#hes very compelling and he speaks from his heart all the time

[samarecharm]

Oh my GOD Akira getting pissy and jostling the bag Morganas in after he offers up the attic space WITHOUT asking Akira first, and saying ‘oh youll be the one to convince boss :3’ is so funny to me. He was so ready to throw hands w this cat.

[etheries1015]

(In Lilias dream) General Lilia X reader : Hidden pregnancy

General warnings: The reader mentioned being pregnant, but no pronouns are used. Situationship described, mention of heat...honestly, just a shitty scenario I half-baked when day-dreaming at work the other day. really self-indulgent and not my best work, but ima share it anyway. Cause'. I like the idea, even if I can't execute it very well. HAHAHA

"You" general Lilia pointed during the dream, startling you as you ate peacefully at the food you 'humans' had so kindly put together for the fae army. You looked up curiously and tilted your head, heart pounding in your chest at the sight of the beautiful man you had known to be important to you.

"You're pregnant. With a fae child, nonetheless." He said bluntly. The suddenness of his comment left your heart drop into the pit of your stomach, and you were immediately alarmed. With a loss of appetite and eyes wavering, you threw a panicked glance at Sebek and Silver; both who were staring at you with wide eyes and spoons halfway out their mouths.

You hadn't a clue that fae were able to tell such things. Questions swirled around your mind all at once: Did Lilia in reality realize this? or perhaps his magic and senses dwindled so much he hadn't taken much notice? What are you to say in response? However, there were more pressing issues to think of at the moment. And that was the way the two boys rushed to your side in shock, Silver grabbing your hands and looking you in the eyes earnestly.

"You...you're what..?" The silver-haired boy peered into your eyes with concern, "You're...pregnant? Is it...is it his?" You pursed your lips and held back tears that threatened to pour out of your melancholy orbs and your hands trembled with fear. You gave a nod in response. You could feel the gaze and judgment of the fae surrounding you, including Sebek, who knew well enough to hold his tongue at this moment where you seemed to be at the edge of a breakdown. Bauer, his grandfather, on the other hand, scoffed in almost disbelief at the mere notion a fae would copulate with a human. Such were the times in the dream that Lilia was having, however, you felt no true judgment wafting off of the long-haired general.

"Yeah. It's his. But...he wanted to leave and I ...need to go home. I can't.. I mean, I want to stay, with him, but I know that he is losing his magic and he wants to go to a faraway land, and I...I don't want to hold him back from doing what he wants. Besides, he believes he's too old to start parenting all over again, I just-"

You started going off on a nervous tangent, vomiting every word and excuse that came to your mind. Bauer made a snide and astonished comment about the situation, Sebek following suit not without a piercing glare from Lilia and a sneer of dissatisfaction. Uncertain how to proceed, Lilia moved past Silver and placed an uncertain and awkward hand on top of your head in an attempt to console you.

"Fae are eternally loyal to one mate. If your fae lover is noble and virtuous, he will not abandon you. Speak to him, perhaps there's a misunderstanding." You almost winced at the word "lover," for could you really classify your relationship with him as such? Of course, there were times of flirtiness, but you two felt comfortable in each other's presence (clearly). Yet...Lilia Vanrouge is a very mysterious man who worked in ways that will forever be unfathomable to you. He kept his relationships at arm's length, and you were not far behind. You just so happen to be there at the time of his heat, the instincts of two bodies craving affection indulging in primitive actions. So...what he felt about your...relationship...was beyond you.

General Lilia averted his rosey gaze from your own trembling orbs, your lips pursed and embarrassingly staring at the ground unable to make eye contact with the others.

He would have insisted you stay behind in your state, however felt compelled to bring you with him under the guise that he would better be able to keep a watchful eye on you in case this was some sort of ploy to induce some sort of surprise attack. However, it was obvious to any onlooker the way he tended to your needs, protect you from harms way, and at random inquired of your state. The rest of the army that followed him was in awe seeing their general practically 'dote' (for lack thereof better terms) on this random human who was impregnated, to their knowledge, by some other fae.

You wanted to hold on to the belief that he subconsciously knew the truth, even in this dream world, the Lilia you had come to love was attentively paying attention to your fragile state at all times.

And...somehow you knew that it would be alright.

[samodivaa]

Bucky with an oral fixation due to his anxiety so you let him suck your big tits (smut)

Bucky’s heart may fail him in so many horrors—both in waking, from his nerves, and in sleep, from his nightmares, because the punishment of his disordered mind is its own disorder. A disorder nobody else has. There is no cure, but he is trying to master it, he is learning to live with it—just as he has learned to live with other storms of his mind. The impossibility of love? He has you now. The past can't be annihilated, it is a part of him. Regret, denial, sadness—it leads to anxiety and his habit of always chewing on something—gum, sweets. He holds his breath, a desperate attempt to slow down his heartbeat, a desperate attempt to get away. One second. Two seconds. The moment he chews on the pencil you gifted him for that purpose, he is feeling better. No amount of him trying to explain himself is doing any good, he doesn’t even know what is going on inside of him—but your observation is the first step of the inner unfolding, of finding a solution to every problem he has. You create so much love, compassion, equanimity and joy in his mind that he doesn’t feel ashamed or judged. But seeing him biting down on that pencil—once you've seen how broken he is, it's like seeing him naked. How can you help now? “Bucky, why don't you suck on my tits instead?”

His gaze, though almost improper, is the most sensual thing he could have done at the moment, and it jolts your heart into a strange rhythm, leaving you unable to speak. There is lust and then there is love. They are related, but still very different things—you surge forward, crossing the final, tiny gap and pressing your lips to his. It is desperate and frantic, but the feel of his mouth against yours sends a bolt of electricity straight down your spine. Bucky grips your waist and lifts you off the ground with ease, dropping you softly on the luxurious white linen bed. He gets on top and the gentle, erotic pressure of his mouth on yours, the compelling pleasure of his kiss—the world stops and all the silence, but for your hearts, trying to synchronize your crashing. It is all the thrill of these kisses, of your new naughty suggestion. It is the impatience of the way he tears your shirt from your body, that really turns you on—lust getting the better of him, Bucky is a gentle lover, but not today which makes a jolt of some foreign but not unwelcome sensation pierce you. He leans down, his breath hot against your ear as he mutters out: “I already love that idea, baby”

You let out an involuntary airy moan as he grabs them in his palms, his huge hands palming your tits, kneading gently at first before he rubs his palms in circles. He rolls one nipple between his fingers, humming in satisfaction as it hardens under his touch before he begins to suck on it while massaging your other tit. He's drooling, swirling his tongue over it before biting gently the nipple and he is thankful that your head is thrown back so you don't look how desperate he is. How fucked up he is. He fully embraces the deliciousness of this sin, the calmness that it brings to his mind and all you want to drown his worries. You want him to do something totally unlike himself and it is working—but this lust is something close to anguish, because he needs to stop eventually and he doesn't want to. He leans back a bit, searching for your eyes as he struggles to breathe, focusing on his lungs, on his ability to take deep breaths, to soothe with oxygen—the vast ocean of blue that is his eyes, remarkably focused and soft at the same time. “I love it, I love how big they are” he says thickly and completely without shame. He bites down on the curve of your breast, breathing softly on top of the skin “Can’t stop,” he says, the words coming out like a caress. He says it again, over and over. A litany. As your clothed cunt contracts at the friction against his pelvis, his words, you can feel him, hips bucking slowly up into you. He latches his mouth directly on your other nipple, making you cry out as he envelops a part of your breast into his mouth, a hand coming up to play with the other one. “Bucky—enough”  Your hands go to his hair as he sucks sharply on the breast, but you can’t pull him away. You can’t help the whimpers that escape you, the long drawn out sobs that punch out of your throat whenever he bites a little harder, giving your other nipple a harsher tug as a punishment every time you try to push him back. Sucking removes any daily existence from his mind, any anxiety, grounding Bucky firmly in the moment and dragging your body with it. Until he had enough. What a beautiful madness, he never felt so relaxed.

[brynn-lear]

When Cuckoos Throw Ores [Yandere!Jing Yuan x Reader]

Questionable Overview: After transmigrating to Teyvat, you and Jing Yuan had lived like family on your shared apartment as getting-by descenders. But, you made an error too grave. You hid the anonymous love letters you received from the person you should’ve trusted the most— and now you’ve got yourself a broken mind. [Fic written for May June]

CWs/tags: yandere themes, isekai, moments where you wish Jing Yuan just committed murder instead so it would hurt less, mentions of failed childbirth, nadia & vlad are adorable, implied hysteria, cute n' wholesome beginning w/ found family to "man... man.", gaslighting gatekeep is JY's passion.

"I'm an adult, Jing Yuan! I think I have the right to leave as I please."

Have you ever been so incredibly fascinated by such a mundane object that all worldly noise drowns?

"The right to trample on my heart? To leave me to drown in my despair while you obsess over a single ore without a single thought for me? I must say, it doesn’t seem very sound. Stay put while I call for Doctor Baizhu."

Have you ever had your hand reach out ever so slightly without you realizing such? For your fingers to curl— for you to seize a trinket as though you were compelled by an existence— an idea higher than any mortal comprehension? As though it was fate? As though it was a fruit you weren't meant to take a bite off?

But the most mundane of all…

"There’s no need! Because great General and Emanator of the Hunt Jing Yuan—"

Have you ever lamented a life that "never" happened?

"— I have the right to mourn the happy ending you took from me!"

Though those uninitiated will rehash the root of events in your arrival to the chasm, the most knowledgeable would start the accounts from your arrival to Teyvat.

You did not step foot alone.

When your worldline was destroyed, so, too, was Jing Yuan's. 

Lady Ningguang greeted you both with a good measure of skepticism. You were both "descenders.", though it was soon made evident that your origins are different. He was from "Xianzhou Loufu," and you were from "Earth."  Course, despite your shared tragic circumstances, not everything shall be handed on a silver platter for unfortunate souls. Ningguang was kind enough to provide you both with a shared apartment complex near the fishing port and since then, you and Jing Yuan had a bond not so dissimilar from siblings. He got a job as a general, and your current position is a little more flexible than your previous one.

Whatever principles and studies were available in the previous realms you lived in, they were carried over in Teyvat. Each word circulating about Jing Yuan’s undefeated sword and lance techniques makes you smile; he, in turn, would enthusiastically applaud your sold artworks and STEM innovations. It makes you wholly embarrassed every time he makes what is supposed to be a celebration of his mission’s success into a congratulatory speech for what you’ve done in the same timeframe. Didn’t matter how minute it was. His comrades had already considered the long-standing tradition as a not-so-private joke.

His lack of personal praise worries you sometimes…

There’s a stark difference in your approach to this new life. You mourned for yours being gone; while he doesn’t speak much about his.

“No rush,” he'd say. “All truths shall reveal itself in due time.”

You know about his world, though vaguely. He has a striking resemblance to the character from Honkai: Star Rail. Course, that implies he had gone through similar ordeals as the character. 

“I am an old man, there is nothing for me to grieve.” He told you once. “I have… already witnessed comrades pass, and then some. Have you encountered the phrase: there are fates worse than death?”

Jing Yuan closed his eyes.

“I… find it easier to assume that it might be the only way to put old conflicts to rest.” He shook his head and downed his final shot of baijiu. Yuan sighed, tasting the aftermath in his breath.

“It’s better to put a permanence in death than another forced rebirth.”

He poured you a shot.

"Some memories are better left forgotten. And that applies to you, too."

Whatever he said felt untranslatable to you, hence, you gave up on making more inquiries. If the day comes and he wishes to open up, you'll be there for him anyway.

Or so you thought.

“Heard you’re planning to add another medal to your jacket.” 

Jing Yuan nearly halted from tying his long hair up. You watched his shoulders tremble, likely from trying to compose himself.

“Ha! You've heard a half-truth, I wasn't scheming on anything, it was merely handed to me.” His tone was calm, but you heard the well-hidden smugness.

You shrugged and sipped your coffee nonchalantly. 

… You seriously wish his uniform didn't hug his form that good. Just staring at him makes the room feel degrees hotter. 

You cleared your throat.

“I didn't say anything about schemes, Jing Yuan. Suspicious.”

“Oh?” He hummed, almost sultry for your ears.

…Curse him and his damn beatific smiles.

This playful banter is as natural as the dawn of day. Rather than spending the early morning getting ready for the day, you've both grown accustomed to teasing the other person. He, in his finely ironed uniform, and you, in your comfy pajamas. 

“Since when have I besmirched my name by squandering time? Rude of you to imply that slothfulness rules over my life.” Jing Yuan joked before he moved another piece. “You wound me, dear (Y/n).”

Due to the nature of the conversation, you hadn't thought of your next move much as you continued to probe him. “And what exactly are you doing right now instead of reporting to the Qixing, General?”

He smirked. “I am on-duty, am I not?”

“By talking to me?”

“I have been bound by mundane duties in both my past and current lives, and I must say, engaging with a Person of Interest such as yourself has not only been productive but also mentally stimulating.”

You paused. 

Person of Interest…?

Might as well curse him and his fancy cursive way of implying something too. 

Your nose scrunched. “Are you saying I'M on the Qixing’s watchlist?!—”

“Not in a bad light; don’t worry your pretty head over such menial matters,” he ruffled your hair as he craned over, gazing at your disgruntled morning expression with a loving vigor. “They have an eye for your talent. No Ministry would ever obsess over a clean criminal record.”

You grumbled as you attempted to fix your hair, despite lacking any energy. “Thanks, that calms me down. Especially with the talks about criminal activity on the rise and all.”

He laughed at your snarkiness.

“Is this your best attempt at prying information? I must say, your current occupation suits you. I can now place a finger as to why the thought of Lady Ningguang hiring you as a profiler put me in tremendous unease.”

“Oh don’t be a prick, Yuan.” You chuckled heartily as you gave him a playful slap— which he no doubt avoided. “But seriously, can’t you tell me more about what’s happening?”

There were no further words needed. Such rumors had been on the forefront of the people’s minds: a group of rogue “mercenaries” had found new temptations in banditry— and had the nerve to stew misfortunes on the main harbor itself. As a newly enforced general, Jing Yuan had, of course, been subjected to handling this situation under the ever-watchful gaze of the Qixing. A challenge, as he likes to label it. Whatever helps him sleep at night, you’d reply.

Although, it would certainly soothe YOUR insomnia better if he were to divulge even a hair-sliver of detail in regards to how “safe” this mission truly was.

“(Y/n), there is no cause for concern.” He pulled back, placing his hands on your shoulders. “You know my repertoire— else I wouldn’t consider you a close friend.”

Your heart ached for a second.

In small snippets from the multiple conversations you’ve had with him, you knew he kept his list of close friends few. There’s always a hint of guilt in his voice when he talks about those named Baiheng, Jingliu, Yingxing, and Dan Feng in passing. 

“And I’m just worrying over you,” you lightheartedly glared and waved your hand dismissively. “You know, like a real close friend.”

You both grinned in unison as if telling each other that neither would back down from this “argument” any time soon. He snorted and messed your hair up more. Over the time you’ve spent in each other’s company, your near-telepathic way of conversing has become quite an eerie issue for other mutual friendships. 

Not that either of you minded this. It’s always nice to be understood. 

“I know that look in your eye. Don’t add a part two from last night’s horror stories, please.”

“Then, I’ll take my leave,” he buttoned his jacket. “Last reminder before I go: you have arranged a meeting with Nadia this afternoon.”

“Thanks,” you huffed. “But unlike you, I don’t sleep in and forget my schedule.”

You swore that even after the door was closed, you heard him chuckle yet again. After that, he was gone.

Honestly, with someone with a “life-loving” temperament like him, you’re unsure if he’s easy to please— or too damn good at faking it for his good.

You heard soft knocks against your window.

Slowly, a grin forms on your lips.

“Hello, little man…” You cooed as you stood up and opened for not only the fresh Liyue morning breeze to enter…

But for a diligent little cuckoo bird to deliver its very special package as well.

You’ve always had a soft spot for animals…

“Hmm?”

Your eyes softened as it dropped its parcel and leaned its body against you, warming itself by sitting cozily on your window ledge. This little bird is quite the skilled messenger— always dropping by as soon as Jing Yuan takes his leave. As to why it suspiciously arrives as soon as he is gone, you’re unsure. Such a sneaky creature; you can’t help but adore it.

That’s not to say its deliveries are not as equally charming.

You chuckled as you elegantly unwrapped the ribbon. The letter was elegantly written in a scrawl you’ve familiarized even with eyes closed for the past months, yet it still holds an intensity that makes your heart flutter. 

There it was. The two words that keep you going better than any coffee brew.

“My dearest, (Y/n),….”

“Another letter from Vlad, I’d hope?” You sneaked from behind.

Nadia yelped, hitting you almost immediately. The delay was surely from being on a lovelorn cloud-nine, but her Fatui training that earned her last name definitely should’ve made you double-think.

You shriveled at the pain and she awkwardly cradled you.

“Oh shucks— I’m so sorry, (Y/n)! I-I didn’t realize it was y-y— Don’t scare me like that!” 

“Sorry! Sorry!” You hissed, blaming only yourself for the stinging aftermath. “I-I’ll get over it.”

Nadia guided you to the empty seat beside her. As soon as you were seated, she wasted no time to spill.

“The contents were far too adorable for my heart, oh, dear Tsaritsa, you NEED to read this.” 

An eyebrow was raised. Saying you had a suspicion that something like this would happen would be an understatement— when it came to Nadia, it was more like routine. It had been regular for you and her to get together at least once a month to chat over letters that you both received. Nothing about the time you spent with her was dull. She's the reason you adapted to the Liyue way of life so well. As you were both foreign to the culture— you and Jing Yuan are admittedly the extreme cases— you and her were eager to recount experiences in times of distress. And times of pure unbridled lovesick joy, such as this.

“C’mon, pass it.” You tried to say cooly, but the glimmer in your eyes betrayed your high school-like excitement.

“Same time.” Nadia huffed. "Can't have you gatekeeping your own letter!"

You pulled out yours from your purse.

Nadia wasn’t the only one with something to present to the class. This is just like a teacher forcing students to read their discreetly passed notes out loud. 

Nadia has her Vlad.

You have your Nay Jung I.

Instantly, you both suppressed a giggle in the abrupt exchange.

Nay Jung I. You know little about him, and that intrigue keeps the fire going. When you see a white cuckoo passing by the window, you immediately know it means well. A sight that makes your heart skip a beat. Instead of pushing eggs, it slips a love letter whenever Jing Yuan isn’t around. All coming from a man you can’t track down.

That’s right.

You have a secret admirer.

As you read through the middle of Vlad’s letter for Nadia, you heard your very-much-an-adult friend bite back a squeal in front of you. Nay Jung I may sound like a feminine name, but he was a man. You could’ve sworn you saw Xiangling laugh from the corner of your eye as Nadia tugged your sleeve around like a fool.

“Oh my God?! He wrote that?!” Her lips were akin to wobbly lines toddlers would draw when mimicking the sun’s rays. 

“I find myself constantly catching glimpses of you in my daydreams, my mind flooded with what could be— what should be. Forgive me for my selfishness, but I fear it won’t take long before I can no longer bear the thought of being without you… What?! That’s so SWEET?!” Nadia clutched your love letter tightly, eyes wide as though she was the recipient.

Xiangling, bless her soul, had to peek behind her.

“I wish I could have the courage to reveal myself to you. When I doubt myself, my thoughts turn to you… Aww… I wonder who Mister Nay is and what did you do to get him this in love?” Xiangling playfully pouted, which made Nadia grin wider, almost teasing her. “Geez. When will I get a boy to send me letters?”

“I’m sure you’re going to get one or two someday. A way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, right?” Nadia shrugged as she folded the paper and hid it. “Plus, I fear you’re too young for this.”

“Careful, Dia, she’s the one preparing our food.” You joked.

Nadia has grown more friendly to locals for the better since you started sharing meals here. Everyone knows the feelings between her and Vlad were mutual— but neither of them was willing to confess. With Nadia hoping he initiates, and him densely hesitant on whether she reciprocates. One of them can end this phase should they abandon pride or cowardice.

But Nay Jung I?

You can’t find his records anywhere… And he had told you that it is a fake name by your fourth letter, much to your chagrin.

So, you’ve settled with this arrangement. For now, you are both friends, despite knowing he has feelings for you from the start.

“Mister Nay definitely has it bad for you, Mx. (Y/n).” She gave you a closed-eyed smile. “You need to write back immediately! The man’s probably starving for it!— Oh, right, the pot!!!”

As the chef rushed back after being distracted, you gave Nadia’s letter back to her.

“Any chance of rain?” You asked.

“Cloudy with negative one percent chance that I’ll run to Northland Bank and confess to Vlad.” Nadia spoke sheepish;y.

“That’s at least five percent higher than yesterday.”

“Well, this last letter was adorable.” She swooned.

“Mx. (Y/n), you seem incredibly free at the moment, care to have a chat?”

You turned to look at the new person who joined in.

Fur coat, a distinct mole placement, a sharp haircut, and eyes self-assured enough to conceal their need for urgent assistance, it has to be none other than—

“Miss Yelan,” you gave her a polite smile. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

Nadia sat up straight, shifting to her work mode. “Is there some business you require from the Northland Bank?”

“I have no quarry with you, Madam Nadia, what I do want—” Yelan tilted her head, her eyes calculating. “Is to speak to (Y/n) in private.”

You paused, recalling the conversation you had this morning.

‘I have been bound by mundane duties in both my past and current lives, and I must say, engaging with a Person of Interest such as yourself has not only been productive but also mentally stimulating.’

Maybe this is what Jing Yuan was warning you about this morning.

“Fine, I concede.” You sighed, swiftly snatching your letter from Nadia’s hands and tucking it inside the pockets of your inner jacket.

“Lead me to where you most need me.”

Over the years you’ve spent on Liyue, you’ve had another habit you’ve been nursing on the sidelines.

Epigraphy.

Better yet, it’s for the sole purpose of decoding ancient artifacts. Before you were transmigrated into Teyvat, you found that inspecting artifact descriptions and reading through lore strewn in notes and dialogues were a great part of what made playing Genshin Impact enjoyable. You devoured theories whether they were from YouTubers like Ashikai or other CCs who were eager to unravel and analyze myths from different civilizations. To be inside THE sandbox was the greatest treat. If your friends were here, you have no doubt you’d have plenty who’d look and try to pick apart Mister Zhongli’s brain.

Unfortunately, you never managed to catch his eye.

And the biggest misfortune of all, you caught Miss Yelan’s instead.

“It’ll take me a few weeks to decipher and solve this puzzle…” You told her hesitantly. “And I can’t guarantee anything either.”

Yelan only tilted her head. Strands of her hair hid her expression, and the only body language to be read was the way she played with the die on her fingers. You wondered if she was deciding your fate by giving it a roll…

You looked at the inscribed walls.

A man with horns… and his partner wearing a long hanfu… His partner… Reminds you of a beautiful cuckoo bird.

You sighed.

When she bargained for a chat in “private”, the Chasm was the last location you had in mind. Even more, it did not occur to you that she aimed to use you as a translator. For a language you only learned a few years ago.

You knew you couldn’t exactly deny a member of the Qixing, especially with how much you carried a moral debt for Lady Ningguang, so you agreed under the condition that Yelan wouldn’t snitch to Jing Yuan.

He might just give you the silent treatment if he found out you were here.

But back on the walls and the puzzle mechanism in the middle of the room…

Both were seated under the shade of a tree… 

Each holding a cup of tea…

“Damn it, why me?” You cussed out loud.

You seriously want to tell her that she should’ve chosen Zhongli. 

Not that you’d know that Yanfei begged Yelan to hire you for the job.

Yelan made her dice vanish. “If you need further assistance, and by that I meant necessities such as food and water, call for Wenyuan or Shanghua. They’ll materialize right in front of you.”

On the next wall, the horned man tightly held his partner, with tears falling from his eyes… His tail was more apparent in this depiction, but there were crystallized ambers and statues all around…

Like they were running…

Away from him…

You faced Yelan.

“Yelan, can’t you call for someone else—”

You blinked.

She was gone.

You don’t like being here.

You don’t like this cave.

You’re not sure whether you liked the fact Yelan invited you here. On one hand, you were grateful for the opportunity, but at the same time, you thought yourself unqualified for whatever piece of ancient Liyuean history was waiting to bite you in the ass. 

It didn’t take a genius to know that whoever the drawn man was, he was a force to be reckoned with. You played enough Genshin to know that yakshas are not to be trifled. If this ended up as an Azhdaha scenario, you wouldn’t want to be the nameless NPC who died along the way.

Should’ve commissioned the traveler.

As you progressed in your decoding, the texts were beginning to gnaw you. 

“Have you heard the tale of Lady ███ ███?”

You trembled at the thought.

Curse Jing Yuan and his ghost stories.

The story wasn’t even that frightening.

What got you was how Jing Yuan sold them. He had preached it as though he had been a witness. It’s just a typical unnerving tale to keep children alert, but he had always been far more persuasive than you.

“When she and her husband were out exploring, her husband left her while she sired his heir. He left her there to die.”

Jing Yuan’s eyes narrowed. You quietly applauded his commitment to the bit. Should you not know any better, you would’ve thought he hated that man more than anything.

Like he was seething with jealousy.

“Some claim he hid her there to fight for a war, some say it was out of love… In my eyes, it was an unforgivable neglect.”

Jing Yuan claims sharing ghost stories was a common occurrence from when he used to teach his disciple. But you’re not an idiot. You can sniff out a reason why he loves to bring these stupid tales.

“Days felt like a prison tally. She had forgotten what it felt to live in the sun.”

“She lived only by fulfilling basic needs. No matter how thick the mud was, no matter what was within the soil— all she could do was bitterly swallow what was to come. She bit her tongue on the ever-growing famine— and wished that her child would survive.”

Jing Yuan does not want you anywhere near the chasm.

“So when it was time to give birth, she had no assistance. She pushed her child out as hard as she could, and laid an empty egg.”

Before you could even ask why a human would lay an egg, Jing Yuan continued.

“But they both passed away.” 

“Legends say, that’s the reason why the lumenstone ore glows. It contains the watchful gaze of a scorned mother and unborn child…”

“And if you aren’t careful, you too—”

“Could be trapped inside it.” 

You scoffed.

