her lips twitched in a faint smile as she followed him. They settled into their chairs, and for a moment, a comfortable silence fell between them as they both enjoyed the first few sips of their drinks.

Lucanis leaned back, cradling his cup in his hands. “Good coffee...And yours?”

Rook took another sip, savoring the warmth and sweetness. It was perfect—just the way she liked it. “You know it’s good,” she replied, glancing at him over the rim of her cup. “If there’s one thing you never fail at, it’s making it exactly the way I like it.”

A satisfied smile spread across his face, lighting his dark eyes.

Setting her cup down, Rook slipped off her gloves and laid them neatly on the table, the nervous energy in her hands too much to contain. Lucanis noticed, of course—he always did. He knew her tells. Whenever she was anxious, she’d fidget, her fingers tracing the stitching of her coat over and over again or right now, fiddling with her gloves,

“Rook…” he began, his voice soft, testing the waters, “I’m sorry—” , but Rook cut him off.

“I know I’m an idiot,” she blurted, her words tumbling out in a rush. “I should have just told you, and instead it became this whole thing involving everyone, and I didn’t mean for it to get so... big. It was stupid of me.”

Lucanis watched her for a long moment, his gaze steady and unreadable. Then, without a word, he placed his hand gently over hers.

“Rook,” he said softly, his voice calm but firm. “Why do you do that?”

“Do what? I’m not doing anything,” she replied, immediately defensive. She picked up her cup again, taking a long sip—anything to avoid his gaze.

“Blaming yourself. Apologising for things you don’t need to apologise for,” he said, his thumb brushing lightly against her knuckles. “I am the one to blame for your worries. I was the one who hurt you.”

“Yes, but you didn’t know,” Rook said quickly, her words tumbling out before she could think better of them. “And if I hadn’t been so damn stubborn—or dare I say petulant—I could have just told you. But I felt… well, I did feel stupid.”

Lucanis opened his mouth to respond, but she cut him off, her voice softening as she admitted, “You were an arse though.”

A faint smile flickered across his face, but he stayed quiet, waiting.

“Why did you do it?” she asked, her eyes meeting his briefly before darting away. “It’s okay if you want to—”

She stopped herself mid-sentence, before her mouth could betray her further, she grabbed one of the neatly arranged cakes from the plate and shoved it into her mouth.

It worked—a bit too well. She sat frozen for a moment, cheeks puffed with cake, as the realisation of what she’d just done hit her. Across the table, Lucanis raised an eyebrow, the corners of his lips twitching as he tried not to laugh.

It took forever to get through the sugary treat—she’d completely forgotten how chewy they were. Looking effortlessly graceful with a mouthful of cake was not the impression she’d been going for.

Lucanis, ever observant, seized the opportunity to speak before she could finish. It might be the only way to get a word in.

“Yes,” he began, his tone quiet but deliberate. “I fully accept your blunt observation of myself.”

Rook raised an eyebrow at him, still chewing, but didn’t interrupt.

“Why I did it?” Lucanis continued, his gaze dropping briefly to the table. “It’s… was easy to flirt with Neve. A distraction from what’s in my mind, who shares my body, and everything else—fighting Gods, dealing with the Blight…” He paused, his voice softening. “But, also, it means nothing. And when it means nothing, there’s no possibility of consequences.”

“Consequences?” she managed, still chewing, her words slightly muffled.

“Yes,” Lucanis replied, his voice steady but quieter now. “If I don’t say those things to you, it’s not because I don’t notice you, enjoy your company, or desire someone else. It’s quite the opposite.”

Rook froze mid-chew, her eyes widening slightly as she watched him, his gaze fixed firmly on her.

“But how would you know this?” he continued, his tone filled with a rare vulnerability. “I’ve never told you. And I have never reciprocated any of the affection you have so generously given me.”

“But you said consequences, and I’m still not following,” Rook said, finally finishing her cake.

Lucanis sighed, frustration flickering across his face. Maker, he wished he were better with words—like his cousin Illario. “Honestly, I don’t know what the fuck I’m trying to say right now.” He ran a hand through his hair, glancing away before meeting her eyes again.

“I’m not good at this, Rook,” he admitted, his voice quieter now. “But I struggle with you because… because you mean something to me. You’re not just a distraction. You’re something that has—” He hesitated, the next word slipping out before he could stop it. “...weight.”

He saw her gaze drop instantly to her coffee, her expression unreadable.

Shit. Shit. Shit. Lucanis’s stomach dropped. Why the fuck did you say that? Davrin had specifically told him not to mention the word weight.

“Yes, I’m aware I have ‘weight,’” she replied, her tone dry as she raised an eyebrow at him.

Lucanis opened his mouth to respond, but she cut him off, gesturing to the plate. “Thank you for highlighting that right after watching me devour at least three of these cakes.”

She leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms with a mock-serious expression. “And for the record, they were delicious, and I have zero regrets eating them.”

“What I meant is… you’re special to me,” Lucanis said, his voice quieter now, his dark eyes meeting hers. “To Spite, as well. And that’s dangerous to admit. It’s information that could be used against me—or you. And Maker knows Viago will not be pleased.”

He paused, frustration clear on his face. “I never flirted with you because… because I care for you. More than a friend.” His voice softened, the words weighted with sincerity. “Hopefully, I get to be more. But I’m the most foolish of men when it comes to matters of the heart. I’m not good at… any of this.”

Rook’s gaze shifted, taking in the café around her. The warm, romantic glow of the lights, the beautifully laid-out table, the intimacy of the setting—it all seemed so deliberate, so unlike the Lucanis she thought she knew.

Her eyes landed back on him, and she arched an eyebrow. “You’re not good at being romantic? Or apologies? Because, by the way, you still haven’t said sorry.”

“Despite my Antivan heritage, we aren’t all blessed with my cousin’s gift for romance,” Lucanis said with a wry smile. “But I’ll try—for you.”

He stood, pushing his chair back with a soft scrape against the floor, and stepped around the table.

“And this,” he continued, his voice dropping to something softer, almost reverent, “is where I kneel at your feet and beg for your forgiveness.”

Before Rook could react, he sank to one knee before her, taking her hand gently in his. His eyes lifted to meet hers, his expression utterly sincere.

“I am sorry,” he began, his voice steady but weighted with emotion. “For any hurt I caused you. I am sorry for my misplaced charm. I am sorry for letting you think you are anything less than breathtaking to me.”

Her breath caught, the words hitting her like a wave.

“I am sorry you ever felt you were not enough,” he went on, his thumb brushing softly against her knuckles, “when you are—more than enough in every way a woman can be. I am sorry. Truly sorry.”

He paused, his voice softening even further as he added, “If you can find it in your heart to forgive me, I swear to you—you will never doubt my affection for you for as long as I breathe.”

Rook sat in silence, her gaze fixed on the man kneeling before her. She turned her hand slightly in his, lacing her fingers through his as she searched for the right words.

“How am I supposed to stay angry at you now?” she said finally, her voice soft but tinged with exasperation. “The cakes, the candlelight, and that—” she gestured toward him with her free hand—“what you just said… Maker’s breath, you’re impossible.”

Lucanis’s lips curved into a hesitant smile, hope flickering in his eyes.

She sighed, shaking her head slightly. “And… I forgive you,” she added, her voice steady now, but her cheeks flushed.

“But I swear,” Rook continued, her eyes narrowing slightly, “if you ever make me feel that way again, I’ll take a contract out on you. Better than that—” she leaned forward, her tone dropping for emphasis—“I’ll kill you myself.”

Lucanis tilted his head, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as he rose to his feet.

“I’d like to see you try,” he replied smoothly, settling back into his chair across from her, “Promise me there will be lots of struggling,” Lucanis added, his voice dropping into a playful drawl. “Rolling around, grabbing for each other’s daggers…” He leaned forward slightly, a wicked glint in his eyes. “And sweaty. It’ll be sweaty, right?”

