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sinful-mind-joyful-thoughts · 5 months ago

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𝙵𝚘𝚛𝚐𝚎 𝙼𝚎 𝙰 𝙻𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛

⤷ Credits: Pinterest

Marcus Acacius x F!reader | WC : 2.1k | Proof read : NO

Summary : The night before a battle, General Acacius has something to tell the blacksmith's daughter.

Warnings: SMUT, LOSS OF VIRGINITY, unprotected pinv (wrap it before you tap it), masturbation F and M, implied age gap, scars, breeding kink

A/n : I wrote this in like an hour so...enjoy my horny Roman general smut with a touch of lovely dovey bc ovulation, Also I'm very dyslexic lol

The needs of any general are important, and yet your father handles the most critical element of all: crafting the armor and swords meant for battle. Among all your father's customers, General Acacius was your favorite. Alluring and tempting, he was a force of nature, and he knew it. He almost never lost a fight. If your father knew about your infatuation, he might just muster the strength to overpower the general himself.

But that didn't stop the glances. You dreamed and prayed to the goddess Venus that he would take you as his wife or even a whore.

You helped your father polish the swords and armor for the men. This week, another battle of the gladiators loomed on the horizon. It was late, the night sky high above as you rubbed polish along a chest plate. The sound of an approaching horse made you stand tall. It was a single horse, a white steed adorned with armor you knew all too well. It galloped up to where you were, at the part of the blacksmith's forge that was outside. The firelight illuminated his face as he spoke.

"Evening, fair one," General Acacius said, his voice as smooth and commanding as ever. He dismounted, his gaze never leaving you. "Is your father about?"

You shook your head, your heart pounding in your chest. "He has retired for the night, General."

Acacius stepped closer, the flickering flames casting shadows on his chiseled features. "Then it is fortunate that I find you here. I have something important to discuss."

You swallowed hard, the anticipation building within you. "What is it, General?"

He looked down, his expression softening. "Tomorrow, I march into battle. A battle that carries great risk. And I cannot go without first telling you what is in my heart."

Your breath caught in your throat. "General, I—"

He raised a hand, silencing you gently. "No titles now, please. Call me Marcus."

"Marcus," you whispered, the name feeling strange and intimate on your lips.

He stepped even closer, so close you could feel the warmth of his body, smell the faint scent of leather and steel. "For too long, I have admired you from afar. Your beauty, your spirit, your kindness. You have captured my heart, and I can no longer keep it hidden."

You felt your cheeks flush, a mixture of disbelief and overwhelming emotion flooding through you. "Marcus, I... I never thought..."

"I know," he interrupted softly. "And I do not ask for an answer now. I only ask that you know the truth. Should I fall in battle tomorrow, I want you to know that I love you. With all that I am, I love you."

Tears welled in your eyes as you reached out to touch his hand. "Marcus, please come back to me."

He brought your hand to his lips, kissing it tenderly. "I will fight with all my strength, for you give me reason to survive. But if fate decrees otherwise, remember my words and hold them close."

As he turned to leave, you called out to him, your voice trembling. "Marcus, I love you too."

He paused, looking back at you with a fierce determination in his eyes. "Then I shall return. For nothing, not even the gods themselves, can keep me from you."

Marcus closed the distance between you, his eyes darkening with an intensity that made your heart race. He reached out, his fingers brushing against your cheek before pulling you into a deep, passionate kiss. His lips were firm and demanding, yet tender as if savoring every moment. You melted into his embrace, the world around you fading into nothingness.

When he finally pulled away, his eyes were ablaze with desire. "Come with me," he whispered, his voice husky and commanding. "We do not have much time."

Without waiting for a response, he took your hand and led you away from the forge, his grip strong and unwavering. You followed him through the shadows, the moonlight casting an ethereal glow on the path ahead. The air was thick with anticipation and the promise of what was to come.

He guided you to the far side of the property, where the cattle were kept. The soft sounds of the animals settling for the night filled the air, creating a backdrop of calm amid the storm of your emotions. Marcus led you into a small, secluded barn, the scent of hay and earth surrounding you.

Inside, the dim light revealed a space both intimate and hidden from prying eyes. Marcus turned to you, his expression a mix of determination and vulnerability. "I have waited too long for this moment," he said, his voice low and fervent. "I need you, here and now."

You nodded, your own desire mirroring his. "Then take me, Marcus. I am yours."

He pulled you into a passionate kiss, his lips firm and demanding. His hands slipped under the shoulders of your gown, letting the fabric dip. You gasped, the cool night air grazing your exposed skin. He looked at you intently, his brow furrowed with concern.

"Have you been taken?" he asked, his voice low and husky.

"I'm no stranger to my own touch," you admitted, feeling small and vulnerable under his gaze, "but to a man?" You shook your head, your heart pounding.

A flicker of something dark and primal flashed in his eyes. He pulled your dress down the rest of the way, letting it fall into the hay scattered across the barn floor. You instinctively moved to cover yourself, but he was quicker. His hands were on your sides, warm and possessive. He kissed you once more, his hands moving upwards, palming your breasts as he began to kiss your neck. You gasped, planting your hands against his armor.

"Marcus," you breathed.

He stopped kissing you and gently patted your shoulder, a silent command to lie down in the hay. The loud clang of his armor hitting the ground sent a jolt of excitement through you. He stripped off his underclothes, revealing himself to you. Immediately, you jumped to your knees, meeting him on the ground. You looked at his body in shock and awe, the scars scattered across his muscular frame telling stories of battles fought and won.

Worry etched your brow as you reached out to trace the outline of his muscles and scars, getting lost in the feeling of his skin under your fingertips. He lifted your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze.

"They're healed," he murmured, his voice tender. "I feel no pain."

He caressed your cheek with his thumb before pulling you in for another kiss, cradling your head as he laid you back down. “Touch yourself,” he commanded softly, his eyes dark and hungry.

Your eyes widened at his request, but the slight smile on his lips and the warmth in his eyes gave you the courage to comply. You brought one hand to your clit, using slow circles to work yourself up, while the other hand roamed your body, seeking out the places that felt the best. You closed your eyes, small moans escaping your lips.

You frowned slightly, still concerned, but he caressed your cheek with his thumb before pulling you in for another kiss. He cradled your head as he laid you back down. "Touch yourself," he whispered, his voice a seductive command.

Your eyes widened at the suggestion. "Go on," he almost chuckled at the slight shyness you showed.

With trembling hands, you took one to your clit, using slow circles to work yourself up. Your other hand grasped your breast before roaming your body, seeking out whatever felt good in the moment. You closed your eyes, letting small moans escape your lips. You brought your hand that had been circling your clit to your mouth, opening your eyes to see what Marcus was doing.

He watched you with a hunger that made your pulse quicken. As you started sucking on two of your fingers, he stroked his length at the same speed, thick and overwhelming. Precum lined his cock, glistening in the dim light. You let your fingers out of your mouth with a pop, and he growled a low, primal sound. You spread your legs further, looking him dead in the eyes as you inserted two fingers into your wet cunt, thrusting them slowly while maintaining eye contact. Soft moans spilled from your lips, your back arching.

Marcus cracked, stopping your hand with a firm grip. You whined at the sudden stop of pleasure, but he pulled your hand from your cunt and sucked at the slick-covered fingers, savoring every bit. He released your hand with a pop, then spit into his own before rubbing it onto his cock. He leaned down, kissing your neck to distract you from any discomfort.

He rubbed his dick along your folds before pushing into you slowly. The action made you claw at his back and let out a yelp. You'd managed to put three fingers in your cunt at one point, but nothing compared to the size and mass of Marcus Acacius.

"Shh, shh, the pain will end soon," he whispered, kissing your forehead. He began to thrust into you slowly, being careful not to cause more pain. Eventually, the discomfort faded, replaced by a growing pleasure. You began to moan, and Marcus groaned, planting a hand on your hip while the other wandered up and down your body.

He bit his lip, a bead of sweat forming along his forehead, his curls sticking to his skin. His strokes became more forceful, and you started to moan louder, feeling yourself nearing the edge.

"M-more, General," you gasped for air before continuing, "more."

He growled in response, speeding up. His free hand moved to rub your clit, his thrusts harder and faster. The hay scratched at your skin, but you didn't care. Your hands gripped his forearms as you felt your pussy start to clench down on his cock. Your orgasm crashed over you with a loud moan, and Marcus continued thrusting, fucking you through your climax with sloppy, erratic movements.

With a deep moan, he spilled his hot seed inside you, filling you completely. He kissed you passionately before pulling out and collapsing beside you in the hay. You lay there together, bodies entwined, the afterglow of your shared pleasure enveloping you. The cool night air mixed with the warmth of your bodies, creating a cocoon of intimacy that made the world outside seem distant and unimportant.

Marcus turned to you, his breath still heavy, his eyes softening as they met yours. "I will return," he said, his voice a blend of steel and tenderness. "I will win this battle, and when I do, I will make you my bride."

You felt a surge of emotions, hope, and love intertwining with the remnants of your passion. "Marcus, you must be careful," you whispered, your fingers tracing the lines of his strong jaw. "I couldn't bear to lose you."

He took your hand, pressing a kiss to your palm, then your wrist, before bringing it to rest over his heart. "With you in my thoughts, I am invincible," he declared. "Every sword I raise, every enemy I face, it will be for you. The gods themselves could not keep me from your side."

You gazed into his eyes, feeling the weight of his promise settle deep within your soul. "And I will be here, waiting for you," you vowed, your voice trembling with emotion. "My heart, my body, they are yours."

He smiled a rare and beautiful thing that made your heart skip a beat. "Then it is settled," he said, his tone resolute. "I will fight with all my might, knowing that my bride awaits me."

He shifted, rising from the hay with the grace and power of the warrior he was. You watched as he dressed, every movement deliberate and filled with purpose. The sight of his scars, his muscles, the very essence of his strength, only made you more certain of the love you felt for him.

Once fully dressed, he turned back to you, offering a hand to help you rise. You took it, feeling the roughness of his skin, the strength of his grip. He pulled you close, his lips finding yours in a kiss that was both a promise and a farewell.

"I will return to you," he whispered against your lips, his breath warm and reassuring.

"And I will be waiting," you replied, your voice filled with a mixture of longing and certainty.

With one final, lingering kiss, he stepped away, mounting his white steed with the same grace and power that had always captivated you. As he rode off into the night, you watched him go, your heart swelling with pride and love.

The barn seemed empty without him, the silence heavy with the weight of his absence. But as you gathered your gown and dressed, you felt a new sense of purpose. You would prepare for his return, ready to welcome him back as your victor and your husband.

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crescenthistory · 1 month ago

Note

could i get f.4 "you woke me up for this?" with barty? tysm xoxo 💗💗

every single time someone makes a barty request, an angel is born, or whatever that saying is. had to jump on this immediately, thank you for the request love<33

Prompt: F.4 "You woke me up for this?"

Words: 3.6k

Warnings: not proofread, unbelievably soft, a lot of banter and back-and-forth (slight sunshine x grumpy dynamic where reader is grumpy), barty sneaking into your dorm is a typical occurrence, no gender mentioned/gender neutral reader (as far as i can recall), implied insomnia, implied mental health struggles on barty's end, slight mention of scars at the end, close physical proximity/cuddling

Note: this got way softer than i expected, but i really just love him you guys

The velvet black of the night pressed against the windows of the Slytherin dorms, thick and unyielding. The soft glow of the enchanted ceiling in the common room had dimmed hours ago, and the castle itself was silent, save for the occasional creaks of ancient stone settling in the night.

Peace. Blissful, undisturbed peace.

You were nestled under layers of blankets, sunk deep into the comfort of your bed. The dormitory was cool, a chill hanging in the air, but you had cocooned yourself snugly. The last remnants of sleep tugged at your consciousness, heavy and sweet, drawing you back into the oblivion of dreams.

Until—

“Treasure…”

A voice, teasing, playful, cut through the silence.

You squeezed your eyes shut tighter, ignoring it.

“Treasure.”

This time, the voice was closer, almost a whisper, right by your ear. A hand—warm and familiar—poked at your shoulder.

You groaned, curling deeper into your blankets, hoping to disappear completely.

“Go away, Junior.”

“Come on, wake up.”

It wasn’t just the voice now. Fingers were tugging at the corner of your blanket, trying to pull it away from your face.

Another groan escaped your lips, and you finally cracked open an eye, squinting against the dim light that seeped in from the common room. Standing beside your bed was your personal idiot with his familiar grin plastered across his face, eyes gleaming with the excitement of someone about to cause trouble.

“Barty, no,” you muttered, voice thick with sleep. “I’m asleep.”

He let out a dramatic sigh, tossing himself down onto your bed, stretching out beside you as if he belonged there. You shushed him as the bed squeaked, not wanting to wake your roommates, who you now were grateful were deep sleepers. His limbs splayed chaotically across your bed, one leg in each corner, arm draped across your stomach as he rested his chin on your shoulder.

“Hellooo,” he murmured again, a soft lilt in his voice that always seemed to stir something in you, even in the dead of night. “I need you.”

“No, you don’t,” you grumbled, trying to shove him off, but he was persistent, curling against you with all the determination of a cat who had found its spot. “Whatever it is can wait until I’ve had my beauty sleep.”

“You’re already beautiful,” Barty said without hesitation, his grin only growing wider. “I’m bored. And you’re fun.”

“I was asleep.”

“I know, but I’m awake, and that’s more important, don’t you think?”

Your only response was to groan again and attempt to roll away from him. Barty’s quick reactions saved him, as he clutched onto you so that he rolled along with you, ending up on the other side of your bed. His arms tightened around you, effectively trapping you against him.

You finally open your eyes properly, seeing him grinning at you, face inches from yours. Part of you almost hoped this was about to be an emotional breakdown of some sorts, so that it might actually warrant breaking into your room to disturb your slumber.

Unfortunately, Barty was in a great mood.

“Now that you’re up – what’cha wanna do?”

“You woke me up for this? To quench your thirst for entertainment?”

“Precisely.”

“You’re impossible,” you muttered, but there was no real heat in your words. You were used to this by now. Barty had a way of worming his way into your space, uninvited and unapologetic, until you gave in – which you always did.

“That’s why you love me,” he teased, voice warm against your skin as he nuzzled closer.

“I tolerate you,” you corrected, though the corners of your mouth betrayed you with the slightest twitch of a smile.

Barty noticed, of course. He always did. “Aha!” He said a bit too loudly, earning him a swat on the arm. “You’re smiling, Treasure. Evidently, you can’t resist me, either.”

“I’m frowning.”

“You’re smiling.”

“Frowning.”

“Definitely smiling.”

“Either?” Your sleep-ridden brain eventually processed his sentence.

“You heard me.” Cheshire cat grin remained plastered on his face. Stupid face.

Before you could protest further, Barty shifted, propping himself up on one elbow so he could look down at you. His dark curls were a mess, green strands sticking out from random places, tumbling into his eyes, and he looked far too pleased with himself for your liking.

“Okay then.” You hooked a finger into the collar of his t-shirt and looked at him expectantly. “What do you want, Barty?” Your voice was softer now, mostly to incite him to keep the general volume down – and perhaps partly out of fondness for your peculiar best friend. Perhaps you liked the way he clung to you, even at inconvenient times, the way he needed you.

Barty’s expression shifted slightly, a flicker you couldn’t place passing over his face, though his grin didn’t falter. “I wanted to see you,” he said simply, as if that explained everything. “Do I need to want anything more? I couldn’t sleep.”

“And you decided that meant I shouldn’t either?”

“Exactly.” He beamed, clearly proud of his logic.

You stared at him for a moment, half-expecting him to break into another fit of laughter or say something ridiculous, but he didn’t. Instead, he just looked at you, his gaze soft and affectionate in a way that still took you by surprise sometimes. For all his chaos and insanity, Barty had a way of making you feel like you were the only thing in the world that mattered to him when he looked at you like that.

It was disarming, and, despite your best efforts, you found yourself softening, your irritation fading like mist in the morning sun.

“You’re ridiculous,” you muttered, but your voice was gentle now, resigned.

“That much we know.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t argue. Instead, you let out a long, exasperated sigh and reached up to push the stray curls out of his face with your hand not currently tucked into his collar. Both for no particular reason – you just enjoyed the closeness. His hair was soft under your fingers, and you could feel the warmth of his skin where your hand brushed against his forehead.

“Tell me then, rascal,” you said after a moment. “Why couldn’t you sleep?”

Barty’s grin faltered slightly, the usual mask of chaotic energy slipping just a little. He shifted, lying back down beside you and resting his head on your pillow, his face inches from yours. For a long moment, he didn’t say anything, and you could see the gears turning in his mind, like he was trying to decide how much to tell you.

“It’s just…everything,” he said finally, his voice unusually soft. “You know how it is. My dad, school, all of it. It gets to me sometimes. And then I start thinking, and when I start thinking, I can’t stop, and…well, here I am.”

You blinked at him, surprised by the honesty in his tone. Barty wasn’t usually one to talk about his feelings – at least, not in any serious way. He was more likely to brush everything off with a joke or a snarky comment, hiding behind his manic energy and that sharp, clever mind of his. But now, in the dim light of your dorm, he seemed more vulnerable than usual, the edges of his bravado softened.

You sighed again, but this time it was a softer sound, more understanding than annoyed. “You should’ve just said that instead of waking me up with your usual nonsense.”

Barty chuckled, though there was a faint edge to it. “What, and miss the chance to annoy you? Never.”

You rolled your eyes again, but this time you didn’t push him away. Instead, you reached out and brushed your fingers against his cheek, a small gesture of comfort that he seemed to appreciate. He closed his eyes at the touch, leaning into it slightly, like a cat seeking warmth.

“I don’t know how you do it,” you said quietly after a moment.

“Do what?”

“Deal with everything. Your dad, all the expectations. It’s a lot, Barty.”

He opened his eyes again, and for a moment, you saw something raw and unguarded in them. “I have to,” he said simply. “What else can I do? Run away? Disappear? I’ve thought about it, you know. Just leaving everything behind. But then…I think about you.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Me?”

“Yeah, you.” He reached out, his fingers brushing against your hand, tracing lazy patterns on your skin. “You keep me grounded, Treasure. Without you, I’d probably go completely mad.”

You couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at your lips at his words, even though you tried to suppress it. “You’re already mad, Barty.”

He grinned, a spark of mischief returning to his eyes. “True. But you keep me from going completely off the deep end.”

You huffed out a soft laugh. “Well, I’m glad I can be of service.”

Barty shifted closer to you, his arm slipping around your waist. “You’re more than that, though. You know that, right?”

Your heart did a strange little flip in your chest at his words, and you felt your cheeks warm. You did know though – he always made sure you did, in one way or another.

“I’m not good at this,” he murmured, his voice low. “I’m not good at…feelings. But I’m good at knowing what I want. And I want you. Always have.”

You swallowed hard, unsure of what to say to that. Barty was the one presence in your life you could count on, no matter what gave. Somehow, you realised you hadn’t fully grasped just how much he meant to you – feelings weren’t exactly your forte, either. When he lies beside you in your bed, all soft and serene, it’s easier to understand.

“I know,” was all you whispered, voice barely audible.

Barty’s gaze flickered, tenderness flashing on and off across his face, as if he couldn’t quite decide if he wanted to stick with it. He reached up, brushing his fingers against your cheek, and for a moment, the world outside your little bubble of blankets and whispered words seemed to fall away

His fingers lingered on your cheek, feather-light, as if he was afraid you might disappear. His eyes were uncharacteristically calm. It was unsettling and comforting all at once, and you weren’t sure how to process it.

“You’re not supposed to be this serious, you know,” you teased, trying to break the tension that had settled between you. It wasn’t unwelcome, but it was unfamiliar territory, and you preferred the safety of routine. You both pushed each other to confront your fears in that sense.

He chuckled softly, his lips curling into a soft smile, and your heart ached a little as you realised it was best described as intimate. “Don’t worry, Treasure. I’m still a menace. But even menaces need their moments.”

“You take all the moments you need.” You shifted slightly closer to him at that, knees brushing his through the blanket – he never bothered slipping beneath it.

“Nah,” he teased. “Then we’d be here all night. And day.”

“I wouldn’t mind spending all night with you here.”

“Oi!” he whisper-yelled at you, eyes jokingly widened. “Are you flirting with me, Treasure? You can’t turn the tables on me like that when I’m all vulnerable and shit.”

“I can do whatever I want, Junior.” You stuck your tongue out at him before laughing quietly at his facial expressions.

“That you can.”

“I deserve it after you woke me up.”

“Oh, come on,” Barty said, his voice dropping to that low, affectionate tone he used when he wanted to get under your skin. “You love it when I wake you up. Admit it. Love spending time with me.”

“I absolutely do not.”

“You literally just said you do.”

“And where’s your evidence?” You quirked your brow at him and he squinted his eyes at you. Pulling “the evidence card”, as he called it, was your favourite way to get out of being held accountable for saying something sweet to him – he hated it, or so he said.

“First of all, rude.” He lifted a finger to shake in your head, fake gasping as you pretended you were about to bite it. “Second of all, you do love me. Say it.”

“Maybe just a little bit.” You gave in, small part of you wondering if maybe he needed to hear it.

“Methinks a lot of bit.”

“No way.” You couldn’t give it to him entirely either, though.

He clearly didn’t mind your bickering too much as he laughed, the sound quiet and warm, and you felt his arm tighten around your waist, pulling you closer. His forehead leaned down to rest against yours, breaths mingling in the small space between you. Instinctively, you took a deep breath, as if suddenly relaxed.

“Liar,” he whispered, his nose brushing against yours in the softest of touches.

No words of protest or argument came to mind, as you let your eyes drift shut, sleepy smile spreading across your lips. “Yeah, I am.”

Nights with Barty coming barging in, although a pain in the morning, were rewarding in a way you couldn’t quite describe. You wouldn’t trade them for anything.

“There we go. Admitting you have a problem is the first step in making progress.”

“You would know.” You peaked an eye open just to confirm that he stuck his tongue out at that comment. Because of course he did.

Silence settled comfortably between you for a minute, Barty’s thumb drawing soothing circles on your waist in the blip of skin showing between your sleep shirt and shorts. His hands on your skin was not a new sensation, you were aware you were touchier than most best friends – Regulus and Evan seemingly never stopped reminding you – but it just felt right. Being near Barty felt right, even when he constantly tossed and turned, limbs all over the place as it was apparently humanly impossible for the boy to sit still. Whether it is an arm around your shoulder, your head on his chest or fingers tracing one another, physical contact with him soothed your soul.

You felt safe.

“Do you feel better?” you suddenly asked, opening your eyes to find him already looking at you with a soft, surveying gaze.

“What?”

You almost snorted at his dazed confusion. “You came here because you were bored, couldn’t sleep, needed entertainment. Because I’m fun, remember?”

He laughed in the way he usually does at his own jokes. “Oh yeah, right.”

“So, do you feel better? Or should we take a run around the dungeons to get your adrenaline going?”

You could almost see his ears peak up, like when you say the word treat around a dog – but that almost lazy smile around his lips never left. “Don’t tease me with a good time, Treasure – or do, I’d never say no to a good time with you.” You rolled your eyes at that. “But no, I’m good. I’ve got all I need right here.”

“Which is?” you asked quizzically, expecting banter.

The earnest look in his eyes suggested otherwise. “You.”

Your heart clenched, your lip almost quivering with emotion before you decided to get it together. “Cheesy.”

“Yeah,” he laughed. “But true.”

“You’re entertained by me mocking you a little bit and then kind of half-sleeping in your arms?”

“Yeah.” He repeated. He looked at you with a look that said are you stupid, what is there not to get. You couldn’t help but laugh at him.

“Okay, then. Whatever makes you happy.”

“Glad to have your approval, ma’am.”

You raised a brow at him. “Ma’am? You should start calling me that more often.”

“Instead of Treasure?”

“You can mix and match.”

“Noted, ma’am.” His gaze was teasing, as was his squeeze to your hips.

You stared at him as you tried to figure him out, figure the two of you out. How come he settles this peace in your body, even when he represents everything but? How come you understand him so well and seemingly not at all, all at the same time? Why does he seek you out when he doesn’t feel good, why did he even seek you out when you first met? Why–

Barty takes your bottom lip in between his two fingers and drag it out from between your teeth.

“Stop biting yourself; it’s not nice.” His tone was teasing, but his eyes were trained on you as if studying. “What’s going on in your head?”

You hummed in confusion, looking at him to explain himself, but he just get staring at you, expecting an answer. You sighed.

“Just wondering,” you said, half-trailing off. “I don’t know. Why do you always come to me, Barty?”

“As opposed to what? Cuddling up to Black? He’d kill me without a second thought.”

You laughed a little at the imagery, knowing all too well that Regulus keeps his wand under his pillow and has no qualms about hexing intruders with it. You’d been on the receiving end once by accident, when Barty dragged you all the way to his dorm with him when he forgot his books before heading to the library with you on the one day a week Regulus “sleeps in”, meaning gets up at 9 instead of 7.

“Yeah, no, please don’t do that. I’d like you to keep all your limbs.” He gave you a look that screamed exactly. “I mean, why am I a source of comfort for you? I don’t exactly give you an easy time.”

“I think you need to reevaluate how hard you are on me – because you aren’t, you’re barely any bark and definitely no bite,” Barty started and you rolled your eyes playfully at him, to which he chuckled a bit.

“I can bite.”

“Is that a promise?” He winked at you, earning him yet another swat of the night. “And to answer your question, I don’t know. You’re just you. You see the parts of me everyone run away from, and you have fun with them. That’s all I need really. You’re all I need. I can’t really put it into words in any way that makes sense; it just intrinsically is. I mean, why do you find comfort in me? I feel like that’s more outrageous.”

“I… I don’t know. I guess you’re right. You’re just Barty.”

You met his gaze, admiring every colour that speckled his irises, unconscious smile spreading across your lips. Your fingers go up to trace along the edges of his face, as if taking him in. Just Barty.

“Then we feel the same.” Barty confirmed, seemingly pleased by this.

“We feel the same.”

It seemed the closest the two of you would come to an outright confession of love for now. It still settled in your heart as one.

His hand came up to hold yours, pressing it more firmly into his cheek. He turned his head to the side, pressing a surprisingly soft kiss to the inside of your palm. Your chest was working overtime to process the emotions and you were desperate to move on, to calm the storm in your heart named Junior.

“You’ll keep me sane, and I’ll be the death of you. Feels like a fair bargain, no?” Barty teased, as if he knew you needed to lighten the atmosphere.

Your throat still felt tight from emotion, but you laughed nonetheless.

“A bit unbalanced maybe, but I’ll take it.” You let your hand slip from under his to play with the hair at the nape of his neck. “Though, I think sanity might be reaching a bit too high. Stable is more like it. Able to partake in society.”

“Ugh, society.” Barty’s reaction to your last sentence was automatic. For the rest, he simply poked you in the side. “But yeah, seems like a good deal. Stable. That’s more than anyone else could manage.”

You shook your head. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet, you’re still here.”

At that, you shuffled closer to him, burying your head into the crook of his neck. “And I always will be.”

His hand came up to thread his fingers through your hair, and you could feel his smile as he leaned down to press a soft kiss to the top of your hair. It was so low you couldn’t be sure he actually said it, but you thought you caught a weak thank you.

“Say, Barty,” you whispered into his neck. “Are you entertained by me when I’m asleep as well, or should I be a good friend and stay awake?”

He breathed a laugh into your hair. “I’m surprised you’re actually still awake and talking to me. Go to sleep, darling.”

“You’ll be good?”

“In what capacity of the term?”

From this position, you could barely give him a light swat on the shoulder. He buried his face closer in your head as he sighed.

“No, I’ll be fine. I really just… I just needed to be with you. And now I am. So you can go to sleep with a good conscience.”

You squeezed him a bit tighter at that, one hand slipping up under his shirt to trace patterns along his back, fingertips dragging over scars and moles alike. He sighed into you at your touch.

“Goodnight, Barty. Wake me up if that head of yours gets too loud.” You pressed a soft kiss to his collarbone through his shirt.

“Yes, ma’am,” he whispered into the night.

When your roommates woke up in the morning, none of them were surprised to see a Barty-shaped shadow through the curtains of your bed.

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daistea · 6 months ago

Text

"𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚊𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚠𝚊𝚜" - 𝙼𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚞𝚗 𝚡 𝚁𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

“Many think that the captain makes an effort to hide his emotions. He doesn’t. He’s an open book. It’s simply a very blank book, is all. There’s not much there to read.”

You knew what Cithis was getting at. You also knew there was more to read than what she thought, because Mithrun was your friend and you adored him and wanted to kiss his face with your face. Still, accepting that remained quite difficult.

(Learning a new language is always hard at first)

gn reader, implied to be a short lived race

5,000+ words :o

tw: minor description of violence and blood

Post-canon Mithrun, could be considered spoilers

An ink black eye flickered up and landed on your face. You knew it was there. You always knew when it was there. The light shiver that ran down your back was like a cold finger languidly tracing every bump of your spine.

You didn’t know whether you liked it or not.

But you accepted it, for the most part.