Was the tale stupid? Depends on who you ask. Was it sad? Sorta. Was the thought of two ghosts— possibly more— watching you as you were forcibly dispatched to read through The Chasm’s secrets terrifying? Given the dark and brooding atmosphere, it was a quiet yes.

“Hmm? I— I solved it…?”

You blinked.

Maybe you still retained your skills as a Genshin player. Anything for a luxurious chest is what you would’ve said. And yet, it still baffled you that one did appear.

When you unlocked it, you saw no “primogem” like you quietly hoped (it would be funny if you unlocked a wish function, but that’s unlikely…)

Instead, you found a dusty ore.

“Great.” You muttered dryly. “Just what I needed.”

It was amber in color, same as the clothes the man wore in the wall paintings. You’re at a loss on how you should report this to Yelan.

“Better than nothing.” You spoke, laughing slightly. That sounded like something Diluc would say. You should buy a dandelion wine after this hard work.

Quickly, you fished out the gloves in your pockets. It was made of nitrile, which should protect the ore from possible oil and moisture from your hands. Yelan was very insistent you wear it.

But as soon as you touched the ore…

Your consciousness slipped away.

There was a man in front of you.

But you couldn’t see his face. 

“Dearest ███ ███…” The horned man smiled delicately as he sipped his tea. “It has been centuries since our first wedding ceremony. Do be honest with me, do you still hold the same passion as before.”

These memories appear to you in a blur.

“No, I do not.” You heard your voice say as the man’s shoulders slowly deflated. His amber eyes looked down, and his smile began to strain.

With two fingers, you lifted his chin.

“If anything, my love for you has grown stronger,” you spoke. “For you and I shall never let our draconic instincts dull, and our union will be the greatest treasure we shall hoard in this never-ending flow of time.”

“…/n…!”

One hand took his scaley hand and the other held his cheek, caressing softly.

“Promise you shall return?” You heard yourself mutter, this time weak and hopeless.

He leaned against your palm, purring as though it might be the last time he’ll savor your warmth.

“You know I do not make promises, ███ ███.” He spoke firmly. “What I keep are contracts. And I have vowed to make you happy, for as long as I live.”

“…(Y… (Y/n…. snap… out…!”

“Contracts normally sound so cold, but your honeyed voice makes it sound so romantic.”

“You know well, my love, in all my years, I’ve witnessed endless contracts and agreements. Whether it was tangible or verbal— each one was a significant chapter to someone’s life.”

The horned man softly detangled your fingers from his long brown hair and kissed your hand.

“But only one brought forth complete change. Our matrimonial agreement. The contract we signed gave me the most happiness. I’ve never signed a happier contract than this one.”

“And I share the same sentiment.” You cooed, almost cheeky. “And I hope our future child shall feel our love as well.”

He rested his head on your shoulder and sighed.

“The day shall come, my love.” He spoke. “Just wait for me, until I fulfilled what the Heavenly Principles desires.”

“Of course,” you hugged him back. 

“I shall wait for you, my dearest…

“(Y/N)!!!”

You flinched.

Suddenly, you’re not in the mountains. You’re not hiding under the shade of a tree with warm-hued leaves. You were…

You were sitting on a patch of grass, just outside the chasm.

And Jing Yuan is mad.

He had a cold unmerciful glare. His built frame towered above you, casting a large shadow. It was already nighttime. Normally, only the moonlight and the lamps from afar should be the only source of light here, but his golden eyes seemed to glow. As though it was ready to call forth an entity you were not prepared to face.

You know the depths of his anger. Years of living inseparable from him has made every communication almost telepathic and that hadn’t changed. You can read it in his breaths, in his stiff and tall posture, in his unnerving gaze.

He is threatening you to spill. Saying without words that:

There are fates worse than death.

But your pulse was steady. But your breathing was calm. But your expression was blank.

You weren’t terrified.

And you can read that deep down, that scared the General more.

“Nay Jung I…”

For a moment, Jing Yuan’s eyes widened— as though there was something he was the only one privy to knowing. His face had a mix of surprise and disbelief before he steeled himself.

“Nay Jung I?” He scoffed. 

“What of him?” Jing Yuan asked.

“He’s my soulmate.”

As soon as those words left your mouth, brief incoherent syllables sputtered out of his mouth. You evoked more emotions in him this time around. You saw flashes of shock, what seemed to be happiness, hope, and then utter confusion.

“...What?”

“I saw him.” You said, calm. “I saw him as soon as I touched that rock. My soulmate— he had long hair and eyes like a dragon— I think he was a dragon, and so was I. I think my soulmate is in Liyue and he’s hiding behind the name Nay Jung I.”

Jing Yuan opened his mouth, before thinning his lips.

This time, you were certain.

He was not only mad. Jing Yuan was sorely disappointed.

“I understand…” 

You know the expression on his face. You read him like a discipline you mastered in epigraphy. He thinks that… 

You have gone “cuckoo.”

He turned around, no longer facing you.

“I’m sorry then, (Y/n).” 

Jing Yuan does not sound sorry to you.

“What for?”

There was silence for a moment, before he spoke again, voice bitter and vile.

He was not sorry.

He was furious.

He was hurt.

He was jealous.

“Nay Jung I is the leader behind the past terrorist attacks.” He paused. “And I killed him.”

You haven’t recovered ever since.

Every medical “professional” you’ve encountered told you that you were hysterical. That you just hallucinated what you saw. It isn’t possible that the visions you saw were Nay Jung I anyway. 

Maybe they were right about the last part, you don’t want to believe it. 

It was in your instincts. That man had to be your husband in the past. Who cares if you came from another world? Maybe you were an Expy. You had to be. That person— the one who reminded you of a cuckoo bird in those walls— had to be you in another universe. 

It had to be.

Your real soulmate is out there.

And Nay Jung I isn’t dead.

But you’ve never been good at persuading others.

Soyourefusetobelieveityourefusetobelieveityourefusetobelieveityourefusetobelieveityourefusetobelieveityourefusetobelieveityourefusetobelieveityourefusetobelieveityourefusetobelieveityourefusetobelieveityourefusetobelieveityourefusetobelieveityourefusetobelieveityourefusetobelieveityourefusetobelieveityourefusetobelieveityourefusetobelieveityourefusetobelieveit—

“General Jing Yuan, is (Y/n)…?”

Outside the apartment, Mister Zhongli and Jing Yuan stood by the window, peaking at your form. You were so engrossed by your inner conflicts that you couldn’t hear them.

“They’ll… move on from you, eventually.” Jing Yuan spat back coldly. “I’m not the God of Contracts, but I keep promises that do not fail.”

Zhongli’s face crumpled in anguish.

“May I ask a question? Just to sate a bit of curiosity, of course.”

Jing Yuan’s eyes narrowed. Zhongli took that as a yes.

“Are you Nay Jung I?” He asked. “I did not see his name on the list of the deceased criminals—”

“Yes, he and I are the same,” Jing Yuan silenced him. “Nay Jung I is an anagram of Jing Yuan. You can reorder the letters and confirm it for yourself.”

Originally, Jing Yuan had hoped to woo you with a romantic tale of an anonymous admirer. But, in your delirium, you had mistakenly believed that Nay Jung I was the same man in your visions. 

It was repulsive.

Never before had he wished to scream so loudly. He had not felt this much anger when he discovered the crimes his old friends had done. He had not felt as betrayed as when you claimed love for Nay Jung I, but it was not him.

He wanted to summon the Lightning Lord to destroy Liyue right then and there.

It was a frustration he had never felt before. Not when he was training with Jingliu. Not when he was scolding Yanqing. Not ever.

But Jing Yuan was not an impulsive man.

He prides his patience.

He prefers to scheme quietly rather than flashing bold moves.

Jing Yuan sucked in a breath between his teeth. 

“I suppose it’s my turn to ask.”

He shut the windows and Zhongli’s heart ached as he could no longer see you.

But then he turned to look at Jing Yuan.

And he knew…

Jing Yuan is much older and wiser than he looks.

“Tell me, Rex Lapis,” he spoke sharply. “Did you wed this world’s version of (Y/n) (L/n) and leave her and her child to die?”

…

…

…

That silence was enough.

Jing Yuan’s private investigations behind your back were right.

In the vast “multi-verse”, there is a version of you that married this dragon who descended from his Archon status.

“I... have wrought upon them great suffering. I am unworthy of their affections. Should a day come where (Y/n) enacts the fury of my wife and child on their behalf, it will be justly deserved.”

Zhongli did not further elaborate.

Whatever happened in the past, it still haunted him to this day. Lingering in the back of his mind, dulling his self-confidence and wits. Maybe it’s why Yanfei thought you should investigate the cave. Maybe she wanted the alternate version of ███ ███ to come back.

But she's gone.

Jing Yuan took a step closer.

“Your wife is dead, Rex Lapis. They are my (Y/n), not yours.”

“I-… I know.” Zhongli— no— Morax spoke, voice laced with grief. “I know she and (Y/n) are not the same, however, I…”

Another step.

“If you wish for their happiness, you will continue to not speak to them. You have done enough damage.”

Morax closed his eyes mournfully. “I am well aware of this”

Another step.

“Let me take care of (Y/n). Let me make them happy.”

And another.

Jing Yuan stared deep into Morax’s soul.

In all his years of living, it didn’t occur to Morax that he’d find another familiar cuckoo again.

But it wasn’t his wife.

Jing Yuan took another step.

This man in front of him was pushing and pushing…

“Let this conversation be a verbal contract,” he said. “That I, Jing Yuan, vow to make (Y/n) happy, and that you, Rex Lapis, shall step down as a final way to atone your sins of uxoricide and filicide. Do you accept?”

Like a cuckoo throwing an egg off the nest.

Forgive me, dearest ███ ███.

I am unworthy of you, let alone this alternate incarnation of yourself.

Morax inhaled deeply. He remains in his head, yet he can't escape the present. The more time he spent searching inside himself for solutions over his approximately 6000 years in Teyvat, the more evident it became what the sensible path of action was. With open eyes, Morax welcomed the return of the present. He observed the vivid hues of existence. In the vicinity, he heard Jing Yuan's pet cuckoo bird. But most of all, he felt his age.

Whatever time was appropriate to dream of a family— it had long passed him.

I am but an old man who deserves to fade away quietly.

And he…

Has the same vigor Morax once had.

That obsessed look.

That tight, suffocating hold.

Just like staring at a reflection of himself, centuries passed.

Jing Yuan, too, was a man depraved. Worse, he is a man who lost everything, clinging only to (Y/n) as his only solace in Teyvat.

Morax noticed the way Jing Yuan took a walk with you, with one arm draping around your shoulder to ward off those he deemed unwanted.

Morax noticed the way Jing Yuan brags about you with his men in each available opportunity, socially claiming you his.

Morax noticed the way Jing Yuan glares at someone who got too close when he thought you weren’t looking, pushing suitors away.

Morax noticed the way Jing Yuan rarely talks about his story and would rather talk about something you had done, making you a large part of himself.

Morax noticed the way Jing Yuan only cares about you, and not even a sliver for himself.

He would rather not see him destroy himself the way he had done long ago.

And just like that, the General got rid of his greatest rival— Liyue’s archon and your husband from another life.

He is out of the nest.

“I accept.”

May June can now message Jing Yuan

[neptuneh0rn]

morning reflections | fire lord!zuko x reader

(gif not mine)

warnings: fluff, one kiss, tears (very brief), advisors being mean :(, fire lord zuko ;)

summary: trying to get zuko out of bed leads to unexpected confessions.

word count: 0.6k

A/N: this is a very short drabble that's been sitting in my drafts for way too long, so enjoy! English is not my first language, so I apologize for any grammar/ spelling mistakes. feedback is appreciated.

“Honey, let go, we have a meeting with your advisors in 30 minutes.”

In answer, Zuko grumbled, tightening his arms around your waist and drawing you closer to his bare chest.

“Zuko,” you exclaimed, giggling, “we have to be there! You’re the fire lord, remember?”

“Exactly. I'm the fire lord, therefore I get to decide whether or not I attend the meeting,” he replied smugly, “and right now I’m deciding that I want to stay in bed with my beautiful wife.”

“Flattery isn't going to work, Zu. Don’t even try. Besides, your advisors have finally agreed to allow me to attend this one. I can't be late. That would hardly provide for a favourable first impression."

You had not been looking at Zuko's face when you said that, but you felt him stiffen at your words. All sense of playfulness eviscerates from the air.

"What," Zuko enunciates.

You shift your gaze back to his face, perplexed at his tone. "What?"

"What do you mean, 'my advisors are finally letting you attend this one'?"

"Oh," you replied sheepishly, "just forget I said that."

Zuko gave you a pointed look and sat up straight, resting on the headboard of the massive bed. You followed suit, suddenly taking an obstinate interest in his warm hands, fiddling with his fingers. He took one of his hands from yours and raised your chin with his index finger, urging you to make eye contact with him.

"You want to inform me," Zuko spoke softly, "or should I ask the advisors myself?"

"It's nothing," you started, "it's only that… every time I ask if I can attend the meetings, your advisors refuse. They tell me that these are not affairs that concern me."

Zuko always thought you didn't join meetings simply because you weren't interested in these affairs. His visage distorted into one of rage, and you felt compelled to calm him down, fearful of what he would do to his advisors.

"But it's truly not a problem! It makes no difference to me, honey. As a result, it should not concern you." You ran your hand along the nape of his neck, tenderly running your fingers along the hairs resting there.

"Why didn't you tell me? I could've handled it," Zuko inquired, his voice concerned.

"What would it look like if I came to you with all of my problems? I need to show your advisors that I'm capable of being the fire lady you deserve; that the fire nation deserves," You muttered solemnly. Your head bowed low as if you were ashamed to admit this.

Zuko's heart ached at your confession. How long had you been feeling like this? It's been a year since Zuko took you as his betrothed, and it angered him to just find out now.

"Sweetheart," Zuko started, taking your hand and placing a kiss on your knuckles, "you don't need to prove anything to anyone. You are already the fire lady that I deserve and that the fire nation needs. Your presence and input in these meetings are valuable to me, and I want you there by my side. I should have made that clear to my advisors from the start."

You looked up, tears forming in your eyes, "Really?"

"Of course," Zuko replied, wiping away a tear with his thumb, "I'll speak to my advisors and make sure that they understand your importance in these meetings."

You leaned in, pressing your lips to his, revelling in the softness of his lips. Zuko deepened the kiss, his arms wrapping around you tightly. You felt relieved that you no longer had to hide your frustration and disappointment about being excluded from important meetings.

"Thank you, Zuko," you whispered, "you always know how to make everything better."

Zuko chuckled, holding you close, "That's what I'm here for, my love."

likes, comments, and reblogs are highly appreciated♡

[froggiewrites]

Mating Call

Pairing: Siren!Doflamingo x Reader

NSFW

Summary: The song is beautiful. The man singing it is even more so. So you do not fight the call to climb the rocks and fall into his arms. You do not fight his warm embrace, his touch, his sweet cooing. This is where you’re meant to be, after all. Who are you to fight against the melody calling you home? Warnings: AFAB!Reader (no pronouns or gendered language used), Smut, Dubcon, Mind Control, Oral Sex (Reader receiving), Biting, Marking, Vaginal Sex Word Count: 2.7k Halloween Special 2024

The melody was the most beautiful thing you’d ever heard.

It was so soft at first you couldn’t understand why your heart had begun to sing, why your chest began to fill with warmth. You just knew you were at peace here, on this beach, sinking into the sand as the sun washed over you. It was only after you closed your eyes that you could finally hear the song clearly. There were no words, just the delicate warble of somebody else’s soul meeting yours. The harmony of it all compels you to move, to pull yourself out of the sand and start marching toward your destiny.

The voice shifts as you move, between pitches, genders, and emotions, before finally landing on a single one. A man’s voice, the mostly lovely baritone you’ve ever heard, calls to you. Not by name, but in spirit. Fate’s strings pull you forward, leaving footprints in the sand until you can feel the salty water of the sea up to your ankles. Your eyes open as the song grows louder, closer and closer, and you know that the man singing it will be ready to receive you.

Your hands find holds in the rocky wall in front of you, and you scale it with a precision you never knew you had. It’s as though someone else is moving your limbs for you, someone who knows the path like the back of their hand. You don’t slip once, not even when you reach sections wet from the sea, or those slick with something warm and red that you don’t pay any mind to. You’re almost there, and he’s ready and waiting for you.

The song reaches its peak right as your head peeks over the top of the ridge, and you can see him in his full glory: there is an angel waiting for you. His mouth is open wide, his eyes closed in concentration as he sings to you. He’s massive, nearly twice your height, covered in beautiful pink and white feathers that glisten in the light. They catch the sun, the rays dancing between them and almost making him sparkle. His torso disappears into a solid mass of feathers, which grow into legs far more similar to a bird’s than that of a human. Behind him are a massive pair of wings, the span of them large enough to blot out the sun if he so chose. As your feet finally rest at the top, he opens his eyes, which seem to pierce straight through you to your very core. At the same time, you see an image in your mind, so strong it nearly feels real: you, wrapped tightly in those feathers, shielded away from the world as he grants you all of the pleasure you could ever want. You can practically already feel him inside of you, feel his tongue inside of your mouth.

The song quiets as he finally speaks to you. “It could be a reality, little bird.” The moment he stops speaking, he immediately starts humming again, reaching his arms out to you invitingly. He gestures for you to approach, and once again your feet move before your mind does. Your hands reach for him, as though they were always meant to do so, and in an instant you’re surrounded by strong arms as his wings surround you both, blocking out the light and cradling you in their warmth. He smiles at you, the song fading, and you could swear his teeth were just a bit sharper than they were before. “Oh, you’re even lovelier up close.”

“Thank you,” you murmur shyly, suddenly aware of how very close the two of you are. He laughs with delight at the blush on your cheeks, holding you tighter and pressing your chests together.

“Oh, are you shy now? That won’t do.” He hums softly as he leans down and brushes his nose against your neck before nipping you, making you jump and inadvertently push yourself closer to him. Your arms move around his neck like they have a mind of their own. He nearly purrs when you do, so pleased with your acceptance. “There we go. That’s more like it, sweet thing.” He slides his fingers down your back, and you shiver as you realize they’re tipped with razor sharp claws, ones that could shred you in an instant if he wanted them to. You tense for just a moment, before he hums softly again, cooing in such a sweet tone that you can’t help but melt beneath his touch. Images of your union fill your mind again, of tender kisses and passionate embraces, of being laid down against these rocks and being taken again and again and again. He wouldn’t hurt you. He wants you. He needs you.

His head finally leaves your neck, and you get to see his eyes up close. They seem to pull back all of your layers, lay you bare beneath them. They call you forward, and before you realize it, your lips are against his. He makes a quiet noise of surprise, before you’re pulled up closer, your legs wrapping around his torso and his hands resting on your ass. The kiss begins as something almost tender, affectionate, before quickly gaining a heat that shoots straight to your core. His tongue meets yours, and he shifts to allow himself to hold you in only one arm, freeing the other to explore your body as it pleases. He reaches for your chest, letting out a soft noise of pleasure at the feeling of your softness beneath his fingers. He tries to brush against your nipples, before letting out a soft huff at the fabric in the way.

You’re so lost in it all, head fuzzy and warm, the sound of ripping threads doesn’t even startle you. Your bra and shirt are entirely shredded in an instant, falling off of you and drifting to the ground. When you shiver from the cold, his wings press in closer, trapping the heat from both of your bodies together, keeping you warm as his fingers knead at your breasts. His lips break away from yours so he can finally see them fully exposed, and he grins, all teeth. “Lovely little thing,” he murmurs, leaning down and taking one of your nipples into his mouth. 

He sucks gently, and you can occasionally feel just a hint of his teeth, slightly too large in his mouth to keep fully away. Every part of him is so terribly sharp, made for ripping and tearing carrion, for breaking bones, for killing small and tender things like you. But he holds back those edges, ever present but never quite threatening. Even as he lavishes your chest with attention, turning rougher, leaving marks that will certainly last, you remain entirely relaxed in his arms, ready to accept anything he’ll give you.

“You’re doing so wonderfully.” He smiles against your skin. “Really, I might have to keep you.” He lets out another quiet trill, and you easily fall back, your weight only supported by his wings. With both his hands free, he easily frees you of your pants and panties, leaving you fully bare. His tongue traces along your torso, down to where you’re dripping and waiting for him. Instead of giving you what you so desperately crave, his attention moves to your thighs, the plush untouched skin just begging to be bitten and marked.

You whine when his teeth make contact. “Please.”

He chuckles. “Please, what?” You moan as his tongue swipes up your thigh, closer to your cunt, but still torturously far. “I’ll get there, little bird. Just be patient.” Despite his scolding words, he seems thrilled at your pleas, preening at every little sob and cry, clearly proud of reducing you to such a state. It is only after you’re near tears that he finally gives in, and he spreads your lips with his fingers, admiring how wet you are.

“Needy little thing.” He gives you a long swipe of his tongue, and you can’t help but throw your head back as you moan. “Delicious. So perfect.”

 He clearly savors your taste, eyes briefly falling closed as he allows it to sink in. You let out a needy little sound despite yourself, and you can see the edge of his lip twitch slightly before he opens his eyes, staring into yours, and diving right in. His tongue laps at you, gathering your juices for him to enjoy. As your pleasure builds, overwhelming you, you desperately try to find something to ground yourself. You settle for his shoulders, the soft downy feathers there tickling your palms as you squeeze, holding onto him for dear life. After he hits a particularly sensitive spot, your nails dig into him and he groans. You let go, afraid you’ve hurt him, and he pulls back to bark at you, “No, no, no. Put them back.”

You place your hands on his shoulders again, gently, and he lets out a frustrated huff. “No. Harder. Leave your marks.” At his instruction, you dig your nails in harder than ever before, and you can feel his skin break beneath your fingertips. He moans. “Yes, perfect. And so obedient. I really will have to keep you.”

He goes back to lapping against you with a revived fervor, something new rising inside of him. You continue to dig into his skin, hard enough to bruise, and he lets out a soft groan as the pressure increases. It drives him wild, sends his tongue deeper than before, causes his claws to press into your hips, not breaking the skin but teasing the idea.

“Delicious. Worth missing a few meals for.” He pulls back to show his face is covered in your slick. He licks his lips, gathering more of it on his fingers just to pop them in his mouth. He hums, pleased with your taste, giving you a grin that’s all teeth. “You really were made for me, little bird. I wonder how you’ll enjoy being mine.”

You shiver at the idea. Of being wanted, needed, cherished. “I’m going to love it,” you mutter.

His smile grows wider. “Of course you will, sweet thing. I’m glad you realize that." He moves up, crashing his lips into yours, your own taste filling your mouth. “My pretty little mate, here waiting for me whenever I want you. What a wonderful thing.”

Your mind fills with images of you curled up in a nest, naked and waiting as he approaches. Your arms are always outstretched, welcoming him home, not minding the blood spattered on his beautiful feathers. You accept what he gives you, no matter what it is. A gift, his touch, his cock, you accept it all, pleased to receive anything from him. You spread your legs before he even asks, knowing what he wants, and you allow him to take you. The pleasure is beyond you imagination, every single time, every nerve in your body alight with every touch. The vision, combined with his current ministrations, brings tears to your eyes, as you nearly drown in your pleasure, both current and future.

He licks a tear off of your cheek, groaning as his aching cock ruts into your thigh. “Oh, you perfect little thing. So willing. So wanting. So ready to be had. Do you want me, sweet thing?”

“Yes!”

“Excellent. Then you’ll have me, again and again. Let’s make the first time count.” He slowly sinks into you, moaning in your ear of the feeling of your wetness around him. You wrap your arms around him, nails digging into his shoulder blades, arms tucked directly under the wings that curl around you both. The softness is contrasted by the sharpness of his claws against your hips, and the stiffness inside of you. His hips twitch as he struggles to hold himself back, but you don’t worry for a moment. He wouldn’t be rougher than you could handle, you know. His melodic moans sound in your ears, relaxing your muscles and mind.

He gives you a moment to adjust to his size, to the feeling of fullness, before he begins a harsh pace, hips slapping against yours, feathers brushing against you with every thrust. He places open mouthed kisses against your neck, gentle bites against your neck that grow harsher as he begins to lose himself. You don’t know if the warmth dripping down your front is your blood or his saliva. You don’t know if you care.

His thrusts grow quicker and quicker, sloppier and sloppier, furiously pounding into you. His breaths are ragged, frantic, as he chases his high. Your chests rub together, your nipples rubbing against both skin and feathers, the sensation overwhelming. You cry out as you come undone around him, clenching around his length, your body desperately trying to pull pleasure out of him with its own. He spills into you with a groan, warmth filling you as he wraps his arms around your waist, trapping you against him.

“Don’t waste a single drop, little bird.”

He waits for a few minutes, keeping you against him, cooing sweet nothings, before he finally decides he is done. He walks across the rocks, claws softly clicking against stone, before speaking again.

“You did wonderfully.”

You lay back, chest heaving, and he lets you go for the first time since you stepped foot onto the rocks. Your back is against something soft, which you think may be his nest. You feel his hands brush against you as he checks you over, ensuring not of his bites were too deep. He lets out a soft coo when he finds everything to his satisfaction. “Excellent, little bird.” You can hear him fussing with something before you feel something in your mouth, fishy and wet. You gag, and he pulls it out with a displeased hum. “Not right, hm? I’ll find something else.”

You hear his footsteps leave, off to find something else to feed you, and you shift onto your side. Your entire body is sore, and you can feel the cum leaking out onto your thighs, sticky and warm. When you stretch your legs, you feel your foot hit something, and the soft clatter of something hitting the ground. The sound is strange, unfamiliar, and when you open your eyes, you see it.

Bones.

You seem to have kicked the femur of some large animal. It knocked into a pile of smaller bones, some tiny and square and some longer and thinner. Something about them is sickeningly familiar. You try to push down the nausea, ignore the thought that if you peeled back your skin you would find something nearly identical beneath it. For a moment in your mind, you see your lover’s teeth and claws sinking into your skin for you, ripping you apart so very easily, coming to him far more naturally than tenderness ever could. Bile rises in your throat, and all of your muscles tense, ready to scream, to run, to throw yourself off of this cliff and into the waters below because you might survive and even if you didn’t it would surely be a kinder fate than this poor thing had.

“Darling?” Your head shoots up to see him again, hands filled with berries, nuts, and other various plants he seems to have gathered for you. His eyes drift to your feet, and you see understanding in them. “Ah. I see. I should have tidied up earlier.”

