#i cannot with the way she looks at him here

[tusswrites]

Rockabye Baby (j.ww)

Wonwoo x fem!Reader

"First-time dad Wonwoo trying to navigate the ropes of parenting while missing you"

genre: fluff, humor; rating : 16+ word count: 2.1k warnings: none! credits: the littol menace @svtiddiess for helping me with the banner and beta reading author's note: this is set in the same universe as 'Bun In The Oven', but it can be read independently. written from wonwoo's pov! send an ask to be added to the tag list (better see an age in the bio)! tagging : @jenoslutie, @chugging-antiseptic-dye, @gyubakeries , @skzbangchanniee, @ariananotgrandeee, @wonufos masterlist here, domestic seventeen masterlist here

If at first he fainted upon hearing the news of the soon-to-be arrival of his offspring, he is now beyond frantic, doom scrolling in the wee hours of the morning on Reddit through multiple ‘First Time Dad’ posts. When he thinks Y/N can’t hear him, he lifts her shirt and begins to talk to his baby, he cannot be caught alive thinking he believes that shit and lose his ‘macho man’ facade. All lies, Y/N can never sleep at night, and is desperately holding her giggles at her husband’s constant whining to their baby about how mean their mom is to him.��

His aunt has given him some herbal medicine that runs in the family, vital for new mothers and despite Y/N’s bemoaning, he holds her by the neck and forces that ‘disgusting shit’ down her throat. ‘It’s for the baby Y/N’ he reminds her for the umpteenth time although he gags a little at the odd smell, that stuff is not for him, no thank you. 

At work, he is frantic, nervous, and excited all in one. When Jeonghan caught him tearing up at the back of the makeup room, rocking himself, arms tightly wound around, trying to stop his steady flow of tears, he finally confesses that he doesn’t think he will be a good father. “I never cared for children much hyung, I don’t think I have those paternal instincts to look after a newborn. I am scared I will run out on my child.” He sobs into his hyung’s arms who holds him tight and consoles him.

 “When the little one comes, you will forget all your fears. You’re not the type of person to give up on something you care about, especially not your child.” Jeonghan rubs his back gently, trying to soothe his distress. “You may not feel ready now, but you’ll rise to the occasion. Every parent has doubts, and that’s okay. It doesn’t mean you’re not going to be an amazing dad. You’ll figure it out as you go, and your love for your child will guide you through it.”

 Wonwoo freaks out when his wife thinks she is some sort of daredevil, trying to climb on the countertop to grab a jar. “Are you crazy?” he shrieks out.

“I can’t always keep asking you to attend to every beck and call of mine. Besides, it’s not that high,” you try to reason with him, but he has no chill, pushing you gently toward the bedroom and getting you back in bed, propping your feet up on the extra set of cushions he ordered from Amazon just for you.

“I don’t care,” he counters firmly. “Until you pop out that baby, you are on lockdown. No leaving the bed, and absolutely no scaling countertops for a mason jar of pickles. I’ll get it for you—just call me. That’s why I took time off, so you don’t have to risk anything, especially not now,” he says, his voice steady but laced with concern. He smooths the blanket over you, making sure you're comfortable before settling beside you with a deep sigh.

It seems the baby isn’t the only thing he’s freaking out about—he’s also on high alert to make sure you’re okay, every step of the way. Why must you do dangerous acts this far in your pregnancy?

“I am pregnant Wonwoo, I can still walk and do things, ‘m not a doll.”

“Never said you can’t do things, baby,” he says softly, smoothing the crease in your brow with a gentle peck. “It’s just to reassure me, for my peace of mind. I don’t want you pulling any stuntwoman moves just days before Little Bun gets here. So please, for me, at least?”

He looks at you with those pleading eyes, the ones that always seem to get to you. Till the baby comes, he’s hopefully the cutest person you’ve ever seen, the one you can never say no to.

“Fine.” You huff out. “But grab me a jar of mayonnaise to go with the pickles.”

“Mayo-? With pickles? H-ho?” he sputters, absolutely stumped at your taste buds.

“Is there a problem Mr Jeon?” your brow is quirked, amusedly staring at your befuddled husband's face.

“No, no, stay right there. Mayonnaise with pickles coming right up,” he says, still in shock, but resigned. He silently prays that Little Bun arrives quickly, before his wife loses herself in yet another round of bizarre food combinations.

“And sprinkles too!” you holler from the bedroom, your voice carrying.

“Lord, give me strength,” Wonwoo mutters to himself, shaking his head as he makes his way to the kitchen, shuddering at the disgusting combo.

The day of your labor arrived very anticlimactically, if Wonwoo could call it that. There was no sudden gush of water, no dramatic screams or threats hurled at him. Just a quiet morning, like any other day. If not for him glued to your side, he daresay he might have missed it altogether. The moment you felt discomfort, he was already rushing you to the ER, completely ignoring your reassurances that it was just a false alarm.

He probably needed to celebrate this victory with a cake that said, “I Told You So,” because, yes, he was right—the little one did arrive that very day, though not without a few bumps along the way. None of the dad books had prepared him for the fact that the scrubs handed to him in the labor room were supposed to go over his clothes. After a certain amount of confused stripping, a shrieking nurse, and a hollering wife, he learned a very important lesson. There can only be one naked person in the OR—and that person was definitely not him.

The jitters came when his daughter came into the world, unperturbed and squinting angrily at him, like she didn’t want to be there. He can pity her sentiments. But the baby was not crying. Sure she was breathing, but where is that high-pitched wail the books taught him?

No amount of parenting manuals could prepare him for this moment, to see his little one clutching tightly to his pinky finger, staring at him with your eyes and his nose, and the feeling of love encompasses him. Is this someone he created? He holds you extra close, trying to hold the tears at bay. Gratitude, pure and raw, fills him—thankful for you, for this little one, for the family he has.

Some sort of humor is brought in by his mate Soonyoung who arrives at the hospital, all ready to see the newborn in a new tuxedo to make ‘ a good impression’ “This is a baby Soonie”. “First impressions matter Won-Won.” He leaves it at that, knowing deep down his mate's plan was to bag the ‘best uncle’ title.

It’s never without its mishaps however- he cannot understand the hospital staff when they give him the green light that it's time to go home. 

“Are you sure?” He persistently asks, there is no way he can ensure the safety of a being that came into the world just a few hours ago and now he is entrusted to make sure this thing is alive and flourish. What are they thinking?

Seeing that familiar tick of annoyance on your face, he supposes he has been asking that question way too many times and reluctantly picks up the baby carrier, although he is scared shitless, out of his mind with fear. He does not want to place the baby in a car seat, to your utter confusion.

“She was slimy and squiggly, what if she slid right out? He ponders. 

Assuring him that the baby will be “fine and protected,” and to further calm his nerves, you sit in the backseat too, keeping a watchful eye on your little one as Wonwoo starts the engine for the long drive home. He is not the only first-time parent here.

It took a whole day and a half before the secret was out in the open. “Wonwoo, I need to grab a bite, here hold Nabi for a second.” You hold the child in mid-air expectantly waiting for her father to pick her up.

“Just place her in the crib, she's safer there.” 

“Wons, that’s in the other room, what are you so afraid of holding your child?”

He waits for the realization to dawn on you. “Wait a minute, have you held her even once?”

“I brought her here in a baby carrier?”

I meant holding her Wonwoo, not in a carrier or rocking the crib.”

His guilty face speaks enough. “She’s just so tiny Y/N! And her head is wobbly. What if I drop her?” Why can’t you understand his sentiment? He will move heaven and earth for his daughter except maybe hold her and risk dropping her.

"Wonwoo, you're not going to drop her. Babies are fragile, but you're not going to break her just by holding her," you explain, taking a deep breath to stay patient with his nerves. You reach out, gently placing your hands on his shoulders, making him look at you. “Extend your arms”

He does, in slight trepidation.

“Wonwoo, Nabi is a full-grown newborn now, not a watermelon! Seriously, how small do you think she is? A little bigger gap won't hurt. Just trust yourself," you soothe, noticing his hesitation. 

Very gently, you place the tiny baby into his arms, and he holds his breath, afraid that if he so much as breathes, Nabi will blow away. This time, he cannot stop the tears that fall freely, privileged at the fact that she made him a father.

Yes, he knew about the lack of sleep and the constant need to change his baby. But what he did not know was that he would miss you this much. Around the clock, you both took shifts to watch the baby and rock the baby to sleep.But nothing prepared him for how much he’d miss you. The number of times he’s woken up in a state of panic because you weren’t there when he felt around to bring you closer and into his arms, only to be comforted when he switches on the night lamp and watches you half asleep, feeding his little girl. On tiptoes, he’ll pick his daughter up, the little gremlin who’s staring wide-eyed at him, and walk around the room with her, to give you a moment to rest. When you wake up in pursuit of your husband and child you see a snoring Wonwoo, holding little Nabi to his chest, both blissfully unaware of the mini heart attack they’d given you. 

Wonwoo has come to the conclusion that it's in those little moments—those quiet, fleeting moments—when he gets to have you all to himself. Three months after Nabi's arrival, he finally gets a taste of that luxury, when the little one is fast asleep, her soft breaths the only sound filling the room. Nabi is finally sticking to sleeping through the night, after listening to his fathers croons. When he returns to the living room, he finds you slumped against the couch, utterly exhausted. Your hair is stuck to your forehead, and the exhaustion is clear on your face, but there's something else there too—a quiet peace that tells him the chaos of midnight feedings and diaper changes has finally settled into a rhythm... for now. He’s not going to jinx it.

Silently moving you, hushing down your sleepy murmurs, gently lifting you, and placing you against his chest, he starts to rub your head in hopes you get back to sleep, a trick he learned early on to calm his daughter down. In this quiet, he can finally hear himself think, something he has never been able to do the past few months. His heart still thumps excitedly like it did the first time he laid eyes on you. To watch as the girl he once fell for, eons ago is now his wife and he gets to share a child with you, with the promise of having eternity by your side, he sleeps easy tonight, murmuring a quick ‘I love you’ and thank you’ as he places one more soft kiss on your cheek, forever elated that you’re his.

Alas, rest is not for the wicked. A sudden phone call on his cell has you both startled and wide awake as you rush to silence his phone.

“Why is it not on vibrate Wonwoo?” You start, angrily scrambling to sit on the phone in hopes of shutting it off, all rationality flying out the window in your sleep-deprived state.

“Shh, Nabi has still not woken up, which means she probably didn’t hear the phone ring,” he whispers as you both hold hands and painstakingly wait in agony for the jurisdiction of your child’s wailing. You are in luck, after all, she has still not woken up.

A glance at his phone has him jump up excitedly, “Yes, I won the bet to Mingyu, he owes me two tickets to see IU next month.” Unfortunately for him, his enthusiasm runs short tonight, for there comes the familiar cry from your baby’s room and a murderous look from you. “JEON WONWOO”

Uh.Oh.

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[peachesofteal]

MELOS (PART THREE)

main masterlist / Azriel's masterlist

Part two here / Melos masterlist Azriel/female reader - 6.6k words - AO3 Tags - 18+ mdni, explicit content, hurt/comfort, caretaking, possessive behavior, usual warning for Azriel's self loathing. Brief suicidal ideation. Azriel willing to rip anyone to shreds for threatening his mate, complicated IC dynamics, Amren sucks. Oral sex - fem receiving, little bit of edging, Dom/sub undertones, praise kink. canon compliant.

Fear.

It slams into him, shakes the bond so violently he almost drops out of the sky, forces him off course over the jagged peak of Illyria, urging him to follow the intensity of your panic towards Velaris. Gone is his assignment, his contact awaiting his visit, his work. One objective rises above it all.

You. 

The Palace of Bone and Salt is in shambles, but he hardly notices. Somewhere it registers in the back of his mind there’s been a quake, there are injuries, damage, but none of it matters.

The only thing that matters is his mate in front of him, trembling, eyes wide and glazed over, blood trickling down your face and blooming across your ribs. There’s a roaring sound between his ears, dread and rage and agony all compounding into a mounting explosion, and for a moment, he worries he might level the city for its crime of harming you.

Feyre is tense, and Cassian watches him warily. “What happened?”

“We found her under there,” he points to a dilapidated merchant’s stall, his stomach roiling at the sight of it, heavy stone counter cracked in half, wood and glass scattered across the ground, “protecting a little girl. We think she’s in shock.”

Not shock. Trapped in memories.

There’s a haunted look in your eye, a flicker of nightmares.

His brave girl. 

He holds himself at bay, holds himself back from shooting into the sky with you cradled to his chest, carrying you as fast as the wind will allow to Madja, or pulling you into a cloud of shadow so he can arrive uninvited in her living room.

“She needs a healer.” His jaw has never been clenched so tight. The smell of your blood is making him sick.

“We know,” Feyre tries to reassure him, but at the same time angles her body to block his path. Cassian shakes his head, because he knows, just as Feyre should, standing between a male and his mate is a very bad idea. He loves Feyre, but his affection for her is nothing compared to what he feels for you, and her behavior in this moment, is reckless. “Az,” she tries to caution him, tone pitching low, serious, “maybe you should back-“

Remove her, the shadows snap, she is in our way.

“You need a healer.” He pretends she doesn’t exist, pushes his anger as far away as he can manage, and addresses you instead. You shake your head.

“I need to go. Home. I need to go… home.” Cassian snorts. Azriel wonders if it’s possible to break his jaw in one punch.

You’re slipping, unsteady on your feet, going somewhere in your mind he cannot follow and his panic ratches upward as he says your name and you don’t respond.

“Feyre,” Cassian murmurs, “step back.” She stiffens, but listens, and he surges forward, unable to keep away any longer.

His heart sings as he cups your cheek. It’s the first time he’s touched you since his hands brought you harm, and he chokes on a breath as you lean into his touch, satin against scars. “Look at me,” he soothes, trying to draw you back to the present, but it’s a losing battle. You’re going to pass out, and you’re scared, he can read it all so clearly, scared to slip away in the dark, scared to succumb to the nightmare in your mind. “It’s okay.” I’m here, he wants to scream, you’re not alone. You fist his shirt and blink like you’re trying to clear the fog from your head, but it’s not enough.

In one moment, you’re here, you’re with him.

And in the next, you’re collapsing in his arms.

Time is so fickle.

There’s not enough of it now. For so long, his existence was a plague, an endless agony rife with shame, a life undeserving. He dreamt, multiple times, of falling out of the sky and into the Sidra, sinking to the bottom and letting the cold water fill his lungs. He never wanted more, not truly. He had no need for time.

Now, it’s all he wants. More time for more chances to tell you how sorry he is and kneel at your feet, beg you for forgiveness. More time to know you. To love you. Time to learn your likes and dislikes, what makes your nose wrinkle, what adds a skip to your step. Time to take you flying, to trek through the forest with you on an endless scavenger hunt, watch as you bite your lip and furrow your brow at Moonflower’s worktable.

If the Mother would give him another chance. 

If you would.

Time is fickle, because for months, he’s begged it to slow down, and now, he’s pleading with it to speed up, bring him to the moment where you wake.

Madja assured him you would make a full recovery within a day or two. She left a healing salve for the gash in your side, and some sleeping draught in case you were too uncomfortable to rest. You were exhausted, she told him, far weaker than she was comfortable with, body and magic wrung dry.

“Try to get her to eat something,” she said, “and then make sure she sleeps. She needs it. A lot of it.” 

The guilt is insurmountable. It chews away at his insides, burrows itself deep beneath his skin like a disease, rotting his flesh and mind. All he sees is your face, terrified, tormented, first in his dungeon and again, in the Palace. He sees you shuddering amongst the ruin, eyes rolling back in your head, collapsing in his arms. He can still hear your gasps, your pleas from that night, the steady thump of your heart slowing as he took your air, again and again. It’s these memories, these moments igniting in his chest, pain so visceral it aches, the agony of his mate’s suffering tearing him apart from the inside out. No matter the end of his story, of yours, there will always be this cordolium within him, this stark regret plaguing his every step. You’re so beautiful it possesses the power to break him, a strange, beautiful creature, breathtaking from the tip of your nose to the depths of your mind, and he’s a monster, lurking in your nightmares.

A beauty, and a beast.

You whimper and twitch in the blankets, hands fisted, limbs stiff. “Shhh,” he strokes the apple of your cheek. He's been able to settle you somehow, lull you back to peace thanks to the music spinning between your soul and his, threads knitting around the frail, fledging bond, pushing you to take comfort in him as you rest. It's more than he could ever ask for. “You’re okay, sweet girl. You’re safe.” Your sleep has been fitful, at best, and he wonders if he’s the one haunting you, or something else.

He's still in the chair beside the bed when you begin to blink groggily, trying to get a grip on your surroundings. You’re clouded with confusion, echoes of apprehension strumming down the bond, and he meets it, tempering it with reassurance in hope it reaches the other side. “Hey,” he murmurs, holding perfectly still like you’re a small animal and he’s the predator determined not to spook you as you push up onto your elbows with a groan. “Careful. The wound in your side is pretty raw.”

“Where am I?” you croak, and he reaches for the glass of water waiting on the table.

“My house. I didn’t think you’d take kindly to me breaking into yours.” Mostly true. He can’t deny there’s a warm hum of satisfaction purring in his chest at having you here, in his bed, safe within his walls, and he was too unsettled by the thought of bringing you to the River House, or the House of Wind, even though Feyre tried to insist.

Over the course of his life, Azriel’s loyalty, his dedication to his family, his court, has been instinctual, engrained in him down to the core, and his drive to protect his loved ones, Velaris, has been one of his defining features for centuries.

But this instinct has now shifted to you, and you are still an unknown to his High Lord.

“You brought me to your house…” You glance around, unsure. He knows how it seems. A venomous trap laid by him to ensnare you, to hold you here, by his side, forever. A way to feed poison into your veins, stun you, paralyze you, so he can steal you away, shield you from the world.

“You needed a healer, and rest. This was the logical option." You hold his gaze. It’s one of those instances, one of many, where there’s nothing else but you and him, nothing else that matters, nothing that even comes close. He wishes they could last forever. “I had to make sure you’re okay.” He braces for your wrath, the tart, sweet contrast of a raspberry, pinching the pockets of his cheeks and rolling across his tongue. He had a taste of it in the Middle, with the swamp, and now he craves it. Your fight, your cunning. Clever witchling. 

Your expression sours at the salve. “How bad is it?”

“A piece of marble crushed your ribs, and the jagged edge ripped your skin open. Madja says you’ll be healed in a day, but your body is exhausted and slowing the process. She left a sleep tonic, if you need it.” He murmurs, walking the line of too much and too little delicately, desperate to avoid crushing this fragile truce.

You shift, wincing, small yelp slipping free from between your teeth, and he stills you, brushing his hand along your arm before he can stop himself. “Easy.” The touch is electric, a live wire arcing through the room, crackling in the air, and he draws away out of fear, worry he’ll startle you. “We should get you home,” he says softly, and you nod. He won’t try to force it, push this farther. You won’t be comfortable here, and he’s cradling this burgeoning peace, fanning its flame, encouraging it to grow, trying to keep from ruining it. Working at something he's not sure he can achieve. 

“Yeah I… I think that’s a good idea.” You sit up slowly, leaning to one side to alleviate the pressure on your ribs. “How far is it? To my house?” He frowns.

“Far. We’re on the other side of the city. Do you think you can winnow?”

“I don’t know.” You try to wriggle closer to the side of the bed, but it’s fleeting, and your shoulders slump with defeat.

“I can take you, if you’d like.” You glance at his wings.  

“With those?”

“No, I wouldn’t fly with you in this cold.”

“With the shadows then.” You look down at your lap, and the weight of his choices crash like a wave upon his shoulders. The last time he took you through shadow, it was to the chamber, and then back. He swallows.

“It’s the quickest way.” You fix your gaze across the room, sweeping over his dresser, the nook lined with bookshelves and overstuffed velvet chairs, the chest of weapons on the opposite side. Charcoal grey drapes frame the floor to ceiling windows, aquamarine and citrine refracting through the stained-glass onto the deep, nearly black, green walls and polished wide plank wood floors.

“This is your room.” Your fingertips glide across the sheets, black satin, and his cheeks grow hot. 

“Yes.”

“It fits you.” Your lips tilt into the thinnest crescent moon, something akin to a tiny smile, and optimism soars in his heart.

You hold out your hand, the tattoo a mirror to his, the ink and magic of salvation, his contrition, the thing he now bows to, idolatrously.

Without it, he’d be lost.

You take a long, deep breath and uncurl your fingers, opening your palm. The small sliver of trust knocking his entire existence askew.

The meaning of this-

This trust you deign to place in him now, when you’re vulnerable, when your magic is feeble and your physical strength is sapped, is an infinitesimal gift, divinity defying all.

Unworthy. Another thing you’re giving him that he’s unworthy of.

The threads sing, weaving notes together, highs and lows, one side of a fugue, one side still waiting.

Your throat bobs with a swallow, and you graze your fingertips against his. “You’ll take me home then?”

He’s not sure he can leave you here.

She’s in pain, the shadows bemoan as they carefully flutter at your ankles. You’re too fatigued to notice, too busy contemplating the stairs with trepidation. Climbing them is a daunting task, one he fears you may fail. You’re hurting, completely exhausted, and he’s powerless. He can’t fix it or take it away, like everything else that’s happened. Your eyes are nearly dead, drained, and the shadows flitter around you anxiously. She cannot hold herself up. 

I know.                                                                   

“Can I help you up the stairs?” You shake your head vehemently, and like you’re trying to prove something, attempt to take the first step on shaky legs, gripping tight to the banister like it will keep you steady.

Your knees give out immediately, and his self-restraint vanishes. He lifts you into his arms, cradling you against his chest, petrichor and oakmoss flooding his senses, and you don't even flinch. “I’ve got you,” he murmurs, “let me help.”

“I’m tired,” you whisper, voice smaller than he’s ever heard, and he tightens his hold.

“I know. Let’s get you into bed, alright?” Weak limbed and limp, you slump against him, giving yourself over. More trust, more of these things he does not deserve. 

