#her body has been weakening every time she dies...

[kitsquared]

Oh no

[exitpursuedbyavulcan]

What is Broken IV (Aemond Targaryen x Pregnant Wife!Reader) FINALE

The war, the "Dance of the Dragons," as they have come to call it, is over. And yet, you are not celebrating. You have just learned that your husband, Prince Aemond, spent the last months of the war with another woman in his bed. Not only that, but his mistress is pregnant. Just like you...

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x fem!reader (third person, no use of Y/N), side Aemond Targaryen x Alys Rivers

Warnings: traumatic childbirth, blood, semi-suicidal thoughts, Aemond is fantasizing about murder again, all the angst

Point of View: Limited third person omniscient

Author's Note: I don't understand why, but thanks so much for all the support I've gotten from this horribly angsty fic! This is my first go at angst so I really appreciate it. I'm gonna work on two happy-ish fic chapters before I get started on When It Breaks, but it's coming...

And a huge, enourmous thanks to @ewanmitchellcrumbs and @ripdragonbeans for being my betas for this! I was so anxious about getting this absolutely right and they were so kind and encouraging. Love yall forever 💜💜💜

Taglist is done via reblogs

Series Masterlist

What is Broken

She was so light, his ābrazȳrītsos.

Even while carrying their children – their sons – Aemond swore she was lighter than when he left. He held her close to his chest, her head resting on his shoulder and her legs draped over his forearm. With every step, he could feel more of the liquid that had spilled from her womb - now mixed with small, hateful tendrils of blood -  dampening his sleeve.

Gods, how much blood had he seen in the past year? How much had he spilled himself? There had even been times when he reveled in its metallic tang. But the sight of her blood was nothing less than abhorrent.

He ran faster, until he could not make out the faces of those he passed, shouting for a Maester to be sent to their chambers immediately. One of them must be a servant. With luck, the Maester would already be there when they arrived.

She cried out as he began to ascend the stairs, wincing with each step, her weak grip on him tightening. “It hurts, Aemond.”

“I know, my love.” He slowed down, though his pounding heart urged him to do just the opposite. “I’m so sorry. The maester will be here soon, and he’ll help you feel better, hmm?”

“He has to stop it. It’s too early,” her voice cracked, and Aemond’s heart with it. “They’re not ready!”

But it couldn’t be stopped, not by man or gods. Their children would be born today. The only question was whether they would survive. If their mother would survive. Her poor body was so weak, and her heart… he had broken that, too.

If any of them died today, that blood would be on his hands, and he would gladly accept his damnation to the worst of the seven hells.

“Come now,” he chided gently as they reached the corridor to their chambers. “Our sons are dragons – they will be strong. And so will you, ābrazȳrītsos.”

“Sons?” She lifted her head, her entire body trembling with the effort it took. Her eyes – those beautiful eyes now gilded by the setting sun outside the windows – locked with his. “How… you sound so sure.”

Just one more lie. One more, and then he would never lie to her again.

Besides, this lie was small, nearly inconsequential. Many fathers insisted that their children would be sons until the child itself proved them wrong. It would be so easy for her to believe. The truth would hurt her – perhaps weaken her further. Aemond did not want her to hear Alys’ name. She should never have to even think of that witch ever again.

But he could not bring himself to do it. He could not sully the birth of his sons with yet another lie. He pushed their door open with a shoulder, never breaking her gaze. “Alys told me after you left. Before… she had a vision of us holding our sons. I’m so sorry, love.”

She slumped again, her face dropping into the curve of his neck. Once, she kissed him there, slept with her head tucked there. Now, it was simply where her head lolled. “I’m glad it’s sons. You’ll have two heirs…”

Her words were cut short by a gasp of pain, but Aemond heard it clearly. It echoed in his very bones. So if I live, you’ll have no more need of me. The gods had just crumbled the ground beneath him, his heart and soul with it. He was falling, falling, falling…

“I am glad, too.” He set her down gently in the bed, brushing away several tangles of hair stuck to her sweaty brow before arranging the pillows around her, hoping he was adequately managing to hide his devastation. For he could not bear to be without her, could not bear to love her only from a distance. He would go mad. Yet he would happily accept that horrible fate if it meant he would not lose her to the Stranger. “Mother will be, as well.”

“Mother!” She tried to rise, but he held her softly to the bed. “I can’t do this without Mother, Aemond. We must return home immediately!”

“I am afraid that is not an option, Princess.” Maester Artos stood just within the doorway, maids and Septas streaming in behind him. He was a mountain of a man, better suited to the battlefield than the birthing bed. But he was good at what he did – very good. Aemond had seen him work miracles on men who should have never survived their injuries.

The moment the women began attending to his wife, he approached the Maester, speaking quietly so as not to frighten her. “Something is wrong, Artos, she is bleeding. And she’s very weak.”

Artos hardly acknowledged him, looking only at the princess lying in the bed. “The blood is not the problem. She is distressed and too thin.” He stated, as cold and clinical as all other Maesters.

“Yes, I know that already.” Aemond took a shaky, calming breath. He did not like the way Artos observed her, as if she was a thing to be studied rather than a woman – a princess. Perhaps when it was all over, he’d kill the man for it. “I fear she is not strong enough to survive this.”

She cried out behind them. Two maids were pressing damp cloths to her forehead. Another was hastily braiding her hair back. A Septa had begun cutting away her dress, leaving her only in her chemise as two more maids removed her slippers and stockings. Two other Septas knelt by the windows, praying, while one woman who seemed to be neither maid nor Septa laid metal and wood instruments atop a tall, thin table.

It took every ounce of Aemond’s self-control not to go to her. To shove away each woman because it should be him – and him alone – to touch his wife while she was so vulnerable. He should be the one to protect her, but he couldn’t. He could only hurt her, it seemed.

“Artos!” Aemond hissed.

“Is her spirit weak as well?” There was suspicion in his dark eyes. The same he’d shown when he confirmed Alys was carrying a child. If he hadn’t been so proficient a healer, Aemond might have killed him then.

But for now, Aemond was glad Artos was alive. He swallowed, avoiding looking back at the bed as his wife continued to whimper and moan. “Yes.” The maester just hummed before approaching the bed. Aemond followed, kneeling at the bedside, the maids immediately clearing away.

“This is Maester Artos, ābrazȳrītsos.” She stared wide-eyed at the hulking mass of the man who now knelt between her legs. Aemond tugged on her hand, her gaze snapping back to him. “I know him well. He’s going to take very good care of you, I promise.”

She shuddered, her eyes closed tight as she squeezed Aemond’s hand so hard he had to bite his tongue to keep from crying out. He delighted in it. She was not as weak as he thought, thank the gods. If she needed to break every bone in his hand – in his body – to live through this, he would let her do so without complaint.

“Are you going to stay with me?” she asked, her voice already ravaged by screaming.

Aemond blinked. When they first learned they were to have a child, he swore he would. But now, it seemed impossible for her to want him there. Not after what he’d done. “Do you… want me to stay?”

She opened her mouth, but nothing came out but another moan of pain. Her eyes darted all over his face. The longer she stayed silent, the further Aemond’s stomach dropped, and his heart ached.

“I believe it wise to have the prince wait outside,” Artos said decisively.

Aemond felt her hand slide out of his, the sensation the same as if he were falling from Vhagar’s back—her answer.

He nodded, and though he knew he shouldn’t, he leaned over her and kissed her forehead, trailing a hand down her cheek. “I love you.”

As he walked to the door, he still held a little shred of hope in his heart, waiting to hear her say it back.

It never came.

The moment the door shut behind Aemond, she regretted sending him away. She wanted to call him back so she wouldn’t be alone with so many strangers. But panic began to set in as the maids pulled her gently down the bed, and her voice failed her.

“It won’t be long now, princess,” the maester said, but she found no comfort in it. She couldn’t even remember his name. Alton? Alyn? Amos? Aemond had said he trusted him, but…

But that meant he had been here when Aemond was with Alys. And that glint of pity in his eyes, not just for her conditions, but for what he knew. He knew. Seven Hells, he’d probably been the one to care for Alys and her pregnancy.

Alys. Alys, Alys, fucking Alys!

She did not know what to think of the woman who had stolen so much from her. Had she stolen it, or had Aemond given it? She could hardly make sense of what she’d learned in that dreary little room.

Alys was not the evil, scheming witch she had first imagined. But neither was she innocent in the affair, not wholly. She was not remorseful for her actions, but she apologized for hurting her. She had been kind.

Blinding pain shot through her, and she screamed. Wordless and desperate, her only outlet for release. She needed to scream, needed to roar, needed to breathe fire. Anything to distract from this. Gods, she even wished for a moment for Alys to be there, holding her hand. At least then, she could return some of that pain.

“Princess,” the maester said, though he sounded far away. Though it was more likely that her shouting was drowning him out. “Very soon, I will ask that you push. Do you know how, your highness?”

Push. That’s what the septas had instructed Helaena to do at the birth of her twins and for Maelor. She even had vague memories of the word from when she peeked through the open door to her mother’s chambers when Daeron was born. But what it meant and how to do it?

Her confusion must have been apparent, for the maester continued. His voice was frustratingly calm and steady. “It is fine if you do not, princess. You must simply follow your instincts. When you feel the urge, push the child outward with all your might.”

“I have no might.” She heard herself laughing through tears and only then realized she was crying. Someone took her hand – she didn’t know who. But the feeling of another’s skin on hers was heavenly.

“You have carried these babes for months,” the maester – Artos! that was his name – said gently, “while your husband and the realm were at war. In my estimation, you are the mightiest woman in Westeros.”

She felt nearly every muscle she had tense, turning her answering grateful smile into a grimace. The mightiest woman in Westeros would not have weathered her pregnancy as well as a paper boat in a storm. The mightiest woman in Westeros would not still love her husband after he betrayed her. The mightiest woman in Westeros would not have let her emotions weaken her or put her children’s lives in danger.

She was far from the mightiest woman in Westeros, and she could not do this. She wasn’t strong enough. She was only a weak and broken little girl.

A maid approached, a fresh cool, damp cloth in her hands. The princess had not looked at any of their faces, too absorbed in her pain and panic. But now, she caught the eyes of this girl—deep, rich brown, so similar to her own – to her mother’s.

“I want my mother,” she whispered to the maid, even knowing it was impossible. “I can’t do this without her.”

The maid gaped at her as if she could not fathom a princess ever speaking to her. She looked to her companions for guidance, but the princess only looked into the maid’s eyes and thought of her mother—the scent of the rosemary oil she used in her hair, the warmth of her embrace, and the soothing tones of her voice.

“Please, I want my mother,” she begged. A new surge of pain gripped her, radiating into her legs. They were coming faster now; she barely had time to breathe between each wave. “Please.”

“I’m so sorry, Your Highness.” The maid’s voice was high and breathy, nothing like her mother’s. “The queen is not here.”

She cried, turning away from those false eyes. She was alone – entirely and utterly alone.

“Princess, I need you to be strong now.” Artos’ sweaty brow was furrowed with half a dozen creases, his eyes wide and mouth a firm line. He looked more like a commander on a battlefield than a maester. The Grand Maester would have smiled at her, but he was not here, either. “Your labors are progressing quickly. It is nearly time to push.”

“I don’t know how,” she cried. She refused to open her eyes. If she kept them closed, she could almost imagine she was home.

Artos wrapped his hands around her ankles, pushing them upwards and further apart. “You do, princess. The Mother wove the knowledge into your body. Listen to it, and all will be well.”

“I – ”

Her next scream rattled the room, the keep, the entirety of the Riverlands.

Fire, ice, steel, and claw seemed to rake down her spine to her thighs. But Artos was right; her body reacted to the pain, her muscles moving near-unconsciously to force the babe out of her womb. She followed the instinct, pushing it harder, harder, harder.

“Very good, princess!” Was that Artos or Orwyle? She couldn’t tell anymore.

It was never-ending.

Pain, pushing, and a brief moment of reprieve.

Again.

Again.

Again.

It lasted hours, days, perhaps even years.

Was a child – a son – even worth this pain? How could she love someone who had tortured her so? Would she ever be able to look at him without remembering how she suffered?

Pain.

Pain.

PAIN.

Then –

“Stop, princess!”

She went limp, vaguely beginning to feel other sensations creep in: the coolness of the water on her forehead, the slight scratching of the sheets beneath her, and the hushed whispers of the maids and midwives.

The pain was still there, but softer. Less insistent.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, her voice nearly unrecognizable, even to her.

Artos emerged from between her legs, relief painted over his harsh face. “Nothing is wrong, princess. It is simply time to be gentle and allow your body to do its work.” He smiled, chuckling under his breath. “I can see your babe’s white hair – quite a bit of it.”

Laughter bubbled up in her throat. Deep, joyous laughter. Another slight wave of pain passed through her, but she didn’t care at all. She was thinking about her niece and nephew, how Jaehaerys was born with nearly a full mane of silver frizz while Jaehaera had not a single hair on her head until she was over a year old. “He has hair?”

“Yes, although I do not know yet whether it is a boy, princess.”

“It is. He is.”

There was one more brief surge of pain, and then she heard her son cry.

It was torture to wait outside while his ābrazȳrītsos screamed with pain. At first, Aemond stood leaning against the wall, as Aegon did when Helaena began her labors, but his knees failed him when he heard a scream that rattled the world.

He’d been on the floor since, resisting the urge to cover his ears. But he had caused her this pain, so he must listen.

He would be in that room with her if he hadn’t been a weak, damnable fool. He would have held her hand, letting her release her pain onto him. She had only squeezed his hand once, yet he still felt the ghost of her touch on his skin. He would savor that pain for the rest of his life.

It seemed to be never-ending, the torture his son was inflicting upon her. How could he ever forgive the child for doing this to his own mother?

Then, it stopped.

Aemond leaped to his feet, panic infecting his blood like a disease. Why had she gone quiet? What was wrong? Was she dead? He couldn’t face –

A babe cried—his first cry, with his first breath.

Their son.

He tried to push the door open, but it was locked.

“Let me in!” he shouted, pounding his fist on the door. “Artos, let me in!”

There was no answer, but he could hear soft voices inside. None sounded like hers. Oh gods, had she brought their son into the world at the cost of her own life?

Aemond slammed himself against the door again and again, not caring for the damage he was doing to his own body. “Open the door now, Artos!”

He threw himself against the wood again and again. At some point, it had to yield. Either it would, or his body would.

It opened just before he launched himself at it again—not all the way, but it was open. Then, Artos stared at him through the gap with his hateful, disapproving gaze.

“Let me in,” he growled. Trying to force the door open was useless, as the maester was practically a giant and, apparently, throwing all his strength into holding it closed. “If you don’t let me see my wife, I swear I’ll – ”

“Your wife has not finished her labors yet, my prince.” Damn him, the mountainous bastard. “But I am pleased to inform you that she has borne you a son.”

Though he knew it was to be a son, the words still shot through him. A son. His son. Their son.

“Is he healthy? Is she?” There was no more fight in his voice. The warrior prince had vanished, replaced only by the husband and father. By all the gods, he was a father.

Artos nodded. “The boy is small but healthy. Your maester may have miscalculated the date of conception. He is remarkably healthy for being born so early.”

“And my wife?”

“She is tired, but well. The second babe is not quite ready to emerge, so she is resting.”

The weight of all the world was lifted from his shoulders. He felt like the little boy he had once been on Driftmark, wanting nothing more than to see his zaldrīzītsos and take comfort in her embrace. “May I see her? Please.”

“I’m afraid not, my prince.” Artos at least had the decency to sound genuinely apologetic. “She needs this rest. With the first birth, she was wonderfully strong, more than I could have ever imagined. But I fear she has depleted her strength. She fell asleep the moment it was done.”

“Is… is it bad that she fell asleep?”

Artos sighed, his eyes turning to the floor. “Ordinarily, no, but with how thin she is, how weak… it worries me.”

No. No, no, no. “Is there anything you can do? To help strengthen her?”

“I am afraid not, my prince.”

“Well, do something. Do whatever you can.”

A soft moan came from behind the door. Ābrazȳrītsos. Aemond pushed against the door, opening it as far as he could to try and catch the barest glimpse of her.

Her eyes were nearly closed, her reddened cheeks making them appear as dark as night. Her chemise was soaked through with sweat and whatever other fluids came out with their child. But no blood beyond what he already knew to be there.

“Ābrazȳrītsos! I’m here!” He shouted. It took a moment for her to look his way. He could have sworn she smiled. “I’m with you! You must be strong, my love. I know you can be. I love you! I love you so much, ñuha zaldrīzītsos!”

Artos pushed against the door, forcing Aemond back. “That is enough, my prince. Upsetting her will only drain her strength.”

Aemond knew it was true, that his presence would likely upset her rather than comfort her. So, he stopped resisting and allowed the maester to close the door. Just before it closed, he whispered one final command, “Take care of her, Artos. She is my world.”

The pain returned, worse than before. The lightning crept down her spine again, but it was now accompanied by a great force set on tearing her body apart at the seams. Pushing brought no relief, nor did it seem to move her son any closer to the world.

Artos came to her bedside, resting the back of his hand against her brow.

 “It’s worse this time,” she confided in the maester when it finally ebbed. “It’s so much worse. Why?”

He sighed and sat on the bedside, his massive hand nearly eclipsing her head as he stroked her hair. It made her feel remarkably like a kitten. “I cannot say, princess. There are many possibilities. This child could be larger, in a slightly different position, or…” He hesitated. “As I said, there are too many possibilities for me to be sure.”

His pause unsettled her, but it soon faded away when another wave went through her. “Is he nearly ready? I can’t do this much longer.” At least she knew what to do this time, so surely it would be better.

“Ah, another son, is it?” Artos stood from the bed to examine her spread legs. Several maids gently moved her to replace the sheets beneath her. “Not yet, but soon. Your motherly instincts will tell you when.”

Motherly instincts. Gods, she was a mother now. There was a child on the other side of the room that she had given birth to, that she had grown within her. A son who would depend on her for his entire life. Her, and his father.

Aemond would be a good father, she knew, even if he were decidedly lacking as a husband. But as a father, he would be attentive, kind, and loving. He would give their sons all the love he was denied by their own father.

They would not repeat the mistakes of the past. They would love their sons. They would not ignore them, speaking to them only to scold them. They would teach them the language of their ancestors themselves instead of relying on tutors. As soon as they were old enough, they would teach them how to be compassionate and fair rulers. They would not force them to marry for political advantage or the continuation of the bloodline but let them fall in love, as they had.

She could see them now. Both with white hair and unruly curls. Bright lilac eyes. The elder would take after her, but with Aemond’s determination. The younger would take after their father but with her gentle temperament.

As if the vision was summoning her second son, she felt her body constricting, muscles tightening. Without fear, she began to push.

“Princess, stop!”

Artos screamed as if someone was holding a sword to his throat, desperate and panicked. His eyes were wide and bulging as he looked from her face to where her second son should be emerging. “You mustn’t push now, princess. Not once. I…”

He stood, pulling one of the Septas aside. Others followed, and their frantic, poorly hushed whispers grew louder. She knew the sight should frighten her, but she forced herself to remain calm. Aemond said he trusted this man and had seen him work miracles. Whatever was wrong, Artos would fix it.

She was sure.

Artos burst out of the door without warning. Aemond pushed away from the wall. “Is it over?”

The maester sighed.

Shit. Seven Hells and all the Gods.

“Your wife is strong, my prince,” he began. Holy gods, he sounded as if he would cry. “Enough so that I would have little doubt that she could deliver your second child, but…”

“What’s wrong?” Aemond felt his heart race, his blood surge, his finger twitching for his sword. He was going into battle, but this was not a battle he could fight with steel or fire. This was not a battle he could fight at all. “Artos?”

“The babe is not in the right position.” He moved his hands as if it would somehow make Aemond understand what he was saying.

“What does that mean?”

“It means that the babe cannot be born, your highness.”

No. This couldn’t be happening. Not after everything she had suffered and survived.

“If she were to continue her labors, neither she nor the child would live.” Artos put a hand on his shoulder, an attempt at comfort. “I can save only one. Who survives… that is your decision, my prince.”

The gods were cruel to force this upon him – the very choice that had damned their family decades ago when Viserys chose to sacrifice his wife and queen for the chance at a son. That was where the seeds of destruction had been sown.

Aemond could not repeat the mistakes of the past. He would not be like his father. He had his son and heir. A second would be preferred, but not at the cost of his ābrazȳrītsos.

His ābrazȳrītsos, whose heart would break to lose her son. Who would never forgive him if he decided to –

He couldn’t choose. He couldn’t let her die, and he couldn’t let their son die.

He couldn't live without her, and he couldn’t take away her will to live.

He tore himself out of Artos’ grasp and stormed into the room.

Aemond threw open the door, his eyes wide and wet, and suddenly, she was not so sure that Maester Artos would fix whatever was wrong.

He ran to the bed, not sparing a glance at their new son. She burst into sobs the moment he took her in his arms. “Oh, ābrazȳrītsos,” he whispered into her hair as he kissed her temples. She entwined her fingers with his, desperately squeezing. “I’m here now. Everything is going to be fine.”

Liar. Sweet Liar. Beloved Liar.

“I want Mother. I want Helaena.” Her voice crackled with tears and exhaustion. Everything hurt. Someone – most likely her – was crying, though it sounded distant. And if Aemond was here, not waiting outside…

If Aemond was here, holding her hand and stroking her hair, it meant something was wrong. Something was very wrong.

“Mother is not here right now,” he said, squeezing her hand tighter. He wouldn’t look at her, wouldn’t meet her gaze. “And Helaena… she can’t be here. I’m so sorry.”

“She told me she would hold my hand like I did for her. She promised!”

“I know. I know, my love, but it is not possible.”

Because Helaena was dead. So were Daeron, and Jaehaerys, and Jaehaera, and Maelor, and Otto, and Ser Criston, and nearly every other person she loved. Aegon would be dead soon, too, then she would only have her mother and her husband.

Her mother, who had begged her to forgive the husband who betrayed her and broken her heart.

“I can’t do this alone, Aemond. I can’t.”

“You can, I know it. You are so strong, dearest.” Yet there was no confidence in his voice.

She wanted to scream. She wanted to tear his hair out just to make him hurt, too. “I can’t! I’ll die if you make me, Aemond, I know it. I know something is wrong. Please, tell me.”

He pursed his lips, eyes narrowed. “My love, I…” his voice faded, leaving them in total silence, save for that distant crying.

Then, he kissed her—not the soft kisses on the temple or head of the past fortnight, but the way he had kissed her when he said goodbye all those months ago. His lips slotted against hers perfectly, and she opened for him on instinct. She knew she should stop, push him away, and scold him, but she couldn’t.

Everything felt wrong—her entire body felt wrong. But this, kissing Aemond, felt right. Her desperation for comfort far overpowered her anger and resentment. Her trembling hand rested on his shoulder, her fingers bunching in his shirt. She pulled him closer, wanting more—more rightness, more connection, more feeling.

More Aemond.

But he pulled away, resting his brow against hers as she chased his lips again. He placed a hand on either side of her face, holding her still. “I’m going to fix this,” he rasped, his voice shredded by fear and desperation. “I will fix this, I swear.”

Then, he let go.

He stood from the bed and turned away from his wife.

He was leaving. He was fucking leaving her.

She screamed his name, cursed him, begged him to come back, hurled insults, and cried for him. He couldn’t do this to her, not after everything he’d already done.

This was not love. The heat that burned in her chest was not love.

It was hate.

For the first time in her life, she truly hated Aemond.

“Alys!” Aemond bellowed as he descended the stairs to the servant’s quarters, taking the steps two, three at a time. No one dared approach him. Not even Artos had tried to stop him as he ran away from his ābrazȳrītsos.

She may hate him forever for this, for leaving her when she was so weak and scared.

Fine. It would be worth it.

“ALYS!” The door snapped from its upper hinge as he tore it open. The witch was precisely where she’d been when Aemond left, her hand on her chin as she looked into the fire. What vile hell did she see in her visions now? “Alys!”

“I heard you, Aemond.” She did not look at him, only staring at the flames, those green eyes flitting around as if she were reading a book. “The entire continent heard you.” There was no humor in her voice, no hint of a smile on her face.

He swallowed, panting. He was crying – weeping like a little boy. That didn’t matter now. Very little mattered now.

Aemond fell to his knees before the witch with whom he had destroyed his life. He would do whatever she asked, destroy what little was left of his pride if necessary. “I need your help, Alys. Please.”

“She’s dying?”

“Yes. The maester said I had to… that I had to choose who to save.”

“And you can’t choose between her and the child.”

 “No, I – ” he swallowed as his voice shattered. He was going to vomit. “I can’t, Alys. I can’t. Please.”

“What is it, exactly, that you want me to do?” She was colder than the Wall, than the entirety of the lands beyond it.

“Save them, both of them.”

Alys’ eyes narrowed. Her face was painted with an expression he had never seen. He had no clue what it meant. “What would you sacrifice,” she asked flatly, “to ensure your wife and her children – your true heirs – live?”

“Anything,” Aemond croaked, “Everything.”

One corner of her sinful mouth lifted in a way that did not bring him comfort. She sighed as if taking the time to thoroughly consider his plea. The wicked bitch was gleefully stalling when the lives of his wife and child could end at any moment.

“Please, Alys,” he begged again, desperation crawling through his veins like spreading ice. “I cannot live without her, and she will never recover from her grief if she loses the babe.”

Something passed over her face, and she smiled fully. “You have always been a man of loyalty and nobility, Aemond.” Her grin sharpened as she laid one delicate hand upon her belly. “Almost always, at least.”

“Alys,” he growled in warning.

“Oh, don’t be a beast about it,” she scoffed. “I will do it – save them. If only in memory of our time together.”

Aemond sagged as relief swept through him, but it did not last long. She was still dying. The babe was still dying. Whatever Alys would do, she needed to do it now. He opened his mouth to command her to start, but she held up a hand to stop him.

“I promise it will be done.” She flung her hand to the door in dismissal. “You should be there for her. She is still so very frightened.”

He needed nothing more to run back to his wife.

She was alone. Even with Maester Artos and the dozen women hovering around her, even with her son cooing softly from the cradle by the window, she had never felt so alone.

Aemond was gone.

He’d left her. Without even a goodbye, he’d left her. He had not even stopped to meet his son.

Artos murmured something to one of the Septas, who quickly gathered the other women on the far side of the room. He approached the bed, again seating himself upon the edge, and pressed the back of his fingers to her brow briefly before petting her hair. “How are you feeling, princess?”

“Am I going to die?”

He hesitated in answering. “I cannot say for certain…”

“I know something is wrong. Please, tell me.” Her heart constricted as his fingers brushed against a spot where Aemond had kissed her. “You told him, now tell me.”

“Very well,” he sighed. His harsh face fell, and she swore she could see his eyes glistening. “The babe is breech. It should emerge head-first, but it is not. It’s… the way it is attempting to come out is nearly impossible. Should I not intervene, one or both of you will die.”

No. No, no, no, it wasn’t fair. To suffer for this long, to endure what she endured, only for her child to enter the world wrong? In a way that would kill them? She had always been good and devout. She prayed and studied holy texts, listened to her Septas and the Maesters, and avoided sin at all costs. Then why was she being punished?

Unless… the gods had not sent this to punish her.

Aemond had abandoned her and their marriage – their holy union – when he slept with Alys. It would be fitting, and very like the gods, for him to lose that which he had forsaken. She and her second son were merely instruments of punishment. But it wasn’t fair.

“There is nothing you can do?” She felt hollow as Artos continued to look at her in pity.

The warrior-maester looked as if he were about to cry, as well. “In these situations, it is usually asked of the father whom he would rather save.”

So that was why Artos left the room – to ask Aemond whether to save her or the child.

“Who did he choose?” Either answer would devastate her. He would either prove the fragility of his love for her, or he would willingly break her heart by killing their son. Whatever he chose, he would become a kinslayer thrice over.

“He… he did not, your highness.”

“What?”

“I explained the situation, and he stormed in here – to you. When he left, he said nothing. He just ran. I presumed he had…” But he hadn’t. Had not said a word about the peril she and their son were now in.

A coward. Too frightened to maintain his vows of marriage. Too weak to admit his wrongdoing. Too cowardly to even make this most crucial of decisions. The gods damn him.

If they hadn’t already.

“So… what will you do?” If she had to be the one to make the decision, so be it.

“There are three options.” None of them were very good, she knew, simply by looking at his forlorn face. She had thought him a grave man when she first saw him. Now, he looked mournful – a reluctant harbinger of death. “I can forcibly remove the child, more than likely killing it in the process. I can attempt to save it and, in so doing, certainly kill you. Or we can proceed with the birth, risking killing both of you and pray that the gods may be merciful.”

Such a choice – a decision of life and death – should be difficult. It should tear away at the soul to condemn another. It should be far beyond the limits of the heart or mind.

But it was easy.

“Save him,” she whispered. “Let me die.”

Artos frowned deeply, shook his head, and said something in return, but she did not listen – she could not and would not hear his words. She only vaguely saw him move to the end bed, ripping away the sleeve of his robes as he barked orders at the maid and midwives. Perhaps the gods were merciful to dull her senses now so she could pass peacefully.

What did it matter if she died now?

She will have fulfilled her duty and given her husband his heirs. Finding a new wife would be easy – what woman would not want to marry him? Even if news of Alys spread beyond the walls of Harrenhal, surely it was nothing in exchange for a crown. Aemond would have everything he needed to be king.

If she lived, what sort of life would it be? To raise one son while constantly mourning the other. To be the wife of a man she could no longer trust. To remain empty, a shell of her former self. She would be alive, but she would still be a ghost.

“Save him,” she said again, her voice fading.

It was easier this way. Hadn’t she already learned that it was easier not to fight? Letting Aemond take care of her was easier than fighting him. Perhaps it would be easier to let him care for the children, too. He would love them enough that they would not feel her absence.

Distantly, she felt pressure between her legs, then heard her firstborn son cry out to echo her own screams.

Her son.

Oh, he had no name.

She couldn’t leave him motherless and without a name.

Months ago, she had decided on names, but they were hard to remember now. What was it? She could grant him this one last gift. She just needed to remember…

“Daeron.”