As he approaches, you prepare to launch yourself past him, to get as far as you can, but his smile is so gentle as he quietly begins to hum. The song grows louder, and you feel your muscles relax as he steps closer. His hand rests on your cheek, claws held carefully away. He lifts a berry to your mouth, and you open it with ease, allowing him to place it on your tongue. It’s sweet.

He tenderly brushes his hand over your head, continuing his song, pulling you into his chest. You curl into him easily. He hand feeds you every morsel he gathered, smiling all the while. “Everything’s alright, little bird. Nothing to fear. I plan on keeping you around for a very long time.”

Tag List: @pandora-writes-one-piece @shy-writer-999 @saturogojosgirl

[smilelikeacheshirecat]

Date for Castlecoming

Pairings: Bridget Hearts x fem!reader

Genre: fluff

word count: 1624

Summary: Bridget and reader have a crush on each other but reader don’t know Bridget is sad to know you don’t like Castle coming but you pulled out the courage to ask her.

note: I just find Bridget so cute and sweet I couldn’t help but write about her.

Red and Chloe watches as Uliana disappear with all the other villains following after her. 

At least now they know who’s gonna prank Bridget. The two girls then follow to where their mothers ran off to and had finally caught up to them inside.

“How’s Uli doing?” Bridget asked still feeling guilty of what happen. “I feel so terrible. . . . I should go apologize—” before she could turn to look for Uliana, Red had step in front of her, stopping her from leaving.

“Don’t!” Ella said.. “She did it to herself. And it serves her right.” She told her. “She’s always bullying us.” She explained to the two girls.

Red nodded in understanding. But them all heads turn t someone calling for Ella. The door opened, stopping the conversation, and Prince Charming walked in.

“Ella, you that was amazing.” He said to them.

Ella couldn’t help the smile appear in her face at the prince’s arrival.

“You ladies bested Uliana! I don’t think anyone’s ever done that before. That makes you braver than I am. And I’m a prince!” He turned to Red and Chloe. “Though I don’t really like to push the royal angle.”

Chloe couldn’t help but smile at the familiar feeling of seeing her parents together. But red could only jut stare at the prince, her interest in him disappear when Chloe told her that he was her Dad in the future.

“Yet you always find a way,” Ella said stiffly.

Charming grinned at her attitude and turned once more to Red and Chloe.

“You’re the new girls, right? I’m Charming.”

“That’s debatable,” Ella argued.

They’re always the same even in the past. Chloe thought , recalling the same conversation her parents would have back home.

Charming ignored her comment and continued speaking to Red and Chloe. “And you guys picked the right time to show up, because . . . it’s Castlecoming week!” he said a little excited.

He tried to catch Ella’s gaze, wanting to hint something but no luck. She seemed to be intentionally avoiding his’.

“Castlecoming is an outdated, elitist tradition,” Ella informed.

“Wait, so . . . does that mean you’re not . . .” Charming question.

“Squeezing into a super-expensive dress and painful shoes? No thanks,” Ella stated.

Charming tried to hide his disappointment. “Right. Well . . . if you happen to change your mind, I’ll see ya there.” He flipped his hair in his charming way before he turned and took off down the hall.

Ella watched him, her expression unreadable. While her best friend just each them interact with a knowing smile on her face.

“Hey, Ella, he seemed very interested in your plans for the festival,” Chloe said. “Was I sensing some chemistry?” She added in a suggestive tone.

“Uh, no.” Ella scooted at the accusation. She turn to Bridget who was fidgeting with her necklace and gave her a look. “Okay, yeah, everyone loves him. And sure, he’s gorgeous and he seems nice, but you know how royalty is.” But she quickly corrected herself. “Except you, B. You’re different.”

Chloe stared at her mother in disbelief. How her parents had ever ended up together was starting to seem like a mystery to her. She had always thought they re love at first sight but seeing what just happen, that doesn’t seems to be the case.

Bridget sighed longingly. “I just wish someone was that interested in going with me. Everyone already has plans, so . . .��� she explained to Red, having a particular person in mind.

Bridget had intentions of asking but the fear of rejection compels her throw such plans and bury her unresolved feelings deep deep down where no one could every see or find out about.

Red seems to be curious about another information about her life, she never know who her mother ended up with. and hr mother wasn’t one to share such intimate information with her.

During the conversation, something caught Ella’s eyes, she look closer and notice a certain brunette walking on their way, you. Ella looked at her best friend with a sly smile.

“Bridget?”

“Hmm?” Bridget hummed in respond but a yelp escape her lips as Ella abruptly turn her. Now she is face to face with the very brunette she was thinking about.

“Hey Bridget” the brunette princess greeted happily at the sight of the sweet pink princess.

“Hey, Hi hi hi y/n” Bridget couldn’t help but laugh nervously when facing you. A side of her that aren’t normally displayed.

It was most certainly foreign to see her mother like this. Red was already bombarded on how sweet her mother was compared to how she knows her. Red had seen how her mother rule over wonderland for 16 years of her life. The tyrant, said that her dress is as red as blood of all her victims off of their heads. 

“I heard what happen.” you then inspect every each of Bridget, making sure nothing was out of place. You were so worried after you heard what happen that you practically jump from your seat and race to where she is. “I’m glad your okay” you said after making sure she truly is okay.

“Of course I’m fine” Bridget smile again, feeling a little bashful of the display of concern from her. But them a frown reappears on her face as she recalls what happen. “I hope Uli is alright”

You smiled at the girl in front of you. No matter how mean or bad someone can be to her, she would still worry about others before herself. Which sometimes worries you.

“I’m sure she’s fine and probably had it coming so you don’t have to worry about her okay?” you reassured.

“Okay” Bridget nodded and smile at the comfort.

“Hey Ella” You turn to the blue-haired girl who had a cheeky smile on her face as she watches the two of you.

“Hi y/n” Ella greeted you back. Other than Bridget, you were the other princess she likes. “Any plans for Castlecoming?” She asked.

“Oh, well…I despise everything it stands for regardless of me being royal” you said honestly, showing disinterest for the event.

You weren’t one that enjoys dancing around in a heavy, extravagant ball gown, putting fake smiles and forcing to talk with other royal children in hopes of creating friendship with other kingdoms. That would only cause her stress rather than entertainment. You would rather stay in your room or better yet the library with a good book and hot cup beverage and drowning out the worries of reality.

You train of thoughts may had made you missed the sad look in Bridget’s eyes but the other girls in your company didn’t. It was obvious that the Princess of Hearts likes you but she lacks the courage to ask her.

Lucky for her, she doesn’t have to.

Ella cleared her throat, catching your attention.

You turn to look at Ella. The blue-haired girl tilted her head towards Bridget, encouraging her. 

You looked at Bridget who’s sad expression disappeared the moment she notice that you were now looking at her.

“Bridget?” You started.

“Yes?” 

“Will you go to Castlecoming with me?” You cleared your throat and took a deep breath, collecting all your courage and finally asked. It no longer matter to you if you gets rejected today, a long as you were able to asked Bridget. And if she did said yes, then Castlecoming would definitely be more fun.

“But you just said . . .” Bridget started.

“I know but if we go, it won’t be so bad.” You stated.

With that Bridget squealed in delight at the news. “Yes yes yes” she couldn’t contain herself and starts jumping up and down and pulled you into a hug, squeezing in excitement.

“You’re coming too Ella” You declared.”And we’re not taking no for an answer” you said firmly when you saw the girl was about to decline the offer.

“We could set her and Charming for a dance” you whispered to Bridget who smiled in agreement.

With no way out Ella reluctantly agreed. 

“We have to go try on dresses right now.” Bridget let go you before taking Ella’s hand in hers. “We only have two days!” She spun into Ella’s arms.

“I can’t. I have to get back home. But maybe later?”

“Okay,” Bridget said, her smile ever leaving her face.

She was to excited, she’s gong to castle coming with her best friend and the person she’s been meaning to be with. She gave Ella one last squeeze before taking taking your hand, dragging you away with her.

“Who was that?” Red was finally able to asked as she saw the two princess running off to who knows where.

“Princess Y/n also known as Bridget crush since forever” Ella said smiling she was finally seeing Bridget happy with someone. 

But that didn’t clear up anything for Red, she never know anyone by the name Y/n let alone someone who is close to her mom and has feelings for no less. Who is this person and how come she had never meet you before and yet you seems to be someone important to her mother’s life.

Where was this person when the prank happen, how come she had never heard of you before. Too many questions running inside her head that she didn’t question Ella when she left to go home as well.

While at Bridget’s dorm room, she had pulled out ever dress in her clothes checking each one and showing it to you.

To be honest you don’t know which one to choose because Bridget looks beautiful in all of them.

Bridget didn’t mind modeling of her dress, clearly enjoying herself especially now that you and her are together.

They spent most of the day inside the room, enjoying each other’s company as they tried on different dresses they’ll be wearing.

And maybe after Castlecoming you could be more than dates going to the dance.

[defectivevillain]

broken vessels

pairing: Hannibal Lecter/Reader

reader's race and gender are ambiguous; no pronouns or physical descriptors are used. there's one mention of glasses, but that's the extent of my self indulgence.

summary:

You sit down across from Hannibal. It feels like a surrender. The food is quite good, but that realization isn’t enough to keep your despair at bay. The chain around your ankle fixes you to this room, to this meal, to this man sitting across from you. And he knows it, judging from the smile pulling at his lips.

You had no idea just how drastically your life would change after becoming Hannibal Lecter's therapist.

word count: 7.8k | ao3 version

author's notes: This fic has been rotting in my drafts for too long. The transitions are a bit choppy, but I just had to realize this into the wild. So... yeah.

The focus of this fic is Hannibal Lecter/Reader; there is no explicit romance, but I am a diehard fan of the inherent homoeroticism that is Hannibal Lecter. If you’re looking for a happy ending or romance, you won’t find it here. Also this won't be canon compliant, since Sam and Hannibal are very different. You have been warned!

And if you aren’t familiar with The Patient… Well, you’re in for a wild ride. For now, all you need to know is that the reader is a therapist and Hannibal visits them for a session. (And you should also watch the series when you get the chance, because it's very good.)

warnings: canon-typical violence, depictions of mental illness, suicidal ideation, self-harm, hopelessness, kidnapping, captivity/imprisonment, blood and injury, cannibalism

Hannibal Lecter is an interesting patient. You’re not sure what compels him to come to you one dreary morning, when the sky is muddled with grey and there is nothing but the threat of a storm on the horizon. You just know that your doorbell rings at exactly 10:00 a.m., and you open it to find a fine-dressed man with perfectly coiffed hair and an easy smile on his face. The expression is nothing short of polite, yet you feel as if there is unspeakab;e malice dripping from the corners of his lips. You invite him in and urge him to take a seat wherever he feels comfortable. The man regards the room for a moment, before sitting in the armchair you typically sit in. Unperturbed by the seating change, you move to the couch parallel to your usual chair. 

For a while, there is only silence. You get the feeling the man is surveying you, scrutinizing you in his mind’s eye. You watch him and he watches you back. While you’re content to let the silence settle over the room, after a few minutes, you decide to speak up and ask him why he decided to come for a session with you.

The first session doesn’t prove to be entirely eventful, but it rarely is. Since it’s your first interaction, you spend most of the time trying to get to know him better. You learn that the man—Hannibal—was a surgeon and is now a psychiatrist, rather renowned for his research. Idly, you have to wonder how he came across you—and why he’s giving you a chance. Surely Hannibal has access to any of his colleagues, who are distinguished scholars. Maybe he needs a break from that, you then think. 

Ultimately, your first session with Hannibal isn’t cause for concern. Your attention instead falls to your third session together, when you begin to realize that he’s being deliberately vague with his answers—and that he seems to favor dishonesty over truthfulness. 

“Hannibal,” you remark, your heart thudding steadily in your chest, “I get the sense that you haven’t been quite honest with me.” You feel unreasonably apprehensive, as if this single accusation will ruin the little progress you’ve made with him. Yet, you can’t even call your past two sessions “progress,” can you? You spent the entire time attempting to stay afloat amidst the fluid conversation, feeling somewhat frustrated and confused all the same. 

“I’ve been perfectly honest with you,” Hannibal responds. The look on his face is seamlessly calm. You’re nervous, but you continue. Therapy conducted under pretense is pointless, after all. Besides, this man knows what he’s doing. His behavior has been purposeful. 

“You haven’t been,” you say, “and I think we both know that.” Hannibal looks at you—really looks at you—for what feels like the first time. His eyes are a glittering maroon and a slight smile rises on his face. Somehow, you can’t shake the inexplicable feeling that you’ve just made a grave misstep. 

You continue to recall that third session as you stare up at the ceiling of your bedroom, your vision slowly growing fuzzy. You’re tired, but it’s taking you a while to fall asleep. Your mind is racing, recalling several different moments scattered across your lifetime that you’d rather forget. You try to focus on your breathing and, eventually, your eyes fall shut. 

Your dreams are weird—which is saying something, since dreams are usually weird. These particular dreams feel like omens for the future and, if that is the case, then your future can’t be very good. You dream of sharp mirrors, harsh corners, and neatly-carved lines. You dream of an infinite winding labyrinth that you can’t escape from, of a puppet-master watching you stumble through a never-ending maze with amusement, of your tattered visage reflected in the jagged shards of a broken mirror.

You jolt awake with a gasp on your tongue, your throat feeling extremely dry. It takes you a few moments to internalize that you’re awake and no longer dreaming. There’s a cup of water on the bedside table and you reach for it, wincing at how heavy your limbs feel. Eventually, you reach the water and take a sip. The glass is cold against your skin and, when you put it back, you nearly miss your nightstand entirely. That’s a little strange—the nightstand has occupied that position for years. Why would your muscle memory fail you now, all of a sudden? 

You swing your legs to the side of the bed, only to hear an ominous rattling sound—almost reminiscent of metal clinking against the ground. You reach down and try to feel your way around in the dark, grabbing your glasses from the nightstand and putting them on. The darkness momentarily sharpens and a sense of foreboding prickles along your skin. Your surroundings look strangely unfamiliar. Unease pulling at your gut, you reach down, down, down—only to find a thick chain secured around your ankle. You tug at it, panic rising in your chest as you realize it’s not coming off. You then push yourself to your feet and walk a few steps, testing how far the chain will go. It doesn’t reach far enough for you to thoroughly explore the unfamiliar space—just barely getting to the small room that looks to be a bathroom. Upon further investigation, there’s nothing in the bathroom that would help you get the chain off. The toothbrush and disposable toothpaste resting inconspicuously on the counter throw you off guard. Was this planned? It’s abundantly clear to you now that you’ve been kidnapped. Did your captor plan this out and configure this bathroom for a captive?

You manage to convince yourself to move back out to the main room, only to find a meal placed on the small plastic table situated past the end of the bed. You don’t recognize the food and, frankly, you don’t want to know what it is. The thought of food right now is enough to make you nearly throw up. You instead decide to continue testing how far you can move with your chain. It turns out you can’t move very far at all: you only have access to the bed, the nightstands, and the nearby bathroom. There are a set of glass doors across from the bed and hints of the morning sun illuminate the room in a hazy glow, revealing polished furniture and elegant decorations. It seems your captor has rather distinguished tastes. 

In hindsight, seeing Hannibal Lecter come down the stairs moments later is more of a shock than it should be. Your eyes widen and you blink a few times, convinced your mind is conjuring illusions. Hannibal stares at you in return, before sending you a small smile—as if sharing an inside joke.

Meanwhile, you’re panicking. There’s a good chance Hannibal is the one who trapped you here. “Hey, where am I?” You ask apprehensively. Seeing Hannibal simultaneously provokes relief and dread within you. You tug at the chain on your ankle, but it doesn’t budge. “Hannibal? Why am I here?” “This is my home,” Hannibal answers. You feel your heart drop to your stomach. It was a foolish thought to think Hannibal would be here by mere coincidence, but it kept your hopes alive. Now, you’re left to the bleak despair that clings to your ankle like a vice. “I need to speak with you.” 

It takes you a few seconds to comprehend that statement, in the wake of all the thoughts running through your mind. “You could’ve called me to book an appointment,” you eventually point out, struggling to keep yourself calm. You’re trapped here, and the chain on your ankle is extremely thick and sturdy. Not to mention, you can’t reach the door; you don’t have your phone; and you have a bad feeling Hannibal is the sole occupant of this house. How on earth will you escape? 

“This is… an ongoing concern,” Hannibal interjects. It takes you a few moments to process that statement. Then, at your disbelieving look, he continues. “Our typical environment was not suitable.” 

“Not suitable?” Panic is beginning to seep through your voice. You know you should probably be maintaining your composure, but it’s rather difficult to do so when you’re faced with the inevitability of your captivity. “What part of this environment is suitable? I have a chain around my ankle and I can’t leave!” You try to take a deep breath and manifest a level of composure that you certainly don’t have at the present moment. You look eyes with him and attempt to get through to him. “Hannibal. Take this chain off my ankle.” 

You don’t expect your attempt at persuasion to work and, indeed, Hannibal is silent. He regards you for a moment before stepping forward, momentarily fooling you into thinking he may genuinely release you. Then, he takes another step and pulls a chair out from the table to take a seat. He motions for you to take the other seat. You shake your head and remain on the bed, opting to keep as much distance from Hannibal as possible. Unfortunately, it still doesn’t feel like enough—as his eyes pin you in place.

You’re not sure how long you spend trapped in your spiraling thoughts, before you attempt to speak to your captor again. “Hannibal,” you say, trying to maintain your composure. You’re grasping at the sheets of the bed with shaking hands. “Whatever you have to talk about, I am willing to listen to you. But not like this.”

There’s a beat of silence. You aren’t deluded enough to think this conversation is getting you any closer to an escape. Instead, Hannibal regards you for a moment, clasping his hands on the table. He holds his utensils in a strangely tight grip, as if they’re weapons. The knife makes you particularly nervous, but it pales in comparison to his next statement. “You would be legally required to share the information I divulge.” Therapists have a firm code of ethics, which dictates that information must be brought to the local authorities if it involves harm to oneself or others. The thought makes an ugly feeling stew in your stomach. You inhale slowly. 

“This is your last chance,” you warn, despite knowing you have no power in this situation. “Let me go, and I’ll pretend this never happened. We can go back to the way things were. I won’t press charges or anything. Okay?” You think that’s a pretty generous offer, all things considered. 

For a moment, the air is entirely still. Then, the expression on Hannibal’s face flickers. “Would you like something to eat?” he eventually responds.

You stare at him in disbelief. It seems you underestimated Hannibal and his cruelty. Your tongue feels ironed to the roof of your mouth, and you take a deep breath before shaking your head silently. You move back on the bed, your back finding the headboard. You pull your knees up and rest your arms, clasping your hands and closing your eyes. Maybe, if you keep your eyes closed for long enough, this scenario will simply… disappear. 

Hannibal takes a bite of his food, ignorant of your internal conflict. The small clinks of his silverware against the plate are the only noises in the otherwise tense air. Even when Hannibal’s gaze is focused on something else, you feel as if he’s watching you. You don’t dare to move a single muscle. There’s an uncomfortable silence settling in the air. 

“I met with many different therapists,” Hannibal remarks, apropos of nothing. He levels you with a scrutinizing gaze. You blink and you see your head on his dinner plate. You shake off the grotesque thought. “I chose you.” Is that supposed to make you feel better? It only makes you feel more uneasy.

After some time eating silently, Hannibal gets up from his seat and takes his empty plate. You watch as he steps towards the hallway from which he came—leaving you suspicious and wary as you wait for something to happen. In the time after his departure, you’re still tense. Will he be back soon? You’re not sure how long you sit there, dreading his return. 

Eventually, after what must be at least two hours, you conclude that Hannibal won’t be returning. You decide to lie down, curling up on your side. Perhaps if you close your eyes, you’ll wake up from this nightmare. 

…But the universe isn’t that merciful, and you wake up hours later with a helplessness that clings to your skin. This wasn’t some twisted nightmare—it’s reality. And your reality is inescapable. You’re a bird with clipped wings, trapped in a gilded cage. 

Hannibal visits in the middle of the day. Your eyes follow him the moment he enters the room; as if recognizing this, he seems to take delight in moving as agonizingly slow as possible. Despite the deliberate slow pace to his movements, you recognize the show for what it is. Hannibal is a predator on the prowl. You are his prey, left baring your bleeding flesh before a salivating maw.

It’s not helpful to think about what you could have done instead of pushing him to be honest. But you think about it anyway. If you had let him have his lies, his understanding but strained smiles… what would have happened? The self-defeating part of you wants to say he would’ve left you alone, but you know that’s a desperate thought. No. Somehow, you piqued Hannibal’s interest from the moment you found him on your doorstep.

Realistically speaking, he could’ve been watching you long before that. You’re not sure if he’s the type to stalk people; then again, you didn’t characterize him as the kidnapping type at first, and look where you are now. The thought drags a wry laugh from your lips, inadvertently drawing Hannibal’s attention towards you. He motions for you to join him at the table, where he’s prepared some sort of meal. Despite your growling stomach, you refuse the offer. Hannibal only raises a brow, as if he sees your fleeting attempt at resistance and views it to be a waste of time. Your refusal does give you an illusion of control. You feel as if you have power—however slight—over this situation. 

You don’t think you’ll cave so quickly, but by the time he returns that night with a late dinner, you’re fighting off the instinct to join him at the table. As if recognizing this, Hannibal stares at you with twinkling eyes. You grit your teeth. Unfortunately, you don’t really have a choice anymore. If you want to navigate his mind games, you need to be completely focused. Your hunger and aching stomach can’t serve as distractions. 

You sit down across from him. It feels like a surrender. The food is quite good, but that realization isn’t enough to keep your despair at bay. The chain around your ankle fixes you to this room, to this meal, to this man sitting across from you. And he knows it. 

As you’re eating, you realize you’ve been given a knife. You frown and look at the meal before you. There’s meat on Hannibal’s plate, but not on yours. Why were you given a knife, if you didn’t need one? Initially, you want to think it’s just a mistake. But you don’t think your captor would overlook something like that. Nearly every action of Hannibal's so far has been purposeful, even if that purpose was beyond your understanding. It’s very hard to believe that the knife is a simple oversight. 

But the knife’s purpose doesn’t really matter. All that matters is that you have a weapon. Hannibal is well within striking range, since the table you’re eating at is rather small. You could easily reach out and stab him in the hand, but then what…? You would still have the chain on your ankle. If you dealt him a powerful blow, you could incapacitate him at the very least. You’re not familiar with knives, though, so an attempt to incapacitate him could quickly become a murder. That’s a risk you think you’re going to have to take. You’re not sure when you’ll have another opportunity like this. 

You reach out and take both your fork and knife, pretending you’re going to cross them on your plate to signal that you’re finished with the meal. Your hand doesn’t want to relinquish its awkward grip on the knife, though. Something about the blade’s steady pressure against your palm is grounding. You realize you’re drawing blood when droplets fall to mark the wooden table. Hannibal’s eyes follow the movement, as if he actually heard the sound of your blood hitting the surface of the table. He’s momentarily distracted.

So you strike. 

At least, you try to. When his attention is captured, you slide your grip down to the handle of the knife, winding back and aiming at his neck. But Hannibal is inhumanly fast, and he quickly grabs your wrist with bruising strength until the utensil clatters back to its place on the table. Your eyes meet and you see only raw, unadulterated fury. A shiver crawls down your spine as a bone-deep fear settles past your skin. You’re going to die. 

Seconds drag on and, while Hannibal is still holding your wrist, the strength of his grip slowly fades. The silence is almost more painful than the white-hot irritation of the gash on your palm. With bated breath, you watch as Hannibal lets your wrist fall. Dread churning in your stomach, you’re frozen as he leaves the room. Terror stews in your chest at the anticipation he’s leaving you in. What weapon will he choose to end your life? 

Hannibal returns moments later with a clear container. You bite the inside of your cheek and watch silently as he approaches you, setting the bin on the table before taking your wrist and studying the minor gash on your palm. Something close to disapproval passes over his face for a quick second, before it’s replaced with a clinical gaze. 

Your hand is trembling ever so slightly. If Hannibal notices, he doesn’t mention it. Instead, he obtains ointment from the container of medical supplies and spreads it along your scrape—before wrapping a bandage around your hand and wrist. His movements are precise and practiced; even if you were unaware of his background, you’d know he had experience as a medical practitioner. 

“Don’t try that again.” His voice is deceptively light; you don’t need to look far to see the anger coiled in his tight shoulders. You nod silently, your throat burning as you’re overcome with your own helplessness. With that, he walks back to the table, collects the dishes, and leaves the room. You stare down at your newly-bandaged hand, a renewed anguish promptly replacing any hope for escape. That attempt just now was a colossal failure. You didn’t think you were too obvious about your intentions, but he had reacted as if he expected you to stab him. Maybe that knife was placed there purposefully. Maybe, for reasons beyond your current comprehension, Hannibal wanted you to threaten his life. 

You really don’t know what to do with that information. You settle for reclining on the mattress and closing your eyes, still fighting off that foolish hope that you’ll wake sweat-soaked in your own bedroom, breathing hard from the fictitious nightmare you just experienced. 

Not much is born from your failure to escape, save for a few things: 1) a downgrade to plastic silverware, which makes you laugh in hysterical defeat; 2) pervasive hopelessness; and 3) a need for a new coping mechanism. Planning to escape no longer seems like a productive use of your time—trying to create something out of nothing is just insanity. Instead of maniacally going through every physically possible way to escape—a list which currently has zero items on it—you find yourself meditating. 

You were never the meditative type; you had many therapists who told you to meditate on your problems, and you promised yourself that you would never give that kind of advice to your patients. Mindfulness itself isn’t a bad suggestion, but the suggestion of meditation—crossed legs, pinched fingers—always felt like a slap in the face. 

You were so desperate once that you gave it a try. Predictably, your skeptical nature prevented it from actually working. But, ironically, when you tried it again a few days later, you found that you were able to compartmentalize your thoughts better. It didn’t necessarily make you feel calm in the way everyone claimed it did, but meditation helped you sort out the seemingly infinite tangle of problems in your mental cobweb. And if that cobweb was tangled before, it’s an absolute wreck now. Trapped in a man’s basement with no means of escape is a never-ending fountain of dread, regret, fear, and stress. 