“Madja said your bandage won’t need to be changed before you’re healed, so you won’t have to worry about that tomorrow.” He carefully guides you back against your pillows, trying to ignore how caring for you, holding you, being here with you ignites a swath of feelings in him, possessiveness, protective instincts, obsession. Devotion. The rage, the hatred, the darkness haunting him slips into silence, drowned out by the music, the melody overtaking all.

“Okay,” you mumble, trailing off into a yawn as you squint at him. He wants to stay right here, sitting on the edge of your bed, his hip against your thigh, the neutral, barely there contact chasing off the stygian sullenness waiting to welcome him back to its embrace.

Don’t push it. 

He stands. You follow the movement, head tipping back, exposing your throat. Such a vulnerable place, one he greatly wants to drag his lips across. “I’ll let you sleep.” He says instead, stifling the pleasure surging in his blood at the way your eyes track him. He swears he seems a flicker of sadness there, but it’s gone before he can truly process it, hold on it, commit it to memory. When you don’t say anything else, he nods, drawing a sable shroud around his shoulders, readying to step into-

“Azriel,” he freezes, catching your gaze, “thank you.”

“Of course.” He’d do anything for you, little witch. Anything you asked. 

“I’ll see you next week?” There’s a tinge of trepidation on your tongue but it’s not fear. It’s uncertainty. His lips lift into a smile, a genuine one, one that only exists around you.

“Next week.”

He’s summoned almost immediately, and arrives in Rhys’ office to find an audience of his brother and Feyre, Amren, Cassian. The only one missing is Mor.

He quiets himself. Hides everything inside, pulls the shadows close, reinforces the walls around his mind. “What is it?”

“What is it?” Rhys hisses, anger flashing through the room’s thickened fog of magic. “What is it?” Azriel slips into the mask, the one he perfected long ago, and crosses his arms. A mirror image of the father he hated.

“Your mate is a witch.” He looks to Cassian, who shakes his head. He didn’t do it, didn’t betray the secret, this turbulent reality.

It was bad enough they discovered he had a mate in the first place, but disappearing for two weeks, without communication, has its consequences, and he has a hard time denying Feyre anything. When she asked where he had been, what had caused him to leave so suddenly without word, everything came out.

Almost everything. 

“She’s not a witch, her mother was.”

“So she’s only half a witch,” Amren says drily, rolling her eyes. The shadows rumble, rankle with rage. 

“I could smell it, Az, but she’s done nothing wrong. We don’t want to interrogate her.” Feyre looks at him with sympathy, and he only regards her with that same cool stare. Rhys who appears to be of a different mind, snarls at him.

“You will bring her to me, immediately, and I will determine what kind of-“

“No. She is none of your concern.” He will not play this game. He will not give Rhys a single second with you, if this is his intention.

“She is a witch, living in my Court!”

“And do you not trust my ability to evaluate a threat?” It takes everything, everything he has, to keep his tone measured. Cassian’s eyes dart between the two of them and then clears his throat.

“He tortured her, Rhys.”

“I don’t care,” he snaps, “he is blinded by a mating bond.” He turns his attention back to Azriel, raw power crackling through the air between them. “You will bring her to me, or I will retrieve her myself, and you will not like what happens if I do.”

The room explodes in shadow. Midnight closes in from all sides, climbing the walls, crawling across the floor.

The bond thirsts for battle and blood, for his brother’s head, and Azriel’s vision tunnels, soaked in crimson, in wrath, malevolence worthy of a smote god.

Amren stands. Cassian takes a step forward.

“You would threaten my mate? Is this what we’ve come to?” He’s descended past reason now, encased in an icy coffin of fury, and his siphons gleam, the killing power inside him salivating at the potential for violence. For destruction.

His people are monsters, and so shall he be. 

To protect you, to protect his mate, he’d become anything, a brute, a nightmare, it makes no difference.

“Az, let’s-“

“Cassian.” He seethes, refusing to take his eyes from Rhys, “while you may be more amenable to how your mate is treated by our brother, I am not.” Guilt flashes in Rhys’ gaze, and a breath catches in Feyre’s throat with a small, strangled sound.

“This is ridiculous. Just bring the girl and be done with it.” Amren snorts, casually inspecting her fingernails to appear as if she’s unaffected, but Azriel knows better. The shadows know her heart, her truths, how she mourns the loss of what she once was, how she loathes the fact that she’s High Fae. How she’s all too aware of her weakened state, hiding behind her posturing and assumed infinite wisdom that's slowly becoming irrelevant. Like her.

“Amren. Shut up.” Cassian bites out, his siphons casting a rubied glow around the room, mixing with Azriel’s cobalt blue, painting them together into deep purple hues.

“You will never touch my mate, Rhys. Never.” His brother’s face sparks with surprise and then his lip curls.

“Or what?”

“Rhys!” Feyre whips towards him, horror and disappointment settled into the furrow of her brow. “This is enough.” She looks at Azriel. “We trust your judgement Az, of course we do, and Rhys forgets I met her in the Palace saving a child’s life.” She hisses, her own power pulsing between the brothers, creating a physical barrier.

It’s not wrapped tight to Azriel, but to Rhys.

It seems his brother has been outranked.

We can break it, the shadows croon.

No. 

This is his family, dysfunctional as it may be, as tumultuous it may be, they are still his.

Rhys is still his brother. His High Lord.

“Let’s take a breath, cool off.” Feyre coaxes, nudging at the fortress of Azriel’s mind. Go. I will speak to him.

Don’t bother. 

He will listen to reason, just… give it some time. 

He spares Rhys one more glance as his wings flex and shakes his head. “I am disappointed in you, brother. I had hoped by now you would have learned from your mistakes.”

He expects another challenge of some sort. “No swamp today?”

“No swamp.” You lead him to your workspace in the back of Moonflower, a light, airy space with shelves and shelves full of herbs, flowers, plants growing from glass jars, and hunk of rocks, precious metals, strips of steel haphazardly tucked beside them, all chaotic, all disorganized. Like your home, it’s fitting. “I figured you could hang out with me while I work.” It’s a trial in its own way, daring him to protest, to vanish, to be bored by you, disinterested.

He won’t. He’d never.

“What are you making?” The table is full of stuff. Books, a mortar and pestle, a brass scale. There’s a long, sharp knife next to a thick stalk of something purple that smells like lemon, flanked by two glass beakers, and a heaping pile of salt. A raised metal circle holds a sphere over open flame, its contents a cyan rich liquid just on the cusp of a boil.

“Today I’m trying to finish a batch of contraceptive tea, and a cleanser.”

“A cleanser?”

“It’s an elixir that pulls poison from the body. All the healers in Velaris keep it stocked. Works well for a hangover too.” You bless him with another smile, the second one today, and he tucks it away for when sleep struggles to come and he needs something to cling to.

You pin him with assessing eyes. Anything could roll from your tongue, a question, a request to fulfill the bargain, a demand to never see him again, and the precipice is agony. He wonders if this is how it would be to fall without wings, drop out of the sky and plummet towards the mountains, jump from a cliff and crash into the sea. Would his heart pound the same, lungs scream the same? Would he experience peace, the same he feels in your presence, would his past flash before his eyes, would his family, or you? Conflict shivers from behind your walls towards him, twisting through the bond. “You owe me an explanation, and while I… I do need to hear it, desperately... there are other things that weigh on me. The fact that you know well enough about me but I know very little about you." You draw a pattern through the heap of salt, suddenly distant. It passes, and you blow out a long breath. "Azriel… who are you?” He frowns.

“I am… the Shadowsinger, the Spymaster, I’m-“

“No. What are you, if not those things, the Shadowsinger, the Spymaster. Who are you?”

“I…” the answer doesn’t come and there’s suddenly a nest of cotton muffling sound and thought, spinning tangled webs throughout his brain. Who is he? 

“I'm clever,” you lift your nose and smirk, tracing the rim of the glass beaker to make low whistle tones, “and a friend. I make a very good honeysuckle whiskey cocktail, and I love to read. I’m a hunter too, of fungi and moss, the occasional crystal. I'm an alchemist, I balance nature and magic. I’m a daughter.” Your voice hitches on the last word, vowels pulled apart at the edges, longing lingering on your lips. It pains you. Another puzzle in the long list of surprises, another riddle you’ve posed without an answer, a truth he struggles to find. “Try,” you whisper, ever watchful.

“I’m a bastard.” It’s the first thing that comes to mind, the stain upon his life since the day he was born. “And an Illyrian,” a brute, a monster, “I’m exceptionally skilled at causing pain and killing. I am warrior, a fighter. I have turned suffering into art. I am…” he doesn’t look at you. You’re the only thing capable of making him feel real fear, fear of your pain or suffering or anguish, the fear of your rejection, the fear of your disgust, and he can’t bring himself to see it on your face. “I am alone.” He braces for the pity, the same sharp sympathy given to him by his family.

“Well. Those are awful.” His gaze snaps to yours. You’re aggravated, and curious.

Always curious, our girl. 

She is, isn’t she? 

“You’re a brother, aren’t you? And an uncle?” He nods. “So, not alone. And you’re a bastard, probably mocked for it, hurt for it, but here you are, so I imagine you’re perseverant, strong. Strong in the physical sense too.” You peek at his shoulders, his arms, traveling down his chest before redirecting your attention to his face, somewhat abashed. “U-um, you’re-“

“Clever. Like you.”  

“Clever, like me. Brave too, I think, and probably devoted, loyal, considering your line of work.”

“Yes,” he whispers, symphony rising, notes colliding with perfect pitch, ringing in ears, a celestial rhythm waiting for the crescendo to match.

“Loved.” It’s a blazing star shooting across the sky, a buttery sweet sentiment melting in his mouth, loved.

“You didn’t list it for yourself.”

“Because it didn’t belong.” Loved? You don’t consider yourself loved?

“Why?”

“Because there is no one left. I am a good friend, a great one, but my secret prevents others from being a good friend to me. You cannot be loved if you are not known, not truly.” It crashes into him, the severity of your words. You cannot be loved if you are not known, not truly. 

Is he known? Truly known? Is he loved? 

Molten silver bubbles over from the sphere to a beaker, polychrome and pearl trickling down the sides, sizzling into a powder at the bottom. “Ah!” You jerk away from the table, bringing your hand to your chest, and he goes cold, shadows vibrating.

“What?” He’s around the corner and in front of you immediately,  

“It’s nothing, the silver just dripped on me.” You burned yourself. His chest tightens. 

“Let me see.” He cradles your hand in his, shadows quivering around your fingertip as he pulls you over to the tap. He turns the handle to the right temperature, cool but not cold, before putting your blistered skin under the spigot. If he’s fast enough, he can stop it from scarring, stop it from marring your lovely skin, prevent it from being with you for the rest of your life. “How does that feel?”

“Good.” You’re not looking at the water splashing down into the copper sink, or the burn. Instead, you're studying him, contemplating, considering.

“Do you have any cream here? Or maybe one of the salves you make...” He trails off, trying to think about what he’s seen in the shop out front, but everything he means to ask dies in his throat when you wrap your other hand around his.

“I’m okay, Azriel.” Right. Of course you are. It’s a small burn, not even the width of your fingertip. Suddenly, he feels very, very foolish, exposed, and he ties a cloak of obsidian around his shoulders, pulling the tendrils down around his forearms.

“Sorry, I-“

“I know.” You caress the shadows curling around his elbow, dancing through them with grace, inspecting, studying. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” you whisper, and his throat tightens.

“There is nothing wrong with you. Nothing.” You shake your head.

“There is… there has to be because I should you hate you, shouldn’t I?”

“You should.” You should do more than hate him, you should fear him, detest him, run from him.

“But I don’t. I don’t hate you, I’m not scared, and I don’t think it’s the safety net of the bargain. I don’t… I don’t understand it. I’m not frightened of you, but I am… I’m frightened of this.” Your palm flattens over your heart. He should tell you; he should confess-

but then he could lose you. 

“I should tell you to leave, but all I want to tell you is you’re not alone.” He tries to dig his heels into the ground against the magnetism dragging him downward, farther and farther until he’s holding your face, nearly nose to nose, counting your breaths, each speck in your irises. Decision and indecision hums down the bond, an endless tug of war you fight, a battle he wants so badly to win for you. You push up onto your tiptoes- 

and then crash your lips to his. 

It’s hungry, lush, teeming with life like your beloved forest. You unknowingly push it all through the bond, desire, confusion, worry, each feeling a chord, a note, trying to complete the song. He’s losing himself in it, veering off the path and diving headfirst into the unknown, too incensed to think for a moment before he wrests his discipline back into place.

Stop.

Control.

He rests his forehead against yours as he draws a measured breath.

His. He’ll show you what it means. To be his.

“You are perfect,” he presses a ghostly kiss to the corner of your mouth, “brilliant, kind, brave. You are far more than I deserve, a blessing I never knew could exist. A goddess I would worship my entire life.” An endless pool of hesitance and longing eddies in your eyes, a paradox he knows too well, and he prepares to step away, disappear, run. 

But you reach for him with a whisper.

“Worship me then.”

Fervor. Frenzy. It all explodes, detonates through him to you, whipping down the bond again and again, madness ebbing at the edge of his mind.

His. His, his, his. 

The two of you collide, and he’s rough, unintentionally, but it’s met blow for blow in a distorted dance, hands, fingers, mouths everywhere, his tongue against yours. It’s not enough, your touch under his shirt, traveling up to his shoulders, a leisurely stroll becoming a hectic sprint, encouraging him, knitting your fingers in his hair, nipping at his jaw. He plucks the ribbon tying the neckline of your dress together, your breasts spilling out into his hands.

“Azriel,” you’re whimpering, rolling your hips against the thigh he’s nudged between your legs, shivering as drags his thumbs across your nipples and follows with his teeth, sharp for the sweet, “don’t tease.”

Wild one. 

The shadows sweep everything off the worktable, and he lays you back, hiking the skirt up over your belly, dragging soft kisses on your skin beneath your navel as he spreads your knees wide, wide enough to accommodate his shoulders, exposing a pair of black panties, weeping pussy waiting for him underneath.

He has no patience and twists his fingers in the hem, tearing the fabric away from your body. “Cauldron,” he murmurs, running his knuckles up and down your seam, enjoying how you shiver each time he teases a little pressure against your clit. “Look at you-  beautiful everywhere.” Dawn in a drizzle, your scent makes his mouth water, and his cock aches, painfully heavy. This is not about him, it’s about you, as all things are now.

He'll have plenty of time, he prays, plenty of time inside you, plenty of time to bury his cock in your slick, warm cunt. 

He kneels. Kneels at the altar, kneels for you. This is veneration, the cleansing of his soul. He’ll make himself worthy, through fire, through ash.

You, you, it’s all you. 

The bond is insatiable, it shrieks like a banshee in the night, his side slamming against yours again and again, hungry and hunting, trying to crash through the sky-high brambles blocking its path.

His. His. Hishishishis- 

“Azriel,” you whimper, practically vibrating, fidgeting on the table, fingers gripping the edge. You go taut as he pulls your thighs over his shoulders and leans in to finally put his mouth on you, tasting, flicking his tongue over your swollen pearl. He’s too broad between your knees, the width of him leaving you completely exposed, every nerve ending on display, every drop of dew ready for him to drink. The size difference is startling, pleasing, and he rumbles his approval into your cunt, tracing your clit with a pointed tongue.

He wants to make you come so badly, but the fiend in him wants to play. “Can you take a finger?” You manage to rasp out a yes, and he feeds you one, unable to look at away at how you clench around it, pressing up past the knuckle, making you sing for him. “That’s it,” he works slowly, pushing and pulling as you arch on the table, toes curling against his shoulder blades, digging into his flesh, “good girl.” You’re tight, tight enough a second finger fills you, tight enough you squeak a little when he kicks them upward, searching for the spot, the one likely to make to go limp.

“Az,” you tug at his hair, and he kisses your pussy, mouth soaked, almost drowning in silken sap, fresh rain, salted earth, the strange and beautiful taste of you.

“Just a bit more,” he finds the textured velvet space and strokes, pinning your hip to the table with his free hand. “There it is, be still,” he croons, pleased when you listen, stammering something like yes and please, panting between syllables. Your nails scratch against the wood, walls clutching his fingers as you writhe, greedy, insatiable, wild as nature intended you to be.

He circles your clit with his tongue and your knees instinctively try to jolt closed, but he shakes his head, correcting you, commanding or coaching, lines too blurred to tell the difference. “Keep your legs open, sweet girl, nice and wide for me so I can make you come.”

 “P-please, please.” Your spine arches and you grip the hand on your hip tight, rising to the crest of the wave he knows is about to crash down. He balances you there, just on the swell, pushing harder on the spot inside you, listening to the way your breath catches. “Ah, fuck, it’s t-too much-” you kick your feet and hiccup, head rolled to the side, eyes wide and brighter than the full moon, tears starting to gather on your lashes.

He'll eat you alive, lick you clean right to the bone, inhale you. Swallow you. Keep you inside himself forever, keep you safe and sheltered. Hidden away.  

“I know, I know,” he coos. Normally he’d make you wait, drag it out until you were a mess far past this while he edged you into madness, but now is not the right time, the right moment.

Still. His blood yearns for it. For your tears, for the way you’d cry as he bounced you on his cock, as his body buried yours into his mattress, as he split you open, fucked you full of his cum.

But for now, this will have to do.

“Poor thing. Does it ache, sweetheart? Do you need to come?”

“Y-yeah, I need it please… I need… I need you.” I need you. If this is all he gets, if this is all he’s earned and it crumbles afterwards, he’ll hold onto those words, treasuring them with his last breath. I need you. He kisses your thigh and then sweeps over your clit, licking and lapping, coaxing your release until you break apart, clapping a hand over your mouth to smother your strangled scream. He praises you- my good girl, look at you, did so well, so perfect- and wrings every last drop of it from your body, only rising from between your legs once you’ve stopped twitching.

Your face is slack, sloped in a small delirious smile, and he licks his fingers clean, kisses the inside of your knee. “Are you with me?”

“Mhmm.” You try to hop down and end up stumbling forward, face planting directly into his chest. His arms come around you on instinct, cupping the back of your head, cradling it, skimming his nose along your hair and breathing as deep as he can, filling his lungs with forest and fauna, fresh snow in the twilight of the first winters day.

Don’t let go, don’t.

Everything in him is warm, at peace. Idyllic.

Your hand creeps across his thigh. “I can…”

“No,” he pulls your fingers to his mouth and presses a kiss to each one, slowly, savoring, “not today.”  An easy smile spreads across his face at the sight of your blown pupils, swollen lips, but the bond thrums with confusion, unease.

“Do you not want me to…”

“I want to have you in any way conceivable, witchling,” he strokes your cheek, “but not here.” Your worktable is in shambles, and as if you forgot, you grimace and huff, pulling away. “I can help-“

“No, it’s fine.” The things scattered to each end begin to arrange themselves, finding their rightful places, glass beakers and molten silver, crushed bundles of herbs and finely ground powders all returning to how they were as if nothing ever happened, tinge of damp foliage and peeling birch rolling around you in a cloud.

“Neat trick.”

“It’s not a trick,” you protest, affronted, and his stomach drops.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean-“ The side of your mouth quirks playfully, and he closes the gap, curls an arm around your waist as you place your palms on his chest, laughing. Just the brief sound of your happiness might kill him, stop his heart. He finds the curve of your ass instinctively and squeezes, kneads the flesh hard enough you suck in a sharp breath.

“Little brat.” He could take you right now. He wants to. Flip your dress up all over again and bend you over the table, pressing your cheek to the wood and kicking your legs open. You’d still be wet, wanting, pussy swollen and tight, milking his cock as he made you come on it until you couldn’t hold yourself up any longer.

Not now. 

This, whatever this is, this step forward, this rebuilding of what could have been, is fragile, so incredibly tenuous it terrifies him. A small light trying to swell in a sea of sombrous fog, fighting for a chance to shine.

Anything could snuff it out.

“Our next… meeting won’t be until the very end of next week.” The sun is setting over the city, bathing it in a spectrum of opalescence orange-gold streaked with violet, it’s beauty paling in comparison to the brilliance of yours.

“Why?”

“I’m travelling.”  A ripple of tension cascades along his spine. He planned other things for this conversation, hoped to broach the subject of the Solstice ball and ask you to accompany him, but now…

“Where?” The bond rumbles in apprehension, echoing from both sides, his wings rustling in response.

“Spring.” Absolutely not.

“No.” You glare at him.

“I wasn’t asking for your permission.”

“I’m aware.” He should soften his tone, tread carefully, but the monster inside, the one fused to the bond overrides sensibility, caution, showing his true colors. Brute. Bastard. Illyrian. 

“I-“

“I’ll go with you.” Balance. You sigh.

“I am fine on my own, Azriel.”

“I know.” But he’s not. “As you said earlier, I still owe you an explanation.” That gives you pause, your scrutiny harsh and piercing, more lethal than the fine point of a blade.

Finally, you acquiesce with a nod. “You do.”

“Let’s use that time for it then.” Please. He’s always pleading, digging a deeper hole, dragging himself across broken glass.

The bond is tightrope, one strung from his soul to yours. He tugs it towards his side, trying to drag yours from the vadon, flush your indecipherable thoughts free from the forest of your mind.

Eventually, your hard-bitten expression turns conciliatory and though you cross your arms in front of your chest, you bite out an agreement, teeth gnashed, defiance glittering in your gaze.

“Fine.”

