#implied deep emotional scars | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

daistea · 7 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

576 notes · View notes

hoe4hotchner · 4 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

391 notes · View notes

itsallgoodmann · 5 months ago

Text

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!

359 notes · View notes

fangsandfeels · 1 year ago

Text

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

1K notes · View notes

eyelambspider · 3 months ago

Text

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.

268 notes · View notes

moonxknightx · 4 months ago

Text

♡˗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

326 notes · View notes

hcneymooners · 3 days ago

Text

⋆ cellophane.

dance instructor!ambessa x muscular!f!reader. men & minors dni. synopsis: you are an athlete forced into retirement by an unforeseen injury. ambessa is the dance instructor who rehabilitates you through ballet. could it be any more obvious?

cw: mentions of injury, tall!reader, muscular!reader, angst, implied mental health issues, age difference because it's me, non-sexual intimacy, rehabilitation from an injury, ballerina!reader, soft!ambessa, emotional hurt/comfort, making out, getting together, implied praise kink, body dysmorphia.

notes: written completely for @for-sappho based on their post about ambessa's canon type. this is a drabble.

“begin.”

without opening your eyes, you began to let your body break down. surrendering was the only way forward. it had been years since you’d danced professionally, but the memory was still a deep instinct. you felt the ripple of your back, flexing under the easy weight of your instructor’s hand, and let it guide you, pressure you.

you’d started taking classes again, not for ambition but survival—something to give your defeated body a purpose. after the accident, the world felt permanently off-kilter, as if it had spun wildly and refused to settle. your days blurred into repetition: waking with the sun, curling into yourself to relearn how to move, then collapsing into bed again. sometimes, you’d coax your dog to lay on you, his solid weight anchoring you to the grave of your bed.

the classes were private. shame dictated that much. it wasn’t that the other dancers weren’t kind; they were. but you didn’t fit in, and you couldn’t bring yourself to try. bitterness clung to you like a second skin, a self-inflicted punishment for ruining the athletic future you’d worked so hard to build. and then there was your body—tall, muscular, powerful in ways that made you feel both monstrous and vulnerable.

you always thought you looked misshapen in a leotard, like a tree gnarled by time and trauma. yet the world, in its stubbornness, disagreed. magazines, headlines, strangers—they described you in words you never allowed to belong to you: graceful, elegant, divine. it only felt like another cruelty. but maybe if the world insisted on that truth, you owed it to yourself to try and believe it.

when you found the studio—medarda—you didn’t hesitate. it wasn’t just the glowing reviews or the name that caught your eye; it was her. ambessa.

she was your instructor now, a thickly muscled woman with a commanding presence, her skin traced with scars that spoke of combat. there was no warmth in her gaze when she first met you; it was only a firm assessment as she took in the way you folded into yourself, trying to shrink in a body that refused to be small.

the first day, she scoffed when you requested to dance. instead, she stretched you.

that summer day still burned in your memory, slurred with heat and the bite of her hands cooled from a bowl of ice water she kept beside her. you’d been unprepared for the emotions that spilled out of you.

tears slipped down your face as her hands worked along your body, massaging, lengthening, coaxing. when she pressed on your hips, one hand steadying your back as she bent you forward, the fire that licked through your thighs wasn’t just physical. it felt like grief unraveling. a gasp had shuddered from your throat as she bent you, wet and small.

your head bowed, neck surrendering as you let go of something you hadn’t even realized you were holding. she said nothing, only pulled you upright and held you straight. her thumbs pressed deep into the curve of your lower back. and then she trapped you there, steady, until you stopped shaking.

you’d never felt so exposed. you hated her, desperately. the next day, you returned.

“are you here, or are you somewhere else?”

her voice brought you back, cutting through the haze as you spun into stillness. her sharp eyes followed your every movement; her hair was braided tightly away from her face. you let out a slow breath, fingers brushing over the loose strands of your own undone bun. your toes flexed against the floor, grounding you.

“i’m with you,” you murmured.

it was a bizarre thing, your deference toward her. the words in themselves were an odd thing to say, but she didn’t comment. she only nodded, choosing to save her sharper critiques for moments when she knew you could bear them. today wasn’t one of those days.

she could tell from the way you moved—raw and sluggish—that you were caught in one of those moods where you turned on yourself, uselessly cruel.

“good,” she said. “that’s where you should always be.”

“yes, ambessa.”

“again.”

you spun out, arms lifting as you rose to pointe. your calves screamed, your ankles throbbed, but you didn’t stop. you wouldn’t. ambessa stepped toward you, silent and deliberate, her hand pressing firmly against your stomach. she guided you, her touch steady, pushing until your back curved deeper, the stretch pulling at your muscles with a delicious ache.

a sound escaped your lips, somewhere between a sigh and a sob, as you exhaled shakily. your lips parted in silent anguish.

“i understand,” she said, her voice softer now, her thumb brushing against your side like an unspoken promise. “just breathe.”

this body was a monster to you.

it had betrayed you, defied you, broken you in ways that were undeserved. you had loved it, used it, but still there were days it felt foreign—like an unwelcome thing you had to drag through the hours, an intruder you could never escape. even now, as ambessa’s hands pressed against your trembling core, your knees chose to abandon you and buckled.

the ache surged too fast, too sharp, and you stumbled forward, your body instinctively seeking refuge. you fell into her.

her arms caught you easily, steady and sure, and for a moment, you stayed there, leaning into the solidity of her frame. her body, like yours, was carved with power—muscle over bone, skin stretched taut from years of wear. it struck you, suddenly, how similar you were to one another.

“see?” she murmured, her voice low but unyielding, a vibration that traveled through you. “see how we are the same? this body you hate—this body you think of as destroyed—is no different from mine. you are not alone, and you are far from weak.”

her hands didn’t let you go. instead, they held you tall, forcing you to bear the weight of her words.

“i’m not a child,” you hissed, your voice trembling with frustration, but not at her. at yourself. at the world. “this was my life. once. i was strong. i was capable. and now…”

you trailed off, the silence heavier than anything else.

“it isn’t anymore,” ambessa said firmly, her words like a blade. “and you must make peace with that.”

your head snapped up at her, anger flashing in your eyes. “make peace with it? how? how would you make peace with losing everything you worked for? everything you were?”

her gaze softened—not with pity, but understanding. she tilted her head, her scarred hands moving to rest on your shoulders.

“you rebuild,” she said simply. “you take what remains, and you shape it into something new. you let go of the life you had, not because it wasn’t worth something, but because clinging to it will destroy you. you are strong. you are still capable. but the strength isn’t what it was. it’s what it is now. and now, you are learning.”

you closed your eyes against the sting of tears, your chest heaving brutishly.

“i don’t want to start over,” you whispered, voice cracking. “i want it back. i want to go back.”

ambessa exhaled, a sound heavy with both patience and exhaustion. her hand slid to your jaw, tipping your face up so you had no choice but to meet her eyes.

“you can’t,” she said, her voice quieter now but no less firm. “what you had is gone. but what you are becoming—what you can become—is something greater. and you will not do it alone.”

her words settled into the silence between you. you didn’t have it in you to argue. instead, you continued to let her hold you, her strength bracing yours.

then you pulled away.

you sat on the studio floor, your legs stretched out awkwardly as you packed your ballet bag. your fingers fumbled over the soft fabric of your cardigan, the worn ribbons of your pointe shoes. the quiet felt heavy, pressing against your chest like a dead animal. your reflection in the mirror stared back at you, distant and tired.

ambessa’s presence was impossible to ignore. she moved silently, a relentless force of nature, and before you realized it, she was there—lowering herself to the floor beside you. her broad frame folded gracefully as she settled next to you, close enough that her knee brushed against yours.

you looked at her through the mirror first. her sharp, regal features were softened by the dim light, her expression unreadable. your chest ached at the sight of her, and you turned toward her fully, unable to stop yourself.

your hands reached for her face before you could think better of it, cupping her cheeks with a gentleness that surprised even you. her skin was warm beneath your palms, scarred and beautiful, and you felt her gaze settle on you, an invisible blanket.

“you,” you whispered, the word trembling as it left your lips.

then you kissed her.

it was tentative at first, a soft press of your mouth against hers, but when she didn’t pull away, you deepened it. your lips moved against hers, searching, desperate. your hands trembled as they slid from her face to her neck, to her shoulders, tracing the strong lines of her body.

you kissed her neck, her hands, each touch more tender than the last, until the emotions bubbling beneath your skin finally escaped you. tears streamed down your face, silent and thick, as you pressed your forehead against hers, your breath hitching with the force of it.

ambessa let you cry. her hands, steady and sure, came to rest on your shoulders, grounding you as she always did. when she spoke, her voice was low and steady, each word deliberate.

“life,” she murmured, “is like a hive. at its center, there is both the bee sting and the honey. you sting yourself constantly, over and over, until you swell with pain. you must allow that to die off. only then can you taste the sweetness.”

you shook your head, your tears falling faster now, but there was something in her tone, in her words, that stilled you. she studied your face for a moment, her thumb brushing lightly over your jaw, and her next words came softer.

“i will still want you,” she said, as if your desire had been sitting quietly between the two of you, open and magnanimous.

you pulled back slightly, enough to meet her gaze, your hands still trembling as they rested on her shoulders. your voice was low, but the words came with a bruising force.

“there is no honey at the center,” you said, your voice breaking. “only you.”

her lips twitched, a hint of a smile breaking through the seriousness of her expression.

“then i will be the honey,” she said, her tone steady and sure. “let me remind you of what you’ve forgotten—of who you are, and who you can still become. let me into your mouth, let me drip across your teeth.”

your chest heaved as you tried to catch your breath, your hands falling to your lap as you searched her face. the words tumbled out before you could stop them, raw and vulnerable:

“will you—can i be your favorite?”

the question hung in the air, fragile and desperate, a callback to the days when being the judges’ favorite was everything. when it meant proof of your worth.

ambessa’s expression softened, and she dipped her head.

“you already are,” she said, the words unyielding. “it is only natural.”

her hand came to rest on your cheek, her thumb brushing away a stray tear. “there is no need to compete. not for this. you are enough as you are.”

her words freed something within you, a bird whose wings had been bound tightly for years. your breath hitched again, but this time, it was laden with relief.

slowly, she picked up the cardigan you’d cast beside you, wrapping it carefully around your shoulders and tying it snugly over your chest into a perfect bow. then, she leaned in and pressed a kiss to your forehead, her lips lingering for a moment longer than necessary.

“you will always be my favorite,” she murmured, her voice soft but sure.

you bent forward, listened to her heart. it didn’t skip a beat. she was honest and strong. you, for the time being, were weaker but wanting.

#ambessa medarda #arcane ambessa #ambessa x you #ambessa x reader #wlw #lesbian #sapphic #arcane fanfic #ambessa my sweet wife.#i love her (vi voice): i don't fucking care.#mine ; 🐎.

91 notes · View notes

pitchblacknightnoir · 16 days ago

Text

𝓵𝓪𝓲𝓽𝓸 𝓼𝓪𝓴𝓪𝓶𝓪𝓴𝓲 𝓷𝓼𝓯𝔀 𝓱𝓮𝓪𝓭𝓬𝓪𝓷𝓷𝓸𝓷𝓼 | 𝓰𝓮𝓷𝓮𝓻𝓪𝓵 𝓮𝓭𝓲𝓽𝓲𝓸𝓷

Warning: Like all my content, this is NSFW. If you are uncomfortable with the following content, please consider avoiding the following post.

Female Reader Implied.

Laito happens to really take his time during sexy encounters.

He wants whoever he is experiencing pleasure with to feel just as good as he is, if not more.

I mentioned this in my Kanato Headcannons, but I really do think all the brothers love seeing expressions on their partners faces, because they don't feel emotion as deep as we do.

Seeing you fall into his arms exhuasted afterward is a must for him.

If not then he didn't do his job, and expect him to keep going until you do.

This is pretty cannon, but he loves your thighs, he's gonna leave a lot of scars from bites on them. Fair warning, most are gonna be on the inside skin.

He's gonna bite your ankles too, just so you can't walk very well.

Of course, he's probably the biggest of the triplets, walking around with a 6'4 inch cock.

This guy is willing to try anything too. So don't be surprised if he brings up even the freakiest position, or kink to try out.

He's also likely to want to do it anywhere. He literally doesn't care. He'll fuck you in the Burger King washroom if he wants to.

Expect him to get you toys, lingerie, lubes, all sorts of things for Christmas and birthdays.

And yes, he will be using the toys on you himself first. Afterall, you need a demonstration.

He'll sext you in class just to mess with you too, and right after the bell rings, he'll have you wet and needy.

Is gentle in bed at first, he'll dance his fingers across your skin to tease. He needs you needy before he starts to really put his back into things.

And when he gets rough, he's rough... We're talking slapping, digging his nails into your hips while ramming right into your G-spot rough.

He's very familar with female anatomy, so he knows just how to curl his fingers up and rub and massage you until you're close.

Edging is something this guy does way too often, he'll build you up completely only to pause and kiss up and down your neck while whispering in your ear.

"Aw~ Ma cherie is getting needy~? Fufu~ Would you like to ask me to please you more~?"

When you finish, he's got a tendency to wrap both arms around your waist to support you. He'll let you rest the back of your head on his shoulder and delicately rub your clit, letting you ride it out as he whispers things to you, either in French, English or Kanji.

Aftercare is mostly just kissing and cuddling. Nothing more unless you're really out of it and he actually cares about you. If he cares, he's just gonna make sure you're okay, and maybe have you drink some water.

And as you pass out in his arms, he's got his fingers slowly running through your hair.