Urrgghhhh. She hated it when he turned it back on her like that.

Rook crossed her arms, trying to maintain her composure, but she could feel the heat creeping into her cheeks. She wasn’t nearly as good as he was at making death threats sound… sultry.

“You’re insufferable,” she muttered, grabbing her coffee and taking a long sip to avoid saying anything else that might give him the satisfaction of knowing he’d flustered her.

“Are you flirting with me, Dellamorte?” Rook asked, a sly smile tugging at her lips. “I thought you didn’t do that.”

Lucanis leaned forward slightly, his dark eyes glinting with amusement. “First time for everything, de Riva,” he replied smoothly. “You could say I’m making up for lost time.”

“I’m not sure if I should say yes or no,” Rook admitted, a nervous smile playing at her lips.

Lucanis leaned forward slightly, his gaze steady, his voice soft but teasing. “Say yes. Take a risk. See what happens.”

He could see the conflict in her eyes, the struggle between protecting her heart and giving in to her curiosity.

“Yes,” she said finally, her voice quiet but steady.

Lucanis half-smiled, standing as he offered his hand. She took it, and together they walked to the balcony overlooking the canal. The soft light reflected off the water below, casting shimmering patterns onto the stone railing.

He leaned against the cool stone, his hand still firmly holding hers.

“So… I said yes, and now we’re looking at…” Rook began, her voice tinged with nervous humor.

“For the love of the Maker, Rook,” Lucanis interrupted, turning to face her fully. “Shut up and let me kiss you. Just stop… talking.”

Before she could respond, he closed the distance between them, his mouth brushing against hers in a soft, deliberate kiss. His arm slid around her waist, pulling her closer as the kiss deepened, and Rook melted into him, her heart racing.

He was a good kisser.

Cliché as it was, she slowed time around them with a spell, savoring the moment as the rest of the world blurred into nothing.

Lucanis smiled against her lips, not breaking the kiss, his voice low and warm. “I know what you’re doing, Rook,” he murmured, his lips still grazing hers.

And she didn’t care.

#lucanis x rook #lucanis dellamorte #rook #davrin #neve gallus #taash #lace harding #dragon age the veilguard #assan the griffon #keely de riva #rookanis #fluff #angst #dragon age #rookanisfanfic

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midnight-shadow-cafe · 3 days ago

Text

A Kingdom of Shadows and Steel

Paring: Poly 141 x Reader

AU: (Medival) Knights!141 x Healer!Reader

Warnings: fluff, angst, mentions of injuries, boys assist in training their healer

Authors Note: I hope you enjoy, i might make a story about this-

Word Count: 1.3k

Masterlist

MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+

The wind carried the scent of blood and smoke as you knelt in the ruins of the battlefield. Around you, the cries of the wounded echoed—some fading into silence as life slipped away, others clawing at the edge of survival. Your hands worked quickly, trembling but steady, weaving threads of healing magic into a soldier’s mangled leg. The golden glow of your power barely illuminated the grotesque wound, but slowly, the torn flesh began to knit itself back together.

“Get out of here,” you urged, your voice strained but firm. “Before they come back.”

The soldier nodded weakly, dragging himself toward the treeline where others had fled. You sat back on your heels, every ounce of strength drained. Magic always demanded more than you were prepared to give, and this battlefield—a wasteland of broken bodies and charred earth—had swallowed your reserves hours ago.

The sharp crunch of boots on gravel snapped you out of your haze. Your head jerked up, instinctively raising a hand as though you could muster another spell. A shadow loomed over you, taller and broader than anyone you’d encountered today.

“You’re braver than you look,” a low, accented voice drawled.

You blinked, your vision sharpening. A man clad in battered black armor stood before you, a half-mask obscuring the lower half of his face. His eyes, sharp and dark, studied you with an intensity that made your skin prickle.

Behind him stood three others, equally imposing: a grizzled, blue-eyed man who carried himself with the weight of leadership; a younger soldier with a cheeky grin, his messy hair barely kept in check; and a man whose presence was like a shadow—silent, his face hidden behind a skull-like mask.

“I wasn’t aware the crown hired mages,” the grizzled man—Captain John Price, you realized—remarked, his arms crossed.

“They don’t,” you replied, struggling to your feet. “I’m not with the crown.”

The masked one, who had yet to speak, tilted his head slightly, his gaze pinning you in place. “Then what are you doing on *our* battlefield?”

You met his stare, unwilling to back down. “Saving lives, since you lot can’t seem to stop spilling blood.”

The younger man—Soap, if you remembered correctly—barked a laugh. “She’s got fire, eh? I like her already.”

Price’s gaze didn’t waver. “We’ll see.”

They didn’t leave you behind. Despite your protests—and your insistence that you could take care of yourself—they decided it was too dangerous for a lone healer to wander war-torn lands. Price gave the order, and that was that.

At first, their presence was overwhelming. They moved like a unit, each man fitting into the group like a piece of a puzzle. Ghost’s quiet intensity was unnerving; you often caught him watching you, his gaze unreadable. Price was distant but protective, a commanding figure who seemed to expect competence from everyone—including you. Soap, with his endless jokes and easy grin, was the only one who made an effort to pull you out of your shell. And then there was Gaz, whose sharp wit and subtle kindness chipped away at your defenses before you even realized it.

The days blurred together as you traveled. The landscape was a patchwork of desolation: burned villages, abandoned farmlands, and the occasional stretch of wilderness untouched by war. At night, the group set up camp in silence, each man falling into a routine as practiced as it was efficient.

You, however, struggled to find your place. Healing was all you knew, and while they respected your skill, you felt like an outsider. That began to change one cold evening when Soap handed you a dagger.

“You’re good with magic,” he said, twirling his own blade between his fingers, “but magic won’t save you when someone’s got steel to your throat.”

You hesitated before taking the weapon. “I don’t know how to use this.”

“That’s what I’m here for.” He grinned, positioning himself behind you. His hands covered yours as he adjusted your grip and stance.

“Relax,” he murmured. “You’re too stiff. It’s just me.”

His touch was firm but careful, his teasing tone oddly comforting. By the time the lesson ended, you were breathless—not from exertion, but from the way his laughter warmed the cold night air.

Over the following weeks, the 141 began to feel less like an obligation and more like a team. Price often joined you during quiet moments, his gruff voice softening as he asked about your past. He was surprisingly easy to talk to, and though he rarely spoke about himself, the glimpses he gave you felt like pieces of a puzzle you were eager to solve.

“You’ve got the heart of a soldier,” he said one night, his eyes steady on yours. “Even if you don’t see it.”

The words lingered, wrapping around your heart like a shield.

Gaz, meanwhile, became your confidant. His sharp humor and easygoing nature made it impossible not to let your guard down. One evening, as you stitched up a tear in his tunic, he regaled you with tales of his childhood.

“Got myself stuck in a tree once,” he admitted, grinning. “Had to be rescued by my little sister. Never lived it down.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “I can’t imagine you needing rescuing.”

“Well, we all need rescuing sometimes,” he said, his tone suddenly serious. “Even you.”

You looked away, his words striking a nerve you weren’t ready to confront.

And then there was Ghost. He was the hardest to read, his silence a wall you couldn’t climb. But his actions spoke volumes. He always seemed to know when you were on the verge of exhaustion, his presence grounding you in ways you couldn’t explain. One night, as you cleaned a gash on his arm, he surprised you by speaking.

“You’re stronger than you look,” he said quietly.

You met his gaze, startled. “So are you.”

For a moment, the world narrowed to just the two of you. And in that moment, you felt something shift.

It was during an ambush that everything changed.

You were caught off guard, the group scattered as enemy soldiers descended upon your camp. You barely had time to draw your dagger before a blade was swinging toward you.