Mithrun’s gaze was devoid of light as you met it. It was only natural for his prosthetic eye to be glassy and lacking in life. Yet, his remaining eye was like that as well. Fleki liked to joke that the captain had ‘dead fish eyes’ and you could see what she meant sometimes. Most of the time, though, you considered his gaze to be more like an endless pit. An endless pit that you were always on the verge of falling into.

But you managed to keep your balance— for the most part.

It didn’t help that Mithrun stared. He stared, and stared, and stared. If you were in an especially combative mood, you’d meet his gaze and stare back. His good eye would start to flicker a little, like when a cat slowly shuts its eyes. You once heard that cats slow blink to signify that they love you. But Mithrun wasn’t a cat. He was an elf. An elf who had a habit of trying to consume you with his gaze alone.

It was one of the days when you couldn’t help but return his look. You glanced up from your plate of food, fork in your left hand and your other hand fiddling with a napkin. Ever since the dungeon, Mithrun had become more physically expressive. He had his elbow on the table and his cheek resting in his palm. As his sleeve fell down his forearm ever so slightly, you could see a hint of a pale scar.

“Don’t you ever get tired?” You couldn’t help but ask. The words were out of your mouth before you could stop to think about the consequences or implications.

Mithrun only blinked. A slow blink.

“No,” he answered simply. His voice wasn’t what one would call particularly deep or rumbling, but it was scratchy. When you heard him speak for the first time, you wondered if he had ever drank a glass of water in his life.

And the lack of inflection in his tone was something you eventually got used to. With a sharp ear, you could pick up the lilts at the end of his sentences when he asked a question. You recognized when he was annoyed, when the growl in his throat got more pronounced. You knew when he was sad, when emotion thickened every word. It was all subtle, learned. And you were good at learning.

For the most part.

“I don’t mean physically,” you replied, returning your attention to the food on your plate.

“Then?”

“I mean—” What did you mean? You weren’t quite sure. You were sure of the fact that you didn’t want this particular vegetable as part of your lunch. So you lifted your plate and absently scraped it off onto Mithrun’s. He didn’t react.

He did, though, slightly raise his brow. He shifted to sit up a little, moving his palm to his chin instead, eyes still lingering on you like petrichor after a rain shower. The slight tilt of his head told you that he was expecting an answer.

You forced the words to the tip of your tongue. It was rare for you to keep your thoughts to yourself, especially around Mithrun. As unreadable as he could be, the assurance that it was difficult to genuinely offend him was comforting. Except, this instance was different. If you openly acknowledged his habit of staring, that was too close for comfort to a much bigger acknowledgement. Mithrun’s heart, and yours, were closely guarded, surrounded by layers of walls. He’d knocked down a few of yours. You’ve knocked down several of his. But going any further was risky, at least in your opinion. The walls were bigger and more well guarded and seizing them might not produce anything good, anything worthwhile.

But his head was tilted and he was watching you. You felt as if you were on a stage with a spotlight shining down on you.

Might as well get it over with.

“Staring,” you said, “don’t you ever get tired of staring?”

His good eye blinked. You’ve seen Mithrun surprised or shocked before, and you knew he wasn’t. Then, that meant he was expecting that question. He was aware of his staring and was doing it on purpose.

“No, I don’t get tired of it,” Mithrun said as he sat up straight, elbow slipping off the table. He grabbed his fork and began poking at the food you had scraped off onto his plate. Peeking just barely through his hair were the chewed, jagged tips of his ears. They flickered. Elves really couldn’t hide their emotions well, their ears tended to give them away.

The fact that he was feeling anything made your heart flutter. If only you knew what it was. It couldn’t be embarrassment or shame, those didn’t exist within Mithrun. Then what? What else could someone be feeling when called out for their habit of excessive staring?

“I mean, I’d just like to know why,” you said without thinking, again. It was rare for either of you to feel as if you needed to fill the comfortable silence you often shared, but at that moment in particular your heart was clenching and something unpleasant passed through your abdomen. The question had crawled up your throat and slipped out of your mouth.

“Why I stare at you?” He asked. You were seventy five percent sure it was a question. But sometimes, Mithrun would simply state something, not asking at all, just echoing. You could usually tell the difference in the lift of his voice. Subtle, but there.

“Yeah,” you met his gaze. Ink black. You started to teeter on the edge of the dark pit again. “Do you stare at everybody like that?”

“Do you ever see me staring at other people like this?”

No. And Mithrun knew that you didn’t. The question was hypothetical, designed to draw the answer out of you.

You felt your jaw tighten as you stared down at your food. You’d missed something, a little morsel of a vegetable you didn’t like. You promptly scraped it off onto Mithrun’s plate before answering him. “I guess I don’t.”

“And?”

Fire flickered to life inside your chest. “And what?” You snapped your gaze back to his, “What do you want?”

His brow raised, “You’re the one who wanted something.”

“I want to know why you’re always staring!”

“Why do you think?”

You couldn’t help but groan, burying your face in your hand, “Mithrun, please just give me a straight answer. I can’t handle this right now.”

“Why not?”

Glancing up, you saw the corner of his mouth twitch ever so slightly. His ears flickered again. Was he enjoying this? As much as he could enjoy something, at least, which was more than before the dungeon.

That fire within you only grew taller and hotter and more destructive. The flames warmed your heart but also threatened to burn through your bones and muscles and ligaments and consume your body entirely. You didn’t know whether you wanted to smack Mithrun over the head, or grab the collar of his shirt and pull him close for a kiss.

Or both? Both were good.

You managed to resist the urge growing beneath your skin and instead shot him a weak glare, “Because— Because you’re not eating and it’s weird for me to be the only one eating right now, especially with you staring at me, watching me chew.”

Half true.

Mithrun’s nose wrinkled a little in thought. Slowly, he grabbed his fork and speared one of the unwanted vegetables you’d given him, finally eating. Relief flooded your body, until his gaze flickered back up to your face once more.

“Happy?” He asked before swallowing.

“Never,” you snarked back, “you’re still staring. Why?”

Did you want to know?

Another wall was crumbling and you were doing all you could to keep it from crushing you beneath bricks and emotions and emotional bricks. It was a mistake to ask that question, to even bring this subject up. You couldn’t go that far. You shouldn’t knock down those walls. You wouldn’t acknowledge the terrifying, unknown thing that had been growing between you and Mithrun ever since he’d decided to live.

You remembered that day. Celebrations surrounded you. Mithrun’s hand clenched the grass beneath him, the only betrayal of his feelings at the time. His knuckles turned white, but he finally let go as the realization, the emptiness, settled in; acceptance of the fact that he had nothing to live for anymore.

You remembered the relief when it all changed, when the listlessness disappeared. You remembered Senshi’s words. You remembered the sting of hot tears in the corners of your eyes as Mithrun smiled for the first time in forever.

It was a secret tucked inside your chest, kept close, chained up. But at night, when you stared at the ceiling with bright eyes and racing thoughts, you let the secret out just a little bit. You loved the captain like a desert dweller loved an oasis. You loved the captain like flowers loved rain. You loved the captain like—

“I can’t not stare at you,” Mithrun’s voice interrupted your thoughts. You crashed back down to Melini, to the restaurant and to him, shattering on the floor and making a complete mess.

“What?” Your voice was just as scratchy as his now. You grabbed your sweating glass of water and gulped it down.

Mithrun waited for you to finish before he continued, “I can’t not stare at you. It’s simply what I do. What I want.”

And he wanted so little.

The wall crumbled, and you internally cursed yourself before returning Mithrun’s gaze. “You don’t want that.”

“I want that.”

Was this really happening? Years of longing, of denial, of fear, all built up into one moment. And the moment was taking place in a dingy restaurant where you and Mithrun were surrounded by chattering people and the scrape of utensils on plates. Nearby, someone laughed. But it was as if cotton had been stuffed into your ears, your focus entirely on the elf sitting across from you— and his dead fish stare.

You began to consider your possibilities:

Option 1: Kiss him.

Option 2: Fake a heart attack to get out of this.

Option 3: Explain your fears about starting an official relationship with him.

Option two looked best.

You put a hand to your chest and coughed a little, “I-I think I’m—”

Mithrun rolled his good eye and stood up. The legs of his chair scraped across the ground as he loomed over the table, looking down at you. “Let’s go already, we have work to do.”

You scoffed, “I’m kind of busy having a heart attack here.”

“The heart attack excuse didn’t work when you wanted to get out of that dinner with the Canaries, and it won’t work now.”

He was right. He was always right. You hated that.

You stood up as well. Mithrun went to the front of the restaurant to pay. People used to cast him curious glances as he passed by, but very few did that anymore. The locals of Melini knew who Mithrun was and were generally used to his presence. Plus, the kingdom had become a melting pot of different races and cultures as of late. Seeing an elf wasn’t too surprising these days.

You watched the back of his head. He had a curl there. He’d always had that curl. Something in the back of your mind desperately urged you to wrap it around your finger.

Mithrun cast you a flat glance as he made for the front door. “Are you going to just stand there? Or are you coming?”

Your frown covered up the flutter of your heart. You followed, silent, grumpy, your right hand itching to take his left.

And as you followed him into the street, you noticed, just for half a second, that his fingers flexed, then curled into a fist before releasing.

This was bad. How could the people of Melini happily go about their lives as your world started to shift? How was the sun still shining? Why didn’t time stop for you as the growing thing between you and Mithrun got too large to ignore?

(Perhaps you were being too dramatic.)

‿︵‿︵୨˚̣̣̣͙୧ - - ୨˚̣̣̣͙୧‿︵‿︵

The captain did not only stare. He touched.

It was weird, really, because he didn’t enjoy being touched. Mithrun would prefer to keep his personal space, you knew. The Canaries often invaded it and he said nothing to stop them, but you saw the twitch of his ear, the slight narrowing of his good eye. Lately, since he’d been learning how to be more expressive, he would sigh. It was that kind of sigh that told the listener precisely what he wanted, the kind of sigh that spoke a thousand words his lips refused to say. Those thousands of words usually consisted of ‘get away from me’ or ‘stop touching me.’

He never sighed with you.

But perhaps that was because you knew better than to invade his personal space. He had no qualms invading yours. He touched you. Often. At first, you noticed it too much. The feeling of Mithrun’s hand on the small of your back made your mind race with questions. Eventually, you got used to it and hardly noticed it anymore.

But that hyper awareness had returned since the staring conversation.

And also since the staring conversation, he touched you more than ever before.

Mithrun’s long fingers wrapped around your wrist. They were always cold, for some reason. He held up your wrist between your bodies, but he wasn’t looking at you. His attention was on something rustling through the forest. His other hand leaned against the rough bark of a tree. There was absolutely no reason for Mithrun to be holding your wrist right now, but you had a feeling he didn’t even notice what he was doing.

“Quiet,” he said in a low tone, casting you a glance, “there’s someone up ahead.”

“Someone?” You asked, “Not something?”

“Yes. Someone.”

Melini had many types of people. Most of them were good, interested in the future of the nation. Yet the existence of an entirely new country caught the attention of other types of people. The laws weren’t yet established, Laois didn’t really care about imposing taxes, and homes were still being built. While it had settled down as of late, criminals still flocked to the area.

Mithrun cast you another glance. His good eye, black, flickered up and down your body. The look only lasted for half a second, but it still made heat flare up in your abdomen.

“Stay here,” he commanded.

The heat disappeared as you sent him an incredulous stare, “Excuse me?”

“Stay here,” he echoed.

“No,” the argument escaped your lips quickly and harshly, “I’m going with you. There could be any number of people out here and I won’t let you face them alone.”

His eye narrowed slightly as he turned to fully face you, “There’s a chance I won’t even be fighting. They could simply be hikers.”

“Don’t lie to me, I know when you’re on edge.”

Another narrowed eye, another flicker of his ears. The chewed tips slowly lowered, pressing back against his head, barely visible through wavy locks of silver. You’ve always thought that when elves did that, they looked quite aerodynamic.

“Fine,” his voice was flatter than usual, “but stay close to me. I won’t allow you to be hurt.”

Mithrun released your wrist, but his fingers deftly slid down your skin, across your palm. A shiver ran through you as he tangled your fingers together. They were puzzle pieces fitting perfectly, created specifically to hold each other.

And Mithrun didn’t seem the slightest bit affected by the fact that he was now holding your hand. He simply turned and began trudging through the foliage of the forest, gently pulling you behind him. Did he have any idea what he’d done? Did his sharpened elf hearing notice the pumping of your heart? Would he even acknowledge it?

He held your hand tight, as if afraid you would slip away.

“They know we see them,” Mithrun murmured. Tension filled the air and threatened to suffocate you. It was the feeling of danger, and a tingling through your limbs that made your hairs stand to attention.

He pushed aside a thorn bush, not caring when the sharp tips pricked his skin or when they clung to his clothes like childish hands trying to desperately keep him from leaving. He slowed down a little so you could navigate the bushes more carefully. His fingers slipped away from yours, but he kept your hand, holding it up like a gentleman helping a lady out of a carriage.

The moment you escaped the bush, he interlocked your fingers once more.

Your mind raced as you followed him. Why was Mithrun holding your hand? What did it mean? Was he trying to acknowledge your relationship? Impossible. That was impossible. Mithrun surely didn’t want a relationship with you. There was something between you two, obviously, but it wasn’t anything either of you were ever going to do anything about. At least you thought as much. His desires weren’t just going to randomly appear again. And surely you weren’t special enough to cultivate anything new within him. No, Mithrun was just being—

The taut pull of a bow string filled the air. It happened too quickly. The whish of an arrow cutting through the atmosphere— it sliced the tension in half so smoothly, like butter. You only caught a glimpse of it as it came straight for your chest.

But it never hit you. You’d closed your eyes without realizing, but when you recognized an utter lack of pain, your eyes shot open to inspect the situation.

Mithrun still held your hand. Tight. A little too tight. You could see his jawline clenched, his ears pushed back. In front of you, only inches away from your chest, was the arrow. He’d caught it mid air. His hand was wrapped around the shaft and his knuckles were white as he gripped it.

Your heart didn’t just skip. It flipped, did an entire gymnastics routine, then promptly flopped onto the floor and passed out.

There were wasps in your stomach. Not butterflies. Wasps.

And Mithrun was angry. His chest rose and fell before he slipped his hand away from yours. You only caught a glimpse of his face as he turned away, but you could see the flicker of silver consuming the black; the crackle of a flame, the flip of a switch, a lightning strike in the distance.

He reared his arm back and promptly launched the arrow at something between the trees. A guttural noise erupted. It was thick with something, pain or blood or shock or fear. A tall-man stumbled out of hiding with the arrow lodged in the front of his neck, then he collapsed face down in the grass.

Silence.

Mithrun lowered his arm and stood up straight, staring at the body.

Your throat was strangled, but you managed to push the question out nonetheless. “Did you just… throw a goddamn arrow so hard that it went through a man’s neck?”

“Hm?” Mithrun sent you a glance, his eye widening just the slightest bit. But it returned to the black pit that you were seconds away from falling into. “Oh, yeah, I did.”

“Just now,” you pointed at the literal corpse laying in front of you, “you killed him.”

His brows furrowed, “Obviously.”

“Why?”

“He was going to kill you,” Mithrun looked at you as if the answer was clear and he was genuinely confused at your bewilderment. He lifted his hand, the left one, and held it out for you expectantly.

While your mind raced with questions and horror and a bit of admiration, you placed your hand in his. The air smelled like blood, metallic. Mithrun told you that he wouldn’t allow you to get hurt. He meant it. It felt as if someone had knocked the wind out of your lungs.

Maintaining eye contact, he leaned forward, pressing his dry lips to your knuckles. The forest, the chirping of birds, even the warmth of the sun overhead, faded into the background. All you knew at that moment were his cold fingers holding yours, the feeling of his lips on your skin, the lingering look he was giving you.

Damn.

His expression wasn’t blank this time. His good eye wasn’t lifeless. He looked at you through his lashes, his gaze glued to your face. Or perhaps not glued, but rather welded. He didn’t smile, he didn’t blush. But the intent was clear. His lips gently brushed across your knuckles for precisely four seconds, but it felt like an eternity. Your heart started to do its gymnastics routine again.

You could’ve lived beneath the spotlight of his gaze forever.

Yet soon enough, he dropped your hand and turned away. The tension dissipated like mist as he began walking, casually stepping over the corpse. “Let’s go. There’s been reports of a cockatrice nearby.”

Right. Monsters. Work.

You looked at the corpse and the blood soaking into the soft earth, drying to a darker color on the leaves and grass. You should’ve been horrified, but…

The fact that Mithrun was willing to kill for you only made you burn. Your knees were weak.

This was a desperate situation. This was a confusing situation. This was the kind of situation that required an expert.

‿︵‿︵୨˚̣̣̣͙୧ - - ୨˚̣̣̣͙୧‿︵‿︵

“Are you stupid?” Cithis asked.

Perhaps. You weren’t quite sure anymore.

You held a coffee mug tightly, wrapping both hands around it as you sent Cithis a pleading look. She returned your expression with something like boredom and disinterest. White braided hair fell over her bare shoulder. She sat across from you with one knee over the other and her hands politely clasped in her lap. While this elf woman was the picture of elegance, you knew what she really was. You knew how she could be.

Which was precisely why you’d come to her.

“I don’t understand,” you began explaining, feeling a ramble coming on, “he stares at me. He holds my hand. He gets furious if someone tries to hurt me. He looks at me sometimes with this face that almost makes me think he wants me. He—”

“I think you’re stupid,” Cithis interrupted casually, “Or in denial. You know precisely how the captain feels. Admit it already and stop wasting everybody’s time.”

You couldn’t help but scowl, “I don’t want to admit it.”

“Why not?”

“Because—” the words got caught in your throat and you had to forcefully shove them up and outwards, “Because it freaks me out. I don’t want to ruin the comfort between us. I don’t want Mithrun to one day get tired of me. I don’t want to… to die and leave him behind. He deserves better than that.”

Cithis only tilted her head, “Don’t you think he deserves to get what he wants? How often does the captain want something?”

Rarely. And you held the firm belief that when Mithrun wanted something, the world should bend its knee to meet that desire. Yet, this was different. Did he want you? Why? How? How can you be sure? Cithis seemed sure. How? Why?

Her stare was unamused. She looked at you as if you were a dead fly that landed in her food.

“I guess I just don’t want to assume,” you finally said with a heavy exhale.

“There’s no assumptions to be made here. He wants you. Everybody knows it.”

Your head shot up, “What?”

“Everybody knows it,” her eyes narrowed.

Nonsense. That couldn’t be true. You scoffed, “No.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Listen,” Cithis leaned forward in her chair, pinning you in place with topaz yellow eyes— or piss yellow, how you described her eyes usually changed depending on your mood. “Many think that the captain makes an effort to hide his emotions. He doesn’t. He’s an open book. It’s simply a very blank book, is all. There’s not much there to read.”

You shot Cithis a dark look. Her lips twitched into a smile that held not even a hint of humor.

“I’m aware,” you said, “however, that doesn’t mean I understand. Does he even know how to flirt? Does he know how a relationship would work with him in this state? Do I know how a relationship would work between us? Does he have any desire to be, you know, intimate? Does he—”

Cithis interrupted, “Honestly, I believe the captain would burn down the world just to keep you warm. But that’s just my observation.”

What?

“What?”

“Idiot,” she huffed, “he touches you every chance he gets as if he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he doesn’t have his hands on you in some way. He stares at you like you’re a damn masterpiece—”

“He stares at me rather blankly, actually.”

“But he’s still staring.”

“Maybe I’ve always got food in my teeth or something on my face.”

“You know I don’t really enjoy doing this.” Cithis leaned back in her chair and twirled a lock of hair around her finger. Her piss yellow eyes narrowed, “It’s much more interesting to watch you and the captain silently orbit each other than it is to so dramatically reveal his feelings. Yet, I think it’s time you stop being foolish and give him what he wants. He’s developed this odd love language for you and I think you should start learning it.”

She was right. You hated it when Cithis was right.

But that was why you’d consulted her in the first place, because you knew she’d be right. Still, how annoying.

“Okay,” you threw your hands up, “What do I do? What’s the next step?”

She smiled softly, but her furrowed brows and pitying eyes made it clear that she was condescending you. You were a child trying to ask her why the sky was blue.

“Kiss him, obviously.”

Kiss him. Just kiss him. How simple. How elementary. The idea of kissing him definitely didn’t fill you with stinging wasps or anything.

All you could do was close your eyes to block out the sight of Cithis’s condescension. “Yeah. Kiss him. That’s– Yeah.”

“Now go,” she waved a dismissive, elegant hand, “off with you.”

Whatever. You shot her a glare before setting the warm coffee mug on the table in front of her. You’d been gripping it like a lifeline, and you hoped it left a ring on her nice table. Her lips parted in silent offense at the tiny act of revenge.

You left Cithis’s home. Were you assured? Yes. Were you going to kiss Mithrun? Probably not.

There was still so much to sort through, still so many concerns. Mithrun wanted you and, apparently, everybody knew it. He hadn’t even been trying to hide his feelings all this time. You accepted his staring and his touching and his willingness to do anything you asked as simple friendship.

Maybe you should kiss him.

Maybe you should—

“What’re you doing?”

A shout ripped from your throat. You couldn’t control yourself, you stumbled backward, putting up your hands as your heart jumped and your stomach churned. You knew who it was that had snuck up on you. He did this all the time.

“Mithrun,” you hissed, “stop teleporting to me, you know it drives me up a wall!”

Mithrun’s nose twitched ever so slightly. He was considering your words, just a little. Then he shook his head, “No. I don’t think I’ll stop.”

Right. Okay. So, he wasn’t willing to do anything you asked of him. Again, you could only wonder if he enjoyed this. Did Mithrun like getting on your nerves?

You two were standing outside of Cithis’s little house. She should’ve been in jail, really, but she and the other Canaries had been pardoned, sort of. It was really more like a house arrest. You knew that Cithis didn’t care enough to watch you and Mithrun out her window, but it was still unnerving to be so near her, knowing what she knew.

Now, you were the one grabbing him. You took his wrist, gently pulling him down the road. “Come on, we need to talk,” you said.

Mithrun’s good eye widened just a little as you led him through the streets of Melini. It was more crowded than usual. Merchants called out to passersby and people laughed and talked and lived their own little lives. And this was your life, now, pulling the man you adored through a crowd in a desperate attempt to find a quiet, private spot.

You still hadn’t decided whether or not to kiss him.

There was an alley nearby. It seemed relatively clean. You and Mithrun entered the alley and walked around the corner of a stone building before you released his wrist. Yet, immediately, he took your hand, unwilling to allow even a second of no contact between your bodies.

The words came flowing out of your mouth as if a dam had broken within you. “Your love language, I’m learning it.”

He only blinked, “What?”

“Physical touch,” you raised your other hand, wrapping it around his, “quality time,” you met his eye and considered the possibility of drifting in black ink forever, “acts of service.”

He blinked once more. “Oh. I see.”

Your brows furrowed, “Why were you near Cithis’s house anyway?”

“I was simply passing by when I saw you.”

“And your first response was to teleport to my side?”

His head tilted slightly, “Yes. It was.”

“Why?”

Now it was his turn to furrow his brows, “Why not? It’s what I wanted to do, so I did it.”

“And the staring,” you murmured, breathless, “the hand holding, the lingering touches… That’s what you want as well?”

You didn’t expect Mithrun to react strongly to this conversation, and his reaction fulfilled your expectations. He remained calm, but his gaze lingered strongly on yours. His other hand slowly raised and he cupped your cheek, his thumb tracing soft circles onto your skin. You couldn’t help but lean into the touch.

“Yes,” he answered, voice as scratchy and tired and level as ever, “that’s what I want.”

“Why?”

His composure broke just slightly. His eye narrowed and his lips quirked into a little frown. “Why wouldn’t I want to touch and stare at my partner?”

…What?

“Excuse me?” Your tone was thick with disbelief as your heart began to do flips. “Your partner?”

“Yes?” His brows furrowed and he blinked a few times as if confused, “My partner.”

“...Me?”

“Yeah.”

“But—” it was as if someone had punched you in the lungs, “Me?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m your partner?”

A sigh as he closed his eyes. “Yes. You’re my partner. You have been for the last year.”

“...Huh?”

His eyes opened to pin you in place, “Were you not aware that we’ve been dating for this long?”

“No!” You couldn’t help yell, “I wasn’t aware! I thought we were just good friends!”

Mithrun said your name, tilting his head with a hint of a smile on his lips. He was amused. How rare. You only wish it wasn’t at your expense. “I wouldn’t do these things with just a good friend.”

Alright. Cithis was right in calling you an idiot.

You felt like you were about to explode. You weren’t sure if that explosion would be from anger, embarrassment, or adoration. All three? You were going to self combust, then your flesh would fly everywhere and get on the walls and cause this huge, bloody mess. All that would be left of you were chunks. But if that happened, Mithrun wouldn’t be able to hold your hand anymore. He wouldn’t be able to stare. You weren’t about to take that away from him. The world needed to kneel and deliver him whatever he desired on a silver platter and you were not about to stop that from happening just because you exploded.

“I am in love with you,” you said matter-of-factly. It was pure word vomit.

“Yeah,” he remained calm, “I know.”

He knew. Of course he knew. You wanted so badly to smack him over the head.

“If you knew…” your voice was strangled as you resisted every urge to scream, “then why haven’t you ever kissed me?”

Mithrun shrugged. He shrugged.

“Do you want me to?”

“Yes!” You snapped.

“Alright.” He released your hand, then grabbed your face and gently pulled you closer. His lips met yours. You wanted to melt. You were basically a popsicle on a hot summer day, then. And you had no clue what to do with your hands.

The kiss was… chaste. And soft. You weren’t quite sure what you expected. Certainly not passion, not from Mithrun. But chaste? That wasn’t right either. It was kind of… laid back, as if he’d kissed you a million times before and this was just another to add to the pile.

That wouldn’t do.

You figured out what to do with your hands. One gripped the front of his shirt, balling your fingers up in the fabric. The other stretched around his neck and tangled into his hair. He made a small noise of surprise. Satisfaction flickered through your chest. Gently, but firmly, you pulled him closer to you. Your back hit the stone wall. Your chests brushed against each other. His left hand dropped from your cheek and found your waist as he dug his fingers in and suddenly yanked your body against his.

There. That was better.

Slowly, Mithrun deepened the kiss, tilting his head. His hand slid away from your cheek and found a resting place on the back of your neck. You were both breathing through your noses as you kissed and kissed and kissed and kissed.

Heat began to build up in your abdomen. Your entire body tingled. He pushed you further against the wall and let out a soft exhale before introducing a soft bite on your lower lip. Another flash of heat wracked you, leaving you breathless.

Finally, the need for oxygen dominated and Mithrun pulled back, but only a few inches. He rested his forehead against yours and closed his eyes, letting out an exhale.

“I think… I like that,” he murmured, “We should do more of it.”

All you could do was nod weakly.

“Right. More,” you leaned in, pressing your lips against his, and it started all over again.

One might call it a new beginning. In reality, it was a continuation of what always was. You set aside your endless questions and kissed him. And kissed him. And kissed him some more.

You’d officially fallen off the edge. No more teetering, no more balance. You were gone, and you’d never hit the ground.

#ehehe #I take requests btw #rubs my dirty little raccoon hands together #will I ever write for another character? perhaps #x reader #reader insert #mithrun x reader #mithrun #mithrun of the house of kerensil #dungeon meshi #dunmeshi #delicious in dungeon #my writing #writing #dungeon meshi imagines #dungeon meshi x reader #gn reader

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hoe4hotchner · 3 months ago

Text

Sweat

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Fem!Reader

Word count: 1.9k

CW: 18+, this is a clean version of smut if that makes sense, shower sex is implied, piv implied, basically just very sensual filth with very little plot, kisses and loads of them.

A/N: I'm sorry to everyone who needs serious help after this one. I made myself cry and it's not even sad.

Send requests here

The case, one of the most taxing they had faced in months, had left Aaron on edge, his nerves frayed like the ends of a rope that had been pulled too tight for way too long. The kind of day that wore on him, physically and emotionally, draining his reserves until all he craved was the silence of your touch, your presence - a reminder that there was more to his life than the darkness that often threatened to swallow him after cases like these.

The two of you hadn’t spoken much since he returned home, just a few quiet exchanges over dinner, which you had prepared while he showered the day off of him. Aaron was a man of few words when he was exhausted, and tonight was no different. His silence was not a sign of distance, but rather a deep trust that you understood him without the need for conversation. The intimacy between you was built on more than just words - it was in the glances, the touches, the way you moved around each other with an unspoken understanding of each other's needs. There were nights when words were unnecessary, where the silence between you was filled with a shared understanding that ran deeper than any spoken sentiment. Tonight felt like one of those nights.

As you finished cleaning up, you heard the sound of the shower turning on once again. It wasn’t unusual for Aaron to take another shower before bed, especially after days like today. But something in the air tonight felt different - charged with an electricity that buzzed beneath the surface, making your skin tingle with anticipation.