˚ ༘♡ ·˚ ₊˚ˑ༄ؘ The above work is mine, I do not own the characters˚ ༘♡ ·˚ ₊˚ˑ༄ؘ

#diabolik lovers #diabolik lovers reactions #diabolik lovers smut #diabolik lovers x reader #dialovers #spotify #laito sakamaki #diabolik lovers laito #dialovers laito #laito x reader #laito x yui #sakamaki laito #diabolik lovers fandom #smut #headcannons #Spotify

95 notes · View notes

feyreswaterybowels · 8 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

274 notes · View notes

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

995 notes · View notes

pennyellee · 18 days ago

Text

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐗 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐨𝐧𝐞 - 𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐥𝐞

LACRIMOSA | MYG MAFIA YANDERE AU

pairings: mafia leader!yoongi x f!reader genre: mafia!au, yandere au, historical au

summary: Their interlocking gaze served as a butterfly effect on his heart, stirring it to the core. She, in turn, only dreams to find a way to escape. But perchance, over time she might forcefully learn to love the man who has taken so much from her.

Thus unfolds a twisted tale of love and loss, of hope and despair, of life and death. The music reverberated through the dimly-lit streets. Tears of sorrow, weeping symphony - reflects the hurt, the scars that linger deep within and the wounds that never healed. Lacrimosa.

chapter warnings: minors dni 18+ | mafia au, dark!yoongi, mafia!yoongi, yandere, manipulation, possessive/obsessive behaviour, angst, religious references, implied age gap, hoseok-sshi being tired of yoongi, coercion, psychological manipulation, death, implied murder, mentions of cancer, strong language, misogyny, emotional distress, emotional manipulation, verbal confrontation, verbal abuse, suicidal ideation, "falling" from a horse, (partially fictional) lobotomy description, traditions of the clan, pledge, intimate themes, physical violence implied, psychological conflict, oral sex, fingering, handjob, vulnerability (if i forgot smth, pls i'm so sorrryy)

beta read by @chaoticpuff17

word count: 18,8K

disclaimer: this story is purely fictional, it does not depict real-life events or involve any actual members of BTS. This story will contain depictions of violence, blood shed, death, mentions of abuse, smoking, alcohol drinking, illegal activities, forbidden medical procedures, old social norms and traditions, which we do not condone.

author's note: WELL AT LAST INNIT? Y'all I swear I’m as impatient to put this out but also so nervous coz this one was a hard one ya know. I decided to split this into two parts, and perhaps if this would be only one part I would have to write “the end” which I’m still not contemptuous with soooo yeah. I can’t believe we are almost at the end of it all. I still haven't decided whether I will write two endings or not. The ending that I initially intended prolly won't be fancied and I definitely scrapped the open ending, but you will never know coz I won't tell ya more.

ANYWAY - for those who asked a lot about Y/N’s and Yoongi’s age gap, kudos for your patience. You can finally sleep in piece babies. Also, I have another fic that is setted in the world of CHAMPAGNE CONFETTI [now i’ll know if you’re actually reading these notes hihi] of which preview will come soon after this chapter, again, very excited to push it out finally AND, yes to all of you if you’re still reading this note - CHAMPAGNE CONFETTI [what a promo] will come around as soon as I’m finished with UNI this year. If yall be good I can pull out a preview out of my sleeve for Christmas coz that shit - well damn, just damn.

Massive thank you goes to @chaoticpuff17 who managed to beta read it almost right after it was finished coz that shit is looooooooong this time. I LOVE YOU BECCA 🥹🫧🩵

Love you all, p.

m.list previous

seele (n.) the soul, inner essence, or spirit

Her mind was constantly occupied with thoughts she wished to speak loud, but couldn’t. She wanted to warn, to tell the young souls that their minds were poisoned. Y/N’s heart was heavy in her chest each time she lay in bed next to him, letting him pull her close and hold her for the entirety of the night. And far the biggest sacrifice and risk she had to make was giving him her body when he desired her. At least partially. He was pacing things slowly at first- step by step.

She never thought that in order to set herself free, she would have to give herself up first. However hard it was breaking her heart that she had to stoop so low in order to turn her life on a different path, had to be endured, sucked in.

She never understood what made her body so weak for him. Why did her mind scream for her to run even as her body yearned to be touched?

Yoongi’s hands moved over her body, igniting a fire that burned deep within her. She was supposed to feel like she was suffocating, drowning in the sea. But she could not let herself fail—not this time.

His fingers traced the curve of her neck, sending shivers down her spine. His touch was gentle yet still so possessive. Yoongi’s lips brushed against her earlobe, and his warm breath reached the softness of her skin.

He leaned in, his lips capturing hers once more, his tongue plunging deep into her mouth. Y/N moaned, her body arching against his as he pulled her closer, his hands moving to cup her breasts.

He squeezed them gently, his thumbs brushing over her nipples, sending sparks flying through her body. Y/N shuddered, her hips grinding against his, her arousal building with every passing moment. His hands moved to the button of her skirt.

He popped the button, his fingers slipping inside to caress her warm, wet flesh. Y/N gasped, her body shuddering under his touch. Yoongi’s fingers moved faster, his thumb brushing over her clit.

Her hips bucked against his hand, her arousal building with every single moment. Yoongi’s fingers moved faster, his thumb circling her clit, his other fingers pumping in and out of her wet, pulsing core.

Y/N’s body shuddered, her orgasm building, her mind spinning with pleasure, his thumb pressing harder against her clit, sending her over the edge.

Y/N cried out, her body arching against Yoongi’s as she came, her orgasm washing over her in waves. Yoongi’s fingers never stopped, his thumb still circling her clit, prolonging her pleasure.

As she came down from her orgasm, Y/N felt Yoongi’s fingers slide out of her, his thumb pressing one last time against her clit before moving away. He pulled her closer, his lips capturing hers.

Yoongi’s kiss was deep and intense, his tongue dancing with hers as their naked bodies pressed against each other. She could feel his hardness against her thigh, his desire for her clear. But he knew that she was not ready.

“I need you.” His voice was husky with pleasure and selfishness. Yoongi pulled back slightly, his eyes burning with desire.

“You are so fucking beautiful—” His eyes never left hers when he lowered down to lay soft kisses on her lower abdomen.

“—And so fucking mine.”

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat at Yoongi’s words. She could feel his warm breath against her skin as he continued to kiss her abdomen, his lips leaving a trail of heat and desire.

“Yoongi,” she whispered, her voice hoarse. Yoongi’s eyes locked onto her most intimate parts. He lowered his head, his tongue darting out to taste her. Y/N gasped at the sensation, her body arching against his as he explored her most sensitive areas. His tongue was warm and wet, his touch gentle, seductive. This only happened in one of her dreams and never did she imagine this would be once a reality.

As he continued to pleasure her, Y/N felt herself getting closer and closer to another orgasm. Her body trembled with pleasure, her breath catching in her throat as she reached the peak.

With a loud cry, Y/N came again, her body shaking against Yoongi’s as he continued to pleasure her. As she came down from her orgasm, Yoongi slowly stood up, his eyes never leaving hers. Y/N’s hands slid up Yoongi’s chest, her fingers digging into his skin. He reached down and began to undo his pants, his erection springing free, swollen with need. She knew what he expected of her, hence it was easier to just accept it and be done with it.

“Can I? —” She asked, her voice trembling. She needs him to think she wants him just like he wants her. His eyes closed before he spoke with a husky voice.

“Please—” he choked out. He reached down and began to guide her hand onto his shaft, his fingers wrapping around hers to show her how to stroke him, feeling the heat and hardness of him. She could feel his pulse beating beneath her touch.

As she began to jerk him off, Y/N felt a some twisted sense of power and control. She could see the desire in Yoongi’s eyes and feel the need building within him. She increased her pace, her hand moving up and down his shaft in a rhythmic motion. Yoongi’s breath caught in his throat as Y/N continued to pleasure him. His eyes locked onto hers.

“Dove,” he groaned, his voice hoarse with desire. She could feel his body tensing, his need for release building. With a final stroke, Yoongi came, his orgasm washing over him hard, spurring the hot semen on her hand.

He did not last long, how could he when it was she pleasuring him?

The wedding of her sister was coming dangerously close, days went by rather quickly when there were no fights to fight or battles to win.

“Did you think of a gift for your husband, my dear?” An elderly female voice echoed on the terrace as she was sipping her tea. It was still not the warmest weather but the snow was by far almost gone and the sun was peeking through the white clouds. It was a perfect day to ride a horse.

“A gift?” Y/N squinted her eyebrows, not having a single clue as to what her mother was referring to.

“The day of his birth is arriving soon.” The younger female almost choked on her herbal tea, she still kept drinking as Yoongi might be taking the activities in their bedroom slow for now, she does not know when he will stop being patient. The herbs will kill any seeds that could be planted in her womb.

Y/N’s mind raced, her fingers tightening around the delicate porcelain cup. The bitter taste of the tea was a stark contrast to the sweetness she was expected to embody. The idea of giving a gift to the man who had taken everything from her felt like a cruel joke, a twisted irony that only deepened her resentment.

“A gift,” she repeated, the words almost foreign on her tongue. Her mother’s voice, though soft, held the weight of generations of expectations, yet Y/N could sense some undertone, a message to be conveyed. Expectations that Y/N had always felt burdened by, but now they were suffocating her, pressing down on her like a relentless tide.

“Yes, a gift,” her mother continued, oblivious to the storm brewing behind Y/N’s eyes. “Something meaningful. You must show him your gratitude, your… affection.” She hesitated on the last word, perhaps sensing the tension in her daughter but brushing it off as the nerves of a newlywed. After all, this was the life she had been groomed for—submission, obedience, and silent suffering disguised as devotion.

Until she got the taste of freedom.

Y/N nodded mechanically, her mind already drifting away from the conversation. Her mother’s voice became a distant murmur, drowned out by the rush of her thoughts. How could she possibly give him something meaningful when every part of her being still wanted to run away from him? When every night she spent in his arms felt like a betrayal of herself?

The sun’s warmth on her skin felt almost mocking, a false promise of comfort in a world that had turned cold and unyielding. The thought of his birthday, of celebrating the man who held her captive in a gilded cage, was almost too much to bear. She felt her resolve slipping, the carefully constructed facade of the dutiful wife threatening to crack.

But she couldn’t let it break, not yet. Not when she was so close to finding a way out. She had sacrificed too much, endured too much, to falter now.

“I’ll think of something, Ma” Y/N finally replied, her voice calm, betraying nothing of the turmoil within. Her mother smiled, satisfied, and turned to gaze out at the garden. Y/N understood her words clearly. She followed her gaze, but all she saw was the vast emptiness that mirrored her own heart.

Her eyes narrowed down to her younger sister, watching her mount a horse, Taehyung by her side just like he had been for the past months. Her father is not nor never will be happy with both hers and her sister’s elopements, not that it’s going to matter soon.

The sight stirred something bitter in Y/N, a pang of resentment mixed with a twisted sense of protectiveness. She spent days and nights wishing she could reverse Xiaoli’s fate.

“She has changed,” her mother spoke again. Y/N’s eyes closed whilst she breathed out a loud sigh.

“She has, indeed,” Y/N muttered back. If she can call prefrontal lobotomy ‘a change’, then yes, Xiaoli has changed very much so.

“Why can’t you be happy for her?” Her mother’s voice, gentle but insistent, grated against Y/N’s nerves like sandpaper.

“Are you happy for me, Ma?” Y/N countered quickly. The question hung in the air, heavy and charged, like the tense silence before a storm. Y/N’s mother hesitated, her composure faltering for a fraction of a second before she regained her poise. Her eyes flickered, a shadow of something unreadable passing through them, but it was gone before Y/N could grasp it.

“Your happiness,” her mother began, carefully choosing her words, “has always been… complicated.”

“Complicated,” Y/N echoed, a bitter smile tugging at her lips. It was a diplomatic way of saying that her happiness had never been a priority. In their world, happiness was a luxury, often sacrificed for the sake of duty, appearances, and survival.

“Do you think I do not know?” Y/N continued, her voice low, edged with the frustration she had suppressed for far too long. “Do you think I haven’t noticed how you and father always looked at me with a kind of pity? As if I’m some tragic figure in a story you would rather not tell?”

Her mother’s face remained impassive, but Y/N could see the tension in the way she held herself, the slight tremor in her hands as they rested in her lap. “I have always wanted the best for you,” her mother said, but the words felt rehearsed, as if she had said them a thousand times before and had long since stopped believing them.

“Then tell me, Ma,” Y/N pressed, leaning forward, her voice dropping to a whisper, “what is the best for me? Is it to be locked in a marriage where every night I lose a piece of myself? Or is it to watch as my sister being expe-” Y/N stopped herself from slipping such information out.

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat as she realized how close she had come to revealing the unspeakable truth. She quickly clamped her mouth shut, biting back the words that had almost spilt out. Her mother’s eyes narrowed slightly, suspicion flickering in their depths, but Y/N forced herself to remain calm, to steady her racing heart.

Her mother’s gaze bored into her, searching for the secret Y/N had almost exposed, but Y/N refused to let it show. She couldn’t afford to slip, not now, not when everything was hanging by such a fragile thread. But her mother’s finger that softly tapped next to her ear told her that she knows more than she shows. They are listening. They always do.

The elder woman sighed just like her daughter a few moments ago. “You started to look happier these past weeks, I just thought that maybe, just maybe you’ve found your peace in your life.” The older woman continued the conversation like no other message was sent her way.