At first, you just try to count to large numbers in your head. It helps you pass the time, in a room with no other form of entertainment. You slowly work your way up to tackling actual thoughts from there, and you find that, with time, you’re able to suppress unwanted feelings slightly. It’s nothing ground-breaking. But coping with your situation is one hell of a difficult task, so you’re proud of yourself for making any progress at all. 

This meditation becomes somewhat of a routine. You find yourself retreating into the depths of your mind at least once a day, if not two or three times. It’s a welcome escape from the unfamiliar room around you. Everything fades away, until you’re submerged in an endless void. Memories flicker before your eyes in brief flashes of light, visible but intangible. 

This meditation has one flaw: it leaves you entirely unguarded and defenseless. You were preoccupied with this notion during your first few attempts, but after you returned to the empty room each time, you began to forget your fear. But losing that fear made you complacent. You soon found yourself entirely ignoring the room around you—ignoring footsteps, ignoring shadows passing across the walls. While you often returned to reality to find yourself alone… that wasn’t always the case. 

When you’re finished with meditation one night, you open your eyes to find Hannibal standing in front of you. You immediately flinch and suck in a startled breath, nearly falling backwards on the bed as you create more distance between the two of you. It doesn’t take much contemplation to understand what he’s doing here. He was watching you, observing you. You never noticed him cross the threshold of the doorway; you didn’t notice him approach you with intrigue in his eyes as he regarded your vulnerable form. You were lost in the workings of your mind palace, your eyes closed and hands clasped in your lap.

“Hannibal,” you say, when you regain the ability to speak. “You scared me.” That’s an understatement. Your heart is positively racing in your chest. Hannibal has that damned smirk on his face, suggesting that your terror only amuses him. You grit your teeth and pretend not to notice the satisfaction practically radiating off of him. 

He finally stops looming over you, turning on his heel and walking over to the table. When he takes a seat, he immediately looks at you expectantly. “Take a seat,” Hannibal verbalizes, when a few seconds pass and you don’t make a move. 

You do as requested, albeit with a lot of restless fidgeting. Whenever the two of you sit at the table and there isn’t any food, you know a therapy session is beginning. Admittedly, your interactions so far barely qualify as sessions—Hannibal has still been frustratingly vague with what he’s experiencing, leaving you with virtually nothing to give to him in return. 

This session is nothing new. His ambiguity is still infuriating, but you find yourself grappling with a newer impatience. When it becomes clear that the conversation isn’t going anywhere, you hear yourself speaking. “I thought we promised to be honest with one another.” You wait with bated breath. Hannibal looks tightly coiled, as if ready to strike at any moment. But he remains silent, which pushes you to continue. “You’re still not being honest with me.”

“Very well,” Hannibal nods. You both know it’s true. Hannibal has only spoken of ambiguous urges that nearly consume him. These urges are evidently negative and almost mirror compulsions. However, from what you’ve seen of Hannibal so far, he has finely-regulated emotional control. Is he really a victim to these negative urges, or is he their puppetmaster? Your instincts gravitate towards the latter, but you aren’t prepared for the verbal confirmation he gives you. “I am a serial killer and a cannibal.” 

You immediately scrutinize him, looking for the signs you’ve grown to attribute to dishonesty. But there is only unapologetic candor… and an almost boundless hunger. You loathe how quick you are to believe such an outlandish statement. But, in the wake of your captivity, you’ve grown somewhat used to outlandishness. After all, Hannibal went so far as to kidnap you indefinitely—it’s been abundantly clear since you woke in this room that he is not a good person. His thinly-veiled fury has always been present—it is only now that you are able to attribute it to something. 

Your gaze is then unwittingly pulled down, past his neatly-ironed suit and to the wooden table before you. You think back to all the meals you’ve been fed and you look back up at him, unable to hide your fear and revulsion. “Have you…?” You’re at a loss for words. 

“I have not fed you anything untoward,” Hannibal answers. You’re briefly grateful, before you chastise yourself for the emotion. Why are you grateful to your captor for showing you the smallest of mercies? You are still trapped here. You have been shown the most basic of human decencies: food and water. Privacy and safety are distant memories, at this point. 

“You’re a serial killer and a cannibal,” you hear yourself repeat. Your voice sounds foreign and unrecognizable, in the wake of this horrifying revelation. “That’s…” You choke out, entirely unsure of what to say. 

Hannibal tries to keep talking, but you place your hands on the table and get to your feet. The chain on your ankle clinks menacingly as you move away from the table and towards the bed. You know better to turn your back on the man, so you instead perform an awkward side-shuffle until you’re seated on the bed. Hannibal finishes his meal in silence and leaves you alone in the basement. You break down soon after. 

Each time you blink, you see eyes glazed over in death; limbs stiff and unfeeling; lips parted but unbreathing. Every morning, you’re brutally torn from your sleep and forced to wake up in a nightmare. You are rotting behind these nondescript walls and no one has seemed to notice. What of your family and friends? Where are they now? Is anyone looking for you, or have you been banished to the uncompromising soil and cold headstones in a barren field? 

You haven’t caught even a trace of happiness throughout your captivity here. Fear, unease, and desperation have forced you into compliance. There’s a constant burning sensation in your throat and behind your eyes, as you mourn for the tragedies of tomorrow. Your life here is dictated by Hannibal’s whims. And, worst of all, your death is completely inevitable. You have no sense of the passage of time, yet the threat of your end seems to come ever closer with each passing moment.

There are only so many mind games you can subject yourself to before you have to face the grim reality: you are trapped here, and you likely will be trapped here for the remainder of your life. Whether that’s several weeks, eight months, or a few years�� You will be confined here until Hannibal grows disinterested. Whatever the source of his interest, one thing is certain: this intrigue persuades him to spare you. But, as patient as Hannibal seems to be, you know it will only be a matter of time before he snaps. 

Sometimes, in the middle of the night, you can hear your own bones cracking and snapping under his grip. Sometimes, in the light of day, you can see bright patrol lights reaching out to you through the screen door, beckoning you back to your life. But none of it is real. Nothing is tangible, save for the chain suffocating your ankle and the fear that keeps you from acting out or attempting to escape again.

In light of Hannibal’s confession, you feel… empty. A part of you is almost hopeful—even desperate—for an end to your confinement. That part of you longs to test the limits of Hannibal’s patience, in the hopes of breaking it and triggering the final chapter of your life. 

Safe to say, you aren’t sure what to do with yourself anymore. Everything feels completely pointless. You’re just waking up to fall asleep again the next night; eating to put off the gnawing feeling in your stomach; living to die. Each day simultaneously feels like a victory and a defeat. 

One question still begs your attention: why are you here? In your first session, Hannibal had maintained the illusion that he wanted to get better. The same can’t be said anymore: he shows no regret for the things he’s done. There isn’t even a hint of remorse in his answers to your questions, which only confuses you more. He does not want to improve. 

One particular morning, you decide to ask him. After all, you have virtually nothing left to lose. You would welcome an escape from this situation—any violence from him would only provide a merciful end to your suffering. “Why are you still entertaining all of this?” You blurt out before you can stop yourself. Hannibal is entirely static as he stares at you, no hint of emotion in his eyes. You can only imagine what he’s thinking. “You don’t want to get better. You show no remorse for your victims. Therapy is conducted under the pretense that the client wants something. As you’re aware, that is often support, self-actualization, or even just someone to listen to them… What do you want?”

“I’m glad I chose you,” Hannibal says, his eyes glimmering. 

“You haven’t answered my question,” you frown. 

“Company,” he answers. 

You study him for a long moment. “Do you feel unsatisfied with your current attachments?” You ask, squinting at him. “You once told me you host dinner parties frequently. You’ve never expressed difficulties with making friends, but you also never speak about the ones you do have.” You wouldn’t be surprised if Hannibal didn’t have any friends—he doesn’t seem the type.

“Perhaps I think them to be beneath me,” he remarks casually. 

“Sure,” you say. That sounds about right, but you know things are rarely so simple and straightforward. “But then how do you fulfill your basic interpersonal needs? Are you constantly pretending?” You push. 

His silence is enough of an answer. Something ugly stews in your chest. You hate that you’re entertaining this—that you’re even pretending this man is redeemable. Yet what other choice do you have? When it comes down to it, you don’t want to die in this basement. You’ll do whatever it takes to ensure you escape that fate. Even if that means asking questions that you really don’t want the answers to. Somehow, you manage to push the off-putting words from your lips. “How do you choose your victims?”

Hannibal raises his brows, evidently surprised that you asked. He almost looks impressed. The recognition nauseates you: why are you so desperate for his approval? “I exchange business cards with people I meet,” Hannibal responds. That uneasy feeling is only increasing, continuing to prickle along your skin. “The cards of those who are particularly rude… are set aside.”

You force yourself to maintain some semblance of composure, even if you know the effort will be obvious. “And then?” Your voice is deceptively light, despite your pulse practically thrumming with uneasy anticipation. “What pushes you to make a move?”

“Anger,” he answers. His eyes gleam a foreboding crimson in the dim light of the basement. Every nerve in your body is screaming at you to stop talking, yet you continue relentlessly. 

“No,” you immediately argue before you can stop yourself. “It’s not anger.” Hannibal raises a brow, challenging you to provide a better explanation. 

You pause to review everything you’ve learned about Hannibal so far. His secretive, elusive nature suggests that he isn’t killing for attention or pride.  Sure, anger could be a motivator, but above that… “It’s boredom,” you realize aloud. “You’re bored. Very little interests you, especially when you have so few genuine relationships. Killing actually makes you feel something—an emotion you’re unable to find elsewhere.”

You’re gripping the arms of your chair hard enough to send bolts of pain sliding through your fingers. One wrong move and he could lash out at you, ending your escape attempt before it can even truly begin. “Try as you might to replicate that feeling… You can’t.”

You’re not sure what reaction you’re expecting. Yet you’re still shocked to see Hannibal smile—a twisted, malicious thing that tears your breath from your chest. You’re immediately overcome with the inexplicable conviction that you’ve just supplied the last nail in your own coffin.

“My whole life, I have been thinking…. thinking… trying to figure myself out so I can help other people understand themselves.” You say some time later, staring up at the ceiling. Your fingers twitch restlessly in the plush brown armchair you find yourself sitting in. The room is warmly lit, with bookshelves lining the walls. Across from you sits your old therapist. “And here I am,” you continue wryly, “Talking to my dead therapist.”

There’s a healthy glow to Charlie’s warm brown skin; he looks entirely at ease. “Why do you think that is?” He asks. Irritation floods through you. Charlie is just a figment of your imagination—a device your mind is using to attempt to cope with the trauma of this situation. But even this manifestation of Charlie is unrelenting, just as he once was. 

“Come on, Charlie,” you groan. His expression says, Humor me. You take a slow breath. A thump from upstairs draws you to look up at the ceiling, before you’re returning your eyes to Charlie and the space around him. “Fine. I was kidnapped by a serial killer and I have no chance of escape. No one is going to find me and I’m going to rot down here.”

Speaking on your thoughts ushers in a new sense of finality and it’s greatly unsettling. Charlie, on the other hand, is entirely unaffected. Whether that’s because he’s already dead or simply because he has a firm handle on his emotions, you’re unsure. 

You’re not sure how long you spend falling apart on that armchair, nor how long it takes for you to pull yourself back together. All you know is this unfamiliar feeling that tugs you back up above the roaring waves, pushing you to try again when all feels pointless. “I can’t die here,” you announce. The words linger in the air long after you utter them.

“So don’t,” Charlie replies simply. 

“I wish it were that easy,” you breathe. Faint traces of voices break you from your reverie and you stare at the basement wall intensely, before abandoning the gesture moments later when nothing happens. You look back at Charlie, whose eyes snap back to you as if he was also distracted by the sound. “Hannibal… He’s too perceptive. It won’t work.” You’re forced to think back to the rapidity with which he disarmed you.

You sense what Charlie’s going to say before he says it. “You don’t know that unless you try.”

“There’s no point,” you sigh frustratedly. 

“How long will you perpetuate this cycle?” Charlie asks, a worried frown on his face. “You give yourself hope, only to take it away again. You are the one in control here.” 

That’s not true. You’re not in control—Hannibal is the puppet master. But you suppose your therapist is correct, in a sense: your emotions are your own. “Fine,” you acquiesce. “I need to put an end to this. I can’t be trapped down here for the rest of my life. I need to try, at the very least.”

Somehow, the placating smile on Charlie’s face still looks smug. You put it down to your imagination. “What are your options, then?” He questions.

“Well…” You trail off. “I could fashion a weapon out of something in the room. But I’ve been downgraded to plastic silverware since the fork incident…”

“I could also try to reason with him. That definitely wouldn’t work, because he’s already convinced and can’t be persuaded. Hannibal shows no remorse for his actions and he will likely spend the rest of his life killing.”

You find yourself faced with the same troubling conclusion that has provoked your inaction. “I have no power, no authority in this situation.” It doesn’t take long for the reality of the situation to set in once more. “He’s not trying to get better.” Only in the depths of your mind, before your conjured visage of Charlie, does your voice betray the defeat you feel. 

“But he brought you here,” Charlie reminds you. You tap your fingers restlessly against the arm of the chair. “He must’ve taken you for a reason, even if it wasn’t for you to help him. What do you think that reason is?” He prompts. 

“He’s…” You break off. “He enjoys being in control and exerting authority.” That explanation sounds flimsy, even to you. The truth of the matter is staring you in the face, but you’re too unsettled to acknowledge it. 

“You’re grossly underestimating your value,” Charlie hums, perceptive as always. “You are valuable to him.” You’re unwittingly reminded of his gentle touch as he bandaged your palm; the intensity with which he gazes at you (especially when he thinks you don’t notice). You can deny it no longer. 

“Somehow, I interest him.” You say. Charlie nods; you’re on the right track. Something pushes you to shake your head and abandon that thought process. Inexplicably, you know you won’t like what you find there if you push any further. 

“I need to focus on how to get out of here,” you announce. Charlie arches a brow, but gracefully allows you to change the subject. Yet the unspoken sentiment adds a tension to the air that wasn’t present previously. You both know just how far Hannibal’s intrigue goes, yet you’re not comfortable with addressing it. 

“You’ve looked around the room,” Charlie then prompts. 

“Many times,” you acquiesce. “I guess it wouldn’t hurt to look again. There are two padlocks—one on the bedpost and one on the chain around my ankle. The lock on the chain could be picked with a pin. I doubt he has a pin lying around, but a nail or something like that could work…” 

Charlie nods approvingly. You roll your eyes and willingly retreat from your mind palace, returning to the room around you with renewed resolve. That resolve slowly wanes when you don’t find anything in the main room. But when you walk into the bathroom, you realize there’s a landscape painting on the wall. It must be secured with a nail. Surely enough, when you remove it from the wall, a single nail is left behind. It looks bent already, but it’ll have to do. Studying the room, you decide to stuff the painting in the cabinets beneath the sink. You’ve never seen Hannibal use this bathroom and you’ll have to trust that assumption. Hope brews in your chest, but you can’t quite bring yourself to trust it. 

When you leave the bathroom and enter the basement, you sit on the bed in silence—waiting for Hannibal to stalk in and thwart your escape attempts. After an immeasurable amount of time spent holding your breath, you manage to convince yourself to work on the padlock around your ankle. The nail you found is rigid and uncompromising, which forces you to exert an unnecessary amount of strength to manipulate it into a suitable shape. 

The chain is rattling ever so slightly as you attempt to free yourself from it. Your breathing is extremely loud in your ears and you’re frantically fighting off the growing potential for Hannibal to walk in and catch you in the middle of the act. Your heart is thudding steadily and quickly in your chest. This is the moment you’ve been waiting for. You’ve waited for this chance and you’re not going to blow it. Your fingers calloused and throbbing, you firmly maneuver the nail and the padlock finally pops open. You place it on the bed gently, before shakily taking off the manacle. Your ankle is bruised and irritated, but it’s not broken and you don’t feel too much pain. After a moment, you decide to hide the padlock under the comforter. It doesn’t really matter if you hide it—Hannibal will notice your absence regardless. 

You take a deep breath and get off the bed, stealthily walking towards the glass doors at the other side of the room. You’ve been staring through them for so long now, but you were never able to get close enough to open them—let alone see your surroundings. Now, you find that it’s afternoon—as the sun casts a warm glow on the sky. You slide the lock of the door and pull up on the interior pin, before gently sliding it. Of course, the door catches on the track and shudders—but you manage to put it back as quietly as you can. 

Your shoes finally meet the pavement and you’re free. You’re actually free. 

You take a deep breath of fresh air and survey your surroundings, only to see a never ending expanse of trees on all sides. You’re in the middle of the woods. 

Fuck. 

You had a clear plan in your mind: escape the house, run down the populated street, and find the nearest approachable stranger to ask for help. The second step of your plan has already failed: there is no street or neighborhood—only forest as far as the eye can see. It takes everything you have not to fall to your knees and cry. Crying won’t do you any good.

At first, you take silent, measured steps away from the house—afraid to make any sound. As the house shrinks in the distance, however, you break into a jog and, eventually, a full-out sprint. You don’t know where you’re going—you just hope to put as much distance between Hannibal and you as possible. (Of course, it’s likely that he knows these woods a lot better than you do. That’s only another reason to prioritize speed over getting your bearings.)

In hindsight, you wish you had attempted to sneak upstairs and steal something from his house: a wallet, a phone, a weapon, anything. But you just couldn’t risk it. Not to mention… you had banked on finding yourself in a cookie-cutter neighborhood, not in the middle of nowhere. 

You’re not sure how long you’re running. You don’t stop until your legs threaten to give out. Then, you brace yourself against a tree and try to catch your breath for a few minutes. The pain in your chest fading and your breath restored, you remove your hand from the tree and stand upright—only to see a figure a short distance from you. You squint and try to make it out. For a moment, it’s stationary and you’re fooled into thinking it’s an object. Then it moves, and you’re forced to come to a nauseating conclusion: Hannibal followed you. 

“No,” you say. “No, no, no, no.” Your shoe slides back as you step backwards, leaves and sticks crunching under your feet. You’re hardly able to believe your eyes—frozen in fear as Hannibal strides towards you. Your survival instincts don’t kick in until he’s far closer, and you immediately whip around and run. 

You don’t get far before he’s tackling you to the ground. The sharp edges of his body press into you and you try to throw him off, bucking underneath him. His grip is insistent and he stares down at you with a blank expression. You manage to pull your knee up far enough to hit him, causing his grip to slacken and giving you an outlet of escape. You shove him off of you and kick at his side, but he manages to maneuver to the side and dodge. 

Something at his side catches the light. He’s holding a knife. You’re holding your hands out in front of you, as if that will somehow stop the killer in front of you from making you another victim. With blinding speed, Hannibal is lunging towards you and sinking the knife into your thigh. You scream and manage to push him away, though your attempt at disarming him is futile. You immediately clamp a hand against your bleeding leg, gritting your teeth as stars pass across your vision. Hannibal continues his pursuit, forcing you to stumble backwards. 

“Hannibal,” you choke out, your voice thick. You think you taste blood in your mouth—probably from biting the inside of your cheek too hard. There is almost no emotion in Hannibal’s eyes, save for one confusing one: betrayal. Did he expect you to stay? “Please.” What are you begging for? Do you want mercy, or do you want an end to this madness? 

Either way, Hannibal extends his hand towards you. You’re shaking, blood dripping from your lip as you stare at him. The gesture is a peace offering of sorts: come willingly, and I won’t hurt you, he’s trying to say. You’re not so easily fooled. You never had a choice. 

You still shake your head, a pained whimper wrenching its way out of your lips. You instinctively step backwards. In the blink of an eye, the world is spinning around you and you’re falling to the forest floor. (If a tree falls in a forest with no one to hear it, does it make a sound?) You blink dazedly, your vision slowly blurring. Leaves crunch near your cheek as Hannibal draws ever closer. You try to reach out a hand to resist, but you can only twitch for moments before your eyes are slipping shut. 

When you can finally fight off the exhaustion seeping into your form, you blink past dry eyes and stare up at an achingly familiar ceiling. You push yourself up weakly, only to find yourself in Hannibal’s basement once more. There’s a sturdier chain around your ankle, and a new, bulkier padlock securing the chain. All you can hear is your ragged breathing and the awful ringing in your ears. Taking a shuddering breath, you bury your head in your hands.

endnotes: Here's some dialogue I couldn’t find a place for:

“I don’t particularly care.” “That doesn’t sound like you,” Hannibal responds. “You don’t know me,” you feel the need to remind him. “And I haven’t felt like myself in quite some time.”

Hannibal's boujee ass definitely has a state of the art security system in his home… Methinks the reader triggered the alarm system in their escape and it sent Hannibal's phone a notification…

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[darkdevasofdestruction]

The White Rose of Jerusalem ~ King Baldwin IV x Reader

Summary: As a young girl, Y/N had the honour of marrying the King of Jerusalem, just before the healers found out of his fatal diagnosis. Though she had the choice of backing down from a fruitless marriage, she remained faithful to the young boy-King who captured her heart.

Note: I know the chance of people knowing this movie are very slim, but I was long fascinated by King Baldwin IV and re-watching this movie for the N-th time only reinforced that notion; And I’m too hyperfixated to study for exams, so I gotta do this.

Note 2: I have two endings in mind, one with a happy ending, which will be the default one, and another, with an angsty, sad one, which I will be writing under a line and a warning. :) Hope you’ll like it!

Note 3: The lyrics from the Angsty Ending come from the song ‘Luthien’s Lament’ by Eurielle, with some words alternated, to fit the story. Hope you like it, and that you will be compelled to check out her fantastic work! https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4F3X5CrPn8I

She was just a little girl, not even a decade old, when she was chosen as the most fitting candidate at being the future wife of young lord Baldwin IV, the future King of Jerusalem. A beautiful lad with long locks of gold like a field of wheat shining in the summer sun, and eyes as blue as the celestial azure sky, fair skin, flawless and angelic like that of the most beloved seraphim, and a voice so soft and tender that would put anyone to ease.

Princess Y/N was so nervous - How could she possibly compare to... How could she possibly become good enough to stay around the future King of Jerusalem? Her worries were plaguing her mind so much, that she simply stared at him, with the eyes of a scared fawn, completely forgetting that she was supposed to do a pretty courtesy and speak.

But the boy could see your pretty face as pink as a lovely flower in bloom, from something as silly as nervousness around him; He chivalrously offered his hand for her to take, and he guided her away from the wave of adults they were surrounded by, and outside, to the lush gardens of Jerusalem where there was nobody to bother them. He hummed idly and scanned the place, before abruptly stopping in from of a bush, and cut a single white rose, which he de-thorned and put in her hair. “There, a beautiful flower, for a beautiful lady.” she couldn’t help but cast her eyes down, unable to meet his. “You see, out of all the flowers in the world, I think a white rose fits you best.” he smiled down at her. “Do you know their meaning, My Lady?” Y/N began biting on her bottom lip, whilst her fingers were anxiously fidgeting and picking at one another. “Forgive me for my rudeness, Your Majesty. I did not mean to disrespect you with my silence and awful behaviour.” The young lad tilted his head to the side in confusion, before reaching out to her hands, holding them dearly. “You have not offended me, My Lady. Still, I would like to request you not to harm such beautiful hands. I have never felt anything as delicate as them, not even flower petals.” her timidness was adorable, he noted. “You need naught feel uncomfortable around me, nor abide to such formalities. I would like for you to speak freely - You are soon to be my lovely wife, and I wish for you to become my confidante.” Baldwin could feel her hands tightening their grip slightly on his own. “I am asking again, whether or not you know the symbolism of white roses -- May I call you by your name? I wish for you to do the same in return.” “Y-Yes, of course, Your Majesty, you may call me as you wish.” the boy’s eyebrows furrowed slightly. “Baldwin. My name is Baldwin. Do call me that.” the alarmed look in those gorgeous eyes of hers, that resembled the most precious gems, only made him realise the overly strict upbringing that she had, so afraid to step the wrong way, or do any kind of misdeed, in fear of being punished, or quite possibly, bringing about Armageddon. “I-I could never show such disrespect to the future King of Jerusalem!” the boy let out an amused exhale, before gently raising her chin up to have her look at him. “Y/N. We are going to be married. For you, I will not be the King. I will be your Husband. If the two of us do not trust each other whole-heartedly, then who else can we trust?” Baldwin finally felt a little satisfaction once she finally dared meet his sight, only for her to bow to him deeply, which once again, confused him. “I wish I will one day end up being a person that you can rely on... Baldwin.” the childish smile of glee that the boy held made her heart leap. “I do not know much, but I wish to learn everything. I was limited in everything I was taught, in detriment of becoming the perfect wife and mother, fit for the King of Jerusalem, so much so that I forgot that I am allowed to live for myself.” “Then I will teach you how to live.”

Though she continued to be as shy as ever, barely capable of speaking up, especially to adults, Baldwin was graced with the most dazzling smiles from the young beauty, whom he’d teasingly call ‘My Wife’ with every chance he got. They were so adorable together, and so very in love with each other, that his elder sister, Sibylla, although jealous of their happiness, would often declare them as ultimate soulmates. They were glued to each other.

It was Baldwin who encouraged her to approach the horses and tend for them, and it was his instructors who taught her how to ride, so that they could ride together whenever they wanted to have some fun, by themselves; The young Price could see the remarkable bond she had made with all of the horses she took care of - Only the most gentle person could create such a connection with a sensitive animal like that.

They would write and recite love poems for each other, though the boy was much bolder than her, and would have to read her love confessions himself. In spite of that, she was content with singing for him, which would, in turn, urge him to ask her for a dance, outside, in the gentle moonlight.

Though he wasn’t one for painting, he loved all of the flowers that Y/N would paint for him - She only ever liked drawing flowers of all kinds, and pretty landscapes; And he would hang around all of her most precious masterpieces in his own bedroom.

They were doing everything together, to the point that Sibylla felt a little lonely, but Baldwin became even more enamoured with Y/N during one evening, when he was pondering over a chess puzzle made by one of his instructors; And there she came in, like Virgin Mary herself, brightening up his dimly lit room. She towered for a few seconds over the chess board, and moved a single piece before flicking over the enemy King piece. Baldwin looked up at her, then back at the board, and up again in complete disbelief - Such an easy solution, yet he kept overcomplicating a thousand useless and difficult ideas, only to end up with no outcome except for his own ultimate failure.