Yes. It had been her brother’s name. Her kind, brave, daring brother. He died some months ago. There had been a battle. Why was her little brother fighting? He was too young for that.

Tendrils of pale mist crept into the edges of her vision, playfully willing her to sleep.

Once she was gone, Daeron—her Daeron—would have a little brother, too. He would need a name as well—a strong name, a courageous name. When she was dead, he would need courage.

“Aenar.”

A strong name. With courage enough to forge a new beginning.

There. Names for her sons, the little princes.

With that last parting gift, she could close her eyes at last.

Goodbye, she tried to say.

I love you, my children.

Be kind to each other.

Love each other always.

Goodbye.

The mist filled her vision, illuminated by a distant light. It was cool, like a late spring morning. She did not hurt anymore. Did not feel anything but an overwhelming sense of peace.

The distant light faded.

The mist darkened.

Through it, she swore she could see grass-green eyes and hear the faraway cry of a babe.

She was still screaming. Good.

Screaming meant she was still alive. Screaming meant Alys was fulfilling her promise. Screaming meant that Aemond was racing back to his wife – his living, breathing, beloved wife – and not her corpse.

The door was still locked when he arrived—one final obstacle between him and his family.

No, not final. Far from it. The door was the only tangible thing keeping him from his wife and children, yes, but there was far more beyond it. The pain he caused her, the hatred his ābrazȳrītsos now surely felt for him, and the third child that would soon be born still kept them as far apart as the earth and stars.

They would get past it. They had to. They were siblings, husband and wife, now destined to become King and Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. They were meant for each other. The gods or fate or whatever else had made her for him and him for her.

They were two parts of the same whole, cleaved.

“Prince Aemond.”

Cregan Stark, the man who humiliated him and his wife mere hours ago, stood behind him. Aemond snarled. “Leave. Now.”

Stark stood strong and still. “You have been my enemy. You may be still, I have not decided. I have no admiration nor respect for you, my prince. In short, I do not like you.”

“Do you want me to kill you?” Aemond asked. He did not wish to greet his sons with blood-soaked hands, but if Stark didn’t close his fucking mouth –

“To lose the woman you love so dearly in this way… it is a pain I know all too well and one I would not wish on anyone. I have instructed all my men to pray for the Princess and the child, and I will join them soon. Negotiations will be postponed indefinitely.”

“I…” Perhaps Aemond had underestimated the brute, if he was a brute at all. And though he knew the prayers were unnecessary, gratitude still dulled his rage. “Thank you, Lord Stark.”

He simply inclined his head and walked away, leaving Aemond leaning against that godsdamned door, listening to nothing but the sound of his own panting breath.

Oh gods.

He froze.

The screaming was gone.

It was silent.

Was she dead?

Had Alys betrayed him?

He would kill her. He would tear her apart with his own hands and –

A child cried.

Then…

Oh, thank each and every god a thousand times over.

For then, Aemond heard his wife laughing.

“Princess?”

She always expected that the voice of the Father would be deep and smooth, but shouldn’t it be the Mother to greet her, given how she died? And shouldn’t the gods greet her by name, not her title?

“Princess, it is time to wake up,” the voice said again. “Open your eyes for me.”

Oh, her eyes were closed. She should open them.

The Heavens were not as bright as she imagined, nor as golden. They were dark and sparsely decorated and looked very much like –

“I am not dead?”

Maester Artos looked down at her and smiled. It reminded her of the few times she had seen her father smile at her, sparking a warmth in her chest she had not felt for years. She had not known she still remembered those smiles. “I am very happy to say you are not, your highness.”

“But, my son – ”

“He lives, too.”

It couldn’t be. After all the suffering of the past year, she could not believe it could be true. Loss had become a certainty, as sure as the sun rising each morning.

A babe cried, and she turned toward the sound. A young maid was wrapping an infant boy with a shock of white curls in a cobalt blue blanket. Daeron.

A different, softer cry came from the other end of the room. There, another boy with only a smattering of silver wisps atop his head was being gently cleaned by a Septa. Aenar.

Her sons – alive and well and here.

She threw her head back against the pillows and laughed.

She laughed with joy and relief, with eight months of eager waiting and sickness. She laughed with a body nearly dead, saved only by some miracle she did not understand. And she laughed with a heart that was both shattered and overflowing.

This was the moment she had dreamed of since she learned she was pregnant, since the moment she married Aemond. She had dreamed of this all her life. It was her destiny, even if it was vastly different from how she had dreamed it. For she was not at home in the Red Keep but within the cursed stones of Harrenhal. Her mother was not by her side but miles away. The family that was supposed to crowd around her and coo over the children were nearly all dead. And her husband…

“Let me in!” he shouted through the door, the wood pounding against stone as he threw himself against it. He had been doing that before, but she did not notice until now. It was so like him, the impatience and need to act, that she laughed again. “Ābrazȳrītsos! Is that you? Tell me you are safe!”

Taking her laughter as permission, Artos opened the door. It was mere heartbeats later that Aemond was upon the bed, his eye flitting over every inch of her, his hands roaming to try and locate something wrong, to stem blood that did not flow or relieve pain that did not exist.

“I’m fine,” she said, breathless. “I did it, lēkia, and I’m fine.”

“You did it?” He looked down at her in utter disbelief and joy before his eye drifted to the Maester. Tears slipped from his eye and caught the light of the setting sun. “She did it…”

Her gaze went to the maid that held her firstborn – the girl with eyes like her mother’s. Fitting, for her to be the one to hold him. But it was her turn. “Bring Daeron to me,” she ordered,” some strength at last returning to her voice. “I want to hold him.”

Aemond stared at her. “Daeron?”

Was he angry that she named their sons without him? She couldn’t quite tell. Her mind was still fuzzy, like the mist she had seen still lay over her, casting everything in a sweet, happy light. She shrugged. “There are already too many Aegons, so…”

He laughed. She had missed that sound – she loved it so dearly. He settled into the bed next to her, their bodies fitting together perfectly, like two halves of a broken plate. So many familiar feelings – the warmth of his arm around her, the rhythm of his heart, his lips kissing her temple in the gentle way that always sent shivers down her spine. Hadn’t her spine hurt not long ago? “Daeron is perfect.”

Indeed, he was absolutely perfect. So tiny and precious as he was put in her arms, looking up at his parents with wide lilac eyes. Neither she nor Aemond said anything as they beheld him, taking in each tiny, perfect detail. The wild curls of his silver hair. Each and every eyelash framing his bright eyes. The pink of his lips. Fingers and toes so wonderfully soft and small. A toothless smile that lit the world.

“He’s going to be king someday,” she realized aloud. How could someone so tiny rule an entire kingdom? He had a lot of growing to do before the Conqueror’s Crown would fit.

“A great king, I think,” Aemond mused. He held out a finger, and Daeron instinctively wrapped his hand around it. “Wise and strong. Daring, like his namesake.”

“He must be kind, too.”

“He will be,” Aemond assured, brushing out her damp, tangled hair with his fingers. The feeling was so familiar, but each touch had her flinching slightly. “We will raise him to be kind. His brother, too.”

“Aenar.”

Aemond stiffened. Had he forgotten they had another son, or did he not like the name she gave him? He pulled his finger back from his son’s fist to touch the babe’s hair. “The Exile?”

“I just thought…” Perhaps it had been a foolish name. But it had felt right when it came to her, when she was on the brink of death. “Our family needs a new beginning.”

“Yes… I suppose it does.” He kissed her again with slightly too much pressure. “Another fine name.”

She looked at the Septa that had been cleaning him. Maester Artos stood with her now, along with several other women, crowding so much she could not see the babe. “I want to hold him, too. Bring him to me.”

None of them moved. The room fell silent.

“Allow me just a moment longer, princess,” Artos said. His voice shook, and he would not look at her or Aemond. “I am still finishing my assessment of the boy.”

He’s dead, her mind insisted. They saved your life at the cost of his. He died because of you.

“No,” she whispered. “No, no, no.”

Daeron began fussing in her arms, disturbed by how she began to tremble. She failed one son by killing him, and now she was already failing as a mother to the one who survived. Aemond tightened his arm on her shoulders, pulling her closer as his free arm gently lifted their son into his own grasp.

He hushed her, ducking his head to press his cheek to hers. “Lykirī, ābrazȳrītsos. Izūgō daor īlo bēvili gō.” Calm, little wife. Do not panic before we have reason to.

“Kostan daor,” she whimpered. If Aenar was dead…

“Is he alive?” Aemond’s hand moved to shelter Daeron’s head as if to shield him from whatever danger or heartbreak lurked. She turned to press herself into him – into the safety of his arms.

Brother. Husband. Protector.

Why did the feel and scent of him no longer make her feel safe?

“Yes, my prince,” Artos answered.

“Will he remain that way?”

“Yes…”

“You could tell me he’s green-skinned and winged for all I care.” His arm curled protectively around her, but it did not comfort her. Rather, she bristled against it, the possessiveness of it. He did not notice. “He’s alive, and that’s enough. Bring him.”

Artos hesitated but obeyed, hastily wrapping the babe in a dark blanket.

He looked whole – unbroken. Aenar’s eyes were closed as the Maester placed him in her arms, but she could feel his warmth, his little heart beating, and the faint rise and fall of his chest. He only woke when a tear fell from her cheek onto his.

Even then, he did not cry. He only looked at his mother with bright eyes – the same shade of violet as his father's and brother’s. “Ñuha trēso,” she whispered, and he smiled. My son.

“Taobosa sylvȳse,” Aemond added. “He already recognizes the language of his ancestors. He will serve his brother well. Dārys sepār Ondoso zȳhon.” Wise boy. The King and his Hand.

They had two perfect sons. So why did Artos still look like that?

The Maester’s frown deepened. “I am afraid…” he cleared his throat. “It appears that the younger prince was injured during the birth.”

She examined him again but could find nothing wrong. He was perfect. Surely, Artos was mistaken.

“May I?” His large hand hovered over the edge of the blanket.

Her instinct was to pull away, to not let this man touch her son. Yes, he had saved both their lives, but he must be wrong now. Why should she let him make a problem where there was none?

She suppressed that instinct and allowed him to uncover Aenar’s right arm. Artos’ demeanor had made it seem as though something was horribly wrong – that the arm would be missing or deformed. But it was just an arm, small and plump and pale, with a splotch of reddish-purple covering the shoulder like a pauldron.

“It… is it a birthmark?” She brushed a thumb over it, the skin smooth but slightly raised. A birthmark wasn’t an injury, nor was it exceedingly unusual. There were several families where such a mark appeared on nearly every child born.

“Explain yourself, Artos,” Aemond hissed. He looked ready to tear the man to pieces. If he did, he would likely do so without even setting Daeron down.

With a sigh, Artos ran a finger down the length of Aenar’s arm. “Note how he gives no reaction.”

“So he is calm,” Aemond spat. “I fail to see the injury.”

“Do the same to the elder.” He repeated the touch. “Gently, my prince.”

Aemond obeyed with a scowl. The moment he touched the babe, Daeron squirmed and flailed his arm.

“But he looks fine.” She looked down at her second son, her wise boy, and held out a finger, as Aemond had with Daeron. Aenar’s left arm squirmed within its wrappings, but the right was still. She touched the arm, silently pleading with the gods for it to move, for that tiny hand to reach for her.

It remained still. A desperate noise escaped her. “What did I do wrong?”

“Nothing,” Aemond and Artos said in unison. Her husband attempted to pull her into his chest, but she pushed him away. An embrace could not fix this. Nothing could. He did not pursue her again.

“It is not uncommon among children born breech.” the Maester explained. “I have seen many such injuries and many even worse.”

Artos offered no sympathy or apologies, and she was thankful for it. There was nothing he could say to ease the pain of knowing that her son would never be whole, just like his father. But unlike Aemond, he was never even given the chance, wounded from his first breath. What would the people call him? ‘Prince Aenar One-Arm, son of King Aemond One-Eye?’

“What do we do?” She asked her husband, the Maester, the gods. Anyone who may have an answer.

Aemond’s face was drawn with grief – for his son and for himself. “He will adapt, as I did. I will ensure it. He will be stronger for this. I promise.”

I cannot trust your promises.

The thought was a sudden gale of icy wind scattering the lovely mist coating her mind into oblivion, leaving her with only stark, wicked reality and the faint memory of green eyes.

“How did I survive?”

Too quickly, Aemond turned to her, taking hold of her chin and pulling her close to him. “It does not matter, ābrazȳrītsos. All that does is that you are still with me. You and Aenar.”

If he wasn’t holding her firstborn, she would have shoved him from the bed.Liar. Liar. Liar.

I will fix this. he’d said before he left her. The pure, unrelenting anger she felt as she watched him leave had prevented her from considering what those words meant. Now, she could think of nothing else. What could he do? He was no midwife nor Maester. He had no knowledge of childbirth, beyond the few questions he’d asked of Orwyle months ago. What could he have done for her and Aenar except beg the help of another?

Of Alys.

Alys, who had eyes the color of fresh grass and possessed a dark magic that allowed her visions of the future. Was she also able to influence that future?

How?

At what cost?

What had Aemond promised her in exchange for their lives?

“No Maester wants to admit to ignorance,” Artos smiled sadly as Aenar continued to try to wriggle his left arm free of his blanket, “but I cannot explain it. All I can think is that the gods are kind to you, princess, and for that, I am glad.”

She could not look at him or any of the others in the room who watched her as if they could see the Mother’s hand upon her shoulder.

The gods weren’t kind. They were cruel to allow her to now owe her very life, and that of her son’s, to the two people who had destroyed her. Would she ever be able to look upon Aenar and not remember? To not feel her soul torn between unyielding hatred and infinite gratitude?

Yet, she had her life – and her sons. Surely anything was worth that.

Wasn’t it?

“I’m tired,” she said. The day had seemed to last a year, and the sun had not even set. “I want to rest now.”

After what she endured, no one argued.

His ābrazȳrītsos fell asleep mere moments after Daeron and Aenar were settled into their cradles. She did not even wake when Aemond lifted her so the servants could replace the soiled bedding. Just as she had so many times before, she tucked her face into his neck as they sat in the window, sighing contentedly. Now, he lay beside her in the bed, trying to memorize how it felt to have her in his arms.

When she woke, he knew she would never allow him to hold her like this again.

She knew. Somehow, his wife knew what he had done to ensure she and Aenar survived, and she would never forgive him for it for as long as she lived.

But she would live.

Aenar would live. Though he would bear the wounds of his father’s sins forever.

After his wife had fallen asleep, Maester Artos had told him that it would likely be necessary to amputate Aenar’s arm. The purple mark on his shoulder had grown, apparently indicating further bleeding within the limb. If it grew much more before morning, the arm would be removed before midday.

It was his fault, Aemond knew.

Alys had told him that in her visions, both boys had been healthy. But that was before his ābrazȳrītsos knew that he betrayed her. Before he brought her to this cursed place. Before he failed to stop her from meeting Alys and learning the full extent of his sins.

He only hoped Aenar would not grow to hate him for it.

For now, the boy slept in his crib, limp arm hidden beneath the dark blanket he was swaddled in. Aemond rose from the bed, moving closer to his son.

How peaceful he looked now, with the redness of his skin finally faded. He did not have as much hair as his older brother, but his was wilder - more reminiscent of his mother’s curls than his father’s straight locks. At least he had that part of her, if not the warm brown eyes Aemond had hoped for.

In the other cradle, Daeron fussed slightly, though he did not wake. It seemed he resented being confined within the tight swaddle of his blanket. The thought made Aemond smile, remembering how his younger brother once did the same. It faded quickly.

He had to go to Alys. To thank her for giving him his family - a kindness he did not deserve. To say goodbye to the child he would never meet. Another cost he would force himself to pay.

He had to go now, while his ābrazȳrītsos slept.

“Before our wedding,” he whispered, careful not to wake her as he approached, “I promised to hold you every night I could, that I would do anything to return to you when I was away. I have failed to uphold that promise, and for that, I am so sorry.”

When he stroked her cheek, she turned into his touch, a small smile upon her lips. Seeing that some unconscious part of her still reacted to him with love warmed his heart, even as the knowledge that her conscious mind would never allow her to do so felt like a dagger buried in his gut.

Aemond knelt at her side, basking in her beauty, memorizing her peaceful face. “Now, I swear my devotion again. I know you no longer wish for me to hold you, and I promise I will not try to persuade you otherwise. But I swear I will always be with you, to love and protect you, even if I must do it from a distance. I will never fail you again.”

It did not matter that she could not hear his vow. Even if she did, she would not believe him. But he made it anyway, for his own sake, and so the gods, wherever they may be, would hear him. It was to them he spoke next.

“Should I ever harm you again, I pray that the gods will strike me down where I stand. And if they do not, I shall do so myself.” He kissed her brow - the sealing of a promise and a farewell - and left.

A maid shrunk away as she passed Aemond in a corridor deep beneath Harrenhal, cradling the bundle of cloth she carried closer to her chest. It was one of the same maids who had tended to his wife—the young girl with deep brown eyes. She did not wear the clothing of a midwife, but the colors of her linen dress were similar. Perhaps a midwife in training.

Strange, then, for her to be here. Stranger still for her to be seemingly performing the duties of a laundress.

He glanced down at the bundle of cloth she carried and froze.

There was blood. Too much blood.

A young midwife, carrying bedlinens soaked with blood.

What would you sacrifice? Alys had asked.

Aemond ran.

He knew what he would find. There was no other explanation. Yet he still hoped and prayed he was wrong. Loss had followed him like a loyal dog for so long, but today it was banished. It must be.

Alys stood in front of her fire. One hand rested on a stomach that was not as distended as it had been only hours ago.

His wife’s stomach now looked very much the same.

“What did you do?” His voice shook with fear and guilt and shame. Gods, he felt so weak.

Her eyes, cold and distant, slid to his. “What you asked.”

“I didn’t ask you to…” This blood was on his hands - the blood of his child.

The word that had haunted him for more than a year - the word that had nearly led to the death of every person he ever loved - echoed in his mind.

Kinslayer.

Killer of his nephew. His uncle. His child.

Aemond looked back into the corridor, hoping to see the young midwife again. Had he not looked closely enough? Had she been carrying the body of his child within those bloody linens?

“I only wanted you to save my wife and son.” His words were a justification, a plea. It fell on the deaf ears of the gods and the dead child’s mother.

“And you thought there would be no cost?” Alys laughed, cruel and cackling. “No god in the world is so generous as to save a life and ask for nothing in exchange, boy.”

“I didn’t think – ”

“You never do.”

Grief morphed into anger. Reckless, aimless, dangerous rage. “You should have told me!”

“What would you have done?” She faced him fully now, her hand falling to her side. There was no trace of the woman who had once comforted and reassured him - who had kept him sane amidst the insanity of war. There was only annoyance and derision. It reminded Aemond of his dead half-sister and her bastard sons. “If I had told you?”

“I –”

“Would you have left your wife to die? Let her son die?” Alys’ lip curled in a hateful sneer. “You could not choose between wife and son, yet you believe you could have chosen between two sons?”

The world stopped. Only Alys’ flickering fire and burning eyes remained.

“I… it was a boy?” Aemond leaned against the wall, sliding down to his knees, savoring the scrape of the rough stone against his back. He deserved every bit of pain. More.

Alys let a single hint of sorrow slip through her cold façade. “It was. Three sons within a year. What your father would have given to have had the same.”

The last thing Aemond wanted to do was to think about his father. The king who had nearly destroyed his throne by choosing one child over another.

Gods, was he any better?

Did his ignorance of his son’s sacrifice absolve him of blame? The guilt?

It certainly didn’t feel like it.

Alys sighed. “Better for his death to mean something than for his life to be spent destitute and fatherless.”

“I would not have allowed that to happen,” Aemond said. It was a reflex, a reassurance he’d grown used to giving since he learned he seeded a bastard.

“Wouldn’t you? Perhaps if my visions had not changed. But now…” She shook her head, more exasperated than sorrowful. Did she mourn the child at all? “No. You’d have wanted us as far away as possible and done anything you could to not think of us.”

“I would have ensured your comfort.” The words felt as hollow as his chest.

“Your wife would, yes.” Alys smiled fondly, just as she had when his ābrazȳrītsos sat across from her earlier that very day. She had never smiled that way for Aemond. Never truly cared for him. He should have known. “She is kind-hearted. But not you. Your resentment of me, of us, would have festered until you found some way to be rid of us.”

He wanted to deny it. To say that there was nothing that could drive him to do what she insinuated. Once, it would have been true. But now, with the man he’d become in the war and how close he’d come to losing his heart itself, it would be a lie.

If he had killed Alys along with the rest of her cursed family, would he have become this man? Would he have learned to cherish the metallic tang of blood and its warmth as it coated his hands? Would he have become so proficient a liar that false words rolled off his tongue like a Valyrian lullaby? Would he have grown so accustomed to violence that it now came as naturally to him as loving his wife?

Would he have broken his ābrazȳrītsos’s heart?

He’d trusted her visions. It had been a mistake.

One mistake that led to thousands more, and it was all her fault.

Alys was the one who lied, who deceived him. Who had pulled his strings as if he were no more than a puppet, knowing that he was married and his wife was lonely and infirm.

His failure as a husband. His wife’s pain. The death of his third son.

Her fault. Her fault. Her fault.

Aemond’s heart slowed, his breathing becoming deep and steady. No longer the heart of a broken boy or a desperate husband. Now, it was the blackened heart that had carried him through countless battles and raging rivers of blood.

“I will be rid of you now,” he hissed as he stood. “And I will be rid of you forever.”

The bitch had enough sense to look scared.

“In memory of the son you killed, I will allow you to live. But no more than that.” She didn’t even deserve that, this woman who did not mourn her own child. Perhaps it was good that the babe was gone, for surely he would have suffered with a witch as his mother.

He approached Alys, sneering down at her and the false bravery on her wicked face. “As Prince Regent of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, I banish you from these lands forever. You have ten days to leave Westeros. After that, if you are ever seen here again…” He reached out and grabbed her by the throat, holding just tight enough to steal a bit of her breath - just enough to make her fight for it.

“I will kill you myself,” he promised. “Without hesitation or remorse, I will kill you. Slowly. And I will savor every moment, for it will bring me far greater pleasure than that withered cunt of yours ever did.”

She fell to her knees when he released her, clutching at her throat as she coughed and gulped for air. He didn’t care. He only turned on his heel and left, not sparing a single glance at the woman who had only hours ago been carrying his bastard child.

Only one woman mattered now, had ever truly mattered to him.

His ābrazȳrītsos was still asleep when he returned to their chamber, as were their sons. They had no idea where he had gone - that he had even left at all. No inkling of the fact that a moment ago, he had again become the man who wiped an entire bloodline from the earth, slaughtered tens of thousands, and delighted in the suffering he had wrought.

Now, as he leaned down to gently kiss his sons’ brows and muss their soft hair, he was a mere man of twenty, his heart bursting with love and affection for his family. How could a heart overflow with such love at the same moment it was fracturing with grief and regret?

It was a question far beyond him at that moment. Perhaps forever beyond his reach.

He was so tired. Too tired to consider the heartbreak that would come when he woke in the morning and his wife pulled out of his grasp. He could face that pain when it came. But now, he needed to feel whole, if only for a few hours.

So, Aemond climbed into bed with his wife, wrapping his arms around her and tugging her into his chest. He remained awake only long enough to kiss the top of her head and whisper, “Jāla tetan, ābrazȳrītsos. Īlon lentot selagon kosti.” It is over, ābrazȳrītsos. We can go home.

She woke to the sound of Daeron fussing. Strange how quickly she was able to tell them apart, even just by their little noises of discontentment. Although, considering she had been with them every moment of the last seven - near eight - months, it may not be strange at all. Perhaps that was why she felt so sure that it had been Daeron who occupied the top of her belly, constantly pestering her with his tiny fists pounding against her at the most inopportune times.

“Hush, little prince,” a soft voice said. “You’ll wake up your mother, and after what you and your brother put her through, I dare say she needs her rest.” A maid was speaking to him, a slight, old woman leaning over his crib. She had not seen the maid before, and somehow, it comforted her.

Daeron continued to grumble. She moved to stand but found Aemond’s arms wrapped around her waist. Thankfully, he was still asleep. Quite deeply asleep, apparently, for when she untangled herself from him, he did not wake.

The maid curtsied when she saw the princess approaching and stepped away from Daeron’s cradle. His fussing had now roused Aenar, but the younger prince made no sound, only glaring at his brother in what seemed to be intense displeasure at his sleep being interrupted.

“Is something wrong with him?” she asked the old maid. Daeron quieted slightly upon seeing his mother but still fussed.

“Nothing to concern yourself with, princess.” The old maid had a kind, soothing voice - that of a wise grandmother. She looked at the babes with fondness and a hint of apology. “They are simply hungry.”

“Where is the wetnurse?” She immediately regretted asking. In her sleepy haze, she had forgotten that Alys was the wetnurse at Harrenhal. Why wasn’t she here? Did she even want Alys here? No, of course she didn’t. Had Aemond requested another be found so she would not have to see Alys again?

The old maid looked away, sighing. “I’m afraid she’s left us. No wonder why, poor thing lost her babe again. Such a shame. We all thought she’d had a miracle with this one. But not to worry, Maester Artos sent some men to find another girl from the closest village.” She shook her head and again leaned over Daeron’s crib. “You’ll be fed soon, darling prince, don’t you worry.”

Alys’ child - Aemond’s child - was dead?

It was a good thing, wasn’t it? There would be no bastard son of the new king, no living reminder of what he’d done. This was good news. She should be happy, shouldn’t she?

But she wanted to cry.

“Mother, forgive me,” the old maid looked horrified as she clutched her pendant of the Seven-Pointed Star. “I should not have said that, princess. Not when you’ve only just finished your own labors. Please, forgive me.”

She glanced at Aenar, now peacefully asleep once more. How close she had come to losing him. It had devastated her. Made her willing to forfeit her own life if only he could live. If she had lost him and had to live with that loss… it would have driven her mad.

“How…” she licked her lips. “How many children has she lost?”

The old maid dropped her pendant. “I do not know, exactly. Enough that we all stopped counting.”

Oh gods. She blinked to clear her eyes, wiping away an errant tear with her thumb. “You said she’s gone?”

“Yes, princess. She left in the night. Didn’t say where she was going, to my knowledge.”

It made no sense. If Aemond had struck a bargain with Alys to save her and Aenar’s lives, why would she leave? Had whatever he offered her not been enough to keep her in the place where she’d lost so many children?

Daeron cried again, his face reddened and wrinkled. He was so hungry, she could nearly feel it herself. She… she could feel it. When she looked down at herself, she saw two dark stains on her chemise right above her breasts. Her milk had finally come in, which meant -

“I can feed them.”

The old maid looked aghast. “Princess, there is no need - ”

“I want to do it.” She was their mother, why shouldn’t she be the one to feed them? It was her body that made them, that brought them into the world. It made sense that it would continue to care for them even now. “Can you show me how?”

It took a moment for the maid to close her mouth before she smiled gently. “I’ve raised nine children myself, princess. I think I know a few tricks.”

The maid had gone by the time Aemond woke.

Daeron was still suckling at her left breast while Aenar had fallen asleep using the right as his pillow. She had not realized how heavy and uncomfortable they had felt until the boys had drunk from her, easing the pressure that she’d become accustomed to.

“You should not be doing that yourself,” Aemond muttered as he raised himself on an elbow. His eye darted from son to son, only ever glancing over her exposed breasts. Once, he loved to worship them, quite similarly to how his sons fed from her now. “Where is the wetnurse?”

Did he not know that Alys had left? Had no one told him of the death of his child?

No. Those were the faint remnants of tear tracks lining his cheeks, and there was a deep sadness in his eye that was not there when he held his sons for the first time. He knew. He knew, and he was grieving, though he was fighting to hide it. She still saw it.

Perhaps that was the real reason he never returned to King’s Landing during the war - he knew she would be able to see the guilt on his face.

“There is no other wetnurse,” she explained gently. “Alys left. They’re looking for another woman now.”

Aemond froze, his gaze growing distant. She could not decipher his expression. Rage? Guilt? Sorrow? Grief?

“I’m sorry, Aemond.” He frowned and shook his head, but she continued. “Truly, I am.”

“It’s better this way,” he whispered. He didn’t believe it. Neither did she.

He reached out to her. No, not to her, but to Aenar, gently stroking his hair. She allowed him to take the babe and hold him against his own chest.

Aenar opened his eyes and looked up at his father. Then, he smiled.

Aemond took in a deep breath. “That boy should never have existed,” he said, letting Aenar take hold of his thumb and mouth at it. “I already had what I needed. And wanted.”

So it was a boy. Another son. A brother for her own. Would he have had his father’s nose, as Daeron did? Or his stern brow, like Aenar? Gods, why did she care?

“You are allowed to mourn him. He was innocent. I bear him no ill will.” Bastard or no, a babe was a babe, blameless of his parents’ sins. Deep in her heart, she mourned him, as well.

Again, Aemond shook his head. “I cannot mourn what never should have been.” He turned his head to face her, face open and pleading. “And I am mourning too much already.”

“I am alive. Aenar is alive. There is nothing to mourn.”

“You know that is not what I mean, ābrazȳrītsos.”

She did. He mourned not for the loss of a life, but for the loss of their life. The life they should have shared, and would have, had Aemond not strayed. In truth, she mourned for it, too.

“I know.”

They sat in silence for a moment as Daeron finally finished feeding, stretching his little arms to push her breast away. She pulled her robe closed again to combat the chill.

Aemond raised a hand to help her. She flinched away. He winced in response.

“Ābrazȳrītsos, please.” His voice was already breaking, his eye watering. The sight should have tugged at her heart. His begging should have fanned the flames of her anger. But looking at him, she felt very little of anything, save a small seed of pity. “Alys is gone. My… the bastard is gone. Can we not return to the way we were? Pretend none of this ever happened? Can’t you forgive me at last?”

The answer came without hesitation.

“No, Aemond.”