She couldn’t bring herself to meet her mother’s eyes, afraid of what she might see reflected there—pity, disappointment, or worse, a recognition of the truth Y/N was so desperately trying to hide.

Her mother reached out, placing a hand gently on Y/N’s arm. The touch was meant to be comforting, but it only served to remind Y/N of how disconnected she felt, and how far she had drifted from the person she used to be. “You deserve happiness, Y/N. Real happiness. And I want that for you, more than anything.”

Y/N felt a lump rise in her throat, choking back the bitter retort that threatened to spill out. Happiness was a luxury she couldn’t afford, not when every day was a battle to keep herself from falling apart, to protect the one person she had left in this world.

“I am trying, Ma,” she said instead, her voice barren, trying to find some semblance of peace, some way to reconcile the choices she had made. But that peace seemed as distant as the stars, something she could see but never touch.

Her mother gave her arm a gentle squeeze before letting go. “You have always been so strong, Y/N. I know life has not been easy for you, but you have survived so much. I just hope that one day, you will not have to pretend anymore.”

Y/N nodded, unable to trust herself to speak. Her mother’s words were well-intentioned, but they felt like salt in a wound that had never fully healed. She wanted to tell her mother the truth, to explain the depths of her despair, the weight of the secrets she carried, but she could not. The risk was too great, the consequences too dire.

So instead, she buried the truth deeper, locking it away in the darkest corner of her mind. She would have to continue pretending, for now, until she could find a way out—if there even was one.

“Nonetheless, do well to remember something for me—” her head turned to face her mother once more, awaiting what else she could possibly say to her.

“You are the queen here, child.”

Y/N did not understand her mother’s words at the time, but she recalled their reunion all those months ago, hearing her say those words again.

Be a queen.

“He is getting better—” his voice resonated near her. She did not turn to face him until the chair next to her made an uncomfortable noise. He was far too busy today, busier than usual. He greeted her mother with respect each time.

Her mother is not the enemy here, nor she ever was. Yet, she is being watched with such precise carefulness by all the Min worshipers, maids, soldiers - everyone. Wang Zemo was the unspoken enemy that her husband is secretly planning to eliminate.

They are not speaking about that sensitive subject, yet Y/N knows that it is going to happen no matter what she thinks about her father. Unless—

“How do you feel today?” he asked.

She finally turned to face him, her eyes searching for any sign of the concern she had grown used to. But today, something was different. There was an unfamiliar hardness in his gaze, a flicker of something she could not quite place.

“I am fine,” she replied, her voice steady despite the unease growing inside her. “Just a bit tired from last night’s work.”

“There is a jewellery showroom I would like to visit with you if you feel well enough—”

The jewellery store was a haven of elegance, with its sparkling displays and refined ambience. It was a place where time seemed to stand still, each piece of jewellery capturing a moment of beauty and grace. Today, however, an air of tension hung over the store, palpable even among the glistening gems and polished glass cases.

Y/N could sense all the stares angled at them, all the whispers were heard by her ears, yet Yoongi remained unbothered. She on the other hand felt uneasy by such attention. After all, it is not every day they welcome such a powerful man in their store. Such a dangerous man.

She sensed something was amiss, her own worries momentarily forgotten as she watched the store’s manager, conversing in hushed tones with an unknown man.

“Why are we here?” She asked him with a sudden turn he did not expect. His demeanour was unreadable, as always, but she hoped for some clarity in his response. Yoongi looked at her, his gaze steady and reassuring.

“Your Eomma said you would fancy a new set of pearls like hers.” He smiled softly, caressing her cheek with his right hand, Y/N sensing the balance of warmth of it and the coldness of his rings he had worn.

Y/N raised an eyebrow, her scepticism evident. “But my birthday is not for another month. Why so soon?”

Yoongi chuckled, a sound that seemed to ease the tension in the room just a bit. “Consider it an early surprise. You can wear them at the wedding—”

“Your birthday is coming, we should talk about that instead—” she interrupted him, her tone still possessed a mix of frustration and confusion. Why would they talk about her birthday which is not for another month?

Yoongi’s smile faded slightly, and he glanced around the store, his eyes momentarily clouded with concern before he masked it again. “I just wanted to do something special for you, that is all. You have been doing so well, Dove.”

By doing well means, no tantrums, no screams, no broken vases thrown his way and they are living as a husband and wife, not just in the name. It was his way of acknowledging the fragile peace they had managed to maintain, the delicate balance that kept their world from shattering. He was selfish enough to consider himself making progress with her.

Y/N sighed, feeling the weight of his words. “What would you fancy for your birthday?” She asked carefully.

Yoongi paused, a hint of surprise flickering across his features. He chuckled a little before he leaned down to press his lips softly against hers for a moment, his hand slipping down to her belly.

“You know,” he began, choosing his words carefully, “I’ve been thinking… about something we already talked about—”

Y/N raised an eyebrow, curiosity piqued. “What do you mean?” Her gaze slipped down to his large hand on her belly, awaiting the worst.

He took a breath, his gaze steady as he looked into her eyes, while his forehead rested on hers. “I know I said that it will not help anything, but I would love to have—”

“Not here—” she said way too quickly, her voice tinged with urgency. “Let us not talk about it here, okay?”

His expression shifted, understanding, but a bit sad as his first thoughts led him to rejection.

“I am sorry, this is not the right place, —” he replied, his voice lowering to a whisper as if he feared that even speaking about it might attract unwanted attention. “But I want you to know it is on my mind, Dove.”

Y/N felt a flutter in her chest, a conflict brewing within her. The idea of a child, of a future that seemed so distant.

“Can we talk at home?” She asked carefully. The tension in his shoulders eased, she wanted to talk about it, and his heart started to beam.

“Deal. Let us just find you those pearls for now, hm?” A little peck on his lips was enough confirmation that she was more than ready to pick up some jewellery and leave.

As they moved through the store, the vibrant displays of jewellery momentarily distracted them from the weight of their conversation. Y/N couldn’t shake the thought of Yoongi’s words, though. She knew she needed to play her role. However, she was not ready to make such a big sacrifice for the taste of freedom. She had a different scenario in her head.

“What do you think about these pearls?” She gestured towards a stunning strand that caught the light just right, reflecting an array of colours.

Yoongi’s gaze followed her gesture, and he leaned closer to examine the pearls. “They are beautiful. They remind me of you—classic and timeless beauty,” he said, his tone playful but sincere.

She laughed softly, the tension of their earlier conversation easing. “You just say that because I am wearing a white dress.”

“Maybe,” he admitted, a hint of mischief dancing in his eyes. “But I mean it.” He smiled at her, his eyes reflecting the love he felt for her with the hope that perhaps when they returned home, they could explore the depths of their future dreams together. Perhaps.

The private dining room was filled with the warm glow of candlelight, the scent of delicious food wafting through the air. The large table was set with an assortment of dishes, each more appetizing than the last.

Y/N glanced around, taking in the sight of the family gathered together, a rare moment these days when everyone is put to work. Each member of the family had a role to play, each one integral to the operation and survival of the Min clan.

She and Seokjin run around the hospital doing what they can to heal and help those in need. These past weeks were especially busy after several raids on the warehouses the Min clan owns.

Taehyung worked his magic, covering every single trace that would make the whole syndicate fall.

Jungkook, seated beside Jimin who has been running the hotel perfectly, took a deep breath. “The Min soldiers are ready. We have increased patrols around the warehouses and fortified our defences. I have got the best man on it, Yoongi-hyung. We will not let anything happen again like last time.”

“Yoongi nodded, his expression serious. “Good. We cannot afford any more breaches—”

Jungkook nodded firmly. “I will.”

Hoseok leaned back in his chair, his usually cheerful demeanour replaced with a hard edge. “I have been tracking down leads on who’s responsible for the raids. We have collected some old debts and sent a clear message.”

“It has been happening way too often lately,—” Namjoon cleared his throat, bringing the attention back to the whole table.

“It is the peak of the trade season, innit?” Yoongi mused out loud. Not bothered by that at the moment, he knows he can rely on his men. His wife sticking the food around with her chopsticks, pretending to eat from the barely filled marble dish bothered him more.

They have yet to return to their conversation but that is not what occupies her mind now. Yoongi yet again wondered whether her silence meant that she was considering what he said or being tortured by that thought.

“How are things over at the sanatorium?” The right-hand man raised the question when he cleared his throat, hoping to get the young Buin to talk about the sector that was entrusted to her. Under the watchful eye of Doctor Kim Seokjin.

Yoongi, seated at the head of the table, glanced at her with a small smile. Despite the tension of the past weeks, moments like this reminded him of why they fought so hard. He reached under the table, finding her hand and giving it a reassuring squeeze. Then, with a gentle, almost tender gesture, he picked up a piece of grilled fish and placed it on her plate.

“We have zero deaths so far, thanks to—” Seokjin’s voice became a blur when she noticed his hand squeezing hers.

“Eat up, Dove—” Yoongi said softly, ignoring Seokjin’s report, his eyes filled with concern. Xiaoli looked around the table with wide eyes, still getting used to the boisterous dynamics of the group.

“Are you feeling fine, Unnie?” She pried, eating a piece of kimchi while doing so. “You have been working a lot lately.”

“Just peachy, pumpkin,” Y/N replied with a bright smile, trying to mask the fatigue she felt. She noticed the way Yoongi’s brow furrowed slightly at her response, a subtle reminder of their shared worries, but she chose to brush it off.

Hoseok, sitting across from her, leaned in with a teasing grin. “Peachy? You have been working more hours than Jin-hyung at the hospital, Buin—” he expressed his concern.

“And I love working—” Y/N began, her voice light, but she was quickly interrupted by Jin, who feigned horror.

“Yes, yes and yes, that does not change that you should take a little break.” Jin insisted, his tone dramatic as he leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms.

“Oh shut up, you do need me, Dr Kim.” Y/N shot back playfully, her smile growing wider as she tried to lighten the mood.

“Touché,” Jin replied, holding his hands up in mock surrender. “But that does not mean you should work yourself into the ground. You are not invincible, Buin.”

Jungkook leaned forward, a teasing glint in his eye. “Yeah, the last thing we need is for our favourite sister to pass out in the middle of surgery because she did not eat breakfast!” He noticed. Of course he did.

Y/N rolled her eyes at him playfully. “I can manage just fine. I am not collapsing anytime soon. I promise!”

“Not with that attitude,” Namjoon said, leaning back with an amused expression. “But let us not test the limits of your endurance, okay?”

“Eat up, Dove. No more arguments,” Yoongi said firmly, though his voice softened at the end.

Y/N looked at the fish, then back up at him. “I will, but you all need to stop treating me like I am fragile, at least I am not that fragile anymore—” her voice fell down at the end of the sentence.

Nobody forgot, even though it seemed like they did. The scar on her neck is yet to fade and smooth into her skin. Before she managed to slip to those thoughts, Jimin’s voice echoed through the room.

“How about a spa day, girls?” Y/N chuckled lightly, glancing around the table, endorsing that kind of domesticity. But when she looks at her sister and sees a woman she never was before, it makes her heart ache.

October through November 1938

Fresh off the boat from China, her wide-eyed innocence was observable by many others. The scent of hay mingled with the musky aroma of leather and sweat as she walked through the stables, admiring the majestic kladrubers behind the iron bars. Reaching through them, her hands deftly brushed against their sleek coats.

She came here to forget about all the screaming that was happening behind closed doors of the room that was “politely” offered to them. Her father wanted to come home, with her sister preferably, but the young Korean Kkangpae just had to be so madly in love with Y/N that he was not willing to let her just go. At least, that is what Xiaoli observed from behind the scenes.

The younger sister did not know how it came to this nor what was his business with her father, and she will most likely never know the whole truth nor she will remember. She was not like her sister Y/N. Xiaoli knew very well that she must marry a wealthy mafia lord, a strong ally to her father at best. Hence, she made her peace with it since the first time she bled and became a woman.

The time was ticking and knowing that Y/N got to get higher education shifted the focus on her instead. Xiaoli was moulded to be the perfect, obedient and dutiful wife Y/N would never become. Not because she was not capable but because her sister had different ambitions. Ambitions that Xiaoli believed would kill her and many others. And once, she understood them. That proved to be no longer the case.

Y/N wanted to be a doctor, she wanted to help people, heal people and Xiaoli understood that was the persona she grew in.

She admired her sister for her strength and resilience. It would not take the man her sister is engaged to a second more to charm Xiaoli - in the right circumstances. He was handsome, successful, and certainly very intelligent as he managed to put the whole Triad on their feet by swaying Y/N.

The scar made him even more intriguing in Xiaoli’s eyes. There was something about the respect that vibrated through the room once he stepped in. She was not allowed to attend the meeting or meet her sister that day, and per her mother’s words, ‘it would only hurt her seeing you’.

Well, it definitely hurt Xiaoli. They spent very little time together these past years and she missed her dearly. The happiness and pride she felt on the day Y/N finally graduated was short-lived; their aunt passed away and even she was not stupid enough to not realise what it meant.

Sitting at the breakfast table in their family mansion back in Hong Kong, a rageful scream reverberated through the walls. The news that Y/N took the chance and ran for the hills.

“She barely reaches your chin, how come you were not able to stop her!”

The echoes of the scream seemed to linger in the opulent dining room, bouncing off the intricate wooden panelling and crystal chandeliers.

Xiaoli’s mother stood at the head of the table, her face twisted with fury and disbelief. The usually composed matriarch of the family was unrecognizable, her controlled demeanour shattered by the news of Y/N’s escape.