“Down!” Ghost’s voice cut through the chaos. He moved like a shadow, intercepting the attack with brutal efficiency.

The battle was over in minutes, but the fear lingered. As you sat by the fire that night, your hands still trembling, Soap leaned close, his grin softer than usual.

“You did good,” he said, his voice low. “You held your own.”

“I froze,” you muttered.

“And then you fought,” Gaz added, his hand resting briefly on your shoulder. “That’s what matters.”

You looked around the circle, meeting each of their gazes. For the first time, you felt like you belonged.

The firelight cast flickering shadows across their faces as the five of you huddled close. The tension that had been building for weeks finally reached its breaking point.

“I’m not blind,” Soap said, breaking the silence. “I see the way you all look at her.”

You froze, your heart pounding. “What are you talking about?”

Gaz snorted. “Don’t play dumb. We’ve all got eyes.”

Price cleared his throat, his gaze flickering to you. “It’s true. We’ve… grown attached.”

Ghost’s voice was barely above a whisper. “It’s not just attachment.”

You stared at them, speechless. The walls you’d built around yourself began to crumble, the weight of your feelings crashing down.

“I… I don’t know what to say,” you admitted, your voice shaking.

“Say you’ll stay,” Price said, his tone gentle but firm.

“Say you’ll let us protect you,” Gaz added.

“Say you’ll let us love you,” Soap finished, his grin softening into something vulnerable.

Your gaze swept over them, each one looking at you with a mix of hope and fear. And for the first time in a long time, you let yourself believe that maybe, just maybe, you didn’t have to face the world alone.

“I’ll stay,” you whispered.

Hope you enjoyed! Please consider liking and reposting! -Midnight💜

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plutoswritingplanet · 1 year ago

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Unpunishable (Shang Tsung x F!Reader)

a/n: no one asked for this, but hey, i've been in love with that soul stealing stink-man, i had to finally write something for him. this one is specifically MK1 story mode adjacent, but i do want to write more (for MK11 and the movie), Cross-Posted on AO3

Warnings: Dub-Con (kinda i guess), Captivity, playing fast and loose with the canon, Kinda Soft Shang?, Reader is a Blood Mage (nothing too serious tho)

Summary: After you and your friends raid Shang Tsung's laboratory, you get caught and kept captive by the Sorcerer himself.

Is it wrong to want more?

That was the thought plaguing you from the beginning of your training at the Wu-Shi temple. Blood magic was frowned upon in Outworld. For you to even cross the threshold of the realm, there had been some serious negotiations set in place. Still, the Fire God has managed to convince Empress Sindel of your assets as a healer.

And, you were a curious thing, after all. Humans were not born with magic in Earthrealm, it could only be bestowed by a God. Which is why your natural talent at commanding blood, both yours, and later someone else's, was a strange sight indeed. Strange enough to stir the interest of Outworld's nobility, granting you a safe passage to the tournament with your training companions.

Which is how you landed here. Between helping Raiden navigate the Tournament, through the secret mission on behalf of Liu Kang, and right up to now. As you sit, poised like a decorative doll, hands locked behind your back, intricate, golden cuffs digging into the skin of your wrists. There are piles upon piles of golden coins surrounding you, gold trickles down the walls in long smears of paint, golden dust stains your skin. A kink forms deep within your spine, from the uncomfortable position you have been put in.

And then, there's the deep, bleeding cut, stretching the expanse of your thigh. It was a stupid idea, tagging along for the mission to find Shang Tsung, and bring him to Liu Kang for questioning. You shouldn't have followed your friends into that one. Even more idiotic, was your short stand against Princess Mileena, as her Tarkat affliction took control of her. The fight, if you could even call it that, ended with you gaining a black eye and an awful, ugly cut, made by Princess's knives.

You shift in your position, trying to relieve some of the discomfort. Instead, the thick fabric of your pants slides on the wound, making you wince in pain. Flexing your fingers behind your back, you try to focus on the constant throbbing in your leg. If the traditional means of escape have been taken from you, perhaps a more finessed touch would be efficient.

Blood trickles on your skin, and every fiber of your being zeros in on the feeling. Sweat forms on your forehead, as you slowly force the stream to run upwards, towards your hip, and around your back. Your fingers flex into intricate positions, a thin line of your own blood reaches your wrist.

You have never tried this trick with your magic, all your life dedicating your gift to the art of healing. Dealing with the blood of other people, stopping, pushing, extracting, those were the things you were good at. Solidifying your own plasma, so it can cut through metal cuffs, was an entirely different topic.

But you have to escape. You have to. There's no telling what will happen to you, should you remain in this prison. Surrounded by gold and jewels, like some sort of perverted spoil of war. You valued yourself too much, to allow that. And, most importantly, your friends needed help. The intel you've gathered while being stuck in this wretched place wasn't much, but it was something, which in turn was enough to keep fighting.

Breathing becomes a hassle. You've already exerted far too much of your power, trying to extract from your bleeding thigh, and your hands shake behind your back, as you visualize particles sticking together, forming something solid, something that would free you of this prison. The liquid curling around your wrist shifts, an outer layer forming around it. All you've managed to achieve, is a sort of coagulated jelly, sticking to your skin.

"Your dedication to freedom in commandable." a familiar, male voice surrounds you, and you whip around, chain jingling at the sudden movement.

There he stands, in all his glory. Your captor.

Shang Tsung stalks towards you, his hands clasped behind his back as he leans down, hair flowing past his shoulders and obscuring the two of you from the world in a thick, black curtain. He smells rich. Sandalwood and jasmine, mixed with a nauseating undertone of blood and rot, no doubt, a leftover from his laboratory. It forces you to reel your head back, to try and escape it, but your efforts are quickly destroyed, as the sorcerer closes in further.

"Your skill, however…" his dark eyes fly around your face, taking in your distressed expression with a cruel smile "Well, let's just say there's some room for improvement."

Your eyebrows crease, as he flashes you a grin, before straightening up to his full height, allowing you a moment of relief from his overpowering presence. The bloody clot you've managed to form around your wrist falls to the floor as soon as you lose focus, and silently, you mourn the feeling of blood sinking between golden coins, never to be recovered again. You couldn't even if you tried, not with the Outworld's Snake right in front of you, circling your body like a hawk ready to strike.

Suddenly, he crouches down, right beside your abused leg, your breath catching in your lungs at the sudden change. The way he moved never seized to amaze you, as much as you hated to admit it. There was grace burned into his very being, every step a slithery dance. It terrified you, rightfully so, but underneath something new was brewing. A feeling, which you could easily dismiss during the rush of fighting, was no longer satisfied with staying dormant.

There was a strange pull between the two of you, like two magnets on the opposite sides of a table. Whenever your eyes met with the Sorcerer, you could feel something buried inside your soul start to wake. It felt so foreign, yet so very familiar at the same time, like a ghost of some ancient prophecy clawing at your mind.

Once you free yourself from this hellish predicament, you'll ask Liu Kang what is going on with you. He has to know, or at least, suspect something, and you knew very well, feelings like those could not be ignored. Too much was at stake, to keep secrets out of some misguided shame. That is, if you even make it out of here, because the man beside you suddenly pushes his robe outwards, producing a small box with a practiced flare, like a magician during one of his shows.

"Do not fret, Mortal" you're not sure if the "pet" name is a thinly veiled insult, or if it's just the way the Sorcerer speaks "This is simply something to heal your leg."

Now, your confusion must be palpable, because Shang Tsung's smile widens, as he takes in your face. Then, he laughs quietly to himself, barely above a whisper, and the hairs at the back of your neck stand straight at the sound.

"I don't want anything from you" it's a pathetic effort at staying defiant, and both of you know it.

Instead of entertaining your little outburst, the Sorcerer grabs your leg with his free hand. Immediately, you start to struggle, despite the sharp pain overtaking your senses, as his grip on you tightens. Then, you let out a sharp squeak, when the man's golden claws tear into the fabric of your pants just above the wound, and dangerously close to the apex of your thighs.