Within her, there was no longer a grassland, barren with loneliness and despair. The never-ending field of raging fire had also vanished. In its place was a small, lush garden, safely contained within tall stone walls draped with flowers and a polished iron gate – locked firmly, but perhaps not sealed forever.

“I shall always be your sister, your blood, and the mother of your children.” Daeron cooed, as if he knew she was talking about him, and she could not help but smile down at him. “I will remain your wife in the eyes of gods and men. And when Aegon dies, I will be your faithful queen.”

Aemond shook as his breath quickened, failing to keep the heartbreak. “You will be a wonderful queen, ābrazȳrītsos. I know it.”

She pulled away, taking Aenar from him and into her empty arm. “But I will never again be your ābrazȳrītsos.” She forced herself to ignore the whimpering, broken cry that escaped him, the breath that carried it echoing like a death rattle. “I will not share your bed. And I will no longer allow you to hold my heart.”

Between desperate sobs, Aemond raised his head to face her. Utter devastation lay in his eye, but so too did acceptance. Anguished surrender. “My heart is and always shall be yours.”

I don’t want it, her mind told her, even as her heart cried, I will cherish it forever.

But her decision was made. In all but name, their marriage – their once legendary romance – was finished. A few fragments of love remained but would never be repaired. Could never be.

Slowly, she rose from the bed, her sons still in her arms. Aemond began to reach for her, but when she did not even acknowledge him, he covered his face with his hands and wept. Though it tugged at her heart, it was the same she would feel for any man weeping so, no longer the instinctive pull of a wife. She did not comfort him.

The soft, pitiful sounds of Aemond’s grief faded as she walked toward the eastern window, settling herself in the cushioned seat just beneath it.

Daeron smiled, watching the trembling branches of an oak tree dotted with the first tight green buds of the season. Aenar angled his head just so, until the sun warmed every bit of his fat, pink face, then promptly fell asleep. She sighed, taking in the sweet scent of spring on the wind, and realized she had not breathed so easily in months.

It was a lovely morning in Harrenhal.

[marril96]

La Petite Mort

Chapter 2: Distress

Pairing: Agatha Harkness x reader

Summary: The incident has left you reeling. Can what was broken be made whole again?

Warnings: 18+, dark subject matter. Read at your own risk.

Editor: @cabinetofquriosities

Previous chapter.

You laid there, bare, shivering, for what felt like hours.

Agatha's attempt on your life had left you weak.

Her abandonment broke you into pieces. Destroyed every remnant of your will to live.

How could she leave you when you needed her the most? How could she ignore your pleas, your screams, your tears?

How could she turn her head and walk away?

She was scared, the rational part of you reasoned. She'd almost taken the life of the first person she'd allowed herself to love after the death of her son. It was the death that she knew was coming, but couldn't prevent.

Your death, she had almost caused.

That would break the hardest of hearts, let alone one as fragile as hers.

It had certainly broken yours.

It wasn't almost killing you that you resented her for. You knew she couldn't control it. Once she got blasted with magic, what followed was out of her hands.

What wasn't out of her hands, though, was what had happened after the accident.

She had chosen to reject your touch, to abandon you.

She was scared, of course she was, but so were you.

You were the one who'd had a portion of her magic stolen.

You were the one who'd almost died.

All you wanted was a hug. Nothing more, nothing less. She didn't have to utter a single word. All she had to do was hold you. The simplest of tasks, one she'd done many times throughout your centuries together. A wordless declaration that she was there, that she had your back no matter what.

Apparently, she didn't have your back at all.

Maybe she was that cold-hearted, selfish bitch the rumors talked about.

That's not fair, the rational part of you said. However, you paid that part no mind. Agatha had hurt you. She had demolished you on a level you didn't think was possible. You were allowed a moment of ill thought about her.

Even if it was a lie.

Wiping your wet eyes with your forearm, you sat up on the bed. The motion made you queasy, as if you hadn't eaten in days, and you had to press your palms to the mattress to keep yourself upright.

So much for being okay.

At least you weren't dead, you told yourself. This could've ended much worse.

The fact that it didn't was purely an accident.

No one had been able to stop Agatha before. Not even you when the two of you would practice on the witches she was draining. Once she started feeding, she was entranced and dead to the world. As if, for those few moments, she would stop existing. In her place stood a cruel, insatiable double.

It used to turn you on.

Now, the mere memory of her in that state sent your heart into overdrive, and not the fun kind.

It wasn't fun. It wasn't sexy. It was fucking terrifying.

She was fucking terrifying.

You pushed yourself to your feet, willing your weakened body to stay up, to not topple over. Your knees were jelly, quivering under you. Your muscles were weak as if you hadn't walked in weeks. As if a single step would send you face-first to the ground.

This is fine, you told yourself. You were fine. You were the first person in history to survive Agatha's insatiable power. Everything else was a walk in the park.

Throwing on a robe you'd discarded earlier, you took a deep breath and stepped forward. You could do this. It was just walking. A regular, everyday activity. So what if you were missing a bit of your life force? Agatha hadn't taken it all; she hadn't even taken half.

You were alive and you could fucking walk.

One foot in front of the other, you kept reminding yourself on your way to the door. The furniture made for great support. As long as there was something to hold on to, you would remain on your feet.

The hallway was dark. A chill crept up your body and you pulled the robe closed. Carefully, one hand on the wall, you pushed forwards.

How undignified this was. You were a powerful witch. Yet here you were, barely able to keep yourself on your feet.

Agatha would mock you if she saw you.

Let her try, you thought bitterly. She was the one who did this to you.

She was the one who'd left you on your own.

The betrayal stung like a slap to the face.

You would have preferred to have been slapped. At least it would heal relatively fast.

There was no healing this. It would remain an open, bleeding wound for the rest of your life. Whatever the future held for you and Agatha, what she did to you — or rather, what she didn't do — would lurk in the background like an ugly tattoo that couldn't be removed. A permanent stain on your relationship.

With a careful step, you started descending the stairway. This was going to be tricky, but you decided to throw all doubts to the wind. It had to be done. No one was going to do it for you and you couldn't rely on your girlfriend to help you down.

Even if you were to shout for her, you doubted she would come. That was what you'd been doing for the better part of the past hour and she didn't seem to care. If she did, she did a hell of a job at pretending not to.

You were on your own.

You gripped the railing with everything you had, which wasn't much. Your hands were no stronger than your legs. If anything, shaky as they were, they were even more likely to buckle under pressure.

Still, through gritted teeth, you pushed downwards. Step by step. Stair by stair.

You could do this. You weren't helpless. You still had your magic, even if you were too weak to use it. You had your will, strong as ever, and determination never deterred.

If you wanted to go down the stairs and make yourself a cup of coffee, you would fucking do it.

Just as the thought entered your head, your left knee gave way. You tumbled downwards, face first, smacking directly into the corner of the stairway. Your body rolled like a sack of potatoes, smashing against each stair on its way down. The hardwood felt like bricks against your skin, hitting, slamming, breaking; destroying you bit by bit until your body hurt almost as much as your soul. Almost for no amount of physical pain could ever match what you were feeling inside. It couldn't even get close.

You didn't have it in you to scream, your yelps frozen in your throat, locked up like a secret. What good would they do, anyway? It wasn't like there was anyone who cared.

The one person who was supposed to give a damn couldn't be bothered. She was preoccupied by her own inner turmoil, her own distress at what had transpired; at what she had done to you.

Agatha had always put herself first. You just never thought it would ever come at the expense of your wellbeing.

Lesson fucking learned.

The pain in your head was instantaneous, dull and throbbing. It was as if you'd been whacked by a hammer. Something warm and watery slid down the side of your face, to the corner of your mouth; the flavor of pennies, rusty, metallic, gave it away as blood.

"Fuck," you muttered, too weak to yell it aloud. You were too weak to do anything but lie there with your limbs useless and body aching.

At least you were alive.

Again.

It was barely a comfort, but it was something.

Though, given your track record, it would be completely on brand to survive the infamous witch killer's attempt on your life only to die by something as mundane as a fall down the stairs. Throughout the entirety of your life, luck was barely on your side. In fact, it seemed keen on playing practical jokes that only a sadist would find funny.

A thudding of steps made your eyes shoot up. The sudden movement sent a shockwave through your wounded neck and you hissed like a wild animal, cornered and frightened. Fucking hell.

"Y/N," Agatha said. Her eyes were wide, face etched with concern. She stood frozen in place, watching you, observing you. Taking in the pathetic sight of you on the ground, a useless, broken doll. "What happened?"

You hated how comforting your name sounded, coming from her mouth.

"What do you think?" you said venomously, like a snake biting into its prey; aiming to kill.

For a long, long moment, she just stared, as if uncertain of her next move. You felt like an animal in a zoo, lying there for her entertainment and amusement. As if it wasn't enough that she'd abandoned you, she wouldn't even offer assistance. She seemed to prefer to watch; to observe your trembling form as it slowly withered away with each breath you took. Her own personal snuff film.

Did she find you off-putting? Did seeing you so close to death — pale, cold, and so utterly broken — make her see you with different eyes? Did she think of you as nothing more than just another witch in a long line of many she'd drained; as susceptible to her power and as vulnerable as a mortal?

Taking in a deep gulp of air, Agatha padded closer, her bare feet soft on the hardwood floor. She stood over you, her mouth pressed into a tight line, features smoothened into an expression you couldn't read. Her walls were up, you realized. She hid behind a protective shield whenever the pain was too much to bear. She didn't want anyone else to witness her struggle. It was a mask not even the most observant of people could ever look behind without her permission.

Usually, you would get her to drop it through gentle coaxing.

But not today. Not now.

Agatha knelt by your side, her movements slow and calculated. It was as if she was still debating whether or not she wanted to be near you.

A pang of pain shot through you, squeezing at your heart. She'd been injured countless times over the course of your relationship. Many people had raised hands and weapons at her; be it witches, hunters, or just regular humans who'd had enough of her shit. The list of people who wanted her dead — who wanted to hurt her — was endless. Not once had you hesitated before running to her side. Not once had the possibility of leaving her crossed your mind.

Even when she'd deserved it, when the people who'd harmed her had valid reason to get back at her, you'd had her back. You'd shielded her with your body, taken swings and punches meant for her. You had once gotten stabbed by a knife that was thrown from a distance, aimed directly at her head, all so she wouldn't have to. If she was on the ground, bleeding and broken, your heart would have burst if she would have had to take any more.

You'd fought for her.

You'd killed for her.

You'd bled for her.

And now, when you needed her more than you ever had in your long life, she was the one having doubts.

Reluctantly, as if fighting the urge to run for the hills, Agatha cupped your left cheek. You hated how comforting you found the gesture and how safe the barest of her touches made you feel. She still held tremendous power over you, and you, the lovesick fool, allowed it.

The truth was, even after how she'd treated you, you couldn't hate her.

You doubted you ever could.

You'd given her your heart and it was hers to do as she pleased with. If she chose to tear it apart and stomp all over its remains, she was well within her rights to do so.

"You're bleeding," she said, unable to hide the concern from her voice. Her thumb brushed your forehead, right beside the wound. The touch was gentle, careful not to cause you further pain.

A bitter part of you found it ironic.

"Wow, really? I didn't notice," you said a tad more venomously than you'd intended.

She was a big girl. She could handle it.

After all, she was the one who'd started this war.

Agatha swallowed back the hurt. She allowed her features to soften in a quiet surrender and a show of peace.

"Come here, honey."

Contrary to what every instinct in you shouted, against your better judgment, you did.

You allowed her to hoist you up and get you to your feet. Allowed her to wrap an arm around you and lead you to the couch. The entirety of your body weight pressed against her as your legs were still too weak, too wobbly to take on the task by themselves. You allowed her to pat your back as you sat down as if you were a child and you weren't still pissed at her.

"Why the fuck would you go down the stairs in your condition?" she asked with a bit more bite than was appropriate considering the circumstances.

Rage swelled in your chest. She didn't get to speak to you like that. She didn't get to put the blame on you. "Was I supposed to wait for you?"

Agatha flinched as if struck, your words like a knife straight to the heart.

"For all I knew," you said, twisting the blade, digging it deeper, "you weren't even home."

Two could play this game.

She looked away, face awash in shame and guilt that was eating her alive.

Good, you thought. She should feel guilty.

Just to be petty, you grabbed her mug from the coffee table and took a large sip. The coffee was still warm, searing through your insides on its way down to your stomach in the most pleasant of ways. The sensation grounded you and made you feel present.

Agatha usually glared when you touched her coffee, but this time she had no reaction. Instead, she picked up a rag and ran it under warm water. Then, sitting back down beside you, she started dabbing and rubbing at your face.

The blood came away with ease, staining the pale fabric pink. Agatha was gentle, tender, and careful not to press on the cut on your forehead. She was careful not to make it bleed again.

This was the Agatha you needed an hour ago. This soft, sweet creature, so at odds with what everyone was saying about her. So kind. So loving.

Why did she leave you like that? Why didn't she come back?

Your coarse voice broke the silence that settled between the two of you. 

"Do you know why I said it?"

"What?"

"That I love you."

For a moment you were back there, on the bed, your magic draining out of you, your lungs burning as if they were on fire. There was pain, destructive and wicked, ravaging every single inch of your being.

A shake of your head brought you back to the safety of reality.

When Agatha said nothing, you continued, "I didn't want you to spend the rest of your life hating yourself for killing me. One of us had to love you." A dark chuckle escaped your mouth, a mask of your own, "If I'd known it would stop you, it would've been the first thing I said."

Tears welled in Agatha's eyes. One escaped, burning its way down her flushed cheek.

You resisted the urge to wipe it away.

"I never wanted to do that to you," she said in a voice too small and too low for her usual grand self.

"I know that."

You were still angry at her, still seething, but you couldn't deny her this tiny piece of assurance. It wouldn't be fair to blame her for something she had no control over. She didn't choose her power. She didn't choose for it to have a mind of its own when it fed. All she could do was be careful and work around it.

If anything, you were the one who'd fucked up. You were the one who'd forgotten to play it safe.

You had all the choices, whereas Agatha had none.

"It's not your fault," you said.

She looked at you, dumbfounded, surprised. She was unable to comprehend how you could let her off the hook so easily. "Isn't it?"

It would be so easy to scream at her and tell her that her mother was right. That she was a monster who couldn't be trusted, who was destined to hurt everything and anything in its path. As angry as you were, as much as you wanted to hurt her back for how she'd treated you, you couldn't bring yourself to do it. It wouldn't be fair.

You were mad, but you weren't cruel. Not to her. Never to her.

"I blasted you," you reminded her. "I should've been more careful."

Agatha swallowed. "If I could control it—"

"But you can't," you cut in, "I can. So it's on me."

She shook her head and said, "You didn't do anything wrong. It was an accident."

Yes. It was. One you swore would never happen again.

You knew better now.

"Exactly," you said, looking her in the eyes to drive the point home. To make it loud and clear. "It was an accident."

Which meant neither one of you was at fault.

Neither one of you should bear the blame.

Even if you both stubbornly insisted on it.

"Why did you leave me?" 

The words were out of your mouth before you could think them through, followed instantly by a stream of tears you didn't even try to stop. You needed to know. You needed to hear it from her.

Agatha's mouth pressed into a thin, tight line. Her eyes fell to her lap, to the blood-stained rag clutched in her hands.

"I've been there for you through everything. The one time I needed you, you ran for the hills."

Each word was glazed in venom, the sort that aimed to ravage and kill. The pain of the rejection was fresh and searing. Your hand, the one she'd slapped away, stung with your skin prickling as if burned.

She said nothing, did nothing but sit there as uncomfortable silence befell the two of you. The tension in the air was so thick, it could be cut with a knife.

Like always in emotionally charged situations like this, Agatha shut down. When she was with other people, she tended to change the subject or go on the offensive. She would spew out the vilest things she could think of to send them running and hurt them as she hurt. She masked her own pain by causing theirs.

With you, she just remained silent and avoided your gaze.

If she ignored it, it would go away.

Not this time.

You weren't going to let her get away with it.

She had hurt you first. She didn't get to act as if it hadn't happened.

Just as you were about to unleash a tirade, Agatha spoke up. "I couldn't bear to touch you after… after what I did to you."

She finally raised her eyes to meet yours, baring her soul to you. She was lowering her walls down so you could see the pain that hid behind them. She showed you the complete and utter anguish that she was terrified to expose to so many throughout her extended life. 

Your heart broke all over again, this time for her. You knew how difficult it was for her to open up and show vulnerability. To admit fault. People tended to weaponize her mistakes and turn them against her.

You'd never done — would never do — anything of the sort. All you wanted was for her to talk to you. You wanted to hear her side of the story.

"I'm not blaming you for it," you pointed out.

"I'm blaming myself," she said. "How can I not? I almost killed you."

"We already agreed it was an accident."

"Yeah, because that's how these things work," she said with her tone dripping with sarcasm and mockery that made you roll your eyes, "We said it, and that magically makes everything sunshine and rainbows. You're all healed and I'm not a monster."

"You're not a monster." It shot out automatically, like you were on autopilot. No hesitation and no holding back.

She could sell this tall tale — this blatant lie — to someone who didn't know her to the depths of her soul. She was no angel, far from it, but in no way was she a monster.

"Come on, Y/N. It's time to face the facts. I mean, look at me. Look at what my power does to people."

You did. You hadn't taken your eyes off her since the two of you had gotten together.

Your opinion remained the same as it had been the very first time you saw her drain someone dry. Your feelings for her never faltered. Not even once.

"Is that your opinion," you said, taking a breath and wishing you had a shot of something hard for courage before continuing, "or your mother's?"

Agatha froze, her face draining of all color. Her mother, dead long before the two of you had met, was persona non grata in your relationship. From the moment Agatha was born, that woman had made sure she didn't experience an ounce of affection. She'd berated her, put her down, and beaten her. She hated Agatha when, as the one who had given her life, she should have been the one to love her the most.

Agatha had broken that cycle with her own son. She had loved him the way that she should have been loved, but not even that was enough to heal the oozing and gaping wound on her soul. The unloved and abused little girl inside her could never be made whole. She could ever heal the damage that had been inflicted on her. She would carry it for the rest of her life.

"She lied, sweetheart. You know that,” you whispered.

Bringing up Evanora crossed a line you rarely dared to cross, but it needed to be done. You needed Agatha to finally let go of her toxic influence. 

"She was a miserable bitch who just wanted to hurt you,” you continued, “In fact, it's probably thanks to her that you can't control your power."

If the old hag had taken the time to mentor her daughter and guide her instead of calling her evil to her face, maybe things would have turned out differently. Maybe Agatha would have learned to rein in her magic.

"She stole your childhood," you said, heart twisting with anguish and sympathy for the woman you loved. With love, despite the anger that still had its hold on you. "Don't let her steal the rest of your life."

Agatha turned her head as tears flooded her eyes. She knew that you were right. All the resentment she had for herself, all the hatred, was because of her mother. When she talked down to herself, the words that came out of her mouth were the words she'd grown up listening to.

She may have been born with power that was unlike that of the other witches, but it was her mother that had molded her into the killer that she had become. It was her mother who had tried to make her into a monster. It was her mother that had whispered into her ear to leave you when you'd needed her the most.

You expected Agatha to flee and refuse to engage in the conversation any further since these were the sorts of things that she'd made clear more than once were off limits.

Instead, she reached for your hand and squeezed it like you'd been wanting her to from the very beginning. Your anger instantly dissolved like a pill in sparkling water. Warmth flooded your veins, comforting and safe. It was as if everything was suddenly right in the world again. As if you hadn't nearly died and then been abandoned.

"You're right," she said with eyes fixed on your linked hands, "I'm not a monster. I'm just… me."

You loved her as she was. If anything, that was what had made you fall for her in the first place. Her confidence. Her drive. The way she took what she wanted, no questions asked. The way she lived her life free of anyone's rules. The way she was herself unapologetically. Somehow both an open book and a nicely-wrapped surprise.

Her.

Just her.

Her wet, pained eyes met yours. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have left you. I just… I was scared. I thought you wouldn't want anything to do with me after what happened."

"If that were true, I wouldn't have called for you, would I?"

There were very few things — if any at all — that you could never forgive her for. An accident, even one that almost resulted in the loss of your life, wasn't one of them.

You loved her too much for far too long to allow for one mishap to destroy your relationship.

"Agatha, there's nothing that would ever cause me to not want you around. Nothing."

That was why her rejection hurt so much. You wanted her there. You needed her more than anything in the world and she'd just coldly walked out. She'd slapped your hand away as if it were filthy and you meant nothing.

As if you weren't worth staying for.

Agatha nodded, taking in your words. She grit her teeth to stop the blooming sobs from overwhelming her. 

“What can I do to make this right?"

You smiled, all resolve dropping. It was dangerous, this power she had over you. One look into her puppy eyes and you would do anything for her. She didn't need to cast any spells or incantations. She didn't need to weave her purple between her fingers. All she had to do was look at you and your defenses were down. You were hers to do with what she pleased.

"Just be here," you said. 

It still hurt, what she'd done, but it was in the past. You could move past it. She regretted it and she wanted to make up for it. It wouldn't change what happened or erase the pain of that moment, but it could be forgiven. It already was forgiven. 

"And don't do it again,” you said.

"I promise you," she said with the same intensity as when she cast the most demanding of spells, "I will never leave you again."

Then you were in her arms and she was holding you so tightly it hurt, but you didn't say a word. Instead, you allowed yourself to get lost in it, lost in her, so warm and safe against you.

The vibrations of her heart so close to yours soothed you. For a moment you hoped it would last forever. You no longer felt weak, drained, or cold. You were just you: a woman and a witch. You were embraced by the love of your life. Cherished. Cared for. Loved.

That was what you wanted from the start.

Agatha.

You did not want her power, as great as it was. You did not want some over the top apology or a grand gesture that was supposed to buy your forgiveness.

Just her.

She delivered perfectly.

Just like that, you knew that you would be okay. Your wounds would heal. Your magic would recharge. Your life force would replenish.

Agatha would make it so.

*****

Tags: @werewolfbarbie @miss-moon-guardian @hermslore @uniquelesbianidiot @natashamaximoff1 @alsoknownasmel @swan-queen-is-magic @tardisesandtitans @ahintofchaos @fruityhahn @midnight-lestrange @lift-heavy-be-gay @katieswain123

[onebadassunicorn]

The Spy Who Loved Me

pairing: Azriel x Reader

content warnings: angst, torture, fear of death

word count: 7.4K

Taglist: @motheroffae @rosecobollway @tele86 @anainkandpaper

If you would like to be added to the taglist, please leave me a comment!

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

********

Chapter 12

The tension in the throne room of the Night Court was palpable as Rhysand, Feyre, Cassian, and Azriel winnowed back from their mission to Summer Court. The weight of the impending invasion and the precarious alliances they were forging hung over them like a storm cloud. But for Azriel, the storm raged within. Every moment of the journey had been a torment, his thoughts consumed by you—where you were, if you were alive, if Beron had already begun his twisted methods of extracting the truth.

Rhysand moved toward his seat, his violet eyes sharp as he considered the next steps in their strategy. Feyre stood beside him, her hand resting lightly on his arm, her brow furrowed with concern. Cassian leaned against the back of a chair, his arms crossed over his chest as he watched Azriel pace near the window, shadows curling and writhing around his feet.

The silence was broken by a faint pulse of magic, a folded piece of parchment appearing on Rhysand’s desk. His gaze snapped to it immediately, and without hesitation, he crossed the room and picked it up. The wax seal was unmistakable: the flame emblem of the Autumn Court. Rhysand’s expression hardened as he broke the seal and unfolded the note.

“What is it?” Feyre asked, her voice soft but urgent, stepping closer to peer over his shoulder.

Rhysand’s eyes scanned the parchment quickly, his jaw tightening as he read. When he finished, he set the note down on the desk and exhaled sharply, his hands resting on the surface as if to steady himself.

“It’s from Eris,” he said finally, his voice low and measured.

Azriel’s pacing stopped instantly, his hazel eyes snapping to Rhysand. His shadows seemed to pulse with anticipation, waiting for the words that would follow.

“What does he say?” Cassian asked, his tone cautious.

Rhysand straightened, his gaze sweeping over the room, lingering on Azriel. “He confirms what we feared. She’s being held in the dungeons of the Autumn Court. Beron knows she’s a spy, but beyond that, he doesn’t have any specific information—yet. He plans to torture her to get the answers he wants.”

The words hit Azriel like a punch to the chest, his breath catching as he clenched his fists. The faint pulse of the bond in his chest felt weaker now, like a fragile thread slipping further from his grasp. His shadows flared around him, dark and restless, as if they could sense his anguish.

“What else does he say?” Azriel asked, his voice low and strained.

Rhysand’s gaze didn’t waver. “Eris claims he has a plan to release her but needs time to create a distraction. He doesn’t believe he can simply walk her out without drawing Beron’s attention. The situation is delicate, and he can’t risk exposing his own intentions before he’s ready to act.”

“And he expects us to wait?” Azriel snapped, his wings flaring slightly as his hazel eyes blazed with fury. “To trust that he’ll do what’s necessary while she’s being tortured in that godsdamned dungeon?”

Rhysand’s expression softened slightly, though his tone remained firm. “Eris isn’t doing this out of altruism, Azriel. He needs her alive to maintain his alliances—with Tarquin, with us. He knows if she dies, his position weakens. He won’t let that happen.”

Cassian frowned, his arms tightening across his chest. “Do you trust him?”

“No,” Rhysand admitted, his voice laced with steel. “But I believe him when he says he needs her alive. And for now, that’s enough.”

Azriel’s jaw clenched, his mind racing. The thought of you suffering under Beron’s cruelty was unbearable. He had seen the aftermath of Beron’s punishments before—broken bodies, shattered minds. And now you were in his clutches because of him. Because he had doubted you, thrown you into a dungeon when you had been telling the truth all along.

“What’s the plan, then?” Azriel asked, his voice cold and clipped.

Rhysand hesitated, his gaze flicking to Feyre, who was watching Azriel with quiet concern. “Eris wonders if you’ll agree to go after her,” he said carefully, his words deliberate. “He suggests coordinating with him to extract her once he’s created the distraction. But he knows it’s dangerous. Beron’s guards will be everywhere, and if the timing isn’t perfect…”

“She could die,” Azriel finished, his voice barely above a whisper.

The room fell into a heavy silence. Cassian shifted uncomfortably, his wings rustling as he glanced between Rhysand and Azriel. Feyre reached for Rhysand’s hand, squeezing it gently as she murmured, “He’s right. If anyone can get her out, it’s Azriel.”

Rhysand nodded slowly, his violet eyes locking onto Azriel’s. “This won’t be easy,” he said quietly. “And if we do this, there’s no guarantee she’ll walk away unscathed. But if you’re willing—”

“I’m going,” Azriel interrupted, his voice firm and resolute. “You don’t even need to ask.”

Rhysand studied him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. “Then prepare yourself,” he said finally. “I’ll send word to Eris that we’ll cooperate. But we’ll do this on our terms. If he falters, if there’s even a hint of betrayal…”

Azriel’s shadows swirled darker, his hazel eyes burning with cold determination. “I’ll kill him myself.”

********

Azriel sat in the darkness of his private chambers, his hands gripping the edge of his desk so tightly that his knuckles had turned white. The faint glow of moonlight streamed through the window, casting long shadows across the room, but it did little to soothe the storm raging inside him. His shadows curled and writhed at his feet, as restless and agitated as he was, reflecting the turmoil that churned through his mind.

Beron had you.

The words alone sent a cold wave of fear crashing through him.

Beron, cruel and sadistic, had you chained in his dungeon.

Azriel knew better than most what that meant—he had seen firsthand the atrocities Beron was capable of. The thought of you enduring even a fraction of that horror made his stomach twist and his heart pound so violently he thought it might break through his ribcage.

He closed his eyes, his head bowing as he tried to steady his breathing, but the images came unbidden. He imagined you, battered and broken, your wrists raw from shackles, your honey-colored eyes filled with pain and defiance. He pictured Beron standing over you, his sharp features twisted into a cruel smile as he demanded answers you couldn’t give. Azriel’s hands curled into fists, his nails digging into his palms so hard that blood welled at the tips, but the physical pain was nothing compared to the anguish ripping through his chest.

This is my fault.

The thought looped endlessly in his mind, a relentless mantra of guilt and regret. If he hadn’t doubted you, if he had trusted you when you tried to explain yourself, you wouldn’t be in this position. You’d still be safe—or as safe as one could be on a mission like yours. Instead, he had thrown you into a dungeon, questioned your every word, and treated you as though you were nothing more than a liar and a manipulator. And now, you were the one suffering for it.

Azriel exhaled shakily, his fingers loosening their grip on the desk as he ran a hand through his dark hair. He glanced at the faint pulse of his shadows on the floor, as if seeking some kind of answer in their restless dance.

The bond in his chest pulsed faintly, weak and fragile, but still there—a lifeline that reminded him you were alive.

For now.

But for how much longer?

The despair threatened to swallow him whole as the memories surfaced. He thought of the week you had spent together in Summer, the way your laugh had lit up the quiet mornings on the beach, the softness of your voice as you whispered his name in the moonlight. He thought of the way you had looked at him, with a vulnerability and longing that had made him feel more than he had in centuries.

And he thought of how he had thrown it all away—how he had shattered the fragile trust you had placed in him with cruel words and callous actions.

She probably hates me now, he thought bitterly.

And why wouldn’t you?

He had given you every reason to.

But even if you hated him, even if you wanted nothing to do with him after this, he couldn’t leave you to Beron’s mercy.

He wouldn’t.

He couldn’t let the bond between you be severed by Beron’s hands, couldn’t let the one person who had slipped past all his defenses suffer because of him.

Azriel rose abruptly, his wings flaring slightly as he began pacing the room. His shadows swirled around him, mirroring the chaos in his mind. Every part of him screamed to act now, to winnow to Autumn and tear apart Beron’s palace brick by brick until he found you.

But he knew better. If he went in alone and unprepared, he could jeopardize everything—not just your life but the entire mission.

And that was something he couldn’t risk.

Still, the waiting was unbearable.