Xiaoli’s father, Wang Zemo sat in his chair with a deep frown etched on his face, his hands clenched into fists. He was a man of few words, but his silence was more intimidating than any outburst. The tension in the room was suffocating, each family member drowning in their own thoughts and fears.

The Lieutenant stood at the door frame to the dining room they were gathered in. Trembling under Wang Zemo’s hard glance.

“We did not think she would go that far,” he muttered, his voice shaky, afraid to lose his head. What he meant is that they trusted her sister to not do anything like that.

Xiaoli’s heart ached back then. She knew Y/N had been unhappy with the arranged marriage, but she hadn’t realized the depths of her despair. She admired her sister’s courage to defy their parents and the entire Triad’s expectations, but she also feared for her safety. Running away from such powerful families was no small feat, and the repercussions could be deadly.

“Stupid girl—” Wang Zemo scoffed at his oldest child’s incompetence to meet the expectations.

“She jeopardized everything!” Wang Zemo repeated, his voice rising with each syllable. His knuckles turned white as he gripped the edge of the table, the wood creaking under the pressure.

Xiaoli’s mother placed a calming hand on Wang Zemo’s shoulder, though her expression was one of thinly veiled panic.

“We need to stay calm,” she urged, her voice steady but strained. “Anger will not bring her back.” Wang Zemo shook off her hand, standing up abruptly.

He turned to the Lieutenant, his eyes narrowing. “What have you done to find her?”

The Lieutenant stammered, beads of sweat forming on his forehead. “We have mobilized all available men. We are taking every possible lead, and every contact she might have. But... but she has been very careful, sir. It is almost like she planned this way ahead..”

‘Of course she did,’ Xiaoli thought, feeling a mix of pride and sorrow for her sister. Y/N had always been meticulous and determined. She would not have run away on a whim; she would have made sure she had a solid plan.

“Not good enough,” Wang Zemo growled. “I want results. And I want them now—”

“Your fucking failure reflects on all of us!”

Xiaoli could feel the tears threatening to spill over, but she blinked them back, refusing to show any weakness. She had to be strong, for her sister and for herself.

Xiaoli’s mother flinched at the vulgarity, her mask of composure slipping for just a moment. The Lieutenant’s face turned a shade paler, and he nodded vigorously, desperate to appease his furious boss.

“Father,” Xiaoli spoke up, her voice surprisingly firm. “Maybe we should consider why Y/N ran away. Forcing her back might just not be the answer.”

Wang Zemo’s eyes snapped to her, his expression one of disbelief mixed with anger. “Are you questioning me, Xiaoli?”

“No, Father,” she said quickly but then gathered her courage. “I just think... there must be a better way. Y/N is smart. She would not do this without a good reason. Maybe we should try to understand her, rather than just bring her back by force.” She rephrased herself.

A heavy silence filled the room, everyone waiting for Lǎodà’s reaction. He stared at Xiaoli for a long moment before he finally spoke, his voice surprisingly calm but dangerously low.

“You do not have the same sinful intentions as your sister, daughter, right?”

“Of course not.” She forced a smile.

The conversation ended before it managed to even start. Xiaoli’s voice was never heard once she spoke up, and the most devastating was that not even her older sister could advise their father or her mother. The only woman that the hot-headed Wang Zemo ever listened to was their dear auntie, but she is no longer here to prevent him from the madness he is planning to do.

There is no one to make Wang Zemo see reason anymore.

The warm sun filtered through the slats of the stable, casting playful shadows across the hay-strewn floor. There he stood, at the very edge, her heart racing as she took in the sight of him. His strong form bent over one of the kladrubers, grooming the horse with gentle precision. Xiaoli quietly watched him from a distance, adored in tailored high-waisted trousers, in a rich earth tone, paired with a fitted, button-down shirt. His choice of leather riding boots suggests functionality and style, perfect for a day at the stables.

Xiaoli’s heart raced as she observed Kim Taehyung’s deft movements. She admired not just his looks but the quiet confidence he exuded—a stark contrast to the chaos of her family. His demeanour and interaction with his brothers.

They have been talking.

Matter of fact, they have been talking daily. Sometimes from far away, it felt like they were talking more than casually. Xiaoli cherished the moments she spent with Taehyung, often finding solace in their conversations at the stables, sun room or dining hall.

They would talk about everything—his aspirations, her dreams, the horses they adored. He shared stories of his family’s dynamics, highlighting the playful banter with his brothers, while she opened up about the weight of her own familial expectations, carefully steering the discussions to remain light-hearted. But he noticed her dissatisfaction.

Taehyung looked up, a warm smile spreading across his face, instantly lighting up his sharp features when he saw her standing near him.

“Hey there, angel” he said, his tone inviting, “Want to help?”

Xiaoli nodded, her pulse quickening. As she moved beside him, the connection sparked an unexpected flutter in her chest. There was something about him that felt safe, a reprieve from her tumultuous life.

Their fingers brushed as they reached for the grooming brush at the same time, and Taehyung chuckled softly.

“I don’t bite–”

Xiaoli’s cheeks flushed, and she laughed lightly, feeling an ease she had not known in ages. The playful banter continued, their laughter echoing softly against the stable walls, and for a moment, the weight of her family’s expectations and her father’s wrath slipped away.

“Would you give me the honour to accompany you riding today, angel?” Xiaoli hesitated, glancing down at her hands.

“I wish I could, Taehyung-sshi, but I cannot today—” Taehyung’s smile faltered for just a moment, but he quickly masked it with understanding.

“What is the matter, dear?” Xiaoli bit her lip, avoiding his gaze.

“It is just... my father’s been on edge lately, and I don’t want to risk making things worse. Truth to be told, he is not very keen on spending my leisure time with you.”

Taehyung’s brow furrowed with concern, and he took a step closer, his voice softening.

“I do not fancy your father either, but he also does not fancy any of my clan.”

Xiaoli nodded, understanding the unspoken tension that simmered beneath their lighthearted exchanges. “I know, but that makes it all the more complicated.”

He leaned closer, lowering his voice as if sharing a secret. “You deserve to enjoy yourself, regardless of what he thinks. Life is too short for shadows.” He mused.

“I know—” she started, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Spend it with me.”

He said softly but rather abruptly, closing the distance between them. Her eyes searched for any signs of foul play but found none. Her breathing became shaky and her mind started to spin around all the scenarios that her father would be starring in as the villain. Xiaoli’s heart raced at his words, caught between desire and duty.

“What?—” She asked, shocked. Xiaoli took a deep breath, the weight of the moment heavy on her chest.

“Taehyung, I appreciate how you feel. I truly do. But I must be honest with you.” He tilted his head, a flicker of concern crossing his face.

“I think of you as a friend, someone…someone I can confide in, but…but nothing more,” she continued stammering, although her voice remained gentle. “With everything going on, I need to focus on my family and my responsibilities. I thought you understood that–”

Taehyung’s expression softened, and he nodded slowly, masking his disappointment and internal anger.

“Friends it is.” He said through gritted teeth. The moment hung in the air, tinged with unspoken emotions, yet Xiaoli felt a bittersweet relief wash over her. In a world where love could be both a luxury and a burden, she valued the connection they shared, however fleeting it was.

Unfortunately for her, Kim Taehyung’s intentions are rooted far too deep to be classified as friendship.

“Tomorrow, we shall go take this boy for a ride, what you say, angel?”

Taehyung’s voice dripped with a charm that both thrilled and unnerved her.

Xiaoli hesitated, a flicker of unease creeping into her heart. “I—”

“Come on, it shall be fun! Just you and me,” he urged, his eyes glinting with a mix of excitement and something deeper, something she couldn’t quite place.

She took a breath, sensing the weight of his expectations.

“Of course–”

The flickering candlelight cast long shadows on the walls, the quiet ticking of a clock echoing in the background. She had written to Y/N again. Despite everything, despite the unspoken rules the Korean Kkangpae established - as per Taehyung’s words.

She had a strong feeling that something was going to go down the hill, and she expressed this in her plea letters to her sister who is being held in a place called the Sanctuary. Nobody ever knew where this place was hidden. Hidden from all those who wished for the downfall of the Min empire the scarred leader was extending slowly.

The words flowed onto the page, frantic and desperate - whatever happens, I shall not be able to control it. I feel like the choices will be taken away from me, dear sister.

But as she folded the paper, her heart ached. She had no idea if she could send it. No idea if she would ever be able to.

A soft knock at the door startled her, and before she could even respond, Taehyung entered, his presence filling the room like a storm. His sharp gaze immediately fell on the letters.

“We have talked about this, Xiaoli, you know that that is forbidden,” he asked, his voice smooth, almost too calm. The Taehyung she was seeing now was different from the one she met when she first laid foot onto the Min grounds. He has changed, and it was her rejection that led him to show his true colours to her.

Xiaoli’s heart skipped a beat. “I just wish to tell her I miss her,” she whispered, almost pleading. His hands quickly unfolded the paper she had laid in front of her, reading the words. That is when Xiaoli knew she was destined to be doomed.

“She is my sister, Taehyung. I cannot just abandon her like this.”

“You can,” he said, his voice suddenly hard. “And you will for now. She needs to adjust to her life as Buin of this clan.”

Xiaoli’s breath caught in her throat, her pulse quickening at the mention of Buin, the title that now belonged to her sister, the role that would tether Y/N even deeper to the Kkangpae.

“I can see that you are continuing this insanity that your dear sister exhibits too. Disobedience must be running in your family, but we shall change that soon.”

Taehyung stepped closer, his presence engulfing her, the scent of his cologne overpowering the faint smell of the letter’s ink. His fingers brushed the paper on the desk, now crumpled and discarded, and Xiaoli’s breath hitched at the coldness in his touch.

“What are you talking about again Taehyung? I thought we were done speaking about this topic.” Taehyung’s gaze sharpened, his eyes narrowing as he stepped closer, the air thickening with the tension between them.

“I shall see you in the morning, and I hope that a good sleep will bring you to your senses.” He said, his voice lowering, a cold warning hanging in the silence. Xiaoli’s heart raced, a wave of frustration and helplessness flooding through her.

“I will not let you break me. No is a no—” she raised her voice when he was about to leave the room. She lifted her chin, refusing to back down.

“Nor will you break my sister, mark my words Kim Taehyung, and be sure to tell them to that leader of yours.”

For a moment, there was silence.

Taehyung’s lips curled into a cold smile.

“You love me, Xiaoli. You do—” his bold and explicit words sent a tidal wave through her body.

“The sooner you accept it, the sooner you can live without the weight of that foolishness.”

“Good morning, angel.”

Truth to be spoken, Xiaoli was afraid to not come and a part of her knew that he would have his way nonetheless. Today, she was determined to put an end to Kim Taehyung's attempts to groom her.

Before she could reply, Xiaoli felt his lips brushing against hers, soft yet demanding. The world around them faded, leaving only the warmth of their connection, the lingering tension of unspoken words. She found herself responding,telling herself, just this once, curiosity mingling with a twinge of fear. She did not understand what was happening. Did she not make her standing in their relationship clear last night? His vulgarity shocked her.

The air was crisp and cool in November, a hint of frost glimmering on the ground as Xiaoli and Taehyung stood close in the stable, the warmth of their earlier kiss lingering like a sweet echo. The horses shifted in their stalls, unaware of the tension that had just shifted between the two of them.

The next moment, she was observing his muscular hands saddling the horse for her, still not understanding what happened. Too shocked to speak, to even comment or reply good morning to him.

Taehyung’s posture was relaxed, but beneath the surface, an insidious obsession twisted within him. He guided his horse closer to hers, a gleam in his eye that hinted at the darkness lurking beneath his charming façade.

“Have you thought about my proposal, my beloved?” He asked, curious. His proposal was rather sudden and the change in him very obvious. He was not hiding his feelings for her anymore. At least that is how he perceived the situation.

“Taehyung,-” she called out softly, watching as he approached, his breath misting in the cold air. His usual confident stride seemed tempered by the season’s sombre beauty.

“I am not sure if I can fully embrace this. I told you so–” she admitted, her gaze unwavering. He lifted his eyesight to meet hers. Taehyung, mounted on his sleek black horse, maintained a close pace beside Xiaoli, who rode a chestnut mare. The crisp air was filled with the sounds of hoofbeats crunching through the snow.

“Do you feel that?” Taehyung asked, his breath visible in the frosty air. “It is as if the world is ours alone.”

Xiaoli glanced at him, warmth blooming in her chest. “Nature is certainly beautiful,” she replied, the thrill of the ride mixing with the tension that still lingered after their kiss.

“Just like you,” he said, the sincerity in his voice making her heart race. “I want to share moments like this with you forever.”

“Taehyung…” She whispered, her disapproval evident in her voice.

“Xiaoli, beloved—” he said, voice smooth yet edged with intensity, “imagine a life where you belong to me, where no one can take you away. You would never have to worry about your father or anyone else. Just us.” His smile was wide, but there was a predator’s hunger behind it.

“Did we not share good times together, angel?” She shifted uncomfortably in her saddle, feeling the weight of his gaze.

“Taehyung, this is not what I want. I already have obligations—”

He interrupted, his tone sharpening.

“I can become your obligation, would you not fancy that over marrying a stranger?” He stressed out.

“We have our lives, our families, and that kiss—”

“Was it not real, my dear?” he interrupted, a spark of frustration flashing in his eyes.

“Uncalled for!” She raised her voice.

“You cannot just kiss me, Taehyung, we talked about us being friends just yesterday, did we not?” she said, trying to find the right words. Taehyung’s expression softened, and he nodded slowly, acknowledging the weight of her words.