The wound looks back at you, swollen and bloody, and you swallow thickly, as blood flows from your face. You could treat it, successfully as well, if only your hands weren't currently bound behind your back, with very limited moving space. Shang Tsung opens the box with delicate fingers. There is some sort of salve packed inside, a rather large indent right in the middle proving it's been used quite extensively.

His hold on you becomes less of a grip, bordering almost on a soft caress, which brings an entire wave of concerning feelings to the surface of your mind. If he notices the way your cheeks flush, he says nothing, opting instead on dipping his fingers into the salve.

"This might hurt" he warns you, although there is not a single note of concern in his voice.

"What is that? Another Tarkat experiment?" you try to mask the shaking in your voice, as the thought of being experimented on genuinely frightens you.

Your leg twitches under his fingers, and he digs in deeper, turning to face you with an unexpected, serious expression. Again, you feel short of breath, as his dark eyes bear into yours with intensity you haven't yet experienced.

"I would never..." he cuts himself off.

The word, or rather, the tone in which he says it seems to startle you both. His eyebrows furrow in an expression of annoyance, or worry, you're not entirely sure, and he turns back towards your wound, his black hair shielding his face from your gaze. Was that repulsion, hidden within his voice? Your chest suddenly feels much too tight. Was the merciless Sorcerer disgusted by the prospect of conducting his inhumane experiments on you? You weren't sure if the sentiment warmed your heart… Or terrified you to the very core of your being.

Still, all your thoughts leave your brain, as soon as Shang Tsung places his fingers on your wound. At first, a cold feeling overtakes you, pain letting go for just a split second. Then, fire. White, hot, burning ache, seeping into your wound. It feels as if it reaches your bone marrow, and with a silent scream you fall on your back, writhing on the floor. Golden coins fly from under your feet, as you kick around, the golden chain tying your hands together strains, as you pull on it with all your might. Slowly, the pain fades, some sort of tight sensation pulling at the skin of your thigh.

And one more thing.

As you come down from the initial shock of the painful treatment, your brain registers something warm and firm, rubbing circles into your flesh. It takes you another while longer to realize it's Shang Tsung's hand, resting right above the wound, claws tapping on the inside of your leg. He watches you, as your breathing starts to slow, eyes following drops of sweat falling from your forehead and mingling with tears. Your lips parted, your eyelids flutter, and you let out a long sigh, finally being able to look down on your leg.

Where the wound once was, now, a long, pink scar shines in the light of the torches strung around the chamber. Shang Tsung closes the box, before hiding it amongst the many layers of his outfit. You half expect him to stand up and leave, but your hopes are squashed once again, as the man kneels down next to you, turning his attention towards your heaving chest.

His hand comes up, towards your face, claws shining gold. You wince and close your eyes, despite your best efforts to appear strong, but the pain you've anticipated doesn't come. Instead, you feel something sharp drag itself across your forehead. You risk cracking an eye at him, face scrunching, before relaxing into an expression of utter confusion.

There he was, your captor, tormentor, your enemy, brushing flyaway hairs from your sweaty forehead. Your eyes meet, and again, feelings swirl inside your gut, some you're too scared to decipher, and some need no explanation. His lips curl into something akin to a smirk, yet his eyes remain focused on you entirely, thoughts swimming behind his irises. Then, as if some magic spell has been broken, you can see him shift into his true self, the same scheming energy overflowing him, as if a new, frightful idea has formed inside his mind.

Once again, he reaches into the pockets of his robe, this time producing a deliciously red apple. Its skin is shiny, the potent smell makes your mouth water, and suddenly you remember you haven't eaten in Gods know how many hours. With a dark chuckle, the man turns the apple, from side to side, as if he wants you to take full stock of just how sinful it looks. Then, with a simple gesture, he tips it towards your lips. Your eyes snap up at him.

"I can't eat it with my hands tied" your voice sounds rough from all the pain you've experienced before.

"Nonsense, I shall feed you" he answers, as if this was the most obvious way out of your predicament, and the heat of embarrassment mixes with anger in your gut.

"You want me to eat out of your hand like some damned pet?"

Now, he laughs, fully. His eyes crinkle at the sides, as he inclines his head towards you.

"I know full-well you're too dangerous to let roam freely" your eyes flicker towards the apple, "And after all you've been through, aren't you hungry, Mortal?"

Your teeth grind against each other, as you weight your options. Shang Tsung moves the apple again in a tantalizing manner, and your resolve crumbles. Your eyes lock onto his, giving him the best performance of defiance you could muster, and slowly, you open your mouth.

"Good girl" he croons, and for a split second you ponder, if spitting at the man was worth the consequences.

He brings the apple closer, lets it rest on your bottom lip, before giving you a patronizingly inviting smile. Swallowing your pride, your teeth sink into the fruit, and you can't stop the absolutely shameful moan from slipping out of you, as the sweetness of the apple hits your tongue. Damned be precautions, damned be your dignity, you were hungry, and that apple was delicious. So you take a bite so large, it almost reaches the stem, letting some juice flow down your chin.

Shang Tsung watches you eat with a laser focus one might imagine he reserves for his experiments, teeth catching his bottom lip.

Another bite, this one silent on your part. His eyes follow the column of your throat, when you swallow. One more, and you give him a show of looking up at his darkened expression when your teeth all but tear away from the fruit.

Your hands are shaking behind your back, a coil is forming deep within you, and you press your legs tight together, to shield the rest of your dwindling dignity from completely being torn away. He notices. Of course, he does, as your actions seem to have a similar effect on him, if his bitten lips and heavy breaths are anything to go by.

"Why go through all this trouble, Sorcerer?" you ask, licking your lips from the remnants of your meal.

His eyes follow your tongue, before looking back right into your eyes. The rest of the apple is thrown somewhere amongst the golden piles of treasure, forgotten entirely. Time seems to slow down, air becomes thick between the two of you, surrounding you like a vat of tar. The pull you've been feeling since meeting this infamous monster becomes almost too strong to ignore.

Shang Tsung raises his hand, grabbing your chin and pushing it upwards. There is a myriad of emotions running rampant on his face, until it finally settles on something so dark and wanting, your stomach tightens at the mere sight. His lips come down upon yours in an avalanche, slipping towards your chin, where he provocatively licks at your skin, tasting the apple's juices and humming to himself.

Your voice comes out as a small whimper, entire body reacting to his kiss, as you fight between pushing him away and pulling him much closer. He decides for you, coming back to claim your lips again, as his hands start to travel up the sides of your stomach, gathering your shirt in the process.

His clawed gauntlets scratch at your skin, not enough to actually hurt you, but enough to elicit a wave of shudders from your body. Finally, he pulls away, considering your swollen lips and disheveled hair as one would their newest painting. Pride and mischief mix well in his black irises, and he licks his lips slowly, making you blush impossibly red.

"You look quite beautiful, like this" he croons, tangling his free hand in the hair at the back of your neck, "So pliant under my fingers."

For a moment, all you can do is stare at him, poised above you with his usual smirk gracing his features. Then a thought materializes in your head, a chance at finding an escape route, if you could play your cards right.

"Untie me" you moan wantonly, arching your neck, as if to give him better access.

He launches at your exposed pulse point immediately, licking a long stripe up, before giving your skin a few delicious nips, ones that make you almost forget your half-formed plan. Almost. Gathering all your resolve, you writhe against him. His clothes are hiding a lean, but well-muscled body, and you wish so hard, you could run your hands down his chest.

"Untie me, please" you don't recognize your voice, so broken and needy.

The Snake stops his ministrations, tugging at your hair, before sliding his hand towards your shoulders, where he grabs you and pulls you even closer, so your body is leaning almost completely on his lap. His other hand makes quick work of the zipper on your trousers and worms itself into your underwear. A wave of humilation hits you, as your pink, polka-dotted panties look at you from between the fly.