The thought of you suffering while he sat in the comfort of the Night Court made him feel like he was suffocating. He couldn’t stop imagining the worst—what if Beron had already started his torture? What if he had gone too far? What if, by the time Azriel reached you, it would already be too late?

The bond throbbed faintly in his chest again, and Azriel placed a hand over it, as though he could reach through it to find you. H

e closed his eyes, his voice barely above a whisper as he murmured into the darkness, “Hold on. Please, just hold on.”

He didn’t know if you could hear him. Didn’t know if the bond worked that way. B

ut he hoped, with every fiber of his being, that some part of you felt it—that you knew he was coming for you, that he would move heaven and earth to bring you back.

He had tried to calm his racing mind, to focus on the plans Rhysand had laid out with Eris to rescue you. But no matter how hard he tried, every moment stretched unbearably long, the weight of your absence crushing him under its enormity.

And then it hit him.

A sharp, searing pain lanced through his chest, like molten steel stabbing directly into his heart. Azriel doubled over, a strangled gasp escaping his lips as the agony radiated out, spreading like fire through his veins. He gripped the edge of the desk in front of him, his scarred fingers digging into the wood hard enough to crack it, his breath coming in ragged, uneven gasps.

The bond.

The pain was coming from the bond.

From you.

“No,” he whispered hoarsely, his voice trembling as the realization struck him like a blow to the gut. “No, no, no…”

The pain flared again, sharper this time, as if a jagged blade were being dragged through his chest. Azriel clutched at his heart, his wings flaring behind him as his shadows churned wildly, reflecting the storm of emotions tearing through him.

He felt the distinct, unbearable sensation of a blade cutting into flesh—not his, but yours. He could feel the way it burned, the way it sliced through skin and muscle, leaving behind a trail of agony so vivid it made his vision blur.

He fell to his knees, his hands pressing against the floor as he tried to breathe through the pain.

But it was useless.

He felt you.

He felt every inch of what you were enduring, the bond forcing him to share in your suffering.

“Mother above,” he rasped, his voice breaking as his throat tightened. “What are they doing to you?”

His shadows surged around him, their movements erratic and chaotic, as if they, too, were reacting to the torment coursing through him. He clenched his jaw, his hazel eyes burning with unshed tears as he focused on the bond, on the faint, fragile connection that still tied him to you.

Through the bond, he could feel your fear.

Your pain.

Your despair.

The faint, flickering spark of hope you had once carried was now smothered beneath the weight of your suffering.

And that realization shattered something deep inside him.

Azriel closed his eyes, forcing himself to steady his breathing even as his body screamed with the phantom pain of your injuries. He focused on the bond, on the fragile thread that connected your souls, and he sent everything he could through it.

Comfort. Warmth. Strength.

He didn’t know if it would reach you, didn’t know if you were even aware of the bond in your current state. But he tried anyway, pouring his emotions into it, letting you feel the things he couldn’t say.

That he was here.

That he was coming for you.

That you weren’t alone.

He felt the pain spike again, white-hot and unbearable, and he realized with a sickening certainty what was happening.

They were carving into you.

Cutting your skin with knives.

The image flashed unbidden in his mind, of Beron’s men holding you down, their blades gleaming as they etched pain into your flesh.

“Stop,” he growled, his voice shaking with fury and desperation, though there was no one to hear him. “Please, stop…”

His hands curled into fists, his nails biting into his palms as he fought to push the anger and despair aside. He couldn’t afford to lose control now. He had to stay focused, had to be strong—for you.

Through the bond, he sent more emotions: hope, reassurance, determination. He let you feel his presence, his unwavering resolve, the depth of his love for you. He poured everything into the bond, desperate to give you even the smallest flicker of comfort in the darkness you were trapped in.

Hold on, he thought, his mind screaming the words even as his heart fractured under the weight of your pain. Hold on just a little longer. I’m coming for you.

The bond throbbed faintly, the pain radiating through it relentless and merciless. Azriel felt helpless in a way he never had before, the realization cutting deeper than any blade ever could.

He was the Shadowsinger, the master of stealth and secrets, the one who always found a way.

But now, as the woman he loved suffered unimaginable torment, he could do nothing but wait.

And it was killing him.

He forced himself to his feet, his legs trembling beneath him as he leaned heavily on the desk. His hazel eyes were dark with fury, his expression set with grim determination.

The physical pain, though phantom, was excruciating, but the emotional torment—the knowledge that you were enduring it alone—was so much worse.

He had never felt so powerless, never felt so utterly consumed by helplessness.

And then it changed.

A new sensation tore through the bond, sharp and precise, like hot needles digging into his fingertips. Azriel froze, his body stiffening as the burning sensation intensified. He stared down at his hands, the tips of his fingers tingling with searing, unbearable pain. It took a moment for him to realize what it was.

They were pulling out your fingernails.

The realization hit him like a thunderclap, his knees buckling as he collapsed to the floor. His wings sagged behind him, and he clutched his hands to his chest, as if he could somehow stop the pain—your pain. But there was no stopping it, no escaping it. He could feel each cruel, deliberate motion, each nail ripped away, leaving raw, exposed flesh behind.

“No,” he gasped, his voice cracking as tears blurred his vision. “No, no, no…”

His shadows swirled around him, frantic and erratic, their movements echoing the chaos inside him. He pressed his hands against the cold floor, his nails digging into the stone as he sobbed, the sound raw and guttural. He couldn’t bear it—couldn’t bear to feel what they were doing to you and not be able to stop it.

The bond pulsed weakly in his chest, a flicker of life that was quickly being consumed by your pain. He clung to it desperately, as if it were the only thing tethering him to reality. His tears dripped onto the stone floor as he whispered, “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry…”

In that moment, he realized the depth of his love for you. It wasn’t just the bond, though that tether had bound you to him in ways he hadn’t yet fully understood.

It was you.

Your fire, your strength, your vulnerability.

The way you had smiled at him when you thought no one else was watching, the way you had whispered his name like it was a prayer.

You had burrowed your way into his heart, and now that you were being ripped away from him, he could barely breathe.

“I’ll tell you,” he murmured, his voice hoarse and trembling. “When I see you again, I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you how much I love you. How much you mean to me. I’ll never let you doubt it again.”

But what if you didn’t make it?

What if he was too late?

The thought sent a fresh wave of panic crashing over him, and he clenched his fists, his body trembling with the force of his emotions.

He had to give you something.

He couldn’t let you think, even for a second, that you were alone in this.

Focusing on the bond, he pushed every ounce of love he felt for you through it.

He sent the warmth of his emotions, the depth of his feelings, the sheer force of his devotion.

He wanted you to feel it, to know it, to cling to it.

You are not alone, he thought, his heart aching with every beat. I’m here. I love you. I love you so much.

For a moment, he thought he felt the bond respond—a faint flicker of recognition, a whisper of relief. But then another wave of pain hit him, this one unlike anything he had felt before.

The back of his head exploded with a sharp, blinding agony, as though he had been struck with something heavy and solid. The pain was so sudden, so excruciating, that he cried out, his hands flying to his head as he staggered back against the wall. But just as quickly as it came, the pain dissipated, leaving behind an eerie, empty silence in its wake.

His breath hitched as the realization struck him.

They had hit you.

Hard enough to knock you unconscious.

The thought made his blood run cold, his entire body trembling as he slumped to the floor.

“Please,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “Please, hold on.”

The bond was faint now, so faint it felt as though it might snap at any moment. He clutched at it desperately, his shadows pooling around him like a protective cocoon.

He didn’t know if you could feel him anymore, didn’t know if you were still conscious, still alive.

But he refused to let go.

He refused to believe he was too late.

Tears streamed down his face as he whispered into the darkness, his voice trembling with anguish and desperation. “I’m coming for you. I swear it. Just hold on. Please, just hold on…”

He would get to you.

He would tear through Beron’s palace, through every guard and wall and locked door, if that’s what it took to free you.

But for now, all he could do was hold onto the bond and send everything he had to you, hoping it would be enough to keep you alive.

********

The cold, damp dungeon reeked of blood, sweat, and despair. The rough stone floor scraped against your knees as you sagged forward, barely able to hold yourself upright. Your wrists, raw and bleeding from the heavy shackles, hung limply in front of you, the metal biting into your skin. Your body was a patchwork of agony—deep cuts carved with cruel precision, bruises that throbbed with every beat of your heart, and now, the excruciating pain in your hands.

Beron's men had been at it for hours.

Maybe days.

You had lost all sense of time in the unrelenting torment.

The leader of the group, a burly male with a cruel smile, rancid breath and a voice as sharp as the blade he wielded, leaned in close, his breath hot against your ear.

“Who sent you?” he hissed, his knife hovering above your skin, its edge glinting in the faint torchlight. “Tell us, and this can all stop.”

You didn’t answer.

You couldn’t.

Every fiber of your being screamed to fight, to resist, to hold onto the sliver of yourself that still remained intact. Years of training as a spy had taught you how to endure, how to push the pain down into a dark, locked place within yourself. But even that training hadn’t prepared you for this.

The knife pressed against your arm, its sharp edge biting into your skin as the male carved another deep, deliberate line. Blood dripped down your arm, pooling on the floor beneath you as he worked. You clenched your teeth, biting back a scream, your breath coming in short, shallow gasps.

“Who are you working for?” the male demanded again, his voice colder now, his patience waning.

You closed your eyes, retreating into the farthest corners of your mind, where the pain couldn’t reach you. You thought of the ocean, the sound of waves crashing against the shore. You thought of the warmth of the sun on your face, the salty breeze tangling in your hair.

And you thought of him.

Azriel.

The way his voice had wrapped around you like a protective cloak, the way his touch had felt like a lifeline in the dark.

But even those thoughts were fleeting. The pain always dragged you back, pulling you into the suffocating reality of the dungeon.

The male sighed, shaking his head as if disappointed. “Still nothing,” he muttered. He gestured to another guard, who stepped forward with a pair of rusted pliers. “Let’s see if we can loosen her tongue.”

Your breath caught as the guard grabbed your hand, his grip vice-like. The pliers clamped down on your nail, the jagged edges biting into the tender skin beneath. You braced yourself, forcing your mind to retreat once more, but the sharp, searing pain as they ripped the nail from your finger was impossible to ignore.

A strangled cry escaped your lips, and you clenched your jaw tightly, tasting blood as you bit into your cheek to keep from screaming. Tears streaked down your face, hot and uncontrollable, but you refused to break. You wouldn’t give them the satisfaction.

One by one, they moved to each finger, the pliers ripping away your nails with brutal efficiency. Each time, your body jerked involuntarily, your nerves screaming in agony. The room spun around you, your vision blurring as you teetered on the edge of consciousness. But still, you stayed silent.

The male crouched in front of you, his cruel smile widening as he watched the tears streaming down your face. “You’re tougher than you look,” he said mockingly. “But everyone breaks eventually.”

You didn’t respond.

You couldn’t.

Your throat was raw from holding back screams, your body trembling violently from the pain and blood loss.

You felt as though you were splintering apart, pieces of yourself falling away with each moment.

And yet, you clung to what remained, retreating further into your mind as the torture continued.

By the time they reached the last of your fingernails, you were barely holding on. The pain was unbearable, a constant, relentless wave crashing over you, dragging you under. You thought of Azriel one last time, his name slipping silently from your lips, a prayer to the void.

And then it came—a pull through the bond, strong and unmistakable. For a moment, the agony receded, replaced by something warm and powerful.

Love.

Fierce and all-consuming, it flooded your senses, wrapping around you like a protective cocoon.

You are not alone. The words echoed through the bond, soft and desperate. I’m here. I love you. I love you so much.

Tears spilled from your eyes, but this time, they weren’t from pain.

Azriel’s love surged through the bond, a lifeline in the darkness, giving you something to hold onto when everything else had been stripped away.

For the first time in what felt like forever, you felt hope.

But then the pull was severed by a new pain, sharp and blinding. Something heavy struck the back of your head, the force of the blow sending you forward, your vision exploding into a haze of white.

For a split second, the pain was all-consuming, and then it was gone, replaced by an eerie, all-encompassing darkness.

Chapter 13

[futureauthor24]

Since I did a rewritten version of how I view Hell, ima do a version for Heaven to.

So in the canon version, we don’t have that much information on how Heaven works, it’s very vague actually, and it’s even more vague when we go to the topic of God.

WARNING SEASON 2 LEAKS MENTIONED!!!!

From the season 2 leaks of Hazbin Hotel, there is a speaker of god, who I’m guessing, works for God personally. Maybe a assistant of sorts??? It’s obvious that Viv doesn’t want to approach the subject of God because there’s mentions of ‘em here and there but they’re just not a major character or a character at all actually. Maybe because Viv doesn’t know what to do with their character or she just doesn’t want to introduce them just yet.

So, I’m just going to say that God isn’t a character in canon Hazbin Hotel. Anyway, here’s how I perceive Heaven.

God is an all-knowing entity, they see all, know all, and hear all. The future, past, and present. The god of all creation. They created earth, animals, and humanity in the image of themselves. It was perfection, at least, that’s how God sees their creations. Even after humanity became damned, their souls forever tainted, God still saw them as perfect because they love, care, and adore their creation. God is half of the universe, Roo is the other. Together, they are simply forces of nature.

(This is not going to be accurate to biblical lore)

Of course, God needed other creations with them in Heaven to spread their message and work. So they take pieces of themselves and clone it Micheal, Gabriel, Seraphim and so much more. This weakens God’s power, since they are quite literally taking themself apart and making another being.

God knew Lucifer would rebel, they’re all-knowing, they know everything. Such is fate, which is why God creates Jesus to save humanity. They knew how that story ends as well… And they deeply regret it.

Jesus, after he dies, doesn’t go to Heaven or Hell instead his soul rests. He has done the duty that was given to him by God, so he rests for an eternity. There’s no telling when his soul will awaken again from his sleep. But… Maybe he never will.

After that, God decides to leave Heaven in their children’s hands. They needed time to themselves; a vacation. God disappears without another word—nobody sees them again after that, nobody but Charlie anyway.

Charlie. Charlie had been created personally by Roo. By fate, Charlie is the Antichrist; destroyer of all creation. It is her destiny. When Roo created Charlie she cruelly left one thing; the thing that every creation (except god and roo) has. A soul.

Without a soul, a creation cannot feel. They can’t love, hate, or feel passion. It’s unnatural. And that is what Charlie was without. A soul. When she was born, Charlie didn’t cry nor show any emotion. Unusual for a baby. Roo had doomed Charlie to a life of coldness and hatred. And God—God couldn’t let that happen.

God gave Charlie a piece of themselves, when everyone was sleep, and that piece of God worked as a soul for Charlie. Suddenly, Charlie was full of life, passion, and dreams. God changed her fate, even if they weren’t supposed to do so. Charlie will always remain to be the Antichrist, but it was unsure if she would destroy all of creation, or create something anew. Her path is unseeable. And God wouldn’t have it any other way.

However, because of that, they had weaken themself fully. Now, they can’t stretch themselves too thin or else, their body may wither away too thin. Sure, they’re powerful than anyone in Hell or Heaven, but if they were to go up against Roo—it was a high chance they would lose.

(Ok. This is part one of how I view Heaven).

[thinking1bee]

You Haven't Failed Part 14

Requested by Anonymous

Pairings: Wanda Maximoff x Reader

Tags: Spidey!Reader, Venom!Reader, So Much Angst, Fluff, Established Relationship, Graphic Depictions of Injuries, Blood, Violence, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Smut

Everything Taglist: @ara-a-bird, @alexawynters

“Baby, it wasn’t your fault.”

You were already shaking your head and looking away from her before Wanda could finish the words. The memories fizzled from view and in its place was the vibrant green of her eyes. No. It was your fault. Everything that happened then and everything happening now was all your fault. While you didn’t speak, Wanda could see in your dimming eyes that you didn’t believe her. She cupped your cheeks and gently maneuvered your face so that her eyes could meet yours.

“Y/n, you haven’t failed me. You haven’t failed anyone,” she said with such conviction that you couldn’t help the whimper that left your lips.

“Wands,” you began, your voice breaking as you shivered. “I was supposed to protect you. You were supposed to be okay. Instead, you were gone for five years.” The tears flowed faster as you peered deep into softened emerald. “You died. I did fail.”

The tremors in your body were getting stronger and Wanda watched as blood began to drip from your nose. It was now or never. You were out of time.

“Y/n, please, baby, please listen to me,” she begged. “I need you to take off the suit. I can’t lose you. Okay? I just got you back and I don’t want to lose you. Don’t force me to live without you.”

Hearing her plead for you to stay alive disturbed you, and that was because she shouldn’t be in a position where she has to beg you for anything. You wanted to make Wanda happy. She was your happily ever after, and just as you couldn’t live without her, she couldn’t live without you. You didn’t even try to live without Wanda, and she saw so herself. The moment she was gone, you fell apart. You remembered the pain that you were in, the way it felt like glass filled your lungs every time you breathed and how it felt like acid filled your chest where your heart should have been. You weren’t going to put her in the same position. She’d already lost so much. Her parents. Her brother. Her best friend. She couldn’t lose you too. The moment you realized that, you looked into Wanda’s eyes and nodded, your hands, though still covered in Venom, overlapped her hands that still cupped your cheeks.

“Okay,” you whispered resolutely as you nodded.

“Okay,” Wanda repeated, a slight smile overtaking her lips.

She took a step back as you grabbed at the unraveled tendrils. You wrapped them around your hands to ensure you had a good grip, to ensure Venom couldn’t try to escape you. Then, you met Wanda’s eyes. She could see just how weakened you were by this. She could see it in your eye. It was duller, the color almost muted to a black. No matter what happened, she was going to help you. You knew that this was going to hurt so much, and as you took several deep breaths, Wanda nodded to you in encouragement.

“I’m right here, baby.”

Yes. She was right here. Wanda was with you. She was fighting for you, and you were going to fight for her in return. You inhaled one more time before you started to pull with all your dwindling strength. The moment you did, the world around you pulsed violently, and darkness flooded your vision. A high-pitched ringing noise filled your ears, and as you slowly came to, the world now way too bright, you cried out. It was like jagged glass slicing through your skin. It was like needles through your veins. The agony was more intense than you ever could have imagined. Everything burned. Everything stung, and your cries turned into screams as you fought to tear Venom off you. Wanda wrapped her magic around the pieces that were snapping off of you, because that’s what was happening. Venom was clinging on to you desperately, its screeches blending with your screams of agony. Little by little, you peeled the symbiote off you, the alien clutching on to you so fiercely that you were literally snapping thin strings of its flesh from your body. When your face and the tops of your shoulders were bare, you swayed, a whimper leaving you as you buckled. Wanda tried to catch you, but Venom was quick. It tried to wrap itself around you again to take you back over. Wanda stopped it with a small barrier around your exposed body. It beat against her magic, but Venom was growing weaker the more you removed it from your body. You would have face planted onto the street if it wasn’t for Thor. He was in front of you so suddenly, his eyes so blue that it was dazzling to you in your current state. His hands held your shoulders before his searing hot hand cupped your cheek.

“Keep going Y/n! Keep going!”

You nodded as gasping breaths left you, but you took hold of the symbiote and pulled again. Black flesh tore down the middle, and it exposed your naked chest underneath. Wanda wasn’t even going to begin to wonder about your missing clothes. You screamed and screamed, your throat raw as sobs began to mix in with your cries. Thor assisted Wanda, and with his Stormbreaker, began to strike Venom with lightning. From behind, Tony pulled more flesh off your back, and Bruce ensured that Venom wouldn’t get away if it tried to make a run for it. For Wanda, it was torture watching as your cries turned hysterical. Your muscles strained beneath your skin, your entire body taut with strength and pain. Venom was screeching and squealing, its tendrils and sheets of torn flesh writhing hellishly as Wanda, Tony, and Bruce fought to get it off you. With a sickeningly graphic tearing noise, one that made Wanda lurch, Venom was torn away from you. It tried to wrap itself around Tony, but he closed his helmet and began to shoot at it with his repulsors. When it failed, it tried to wrap around Bruce, but Wanda was faster. With a snap of her arms, she encased the alien in an impenetrable barrier of red magic, and watched as it screamed and scratched at the sides. She didn’t spare it a second glance. Her eyes glowed even brighter, her power increasing tenfold as she shot the full force of her magic, her chaos magic, into the alien. It screeched and writhed until it died. Everyone watched as it disintegrated, and when Wanda released the barrier, ash floated away like it was dust in the wind. What was left of Venom disappeared into the night.

Soft, choking gasps grabbed everyone’s attention, and Wanda looked down to see you on your back. Your skin was so pale and beneath it, she could see the full network of black veins. They were like dark, ominous spider webs that covered every inch of you, like dark cracks in your skin. Your chest rose and fell rapidly, your breaths wheezy and pained as more blood trickled from your nose. Wanda was on her knees beside you in an instant, and upon closer look, she could see your tears streaming down the sides of your face.

“Y/n? Hey, Y/n. I’m here. It’s okay,” Wanda murmured in a soothing voice.

She tucked her red hair behind her ears as she leaned over you, and her hand took yours. She laced her fingers through yours and kissed the back of your hand fiercely. You were shaking. Hard. You could hear her, but you couldn’t feel her. You couldn’t feel her warmth, or the fan of her breath against your cheeks. Wanda’s hand cupped your cheek but to you, all you felt was pressure against your body.

“детка? Can you open your eyes?”

It took so much energy, and even with you trying your best, all you could do was crack them open. Despite the pain that wracked through your body, you gave her a crooked smile.

“God, your accent is so fucking hot,” you whispered, and Wanda laughed as her tears spilled over and dripped onto your body.

“You did it,” she said to you, her fingers resting against the side of your neck. “You won.”

A single breath of air was all you could manage for a laugh. You may have done it, but you didn’t win.

“You have to get up. We have to get you to the compound.”

You looked into her eyes and your vision blurred with fresh tears. Wanda held you close to her, her body shaking with adrenaline and fear. She rested your body on her lap and wiped your tears when they fell faster. You had to choke out your next words.

“I can’t.”

You couldn’t feel your body. You couldn’t even feel the pain anymore. Everything felt so heavy, and you tried to fight against the urge to close your eyes, but you were losing. 

“Don’t say that, Y/n. Please don’t say that.”

Her voice was breaking, and you could tell that she was trying to remain calm. She was trying to hold herself together for you. You hated this. You hated that you were going to put her through the same pain you felt when she died. You wanted nothing more than to be by her side, and to love her along the way, no matter what obstacles life would put you through.

“I love you,” you whimpered, and a sob escaped her.

Her chest heaved as she cupped your cheek with her other hand. Was this what you felt all those years ago? This sense of helplessness that made her want to tear her own hair out? Was it the dread of watching someone die knowing that she couldn’t stop it? She had all these powers. Wanda had all of these amazing abilities. She was the damn Scarlet Witch, and yet she didn’t have the power to save you. This wasn’t like when her parents died, or when her brother died. This wasn’t even like when Vision died. There had been a despairing kind of bitter acceptance that she felt with all of them, though her brother’s death had been the most painful. With you, Wanda felt hysteria claw at the edges of her logical mind, her desperation tearing through her body and wrapping around her heart, and she began shaking her head as she watched your eyes slip shut.

“Y/n? детка? Please…”

Even as she begged, she could feel your heart rate slowing down beneath the fingertips that pressed against your neck. Your heart was tired, and it was trying to keep you alive, but the muscle was sluggish in its own beats. You took a weak breath, and then another raspy one, before you spoke again.

“I-I’m sorry…Wands.”

She felt your hand go slack in her hold. Wanda squeezed her eyes closed, her heart fracturing as painful sobs wracked her body. She leaned over you, her forehead resting against yours as she continued to hold your hand.

“Don’t leave me, детка,” she pled. “Please don’t leave me. Please stay. I love you too.”

You didn’t respond, and for the first time in a long while, Wanda let her grief swallow her whole. She screamed into the night as she sat up, her eyes at the starry sky, but unable to see anything through the tears. She felt the pressure grow in her body, and even as her throat ached, she screamed and screamed and screamed, until a shockwave of red exploded from her body. It engulfed Bruce, Tony, and Thor, who had watched you sadly, but the sheer force of her grief was like a bomb detonating. They were all sent flying backwards as Wanda clutched on to your body, her screams haunting the night and filling it with her sorrow.

Part 15

[wrathbites]

A thought I hope to tease out into a fic this weekend, provided the writing muse cooperates.

Lucanis discovering Spite can pull objects from the Fade while they're still trapped in the Ossuary

It starts small - nondescript objects suspended above him while he sleeps and dropped on him to rouse him again. Spite thinks he shouldn't be sleeping, he should be attempting escape.

Spite testing the limits of what it can manage on the other side of the Fade. There's so much effort involved in pulling a single object through, absolute concentration, so easily broken with the horrors happening around it.

It can't reliably wield anything it succeeds in pulling through - not when it has to focus on puppeting Lucanis' body at the same time.

And then an idea - keep the demon's presence hidden for as long as possible, until the right moment presents itself.

The next time Zara's in striking distance (so sure of herself, too cocky), they succeed in breaking her hold on them.

In the chaos that follows Lucanis manages to kill three guards and wound a fourth with the scissors Spite drops into his hand.

There's a steep price to pay to restrain a demon of Spite intent on breaking free, and the slave Zara's been bleeding to keep Lucanis (exhausted, worn, weakened after so long in her clutches) in check - dies.

She burns through the injured guard as well, to contain demon and host before they can land a killing blow (and they are so very, very close to it)

The wards on their cell are strengthened, security doubled, and from that night onward there are two bodyguards shadowing Zara's every step

Lucanis and Spite don't get that kind of shot again, but there's a faint silver lining to be had all the same. Spite's ability to pull cutting tools from the Fade allows Lucanis the chance to neaten his appearance a little. He's scruffy, rather than looking like someone dragged him kicking and screaming through a hedge backwards.

It's such a small thing, but it's an aspect of control they've managed to claw back from Zara. It's a visual "fuck you, we will live". It's hope.

[storyscribeforthesentiment]

the detective & the dark knight | chapter 13

Summary: Detective Marie Manning, investigating a series of brutal murders in Gotham, crosses paths with the mysterious Batman. As they work together, their mutual respect turns into a deep, passionate bond. Amidst danger and corruption, their unlikely partnership evolves into a profound love, forever changing their lives in Gotham’s dark corners.

Pairing: Batman/Bruce Wayne x f!main character

Author’s note: And just like that, Bruce and Marie's story comes to a (good) end. 💙 I can’t thank you enough for taking the time to read it. When the idea first popped into my head, I never imagined I’d actually write it—let alone turn it into a 70,000+ word journey. Your support for Bruce and Marie has meant the world to me, and I’m so grateful you stuck around for the ride. Thank you for everything.

Word count: 10k

Chapter List

Marie felt the gunshot before she even heard it. The sharp, searing pain ripped through her shoulder, a sensation so intense it she thought she died in that moment.

The gunshot exploded through the air, a deafening crack that seemed to shake the very ground beneath them. It's echo ricocheted off the shipping containers, amplifying the sharp, violent sound until it drowned out every other noise around them.

She crumpled to the ground, her hand instinctively going to the wound, but it was already too late—the blood seeped from her shoulder, staining her clothes. Her face twisted in agony as she laid in her blood.

For Bruce, time itself seemed to freeze as his mind struggled to process the sight of Marie on the ground, blood pooling beneath her.

The world around him went silent, hearing only the pounding of his own heart. The gunshot echoed in his ears, but it didn’t matter—nothing mattered except for the man who had hurt her.

Everything inside Bruce snapped. His vision blurred, the red haze of rage overwhelming everything else. All he saw now was Maroni, the one responsible. All that mattered was making him pay.

With a roar, Batman surged forward. His movements were savage, ferocious—there was no technique, no calculation. It was all instinct, all rage.

He could still feel the memory of the knife sinking into his side from the docks months ago, Maroni’s men working to take him down as the blood poured from him. It had been Maroni who had ordered that hit. The man who had nearly taken him out then, and now, the same man was the one who’d just put a bullet in Marie.

The thought of her—hurt, vulnerable, possibly even dead—fueled him further. He didn’t think. He didn’t process. He just reacted.

He reached Maroni in a matter of seconds, grabbing the mob boss by the collar and slamming him into the nearby shipping container. Maroni gasped, blood dripping from the corner of his mouth. He struck again and again, his fists landing like sledgehammers.

"Fuck… you," Batman growled through gritted teeth, each punch a release of every ounce of pain, every moment of fear, every shred of anger he had built up over the years.

Maroni’s eyes widened in terror as Batman continued his brutal assault, the mob boss’s body sagging under the unrelenting blows. Every hit was a small act of vengeance for Gotham, for the people Maroni had wronged, for Marie.

With each brutal punch, Maroni's body seemed to weaken, his gasps for breath growing more desperate. Blood poured from his nose, his lip split wide, and his movements slowed. 

Each hit felt like it took more life from him, the mob boss growing more limp, more fragile, with every blow. The man who had orchestrated his near death months ago, who had nearly destroyed everything he had built in Gotham, was crumbling beneath his fists.

Batman could feel the mobster’s life slipping away with every strike, and yet, a part of him reveled in it. This wasn’t justice— it was revenge, and it felt good. The weight of it all crashed down on him, a dark satisfaction mingling with the simmering rage.

For a brief moment, he considered it—ending Maroni’s life right here, right now. No more trials, no more waiting for the justice system to do what it never could.

The reality of what he was becoming flickered at the edge of his mind. Was this the man he wanted to be? The man Marie could love?

The burning need for vengeance clashed with the man he had been trying so hard to hold onto. But the rage didn’t dissipate. It only grew stronger.

But then, a voice—loud and forceful—cut through the haze of rage.

"Batman, stop!"

Gordon emerged from the shadows, his gun raised but trembling slightly, his face pale as he took in the scene. His voice came in short bursts, sharp and strained.

“Batman… we can’t—” He swallowed, his eyes flicking to Marie’s crumpled form on the ground, lying in her own blood. “We can’t do this. Not like this.”

He stepped closer, his hand tightening on his weapon. “Let the justice system handle him.” His breath hitched before he continued, “Let him… pay for his crimes. The right way. With due process.”