But as they rode deeper into the woods, Xiaoli could not shake the feeling that something had shifted—not just between her and Taehyung, but within herself. The kiss replayed in her mind, its intensity causing her to question her feelings.

The snowflakes swirled around them, creating an enchanting atmosphere that felt almost dreamlike. But beneath the surface, Xiaoli knew this was not going to end well for her.

“Is this yet another strategic move of your Kkangpae?” She blurted out. Taehyung’s expression darkened at her words, the playful glint in his eyes replaced by something more intense.

“And if it is?” he cut in, anger and hurt lacing his tone. “I am offering you everything, and you are turning me down for what? Some semblance of duty?”

“The future I want does not include you!” she cried, her voice trembling. They cannot be friends, she has decided that it will be better to lose him than fall in line. The reality of their situation hung heavily between them, each word slicing deeper than the last.

“You do not have to part with your sister ever again!” Her mind stops for a fleeting moment, thinking about this for some peculiar proposal.

“You think this will make me fall in love with you, do you not?” she spat, the bitterness on her tongue sharp enough to cut through the tension in the room.

His lips curled into a cold, controlled smile, the kind of smile that made her skin crawl. “Love,” he murmured, getting closer until their faces were mere inches apart. “Love will come, in time. Whether you want it or not.”

Her body tensed, every fibre of her being fighting against the reality of it all. This is not love, she thought, her mind screaming with the agony of the truth.

Taehyung’s eyes narrowed, a mix of desperation and determination flaring within them. “You do not even know what you want yet, Xiaoli. You are running from a feeling that can change everything–”

“You make me feel alive,” he continued, searching her eyes for understanding.

“Taehyung, I cannot—” her tears spilt over, her voice losing its power.

“Just trust me,” he urged, his fingers brushing her arm. “Give in.”

“What are you—”

In a swift motion, he pushed his horse forward, pressing against her side. Xiaoli instinctively jerked her reins, trying to regain control. The sudden jolt sent her horse rearing back, and she lost her balance, falling hard to the ground. Pain exploded in her head as it connected with the earth, a sharp crack reverberating in the stillness around them.

Taehyung dismounted swiftly, panic lacing his features for a fleeting moment that luck was not on his side, that she fell harder than he wanted her to. But before you could blink it was all replaced by a chilling calmness.

“Everything shall be alright, my beloved. I shall make it all better,” he murmured, his voice soft yet chillingly possessive.

“I love you.”

The world spun into a blur of pain and darkness, Xiaoli’s last coherent thought was the cold touch of Taehyung’s hand, his voice a chilling promise in her ear.

When she woke, her head throbbed with a dull, persistent ache. Her surroundings were unfamiliar, a stark contrast to the snowy forest. The room was sterile, the air heavy with the scent of antiseptics. Her body felt restrained, bound to a cold, metal table. Panic surged through her veins as she struggled to move, but the restraints held firm.

Blinking slowly, she tried to make sense of her surroundings, the sterile white walls closing in on her. Kim Seokjin, one of the seven, stood at the foot of the bed, his face an unreadable mask. Dressed in a pristine white coat, he exuded an unsettling calmness. The tools of his trade lay meticulously arranged on a nearby table.

Xiaoli knew that he was the family’s doctor, but she did not understand what she was doing in his practice.

“Doctor Kim... what am I doing here?" Her voice was a fragile whisper when she addressed the older male, barely audible over the pounding of her heart.

He approached her slowly, his eyes cold and clinical. “There is no need to be afraid, dear. I will make it all better for you now.”

Strapped to the bed, Xiaoli’s attempts to move were futile. Panic surged through her veins as Seokjin prepared the instruments, his movements deliberate and precise. Tears streamed down her cheeks, the horror of her situation sinking in with every passing second.

“Is this what you did to your fiancée?!” Xiaoli remembers the talks of the young female kicking and screaming any moment she had the chance to, just to make it harder for Doctor Kim in public, making everybody know that she was here against her will.

Seokjin paused, a flicker of emotion crossing his otherwise stoic face. For a brief moment, his eyes softened, memories perhaps surfacing in his mind. But the moment was fleeting, replaced quickly by his professional detachment.

“Her thoughts were just as confused as yours,” he murmured, almost to himself. “But in the end, it was necessary. For her, and for us.”

The drastic change in her demeanour did not go unnoticed, yet everybody chose to ignore that, calling it her “enlightenment.”

Xiaoli’s heart raced faster, her breaths coming in quick, shallow gasps. “No, please. You do not have to do this. I can... I can leave. I shall not tell anyone that this ever happened.”

“You would leave your dear older sister here when we are offering you life within our ranks?”

His words struck a nerve, the mention of her sister pulling at Xiaoli’s deepest fears. “My sister…,” she stammered, her mind racing with conflicting emotions. She couldn’t abandon her, but she couldn’t accept this twisted fate either. Y/N would want her to fight this.

Seokjin’s eyes hardened, his patience thinning. “This is not a negotiation, Xiaoli. Your sister is safe, and she will remain so as long as you comply.”

In that unfortunate situation, Xiaoli did not know that there was no way that they would do something to Y/N, how could they? She ought to be the queen of them all. They cannot risk it going the wrong way.

A sob escaped her lips, the weight of her predicament crashing down on her. “Please, Doctor Kim. There must be another way.”

“You sound just like her. Your pleas are almost identical—” Seokjin’s expression softened, but only slightly.

“There is not. This is for your own good and for the good of the family. You will understand in time that Taehyung-sshi is the best thing that could ever come your way, child.”

Xiaoli’s tears flowed freely as Seokjin moved closer, the cold metal of his instruments glinting under the harsh lights. Her mind raced, searching for any possible escape, but the reality of her situation was inescapable.

“Please...,” she whispered one last time, her voice breaking.

Seokjin’s hand rested gently on her forehead, a mockery of comfort. “Hush now, Xiaoli. It will all be over soon.”

As the procedure began, Xiaoli’s cries echoed in the sterile room, a haunting symphony of despair. “Please...,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “I cannot do this.”

Seokjin approached her with a syringe in hand, his expression one of detached professionalism. The needle glinted ominously in the harsh light, a harbinger of the nightmare to come. “This will help you relax,” he said, his tone clinical and devoid of empathy.

Xiaoli’s heart pounded in her chest as the needle pierced her skin, a sharp sting that quickly gave way to a spreading numbness. Her vision blurred at the edges, the room tilting and swaying as the sedative took hold. Despite the fog settling over her mind, the panic continued to surge through her veins.

As the sedative dulled her senses, Xiaoli’s thoughts became fragmented, and disjointed. Memories of her childhood with Y/N flashed before her eyes, moments of laughter and love now tainted by the fear of losing herself. She tried to cling to those memories, to hold on to the essence of who she was, but they slipped through her fingers like sand.

“Why are you even doing this?” she managed to murmur, her voice slurred by the sedative. “Please... I will do anything...”

“Because you were not ready to accept his love and the love of this clan, my dear,” Seokjin replied, his voice eerily calm. Xiaoli’s thoughts grew increasingly disjointed, a chaotic jumble of fear, pain, and fragmented memories.

Seokjin’s voice broke through the haze, a steady drone that contrasted sharply with the chaos in her mind. “You will be better soon. You will see things clearly and understand your place.”

“Pray for your sister to not need this.” Xiaoli’s mind shut down in a desperate bid for self-preservation. The last thing she saw was Taehyung’s face, his expression a mixture of triumph and possession before everything faded to black.

Her head was secured tightly after she lost consciousness, Seokjin carefully lifted her upper eyelid, exposing the soft tissue beneath. The point of entry is the thin, bony orbital roof, a structure that protects the eye within its socket. He is trying to do this without having to opt for the leucotome method.

Inserting the slender leucotome, just above the eyeball he severed the white matter fibres of her prefrontal cortex, methodically disconnecting the very essence of her thoughts and emotions, enough to just reorganize her persona into something she was not. Less capable of resistance, less capable to decide for herself.

“This better work, Seokjin, I cannot lose her.” His words cut through the air, a desperate plea as his gaze fixed on Xiaoli’s still form. She had to come back as the woman he wanted—obedient, loyal, bound to him in every way.

Nobody would ever notice. After all, Xiaoli was never opposed to being a wife of a high profile mafia member in comparison to her sister.

Her thoughts, her dreams, her fears—all of them slipping away, restructured, reshaped. The woman Taehyung had demanded would emerge from this, but at what cost?

Xiaoli would no longer fight him. She would no longer question him. In time, she would look to him, and him alone, for purpose.

Her body would heal; the bruising would fade, and the scar on her scalp would eventually blend, after all, everybody will think that it needed to be done after her unfortunate fall from the horse.

“If not, I will do it on the other side too, but that is risky” Seokjin murmured, but even he wasn’t sure if he believed it. Doing it with only one side was just as risky. The woman she had been might not return, but the woman Taehyung desired most certainly would.

“Why?” Taeyhung voiced.

“You do not want her to be a vegetable, do you?”

Xiaoli, the girl who would fight for her sister to be free of the notorious Korean Kkangpae Min, would cease to exist.

The rest would simply be a matter of time.

The next time she wished to write to her sister, innocently, Taehyung’s hand shot out, swiftly taking hold of the letters and ripping them from her grasp before she could finish her sentence. The paper fluttered to the floor, torn and lifeless.

“You cannot write to her, Xiaoli,” he said, each word deliberate. Xiaoli could not shake off the familiarity of this moment. As if she was reliving something from before.

“You belong here now, with me, love. You owe everything to this clan. To me.”

Her throat tightened, tears welling in her eyes as she tried to hold onto the fragments of herself that still fought to resist. “Alright, I understand.”

“She is safe,” he said, his voice cold and final, “and if she is to remain so, she will need to embrace her new life, just as you will. You will have no more distractions, no more ties to the past. Your sister will adjust, just like you did.”

She was a shell that smiled when expected, nodded in approval when necessary, and followed Taehyung’s every command without question. She was no longer a woman who sought freedom for her sister, who fought against the weight of the world. No, she was now simply his—his to guide, to possess, to mould into the role that had been chosen for her.

The pain of her sister’s struggle was no longer her burden to bear, not when she had been given a new, more fitting role to play. She belonged here now, she understood that—at least, she told herself she did. The clan had welcomed her with open arms, and Taehyung’s presence was both commanding and comforting. He was the anchor to her existence now, and she had no choice but to submit, for it was the only life she had left.

The day of their wedding arrived, the final step in the transformation of Xiaoli into the woman she had been shaped to be. The air was thick with anticipation, the ornate halls of the family compound dressed in rich colours, the scent of incense mingling with the opulence of the setting. Guests, powerful men and women from every corner of the clan gathered in hushed reverence, all eyes on the bride as she stepped into the room.

The silk fabric, lustrous ivory, was adorned with intricate patterns that seemed to dance in the flickering light, each thread whispering secrets of elegance and heritage. Her attire was simple yet breathtaking—a testament to timeless beauty. Even though it tinged Y/N with sadness that her sister chose to wear a Korean wedding dress instead of showing off their culture. It seemed that they even took the country out of her too.

The ceremony was a blur, just like everything else. The vows, the prayers, the promises—they all felt distant, detached. There was no room for anything more. Not when her thoughts, her emotions, had been so carefully erased, so perfectly reshaped to fit this role. She loved him, because she was told to do so.

As they left the altar together, Taehyung’s hand around hers, there was a finality to the moment that left her breathless. The gold band on her finger, heavy with meaning, designed with filigree — an oval, dark red ruby sat at its centre, glowing with an almost ominous warmth.

She glanced upon her sister sitting next to her husband once the ceremony was almost at its end. Her hand was sliced with a knife, Y/N, now the Min Buin, watched in silence, her expression unreadable. Xiaoli saw only the coldness of a woman who had embraced her new role.

She recited her pledge of loyalty to them and Y/N could not help herself but sigh. She could not reverse Xiaoli’s fate. The girl she knew was long gone and the woman she became was not who Y/N knew. Although, that will not make her love her less.

Her gaze flickered to Xiaoli, and for a brief moment, there was a flicker of something—regret, perhaps, or guilt—but it was gone as quickly as it had appeared.

Xiaoli’s bloodied trembling hand remained pressed against Y/N’s belly, a symbol of sacrifice, for what was to come. Y/N looked at her for a long moment before her hands gripped Xiaoli’s to reassure her for the last time that she was here. Min Yoongi’s watchful eyes did not miss this slight change in both of them, but for now, he is determined to let it slip.

“Blessed be the fruit of your future legacy, Kkangpae Min.”

“Lǎodà Wang wishes to speak to you, Min Buin.” Y/N has set down the cup of her today’s dose of the herbal tea and breathed in, frustrated. She sat there for a moment longer, staring at the delicate ceramic cup.

“You can tell him what you usually do, Xiu — he can schedule an audience with me whilst my husband is present—” she began. Her voice was steady, but tinged with the faintest thread of frustration as she glanced at the delicate ceramic cup in front of her. The soft scent of the herbal tea filled the air, but it couldn’t soothe the growing unease tightening in her chest.

Xiu was her father’s maid since she was a child, hence she hesitated for a fraction of a second before responding. “Min Buin, this matter seems urgent. Lǎodà Wang insists on seeing you alone.”

“I have no interest in seeing him alone, Xiu—” She had kept her distance from him ever since her marriage to Yoongi.She did not protest when his command was to limit the interaction between the father and the sisters.

“I must insist, Min Buin.” Xiu repeated, her voice calm but firm. It was rare for Xiu to speak with such authority, but there was something in her demeanour that suggested the urgency of this matter was not to be ignored.