"I can't risk you getting away" he whispers in your ear and takes a long whiff of your hair, humming in pleasure, "My Benefactor has made it clear, you are crucial to their plan."

That startles you. Or it would, if the Sorcerer hadn't began to delicately rub his fingers over your lower lips, just shy of entering you. It's torture, a new brand of cruel experiment, you think, as you buck your hips against him, trying to get some sort of pressure

"I would've thought you wanted me for yourself" you pant between heated kisses you're leaving on the exposed skin of is neck, "It certainly - oh - seems so."

The hand which is currently not occupied sneaks around your middle, before grabbing a handful of your right breasts.

"Would you like that?" he asks into the crown of your head, his fingers finally dipping into your opening.

It takes you several tries to form an answer in your brain, and another few to vocalize it. His thumb makes quick work of finding your bundle of nerves, and instantly starts to abuse that newly-found knowledge. You bite your lip, hard, to stop any sounds from escaping you, but the Sorcerer wouldn't have it. His mouth finds yours, and he swallows your moans of pleasure with an approving hum reverberating through his chest,

"Would you like to be kept by me? Be mine and mine alone" his lips brush against yours as he talks, and you tug mercilessly on your binds, wanting to hold onto something, anything. Him.

"I-" you can't quite finish your sentence, because the hand that's been, for the most part, playing with your breast like it's a stress ball, begins to travel further down, until it rests on the lower part of your stomach. "No."

It comes out as choked and desperate, as his fingers curl upwards inside you, hitting a spot that nearly makes you fly off the ground. He laughs, right in your ear.

"No?"

"No" you swallow, "I'm- oh fuck... I'm too good for you."

Another deliberate motion of his fingers and your toes start to curl. He might be the key to undoing the entire universe, but hell, he does know how to use his fingers. Long and elegant fingers, trained by years spent on studying ad practicing spells, made dexterous by whatever horrors he has committed in his laboratories. Fingers, which are currently pumping in and out of you with a pace set specifically to drive you insane.

"Yes" he hisses through his teeth, pressing his nose to the crown of your head, "You are too good for me, aren't you? That's why you're here, taking my fingers like you were meant for it."

Gods, his voice really isn't helping you focus. By the feeling of something hard and rather large poking you in your thigh, you guess you're not the only one getting off on the sound of his voice. A coil starts to tighten deep within you, growing tighter with every movement of his fingers, every word coming out of his filthy mouth

"Even the Fire God couldn't keep you away from me" his thumb presses down onto your clit and begins to rub it in quick circles, "He was so scared to let you go into my lair, wasn't he?"

You nod absentmindedly, thrashing in the Sorcerer's lap, as a strong shiver of pleasure wrecks your body. Experimentally, you move your backside, rubbing against his growing erection, and the man hisses into your ear, his movements faltering for a split-second.

"He was right" Shang Tsung seethes the words into your skin, before coming down to bite on your shoulder, "We will be each other's undoing."

His palm presses flat on your lower stomach, as his efforts inside your pants increase tenfold. The coil is so close to breaking, you can feel tears start to form in the corners of your eyes.

"Ladies first, sweet thing" he hums, pressing your writhing body even closer to himself, "Come undone for me."

And you do, as if compelled by some ancient magic. Your face buries itself into his robes, teeth catching on the skin of the juncture between his neck and his shoulder. And you bite, hard enough to break his skin, taste his blood on your tongue. The coil shatters, and so does your grip on the world. You let out a muffled wail, the Sorcerer pulling you even closer, engulfing you entirely in his presence, his smell. Your legs are shaking, as Shang Tsung lets you ride out your orgasm on his nimble fingers, and soon, your body becomes boneless.

He doesn't let you go for a while longer, still pressed to your body, swaying with you in some sort of perversion of intimacy. Or perhaps, as much as the thought terrifies you, there is some link building between the two of you. Something more than lust and curiosity. Then, his hand leaves your pants, coming up out of your field of vision. You catch a glimpse of his soaked fingers, and your imagination fills in, what might be happening just above your head, as an obscenely wet sound of sucking reaches your ears.

Then, like the gentleman he is, he helps you button your pants back up, straightens your shirt and ties your hair more neatly. You want to kiss him again. There is another need brewing inside you, as you watch him stand up and dust his clothes, which are now stained with gold dust in places.

Is it wrong to want more?

You want to reach up, brush your fingers through his hair, kiss him until he can't speak clearly. You wants to feel his breath quicken again, feel his pulse run wild. You want to drain his blood and feed on his power until there's nothing left.That last thought freezes you in your spot, cold shivers climbing up your body like a dead hand gripping you from beneath the earth.

Too dark, too power-hungry, and you were none of those things. You never will be.

"Beautiful" he murmurs again, watching you from above, but this moment of sentiment is cut shortly, as his head snaps towards the entrance to the chamber, expression souring instantly

Your eyes follow his, but there's nothing you can see in the darkness. A chill runs up your spine.

"Get ready, Mortal" oh, so we're back to thinly veiled insults, "My Benefactor will want to meet you soon."

With that, he turns to leave, not sparing you a second glance, and you're back to being alone. Used and left between the piles upon piles of gold surrounding you, like your part of this chamber. A pretty thing, stained gold, made to exist only when it's owner is looking at it.

You need to get out of here, before you lose your mind.

#my writing #shang tsung #shang tsung x reader #mortal kombat #mortal kombat x reader #mortal kombat 1 #mk1 2023 #i love shang in every version but i really like the way they carried his character in this game #there's more nuance to him now #at least that's what i think mk stans don't stab me

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meltorights · 10 months ago

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i guess i really am a predictable girlie

#replies #diversity chemical reaction #golden-x-mage

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ms0milk · 1 month ago

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𝟏𝟗 | 𝐂𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐂𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐬

ー✧ prince!bakugou x royal guard!reader

"He quiets you with the sound and your smile falls. You are captain of the guard all dressed in red, training squires on spring mornings. He is the king who rises at dawn to watch you."

cw suggestive, kissing among other things, tooth tongue saliva, fingers and lips, manhandling, grinding, disregarded injuries, an audience if you squint. a beleaguered team regroups in the castle underbelly and someone is a flight risk. yn is thrilled and itching to fight but her prince can't focus. he can't let her go 5.2k

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Autumn in Takoba is hell everywhere else and even with the first ticklings of sunrise, the cold is immeasurable. Like the queen made a deal with grief and now her country becomes her heart. You wake first, tucked and folded into the space between your prince’s chest and the wall.

Your comfort is found between groggy thoughts, in the rough blanket someone has wrapped you up with, and in Bakugou’s arm that falls over your waist to keep that warmth inside of it. He’s dreaming, muttering something into the back of your head. He smells like home. Even unconscious, his bicep strains through the effort of holding something gently.

The night returns to you in pieces under the pathetic white light of a candle sconce. Something nearby reeks of the sea. A single roll of your shoulder confirms the bandages there, crusted in stiff blood and still too sore to stifle a wince because you were something not quite war fodder. A golden hand flexes broad across your stomach when you fidget in the dark. You were a guest at the queen’s ball, you were target practice, you killed Takobans. You underestimated your bloodloss. You are falling through the air into Bakugou’s arms again, dancing, glowing, bleeding, clingy. The king embraces his undead son. The mage. You fly up to sitting so quickly the world cannot react to you.

Bakugou is curled around the space you left in the dark, bloody and spattered with ash. His own blanket is pulled up over his jaw to ward off the chill and behind him is Mina, cheek flush to his back. Blood crusts down her temple in a path from her hair.