Batman froze, his fist paused midair, ready for another blow to Maroni’s face, but the heat of his anger began to cool.

His pulse hammered in his ears, his body trembling with the need to finish this. But Gordon’s words pierced through, forcing him to release Maroni, his breath ragged, his muscles still taut with the fight.

Maroni gasped for air, his chest heaving, blood pouring from his wounds. Batman stood over him, fury still burning in his chest, but a part of him knew Gordon was right.

“She’s alive,” Gordon called out to Batman.

He turned, seeing Gordon kneeling beside Marie. Her body was limp, slumped awkwardly against the cold gravel. Blood seeped through her jacket, pooling beneath her and soaking the dirt around her. Her face was pale, almost ghostly, and her eyes were closed, the faint rise and fall of her chest the only sign of life.

Gordon’s face was grim, his jaw tight as he pressed his hands firmly against her wound, trying to stop the relentless flow of blood.

“She’s losing blood fast,” Gordon said urgently. “We need to get her to a hospital. I’ll call for backup and EMS—”

Before Gordon could finish, Batman strode to Marie’s side without a word. He knelt, his movements suddenly precise and careful, and scooped her into his arms.

“Batman—what are you—” Gordon started, but the Dark Knight was already moving.

The Batmobile roared to life in the shadows as Batman carried Marie toward it. The car’s canopy slid open with a hiss, and he placed her gently in the passenger seat, buckling her in with hands that only now showed a hint of tremor.

As the vehicle sped off into the night, Batman activated the comm system.

“Alfred,” he barked, his voice sharp with barely restrained panic.

“Yes, Master Wayne?” came Alfred’s calm, measured response.

“Prepare the medical room. Marie’s been shot. She’s losing blood—she’ll need surgery.”

There was a brief pause before Alfred replied, his voice steady but tinged with concern. “Understood, sir. Everything will be ready when you arrive.”

The Batmobile tore through the city, its engine growling as Batman pushed it to its limits. He glanced at Marie, slumped in the seat beside him, her face pale and her breaths shallow. A rare, gnawing sense of helplessness clawed at him.

“Stay with me,” he muttered, his voice barely audible over the roar of the car.

Within minutes, the Batmobile roared into the Batcave, its engine’s echo swallowed by the cavernous space. Bruce had already torn off his cowl, his face pale and etched with desperation.

He brought the vehicle to a skidding halt, wasting no time as he climbed out, cradling Marie in his arms. Her head lolled against his chest, her face devoid of color, her breathing shallow. Blood still seeped through her jacket, staining his suit.

He moved with purpose but an undercurrent of panic, his every step echoing in the vast chamber. The soft hum of computers and distant drip of water were the only sounds as he hurried toward the nearby medical room tucked into the corner of the cave.

“Alfred!” he called, his voice echoing in the vast, stone-lined corridor.

Alfred was already waiting in the med room, clad in surgical scrubs. The sterile, brightly lit room was a stark contrast to the manor’s dim elegance.

“Place her here,” Alfred instructed, gesturing to the operating table.

Batman laid Marie down as gently as he could, stepping back only when Alfred shooed him away. “I’ll take it from here, Master Wayne,” Alfred said, his tone firm but reassuring.

Bruce stood nearby, his fists clenched at his sides. He hated this—watching, waiting, unable to do anything. The sight of her blood-streaked arm and her labored breathing haunted him.

“She’s strong,” Alfred said without looking up, his hands steady as he worked. “I’ve operated on you on this table with far worse wounds than this.”

Bruce didn’t respond, but he stopped pacing, his jaw tightening as he forced himself to stay still.

Hours passed in a blur. Alfred worked tirelessly, his focus unwavering as he carefully monitored Marie's condition.

Bruce stood by her side, unable to tear himself away. His fingers brushed gently across her sweaty forehead, his heart aching with every shallow breath she took. He kissed the back of her hand, his lips lingering for a moment as if to reassure himself she was still there, still fighting.

Finally, Alfred stepped back, peeling off his gloves with a relieved sigh. "She’s going to be alright, Master Wayne," he said quietly, his voice a soft reassurance in the stillness of the room. “The bullet didn’t hit anything vital. She’ll need rest, but she’s out of danger.”

Alfred stepped beside him and, without a word, rested his hand on Bruce’s shoulder—a simple gesture, but one that spoke volumes. It was his way of grounding him, of reminding him that he wasn't alone in this.

Bruce exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “Thank you, Alfred.” he said, his voice thick with gratitude.

Alfred excused himself as Bruce settled into a chair beside the bed where Marie lay, her arm bandaged and her breathing steady. He stayed there, unmoving, through the night. The harsh edges of the Batman softened, replaced by the quiet determination of Bruce Wayne.

As the hours crept by, Bruce’s mind returned to the night at the docks months ago—the night his carefully constructed double life unraveled. He could still feel the searing pain of the blade that had sliced into his side, and he remembered collapsing under its weight. But the physical wound wasn’t what haunted him most—it was the moment Marie discovered the truth.

She had found him there, unmasked and vulnerable, surrounded by the chaos of a world he had tried to shield her from.

Yes, she didn’t leave him. She had knelt by his side, pressing her own jacket against the deep gash to stop the bleeding, her presence steady amidst the chaos.

Despite the betrayal, despite everything, Marie had stayed with him at the docks. She had looked past the deception, past the shadowy legend of Gotham’s vigilante, and seen him—the man who had failed her, yet still needed her.

It had been years since anyone had stayed. Most people in his life were fleeting, held at a distance by necessity or his own fear. But Marie hadn’t flinched. Her loyalty and unshakable strength had struck something deep within him, something he thought he’d buried long ago.

Now it was his turn to stay. To be there when she woke up. To prove that she wasn’t alone—not tonight, not ever. As he sat beside her, watching her breathe, her face serene even in rest, Bruce felt the depth of his love for her settle over him like a quiet revelation. For the first time in as long as he could remember, he didn’t feel alone.

As the first light of dawn crept through the edges of the heavy drapes, Bruce’s eyes remained fixed on her face, silently vowing that he wouldn’t let her down. Not again.

As Marie slept, her steady, rhythmic breathing the only sound in the quiet room, Bruce slipped away from her bedside. The weight of the night still clung to him, but there was something about the calm, peacefulness of her rest that allowed him to exhale, if only for a moment.

He moved swiftly through the Batcave, his footsteps echoing against the cold stone walls, until he found a small alcove where he could get some space. With a flick of his wrist, the secure comms activated in his suit, the digital hum briefly filling the silence before Gordon’s voice cut through.

“Bruce Wayne? I assume you’re calling to let me know Marie’s okay.”

Bruce leaned against the wall, eyes closed briefly. “She’s stable. Asleep, for now. I wanted to check in with you. Maroni?”

Gordon’s voice shifted, the weight of the night heavy in his words. “He’s in custody. Had a bit of a struggle, but we’ve got him locked down tight. Extra security’s on him—he’s not going anywhere.”

Bruce’s jaw tightened, his fingers flexing around the comm unit. “Good. That’s good.”

There was a slight hesitation from Gordon. Bruce could feel it in the air between them, like an invisible thread of suspicion weaving through the conversation. Finally, Gordon spoke again, his tone slow, deliberate.

“And, uh… Batman? He’s the one who brought Marie to you?”

Bruce froze, the words hanging in the air for a beat too long. He hadn’t expected the question to come up—at least, not in that way. But Gordon’s voice had a note of something Bruce couldn’t quite place: doubt, curiosity, or maybe both. He sighed, rubbing his forehead, fighting the rising urge to let his mask slip.

“Batman brought her to me.” Bruce replied, his voice even, controlled. “He got her here, we worked on her. She’s in good hands.”

Another pause. This one felt heavier, like Gordon was processing something just beneath the surface. Bruce could almost hear the gears turning in the detective’s mind, the questions beginning to form.

“Right,” Gordon replied, but his voice was quieter now, like the unspoken was weighing him down. “I’ll make sure Maroni’s handled. You focus on Marie.”

Bruce’s throat tightened, but he pushed the feeling aside. “Thanks, Gordon. I’ll, uh… pass the message along to Batman.”

There was a beat of silence on the other end of the line before Gordon spoke again. “Sure, Wayne. And, uh… let your ‘bat friend’ know we’re grateful for his help.” His words lingered a little too long, like Gordon was probing, but not pushing.

Bruce’s lips curled into a faint, almost imperceptible smirk. He leaned his shoulder against the wall, relaxing just a fraction. “I will.”

The line clicked off, leaving Bruce alone with his thoughts. As the comms cut out, the weight of the conversation settled on him.

Gordon didn’t know, not for sure. But Bruce was certain—deep down, the detective suspected. He’d been close for a while now, maybe even pieced it together in the back of his mind. The way he’d asked about Batman’s involvement with Marie, the way he phrased things… it wasn’t a direct accusation, but it was clear that Gordon had connected the dots.

The call ended, and Bruce stood there for a moment, his gaze distant. He returned to Marie’s side, his mind still on the chaos they’d just survived.

Bruce sat at Marie’s bedside, the faintest hint of a smile pulling at his lips as he watched her stir. The light in the room cast soft shadows on her face, making her look even more fragile than usual, yet there was something about the way she looked at him that made his heart swell.

“Hey there,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper, the words escaping as a sigh of relief. He had been on edge all night, watching over her, waiting for her to wake, and now that she was, he couldn’t help but drink in the sight of her—alive, safe, despite everything.

Marie blinked slowly, her lashes fluttering as she adjusted to the light. Her voice was soft, hoarse, but her smile was a quiet reassurance. “You look like hell,” she muttered, her tone teasing despite the dull pain she could feel radiating from her arm.

Bruce chuckled softly, his laugh shaking with the relief he felt in that moment. He reached out instinctively, his hand brushing a lock of her hair back from her face. The motion was gentle, tender—an action born from love and protectiveness. “You scared me,” he admitted, his voice raw with emotion. “Marie, you were... I thought I’d lost you.”

Marie’s gaze softened, her heart fluttering at the raw vulnerability in his voice. He had always been guarded, but now, with the weight of everything they’d been through pressing down on him, she saw a side of him she’d never seen before. His worry, his concern—it was all there, just beneath the surface, fighting to be released.

“Hey,” she said gently, her voice stronger than before, though her own exhaustion weighed heavily on her. She reached out, her hand finding his and giving it a light squeeze. “I’m here. It’s gonna be okay.”

Bruce leaned closer, his face inches from hers. His brow furrowed in concern as he asked, almost in a whisper, “How are you feeling? Does your arm hurt? Is there anything you need?”

Marie looked down at the bandages around her arm, her expression thoughtful. The pain was there, no doubt about it, but it wasn’t the physical ache that weighed on her. It was the exhaustion—the overwhelming fatigue that made her feel like she’d been through a war. “It aches,” she said quietly, trying to push aside the pain with a half-smile. “But I’ve had worse.” Her eyes met his again, softer now. “It’s not just my arm... I feel like my whole body’s been through a blender.”

Bruce’s gaze softened, and his hand moved from her hair, gently cupping her cheek. His touch was reverent, like he was afraid she might disappear if he wasn’t careful. “You’ve been through hell,” he murmured, his voice heavy with guilt. “This shouldn’t have happened to you.”

Marie’s thumb brushed over his hand, and she smiled despite the ache in her chest. “Hey,” she said, her voice strong but comforting. “I knew the risks. We both did. I’ll heal.”

Bruce shook his head, his lips tight with frustration. “You shouldn’t have to heal from something like this,” he said quietly. “I should’ve... I should’ve done more.” His words were filled with regret—he couldn’t shake the feeling that he could have done something, anything, to prevent this from happening to her.

Marie’s hand reached up, her fingers brushing the stubble along his jaw. She tilted her head slightly, offering him a small smile, one that was full of warmth and affection. “You did plenty, Bruce,” she said softly. “Trust me, I saw you go full Bat-mode back there.” Her tone lightened as she teased him, but then it softened again, growing serious. “But what about you? Are you okay?”

Bruce paused, the question catching him off guard. He hadn’t thought about himself—not truly—until now. His eyes darkened as he thought about the moment he’d seen her fall, the overwhelming surge of rage that had nearly consumed him.

He leaned forward, his forehead almost touching hers, his breath shaky as he spoke. “I almost killed Maroni,” he confessed, his voice cracking. “I wanted to—God, I wanted to so fuckin’ badly.” His eyes locked onto hers, a deep, aching guilt swimming in his gaze. “I saw you go down, and I... I lost it. I didn’t care about anything else. I was going to kill him.��

Marie’s hand moved to his cheek, her thumb gently brushing over his skin, a soft comfort. She locked her gaze with his, the sincerity of her words unwavering. “But you didn’t,” she whispered, her voice filled with both reassurance and a quiet pride. “You stopped yourself. That’s what matters.”

Bruce inhaled sharply, his entire body shuddering as her words sunk in. The flood of emotions he’d held back finally broke through, and before he could stop himself, tears welled up in his eyes.

He pressed his lips against her hair, closing his eyes as he gave in to the overwhelming sense of relief and sorrow. “I couldn’t lose you, Marie,” he murmured, his voice barely audible, breaking as he spoke. “Not you.”

Marie felt her heart ache at the rawness in his voice. She lifted her hands to his face, her fingers pressing gently against his skin, guiding him back to her. Her own tears were there now, glistening in her eyes as she gazed at him. “I’m right here,” she whispered, her voice breaking with emotion. “You didn’t lose me. And you won’t.”

For a moment, time seemed to slow, the air around them thick with the weight of everything they had survived, everything they had yet to face.

But in this moment, there was only the two of them—no crime, no danger, no mask. Just the soft rhythm of their breaths, the tenderness of their touch, and the unspoken promise that they would always be there for each other, no matter what.

—-------------------------------

The low hum of the Batcave was a constant companion for Marie as she leaned back in the high-tech chair, her feet propped up on the edge of the console. The massive monitors before her glowed with data streams, maps of Gotham, and security footage from various parts of the city.

It had been a week since the shooting—a long, frustrating week of recovery—and though her body was mending, her restless mind refused to sit still.

Bruce had been insistent at first that she rest, but Marie wasn’t one to sit idle. She had pushed, argued, and eventually won her way into helping.

Now, her new station in the Batcave had become her temporary headquarters. The setup was far more advanced than anything the GCPD could dream of, and she had to admit, it felt good to have a purpose again.

Her headset crackled as Bruce’s low, gravelly voice came through. “Marie, any updates on the old steelyard?”

Marie rolled her eyes, leaning forward to type on the console. “Give me a second, I’m only working with one good arm here,” she quipped, her tone laced with mock exasperation.

There was a faint pause before Bruce responded, his voice steady but tinged with the smallest trace of amusement. “Understood. But hurry.”

Marie grinned, shaking her head as she navigated the interface. “You’re always so serious out there, you know. Ever think about cracking a joke? ”

“Not the time for comedy,” Bruce replied, though the subtle warmth in his tone betrayed a flicker of humor. “Now give me that update.”

Marie’s fingers flew across the keyboard, pulling up security feeds and flagged reports from the docks. “Okay, looks like there’s been activity in Warehouse 47—something about unmarked trucks arriving after hours. Probably nothing good. I’m sending you the schematics now.”

A pause, then Bruce’s voice again, all business. “Got it. Anything else?”

Marie rolled her eyes, smiling to herself. “Yeah, try not to get stabbed tonight. We’re fresh out of gauze after the last time.”

“Noted,” he said, and she could almost hear the smirk in his voice.

The comms went quiet for a moment, save for the sound of Bruce moving through the night. Marie watched the live drone feed she’d patched into one of his gadgets, tracking his progress as he approached the warehouse.

The thrill of being part of his work—of helping him fight Gotham’s chaos—was addictive.

“You’re restless,” Bruce said suddenly, breaking the silence.

Marie blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

“You’ve been bouncing your leg the entire time we’ve been talking,” he said. “I can hear it through the comms.”

Her lips parted in mock indignation. “You can’t even see me.”

“But I know you,” he said simply.

Marie sighed, her tone softening. “Fine. I’m restless. Sue me. I’m not built for sitting around while you’re out there risking your neck every night. You’re lucky I don’t suit up and join you.”

“Not happening,” Bruce said firmly. “Your arm isn’t healed yet.”

“And that’s why I’m stuck here in the cave.” she shot back.

Bruce’s voice lowered, a touch of warmth slipping through his otherwise stoic demeanor. “You’re helping, Marie. What you’re doing in there—it’s just as important as what I do out here.”

She paused, caught by the sincerity in his voice. “Thanks, Bruce. But don’t think flattery’s going to stop me from being a pain in your ass.”

“I’d expect nothing less,” he said, his voice faintly amused.

Marie grinned and turned back to the monitor. “Okay, I’ve got heat signatures on the warehouse roof. Looks like four guys, armed, patrolling the perimeter. There’s a side entrance on the west end—small, probably a service door. Might be your best bet for sneaking in.”

“Got it. Keep me updated.”

As Bruce moved into position, Marie tracked his progress, her pulse quickening as she watched the live feed. Despite the tension of the mission, she couldn’t help herself. “Hey, Bruce?”

“What is it?” he asked, his voice clipped but patient.

“You ever think about how ridiculous this is? Me, sitting in a cave full of gadgets, talking to you while you sneak around on rooftops dressed as a bat?”

There was a brief silence, then, “Occasionally.”

Marie laughed softly, shaking her head. “Glad I’m not the only one. Be careful out there, okay?”

“Always,” he said, his tone almost too quiet to hear.

“And Bruce?” she murmured again, unable to stop herself.

“Yes?”

“Thanks for trusting me with this. I know it’s not easy for you.”

There was a pause, long enough for her to wonder if she’d crossed a line. But then his voice came through, quiet but sure. “I trust you with everything, Marie.”

She leaned back in the chair again, her smile softening as she watched him move. There was something incredible about being part of this—of being trusted with his mission. It wasn’t the same as being in the field herself, but for now, it was enough.

As the comms went silent again, she sighed, her thoughts drifting. Working with Bruce like this felt natural in a way she hadn’t expected. Even when he was all business, there was an unspoken connection between them—a thread that tied them together, no matter where they were.

And she couldn’t imagine being anywhere else.

—-------------------------------

The morning air was crisp, carrying the earthy scent of autumn leaves scattered across the expansive grounds of Wayne Manor. Sunlight filtered through the canopy of tall trees, casting dappled patterns on the gravel paths.

Marie walked beside Bruce, her pace leisurely but determined, her arm still in a sling. She had insisted on the walk, arguing she needed to stretch her legs after spending so much time indoors.

Bruce, ever watchful, walked close enough that their arms nearly brushed with every step. His gaze flickered between the path ahead and her movements, his brow furrowed in quiet vigilance.

“You know, you don’t have to hover,” Marie said, her tone teasing as she glanced up at him. “I’m not going to shatter into pieces.”

“You’re recovering from a gunshot wound,” Bruce replied, his voice calm but firm. “Forgive me for being... cautious.”

“Overprotective,” she corrected with a smirk, nudging him lightly with her good shoulder. “But I’ll allow it. It’s kind of sweet.”

He gave her a look, equal parts exasperated and fond. “If you’d actually take it easy, I wouldn’t have to hover.”

Marie’s eyes sparkled with mischief as she gestured to the sprawling yard ahead. “I am taking it easy. See? A stroll through your ridiculously big backyard doesn’t count as overexertion.”

They continued down a path near the manor in comfortable silence, until they approached a fallen tree near the edge of the grounds. A large branch had broken off in a recent storm, lying partially across the path. Marie stopped, her head tilting as she eyed the log.

Bruce noticed her expression immediately. “Don’t even think about it.”

“I could totally move that,” she said, ignoring his warning and stepping closer. Her fingers brushed against the bark, testing the weight.

“Marie.” His voice was sharper now, his tone leaving no room for argument. “You’re still healing.”

She sighed dramatically, withdrawing her hand but turning to face him with a playful pout. “Fine. But only because I don’t want to hear you lecture me for the next hour.”

Bruce stepped forward, crouching effortlessly and gripping the log with both hands. He lifted it with ease, moving it off the path and setting it aside. When he straightened, he turned to her, his expression softening. “See? Not worth the risk.”

Marie crossed her arms—not an easy feat with the sling—and arched a brow. “Show-off.”

He stepped closer, his hands resting gently on her shoulders gently, careful to not upset her wound. “Promise me you’ll take it slow. You’re tough, I know that, but you need time to heal properly.”

Her gaze softened as she reached up to touch his cheek. “I promise. As long as you promise not to keep me cooped up forever.”

A small smile tugged at his lips, the kind that didn’t quite reach his eyes but still made her heart skip. “Deal.”

They continued down the trail, the conversation shifting to lighter topics until Marie brought up the inevitable. “So... I was thinking about going back to work soon.”

Bruce tensed beside her, his jaw tightening. “Soon?” he repeated, his voice carefully controlled.

“I can’t stay here forever,” she said, trying to sound casual. “The GCPD needs me. Gordon’s probably drowning without me there to boss him around.”

“You’re still recovering,” Bruce reminded her, his tone firmer now. “It’s too soon.”

“I’m not planning on diving into a chase on day one,” she said, touching his arm to reassure him. “Desk duty, paperwork, easing back into it. I’ll be careful.”

He stopped walking, turning to face her fully. His hands slid down to her waist, anchoring her in place. “I just... I don’t want to see you get hurt again.”

Marie stepped closer, resting her hands against his chest. “I know. And I’ll be careful. But you can’t protect me from everything, Bruce. As much as I wouldn’t mind staying here forever, wrapped up in your ridiculously soft blankets and eating Alfred’s cooking, I have a job. A life. I can’t give that up.”

His hands tightened slightly, as though he wanted to argue, but he nodded instead. “I just need to know you’ll call me. If something happens—anything—you call me.”

Marie smiled, leaning up to kiss his cheek. “You’ll be the first person I call.”

They continued on their walk, the crunch of leaves underfoot the only sound between them as the late afternoon sun filtered through the trees. The golden light painted dappled patterns on the ground, and the chill in the air was just enough to make her appreciate the warmth of Bruce’s hand brushing against hers.

“How’s your shoulder feeling?” Bruce asked suddenly, breaking the quiet.

“It’s fine.” She said with a small smile, “You ask me that at least ten times a day.”

“You’ve been moving it a lot today,” he replied, his tone matter-of-fact. “I noticed during breakfast. Don’t overdo it.”

She stopped walking, turning to face him with mock indignation. “Okay, seriously, when do you not notice everything I do?”

Bruce halted, arching a brow. “When you’re sleeping,” he said, his voice soft, almost teasing.

Her heart skipped, but she played it off with a smirk. “Guess that makes me your third job then—Batman, Bruce Wayne, and now full-time babysitter.”

“You’re a lot more work than the first two combined,” he said teasingly, his lips twitching in the faintest of smiles.

“Okay, fine,” she relented with a laugh. “But I make it worth your while.”

Bruce let out a soft hum. “You do,” he said, his voice dipping in a way that made her cheeks flush.

They walked a little farther before he suddenly stopped, gently tugging her off the path and into a quiet cluster of trees. The shade wrapped around them, giving them a moment of privacy.

“Bruce?” she asked, her tone half-teasing, half-curious.

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he stepped closer, lifting a hand to cup her cheek. His thumb brushed softly over her skin, his touch so tender it made her chest tighten. His dark eyes held hers, intense but brimming with emotion.

“I just needed a moment,” he admitted, his voice low and raw. “To remind myself you’re really here. That you’re okay.”

Her heart melted at his words, and she leaned into his touch, her lips curving into a soft smile. “I’m not going anywhere,” she promised, her voice just as quiet and full of warmth. “You can stop worrying so much.”

“Not a chance,” he murmured, a faint smile tugging at his lips before he leaned in and kissed her.

The kiss started gentle, almost reverent, as though he were savoring the simple fact that she was there with him. But it quickly deepened, the weight of weeks of worry and longing spilling out as his arms circled her waist. Marie responded eagerly, her hands sliding up to rest on his shoulders, pulling him closer.

The kiss grew hungrier, the weeks of tension between them finally spilling over. Bruce backed her up against a tree, his lips never leaving hers. Her breath hitched as her back met the rough bark, and he pressed closer, his hands bracketing her hips. The heat of him, the sheer weight of his presence, was intoxicating.

“Bruce,” she murmured against his mouth, her voice breathless but needy.

He responded with a low growl, his hands sliding down to her thighs. Before she could process what was happening, he lifted her effortlessly, her legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as he pressed her harder against the tree. His mouth moved to her neck, kissing a line along her jaw before returning to claim her lips again.

Her fingers tangled in his hair, her breaths coming in shallow gasps as the intensity of his kisses left her dizzy. The tree dug into her back, but she barely noticed, too consumed by the feel of him, the way his strength enveloped her.

The world around them seemed to disappear, the only sounds the rustling leaves and their shared breaths. His lips left hers to trail down her jaw and to her neck, the scruff of his stubble brushing against her skin and sending sparks of sensation through her.

His grip on her tightened slightly, his lips hovering just below her ear. “You’re everything,” he whispered, his words almost lost against her skin.

The intensity of his confession made her heart race, and she tugged his face back to hers, kissing him with everything she had. The heat between them built, both of them lost in each other until the need for air forced them to pull apart.

They stayed like that for a moment, her legs still wrapped around him, his forehead resting against hers as they caught their breath. Bruce was the first to break the silence, his voice low and rough. “Your shoulder,” he said breathlessly, his hands shifting slightly to steady her. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

Marie let out a breathless laugh, her lips curving into a teasing smile. “Bruce, my shoulder is the last thing on my mind right now.”

Bruce searched her face for a moment, the tension in his expression softening at her words. “Good,” he said quietly, his voice tinged with relief.

With deliberate care, he lowered her, his hands steady as they guided her back onto her feet. His movements were so gentle it felt like he was afraid she might break.

They stood there for a moment longer, her hands resting lightly on his chest, his still grazing her waist. The quiet of the woods wrapped around them, the world outside feeling impossibly far away.

Finally, Marie broke the silence, her tone light and teasing. “So... is this your idea of taking it easy?”

Bruce let out a soft chuckle, his hand slipping down to catch hers. “We should get back,” he said, though there was no mistaking the warmth in his voice or the lingering smile on his lips.

“Lead the way.” she smiled, and his quiet laugh followed them as they made their way back to the manor.

They resumed their walk, the tension easing between them as they moved back toward the manor. For a moment, everything felt easy—simple, even.

“By the way,” Marie said as they stepped inside, her tone mischievous. “I think Marbles has officially adopted Alfred.”

Bruce had insisted she recover at Wayne Manor after the shooting, despite her protests. It wasn’t a hard argument for him to win; she couldn’t exactly manage on her own with one arm out of commission. But moving in meant bringing along her cat, Marbles, who had quickly made himself at home.

Bruce raised a brow, his lips quirking in amusement. “Adopted him?”

“Oh yeah. I caught her curled up in his lap this morning while he was reading the paper. He barely acknowledged me when I called him.”

Bruce chuckled softly, his grip on her hand tightening just slightly. “Sounds like Alfred’s his favorite now.”

Marie grinned. “I mean, I can’t blame him. The man makes the best tea and always has snacks on hand.”

Bruce’s smile lingered as they stepped into the warmth of the manor, his gaze drifting to Marie. For the first time in weeks, the heaviness that had settled over them both felt a little lighter.

—-------------------------------

The precinct buzzed with its usual controlled chaos—phones ringing, officers rushing in and out, and the faint clatter of keyboards filling the air. Marie Manning sat at her desk, surrounded by files stacked higher than she remembered. She’d been back at work for a few days now, and it already felt like she’d never left.

"Still alive, huh?"

Marie glanced up to see Harvey Bullock leaning against her desk, a coffee in one hand and a half-eaten donut in the other. His disheveled tie and rumpled shirt were standard Bullock fashion, but there was a hint of genuine relief in his tone, hidden behind the usual sarcasm.

“Alive and kicking, Harvey,” she quipped, a sly grin tugging at her lips. “And if you drop dead from all those donuts, don’t even think about leaving me your paperwork.”

“Ha, ha,” he deadpanned, taking another bite. “I’ll have you know I’ve cut down to two a day. Doctor’s orders.”

She smirked, leaning back in her chair. “So generous of you. What’s next? Switching to decaf?”

“Let’s not get crazy,” he replied with mock horror.

After a beat, his expression softened. “Seriously, Manning... it’s good to have you back. Things were too quiet around here without you.”

Marie raised an eyebrow. “Quiet? With the crime rate in this city?”

“You know what I mean,” he muttered, scratching the back of his neck. “You’re good at what you do. It’s good to see you up and at it.”

She gave him a genuine smile. “Thanks, Harvey. That means a lot.”

“Yeah, yeah. Don’t get all sentimental on me,” he grumbled, though he couldn’t hide the faint smirk tugging at his lips.

The day had been a whirlwind of activity. Marie had spent the morning sorting through old case files, typing up reports, and fielding a steady stream of questions from younger officers. Returning to the GCPD had been seamless on the surface, but underneath, she still felt the tension of getting back into the rhythm.

As the evening quieted and the precinct's usual noise faded into the background, Marie’s gaze drifted toward Gordon’s office. Most of the precinct had cleared out for the day, leaving only the hum of a few computers and the faint shuffle of distant footsteps.

Through the glass walls, she could see Gordon, his head bent over paperwork, the desk lamp casting his features in sharp relief. The room was empty except for him, and the sense of stillness gave her the perfect opportunity.

Deciding it was the right time, she stood from her desk and made her way over, her footsteps echoing softly in the quiet hall. She paused for a moment, her hand hovering over the doorframe before knocking lightly, signaling her entrance.

Gordon looked up, his expression softening as he noticed her. “Lieutenant Manning,” he greeted warmly.

Marie smirked, stepping inside. “Still Detective, last I checked.”

He chuckled, leaning back in his chair and gesturing for her to sit. “Not for long.”

Curiosity flickered across her face as she eased into the chair opposite him. “What’s this about?”

Gordon set down his pen and studied her for a moment, his tone shifting to something more personal. “How ya holding up, Manning? Really.”

She paused, considering his question. “I’m... good. It’s been a little weird getting back into the swing of things, but I’m managing.”