Y/N exhaled slowly, her thoughts spinning. “Alright, tell him to meet me in Kkangpae’s office. Off you go.”

Xiu bowed her head slightly, her expression unreadable, and then turned to leave the room without a word. Y/N watched her go, her mind whirling with unease. The mention of Lǎodà Wang was enough to unsettle her, but the insistence on meeting alone only deepened her suspicion. There was something off about this, something she couldn’t quite place.

Once Xiu disappeared from her sight, Y/N rose from her seat and walked toward the window, gazing out at the sprawling grounds of the hotel.

Why now? Why is her father so desperate to speak with her alone?

Xiaoli and Taehyung have been wed and there is no tie to him now. As a matter of fact, he can set a sail back to China, anytime now. She glanced at the clock on the wall. Time was slipping away.

She moved to gather herself for the meeting with her father. The weight of everything she had set in motion was starting to press on her, but she couldn’t let it show—not yet. She needed her mind sharp and clear, and she had no time to waste. But Y/N could see the sharpness in her sister’s eyes as she hesitated for a moment before speaking.

“What is it, pumpkin?” Y/N’s voice was calm, but the undercurrent of frustration and unease was evident.

“Are you sure you are ready to do this now?”

Y/N finally turned to face her, her expression unreadable but her eyes sharp. She studied her sister for a moment, taking in the subtle shift in Xiaoli’s demeanour, the way her posture had become more rigid as if she too could feel the weight of the coming confrontation. Y/N’s lips pressed into a thin line.

“Are you?” Xiaoli hesitated, but nodded, solemnly.

“I can come with you,” she suggested. Y/N’s gaze softened for just a moment.

“No,” Y/N said firmly, her voice steady. “This is not your burden, Xiaoli.”

Xiaoli nodded slowly, her lips pressing together in a tight line. “But it is, innit?” She stepped forward, her voice dropping to a murmur. “This is everyone’s fight. He has always been able to divide us,—”

The truth of it was there in her words, but she refused to acknowledge the vulnerability creeping up her spine. She could not afford to waver.

“Everything will be okay, pumpkin—” Y/N gave a final, lingering glance to her sister.

“—Ha-sun?” She called. The soft sound of footsteps echoed from the hallway before the door creaked open revealing the young maid.

“Min Buin?”

Y/N didn’t turn immediately, her eyes still fixed on the sprawling grounds below, though her thoughts were far from the peaceful view.

“Get me Jeon Jungkook, armed.” Ha-sun’s eyes widened slightly at the command, but she nodded quickly, understanding the gravity in Y/N’s tone.

“And call for Kkangpae Min, say he needs to return at once.”

Without a word, she turned and left the room, her footsteps retreating down the hall.

The situation when Xiaoli and Taehyung got engaged was already volatile, but this—this felt like something else entirely. The tension was palpable, thick with layers of unspoken threats and promises.

Y/N moved toward the door, ready to face her father, Xiaoli’s voice suddenly stopped her in her tracks.

“Wait,” Xiaoli called out, standing up from the chair where she had been sitting. Her expression was a mix of disbelief and amusement as she eyed her sister’s outfit.

Xiaoli walked up to her, raising an eyebrow. “Are you seriously wearing trousers?” she asked, her tone dripping with incredulity. Y/N’s eyes widened slightly, her patience already stretched thin.

“Are you seriously asking me that?”

Xiaoli crossed her arms, her lips curving into a mischievous grin. “It is just… you are about to face the wrath of Lǎodà Wang, and you are wearing pants? Is it not a little… aggressive?”

Y/N sighed, rolling her eyes as she straightened her posture, her expression shifting to one of mock seriousness.

“I am about to go confront the man who ruined our lives for years, Xiaoli. Trust me, these pants are the least of his problems.”

“What does a father have to do to see his daughter here?!” Y/N’s jaw tightened.

“I assume you have a reason for requesting to be in my presence.”

The air was thick with tension, the scent of aged wood and leather mingling with the faint traces of Yoongi’s cologne lingering in the corners.

The walls were lined with bookshelves, the shelves packed with legal documents, expensive liquor bottles, and the occasional framed photograph of her and the Min clan family men. But tonight, it was the man in front of her that commanded all her attention.

Her father, Wang Zemo, stood at the far end of the room, facing the large mahogany desk where Yoongi usually worked. He was still as imposing as ever—his tall, broad frame overshadowing the delicate space, his dark eyes glinting with something she couldn’t quite read.

He turned to face her short form only for his eyes to narrow with disbelief.

“What is this?” His voice was sharp. Y/N met his gaze, standing her ground, confused at what exactly her father was referring to.

She stood in the doorway, an almost ethereal figure, wearing a beige, floral-print qipao with short sleeves and a high collar. The delicate embroidery on the fabric caught the light, its intricate petals whispering a grace that felt both foreign to her now but still strangely familiar. Her wide-leg, high-waisted brown trousers fell to her ankles, the fabric swaying as she shifted. Dark-coloured heels clicked lightly on the floor, sharp and deliberate. There was something about her—bold, beautiful, yet undeniably out of place.

“What do you mean?” She asked him, playing confused.

“Are you wearing goddamn trousers, Y/N?!” The air was thick with the weight of her father’s fury. Y/N felt the sting of his words, the disbelief in his eyes cutting deeper than she expected. Seems like Xiaoli was right after all, it did anger him.

“Yes, Father,” she said softly, her voice steady despite the sharpness in his tone. “I am wearing trousers.”

Y/N’s gaze flickered toward the desk, where Yoongi’s chair was empty, his absence adding to the heaviness in the air. She felt the weight of her father’s presence pressing on her, but she refused to let it show.

There was no longer any room for fear. She was no longer a child, nor his pawn.

“You are a woman, Y/N.” Y/N stood firm, her heart racing. Breathing this moment through, she was trying to calm herself. She cannot screw this up.

“Ah, yes, thank you for the reminder of my gender, Father. I almost forgot. Now, could you please enlighten me on the real reason you wanted to have this delightful conversation in the first place?”

The muscles in his jaw tightened as Y/N’s words cut through the air with a little bit of sarcasm. Her father didn’t immediately answer. The room seemed to grow smaller with each second.

“You have not once bothered to seek me out, child.” Wang Zemo finally said, his voice low and filled with a mixture of disappointment and anger.

“You have not exactly made yourself approachable,” Y/N retorted, her voice sharp when she touched her shorter perfectly styled dark hair.

Wang Zemo took a step forward, his expression darkening.

“Knowing your husband plans to eliminate my existence. You think I would be easily approachable?—”

Y/N’s heart skipped a beat, but she kept her face impassive. “I do not know what we are talking about.”

“Let me rephrase that, child,” he spat the words, “I have information that could dismantle the foolish scarred boy’s entire empire as I have no intention of going down without a fight.”

Her mind raced, trying to piece together the implications of his words. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I know that you have not fallen into the role of obedient little wife out of love for him, am I wrong?” he said, sloping down to sit on the lowered sofa. Y/N’s eyes followed his movement with disgust.

“Fix me a drink, child, would you, please.”

Y/N’s eyes narrowed, her fingers curling into fists at her sides but moved to the table where Yoongi stored his high-quality whiskey they started to produce just after they got married. “You haven’t answered my question, Father. Why are you telling me this?”

She did not want to get that close to her father, but there was something in his eyes that she could not decipher when she handed him the crystal glass.

“Your Aunt was not aware of Yoongi’s intentions to marry you.”

Wang Zemo expected her daughter to cry, scream and curse at the man he loathed so much. But none of that happened.

“He saw an opportunity to solidify his power and took it—” His eyes narrowed, studying her. He took a long sip of the whiskey, savouring the taste after receiving zero acknowledgement from his daughter before he spoke.

“You fucking knew!” He shouted, not spoke. His face contorted with rage and Y/N started to think if she ever saw her father calm. Y/N’s gaze remained steady, unflinching.

“I knew that, yes,” she replied calmly, not invested in the subject at all anymore.

Wang Zemo’s anger seemed to deflate slightly, replaced by a look of bewilderment. “And you still went through with it?”

“I never had a choice in this, did I?” Y/N’s expression softened, but only for a moment.

“You could have come home with me that day—” He shook his head, disbelief etched into his features.

“I wanted better for you,” he said quietly.

“And I wanted to be free,” she countered. “But we do not always get what we want.”

Y/N watched her father, seeing him not as the invincible patriarch she had once feared, but as a man weakened by time and circumstance.

“If that is all you wished to say to me,—” She dusted her trousers standing up, reading herself for the inevitable.

“I have orchestrated the raids on Yoongi’s warehouses. I have been systematically weakening his operations.”

He said, very calmly after he took a first sip of his drink.

“I did it for you.”

Rage and fear clashed within her, but she kept her voice steady. “What a lovely early birthday present,-” She mocked him.

“I did what was necessary,” he said, leaning back, the drink sloshing slightly in his hand. “For our family and for you, you are ready to finally leave, are you not?—”

She stared at him, a mix of disbelief and sorrow washing over her. “You think this is helping me? You think this chaos is what I need?”

A violent cough shook his frame, and he covered his mouth with a handkerchief. When he pulled it away, Y/N saw the dark stain of blood. The sight sent a chill down her spine, but she forced herself to remain composed. That is her que.

“You are ill,” she said, her voice softer but no less guarded. Wang Zemo looked at her, a strange mixture of defiance and vulnerability in his eyes.

“Colon cancer, they say.” Wang Zemo’s laugh was bitter. “That boy is never going to lead my men. Let me make that clear.”

Wang Zemo’s words hung in the air, his bitter laugh echoing in the room. Y/N’s heart pounded as she processed his statement. The implications were immense, the threat unmistakable.

“Father,” she began, her voice steady but edged with urgency.

“He has taken you from me,” Wang Zemo interrupted, his voice rising with a mix of anger and desperation. Y/N’s eyes widened hearing this nonsense.

“He has poisoned your mind, turned you against your own family.” His eyes flashed with anger, but his coughing fit cut him short. Blood speckled the handkerchief again, a stark reminder of his fragile state.

“I want you to end him, Y/N” Wang Zemo reached out, grabbing her wrist with surprising strength. She pulled her hand away, her heart heavy with conflicting emotions.

“No, Father. I will not be a part of your uncalled for vendetta.” The moment hung between them, filled with unspoken words and years of unresolved tension.

Y/N shook her head, her hands trembling slightly as she clenched them into fists. “You are blinded by your hatred. I have no clue why you were seeking this conversation to happen, but it is clear that you are not in the right state of mind, so let me remind you of what father you have been.”

He opened his mouth to retort, but another violent cough seized him. Y/N took a step back, her heart a tumult of emotions—pity, anger, sorrow.

“You were never there for me,” she continued, her voice steady but charged with years of suppressed pain. “All my life, you used me as a pawn in your endless power games. Do you think this is about loyalty? Family? No, Father, this is about control. You never saw me as your daughter, only as a tool.”

Her father’s gaze hardened, but he said nothing, his chest rising and falling with laboured breaths. Y/N took a deep breath, her resolve hardening.

“You have hired the best tutors in the world to teach me all the proper ploys of how to be a perfect wife, —” Y/N’s eyes glistened with unshed tears, but her voice remained unwavering.

“You made sure I could speak five languages, play the piano, and host dinners that would impress dignitaries. But did you ever once ask me what I wanted? Did you ever care about my dreams, my desires?”

“No, it was Auntie who did. Letting her send me to study was the only good decision you have ever made in your life!” Wang Zemo’s breath grew shallower, his complexion paling. But Y/N pressed on, refusing to let him off the hook.

“You orchestrated my marriage to Yamamato as a business transaction and when it did not work out, you were forced to accept this union instead. But I am no fool, Father, you did not care about my happiness then, and you certainly do not care now!” She took a step closer, her voice dropping to a fierce whisper.

“You have hit me numerous times when I was a child,—” Y/N continued, her voice trembling with the weight of her suppressed pain.

“You did not care if Ma would die in labour, all you cared about was an heir to your throne.”

Wang Zemo’s eyes flashed with a mixture of anger and desperation. “I did what I had to do for our family. For our legacy. For your strength!”

“Please, do not force yourself to believe such a fairytale. No father, you only care about your alliances and power. And now, you expect me to betray the man who has shown me more kindness than you ever did?”

“I will kill that kindness of yours. He will become a nobody to you. He is putting thoughts into your head!” he spat out.

Y/N’s heart ached as she looked at her father, a man who had caused her so much pain yet still sought to manipulate her until his last breath. She knew she had a choice to make.

“You did not even visit Auntie when she was dying. Who the fuck are you?” His mouth opened, but the words seemed to get stuck, tangled in the reality that was slipping away from him.

“You were never my father—” Y/N’s voice cut through the silence like a blade, the words more final than she had ever intended. They carried years of hurt, of unspoken resentment, and of a truth she had been too afraid to acknowledge until now.

“Then why are you still here talking to me?” he spat, his anger rising, even as his body weakened. “If you despise me so much, why haven’t you walked away?” Y/N’s gaze hardened. He couldn’t reach her anymore, not with threats, not with manipulation. She had outgrown him.

“Because I want to be the last thing you will ever see.”

Y/N’s voice was cold, each syllable a sharp strike that left no room for misinterpretation. Wang Zemo’s eyes widened, his lips parting in disbelief. The power in the room shifted as the finality of her declaration settled over them.

“What have you done?” his tone lowered now, as if the weight of the question had finally struck him.

“Nothing,—” Y/N’s lips curled into a cold smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Not yet, at least. But I am the niece of my aunt, am I not?” Wang Zemo’s eyes narrowed.