[marscantread7]

Don't feel like doing that fancy shit w/ the pictures and borders and colors, so js headcanons I have for Sy and Xav and YOU! The reader, not mc. So basically Xavier and Sylus x regular, avg citizen reader. Ig for info. Ur a college student working some normal job js to pay off ur tuition. Like a barista or sumn. Not doing fast food, bc I'm currently a drive-thru worker at a fast food place and I cannot put my self insert character through that😭💔

Sorry abt the other LIs😭💔 I'm tryna get rid of my drafts so I'm js gonna do my two favorites for rn💀💀💀 I'll come back to this concept w/ the other three at a later date

Xavier

- he's suupppeeerrr overprotective of u. Bc like, ur not an evolver at all, and u have no sense of urgency, so like anytime there's fluctuations in the area, or even a wanderer appearance, he's teleporting u far, far away

- He loves helping u study for exams >_< and like, for ur online classes, esp if it's a gen ed class that isn't important to ur major, he will do ur assignments for u and even take tests and quizzes

- "Brings me back to the good ol days🙂‍↕️"

- He will have u bring home recipes for the new coffee ur shop has for a limited time so he can practice making it. He really loves (to try) cooking for u ans even if his croissants come out a little burnt, u enjoy it either way.

- u actually live in a dorm bc unfortunately u can't afford an apartment😓💔 Xavier always gets nervous when he's there bc "what if ur roommate says smth?" And ur js like, "She's always bringing smb new over. I promise u, she will not gaf abt me bringing the same boy over everyday."

- he will always make sure to visit the coffee shop everyday to get breakfast or lunch, and even drop off a treat for u.

- "Saw this fresh banana bread and brought u a few slices"

- keeps u in the dark abt everything involving protocores and wanderers bc bless ur soul! Ur too curious for ur own good and would definitely try to do ur own exploring

- he's caught u one too many times looking up the N109 Zone and has scolded u for it.

- oh yeah! And nothing against u, but he refuses to tell u that he's Lumiere bc of how curious u r. And crazy. U would definitely try to hunt him down to get exclusive pictures for ur Lumiere blog💀💀💀

- "Omg Xav!!! Look at this new Lumiere post? He's so cool!"

- *Xavier trying to keep his cool* Yeah. I bet he is😅😅😅

Sylus

- ur more chronically online than he originally thought when he first met u

- "What would u do if when he okay, so u said yes would go?" "Darling, what the FUCK r u talking abt rn?"

- he's trying so hard to convince u that u don't need to work and he can js pay off school for u

- "Crow man. Listen. I get ur super, mega rich, but u might not always be here to support me. I also feel like less of a burden on u. At least w/ my own money I have that security and assurance that I can still support myself if things don't work out between us, or if smth happens to u." "Kitten, I get that, but for the time being, I'm truly not going anywhere. Why don't u js let me pay for everything and u js put all ur money in a savings. I truly don't mind letting u use all my money, I have more than enough to spare."

- gave u one of his apartments to live in so ur not in those janky ass dorms.

- He refuses to let u step foot inside the N109 zone

- "Ur lucky ur even alive rn. If I hadn't caught u snooping around all those months ago-" "Ugh! Live a little? Aren't u all abt living life ln edge?"

- has to hide his motorcycle from u bc for some reason u know how to hotwire different vehicles????

- Mephisto always snitches on u when ur up to no good

- Srsly, bless ur heart. Ur such a curious soul, and Sylus HATES it. He's genuinely surprised on how u have made it this far in life bc the amount of dangerous situations he finds u in

- "So u knew the energy fluctuations in this area were high and u still decided to go???" "I've always wanted to see a Wanderer in person" "😐"

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

Haha😭😭 js Starcrow w/ a regular ass reader who has no sense of danger LMFAOOO. Kinda half assed the end of them bc I'm js trying to clear out my drafts rn while I have a burst of writing energy rn

[smutallyouwant]

One-Shot World chp. 7

A Good Girl

M reader x Mina

Word Count: 2.5k

[ Praise Kink, Daddy kink, Contains degradation words ]

" ~~ugghh, mmmhhh mhhh "

Moans flooded the room as you entered the boys locker room of the baseball team. You're late in your practice and you don't expect someone to be here at this time. You have to prepare for the practice and get your gear but at the edge of the room you see your star player, Yuan hammering the famous ballerina girl, Mina.

One of her legs was wrapped between Yuan's thighs showcasing her great flexibility. Her pink sweater is a mess revealing her white bra, both of their eyes are locked in each other and you froze there as you peek.

Mina' s arms are wrapped on Yuan's nape as he fucked her steadily in a moderate pace. Mina was famous for switching boyfriends every time and now you're watching her being fucked by your team mate inside of your Baseball team' s locker room.

" Kiss me " Mina said.

Mina was staring at Yuan intently as their mouths collided and made out. The banging of their bodies made you so horny that you cannot remove your eyes from the sight. Yuan's hands roamed on her body, casually grabbing her boobs and caressing her smooth skin. They are seeped into the kiss before Mina's eyes rolled intending to close her eyes but instead had a glance of you as you peek.

Mina released the kiss as she noticed you.

" Hey someone's watching us "

Mina said without a sense of panic.

" Let him watch " Yuan teased Mina.

" Are you crazy? Hey fuck off! Fucking pervert" Mina cursed at you.

You quickly ran out due to embarrassment and you did not dare to look back. You're half way into the baseball field before you noticed that you forgot your bag with your phone inside the room.

You have no choice but to come back. You waited outside, hearing the slight echo of Mina's moans from outside made you wish it was you fucking her instead of your team mate. You sat beside the door and not a minute had passed before the door slammed open.

Yuan with his gear came out first and you entered the room, the sight you saw was Mina fixing her clothes.

" Just get what you need and don't stare at me, you virgin "

Mina said as she stared at you with a grinning annoyance.

" I'm so sorry "

You said before quickly taking your bag and leaving.

After the practice, the coach informed all of you about the upcoming celebration for your team passing on the playoff stages. Later in the evening the team will have a barbeque and drinking sessions.

The night came and some of the boys brought their girlfriends into the party. Yuan was with Mina again tonight and they are annoyingly clingy with each other.

Yuan casually palms her legs and caresses them as all of you are drinking with some pecks in the cheeks, neck and shoulders here and there.

The night went on and some of the players went home already the coach and manager also waved goodbye for the night. Only 7 remained you, Yuan, Mina, 3 players and the other one is the girlfriend of your other team mate.

Yuan is so drunk that he pulled Mina for a kiss and the two made out Infront of you for a solid 10 seconds.

" Oi, you're too drunk Yuan "

" Get a room already you two "

Your team mates said.

The scene reminded you of what happened earlier and you can't help but think of it again. After a few more shots Mina asked the permission to leave with Yuan.

You stayed there until all of your team mates left because there's nothing to do after you went home anyway.

You got out of the shop and noticed Mina from the alley. That's the way to your house but you intentionally went the other way in order to avoid her.

" Oi, virgin ! "

You froze.

" Oh, I didn't notice you, Mina " you said with an awkward smile.

" I can't go home right now, do you have a place? "

" What? I thought you went home with Yuan?"

" He's too drunk, I just booked him a cab to his home. Do you have a place or not? " Mina said with an annoyed tone.

" Yes, I do live alone "

" Perfect, let's go "

She said before grabbing your arms. You can feel her smooth skin and you can almost bump into her boobs. You're as confused as a baby but you're not complaining.

As you opened the door of your room, Mina quickly pulled you for a kiss. You can taste the barbeque and the alcohol from both of your mouths but the sweetness of her scent overwhelmed it. Your hands roamed into her body like Yuan did earlier and Minas hands were tied on you like a snake.

Unlike earlier Mina's hands are exploring every inch of your body before her hands landed on your bulge.

" Did you enjoyed watching me getting fucked earlier? " She teased you with her sharp eyes.

" I saw you watching intently as we made out is this your first time kissing a beautiful girl like me? "

You nodded before licking her collarbone and kissing her neck and shoulders as she talked.

" I just hoped that you stayed and peeked through the end, but maybe I just scared you away "

You can't take it anymore, you pushed her into your bed and pounced on her.

" You're Yuan's girlfriend, is this okay? "

" As long as you'll be my good boy, no one has to find out " Mina exclaimed.

" Do you know how to eat a pussy baby boy?" Mina teases you.

" I don't look like it but I'm not a virgin anymore " You answered.

You quickly pulled her shorts and licked her pussy good. She rested her feet on your back as she scrunched your hair in pleasure.

" That's right, eat my pussy like a good boy "

You used your tongue to swirl the edges of her clit and two of your fingers to pleasure her from the inside.

" Yes that's it, I can't believe you knew how to do that, Ughhh!.~~mhhh "

Mina moans, her eyes rolling and her back arced while trying hard to keep her sanity.

" Keep thrusting your fingers, and rub in upward as you go "

" Flick my clit with your tongue, yes just like that ~~mhhhh god! Keep that up just like that "

You kept on doing her commands, you can feel her pleasure as she scrunches your hair harder with every second.

" Mhhhhh~~ just like that y/n, I'm cummingg " ~ ughh!!! What a good boyyy!! "

She squealed as she squirted on your bed and some went to your face. You kept on fingering her until the last drop of her juices.

" Fuckk, I can't believe that you'd make me squirt like that "

Mina said before moving in front of you, grabbing your pants. She unbuckled your pants and removed them.

" I saw two of your heads peeking earlier, now let me see what you're packing in here " she teased you as she removes your pants.

" Fuck I can't wait to feel this in my pussy. Let me return the favor Y/N "

" I'll be your good girl "

Mina sat you on the bed and she kneeled on the floor to suck on your dick. Mina's head game is no joke, she casually took your 6 inches dick into a fellatio with no signs of difficulty. You can feel her tongue swirl on your shaft as she suckles it in an up and down motion. You laid on the bed and you pulled her to get on too as she gave you a head of the lifetime.

The sight of her silky white skin with her seductive cleavage is enough to make you cum.

" Fuck, what a good girl, keep on sucking like that "

You gave her no warning, you came on her mouth without hesitation. Cum flooded her mouth but she sipped them back into your shaft and swallowed all of it. She released your dick, sighed and catches her breath before showing you her mouth, tongue exposed to prove that she swallowed it all like a good girl that she is.

" Am I a good girl, Y/N? "

" No Mina, you're just a hoe " you teased her.

" What the fuck? I made you cum in my beautiful mouth and you'd call me a hoe? "

" Are you not? Earlier today you're fucking with different guy and now you're sucking my dick, aren't you a whore? "

" Fuck you! " She said giving you the middle finger.

" You fucking ruined the mood, I'm out of here " she added.

" What? I thought you can't wait to feel my dick inside you? "

You said as you grabbed her arms.

" I don't want to sound arrogant but my length is much larger than average"

" Don't you want to take my dick like a good girl? " You taunted her into submitting again.

You pulled her on top of you and you buried your tongue into her mouth. The kiss wiped her angry face away and she's now aligning your shaft into her pussy.

You remove her top as she pushes herself down into your length.

" ~~ugghhhhh "

She moaned softly as it slides slowly in her.

She rides your cock intensely, her body moved like a wave in the ocean as she grinds her pussy into your length.

" ~~~mhhh fuck, your dick reaches so deep, shit "

You grabbed her waist, giving her lower back a support so she can ride you well. As she got tired and started catching her breath, you took the inactive to bounce her up and down by lifting and slamming her in your shaft.

" Ughhh~~ ughhh~~ ughh~~ "

You can feel your dick penetrating her walls and Mina can't help but to scream and moan in pleasure. She hugged your neck as she moaned into your ear.

" Am I a good girl for taking your whole dick daddy? Please tell me I'm a good girl daddy "

She wisphered into your ear.

" Yes you're a good girl, Mina "

" Taking my dick is not an easy task, but you did it great "

" Really? Will you give me a reward for that daddy? " She said enthusiastically as she palms your cheek .

" I'll come inside you for being a very good girl " you said while pampering her head.

" Is my pussy that good that you want to fill it daddy? Tell me that my pussy feels good please ~ughhh "

" Your pussy feels so good, Mina "

" Yess cum inside me, cum inside your good girl daddy "

You changed position so you can fuck her more comfortably, you moved into missionary position so you can pummel her as fast and hard as you can.

Mina's legs were wrapped into your waist and thigh, not letting you pull out your dick.

" I'll fill your pussy now, babyy take it "

" Yess dadyyy fill me up! "

" Ughhhh~`` " you moaned in unison.

Mina strengthened her grip into your body as you burst your nut inside her, you let out more strong thrusts to pump out more semen in her.

" Ohh god there's so much! Haha " Mina laughed in shock.

Both of you cleaned each other, but you can't let the night pass by doing it just one time. You took a 15 minute rest before going at it again.

Mina wore her top as you made her lay on the bed with her plump ass exposed. You aligned your already hard length and pushed in through.

Her ass bounced as you pummeled it full force.

" Ohh god! Daddy that's too rough! "

" Take it like a good girl! " You said as you slapped her ass.

" Fuck, you're just a slut with daddy issues Mina "

" Yess daddy I'm already a slut, but I'm your good girl daddy " she begged.

" Then be a good girl and let me do what I want "

" Yes daddy, do anything you want to me "

You pounded her hard not giving a damn with her already climaxing many times.

This is your first time doing 4 rounds of sex in just 2 hours. Mina is just so beautiful and sexy that you can't stop fucking her.

" Ughh, I'm cumming again fuck! "

Mina limped like a vegetable on your bed as you came inside her for the 5th time now. You took this opportunity to take a video of you making out with the half asleep Mina.

You woke up the next day without Mina, Mina messaged you that she went home already. News spreads on your baseball team that Mina broke up with Yuan already.

After your failed championship run for the Baseball cup, you went home tired but suddenly your bell rang.

You now know where to put your frustrations...

----------------------- END ---------------------

[demonscantgothere]

Litost. Galadriel/Sauron | Halbrand. Explicit. 290.8k | 8k chapter [50/61] Chapter 50: The Shadow of Dol Guldur

During Ar-Pharazôn’s rule of Númenor when Sauron holds the position of the High Priest of Melkor, Galadriel is captured in the middle of a war, imprisoned, and handed over to him as a sacrifice to be made in the Temple of the High Priest, but Sauron has other plans. From Akallabêth to the founding of Gondor, unlikely allies are forged.

A great many enchantments had been cast over the lands of Lothlórien to hide its position from prying eyes and its inhabitants from would-be foes, and so Galadriel knew he could have never come to her; it would have had to have been her, coming to him. There would not have been any other way for this to happen—except for how it was happening right now.

“How long have you been calling to me?” she asked with a mere whisper of wonderment, remembering every snapped twig that had whirled her head around in a hurry, only to find nothing there, and every distant echo or sound of voice that seemed to carry with the wind—but she was always so alone.

“A long time,” mused Halbrand sorrowfully, the slow shake of his head to accentuate the furrow of his brow and the melancholy look creasing the light of his face, “but I cannot place a number upon it. I called out to you, and you could not hear me—and then, with time, it got easier. I do not know if I grew stronger or if the veil between us grew thin, but it came through at last—and now, here you are.” He took a single step forward. “Here,” his hands reached out for her, but they did not touch her, not just yet—instead, they hovered just above her shoulders, “with me.”

Keep Reading

[honorhearted]

"It's not truly your mother I'm worried about here," Benjamin teased, his lips quirking in amusement. "One look from Lady Featherington, and she can turn even the strongest of men into stone. I'm quite fortunate that I've still got my tallywags after our last run-in." He chuckled. "Of course, I suppose you're fortunate for that, too."

At the sound of the knock, Penelope's hands flew to his chest on instinct, her fingers gently straightening his cravat and smoothing across his lapels. Despite the clear nervous energy emanating from her own frame, Benjamin was overcome by a distinct wave of eagerness as they locked eyes. Beaming, he declared, "I cannot wait for him to meet you. You're smart, and funny, and beautiful, and...and perfect, and I can only hope I've managed to capture that in all my letters home."

Penelope mirrored his grin with a smile of her own. "Everything will be fine. We're in this together, remember? And if you need an escape, just give me a signal and I can fake an emergency, or something, alright?"

Benjamin chuckled, leading her toward the entryway. "And just how many 'emergencies' have you faked over the years?" he asked. "The mind truly wonders at your capacity for evil...but only used for good, of course." He drew her hand to his lips. "Without you at my side, I'm afraid I'd be an absolute mess right now."

Varley opened the door -- she seemed to tire of his antics -- and Benjamin straightened once the bright, pleasant face of Nathaniel Tallmadge came into view, his sky-blue eyes glowing with eagerness.

"Benjamin!" the robust man exclaimed, barely even sparing Varley a glance as he barreled over the threshold. Extending his arms, he cried, "Oh, let me look at you! I send you overseas for a sabbatical, and you come back with a wife?" Clearly pleased, he shook his son's hand with vigor, then turned his attention to the lovely redhead at Benjamin's side. "Ahhh." He flashed an effulgent smile. "And you must be the captivating Penelope he's spoken of so fondly! With the way he was going on, I thought you were surely the 'face that launched one-thousand ships!'"

"Father," Benjamin warned, blushing fiercely. "You needn't discuss our letters."

"And why not?" Nathaniel countered. "If you don't tell your bride-to-be how much you adore her, then whatever is the point?" To Penelope, he added, "You must tell me everything about yourself, my dear -- everything! -- and spare no detail. We have much to discuss!"

"I'm not sure the world could handle such an alliance." She shuddered at the thought. The Featherington family did well enough creating scandals on their own, the last thing Portia needed was another accomplice in her affairs. "But a Tallmadge-Featherington union has worked out well enough for us, hasn't it? Perhaps a friendship between our parents wouldn't be wholly destructive."

The sound of the knock made Pen flinch, her eyes flying to Ben's face to monitor the shift in his expression. He was undoubtedly nervous, as was Penelope, but she was determined to be brave for his sake. No father would want his son to marry a meek and timid dormouse of a woman, so Pen was intent on showing her best self--whatever that meant.

"Take a deep breath," She cooed, raising her hands to straighten out his cravat. It was more of an instruction to both of them rather than a targeted command, but Pen met his gaze with a smile. As long as they were together, they could get through anything. And if he had already won the battle against the Featherington matriarch, then, surely, his confrontation with his father would be mere child's play. "Everything will be fine. We're in this together, remember? And if you need an escape, just give me a signal and I can fake an emergency, or something, alright?"

[the-crooked-library]

"Even during daylight, Thomas fails to destroy his tormentor. In the story sense, he cannot do it because Orlok is a vampire; on the symbolic level, we understand that he cannot kill his own nature."

So, unrelated, but because I see the Harkers, too, as queer (though bisexual, I cannot not read them as unfathomably horny for each other, and genderqueer) and the biting and blood drinking as metaphors in Dracula too... I wonder if the above also applies to Jonathan Harker when he struck/marked but failed to kill his tormentor? Though he does succeed at the sunset in the end...

Yes omg I agree with you 100%! To give the Hutters credit where it's due, I think the film makes it fairly obvious that Ellen is bisexual as well; but I personally cannot help but see Thomas as a closeted gay man. He tends to shy away from his own wife throughout the film - the only scene where he does not is after she's baited him into trying to reassert his masculinity, and even that fizzles. He definitely cares for her, of course; but I don't think he's really attracted to her, is the thing.

The Harkers couldn't be more different. In fact, one of my favourite aspects of their story is the way they're both utterly obsessed with each other - which absolutely does include being unfathomably horny, exaaactly. That said, they're both distinctly queer - Jonathan's coding being more prominent - and I actually have posted a slightly more detailed analysis about it here. The scene of Thomas' attempted destruction of Orlok is indeed directly inspired by Jonathan's attempt at killing Dracula - and, as you say, he did eventually succeed; but I think that only really elaborates on his overall arc.

While Jonathan, unlike Thomas, is able to go from being a classic damsel in distress to assuming the role of a fighter, there is another, far more curious development in his characterization. As the story goes on, his hair turns grey, it is mentioned that his hands are very cold, his love for Mina takes on a practically violent intensity (though the violence is directed outwards, never at her); and, by the finale, despite having started out as a mild-mannered English solicitor, he is somehow able to expertly wield a kukri knife. The description is unmistakable; by the time Jonathan faces Dracula on the field of battle, they are each looking into a terrible mirror - each personifying what the other could have been. Assuming the usual vampiric parallel to queerness, it may be said that this is indeed his Turning; or as close to it as he would get without getting actually vamped.

I think Jonathan is able to accept himself by the end. By assuming the shape of Dracula, and by killing the one that terrified him originally, he kills his fear and becomes Himself.

[belladonnafeli]

List of Prophecies in ASOIAF and People wanting to take the magic out of the series

It’s my personal opinion that this fandom sometimes has a tendency to try to write off the magic in the series as not real. Or as unimportant, completely ignoring that this is still a fantasy series. An example of this are the prophecies that we get within the story. People in the fandom will write them off as being not true or untrustworthy and to a certain extent they are right but not in the way people believe. 

If visions and prophecies aren't true then what is the point of Bran being a greenseer? What is the purpose of Daenerys’ dragon dream that saves her from committing suicide in A Game Of Thrones? It’s Dany’s visions and dreams that help her birth the dragons. Dragons being one of the main sources of magic, hence the title A Song Of Ice and Fire.

The problem in my opinion is that people don’t know the literary device George is using to convey his messages. The way George uses the prophecies is through the literary device that is “dramatic irony”. Dramatic Irony is a type of irony where the reader knows something that the characters do not. 

Examples of Prophecies:

Daenys the dreamer seeing the doom of Valyria

Jojen's green dreams about Bran and about the iron born coming to winterfell.

 “I dreamed that the sea was lapping all around Winterfell. I saw black waves crashing against the gates and towers, and then the salt water came flowing over the walls and filled the castle. Drowned men were floating in the yard.

Bran and the people of Winterfell have no idea what this means, but us as readers have Theon’s chapters and know that the Iron men worship the drowned god, so we know that its them.

A good chunk of Dany's visions in the House of the undying.

She came upon a feast of corpses. Savagely slaughtered, the feasters lay strewn across overturned chairs and hacked trestle tables, asprawl in pools of congealing blood. Some had lost limbs, even heads. Severed hands clutched bloody cups, wooden spoons, roast fowl, heels of bread. In a throne above them sat a dead man with the head of a wolf. He wore an iron crown and held a leg of lamb in one hand as a king might hold a scepter.

Maggy the Frog and her prophecy about Cersei.

"Queen you shall be . . . until there comes another, younger and more beautiful, to cast you down and take all that you hold dear."