His brow furrowed slightly, his eyes searching hers. “And your arm? Any issues?”

Marie shook her head. “The physical therapist cleared me. It’s holding up fine. Honestly, it’s my head that’s been the trickiest to get back in the game. You spend months looking over your shoulder, waiting for Maroni to try to take you out,  and it’s hard to switch that off.”

Gordon nodded knowingly, his lips pressing into a thin line. “That’s understandable. You went through hell on that case. It changes a person.”

“It does,” she admitted, her voice quieter now. “But I’m not letting it stop me.”

His expression softened, and he leaned forward, resting his arms on the desk. “I didn’t expect anything less.”

Her brows knitted together. “Okay, what’s with the heavy compliments? What aren’t you telling me?”

A small smile tugged at his lips as he slid a small box across the desk toward her. “Open it.”

Marie blinked in surprise, glancing at him before lifting the lid. Inside, a shining lieutenant’s badge caught the light.

“Lieutenant?” she asked, her voice thick with emotion.

Gordon nodded, his tone firm but kind. “Anyone willing to put their life on the line the way you did for the Red Lotus case deserves more than just a pat on the back. You’ve earned this, Manning.”

Marie swallowed hard, her fingers brushing over the badge. “Thank you, sir. I don’t know what to say.”

“Say you’ll keep doing what you’ve been doing,” Gordon said simply. “You’re one of the best we’ve got. And Gotham needs the best.”

Her lips curved into a smile, even as her eyes glistened. “I’ll do my best to live up to that.”

“You already have,” he assured her, leaning back with a satisfied nod. “Now, go enjoy your promotion. Maybe even take a night off. Let Bullock handle the paperwork for once.”

Marie chuckled softly but quickly sobered, her gaze steady. “I couldn’t have done any of this without you, Gordon. You believed in me when I didn’t believe in myself.”

He waved off the compliment with a gruff shrug, but his expression turned contemplative. “I just gave you a shot. You earned everything else. That said...” His voice lowered, the weight of his words hanging in the air. “This department has made me question a lot of things over the years. My choices. My judgment. Hell, sometimes even my sanity. Corruption, politics, fear—it eats away at you after a while. Makes you wonder why you bother staying.”

Marie frowned slightly, unsure of where he was going, but he met her eyes, his tone softening. “Then I see someone like you. Someone who fights, who gives a damn, who actually wants to make a difference. You remind me that maybe I shouldn’t give up hope completely.”

Her throat tightened at his words, and she quickly swallowed the lump forming. With a quick, clipped breath, she responded, “Thank you, sir,” her voice steadier than she felt, doing her best to hold back the wave of emotion threatening to surface. “I appreciate it.” The words came out sharp, a protective edge to keep herself from breaking down in front of him.

Gordon cleared his throat as they pulled apart, his gruff demeanor slipping back into place. “Yeah, well. Don’t make me regret it.”

Marie smiled, her voice lighter now. “Never.”

Gordon rose from his chair, smoothing the front of his trench coat as he moved around the desk. “Come on, I’ll walk you out,” he said gruffly, as though trying to shift the tone to something lighter.

Marie nodded and followed him. The quiet hum of the precinct at night filled the air, the low buzz of conversation and the occasional shuffle of papers blending into a familiar backdrop.

They reached the station’s main doors, where Gordon stopped and turned to her, his expression unreadable for a moment. “You’ve got a hell of a road ahead of you, Lieutenant. But if anyone’s up for it, it’s you.”

“Thank you,” she said again, her voice soft but steady.

Before he could move to leave, Marie stepped forward and hugged him. Gordon froze, clearly taken aback, his hands awkwardly hovering in the air for a moment. Then, with a resigned exhale, he returned the gesture, his arms wrapping around her in a firm but careful embrace. It was strong, steady, and full of unspoken gratitude—less like a boss and more like a father.

She closed her eyes for a moment, her voice soft. “Thank you, Gordon. For everything.”

“You’ll do great,” he muttered, his voice quieter now, tinged with something like pride.

Gordon stepped back slightly after the hug, clearing his throat as if to reclaim his usual gruff demeanor. “Now,” he said, looking at her with a faintly amused look, “go celebrate with Bruce Wayne. Or his leather-bound alter ego—whichever he decides to be tonight.”

Marie froze, her eyes widening as the words sank in. Gordon knows. Her pulse quickened, and she suddenly felt like she was on the witness stand.

“Commissioner,” she started, her voice tight, “I—”

Gordon held up a hand, cutting her off with a wry smile. “Relax, Manning. I have no interest in knowing anything else. And if I did, I’d have asked a long time ago.”

She blinked, still trying to process the revelation. “You’ve known?”

“Suspected,” he corrected. “Figured it out eventually. But the less I know, the fewer complications there are for all of us.” His gaze softened, a rare flicker of warmth in his otherwise sharp eyes. “I trust him. And I trust you.”

Marie exhaled, a mix of relief and unease swirling inside her. “Thank you... for not saying anything.”

Gordon’s smile turned faintly mischievous. “You’re welcome. Now go.”

She nodded, her lips curving into a small, sheepish smile as she turned to leave.

“And, Manning?”

She paused, glancing over her shoulder.

“Tell Wayne—or Batman, whichever—thanks for keeping you alive. Gotham needs you.”

Her heart swelled at the sincerity in his tone. “I will,” she promised before stepping into the Gotham night, the chill air doing little to cool the heat in her cheeks.

—-------------------------------

The manor was quiet when Marie returned that evening, the kind of serene stillness that could only be found in Wayne Manor’s sprawling halls. Alfred had already turned in for the night, leaving the faint glow of the kitchen lights to guide her in. She set her bag down on the counter, her movements still light from the promotion high.

Her eyes caught a note resting against a glass of water on the counter. She picked it up, smiling as she recognized Bruce’s distinct handwriting:

"Heading to the Palisades for patrol. Should be a routine night. Please sleep tonight—I mean it. I love you."

Marie laughed softly, shaking her head. “Bossy as ever, Bruce.” But the warmth in her chest was undeniable, a quiet reassurance that he thought of her even in the chaos of his nightly missions. She left the note propped against the glass and headed to bed, where sleep eventually claimed her despite the excitement of the day.

When morning came, Marie was already awake, sitting on the rolling chair in the Batcave with a coffee in one hand and her newly polished lieutenant badge in the other. She heard the faint rumble of the Batmobile before she saw the sleek vehicle roll into the cave.

Bruce climbed out, mask off, his hair mussed, and his eyes shadowed with fatigue. Despite his exhaustion, the moment he spotted her, his entire face lit up.

“You’re up early,” he said, striding toward her, his voice warm but curious.

She smirked, standing as he approached. “I couldn’t wait. I have something to show you.”

Bruce tilted his head, the corner of his mouth twitching into a half-smile. “Oh? What’s that?”

Marie held up the badge, the morning light from the cave’s overhead lamps catching the embossed Lieutenant Manning.

Bruce’s eyes widened, and for a second, he looked stunned. Then, in a rare burst of unguarded joy, he closed the distance between them and lifted her off the ground, spinning her around in a rare display of exuberance.

“Baby, that’s incredible!” he exclaimed, his voice uncharacteristically bright as her laughter echoed through the cave. “Lieutenant Manning, huh? It has a nice ring to it.”

She beamed as he set her down gently, his hands lingering on her waist. “It’s still sinking in,” she admitted, her voice softer now. “But I wanted to tell you first.”

Bruce’s expression shifted, his joy softening into something deeper, more thoughtful. “I’m so proud of you,” he said, his voice low, filled with quiet reverence. “You’ve worked so hard for this. You deserve it.”

Her hand brushed against his cheek, her thumb tracing the faint shadow of stubble there. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

He shook his head, leaning into her touch. “You were always going to do it, Marie. With or without me.”

Their gaze held for a long moment, memories washing over them like the tide, each one a cornerstone of the bond they’d built. She thought of the first time they crossed paths on the docks, when she was new to the case and still convinced Batman was nothing more than an urban legend—until she found herself face-to-face with the shadowed figure she never thought could be real.

Then there was the gala where Bruce Wayne, Gotham’s enigmatic golden boy, surprised her by pulling her onto the balcony. His charm made her laugh, and his quiet confidence stole her breath as he asked her out with a sincerity that left her off-balance.

She remembered the night she thought she’d lost him, when chaos erupted on the docks, and she stood by his side in the Batcave as Alfred painstakingly stitched him back together. And then there was the triumph of catching Maroni together, bruised and battered but standing in victory, united in a way that words couldn’t fully capture.

Each memory carried its own weight, its own meaning, weaving together the story of two people who’d found each other against all odds, in the shadows and in the light.

Marie’s lips curved into a wry smile. “Crazy to think how far we’ve come.”

Bruce’s hands slid to her waist, pulling her closer as he nodded. “From chasing shadows and clues to this.”

“To this,” she echoed, her voice softening, her fingers curling into his armor. “Whatever this is.”

“It’s us,” he said simply, his tone unshakably certain. “And I wouldn’t trade it for anything.”

Bruce leaned forward, resting his forehead against hers. The quiet intimacy of the gesture stole her breath, his warm, steady presence grounding her. For a moment, the cave and the chaos of Gotham ceased to exist.

“I’m so proud of you,” he murmured, his voice a whisper now.

Before she could respond, he tilted his head slightly and kissed her. It wasn’t hurried or desperate, but soft, deliberate—a kiss that spoke volumes without words. She melted into it, her hand sliding up to his chest to feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath her palm.

When they pulled apart, their foreheads remained pressed together, her fingers still clutching the front of his suit.

“So,” he murmured, a faint smile playing on his lips. “Lieutenant Manning. First day as Gotham’s most badass lieutenant. What’s the plan?”

Marie chuckled, brushing past him toward the staircase. “Starting with coffee and breakfast. You’re on your own until I’ve had both.” She shot him a playful glance over her shoulder. “After that, we’ll see.”

Bruce followed, his lips twitching in amusement. “Fair enough. Want the rundown on last night, or are you off-duty for the morning?”

She paused on the steps, turning back with a raised brow. “I’m always on duty. What happened?”

“Black Mask’s crew. Low-level guys using the docks to move supplies. It was quiet, but there’s something off—like they’re testing the waters for something bigger.” His tone shifted, analytical now, as he continued, “I sent Gordon the details. Figured it’ll end up on your desk soon enough.”

Marie joined Bruce at the monitors, her eyes fixed on the screens as the Batcave’s soft glow cast their profiles in light and shadow. “Sounds like I’ll be chasing down your leads before my second cup of coffee,” she remarked, her tone dry but amused. “Anything else?”

“Nothing immediate,” Bruce replied, his focus briefly shifting from the screens to her. A small smile curved his lips, softening his usual intensity. “But I’ll keep digging. Can’t have Gotham’s newest lieutenant falling behind.”

She shot him a smirk, tilting her head toward him. “Don’t worry about that, Wayne. I’ve been keeping up with you, haven’t I?”

His expression warmed further, his voice dropping just slightly. “That’s what scares me. You always do.”

They fell into a natural rhythm, discussing theories and possible next steps. Despite the Batcave’s cold, imposing vastness, their quiet exchange brought a warmth and humanity that softened its harsh, unyielding edges.

Eventually, the conversation lulled, their words fading into the low hum of machinery. Bruce lingered at her side, their shoulders almost brushing.

Together, they stood in the heart of his dual life—a detective and a vigilante, bonded not just by their mission but by a trust forged in fire. The silence between them wasn’t empty; it was full of everything they’d faced and everything still to come.

For all the darkness they had faced—and would face again—they had found something rare and steadfast in each other. They weren’t just fighting Gotham’s battles anymore. They were fighting for each other, for the fragile, beautiful future they dared to believe in. And as they stood there, side by side, they knew they were ready to face whatever came next. Together.

[adoriels-tears-if]

This just popped in my mind, I was thinking about my mc future, of course this will change due to this only being a demo so re-writes and edits are bound to happen. Besides mc is still a child right now so character development will probably happen after this first arc.

But what I'm currently going for is mc who's incredibly changed by the kidnapping (a loss of innocence of you will?) so after her eyes are opened to the cruelty of the world she becomes open to others and becomes the hero? For the unspoken and abused. She pretty much is reckless putting her all in what she believes is right and putting her body on the line to protect someone or familiars. It's why her skin is littered with scars and she trains so hard, she puts her founded family on her shoulders because they choose to be there for her.

This obviously makes her incredibly dangerous for her Undying determination and open heart that makes people follow her like a leader. (I suppose she has a savior complex but it's hard to tell for me since she is not doing it for selfish reasons like wanting to be praised. She is much more like a martyr willing to take up the role as "villain" if it helps her change the status quo for half breeds and lower class.)

Main point — How will Duncle Toby and Ash deal with this type of mc who recklessly puts her life on the line in every battle and Two— While she got this bold and confident outward persona but in romance she is an absolute mess, too innocent and sickly sweet cinnamon roll. How will they help protect mc from rabid fanclub (ie: people wanting her hand in marriage that aren't the Ros. Think more like a popular kid in school that everyone admires and wants to be with but is too clueless to know they got a fanclub.)

A Vow Against Time (It's a Duncle Tobias short !)

The forest was silent, an immobile setting of leaves and shadows where the acrid smell of blood hung in the air. Tobias emerged from a grove, panting after his run. His eyes immediately found you, crouched beside a wounded familiar, and a twinge of pain twisted his heart. Why is he always too late? Blood stains your hands as you tear off a piece of your cloak to improvise a bandage.

The sight makes him nauseous, weakens his legs.

“So this is where you've been hiding?” Tobias's voice is just a whisper. “We had a deal, remember? No recklessness!"

He'd made a pledge.

You look up, and give him a barely guilty smile.

“He could have died, Tobias! I couldn't just leave. What if it had been Snow!”

Your fervor-tinged tone seemed to serve as the only explanation. The idea of shouting at you crossed his mind before he changed his mind. He drops to his knees beside you, gently grasping your bloodstained wrists.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, his voice quivering. “You're covered in wounds and blood every time I find you. Do you think this is protecting others? Making yourself a target?”

You avert your gaze, but Tobias refuses to grant you an escape; you need to understand. To grasp how each of your wounds causes him one in return. Less visible than yours, but no less painful. More gently this time, yet firmly, he continues:

"You do no one any favors by breaking yourself, little star. Not him" — he gestured toward the injured familiar —, "not those who rely on you, and certainly not me."

A tense silence follows. You open your mouth to reply but close it just as quickly, as though suffocated. The warmth in Tobias's gaze had nothing to do with anger; it was the raw fear of a man who had already lost too many people.

"I know you want to do what’s right," he resumed, his voice quieter. "But that has never been a reason to forget that your life matters too."

Reluctantly, you nod slowly. "I know, I... I’ll be more careful in the future."

Tobias exhales sharply. It’s a lie, and you both know it, but until it manifests, he won’t let go of your wrists. And when the time comes, he’ll still be there.

Perhaps this time, he’ll even be on time. Or early. He promises himself that.

[forthevillains]

Sacred beings (pt.1)

Albert Wesker X fem! Reader

Summary: She was a creation of his, supposed to have died during the difficult process, she was labeled as dead, but she managed to escape and now he's the one to hunt her down...

[before you read I’d like to inform you that this fanfic is going to have up to 30 parts. It’s not based on the main storyline of Resident evil so please don’t get mad after reading this, I warned you beforehand. Anyway I hope you enjoy it and let me know if you would want more!]

It was late in the evening in the headquarters of Umbrella corporation. The scientists have been switching their positions, some leaving for the day and others coming to take over their place for the night, yet the number has visibly lessened. There were a few that refused to leave most of the time, but those are the fools that sold their souls for the experiments that'd make every normal human's stomach twist in disgust.

Y/N, the one who's been stripped off her name, who already forgot who she's been before being dragged to this hell of a place, before all she could hear were her own screams of agony followed by a terrifying echo in the hallway. She was special. She was labeled as fragile goods, meant to be tested carefully, by the best of the best and only most trusted scientists were allowed to break inside her comfort space to observe her, like an exotic animal locked in a cage. The fact that she's been there for so long alone made her special, the fact that she survived most cruel experiments, until one...

"Test subject 087 has escaped!" The voice is nothing but a mere echo through the empty hallways, all painted in cold colors to match the laboratory interior. There were guns, many of them, as heavily armored men have entered. "Close all the exits, no one is allowed to leave the building." The voice continues, it's emotionless, calm, too much for any human being. As the speakers tremble with each word, the employees make sure to obey, staying in the same positions they've been in. Of course, they wouldn't want to get into any trouble, knowing how cruel Umbrella's politics can be.

The young woman, in her late twenties, was sneaking around the place, hiding behind every other corner in hopes that the exit is close. This was either run or die situation, there was nothing else she could do, although her weakened body tried to resist every single move she made. There were no shoes covering her bare feet and each step onto the cold floor sent shivers down her spine. She moved quickly and quietly, like a fox even though her head was spinning and her vision blurry. The cameras in every corner were obvious, so she only made sure to hide her face in high hopes of them not recognizing her. She barely had a few minutes to disappear before they run at her with guns and shields to get rid off another thing they created. No, she couldn't let it be that way. She wanted to live, she craved it, the feeling of being alive, free.

In one room, where a man named Oswell Earl Spencer has been occupied by the newest reports made by his subordinates until now, was already a plan to be made. He's been a clever man, that is for sure, determined to reach his goals at all cost, no matter the losses nor pain caused to the innocent.

"Send for him," he'd order one of the guards. He didn't even need to say the name out loud, it was his obvious favorite, his greatest creation that was capable of handling such a situation. "He's responsible for her. Tell him to catch her." He adds, tapping a finger on the surface of his desk impatiently. He jerks his head towards the door, to make the other man hurry and make the order clear. A dead meat has escaped, an experiment that was supposed to be far from alive, on the other side even. Yes, she was pronounced dead just early this morning and yet, when the sun came down and the darkness took over the world, that's when she seemed to have been resurrected and miraculously brought back to life. It was one of the very few failures of the feared and respected Albert Wesker, the one who was infected himself and who was supposed to make that woman the same, perhaps even better, however he was almost sure of that she would not survive the virus, not when it wasn't fully developed, he thought that when he saw her in the morning, it was the last time. He's seen her take her last breath, seen her eyes wide open with nothing but emptiness in them, not even the fear she used to possess was there. The virus didn't even create a 'superior' form of her body, no changes to be seen at all. It was just... nothing. The devastating truth hit him like a bus, he was not meant to disappoint again... His failure was something that enraged him, way more than the life that was lost. He's the best of the best, so why did he fail again? He spent the rest of the day turning his usually peaceful office upside down, searching for any type of clue on what he did wrong. But now that she's disappeared, there's hope, there's hope that she might be a worthy person, someone in whom lies the future as much as in him.

Wesker is quick to jump to his feet when he hears the order, his eyes widening in hope. He's going to find her... He's going to hunt her down and bring her back, no matter what...

|next part|

[saphirered]

Can I request a vax’ildan x reader fic where the reader doesn’t want him to be alone when he goes with the raven queen so she strikes a deal with the matron to serve her eternally by his side?

Hope this is to your liking! I struggled a bit with this one for some reason buuuuut I managed to nail down all the angst! 😘

Tick tock, goes the clock of the pompous asshole (affectionately) lord of Whitestone. Tick tock, time runs out. Vax’ildan knows one day the time will come where the matron will call upon this bargain; his sister’s life for his undying service. It’s a sacrifice he’d make over and over again. The goddess of death is as cryptic as she is creepy and what purpose he might serve now, reveals little by little through vision and calling of something within him that was not there before. One could argue at least he got some fancy armour out of it but that would be a joke in poor taste. The weight of it becomes heavier as time passes. Losing his sister is perhaps the worst thing imaginable to him and that remains the same. She’s always been there for him. He needs her more than she needs him. It just so happens that some other idiots walked into their life they both happen to care about a tremendous amount despite what odds they might be at at times, in the end he’d go to hell and back for them. It makes it all the more difficult that he knows when that bargain of his is called in, he’ll have to leave them behind. 

That makes all these moments count the more, these memories, he has to make sure he’ll never forget them, not through eternity because they make him who he is, every single one of them; Pickle and Scan-man, Big Man, Kiki and Freddy, his sister Stubby and then there’s you; Sparkles. Just the thought of that nickname he gave you brings a smile to his face. You’d asked him many times why Sparkles. He’d always given you a different answer, each one more ridiculous than the last. In reality he knows exactly why. When he makes you smile, your eyes light up. It’s so simple. It’s so stupid. But it stuck. He’d do anything to see you smile again. You’ve not smiled at him like that ever since he told you of the deal he made with the Raven Queen. He’s not truly smiled since. 

You had so many questions, he could feel but you didn't ask. You had sat there and the sparks in your eyes dimmed, instead it was the light reflecting off your tears this time. You’d wrapped your arms around him, you’d held him and told him everything would be alright even though you both knew the likelihood of anyone weaselling their way out of a deal with a literal god. You hadn’t sobbed, when he did. Your grip never weakened when his body fell too heavy and the weight of the expiration date on his life with his friends and family and you became too much of a burden to bear, to heavy a reality to face. You were strong when he couldn’t be. You comforted him when he put on a brave face before the others, when the times got tough. And when you finally pulled away, when you cupped his face and told him this doesn’t change anything, the trailing tears already drying nearly broke him again. You smiled at him but there would be no sparkles in your eyes. 

Effort was made, by yourself, his sister and your friends. Research was done on the matron of death, her history, her ways, her temples, and so much more but it never seemed like enough. With more knowledge revealed, the more damning this got. Vax slowly witnessed you lose more courage. You started dabbling in certain magics, but heeded his warnings and stayed clear of the things that brought the Briarwoods their demise. You respected his wishes, besides you did not think those treacherous practices would keep at bay the Raven Queen. Silas Briarwood had just died. Vax has not and will not. You did claim you might have had an easier time undoing some devil’s deal. He had simply retorted he doesn’t like to half-ass things. You’d smiled and there had been a brief spark but it faded as quickly as it came. 

Vax had found you praying to her sometimes. You’d be looking at the stars when you thought no one could hear. You’d ask for guidance, a way out, freedom, justice, anything to save him. Sometimes he’d find you with a raven’s feather in your palm, or tucked somewhere in your hair or clothes. You’d be surprised at its presence and when he asked how you got it, you never knew how it ended up on your person. You didn’t lie necessarily. It just wasn’t the whole truth. Now he finds you gone, off somewhere away from everyone, in her damned temple. You sit at the red pool  surrounded by books and a broken orb. You read the pages again and again until on your knees you draw runes and markings he cannot begin to comprehend. He’s quiet and sticks to the shadows but something urges him closer. He resists. The magic seems to fizzle and you cry in frustration. You throw a bowl into the red pool. Its splash reaches you and stains your clothes despite you wiping it away best you can. 

“I’ve tried everything. You won’t even listen to me. What’s the use? You think yourself better? Because you ascended? Does that make me not but a bug in your palm waiting to be squashed?”  You speak dryly getting to your feet picking up the orb. You’re half ready to cast it away, shatter it into a million pieces. But then you see what you see, know what you know and you cannot undo someone’s life work like so. That’s the stories of so many people long gone held in that one orb. You won’t condemn another to the dark. You tuck it close to your chest. 

“What are you doing?” You turn on your heels to face the shadows the Champion of the Raven Queen steps out of. Your expression softens and out of habit you go to wipe away the already dried tears from your cheeks. You sniffle. You approach stopping just a step from him, asking permission. You’re hanging on by a thread. You’re falling apart at the seams. Vax forgets his questions and instead invites you into his embrace. You wrap one arm around him to pull yourself closer while the other holds on tightly to that orb in your grasp. 

“I’m sorry.” You don’t say anything else but those words feel heavier than they ever have. They feel hopeless. “I’m so sorry.” You can’t hold back the sob this time, nor the shake of your body. You hold on tighter as you cry and it’s Vax’ turn to silence his own suffering. He has to stay strong for you this time. You need him right now. He kisses the top of your head. 

“It’s alright. You’ll be alright.” He whispers in your ear as he rocks the both of your side to side, rubbing your back, stroking your hair and doing anything and everything to comfort you while his own tears fall silently. 

“I’ve tried- Everything. I’ve done everything. She won’t accept. She won’t listen.” You cry. 

“It’s okay. You’ve already done so much. I’ll never forget what you’ve done for me.” Your cries stop and you freeze just for a few seconds. You pull away. You cup his cheek. The cogs in your head are turning at rapid speed as you put the pieces together and clutch that orb in your palm like it’s the key to solving everything. Vax is confused and shakes his head. “I won’t let you sacrifice yourself for me.” He argues but you shake yours in return. 

“I won’t- I’m not. You told me not to and I’ll respect your wishes. But I think I am ready to make a deal…” You speak more to yourself than to him when you step out of his embrace. You do not look at him as you turn to the pool and kneel down to submerge the orb into the thick red liquid far to akin to blood, it might as well be. “Come on, come on, come on, come on.” You repeat. 

Hesitantly Vax watches, a million things run through his head. He has half the mind to stop you, to drag you out of here and take you far away. He has half the mind to tell you this is madness and a lost cause. Hope has withered and died within him a long time ago. Perhaps that’s why he settled so easily for the inevitable and just dealt with the pain. You’re not like that. You find solutions to impossible problems. You do impossible things with every breath you take. You’re filled with wonder and that makes you wonderful. You promised to respect his wishes and not lose yourself through this dead end, and he believes you’ll keep it so why should he stop you now? One last time. If it fails, you’ll make the best of the time you have left together. If it succeeds… well he doesn’t know what would happen then. Vax stands with you, places a hand on your shoulder as you wait. Your brow furrows and something seems to will you into the pool but he holds you back. Whatever you did, whatever it is you hold, this pool wants it, the Raven Queen wants it. But you’re not about to give up your bargaining chip for free. He realises then.

“You really want it that badly? You’re no different from the rest of us measly little bugs, are you? Come out and face me!” With Vax’ help and by some miracle of your own making you pull your arm free from the pool, orb still in hand and when you and him fall back on your asses, you find yourselves staring up at the visage of the Raven Queen herself, looming in all her might, though you know she’s not truly here. She’s but an avatar, an illusion, but still real enough to smite your arses should she call your bluff. You’re willing to take that risk. Vax’s arm falls around your waist, your back to his side. He’s protecting you without getting in your way, even though he doubts he could do much to stop the Matron of Ravens, he’d certainly try, for you. 

“I didn’t see it then but I see now. You’ve forgotten who you are. They tore you apart and you’re left to piece yourself back together all alone. You want to remember as much as you want to be remembered. I thought ancient knowledge would show me a path to my goal. It wasn’t knowledge. It was compassion. You’re lost.” However faint it may have been, you recall the memories of a woman, a mage, a teacher, someone powerful and respected, but above all someone loved and surrounded by people. You raise the orb towards her. 

“I cannot give you this but I can give you my memories of it, everything I saw, and everything I will find. I will scourge the earth for memories of you, before you became this. I know what fate is set cannot be undone but it doesn’t have to be faced alone. Let me be his memory so he might never forget who he is.” And that’s the offer you make. It’s no deal of wit and trickery, no bargain of a merchant and a customer. This is a bargain of compassion. You offer something the Raven Queen has not seen much of since her ascend. Despite your grievances and selfish intentions your offer remains true. 

The porcelain white mask bends down. Vax helps you to your feet. You have to leave his embrace but you lace your fingers together. The world beyond his arms seems so deadly cold, so lonely. When you take a step forward and another, up to the foot of the goddess, right before you stare up at her expressionless mask, you look over your shoulder and smile. For the first time in a long time Vax sees those sparks again. He could have cried in that very moment. The goddess does not speak when a golden thread flows from you to her. She does not speak when she extends a long finger and pulls the thread. It stretches and you feel as if you’re pulled towards her but you hold steady. She pulls a loop. Vax steps forward, wether of his own volition or not, until he stands just one step further than you, but still at your side. The Raven Queen loops the thread until it curves around him and then she lets go. The new tether sets. Your offer has been accepted. The threads fade and the masked face cocks. That same finger reaches out and raises your head. You do not shy away from those black pits for eyes. He squeezes your hand once more. You smile and offer a thankful nod. Whatever the Raven Queen saw in your eyes must have satisfied because in a burst of feathers and darkness she is gone. 

The moment she is gone Vax’ arms wrap around you and hold you close. He whispers sweet nothings and tells you how reckless and stupid and stubborn you are but you only hear the words as a faint echo as the memories of a dead woman from ages long since passed flash through your mind and you feel a secondhand cold mournfulness. When the memories fade and you feel like your mind has returned to reality the orb is in your pocket and Vax has dragged you away from the cursed temple, far away from gods and this world, and beyond. Faintly do the halls of home flash you by until the shutting of a door behind you pulls you from your trance. 

“You have no idea how much I love you.” Vax breathes as he holds your face between his hands. Your eyes shine but not with tears or sadness. They shine with light and life and hope and wonder, and love, so much love. You hold onto his wrists, a reminder he’s still tethered here, to this place, and forever tethered to you. He shakes his head in disbelief but smiles and places his lips against yours in a loving kiss. Again and again and again. He showers you with love and affection, as you give back in turn. 

You don’t know what it’ll mean or how things work but you know a bargain has been struck and you’ll stay at Vax’ side no matter what. He’ll never be alone. Not when you’ll be tethered to him. 

[my-pjo-stuff]

At this point I think we've all seen the "Luke is a heartless monster who just started a war because of daddy issues and cared for no one" take. Which.... I'll be honest is even stupider than the pedo take imo. But it did give me the idea for this. So let's all have a thought experiment together :

What if Luke was an actual heartless monster who cared for no one?