The boy shot up to his feet and engulfed his lady in his arms with so much love, kissing both of her cheeks. “You are a fantastic strategist, my rose! You are going to be my most treasured advisor!” “Oh, I could never - I just moved a piece, nothing that great!” but the boy shook his head vigorously.  “Nonsense! I’ve been losing nights over this, and I couldn’t figure it out! If it weren’t for your insight, I would have continued to agonise over it.” he explained tenderly. “Even the wisest of kings need new opinions and views.” “Then, I hope I will continue inspiring you in the future also, and that you will see me as worthy of staying by your side.” the boy could see small tears gleaming in her eyes, though she held the most beautiful smile he’s ever seen. “I wish for nothing more than to see you succeed and be known in history as the best King that Jerusalem ever had.” with a burst of boldness, she embraced her fiance tightly, nuzzling her face in the crook of his neck. “I love you.” “Generations forward will be hearing of the wisest and most supportive Queen of Jerusalem, the one who equally reigned alongside her King; the one so kind and caring that all our people will look up to her.” he smiled tenderly, his hand caressing her soft locks. “Just like the purest white rose, so innocent and beautiful, wise, enlightening, intelligent, inspiring of hope, compassion, peace, humility, understanding, tranquility.” cupping her face, he tilted her head so that he could touch his forehead to her own. “And representing of an eternal love, genuine and unbreakable.” his voice was so soft, so loving. “I love you.”

But this love was soon going to be put to test on one day, when the young prince was outside, playing around with other noble boys, while Y/N was making flower crowns and embroidering with the girls. The boys would pinch each other, and rough each other up, scratch and slap their arms; They made so much noise, crying out, whining, whimpering and yelling from paint, but it was Baldwin alone who uttered no sound, and remained as quiet as the lake.

“My love, you are bleeding!” Y/N rushed to his side, stopping his friends from continuing to play around.  “Oh, is that so? I have not noticed.” he looked down at his arm, examining all the marks left on his skin, and although they looked painful, he could barely feel anything more than a simple pressure. He could barely even feel her touch. “Have not noticed?! Your whole arm is in awful shape!” the girl shook her head in worry before turning around to look for any of his mentors. “Lord Godfrey! Lord Godfrey, please do come over!” once the man stepped in front of them, Y/N explained what happened - From the concerned look that the adult tried to conceal from them, the girl realised he suspected something with a grim epilogue.

The young prince was treated by the royal physicians the whole day, while Y/N remained alone in his room, pacing around aimlessly and agonising over the truth being concealed from her, yet after many hours, when the Moon took over the skies, and the stars were twinkling the brightest, Baldwin was returned to his bedroom. As Y/N tried to run over and engulf him in her arms, she was stopped by Lord Godfrey. “Princess, I know that you cherish the Prince dearly, but I bare terrible news. His Majesty is being suspected of a disease called leprosy. It would be unwise for you to keep in direct close contact, as you would be at high risk of also getting this curse.” Y/N looked up at the adult with tears rapidly streaming down her face. “It’s alright, my dear rose. I value your health and life above all else. If being apart will ensure your safety, then I am content.” “Don’t you dare say such blasphemy!” it was the first time Y/N ever raised her voice above that sweet, comforting mutter of hers. “Am I not your wife? Your soulmate? Your confidante?” she asked in disbelief. “I have promised I will be staying by your side, until the end of times - The amount of years matters little - But there is no life worth living if you are not in it. I would much rather live a short life, and be able to support you for as long as God may keep you on this Earth, than live a long life, cursed with not being able to see you again.” Even a hardened Lord like Godfrey could feel his heart trembling with emotion at the loving confession from the young lady, who fell to the ground and hugged the boy’s legs. “Please, my love, do not drive me away from you, unless you grow to hate me, and should I ever be so awful that I may make you despise me so, then may God strike me down where I stand, for I could not bare to be torn apart from you.” “Y/N, my love, please, never kneel before me. Out of all the people that I may be reigning over, you alone, shall never kneel.” Baldwin had to gulp down his emotions, though he felt light-headed from such a bold and heart-wrenching confession, and he helped her get up. “I do not want to give you this wretched curse, but I would be a liar if I were to say I were not selfish, for I want to hold you in my arms forever, just as before.”

The realisation that half of his right arm and the hand were completely numb completely shattered his father’s heart, and he had the best physicians, maesters, priests and what not to treat him with oils, ointments, poultices and even charms, yet nothing worked. Though Baldwin had quickly gotten used to the idea, Y/N continued being in denial, and took over most of the physicians’ work, entirely, from then on. She was his wife, and she wanted to take care of him for as long as they had together; She simply loved him so much, and this disease was killing her, more than it did him. Such an intimate thing, touching his skin, cleaning it with herbs and oils every morning, lunch and night before sleep, and she would wash his feet and hands, just like Jesus did to all of his apostles in the Bible. Baldwin felt himself wanting to cry - The love of his life shouldn’t feel compelled to take care of him like that; That’s what servants and healers were for; Yet all the same, he felt so grateful for having someone who loves him so much...

But with so much love, comes the uncertainty of the future, and when he stops being the beautiful Prince that he is now, and becomes blind, disfigured, and loses feeling in all his limbs, will she remain by his side? His heart will never stop loving her, and although the selfless part of him hopes that she would run away and find someone better, some handsome knight or lord to take care of her, someone healthy and with many decades ahead of him... He was still human, and he was selfish. He wanted those few years he has ahead of him to have her by his side, until he does not open his eyes to see the daylight again.

Years passed and tragedy struck Baldwin and Sibylla, once their father died and the young boy of thirteen had to be crowned. A mere boy of thirteen, forced to become the ultimate leader of God’s Kingdom of Heaven, with Raymond, count of Tripoli’s help through his regency, and the unshakable support of his wife.

Baldwin and Y/N stood straight and tall, with the grace and elegance befitting the King and Queen of Jerusalem, though the pressure was weighting heavy on their shoulders, and the lives of so many people, and their Holy Land, were in their hands. The archbishop stepped behind Baldwin and did a cross-motion over his forehead and said a prayer, before putting the crown over his head. “Behold, your rightful King and heir to the throne of the Kingdom of Jerusalem. Long live the King, in prosperity!” people chanted ‘Long live the King!’, though it felt more like mocking, given his condition - Granted, the people were unaware of his leprosy, save for the physicians and the closer advisors - They had to be kept in the dark, at least until his coronation... What will happen further, was a mystery. The crowned Baldwin took the other crown from the pillow and stepped next to his beautiful wife, dressed so formally, with such grace and etherealness, that she looked akin to an angel. “I, Baldwin IV, by the grace of the Holy Spirit, choose Y/N L/N, the woman to be my wife, and with the help of God, she will rule her people with the same love and kindness as always, and continue supporting me wisely. Long live the Queen, in prosperity!” as the King placed the crown over her head, the people chanted ‘Long live the Queen!’ again and again, awaiting for their King to sit on the throne and be given the scepter and  globus cruciger, whilst the Queen was standing up next to him.

That evening, Baldwin and Y/N were finally allowed to formally spend the night in the same room, without earning scrutiny from the religious people around, who were bound to gossip senselessly. Wearing their sleeping clothes, the King was laying on his side on the bed, watching his Queen embroider a handkerchief, with his name written with golden thread. “Are you happy, Y/N?” the boy asked, suddenly. “I am happy that you have not forced me to abandon you. But I am not happy, knowing that your disease is disallowing you to live a normal life.” she answered with such ease, that it sent a shiver down his spine. “You are supposed to answer personally, not with tying your answer to someone else.” Y/N shifted her gaze upwards, a cheeky side-smile gracing her beautiful features. “And what if my happiness is tied to this certain ‘someone else’, as you like to call yourself?” she challenged him playfully. “Then, I would call you a fool in love.” he chuckled, smiling fondly at the girl. “And I would be guilty of the same charade.” “There is no room for guilt in love, my darling. Though duty is the death of love, I am allowed to make my own choices - This liberty, it was you who had given it to me, and for that, I will be eternally grateful.” she explained, placing the handkerchief on the table, before stepping by the bed and kneeling, leaning on the edge, their faces so close to one another. “You could have gone home with your parents, yet you chose to disobey them, and remained the wife of a leper, willingly. That was a silly choice. I am going to make you the youngest widow in history.” he spoke bitterly, and though his hand reached out to cradle her cheek, it ultimately fell down on the sheets, afraid to directly touch her skin, in fear of passing the illness. “And I will regret only not having met you sooner, and the cruelty of God, for taking his most beloved human so soon into his Eden.” Y/N took his hand and kissed his fingers, before placing his palm on her cheek. “But loving you, is something that I would do over and over again, if given the chance.” “I do not deserve you, my sweet rose.” he felt himself breathless, every time he heard her speak such tender words addressed to him. “Remember what you told me, so many years ago, to encourage me to live for myself?” he only wished he could feel her soft touch playing with his fingers so dearly. “Howsoever you are played, or by whom, your soul is in your keeping alone.” she cited him so perfectly, word by word, that is genuinely surprised him, after over 5 years, that she remembered his advice. “Even though those who presume to play you be Kings or men of power, when you stand before God, you cannot say - But I was told by others to do thus - Or that virtue - Was not convenient at the time -. This will not suffice.” “To think that so many years would come to pass, and you still continue to surprise me.” though he wanted to chuckle, this body froze entirely once Y/N climbed in bed next to him. “Y/N -- If you contract this curse because of me, I would never forgive myself.” “The Saracens say this disease is God’s vengeance against the vanity of our Kingdom. As wretched as lepers are, the Arabs believe that the chastisement that awaits you all is going to be far more severe and lasting, once you are thrown in hell. If that is true, I call it unfair, and that God is nothing but a farce, and life, a cruel joke.” she snorted unceremoniously, before laying down and cradling his body flush against her own, his head resting comfortably on her chest, and she was soothingly playing with his hair, lulling him to sleep. “To hell with anyone who can consider you anything less than an angel, for you are the kindest man I have ever met, and Jerusalem is lucky to be under your rule. The way I see it, God must have thought you so worthy of joining the highest angelic ranks, that he was unaware of a faster way of taking you to his side. It is, after all, the prettiest of flowers that we are quick to pick first and show-off to others, before they wilt in our hands, and we throw them away.” “I am truly honoured to have someone like you hold such sincere feelings for me, and speak only superlative words regarding me. I feel better, knowing that you do not think me lesser, or unworthy, in spite of this misfortune.” though his limbs were gradually getting numb, he could feel ever part of her body touching his own. “Y/N.” he called out her name, cuddling into her, like a cute kitten seeking comfort and warmth. “I am happy.” he was deathly afraid that he could somehow transfer the disease to her, but in that second, his senses were drowning in her love. “You make me happy.”

But the boy at three and ten winters, barely crowned and orphaned, had not expected to grow into the respectable young King that he became by the time he reached sixteen years of age, though by now, the entirety of Jerusalem was calling him the Leper King - They found out the inevitable truth of his condition, and despite the wretched ostracizing that all of those commonfolk cursed with this skin disease, he was able to show that a noble, wise, kind and strategic King and deserved all the respect of the world.

The young King had all of his advisors around him, telling him of all the risks, the cons and pros of going to war against the powerful leader Salah al-Din; They were greatly outnumbered, but if they weren’t going to war, the odd were high that Jerusalem would fall to the Muslims. Sitting on the throne, Baldwin felt himself unconsciously raising his hand to his forehead, feeling a migraine creeping, from the overwhelming amount of shouting and unnecessary bickering and arguing between each notable knight, commander and representative of each army under the command of the King of Jerusalem. He wasn’t one to raise his voice, nor did he bother - At the end of the day, men were going to continue being men, and they will continue trying to dominate and overpower each other.  At some point during that abysmal meeting, he noticed the frown on his Queen’s face, clearly irritated that the adults were creating more problems than offering good advice for him, and she could barely keep herself under control not to jolt up to her feet at yell at them to stop behaving like petulant children. Alas, neither of their Royal Majesties were known to raise their voice or even get angry at their subjects; After all, it would be beneath them to stoop so low, when virtue was everything they were supposed to embody.

By the time they returned to their shared chamber, Y/N sighed dramatically, complaining about the unbecomingness of those nasty advisors, whilst Baldwin couldn’t help but chuckle at her reaction. His sweet rose truly was adorable in everything she did. Instead of laying on the bed, the young lad sat in front of his chess board and stared intently at the pieces laid in wait to begin a game. Suddenly, a brilliant idea knocked him into a new sense of giddiness. “My sweetling, would you be willing to brighten my day by engaging in a game of chess with me? I cannot think of anything better that could relax me after such unnecessary stress.” His wife smiled at him with that loving tenderness, as she sat opposite of him and urged him to begin the game by moving his piece first. Baldwin carefully moved each of his pieces so that he would create the ultimate strategy, not only for his own side, but manipulate the girl’s pieces into well thought-out spots. In the end, it was Y/N who won the game, but it was him who started cheerfully laughing in triumph. “Never once have I seen a man so happy to lose a game.” Y/N smiled lightly. “What have you concocted, you little weasel?” “The game we just played, my love, contained my strategy for the upcoming war with Salah al-Din, with my side being the Muslims, and yours, Jerusalem.” he exclaimed with glee, getting up from the table. “Jerusalem will prevail once again!” “How cunning of you! Never once during this game have I thought you would be manipulating me into playing my pieces the way you wanted me to. You are wise and intelligent beyond your years, my love.” she praised him, stepping in front of him, and gently placing her hands over his face. She could see the way his disease was rapidly and heavily affecting him, and that once angelic face of his was now scarred and ulcerated beyond anything that the physicians resoluted or predicted. He had to learn how to guide his horse with his knees, instead of the tugging of the reins, as he lost feeling in his right arm completely, and the disease was quickly afflicting the skin of his other limbs also. “And neither will the Muslims, my sweet rose. They will be unable to retaliate, and will have to retreat back to Cairo.” despite all of the scars, and the way his golden hair was beginning to fall out and lessen, that adorable, boyish smile of his remained as charming as ever, and his crystal eyes were just as bewitching. “Will you please allow me to follow you in this crusade?” Baldwin was tempted, as her enchanting fawn eyes were his biggest weakness; His ration and wish to protect her was above even that, however. “I dearly wish to never be apart from you, but my love, you are the Queen of Jerusalem, and with me gone, there will be no one that I trust to rule the Kingdom. I need you here to rule over our people and keep them safe.” Y/N simply sighed and rested her head on his chest, her arms gently around his body. “As always, you are right, of course - If only that you weren’t! How many sleepless nights of worry will I endure, and nightmares shall plague me, until I receive good news from a dove, and am allowed to rejoice your victorious arrival?” the King chuckled softly, resting his chin on the top of her head, reciprocating her embrace. “How dramatic, yet poetic - I am honoured that you worry so much about me, but you needn’t, that is my oath to you. With your aid, my strategy will prevail, and with God’s providence, I have the courage to mount my horse and lead our people to victory.”

And true to his affirmation, the young King rode valiantly into battle, at Montgisard, and just as the strategy dictated, they gave the Muslims a run for their money, returning to Cairo very much defeated, and barely with a tenth of the initial army. Christianity had prevailed once again, and God had not turned his back on them yet.

“You should have seen me, my love, with the Holy Cross shining brightly with the light of Heaven, leading our army to victory! It was such a fantastic win, that I felt powerful as never before! I felt truly blessed and empowered - Like I will be walking the sacred lands for a whole century, and fighting for our faith!” the young King was laying his head in her lap, as she played with his golden locks; Whenever hair would freely fall off in her grasp, she would quickly throw it away, so that her husband wouldn’t have to see the way his beauty was being forcefully taken away from him by the cruel claws of Death. “If all the most beloved Kings were to live for centuries, our world would be a better place. You, especially, deserve to live for many, many hundreds of years, a prodigy above all else, and loved like no other before you.” his grin couldn’t be wiped from that pretty face of his. “Ah, if only that were true, my darling!” he exclaimed. “Now, I only wish to settle my sister with a new husband, deserving of her. With the death of William de Montferrat, and the birth of my little nephew... Sibylla is all alone, and named the heir to the throne once I am no longer.” he sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I have to take her with me on public affairs, so that the people would get used to her being the next ruler - But she is so against everything I try to do for her.” “Sibylla is still young and very beautiful, my darling, there is no need to worry over her future husband. I know time might not be on our side, but it is on hers. She will be fine, I assure you.” she leaned down to place a small kiss on his forehead. “I only pray that you are right, my dear. I love my sister dearly, and I only wish her the best.”

That wish, however, was never going to become reality, as come 1180, an adventurer under the name of Guy de Lusignan found his way in the Holy Land, and seduced Sibylla into marrying him. Baldwin was angry as never before, and even threatened to hang him for daring to debauch the Princess of Jerusalem, yet the tears of his sister and mother were enough to break his resolve and agree to this marriage out of love. That was the first mistake he did, and one that could never be rectified. Guy was a man that earned the scrutiny of the whole realm faster than any man before, and became the most despised being in the country, by all, except for his wife.

By this time, the King was turning twenty years of age, yet he knew he wouldn’t reach to see his age change its prefix again. His condition had gotten so severe that he completely lost feeling in his limbs, and he wasn’t allowed to travel. Not only that, but the skin ulcerations were so drastic, and his face was so disfigured, that he had the blacksmith forge a silver mask for him to wear at all times, and his body was bandaged in its entirety, and robed in white, covering himself whole. It was only his wife, Queen Y/N, that was allowed to gaze upon him, as she continued the ritual of bathing his sores and treating them.

Every day of his life, King Baldwin was happy that he hadn’t given his most darling white rose this accursed disease; Likewise, every day of her life, Y/N continued to pray to God that he may spare her beloved husband and cure that curse that afflicted his body and health - He was a worthy King, and most capable; one the likes that Jerusalem had never witnessed before - Surely, he deserved a blessing!

God, however, did not discriminate when it came to life-taking and misfortune. Be it King or peasant, Lord or fisherman, all had the chance to get sick and die before their time, no matter their worth, faith or the amount of good deeds done whilst roaming the earth.

The stress and all the incompetent people that advised him were none the wiser, and they only dug him an early grave, with all their arguing. Not only that, but Sibylla continued to deny her brother’s wish of divorcing that good for nothing scoundrel - The whole Jerusalem was against him and his lack of sense - Were he to become King, he would destroy the Kingdom of Heaven in a day. She was a fool in a love, but not like himself and Y/N. The Queen was right - Duty is the death of love, but the reverse was also available. Were Sibylla a simple woman, a merchant, or simply a living being without any responsibilities on her shoulder, her devotion would have been most applaudable - But she was the heir to the throne, and she had duties to the realm, she couldn’t afford to be so foolish and cling onto a man that would lead not only to her destruction, but to the whole realm falling into ruin!

By the time King Baldwin turned a most exhausting age of merely three and twenty springs, he was beginning to turn blind, as his eyes were incapable of shutting, and his corneas were burning and stinging him so excruciatingly painful, yet there was nothing he could do in that regard. Despite barely being able to walk around anymore, he had to deal with the consequences of that single mistake of allowing Sibylla to marry that incompetent Guy, who not only broke the pact that Jerusalem had with the Muslim by attacking one of their caravan and killing all of the people there, but he also dared massacre Salah al-Din’s own sister. How can his sister not see that this man was only going to bring ruination to their home? How can she continue devoting her life and affections to such a monster of a man, good for nothing and hated by all, whose head is set only on carnage and bloodshed, under the pretext of spreading the Faith and Word of God over the heathens that tried to obliterate them and convert them?

Thus, King Baldwin stood slumped in his throne glued next to the Queen’s; She gently held his hand, their fingers intertwined; He loved the visual of their hands being so intimately together, before all to bare witness at their pure and sincere love that transcended even leprosy and scrutiny, yet at the same time, he hated how he could not feel her hand, and that his own was bandaged over like a mummy.

“Guy de Lusignan and Reynald de Chatillon, with the Templars, have attacked a Saracen caravan.” just as always, the crowd of knights began fighting each other like a bunch of babbling baboons, until some person of authority yelled at them to keep silent.  “It was no caravan. It was an army headed for Bethlehem to desecrate our Lord’s birthplace.” Guy justified his immoral actions under the guise of protecting the Faith. “Reynald, with the Templars, have broken the King’s pledge of peace. Salah al-Din will come into this kingdom -- “ the Count of Tripoli was promptly cut off by the daring fool. Oh, how Baldwin wanted to let go of his reign and live the remaining days of his life in peace, alone with his wife - Yet knowing the Kingdom would fall into this monster’s hands, he could not, in good faith, abandon his people, nor could he see his Holy Land destroyed before his very eyes. “Tiberias knows more than a Christian about Salah al-Din’s intentions.” Guy got up to his feet, walking to the count, towering over him in an attempt to intimidate the old and seasoned Lord. “That I would rather live with men, than kill them... Is certainly why you are alive.” the knight sneered discreetly at him. “That sort of Christianity has its uses, I suppose.” the King and Queen shared a look of annoyance. “We must NOT go to war with Salah al-Din!” Tiberias exclaimed. “We do NOT want it, and we may not win it.” he was the single voice of reason left in that sea of idiots who cried out ‘Blasphemy!’ like a flock of sheep.  “An army of Jesus Christ which bears his Holy Cross cannot be beaten!” some Templar spoke with unbacked confidence. “Does Tiberias suggest it could be?” the scarred man remained silent, looking with disgust at the rest of the knights. “There MUST be war! God wills it!” those idiots were using God’s name as a means to bloodshed. The Queen could stand this complete disarray no longer, and though she missed the moment a servant brought the King a message to read, she shot up to her feet, and shouted at them the people for the first time in her life - Great was everyone’s surprise, especially Baldwin’s, to bare witness of something different than her otherwise honeyed and soft voice that soothed one’s worries. “Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain, for the Lord will not hold him guiltless that taketh his name in vain.” she recited a line from the Exodus 20:7. “Are you suggesting we are using the name of God with unclean intentions?” Guy looked up with defiance at the woman, whose elegant and royal aura turned cold and stern, like a strict ruler. “I am your Queen, and you will address me as such.” she harshly snapped at him. “You, who are worth less than a worm, and held in no one’s graces, dare create such disorder in the presence of the King of Jerusalem. The disrespect you have shown is punishable by death.” she stepped towards him, head held high, dignified. “To think that all of you will be listening to the poisoned tongue of this viper; That you would summon God’s name, to commit bloodshed - Have you forgotten the Ten Commandments? Thou shalt not kill, it was written on the stone tablet given to Moses - Yet all of you are thirsty for war - Not out of Faith, but out of boredom. You listen to this warmonger who knows naught of diplomacy, of tactics and strategy - Lest of all, of the good of the people of the Holy Lands.” the crowd of knights could feel their blood freezing in their veins from such a scolding. “All of this, in front of the King! Such rudeness should be the cause of you yelling out Blasphemy! Not evident caution and refusal to go to war against an army that is outnumbering our own greatly!” “You talk much, but say very little... My Queen.” Guy taunted the Queen with blatant disrespect. “What would a woman know of war, when all she knows is to was to sored feet of a man that may not seen the world outside of these Holy walls in so long? You call me lesser, yet when the King is no more, neither will your title remain. We are the same - Lucky to have been chosen, yet worthy all the same.” “How wrong you are - For at the end of the day, marriage or not, I will continue being a Princess, yet you will be nothing more than the fourth son, good for nothing, landless and with no title - And most of all, a sinner.” the Queen drew the sword from Tiberias’s scabbard, pointing it at Guy. “Kneel before your Queen.” his eyes widened in shock at such an order. “Are you going to ignore a direct order from your Queen?” Guy’s head snapped towards the King, who waved his hand at the man, as to follow the order. “The Queen’s command is absolute.” Baldwin nodded his head briefly at the buffoon who dared disrespect his wife, not only in front of him, but in front of the whole court. He was glad that someone was putting that idiot to respect, however, he hated that his wife had to step over her kindness and get angry, for his sake. Begrudgingly, Guy knelt down, though he glared at the Queen with those scorned, dark eyes. In a swift move, the woman swung the heavy sword with such ease, ready to behead the man - Only to stop, right as she touched his neck, careful not to injure him. Sibylla was quick to shout at her to have mercy and spare him - That she loves him, and what not. She was ignored. “Do not mistake my past kindness and mercy, for weakness. I may be benevolent, but I do not tolerate disrespect addressed to me, to God, and especially to the King.” she returned the sword to Tiberias, who nodded at her in acknowledgement and approval. “That your head is not rolling to the ground for children to play is my final act of mercy and acceptance towards you. You disrespect the King, your disrespect Jerusalem. Trust me when I say it, Guy - I always mean what I say.” she returned to her seat next to the King, who handed her the message to read. The look on her face said it all - She was both concerned and terrified, not for her life, but for his own. “Salah al-Din has crossed the Jordan with 200,000 men.” the King spoke out once ultimate silence reigned over them all. “He’ll make for Kerak and Reynald de Chatillon. My Lord...” TIberias was the first to speak, walking over to Baldwin in an attempt to help him stand up. The King gestured him to stop, and subtly shook his head, as a way to show he was still capable of at least getting up from the throne. “We must meet him before he reaches Kerak.” the King whispered in his advisor’s ear. “I will lead the army.” “My Lord... If you travel, you’ll die.” the Count of Tripoli voiced the Queen’s concerns. “Send word to Balian to protect the Queen and the villagers.” the King addressed the crowd then. “Assemble the army.” came his resolute order that earned a chant of happy cheers from the knights.

The King did not wait to consult with the Queen - Instead, he went into his room to rest, for on the morrow, he would be marching towards Kerak to create some kind of temporary peace treaty with the Muslim leader. Y/N shared a look with Tiberias. Fear was welling deep into her eyes - She was terrified. The nightmares that kept plaguing her every night were coming to fruition much faster than anticipated. Her husband was going to die. “Tiberias... I know you care for the King as much as I do. Though we both know his mind will not be swayed... Please, do try to keep him away from this journey.” her voice became a weakened whisper. “I cannot bare the thought of losing him so soon.”