“No,” he rasped, his voice a warning. Scanning the crystal glass with his dark eyes, “You have done nothing with it. You are playing games.”

“Maybe, or maybe not.” Y/N’s smile deepened, though it was anything but warm. “But you… You have done more than enough to seal your own fate.”

Wang Zemo’s hand gripped the arm of the chair as if the world was slipping from his grasp. His eyes searched hers, looking for some sign of weakness, some flicker of the daughter he once knew. But there was nothing.

“You cannot do this to me, not you—” he rasped, his voice cracking with the desperation of a man who had finally realized the price of his ambition. “You are my blood… You owe me.”

“I do not, but I will help you understand, now—” Y/N’s voice was steady, her words slicing through the tension like a blade.

“You will regret this! I was your ticket out of here!” Y/N’s gaze remained unflinching, as cold as the steel in her voice. She stepped closer, her presence a stark contrast to his fragile state, standing tall and unshaken. The difference between them had never been clearer.

“I would not care what happens with you, but it seems my husband does care, as you ought to set an example for the other clans.”

“This is foul play!” The gun trembled in his grip as he pointed it toward her, the barrel glinting in the dim light. His fingers curled around the trigger, the same fingers that had once held her as a child, now threatening to take everything from her.

“I was your father," Wang Zemo rasped, his voice cracking,”I am your father!” Sweat slicked his forehead, "and you will learn that I can still control you."

Y/N sighed. Her chest rose and fell as if the weight of everything she had just unleashed was pressing down on her. She had always carried this burden, this gnawing needs to free herself from the ghosts of her past, or at least one of them.

“I will not go quietly,” he said, his voice a hoarse whisper. “If I must die, I will take you with me.”

“Right,—” she began.

“I will give you the courtesy and explain what will happen once you pull the trigger.”

Wang Zemo’s hand shook, the gun wavering slightly in his grasp, the tension in the air thick enough to choke. His eyes locked onto Y/N, desperate for any sign that she still cared, still feared him. But there was nothing—no hint of hesitation, no flicker of remorse. She stood there, unbroken, unwavering, her presence almost suffocating in its certainty.

“To begin, if you would have colon cancer, you would shit blood not cough it.” Wang Zemo’s face contorted with confusion. Her statement was so cold, so clinically delivered, that it sent a ripple of unease through his body.

“Now, if you decide to pull the trigger and God gives you the blessing of killing me—” Y/N continued, her tone now a chilling blend of indifference and precision “Yoongi will let you die the most painful and slow death he will think of.” Her gaze flicked downward to the gun in his hand, then back to his face.

“No, it will not be a quick, merciful death, Father. It will be something far worse—a lingering agony that mirrors the suffering you have caused so many others.”

She took another step closer, her voice lowering, a deadly quietness to it now.

“Now, the moment you fire the bullet, Jungkook will be here in seconds to save me, not you Father. Which brings us to — how do you feel?” Her voice lowered, venomous and precise “Is your heart slowing down already?”

His hand shook violently, the weapon trembling in his grasp, as he tried to process the suffocating inevitability of her presence. She took another deliberate step forward, and Zemo flinched, instinctively trying to recoil. But his body betrayed him, frozen by the terror of what her words meant.

“I am not afraid of you!” Y/N was not sure whether he was screaming at her or at death itself, but she answered for both of them.

“No, Father. You are not afraid of me. But you will be. You are drowning in your own failure, suffocated by your own decisions. And in those final moments, when your body betrays you and the darkness takes you, I want you to think of me. I want you to remember everything you have done to me, Xiaoli and Ma — every mistake, every cruelty. And remember that I am the last thing you will see.”

The words hit him with the force of a blow, and his chest tightened, each breath coming in shallow gasps. His vision blurred, his pulse racing as his mind struggled to catch up with the impossible reality Y/N was laying out before him.

A bead of sweat rolled down his temple, and his fingers trembled, the gun feeling heavier with each passing second. His heart hammered in his chest, a staccato rhythm that felt far too loud in the heavy silence. He could feel the walls closing in on him, suffocating him.

And then, a flicker of fear—a glimpse of his own mortality—crept into his mind, deeper than any threat he had ever made. His body was betraying him, and the weight of it crushed him.

“You will go down, no matter what choice you will make.” The gun still shook in his hand, but he felt a strange calm wash over him, a resignation that he had not expected.

His heart pounded in his chest, its rhythm erratic and violent, each beat a forceful thud that seemed to rattle his bones. A sharp pain shot through his left arm, searing like fire, and for a moment, he thought he might collapse. His head swam with dizziness, his surroundings distorting into a tunnel of panic and suffocating pressure.

His grip on the weapon tightened reflexively, but his fingers felt weak and unsteady, struggling to maintain their hold as the world spun around him. The pressure in his chest mounted, a crushing weight that made it harder to breathe, and harder to think. His pulse quickened, each beat faster than the last, pounding in his temples, in his throat, until it felt as though it might burst.

His vision flickered, darkening at the edges, and a cold sweat broke out across his brow, his skin clammy as if he were sinking into the very depths of despair. His mind, once sharp and calculating, was clouded by the chaos of his body betraying him.

“You think you are clever, but you are just a wife of your husband, a mere woman!” Those last few words felt all too familiar to Y/N, but this time, she did not falter.

“Women like you do not rise, they only serve men. You think you are the queen?! What is a queen without her king?!”

“You have never been worthy of my respect, Father,” she said softly, the venom still present but tempered with the quiet certainty of someone who had finally reclaimed their power.

“And you will not be in death either.”

His finger trembled on the trigger. The finality of it felt overwhelming, and suffocating, but there was no turning back. With a final breath, Wang Zemo attempted to pull the trigger. His hands were too weak to even handle the luger pistol as it went crashing to the ground with a loud thud, just like his crystal glass of whiskey, his body followed. The sound echoed through the room, alerting the young man standing right outside of the room.

The man who had once towered over her now crumpled at her feet, the gun useless at his side. She made no move to comfort, no gesture of sorrow or regret.

Instead, she slipped her hands into her pockets, her shoulders square, as she slowly crouched beside him. His breath still came in shallow gasps, each exhale a reminder that time, for him, was running out.

Her lips curled into a faint, cold smile.

“Nonetheless, I am Queen, and Queens do not bow, Father. They conquer.”

Y/N did not flinch. She did not need to. The man before her had already destroyed himself, in mind and in body, long before this moment had the chance to happen.

The door swung fully open, and there, framed in the doorway, stood the man she was supposed to call her endgame. Behind him, Jungkook’s sharp eyes flickered between Y/N and the wreckage of her father.

Yoongi’s gaze swept over Y/N, and then to her father. The faintest trace of a smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, but it was gone in an instant, replaced with the steely composure he had mastered. His dark eyes narrowed, taking in the scene.

“Are you alright, Dove?”

A strange calm settled over Y/N whilst she was watching her father slowly die.

“I am good,” she replied, her voice steady and unyielding, “but he is not.”

Yoongi stepped closer, his eyes filled with a mix of concern but also admiration.

“Did you poison him?” Jungkook’s voice echoed behind them. Y/N turned her gaze to Jungkook, a faint smile playing on her lips.

“No,—” she said softly, “I just made him think I did.” Yoongi raised an eyebrow. When he got an urgent call to one of his warehouses where he was personally overseeing the shipment of Min whiskey with hidden snow in the bottles, he did not expect to come back to the hotel to this scenery. His mind raced through the events of this day and nowhere not even close to this, he thought that his wife would eliminate Wang Zemo on her own. That was not the plan.

Y/N knew that his father was sick for a while, but what she also knew was the hereditary condition of a weak heart that flows in their family. It was a silent killer, a ticking time bomb that Y/N had learnt to exploit.

First, she made him think that she had poisoned him, his panic was almost immediate. She exploited his fear and turned it into a panic attack which his heart condition could not handle for a long time. His belief that he was poisoned triggered a fatal heart attack she had anticipated - hoped for. She exploited his psychological vulnerabilities to bring about his end, ensuring that the autopsy would say died of natural causes.

Jungkook nodded slowly, his expression shifting from confusion to admiration.

“You used his own mind against him.” Yoongi stepped closer, his gaze locked on Y/N, a flicker of admiration in his eyes. He couldn’t help but feel a strange sense of pride in her. She had done what was necessary, what was ruthless, but ultimately, she had done what needed to be done. For him. That is what he ultimately believed, she did it for him.

“He knew you were planning to kill him.” She wasn’t looking for approval or some sort of acknowledgement. She did it for herself. For Xiaoli. For her mother and little brother. The world will be at least a tiny peace better without her father.

“Well, it looks like I have missed the party,” She hadn’t heard him approach. Namjoon’s voice resonated the room, a faint, knowing smile tugging at the corner of his lips. He leaned against the doorframe, his eyes taking in the scene with a mixture of curiosity and something else—perhaps a flicker of reluctant approval.

Y/N didn’t smile back. She didn’t need to. She knew Namjoon well enough to understand that his words, however casual, were never without layers. He wasn’t just commenting on the spectacle of her father’s death; he was acknowledging something deeper. Something far more dangerous.

“Did you?” Y/N’s voice was cool, and smooth, as she turned her full attention to him, her eyes sharp with intent.

Namjoon chuckled softly, his gaze flickering from her to Yoongi, and then to Jungkook, who was still processing the events unfolding before him.

“I suppose I did,” Namjoon said, his tone tinged with dark humour, “this is far more elegant than what we would do,” his eyes flickered to Yoongi and she arched her brow. Y/N was not enlightened into Yoongi’s plan with her father but that did not matter to her - the outcome is the same. Today, she would sleep soundly. Because her most intrusive thoughts are becoming reality.

She knew Yoongi’s eyes were on her, studying her every movement, every nuance of her demeanour. He had expected her to break down—expected her to show some sign of regret, or at least the weight of the moment to sink in. But Y/N had made peace with this long ago.

“I did not expect you to be this calm,” Yoongi said, his voice low, almost cautious.

“I buried him a long time ago.” The words hung in the air, heavier than the silence that followed.

Jungkook, who had been silently absorbing the entire scene, finally broke his silence. His voice was quieter, less sure than usual.

“So, this... this was not part of any plan?” He looked to Yoongi for confirmation, still processing the revelation that Y/N had acted independently, that she had outmanoeuvred them all.

Yoongi met his gaze briefly, a subtle tension in his features, before turning his focus back to Y/N.

“No. It was not the plan.” He said it with finality, though his words seemed to hang in the air with an unspoken understanding. There was no anger in his voice—only a sort of resigned acceptance.

Namjoon, however, seemed to find something else amusing in the air. His lips curled into a smirk, his gaze flicking over Y/N as if seeing her for the first time. His eyes paused at the hem of her outfit, a flicker of curiosity crossing his face.

“Hold on a second,” he said, his tone laced with amusement, his eyebrow quivering upward. “Are you... wearing trousers?”

Y/N stared at him for a moment, and for a split second, it almost felt like she was in the middle of some twisted dark humour comedy.

“You must be fucking kidding me” she muttered.

“That was way better than what you planned, Yoongi-hyung,” Taehyung said, a hint of a smirk on his face. Yoongi’s eyes flickered with irritation at Taehyung’s comment, but he quickly masked it with a tight smile. Namjoon nodded in agreement.

“I knew she had it in her,” the right hand man said, almost to himself. Seokjin leaned back in his chair, his expression contemplative.

“Is she alright?” the doctor asked, concern evident in his voice.

“I checked on her earlier, she seems oddly calm—-” Jimin, still thinking about the moment he arrived at the scene, spoke up to answer the question.

“It is almost scary how composed she is.” Jungkook, who had been pacing, finally stopped and faced the group.

“If you would have been in the room when he attempted to drag her out of here by her hair, you would understand the hatred she felt towards that sick psychopath.”

The room fell silent as the gravity of Hoseok’s words sank in. Jungkook clenched his fists, his jaw tightening.

“We should have done something sooner,—” he muttered, guilt lacing his voice.

“Well she was just faster than us, and apparently, Xiaoli and her mother knew,” Yoongi added, his voice laced with a mixture of frustration and admiration.

Just how much these women hated that man?

“Did she tell you that?” Yoongi shook his head but recalled the lack of emotion her mother showed when they told her that her husband had passed away from a heart attack. Nor did Xiaoli shed a tear for her father, but in that case, it’s different.

Jungkook’s expression softened slightly, his concern for Y/N clear. “We need to make sure Y/N is okay. She has been through enough by now.”

Taehyung’s smirk returned, albeit more subdued. “That wife of yours is tougher than any of us gave her credit for though.”

“So what now?” Hoseok’s voice echoed in the room. His gaze swept across the group, seeking answers, or at least some clarity.

Yoongi leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his hair, thinking of what his wife had just done for him and their family. This was huge in his head and he could not get it out of it.

“As I know her, she will ask for something in return, or use this in whatever negotiation.” Yoongi’s gaze darkened, his expression serious.

“She took control, and she knows that.” Hoseok frowned at Yoongi’s words, stepping closer to the table where the group had gathered. Yoongi met Hoseok’s gaze, his jaw tight.

“Do you still not trust her, Hyung?” The question hung in the air, heavy with unspoken tension.

“Her behaviour has been odd lately, let us start with that—” the right-hand man spoke up, taking the crystal glass of whiskey into his hands. The silence stretched between them, and for a moment, it seemed like Yoongi might not respond.

He leaned forward slightly, his fingers tapping on the table, a rhythm that matched his thoughts.

“I trust her,” Yoongi said, his voice low but firm. “But all the previous experience makes me think that she sees this as her opportunity to do something bigger—” Yoongi sighed, rubbing his temple.