You made your way to the bathroom, the soft light from within casting a warm glow through the half-open door. Pushing it open a little wider, you were greeted by the sight of Aaron standing under the cascade of water, his hands braced against the wall, head bowed as the droplets streamed down his broad shoulders and back. His muscles, tense and rigid from the stress of today, seemed to slowly relax under the steady flow from the head on the wall. The air was thick with steam, the room a cocoon of heat that matched the intensity of emotions swirling between you.

He didn’t turn when you stepped inside, but you knew he was aware of your presence. Aaron always knew where you were, his senses finely tuned to you in a way that spoke to the depth of his feelings. There was a pull between you, a gravitational force that drew you closer until you found yourself standing at the edge of the shower, watching him, admiring him. You’d seen him like this before, stripped down to his most basic form, yet tonight, it felt as though you were seeing him anew - each ridge of muscle, every scar on his skin telling a story.

“Long day?” you asked softly, your voice almost drowned out by the sound of the water.

He nodded, the motion slow and weary. “Too long.”

You hesitated for only a moment before stepping into the shower behind him, letting the hot water envelop you in its embrace. The heat was soothing, but it was the intimacy of him that you craved more than anything else. Your hands found their way to his back, your touch light at first, tracing the lines of his shoulders, the curve of his spine. You felt him shiver under your fingertips, a barely detectable tremor that sent a charge through you.

“Let me take care of you,” you whispered, your voice barely above a breath. It was a promise, a plea, a declaration all wrapped into one.

He didn’t respond with words; he didn’t need to. The way he leaned back into your touch, the way his breath hitched as your hands moved lower, was answer enough. Aaron was a man who carried the weight of the world on his shoulders, but here, in this moment, you were the one holding him up, anchoring him down.

You moved to stand in front of him, your eyes meeting his for the first time since you’d stepped into the shower. His gaze was intense, darkened with the heat of desire, but there was something else there too - vulnerability. The walls he kept so carefully constructed were crumbling, leaving him exposed, raw. He needed this - needed you - and that knowledge filled you with a sense of purpose, a fierce determination to give him exactly what he craved.

You reached up, cupping his face in your hands, the water mingling with the wetness on his skin. He closed his eyes, leaning into your touch, a sigh escaping his lips as you brushed your thumbs across his cheekbones. The moment was tender, intimate, but charged with an underlying tension that thrummed between you, begging to be released.

“Aaron,” you murmured, your voice a soft plea. He opened his eyes, and the intensity in them stole your breath away.

“I need you,” he said, his voice rough, barely more than a growl. There was a desperation in his tone that sent a shiver down your spine, igniting a fire within you that burned hotter than the water cascading over your bodies. There was something primal in the way he said it, a raw edge that both startled and excited you. Aaron wasn’t one to give in to his desires easily, but when he did, it was all-consuming, like he couldn’t get enough of you, no matter how close you were.

Without another word, you pulled him down to you, capturing his lips in a kiss that was anything but gentle. It was hungry, fierce, a clash of teeth and tongues that left you both gasping for air. His hands found your hips, pulling you closer, needing to feel every inch of you pressed against him. The kiss deepened, became more frantic, as if you were both trying to erase his memories of the day, to drown out everything but the sensation of each other.

Aaron’s hands roamed over your body, his touch was reverent yet possessive, as if he couldn’t get enough of you. The steam swirled around you, the heat of the water matching the heat between your bodies as you moved together, the tension building with every brush of skin against skin.

You broke the kiss, gasping for breath, and Aaron immediately moved to press his lips to your neck, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down the column of your throat. Your head fell back, a soft moan escaping your lips as his hands moved lower, gripping your thighs and lifting you effortlessly against the cool tile. The contrast of the cold tile against your back and the searing heat of his body pressed against yours sent a shock of pleasure through you.

“Aaron,” you breathed, your hands tangling in his wet hair as he continued his assault on your neck, his lips and teeth leaving a trail of fire in their wake.

“Shh,” he murmured against your skin, his voice low and rough. “I’ve got you, baby.”

The nickname sent a wave of heat through you, the intimacy of it grounding you even as your body threatened to float away on a wave of sensation. He held you steady, his hands firm on your hips, guiding you as he moved against you, each touch deliberate, controlled. There was an intensity to the way he touched you, a focus that made you feel like you were the only thing that mattered in the world. His movements were measured, each stroke and caress a declaration of his control - his way of reminding you, and perhaps himself, that despite the chaos in his mind, here in this moment, you both had the power to create something beautiful, something sacred.

The water cascaded over you both, mixing with the sweat that beaded on your skin, creating a slickness that only added to the pleasure. Every movement, every touch, was magnified by the heat, the steam, the closeness of the small space. The sounds of your breathing, your moans, mingled with the rush of water, creating a symphony of sensation that drowned out everything else.

Aaron’s lips found yours again, and the kiss was slower this time, more deliberate. There was a tenderness to it, a gentleness that contrasted with the intensity of his touch. He kissed you like he was trying to memorize the taste of you, the shape of your lips, to imprint it in his memory so he could carry it with him always.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead resting against yours, you were both breathing heavily, your bodies trembling with the force of the connection between you. He looked at you then, his eyes searching yours, and in that moment, you saw everything he couldn’t say - his need for you, his love, his gratitude.

“I love you,” he said, his voice barely more than a whisper, but the sincerity in it made your heart swell with emotion.

“I love you too,” you replied, your voice just as soft, just as filled with meaning. You tugged your head under his chin and relaxed into his chest.

For a long moment, you just stayed like that, wrapped up in each other, the world outside the shower forgotten. It was just the two of you, in your little bubble of heat and steam.

Finally, Aaron lowered you back to the ground, his hands lingering on your waist as if he were reluctant to let you go. You smiled up at him, your fingers tracing the lines of his jaw and lips, marveling at how someone so strong and skillful, could be so gentle with you.

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” you said softly, reaching for the bottle of body wash on the shelf.

He didn’t protest, didn’t argue that he didn’t need to be taken care of. He knew better than to argue on the matter. Aaron just watched you with those intense eyes as you lathered up your hands and began to wash him, your touch gentle and soothing. It was a ritual, one that had become a way for you to show him how much you cared, how much you loved him. Every stroke of your hands, every brush of your fingertips, was a promise - a promise that you would always be there for him, that he would never have to carry his burdens alone.

Aaron closed his eyes, letting out a contented sigh as you worked the tension from his muscles, the heat of the water, and the feel of your hands on his skin working together to soothe him in a way that nothing else could. He trusted you completely, allowing himself to be vulnerable with you, in a way that he never could with anyone else. It was a privilege, one that you never took for granted.

By the time you finished, the water had started to cool, but neither of you seemed to mind. The fire between you had been banked, replaced by a warm glow of embers, of contentment that filled the space between you. You turned off the water, and Aaron immediately reached for a towel, wrapping it around you before grabbing one for himself.

You stepped out of the shower together, the air outside the stall cooler, but the warmth of the moment lingered, wrapping around you like a blanket.

Consider linking or reblogging if you enjoy my work

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itsallgoodmann · 3 months ago

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I'm going to act like I did not sob throughout the entirety of writing this story holy shit.

"Charles Knew that Love Existed Because Arthur was Love"

Desc: Arthur tells Charles about his condition and they both slowly realize they care a lot more about each other than they originally thought. Apparently loss can really strengthen emotions, especially unresolved ones.

(Heavily implied Charthur, comfort, angst, death, grief, mutual confession of love...You get the idea. Inspired by the fanart above (not mine obvs!))

"Hey Charles," Arthur sat down on the crate next to Charles, overlooking the main campfire. Charles gently rubbed gun oil on his sawed-off shotgun, thinking quietly to himself, like he always did.

"Arthur." Charles nodded at Arthur, glancing at him quickly before looking back at his gun. Arthur put his hands in his lap, clasped together tightly. He closed his eyes briefly, trying his best to gather his thoughts. He had known Charles for less than a year, but somehow Arthur felt more connected to him than Dutch.

Arthur didn't want to tell him. In fact, Arthur couldn't think of a thing he wanted to do less than tell Charles the truth...

Because he was dying. Famous gunslinger Arthur Morgan, taken by a goddamn lung disease. How ironic. Charles deserved to know, he had been so kind to Arthur. Arthur remembered the weeks after the O'Driscolls had kidnapped and shot him, and who stayed by his wagon the longest.

Not Dutch, not John, not even Hosea.

Charles.

"You shouldn't get up," Charles said bluntly, staring into Arthur's blue eyes, glazed over in a Morphine-filled daze. Arthur shook his head like he did every time someone told him not to do something. It didn't stop him from hoisting himself up so his head rested on the back of the wagon. Charles just shook his head, a small smile on his face.

"Swanson's Morphine is certainly doing its job," Charles muttered, mostly to himself, Arthur scoffed in return.

"Why you here anyways?" Arthur took a deep breath and tried not to wince at the stitches from the gunshot wound in his abdomen. Charles chuckled, a lighthearted noise that made Arthur smile...Even if it was mostly because of the Morphine.

"Just, watching... Got nothing better to do." Charles shrugged his shoulders and continued sharpening his knife next to Arthur's wagon.

"I think in the time you've been with us-" Arthur took a moment to think about what he was going to say, his words slightly slurred from the drugs.

"I've never heard you speak more than two sentences to anyone." Arthur shook his head, smiling. Charles rolled his eyes.

"I just don't have much to say, I guess." Charles shook his head, but couldn't help the smile that graced his face.

"Charles...Smith... The lone wolf... A man of few words." Arthur put his hands up and made a gesture like he was reading a newspaper headline.

"If I knew you were going to act like an idiot I wouldn't have given you the Morphine." Charles shot back, but he didn't take any offense. How could someone take offense to the ramblings of a Morphine drunk Arthur? Arthur acted like he had been shot (very fitting), giving Charles an exasperated look.

"The lone wolf does speak!" He said dramatically, drawling out the 'does' to annoy Charles even more.

"You should sleep Arthur," Charles finally said, putting away the knife and other sharpening materials.

"Y'know..." Arthur yawned, the euphoric sensation of the Morphine and the drowsiness that healing cost was really getting to him.

"I'm quite fond of you, Mr.Serious." Arthur slurred, moving his head down to the pillow and looking up. Charles studied Arthur's expression, trying to read his true emotions. Arthur's eyebrows were relaxed, his lips upturned in a lazy smile. He could see the crow's feet that appeared next to his eyes, and the scar that was on the bottom of his chin. Charles meant to ask about it, but never did.

"You've always been the hardest worker in camp," Arthur yawned again, and Charles shushed him.

"Go to sleep Arthur, for god's sake."

"Somethin' on your mind?" Charles' deep voice brought Arthur out of his thoughts, and Arthur nodded. Charles looked at him, narrowing his eyes a little bit. Charles must have had an inkling of what Arthur wanted to speak about. He was quiet, but he wasn't stupid. At this point, no one could deny Arthur looked sick...Real sick. His collarbones were sticking out from his pale splotchy skin, his clothes were now bagged around him. His eyes were bloodshot, and when he ate there was a large coughing fit that followed.

The cough. It made Charles' ears ring, the violent shake of his chest, the crackled wheezes that followed. Charles saw the bloodstains on the inside of Arthur's sleeve.

"You wanna ride with me?" Arthur blurted out, Charles took a second but nodded.

"Always." He said curtly. Charles walked with Arthur over to his horse, before he mounted Taima. Arthur led the way to the outskirts of Annesburg, before riding aimlessly towards the mountains surrounding the Wapiti Indian Reservation.

"Yer a smart man Charles," Arthur started, taking in short breaths, thinking hard about how to word things. This did nothing but make Charles nervous.

"Arthur," Charles said in almost a warning, like he was afraid Arthur was going to beat around the bush and never get to the point. Charles didn't like it when people weren't straightforward. However, Arthur was the only exception to this rule. The only noises that accompanied them through the ride were the clopping of hooves on rock, and the rushing of water from the nearby Dakota River.

"If things go bad, you get yourself out of there, alright?" Arthur coughed but tried to stifle it, which only made it worse.

Charles wanted to get off his horse and punch Arthur in the face. Not because he was angry at Arthur...

But because he was scared. Charles Smith, the fearless lone wolf. It wasn't like Charles hadn't experienced loss before, hell, in the last few months it was constant... Davey, Sean, Kieran, Hosea, Lenny, Molly... Charles was sad, of course, but life went on. The sun still shone the next day, the coffee was still brewed like normal, and the songbirds still chirped their melodies.

"You got... More to lose." Arthur said, his voice softer, more vulnerable. Charles shook his head, immediately shooting back,

"No. Come on. Don't start talking like that." It was obvious though, even when Arthur explained it.

"I didn't tell you before," Arthur took in a wheezing breath.

"I saw a doctor."

Charles wanted to jump into the Dakota River and feel his entire body go numb from the cold. He wanted to push his hands to his ears and hum until he couldn't hear Arthur's words anymore because they cut like a knife. They made him bleed like no one had ever done before. Instead, Charles gripped the reins of Taima tighter, slowing down to a gentle trot.

"It's pretty bad, and it's gonna get worse."

Charles shook his head, but luckily Arthur didn't notice. He bit his lip and tried to make sense of it all.

"Take a left down this trail," Charles said softly, pointing to the slightly worn trail into the thick woods of the Cumberland forest. Charles led Arthur to a clearing, where a thick, lush layer of grass grew, and flowers erupted from the space.

"I don't remember much of my childhood," Charles said, dismounting his horse and motioning for Arthur to do the same. Arthur followed Charles into the clearing and they both sat down on a fallen log, covered in bright green moss.

"My mama though, she taught me all about the herbs..." Charles smiled gently, then motioned to the flowers. Arthur looked at him, confused.

"These are flowers..." Arthur corrected, Charles just shook his head and chuckled.

"She taught me about the flowers too, if you'd let me finish." Charles pointed to the flower with stems that held a few dozen tiny bundles of red flowers, with a bright yellow center.

"Blood flower," Charles said, Arthur nodded, listening intently. Charles then pointed at the other flower that covered the clearing, a stem that held a single, cupped, red flower.

"Field Poppy," Charles informed, Arthur could have probably guessed that, but just hearing Charles talk was enough. There were a few minutes of comfortable silence, the horses quietly grazing near them.

"Did the doctor say how long?" Charles was careful with his words, but he wanted...No, needed to know.

"A couple weeks, a couple months..." Arthur drawled, coughing again. This time the fit was so bad Arthur wheezed for breath afterward. Charles rubbed Arthur's back, hoping the contact would soothe something, even if it was just his soul.

"You're a good man, Arthur Morgan." Charles forced through gritted teeth, afraid if he said more he would have to wipe tears off his face. Arthur chuckled.

"I ain't a good man,"

Charles frowned, if only Arthur could see himself through Charles' gaze. The way he glowed, Arthur's soft smile and kind words. He acted tough, but he loved. Charles closed his eyes and took a deep breath, promising himself he wasn't going to break down.

"I'm only going to say this once, Arthur," Charles warned.

"You're one of the best men I know." Charles smiled bittersweetly like it should be obvious to Arthur.

"You're kind, hard-working, loyal, and smart." Charles removed his hand from Arthur's back, before resting it on his shoulder.

"Hell, you've probably saved my life countless times." Charles sighed, then made eye contact with Arthur. What a horrible choice. Icy blue eyes, bloodshot and tearstained, inflamed with the pain of the human condition. Charles stared back at Arthur with warm brown eyes, trying to keep his equanimity. He was normally very good at it, a skill he prided himself on, but this was different. At that moment, in the clearing, Charles realized something.

He was soft for Arthur Morgan. He wanted to see Arthur happy, he wanted to see him thrive. It took everything in Charles not to scream about how he loved Arthur Morgan... And, more importantly, how much he loved the way Arthur loved. Freely and fully. Arthur rarely shared by the campfire, but when he did it was always a story about saving a man who got bitten by a snake, or a woman who was stranded because her horse died.

"Yer' a good man Charles, one of the best." Arthur choked out, now trying to keep his own composure. Charles just smiled, it was all he could do. But Charles broke when Arthur made eye contact with him again, his face wet with the streams of hot tears that poured down his cheeks. It was instinct as he opened his arms for Arthur, hugging him tightly. In a useless wish, Charles thought about how he regretted not doing this earlier. Arthur clung to Charles and Charles clung just as much back. Arthur wrapped his arms around Charles, burying his head into Charles' chest. In a swift movement, Charles gently brought his hand up to the back of Arthur's head, his other arm wrapped securely around him. They both sat there for a good while, breathing in the scent of each other and trying to memorize the way their bodies fit so perfectly together.

"Shouldn't leave things unsaid, should I?" Arthur finally said, breaking the silence. Charles nodded, still holding Arthur close to his chest.

"Then I think I love you, Charles." Charles wasn't going to debate what exactly Arthur meant by this. Charles didn't care. He loved him back.

"I think I love you too, Arthur," Charles murmured, now gently carding his fingers through Arthur's hair.

"I always imagined you were a Bison," Arthur muttered softly, Charles nodded.

"Dutch told me I was like a buck... Unlikely friends." Arthur chuckled, but it ended in a painful cough that Charles tried his best to soothe.

"You think we'll meet in another life?" Arthur looked up at the sky, it was now dusk, and the stars were beginning to appear. Charles nodded,

"I hope so." Arthur smiled at the response, a real nice smile.

"Then I'll look forward to meeting you all over again." Arthur was always the best at bringing out even the most buried emotions. Charles froze, trying not to lose it. He didn't want Arthur to go. He can't let go. He was never able to let go, everything he ever lost is covered in claw marks from when he tried to make it stay. Charles choked back a sob, gently lifting Arthur's head to place a tender kiss on his forehead. Arthur's blue eyes fluttered shut, and for a moment, every decision Arthur ever made had spun through his mind, all leading up to this one single exchange. Perhaps death wasn't going to be that bad. Charles brought both of his hands and cupped Arthur's jaw, looking at him, trying to memorize the face.

Charles knew that love existed because Arthur was love.

That's why, when Charles carried the limp, cold, body of Arthur Morgan down that mountain, one arm around his torso, the other around his leg, he made sure to stop by that clearing. He uprooted those flowers and planted them on his grave. It was the least he could do.

"Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for Righteousness."

A/N- Woah! First fanfic on this account! Last time I regularly wrote fanfiction was when I was sixteen (I am in my twenties now). Couldn't get Charthur out of my head so I created this (it got very out of hand very fast). Unfortunately, I do not apologize for the amount of heartbreak this may cause you.

If you would like to leave a request, go for it! I am a full time college student, and I do work two jobs, so there's no telling if I'll ever get to it, but if it's a good enough request I'm sure I'll make time. It's weird to be so familiar yet unfamiliar with creating a fanfic post, but alas, I'll stop yapping. Hope you enjoyed the fic!

Fanart used can be found here, credit to conconarts!

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fangsandfeels · 1 year ago

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I've seen the "Non-ascended Astarion ending is bad for him because you have to persuade him to reject the ritual" opinion...

..implying that he never really wanted not to ascend, it's you the player who selfishly forces him to give up on his goal. To prove their point, they state that you can get a good ending out of all other companion's quests without using Persuasion at all, except for Astarion.

And boy did I want to talk about this...

(In fact, everything I wanted to say has already been told in this amazing meta post, but I still gotta ramble)

First of all, Astarion was going through an intense PTSD. The game gave him a debuff to show how badly going back to the place of his torment was affecting him. Larian couldn't make it more obvious that he wasn't thinking clearly.

Second, there is one thing all abusers have in common: they destroy their victim's feelings of self-worth to the point, the victim no longer wants or knows how to ask for help or have relationships outside their abusive circle.

Who would want you like this? Look at yourself, you think you're better than me? You're nothing. Who would want to waste their time on you? You think somebody else would treat you better?

Since entering the Cazador's palace, Astarion is reliving his worst moments. Initially, he takes it in stride, hiding his discomfort underneath performative and emotional expressiveness. He talks about how he spent time in the bedrooms where he never did any sleeping, about the kennels where he was tortured, about the barracks where he was sent to when he "deserved neither carrot nor stick". Bad memories, but he shares them with Tav because he trusts them with his scars already. They might as well know the rest.

But after descending into the dungeon, Astarion starts spiraling into self-loathing at a break-neck speed. He used to think that all Cazador victims he ever brought to him were long gone, drained, and discarded. A horrible, undeserved death, yet the thought of them not having to suffer for too long was a small consolation, one of the threads holding his sanity together.

But then it turns out that they weren't dead. They were turned. Locked away deep underground, alone with their new selves, with the hunger and isolation. They did suffer. All these years, they suffered, buried in this tomb - because of him. Cazador may have turned them, but it was Astarion who brought them to him. And they remembered it. They recognized him. The monster who stole them from their home. The monster who ruined their life. Monster. Just like Cazador.

So, as if his PTSD wasn't enough, this revelation was another blow to his grip on himself, his perception of himself. His confident facade was shattering - and in his head, he was starting to think that Tav's idea of him, of who he is, was shattering as well. He tried to warn them before. He said he couldn't be what they saw in him. Whatever person they believed him to be had never existed - and Tav was finally coming to realize that as they walked through the gallery of his sins, looking his victims in the eyes and hearing out what they had to say. Of course, Tav hated him now. They had to. How could they not?

So, at the end, he is scared. Terrified. He bit off more than he could chew by walking into the manor and thinking he had only six fellow spawns to deal with. He saw their lives as a small price to pay because Cazador made sure to erase any solidarity between them. He made them torture each other and compete with each other. He twisted the very meaning of family bonds to his perverted liking, and he knew that by doing so, he would make sure every single one of them would get a whiplash from anyone trying to mention family in a positive connotation. Astarion takes no issue with getting rid of his "brothers" and "sisters" because he is fully aware that had the roles been reversed, they would have sacrificed him without a second thought. And he was certain that Tav would change their mind once they learned more about his brethren.

But the spawns in the dungeon...All the faces he remembered. All the lovers he lured. They did nothing wrong. They never hurt him. They never tortured him. Their only mistake was to trust him.

The revelation horrifies him. His first response is to be shocked, overwhelmed with emotion - and then he has to remind himself that sacrifices must be made. He feigns indifference. He tries to cover his internal conflict with gallows humor. But his flippant mask keeps slipping as he lapses from indifference to anger, to guilt, to begging Tav not to hate him as his greatest crimes glare back at him and claw at him, shouting out threats and seething with hatred.

He can't bear the thought of dealing with all the people whose lives he helped to destroy. He can't do anything for them. Just killing Cazador won't undo what he did to them. He will never be anything but a monster in their eyes. And this is what he deserves to be. He will always be reminded of what he is.

He has no choice but to do the Ritual.

He has no idea what will happen to him after he is done - he isn't a planner. He has never been. But at this point, he doesn't see his soul as something worthy of preserving - and by association, he extends that to other spawns. He knows it all too well because he remembers how it felt. He dissociates, projecting everything he hated about himself onto Cazador's victims, trying to rationalize why he should live and why they must die while he actively avoids the truth.

Completing the ritual is no longer about being free. Or protecting himself and his lover. It's about running away. Even when Astarion has Cazador at his mercy, he still thinks of running away. Getting lost forever. So nobody could ever hurt him.

A part of him even realizes that it means running away from Tav too. But Tav can leave, he naively thinks, not knowing the full consequences of the ritual. Tav will leave to find someone else, someone better, and he will start everything anew, a king of his castle.

So, of course, Tav has to reach out to him through that thick haze of fear, anger, and self-hatred. Persuasion isn't about strongarming someone into doing what you want. It's not subjugation or emotional blackmail. It's reasoning with someone. And that is exactly what Tav does - reasons with Astarion after watching him mentally struggle, after seeing his genuine shock and fear, after understanding that he isn't fully on board with the idea.

It's true, vampire spawns tend to gravitate toward power, especially if nothing is pulling them back. A vampire spawn is a feared and scorned creature - it no longer matters whether they were an unwilling victim, forcefully taken and turned. They are seen not as an individual but as the extension of their master - and the only natural transition for them is to get on the top of the food chain. The only way to make a name and become treated as something more.

Astarion saw power as the mean to safety and freedom, first and foremost. Ironically, he never planned beyond securing these two priorities. He never saw himself after accomplishing his goals, and it's kinda amazing how people can make conclusions about his hedonism because he misses petty vanities, wants to drink blood from a goblet, and sleep on silken sheets. The man who was held and tortured in the kennels, fed rats, and had to stitch and fix his only set of clothes over and over to keep it presentable, the man who has never felt happy for most of his conscious non-life is called hedonistic for wanting nice things. For still wanting to take care of himself for once.

He wasn't harboring any grand plans, conquests, or schemes. Even his idea of taking control of the Absolute was abstract and shapeless because he didn't care about getting control over the most influential people as much as he was afraid of breaking whatever protected him from Cazador's domination. He never really knew what to do with power aside from keeping Cazador and the likes of him at bay.

The way Astarion behaves in a relationship also speaks tons of how controlling he really is...or how he isn't controlling at all. When his romance with Tav transforms into something real, and he enters a new territory, Astarion is empowered to make decisions and think about what he wants instead of pleasuring others. It's clear that he and Tav don't have sex after they come clear about their feelings. Tav respects his comfort and boundaries, gives him all the time he needs, and lets him take the lead. Whether they will have sex again or not is entirely up to Astarion. Whatever he decides, it won't change Tav's feelings for him. He doesn't have to do anything he doesn't want to do.

Astarion enjoys this new autonomy. He is playful, affectionate, outspoken...and afraid of messing everything up. If Tav mentions breaking up, Astarion thinks he is the problem. If there is another potential love interest showing they have eyes for Tav, Astarion encourages Tav to be with them because he believes they can give Tav everything he can't. When Tav says "I choose you," Astarion is taken aback, needing a moment to hide his genuine confusion at Tav actually wanting to be with him rather than Gale, Karlach, or Halsin.

For all his talks of control and dominating others, once Astarion finds himself with a lover who values his autonomy more than getting power at the cost of his dignity, who makes it safe for him to be honest, and who listens to him, he almost stops mentioning control. He merely lives in the moment, happy not to know, not to pretend, not to manipulate. Just to be.

What Astarion truly craves - not wants on a superficial level, not conditioned to want - is not to be a vampire lord. He wants the freedom to be anything. Anything he wants. Little does he know that true vampires rarely get to be anything they want, even if they gain the ability to walk in the sun -- we see it in his Ascended path as, instead of acting up on his supposed freedom to be anything, Astarion repeats Cazador's rules step by step. Just like Cazador did. Just like Verlioth did. He isn't anything he wants. He is the replica of his former master.

Astarion never had the luxury to explore who he wanted to be outside what Cazador made him. He only makes his first steps once he is free. We see glimpses of that deep-seated aspiration to be seen as a person. Treated like a person. Loved like a person. To be reflected in someone's eyes. He wants to know if there is someone beneath his usual mask, something his, not tainted by Cazador. Someone real. And at the same time, he dreads to know the answer. Because that part of him knows regret. Knows shame. Knows guilt. Confronting it posed the risk of realizing he didn't deserve love, kindness, or a future. What if real him truly doesn't amount to anything? What else for him to do?

So, he tells himself that he has no choice, and he expects Tav to affirm it -- not because he wants them to, but because he believes that Tav has seen enough to make the same conclusion. However, Tav objects, trying to be louder than all the inner demons hissing into his ears. Tav speaks to the Astarion, who asked them what they saw when they looked at him. The Astarion, who thanked them for standing by his side when he said "No" to Araj. The Astarion one who stood frozen in their hug before returning it tentatively. The Astarion who diligently, dedicatedly, caringly kept pulling himself together instead of letting himself unravel completely.

Tav reminds him that this Astarion, right here, right now, is worth fighting for. That he didn't survive all these years of torture, pain, humiliation, and dehumanization to give himself up now. He already has the power to avenge himself, avenge all Cazador's victims. He can end everything right here, right now - and this is the only power to free him. He has the power (and responsibility) of having a choice.

Tav empathizes with other spawns as victims not because they're more "innocent" than Astarion, but because associating with them doesn't brand Astarion as weak or broken. These spawns aren't horrible wretches, and neither is he. They don't deserve this, and neither did he.

The only one who deserves to die today is Cazador - the vampire, the monster, the pathetic piece of shit.

Astarion Ancunin deserves to live.

#bg3 astarion #astarion #astarion brainrot #astarion spoilers #they didn't have to make his arc hit so hard as it does #but I'm glad they did #i'm even glad that cazador isn't involved in the plot #fuck this guy

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eyelambspider · 2 months ago

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𝟎𝟔. 𝐄𝐥𝐝𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐜𝐡 𝐇𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐫 & 𝐁𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 || 𝐊ö𝐧𝐢𝐠

Day SIX of Kink/Creeptober!! Here is a list of my prompts & event terms!

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 : monster!könig x gn!reader 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 : Now that you're his (and aren't deterred by the tentacles hiding under his hood) König really doesn't want you to leave. At least, not without a little mark on your skin. 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 : 600 ! 𝐚/𝐧 : this ones more softer but uh-König's needy so- yeah könig's got cuteness aggression towards you :) 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 : established relationship, possessive/obsessive/jealousy themes, tentacles (smh), FLUFF, suggestive (like light smut?)/grinding

𝐀 𝐒𝐌𝐀𝐋𝐋, 𝐒𝐀𝐃 𝐑𝐔𝐌𝐁𝐋𝐄 𝐒𝐋𝐈𝐏𝐏𝐄𝐃 𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐌 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐎𝐀𝐓. He didn't want you to go so soon.