Will the king and I have children?" she asked. "Oh, aye. Six-and-ten for him, and three for you."

"Gold shall be their crowns and gold their shrouds," she said. "And when your tears have drowned you, the valonqar shall wrap his hands about your pale white throat and choke the life from you."

"Worms will have your maidenhead. Your death is here tonight, little one. Can you smell her breath? She is very close."

 Red wedding by Patchface 

We literally get like three prophecies about the Red Wedding well before it happens.

"Fool's blood, king's blood, blood on the maiden's thigh, but chains for the guests and chains for the bridegroom, aye aye aye."

All of these prophecies have come true or they will come true. And typically if you really look into the text you can infer how. What George shows us in the books is that yes, prophecy is true and real but trying to force it or stop it cannot change what the prophecy is meant to do. I’ll use an example to prove my point. First with Mirri Maz Durr, she believes that Daenerys’ child Rhaego will be the stallion who mounts the world. Mirri believes in killing Rhaego she has stopped this prophecy but what she fails to realize is that by doing this she’s only setting the prophecy in motion because Daenerys is the stallion who mounts the world.

“As swift as the wind he rides, and behind him his khalasar covers the earth, men without number, with arakhs shining in their hands like blades of razor grass. Fierce as a storm this prince will be. His enemies will tremble before him, and their wives will weep tears of blood and rend their flesh in grief. The bells in his hair will sing his coming, and the milk men in the stone tents will fear his name. The prince is riding, and he shall be the stallion who mounts the world.” “As swift as the wind he rides” “Tell Khal Drogo he has given me the wind” When Khal Drogo gives Dany her Silver. , “Fierce as a storm this prince will be” Daenerys Stormborn. In killing Rhaego she hasn't stopped anything, only further set things in motion. 

Not to mention the Ghost of High Hearts prophecies which all come true  

“The old gods stir and will not let me sleep. I dreamt I saw a shadow with a burning heart butchering a golden stag (Renly Baratheon), aye. I dreamt of a man without a face, waiting on a bridge that swayed and swung. On his shoulder perched a drowned crow with seaweed hanging from his wings (Euron Greyjoy). I dreamt of a roaring river and a woman that was a fish. Dead she drifted, with red tears on her cheeks, but when her eyes did open (Lady Stoneheart), oh, I woke from terror. All this I dreamt, and more. 

I dreamt a wolf howling in the rain, but no one heard his grief. I dreamt such a clangor I thought my head might burst, drums and horns and pipes and screams (Red Wedding), but the saddest sound was the little bells. I dreamt of a maid (Sansa Stark) at a feast with purple serpents in her hair, venom dripping from their fangs (Purple Wedding). And later I dreamt that maid again, slaying a savage giant in a castle built of snow. 

We can assume that the last line is Sansa slaying Littlefinger based off of these quotes from the last Sansa chapter in ASOS “A giant” the boy whispered, weeping. “It wasn’t me, it was a giant hurt the castle. She killed him!” “A mad rage seized hold of her. She picked up a broken branch and smashed the torn doll’s head down on top of it, then pushed it down atop the shattered gatehouse of her snow castle. “If tales be true, that’s not the first giant to end up with his head on Winterfell’s walls”. 

What I’m trying to say with all of this is that the fandom's dismissal of prophecy makes no sense to me. We as readers have more context than the characters in the story so of course we know what will and won’t happen. 

[anonymousewrites]

Apple of My Eye Chapter Twenty

Harry Hook x Child of Snow White! Reader

Chapter Twenty: Some Things Never Change

Summary: Trouble begins to appear at Auradon

            “Go,” said Uma, pushing Harry forward. Carlos gestured for Harry to knock on the door of Evie’s studio.

            Harry squared his shoulders and raised a hand to knock. Behind his back, he held the bouquet of flowers tightly. Carlos and Uma watched with excitement as Harry decided to be forward and blatant with his affection for (Y/N), not just flirt through banter.

            He knocked, and the door opened. Evie stood there. She glanced to the side, spotted Uma and Carlos, and grinned.

            “(Y/N), someone’s here for you,” said Evie, opening the door wide and smirking.

            “Harry,” said (Y/N), smiling as they saw him. They still wore his jacket, and Harry smiled.

            “Highness,” began Harry. This was it. Ask them to be alone, and then be honest. “Can we—”

            “Guys!”

            Everyone’s heads jerked to the side as Jane came running down the hall. Her eyes were wide with panic, and, instantly, all thoughts of romance went out everyone’s heads. There was something bad going on.

            “Jane? What’s the matter?” said Carlos, catching her as she panted and gulped down air.

            “It’s Adrian,” said Jane. “He can’t speak.”

            “Jane, that doesn’t feel like an emergency,” said Mal, furrowing her brow.

            “No, it’s not that,” said Jane, shaking her head. “His voice is gone. Stolen.”

            Uma straightened. “What?” That sounded suspiciously like the story of Adrian’s mother, Ariel, and Uma’s mother, Ursula.

            “Does Ben know?” said Mal, going into queen-to-be mode.

            “He’s heading to the infirmary right now,” confirmed Jane. “Adrian is already there.”

            Evie looked at Uma. “How is this possible?”

            “I don’t know,” said Uma. “I thought the shell—” she touched it on her neck “—was the only way to steal a voice.” She crossed her arms. “But I know what people are going to assume.”

            Mal grimaced. “That the VKs cursed someone.”

            “We’ll find the truth, one way or another,” said (Y/N). “I promise.”

            “Let’s go and talk to Adrian. Maybe he remembers something strange that he can write down,” said Evie.

            “Right,” said Mal, straightening her back and walking off.

            Everyone followed.

            Harry looked at the bouquet in his hands and sighed. He’d put it in his dorm until he had a moment. It seemed it wasn’t meant to be that day.

l

            “Mal, you’re here,” said Ben in relief as Mal entered the infirmary with the group of VKs and (Y/N) behind her. Jay already stood with Ben, and Adrian sat on a bed as Merryweather shook her head.

            “I am,” said Mal, taking his hand and squeezing it. She looked at Merryweather. “What is the situation?”

            Merryweather sighed. “Adrian’s voice has been stolen or, at least, suppressed. He cannot form any sounds whatsoever.”

            Adrian swallowed and nodded to confirm Merryweather’s words.

            “I’m so sorry, Adrian,” said (Y/N).

            Adrian offered a smile.

            “How could this happen?” asked Evie.

            “Magic,” said Merryweather. “There are traces of magic all around Adrian. However, I can’t determine the source.” She sighed. “I’m going to find Fairy Godmother, perhaps she can sense more.” She left the room.

            “Are there any artifacts missing from the museum?” asked (Y/N).

            “No,” said Jane, shaking her head. “That was the first thing my mother went to check.”

            “This just happened out of nowhere,” said Jay. “We were at Tourney practice, and he was shouting plays, and then he started to cough, and then the coughs just stopped. No more sounds came from his mouth.”

            “Did you see anything? Feel anything?” said Carlos, looking at Adrian.

            Adrian typed on his phone and held the screen up. It read: It was a normal day. The usual people were watching practice, the cheerleaders were practicing routines, everyone was normal on the team. Nothing was weird until I felt a pull in my chest and had to cough like my life depended on it.

            Mal grimaced. “So, everyone knows.”

            “And the heroes’ll blame us,” said Harry, crossing his arms.

            “No. There is no evidence any VK had anything to do with this,” said Ben, shaking his head. “I won’t let anyone be blamed without proof.”

            “And we’ve seen evil come from all parts of the world,” said (Y/N). They looked at Harry. “I promise, we won’t let everyone turn on the VKs for this.”

            Adrian nodded in agreement and held up his phone again. Not all VKs fault even if one did this.

            “Exactly,” said Mal.

            “Adrian!” Eris flung open the door of the infirmary and ran to her brother. She hugged him tightly and sobbed, and he hugged his twin sister back. “Are you alright?”

            He smiled and nodded. He was, admittedly, freaked out from losing his ability to speak, but he wasn’t in pain. Fortunately, Adrain wasn’t dealing with that.

            Eris let go of Adrian and turned on the group watching. Her gaze was furious, and black hair was a mess from where she’d run from swim practice. In short—she looked like a wild ball of fury. “What did you do?!” she demanded.

            “Excuse me?” said Mal, narrowing her eyes.

            “One of your people did this!” said Eris, gesturing at the VKs.

            (Y/N) shifted in front of Harry and Uma.

            “How else could my brother lose his voice? That’s a villain’s work,” said Eris. “I told him helping you all would just cause trouble, and I was right!”

            Adrian grabbed his sister’s shoulder and shook his head in vehement disagreement.

            “Eris, we don’t know who did this yet,” said Ben. “You can’t accuse people because of where they came from.”

            “I know it’s one of them!” said Eris.

            “Everyone in this room is a hero who saved Auradon,” said (Y/N). “They have proved time and time again that they’re heroes. None of them are villains.”

            “They’re all from the Isle,” sneered Eris. “All they wanted was to get back to Auradon so they can punish us like the villains they are.” She stormed towards the door, pushing through the VKs. She turned and glared at Mal and Ben. “You’re supposed to protect us, and you led the villains right to our door.” She stepped out and slammed the door closed.

            Adrian let out an inaudible sigh and ran a hand through his bright red hair, clearly apologetic for his sister’s view of the situation.

            “Blamin’ us,” said Harry, crossing his arms.

            “If people start to really think that a VK did this, they’ll start to be afraid again,” said Evie, eyes widening. “All of our hard work won’t matter—”

            “Evie,” said (Y/N), grabbing Evie’s hands. “We’ll be alright. We’ll figure out who did this.”

            “What if it is a VK?” said Uma, narrowing her eyes. “The people who wanted the Isle closed will tell us to go back.”

            “Even if it is a VK, they’ll be given an appropriate punishment, but no one else will,” said Ben firmly. “Mal and I aren’t going to let an entire group of people be punished because one person did something bad.”

            Uma nodded. She was there to protect her people, the people of the Isle, and she would fight to ensure their safety.

            “Adrian, we’ll break the curse,” said (Y/N), smiling at Adrian. “You’ll get your voice back.”

            Adrian smiled back at them softly and nodded. Then, he chuckled and looked away. (Y/N) tilted their head in confusion. Over their shoulder, Harry was glowering at their ex-boyfriend.

l

            “Ben and I are heading the investigation,” said Mal, standing before all the volunteers. “We’ve got the police and Fairy Godmother looking into the magic, too, but we need you all to keep your eyes out, too.”

            “All information needs to come to us so that we have all the facts,” said Ben. “Good or bad, Isle or Auradon suspicions. Alright?”

            The group nodded. It was the original VKs—Evie, Jay, and Carlos, the VK mentors—(Y/N), Jane, Fleur, Herod, Esme, and Lizzie, and the newer VKs—Uma, Gil, Harry. Doug and Lonnie had arrived, too, to help support their partners. In short, it was the only group of people who weren’t being swayed by biases around Adrian’s cursed state and rumors of who could have done it.

            “Do the police have any suspects yet?” said (Y/N), leaning forward.

            “No,” said Mal. “Adrian has listed everyone he can remember from being around at Tourney Practice, and we’ve checked with those people for more names, but from the reports, everyone there is commonly at practice. No one out of the ordinary.”

            “And Mrs. Goody?” said Harry (Mrs. Goody was his highly original nickname for Fairy Godmother after having to sit through a speech on how to be good—thankfully, no more Goodness 101, only detention for people who continued to act badly).

            “She looked at the spell work around Adrian and his throat,” said Ben. “I don’t really understand it, but his voice isn’t stolen and stored anywhere. It’s suppressed.”

            “So it’s unlikely it’s my mom coming back for revenge,” said Uma, relieved. The last thing they needed was the big villains to come back and to prove that redemption wasn’t possible.

            “Right,” said Mal, nodding. “Instead of a stolen voice, it’s a silenced voice. It’s different.”

            “If we figured out the exact spell or found the culprit, can we give Adrian his voice back?” asked Evie.

            “Yes,” said Jane. “My mom told me that it’s lucky the spell is what it is because it’s not based on True Love like Ariel’s was.”

            “That’s good,” said (Y/N).

            “Unfortunately, that’s all the clues we have,” said Ben. “We need suspects.”

            “Jane, do you have that list of people who are still angry at the Isle kids coming to Auradon?” said (Y/N). “From our last meeting?”

            “I do,” said Jane.

            “You think one of them is doing this? Why?” said Audrey.

            “It seems rather silly to hurt their friends,” said Lizzie, threading an embroidery needle. The more nervous she was, the more she stitched (and she had gotten through a whole flower in one meeting). “Especially since Adrian is Eris’s brother.”

            “That’s why it could be them,” said (Y/N). “They don’t trust the VKs. They believe they’re villains.”

            “Oh, I understand,” said Esme, tying up her hair in an emerald bow. She leaned on her hand. “Throwing suspicion onto the VKs would make it more likely for people to turn on them, the people those kids think are being tricked. Like Frollo blaming my mother’s people for all evil so people would be fine with them being punished.”

            “It’s clever,” admitted Uma. “Evil, even.”

            “The troublemakers are Thea, Farley, Chad, and Eris, right?” said Herod, crossing his arms.

            “Yes,” said Jane, consulting her notes.

            Ben sighed. “We can throw Chad out. He’s not exactly…brave enough to do more than talk a big game.”

            Audrey grimaced. “Yeah. He begged to work for me to avoid conflict.” She still felt bad about that.

            “Took one look of me hook and ran off,” said Harry with a smirk. He was pleased to see (Y/N) stifle a chuckle.

            “Eris seemed legitimately upset about her brother, so she feels unlikely,” said Carlos.

            Evie shook her head. “But if the spell was intentionally lessoned so it’s easily reversible, then that would be exactly the type of curse Eris would place on someone she cared about, like Adrian.”

            “Oh, right,” said Carlos.

            “What about Thea and Farley?” said Jay. “Farley is headstrong. Kind of intense. And Thea is crafty.”

            “Literally,” said Lizzie in agreement.

            “Both have magic,” said Fleur. She sighed. “I hate to say it, but they’re fairy kids, like myself and Jane. Naturally, they have stronger magic than other people.”

            “So they wouldn’t need an artifact?” said Mal.

            “Right. They’d just need their basic understanding of spells,” said Fleur. “They could craft it from there.” Jane nodded.

            “Okay, we’ll keep that in mind,” said Ben, nodding. He looked at Uma. “Uma, I hate to ask this, but is there anyone from the Isle that could have done this?”

            Uma nodded. She knew that they had to investigate every option, and she really didn’t want it to be a VK, but there were possibilities. “There are a few kids who are still angry that they spent so long on the Isle while the kids in Auradon grew up in comfort.

            “Aye,” said Harry. “They think all you royals are stuck-up and should understand what we lived in.”

“I’m sorry they feel that way,” said (Y/N), sighing.

            “Not ya fault, Highness,” said Harry.

            “But why wouldn’t they go all the way with the curse, then?” said Jay. “You know, make it only breakable by True Love.”

            “They aren’t strong,” said Gil brightly.

            “Yeah,” said Uma. “Mal and I are the strongest magic-using VKs, so the rest would probably need a boost in strength, like an artifact.”

            “Or a lot of anger,” said Harry. “Which they could get tah.”

            Everyone shivered at that idea.

            Uma cleared her throat and waved a hand, moving on to business. “I’d say we have a few suspects from the Isle,” she said. “Francis—Frollo’s son—he thinks the people of Auradon are all corrupted, and only those who have suffered to grow ‘clean’ should be ruling.”

            “Like himself?” said Esme, rolling her eyes.

            “Yeah,” said Uma, grimacing.

            Jane wrote down the name. “Got it.”

            “Yvon, Ymza’s son,” said Harry. “Ball of fury. Nothin’ but anger at royals.”

            “And, finally, Giselle, Mother Gothel’s daughter,” said Uma. “She and her mom are super close, so she’s inherited all of her mom’s grudges towards Auradon.”

            “Okay,” said Mal, nodding. “Six suspects.”

            “How are we going to approach this?” said Evie.

            “If we split up—no one should be alone while someone willing to use curses is on the loose—then we can approach each person and figure out if their motives are deep enough to get them to act,” said Mal.

            “Hopefully, we can figure this out quickly enough that tensions between Auradon and Isle kids don’t rise,” said Ben, grimacing.

            Shouts rose to the windows of the clubroom, and everyone exchanged looks. Moving to the windows, they peered down at the courtyard below.

            Dizzy was hiding behind her cousin, Natalia—Anastasia’s daughter—who was glaring at Eurydice—Rapunzel and Eugene’s daughter. The pair were shouting at each other, and other Auradon and Isle kids were beginning to crowd around, too, everyone mad at the other group.

            The group in the clubroom looked at each other.

            Tensions were already rising.

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[heliosunny]

Your yandere crown prince phainon was soo GOOD, I fell in love with the way you write him omg?? I hope you will make a part 3 of it!!

At first I nv thought he'd received this much love haha. Here at my blog, you ask n you shall receive.

Yandere! Crown Prince Phainon x Reader - P3

Visit [Part 1]; [Part 2]

The king and queen had been patient at first.

But patience only lasted so long.

“You have been married for months, and yet there is no news” the queen sighed, gracefully sipping her tea as you sat with her in the royal gardens.

The king, seated beside her, nodded in agreement. “Phainon was our strongest. We expect great heirs from him, my dear.”

You nearly choked on your tea.

“Your Majesties-” you began, but the queen only gave you an amused glance.

“We do not mean to pressure you,” she said sweetly. “But we are looking forward to hearing good news soon.”

You offered a polite smile, trying not to let your exhaustion show. “Phainon and I have been quite busy with state affairs-”

“Yes, yes” the king waved a hand. “But surely you can....multitask.”

Your cheeks burned.

You knew Phainon adored his parents, but they were relentless.

Phainon, of course, had no problem with their expectations.

Every night, after a long day of handling state affairs, he would slip into your chamber and coddle himself against you, resting his head in your lap, holding you close, occasionally mumbling half-asleep words about keeping you in bed for an entire day.

“They are right, you know” he murmured one evening, nuzzling against your shoulder as you tried- and failed to finish your paperwork.

“Phainon...” you sighed, trying to push him off gently.

“We could stay in bed for days” he continued lazily. “Just you and me, no responsibilities”

“And an entire kingdom left to ruin?” you retorted, still writing.

He huffed against your skin. “The kingdom can wait. My wife cannot.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “We will discuss this when we’re not drowning in work.”

“Hmm.” He didn’t sound convinced.

But he did, at least, let you finish.

A few days later, while you were buried in paperwork, Castorice arrived unexpectedly.

“Your Highness, I need your help.”

You looked up, surprised by her determined expression. “What is it?”

She took a deep breath. “I need… love advice.”

You blinked. Then, setting your papers aside, you gestured for her to sit. “Tell me everything.”

She hesitated for a moment before sighing. “There’s someone I like. But I don’t know how to approach them.”

“Do they know you well?”

“Somewhat” she muttered. “But they never seem to notice me that way.”

You smiled knowingly. “Then we’ll just have to see how they feel, won’t we?”

You and Castorice devised a simple plan: observe her love interest from afar and analyze their behavior.

Of course, this required leaving the palace, which meant sneaking out carefully.

And that meant Phainon didn’t know where you were. That was a problem.

Because when he realized you had left without informing him, his mind immediately jumped to one conclusion: She’s avoiding me.

Phainon, for all his strength and confidence, was utterly terrible at handling the idea that you might lose interest in him.

So when you returned that evening, completely unaware of his brooding thoughts, you found him sitting in your chamber, blue eyes unreadable as he watched you enter.

You paused, sensing something was off. “Phainon?”

“Did you have fun?” he asked smoothly.

You blinked. “What?”

“With Castorice” he continued, voice eerily calm. “You seemed quite… occupied.”

You sighed, setting down your cloak. “Phainon, if you’re upset, just say it.”

His jaw clenched slightly. “I am not upset.”

You arched a brow. “You are upset.”

He huffed, looking away.

“I merely find it interesting” he muttered, “that you had the time to wander the city for her but cannot spare a moment for us.”

Your eyes softened. You stepped closer, cupping his face gently. “Phainon. I am not avoiding you.”

His hands came up to hold your wrists, his grip firm. “Are you certain?”

“Absolutely” you murmured. “Castorice needed help. That’s all. And besides-” You smirked slightly. “Are you really jealous?”

His lips pressed into a thin line.

“I do not get jealous” he muttered.

You chuckled. “Oh? Then why are you sulking?”

There was only silence. Then, with a dramatic sigh, he pulled you into his lap, burying his face in your shoulder.

“I missed you” he admitted quietly.

“I missed you too.”

And just like that, his grip tightened, as if reminding himself that no matter the distractions, no matter the politics- You were still his.

“You must come, Your Highness” Castorice urged, a playful glint in her eyes. “It will be a lovely gathering- tea, gossip, and good company.”

You chuckled, setting aside your paperwork. “A gathering of noble ladies, you mean?”

“Exactly” she grinned. “You have been so busy. This is a chance to relax.”

You hesitated briefly, but then nodded. “Alright. Just for a while.”

Little did you know, not everyone at the tea party was pleased by your presence.

The moment you arrived at the elegant garden, a certain noblewoman- Lady Evelyne, greeted you with a forced smile.

“Your Highness” she said smoothly. “What an honor to have you here.”

You returned the courtesy, though something in her gaze felt off.

Throughout the afternoon, she and her followers exchanged glances, whispering behind their teacups. You could feel the weight of their envy, resentment hidden beneath polite words.

“The Crown Prince must adore you” one lady mused with a fake smile. “To choose you over so many other suitable ladies.”

You met her gaze steadily. “I would hope a marriage is based on more than just suitability.”

A few chuckled, but Evelyne’s eyes darkened.

And from that moment, you knew.

She was not simply envious. She was bitter.

As evening fell, you bid farewell to Castorice and the others, preparing to return to the palace. But Evelyne had plans.

She and her followers arranged for a carriage accident, one that would make it seem like a mere misfortune.