“She took down her own father, for God’s sake.” Hoseok raised his voice. “She is devoted to you.” Yoongi’s gaze hardened as he met Hoseok’s eyes.

“That I am starting to believe she finally is, sure,” Yoongi said slowly, each word measured. “But I get Namjoon’s suspicions of her, she did not attempt to run for quite some time, as if she is plotting something—”

“Maybe she is playing us all.” Taehyung, sensing the rising tension, leaned back in his chair, his eyes narrowing in curiosity.

“Playing us all?" Yoongi repeated his tone low, almost mocking. “You think Y/N is playing us?”

“She has been too calm about all this, Yoongi. Too composed for someone who just killed her father. You don’t just do that without having something bigger planned.”

Seokjin’s eyes flickered to observe Yoongi’s reaction to their brother’s words. “He is right, Yoongi. She has always been emotional, and driven by her heart. But this—" He shook his head. “It’s different.”

Jimin shifted in his seat, looking between the men, the concern in his eyes growing.

Hoseok stood straighter, his expression softening as he spoke with conviction. “She had a choice. She could have walked away or stayed neutral, but instead, she chose to act. And what she did, Yoongi, was not just for herself. It was for all of us. For you. Do not dare to doubt her loyalty, when she worked hard to finally be contemptuous here!”

Jungkook, his voice quieter than usual, spoke up listening to Hoseok’s words. “She did what she had to do. And whatever her reasons are, I trust her.” His gaze met Yoongi’s. “You should, too.”

Yoongi’s expression hardened, trying to keep his emotions in check. His mind raced, the weight of everything that had happened in the past hours pressing down on him.

Taehyung’s voice broke through the silence once again, more serious than usual.

“She has changed—” Yoongi exhaled sharply, his mind still reeling. “I just need to understand why. Why now? Why this?” His voice dropped to a near whisper, the vulnerability slipping through despite his best efforts to hide it. His heart... his heart wanted to believe in her, wanted to believe she was doing this out of devotion, not manipulation.

“Of course, she has changed!” Hoseok’s frustration was bubbling at this point. "You were nine when she was born," he continued the quiet force in his voice, not backing down.

“Nine years, Yoongi. You have had that much more time to figure things out. To live your life, to become who you are now. She did not have that—” Yoongi’s jaw clenched, and for a moment, he didn’t know how to respond. The truth was there, raw and unfiltered, and it stung.

“She had three pathetic years to enjoy what life can be and then she went to be your wife.” He took a breath, trying to steady himself. Y/N had spent so much of her life suffocated by the things that had shaped her, by the violence and manipulation that had plagued her existence long before she ever crossed paths with him.

The silence that followed was thick, the air heavy with unspoken emotions.

His voice was quieter than it had been, softer, as he spoke the words he wasn’t sure he was ready to say. “I just… I need to—”

“Even if she is plotting some grand escape, we will stop her, Yoongi.” Yoongi’s head snapped up at the interruption, his eyes narrowing at Hoseok’s words. For a moment, Yoongi’s chest tightened, the idea of Y/N plotting against him threatening to undo everything he’d been trying to hold together.

He stepped forward, his hand resting gently on Yoongi’s shoulder, an attempt to ground him in the present. “You all are too busy doubting her, instead of trusting her.” Yoongi flinched slightly at the rawness in Hoseok’s tone. He had been too caught up in his own doubts to truly see the bigger picture.

“Maybe you are right,” Yoongi muttered, his voice low, almost to himself. He ran a hand through his hair, frustration bubbling back to the surface.

“She is not running, Yoongi. She is not playing you. What is happening now is what happens when you have been given enough time to think.” Hoseok’s gaze softened, his expression becoming more contemplative.

For the first time in a long time, Yoongi allowed himself to take a breath, to breathe out the doubt, and let himself hold onto the belief that maybe, just maybe she was done fighting him for good.

“I genuinely hope that you are right, Hoseok-sshi.”

Y/N gave it a few days after the funeral to ask Yoongi for a favour. That well he knew her, she had to give him that. Y/N stands by the door, her posture stiff, but her hands clasped tightly in front of her. She’s been holding this request for days if not since they were married.

“What is wrong, my love?”

Her breath caught in her throat. She hadn’t expected him to address her so gently, not now, not after everything that had happened. But she couldn’t hold this in any longer. She had waited long enough.

Y/N swallowed hard, her throat dry. She had rehearsed these words in her head for days, but now that she was here, standing in front of him, they felt like a foreign language.

“I…” She started, her voice faltering, but she steadied herself. There was no urgency in his voice when he spoke next, but something in his gaze suggested he already knew this was coming.

“Go ahead, Dove,” he said, his voice calm, almost too calm.

“I need you to allow my mother… and Bo Cheng… to travel to Maryland,” she said quietly, her words falling heavy into the room. “To Diayu. They need to be there. To… to live a life I could not.”

Something in the stillness between them made her heart beat faster as if he was expecting her to ask of this. The silence stretched between them, heavy and thick, suffocating. Yoongi didn’t speak, his gaze fixed on her with a patience that felt like it was pushing her to continue, to reveal more than she wanted to. Her hands tightened at her sides, and she took a shaky breath.

“I do not think you need them to be here anymore—” Yoongi’s eyes flickered to her hands before returning to her face, his gaze still sharp, analyzing every movement, every word.

“Bo Cheng can grow up without knowing what was supposed to be his—” Y/N continued, her voice barely above a whisper.

Yoongi’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes darkened, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face. He leaned back slightly, crossing his arms over his chest, his posture remaining calculated and composed.

“He is still too young to remember-”

“Are you not going to miss having your mother near, Dove?”

Y/N’s heart skipped a beat at the question, the weight of it pressing down on her chest. For a moment, she stood frozen, her gaze flickering down to her clenched fists. She had expected him to ask something like this, but hearing the question out loud—direct and sharp—was a different kind of pressure.

She had never imagined a time when her mother and Bo Cheng wouldn’t be part of her life, but what Yoongi was proposing... it wasn’t about them. It was about her.

“They can come and visit at Christmas time or Chuseok, innit?”

“Christmas time or Chuseok?” he repeated, his voice laced with quiet amusement, though the sharpness in his gaze never faltered.

Y/N’s breath hitched, but she steadied herself. She had to hold on to this. If she let herself waver, even for a second, she feared the price would be too steep. The price he would demand would be too high.

“It is enough,” she said, her voice firm, though it trembled ever so slightly. “They can come and go. They can live their lives far away from here. But I need you to make sure they are safe.” Her eyes met his, unwavering for a brief moment, before she quickly looked away, her gaze dropping to the floor as if the weight of her own words had just begun to settle in her chest.

“You are trying to make sure I will not use them as a bargain against you, am I right?”

She had always known how far his control could reach, but hearing him speak it so plainly… made the reality of it hit harder. She swallowed, her throat dry, and for a moment, she said nothing. She couldn't give him the satisfaction of confirming his words outright, but the truth was already in the silence between them.

“Perhaps—” she murmured. Yoongi’s lips curled into a small, knowing smile.

“Perhaps?” His voice dropped, low and dangerously calm. “You still do not believe in my love for you, or do you, dove?”

Y/N’s chest tightened. She didn’t dare meet his gaze again, afraid of what she might see in those dark eyes of his.

“I trust you enough to keep them safe for me,” she said quietly, the words escaping her before she could stop them. It wasn’t a lie. She had to believe it because, without that belief, she would have nothing left.

Yoongi stepped forward, his presence overwhelming. The space between them seemed to shrink, his scent and warmth now consuming the room.

“But you still fear that I will take it all from you,” he murmured, his voice so soft it felt like a whisper meant only for her. “That I will use them to make you obey—”

His words hit too close to the truth. Too much of her had been shaped by the fear of losing control, of being at his mercy again.

“I—” she started, but her throat went dry, her voice unable to carry the weight of the admission. She wasn’t ready to say it. Not yet. Not like this.

“You are right to be afraid, Dove,” he said softly, his voice smooth and almost soothing, but there was a steel edge beneath it. “I could use them against you. I could take them away, pull the strings again, make you bend to my will.”

His thumb brushed across her skin, and Y/N felt herself fighting the urge to pull away. She couldn’t. Not now. She had made her request, and the words had already been set in motion.

“Here is the thing, Y/N,” Yoongi continued, his voice lowering to a dangerous murmur. “I needn’t to. I already got you, have I not?”

A long silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken understanding. He didn’t need to say it. She knew exactly what he was implying, what they both knew.

“Yoongi, I promise that this is the last thing I am asking you for—”

“Answer me, dove.” His voice was quiet, too quiet, but it carried the weight of a hundred unspoken questions.

“I just need this one thing,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “Please.”

“Answer me first.” His gaze bore into her, unwavering, demanding. She knew what he wanted—he wanted her to admit her fear, her dependence on him.

“Yoongi, please,” she repeated, her voice trembling. Y/N closed the distance between them, her eyes locking onto his. She reached up, her hands trembling as she cupped his face. For a moment, they just stood there, the tension between them palpable.

“I will do anything—” she desperately whispered, but the words caught in her throat. He leaned in, his breath mingling with hers, and before she could lose her nerve, he pressed his lips to hers.

The kiss was soft at first, a gentle exploration, but it quickly deepened into something more intense. Their tongues collided, each seeking to claim the other’s. Their breathing grew ragged, their hearts pounding in unison. Yoongi’s hands slid around her waist, pulling her closer as if he could never get close enough. Y/N’s hands shook as she cradled Yoongi's face, her fingertips brushing against his skin.

When they finally pulled apart, Yoongi’s forehead rested against hers, his breath coming in soft, ragged puffs. His eyes searched hers, a myriad of emotions flickering across his face—desire, possession, a touch of vulnerability.

“We did not have a chance to return to what we talked about at the jewellers,-” he murmured, his voice a low rumble.

Y/N’s heart raced at his words, the mention of the conversation from before bringing everything back into focus. She had known this was coming, the weight of his demands still hanging in the air like an unspoken agreement between them.

“What do you mean?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper, her hands still trembling against his chest as she steadied herself.

“You asked me what I want for my birthday,” he said slowly, his voice laced with a quiet edge. “But you did not hear me out when I said what I needed. What I want.”

Y/N’s pulse quickened, a knot forming in her stomach. She hadn’t been ready for this. Hadn’t thought he would be so direct, so blunt.

“I know what you want,” she said, her voice steady despite the nerves coiling inside her. “But it is not the same thing. I just... I need this one thing, Yoongi. This one thing, and then—”

“No.” His grip tightened around her, his fingers pressing into her skin. “You do not understand, Y/N. We are far beyond that now. You are not going to walk away this time.”

There it was. He wasn’t going to let her walk away from this. The strings were already attached, and now she was tangled in them. His lips brushed against her ear, and his voice was a dark promise as he continued.

“You said you would do anything. Anything, dove.” He paused, his lips trailing to her neck. “You want them safe and away? I will do so—.”

She closed her eyes, her breath catching in her throat. “What do you want from me, Yoongi?”

His response was soft, almost a whisper, but the weight of his words sent a shiver down her spine.

She always knew what he desired, although, for her sanity, she rather chose to not wander into those waters, not even think those thoughts. She was not ready to answer him. She was not ready to be confronted by him so bluntly. But there was something so mundane in Yoongi’s eyes when he said the word

“A child.” .

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐨𝐧𝐞 ❝𝐰𝐞'𝐥𝐥 𝐦𝐞𝐞𝐭 𝐚𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧❞

Love you all!! ♥

Don't be a silent reader, comment, re-blog, heart, asks are more than welcome ♥

keep in mind - I'm not an expert on chinese, korean and japanese culture, but I tried to research everything realistic I wanted to add to the story. Nonetheless, take it as a fiction. Nor in this case, I'm a medical professional.

let's be friends chummers 🫧♡ ︎

lots of love, p.

tag list: @beautifulcloudfestival - @honsoolgloss - @jingerbreadoutofstock - @moscow778 - @januara26 - @dinosolecito - @yoongislatinagff - @xyahrinx - @hi12345567 - @nochuel - @deltamoon666 - @bbkissme99 - @darkuni63 - @nansasa - @sazsazsaz - @missmin - @strxwbloody - @royallyjjk - @jaiuneamesolitaiire - @shadowyjellyfishfest - @bbgniecyy - @elayne321 - @seojunandsoju - @bun-27 - @whipwhoops - @wobblewobble822 - @whofan88 - @haneybunny - @lostgirlinthewoodss - @secfir - @btspurplesky - @elleflying07 - @pamzn - @megseungmin - @selenophileforlife - @idkjustlovingbts - @seonghwaexile - @catlove83

145 notes · View notes

peggyao3 · 2 months ago

Text

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

← Previous Chapter, Next Chapter →

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 ❤️

FEYD TAG LIST

@nostalgichoya, @forgedfromthestars, @sweetiee-o, @missbingu, @minedofmoria

@sebastianswallows, @charmingballoon, @flower-frog, @welliah, @aoi-targaryen

@coastalcowgirl35, @esolean, @szapizzapanda, @tatertooted, @sunny747

@ughdontbeboring, @meetmeatyourworst

#feyd rautha #feyd x reader #dune part 2 #dune fanfiction #feyd #feyd rautha x reader #austin butler #feyd x oc #feyd rautha x oc #peggysuave fanfics #peggysuave;relic #feyd rautha harkonnen #feyd fanfiction #feyd rautha fanfiction #feyd smut #feyd rautha smut #feyd imagine #feyd rautha imagine #dune part two

82 notes · View notes