"Liebling..." he hissed like a loving murmur, trying to convince you to stay with him. "Please?"

He didn't beg, not to a man with a gun pointed to his head, not for anything... except for you.

König was doing everything in his power to change your mind. The tall colonel had you propped on his lap, facing him. His strong arms barred around your waist, cradling the back of your head and trying to smother his face into your scent.

You squirmed a little. He could feel your hips shifting in a way that made him grin against your skin. Purring lovingly into the crook of your neck. The tentacles he once cursed poked out from the bottom of his sniper's veil, tentatively prodding your soft skin.

He adored your skin. The smell, the way it tasted so sweet.

"Please?" he repeated again, feeling a bit disheartened when you didn't answer him initially.

He was getting a bit pushy now. Squeezing your body tighter to his chest, loving the way you just squished against him. Tangling his rough hands into your hair.

You were so verdammt cute.

"König," you stared, the tone implying exactly what he worried.

You were going to leave.

A low growl ebbed from his throat. The tentacles writhing a bit angrily at the thought of letting you go for even a second right now... but he knew he had to.

"Verdammt, sag meinen Namen nicht so…" he whispered, snuggling into your collarbone maybe one last time. Second last time.

He just wanted a bit longer.

"I just... don't like that I can't go with you," he admitted through his teeth. He would be unable to protect you, and although you insist he doesn't need to...

He see's the way other men look at you.

The thought makes him pout again, unexpectedly grinding his hips flush again yours, bouncing you softly in his lap.

"I'm sorry," he grumbled hotly against the shell of your ear. The tentacles from his face slowly receded. From wrapping lovingly around your ear, to playing with the tips of your hair, and unlatching from your neck... to pulling away reluctantly.

König sat up with a sigh and peered down at you, still trying to convey how hard it was to physically let you go. Pouring the emotion into his eyes.

Then he saw it.

Those deep sapphire eyes of his flickering down from your face.

The last of his tendrils had tucked back under his sniper mask comfortably, but there, on the delicate flesh of your throat. One of the suction cups had left a little red mark, one that was quickly fading away.

Before you could shift off his lap, thinking you were finally free. König grabbed your hips with a small, suggestive purr in his voice "Maybe I should give you something before you leave, schatz."

Although his mischief had you... dubious, you sighed and let him pull you back with a soft smile. He was adorable.

König dipped his head back down towards the side of your neck, a tendril lifting the mask just above his mouth so that his lips could feel your skin.

He nearly groaned, feeling your pulse beneath his teeth. A smirk playing on his scarred lips as he imagined how pretty you would look with his little bite marks all over your skin.

It would leave no doubt in his mind then: He would let you leave only once you were covered in them. Enough for every other man to see that you were his.

König panted against you, kissing gingerly before he nipped the sensitive flesh harshly, leaving a pretty bruise under his tongue.

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moonxknightx · 3 months ago

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♡˗ˏ✎*ೃ˚ : SHATTERED REFLECTIONS : :;

╰┈➤ ❝ [PAIRING] ❞ Dark!Toxic!Logan Howlett x F!Reader

・❥・GENRE: Angst

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆FANDOM: X-Men

ੈ✩‧₊˚ WARNINGS: Violence: Contains descriptions of physical violence and assault, including an assault with claws, Emotional Distress: Deals with themes of heartbreak, emotional manipulation, and the impact of toxic relationships, Adult Themes: Includes mature content related to romantic relationships, jealousy, and emotional trauma, Character Deaths: Implies potential for severe injury, with one character being gravely hurt, Mentions of Y/N

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥SUMMARY: you’re a human working at the X-Mansion who ended things with Logan Howlett after catching him with Jean Grey. Unaware of the truth, you’re forced to confront Logan when his anger and obsession lead him to violently attack your new boyfriend, Mark.

Based on this request.

THE WIND RUSTLED THE LEAVES SURROUNDING THE SPRAWLING X-MANSION, a stark contrast to the tense energy crackling in the air. You pulled your coat tighter, stepping out of your car and making your way toward the grand estate. Working at Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters was never boring, especially as one of the few humans on staff. It was a privilege, some might say, to work among mutants and the mighty X-Men, but you weren’t here for privilege. You were here for a fresh start.

It had been years since the breakup with Logan Howlett, and while the scars remained, you had done your best to move on. He was still around, of course. You couldn't exactly escape him in a place like this, but you had mastered the art of avoidance. Besides, the past was the past. Your life wasn’t on hold anymore.

“Hey, you”

You turned at the familiar voice. It was Mark, the guy you had started seeing recently. A friendly smile tugged at your lips as he jogged up to you, carrying his usual easy-going charm.

“Hey,” you greeted him softly. “You didn’t have to come all the way here.”

Mark shrugged. “Thought I’d walk you in. Plus, I didn’t get enough of you last night.”

You chuckled, feeling warmth spread through you, but that small moment of lightheartedness faded as a shadow approached from the front gates.

Logan.

His figure was unmistakable—tall, rugged, broad shoulders, and that untamed edge that always made him stand out. Except this time, his eyes, burning with a feral intensity, were locked on Mark. He barely acknowledged your presence.

"Who's this?" Logan growled, his deep voice sending a chill down your spine.

Your heart skipped, a pit forming in your stomach. You hadn’t told Logan about Mark because… well, there hadn’t been a reason to. But now, standing here, facing him like this, you felt the weight of his presence more than you’d like to admit.

"This is Mark," you replied, trying to keep your tone casual, but Logan's expression remained unreadable, his jaw set tightly. "We're seeing each other."

Logan's eyes flicked over Mark, as if sizing him up, and something primal simmered beneath his gaze. "Seeing each other, huh?" His lips curled into something resembling a sneer. “Doesn’t seem like much.”

“Logan,” you warned, stepping forward slightly. “Don’t.”

Mark, oblivious to the brewing tension, extended his hand toward Logan. “Hey, man, I’ve heard a lot about you—"

But Logan didn’t take the offered hand. His eyes flashed with barely restrained rage, his fists clenching. "I bet you have."

Mark’s brow furrowed, and he pulled his hand back awkwardly. The air around you thickened with unspoken hostility. You stepped between them, your heart racing as memories of the past came flooding back—memories of Logan’s anger, his possessiveness.

"Logan, stop it. This isn’t your business anymore," you said firmly, hoping your words would snap him out of whatever violent spiral he was heading toward.

Logan’s gaze, now locked on you, darkened with something far more painful than anger. “The hell it isn’t,” he spat. “You think you can just move on? After everything?”

Your chest tightened. "It’s been years, Logan. We’re over."

His jaw clenched, and for a moment, you saw a flicker of something deep in his eyes—hurt, betrayal. But then it was gone, replaced by that all-too-familiar fury.

“I didn’t cheat on you,” he said suddenly, his voice low but filled with intensity.

You flinched. The wound from that day was still fresh, still raw. The day you walked into the common room and saw Jean Grey pressed against Logan, her lips on his, and him—God, you thought he was kissing her back. It was the last thing you had seen before walking away. No words, no confrontation, just pain, and silence. You left before he could explain, before you could see how he had pushed Jean away, fury radiating off him like a wildfire.

“I know what I saw, Logan.”

“No. You saw what she wanted you to see,” he growled. “Jean forced herself on me. I didn’t want her.”

You shook your head, a bitter laugh escaping you. “That’s convenient, isn’t it? To blame her when she’s not here to defend herself.”

Logan's eyes flared with anger, his claws unsheathing slightly as he took a step toward you. “You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. You never stayed long enough to hear the truth.”

“Maybe I didn’t want to hear it!” you shot back, your own anger rising to meet his. “You think that makes it okay? You think your anger fixes everything, Logan?”

Mark, who had been silent this whole time, stepped in, sensing the escalation. “(Y/N), maybe we should just—”

“No!” Logan snarled, his eyes darting to Mark. “You don’t get to talk here, pretty boy.”

Mark’s face hardened. “Look, man, I don’t want any trouble.”

Logan’s laugh was cold, venomous. “You already found trouble.”

“Logan, enough!” you yelled, stepping between them again. “This is done. We’re done. You need to accept that.”

Logan’s eyes locked onto yours, and for the first time, there was something broken there—something desperate. His voice was low, almost pleading. “I was going to marry you, (Y/N).”

Your breath caught in your throat. It was the first time either of you had mentioned the engagement since the breakup. The ring that had once felt like a promise, like forever, now felt like a distant memory. You blinked away the sudden tears that threatened to spill, shaking your head.

“You can’t keep holding onto that, Logan. It’s over.”

He took another step closer, his eyes blazing with something dark, something dangerous. “It’s not over for me.”

You were about to respond when a sharp movement caught your attention. Logan had lunged forward, grabbing Mark by the collar and yanking him off his feet. A gasp escaped your lips as Mark struggled against the iron grip.

“Logan, no!” you screamed, panic seizing your chest as you tried to pull him off. “Let him go!”

But Logan didn’t budge, his claws extending fully now as he pressed them dangerously close to Mark’s throat. Mark’s eyes widened in fear, his breath coming in short gasps as he tried to speak.

“This guy,” Logan snarled, his voice dripping with venom, “he doesn’t deserve you.”

“Stop!” you yelled again, tears streaming down your face as you pulled at his arm, desperation clawing at your insides. “Please, Logan, don’t do this!”

For a moment, the world seemed to hang in the balance, the weight of your plea hanging in the air between you. Logan’s eyes flicked to you, something unreadable flashing across his face.

Then, slowly, agonizingly, he released Mark, who fell to the ground gasping for breath.

“Get out of here,” Logan spat, his voice shaking with rage. “Before I change my mind.”

Mark scrambled to his feet, grabbing your arm as if to pull you away with him, but you stood frozen, your eyes locked on Logan’s.

“Go,” you whispered to Mark, your voice hollow. “I’ll catch up.”

Mark hesitated, but when you didn’t move, he nodded and stumbled toward the gate.

When he was gone, you turned back to Logan, your heart shattering all over again. “You can’t do this, Logan.”

He didn’t answer, his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths as he stared at you, his claws retracting slowly. “I can’t lose you,” he finally whispered, the words a broken confession.

You shook your head, wiping the tears from your face. “You already did.”

And with that, you turned and walked away, leaving Logan standing alone in the cold.

The days after your confrontation with Logan blurred into a haze of unease. Despite his promise to give you time, his presence weighed heavily on your mind, lurking just beyond the edges of your thoughts. Every glance in the halls, every shared silence during meetings—it all felt charged with a tension you couldn’t shake.

Mark had backed off since that night. You couldn’t blame him. As much as he tried to be supportive, you knew Logan’s threat had shaken him to his core. The encounter had left its mark on you, too. It was clear Logan hadn’t moved on, and you couldn’t ignore the fact that some part of you hadn’t either. But the idea of going back? It scared you.

You stood in front of the X-Mansion’s grand staircase, staring at the students milling about. They were oblivious to the storm that brewed inside the walls of this place, inside your heart. You had work to do—there was always work—but your thoughts were far from your responsibilities.

“(Y/N?)”

A familiar voice snapped you out of your reverie. It was Scott Summers, his presence commanding as always, but his tone carried a gentleness that you hadn’t expected.

“You okay?” he asked, adjusting his visor slightly. “You’ve been… distant lately.”

You hesitated, unsure of how to answer. Scott had always been one of the more perceptive X-Men, but you weren’t ready to unload the entire mess that was your emotional state onto him. He, more than anyone, had a complicated history with Logan—especially when it came to Jean.

“I’m fine,” you said, forcing a smile. “Just a lot on my mind.”

Scott studied you for a moment before nodding slowly. “If you need to talk, you know where to find me.” He paused, then added quietly, “Logan’s not easy to deal with. Just… be careful.”

His words hung in the air as he walked away, leaving you to contemplate what "careful" even looked like in a situation like this.

That evening, you found yourself wandering outside, the cool air soothing against your skin. The grounds around the mansion were sprawling, and you often came out here to clear your mind. Tonight, though, your thoughts were too tangled to unravel.

As you walked along the wooded path that led to the edge of the property, you heard footsteps behind you. At first, you tensed, but then a familiar scent of whiskey and cigars filled the air.

“Logan,” you said, without turning around.

He stepped into view beside you, silent at first, his eyes scanning the darkened sky as though looking for answers. He didn’t say anything, but the tension between you was palpable, like a rope pulled too tight, threatening to snap.

“Why are you here?” you asked softly, not trusting yourself to look at him.

“I could ask you the same thing,” he muttered, his voice low. “You’re always running away, (Y/N).”

You clenched your jaw, trying to keep your emotions in check. “I’m not running. I’m thinking.”

Logan scoffed, a sound filled with bitterness. “Thinking? About what? Him?”

Your heart skipped at the venom in his voice, and you finally turned to face him. His eyes were locked on you, fierce and unyielding, as if the very idea of Mark being in your life was an insult to him.

“This isn’t about Mark,” you shot back. “This is about you, Logan. About us. What we’ve become.”

“And what’s that?” he growled, taking a step closer, his posture tense and coiled, like a predator ready to strike. “What are we now, You tell me.”

You didn’t have an answer. What were you? Ex-lovers? Former fiancés? Two people who couldn’t let go of a future that was never going to happen?

“I don’t know,” you whispered, your voice breaking slightly. “I don’t know anymore.”

Logan’s expression softened for a moment, the anger ebbing away just enough for you to see the pain beneath it. “I never wanted it to be like this,” he murmured, his voice gruff but vulnerable. “I never wanted to lose you.”

Your chest tightened at his words. There was a time when you would have believed him without question, when his love was the only thing that mattered. But now? Now you were caught between what was and what could never be.

“You have to let go, Logan,” you said, your voice shaking as you forced the words out. “We can’t keep doing this.”

Logan’s eyes darkened, his expression hardening again. “I can’t let go,” he said, his voice low and dangerous. “I won’t.”

A cold chill ran down your spine at the intensity in his tone. You had seen Logan angry before, had witnessed the fury of the Wolverine—but this? This was different. It wasn’t just anger. It was obsession.

“You have to,” you whispered, stepping back, putting some distance between you. “This… this isn’t healthy. For either of us.”

Logan’s jaw clenched, and he took another step toward you, closing the distance again. “You think I care about healthy? About what’s good for me?” His voice dropped, the desperation leaking through. “You are all i’ve got.”

Tears stung at your eyes as you looked at him, his face etched with years of pain and regret. You wanted to reach out, to touch him, to comfort him. But you knew that if you did, you’d be pulled back into the same toxic cycle you had worked so hard to escape.

“I can’t be that for you anymore,” you said softly, tears slipping down your cheeks. “I’m sorry.”

Logan’s face twisted with anguish, his hands balling into fists at his sides. For a moment, he looked like he was going to argue, to fight you on it, but then something in him broke. His shoulders sagged, his anger dissipating into something far more heartbreaking.

“Don’t do this,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “Don’t leave me.”

The raw vulnerability in his words nearly shattered your resolve, but you knew that staying would only make things worse. You had to be strong, for both of you.

“I’m not leaving you,” you said, stepping forward and gently placing a hand on his chest. His heart beat steadily beneath your palm, but it was a beat laced with sorrow. “I’m just letting us go.”

Logan’s hand covered yours, holding it against his chest, his gaze locking onto yours. For a moment, neither of you moved, the weight of everything unspoken between you pressing down like a heavy fog.

“I love you,” he said, his voice rough, desperate.

You closed your eyes, the words cutting through you like a blade. “I know.”

And with that, you pulled your hand away, stepping back, the loss already aching in your chest. Logan watched you go, his face a mask of pain, but he didn’t follow. He just stood there, rooted to the spot as you walked away into the night.

It wasn’t long after that night when things took a darker turn.

A few days passed, the tension between you and Logan lingering but unspoken. Mark had returned, cautious but understanding. You were trying to rebuild some sense of normalcy, though deep down, you knew it wouldn’t last.

One afternoon, as you were finishing up paperwork in your office, you heard a commotion outside. Raised voices, hurried footsteps. Something was wrong.

You rushed into the hallway, finding a group of students gathered around. They parted when they saw you, revealing a sight that made your blood run cold.

Mark was lying on the ground, barely conscious, his face bruised and bloodied. His shirt was torn, and there were deep claw marks across his chest. He was gasping for air, his eyes wide with pain.

“Oh my God,” you breathed, rushing to his side. “What happened?”

A nearby student, shaken, spoke up. “It… it was Logan. He went crazy. Attacked him out of nowhere.”

Your heart dropped into your stomach, your mind reeling with shock and disbelief. You had seen Logan angry, but this—this was beyond anything you had imagined.

“Get help,” you barked, panic flooding your veins as you pressed your hands against Mark’s wounds, trying to stop the bleeding. “Get Hank— now!”

As the student ran off, you looked down at Mark, tears blurring your vision. “Mark, stay with me,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “Please, just stay with me.”

But as you spoke, your thoughts drifted to Logan, to the man you once loved—and the monster he had become.

The frantic rush to get Mark medical attention was a blur. You barely registered the voices around you—Hank's orders as he examined Mark, the students' whispers, the quiet hum of medical equipment in the mansion’s makeshift infirmary. Your hands were stained with his blood, and your mind could barely keep up with the whirlwind of panic and guilt.

Logan. It always came back to Logan.

You paced outside the infirmary, your heart racing. Mark was stable, but unconscious, with deep wounds that would take time to heal. Hank had assured you that Mark would recover physically, but emotionally? That was a different story.

The mansion was eerily quiet as you waited, the halls seeming emptier than usual, though you knew that wasn’t true. Everyone was avoiding you—or rather, avoiding the fallout. Word traveled fast in the mansion, especially when Logan was involved. His violence wasn’t new, but this? Attacking Mark out of pure jealousy? It crossed a line that even the X-Men wouldn’t tolerate.

The quiet hum of footsteps caught your attention, and you turned to see Charles Xavier rolling down the hallway toward you. His face was unreadable, but there was a sadness in his eyes that cut through the tension.

“(Y/N),” he greeted softly, his voice steady but laced with concern. “I heard about what happened.”

You nodded, unable to trust your voice at first. “Mark… he didn’t deserve that.”

“No, he didn’t,” Charles agreed, stopping in front of you. “Logan has always been a complicated man, but his actions tonight… they cannot be ignored.”

You looked away, the sting of tears threatening to break through again. “What are you going to do?”

Charles was quiet for a moment, considering his words. “I’ve already spoken with Logan. He’s agreed to leave the mansion for a while—at least until we can assess the situation.”

“Leave?” you repeated, disbelief flooding through you. “You’re just… sending him away? What about what he did to Mark? He attacked him, Charles. He could’ve killed him.”

Charles sighed, a heavy sound filled with the weight of decades of making impossible decisions. “Logan isn’t himself right now. His emotional instability is dangerous, yes, but I don’t believe he’s beyond redemption. He needs time, space, and perhaps more help than we can provide here.”

Your chest tightened at his words. Part of you knew Charles was right—Logan wasn’t in control of himself. But that didn’t change the fact that he had hurt someone you cared about. Deep down, you had always known Logan was a ticking time bomb, but you hadn’t expected it to explode like this.

“Where is he now?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

“He’s in his room, packing,” Charles said quietly. “He’ll be leaving by morning.”

You nodded, though it didn’t feel like enough. Logan leaving didn’t fix the mess he had made—it didn’t heal Mark or undo the damage he had caused. But it was a start. A temporary solution to a much bigger problem.

“I need to talk to him,” you said, the words coming out before you had fully processed them.

Charles hesitated, his brows furrowing in concern. “Are you sure that’s wise, (Y/N)? Logan is volatile right now, and—”

“I have to,” you interrupted, your voice firmer this time. “I need closure. I need him to understand that this can’t go on.”

Charles studied you for a long moment before nodding. “Very well. Just… be careful.”

You didn’t wait for anything else. You turned and headed toward Logan’s room, your footsteps echoing in the empty halls. Each step felt heavier than the last, your heart pounding in your chest. You knew this confrontation was going to be difficult, but it was necessary. You couldn’t live with this looming over you anymore.

When you reached Logan’s door, it was slightly ajar. The light inside was dim, casting long shadows across the room. You could hear the faint sound of him moving about, packing his things into a worn-out duffel bag.

Taking a deep breath, you pushed the door open fully and stepped inside.

Logan didn’t look up at first. He was hunched over, his hands shoving clothes into the bag with an almost mechanical precision. His shoulders were tense, his jaw clenched, and the air around him felt thick with barely-contained rage.

“Logan.”

He froze at the sound of your voice, his back still turned to you. For a long moment, he didn’t say anything. Then, slowly, he straightened up, his fists tightening at his sides.

“I figured you’d come,” he muttered, his voice rough.

You closed the door behind you, trying to steady your nerves. “What the hell were you thinking?” The words came out sharper than you intended, but the anger bubbling inside you couldn’t be contained any longer.

Logan finally turned to face you, his eyes dark and wild. “What was I thinking? I was thinking I’m sick of watching you run around with that punk.”

“You nearly killed him,” you snapped, your voice trembling with fury. “This isn’t about Mark, Logan. This is about you losing control, again.”

Logan growled low in his throat, taking a step toward you. “I didn’t lose control. I knew exactly what I was doing.”

“That’s even worse,” you shot back, crossing your arms as you glared at him. “You don’t get to hurt people just because you’re angry. You don’t get to—”

“I don’t get to what?” Logan interrupted, his voice rising, the anger spilling out now. “I don’t get to be pissed off that the woman I love is parading around with some other guy? I don’t get to be mad that you’ve replaced me like I’m nothing?”

Your heart clenched at his words, but you refused to back down. “You’re not nothing, Logan. You were never nothing. But this… this isn’t love. This is obsession. And it’s destroying you.”

Logan’s face twisted with a mixture of anger and pain, and for a brief moment, you saw the man you used to know—the one who was capable of love, not just rage.

“You don’t understand,” he muttered, his voice cracking. “I was ready to spend my life with you, sweetheart. I would have done anything for you.”

“I know,” you whispered, your voice softening just a little. “I know, Logan. But that’s not enough anymore. We’re not those people anymore.”

Logan’s fists clenched and unclenched, his entire body tense with barely-restrained fury. “I can’t just walk away, (Y/N). I can’t let you go.”

“You have to,” you said firmly, taking a step closer to him. “Because if you don’t, you’re going to destroy yourself—and everyone around you.”

Logan’s breathing was ragged now, his chest heaving with the effort of holding himself together. He looked at you, and for a moment, you saw the cracks in his armor—the vulnerability, the heartbreak. But then, just as quickly, the anger returned.

“I won’t apologize for what I did to him,” Logan growled, his eyes flashing with defiance. “He was in the way.”

You shook your head, tears stinging your eyes. “You don’t get to decide that, Logan. You don’t get to decide who’s in my life.”

For a long moment, the two of you stood there in silence, the weight of everything that had happened hanging heavy in the air. You could see the internal battle raging inside him—the war between the man you once loved and the beast he had become.

Finally, Logan let out a harsh breath, his shoulders slumping in defeat. “I’m leaving,” he said quietly, his voice void of the usual bravado. “But this isn’t over, darlin’. Not by a long shot.”

You swallowed hard, feeling the finality of his words. “I hope you find peace, Logan,” you whispered, barely able to meet his gaze. “For your sake.”

Logan didn’t respond. He just grabbed his duffel bag and walked past you, his presence leaving a cold emptiness in the room.

As the door clicked shut behind him, you felt a weight lift off your shoulders—but the ache in your chest remained.

🏷️: @twinky-wink @fidgetingbee @astarions-girl-dinner @layladestiny8 @birdy-bat-writes @h0n3y-l3m0n05 @boomveronika @wolviesgirl @slowlikehoneyyy @lanabobana @shybluebirdninja @corvusmorte @seamlessepiphany

If you want to be added to the tag list, let me know!!

#logan howlett x reader #deadpool and wolverine #wolverine x reader #hugh jackman #wolverine smut #logan howlett smut #wolverine #logan howlett imagine #old man logan x reader #logan howlett x fem!reader

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feyreswaterybowels · 7 months ago

Text

⟡ Princess of Dreams ⟡

# 1 Lucien x Rhys!Sister

⟡Part 1⟡Part 2⟡Part 3⟡

Word Count: 3k

Summary: Centuries ago Rhys’ youngest sister was kidnapped by the High Lord of Spring instead of kill like their mother and sister. The high lord had wards placed on his court so she was unable to leave. Rhys has believed her to be dead this whole time. What happens when Feyre finds out who she is and swears to take her home.

Warnings/Tag: Takes place during ACOWAR. Implied past sexual assault. Fluffy romance. Feyre being besties with Rhy’s sister. Pet names (pretty girl, sweet girl, Princess (her title)

Authors Note: All likes, comments and reblogs are welcome, appreciated and encouraged. Let me know if you’d like to be added to the tag list for part 2! Bold italics are mental communication regular italics are inner thoughts.

⋆ ݁⟡ ݁☾ ݁⟡ ݁⋆ ݁⟡ ݁☾ ݁⟡ ݁⋆ ݁⟡ ݁☾ ݁⟡ ݁⋆ ݁⟡ ݁✩ ݁⟡ ݁⋆ ݁⟡ ݁☽ ݁⟡ ݁⋆ ݁⟡ ݁☽ ݁⟡ ݁⋆ ݁⟡ ݁☽ ݁⟡ ݁⋆

I know who you are.

I don’t know what you’re talking about, Feyre—

You’re Rhys' sister. He told me all about you while I was there. I…I have a plan. I’ll take you back with me when I go. I’ll take you home.

The hushed conversation with Feyre played on repeat in my head for days. She had trusted me enough to tell me she wasn’t really here for Tamlin, that it was a plot, a plan and she was going back to the Night Court. Back to Velaris and she was taking me with her—she was taking me home.

Home.

There was only one problem. Just one. The male lying in my bed. I turn away from the window to gaze at him lying there naked, golden skin glowing in the moonlight. A crown of red splayed around his head. Grooves and planes of lean muscles on display. Arms folded behind his head.

Gods, he’s beautiful.

I had yet to tell him of Feyre’s plan. I believed he wouldn’t tell Tamlin but at the same time…I wasn’t sure how safe his mind was with two other daemanti in the house. I could only protect his mind when I was with him. Plus, Tamlin was his best friend. His High Lord. If he knew of Feyre’s plan to leave…and everything else she told me and Tamlin found out, we could both be locked away again. Not only that, but if he found out Lucien knew? That couldn’t happen. I wouldn’t let harm come to either of them.

I took in a deep breath, walking over to the bed, tucking my wings as I slowly crawled up that perfect body. Dipping my head and trailing my lips over that patch of hair that went down, down, down, breathing in the scent of him. Mm.

“And what exactly are you doing?” That deep voice rumbled. I looked up, a sly grin across his face, metal eye glowing in the dark as he took in the sight of me between high thighs as I licked my bottom lip.

“Who? Me?” I asked, sliding a hand up his thigh to grasp him in my hand, stroking him once.

“Yes you, Princess” He laughs, grabbing and pulling me up the bed, kissing me as he rolls us over. I can feel him hard and heavy between my legs and it makes me moan.

“Lucien,” His name falls from my lips as he presses our bodies together. “Don’t tease, I want you.”

“Don’t tease?” He scoffs, “Says the one who was about to wake me up with a pretty little mouth.”

His grin is feral and I can’t help but return it.

“Come on,” I spread my legs wider, letting him feel the wetness there, “I know you want it.”

“And she calls me the tease,” He mocks under his breath before kissing me, tongue sliding into my mouth.

My fingers tangle in those long fire locks. I moan when I feel the heat radiating from his body, I love when he does that. The heat always feels so good against my sensitive skin.

He grins at me again, pushing up onto his knees, towering over me. He grabs my thighs, spreading them out and looking over me and I let him. I always loved the way he looks at me, his beautiful scarred face showing every ounce of emotion he feels.

He reaches between his thigh, wrapping a strong fist around himself and I watch stroke for stroke as he watches me. I tug on that bond between us, watching as it seemingly tugs him closer though I know it was his own doing.

“So, beautiful, all laid out for me,” He groans and I open myself further for him. Stretching my wings out across the bed, arms above my head, legs still spread wide but using a foot to rub over his calf.

That does it for him. He swoops down, grabbing me around the waist to yank my hips up, lining himself up and filling me. I cry out his name, arching into that fullness, into that glorious stretch.

We move together heat and passion. It’s rough and loving and he’s got me falling over the edge in minutes. Then again. And again. He’d always been so good at getting me there. Doing everything to make sure I was pleasured properly.

Tonight was no different as he leans over me, slow, firm thrusts hitting exactly where I needed it as he mouthed at my wing, tongue tracing through the grooves, and one hand wrapped around my wrists above my head to hold me in place.

“Say my name, pretty girl” he says, heated kisses on my wing.

“Lucien,”

“Louder,” he growls.

“Lucien!”

“I want the whole house to hear you, sweet girl.” His tongue laves over a particularly sensitive spot and I’m gone again. Gushing over him and moaning his name loud enough that the whole house definitely heard it.