“She is just a noble by birth” Evelyne murmured to her accomplices. “Not a true royal. If something were to happen to her, perhaps the prince would realize his mistake.”

And so, as your carriage passed through a dimly lit path. The wheels snapped. The horses reared. The entire vehicle lurched before tumbling to the side.

Pain shot through your body as you hit the cold ground, disoriented. And before you could react, figures emerged from the darkness.

Back at the palace, Phainon’s brows furrowed as he stood at Castorice’s side.

“She has not returned from the party.” he said, voice low.

Castorice frowned. “Impossible, she left some time ago. She should already be back.”

Phainon’s expression darkened.

“Something is wrong.”

Without another word, he turned on his heel, issuing orders to his guards.

“Find her. Now.”

In his chest, beneath the calm fury, a sickening fear took root. If something had happened to you, there would be no mercy.

By the time Phainon arrived at the scene, the assailants had already moved in.

But they had not expected him.

A gloved hand shot forward, grabbing one attacker by the throat. A sickening crack echoed as the prince threw them aside with no hesitation.

The others barely had time to react before Phainon’s sword gleamed in the moonlight, swift, merciless.

Finally, he saw you. Bruised. Hurt.

A heartbeat later, he was at your side, gathering you into his arms.

“Who did this?” his voice was deathly quiet, his fingers tightening.

You exhaled shakily, leaning into his warmth. “It was…” You hesitated. “Lady Evelyne.”

Phainon stilled.

“I see...She thinks she can harm my wife and go unpunished?”

He pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead.

“Rest, my love. I will handle this.”

Evelyne had expected repercussions.

But not this.

She knelt in the dimly lit chamber of the palace dungeons, wrists bound with thick iron cuffs, her face pale as she watched the crown prince enter.

Phainon did not speak at first. He merely stood there, tall, composed, eyes gleaming with something terrible. Then, in a voice so calm it sent shivers down her spine, he said, “You attempted to harm my wife.”

Evelyne swallowed hard. “Your Highness, I-”

“You dared to lay a hand on the Crown Princess,” he continued, voice unwavering. “and you thought you would live to boast about it?”

The sheer finality in his tone made her blood run cold. This was not a man who threatened. This was a man who delivered.

And so, Lady Evelyne and her conspirators were sentenced: Public disgrace. Wealth and titles stripped. Families exiled.

But for Evelyne herself? Phainon had far worse in mind.

When you found out, you insisted on seeing him.

Despite your injuries.

Despite your weakness.

You dragged yourself from bed, barely making it to the royal hall where he sat, issuing commands.

The moment Phainon saw you, his gaze hardened. “You should be resting” he said, immediately rising from his seat.

But you shook your head. “I came to ask for mercy.”

His eyes darkened.

“For her?”

You took a slow breath. “I want her to suffer, too. But this will not erase what happened. Let this be enough.”

For the first time in days, Phainon hesitated.

You were still weak. Still recovering. And yet, you had come all this way just to beg for someone who had nearly taken you from him. Phainon clenched his jaw, his fingers twitching in restraint.

“Fine.” But there was no relief in his voice. Only begrudging compliance. “But do not ask me for such mercy again.”

When Mydei and Anaxa heard what happened, they were quick to come to your side.

“We should have ensured your safety” Anaxa admitted, voice heavy with guilt. “It was reckless to let you return alone.”

Mydei nodded. “We won’t let this happen again.”

You offered them both a tired smile. “It was not your fault. But thank you.”

Still, you could tell that from this moment on, they would not let you be so vulnerable again. And neither would Phainon.

After that night, something changed in the palace.

The noblewomen who once whispered behind their fans now lowered their gazes in Phainon’s presence.

Servants spoke in hushed tones about what had happened to Evelyne.

The message was clear: No one was to touch the Crown Princess.

Not unless they wished to meet a merciless fate.

And so, you found yourself at the center of cautious admiration.

Not just as the prince’s beloved wife, but as the only one who could soften his wrath.

Days later, as you lay in your sickbed, Castorice arrived with an unfamiliar man at her side.

“Your Highness,” she said with a small smile. “I wanted to introduce someone.”

The man beside her bowed deeply. “It is an honor, Crown Princess.”

He was polite. Refined. And when he looked at Castorice, there was genuine admiration in his eyes.

You studied him for a moment, then gave Castorice the smallest nod of approval.

Her expression brightened.

“I knew you would understand!”

You chuckled softly. “Just… choose wisely.”

Because even now, you knew- Love was a dangerous thing.

That evening, Phainon returned from court matters only to find an unfamiliar man had been in your presence.

His expression immediately soured.

“Who was he?” he asked, tone clipped.

You sighed, already sensing where this was going. “Castorice’s love interest.”

Phainon was not convinced.

“And what was he doing in your chamber?”

You gave him a tired look. “Introducing himself. Nothing more.”

Still, he loomed over you, arms crossing. “I don’t like it.”

You couldn’t help but smile. “Are you jealous again?”

His blue eyes narrowed.

“You are my wife” he murmured, leaning in. “Why would I not be?”

You reached up, brushing a hand over his cheek. “Then stop sulking. Castorice is happy. That should be enough.”

He exhaled, leaning into your touch. “As long as he knows his place.”

You shook your head with a small laugh.

The palace had been peaceful for weeks. No new assassination attempts. No political rivalries stirring.

But peace never lasted long.

“Your Highness, urgent news from the eastern border.”

A messenger arrived at the court in haste, kneeling before Phainon as he presented a sealed letter.

Phainon broke the wax and scanned the contents, his expression shifting from intrigue to frustration to thinly veiled rage.

“The border defenses are failing” he said, voice calm but heavy with warning. “A foreign faction is exploiting the weakness left after the last war.”

You watched from your seat beside him, fingers tightening on the armrest.

“Do we know who leads them?” you asked.

The messenger hesitated.

“It is not just one faction, Your Highness. A coalition has formed mercenaries, rogue nobles, and…” He swallowed. “One of our own generals.”

The court stilled. A traitor.

Phainon’s grip on the letter crumpled the parchment.

“His name?”

“General Orpheus, Your Highness.”

The weight of betrayal settled over the room.

Orpheus was once a trusted military leader, one who fought beside Phainon in past campaigns. Now, he had turned against the crown.

Phainon’s jaw clenched.

“Then I will deal with him myself.”

Later that night, you found him in the war chambers, pouring over maps and battle reports, his eyes sharp with focus.

“You’re leaving, aren’t you?” you asked softly.

He didn’t look up. “I must.”

You stepped closer. “You just secured the kingdom. If you leave now, others will use this as an opportunity to create disorder in court.”

“If I don’t leave, the border will fall” he countered.

You knew he was right. But something about this war felt different.

“Let me go with you” you said.

His head snapped up. “No.”

“I can help-”

“No.”

His voice left no room for argument.

“You are still recovering. I will not risk your life again.”

You met his gaze defiantly. “And I will not sit idle while you fight alone.”

A dangerous silence stretched between you.

He exhaled slowly, reaching forward to cradle your face.

“I swore to protect you. And if I must cut down an entire army to ensure you remain safe, then I will.”

His forehead rested against yours, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Stay here, my love. Wait for me.”

You closed your eyes.

Because no matter how much you wanted to stand by his side, you knew he would never allow it.

Days passed.

The battle waged in the east.

And then—The betrayal struck.

Not from the battlefield, but within the palace itself. Late one evening, a servant rushed into your chambers, breathless.

“Your Highness! The council— they are trying to strip the prince of his authority!”

You froze. “What?”

“The royal ministers...Duke Varion, Marquis Sareth...they claim that Phainon’s campaign is reckless. That he seeks war only for his own ambition.”

Your blood turned cold.

The moment Phainon left the capital, these leeches had taken their chance to turn the court against him.

You rose swiftly, ignoring the lingering ache in your body.

“Summon the council immediately.”

If they thought you would be a weak regent in Phainon’s absence, you have to prove that they were wrong.

When you entered the council chamber, every noble eye turned to you. The ministers sat in their high-backed chairs, their expressions carefully neutral. But you saw it—the quiet defiance.

Duke Varion stood. “Your Highness, we mean no disrespect, but we must question whether it is wise to let the Crown Prince—”

“Enough.”

Your voice was not loud. But it carried authority.

Varion hesitated.

You stepped forward, eyes sharp.

“You claim my husband is reckless?”

“We claim he is endangering the kingdom-”

“He is defending it,” you cut in smoothly. “And yet, while he sheds blood for this land, you sit here—plotting how to weaken him.”

You let the moment of silence stretch, let the weight of your words settle.

Then, voice calm but unyielding, you said:

“If anyone wishes to challenge the Crown Prince’s rule, they may do so when he returns.

“And I promise” your gaze swept over them, cold and unrelenting“he will return.”

When Phainon finally rode back into the capital—victorious, bloodstained, and utterly unforgiving

He wasted no time in purging the court.

Duke Varion? Stripped of his lands.

Marquis Sareth? Exiled.

Any noble who had dared to question his authority? Crushed beneath the weight of his retribution.

When he finally reached you, his hardened expression softened. You were waiting at the palace gates, your heart pounding as he dismounted his warhorse.

Without hesitation, he strode toward you, ignoring the watching nobles, ignoring the blood still drying on his gloves, he pulled you into his arms.

“You protected my rule” he murmured into your hair.

“Of course,” you whispered. “Did you think I would let them take what is ours?”

His grip tightened.

“My love,” he whispered, voice raw, “how could I ever deserve you?”

You pulled back just enough to cup his face.

“You do.”

Without another word, he kissed you.

It had been another exhausting day. Meetings. Political disputes. The lingering tension from Phainon’s latest campaign.

But above all—

His parents.

“When will we expect an heir?” the Queen had asked over dinner, smiling ever so sweetly.

You nearly choked on your tea. Again.

The King only laughed. “We are not rushing, of course.”

But they were.

Their eyes gleamed with barely concealed excitement, expectant whenever they looked between you and Phainon.

The moment you left the dining hall, you sighed.

“They aren’t going to let this go.”

Beside you, Phainon smirked.

“They are not wrong to be impatient.”

You rolled your eyes. “Of course you would say that.”

But he only hummed, his eyes glinting with something wicked.

“Perhaps it is time we oblige them, my love.”

The moment you entered your chambers, Phainon wasted no time.

He cornered you before you could step away, his hands braced on either side of you, trapping you against the wall.

“Are you tired?” he murmured, his voice deep, velvety.

You swallowed.

“A little.”

His lips brushed your ear.

“I’ll be gentle, then.”

Heat curled low in your stomach.

“Phainon-”

His hand slid to your waist, his touch warm.

“Tell me,” he murmured, pressing a slow kiss against your pulse, “do you want this?”

You shivered beneath his touch.

“Yes.”

That was all he needed.

Between silken sheets and tangled limbs, Phainon worshipped you.

His kisses traced reverent paths down your skin, as if committing every inch of you to memory.

“You are mine” he whispered against your lips, eyes dark with desire. “And I will make sure the world knows it.”

You gasped as he moved against you, his warmth consuming you whole.

“You speak as if I am not already yours” you teased, breathless.

His grip tightened.

“I know you are” he murmured, “but I will make sure there is no doubt.”

A vow sealed beneath moonlight and quiet, desperate gasps. And as he finally held you close, the weight of his love sinking into your bones, you knew— This was more than just duty. More than just an heir.

When the morning light streamed through the curtains, you stirred, muscles pleasantly sore.

Phainon was already awake, lying beside you, his arm draped over your waist.

“Good morning, my love” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your bare shoulder.

You sighed. “Morning.”

His hand traced idle patterns against your skin. “How are you feeling?”

You turned to him, arching a brow. “Why don't you guess?”

His smirk was unapologetic.

“I was thorough last night.”

You scoffed, rolling your eyes.

“Do you think… it worked?”

A rare softness crossed his features.

“Perhaps.” You bit your lip, fingers brushing over his hand. “If it did… would you be happy?”

He cupped your cheek.

“You are all I have ever wanted.”

And for once, there was no war. No court schemes. No looming threats. Just you and him.

[getaapologist]

The Tension and the Terror..............Part IV

Pairing: Emperor Geta x OFC (extremely loosely, character is named but otherwise not described besides hair length in a later part)

Summary: Letha prevents the assassination of the Emperors and picks up a wound in the process. Caracalla's indulgent tendencies prove useful in a pinch. Geta has feelings.

Warnings: Violence, mentions of blood. Reference to Letha's Voyeurism if you squint, 18+ only

Word Count: 3.3k

Part 4 of 13?

[ Part III ]

Series Masterlist

A/N: And here we go. I hope you like this one.

Letha held the glass to her lips but didn’t drink, letting the wine stain her lips. She couldn’t afford a lapse in concentration, not now that she knew anything could happen. She was given no guidance, no indication of who could be responsible. She would only know once someone was making a lunge for Macrinus. The hand in her lap clutched the handle of the blade tucked into her dress, in a pocket she’d watched Hyacinthia sew in as she spouted dreams of a seaside home, the sound of the waves lulling her to sleep.

She had to get this right. Sure, for Macrinus’s plan’s sake, but also for her own sake. She’d drawn blood before, plenty of it. She just hoped she wouldn’t have to kill this would-be assassin herself. She wasn’t sure she had the stomach for it and there wasn’t exactly an opportunity to practice. In the weeks leading up to this celebration, she’d sparred with a select few of Macrinus’s gladiators. Those he trusted to actually help her.

She would do this.

Geta had looked over a few times, but he was currently attached at the hip to Lyra, a generous gift from senator Thraex, as he had loudly proclaimed at the start of the dinner. Probably hoping to garner favor now that his coffers were beginning to dwindle. Caracalla sat beside his brother, half out of his own chair, his arms slung around a pretty man’s bare shoulders. He had loudly praised Thraex for his thoughtful gift of new outfits for Dondus, the small monkey currently sitting on the table before them, plucking abandoned grapes off his plate in a shining outfit. Dondus was clearly used to the cacophony of sound that accompanied the Emperors wherever they went.

She couldn’t be distracted by Geta either, despite how his greeting haunted her all afternoon. Pretending like they had never met. Protecting their secret encounter as if it could mean something to him. Surely not, with the way his large hand squeezed at the flesh of Lyra’s bare thigh. No, perhaps it meant so little it had completely left his mind as soon as she slipped out of the room.

Letha could hardly stomach it. The jealousy was overwhelming. Macrinus noticed, but again mistook her half-hidden look of anger for her desire for revenge. 

“Soon, Letha. Channel that rage. Use it for this, in the right way, and soon you will certainly be in their employ. Then you can come and go as you please, and no one will ask questions of you. You will be able to do what I cannot. Just bide your time,” Macrinus instructed. She wished she still felt as angry towards Geta as she now did towards Lyra. It would certainly make her position in all this much easier to navigate. “You are my shrike,” he reminded her. “I’m letting you off the leash.”

At Macrinus’s words, Geta stood, having eyes for no one but Lyra. “As my lovely companion has reminded me, we are all here to celebrate. A toast, to Macrinus, and his hearty barbarians,” he smiled, lifting a cup in Macrinus’s direction. Most others did as well as Macrinus sat comfortably, smiling under the attention of the elite of Rome. Basking in it, even as he intended to ruin it. 

“And to Thraex, for his wonderful gifts,” Caracalla shouted, throwing himself up onto his feet suddenly. He reached down for the table to steady himself. Geta seemed a bit perturbed at his brother’s state of inebriation, but said nothing of it. 

Everyone drank, but Letha hadn’t lifted her glass. As her eyes were forced away from Lyra’s searching hand at Geta’s wrist, she spotted someone striding forward through a break in the columns on the opposite side of the room. Her heart caught in her throat. He wore the dark armor of the Praetorian guard, but something was off. Her adrenaline spiked as she spotted the glint of metal in his palm. She waited, watching for someone else to notice, but no one seemed to react. He strode forward, towards the tables. 

Before she could think twice she got to her feet, gathering her dress as she fought to get out of the chair without falling over on the hem. The man advanced, no guards yet intercepting him, the atmosphere in the palace giving everyone a false sense of ease. Perhaps if she wasn’t tipped off she might not have noticed him either. But she did, either way. And now, her inaction would get someone killed.

She passed around the edge of the long table, nearly breaking into a sprint as she realized he wasn’t headed to where Macrinus sat. His eyes were dead set on the center of the table, and his legs were carrying him there, right to where the Emperors currently stood, enjoying their party and the company. 

No.

Letha intercepted the man uncomfortably close to the table, startling everyone out of their revelry. The blade in his hand seemed prepared for a stab, probably between the ribs of one of the Emperors. She reached for the arm, forcing it up and away from her own ribs, pushing hard against him with her body, forcing him back away from the twins. The man grunted, trying to force her off her feet, but she was stuck firm, as if roots grew from her feet. She knew his center of balance was higher than hers, she could keep her position quite well. He let out a frustrated roar and opened his hand, changing his grip on the knife before plunging it straight down towards her with renewed force.

Chaos ensued as people began to realize what was happening. A scream cut through the noise of the panicked guests and Letha felt the bite of the blade in the top of her shoulder. Hot, searing pain radiated from the injury as her skin split. The pain had her sweating. She saw white, her breathing becoming uneven. She had to do something more, she was stuck here otherwise. If she had been smarter she would’ve drawn the blade tucked away in her dress before now. Still, it was her only recourse. She knew what she had to do.

Letha freed a hand and accepted the blade deeper into her shoulder in favor of drawing the blade hidden within her dress. Any hangups she might’ve had about killing the hired attacker went out the window as soon as he’d stabbed her. She sank the small blade into the unprotected space beneath his arm, just above where his chestplate began at his side, striking bone, just like Viggo had instructed her. The force exerted on the knife in her shoulder ceased and she felt some small relief. She pulled her blade free and stabbed again, her other hand gripping the lip of the chestplate firmly, drawing him in close as he gasped. Once more for good measure.

After a few more agonizing breaths, he was pulled away from her, her knife wrenched free from his side as she held it in a vice grip. The guards stood around him as his blood poured out of the wound and onto his scrabbling fingers pulling at his armor as if in disbelief, spilling out onto the ornate marble floor. He fell with a loud clatter, blanketing the room in silence. She stared down at the blade in her hand, sick at seeing his lifeblood staining her skin. 

She felt faint and took a step back, stinging emanating from her shoulder. She remembered the attacker’s blade and reached up for it, pulling it up and out of her flesh, the pain a white hot flash that blinded her for a moment as she swayed on her feet, her own blood falling over her shoulder and dripping onto the floor in large droplets, the rest soaking into the dress she wore, the deep purple of it turning black. She would need to apologize to Hyacinthia.

“Letha, come here, give me those,” Macrinus soothed, his hands like hot coals on her arms. He gently removed the blades from her hands and tossed them aside before returning his hands to her upper arms, steering her away from the scene and back to her empty chair. Her vision was blurred, but she could see Macrinus knelt down before her, something close to worry in his eyes as he turned to rifle through the contents of their table, eventually finding cloth to press down into the wound at the top of her shoulder. 

He couldn’t lose his asset, she thought bitterly.

“Press down, Letha,” Macrinus barked, pushing her left hand down over top of the linens. “Hold that there,” he muttered, not quite panicked, but as close to it as she’d ever witnessed.

“Summon a healer!” a roar reached her ears. “Everyone get out, please,” the stressed voice ordered. Geta. “Where is Tegula?!”

A warm hand overtook hers, lifting it away from the cloth and pressing down itself, much harder than she could’ve. She hissed, swiping out at her abandoned glass on the table, knocking it down to the floor. Her nails found the wood and dug in as she grimaced, brought back to reality as this fresh pain cut through the rest.

“Letha,” Geta muttered, his other hand reaching out to pull at her wrist, trying to free the poor table from her crushing grip. The familiarity in his use of her name didn’t escape her. She could feel the heat of his body against her upper back as she felt ever colder. He succeeded in prying her fingers from the wood, wrapping her aching hand in his, an offering that should have delighted her. She could hardly pay attention to Geta and his softness with her. She would dwell on it later.

“Where is the healer?” Geta demanded, his voice laced with frustration. 

“Emperor, I can take her back to the arena, I have a doctor there that can stitch up her wound,” Macrinus offered. She thought of Ravi. Yes, he would be able to do it.

“No,” Geta frowned. “She saved my brother. We will look after her.”

“...Of course, your majesty,” Macrinus relented, his plans bearing fruit. He watched Geta carefully.

“You are staying close?” Geta questioned.

“Across from the Colosseum, yes,” Macrinus answered.

“Good. I will keep you informed.” Geta was dismissing Macrinus. 

Macrinus would mark this moment as the one that confirmed that all his work had been for something after all. There was no going back. “Of course. If you need anything at all,” he offered, getting to his feet. 

“You will know,” Geta promised, still applying pressure to Letha’s shoulder as Macrinus got to his feet. 

Macrinus leaned down, near her ear. “You did well,” he praised, pressing a kiss to her hair before gathering his robes in his arms and striding away. It shouldn’t have buoyed her spirits, it was all for his gain, but she still felt relief at his praise. 

“You were magnificent!” Caracalla’s giddy voice met her ears before he leaned down to be in her line of sight. “Just–Ugh!” he shouted, mimicking her stab to the man’s armpit with a reckless swipe between them.

“‘Calla,” Geta warned, though his tone lacked any real bite. “Give her space.”

Caracalla just giggled, sitting down on the floor before her, elbows on his knees. “You must be strong,” he commented. “What are you doing warming Macrinus’s bed?”

She reflexively gripped Geta’s hand in hers, reacting to the implication. “I-I don’t,” she clarified, her voice weaker than she expected. The mere act of speaking made her vision swim.

“Then what does he keep you for? His gladiators?” Caracalla’s words probably weren’t meant to incite her, but they did all the same, her grip on Geta’s palm tightening uncomfortably. 

If only you knew, she thought carelessly.

“Caracalla, move,” Geta ordered, the healer finally arriving, setting down their things before Letha on the floor, blocking Caracalla from view. Her grip relaxed.