Here's how I think it would go : >TLT goes the relative same, as Kronos wanted Percy to be his OG body I doubt Luke would seriously harm him there. >Shit starts going down in SOM. Because since he cares for no one and nothing he would have no intrest in getting Thalia. If I remember the plan with her only came up after she returned, so Luke just poisions the tree and lets it die to weaken CHB while getting the fleece himself. Possibly sending Al or other demigods >Which means that A)Thalia's tree is now just straight up DEAD including her and B)Kronos is back MUCH sooner since they have the fleece now. >If we still have the plot with Annabeth and Artemis in TTC then Annabeth just straight up dies, since Luke has no reason to protect her. Since there's no Thalia to take Luke at the finale someone else would need to fight him- or he'd team up with Atlas on Artemis. I'm gonna go with possibly Zoe or someone taking the sky from Artemis so Percy can go up against Luke. >Luke ends up capturing Percy to use as Kronos' body since let's be real, Percy had no chance in a 1v1 against Luke. Everytime they had one in canon Percy always lost until someone came to help him by surprise attacking Luke. >Percy ends up being forced to be Kronos' vessel as he's brought back. >The gods are overthrown, practically every character not in the TA dies and Luke wins.

AND THAT'S JUST HOW I'D THINK THE PLOT WOULD LOGICALY GO FROM THE START

Here are other situations I think would have been WILDLY different:

>Thalia going up to fight Luke in TTC would just end with her getting killed since he'd have no real reason to be so broken up over her or be in a bad mental state which gave Thalia the advantage she had. Thalia dies. >If Kronos didn't need Percy Luke wouldn't have done that last attempt to recruit him at the end of TLT and would only see Percy as a threat. Meaning he'd kill 12 y/o Percy in his sleep before taking off to get rid of that risk factor. >He never would have given Annabeth that dagger since he's purely selfish here. He'd probably have kept it for himself as a weapon. >Oh also NONE of the kids he rly cared for are getting any real care. Best he does in periodically manipulate them to keep them on his side- but even that would only happen after he already decided to go after the gods. So for the first time at camp he just does his own business. >This means Annabeth has NO real comfort after Thalia dies! >Oh also RIP Annabeth and Percy in SOM when they get on Luke's ship and Kronos doesn't need/want Percy. Because they IMMEDIATELY get jumped and killed by monsters. Yeah, no good night of rest for them, just immediate attack and kill. >Grover dies to the cyclops in the meanwhile. >If by some miracle they make it to TLO and Kronos does posess Luke like in canon everyone ALSO dies since Annabeth's "family Luke, you promised!" wouldn't have worked either.

Thanks for coming to my ted talk!

[separatist-apologist]

Long Live

Summary: All archeologist Elain Archeron wants is answers about the past.

Fate is determined to give them to her

MASSIVE thank you @abbadinfluence for having the idea AND allowing me to write - I've had the time of my life, this has been so fun.

And @octobers-veryown for being my personal Rome/Italy consultant- thank you for your knowledge, your time, and most importantly, catching when I used a particularly offensive and/or wrong swear word

For @elucienweekofficial | Read on AO3 | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4

Oh god, oh god, oh god—Elain could barely breathe as she made her way across the inn barefoot and leaving a trail of water behind her. She shouldn’t have done that. She shouldn’t have kissed him, shouldn’t have let him touch her, should have told him no when he demanded she get into the bath. Elain knew better.

And yet she wanted him so badly it made her teeth ache. She knew he was just behind her, taking his time because he was the Emperor and supremely confident she would stay with him. It was all so, so bad because part of her wanted to. Every minute spent in his company weakened her resolve, even when she knew that he couldn’t give her anything Graysen wasn’t already offering.

She’d be his wife, broodmare, and otherwise trapped in his palace while he worked and she watched history pass her by, unable to even study it.

Elain had just closed the wooden door behind her when Lucien’s hand hit it, keeping it from latching completely. His eyes flashed a warning, scar stark against his otherwise perfect face. I know how you got that, she wanted to say. I know exactly how you felt—and I know that the man who gave it to you died of infection on the battlefield rather than a clean kill from your blade. 

Lucien shook his head back and forth, a towel hanging for dear life around his hips. 

“You need to go,” she said as he made his way toward her. Please. I can’t stay away. 

Brushing the wet mass of hair to one shoulder, Lucien murmured, “You know I can’t do that.”

“Lucien—”

“You know what I want,” he added, kissing just beneath her jaw. She could feel his fingers skim over her shoulders, still clad in the scratchy robe left out for them. 

“I can’t give you that,” she lied, because Elain was beginning to suspect she could give it to him underneath some heavy negotiating. 

“Then give me tonight,” he said, still standing behind her. What’s the harm, she swore he added. The harm, of course, was her crumbling resolve and the fact that Elain genuinely liked this man. Loved him, even, if it was possible to love someone you barely knew. It had taken her months and months to even consider the possibility with Gray—and longer even after his own confession while she tumbled the idea through her mind. 

But this felt natural, like an extension of herself. 

And that frightened Elain. 

Elain turned just in time for Lucien to capture his mouth with his own, hand cupping her face. She leaned into him, feeling the hardness of his cock jutting against her hip. Lucien tasted smoky, like woodfire and autumn weather—something a candle company would desperately try and bottle if they could. Elain couldn’t stop herself, not caring when he pulled open the flaps of her robe only to push them off her body so the fabric pooled at her feet. His body was warm, she suspected just naturally, and the feel of the hard muscles of his chest pressed against the softness of her own body made Elain’s knees tremble.

She wanted him. 

Elain offered no resistance when Lucien began walking her over the wood, nor did she fight him when he gently pressed her to the soft mattress. He followed behind, one powerful knee pushing her legs open so he could settle between them. There was no danger of pregnancy thanks to the little implant in her shoulder or Elain might have protested a little harder. Instead, Elain dragged her jagged nails along the skin of Lucien’s back. She could feel faint scars, which caused her to pull away in an attempt to look around his broad shoulders.

“What is this?” she breathed, rolling him off her so Lucien lay on his stomach, his golden skin wholly exposed. Elain tried to keep her eyes on his back and not his firm ass, but…well. She was only human, afterall, and Lucien had a perfect body. 

“The result of a life spent in the military,” he replied in that rumbling, husky voice. Elain had a vague memory of this—in his writings, he’d detailed being captured over the course of a few paragraphs. Nothing in depth, and yet Elain could see he’d suffered in enemy hands. 

“They whipped you.”

“They whipped me,” he repeated, looking over at her with a guarded expression. Running her fingers along the faded pink tissues, stark against the brown of his skin, Elain murmured, “They shouldn’t have done that.”

A smile split his face. “No,” he agreed, mocking solemnity. “Does it bother you?”

“The cruelty bothers me,” she murmured, thinking all of Rome was so casually cruel in ways she couldn’t even put into words. 

Lucien slowly rolled onto his back, revealing smaller scars nicked across his otherwise beautiful skin. The life he’d lived, with evidence of his military service and the illnesses he’d survived, were all there. 

She intended to climb into his lap. Elain was resolved, at least, to her present course of action. Lucien, though, had different ideas. When he saw her rise up on her knees a wicked look slid over his features and before she could blink, he’d pushed her back to the bed so her feet were where pillows ought to go and he was pushing apart her legs so he could stare between them.

“Lucien—”

“Let me,” he breathed, scrunching his large, muscular body between her pussy and the wall behind them. Elain tried to scoot away to give him more space, but Lucien merely dragged her back with ease, undeterred by the uncomfortable position he found himself in. 

It had been years since a man had wanted to do this for her—and longer still since he’d wanted to without her having to ask and plan it ahead of time. Graysen found the whole thing debasing and uncomfortable though he would agree after a lot of negotiating in which he always came out better. 

Elain hadn’t planned to ask Lucien—he’d already used his hand and she’d come, that seemed like enough. She would have been satisfied with it. Not this man, who occupied the highest seat of power in their current time. Elain understood that Lucien didn’t have to do anything at all. He could have ordered a dozen women to their knees and they likely would have complied gladly. 

And yet there he was on his knees, spreading her apart with a dazed look on his face. 

He didn’t wait for permission, nor did he give her any indication he was going to start. Elain had reclined back, staring up at the stone ceiling overhead as her mind raced and when she felt him take that first taste, she yelped softly, unprepared for the electric heat that would race through her.

Lucien merely groaned in response, fingers digging into the soft flesh of her hips to keep her from escaping him. Not that she wanted to go anywhere. All Elain’s resolve evaporated right then, for whatever it said about her—what had once felt like iron will was now fluid like water. Who cared what happened next?

Not Elain—not when his tongue was wet and warm against her clit, licking in lazy, slow circles. He wasn’t in a hurry, which was a shame—she half was. Elain both wanted to prolong the pleasure and finish, and when she tried to roll her hips against his mouth, Lucien pushed her back to the bed with a steady hand.

Not yet, he seemed to say. Relax.

Elain’s anxiety began to ebb as Lucien made it clear he was enjoying himself. Every time she looked down she found him watching, gauging her reaction to see if what he was doing was working or if she liked it at all. And his hips…he was half fucking the sheets even as he licked, fingers teasing her opening without ever actually penetrating.

Elain was desperate, fisting the blankets in an attempt to keep herself from floating away. She was trying to hold herself back, but Lucien sped himself up, licking in the same spot over and over until Elain was panting his name.

“Please,” she whispered, well aware she was speaking English and he wouldn’t understand. He seemed to understand the gist, working his tongue faster as he pulled her closer until she was all but sitting on his face. 

Elain could scarcely breath, lost to the touch until finally—finally—she broke apart in pieces. Just like the bath before, Elain felt unmoored, adrift as wave after wave of pleasure charged electric through her veins. This time, though, panic didn’t supersede the pleasure, maybe because Elain was resolved to enjoy her evening with this man. 

By the time the black spots decorating Elain’s vision cleared, Lucien was over her, both hands running up and down her trembling thighs. Their eyes met and without saying a word, she offered him the permission he was seeking. 

His was an anomaly in this place, she decided, and for one sickening moment, she wished she could bring him back with her. She could introduce him to the modern world and…and what? Lucien had achieved something few men ever would and it seemed cruel to strip him of it so he could live a life of mediocrity with her. Still, as she brushed his long hair from his face, she wished she could.

She imagined him agreeing to go with a lightness in her stomach that frightened her. A whole life flashed before her eyes just before he notched the head of his cock against her still quivering pussy. Lucien looked down one last time, waiting for her to pull back. Elain wondered what would happen if she did.

He’d stop, she decided. Lucien waited the span of a breath for her to tell him no, pushing in only when she raked her nails lightly over his bicep.

All the remaining air punched from Elain’s lungs. She knew he was large—she’d had her hand wrapped around the thickness of him back in the bath. But to know it and to physically feel it as he bottomed out in one fluid stroke was a whole different thing. Lucien moaned, dropping his head between his shoulders as his eyes rolled upward. 

A stream of softly spoken latin curses punctuated the silence before his lips formed the first english word ever spoken by a Roman Emperor— “Please,” he whispered in her language, the vowels too rounded, the constants taking on a strange w-like sound.

“Did I use that right?” he asked her when she didn’t respond.

“It’s a plea,” she told him so he understood.

“Then I did,” he replied, clearly satisfied before punctuating his words with a rather rough thrust of his cock. Elain arched her back involuntarily, sighing softly. She could die like this, she decided. She wanted to. 

Lucien pressed himself against her, arms wrapping around her so he could hold her close. For a moment there was nothing but their shared breathing and the sound of skin meeting skin over and over. 

“Don’t leave me,” Lucien murmured into Elain’s hair when the silence was too much. She couldn’t say anything in return because Elain refused to make that promise, so she kissed him instead. The taste of herself mingled against his own masculine smell was enough to make Elain feel utterly undone—unmoored and untethered from the very world itself. 

Lucien kissed her back, whimpering softly when her teeth sank into his bottom lip. Elain couldn’t explain it, but she wanted to taste blood, too and when it flooded her mouth in a mix of copper and salt, she felt her entire body respond.

She was going to come like this. Again. Elain didn’t think she’d ever come more than once in a twenty-four hour period and in the span of an hour, she’d have come three times. Lucien had to know, his thrusting becoming more punctuated and desperate while his breathing became ragged. 

Elain came, just as she had in the water, mere seconds before he did. It was as if he held it just long enough to ensure he didn’t beat her.

With his head thrown back, eyes closed to the pleasure, Elain tried to commit the sight of him to memory. She knew she’d spend the rest of her life wishing to come back to this night. 

Lucien collapsed against her, face buried in her neck.

“Again?” she asked, not wanting to end the evening. 

“Let a man take a breath.” Elain could hear the smile in his voice. Running her fingers up and down his spine, Elain pressed a kiss to his cheek.

“Take your time.”

He didn’t need much

LUCIEN:

Morning came all too soon. Lucien didn’t recall falling asleep, though he supposed they must have when Elain had begged for mercy sometime in the early morning hours. He’d intended to give her a few minutes and perhaps get himself up for some water, and the next thing he knew the sun was streaming through the window and it was time for them to go.

Elain knew it, too. When he blinked open his eyes, he found her sitting on the edge of the bed already dressed in pretty lavender, her eyes on her hands in her lap. Lucien swallowed the urge to beg her to stay. 

She didn’t belong.

One night hadn’t been enough to convince her of it, either. He could have simply refused, of course. Could have told her he was taking her home and informed her that he’d already drawn up all the necessary paperwork to make her his wife. 

What good was a wife that resented him? That was always trying to escape him? He doubted she’d welcome him warmly back to bed if he did that. He belonged to her—Lucien believed that fervently—but she did not belong to him.

And he had to let her go.

They ate quietly, making a few jokes over their fellow patrons before they were back on the road. He could still taste her in his throat, could still feel her clenched tight around his cock. It was all made especially worse given how she was nestled between his thighs and every jostle and bump of the horse drew them a little closer.

His estate came into view far too soon. What had begun as a slow drip of dread was now a torrential downpour. Elain slid from the saddle while Lucien stumbled after her, body shaking with fear. This wasn’t real, he decided as they made their way up the rolling, lush lawn. Statues of the gods silently watched as he trudged toward the entrance, ignoring the flurry of panic from servants that hadn’t expected him there.

“I won’t be staying,” he said to no one in particular. Once Elain was gone, Lucien doubted he’d ever come back to this place. It already felt heavy and haunted by the ghost of the woman before him, her fingers reaching for his as he led her back to his private bathing room.

She exhaled when she saw the mural of Chronos. Lucien’s heart stopped as he took it in, trying to remember why he’d commissioned this in the first place. As they crept forward, ignoring the steam wafting from the water, Lucien recalled that he’d given the artist free reign to do as he liked. Now it felt ominous—like a warning. 

He didn’t realize she’d outstretched her hand as Lucien stared at each tiny piece of tile, put together to create the larger image of the bearded man in vivid color. Fingers nearly skimming the steam gathered along the wall, Elain had been mere seconds from escaping him. Lucien panicked, snatching her wrist before he could think better of it as his other arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her hard into his chest.

Elain gasped softly.

“Sorry,” Lucien breathed, his terror running a river through him. “I…” 

He didn’t know what he was going to say. I don’t want to lose you. I’m in love with you. He swallowed the urge to say both and instead released her hand so he could stretch out his own fingers. It was a different sort of fear that gripped him, though in the end it didn’t matter. Lucien pressed his palm flat against the wall as nothing happened. However Elain had come—whatever power allowed her to do so—was not extended to him. He would remain here. 

Lucien had to let her go. It was over. He’d tried his best but they were still here and Elain was staring at that mural glassy eyed with excitement. She wanted to leave. 

He had to let her go.

That revelation didn’t stop him from turning her around to kiss her. It was a desperate last attempt to convince her to say without saying the words he knew he ought to say. A better man would have told her the truth, if only to clear his own conscience and spare himself a lifetime of guilt. And Lucien knew if she stayed, he’d always wonder if he’d guilted her into it.

Better to let her go and live with his regrets. 

Cupping her face, Lucien pressed his forehead against hers. “I will miss you.” He didn’t wait for her to respond. Lucien let her go before he could talk himself out of it, and strode from the room without a look back. Jupiter above, but he wanted to look at her one last time, just to see if she was looking, too.

On his way out, Lucien instructed a servant not to bother her, but allow her to remain for as long as she liked. He couldn’t stay, though. Lucien knew he’d break down if he walked back into the bathhouse and found her gone. He needed to go back to Rome, besides, before some enterprising Senator got ideas of grandeur and had the coins to back up those plans. 

Dealing with the Empire would take his mind off Elain, if nothing else.

Lucien wasted time, though—just in case. He wasted it resetting his supplies and picking out a horse for the journey, and even had several swords brought to him to pick through even when he knew he liked the one he had just fine. 

Elain didn’t rejoin him. She was gone. Somehow he just knew it—the world felt different to him, the air heavier, the sun less bright. It was heartbreak like Jesminda all over again. Elain wasn’t dead, but she might as well have been. For him, she was. It was that thought that set Lucien to moving, reigns in his hands as he walked at a plodding pace with his horse. He planned to sleep on the road rather than back in the inn from the night before.

Seeing the bed, remade and cleaned after a perfect night with the perfect woman felt like too much to bare. 

There was nothing else to think about, so Lucien tried to think of nothing at all. He stared at the beauty of his home, drinking in the rolling hills dotted with swaying flowers that danced and sang everytime the wind rolled in. Thick clouds kept the worst of the sun from beating too heavily against his skin, though the threat of rain had Lucien reconsidering his plan to stay at the inn. 

When appreciating the beauty of the world couldn’t keep him focused, Lucien returned to some of the things Elain had told him about the future. He tried to figure out cars, turning the word over in his mind, his lips forming around the vowels as he spoke it aloud, mostly for his own amusement than anything else. A carriage that seemingly moved of its own accord, powered by the bodies of creatures dead thousands of years before he had even been thought of. 

By the time he’d bored himself of the future, the sun had begun setting in the distance and Lucien needed to make camp for the night. He chose an area just off the road so his horse could graze and otherwise rest while he set up a good fire and the tent he’d been carrying, among other things, on his back. He felt like a soldier conscripted in the army again, cooking his food over an open flame and sleeping in the grass again. 

It was nicer when he wasn’t surrounded by hundreds of other sweaty, exhausted men, too. There was just him, his horse, and the rapidly purpling sky overhead. Ignoring his crackling fire, Lucien laid back in the grass to stare upward at familiar constellations. Was Elain seeing them too, wherever she was? Was she thinking about him? 

Lucien could almost hear her voice. Lucien, she’d say in that sweet, exasperated way of hers. He liked the way she accented his name, making everything softer, rounder. Loo-Shen—like his name was something exotic, something ethereal. 

Something special.

Lucien sighed, closing his eyes. He should eat something before falling asleep, if only to keep his strength up for the walk into the city tomorrow. The problem was the taunting wind blowing around him—he swore he heard Elain’s voice. Lucien tried to block it out, which only made it louder.

Sitting up, he looked over his shoulder. There, coming just over a hill, was a stumbling figure in a lavender dress. He blinked—and when that didn’t banish the specter, he dug the heels of his palms into his eyes.

But no.

“Elain?” he called, certain he was losing his mind. 

“Lucien!”

She was running, he realized, and she was alone. Fuck.

Lucien was on his feet in an instant, making his way toward her breathlessly. Even with all the evidence to the contrary, he was certain he was going to reach her to find she’d evaporated into the mist and this had all been a dream.

Elain half collapsed against him, solid and warm and real. Her arms were around his neck as Lucien, half dazed, pressed his mouth against her scalp.

“You were supposed to go home,” he told her foolishly. 

“I know,” she said, pulling away with the wettest pair of eyes he’d ever seen. “I know—I tried. Lucien, I tried to but…” He couldn’t move, rooted in place. Say it, he wanted to beg. 

“I’m in love with you,” she whispered. Lucien couldn’t help the soft groan of relief that escaped him. Holding her face in his hand, he could only nod, swallowing hard to keep himself from giving in to emotion. 

“I don’t know what happens—”

“We should rest,” he said, because he knew what happened next. He’d marry her, make her Empress of Rome, and figure everything else out after. That seemed the most important thing, at least toward keeping her with him. 

It was only halfway back to camp that he realized he hadn’t said the words back to Elain. Halting so abruptly that she tripped over the hem of her dress, he blurted out, “I love you, too.”

A strange laugh escaped her—had he not seen the smile, Lucien would have thought it was a sob. Her eyes were still wet and as he stood there, hands gripping the tops of her arms, several tears slid down her cheek.

“Why are you crying?”

“I’m happy and I’m sad,” Elain admitted, wiping them hastily with the back of her hand. “The thought of leaving Arina…of leaving you…but staying means I lose my life back home. My sisters. My dad…my friends—my job. And I’m sad about that, too.”

Lucien’s mind raced. “I can give you some of that back,” he offered, though truthfully he didn’t know how. His patricians would never accept his wife if she worked the way the common people did. And even if they would, Lucien had nothing to offer that made sense. “You’ll be Empress.”

Elain nodded, though something like a scoff punctuated the air between them. In her world, her terms, it wasn’t enough.

It made him curious all over about her world, her life, that he could offer her power and prestige and it felt like she was losing something. 

“I know,” she whispered, wiping her face on her sleeve again. “It’ll just be an adjustment.”

“Your sisters could always…” Lucien didn’t know what he was talking about. He wasn’t going to let her go back to that wall for her sisters, even if she swore she’d return. 

Elain shook her head. “It’s better this way, I think.They don’t need to know, and even if they did, they wouldn’t understand.”

Lucien barely understood. He hoped he never had to hear about that former life ever again, if he was truthful. Everything Elain had ever described sounded stressful and loud and worst of all, deeply disorganized. He wanted to see Elain happy within the gardens of his home, wanted his people to love her, and most importantly, wanted her to forget about where she came from.

Eris would be delighted when Lucien returned with strict instructions to keep Arina in Rome no matter the costs. Even if he had to chain her to the walls…even if she had to be married to a man she hated.

Though, he suspected his brother would graciously step up. Elain would get to keep her friend which would make her happy.

“Come sit with me,” Lucien murmured, nodding toward his little campsite. “Have you eaten?”

“No,” she whispered. She had no pack—she must have run out before anyone could help her. She was tough—he doubted many of the ladies back in Rome could have managed such a thing by themselves.

“And then what?”

“Then we go home.”

ARINA:

Snooping through Eris’s things was likely to get her banished to another jail cell somewhere far below the city. Somewhere infested with rats, certainly—and without the nice, warm bed she’d been languishing in for the last day. Elain still hadn’t returned, though Arina had discovered she’d only been asleep for a day. 

Still, it made her uneasy. Eris had sworn not to say anything to his brother—or anyone else for that matter—but that didn’t mean he would. Men lied all the time. If there was any constant across the shifting societies and changing worlds, it was that. For all she knew, Eris was about to burn the first witch in history and it would be her.

Though…realistically he probably wasn’t. She’d woken that morning to his cock utterly rigid and nestled against her spine. He’d extricated himself thinking she was asleep, unaware that as he’d carefully rolled himself out of bed, she’d been wondering if she should touch it or not.

She needed Elain—Arina didn’t know the social rules for women in ancient Rome. She knew columns, sculpture, stonework, and art. Some of that spoke to society, of course, but not the intricacies of if it was acceptable to stroke a man off who’d saved your life.

Perhaps men were simply men no matter where they were. She doubted he’d tell her no, though he could also brand her a whore and who knew what would happen if he did that? What Arina needed was leverage, and in order to get leverage, she needed to rifle through Eris’s things. 

It was all so boring.

Even his correspondence was boring. It was like reading Cicero all over again, except she wasn’t drunk or doing shots with Elain every time Cicero complained about some mythical golden age that had never existed. There was no poetry to his words—everything was perfunctory and to the point. 

Whatever secrets the Senator held, he didn’t keep them so readily available. It didn’t help that he happened to stroll in, casual in a blue embroidered chiton and his usual sandals. His eyes flicked from her to the desk before his lips set with disapproval.

“If you want to know something, you could just ask.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” she replied, crossing her arms over her chest. “Why are you here?”

“I thought you’d like to know Elain has returned with my brother. In tact,” he added, guessing her line of thought. 

“I’ll go see her,” Arina said, striding for the door. Eris threw his arm out, catching her before she could push past him.

“I wouldn’t,” he murmured, smelling of sunshine. “The doors were locked behind them.”

“Why?”

He merely arched a brow. Oh. Oh. Elain you idiot—

“This isn’t a great time,” she grumbled, frustrated she couldn’t even talk to her friend because she was too busy getting railed by the Emperor of Rome. He’d likely have her pregnant by the end of the month and then Elain would be waxing poetic about the beauty of an all natural birth in a place where no one understood germ theory. 

What was worse was her own indecision centered around the man currently keeping her in his bedroom. Never, in her entire life, had Arina ever made a decision based on a man. She always prioritized herself first even if that meant destroying a relationship she cared about. Now, though…now Eris was factoring in her choice to remain in the past. 

She’d tried to imagine going back. Sometimes it felt like a relief—she’d have bottled water again, and sunscreen, and all the conveniences she’d grown up with.

But she’d never see that look of disapproval on his face again. And she’d never feel his mouth against hers, hands in her hair while he kissed her with desperation. And Arina knew her mouth tasted bad because toothpaste was a fever dream in this place. Arina also knew if she angled her face just a little more, he’d kiss her again without hesitation.

“He’s going to marry her,” Eris informed Arina, pulling her from her thoughts. “Likely before the games begin.”

“Cristo Santo,” Arina swore softly. “She won’t say yes.”

“You didn’t see her,” Eris said casually as Arina stepped just out of his vicinity. “Or him, for that matter.”

“Spare me,” she mumbled, half turning to look toward the window. “So Elain marries the Roman Emperor and I just—”

“Marry me.”

Arina was certain she hadn’t heard that right. Frozen, she listened to the sound of leather softly smacking marble. He didn’t touch her which was smart—he was likely to lose a hand that way. He did stand in front of her, though, so she had to look at him. 

“Are you asking or are you telling me?” she questioned, knowing damn well Eris wasn’t asking her. He wasn’t going to get on one knee and beg the way men might in her own time period. There would be no rings, no declarations. He likely had a contract written up just waiting for his brother's signature. 

Il culo. 

Eris hesitated for just a moment. “Do you want me to ask?”

“Would you?”

He shrugged. “Not if you’re going to tell me no.”

Arina threw her hands up, exasperated. “Well it’s not a request if I can’t say no.”

“I’m not asking you,” Eris retorted hotly. “You were the one who wanted it formed as a question. I am telling you to marry me.”

“Or what?”

His face reddened with anger or embarrassment—Arina couldn’t be sure. “You’ll marry a different man you like even less and who will treat you much worse than I ever would.”

“I could leave—”

“You swore you’d stay,” Eris hissed, reminding her of the promise she’d made just the night before.

“Well, I lied!” she replied, stepping away from him in a pathetic attempt to clear her head. Eris merely followed behind, his frustration apparent. 

“I’m trying,” he hissed, running a hand through his neatly combed hair. “You make it impossible to do so. Tell me how men in your home take a wife and I’ll do it—”

“It can take years,” she said, spinning so quickly that Eris yielded a step to avoid knocking their faces together. “Do you even understand the concept of dating? Courting? Whatever it’s called here? Getting to know someone before you just demand they marry you.”

“I know enough,” Eris replied, his eyes alight again. “How much time does it take to know if you want a woman or not?”

“Two years?” Arina suggested.

Eris scoffed, turning his head as though the whole thing disturbed him. “Years?”

“Yeah, years while you get to know someone—”

“I don’t need years. I knew when I found you in the archive,” Eris informed her, watching as she began to pace back and forth. She knew how this went—she knew she stayed. If Elain stayed, Arina would, too. That didn’t mean she had to make it easy for him.

Eris ought to know that the rest of his life would be far more difficult for having her in it. Did love even factor into it? Elain would know. Surely humanity felt love even in this place, even if they didn’t marry for those reasons.

“You don’t know me at all.”

“I know enough,” Eris repeated, his mind clearly made up. “I know everything I need to know.”

“You don’t know anything about me,” she contradicted, heart thudding in her throat. Eris advanced, his patience clearly coming to an end. 

“I know I want you,” he said, and when she raised her hand to hit him, Eris caught her wrist easily. “See? Look at how well I know you.”

“You’ll get me, realize I’m not half as interesting as you imagined, and take a mistress. And I will not be humiliated by you.”

“Would you like me to ink it on paper?” Eris asked in that lethally soft voice. “You could take me to court. I’m sure my brother would assist you—he’d find the entire thing amusing.”

“I could just leave you,” Arina reminded him. “I don’t need a reason.”

“You could,” he agreed, creeping closer. “I won’t dispute it.”

“Liar,” she whispered, pressing her palm flat against his chest. “You’ll lock me up.”

“Or,” he murmured as he reached for a long lock of her hair, “you’ll find you like being married to me, too.”

“Wishful thinking.”

“Let me have it,” he murmured, lowering his face toward hers. “That’s the only thing I’m asking you for.”

“You’ll regret this,” she told him blithely, wanting to escape the intensity radiating from him. Eris caught her before she could walk away, spinning her back into his chest so he could kiss her. She let him, melting into his embrace. It was the easiest thing in the world. 

“I won’t,” he murmured when they broke apart. 

And though she hated herself for it, Arina believed him.

[moldygenshin]

Hi you guys, erm it’s been like forever but A LOT of stuff has happened and I am happy to announce PART 2!! ENJOY!

Overcast

Neuvillette hadn’t bothered to visit you once. All you could really do was lay on your cot all day and stare up at the metal ceiling, at this point you have been underwater for Archons knows how long. Your perception of time has weakened over the course of your sentence so much so you can’t tell night from day. Every time you wake up it’s like the same old boring mind numbing task of staring at that dreaded ceiling. You hardly ever ate; you’d figure your husband would never want to see you anyway. If you could be anything you’d be a single whale on the ocean floor, wasting away.

All he wanted was a family and you couldn’t even give him that. People used to call you all kinds of names, but one day it kinda just stopped. You had a feeling the Duke had something to do with it because he was aware of your sentence, you’d guess he felt some kind of sympathy. Which is peculiar because you had no recollection of ever having the chance to meet him. You’d guessed that he tried to stay away, given your relationship with Nuevillette and his status as the Duke of the Fortress of Meropide. You thought that made no difference in meeting someone but you were put on trial for killing your son, so obviously your opinion didn’t matter much.

After your intense thinking session, you decided to go get dinner since you don’t want to waste away completely. You heave yourself up with a sigh and saunter out of you room.