Sweat has soaked into the two places the prince held you most closely and chills now in the free air, heat and damp from his breath at the nape of your neck and down the small of your back where his hips cradled yours all bundled in good-enough blankets. The sweat is welcomed, it is ammunition, it is warm, it’s proof of your still beating heart. Don’t need a fucking babysitter. Cover yourself. Quit starin’. Don’t call me that. Eyes! You are mine. His eyebrows flex and knit in the seconds before he wakes up, but he is safe and he is exhaustingly whole.

It stinks like ocean foam because this hallway where you shelter is in the bowels of the castle, deep in its belly, tucked under the kitchens where your prince hid from you for weeks. Damp stone, fire in the air, the memory of this hallway from over the prince’s shoulder. Of stepping through the only red door here and returning to Aldera.

“Y/n?” A voice floats in whispers through the dark and down the hallway from the dim light of another candle.

“Who's there?”

There’s no response, no time, before one golden hand is flat across your chest and your prince raises his other to the sound, bristling with sparks. Bakugou startles from sleep and pushes you behind him. Mina groans, rubbing the back of her head.

In the dark, damp, and cold, he is made of starlight. When your prince exhales, the frost from him is tinged with tiny sparks.

“Calm down, Sleeping Beauty.”

You realize as the prince does that the voice is Shinsou’s and in the momentary relief Bakugou swings on you. Even before the Takoban guard can emerge from the dark he turns, hands snapped around both your wrists, apprehending his criminal. Red eyes, breath of smoke and a growl, the boy who laughs when he dances is back at home and you are left with the prince who hates your company.

“You.”

A defiant breath falls from you but you don’t dare voice it. No longer hidden in sleep, his still-beautiful face is marred at the jaw, a red burn in the lopsided shape of a hand. You would take his cheeks up in your fingers if he weren’t holding you steadfast. You would take the head of the man who hurt him. Your prince tightens his grip. He is staring strong enough to brand his fury on the backs of your eyes and without his chest, without your blankets, the chill creeps in like a tide.

“Selfish fucking–”

“You're injured,” you try to dip closer in inspection but Bakugou riots.

In the ballroom he clung to you, in the shadows he invited you close, in this hallway he is the sun of your orbit. He is fire. Your prince jerks a hand over your bandaged heart without much mind to your company and seethes, “You are reckless.”

“I am exceptional,” you breathe without thinking. He is the brightest, angriest thing in the sky. He is arora and you’re a girl in golden fields, staring. His fingers warm your breast where dragontooth used to perch. Does he not get it? “I will die for you.”

Too much and not enough, he is spiteful and aggressive and alive, and maybe now he hates you enough for Takoba to have been a dream.

“Where is our company?” You speak again, nerves itching.

“Think they’re lost without miss martyr?”

Mina swats at him but he doesn’t let you go. “What’s wrong with you?” He glows at the edges like you haven’t seen since the forest outside Takoba. Bakugou’s teeth are bared but his wrath is different than before. He’s not picking a fight, he’s not forcing himself free of you. Your prince holds you tight in front of him where you cannot hide. He stares.

“Highness, where are they?”

“In the castle,” Shinsou interjects. He points up with a finger when he approaches your little group and emerges from the shadows in odd pieces of armor– greaves, cuisses, and faulds but nothing other than light padding on his chest. He yawns and he is bloodspattered. He looks like Uraraka and your panic begins to rise.

“Highness?” You turn back to the scarred prince who will not release you. Kirishima is not nearby, Kaminari and Sero, Uraraka, Fuyumi– “There’s no time, we–”

“We? We don’t have to do anything,” he drops you gently even though he is angry and you shake out your shoulders on instinct. “You need to sit the fuck down for once in your life and trust someone without a stab wound to shovel this shit.”

The hallway is different than you remember, it is colder without your fever, it’s taller. Shinsou yawns again and behind him you can just make out mixed voices in the dark. Your prince is orange amber, molten honey, chip and shoulder. He does not rise but tosses blankets away towards you like he no longer needs comfort. Mina glares over his back.

“How long have I been asleep?”

“It’s almost dawn,” she replies, helpful, not so much like magma. “We escaped down here with a few others but–”

A sudden scraping door overhead forces your group to lurch towards the ground. Shinsou drops to a crouch, hand on sword, and creeps forwards into the dark. Bakugou isn’t far behind, a warning hand outstretched to try and keep you down. “Fear not soggy citizens,” a voice hisses from the source of the sound and Bakugou straightens immediately. “We’re back.”

“Took you long enough,” Shinsou is firm but fond and you and Mina creep behind your prince to peer deeper into the dark. The charred remains of her white gown are stiff with mixed blood. Who’s out there? A few shapes catch light from a sconce past Shinsou’s shoulder and you have never been so unarmed in your life. The prince refuses to let you in front of him.

The light ahead flickers when someone handles it. Prince Natsuo– dusty but alive, thank gods– is illuminated clearly for a moment as he takes a candle from its sconce and a pair of footsteps descend from the kitchen door above. Kaminari and Shinsou stride down the last stairs into their prince’s hidden hallway and beam over a bounty of bread baskets.

More candles are lit by the Takoban prince and the hallway is quickly not so dark and not so lonely. A handful of Takoban lords and ladies lay scattered at the edges of the hall, all deep in sleep. It’s difficult to navigate but you rush past a golden arm and towards the Alderan boys, rejoicefully free of blood, as quickly as you might without stepping on sleeping hands so that your relief doesn’t overflow in loud noises.

“Where were you?”

“Pantry mission.” Kaminari shrugs to hoist his bread basket high enough for you to see, “Food and rest..” he grins Alderan.

You finish, “build blood.”

Sero starts speaking over your shoulder and you turn to catch the briefing for your prince and the Takoban guard, “There were no combatants in the kitchens. A few shuffling feet from the dining hall when we checked under the doors, otherwise,” he hands his basket off to a bloody and impatient Mina, “otherwise, I think they must be patrolling the exits.”

Bakugou grunts and chews at his cheek. It’s not lost on you how pointedly everyone speaks over your head, like you would throw yourself onto the nearest broadsword if given the chance to fight. Though, if you could see the amount of blood in your bandages you might hesitate to speak to you too. The cloth is stiff with it even if you’re no longer bleeding, but the wound that pinned you to the floor, the poison that knocked you from consciousness, no longer grip you with their icy fingers and you thank Shuzenji. You’re sore not a war casualty. Your friends are being hunted upstairs. If it takes the general’s voice to be noticed, so be it.

“Where is the mage?”

Soldier Sero instinctively drops his head to speak to you, “No sign of him since last night.”

“No new fires,” adds Kaminari, “he could be anywhere.”

“Where is the doctor?”

“You’re awake.” You turn to the new rasp from the floor. Screaming her son’s name once used up all her voice like a long night singing and Queen Rei is scorched at the edges, but alive, in a pile of rumpled skirts. She sits among her sleeping people as Natsuo lights a candle for her to hold, “The doctor is upstairs, I’m afraid.”

“Still with the princess?”

She stiffens but nods, “We can hope.”

If that’s the case, you can also hope that they’re being protected by the two champions you left them with. You speak as you turn, “How,” and Bakugou’s silent eyes are the first you catch, full of something, “are all these people still asleep?”

The group gestures to Shinsou in their own ways– Kaminari cocks his head, Sero points with a shoulder– “We couldn’t know who was friend or foe,” the apprentice clarifies of the civilians the group managed to collect on their way down to the safety of this underbelly. “We still don’t know. It’s not safe to keep them conscious with the queen, not while we have so many injured.”

“How do we proceed?”

The group hums for a moment before Sero clears his throat, “We can’t escape with a group this big,” he looks to the bodies littered and pushed to the sides of the hallway, “we could be caught and with so few fighters, with so many injuries…we’d have to send a scout ahead and Shinsou’s the only one here besides His Highness and Her Majesty who knows this castle well enough to outsmart turncoat guards.”

Your ears perk at the claim and your prince bristles. Takobans are not the only ones here who have memorized cold hallways.