Geta spoke calmly with the healer, explaining what had unfolded before his eyes, finally lifting the blood-soaked linen from her shoulder. The healer’s eyes widened momentarily before looking down to their supplies. Through all this, Geta never removed his hand from hers, made no attempt to withdraw. Even when he was arguably in the way, the healer didn’t mention it, probably assuming it would do no good to demand anything of an Emperor.

She groaned, grimacing as a liquid was splashed over her shoulder, the burning sensation deep in the wound almost worse than when it was created. She kept a vice-like grip on Geta’s hand and the moment the pain began to lessen she released it, apologies tumbling from her lips.

“Do not be sorry,” he spoke. “Take it,” he ordered, slipping his hand back into hers. She reluctantly did, thankful for his hands taking the ice out of her fingers. The healer got to work, threading a needle with skilled hands as if he had done this countless times. All comfort Letha had begun to feel abruptly left her as the needle pierced her skin and she let out a sob.

“Do you have nothing for the pain?!” Geta begged. The bones in his hand were forced tightly together and he wondered if they would break in her grip.

“I did not grab it, Emperor,” the healer apologized, his hands stilling over her shoulder, wondering if he should continue. 

“I might have something,” Caracalla proposed, stepping around his brother, his eyes focused on the split flesh over her shoulder, fascinated.

“You’ll kill her,” Geta accused, wishing he could send his brother away like he had everyone else. 

“Perhaps just a little,” the healer suggested, glancing at Geta as if asking permission.

“Give it to me,” she all but whispered, lifting her bloodied hand slightly off her lap. 

Caracalla beamed, reaching into his robes. He eventually withdrew a vial, lowering it to Letha’s open palm. 

“Don’t,” Geta groaned, pulling the vial quickly from Caracalla’s hand. “Wine,” he ordered. A cup was placed on the table and quickly filled. He finally pulled his hand free of her grip and stood, opening the vial over the glass. 

“Only a few drops,” the healer guided, watching carefully as Geta tilted the vial, only allowing a small amount to disappear into the wine. 

Caracalla came back around the back of her chair, stealing away the vial from his brother and stashing it back in his robes, a grin on his face. “You see, brother, I am good for something.”

Geta made no comment as he swirled the glass. He noticed the blood staining his own hand, thinking of how cold hers had been. He was reminded of his dream, a highly confusing one that left him stewing, right up until this afternoon. 

Letha had turned him to stone, one look was all it took. And he was trapped, trapped in his own skin. She just sat, watching him, observing him in some liminal, featureless place. Every part of him her eyes roamed over, he felt a trace of warmth, the barest hint of it. And that was enough for him. He woke up sweating, dazed and slightly embarrassed. He reminded himself he might never encounter her again and that brought him crashing back down to reality. 

But he did. He did, and he couldn’t deny the flare of satisfaction he felt when his attempt actually worked. When he saw her sitting there. It only lasted a moment, though, before his eyes traced the point of a blade up from her shoulder, along Macrinus’s fingers, up his arm, his shoulder, his jealousy forcing him down a murderous path.

“That’s quite enough stirring, Caesar,” the Healer offered, right as a giggle burst forth from Caracalla’s lips. If Geta thought they knew what he’d been thinking of, he might’ve felt anger. 

He held the glass in front of Letha’s mouth, gently pressing against her lower lip. His eyes were trained there, watching as she opened. He only poured a little of the hastily made tincture in. He waited as she swallowed, staring at the column of her throat, eyes lowering to the darkened fabric that had been cut away from her shoulder, the nearly-dry blood covering much of her skin. Her hand squeezing the fabric of his tunic took him out of his study of her and he tilted the glass, offering her a little more. 

This was not at all how he expected this evening to go. Finding Lyra waiting in his chambers after returning from the arena took him by surprise. He had enjoyed her, sure, but he didn’t think he’d expressed any particular desires to Thraex for his concubine. He figured the senator didn’t want to leave one of them empty-handed. He almost sent her away but thought better of it, hoping it would remind Letha of their encounter, and maybe he could relieve some of the tension lurking in his shoulders too. 

He was sure it was successful, if not a bit too successful. Letha had sat beside Macrinus the entire evening, stone-faced, definitely not enjoying herself. And then he’d toasted Macrinus. He thought the evening was going quite well otherwise, until he realized a man was stalking toward his brother, the shine of a blade in his hand. 

He’d moved in front of Caracalla, trying to shield him from this grave injury just as he had always done. Caracalla had gripped the cloth of his robes quite tightly, but didn’t voice his fear. He didn’t have to, they had experienced similar scenarios far too often. It was as natural as a reflex for Geta to step in to receive the blow. But it never came. The blade never came close, and it took him a moment to realize why. 

Letha. 

It didn’t make sense, none of it did. The guards had been so slow to react, he knew they needed to be replaced. Where had she come from? Why was she protecting them like this? As the attacker’s blade pierced her skin, he felt it as if it were his own shoulder. Where had she gotten a knife from? 

He couldn’t deny the way his chest fluttered at her easy violence. The way she clung to the man, her fingers curled around the lip of the chestplate. It stirred something within Geta that he couldn’t name. He wished it had been him pressed against her, some small part of him would even have endured the fatal wound to be that close. It was so intimate. He felt his skin flush at the sight.

And then it was done. She reached up and pulled the other blade free of her shoulder and Geta could only watch, his rapture morphing into fear as her own blood welled up and fell down either side of her shoulder, the drips echoing in his ears as she swayed before him. Before he could vault over the table Macrinus was there, steering her back to her seat. 

“That’s probably enough for now,” the healer instructed, bringing Geta back to the present moment. “I’m going to begin again, and you must keep still,” the healer warned Letha, meeting her eyes. She nodded weakly.

Geta returned to her side, dragging over a chair so he could sit behind her. His hand found hers again and she squeezed it, though only a fraction of as much as before. His brother’s penchant for recreational drugs had somehow benefited someone other than himself. 

As the needle pierced the other side of the wound, Letha hissed, turning her cheek into Geta’s chest. He welcomed her, turning his torso into her, letting her bury her face, hide her discomfort and pain as the stitches slowly knit her skin back together.

Geta did not lack intimacy. He got as much or as little of it as he desired, the nature of his position and what it granted him. But what he did long for was sincerity. True desire. He could tell the difference. It wasn’t in how they gripped his skin. It was in the eyes. And what he saw in Letha’s as she looked up at him, exhaustion weakening her eyelids, left him stunned.

[ Part V ] coming soon

[heaven-s-black-box]

Value of a Life- Dan Heng x fiancee!fem!Reader

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Recovery date: January 28th, 2025

Description: Hello 👋👋👋 I saw your story with Dan Heng and the reader being his fiance and I was just watching the 2.5 quest and it gave me an idea, what if the reader was there when Dan Heng and Lingsha were confronting Taoron and when Bailu is brought into the picture the reader actually yells at Taoron, which shocked everyone.

Notes: This work was recovered in conjunction with an anonymous researcher, we thank them for their contributions. Enjoy the moral and existential dilemmas!

Part 1 Part 2

Word count: 1 121

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What is the value of a life?

Two lives?

Is she less valuable than her step-sister? Is Bailu less valuable than Dan Feng? Is Dan Heng as valuable as Dan Feng? Are they not two halves of a whole?

What is the value of a life?

Surely, it is more than this.

Y/n stands behind Dan Heng, twisting his coat in her grip as preceptor Taoron explains his plan.

He explains that the only way for the Alliance to win the war against the abundance is through the Vidyadhara. With the dragon transmutation, the Alliance could have an endless number of soldiers; casualties would be a worry of the past! Then, once the war was won…

Y/n felt her stomach churn.

“-these soldiers would cease reproduction-”

Then… the value of a life is what? The value given at birth? Her mother had valued her among the stars, and her father had valued her among the stepping stones that created the walkway to their home. These soldiers, their value would be as weapons. They would be as she was, stepping stones.

There is a chill in her chest, one that creeps across her ribs and into her heart. Y/n cannot pull her gaze from the preceptor. Her ears are ringing, Lingsha is speaking but the words are muffled. Something taps her hip, she does not move.

A speck of purple in the lower part of her vision is what draws her back to reality. A speck of purple that quickly turns into a red haze blanketing everything.

“Miss Bailu!” Dan Heng calls, his fingers curling against Y/n’s hip as he tries to hold on to her.

“You self-righteous dick!” Dan Heng winces at the outburst next to his ear, though his discomfort is quickly replaced by shock and worry and Y/n steps out from behind him and towards Taoron. “What gives you the right, to decide the value of a life?” As a secretary in the seat of divine foresight, Y/n knows very well what the preceptor is playing at. “Who gave you the right to decide Bailu was nothing more than a pawn in your scheme! That the Vidyadhara and the Alliance were sacrifices you could make!”

“And what gives you the right to lecture me on my own kind? You’re marrying a traitor, and you are no Vidyadhara!”

Y/n glances over at Bailu to find the girl’s eyes welling with tears. She was looking frantically between everyone.

Lingsha offers words of comfort.

“You talk a big game, as if you have the nation and people's best interests at heart. But when it really matters, you use a small girl as your shield. It's ridiculously pitiful,” Dan Heng says.

He comes up behind Y/n and places a hand on her shoulder. He is there. She is not alone. She will not be harmed.

Taoran accidentally reveals the rest of his hand, asking them to sentence him to exuviation and rebirth. Dan Heng is quick to shoot him down, and Y/n can’t help the way her heart clenches as he denies himself forgiveness for Dan Feng’s actions once more.

To the Vidyadhara, is the value of life determined by the actions of their past selves?

Dan Heng directs his next question to Bailu. “Miss Bailu, as high elder of the Luofu Vidyadhara, please share your thoughts at this moment.”

And she responds exactly as expected. “I... I don't want to stay here. I'm tired of being pushed around! I'm not some puppet to be controlled! Please, take me away with you!”

“I understand,” Dan Heng nods, and pushes Y/n aside gently. She looks at him, gaze still harsh as her brows furrowed in confusion. He does not meet her gaze, instead keeping his sharp glare fixed on the preceptor in front of him. “As the oath dictates, members of the Alliance are forbidden from harming Vidyadhara here. But I've long since severed ties with the Alliance. Right now I'm simply a Nameless, free to come and go as I please. The oath of the Xianzhou means nothing to the spear in my hand!”

Lingsha grabs Y/n’s wrist to pull her the last bit away as Dan Heng flips his spear in his grasp and launches it at Taoran. It hits him square in the chest and sends him flying into one of the tall stone structures. The spear quickly vanished into blue particles, and Taoron dropped to the ground.

Wheezing, he ordered his men to stop the trio from leaving.

Bailu took the chance to run, and Y/n met her half way– pulling her into a tight hug while Dan Heng and Lingsha handled the attackers. Y/n pulled Bailu away from it all and behind the two Vidyadhara. 

That’s where the two remained as the battle concluded.

“Dragon Lady, are you alright?” Lingsha asked, voice laced with concern.

“I... I'm fine. Thank you for rescuing me.”

Dan Heng nodded, and looked back over his shoulder at Y/n who was still holding the small girl close. She offered her fiance a reassuring smile as she gently stroked Bailu’s head.

The quiet moment was interrupted by the clicking of boots on the cracked stone platform.

—

“Dan Heng,” Y/n whispered into the dim archives.

She was curled up against Dan Heng’s chest, and the blanket was half wrapped around their lower halves. The archives’ server lights blinked around them like little stars, but Y/n watched the thin beam of light coming in from under the door.

“Hm?” He hummed, turning his head to bury his face in the top of her head.

“You don’t… You aren’t responsible for what Dan Feng did, you know that, right?”

There was no answer for a moment, and Y/n looked up to find him staring down at her. His eyes seemed to glow in the low light, and Y/n curled her fingers in the fabric of his shirt.

When he spoke, his voice was rough with sleep, “Is that what’s keeping you up?”

“Don’t ignore me.”

“I’m not,” he yawns. “We’ve had this conversation before.”

“And I don’t think you believe me.”

He lets out a tired laugh. “I can’t ignore what he did, the people he hurt. Blade…”

“Helped him of his own volition.”

“He broke the laws of the Vidyadhara people.”

“And as punishment he was essentially sentenced to death, and then you spent years in prison for it and got exiled,” Y/n scowled. Y/n rested her chin on Dan Heng’s chest, letting her chin dig into the muscle and bone. “Why is your value tied to the actions of a life you have no memory of?”

[hheartsdramas]

episode 38 we got this! finale here i come

still gets upset when she gets attacked. zhao ming i think you need to reread your “how to be a heartless villain” handbook again

AND he doesn’t kill lotus girl because mxl asks him not to

aww the doomed lotus lovers reunite finally! impossibly! they’re probably going to die soon, yeah?

look how close to him she’s walking and how pleased he is with the whole situation

you cannot convince me this man isn’t having the time of his life with this hot chick practically hanging off of him

i’ve been wondering what juxtaposing lesson we’re supposed to learn from lotus couple and i think it’s to tell your people you love them before you sacrifice yourself for them or they may never know and get stuck in 6000 years’ worth of 50 first dates (mxl and xxc are very transparent about their sacrifice with each other). and that immortality is bad so get comfy with your impending demise, humanity.

i really love our second couple and i hope they make it out of this alive

i’m gonna choke fate out before this is over and not in the sexy way

i thought mxl might go self-sacrificial again but instead she’s like “hey babe wanna kill god?”

great, let’s get nietzsche up in here! on to ep 39!

[valewright67]

YAY!!

So I'm just gonna start writing and hope it's at least like, half coherent. Also, blatant honesty, I am absolutely just copy pasting some bits and pieces from your works, cuz it is LATE, and I do not have the energy to paraphrase EVERYTHING.

Edit: wow, ok, I got very carried away, whoops. Hope you enjoy anyways?

Edit 2: I actually DO have more where this came from, regarding Ximena Talis, the commune, how Viktor is going to shift his focus, how he's going to "disconnect them" while still keeping them healed, but also about the commune react to the fact that The Herald Has A Child??

Some things for context, might be helpful!

Like I mentioned, it's a fusion of "Not Alone Anymore" and "Pull the Blanket Tight Now"

This is what a newborn (ish) baby harbor seal looks like. I believe this one is only a few days old. Quite possibly one of the cutest creatures to exist on the entire planet. (I have a soft spot for seals.)

Here is information on the name I opted for. I almost went with "Ciela" instead, because it's a Spanish name girl's name meaning "Sky" and I thought "Oh hey, Jayce would totally do that to honor Sky, and Viktor would like it too." But then I realized I'd be calling the selkie baby "seal-a" and that was a BIT too heavy handed. So Ilona instead! It's a Czech name!

It doesn't diverge too heavily up until the point baby is born. I opted for daughter, just because, like... Jayce just feels like a Girl Dad, y'know?

It took me a bit to figure out how to get around Mage Viktor realizing that Jayce is a selkie, but I got there eventually! If a selkie gives birth while in human form, their baby will also be in human form. Their Coat is formed instead upon their First Swim, when their parent takes them into the water for the first time, a thick, glowing swath of bubbles (in lieu of seafoam, if not in the ocean) will form around them and sort of compress into a Coat.

And because of Plot Reasons, Mage Viktor isn't looking during this brief moment. Maybe he's checking other realities, maybe he's overwhelmed and having A Moment with his own Jayce, (or what's left of him) who he never got to have a child with.

OK, WE BEGIN:

Jayce clings onto her, dried tear tracks from the hours of pain and fear being quickly overriden by more as he traces dirty fingers over the moles dotted on her cheeks, making a little hiccupping laugh as her tiny hand wraps all the way around his index finger and grips with all her Itty bitty might.

Gods, she's perfect.

He presses a shaky kiss to her forehead, and begins the long, arduous process of hauling himself to the pool at the edge of the cave. The water is uncomfortable chilly, even for him, and he murmurs frantic apologies as her wails begin anew, distressed at the cold. It's a sorry excuse for a First Swim, and he cannot even join her as he should, but it is all he has to offer, and his mother drilled into him the importance of selkie children touching the water within an hour of birth. Otherwise, their Coats will never form, and they'll be left untethered to the world, permanently adrift within their own minds.

The wave of relief he feels when a cradle of bubbles forms around her in iridescent swirls is almost enough to make him pass out, and he only barely manages to hold onto her.

The shimmering condenses into a glowing pelt, then the light fades away. Instinctively, she curls herself up, and he helps, lifting the edges of the tiny pelt to wrap around her tiny body. A moment later, there's a seal pup wiggling half heartedly in his hands, and he chokes on a laugh. She's so very beautiful, a soft gray with white underbelly, and splattered in black spots. She'll look different when she's older, of course. All pups start a bit like this. But he can't help but think she's the best of them all.

She shifts back easily enough soon after, and though he leaves her Coat with her to lie in (it's so cold, he won't take that away from her) he keeps her swaddled against his chest, pelt and all tucked within the torn and retied remains of his coat and hammer that form a sling. Protecting her from the eyes he sees everywhere.

The eyes. Eyes of those lost, those dead. Those angry, who would seek to tear her from him, just to see him hurt. Reality fluxes, and she remains his tether to it, only emerging from the haze of hallucinations to tend to her.

She's hungry, whining for milk constantly. He's hungry too. He eats as much as he can, grateful that against all odds, the amount of lizards (those damned, disgusting lizards) seems to have somehow increased, despite the loud cries of his infant. Still though, resources his body can spare are precious few, and he knows she isn't getting enough. They'll both starve, at this rate.

It's with a new sense of determination he starts trying to find a way out of this cursed hole. She's two weeks old when he finally manages to claw himself over the top ledge, and he collapses with a ragged grunt. She makes a startled, sleepy noise against his chest, and he chuckles softly, stroking over the sling. "Yeah, darling, we made it. Halfway there, right?" She gurgles, tiny fist freeing itself from the fold and waving under his nose, and he presses a kiss to her knuckles before hauling himself upright to continue onwards. UPwards.

Really, he should have known it was Viktor. It's always Viktor. This lonely, regret-plagued man is Viktor. Not his Viktor, but it matters little to Jayce. He cannot bear to see any iteration of his partner suffer.

And... he might know how to help him. His arms tighten ever so slightly around his daughter, and he lifts his chin.

"Do you still have it? My coat?" He interrupts the older man’s speech.

Viktor eyes the ruined tailcoat Jayce is wearing as a sling, confused.

"Your… coat?"

"The blanket, I mean. The one I gave you when you woke up fused to the Hexcore."

This time, Viktor's eyes light up with understanding and sadness.

"…I do, actually. I have never parted from it."

There is a deep longing in his voice, one that makes Jayce’s heart ache, as he slowly opens up his cloak to reveal what’s underneath.

There it is, his pelt, neatly wrapped in a tunic around Viktor’s body. It has become worn and tattered with time, surely due to the derelict state of this world’s Jayce, but the ribbons and little metal accessories Viktor has added to it show that the garment has been deeply loved and cared for.

This constatation leaves Jayce breathless. Years, maybe decades have passed since this Viktor received his coat, and not only has he kept it, but he is clearly treating it like his most prized possession. He can even sense some reluctance in the mage’s movements, as if he is hesitant to disclose what is obviously a mirror to his soul, even to Jayce himself.

And the blanket he is wearing thrums with Selkie magic still. Just like Jayce’s own.

Which means there might be hope.

“Put it over his shoulders. It might not work, but… it’s worth a try.”

Viktor nods, without asking for any further explanation. The absolute trust he puts in him has Jayce’s heart racing once again.

With trembling fingers, Viktor refastens his cloak, then he calls forth his powers to have the blanket materialize into his hand. Jayce cannot help but watch in awe as he bends the Arcane to his will so easily. Although he knows it is not a desirable outcome, the prospect that his Viktor could master such an intricate art has him weak at the knees.

It is with infinite gentleness that Viktor puts the blanket over his petrified companion. For a second, nothing happens, and Jayce fears to have been mistaken, to have only caused Viktor further distress, but then the stone starts cracking as the transformation takes effect. And just like that, the lifeless statue gives place to a shaking, breathing man.

“Now take it off,” Jayce instructs before his counterpart’s selkie nature can be revealed.

Viktor doesn’t have to be told twice. He follows his advice to the letter, then rushes to hug his revived partner. Jayce’s alter ego lets his corrupted hammer fall to the ground to better welcome him in his arms.

Years of complete immobility have shrunken his muscles down and his body has become emaciated with hunger, leaving him in a pitiful state, but whatever strength he has left, he uses to cling to Viktor. Worrying as his condition might be, Jayce has no doubt he will soon flourish again under Viktor’s care.

They stay intertwined for a long while, both of them sobbing quietly in immeasurable relief, and Jayce knows better than to disturb them.

Then Viktor lifts his eyes towards him again.

“How?”

Jayce smiles and shakes his head, then points toward his counterpart with his chin.

“It’s for him to tell, not me. Do you... Do you want to meet her? Hold her?"

There's a sharp intake of breath, wide eyes darting from his face to the bundle on his chest. His counterpart, too, looks up in startled awe.

Slowly, the Mage nods, and Jayce doesn't hesitate to undo the sling, to transfer her over into the waiting arms before him.

The Mage - Viktor - releases a trembling breath as he carefully glides a thumb over her cheek, silvery tears trickling down his own. His Jayce presses the sides of their beards together, trying to wiggle impossibly closer to get a better look. She whines a little as she wakes, scrunching up her whole face and then blinking up at them with brilliant amber eyes. Viktor husks a laugh. "Hello, beautiful one. What- What is her name, Jayce?"

"...She doesn't have one, yet." He murmurs guiltily. "I... I could not THINK well enough to give her one worthy of her. Would... YOU name her. For me?"

Those startled wide eyes are back again, looking up at him in shock even as silvery tears continue to escape. "Wha-? You want me to-?"

Jayce shrugs. "Who better? You are her father, after all."

Viktor looks back down at her, brow scrunched in that way Jayce had always adored, that meant he was trying to think through every possibility of a problem all at once.

"Ilona... For I have never seen a light in the dark as bright as she," He manages at last, and his Jayce runs a shaking hand over her downy soft hair. "That's lovely, V."