Tiberias could feel his heart impaled, yet he was unable to utter a single word. He placed his hand on her shoulder, as if to show they share a similar kind of pain, and he hung his head. Y/N went to their shared room, and seeing her husband sitting on the chair, by the chess board, she fell to the ground, hugging his feet and placing her head on his lap as she wept. “Please change your mind, my love! Do not go to your death, not so soon! You are so young, still so strong -- I cannot... I cannot imagine living without you.” Baldwin sighed, his eyes stinging, yet feeling a little relief from the forming tears that were wetting his dry eyes, and his bandaged hand was placed numbly over her cascading hair, petting it. “Forgive me, my sweet rose.” he spoke with a shaky voice. “I did say I was going to turn you into the youngest widow, yet I did not imagine my condition would hinder me from even reaching thirty years of age.” even his body was softly trembling, in tune with her pitiful sobs. “Forgive me for breaking your loving heart. I was not the husband that you deserved. I was unable to bring you happiness, nor pleasure, nor was I capable of creating a family with you. God had forbidden me from even touching your body, in fear of transferring this curse upon you... He had denied me the feeling of your delicate skin, and a normal life span spent by your side.” “Do not say that!” she exclaimed, raising her head. “You have been more than I ever deserved. You have been more than I could ever dream of, even. I never desired for anything in life, except to see you alive, every time I woke up, and to feel you heart lul me to sleep, as you held me so dearly in your arms. For as long as I could hear your tender voice... Just knowing you were alive... It was all that I ever needed.” she reached her hands up to his face, taking off his mask and revealing the horrific, disfigured visage of the one seraphic boy. “If I could, I would trade all of my tomorrows, just to spend another night with you. I would trade all of my days, so that you could keep on living on, for as long as I would have. I would take the disease upon me, just to rid you of this curse. I would accept even being purged by the divine fires of retribution, if it gave you your health back.” her sight was blurred with the amount of tears hindering her and rivering down her face. “But to hell with God, and with the Faith, and with everything there is! Why must a good man endure misfortune after misfortune, and die young, whilst incompetent, evil bastards like Guy keep on living and thriving so frivolously?! I prayed day in and day out, and I have devoted all of my being to God, but instead of returning your health, he is taking you away from me even faster!” she wailed so pitifully, that Baldwin felt his entire being shattering before her anguish. “What kind of sin have I committed, that I cursed the love of my life as such a tender age, just a little after I have met him?” “You couldn’t possibly think to blame yourself for my disease.” he scolded her in complete disbelief. “Y/N, my love, never think that way.” he placed his hands on her elbows, urging her to raise, only to guide her to sit on his lap. Her slight panic was quickly shushed with a reassurance. “I am ill, not made of glass. If anything, this proximity could only serve to energize me.” Y/N gently held his hands and took off the bandages, revealing the severe ulcerations, the leathery skin and the open sores, red and painful, were it not for the numbness. She kissed his fingers lovingly, before placing his palms over her face. “Were I a mighty Phoenix, I would be able to heal all of your wounds, with the amount of tears I have shed. I would be able to fly into battle by your side and spit fire over our enemies, but also thrill a song of bravery and victory to embolden our army.” she took a ragged breath, stammering over her words. “But I am just a woman, powerless, and foolishly in love with one man, who is dying before her very eyes, and can do nothing but live in fear that he may take his last breath when she is not around him.” “You always did leave me speechless with your love confessions - And that is no easy feat, my sweet white rose. To say that I love you, is an overstatement... Yet God may strike me when I say... I do not love even He, the way that I love you. My only regret is that I was not able to even kiss you, when I was still young and handsome, fitting of a young King. I wish only to make you the happiest... If only life was not so cruel with us.” Y/N leaned down slowly, placing her lips over his own, completely uncaring of her malformed mouth, or the possibility of catching the disease herself. She wasn’t planning on living longer, if he wasn’t going to be alive and hold her hand any longer. “A silly woman, foolishly in love with a silly man, just as foolishly in love with her.” he muttered, gazing at how beautiful she was, even with eyes puffy and sparkling with tears, and skin twinkling wet. 

The King guided his Queen to the bed and cradled her into his arms to cry as much as hear dear heart needed, all whilst playing with her hair, as much as his useless fingers allowed him to, and whispered a string of endless sweet nothings, though he was aware, no word of love was going to sooth or mend her shattered heart, and the fact that his lack of days were the cause of it was a bittersweet knowledge.

On the morrow, the King nodded at Tiberias, placing his hand gently over his horse’s snout to urge it to kneel so that he could mount it and ride towards Kerak, where he would face Salah al-Din and propose a truce. The journey was long and arduous, lasting a whole week on horseback, yet he rose tirelessly, and slept like a baby in the tent, every night. There were no physicians by his side, nor his Queen, to wash and treat his skin damage - But it was fine, he wasn’t going to live long anyway, so it mattered little.

After seven long days, they reached Kerak, the stronghold of Reynald the Idiot, and with the King of Jerusalem in front and the shining-white Holy Cross that brightened up the battleground, the King, dressed the part, rode and faced the leader of the Muslims. 

The two king met, face to face, horse to horse - One, the Splendor of Christianity, dressed in full white, yet with a silver mask and the light-blue tabard of Jerusalem, and his horse was the same, white and pure, as was his virtue and soul. The other was dressed in black, and his horse was black also, to represent his own faith and leadership to his people, but also, his humbleness. The two stared each other in the eyes, siesing each other but, yet it was Salah al-Din who spoke first. “I pray you pull back your cavalry and leave this matter to me.” “I pray you retire unharmed to Damascus.” the King replied, his eyes seemingly unblinking behind his silver mask, adorned with crosses and swirls, to represent his Faith and Love of God. “Reynald de Chatillon will be punished. I swear it.” the man vowed, speaking in a soft, yet firm tone. “Withdraw, or we will all die here.” the two’s silence, as they stared each other up, was this time interrupted by the Christian King. “Do we have terms?” The Muslim leader only had one fear, and that was of the Leper King, who so easily bested him at merely 16 years of age, and heavily outnumbered; Now, older, yet with a frailer constitution, even the ghost of him could send a shiver down his spine; A rival worthy of his respect. “We have terms.” he nodded at him. “I will send you my physicians.” he humbly offered, wishing his rival to remain alive and healthy, for as long as he may. “As-salamu alaykum.” he King of Jerusalem tilted his head down and bowed his hand as a sign of respect, wishing him and his people peace. “Wa alaykumu s-salam.” Salah al-Din rose his hand and replied with the same respect, wishing him the same.

The two leaders of their faith turned their horses around, and Sibylla watched from the safe fortress, as her brother was victorious in avoiding an all-right war, and rode towards the stronghold of Reynald, who quickly ran, disheveled, to greet the King, who gracefully rode before him, and commanded his horse to kneel, so that he may dismount. Reynald offered a courtesy, as the King stumbled in front of him, whipping out a wand from his waist. “On your knees.” he ordered, with such disgust as no one has ever heard him before. Reynald did as instructed without hesitance. “Lower.” he had to be deeply punished for all of his thoughtless actions that served to ruin everything he worked so hard to build for his people. In an exhausted breath, yet still as kingly, he spoke “I am Jerusalem.” with another swift move, he took off the glove of his left arm, and the bandages, revealing a thoroughly maimed hand, along with a golden ring with a large ruby. “And you - Will give me the kiss of peace.” he extended his seeping, untreated, dirty hand towards Reynald, who started slobbering and kissing his fingers without hesitation.

From disgust and anger, the King used the scepter to strike his face - One, twice, and a few more times, until the idiot was on the ground, cradling his injured face.  Though the physical exhaustion took over His Highness, and as he turned around, he stumbled to the ground, and into the sand. It was Tiberias who rushed to support him to stand, along with two guards, that helped him lay on a comfortable couch, as the Count of Tripoli commanded the arrest of the idiot. With a nod at the man, the King was risen with the bed, and carried out, so that he may return to Jerusalem, with the much needed aid, before he may return by himself, on horseback.

Once returned, however, the guards that greeted them started yelling ‘Imposter!’ and claiming the King that led them to Kerak, the King that settled peace with Salah al-Din, their most feared enemy, the King that punished Reynald - He was an imposter, and the real King Baldwin IV was in his study;  The Imposter was quickly immobilised, struck down and roughly brought over before the real King, whilst the Imposter was thrown to the ground to kneel, despite Tiberias and the other knights’ protests and attempts to stop such blasphemy.

Before their eyes, however, the knights witnessed two Kings - One a little taller than the other, and dressed in his normal robes, sitting on the throne and reading; The other, on the ground, just smaller, and with the War outfit on. The King of Jerusalem rose on his feet, startled at the sudden disturbance, and the peculiar sight before his eyes; It would have been almost hilarious, were he not enraged at the guards having been so rough with the Imposter, when he did not ordered them so. “You may release that one.” though the guards looked in shock at the orders, they complied. “Of course, there is no one who knows me better, than yourself. I was foolish to believe you would just remain quiet, at home, where I asked you to be. You fool.” his scolding was light-hearted and tender. “Tiberias, tell me, how did the affairs go?” “Your Majesty... Ergh... Salah al-Din agreed to a truce, and Reynald de Chatillon was severely punished... By... You.” the Count of Tripoli found it difficult to voice out the ambiguous message. He was upset that he did not realise the truth sooner; He had let himself be tricked, and so well. “All of you - You may leave.” the King ordered with a dismissive yet respectful wave of his hand. “But -- My King -- The Imposter --” one of the knights stammered over his words. “There is no Imposter, but a loving Queen who was ready to accept anything may come, to save her husband from a life-ending journey.” the King stepped in front of the Imposter, and taking the silver mask off, revealed the beautiful face of the Queen; The revealed earned an ocean of protests and gasps - How was a woman capable of not only fooling everyone, but of mimicking the King so flawlessly. “Perhaps it is not that you know me best, but that you know me better than even I know myself. Truly, I am honoured, and my heart soothed with honeyed mead, to know that you have gone through such trials, for my sake. Foolish indeed, yet with such positive outcome that I am incapable of feeling anything but happiness.” with some difficulty, he knelt besides her, so that he may pick her hands and get her up. “As I told you so many times, my love, you do not bow to me, for it not I alone, but the both of us, that are Jerusalem.” “My sweet King, I bare good news, for once!” Y/N spoke for the first time since she’s arrived; Though her voice was weak from dehydration, not only was she happy that her quest was a success, and that her darling Baldwin was not upset with her tricking him, but she was also smiling so brightly, so much so that it surprised the young man, as he hasn’t seen her so genuinely blissful since they were children. “Salah al-Din sent over his physicians, and they offered a gift - It is called Chaulmoogra oil, and they said people in India and China use it to treat leprosy - The statistics show great improvement, unlike any other treatment before. That man truly respects and cherishes you as a rival, and a leader, my love.” Baldwin froze on the spot, seeing the woman reveal a rather large carafe that she kept hidden underneath the robes, hanging from the sash. Were it not too hasty to have hope again? A miracle treatment, so suddenly, for him? And even if he does get treated, his face will never recover, and he doubts his limbs are going to feel again. Still, he was unable to refuse her, seeing as it was the only thing that put such a genuine smile on her face, after so long. “Alright, my sweet flower - For you, I shall try any treatment, no matter how revolutionary or eccentric.”

He could barely keep himself standing up, as Y/N, in a fit of euphoria, threw her arms around his neck and swayed him. The treatment made him nauseated more often than not, and he vomited at some points, yet after good weeks of continuous intake of this oil, added with the herbal cleaning and ointments for his skin, and regular walking, his body was beginning to feel a little stronger than previously - It almost felt that he was getting younger. It was a scary feeling, for it was so good and hopeful, that he feared losing it, and in turn, Y/N’s happiness.

As Baldwin began regaining his strength, and to some degree, even the feeling in his arms and legs, and he was properly capable of holding a sword again, he was emboldened to think of a future of his own. First, he asked Sibylla whether he agrees to divorce Guy, especially now that she knows how awful of a man he was - But once again, he was denied - Thus, he was forced to exile this idiot, and with him, his sister also followed. With the timely death of his nephew, Baldwin V, at the mere age of 10, the King realised he had no direct Heir to ascend the throne once he dies, whenever that may be, and as he was incapable of creating an heir himself, and with Sibylla refusing to step up as a Queen, if Guy does not ascend with her; Once again, it fell on poor Tiberias to help out with this matter. He trusted Balian to become a good King, but of course, he wanted to live a peaceful life, as a blacksmith, not restrained by the burdens of a King.

Next, he had to get rid of both Guy and Reynald, permanently, so that there would be no risk of enticing the Muslim Leader to wage war on Jerusalem; Especially as he has him to thank for his unexpected recovery, and for as long as he may live, he will remain eternally grateful for his kindness.

Baldwin fortified the walls of Jerusalem and strengthened the bonds with the armies under him, and kept the Kingdom of Heaven safe. It was a true wonder, being able to stand on the balcony, with his wife’s arms around his body, and watch the starry night illuminating the city to beautifully, and the song of the crickets and toads resounding soothingly through the place. 

Though he was still uncomfortable with letting go of the mask, knowing well enough that people will keep being horrified of his disfigured face, he felt at ease, dancing with his lovely white rose around their room, hearing her sweet giggles, and seeing that beautiful, dazzling smile of hers that captured his heart, from the very first time that he laid his eyes on her.

Baldwin was a fool, so deeply in love with Y/N, that he prayed to God every day not to make him up from this reverie, for he is eternally grateful for keeping his Faith in times of need, and that He replied to him with the greatest gift there was - Not just the treatment, but his Queen’s happiness restored. The glee of a fool in love.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------                                           ANGST ENDING -------------------------------------------------------------------------

Though the quest that Y/N embarked on was a success, once she returned to Jerusalem, she was met with the reality of her husband’s health, which was degrading at such a swift pace, even without the journey made. It was ridiculous, thinking that she went through all of that, yet it aided Baldwin with nothing, save for two weeks of worry over her well-being. What a disaster, she thought to herself, as she returned to her room, her head hung, and discarding the Kingly outfit with annoyance and disgust, as though she was a little brat throwing a temper tantrum.

“I do not have the power to say how worried I was over you, for I cannot help but be so proud of my Queen, and infinitely happy beyond the horizon, to feel your heart soulbound to mine own. I missed you more than the deserts miss the rain.” though he tried to reassure Y/N, he knew he wouldn’t be seeing the change of the seasons.

And his prediction was correct; Soon, he was unable to move whatsoever, and his white outfit was changed with a royal black and golden one; Even his silver mask was replaced with a golden one, and he could only lay on the bed, his eyes mostly closed, and awaiting the sweet release of death.

Unexpectedly, Y/N was came over, smiling, but also crying, holding a goblet filled with honeyed red wine; She sat comfortably over his waist, looking down at him - She looked like a child, with her eyes glazed, and expression slightly dazed - And she took another gulp of the wine. “Oh. Hello, my sweet white rose.” it was difficult for him to speak, and though he wanted to address her unexpected drunkness, he couldn’t. He knew his time was ending, and perhaps selfish, he wished to see her smile as the last thing he’d witness in this world. “What were you dreaming of, my love?” she slurred cutely, dropping the now empty goblet to the ground, her hands placed on his chest, and slowly roaming up to his chest. “How great it would have been, if we were not separated by a curse.” she hummed, allowing herself to fall over on the bed next to him, smiling widely. “We are in the earthly Kingdom of Heaven. Once we reach the Celestial Heavens, there will be no afflictions or diseases hindering our love any longer, and for the rest of eternity, in the afterlife, our love shall continue onwards, transcending this unseen barrier between us.” she nuzzled into his side; Baldwin wasn’t sure whether she was giggling, or sobbing - Yet he was pretty sure she was doing both. “We will be ruling over nothing except our love, and we will have no responsibility, except to ourselves. We will finally be free to live, and to love... And to be happy.” “My love... What was in that wine?” with a lethargic move, Y/N pulled him into her body, his head resting onto her chest.  “What were you dreaming of, my love?” she asked again - The excruciating revelation dawned on him - Y/N had poisoned herself. She could not bare seeing him die before her eyes, she couldn’t bare him dying before her, and her having to endure all the agony of a lonely life, with a shattered heart, never to be mended again. She cared little whether people would find out she killed herself, and she would get beheaded. Her only wish, written, was to be buried with him - Wish that she also voiced to him. “I was back in that summer, when I defeated Salah al-Din.” if he could cry, he would, not only for himself, but for Y/N feeling so heartbroken that she felt compelled to end it all. “Do you remember it? We were only 16.” “Of course I remember. I was so worried for you, out there, without anyone to care for you. I was praying to God every hour I was awake, to keep you safe, and have you return to me. I remember I jumped on you from happiness, as soon as you dismounted your horse. I toppled you to the ground. The Archbishop yelled at me for not behaving like a Queen, but Tiberias pushed him away, so he wouldn’t bother us.” he could only offer a weak, breathy chuckle as a reply. “You are as beautiful as the white rose that I put in your hair, that day, when we met. I am truly honoured that I had the fortune of being your husband. No man ever felt love, as much as I did, thanks to you.” he stole one last good look at her, before settling comfortably in her embrace. “My sweet white rose.” he called out. “Will you sing for me?” “Yes, my love. Allow me to sing you to sleep.”

I seek a man named Baldwin Whom I bid await me here I pledged that I would see him Before he leaves this sphere

This man of whom I speak He gave his heart to me But thence my soul grew weak And at last it too broke free

So borne upon an urgent breeze I travelled to his place Where only one thing could appease The torment I now face

Oh tell me I am not too late To see my love once more For that would be too cruel a fate I beg him be restored

That we may take a little time To bid our last farewell And remember all we shared erstwhile Such joy no one could quell

For never was a greater love Than that within our hearts Once born, forever binding us Through not e’en death we part

Who was the first to ascend to heavens, not even God knew, for they both appeared before him, holding each other so tenderly, looking like the most beautiful youth, foolishly in love with each other.

As in Eden, so on Earth, the two were found cradling each other, though the heart beat that once lulled the other to sleep, was no longer present; Yet a smile adorned both of their faces.  Just as left on the note, Y/N was buried together with King Baldwin IV - The King and Queen who loved each other more than any before, and certainly, any in the future also - The two lovers who could never be torn apart, in life, death, or anything in between.

Up there, however, they were no a pair of King and Queen, but just a man and a woman, fated to eternally love each other. They were just themselves - Y/N and Baldwin - Two fools, so foolishly in love with each other.

[honest-moth-of-silver-grove]

The Red Tieflings Bachelors (Rolan and Zevlor) Reacting to You (Tav) Thanking Them

Featuring: Rolan/Tav; Zevlor/Tav

A/N: Just a little something that popped into my mind while working to clear the writer's block. I was feeling very low the last week or two, so I apologize for my inactivity here. And then I was on vacation with my family. Thankfully, I’m feeling better now. (Currently working on Yandere! Alucard Part 4 and the next ask. Yan! Part 4 will probably take a while because it's long-form (not hc), so expect the ask after that to be posted first.) 

Rolan

🔮 It was just another bustling day in Sorcerous Sundries when you decided to stop by,  a newfound magical item in hand. To no one’s surprise, it appeared your favorite tiefling wizard was too busy sorting through the inventory of Ramazith's Tower to man his shop, seeing it was his programmed illusion who greeted you with a relatively uncharacteristic amiable tone.  

“Welcome to the Sorcerous Sundries. Is there something in particular you’re looking for today?” 

Knowing Rolan, in reality, his body was pacing around Razamith’s Tower, nearly tearing his hair out, as he obsessively mumbled, sorting through the piles and piles of books and scrolls Lorroakan had gathered in his time. The compelling image in your mind was such a stark contrast to the one before you, that you bit your lip to prevent your signature mischievous smile from dawning across your face. 

“I believe Rolan left something upstairs for me.” 

The illusion looked at you, eyes narrowed, presumably scanning its programming for an appropriate response. Yet, just as Rolan’s Projection opened his mouth to speak (in all probability to deny you entry) your conversation was interrupted by a boisterous halfling patron, hoisting an item that he declared comprised of defective magic. 

Never one to waste a distraction, you took the opportunity to make your way up the stairs of Sorcerous Sundries to its second floor and into the correct portal leading to Razamith Towers. 

Upon entering the portal, you were met with the familiar sound of Lia and Cal bickering with none other than the new proprietor of Sorcerous Sundries himself. 

“If you simply spoke to them instead of pining inside this tower all day and night…” Lia went straight to the point as usual. 

“I am not pining!” You could hear Rolan answer, in his usual defensive tone. 

“I think what Lia means to say is, it would be easier for all involved if you were to simply ask them-” Always the mediator, Cal must have jumped in. It did not surprise you, seeing as how he was rather skilled when it came to talking his siblings down. 

“Ask who what?” You interrupted, the concrete visage of Razamith’s Towers finally greeting you. Despite having known the tiefling family for months now, you were always amused by their antics. “Does Rolan have his heart set on an apprenticeship with yet another asinine wizarding master?” You had a feeling Cal and Lia were referring to something else entirely, but you’d prefer to speak to Rolan alone about that. 

Rolan rolled his eyes, clearly unimpressed by both your sudden presence and your insistence on teasing him. “I no longer require a master, nor a teacher. Lorroakan gathered enough magical books and knowledge within these walls for me to teach myself all I could ever wish to know.” Behind him, his pointed tail lashed sideways, always ending with an upward flick of the point. To a fellow tiefling, his irritation would have been quite obvious. Then again, you were not a fellow tiefling. 

You nodded, ignoring Rolan’s wilful tone. You had become accustomed to his many displays of false irritation and indignation. More often than not, your headstrong ally was more bark than bite. “That may be,” you continued. “But in case it isn’t, I’ve brought you one more tome for your collection.”

Rolan’s entire posture, tail included, stiffened upon hearing your words. The tiefling wizard was in disbelief. A gift? For him? But, why?

Lia smirked, before elbowing Cal, whose own knowing expression soon followed suit, spreading across his face. Nodding to each other, two brother-sister duo walked off, leaving you and Rolan alone, standing in a near deafening silence. 

“It’s a tome on the origins of The Weave, or, at least I think it is. That’s what Gale told me anyway.” 

Rolan's previously erect shoulders slumped at the mention of your former traveling companion’s name. “Ah yes, Gale, The Great Wizard of Waterdeep. How is he faring these days?” 

“Better,” you answered honestly. “It seems not living with a ticking time bomb just inside your chest does a man some good.” 

Rolan brushed off your attempt at lightening the mood, pushing past you to a stack of unsorted books piled on an end table to your left. “I assume the two of you have kept in touch then?” 

“Rolan!” You mock gasped. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were jealous.” 

“Pfft, you’ve clearly let the title of Hero go to your head. Why would I be jealous of a mere professor at Blackstaff Academy when I possess an entire library of magical writings, a shop full of magical items, and several arcane cannons to defend all of the former?” 

“He’s a very respected professor, and there’s something to be said for enjoying the simpler things in life.” 

Rolan scoffed once again. “He had the power to be a God and turned it down. After enduring all your group did, taking on the shadow curse, fighting the goblins, destroying the Absolute, a job instructing ungrateful, know-it-all brats hardly seems like a reward.” 

Now it was your turn to roll your eyes. “Well, it’s what Gale wanted. But I do have to wonder,” you slowly stalked towards the red tiefling, “If a very coveted and respected position of authority isn’t something you'd consider a reward, what exactly qualifies as recompense to the mighty Wizard of Razamith’s Tower?” 

Slowly, you trailed a finger up along Rolan’s robed arm, delighting in the little gasp that slipped from his lips. 

He both hated and loved how you could make him feel like this. How just one word, one look from you could leave him a needy, wanton mess, how he longed for you to step even closer, for his body to press up entirely against yours. In the back of his mind, he imagined what it would feel like for your strong weathered hands to run down his red infernal skin, but that time, with no gloves or thick robes in the way. 

Rolan was certain you knew the degree of power you held over him. He was sure you delighted in pushing and prodding at his buttons, drawing out each one of your visits with flirtation and playful verbal sparring.

“What… about…a…?” you enunciated each word with another swipe of your finger across his robe’s velvety material, your face moving ever so slowly closer to his. 

Finding his composure, Rolan shrugged off your advances with a shaky sigh. “Spit it out already. I don’t have all day.” Defiantly, he turned to face you, calling your bluff. His lips were mere inches from yours: red, plump, and just begging to be kissed. 

Never one to back down from a challenge, you continued to press forward, pressing your lips to his. 

With a breathy sigh, Rolan’s tension melted away as he melded his mouth back onto yours. 

Reaching up with one hand, you cupped the back of his head, ever so gently pulling him even closer to you. 

Rolan moaned into the kiss and moved to grab your waist, but before his hands could secure you in his grasp, you stepped away just as smoothly and silently as you had stepped forward. 

Embarrassed and flustered, Rolan flashed you his pointy teeth in a frustrated groan. “Why must you tease me so? Have you not grown tired, frequently coming here just to pester me?” 

You beamed, proud to see your previous suspicions confirmed. “No,” you stated, matter-of-factly. “It’s too much fun! Besides,” you held the book out for him to take. “You didn’t seem all that excited about my earlier thanks, and that simply wouldn’t do.” 

Rolan rolled his eyes, accepting the tome with a huff, his tail back to swishing violently behind him. “Was that what that was? And here I thought you were trying to come up with new ways to annoy me.” 

“Annoy you?!” You mock gasped. “Surely my kiss was not that bad.” 

“For a ‘thank you’, that kiss was highly inappropriate, it! Well…” he trailed off, his cheeks somehow blushing an even warmer shade of red. 

You tilted your head, encouraging the tiefling to go on. 

Rolan avoided your gaze, pretending to find interest in the book you had just gifted him. His voice was quiet, but also self-assured. “It was entirely too short of a kiss to count as a ‘thank you’. You might as well just have given me a peck on the cheek.” 

Rolan continued flipping pages of the tome, doing his best to act uninterested in your kiss and your presence, even though the both of you knew all too well it was a lie. 

“Don’t worry,” you started to take your leave, giving Rolan a playful pat on the shoulder. You paused for a moment, leaning into his ear to whisper, “I’ll make sure the next time I pester you goes more in your favor.”    

Watching your form retreat into the portal, Rolan brought a finger to lips, just ghosting along the surface you had latched onto not seconds before. 

Emerging from their eavesdropping positions, Cal and Lia could not help but give Rolan a pair of mischievous smiles. 

Watching as the whirls of the portal spun around you, you overheard one last bit of conversation just before your body was transported back to the upper floor of Sorcerous Sundries.

“Not one word,” Rolan warned, his stern body language failing to conceal the pleased sound within his voice. 

“Told you to just ask them out.” 

“Lia!” 