Kaminari interjects, “But without Shinsou here to keep the civilians out cold, if a potential traitor wakes up–”

“Worse– if the scout is caught upstairs with no way to communicate– overwhelmed in numbers– gods forbid the mage– we don’t know what weapons they have up there but we have to assume that it’s, it’s everything.”

No help’s come yet,” Mina adds to Sero’s point and drops to a seat on the cold floor to eat.

“So assume none will,” you exhale and she shrugs in agreement. You nod a few times and review your company. They are battered, all of them, and your breath inflates frost in stubborn puffs. Assume every enemy is dressed in Takoba’s full armory, how many survived the night? How many know about this secret Alderan hallway?

If the royals stay hidden here, Shinsou must stay too. Two exits, one to the kitchens and the other straight out to the beach where any mage worth their magic would keep a close eye. Too open. The only way is up, and more accurately, through. “We just need contact with the outside. Reinforcements.”

“Blasty could get out no problem, but we have to assume guards stationed in the city are working for the mage too.”

“Can we get word to Aldera? Another kingdom nearby?” Kaminari speaks with his hands like he’s grasping at thoughts “Carrier pigeon?”

“Not how those work.” You massage your knuckles with your thumbs, “We need the doctor.”

Mina’s magic hasn’t returned, what about Aizawa? Is Hawks alive? This party isn’t enough without the doctor’s magic, You need Kirishima and Uraraka, and the youngest Todoroki prince and his champion if you could manage it. Where is the useless king?

“If there were no injuries what would the plan be?” You roll your sore shoulder back and then freeze. There’s a weight under your bandages.

“Kill a mage, call for help, go the fuck home,” Mina grumbles with a moutful of bread. She rifles through Sero’s basket to find the softest pieces. Rolls are tossed to conscious members of the party, fresh and sweet, and you catch Bakugou’s eyes once more. His clenched fists give off the faintest popping. The prince you know wouldn’t be so quiet, he wouldn’t let his friends– wouldn’t let anyone– venture into the dangers of the castle without him.

“Highness?” you attempt as Mina pelts him with a pandemain. “Are you injured?”

Mina raises her hand, “I’m injured.”

The question unbalances Bakugou who simmers behind you, but he redirects his anger quickly enough with a gnash of rations. His burn almost glows under his jaw. “Course not, you are.”

“It’s my job to be injured, sir. What are your orders?”

He snaps forward but you are already palming your bandages. It’s still there. He glows in the remnants of his formalwear, stripped down to a bloody undershirt and charred white trousers. He glows in anger, he glows with something you don’t recognize and the prince who hates your company thrills you once more. You will kill the mage and you will take him home. You press your fingers to the shape tucked between your bandages like holding a hand over your heart.

“Then, I request an audience with His Highness Bakugou Katsuki.”

Hell can’t deny you. Bakugou reluctantly marches you down the dark hall and curses Alderan pride. A prince would never refuse his general’s audience.

You’re walking well, your breathing is even. He clenches his jaw instead of picturing the last time you came to his room, half on his back, half in his arms, all saltwater and sweat heartbroken with fever. The braids you keep neat at home fray in Takoba. The remains of your red dress are eaten black with burns and you are more phoenix than dragon ahead of him in this hellish castle.

“In,” he grunts when the red door is finally in front of you, “quietly.”

You turn around to confirm, turn into his chest and look up at him with those horrible eyes he loves to see watching. He rolls his own and pushes you both inside.

The air is iron with blood. You startle the second you enter because Captain Hawks is sprawled sideways on the bed under furs, back exposed to the cold air without life in the fireplace. His wings, wings, are a collection of odd scorched feathers protruding from his spine like boney fingers and a few feathers litter the pillows keeping him turned on his side.

They did their best posting him up after carrying him from the party, but even Bakugou concedes the scene is grim.

Candles are lit at intervals around the room, a few on the mantle and a dozen around the floor on mismatched candlesticks. Furs and tapestries are nailed over windows so that the light can’t be seen from outside. Aldera is three days away, home is only three days away and he can’t even get his people outside of the city gates– outside of the castle.

You take a deep breath and face him, “What’s your–” But he can’t let you speak.

“You’re not fighting. No more, you are completely reckless.”

“Me?” You almost snort. He tries not to let your amusement warm him, not an ember, not a spark. You begin fingering through your bandages again and he instinctively reaches to stop you. “You are not my queen to be doling out orders like that.”

“Stay here.”

“You are my job,” your voice staggers a bit when his hands take up yours to keep them from pulling at your bandages but you stare through surprise with glinting, obsidian eyes, “my purpose.”

Will you stay when this is over?

Bakugou is a cocky brawler on his first day of training with Jeanist and you are lugging weapons to the Keep. He is suffering through class and you are just outside the window, rushing to your lessons still trailing smoke and dragonfire. He is kneading dough before the holiday feast in roaring kitchens and you are armed, halberd and crossbow over your shoulder, collecting a plate the cooks put aside for you.You are supposed to be sleeping. He is supposed to be sleeping. You are both pretending to watch the stars and not each other in the library at midnight.

You stare through him and Bakugou stares at you in the candlelit chill of this makeshift bedroom. “Who mended your cape, Highness?”

He furrows both brows and sighs. He won’t win, “A friend.”

You’re smiling now which he should hate and in one jerk of your arm you tear a strip of bandage free. Dust of blood and the crack of its cast make him wince, but under the red material, soaked pink from your wound, is a small stitched square, a repair date, and a family seal. Yaoyorozu. “The traveling merchants Yaoyorozu don’t only mend capes.”

“And?” Of course they don’t. They’re the richest family on the continent, engineers, the lot of them.

“This seal is on half the tonics in the potions closet and on half more in the pantry. Weapons, clothing, ammunition–”

He stops you talking with a shake of his head and winces again when you rip another bandage free, “Will you stop it!”

“Aldera couldn’t study dragons without the tools that family designed– Takoba would succumb to winter every year without their insulation, without one of their boats in port. They are ubiquitous.” You continue unwrapping yourself, bare skin becoming raw scar until a piece of glass glints under the last of the wrappings. You tug it free before the stiff bandages even fall, and press it into Bakugou’s chest.

The glass is warm with the heat of your heart and you beam so close to him. He studies you. His hand closes over yours.

“Highness, we can fight with this. We can fight the mage and what we have left we’ll bring home. The Yaoyorozus can engineer something to reverse the effects– we have allies– not just them, we aren’t– aren’t–” You are swelling with Alderan fire, a pot boiling over, a hound, a dragon, a phoenix itching to fight. When you smile for bloodlust it is even more beautiful. He doesn’t know he is holding you until you stop speaking.

Bakugou cups both of your cheeks as you offer up the mage’s stolen vial of poison. You are formidable. You are terrifying. He holds you like you might go out candlefast in a breeze.

“We can still–”

“Y/n,” he quiets you with the sound and your smile falls. You are captain of the guard all dressed in red, training squires on spring mornings. He is the king who rises at dawn to watch you. “Thank you.”

The corner of your bodice has been cut away to expose your wound for the doctor and it is raw at its edges so close to your heart. Your collarbone shines with the new and mended skin there. Another scar from a wound that might have killed you, another injury you took in his place. You are reckless but that’s not the problem. Maybe derealization will hit Aldera after you die. Did you outsmart the ghost even as you were being raised from the dead?

“Highness–”

“Don’t.” Bakugou traces the shape of your pulse with his thumbs, “Don’t call me that.”

He’s hardly thought about home since you laughed with him on the catwalks. Since he gave you his hands to do what you’d like with and you told him they make something beautiful. He always thought he might not be able to hold things gently. He knows it’s hard, he knows his hands are meant to break and burst and destroy, but you are a relief. Your hands can kill, they can catch, they fold laundry, they break joints, and they tremble when sparks run through them.