"Hm..." He traces the mole on her forehead, "C-Can I-?"

"Go ahead," Jayce whispers, trusting him fully, and the ache in his chest swells when he brushes a lingering kiss to that spot, laughing quietly when those tiny fingers grasp onto his graying beard. A moment later she slips back into sleep, and Viktor almost reluctantly passes her back over.

"She'll sleep through the teleportarion now, and know no pain from it. I'm sorry that I can't offer you the same, but..." his hand sinks down fully, fingers twining with his Jayce's, squeezing apologetically, "there is no world in which I would choose the Glorious Evolution - in which I'd choose my own pride and ambition - over the two of you. Over... over her. You won't need to resort to violence to convince me, not once I see her."

"Really? You mean that's all it would have taken?" His Jayce teases with a raspy voice, "I just needed to let you knock me up? That's it?"

"Wha- Jayce!" Viktor blurts with a sputtered laugh and both Jayce's managed twin snorts at his horrified amusement.

Jayce nodded once, then nodded again as he strapped her securely back to his torso. "Right. Send me back," he declares, tone ringing with determination as he wraps his arms around the bundle on his chest, "I'll get through to him. We both will, won't we, Ilona?"

Then the world flares with pain and color, and reality breaks. When his senses return, he's in the chamber room of the hexgates, groaning as he hauls himself back to his feet. Fucking FUCK, but that hurts, like every cell in his body turned to firey static.

The first thing he registers is... "Salo? What are you doing here?"

"...One could ask the same question." His voice sounds... distorted, almost, and Jayce grits his teeth as he tries to determine if that affect is a hallucination or not.

"How are you walking?" He demands, arms still wrapped protectively around his chest.

"Who do you think could mend such a broke creature?" Salo replies easily. "Would you want... to speak with him?"

A moment of tense silence passes, and every hair on his neck rises in alarm as Salo's body is- is taken over, somehow.

"Jayce," Viktor's voice rings through Salo, as soothing as it is disturbing, "I feared I wouldn't get the chance to speak with you."

"Viktor?" He breathes, slowly moving forwards, grasp around Ilona loosening ever so slightly.

"I would prefer to converse in person," he starts, raising Salo's hands out between them, "but there is so... so... what is that?" He cuts himself off, staring wide eyed at the bundle against his chest. "Jayce, is that-? Is that a ba-?"

"Stop!" He barks out, talking a couple limping steps backwards, hands shifting to cradle her firmly, to CONCEAL her. "You- I do not want the first time you see our daughter to be through any eyes but your own. I do not want the first time you hear her to be with any other ears. And I demand that the first time you touch her be with your own hands, metal or not, just YOURS!"

Viktor/Salo is still staring with his mouth agape, not having moved a muscle. Jayce breathes heavily. "I... I have to... Fuck!" He snarls, and staggers as another hallucination strikes him, a pained moan slipping out as leg wobbles. "I have to find her milk, I'm- I'm starving, my body won't produce, she's hungry, I have to- I need to make sure she's ok. She's- She's my priority now, Viktor, not you, I need to-"

"We have milk here," Viktor blurts, interrupting him, "There's a couple nursing mothers, I'm sure they'll help. Piltover is- it's dangerous, right now. Please, Jayce, there is a place for you, with me, for-for both of you!"

Jayce couldn't help a weak smirk at the reversal. "Piltover is dangerous, huh? Does that make me scary?"

"A little," Viktor admits in a whisper, "You're scaring me a little. Mostly, I'm scared for you. I don't understand- but you can explain, when you get here? I'll meet you on your way, as soon as I leave Salo, I'll start running. I can run now."

"I need a promise from you first."

"Anything, Jayce."

"Listen to what I say. Believe me. Use your kinda freaky mind powers to see what I saw. Then and only then will I let you hold her."

"Done."

"Then I'll see you soon."

Salo shuddered, and when his eyes rolled back, they too trained onto the bundle. "...Damn, Talis. Get it, I guess."

Jayce snorted inelegantly, and started limping past him towards the exit. "C'mon then. You're my guide, aren't you? I hope so, because I have no idea where I'm going other than 'down.'"

Their pace is slow, but they're still well into Zaun when he hears rapid footsteps coming from ahead of them. Jayce tenses, lips twisting into a snarl as he prepares to defend against whatever is-

"Jayce!!"

Oh.

It's Viktor, a bit of a frazzled mess, and chest rising and falling as he forces his body to regulate to the exertion. His hair is longer, and-

And he's wearing his coat in a manner that's frankly FAR too attractive for his current state of mind. As a matter of fact, he's pretty sure that it's the ONLY thing he's wearing, minus some straps holding it in place. Jayce only barely manages not to collapse to his knees then and there, but he does muster a wobbly smile.

"Hi, Viktor. I missed you."

Viktor has his hands over his mouth as he looks him over and takes in all the little details Salo's eyes didn't know to pick up. "Jayce... You look like you've been dragged backwards through Hell, what's happened?? What, you, baby?? And?? Is that Arcane Scarring??"

He honestly doesn't think he can say he's EVER seen Viktor THIS flustered, and its a bit entertaining. "You're not actually entirely wrong. I'll tell you everything when we've got some more privacy. REAL privacy. Your ears only." He takes another step forward, and Viktor's eyes train down onto the brace that creaks around his crooked leg.

"Is that... your hammer?"

"What's left of it, yes. Vik-"

"Yes?" Viktor almost cuts him off in his urgency to attend his needs, and Jayce firmly resists the urge to laugh.

"I'm- tired. Really really tired. And I haven't had a proper bath in months, nevermind a shower. The sooner we get down to wherever it is we're going, the sooner I can rest. Can we-?"

"Of course, of course, I'm sorry! Here- it'll make it easier to walk," he holds out his staff, which Jayce wraps a roughened hand around shakily, and smiles.

They continue further into the depths of the undercity, which would make him nervous were it not for Viktor's kind of frantic hovering offering a thorough distraction. Normally, it might have annoyed him slightly. But honestly, after all those months with only his own hallucinations and a mysterious swelling bump for company, it's... kind of nice.

He stops in his tracks when the commune comes into view. "Wow," he mutters, and Viktor's worried glance shifts slightly to one of pride.

"There's a forge too! It's useful to have, of course, but well. I mostly made it for you, if you ever joined me."

"Viktor..."

"And a greenhouse! Do you remember that first plant we grew with the hexcore? It thrives down here! And I had a lab made as well, and There's chambers for you already! They're attached to mine- oh! I didn't mean to be presumptuous, I just, I thought- well, if you want ones with some distance, that can be arranged-"

"Vik-"

"There's not a nursery beyond the communal one, I'm afraid. I wasn't... exactly expecting... but no matter! We can design one, however you'd like it!"

"Viktor!"

"Do you like it?" He breathes, and Jayce stares at him, then huffs out a little laugh.

"You've never done things by halves, that's for sure. It's... incredible, Viktor. But first-"

"Oh! Oh yes, of course, thats right, ah, Salo, please show Jayce to his chamber, I'll go grab some things!"

Salo gives him a shallow bow, and Jayce watches as Viktor hurries off, before turning away to follow his guide.

Time passes strangely once he collapses onto the small couch, in an odd, distorted blipping. Vaguely, he registers that his chambers - that Viktor had no guarantee would ever be used - were, frankly, resplendent in comparison to some of the others he'd glimpsed. A large mattress is tucked into a corner, no frame, but it's covered in soft blankets and pillows, and there's a wide desk and chair against another wall, complete with a shelf full of notebooks and tomes. A large, plush rug covers half the floor, and he curls his toes into it curiously, delighting in the soft texture. Plus the couch, which even he can admit is luxurious. Though, even the toughest couch would be achingly soft right now, after months of nothing but stone, so maybe he's biased, but he's hardly complaining about that.

"Sorry I took so long," he hears Viktor murmur, and he lolls his head to look at him as he enters, carrying a small wooden crib under one arm, and holding a bottle in the other. "I had to warm up the milk, I wasn't sure how- one of the nursing mothers stores her extra, I guess she produces a lot. Comes in handy at least. She helped me, and someone else had a spare crib their little one is too big for now-"

"Viktor,"

"Yes?"

"Come sit."

Viktor does, obedient as a dog, wide eyed and eager to please, and Jayce feels a surge of amusement. Who's the puppy now, huh? The reminder of their days before, bantering in the lab, pulls an ache into his chest. He shakes it off as he finally, at last, undoes the sling and settles her into his arms instead, letting the ruined tailcoat fall to the ground with a quiet thump. She's still sleeping, though her fist clenches and unclenches a little as she's moved.

"Oh..." Viktor breathes, eyes trained solely onto her, and Jayce smiles. "Go ahead," he whispers, "She's your daughter too. You can touch her."

Viktor bites down on the inside of his lip, and raises a finger to trace delicately over the moles on her face, unknowingly following the same pattern his post apocalyptic counterpart had. And- "Hello, beautiful one. What- What is her name, Jayce?" -his words, too, uttered in that same whispy reverence.

"Ilona," he tells him, and she scrunches her entire little face in a yawn, blinking her eyes open at last, "her name is Ilona."

A silvery tear coursed a quick track down his cheek, and he pulled his hand back when Jayce readjusted her. "Bottle, please?"

"Oh, yes, right, here! She showed me how to test the temperature, It should be good."

"Dab a little on my wrist then," Jayce requested, one arm still cradling his daughter, "I've seen my mother do it enough times when she used to babysit for extra money."

Viktor did, and Jayce flexed his wrist a little as he gauged it. "That'll do," he took the bottle and held it to her lips. "C'mon, sweetheart, please latch, please- Oh, thank you," he whispers in relief as she tentatively wraps her mouth around it, then starts suckling, "that's good, hm? Sorry darling, I know you've been hungry, I tried my best, but you won't go without anymore, I'll make sure of it." She whines when he takes it away from her, still about half full, and he murmurs apologies as he passes it back to Viktor, shifting her to bounce a little against his shoulder. "Sorry, love, sorry, but we gotta start small, I don't want you to get sick, there, go ahead and burp for me, yeah? Not like this shirt can get more ruined than it already is, that's a good girl."

Out of the corner of his eye, he catches Viktor looking at them with an adoring, dare he say Reverent expression. He's almost impressed that his face doesn't so much as waver when she spits up down his front, beyond reaching down to grab the tattered tail coat and pass it over to be used as a wipe.

Ilona yawns, and then shows off her brilliant gummy smile, and Viktor just melts. "Hi, Ilona," he greets her, sinking down into the couch to be eye level with her. "She's got your eyes, Jayce."

"Oh please, she's you in miniature. Look, the moles, the nose, the shape of her eyes. Even her hair is more your shade of brown, I bet you anything it'll be fluffy like yours too, once it grows out some more." He shifts to address her, nose rubbing against hers gently. "Nine months, nine months you spent inside my womb, and all you inherited was my tan? Outrageous," he declares in good humor, and Viktor shakes with laughter. Jayce let's it go on for an indulgent moment, and then sighs, lowering her gently onto the couch between them, her little Coat plush underneath her. "We have to talk now, Viktor," he says quietly, "and we'll decide what to do from there."

Viktor's smile dropped slowly, and he nodded. "Yes, I... can we start with where you were? You just- vanished, Jayce. Right off the face of Runeterra. No one could find you anywhere, *I* couldn't find you anywhere, no matter how hard I looked. Everyone thought you were dead. You had a funeral!"

"Well. I kinda DID vanish off the face of Runeterra. THIS Runeterra, at least."

"What do you mean."

"I'm sure you've noticed the Arcane anomaly under the hexgates by now?" At Viktor's confirming nod, he continued. "Long story short, I got stuck inside of it. And it took me to a future. A... A really really bad one. It's difficult to explain, but... ah..."

"I can- Look? At your memories? If that's easier."

"Yes, but! But I have a condition."

"Name it."

"As soon as you touch me, you're going to notice the damage to my body. My leg, the Arcane corruption rotting in my wounds, the way... the way I know my mind has fractured from my time there, I can tell it has, and-"

"I can heal all of that! I'll heal you, Jayce, I'll take away your pain-"

"No! No, you will not. That is my condition, Viktor."

"What?"

"Don't heal me. Not even a little bit."

"But- you're in pain, and I can fix it-"

"No, that's final. This will just have to heal the old fashioned way. Do NOTHING but look at my memories. And when you see what I have seen, you'll understand WHY. Am I understood?"

"....."

"I don't like giving ultimatums, Viktor, you know I hate it. But I'm not budging on this, it's agree, or I leave right now, and I take Ilona with me."

"Very well," Viktor finally agreed, albeit reluctantly. "I swear I'll only look."

Jayce smiled a little as he relaxed, and when Viktor's hands raised, he held onto his wrists and pressed them to his cheeks. Their foreheads pressed together, and they fell into his mind.

He's glad now for his foresight in setting down Ilona, because his grip squeezes tightly enough around Viktor's wrists to leave dark bruises, had he been anyone else, as they relive everything.

His arrival into that apocalyptic wasteland, the hollowed remains of the Evolved Ones, the petrified corpses stuck in a permanent state of terror, his fall into the chasm, the sharp, overwhelming pain of his leg being shattered, his descent into madness and his confused paranoia as his belly began to swell with something unknown.

Her birth, his first bit of happiness in months and months, her First Swim, and his climb to the very highest point in Piltover.

Seeing their counterparts in this world gone wrong.

Viktor is breathing raggedly by the end of it, and tears himself away with a sharp gasp, falling off the couch and onto the ground as he shakes with all this new knowledge.

Jayce is panting too, and he knows he's crying. "Do you see now? Do you see why I can't let you continue on the path you're on?" His partner manages a little nod, and then a sob tears from his chest, and he covers his face.

"What have I done? What have I done, Jayce?"

"Nothing we can't fix," he slides a bit clumsily down to the ground with him, and lifts his head between his hands, thumbs wiping away silvered tears. "Partners, right? You don't have to do this alone."

"But I left you alone first-!"

"I forgive you,"

"You should hate me-"

"Well, I don't."

"I caused that apocalypse-"

"So did I."

"Why- Why do you persist? After everything I've done?"

Jayce bumped their foreheads together. "Because I promised you. Because I missed you. Because I don't want our daughter to grow up without you. Because I trust you. Because I know you can do so much good in this world, even without this Glorious Evolution business," he pressed a chaste kiss to the corner of his lips, tasting the salty, metallic tears gathered there, "and because I love you, Viktor."

Viktor's whole face scrunched up, in a way that greatly resembled Ilona's when she was about to start wailing, and Jayce felt a surge of fondness as he realized where she'd gotten that expression from. Then Viktor's arms are around his neck, and he's clinging with everything he has, and Jayce let's them fall back onto the carpet to cling back, fingers twisting into his Coat.

It takes a bit for Viktor to loosen his grip a little, and Jayce starts running a hand up and down his back soothingly.

"...Ilona's a selkie," he whispers at last.

"Yes." Jayce confirms quietly.

"That means... you're a selkie, as well."

"...Yes."

Viktor draws in a shaky breath. "Where's your Coat, Jayce?"

"...I think you already know the answer to that, V."

"Confirm it for me. Please."

Jayce's fingers flexed into the blanket, into his Coat. "You're wearing it."

He let out a wounded noise. "I-I took your Coat away from you-"

"No," He shook his head, rolling them onto their sides so they could be eye to eye, "no, Viktor. I gave it to you, because I wanted you to be safe and warm, more than anything else. And I never went after it, because I knew... I knew it'd be safe with you, and it'd keep you safe in turn. There's a big difference between that and stealing it."

"But-"

"How long are you going to try and argue that you're a monster before you realize that I'm not going to let you?" Jayce asks light heartedly, and Viktor scowls. He snorts. "Alright, come on, help me up again. Please tell me there's a warm bath somewhere in this place? I think I'd murder for one right now."

"There's baths, yes," he assures him, helping him rise back up and settle onto the couch next to Ilona, "Just through that door over there, I'll go run it for you-"

"In chamber bathrooms? Now I know those weren't in most other people's spaces, I saw the communal baths."

"Yes, well," Viktor scowled a little, then sighed, lifting Jayce's hand's to pepper kisses to his splitting knuckles, "you're my partner, Lásko. My other half, my equal. It's only fair you get a bit of extra luxury. Especially- especially after all you've been through. Alone." His eyes drifted down to Ilona, who gurgles at him, and his face softens a little more. "I'll be back."

He vanishes into the side door, and a moment later, Jayce hears the creaking of pipes as water rushes in. He looks at his daughter and smiles, brushing her cheek. "Your father seems determined to spoil us, Mi Vida. I'll have to keep an eye on him as you grow up, won't I? Make sure he doesn't spoil you rotten."

"Do you need help getting to the bathroom?" Viktor asks, poking his head out, and Jayce shakes his head, scooping up Ilona and rising to his feet. "Nah, if I can climb out of a chasm, I can walk across a room. Might need some help getting things off, though."

He does end up needing that help, unfortunately. It takes everything in him not to scream - though he doesn't quite manage to stifle the pained groans completely - as Viktor helps pry the fabric of his clothes off of his festering wounds. Multicolored pus oozes from it, and strings of the same sickly tints connect and snap and drop back against his skin. It's disgusting, frankly, and they have to resort to cutting his clothes off of him and pulling it off piece by piece.

By the time Viktor helps him climb into the tub, he's shaking all over, and barely manages to cling to him as he's lowered carefully into the water. Ilona is laying on her pelt in a basket that had held the vials of soap and shampoo and oils, which are now lined up on the ground by the tub. She seems happy enough to be there, cooing and gurgling and waving her tiny arms.

He blinks as his attention is drawn from her back to Viktor. "What?"

"Where do you want me to start?"

"Oh- Vik, you don't have to, I can-"

"I want to, Jayce. Please, I can't heal you, so please. Let me at least take care of you?"

He sighed, sagging back into the tub. "Yeah, alright. If you want to pamper me so badly, I won't kick up a fuss. My hair? And the beard, gods, It's itches, just shave the damn thing off if you've got a razor."

Viktor almost pouted at that, before quickly schooling his face. Not quick enough for Jayce to have missed it though, and he raises an eyebrow. "What?"

"Well, it's just... can't we try cleaning and trimming it first?"

"What? Why?"

"It-It suits you, that's all."

Jayce stared at him for a long moment, then tossed his head back and laughed. "You think my beard is hot?? YOU??"

"What's that supposed to mean??"

"I once asked you if thought I'd look good with a beard, and you didn't even say WORDS, you just looked so utterly DISGUSTED at the thought! It kinda hurt!"

"Well, clearly I was wrong about some things! Do you have any idea how much I want that beard against my a-"

"Viktor!!"

They both laughing as he sputters out a scolding about Little Ears, and Viktor picks up some shampoo, raising a brow. "So?"

"Fine, fine. We'll give it a chance."

Viktor set to work, and frankly, Jayce lost some time in the haze that settled over his mind. It felt so good to be touched again, to be held, to be cared over. Even when those touches hurt as his wounds were cleaned, it was still blissful. The bath had to be drained and refilled twice before Viktor was satisfied, and drained it a final time, helping him climb back out and support himself against a wall while he patted him down with a fluffy towel.

"I'll clean out the tub real quick, and then we can give Ilona a bath too. She's cleaner than you were, but... that's not a high bar."

"Thanks," he mutters sarcastically, but he doesn't think it quite makes it through that way, not with how fond he looks.

It's only a few minutes of Viktor scrubbing the tub with the rag he'd used to wash his body, rinsing away the grit and infection that lingered against the walls, when there's a knock on the door.

"My Herald? I've brought the supplies you requested."

"Come in!" Viktor calls, and footsteps sound through the chamber before a man opens the door a touch and peaks through, holding up a box with a red plus on it. "Thanks you, Hutch," he smiles, waving to the counter, "just put it there, please."

"Of course." He bows, and leaves again as quickly as he'd arrived. Viktor shoots Jayce a nervous smile. "Bandages and ointments. Sutures, though I don't think we'll need them. For your wounds. I sent out the request after you'd told me not to heal you, but... before I saw what you saw. May I-?"

Jayce nods, and he rinses off his hands, shuffling towards him with the box. He hisses through his teeth as various poultices are spread over his wounds, and ointments rubbed into his stretch marks, then sighs as cool relief blesses the burning skin. By the time Viktor is done wrapping him in clean bandages, he looks half mummy.

"Thank you," Jayce murmurs, eyes half lidded as he sits back against the wall. Viktor combs his fingers through his hair once, and turns back to the tub. Satisfied with it, he fills it up a few inches with clean, lukewarm water. When it's ready, he glances back over his shoulder. "...Do you want to-? Or should I?"

"Go ahead. I'll help if you need it, but... I don't think I can kneel that long right now. I'm barely awake as is."

Viktor nodded and, almost hesitantly, lifts Ilona from the basket. "You can put her Coat in, too. Just wait until after you wash both separately to let her shift." He hummed his understanding, and then... did nothing. Just kneeled by the tub and held her for a long moment.

Oh, right. Right right, that- it's his first time holding her.

"She's-" his voice breaks, and Jayce nods encouragingly, "She's so perfect, Jayce."

"Yes. She is. Go ahead and give her a bath now, Amado. She's not old enough to bite you yet, I promise."

He hiccups a laugh, but obediently lowers her into the warm water. She squirms, startled and fussy, but decides she likes it enough to allow it with minimal whining and settles. Viktor keeps one hand cupped around her head, murmuring sweet things to her as he runs a soft, soapy cloth over the rest of her body, washing away the grime. Jayce loses time again as he fights the urge to sleep, only drifting back into Wakefulness when Viktor comes to pass him his baby, clean and bundled up into a fluffy towel. He takes her, pressing kisses to her face as his partner turns back around to pull her Coat into the water as well, carefully washing it with gentle reverence.