Zevlor

⚔️ It had been some time since you defeated The Absolute. Of course, despite the changing season, much of Baldur’s Gate was in need of repair and renovation. While Halsin had taken many refugees to his new settlement in Reithwin, a part of the former Shadow-Cursed Lands, many chose to remain in the city and restart their lives there. Being a frequent flyer of the city yourself, you found it easy to visit those who chose to stay behind. One such individual, a former Hellrider called Zevlor, was someone you found yourself visiting more than the others. 

You shifted the rather large rectangle basket within your grasp, moving it so it rested within the crook of your left arm as you freed your right hand, before raising it to knock upon the unmarked door before you. Faintly, you could make out whispered gossip floating up from the stairs behind you, but you paid the hushed voices no mind. Sure, to outsiders it may have seemed odd that the savior of Badlur’s Gate was so keen on visiting the same acquaintance, one who resided in such simple dwellings, but to you the luxury afforded as a hero and adventurer paled in comparison to a good conversation between friends. 

‘Friends’. The word echoed in your head, like a schoolmarm repeating the dishonest words of a misbehaved child. 

In truth, you found yourself more drawn to the older paladin than perhaps you’d like to admit. You found your admiration and respect for the former Hellrider only grew with each passing visit, and now, there was hardly a day the tiefling did not fondly cross your mind. 

Then again, those silly girlish feelings would no doubt ruin the peaceful nature of your current relationship with Zevlor, so you pushed them aside in favor of maintaining a friendship while pining rather than speaking your truth and risking having no relationship at all. 

Hearing a shuffle of objects on the other side of the door, you smiled and released a breath you didn't know you were holding. It was just like any other day, there was no reason to get nervous now. 

“Ah, Tav,” Zevlor opened the door with a soft smile, “Right on time, as usual.” Always the gentleman, Zevlor stepped back, holding the door open for you. 

“My parents always said punctuality is a virtue,” you smiled, remembering their words fondly. “As much as I try to embody their lessons, this life doesn’t present many opportunities to do so, so I like to fit them in where I can.” 

Zevlor hummed, closing the door behind you. “They must be proud of you. Not every parent can claim their daughter is one of the great heroes of Baldur’s Gate.” 

Walking over to the settee just beyond the door, you took your usual spot seated on the right-hand side of the rather cramped sitting area. Despite being inside Zevlor’s home many times, you still found yourself amazed at how the tiefling managed to move around without knocking his tail into everything. 

The furnished room Zevlor currently resided in was a single-room loft, settled above a rather quaint little cafe spot in the lower part of the city. It wasn’t much, and it had very little privacy, especially for visitors, but that was little concern of yours. And despite Zevlor’s constant apologies for the small space, you felt more at home seated inside his little apartment than you did your camp at times. 

In the corner opposite the door, a cast-iron stove and a washing basin with a faucet were secluded just beyond a shutter-style room divider. You knew from previous visits that was where Zevlor always warmed the kettle for your meeting tea. Next to the settee you were seated on was a single dresser, about waist high. Upon it sat the few various plates and utensils Zevlor used daily as well as the collection of mismatched tea cups and teapots. And despite never seeing the inside of them, you assumed the drawers of the dresser housed his clothing and armor. Although, you must admit you were rather curious as to how he got his chainmail and breastplate to fit. 

Directly across from the settee, on the opposite wall was a twin-sized bed, undoubtedly too small for the tiefling paladin, even if he was never one to complain. Zevlor always kept it neatly made, the sheets all tucked in evenly, almost as if no one had slept in it the night prior. You supposed he had no choice, if he wished to entertain guests, as there was no way for their eyes to avoid it. Then again, a part of you had a feeling that order and precision were just key elements of who Zevlor was. Despite no longer being a Hellrider, and having long broken his oath as a paladin, several of his attributes like discipline and respect went far beyond any former occupation or title. 

Setting your surprise gift onto the wooden coffee/dining table before you, you answered Zevlor’s observation with a much more melancholy smile. “I’d like to think that, if they were still here, that yes, they’d be proud.” 

Taken aback by your revelation, Zevlor’s face fell before he recanted. “Tav, forgive me. I did not know your parents had passed. But I do still believe that regardless of where their souls may be now, they are looking upon you with pride.” 

Careful not to accidentally knock you with his tail, Zevlor retrieved the teapot, ready with tea already steeping, and two of the mismatched cups, before he returned to be seated next to you. 

Due to the tight nature of the room’s layout, and the small stature of the settee, every visit between the two of you resulted in your knees touching. In the beginning, Zevlor was overly apologetic, insisting he could instead sit on the bed, and allow you to have the sofa all to yourself, but you insisted the proximity was more than fine. You knew many people still saw tieflings as devils, monsters, or hellspawns, but you were not among them. The tieflings were just like any other race you had encountered on your journey: they were simply doing their best to survive. 

If anything, the hardships Zevlor and the tiefling refugees endured before arriving in Emerald Grove only made you respect them more. You were no stranger to hardship. You knew how difficult it was to have to get back up after you’ve been beaten; particularly how hard it was to accomplish the sixth or seventh time around, but it was something Zevlor managed to do with dignity when leading his people. 

You knew he did not see it similarly, his mind having been temporarily corrupted by The Absolute, but you would have fared no better if it was not for The Emperor’s intrusion. Truth be told, few minds ever could have resisted such a powerful psychic force. And even though several of Zevlor’s former tiefling friends and allies held him in contempt to this day, you could not bring yourself to agree with them. 

After the tea had been poured and sipped, your comfortable silence gave way to conversation. 

“How long will you be in the city this time? Any adventures planned for the future?” Zevlor asked. 

“I do have some news,” you admitted, placing your teacup down. “I’ve been thinking of this for a while now, but I needed some time to come to terms with it.” 

Zevlor motioned for you to go on. 

“Well, it’s been nearly seven months since our victory against The Absolute, against Gortash, Orin, and Ketheric Thorm. The former Shadow-Cursed Lands have blossomed into a new hope for so many people. I’ve thought about hanging up my adventurer’s hat. At least for now.” 

“I see. And what will you do with all your spare time? Travel? The Sword Coast has much to see, or so I’m told.” 

You shook your head. “I’ve been thinking of settling down.” You fiddled with your fingers, hands resting in your lap. “Maybe starting a family.” 

“Oh,” came Zevlor’s deflated response. “I see.”  

You placed a reassuring hand on Zevlor’s shoulder. “Don’t get me wrong, I love helping people. And I want to continue to do it. But I think I can do it differently, in a way where I can have both, ya know?” 

Zevlor nodded, clearing his throat. “Yes, certainly. It makes sense. You’re young, you want to live life to the fullest but you also don’t want to live it alone. I understand perfectly.” 

Seeing Zevlor’s downtrodden posture, you brought your hand down from his shoulder and placed it on top of his. “The reason I wanted to tell you was because, well, I was wondering if perhaps you’d like to come with me?” 

Zevlor’s eyes snapped up. “I’m- I’m sorry?” 

“I found a house, a cottage in east of Reithwin. It’s nothing fancy, and it’s most certainly in need of some major repairs but there are two rooms. It’d be away from the chaos of the city, in a town itself that is starting anew. I thought, there’d be a chance, you’d prefer those circumstances as opposed to living here.” 

Zevlor swallowed harshly. “I’m not certain what to say. You’ve already been such a help to me and my people. You’ve forgiven me even after… I do not know if such an old tiefling like myself is worthy of such kindness.” 

“Oh Zevlor,” you sighed, pulling the older man in for a reassuring hug. “You deserve this kindness and more. You’ve survived so much, and you’re the reason so many others have survived. You stood up and fought The Absolute’s Army when it descended upon the city. You could have hidden. You knew what kind of power it had, you knew all too well the way it could destroy your mind. But you chose to do the right thing. You’re incredibly brave, and I wish you could hear me say that and believe it.” 

Letting Zevlor go, you could see the faintest bit of water welling up within his eyes. But to further spare the former Hellrider any embarrassment, you thought it best if you took this time to go. 

Standing up, you carefully slid over the rectangle box towards Zevlor before making your way toward the door. 

“What’s this?” Zevlor asked, taking a good look at the box. 

“Oh, I saw them at the market the other day, and I wanted you to have them.” 

“Tav, please,” Zevlor started, his hands held up in protest. “You’ve already given me so much. I couldn’t possibly-” 

You cut him off before he could start his whole self-deprecating spiel up again. “It’s nothing big, just a token. I wanted you to have your own set. That way, even if you don’t wish to come along with me, we’ll be able to use and enjoy them when I come and visit you here.” 

You opened the door, letting yourself out. But before you descended the stairs, you turned to face Zevlor one more time. “I’ll be at the Elfsong Tavern for a few more days, I have some things to get in order, some other people to see. I want you to know we’ll still be… friends if you don’t change your mind. Although,” you spoke, a relaxed smile upon your face. “I truly hope you will.” 

You reached for the doorknob, pulling it closed behind you. 

Zevlor waited, listening to your footsteps as your boots descended the stairs. When he was sure you were not going to return, his clawed fingers moved to carefully remove the top of the box, being mindful not to scratch the contents inside. Once the lid was off, the softest of gasps escaped his red lips. 

Nestled in the box was a matching tea set: one teapot, three teacups, three saucers, one sugar bowl, and one cream pitcher. The rims of everything were painted to look gold, and the main design itself was a collection of watercolor flowers, each very dainty yet boldly elegant. 

Gently, one of Zevlor’s hands grazed over his knee on the part where yours rested against his just moments ago. 

“Friends,” Zevlor spoke aloud. The word repeated inside the Hellriders mind. But unlike the commanding voice of The Absolute, it was soft and sweet and entirely in your tone. And in its echo a second word emerged, although similar in sound and nature, the weight of it felt differently settled upon his heart. 

‘Family,’ Zevlor thought looking down at the tea set you gifted him. ‘Yes, I do think I would like that.’ 

A/N 2.0: Can you tell how much of a soft spot I have for Zevlor? Related Fun fact I took a BG3 personality quiz once, and it said that I’m him due to my longtime suffering and constant masochist desire to keep doing the right thing even though life punishes me for it…

(个_个)

As always, please Like and most importantly, REBLOG!

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[the-fiction-witch]

I Like Him P4

Media - House Of The Dragon Character - Oscar Tully Couple - Oscar X Reader Reader - (OC) Jaerra Targaryen [Daughter of Daemon Targaryen & Rhea Royce] Rating - 15 + mentions of childbirth / mentions of death / mentions of rape and abuse / hair pulling / loss of mothers / Word Count - 1785

Requested -

Part 4 pls 🙏 Plssss Part 4? 🥺 I really hope you are planning to write a part 4, because I love how the fic's going More of the I like him series!! Plzzz

The work began at Harenhall, Lords and Levies alike took tools in hand to help make the castle ready to host the armies of Queen Rhaenyra. Preparing the old ruins to house the Riverlords, the armies, and the thousands of men that would wait here for the queen's word.

Even Daemon was chopping wood for supports and beams of the once grand Hall.

Jaerra had been given the task of weaving rope, she found the task a little insulting being told by the lords to sit in the corner and weave while the men around her, chopped wood, broke rocks and stacked bricks but it meant she got to sit in a quiet windowsill winding cordage and braiding it into rope for … whatever tasks they needed it for.

Luckily she wasn’t alone, Oscar Tully had to been given the task to work on the rope, too too felt mildly insulted over it, given he was the youngest man in the castle he felt like kicking the man who told him. That he felt so large he could tell the Lord Paramount of the Riverlands to go and sit with a woman and weave. But Oscar didn’t argue and just wanted to help in whatever way he could, imagining he wouldn’t be overly grand at wood chopping, rock breaking or bricklaying anyway. And of course… he got to sit in a nice little corner with Jaerra and weave rope by her side.

Oscar did his best not to stare and not to plush at her but found himself far behind her in terms of making rope due to always having his eyes on her.

He sighed wistfully as he looked up once more, seeing her today wearing a simple gown of a deep red slightly bronze colour, her Targaryen blonde hair loose around her, with her one dark brown streak beside her face at times she blew on the streak whenever it fell into her eyes as she worked. He couldn’t hold back his smile, imagining her for a moment…

Sitting in the Solar of Riverrun, with the redwood walls surrounding her, the large arch of blue watery strained glass behind her as an orange sunset fades, her body leant against the craved lapping trout bedposts of the canopy bed of the lord of the Riverlands, the firelight cascading over her, wearing a mud red gown, her hair braided and beautiful but still her dark brown strand being blown from her face, a swollen belly ripe for a baby to be born, as she embroiders a silver dragon below the watery black waves, the fire crackling the only sound other than his own rapidly beating heart.

And he could stay in such a thought forever. Oh, how he wished to.

“The rope shall not weave itself my Lord Tully,” She smiled teasingly as she caught him looking,

“Oh! Yes- Of course,” Oscar jumped back into the moment, “Forgive me my lady my mind was… elsewhere,”

“Nothing to forgive, and I’ve told you before you do not need to call me a lady,”

“I know, I just… feel rude is all,”

“I would prefer it honestly,”

“... as would I,” He smiled, “I would prefer us to be plain with one another…Jaerra”

“I hope so too Oscar,” She smiled back as she worked,

He got back to his work for a while before he felt compelled to speak, “Jaerra?”

“Yes, Oscar?”

“Forgive me, but. May I ask something… that may seem personal?”

“You may,” she nodded, “I also may punch you so the choice is yours,”

He chuckled, but soon settled seriously, “It’s uhh- it’s about your hair?”

“Yes?” She raised an eyebrow at him,

“Do you mind me saying it's… unusual?” He asked, “But still very beautiful!” He jumped in to correct himself not wishing to offend her,

“It’s unusual yes.” She agreed,

“May I ask, Why?” He asked, “Targaryen’s usual have the -”

“All over blonde, I know,” she nodded,

“But you don’t?”

“I don’t,” she nodded, “I used to,”

“You did?”

“I did,” she sighed,

“And this dark brown streak just… grew over time?” He asked his hand absentmindedly moving to the dark streak of her hair putting it neatly behind her ear,

“Sort of,” she answered, “I- I pulled my hair out when I was young,”

“You- pulled your hair out?” He asked, “On purpose?”

“Yes, strangely.” she nodded with a slight scoff, “When I was little, people said my hair was perfect, that it glimmered in the sunlight like a dornish diamond, my ‘Beautiful long Targaryen blonde hair’, never once was I allowed to braid, brush or wash it myself, and I all were forbidden from cutting it. Maids would sit with me for hours just doing my hair, braiding this endless rope of hair behind my head,”

“Wasn’t that heavy?”

“Very.” She nodded, “but… I was so angry, such a sad, angry little girl. And when I was angry I would go to my chambers and I would pull my hair so hard that I would rip it from my head and burn it in my fireplace. It started small at first a few hairs, never to be missed. But… I kept doing it, and doing it,” she explained, “until my ‘beautiful long Targaryen blonde hair’ was patchy, broken, mismatched lengths, and the only thing to be done was to cut it all off.”

“Cut off? How short?”

“To the root, too short to pull out.”

“I- I bet you were still beautiful,” He cooed,

“No one told me so, all anyone said about was how nice I would look when it grew back. So… the moment a single strand got long enough I would rip it out, ripping and ripping over and over.”

“Didn’t it hurt?”

“It did, but… I didn’t care.” she said, “All I saw on my head was a sigil, I was a Targaryen and everyone knew it before they even knew who I was, and I hated it so much that I didn’t care how much it hurt.”

He softly nodded, “But when did it, turn brown?”

“Years later,” she answered, “One day I noticed it, just a few hairs. Dark brown. And I loved them so utterly,” She cooed winding her fingers around her streak, “They felt… like me, and I let them grow and grow wanting my whole head to turn this dark brown, it stopped with just this but I love it.”

“Not Targaryen, Just you,” He smiled,

“Just me,” she nodded, “Daemon hated it, I imagine he still does. But It makes me feel like me,”

Oscar nodded, “I like it too,”

“Thank you,” She smiled,

“I- I assume the brown, comes from your mother?”

She nodded, “I think so,”

“How does she feel about it?”

“I don’t know,” She said sadly, “I hope she’d like it, but she never got to see it,”

“Oh-” he gasped, “Forgive me Jaerra,”

“It’s alright,” she reassured him,

“What happened to her?” He asked gently,

“I did,” She answered, “She died, in the birthing bed.” Sadness flooded her voice,

Oscar felt a chill go down his spine, but he felt compelled to speak, “I- I lost my mother that way to,” He answered,

The two shared a look, a thousand words of understanding passed through them without a movement of their lips,

“Can I ask-”

“I don’t really know,” She said, “Few would speak of it,”

“I don’t mean to-”

“I know, it’s okay,” She softly smiled,

“Who was she?”

“Rhea, Lady of House Royce,”

“House Royce? Of Runstone?”

“The very same,”

“I have heard tales of her,”

“Many have,” she nodded, “He married my mother, becuase his grandmother Queen Alysanne demanded him to. But he hated her, and she hated him,”

“A very happy marriage then,” he joked,

“Very much,” she laughed, “Daemon avoided her and the Vale as much as he could, never even consummating their marriage… until. His brother then King Viserys demanded him to. Daemon arrived to Runstone on Caraxes too drunk to barely stand, he crawled beside her and took her. They said her screams echoed through the mountains. And she got pregnant with me,” she explained, “Daemon didn’t care he ran off god knows where, and left her alone. She sent ravens and messengers but Daemon never came. She went into labour one cold night or so they say, and I was born. A little Targaryen blonde babe. Everyone says it began to rain the moment I was born.”

Oscar softly smiled at that,

“And she held me… looked into my little eyes and she bled to death.” She explained, “The wounds too great she… passed, with me still in her arms, the maids told me once, she … was begging just to hold me one more moment, she told the Maester my name and then… she was gone,” She sniffled back a tear,

“I- I’m so sorry Jaerra,”

“It’s alright,” She nodded forcing back her sadness,

“They say that about me too?”

“What?” She asked,

“That it rained, it began to rain the moment I was born they say.” He nodded,

“What happened?” She asked gently,

“My father… adored my mother, He was Heir to Riverrun, the future Lord Tully, and she… a sweet smallwood girl, the future lady of Acorn hall. He would have moved the trident for her” He chuckled, “made her his wife when they were young and in love, of course… she was pregnant not long after. With Twins” He explained, “But… she was a small woman, thin and delicate. Birth just… ripped her apart, I came first and my father named me Oscar of House Tully. And before he was even born he named my brother, Kermit. but… they say she begged him, her hands bloody begging not to do it, saying she couldn’t do it, I had already broken her body beyond repair and she begged and cried for hours but she did it. She brought Kermit into the world, but… she was dead by the time my father held him in his arms.”

She nodded, “And your brother?”

“Dead. A day later. They say it was a miracle I survived.”

“I’m so sorry Oscar,” she said resting her hand softly on his,

He let a small smile crack across his lips, slowly intertwining his fingers with hers and rubbing his thumb softly against her skin,

“What was her name?”

“...Annie. Annie Smallwood,”

“I’m sorry you lost her,”

“I’m sorry too,” He nodded, “if it helps, I’m here and I promise I’m not going anywhere Jaerra.”

“Me either Oscar,” She smiled squeezing his hand a little, “Now come on let's finish this rope before they come to yell at us,”

“Right,” he nodded and chuckled softly, but as he looked to their rope he blushed, “Oohh uhhh we uhhh-”

“Oh!” She giggled softly,

The rope Jaerra had been braiding and the rope Oscar had been braiding had somehow gotten braided together forming one rope together,

“Well, guess we need to start over,” She chuckled, 

[idanit]

ok now i need to know about your niche country-specific jeeves AU

"Every valet takes great pride / in cooking what his husband likes" an edit of a makatka by @maidblues

(You've probably forgotten about sending this ask. I almost forgot I had a reply sitting in my drafts.)

This is incredibly niche and very hard to do for numerous reasons, but I've been thinking about a Polish Jeeves AU for a good while now. I'm not the best person to come up with the best way to cut almost all politics out from a story set in the 1920s in a country that has just become sovereign and is about to go through some further enormous transformations, so I'm not going to try very hard. Wodehouse's stories already take place in an idyllic sort of fantasy on the theme of interwar and postwar Britain, so I suppose a Polish AU would have to just lean into that even harder.

(Polish aristocracts lost their legal protections in 1921, but let's not think about it too much. Don't think about how you could possibly make "Comrade Bingo" work in a post-1920 Poland either. Etc., etc.)

So we've established that this would have to be some sort of barely recognisable fairytale Poland. But something in me is compelled by the idea of trying this out anyway because there are not a lot of wodehousian stories in Polish literature of the time. Not a lot of comedy without other genres mixed in in general. And one does wonder what it would look like.

Names are tricky. I want Bertram to be Bartłomiej or Bartosz (Bartek in the diminutive). @maidblues likes to give him the surname of Kogucik (rooster) and I toyed with the idea of giving him the Kur (another word for rooster) crest.

As for Jeeves's name, his case is more complicated because as far as I know servants in Poland were usually called by their masters by their first name, and the most common servant (as well as Polish in general) name would probably be Jan. So I'm tempted to make Reginald Jeeves a Jan Regulski or a Jan Reguła (reguła means "a rule").

This choice has the advantage of turning the "Jeeves?" / "Yes, sir?" exchange into "Janie?" / "Tak, jaśnie panie?". It rhymes. I find this amusing.

Servants at the time were overwhelmingly female, especially those who worked alone and for a single person/household, but we're going to ignore that.

Bertie is an aristocrat living in Warsaw, since it's the capital city, but his family is from some Mazovian dworek (manor house).

Aristocracy was not quite as much of an exclusive club as it was in Britain (some historians say it made up 10% of Polish society). Bertie probably says his ancestors fought at Grunwald, but he would likely bring up the Romanticism and the XVII century a lot as well, because they were as alive in the Polish public consciousness of the time as Middle Ages were in the mind of a certain kind of Englishman. Bertie could lean into something commonly called "the pride of the Sarmatians" (duma sarmacka).

Bertie's school is important. Everything depends on this, I think — Bertie's language, his friends, his club. Wealthy aristocrats did send their children abroad sometimes, so he could even have a typical British public school education even if he'd be unlikely to attend Eton and Oxford, specifically, but this feels like a cop-out, so I'm going to assume he was a student at some Polish university and not think about it too much lest I get caught up in the timelines of what university in what partition of Poland it would make sense for him to attend.

Bertie's way of speaking. My heart wants to make Bertie use some elements from the Warsaw subdialect because it's very fun and it would fit him, but regrettably, I think it's too working-class for him. I am fascinated by the idea of Bertie borrowing words from German and Russian in addition to French, though. He'd probably make use of some form of gwara uczniowska (student slang), too.

And Jeeves could know the Warsaw subdialect well, even if he would probably not use it while speaking to the members of the aristocracy (I'm pretty sure an early version of canon Jeeves spoke with a subtle Cockney accent, calling Bertie "guv’nor"). I wanted to make him a Warsaw local, perhaps with some family in the countryside, perhaps in the former Prussian partition, since I think the level of literacy was higher there and I need a way for Jeeves to have a chance of getting some education.

The Drones. There were no gentlemen's clubs, so I think the Drones would have to be a coffeehouse, a restaurant, or a szynk / pub called "Truteń"/"U Trutnia"/"Pod Trutniem". It's a significant change because they were not exclusive places, but it's the best I can think of. Coffeehouses in particular had a rich tradition as cultural places where people spent hours and hours on discussions. I think a Polish equivalent of a Drones Club could even serve as a tongue-in-cheek satire on artistic groups like Skamandryci. The Polish Drones would just have to take their gambling elsewhere. (@maidblues came up with another name for a Drones-like place that served food: Darmozjad. I love the pun — the word means someone useless, lit. someone who eats for free.)

As for the Junior Ganymede (Ganimedes), I think it would be a stowarzyszenie (club/society) without its own venue. Its members would probably meet at regular conventions. Here, I see an opportunity of some comedic nods to the tradition of "zjazdy", which in the centuries past were politically significant meetings of the aristocracy.

Bertie sings Mieczysław Fogg's songs.

Jeeves knows quotes from Mickiewicz and Słowacki (Polish Romantic poets) by heart.

Bertie is bi/multillingual enough to run off to Paris instead of New York City every now and then. Not quite putting an ocean between you and your aunt, but far enough for Ciotka Agata not to follow him.

I'm unlikely to ever finish writing anything for Jeeves in Polish, so, to finish things off, have this contextless excerpt from some draft of mine:

Mam na myśli tyle tylko, że podczas półtygodniowego pobytu, w którym jaśnie panowi udało się wpaść do sadzawki, zaręczyć, zostać pogryzionym, rozsierdzić Spodkowskiego i obrazić trzy stateczne matrony, choć nie dokładnie w tej kolejności, Jan ocalił mój ulubiony garnitur (bez krawata), zgrabnie mnie odręczył, opatrzył i odwiózł do Warszawy, a skroni jego nie zrosiła nawet mgiełka potu. Wspaniały człowiek. Obsypałem go, rzecz jasna, pewną ilością marek, ale wydawało mi się to zgoła niewystarczające. Dusza moja śpiewała, wolna jak ptak bez obrączki, a mój wybawca miał z tego tylko trochę świstków papieru, które i tak natychmiast wyśle rodzinie spoza stolicy — znałem go doskonale.

[valyrfia]

f1 drivers as tracks from the tortured poets department: a very abridged and very biased list.

DISCLAIMER: this is all for fun and should be taken very lightheartedly. Not all drivers were included, but I am open to suggestions as well as constructive criticism.

Without further ado:

CHARLES LECLERC - I Can Do It With A Broken Heart

Absolutely suicidal lyrics that should be mildly concerning but all in all very upbeat and makes you want to run around doing side quests. Such as write an album, or open an ice cream shop. I'm thinking this is specifically 2022 Charles when he trusted no one at Ferrari, or mid-2023 when everyone was calling him washed and calling for his teammate to be n1 driver, and then he proceeded to put it on pole in a tractor multiple times and still hasn't finished outside the top 5 since. Either way, I am looking forward how this song will hit when Charles gets his eventual championship.

MAX VERSTAPPEN - Who's Afraid of Little Old Me?

This one is for Mad Max, who was thrust onto the world stage as an untested young prodigy at seventeen, who was called too young and immature and proceeded to win a GP upon debut in a top team, who was called Crashtappen from 2015-2019 and labelled as overly aggressive to his detriment, who was painted as a villain by every media outlet and documentary and DTS episode, who said "fuck the haters" and won championships anyway, who broke records, and made his own national anthem the expected song for every podium. A driver who is fast approaching greatest of all time status, for his win streaks alone. A driver that most others now just shrug about, because there's no shame in not choosing to fight the inevitable.