It’s not long after that his thrusts are slowing. He lets go of my hands so I can touch him, he always liked having my touch when he came. I grinned into our kiss as my hands ran over his body. His panting moans turning into grunted growls. He was so sexy like this. Covering me fully, hair falling around his face, teeth bared.

I reached up pushing his hair behind those pointed ears, thumb tracing over part of his scar before pulling him into a kiss that was more tongue than anything.

“Fuck, just like that, baby,” I moaned into his mouth. “You’re gonna make me cum again. Make me feel so good!”

“Yeah? Gonna cum in that pussy for you, pretty girl, then I'm gonna eat it out.”

That’s what did it for me, I tightened around him. He follows me over the edge a few thrust later with a growl of my name.

Then he’s slipping from my body and sliding down, kissing a trail to my centre, keeping true to his promise.

“Fuck,” He groaned, coming back up, sliding his tongue into my mouth to let me taste myself. Kissing me slow and sloppy. “So perfect. My pretty, perfect mate.”

Despite what we’d just done I blush at his words.

“My sweet handsome mate,” I whisper back, tumbing at the bottom of his scar again before wrapping my arms around his neck.

He holds me tight, arms wrapping around me as we catch our breath. I tuck my face into the crook of his neck breathing in his scent—organic, earthy and sweet. Perfect.

My eyes welled up when thoughts of leaving weave through my brain. This was my mate, I had built a life here with him. But I had been trapped in this house for so long that it wasn’t really life. I wanted to go home to Velaris. To my brother and our family. I could try to convince Lucien to go but that could put him in danger. I had almost lost him under the mountain, I could t go through that again. If I left first I could always seek him out later but to stay here when I had the opportunity to finally go home, when I had Feyre telling me she could break the wards binding me here. I couldn’t turn that down.

“My love, what’s wrong?” Lucien asks, pulling back to look at me. Our eyes meet as he wipes away my tears. “Talk to me.”

I sniffled. I felt like it was now or never. I either told him now or he would find out when I leave. I couldn’t do that to him though. It would break his heart to wake up one day and find me gone.

“Please, tell me what’s wrong,” He said, petting my hair.

“I don’t know if I can say it out loud,” I tell him, our eyes meeting.

“That’s okay, Princess” Lucien nods his head, concern written all over his face.

“You can’t tell Tamlin,” The crease between his brow deepens. “You can’t tell him, Lucien, please. Promise me.”

He watches me for a moment, confused and concerned but he nods. “I promise. I won’t tell him.”

“Feyre and Rhys’ bond wasn’t actually broken that day with Hybern. She’s has a plan to go back. She…she said she can break the wards that hold me here so I can— I can finally go home,” I tell him, his eyes widen but he doesn’t look entirely shocked at what I’ve told him.

“And I’m assuming you have the intention of going with her?” He asks, sadness tinged the words and the bond.

“I have to, Lucien. I haven’t seen Rhys in centuries. Centuries. And he thought I was dead the entire time until recently. I need to go home, I need to see him and the rest of our family,” I cried, hot tears sliding down my face. He grabs me, pulling me up and holding me. Stroking my hair and shushing me softly.

“You should go, Princess. You should go home,” He says, kissing my head. I pull back to look at him, searching his face.

“Come with me,” I whisper, grabbing his face. “You can come. You would love Velaris—”

“I can’t,” he cuts me of gently, stroking his knuckles down my cheek. “Not that I don’t want to. Fuck, it hurts just thinking about you being away from me but if the three of us disappear? Tamlin will flip shit.”

“And he won’t be able to get to us in Velaris,” I tell him, grabbing the hand caressing my cheek and holding it tightly. “We would be safe there, Lucien. We could have a life together, a real one. Our own place by the river I showed you. A proper mating ceremony. We’ve been talking about kids for a decade. We could happily and safely have them there.”

“I don’t know…” Lucien shakes his head and I can see the water lining his eye.

“Me and you, Lu. That’s what we always said. Me and you—”

“Always.” Lucien nodded, looking over my face. Taking in every detail like he was trying to remember what I looked like before I was even gone. “What if you go with Feyre and I come later? You have to go now, you’re right you can’t pass up this opportunity to go home. I understand that. But you can come back for me, right? I could help keep Tamlin away…for some time anyway.”

My tears break loose then as I sob against his neck.

“I know it’s the best option but I don’t want to leave you,” I cried, clinging to him as he pulled me into his lap, letting my wings cocoon around us.

“Sh, it’s gonna be okay, my love.” I feel his tears on my neck and my heart breaks.

It was right but it felt so wrong.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

“So you’re joining us after all?” comes Tamlins snarky comment as soon as I walk out of the manor. I roll my eyes, fluffing the ugly powder blue dress.

“Unfortunately,” I rolled my eyes at him, it was too early for his shit, but still smiled at Lucien when his arm wrapped around my waist, careful of my wings.

“You can stay here,” Tamlin retorted with an eye roll of his own. “That would be preferable.”

“Well my mate asked me to attend. As did my friend, even if you wish Feyre wasn’t my friend,” I sneered at him with a wicked grin.

“I would never say that,” Tamlin returned the sneer, baring his teeth at me.

“Play nice, Princess,” Lucien purrs through the bond.

“Not out loud anyway,” I gave a sweet smile. “You look beautiful,” I said, hugging Feyre and kissing her cheek before pulling Lucien away to our horses.

Lucien helped me onto my horse, a gorgeous black mare, her coat shining even in the darkness of morning—a gift from Lucien after I accepted the mating bond. I looked down at him with a smile, running my hand through his hair.

“You’re lucky I love you, I really don’t want to deal with Ianthe’s shit today,” I said, situating myself in the saddle.

“Ianthe’s shit is exactly why I asked you to come,” Lucien said, grabbing my hand and kissing the back of it. “I appreciate you coming anyway, your presence will make it much more tolerable for me.”

“Yeah, I know, come on, let's get this over with,” I said, urging him to his own horse. “I’m ready to get today over with so I can get drunk and dance with you under the stars.”

Ugh, he looks so good. I thought as his head dropped back with a laugh before mounting his horse, dressed in autumn colors he stood out perfectly from everyone else wearing the hideously bright spring court colors. I’d be covered head to toe in Night Court black if it was allowed. I’d have loved to see the look on Ianthe’s face if I had shown up today in all black.

We set off soon after everyone had mounted their horses and there were already hundreds of fae crowded atop the hill when we arrived. I fought the urge to bare my teeth when I saw Ianthe’s gaze lingering on my mate as he dismounted his horse and strided to mine.

“Ignore it. She’s not worth your jealousy,” Lucien said as he reached for my hand, helping me from the saddle.

“I’m not jealous. I’m protective. I don’t like the way she looks at you,” I say, running my hands over the collar of his jacket. “Like she’ll drag you away to have her way with you whether you like it or not.”

“That’ll never happen, my love.”

“Damn right it won’t, I’d break her hands if she ever touches you,” I huff, as a feline smile crosses his lips.

“You’re sexy when you’re possessive,” He said, leaning down to kiss me, first my lips then my forehead before extending his arm to me to hold onto.

“You better make this up to me later,” I grumble, as I would much rather be back at the estate hiding in my room.

“Oh, I will make it up to you, sweet girl,” Lucien promised, leaning down to whisper in my ear, “slowly, with my tongue. Over and over.”

My body flushed knowing exactly how good he is with that wicked tongue. His gaze turns heated knowing exactly what I was thinking, feeling exactly what I was feeling.

“Lucien,” Tamlin calls from where he and Feyre are standing. I glance at those full lips one last time before he’s gently pulling me, guiding me away from our partially secluded spot. .

Jurian is at my other side suddenly walking with us as we trail behind Tamlin and Feyre—also linked by the arms and the Hybern Royals. I had seen the gleam in Feyre’s eye before she turned away, like a wolf getting ready to play with its prey. It made me giddy inside.

I couldn’t wait to witness her revenge.

We stopped walking when Tamlin and Feyre did, reaching Ianthe at her stupid altar as she offered them a singular nod of head. The Hybern twins shifted impatiently, Brannagh had made comments the night before how they didn’t bother with such things in Hybern—practically implying that soon we wouldn’t be bothering with it either. Smug little bitch.

“A blessed solstice to us all,” Ianthe called out to everyone around and I don’t roll my eyes the way I want to.

I stood there through an endless string of prayers and rituals, acolytes pouring sacred wine and the blessing of harvest goods. A lovely, rehearsed little number. Lucien was practically falling asleep between Feyre and I.

Ianthe lifted her wine and intoned “As the light is strongest today, let it drive out unwanted darkness. Let it banish the black stain of evil.” I sneered at her, I knew those words were directed at me. My brother. Feyre. Our home.

“She’s lucky my wine doesn’t end up in her pretty face,” I silently told Feyre, watching her expertly hide her grin with the wine chalice—her silent agreement.

“Would Princess Brannagh and Prince Dagdan do us the honor of imbibing this blessed wine?”

I shared a look with Feyre as the twins frowned at one another—the crowd murmuring behind us. But Feyre stepped aside, smiling a pretty smile and gesturing to the alter for the royals.

“Drink and let our new allies become friends,” Ianthe declared before they could refuse. “Drink and wash away the endless night of the year.”

The two daemanti surveyed their cups, most likely searching for any hint of poison. Feyre kept that smile on her face, I couldn’t extend that same faux courtesy when the prince looked my way. I didn’t care enough to put on the facade.

They each barely sipped the wine before trying to step away from the altar. Ianthe cooed at them like children, insisting they stay at the altar with her, to experience the ceremony at her side.

“I’m bored, Luc,” I grumbled to Lucien through the bond as Ianthe continued on with her praises and rituals. Eyes finding Lucien every now and then, looking away when I send her a death glare—lucky she doesn’t know who I really am.

“I’ll be over soon,” Lucien chuckles, pulling me into his side with an arm around my waist.

Finally, Tamlin was summoned over to light the candle for the souls lost this past year. This part bored me too. Those souls were gone; they didn’t need a candle lit to bring them back to the light. But just as I was starting to lose my patients the sky was finally filling with streaks of pink as Jurian was called forward to recite a prayer as well.

It left only Lucien and I standing with Feyre in the circle of grass, the altar and horizon in front of us and the crowd behind us. The look on Lucien’s face drew my attention as he scanned the area and I could help the crack of a smile when I noticed something out of place. A miniscule little detail no one else seemed to notice—except maybe now my mate.

I watched as Ianthe stepped toward the hill’s edge, her golden hair tumbling freely down her back as she lifted her arms to the sky. The chosen spot was intentional. Only that marker that told her where to stand wasn’t in the spot it had been in when we first arrived.

Golden rays of sunlight finally broke over the horizon. Light filled the world clear and strong. The murmurs started through the crowd. Cries of a name, not Ianthe’s but Feyre’s.

That gorgeous light had not filled and surrounded Ianthe but Feyre.

Ianthe seemed to be the last to notice, to see the sun was not blessing her but Feyre.

She glowed so brightly, brighter than what seemed natural for this occasion but I didn’t care to question why. She was beautiful—shining as if she were the star that hung above Ramiel.

“Curse breaker,” some murmured.

“Blessed,” others whispered.

Feyre's face was one of surprise and acceptance, though I knew it wasn’t genuine, those around us wouldn’t read it that way. They would only see what she allowed them too. The shock and bafflement of Tamlin and the Hybern twin’s faces was ever satisfying.

But Feyre didn’t look at them. She turned to Lucien and I, her light radiating so bright it was almost hard to keep that eye contact. A friend looking to another for help. She reached a hand to Lucien then to me.

I knew Ianthe had to be losing her shit behind us but I was too enchanted by my brother's mate. Yes, this was all a show, but Feyre was special.

I took her hand, watching Lucien do the same. Then we shared a look, lowering down to one knee, pressing her knuckles to our brow. I knew the crowd behind us had followed suit.

I had never kneeled for a high lord of the Spring Court. I was Princess of the Night Court. Heir of Velaris. Princess of Dreams. I knelt for no one—certainly not for anyone of the Spring Court. Not now, not ever.

I was not kneeling before Lady Feyre. Or Feyre Cursebreaker. I was kneeling for Feyre High Lady of the Night Court. Feyre that led Prythian from tyranny and darkness. Feyre that saved my mate and thousands of others under the mountain.

“My high lady,” I declared to her. The only person besides my brother I’d ever sworn fealty to.

I looked up at Feyre, our eyes meeting before she looked to Ianthe, smiling a sweet smile, one that transformed to show a bit of that wolf hiding beneath.

#Lucien vanserra the man you are🥵#calling Lucien beautiful a lot bc…well because he is #no elcuien #nothing against the pairing #in fact I can ship anyone with just about anyone lol #but I don’t feel like writing around the pairing and prefer LuLu baby to be mated to Rhys’ sister 😊#Lucien is just so 🤤#Rhys sister and Feyre are gonna have the best relationship #acotar #acotar fanfiction #lucien vanssera x reader #lucien vanserra #lucien acotar #pro lucien vanserra #princess of dreams

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brayneworms · 1 year ago

Text

send up my heart to you.

kinktober day four: overstimulation

word count. 3.2k

content. MINORS/AGELESS BLOGS DNI, overstimulation, porn with feelings, crying, kissing, gender-neutral reader, reader bottoms, no real power dynamics, implied virgin!xiao, references to xiao's past abuse, subspace, aftercare, mild dumbification, sub-top!xiao, blink and you miss it implications of masochism, this got emotional lol.

kinktober mlist | regular mlist

♪ my love mine all mine - mitski

Xiao doesn't know he can get addicted to love.

How could he? It's not like you realise you're craving something when you don't have it. So the first time it's entirely by accident. It takes a lot for him to get like this, to get vulnerable enough. So much of your human lifespan that he feels indescribably guilty, actually, that you've wasted so many years on worrying at the stone wall of vulnerabilities he'd erected so many years ago.

But, diligently—and so humanly—you had.

And there is still so much of him that screams that he doesn't deserve it. That first time, he won't ever forget—bristling with karmic debt, feeling it ooze out of him like a shameful shadow. It rolled down his back in drops of sweat and beaded in his eyes like tears. With every wet, strangled gasp that left his throat it released into the air like a noxious gas, and he waited, body tensed like a loaded weapon, waited for it to kill you.

And it didn't. And it doesn't.

It feels impossible. Nothing should feel this good. It's slow and hard, in the way that it's deliberate. That's the thing that makes Xiao want to cry. You're deliberately touching him. On purpose, you love him.

Your hands are deliberate; there is no chance you'll forget it's his skin you're touching as you knead it between your fingers like fresh bread, fitting your fingers between his ribs, rubbing slow circles over his thighs, tracing the scars that welt up under the flesh. Your fingers paint fire over his body, and disrobing feels like simultaneously the most natural thing in the world, and also something that makes Xiao want to run and hide.

His own skin seems to scream at him. But you must only hear birds.

Soft kisses, dotted down his sternum as your hands skim over the scarred plane of his torso, thumbs circling. Can you feel the way his stomach tenses under the flex of your digits, the way his breath hitches? His ribs creak and expand with each shallow breath. It's dangerous, and he thinks—perhaps he could grow addicted to this.

How awful. To be addicted to something that will be gone in the blink of an eye.

The touches and the kisses, the little whispers are good, but being inside you is something almost indescribable. It's a slow, conscious effort, something almost akin to a play like in the theatre that Zhongli and Hu Tao frequent on their rare days off. There are roles and lines and actions to be memorised, and he does, opening you up—spit, fingers, the help of some slippery oil in a glass vial you produced from your pocket. This, too, is deliberate—the whole time is Xiao knowing what he's opening you up for, and being struck dumb all over again before he's even—

even—

"Are you ready?" you murmur, and Xiao's mouth works soundlessly for a moment because how could he be ready for something like this? He doesn't even know what it's going to feel like. How can he be ready for that?

But what he is ready to do is trust you. With his life, with everything. In so many ways, he's already given you everything. So he nods, trembly and short.

"Can I hear a yes?" Your hands stroke up and down his thighs, the sensitive skin on the inside, and Xiao huffs out a strangled breath.

"Yes," he grits out, teeth mashing together. If it's going to be anyone, it's going to be you. And you smile at him, all lips and no teeth, eyes crinkling in bows and Xiao swallows past the unidentifiable lump in his throat.

(It is only unidentifiable because he is a coward. He knows, deep down, exactly what it is).

You take him in your hand; he's already painfully hard, had been, really, since you started kissing. It's mortifying, this show of desire, but he's helpless before it as you move your hand slowly up and down. You position him between your legs, and he feels the soft, the hot and wet, spit and oil and something else, and it hits him—

He slides in. Xiao sees your thighs shake with the effort, his hands slipping under clumsily to grab at them to help; it feels like all his own strength as been sapped, and as soon as your body swallows the tip of his cock all he can do is slump back against the sweat-damp mattress, mouth open in a silent gasp before it releases in a high, broken whimper like shattered glass.

Arduously, you take him all. By the time you're practically sitting on him he's already an utter mess, squirming and hot under you, his hands scrabbling frantically for purchase on your thighs. His nails leave little railroads behind on your skin.

"Oh," he moans, head tipped back. "Oh—gods—"

"Xiao..." Your fingers trace over his; he can feel your own shaking. "You feel so good."

He blinks his eyes open, shocked to find them already blurry. "I—I do?" he rasps, pathetically, hating himself for it, but your radiant smile makes him ascend.

"Feel like I was made for you," you mumble, and Xiao's heart cracks because how can you, your mortal form, how can you be made for him—toxic and rotten and old, so old that he will outlive you by thousands of years? But then you smile weakly, and you say, "or maybe you were made for me," and that feels a lot more palatable. Xiao can believe quite readily that he was put on this earth for no other reason than to please you.

He rocks his hips up weakly, chasing more of that squeezing wet heat, that almost suffocating tightness, and your body jolts and groans. "S-sorry," he wheezes, but his body can't stop, he can't stop, every cell is on fire and you feel so so so good—

He comes far, far too quickly; it's basically over before it's even started, as he thrusts up into you with a shattered gasp. For a moment his head goes wonderfully, blissfully blank, and it feels like the first time in forever he's stopped thinking long enough to relax. He slumps against the mattress, breathing fast, and peers up at you with wide, apprehensive eyes.

"I'm sorry," he says, his voice strangled, weak, pathetic. Self-loathing rises up in a vice, twists up his insides. What a useless tool he proclaims to be. His fingers drop limply from your legs and twist up the bedsheets, avoiding your eye, despising himself. "I can keep going."

Your expression pinches—for the first time, Xiao realises with disconcertion. There had been no trace of disappointment when he'd failed to perform, only now that he offers himself up as a sacrificial lamb for your pleasure. The casual concern makes his head rush.

"It's okay," you say soothingly. "It's a lot. I mean—" You glance down for half a second, but Xiao catches it, follows your gaze. Release drips down from where he's still buried inside you, running languidly down the backs of your thighs. Xiao's face burns, but he's caught between mortification and sudden interest.

A piece of him is inside you. It makes his whole body shiver with satisfaction, like an itch that's finally been scratched. He feels the limp instrument between his legs swell, and it's with more conviction that he says this time, "I can keep going. Please—please allow me..."

Shivering, he reaches a hand up, smooths it up your stomach. Your skin is so smooth and hot, so untouched by the ugliness of war. He wonders how you can stand to look at him, but you can, you do, and he swallows hard as he sits up and presses a stinging kiss to the swell of flesh on the left of your chest. This close he feels your breath hitch.

"If—if you're sure." Your voice has become quiet, shaky. Unsure, for the first time.

"I am." He is so fucking sure—every part of him, apparently, because the heat between his legs is starting to get painful again. "C-can... could I...?"

In answer, you roll your hips against his, testing, slow. He feels like dick twitch inside you, and it shocks him like lightning. It's an odd sensation—a pleasurable burning, feeling momentarily so good that it hurts. Is this normal? He shudders, eyes struggling to focus; every small jolt of him inside you sends shivering bolts of lightning through his body, ones that have him whimpering and gasping much more than before.

It's slightly painful—and it's ridiculous, because Xiao has made friends with agony, had lived through so much of it that he'd come out the other side and regarded it almost as an old friend. But it's a different sort of pain than torture, than brutality, than mindless violence for the sake of it. This is a discomfort he would happily self-inflict.

"Xiao?" you ask, breathlessly. "Does it hurt?"

"Yes," he answers mindlessly, then rushes to correct himself. "Th-that is—it doesn't..." He gathers a sharp breath. "I do not... dislike it."

"Are you sure?"

In answer, he gathers his strength and flips the two of you over. You make a grunt of surprise as your back flops against the mattress, and it takes an awkward few moments of fumbling and sliding sweaty limbs to align yourselves correctly again. Xiao kneels between your legs, keeping himself lifted with his arms on either side of your head. Framing you, like you're a painting. You might as well be.

You stare up at him owlishly.

"I'm sure," he says, then fixes you with an attempt at a flat look. It would probably be more effective if he wasn't blushing madly. "I'm not made of glass, you know. It's far more likely that I'll hurt you rather than the other way around."

"You won't hurt me," you say with so much certainty that it throws him for a loop. Xiao swallows, eyes softening as he gazes down at you. You slip your hand between the both of you and wrap your fingers gently around his cock, and Xiao buries his head in the crook of your neck with a muffled moan. The sound that slips out of him is almost pained, wispy and high as you carefully manoeuvre him back to the heat between your legs.

Sliding back into you is what he imagines heaven must feel like, in the event a wretched creature like him could ever get there. And it burns, every clench and ridge catching on his cock as he pushes back in with a breathless noise, every cell in his body fizzing with life and fire.

"Hah—" The noise slips out like a punch. "Oh, oh..."

"Please." You lift your hips encouragingly, pressing the two of you flush together. "Please move."

The first few thrusts are awkward, but after he manages to pick out a steady sort of rhythm it's so easy to fall back into it. Xiao stares down at you, gobsmacked; is this what you saw, sitting on his waist, looking down? Your head tips back against the sheets, fingers clenching the bedsheets, your lips parted in a helpless little moan. He feels dazed, heavy-limbed: how did you not fall immediately and irrevocably in love?

Oh, he thinks distractedly. Maybe you—

You're getting closer, this time—he's not entirely sure how he can tell, but he just can. Your breathing picks up, gets higher and wispier until you're practically wheezing, and your arm flies up to dig your nails into the foam of hair at his nape, pinpricks of pain to match the sensitivity burning between his legs. Every push in and out of you makes his whole body shudder, makes small, pathetic sounds drift out of him almost absently. It's almost scary, how separated from his own body he feels.

It's something he can only compare to committing absolute violence. Leaving yourself behind like this, to do what must be done.

He has just enough wherewithal to bend his neck, mouthing at your chest, the soft skin under his lips feeling like a miracle, an offence to everything he knows. Your answering groan sends heat rushing between his legs. You're making—he it's because of him, and he's—he's making you feel—

His second orgasm doesn't so much as creep up on him as it does slam through him with barely a seconds' warning. Xiao practically chokes on his, his hips stuttering against yours as his cock twitches inside you, again, and it's so much, too much, that his whole body lights on fire with the oversensitivity. Tears swarm his eyes as he clenches them shut, pressing hard against your collarbone before he slumps, practically boneless.

He can feel you breathing beneath him. Certainly you didn't finish, if the way you're swallowing and breathing hard is any indication. Shame fills him all over again, as soon as the feverish heat retreats. He lifts his head groggily and looks up at you, dread pooling in his stomach—but again, there is no disdain in your expression. Your eyes are wide, mouth parted, but when he locks eyes with you all you do is smile weakly and shrug, a gesture that even Xiao understands to mean it's okay.

Still. It isn't. Not to him.

Through the foggy haze that has settled over his brain, he manages to dredge up two words. Hoarsely, whispered into your skin: "One more."

"W-what?" There's barely time for the shock to slip off your face before Xiao pushes himself up on trembling arms. "Xiao, you—oh!"

The noise you make when he presses his hips flush against you is almost enough to have his cock swelling with interest again. "Wait," you whine, even as your hips arch into him. "Xiao, it's too—you m-must be—"

"I can take it," he grits out, unsure if it's true but beyond willing to find out. He blinks down at you with wet eyes, mouth agape, not thinking to close it, not thinking about whether he looks ridiculous, wanton, or any thousand other things. Only thinking that he wants you, and wants you to feel good. "Please..."

The feeling that rips through him when he rolls his hips against yours almost makes him shriek. It's so much, and a loud buzzing fills his ears as his jaw locks. It needles at him, his skin screaming as he grinds against you, barely thrusting really, just trying to ease himself back into the feeling again. Your expression pinches.

Pleasure pricks through the pain. Xiao groans, effectively brainless, and only one thought drives him forward. He wants to make you come. He wants to see you finish, feel it around him, so he moves his hips again, again, relentlessly, through the overstimulation, through the waves of pleasure that roll over him helplessly. Tears swell up against and spill, and every time he rocks into you he makes a sound like he's been shot through; whimpery and high, wet and pathetic.

A film slides over Xiao's brain. All he can hear is your moans, fast and urgent, and all he can feel is you practically pulsing around him. Nothing should feel this much, he thinks senselessly, and it's only when you put a hand on his face desperately that he realises he's saying all of this aloud, mindless babbling under his breath, a constant stream of consciousness like he'd lost the ability to shut his mouth.

Maybe he has, he thinks distantly, and is that such a bad thing? How can it be a bad thing to be mindless in front of you, to only think about this, it's so good, it hurts but it's so good, he loves it, he loves you—

Still speaking aloud; he can tell by the way your expression slackens, your lip trembles, and you shakily cup his face to bring his lips to yours. He's barely conscious enough to reciprocate, his whole body shuddering with every thrust, and he can feel the quivering vibrations of the both of you moaning into each other's mouths, feel the wetness of saliva and tears, his tears, when was the last time he cried? He'd cry for you, he thinks senselessly. You're worth crying for.

"Please," he begs, not necessarily knowing what he's pleading for anymore. "Please, please, please—"

You tighten around him, and it makes his voice cut out with the noise it makes, and even as he watches through the blurry wet haze of his tears he feels and sees you come undone beneath him, your back arching up to meet him as though you two could possibly get any closer. Your broken-off moans and breathy gasps send Xiao over the edge again with a dry, broken sob.

He's so, so sensitive that even pulling out of you makes him wince and shudder all over again. He watches, dazed, as his own release drips out of you, thankful absently that you thought to put towels down before—before.

You're gasping, hands on his face, a frantic look on your face. "Xiao? Hey. You okay?"

I'm fine, Xiao tries to say, but all that comes out is a breathy whimper. He's still sort of crying, he realises, bringing up a trembling back to touch his wet cheeks. You thumb at his face, the touch almost too much—he wants to curl into his clothes, but of course he has no clothes because he's naked, both of you are—

His face burns with sudden shame. He came three times.

"Did I make you feel good?" he whispers, softly, wide-eyed. Your expression trembles, melts into a soft smile that feels like the closest thing to sedation Xiao can handle.

"So, so good," you assure him, and Xiao melts into your arms with a deep sigh. He's still shaking like a baby bird, but you hold him in your warm arms, as his tears turn to sniffles and then wet, quivering breaths. "You pushed yourself too far, though," you tell him, and Xiao curls up, blanching at any semblance of rejection. "I'm not mad," you hasten to assure him. "Far, far from it. Just... go easier on yourself, next time, please. I care about you. I don't want you to hurt yourself for my sake."

Reality returns in doses. Some semblance of awareness trickles back to Xiao the longer you talk. "I understand," he whispers. "I liked it. It was—perhaps more i-intense than I anticipated, but I liked it. I liked... doing it for you." He blushes.

You press a soft kiss to his forehead. "You're so sweet, Xiao. We'll talk about it more tomorrow, okay?"

He nods tiredly. That sounds agreeable. Tomorrow exists in some far-off dreamland. For now, he can curl up to your side as you carefully manoeuvre the towels off the bed so you can sleep on clean, dry sheets. Xiao clings to you, snuffling into your side like you'll disappear if he lets you go, and you card your fingers through his sweat-damp hair.

It should be horribly embarrassing. But it isn't. It just isn't. Nothing is the way it should be, when it comes to you. Not pain, or pleasure, or any of the things he usually feels. He supposes it's a byproduct of never being loved.

But he loves you. And—

"I love you, Xiao," you murmur against his hair, and if he had any tears left he's sure they'd be welling up in his eyes. As it is, his fingers merely tighten their hold on your waist. "You said it earlier—I don't know if—well. I just wanted to say it. I love you, and you did so, so well for me. Now go to sleep."

Xiao thinks he'd die if you asked him to.

But you don't. You just ask him to sleep.

So he does.

#🫀.scribes #genshin impact smut #genshin impact x reader #xiao smut #xiao x reader #kinktober 2023 #xiao x dom!reader #genshin impact x dom!reader #dom!reader #sub!genshin #sub!xiao #sub!xiao x reader #sub!genshin x reader

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shesjustanothergeek · 2 months ago

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The Gods We Can Touch Chapter Seven: Ending Anew

|Aemond Targaryen x Strong!Reader|

Masterlist of Series

Summary: The older twin of Prince Jacaerys Velaryon, you were a picture of the maiden, untouched and untainted by man's sins. At least, that was what Alicent Hightower believed when she held you in her arms moments after her old friend's labors. You were her shining light, her dream. Though you were never hers, she believed you were meant to be.