When it's clean, and the worst of the moisture has been wicked from it, leaving it only slightly damp, Jayce starts pulling himself to his feet, leaning heavily on the walk without his brace. Viktor is there a second later, lifting one of his Jayce's arms over his shoulders and sliding his own around his waist. They don't exchange any words as he helps him hobble to the mattress, and Jayce sighs almost dreamily as he sinks into the plush pile of soft things. Even Ilona makes a tiny content sound, and he smiles at her as she drifts back off to sleep against his chest, soothed by the rise and fall of his breath and exhausted from all the excitement.

Finally, he glances up to Viktor, who is still hovering, unsure, and he holds out an arm. "Well? I'm waiting."

Viktor jolts, and crawls in next to him. He's heavier than expected, though Jayce supposes that makes sense with the metal augmentations, but they soon adjust to a position that's comfortable. Ilona doesn't stir once as Viktor pulls blankets up around them and glues himself to his side, one hand resting over his stomach. The metal of his body is cooler than normal skin, yes, but not so cold as to be uncomfortable. Rather, he feels like a wonderful relief, like a cool cloth pressed into a feverish brow. He sighs happily again, and turns his head to nuzzle into his hair.

"...You're really not mad at me? For everything? Anything?"

"Mmm... My mother will be mad enough at you for the both of us, when she finds out," Viktor winces, remembering the glimpses he'd seen of her wrath, and Jayce chuckles, pressing a kiss to his temple. "But no. All I wanted? Was to have my partner back. And now I have you, right?"

"You have me. All of me, however much of me you want," He lifts his hand to brush over Ilona's head briefly, "You both do."

"Then that's all that matters. We can discuss all the rest later, ok?"

"Alright. Jayce?"

"...Hm?" He managed, already starting to drift off, one hand twisted into the Coat that Viktor still wears, the other covering his daughter.

"I love you."

He smiled.

I know I already wrote a whole fic about it, but I am once again having lots of thoughts about selkie Jayce giving his coat to Viktor, unafraid to put his life in his hands because he just trusts him that much.

Or, alternatively, Viktor picking up Jayce's selkie coat along with the rune bracelet when he talks him out of jumping in s1, entirely oblivious to what it means, which results in Jayce internally freaking out over getting accidentally engaged.

[justanothermemestrider]

Nothing Ever Stays Dead - Part 8

Sgt Gadriel x Childhood Friend OC

Second to last part, guys. We're at the penultimate chapter. If you need to catch up, or this is the first of this series that you're seeing, head over here to see the masterlist.

No warnings for this one other than for spelling and grammar mistakes (there's always a handful that slip past me haha)

Thank you for reading and please enjoy :) and if you do enjoy, then please, leave a comment! I love receiving and reading them ❤️❤️❤️

Gadriel's eyes drift open.

The face of a ceiling greets him. Tall, grey, lined with thick, twisting pipes that weave between decorative gothic archways.

Sharp-shaped chandeliers spew harsh white light, stinging his eyes and making his temples ache.

Gadriel furrows his brow. He recognises this place. In fact, it looks an awful lot like...

"Gadriel?"

A voice to his right. Male. Baratone. Familiar.

Is that...

Slowly, Gadriel turns his head.

Sitting at his bedside, wrapped in a simple black robe, is another Astartes. His skin is dark; his face noble, but kind. The enormous scar running up the left side of his head is new, but even so, Gadriel would recognise him anywhere.

"Chairon."

His squadmate smiles. "The Emperor protects," he says warmly.

Gingerly, Gadriel eases himself upright. The right side of his abdomen aches at the movement, but he manages it with a clenched jaw. "You're..." He murmurs to Chairon. "You're alive."

"As are you, brother. Though, if you don't mind my saying, that is by far the greater revelation of the two."

Gadriel smiles ruefully. Carefully, he touches his side, where the throbbing is most potent. He's naked from the waist up, and as such, he can feel the taut, ribbed skin where the harpoon wounds have started to scar over. Dark bruises blot the skin around them, as do little red marks from where the Apothecary must have had him plugged into life support machinary.

"You've been out for a couple of days now," Chairon says gently. "The Apothecary said he'd never seen a space marine loose so much blood. The lieutenant filled me in on everything that'd happened. It sounded awful, Gadriel. Truly awful."

His sympathy tugs at Gadriel in a way he did not expect. "Well, it certainly wasn't pleasant," he answers wryly. "But by all accounts, it could have been worse."

Chairon leans forwards to clasp Gadriel on the shoulder. "Indeed, brother. Indeed."

As he says this, there is a graveness in his voice. The same reluctance one might hear in someone withholding dire news from a loved one. Slowly, a thick heavy knot is forming in Gadriel's stomach. "Listen, Gadriel," Chairon says. "The lieutenant... he told me."

"Told you what?"

Chairon doesn't answer. His silence, however, is answer enough.

"Before you say anything," he eventually says. "Do not worry. While I... cannot claim to relate to your situation, I've spent enough time with the mortals to know what love is, even if only as a conception."

He gives Gadriel's shoulder a squeeze. "I can imagine what you might feel for this woman, how strong those feelings are in spite of what she is in the eyes of the law. I sympathise with you, Gadriel. Both you and her."

Gadriel's throat tightens. "Thank you, brother," he whispers.

Releasing his shoulder, Chairon nods.

"Do you know where she is?" Gadriel asks him.

Chairon frowns. "I..." He trails off into a sigh. Suddenly, the tightness in Gadriel's throat isn't from affection anymore.

"Chairon-"

"Titus wanted to tell you himself, but he was called away."

"Chairon," Gadriel says again. Half as loud, but double the menace. "Where is she?"

His brother looks at him sadly. "You're not going to like this..."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

“Arrested?!”

Titus glances up from the data slate in his hand. “Gadriel,” he says, surprised. “I did not know you were awake. The Apothecary said-”

“She saved my life, Titus!” Gadriel snarls. “She helped you save me!”

The lieutenant sighs. Like Gadriel, he is in casual attire; dark breeches, a light, loose fitting shirt. He’s in his quarters, sitting on the edge of his bunk. Placing the date slate down beside him, he pushes himself to his feet with a tired grunt. “I understand that you are angry-”

“Angry?” Gadriel’s blood roars as he clenches his fists tight. “Titus, I am livid-”

“-but do not forget your place,” Titus finishes sternly. “I am still your superior officer. You will speak to me as such.”

Gadriel bites the inside of his cheek. As good a friend as he considers Titus, his talk of protocol and rank right now grate him to the bone. “I need to see her,” he says. “Tell me where she is.”

“I can’t allow that yet.”

“Why?”

Titus answers slowly, like he’s choosing his words with care. “Because at this time, I am the only officer aware of her existence. And until you and I have had a chance to speak, I want to keep it that way.”

That gives Gadriel pause. “You… You haven’t…”

“I am not blind, Gadriel,” Titus says. “Neither to what she means to you, nor to everything you said when you first stepped in here. But, I cannot say the same about our superiors. And I certainly cannot say it for our chaplain, at the very least.”

Slowly, the sound of blood roaring in his ears starts to fade. Uncurling his fists, Gadriel exhales sharply through his nose. Then, he strides over to Titus, turns and plonks himself down on the edge of the lieutenant’s bunk.

“By the Golden Throne,” he mutters.

The bunk creaks as Titus sits beside him. “The moment we arrived in the hangar, I had Talasa escort her straight to my quarters,” he explains. “There, she remained while I saw to it that you were treated and Captain Acheron was debriefed- though obviously, I did not tell him about Ellie. After that, I personally moved her to a solitary confinement cell in the brig. It sounds cruel, I know. But they are the only cells without bars, and therefore the only ones where she could remain unseen.” Titus pauses then. He has more to say, Gadriel can tell, but it seems the words are causing him issues. “I… had the magos investigate her implants,” he finally says. “Discreetly, of course. But what he reported was dire to say the least.”

“How so?” Gadriel asks.

“Apparently, much more than merely her arm and leg are necronian.”

Gadriel already knows that somewhat; Ellie had mentioned it when explaining how her cybernetics had slowed her aging, made her more resilient. But he does not know the full extent of it. “Can you elaborate?”

Titus sighs. “If the magos is to be believed- which I think he is- up to eighty-percent of her internals have some kind of xenos taint. Including organs, blood, bones and even parts of her brain. As far as science is concerned, she’s more necron than-”

“Don’t,” Gadriel hisses. “I get it. But do not speak of her like that."

Titus’ jaw clenches slightly, but he lets the outburst go. “Like everything else about her, I’ve kept it to myself. The magos has also sworn his secrecy. She’s been in solitary ever since. Waiting for you to wake up and… for me to figure out what to do.”

Gadriel puts his head in his hands. This is worse than he thought. So much worse.

Oh Ellie…

A beat of tense silence passes between them. So too are a dozen unspoken things. The largest of which weighs on Gadriel like a noose cast from lead. Eventually, it is also the one which Titus chooses to voice. “I don’t have many options here, brother. And the longer she remains a secret, the fewer even those options become.”

Gadriel drops his hands from his face, but does not look up. Instead, he simply stares at his palms.

“When we were on the Dark Star, she told me what had happened to her. What Severus had done.” Old anger bubbles up the back of his throat, but with a bite to his lip, Gadriel leashes it. “She was his slave, Titus. Even the xenos implants she has- she did not take them willingly. Severus cut her up and stuffed her with them- he butchered her. She is as much his victim as anyone else he’s kidnapped or murdered.”

“I believe you,” Titus says. “But you and I both know that the laws of our Imperium aren’t open to such nuance.”

Gadriel closes his eyes. As if by not looking, he might be able to make it not true. He knows better than that. He knows it better than most. But he feels… he feels…

“Sergeant?” Titus asks.

Gadriel shakes his head. “I can’t lose her, Titus,” he says quietly.

Gently, Titus clasps his shoulder. “I’m sorry, brother. Truly, I am.” He pauses as if meaning to add more, but it seems he can come up with nothing else.

Gadriel doesn’t answer. He can’t even muster the energy to meet his lieutenant’s eye.

“Your serfs have already prepared your quarters for your return,” Titus eventually says. “But, if you would like, you can remain here as long as you need.” His hand falls from Gadriel’s shoulder, and the bunk gives another creak as he stands. “But I fear I must leave you. There is… much I need to do.”

Gadriel hears the automatic door slide open. Before Titus can leave, though, he finally looks up again. “Titus.”

The lieutenant stops, turns around.

Gadriel stares at him with cold intention. “I won’t let them execute her.”

“Gadriel-”

“I meant what I said; I can’t lose her. I won’t. Even if it means standing against you and my brothers, I will not lose her.”

Titus looks at his brother with sadness in his eyes. “I sincerely hope it won’t come to that.” He leaves, after that, the door slamming shut in his wake.

**********************************************

As far as solitary confinement cells go, the one aboard the Resilient is really quite nice. There’s a bunk and a chair; even a genuine lavatory with a basin to wash her hands. It’s clean, she’s served a decent meal twice a day, and the lights turn on and off at regular day-night cycle, giving her a sense of the passage of time. It’s leagues above a Drukhari holding cell; even above the quarters that Severus had had her sleeping in. If her mind were a little more still, Ellicent might even find herself savouring her stay here.

But her mind is not still. It's a raging storm. Anxiety is the rain, and panic is the wind. She doesn’t know if Gadriel is alive; what’s going to happen to him. She doesn’t know what’s going to happen to her; if she is to be executed, tortured, turned into a servitor. Just the other day, an ad-mech magos dropped in to run endless scans on her, bringing a new, horrifying potential fate for her to contemplate; being cut open and biopsied in the name of science.

Ellicent hasn’t slept for days. Hasn’t eaten in longer, despite the decent meals. She spends every day and night curled up on her bunk, laying on her side with her knees to her chest. At first, she cried. When she ran out of energy for that, she simply lay there. Catatonic. Dead to the outside world. Hunkering down against an invisible storm.

When her cell door slides open, she doesn’t even open her eyes.

“Ellie? It’s me. Lieutenant Titus.”

Ellicent’s voice is hoarse from disuse. “Are you here to kill me?” she mutters.

“Not yet,” he admits.

Ellicent smirks to herself. “I appreciate the honesty, harsh as it is.”

Titus hasn’t a reply for that.

“How’s Gadriel?” she asks quietly.

“He’s alright. Woke up just a few hours ago.”

Ellicent’s relief is the first positive thing she’s felt since arriving here. It’s enough to drive her to tears. “The Emperor hasn’t abandoned me yet,” she whispers.

“He’s deathly worried about you,” Titus adds. “He told me outright he’d betray the Ultramarines if it meant keeping you alive.”

That makes Ellicent open her eyes. “He’s not in trouble for that, is he?”

“If his superior were anyone else other than me, then yes, he would be. And you would likely be already dead.”

Lifting her head, Ellicent pushes herself upright. Her hair is out, falling past her shoulders and gathering around her waist in tangled curtains of scarlet. She drags it out of her face, then turns around to face the lieutenant. He’s out of his armour, but no less intimidating. Standing in front of her now-closed cell door, his arms are folded across his chest and his gaze is as hard as stone. Ellicent crosses her legs in front of her. Hugs her remaining arm around her middle. “What makes you so different, then?” she asks.

Titus’ jaw clenches slightly. He does not answer right away. “There are… two reasons,” he finally says. “Both of which are personal.”

“Well, this will be interesting.”

Titus shoots her an unamused look, but continues nonetheless. “First of all, I empathise with you two. I myself have a… partner.”

Ellicent blinks. “Seriously?”

Titus nods. He does not, however, elaborate further. “Therefore, I understand what my brother feels for you. For me to not acknowledge that would be- as Gadriel himself put it- hypocrisy.”

“What’s the second reason?” Ellicent asks.

“That would be what I know of Gadriel. Not just as a friend, but as a soldier.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Briefly, Titus averts his eyes. “Sergeant Gadriel- at least, from what I have gleaned from my time with him- is not… generous with his trust.”

Ellicent smirks. “Yeah. Him and everyone else who grew up in an underhive.”

“Even so, it is no less true. Suspicion comes naturally to him. If he believes there to be the smallest sign of betrayal- even if it is imagined- he will hold onto it. Even act on it.”

“Still not seeing your point here,” Ellicent says.

“My point,” Titus says. “Is that if Gadriel, of all people, was willing to lay down his life to protect you, to betray his chapter and his mission just to see you again, that says a lot. Not only about the depth of his regard for you, but about your trustworthiness and your pureness of heart.”

Now, it’s Ellicent’s turn to avert her gaze.

“So, where does that leave us, then?” she asks. “Me and Gadriel, I mean?”

The Ultramarine lets out a tired sigh. “That is a very good question.”

“You got an answer, yet?”

“I…I may.” Unfolding his arms, Titus leans back against the cell door, slipping his hands into the pockets of his breeches. “That is why I’m here, in fact. To discuss it with you.”

Ellicent bites her lip in thought. Her own sense of suspicion is beginning to rise, now. But what other choice has she got?

Shit. How many times have I said that in the last fifty years?

Running her hand through her hair, she scowls. Not at Titus, but rather, her situation.

Whatever he’s proposing, it can’t be worse than Severus. Surely, it can’t be worse.

“Fine,” she replies. “Tell me, then. What are you thinking?”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Just one part left, guys. Will our couple be allowed to stay together? Or will they be yet another 40k tragedy?

Stay tuned to find out!

Taglist: @solspina @beckyninja @egrets-not-regrets @wolf-feathers12 @jaghatai-khock @lemon-russ @moodymisty @hatsubara-8chan @nereidof40k @yanagikou @fyxestroll @yurihasurunbara @lylakoi @passionofthesith @finchly-tintinnabulation @justfreakynothingelse

[latracyde]

armand trauma analysis

i have 1.5k of bullet point ramblings about armand that i wrote for myself intending to also show my therapist (because she is awesome). i've decided i also want to show Parts of it to tumblr

prepare for a lot of text!!!!!

armand’s memories are all fragments of abuse, and his concept of identity is nebulous. he cannot remember if “arun” was what his parents named him. he is given the name armand by the coven, new names mark an adoption of new identity (new fragments, all dissonant)

(s2ep4) when they finally commit to one another on the park bench: “i want you. i want you more than anything in the world” “you sure about that, arun?” “yes, maitre”

armand adopting that deference and submission is definitely some sort of regression to the role he played (was forced into) with his maker and as a young boy, because that is his point of reference as to what love looks like. akin to a fawn response. the need to be victimized is ingrained in him as it was a role he took on in his most formative years (both in his human and vampire lives). love is devotion: raw, scraping, violating.

though the fawn response does appear outside of sex, it is largely a role armand takes on during sex. relationship broken up into wildly different dynamics that they shift between

needs the other extreme (of being controlling, the abuser) to counter the raw vulnerability of being “arun”

this is how he overall maintains that he has agency within the relationship

dynamics where he holds power: the caring (in a self righteous sort of way - “prison of empathy” - when in actuality he is the one presumptively determining what is “good” for other people; he does not realize his projections of what other people want are not reality) and then the outright cruel, lashing out, violent

(s2ep5) re: "prison of empathy" - it's as if acting in (what he believes) is louis's best interest negates the deceit and the cruelty

“have i atoned for my part of paris? have i crawled an inch forward, or am i a reminder of the worst of it?” fixated with the idea of evening the score by “atoning” or erasing

armand believes his part in paris (though he has strategically obscured the full extent of his role) is the root of their relationship issues, shows how he views conflict as a chronic wound.

armand wants to kill daniel, louis goes to stop him: “after what you put me through here (self victimization) i deserve this”, louis concedes but says to keep daniel alive “as a testament to our companionship, of its endurance” a symbol (beyond his fondness for daniel) of this conflict. armand fawns “are you asking, maitre?” “no, arun, i’m not asking”

reason why he messes with their memories instead, needs another way to compartmentalize what happened. if louis walks away remembering & the boy is still alive, it still exists between them

deeply insecure in his relationship w louis, stems from falling in love w lestat and not having it returned. ironically the dissonant, fragmented roles that contain their relationship is what makes it stifling and boring for louis

rigidity and control and then eruption, it’s all him reacting to a feeling of powerlessness and insecurity

torturing daniel and trying to pick apart what makes him “fascinating”, is disappointed with what he finds. calls him an “eager black hole” but that is a mundane trait to him

(quote from fanfic), “ Armand could have … found the same streak of psychological masochism in half the room[at the bar they met], he was sure. He could have returned to the bathroom and found it in the mirror.” what he sees in daniel is similar to what’s underneath his own finely honed controlling-cruel persona

another dimension (which is explored in the same fanfic) could be that the similarities between armand & daniel only make him more frustrated at louis calling him boring vs daniel fascinating. he indulges his instinct to exploit daniel’s masochistic, eager, affection starved nature in the cruelest way possible and has to justify why louis shouldn’t do the same with him (“He’s Louis’s immortal companion and deserves to be treated as such. he’s allowed to be upset that Louis won’t give him that dignity.”), part of him still sees these aspects of him as deserving of cruelty and abuse. also demonstrates how he has to vie for affection and to be valued in his relationship with louis

really interesting how current daniel still has an "eager black hole" to him, but he has built genuine competence(analytical, committed to the truth) and self confidence over top of it. he was able to live and develop throughout his human life whereas armand was not - turning as a form of trauma that stunts growth/inclines one to maladaptive ways of thinking

reason why armand (in the book) was so adamant on daniel living his full human life & part of why both versions of them are so against siring a vampire of their own

“i won’t hurt you” → ”and i never have” compartmentalizes in an effort to maintain this unrealistic ideal of a relationship (and in particular, what role he plays in that relationship)

this desire to be a partner who has never hurt the other could be born out of perfectionism (meaning he really is consumed by the need to abide by this standard) or because being a perfect partner gives him some sort of leverage (think: “prison of empathy”, self righteousness)

i wrote this after finishing s2 when i needed to understand (not defend or justify) his actions

why armand would direct the trial

vengeance for the lack of control & guilt (which he would retroactively see as misplaced or a sign of weakness) felt when louis pressured him to turn madeleine

loyalty to his coven of 200 years, having created the great laws with them and wanting to enforce them despite him excusing them being broken earlier into knowing louis and claudia

obvious disdain (or even, a removed callousness) towards claudia, wanting to punish her

self sabotage of relationship with louis, this is his way of Escaping the relationship. convinced himself that louis does not really love him (think:lestat), needs to take himself out of this position where he’s in love and vulnerable because of it.

symbolic reminder of his own lapse in enforcement as coven maitre, him being stripped of that title serves the same purpose. form of punishment; even though he orchestrated the trial i do believe it caused him pain to see louis hurt (definitely not the case for claudia and madeleine)

re: symbolism, this could be part of why he is so passionate in his directing of the trial (as well as the fact that he is a long time play director, definitely has a commitment to his craft at this point)

notably, armand’s lies about paris start off as lies of omission (not saying he directed the trial) or adopting a narrative that is conveniently available (ie that he was the one who used his powers to save louis’s life, instead of lestat) and he explicitly lies afterwards in order to uphold them. he’s not just adopting the narrative that undermines his wrongdoings as something to tell to louis, but also to himself. when someone convinces themselves something is true the lies to uphold it afterwards are truths to them

in his reaction to lestat using his powers on the crowd, seeing that act of love from lestat blatantly shows him his lack of devotion to louis (ironic considering “but she didn’t love you! not like he did, not like i have”) in the form of someone who actually did something to protect him

because louis ends up surviving (i do believe his intention was for louis to die as a way to pull himself out of the relationship) he feels shame and cowardice for his actions. wants to “retry” in proving his commitment to louis as if he loaded up an old save and undid the events of the play.

(quoting another fic) "and now he must do something to make Daniel forget about the mistake, or move past it. So that the mistake no longer exists between them." armand has an obsession with evening the score (atonement) or cleaning the slate. he is incredibly unsettled with how conflicts will always exist as a scar in relationships, even if scars heal and just become part of one's skin. why i instead liken his view to a chronic wound. reflection of deep insecurity within relationships, feels a lack of stability when a relationship has scars (all of them do) and he compensates via memory manipulation/compartmentalization

feel free to reblog with your own additions/disagreements, etc. all that i ask is that you don't be hostile about it if our opinions differ, and also to keep in mind that i haven't read the books. :-)