LEWIS HAMILTON - So Long, London

Ah, the heart-wrenching track of letting go of your long-term British relationship that doesn't serve you anymore. So many lyrics from here I could apply to the rumoured break down of amicable relations between Lewis and Mercedes, the team he won six championships with. From "My spine split from carrying us up the hill" to "I didn't opt in to be your odd man out. I founded the club she's heard great things about" to "you say I abandoned the ship But I was going down with it. My white-knuckle dying grip. Holding tight to your quiet resentment". Honestly, I could copy and paste all the lyrics here and they would apply to Lewis' Merc swan song. Taylor wrote "you swore that you loved me but where were the clues, I died on the altar waiting for the proof." about Abu Dhabi 2021.

CARLOS SAINZ - The Prophecy

Carlos has been delivering some of the best drives of his career this season, but it doesn't matter because he's not the chosen one, he's not il predestinato, he's not the son of Maranello. No matter what he does, he would never have kept that Ferrari seat over the mythos of Charles Leclerc. "Let it once be me. Who do I have to speak to, to redo the prophecy?"

LANDO NORRIS - Guilty as Sin?

Specifically given for half-flirting with Red Bull for most of last season, only to shake himself out of it and re-sign with McLaren, but I have one eye on him, not entirely sure he's given up on the Red Bull daydream, and Red Bull have been open about wanting to get him, if they can. It's all on Lando to stay faithful.

OSCAR PIASTRI - Fresh Out the Slammer

Piastrigate continues to inspire and compel an entire generation of F1 fans, and as such should form the basis of Oscar's song selection. What was the promises that Alpine made him, if not "Gray and blue and fights and tunnels Handcuffed to the spell I was under For just one hour of sunshine"

FERNANDO ALONSO - Florida!!!

Florida!!! is a big and powerful song about being a Shakespearean villain with a History and questionable morals and motives. Who is that if not Fernando Alonso? "Tell me I'm despicable, say it's unforgivable." "Is that a bad thing to say in a song?"

LANCE STROLL - But Daddy I Love Him

Yeah this one is self-indulgent and too good to resist. He's singing it about Fernando btw. Next.

DANIEL RICCIARDO - Chloe or Sam or Sophia or Marcus

Someone is getting that Red Bull seat next year, and every name is on the list except Daniel Ricciardo. "As the decade played us for fools, you saw my bones out with somebody new." Who knows what would have happened if Daniel hadn't left Red Bull, all those years ago? "Just say you loved me the way you were" Oof. We could spend years living in the What Ifs of it all.

[thefirstknife]

Bro.....

You know, when they said they'll bring back "one of the most storied locations very briefly" I did think of Saint's grave. Speculated about this with the besties quite a bit as well, that we might go back there for some reason. And now. Yeah.

But my question when I was cooking about this and my question now that Ikora said this remains the same: how? How is that accessible? The grave is in the Infinite Forest. Infinite Forest is on Mercury. Mercury is still in a Darkness anomaly. And the Forest was sealed from the inside. That shit is behind seven proxies.

Obviously we've seen the Infinite Forest gate in the trailer, on Nessus, so I'm assuming the door can be opened from Nessus... somehow? Osiris can probably do it with his cubes or something, but the details of how this will be done and how it will be handled are eating me alive. I'm losing it, but for real this time. I don't have words to describe how much I am compelled.

Anyway, radio message!

Saint-14: Since you found me, I have only doubted who I was once... When Misraaks recounted how his people - their children - feared me... it shook me. Osiris says, that I am Saint-14, my hands raised the wall, I walked with the Pilgrim Guard. How can I be a shadow of the Saint who truly walked this City, when I remember the smells of the streets, and the faces that smile? I met you on Mercury, as I speak to you now. We fought together. I shattered the Vex for centuries, but I lived, where he died. Because we showed the Vex that our fate could not be calculated. Even in simulation, we surprised them, you and I. That, is true. The Conductor claims, I am a man out of time, an approximation of reality. Huh, was I not this already? Hard metal, and brittle memory. Spark, and code, fourteen times over. Only my heart carried through. I know what it means to find myself again. But... The Conductor claims, had Osiris not created the Sundial, had I remained forgotten, Sagira would live still. How could these things be connected? If it is true... I will not take my love from him as well. For it is strong, and he will need it. You would not be afraid. You would know what to do... I am... still trying. But I will find myself again.

He's doing better!!! He's figuring it out!!! I'm assuming now that the main point of conflict for him is the Saint that died. It was never quite clear what happened when we saved Saint; did the timeline diverge at that point or was it always two different timelines? Would the body still be there in the grave if we went there after we saved him? Is there any divergence at all and does it matter?

Because again, the Saint we saved is the same Saint that he's been for most of his life. He clearly remembers meeting us on Mercury which was for him the Dark Age. Before Six Fronts. His story and his legend essentially starts only after meeting us. The Saint that we know exists as he does because we saved his life on Mercury in the Dark Age and gave him the shotgun and he has been trying to live up to this potential ever since. He even quotes it: "I am still trying." He said that in the letter on Perfect Paradox and also when we opened the Forest for him after he was freed. And as I also noted, on week 1, we got a message between Saint and Osiris where they're recalling the exact same memory.

But as I said before, if he has access to any other timeline Saints, there might be differences that the Conductor used to mess with him. I suppose one of those is the Saint that died. And since the shotgun is a paradox, I can't really track it's origin point anywhere. Saint that died had remains of the gun which means that the Saint that died also met us, presumably. But if he'd met us, then he wouldn't have died. Or that's the timeline in which Osiris doesn't make the Sundial and we pick up the shotgun and then with the Sundial we can find the right Saint at the right time and give it to him and then stop him from dying. My brain is dissolving.

Anyway. So. Saint's grave huh. They're killing me with this. I need to think about it for 5 hours or maybe 5 thousand years.

And also the lore page. I assume it's talking about how the Vex Network with its various "denizens" reacted to the Echo.

A fractal cluster of nested realities unfurled like a frond. Two-hundred-and-twenty-odd instances of consciousness reaching in unison. A controlled frenzy of cooperation as the minds within piled Ishtar-branded office furniture to the skies, then lifted one another up to be closer, ones and zeroes stacked perilously, finding swaying purchase with their sensible flats on each other's thin shoulders.

Ishtar scientists!

An irascible trace of a signal sneered at the sincerity of the call but still willed itself to move, reaching up two thin spindles of data in a way that felt somehow familiar.

Asher :) :( T_T

The Great Quiet Thing, the Not-Worm, kept its eyes closed and ignored the call. It was still too soon, it decided. It shivered, the motion forming cascading bubbles of new hypothetical simulations in which it did not shiver. These contradictions soured and burst, scattering nutrients into the network.

What the fuck.

A man in tattered robes, feathers long since worn from his headdress, streaked through the shifting plasmic haze on golden wings, urged on by the tiny starburst at his side. His eyes were furious flame.

Osiris :) And Sagira. :) They're still in the network. Okay! I will just explode.

And of course:

"We need to warn them—" "There's still a chance—" "SAINT—" "Hold on to me—" "I AM OWED THIS—" "Hurry, get Shim—" "There isn't enough of me left—" "TELL ELSIE PRAEDYTH STILL—" "Please, please wait—" "Warn them—" "I have to warn them—"

Welp. We wanted Praedyth to be mentioned. Here he is. I guess I will jump off the cliff now.

Anyway, many thoughts. Genuinely what the fuck is the "Great Quiet Thing" in the Vex Network??? Where is this going. I have so much to think about, brb.

[katareyoudrilling]

Evidence ✂️ (Tim Rockford One-shot)

Pairing: Tim Rockford x Female Reader

Summary: Tim knows a lot about vasectomies

Word count: ~1.8k

Rating: Explicit (18+ only. NO MINORS)

Content Warnings: Vasectomy kink (aka the opposite of breeding kink), unprotected PIV, vague detective work (don’t worry about it), destruction of important documents?

A/N: It has been a while since I wrote one of these! Big thanks to @veryprairieberry for sparking the idea and for patience while I pondered it for a very long time.  Also, thanks to @burntheedges for the beta and assuring me I was not crazy lol.  All my vasectomy kinks are marked with “✂️” and linked on my new Vasectomy Kink Masterlist!

Reblogs and comments are always appreciated!

Vasectomy Kink Masterlist

Main Masterlist

Taglist – link in my bio or ask me to add you!

“Think,” Tim admonishes himself, staring at the board filled with crime scene photographs and bits of evidence.  “What are we missing?”

“We’ve been staring at it for days.” You pull at your neck, trying to relieve the tension, a habit you likely picked up from your partner.  Sharing an office with someone will do that.  You sigh and sit down at your desk, leafing through pages of witness testimony you’ve gone over a hundred times already.  “Maybe we should call it a night.  Look again in the morning?”

A knock at the door interrupts you. “Excuse me, detectives, the medical records you requested arrived. Thought I’d drop them off on my way out.” A lackey from the records office holds out a manilla envelope in Tim’s direction.

“Thanks,” Tim stands up from the chair he had been straddling and takes the envelope.  He pulls out the stack of papers and begins to scan them one by one.

“I don’t know what you expect to find in there.” Your frustration over this case has made you pessimistic.

“You never know,” Tim mumbles under his breath as he continues reading page after page.  You go back to your testimony, looking for anything you could have missed.  Apparently, you’re not done for the evening.

“Got it!” Tim exclaims making his way over to you and dropping the stack of papers on top of your desk with a thud.

You read the top page.  “He had a vasectomy?”

“He had a vasectomy,” Tim repeats back to you.  “Five years ago.  He isn’t the father.”

“You don’t know that.  Vasectomies fail.” It’s compelling, but not the slam dunk Tim seems to think.

“No, they don’t, not if…” He shuffles through the papers some more.  “There,” he points to a test result a few pages later, “he gave a follow up sample and no sperm was detected.  The chance of a vasectomy failing after that point is basically zero. Men just say that to get out of having it done.”

“How do you know so much about vasectomies?”

“Well, I had one.”

“You did?”

“Yeah, long time ago,” he says distractedly as he makes his way back to the board of evidence, rearranging things in light of this new discovery.  He picks up his mug of, what has to be by now, very cold coffee and takes a sip.

You, on the other hand, are frozen at your desk.  Tim had a vasectomy?  Tim is shooting blanks?

This information is eliciting a strong reaction in your body.

It’s swooping through your gut.

It’s making your palms sweat and your skin prickle.

It’s…

Rage.

Burning rage floods your system, heating your skin and making your heart pound.

“You had a vasectomy?” you ask him again, trying to keep your tone even.

“Yeah, are you… angry?” Tim turns to face you, looking confused.  Maybe your voice wasn’t as neutral as you hoped.

“I’ll be asking the questions, Detective Rockford.”  You push back from your desk and stand up slowly. You take a deep breath in and exhale through your nose, keeping your voice deadly calm, as if you’re interrogating a suspect. His forehead creases in confusion, but he waits for you to speak. “When did you have it done?”

“Twelve years ago now, I guess.”

“Why?”

“I decided kids weren’t something I was interested in, seemed like the right thing to do.”

“I see,” you pace across the room, tapping your finger to your lips, rage still simmering below the surface of your skin.

His eyes follow you as you go.

“You made this decision on your own?”

“Well, yeah.  I wasn’t in a relationship at the time. I don’t und….” You hold up a finger to silence him mid-sentence.

“You found the doctor, scheduled it, all of that?”

“Of course.”

“So, you are telling me…” You turn to face him as he takes another sip of his coffee, “that I could have had you bare these past six months?”

Tim chokes.

When he finally stops coughing, he wipes his hand across his mouth.  “Is that why you’re upset?”

“Yes! We’ve been using condoms when we didn’t need to!”

“There are other reasons to wear a condom.”

“Do I need to be worried about any of those reasons with you?”

“Well, no.”

“You don’t need to be worried about them with me either.”

“I never thought I did.”

“You’re so fucking responsible.”  The words come out angry, but there’s a new heat growing in your core. Responsibility is fucking hot.

“I’m… sorry?” Tim apologizes as you make your way to the office door and lock it.

“You should be sorry.”  You stalk towards him until you’re close enough to grab him by the holsters.  You watch as his adam’s apple bobs in his throat.  You pull yourself flush with his front, noting the bulge pressing against your thigh.

“How can I make it up to you?” he rasps.

“Fuck me on your desk, Detective.  Bare.”

“You’re so fucking sexy when you’re angry,” he growls, pulling you into a searing kiss.  His tongue invades your mouth as you both scramble with belts, buttons, and clasps.  You’ve come to love the taste of bitter coffee and Chinese takeout on Tim’s tongue.  Tastes you will forever associate with him as it’s never been very long since he’s had either.

Your clothes come off quickly in between frantic kisses, but you stop him as he moves to remove his shirt and holsters. “Don’t… I need something to hold on to.”

“Fuck, baby, when you say things like that…” his fingers dig into your bare hips as you set your ass at the edge of the desk and lean back on your elbows, opening yourself up for him with a smirk.  

Tim’s cock bobs eagerly in front of you, framed by his open shirt.  He takes it in his hand, stroking slowly up and down the thick length.

Pages of documents crinkle underneath you, but you can’t care.  Right now, all that matters is the beautiful man looking down at you with lust blown eyes.

“I want your cock, Tim. Now.”

He steps into the space between your open legs, cock in hand, and guides the tip through your wet pussy.  You both groan as he nudges at your clit and drags back through your folds.

“So wet,” he whispers, reverently.  He repeats his path several times, coating his cock in your slick before notching the head at your entrance.  “You sure you don’t want my fingers first?”

You vehemently shake your head and bite your lip as you look down between your legs.  He nudges at your entrance gently and you whimper.

“I know baby, I know,” he soothes you, and probably himself, from how completely wrecked he looks – slack jawed and panting.  With a guttural groan, he breaches your entrance.

You both watch as his bare length disappears into your wet heat.

“Oh god, fuck,” your eyes roll back in your head as he enters you slowly, stretching your sensitive pussy around his cock, working his way in inch by inch.  You feel the thick ridge of his head drag along your walls as your body gives way.  Without any barrier between you, the sensation is divine.

“Fuck, baby,” Tim breathes as he bottoms out inside you.  “I need a second.  You feel so good.”  He closes his eyes, overcome with the feeling of you. His hands flex against your bare thighs as he takes deep, centering breaths. 

After a few moments, he opens his eyes, locking his gaze with yours and, slowly, starts to move.

“Yes, yes, yes,” you whine with each slow thrust and drag of his cock.  Sex with Tim has been good, great even, but this… this is heaven.  You glance down to watch his clock slide in and out of you.  The sight of him veiny and glistening is almost too much to bear.  Your pussy begins to flutter.

Tim leans over you, pressing your knees into your chest. “Fuck, you’re amazing.  So wet and hot and tight. It’s been…. oh god… so long…”

The new angle hits just right and you can feel your orgasm building.  

“Yes, just like that,” you throw your head back.  “Fuck, your cock feels good.”

Tim licks his thumb and finds your clit between your bodies, speeding up your impending release.

“Are you going to come on my cock, baby?”

“Oh god, yes, please,” you beg, feeling the telltale pressure deep in your core.

“You have to be quiet for me,” he rumbles under his breath.  You’re not new to sneaking around at work, but until now you had saved the fucking for outside the office.  “Look at us,” he murmurs, rubbing your clit in time with his thrusts.

You look down and gasp at the sight of his thick cock entering your pussy. The last of your control snaps and you’re pulsing around him as you try not to scream his name and announce your relationship to the entire precinct.

When you come back to yourself, Tim is still slowly dragging himself through your sensitive walls, nostrils flared, clearly fighting to delay his own release.

Aftershocks zing through your body and you clench around him.

He hisses and pauses, “Baby, if you squeeze me like that, I’m going to come.”

You smile to yourself as he picks up his rhythm again, then squeeze as he pulls most of the way out.

He gasps and pulls out the rest of the way, pressing a kiss to your knee and laughing, “You have to stop that.”

“What if I don’t want to stop that?”  You reach between your legs with one arm and grab his holster, pulling him to you for a sloppy kiss.  “I want you to come.  Fill me up, Detective.”

Tim practically growls as he lines himself back up with your entrance and slides in fast and deep.  You bring your other hand up to grab the holster on the other side, balancing on your ass and holding on for dear life as he thrusts into you.  His strong arms cage you in and support you as he pants into your neck.

“You feel so good, what was I thinking not fucking you bare this whole time? Oh god… oh fuck…” he stutters as he empties himself inside you.

You wrap your arms around his broad shoulders, nuzzling into his neck and his scruff as he catches his breath.

“Who would have thought… responsible Detective Rockford fucking in his office.”

Tim chuckles into your shoulder. “Can’t be responsible all the time.”

You smile and pull his lips to yours for a soft kiss.  “Let’s get out of here.”  You peel your ass off the papers on the desk and turn to survey the crinkled mess you’ve left behind.  “That’s going to be a problem.”

Tim wraps his arms around your waist and kisses your shoulder, “Eh, I’ll just spill some coffee on it, no one will know the difference.”

You laugh, “Tim Rockford, you are just full of surprises.”

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

Vasectomy Kink Masterlist

Main Masterlist

Taglist – in reblog

[highladyandromeda]

Shadows of the Heart

Part 4

Azriel x Fem!Reader

Summary: After years apart, Y/n returns to Velaris, bearing the weight of sacrifice and secrets from her past. Reunited with Rhysand and his Inner Circle, she navigates the complexities of rekindled friendships and unresolved tensions. 

WC: 1.5k

Warnings: n/a

[Prologue], [Part 1], [Part 2], [Part 3]

Azriel would never confess it aloud, but restless whispers haunted his night—echoes of Y/n’s radiant scarlet gaze and soft, pink lips lingering in his thoughts. The dinner had unfolded in a blur, his embarrassment at his shadows’ untamed curiosity barely contained. Amidst the flurry of attention, Y/n garnered, he found himself sidelined, his usually silent insecurities amplified as laughter and light seemed to orbit her effortlessly. And her unexpected friendship with Lucien, it gnawed on Azriel to watch them exchange glances and secretive smiles, angry at how easily he captured her attention, going as far as to ignore his mate, no matter Azriel’s own dalliances with Elain. 

Muffled by his pillow, Azriel’s sigh was a mix of frustration and anticipation; he longed for dawn, not only captivated by her allure but also intrigued by the essence of her power. Y/n’s presence had marked a rare moment where his shadows' invasive dance hadn’t sparked fear or repulsion—an interaction that lingered persistently in his mind.

So when he made his way to the training ring, expecting to be alone to gather the rest of his thoughts, he was stunned to see a crowd already there. Traditionally the first to arrive, Azriel cherished these moments of quiet preparation before the day's chaos ensued. Yet, there they all were—Cassian joking with the Valkyries, Rhys descending with Feyre in tow, and even Amren positioned with her characteristic aloof observation.

For a moment, Azriel considered questioning the time, so out of sync with his expectations, before his gaze settled on the ring's center. Y/n commanded the space, her figure, cross-legged, suspended above the earth. The sight of her, ensconced in her crimson magic, edged with ethereal white shadows, captivated him wholly.

As her eyes opened, locking with his, a silent acknowledgment passed between them—a momentary connection that sent an unexpected jolt through him.

Dressed in tightly fitted leathers that accentuated her form, she exuded a presence that continued to stun Azriel, compelling him to avert his gaze in a rare display of discomposure. The subtle shift in his demeanor didn’t go unnoticed by Cassian, who, with a chuckle, seized the moment to lighten the mood.

“I guess the training ground got a bit more interesting," Cassian quips, earning an eye roll from Feyre. "So, what are we starting with today? Or are we just here to admire the view?"

Y/n, only smirking at the banter, rose with an elegance that seemed to defy the very nature of gravity. She motioned towards the practice weapons as a dagger flew into each of her hands, inquiring "Who's up for a spar with me?"  

Before the others could process her actions, surprised at her magic; Azriel steps into the ring, the shadows at his command receding as he speaks, "I request the honor."

The agreement is silent but understood—no magic, just the skill of arms. Y/n stood ready, her dual daggers gleaming like extensions of her will, while Azriel, wielding a single dagger with a calm assurance, mirrored her posture. Their duel began with the two warriors slowly circling each other, each step measured and deliberate. 

Y/n's gaze sharpens, her focus solely on Azriel as she searches for any sign of vulnerability, deliberately setting aside the distracting thoughts of how his attire complements the deadly intent in his posture. Despite years of rigorous training, honing both body and mind, she finds herself momentarily caught up in how pretty her opponent’s curly hair is, inviting an almost irrepressible urge to reach out and test the spring of a single curl.

Yet, she's quickly snapped back to reality as Cassian yells– “Oi! Will you two fight or keep making eyes at each other!”

Y/n's cheeks flush with a heat that rivals the morning sun, her focus briefly fractured by Cassian's teasing. The realization that her momentary distraction had been so visible, so palpable to everyone else, ignites a spark of embarrassment within her. She glances up at Azriel’s eyes, expecting to find amusement or perhaps annoyance, but instead, she catches a glimpse of a blush creeping up his neck, a show of discomposure that mirrors her own. 

The air between them, charged with an unexpected tension, shifts as Azriel suddenly lunges forward, his movement a blur of precision and speed. It's a surprising aggression from him, given the usual patience and strategy he displays in combat. A chorus of exclamations erupts from their audience, a mix of surprise and excitement that fills the training ring.

In the split second it took for Azriel to lunge, Y/n's heart skipped a beat—not from fear, but from an electric jolt of understanding. So the spymaster was prone to the same bouts of flusters and rush of emotions as anyone else.

Y/n's reaction was immediate, her training kicking in, allowing her to duck and counter with a swift maneuver, her daggers slicing through the air in an arc aimed at Azriel's midsection. He parries with his blade, the metal singing as it meets her attack, deflecting her strike with a precision that speaks of centuries in the shadows. They break apart for a fraction of a second, assessing each other, before launching back into the fray.

Y/n, wielding twin daggers, utilizes a fighting style that is as much about misdirection and movement as it is about attack, staying in each position for only seconds at a time. Azriel, anticipating this, counters with his single, heavier dagger, meeting Y/n’s attack and attempting to use his opponent's momentum against her. The battle quickly transitions into close-quarters combat, their movements a blur to the onlookers. 

Azriel, seizing an opportunistic moment, aims a strike at her left thigh—a reminder of her old injury. It's a low blow, figuratively speaking, leveraging his knowledge of her past vulnerabilities. But time and her magic have woven strength back into her form, allowing her to sidestep with a grace that hides the remnants of the wound. 

Y/n feints then spins, her dual daggers a whirlwind of deadly intent as she aims for an opening in Azriel's defense. He counters, stepping in close, his single dagger thrusting towards her in a series of rapid strikes that she narrowly deflects.

At that moment, as Y/n faced Azriel, time seemed to dissolve around her, the world narrowing to the space of their duel. She felt an exhilarating rush of clarity, her usually tumultuous mind quieting to a whisper, leaving only the pure, unbridled focus of the fight. Her body moved of its own accord, every step and twist a testament to years of training, her consciousness drifting away from reality, disconnected and free. 

Then, in a breathtaking display of agility, Y/n launched into the air, her body spinning horizontally in a swift, fluid motion. She landed gracefully behind Azriel, catching him off guard. With a precise, rapid swipe, she crouched down and swept his legs from under him, sending him tumbling to the ground. Before the onlookers could even process the move, she was already flipped over him, straddling his chest with a dagger poised at his throat and another aimed at his heart, her actions so lightning-fast, the crowd barely had time to blink.

Pinned beneath Y/n, Azriel found himself momentarily lost, mesmerized by the sight of her above him. Her cheeks were flushed from the exertion, breaths coming slightly heavy, yet there was a glow about her, enhanced by the sunlight that kissed her face, transforming her red eyes into sparkling rubies. At that moment, he couldn't determine what left him more breathless—the intensity of their spar or the sheer force of her presence.

A part of him silently pleaded for her to rise, fearful of how his body might betray him under her proximity. Relief washed over him as she extended her hand, a silent offer to help him up. Instinctively, he reached out, then hesitated, the sudden realization hitting him that she would feel the scars that marred his skin. The thought of pulling back flashed through his mind, but it was too late; she had already grasped his hand. He braced himself for any sign of flinch or disgust, but it never came. She pulled him to his feet, her gaze never dropping to his scars, her touch devoid of any hesitation. The slight smile she offered him at that moment was something he wished he could preserve indefinitely—a memory to be cherished.

Their quiet moment of understanding, however, was swiftly broken by applause and Cassian's booming voice, punctuating the air with both humor and admiration. "That's the most intense spar I've ever seen Az lose!" he exclaimed, clapping Azriel on the back before draping an arm around Y/n.

Rhys, joining in, added, "Clearly, you've been working hard on the continent, Y/n. Even injured, to have the spar last nearly an hour…" His words trailed off, leaving a note of respect hanging between them.

Azriel, his heart still racing from the duel and the exchange that followed, barely registered the passage of time. It had felt like mere minutes to him, not nearly an hour. But before he could think further, Nesta and the Valkyries converged around Y/n, their admiration clear as they bombarded her with questions about her technique, eager to learn from her prowess.

A/N: Yay! Azriel and Y/n finally had a one on one interaction!! I had a fun time writing this chapter and planning out their spar scene. I've only practiced martial arts with hand-to-hand combat and fencing so dagger fights aren't something I have much experience in -- Y/n's horizontal jump is inspired by the dagger fight in Dune 2, where Paul does that action and it looks really cool.

For my tag list, I tagged everyone who asked and those who commented on the previous parts. If you'd like to be included, please just let me know. 💕

TAGLIST: @strangelygreat @enfppuff @trip-n-sal @inloveallthetime @annamariereads16 @mybestfriendmademe @mariahoedt @annblvd @ania-swissweet @yearninglustfully @sleepylunarwolf @quiettuba @gorlillaglue25 @lilah-asteria @naturakaashi @sillymercury @itsswritten @xlosttdreamss @kennedy-brooke @xyzmeh @lucky7rosie @copenhagenspirit @collide-with-the-music @starsinyourseyes @dianxiaxiexie @maybefoxysouls @golden-canyon @violet-potter @thisiskaylin @acphengene @katherinejess @sevikas-whore @kalulakunundrum @hibye02 @madscamp02 @willowpains