What will become of you as time passes and the Queen's shining light grows within the blackened darkness? Will her eldest son's morbid fascination with the light burn the realm? Or will her second son's obsession with the only daughter of Rhaenyra Targaryen change the course of the Seven Kingdoms as we know it?

Author's Note: Thank you for your patience and understanding with the uploads. I've been working six days a week and have only one day to myself where I can do basic necessities like wash clothes and clean. My bedroom has certainly paid for it and so has my hobbies. (Or lack there of) I hope y'all enjoy this seeing young adult Aemond and reader! (⁠ﾉ⁠◕⁠ヮ⁠◕⁠)⁠ﾉ⁠*⁠.⁠✧

Chapter Warnings: sexual harassment, dubious consent, bastardphobia, implied mental illness, lots of sexism.

The distinction between those we love and those we hate can be subtle. Both emotions are directed towards an individual based on their inherent qualities. Despite this commonality, they are often perceived as opposites. Loving someone entails wanting them to thrive while hating someone involves wishing for their suffering or transformation. However, love and hate can coexist despite their seemingly contradictory nature.

Six years ago, you experienced deep affection for an individual during your youth, believing that their sun-kissed hands epitomized kindness. However, after enduring years of distress, you discovered the unexpected capability to harbor animosity towards this once beloved person. This realization perplexed you as you contemplated whether he endured similar inner turmoil.

You hated Uncle Aemond for hurting your brothers the night at Driftmark many years ago and for not responding to your countless ravens who sought to apologize and keep broken promises. But because of the love that never ceased beating in your heart, you continued to create reasons for yourself to loathe him. Despite realizing your uncle would never respond, you still sent him letters with the blind hope that someday you would have one addressed from King’s Landing, though if one ever did come, they were from Queen Alicent, and in which you promptly fed them to the fish-eyed billy goats on Dragonstone.

The contents were of anything and everything you could think of. Sometimes, you retold important events like leaving to study at the Citadel and becoming a lady of Queen Esabella of Dorne as a temporary peace bargain for what happened in the Stepstones. Other times, it was your interests, such as a new plant or a medical technique, that you learned and thought would help him with his… ailment.

Though you heard nothing from Aemond, that did not mean you knew nothing about him. You heard rumors that he took to putting a sapphire in his empty eye socket, and while the idea was sure to inspire fear in the hearts of many, it fascinated you, wondering if the gem was smooth and round or jagged and sharp, much like your uncle’s personality. It seemed like him to fashion something such as that as he was always a bit odd, though you never minded it. You imagined the discomfort his wound might cause despite it becoming scarred. From what you understood about those with similar injuries, the person could feel the severed nerves and tissue healing themselves, the sensation like a thousand hot needles in the skin.

It was no wonder why he was gossiped to have such a cold demeanor. You hoped one day you would be allowed to see it yourself, even if you were on the receiving end.

Some of you worried that Aemond never received your letters, thinking you abandoned him and all the promises made in secrecy. Queen Alicent wouldn’t be the one to bar them from him as she most desperately wanted you to visit the Red Keep and mend the bond broken on the night at Driftmark. You didn’t understand why it had to be you to be the one to do so. These were matters created by the ruling adults in your life, and they should have sought to fix them.

Nevertheless, neither you, your parents, nor Queen Alicent tried to mend what occurred between the family. Still, that lack of effort did not extend to your relationship with your uncle. You still wanted to fly with him as you promised some years ago.

“The Conqueror and his sisters sailed with a great army,” Jacaerys translated from High Valyrian, his words proud but still holding a certain waver to his voice now that you weren’t there to assist him.

You stood by one of the tall metal-paned windows in the Chamber of the Painted Table in Dragonstone, the ancient seat of your family, silently mouthing the words of your ancestors’ histories spoken by the Maester in your mother tongue.

The thick, gray clouds outside cast a dull light into the room, creating a somber yet peaceful atmosphere. You and your brother understood that your imposing maternal presence made him nervous and hindered his concentration. Over the years, you developed the habit of speaking over Jace during your studies.

This hadn’t gone unnoticed, leading to reprimands from Maester Gerardys and your mother for not giving your twin a fair chance to learn. You only wished for Jace to be the best version of himself he could be. He was to be your King when Mother passed.

“Se Blākuata Rāsho drāñot vilinio viartis,” (And made landfall at the mouth of the Blackwater Rush) Maester Gerardys conveyed, his words slowed and accent thick to convey their meaning.

The resounding echo of the chamber doors opening filled the air with the unmistakable clang of metal. As they parted, a graceful figure emerged—your mother, adorned in a flowing, vibrant red dress that complemented her regal presence. She moved with a poised and graceful stride, her hand tenderly skimming over her gently swelling belly, radiating an undeniable sense of maternal warmth and affection. Catching your gaze, you offered her a tender smile, and in response, she bestowed upon you a fleeting yet soft expression that spoke volumes of her boundless love without the need for words.

“Drāñot,” your mother asked Jace to repeat, but he stared at her wide-eyed, the words slipping from his mind.

Meeting your mother’s strides to greet her, you answered for him with a bright and eager-to-please smile. “The mouth.”

She flashed a tight-lipped grin and scrunched her nose, lightly nodding as Jace slouched in self-directed disappointment. “Mouth! I knew that, sister. You needn’t answer for me,” he expressed with disappointment, stomping his foot on the ground.

“If you keep speaking for your brother, he will never learn,” your mother lightheartedly scolded as she kissed the top of your head. You have heard those words for the past six years.

If Jace knew the answers, you wouldn’t have to help him, you thought reproachfully.

You did not rush to pay attention to your twin as you knelt beside your younger brothers Aegon, Viserys, and Joffrey. Instead, you focused on the youngest, Viserys. With great tenderness, you gathered him into your lap, the book Elinda brought for them cradled in your hands.

Leaning in close to your half-brother, you whispered. “I will teach you our mother tongue once you learn to speak,” as you lovingly smoothed the silky strands of his blonde hair.

“Drāñot. Drāñot,” your brother repeated, as if the meaning of Maester Gerardys’ words would magically appear in his mind.

“And made landing at the mouth of the Blackwater Rush,” you whispered under your breath so no one would hear, answering for him.

You and Jace were the same age, two bodies with one soul, yet different. You could have helped him more if Mother had not sent you away. You never understood why she separated you instead of betrothing you to Jace. She constantly danced around the notion of marrying for years, which was incomprehensible, seeing as the match was the only option that would make sense. You would rule together, and the realm wouldn’t have the same unrest they did with your mother.

“Perhaps that is enough for today,” your mother offered as Jace became increasingly frustrated with his inability to master High Valyrian.

“No!” He exclaimed ardently, holding his arm as if to stop the suggestion physically. “I-I want to keep going.”

You smirked and flipped the page in the picture book you showed Viserys as he babbled nonsensically, his tiny fists grasping the bound leather. As you touched his plump cheek, he smelled like tallow and lavender.

Your mother allowed Jace to proceed with the bob of her head as Maester Gerardys began again. “Guēsi ropakakson Āegon ūndas.”

“Aegon gave orders for the trees to be felled,” you responded as if the question was directed toward you. Your mother quickly snapped her violet eyes in warning. You were used to that look and continued to tend to the babe like nothing happened, as Jace answered with stutters.

“Aegon… ordered that the trees should be… killed,” he stated proudly. You released a puff of air through your nose that sounded like a laugh as Viserys took the tome with tiny, curious, grabby hands.

“Felled. ‘Tis a related word,” your mother gently corrected as she clasped her hands behind her sturdy back. “I don’t expect you to learn High Valyrian in a day, Jace.”

“A king should honor the traditions of his forebears,” your brother steadfastly declared as you turned with your brows raised, spine cracking.

“That sounds like something your sister would say,” your mother expressed with a slight tightness in her tone. Pursing your lips with guilt, you returned to Viserys, acting as if you weren’t paying attention.

That was precisely what you said to him before your lessons today.

“Unless you plan to depose your mother, you have plenty of time to study,” she teased with a grin like she always did, her happiness becoming contagious as you returned the look over your shoulder. Jace did not share the same enthusiasm as the chamber doors opened again, revealing that of your stepfather strolling down the steps.

You looked to Daemon grimly as he met your mother with a grave expression on his time-worn visage. She declared that you all leave the room as he entered without looking further at you and your siblings. Jace called the young Joffrey to follow him, and you and your mother’s lady took Aegon and Viserys. As you passed your stepfather, he brought his hand out, noiselessly ordering you to stop while handing your mother the sealed letter in his fingers. He traced a calloused knuckle over his son’s cheek and placed a kiss on his crown, purple orbs piercing your dark ones.

He knew of your distaste for him ever since he wed Rhaenyra mere days after your father’s death, refusing to leave your rooms unless necessary. While you never felt like the Velaryon side of your family liked you, they agreed with the unspoken sentiment that Daemon had something to do with your father’s death. You disagreed with the idea that your mother did. She loved your father in her way and, in your mind, wasn’t capable of plotting the murder of her children’s father.

You didn’t outright disrespect Daemon; after all, he was still a prince, but he would never be someone you looked up to or went to in times of strife. He would never be your father, not even as he irritatingly called you daughter and played with the new pearl and sapphire necklace your mother forced you to wear today—a gift from your stepfather.

You understood Daemon only did these things to irk you, refusing to play with the ruse like usual. With no sentences exchanged between you, the Rouge Prince sent you on your way with his offspring wrapped securely in your arms.

“Another raven from Dragonstone, Your Highness,” a Steward announced, holding a rolled piece of parchment sealed with a delicate blue ribbon.

The One-Eyed Prince sat in a green armchair by the hearth, seemingly unbothered, his lithe form in thought and leg crossed over the other. He did not move. His violet eye trained on the flickering orange and blue flames. No words of acknowledgment were said, and the servant placed the letter on the Prince’s foot table as he took a long sip from his goblet in hand.

You were always stubbornly loyal to whoever you cared for, and he thought it rather pathetic, especially when you still sought contact from him after you were met with uncaring silence.

On more than one occasion, his mother attempted to uncover what you said to him, Aemond discovering her rummaging through his writing desk drawers. He met her with an anger he had never felt before, as if she had stolen his most prized jewels.

The Prince told himself that he didn’t care if passersby discovered them. They were inconsequential items containing meaningless ink, and he thought they were a waste of paper until she almost found them. Although he loved his mother dearly, this was something that was Aemond’s, untainted by neither her nor his grandfather’s fingers.

He spent many hours pouring over the subjects you wrote as he battled with the urge to burn your writings, yet desiring to fly to Dragonstone atop the Mighty Vhagar and ensure the oaths you declared in the refined loops of your High Valyrian were indeed true. Aemond never did, only having gotten as close to Driftmark and spotted the glinting silver roof of High Tide before the suffocating feeling inside his chest took hold.

Blood, screams, and horror on your face as he clung to your chest before you crushed the childish hope of being different from the rest of them.

As the Prince grew, he found solace in places he never did before, frequenting the Keep’s gardens and Godswood with Helaena when he wasn’t on the training grounds. He was never fond of the outdoors, preferring the company of a good book curled next to a simmering fire, but he discovered that spending time in those areas brought a sense of contentment, though he was uncertain as to why.

Taking one last sip of his wine, Aemond sat his silver goblet and replaced it with the rolled parchment, licking the sticky remnants away from his lips as he untied the soft satin ribbon.

“Uncle Aemond, I hope this finds you in good health and spirits, as I cannot say the same for myself while writing this. I have overcome a recent bout of melancholia, as Maester Gerardys calls it, and now I’ve heard that Lord Corlys was gravely wounded during an ambush in the Stepstones. Insultingly, Ser Vaemond Velaryon has petitioned the Crown to declare him my Grandsire’s successor upon his passing. This infuriates me to no end. I know if my father were still alive, he would have protected him with his life, and we wouldn’t be having such a discussion. My younger brother will be the next Lord of the Tides since our father is gone. While we may disagree on specific lines of heritage, Luke is my father’s son, and I am his daughter. I find it ironic, however, that a place that haunts him, and you, he will now have to preside over. He shall be forever reminded of the great misdeed he infringed upon you, and I do find a sort of justice in it, but I would never dare to voice such a thing aloud. Luke is my brother, after all. I love him with all my being, but a part of me will never forgive him for what he did to you. I’m sure you feel the same. Mother said we would attend the petition to affirm my brother’s long-decided succession, but we both know the actual cause behind this. I do not enjoy discussing these matters. It boils my dragon blood whenever the false rumors surrounding my birth are brought up. Laenor Velaryon is my father and loved me as such. ‘Tis a fact that will never change no matter what lickspittles and gossipers claim. Oddly, despite its negative connotation and history, I eagerly await my arrival at the Red Keep. Do not think I am forgetful of you. You would not believe me if you knew how often you are in my heart and mind. I hope to see you in good health and that my recommendations for your eye, which I’ve mentioned in previous correspondence, have proven useful. Until we meet.”

Aemond did not know whether to throw your letter into the smoldering fire and watch the flames engulf the tan pages or to rip it into a dozen tiny pieces. He hated you. He loathed you with his entire being as he dangled the parchment over the orange and yellow embers, yet he could not will the rage in his heart to drop it as the heat burned his fist. Aemond welcomed the discomfort, the pain. He grew accustomed to and welcomed it until he felt the water beneath his flesh bubble.

You were no more than a dirty bastard, a daughter of a whore, yet you flaunted riches like a Targaryen princess, unbefitting of your actual status. Aemond did not want to see you ever again, lest it be you groveling on your knees for his forgiveness. It was you who broke the vows and betrayed him, choosing your filthy, Strong brothers over him. He would never forgive you, though seeing you knelt before him as your pretty tears decorated your plump cheeks would be a lovely sight. The Prince felt his cock impulsively swell at the image.

He abhorred you, yet Aemond meticulously placed your letter amidst a collection of others in an exquisitely crafted wooden lockbox adorned with intricate carvings of dragons. As he savored a deep gulp of wine, his gaze fixated on the flickering light evoked by your memories. It brought to mind the recollection of your unique grace, a quality that remained unmatched despite the countless attempts made by him and Aegon to find women of similar allure. The sharpness of his eldest brother’s words and the acrid scent of his breath lingered in his memory as Aegon leaned in on his thirteenth nameday.

“Worry not, brother. We’ll find one that looks like her for you. Time to get it wet.”

Without hesitating, he flung his drink into the fire, extinguishing its voracious flames.

The ground was cold beneath your fingers despite wearing gloves as you pruned the small plot in Aegon’s Garden. Budding crocus dotted the moist area with tiny bursts of purple petals and green stems, withstanding the late winter season. Spring was a moon away, but winter refused to release its clutch on the land, leaving the dirt to keep the frigid dampness that few things could grow in.

Aegon’s Garden was where you found yourself in strife, seeking peace and distraction in your passion. Now, with your mother’s nerves upon hearing that Ser Vaemond Velaryon decided to challenge the line of succession to the Driftwood throne, you felt the heavy burden of the future on your hunched shoulders. You felt bad about the whole situation, from your Grandsire Lord Corlys’s serious injury to the unspoken notion that Vaemond bringing this petition to the Crown was that Lucerys, and by extension, you and Jacaerys were illegitimate. The truth did not matter, not really. It was what those believed or those in power seats told those to think, and it was that you, Jace, Luke, and Joffrey were the offspring of Laenor Velaryon and Rhaenyra Targaryen.

As the King declared, you were next in line to the throne after your mother and Luke for Lord of the Tides after your Grandsire. His word was law, but it was no longer that of a King who sat on the throne but a Queen.

“You should be readying for the journey, Princess. Your mother wants to leave at first light,” Edwina, your most loyal lady, stated. She stood with her broad shoulders squared, hair tucked underneath her white maid’s cap, and hands clasped behind her back. Though she was barely a few years your senior, she acted as if she had decades.

You sighed, rolling your dark eyes in annoyance and sitting on your haunches. You supposed Edwina’s mothering was not unfounded, as your impulsiveness tended to lead you into regret. “I will not be joining my mother and Daemon on the ship. ’Tis much faster on dragon back,” you quipped.

“The Princess wants you all to arrive together,” your lady expressed, taking a few steps closer to show her seriousness.

“To show a united front. Yes, I know Edwina. I could not go,” you teased, smirking, removing your leather gloves finger by finger. “I have no love for the Red Keep, my extended family, or them for me.”

Edwina knew that was a lie. It was evident how she saw you pour over letters addressed to King’s Landing. The maid knew not who the intended recipient was, but there was someone who held a secret place in your heart. The Karstark often wondered if it was Aegon, seeing as a betrothal was whispered in the past, though that idea was quickly squashed after you had an uncharacteristic fit when she voiced it.

“I understand, Your Highness, but duty is sacrifice. Those of your standing must do things in service to your House and family that are against your wants. I do not envy that,” Edwina offered with a half smile of pity as the pair of you entered the benevolent brimstone walls of Dragonstone.

In response, you hummed, linking her strong arm in yours and lowering your head with a look mirrored hers. “This a small price to pay to live a life of privilege.”

The lady nodded in acquiescence as pictures of the poor folk in line for their food rations showed in your mind. Your travels gave you a perspective that your family did not have, forcing you to confront privileges you were unaware existed until they were thrown into your face. You held a sinking feeling inside when you thought of it for days after, guilt gnawing at your heart every time you were draped in lavish dresses of Velaryon blue and adorned with lavish jewels. It sparked you to grow your plot in Aegon’s Garden when you finally returned home and give to those less fortunate despite the odd looks your family gave you.

A similar heavy, sinking weight inside your gut returned as you thought of going to the Red Keep, seeing your uncles and Queen Alicent after what happened at Driftmark. Your guilt and shame felt as prominent as if you were the one who sliced into Aemond’s eye. You tried to reason that he deserved some form of punishment for hurting Baela, Rhaena, and your brothers, but it never worked. Your conscience was too steadfast to allow lies like that to blind you.

Your mother planned on staying in the Red Keep for a night to spend time with her father and to renew her place at court. There was no joy in your heart to learn of her plans as you chose what dresses and jewelry to wear before supper. Though King’s Landing was once your home, it no longer held the wonderous warmth that came with a place of rest. Childhood memories spent there did not come with a smile when you thought of them. Instead, misery came to mind with lingering stares from adults and Aegon and Aeomnd’s relentless teasing regarding your birth.

The cold, briny halls of Dragonstone were your home. Everyone loved you and your kin here, and there was no whispering behind silk fans wherever you went. The only gossip was if you would become with child before or after Princess Rhaenyra betrothed you and Jacaerys.

After you supped with your brothers, mother, and Daemon at night, you lay within thick furs that threatened to let the frigid midnight air in. When you woke to leave, the ground would dust with the crystalline covering of frost, and you knew how Gaeli despised the cold. He would fly at your command regardless, but you would undoubtedly feel his displeasure until he resided in the heat of the Dragonpit.

This petition felt like a dark cloud looming in the distance of a clear sky, promising its threat of a storm as you soared over Blackwater Bay. Despite your mother’s insistence that you ride on the ship with her because of her pregnancy, you choose to take Gaelithox across the water. In turn, that caused your brothers to want to take their dragons to King’s Landing and leave your mother to make the journey with only the comfort of her husband, which you were sure she didn’t mind.

It was customary for the family to make an entrance together and be greeted by the host’s kin, but when you emerged from the wheelhouse that took you from the Dragonpit, its dark caverns still the same, you were greeted by only guards. The lack of forethought and the apparent insult of the Green’s absence sent an icy feeling into your gut, causing you to itch at the skin beneath your black dress.

The gown was not your typical style choice, as it was your Velaryon blue and pearls, but your mother wanted you to wear one of your garments fashioned in the Targaryen colors of black and red with a golden linked belt and rubies to match. She planned to present a united front before the Court and the Greens and, without it said, further solidify her and your siblings’ legitimacy to the throne.

As you stepped out of the carriage with an encouraging inhale, Jace, Luke, and Joffrey, along with the nursemaids carrying Aegon and Viserys, followed after a chill running through the air. You brought your fur-lined cloak closer to your goose flesh arms, shuddering as you observed the Red Keep in all its grandeur. It was as big as you remembered, looking at the tall pale red stone towers, windows, and colliers. You felt small, the unmistakable burn of tears under your eyelids, your nose beginning to run as memories from six years ago flashed inside your mind’s eye.

Luke and Jace came to stand behind you, taking note of your trembling lip and pink cheeks. The youngest of the two was filled with the same anxiety as you and quickly took his hand in yours—a united front. They did not know why you were shaking in your riding boots, squeezing Luke’s fist for comfort as Lord Caswell led your family inside the front gates.

While the red and black banners of House Targaryen were raised on the Keep’s walls, it seemed to be House Hightower that occupied the castle. The Seven-Pointed Star was everywhere you looked throughout the halls that once were Harold with the tapestries of flying dragons, riders bounding with their mounts, now those of the Seven, holy pictures of the Crone and her guiding light, the Maiden with her pure, ethereal beauty, and others of religious importance.

It reminded you of your time in the Citadel in Oldtown, the ancient seat of House Hightower, who aligned themselves closely with the Faith of the Seven. Your family’s relationship with the Septons and Septas was strife until the late King Maegor ruthlessly crushed the Faith Militant Uprising. However, during your stay, you heard whispers from passing Lords and Ladies that the animosity supposedly vanquished long ago was still there, simmering below their fear of House Targaryen and their dragons.

While the Seven did offer you something to soothe your soul in times of unease and explain unanswered things, it didn’t provide you consolation seeing it paraded around grotesquely in place of your House’s history. It churred the feeling of anxious dread in the pit of your stomach as your brothers eagerly left your side to explore the long-forgotten Red Keep.

“I would say it’s nice to be home, but I scarcely recognize it,” your mother said, a slight lilt to her melodic voice and sharing a knowing glance with Daemon.

You stood closely by her side, moist lips tucked in concern as you observed your stepfather’s butter smirk walking before the two of you. You and your mother stayed unmoving for another moment to allow the situation to settle. The abrupt raven, Lord Corlys gravely injured, Princess Rhaenys traveling to King’s Landing, Luke’s legitimacy loudly called to question all happening within a few days was more commotion than you had within the entirety of your stay at Dragonstone. It was a wonder you hadn’t plucked at the hairs of your Crown, your digits twitching and coming to scratch at your scalp.

Suddenly, you felt a shift in the air, unable to name the sensation as you turned to your mother, whose beautiful violet orbs were trained on a series of portraits of your kin. While your King grandsire, stepfather, mother, Queen Alicent, and her children were there, your siblings were not, leaving only the elegant, rectangular golden frame of your countenance in the places of your brothers. You felt your heart drop and glanced at your mother with wide, curious eyes.

This meant too many things. Not only was it an insult to your mother and siblings to have all but their pictures, but the fact that it was only you there out of the six of you. It was no doubt Queen Alicent’s doing as you forced yourself to swallow a lump in your throat. The tears you kept at bay reemerged as your fingers dug under your black mesh veil, rolling the fine dark hairs at the nape of your neck between the pads of your thumb and forefinger.

Swiftly, your mother took your wrist, soothingly rubbing your knuckles as she gave you a brief yet wistful smile. “Why don’t you find the Godswood, yes? I shall meet you there shortly.”

You bobbed your head stiffly, willing your tears and trepidations to quiet as you rubbed at your damp lashes. “Yes, Mother,” you responded in kind with a sniffle.

You found yourself within nature as you always did in times of strife, gazing up into the crimson leaves of a Weirwood, the soft rustle of branches reminding you of inaudible whispers. They were hard to make with the sky’s brightness, only to see the fuzzy outlines with the gray clouds, but they comforted you. The Old Gods watched you with their unseen eyes as your fingertips traced the rough bark grass crunching beneath your boots.

The Godswood was the only place within the Keep’s grounds that did not cause you significant stress, as only fond memories of your times with Helaena catching insects and playing games with Jace and Luke filled your mind. You had no desire to return to King’s Landing despite being away for so long. It felt as if no time could heal the irreparable wounds caused within these walls and the person who did it.

Many rumors spread throughout the realm and to your little island of Dragonstone from the smallfolk, whispering that Prince Aegon’s appetite for depravity did not curb after his marriage to Princess Helaena. The people said it increased tenfold as the Prince was spotted frequenting the gambling houses, brothels, and illegal fighting pits. It seemed fitting for your eldest uncle’s character to become the worst of something he was supposed to make the best of.

You could only think of the innocent children sired into this world without their mother’s consent and then put into the fighting pits so that Aegon and other highborns could have their entertainment. When you are Queen, you shall kill every man or woman who dares to share the same interests as your uncle. You would not willingly allow such depravity under your rule. No amount of coin from such establishments could be worth it to keep the economy afloat.

The soft crunching of late winter grass caused you to jump, tearing from your thoughts as you turned to see your grandmother, Princess Rhaenys. You bestowed her with a deep curtsy and smile, coming to greet her with open arms.

“Grandmother!” you called with unspoken joy in your tone. “Tis a pleasure to see you after so long.”

She extended a tight-lipped smile that looked like a grimace, and you felt deflated. “I wish I could share the same unwitting joy you do, seeing as my Lord Husband lays battling with the Stranger.”

You lowered your arms with chagrin and took a few paces back as you felt the sting of tears resurface. “Apologies, my lady. I did not mean for my joy at seeing my father’s mother to make light of the gravity this day brings.”

She chuckled wryly at your words, shaking her head as she looked to the Weirwood tree behind you. Following her gaze, you moved from her path as she took steps forward. There were so many things you wanted to say to her, to scream to her how much you loved your father and wished for those involved with his death to pay as you twirled his signet ring on your middle digit.

Princess Rhaenys looked to you in the serene noiselessness of the Godswood, the chill in the wind causing you to shiver, gaze drifting to where you worked the gold around your knuckle. She said nothing with her mouth. She needn’t, as you could see it written plainly in the deep wrinkles lining the corners of her eyes. The Princess felt the same but would never admit it aloud to a… bastard.

“I shall leave you in peace, Princess,” you bowed again, walking with less brightness into the Keep as you left the one person you could speak about your father to.

You felt like an imbecile for what you said, even though any grandparent should feel the same glee you did at their grandchildren’s arrival. A hot wave of embarrassment seared your insides, causing you to dig the heels of your palms into your eye sockets, ripping your veil off in anger. You didn’t care about the beautifully plated hair your ladies created, scraping your nails into your scalp to feel the threadlike texture of your bothersome strands that ached to be released as you ran blindly through the stone halls.

There had been times when Aemond had forgotten who you were, your smile, your laugh, your eyes, who your birth father was, and the sweet kisses you bestowed on him alone in his chambers. That is why he reasoned that he was surprised to see a woman grown and no longer a girlish figure with a short, flat torso and legs. Instead, it was a lady with the slope of your neck dripping with rubies and dragonglass barely hidden beneath the crevasse of your swelling bosom.

Your eyes were all he could think about from the moment you emerged from the second wheelhouse. A scared, almost dovelike look to them as he watched Luke and Jace come to your side.

Good, he thought. You all should be terrified. Yet he did not hold the same conviction as his stare drifted back to you.

The Prince thought you were so small and fragile from a distance as he observed you leave the Godswood, an arch to your dark brows that seemed to be in pain. He thought there should be nothing within your perfect ideal life to be so torn about and wanted to give you a reason to be upset. Aemond planned to spit all the vitriol he held within these six years as you rounded the corner, and yet, as Aemond held you within his bruising grasp, you stared at him with such fire beneath unshed tears.

The passageway Aemond cornered you into carried a chill seeping in from the outside as he saw your cheeks redden in ire. Your moist, plump lips slightly parted to breathe as he dug his blunt nails into your biceps. He felt his breeches become impossibly tighter as you swallowed, darting your pink tongue out in nervousness, much to his frustration.

Aemond was no longer the sun-kissed Prince with wide amethyst eyes full of light. His plush, boyish face had slimmed in the time lost and turned into one of hardened maturity with a sharp nose and chiseled jaw that came to a point with thin pink lips. His countenance resembled the statues you saw in Dorne as you felt his strong hands dig into your muscles like he wanted to tear at your essence. You felt your body weaken against your will, succumbing to the emotions you felt for your uncle in your youth, but resolved to stay firm against his intimidation. There were still hints of the Aemond you briefly knew in your childhood, the one that kept that night a secret still to this day.

“Unhand me, Aemond!” you spat as if he had swiped filth across your face, a deep wrinkle on your forehead.

Aemond wanted to laugh despite your seriousness as he pressed you further against the pale red stone wall, uncaring if Princess Rhaenys heard your cries. You dropped your headpiece in your struggles and attempted to retrieve it before your uncle’s piercing grip righted you again.

“Must I?” he quipped, his stomach churning with excitement as the familiar scent of citrus and something darker wafted into his nose. “You’re a strong lady. I’m certain you can overpower me.”