“Name!” Yells a small voice down the hall. You turn to look and see that Sigewinne is running after you. She practically tackles you into a hug— well, for you, her little arms squeezing your thighs and, for her, a pat on her head.

“Sigewinne, darling, it’s been ages..” You say softly as your rigid form and expression mellows in the presence of the small child-like girl in front of you. You clear your throat, “So— Uhm, how has life been treating you down here?” You ask, struggling to gather your thoughts.

“It’s been normal… I heard about your accident. I’m very sorry.” She apologies and keeps her arms tightly around your legs.

It’s as if the walls are closing in on you. Every time someone mentioned your son, you always had some kind of out of body experience. Presently, you feel your throat tightening and noises around you getting drowned by the intense sound of rushing water in your ears. “I’m sorry but I must cut this meeting short. I’ll see you later.” You say quickly as you unravel her arms from your legs. Practically sprinting back to your, you meet the Duke, Wriothesley, but you don’t have time for pleasantries. So, you rush past him.

Breathing as if you’ve ran a marathon, you make it back to your cell and flop down on the bed. You stare up at the ceiling, tears running down your cheeks. You don’t blame Sigewinne for your feelings, you just couldn’t stay in that hallway. You have your few moments of peace before you hear a deep huff outside your open door.

“Name.” Wriothesley says as he steps inside your cell. “I see you haven’t been checking in to eat?” He says questioningly as he leans against the doorway.

This guy you thought as you sat up and looked at him irked. “I don’t see why it matters. My husband doesn’t want to see me, hell, for all I know Neuvillette has already divorced me. My baby’s gone. No one would care if I died or not, I’m just another meaningless hunk of meat on this miserable rock.” You say monotonously, your eyes lidded, and cheeks sunken.

Wriothesley looks at you startled by your hopelessness. He clears his throat and diverts his eyes. “I understand, but I’m sure you don’t want to die in such a cowardly way? I mean a woman like yourself should be trying to get outta here and get some sense of retribution.” He takes a breath before continuing. “Neuvillette isn’t the kind of man to just find another woman, I’m surprised he even had the gall to propose.” Wriothesley says as if he’s done speaking so you open your mouth to counter, but he holds up a hand. “I’m not done, there was a gang of men that was recently arrested for infant murderings. They confessed to killing your baby as well, so you have a hearing at the end of the month. I think you should try to fix yourself so you’ll be in better condition to face the Iudex.” He ends with a big toothy grin. If he’s honest with himself, he’s always had this admiration for you. Especially when he’d see you at an event attached to Neuvillette, not like he’d tell you that.

You stare at him dumbfounded, “H— Huh?” That was a lot, gosh, he never talks much but when he’s got something to say he just keeps going on. You think to yourself as you try to rangle your words.

“Well I’m innocent now, those men confessed. Why can’t I just leave?” You ask, confused as to why you’re still being held for another five days.

Wriothesley shrugs. “That’s out of my knowledge.” He says before walking away, and the next time you see him is when you’re being taken back up to the surface.

Those five days were long and hard. You had spent most of your time giving away all the items you had acquired during your stay, most were thankful and the rest of those mangy low-lives had already gambled away the gifts that you had so graciously given. You were happy to leave of course, but not so happy to see that man you had called a husband.

“You think I want to take you back?” You ask perplexed with a hand on your chest.

“Of course, you have nowhere else to go, and you’re innocent.” Neuvillette says evenly as he stares you down.

You’re unsure as to why he thought it to be alright to stop you before the trial proving you innocent. Although he’s a very intelligent man, he’s still ditzy in some areas. But that was why you loved him. However, revenge tastes sweeter.

“No, you are an awful excuse of a man. You’re petty, narcissistic, and you didn’t believe me when I was sobbing in that courtroom because you perceived me as guilty.” You finish before being escorted into the courtroom. You sat down in your designated spot and waited.

After you had been declared innocent you went on a tirade about the man you once called a husband. Calling him out for the poor verdicts and how he misjudges too easily. The people agreed with you, you had been unjustly accused, afterall.

In the end Neuvillette was ruined.

[mushroomkwan]

to lie under [m]

sequel to rite of sin

SYN: You've become adjusted to the life of a concubus, fucking and eating the essence of the living until you've had your fill. Life proceeds as such, until you find yourself summoned, like Donghyuck had been, to the service of a human.

TAGS/WARNINGS: I did way more research and story building here so it has some facts that were different in rite of sin, demonic activity, demonic imagery, biting and bleeding, incubi, succubi, concubi, m/m/f threesome, anal fingering and ass eating (m receiving), oral (f and m receiving), squirting, unprotected sex (f receiving and m receiving), anal penetration and sex (m receiving), hickeys, polyamory, markxdonghyuck (I don't ship them together, THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION)

word count: 4.4k

A loud wail escapes into the room around you, and you'd have half a mind to slap your hands over your ears and drown it out, if it wasn't feeding you with such a delicious feeling. This woman keens under you, this poor human who found herself victim to your charms, and she cums like a tornado siren, sudden and almost alarming. You take in her essence, every drop she spills, and lick your fingers clean, standing from the bed and stretching your wings behind you.

"Wait, don't go! We....we could keep going." She pleas when she sees your wings spreading, and you feel pity towards her. She's weakened, clutching her chest and taking heavy breaths and yet she still yearns for the pleasure you'd just given her.

Poor baby.

"Shhh, rest now. I've gotten all I need from you. Now, forget this." You use your honed ability of manipulation to wipe her memory of the event, feeling indifferent when you watch her eyes close and her body fall back limply. You look back at the wings she so adored, and smirk to yourself. When you'd first woken in hell as a Concubus, a versatile sex demon, they were the first thing you noticed before the colour of your skin, the tail, eyes and fangs, all of it. You'd grown wings, bat-like that stretched behind you, it was amazing. Now they were just your mode of transport, and your sexiest physical trait.

"I would argue your sexiest trait is your eyes, but that would be too romantic."

Turning around, you see your husband, leaning against the bedpost in such a way your desire is lit up once again, curling your tail around his thigh as you come closer to him.

"Too romantic? For me? Donghyuck, you know I live for romance. I died for it." You give him a hungry kiss, dragging your tongue and fangs against the skin of his jaw and neck, and he pulls at the back of your hair, eliciting a whine from you.

"Ah ah ah, you've already fucked this woman silly, I'm not going to be your sloppy seconds. At least…I'm not going to be here." He teases you and you feel your skin heat under his gaze. It always went like this, and you loved it. You fucked and from the humans, but with Donghyuck you made love. You made love so passionate you'd think you'd travelled to heaven every time. He was your eternal flame, your bond transcended time. It took almost a decade of earning your wings to get to this point, but you wouldn't trade it for the world.

"A human has summons for you, Concubus Y/D/N. And for you as well, Incubus Azonach." Hearing Lubell the Imp's voice you turn to see him flapping his pathetic little wings while looking at a clipboard with his telltale bored expression. Donghyuck cringes at the use of his demonic name.

"For the both of us? How?" You ask and Donghyuck slides over to your side, looking at Lubell with indifference.

"Does it matter, my love? Someone wishes for us both. What do you say to an extra meal?" He asks and Lubell rolls his eyes when Donghyuck nibbles at your ears with his fangs as you mull it over. A summons is a summons, you must respond if it was done correctly. However, how did they summon you both? Your candle formation was mostly new, and similar to Dongyuck's, could they have meant just him? It didn't matter, you had to answer the call.

"Let's go, my sun and moon."

The room is boring, yet surprisingly homey. As you phase through the ring of flames, moulded into Donghyuck's side with a leg wrapped around him, you look at the room before the poor soul who'd summoned you. The bed was a California king, so large and open. The windows were shut tight, with something sealing it, lest the wind ruin the candles and the entire summoning process. And finally, the owner of the room is kneeling before you, looking up at the two of you with such awe his eyes tear up, and his heart races. He's beautiful, and he's perfect.

"Look, love, he did summon us both. How sweet of him." As you and Donghyuck set down onto the hardwood floor softly, you notice that in fact, he'd somehow combined your candle formations together with an extra candle.

"I didn't mean to. I only meant to summon Sastronar." The man whimpers, and you bark out a laugh at his admission, wiping tears from your eyes.

"Sastronar? Oh, she'd get a kick out of this. Is the page ripped, sugar, how did you manage this?" As you ask, you curl your body around his shoulder and look down at the summoning book he'd used. It's crudely made, the leather slipping off its spine and the pages smelling moldy, but the words are clear. It is yours and Donghyuck's formations, only it's labelled Sastronar, and not your own namesake. The man closes the book and backs away from your touch, like you'd burned him with the simple graze of your chin. Donghyuck notices immediately.

"Well, you've summoned us both, so you get two for the price of one. What is your name, baby?" Donghyuck leans down and helps the man to his feet, and the man swallows down some fear, and tries to even his breathing, to answer.

"Mark. Mark Lee." He finishes and you rub at his shoulders, softly and gently as you use your concubus abilities to alleviate some of his fear. You can't take it all away, you'd be taking him away from himself, but you can help him.

"Mark...Mark. I like that. It's straight to the point. Well, you may call me Y/N, and you can call my husband Donghyuck. Do not be so afraid, we are here to please you. It is why you summoned Sastronar, is it not?" You ask, slowly inching your hands from his shoulders to his waist, and he doesn't fight it off. You notice it quickly, how his skin itches for your hands to hold his hips, and you inhale the amount of want coming from him. Donghyuck licks his lips at the taste.

"Yes…I know that Incubi is derived from the Latin word inccubare…."to lie on". I wanted..." He trails off with a dusting of crimson against his cheeks, looking at you for help. He's almost ashamed to say it aloud.

"Oh, sweet baby, you can say it. There is nothing wrong with submitting yourself as a man. Do you want to submit yourself to us?" You already know that answer, and so does Donghyuck, and because you know this, you also know that Mark is aroused by being cared for. Of being reassured that he's in control, despite the obvious fact that he isn't.

"Yes I want that. I've never done it before, but everytime I watch porn, I find myself watching pegging videos and gay porn. Does that make me weird, or gay?" He asks in sudden confession and Donghyuck takes the lead in answering this.

"Well, what do you think it means? Are you attracted to her? Do you want to fuck her?" He asks and Mark looks you over. Your body has grown some curve since you'd formed as a Concubus, but you'd mostly retained your human body. Carapace armor clings to your shoulders and your tits in a way that frames them, and lets the light catch them. Your succubus mark is proudly displayed on your naval, where you wear nothing underneath. Yes, he's attracted to you. Very much so. And yes, he would like to fuck you.

"Yes, you are. And now, are you attracted to me? Do you want to fuck me?" Donghyuck continues, standing up and showing himself off to the human. He's shirtless, as are most Incubi, with a low hanging armor plate and sharp carapace pieces on his shoulders, just like you. His body is lean, with fit abs and strong legs, and a proud cock on display. Mark swallows, and you can feel his own cock harden as he does, looking Donghyuck up and down. He wants to fuck you both, but he wants to fuck Donghyuck most of all.

"Well, there's the answer to that question. Have you considered that you're bicurious? Perhaps my wife and I could settle that curiosity." Donghyuck sits Mark onto the bed with ease, and you slide onto his other side, placing your hands on his hip and the other on his shoulder. He blushes deeply, and nods, removing his shirt. Donghyuck makes the first move, pressing a light kiss to Mark's cheek, and then another, another, and another as it slowly trails to his neck, his shoulders. Small whines pant from his mouth as he leans back to give Donghyuck access.

"So beautiful." You praise him as you take the other side of his neck, soft and gentle, but it rages into something more as the time passes, and Donghyuck still travels down Mark's body, leaving red skin and bruised hickeys in his wake.

"How far do you want to go, sugar?" You pull back from him and he thinks, looking at Donghyuck, who has made his way to kneeling in front of Mark.

"All the way. You only live once, right?" Mark speaks after a moment of sensual silence, and you give Donghyuck a knowing look.

"Sure. Now, I've seen it in your eyes. The way you look at him. Donghyuck lay back, I think our pet wants to suck you off. You've practised, haven't you? You look at him with a strange confidence." You look at Marks eyes, now staring at Donghyuck's armour piece with a glint in his eye and Donghyuck smirks, laying back and gesturing to himself. Mark couldn't have gone to him faster, the lust over fueling his shyness. Well, mostly.

"Do I just…suck you off or what?" He asks and Donghyuck takes the lead, guiding Mark's head to his own, kissing the man's neck again while you watch, retracting your claws and rubbing slowly at your clit. Mark goes farther and farther down, finally reaching Donghyuck's cock and licking a stripe against it. The incubus sings his praise as Mark gets on all fours to fully put his body into sucking Donghyuck's cock. The room is full of wanton noises of Mark humming and slurping against your husband's dick, who in turn is groaning and biting his lip.

"Yes, you're so good at this baby. Doing so well. Donghyuck, I think I should prepare him for you." You fly to the space behind him, sliding his pants down to his knees, and then off his legs completely. And the sight you see is such a welcome one.

"He prepared for us love. Shaved, and cleaned. You're such a good boy." You press a kiss to his ass, and slide your forked tongue against the rim of his entrance, your hand clutching the fat of his ass cheeks. He whimpers and moans onto Donghyuck's dick, and you revel in the taste of his pleasure. He'd probably prepped himself, and you can't help but moan at the image of him laying on his bed, ass up stretching himself out for you. In his stress, he'd tensed, but you'd relaxed him. And now you stretch his hole with your tongue, and your hand pumps his cock agonisingly slowly.

"Fuck, mhmm." He groans in pleasure, backing into your face for more and sucking Donghyuck down so hungrily, like a lifeline. The incubus has a hand gripped into Mark's fluffy hair, clutching at it and guiding Mark into a rhythm that has his hip stuttering in their movements.

"I want…I want Donghyuck to fuck me. And I want to eat your pussy." Mark backs away to look back at you with a flushed face and half-lidded eyes. You massage your tits as Donghyuck speaks to him.

"You know just what you want. Come on darling, your turn. I'll go at your pace, Mark." Donghyuck speaks and you slide into the space under Mark, his arms surrounding your body. Seeing him look at you, while Donghyuck stands behind him, makes your insides burn.

"Thank you." Mark suddenly confesses praise, and you can't stop him as he gives you a small, soft peck. Your arms holding him at a large distance immediately, eyes blown wide. He looks at you with hurt, and Donghyuck looks at you in concern.

"He's kissed me….oh darling, he kissed me." You feel everything at once. Heartbreak, hope, confusion, lust, it all mixes in your head and you find yourself tearing up. Donghyuck pulls way from him and sits him down, and you feel the scene has become too familiar, holding your wings around your body.

"What?! What? What's happening? You're scaring me." Mark whines, crying out in shock as the mark of Asmodeus glows, etches itself into the skin above his cock and you look at Donghyuck from between your wings as he takes the initiative, calming Mark down, who stares a the mark in fearful awe.

"When you fuck sex demons such as ourselves, it's just sex. However, kissing our lips is seen as loving, romantic, as commitment, before God. You have damned yourself to a different eternity in hell. You'd become one of us when you die." You see it in Mark's eyes then, something so fearful he goes quiet with widened eyes. He would not react the same as you did all those years ago.

"What…? I-I just wanted to kiss you I'm sorry. I'm sorry." He's not crying, at least not yet, but he is running at the mouth, panting and biting his lip in worry. However, you and Donghyuck can taste in the air, in his words.

He's still turned on by it. He's afraid, shit, he's terrified, but he's turned on by it.

"Sweetheart, what scares you about it? You aren't going to die now, if that is what you think." You speak, wrapping a wing around his shoulder to comfort him.

"I don't want to fuck everyone. I barely got the courage to summon you, most of all to fuck you. I…I don't want to become a whore." Mark speaks after a moment and Donghyuck looks at you with a look. You question it, wondering where this might lead.

"You will not be a whore. When you become one of us, the instincts will come to you like a fly to honey. It's how to live as one of us. And don't worry, you will have Y/N and I. We'll be with you." Donghyuck rests his hand on Mark's thigh, and you rest your head on his shoulder. He takes several moments to think, and you prepare yourself to go back to Hell on a hungry stomach. You have enough to last, but it wouldn't be a meal.

"I think I've made my peace with it…I wasn't exactly going to Heaven anyways, y'know? And if I were to go to hell, I'd be tortured for all eternity. I don't think sex is torture, so it's better to have sex forever then to be in agony." He was surprisingly educated about how one dies, despite humans not truly knowing. You're proud of him for making peace with it. You went out a bit different than he did. He wouldn't spend his time in jail, rotting away until finally someone took him out. He was a peaceful sinner. The kind with his humanity intact.

"That's good. Do you still want us to have sex with you?" You ask, even though you know the answer.

"Yes, please? Can I still kiss you now? Would that be rude to you? I also want to kiss you." He asks you, before turning to Donghyuck too. Your husband licks his lips.

"You can kiss us all you want." Mark latches himself onto him when he gets the go ahead, kissing him feverishly. Their mouths clash together while you slide your hands around his hips, sliding upwards and down, admiring his body.

"Mm I still want to eat you out Y/N." Mark breaks away from Donghyuck with his lips swollen and you nod, bringing him to you in a flush kiss, tasting his tongue for yourself. He brings his mouth to your tits, sucking and bubbling onto the hardened nipples of your left breast, his other hand kneading the flesh of your hip.

"You're so pretty." He pants the words breathlessly and you burn, looking away and into Donghyuck's eyes as Mark mouths and teeth against your chest, across your ribs, lower.

"I'm going to fuck you now, baby, you ready for me?" Donghyuck asks, groping at Mark's hips and he breaks away from your navel to nod rapidly, arching his back and returning to your pussy with a starved tenacity. His tongue flicks and sucks at your folds, and you move against his ministrations. Donghyuck spits a generous amount of lubricant into his hand and into the space between Mark's ass. As the human eats your pussy, Donghyuck lines himself with his entrance and rests the tip of his cock against it.

"Are you ready for me? I need words this time, Mark." Donghyuck speaks again and Mark whimpers, upset to stop but happy to start.

"Yes, please fuck me. Use me. Both of you, use me." Mark groans and licks against your folds once again, making his way to your clit and sucking tenaciously. You grab ahold of his hair and grind against his face, biting your lip. You know when Donghyuck has entered him, because a low grain escapes him, and Mark moans loudly against your pussy, the reverberations feeling delicious. His entire body moves, slowly, back and forth as Donghyuck creates a pace, adjusting for the both of them and groaning in pleasure.

"Nngh, fuck!" Mark moans, shrill and breathy, biting his lip and panting as Donghyuck increases the pace. To see him like this is a blessing, watching his fucked out expression looking at yours, his lips swollen and his chin glossy with your juices. And his eyebrows twist with pleasure as he cries out, grabbing hold of your hips and continuing to eat your pussy again. He moans and groans, sucks and licks, moving his head up and down, he does it all and you feel an orgasm approaching like wildfire, coming towards you, fast and intense. You grip his hair, and clench, before letting go of it all.

"Oh Asmodeus!" You praise your patron and cum against Mark's tongue, feeling cum spray against his face and soak the fabric underneath your bodies. Recovering from your orgasm, you slide yourself under him, bringing him into a kiss as his body moves forward with every thrust. You taste yourself on his tongue, and feel yourself smear onto your own face. He's whimpering and whining into your mouth and you bring his ear to your lips, whispering.

"Fuck me while he fucks you. I know you can do it." You extend your legs to wrap around him, looking at Donghyuck from Mark's shoulder, and he nods, changing your angles slightly. Mark lines himself with you, and kisses you again, and with the first thrust, he fucks into you.

"Mmnf!" It's your turn to moan into his mouth as Donghyuck essentially fucks you both, every sharp thrust of his hips drives Mark's into yours, and you clung onto him as you close your eyes, arching back almost far enough for your horns to hit the bed above you.

"So good for us. So good for me." Donghyuck growls, fangs bared, and he does something so sexy you moan at the mere sight of it. He bites Mark, on his shoulder, and the human screams in ecstasy, as blood drips down his skin and drops hit your body. You feel your second orgasm sneak its way through, building, and when Mark cries out and cums into your pussy, you let it crash against you, the two of you groaning and writhing in orgasmic bliss.

"Did that feel good, pet? Cumming inside me?" You ask and Mark nods, resting on your chest and panting as Donghyuck continues. Whereas your stamina was long, and you could cum many times, Donghyuck's stamina was longer, but he can only cum once. Twice on occasion.

"I love you." You let Mark say it in his lust-filled state, but give a glance to Donghyuck. He doesn't look upset at the notion. Not at all.

"I'm gonna cum inside you. Fill you up, nice and pretty." Donghyuck falters in his thrusts and falls rigid, relaxing and groaning as Mark jumps, moaning and whining as the incubi pumps cum into him. And once it's done Donghyuck pulls out, slowly and gently, before falling beside you. Mark finds his place, cradled between the two of you, and you move the hair that sticks to his face. There's no point in cleaning yourselves up. Once you go back to hell, any trace of you will be gone, except for the memories in his mind and the brand on his underbelly.

"What do you do for fun? What makes you happy?" You start the conversation first, as your arm drapes over his side and your hand holds your husband's. He goes red as he thinks about it.

"I'm in an idol group. It's me and twenty one others. We're called NCT. I rap." He laughs awkwardly and you smile. Donghyuck presses a kiss to Mark's forehead, bringing his arm to rest under the other's head.

"That does sound fun. How can you make music with twenty other people, though? That sounds difficult. And rap? Our baby does rap? I'd love to hear this." You look at him in alarm. What was he doing? However, hearing the pet name for Mark doesn't upset you. It delights you.

"Oh, really? Well, I could play you my song Golden Hour. I made it without the others." He excitedly stands and grabs his phone, nestling into the space between you like a puzzle piece. The piece he plays is funky, fresh, it's artistic and it makes your ears happy. You tap against his hip with the rhythm and your tail flicks to the beat. Donghyuck bops his head and looks at Mark teasingly as the lyrics boast of his prowess.

"That's amazing. And absolutely a diss track to Gordon Ramsay, what's your beef with him?" You ask and Mark laughs, opening a tweet after a couple searches to show Gordon Ramsay commenting on his eggs.

"You did fuck them up pretty badly. What happened?" Donghyuck laughs and Mark scowls, swatting a hand at his thigh. You could feel the pull back to hell in the base of your wings, and the tip of your horns. You wanted to stay with Mark a little longer though, so youinched closer and rested against him.

"It was years ago, and I have mastered eggs. Hence the song? What do you guys do for fun?" Mark asks and you laugh, looking him in the eye.

"Oh, duh, but surely outside of sex, something matters to you?" He asks, and you bite your lip, thinking about it.

"I sing, and she reads and writes. There are several levels of hell, just where the demons reside. One level has this stage I perform on when I'm not feeding, and a library I almost lose her in. Listen, we do not have much time, but we will be there that day, okay? Whenever it happens, we'll be there." Donghyuck's legs are the first thing to start fading away, and you see your arm start to go too. Mark nods, smiling tearfully.

"Yeah, okay. Thank you again...for everything. I can't wait to see you again." Mark presses a final kiss upon each of your lips, and you both hold him, closing your eyes. When they open, you're greeted by Donghyuck in the fourth plane of hell, Asmodeus's plane, and a sad look crosses both your faces.

"Is it strange I…I miss him. Like, one fuck session with a stranger and I miss him?" You look at him with a yearning glance and Donghyuck nods solemnly.

"It is what happens when you damn a human. Once they've kissed you, you know they're dying for you. You can't help but feel you'd die for them too. I felt it with you." He speaks and you sit beside him. You think about Mark, who lays in his bed with a small smile on his face. His time of death is ten years from now. He'll be on stage with his members, singing and dancing to their newest single. And a sign above is going to fall on him, mangle his face, blood and gore will traumatize his members, and kill him. It's not a way that he deserves, but one he's going to go through anyways. His death will be instant though, and that's all you can hope for.

It's 2033, and you feel it in your heart first, that it's Mark's death day. You hold Donghyuck's hand and look at the gates, feeling a sense of anxiousness in you. Would Mark remember? And would he come through okay?

"Calm down, love, you came in fine and so will he." Donghyuck chides and you nod, looking back at the gate. Demons stream in succession, each getting taken by imps for review, but you'd already told them you'd handle getting Mark situated. You see him then, his fluffy mop of hair as he steps through being the first thing you see. He's a succubus, to lie under, with crimson red skin and smaller wings to match, and he looks for you in earnest. When he sees you, he runs, flying into both your arms and holding you so tightly his new claws dig into your skin.

"You waited." He sighs in relief and you scoff, gripping him tighter to your body and wrapping your tail with his. He marvels at his new body as you speak.

"Of course! We couldn't go back on a promise, especially one to you. Come, we'll show you the ropes." You pull him along and he holds your hands. This was all you needed. Donghyuck and Mark, your flames, your sun, and your moon.

Someone summons you again, but you don't care. You had eternity with them.

You couldn't be happier.

AHGHGH the ending feels rushed again and it was kind of rushed I mean I wrote this all in the span of two days, but that's the ADHD hyperfixation doing it's thing anyways it was going to be just a threesome but then my brain did this thing where it was romance or die so 😭

[thelamb1429]

Soul Train

Eyeless Jack x GN! Reader

<3

This is part of a larger series i’m working on. For now i’m just gonna post lil snippets of the fanfic just to sort of get a feel for how i want the story to go.

This is also probably poorly written/has a lot of grammatical errors because i’m currently pretty sick right now so i’m writing with a scrambled brain atm. I’ll be back to spruce things up when i feel better!

STORY INFO/WARNINGS

Reader is gender neutral

This isn’t necessarily a oneshot, but i don’t know if i plan on posting chapters here on Tumblr when I should probably just post the whole story on another platform so that my art isn’t drowning under tons of stories lol

This part includes: Mentions of death, mentions of death regarding a parent, descriptions of panic, slight mentions of murder

Every single last ounce of oxygen seemed to be sucked from your burning lungs at full force, leaving you on your knees, coughing and retching while the silent vehicle raced down the tracks. Car after car flew over the metal just a few feet from where you knelt. The moment you could breathe enough for your vision to fade back in and your ears to slowly stop ringing, all you could see as far as your eyes traced down the railroad tracks was a never ending train. You sat there for about a minute, but it seemed like the train wasn’t ever going to end.

Nina looped an arm under yours to help you back onto your feet, and you were so out of it that you couldn’t even feel the pointy accessories on her arms and hands poke into your skin. Despite the train in front of you both not emitting a deafening whistle, the rustle of metal on metal was enough to block out any words she tried to get into your head. Everything in front of you moved in slow motion as the weight of the situation set in.

Jack was probably dead now.

You could have saved him.

He probably died thinking that you would get there in time to help.

Once again you went limp in your best friend’s arms, to which she stumbled and struggled to catch your weakened body. Nina eased the both of you onto the grass as the train finally passed and the red glare of the warning lights went dark. Her eyes looked past the tracks onto the dirt road beyond, as if to try and manifest the best case scenario. She wasn’t an optimist by any means, but she knew how much Jack meant to you. You two had been friends for years now, long before you went off to college. While the decked out girl holding onto you had never even met the guy, she felt a cold chill eat away at her spine as it rushed through her nerves, making the rapidly beating heart in her chest speed up with the anxiety caused by the both of you panicking.

But she'd known death much closer than you had. You had lost many loved ones, but her little hobby brought her up close and personal with it several times a week. For once, Nina felt a determination to lead that didn't scare her off. Calling the shots wasn't something that she liked to take charge of, but this was the perfect moment for her to take the lead, to do something helpful for you. She didn't have many friends, especially none that could understand her and handle her like you did.

Maybe helping you get to Jack could help you both strengthen the bond that was weakened by the argument from the week prior to the crisis at hand.

Determined to help, Nina once again hoisted you up and looked you in the eyes.

"[Name], I know that right now you're pissed at me. And I lied to you, I deserve your anger right now. But if we have any chance of getting into that forest and saving Jack, we have to get up and do it now. That cult— or whatever the hell they are— they're dangerous and Jack has no clue.

You love him, right? Then we need to get to him and get him back into your arms, safe and sound.

So take a deep breath and get up already! I can't find him on my own. I don't even know what he looks like!"

Nina pulled at your arms, groaning with the force of exertion she put out as you seemed to stay in place, frozen from the terror of losing the only man who you'd ever considered to have a shred of humanity in him. The only man who befriended you with no ulterior motives. The only man you knew who treated you as an equal.

You weren't gonna lose him. You had to stop mourning for a death you couldn't even confirm.

Much to your best friend's relief, you started running off past the cleared tracks, leading the way towards the countryside where the forest began. Cold, bitter air nipped at both of your bodies and filled your lungs, causing your throats to ache with the icy chill that seeped into you both as you inhaled air.

Contrary to popular belief, Nina was not good at running! She was used to cornering her victims in locations that allowed for her to easily escape and march back to her hidden little cabin in the woods at a leisurely pace. When she wanted to run, she ran pretty fast, but it was obvious that she wasn't used to running for so long. Since she was trying her best to help, you attempted to slow down just a bit so that she could catch up.

After five minutes of running down the road, Nina had to stop to breathe. She gasped for air as he chest heaved, trying to get more oxygen into her burning lungs. She looked up at you, taking in the panic evident on your face when she collapsed. Her mascara ran down her face just a little when her eyes watered from the excessive running.

"Go— you..you need to find him. I'll catch up, just go", she wheezed out as a cough wracked through her body.

The encouragement was all you needed to take off running once again.

Maybe it was the adrenaline in your body that kept you going, masking the ache in your chest and your legs from the constant sprinting you were doing. Maybe it was the fear that if you didn't suck it up and run, that it would be too late. Whatever it was, it caused you to keep running so fast that it felt as if you were gliding through the forest around you.

You had no idea where exactly he was. In fact, you were going in blind. But there was something deep within the core of your very being that seemed to yank you in one direction before leading you towards another.

All you could do was repeat a silent prayer that you hadn't said in years. Not since your mom died.

All you could do was pray to whatever higher being that could exist to let Jack still be alive when you find him.

Credits for the dividers i used go to poicelain and kgymz!! <3