“I don’t–”

“Anything but that, anything. Asshole, coward–” he wants to be upset with you, it is easier when you hate him. It is easier to fight.

“Bakugou.”

Closer. He knows there’s no time but he wants to be closer. You clutch the vial tight in one hand and rest the other over his bloodstained heart. He can feel your heartbeat in the curve of your jaw with his clumsy, heavy fingers. He shakes his head.

“..Katsuki,” you murmur, and he kisses you. You who are just like him.

Your back finds a wall smoothly this time when he dips low to catch your lips with his. There is no desperate grabbing, no stumbling, tripping, every push of his tongue against yours is deep and slow and starving. Your hand cups his chest in both protest and invitation, somehow you are scalding, somehow you are hungrier.

There is a thank you that chases every parting of your lips for everything he owes you. He owes you two lifetimes and a spar. More than that. He presses deeper. Blood flakes from his blond hair when your fingers rake through it and you pull just enough to make him growl.

“I’m sorry,” he gasps in correction. He holds your head in his hands like a gentle promise even as his bones break themselves to be closer.

You manage, “wait,” through the pause and when he jerks back you are no longer the nervous soldier crying in cold hallways. He is nervous, he is trembling, you are something else, something black and infinite. You lower your hand to his cheek and stare almost too close to see him clearly. The hand that kills becomes soft fingers that drift over his temple and push his shaggy hair from his eyes. You watch every part of him. Your eyes and fingers make shapes of his face as he stands above you, as he submits to your touch happily.

What else can he kiss from you? What will you offer him? Breath and tears, he wants more. Memories, exhaustion, boredom, tell him more about yourself, favorites and enemies, show him more tragedy, selfishness, joy. Take him to study dragons, not your soldiers, not your queen.

Your knuckle ghosts his burn and catches the swell of his lip and the wet there. Time be damned, blue mages, civilians, home and hell wait for you. He rumbles somewhere deep in his chest when your thumb presses just slightly harder, your breath catching, at the soft pink flesh and the tongue that darts out to wet you. Bakugou kisses the tip of your finger, again, again, you swipe saliva under your thumb and he kisses you there, again until you can’t take it anymore and lean forward to taste him. He has no such patience. Your prince takes your jaw back up between his fingers and molds his lips to yours like he might give his life to you. You knock hard against the wall and push against him with just as much force so that he must knock you back again to keep you where he needs you.

More of this, more of your greed, more of your desperation stolen in gasps, more of your body fitting perfectly into his hands. You pull at the neck of his undershirt, nails catching flesh. He’ll praise you. He’ll watch you. He only wanted to kiss you. He doesn’t know what it is to want, to be close to someone he needs to keep.

He can’t push any closer– chest to yours, legs between– you inhale sharply when he rolls too deep and he wants to apologize again but you arch your hips higher on instinct. It almost tips his head back. He thinks he says your name. You press warm and shaky against the thigh that pins you to the door while your lips keep him close, bobbing between sloppy presses and a tongue kneading wet against his. The friction of your hips stutters the yawning starving kisses. Where does he hold you? Sweat collects between his knuckles, the excitement soaks through him, you’re alive you’re alive, he grasps you under your thighs and up into his arms.

The pressure is worse here, you are a fire against the rawest parts of him. He catches your throat with his teeth in your surprise above him and lays as many kisses up your pulse as you will let him before cupping his stinging jaw back up where you want it.

He wants to dance with you. You nip where he offers himself, tongue and lip and neck, because your thrill never left you. He wants to fight, he wants to blow out all the candles and make magic for you in the dark. Bare, his shoulders beg you to find hold there, to grasp and scratch, draw blood, breathe fire, don’t let go of him. The swell of your thighs is unbearable in his palms. Your tattered dress parts for him– your damp flesh vibrates with his magic and he wants to sink so deeply inside of you– it is the only thing can could heal this ache, the one thing to make it worse. He wants to hear just one noise. Who taught you not to make a sound? Why can’t he stay quiet?

“Highness,” you breathe. He will break you of that habit, “Highness, I–”

He grunts the low sound of a question and pulls wet away from your kiss in strings of desperation. He wasn’t– he isn’t thinking. Bakugou loses half his halfgone composure when you stare into him with huge, burning eyes and bring an embarrassed palm up to your lips. His ears catch fire. Immediately he knows both of his cheeks and half of his chest are lost to flush. A chill through the air makes you shiver in his arms, back to the door, and he shudders, his own eyes widening at the crease of your brows and the sound you bite back.

“Your shoulder.” He blinks a thousand more times than necessary, “you–you’re– injury.” He almost drops you, almost falls over. Bakugou lets you to your feet– your braids catch on the wooden door above your startled bonfire eyes and it is too much the picture of you, laid out under him in half-torn clothes, overheating, breathless– inside, let me have you, hips grinding through this heat until–

“Highness,” a different voice drawls from the dark. It kills the thought and the silence of the room so suddenly both of Bakugou’s palms ignite in plumes of violet on either side of you. “Please,” Hawks groans, suffocating, into the Alderan pillows propping him up on the bed, “don’t fuck in here.”

“You’re awake!” You gasp because there’s nothing else to say.

“Not on purpose.”

Your prince cannot form a thought. He’s never had– never wanted the things he wants from you. He’s never been distracted from a fight. You begin patting yourself down, searching for a place to tuck the vial, settling the layers of your dress, pushing your hair back where you like it to lay, clearing your throat, catching your breath.

“Did I hear right?” Hawks grumbles again and the prince prepares to escape the end of the sentence, but both captains continue, “you need a Takoban scout?”

“You’re hardly fit enough for that.” Your tone is all disbelief but excitement shows through your embarrassment and he hates how readily you offer up all those sanguinary thoughts. Bakugou shakes his hair down from where you pushed it. He wipes his face with the back of a fist and sucks his teeth.

You will dive into the castle, you will cut down soldiers and dancers, and you will be killed by the mage before he can get you home all because you made a promise to a queen who is not here. He dreaded this. He should have taken Sero as his second. Kaminari would have done, why didn’t he just leave you?

“Can you walk?”

“I sure can’t fly.”

Bakugou bursts, all blush and bitten lips, “Neither of you are fit for reconnaissance and both of you will heel. We don’t have time to limp through the castle.”

You snap around, bright eyes, teeth shining, possessive and kiss swollen and wild. You turn to fight and then there is a crash. You are between your prince and the thrown open door faster than that injury should have let you.

He has half a mind to toss you over his shoulder when a blast of air so frozen it takes form, shatters through both of you in the doorway. You’re quick to bear through it and without waiting to cover Hawks’s hiding place you’re both down the dark hallway, longing, starvation, wet and warmth left behind you. The damp of the hall freezes over completely underfoot.

“Enemy?” You bark, death to stealth.

“The queen!”

The dim light of your meeting place is more pathetic than before, now that candles are dashed and sconces are punctured in awkward icy stalagmites. Mina and Kaminari are picking themselves up off the floor as their captain and prince race forward. Sero has Natsuo under the arm, “Shinsou.”

He throws his gaze over your shoulder to the wall in horror and you turn to follow it, past shining cobblestones, over clouds of breath to the Takoban guard, pinned half up the wall in a crashing wave of ice. Most of both legs and half his hip are trapped in the tide, leaving enough of his torso free to breathe easy. “She’s,” he grunts, thrashing against his restraints, “she’s escaped.”

Bakugou should hate the look on your face but he knows he looks much the same. Thrill makes you glow like he hasn’t seen in a long, long time.

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#bakugou x reader #bakugo x reader #i defo headcanon bkg being a little scared in love at first #like 'wait- if anything happens to this person ill end the world? shit'#for just a milisecond his priority isnt being a hero #a hymn to black water #bnha x reader #mha x reader #fantasy bakugou #fantasy bakugo #bnha fantasy au #mha fantasy au

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