Aemond allowed his gaze to roam over your face as you scoffed with a squirm. He wanted you to be ugly, for you to become the personification of all the wrongs your family committed against him, to be the picture of the betrayal he felt for you choosing them over him on that dreadful night. Up close, he unwillingly realized you were what the smallfolk claimed you to be. The picture of the Maiden though he knew you were anything but. Aemond wondered what they would think should the people discover your true nature.

“You believe yourself a true Velaryon, do you not? The Old, the True, the Brave,” he asked, his voice low and menacing. His face was so close to yours that you could see the intricate stitchings of his brown leather eyepatch. You wondered if he wore his sapphire today. “Your hair is decorated with gold and pearls, fingers adorned with jewels, and wrapped in lavish dresses. Yet beneath all the decadence you wear, you are still nothing more than Strong.”

His insults meant nothing as you realize your uncle felt the same inner turmoil. Why else would he speak such prose of your being? He loathed and loved you in the same breath, something he fought to keep inside.

“Do not hide behind cruel words, Aemond. I see you as you are.” A delicate hand came to cup his marred cheek, the smooth pads of your fingers tenderly stroking the plunging indentation through his skin. You wished to get through to him, to tell him that despite the rift between your families, you cared for him. He could still be your Mors Martell.

The Prince felt himself crack, an unconscious twitch of his lip that he disguised as a sneer. Aemond felt a sensation he fought to keep at bay since he was disabled, struggling to hide the way memories from long ago clouded his mind. Instead, the Prince focused on how you inhaled a sharp breath when his hand left your arm and came to your face, jerking it towards his as Aemond lost your tender touch. He would swear upon his death that he saw your eyes dilate a fraction too much for it to be the shadow of the torchlight.

Wondering then if the rumors were true that you and your twin had a closer relationship, he brought his other fist to encircle your waist, trailing it down the back of your plump thigh until he forced it to wrap around his hip. A part of Aemond was sure you would scream for help as you did when he found you with Aegon, but no words escaped your moist lips.

“You hurt me, my light. Can I not simply bask in the presence of my long-lost dream?” he mocked and realized that he might have gone too far as he felt your body stiffen and face blanched. The expression on your visage reminded him of the times he saw wounded soldiers return from minor village uprisings, the bloodshed changing their perspectives.

The Prince understood that there was no returning from what he said, seeming to have flipped an unseen switch inside you at the mention of his mother’s petname for you. Your lips began to tremble on their own volition, and you abruptly noticed the striking resemblance between Aemond and his older brother. The most venomous expression you could muster curled onto your face, hiding your fright and not allowing him to hold power over you any longer.

“Don’t insult my intellect, Aemond. I know what disgusting thoughts play inside your mind, and they intimidate me for naught. You are more alike to Aegon than you allow,” you jeered. You knew what to say to wound him, to compare him to his wastrel of an older brother who raped innocent serving girls and his kin.

Unable to help your wandering eyes, you watched how your uncle’s pink tongue moved within his mouth, how the wetness glistened with the flick of his ire.

“And what of you?” Aemond rebuked. “You cannot simply only be close siblings. The dragon’s blood runs thick and even more so between twins.”

You were silent, leaving only the faint rustling of nature in the distance wrapped around the pair of you like a rope, tightening against your skin and pulling you and Aemond closer. Despite the frigid weather, it became hot, sweat collecting on your upper lip and nape. All Aemond could hear was the fierce rhythm of your breathing, his eye wandering down to the elegant necklace perched on your chest.

“You spout baseless, vile accusations of your kin that have made lesser men lose their lives,” you rebuked, fists coming to clutch at his jerkin and wrapping your digits in the green leather as if you meant to fight him.

“Perhaps,” he breathed with an air of superiority, “but I don’t believe it to be treason to question your morals,” he replied coolly, his light brow quirking with his tone of practiced impassivity.

The Prince was stunned into silence when your tiny, delicate palm echoed off his marred cheek. It was not the force that shocked him, but rather the notion that you did it despite the threat of violence.

For a brief moment, white, hot pain seared at his left temple and into his skull as he turned to you and saw an expression of regret. Aemond felt the heat on his cheek and smirked. He knew you intended to hurt him by striking him on his injured side and now understood how to cripple you as Luke did him. It would always be your beloved family—your weakness.

The lamb bit as fiercely as the wolf, Aemond mused. You may not be as frail as he thought.

Excitement curled the Prince’s toes at the whimper that escaped your lips as he used his strength around your throat, perfectly styled hair fraying on the stone. Your once flat irises now burst with life as they darted across Aemond’s lean form in brief terror, a proud grin wrinkling his eyes.

“You ignorant bitch,” he declared, pressing himself closer, his hand firm around you despite attempting to pry them off. His other limb reached down, shifting you to the tips of your toes as he dropped your leg. Though fruitless, he reveled in the terror that washed over your features as you attempted to fight him. He wouldn’t dishonor you, but all that mattered was that you did not.

Aemond felt disgusted at his actions, believing for a moment that you were right about him, that he was indeed the same as Aegon, yet in different colored clothes.

“I’ll scream. Just as I did that night.”

“Then do it and let the whole Keep think worse of you,” the Prince mocked, bearing his white teeth. “I shall say it was you who seduced me, and who will they believe? The King’s second son or the bastard daughter who fucks her brother?”

He could feel your humid breath against his face, fanning the spot where you had struck him. Aemond stared at this vicious yet adored creature in his grip as he concealed his insecurities with the intimating tilt of his head as if examining a new book. His violet eye traced the ink, waiting for your next move. The Prince would have you think him to be Aegon if it meant fucking his spend into you no matter how undeserving you were of it. Perhaps you would finally see what the true seed of a dragon looks like. Aemond grinned with his unspoken words and felt satisfaction with the anger he stoked in your eyes.

“You will let me go. Now,” you demanded, pushing against your uncle as you struggled for purchase.

“And then what will you do? Run? Men in King’s Landing are not as kind as I when they see a distressed lady.” Your jaw ached, feeling like a rabbit cornered by a fox as a familiar and unwelcomed primal warmth blossomed between your thighs.

You wanted to threaten him, to say that you would feed Aemond to your dragon or poison him in his sleep, but nothing came to mind besides the smell of too-sweet wine and the taste of dried dates. Memories came from that night, as you felt yourself becoming faint, the will to fight to leave you just as it did with Aegon as powerless tears welled on your lashes. You were a fool to think Aemond would see past his injustice for the sake of the past and resign yourself to whatever fate he chooses for you.

There was no point in fighting. Once again, you were at the mercy of your uncle, and you only prayed that this one would be gentle.

The Prince no longer felt proud of his actions as he watched your body recoil into itself. There was something in your eyes that Aemond couldn’t name as he looked between them, feeling himself slowly pulled into their depths as he did the night after Aegon. The Prince wasn’t going to hurt you, not really. He was young and foolish, but not to the extent that he would commit an act of one of the highest sins.

As if the mother herself took mercy on you, the soft murmur of voices down the hall echoed into your and Aemond’s ears. You could not hide your smirk as he stared into you with a deep scowl on his porcelain face. Whatever plans he had, they crumbled like dead leaves underneath your boots as your mother and step-sister came. Taking his momentary distraction to your advantage, you shoved against the hardened planes of his chest, your sudden rush of strength knocking Aemond off balance as you retrieved your forgotten headpiece.

Soon, they came into view, their destination no doubt being that of the Godswood as you fixed your disrupted attire. You couldn’t help the grin that pulled at your plump cheeks as you saw your uncle’s scowl, taking a few paces to reach them. You seemed the proper princess to the outside, greeting them with a quick embrace and your chin high.

Rhaena acted like Aemond wasn’t there. Only the uncomfortable shift of her shoulders revealed she noticed him while your mother extended a short but polite acknowledgment before he stalked away without proper dismissal.

“What did he do to you?” your step-sister pointedly questioned, scanning your form for any injury.

You looked at her in what you hoped was a confused yet grateful expression and not one of guilt. “Prince Aemond merely wanted to make amends for the lack of presence at our arrival. I do not believe him to be sincere.”

Your mother smirked her delicate peony lips, releasing a scoff of disbelief as she shook her styled hair. She closed the space between you and tenderly grasped your shoulders as she scanned your form for injury.

“Do not let them get to you. They seek only pride and glory,” your mother declared steadfastly, a vibrancy you had never seen before in her amethyst eyes.

Nodding in acquiescence, you extended another brief embrace before you excused yourself, wanting nothing more than for this day to end as you went to search for your brothers.

You needed Jace—to feel the comfort only your twin could give after facing the scars of the past. Before reaching your destination, you felt an iron-like grip across your upper arm, pulling you into a secluded alcove. You feared the worst, that someone planned to harm you and that your last words to your mother would be lies.

“You are quick, niece,” Aemond whispered haughty into your ear, causing you to drop your headpiece in fright, “but that quickness will do you no good in King’s Landing. Your whore mother has no hold here.”

Just as quickly as your uncle took you, he released you with a shove. You wanted to bite with some clever or witty remark but thought of none. Tears of embarrassed frustration welled in your eyes as you spun on your heel, ignoring the tickle on your wrist like something had touched it.

As Aemond watched your womanly form retreat, dark eyes trailing over your curves, he did not feel the satisfaction he believed the interaction would create, spotting your discarded veil on the flagstone floor. He stared at it for a long moment, tracing the intricately sewn beads as he picked it up.

Unsure of what came over him, he brought it to his nose, the scent of citrus flooding his senses and into the blood that engorged his cock. He was able to appreciate the feminine quality of your fragrance fully. Your aroma was refreshing and rounded, sweet but complex and deep simultaneously, similar to the limes that garnished drinks during the Keep’s summer gatherings, but with floral, herbal, and resinous undertones.

With a guttural noise, the Prince tightened his grip on the headpiece, channeling all his hatred towards your family into his clenched fist and tucked it into his jerkin. He swiftly went to the training session with Cole, hoping the knight wouldn’t see through his façade before witnessing the impending downfall he believed your family deserved.

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Sooooo, what did we think about their reuniting? Just two mentally ill and horny young adults. XD I originally wanted the whole meeting with Aemond again, the petition, and the dinner scene to be all in one chapter, but that was waaaaaay too much. I split them up to get those infamous scenes in the next chapter. I'm excited. It's gonna be juicy!

I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Thank you so much for reading! (⁠ ⁠´⁠◡⁠‿⁠ゝ⁠◡⁠`⁠)

I wanted to briefly give credit to @targaryenrealnessdarling, and their fic The Blood is Rare for inspo of the setting when Aemond and the reader meet for the first time. However, I did change things to make it my own. They have a lot of Aemond fics that will surely quench your thirst as y'all wait for the next chapter. (⁠◠⁠‿⁠◕⁠)

Tagged Peeps: @millies0bsimp, @britt-mf, @marvelescvpe, @haikyuusboringassmanager, @discofairysworld, @lottiemsgf , @nessjo @fiction-fanfic-reader , @qvnthesia , @hotvillianapologist , *@p45510n4f4shi0n, @theendlessvoidofdarkest , @readerselegance , @gothamgurl2024 , @aleemendoza2425-blog , @vaylint , @ln8118 , @prettyduckling22 , @primroseluna

*bold means I can't tag you for some reason ｡⁠:ﾟ⁠(⁠;⁠´⁠∩⁠`⁠;⁠)ﾟ⁠:⁠｡

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peggyao3 · 21 days ago

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Relic - Pt. 14 "A World in a Grain of Sand"

PAIRING: Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen x Unnamed Ambiguous FMC

SUMMARY: ✧ Dreams are messages from the deep ✧ A woman from the unknown comes to Feyd in his dreams and his nights become his days as he flees to the dreamscape to escape the nightmares that haunt his waking hours.

TAGS: Third person POV, she/her AFAB FMC, explicit sexual content, smut, vaginal sex, vaginal fingering, oral sex, Porn with Plot, Feyd-Rautha's black cum and big cock, Praise Kink, Body Worship, angst/hurt and comfort, drama, fluff, plans within plans, implied/referenced child abuse, implied/referenced abuse, Trauma, mentions of suicidal thoughts, Healing, Strangers to Lovers, falling in love, Vulnerable/ Emotional/Possessive Feyd, Feyd is a sweet baby who did nothing wrong and I WILL pamper him, nurture not nature, Stockholm Syndrome but in a consensual way, lucid dreaming, Implied/Referenced Cannibalism, murder, teaching the universe about feminism, female rage, Frank Herbert would frown, No actually he would kneel in front of me, putting the science and the porn in sci-fi, angst with a happy ending

WORD COUNT: 5.4k

A/N: Giving you the eyebrow 🤨 because no one seems to have picked up on a tiny, little, important detail that was to be found in the last chapter, or at least no one mentioned it 😌 Finally I can write what I really crave to write. IT'S SCIENCE TIME 💖

Reposted from my Ao3 💕| Masterlist | Relic Masterlist

Dividers by @saradika-graphics

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Day 31

"I have one last question, little slave," Vladimir Harkonnen drones from his afloat position, a celestial body of massive dimensions in front of the somber backdrop of his throne room, black within black with only a single glow globe illuminating the back of him. He prefers to shun the black sun these days, as glorious as it may be, it brings out the myriad of spider veins beneath his frail, aged skin.

"Yes, Lord Baron?" The unremarkable slave's voice echoes from below.

"What is this… ancient piece of metal in my dear nephew's toy's room?"

"I believe you must know more about it than I do. I assume you had it examined before it was unloaded and brought inside?"

"Naturally!" Vladimir raises his voice. The slave with her bowed head can't see the way the aged Baron squints to get a clearer picture of her. Afloat as he is, she is little more than a splotch of white against black, and an unwelcomely blurry one.

The examination had revealed a human shaped mold, cushioned with gel pads, thick tubes for coolant, a recycling system with residue nutrient solution, solar panels for energy harvesting. No traces of radiation or explosives. It almost seems like the metal box is exactly what the sisterhood had made it out to be. A hibernation chamber for a fossil from another time. However, it wouldn't be the first myth created by the Bene Gesserit.

"I know you are looking for something substantial, my Lord, and so was I," the slave speaks after the Baron's elongated pause. "But I'm afraid the truth is as embarrassing as it is mundane. I've come to believe that she keeps it close out of raw sentimentality. She's a sentimental creature, that woman."

Lilia has always loved danger and the long, twisted inkvine scar on her shoulder from girlhood days is just one proof of that. Perhaps that's why she so effortlessly serves the Baron velvet lies.

"Ah-h-h, like my Feyd-Rautha then. It doesn't surprise me," the Baron drawls, lungs expanding with a raspy heaviness to each intake of air.

In all his years as Giedi Prime's sovereign, Vladimir Harkonnen has never learned that the promise of a kind embrace outweighs the threat of violence tenfold and that a spark of human goodness can sway a servant's loyalty quicker than a snap of a whip.

"She calls it her sarcophagus," Lilia adds with a tiny scoff that doesn't go unnoticed by the Baron now that he has lowered himself and sinks back into the much more comfortable seat of his throne. The intimidation tactic has fulfilled its purpose.

He bellows. "So, she's got good humor too! A pity she's not a boy. I could have borrowed her sometimes."

The obedient set of Lilia's shoulders and her lowered gaze don't betray the noxious clench that has her stomach convulsing. Perhaps this is the only advantage of being a woman in the Harkonnen palace pyramid.

Day 45

The lack of color that had once bothered her into the throes of a slowly crawling depression is now a pleasure. The blackness of her abode has come to serve as the perfect desktop for columns of text and equations, formulations and simulations and hand-written notes that have her mouth moving and her eyeballs racing.

Her sarcophagus leeches the day's sun, side panels open to give way to rotating cooling fans. The Central Processing Unit of the computer that makes up half of the machinery inside buzzes from the strain she puts on it.

Astronaut M2-84 has finally come home and picked up the work of her own, chosen destiny.

Talking to God, Mikhail had whispered to his wife, is what the Lady is doing. But what she really does is think, read, calculate. Engineers born on the cusp of the astronautic age don't have their oily hands in tool boxes. Most of the time, they tell machines how to build other machines, and to do so, one needs to understand the laws of physics.

This is how Feyd-Rautha finds her each night. Sometimes sunken against the cushions of her bed, or slumped over her desk, staring at the wall with dancing pupils. And other times, like tonight, she sits right by her Sarcophagus, shoulder pressed against the humming metal. She claims the connection between computer and chip is quicker this way.

Silently, Feyd's stride carries him across the room towards his precious engineer. Movement catches his attention at the right and the sight he finds causes a slow tilt of his head.

One quarter of her bed is filled out by a misshapen form, tucked under duvet and whalefur. Glugo lies prone on its stomach, limbs folded tightly against its covered body. Only one front arm-leg peaks out and cradles her plushie against its innocent pug face. Something glossy-white with small handles on each side is held in front of Glugo's mouth by tiny face-hands with liquid sloshing inside.

She has tucked Glugo in like a toddler. And, from the looks of it, she has printed it a sippy cup.

Feyd-Rautha feels all sorts of warmth filling out his chest. If because he wants to be tucked in like a toddler, or because his only friend is finally receiving the gentleness it deserves, or because of a different reason entirely, he can't tell. He raises his hand to wave at Glugo who gurgles softly in return, one tiny face-hand unlatching from the cup handle to wave back.

Glug glug glug.

"You're losing weight." Feyd approaches his beloved slowly. "I don't like it."

"One second, I'm at ninety-eight point five. Seven. Ninety-nine."

"Have you found out anything interesting today, my darling?"

He is long past asking what exactly she's doing, why they aren't simply figuring out a way to get his uncle to take his shield ring off so they can get a blade between his ribs. Or rather a sword, to pierce the obscene, fatty flesh costume he calls his body.

"Your spice—" His darling slurs with a concerning jump to her pupils.

"I don't take spice anymore." Feyd tilts his head and squats down before her, lifting his hands to cup her cheeks.

"No, no, that's not what I meant. Ah, wait, what do you mean, not anymore?" Finally, her eyes regain focus and her arms fill with tension, fingers moving up to encircle Feyd-Rautha's strong wrists.

"There's my darling," he smiles with pretty, full lips and glinting teeth, stroking her cheeks. "So, what about my spice?"

"Not your spice in particular." Her hand flings out to gesture at the universe above. "Your spice shares a few molecular compounds with the medication I took to prepare for the cryo sleep."

Feyd-Rautha's features slip into disbelief, a fresh frown carving deep into the smooth expanse of his forehead.

"Why does this surprise you?" She wonders.

"Spice is unique to Arrakis. Power over the spice means power over everything. How could you have had spice back on Earth without sandworms?"

"First of all, spice, much like anything else, is just protons, electrons and neutrons. With the right tools, you could, in theory, synthesize any molecule."

"And you have such a tool in your Sarcophagus?"

"No! God, no." She laughs out loud and curls her arms around Feyd-Rautha's shoulders in a much needed embrace. Her very eyeballs ache and her spine feels calcified from leaning against the sarcophagus.

To him, it must seem like the solution to just about anything might be hidden in her cryo pod or in her precious chip, but it really holds only a fragment of the technological advancements of Old Earth. The last generation before mankind had embarked to the stars was an ingenious one. They had to be, and their knowledge is safely tucked into the 80 Billion terabyte hard-drive of her supercomputer. She may not have all the tools, but the knowledge to build them — in theory.

She taps the top of the cryo pod and hums. "Building molecules from scratch is not like building houses out of toy blocks. You need to accumulate tremendous amounts of energy in a lab environment to trigger complex chemical reactions."

"You've already built a chair from scratch, and a gun. And now a sippy cup for Glugo?" He states with an incredulous rasp of his voice.

"I couldn't bear seeing it drink from dog bowls anymore. And it struggled so much with cups and glasses, Lilia had to change the sheets twice because the poor thing kept spilling everything."

"You… You are fascinating, my darling." She doesn't miss the spark of arousal that lets Feyd's eyes half disappear under a fan of long lashes. "My point still stands, you've built other things before."

"Yes, but the materials were already there, I just had them pressed into the shape I desired." Feyd tilts his head and she cradles his jaw, stroking across the plushnes of his cheeks. "Were you not taught about chemistry?" Slowly, he shakes his head. "Ah, well, I will explain it to you another time then."

Feyd slides his mouth into her palm, groaning softly. "You know so much. How is it possible that you had spice 24 millenia ago?"

"Not spice. I said my pre-cryo medication shares a few interesting enzymes with spice." She slides one palm around Feyd-Rautha's nape of the neck and softly brings their foreheads together. "My people also used to think their own civilization was the pinnacle of all that has ever been. It was unthinkable that maybe the Aztecs or Sumerians were more advanced. That's how you are too.

You think spice is unique to Arrakis and the technological advancements you have derived from the Holtzman effect are the peak of what is achievable, because it suits you so nicely. But human evolution has never been a linear incline. You have fascinating medicine, Gholas and space travel… But who knows, maybe my people were smarter than yours. Maybe our engineers and chemists were smarter."

"You know so much," he moans again and she knows better than to keep boring him with details. One day, when the many other fires in his heart have settled, she can stoke his interest in science. Feyd is smart. He will come to be fascinated by it.

"This universe is devouring itself because there is no innovation," she softly murmurs. "No one dares to go further, look further, break out of the pattern. Maybe they don't want to, because the consequences scare them. Mentats only do as their Lords bid…"

When Feyd's lips close in on hers, with half-lidded eyes and a dreamy stare, her ramblings subside into grateful, blissful silence, choosing to welcome his tongue in her mouth instead.

Day 59

"Silence!"

The Reverend Mother Gaius Helen Mohiam's voice ripples in the shape of a waveform pattern across the engineer's interface, recorded many decades ago by Baron Harkonnen himself and transferred to the House archive for research purposes.

Other lines of the same encounter, she is certain, were deliberately removed. Such as when the Reverend Mother, then a young woman, had ordered the Baron to hold still so she could mount him and steal the seed out of his body that would sire the Lady Jessica.

She only knows of this story because of Feyd-Rautha, and what it had cost him to learn it, she doesn't even want to know.

"Silence!"

She can only imagine that Piter de Vries' research on the matter might have consisted to a considerable amount of snide mockery, going by Feyd's recountings of the late mentat, hence why the files were so perfectly abandoned and ready for her to pick apart.

Carefully, she separates the impressive cluster of different wavelengths that make up the audio fragment, finding portions all the way from the high-frequency to the low-frequency audible spectrum, some even so low that they are no longer perceived as sound by the human ear.

The astronaut remembers how the Reverend Mother had tested her in an archaic show of deference, forced onto her knees with her hand in a box while the older woman addressed the pain receptors in her brain via an inaudible wavelength. She may not have moved her lips, but that doesn't mean she didn't cause the air molecules to oscillate.

Technically speaking, this renders the mysteriously omnipotent sisterhood into little more than ventriloquists. That image of demystification offers at least a little comfort to the humiliation provided by the memory of searing pain in every nerve.

She reclines in her chair, swallowing against the dry itch in her throat while she strings together a few fairly simple lines of code.

Curiously, the voice doesn't affect her physiology when played from an artificial source, such as the micro speaker soldered onto her chip's tiny board.

She can only assume that by manipulation of the larynx, wielders of the voice can propel pressure waves in a way that a speaker can not. How exactly this forces the human brain into submission, the engineer cannot tell, but she doesn't need to, to tinker on some offensively simple counter magic to the Bene Gesserit's seemingly almighty tool of control.

Noise cancellation is as simple as letting a speaker emit a sound wave with the same amplitude but an inverted phase. The sound waves cancel each other out in destructive interference.

As much as this scientific victory entices her, it frustrates her endlessly that all of the side research she picks up to take her mind off the real problem bears more fruit.

"Refreshments for you, my Lady!" Lilia's voice snaps her out of her brooding thoughts. The maid slips through the door, bringing a tray of fresh fruit and the stimulating citrus drink that her Lady has come to enjoy as of late. "It's been three hours, it's time to take a break."

"Ugh, three? Felt like one." That explains the dry throat. The relic arches her spine and presses her knuckles against her closed lids until tiny flashes prickle across the dark.

Lilia's footsteps close in at her side along with four other pairs of hand-feet. She sets the tray down on the desk.

"And have you made any progress today, my Lady?"

"Not with the one thing that matters, but yes." She reaches for the pitcher but finds her hands gently shooed away by Lilia who insists on pouring the glass for her, tiny bubbles fizzing in the lemon water.

"Oooh! Have you thought about these visions, my Lady?" The handmaid's ears perk up with interest, enamored with the story of how Feyd and her Lady had gotten to know each other in dreams ever since she had indulged her.

Lilia regards the phenomenon of their getting acquainted with the eyes of a romantic. For the engineer however, this is the only topic that frustrates her more than finding a workaround for the Holtzman effect to get past the Baron's shield.

"Dreams, visions, I don't fucking know. I don't even want to think about them because they drive me fucking crazy." The engineer reaches for her glass and drinks with big gulps, making the maid flinch by how forcefully she slams it back down.

The crescent shaped scar she herself had created on Feyd's clavicle when grappling for his blade is the same that had decorated his skin in their lucid dreams. So, visions? But the topics they had discussed during their shared nights are events of the past. It defies logic, it's paradox. The thing that scares her the most, however, is the fact that the Baron's abuse was still real in those dreams. If they truly were visions of the future, does that mean her research is in vain and he will live?

There is no phenomenon that can't be explained, not even prophetic dreams. But not by her, and not yet.

"Sorry," she apologizes and rubs her temples, finding Glugo staring at her with big, milky eyes, one hand-foot clinging to Lilia's skirt. The engineer's heart softens at once and she leans towards her insecure looking friend. "Aw, I'm really sorry, I didn't want to scare you both, my poor, little— Aw!"

Glugo curls four out of its eight limbs around her calves and rests its chin on her knee, pearly eyes aimed unerringly at the pitcher of sparkling drink on the desk.

"That's citrus," she explains. "I don't think you'll like citrus…"

One of the Tleilaxu creature's oily-black hand-feet clutches the table's edge, another incessantly reaches for the glass container.

"Okay, fine, but just a tiny sip. Where's your cup?"

Glugo glugs cluelessly, looking at Lilia for help. Still, both women are uncertain if the being has any grasp on human language, or if it simply recognizes a question by the inflection of one's voice.

The handmaid locates Glugo's cup in the folds of the duvet and quickly washes out the remnants of pink liquid over the sink in the bath before filling a finger of citrus inside. The creature's hand-feet tippy-tap on the tiles, reaching for the shiny container to take its first curious gulp.

Glugo's pug face puckers into a scrunched up grimace at once, face-hands releasing the sippy cup with an indignant noise.

Glurgh!

Day 93

It is a few weeks later, while Feyd and Mikhail are out brawling, that she figures it out.

"M'lord, I really am sorry," Mikhail laments, his flesh stripped of color as the black sun roars down on his bare torso. The na-Baron and he are prowling around each other in a tight circle, unarmed aside from their fists.

"You told me already." Feyd-Rautha's grating voice cuts through the sweltering air. The training ring's roof is retracted, giving way to blazing white skies and a heat that Giedi Prime's life forms have adapted to. "Five times. Another time, and I might just cut out your tongue."

"Ya know I had to take yer Lady to them bath chambers. Baron commanded it, and I can't just—"

"Shut up, boy!" Feyd's boots crunch in the sandy gravel, shoulders rolling. He is stronger than Mikhail, rounded arms and pectorals contrasting a powerful, slender waist. The guard's physique is more wiry, taut muscles stretched across visible ribs. The glorious sun brings out an overabundance of gray scars.

"Boy, eh? Ain't any older than you, my Lord!" Feyd is surprised, tilting his head at the deceptive edges of the guard's features that make him look closer to 40.

"Fine, then shut up, brother!" Feyd bares his teeth and clenches his fists hard, veins rippling across his forearms. "What are the rules?"

Mikhail's fist springs forward and punches Feyd-Rautha in the guts. He nearly doubles over, groaning in pain. Spit drips from his open mouth into the sand.

"Rules?" The guard quips and aims his elbow for the na-Baron's nose. Feyd dodges with a semi-graceful dive to the side, taking the blow to his ear instead. He tastes blood on his tongue.

This man is bold. He has no manners. Feyd likes him.

Mikhail is smaller, thinner, but he fights like a mongrel, like someone whose ferocious survival instincts have carried him from across the svart valta all the way to the royal palace in Barony. And Feyd struggles.

And by the black sun, he loses. Few things have ever excited him so much. After nearly an hour of grappling in the scorching heat, Feyd-Rautha finds himself on his back in the gravel, panting for dear life, ears ringing from the last punch square across his jaw. He barely hears Mikhail's voice when he praises that he had fought well, but he feels the brotherly smack on his sandy chest, right on top of a wicked bruise.

Every bone and muscle burns when he drags himself to his personal bath chambers. It was, undoubtedly, the best fight of Feyd-Rautha's life.

"Lilia! I've got it! I fucking got it, do you see this?!"

Pixelated particles give way to a bullet that cuts through them like a harpoon through water.

"What, my Lady? See what?" The maid dashes into the bedroom from the antechamber with flying skirts.

"It's so simple, I'm so stupid." The relic has jumped up from the desk, fingers twisted like claws around the back of her chair while her chest heaves with laughter and a threat of tears. Lilia, of course, cannot see the baffling results of the simulation on the engineer's interface.

The Lady lurches over to the cryo pod, leaving the tilted chair swaying and falling down on the tiles with a bang. She mutters something along the lines of 'must build it', before her voice dissolves into foreign, ancient tongues and a shiver runs down Lilia's spine. Her voice so alien, her ways so enigmatic, she truly is a relic cracked open, pouring her forbidden knowledge into the world.

But she is also a human and Lilia feels her Lady's voice and shaking body teetering on the edge of a nervous breakdown as she snaps open several compartments of the sarcophagus.

"You figured it out, that's wonderful!" This barely gets the engineer's attention, so she curls her fingers around the woman's shoulder, gently forcing her away from the compartments. The relic slumps down with her back to the sarcophagus.

"I need to build it. I know there's laser diodes in there, I only need to—"

"Please, my Lady, you need to breathe deeply. Why don't you explain it to me first?" Lilia squats in front of her, holding her wrists in her warm hands. Her Lady is trembling, her breath too shallow and fast.

"It's so simple, I could build it in an hour."

"Please, do me the favor," Lilia insists and brackets the woman's trembling knees between her own. Finally, her Lady exhales a long sigh and lets her head sink against the humming metal.

"Alright," she agrees and starts with a jittery voice. "So, you're aware of what the Holtzman effect is?"

"Ah, yes, I think so?" The maid hadn't really known the term before her Lady had started rambling about it. "Shields and heighliners?"

The one discovery that has shaped the entire human universe and kept it shackled since then, and the average commoner barely even knows its name. The relic doesn't hold it against Lilia. In a world where “eat or be eaten” takes on a literal meaning, the last thing to worry about is science. So, she wills her voice into calmness. If she's going to try and explain it, she at least wants to do it well.

"The Holtzman effect is responsible for the four major technologies that have made the world into what it is today. The first one — shields. No fast-moving object can pass through a shield, so guns like these?" She points towards her nightstand. "They've been useless for millennia. That's why you've resorted to close combat weapons."

"I was wondering why you went for a gun and not a blade." Lilia tilts her head. Close combat weapons are all that she's ever personally encountered. She knows that lasguns exist and that each Great House has an arsenal of atomic warheads, but every soldier has a sword on their hip, not a gun.

"Melee weapons seem so…" The engineer struggles to find a corresponding word in Galach. "Medieval to me. Archaic. Warfare on Earth was nothing like this."

"What was it like?" Lilia whispers in awe, noticing her Lady's shaking abate second by second.

"You could obliterate entire cities within the blink of an eye. A million different ways to set a home on fire and kill a population from a thousand miles away. It was terrible." Which is why what she has discovered is just as terrible.

The relic continues. "The other three technologies derived from the Holtzman effect are suspensors, glowglobes and space travel. You know why I was in that metal coffin here?" She taps against the sarcophagus. "Because a journey within our own solar system would take several years. You however can travel to the other side of the universe within the blink of an eye, through a quantum tunnel."

Lilia has never left the planet, but to imagine trade and travel without space-folding almost strikes her as ridiculous. All of humanity, reduced to just one, single planet. The cradle of mankind. The thought humbles her.

"And all four of these are based on one single effect?" Lilia considers herself an intelligent woman, but she doubts she can understand what took her Lady weeks to figure out.

"The essence of the Holtzman effect lies in how subatomic particles interact with each other."

"Subatomic?"

"Any type of matter is made of smaller building blocks. This metal for example is made of all kinds of molecules, which are made of atoms, and every single atom is made of protons, electrons and neutrons. These are called subatomic particles. Protons and neutrons make up the nucleus of an atom, and you can imagine the electrons orbiting the nucleus almost like planets a sun."

The handmaid quite enjoys that mental image. It's like the smallest particles exist in a cosmos of their own. "So, the Holtzman effect has something to do with protons, electrons and neutrons?" Lilia imagines, if she could have gone to school like she wanted as a girl, it may have been something like this.

"Almost. It gets even smaller. Protons and neutrons are made of quarks, tiniest quantities that cannot be divided any further. I could go into more detail and talk about quantum physics," the relic pronounces a word that is just guttural enough for Lilia to imitate without all too many struggles. "But that won't be necessary for now."

Even though her Lady has stopped shaking, Lilia doesn't want to release her wrists yet. She is glued to the engineer's lips, soaking up what sounds like forbidden knowledge, like having a peek through God's microscope.

"What is a Holtzman shield made of? What do you think?" The engineer wraps her own fingers around Lilia's slender wrists and the maid sinks from squatting on her soles to sitting down on her bum, stretching out her legs on either side of her Lady's.

"I don't know, my Lady. Uh, something that repels?"

"Yes, that's right," she nods encouragingly. "There are several forces in the universe that attract and repel. The most well-known force of attraction is gravity. And electro-magnetism— Opposite poles attract, equal poles repel each other. But there are other forces that work on a subatomic level."

The engineer pauses without urging her and Lilia takes a moment to think.

"I'm guessing there's a subatomic force that keeps these, uh, nuclei together? The protons and neutrons? Because if not, everything would just be falling apart?"

It almost frightens her to imagine what her very own body must look like on its deepest level. A cluster of tiniest quantities, held together by forces as invisible as her Lady's interface.

"That's perfectly true!" The woman from Old Earth beams, fingers clenching around Lilia's wrists. "The force responsible for that is called the strong nuclear force. On an even smaller scale, the strong force holds together the quarks that make up the neutrons and protons, but you already said it just right."

Warmth fills out the handmaid's chest and she slowly begins to understand the feeling that had her Lady nearly panicking earlier. Her own heart drums against her ribs quick and hard.

"Okay, so now what about the Holtzman shield and how can you get past it?"

"For that, we also need to take the other subatomic force into consideration. It's called the weak force. Isn't that creative? Despite its name, the weak force is technically stronger than gravity, but it is only effective at very short distances and it can change one quark type into another. What do you think happens when such a change occurs?"

"Hmmm," the Harkonnen woman ponders. She doesn't want to disappoint her Lady who is putting so much effort into her explanation. "If quarks are the smallest quantities that make up anything, I suppose when something changes on the lowest level, this change translates to the highest level as well?"

"You're a natural, Lilia." Upon that, the maid blushes purple and finally releases the relic's wrist in a sudden burst of shyness. "Such a change can turn one element into another. It happens all the time, in every sun. And also in radioactive decay. This is important."

"How so?"

"Imagine if that radioactive decay was amplified. Imagine throwing a huge amount of energy at a substance that is already sporadically decaying. Imagine a whole chain reaction of it. This is what triggers a nuclear explosion, the kind that obliterates an entire city."

Lilia's eyes grow wide with understanding. "So, that's why, when you shoot a lasgun at a Holtzman shield, it triggers a nuclear explosion?"

"That's right. I believe shields are made up of nuclei and rely on both the strong and the weak force to repel incoming objects on a subatomic level."

"All of that was fascinating, but how does it help us get past the shield?" Suddenly it's us, not you. Lilia has clutched the fabric of the relic's trousers over the knees in both of her fists. What the engineer's poor Feyd-Rautha currently lacks in fascination, Lilia makes up for a hundredfold.

"Oh, that was just the prelude." The engineer's lips twist into an almost mischievous little grin. "It's just what I need to take into consideration, so I don't accidentally blow up the shield and the city instead of passing through it."

"Just the prelude? My Lady, I think I'll go insane if you don't get to the point!"

The relic bursts out laughing. "We're almost done, I promise! Imagine you're riding in a groundcar and next to you drives another one with the exact same speed. When you look at it, it seems like you're both standing still, because the relative speed between both cars is zero." Lilia nods and the engineer smiles knowingly. "Now imagine you're a bullet and you want to pass through a Holtzman shield which only allows slow-moving objects to pass."

"Then I'd need the shield particles to move in the same direction as I do, only a tad slower, so that my relative speed is like that of a slow blade."

"Congratulations, you've just figured out how to trick a Holtzman shield."

"That is absolutely genius, my Lady."

"No, it's actually so simple." The woman shakes her head. "The difficult part is how to put the shield particles into motion, but I've figured something out." She summons the pixelated particles that are only for herself to see once more, nuclei that make up a Holtzman shield, accelerated by a burst of calibrated laser light, and how they give way to a bullet that cuts through them like a harpoon through water.

"Now I only need to build a proper gun," the engineer concludes.

Lilia has never cared much about the rest of the universe, and the universe has never cared much about her. Why would she care if her Lady, who has always been good to her, sets everything on fire?

When the door to Feyd-Rautha's personal bath chamber rushes open, he knows it can only be his darling, because the scanner only recognizes her handprint when he is inside.

The na-Baron is submerged to the jaw in oily-black liquid to soothe his bruises, a diluted version, heavily scented with the essence of exotic fruit and spices. He cannot breathe the unadulterated variant without gnawing memories of horror.

Her hectic footfalls cause him to spin around in the tub with worry, but before he can even utter a greeting, he finds his woman sagging down on her knees in front of him and his face captured in her palms.

"I've found a way!" She sobs.

"You've found a way?"

Tears spill down her cheeks as she nods, bringing her forehead against his. She's found a way. To kill the Baron and destroy the universe.

She is so elated, her joy could make a star rotate, it could set the world on fire. She kisses Feyd hard on the lips, melting against the wet expanse of his chest when he embraces her in his strong arms. His muscles break into tremors just like hers had an hour ago.

All of her doubts have flown away like comets in the sky of a fiery dawn.

"Feyd-Rautha, would you be my husband?"

To see a World in a Grain of Sand And a Heaven in a Wild Flower Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand And Eternity in an hour

— Auguries of Innocence by William Blake

A/N: Pretty much none of the physical concepts mentioned are made up. I've tried to use real physics to offer explanations for Frank Herbert's fantastical inventions that make the Dune universe so unique.

I'm not even close to the level of genius that I admire in my favorite sci-fi authors, but all of this was so insanely much fun to come up with. I have more ramblings about space travel, suspenders and glowglobes, but they weren't really necessary for this chapter. I hope you enjoyed this as much as I did. I'm very proud ❤️

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bubbles-for-all-of-us · 1 year ago

Text

Pretty like the wind

a/n Part one! this was born last night after a had a little cry over everything that's been going on lately. Oh, and you are free to listen to black friday by tom odell. ✨

was inspired by a request but I don't want to spoil anything so I won't answer the ask just yet.

warning: past trauma, implied violence.

Next chapter

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Love was one thing Azriel had dreamed about. Longed for. He had longed for it since he was born. He had known his mother's kind hands. Had felt a touch of tenderness, but those memories had been swept away. Buried. Shoved deep within him. Been burned out of him. Azriel had welcomed the mask of steel. Had wanted nothing more than to hide behind the tight, cold shield.

He had grown tired of being the victim. Of being shoved around. He wanted to be the one people ran from. He wanted to possess that power. To be someone people dreaded. To never fall again. To never be the one to yield. So, he welcomed the power the brotherhood with Rhys and Cassian brought him. He found strength in his brothers. They helped him up until Azriel was strong enough to stand on his own two feet.

Azriel had learned to live with the pain. He endured it. Let the scars bleed out. Let them scab over. He knew they would never truly fade. Mother, his hands were enough of a reminder of that. But they had settled enough. Settled enough for Azriel to want to live. He had found purpose in Rhys's court. Rhys had given him that. And Azriel was thankful for that in more than one way.

But the clenched grip of Amarantha had messed it all up. Had put so many things in motion. Had plucked out so many souls. Had woven so many lives. Had brought so much heartbreak. So much trauma and sleepless nights. That same helplessness. Yet it also brought Feyre to Rhys. It had brought Nesta to Cassian. But left Azriel empty-handed.

And the spymaster had observed them all. He had spent countless hours watching the love blossom right in front of him. He had caught onto the ways his brothers looked at their lovers. There was always something special about a gaze like that. It was unmistakable. So loud. Drenched with so many emotions, sometimes unnoticeable for the lovers but so clear for the ones who looked from the side.

That's when Azriel had grown restless. Careless. Desperate. He was ready to step on the values he treasured. The laws he believed in. He went as far as reaching for an already mated female. She was lost. Everyone should have sensed that. The world. The obligations they brought frightened her. And Azriel took advantage of that. He had told himself that this was right. That had to be. Three sisters for three brothers. But even with Elain wrapped up in his arms, the roaring didn't ease. But Azriel refused to let go.

Refused until Rhys stepped in. Until the high lord had done something he vowed to never do, Rhys forced Azriel to his knees with his magic. The spymaster could still hear the roaring tone, "I warned you. This thing you are doing is out of order. Elain is a mated woman, Azriel". Oh, how he had fought. How Azriel had said it over and over, the world he had made himself believe in. Three sisters for three brothers. Just that didn't reach Rhys, and when Azriel woke up in an unknown room, he knew the punishment he was to face was like no other.

Rhys had knocked politely on your mental shield that night. It was way too late. But you cracked the locks open. "Can I winnow to the sanctuary?", it was such a simple question. Yet it left you frowning. The lines on your face only deepened when you saw your high lord, followed by a male who held another unconscious body.

"I apologize for the inconvenience", Rhys stated. He was angry. Tired? You couldn't pinpoint the emotion. Drained - that seemed the most fitting. "What's... Is your soldier in need of healing?", you questioned calmly, already moving to roll up your sleeves. "In some ways...", Rhys breathed, and that's how you came to know the story of the man who had lost himself in search of love. The man who had crumbled under his demons. Male Rhys had sent to the oldest sanctuary in the Velaris Mountains. In hopes of mending the broken pieces.

Azriel did not leave his room after he regained consciousness. He was stripped of his daggers. The gift to winnow was without doubt taken away by Rhys himself. Oh, how much he had cursed his brother in the first days. He roared as he threw furniture around the small room. He growled loudly when they were all replaced by magic right in front of him. Oh, Azriel imagined how much pleasure Rhys was having watching this.

You had chosen to seek him out on his fifth day here. You had come every day, but the sheer sounds of distraction from within made you halt every time. Today, it all seemed a lot quieter. Too quiet, even. You knocked a couple of times. Not surprised when you didn't get the answer. You knew that the sanctuary provided him with food and water, but you didn't want him to feel like a prisoner.

He looked rough. You doubted he had bathed in the days he had been here. The air inside was thick. He had drowned out the light almost completely with his shadows. They swarmed around him frantically. You frowned at the harsh light that threatened to cave in on his darkness. Quickly moving your wrist, you drew back the sharp rays of light. The room dimmed.

"Hey", you breathed out quietly, "I wanted...", but the wave of darkness poured towards you, pushing you against the wall, making you gasp. "Where am I?", Azriel didn't sound human-like. An animal ridden with anger. "You're safe...", you breathed out. "That's not what I asked you!", Azriel roared. His fist shook right in front of you. "What will you do, spymaster, hit me?", you moved to push off the wall slightly. "You might be angry. The hell itself might be burning inside you for all I care", you said, opening your palms and waving threads of light through them. "But you were brought here for a reason, and you can cry like a little boy, but you will not raise a hand against any breathing creature that lives beneath this roof", your wild eyes met his. A battle of power deep-rooted. You weren't too surprised when a roar left Azriel's mouth. Thick clouds of darkness forming. You just worked faster. Suppressing it. Capturing it in the smoothness of warmth. Taking Azriel along with it. Even if that was the last thing you wanted to do,

"You will have to accept my apologies", Rhys had his head in his hands after you had been summoned into his office. He felt guilty; you couldn't mistake that emotion even if you wanted to. "Wipe that thought away", you said quietly, "He picked a fight with me. Your intervening would have caused more damage". Rhys let out a sigh. "I don't recognize him, Y/N.", the high lord shook his head, "I look at him. I look through his head, and... I don't see the same male I knew for centuries".

You made your way towards the window. "Do you remember the night you came to me after you realized that Feyre was your mate?" The question had made the high lord stiffen. He was grateful that you chose the word came instead of crawl. "Your heart was desperate, and your mind was full of roaring demons," you said as you stepped closer to the windowsill. "So time", Rhys muttered. You nodded, "Even the most broken souls find themselves eventually. We can guide them to it". Rhys nodded mostly to himself; he had so many things he still wanted to say to you and ask, but when he lifted his head, you were no longer there.

Azriel had no recollection of how he had gotten into bed. He had no recollection of opening the window ever so slightly. The cold wind soothed him. Easing the throbbing all over his body. His mind dragged out fragments of you. They were scattered and dim. But his skin still bore the feeling of light. He moved to sit up, frowning as a piece of paper fell to the floor. The spymaster reached for it instantly. "I'll forgive you for the outburst last night, but you're on kitchen duties for the rest of the month. I hope I won't have to drag you out myself", it read. Azriel stared at it. Gaped. Let the anger simmer. He crumpled the paper and threw it towards the fire, but one of his shadows caught it in time. Straightening it out before turning it back to Azriel. "You don't get to pick sides", Azriel snarled, but the shadows only waved the white paper stronger. "I could easily just make you vanish, you know?", the spymaster grumbled, but he still reached for the pile of clean clothes. He went as far as washing his face before he stepped out.

Only midway down the corridor did Azriel realize that he had no idea where he was going. And suddenly, a wave of panic washed over him. Was he even allowed to walk freely? Rhys had banished him; Mother only knew to what end. He had no idea where he was. He might as well have been cast to another dimension. The sound of small feet hitting the floor made Azriel twirl around.

Two babies, not older than five, ran towards him. Azriel waited for them to halt. Frighten and run away. But they moved towards him, squealing, clearly lost in whatever game they were playing. They dove under Azriel's wings, moving past him. Sprinting down the hall. Azriel's feet started moving without him even realizing it. He followed the laughter and happy shrieks.

He walked right until he was met with a big open space. The glass dome was right up above it. Stone columns supported it. Azriel moved quietly. He used the dim sides to hide himself. The place looked like a commune area. The sound of singing increased. Rounding the corner, Azriel moved to stand in the arch of two columns. Breath hitched in his throat as he saw Fea and Illyrian children dancing in circles. A handful of females were seated all around. He scanned the room.

His gaze halted. There, in the middle of one of the circles the children formed, stood you. Pieces of last night flashed in front of Azriel's eyes. The way he had leaped at you. The way you brought on the light. How you had wrapped him up in the comfort of it. He watched as you spun around as well. The white dress you wore twirled with you. He was convinced that you were glowing as you smiled at every little happy face that watched you.

You sang with them all, and Azriel found himself leaning against the column. He was oddly captivated by the view in front of him. A handful of tinny wings messily clapped as the younglings kicked off from the ground. Trying to soar into the air. Azriel watched them. Some old, deep wounds throbbed within his chest. He lowered his gaze for the moment, trying to suppress it. To shove it back deeper into himself.

But then an urge to lift his gaze back up struck him. Azriel found the most beautiful set of eyes looking right back at him. He wasn't sure how you had spotted him in the shadows, but you did. He held your gaze firmly. He thought about frowning. Snarling even for a second. But you had smiled up at him. Had smiled so brightly that Azriel felt some slither of warmth trying to spark to life within his chest. You nodded your head slowly at him, and Azriel found himself returning the gesture. Right as a warm feeling settled deep within his cold bones.

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#azriel x reader #azriel x you #azriel imagine #azriel shadowsinger #acotar imagine #acotar x reader #acotar x you #azriel acotar imagine #azriel acotar x reader

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librababe99 · 2 months ago

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Vigilante's Lullaby |Part Five|

cw: MDNI, 18+ ONLY, Jason Todd, Gn!Reader, themes of trauma, ptsd, implied smut, HEAVY ANGST, NO HAPPY ENDING summary: In the devastating final chapter, Jason and Reader share one last night together before he makes an unthinkable decision. After a brutal attack that left Reader scarred, Jason knows that staying in their life will only cause more harm. word count: 2.0K

a/n: Hi loves! I've finally gotten around to finalizing the last part of Vigilante's Lullaby🙌🏻 I'd like to thank everyone for their support on this series and following along--I really wanted to create something that was different compared to other things I've written, especially with something as angsty as this. As always, feel free to comment, like or reblog! - Libra * .♡ *:･ﾟ✧ ⋆ ࣪.* ࣪.⋆

(Synopsis) | (Part One) | (Part Two) | (Part Three) | (Part Four)

(Main Masterlist)

The recovery had been slow, painfully slow, and the scars—both seen and unseen—ran deeper than anyone could have imagined. The physical wounds healed with time, but the mental and emotional aftermath lingered like a shadow, haunting every corner of the underground clinic. The attack had fractured something inside, something you couldn’t quite name. There were nights when the memory of blood and pain would surface, clawing its way back into your mind like a cruel specter. The panic would come, unbidden, suffocating, and there were times when you still flinched at the sound of a door opening too quickly or footsteps approaching from behind.

Jason had been there, at first. After that brutal night when he found you lying in your own blood, broken and fragile, he had stayed by your side. His presence was both a comfort and a weight. You didn’t blame him for what had happened. You never had. Despite everything, despite the danger that clung to him like a second skin, you loved him—irrevocably, without question. But Jason couldn’t see it that way. He couldn’t absolve himself of the guilt, couldn’t shake the belief that everything terrible in your life stemmed from his existence.

Months had passed since that fateful attack, and though your body had healed, the nights were still long and sleepless, filled with the kind of restless tension that never fully dissipated. The clinic had returned to a semblance of normalcy, the wounded trickling in and out, seeking the quiet solace of your care. But the weight of what had happened lingered, a silent testament that came with loving Jason Todd.

Jason hadn’t spoken much since the attack, not about his feelings, not about the guilt that was eating him alive. But you could see it in the way he looked at you, in the distance that had begun to stretch between you. He had become more reserved, his visits more infrequent, each time tinged with an unspoken finality. You knew him well enough to see the signs, to understand that something was shifting. He was pulling away, retreating into the darkness that had always been his companion. And though you didn’t want to believe it, deep down, you knew what was coming.

That night, when Jason arrived, there was a heaviness in the air that neither of you could ignore. His steps were quieter than usual as he slipped through the window, the familiar routine now laced with an unbearable tension. He stood there for a moment, his tall, broad frame silhouetted against the faint glow of the city outside. His face was cast in shadows, but you could see the tightness in his jaw, the way his hands flexed restlessly at his sides.

"Hey," you whispered softly, your voice barely above a breath, as if anything louder would shatter the fragile peace of the moment.

He didn’t respond at first, just moved toward you in that slow, deliberate way that always reminded you of a storm gathering on the horizon. When he sat beside you on the bed, the mattress dipped under his weight, and for a moment, you just sat there, side by side, in a silence that spoke louder than words.

You reached for his hand, your fingers brushing against the rough leather of his glove. He flinched slightly, the motion so subtle that you might not have noticed if you weren’t so attuned to him. But then he relented, his hand relaxing in yours, though you could still feel the tension coiled beneath his skin.

“Rough night?” you asked, the words a quiet echo of a conversation you’d had so many times before.

Jason exhaled sharply, a sound that was more a sigh than anything else. “Yeah,” he muttered, though there was no bitterness in his tone this time. Just exhaustion, and something deeper—something heavier.

You turned toward him, your fingers still curled around his gloved hand. “Talk to me,” you whispered, searching his face for the answers he wasn’t giving. But Jason just shook his head, his gaze dropping to the floor.

“I’m leaving,” he said, the words slipping from his lips with a finality that knocked the breath from your lungs.

For a moment, you didn’t understand. Your mind refused to process the meaning behind his words, refused to accept what they implied. But then, the weight of them sank in, heavy and cold, and your heart twisted painfully in your chest.

“No,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “Jason, no.”

He finally looked at you, and the sight of his eyes—those stormy blue eyes that had always held so much—nearly broke you. There was pain there, yes, but there was something else, too. A kind of quiet resignation, as if he had made up his mind long before he’d ever stepped foot into your apartment that night.

“This isn’t your fault,” you said, your voice growing more desperate with every word. “What happened—what they did to me—it wasn’t your fault. I don’t blame you… I never did.”

His jaw tightened, and he pulled his hand away from yours, rising to his feet in one smooth, fluid motion. He paced to the window, his back to you, his fists clenched at his sides. “It doesn’t matter,” he said, his voice rough with barely-contained emotion. “I should’ve known. I should’ve known they’d come after you. And I can’t—” He paused, his shoulders shaking with the effort of holding himself together. “I can’t let that happen again.”

You stood, crossing the room to him, your hand reaching out to touch his arm. “Jason,” you whispered, your voice breaking. “Please.”

He turned to face you then, and the look in his eyes was one of pure, unfiltered agony. “You deserve better than this. Better than me,” he said, his voice a low, harsh whisper. “Every time I’m near you, I’m putting you in danger. And I can’t—I won’t do that anymore.”

You shook your head, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. “I don’t care about the danger,” you said, your voice trembling. “I care about you. I love you.”

The words hung in the air between you, heavy with the weight of truth. Jason’s expression softened for a moment, a flicker of vulnerability crossing his face. But then, just as quickly, it was gone, replaced by that same steely resolve that had been building inside him for months.

“I love you, too,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “But that’s why I have to go.”

The silence that followed was deafening, punctuated only by the sound of your own ragged breaths. Jason reached for you then, his hands trembling slightly as they cupped your face. His thumbs brushed away the tears that had begun to fall, and for a moment, you leaned into his touch, savoring the warmth of his hands against your skin.

But then he kissed you, and it was like everything else faded away—the pain, the fear, the darkness that had always loomed over the two of you. The kiss was slow, tender, filled with all the love and longing that neither of you had ever been able to fully express. His lips moved against yours with a kind of desperate urgency, as if he was trying to memorize the feel of you, trying to hold on to this moment for as long as he could.

You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer, refusing to let him go. But deep down, you knew this was the beginning of the end. You could feel it in the way his hands tightened around your waist, in the way his breath hitched when he pulled back to look at you.

“I’m sorry,” Jason whispered, his forehead resting against yours. “I’m so sorry.”

Before you could respond, he kissed you again, and this time there was no hesitation, no restraint. His hands moved to your hips, pulling you flush against him as the kiss deepened, growing more intense with each passing second. There was a kind of desperation in the way he kissed you, like he was trying to pour every ounce of his love, his regret, his sorrow into that one moment.

And for that night, you let yourself believe that everything could be okay. You let yourself forget about the darkness that lurked just outside the window, about the danger that had always been a part of your life with Jason. You let yourself get lost in him, in the heat of his touch, in the way his body fit so perfectly against yours.

But even as you lay there, tangled together in the sheets, your bodies spent and your hearts heavy, there was a gnawing sense of dread that you couldn’t ignore.

Jason held you close, his arms wrapped tightly around you as if he was afraid you might disappear. His breath was warm against your neck, and for a moment, it felt like everything was normal, like nothing had changed.

But you knew better.

When you finally fell asleep, Jason stayed awake, his eyes fixed on the ceiling as his mind raced. He could feel the weight of the decision he was about to make, the finality of it settling over him like a suffocating blanket. But he knew—he had always known—that this was the only way to keep you safe.

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

You woke the next morning to an empty bed. The spot where Jason had been was cold, the sheets rumpled but vacant. Panic surged through you as you sat up, your heart pounding in your chest. “Jason?” you called, your voice hoarse with sleep and fear.

But the apartment was silent.

You threw the covers off and hurried toward the window, hoping—praying—that you’d see him standing there, that this was all just a horrible misunderstanding. But when you reached the window, there was nothing. Just the faint hum of the city below, oblivious to the storm that had just torn through your life.

It wasn’t until you turned back toward the bed that you saw it—the note. A single sheet of paper, folded neatly and left on the nightstand, right where you would find it.

Your hands trembled as you picked it up, unfolding it slowly, dreading the words you knew would be there.

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

I love you. I always have. But I can’t stay. Every moment I’m with you, I’m putting you in danger, and I can’t live with that. You deserve a life without fear, without the constant threat of violence and pain. You deserve better than me.

I’m sorry for everything—for the pain, for the hurt, for leaving you like this. But this is the only way I can keep you safe. Please, don’t try to find me. I won’t let you.

Jason.

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

The words blurred as tears filled your eyes, and you sank to the floor, the note crumpling in your hand as you sobbed. The ache in your chest was unbearable, like a piece of you had been ripped away, leaving a hollow, gaping wound in its place.

You had always known this day might come. You had always known that loving Jason Todd meant living with the constant threat of losing him. But knowing it didn’t make it any easier. It didn’t make the pain any less suffocating.

He was gone.

And this time, he wasn’t coming back.

Far from Gotham, Jason walked alone. The city’s skyline faded into the distance as he disappeared into the shadows, leaving behind the only person who had ever made him feel like he could be more than the darkness that defined him.

His heart was heavy with regret, with sorrow, but he knew this was the only way. He had made his choice. And now, he would live with it.

Alone.

Always alone.

Because that was the price he had to pay for loving you.

And Jason knew, deep down, that he was never meant to have happiness—not in this life.

Taglist: @arisa191 @leo-lvr @stormz369

#Jason Todd #red hood #jason todd x reader #jason todd x fem!reader #jason todd series #jason todd smut #dc fandom #dc fanfic #dc comics #dcu #dc universe #Vigilante's Lullaby #angst #hurt/no comfort #no happy ending #forbidden love #dark romance #jason todd needs a hug

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